You always hear stories from travellers about the amazing hospitality they received. A chance meeting with a millionaire leads to a week on his yacht in the Red Sea.

Crossing Zimbabwe’s Lake Kariba on the mailboat we five travellers realised our time had come. We were 21/2 hours from Binga when a white man in his early 40’s roared by in his sleek speedboat and motioned for the ferry to stop at the next bay.

As we drew nearer we could see thatched cottages in a clearing and a bar overlooking the lake. It was an exclusive and expensive fishing lodge. After two nights of sleeping on fertiliser sacks, eating bread and jam and drinking warm water we fantasised about how great it would be to stay there. The boat docked and we were invited up for a look. The owner, Mike, introduced himself and the staff got us cold beers while he showed us around. “Why don’t you guys stay a day or two?” he asked. “We’d love to, but it’s out of our price range,” we said. “Look,” he said, “I’ve been alone for a week. There are no clients due for another week and I’d love some company. If you’re happy to pay your bar bill you can stay for free.”

We accepted and adjourned to the bar. The beers flowed, the sun set over the lake and in between making Ruben and Stanley jump at his every command, our host entertained us with stories about rich Texans and famous politicians who’d stayed at the lodge and on his houseboats.

Dinner was announced and as we sat ravenously eating the first real food we’d seen in days, we discussed hunting. Mike sent the cook to get his shotgun. It was a pump action 12-gauge shotgun. He insisted we take turns firing into the night. It was fun until Ruben angrily took the gun, reminding the now drunk Mike, that shooting in a National Park after dark was illegal.

We drank long into the night, danced on the bar and partied away, finally stumbling to our beautifully appointed cottages. Mike was up at 7am, drink in one hand, keen to continue the party. We convinced him that breakfast was a necessity before we could consider more alcohol. That inconvenience out of the way, he ordered the staff to fuel up a boat and load it with drinks. On the water we began to notice Mike contradict himself and that some of his stories were a bit implausible. When talking, amongst ourselves about a popular hostel owner, Mike said, “Yeah, we were at school together. He smokes a lot of dope”. This seemed unlikely since Peter was 70 if he was a day and was born, raised and educated in Scotland.

A plastered Mike insisted we moor alongside a Zambian fishing boat. He insulted the fisherman, offered them jobs, plied them with grog and gave them a fishing rod. At the lodge he flew into a rage after Ruben brought the wrong speedboat back after delivering a radio message to his $1000US a day houseboat moored nearby.

He’d already told us how useless the young white guy he’d employed to run the business was. He decided to get his speedboat back and fire Marcus at the same time. We exchanged “Is this guy a fruitcake, or what?” glances. An hour later, the speedboat arrived back with Mike no longer flamboyantly at the wheel, but sitting quietly in the passenger seat. A man looking decidedly grim got out of the boat carrying a huge rope and marched up the lawn.

When our cheery “hellos” were not returned, we knew we were in the poo. “Folks,” he said, “We’ve got a problem. Do you realise this is a $300 per night fishing lodge?”

His reply when we told him that the owner had invited us to stay for free, is unprintable. Mike, it transpired, was not the high rolling millionaire businessman he’d claimed to be. Found sleeping on the street by the real owner who felt sorry for him, he had been given a job doing minor boat repairs. He’d yet to finish his two week trial period.

Marcus, the manager, was understandably furious. Mike had allowed five people to stay for free, had crossed illegally into Zambian waters while taking us joy riding, given away company property, illegally discharged a firearm in a National Park and consumed large quantities of alcohol. A police helicopter was on the way to arrest him and Marcus planned to knock Mike down and tie him up.

We packed our bags, laughing madly and speculating on the potential for financial ruin. Luckily Marcus was a reasonable man and laughed when we told him that Mike had been on his way to fire him. We paid for our bar bill and our meals and piled in the speedboat to be taken to Binga.

We left as the helicopter arrived. Our last view was a handcuffed Mike being frog-marched to the chopper.