Taylor's Travels: Guinea

Leaving the village on our first hike, I was surprised by the rapport my guide, Hassan, had with the neighborhood kids. When he greeted them, a crying child’s grimace turned to grin and they beamed like only kids can when he leaned over to pinch their bellies. I don’t know how you say “uncle” in Pular (the local language), but I’m sure it’s an endearing term Hassan hears often. After that hike and the ones that followed, seeing Guinea’s larger than life landscape through his imaginative eyes, I too would become a member of the Hassan fan club.

I wasn’t even planning to go to Guinea, but I had to return to Senegal from Mali and it was the most logical route. I’m thankful I did, though, because it showed me a place unlike any I’ve seen in this world. Not long after passport stamping, I was met with stunning scenery that was surpassed only by the people, who opened up their homes to me with hospitality you only seem to find in the poorest of places, untainted by tourism and western greed.

My arrival in Douki, a village in Northeastern Guinea, was more of the same. The kids greeted me and took me by the hand to an open-aired bungalow and plopped me down in a hammock. The leader of the pack, a six year old whose booming voice and presence was belittled by the snot bubbling from his nose, emptied some peanuts into my hands and demanded, “Mange!”

As I relaxed and enjoyed the snack, Hassan Bah entered the hut and enthusiastically welcomed me.

“Yes of course I have a room for you!” He said, voice raspy from too many cigarettes.

The deal: $20 for lodging, three meals, and guided hikes.

He gave me the guest book to flip through while he went to prepare my hut. The book featured hike descriptions, guest testimonials, and a brief history of Hassan’s life—born and raised in Sierra Leone, lived in Mauritania and Spain, Spanish is his favorite language. When he took me to my room I said “muchas gracias” and he gave me a wide grin, his crooked white teeth accentuating his under bite. “De nada,” he said. We spoke the rest of the time in Spanish.

But Hassan didn’t talk much; he let the land do the talking. We were based a kilometer from what is known as the Guinea Grand Canyon, a 2,500 foot valley laden with lush forests, precipitous rock formations, and cool rivers. Etched into the area are a series of barely visible paths the locals use to access neighboring villages and waterways. Exploring the Eastern rim of the Canyon, Hassan would take the lead. If we passed a patch of thorny plants, he would slow to a near stop to get my attention. If it were slippery he would alert me by extending his arms sideways, like a child pretending to be an airplane, and continue descending. It wasn’t that he couldn’t say, “Hey, careful here, buddy,” he spoke English and Spanish perfectly. But I think he wanted to maintain the serenity of the quiet valley, not pollute the air with unnecessary words.

There were times though, when Hassan was all too happy to speak.

“Look there. This is the head of a General. You see? There is his face,” Hassan’s arm outstretched and pointing to what looked to me like a rock, “and his hand is coming up like this, because he is thinking.”

This was Hassan’s hobby, finding faces and figures in the rocks.

“And there, you see? It’s an elephant. And over there, look, there’s a woman. Do you think she looks sad?”

“No, I think she is just admiring the view,” I reply.

Some of his pet rocks really did look like the figures he claimed them to be, but others, like the General, would have required an altered mind state to see. It was fun solving these stone puzzles, and I tried to match Hassan’s imaginative visions.

“Look Hassan, that one there! It’s a turtle…but he is angry…because he dropped his cigarette.”

I spent a few days in Douki exploring the area with Hassan. We scaled rocks and peered over the ledges of thousand foot cliffs; we explored caves and bathed beneath waterfalls; we even spotted baboons, both the animal and rock varieties. It was a magical place that, minus an ocean, was all I could have asked for; the distinct lack of tourism added to the charm. This was an area that, if in a more developed country, even Senegal, there would be entry fees, tour busses, huge hotels and hustlers. But because Douki is in one of the poorer African countries, politically volatile and without much press, it (and its people) remains pure. The kids in Douki, for example, thank you for taking their picture—in Mali they extend their hands expecting payment.

It’s a unique place.

We left Douki on our final hike just before sunset, as the call to prayer bellowed from the Mosque’s loudspeaker. Hassan seemed distracted, and I noticed him walking faster than normal. He lead me a short distance through the bush and down to the edge of the canyon, where a ledge dropped a thousand feet straight down to a small village on the valley floor. He sat me down on a rock and pointed out a vulture that glided with the updraft off of the cliff side. I followed it with my eyes, jealous of its ability to soar freely above the immaculate land. When my eyes returned to Hassan he was hastily removing his shoes. Then he turned his back to the sheer cliff, closed his eyes, and knelt in prayer.

Only Hassan. Only in Guinea.