Often, in the early hours of the African sun, the savannah is brushed with silver and the air for a brief moment is cool and tolerable. We’re driving south in a wanderlust mood. On endless roads – mimicking our thoughts – I harp back, to that very first encounter.

I was young with the family on safari in the Masai Mara. After a mystical sunrise viewed from a hot air balloon, which cemented our fondness for the African plains, we enjoyed a bush breakfast near a river filled with grunting hippopotamus. Here, we met the Masai people. I remember being shocked by their diet – entirely consisting of blood and milk. My memory, though fragmentary, still consists of a sea of red and blue, an echo from their dance and their song.

I’m brought back to reality by the crash of metal; our Toyota Hilux is being slowly disassembled, piece by piece; a severe consequence of infuriating corrugated roads. We’re speedily travelling through the Ngorongoro Conservation Area, home to the famed Oldupai Gorge and the gargantuan Ngorongoro Crater. The crater itself is vast and alien, an enormous vista – once inhospitable and fierce – now luscious and green, sustaining a unique, flourishing, oasis of wildlife. We briefly gazed in awe then proceeded to head further down into more lowland areas, and into Masai territory.

“They had that attitude that makes brothers, that unexpressed but instant and complete acceptance that you must be Masai where it is you come from… the thing that used to be the most clear distinction of nobility when there was nobility.” Ernest Hemingway, Green Hills of Africa.

Our visit, like my first to the Masai, was unforgettable. The colours are just as deep, the cattle just as precious and the way of life nomadic and noble. It felt like time had only changed for myself. We’re shackled by the concept of time standardised by the western man, using it to atone, to forgive, because ultimately, we fear time. There’s no fear here, death is as noble as life. Not that I’m condoning death, but here there’s a perennial youth. You witness an attitude of an unbound life – no shadowy definiteness – time, like a river is “here and now,” it may never make dawn, but it flows, so go fishing.

Three weeks later you’d find us stuck in Africa; a result of those corrugations a few weeks prior shattering our shock absorbers and differential. We drove confidently through rural mud tracks blissfully unaware, then, just off the shore of Lake Malawi, we inevitably got stuck. Our escape took a total of 20 men, some helpful children and a congregation of criticising women who through visual acknowledgments were humorously commenting, along the lines of: “There seems to be an awful lot of noise and not much happening.” In the end it took three hours for our Toyota to emerge triumphant from the ochre ooze.

Later on we visited Matewere Village. I was on the hunt for a grand baobab tree. I found underneath my chosen tree two guys, Loyd and Paul, sitting weaving cane for their business – Mulambe Cane Furniture. Regrettably, throughout Africa we’ve found an abundance of cheap plastic furniture: it’s everywhere. Of course, your choices in life are often a consequence of available funds, but here we found a traditional process, affordable, natural and revered amongst the community, which was a relieving change of pace.

“We must respect the atmosphere which surrounds the human being, and integrate into the portrait the individuals’ habitat – for man, no less than animals, has his habitat.” Henri Cartier-Bresson, The Mind’s Eye.

Theorising portraiture before and during this journey has been a challenge to say the least. No amount of preparation can ready you for the unexpected – in Africa, always expect the unexpected. One thing has always been clear, I’d never pay for a portrait. Ethically and personally it destroys the integrity of the photograph, and thankfully, most people never ask – Loyd was one of these genuine people.

I gestured to an area, Loyd sat down and relaxed into a natural position. I leant forward – repositioned – pulled focus slightly – light emerged from behind a distant cloud, illuminated the skin on his face – I breathed in – breathed out – fire – no click. I’d run out of film – always learning the hard way. Luckily the scene materialised again after I’d reloaded. There, just as Cartier-Bresson had discovered in Africa at the age of 23, I too truly understood the careful combination between environment and sitter. You have to strive to be faithful to reality, controlling is uninteresting, it diminishes the complexity of the individual – it’s rather insulting.

In the distance, about 1km away, from the dark forest came a hyena’s laugh. To put this into context, we were camping in Mana Pools National Park, Zimbabwe. The hyenas’ cackling and conversations carried swiftly in the night air, igniting an anxiety within me, cutting me. I’d learnt to be on the edge, to be teetering on a precipice, to be torn out of comfort and challenged; to live. The hyenas did more; secretly they made me fear death. Up until then I’d been rising above earthly worries, but there, in that instant, I was reminded of my own mortality; the cackle was a breath of fresh air so crisp and sharp it woke me, from my banal safety net of existence. My body grew warmer, my ears twitched and reacted to any noise, vicious scenarios played through my head like a scratched repeating tape – I felt alive.

Later, that very same evening, I received a childhood wish. I’d always wanted to see a firefly field. I’d seen pictures but the real experience is like anything – unrivalled. The fireflies appeared just after dark. One at first, lightly explored our camp, landing and glowing like a tiny fluorescent bulb. Their numbers began to build. More and more, further and further out into the river marshland by the camp. By 8pm they were glorious, deadly silent, pacing their individual path back and forth.

“It is impossible then not to imagine that a whole crowd of children of six or seven years are running through the dark forest carrying candles, little stocks dipped in a magic fire, joyously jumping up and down, and gambolling as they run, and swinging their small pale torches merrily. The woods are filled with a wild frolicsome life, and it is all perfectly silent.” Karen Blixen, Out of Africa.

That’s what Africa does. It teaches you about life and death in its coeternal state – never one without the other – God and the devil, light and dark, not in battle, but in a perpetual state of being.

Now, leaving Africa, I’m hungry for more; for more smells and starry nights, for places of unpredictability; I’ve caught the rhythm, learnt the game, though there’s so much more waiting to be explored, out there, along the west coast. But sometimes, there’s no reason to search for anything. The mind travels.

“…any number is a limit, and perfection doesn’t have limits. Perfect speed, my son, is being there.” Robert Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull.

Reference: Shakespeare, William. Henry IV, Part 2. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998. Print / Hemingway, Ernest. Green Hills Of Africa. New York: Scribner, 1935. Print / Cartier-Bresson, Henri, and Michael L Sand. The Mind’s Eye. New York, N.Y.: Aperture, 1999. Print / Blixen, Karen. Out of Africa. Penguin Classics; New Ed edition 27 Sept, 2001. Print / Bach, Robert. Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Scribner Book Company; Reissue edition, 21 Oct. 2014. Print.

My heart lies in the Eastern Cape, in South Africa. It is my birthplace, my spiritual and community home. How apt that Leasa Marie and I should begin our journey in this drought-ravaged, parched landscape tended by the most caring, committed and resilient folk I have ever encountered.

Here we met with loved ones, moving along the coastal towns and villages, to celebrate the festive season, to commiserate with the loss of their livestock and to re- kindle precious bonds. Our route culminating in Morgan Bay. To leave its vast swathes of white sand, unpredictable ocean currents and rip tides, pounding at the bases of dramatic cliffs where my forefathers’ ashes are strewn, is more difficult than I can ever express. Days later, our quest to push up into the unspoilt beauty of Sodwana, and to stick to our itinerary, gave us the incentive to move on. 

The views of Sodwana Bay are quite literally, breath taking. I had never been to Sodwana before and I can honestly say, that it’s one of the most beautiful places I have visited. We were in the heart of iSimangaliso, an independent kingdom, free of South Africa’s rules and regulations and in Sodwana Bay, one of the top dive sites in the world! Such a privilege and a thrill.

Hanging out with Pedro, Janu, Valentina and Sirreal in The Pizza Place in Sodwana on the first night, and on subsequent nights, was both comforting and liberating, as we became woven into the fabric of this barefoot, wild coast culture and its welcoming local community. The whole vibe of this place was relaxed, friendly and unpretentious. Phenomenal pizzas, cold beers and a spontaneous jamming session were the perfect backdrop to the first rains that had fallen since we had been in South Africa. 

Our senses were zinging as we processed the earthy scents, the celestial pattering of raindrops, heavy with promise and the responsive call of the insects.

We silently gave thanks for the relief these blessed rains would bring to all those we had left behind in the Eastern Cape – each drop representing kindness, life and love. Our hearts had been heavy with the weight of drought and death as we had travelled through the Transkei, on our journey up here. Nature was now in metamorphosis, soaking the life giving rain, transforming itself into green shoots of grass, waterholes and silvery river beds. 

Our first impression of Sirreal, an 11 year old, local boy, was of a smiling, confident, and friendly kitchen porter, at work as an equal in The Pizza Place. Yet, like so much else in this place, his appearance belied the truth of his situation. At the age of 9, Sirreal came to ask Janu and Pedro for a job, so that he could support his family. Within a year, this enterprising young boy had saved enough money to hire out the Pizza Place and to pay for all his friends and family to have a party. At 11, his passion for conservation, his community and the ocean is amazing. His diving skills have been fostered by Pedro and he invests his savings into his family, diving equipment and continues his own education by exploring the coast. The wonder and courage of the human spirit continued to inspire us. 

On another occasion, Simon, owner and front of house, welcomed us into Sunrise Tavern on the outskirts of Sodwana. This little shebeen, had all the characteristics of a Western out-post saloon: roughly hewn benches and tables, candles, iron grilles and a clientele of sober, even-tempered men who soon became drunk and belligerent as evenings became long nights. We saw symbolism round every corner, here no less than in the capricious, volatile nature of man and the sea. 

Word amongst the locals was that there had been a dearth of game fishing in the area. So, we took to the air! A microlight flight along the coast to track the game fish seemed the most effective way forward. From that height, the reefs were awesome, giant scribbles on the ocean floor. The colours of the sea, a moving counterpane of azure, aquamarine and sapphire. Our hearts were hammering, our spirits high, filled with reverence for this astounding beauty. Nothing could stop us from venturing further along the coast.

Who better to go exploring this amazing coastline with than my old school-friend, Darren. For seven days, we travelled in his jeep North toward Mozambique, hunting out the choicest bases to trek, swim and dive from. Travelling this far North into unmanned reserve does not come without its security concerns, both while on the road and camping. Having tactical strategies in place for possible eventualities and a constant awareness of your immediate environment is a necessity and a price paid for accessing this untouched coastline. iSimangaliso Wetland Park gave us the opportunity to get in and under some of the roughest, tumbling, dumping waves that we had encountered. Darren, a seasoned master diver and all round ocean child, revelled in this amphitheatre of danger and drama. We sought refuge in the natural coves and holes, hiding away from the washing machine effect of the waves. They bounced off the colossal reefs and climbed out of the depths of the massive drop-offs, threatening to scoop us out and toss us around like playthings. Such exhilaration! 

In contrast, on one of our calmer dives, spotting a solitary manta ray was awe-inspiring and the first that Darren had seen in all the years he had been diving along this coast. The sea and its deception…a different mask for every occasion and never more enigmatic than in these powerful, forceful, loving waves of the Southern African shoreline. We fell in turbulent love with the place, daily. 

Further down the KwaZulu Natal coast to the magnificent beaches of Balito just North of Durban, we met extraordinary fishing cultures with a love and zest for the ocean, the source of their livelihood and joy. One such character, Tarreck, did not seem to have the expected fear of creatures lurking below his small, fishing kayak. He only seemed a little phased when a 3m Bull Shark, also known as a Zambezi Shark, launched itself at a friends fragile vessel and tried to take him out, sideways! He was only too happy to return to the same spot of the attack, on the same day, to lead me to the pugnacious predator. His sound navigational skills dropped me pin point above the boat wreck 400m beyond the shore break, where they had encountered the bull shark hours before, and to so generously, send me into the depths, armed only with a camera, we unfortunately didn’t see or butt heads with the maniac. 

As all itineraries tend to do, ours swung back on itself, pointing us, in the direction of The Pilansberg Game Reserve, a geological phenomenon. As an ancient, volcanic complex, it features as one of the largest and most important in the world. We were drawn not only to its spectacular scenery but to experience an area that was brought back to life through Operation Genesis; re-stocked with wildlife and reclaimed from human settlement in 1979. The question was how to gain an overview of such a magnificent, vast area in a very short space of time. The answer – by hot air balloon. 

At 4.00, the air is particularly fresh, unsullied by neither heat nor dust. Our view from the basket…perfect! What struck us most, was the disinterest of the animals as we floated above them, parallel and therefore, unthreatening. Moving without force, resistance or control, we noticed the zigzag patterns of the crocodiles’ prehistoric spines as they lazed in the waters below. In fact, there were patterns everywhere. The systems, order and constellations of nature had never before been so distinct and evident. The rains had transformed this landscape into a tapestry of rich hues and textures. 

Leasa loved the close contact with the white and Bengal tigers in the Wild Predators’ Sanctuary, located in the Pilansberg National Park. Hand-reared, they were comfortable with her caresses and attention and these vulnerable, charismatic and fickle bundles of fur, entranced us. 

We were at the end of our journey, and it left us with profound, emotional and stirring memories; flickering and flying through our hearts and minds daily. They continue to do so. 

-Googsi.

For the last couple of years, nutrition writing has been dominated by unrealistic, faddish ideas like raw food, paleo diets and “eating clean”. An army of glassy-eyed skeleton people had the colour photoshopped back in their cheeks to appear in magazines, clutching bowls of buckwheat gruel and promising that we’d live to be 150 if only we could bring ourselves to restrict our diets to kale and chia seeds.
Shamefully we believed them, even as these charlatans went on to spend their riches on blue cheese and filet mignon like every other rich person. The result was misery for many true believers, because there is a limit to how much you can enjoy life when you spend your days posting images of your post-gym soy smoothie on Instagram.

Well, throw those goji berries in the bin, because, scientists from the prestigious Findus Institute have published new research that indicates that, far from being as unhealthy as previously believed, heavily processed food should in fact be an essential component of our daily nutrition. Their new proposals call for all adults to consume artificial flavours and food colourings as part of a balanced diet – i.e. a side order of salad and chips. They even reassessed the benefits of many vintage snacks from the recent past. We suggest you print out the following guide, stick it up in your kitchen and run as fast as you can if you see Jamie Oliver coming for you holding a parsnip.

Key food group: crisps and corn snacks
Rich in essential salts, grease and monosodium glutamate, adults are recommended to consume at least one portion of crunchy snacks daily, more if expending extra calories by watching something stressful on telly. Just as other nutritionists recommended returning to historic grains such as bulgar wheat and quinoa, scientists are urgently calling for Smith’s Crispy Tubes, Flavour & Shake and Tangy Toms to be returned to production. Until that time, it is recommended to help growing children with regular servings of Space Raiders and Monster Munch. Remember: it is dangerous to become deficient in pickled onion flavour, Scampi Fries are practically a serving of fish, and Twiglets contain fibre.

Key food group: fizzy liquids
Once thought to rot your teeth and promote hyperactivity, new studies conducted under the aegis of the PepsiCo fellowship show that carbonated drinks are actually delicious and refreshing. This is equally true whether they are “premium” brands like Coca Cola and Irn Bru, or value equivalents such as Panda Pops and the eastern European cherryade sold in pound shops. Although still drinks like Tip Top and Um Bongo do contain essential sugars, parents are suggested to opt for those that are most luridly coloured, and if in doubt ensure that children consume at least one Coke float a week, more if they’ve been good. 

Key food group: grains and cereals
Breakfast is both the most important meal of the day, and the cornerstone of any diet. Sadly, our hectic lifestyles mean that too many of us skip the opportunity to consume puffed rice and strawberry marshmallows, and make up for this deficiency later in the day with extra coffee. There’s really no excuse – experts from Kellogg’s say that if we just took two minutes to heat up a Pop Tart, our day would be off to a much better start. Many parents mistakenly believe that a cereal is only healthy if it contains multigrains – if this worries you a good solution is to serve children a fun, yet nutritious, combination of Frosties (corn) and Sugar Puffs (wheat). 

Key food group: frozen items (sweet)
It has long been understood that warm weather carries with it the risk that humans can become sad and uncomfortable if not administered with frozen dairy produce, or at the very least a combination of vegetable fats and refined sugar. What was less widely known is the role that frozen treats play in year-round mood maintenance. In order to stave off attacks of the blues, doctors now say that families should stock up on Arctic Roll, Mr Freeze ice pops and Cornettos. If frozen goodness is needed on an emergency basis, administration of a Slush Puppy is recommended – this is the nutritional equal of a raw food protein shake in that it provides the body with servings of sugar, artificial food colouring and the all-important refreshing, slurpy coldness.

Key food group: frozen items (salty)
Remember that the freezer is not just for ice-cream, this essential family friend can also serve as a healthy storehouse containing curry, pizza, batter-coated potato products and a variety of breaded chicken shapes. The important thing to bear in mind about freezer-based nutrition is the “three colour rule” – your frozen meal is only nutritionally complete if brown items are offset with other colours, such as red sauce, mushy peas and yellow mayonnaise. Pizza is already one of your two recommended portions of vegetables a day, so why not go for a hole in one by topping your Margherita with some baked beans or a couple of potato waffles?

Key food group: sweet shop items
The traditional British sweet shop has never fully recovered from the targeted propaganda campaign conducted by dentists and broccoli farmers, but in today’s more enlightened age this institution is showing the first lurid green shoots of recovery. Of course, sweeties remain something that should only be enjoyed as part of a balanced diet – no nutrition expert would recommend that anybody survive more than a day or two solely on Wham Bars and Liquorice Allsorts. This is because the goodness in sweeties is so concentrated, you are much better off spacing your daily consumption of Fireball Gobstoppers, Tootie Frooties and Nerds in-between meals that are less fun. Otherwise you might get too much energy in you and realise that brown bread is an EU plot – shh, keep it secret!

Key food group items: tinned meat products and preserved foods
Not every family is lucky enough to own a freezer full of wholesome doner kebab pizzas, Wall’s Neapolitan Ice Cream and Turkey Twizzlers, but this doesn’t mean that their children will go to school miserable because they had to eat courgettes for breakfast. Tinned foods helped Britain win two world wars, and if Spam is good enough to feed a nation who stood up to Hitler then it’s good enough to include in every hot meal served in your household. Remember that old doctor’s advice – “pink things are healthy” – and if you need a bit of variety on the plate then there are other lovely foods that come in tins, such as corned beef, preserved peas, and hot dogs. If you fancy something a bit exotic on a Friday night then why not take a trip to the mysterious, mouth-watering orient via the Pot Noodle express? All aboard!

Our baguette-wielding cousins in France are universally, and justifiably, proud of their wonderful national cuisine. Except for the guillotine and Daft Punk’s second album it represents their greatest gift to the world, and does a lot to make up for their frightening public toilets and comic inability to pronounce the word “squirrel”.

Although they are patriotically united as one nation behind the macaron, they also manage to muster an intense and specific pride in their regional cooking. It seems like every part of la France has evolved its own unique way to seduce your liver with specific blends of fermented grape and smooch your arteries with fresh combinations of sausage, butter and cheese. What fewer people realise is that this Gallic passion for regional tastes has also left its mark upon the Channel Islands, and even extends to the different regions of our fair island. It’s true – we are so much more than a colony of Britain, knee-deep in burger wrappers, chips and frozen meals with horse in them. We are a little bit French, like the road signs none of us can pronounce. Anybody who has failed to persuade friends from the west to journey to the east can tell you that Jersey is at least four separate countries, and each has its own distinct cooking tradition. If you find this hard to believe then just hop onboard my reinforced mobility scooter – for I will be your gout-ridden guide to the delicious world of regional Jersey food.

Jersey’s west coast – rustic food at its finest 
Gastronomically, Jersey likes to promote itself as a destination for sophisticated diners who flock like butterflies to the sweet meadow of our numerous Michelin-starred eateries. This is certainly true – if you wear expensive loafers and wish to treat yourself to many different varieties of jus and foam, then Jersey is an unmissable destination offering VAT-free truffle mash. However, there is another tradition, an older tradition, which predates fancy culinary concepts like sous-vide, home-made pasta, and refrigeration. It is the cooking of the western parishes – if the Michelin-starred restaurants are Leonardo DiCaprio dressed for the Oscars, then authentic western food is Leonardo DiCaprio crawling through the snow after being attacked by a bear. St Ouen is about more than fried breakfasts that cost £13 – we were eating raw fish before anybody could spell sushi, and the cooks of St Peter were sneaking minced horse into your lasagne long before it became fashionable for big supermarket chains to do so. As for the rosy, protein-fed cheeks and bulging muscles on display in St Mary, let’s just say they’ve long enjoyed the benefits of a “one in, one out” approach that marries sound nutrition to the civic challenge of population control.

St Helier – vibrant melting pot of culinary traditions
St Helier, our frequently unloved dumping ground for the corporate world’s most depressing office buildings, is the next stop on our tour of Jersey’s regional flavours. This is probably because my metaphorical scooter hit a huge slick of grease and pitched us headfirst into a pile of chips – despite a long list of great restaurants our town is often described as a place where you can get chips with everything. Like many foodie cities, St Helier draws on the diverse ethnic heritage of its residents to produce a true fusion cuisine – as long as your definition of “fusion” is the idea of ordering an espetada at a Chinese restaurant, served by a Lithuanian waiter, with good old British chips. What more could you possibly want? I hope the answer to that question is “Thai curry, coffee or sandwiches”, because if St Helier is ever put under siege by zombies that’s the only thing the residents will be eating until the honoraries roll in with both of their tasers and sort the situation out.

St Aubin – a foodie paradise for the hearing impaired
If St Helier is a battered sausage (the salty, greasy, guilty pleasure on the menu) then St Aubin is the chicken burger with salad. It looks a bit more like a proper meal, costs a bit more and has fewer obvious knuckles. It’s a romantic date rather than a quick knee-trembler in the back alley. St Aubin is the picturesque, cosy harbour that we like to convince foreigners is our real city centre, and is characterised by an impressive variety of eateries of all types. French, Italian, modern, traditional – the only thing they have in common is a strange commitment to having terrible acoustics. Meals at St Aubin are always a lovely occasion, but you might end up needing to shout at your dining companions after a couple of hours. It may be due to sketchy interior design, or it might be that this is an essential part of St Aubin’s historic identity – as a brawling destination for drunken, rum swilling pirates who are upset at never finding anywhere to park.

The East – the bastion of tradition
A vital part of any culinary tradition is the local spin that talented chefs will put on the dishes that newcomers bring with them. I hope I’ve gone some way to acknowledging the debt Jersey cuisine owes to immigrants from Portugal, Thailand and Poland, but there is a corner of the island that retains a deep love for a more neglected cooking tradition: that of England in the 1960s. A journey to certain hotels in the east of the island can allow you to step back into time, back to a time before kale, a time before pulled pork – a time before vegetarians. Heston Blumenthal might be doing his best to make postwar grub fashionable again, but there are chefs in parts of Jersey who still think that modern cuisine equals the Borsalino Roque, and will serve you chicken kiev and black forest gateau with a tender care that is absent in any part of the mainland modern enough to have a Nando’s.

The North coast – rugged tastes and secret treats
Jersey’s blasted north coast is more than just a place you go when you’re travelling from St Mary to Grouville, it is a distinct region with hidden treasures for the intrepid diner. It must be said that few of these are found in its restaurants, which offer a solid if unremarkable selection of pub grub and family dining establishments. The true taste of the north can only be found if you venture alone onto the cliff paths, or through darkened lanes, and befriend strange, monosyllabic fisherman or shifty leather-skinned farmers. Earn their trust, curious traveller, and you will feast upon a cuisine that draws its inspiration from the crashing waves, the briny depths, and people who are genetically close to their merman cousins in the “less developed” Channel Isles. I hope you like conger eel pie, bean crock with fingers in it, and bread seasoned with Devil’s Hole mushrooms and ferns. Eat in the north and you will never go back, in many cases literally as you run the risk of waking up with a hangover, bound and gagged in a granite pigsty. On the bright side, being kidnapped in St John is the cheapest way to arrange a weekend in Sark.