Telegraph article in praise of women-only tours:
She led me into the darkness of her hut, and lifted her faded black T-shirt, gleefully. Her breasts, marked by motherhood, hung deflated against her chest, but that wasn’t what she had wanted to show me. She grinned and jiggled her hips, showing off the rows of multicoloured beads that encircled her waist – maybe 20 or more. “One from each lover,” she said, erupting into flirtatious laughter.
This reads like the most blatant parody of the old foolish white middle-class Western women going to Africa trope:
I ran my fingers over the round glass beads. Without warning, she whipped up my top, detached some from her waist, and reattached them around mine. “Now everyone will see you have admirers too,” she winked. It was a gesture that struck a chord of friendship between us and an exchange that only took place because we weren’t in the presence of men.
And so on:
As we danced beneath that open sky, without embarrassment or judgment, there was no way of distinguishing between our different shadows.