Just a week ago, I was entering the embassy of the Republic of Guinea in Bamako to apply for a visa. I usually go to all the embassies with my two passports, the Argentine and the Italian, and use one or the other as I see fit. For various reasons, mostly practical, I decided that this time I would use the Argentine one for this country.
Unlike the onerous standard that one usually finds in the embassies of rich countries (and even those of several poor countries) usually sheltered behind high walls with sentry boxes and armed personnel, the Guinean embassy boasts an austere style of cracked façades, broken windows, a simple cast iron fence on the front and a modest man who only carries a bunch of keys. Nor is it located in a luxury neighborhood and just by knocking on the door, it is enough for the man to come open without the need for armored windows in between. It's getting to a place where no one is waiting for you because no one is usually waiting for someone to come.
The man, of few words, vanishes at the end of a dark corridor, walking as if carrying the weight of years of performing a tedious task. He leaves me alone in an office where my only entertainment is to analyze the origin of the cracks in the walls. By the time I have already decided that it is mainly a structural problem between the beam and the bearing wall, combined with the poor execution of the plaster, the man returns 10 minutes later to inform me that the consul is already on her way. I have no doubt that he just called her at her house to tell her to come because someone happened to show up this morning around here. Therefore, I keep on waiting, sitting in a chair that creaks just by taking a breath, which leads me to suspect that it was intentionally chosen to replace any form of CCTV security system. Having resolved the problem of the origin of the cracks I need to move on to my next object of entertainment. At that point, I realize that judging by the equipment of the office I am in, I might as well be in the time machine traveling back to the 90's, when monitors were the size of a refrigerator and the fastest computer is slower than a Nokia monochrome mobile phone of today. Surrounding the furniture that reminds me of my life when I was 16 years old, are dark green walls that do a good job at concealing the moisture stains. The little light that enters, filtered through the glass blurred by dirt, is enough to illuminate the image of Alpha Condé hanging in a crooked picture. The current president looks at me smiling and I laugh because there can be nothing funnier than having a president named 'Alpha'. Suddenly, a female voice interrupts my thought.
- Bonjour Monsieur - resounds behind me in the soft tone of a tempting voice. Before I manage to turn around, an exquisite silhouette with exuberant curves passes fleetingly by me, wrapped in a tight dress of as many colors as those present in a fruit salad. The diffused light of the environment reveals the perfection of a skin black as coal but smooth as silk. By the time she finishes settling behind her desk, she finally sentences with a fluorescent white smile and perfectly aligned teeth - what can I do for you, Monsieur?
Dazzled by her beauty, I need a few extra seconds to compose myself and to be able to thread my words. I articulate my answer as best I can while trying to hide the shock while I'm being aware of the stunned face I must have at this moment. Finally, I manage to tell her that I have been wanting to visit Guinea for years and that is why I have come to apply for the visa. Surprised by my unusual interest in visiting her country, she assures me that there is no problem at all. As every good African, she takes her time examining my passport until she stops to ask me how long I need a visa for. By that time, nothing matters to me anymore, her charm has subjugated me and at the risk of being denied a visa, I free myself of inhibitions and without hesitation I say: -mmmmm well, let's see, the truth is that if the women in Guinea are as beautiful as you are, then I would tell you that I want to apply for a resident's visa. If it weren't for the black skin hiding it, I'd bet she's completely flushed in her unsuccessful attempt to hold back her laughter. I immediately continue, making an effort to straighten out the internal animal and stop flirting, concluding that if that isn't possible, then I can do well with a 30-day visa. She struggles for coordination while trying to reconcile the flattery with the bureaucracy as she fumbles around the clutter of papers that lie around the desk until she finds the price list. When she finishes digging it up from under a pile of folders, she arranges it in a way so that we can both see the options (How cute! It's our first plan together, I think to myself, laughing).
The list indicates only two options: A- Visa for the European Union - 75 EUROS. B -Visa for the United States and Canada - 110 EUROS. Looks like nobody heard about the rest of the world in Guinea. Sitting in confusion, she thinks about it for several seconds. She hesitates because Argentina is not on the list. She keeps thinking about it. Finally, she points hesitantly with her index finger at the second option and says: -Let's do this one!-. My eyes light up in astonishment, even with a little indignation and I protest: "But Madame, how can it be?" If Argentina is not on the list, it is not fair that I’m getting the most expensive option. Besides, my great-grandparents were Italian like it is the case with so many other Argentines and I even have my Italian passport here. While I’m showing it to her I explain that in Africa I have had problems to switch between one and the other when crossing borders so I prefer not to use it now. The substance of my arguments leaves her perplexed without knowing what to do. She tells me that she would have to look up the information but she keeps hesitating. Given that surely the computer powered by an Intel Pentium III from the last century would take 15 minutes to boot Windows 95, and two hours to get the info from Google in Netscape Navigator, she immediately shakes off her doubts and cordially tells me that I can get it for EU price. I respond in relief with a broad smile followed by an invitation for dinner to spend the 45 euros I just saved. I am aware that I don't even have any decent clothes to go to a fancy restaurant let alone matching her elegance, but unfortunately, she is also married.
With the visa stamped in my passport, I leave the embassy with a captive heart. I will carry with me the intact memory of the beauty of this consul and although my love has not been reciprocated, I am enthusiastic about the illusion that Guinean women will have similar attractiveness.
Dust, colours and garbage
When I cross the border first thing in the morning, life is already in full swing. The usual cacophony of everyday chaos puts music to my entrance. Smashed motorcycles, cars and minibuses, donkeys pulling carts, street vendors, the street stalls with loudspeakers distorting to stridency. Between melodies, spaces open up in which I can hear the Guineans greet me. Again and again I receive warm greetings from the people who see me pass by. I think there is nothing more comforting than entering a country where everything is new, and immediately being received with affection and smiles. It provides a sense of security that mitigates all the previous uncertainties that one brings inside and making us feel that everything is going to be fine.
The sun is already well above the horizon but still hidden under a thick crust of dust that blurs it into an amorphous white patch that amplifies the heat it emanates. In the dry season, the sky of Guinea, even more than that of all the previous countries, is covered by a veil of particles suspended in the air that turn it white, gray and pale blue at best. The strongest impact however occurs right at my feet. The mountains of rubbish piling up on the side of the road is the worst I have seen so far in all of Africa, even worse than in the cities of Nigeria. Most of it is plastic bags and bottles. Cancer for the environment. People lead their life normally, in and on garbage as if it did not exist. Children play, women wash clothes and dishes, and men run over it with their motorcycles, leaving a trail of trash dancing in the air.
In these villages where the predominant landscape is the dust, the garbage, the wooden stalls mounted under tarps, the few power lines supported by makeshift logs, and the oppressive heat, it is the positive energy of the Guineans that compensates and even helps forget the bleakness. These are moments and places that always lead me to the same reflection: if people can maintain this spirit under such adverse conditions, not to say shitty ones, then, what is wrong with Western culture where comfort, indifference, and shit faces predominate?
The garbage problem visibly diminishes in the villages. What does not decrease, but actually increases even more, is the frequency with which people greet me and smile at me. -Ini suomá, tanamá tele? - I answer with enthusiasm ("hello, how are you?"). It fills me with joy to see them burst out laughing when I speak to them in the few words of Malinké that I learned from the immigration officer. I feel that in this way I'm returning a little of the joy that they bring to me.
It is curious that the feeling I had at the Guinean embassy in Bamako was that of traveling back in time. Inadvertently, the diplomatic staff offers a preview of what is to come for those of us who will visit the country. It is exactly the same as I feel these days as I cycle forward, crunching the gravel of the road. I pass through villages frozen in time where electricity is a product of science fiction and manual work is the daily norm for all the basic tasks dedicated to subsistence.
Women, as always, are the cogs that set African life in motion and Guinean women are no exception. If it weren't for them, I don't think Africa would have any water to drink. Here, they pump it by foot and then come back home giving an astonishing show of balance, carrying buckets of 20-30 liters on their heads without spilling a single drop. If it weren't for them, Africa would have no food to eat. There is an immanent rhythm in the rural African world. it beats like a metronome marking the tempo. It is that of them, driving long wooden bars into the mortars where they grind the grains for cooking. It's a constant knock ... knock ... knock ... knock, spaced with the precision of a Swiss watch. It is the pulse of Africa. If it weren't for them, Africa would not have clean clothes to wear. In a bucket, on the river banks, on mountain streams and lakes, their knuckles get callused as they scrub so that the brilliance of the colors of clean clothes restore the dignity that poverty takes away.
The layout of the roads seems to reflect the slow-paced life of Guinea, where you never go from A to B in a straight line. Quite the contrary, from Siguiri, I cycle across the country bend after bend, accompanying the Niger River that now has the shape of a snake that brings back some fertility to this water-thirsty plain. The sun also plays its part by forging a further degree of slowness in the rhythm of life. It mercilessly punishes anyone who dares to move away from the precious refuge of the mango trees. The periods of time above 40ºC grow longer and longer throughout the day. For this reason, when cycling along the dirt roads flanked by these trees, I frequently succumb to the temptation of their shade.
If the harsh climate and geography induce me to pedal to the rhythm of Guinea, its people use hospitality as an infallible weapon to force me to stop. I don't even try to resist because I know it's in vain. ‘If you can't beat the slowness then join it’ - I think, as I collapse next to a group of women sitting in the shade thrown by the eaves of the thatched roofs of their huts. Beside me, a grandmother carefully scrutinizes the scalp of one of her granddaughters, and a mother weaves the decorated braids of her baby, whose screams do not disturb anyone's peace of mind but mine. Despite the stridency of her crying, I enjoy this sublime fragment of rural African life. Finally, to give the perfect closure to this moment, a woman appears out of nowhere carrying a soot-painted iron pot. She arrives with a smile and the spirit of a mother to serve me some of the rice they have left from the morning. They make me feel so comfortable that I stay around them for a good part of the afternoon.
Everything conspires to stop me. I travel hidden behind a 5-month-old beard, dark sunglasses and a cap. Both my bike and I are dressed in orange dust and still, it is impossible to go unnoticed. There is no mimesis enough in each of these small cosmos where everyone knows each other and any outsider is an immediate focus, not only of attention but especially of entertainment. In these places, children are by far a more efficient surveillance vehicle than any security force. It is enough for at least one of them sitting at the back of a classroom of a small school to look out the window and see me pass by in the distance, sometimes up to 200 meters away, to generate a chain reaction followed by unbridled euphoria. With a shout, he alerts the rest of the class and within a few seconds, a waterfall of boys and girls starts pouring out of the doors and windows like pressurized water seeping through the wall of a breaking dam. Curiosity possesses them and there is no authority that can stop them. By the time I find myself surrounded by a mob of 10, 20, 30 of them, what remains in the school is the memorable image of their teachers standing by the door of their empty classrooms perplexed, trying to make sense of why they were left talking alone in front of their blackboards.
A village later, in the middle of the afternoon, I stop the bike again to do justice to the slow pace set by Guinea. This time, I stop under a mango tree where I meet Jean-Pierre. He is dressed in a plaid shirt that, judging by the purity of its whites, it becomes evident that it repels the dust that floats in the environment. Its size adjusts tightly to the figure of a muscular torso shaped like a trapeze similar to that of professional swimmers. Jean-Pierre developed his upper strength through a life of hard work and walking on crutches to help his polio stricken legs since he was a child. When I sit next to him, I explain that I am traveling to Europe. While he listens attentively to my story, he slides a smile and a sigh, like those of someone who already knows what you're talking about. It's a very different reaction to the usual acute onomatopoeias I'm used to. His unusual reaction though becomes immediately clear when he tells me the story of the arduous ordeal he had to go through trying to reach Europe years ago. Like so many young Africans who leave everything behind to get to what they consider to be the promised land, Jean-Pierre failed two years into his journey when the Moroccan government deported him to his homeland. Despite seeing his dream thwarted he now finds consolation in the company of his village.
The end of the afternoon is the moment in which I gather the necessary momentum to bend the magnetic forces of Guinean slowness so I can keep on moving forward. Unfortunately, when the temperature drops a bit, all of Guinea wants to accelerate its pace as well to be able to make up for a good part of the lost time. Traffic triples. I go from the oppression of the sun to the oppression of the dust in the hot air. Shared taxis, the most popular form of transportation in the country, are a parade of French mechanical engineering skeletons loaded down to the inhumanely possible. They pass me at full speed with brakes that wail, wheels that wobble, unbalanced, with their suspensions beaten by the excessive disproportion of their load. I am trapped in the clouds of toxic black smoke they spit and the dust they spray.
One in ten times, I choose the remote dirt road over the main sealed one, but here it becomes difficult to cycle in these conditions. At times, the feeling of getting sick with every step on the pedal overwhelms me. In this case, unlike those challenges from which I emerge stronger once I have overcome them, I come out of these with a weakened body and an impaired health. Breathing this poison for 6 to 10 hours a day during aerobic exercise on the bike corrodes my lungs. I suddently realise that I need to change my strategy if I want to get out of this region without needing an artificial respirator.
By the end of each day, I can't stop coughing and wheezing while breath. My stuffed beard, my darkened neck, arms and legs, are nothing but a testament to the choking pollution. I can trace grooves on my skin with my finger and draw graffitis on it. The only soothing reward is that no matter where I am, in Guinea, I always find a home. As in some other places in the world where I have been, here I find that type of people in extinction who stop whatever they are doing to welcome you into their home, share their food, give you a bucket of water to bathe and a safe place to sleep. Hospitality is the norm and th warmth of the people is the precious gift.
