Plane friends, and the adventure ends

As the old adage says, 'Home is... where the WiFi connects automatically'.

You may be reassured to know that I am safely back in Plumstead, sitting at my desk, watching the local JWs hastily head to their hall just up the road as they do every Tuesday, or is it Wednesday, I still can't quite be sure.  I'm typing to you from Pavilion.  Yoga is to a pointy boat, what Pavilion is to the Barra / Banjul ferry.  

The second leg of the homeward journey, where weary travellers had spent the intervening hours patiently awaiting their turn at the limited charging points, was very pleasant, mainly because I found myself sitting next to a new friend who I have no doubt is reading this blog.  We actually chatted for the full three-and-a-half hours of the flight.  I'm afraid I relayed most of my adventures verbally, so apologies Alison - much of the previous blog entries won't be news to you.

Lunch was infinitely preferable to the indeterminable part of an animal embalmed in a chunk of dry bread which I had been served for breakfast.  I think Royal Air Maroc had purchased a new chicken, most probably with that huge wad of cash I had given them yesterday.  I enjoyed a final proper Coke, which I won't drink again until I am next abroad.

I glided through immigration, using a trusty electronic gate situation which negates the need to even speak to anyone, which is a tiny bit sad, but speeds up the process I suppose.  

Then it was baggage o'clock and I trundled off to the baggage hall with my two new friends, one of whom didn't have any baggage because Royal Air Maroc lost it on the way out two months ago and it now appears to be in China.  

My trusty orange tortoise (who admittedly doesn't look that orange with her cover on) was lying unassumedly on the carousel; most other travellers found that their baggage had been suffocated by shrink-wrapped, environment-killing plastic, which was discombobulating as travellers weren't recognising their own luggage.  I'm glad my trusty orange tortoise didn't get shrink-wrapped as I think she'd have suffocated.  She's had quite a time these last few days with all these wild trips on top of minibuses and bush taxis and needs a good wash - now quite sure how I'll do that, but I'll sort it out somehow.

I bade farewell to my #PlaneFriends, my head buzzing from lack of sleep combined with a quirky Reggae version of multiple Ed Sheeran songs which I heard in The Gambia at various times, where Ed is busy reeee-writing the stars with a punchy Reggae beat going on; his song 'Perfect' also sounds quite unique with a Reggae beat, if you can imagine that.

I jumped onto the shuttle train - me, Ed's songs and my trusty orange tortoise - then onto the train to London Bridge, then a train to Plumstead, then onto a 177 bus.  My timing was perfect as I hit the beginning of the rush hour, which displeased a handful of commuters, though they were most probably miserable anyway and mainly predictably attached to their devices.  They should try commuting in a bush taxi.

So now it's time to pick up the threads and start ploughing through seven burgeoning inboxes of e-mails and a huge pile of post (which, at a quick first glance seems to contain confirmation of the renewal of my Girlguiding Trainer Qualification, plus a shiny new travel insurance policy - thanks, Aviva)  

It's time to locate the clipboard of knowledge and my latest to-do list and start highlighting 'quick win' situations which can be nailed in an e-mail or two, then start planning training work for the next few months, six term plans using the girls' ideas, plus organise Guide camp, Rainbow sleepover and all sorts of other exciting projects.

A new microwave has been installed in the kitchen.  It has a button which simply says 'chaos'.  I like this.

If anyone reads this far (I wouldn't have) - thanks for sharing this adventure with me.  If you've enjoyed it, tell someone about it and maybe they will enjoy it too.  If you have a friend who might offer me a lucrative publishing deal, then definitely tell them about it.  If you didn't enjoy it, then just accept my apologies and leave it at that.

I've experienced two new places, many different cultures, made numerous friends along the way, spoken plenty of French, laughed, cried, prayed, read and even relaxed a little.  I go on an adventures for self-discovery; to learn, to grow, to be challenged, to think, to write, and just to be.  I highly recommend it.  

Until next time.

Deporting the cat

Arriving at Banjul Airport for the second time in twenty-four hours was like walking into a reunion. 

‘Helen – you are now on the flight?’ – said the Phone Boy who was waiting for me at the door, when the driver from Woodpecker Resort dropped me off – he introduced himself as ‘Allergy’ – I am EpiPen trained you know, so was quite prepared. 

Woodpecker Resort include a transfer to the airport in the price of the room.  The hotel is actually opposite the entrance to Banjul International Airport, although the approach road is about a mile long, once you’ve waved at the security people and various extras in the adjacent shack.  I still can’t believe I’d contemplated walking that, in the middle of the night, with my Giant Orange Tortoise, by myself.      

‘Helen – welcome back!’ – said Lamine, the driver who had transported me to and from Woodpecker Resort and then to and from the Royal Air Maroc office that morning.

‘Helen – are you now booked on the right flight?’ – said the man with the Sparkly T-shirt who had had found Lamine for me.

I headed over to the Cart to see my friends from yesterday and purchased some drinks for the Phone Boy and a fellow traveller I had just met, who was also travelling to London.  They were all happy to see me.  The 13-year-old boy wasn’t there and the cart was now manned by an actual man.

We sat drinking Coke just outside the check-in area, waiting for it to open.  A scrawny ginger cat – one of the ones who had frequented the cart last night, strolled arrogantly into the check-in area. 

‘Helen – I am happy that you are now departing’ – said the Royal Air Maroc supervisor who had been the first to advise me that the flight the previous night was full. 

We said goodbye to the Phone Boy and trundled through the security arch and into immigration which consisted of four booths manned by gruff immigration officers.    

‘Helen? Is that you? I thought you had already gone’ – it was the immigration officer I had chatted to at the cart the previous night.

‘Yes, it’s me’.

‘You don’t have a twin sister’.

‘Not as far as I know – have you heard otherwise?’

He looked blank.

We chatted as I tried to manipulate my pterodactyl-like thumbs onto the tiny green screen that would let me out of the country.  It’s always a problem with those machines, as my thumbs are double-jointed so can’t naturally press onto that curious screen.  It would make playing the harp very difficult, if I played the harp, which I don’t.    

Curiously, immigration were asking everyone where they had been staying whilst in The Gambia which struck me as a bit pointless, considering that we were about to depart.

We went into the departure lounge, which consisted of an inside part and outside part filled with plastic tables and chairs adorned with plastic check tablecloths.  We sat outside and ordered some drinks with our final fist of Dalasis.  I just wrote fish instead of fist – my fingers are defaulting to ‘fish’.

The place gently filled with in intriguing mixture of travellers – lobster-red tourists heading home from holiday, their skin gently showing signs of peeling off like a snake shedding its skin; Gambians heading out on business; a large but miserable Scandinavian family occupied several chairs and tables – they didn’t have smile between them, or if they did, it had been lost.

We had to campaign for the WiFi password due to it only being available with the purchase of food, which we were not purchasing; I used my gentle powers of negotiation to obtain it.  The barman who gave it to me was about as happy as an angry porcupine.

The cat had made it through security and immigration and continued to prowl arrogantly around the departure lounge, awaiting its flight with the rest of us.

Eventually, there was an apocalypse of furious light and overwhelming sound.  Or it might have been the plane arriving.   

The time came and there was a flurry of people in uniforms with ID tags dangling around their necks.  The amassed bunch of sun-kissed travellers, Gambians heading home and abroad, the angry Scandinavian family and assorted extras queued up to show our passports once again.

I got to the front – ‘Helen! So you are now leaving for sure’ – it was the lady who had first told me my flight had left the previous day.  When she had said there was no space on the flight, I'd offered to help out as additional cabin crew, or to help the pilots in the cockpit - 'I'm very helpful', I'd said.  'I don't think that will be possible', she'd retorted, her expression unchanged.    

‘Yes indeed, I am leaving for sure!’ – this time, there were handshakes and laughter all-round.

We boarded the Royal Air Maroc flight and there seemed to be about a hundred other people who hadn’t been in the departure lounge, already in the plane.  Maybe they had arrived in the plane, or maybe they were just making up the numbers.

I had three whole seats to myself, so once we were air-borne I put all the arm rests down and lay across all three, just as though I was in business class.  The flight attendant looked like the human Moroccan equivalent of an awkward Road Runner, but moving slower and wearing a cardigan.  He was meant to come through the cabin with whatever that stuff is that they use to fumigate the cabin prior to take off, but seemed to get distracted a third of the way in, then suddenly remember that he was meant to be walking through the cabin with what looks like a broken firework.  The canister had expired before he reached the middle.

I was in blissful slumber when Road Runner woke me up and presented me with a grim breakfast in an ominous box.  I know I shouldn’t complain but it consisted of an indeterminable part of an animal embalmed in half a chunk of dry bread, plus a dry cake, then horrible coffee.  I fear that breakfast on the flight I am waiting for now will be another part of the same indeterminable animal embalmed in the other half of the dry bread.  I shall decline.  On the way out, I’m sure I had the same actual chicken on both flights.  Honestly.

I didn’t see the cat on the flight.

Everything is baobab

Yes it would.

I was able to withdraw the finances required (and wonder if I can claim this back under some sort of 'idiot mistake' clause which may or may not be contained within my travel insurance policy, which it would be good to receive, Aviva!) - somehow the ATM let me take what I needed, albeit in smaller chunks than was ideal.  I sneakily bundled it into my very own brown envelope which the kindly lady had given me.  

Lamine drove me back to the airport office, where I lovingly counted out inches worth of dilapidated currency to equal the desired amount.  I had been able to pay some sort of penalty for re-booking after missing the flight, rather than having to buy a new ticket.  If that had happened, that would have required significantly more inches of currency and I would have had to have gone to make friends at the Embassy.  I'm still waiting to be followed-back.  Story of my life.

I thanked the lady at Royal Air Maroc, who has a four-month-old and two other young children.  I asked her how motherhood was going and she said that it was going ok.  

So this really is it - my final few hours in Africa, this time.  As I said, this place gets inside you, it draws you back.  There's something about the way of life, the friendship, the simplicity, the landscapes - I've seen breath-taking sunsets, intriguing wildlife, stunning seascapes with huge waves crashing onto untainted powdered sands.  It's a place where time isn't money, where people aren't in a hurry (except in vehicles, where everyone is in a massive hurry - more prayer goes into travel than anything else).  There's time for greetings, for chatting, for getting to know people.  We are human beings, not human thinkings or human doings, and I think sometimes in the frenetic lives we lead, we lose sight of the fact that it is ok to just be.  

I've stayed in places which have been generally basic, but have met my needs.  They've been mainly guesthouses, where you are literally a guest in a large house where a family and often their angry pets live, and they've turned a few available rooms into guest rooms.  I like that feeling - you can do your own thing, but you have somewhere homely to be, even if it's just for a couple of days.  They are all big enough to feel secure, but small enough that it's first name terms straightaway, with consistent greetings and checks that everything is ok.  I think my French has improved a little, which is useful - maybe I can apply for that 'French-Speaking Trainer' after all.... ou peut-etre pas.

I've read through my blog today and am only now appreciating how long it is - I commend anyone who has read the whole thing - I struggled, and I wrote it.  

Everything is baobab.  Campement Baobab; Restaurant Baobab; Mission Baobab; Café Baobab.  I first learnt about baobab trees when I studied Le Petit Prince when I did A-level French.  I didn't understand most of it, but it involved a small prince and some very big knobbly trees which were baobab trees.  These big knobbly trees are everywhere in Africa and have become synonymously symbolic of Africa.  This trip, I saw these in the flesh, or perhaps, in the bark, in Bijilo National Park, with my guide Sean / Mustafa, after my creepy encounter with the middle-aged bumster.  I've since read-up on them - it is usual to pretend to have been a policeman in the past - the bumster, not the baobab - they haven't been policemen in the past - they are large knobbly trees.

Again and again, Africa stirs up so many thoughts.  Whilst with my companion awaiting the Barra / Banjul ferry, there were hawkers everywhere, but this time I noticed that they were - almost uniquely - children.  Plus the cart at the airport was run by a 13-year-old boy.  I chatted to the Air Traffic Controller about education.  There is no public-funded education - it's not like the UK where primary and secondary education is largely funded by the government (though some schools have despaired at cuts, we know this) - if parents in The Gambia don't have the means to pay, the children don't go to school.  And it's not just school fees; it's equipment and uniform.  If you don't have a regular wage, this can be hard to find.

I will never forget being in Ghana in 2002, where I taught English, French and sport in a primary school for six months, with over forty students in each class.  Where parents hadn't paid the termly fees, students were actively excluded from lessons and forced to sit outside the Deputy Head's office.  I remember organising for various people to sponsor certain children's education on my return.  

To give this some context, the GDP of The Gambia in 2018 was $1.62bn.  In the UK in the same year, this was $2825.21bn.  According to Lonely Planet, 60% of Gambians live in poverty.  60%! I don't know if that is 'extreme poverty' or 'absolute poverty' and here isn't the place to do an analysis of the definitions which are recognised global definitions and there is a difference between them.  We see relative poverty in the UK - we see people in full-time work, reliant on foodbanks.  Plus there are all sorts of other types of need, many of which have evolved because of the nature of the world in which we now live - I spend my work life delivering training on topics such as safeguarding, digital awareness, knife crime, discrimination - lots of things make life difficult for people in different ways.  I'm not going to brain-dump here, but this trip has seriously made me think about what we take for granted and forget that not everyone has access to.  There should not be children selling stuff in bus-parks and on the streets - they should be receiving education.  I'm not sure how, but I will take some sort of action.    

Well, it's nearly time to go, though I suspect there might be some further bloggings depending on how the journey goes.  

Thank you for the various comments, messages, positive thoughts / prayers / whatever you like to call them, that have come my way whilst I've been in Senegal and The Gambia.  There are pros and cons to travelling alone, but I haven't been alone.

#CartFriends, Sandra and Dawn

I was in that - 'wow, that was great, but it's time to go home now' kind of place.  You know the one - reflecting on an amazing experience but keen to pick up the threads of one's usual existence, which one can't find in a giant orange tortoise.  

Having said a sad farewell to my new #CartFriends, with whom I'd spent three happy hours, chatting, joking, discussing a plethora of interesting topics, as well as meeting most of the staff who work at the airport - Air Traffic Controllers, Immigration Officers (I was careful with my answers to their questions, just in case), Police and all sorts of others, I toddled off to check-in.  

I noticed a tiny souvenir shop which had some postcards for sale - I did a deal and obtained a few.  I then presented my passport to the staff who didn't even stop their conversation, then I joined the queue for check-in.  It was just after 11pm at this point. 

The lady on the check-in desk smiled warily as she requested my passport.

'Your passport' - she paused, looked confused (although that might just have been her face); she then looked at me and, unmoved, said those fateful words - 

'Your flight was yesterday'.

My heart stopped, momentarily, then went into overdrive and I felt pores across my body open up and sweat ooze out.  This was that adrenaline-overload, for all the wrong reasons.  She went on.

'Today is 5th.  Your flight was 4th'.  I studied my thoroughly dog-eared e-ticket, the reference number barely visible.  I checked the date.

Oh my goodness.  

She was right.  I was twenty-two hours too late.  

I suppose it is better to make a mistake this stupid and affect the journey of one person - myself.  Had I made a similar mistake leading a group, that would have been much much worse.  I'm still not sure how this happened - I carefully worked out how long I was staying in each place, how I would travel there and approximate travel times.  To me it was: three nights in Dakar / travel to Saly / two nights in Saly / travel to Foundiougne / three nights in Foundiougne / travel to Bijilo / two nights in Bijilo / then the night flight home on 5th.  Somehow, I had booked the night flight home on 4th.

The lady called over her supervisor and explained.   In the meantime, she continued to check-in other people, including two friendly ladies called Sandra and Dawn who I know will be reading - hi Sandra and Dawn! They were on their way back to Liverpool and it was lovely to hear two Liverpudlian accents in my moment of horror at realising my stupid error - I'm always reassured by a Liverpudlian accent.  I like Liverpool.  I went there once.  I was also comforted to know that they had done the same with their flight in recent days and were in fact on their second attempt to get the flight, as I will be tonight.  They were hoping with me that someone would cancel or not show up so that I could dance onto the Casablanca flight and get home.  

But it wasn't to be.  The flight was full.  The supervisor made a call but to no avail - although I would find out later whom he had called.

I was crestfallen.  I have travelled for twenty years, to around seventy countries, and had never made a mistake like this.  But as the cliché says - there's a first time for everything.  This was it.

My first thought was to go back to Kasumai where I'd stayed two nights - surely they'd have space for me.  I'll call Kevin, the driver who'd brought me to airport - unfortunately, in the pages of contact details I have amassed in ten days, his aren't among them.  I tried to call Kasumai direct - some woman chanted a recorded message saying my phone wouldn't work in this area, which I hadn't realised.  Helpful.  

Then I thought - I'll just turn up at Kusamai - they won't mind! But it was about half an hour away, plus, I have a whole thing about preferring not to travel on the road at night whilst abroad, although I considered this an emergency.  Or was it? Maybe I could just go and hang out with my friends at the Cart all night.

I figured the first step was to get some cash, as I'd used up my final Dalasis at the cart and on the postcards - it wouldn't recognise my card initially, but then it did.  A boy from a phone shop - everything had mysteriously opened when check-in opened, it no longer felt like an abandoned, forgotten shell of something that might once have been an airport - it was now an airport - asked me if I was ok.  I explained that I needed to make a call but that my phone wouldn't work.  He kindly lent me his, then I sat in the phone shop with him and his two colleagues, trying to get through to Kasumai.  It was after 1am by now and not the most social time to call anyone.  There are three numbers on the Kasumai website and none of them are right! Therefore apologies to the three people I woke up in the middle of last night asking if they ran Kasumai - I know now that they don't.  

One of the phone guys casually said, 'there is always Woodpecker';
'What's Woodpecker?'
'It's a hotel near here'
'Is it walking distance?'

I can't quite believe I asked that - it's 1am and I'm asking if a nearby hotel is in walking distance, when I don't know the area at all, have no sense of direction, it's dark, plus I have all my stuff in my giant orange tortoise (and smaller trusty black rucksack).  I do like walking, but this wasn't a time to walk.  

They looked at each other quizzically, 'it's best you take a taxi'.

I was able to hotspot my phone to one of the phone guy's phones and get the number of Woodpecker, then one of the guys lent me his phone to call them.

'Hello?'
'Hello, is that Woodpecker?'
'Yes please'  
'I am sorry to call so late, but I have missed my flight - do you have a room available for right now?'
There was a pause - I thought - what if he doesn't - what will I do then? I usually look quite carefully at where I am staying (these days, I didn't used to) - but there wasn't time for that.
'You are how many people?'
'Just one - just me'.
'Yes, we have room.  Just come and we can sort it out'.
'How much is it?'
'Don't worry about that - just come'.

I wanted to burst into song.    

But I didn't.

'Come - we can find a taxi', said the Phone Boy.  

You have to careful with taxis at airports in Africa, as there are often touts who will charge you the earth to go not very far.  

I walked with the Phone Boy for a few minutes, passed a huge line of taxi-men with signs, awaiting their passengers.

A man with a sparkly t-shirt came towards me - I recognised him as he had visited the cart whilst I had been sitting there.

'Helen - how are you? I thought you were going?'

'I also thought I was going, but I have made a silly mistake and my flight was yesterday'.  

'Sorry, sorry', said the man with the sparkly t-shirt.

'So where you are going now?'

'I have booked a room at Woodpecker - they have a room for me'.

'Ah ok' - nodded the man with the sparkly t-shirt.  He whistled at a group of men and shouted something in Wolof.

Another familiar face came towards me - this was Lamine, who I had also seen at the cart.  We greeted each other.  The man in the sparkly t-shirt explained what had happened -

'You have car?' I said, feeling myself reflecting the Gambian word sequence, quite surreally.

'Yes - I am airport driver', he replied, showing me his official ID.

We walked to his car, a relatively well-maintained dark green Mercedes - I climbed into the back with my giant orange tortoise.  The Phone Boy climbed into the front - 'I want to make sure all is ok at the hotel'; 

'Ok - Lamine, will you drop him back here?'   

'Yes, of course'.

We arrived at Woodpecker and I thanked Lamine and the Phone Boy for their trouble.  The Royal Air Maroc superviser had said I had to go to the airport office in Serrekunda tomorrow at 10am to organise changing my flight.  I asked Lamine if he could collect me at 9am.  He was happy to do so.

It was as though the Woodpecker Resort had been expecting me all along.  I had a perfect room - very secure, with a little single bed, with beautifully white linen and, unexpectedly, when I've had combine-harvester style fans whirring above my head for the last ten nights, air-conditioning! I showered then slept like a baby till breakfast time.

Lamine appeared at the appointed hour and I had happily breakfasted on bread, jam and a huge cup of tea.  We headed to the Royal Air Maroc office.  

There were a number of people in the queue in front of me, and the one lady (wo)manning the show didn't seem to be in much of a hurry.  A man came in behind me, with a huge brown envelope.  We greeted each other and chatted about Nigeria, where he is based.  I asked if it was true that flights could only be paid for in cash, as this is what the supervisor had said last night - he said that it was true, hence wielding a huge brown envelope full of cash.  

My turn came - I approached the desk and the lady said to take a seat -

'Good morning - my name is Helen and I have made a silly mistake.  I missed my flight because I thought it was last night, but it was the night before'.

'Ah, you are the one I had a call about last night - the supervisor called me but I was sleeping because I have a four-month old baby.' 

'Yes, that was me'.  

'Last night's flight was full - you could not have gone'.

'So is there space on the flight tonight?'

'Let me check'.

Awkwardly, I got a bit overwhelmed at this point and started crying.

'It's ok, you don't need to do that - it will all be ok', said the kindly lady, 'I can tell that you are a kind person.  I will help you, don't worry'.

She typed away furiously on her keyboard, then looked at me - 'there is space, don't worry'.  I nearly cried again, this time with relief.  

She told me the total I would have to pay.  'Is it true that you only take cash?' I queried, really hoping that something had been lost in translation.

'Yes, cash only'.

She processed the whole thing, printed me the ticket, highlighted the relevant bits, wrote 'check-in at 11pm, Mon 5th Aug 2019 - TONIGHT' in scrawly writing at the top.

'I will keep this for you, just come back with the cash'.  Somehow, I was able to pay a penalty fee for re-booking, rather than a whole new ticket. 

'Thank you, thank you, thank you', I insisted, as she pointed me to the nearest cash-point.  
There were three cash-points in the immediate area.  The first one didn't work at all.  The second one gave signs that it would work, then changed it's mind.  The third one only gave 'change pin' or 'return card' as options, which weren't overly helpful when cold hard cash is required.  

Lamine had been waiting for me outside in the car.  I went back to him and explained.  He drove me to another cash point which would only let me draw a quarter of what was needed - it wouldn't recognised my travel cash card at all.  My heart sank.  What was I actually going to do if I couldn't get enough out? I could get someone to wire me cash, but that might take too long.  I have a few pounds sterling, but nowhere near enough.  This had gone through my head at breakfast, so I had found the British Embassy website and started following the British High Commissioner to The Gambia on Twitter - I call that friendship.

Sweating at the cash-point, poised with my very own brown envelope for stashing the inches of currency required, I had a thought - I wonder if it would let me withdraw a quarter of what was needed, four times...  

Cats, bats and an error

Some of the most magical memories are made in the most unlikely places. My first flight is at 2.10am. I try to avoid travelling at night when abroad, hence organising to leave the guesthouse to arrive ridiculously early.

It's an international airport right, they'll be plenty of places to wait, eat, drink, read, blog.

Wrong.

Unfortunately they don't seem to have finished building Banjul International Airport yet, therefore the entire building is covered in tarpaulins and everything is closed.

There are two flights departing from here tonight. Two. Banjul International Airport makes London City Airport look like Heathrow.

I have spent three magical hours sitting on a wooden bench at the only shop currently open at Banjul Airport. It's a small but perfectly-organised cart, manned by a 13-year-old boy.  

I've met all sorts of people who clearly frequent the cart, including the Air Traffic Controller who will be guiding my very flight in from Morocco then out again, two immigration officers, a policeman from the resident police unit, all sorts of security people, plus the assorted mixture of omnipresent people who seem to be floating around, making up the numbers, like extras in a film.  Plus there are the resident scrawny cats who are all very small.

We've discussed education, health, football, transport, family, animals, poverty, politics, you name it.

The boy manning the shack sells water, biscuits, sachets of Nescafe, tea bags, mints, sweets, and most worryingly, cigarettes in ones, twos, or as many as you want. He is the vendor of choice here as far as I can tell. And also the only vendor.

I also saw the most phenomenal display by some friendly neighbourhood bats. A curious rustle resulted in some sixty bats appearing in a fantastically well coordinated display, where they did a few circles of the car park, then disappeared into another tree with a swift and sudden bustle.

When I went to check-in, it transpired that my flight was actually yesterday. This is awkward. 

Termites and might nots

A guy went to make me a fruit juice about an hour ago. He said he had to go and buy the fruit, but he didn't say he had to go and grow it. Here's hoping that he'll appear in the course of this blog post. 

Today has been interesting, and it's not over yet. I am extremely proud of myself for having fought off what they call a 'bumster' - I hasten to add that this is a local term for someone who hassles people for money, not my own term.

After a filling breakfast I had decided to walk to Bijilo National Park as it is only about twenty minutes away. 

A fully-horned cow just walked across the beach; five minutes ago there were three people on horse-back. I've befriended the resident dog and we even went paddling in the sea together - I call that friendship. His name is Wilfro.

My fruit juice just arrived - it is sumptuous and tastes like it's been plucked straight from a tree, which it probably has.

Sipping it, I can gently feel my vitamin C levels recalibrating, unlike my vitamin D levels which have gone off the scale. 

So there I was, walking along to Bijilo National Park, known locally as Monkey Park. I always walk quickly - walk positively and people think you know where you're going - story of my life - speak with conviction and positivity and you'll be ok. 

A man fell into step with me. He was older than me, maybe around 50, his hair gently starting to grey - definitely too old to be one of those husslers everyone warns you about. 

He was very friendly, telling me all about his love for visitors from most European countries and how he used to be a policeman, and now works for an English boss importing cars from Europe (that just auto-corrected to 'importing cats' from Europe, which might be strange) . He told me he was a good Muslim, praying five times a day (on reflection, I should have asked him where his prayer mat was as he would need it within a few hours if he was going to pray at the next prayer time). We chatted for quite a while, as one does on the road. 

He was very keen to know about my itinerary, which I am always very guarded about, mainly because I don't usually know. He asked where I was staying, for how long and whether I knew anybody here - I bumbled something, telling him all about April, May and June's mum. She's called Autumn and has a twin sister called Summer. 

He said he would take me to the monkey park, then wait for me and take me wherever else I wanted to go. 

I thanked him but said this was not necessary. 

He said we should turn off the main road to buy a ticket for the monkey park. I asked why, because the monkey park was straight ahead, not down a dusty side-street. He was very insistent that the tickets had to be purchased here due to it being low reason. I questioned the fact that there was no sign. I walked a few paces then he said I should give him 500 D to go and buy the ticket. I said that I would not do this and that I would buy the ticket myself. He said they would charge me much more. I said I knew the cost already as I had looked it up; I knew that park entry is 150 D. 

He wasn't having it. Then he got nasty. 'You need to give me money to buy the ticket - you said you would'. I very sternly said 'no, I will not give you any money as you will disappear with it. And I didn't say anything about giving you money to buy the ticket'. 

He persisted - 'I am trying to help you. I am kind person'. 

'But that is a dusty side-street, not a monkey park - the monkey park is in another direction. You are trying to lead me down a dusty side-street to rob me. You are lying to me and I will not be taken in by it'. 

'Then you must give me money for a taxi back to town. Show some charity'. 

Ouch. 

I did something I haven't done for a while - I raised my voice: 
'Look - you fell into step with me - I didn't ask you to do anything. You tried to lead me down a side-street to steal my money - I am not going anywhere with you or giving you anything! Now go away and leave me alone!!' 

With that I stormed off, leaving him standing by the side of the road. He looked crestfallen. 

I was proud of myself for having stood up to him, but also wracked with guilt. He had given me a bit of company and seemed nice initially, asking questions about me and generally being friendly. What if he was hungry? What if his family were hungry? 

I walked on, frustrated and a bit perplexed. 

I arrived at the monkey park and duly paid my 150 D. I was allocated a Guide called, well, he introduced himself as Sean but his card says Mustafa. He was excellent and gave me a highly informative tour of Bijilo National Park where I saw green vervet, red colobus and patas monkeys, as well as all sorts of intriguing bird life. The baby monkeys cling to the mummy monkeys for transport, which was adorable to see. The bright and beautiful bird life was a sight to behold. Sean / Mustafa had a knack of spotting wildlife long before it became obvious, including a fully-grown lizard which was around two metres in length. 

He also introduced me to a type of spider called the Orb-Weaving Spider. After the male spider has impregnated the female, it is considered that his job is done, so the female then eats the male. Saves time and trouble spent celebrating anniversaries I suppose. 

I also saw a number of spectacular termite hills which also punctuated the landscape yesterday as we travelled in the bus from the border to Barra. These were epic structures, taller than me and home to a million hungry but constructive termites. 

As we were chatting, I mentioned to Sean / Mustafa that I was interested in visiting Kachikally Crocodile Pool. We did a deal and arranged that he would take me there too and sort out the transport, so off we went, in his driver's battered green Golf. 

There was a good exhibition about the history of The Gambia which was interesting and well-presented. I was disconcerted to see photos of people gathering for FGM cutting ceremonies - this is technically illegal here but goes on in some areas regardless. I've twice had to explain what this is in safeguarding trainings recently - the trainees looked at me open-mouthed and I had to explain that I wasn't making it up. There are 28 countries where it is still not illegal. 28 too many. 

Crocodiles are intriguing creatures. It's almost as though all other animals have evolved, but crocodiles have been left behind, lost in time like a cross between some sort of prehistoric angry lizard and an aggressive neighbour. They lie, pulverised by time, some with their mouths seemingly wedged open. There are over a hundred living in that pool. 

'You can touch them', assured the crocodile guide to whom I was introduced by Sean / Mustapha, amidst giant signs which instructed 'do not touch unless instructed by a Guide'. I still haven't read my travel insurance policy, but I doubt 'crocodile damage' features; nevertheless I did stroke one, briefly. It didn't react thankfully; if it had I doubt I'd be writing a blogpost right now. 

'Do they have names?' I asked. 

'One has a name - Charlie.' 

'What do you call the rest?' 

 'The rest, we call "crocodile"'. 

Wow - wonder how they came up with that. 

Are you rickshaw about this?

Well - after a rickshaw, sept place, minibus, walk, ferry, bus, taxi, I made it to Bijilo in The Gambia!

There was a slightly peculiar moment last night when I was lost in the WiFi, checking up on things like crime in Plumstead and the mayhem that that burst water main on White Horse Hill is causing, when the noise levels started to increase quite dramatically. I looked up to see that about thirty Chinese people had appeared and gathered all the chairs and tables from the entire restaurant, apart from the one I was sitting at, to create one giant table. One of them presented me with a large bottle of local beer and apologised for the noise. I didn't mind - it was surreal.

It turns out that there is a huge Chinese contingent building the very bridge I had been looking at for three days, which will link Foundiougne with the mainland. One of the builders was having a birthday, so they had descended on Chez Anne Marie's for a few drinks.  I was touched that they included me. 

I had my final Senegalese breakfast and was - bizarrely - presented with a leaflet detailing everything there is to do in Foundiougne. I couldn't help thinking that this would have been more useful on my first day, rather than the very hour I was leaving.

The friendly proprietor insisted on accompanying me to the gare routiere which was further away that I had anticipated. We took an auto-rickshaw, the likes of which I hadn't seen since being in India in April, where they buzz around the streets defying the laws of spatial awareness. 

It transpired that there was a whole chunk of Foundiougne that I hadn't seen, but I'd been quite happy reading, writing and floating around the mangroves in a pointy boat, so I wasn't too worried. If you find yourself there any time soon, let me know and I'll give you a lovely leaflet. 

There was one place remaining in the awaiting sept place - already the prayers were working. However, my giant orange tortoise - on whom I had administered a spot of emergency surgery last night - yes, it's true - I got out a needle and thread and sewed her slidy back bit together as it had come loose. This is unheard-of as I am severely domestically challenged. Good job I did though, as for the first time ever, my trusty orange tortoise had to be lashed to the roof-rack of a bush taxi, then again to the top of a minibus!

The journey to Karang, the border point wasn't too long. We passed through a string of rural African villages - round-houses lovingly created by people to live in. There tend to be six or seven grouped into a little compound, with obligatory goats and children wandering around. Several times I saw huge groups of women and children gathered just outside the village with brightly coloured buckets and other receptacles. I realised that this was the village well. Others hurried away with litres of water atop their heads, taking care not to spill a drop of this precious commodity. 

Having a bucket shower really shows how much water one actually uses - each day the campement gave me several 10 litre bottles of water - I found myself using about two of these per day, for washing and flushing. Even that's quite a lot - 20 litres of water just to keep clean and bucket-flush. The constant application of suncream, Deet and antibac, combined with the dusty atmosphere plus the need to cool down in the equatorial heat, means a shower is needed at least twice a day. And I didn't have to go and get that water - it appeared at my door each day. My challenge to you is this - how much water do you use each day, and do you actually need to use that much? 

After seeing that group of Chinese builders yesterday, en route to Karang I noticed several signs with a Senegalese and Chinese flag which said something about the Chinese government 'Bringing satellite TV to thousands of Senegalese'. I can't help thinking that running water might be more helpful. 

The border crossing was more straightforward than some I have experienced. I didn't quite have to promise to marry the border guard in order to secure my entry into the country, as I have done at many other land crossings in the past. This particularly friendly border guard was particularly keen to have my contact details so that we could become special friends. I was particularly keen for this not to happen, but diligently took his details down in my notebook. He says he's waiting for my call. I fear it may be a long wait.

I got a bit confused as to which questions were personal and which were going to guarantee my passage into the country. You can't mess around with border guards - I should know - I watch 'Border Force'. So my improvised answers to all the normal questions had to be somewhat mooted whilst I judged if they would want further details. I never give contact details to people I have just met (with the exception of #BusFriends who might be interested in volunteering with Girlguiding) - I learnt this the hard way - naive little me gave out my actual contact details in 2002, then wondered why I received letters from the Home Office saying my name had been given as a reference for the visa application of someone I'd never heard of.

I also never tell people where I'm staying, because I have had instances where they have turned up, and I can't have that. 

Where a visa is necessary, you always have to say where you are staying, hence previously flicking through Lonely Planet to find the name of a midrange to high-end hotel which would suffice for the application. But I didn't need a visa for The Gambia, but they still might have been asking for immigration purposes - 'do you know someone in Gambia?' Was this out of interest, or because they want to call them to confirm? I always say I've a friend waiting for me in the next place I'm going to as saying 'I'm travelling alone and don't know anyone' makes one sound a tiny bit vulnerable. I've concocted this friend who lives here with her Gambian husband - I told them all about it at the border; I told such a good story about how we went to school together, then she came here on a project and met her now husband, that I've started believing it. She has three daughters - April, May and June. 

As we left Barra in a large minibus, my trusty orange tortoise now cruelly lashed onto another roof rack, I bundled in and felt very thirsty. There were multiple people selling those packets of water (the ones sealed from factories, not the unmarked ones which could come from anywhere). I wanted one but had no idea of the cost. My new Border Guard friend had taken me to a trusted money changer (he had a booth and everything, unlike the bulk of them who just have a huge wodge of cash in their hands), so I had some cash - the currency in The Gambia is Dalasis. A woman waved a packet of water at me. I nodded. I reached into my pocket and held out the various tiny coins I had - a mixture of CFA and Dalasis. She took two of the five coins, gently closed my hand, then pressed the packet of water into my other hand and smiled. It was beautiful.

We cruised through the Gambian countryside. I was discombobulated by a sign just outside the border town which read 'You are now leaving The Gambia' which I sincerely hoped wasn't the case.

Forty minutes into the journey, the Police funnelled all of the vehicles off the road! I figured that if they were checking every vehicle for roadworthiness, noone may ever arrive anywhere. We panic if we get a tiny chip in the windscreen, calling Autoglass within seconds - every shared vehicle I have been in over the last ten days has had multiple cracks in the windscreen. Except the aeroplane, one would hope.

We waited and waited, till I accosted a policeman to ask what was happening. He was very happy to tell me that they were stopping every vehicle to check that the drivers had paid their taxes. It transpired that this would not be a quick process. I wasn't really in a hurry but I try not to arrive in new places after dark, so was a bit worried. My policeman friend pointed to a gantry type thing which he said was the port! We were practically at the port, so I requested my trusty orange tortoise be unleashed from the roof and walked with a number of other passengers, to the port. It was here that I was taken under the wing of a kindly lady with a pronounced stutter, who ensured I got all the way to my final destination.

She showed me where to buy a ticket for the ferry and we sat chatting as we waited. She has six children, ranging in age from 6 to 27. She was travelling with her younger sister and bouncing baby, plus their elderly mother. 

The boat journey was intense on arrival and departure and tranquil in between. A team of hawkers patrolled the boat which had a capacity of 2,000, though I'm not sure if this included the lorry load of goats. They sold goods including- men's vests in packs of 5, cellphone air time, nuts, water, a local iced snack, phone chargers and washing powder. The hawkers sold these, not the goats. They didn't sell anything. 

Departing the boat was terrifying. An absolute crush descended on the departing passengers, leaving no space to breathe. Vehicles tussled with pedestrians, more sellers, beggars, taxi drivers. I was very alert and stuck closely to my new friend who I followed several blocks away to a bus where my orange tortoise was allowed to sit with me, rather than be banished to the roof. After about half an hour, she said I should change to another bus to get to my destination. I warmly thanked her for looking out for me. Arriving in a huge crush of people with no idea where to go is disconcerting, but she aided my passage. She was an answer to prayer. 

My final guesthouse is quirky, but there isn't a resident goat, as far as I can tell. I just watched the sun go down over the Atlantic. Staggering beauty. Sleep tight team.

Pelicans and can'ts

I enjoyed my petit dejeuner, consisting on a big chunk of bread, butter and apricot jam, accompanied by a large cup of tea plus a new type of indeterminable Senegalese juice - this one was lightly sludge-coloured, and tasted like sawdust with a sweet kick; it was quite palatable.  I wonder what it was.  

Today was the day - I was going out in my very own pointy boat! They prefer the term 'la pirogue' but I think 'pointy boat' works better.  

I was slightly worried about leaving the campement as it doesn't strike me as overly secure, so I was a bit disconcerted about leaving my things.  I'd briefed Timmy the Goat to keep an eye out, but I wasn't overly confident that he had heeded my instructions, plus I'm not sure how 'possessions stolen due to negligence of resident goat' would hold up on an insurance claim.  (And whilst we're on the subject - no Aviva, I will not give you my opinion on my shiny new policy, because you haven't sent it to me! I only went with you for the donation generated through easyfundraising anyway, and besides, that was last year - you're not offering any donation this year, but I was in a hurry, and you were the easiest option)

I therefore decided to take everything of value with me, into the pointy boat -it seems daft but I'd rather be safe - I left Yoga behind, snug in her case in my trusty orange tortoise - much as I cherish her and frustrating as it would be to lose her, she is replaceable, unlike my passport, though that's not impossible, but it's loss would delay me somewhat.   

Whilst I was having breakfast, my chauffeur turned up - he was called both Felix and Felicien, depending on who was asking.  Once we were ready, I clambered into the pointy boat and was given a very fetching orange life-jacket to wear.   It clashed horribly with my red-check shirt but I wasn't complaining.  

I had been asked to pay part of the cost of the experience beforehand so that the driver could go and purchase the fuel, so we set off, and after a few minutes, he anchored a few hundred yards away from the shore, detached the engine, slung it over his shoulder and swaggered towards the Senegalese equivalent of an Esso garage for pointy boats.  I stayed sitting in the pointy boat, gathering my thoughts, delighted that I'd been able to sort out a pointy boat experience, although there's a man by the port who also wanted to sort out a pointy boat experience for me, but I've managed to avoid him thus far.  

The risk assessment for this whole experience was on-going in my head, and I'm quite sure it wouldn't have passed muster had it been on a REN form for an international (Guiding joke which won't mean a thing to anyone else).  There were two occasions on which Felicien stopped the boat, which was about five metres long, with a thoughtfully placed little platform for me to sit on - he started to move around the pointy boat and I wasn't quite sure what he was doing; it soon transpired that he was bailing water which had gently seeped in (without me realising) somehow, out of the boat and back into the river.  This was not discombobulating at all.  In these situations, when you are about an hour into a river, with only pelicans, cormorants and incredible fish nearby, you just have to pray and hope that all will be well.  

Felicien and I spoke French the whole way - my French must be gently improving.  I had a notification about an opportunity for a 'French-speaking Trainer' the other day - I wonder if I could.... actually no, I think there's a difference between making small-talk about incredible fish and delivering training.  Although I could always improvise.  

We travelled in the point boat for two blissful hours, surrounded by complete nothingness, just one huge body of water.  We then reached the magical mangroves which we drifted through, with Felicien periodically trying to catch fish, but to no avail, which was bamboozling as there must have been a million fish in that water.

At one point, I looked ahead and noticed a series of surreal horizontal lines appear in the water ahead of us - in a split second, an entire shoal of fish jumped out of the water in formation, creating a perfect parabola which then re-entered the water; I have never seen anything like that before and it was spectacular.  It happened on several more occasions and I found myself pointing with excitement each time, like a little toddler who's just learnt a new word.  

Then there were the birds.  Huge pelicans floated proudly in the water with that ominous expression to which pelicans are prone, in my limited experience of interactions with pelicans - the ones in St James' Park always look quite threatening and I once saw one eat an entire Japanese tourist.   

The water was punctuated by cormorants who tended to be in threes and fours; one would spontaneously decide it was time to fly off, then the others would follow.  They flew in a V-formation, as birds tend too - this always intrigues me as they have such small heads, but can organise themselves to fly in such a fashion, and with such speed - imagine if humans were trying to organise something like that: 'you go first', 'no, I'll go first', 'no, I think on balance that person three should go first', 'I disagree, I think person two should lead, as she hasn't led for a while'; it would need sixteen e-mails and a Gantt chart before we'd even moved.

We also saw a jellyfish, or 'La meduse', Felicien informed me, presumably after Medusa, the angry Greek goddess who had snakes for hair, a bit like a jellyfish I suppose.

When we were approaching the mangroves, a pointy boat passed in the opposite direction, but was still three or four hundred yards away.  Felicien shouted greetings, addressing the other driver by name, and they had a short conversation at this distance.  It was surreal.  That said, everyone seems to know everyone here in Senegal and even if they don't - surely nobody knows everyone - they are all very polite to each other, with greetings a-plenty, either 'Bonjour, ca va? or 'As-Salaam-Alaikum', the Muslim greeting - 95% of the population here is Muslim and there are mosques on every corner - or a Wolof greeting, which I don't know how to spell.

My trip in the pointy boat was perfect, although despite applying layers of suncream and Deet spray and drinking copious amounts of water, I am a little sun-kissed and feeling a bit spaced-out, therefore I am going to go and check on Timmy the Goat then lie under a fan for a bit, then hopefully finish my book - I read over two-hundred pages yesterday which has never happened before.  If the angry bleeping book machine in Woolwich library was a person, I'd send him a smug message to prove that I can read a book in less than three months.

BoJo's brother and the sparkly unicorn

I didn't sleep very well - I think because the fan in my shack sounds like a combine harvester.  I learnt about them early on when we used to see one doing its thing in the local field - for years, I thought 'combine harvester' was one word - in fact, there have been multiple moments of disappointment when the realisation that certain things were not words in their own right, dawns - 'width restriction'; 'Prime Minister' (don't let's get started on that one - although when one of my plethora of Rainbow units wrote to their MP who happens to be the now PM's brother after Parliament Week telling him all about what they like and dislike about their local area, mainly requesting more parks and sparkly unicorns, they did receive a reply in acknowledgement); anyway - other words synonymous with this multi-word thing include 'War Memorial' and probably, most confusingly, 'cupboard-under-the-stairs' - I was in my mid-twenties when I realised that that is actually four separate words - that was shattering.

I'm surprised the fan kept me up - I live in Plumstead where the night sky is punctuated with search helicopters most nights.  As I wrote in my veritable 'Ode to the Plumstead People' which wasn't even placed in 2016's Plumstravaganza Poetry Competition (although I did come third in 2015, so mustn't complain) - 'And my friends, it has to be said / Plumstead doesn't feel right without a chopper overhead'.  

I was just about to upload last night's blog in the trusty restaurant I have frequented since arriving, when I decided to do a spot more editing as it all felt a bit jumbled - there is so much to share! But just as I was editing, the electricity went off and the place was plunged into immediate darkness - no lights, no gentle hum of background music, and ultimately, no router.   All the local insects from across the vicinity gathered on poor Yoga's luminous screen which didn't aid the editing process one bit.  

It got late - I'm always wary of being in an unknown place, alone, in pitch darkness.  Fortunately, having done this before, I know to always have a torch in an accessible place, along with a mixture of other vital equipment, including my 'toilet pocket' which contains loo roll (folded, obviously - an actual roll would be a bit bulky, plus a handy anti-bac hand-sanitiser spray which slides very neatly into one's pocket and is also very useful when walking #DogFriend.

After a broken night, I struggled to get up.  Once I did, having untucked my trusty mosquito net which had protected me all night (along with a sneaky additional coating of Deet spray) it was bucket shower o'clock! One realises when there is no running water, quite how much water one actually uses.  There's something oddly refreshing about tipping a cup of water over one's head.  I'm glad I had my hair cut shorter before I travelled - longer hair and a bucket shower would be more complicated.  They bring you huge bottles full of water; the place has taps, a sink and a toilet as though there may have been running water once, although they may be for show.  I'm definitely making good use of my borrowed universal sink plug too.  

Post-bucket shower, I headed over to the reception area for the longest most leisurely breakfast ever - it lasted for around three hours.  So much of this life is spent dashing from place to place like a thing possessed, that it was very liberating and also very hydrating to be able to sit for three hours munching a big chunk of bread with butter and apricot jam, peacefully devoid of angry cats, although I am coveting the resident goat Timmy as my own (although I think biblically I shouldn't covet my neighbour's goat), sipping a huge Thermos full of tea, plus a cup of indeterminable purple Senegalese juice.

It was here that I made a new acquaintance - Tidiane - he works for, that's right - the Ministry of Tourism for Senegal / 'Agence Senegalaise de Promotion Touristique' - he's a photographer and has been tasked with driving around Senegal taking pictures.  I told him all about the blog and he may well be reading - 'Bonjour Tidiane!' He said he would put a link onto their website - www.visitezlesenegal.com - but I suggested he take a look first.

The big question is this - why aren't there many tourists in Senegal? I was delighted to find some postcards in the reception of this quirky restaurant I've started to frequent - I purchased three and am wondering if - by the state of them - anyone else has ever purchased any before as they seem to have been there since Senegal was established and are very grubby (apologies to the recipients in advance - although I'm likely to see you in person before they arrive).  

Senegal is utterly beautiful and awash with beautiful beaches and peaceful rivers.  The sense of peace is something else.  Travelling around using public transport is easy, particularly with a bit of French - just go to a bus park, ask around until you find something heading in your direction, then bundle in and off you go.  Once you're there, whatever you want can be arranged via your hotel or guesthouse or campement.  I'm going on a trip in a pointy boat tomorrow after breakfast, to explore the mangroves - very exciting.

I think generally at home if people are heading 'on holiday' to Africa, they will be going to South Africa, Morocco, Egypt, Tunisia, Kenya, Botswana; but there is so much more to this continent - 53 countries, all with their own unique culture and character; local languages which even differ from one village to the next; local dishes, local drinks, as well as Coca Cola, which can be found in seemingly every village in Africa if you look hard enough.  When I was in Mali in 2002, I went to a bar with a Coca Cola sign and ordered one - 'moment, Madame' - I think watched the vendor cycle to the neighbouring village and back, a crate of Coca Cola lashed to the back of his  bicycle.  I think that's possibly the only village that didn't have Coca Cola at that time.  The lodgings are as complicated as you want them to be - if you're good with bucket showers, and throwing a bucket of water into a toilet bowl (human flush - it's all in the wrist action), then there are places for you; if you want an international hotel with all the trimmings, there are also here, albeit a bit more infrequently; but those types of places will organise transport for you to anywhere in the whole country and probably beyond.  They've got fancy buses, uniformed staff and great big locked gates at the front.  There are plenty of mid-range places too which are somewhere between the two.  Lonely Planet is useful, as are other sites.  Booking.com seems to have every type of hotel imaginable in most countries in the world; that said, Foundiougne was a bit of a struggle and involved a bit of trawling.  I didn't used to book accommodation ahead of time and instead used to cherish arriving, then finding somewhere.  That was 19-year-old adventurer me.  Thirty-something adventurer me prefers to pre-book, safe in the knowledge that there is a bed waiting for me, even if it's a bit tricky to find (see earlier entry about trying to find the place in Saly and the angry taxi driver); it also means that you are less likely to end up inadvertently staying in a brothel.

So this is me doing my bit for tourism in Senegal - come and see it for yourself.  But this does beg the question - why did I come here? Why did I choose Senegal? 'Do you know anyone there?' people asked - 'No, not yet', I replied.  But I do now.    

I'm glad I'm not a spider

I covered myself in suncream and have cracked open my new Jungle Formula spray, which I meant to take to India but found behind my bed a couple of weeks ago - it must have slid off as I was packing.  

I sprayed my arms and feet with the Jungle Formula - I'm not sure if it's meant to make your feet look all wet and soggy and grim, but it did.  It took me a while to do this as it was all slimy - I'm glad I'm not a spider because eight legs would take ages to cover in suncream and insect repellent.  That said, I've never seen a spider trying to use such products - I'm not sure how they'd get the lid off for starters.  

I then read the small print which said 'do not mix with other products such as suncream' - well, it was too late for that! It also says - 'up to 3 hours maximum protection' then 'use once a day only' - well how does that work? There were 24 hours in a day last time I checked.  Maybe the scent sends a secret message to malarial mosquitoes in their little mosquito heads which says 'she is a diligent traveller and has had this spray on for three hours, therefore she must not be bitten' - yes, that's probably it.    

What's the worse that can happen combining these things - I don't know actually.  It's a bit like the Doxycycline which helpfully advises 'do not expose skin to sunlight whilst taking this medication - I'm in Equatorial Africa - there is going to be sun and there are going to be mosquitoes.

I had my breakfast as planned - I was encircled by tiny, aggressive cats, but all was well.  I had to gobble my breakfast due to the hotelier suddenly informing me that the taxi driver was coming earlier than planned, which of course he then didn't; I sacrificed one piece of banana bread to the feline friend I had 'breakfasted' with yesterday.  

The taxi took me to the gare routiere as planned.  The hotelier had offered me a taxi all the way to my destination but at a cost of the rest of my entire budget for the trip, so I had politely declined, asking him to organise to take me just to the gare routiere.  African bus parks are places of complete intrigue which have to be experienced to be fully understood.  I'll do my best here, but you really need to visit one.  They are best described as epitomising organised chaos.  I know - 'organised chaos' is such a cliché and such an over-used term, but then, that's why we have clichés, because everyone understands what they mean; they aptly describe something.  My life is in a constant state of organised chaos; somehow most things happen at one point.  

You arrive at the bus park and the chaos is palpable - hawkers with everything from bananas to those stupid wireless headphones which have come into fashion - to me they look broken, or like someone forgot to finish making them before they hit the market.  Then there are small children tugging at your clothing and holding their hands out in the hope of a few CFA - that is very hard to see.  

Once I'd found the sept place for Fatick, the changing point for the next destination, I bundled into the back-back-back of the Peugeot 505 and my trusty orange tortoise was shoved into an aptly-available space right behind me in the back-back-back-back.  As the vehicle gently filled-up, two boys poked their heads in through the window and were singing - 'pourquoi chantent-ils?' / 'why are they singing?' I asked the lady beside me - 'pour l'argent' / 'for money'.

One of the passengers was - I think - being helped to top-up his phone from a mobile phone guy with a t-shirt; another purchased nuts wrapped tightly in a plastic bag; water in those sealed plastic bags was everywhere.  Whilst personal space is non-existence, there's a certain respect when the vehicle is ready to start the journey; the hawkers withdraw and the journey begins.  I say it begins - the driver drove to just outside the exit, then promptly got out and went to speak to someone - I didn't think too much of this until I realised that he hadn't put the handbrake on and the vehicle gently rolled backwards.  No-one was remotely perturbed by this, not even the driver, who didn't seem fussed that the vehicle, containing seven passengers wasn't where he had left it.  My tiny blue Renault Clio Chloe often doesn't seem to be where I left her, but that's because I get lost in multi-storey carparks and rarely remember where I've left her - I know - it's wrong on every level.

There wasn't a whole lot of conversation this time - the older lady who was wedged against me didn't seem to like the look of me - to be fair, some people don't - but I had a window seat and was quite happy soaking up the journey.  'When you rush so fast to get somewhere / you miss half the fun of getting there'.  

I was saddened that the entire landscape from Mbour to Fatick appears to be strewn with rubbish.  It makes Mount Everest look quite tidy.  There doesn't seem to be provision for getting rid of rubbish - anyone who finished anything in the sept place or subsequent bus just threw it out of the window.  I just can't accommodate that - it is utterly ingrained in me to take rubbish home with me - they tell me on the tube every day - 'customers are requested to take litter home with them', so I always scoop up a bag or two.  I commended a woman for carrying her dog up the escalator on the Bakerloo line the other day, heeding the instruction that 'dogs must be carried'.  I hadn't been able to find one.  

I had dozed off in the sept place, when it stopped abruptly by the side of the road - 'Madame - ici c'est Fatick'.  I jumped out, grabbed my bag, then after fending off multiple moped drivers who were happy to take me wherever I wanted to go, I walked around the corner to the bus park.  I'm glad I speak enough French to say 'no, I don't want to hire an entire vehicle and pay for seven people, thank you, one place is fine'.  I waited with a couple of other people who were heading for Foundiougne.  I was worried that it would take a while for five others to appear to fill a sept place.  As has often happened when I'm travelling in Africa, people often appear in droves, from nowhere.  'La bus, elle va au Foundiougne' came the phrase - so we can't even fill seven places, but we can fill a bus.  I wasn't complaining, I bundled into a bus with a disproportionate number of others, with my poor orange tortoise shoved underneath the front bench, closely guarded by the woman next to me who seemed friendly initially, but that soon faded.  I fear that my trusty giant orange tortoise might be on the way out - she is struggling, the poor old thing, from years of being dragged all over the world, starting with a Duke of Edinburgh Expedition, inadvertently spotting llamas in the Ashdown Forest, in 1996, from which she never really recovered; she's been to Five World Centres; to numerous camps and Brownie Holidays; on hundreds of flights to every continent, except Antarctica, which is very cold; she has been on boats of every description, on the back of donkey carts, shoved into the tiniest of spaces in bush taxis.  Goodness - if she could talk, her blog would be much more interesting than mine.  But she is ailing and I'm not sure how much longer she will remain in this life.  She is a simple but perfectly-formed creature, with one main pocket, which sub-divides thanks to a trusty drawstring.  They don't make 'em like that any more.  

After the usual Tetris-style bus-passenger-packing routine, we were off, stopping periodically to put even more passengers into an ever decreasing space.  On arrival at the port, there was a piroque to meet the bus and I climbed in - 'piroque' - what a fantastic word - it is a simple 'pointy boat' which takes you from one place to another.

I quickly located my lodgings, which is the simplest yet - hello bucket shower, it's been a while! After a doze with the fan pointing directly at me, I wandered into a nearby restaurant and asked if they were serving food.  Well. 

Bonjour Madame, c'est possible de manger ici?' 
'Tu veux manger?'
'Oui merci'
'Non, c'est pas possible'

'Hello Madame, is it possible to eat?' 
'You want to eat?' 
'Yes please' 
'No, it's not possible'.  

The big sign outside which said 'restaurant' had suggested otherwise.  She went on to explain that the restaurant would open later and that they cooked to order, so I could order now.  I sat and had a drink overlooking the river whilst perusing the menu.  I didn't understand most of it, so went for a poisson a bole - poisson was enough for me - you know what you're doing with a poisson, so I ordered that and have just enjoyed it, with a spot of white rice and indeterminable vegetables - legumes - what a great word.

I've got a short queue of people wanting to organise trips for me in pointy boats, so I will have a think and organise something low-key whilst I'm here, although it would be extremely easy to sit by the river sipping Coke in the day, then beer in the evening, doing very little besides sharing my thoughts and reading.  I finally finished that wretched book! It was page 216 whe something tangible actually happened - surely that was about two-hundred pages too late?!  Now I can move onto the next book I have been trying to read since February 2018 - a spot of non-fiction about what drives people to extremism.  

Darkness fell fairly rapidly and the mosquitoes arrived en masse, unprompted, but I am awash with Jungle Formula - even I wouldn't go near me.