My neighbourhood strolls invigorate the senses. So many layers of detail to notice. Along a familiar route, I routinely notice the pedestrian goats out for some exercise, the little half-dressed toddlers yelling "Fote, fote" ("white person, white person") as we pass, roadside cooking in huge metal cauldrons, and a collage of vendors set up on the sidewalk. Rarely do I notice the fence behind this layer, neither do I notice what is past the fence. A few weeks ago, along a very familiar route, such an event occurred. It was early evening and all of the vendors had packed up for the night. As I walked along the sidewalk through the sparse activity, I noticed for the first time, the tops of grave markers rising up from behind the fence. I had a sudden curiosity to visit this cemetery one day, to see yet another facet to Conakry. Thankfully my friend Andrea (who enjoys quirky adventures just as much as I do) jumped at the opportunity of exploration. Not knowing if the locals approve of random cemetery visits, we decided that it would be best to take our walk earlier in the morning to avoid as little human contact outside the cemetery as possible.
In a far corner, a dozen or more vultures gather for an outing. Padding about on the crunchy carpet of leaves, or standing guard on the monuments, these massive birds seem to enjoy a group atmosphere. One lone vulture stares down from high above in the baobab branch. Deciding group socializing can be beneficial, he hops off and takes flight. His impressive wingspan is exposed as he soars down and lands on the tip of a cross.
We begin our inspection of row on row. Unlike home, very few tombstone inscriptions bear the names or dates of the deceased. Although we did find a detailed epitaph of a Frenchman who died in Conakry in 2010, the majority of tombstones seem to remain anonymous. After years exposed to the elements, the weathered monuments sit streaked with grime and fine layers of moss. Beheaded crosses lay on the ground propped up against the respective graves, like ancient ruins. Other monuments tilt at an awkward angle, pushed up from underneath by the extensive baobab root system. The monotony of gravel was suddenly interspersed with every imaginable colour. Yards of fabric (lain out on the path by a busy laundress) try to sun themselves in the few penetrating sun beams. We carefully calculate our footsteps to avoid soiling her the freshly washed linens. As our attention has been drawn towards the ground, we began to notice little red bugs all around us, also negotiating their way over individual pebbles. I can't help but feel phantom tickles as if they had ascended my leg.
We head to the base of a spectacular baobab. Roots emerging out of the soil snaking across the ground to converge into folds of the magnificent trunk. Studded with prickly thorns as if it did not wish to be touched, this tree climbers dream is off limits. Our first human contact, a colourfully dressed, cheery little man has followed us into the graveyard and now joins us at the base of the tree. He makes a hand gesture to motion for food. Unfortunately we didn't carry any food or money with us. Only a little disappointed at our lack of charity he heads out on his merry way.
Moments later, we spot a second man, somewhat dishevelled in a black and burgundy outfit, peering at us from behind a distant hedge. His stern face and furrowed brow give a hint that we may not be as welcomed here as we had thought. We continue our exploration further into the cemetery, ready to call it a day if we receive a personal reprimand from this caretaker. Following closer, strait faced, he approaches us and questions, "C'est fini?" I begin to complement the nature of his lovely cemetery. My hand motions mimic the vast network of branches floating over us. I take a photo to demonstrate my enthusiasm. His face remains straight and rigid, he does not even arch his brow. "C'est fini?" he repeats. I once again attempt to butter him with complements as I explain how I am enjoying the fruit of his labour. Same face. "C'est fini?" By this point we sense that we were being told that it is time for us to leave. We make our way back up the path with caretaker in tow. As we exit through the gate we bid farewell, "Merci monsieur, au revoir." The little man pays no more attention to us, but padlocks the cemetery gate and returns to his post at the entrance, arms crossed and face as straight as ever.
