I have been fortunate to have seen many different animals in the wild, or in ethical preservation projects. When asked to name my favourite I am always torn between elephants and the various big cats. Usually my answer is whichever I have seen most recently, as it's impossible for me to choose!
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On the outskirts of Nairobi is a very special place, where orphaned baby elephants find safety and refuge. As an elephant lover I was charmed by the residents and inspired by those who care for them here.
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Fadiouth is an island village, and a rather unique one. It is also known as Shell Island, and the reason for this is pretty obvious; it is built on layers and layers of shells. These have accumulated over the centuries as the locals subsisted on cockle fishing in the shallows of the mangrove lagoons and simply discarded the shells, or used them as building materials.
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It was early morning in Botswana’s Okavango Delta. As we stepped ashore from the small boat our guide, Slade, immediately stopped to load his rifle. It was a somewhat disconcerting start to our walk, to say the least. He then gave us a short briefing on how to stay safe during our time on Palm Island, one of hundreds that dot the delta.
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Nguéniène would be a fairly unremarkable Senegalese village were it not for the huge scale of its weekly market, which draws people from many miles around. As we drove towards the village with our local guide Cheikh, we could see many others on the roads, mostly in traditional horse carts, all converging on this one spot. The women were colourfully dressed as always here, as were many of the men; and the carts were piled high with produce to sell.
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Once you have been in a hot air balloon, and loved the experience as I did, you will seize any opportunity to fly again. Leonardo da Vinci had it right, even though he himself had never flown, when he said, 'Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.'
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The catch was brought in hours ago. But the fishing quay in Bakau, in northern Gambia, is nevertheless a hive of activity. Many of the colourful pirogues are pulled up on the beach. Others are floating offshore, as the fishermen check and mend their nets and other equipment. Those that have finished their work sit chatting or try to make a few extra delasi by showing tourists around.
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On the southern outskirts of the small fishing town of Tarrafel on Santiago, one of the Cape Verde Islands, is a haunting sight. Now a museum, this former concentration camp, also known as Campo da Morte Lenta, commemorates a darker time for the islands, under Portuguese rule.
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It has become quite usual to see murals on many of the walls of our cities. Whether we call it graffiti or street art; whether we love it or hate it; it is part of the urban landscape. But do we expect to see it in a remote rural village in the Gambia?
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I sat motionless on the deck of our beautiful bungalow at Souimanga Lodge in Senegal. The Pied Kingfisher on the nearby fence gripped his just-caught fish in his long bill. I hoped to see him flip it and swallow it; my camera was poised to capture the moment. But suddenly the fish flapped its tail and twisted out of his grasp. Fish gone, the bird flew off, and I like him was left ruing the one that got away.
