1998

I really should have started this some time ago, it is, after all, supposed to be a record of my adventures on safari in Africa . The trouble is that I’m somewhat of a procrastinator, ask anyone that knows me. Actually, on second thought, don’t ask anyone that knows me, they’ll describe me as things much worse. So here I sit, all procrastination aside, and start to put fingers to keyboard. As I start I don’t know what format this will take or even if I’ll finish it. I just hope that it will be readable and of some interest to someone in the future, even if that someone is only me.

From the moment I was told that I had 7 weeks holiday owing, and had to take at least 2 weeks of it in the near future, I had somewhat of a dilemma. Holidays are not something I’m in the habit of thinking about. Time off is those periods between being at work and is better spent in front of the TV or a movie screen watching the adventures of others. I’m not a travel virgin but nor could I be described as a seasoned world traveller. Michael Palin’s adventures are certainly exciting and entertaining but are much better savoured from my comfy seat with a large bottle of coke and a packet of chips. To date my experiences of exotic locales have been flavoured with artificial chicken seasoning and liberal doses of caffeine.

So what was I to do? Two weeks lying in the backyard with a good book mixed with frequent trips to the movies? I could get in at least 30 films in that time and think of the stories I’d have to tell when I got back to work. `Go on an adventure holiday’, said young Jacinta. `What a great idea’, I said, being a sucker for a pretty face and a pair of big blue eyes. It was an attractive idea though and I don’t just mean the big blue eyes. Trekking through the Himalayas , climbing to Machu Picchu , standing in the shadow of the Sphinx, in my mind’s eye I could see myself doing them all. Of course some less romantic and more logical part of my mind was saying that I was equally likely to fall off a mountain or get shot by terrorists. A small price to pay said the romantic part, severe diarrhoea is probably the worst thing that will happen. Oh well, the Trojan war was fought over a pair of big blue eyes, all I was going to do was look at a few travel brochures.

Elena and Phil Butcher have a lot to answer for. It was at this point that I was having a leisurely after work coffee with them and brought up the subject of my holidays and the possibility of doing something a little adventurous and out of the ordinary. ` Africa ’, said Phil. It turns out that they have never been despite always wanting to; Elena even has a dream of floating over the Serengeti in a hot air balloon. They were certainly enthusiastic and agreed that it would be great to do something adventurous during my time off. In fact I’ve found that people are always enthusiastic about someone else travelling even if they have no intention of ever travelling themselves. It’s probably easier to come up with exotic and dangerous things to do if your only contact is through photos, sort of like a General sending troops into battel. Armed with the Butcher’s enthusiasm I added Africa to my list of Central America , The Himalayas and Egypt . Europe had been one of my original thoughts but I reasoned that two weeks were simply not enough to do it justice. I would have to take at least a couple of months if I were going to do a trip like that.

For the next few days I collected travel brochures and pored over them eagerly.

I decided on a package tour of Africa . It would offer some great opportunities to use my new camera, it was all-inclusive so I only had to turn up, and Africa was certainly one of those places that I had always wanted to go. When I was a kid I used to have my bedroom walls plastered with posters of animals. While other boys had cars, girls and rock bands watching them sleep I had lions, tigers and giraffes. Looking back I really have to wonder what my parents thought. Contiki was my tour of choice. They seemed to offer the best itinerary for the best price and I had had a good experience with them in the States. Besides, if I was going to do any more of those 18-35 tours I better get a move on, I don’t have much time left. They’re still going to look at my grey hair with smirks on their faces though. Of course all those 18 year old girls might look upon an older experienced man with some favour; better start doing those sit-ups now.

A 12 day Zimbabwe Discovery tour with plenty of time in Game Parks and even a canoe trip up the Zambezi River . A quick trip to a travel agent and it was all mine for the waiting. All I have to do now is pay for it, luckily not until the 1 st of April. Having some experience of Contiki and the `optional add-ons’ they seem to be able to include in these tours I’ve had to go to the Bank and have my credit card limit increased. There is no point in missing out on anything while I’m there, although I think I’ll give the bungy jump over Victoria Falls a miss.

It’s amazing the information that’s available over the Net these days. While the Contiki web site was not of much use the Lonely Planets Guide site was a true wealth of information. It was on the advice of this site that I changed the original dates I planned to travel so as not to clash with South African school holidays. Imagine being there while the place was full of South Africans, especially after a New Zealand team has (hopefully) just won the Super 12’s. The Lonely Planets site also led me to the Travellers Medical & Vaccination Centre (TMVC) site. As it turned out the TMVC have a clinic at the Robina Town Centre each Saturday morning, just what a future world traveller needs to kit himself out before the big trip. Not being a great fan of injections, particularly as the injectee, I decided to get the whole experience over with as soon as possible.

Saturday the 25 th of February was designated as puncture day. What I would need, how long it would take and exactly how painful it would be were mysteries even after having had plenty of stories and advice from well meaning people at work. Fired up with tales of injections in the stomach and copious amounts of blood pouring from a myriad of holes I sat and filled out a personal information sheet in the waiting room. Luckily, apart from bad eyesight, big feet and dandruff, I’ve led a pretty healthy life. Not much to report on the form and hopefully a smooth and painless visit with the doctor. I hand the form back in and try to read an ancient magazine while listening to a woman complain about the amount of personal details required on the form. `My GP never asked for all this personal stuff whenever he gave me a vaccination!’, `Maybe, if he is your GP, he already has that information’, suggests the nurse. End of argument from the woman.

After almost exhausting the readable parts of a Who magazine my name is called and I am shown into the Doctors office. The desk has been swept almost clean of the normal paraphernalia that you would expect to see and I remember that the TMVC has taken over for the morning. This fact is further reinforced by the mobile phone that went off a number of times while I was there. Dr Sivyer apologises for his wife each time and adds another item to the grocery list. Apart from the interruptions the Doctor is very good and extremely thorough. He has travelled to Africa himself and seems genuinely enthusiastic about the place. He also seems surprised that I found out about the TMVC through the Internet. Apart from going through the standard list of possible and probable vaccinations he also gives me a few printed sheets with information about Zimbabwe . I follow his advice and recommendations and watch as the list of injections grows longer. About the only one we decide is unnecessary is the Rabies shot. `Just don’t get bitten by anything and you should be all right’. I was surprised and reassured by the length of time that he spent talking with me and clutching my free “Travelling Well” book I am passed on to the nurse with a sense that I am doing the right thing. Finding out that the nurse is young, blond and has a touch of a New Zealand accent helps that sense tremendously, too bad about her wedding ring.

The nurse is nice. She is kind and caring and even laughs and my nervous attempts at jokes. I guess she gets paid to be that way but it is still soothing to someone she is about to stab with numerous syringes. She fills out the details on the front of my very own official World Health Organisation Vaccination Record card and gathers her impaling implements. Polio, Tetanus/Diphtheria, Typhoid, Hepatitis A & B and this is only the first visit. It turns out that I have to go back in a week for more, then again in another three weeks, not to mention the one in six month’s time!

Okay, so far so good, the polio vaccine is just a few drops of stuff I have to swallow. It tastes awful but I’m a bloke, I can handle the discomfort. Time for the first injection into my right shoulder. She asks me to roll my sleeve up and I take the opportunity to flex my shoulder. `Can you just relax a bit for me’ she asks, sounding completely unimpressed. The next two shots are into my left shoulder. `These are going to hurt a bit. It will feel as if I’ve punched you in the arm’. I put on my blokey “I can handle anything” look and wait. Two injections later and over the top of a growing throb in my left arm I give a `Didn’t hurt a bit’ reply to her question. Bloody arm hurt for about four days. I make an appointment for the following weekend, wave goodbye with my right arm and go home to nurse my wounds with an oral dose of alcohol.

The next weekend it is only one injection, a follow up to the hepatitis and, although I try not to look relieved, I’m glad when the nurse says that it shouldn’t hurt like the week before. I take the opportunity of the shorter visit to buy the Traveller’s Medical Kit. We go through all of the contents and the nurse explains that there are so many drugs the kit must be prescribed by a Doctor and I’ll need a clearance to get it through customs. She shows me the “stopper” in case of diarrhoea, the “starter” in case of constipation or overindulgence in the “stopper”, the temazepam, the norfloxacin, the tinidazole and numerous others. It even comes with a supply of syringes, just in case. Luckily I don’t have to remember what they all do, I just need to look up the problem in the guidebook and it will tell me what and how much to use. Strangely it is not until I get home and take everything out of the bag for a closer look that I discover it also contains half a dozen condoms. She never told me about those, I wonder why?

While I’m there I also bought some military strength insect repellent which, according to the directions, will melt plastic watch bands and glasses frames. I’ll have to remember to keep it in a separate bag to the condoms. The stuff is called “Wack Off”, which sounds more like a game for those lonely nights in the tent than an insect repellent.

21 MARCH, 1998

I finished watching the last of Michael Palin’s videos the other day. “ Full Circle ”, his trip around the Pacific Rim . It is probably not quite as good as the first two in the trilogy because it lacks the uncertainty and frenetic pace. “Around the World” and “Pole to Pole” both have an element of doubt in them that adds to the armchair enjoyment of watching someone else brave a journey that you would like to make yourself but probably never would. If I take one good piece of advice away from Mr. Palin, it would probably be to keep smiling. It not only puts those you meet at ease it also helps you to philosophise about those unforeseen things that happen when you travel.

Today was the day for the last of my vaccinations. At least it was the last one before I actually leave; I still have to go back for another one in about six months but fortunately that’s long enough away not to be of too great a concern now. I’m getting quite good at getting these injections and in a strange way I’ll miss them. It’s solid proof that I am actually going and the fact that I need to have vaccinations makes where I’m going all that more mysterious and dangerous. I now have six stamps in my Certificate of Vaccination and it gives me a sense of being able to go anywhere I feel like, I just have to remember that it does not necessarily mean that I can drink the water with impunity.

Today was also the day that I went to the Travel Agent and paid the remainder of the money. When I booked the trip, I only paid the deposit. It’s a painful thing to watch your credit card get stripped of thousands of dollars. Somehow I don’t think I’ll believe I’ve gotten my moneys worth until I have the tickets in my hot little hand; or at least until I get my Info Pack from Contiki. The Travel Agent remembered me although it’s been almost two months since I first went in to book it. I’ve been thinking that it would be nice to establish some sort of relationship with a good Travel Agent so that I have somewhere comfortable to go back to in the future. This is assuming, of course, that I am not put off the whole idea of travelling by this trip. I’m certainly racking up enough holiday time at work to warrant taking time off on a regular basis and it would be nice to do some travelling and see the world.

When I dropped my Passport back into the Travel Agent later in the day, I was shocked to find that I have not used it since I got this new one. I’ve had it for seven years and it does not have one stamp in it. Looking back it seems that it was about the same time I started at the Casino and in that time I haven’t done much of anything. I’m certainly much more financially secure now but apart from walking around with a Bank statement glued to my forehead what do I have to show for it? I do have something to show for today though, but that’s another story.

After I paid my money at the Travel Agent and was told that they would like to have a copy of my passport, I thought I would use the opportunity to begin my pre-trip fitness program. The term “fitness program” is not one that I use easily or often. If there is a way of getting out of doing anything remotely resembling exercise I’ll take it, however, knowing that a certain level of fitness is needed on these sorts of tours I fully intend on getting some exercise in the coming weeks. There, I’ve put it down on paper. It’s just a matter of seeing if I actually stick to my word. Anyway, getting back to today, I thought that I would drive home and get my passport before walking to the Town Centre. It sounds easy and it certainly doesn’t seem far when you drive it. It is not as easy as it seems though, trust me. It is a long way in the middle of the day when we are essentially still in summer weather and you are wearing as yet unbroken in hiking boots. At this point, I can say happily that my legs and stamina handled the return trip comfortably but the back of my heels did not fare so well. I finished with large blisters on both of them. I don’t think that it’s going to be much of a problem at this stage, a good pair of socks and a little more suppleness in the boots themselves and I’ll be fine. It does show though that preparation before hand is a good thing.

The other things of interest since my last entry are two new purchases. The first is a Swiss Army Knife, one of those handy gadgets that has a blade or attachment for every conceivable eventuality. My one has eleven things that pop out and each and every one is something that I could not do without. How I have managed to survive this long without an instrument specially designed for putting holes in belts is beyond me. I guess it’s a case of not knowing what you’ve been missing until you get it. It is pretty remarkable all the things that it comes with though and I now feel confident that I will be able to handle any emergency that may arise. In a strange way I’m sort of hoping for some sort of emergency so I can whip it out and say “Don’t panic, I have my trusty Swiss Army Knife”, just like some steroid ridden boy scout.

The other item is an incredibly small tape recorder that I plan to use to record talks and lectures on the trip, as well as background noises that I can imbed in this document for the listening pleasure of those reading it on a PC. At this point that is the plan and if you are reading this on a PC with a big smile on your face because you know there are no imbedded sounds, all I can say is that I tried. Of course, if you are reading a paper copy then I can only say that the idea worked brilliantly and it is a real shame that you can’t hear anything. I have given some thought to taking a video camera but I think that with my still camera, tape recorder and whipping my Swiss Army Knife out at every opportunity, I might have my hands full. Lucky Michael Palin had a BBC film crew following him around and recording his every move while I’m limited to what I can carry myself.

20 MAY, 1998

This is the day, the big one. I’m leaving this afternoon and it is finally sinking in that I’m heading off into the great unknown. All those explorers that have set sail before me with less knowledge and less comforts are probably looking down and laughing quietly behind their hands. Africa beckons, time to pack my bags.

Actually, it wasn’t until this morning that I packed my bags. I started to get all the things I figured I’d need to take and spread them on the floor last night, had a good look at the amount and said to myself that I was overdoing it. The old traveller’s saying goes something like “Pack your bag and then remove half. That is what you will actually need". Sage advice, believe me. After having to buy another bag to carry all the rubbish I picked up in America while I was there I really should know better. Trouble is, it’s hard to giving up anything just in case I do need it and then what would I do? My pack is pleasantly plump. It doesn’t strain against the straps but still manages to maintain its shape when I lift it up. I am after all going to be away for over 4 weeks and one can never have too many pairs of clean underwear.

Now it’s just a matter of waiting. The plane leaves at 17:55 and I’d like to leave home no later than 14:30 . I hate being late at the best of times and it would be a tragedy to miss the first flight of the trip just because I didn’t make it to the airport. It’s not that I don’t trust Jax’s driving and her ability to get me there on time, her driving too slowly was never an issue. I simply have a phobia about being late.

We made it to the airport in plenty of time. In fact, we made it so early that John the check-in guy has managed to get me onto an earlier flight. How nice of him to do that. Now I’ll only have a 3-hour wait in Sydney instead of a 2-hour one. At least it means that Jax won’t have to wait as long to see the plane off. Despite my protestations and assurances that I can amuse myself, she is insisting on waiting. John has one final piece of good news for me though. Every time he tries to print the luggage tag that, theoretically, ensures my bag ends up in the same part of the world as me, it winds up with some foreign destination on it. This is not a very reassuring thing at all. “Mr. S. Wright, Mr. S. Wright”, he mutters to himself as the third attempt fails miserably. I quietly point out the problem and he somewhat sheepishly manages to print a correct tag. My bag disappears down the conveyor belt and with it all the clean underwear I have in the world. Jax waits with me in the departure lounge as I pace up and down watching the baggage handlers loading bags onto the plane one at a time. It’s not until I see my own red pack going into the planes hold that I’m confident enough to board. Jax says all of the usual farewell things and I head off towards the gate with my day pack over my shoulder and my akubra in my hand trying to look like I do this sort of thing all the time.

Who was it that said, “The best part of your holiday is getting there”? Obviously, they were not over six feet and sitting in cattle class on a small plane. I spend an hour and a half in the window seat, next to a man and woman, and with my knees thrust up against the back of the business class seat in front of me. The woman in the business class seat, who turns out to be an airline employee, spends the entire flight with her seat back. So much for 30% of the space allotted to me. At least the view of Sydney is magnificent. It is dark by the time we come in to land and the Harbour Bridge still manages to stand out amidst a myriad of city lights. Are all cities as attractive from the air? The most squalid of places can be transformed into a night-time wonder with the help of darkness and a changed perspective. The Gods on high must look down and marvel at the beauty of the world with no real concept of the dirt, disease and horror we live amongst.

I get off the plane with an almost palpable sense of relief. The man who was sitting next to me even makes a comment about how uncomfortable I looked, although he seems to make it for the benefit of the flight attendants rather than me. A short wait in the transit lounge before getting on a bus for a very exciting ride to the International Terminal. Wheeling around the tarmac of Sydney Airport in a bus, dodging taxiing airplanes and other miscellaneous vehicles, is a pretty exciting way to start a trip.

I get my boarding pass and find a comfortable seat in the terminal to start writing up some notes. Only two and a half hours to wait now. While I’m tossing up whether or not to eat, I overhear a message on the radio of a passing security guard. It appears that four youths have stolen a fake, plastic mobile phone. Won’t they be pissed off when the find out! Mind you it would be embarrassing having to admit that the phone you’ve been carrying around wasn’t even real.

I decide to eat. I’ve never had a good look around the Sydney International before. It’s a large sprawling sort of place but at least it has a bar with a TV. Two meat pies, a schooner (don’t ask for a pot) of XXXX and the Simpson’s on TV. This is even better than home. Unfortunately, the X-Files is interrupted by my boarding call. I’m going to have to have a word to my Travel Agent and get her to try to arrange any future schedule a little better.

It is now one o’clock in the morning Perth time and I’m sitting in the transit lounge waiting to re-board the plane for the next leg to Johannesburg . Not one of the more exciting flights I’ve ever had. I was in the aisle seat and another young guy was in the window seat. We haven’t said one word to each other yet and both seem quite content to immerse ourselves in our books. Wouldn’t it be funny if we are both doing the same tour and end up sharing a tent or something? I’m thinking to myself that I’ll have to remember to tell Martina what a lovely looking place Perth is, or would be if they could only do something about how dark it is.

Certainly eclectic groups of people on this flight although that is probably the way of international air travel these days. There are young couples, old couples, a couple of elderly women who played cards in the dark the whole way and a woman bravely travelling alone with a small child. There is even a young Jewish man complete with little skullcap and a larger flat brimmed hat that he keeps in the overhead locker.

Firstly, I check out the toilet (a solid 7 on my scale) and then I peruse the duty free store. Now that I’ve had a good look, I think I’ll wait until I’m coming back for any purchasing. Anything I get will only be extra weight anyway. Now I’m just sitting here staring out into the darkness at the aircraft I will spend the next 11 hours folded up in. I can only imagine the dozens of little elves going over it right now and stocking it up with a few more meals for the next haul. Although I am flying on South African Airways, the only thing South African about the meals so far has been the wine - ‘Product of South Africa’. All of the flight crew is South African though, with 75% being black. I can’t help wondering if that is a recent thing or not.

21 MAY, 1998

What a killer flight! Damn near impossible to sleep, even with one leg stretched out into the aisle. Not many empty seats to be had and any groups of empty seats together were very quickly snapped up as makeshift beds. It may not have been so bad if I hadn’t already seen one of the two movies they showed!

This is it; I have finally set foot in Africa , even if it is only the arrival hall at Johannesburg Airport . While I’m queuing up to go through customs I overhear two young blokes with Australian accents mention Zimbabwe . My ears prick up, as that is exactly where I’m going. It turns out that they are brothers from Perth and they are doing the same tour. After some introductions, they say that they’ve heard that we are only going to have 10 people on tour. It was enthusiastically agreed that the perfect ratio would be 7 girls and the 3 of us. After some vigorous testosterone fed nodding I ask them what they plan to do now. The next flight doesn’t leave for 5 hours and I planned on going through South African customs and getting my passport stamped rather than just waiting in the transit lounge. It will mean having to collect my luggage and re-admitting it back at the check-in desk but I figure that it’s worth it for a passport stamp. I leave the two brothers (Mark and? I think) looking very confused and unsure, which is a bit scary given that this is the first day of a twelve month overseas trip for them. As I go through customs, I not only get a stamp but a ‘Temporary Residents Visa’ as well. My passport has well and truly lost its virginity.

As soon as I set foot out into the Terminal proper a small hairy man approaches me and asks if I’m looking for a Youth Hostel. He seems very disappointed when I say no and with a backward look at my backpack he scuttles off. A quick look around confirms that all Airport terminals look the same. If it weren’t for the overabundance of black faces, I’d never know that I’m in Africa . Poking my nose outside into the 6-degree temperature quickly convinces me to find a nice warm bar. Not a bad idea as it turns out because here I sit, having made a stop at an ATM for some rand, and wait for my springbok pie and free Castle Lager.

The pie was great! Even with a blocked nose, I could smell it before it arrived. It was served in a crockery dish with a pastry lid and was chock full of honest to god springbok. I’ve only been here 2 hours and I’m already depleting the local wildlife. It’s hard to describe the taste, absolutely nothing like chicken. Definitely the strongest game meat I’ve tasted and it went very well with the beer. With an estimate of the exchange rate, I figure that the pie and beer has cost me $6 au.

Only 2 hours to go now before the next plane leaves and I think I’ll have to check out the duty free store for cheap booze. After all, there may a 7 to 3 boy/girl ratio. It’s hard, sitting here, to reconcile the idea of the hour and a half flight to come as being an international one. Living in a country where it takes 5 hours to cross from one side to the other it just doesn’t seem long enough. I have bought some South African postage stamps as souvenirs despite the man in the Post Office thinking I was mad for not caring what denominations I got. They have nice animal pictures on them and will hopefully end up in an album of my travels.

Travel Tip No. 1

If planning to use the toilets in the Johannesburg International Airport bring your own toilet paper. A low 5 on my scale.

Harare ! I’ve made it, the final destination. I won’t have to get back onto another plane for 4 weeks and at the moment that is a thought to be savoured. I probably shouldn’t complain too much about that last flight. It was, after all, only an hour and a half long. In fact, it was strange to go through customs and all of the other rigmarole of international travel for such a short distance. It probably comes from living in New Zealand and Australia and having become accustomed to the idea of being an incredible distance from anywhere.

My last view of Johannesburg and South Africa was through what seemed to be a dust or smog haze. The entire city was blanketed in it and I assumed that as soon as we got some distance from the industrialisation, it would vanish and the scenery would improve. Unfortunately I was mistaken and the ground was obscured by the haze for the entire flight. What I could see of the ground was not very interesting anyway. It was flat, featureless and a very dry looking brown colour, only occasionally broken by a river. Having watched many documentaries on Africa , I shouldn’t have been overly surprised. It’s those wide-open plains and teeming herds of animals that I’m here to see after all.

My first real taste of Zimbabwe was a 200-300-metre walk across the tarmac of Harare International to the small tin shed that is the customs and immigration point. My third country in a few hours and as I clutch my passport and immigration form I figure that I have the whole process down to a fine art. Nothing can stop me at this final hurdle. There are three queues in the shed, one for Zimbabweans and two for everyone else. Fortunately the bulk of passengers seem to be returning locals and I find myself second in line. When it’s my turn I step up to the counter and hand everything to the young girl. She takes it without a word or a glance at me and with a fixed, bored expression. She checks the form, opens the passport and gives me a quick glance. Then, to my consternation, she looks back at the passport, back at me, back at the passport and then finally looks me in the eye and shakes her head. My stomach dropped and I had immediate visions of spending a very long time in the luxurious surroundings of a small African jail. If all the movies are even half-right, that was not a very happy thought. Suddenly she breaks into a shy grin and says, “This not you”. She then puffs up her cheeks in an attempted Louis Armstrong impersonation. “You like this now.” I burst out laughing, partly because it’s funny and mostly because my mental images of rubber gloves, rubber hoses and rubber food is rapidly fading. “You eat too much”. I agree and say that I also need to exercise. “No, not exercise, just eat too much”. Her grin gets bigger as she stamps my passport and hands it back. Michael Palin was right about a smile being a traveller’s best weapon.

Harare International Airport provides me with my first taste of the African love of uniforms. They are everywhere. Epaulets, chains looped from the shoulder, cloth badges in the place of medals. The only thing they seem to be lacking is the gun. They don’t even have side arms. Somehow I imagined that there would be a greater armed presence, probably seen a few too many movies. I collect my bag from the carousel with some relief. It is only the second time I’ve seen it since Brisbane .

Two familiar faces in the crowd. It’s the brothers from Perth . I re-introduce myself and ask if they want to share a cab to the Hotel since we’re all going to the same place. They agree and while they are waiting for their bags, I go to find some place to cash some of my travellers cheques. Since it’s a Friday, I think that now may be the last opportunity I get for a while. After a lot of careful consideration, I decide on cashing $300 US. After signing the cheques I hand them to the man behind the counter and he taps away on his keyboard for a few seconds before telling me that it comes to $4942-. I get the whole lot in $100 notes! I quickly stuff it all into my pockets, trying to look as inconspicuous as my pale face will allow, and then go in search of the two brothers. By the time I find them they have arranged a mini-van that will take us to our Hotel for $7 US each. After we have loaded our bags into the back and made ourselves as comfortable as possible in the tight space left, the driver stops to pick up an older couple who are also going into the city. It turns out that they are from New Zealand and are going on to Lake Kariba to start a tour of their own.

The man driving the van is amazing. He passes other traffic on the inside, the outside and the other side of the road. Of course, given the relative ages of the vehicles on the road and the speed that most of them seem to be travelling, he should be passing them like they are standing still. His van couldn’t be more than 10 years old and is probably at least 10-15 years younger than anything I’ve seen so far.

Looking out the window, I can see Africa directly from the movies and documentaries I’ve been devouring all my life. The earth is a light brown colour and incredibly dry and dusty. There are even colourfully dressed woman walking on the side of the road balancing every manner of object on the tops of their heads, everything from small baskets to full sized metal rubbish bins. Every few hundred yards is a fruit stall set up under a small thatched shade and selling a large variety of multicoloured produce.

The driver does not say a word the whole time but seems to be concentrating intently on his driving. It’s probably a good thing as we get closer to the city centre and the amount of traffic increases dramatically. The only good thing about the way we are dodging other cars and pedestrians who seem quite oblivious to everything around them is that everything seems to be moving at a much slower speed than I’m used to. In fact it makes driving on the Gold Coast look like a racetrack. However he seems to know where he is going and we soon arrive safely at our hotel. After farewells to the New Zealand couple who are going on to another hotel (probably a better one) the two brothers and I step out into the bustling city of Harare .

The three of us (Chris and John I mutter to myself several times, trying to memorise their names) cause mass confusion at the hotel reception. It turns out that we all have the same last name. What a coincidence! Checking in at the same time is an American couple and, figuring that they are probably on the same tour, I introduce myself. Sure enough, they are part of our group and are a brother and sister from New York . Smiles pass between Chris, John and myself as we share the same thought; at least one single girl on this tour. I wonder how they are going to manage the quad share if there are nine guys and one girl though. Oh well, we’ll find out in the morning. The confusion on the other side of the reception desk seems to be subsiding and I finally get the key to room 510. At least there is an elevator and I don’t have to carry my bag up 5 floors.

Room 510 is not the biggest hotel room I ever been in. There are two very short single beds and a bathroom that could be mistaken for a cupboard if it weren’t for the plumbing. Funnily enough I don’t really care. I’ve been travelling non-stop for 33 hours now and am in chronic need of a shower and a quiet lie down. Using the bathroom involves something close to a contortionist act, it takes some time for the hot water to appear from the shower rose and the toilet cistern is still making incredible noises half an hour later but I still don’t care. It’s just a really nice feeling to be clean. Funny what we take for granted at home. I remember all of the doctors instructions and rather than drinking the water from the tap I go to the bar fridge for a bottled water. Small problem – the fridge is locked. Obviously this hotel has had experience with Contiki people. Looks like I’ll have to go down to the bar and have a drink before our pre-tour meeting. It may be somewhat of a struggle to get through this meeting as I’ve probably only managed a couple of fitful and uncomfortable hours sleep in the last 38.

It turns out that what I thought was the hotel bar is in fact the hotel coffee shop and attached restaurant. While I’m sitting having a very nice and much appreciated cappuccino Chris and John arrive. They have been out walking the streets. They also have news on the meeting that was supposed to be at 18.30. It is now 20.30. That means we have two more hours to kill and, more importantly, two more hours to stay awake. The boys have been busy though and have managed to find the hotel bar. It’s on the 2 nd floor and behind a door that seems to have all the markings of a fire exit. It’s a nice intimate place though and despite some reservations at being the only white faces present we make ourselves comfortable. It turns out that we could make ourselves very comfortable with the bar prices. Even working on a ten to one exchange rate it is extremely reasonable. An hour passes quickly.

Chris comes down with a migraine. He explains that it’s probably from all the travelling and that a good night’s sleep is all he’ll need. John and I promise to take notes for him and after he leaves we decide to go back downstairs and try the restaurant. This turns out to be a great idea. Wonderful food, good service, would recommend it heartily to anyone. It puts us in a good mood (nothing to do with the alcohol of course) for the meeting and we arrive at the room to find that there is standing room only. All thoughts of there only being ten people on this trip are immediately thrown out the window. My recollections of the meeting are a little fuzzy (nothing to do with the alcohol of course, must be lack of sleep). I do remember a young black guy introducing himself as the tour leader. His name was Nathan and he came across as relaxed and good-natured if only a little overwhelmed by the number of people in front of him. He even admitted that this was the most that they had ever had in one group. 28 people with another 2 joining in Victoria Falls .

As I lay here now writing up these notes I’m pretty sure that the bus leaves at 08.00 in the morning. I’ll set my alarm for 06.45 so that I can have a shower and get ready in plenty of time. There always seems to be a certain amount of settling in on the first day of anything like this. I’m really, really tired at the moment and should sleep well; even if the bed is about six inches too short for me. But who cares? I’m in Africa and the tour starts tomorrow!

22 MAY 1998

I sat in the coffee shop this morning and watched the city of Harare go past the window. With my cup of cappuccino and a big slice of carrot cake, it was a very pleasant way to ease myself into the new day. There was plenty of hustle and bustle in the lobby and 28 tourists all arrived with their packs and suitcases ready for an African adventure. There was a lot of milling around as everyone sized each other up and I was quite content to sit at my table and observe quietly. Chris and John joined me shortly before we had to load our bags on the bus. Chris had fully recovered from his headache but John looked as if he could use a few more hours sleep.

Into the minor chaos of the lobby strode Nathan, looking calm and in control in his ‘Contiki Staff’ T-shirt. Everyone was herded out the door and as we filed past the bus, we threw our bags into the luggage space underneath. I was the last one onto the bus and as I climbed up, I was hoping that no one had claimed the front seat. Luckily, it was free. I have a thing for being able to see where I am going. There is nothing worse than not being able to see and it gives me back a slight sense of control that I have to relinquish by giving up the steering wheel. I also had not come all this way to sit at the back of a bus and miss the passing scenery. The combined view from the window beside me and the front window was more then satisfactory. It also gave me access to Nathan, who was sitting in the jump seat next top the driver, and I was sure that I’d have questions about what we were passing.