The problem with all the fun I am having is that it takes its toll. My eyes hurt. My face hurts. My ribs inexplicably hurt. My lungs are sooty with nicotine and my brain is pickled in a puddle of Champagne.

None of this low level pain compares to the time I got hammered in Cuzco, Peru. It was the day we went to Macchu Pichu and I was on high from the wonder of it all. Our group went to some divey bar called Mama Africas where people sold cocaine in the toilets. There was a band on stage encouraging everyone to engage in South American line dancing and the bartenders free poured vodka into your mouth when you bought a drink.

Oh what a night.

I don’t remember getting home.

What I do remember is the synapse crushing agony I woke up to. It turns out that drinking at high altitudes can really mess you up.

I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t move. I prayed for a merciful death.

The second most horrendous hangover I have suffered was at the hands of a booze cruise in Zambia. Rule No 1: If you are planning to do something uncharacteristically active like white water rafting down the Zambesi River at the crack of dawn, DO NOT GET LEGLESS THE NIGHT BEFORE. Seems like an obvious rule but when you’re on a boat at sunset, spotting hippos and making friends with cute Italian boys, these things slip your mind.

Climbing out of the gorge the next day was the single most harrowing exercise experience of my life (and I am not a fan of exercise at the best of times).

So tell me, friends, when have you gotten drunk and regretted it overseas? Where were you and what did you drink?

The problem is that I have started it several times and I just find it so boring.

For both our sakes, I decided to bullet point the really interesting stuff. In no particular order, here is some of what I discovered in Johannesburg:

• To the locals, Johannesburg is known as ‘Gauteng’ (meaning  ’City of Gold’) or ‘Josie’.
• Soweto (which is an extended acronym for ‘South West Township) is not as poverty-stricken as you might expect . Of the 2.5 million inhabitants, most of them live in houses that are not much worse than Australian housing commission homes. I am not saying it’s great by any stretch of the imagination - most of the dwellings have tin roofs and dirt floors – but what I am saying is that it’s not a shanty town.
• Johannesburg does have shanty towns – they are on the other side of the city to Soweto. I heard white South African people complaining that, ‘Anything that’s not nailed down, gets stolen,’ (case in point: telephone poles and wires) but that’s all shanty town residents have to build shelter with. Imagine hectares of cobbled together iron sheeting, concrete and wire with dirt paths running between the shacks like red soil veins. At the entrance to each artery, there is a telephone centre built in a shipping container and a sprawling butchery-cum-BBQ where offal is grilled and sold cheap. That is what a real South African shanty town looks like.
• Most people living in poverty in Johannesburg die from the cold during winter. That was one the saddest things I have ever heard. Think about how many spare blankets you have in your house.
• On a happier note, everyone in Johannesburg is really, really, really excited about the World Cup in June. I hope South Africa win - they are overdue for some big happiness.
• The Apartheid Museum is an architectural and educational marvel. I learnt more about South Africa’s history in the three hours I spent there than in 30 years of paying attention. What struck me most was the Nelson Mandela exhibition; specifically the Truth and Reconciliation Act that he introduced when he came to power. Instead of prosecuting the people who committed hate crimes (state-enforced or otherwise), he legislated that all guilty parties be given the opportunity to publicly confess and for their victims to publicly forgive them. That is the singlemost enlightened political move I have ever heard of.
• South Africans eat a lot of red meat and mealie meal (called ’pup’) which looks exactly like mashed potato and tastes like Clag glue.
• The landscape looks a lot like the Northern Territory; red dirt, rocky terrain, dry grasslands which to my mind, totally supports the Pangaea theory.
• A major highlight of my time in Josie was getting the opportunity to hold a lion cub at a place called the Rhino & Lion Reserve , located about 30 minutes from Johannesburg. I also got to play with Serval kittens, got really close to the big lion daddies, saw cheetahs, rhinos, flamingoes, white lions, hippos, zebras, heaps of different antelope, vultures, leopards, blue wildebeests … the list goes on. This was a great place to get acquainted with African wildlife because for the rest of the trip, the animals I saw were in the wild (i.e. hidden by bushes, far away and shy around noisy tourists).
• Kate and I stayed at a place called Amadwala Lodge , a mostly tranquil oasis out in Honeydew. Yes, there is the odd gunshot at night and the occasional loud party in the distance but the food is good, the owners are helpful and there’s a bar right next to the pool; an unexpected luxury.

Have you been to Josie? What did you think?

Read more about my African adventures here

Things I’ve learnt about passports and visas …

By Doug Meyer (aka The Fourth Secretary)

I turned in my passport today. It still has three years of life on it (Expires 20 Jan 2013, Issued Washington DC, etc).

I hope to get it back soon but in the meantime, I feel strangely naked without a current passport in my possession.

It needed extra pages (the accordion that Department of State glues on to the last page, which more than doubles the capacity of the original book.) I was amazed and surprised to see that this little service was FREE! I only had to fill out a request form and mail it in, without a cheque or money order. Even the return postage is free! I really find it hard to believe that there is no fee for this service. I had to pay the outbound postage (and now must forego visits to Canada for the next month while my passport is embargoed) but the old passport with the new  pages should be back in my pocket in about a month.

The only time that I’ve ever needed the extension was on a green passport in the late sixties. There were so many visas, border crossings and revenue stamps accumulated in south Asia that you used up pages rather quickly. I think that I got the accordion extension at a consulate in Chiang Mai or thereabouts and only had to wait an hour or so. Most of those consulates in Asia only had one guy and his secretary to do this kind of thing and he was the Fourth Secretary, a title I’ve always secretly coveted. In those days, though, a passport was only good for three years, so a passport extension was something of a rarity.

We discovered an unusual rule in our travels this time around. Although it’s common for countries that require formal visas in advance (especially visas you have to buy for a lot of money) to require a passport with more than six months’ validity, South Africa required all (United States, at least) travellers’ passports to have three blank pages. You could not get on the airplane in Atlanta if your passport had less than the required number of blank pages. I naturally expected that the free visa granted upon entry to South Africa would be some kind of third world affair that would use up two or more pages of my available four with elaborate stamps. Not so; just a simple peel-off label, pre-barcoded and registered after application to the aforesaid passport.

Well, I thought, now they’ve already used up one page. Next I have to leave the country to fly to Zambia, then travel overland and cross the Zambezi by ferry (with four countries simultaneously visible: Namibia, Zambia, Zimbabwe and Botswana) wherein I have to get a Zambian exit stamp, an entry stamp to enter Botswana, and do the same when crossing from Botswana back to South Africa – I won’t have the requisite three pages left and will be stranded in Botswana like poor Charlie in the MTA when I try to get back in. Well, not to worry. Re-entry into South Africa was simple and they re-used the original page.

Total pages required for first entry: 3. Total pages actually used: 1. Nobody knew why, and I’ve resigned myself to never knowing the answer. It’s as ineffable as the Mystery of the Virgin Birth, Angels Dancing on Heads of Pins, and Life Itself. Well, actually, I’m told that the answer to that question is 42.

Doug first hit the ‘hippie trail’ as a backpacker in south Asia in the late 60′s and has been collecting passport stamps ever since. He discovered early on that his writing was only fair and his photography abysmal; he could not find any sponsor willing to subsidise his travels. But he presses on…he’s visited all the continents except Antarctica and South America. Both are on his list…he wants to hike the Inca trail before his joints wear out!

Subsequently, going on safari presents a number of challenges – namely the lack of showers, mirrors and power points.

1. Dry Shampoo by Lee Stafford

The very lovely Laura Blasdale from WordStorm PR sent me a sample of this to try so I thought I would give it a proper road test by taking it to Africa with me.  

Let me paint a picture for you. We are gliding through water lilies and reeds in a dug out canoe (called a mokoro), nothing but the sound of a creaking pole to disturb the meditative silence. It’s very hot in the mid-morning sun and we are all sweating like criminals.

Hours later, we arrive at a deserted island in the middle of the wetlands where we put up our tents and go swimming in a waterhole. In the afternoon, the group goes bushwalking (we find a lot of different kinds of poo but no poo makers), eat dinner around a blazing fire and then have a bit of a African-style boogie with the mokoro polers.

What does all this mean? In a word, sweat. Lots and lots of sweat.

What better time to test the Dry Shampoo. My extremely good-natured friends Mike (USA) and Karen (Canada) agree to participate in the trial as well. We all line up for a hefty blast of the stuff. It has a strong baby powder perfume and actually has a slightly powdery feel to it. We follow the instructions and rub/shake out the excess.

At first Karen’s beautifully voluminous hair goes a bit flat but by the next morning, we all look great. Our hair looks clean; no signs of grease or oil. We all agree that the Lee Stafford Dry Shampoo is a bit of a hit, especially if you don’t have the option of a shower.

2. ‘Engrave’ eyeliner by MAC

Imagine if you will: You have been whitewater rafting on the Zambesi river. You have been thrown out of your inflatable raft, you have climbed a nearly-vertical cliff face and it is 40 degrees in the shade. If you are like me, you look like an Ork, only less attractive. If you are the three hot Italian women (a mother and two daughters) who I met at the top of the gorge, you look… totally normal. Pretty, in fact. How is this possible? You are wearing the world’s most waterproof eyeline – Engrave by MAC.

3. Sunscreen

Sunlight has, at one time or another, made fools of us all. One of the girls in our group decided to sunbake without any sunscreen on. In the middle of the day. In the Kruger National Park. The result? OPI calls it ‘Keys to my Karma’ (common name: bright red).

4. Mosquito repellent

Polka dots are cute but not when they’re on your legs. Consider the fact that one in every 50 mozzies carries malaria and DEET is starting to smell pretty good, isn’t it?

5. Maxi dresses
There is going to come a day when you simply can’t face wearing khaki any more. I know it’s sensible. I know it’s good for creeping around in the bushes spotting lions. I also know that the novelty of pretending you’re David Attenborough wears off pretty quickly. Take a flattering maxi dress with you for the nights when you have to mix with the people who are not sleeping in tents. It will help you feel like a functioning member of society.

So tell me adventurers, do you have any tips for looking not-horrible under duress?

Shikunga, Kenya

By Verity Twydale

Bumping along a dirt road I’m beginning to realise that I’ll need more than a few Swahili phrases and a mosquito net to get through the next three months. The romanticism of a dramatically wide savannah is quickly wearing off. I’m in the back of a car that’s largely held together by rust and rope, charging through a jungle of banana palms and maize plantations towards a village that doesn’t exist on Google maps. No-one knows where I am and I have lost my mobile. I mentally kick myself, repeatedly.

Thankfully, I have found my host. Dressed in an ostentatious red and gold paisley suit, Onesmus is sitting in the front of the scrapheap we are calling a taxi. He tells me we are trying to beat the rain and points to a cluster of murderous looking clouds flanking the mountains. “It’s the time of the long rains,” Nes explains. “It will be very bad if we get stuck. Very bad”. When it rains the village roads turn into a greasy clay that bogs anything from buses to bikes. From late afternoon to mid-morning, don’t plan on going anywhere in a hurry.

We pass rows of street markets pulled together with the aid of empty UN food bags set against a backdrop of captivating farmlands. Grubby barefoot children sprout on the side of the road as they hear the car pass. A chorus line of “Mzungu! Mzungu!” erupts and Nes is laughing, telling me they will run home to tell their mothers that they’ve seen a white person. We turn off the main road and a clearing opens before us. There’s a crumbling mud hut in front of me. Hours away from the nearest town there’s no turning back now. “Karibu Nyumbani” Nes says. Welcome home.

Shikunga is not an easy place to fall in love with. Life is a clichéd struggle. There is no water, no electricity, no hospital. The village runs to a soundtrack of funeral drums and there are signs of sickness and malnutrition everywhere. I came to Kenya to do what any socially conscious Gen Y’er wants to do – make a difference – but it was difficult to see what could be done. “Pole, pole” says Nes. Take it slowly, give it time.

So slowly I slip into life in an East African country. I get used to tea so sweet it causes instant tooth decay. I come to an understanding with the a chicken roosting on the end of my bed. I get sick and then I get better. I spend three months living life to my own personal album of children squealing “Mzungu, how are you?”, grinning madly as they shake my hand. I do what I can and it becomes harder to form conclusions about what life should be like. And as a pair of leathery old hands press a fresh egg into my palms I realise that life isn’t quite what it used to be.

As you may have already guessed, I am alive. I wasn’t eaten by lions, I did not contract a fatal illness and I am, thus far, devoid of parasites.

On the downside, I am psychologically mangled having just spent the past 14 days in tour group hell.

I just want to preface this tirade with a note: I have been on group tours before and I loved them. Despite occasional misanthropic leanings, I have always thrived on the camaraderie, the shared wisdom and the general thrill of making new friends over whatever local intoxicant is cheap and plentiful.

This trip would have been no exception had it not been for two of the passengers and our tour leader. The result? A menage a trois of pain.

Imagine two young women on their first serious overseas trip. Now add to that mix a rugby playing farm boy/tour guide who spends a lot of time on a combine harvester daydreaming about two young women. Sounds like a plot for an SBS film but no, dear reader, this was the synopsis for The African Highway to Hell.

Subsequently, I have been mentally composing a list of tour group faux pas for the past two weeks based solely on the behaviour of these three extraordinarily annoying people.

1. Do not hang your wet laundry in the tour bus

The tour leader might like your underwear but I assure you, the other passengers don’t.

2. Do not stay up all night making noise in a camping ground if you are within earshot of your tour group

Go wake up some other poor souls; souls that do not have to spend the next 13 hours on a hot, sweaty bus with you. This point applies doubly to camping grounds that are supposed to be very peaceful. People did not travel 11,000 kms to hear you get drunk or have sex in one of the world’s most idyllic settings.

3. Do not gang up on vulnerable, single travellers

If you are going to act like you’re on Spring Break in Florida, the least you can do is be pleasant to your fellow travellers, especially those who have to share tents with you.

4. Tour Leaders: Do not obviously sleep with your group members

We don’t care what you do once we’re all asleep but please, for the sake of professionalism, do not spend all day flirting when you are meant to be telling us what kind of antelope we just passed.

5. Ladies: Try to curtail your desire to flirt with the tour leader when they are meant to be telling us what kind of antelope we just passed

We’re happy for you - honestly we are – but if you show us your pole dancing photos ever again, we’re going to kill you and it’s going to be bloody.

5. Ask yourself: ‘Do I have anything to say?’ before you open your mouth

This is a standard question for most people, but not for all. Asking  ’Are we’re there yet?’ again may result in the aforementioned brutal death.

6. Be kind, be respectful, be considerate and most of all, be on time

While we simply adore waiting for you in 40 degree heat, it would be a lot better for everyone if you showed up on time. We have all spent enough hours on the bus without sitting around wondering where the hell you are (not that we actually care).

I have a lot of wonderful things to say about Africa but first, I needed to get that off my chest. Special thanks go to my beautiful sister Kate; she is the most patient, supportive travel buddy in the whole world.

The doctor that shuffled into the surgery on the day in question was no exception. I have seen him before and his world weariness combined with his fragile grasp on the Queen’s language make you feel a bit bad for bothering him with your pesky life-threatening ailments.

Fortunately this time, I was just on a mission to blag some prescriptions; one for malaria tablets and one for sleeping tablets (I learnt my lesson about jetlag in Peru). Within a minute or two, my wish was granted and I was ready to flee.

But then he asked where I was going in Africa and something strange happened. Sparks of curiousity ignited behind his old grey eyes and he began to tell me in fumbled English about how he was born in Angola and how his father was a postman. His father was posted to Africa around 1900 and was tasked with building outposts for the mail run. He was sent out into the Congo with a team of local workmen to hack his way through the jungle and select sites to build shacks for the mail (and presumably mail man) to rest in overnight on it’s journey south.

Dr Congo, as he shall henceforth be known, grew up in one of these shacks with no running water or electricity and only kerosene lamps for light. He said that he vividly remembers swimming in a waterhole near his house only to have a local man tell him to get out of the water immediately. Once he was a safe distance from the water’s edge, the man threw a rock in the pool and about 20 crocodiles appeared, disturbed by the splash.

He went on to regale me with tales of close encounters with belligerent hippos and how he has travelled into all the wildest parts of Africa.

I managed to extract myself from his examination room after 15 fascinating minutes and walked out into a packed waiting room.

Not a single one of those patients knew that a very elderly Tarzan was about to give them a physical …