Yesterday, flew from San Francisco to Washington DC to start my second journey to Africa (actually, it's my 3rd but I don't count the trip to Morrocco in northern Arab Africa). Minor panic in the Dulles airport since my flight to Senegal was not listed on the dearture board. Eventually discovered that my South African Airways flight was bound for Johannesberg, with a scheduled stop
in Dakar to refuel. Crises averted. Boarded the plane and sat next to a Ukranian couple overdressed in designer ostentation. They shopped duty free and
bought a pair of sunglasses and a watch totalling $350. I ordered a Bloody Mary and a beer. She pointed to my mini-Smirnoff and demanded two of them
from the stewardess.
A few hours into the flight, a heated argument erupted in the row behind me. An African man and an elderly American man were arguing over seats. They
were in a row of 4 seats and the African was reclining over 3 of them. The American simply asked if he would be kind enough to share, two and two, but
the African refused. Voices escalated and several flight staff came to referee. They threatened to arrest the African and he finally relented.
Arrival onto the conitnent has become a moment of spilled emotion for me. This is not my homeland and yet, inexplicably, it wrenches an affection that comes from somewhere deep and sacred.
I emerged into African air, the dense damp air of the birthplace of humankind, standing at the top of a portable flight of metal stairs. Glanced about at the
horizon, the sky, the earth, and then descended with measured anticipation onto the ground. Could not resist the cliche urge to kiss the jet-fuel stained
tarmac. I don't know much about mysticism, but standing on African soil evokes what I can only describe as a mystical feeling.
Customs formalities in Senegal were pitiful. For being the major hub of air travel in West Africa, the Dakar airport is a neglected popsicle stand. Immediatley
swarmed by local hustlers desperatly looking to help me in search of a tip. This is the local entreprenurial spirit, job creation at its finest. They fought over
who was going to retrieve my baggage. Then they argued over who was going to carry them to the connecting terminal. Once inside, I noticed that everyone's
bag was wrapped in plastic. A white man came up to me and suggested I do the same for my bag. After checking it through, I found him again sitting at
a coffee bar in the terminal and I took up next to him. He was waiting for the same flight, which, after a stop in Guinea, went on to Bamako (Mali), then to
Luanda (Cameroon) and then to Brazzaville (Congo). He was an American who worked for the National Institute of Health. He was going to Mali to conduct
clinical trials for HIV and TB. 90 minutes after our scheduled departure, an Air Uganda lurched onto the tarmac. The Mali airplane that we were supposed
to take was not sky worthy and this was the only working plane they could find. Took a shuttle bus out to board the plane and was quickly reprimanded for
taking a photo of the Ugandan rust wagon. Thiought it would be wise to document the vehicle of my potential demise.
Arrival in Conakry, the capital of Guinea, was equally exasperating. I was immediately ushered into the "terminal" (small concrete outhouse) by a man
wearing a "Polizei" uniform. His grip on my upper arm as he led me inside was a bit too strong and it felt as if I was in trouble. He asked for my passport and
then filled out my immigration form for me. As he finished, he held out his hand and said, "you can give something me for help"? I shook my head, smiled, and
walked away to get in line for the customs official. While in line, I met a businessman (he was wearing a tie and polished shoes) who spoke decent English.
He was returning from working in the DR Congo as a mining engineer. He appeared well-educated, a man of high means. He introduced himself as Elie.
I approached the window following a heated exchange between the agent and the traveler ahead of me in line.
I handed over my passport and he spent long angry minutes desperatly looking for something to rake a bribe from. He had nothin' on me. My visa and documents
were all in order.
Entered baggage claim and repeated the same game (see Senegal circus above). Immediately taken hostage by a large woman wearing a badge who "helped" me
collect my luggage. Her name was Fatou. Fortunately, Elie was standing there and intervened. As I attempted to leave, another uniformed woman demanded to see my bags. She grabbed them and threw them on an inspection table. Elie spoke to her in the local tribal language and dissuaded her from interrogating me. He has a remarkably gentle demeanor but his opinions seem to hold alot of weight. After the demoralizing realization that nobody from the project team was there to pick me up as promised, I left the airport with my angel Elie by my side and fat Fatou trailing behind. We were immediately swarmed by taxi hustlers and Elie helped me negotiate.
As we walked, our group swelled to over 20 locals, all vying for a piece of whitie, arguing over who gets the opportunity to fleece him. Parasites latching onto the host.
I was shuttled among a few different cabs until the most aggressive one took my bags and threw them in his trunk. The cheeky bastard let out a huge fart of black smoke as he started up his 1976 Peugot. Then all the hands came out. Each person pulling my aside, pleading for a tip. Fatou, claiming she was an airport tourist representative, was the most insistent and Elie told me I should give her a few dollars. I only had 20's. Elie gave her some local currency and then we all climbed into
the car.
This concludes the story of my first twenty minutes in Guinea. One of the myriad delights of travel to under developed countries is the oddly appealing feeling of
being entirely out of control, thrown to the mercy and savagery of the local wolves. Dropped into the blades of an African Osterizer and chopped, diced, cubed,
and grated until I was spit out like a vanilla smoothie.
My first image of the country, as we left the airport grounds and merged into the fray, was an unforgettable portrait. A battered pickup truck with a Howitzer gun
mounted in the bed, manned by a soldier standingin full fatigues. The first crisis of the ride was to figure out how I would change money. Fatou recognized someone
who was sitting on a motorbike across the street and yelled to him. We swung around and caught up with him and they exchanged a few words. Elie explained to me
that we'd need to do this on the down-low because if the military sees any money changing on the streets it would end badly for me. I slid a $100 note out the window
and into the hands of the motorbike driver. He sped off and we followed behind. Eventually, he pulled over and pointed to a dirt alley, where we waited for ten minutes.
He rolled up and passed a fat wad of the dirtiest money I've ever seen through our car window. My C-note was worth 450,000 guinean francs, which I could barely fit
into two cargo pants pockets (the biggest note was 5000). Exchange rates are better here on the black market than in banks, as everyone here is clamoring for hard currency.
The second crisis was finding a place for me to stay. We were driving aimlessly and the cabbie was getting visibly irritated. An argument broke out between Elie and
the driver over the rising cost of the cab ride. Elie's patience snapped and he demanded the driver stop, so we could get out and find another taxi. I was too busy
drinking in the scene, a chaotic post-Apocalyptic Mad Max reality tv show. Junky cars whizzing about within inches of each other, pedestrians weaving through the
gauntlet, neglected malnourished dogs limping across open sewers, shantytown vendors hawking goods out of rusted corrugated siding, the acrid smoke of burning
garbage scenting the scene. Fatou placated the driver and we continued on. We pulled into a dirt path and found a hotel for $30/night. It featured a fan, electricity
from dusk til dawn, a plastic chair, a blue-headed lizard behind the toilet and a mozzie netted bed. I was too exhausted to care about my new reptilian roommate
and collaped on the bed for a 6 hour nap.
I woke up around 8pm, starving. My last meal was a stale croissant courtesy of Air Uganda. I couldn't find any place open which served food. Dinner was some
trail mix and a cold beer, donated by my empathetic neighbor in the hotel. Deeper into the night, a local woman appeared, sat down next to me on the terrace,
and struck up a conversation. Pleasant, at first, then a bit more familiar, until it digressed to its predictable conclusion. The precise line of questions from her:
"You want to drink me"?
"You want to dance me"?
"You want to fuck me"?
I had hoped ignoring her would solve the problem but she was persistent. She pointed to my laptop and told me to play music for her so she could dance. She
got up and started rump-shakin', dropping her bulbous trunk of junk in my face. I finally had to tell the pole-less African Vegas dancer to go away. She did, but
not before asking me for money for food.
Just after midnight, a white kid came rushing towards me, barking "My-Kill, My-Kill"? I nodded and he introduced himself as Mattieu, camp manager of Project
Primate, the French NGO I will be working for. I bounced up, gave him a bear hug, relieved I had been rescued. Profuse apologies for neglecting to pick me up at the airport. I collected my bags and jumped into the waiting 4x4 project vehicle, where the director, Estelle, was nervously smoking. More sorries. We drove to an open-air bar and had a round of beers. Drove back to a house which the project rents here in the capital city and crashed, hard.
|
