Where the Pavement Ends

Since I last wrote (picture Family Circus diagram here)…

Had a great quick trip back to the States, fattening up for the warm African winter; forged a pilot project putting solar ovens in WFP’s school canteens that ended up flopping;
mistily said goodbye to my WFP family, freeing myself at last of the UN’s bureaucratic binds; appealed and lost Saroudja’s case against his director to the International Boxing Association; threw the former his first birthday party ever; set up my petit frère the gardener with a loan to raise prize pigs; tromped through fields of bissap, bananas, and peppers, danced in waterfall mist and played Jane won the vines for New Year’s; agreed to a new gig with the Mano River Women’s Peace Network that I am since second-guessing; and set off for a short-term media consultancy job working for a natural resources project in the mountain town of Labe. And here’s what happened on the way to the latter.

COMING INTO DALABA was instant infatuation. Patches of pine groves nestled in gently sloping hills, black baby goats and caramel cattle blending into the honeyed grasses, a deep quiet that reveals the meaning of the response to most any greeting in Pulaar: Djantu, only peace.

At the last minute, Saroudja and I had snagged a quick, cushy ride up with a PEGRN car (Projet Enlargi de Gestion de Ressources Naturelles), my new employer, saving us from the slow, heaving bardo known as the bush taxi. The day’s blessings continued when the hotel we were planning to stay in was full, leading us to a small auberge nestled into the hillside whose panoramic window peered down on the sleepy, verdant town. We were heartily welcomed by its owner, a chubby, talented Togolese chef, his Guinean wife and their kick-ass dog Tarzan who would accompany us near and far. It was the proverbial Heaven on Earth, the stuff of tourist brochures that rarely manifest in reality.

We slept soundly and woke early to Dalaba’s cool morning air and utter quiet, save the high giggles of birds and the forceful crows of cocks. Behind the inn, myriad small paths twisted between cherry blossom-like trees and strange rock formations. Teen-aged girls gathered in threes on the rock mounds greeted me with Ndjaalama and Tanaala, standard Peul salutations drawn out in the way that takes the rush out of your speech and step. Still I ran with glee, so glad to be out of Conakry’s urban slums, away from the crowds and crazies, noise and pollution.

We ran into the pale, skinny tour guide who had brought us at the inn and hired him to take us on a 25-km beauty walk, buying bread, bananas and sardines, plus corned beef for Tarzan, before heading off in the bush.

Djantu, only peace. We moved through a living mosaic of terrain, pine forest, trickling streams, natural bridges, blond grasslands, and bamboo stands before arriving at the day’s only fixed destination, a plant nursery started by a French botanist in colonial times. I bought a pine sapling (which unfortunately would not live to grow up) from the greying caretaker who beamed pride to his coffee and pine babies, not seeming the least bit shamed or slowed down by his lack of shoes and the shred of cloth he’d wrapped around his hurt big toe. I have vowed to study these types, who just seem hard-wired for happiness no matter their lot. My own feet were not so stoic: the final mile my dogs were crying for mercy.

We rested our feet up to stroll again at midnight, nothing but God’s heavenly points of light to guide us. This was the life - utter quiet, kind folk, stunning mountains, cool air, endless path, a faithful friend and companion dog, and, most importantly, no mosquitoes.

TOURISTS ABOUT TOWN
Our next was a slow-starting day, listening to guys postulate on the African cup at the crossroads “bar” as we munched greasy egg sandwiches and café au laits. Later everyone crunched in “video clubs” to drink Guinness and watch Guinea lose the deciding match. It was the first time in over two decades that Guinea had gotten this far in the Cup, and the pride and anticipation was infectious.

Again awaiting us at the crossroads was our stubbly, scrawny loveable guide Lamarana Diallo (Diallo being one of just four last names claimed by the Peul people, an ethnic group that stretches across West and Central Africa). Lamarana took us to his office to draw maps to the day’s sites, as I said I didn’t want to spring for another day’s guiding, but Saroudja convinced him to come along with us for the fun of it.

We started at the old Governor’s house where Diallo told of Sekou Touré’s days (Guinea’s former communist dictator) when they would have to line up to receive the authorities, forbidden to move while they droned on their bombastic speeches all day long. The fat, gray guardian showed us around the former palace, all done in surprisingly pretty molded and painted concrete, including a traditional roundhouse where the French colonists made all their decisions. The guardian himself had since paid for the upkeep out of his own pocket, since it has since fallen in disrepair and neglect under the current government. “L’arbre est fier de ses racines,” the tree is proud of its roots, he said upon parting, happy that the youth had brought a stranger here.

Continuing our foray into tradition, we visited Dalaba’s craftspeople. Leatherworkers pounded motifs into sandal soles and wove colored leather strips around old glass bottles, transforming them into small useable works of art, while the tisserand (weaver) made horse-clop music as he worked his loom, yards of thread stretched across his backyard slowly shrinking into the finished blue and white cloth at his feet. It was comforting to see such beautiful things still being made, a contrast to the Conakry markets full of factory rejects, gringo hand-me-downs with the Goodwill tags still attached, random made-in-China crap that couldn’t sell elsewhere and so got dumped in Guinea for one last chance. What is saddest and strangest is that these beautiful handmade things often fetch the same price as the cheap cookie-cutter factory versions.

Next day we woke late and found our man Diallo again, ready to take us to our next paradise: the vegetable gardens of Dalaba. Diallo told us tourist horror stories, like a fat Italian who got halfway through a day hike and then plopped down and said she could go no more, cursing out her husband and commanding Diallo to camp with her for the night, sans provisions. We stopped to buy the ubiquitous little plastic sacs of frozen bissap, baobab and ginger drinks, satisfying our thirst and sweet teeth. A comical old lady sitting on a huge throne of cauliflowers jokingly asked me to help her sew up her sack and forced a cadeau (present) of bananas on us. I thought of a rather arrogant colleague I had worked with at WFP who had said that Guineans weren’t giving like other African cultures; complaining that he wasn’t even offered a cup of tea when he would visit the ministers. Had he taken the time to wander the hills and leave his 4WD for a few, I think he would have seen another side of Guinea.

Saroudja harassed the pretty girls en route for the benefit of Diallo, prodding him to “tente sa chance,” to try his luck. We reached a huge cabbage and cauliflower patch, its rows of huge green flowers stretched out to meet the horizon. We chatted with the farmers, praising their soilcraft. To my eye, artists, farmers and teachers are the base of a society - food for the body, mind and spirit.

Just a few steps away was a huge plot where cilantro, strawberries, bok choy, broccoli, celery, potatoes, carrots, eggplant, lettuce and purple cabbage grew as if destined for this soil. Strawberries! Broccoli! I had drooled and dreamed about such garden delights all year long, having no idea any Guineans actually grew them. My cook, who had worked with white folk for 20 years and could make chocolate mousse and crepes as well as any French pastry chef, had no idea what broccoli or celery was, even when I showed him cookbook pictures.

My excitement led me back to an idea I’d been mulling over recently: opening a superette in Conakry exclusively stocked with local products like honey, yogurt, coffee, fresh juices, exotic fruit jams and specialty produce. The market for local products is very undeveloped now, especially among expats, as they instead buy Nescafé, Yoplait and imported foodstuffs sold at extremely inflated prices at Superbobo’s, Conakry’s would-be Walmart.

After the long walk home, Diallo handed me his “card,” a scrap of notebook paper with his name and office address scrawled on it. I thought of the perfect tip for the perfect trip. We sought out Dalaba’s paler Mr. Diallo (an American missionary), who kindly lent us his computer so I could make a proper business card for his Guinean namesake.

THE GRAND CANYON OF GUINEA
The next day we moved on to Pita to catch a car to Doucki, a little-known hiking paradise frequented by Peace Corps folk. As we arrived, the bush taxi heading toward Doucki had just taken off. Now we had to wait until the next car gathered nine passengers, which ended up taking seven hours, including time to break for the prayer and load it up with huge sacks of rice and boxes of beer headed for distant villages. Everything moved too slowly for my Western sensibilities; even the car would not start without a push and we had to cruise town in search of gas as a fuel crisis had left the pumps dry and the driver had to negotiate with guys who sold jugs of it on the black market.

It was no smoother sailing from there. We bumbled along on a sinfully dusty road with the windows rolled down as the car was full of holes anyhow. I tied a shirtsleeve around my face to keep the red dust out of my lungs. We came to a broken-down truck and had to zoom over the ditch. Later we crossed the taxi that we had barely missed taking hours before. It had completely broken down; its passengers were obliged to ride the roof of an outgoing vehicle back to the crossroads. Meanwhile our jalopy got a flat and an overheated radiator; having no spare water, we had to send a motorcyclist to come feed it. The tiny pious old men in their long gowns and embroidered caps took the panne as a chance to get in one of the day’s five prayers. Saroudja and I furtively snuck strawberries from our sack, not wanting to share this precious commodity.

I was downright bratty by the time we got to Doucki, thinking it had been a mistake to leave Dalaba’s paradise for a day of misery. Yet our fair-spirited toad-goblin guide, Hassan Bah, greeted us with such good vibes that I couldn’t stay in tantrum mode if I wanted to.

“Yeah, man, feel at home,” chirped Hassan, hopping up to put on his shoes and take us out for a quick hike. We threw down our things and followed Hassan out to the rim of the canyon, a steep, slippery, skinny, scary path onto a beautiful abyss, where one misstep or a strong gust of wind could send you into the afterworld.

We came back to a dining hut ringed by hammocks and ate cassava leaf sauce and rice with our hiking buddies-to-be, two kind, young Canadian volunteers on vacation from their duty station in the Gambia. Hassan told us about his youth spent in Sierra Leone and later Spain where he worked as a naval mechanic, and how a Peace Corps volunteer assigned to Doucki had helped him put this beauty-spot on the tourist map. It confirmed what I had seen of development aid in general: Often its results are negligible, sometimes even detrimental, but those times you see how someone’s life has been undeniably altered for the better, it keeps you going. Even if it is just 5% of the people you work with, you keep reaching out to find those few who will take the help and run with it. We slept soon on straw beds to prepare for the HCH (Hard-core Hike), as HB the acronymaniac called it.

***

WE ATE PARCHED BREAD, sour oranges and green-skinned bananas with Nescafé before hitting the trail. We quickly scurried behind Hassan down the canyon, water trickling all about and making our steps slippery. We made short stops to ooh and aah at the views and refresh ourselves at small springs. Villagers had made little spouts of curved leaves at their mouths and left old tomato paste cans as drinking cups. We stopped at “Bob Marley stage,” (Hassan having named all of his destinations), where HB hopped around like a monkey playing air guitar on a stick. Later we saw real monkeys elegantly sashaying from tree to tree; chimps were supposedly nearby but we had not the good fortune to see them. Rock forms were personified under HB’s imaginative eye - camels, turtles, Syli (elephants), pregnant ladies, boxers and the phallic “Viagra rock.” HB chain-smoked and followed the African Cup on his small transistor radio as we ate sardines and swam under a waterfall.

Next we made our way up a rift separating two huge cliffs to play chutes and ladders. This was possibly the most fun I’ve had since childhood. One by one, we tackled nine sturdy ladders made of strong thick sticks parallel to the cliff secured by vines that formed the ladder’s rungs. We stopped off at another pool where I washed my hair in an icy waterfall. Finally we made our way back on a pebbly village path flanked by orange trees whose fruits hung bright as planets in the night sky.

We rested too briefly and had greasy chicken-spaghetti before preparing for a night hike, again blessed by ample moonlight. My ankles blistery, I wore my sandals which soon broke and left me hobbling and cursing the little Gremlin HB and the rough road. Finally I took off my sandals and walked in my socks, a fine solution until I felt things poking the bottom of my feet. I stopped to pick them off and saw they were moving -- all over my body. Ants. Army ants! I felt them pinch my butt and tore off my pants without a thought. Habib did the same, apparently having stepped on the same column, and our friends picked the guys off our flesh. “Little bastards,” said HB, turning my mood again. It was too ridiculous to stay annoyed. We dipped down to a rock overlook to chill under the stars before heading home.

Achy from the week’s many kilometers, the next morning we headed off for “Indiana Jones World.” We ran behind the spastic guide to come to a Stonehenge strangled with strong vines to swing and climb, secret sacred streams running between rock pillars. The strong-armed Saroudja easily shimmied up the vines; I tried my luck on the green trapeze and hung upside down for the camera. We cooled off at the “Jacuzzi” and finished off with some bouldering on the scraggly rocks.

Later Saroudja would tell me how frightened he had been to hike here, the born and bred urbanite’s first foray into the feared bush, but how he came to understand why the crazy white people did such things - it was fun and stunning, full of surprises and wonders the urban landscape could never contain.

BACK TO WORK
The PEGRN driver showed up over four hours late - apparently having gone to the wrong Doucki, way off in another prefecture. We soon arrived in Labé, finding my new home at Hotel Tata, decorated with art from throughout West Africa, greened with trees and flowering bushes where colorful, noisy and tiny birds made their home too. I had dinner with Chad, an American database consultant who will be my buddy for the following weeks, and my new boss, his wife and two wild, hilarious boys.

I quickly get oriented to the dusty, quiet town, the administrative headquarters of the Fouta and yet rather cut off from the world. People may think living in Africa is exciting, but détrompe-toi - it really tends to be dull, demanding self-sufficiency and creativity in entertainment and intellectual stimulation, especially outside the capital. Internet, phone and electricity here work when they want; entertainment is limited to books from the Peace Corps House, weekend discos, idle conversation. But somehow it’s okay that I can’t get out a phone call or email message -- I’m just here, and there can wait. Here, where there is little electricity, no noise save the birds and wind rustling leaves, there is no need to meditate because the place meditates upon you. Guinea demands your presence in the present, whether painfully or blissfully so.

More than anything, Guinea’s priceless, painful lesson is letting go of the illusion of control. Internet not working? Oh well, try again next week. No power today? Read a book, light a candle, drink your soda lukewarm. Nothing on the menu actually available? I’ll have the rice and sauce then. It is a learned skill, mastering the laissez-faire attitude, for the Westerner used to having his way, but no so for the African. Lives taken young, jobs run out, things hours late if at all, crappy cheap imports always en panne, broken down -- How else could people bear it all, if not through a healthy mix of humor, futility and fatalism?

First day on the job, a campus style office on the outskirts of town. I settle into my new routine - rising at dawn and taking a cool bath, waiting for the big-butted, grumbling Suni to bring out bread, butter, strawberry jam and coffee and reading a chapter in Ségou, a French novel set in West Africa I have been struggling through for weeks, before heading out on my bike on the dusty, bumpy road to work.
My work is twofold - to produce stories on the project’s successes, and to work with the ‘media’ staff to train them to do the same. The first is much easier than the second. For one, it’s my thing, and for another, the project actually does a remarkable variety of stuff.

There is a program employing local hunters to monitor chimpanzees, another introducing “appropriate technology” - be it improved beehives or solar dryers - to farmers. One cellule teaches villagers how to put together a natural resources plan, another implements co-management programs in the classified forests where villagers help the forestry service manage everything from wildfires to wildlife. There is a project to help increase land security amongst non-owners through formalized contracts, another broadcasting market prices on the rural radio so that farmers can analyze the info in “listening circles.” Then there are literacy and AIDS awareness programs - community-run village banks - marketing help for honey-harvesters, soap-makers and tie-dyers - among other things. I see the same problems and inefficiencies I have seen elsewhere, but overall the approach seems to be solid and aimed at strengthening local capacities.

***

THE OCCASIONAL French, Belgian or American traveler drifts through Hotel Tata, and funny to think that I was one, rather than the local imported fixture the tourists milk for information on prices, taxis, food, secret places you won’t find in the guidebooks.

Sundays become my walk days, and Chad and I often heading out to distant waterfalls, into the market or just out on a random village road. No matter where you go, you are never alone. Girls cheery as sunsets clip alongside me in their 50-cent flip-flops. The kids are like French parrots: Ca va? Ca va? Bon soir! Bon soir! Porto, porto (whitey, whitey!) Cent franc, cent franc. Pitiful dusty beige dogs with gnarled ears sleep off the heat, the village hoodlums you’d best stay away from. Men in dapper old-school suits putter by on mopeds, baby feet wave from a mother’s hips, saleswomen drift by with bananas, candy and pills stacked on their heads like edible afros.

Skinny old farmers beam me rotten-toothed smiles; shrunken old men in their stately pressed gowns and Islamic pillbox hats chat over shots of storng black tea. Boys with slingshots around their necks clasp their wooden Arabic-lesson tablets to their chests like American schoolgirls do textbooks. White, curvy-necked egrets - aka “cow-birds” -- feast on cattle vermin.

Other times I head over to Alpha’s garden where lemon mint, roses, strawberries and more grow from recycled juice sachets. The fruits of this rare environmentalist’s work bring back memories - mint iced tea and fried sage on a hot Richmond summer day, salads peppered with orange Nasturtium petals from Charli’s Mission balcony, strong Bedouin tea made with oregano, trimming geraniums with my childhood friend Lucy from my grandpa’s flower shop in North Baltimore, Ohio. Someday this too will be a memory, part of a beautiful quilt of colorful, delicate and strange memories I’ll be able to curl up in in old age when I finally settle down somewhere dull.

For now I gather secondhand stories I record in my journal, piecing together a strange cultural collage. A hunter-turned-chimpanzee monitor talks-story about kissing chimps who make love in full view but cover up their member if someone spies them. Scary stories of former slaves and masters fighting to the death over land, professors who invite their prepubescent students over for late-nite sessions to “improve” their grades. Hunters selling monkeys by the rice sack; villagers snacking on cow heads, porcupines and frog pate. Bosses finding gris-gris charms stuffed underneath their office chairs, white men forever disappearing in the bush after daring forbidden parts of the forest. Mothers washing quiet toddlers in « monkey water » to get them to liven up, elders giving money to children for the muslim new year lest they go away with the new moon.

SHOULD I STAY OR SHOULD I GO?
My boss loves my work, and asks me to stay on for another six months, supporting the fledgling media unit and following up on all the things he never seems to have time to. He offers me a small palace and a fatter salary than I’ve ever earned back in the States.

Should there be any question? And yet there is. As much as I bitch about Conakry, suddenly it’s a be-careful-what-you-wish-for situation. I have the peace and quiet I’ve longer wished for. Alas, too much. I miss the city energy, high-speed Internet connections, ice cream and Vietnamese food, my dance troupe, even my impoverished friends constantly at my doorstep. Here I don’t have any hangers-on; people leave me in peace. But somehow those relationships, however challenging, kept me connected into the web of things where here I feel like a loose strand. Plus I have given my word to the Mano River Peace women, declared my passion and interest for working with them… Though little by little the president seems to have lost her interest and commitment to working with me.

Quiet, but all too quiet, Labe versus crowded, polluted but animated Conakry? Working for peace or the chimps? Living in a free palace far from any stores or people versus a small, overpriced but ideally located villa? Well paid in a town with nothing to do versus a modest salary in a town with places to burn it? Move my cat or let him stay in his old hood? Keep my word or go for the best offer? Hang it all up and head home, which I might do if I had an inkling of an idea what I would do there? Reader, cast your vote.

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