Part III- No Man’s Land is Actually Between Senegal and Guinea

Crossing the border from Senegal to Guinea was one of the most instructive parts of our journey, and it gave me a very clear picture of the differences between the two countries. There is a little bit of history to delve into here, namely that Guinea was the first French colony to gain independence, but at a great cost. The famous independence fighter Sekou Toure stubbornly exclaimed that “On prefère la pauvreté en liberté que l’opulence en esclavage” (Guinea prefers to endure poverty in its freedom than opulence under enslavement) and proudly rejected France’s offer of provisional supervision under the guise of a West African Union of semi-independent states. It was the only French possession in Africa to do so.

Consequently, Guinea suffered exceedingly- especially during the years that it turned to the USSR for monetary support and state-planning advice- and is still recovering. Leaving the Senegalese border, we ducked into a hut (yes, they really do look just like all those pictures in National Geographic…) where a customs official sat us down and went through our paperwork, and stamped our passports with exit information. He spoke to us in the considerable amount of English that he knew, and offered his humble restroom facilities (Turkish toilet mean anything to anyone?) to us. There were other people there waiting in a neat little line to have their documents checked and stamped as well. We were done and on our way in a very timely manner.

After we pulled away, our driver explained that we were now in between countries. I don’t know exactly how it works out, because there must be exact latitudinal and longitudinal measurements for where Senegal ends and Guinea begins (or vice versa) but the area between the customs post in Senegal and the one in Guinea is not policed by anyone, not serviced by any electrical, water, or any other companies, and not really claimed by either country. People live there, lots of them, but they live in villages and have no passports or particular allegiances to faraway governments. It is truly no man’s land.

Anyway, a couple hundred meters away from the customs post, we picked up the rogue passengers who were riding on the roof. You see, another difference between Senegal and Guinea is the laws that govern transport. In Senegal sept-places are, by law, meant to be sept-places- that means seven on the inside, no shared seats or squished passengers, and no roof riders! So our friends up above had to dismount and walk around the customs post- no passport stamps for them- and meet us on the other side. Totally illegal, but totally normal here. Needless to say, we cheered when we found them and they hopped right back up.

The entry into Guinea was a completely different story. Our car crawled to stop right in front if the “gate”- a piece of string with dirty rags tied to it, stretched across the dirt road- and we got out to wait in a haphazard crowd of about 30 others waiting to be allowed to cross the string they could have just easily jumped over. Of course, we were given precedence because we were white, an occurrence that was frequent in Guinea, but never ceased to deeply bother me- why do they still, of their own volition, give more precedence to white people than their own citizens? We did have to wait a good twenty minutes, speaking Wolof with those Guineans who understood it and learning Pulaar from those who didn’t, but we left before most people who had already been waiting when we arrived.

In describing the Guinean customs officials, the only word I can think of to describe them is unprofessional. After they waved us into their makeshift tent, a couple of them made light conversation with us in their halting French while another one yelled insulting and degrading things at a man waiting- quarantined?- in the back of the tent. I didn’t understand much because he spoke in Pulaar, but I did understand when he barked something about the man being a dirty Jew. Incredible. At least he didn’t ask us for a bribe. They handed back our passports, but just as we were about to leave, two babies wandered in. One was a little boy, barely able to walk, the other, a fat little girl who looked about three. Of course, the girls cooed and smiled as girls will do, but then the little boy’s father (one of the customs officers) told us to give him money for the baby and one of the other officers held the little girl up to us, at which point she started screaming in terror. Apparently she doesn’t like white people. We left quickly