There is a wonderful talmudic story that goes something like this: a father and son go for a walk, get lost and find themselves in a terrible area where the sick and dying and impoverished languish on the streets. The son sees the poverty and suffering around them and, with tears in his eyes, says: "Father, why doesn't God do something?" The father looks at his son's earnest face and replies: "My child, He did do something. He sent you!"
Last December, we booked a family holiday to Gambia. I had mixed feelings about the trip. Putting aside the vaccinations, malaria tablets and industrial-sized, nuclear-strength mosquito repellent that took up all the suitcase space, I was also conscious that Europe has, over the years, had an unhappy relationship with the continent.
Gambia is the smallest country in mainland Africa, ruled first by the Portuguese and then the British. From the 17th century on, as many as three million slaves were taken from the region during the centuries-long transatlantic slave trade. The country has been divided up, colonised, a victim of inter-tribal and civil unrest.
Now, it's economy is dominated by fishing and tourism. An estimated third of the population live on under £2 a day.
