Congé part II

Since I don't have an actual VISA for Guinea (thanks entirely to Mauritanian boldfaced ineptness) the border police the next day gave me a little trouble. The barely literate policeman tried to make me go back to Bissau, while fondling a stack of 5,000 CFA bills, fanning them through his gold-ringed fingers (hint, hint) Still, I can't really blame them. Then suddenly, after the quota of harrassment had been reached, its entertainment value diminished, he called in a colleage and they both made a great show of discussing the merits of my case, as if there were absolutely anything at stake, as if the whole disorganized, corrupt mass of Guinea was in danger from one emaciated little toubab in a backpack. 'But he's Peace Corps!' says the second in French to the other, with what I'm sure was sarcasm intended for my benefit, 'Man, he's a blanc, you're just asking for trouble.' Give me a break. Peace Corps is about as dangerous as a goat snout.

The driver of my taxi tried to ditch me at the first sign of trouble, handing me back my grimy backpack, and the suddenly-on-my-side policemen bitched him out for it. Here's to fairweather friends. :)


In the leafy Guinean border town of Sareboido, I changed my remaing CFA for a giant bundle of inflated Guinean Francs (704,000 of them to be exact) and tried to stuff them all into the hidden, fanny-pack-like money pouch that I had made from an old pants pocket and a piece of a sheet. Then I settled in to wait at the head of the shady street for a car to fill.

I instantly liked Guinea, feeling that there was something different about it, for no better reason perhaps, than that I had finally acheived it, and continued to do so through the yummy bowl of hot-peppered riz-gras, casually eaten in a chair with a spoon, served from a bucket by a woman with tiny dreadlocks like pins, right up until the point when they overcharged me horrendously. Well, of course they did. I didn't argue, because I feel that bartering with people with whom you have been nicely chatting is degrading for everyone involved. Plus, negociating for prepared food (which I never have to do) feels especially tacky. My only defense at this point, because I'm arrogant and bitter, is to ask them patronizingly, 'Is this the correct price?', and shoot them an accusing stare so that I've forced them to lie explicitly when they answer 'yes', and so that my position on my little moral encampment is fortified.

That night we traveled miles and miles through the forested roads of red mud. 'Roads' is generous. Traveling conditions for the average person are so appaling thats its almost surreal in a nightmarish way. Before and afterwards you think it impossible that you could consent to , or survive being smushed for hours into an airless, stifling car in the rain, fighting to maintain your pathetic 1/2 seat from the hot, fabric swathed bodies next to you, radiating heat like small stars, being endlessly jostled and jumbled over treacherous vehicle-destroying potholes, as your head nods from exhaustion.

Still, there you are, time and time again, like a mouse who doesn't learn, and it just is. It's not that its not as bad as you think it will be. It is. Its just that the body forgets discomfort 5 minutes after it ends, and the mind turns it into a virtue.

Boy, Guinean standards sure are different! Get this: in Mauritania it's (Islamically) forbidden for me to sit in the seat next to a woman who is not my sister, despite the fact that we are both sheathed in fabric like Pharoahs, - a reality which results in endless amounts of reshuffling during transports full of strangers. Sometimes, when it is unavoidable, we simply jam a divider of whatever is available, a notebook, a waterbottle, between men and women, or obey wordless rules about the hierarchy of badness, or who is least related to whom. I, being what I am, - the epitome of the 'alien', usually top the list, but occasionally, and revealingly, I am considered as incomprehensible, and as neutrally non-human as the notebook.

In Guinea, however, at one point during the voyage I was sitting between a miniature little man in a hat, and the young mini-skirted woman beside the driver (Did you do the math? That's four people in the front of a car the size of a Civic) me, smushed up against the bare thighs and arms of the woman as she straddled the gear shift, our bulldog-faced driver reaching between her legs to shift from 2nd to 3rd. And no one batted an eye, as the rain continued and Salif Keita played on the stereo. Well, maybe one eye. My time in the RIM has made me a bit of a prude, for the moment.

A few hours after the sun had gone down on our journey over the forested paths, we came to a small lake at the bottom of a hill, where we got out to wait for the return of the small, hand-cranked barge which was to take us to the other side. Passengers from one the other cars sat off to the side of the path, and listened to Shakira as she belted out from the tiny speakers of one of their cellphones. "Hello, hello Monsieur?" said the man with the phone as I squatted nearby on the wet ground. My god, I thought, I am conspicuous even in complete darkness. There was no moon and I hadn't said a word. Jesus.

This was Magu, who will figure more in to my story later, but for the moment we just sait on a little conveniently placed wooden stool, and passed the time. He was returning from Germany (he's a mechanic there) and wore a black suede-esque jacket and jeans, had a shaved head with a long nose and biggish teeth that were a little crooked in the front, and we spoke in English because he could, well enough to be not too irritating. When he smiles it looks strained as though insincere, though in fact he's almost childishly guileless.

He was pleasant, though a little boring honestly, and when he suggested meeting up in Conakry, as we glided on the ferry over dark, muddy water, catching on branches, I couldn't help wishing, though I accepted, that I had landed an invitation from someone more intriguing. That's true, though not admirable. I've become blasé about fortuitous meetings and spontaneous offers of hospitality here, and have come to receive them with a critical eye.

To be continued......