Several months ago we were sitting in the dappled shade of St Christopher’s Place in London talking to Oliver Steeds. As he swaggered off into the sunset he left us with his eggshell-hued business card. It said simply: Explorer.

Around this single word I constructed a swashbuckling persona for myself, of designer stubble, Stetson hats and stories of derring-do told across bars in exotic locations. Tim Bromfield… Explorer.

The reality has been somewhat different: a rapid descent in my dignity and self-regard, culminating in a sticky situation the other day when I became attached to the loo seat. Not through any particular physical or emotional need, mind you. This was no runny tummy, Delhi belly emergency. I just got stuck to the seat. The details of my extrication are not for this blog but the incident made me pause for thought.

I realised that I am not mentally or physically cut out for travelling in West Africa. There are the obvious things like my white skin, my soft feet and propensity to sweat buckets with the slightest drop of sunshine. But also there’s my London-learnt tendency to try to exert my will over nature.

A few weeks ago I found myself labouring under the weight of a camera bag in the midday sun. I was pacing the tarmac of Banjul, Gambia, basting my skin in my own sweat. There was not a soul on the streets apart from me, a spectacle for sensible eyes watching from inert bodies lying in the cool of the shade. A mad dog indeed.

The natural environment is just as challenging. Everything in the forest is designed to look like a snake. You might think that snakes are designed to look like things in forests, but either way there is plenty to jump at. Our guide warned me unequivocally about biting flowers: “if you go near them with your hairy foot you will suffer”. And sure enough I did.

Slowly, I am learning that slow is good, local advice superior to my misplaced common sense, and cool is best reserved for the shade of a west London square.