Its been three weeks since I’ve effectively committed to the Trans Africa thing, and I’m starting to feel like the time I decided to go body boarding (never done it) on a beach in Africa, on the Atlantic (first time there).

In the all but ten minutes I had spent in the water, I managed to snap the board in half, acquire a foot long rope burn the length of my arm, sand my left cheek back to the bone, and swallow a gallon of seawater.

Exhausted, having just fought for my life in the mauling current  – I had lain sprawled on the sand, emitting very unattractive, seal like honks – on account of gasping for air, whilst at the same time retching aforementioned water, mixed with a approximately a bag of kittly litter and blood from my busted lip.

A huddle of surfers had looked on in stunned confusion.

It must have been the first time that they had seen an adult  practically drowning themselves in about two foot of water, approximately six feet from the water line -  emerging with second degree gravel burns and blood dripping everywhere.

I had wished that they would rather laugh.

The only indignity that was spared me, was the fact that, as long as I had been thrashing around on the ocean bottom (2ft below), effectively hoovering up sediment with my mouth, I couldn’t scream for help.

What can I say? – Living on the edge is not easy!

Similarly, I had imagined preparing for the trip would be like preparing for the Bulldog Bash. Only with a smaller tent: bike (check!), money (check!), moisturiser (check!), solar shower (check!).

Instead, I’m caught up in Project Africa that needs Project Managing and Budgets and Delegation. Not to mention PR, Legal and Diplomatic departments.

The Head Girl, on the other hand, is in her element!  She’s skipping along waving wads of paper, containing Comparative Survival Equipment Studies, Adjusted to Average Risk Factor 5x on a spreadsheet.

If I let her – she’ll be able to rattle off each and every disease discovered in Africa since records began and whether it is waterborne, airborne – or not yet born and whether sleeping on your left, or right side in the jungle, offers the best protection against contracting whoopy-hoopy-monkey virus.

Which is WHY, I kind of swindled her a little, when it came to buying the bikes.

Its not that I don’t do equally thorough research – its just that I’ve found that people love nothing more than to scare monger and blow everything out of proportion:  Hoooo-ooo-ooooo-ooo. You dooon’t want to be doing thaaaaat.

I guess it makes THEIR experience look so much more... brave.

“I found the P E R F E C T Yamaha XTs for sale! They’re in absolute MINT condition, and IDENTICAL! They’re only 40 miles from here, the guy whose selling them is an expert. They’re a STEAL” 

I was studiously avoiding mentioning that they were IVJs. Which I had read ages ago was ‘the one Tenere to avoid like the plague’ due to ‘bad design’ which mean they all popped cylinders thanks to overheating.

Unfortunately for me – she’d gotten to the information too.

“Oooohhh, that’s MARVELOUS!!!! They’re Identical?? Yippeee, that’s sooo coooll!

They’re not the 1VJs are they – you know – the ones that blow up. They’re 3AJs, aren’t they!”

GODAMMIT!

I wouldn’t even get away with telling her they’re 3AJs, since she probably knew which engine numbers are specific to each model by now!

I didn’t come clean until WAY after both bikes were both safely ensconced under cover at my house and the money had cleared the seller’s bank account.

Oh, mother!