I checked the date today and was faintly astonished to realise that I've been living in Harare now for 2 years and 2 days.  My, time has gone fast.  I feel I’ve adapted remarkably well; I’ve done as the “Romans” do.  My driving has become slightly more aggressive (the horn has no cobwebs) and I am adept at getting off the road when “Bob and the Wailers” hurtle past.  I know that a traffic light is actually a “robot”, and a roundabout is a “circle”.  I’m used to paying for stuff using money bearing the image of dead American presidents and no longer get flummoxed when a supermarket teller hands me three lollipops in lieu of 30 cents change.  If I want to buy a broom to sweep my backyard, I obviously go to the nearest crossroads, or wait for the lady on a bike who quite literally pedals such things along residential roads in the early morning.

My house is filled with candles to deal with power-cuts that happen 3 or 4 times a week as a result of rationing.  I’ve altered my diurnal cycle to that of the farmers: I get up at 5am and am usually in bed by 8.30pm.  This allows me to enjoy a run on the quiet streets as the sun comes up under unfailingly blue skies.  My weekends involve long bike rides into the rural areas where I meet small-holder farmers who are thrilled to greet me and pass the time of day...there’s never once been an angry word.  I’ve learned how to evade buffalo when making my way from tent to toilet in Mana Pools, and how to walk within a few metres of lion.  I’ve been initiated into the strange ritual of the "Braai", and divised a multitude of excuses for not eating five types of meat in one meal.

Two years on, there are more restaurants and coffee shops than you can shake a stick at, and everyone knows a dozen people who have returned from Europe or South Africa to live here.  The place is buzzing with an energy and liveliness that was complete absent when I first came for a look-see in 2008.  Long may it last.

A gentle Sunday afternoon spent wondering the streets of Inhambane, the sleepy little Mozambican coastal town.

The Castle was built during the 2nd World War by Italian prisoners of war.  In the 1980s a new section was added by present owner, Alex Nunes.  Occupying an austere location overlooking the Burma Valley in Zim's Eastern Highlands, The Castle is a small owner-run hotel.  It is pretty quirky: heaps of antiquey bits, and some novel design features, including a toilet built into great boulders (allegedly "the throne" used by the Queen Mum on her visit to the area) and a dumb waiter which yields delicious meals from what appears to be a large dresser in the corner of the dining room.  Many other high-profile bods, from politicians to movie-folk, have enjoyed g&ts on the battlements overlooking expansive views of forests and mountains.

During a three night stay at The Castle we enjoyed some lovely walks, runs and bike rides.  The area is great for birds and there is a Botanical Garden which is a little past it’s prime but still pretty.  There was one or two mandatory visits to the famous Tony's Coffee Shop for cake (it's not just cake...that doesn't do it justice at all...it is a culinary work of art, the memory of which lingers longer than the extra 3inches it will add to your waistline).

On the bright side, your husband may snore, but at least he doesn’t chew the cud (not regularly anyway).  In the early hours of this morning, I woke to a sort of grinding, snorting and stomping and struggled to remember where I was.  Through the tent flaps, the moon was reflected off the glassy surface of the Zambezi; a yellow glow from dust and the smoke of dry-season fires.  Crawling out of my sleeping bag to gingerly open the zip, I peered outside and found myself at about gut-level with an old male buffalo, about 10 feet away.

I had been dying to spend a penny for about 2 hours, but the whoops of hyena and the sounds of buffalo and hippo grunting just a stone’s throw from my pillow, had counselled a near bed-wetting strategy of staying put and thinking of deserts.  Finally, I slithered out of my tent and paused.  The buffalo languidly turned to look at me, and in a semi ducked position, I kept my eyes on him as I side-stepped 3 steps right, and then a couple of steps back until I was just on the other side of the tent, though still peering round the corner and geared for flight.  We both observed a respectful truce, and I executed an equally undignified return to the opening of the tent and flung myself through the gap, heart racing.

Apparently this is a fairly typical night in Mana Pools on the Lower Zambezi.  Helping with a game count of the park, I have spent the last couple days walking through one of Zimbabwe’s best wildlife destinations, and can confirm that it lives up to expectations in every way.  Watch this space for more.

One of the things I’ve always enjoyed about travelling is the liquorice allsorts of people I find myself rubbing elbows with.  As a camp manager, where tourists came to look at the animals, I was often lodge-bound and ever so slightly crazy with cabin fever, so the variety of human life that passed through my patch provided no end of entertainment (I’m conscious that this little revelation is likely to spark mass paranoia amongst the holiday-makers, but really, look around...what d’you expect?).  I’ve had high-flying New York types that tripped out of helicopters for a dirty weekend and recoiled from the visitor’s book in case they incriminated themselves (small world that it is).  There have been mummy’s little darlings who refused anything to eat but fanta and bread, buried toothpicks in the sofas, and were rather light-fingered in the gift shop.  Other camp managers tell stories of a “goth” woman who insisted on seeing her orange juice squeezed in front of her and required mineral water to wash her hair...and this on a remote beach in East Africa.  I remember scratching my head over the menu for a diabetic, lactose and gluten-intolerant raw foodist, with an allergy to monosodium glutamate (sigh).  You get my point.

The locals can be a strange bunch too.  On a trip through Malawi, our 1958 Land Rover ground to an agonising, clunking halt, as only a Land Rover can, in a mosquito-ridden swamp called Kazilizili.  From behind a dark bush materialised a man wearing a broad hat fashioned from black bin bags and fishing line, strumming a jaunty tune on a homemade banjo.  He was joined by another rural type, clad in a fashionable, though grubby, Burberry trench coat, who brought a Tipex bottle to his nostrils, declaring in the Queen’s own English: “Where’s my snuff? Where’s my snuff?”  It’s not something that you easily forget, and inhabitants (or should I say inmates?) of Kazilizili still appear to me in disturbed moments.

And then there are the nomads of the world.  While working in Kenya’s Rift Valley, a visit to market day in a Maasai village yielded a pair of handsome sun-burnished French folk, wearing what looked like school uniform, carrying a small backpack each.  They were in the process of walking from Cape Town to Jerusalem (as you do), trusting only in the generosity of people along the way, and a film has since been made about them.  We spent hours listening to their tales of soaking in the hot-tubs of South African millionaires, and of sharing meals with warlords in countries that you only hear about for all the wrong reasons.

Incidentally, this week I bought an apple pie from a lady dressed as a fairy standing at a Harare traffic light.  Apparently the apple pie, in addition to a good thing to have with a cup of tea, was also the secret to eternal life.  I’ll let you know how that pans out.

As the saying goes; “there’s nought stranger than folk”.