Big news

 Well, how about that? Some good news! Though with a tinge of sadness, of course. This is Burma who was, until just a couple of months ago, the star of Auckland Zoo. Never mind tigers, giraffes, even orangutans and rhino, the sheer bulk of an elephant is always going to make the most dominant impression. Plus, Burma was sweet and lonely, having been on her own for the last two years since her companion went overseas - as Burma was meant to too, but it fell through (not literally, thank goodness).

But finally a new set-up was sorted, a herd for her to help found after too many years of loneliness, and she was trucked then flown away in her specially-built container. Right about now she should be meeting her first fellow herd member, another female, with three more including a young male to follow later. Add in a much bigger enclosure with varied terrain, and the comforting presence of her keeper, 25 years in the job and now also translocated, and it looks like being a happy ending. Yay.

There are still, though, plenty of elephants in other countries not just imprisoned in zoos, but also being made to work in poor conditions - I’ve seen them myself, in India and Thailand. I’ve even, ashamed to say, ridden on them a couple of times in tourism set-ups. Those are starting to disappear now, hooray, as we all become more aware, and there are some really good sanctuaries working hard to rescue them from poor conditions, like Elephant Hills in Thailand, where I haven’t been, and the Sheldrick Wildlife Trust in Kenya, where I have.

African elephants are too big and wild to be domesticated and mistreated like Asian ones, but there they are not only poached for their ivory, but also get caught in nasty bushmeat snares, fall into wells and are attacked by farmers wanting to protect their crops. The Sheldrick Trust does brilliant work rescuing them (expensive business - helicopters are involved) and looking after orphans till they can be released again (expensive business - takes years). Their nursery just outside Nairobi is a great place to visit, and it’s guaranteed you’ll want to support them (I do). 

Rhinocerious? Absolutely

Well at least this idiot gave the NZ Herald sub the chance for a satisfying pun. The man spent about a quarter of an hour splashing about in the water while Auckland Zoo's three white rhino watched from a distance, twitching their ears, and the nyala antelopes were thoroughly spooked. The perp was hoicked out and whisked away into custody, but subsequently released without charge, presumably because he's not all there.

You would have to be mentally lacking, to do something like this. Rhino are notoriously un-laid back about encounters with people, and can launch into a fast charge remarkably quickly for such huge and heavy animals. And if they catch you? Not good. That's why it was such a thrill to go on a rhino walk in South Africa, out on foot and perilously vulnerable.

Thanks to Imake a Difference, I did this in Somkhanda Game Reserve in 2013, on a trip there to learn about and publicise the disgusting growth in rhino poaching (currently still a huge problem, and threatening the very survival of the species in the wild). We went out looking for collared rhino, to demonstrate how the electronic tagging works via telemetry, but ended up tracking down by traditional means a group of five untagged white rhino - a bull, two cows and their calves - which we then walked up to. In single file, silent, each of us eyeing up the spindly thorn trees which would be our only refuge in case of a charge. We got to within 50m of them, and it was tense, especially when the bull looked towards us - we froze, trusting in the knowledge that rhino eyesight is very poor, though their hearing is excellent.

Then, even more excitingly, at &Beyond's Phinda reserve, we walked to see a black rhino - notoriously more touchy and bad-tempered than the white - which was tetchily prowling around a burnout, looking for browse.

That I'm still here to tell the story of course shows you that it can be done, and survived - but only thanks to the people in charge who knew what they were doing. And who were totally fired-up to get the story out about the obscene market in China and Vietnam for cruelly-obtained rhino horn that's made of keratin and is no more effective against illness or hangovers than chewing your own fingernails. This is the sort of rhino encounter I'd wish on everyone involved:

Bad news, good news - sort of

For today's connection, I could have gone with Wisconsin, if ihe news coming out of there wasn't so sad and depressing. We probably drove past Kenosha on our way back to Chicago after our IPW post-fam in 2014, having done all sorts of lovely things in and around Milwaukee and Madison. I especially remember the joy of discovering the amazing things in The House on the Rock - and, as regular 😀 readers will remember, it was on this trip that I was first introduced to Blue Moon beer, so that was important. (Sadly, it's no longer obtainable in NZ, though the Baby has brought me some back to enjoy hoard.) I must, of course, mention cheese, too.

I had a great time on that trip, and will retain my positive feelings about Wisconsin despite the recent hideous news from there - but instead I'll go with something much more cheerful that is also in the news.

We've just got to see the first photos and footage of the baby rhino recently born at Auckland Zoo - a little cutie, not yet named, 65kg and drinking about a dozen litres of milk daily. She is so sweet, galloping and jumping about, the first rhino born here for 20 years. She's a southern white rhino, which is the most populous of the five species, but that's still not saying a lot really - their numbers are still dropping steadily, mostly because of poaching to supply horn to stupid people in China and Vietnam.

On my rhino charity trips to Africa, I was introduced to all sorts of organisations which are doing valiant work to protect rhino there, and had a heart-warming encounter with babies at a rhino orphanage. Covid initially was a help to the cause, since even the poaching networks had to shut down. Now though that evil scum is stirring again, and on top of that the sudden end to tourism, with all its jobs, has meant that local people are out of work and hungry, so they're going back to poaching, selling intel, and simply killing animals themselves for bushmeat. It's grim. So really, not much different from Kenosha, it turns out. Sorry about that.

No actual decision here

It's being a long day in Whakatane for lots of people, one of them the Firstborn reporting on today's recovery mission to Whakaari White Island to retrieve the bodies of those who were killed during Monday afternoon's eruption. She was up at 4am to witness the blessing of a tour boat taking family members and elders out to the island to remove the rahui before the SAS team moved in later. Amongst all the weary horror of the details being revealed of the - so far - 16 victims and their hideous deaths, and the long, painful struggle ahead for those still in danger in hospital (all of it making it seem a fatuous exaggeration to label the currently still-emerging British election results 'a disaster'), I worried that the Firstborn wasn't looking after herself, and wanted at least to recommend somewhere nice to eat in Whakatane.

So, not wanting to walk the three metres to the drawer containing my notebooks, I did a search on this blog and look what I found, from September 2012: 

Tongariro hasn't spat the dummy again - yet; but White Island has been having hissy fits for months, and is particularly unwelcoming at the moment, with ash now featuring in the constant billowing clouds of sulphurous steam. Also, there are rafts of pumice stones floating downstream of the Kermadecs, so they've stirred into underwater activity too. These volcanoes are all on a line, along the edge of the same plate that our Volcanic Plateau sits on. Nothing to worry about, say the scientists airily. 

You can go out to White Island - it takes about an hour and a half by launch from Whakatane - and do a tour, kitted up with hard hat and, yes, gas mask. They're even running the tours right now: "It's a great time to see White Island at a higher level of activity," the website claims cheerfully, but I don't know that I'd be keen. That place has killed people before now (not tourists - so far) and evidently you're told not to walk too close to the person in front, presumably so you don't break through the crust. I've been to Rotorua enough times to be aware of how thin the layer can be between us and the boiling water or mud - but to risk dropping into a volcano? Not so appealing, really.

I wrote that five years before I visited myself, and found it, literally, a spectacularly memorable experience that I was pleased to have done. Already, people are talking about what this lethal eruption will mean to the future economy of Whakatane which, for the last 30 years, has hinged on White Island tourism - it's a nice little town with a good beach, but there are plenty like that in the country. Should people have been allowed to go out there to walk in the volcano's crater? Should they ever be allowed to go there again, now we know how violently, and suddenly, it can erupt when the activity level was only at 2 out of 5? It's easy, of course, to be wise after the event.

A huge part of New Zealand's tourism industry is the thrilling stuff people can do here - throwing themselves off high places in umpteen different ways, hurtling down steep slopes ditto, skimming along a shallow river in a high-speed jet boat just inches away from rocky cliffs, category 6 white-water rafting: all that, and much, much more. The reason such potentially life-threatening activities are offered so routinely is because of ACC. The Accident Compensation Corporation, established in 1974, provides no-fault insurance compensation for everyone in the country, resident or tourist. So nobody can sue anyone for millions - if they're injured, they get what it's officially calculated they need to cover their care, expenses and a percentage of lost income, if relevant. (Hospitals, of course, are free.) We pay for it all through our taxes. Naturally, the system has its drawbacks, and it's probably significant that no other country has copied it, but it does mean that it's possible to let people do all sorts of dangerous things, commercially, and that's a great attraction.

Which isn't to say you can't put your life in danger in other countries too, even in the US. There, naturally, you need to sign waivers that cover every minute variation of things going wrong - before even a tame a ride on a horse, for example, there's a form to sign that includes a veritable thesaurus of terms covering every sort of movement the horse might make. But, despite all that, you can still do dangerous things, commercially, all over the world: hurtle down the *cough* Death Road in Bolivia, take drugs in the jungle in Ecuador, swim with whales (and whale sharks) in all sorts of places, stare down a wild lion from two metres' distance in Africa and paddle past hippos, climb Everest, jump into the sea in the Antarctic, teeter along cliffs in China, bounce in a boat remarkably close to a fire-hose of magma in Hawaii.

I've done some of those things, and they were exciting and fun, and I'm still here. So is the vast majority of everybody else who's done them. If they'd gone wrong, it could have been every bit as bad - possibly even worse, longer-lasting, more violent and painful - than the hopefully almost instant deaths (though not the injuries) of the victims of White Island. But it didn't. Instead, I had a good time, made vivid memories, and lots of people made honest livings from that.

I've seen the photos of the White Island victims, read their biographies, heard their families and friends speak about what they were like, and of course none of them deserved to die, or have the rest of their lives wrecked like that. It's a tragedy of the most extreme sort, made even worse by their having chosen to do that tour, for fun. 

So, should they have been able to? Is there a line that should be drawn, allowing some things but not others? Who decides? Is that fair? Where would it all end? Big questions. 

I bless the dogs down in Africa

I've just been watching the latest - and I mean the latest: it's only just been shown in the UK - episode of the sainted David Attenborough's new series, Dynasties. This one was about two packs of African Wild Dogs, or painted wolves as he called them, whose territories are in Mana Pools in Zimbabwe.

Regular readers 😃 will remember that a couple of years ago I spent a few days just across the Zambezi River from Mana Pools, at Royal Zambezi Lodge in Zambia. One of the highlights (and there were SO MANY!) was on safari one day our coming across a small pack of these dogs in the national park alongside the lodge's grounds, and watching them devour the impala one of them had killed. Seeing these cute dogs on the screen, with their big round ears and mottled shaggy coats brought it all back - as did hearing the collared doves warbling in the background, and the distinctive squeaks of the dogs. We were so lucky to see the dogs - there are fewer than 7,000 left in the world, sadly. Usual reasons, sigh.

Naturally, the photography in the series is brilliantly done, and it looked just gorgeous, the colours so rich and the sun so golden and mellow in the hazy sky. I was thinking only yesterday about my African trips and what an edgy place Africa is, and how going there is simultaneously exciting and frightening. I was inclining towards thinking - such a wuss - that I was kind of relieved not to be contemplating another trip there in the foreseeable; but now I'm keen to go again. It certainly is a harsh and dangerous place - ask the wildlife, as well as the people - but it's truly a magical, super-special destination, and I'd go again tomorrow if I could.

Channelling Otto and Lady Bracknell

That's Otto as in Kevin Kline's character in A Fish Called Wanda, and specifically this scene:

"Disappointed!" is what I frequently feel should be carved on my gravestone, were I to have one instead of requesting that my ashes be dispersed to the elements some breezy day hopefully a year or several yet in the future. And I would have it read out in exactly Otto's tones of anger and disbelief. I'll spare you a description of all the other regularly-occurring situations in which this is my reaction, and restrict myself to this morning's.

It's Tuesday, which means Travel in the NZ Herald, and a day on which I awake in the hope of seeing in print at least one of the currently 10 stories of mine that are in the paper's files. Unlike other publications, which keep writers (me) in the loop, the Herald blithely accepts stories and then consigns them to some distant electronic attic, there to moulder and lose relevance until one day - quite possibly one year (three years+ is the record so far) later - on some unpredictable whim of the editor, it eventually appears in print, to my surprise. And satisfaction, since then I can send in my invoice and get paid. 

Though there are still some hallowed publications that pay on acceptance, the Herald's financial tardiness would still be tolerable, if the payment were reasonable - but, having been writing for the Herald for well over a dozen years now, I've watched the pay rate drop and drop. A 1000-word story would once have earned me a heady $500. Now it's a scant "hundy" as the editor cheerfully terms it.

Blame the internet, of course. That's caused dropping newspaper circulation and smaller budgets, and also fewer staff, which leads me to today's disappointment. For, I promise you, the second time in five months, the satisfaction of seeing a story of mine finally in print has been shattered by its being cut off mid-sentence, the final paragraph missing. "Production error. Entirely my fault," says the editor. "Sorry."

Understood. Too much to do, too few people to do it. But... twice? Which brings me to Lady Bracknell:

 ‘To lose one parent, Mr Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness.’

Willing and Abel

Although I'm a Lego fan from way back, inducted my daughters into the cult, have trodden on my share in bare feet, and have crates of it still in the cupboard, unable to get rid of it because it's an investment - and also, well, LEGO! I was still surprised to get this present from the Baby for Christmas. But it was a symbol: the real present was a 3-day kayaking/camping/tramping trip with her in Abel Tasman National Park at the top of the South Island. Brilliant!

So today I ferried and bussed to the airport and flew down to Nelson to meet her. This town, beloved of retirees, normally vies for the top of the nation's Sunniest City poll, but not so much right now - according to the shuttle driver who collected me from the dinky airport, it's all Australia's fault. That's easy to accept at face value, but she did support it with some meteorological science, in that the horrifyingly hot weather there sucks tropical rain down here.

My trip before last, the Kenya/Uganda/Rwanda one, in a truck and tents, helped set me up for the basic level of accommodation on this one. Mostly we'll be camping, but tonight we get to luxuriate in beds at the Prince Albert Backpackers hostel in Nile Street. I can't recall staying in a backpackers before - lost in the mists of time, I'm guessing - but this seemed pretty good: not fancy, certainly, but we had twin beds with an ensuite, and downstairs it was like a jolly pub (complete with English landlord), serving excellent food in huge portions.

Afterwards, lying in bed listening to the rain pouring down, and knowing there's a lot of exercise ahead of me, only a thin yoga mat to sleep on, and no bathrooms at all, I was just grateful for a last night of relative comfort. As well as slightly anxious that perhaps last week wasn't the best time to have a squamous cell carcinoma cut out of my shin... (Yeah, sorry. But watch out for nasties like this, ok?)

Hot v cold

This excellent photo by @stevefrancees on my Instagram feed is exactly the reason why I'm done with hot places. I mean, look at it: it could be anywhere! My first thought was Tahiti, specifically the Manava Suites resort I stayed at way back in 2007 - or, possibly New Caledonia. Or Fiji, or Aitutaki in the Cooks - or, honestly and truly, pretty much anywhere around the world between the tropics of Cancer and Capricorn: turquoise sea, coconut palms, thatched sun shelters, pool... It's actually Aruba, which I've had to Google (yes! I know! shocking admission for a so-called travel writer but the Caribbean is untrodden territory for me). (Apart from having sailed through there when I was three, that is.)

Anyway, the point is that, admittedly gorgeous as it is, you have to admit, it's all a bit samey, innit? And also, there's not much to do, other than lie in the sun trying to avoid getting burnt, or snorkelling, or maybe going for a kayak (or sailing in a dinghy helplessly towards the horizon and having to be ignominiously rescued by a bored resort worker - but that's another story). Relaxing, I suppose, but that's not what I need in a holiday. My everyday life is pretty relaxing. (Sorry.) And if I want turquoise sea, all I have to do is look up from this computer and out of the window. (Again, sorry.)

No, what really appeals to me these days is cold places. All you need is the right clothes, and then you can really get stuck into the dramatically different scenery, and wildlife, and culture and history. I did try to get to Iceland this year, but it didn't happen because I've lagged behind the trends, and everyone's going there, two million tourists a year, and the 300,000 residents have had enough. So they're not looking for any extra publicity, dammit (though that has at least relieved me of the difficulty of choosing between summer trekking on an Icelandic pony, or winter viewing of the Northern Lights). I wouldn't mind popping up to Churchill to see the polar bears, either, while they're still there, poor things. 

But neither of those things has been a possibility for me this year (let's not lose hope - it could still happen). What I have managed to set up though, after about three years of hints and nudges, and more direct requests this year, and lots of patience and quite a bit of luck, is a cruise to - tarah! - Antarctica. (Though the house-sitter is surprisingly unenvious. I dunno, something about Waiheke in summer.)

It's a cruise with (regular readers - ha! - will not be surprised to learn) my old mate Silversea. Not, fortunately as it turns out, Silver Cloud, which was strengthened this year and refitted for sailing through icy waters but, *cough* recently had to turn back from its maiden Antarctic voyage because of engine problems, but instead Silver Explorer, which is less fancy but more workmanlike. It still has butlers and such, of course - this is Silversea, what are you thinking? - and all the usual trimmings, so we'll hardly be slumming it, I know you'll be reassured to hear.

It's an 18-day cruise, from Ushuaia, southernmost city in South America, to the Falklands/Malvinas, South Georgia (for Christmas), Elephant Island and the Antarctic Peninsula, finishing with what I'm hoping will be an uneventful crossing over Drake Passage, one of the roughest stretches of water on the planet, back to Ushuaia and thence Buenos Aires.

So, I've written up Africa, I'm tidying away some NZ pieces, the weather here has recently and dramatically switched over into summer and I'm - honestly - on the verge of having my first swim in the sea; and I'm also thinking about layers and merino, and gloves and scarves. And penguins, lots of penguins. And, who knows, perhaps even, finally, endlich, an orca or two. Fingers crossed. Or, you know, watch this space.

(This is Mauritius, which came to mind because the sole American in our Africa tour group was heading there next - and HAD NEVER HEARD OF THE DODO!!! Can you believe that?)

Disgusting Trump and his abominable sons

This is what happens when you hand your iPhone over to your Gracepatt Ecotours guide to do some yousies at the David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust in Nairobi. Stephen was so delighted with the quality of the photographs that he couldn't help himself - honestly, this is just a fraction of what he took. I don't blame him at all, despite all the deleting it's led to, because his own phone was pretty basic, as were most of the non-tourist ones I saw being used during my Intrepid Game Parks & Gorillas tour through Kenya, Uganda and Rwanda earlier this month.

They are, though, an absolute boon to poor people in Africa: with my wealth of through-the-window experience of street life in, now, five countries in that continent (that's roughly one eleventh), I can boldly generalise to say that cellphones are ubiquitous and understandably so, when even electric lighting in homes can be a luxury, and landlines non-existent. It must have been such a glorious improvement to their standard of living to be able to communicate with others so easily. Yay for technology. But nothing of the sort for the unspeakable Trump.

After last night's horrifying news about the US re-opening the import of hunting trophies - coincidentally (not) to the benefit of the Orange One's disgusting sons - I was heartened this morning to scroll down on my own phone to read this tweet from Ellen Degeneres:

I'm sure many - hopefully most - Americans are equally dismayed by the Abomination's latest abomination. Certainly that unspeakable dentist who murdered Cecil the lion last year got a lot of local protest that I hope (but doubt) made him regret what he'd done. And honestly, where is the skill in shooting these magnificent animals? There is none. These pathetic self-styled 'hunters' don't actually hunt their targets, they're just taken to where they are - in fenced reserves - and then shoot them. That's not hard either - they're big animals, difficult to miss. Truly, I could have shot the Big Five myself, twice over, easily. There's no kudos to be earned - as if there ever could be anyway.

There was a nice American couple at the David Sheldrick elephant orphanage who were buying four fosterships to give as Christmas presents. Good for them. In the sure and certain knowledge that neither of my offspring will read this, I can say that I bought one too, as a present for the younger one, an elephant fan from way back. I chose Enkesha, a little girl of 18 months who was rescued in the Masai Mara where she was found with a wire snare (meant for antelope, for bushmeat) around her trunk, almost severing it (you can see the wound, in the photo above). Sadly, to save her life, she had to be removed from the care of her mother and her herd.

The Trust stitched the wound up twice, and though each time she promptly rubbed all the stitches out, it's still healing quite nicely. I'm not sure if that's the reason why she was drinking water directly, with her mouth in the trough, rather than the normal method of sucking it up her trunk and then squirting it into her mouth, but hopefully she'll get that sorted out. She came right up close to my bit of rope, and I was able to pat her. She'll be at the Trust until she's three, and then she'll be taken to a reintegration unit to be looked after until she feels able to live wild in a herd. Keepers will watch over her until she's accepted, which could take up to ten years. Isn't it heartening to know there are people being so kind to animals? Don't you wish certain other people were more like them?

UPDATE: After a world-wide reaction of shock and horror, there has been the suggestion of a retraction on the part of His Orangeness. Good. Be nice if he were as open to reviewing his other disastrous pronouncements.

You're the Business, Emirates

When you've spent 16 days bumping and lurching along 3,467km of roads through Kenya, Uganda and Rwanda, in an un-air-conditioned truck with rattly windows, loose screws and meanly padded seats, oh! what a treat it is to return to the comforts of the 21st century. Especially when those comforts are supplied by experts in the field: ie, Emirates' Business Class.

I arrived with heaps of time to spare at Nairobi's Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, because, I admit it, I was, feebly, Africa'd out by then. I was keen to get cracking on the journey home, but it looked as though I would have to spend a couple of hours on a bench near the check-in desks because it was too early to send my bag through. Then, though, the lovely Emirates lady took pity on me, promised to keep the bag safe behind the desk till it was time to put it on the conveyor belt, and sent me through to the lounge, airside.

The airport is a bit then-and-now, after a fire in 2013, but the lounge is in the new bit and, shared with Turkish Airlines, comfortable and well-supplied with the necessities and more. I kept myself perfectly happy and busy there for hours until my flight was called. EK722 uses a Boeing 777 in several permutations - this was the 300 with three classes - but it's being phased out in favour of the ER version. I wouldn't have liked to be in the middle section of three seats, but my window one was nicely private despite my having a neighbour. It would have been nice if the seat had reclined totally flat for this overnight flight to Dubai, but since I've also spent the last 16 days mostly sleeping in a tent, I wasn't inclined to be picky - and anyway, after eating dinner at midnight (after, etc, of same-same stews and vegetables, I wasn't going to turn down proper food on a china plate however unsociable the hour) there wasn't much sleep time left of the five-hour flight.

Arriving at Dubai, I made up for the 16 etc of solid sitting by taking the long, long hike from my C gate to the central B section of that enormous airport building, diverted by all the glitz on offer. Then I rode the train to the A section where the Business Class lounge is simply massive. It has two fine dining restaurants, does that sum it up? I took another shower, and had some breakfast (disappointed, to be honest, not to find the excellent Bircher muesli I'd had on the journey out - which I would have savoured even more had I known about the 16 days of crumbly bread and banana sandwich-based breakfasts to come).

Then came the moment I'd been looking forward to for such a long time: stepping (the first passenger off the airbridge, I was that keen) onto the A380 for the 15 hour journey back home to Auckland on EK448. Private pod, shiny walnut veneer everywhere, lockers to keep all my stuff stowed handy, a big TV, 2,500 channels to scroll through on the tablet controller (including the box set of the last season of 'Episodes', yay), a seat that reclined completely flat, a bar at the back of this upstairs cabin... Wonderful stuff.

And, finally, after sleep, entertainment, a dinner of tender meat (those 16 same-same stews were invariably on the chewy side) and flapjacks for breakfast, we touched down in Auckland. I hit the ground not exactly running, but striding briskly as usual, and not only got to the luggage carousel second, but waited only a couple of minutes before my bag appeared. I was first through customs and, final Emirates Business Class joy and glory, there was the Corporate Cabs man waiting to take me home. Touchdown to taxi in 28 minutes - that has to be a record. Further, thanks to the new Waterview tunnel, the trip into the city took only half an hour, I just scraped onto the ferry one hour after I landed, and 40 minutes after that, I was home. Class act, Emirates: you're the Business!

Giraffes do it with tongue

Well, how else should you spend your last hours in Africa, but kissing a giraffe and patting baby orphan elephants? So I went with Gracepatt Ecotours out, first of all, to the Giraffe Centre on the outskirts of Nairobi. Here they breed Rothschild giraffes and release them to national parks. There are 3 sub-species of giraffe in Kenya, and this one, found only in this country, was nearing extinction, down to 130 individuals because of habitat loss. Then Jock and Betty Lesley-Melville stepped in and began their rescue in 1979 - it's not over yet, there are still only 300 of them, but the future's looking pretty good. If you're wondering, you can pick them by their white stockings.

Equally important, as ever, is education, especially of young people: about the environment, wildlife, and its importance to Kenya - as well as its right to live here. So there are well-informed guides at the centre handing out molasses-cereal pellets to hand- (or mouth-) feed the giraffes, and telling everybody all about them and what extraordinary creatures they are. Necks the same length as their legs, did you know? Same number of neck vertebrae as we have. Tongues 46cm long - and blue. The thing to do here is to hold a pellet in your lips and wait for the giraffe to take it. There are whiskers and a bit of spit, but it's a gentle process. Step back fast once the food is gone, though, or you'll get head-butted.

Next we went to the David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust to get up close with orphaned baby elephants - so, naturally, cuteness overload. For an hour a day, you can go in and watch while 32 eles are brought up close and each fed big bottles of lactose-free baby formula. 

We stood behind a flimsy rope and watched them trotting eagerly out of the trees, in two groups, rushing up to the keepers to get their feed (every three hours, 24 litres each in total) and not always happy once the bottles were empty - there was a bit of irritated trumpeting going on. Then they wandered around, playing with each other, picking at leaves, messing with the water in a trough, and frequently close enough to the rope for us all to give as many pats as we wanted. There was a bit of inter-elephant pushing and shoving, and we sometimes had to leap backwards not to get trodden on, but it was a lovely experience.

The head keeper gave a detailed history of each of the orphans - name, age, how it ended up here (some mothers poached or dead of drought, a surprising number rescued from wells, a bit of human interference) and lots of other information, as well as an impassioned plea to avoid buying anything that could encourage more poaching. The babies are all re-introduced to wild living once they're old enough, but it can take five years to establish them with a new herd.

Though it was sad why they were here, it was really lovely to see them, especially up so close, to touch them and look into their eyes, and recognise what unique and special animals they are.

It was also pretty unique to run into the New Zealand Scrabble Team there, in Nairobi for the biennial international championships.  A Kiwi has, uniquely, won it three times in the past, know that? But this year's winner of the $20,000 prize was from Bahrain. The competition games are always one-on-one, by the way. Far too hard, with more players, to remember what tiles are still to be played.

Then Stephen, my chatty driver, took me back to the hotel - city street vendors wandering along the stationary lanes of traffic offering drinks, snacks and bananas, but also ties, tea towels, chef's hats, inner tubes and framed paintings - to have a final Tusker beer with the last of my Kenya shillings before heading out to the airport for tonight's long journey home. On the way there, stuck in some of Nairobi's dreadful traffic on a dual carriageway with four lanes nose-to-tail on both sides, was Africa's last surprise: a herd of cattle calmly grazing on the central reservation.

Intrepid Travel Gorillas & Game Parks - review and advice

Keep in mind that the Intrepid Game Parks and Gorillas tour I did in November 2017 is unlikely to be offered in the same format in future since Rwanda, having already doubled the price of a gorilla permit this year, is rumoured to be planning further increases. They know there’s a demand, and they’re going for the upper end of the market (they already have a permanently-full lodge there that costs USD3,000 per night – a staggering sum by African standards).

But I can give you an idea of what it’ll probably be like to do the new-version Intrepid tour to view the gorillas from the Ugandan side. So will the website’s Trip Notes, which pull no punches and warn about long days on bad roads in an un-airconditioned truck, variable toilet/shower facilities, putting up your own tent, and chipping in with the chores.

In reality, it’s even more rugged than that. The truck – which, to the credit of its carer – didn’t break down or even get a flat tyre, is rough, battered and pretty irritating in a number of ways. Even simply the steps into it: all different heights, just made to catch you out. Despite the big sign about fastening seatbelts, they’re all dodgy: either too loose or too tight, the buckles sometimes too stiff to use, at least one clip missing. The seats are padded, but not adequately for African bumps, so it’s a good idea to sit on a rolled-up mattress. That’s also helpful to lift shorter folk like me high enough up to see over the intensely annoying window-pane edging and reinforcing bar which are exactly at eye level. Further, the window glass is old and dirty, covered in tiny grains of whatever that make it impossible to wash them clean (I tried). When the prime reason for your being here is to see the country, I reckon that’s unforgivable. So a lot of time, the windows were down (they’re arranged horizontally) – but only if your neighbours behind are ok with the draught. It’s really frustrating for photographers. Having said all that, other companies use the same trucks, so it’s not purely an Intrepid feature. The main necessity is for the vehicle to be able to cope with the challenging roads, which ours did – it’s hard to imagine a fancier bus making it unscathed along this route.

The tents are sturdy, straightforward to erect and offer good protection from rain (as long as you remember to zip up your windows, sigh) – but they are heavy to haul around, and the clips that hold them to the metal frame can be really stiff and hard to operate. Some are better than others. Inside, it’s a snug fit if you’re sharing, and you won’t be able to store much gear in there – safer to use the truck’s lockers, anyway. On this tour, the maximum number is 16 (gorilla visiting parties are limited to 8) so, since the truck seats 22, there are surplus mattresses in the locker – thus it’s possible, by stealth or negotiation, to use two, which is much more comfortable.

The campsites varied a lot, but the common feature for most was disappointing facilities: we had, variously, no water, cold water, muddy water and, now and then, lots of nice hot water. Take wet wipes. There was, on the other hand, free wifi more often than not, although usually pretty slow of course. There were often upgrades available, into dormitories or rooms, and the prices were usually pretty reasonable though it does add up. That doesn’t, by the way, guarantee you good facilities – some of them had no bathrooms, and others were just as challenging, light- and water-wise, as for the campers. One, though, was enviably luxurious.

The food was substantial and healthy although fairly monotonous: lots of salads and vegetables, stews of various sorts, and fruit for dessert. It did, though, get pretty boring by the end, and though the veges were tasty, the stews were invariably on the tough side. To our cook’s credit though – and due in large part to his authoritarian manner re hygiene, no-one developed anything inconvenient over the entire 16 days. We all took our turns, according to the rota, at preparing the vegetables, and washing up dishes and pots (also, sweeping/mopping out the truck daily). The system was good, and efficient, and flapping (the dishes dry) soon became second nature.

As far as equipment is concerned, don’t stint on your sleeping bag, because it does get cold at night in some places along the route. Some people even brought proper pillows, which were comfy both at night and in the truck. Be prepared for your body, clothes and shoes to get dirty and stained orange with Africa's dust/mud. Leave the good stuff at home, and your standards. Wear things multiple times, don’t worry about clashing patterns, or buying up Kathmandu. Just have something beige/green for the gorilla day. Game drives don’t matter because you’re tucked inside the truck. A head torch is essential. For the gorilla trek, boots are a bit over the top – most people managed fine with trainers, and some appreciated gaiters because those big stinging nettles they have there in the jungle are truly vicious and can bite through fabric. If I ever did it again, though, I would wear gumboots/Wellingtons like the guides do – as long as they have soles with good grip, you’ll be fine, and they’re so much easier to wash the mud off after. I really wished I’d brought my Hunters.

The optional activities added some variety to the trip. The chimpanzees were a universal disappointment: because of cool weather they stayed way up in the tree tops, so that was $70 pretty much wasted. The boat cruise in QE National Park was really good, with lots of hippos and birds. I recommend the horse ride at Jinja – lovely horses and a good guide, and you needn't be experienced. Other people enjoyed the white-water rafting and quad-biking there, though some of them were relieved when it was over.

More than anything else, though – and this here is a counsel of perfection that, personally, I fell short of - you need to make sure you bring along quantities of patience and tolerance, and a sense of humour. Travelling in a biggish group of strangers, you’ll be tested in many ways. Try to stay positive and concentrate on the good bits, and rise above the irritations. The gorillas will be worth it, I promise.

Final verdict: I’m glad I went, though there were a couple of serious disappointments. Our guide Edwin was useless and didn’t tell us any more than he needed to and sometimes not even that, sitting silently down the back of the truck day after day. Someone more forthcoming would have enriched the experience immeasurably. But the other guys, Ben the driver and OT the cook, were excellent and professional and did a great job. Retracing so much of the route after the gorillas seemed kind of a waste but I don’t know if it’s possible, road-condition-wise, to do a circle route. I was prepared for it to be rugged, and was resigned to a monotonous menu, so that didn’t matter. The gorillas were exactly as promised, super-special and worth the money and effort. The cavalcade of African life past the windows every day meant even those long, long days on the road were fascinating and never boring. I never felt unsafe and, Edwin apart, everything else was professionally organised and reliable. I think you should do it. Even the rough stuff will give you great stories to tell back home.

Intrepid Travel Gorillas & Game Parks - Day 16

It was only after I had lain for a while last night enjoying the cosiness of hearing rain on the roof of the tent that I realised I wasn’t actually feeling cosy at all – in fact, I was wet. Someone genuinely helpful had opened a couple of my mesh windows yesterday afternoon to air the tent, and I hadn’t realised that the one with a closed solid blind inside was also open on the outside when I shut the others at dusk. So in the rain came, onto my mattresses, sleeping bag and even the clothes I was wearing inside it since it was a cool night. But it wasn’t a huge deal: two weeks of general discomfort prepared me well. I survived.

The Exodus group had vanished during the night, like those other things that vanish in the night, so even rising at 5.15am to pack up felt like a lie-in. We had our last breakfast – omelettes – and, hooray, my last instant coffee-Milo drink, loaded up and were away by 6.45am as a rainbow signalled a less than sunny morning ahead.

Wet and misty, and also early on Sunday morning, there wasn’t for a while much to see of the roadshow, but gradually the shutters were rolled up, and people appeared on the verge with food to sell – watching the woman clutching three cabbages rushing to our windows and then, when rejected, running along to the next stopped truck made me feel very privileged, despite my whingeing about discomforts on this trip. Men with loaded donkeys walked along by the road – no lead rope needed, they were a team – women piled up their pyramids of potatoes, some men were hacking away at the stumps of a cleared forest, and another man grabbed several chickens that were standing amongst an unsuspecting flock on a grassy bit of verge (that wasn’t going to end well).

Watching the road ahead, I saw several instances of dodgy overtaking – and then, sure enough, passed the recent wreck of a car, stove-in at the front, with people gathered around it. We’ve come across so many dramatic-looking road accidents on this trip (and heard one actually happen right behind us) – at least six in the fortnight, which is exponentially more than I’ve seen anywhere else. Something to consider, people, if you’re tempted to do a self-drive here.

On a guided tour like this one, though, there is little of that sort of responsibility; instead, there’s lots of time to observe and to think. Like, if your job is to watch over a little herd of cows or goats or sheep all day as they graze along road verges and tracks and on bits of apparently common land, what do you think about? All day long? How old are you when you’re first sent to the pump to bring back a jerry-can of water? How old when you can’t do that any more? And what happens to you then? How much skill does it take to pile up a two-metre stack of firewood on the back of your bike? And how much strength to wheel it to where it has to go? How much competition is there amongst the women waiting by the road to sell their fruit and vegetables to passing truckies? How often do those welders and grinders and wielders of machetes have industrial accidents? And how much pure talent is squandered by there being no alternative to spending your life performing these menial tasks?

And then you see something that distracts you: like a bunch of women down in a riverbed busily doing their washing in water that’s opaque orange. Or a young woman dressed to the nines in bright red, picking her way through the mud in her fancy shoes. Or people being scanned for explosives by a security guard before going into a supermarket. Or four men on the back of a motorbike carrying a long metal stake. Or a shop called ‘God Cares Auto Spares’. Or a man ushering a herd of goats along the roadside, a single donkey in the middle of them. Or smiling at the iPod when it suddenly throws up Toto’s ‘Africa’.

Finally, we approached Nairobi again, getting swept up in city traffic, the cars and people both looking much smarter. There were avenues, skyscrapers, traffic lights and, at last, our hotel again and the usual messy dispersal of the group with no ceremony whatsoever.

Upstairs was a spacious room with a bed, a shower, lights, and privacy, all now a welcome novelty. I ventured out to the Stanley Hotel, an important part of Nairobi’s history, especially the railway bit – they paused here to summon up the strength to tackle the Great Rift Valley – and famous for its Thorn Tree Café, of Lonely Planet fame. To be honest, it’s pretty sanitised now, onto its third thorn tree and the travellers’ notes these days pinned to a bulletin board instead of its trunk – not very interesting notes, either. But the coffee was good, and I appreciated the civilised niceties I’ve been without for the last fortnight.