The first thing I notice, in our treks, is that there is an enormous mount of vegetation – papyrus and lilies on the river, palm trees on the banks, crocodiles and hippo and even some salt islands. We rent a mukuro (a traditional dugout canoe) and paddle down the Delta...

Consequently, we're now on the road parallel to the B8, which follows the river, only its more of a dirt track than a road and full of potholes – huge potholes that we're hitting every 30 seconds. We bumping along, being thrown around wildly, but still I'm coping. And then, without warning, we come to a halt. I look out of my window and see the wheel is encased in thick mud...

Over dinner, and a beer, the family ask me question after question (Why do I travel like this? Am I lonely, on the road alone? Do I want to get married? If I do marry, will I give up this nomadic lifestyle? Aren't I afraid, hitching around Africa?) I answer as best I can and then start pressing them for details of of their own life, out here in the boonies. Of course, they have plenty of good stories - camping trips out in the bush, growing up without tv, few modern appliances and a lot of electricity outages. Ah yes, and constant bouts of malaria...