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.