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Christmas Sun...


motormouth23
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Last year I was lucky enough to go on holiday to the Gambia for a week. I wrote a small article at the time and today whilst searching through some documents came across it. Thought it might be enjoyed by readers on here. As always, any suggestions for imporvement are much appreciated.

Whilst most of you spent Christmas day keeping grandma out of the oven and granddad from eating his slippers, I spent Christmas day sat on a beach in the Gambia drinking fruit juice. The reason for this is that my parents hate Christmas which is fine by me as I get to travel the world at their expense.

It’s a funny place the Gambia. The first person I met was called Bob Marley. To show he was in fact the real Bob Marley this driver had placed a life sized cardboard cut out of the real reggae master in the back seat of his car. However, his car was in such poor condition we decided to walk all the way from the airport to our hotel.

The hotels in the Gambia are like compounds. Inside everything is idyllic, the height of luxury and refinement. They have swimming pools, casinos, bars and restaurants, golf courses, spas and gyms. Then there is the added pleasure of the miles and miles of white sandy beach on which these hotels back. Outside however things are a little different.

My first attempt to walk the hundred yards or so to the neighbouring hotel ended within twenty feet when a man named skin offered me some drugs. I told him that I didn’t want any but he put them on my arm anyway. I tried to explain that not only did I not smoke grass, I stayed clear of your standard Marlboro’s also. This made him a little curious so he started to shake my hand and call me his boy.

Having finally torn myself away from skin I was met by another chap named Abraham Lincoln. He showed me some pictures of his son being eaten by a crocodile called Charlie and offered to take me to see the beast if I bought a bracelet from his sister. Having already gained a pretty hefty collection of the damn things I politely refused both the beads and the chance to meet Charlie. For some reason this made him give me his phone number. As he bent into his pocket to find it I quickly ran away.

At this point it was decided that the only trips we were going on would be organised. So, the next day we booked a taxi with a man called Amazon or Amado or Linford Christie, he mentioned all of them. He took us to one of the poorest parts of the Gambia and in particular a market. I desperately wanted one of those weird tribal masks that look a bit like Tony Blair with his eyes, nose and mouth gorged out. However, the minute we stepped foot onto market soil we were mobbed.

A man named Tube approached me and suggested I purchase a Vietnamese hat from his shack. As I begin to tell him I’m not interested my Mother then comes charging in holding a statue that she has decided to buy. Tube turns his attention to getting a price out of her.

“Name your price” splutters Tube. “Free”, retorts my mother sarcastically. At this point Tube looked a little saddened. “Cheer up” my mum advised, “I’m only joking”. Tube replied with “I’m sorry, I’m suffering from the symptoms of Malaria”. “Bollocks” I mumbled as the entire shack took a step backwards. I mean was this man safe to touch? Had I now been infected with Malaria? Was I going to die? Everyone just stood there for a few moments thinking. Then my mother, being the noble citizen that she is, decided to shake his hand and pay for the statue.

The next trip we decided to venture out on was the truck safari. This was a weird one I tell you. The truck was this huge open top lorry with seats in the back and a small canopy over the top. It was old, broken and terrifying. Our first stop was a local palm wine hut. They make something called fire water which has an alcoholic percentage strong enough to wake the dead and tastes like the outside of a rusty fridge door.

On the way there, however, we were driven through some of Gambia’s real poverty villages. Mud huts, metal sheeting, dirt, grime, real nasty stuff. I felt guilty being driven through in my clothes. You are overcome by this desire to give them everything you have.

Good job I didn’t though.

As you power through these villages children swarm around the trucks waving and running after them. Rather stupidly I was sat right at the back so I took the brunt of the onslaught. They would jump up; hands stretch out, grabbing at bags. When I tried to remove a feeble hand from around the strap on my backpack one small girl took it upon herself to throw a rock at my head. The rest of the day followed much the same pattern. Rocks, sand and swearing were a sent our way when we couldn’t give them anything.

Giving to these people is a morally hard thing to do. You want to, by god you do, but then there is a side to you that feels as though you’re being taken for a ride. You’re a stupid tourist with lots of money and a huge sense of guilt. My dad bought a boy a football for the pathetic sum of 50p, the next day we saw him chatting to his mate on his Motorola Razor. Maybe it was a Christmas present? I don’t know.

Anyway, I’ sure Oxfam have all the bases covered.

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Nice to see you ventured outside of the hotel. A very one sided review of Gambia. You were on holiday but have not even mentioned any of the following:

What was the hotel like? (one small paragraph) What was the food like? Are there many opportunities for property investment? Was the hotel entertainment any good? Did you go on any excusions? Did you visit the Wassu Stone Circles? What about the wildlife? What was the weather like? Were the beaches clean?

Add these to your review and then it wil be more balanced.

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