A Bridge No More

Dropped in at an unexpected solemn event this morning. I stayed and watched. Here, when I come across a crowd of people assembling, I usually go the other way or circumvent the masses altogether. I just don’t like crowds, especially angry ones, and let’s face it, since I’m here, angry crowds seem to be the only ones I’ve come across.

On my way to the pool this morning, which happens to be a 30 minute walk from our apartment, I came upon an assembly of people quietly watching the demolishing of the old infamous Bridge 8 November. This bridge is being replaced by a new one, a gift from the people of Switzerland. Since its construction in the 60s, the old bridge had strategic significance, given that it cuts Coankry’s Central Business District off from the rest of the city. During past coups, the bridge had played an important role in that it was the only way out of the city center and therefore a good place to set up a barrage where the ‘coup ees’ (aka : the military) would set up a road block and stop the nasty fallen government people who had just emptied out their desk drawers and were attempting to make their way out of the city. At the bridge, they would be arrested and made to disappear somewhere.

Bridge 8 is also known as Hangman’s Bridge. It’s where political opponents were hanged for everyone to see in the 1970s for their crimes of opposition during the reign of terror of the Touré regime. To think that in Canada, we tend to get all our underwear tied into knots when our elected ‘officials’ do nasty and despicable things like making pre-election phone calls to potential opposition voters, directing the away fro the proper polling stations. I’ve been following this robocall scandal since it came out a few weeks ago...some of the forums about the controversy are pretty interesting...strong words like abused democracy, tragic lesson, and even nazism. Perhaps, just perhaps, we all need to ‘chill out’ here....but then, I digress, back to this morning...

As I arrived amidst the crowd of people, I was immediately struck by the quiet and solemn mood that permeated the whole area. Usually, the demolishing of a structure by big machinery is exciting and fun...isn’t it? But in this case, except for the banging sound of the three jackhammer cranes that were ramming and eating away at the bridge’s deck and supporting columns, there was no sound. People were standing and staring; somberly pensive would be the best way to describe the look on their faces.

I was curious to know what they were thinking? For sure some of them were there for the same reason as I, merely for the typical and normal (well, I think it’s normal) big little boy curiosity and fascination of watching big machines tearing down big structures. But also, for sure, many of them were personally paying a quiet tribute to the many who had suffered and had met their tragic demise at the bridge. And I’m absolutely positively sure that all of them were taking in the quiet pleasure of seeing this infamous structure being broken and taken away, one of the many historic blemishes erased once and for all from the face of Conakry.

I did not stay long. I left these people to their healing spectacle. I continued on my way to the pool, once again reflecting on my good fortune of being who I am, the interesting and safe life that I was having, and above all, to have been born where I had been born, a place where I can think what I want to think, and talk openly about what I think, without worrying about ending up dangling from a bridge because of what I thought.