I’m not sure if you’ve heard but Africa is hot. And Gambia is no exception, especially in May. The sun is always here, he always has his hat on, and I’m not singing hip hip hooray. There are no clouds in this atlas. The sun patrols vigilantly between eleven in the morning and five in the evening, like this is the 49th parallel, vaporizing all those daft enough to enter it’s borders. It traps me in village, if I want to leave by bike I have to set off early and make sure I come back in the evening. I foolishly went to our nearest town after school in the heat of the day this week to get a new gate welded for the school garden and I nearly sweated out of existence.  

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