They're travellers, not tourists, and they've been there, done that. Melosina Lenox-Conynghamgoes on expedition with some seasoned adventurers
In the grey dawn, I could hear a hippopotamus stumbling through our camp. Realising the dangers if he turned nasty, I put my hand under my pillow - not, like Carruthers of the River, for my trusty revolver, but for my false teeth. There is nothing that gives a girl confidence like having a full set of gnashers in place.
My intrepid companions under canvas on the banks of the Niger were also arming themselves. I could hear them searching for their glasses, their walking sticks or in the case of the elderly Hungarian, pulling over his head a pillow case with holes cut for eyes and mouth - he was more fearful of the sun than of any hippopotamus.
One might think it strange to make the journey through the desert to Timbuktu if even a sunbeam was likely to kill you, but of our small party of seven, he was not the only one with a life-threatening allergy. An American had braved the trip even though a single peanut might send her spinning into eternity. As peanuts are one of the staple foods of Mali, this was indeed dicing with death. Therefore hippopotamuses came pretty low on the list of perils for our group and indeed this one plodded into the river and sank beneath the ripples.
Those who are attracted by travel companies that advertise safaris or treks that "venture" rather than drive, consider themselves a tough breed. They prefer not to go it alone for various reasons, including the convenience of having the arrangements made for them and then the pleasure of complaining about them. When I travel alone, the only thing I see is the guide book and the bus and train timetables - I may have missed the Golden Temple, but I do have an intimate knowledge of Bangkok bus station and the facilities there, or lack of them.
However we are not softies - "Oh no, we would never have a beach holiday, that is not our scene at all. Though if you do want to spend time by the sea, there are the most divine beaches round Trincomalee - little coves of golden sand with absolutely no one else there . . . Well yes, I expect there were a few Tamil Tigers lurking in the jungle, and Rodney did stand on a sting ray, but he was quite all right after a few days in hospital."
The word "tourist" must never be mentioned, except as a derogatory term for crowds of sun-pink people, in inappropriate shoes, who clog the view of the Acropolis, or other wonders of the world.
Participants in "activity adventures" have usually travelled extensively: they have caught fleas in Quetta and fished for taimen under a full moon in Mongolia and have many, many amusing tales to share round the campfire ". . . The pilot lost the way so we landed in a dried-up river bed. It was 40 degrees centigrade, but nobody was allowed to leave the plane because we had not cleared customs . . . " or ". . . 37 hours hidden under a tarpaulin in the back of a truck to get to Lhasa . . ."
After a couple of days, these anecdotes pall on listeners who have been there, done that, and the talk turns to more homely subjects. In China, after we had trudged up to a pass in the Kawa Karpo range, we sat drinking green tea looking down through gigantic pine trees, wreathed in clematis, to the Mekong River. Everyone had much to say about Aga cookers; the Cramptons had a four-door Aga, while the Bowens had only a two-door Aga and the Hasselbads, being American, had no Aga at all. This enthralling subject kept everyone happy as we slid through mud and down precipices to the valley below.
On these tours there is no question of marching on one's stomach, we are all wearing boots - "I have had this pair for 20 years and they have never let me down. Leather, of course, which makes them heavier than the modern synthetic ones, but they can breathe."
The owners over the years have grown to resemble their boots, with leathery tanned skin polished with sun cream and gimlet eyes.
Suitcases and bags are battered and rubbed, wheels are regarded with suspicion, but canvas knapsacks, new in the day of Baden-Powell, are much admired. Packed among the hand-knitted socks and woolly vests there is always a garment suitable to be worn if an invitation is extended by a provincial governor, or the ambassador, "who is the second cousin of the son-in-law of my neighbour, Maisy Callaghan."
"What time is dinner?" asked a gentleman from Gloucestershire as we bounced along a barely discernible track that dissected a precipice on the trip to China. The driver was peering anxiously ahead for any pebble rolling off the cliff which might indicate a landslide. Several times we had had to stop and clear the road of huge boulders that had come down a very short time before.
The wife of the man from Gloucestershire appeared not to have noticed anything untoward and was instructing the Chinese courier on the intricacies of the British peerage. The courier, who knew that the driver had taken the wrong turning some way back but did not like to lose face by telling us that we were lost, repeated in bemused tones: "A Baron is called a Lord and has an Honourable son and a Ladylike wife."
We did survive, but that night, I was truly grateful for our "drinkie poos". This ceremony took place before dinner when one was invited by a member of the party for a slug of Scotch drunk from a tooth mug in their room or tent, while one criticised the way the tour was being organised; or those members of the party who have not been invited to "drinkie poos".
After returning home, there are only the photographs to remind me of where I have been and what I have seen and those who shared these experiences with me. "Such a good snap of you attempting to eat noodles. I know you would like to have it." Or "Harry standing on his head in that bar in Timbuktu, wasn't it a hoot!"
There are so many of these pictures that they block my e-mail and I am unable to press the delete button.