Midday, the Old Stone Town harbour, Zanzibar, 35 °C. A sea of wooden dhows, some old, some new, all huddled together behind the harbour wall. Men loading and unloading grain, timber, people onto and off the quay. That unique African scene - people standing around for hours watching others sweat and toil - laid-back urgency. The late 1800s or early 2000? In many ways it could have been either. This is what I saw, but Henry Morton Stanley described similar scenes before departing on his trans-Africa Expedition in 1874.

I was excited. The previous night I had stayed at the Tembo Hotel, a building used by several African explorers before embarking on expeditions. I was nervous. Would I be able to do what I planned - to bicycle and kayak along the East African section of Stanley's journey? I was getting frustrated. I had been waiting five hours for the crew of the dhow to set sail across to Bagamoyo. Suddenly it hit me. I was less than 24 hours into my expedition and I had this terrifying realisation - I was a fake. Stanley wouldn't have waited. He left when he was ready. Stanley was in control. I was just following.

I felt an overpowering sense of fear and disappointment creep over me as these thoughts sunk in. I had dreamt of doing this expedition for seven years. How could I face the challenges ahead with these fears? Would I be able to tell people this is how I felt? People are going to see straight through me.

I was so engrossed with these thoughts that I didn't really notice that we had left the shelter of the harbour, the crew had set the old sail and we were gliding past Old Stone Town, heading out to sea. I looked around and came back to the present, not knowing what to do, what thoughts were going to hit me next - good or bad. Please be good…
They came slowly but surely as the dhow sailed on. Africa does this to you. It frightens you initially when you look at the harshness and realities of everyday life. It makes you feel very small and vulnerable even if you have lived there since birth. But if you are prepared to open yourself to these realities, the welcome that Africa and Africans give you is unique.

I was now beginning to feel an enormous sense of relief, the weight lifting from my shoulders. There was no way I could try to emulate what Stanley did 129 years ago. It was so much tougher then, and the unknown risks so much greater when he set off. I realised I was piling too much pressure on myself to copy him. I had to readjust my sights, stamp my own mark on the journey and allow time to let me discover what I had really set out to find. Why had Henry Morton Stanley made such an impression on my life?
Bagamoyo, on the Tanzanian coast, was once the country's capital. It was also the final staging post for slaves to be exported to Zanzibar and out across the Indian Ocean. It's not really surprising that the buildings have been left to fall down. Who would want to preserve places that administered such suffering? However Stanley wasn't looking to steal Africans away from Africa. He needed them to take him back into the continent, to areas that Europeans had never explored before.

Finding porters was relatively simple: his reputation as a successful explorer had gone before him. In 1869 on his previous expedition he set out as a young, unknown journalist, employed by the proprietor of the New York Herald, James Gordon Bennett (Jnr), to find Dr David Livingstone. Having defied the odds and seriously ruffled the feathers of the Royal Geographical Society he was returning to Africa to solve further geographical mysteries: firstly, to circumnavigate Lakes Victoria and Tanganyika; secondly, to see if Livingstone was correct in thinking that the Congo River was a tributary leading into the Nile.

I was glad I'd already appreciated I couldn't emulate his trip and had to laugh to myself when I thought about the stark contrast in scene between my departure from Bagamoyo and Stanley's. I was riding a bicycle. Stanley was riding an ass. I had a Toyota Land Cruiser, driven by Hezrone, my driver. Stanley had three fellow Europeans and 347 porters. I had a modern carbon fibre kayak. Stanley had the Lady Alice, a wooden boat cut into sections and carried by his strongest porters. I had maps, GPS, email and a satellite telephone. Stanley had a rough idea of where he was going, an old-fashioned compass and pen and paper to write letters.

However there were a few similarities which I was glad to relate to. Stanley was an orphan and took four dogs with him. I had an orphaned dog called Stanley that I'd found abandoned outside a friend's house in Nairobi. I had one of Stanley's old walking sticks with me, bought at a recent auction at Christies in London. Both of us had four years' experience of living and working in Africa. I felt a great sense of freedom and lifting of spirit embarking on this journey. I think he did as well.
I'd only cycled 15km out of Bagamoyo when I came across a concrete plinth with the inscription: "Bigilo the first camp, Stanley Livingstone Expedition". I was reminded that I was only one in a trail of people fascinated by his expeditions and life. I don't think any of us would say that he was our hero, as there was a deeply disturbing side to his character. Orphaned at birth he was scarred by a terrible childhood at St Asaph's Workhouse, Denbigh, North Wales. Yet despite his understandable psychological problems, you can't deny that he became one of the most resilient African explorers, both physically and mentally. It's not until you have a few days under your belt that you begin to know if your preparations match the reality of expedition life. I have always shied away from routine but when a tent becomes your home, a bicycle your expedition partner, the back-up team your main support and a three-month-old puppy dependent on you, it's only fair on them and you to create some form of structure. Stanley demanded the highest levels of discipline in this way and lead by ruthless example.
My days on the road cycling from Bagamoyo to Mwanza invariably began with the sound of a small paw scratching at the mosquito net of the tent, demanding to be let out. Abdul would already be stoking the fire and boiling water for Chai Bora tea and Scott's Oats porridge. When I was six years old I never believed I'd try eating porridge again after my grandmother insisted I ate a tepid, grey slime with salt. But I was immediately converted and my legs felt they had the potential to grow to resemble those of the kilted, shot-putting Scotsman on the label.

Roads are a classic example of the extremes in quality of infrastructure you encounter in Africa. Some are hideous but luckily the tarmac road from Morogoro to Dodoma couldn't have been smoother. It was a great feeling leaving camp on my bike each morning. The cool air waiting to be warmed by the sun-baked tarmac, the browns in the fields, greens in the trees, blues and whites in the sky made me feel alive. I felt healthy and ready for the day's surprises.

Day seven - Pandambili to Dodoma - provided a few. After an hour cycling across a river plain I changed down a few gears and started the climb up a long, gradual hill. You have to be patient with these ascents, as they don't get any shorter if you attack them. I felt spoilt on my 24-gear Marim County hybrid bike as I passed three local boys on their fathers' Chinese equivalents, feet just reaching the peddles but still carrying three 20-litre jerry cans of water each - that's 60kg.
The tops of hills on roads in Africa are dangerous places, where most accidents happen. Forget the stereotypical views that Africa is hazardous because of malaria, muggings, wild animals and corrupt dictators. It's cars, buses and lorries that are the most frightening. Fifty yards from the top of the hill I saw the roofs of two lorries sides by side coming over the crest towards me.
Surely the one overtaking has seen me? He's close enough now for me to see he has. Oh God, he's not going to do anything about it. Look left, ditch, culvert. It's the only option and then the air hit me from both lorries rushing past me. Thankfully that was all that hit me, except a vision of the smiling face of the driver. It's interesting how people react to terrifying close shaves.

Later on Hezrone caught me up and refilled my water bottles, and we decided how far I would cycle that day and where the team would pitch that night's camp. Stanley (canine version) had already decided she couldn't be doing with this cycling lark and travelled first class in the Land Cruiser. By four o'clock I had covered 105km and was ready to stop for the day. I found my camp set up in a quiet churchyard under an acacia tree beside the village football pitch. I sat down, wrote my diary and watched some schoolchildren playing football in their bare feet.

It took me 14 days to cycle 800km across to Mwanza on the southern shores of Lake Victoria. Stanley covered 1152km in 103 days, walking through some of the driest, harshest African landscapes I have seen. No wonder he and his porters were mesmerised by the shining blue waters of Lake Victoria - I certainly was.

I couldn't wait to get off the roads and into my kayak. First though, I had to learn how to kayak. When I was young I mucked about in boats in Norfolk but I'd only been in a kayak twice in the last 25 years. Not the type of preparation they'd encouraged on the Royal Geographical Society expedition courses I'd been on, but I hadn't made time to practice - the classic excuse they just don't buy. All I really had to do though was learn how to Eskimo roll. I decided the best way to master this was to stay upright and never capsize - then you don't need to know how to do it.
Circumnavigating the whole of Lake Victoria was one of Stanley's expedition aims. Thirteen years previously, Speke had found the source of the Nile but there were still unanswered questions as to whether various parts of the vast lake were all one body of water and which rivers fed into it.

Stanley's exhausted porters threatened to mutiny when he refused to rest in Mwanza and insisted they assemble his boat, the Lady Alice. They were also frightened about the weeks ahead of them. Lake Victoria is the second largest freshwater lake in the world. When you wake up in the morning beside it, it looks so peaceful and tranquil. But as with all seas you have to be alert to its changes in temperament. Stanley's men heard about the storms from the local people. Many of them perished in the months to come.
My route was to take me 300km along the east and northern shores of the lake to Kampala - the equivalent distance of kayaking the full length of the lake. Starting at Muhoro Bay on the Kenyan-Tanzanian border, I hugged the Kenyan shoreline. I was immediately struck by the feeling that despite being alone I was part of a larger community. I was continually passing fishermen who rely on the lake and its fish for their livelihoods. At sundown they row several miles out from the shore and use lanterns to attract whitebait-type fish called daggar into their nets. Of all the people I met on my trip it was the fishermen on both lakes that I have the greatest respect for. Despite problems with overfishing, they are seriously tough, strong and fit, and show amazing comradeship, working in teams of four or five at night for over 12 hours at a time. I don't know how they put up with the mosquitoes and notorious lake flies that are also drawn from miles around to their lanterns. Their wives greet them each morning and take over the process, spreading the nets out along the lakeshore and scattering the daggar on top to dry in the sunshine. By the end of the day the smell of fish can be overpowering, but this is the only downside to camping among these tight-knit communities.

On arriving in Kampala I felt I was coming home. I had lived and worked as a guide in Uganda for four years in the late 1990s. It was HM Stanley's first visit but the welcome King Mutesa of Buganda gave him was filled with respect. They made a great impression on each other. Stanley wrote of Mutesa: "He has very intelligent and agreeable features, reminding me of some of the faces of the great stone images at Thebes and of the statues in the museum at Cairo." He introduced the King to guns and Christianity, that extraordinary combination which remains evident today. The King's tomb at Kasubi is still guarded by the small cannon that Stanley gave him. Stanley's next task was to solve the mystery of the "Mountains of the Moon". His plans were derailed when the King of Bunyoro, Mutesa's neighbour and arch rival, wouldn't allow the explorer to cross his kingdom and climb into the range. I know how he felt as I spent four years looking at the Rwenzoris in the late 1990s, unable to climb them due to rebel insurgencies from the Congo. Stanley had to wait until 1889 on his Emin Pasha Rescue Expedition before he set foot on their slopes. This was now my window of opportunity to meet one goal that he, uncharacteristically, never achieved. Despite the highest mountain in the Rwenzoris being named after him, Stanley didn't manage to climb to the eponymous summit. It was the only chance I had to do something he had failed at. Mountains can be lonely places to climb on your own so I was relieved to be joined by my climbing partner Jamie and two old friends from Kampala. We climbed for four days through scenes of extraordinary alpine fertility: bamboo, giant lobelias, wild orchids. Thankfully they were there to distract us from the endless wet bogs which straddle the paths the whole way up to Elena Hut.

Our guide Dennis and the porters were mountain people from the local Bakonjo tribe. They are similar to the sherpas in Nepal: short, light, fit and with a love of running up mountains. Dennis was no exception. Leading at the front of the rope he decided to make the quick ascent of Margherita glacier - straight up. Jamie and I followed in his footsteps. Eventually after four hours of sinking into knee-deep snow I shouted for him to stop. I thought I was fit but he was proving me wrong. I suggested we zigzag our way up the steep glaciers instead of heading straight up. Dennis looked at me and I realised that his estimation of me had plummeted, but he appreciated that I was still desperate to reach Mt Stanley's summit. It's an odd feeling, standing 5500m above sea level on a snow-capped mountain on the Equator in Africa. I felt tired but invigorated, looking west over the Congo. I wondered what Stanley would have thought.
The contrast in scenery on this journey helped to smooth over the typical Africa frustrations. From the sub-zero temperatures on Margherita Peak, through the "gardens" of southern Uganda and Rwanda and onto the Mediterranean shores of Lake Tanganyika, my belief that East Africa can claim to be the Garden of Eden was continually reinforced.
It must have been an emotional moment for Stanley when he returned to Ujiji. No Livingstone to greet him this time, but happy memories of the three months he spent with his mentor. My plan was to catch the ferry to the south end of the lake and then kayak 500km back to Ujiji. I had decided to go completely solo and travel without my support vehicle. This is remote Africa where very few roads touch the lake.
The three-day ferry journey south is an eventful spectacle. Every three hours the captain cuts the engines near the shore. Local merchants draw alongside in their canoes and pass enormous sacks filled with dried fish on to the ferry. Supplies and people jump down from the ship into the empty canoes. How no one was crushed or drowned I do not know. I watched this worrying how I would cope. Fortunately when we reached Katanga on the Zambian border we drew alongside a makeshift jetty. A large group of locals crowded round me as I squeezed my kit into the kayak. "My friend, where are you going in that small boat of yours?" asked an old mzee (wise man). "Ujiji," I replied. "Aye yae yae! But you have just come from there?" "I know." "Why don't you wait and take the ferry back in two days time?"
He had a point. There were numerous times I had tried to explain to local people why I was travelling in this slow and "un-Westernised" way. I don't think any of them fully understood my reasoning. At that stage, I'm not sure I did either, although this was to change over the next month as Lake Tanganyika made its mark on me.
For the first time on my journey I had no one else to look after or help me. I felt truly alone. Navigation was simple. I was on the eastern side of the lake heading north. All I had to do was keep the shore on my right shoulder. If it was on my left I was either going back where I had come from or I had drifted across to the Congo.

Lake Tanganyika must be one of the cleanest lakes in the world. It is also the longest and the second deepest. It was an amazing feeling gliding over the calm morning waters watching the brightly coloured aquarium fish swimming below. Each morning I swam, breakfasted, packed my kayak and pointed it north towards Ujiji. It would take me half an hour to warm up my shoulders before I settled into a comfortable rhythm. Short-term goals are essential. To look at the whole picture too often becomes demoralising. 5km, water break; 10km, water and 15-minute rest; 18kms lunch (home-made chapattis); 25km, water break, start looking for a beach to camp on; 28-35km, beach the kayak and enjoy the peaceful late afternoon. I felt at home with this daily routine.

The first time it happened I was nervous. It reminded me of the photos that Stanley had taken on the lake. I looked out across the water and saw the silhouette of a canoe coming towards me. I could make out the figures of six men paddling silently in unison. I wasn't sure what they wanted. They came ashore 50m down the beach and then sat and watched me as I continued to write my diary. After a while I decided it was up to me to break the ice - after all I was a visitor on their beach. I greeted them in my pidgin Swahili: "Salama, karibu sana." Four of them walked towards me, stopping beside my kayak. One of the smaller ones opened: "We're fine thank you. We saw you passing our village this afternoon, waving your yellow sticks at us. What is this boat of yours and where is the engine?" I spent the next hour laughing and joking with these guys trying to explain why wazungus (white men) do these expeditions. They were fascinated by my kayak, tapping it, poking their heads inside the separate watertight chambers and practising paddling technique. They wanted one but sadly this one wasn't for sale. They returned the next morning to give me some fish they'd caught overnight, warned me again about the big waves and wished me good luck on my journey. I sensed an enormous feeling of mutual respect between us, which I was to find the whole way up this amazing lake.

The last 150km were memorable for different reasons. I had spent a week recuperating at Greystoke Camp on the shores of Mahale NP, sitting in the forest watching chimpanzees watching me. My mindset had to change as I was joined by my friend Mark who flew out to join me for this final section. I'd been warned that double kayaks test the best of friendships. Despite nearly sinking on one occasion and keeping our eyes peeled for crocodiles at the mouths of rivers we bonded well and made good headway.
As we camped on the final night I could see the lights from Ujiji in the distance. I remember thinking I wanted time to slow down. I didn't want to leave the lake. I enjoyed its company. The next day I was glad to have a good mate with me as I arrived on the beach at Ujiji. However Mark wasn't just that, he was one of the reasons why I had embarked on this journey. His greatest friend Charlie Waller had committed suicide in 1998.

One of the underlying aims of my expedition was to raise publicity about the Charlie Waller Memorial Trust, set up to increase awareness about depression. In 2000 I had a mental breakdown when my wheels came flying off. I'd felt periods of depression since I was a teenager.
So how does Stanley fit in with all this? Well, I believe Stanley also suffered from depression although nothing was known about it in those days. Reading his expedition diaries and accounts of his life helped me untangle a lot of my own thoughts. At the end of this journey I stood under the mango tree at the very spot where Stanley first met Livingstone. Both men had travelled a long way before that famous meeting. I felt I'd come a long way to understanding more about the man in whose steps I had followed.

Stanley's first words to Livingstone are often disputed, but as we have no reason to argue the great advenurer himself, here is his account of that moment:

"I would have run to him, only I was a coward in the presence of such a mob - would have embraced him, but that I did not know how he would receive me; so I did what moral cowardice and false pride suggested was the best thing - walked deliberately to him, took off my hat, and said:
‘Dr Livingstone, I presume?'
‘Yes,' said he, with a kind, cordial smile, lifting his cap slightly." (from How I Found Livingstone)

Stanley's African Expeditions

1871-72: Expedition to discover the fate of Dr Livingstone, who had been missing for almost five years. Discovered Livingstone at Ujiji near Lake Tanganyika after 236 days.

1874-77: The second expedition covered over 7000 miles in 999 days and crossed the continent from east to west, charting the route of the Congo river. Circumnavigated Lakes Victoria and Tanganyika. Disproved Livingstone's theory that the Lualaba was a source of the Nile. Of 356 men, only 115 survived the journey - Stanley was the only surviving European.

1887-89: The third expedition, to rescue Emin Pasha, the Governor of Equatoria, from the hands of the Mahdist revolt. Covered 6032 miles and took two and a half years. Discovered the Ruwenzori mountain range, Lake Edward and the river connecting it to Lake Albert, thereby solving the final mystery of the Nile's source.

Minds Do Matter

Simon set out on this journey for the benefit of the Charlie Waller Memorial Trust - a registered charity devoted to raising awareness about depression and to eradicating any stigma associated with depression or mental illness.
One in four people suffer from depression at some point in their life.
15% of those who are not treated commit suicide. For information on the symptoms and treatment of depression, or for help, visit www.cwmt.org