Due to the exciting events in Iceland of the exploding volcano, no one can leave Dakar except for those going south to other African countries, or maybe the Middle East. I was due to leave for London last night where I thought all my problems- the broken computer cable and my exhaustion from two weeks reporting in Guinea Bissau- would be fixed. Then I was looking forward to joining friends on a quiet island on the west coast of Scotland where I would be soothed. I was so looking forward to going that infact I was already there in my mind, the 'coup-like situation' of Bissau and its endemic corruption and drug smuggling problems far behind me.

Today in Dakar everything is as usual. The kids play football in the sand below my window and the sheep bleat, tethered to the odd metal poles scattered around the place. The men in the ramshackle compound below slap playing cards on the table and furiously bet beans as currency, arguing amicably as one loses all his money. Small girls play with skipping elastic and a reggae version of Elton John's 'One more night' sounds over the compound walls.

The airport is like some vision of hell: trolleys at all angles blocking the check-in hall and people asleep on mats, t-shirts pulled over their faces to block out the harsh light and the frosty gush of the air-conditioning units whirring above their sleeping bodies. But in town the streets murmur with the sound of Saturday night, people enjoying themselves, people who know nothing about Iceland or airspace or who even care; they do not travel by plane.

Cheikh Lo was almost the very beginning of my love of Senegalese music. I saw him play at one of Max and Rita's Shrine events at Cargo, in 2002, and just remember having a lot of fun. Despite his apparent fragility- he is stick thin- his music has gone from great to even better and the album he's about to put out in the UK is pretty exciting new stuff.

We sat in his retro back Mercedes on Monday afternoon listening to it. When he opened the door to the car, which was parked outside his fantastically-tiled house in a run-down neighbourhood of Dakar, cigarette ash blew in clouds out of each door. The seats were slung far back and everywhere there were bits of paper, strands of tobacco, prayer beads, sunglasses, casettes, and plenty of ash. This was his boy´s den away, perhaps, from the prying eyes of the women of the house, though it being in full view of the street we were hot viewing material for the people coming and going from the boutique/tailor shop next door.

One by one we went through the songs, him pointing out this guitar riff and that, who played the drums on this one and who played the sabar on that. After the triumph of his record Ne La Thiass, made in the late 90s and produced by Youssou N'Dour, everyone (including myself) said it would never get any better. But this one has gone back to the acoustic style, his own choppy guitar riffs playing around with his guitarist Baye's Congolese-style melodies, his vocals more passionate than ever and some funky Burkinabe drum beats. I guess it could be called something like acoustic funk.

Cheikh was wearing his gold-rimmed aviator glasses, cool as ever. His long dreadlocks hung down to his leather belt and after much smoking he let me take a picture of him reflected in the little rearview mirror on the dash board. We passed a really nice afternoon together, then he drove me to the bus stop for me to get my bus home.

I have been back in west Africa for the last two or so weeks, not having much time to settle into the way of things. On my way to Senegal, the power cable for my computer burst into smoke and sparks when I plugged it into a socket in Casablanca airport, and then I lost my voice. With no way of replacing the cable until I get back to England and my throat filled with sand and silence, text message was about the only way I could communicate with people and for the most basic of messages: I am here and I am fine. Like most other situation I find myself in in west Africa, I could but give into it.

Tonight I am in Bissau, once more enjoying the hospitality of friends. It is baking hot and the crickets are croaking out in the street. The town is quiet; there was a scuffle within the army last week and the Prime Minister and head of the army were taken by some lower-down officers. Some say they were planning a coup and that it went wrong. The Prime Minister has been released but the chief of staff remains hidden. People are disappointed that it has yet again come to this and no one knows what will happen next.

I had lunch at Dona Berta's hotel, where I stayed on my first visit to Bissau exactly seven years ago. Back then I spent my first few days vomiting and lying in a sweaty fever, unable to communicate with anyone but finding it all a grand adventure. Bissau hasn't changed all that much since then; a few more places have electricity but otherwise it is as if time has eluded the city. Being back here it does feel like Europe is worlds away. Even Dakar, with its roundabouts and flyovers and glittery ladies, feels like a million miles away from this little town.