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.
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