Aftering waving the emerald smugglers goodbye in Chipata at about lunchtime, we set about finding an ATM, a cheap eat and a place to sleep for the night before setting off for Mfuwe (pronounced ‘muf-ooh-eee’), the nearest town to South Luangwa National Park for more wildlife watching. We found a restaurant to make us a cheese toastie, but with no running water in Chipata right now, we didn’t care to think when the chef last washed his hands…

After discussing our travel plans with the restauranteur, it seemed to make sense for us to try to complete our journey to Mfuwe today instead: There were only two minibuses a day, both in the afternoon, and the the lack of running water would make our designated resthouse a nightmare. (Confirmed: I used their toilet on the way back to the bus station, and nearly died at the smell. It was more hygienic not to wash my hands afterwards.)

The last minibus to Mfuwe was at the station and really full already. You see, in Africa, most buses are not timetabled — they leave when they are full. Really full. The ‘conductor’ was keen to squeeze us into any available air pockets, but there really were none and we were in full transit regalia, backpacks and all. And that’s when Peter Lapkan appeared.

Peter, a tall man, introduced himself as a shopkeeper from Mfuwe and invited us to join him for his return journey home. He asked for a contribution only a little above that which the minibus would have cost us and indicated that he had a 4×4 hatchback car, which would get us there safely and probably before the minibus anyway. Certainly in more comfort. This we couldn’t argue — being dragged face-down along the road would have been more comfortable than taking that bus. As is now customary for us with offers of carriage in Africa, we checked his breath for alcohol and discussed our requirements to keep within the speed limits. All was agreed and off we walked to his car. It turned out that Peter was a second-hand shoe salesman and regularly crossed into Malawi to buy cheap stock, before driving them to the Zambian town of Mfuwe for sale. Naturally, his car was full of second hand shoes but we managed to squish in.

The journey was long and arduous. The distances were not great, but the road (if you can call it that) was in such a bad state of disrepair it took us over four and a half hours at an average speed of 20km/h (15mph, or so). The road wasn’t sealed and, obviously, the front-passenger window in Peter’s car was missing; the orange road dust permeated everything — by the time we arrived, all three of us look like the Tango man. En route, we tried to help a policeman who had punctured both of his spare tyres and so was to spend the night in the middle of nowhere. We gave him the water, bread and bananas that we purchased a little way back. Peter said our gifts would save him from having to pay future bribes at the policeman’s checkpoint. It turns out that he was not insured and so had to give a backhander every time he left town. We were to have no dinner tonight — by the time we got to our resthouse in Mfuwe it was dark. Every hotel that we’ve stayed at in Africa has advised us not to go out at night, for fear of being mugged. Here, the advice was the same, but the reason was different: A couple of years ago a tourist was trampled to death by the elephants that came into town looking for food each evening…

Suffice to say that our hotel, the Cobra Resthouse, was a total dive. Definitely one for locals-only: No running water, the toilet was just a hole in the floor with two thoughtfully-provided wooden blocks each side to stand on and a titchy, filthy bedroom with a mosquito net that was more holy than the Pope. Squiffy slept in her sleeping bag liner, to insulate her one layer away from the abundant filth. For the first time since Morocco, I hit my own limit of acceptability and hid inside my liner too. Let’s hope tomorrow’s safari lodge is better than this…