Clint Does Doucki

The minute we set foot in Guinea, we were told not to judge Guinea by Conakry alone. Although we have occasionally ventured outside Conakry during these past two years, last weekend was probably the best ever expedition, even out-oohing and out-awhing our trips to Rhum and Kassa islands (which were pretty fantastic also). Our friend Colette had talked to us about one last ‘road trip’ together, and considering all the faux riots that have been happening lately in Conakry (unemployed and bored youths being paid by some of the fringe opposition parties to go out and throw rocks and burn tires, causing general havoc in hope that the government will fall due to the chaos...all of this is getting pretty old...), we decided to take her up on her offer and head out of town.

We set sail towards the Futa Djalon plateau, an area of green rolling hills, 1000m mountain peaks, orchards, and farmland. Back in the fall, we had travelled to this region once before, but at that time, due to the fact that it was rainy season, we had not really experienced the full beauty of this area of Guinea because it was often shrouded in fog and clouds.   Fouta is considered one of the most scenic areas of Guinea and the heartland of the country’s Peul population. It’s also known as one of the best hiking places in all of West Africa.  Our trekking destination was the village of Doucki, where Colette had gone 6 years ago and where she had met a character by the name of Hassan, who, at the time, was setting up his own family run trekking business. 

After many wrong turns and Colette digging down deep into her memory bank, we eventually found Doucki and the one-of-a-kind Hassan. Apart from speaking Pulaar, Hassan also speaks English, French, and Spanish, all fluently. Since it’s beginnings a few years ago, his ecotourism trekking business has grown and become very successful with a steady stream of trekkers coming to Doucki in search of its hiking trails leading up to a rugged canyon with water-carved rock formations that provide surreal settings for exploration. Water flows through the rocks, providing great opportunities to cool off. Twenty five dollars will get lodging in a traditional Fula hut, three meals, and very informative guided hikes to slot canyons and waterfalls in and around these Grand Canyons of Guinea. 

Needless to say, the scenery was amazing and otherworldly. Hiking with Hassan is an unforgettable and entertaining experience. He is friendly and funny, and most of all his knowledge base of not only African geography and geology but also of world events and history is impressive. His brother works with him when he needs assistance and his wife does the cooking when people choose the full lodging deal. She prepared us a snack after our hike...rice, potatoes, onions, and tripe. I decided to pass on the tripe. Hassan is a natural when it comes to handling tourists. He flirted with Madeleine by calling her Marilyn Munroe. He also fed my macho ego by telling me I looked exactly like Clint Eastwood. I’m not used to people telling me I look like Clint Eastwood. Don Rickles, maybe, but never Clint Eastwood. However, he was very convincing because I could almost hear the spaghetti western Ennio Moriicone music as I was climbing those rocks...until, halfway up the canyon, it dawned on me that if I looked like Clint Eastwood as much as Madeleine looks like Marilyn Munroe, then I must really look like Don Rickles. Oh well, I still left Hassan a huge tip. So did Madeleine.

Although the actual day of hiking was great, often breathtaking, the trip to and from the Futa Djalon was in itself...eventful. As we got closer to Foula, there seemed to be more and more random cows and goats on the road...especially cows. Who do these animals belong to? Do the cows know who they belong to? Do the herders know which cow belongs to which herder? Do I care? Does any one else on this planet care? Transhumant herding was once the main lifestyle in Guinea, but the nomadic herding lifestyle has virtually disappeared, so they say. The lifestyle has disappeared, but the cows are still around, wandering unsupervised and cluttering up the roads.  Supposedly, scars on their hind quarters identify their owner. In any case, these cows don’t seem to be afraid of anything. Goats scurry at the sound of traffic but the cows just stand there in the middle of the road, chewing their cud, which in a way emphasized that defying clinteastwoodian (I guess Hassan really did make an impression on me...) make-my-day look in their eyes. Are these cows defiant, or just plain dumb? Do they not realize that there will undeniably be a lot of pain involved when those two ton metal moving projectiles hit them?  Do cows actually engage in such existentialistic questioning? Enough about cows.  

There is definitely a difference between rural and urban people. I guess this is the case where ever you may find yourself on this planet of ours. As we got further and further into the entrails of Guinea, the more friendlier and relaxed the people seemed to be. It appeared that we had been transformed from white expats with lots of money to welcomed guests who happened to be white faced.  We stopped at a few markets, walked around, and contrary to the feeling we have in Conakry where we are constantly hassled or looked at like we had just come in from another planet, we just blended into the environment and no one was really paying any attention to us. Very colorful markets, lots of the usual hustle and bustle, but in an almost serene kind of a way.  Bought some popcorn, cokes, and these deep fried clumps of something, some kind of dough fried in oil that ended up tasting just like...how can I best describe it... deep fried clumps of dough fried in oil. Very tasty and one would think a definite precursor to Rolaids, but surprisingly no lingering heart burn after the deep fried je ne sais quoi.

There are less cars all around, and those that we did encounter always had tons of stuff piled on top of them, with a few guys perched on top of the pile. People seem to walk more, and every road had a stream of women and children, (seldom men...I guess they ride on top of junk on top of cars) walking alongside the road, carrying something on their heads...branches, fruit (lots of fruit), containers, water, you name it, they carry it on their heads. We saw a group of kids playing with a UDA (unidentified dead animal). We didn’t stop to see what it was. 

In one village, a woman flagged us down. She rattled off something in Pulaar, which Colette understood a bit and it turned out she wanted us to drive her old handicapped mother to the next town. I got out of the truck and escorted the old lady to the back seat, helped her get in, handed her her crutches, and before I could close the door, she proceeded in painstakingly push herself to the centre of the seat to give me room to sit next to her. Sweet. I got in and inadvertedly cuddled up next to her. She gave me a big grin, showing off her one decaying tooth. That grin said it all...she was amongst friends, even though they were complete strangers, who wore funny clothes, and had a rather pale complexion. The 20 bumpy minutes to the next town were quiet, me not speaking Pulaar, and Colette too absorbed in her driving avoiding the potholes. When we reached the next town, my new sweetheart pointed to a house and yelled out something in Pulaar, which I figured meant, this is where you are to drop me off. Sure enough, as the truck drove up to the house, a group of adults and children came out and fetched our hitch hiker, their aunt/mother/sister/grandmother/sister-in-law/whatever. I helped the lady out and was immediately surrounded by a choir of people saying ajaaraamah, which I later found out is thank you in Pulaar. 

Drove off to the waves and the smiles on people’s faces. It would have been interesting to be a fly on the wall of that house and hear what the old lady had to say to her family about that 20 minute ride squeezed next to the big white guy. She must have thought she had just met Clint Eastwood.