In 1986, with a freshly redundant job, a dangerously optimistic outlook, and a wallet full of cash, the author answered a small advert in Private Eye and accidentally signed up to cross Africa in a pair of elderly Bedford trucks. What followed was not a carefully curated "journey of self-discovery," but a rolling, rattling, frequently ill-advised expedition through deserts, jungles, war zones, borders that barely existed, and toilets that definitely shouldn't have. This is a diary of life on the road as it really was: long days of dust and breakdowns, sudden bursts of awe, staggering natural beauty, questionable food choices, heroic drivers, ingenious fixes, black-market economics, and an alarming range of medical complaints. From gorillas in the mist to flamingos by the million, from military checkpoints to mosquito-ridden campsites, the trip lurches between the sublime and the ridiculous - often within the same paragraph. Written with honesty, warmth, and a sharp eye for human absurdity, this book captures a moment in time before mobile phones, GPS, and risk assessments, when travel relied on luck, patience, humour, and a shared kettle. It is a tribute to the people who made it possible, the strangers encountered along the way, and the peculiar bond formed between a group of semi-lost travellers bouncing across a continent together. Part travelogue, part confession, part love letter to organised chaos, this is Africa as experienced from the roof of a truck - unforgettable, unpredictable, and occasionally slightly terrifying.