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Camping is to our trip as death and taxes are to life: an unavoidable certainty. Prior to Africa, I didn’t really give much thought to the fact that 99.9% of our evenings would be spent in a tent, not question how I’d cope. I mean, until now, my camping resume is limited to rubbish family holidays in Devon, and pitching a tent in the garden so that my 12-year-old self, plus pimpled pals, could secretly quaff pilfered booze. Besides, the trip was about driving around in a car and seeing cool stuff, so camping was a mere afterthought.

But despite our dearth of experience, we three gentleman explorers seemed to have taken to the whole ‘camping thing’ rather well. You might be interested to know (equally, you might not be, but I’m telling you anyway) that we can set up two tents, a table, three chairs, awning (optional), and be sipping on our first gin and tonic in ten minutes flat. Yes, we rule. When it comes to sleeping arangements, we have implemented a rotation system whereby each of us enjoys a night of solitude in the penthouse suite, followed by two nights in the garden flat – a pattern that’s repeated in three-day cycles.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m a happy camper since it’s the cheapest and most practical means of accommodation there is. Nonetheless, I’ve come to the conclusion that, quite simply, tents are rubbish places to sleep. At least, ours are. If they’re not flooding with water (case in point: rainy Livingstone), they flood with light the minute dawn’s rosy fingers tickle the horizon – around 5.30am. Come 6.30am, our illuminated little cocoons have transformed into efficient ovens – better suited to cooked campers than comfortable ones.

More often than not, our early mornings are preceded by fitful nights of Larium-laced dreams, and the canvas canopies under which we sleep spare us none of the night’s noise – anything, from the smallest squeak to a hippo’s hoarse chortle, will wake us up with a start. If this continues, we’ll have successfully weaned ourselves off sleep by the time we return to the UK.

But waking up at the slightest sound does have its advantages, namely seeing your friends about to be squashed by elephants.

It was our second night in South Luangwa Game Park, our last in Zambia, and my turn to enjoy the view from the penthouse. By ‘view’ I mean little more than darkness and trees, but on this particular night – at midnight – I awoke to a big black eye blinking at me through the mesh door.

Why, hello there.

Not being particularly interested in a Land Rover or its contents, the big black eye and its elephant owner turned its attention to a nearby tree, at the foot of which Davy and Giles lay in spoony slumber. Not wanting to disturb the huge beast (elephants may get fairly good press in Disney animations, I’d heard that in real life their weight, size and temper can sometimes combine to become a detriment to human health), I watched in silence as the huge thing padded towards the ground tent.

Cut to the ground tent: Giles awakes (he has since claimed that his sixth sense alerted him to a ‘presence’ outside. It’s more likely that he just heard a bloody great elephant stomping his way). He shakes Davy awake and tells him to hush, pointing to the huge silhouette that now stands a foot away from their heads.

Back in the penthouse suite: I looked on, helpless – half fearing for the wellbeing of my friends, half wishing I had a video camera to record their final moments (the You Tube link would provide light afternoon relief for bored office workers worldwide).

Giles and Davy’s silence spoke volumes as the elephant bore over their tent – the only obstacle between it and its dinner. It seemed like hours before the elephant, now brushing against the tent, took its fill and moved on.

Palpable relief prevailed. Until another, slightly smaller, member of the herd, decided to take its dinner from the same tree.

Paralysed silence. Munch Munch Munch.

After 15 minutes, happy that the elephants were only getting close enough to scare the shit out of Giles and Davy rather than squash them outright, I went back to sleep only to be woken half an hour later by Davy tumbling out of his tent to shakily light a cigarette. After sleepy agreeing with him that it was indeed a close call, I took a wee off the side of the roof tent. Giles complained that my 'scent' would encourage the elephants to return. Davy had another cigarette. Then we went back to bed, shaken but not squashed.