Globetrotter, Ros Freeman, continues her quest to visit the lesser-known countries of the world.
Guinea is just as you’d imagine an African country to be. Jungle-covered mountains tumble down to a myriad of waterways. It’s the source of three major rivers and home to elephants, leopards and monkeys. In the rainforest, an abundance of brilliant butterflies and iridescent dragonflies flitter by, while thundering waterfalls enveloped us in fine mists.
There’s an exciting vibe to Guinea; the country exudes energy. There is colour and chaos, excitement and exuberance. Women are garbed in dazzling patterns and men wear vibrant shirts. At the airport the welcoming sound of African drums, gave way to the buzz of motorbikes and the constant tooting of horns. It’s the soundtrack of Guinea.
Guinea’s capital, Conakry, was my home for a few days. From my window I experienced the city’s sights and sounds. Women elegantly waddled down the street balancing trays of goods on their heads. There goes the Banana Lady, closely followed by the Sock Lady, a little further back is the Bra Lady, her tray brimming with a kaleidoscopic array of brassieres. A man stood by his wooden barrow shining his watermelons all day long and across the street was the Shoe Man. Shoes, discarded by western feet, were lovingly polished and sold so they could tread the footpaths of Conakry.
Guinea, or Guinea-Conakry as it’s sometimes called, was a French colony between 1891 and 1958. The French departed with bad blood and a ‘so take that!’ attitude, destroying the infrastructure, burning medicines and even removing light bulbs. Times have been turbulent ever since. The first president aligned the country with the Soviet Union, declared the country to be Islamic and murdered 50,000 dissenters. There have been at least three military coups since independence. 
Anticipating seeing Shoe Man, I flung open my bedroom curtains and was dismayed, there was no sign of him. Mornings he’d carefully lay out the shoes on the pavement, and at dusk he’d pack them all away. But not today. Instead, there was an eerie silence; no motorbikes and no tooting horns. At breakfast I gave a Gallic shrug to the waiter, Pourquoi? His lengthy French explanation was useless to me. Google to the rescue. Today was a ville morte, businesses and schools were closed and people were told to stay indoors as demonstrations occurred across the city. All day long sirens blared as convoys of official cars and army vehicles cross-crossed the city. Soldiers toted Kalashnikovs with menace.
The following day it was business as usual. The Shoe Man was back, the watermelon man had returned, schoolgirls sashayed along the street and the elegant ladies with the trays atop their heads were once again selling their wares. The hum of a thousand motorbikes was a comforting sound. Just another day in Conakry.
Dining in a new country and trying out local dishes is always exciting. I was travelling with a group of eight. We were of seven different nationalities, a travelling Tower of Babel. One evening our guide shepherded us through the streets of Conakry. There was colour and excitement, music and dance. A large group of young men chased after a taxi then all piled in, a tangle of brown limbs, and maybe a Guinness record being broken!
Ordering food became an anticipatory event. We’d be lured by a tantalizing menu, and once seated learnt that none of the mentioned dishes were available. Lobsters, crabs, shrimps were all touted, with prices quoted, however when we ordered them, none was available. Flexibility and patience were the key.
Too often we’d place our orders . . . and then we’d wait, and then wait some more. An hour was the average. As a solution, we decided to order our food then go for an hour’s hike, returning just in time for our meals. The hike was fabulous, an appetite enhancer. We sat by a babbling brook and soon a large group of fun-loving Africans arrived. There was music, dancing and lots of laughter, meanwhile we Westerners sat, tapping our fingers on the table, and checking our watches.
An hour’s wait turned into two. Another record had been broken! Finally, two girls arrived, balancing dishes of food on their heads. We salivated even more. The two girls walked past us delivering the food to the Africans, who were too busy having a good time to even notice the food. A lesson to be learned. Eventually our food arrived. It was delicious. We all ate way too much, a totally pig-out. Er, I guess that makes us all Guinea pigs!
Ros travelled with Bulgaria-based Penguin Travel, flew into Conakry via Lomé and Bamako with ASKY, the pan-African Airline and out of Monrovia to Addis Ababa with Ethiopian Airlines.
There’s an exciting vibe to Guinea; the country exudes energy. There is colour and chaos, excitement and exuberance. Women are garbed in dazzling patterns and men wear vibrant shirts. At the airport the welcoming sound of African drums, gave way to the buzz of motorbikes and the constant tooting of horns. It’s the soundtrack of Guinea.
The following day it was business as usual. The Shoe Man was back, the watermelon man had returned, schoolgirls sashayed along the street and the elegant ladies with the trays atop their heads were once again selling their wares. The hum of a thousand motorbikes was a comforting sound. Just another day in Conakry.
Dining in a new country and trying out local dishes is always exciting. I was travelling with a group of eight. We were of seven different nationalities, a travelling Tower of Babel. One evening our guide shepherded us through the streets of Conakry. There was colour and excitement, music and dance. A large group of young men chased after a taxi then all piled in, a tangle of brown limbs, and maybe a Guinness record being broken!
Too often we’d place our orders . . . and then we’d wait, and then wait some more. An hour was the average. As a solution, we decided to order our food then go for an hour’s hike, returning just in time for our meals. The hike was fabulous, an appetite enhancer. We sat by a babbling brook and soon a large group of fun-loving Africans arrived. There was music, dancing and lots of laughter, meanwhile we Westerners sat, tapping our fingers on the table, and checking our watches.
An hour’s wait turned into two. Another record had been broken! Finally, two girls arrived, balancing dishes of food on their heads. We salivated even more. The two girls walked past us delivering the food to the Africans, who were too busy having a good time to even notice the food. A lesson to be learned. Eventually our food arrived. It was delicious. We all ate way too much, a totally pig-out. Er, I guess that makes us all Guinea pigs!
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Disguised as a mild-mannered corporate employee, Ros lives a secret life as a world traveller and adventurer amassing a count of more than 150 UN-recognised countries. |
Ros Freeman travelled independently at her own expense but would not go anywhere unless Kirsty at Flight Centre Eastgardens booked her flights.
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