23 April 2011 - The Daily Telegraph - Oliver Smith
My taxi driver, Katim, led me into the front room of his home on the edge of Serrekunda, Gambia's largest city. Twenty chairs were arranged in a horseshoe, each facing the property's most prized possessions: an ancient-looking television and a battered wireless perched on a creaking credenza. My arrival caught the attention of three cheeky youngsters. They rushed towards the doorway to greet me, their shrieks of delight disturbing the silence of the home and the slumber of older relatives napping in adjacent rooms.
Soon I was sitting in a courtyard enjoying the afternoon sunshine with a coterie of aunts, great aunts, nieces and nephews – a space we shared with a skinny heifer, a clutch of chickens and a tethered goat. A matriarchal figure stirred a mighty pan of couscous as it warmed over an open fire. A baby in a brightly coloured sling clung to her back.
The children begged me to take their pictures. They craned their necks to see the results on my digital camera. I asked the eldest to take a picture of Katim and myself. Another photograph for his album.
It's not often I accept an offer of late lunch from a taxi driver, but a day spent with Katim, and a week in Gambia, had made me less suspicious than I am in London.
I hadn't envisaged this scenario three months previously, when my girlfriend, Sophie, and I decided on a trip to this tiny strip of West Africa.
Whereas Sophie looks for nothing more in a holiday than some sun-scorched stretch of sand in which to disappear into a decent novel and – ideally – five-star accommodation, I crave distraction. Here, six hours from a sodden Gatwick, was the perfect compromise. With April temperatures in excess of 86F (30C) and good beaches, she could unwind while I explored monkey-filled forests, meandering wetlands and a sleepy Third World capital.
But our research also unearthed off-putting warnings about sex tourism (Gambia is considered a place where middle-aged ladies can meet muscular and willing young men) and "bumsters" – locals who tout themselves as holiday guides.
Informing friends and family of our decision, we were greeted by raised eyebrows. "Do take care of yourself," urged my grandmother. After all, wasn't this the country where Britons suspected of criticising the government were sentenced to hard labour and whose head of state claimed he can cure Aids by administering banana extracts to the patient's chest?
We chose to take the risk. Steer clear of the bumsters, avoid denouncing the establishment, and we would get on just fine.
Sophie's fears were forgotten within five minutes of our arrival at the hotel. Once "cheap and cheerful", Gambian accommodation has improved, and the Coco Ocean Resort and Spa can only be termed luxurious. We were whisked by golf buggy past fountains and manicured gardens to a cool, airy suite overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. In the fading light, we spotted lizards scuttling from the undergrowth and egrets stalking through the grass in search of one last edible insect.
The following morning we claimed two sunloungers beside the hotel's infinity pool – a spot that became Sophie's command centre for the duration of the holiday.
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