Unsurprisingly it was not a good nights sleep. Having finally got to sleep despite the muggy, mosquito coil smoke laden air or with the music and chatter from the group of locals outside our wall, We were all woken at 1am by what sounded like a 20 strong percussion band. Complete with cymbals they paraded down the street, making an incredible racket and stopping outside the glassless barred windows of our cell for one enthusiastic chorus before marching on down the street, banging and wailing, seemingly unaware that it was the early hours of the morning. We later learned that this antisocial community approved behaviour was a 'half-way-through-Ramadan' celebration and our patience with the Muslim faith was tested yet further as we were woken again at 5am by the booming call to prayer which set off the local dogs stationed under our windows who howled relentlessly as the voice on the tannoy spread its message across the darkness of early morning.

Abandoning the idea of sleep we lay and listened to the sounds associated with the town coming to life before finally, at 630, an army of motorbikes fired up and headed off followed by a group of very loud men trying to bumpstart the Landcruiser parked beside ours. Bleary eyed and grouchy, we were left with no option other than to face the day.

We packed up, brushing our teeth into an empty Pringles tube which then got spilt, making Hattie wretch like a cat with a furball and learned from Asher that there was a change of plan. The road was impassable so we would now be entering the park on motorbikes, and as such we should pack everything which we thought we might need, including 3 days food and water, into day bags only which we would have to wear for the ride.

Asher was wearing his best football shirt, a uniform worn by all those trying to squeeze money out of Mizungos, and having nothing suitable to eat for breakfast we were soon straddling our riders on an empty stomach and the 4 bikes promptly set off through the narrow village streets with our dozen eggs strapped to the front fender, ready to be turned into an omelette. Bob rode behind Asher, stopping every few hundred metres to greet old acquaintances and give his passenger the full guided tour whilst my kid pushed on, scattering to the four winds any chickens who chose to cross the road. We wound our way down narrow sandy tracks between small cultivated allotments and through great fields of elephant grass, over bridges and across streams. We tackled some monstrous hills and their somewhat loose descents and as time passed the 6 litres of water strapped to my already overloaded rucksack started to take its toll on my back.

We travelled in convoy, with dust very much a feature for anybody other than the lead bike and after our 45 minutes ride, having passed a sign advertising 'fat hairless widows child care,' we regrouped, bid farewell to our motorcyclists and continued on foot following Asher who appeared to be a local celebrity. We passed through another small fishing village, acquiring an entourage of smiling children before arriving at the grassy airstrip for Mahale national park. We carried on for another 15 minutes and as the sweat began to drip from my brow we finally came to park HQ. Asher took Charlie inside to sort paperwork and the girls and I caught our breath, willing our last park check in to run smoothly.

Charlie negotiated an excellent rate for our onward boat journey to the Bandas and so with all the nessecary fees paid uneventfully we boarded the slender TANAPA boat and bid farewell to our helpful guide Asher. There was, however the obligatory sting in the Tanzanian tail and he chose this point to enlighten us as to why he was being so helpful. He wanted a lift back to Kigoma with us when we returned on Sunday and on that bombshell we faced front and motored out. We looked disbelievingly at each other at how his friendliness had been very much calculated but agreed that given how sweaty and uncomfortable the ride here had been, the return 6 hour journey with an extra unwashed body squeezed onboard was not going to be an option.

We skimmed across the edge of the lake, under the shadow of the hugely impressive forested peaks for 20 minutes before finally beaching on white sand, disembarking and heading up to the sanctuary of the Bandas. Sadly, as per Tanzanian law, it was too good to be true and the kitchen we had been promised was still under construction, with no suggestion of interim cooking facilities being provided. The enormity of the hassle, effort and cost of getting this far and still finding problems meant that Charlie very nearly broke and our new guide friend left under no illusion as to how important it was that these 4 dirty, sweaty and now hypoglycaemic and enraged Mizungos had a kitchen by suppertime.

We opted to take half an hours time out where we all just spent a little time with our thoughts and came to terms with our less than ideal situation. Charlie and Hattie reported seeing a sea snake in the swimming area when we regrouped and we all agreed that despite the significant financial, logistical and emotional input to getting this far we were at a definite low.

Fortunately our rather sheepish guide returned with a knackered looking gas stove and indicated to a pile of hideous looking cooking utensils which were due to be washed up whilst we headed into the park. We had not eaten properly for 36 hours and, unable to cook ourselves lunch, we set off in search of the other posh lodge which might possibly entertain 4 famished greebos. We would have eaten anything but after 45 minutes trekking, with our minds solely on our stomachs, it turned out that the lodge was closed for repairs.

The low point got lower and no one talked as we left the building site, even our motor-mouthed potbellied guide could sense that we were reaching the ends of our tethers with this country and stayed quiet. After another 20 minutes in the muggy heat of the forest we met a rather startled but incredibly well spoken English girl, about our age who confirmed that we had reached the last lodge and yes of course we simply must join them for lunch. In a slight state of disbelief, the four of us just stared at each other as Kate lead us through the immaculate camp to the kitchen where a smiling chef confirmed that 4 more for lunch would indeed be their pleasure. Kate's boyfriendPaddy appeared, and greeted us, with the line 'where on earth did you come from,' and remained visibly shocked at what had just wandered out of the forest.

We were lead away from the fantastic smells of the kitchen and words escaped me as we appeared at the most luxurious beach shack I have ever seen. With a dhow bobbing off shore we were offered drinks and introduced to the 4 real guests of this exclusive retreat. Bob and Charlie entertained the wealthy American and South African couples with some of our taller travelling tales whilst Hattie and I wandered around aimlessly taking in the colonial grandure and expert craftsman ship which one could expect when paying over £1000 a night.

Kate and Paddy were excellent hosts but appeared equally thrilled to have some kindred spirits for company and whilst the real guests went to change we chatted endlessly about our Tanzanian experiences and how they had come to be managing an exclusive luxury resort in paradise. When conversations turned to professions Paddy jumped up and lead Charlie and I off to see Big Bird, their tame pelican who had eaten a spark plug and was feeling a little under the weather... Big bird, who had been washed up on the shore 2 years ago as a chick, lived up to his name and was an incredible creature, allowing us to look down his impressive gullet before, feeling much better, following us back to the beach like a dog and provided much entertainment sneaking into the dining room, where he knew he wasn't allowed, and generally evading capture until Paddy picked him up like a petulant child and returned him to his naughty pole, where he sulked before setting off on a flyby of the bay.

Still not believing our luck and amused by the concept of a pet pelican we sat back and enjoyed our drinks whilst Bob discussed the minefield which appeared to be Kate's lower limbs and tentatively enquires as to exactly how insect ridden the night ahead was going to be. Soon however the real guests returned and the most incredible smelling buffet lunch arrived. We couldn't quite believe our luck when Paddy insisted we follow their guests and filled out plates with meatballs in a rough tomato sauce, sundried tomato and olive pasta, avocado salad and fresh bread.

We settled down at the newly appeared table for 4 which had been laid on the sand overlooking the bay and inhaled our food, still not believing our luck as it was the best meal we had had since arriving in Tanzania. The waiter was determined to disable my intentions of finishing the last few dregs of my pint but trumped me by bringing a fresh round as we reclined, satiated for the first time in 36 hours.

Our guide had headed off to try and find the location of the chimps for after lunch and he returned as we were enjoying proper filter coffees and tea that didn't taste of anchovies. Sadly it was time to face reality and we managed to catch Paddys eye inbetween his intensive hosting duties and asked him what the damage was. Expecting a wallet emptying figure he instead shook his head in surprise and said it had been a pleasure. No matter how hard we tried all he would let us leave were generous tips for the kitchen staff and waiters, and we thanked all involved before disappearing into the jungle again following our somewhat impatient guide. It felt incredible to be full and as we stomped through the mercifully cooling jungle we agreed that this was the turning point and nothing else could get in our way.

We walked uphill for 45 minutes before the guide stopped his constant chatter of local factoids and instructed us to don our stifling facemasks. We crept through the undergrowth whispering only when one of us lost a flip flop or other such calamity, and after another 5 minutes of sneaking we saw the trio of chimpanzees in the treetops. We watched for half an hour, fascinated as the 3 year old youngster entertained us with a variety of anthropomorphic activities before descending to the floor. He did the latter part of this on his mothers head and remained astride her as she carried him across the ground to a more fruitful area. We followed them for a while but then left them to it and returned to the Bandas which thankfully was mostly downhill.

Our sweaty state was quickly reversed by a swim in the lake and we read our books on the beach until the sun set over the Congolese bank, at which point the insect life started to feel hungry. After hearing a bush pig grunting and chomping its way through the undergrowth outside our window we reconvened in the 'kitchen' which had miraculously been converted into a passable area for culinary activities. With running water and even a bulb overhead we were very impressed, though the wiring left something to be desired. The menu of instant noodles was monotone in flavour and colour but we were all still reeling from our earlier feast and it was more edible than our previous nights supper. We finished up, washed up and after a round of hot drinks headed bedwards, falling asleep in the knowledge that although we had an early start for a long days trekking we didn't have to pack up our bags, what a luxurious novelty!