South of Gambia, the Casamance is tucked away from the rest of Senegal, a vast flat land inundated with water.  The landscape contrasts fairly hectic forest with impossibly extensive mangroves and rice fields that stretched on out towards the horizon – no paddies here.  It’s Senegal’s premier holiday destination, with golden sand beaches almost completely untouched except for fishermen landing their bounteous catch and the occasional cow.  It has also been undergoing a low-level insurgency for the last 30 years, one, in a somewhat Liliputan turn of events, that has its roots in an argument over what’s better, rice or peanuts.

A light mist rises from the sea; together with the setting sun it melts the beach and line of palms into a honeyed haze.  Two horses thunder along the foreshore, churning up the backwash and effortlessly overtaking the persistent souls who insist on cycling through the sand.  We sit on a raised platform under shady palm fronds, beers in hand, gazing along the curve of the bay filled with people working out or playing football.  A child nearby is playing with an iPad, a row of tiny, inquisitive black heads propped up on the parapet behind her.