Our columnist this week is Martyn Hannah, a 16-year-old who spent Christmas out of the country.

While most of you spent Christmas Day keeping grandma out of the oven and grandad from eating his slippers, I spent it sitting on a beach in The Gambia drinking fruit juice. The reason for this is that my parents hate Christmas which is fine by me, as I get to travel the world at their expense.

It's a funny place, The Gambia. The first person I met was called Bob Marley and drove a taxi which was in such poor condition that we decided to walk all the way from the airport to our hotel. To show he was in fact the real Bob Marley this driver had placed a life-sized cardboard cut-out of the real reggae master in the back seat of his car. It seemed funny at the time but now I'm not so sure.

The hotels are like compounds. Inside everything is idyllic, the utmost in luxury and refinement. They have swimming pools, casinos, bars and restaurants. They all tend to back on to long, white, sandy beaches which overlook vast amounts of empty ocean. Outside the hotel things are a little different though.

My first attempt to walk the 100 yards to the neighbouring hotel ended within 20ft when a man named Skin offered me some drugs. I told him that I didn't want any but he put them on my arm anyway. I tried to explain that not only did I not smoke drugs, I stayed clear of your standard Marlboros also. This made him a little curious so he started to shake my hand and call me his boy.

Having finally torn myself away from Skin I was met by another chap named Abraham Lincoln. He showed me some pictures of his son being eaten by a crocodile called Charlie and offered to take me to see the beast if I bought a bracelet from his sister. I'm not a fan of such things so politely refused. For some reason this made him give me his phone number. As he bent ito his pocket to find it I quickly ran away.

At this point it was decided that the only trips we were going on would be organised. So the next day we booked a taxi with a man called Amazon or Amado or Linford Christie, he mentioned all of them. He took us to one of the poorest parts of The Gambia and in particular a market. The minute we stepped foot on to market soil we were mobbed.

A man named Tube approached me and suggested I buy a Vietnamese hat from his shack. I'm in The Gambia; I don't want to look like the Vietcong.

The next trip we decided to venture out on was the truck safari. The huge, open top lorry had seats in the back and a small canopy over the top. It was old, broken and terrifying.

We were driven through some of The Gambia's really poor villages.

Children swarm around the trucks waving and then run after them. I was sitting right at the back so I took the brunt of the onslaught. They would jump up on to the back, hands stretched out, shouting minty'. When I tried to explain I didn't have anything one small girl took it upon herself to throw a rock at my head. The rest of the day followed much the same pattern. Rocks, sand and swearing were sent our way when we couldn't give them anything. My dad was rather bluntly told where to shove it and my mother was called a wicked boss lady.

Giving to these people is a morally hard thing to do. You want to, but then there is a side to you that feels as though you're being taken for a ride. My dad bought a boy a football for the pathetic sum of 50p, the next day we saw him chatting to his mate on his Motorola Razor. Maybe it was a Christmas present?

Anyway, I'm sure Oxfam has all the bases covered.