HOW RESTLESS A NATION CAN BE
Guinea-Bissau is a world leader in instability. But is this a nation ready to pull itself back to its feet?
Guinea-Bissau, where slavehunting on an industrial scale began, is a world leader in instability. But is the real picture one of downwardspiralling destitution, or is this a nation ready to pull itself back to its feet?
And here is where he slept,’ says the museum lady with patriotic pride, pointing at a new bed with fresh linen, in a restored house that was never this empty and tidy. This very corner is where once stood the bed of Amílcar Cabral, a national hero of Guinea-Bissau, in his hometown of Batafá – a city that visibly carries both the wounds of the collapsing Portuguese buildings of colonial times, and the curse of a tangible, almost inescapable poverty today. As a country, Guinea-Bissau is not short of depressing statistics: the former cradle of slave-hunting, it is now ranked eighth in the Human Development Index (when counting from the bottom up) and 177th in GDP per capita; it has a high-standing reputation as a hub for drug smuggling to Europe. Above all, it is an indisputable leader in instability: an independence war, a civil war and two coups over 45
years (out of five attempted), make the West’s current political uncertainty seem like a mere trifle.
Yet, travelling through this West African nation, geologically carved by two ancient river deltas and ethnically fragmented into some 20 tribes with nearly as many languages and religions, you don’t see fear or desperation in people’s eyes. While walking through the market of Gabu, former capital of the eponymous kingdom at the time of the Mali Empire, nobody harasses you, there’s no begging or hard-selling; rather, you are the subject of anthropological curiosity (and of many pictures) since foreigners are rarely seen up here. Walking along the streets of the modern capital Bissau, nobody offers you any cocaine because, although this is indeed a trafficking hub, it is certainly not a market for selling drugs on the street. While driving throughout inland Guinea-Bissau, you see children smiling everywhere (nearly half the population is below 18 years of age and the average lifespan is a meagre 54 years). And then, there is the ever-present caju.
‘The caju (cashew) nut represents important wealth and may become a relevant part of our budget,’ wrote Amílcar Cabral in the political manual of the PAIGC, the African Party for the Independence of Guinea and Cape Verde that he co-founded in 1956 with his brother and four others. It’s a party that has dominated life in Guinea-Bissau ever since: from a peaceful movement to a guerrilla army before independence; then, in times of freedom, from a Marxist-Leninist regime to a regime of corruption. Yet, the ideas of the party founders were lofty and forward-looking. This is probably why Cabral’s comments on caju resulted in an economy where 80 per cent of the people live on a monoculture of cashew nut production and sales. Around 150,000 tonnes were exported last year.
In the past, the country used to export human beings. Portuguese Guinea, as it was known until independence in 1974, had been a slave reservoir since Portuguese explorer Prince Henry the
Navigator, who ignited colonialism, in the mid15th century, inaugurated the human trade on an industrial scale. Ironically enough, in 1761 Portugal was the first country to ban slavery, but in India and China exclusively. In Africa, the subjugation went on for more than a century.
An independence war, a civil war and two coups in 45 years make the current political uncertainty in the West seem like a mere trifle
‘Freedom begins within ourselves, in the grace of God,’ shouts a Red Cross instructor to a little army of teenage volunteers, who are marching in uniform along the side of the only modern building in Cacheu, a city not too far from the Senegalese border. The building hosts the brand-new Museum of Slavery, paid for by the European Union, in remembrance of the thousands and thousands of Guineans who were abducted, branded and shipped in chains to the Americas.
It was naval technology that made little Portugal a first mover on colonialism’s chessboard. Thanks to his swifter and handier caravels, in 1448 captain Nuno
Tristano was able to sail up the Cacheu River and usher in the age of human trade. It is a painful road that eventually led to the PAIGC and its liberation struggle.
POLITICAL MANOEUVRING
The road that leads to the heart of the Cantanhez National Park is hellish to say the least. After 65km of unpaved surface, the last trail deep inside the tropical forest would challenge the mightiest of 4x4 vehicles, with a bumpy succession of pits up to one metre deep. It takes two hours to cover 18km, while passing through smaller tabancas (villages) crawling with young people and farm animals.
It is a temple for wildlife in here, from arachnids to pachyderms, but especially for scores of chimps who punctually climb the top of coconut trees at sunset, not descending again until dawn. This is a reservation and the chimps should be safe here, at least in theory. ‘It is now forbidden to kill chimps and we are here to protect them,’ says Abubakar Serra, an elderly and cultivated man who runs an eco-lodge in Cantanhez,
where a guest’s carbon footprint would be low indeed, if only there were any guests.
Cantanhez has a monument hidden in the depths of its forested temple, itself dominated by countless colonies of termites devouring any decaying bit of wood. After a few minutes walk off the beaten track, it suddenly appears. It is a kapok tree (Ceiba pentandra guineensis), probably 70 metres high, with a labyrinth of buttress roots much taller than a human being, each one of them extending metres away from the prodigious trunk. A plant so special, it well deserved a special name. They call it the Amílcar Cabral Tree. Cabral co-founded the party as a means of nonviolent pressure over the Portuguese regime run by António Salazar, who refused to pull out of colonialism, as Britain was about to do. But when, in 1959, a peaceful protest by workers ended up in a bloodbath, the PAIGC turned completely to guerrilla tactics. Four years later, hostilities became a fullfledged war of independence, often referred to as ‘Portugal’s Vietnam,’ which involved the archipelago of Cape Verde – the letter ‘C’ in the party’s acronym. Cabral, born to Capeverdean parents, is a national hero there, too.
Unfortunately, he didn’t live long enough to see his dream come true. He was mysteriously killed in 1973, in nearby Guinea Conakry. Along the dusty road that leads out of Cantanhez lies a heavy, rusted piece of Soviet artillery. It is a reminder of how bad the conflict was here in this rebel-held zone.
Bissau was the Portuguese’s only stronghold. The capital, built in 1687 on an island which is now a peninsula, was not liberated by insurgence but by the sudden fall of the Salazar regime at the hands of its own military in 1974, certainly weary of the long wars
in Guinea, Angola and Mozambique. In Bissau, the ensuing disaster is clearly visible everywhere. After the devastations of the independence war, the civil conflict obliterated the old colonial infrastructure: roads, bridges, ports, farms, even the few existing factories. PAIGC’s posters and flags, the winner in the controversial elections held last March, are everywhere. ‘We don’t have issues anymore. We get along well together,’ claims Felix Gomes, a 41-year-old mechanic and driver. But that’s ‘fake news’, maybe because Felix belongs to the PAIGC’s 35 per cent majority and to the ten per cent Christian minority. The truth is that
Along the road that leads out of Cantanhez lies a rusted piece of Soviet artillery. It is a reminder of how bad the conflict was here
the parliament is hung, the president is at odds with the prime minister (both belonging to PAIGC) and confusion is rampant in every walk of life.
Last year, public schools were shut for several months, as teachers refused to work anymore without a salary. ‘In just six months, 746 people died at the Simao Mendes National Hospital. They should call it the Mendes Cemetery,’ remarks Manuel Martins harshly. Martins is a Portuguese engineer who fought in Angola and ended up running a restaurant in
Bissau. He believes ethnic and religious tensions are here to stay, as well as the invisible drug smuggling business. ‘There is no way this country can survive without international aid,’ he tells me. He should know, being the director of one of the four banks in Bissau, none of which is Guinean.
ECOWAS, the Economic Community of West African States, maintains its peace-keeping force in the country and keeps an eye on every election. China has built the new parliament and a ministry building. In Bissau, the presence of white UN, FAO, UNDP and
WHO vehicles is noticeable. Instead of tourists, my hotel on Avenida Amílcar Cabral hosts international officers and operators.
REMOTE CONTROLS
Everything changes in the remaining, offshore portion of the country. The few tourists that come to GuineaBissau head to the Bijagós archipelago: 88 islands or islets that compose a graceful mosaic of diversity. They could be divided into national parks (such as Orango, home of rare saltwater hippos), the habited islands, the inhabited ones and those ‘colonised’ by French people. As curious as it seems, all the resorts and other lodgings around here are run by French entrepreneurs, mostly migrated from Casamance, Senegal’s southernmost province. In Bubaque, the most populated island (with 6,500 people), teenagers have learnt some French in order to cater to the tourists and run a few business, such as rusty bike rentals.
This paradise made of mangrove forests, coastal savannahs and sand banks – a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve – was thrown into the hell of war, too. The master stroke of Amílcar Cabral was to have the major ethnic groups (Balante, Fula, Manjaca, Mandinga, Papeis, Barmes and the Bijagós) fight together for freedom. Today, they are as fractured as before, but the people of this archipelago, thanks to their scattered remoteness, feel a smaller impact from the country’s perennial instability. The Bijagós tribes tend to be matriarchal, with some of them led by a woman. Or maybe the chief is the oldest living man, as with the Soga people who live uncomfortably right in the middle of the forested Soga Island, because there lies the only freshwater well available.
Amílcar Cabral’s master stroke was to have the major ethnic groups fight together for freedom. Today, they are as fractured as before
Just facing Soga, there is Angurman, a little gem within paradise. Frenchman François Gagelin has built a business out of four huts facing the ocean. He serves the catch of the day under an imposing baobab, with the help of a handful of locals. His ‘ecolodge’ mostly deserves its self-appointed green title. Walking around the uncontaminated island takes less than one hour and it’s a little depressing to find it contaminated with plastics from the ocean. ‘It comes and goes with the tides,’ Gagelin replies. ‘Please no, don’t collect it. What can I do with plastic here? Burn it?’
There are too many dilemmas facing Guinea-Bissau including fear of yet another coup. The upcoming presidential election this month (November), is unlikely to solve many of them. From the caju market price to securing a peaceful living, everything is being decided outside of the nation. It is not what young Amílcar Cabral dreamed of, in that little bed in poor Batafá.