O mercado turístico

You have to be in the mood to go to a street market like this, where you are accosted to buy strips of batik that you know have been mass produced in South Africa and sold as wholesale, not hand made by blind villagers in impoverished rural Mozambique, as you are led to believe.

My new friend Dina continues to be a font of all helpfulness as she slipped me into a spinning class for free at her gym, which is categorically the swishest, newest and emptiest gym I've ever been into, desperate for new clients. There are a lot of people with money in Maputo, and very many with very little, and the differences are extreme. The membership prices here are eye-watering and make the cost of David Lloyd gyms in the UK look like change you've scraped from behind the sofa.

The spinning class was the most hi-tech I've ever attended with wifi connection between each bike and a large screen at the front, displaying everyone's mileage and calories. A disaster for competitive sorts, of whom there tend to be many in spinning classes. Nowhere to hide with effort being displayed to all, so you can't sneakily turn down the resistance for a break as you can in bog standard spinning. Dripping with sweat as we exited, an instructor of body pump who appeared to be nine months pregnant, was accosting people for her class. There was no way any of us were going to risk being weaker than someone who could quite easily have gone into labour during the workout.

Dinner at the Radisson courtesy of the Seychelles government.