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The Botswana-Zambia border crossing was a wonderful, colourful, chaotic mess. It had everything, from ferries to forms, then a few more forms for good measure. I probably enjoyed it so much since Davy and I sat outside, while Giles was inside, sweating and queuing for the following documents: Carbon Emissions (K150,000), Third Party Insurance (K112,000 for a month), Toll Fee (USD 20), and District Council Levy (K20,000Just to round things off, we even fell for a harmless scam, which involved us buying some reflective bumper stickers.

‘You must have these.’ We were cheerfully informed by some young street toughs. ‘They’re cheaper here than at the toll road.’

Go on then. After all, everyone else had them.

Everyone else, it seemed, had been also been tricked. Alas, alack.

Into Zambia. Out of the car. Into the pool.

We were still ahead of schedule and were keen to stay in one place for longer than two days. One thing I never really appreciated before coming on this trip is just how different driving your own vehicle overland is to backpacking: We can only drive in daylight at six to eight hours at a time – ten at a push. Meanwhile, backpackers can stay somewhere for a few days and then make up for lost time by hopping onto an overnight bus or train. Both forms of travel have their freedoms and restrictions, though I will say that driving is a fantastic way to see the gradual transition of countryside and culture. Plus we look really cool rocking up to a hostel in a Land Rover.

Our time in Livingstone was to be spent at Jolly Boys Hostel. And jolly boys we were. Though the first couple of days were overcast and nights were wet (we found out the hard way that our tent isn’t waterproof), the weather was still warm; conducive to activities such as time by the pool, white-water rafting on the Zambezi (very good) and a sweaty walk around Victoria Falls. Since we were visiting during dry season, the Falls were a series of trickles compared to the frothy magnificence depicted in postcards and travel brochures. If someone had told us, we’d have happily contributed the contents of our tent. We were also told that the best view of the falls was from the Zimbabwean side, though Mugabe, in his wisdom, charges British passport holders double for a visa. Silly man.

Other than razzing and recreation, we planned to have the car serviced in Livingstone. While she was still running smoothly, the front passenger door was rather shaky and the horn, of all things, had stopped working. Besides, since Foleys have an affiliated garage in Livingstone, the check-up would be free. The only problem was that Nicholas, the chap who ran the garage, was flying out of the country on the day we had planned to take the car in.

Again: alas, alack.

But fear not, dear reader, for our three handsome protagonists – not easily phased by adversity –set about the car like seasoned grease monkeys. A shirtless, furrow-browed Giles expertly inspected under the bonnet. I then accompanied him to refuel the car and gas bottle, check tyre pressure, buy supplies, and even go to the local mechanic to get the horn fixed – an enterprise that involved a baby-faced boy gutting our engine of every wire he could find, and me navigate a maze of backstreets to buy a new horn (which I have to say was very exciting). Three hours later, our horn still didn’t work. But the car did. Which was nice.

Meanwhile Davy dipped into the kitty money for ice cream with a local lovely. He also bought a shovel. Good for him.