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.