01/17/2024 Bikepacking Guinea Day 162 : Justice Entangled

“Shit!” Exclaimed Aly as he jumped up from the bench inside the little shack. His toddler had just spilled her coffee on my leg. It was hot, but didn’t burn. I always wonder about people who automatically swear in English instead of their native language.

“It’s OK,” I said as the toddler started crying. I picked up the cup and handed it to her mother behind the counter. She was dressed in full black Burqa - where you can only see someone’s eyes through narrow slits. Her attire was intimidating, but somehow, I could tell by her kinesthetics that she was a friendly person under that shroud of fabric.

We are back to the mostly Muslim world where people are polite, toddlers drink coffee, and I am happy.

I had been sitting in the shack with Salim and Aly, quasi-interviewing them about work in Guinea. My readers have posited some good questions: “how do people afford phones and (seeming) non-necessities?” I’ve been trying to get some answers.

Salim explained that he (and many people here) work in the mine. There is so much activity that the road is pulverized to dust by the mining traffic.

Salim, like many people I’ve met in Africa was somewhat closed mouthed about himself. In Latin America, Janet and I could get people to tell us their life story for 45 minutes. In Africa, personal information does not come easily.

“Are you French?” Salim asked

“No, American.”

“Oh good, Americans are the most solicited people in Africa.”

Not sure if I was losing something in translation, I asked him to explain.

“The French people are bad. Imperialism. The French destroyed Africa. America is good. Americans are good people.”

I have never been much of a “with justice and liberty for all” flag-waving type, but this trip is making me feel more patriotic every day.

********

Later, I’d meet Lasso from Liberia.

Liberia is a small country right next to Sierra Leone. Like Sierra Leone, it’s a former British colony, so they speak English there too. I wonder if they hate the British, like the French, and love the Americans there?

“I want to grow garden,” he said.

“I came to Guinea during the war in Liberia, [1999-2003] and now my father is dead. My mother is dead.”

He seemed kind of sad, like he had no family left. Hoping to lift the mood, I asked if he had a wife.

“All I have is just one wife. I have one wife.”

He almost made it sound like he ought to have more wives.

“Do you have children then?”

“Yeahssss, I have children,” he said as if he were performing a Chris Rock skit.

“Well, then you’re not alone,” I said, hoping to sound upbeat. I wondered if his garden plan was real or metaphorical; I haven’t seen many gardens.

“I want you to help me with a cow and a horse.”

I said, “ok, let’s go!”

“No, I mean when you get home. I want to call you and you can help me get a horse.”

And like that, I gave out my number to the 210th person of the trip today. I liked Lasso, and he had a good name for an aspirant horse owner, but I don’t plan on mailing him My Little Pony any time soon.

******

Every night, as close as possible to the end of the ride, I’ll collect 5 liters of water for drinking and a shower at camp. This invariably becomes a huge scene around the water source. The dynamics were a little different this evening because it was only women who came to the pump. When men are around, the process is more formal, with a lot of shaking hands, a few men dominating the others. Usually, the village elder gets involved too.

It’s a lot more goofy and relaxed when it’s just the women. And these were Muslim women, just to emphasize that the “rules” for Muslim women can take many shapes and forms.

A little girl about 3 years old was doing all the pumping into a plastic tub. I think I told you before that my instincts make me recoil at the idea of someone who is black doing my work for me… so imagine how my sense of justice might get entangled while a black… female… child works to pump my bottles for me. No one here will let me do my own work, so I went to fetch some packs of cookies and a candy to give her as a thank-you gift. I haven’t been able to buy anything better in days.

One of the girls spoke English and introduced herself as Fatoumata.

“Will you take a picture with me with my friends?”

“Sure,” I said… my camera hadn’t even been out. I’ve been happily surprised that so many folks have been asking me to take their photos recently. And this isn’t the “photo - Dirham” behavior I encountered in Morocco… it seems people really want me to remember them. And I will.

They wanted photos of two at a time, groups of four, different combinations of people.

Then one girl said, “Can I see your hair? I love your hair.”

How could she love my hair? You can’t even see it between the helmet and the Buff! It’s getting long and messy so I yanked a little tangly bit out from under the Buff to show them. It is kind of ironic; almost all of these girls had their own hair covered.

They giggled, that bit of hair that I revealed entangling us in a moment of camaraderie. I realized that just like them, my hair is always covered by a Buff.

Aww, ain’t justice sweet?