"We're full!", the flat faced caretaker said. We'd arrived late and without booking.
With nowhere for us to go she was forced to concede a 10x10 foot cell - her own room, she claimed.
Later as the moon glanced into our valley we could feel the fleas and hear the scampering, rustling sound at the base of the bed. We couldn't sleep and went outside to sit on the rocks while the slow ball of a moon drifted upward gradually dinimishing in size.
In the morning some tourists left. We were given a Banda (cottage), with a great stretch of Ngulia valley before it and right next to a tree full of loud weaver birds.
We unloaded the car then drove aimlessly for hours - corrugated roads and viscous horse flies and baking heat - seeing nothing, or a rare beast or just impenetrable green thorny bush.
Then at camp again, the weavers had stopped chattering. We sat around on the verandah with our drinks looking out into the night.