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There is something very unnerving about being suspended below a large bag of hot air in a box not much more sturdy than a picnic hamper. Even more worrying is when the picnic hamper is 300 metres above terra firma, filled with about 20 people and captained by a tense looking Frenchman whispering “Merde! Beaucoup de vent ici.” at regular intervals into his two-way radio.

With a huge amount of will power I unclasp my hands from the safety rail, watch the blood rush back to my knuckles and gingerly reach for my camera as the sun breaks the eastern horizon of the Sossusvlei region of Namibia. Famed for its red sand dunes, the balloon ride seems to be the ultimate way to capture this unusual scenery photographically. I turn to the east, frame a photograph, feel my retina scream at me and start to shoot

There is nothing quite like the silent appearance of a crocodile alongside your makoro to make you realise the totally futile presence of a thin piece of wood lying between you and the jaws of one of the most efficient predators of all time. The yellow eye gazed unblinkingly at me in my seat at the bow of the makoro whilst the tip of its tail beyond the stern of the boat propelled it with consummate ease as our guide paddled frantically for the bank. With a languid indifference our pursuer disappeared below the murky waters to reappear a couple of seconds later with a metre long barbel clasped between its jaws. Bad news for the barbel but good news for us – I retain enough composure to reel off a couple of photographs as the hunter thrashes its prey to death in the water beside me.

“You want how much?” I ask incredulously.

“70 South African Rand for each vehicle that wants to cross.”

I am not unused to paying a toll to cross a bridge. It costs about the same to take a car across the Severn Bridge in the UK. Granted this bridge does not have the same amount of traffic but after a brief glance at the structure, neither did it require the same amount of engineering or cost to put it in place.

Darkness. The ink black sky punctuated by a thousand crystal gems. Silence, I check the time and realise it is too early for the dawn chorus. I slide into the driver’s seat of my Toyota 4WD pickup – or bakkie as they are affectionately known in this country – and take my mother’s pounamu from Aotearoa and hang it from the rear view mirror. We are ready now, her and me, mother and son about to embark on a road trip through a country she loved.

It was only later in the week that I saw how the single travel ‘mishap’ of being diverted to Port Elizabeth had set in a place a chain of events that led me to be seated at a table in a superb seafood restaurant in Knysna sharing a good bottle of South African wine and a seafood platter – that left even me beaten – with another person, bought together by a shared experience on the road.