First Day in Conakry

No one knows why, but in certain airports when you arrive, you have to start fighting. Conquer your suitcase, prevent it from being snatched by other passengers, security guards, or the many people circling the carousel.

Then you have to win your way to the exit, defend your place in the queue, elbow your way through, watch the plainclothes policeman ushering his own people forward; anyway, eventually, you get out somehow, and if you're lucky, there's a friend waiting for you. Sometimes a taxi driver. For me last night in Conakry, there was a driver (Abou); in the passenger seat was a girl, lying back with her feet on the windshield, legs semi-open, and a bottle of beer in her hand. The city is full of soldiers and checkpoints: armored vehicles, tanks, and assault rifles. It’s 4 in the morning when I lie down in bed, but after an hour the sheep at the mosque begin to bleat, and the heat and light do the rest: by 6, I am already awake. It’s Sunday and I try to take a walk along the main streets of the capital; everything remains inexorably closed. I push as far as the sea, but before arriving, I stumble upon the lynching of a thief: a young man took something from a woman selling papaya, hundreds of people surround him, swarms of children start running after him, kicking up dust. As a white Westerner, I know I cannot intervene; I watch from a bit of a distance. It looks like a spectacle, the situation does not escalate, I decide to proceed and finally reach the shores of the Atlantic. The beach is barely accessible, the sea the color of earth; I look at it from a distance before heading back.

I am walking back when some soldiers stop me: «You have committed an infraction,» the gendarme sentences, «here you are in front of the prison for political dissidents and it is forbidden to pass, give me your passport and visa». I have nothing with me. He tells me to call so someone can bring my documents, but I don't have credit on my phone yet. «Then you must pay». I say I can go back and get the documents. «No. You must pay, you have committed a serious infraction». «What are you doing in Guinea?» — a short visit, I reply — but clearly, he doesn't believe me. They hold me for about 30 minutes; he keeps insisting until I tell him I can go and get the card to pay. «No,» then he replies, «where are you from?». Italian. «In your country, we know how they treat those without documents, you must pay». I pull three bananas out of my backpack and they start laughing: «Italians... get out of here». It’s 5 in the afternoon and I haven’t eaten yet. I find an exclusively Chinese shop open; I look for rice, but they only sell 20 kg bags: I take some boxes with incomprehensible names. I go home: first day. From here, one feels compassion for those reporters who have to practice their trade in sleepy neighborhoods with high-sounding names, because in Conakry, as soon as you step off the road, there is something to tell, and if you walk, you can find out why.

Fabrizio Floris
NP december 2025