I’d been nervous about travelling to Africa. The poverty and hardship means that life and staying alive is far cheaper than many parts of the world. I was well aware that I would need to be on guard from the moment I arrived. Especially when you initially arrive, thick in jetlag fog from being catapulted halfway around the world. 

           So there I was sitting safely at my kitchen table only days out from flying when I had my guard down and was scammed. Three obvious fake emails from Bookings.com arrived with spelling mistakes and no logos. Then an email arrived from Bookings.com with all my standard details and legitimate booking number. I assumed it to be a warning of imitators and slippery types (like the three previously received emails) ready to pounce on my banking details and drain my travel funds. So please check twice it said before engaging. By the way are your booking details current ? Having believed I had thwarted the scammers I proudly opened the email and clicked to confirm my details. Within seconds a text arrived wanting me to confirm it was me with a one time code. I was just about to type it in when I noticed the sum was in Euro and nearly €1000. I rang the bank immediately knowing that my morning was going to be spent answering questions and feeling like a silly old man. Long story short my two bank accounts were immediately closed and thankfully no funds were lost.   

                     Great, except I am to fly in a few days. I wasn’t promised any miracle by the efficient bank representative (probably working out of a hut in the Phillipines) other than delivery within 3-5 business days. I spent a couple of nervous days thinking the worst and skipped to the door when a courier arrived with the credit card. The debit card arrived by normal post the following day. It was like winning the lottery until I realised how many direct debits and links to my cards have their greedy fingers on my details. They all had to be notified so another few hours disappeared. I had certainly dodged a bullet and I still hadn’t left home. 

                    It heightened my awareness, made me more cynical ( is that possible ?) and a little scared at arriving into Nairobbery as it is internationally known, the capital of Kenya even if it’s only a stop over to my final destination of Zanzibar. I put all of my worries aside and head to the airport. Stop worrying and get into the movement I keep telling myself. You are lucky to be able to experience these things. Twenty eight hours later I pull up in a dusty taxi at hotel Tambo, an old stone building in Stone Town, Zanzibar. Hotel Tambo has been converted to a rather shabby sheik historical hotel and is nestled right on the sand. I grin at the nearby bobbing fishing boats and far off specks of islands. Chill Jeff.

                 I head out along the Stone Town seafront before deciding on a place for dinner. I’m keen to understand where I will meet my guide the following morning. Its dusk and portable stoves and food stalls are creaking into action. Many men loiter, it is a thing in Africa and would put a shiver into many woman but here they generally appear harmless. 

                  Near the shipping port I stumble across the last of the days cargo being unloaded. Much of this work is done manually. More than fifty men congregated near the entrance hoping to be chosen to lump, lift and heave anything and everything on their backs onto trucks of various sizes.  Some workers are  independent whilst others represented small companies with ‘Porter’ and a number on their sweaty back. Their bodies are all sinewy and strong from such regular manual toil. If they don’t get work they don’t get paid and there is no food. They do not wish for mechanism as it will steal most of them of any work and the government does not support them. At my grand old age if I was a local here I would already have been relegated to sitting on the beach hoping and praying (if that was my bent) that I had enough to eat. 

              I turn back from the hustle of the port and I’m quickly in the safety of the old town full of embassies and stone government buildings mostly repurposed as swank hotels. Each night at dusk many of the locals gravitate to the waterfront their day done ready to enjoy the afternoon sea breeze. It’s certainly a joy after the steaminess of the day. Further on the young and supple bounce skyward off a truck tyre partially embedded in the sand. They pop high above the milling crowd twisting and spinning before landing effortlessly on the waters edge. 

They are some of the poorest people I have come across yet some of the happiest. You see it time and time again in these impoverished countries. I wander till I find a sign spruiking a rooftop bar with sunset guaranteed. I climb the stairs and sip a beer overlooking the busy beach below and ponder the differences in my life to theirs. 

              The following morning my guide Hassan meets me early and we wandered through the old town, through the port, past the decrepit hospital dispensary and into the maze of narrow laneways. We sit and he talks me through the islands history. Enough to give me a broad understanding but not so much that I glaze over. Zanzibar is famous for its spices and equally infamous for its slave trade which somehow continued all the way to 1897. 

           We reach a small square where potential slaves were brought to be inspected, poked, prodded and considered potential workhorses before a price was agreed. The fittest and strongest would be oiled to glisten and accentuate their strong bodies hopefully of a high price. Once bought the slaves would be stored underground in holding cells awaiting a ship to take them far away, predominately the USA. I had to crouch to walk through the cell area, I guess this kept them restrained from moving too fast. It was damp and musty down there. I felt as if dread had permeated the walls, that and a whole slice of fear 

. A century of human trade being sent off to the unknown. I needed out, fresh sea air and sunshine to wash the tainted history from my mind. 

        I spent another morning on one of those far off islands, Prison Island is a bouncy half hour boat trip from Stone Town. It’s predominately a tortoise sanctuary where an endangered species is slowly being repopulated. The Aldabra Giant tortoises were originally a gift from the Governor of the Seychelles to the king of Zanzibar and lived at the palace but now all reside on the island. The smell was something else and I can well imagine the king waking one morning at the palace and saying “they go or I do…”  The island was also a quarantine post during the British reign and there are remnants of the old buildings used as education rooms showcasing the islands history. I washed away the islands pungent smell with a delicious swim in the crystal clear warm waters before another bone chattering boat trip to Stone Town.

                        My time was soon over in Zanzibar and unfortunately I had to fly back to Nairobi and of course the flights were delayed. So a lost day wandering about my hotel before heading back to the airport for another delayed flight this time to Madagascar and an organised bike and hike tour. I spent two days in the capital Tanna wondering about and being surprised by how little everyone had. Many no shoes, children as small as 2-3 years old left to lift their hand like baby birds as you passed. It made passing these destitute children hard but where do you start and stop ? 

               The Madagascan families are large. 5-6 children is still the norm, ten years ago it was 8-10 ! How do you feed such large families ? I move to a hotel near the airport to meet my cycling group. Most of them have jetted in unaware of how much poverty is just down the road. They’ll see it soon enough. The group is the standard mix of any eight random people. You’ll click with a couple and hide from others or worse eventually tell them what you really think. 

             The first day is getting the mountain bikes fitted and a brief law of the jungle ride around the town of Antsirabe. The second day it’s dodgem cars as we weave our way towards two nearby lakes. The centre of town is a crazy jumble of cars, trucks, bullocks pilled high with vegetation, rickshaw tricycles taking children to school and wobbly old steel bikes. In this relatively flat town the bicycle seems to be the primary form of transport. Somehow we manage to find a safe path through this mayhem and out into the countryside. Our guide Lucien explains this mountainous section of Madagascar is very Asian influenced due to the cooler weather. There are rice terraces as far as the eye can see. Madagascar’s basic food staple of rice is planted anywhere there is flat ground and a water supply. 

           Finally we turn off the busy bitumen and onto rough gravel before steadily climbing ever upwards towards the first of two lakes. I’m uncertain riding a mountain bike, it’s not my skillset and on these rutted road I’m going to have to find some confidence in a hurry. The second lake is higher still and we arrive panting and covered in fine volcanic dust. The lake sits within the cone of an extinct volcano. We work our way down to the waters edge. The famous French diver Jacques Cousteau visited here in 1994 and dived down to 140m without touching the bottom. We stare into the crystal clear water but no one suggests they are going to take a dip. 

           A picnic lunch next to a sluggish river lulled us into a false sense of security. Then it’s back on the bikes bouncing along trying to stay upright. I was feeling more like having a siesta  or gazing out of a minibus window instead my lunch was lurching about thanks to some deeply rutted and technically difficult terrain. I braked, I stuttered fighting against gravity throwing me forward. I was full of fear and trepidation. However the only way to really tackle this rough terrain was to point the front wheel straight and go for it. 

              Suddenly it was a different game and within minutes a broad smile broke on my face. Occasionally a poor decision would send my heart racing before I dampened my speed with white knuckles squeezing hard on the brakes, but what a run. I barely had time to take in the scenery of the valley below where farmers bent their backs cleaning up after the rice crop or were already beginning to plant a new crop of vegetables. I was too busy simply trying to stay upright and injury free. It was a collective whooping and hollering when we pulled up a few kms down the road. The best section yet and broad smiles allround. 

                  We get a reprieve from cycling the rutted roads the following day when we march up and down steep steps in Ranomafana National Park. I was convinced Madagascar was going to be all full sun and sweating but here I am in a rain forest wearing everything I brought and still shivering as a light mist falls on me and cloud hangs low through the valley. I guess that’s the climate they need for a rain forest. There are 290 days of rain / year here and today is one of them. As we crash from stone to stone our over enthusiastic local guide keeps pointing up into the canopy where there are lemur clambering about. Yes you can see them with the naked eye but try getting a good shot with your camera is another thing. They are cagey and wary and that is what has kept them alive in a country where meat of any kind is food for consumption. 

                                   Another morning starts with us riding a couple of kms to the outskirts of our overnight village of Ambalavao to view the making of hand made paper using locally sourced raffiter type of bark ? It is then soaked, bashed and eventually is plyable enough to spread evenly over a canvas to dry. Finally it is cut into workable sizes and embellished with flowers and bound as cards or books. Of course someone was needed to use the two hammer method to bring the bark into submission. With his wraparound sunglasses and looking more like Stevie Wonder playing the drums, USA Jeff had the local woman bewildered at his drumming technique. Needless to say no one bought anything.

                        Fifteen kms down the road we pulled into the small National Park of Anja which has been a success story in managing the forest and increasing the numbers of local lemurs. After the shyness of the small lemurs in the rainforest these were far cheekier. The live in large families up to twenty and we were able to get up quiet close until one would be spooked and bounce away their black and white striped tails bouncing high in the air. We also saw some amazing chameleons and probably walked past many more their ability to adapt to their surroundings is legendary. Even I got a few good photos. 

                      Some more road kms before our guide waved us off onto a dirt road and the rest of the afternoon was sweating and puffing as we climbed, bounced and rattled over stony bridges, dropped off steep lips and ground our way out of some deep gullies. It was then flat dry Savannah grasslands for much of the day. A very familiar Australian looking backdrop to our riding for quite some time till we reached a different type of mountain range closing in around us and we needed to get up and over it. 

                     There is a constant calling from the locals who seem perplexed at why we are choosing to bounce over this very rough terrain. Why when we could so easily walk along taking our time or catch one of the overloaded local buses. Time is one thing these people seem to have plenty of. But everywhere there are constant streams of people just walking, carrying and smiling. We only smiled when we reached our two night stay at Camp Catta.

                    Camp Catta is an eco lodge and rock climbing camp at the end of a mountain range. A complete dead end and far from anywhere. Solar showers and only power for lighting between 5-10pm brings you back to basics. The bar and restaurant had the air and vibe of more extreme travel, people who have come with a purpose. To explore, climb and even sleep hanging from the nearby rock face. 

                   Leaving your small hut of a night to stand out in the star filled sky you have the feeling of being rather insignificant in this big wide expansive land with the nearby mountains looming over you. It was still a bit of a luxury to feel warm water on your back in the shower whilst watching the red dust covering your body swirl down the plug hole. I loved it there. We trek into the nearby sacred forest the following morning. Locals bury their dead in caves and crevices high up on the mountains shear face using ropes to a sail to their family plot after some burial sites had been looted. You could just make out these crevices filled with stones to seal the burial plot. Quite some task and the funeral lasts three days and also means a local zebu (bullock) is slaughtered for the ceremony. 

              And so the days roll on. Riding over bumpy rutted roads then patchy bitumen wishing again for the off road sections. Our final trek is through the Israeli National Park where we find ourselves in a pocket of spring water, a pure oasis. With the sun having beaten down on us as we clambered over the stony path it was bliss to strip and float about in the soft spring water surrounded by palms. We plod on to our lunch break with our local guide Roxy pointing out many creatures and insects our city eyes don’t see. After struggling for ten days to get a clear photo of the lemurs it’s laughable that they come to our lunch spot to try to steal our food. I finish the day by disturbing a snake and then the amusement of watching tiny Turtsa from Amsterdam walking two paces behind me jump high enough to win the Olympics. It was not poisonous but way too exotic for a Dutch person. 

                    We finally make our way to the sea and a village called Toliera. Our hotel is way out of town and it’s a good chance to relax after the last few weeks. Each morning I peer out to sea watching the locals head out in their small outrigger fishing canoes complete with handkerchief sized sail. There is a reef some kms offshore just visible to the naked eye where they fish each day. You can almost believe you are in paradise until you step back onto the only bitumen road to be greeted by the dust, the frenetic urgency of locals and enthusiastic stall holders. Life revolves around the roads, the traders, the taxis, the cyclos and the lumbering trucks. 

                  I head out to the reef in one of the fishing canoes on my final morning. I had watched the other Jeff from the U.S sail off to snorkel yesterday with a steady wind blowing and he was away in minutes. Today the sea is a millpond and I meet my two guys down at the water’s edge. We push the wooden hulk off the sand and we all step aboard, they speak no English but keep up rhythmic as they begin to paddle. And that is what they did for the next hour and a half. Steady smooth strokes but forever. We reached the reef break and the crashing waves. The front paddler slipped overboard into murky green water and reappeared with star fish, sea urchins, conch type shells. Each time he returned with something different. Eventually we turned for home I think they were hoping a breeze would allow the use of the sail but no it was steady paddling all the way back to shore. Again the front paddler’s eyes darted, I saw mother but a strand of weed. He called to the other and he lifted the weed with a seahorse the size of your little finger clinging to the weed. Like the guides in the national park showing me what I couldn’t see with my city eyes here again the people of the sea were showing me that there is so much more. 

              One really important piece of the travel puzzle has continually let me down in Africa, Kenya Air. It has affected my schedule in Zanzibar, Madagascar and now Rwanda. They have been late every time, cancelling flights causing me to lose hotel bookings, connecting flights, a whole fistful of money and much angst. I’ve been told to just shrug my shoulders and accept that this is how Africa operates. In fact they have the acronym TIA ? This IS Africa. Fine I think to myself but don’t charge prices higher than anywhere else in the world for rubbish service. So frustration blurs the start to this second part of my African adventure.

              I arrive one day and one hour later than planned to supposedly meet Kylie’s flight from Doha. But this is nothing compared with Kylie’s attempt to meet me in Nairobi. During her flight from Melbourne, Iran decided to bomb an American base near Doha airport and the world’s international planes helter sheltered in all directions. Kylie found herself almost in Doha before being turned to India and then after refueling sent back to Doha. The short version is we arrived within an hour of each other. Kylie’s only checked bag did not come around on the carousel. Our flight to Kigali, Rwanda was missed and again extra money changed hands. Every airport official looked deeply concerned and promised absolute immediate action but in retrospect nothing ever happened. We arrived at 3am into Kigali, Rwanda shattered and frustrated to start our tour.

              Later that morning whist everyone on the tour visited the genocide museum in Kigali we were back at the airport hoping/watching for a bag which again didn’t appear after absolute confirmation it would be there. We sat silently in a taxi through the busy heart of Kigali our mind on the bag not on the adventure ahead.  Finally the taxi meets our Intrepid travel group. They are all in various stages of frustration and sorrow having visited the genocide memorial. An hour later we too stumble out as stunned and shaken as the others. The missing bag is insignificant in comparison to Rwanda’s Tutsi genocide. 

            The story as told is that in 1994 the Huti tribe having been convinced by their government, church groups and others that the Tutsi tribe were inferior, turned on them with bloody lust. The large French army flew out, the United Nations turned a blind eye and over the course of one hundred days neighbours killed neighbours till one million Tutsis had been slaughtered. One hundred days… the world simply turned a blind eye. Yet the forgiveness we witnessed between these two tribes now simply called Rwandans was amazing. Every single person we met had been affected, many still live in neighbouring countries unable to come home knowing they have no one to come home to. I stood sucking in air trying to imagine the hopelessness of the one hundred days. Bodies lay everywhere and were dumped into mass graves. People didn’t drink or eat fish from the surrounding lakes for five years knowing  that thousands of bodies had simply been dumped into the lakes.

              We were soon on the move to Musanze and trekked to see the golden monkeys in the Volcanoes National Park. We meet at the National Park kiosk where half the world’s camouflage gear and eye watering expensive telescopic cameras were on display. None of the safari gear had ever seen the outside of a camping store. Crisp shirts, Everest worthy climbing boots, gaiters and jungle trousers. We were all decked out except for Kylie ‘no bag’ wearing a pair of runners she had bought in Doha and a few things supplied by others in the group. We humans skated less than gracefully along a narrow slippery path into the nearby bamboo forest. Soon we were peering up into the top of the canopy bending under the strain to view the golden monkeys. Unlike us, these athletic primates swung gracefully like Tarzan whilst steadily eating the fresh shoots from the surrounding bamboo. We peered up in awe at the  group of about seventy monkeys moving effortlessly through the canopy always safely at an arms distance from us humans below. After an hour a few followed us back out to the neighbouring farm lands where they stood eating freshly unearthed potatoes. Young cheeky farming boys chased the much smaller but just as cheeky monkeys back from where they came.

                  We enjoy a few days in Queen Elizabeth’s National Park after crossing into Uganda staying at a lodge overlooking the Kazinga Chanel joining two huge lakes. The morning is filled with lion spotting and as a bonus a friendly ranger on a motorbike takes us off a track to a lion he has spotted laying comfortably in the branches of a large cactus. A few minutes and we return to the official track bursting with excitement at our close proximity to the king of the jungle. 

                A leisurely afternoon river cruise is action packed. First we are briefed by lieutenant Nelson resplendent in full naval uniform who walks us through what we will see. “Yes, there will be clocadiles, elephunts, hippopotamuses and many varieties of burds.” He is true to his mispronounced words and from the safety of a few metres off shore we view all he named and more. The elephants were the show stopper working as a team to first drink and play before helping to push each other up and over the sandhills to find something to eat. The clocadiles and hippos simply slunk into deeper water waiting for the unsuspecting. A great show and a precursor to hopefully finding some chimpanzees. 

                 These athletic primates chimpanzees were the hardest to spot. High up in the canopy and always on the move. It was best for me to admit defeat early in trying to get a great photo best to simply enjoy watching their antics. They moved quickly from one feeding area to the next and we were constantly moving our eyes about trying to catch a flash of their cheeky antics. All of this was a warmup to the main event, the mountain gorillas. That was still a few days away.

                   I slept poorly the night before the gorillas. Scared I would miss the alarm and nervous the terrain would be too difficult for my old bones. It was still dark when we left camp. We jerked and bounced about in our jeep towards our briefing podium close to the aptly named, Impenetrable jungle. After the briefing and some dancing and singing by twenty energetic locals we were allotted our group. There is six of us plus a guide, Cosmos, he was probably conceived under the stars. His backup is Ivan who marches with a solid butt rifle slung nonchalantly over his shoulder. We spend an hour trekking on steep rough tracks towards the impenetrable forest, its official name. At one point Cosmos suggests to Ivan that he shoot a herd of nearby cows for some extra money. We are all huffing and puffing so much we barely catch the joke. 

                 Finally we cross a small stream and look into the dark green forest on the far side. This section is a thick tangle of vines and finding a footing is tricky. We’re all bent low trying to scramble or skid along on our bums in a very undignified way having long ago converted to survival mode. After many tumbles and falls Kylie exclaimed “There they are !” I lift my head expecting them to be tiny figures in the distance but no, they were only ten metres away and looking our way. We silently trudged or should I say stumbled closer, keeping one eye on their movement and one eye on Cosmos for direction and reassurance. This is way beyond my comfort zone.

                  Suddenly there was a grunt, a primal scream and a lurch as a couple of young frisky males crashed through the thick forest leaving a trail of broken trees and shrubs. Things began to settle down but you could feel there was tension building, they were agitated for some reason. Little did we know that another gorilla family were nearby and the two dominant silverbacks were about to put on a show of strength for us and the opposing females in the groups. We were caught in their crossfire, one silverback would stand, beat his chest and let out an almighty roar, you could truly feel the reverberation such was the force on your skin.

               The babies were herded close to their mothers knowing the other silverback would try and kill them in a bid to take over the family. They are huge, wild animals and it soon became apparent that this was absolutely their domain not ours. I couldn’t get over their faces full of curiosity and the animated appearance of thinking deeply about what, I’ll never know. Their strength, size and agility meant we were definitely inferior and they would dictate terms on their home ground. 

            I was almost bowled over at one point as a large male made a beeline past causing me to instinctively dive sideways into the vines, my heart pounding. The others tourists squealed in delight but all I could do was shake, clamber to my feet and consider the near miss. The biggest of the gorillas weighs in at over 200 kgs. They seemed more like small cars crashing down a mountain side. The guides kept a watchful eye over us occasionally stepping in and directing us either closer or further away for better viewing opportunities. They truly understood the antics of each of the gorillas in the family and their habits. Well I hoped they did or why else were they pushing me forward, an Aussie sacrifice ?

           Our hour with the gorillas was over all too soon but we had been close, very close at times and the perpetual grin on everyone’s face says it all. We turned around and trudged back down to the stream and soon enough were walking between the steep fields of climbing beans and corn. I was still trying to decipher what I had witnessed in the inpenetrable jungle. Boys own stuff, memories of old black and white Tarzan movies and National Geographic footage with a BBC commenter describing in whispered tones of an encounter in deepest, darkest Africa.

           At the top of the mountain we sat and rested in the shade of a tall stand of pine trees and ate cheese sandwiches supplied by the hotel. They tasted magnificent or was it because of the location and what we had just witnessed. Our group barely noticed the few kms back to the jeep such was the joy and chatter of what we had seen. A small ceremony took place with our local guide, Cosmos where we were presented with our certificates, I joked that it was for coming out alive. 

            The ballon jeep found our Intrepid trucks not using smoke signs and animal calls but with mobile reception from a nearby telecom tower. No sooner had we been funneled into our jeep than Tim our driver started spotting various animals. It was Noah’s ark except more of everything. My favourite came around soon enough, the giraffes. And quite a few, in fact Tim referred to them as a tower of giraffes. I’ll use that I thought. A cheetah wearing a lavish coat sauntered and then draped itself over a mound giving it 360 degree views of any potential breakfast.

          A long row of jeeps signalled to us that there was something special going on a few kms away. On closer inspection we found a large pride of lionesses. Thirteen in total lounging about gathering their strength and showing their might. Just as we thought it was time to move on the pride suddenly eased itself into action. First the matriarch stood tall her ears raised, her nose into the wind. The casual relaxed vibe was gone, it was all business and we could feel it. One by one they lifted their supple, lean bodies and began to head in the direction of a distant herd of unaware feeding water buffalo. The surprise was that the only cub in the pride was simply left where they had been, as if to say “we’ll be back for you.” Two rangers in a nearby jeep kept a watchful eye over the cub like they were observers at a crèche. There was system and rank in the way the pride moved and within fifteen minutes the plan was becoming obvious even to us. 

                Some relaxing holiday ? Balloons at 4am yesterday, 4.30am today due to ongoing civil unrest in Kenya. The Kenyan President, Ruto has warned he will shoot any demonstrators. Threats of an angry crowd in Migori, a nearby border town we must pass through has our guide, Lucky Steve on edge. We had felt the locals anger a few weeks ago in Nairobi when a protest turned to violence and the police shot 18 dead just in Nairobi. The protests are becoming more regular and the shootings aren’t stopping. It won’t be a happy ending.

            So to avoid the demonstration we rolled out of our camp at 5am close to the Masai Mara National Park and drove across the park as they swung the gates open. A long bumpy dirt road but it’s Africa and at dawn there will always be surprises. Sure enough, trotting along the desolate road just as the sun rises is a large lion. He disregards us completely and our jeeps must trail behind him till he politely steps aside to let us pass. Minutes later a couple of awkward, gangly giraffes stepped off the verge to cross in front of us. Not to be outdone a herd of zebras does an unofficial crossing. It’s all happening and the sun has just lifted above the distant horizon. 

*Serengeti

                Our second balloon ride is in the Serengeti. Yes another 4am start and the obligatory rough jeep ride to the launch zone. This time we assemble in the middle of absolutely nowhere with only the deflated balloons to signal we are in the right spot. It’s on a slight rise of straw coloured grassland, a stiff cool wind cuts through our clothes. About sixty of us stood in a huddle trying to stay warm, sipping questionable ginger coffee. We watch as the balloons noisily come to life with huge electric fans filling the voluminous chasm of fabric. Above the whirling roar of the fans Captain Trevor directs us into the cane basket. Due to the strength of the wind the cane basket will start on its side so we are laying in two horizontal rows like twelve squirming sausages. I watch Captain Trevor out of the corner of my eye. He directs the swivelling gas burner into the neck of the semi inflated balloon as he balances one foot in the basket and the other on the rim. He must be ready for the moment when the basket will swing unexpectedly into its suspended position whilst still forcing heat up into the balloon. Suddenly we begin to bump and crash across the rough bush with the roar of the burners in our ears. 

                  We are away, moving quickly across the vast plains where only days earlier over one million wilderbeast and zebra have grazed during the great annual migration on their way to Kenya and the Masai Mara. We immediately start seeing animals caught by surprise as we glide across the savannah. Nocturnal jackal skip about wishing they’d gone to bed earlier. Trevor aims for a nearby stream “look over the side at our reflection” he yells above the roar of the flame. As we all peer down a very large, fully submerged hippo, spooked by the nearby roar, bursts from the water showing a full mouth to those on the other side of the basket. The hippo thunders from the water and chases the shadow of the balloon as the blood returns to their faces. 

                  We peer out to see other balloons serenely heading in our direction. Permission to kiss announces an unknown captain through the 2way radio. And to our left two balloons draw alongside and bump our balloon without any sort of jolt. “The trick is to hit at the equator” says Trevor indicating the central girth position. Of course it’s called the equator but what a reference. Another nearby balloon swoops low and a dazzle (another great name ) of about fifty zebra spread out in a fan shape before the shadow of the balloon. 

                   Another great start to an African morning. It’s celebrated with three cheers and the traditional cork popping in a field of long straw coloured grass. The pilots stand around happy that the windy conditions enabled all balloons to land safely and a full contingency of tourists can go and enjoy a full English breakfast at formal tables set up in the bending grass. 

                  The sun has barely risen when our jeep picks us up. Minutes later we are staring at a beautifully marked cheetah taking shade under a thorny tree. Further down the road there is a cheetah on full alert with her one year old cub padding along parallel with the road. The cub is bristling with excitement ready to show his mum what he can do. “Let me at em, let me at em.” Lifting his little head and staring down the barrel of a nearby gazelle. Chill says Mum you’ll get your dinner but slowly, slowly… African style. Another magic moment.

                You have to remember not get blasé at such numerous animal sightings. Soon enough I will return to Australian suburbia so drink it all in Jeff. A conga line of elephants stop our jeep for five minutes. We sit in awe as large limbering old boys and miniature baby elephants make their way around us. Then it’s a herd of a hundred bearded wildebeest who have become too old to bother with the migration and have stayed at home to keep the grass short. But it’s the giraffes awkwardly lumbering past that brings the biggest smile to me. Seven of them, big and small step off the Savannah onto the road like children navigating stairs for the first time. Then they are amongst the trees straining their long necks, pulling at thorny branches with their soft mouths and ultra long eyelids fluttering. The big cats are king but I’m infatuated by these weird shaped animals that look like earthmoving excavators from a distance. 

                Our lodge in the Serengeti is a long series of canvas tents. It’s sounds rustic and many dreaded the two night stay but actually it was far more luxurious than any of us imagined. There was a bar, a huge dining room, a laundry, all the mod cons. The only downside was that the walls of the rents were thin. You could hear every word, every turn in bed, every cough. But it was the all night love making by a love struck pair of lions that kept most of us awake. Someone counted five times that the two lions locked themselves in a wild embrace but not one of us dared to open the tent flap and take a photo. As if the canvas would have kept them out. We just hoped the night watchman was doing his job keeping them beyond the lanterns delineating the start of our camp area. One for the memory bank. 

                  There’s a visit to a couple of remote villages where the Hadzabe tribe are still trying to live a traditional life style. The first village survives by making jewellery for tourists and arrowheads to trade with the nearby bushmen for meat. We sit with this metalworking tribe as they turn rusty 6” steel nails using a few rudimentary tools into lethal arrowheads. The nearby bushman tribe trade meat for the steel arrowheads to enable them to hunt a broad range of wild animals outside the National Parks. Others melt old brass car-parts into small ingots to work into finely embossed bracelets. They finish a bracelet in half an hour using an old car spring as a workbench and their feet to hold the bracelet steady as they hammer a pattern and form intricate snakehead ends. To look at the finished item you’d swear it was made in some pristine jeweller’s workshop with fine tools and bright overhead lighting. 

                  The bushmen’s village is basic. They are a nomadic tribe who build basic huts wherever they happen to kill a large animal. And if that animal is a baboon or a giraffe it is fair game to these primitive people. They wear an array of animal skins and we sit guessing which pelt is from which animal. They talk an ancient clicking language. The tribes leader explains in his unusual dialect, littered with cleft clicks, how they kill various animals in a very animated, theatrical manner. No interpreter is needed so good is his performance. We try and emulate his clicking sound and he doubles over in laughter. I’ve never heard anything like it. We finish our visit with a bow and arrow competition against the locals. Surprisingly a young girl in our group called Lotus, yes Lotus. Lotus is a natural, hitting the target stick four times in a row. The chief looks at the other villagers, should we steal her ? We get Lotus back in the jeep before a decision is made.

                The tour finishes in Arusha. It’s been a sensory overload. We sit down as a group with Lucky Steve our guide to go through our highlights. Everyone’s experience has been way beyond their expectations, everyone has a favourite moment. The diversity, the massive numbers of animals. To see a pride of lions set up a kill, to watch a serval cat eating a freshly killed snake, to see a leopard drag a kill high into a tree, a hippo bursting from a river spooked by the roar of a balloon overhead. The conga line of wildebeest and zebra snaking across the horizon during the great migration. Two young guys whi both loved birding and spotted 96 different birds over three weeks and became friends for life. The list of sightings is long and varied. Our guides, our unflappable drivers and the local specialist guides have made it unforgettable. 

                 TIA they shrug when things go wrong. This IS Africa. And then there is the rest of the time when your mouth is open in awe. Wow…