Guinea and Senegal, 1987

Guinea was the second country I visited in Africa. The first was Senegal, which I spent a couple of days in en route for Conakry, Guinea’s capital. In Senegal I stayed in Dakar, that most un-African of cities. Dakar is all skyscrapers and fancy hotels and pickpockets in the Place de l’Independence. Dakar is also Goree, a small island just a mile offshore which the Portuguese used as the jumping off point for the transport of slaves to the new world. There is a museum to remind one of this horrendous practice. Goree is still a beautiful spot, with its fortress intact, and somewhat dilapidated colonial dwellings now occupied by Africans. Between Goree and the mainland when I was there in the late eighties there were a number of large Russian factory trawlers at anchor, testimony to the bountiful fishery which lay offshore.

Conakry, the capital of Senegal’s neighbor, Guinea, also has a beautiful island offshore. Actiually, it is a small chain of islands called ? It is about ten nautical miles, and I reached it by dugout canoe. They are like heaven on earth. But to get there, unfortunately you have to go to hell. On one of these islands, an unscrupulous European waste dealer tried to get rid of drums of discarded toxic chemicals. He had sold them to some Guinean businessman, and they were imported into the country under the guise of recyclable material?

Conakry itself is nothing like Dakar. Until I had been to Luanda, Conakry was the dingiest place I had ever seen. The city had been ransacked under the despotic regime of Sekou Toure, another misguided African patriot. His firebrand socialism bled the country to death economically during the sixties and seventies. As an example of his legacy, he spend large sums of money building lavish houses for each of the heads of state invited for the OAS annual meeting in 1982? This proved to be a double aste of money, however, because in the end the conference never took place ( check, and why?). When I was there, one of these buildings housed the offices of The World Bank. You might say that this was the third way in which money was wasted.

In 1987, during the time of my mission to Guinea, the country was in the throes of adjusting to the Bank’s infamous structural adjustment programme. This belt-tightening exercise resulted in the laying-off of hundreds of hangers-on in the Ministry of Fisheries where our meetings were taking place. Fisheries HQ was a terribly chaotic place, with people loitering in the corridors, clutching papers in their hands no doubt intended to validate their claim to whatever it was they were seeking redress for, seeking an appointment with this or that official. There would be endless waits for our meetings to begin, and when they did they would invariably be interrupted when the official we were meeting would get called in to see the Minister, or the phone would ring, or whatever. We would be left to sit there staring at our shoes until the meeting resumed.

I am Sorry. That was the unfortunate name of a fellow who invited me back to his modest house for a beer. Actually, his name turned out to be spelled Sori, but by the time people find that out the damage has already been done. I had met him and his brother in the street near by hotel, the fleabag Novotel. They had been walking alongside me when I thought I had heard some English being spoken. Guinea being a former French colony, this pricked up my ears. Feeling somewhat lonely in this ghastly place after only one or two days there, I asked the two of them if they were indeed speaking English. They responded in the affirmative. It emerged that they were from neighboring Sierra Leone, and were working in Conakry. When I asked them their names, one of them said “I am Sori”. I simply could not believe that this was his name, but apparently it was. Even he thought it was quite joke. Sori and his brother were two of the nicest fellows you would ever want to meet. They were both in their mid-twenties, Christians evidently educated by missionaries. Sori was a secretary, typing letters for his boss in some sort of company.

These two chaps went on to tell me one of those stories you seem to hear all over Africa: how a large slice of their meagre paycheck went to feed their parents and several siblings; how from time to time they were expected to pay for the funeral of some relative or other; or how the money went to pay for schooling or medical expenses of a little brother or sister. I had no reason to doubt the authenticity of these stories. In fact, I am sure they are true. I felt quite sorry for the people telling me these stories. I also felt quite helpless; there just seemed so little I could do to help. They offered me beer from the fridge, which I gratefuly accepted and then paid them for. Beyond that, I could not think of anything to do for them.

At first I had nothing but admiration for these young men. Then it emeged that they had an older brother working illegally in the States. He was apparently one of the head chefs at one of the big chain hotels in Washington, D. C. They freely admitted to me that he was an illegal alien, working without a green card. Then they startled me by telling me that it was their goal to join him as soon as possible. This flummoxed me. On the one hand, my training as an internationl lawyer told me that this would be an illegal act. On the other, the anarchist in me supported them in their brave if foolhardy pursuit. I do not really believe in national boundaries; I find them completely artificial. I am against any shackles being placed on the free movement of people. In a perfect world, everyone should be able to travel, live and work wherever they desire, whatever their colour, language or level of education. In the end, my professional side won out: I implored the two not to attempt to enter the U. S. A. illegally. I tried to dissuade them on purely practical grounds: that they would be caight and thrown into jail before being unceremoniously deported. This seemed to have no effect on them at all, other than to induce peals of laughter. I found myself jumping on a moral high horse, feeling that it was wrong for them to attempt this. And then I thought to myself: who the hell am I to try to prevent these chaps from attempting to realise their dream. After all, anybody who has that much determination to improve his or her circumstances in life, and can manage to overcome so many hurdles, deserves to succeed. This, after all, is precisely the kind of person my country, Canada, wants to attract: someone who is young, energetic, ambitious, determined and single-minded. Okay, so he may not be all that honest, but what is the virtue in being honest if it condemns you to a life of poverty and misery?

I never did find out what became of my two Sierra Leonan friends. On my frequent trips to Washington, I have often wondered whether they made it there, to be with their brother. Perhaps, god forbid, they are among the numerous stowaways who have been discovered and thrown overboard by irate sea captains on the African-European run. Or maybe they were victims of the bloody civil war that has befallen their mother country since the beginning of the nineties. I have no way of knowing. If I were to return to Guinea, I would definitely try to track them down. Who knows, maybe they just died of natural causes in their early thirties, a not-unlikely outcome in Africa.

By day, there are very few distractions in Conakry. There are few places to walk, and few sites of interest. On a day off, I planned to visit those islands just offshore. I was told the only way I could get there would be by dugout canoe. Regrettably, none of my colleagues wanted to come with me; they were among the most unadventurous lot I had ever met. I was therefore forced to negotiate passage on one of those canoes lone. This I thought I had done, after much haggling. But when I got in my chosen vessel the owner demanded more money than had just been agreed. Evidently he had changed his mind about waiting for me on the island and then taking me back. His excuse was that the high cost of gasoline meant that he would be losing money on the journey. As I felt that I was being blackmailed, I immediately demanded that we return to port. At first he refused to follow my orders, but when he saw that I just would not cave in, he relented and turned the boat around.

This left me with quite a predicament. Back on shore, there was only one other canoe available, and it seemed to be taken: a white family were just about to climb aboard. Fortunately for me, the gentleman in that group saw what had gone on between me and my Guinean friend, and beckoned me his way. After a brief discussion of my predicament, he offered me a seat in the canoe he had just rented. Initially I refused his kind offer: I could see that he would have his hands full enough as it was, for there were two adults and two children in his entourage, plus of course the owner of the vessel. I could also see that neither the lady, who I assumed, correctly as it turned out, to be his wife, nor the owner of the canoe, were particularly enamoured with the gentleman’s magnanimity. The woman, not knowing me from Adam, probably felt that I might spoil their little Sunday outing. As for our great helmsman, I suspect he felt he would be cheated out of my fare. After thinking things over a bit, I decided tht this was my only chance to see the islands which people had raved about so much. I was so tired of Conakry that I decided to chance it.

The day I spent at those islands turned out to be one of those special days one will never forget. The sun shone brightly as we set off in our little craft. My benefactors turned out to be Lebanese. They owned a restaurant in Abidjan, and had come to Conakry for some reason. The man and woman were in their late forties, and they had two children, a boy and a girl, aged about ten. The boat ride was somewhat harrowing, as we skimmed across the water, five foot waves crashing over the bow. There were no lifejackets in the boat, and I had images of capsizinga and being eaten alive by sharks. I am a very strong swimmer, with nine triathlons under my belt, but there was no way I could have outdistanced a killer shark. We could see them off in the distance, a line of green across the horizon, with the cafe au lait coloured beach become more and more prominent as e approached. Fortunately, we made it to the islands in one piece. I felt like Robinson Crusoe as the pirogue was beached.

The main island is only about a mile long, and where we landed only about 100 metres wide. The sandy beach itself is incredibly beautiful, and the water a lovely aquamarine. Inland palm trees and tropical plants ( wild roses? ). The island is shaped like a boomerang. On the landward ( leeward? ) side the waters are very calm, but when you cross over to the windward side ( seaward? ) via a path cut through the bushes, it is very windy and the waters very choppy. It is like two different worlds. On the calm side at the end of the island there is a little port with a cafe and a shop or two where you can buy postcards and trinkets. My Lebanese friends insisted that I join them on the beach. They had come well prepared for a picnic, spreading out a blanket on which they laid their sandwiches and drinks. I had not brought anything, so I gladly accepted their offer to eat with them. I was also free to go off on my own and explore a bit, which I did. I also swam in the warm waters of the southeast Atlantic. It was like a dream: in the space of one and one half hours I had gone from the stinking, polluted mess of Conakry harbour, with raw sewage, rotting fish and flotsam and jetsam floating around, to this south sea paradise. What really struck me as how few people there were around us. They probably cannot afford the journey, since it costs about $15 US to hire a pirogue for the day. Or perhaps they just don’t appreciate the beauty of the site the way most westerners do. Those of us in northern climes at any rate seem to have this thing about palm trees and sandy beaches that people who live in the tropics do not necessarily share. Later on I was to ask a few Guinean civil servants if they knew about the islands: most of them had, but none had been there. They did not seem to share my enthusiasm for this special place.

The time soon came when we had to get in the pirogue and return to Conakry. When we were about half way there, I indicated to my Lebanese benefactor that I wanted to pay him for my passage. He would have none of it. I kept insisting, but he refused to accept anything, implying that everything was paid for. It is quite possible that at some point he had told the piroque operator that he would give him something extra, but if he did I certainly did not see it happen. When we got back to port we all disembarked and the vessel owner went off to some building to do something. I said my goodbyes to my Lebanese friends before walking off in the direction of the hotel. Then, as I rounded the building the pirogue owner had gone towards, to my utter surprise and horror, there he was! He did not seem to speak any French, but it was perfectly obvious from the gestures he was making that he wanted money from me. To this day I am surprised with my reaction to his demands: I immediately stuffed a few US dollars and walked off.

Why did I react this way? He was not brandishing a knife. Still, I instinctively thought that if I did not cooperate, either he would pull one out and slash my throat, or a bunch of his friends would appear out of nowhere and jump me. Life is cheap in Africa! In addition, in the back of my mind I thought that he deserved something extra for having taken me on board. Maybe this was only a rationalisation for my own weakness, but it did seem that the Lebanese chap had handled things rather heavyhandedly. Who knows, maybe the Lebanese slipped him something extra and he still felt entitled to something from me. I shall never know. But I shall never forget the look in that young man’s eyes as he demanded money: it was the look of a beggar, but not a thief.

That night my colleagues and I went out for a meal together. There is something very special about an African city at night. Even a dump like Conakry can suddenly become attractive. By day the place is hot, noisy, polluted and smelly; garbage lines the streets and mangy dogs drink from the open sewers. Half-naked kids cry out “Monsieur, s’il vous plait”, begging for money. A white man is easy prey in broad daylight on a potholed African street. But at night, under the cover of darkness, nobody seems to notice the colour of one’s skin, and it is harder to see the dirt. People are too busy celebrating! Even the dingiest urban metropolis takes on a carnival atmosphere. Vendors line the streets with tables lit by candlelight. Guinean music, which is very popular in black Africa, blares out from restaurants or ghettos blasters in the street. Here and there people break into spontaneous dance. Women stroll arm in arm, men stroll hand in hand, and no matter where you go there is the pounding rythym and beat of Africa. The action seems to start around ten o’clock, and can go on for several hours. Food is cooked by the side of the road.

During the day, about the only interesting thing to do when one is not working is to observe the parade of African women in their beautiful full-length dresses. Seeing them in these gowns is one of the most extraordinary phenomena I have ever seen. The women wearing these colourful outfits do not seem to come from any particular tribe or social class. I have seen these dresses being worn elsewhere in West Africa as well, in Senegal and The Gambia. I understand that the custom is also practiced in Nigeria and Ghana. The dresses themselves look a bit like saris. They seem to consist of a single bolt of cloth wrapped around the body several times. But these dresses are much fancier than a sari: they obviously have been stitched together, and they invariably have a pattern. I am told that the cloth comes from Holland. Once in a while I see an African woman dressed up this way in European and North American cities. In fact, the first time I saw this was in Geneva, where a gorgeous Cameroonian student had a whole wardrobe of these lovely creations which she used to wear to class.

There is nothing subtle about the colours of the dresses: they are meant to draw attention to the person wearing them. To see a gaggle of ladies haggling for fish in this getup is quite a sight. You would think they would save them for a special occasion, but no, almost everyone wears them, and all the time. To top things off, the same gay patterns are usually used to fashion a headdress, which creates an even more stunning effect. And then there is the way these women carry themselves. Most of them wiggle down the street the way a model would walk down a catwalk. These gals are definitely strutting their stuff. The message they are sending out is definitely “Look at me! Aren’t I beautiful?” As it happens, many of the women you see in these countries are extremely attractive, by any standards.

The only unfortunate thing was, I did not get to walk much in Conakry. Our Guinean host, Monsieur Camera, had a car. Even if a meeting we had was only two blocks away, he would insist on driving us all there. Walking is a sign of poverty in Africa, and Camera just could not accept that I actually preferred walking to driving. He seemed to take it as some kind of insult, as if his car was not good enough for me. If the truth be known, it was a beat up old wreck, but even if it had been a brand new Mercedes, I still would have preferred walking. I hate being cooped up inside in meetings all day: walking from one meeting to the next was a way of getting some exercise and fresh air. I did not care whether our host was offended: my health and welbeing were more important than protocol.

Being a high-priced Consultant on these short-term assignments in Africa can lead to some touchy situations with our hosts, who are invariably paid a pittance. It is customary on these missions, for instance, for the team leader to invite everyone out for a meal just before the end of the mission. This usually means three or four team members, plus three or four of our African counterparts. In Guinea, this meant going to the most expensive French restaurant in Conakry, situated on the Corniche. This restaurant, with its white linen tablecloths and napkins, gleaming silverware and fine crystal, would not have been out of place in Paris, which is where the owners were from. Waiters were tripping over each other trying to serve us, and the menu was both extensive and expensive. I felt quite embarrassed in this ostentatious place. It seemed like such a waste of money to be there, in the midst of abject poverty. But the whole thing was designed to impress our hosts with their own importance and our own largesse. What a pity we could not have taken them to a pizzeria instead, allowing them to pocket the difference in cost between the two venues. For the price of a four course meal in a four star restaurant in Africa, a whole family could probably live for two months. This is what makes these junkets so outrageous!