Our early start was fuelled by tea and fruit as Israel and our guide friend appeared at 7am prompt to give us a tour of the Engaruka ruins. The sun filtered through the waving trees surrounding PR3 as we set off up hill heading towards the escarpment and what the lonely planet described as one of Tanzania's most 'enigmatic features'.

Israel would prove to be a Tanzanian treasure but he did bang on non-stop until we reached the first inconspicuous pile of rocks. In between repeatedly checking that the girls were ok and engaging Charlie and I in earnest conversations about nothing in particular he explained that the scattered rock piles were 500 year old mass graves from horrific historic tribal warfare. An archaeologist called John Sutton from Oxford was also convinced that the somewhat random collection of rock channels were an equally ancient irrigation system and Israel showed us a variety of papers, including aerial photos, which believed this somewhat underwhelming area of sporadic rock piles and implausibly watertight gulleys to be of significant historical importance. Unfortunately our scientific brains remained unconvinced so we focused on the stunning vista which our newfound elevation gave us over the village where we had camped. The more recent irrigation system had allowed the few discreet hectares below us to flourish, growing fruit and veg in this veritable oasis within the otherwise barren dust bowl, a feat which did warrant our respect.

We descended, crossing the river and returned to our patiently waiting Princess where Charlie cooked pancakes and I washed in the refreshingly chill water of the stream with only slight concern for the extensive network of crops downstream which would undoubtably benefit from the 3 days of grime which was liberated from my body.

After a rejuvenating coffee and numerous rounds of pancakes containing an eclectic combination of fillings including banana, sugar, lemon juice and peanut butter we paid a spurious variety of taxes, night watch wages and village fees before packing up PR3 and bumping down the track back to the village.

Charlie navigated the 90 degree turn expertly and with Israel squeezed onto the back seats next to the girls we soon arrived in the village where huge numbers of tall red robed figures were gathering. We followed them, lead by Israel, who greeted many of the men as long lost friends and introduced us to the arrogantly indifferent yet unwillingly intrigued tribesmen.

We entered the marketplace which was filled with men, goats and cattle and we soon became the main attraction. We passed an incredible collection of individual characters all sporting a wide array of scars, beads and hairdos most with incredibly dangly earlobes and many carrying vicious looking spears. The majority were intrigued by us but others gave our group a wide berth especially when Charlie pulled out his magic camera. Animals mingled, mated and changed owners all around the boma and we felt accepted as guests of Israel who appeared widely respected as numerous people approached him subserviently to receive his blessing. Bob's hair drew many interested glances but Charlie was offered 10 cows for Hattie and at that point we moved on to the 'women's market'.

We passed the animal 'doctor', another good friend of Israel's, who, with his table of antibiotics and anthelmintics chortled heartily when we were introduced and he learned our professions. Apparently the tribal herds were being plagued by a wave of neurological disease due to migrating nasal bot fly larvae, we declined any experience in this area and could only speculate as to the treatment advice for spiders in the tummy.

We passed numerous men holding hands, to where small hot mud huts held cooking fires, around which various sections of carcass were stretched out on sticks to cook and smoke, tended by wizened old men with grins almost as wicked as the knives they wielded. After passing a large boiling pot full of everything which wasn't worth cooking individually we arrived at the anticipated killing pit where surprisingly little blood was spilt and the guts were dumped. In the rest of the market we were greeted as guests and treated almost as locals, passing stalls of peppers, tomatoes and onions as well as numerous tyre flip flops, goat bells and even a sack of snuff, which we can confirm to be much more potent than McCrystals. Leaving a freshly slaughtered goat being skinned in a shed at the edge of the stalls we returned to Princess Rainbow, thanked Israel for his incredible guided tour and exchanged regrettably bogus email addresses.

We trundled back through the village, receiving and returning the tribesmen's smiles and waves, Hattie proudly sporting her new Masai necklace, a gift from Israel, and set off North on the dusty excuse for a carriageway towards Lake Natron. We were all slightly over exposed but thrilled by what an amazing experience we had just been exposed to, recounting memorable Masai snippets as we bounced along the 'road' which was put to shame by any farm track.

Back in the open we passed zebra, giraffe, warthogs and countless herds of cows and goats tended by their herders. We ploughed on through the expanse of sun drenched wilderness, getting enveloped in a choking dustcloud when ever the road required more precise navigation, so prompting Charlie to reduce his spine jangling speed. Bob's iPod provided an excellent sound track to the impressive scenery as we passed through several toll gates, with the imposing silhouette of Ol Doniyo Lengi growing closer and closer as PR3 ate up the bumpy miles.

After the third toll gate, bringing our trip on Africa's worst maintained excuse for a road up to $140, we finally pulled into Engaresso, perched on the shore of the surprisingly pink Lake Natron. Following a few false starts, and having driven over the top of a waterfall, we eventually tracked down our campsite, the quality of which had a lot riding on it.

We emerged from Princess Rainbow the third covered in dust, sweaty and very much in need of a beer. Our new surroundings provided solutions for all of these basic human rights and we breathed a sigh of relief. We wandered dazed through the shady walkways, past the pool to the bar and suddenly the terrible road became a distant memory of a nessecary evil.

We spent the rest of the day by the pool which was refreshing to say the least and we were happy to overlook the algae clad sides and the bottom in which you could write your name in plant life. The local kingfisher thought it was a good place to hang out as well taking the occasional darting dip, though no fish were seen. Charlie eventually managed to persuade the manager to let us pay on card, as the toll 'road' had rather sapped our supply of shillings and at long last contentment reigned. There was a brief interlude of gloom whilst Charlie realised that he'd left his camera charger in Octagon lodge, but celebratory beers were called for when it appeared that his camera battery fitted Bob's charger.

As the light faded we returned to PR3 to shower and change for supper but it appeared that an upmarket French overland tour had arrived and were hogging the showers. Trying to dodge the crippling number of spiky things which lay in the grass around the car we changed and sat around the clearing, enjoying a few G&T's before heading for supper. The menu was not a patch on the Octagon Lodge's but we enjoyed spending the evening safe in the knowledge that we didn't have to move for 3 days.