Estelle & Mat left early to run errands in the city center. They left some bread, instant coffee with a thermos of hot water, and a triangle of Laughing Cow cheese. In the confusion and darkness of last night, I didn't realize how close to the coast we are. This morning, sipping my Nescafe on the terrace, I have a view to the ocean. A tall lanky local man came over and introduced himself as Cassoum. His face bears a complex pattern of tribal scarification and a genuine smile. Estelle has hired him to be her house man, which involves being the night watchman, the gardner, the maid, and the errand boy. This guy doesn't speak a word of English but he is all good vibes. My first true test of language skills has arrived. I hacked my way through some French and managed to tell him I needed his help in getting me to the US embassy. He walked me down to the road to catch a cab. All cars are cabs here, whether or not they are yellow. Fuel is very expensive here and drivers need help with the cost. People just stand by the roadside and wave their arms until a car pulls over. Fee-based hitchhiking. Roads here are heavily lined with clumps of people and taxis, continually pulling over until the cars are crammed full of bodies. Took out my camera and started snapping away. Suddenly, Cassoum pushed my camera out of view and shook his head. A military truck full of soldiers had pulled up near us. "Big problem for you, army no like photo", Cassoum gently corrected my etiquette breach.
On the way to the embassy, we drove on the coastal road. The beach seemed oddly desolate. In fact, for miles, there simply was no beach. Just seawater lapping up onto rocks. Learned later that all the sand had been taken from the beaches here to supply the building construction industry. We pulled up to the most modern building in all of Conakry. The US embassy here is predictably a gross unneccesary display of influence. A sprawling marble edifice nestled amid shoddy local construction. Flushed US tax dollars spent in a remote obscure politically insignificant country. I got to the window and spoke to a staffer in consular services. He seemed genuinely surprised that a non-peace corps American was here. He engaged me with a mixture of admiration and pity. His lecture included some valuable tips. "The rainy season is about to start in 10 minutes. I hope you have full gear. You will be living in southeast Asian monsoon conditions. Do you know what a blister beetle is? You'll find out soon enough. Never give your passport to a policeman or a soldier. They will require a bribe to return it to you. Just carry a photocopy of it. There are military roadblocks setup everywhere. Prepare to fork over some francs at these corruption collection points. Only 10% of them are legit. The rest are just soldiers of fortune looking for cash. If you have any serious illness or injury, do NOT go to the hospital in the capital. There are no bed sheets, no medicine, and mold on the walls. Try to convince your medical travel evac insurance to fly you to Paris or London. Have a nice time, welcome to Guinea."
And, with that pep talk completed, I submitted my registration documents to him and walked out to meet Cassoum, who was waiting in front of the building.
We jumped into a taxi and went to get some lunch, in a very loose sense of the word. There are no restaurants, per se, in Guinea. There are just roadside stalls with people selling food from splintered wood benches inside a shack cobbled together with used tires, inner tubes, rusty nails, torn plastic sheeting, etc. I do my best to look for the ones which have the least amount of flies. A meal here costs about $2. For your investment, you get rice with some sauce, usually either ground peanut or cassava root. I hear there are actual restaurants that you can enter, sit down at a proper table, and order off a menu. But Ive haven't seen any. I suppose the ones that exist are catering to the foreign diplomatic community.
Cassoum has been my lifeline these first few days in Guinea. Without his escort services, I would be exponentially more lost than I already am. We went back to the house and there were some teenagers hanging out next door. I went over to talk with them and, of course, no one spoke a lick of English. One boy was giving his friend a haircut and I noticed a barbell lying in the dirt. Two truck axles were welded onto the ends of a metal rod. We took turns lifting weights and just then a small child wandered over to look what was going on. One look at me and the baby ran away screaming. Never seen a honky before and I inadvertently frightened here. She returned a moment later in her fathers arms, still crying. He coaxed/forced her to touch my hand.
As I was leaving, one of the boys motioned for me to follow him towards the back of the house. He brought me to a rusting oil drum laying on its side. There was movement inside as he unlashed some wire. He was so proud to show me his pet crocodile. Later that evening, we were invited to dinner at one of Estelle's friends home. Hassan, the Lebanese diamond accountant, lives in a high rise downtown that actually has uninterrupted electricity. Standing on his terrace looking out over the downtown cityscape, its a creepy site to behold a capital city which lies in near darkness. Very few building have power. His apartment has leather sofas, laptops, and a 42" plasma flatscreen. For Guinea, it's all so wrong and yet I was more than willing to reap the luxuries of his toil. We ate like dictators tonight. Meat, fish, baba ganoush, salad, red wine. Dessert was Black Label, courtesy of Johnny Walker. He leads a tenuous life. He is the accountant for a diamond dealer. Hassan regularly makes business trips to Dubai and Belgium, where he delivers product. Last week, he delivered US$1.8 million worth of raw rocks in a locked briefcase. Before moving to Guinea, he lived and worked in Sierra Leone. Where you find a diamond market, you will find Lebanese people.
At 1am, he drove us home in his new Lexus. We were forced to stop at a military checkpoint. 5 soldiers had strewn a few chairs with wood logs across the road. Hassan immediately extended his hand to greet the soldier with some cash hidden in his palm by his thumb. The soldier smiled, nodded, and walked toward the chairs to allow us to pass. Just as we were about to go through, his superior officer yelled something from behind our car. He came up to Hassan's window and decided that whatever Hassan donated was not enough. Not considering a new luxury car with 4 whites and an Arab inside. Estelle reached into her purse for more cash and coughed it up while cursing him in French. We drove on through the black Conakry night, small fires by the roadside, stray dogs prowling the streets in search of scraps.
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