It starts off exuberantly enough, a few people with diverse backgrounds, Irish and English, rugby fans and writer, hit the road to Africa. The intention, I presume, to be in South Africa for the World Cup, 1995.
Naturally there are the standard 'ripped off in Malawi' adventures, but just as it gets above tedium, it all goes pear-shaped. The author decides to leave his friends and spend the last half of the book with Lord and Lady Delemere, somewhere in Kenya. Naturally their son is a friend of his, and it's all too awful to retell.
If you want to read about some twit who gave up the hardships of a LandRover and spent six months boring ex-pats to death, then this is the book for you. If like everyone else you got the book thinking it would be a decent enough travel book, a few chaps going through Africa, then you'll be sorely disappointed.
The last chapters are so awful you wish you had a LandRover just so you could drive to Kenya and hit the author on the nose. A terrible terrible cross-Africa book, possibly the worst travel book I've ever read. Burnt.