Right after that post I went for another little walk around Ziguonchor and came across a lovely, quiet little garden with a cathedral in it. A snapped a few pics as the moon came up which can't really capture the effecting peacefulness of that little corner, but anyway.......
The next day, after catching this recurrent morning view of any African traveller........
I was off to Guinea-Bissau. I arrived in the capital, Bissau, only to be thwarted in my ambition to reach the country's archipelago the same day by unfavourable boat timetabling. Not having a backup plan, I went for a sit down in the nearest open sided cafe, which I soon discovered was actually a bar with quite a few drunk sailor-looking types in it. This was a strange sensation as I'd come directly from Senegal, where bars must be sought out, and where there is certainly no obvious drunkenness. The combination of this surprise, and my lack of plan all made ordering a beer the obvious choice. So, with my beer (pleasantly, also priced for sailors), I sat down to survey Bissau.It wasn't long until I was loudly beckoned from across the bar by a round, moustached Portuguese man, who on seeing another white guy insisted that I sit with him. Naturally I couldn't refuse and joined him, soon discovering that, despite it being 12.30, he'd already had two bottles of white wine and having done so couldn't decide whether he wanted to eat his peanuts or spit them all over his shirt. He was comical and very interesting actually, having lived there through eighteen years of revolution, coup and counter coup, in one of the poorest countries in Africa. Giddily excited by this fast paced and altogether novel introduction to Bissau, and my friend's worsening drunkness, I glanced around with a smile, subconciously looking for someone who I might playfully mock my neighbour with. I found only two men paying attention to our loud, one sided conversation. I met their looks with a smile and a shake of the head, which to my minor shame, was returned with a sympathetic frown. I didn't read much into it at the time, only later when I sat with the same men and mentioned the drunken Portuguese did their sympathy, and all round good nature become apparent.
This general kindness was further confirmed by the help I recieved in finding out boat times and finding a room for the night, all of which was unasked for and given with no expectation of reward. Nothing of Senegal or bribe happy Gambia could prepare me for that, and I was genuinely moved by this new humanity. There were no demands for money from children or adults, no rudely persistent salesmen, no exploited begging children, no derogatory remarks about my skin colour, no piles of rubbish willingly left on roadsides, just smiles, welcomes, inquiries and invitations. All that seems like an unfair indictment of Senegal, and certainly judging any country mainly by its biggest city is never fair, but in comparison with Bissau, Dakar is a real mess. That night I was left to reflect on the causes of all this palpable goodness, how could it be here? Across some arbitrary frontier in the forest, where people are alot poorer and constantly endure political instability of the bloody variety? Fascinating. I guess that's why we travel.
The same day, after finding a room and dumping my bag, I set off, my appetite for discovery only wetted.
I found the presidential palace left in a sombre state of disrepair. Structually sound and relatively new, the damage to the building was from bullets, RPG's and arson dating from the last civil war and resultant coup d'etat. The palace was assaulted in 1999, to force the resignation or death of the president, by rebels who had won control the city at the cost of the lives of thousands of civilians and displacement of 250,000. I asked a man on the street if I could go in, to which he said by all means and even sat on the steps watching for any police (I love these guys).
This first picture is taken from the side, and shows how the ex-presidential garden is now planted and producing crops. Also in this picture is a particularly targeted window, with a concentration of bullet holes around its edge.
As I tiptoed my way in, the first view was of the front corridor, destroyed and decaying still further but maintaining an eerie symmetry.
On the other side of that corridor lay what seemed to be a the main reception room, complete with bats hanging from the ceiling. By this time I was infected with the powerful effect of this place. Each step seemed to take a minute, my heartbeat quickened, I was aware of every noise around me and stood in one spot, mouth open for minutes before quickly stealing a photo and tiptoeing on.
Then it was upstairs, the plated window behind smashed and the bats now flying over my head. I scrambled over pieces of the fallen in roof to the balcony before again taking some pics; first of some more bulletholes on the facade and second a couple of views over the square.
Lastly, after thanking my guard for his help, I sat in the square and grabbed these photos, in which you can see the burnt out roof and RPG holes (especially on the left hand side). Glad to be free of the grip of the interior I sat for a good while thinking about it all, a little emotional..... Until my attention span waned and my stomach told me it was time to grab some food.
Next day I caught a boat to Africa's only archipelago, the Bijagos, with turqoise waters, crumbling colonial architecture and a lot of very big fish. Here's the town of Bolama as I arrived....... From the jetty, of the jetty, the government building (2), another Portuguese remnant with some kids and finally a dramatic rain cloud approaching just before my journey onwards.
The boat to the next island took 15 hours, though it really should have taken 6. The cause of the delay was a combination of tides, our heavy cargo of cashew nut wine, midnight drop of half of said cargo on an island and general drunkenness resulting from copious consumption of said cargo. A visiting Portuguese professor had told me earlier on Bolama that the nuts were distilled at inconsistent temperatures, meaning that many people on the islands had gone blind by over doing it. But I gave it a try, everything in moderation after all, and wasn't surprised to find it tasted like nutty wine, wierd, and with a definate kick. Here's a shot I took when waiting for the barrels to be unloaded half way, you can just make out the palm trees in the moonlight, but unfortuneatly not the villagers wading out to the necks to recieve their monthly stockpile of nut wine.
Next morning we arrived on the island of Bubaque with sore heads, having slept on the boat just offshore. Here's a beach and the airfield at sunset on what unfortuneatly turned out to be the only clear day of my stay...
Next day I rented a bike despite the rain and set out for the interior of the island along its only road. The Bijagos people have maintained a strong indigenous culture and I was keen to see some villages, if slightly apprehensive about the effect of my visit. I consoled myself with the fact that these weren't the most secluded of villages and had pretty constant interaction with people from the nearby towns. After a long ride, complete with sore bum and back and suitably soaked, I made it to some villages and waited outside to be invited in, as I'm told is customary. Eventually someone walked by and, seeing my pitiable state, brought me to sit outside a house in the middle of the village. The children crowded around me in cautious silence but with big, bright smiles. Communication was difficult with what little Portuguese I had in common with the adults but they nevertheless made me feel welcome and at peace in their beautiful village. I got up to leave after half an hour but was obliged to wait until the rain had stopped. Another half an hour passed before it did stop and I took my leave with an undescribable contentment. I caught these pictures of the rooftops as I left, just for memory.
Next day it was back to Dakar for my rendezvous with Jo, Siobhan, Steve, Brendan, Tadhg, Caitlin and Billy tomorrow night. This is one of the examples where I am so excited about something it produces a wierd melancholy, must be good.
OK, that was a long one. I'm really not in the mood to check for typos so I trust you get what I mean. The moral of the story? Go to Guinea-Bissau.
I'll depart with a billboard by the dock which shows the reputation of sailors isn't lost on those smart guys at the W.H.O.
Lovely long post. Just reread it. You should write more. (and travel more of course)
ReplyDeleteLove, Siobhan xx