We were woken early by a cataclysmic roll of thunder which sounded like a lorry smashing into the side of the guesthouse. The sound of steady rain followed and we were very glad that we weren't under canvas, though it did rather scupper our plans of having a day on the beach!

It was blissful lying in a comfortable bed without the feeling that we had to be on the move but the noises associated with being surrounded by civilisation meant that we were soon on the hunt for breakfast. Amazingly our somewhat utilitarian guest house laid on a great spread of fresh fruit and pancakes, and we washed them down with tea whilst picking up some tips from a very friendly local guy who was chomping his way through an entire papaya.

As the steady rain turned torrential we loaded up PR3 for what proved to be the last time and set off to try and arrange a ferry to return us to the mainland. Faces turned and blatantly stared at Bob gently squeezing the vibrantly coloured, snorting vehicle down the narrow streets of Nansio to try and find the dock.

It was too easy as we spotted the official looking Tanzanian Port Office on our first pass of the bumpy streets. We were greeted by an empty waiting room and chased out by a jabbering guard who gesticulated that we should bother someone else back in town. Confused, Bob turned PR3 around and we retraced our route looking for anybody who knew anything about the ferries. Nobody did so we returned to our guesthouse and the rain continued to pour.

Slightly exasperated we asked the manager how we should go about getting off the island. He smiled and made some calls and for a brief moment it looked as though there might be a quick result but then as Charlie and I sat in his ramshackle office we remembered that we were in Africa and his numerous phone conversations drew blanks.

Keen to make a good impression he said that he would show us the office and come to help us book our tickets, after he had his breakfast. 15 minutes later we all squeezed into PR3 and bumped back past the oggling crowds to the empty waiting room but just before we pitched right, down a tiny overgrown alley with potholes that could shallow Charlie whole. After several wiggles we arrived at a shed where 50 or so people stared at us but our new friend lead Charlie and I to a counter where surprise-surprise, nobody could help us.... Wanting to scream we focused on the bag of oranges which Hattie had procured. Although very pippy they tasted fantastic and in the meantime our guide paced up and down awaiting the arrival of someone with a clue as to how this country functioned. After an hour mr fixer disappeared on the back of a motorbike and so Charlie and I took a walk along the dock before we beat our heads against the seats of Princess.

Our man returned shortly, soaked wet through and announced that it was sorted, but naturally he had no ticket to prove it... We executed a 5 point u-turn, dodging the mountains of oranges and headed back to the guest house for lunch. Half way back he remembered that we needed passenger tickets so we repeated our double u-turn, bought the tickets and finally passed the same group of disbelieving locals sheltering under a tarpaulin for the sixth time much to their amusement.

We tried to order a quick snack from the guest house and after finding the only 2 dishes available by trial and error we headed to the beach for a drink, very aware that it was only 45 minutes until we needed to be at the ferry dock. After watching the rain for half an hour we headed back inside to the tiled restaurant and reminded them we were on a tight time schedule. Our hearts sank as they warned that it was likely to take another half hour and also they had no bananas for the milkshakes, would we like milk...

It took them the full hour to create 3 club sandwiches and a vegetable sandwich and 5 minutes before it arrived we saw the ferry ploughing across the bay and docking. Most of the hour must have been spent cramming as much salt as possible into the vegetables and ensuring that each club sandwich contained just enough chicken bones between its 2-5 slices of bread to make each bite a risky lottery.

We left most of lunch and hotfooted it back to the dock to find swarms of people and trucks of produce coming the other way. Somehow Bob battled Princess through the crowds but it became very evident that our chances of squeezing onto the rusting 60ft barge in front of the other trucks were limited.

It was chaos but Bob persevered pushing us through the crowds towards the gates where the imposing guard just stared at us, uttering 'Mizungos' under his breath before spitting into the trees. Whilst Charlie tried to ring our guide for advice, I battled with the crowds to try and beg our passage. The scrum of people around the ticket office was intense, as was the smell, but after 15 minutes I caught a guy's eye and he nodded to a back door to the office. I managed to get there and the portly little man smiled and ran off. Confused I followed, leaving Bob being yelled at by locals to reverse PR3 through the crowd and Charlie arguing with the guide on the phone who revealed that there was no way of getting a car on to that ferry.

The little fat man had other ideas though and he and I boarded the ship, dodging the pallet loads of goods which were being manually loaded onto the trucks by sweating teams of men all wearing poo bags on their heads. Feeling like a vervet monkey we climbed over huge sacks of onions and overboard along the outside of the ship where we could peer through a porthole to see the captain. Swahili babble followed with much head shaking from the captain but when I produced a 10,000 shilling (£2.80) note he beamed, nodded and wanted the number plate of the vehicle. The only paper I had was a receipt from Ngorogoro but this served the purpose and we tiptoed back along the ledge to where we shook hands before he scuttled off. Not quite sure if I had actually booked us passage or not, I had certainly bribedy the captain and I returned to the others where we waited patiently as goods flowed back and forth along the muddy quay. Most people stopped to stare and there was lots of handshaking and cackling before eventually a guy with a duplicate book appeared and returned my Ngorogoro receipt followed by a proper receipt of his own, but we all remained sceptical until Charlie actually reversed Princess up the gang plank between the 2 lorries which had taken a half dozen attempts to climb the slick metal slope off the sand.

We were aboard and after a monstrous container wagon boxed us in, with millimetres grace of either side, the ramp was raised and with a honk of the horn we were away. By the skin of our teeth we had made it but it had taken us all day just to catch a ferry and we were all frustrated with just how backward this country was.

We sat in the car, swaying with the small swell of Africa's largest inland lake and Jamboing the steady stream of locals who came to get a view of the Mizungos. The voyage dragged as we scratched our mosquito bites, slept and watched a clear, viscous liquid, smelling strongly of fish, drip slowly out of the refrigerated truck next to us....

Charlie and I adventured under the trucks to the bow where we could view the endless enormity of Lake Victoria before retreating to the stern where we found the toilets whose odour preceded them. We returned to the girls who felt able to cross their legs for a little longer and settled back down with our books.

After four hours people started congregating in front of our bonnet and soon the wagon in front of us bumped forward, down the ramp, and into the chaos of Mwanza's dockyard. We followed suit, thanking our various ferry friends for their assistance and crept through the staring crowds and into the streets to try and track down a hotel.

After some efficient bartering we ended up with half price rooms in one of the best hotels in Mwanza. Very pleased with ourselves we headed up to the rooftop bar for a drink and, other than waiting an hour and a half for our food, spent a very pleasant evening in the loud atmosphere of 'the place to be' on a Friday night in Mwanza.

Having finally eaten we collapsed into the crisp white sheets and after being reprimanded via Skype for our cliff-hanger activities in the Serengetti we shut down and drifted off to a very comfortable sleep.