Once again, there is a man with a gun in the cab of the Beagle; his English limited to left, right and go. I am squirreled up on the jockey box and Jim is driving through a tunnel of blackness – even the super brights aren’t lighting up this track of grass and overhanging branches. The lights seem to be making it worse, it is like driving upside down. How did this happen? The day began so well. . .

7:15 am – It always feels as if anything is possible on an African morning and usually good things. We left South Luangwa in plenty of time to make it to Chifunda and the community campsite there. Spotting the Carmine bee-eaters could be considered a good thing, because it was then we discovered the water tap at been left on and half of the 70-liter water tank was now on the floor of the camper. Sadly, it isn’t the first time this has happened – so at least we know what to do. Empty the truck and get busy sopping it up, right there on the dusty dirty track. The milk we’d taken out for breakfast spilled in the cab, I fell off the bumper and landed in the mud puddle we’d created and as a finishing touch, a whirlwind whipped by filling every open window and door, and all of them were open, with dusty dirt. The day is young, though.

Back on the road finally and by late afternoon we’d driven through endless villages until at sundown we came to a barrier. Village children crowded around the truck and a tall black man who had started the weekend early came to the window. We explained where we were going, and in lean English he told us that we must go to another camp because we’d missed our turn. As much as we insisted we could find our way (we were planning to just pull over and wild camp as soon as we were out of village range) he would not raise the barrier. He gestured at a small man – “he will be your scout” he said, “and you will bring him back in the morning”. Wait, no, we don’t want a scout. We don’t want to come back in the morning. But there is nothing for it. The scout runs off and comes back in green coveralls carrying a rifle and a rucksack. The three of us squeeze into the cab, the barrier is raised and off into the night we go.

Believe it or not, the gun reassures me. They don’t give guns to just anyone in this country. With any luck this scout is legitimate and is taking us to a viable camp – seriously, any other scenario is unlikely here. And presently we spot a campfire, it is the bush camp. Two guys in dire need of a shower come around and show us where to park on the bank of a river. Which river, I cannot say. We extract ourselves from the truck . . . and then an orchestra explodes into sound; bass and trumpet and trombone, a full horn section; drums, even a violin and a cello, all coming from hundreds of hippos in the water directly below us. The sound reverberates up and down the river where more hippos chime in. Everyone is laughing, it is simply amazing. We are then left alone in the dark at the water’s edge with the “musicians” and a nice cold-water bush shower. Morning is coming, and anything is possible.