Keeping it in the Family

  Banjul, Gambia
Monday, March 12, 2007

In February 2007 a momentous event in world history occurred.
Mr and Mrs Hart of Thornborough, England, set forth on the treacherous journey to deepest Africa. Their mission was twofold - to scout out and report back to curious residents of their village, and to check their absent first born child was eating her greens.

State visits by roaming Royalty have seen less preparation. The "Harts Do Africa" schedule was planned down to the last minute and printed in colour. Seņor Hart's previous final words to me on the subject of them visiting, had been the difficult-to-misinterpret "no bloody way" so it was clear Seņora Hart had been doing some talking in the interim and with charming naivety I was determined that absolutely everything was to go strictly to plan during their stay.

Despite a slight hitch at the airport (panic induced by i) their lack of appearance at the gate and ii) the realization that they had mentioned heading to the wrong airport)

Africa hadn't affected my fashion sense

soon all Harts were present and accounted for. Hitching a lift back with their hotel's bus I had the experience of hearing the tour reps in action. I have so far avoided spending time around tourists or their entourage, having developed a severely negative opinion of them after seeing the appalling effects tourism has had in contributing to both the sex trade and a culture of dependency. Leading among my list of gripes are the large coaches which parade their convey of idiots through villages and then at a pre-arranged signal, throw out pens and sweets so everyone can get a nice photo of kids scrabbling around in the dirt. Hearing the speech they are presented with on the way from the airport though, my hostility towards tourists softened slightly. Who can blame them for their behaviour when their welcome briefing informs them that people would be pathetically grateful for being left used toothbrushes at the end of their holiday, and that it is too dangerous to venture out from the hotel in anything other than a pre-approved tourist taxi, or hotel-organized excursion?

The next week was a blur of activity as I embraced my role as honorary tourist with gusto and together we tackled a number of Gambian highlights.

It's a stressful life holidaying with parents

These included a nighttime performance of traditional dancing and fire-breathing in a sacred forest, a cruise meandering through mangrove-creeks (sadly accompanied by a group of earnest ornithologists who were distinctly unimpressed with my lack of interest in all things birdlike), hikes through a monkey park and a visit to a crocodile pool.

The latter event was the high point particularly for Seņor Hart who overcame no small amount of fear to stroke "Charlie" the supposedly friendly crocodile who languished by the side of the slime encrusted fertility pool along with about 30 of his mates.

The Hero

Apparently there have been a few Charlies over the years and the incumbent individual is not quite as tolerant as his predecessors but I chose to withhold this nugget of information until my parents had got the patting and photography out of the way. It is quite terrifying in retrospect that the only thing separating us and these lethal reptiles was about 3 feet and a small wooden sign suggesting that people not try to embrace the other crocodiles.

The trip also provided an opportunity for my parents to basically see my life here - we did a whistle-stop tour of VSO, my office, my house etc. Star performer of the above was Frog.

Frog is a feline of kitten- sized proportions who has of late taken over occupancy of my house. She (or possibly He - I have no idea what I'm looking for) pays no rent but has assumed responsibility for Cockroach-Torturer-In-Chief and Attacking-The-Sofa-Until-It-Shines duties.

Cute, fragile personna demonstrated to suckers

She is, in short, a vandal. And a ferocious vandal at that, who takes great delight in terrorizing any guests who venture into the house until they run screaming from the house whilst they can still salvage their ankles. But enter Hart Seniors and suddenly Demon Cat is transformed into a cuddly fluffball, content to lie purring in loving arms as she is coddled and cooed over.

Evil reality

Watching this performance and the ensuing gifts of Whiskers cat food and catnip toys, I found myself reassessing the crafty cunning of this creature. She knows which side her bread is buttered.

In what seemed like no time at all it was time for roaming relations to return from whence they came. Sunburned and stuffed (their daughter having taken their visit as an opportunity to try out every eatery she couldn't normally afford) they galloped off into the sunset.*

*Ok, they caught the coach to the airport but that is simply not the way to conclude such a story