40C

Hmm. Just hmm. My ticket didn't have a seat number on it. I got to the gate, and they told me to wait at the side. This was almost the final straw. For some unknown reason (neither to me, nor to them), my seat wasn't confirmed, so they had to wait until the flight was closed to see what space they had left. They seemed to think this was quite normal, although it's never happened to me before – and my flight was booked on 7th May. Anyway, they've given me a seat which is, well, not exactly perfect. I have an aisle seat right beside the bulkhead, so I have lots of leg room. I also have a baby sleeping roughly two feet from my head. It's actually one of the cutest babies I've seen in a while (although, of course, nowhere near as cute as my nephew and niece), and very well behaved. I also have an elderly black woman next to me, who tells me it's her first flight. So, I've been carefully directing her...

'That's a facemask. A mask. For your face. When you want to sleep, you put it on to keep out the light.'
'Blanket.'
'Toothbrush. Clue's in the title.'
'Er, “EN-TER-TAIN-MENT CON-SOL”. It makes pictures on the screen move.'

She hasn't got the hang of 'armrest ettiquette', either, and is taking up a suprising amount of width for someone who can't be taller than five feet two inches. I'm trying to be very zen about this, but I'm quite tempted to give her a hefty elbow.

So what else is there to say? Oh, Rob's given me the details for the Uganda trip with Oasis. Nineteen days, some rafting, some chimps and some gorrillas, I'm going to give it some thought because, frankly, the only reason not to go is if the dates interfere with any plans I have already. He told me they have sixteen people at the moment, most between the ages of twenty-two and thirty, with one thirty-five. Hmmm. Very hmmm. A Dutch girl called Yvonne arrived at the hostel while I was waiting for the transfer, and it's funny how, after only two days here, I find myself telling her how everything works, and what there is to do in Jo'berg. I love the 'backpacker M.O.' - the way that, for the most part, everyone's paying it forward by being friendly and helpful to others.

Jo'berg airport sucks

Well, I'm nearly there. Sitting next to Gate A3 waiting for my flight, and I can safely say that Jo'berg airport is just about my least favourite. Crowded, totally innefficient, toilet cleaners that shake your hand when you walk in then try and shake you for a tip when you walk out. Stupid, stupid people.

Africa is proving to be a small place. I ran into 'K' – the Korean bloke from the tour – and his wife in the Apartheid Museum. They were supposed to head to Malawi from Vic, but they had 'problems' at the border, so they're killing a few days in Jo'berg. Good to see him, although I still face the ongoing problem that he thinks I know a lot about Premiership football. Then, when I returned to the Ritz, I ran into Carol checking in. Carol was the girl who was travelling with Sabrina, whom I ran into again at the service station in Nata, Botswana. This is just getting silly. Sadly, Sabrina wasn't there, but Carol and I continued our 'I'm sure we know each other from somewhere'. It might be Brixton, but my latest discovery is she used to work for Shell, near Waterloo. She recognises Ben's name, so I have a feeling she may have been in the pub when Ben and Sylv had leaving drinks. Who knows? In any case, her boyfriend was very interested in this laptop. I really think I should be on commission from Asus...

The Apartheid Museum, then, was very well done. It was modelled as a journey, starting as you take a card with 'non-white' written on it, then have to go through the 'non white' gate. They basically have the story of apartheid from the black and the white sides running in parallel, from the rise of the regime through to the introduction of segregation, then the ANC and finally Nelson Mandella's release and the first free elections. It was powerful stuff, with many photos, videos and sound tracks. It's incredible to think, now, how it could ever have happened. But then again, I could also – just about – put myself in the shoes of the whites who feared the loss of everything they'd 'worked for'. What was particularly fascinating were the video montages of the various South African cabinet ministers defending apartheid. I have to admit to feeling very slightly emotional in places, and I can see why people would find it upsetting. Essential viewing, though. I can't not recommend it.

I was talking about it with Rob when I returned to the Ritz, and he rather trumped it with, 'You should go to the “Genocide Museum”, in Rwanda. That has grown men in tears.'

The journey there and back was interesting, too. Each junction appeared to have a beggar with attendant 'blind person'. They'd wander up the lines of cars, with the blind person behind, with a hand on the non-blind person's shoulder. At one point, the traffic moved off and I saw two of them walking back to the lights – one clearly with his eyes open.

Tea at The Ritz

Things have improved considerably. This place – while not really a patch on Long Street – isn't half bad. I went down to the bar last night - a small room in the basement with a 'dungeon' door (they're marketing it in Austria). I ran into three blokes who, in the backpacker style I'm coming to love, quickly dragged me into their conversation. Rob, Dave and Simon. Rob is a tour guide for 'Oasis Overland'. He's just waiting for a driver to arrive before they drive up to Livingstone. I had a fascinating chat with him. I have to say, whilst he's biased, his tour sounds much more like what I'm after. It's a lot more freeform, He was saying, for instance, that they do a big top-to-tail tour that takes around ninety-five days. Accacia, he said, do it in forty-five. I had a look at their truck today, too – it's fantastic. The seats all face inwards, so in effect, you have two social areas on the truck. The Nomad trucks are for travelling in. The Oasis truck, you could actually hang out in. He told me they'd once bush camped in Namibia (which they, apparently, take a dim view of), the police heard their music and gave them either a thousand dollar fine or three minutes to pack up and ship out. He stressed it's not a 'booze bus', but it just sounds much more 'me' than the trip I've just done (which, don't get me wrong, was fantastic). Rob used to work in Corporate Finance.

Dave, on the other hand, used to work in pharmaceuticals. He's now training as a game and field guide. It was his last night before he heads back to the UK for a week, before coming back out. I eventually got to bed at 1:30, feeling, overall, that it was entirely the right decision to come here. I mentioned I thought the place was a bit odd when I arrived, and Daveand Rob pointed out that the two blokes I'd met were Algerian, never talk to anyone and seem fairly rude. Rob suggested it was possibly a language issue. Davewas less charitable, describing them as 'mardy c*nts'.

The next morning, I'd made a plan with Daveto go get a really good breakfast, so we walked up the road to a big shopping mall. He's a really interesting bloke, and we talked a lot about the game parks and camera lenses (because, yes, I find camera lenses interesting, okay?)

Back at The Ritz, Gavin was just checking in an English girl, called Bryony. Gavin is truly a piece of work. He is one of the campest people I've ever met – although I have it on good authority he's not gay, I'm still not convinced. He's a huge attention-seeker, though, and enjoys winding people up. I can see you'd either love him, hate him or tolerate him. Anyway, he dragged me over to the desk for a bit of banter that I didn't entirely understand. He does have a talent for connecting people, though, so Bryony joined us for a bit, then John, Bryony myself and Sylvia – a German girl – went to get lunch. It's true to say I saw nothing of Jo'berg today apart from restaurants.

More beers in the bar tonight – it was another late one. Rob's off in three days, when their driver arrives, but I'm more and more keen on his truck. Apparently, they're doing a 'gorilla loop' in Uganda and Rwanda in July – nineteen days. I am seriously considering doing it – particularly as, from what he told me, I believe there's rafting there that makes the Zambezi feel like 'Three Men in a Boat'.

So, I'm in my own room tonight, and I must go and at least see the Apartheid museum tomorrow. I'm just not too fussed about Jo'berg – I've not met any travellers yet who speak highly of it as a place to visit – at least, in a ‘touristic’ capacity.

'I don't think we're in Long Street anymore, Toto'

Not sure if I can articulate quite what I'm feeling right now. My first impressions of this place are 'very odd indeed'. The transfer taxi was waiting to take me from the Fly Inn to the 'Ritz Backpackers' as we arrived in the truck. To be honest, I had to roll straight out of the truck and into the taxi, so it meant there was very little time for goodbyes, and that suited me just fine. The drive took about half an hour – so much longer than expected, to the extent where I was questioning whether the driver was actually legit, and wasn't planning to drive me to Soweto and steal my stuff ('Please, I beg you! Take the camera, just leave me the memory cards!). Eventually, though, we arrived at an imposing building at the end of a cul-de-sac. First impressions weren't hugely favourable. The guy on reception – Gavin – was brusque, and I really couldn't read him. There was a TV room nearby, with several people sitting in silence. There were no single rooms tonight, so I'm in a dorm with sixteen beds – eight bunks. I walked in, had no idea which beds were taken. The first two blokes to walk in while I was there didn't say a word. I asked one if he knew where I could find linen. He said, 'yes'. Um, right, okay.... care to share?

I wandered through the TV room and found another dorm with some English girls. Had a quick chat with them, and they were friendly, but I'm now back on my bunk, deciding what to do next. Oh well, guess I should steel myself and head to the bar.

The outskirts of Pretoria...

After the Brai last night, the Dutch guys went off to the bar, where Holland-Spain was being shown. Timbavati was a great camp with a good bar, but the pushiest barstaff I've ever met. They were really friendly, but really keen for us to buy drinks. There was another Nomad truck in the camp – that had just come back from Mozambique. They had a fairly good crew onboard, and for the first time since Cape Town, there was a party atmosphere. Put it this way: the bar manager actually bought us ten absinths, complete with burning sugar. It tasted like – like I'd been having a shower and accidentally got some shower gel in my mouth. The other crew seemed fun, and there were also three South Africans there, up from J'berg for the weekend. One of them really made me chuckle. Katie was a drama student, about five feet tall, with eyebrows hovering around five feet four inches. The Dutch guys, having lost the football, went to bed – only to be woken up and dragged out by Heather at around midnight. I eventually got to bed around 3:30am. The bar manager was young and ambitious. Katie was keen on him, I think, but he was more keen to tell me his expansion plans. Very odd. There was also another one of those 'characters' there. John was in his fifties, with drooping grey moustache, and rheumy eyes. He was from Dudley originally, had come over on holiday, and stayed. He was clearly there every night, telling the same jokes. Technically, he was on 'sick leave' from the bar, but was there anyway. Something tells me the sickness might be something terminal. Anyway, it was another one of those, 'I don't ever want to be in that situation' moments – just ticking along, doing the same thing every day. It's idylic for a couple of days, but not forever. I mean, the manager/owner, yes, he's ambitious, building his business. John, though, just seems to be marking time. Whatever makes you happy, I guess.

So, I was woken up at seven by the Aussie girls, who were off on their transfer. No-one apart from QFR had elected to do the game walk, so we had a bit of a lie in before breakfast, then off to Jo'berg via the Panorama Route. This was a picturesque drive up on to the highvelt, with amazing views. We stopped off at 'God's Window' and 'Bourke's Luck Potholes' for photos, but it was fairly whistle-stop.

On the drive back, I came very close to letting myself down. I'd been thinking about where to stay in Jo'berg, but I was on the point of saying, 'Sod it', and staying at the Fly Inn – where we were to be dropped off. The Fly Inn is the sort of place where it seems some budding entrepreneur has spotted a gap in the market that doesn't exist. I could imagine the owner on Dragon's Den, describing how backpacker hostels are very popular, but they're always grotty and basic, so don't charge much...

'I'm proposing a new kind of backpackers – a highly-specified, luxury facility with dorms with televisions, fine linen etc.'

The problem is, of course, backpacker hostels are cheap because backpackers don't have much money. So, backpackers don't stay at the Fly Inn because it's too expensive, and business people and holiday makers don't stay there because it's not a hotel. It was completely devoid of atmosphere, and guests. Nevertheless, I did consider simply hanging out there for a couple of days. Oh, my other concern was that QFR were on pretty much the same schedule as I, and I was keen to escape from them. The thing is, I had such a great time at Long Street that I've been telling all and sundry how great travelling solo is – like I'm the first person ever to have discovered it (you can imagine, can't you). Now, when it's come to the crunch, I'm not quite as confident as I thought I was. Or perhaps I'm just lazy.

At lunch, I decided to have a quick word with Quintan, asking if it might be worth staying in town. He concurred immediately, saying he didn't like the Fly Inn either, for exactly the same reasons. So, on the truck, we've made some phonecalls, and a car from the 'Ritz Backpackers' is picking me up from the Fly Inn when I arrive. So, instead of two days of not very much, I'm about to start another mini-adventure. Frightening how close I came to bottling it, though.

Timbavati rondavel camp, somewhere near Kruger.

We're now in – arguably – the nicest accommodation of the trip. We're eschewing the tents today, and this camp is covered in 'rondavels' – round buildings with a single door. They're traditional dwellings for the area, but these have been updated, with a bathroom curving around one side and coloured patterns all over the outsides. I've scored a double room to myself, which is a breath of fresh air. So, where was I?

Having finally sorted out the 'morning walk' debacle, things are back to normal, and everyone's friendly. To be honest, I'm not sure any of the other people on the truck either cared, or indeed understood what the issue was. It's a shame Christine and Heather won't be joining us on the transfer, as they're the two people that have been keeping me sane. Our 'family' is beginning to bug me a little bit. I must stress they're all very nice, but having any sub-group of six is always going to risk unbalancing a travelling group, and I'm particularly irked that there are kids. They're probably better behaved than one would have a right to expect of children that age. The older kids are clearly highly intelligent, over-achievers, and they're – I would say – a 'successful' family. You're never going to be 'cool', though, when you all have personal Swiss Army knives, and when mum and dad have pens on chords round their necks. I've realised, that I would probably not have signed up for the trip if I'd known there would be children – I'm finding I have to think about moderating my swearing, and consider the jokes and stories I tell (I mean whether they're suitable, rather than whether they're funny – that's never been a consideration, tho' god knows it should be).

So, we 'game drove' out of Kruger or a few hours, and reached the camp just after lunch. We were then to have our last 'cultural experience' – a tour of the Timbavati village. This was simply weird. We had an old-ish local guide. He spent fifteen minutes telling us how poor everyone was, how there were few cars, how it was hard for people to go to school. His English wasn't great (so god knows how the Dutch and French-Canadians coped), but it felt like he was pushing the poverty thing. We went into the 'village'. Instead of the traditional mud huts that you'd, perhaps, expect an African village to consist of, most of the buildings were one or two room dwellings fashioned from breeze blocks. It was all so strange. They had a 'witch doctor' there, dressed in gaudy red robes. They laid out a rug covered in various animal bones, and the guide told us a couple of stories. I can't tell you what they were about, as I was totally lost. Christine told me she smiled at the woman and got two empty eyes back at her. She was clearly very well fed, and the 'we're on the verge of poverty' message was also slightly sullied by the loud rap music coming from the house next door.

As we walked around, the experience became stranger and stranger. We saw houses with lots of adults, most of whom were sitting around doing nothing. No-one looked mal-nourished. Indeed, many of them looked slightly overweight. The dirt tracks between the houses were littered with rubbish, and my Western sensibilities screamed, 'if you're really poor, and also have nothing to do all day, TIDY UP' (and yes, I know I'm not the tidiest person in the world, but then, I'm not asking for help either. I know standards of cleanliness shouldn't necessarily be an indicator of need, but at least it's 'making an effort'.) The effect was also slightly undone when we walked past a really rather nice house, with a brand new Audi parked in the carport. Yes, carport. Big enough for three cars.

I don't know what this was about. I don't know what it was trying to achieve. While I'm considerably richer than the people living there, I still wasn't particularly sympathetic. I wasn't, in any way, convinced that they were in any danger of starvation. It was difficult to know what to do with it. As we walked back to camp, we spotted at least fifteen vultures circling in the sky. We never found out what they were after.

Once we were back at camp, we immediately jumped on the truck, which took us to the nearest Kruger camp for a night game drive. The guide we had wasn't a patch on the guy we'd had two nights before. For starters, she seemed to miss a lot, and was so deaf it took her fiftymetres or so to stop when we shouted we'd seen something. We'd go something like 'Stop. Stop! Look, really stop! Lion!'. It was getting quite funny by the end. We'd ended up leaving half an hour late because some other people turned up late, and Quintan had a semi-heated argument with the guide about extending the drive. She eventually capitulated. We cursed Quintan later, when we were cold, hungry and shivering, seeing nothing, and desparate to go back to camp. The three latecomers were middle-aged lesbians. I know this because they all wore glasses. Okay, okay, and had practical haircuts. Oh alright, when asked, 'So what do you do?', they replied, 'Oh, we're lesbians'. We saw so little on this drive, it wasn't funny. Well, we did catch a fleeting glimpse of a leopard, but that was about it. By the time we arrived back at camp, I was commentating to Heather and Christine,
'If you look carefully, to your left you can see a caravan. You'll generally only see this in the park during the day. By night, they tend to be found in the camps...'

The evening was fun, with another Nomad truck in the camp. Apparently, some of them climbed out over the fence and were playing on one of those push-pull things on an old railway line at 2am. I stayed at our campfire and got to know the 'new guys'. The Northern Irish couple are interesting – they're from County Tyrone, and have a strong prediliction for sports shirts. They're over for a wedding, so thought they'd have a look at Kruger while they're here. I have a theory – or I read it somewhere, or something – that people become mor patriotic in times of conflict or isolation. I'm not an expert on the troubles in Ireland over the last century, but I'd imagine those seeking to keep Northern Ireland British were much more resolutely patriotic than those of us in England. This couple were more 'British' bar far, than me. I live in England, where I don't have to stand up for my country. It just is. In fact, it's well known that being British has, to a small extent, been hijacked by the more right-wing elements in the UK. No, it was just interesting that this Irish couple identified far more strongly with the UK than with the Irish Republic.

(not sure I've articulated that particularly well, but does that make sense?)

So, Albert is Brai-ing today. We've noticed that, whereas Bjorn was very organised in what he does, and Lissom was more laid-back. On Kurt, Quintan is the chilled one, and Albert is the 'Iron Chef'. We've also noticed that while there's 'enough' food, you often feel like you could do with a little more. Budget-wise, I think the food on this bit of the trip has been higher quality, but there's been less of it.

So, it's our last night. Time to get fed.

Zim...

....actually, I've just had – well I'm not sure where to start, really. I've been sitting, tapping away on this, in the outside kitchen area, where the power sockets are. Albert, our cook, is on the other side of the counter preparing tonight's meal. So, we struck up a conversation. He's Zimbabwean and, after a few pleasantries, he asked me, 'Why does England not do anything about the situation in Zimbabwe?'. I have to confess, I was lost for words. We discussed the situation there, while I did my best not to venture any opinions until I had ascertained his point of view. I think the UK media coverage of the situation there has been reasonably accurate (er, based on the UK media coverage, worryingly), but while it's one thing to pontificate over solutions in a pub in Clapham, it's completely different when you're talking to someone directly affected by the situation, who knows the real story. Suddenly, your glib and witty solutions seem slightly shameful.

We talked a little more about the situation. He was saying that people can't understand why Britain, as a country that supported Mugabe originally, and who used to 'own' Zimbabwe, are turning a blind eye to the corruption, mismanagement and rigged elections. For my part, I tried to explain how I thought the British government were doing everything possible through diplomatic channels, although they were probably wary about direct action in view of the fallout over the Iraq fiasco – and also Zim's distinct lack of oil (although that's a bit of a cliché now). I also felt that, in view of Britain's colonial past, many of the African nations would take a dim view of us potentially sticking our nose where it's not wanted (at least, on a governmental level). I saw news footage of Mbeke and Mugabe embracing yesterday, so who knows what's going on. I certainly don't. Anyway, I tried, delicately, to ellicit as much information as possible about the situation from his point of view. Perhaps I'm being over sensitive, but would it have been better for me to venture my potentially wrong or, perhaps, inflamatory opinions? I make a point not to argue unless I'm fairly sure of myself, and here, I wasn't. The conversation came to an end when Heather arrived a couple of drinks down and ploughed in with her size elevens. She's very passionate about – well, she can be quite emotive. She believes the problem is that the media in our countries doesn't push the subject enough. I think that's a rather simplistic view, although I refrained from saying so, and we didn't get much more out of Albert after that. I may try to discuss with him again in the next couple of days. One thing's for sure. I can't remember the last time I felt so out of my comfort zone in a discussion. I must find out more about the situation when I get back to the UK. It does make conversations about missing game walks seem very trifling indeed, though.

Ruxpin goes for a spin

Well, this morning found a selection of toys well and truly scattered about the perimeter of the pram. Since we left Jo'berg, there's been an ongoing issue regarding Heather and Christine, our two Australian girls. They originally booked the Kruger part of the trip because Bjorn told them there was no rafting in Vic Falls. They had intended to spend six days there, but decided that, since the water levels were too high, there'd be nothing to do, so they cut short, changed their flights and decided to join us for Kruger. That was, though, after a bit of discussion on the return time. Their flight departs at 6pm on our last day. They discussed and discussed this, and were told that that would be no problem. On the day we left Jo'berg, it appeared that there'd been a miscommunication, and that Nomad thought that was when they had to be there, as opposed to their flight time. So, time's a bit tight.

Now, all the above wouldn't be too much of an issue but for a line of text in the trip notes which stated there was an early morning 'game walk' on the last day. Leaving early would have been okay, but it would have been impossible to do the walk as well. Our Canadian family have made this a bit of a cause celebre. Quintan thought this walk was an optional thing, but they've decided it's included, and are basically insisting on it. Frankly, I'm not fussed either way. I've done enough in nearly four weeks to be happy. I'm not sure anyone else on the truck would care a jot, either. I can't believe that, over a twenty-six day schedule, they'd have not booked because of one optional game walk. Anyway, the upshot is we can't do the walk and get the girls to Jo'berg by four. The solution, then, is to transfer them directly – having a car pick them up from the camp and taken directly to Jo'berg airport. Heather – and rightly so – was insensed by this, since the Panorama route, on the way home, was the main thing she wanted to see. She'd even said, before we left Jo'berg ,that she'd be happy to accept a refund and not come if it caused problems. So, more phonecalls followed, and the compromise is to transfer them separately, but via the Panorama route. To be honest, I'm considering joining them.

Kruger

19/6/08 21:47 berch-en-dal camp - Kruger
Another day, another camp site - Berg-en-dal, it's called. This one's rather nice, as usual. They also have four enormous awards on the reception desk for 'rest camp of the year'. I'm slightly confused as to the scope of this award, since I believe there are only a few rest camps in Kruger Park. Still, they are very shiny.

We left Jo'berg at 8am, on Kurt. We are now sixteen. In addition to The QFR, Heather, Christine, Erich and myself, there were two more Dutch blokes, a couple from Northern Ireland, and a couple from Cape Town. Driving out through the suburbs, Quintan proved to be a wealth of knowledge on local history. Despite the reported high crime levels, it appeared to be an affluent place. Jo'berg was built on the gold rush, and mine dumps still litter the place. You can definitely see the difference in standards between SA and Botswana. Having said that, there are one or two things that don't quite add up. We were in a service station shop when the power failed. Everyone carried on like normal, and within two minutes it came back on. Apparently, this is a regular occurrence in South Africa, yet Quintan had been telling us, just five minutes ago, that the Jo'berg area has pollution problems since there are huge coal reserves here and several coal-fired power stations. We actually dropped into a shopping mall at one point, and saw a huge sign on one shop which said something like, 'We have our own electricity. No power cuts, GUARANTEED!'. Quintan is tall and rangy, with a permanent grin revealing white, even teeth that hint at falsehood. He reminds me of what I imagine the BFG might have looked like in his middle years – and is, again, a man on whose shoulders 'avuncular' sits most comfortably.

Once we reached Kruger, we had an hour 'game driving' until we reached the camp. Those of us who've been on the Cape-to-Vic trip are totally blasé about seeing elephants, now, so I was making an effort to hide it for the sake of those new to the trip. We saw a few other animals, but not much that I hadn't seen before. Reaching the camp, seven of us had elected to do an evening game drive (aka, subsequently, as the 'Not another bloody Impala' tour). This was an optional extra cost, and we were loaded into an open truck similar to that which we used at Chobe. It was a full truck of twenty people, and I was slightly disturbed to see the three middle-aged Afrikaans women next to me putting on hats and gloves. Five minutes out of the gates, it started raining.

To be fair, the rain didn't last long, and we didn't get wet, but it was fairly cold when we were moving. Myself and three of the other passengers on the sides each had a spotlight, which we pointed at the bush, trying to pick out the reflections from the eyes of nocturnal animals. With all the criss-crossing search beams, we looked a bit like one of those robot thingies from the 'future' scenes from the Terminator movies. We saw a few animals we'd seen before, but the big news is we saw a leopard! In fact, we saw two – and they weren't fleeting glimpses, either. That's another of the 'big five' ticked off the list...

In Ella, we had a big list of all the animals on the door, to tick off as we saw them. In Ghanzi, we saw a cheetah, but it was in a fenced enclosure, for breeding. Lee suggested we should cross it off the list, but I and others argued we shouldn't. To my mind, the 'challenge' is seeing these creatures in their natural habitat. It's akin to hunting, in many ways. I 'bag' an elephant by taking a photo of it. Continuing the analogy, a great photo is equivalent to a 'clean kill'. I bagged a leopard at night tonight, and I'm very pleased with the photos I'll be taking home to show people – as opposed to the animal skin. Of course, we delighted in telling the others of our 'kill'. The defacto windup statement when part of the group comes back from an optional activity has become 'we saw a leopard', so it was fun to say this as we climbed off the truck and get the usual disbelieving chuckles, before revealing the photos.

Oh, the other thing you need to know about African Game is that, to sound like you know what you're talking about, you must never talk in plural. I don't know if it's an Afrikaans thing, or just a simple convention, but if you're going hunting or game viewing, you must always talk as though you're seeing single animals. Viz. 'You'll see leopard, lion, maybe some hippo...'. You can use a word to suggest plural, like 'some', but the animal itself is still singular (incidentally, it's also much more convincing in a thick white-African accent). eg 'we'll see some kudu, some giraffe...there may be warthog...'

Anyway, another early morning, but we're well used to that. It's funny how the remaining Cape-Vic campers have been turned by Bjorn into a crack camping team – that we all have the same routine. It's funny to see the 'new guys' struggling with tents, not being back at the truck on schedule. In time, zey vill learn.

'Fly Inn'. Jo'berg

We crossed the border shortly after 10am, where, for the last time, I was able to run out of the building towards the guides and truck, saying, 'Quick, start the engine! They're coming - we have to go NOW!'. I can't believe Bjorn never punched me.

Well, this is a cut above your average backpackers – with prices to match. Well, I'm still on tour, so it's all inclusive, but some of the others staying her overnight tell me it's a bit pricey. This place confirms my decision to stay at a cheap backpackers in Cape Town was the right one. It's more like a hotel, and is utterly dead. I have two days in Jo'berg before my flight, so I may well up sticks and go to a backpackers in town, just for the atmosphere. We're also told we shouldn't walk around outside the Inn... well, ever, really. One of the guys in our 'dorm' (the poshest dorm I've ever been in – with TV and en suite) was a Dutch guy called Erich. He seemed okay. Heidi and WEM stayed the night, too (oh, another classic 'WEM': Heather was having her hair braided in Vic Falls. After the first two hours, WEM happens to wander by, and says, 'Well, not everyone has the face for braids'. Lovely). Returning to my room after dinner (delivered Chinese), I was slightly disconcerted to see Erich sitting up in the bed next to mine (in a large room with five beds) with a look that I can only describe as 'welcoming'. Yikes. He's watching the football right now, while I bury myself in my laptop. Luckily, Heidi and WEM are here, too, so I feel safe.

A garage, near the South African border

I just had a rather surreal moment. I walked into the garage and heard a familiar voice. It took me a couple of minutes to place it, but I eventually twigged it was Christian O'Connell, on Virgin FM – the voice that I used to wake up to when I was working in London. I'm feeling very torn at the moment, and I'm swinging rapidly between mild homesickness, and wanting to strike out on my own for several months more. I'm just reading Ranulph Fienes's autobiography, actually, and while I'm not minded to trek solo to the North Pole any time soon, the idea of rafting or canooing and camping on The Yukon, or somewhere in the Northwest Territories appeals. In any case, we're just about to cross the river on the border – as Kipling described it, 'The Great Greasy Grey-Green Limpopo River'.

It's probably all talk, though. I rather like doing the odd holiday here or there. Not sure I'd really want to be away on my own for months at a time...

Introducing Kurt

Kurt is our truck for the transit and Kruger tour. Kurt is one of the newer trucks, and was the truck used by the 'accomodated' tour. It's a bit shinier than Ella. Instead of all the seats facing forward, there are two on each side at the front facing inward to a low table. There are larger-than-they-look lockers at the back, too, rather than having to stow packs overhead. It's nice, but we miss Ella.

I'm currently sitting on one of the front 'table' seats, feet on the table, tapping away. Apart from a couple of stops, we've been on the road for ten hours. In addition to the deep cuts and bruises on both shins, I also have a graze on my right temple. The front of the passenger cabin is covered in carpet. I was sleeping against it with a small pillow this morning, and while I slept, my head must have bounced and the pilllow slipped. It felt sore when I woke, but it was only when I looked in a service-station mirror that I realised how bad it was. So yes, I have a carpet burn on my forehead.

(Yes, look, don't even bother. I've given it to you on a plate, so it wouldn't be hard or clever, okay?)

I've had time to do a bit of thinking today. In hindsight, perhaps I should have planned to leave the tour at Vic Falls. We have a different truck, different guides (tho' they're very nice – a tall South African chap called Quentin and a cook called Albert) and the group has broken up. They (obviously) do things differently to Ella's crew, and our rhythm feels a bt busted. The other thing that's done it is meeting Sabrina again. Can't remember whether I mentioned it at the time, but I met Sabrina at Long Street Backpacker's. American girl, just graduated, travelling (through slightly unusual circumstances) with a university professor. There's nothing 'going on', she tells me, and he's just a travelling companion (although she said her parents are deeply suspicious). Anyway, it looked like we might be in Windhoek at the same time, so we swapped email addresses. Sadly, we missed each other. So, improbably, I ran into her in the garage forecourt in a small place called 'Natta', in Botswana. They were looking for an Acacia truck to Kasane, on their way to Vic Falls. An English girl was with her, who looked incredibly familiar. She lives near Brixton, she says, but I have yet to place her. We only had five minutes to chat before we departed, but for the first time, I was struck by the appeal of travelling solo. Those girls weren't travelling together in Cape Town, and I love the idea of meeting people and travelling with spontenieity. They were heading to Kasane, then Vic Falls. Sadly, I waved them goodbye, with a promise to swap stories by email.

Lions

The 'Lion Encounter' was a completely different kettle of, um, fish. To be honest, due to my cash flow problems, I was rather flustered when I signed up to 'do stuff'. Christine and Heather were doing it, so I thought, 'Yeah, why not'. I later realised I'd signed up to do it the morning I was leaving, forgetting they were flying out later. So, I changed it to this afternoon. There were three of us in the mini-bus- myself, and a middle-aged Indian-African couple. They seemed 'stereotypical', although I'm not really sure what the stereotype is.

When we arrived, we were given a briefing by the guide, and shown a video describing the breeding programme. 'Our' lions where stage one – they were taken from the wild and reared. They were to be used to breed more cubs who would then be 'trained' for release in the wild. The guide told us we were to meet two cubs today – so not the lion-fest I'd been expecting.

I was more and more dubious by the minute, but we walked up a path for about twenty minutes, rounded a corner, and there they were. My first thought was, 'Bloody hell, they're enormous!' Talk of 'cubs' had me expecting cute, housecat sized furballs. These things were LIONS. I later found out the male was just over 100Kg, at seventeen months old. Apparently, the very biggest can reach 300kg. We then went on a forty-five minute walk with the cubs, while the guide talked about them. As the guide got me to pose while he took photos of me on my camera, I felt like a right tourist – something that makes me feel uncomfortable. What made me smile was the size of the retinue.Us three 'clients' where accompanied by at least five guides, together with two 'gap year' girlsl from the UK, while two other men – one with a rifle – walked well ahead of us to check for other animals which the cubs might react to. Frankly, I felt like a bit of a prat walking around with ten escorts (some of them armed), while the guide 'pap'd me with my camera.

It was amazing, though, to see them up close, and get an idea of their sheer size. We were given detailed instructions beforehand. We were to always maintain eye contact with them – it's not perceived as aggression; it's dominance. They also used thin sticks to wave and distract the lion cubs, since you're only in trouble if they properly focus on you. The two English girls there were the typical types I met all the time at university – I figure that anyone doing a gap year abroad after school is either self-confident and ambitious, has well-off parents, or possibly both. They were pleasant enough, though. All in all, a fascinating afternoon.

Riding the rapids

The briefing was a little disorganised, ,since there were twelve of us, and people kept wandering off. The guides arrived mob-handed, and were all black Zimbabweans – incredibly friendly, quick to laugh, and very enthusiastic. The explained the rapids normally run one to twenty-three, but that the high water levels rendered rapid as a grade 6 that was also impossible to walk around, so we had to start at eleven. The season had just opened, and we were to be some of the first to raft it, so we were just happy to be able to do it at all.

We drove the fifteen or so kilometers, then another four in the back of a flat-bed truck. I was chatting with Chosum, one of the guides about how we have to get tipped out of the boat at some point We were told there were to be two boats of six – one with just paddles and the other with the guide at the back with a sturdy pair of oars – this was the 'safer' boat. As we climbed off the truck, Chosum said quietly to me, 'Get five other people for our boat'. Clearly, he'd pegged me as being interested in a rougher ride, and wanted me to recruit five other likeminded people (in terms of adrenaline sports, I think: I'm not sure he wanted people who take lots of photos and complain about their injuries a lot). So, a very steep hike down to the river, and we found ourselves standing by a wide open part of the river, where the water eddied in circles.

We jumped into our boat, and were put through drills by Costan, who sat at the back with a single paddle. It was simple stuff, but strenuous enough to keep warm. He also had us jump out at one point to practice getting back in. There's a knack to this, which involves dunking yourself under to let the bouyancy of the lifejacket propel you upwards before dragging yourself (or being dragged) into the boat. I enquired how long we should hold people down for, and he suggested I use my foot on their heads. With that, and a signal from the videographer, we were off.

Rafting is the most fun I've had in a long time. It's fantastic, and I'd love to come back and do the first eleven rapids. Nevertheless, there were three grade fives in the stretch we did, and I nearly went out several times. I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that, for all our paddling, the guide had it all in hand. I was keen for us to capsize, but we managed to stay upright – even though, during one grade five, we were practically standing on our stern. Artto and I – the blokes – were at the front, so we took the brunt of the impacts – which was fine by me! Three rapids from the end, on a grade three, we finally hit a big churn side on and were upended. As I tumbled into the water, my first reaction was to raise my arm over my head in case someone or something was dropping on me, but I was clear. I surfaced and grabbed the side of the raft. I was just collecting my thoughts when Artto surfaced underneath me, having been under the raft. Costan was sitting on the top of the upsidedown raft and told us to move to the other side. I let go momentarily...and suddenly found myself twenty metres from the boat. I was more excited than scared, but it was amazing what the currents could do. I surfaced and saw one of the safety kayakers next to me, We had a laugh about my predicament, then I started to swim back to the raft. It proved very difficult, though, with my paddle still in my hand. So, I handed it to the kayaker, then swam back.

Once we were all back in the boat, we started on what the guides had earlier described as 'war stories'. You can imagine, can't you. Anyway, we made our way to the bottom, over a few more rapids, then hiked up to the top of the gorge, to be met by a cooler of drinks. An awesome morning.

So, rafting? Yep, loved it. The only slight issue I had is that I wonder just how much influence we have, as paddlers, on what the boat does. We had to hike round a grade six narrow, and the Costan took the boat through on his own. It's great fun, but I'd love to have a go at something that requires some training and skill from the participants. Nevertheless, immense fun for something we only needed five minutes of practice for. In my opinion, it has the advantages of feeling very dangerous and unpredictable, while actually being very safe indeed.

The other thing is, I can't help suspecting that, while Costan didn't deliberately capsize us, I think he probably put us in a position where it might happen. He picked up our vibe, I think, and I don't think it was a mistake we hit the wave side-on. It's also interesting that, if I was to choose somewhere for my clients to go in the water, it'd be in a nice grade three, rather than a dangerous grade five.

And the setup? The whole thing was brilliant, from start to finish. I don't know if it's because of low wages, or lack of work, but there must have been twenty or so people involved – five or six 'safety' kiaks, A photographer and a videographer on the shore, guys with the trucks, with coolers full of drinks. They all did a brilliant job.

Oh yes, one more thing: I met two guys on the truck that had been rafting – a South African and an Australian. They're airline pilots for Emirates out of Dubai, and had been competing in a race in their private plane in Zimbabwe. They were now exploring, and were due to fly to Kruger tomorrow. They had a spare space. Why, oh why didn't I grab that one?

It has been one helluva day. I'm going to have to work hard to resist the urge to draw some parallels between the turbulent nature of today's events and consequent emotional rollercoaster, and the rapids on the Zambese down from the Victoria Falls, That would be lazy, though. I'm now pretty much spent, and we're off at 6:30 tomorrow to start the long drive back to Jo'berg. I'm thinking I really should have hitched the semi-offered lift to Kruger in a Cessna with the two race pilots I met...

Right, I'll split this into a few posts. First, the events overnight...

Last night was the last 'official' night of the Cape to Vic portion of the tour and, for a lot of people the end of their trip. Instead of going out for dinner, at Bjorn's suggestion, we'd all put in some Pula, they'd bought food, and the Savanna kitchen cooked it up for us. Bjorn, Lissom and Lee were to leave at five the next morning, to drive back to Cape Town. The more I think about this, the more I'm not keen that Nomad have done this. It's shattering the illusion that we're a tight-knit group, and reinforcing the fact that we're just paying customers, and that there wil be dozens more every week. The guides were less happy about it, too – Lee is from Vic Falls and used to work at Savanna, so it was a chance for her to catch up with friends. Lissom's wife had made a five hour train journey with his six-month old son, Oliver, and was only going to be able to spend one night with him. We got tips together for the three of them, and presented them in envelopes. Bjorn, in particular, has done an outstanding job. As I may have mentioned, he toured with Nomad twice before telling what they could have done much better on the second trip. Within months, he was working for them. Lissom, too, has been great – slightly shy, perhaps, but hilarious once you get to know him, and full of simple wisdom. Some tradional danceers came to sing and play for free, but again, with the hope of tips. Bjorn jokingly said they were leaving at five, if anyone fancied seeing them off. Christine and Heather, my roommates, decided that would be exactly what we would do.

We scraped ourselves out of bed at a quarter to five and wandered outside to the truck. I saw Bjorn walk, stoney-faced, acrossed the courtyard, and some sixth sense told me not to attempt to say anything funny. We gathered in a group, by the truck. Lee came up to us and explained. They'd been burgled. Thieves had broken into their rooms while they slept and stolen everything. Tips, passports, her ETD (curse my banking career: my first thought was 'Exchange-Traded Derivative?', but it's an 'Emergency Travel Document'). Bjorn's bag had been taken, Lissom's wife's bag and his camera. To be honest, I was too bleary-eyed to be properly shocked, but I did note how calm Lee was. It might be that she can step it up when it matters. I've been burgled before, and obviously, it's not nice, but we couldn't understand how on earth they could have broken into a locked, occupied room without waking anyone. After standing around for a while, I dragged everyone back to bed, figuring we were more in the way than anything else.

We were at breakfast at seven thirty for our rafting brief. We were still a little numb, and the robbery took on a dreamlike quality. Bjorn and Lissom had just left on the truck, but Lee stayed, since she had no travel documents and wouldn't be able to cross the border. Our biggest concern was for Lissom, and Heather and Christine instigated a collection for his wife and I'm told she was surprised and grateful. Times are crazy in Zimbabwe, and it would be shocking if he was spending months away from his family then coming back with a deficit.

We arrived back from rafting. Lee was still at Savanna, and we found out that Bjorn's bag had been found by the fence, still containing his clothes. The current theory is that the robbers sprayed some sort of soporific gas under the doors, since nobody had woken, and when he did wake, Bjorn wa, apparently, very groggy – not like him at all. We suspected an insiide job, since the security guard was asleep on the gate, and they may have known we'd tipped the guides, and that they were leaving early so wouldn't be using the hotel safe that night. Apart from Lissom, then, it sounded like losses had been fairly minimal. They'd missed his iPod, and it sounded like his tip may have already been in the truck safe. Lee, though, was having trouble contacting him. Her phone wasn't set to roaming, and she wasn't sure what to do, so was waiting for him to call. I concluded that she was supposed to be on the next trip out with Bjorn from Cape Town, leaving this morning, so she wasn't sure whether to get the transfer to Jo'berg with us tomorrow..

(At this point, despite surviving the rafting unscathed, I tripped over a stone step at the lodge, and I now have two rather spectacular holes in my shins, along with cuts to hands and elbow.)

By the evening, Lee still hadn't heard from Bjorn, so she had decided to stay in Vic Falls. To be honest, I don't think that's the right course of action. Her reasoning is she's in a better position to catch up with Bjorn's next trip from here (although I also think it's because she has friends and family here). Personally, I think that if she was serious about being a Nomad guide (as opposed to 'spending time with her boyfriend), she should get to Cape Town as soon as possible and get on the next departing trip. As I say, though, I'm sure the guiding's low on her list of motivations. Anyway, I've said my two penneth worth, and maybe I don't know all the facts.

The fact is, though, that many people here have nothing. The money isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. In fact, I was taking a photo of the exchange rates, pinned up over the electronic rate board, when a security guard asked me what I was doing. I thought I was in trouble, but in fact, he was just informing me that they were a day out of date, and that the rates had already gone up. People on the streets try to trade anything with you – they trade for your clothes, your shoes, anything… We were told that, if we want to buy souvenirs, the best way to do it is to use food. One of our group has already traded a kilo of rice for a stone statuette…

Vic Falls - goodbye, Ella

This is a weird place. Well, Savanna itself isn't, but Vic Falls as a town. We were up bright and early this morning. 'Cape to Vic' is a trip in itself (although I'm going on to Kruger), so that was techincally the last camping night of the trip. We reached the border around 8:00am and got through within about forty-five minutes (Bjorn promised the guys some beers from the coolers if they had us processed by 8:30.

Last night, a guy called Tyrone appeared. He was of mixed race (some Indian in there, I think), and Bjorn knew him well. He was a little plastered, but he sat and chatted. He's 'responsible' for a village near Vic Falls, and was telling us about the place. It sounds very depressing. A beer costs two month's wages in Zim. People work in restaurants for free so they get the food. On a lighter note, though, he told us that rafting opened for the season on Friday. This brought a cheer from everyone, since we'd been told at the beginning that heavy rains meant it was going to open later. A result.

Approaching Vic Falls, we paused for photos at the entrance sign. There were a couple of guys along there with elephants. Bjorn said they were from the 'Elephant Walk' tour, and were just on their way to or from somewhere. Such is the nature of money here, though, that they let us feed and pet the elephants, and pose for photographs – all on the implicit understanding that we'd tip them a little. So, everyone wins. I also managed to set my new camera on timer and maded it on to the roof of the truck with everyone else within ten seconds. I haven't quite got the hang of this camera

Savanna, then, is where Lee used to work, and where Bjorn and her met. I'm not sure how much detail I've gone into, but she's a trainee guide, and they're in a relationship. She's great, laughes a lot, gets on with everyone. I don't know if it's because she's travelling with boyfriend, though, but she's 'rubbish'. She's always cold, frightened of just about everything, hates getting up early. I'm not sure how she'll make a guide, unless she steps up to the plate when he's not there. Anyway...

So, we had a bit of an argument at reception. They have rooms of four, and they're not mixed. Since Silv and I are the only single blokes on the trip, that would have meant that we may be with random strangers. Christine and Heather felt the same, so we agreed to share a room. This proved to be impossible, since 'Nomad had specified no mixed dorms'. This was, of course, ridiculous, since we'd been in mixed rooms in Windhoek and Swakopmund. Bjorn pointed out that the policy was that people wouldn't be forced to share a mixed dorm, but they wouldn't have it. I don't know what's happened to me, but I'm getting the hang of beligerence. They said they couldn't do it becaue we might complain. I said, 'Look, if we're forced to share a dorm with random strangers on an organised Nomad trip – particularly as we have four people – then I'm DEFINITELY going to complain very loudly'. At this, they gave up protesting and let us have our way.

Karma got me back, though. The guy arrived to show us a DVD of all the activities (including rafting!). Now, I know Abbie's going to give me a hard time about this, since she specifically said, 'Make sure you take enough USD to Vic Falls, since it's impossible to get hold of.' Guess what? After working out what I wanted to do, I realised I only had around sixty dollars. I'm sure I drew out eight hundred at Heathrow, so I'm not sure what happened. I was nearly gutted. Luckily, Christine – the most organised person I've ever met – was able to lend me a few hundred dollars (she brought fifteen hundred!), so I feel very stupid, quite humble, and very thankful. I've promised to take a lot of photos of them over the next few days as a thank you (and I'll pay them back, of course). I have no idea where I went wrong with the figures.

We had lunch, and it's interesting to note that I'm not the only person 'WEM' is annoying. I was sitting next to her, with Artto and Magda opposite. We were talking about how pleased we were that rafting was open. She said, 'Well, I've done it before, you know, so I can't see the point. It's all the same wherever you go...'. Artto pointedly dropped his fork and looked away, but she didn't notice. It's not the fact that that's what she thinks, it's the fact that she says it in such a way that suggests that the rest of us are wasting our time. She seems to have this thing about experiencing 'real Africa', so you wonder why she came on this trip. For me, Heather - very quietly - is much more about that - engaging the polers in conversation long into the night, and talking to Tyrone last night. She's bought twenty-five kilograms or so of maize and oil to donate here. Wow.

So, our last drive in Ella took us down to the Falls. It's wet down there. The locals call it 'The Smoke That Thunders', and you can see why. The whole places is covered in a fine mist, that gets heavier and lighter at intervals. I took lots of 'Mackins' here, so I'm going to have to do a bit of editing, as card three is nearly full. Now I'm just killing time until dinner, after walking back. There are a lot of people trying to talk to you. They all have various crafts, and they want to trade for anything - your t-shirt, shoes... Quite scary what's happened here. We changed a US dollar into Zim, and I now have a few billion Zimbabwean dollars. Amazing. Now I have to go sort out the stuff I'm doing, since I think I may have screwed up the days...

Kasane Camp, near Chobe, Botswana

Gods, I'm knackered, but in a good way. We walked up to the bar at Planet Baobab last night, and it proved to be pretty darned cool. It must be great in the summer, when there are lots of people, but it was pretty much deserted when we were there. Apart from, that is, a plastered girl from the Netherlands (from whom I just about escaped with my life). It turns out she works there, and since it was a Friday, she was doing what a fair number of people do on a Friday. The only difference was that she was the only person in that state. She had me buying rounds of shooters. I'm sure she would have been great fun had we all been in a similar state. The bar was very cool, anyway – with chandeliers made out of beer bottles, and a bar that curved in and out, so you could stand between two bars, if you so desired. There was a fire outside and, at one point, the barman went out, filled a copper pan with hot coals, and placed them in the middle of our table. Magic.

During his usual after-dinner briefing, Bjorn hit us with a bit of a curve ball. It turns out they want to send out another tour from Cape Town on Wednesday, so Bjorn is driving back the day after tomorrow, so not transitting us to Jo'berg, or taking us to Kruger. There was silence after he said this, and it's fair to say everyone's a bit gutted. While I'm not sure I'd peg any of these people as the sort to be close friends, it's amazing how we've become sort-of close without really realising it. So, it sounds like the 'accommodated' truck will be taking those of us continuing. It's one of the new trucks, which is nice, but it's still a bit of a shame.

The 4am start hurt, though. We were to do a river cruise in Chobe, then a game drive the next morning. Bjorn gave us the option to do both in the same day, thus avoiding paying the park fees twice, and getting to Victoria Falls earlier tomorrow. The downside, of course, was that we would have to rise at 4am. Oh well, the twenty US dollars swung it for most people, so we were up in the middle of the night. It stung a bit – particularly as we had to make a packed lunch of sandwiches with dehydrated bread for lunch. We then had to travel one of the worst roads of the trip. Normally, the last five hundred metres or so into campsites, is a little rough, and bounces us around a bit. This particular road was of a similar state, only it was around one hundred and seventy kilometers long. I now have some idea what it feels like to be one of those lottery balls in the machine.

So, reaching camp, we had twenty minutes to pitch tents, unpack stuff, and sort out the t-shirts before the safari truck arrived. Ah yes, the t-shirts. Bjorn has a stack of t-shirts from various trips, and he wears a different one every day. He gave us the option to have 'tour' t-shirts made up. The guys come here, we give them the design, then they're ready in Vic. Falls for collection. You can imagine what 'design by committee' is like, but I've signed up for one anyway (I mean, you know how much decorating I do).

The safari was fantastic. Chobe surrounds part of the Chobe River and, frankly, knocked Etosha into a cocked hat. It was off-road the whole way, the truck we had had elevated open-air seats on the back, and the driver and guide was one of those stereotypical beefy Afrikaans types with a moustache, who's probably been brought up on raw meat. A very knowledgable guy, though, and we saw a host of animals and birds. It also added something hearing the commentary in his deep Afrikaaner voice. The terrain was a lot more varied than Etosha, including the wide Chobe river. Etosha consists more of wide open plains, and the odd waterhole. I think it's fair to say we felt a lot safer than in the Delta, too. This was a lot more sanitised, but I remember thinking, three hours into our long Delta walk, that I had no idea where we were or, more to the point, where the camp was. I wondered what we would have done if the guide had dropped dead faster than you can say, 'congenital heart disease'. And I'm loving the new camera. It's a revelation. I managed to snap birds in flight, elephants right between the eyes... It really showed it's a cut above the compacts most of the other people on the tour have. The only problem is I seem to have filled up another 8-gig card. I'm going to have to do a bit of editing, since I'm not sure I need forty-three photos of tired hippos...

...in fact, as I type, I'm listening to the conversation around the fire. Bjorn just described how our safari guide this afternoon, 'If you lift up his shirt, he doesn't have much stomach left.' According to Bjorn, the guy used to be a hunting guide. A client wanted a leopard, shot one and only injured it. The guide went to finish it off and discovered it wasn't as badly injured as he thought it would. It managed to open up his stomach with his claws, and he just about managed to throttle it to death before he passed out. He was found by the client, and they got him to hospital. Apparently, half his internal organs are damaged, and he's had twelve or so operations over the years. For the last twenty-five years, then, he's been the head game warden at Chobe. He's like something out of a Wilbur Smith novel – he even got cross when the girls got the cooler box off the truck, saying 'that's a man's job.' Would have been fascinating to have a beer with him – although he says there's so little liver left, he can't get pissed if he tries (don't ask me why: I'm not sure of the medical details)...

Anyway, after a couple of hours of cruising, the driver dropped us back to the river, and it was on to a boat for a sunset cruise. I managed to get my fill of hippos here, and god do they stink. We're getting quite demanding with our photography. At one point, twenty metres from about fifteen hippos, I found myself pointing my camera, and silently saying, 'Yawn, bitch. C'mmon, give me some action...'

So, back at camp. Steak, roast veg and sausages for dinner, now I'm typing away while the others chat around the fire. My tiny laptop is proving very popular, since it can be used to copy photos from memory cards to usb drives. The number of cameras, mp3 players, in the group is amazing. What must this have been like ten years ago?

A lie-in tomorrow – 6am. The Zim border will be a bit of a hassle, we're told, but we'll be at Victoria Falls around lunchtime, for the last full day of this tour. I really don't know how to feel. Tired, I guess.

Roads

It's unsuprising, really, but 'overlanding' in a truck entails a lot of time spent on the road. To a little Englishman such as myself, this continent is all the more huge, and the distances are vast – a word you can't readily associate with Britain. Not for the first time, Bjorn will say after dinner, 'right guys, it's gonna be around eleven hours on the road tomorrow', and nobody blinks or complains. It's amazing how fast the time goes, though. As I child, I used to balk at the regular five-hour drives to see the relatives in Cornwall. It was always planned at least a week or two in advance, and my parents actually used to put the back seats down and make a double bed of sorts in the back for my sister and I (this was, of course, in the days before compulsary backseat seatbelts). My dad even built a luggage rack out of wood so we could lie with our feet underneath it. These days, the journey length doesn't bother me. Perhaps it's part of being a 'grown up'.

Perhaps it's because I simply have so much more to think about these days – the 'where am I going?', the 'what am I doing?' I don't know, perhaps this ‘thinking’ time is a valuable part of the trip. The truck is so crowded that the most sensible course of action is to get comfortable, then stay as still as possible. The first track on the stereo is always 'Beautiful Day' by U2, but most of the other music is lost amidst the noise of the engine, the rush of the wind across the windows, and the rattling caused by the pitted and rutted roads. It's amazing how one manages to sleep whilst being bounced off the ceiling, though. And yet we do. Sleeping and day-dreaming. I've changed careers three times, moved house and bought a bike several times while my head has rattled against the windows. And reading, too. I've managed to plow through several books, despite only being able to read half a sentence at a time before my eyes are bounced back up the page again.

Is it time wasted, though? My thoughts usually turn to home, and all the things I've been meaning to do. My resolve tightens, but it remains to be seen whether I knuckle down and sort out all my outstanding tasks and projects when I'm back in London. Sort my life out, essentially.

Or maybe it's just that iPods weren't around when I was ten.

Planet Baobab

Planet Baobab, and gods, did that shower feel good. I've said it before (and, knowing me, will say it again and again), but I think a good shower is one of my favourite things. I'm sitting next to a powerpoint with roughly twelve plugs and adaptors hanging out of it. For my part, the laptop has to stay here because K has plugged his phone into the USB port to charge. Elsewhere in Botswana, lights flicker, a surgeon operates by candle light, airports close...

I feel completely renewed after a shower and a shave, but totally relaxed. I think I've 'got' the 'Africa' thing, finally. Last night was something really special, and it'll live long in my memory (of course, it's going to live long in my memory anyway. Let's check the criteria: Totally useless info? Tick. Not going to help me professionally? Tick. Not something anyone's ever going to ask me about? Tick). I'm aware the sense of humour has taken a bit of a dink, and it's all got a bit earnest, but I'll throw in a few of Bjorn's stories in a while (the clients that brought three prostitutes back to the hostel and then refused to pay, for instance...)

Gi's a Song...

Last night was one of those perfect nights. For the first time, I thought, 'there's something special about this place'. It started with the mokoro trip. It's hard to describe how beautiful, how tranquil it was. The water was mirror-like, reflecting the setting sun, and the shadows of the reeds, flowers and trees.

After dinner, the circle around the fire was widened, and we, the Nomad group sat on one side, with the guides and polers – about fifteen of them – standing on the other. It began almost organically. They were talking and laughing amongst themselves, you'd hear the odd snatch of melody, some laughter. Then, gradually, a rhythm developed, a foot-stamping beat, and suddenly they were all singing. It was brilliant – soothing, yet exciting, and unexpectedlyl moving. I looked around and everyone was wearing the same silly grin as I was. This wasn't an act. I had the impression that they'd be quite happy to sing and dance like this even if we weren't there – and the ragtag clothing (one guy wearing an Aussie rugby shirt and combats, an old woman wearing a raincoat) only added to the authenticity. They seemed to be having a wonderful time, and we were quickly sucked in. This was so much more as it should have been with the bushman dancers in Ghanzi.

And then, finally, they asked us to reciprocate. Now, try and imagine, if you will, trying to cobble twelve nationalities into some sort of choir. Too much TV, I think, as we all 'know' songs – but that seems to mean only knowing the first verse and the chorus. Leah led us off with 'In the Jungle', which worked quite well, since there were so many simple rythms that everyone could pick it up. After five minutes of prevaricating, I said, 'Does anyone know “Irish Rover”'. Heidi – from the Faroe Islands – did, so the two of us quickly taught the rest the chorus, then the two of us sung it, with the others joining in when they could. It went down rather well, even though I do say so myself. We were struggling for material a tad, and it was a shame we couldn't do better – perhaps Nomad should issue song sheets on the first day of the tour, in future. In fact, I think that'd be a great idea, as the locals had put on such a great show. It felt great to be able to sing something back to them, and a shame we couldn't sing more. This was a true 'cultural experience'. They weren't doing it for money, or putting on costumes, and I wouldn't have been suprised if they'd done the same thing even if we weren't there. Brilliant.

Eventually, we played a few games, then sat around telling riddles and stories. We really have lost the art of telling stories. I was telling Lisson a couple of Kipling's 'Just So' Stories the other day, and I found myself summarising, rather than actually telling the story. Rubbish.

And we did it all without a single drop of alcohol, too.

So, back in Maun for a quick shopping trip. It was great to see Lissom back at the Tautanga camp. I think we really missed him. More on why he didn't come next time, hopefully. Have to tell you all about 'Lee', too...

So,

I'm wearing my hat

I'm so wearing my hat. K keeps saying, 'hey, look everlyone, Dr. Jones! Hey, Harlison Ford!'

Another lazy afternoon by the river. There's nothing so fine as messing about in boats. It's fair to say I'm going to sleep well tonight. We had a two-hour walk last night, then a long walk this morning. The walks this morning for scheduled for around four hours, but my Swiss seat-mate (Wannabe Earth Mother, or 'WEM'), Zav (Canadian number-one-son) and I decided we wanted to do more, so elected to do six hours instead. Well, actually, they wanted to do it, and I said I'd go with them. WEM's been bugging me...well, most of the time, to be honest.I don't know if it's the Swiss thing, but I find her a tad opinionated, and a bit of a pain. I mean, I'm all for 'nature knows best', why have a twenty minute debate about whether we really have to wear shoes on the walking safari when you could just stick a pair of trainers on. I mean, does it really matter that much? (although I did chuckle on day one when we went down to the river for a swim and it took her ten minutes to walk across the sand because of all the thorns – sorry, 'torns'). She also has that way of expressing her opinion in a way that suggests your opinion is wrong or stupid. Malaria, for instance. Now, I'm taking Malarone tablets – shit! haven't taken one today – as every medical and non-medical source has told me it's a good idea. I'm also using deet repellant. She doesn't use either, because 'dey do bed tings to your body'. What, worse things than malaria? 'Well, you know, African people don't take pills'. Yes, but 'African people' have lived in Africa a very, very long time. Hence the name. If Mr. Darwin is to be believed, any African who was prone to malaria probably wouldn't have survived long. I'm fairly sure, on the other hand, Switzerland doesn't have a problem with mosies. So, she doesn't take tablets, but I'm forced to sit next to her on the truck every day as she cuts up and eats chunks of raw garlic and ginger. Yum.

So, bit of a stroll this morning, and we saw quite a lot of stuff. Animals in the Delta are, for the most part, small, grainy and slightly out-of-focus, or so my photography would have me believe. I'm gradually getting the hang of this camera, but it' going to take time and practice to really start getting results. We saw warthog, zebra, hyena, impala, wildebeast, jackal, baboon, giraffe and lots of elephants. We had one particularly memorable encounter with a huge bull elephant. We'd seen it from a distance, then move away through some trees. We'd seen giraffe and zebra ahead, so stopped to watch. We were surprised when our guide whirled round started. Now, I'm trying to be conservative here, but the elephant must have been twenty metres from us. We ran, as quietly as we could. I snapped off one photo, and managed to get a shot of the elephant's right ear. Probably not even a near-miss by African standards, but it felt pretty exciting. I wish I'd paused longer to take the photo, although I'm not sure whether I was scared of the elephant, or worried what the guide would have said if I hadn't run after him straight away.

Managed to lose my lenscap, too. Gah. Oh, my watch has stopped working, too. Well, it's working, but I can't change the time. This was fine when I was only an hour out, but Bjorn suggested I push the reset button. It has reset, but now the time's totally wrong and I can't change it. Ah well, I guess I can wait until 12:00 and hit reset... So, lunch, more messing about in boats, then we're off for a sunset mokoro trip at, well, sunset.

Bush camp - Okavango Delta

As I write, I'm drying gently after falling out of a Mokoro a couple of times. We set up camp a few hours ago, and we've been killing time by trying to pole around the 'Mokoro' dugout canoos we arrived in. Predictably, it's harder than it looks. In mitigation, though, I only fell out of the Mokoro once we'd started trying to knock each other off balance, and two people attacked me at the same time. Still, me clinging to the bottom of my upturned mokoro, nine-foot pole in one hand, yelling, 'Er, what do I do now?' at least gave those on the bank something to laugh about.

I'm about twenty metres away from the camp, well out of sight, but I can hear the gentle murmur of the local polers and guides as they chat, intermingled with the more animated sound of the tour group as some of them play 'Yahtzee'. We pitched camp around lunchtie, when we arrived from Tatunga camp. We reached Tatunga yesterday lunch time, on the outskirts of Maun. Another sand pit, it was, but again different in character from everything we'd seen previously. A Kiwi guy, Graham, seemed to run the place, and we had a bit of good-natured rugby banter – apparently England play NZ on Saturday, but I have a nasty feeling I'll be in Chobe somewhere. So, those who so wished headed out in the afternoon for a scenic flight over the delta. We went up in six-man planes, and flew around three hundred feet from the ground. It was pretty cool to see the Delta, the melange of pools, tributaries, islands and trees. We saw elephants, giraffes, buffalo and a pool of hippos, although it was difficult to get photos – particularly with my new camera. Magda was in our plane, and was a tad nervous, so we didn't go too crazy. All the same, everyone was feeling slightly queesy when we landed.

So, something changed last night, and I'm not quite sure what it was. After dinner – hamburgers! - we sat around as usual, but everyone seemed friendlier, more at ease. Perhaps it was because we didn't get the chairs out, and everyone sat on the floor. I talked more to the odd Korean girls. I really feel the tour has 'knitted' now as a group, everyone has the measure of everyone else, and we've worked out everyone's 'piss take limit'.

We were leaving at 7am, and only taking a day pack each (ironic, seeing as we were going for two). We were loaded onto an open truck in the morning and driven two hours to the 'Mokoro Station', which is a rather grandiose term for a stretch of riverbank with twenty or so knackered canooes on it. It's fair to say we all got incredibly cold on the truck over, and we disembarked, shivering, to be met by our guides and polers. The food and tents went in 'luggage' mokoros, and the rest of us, and our stuff, went two to a mokoro. Progress was slow for us. Our poler 'poled' like an old woman, which actually exceeded our expectations seeing as she was a very old woman. Frankly, they made a cockup. Silveo (German tent-mate, or 'GTM') and I were arguably the heaviest two people on the tour, and our boat was so old and low in the water she had to stop every five minutes to bale out her end. The poler stands at the back of the boat, much like a gondolier. She talked the whole time, whether it was to herself, another poler, or to us, we couldn't tell. We couldn't understand a word, although she may possibly have been saying, 'Bloody fat Europeans! Isn't four hamburgers a bit excessive even for you?'. Anyway, we were about two inches above the water line at the middle, and the journey was a bit stressful. A hippo emerged about ten metres from the boat, but that was the only animal we saw. The water, though, was startlingly clear. It's some of the cleanest water in the world, I'm told, and they say you can drink it – although, of course, the different mineral content may upset you.

Three hours later, we've now pitched tents, had lunch, and as I mentioend, been playing with the mokoros. Snowboarding meant I found it relatively easy to stand in the boat, but the pole is a law unto itself. Two of the Canadian kids eventually managed to push me into the water, whereupon I leapt back in, said to one of them, 'Right, you're going i...' then turned to the bank and asked her mum, 'Is it okay if she goes in?', before turning, grimly, back to my task.

So yes, I'm just about dry now, and we're off on a bushwalk in a couple of hours. We are to wear muted, natural colours... so, of course, one of the Koreans is wearing Orange culottes, a red tie-dye shirt and an orange bandana. Cosmic.

Maun

Just a quick one. We've just arrived in Maun, the 'gateway' to the Okavango Delta, so I'm just updating before we take Mokoros (dugout canoos) into the Delta and camp out in the middle of nowhere for two days. We're just gathering last-minute supplies. I'm not feeling too bad, all in all. Haven't had much of a chance to use the new camera, but that should change in the next few days. I miss having a compact in my pocket I can whip out at a moment's notice. There's certainly a lot more 'faff' involved with the new one, and it's going to take me a while before I can get results close to or better than those I have before. It'll be interesting to see if anyone can spot, from the photos, when my last camera broke.

Anyway, gotta get back to the truck. It's very crowded at the moment, and I'm getting a little ticked off. It's just that everyone wants to do what they want to do, and there's very little waiting for people to get out of the way before steaming ahead. I've tried, but it just doesn't work too well, so I'm forced to dive in with everyone else. Tollerance, as always, is the key.

Goodbye Namibia, Hello Botswana, England are rubbish at football

A bit of a lie-in this morning – up at seven. I – and most of the others – seem to be suffering from what, I suppose, you could call 'tent lag'. That is, we're so used to going to bed around nine, then up at 5am, it's difficult to kick the habit. Pancakes for breakfast, though, so that was something. We paused in town for a spot of shopping, and I headed to the camera shop. After the woman there managed to confirm they didn't have the same model as I'd broken, I asked her about the Canon EOS 450D – an 'entry level' SLR – whereuon she went and got her boss, who was much more knowledgable (eg he'd held a camera before, and didn't think of it as 'the magic box that makes pictures'). To cut a long story short, I've paid a bit over the odds and am now the owner of a brand new SLR together with the 'kit' lens that comes with it, and a 70-300mm zoom lens. I haven't dared to work out the total cost, but I get to claim the tax back, etc. Having spent the money, though, I'm in a good mood. 'You rarely regret spending more on something, but you often regret spending less', said a friend once (when I bought a minidisc player, actually), and I think that's true. The only downside is the size means I now look like a 'photographer' (or, at least, a 'wannabe'). Having this thing dangling round my neck ain't subtle.

So, another long drive today, with me mainly preoccupied with my camera instruction manual. Christine sat next to me so Radda could sit behind her and I was treated to the slightly surreal sight of three girls braiding hair right next to me. It was about four hours to the Botswana border, and we passed imigration without incident – although I filled in forms to claim back the tax – not sure when that'll get sorted. 'Africa time', so maybe in two years? Oh yes, the immigration guy...

'So, Euro 2008. England aren't there. What happened?' Brilliant.

It was another good few hours to the camp in Botswana. Again, it's pretty cool, and totally different to any other camp so far. It's sandy, with a few buildings, a stage area and a big fireplace. There's a rooved observation deck from which you can see the waterhole, and on which a few people are sleeping tonight. The first time I saw this was when, as I came back from plugging my camera battery in, I was greeted by my german tent-mate, grinning like a schoolboy. I grabbed the tent and followed him. He took me up to the deck and pointed out that Bjorn hadn't objected to us pitching there. So I'm sitting in a tent, in a '1st floor' raised shed, overlooking the waterhole. Nice one. Some animals came to the waterhole, and I tried to take some photos, but fully 'telephoto'd', and in the fading light, they were very blurred. Clearly this camera is a more sensitive beast than a compact. Heidi, standing beside me and seeing my blurred photos, said, 'Ah, you need to use a different setting.' This was the first time on the trip I was literally lost for words.

We had some local bushmen come and dance for us tonight. Vaguely interesting, although they'd do a dance, shuffling round the fire with a cacophany of yells and shouts, then the head man would explain what the next dance was for, before repeating what appeared to be exactly the same dance. Bjorn, I'm learning, is cynical of these cultural interactions – 'Aren't they just repeating the same thing?', he whispered, before serving the food while they were dancing, saying, 'They're forty-five minutes late and everyone's hungry'. It was interesting seeing the various reactions from everyone afterwards. A few of them had 'Western' boxer shorts on, and they'd arrived by truck. A couple of people felt that that had spoilt it a little, seeing as they weren't 'authentic'. For me, though, it made it all the more realistic. It makes total sense to me that people would make use of anything to make their life more comfortable. It would have felt more contrived if they'd hastily hidden all their European paraphanalia before they performed.

Oh yes, technology has failed me again. My watch has gone wonky. I never wear a watch in the UK, since I have the time on my phone, but I've been wearing my Polar HRM watch over here. It still works, but it's now impossible to change anything, so we're now in Botswana and I can't put my watch forward an hour. Africa and electronics don't mix.

Carboardbox Backpacker's - Windhoek

So, I'm a bit behind in my musings. Last night, after the usual darned good feed, we trotted down to the waterhole. As I may have mentioned, each camp in Etosha is built near a waterhole, with seated viewing areas, and sodium floodlights. This doesn't seem to bother the animals, and you can sit there at night, watching them come and go. As with game driving, it's a bit of a lottery as to what you see, but the waterhole at 'camp 2' is particularly picturesque. It was another cold night, but it was amazing how warm it was down at the waterhole and along the path leading to it. We surmised this was because of all the large rocks which lined the route, and which had been absorbing heat all day. I only stayed about an hour, but saw a mother and baby rhino having a very brief standoff with a small herd of about fifteen elephants.

So, up at stupid o'clock, a game drive to the gate, then the ten hour drive to Windhoek – a journey that can best be described as 'uneventful'. We dropped by the hostel, then Bjorn dropped a few of us at an internet cafe about a kilometre away on his way to do some food shopping. I checked the opening time of the camera shop he'd recommended, and it opens at 7:45am, which is a result.

I'm not in a great mood today. I'm still debating what to do about the camera, I'm a bit short of sleep, and I have a sore throat. Just generally a bit run down and a tad 'peopled out', I think. I am very much looking forward to a night in a proper bed. We visited 'Joe's Beer House' tonight, for lots of dead stuff on sticks. It's a quite amazing place – half inside and half out, full of thatched bars, African and American memorabilia and open fires. Very cool to visit, although I'd imagine it's the sort of thing I'd look down my nose at if it were in London. I had a skewer of ostrich, zebra, crocodile, kudu... They all tasted fairly similar, apart from the crocodile, which I pegged straight away. It's an interesting flavour. It actually has a taste vaguely reminiscient of river water – like something that has, perhaps, been stored near fish in a freezer. Not sure I'm that keen on it, but it's always good to try new things.

So, sleep in a proper bed. In a dorm of five people, so not perfect, but I reckon I'll get a good night's kip.

At the risk of sounding facile, today is a different day. Last night was one of the coldest yet. I know it's winter, 'n' all, but what on earth is going on? I have a summer sleeping bag, as I mentioned, and I figured I could brave the first few nights, then it would get warmer. Here I am, though, still freezing my tits off night after night. I was ready for it this time, though, and 5am found me struggling out of my sleeping bag in socks, trousers, two t-shirts and a fleece.

I'm sort of 'over' my busted camera today. Gawd, it's like the end of a relationship (in some very minor ways) – I've accepted it now, but I still get those occasional pangs of regret. Like when I see an elephant in the distance, or the coos of admiration as you swap the colours 'in camera' (See? See what I did?). My tent-mate has leant me his little compact, though, which has a x3 optical zoom. As an unexpected bonus, I also worked out that the telephoto converter I had for my broken camera can be held in front of any other camera, doubling the zoom. So, everyone has been asking to borrow it, and I've managed to take some half-way decent shots. I'm also reasonably content, as long as I can pick up a new one between now and the Okavango Delta. We're in Windhoek tomorrow night, but it's Sunday, so the camera shop is unlikely to be open. We then pass through Mauun, which may have a shop. I just have to hope they have the right model, and that it's not too outrageously priced. To be honest though, money isn't a huge consideration beside the missed opportunities. The only thing I'm gutted about now, though, is that I realised I only bought it in November, so it's probably still under warranty, and that by trying to fix it, I've voided that (trust me, if you saw it you'd agree). Bugger.

More game driving today, and we've now seen three of the 'big five'. I'm just about over zebras, though. We packed up quickly this morning, to hit the park before sunrise, then stopped in a 'picnic' area for breakfast. I helped Bjorn affect repairs on some of the seats, which had broken to the point where they simply flopped back on the person seated behind. We swapped them with the seats at the very back, which involved a lot of dust, rust and elbow-grease. We were ably assisted by Heather, one of the Australian girls, who grew up on a farm, and seems happy to muck in with all things manual and mechanical. It's a welcome relief to have the two of them on board. Chrissie is the older, more organised one. She's 'classically' red headed, too. She managed to get sunburnt within the space of thirty minutes through the window on the truck, and is rarely seen without a wide-brimmed straw hat. They've just about finalised coming to Kruger, too, although they already had a flight from Vic Falls to Jo'berg booked, so they're trying to move that to avoid the two-day drive with us, and instead meet us there.

Etosha, day 1

Etosha National Park today. I suppose you'll be expecting herds of wildebeast, titanic struggles between lion and oryx, giraffes staring balefully at you through the treetops...

Well tough, because what you're going to get is the Ballad of Nick's Camera – or 'How my newish camera went “pphzzt” within twenty metres of the park gates'. I'm totally serious, and still can't believe it. You want Schardenfreude? Fill your boots.

We drove through the main gates (which had me humming the music to 'Jurrasic Park'), stopped the other side for toilet breaks and for Bjorn to pay the entrance fee. I turned on my camera to take a photo of the main gate and...'Lens Error', The lens came out, then wouldn't go back in. This had happened before, but normally turning it off and on again sorted the problem. Not this time. Nosiree. It's totally screwed. So, the one time I thought I'd be taking lots of photos, well, I'm not at all. I'd had a rubbish night's sleep and, while I initially laughed at the improbability of the timing, after the third person asked me if I had a problem with my camera, I honestly felt like bursting into tears. You know that thing where you don't want to say anything because you think your voice might crack? Rubbish, I know, but there you go.

I spent the first part of the game drive fiddling with it, taking it apart, then spent lunch at the camp, doing the same. It was by turns touching and irritating having to explain to almost every person in the group just what was wrong and what I was trying to do to fix it. Bless them, everyone was being so helpful, but when you hear 'Have you tried turning it off and on again' for the fifteenth time, I was exploding on the inside, whilst remaining cordial on the outside. Heather, one of the Australian girls even offered me her camera, saying, 'Look, use mine. You take much better photos that me.' Really touching. Bjorn did the old 'kick you in the bollocks while shaking your hand' thing again. He told me we're in Windhoek in three days, which does have a camera shop...but it'll be a Sunday, so it'll be closed. We might be able to visit if it opens 8am on Monday, but 9am will be too late. The only other hope, then, is Mauun, which is the self-proclaimed 'Gateway to the Okavango Delta'. My plan is to simply purchase an identical camera and hang the expense. For now, my tent-mate has lent me his spare camera – a 7MP compact. It's better than nothing.

After lunch, we headed out on a game drive, with me still fiddling with my defunct camera. An hour in, Radda, my Swiss seat-mate mentioned she'd once lost a camera in South America, and it was at that point I had a word with myself and put my camera away. It kinda dawned on me that it wasn't the end of the world. My dear sis and (now) brother-in-law had their camera removed at knife-point in Paraguay, after three months of their round-the-world trip in South America. They lost not only the camera, but the memory card containing all their photos of South America, including those when they got engaged on the salt flats in Bolivia. They were probably a tad more stoi about it. So yes, it could be worse.

It also led me to question just what I wanted from the game park. Was I here to see animals, or to photograph them? A few years ago, I'd be excited at simply seeing the animals, and perhaps snapping a few on a small camera. Now, though, my emphasis seems to be on the photographs – the photography. So, it's time to shift that, and appreciate what I see for what it is, rather than what I can capture in a picture. I've just been down to the waterhole and seen a mother and baby rhino drinking, and I actually spent time watching and listening, rather than composing and fiddling. Quite refreshing, really. And on that ever-so-optimistic note, bed.

Himba

Well, I'm back from the Himba tribe and it's shaping up to be the talking point of the trip, to date. Very interesting, for many, many reasons. At around 4pm, a couple of guys arrived at our camp. They were dressed in scruffy 'Western' clothes (shorts and t-shirts, though, rather than stetsons and chaps). I know this is unfair, but they kinda looked like they should be holding AK-47s. They lead us back up the track and through a gate on the side. We stopped, and he explained a couple of things about the Himba tribe we were about to meet. It was part of a community project, and there were eighteen children, many of whom were orphans. There were something like ten women, but very few men – only six between several tribes, or something like that. He told us they would say something, and we should reply 'morrow' (which means 'hello'), then they would ask us how we were and we'd reply, 'narra'. With that, he led us towards the camp.

As we approached the village – a loose collection or huts and a corrale full of cattle, surrounded by a sparse wattle fence – I must admit I was nervous. The first thing we saw was a group of four children, all under the age of eight, ochre in colour, and naked save for loincloths, necklaces and ankle bracelets. These came running up to us to say hello. Without going into too much detail, the children were my favourite part of this experience. We were greeted by a woman in full Himba dress (that is to say, very little), and she went from person to person repeating the exchange we'd been taught and smiling. She didn't make much eye contact, though, and this smacked distinctly of 'gimmick'. We made our way clockwise around the village, stopping at various 'stations' where women were carrying out different tasks. I didn't see much of this, because I was playing with the children. Yes I know, I know, but they seemed to love being photographed simply because they were so keen to see themselves in a picture. I took a little video of one girl dancing and showed it to her and she was absolutely delighted, I swear.

It was at this point I managed to morally square the whole thing in my head. I chose to look upon the whole thing as a show. We were not visiting a fully-working Himba tribe so much as a theme park, entitled 'The Himba Experience'. The tour company (and thus, us) pays money to allow us to do this, so the whole thing becomes a show we've paid to see. Leaving aside thoughts that it might be 'altering' their culture, it meant I felt a lot more comfortable and, indeed, there may or may not be a couple of photos of me swinging small Himba children round in the air. The only slight jarring moment was when, sat in a small hut being told about various Himba traditions, we heard noises outside and realised it was another tour group waiting to enter. So much for us as intrepid explorers.

Back at camp, I tried to draw Bjorn's opinion on the whole thing, but he was proving ellusive. He felt that something 'didn't smell right' about it. I think he felt that it was more contrived, perhaps, than I suspected. At one point, when Heidi asked him something about the families and said one of the guides had said such and such, he muttered, 'Yeah, well, they talk a lot of sh1t'. Interesting. He finally said that he felt something wasn't right, but he had absolutely no evidence of that, so couldn't really say anything. Very diplomatic. For myself, I'm not sure I'm too stressed about their culture being eroded. If they're moving with the times, good for them. I mean, if there's a source of income that doesn't involve them being on the starvation line for months at a time because of poor rainfall, the all the better. I kept coming back, though, to the children. 'The children seemed to genuinely enjoy us playing with them. We were like fairground rides for them', was all I could say.

As we sat round the camp fire, we heard clapping, chanting and laughter coming from the direction of the Himba village, so it sounds like they're not just putting on a show for the tourists. My suspicions that Bjorn was playing a 'Best of Himba' CD on a stereo in his tent were quickly dismissed.

Australians

I have neglected to mention the two new australian girls. They were already in Swakopmund when we arrived. Yay, I say. They're in their early twenties, one's a radiographer, and one's an, er, x-ray-ographer? They're good fun. I had a chat when they first arrived, and it seems they had the same misgivings I did when I saw the group. Anyway, they were planning to stay in Vic Falls for six days, but the fact that the river may be too swollen for rafting (more on that later!), and that they've heard it's really expensive, means they're thinking about coming to Kruger. I sincerely hope they do, as I need the company. Currently, it might be just me and QFR.

A campsite in Namibia, somewhere...

A four-hour drive today, and we're somewhere near the Himba tribe. The campsite is slightly less basic, having very basic toilets and 'donkey' showers. Just had a spot of lunch, and I'm going to have a shower in a bit. So, last night...

Bjorn and Lisson had rather outdone themselves for dinner. We had garlic bread, hake with garlic and herbs or cheese and tomato, and 'gelmsquash' – a round pumpkin-type thing. He lead us about fifteen metres from the camp, into a clump of bushes, straight into the narrow entrance of an expansive cave. The cave had a 'hole' in the roof through which you could see the stars, they had a fire going in the middle, and candles wax'd to the walls. It was stunning.

After dinner, we attempted to toast marshmallows, thus birthing the legend of the 'Spitzkopf Marshmallow Masacre', while Lisson regailed us with a few traditional African stories. This may sound patronising, but Lisson, in a perhaps stereotypical way, comes across as 'authentic' – the 'real deal', if you like. He's from Zimbabwe, speaks with a thick accent, is very funny and always smiling. He's a great cook, and the stories he told, while simple and childishly moralistic, were mesmerising. He doesn't pitch a tent, perferring to sleep in the truck, and he always seems to be upbeat and smiling.

Some of the group slept on the top, in a crater, but I decided that might be a bit chilly, so elected to sleep in the cave, with eight others. I woke at seven and hiked to a good view point to see the sunrise on Spitzkopf, which glowed a deep ochre. It was a relatively good night's sleep, but I'm beginning to feel it now, and I need to catch up. I was quietly-irritated again, on the truck this morning, that people simply aren't stowing their stuff properly, making it hard to fit all our gear in the racks. Just takes a little thought, but some people are either clueless, selfish, or simply lack common sense.

(I, of course, am perfect).

Or maybe it's a language thing. As I mentioned, the Korean teacher and student – Darth Seoul and Darth Daewoo (there are always two: a master and a student) – have been particularly guilty of this, in my eyes. I had a weird conversation with the senior today when she basically accused me of stealing her beer. Well, that's unfair. In broken English, she said, 'I think you drink my beer'. After a bit of mime, and gesturing to various beers in the cooler, I managed to point out that I was drinking the Hanse, whereas she had 'Carling Black Label' (seriously). She did say sorry. All part of the experience, I suppose.

So, we're off to see the Himba tribe today. These are the much photographed semi-nomadic people you see in a lot of the brochures. They're basically naked (seeing the ankles as 'intimate'), and they cover their skin in a combination of butter-fat and ochre to give them a striking red appearance. Bjorn seems ambivalent about this part of the trip, and I have to agree with him. I struggle to take photos, interact, etc. with 'locals'. I think, while we're the very definition of 'tourists', no-one really wants to be a tourist. Ideally, you'd like to have stumbled on a village going about its everyday life, then perhaps be invited to come in. Visiting these places, that are clearly receiving people for profit, feels very contrived. It's irrevocably altering their culture, in the way that observing a particle will always alter its state. I guess the way to look at it is that it's a business transaction, and that everybody wins. It still doesn't sit well with me, though. I think that's how Bjorn feels, but he said he preferred to say little and let people draw their own conclusions. I think that says a lot in itself.