The real trouble with travel is that you must return. Things happen during travel that have the potential to change your entire perspective. You return home with new eyes and new expectations. Inevitably, when returning to Kinshasa especially, there is a period of readjustment and reacclimation. And so its been upon return from Guinee. I am left questioning many facts of life here as I find my patience and compassionate understanding have vanished. Guinee is not any better placed in terms of economic situation or government stability, but the histories of these two countries are vastly different and have resulted in populations that seem polar opposites.
One example, owing mostly to the terrain, is the road that I was able to take from Conakry, in southern Guinee, to Kankan in the upper region. This was a (theoretical) 12 hour drive across the country. A similar drive connecting the two major cities of DRC is simply not possible. There are many factors at play and I'm not really here to discuss those. Mostly, I'm here to tell another story- a story about that (theoretical) 12 hour trip between Guinee's two major 'cities.'
Conakry to Kankan. Long, cramped and cold upon arrival. So cold that I had to pull out some of my pagnes for the boys to wrap up in. I think we could even see our breath as we shivered on the sidewalk waiting for our ride....but that part might be more of an addition to my memory and less a fact of the morning.
And the real adventure, the adventure of travel itself? First there was the waiting. Everything in Africa seems to begin with waiting. When you arrive at the gare central....the bus/taxi station- you inquire about a taxi, get a price, purchase a ticket and then wait for others to do the same. The gare central in Conakry happened to also be located by the big market- Medina- and so there was a lot to see as we waited for other passengers to appear and fill up the taxi. It was a long, hot wait on narrow, hard benches.
After several hours, we were given the signal to board the taxi. We were placed in the back back-- a place for women with children, children riding on laps I should say. Apparently the protocol is 3 in the back, 4 in the middle, and 1 in the front (this can be loosely interpreted as I found out later.) The taxi was a Renault station wagon and if you are familiar with them, I know you are thinking....back? there is no back. And you would be quite right. Our seat was a board put in place to create a third area. I climbed in and, as the driver pushed back the seat in front (the real seat...) with a click and latched an iron bar, I felt as though I had just boarded an amusement park ride. I swallowed a wave of panic and claustophobia. It got stuck in my throat as I sat back and realized I could not fully sit up right. My head was tilted to one side and I had one of my children on my lap. I really wasn't clear how long the trip would be but it seemed likely we might have to sleep this way. Incredibly, the three of us found fairly comfortable sleeping arrangements and I did not suffer from any neck or back pain.
Leaving Conakry was a series of exploits. Most involved watching my passport leave first my hand, then my sight and finally engaging in the dance of retrieval. The first checkpoint that presented difficulty was a rowdy town that was marked by a series of tin roofed shops lining the main road. The air was busy as people gathered, conducted business and moved on. Several military manned the rope that served as a barrier crossing the road. All passengers were asked for their identification and of course, my American passport stood out. A burly soldier wearing a red beret walked away with my passport telling me to present myself to the senior officer. I quickly grabbed 10,000FG as I climbed over people and packages trying to get out of the car. I followed him to an off road location in front of a dusty building where he proceeded to stand and observe the streets, as though I were not there. He wore dark sunglasses and did not look at me.
He began with a steep request of 20,000FG. A love of power and authority poured from the bulging biceps he crossed in front of him. His shiny black boots planted firmly in the earth screamed out rank and importance (or was that pretense?) I tried to appeal to his ego with a measure of respect and deference. It didn't really seem to be working despite the fact that 2 locals were also arguing on my behalf. "Mon pere..." I began, using a discreet voice and term I hope conveyed something like respect. He looked at me and asked if I were crying. A smirk played around his lips and he struck me then as a man who would enjoy making a woman cry. I wasn't willing (or able, I've never been able to cry on demand) to go that far. Surely a few franc guinee would suffice. Later, I realized we were discussing a matter of $4. I found it comical to envision him in his proud peacock stance arguing for $4. This illustrated and reinforced the need to be 'fluent' in local currency. It would never do to be making mental money conversions. One could not then maintain the proper emotional and mental strength to bargain correctly (or reliably keep a straight face. It's hard to show respect and deference on top of a crooked smile.) 20,000 FG was way too much. Even the 10,000FG we finally settled on (after much confusion and delay) was way too much.
The confusion resulted from lack of cultural hand signal crossover (I seem to have this problem a lot.) Apparently, what I took to be a wave off of denial was actually a wave off of acceptance. The taxi driver (who had joined in late) and I were returning to the car, without my passport, when somehow in our muffled conversation it all became clear to me. My offer of 10,000FG had been accepted. The chauffeur grabbed my cash and ran off to make the exchange. He returned triumphant if a bit put out. And so it continued at every checkpoint. I could feel the whole car hold their breath as we waited to see what would be the fate of my passport and how much trouble or delay it might cause.
The next engaging spot came at a place where everyone was expected to get out of the car and walk through the check point on the side of the road. Soldiers were everywhere. My seat companion, another woman with a small infant on her lap, and I did not get out of the car...hoping to roll unnoticed through the barrier. Of course, we were called on it and once again I watched my passport sail through the window into yet again unchartered waters.
I could sense the double weight my passport carried with it. I certainly felt a measure of protection travelling as an American. Whatever I begrudge her, America does have a way of protecting her citizens, even the less than patriotic ones. However, it also screamed affluence and money in ways that may or may not necessarily have been true (depending on the comparitive factor) and this in turn caused a bit of calculation to occur. How much could one obtain and was this really a bit of a wind fall?
I went in search of my missing document and was led into a small hut made of sticks and a thatched grass roof. I had to duck to enter. I felt like I was leaving one world, one time period and stepping into another. Inside, however, a large number of people congregated. On the immediate left were two wooden slated cots stacked on top of each other like bunk beds with a soldier napping on the bottom one. Next to that was a "kitchen" station. Two more soldiers stood over bowls, eating and washing. Following the circle around, next was a table hosting a stack of passports and two soldiers were seated here, one in deep discussion with a man in a turban and long gown. The one who held my passport was seated behind the man in the turban and so we held a conversation that seemed to flow over and under the other one almost visibly. I answered a few questions about where I was going and where I had come from. I eyed the weapons hanging from pegs on the stick walls. I was fascinated by the contrast in technology and evolution. The simple, organic walls supporting the complex, deadly machinery. Nature versus man. In this environment, I couldn't really tell who was winning.
The soldier took a final look at my passport, at me and asked, "So, you are a Soumah...eh?" He smiled at my yes and handed my papers over. I hadn't really considered before what effect, if any, having a Guinean surname would have. A fote is a fote, I figured. American American. While it may be possible to overcome nationality and skin color in some circles of close friends and even be "adopted" by those who know and love you, it seemed a safe presumption amongst strangers...white is white...no changing that. But just in that smile of his, I saw perhaps for some I could be a 'Soumah'.....for the good or the bad.
I spent a long time in the back of the cramped taxi eyeing myself from above. I saw one white woman trekking across guinee with two children in tow. I wondered why....and then again, I wondered why not?
Ocassionally it also crossed my mind that this was just the outgoing trip...we still had to get back.
