Conge part III

We parted on the opposite shore with a thoroughly unanticipated and awkward little hug, and promised to meet up later.

After several hours we emerged from the dark and rainy woods into a small town, and they led me, half asleep, into a low, tin-roofed little shack with long plywood tables plastered with old contact paper, and little benches, and no room anywhere, and Guinean music from a boombox. It was after midnight and everyone was eating rice with red or green sauces, so naturally I did too. This is simultaneously one of my least and most favorite things to do, to be as intolerably conspicuous as a siren, to pop up like a weed in places no one could have been expecting to see me, and to appear blankly unaware that anything is out of the ordinary. What the hell is a farm boy from Upstate doing in the midnight of a Guinean forest? It is important to betray no unease, though still better to have none, so as I commandeered a space on a rough bench, I returned any curious looks with one that said, "What?", and rested my head world-wearily on one hand as I spooned rice into my mouth with the other.

I had my first experience with the mythical 'cafe noire' of Guinea, but found that it got cold too fast because the cups were so small, and something about the sweetness tasted rotten.

In Boke, I spent the whole next day sleeping in a damp hotel filled with clumsy and musty wooden furniture. Because, unlike Mauritania, Guinea has trees from which to make such things, I found myself over and over in hotel rooms crowded with needless and tacky headboards and end-tables, thinking, 'what in the hell could I put in this giant cabinet?' I'd take the lazy austerity of a Mauritanian mat, or a simple bed and chair with clean lines over these boastful, awkward imitations of god knows what, anyday. That evening I watched their stangely shorter and fatter goats grazing endlessly on greenness, as I walked the long and hilly road toward the central town, where I ate fried plantains with piment sauce, which are peerless.

I found a little restaurant and when I walked in the young waiter greeted me like he had been expecting me. I thought I had made a mistake. "Ohhh," he said smiling, " le grand, le grand!"

The treatment is relatively common from people who are either exceedingly ebullient, or who want something, and though normally I find it irritating, or am at best indifferent to it, something in his eyes was honest and well intentioned. His name was Jibreel, like the angel. He wore corduroy pants. There was no one else there all night, except a couple on motorcycles who left early. I was the only customer. I drank Skols, a Guinean beer, and treated Jibreel to one orange Fanta after another as he sat in the chair beside me with his feet up and talked endlessly. They they fried me up a big fish which I picked out from its icy bed in the freezer.

On the way out Jibreel caught me a moto-taxi, just a quick whistle to a figure gliding by in the darkness and almost before I knew what was happening, the shadowy driver mumbled 'montes' and I did, and we sped away. It was raining just a little, the clotted clouds were streaming through the sky, the moon glowed green. Had I ever been on a motorcycle before? Maybe not. In truth, the motos they have here are closer to a dirt-bike than a Harley, but so much the better; what could be more thrilling than popping around on a zippy, svelte little craft, clutching the driver's tight-muscled tummy, the wet wind in your face, and feeling more alone that you ever thought possible? If there are better ways to traverse distances, I don't know of them. The taxi brought me right to my door, and I think I tipped him in gratitude. At second glance, the moto-man appeared to be about 14, but it didn't matter. I stumbled back to my over-furnished room and slept.

Conakry is a bit of a hole, to be honest, even though surely it can't compete with the holest of holes, our very own Nouakchott. Still, it seemed at times like just one long autoway, branching off into other dirty autoways, which branched off into confusing, slummy backstreets. But I know nothing.

I arrived in the rain, or rather just before it. This was to be a recurring plotline - it seemed to rain about every 3 hours. Clothes I washed took 2 days to dry, in Mauritania its about 30 minutes. I ducked under an overpass for shelter, along with several other random characters, including one young, sparsely mustachioed teenage guy on crutches, (or was it a wheelchair?) who managed to get me to give him some cash. Normally, I don't give to beggars, (if you do you will never stop, you will be bombarded by problems you can not fix) but he was extra spunky. I don't think he said two words, in fact, neither of us did. Our negociations were done all in the eyes.

After a while, a cab came like a chariot of dubious worth, and soon me, the distinguished Peul woman in the back, and the driver were all energetically trying to figure out where in the hell I was going. This happens all the time here, no one (including, and especially, cab drivers) knows where anything is in their own city, though they will nevertheless try very hard to help you get there. This is in varying degrees infuriating and endearing. When you ask the driver if he knows the "Mission Catholique" he will either lie and say yes, or with refreshing honesty say, 'no, just get in'. The taxi's window handles had all been broken or removed. This happens all the time here, too. The car was stifling and humid, the rain outside making it feel like I was on the inside of someone's science experiment. Worst of all, like always, I was the only one who seemed to mind. I kept tugging on my collar and staring at the broken window handles lie a crazy person. All of my nightmares since coming here involved riding in cars with every window rolled up. That is a joke, but just barely.

The Mission Catholique is exactly what it sounds like (good luck finding one of those in Mauritania) and it's inhabited by real live nuns, (not withered old white ladies, but young and beautiful African women) with habits and everything. Though, unlike their 'Sound of Music' counterparts, they wore, instead of dour navy drapes, light, sky-blue habits with crisp white short-sleeved blouses, pleated periwinkle skirts and silver cross necklaces. How lovely to come down, each morning, to a long wooden dining table, peopled with these pious figures in blue, and assorted travelers (of which, I, improbably, was one) and exchange polite, non-commital 'bonjours' and help oneself to some simple breakfast - coffee and milk (all from various powders) some bread and synthetic butter in a yellow tub. Why did it remind me, strangely, of my child hood, and the farm and worn countertops? There must have been some non-nun maid scrubbing floors with bleach. There must have been a framed picture of our absurdly white, anemically wraith-like savior on the wall, him looking up through the two wooden floors, the roof, and the mango canopy, to the sky.

The nuns, despite their cheery get-ups, made me feel bad for something I wasn't sure I did. What are you supposed to say to a nun? Once, when I was checking-in, the woman who sat down across the desk from me put her hands together and I spent a terrified moment thinking we were going to begin by praying. Do I have to pass a test to be able to stay, I wondered? I guess this is something that's more of my problem than theirs.

I went out to find a bit to eat and snagged some beef brochettes which are little kebobs of grilled meat and onions, and the harrassed-looking young woman I bought them from slid them off the stick for me onto a little bit of brown paper, gave me some piment when I asked for it, and then I sat down right there on a little blackened bench in the middle of the sidewalk and ate them. It wasn't very much so I had her hit me again, but brochettes do not disappoint.

This is something else, incidentally, that you will never find in Mauritania, in fact we have no street food whatsoever. The most you will find sold on the street (aside from produce) are peanuts (sugared or non) some hard candy or little packages of biscuit cookies. Then there are things like greasy beignets for travelers or children, because those are two groups of people who are routinely allowed to break rules.

And so the rule itself seems to be that it is rude to eat in front of others who are not eating, which is totally accepted and abided by, though I can't remember ever specifically learning it or being told so by anyone. I remember when I first came to Nouakchott I was so excited to find a corner epicerie who sold a reasonable approximation of a 'Nutty-Buddy' with out the nuts, (which, though good, are less important than the ingeniously delicious 'waffle cone') and then accordingly frustrated when I had to wait to get back to my room each night to eat it, my first ice-cream dessert in six months, for fear that someone might see me under the glow of a random streetlight and then feel disadvantaged because they wanted some too.... I laugh now when I think about how much I cared, because now I'm all, "screw those ice-cream-less freaks! I'm so (culturally) integrated I'm un-integrated!" But I supposed I'm honestly not that much of a bad-ass because I would still never eat the 'Nutty-Buddy' in broad day light. Some things stay the same.

To be continued...