Setting off on adventures is becoming increasingly better for a non-retired veteran like me. Saga sets the tone for people like us—you know, those baby boomers who just want to have fun at their own pace. Whether it’s a European river cruise, sailing off for a tour of Irish melodies, or taking a rare escape to Somewhere Exceedingly Sunny, choosing Saga seems to offer us the chance to relive all the things we wish we’d had the time (and money) to do back when our knees didn't make popping noises every time we stood up.
These days, my mojo sometimes "got up and went." But on these trips, I can actually tell my jokes again to people who don’t get offended and actually laugh. It brings back the glorious camaraderie of my days in the Royal Navy, serving from the tender age of sixteen in 1976 right through to the end of my first career in late 2005.
“So why don’t we do a long haul this year?” I said to my lovely wife, Teresa, at the start of the year and who hit the milestone of sixty-five this year. Did we have the energy and the money to see something other than post-Brexit Europe—complete with its endless passport queues, sad lack of duty-free bargains, and the general feeling of being subtly ostracized by our once-friendly neighbours? You bet we did.
Our escape was set for the 10th of September—the day after the anniversary of that world-shaping event in 2001, which inadvertently launched my second career as a trade compliance specialist. (Now I spend my days helping small and medium enterprises navigate the endless customs debacles gifted to us by our very own Three Stooges: Farage, Johnson, and Cameron.)
The chauffeur arrived right on cue, carrying Graham and Pam from Fareham. One smooth motorway drive later, we pulled up to Heathrow Terminal 5. Naturally, this was the day right after NATS had a total wobbly with air traffic control, leaving us sweating over a potential cancellation. But luck was on our side—the African adventure was still a go!
We boarded BA57, a packed ten-hour overnight flight to Johannesburg's OR Tambo International Airport—named after Oliver Tambo, though after ten hours squished into economy with a bad back, I was ready to rename it OR My Aching Lumbar.
Then came South African customs. We shuffled into a queue that seemed to last roughly three lifetimes, moving at the speed of a sloth on tranquilizers. Naturally, as a British passport holder, I couldn't help but compare it to my recent trials and tribulations with the German entry and exit systems—and that is saying something.
The queues serpentined around the hall like an endless queue for a ride at Alton Towers, except nobody was having fun and the air conditioning had clearly given in 1994. The border officials operated on what can only be described as "eventual time." A stamp was applied every four minutes, usually preceded by a thorough review of the officer's fingernails, a sip of cold tea, and a brief, silent contemplation of the universe. They gathering around their booths like baboons having fun sending innocent Japanese tourists to their colleagues in other long queues.
Once we finally escaped the customs hall, I half-expected our Saga muster session to be run by a couple of fresh-faced Generation Z workers—likely holding tablet computers, wearing high-vis vests, and looking terrified by the sheer volume of sensible footwear approaching them.
Instead, we were met by Michael.
Michael looked like he had stepped straight out of a classic bush expedition, complete with a weathered fedora perched at a jaunty angle, a rumpled linen shirt, and a collection of beaded wristbands that suggested a man who’s seen a thing or two under the African sun. He had that calm, unflappable gaze of someone who could navigate a herd of wild elephants or, even more impressively, twenty-five exhausted British retirees who’d just survived a ten-hour overnight flight.
With military precision that warmed my old Royal Navy heart, Michael promptly marshalled our group of twenty-five senior citizens toward the back of the bustling arrival crowd. He clearly had a system. Any residual fatigue or scepticism evaporated instantly—our collective Saga trust kicked right in.
Once we were gathered outside, introductions began circulating through our newly assembled troop of twenty-five senior citizens. We were a proper cross-section of the nation, complete with a fantastic array of accents—from two lively Scouse "Liver birds," Eileen and Zu Zu, (Sorry Sue), to Mike and Gail hailing from Wales. We had Adrian and Hazel, Francis and Leanne, Roy and Lynne, Phillip and Pippa, Marie and Patrick and Paul and even a real-life Janet and John. Then came the names our tired, post-flight brains had to work a bit harder to process: Herbel and Naleem, and an Achilles for good measure.
Then came the grand finale.
Emerging last from the terminal doors was Rita, looking for all the world like Catherine Tate’s iconic character rushing out for her very first Saga holiday. Her carry-on bag had been unexpectedly dragged off into the deep recesses of baggage claim due to the glacial customs queues, leaving her stranded inside.
Having finally reclaimed her luggage, she emerged into the African heat in a full, panic-stricken sprint—wheeling a bright, lime-green suitcase behind her like a woman on a desperate mission. With eyes wide and a look of sheer, frantic determination, she sprinted straight past the bewildered onlookers toward Michael, who was standing coolly by the Saga sign waiting for his final sheep to rejoin the fold.
Seeing her power-wheel that green case across the pavement was all it took to break the ice—we knew right then and there we were in for a brilliant trip.
Between the marathon queue at passport control, the frantic search for her displaced green suitcase, and her desperate dash outside, Rita had nearly used up her entire day's lung capacity before we'd even cleared the airport perimeter. As it turned out, her Olympic-level sprint wasn't just driven by pure determination—it was powered by adrenaline and a severe lack of oxygen. What none of us realised at the time, and what our unflappable guide Michael remained blissfully unaware of, was that Rita suffered from asthma and was never more than a pocket’s reach away from her trusty inhaler.
Michael, seeing only a remarkably energetic guest charging toward him with her green bag, simply chalked it up to keen British enthusiasm. He had no idea he was harbouring a walking medical drama in his ranks. Before we even had time to check where our luggage was, our heavy suitcases were being expertly hauled and stacked onto a waiting trolley by two local "hired sherpas." A coach arrived, which we all thought was for us, only to drive off again until "James"—our nominated first driver—pulled up to take us to our first hotel. That was once we had all located our property, James loaded us and our cases into the coach.
No formal introductions were made and no fuss was had—just swift, silent efficiency.As the cases disappeared onto the vehicle, Michael casually surveyed his newly assembled troop with the quiet confidence of a man who knew exactly where we were going, even if the rest of us were still working out what day of the week it was! But there was plenty more to come from our illustrious leader—because once we'd eventually ticked off the Lion, Leopard, Cape Buffalo, Elephant, and Rhino, he realised his real challenge wasn't the Big 5... it was managing us, the Big 25!
POEM
The Unlikely Herd
Ah, Saga—that’s an apt enough name,
Chauffeur me, Charles, to the start of the game!
From Terminal 5 through a ten-hour flight,
To an African dawn breaking golden and bright.
We gathered outside as a ragtag brigade,
A grand British assembly for a safari parade.
There were twenty-five heads in this silver-haired crew,
Each nursing an ache or a joint or a screw,
And Rita, poor soul, in a desperate race,
Found a laid-back Michael not fazed by the pace
But Michael soon learned as the engine roared alive,
The real wild adventure was "The Big Twenty-Five!"
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Until next time—keep your humour sharp and your mojo working!
