IN 1945, when I was 12, World War 2 ended and my father decided we should leave England and the wartime restrictions and rationing and go to South Africa. He purchased an Army surplus 4x4 van and, while my mother hoarded tinned foods from our rations, my father adapted the van to our needs. He installed a 100-gallon water tank and a 40-gallon petrol tank on the roof, and bunk beds, washing facilities, a chemical toilet and a cooking stove in the interior.

At Dover, we boarded a ferry to Ostende, Belgium, and drove into war-torn France, then into neutral Switzerland. What a difference! Back into France and South to Marseilles. There, our vehicle was slung aboard a liner to cross the Mediterranean. We arrived in Algiers the next day.

We had enjoyed the luxury of hotels in Europe, but my mother soon got into the routine of preparing meals on the move. When we came to a village, we would purchase fresh fruits and vegetables and even a chicken to be plucked and roasted in our tiny oven. At night, our seats were converted into beds.

We made our way to Tunis and then on to Tripoli, with lovely beaches, the blue Mediterranean and warm sunshine. I was beginning to enjoy my new life. I often sat in the cab with Daddy, reading out the route from the itinerary.

In Benghazi and Tobruk, there were still many troops awaiting their repatriation to Britain and they were delighted to meet a civilian family. Our route through the Libyan desert was littered with burnt-out tanks and lorries. One day, when we had a puncture, my father removed a live cartridge from the tyre! We travelled on through Alexandria and arrived in Cairo for Christmas, 1946. It was three months since we had left home.

We went sightseeing - the pyramids, the Sphinx. We reached Luxor on December 30 and my parents booked at the Luxor Hotel for the New Year's Eve Dinner. King Farouk was dining there, also, and sent an aide with a bottle of champagne, saying how pleased he was to see British tourists returning to his country.

We continued through desert terrain, eventually reaching Aswan. We followed the Nile to Wadi Halfa, then we ventured into the treacherous Nubian desert.

We were continually having to dig our wheels out of the sand - until we found the wreckage of a small plane. We retrieved the light aluminium wings and when we were stuck in the sand, we would place the wings under the wheels and my father would drive until he reached a harder surface, leaving me to pick up the wings and run after him. I don't know why I didn't take off with a wing under each arm.

We crossed over the Egyptian border, travelling South to Khartoum. The terrain changed considerably as we followed the Nile and approached the Sudd - hundreds of miles of water and swamp - impassable for our vehicle. At Malakal, we boarded a paddle steamer to take us up river.

It had multiple barges lashed around it, carrying wood for fuel, and long-horned cattle. Mummy and I held our breath while Daddy drove the van onto a ramp to position it on a barge. The Captain showed us to our cabins and greeted us at his table for dinner. A nice change for my mother not to have to cook our meals.

The deeper we pushed into the Sudd, the slower our progress became. At times, the river looked like a field of papyrus and elephant grass, and the paddles would become entangled, and we would have to reverse.

The water was teeming with crocodiles, hippos and huge Nile Perch. When I had my bath, I enjoyed playing with the little frogs which came from the tap. When I let out the water, they went back into the Nile.

I liked to listen to the evening symphony - the tinkling sound of the bell frogs and croaking of the bull frogs, the continual rustle of the crickets, the snort of a hippo and the occasional splash as a croc pulled its victim under the water. All this to the accompaniment of the ever-turning paddles.

At each stop, crowds of Dinkas greeted us. They were the tribe of the area - very tall, handsome people. The women's breasts were decorated with intricate patterns made by inserting wood ash under the skin. They wore only a tiny apron of leaves. The men wore only a string of beads around their waists. Their hair was teased with grass and dung into wings on either side of their heads. They carried long, barbed spears. One man wanted to demonstrate his skill and pointed his spear at a puppy playing some distance away. We hastily assured him that the demonstration was not necessary!

We ended our three-week "voyage" at Juba and were on the road again and back to our old routine, but soon discovered the luxury of government guest houses, where we would sometimes meet with other travellers - on one occasion a pair of elephant hunters, who said they sometimes walked 40 miles in a day following a herd.

As we moved into Uganda, the scenery became more green and lush, and the roads had two strips of tarmac for the wheels. We crossed into Kenya and on to Nairobi, where Mummy was thrilled to see real shops. I even spotted an ice-cream parlour.

We stayed in the New Stanley Hotel - long before the now famous thorn tree was planted. In those days, the pavements were wooden with a rail to tie up your horse.

By now, it was almost a year since we had left England and my parents decided to send me to school in Nairobi. We lived in Nakuru in the Rift Valley for two years, but my father was restless. He hadn't completed his journey. Our van had been sold but he drove off in his car to Cape Town. He was gone for six months, travelling back via Durban.

My parents parted and my father took me to Kampala, where I eventually met my husband-to-be. His employers sent us to many countries, including Trinidad (where our daughter was born) and Zambia (where our son was born).

Eventually, we were sent to England, where my husband retired. But in 1997, we made our final move - to Cape Town! So, 51 years after leaving England, I finally reached my intended destination. © Audrey Davy

Send us a picture and tell us, in no more than 800 words, about your travels in Africa and you could win R1000. E-mail travelmag@sundaytimes.co.za.