I was thinking about birds and the meaning they give to our lives.The British are bonkers about birds! And, then I remembered the incredible birds that inhabit the Gambia in West Africa. I remember being owed down a tributary of the River Gambia called the Lamin Stream to see an ecological centre. Twists of woody lianas trailing from the banks of lush mangroves formed an unbelievably green corridor. The sun was a fiery beacon beating down directly overhead and bouncing off the water. And there, on the boat, I was told something about myself that I could not fully comprehend at the time.

Everything was present in that moment and my heartbeat was rapid in the midday heat. My guide pulled on the oars and I faced him in a heightened state. “You will write two books,” he said. I can hardly believe him when I doubt that I will even make it out of his boat. But we arrived  at the lodge intact, and pondering his words in the incomparable natural scenery, I resent the Gambian government’s policy of not allowing tourist cameras into the country.

The hotel's high walled garden is alive with birds, brighter and smaller versions of our garden varieties. African Rollers of differing hues: greens and blues, and one has a lilac chest and yellow pectorals (Coracias caudata), Sunbirds and Little Bee Eaters with curved beaks to eat insects dart about. The people of the Gambia are like beautiful sunbirds waiting for change. And, to my mind, cambio, the Latin word for change encapsulates the Gambia.

Hooded vultures that pick over the mountainous rubbish dumps all over the island roost in the ubiquitous palm trees and seem to be baleful omens. So, I exercise hard on my balcony, making brisk movements to scare them away, and after smoking a cigarette struggle to breathe.

After days of adjustment and fear, a guide took a little party of travellers to a village to see how the locals live. The sand roads are carnelian red and children gather around stand-pipes at intersections laughing and playing with the sparkling water. The better-off live in rows of high-gated compounds set in lush gardens, barking dogs restlessly patrol inside the barbed wire perimeters. We are invited into a compound for a cup of refreshing local tea. The men smoke home-grown grass rolled up in a fat cardboard tube, costing just a few Dalasi - the currency of the Gambia.

When the sun became too hot I withdrew to a shady day bed in a hut and chat with an erstwhile lover. We had travelled with a few other friends from London to Gambia's capital Banjul, but drifted apart after a couple of days. Me to my hotel, and he to one of the compounds. His forehead, feet and ankles are covered in mosquito bites. I worry for him, he hasn’t taken any anti-malarial pills. It becomes harder to breathe when he tells me he slept with a ‘prostitute’ in the intervening time. Some poor girl desperate for money, desperate for change. I never sleep with him again.

I meet another English man. The build-up before his arrival in Banjul is palpable, whilst I do my best to ignore the attention of other potential suitors. And when he arrives, we are bonded by a steel core of denial. We visit Serekunda, a sprawling market town, squeezing into a communal taxi going there. On the streeta the tall, slender Gambians glide in colourful costumes, graceful and lithe as if in meditation. These calm, angelic presences with helping hands contrast with the red-faced ex-pats gripping endless pints of beers in sea front bars along the Atlantic.

My beau buys a knife, which simultaneously frightens and thrills me. I buy a small wooden drum, the base of its skin entwined with red and yellow ribbons. I choose it carefully, after proficiently patting a dozen or so drums to the amusement of the stallholders.

On the coach to Banjul Airport the British tourists are twittering like birds.They are relaxed and happy despite the terrible poverty outside the windows. I feel uncomfortable and hungover from palm wine. The plane is delayed, we are checked for cameras again.  I leave my purchaases from the street markets unattended for a moment to pray the flight will take off, and when i return to my bags they have gone, save for the little drum, which was tethered to my lovers all along.