There is time to contemplate how far we’ve come, from Cape Town to Kenya, to the beaches of Mozambique. Jim asked me where I thought we’d be without the Garmin and Traks4Africa – I said “Back home and divorced by now.” We are happily long past the point when every other minute brought on another decision. Tension ran high; that’s what comes of the being way outside your comfort zone. What would we change, now that we have time to think about it? Nothing, really. We couldn’t have taken this overland trip any sooner in our lives and the best time to go is when you go. The route has been successful – we calculated we’ve been on beaches of some sort since November, can’t 
complain about that. Neither of us has been sick. We’ve been through four different coffee presses, five decks of cards and one iPhone as well as countless cans of Peaceful Sleep insect repellent. We will not miss 
the mosquitoes.
There are places to return to and some gaps to fill, next time. Driving Namibia for months gave us a full view of that endless country. Botswana needs another look, hopefully before this trip is over. We’ve already been to Zimbabwe twice and will go back again later this month, so much to see there. Zambia is a favorite, where I am positive we waved to every single person in that friendly country. Tanzania nearly broke the 
bank but with its iconic parks it could not be missed. Zanzibar showed us our first taste of the slavers coast plus powered-sugar white sand beaches. The side trip to Ethiopia, that exotic place, was perfect. Camel 
caravans hauling salt into the sunset – what a scene.
Rwanda – a sobering lesson in humanity. One day we came to a nondescript village and it was time to get out of the truck. A large Genocide Memorial stood out, as in every single town and village. Only this one wasn’t quite finished yet. The very young security guard called an older gentleman to show us around this newly built but empty building. And the blank walls spoke as loudly as any placards. The hollow hallways echoed the footsteps of everyone who would never walk t
here. Finally we found ourselves in a basement containing 38 coffins, displayed neatly as if in a show room. Some had framed photos propped upon them, others had snapshots scotched-taped to them. To our undying surprise, the guide opened a coffin and handed us a small human skull. All these coffins have skulls, he said. At this location a church was bulldozed with thousands of people in it. His children are here, in one of the coffins. He shared his photos of them with us. We thanked him, signed the guest book and drove away. Rwanda; a country where everything is new because there was nothing left.
The primates in Uganda revel in the simplicity of life. We camped, all alone, in the Kibale forest and had a troop of 50+ baboons invade the clearing; they played, groomed each other and goofed off all morning, just having a good time being together. On the eastern side of the country we came to one of our better decisions – we really wanted to drive a certain road to enter Kenya. On the map it looked totally doable. But it was raining. Hard. And pondering the options,
we bypassed that road only to later meet a couple who had taken it; a heart-stopping track, they said “like driving on butter.” We spent a few minutes patting ourselves on the back for not going there. Of course that was prior to being desperately stuck in the mud twice in one week.
Kenya, that most organized of countries, gave us so many new friends. Eldoret town, Lake Turkana, the National Museum, JJs in Nairobi, Samburu Park, the fabulous Twiga and Barefoot beaches, Malindi town – I would go back to Kenya tomorrow. It took days for me to get 
over leaving Twiga; I kept asking myself why we left. But leaving there led us to Malawi and to time spent with our friends Jen and Jared. And on we go; more of Mozambique to see, more Zimbabwe, South Africa and camping with Adrian and Rentia, Swaziland, Lethoso, Botswana . . . where will it end?
Rain doesn’t necessarily fall all day every day in the rainy season. As you can imagine, big black clouds roll through and sheets of water descend, followed by bright hot sun and steaming humidity. Roads that were mud yesterday may be passable today if the equatorial sun shines long enough. Hillsides and national parks are so green you’d think you are in the Pacific Northwest and the wild flowers make us think of spring in Idaho.
Peril exists however. That you may be able to travel a track doesn’t mean the track will passable on your return. Few people are about in the parks who might assist in case of error. Rangers and guides don’t want to struggle down the roads looking for trouble. Phone numbers for park entrances and headquarters rarely work, in our experience. As is often the case in Africa, you are on your own.
And so we found ourselves in Mikumi Park, mired in mud to the axle on one side, tipped precariously and very much alone. We’d been in the park for a couple of days, managing to avoid the trap of going down an impassable track with no way to turn around. 
On the final game drive we followed the rule for mud, we found a road that had recent tire imprints on it – a good sign of a passable track. The gravel turned to a dark surface, we could see, but others had been here – we kept going. Mistake. The dark surface turned to butter, slippery and spread across the way. In a second we were off the road and into the black cotton mud of the barrow pit.
Black Cotton is a common mud in Africa and much has been written about it on forums and 4×4 sites. No one likes it; why would they? It is relentlessly sticky, everything near it is quickly coated. And it is slick, heavy and hateful to shovel. What to do? Jim worked the truck and I attempted to contact someone at the park to advise them of the situation. Not one number they gave us is working. Hmmm. Ok. The truck is not moving. Darkness is coming on. We hear lion. It is beginning to suck to be us. 
But we’d seen a safari vehicle earlier in the day and through ever-amazing technology wifi is reachable if I stand in the right spot. I retrieve the number for Tan-Swiss, the company that operates the vehicle we’d seen. Being a lodge, there was someone there to answer the phone. Through fits and starts I ask, could they call the park for us? Better than that she gives me the phone number of their guide. He passes on the word and presently we are informed that someone is coming. Now in African time that could mean soon. Or not. We aren’t going anywhere.
Robert arrives as dark falls, alone in a lightweight Toyota bakkie with average tires. 
Oh no. (Or words to that effect). There’s no way that truck is going to pull us out. Robert parks a ways back and hurries over, looks around, and says “get back and stay here”. To our utter astonishment he gets in the Beagle, puts it in gear and guns it. He would not stop, pedal to the medal, and damn if the truck didn’t start to move, sliding further off into the mud but inching forward. Mud is flung off the tires as the ruts deepen. He keeps working it, pushing the truck on and soon he has gone 40 meters, far enough to scratch his way up onto the road surface. It was way too dark for photos but we won’t forget what happened – that man can drive. We all managed to get turned around, easing our way back to the campsite with Robert escorting. There’s water at the camp and we clean the truck and marvel over Robert’s 
skills; telling ourselves we won’t be stuck again. But when we do sink the truck in yet another mud hole a week later, we knew we could extract it. It’s a damn good truck, the Beagle. Just gotta drive it like Robert.
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