Click... Off... Gone

I look over to my phone for perhaps the fiftieth time in the last few minutes, but the flashing LED that signals a message notification remains absent. From receiving corporate emails from all longitudes and latitudes, almost twenty-four hours a day for the past fourteen years, I am now a telecommunications pariah - a social status I am embracing with wholehearted delight. My primary objective on this discovery of the African continent, before I even begin to contemplate night safaris, canyon hikes and campfire barbecues, is to disconnect completely.

Back in September 2015, when the idea became reality and I set about the task of considering the logistical permutations of a voyage that was to traverse an entire continent, the only nailed-on certainty was its starting point. For Cape Town is a truly magical city. It has a cosmopolitan aura and vibe that only global cities with a defining geographical location or geological landmark possess. And the Mother City has both: straddling the nautical junction where two oceans meet and with a natural backdrop of such imposing grace as Table Mountain, it is jaw-droppingly beautiful.

From the stunning affluent western beach suburbs of Camps Bay, Clifton and Seapoint to the vibrant city centre, via the pastel-hued houses of Bo-Kaap, the former slave district, the city has enough attractions and culture to keep the freshly unemployed amply interested for four days. Further out of the city, but within easy reach, there are the delights of wine-tasting in Stellenbosch and Fransschoek (check), or a day at Newlands Cricket Stadium with the most incredible background scenery (check).

Most of all, however, I had been looking forward to rediscovering the multitude of cafés, bars and eateries on the three central parallel streets of Long, Loop and Bree. Having spent a glorious two South African winter weeks in Cape Town during the 2010 World Cup, I was most curious to see how this kilometre-long grid of arty boutiques, hipster coffee shops and alternative cocktail bars would coexist in the southern hemisphere summer. The answer is an incredible display of good mood street life, with punters happily spilling onto pavements and intermingling with passers-by and office workers. I have lost count of the number of times I have been accosted by a random reveller asking whether I was having a good time, bru. Capetonians exude a pride for their city that stems from genuine appreciation rather than arrogance, and this is reflected in their everyday positive demeanor.

Today I implemented my meticulously conceived post-employment expedition strategy: waking up to the sound of no alarm clock; going for a run in improbably breath-taking scenery; enjoying a bourgeois seafront salad lunch involving multiple combinations of alfalfa sprouts, pumpkin seeds and rocket; strolling aimlessly and unhurried in the sunshine around whichever neighborhood catches my fancy; drinking coffee whilst attempting to resuscitate my near-defunct writing skills; and enjoying an absurdly affordable evening cocktail at one of the myriad rooftop bars this extraordinary city has to offer. At a quite ridiculous 24Rd to the Great British Pound, I am finding myself settling restaurant bills with an embarrassment only usually associated with stealing candy from children.

I am under no illusion that I have started this journey with the only element of luxury I am likely to encounter until the very end. Not only do the showers in my hostel work, but they are hot and powerful; towels are provided and I am yet to see my first cockroach; my shorts side pocket is yet to be stuffed with emergency toilet roll; and most importantly no animal has tried to kill me yet. This wonderful city has provided me with a soft landing from my former life as well as a warm continental hug in preparation for the rest of Africa. It is the perfect place to disconnect.

Camps Bay 

Cricket at Newlands 

Kleine Zalze winery in Stellenbosch

Mood song: Click... Off... Gone - Sleeper

Mood food: Biltong and boerewors

Goodbye London, hello Africa...

The time draws nigh.

Disappointed by the non-manifestation of my much anticipated midlife crisis one entire year after my 40th birthday, and without the financial or legal means to acquire an appendage-extending Porsche 911, I have decided to take the matter into my own hands. So goodbye job of 14 years, au revoir beloved flat of 7 years and arrivederci London, home for the best part of two decades; the corporate calamine lotion can no longer soothe the travel itch and it is time to hit the road again. Not wanting to undertake too large a challenge at the beginning of my new life, I have decided to travel from the southernmost tip of Africa to its northernmost metropolis: Cape Town to Cairo, travelling through 14 countries. Overland. With a detour via North Korea to run the Pyongyang marathon.

As immense a decision as it may seem to abandon a comfortable existence at the very point in my life when my pace should be slowing down, as I ought to be thinking about padding my nest for the future, this feels absolutely right. The initial clouds of self-doubt and anxiety that surprised me by their intensity have long dissipated and I am now experiencing the familiar euphoria of an impending adventure. The only trepidation that I am feeling concerns the veritable A to Z of exotic-sounding tropical diseases that await me at every turn, hike or splash. Hoorah for Bilharzia! Ding dong dengue!

For all the excitement of the unknown that lies ahead, I will miss London. In fact I miss it already. I have not yet left the country, but I can feel the inexorable pull, the siren's call of the city I called home for 18 years attempting to seduce me into returning and resettling in June. And strong will be the temptation. It is almost unbearable to imagine Monday and Wednesday evenings without my pub quiz team and running club, and to miss Putney riverside in the summer will leave an aching hole in my heart. But I will not go back to London when I return from Africa. Not yet. I need to call another city, another country my home before I can revisit London. Madrid, Buenos Aires or Tokyo - brace yourselves for a new arrival.

But this is no time for the future, the open road is calling now! No sequence of consecutive syllables could possibly sound more exciting or enticing than Kalahari, Serengeti or Kilimanjaro right now. Whether it is Sudan or THE Sudan I am going to, it matters not one bit - only that I make it out of one country in one piece, and into the next. I look forward to locking horns with unscrupulous border guards and negotiating sanitation only otherwise found in France; to reviving my international dormitory snoring ratings scale and thinking I have gone blind from the local cashew wine only to realise that I have fallen asleep with my contact lenses in; to encounter the most fascinating people I have ever met only to go our separate ways the following day.

Most of all, however, I am looking forward to rediscovering the very essence of travel: the journey itself, and all the gloriously diverse forms of transportation that will guide me on my quest. From motorcycle taxis to chicken buses, luxury air-conditioned coachliners or sidecars to suspension-shy pick-up trucks and recalcitrant camels; I will embrace it all. It is in the waves of diesel fumes and moist cosy comfort of a sweaty armpit that I find my true travel zen, and I suspect that Mama Africa will not disappoint me in that respect.

It is soon time to go back to the continent where I was born, but know nothing of. Let the new life begin.

Waka waka, it's time for Africa.

Mood song: Midlife Crisis - Faith No More

Mood food: Mama Knoll's Sunday roast