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In a long and distinguished career of carousing across continents, Giles has acquired numerous nicknames – come to think of it, more than anyone I know. On this particular journey, he’s averaging one nickname a week. First, there was Dry-fit Gi (on account of his insistence that anyone travelling through Africa should dress like a rambler – Merrell shoes, Rohan trousers and, of course, a handsome collection of dry-fit T-shirts). Then there was Jungle Gi (inspired by his self-proclaimed mastery of lighting campfires and general outdoor dexterity); and lastly Giros.

The origins of the latter can be traced back to the time Giles spent in Malawi, where he worked for a year back in 2003. During this time, Giles discovered that Malawians tend not to pronounce their ‘L’s. Thus ‘Giles’ becomes ‘Giros’, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Giros. It had a ring to it. It had gravitas. Giros could have easily been a tenant of Mount Olympus: Giros the God of Camping Equipment.

‘Giros is actually a Greek dish,’ interjected a helpful Italian fellow who had overheard Giles explain his Malawian mantle.

It took just under 50 seconds for Giros to be downgraded from Hellenic deity to Greek finger food.

Giros the Tasty Greek Snack.

And so, with song in their hearts, Giros, Orri and Davy left Zambia and its marauding elephant population for Malawi.

The border crossing was a breeze, consisting of little more than handing over 50 crisp American dollars (third party insurance) and a bit of banter with the kindly customs officials: ‘What’s the speed limit?’ We asked. ‘No speed limit,’ we were told. ‘Just cruise at 80.’

‘So, the speed limit’s 80?’

‘No speed limit, just cruise at 80.’

Right. Okay.

Returning to his old stomping ground, Giros proved himself to be an informative and efficient tour guide. En route to the alcohol-rinsed revelry he had planned for us in Lilongwe (the details of which I shall divulge in due course) he pointed out the ubiquitous brick kilns that lined the roads (every village, apparently, has its own ‘brick-making committee’), as well as describe in passionate detail the Malawian tradition of purveying alcohol in everything from cartons to small sachets.

Bricks... Booze in bags... You have to love Malawi.

Lilongwe was a short-lived affair and thus my recapitulation will be similarly so. We started the evening with Malawi Gin and Tonics. We ate (cue more Malawi Gin and Tonic) at Don Brioni’s, a very Italian restaurant owned by a very English gentleman. On to Chameleon, to spend the entirety of the following week’s budget on, wait for it, Malawian Gin and Tonic. Then to ubiquitous African club Chez Ntemba for a sweaty stumble (dance). Malawi Gin and Tonic abound. The evening culminated in the three of us losing one another and heading home separately.

And waking up in the middle of nowhere, being eaten by ants. Though I’m told I was the only one to indulge in this particular pastime.