I did see another poster with his full title “His Excellency Sheikh Professor Alhaji Dr. Yahya A.J.J. Jammeh” which is a bit much for a business card. He must be very smart to be both a Professor and a Doctor. There was also a sucking up message from the Africell phone company “Congratulations Mr President – We look forward to another term of development in the Gambia” (which could be code for ‘can we have to rights to …..’). I also passed a sign pointing out the strangely titled “Abiding Word Ministries Headquarters”. I couldn’t work out what they did.

When I reached a main road at a T-Junction there was a statue of figures holding hands around a plinth. According to my map, I had to take a right. I followed the road past closed premises and eventually came across endless spare car part businesses – all open on a Sunday. Along with ‘Jim Churchill’s Town’ which offered. “Hardwere” and “Spare Rodes” I saw my first male hairdressers which was advertised as ‘Barbing Saloon’ with paintings of heads and hair/facial hair styles. Lots of people said hello and no one bothered me, although I was the only white person walking along the street. Someone said “How’s your money?” which I thought was an invitation to exchange money but they were actually saying “How’s your morning?” Throughout the week, I would be greeted with “Big Man”, “Big Guy”, “Tough Guy”, “Tough Man” and big smiles.

I walked for miles down this road, assuming I was on the outskirts of Banjul. Herds of goats were standing by the side of the road under trees. It was a goat market and I got chatting to one of the owners. After the usual “Where are you from?”, “What is your name?” “How long have you been here?” etc, I pointed down the road and said “Banjul?” No. He pointed back from where I had come. “How far?” I asked, rather shocked. He pointed to an 18km road marker nearby. I had actually walked to the outskirts of Serrekunda the biggest town in the Gambia. Doh! He explained I could get a bush-taxi for 10D if I walked back to where they pulled in. So I did.

The bush taxis or ‘gellah gellahs’ are a cheap and efficient way of getting around and I used them all week. It was cheaper than renting a bike and you could cover good distances to new places. On my first ride to Banjul, the minibus actually broke down with the engine making a strange noise. The ‘conductor’ flagged down a yellow taxi, got four of us in and paid the fare. I was amazed. Anywhere else and they would have said tough and cut their losses. We were dropped at another taxi area, where I got on another minibus into Banjul. It involved crossing Denton Bridge where there were police checking licence and car details. The most impressive (if you would call it that) monument is Arch 22 which you pass as you enter Banjul. Arch 22 is a massive, cream coloured free standing structure spanning Independence Drive, which was built by President Jammeh to commemorate his coup of July 22, 1994 and to herald a new era in Gambian history. Completed in 1996, it cost (for Gambia) an astonishing $1.15m. I would pass this monument a few times during the week. There was a town sign that said “Banjul – Sincerity, Honesty, Patriotism”.

Banjul (Pop 436,000), the Gambia’s laidback, low-rise capital, lies on a small, flat island jutting into the mouth of the River Gambia at the district’s north eastern tip. It is separated from the resorts and the more populous urban areas further inland by an expanse of saltwater wetlands. Hot and hemmed in by mangroves, river and sea, it’s a small city and a daytime centre only. It’s commercial bustle is centred around its docks which are an important gateway for imports and exports.

On a hot lazy Sunday afternoon, I walked through scruffy, deserted and often unsealed streets to see where the ferry arrived and left for my trip to Senegal later in the week. As soon as a ferry arrived, dozens of people piled off carrying luggage on their heads or pushing carts, in addition to the fume belching trucks that disembarked to clog the surrounding streets. The arrival of the ferry made an immediate, vivid impression with the hustle and bustle and colourful clothes being worn by the women. A man led a herd of goats down the street, but I hadn’t seen him get off the ferry.

Having been walking for hours without a drink since breakfast, I found a small stall open with a wooden counter and wire mesh above it for security and bought 3 bottles of freezing cold local lemonade. I stood and chatted to the youth manning the shop. He was mad on English football mad and raved on about Chelsea Football club.

The markets were not open today, so I headed back up Independence Drive towards Arch 22. En route, I passed a church opposite a mosque and then the National Assembly – their parliament which locked like an on old colonial one story wooden building with a tin roof. Three men were sat in chairs on the forecourt in the shade and waved me around to the entrance. They were ‘security’ though one was a policeman just hanging out with his mates. As we chatted about English football and the African Cup, I noticed a large bird descend near a puddle. I thought I recognized the bird but surely not here. “Vultures”, one of the men pointed. “They come to drink the water.” It was nice to sit and chat for a while and tell them about England.

I walked on to a place where I saw 3 people waiting for rides and assumed the bush taxis would stop. But nothing was passing mid afternoon. A large 4 wheel Toyota Land cruiser pulled up and the young driver waved everybody on the back. I was told to get inside. He was giving everyone a free lift in a brand new vehicle. I was dropped at the T-Junction with a policeman. We waited for 10 minutes for a bush taxi before I asked if any came down this road. “Not very often” he said and invited me to walk with him.

Lamin was heading for the British High Commission Office at Fajara to do the night shift guarding it. We walked past fields where women were tending market crops. ”People have areas where they grow vegetables to sell at the markets.” We walked for 45 minutes together and he told me he had been in the police force for 8 years. It wasn’t well paid, but it was a steady job. He had taken exams at 5 years to get promotion and would do more after 10 years service. He also showed me a photo of his wife and child.

After I left him, I walked along the coast road past the Fajara golf course onto Kotu Beach. It was full of tourists taking strolls late in the afternoon. Local men and boys were doing exercises on the beach – pull ups, press ups and running. I was amazed over the week just how many Gambian men were jogging or doing press ups on the beach. I followed a lane past the Kotu Stream wetlands where I saw a black African heron and then onto the hotel on the same road. En route, I was getting offers of taxis, souvenirs and bird-watching guides. I hadn’t had any of this up to now. But they were easily dismissed.

My feet felt very sore after about 8 hours of walking. I think I had walked about 20 miles today. I had a refreshing swim in the hotel pool. I felt parched and tired. I kept making cups of tea and coffee in my room with condensed milk and lived off snacks I had brought with me. It was a very early night! The following morning (Monday), I thought I would take a walk down the coast along the beaches. The Rough Guide said “The Gambia’s south western coast is a continuous strip of shallow bays harbouring sandy beaches for about 50km.The landscape varies along the way: some of the bays are much broader than others, some are fringed with mature palms and others are backed by low sandstone cliffs or scrubby dunes bound by beach convolvulus. Some are totally empty while some are busy fishing centres”

After breakfast, I turned left at the main road and headed south to Serra Gambia, the next resort area. Near the hotel I spotted a lagoon with lush green vegetation and numerous birds. I walked across a small holding to reach it and stood and watched the birds. I would revisit this lagoon a few times during the week, especially at dusk. Although it was near the main road, it was peaceful place and I got some great photographs.

Further down the highway, there were a few ‘garden centres’ with lots of colourful flowers in bloom. I was taking photos of the flowers when a couple of women caught me up. “How far is it to the Serra Gambia Hotel?” I got out my map and saw it was a couple of miles. They were both Scottish and were off to see about buying property, though I couldn’t work out why they didn’t seem to know where they were and why they were not wearing comfortable shoes. I flagged down a bush taxi and we climbed aboard. They hadn’t used one of these. It took us to the main crossroads (with the new traffic light) and I pointed out the road they wanted. I got out as well and continued south.

Further on to my right, I came across a path lined with bamboo which looked like it would take me to the beach. I arrived at the Kololi Beach which was miles of beautiful sand and virtually deserted. The tide was out and lots of small shells were lying in the damp sand. As I headed south, someone would appear about every quarter of a mile. They would ask if I wanted a drink or to come to their café or bar. Many ‘establishments’ were just a stall with a few sun beds. I gently dismissed them saying I would be coming back. It was very ‘low key hassle’ and nothing like I had expected. Gambia used to be infamous for its hassle.

It was a lovely beach walk that stretched on for miles onto Bijilo Beach and then Brufut Beach. I had passed the occasional European couple and jogging Gambian man. More tourists appeared as I reached the Sheraton resort which looked like paradise compared to my hotel. Most tourists were either on sun beds or by the pool. No one was swimming in the lovely blue sea. I came across another policeman who was walking along the beach. Lamin had a big smile. We had a long chat. He had been in the police for 6 years. Maybe all policemen are called Lamin in the Gambia.

Further along I saw two lines of men, about half a dozen on each rope, pulling in a fishing net that had been cast from the shore. I was invited to grab hold and help them pull it in. We would pull in the rope slowly and someone would coil it up behind up. Then we would drag it towards the other group and pull it in some more. It probably took 30 minutes to pull the whole net in and when it was on the beach, it was empty apart from a small crab! Three local women were carrying buckets on their head with fish for sale but hey didn’t get a refill here.

After the Sheraton, a ‘bumster’ joined me and we walked for 20 minutes. He was giving me the patter offering me things. I wasn’t interested and said so, but he stayed with me. Fishing piroques bobbing just off shore, were strung with flags and painted white with bold geometric designs in dazzling primary colours. There were many more at Brufut beach, were lines of boats were waiting on the sand for the tide to turn, the fishermen mending nets and the women sorting the latest catch.

I stood and took photos. I told the ‘bumster’ that I was leaving him there while I walked on. He was not happy and yelled “Big Feet!” as he walked off. As soon as I got rid of him, another joined me and stayed with me. I had been walking for over 3 hours along the beach and I could see it go on around a bend. “Where are you going?” “Along the beach..” “It’s very dangerous. I will take you.” Eh? Give me a break. I couldn’t shake him.

In the end, I saw a forest on a cliff and headed up there, leaving him on the beach. I found a path which took me through a peaceful area of vegetation. I saw a weaver’s nest in a tree and heard monkeys in the undergrowth. I didn’t realise it, but I had entered the Tanji River Karinti Bird Reserve (just north of Kanji). I didn’t see anyone else in it. I kept heading south through the reserve and eventually ended back up on the beach. I hadn’t bought any water with me and felt parched.

Heading back inland, I knew I would eventually come across a road and hopefully a bush taxi would take me back to Serra Gambia. I followed my nose through very dry landscapes, scrubland, short trees and the occasional yellow monkey. It was around 1pm and the sun was above me and roasting everything. I started to hear infrequent traffic and followed the myriad of trails towards the sound of cars. I estimated I had walked at least 20 km today.

Reaching the road, I saw a bush taxi approaching on my side of the road. I waved it down and was ushered into the front passenger alongside another person. ‘Serra Gambia?’ I asked. No Serrekunda. This was fine. We drove along a pretty empty road, and approached the outskirts, stopping at a school, where the pupils wore blue uniforms. There was also an advertising placard for a borehole company called ‘Sambo’ which didn’t seem a politically correct name in The Gambia.

There was police check. The driver told me to put my safety belt on. A woman police officer asked to see his licence and then said she had seen me put my safety belt as we approached the checkpoint. Apparently, front passengers must wear safety belts but no one told me. Despite protestations, the driver was ushered to a desk by the side of the road to be fined. After 5 minutes, someone in the minibus said to me ‘They are just looking for money from the driver. You did nothing wrong. This could take an hour. We might as well walk.’ So I walked into the centre of Serrekunda with a local. The place was heaving with bustling streets of markets, cars, and people walking around carrying stuff or doing shopping. This was the commercial centre of the Gambia but few tourists ever see it.

My companion had come into town from Brikama to buy some computer cable. He took me into the centre and then pointed down a side street. The bush taxis left here for Kotu. After my long walk, my throat was parched so I looked for a shop on the side street and came across a small sparsely stocked wooden hut. I had 3 wonderfully cold lemonades while I chatted to the woman who was a little surprised to have a western man in her shop. When I asked for a tin of condensed milk, she didn’t have any but yelled at a small child on the street to run into another shack/shop across the road and brought it to me.

I climbed aboard a bush taxi for Kotu. While I waited, I saw 4 men sitting near the minibus bus wearing colourful costumes. I attempted to slyly take a photo from the window. One of them asked what I was doing and told me not to do it again. As we pulled away, another passenger said ‘They are the owners of this taxi garage’. I assume that taxi drivers have to pay them to use it.

I was back in the hotel by 4pm. It had been an interesting day. I cooled my body in the swimming pool and read on a sun-bed by the pool as the sun dropped. That evening, I walked up the road from the hotel to the nearby Al-Baba restaurant where I had an excellent prawn pizza and a couple of ice cold Julbrew beers.

My original idea was to get up early the next morning and head for Senegal. But I felt very tired from the previous two days walking and heat and decided to spend another day exploring the area. After breakfast, I caught a bush taxi to Serrekunda and walked around until I found the road where I could get a ride to Brikama. It was market day and lines of stalls were set up along roadsides. Women were sat on the ground surrounded by their vegetables for sale.

It was around a 30 minute ride to Brikama, the southern regional capital that lies inland of the resort area. There was a wide road through the town. The taxis all pulled in to a busy transport area. I walked back out of town from where we had arrived, back past piles of firewood for sale to the Wood Carvers Market that many tourist groups visit on their excursions. En route, I saw a sign which advertised ‘Apparentiships’ (Apprenticeships) and passed the ‘Wembley Videos’ shop which stated “We have a closet for the elders”. I wasn’t sure what this meant. Did they have a private area for dirty old men to watch dodgy films? The other strange sight was 5 young boys walking towards me, one banging a stick on an old plastic container. Behind them was another youth wearing a strange multicoloured costume from head to foot. He was clutching a long knife in each hand. It was obviously a local tradition, but I never discovered what they were up to.

When I entered the Wood Carvers Market, a tour group was already there. A youth pretended he had met me yesterday in Serrekunda. At first, I thought he was the guy who I had met yesterday buying cable since. But as he tried to lure me to a stall, I asked what he was buying in Serrekunda yesterday when I met him. He had no answer and I walked away. There were a couple of men carving wood but mostly it was a compound of stalls and open shops selling wood carvings, necklaces etc. I had a stroll around but nothing stood out.

Eventually, I saw a stall tucked away which had some nice necklaces and stopped to take a look. The owner, Saikou also had wooden masks. I started to inspect the necklaces and masks and the haggling started in a gentle way. I bought some necklaces for about £2 each and since there wasn’t much going on, I was invited to sit and chat. Saikou told me that he had been involved in excavating a well, where a village had been attacked in the past. He had found some ‘treasure’ which he had donated to the national museum but which belongs to his village. He was hoping to excavate more of the area but couldn’t get a grant. He was a nice man and not at all pushy. We eventually agreed on a price for a mahogany mask rubbed with black shoe polish. I also took his photo (which I posted to him when I came home).

Walking back into the centre, an army truck was hurtling down the middle of the road with two soldiers waving sub-machines at every car they saw. I wondered what was going on, until I saw a couple of black 4-wheel drive vehicles with dark windows follow them. The soldiers were telling any other motorist or horse and cart to get out of the way. Obviously high ranking officials were being escorted somewhere and rules don’t apply to them.

I spotted an internet café and had 20 minutes for 5D (12p). A youth on another PC started to chat and he escorted me, first to change £20 at a money changer and then to the taxi garage. Alagie said he was 20 and just finishing school and that his father had 4 wives. I wasn’t sure whether to believe him.

A bush taxi took me to Gunjar but there seemed to be nothing there apart from a sleepy transport hub. Women sat and sold fruit. Other women walked to the bus and climbed aboard. A man pushed a bike laden with household stuff for sale. I squeezed into the back and we headed north. I thought it would take me to Serrekunda, but it dropped me at a small roundabout near the airport.

I ended up walking for 90 minutes along a busy road and into Serra Gambia, which tore up my feet further and gave me blisters. A couple of locals tried the ‘we have met before’ chat up line. I checked out a couple of western type ‘supermarkets’ aimed at the tourists and ex-pats. Everything was brand name and obviously imported. Some stuff like Coke and lemonade still had the English prices on them. Products seemed to be double the price to what I could find in the UK.

After a swim in the pool, I had an early night and finished up my snacks. There was usually some kind of entertainment every evening, but I just wasn’t that bothered in coming down to watch it. It was nice to relax in my room, do a lot of reading and generally chill out after very active days. For the first 3 days, I had hardly seen any westerners once I was away from the resort area.

I was up at 5.30am on the Wednesday morning and out by 6am. No one was up. I had left a message for my lovely cleaner Fatima telling her I would probably be away for a couple of days in Senegal. I walked to the main road near the hotel and stood where I thought bush taxis might stop. But it was very dark even with the street lighting. After standing there for 5 minutes, a small jeep pulled up. I was ushered into the back seat. Inside, were a brother and sister, who were returning from a club (at 6am?). She looked stoned and he nursed a bottle of beer while driving. They told me that I “Should be careful. Not all Gambians are good Gambians”. They dropped me up the road about half way to the T-Junction that I had walked to on my first day.

I was hoping that a bush taxi would come past but none ever did. There were street lights ahead but as I walked down the road, they would switch themselves off, even though dawn had not arrived. So I ended up walking in complete darkness, with the occasional vehicle coming past. The only thing I could do when this happened was to walk off the road even though I couldn’t see where I going. I fell over at one point and badly scraped the palm of my hand. Eventually, I reached the T-Junction. I knew bush taxis would be headed for Banjul here, but it still took 15 minutes for one to pass. It dropped me quite a long way from the port and I walked through pretty deserted streets to the entrance where I bought a ticket to Barra for 10D (25p).

The 8am ferry was on its way back from Barra and there was a 30 minutes wait as it appeared and eventually approached the docking area. The sun had risen as a golden ball. There were a few westerners waiting but they all seemed to be on organised trips. When the ferry finally arrived, full of vehicles and passengers, a land cruiser drove onto the ramp by the boat. I was thinking “What an idiot. How is anyone going to get off the ferry if he is blocking the ramp.” He then returned to where he had been parked. I learnt later that the ramp doesn’t work very well, and when a ferry arrives, they need someone to drive a vehicle over it, so that it lowers to the ferry and vehicles can drive off. Doh! And there I was thinking he was just trying to get a head start. Passengers poured off the ferry carrying goods on their heads or on bicycles Then the vehicles started to disembark, including a truck that had it’ s driver cab smashed up and much of the bodywork crumpled. It had obviously been in an accident but was still drivable.

Once the ferry had emptied, the passengers boarded first. I grabbed a seat near a large party of Germans. I had started reading a book about ‘Stalingrad’ the famous World War Two battle, and was tempted to start yelling some of Hitler’s famous comments about how victorious they would be over the Russians. Once the vehicles had boarded, we finally departed around 8.30am. It seemed to take an age to potter around the edge of the capital and then across the Gambian River. Barra was only 5 km away from Banjul but it took nearly an hour and a half. I could see Arch 22 from the ferry. As we made the crossing, women would come around selling fruit, water, ice lollies. One man would attempt to start polishing someone’s shoes before they got a chance to refuse. The Germans had to keep explaining that they were wearing trainers which didn’t need polishing. At one point, I saw one of the long thin wooden ferries that also plied the river. Since one had sunk around 2003 drowning over 60 people, everyone was now required to wear a lifejacket and the rows of passengers in orange inflatable stood out on the river.

We disembarked at Barra around 10am. Next to the port was a transportation hub and market. The area was teeming with people and activity. I found a side entrance where someone took my ferry ticket and I entered the ‘taxi’ area. Someone yelled ‘Senegal?’ to me and guided me to a large minibus. I was told “Sit in front. You are nice.” The vehicle filled up quickly and we were off. The ride to the border cost 25D (less than 50p). We left the maelstrom of the market area and left Barra, motoring along an empty smooth road heading northeast. The landscape was flat sandy yellow grasslands with some low lying trees. We passed a couple of tour buses en route.

The small but busy commercial settlement of Fass was the first place of any note and the last town before the border. The market spilled across the main road, with people walking around and selling things in amongst the horses and carts and occasional car or taxi. There were fruit and vegetables, fish, clothes and jewellery being sold. The women wore traditional costumes and a lot of the men were in Muslim clothes.

After dropping a few people off, we continued the final 5km to the border at Amdullai. I climbed out and saw a money changer and changed £20 into Senegal currency. A youth with a scooter motioned me to get on. I had read in my guidebook that a scooter would take you to the border. Off we went for a couple of kilometres.

I was dropped in the middle of a village called Karang. I hadn’t seen any immigration offices and walked on out of town. I came across a police car parked by the side of the road. “Passport?” I asked him. He pointed back down the road from where I had come and at a milestone that said 2km. Eh? I flagged down another scooter and got a ride back to the border.

Somehow I had missed the Gambian immigration office, walked out of Gambia with no departure stamp and into Senegal with no entry stamp. That was a first! I was back at the area where the bus had dropped me. I spotted the one story Gambian immigration office. As I entered, someone said “We were yelling at you, but you didn’t hear us!” I was taken to a back office and asked a few questions. What is your job? Where are you staying? Where are you going? etc. The officer then told me that Senegal had a national public transportation strike and that I wouldn’t get to Dakar. I told him that the Gambia was my 118th visited country which impressed him and that if I couldn’t get to Dakar, I would just cross the border and have a look at Karang. He stamped me out of the Gambia and I said I would see him later.

I walked next door to the Senegal immigration, still amazed that I had missed both these offices. The immigration official at the desk also told me that there was a nation wide public transportation strike for three days and that “you can’t get anywhere today”. I repeated my story about visiting my 119th country even if it was just the border town. He stamped me in and I walked into town this time rather than take a scooter. I was still wondering if I might still find a ride somewhere, but when I reached the ‘bus station’ it was virtually deserted apart from a few women selling fruit and sweets. A herd of goats stood in the shade. A man was seated. I sat down with him. Although French is the official language, he spoke a little English and said the ‘strike may end on the 26th’ (tomorrow). The strike was against the existing President who has decided to ignore the maximum two terms and stand again for re-election in February. There had been riots in Dakar before Xmas when he announced his intentions.

Senegal background from the CIA website: The French colonies of Senegal and the French Sudan were merged in 1959 and granted their independence as the Mali Federation in 1960. The union broke up after only a few months. Senegal joined with The Gambia to form the nominal confederation of Senegambia in 1982. The envisaged integration of the two countries was never carried out, and the union was dissolved in 1989. Nevertheless, Senegal remains one of the most stable democracies in Africa. Senegal was ruled by a Socialist Party for 40 years until current President Abdoulaye Wade was elected in 2000. He was re-elected in February 2007 and has amended Senegal's constitution over a dozen times to increase executive power and to weaken the opposition, part of the president's increasingly autocratic governing style. Senegal has a long history of participating in international peacekeeping and regional mediation.

Karang was a sleepy border town. There were a few stalls by the roadside. I watched two youths make concrete bricks which dried in the sun. I wandered around a small dusty and smelly market that stunk of rotting fish and where raw meat was sold with flies buzzing all over it. There were clothes stalls and fruit and vegetables and one place selling piles of freshly baked baguettes. No-one bothered me as I strolled around. There was no where to eat any lunch either. I talked to a tailor while someone made clothes in a shack behind. I stopped for a couple of lemonades where the owner pointed at a young woman holding a baby “Do you want her?” he said in French and laughed. “Wife?”

I was in Senegal less than two hours and walked back to immigration. Even if I had got a ride to Dakar, and the strike did last a couple of days more, I would never have got back to the Gambia in time to get my flight home. In a way, I was lucky to have delayed the visit to the border by one day. Apparently, there were riots in Dakar during the strike. One of my work colleagues remembered which day I was intending to try and get to Dakar. When he heard about the riots he said “Well Bob must have arrived in Dakar. They are rioting.” So I’ll have to come back to Senegal in the future and do it properly.

Stamped back into The Gambia, I changed my Senegal currency into Gambian. I had only bought 3 lemonades. There were no bush taxis but there were yellow taxis. Someone offered me a ride for 830D (which was a bit of a rise from my bus ride there for 25D). I laughed and walked on. I knew that Fass was only 5km down the road and there would be better transport options there. I had only just left the border area, when a horse and cart pulled up. On board were the driver and 4 other men. One asked ‘Where are you going?’ Fass. He motioned to climb aboard and off we went. The price was 10D. The horse clip-clopped down the flat sealed road. Horses and carts were also coming the other way. It was such a lovely way to take in the landscape in slow motion and general silence. They asked me where I was from but kept conversation to a minimum. I think that ride was my favourite thing during my holiday.

As we approached Fass, the driver stopped to unload two large bags of grain/maize from the cart and someone else jumped on. I could see the market ahead and people covering the roads. Reluctantly, I got off the cart and walked through the market. I came across a parked Peugeot saloon. These are called ‘Sept-Place’ whereby you get a place in the 7 seater car. It was headed for Barra and I was offered the front seat for 25D. It took a while to fill the places. There was a goat market next door. Locals would come past and try and sell fruit, ice lollies, blankets. I bought a ice lolly off a small boy who carried them around in little round plastic bags on a tray on his head. Hoards of schoolchildren came past and said hello or tried to shake my hand.

With the car full at last, we took off for Barra. Our driver was very young. We passed though the police road checks without being stopped and were in Barra in around 20 minutes. The transport/market area was as chaotic as it had been this morning. I walked into the port area, purchased a ferry ticket and walked onto the ferry which had recently landed. I sat up on the small upper deck. The air was roasting hot. The youth next to me started to chat about English football, the African Cup and Gambia in general. His name was Seku. He had been on the 7am ferry this morning and was coming back I bought a plastic bag of frozen water from a woman and avoided the shoeshine man again. The return ferry was as slow as my previous one.

It was 4pm when we disembarked in the capital, Banjul. It was also the start of the mass exodus by workers since very few people live here. Seku and I compared notes on how quiet it had been first thing this morning. We walked to the bush taxis, most of which were full and got the final 2 seats in one. I was surprised that so many roads in the capital were bumpy unsealed affairs. In Serrakunda, we walked through areas of the market I hadn’t seen before. It was vast. The entire town seemed to be one huge market. Seku took me to the Kotu bush taxi area and said farewell with a hug. It was so nice to hang out with a friendly Gambian who was not looking for anything.

A familiar journey took me back to the hotel. I had mixed emotions. On the one hand, I felt as if I had been cheated out of seeing Senegal and not getting to Dakar. But I had the passport stamp and I had entered the country even if it was just a start. It also meant I could relax in Kotu for the final three days, having been to all the places I wanted to visit. After a pizza and beers at Al Baba, I slept very well as a result of the early start.

Fatima, my cleaner was surprised to see me back so soon. I explained everything. I pretty much spent the next two days sunbathing by the poolside and reading an excellent book on ‘Stalingrad’. My skin also burnt up in two days. Feeling as if I should do something, I walked down the main road to the supermarkets and then headed to the beach area to ‘Churchill’s’ bar which someone had recommended for cheap lunches. I sat at the bar and asked if they were still doing their ‘chicken curry’ lunch (even though it was 5pm). Another pot was just being cooked. Sipping a lovely cold draft glass of Julbrew, an elderly gentleman was sat next to me.

Lester introduced himself and proceeded to give me a plotted life history which was that he had lived and worked in Kenya for years. That his 60 year old step son had ‘stolen’ his life savings and was wanted by Interpol, that he had ended up in the Gambia for a short stay and had now been here three years, living at Churchill’s and that his 50 year old son hadn’t bothered to contact him since he moved here. He had had liver problems due to years of heavy spirit drinking, had been told by the doctor to quit drinking but had gradually weaned himself back onto beer which he was drinking now. He couldn’t stand the UK. He was just another ex-pat with a chip on his shoulder. His Liverpool bar buddy complained “Stop being so bloody negative all the time.” I chatted while waiting for the curry and chips which turned out to be pretty awful.

I walked back along the beach to the Kotu strand, my local beach which ironically I had not visited during my stay so far. There was a spectacular orange sunset over the Atlantic Ocean as a western woman and her Gambian guide took their horses along the beach and through the sea water. I cut through the Sunset View Hotel complex which was nearly deserted, then back along the wetlands lane to the hotel.

On my final day, Saturday 28th, I took a walk around the area between the hotels and the beach down to the next resort where I spent the remainder of my Gambian currency on a wall hanging adding to my ‘tat’ collection.. I walked along the beach, took some arty photographs of vegetation and came back to the hotel to spend the remaining hours by the pool. It was official. I was a package tourist. I don’t think I spoke to more than 3 people in the hotel all week. Everyone was in a couple or pairs. Any single western women attracted single Gambian men who would offer to look after them all week. The transfer bus collected up around 6pm, made a pick up at the Sheraton complex and took us to the airport for about 6.30pm. But the plane didn’t leave until 10.30pm so it was a long dull wait. The return flight was packed solid and I was trapped in a middle section seat inside from the asile. I didn’t move for 6 hours. We arrived at Manchester airport at 4.30am and took an age to get through passport control and get luggage. It had been 30+ ‘c in Gambia. It was -1’c in Manchester and had to scrape the ice off my windscreen.

Conclusion: Gambia was, as I anticipated, worth about 4 days of exploration. It does start to look the same after a while. The beaches are nice. The hassle was not half as bad as I had been led to believe and I would urge you to ignore the it’s previous reputation of ‘bumsters’. It is very low key now, The Gambians are very friendly people which I think with the sunshine, attracts repeat visits from tourists. I must say that without fail, I found all Gambian people very honest. I never had to worry about my change. Even as I left my seat on the plane, a Gambian tapped me on my shoulder and said ‘Is that yours?’ pointing at a £10 note on my seat. Personally, I think one visit is enough but something tells me I will be back because the flights are cheap and it would provide a good start for a tour of other West African countries.