The summit of Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania pokes through the thick blanket of cloud thousands of feet beneath us – an image I’ll never forget – as we fly south.

Day breaks over Kilimanjaro, en route to South Africa

The three hour journey to Johannesburg seemed to last an eternity: a week of burning the candle at both ends, a head cold, just 3½ hours sleep in Nairobi, and I’m unable to sleep bolt upright in a seat that refuses to recline.

I’m sat next to a large, thick-set man. There’s barely room for him to move in his seat but he daintily eats his lunch with the tiny plastic cutlery. I casually try to start a conversation; I mistake his shyness for arrogance and it’s only as we prepare to land that he starts chatting. He’s an ex-policeman, returning home from Sudan where he works as a security consultant for the UN. He lives on an enormous military base outside Darfur “the biggest operation the UN has ever undertaken” he says and points proudly to the UN logo on his shirt.

I can’t get used to the smooooooth Tarmac … the newly resurfaced airport road, Cape Town

Despite what I’d heard, I felt safe enough in Jozi (Johannesburg). I’d certainly forgotten about the city’s reputation as I drove my friend’s brand new car around the ‘carjacking capital of the world.’

But there are constant security reminders: high walls, electric security gates, outdoor lighting, security firm plaques, electrified fencing, security beams around the garden, the odd siren. The doors to the house are never left unlocked and we padlock a gate at the top of the stairs before retiring to bed with the dogs.

Life in Uganda has got me used to the security guards in car parks and shopping malls. What surprised me in Johannesburg were the ‘rear view mirrors’ at eyeline on the cashpoint machines / ATMs. You can’t ignore the sign at the airport that says “Any person making inappropriate comments about hijackings, bomb warnings, carriage of firearms or weapons will be prosecuted.”

H has a small army of paid workers and I’m soon part of the support team. H and I were flatmates in London many years ago and we joke about how “VSO really doesn’t prepare you for how to manage domestic staff.”

Busman’s holiday? **

First day of my ‘holiday’ and I’m supervising the four gardeners landscaping her garden. They all wear blue overalls, not a gum boot in sight (unlike Uganda where it’s not a surprise if workers are barefooted – even on a construction site). Next day I’m reading a poem to fifty people at Baby Lizzie’s naming ceremony (thanks for the half hour notice H!) By the end of the week I’ve cooked dinner, started redecorating the baby’s bedroom and become an au pair!

Arniston Bay, Western Cape, South Africa

At the airport, the baby entourage includes Naomi the nanny and we all get fast-tracked onto the plane. We all chorus ‘cluck-cluck-cluck’ chicken noises to distract the baby all the way to Cape Town. H jokes is breast-feeding and nicknames herself Express Dairies.

We’re quickly processed at the newly refurbished airport then it’s a two hour drive east to Arniston, mountains to our left, the sea to our right. Perfectly round rockpools, jellyfish washed up on the shore, African Black Oystercatchers and a dazzling turquoise sea. We head towards Overberg bypassing the Winelands (temporarily!)

“You’ll notice your eggs boil a lot quicker here than in Johannesburg,” H says and I click: being at sea level, I’m 1000 metres lower than the usual altitude of Kampala. This doesn’t make me feel good as I recall how difficult my early morning run had been (it should’ve been easier)…

What is a busman’s holiday?

“A holiday in which you spend most of your time doing the same or something very similar to your normal work.  It comes from the late 1800’s, where a man who drives a bus for a living goes on a long bus journey on their holiday.” Johannesburg was a change of scene for me but H had me working as hard as if I was back in Kampala!