Sunday Roast

It's almost 11am and it's getting hot even though it's still winter here. Back in Ireland, I would be buried in the Sunday papers and/or nursing a hangover. Instead, I'm sitting outside a tent in the Namibian bush with an internet 'dongle' precariously positioned on my head trying to get a signal. (Note to Donegal internet providers: service here in the 'middle of nowhere' is about the same as back home!)

As I write, a beautiful emerald green dragon fly is perched on my laptop. We're eyeballing one another and I'm savouring the moment. Here for once, is an insect which doesn't want to bite, spit, release some foul stink or infect me with some paralysing or deadly disease.

Across the table from me, is my partner and sexy wife-to-be Elle, busy labelling sample jars containing dried hyena poo while listening to music on her iPod. Behind me lies a vast flood plain of tall reeds and water lilies, whose dark, still waters are home to hippos and crocs. You rarely see them but you can hear them, especially at night. A huge sudden splash usually denotes a croc has 'taken something'. A hippo sounds like a tuba warming up and is an oddly soothing sound. Throw in a chorus of several thousand frogs which sound like a wind chime convention and it makes for a surprising and oddly fitful sleep.