The nightly retreat from the villages to the relative comfort of the lodges is indeed a guilty pleasure. Always of varying quality and comedic design, they have to be judged according to African standards where risk assessments and personal safety have yet to interfere with their day to day Fawltey-esque functionality.
Attempting to count out a third of a million Kwacha in low denomination bills to pay the team bill in my room seemed a logical pre-checkout exercise where credit cards are rarely used or accepted due to poor connections, equipment and the possibility that some of the earnings might accidentally stray into the tax system.
As the sun retreated I made a school boy error of attempting to switch on the second ceiling light to make sense of the part ordered mountains of notes. Due to some genius and incomprehensible wiring, the main light silently extinguished itself to the tune of of a large ceiling fan stirring itself into silent action with rare African enthusiasm.
As they say, ‘the rest is history’.