I was stood in the pitch black, in the middle of the main road in the village of Chimanimani, in Zimbabwe's Eastern Highlands, and I was pleading to be allowed to go back to my hotel. After three days of trekking in the mountains, I was shattered, and with aching legs I could think of nothing but bed. The only person in my way was Livingstone, a drunk local who, while still clutching a scud of Chibuku (think: vomit in a thermos flask), wanted to buy me not one, but two, beers, and wouldn't take no for an answer. He had, almost literally, dragged me from the bar I was in, and I pleaded and pleaded, until almost to shut my new found friend up, I reluctantly followed him down the dark road, towards the thumping
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