Work produced in Conakry, Guinea at the invitation of the International Federation for Human Rights (fédération internationale des ligues des droits de l'homme) – FIDH, Paris. The photographs and text were published in the book MÉMOIRE COLLECTIVE: UNE HISTOIRE PLURIELLE DES VIOLENCES POLITIQUES EN GUINÉE released in the Guinean parliament to commemorate the 60th anniversary of their Independence.
CONSTELLATION GUINEA
When I got the call one day asking whether I’d be interested in spending some time in Guinea, I wiped the dust off my well-used atlas and carefully identified the correct Guinea, separating it from its namesakes.
Let’s call it the Africa problem. No, not a problem with Africa itself. Rather, a problem of ignorance and bias that can so often come in the way of responsible reporting on the continent and its people. The burden of this responsibility hangs over writers and photographers who have an Africa assignment handed to them on a platter. One has to swim against the current to avoid adding more “ooga-booga” imagery to the vast archives that already exist. With an open mind and an honest intent to connect with the contemporary culture of Guinea, I would spend 10 days in its capital city, Conakry. The idea was to discover Guinea on my own terms and create a personal memory of the place from scratch.
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Goalkeeper. Conakry, Guinea.
A broken wall separates a field from the road in Cosa. Conakry, Guinea.
Benares beach. Conakry, Guinea.
Benares beach. Conakry, Guinea. (Amadou Diallo)
Halimatou Camara, a lawyer fighting for human rights in Conakry, Guinea.
A taxi driver near Bambeto circle. Conakry, Guinea.
Benares beach. Conakry, Guinea. (Aissa Bah - top centre)
Elhadj Bangaly Diallo (L) and Mamaissta Bangoura (R) enjoy an outing by the sea in Centre Emetteur in Kipe. Conakry, Guinea.
Rond Point Hamdallaye. Conakry, Guinea.
Saturday evening football in Kaloum district. Conakry, Guinea.
An embassy in Kaloum district. Conakry, Guinea.
Beds for sale. Conakry, Guinea.
Abubakar Kamara from Sierra Leone works as an ébéniste (cabinetmaker) in Conakry, Guinea.
Oumar Balde runs an electrical shop along with his brother near Nongo port. Conakry, Guinea.
Marly is ready to leave for her wedding after setting her hair at the beauty salon. Conakry, Guinea.
A wedding parade in Conakry, Guinea.
Guests at a wedding. Conakry, Guinea.
People fetch water from a well in front of a mosque in Nongo. Conakry, Guinea.
Turkish mosque on Route le Prince. Conakry, Guinea.
Hotel Onomo by the South Corniche. Conakry, Guinea.
Palais du Peuple. Conakry, Guinea.
Saturday afternoon at Pont 8 Novembre. Conakry, Guinea.
South corniche in Kaloum. Conakry, Guinea.
Benares beach. Conakry, Guinea. (Abraham Sidibe)
Conakry, Guinea.
View from the 28th floor of an under-construction luxury apartment complex in Kipé. Conakry, Guinea.
Kipé landscape. Conakry, Guinea.
Boulbinet Port. Conakry, Guinea.
The nation of Guinea is 60 years old this year! And yet, since their tryst with democracy in 2010, the kinder part of history has only just begun. I set about looking for the vision of a better world reflected in the eyes of those whom I encountered on the streets of Conakry.
In India, before a public official demands a bribe, he has done his homework. He knows you, has mentally calculated your data and put a value to your sins. It’s not a question of whether you have to pay; it’s a question of how little. In Guinea, corruption at the ground level is at best amusing. The common civil servant (from the immigrations officer at the airport to the traffic constable) is unprepared. When she stops you, she is merely trying her luck, praying that you will feel morally compelled to part with a few ten thousands francs. It is not easy to get money off an Indian. I hope Guineans preserve their innocence for decades to come.
It is May Day when I arrive. Workers are out by the thousands at the Palais du Peuple to uphold a tradition that has one foot in the past—Sekou Toure’s Marxist leanings—and another in contemporary sartorialism. Every contingent has a special uniform stitched for the occasion and they carry it with panache.
Guineans place a premium on their most private of spaces, the bedroom. I met an ébéniste—a profession of such specificity that I did not know existed. He hacks away all day to create his masterpiece – a garish thousand-euro headboard still smelling of fresh paint when I photographed him. Alongside many of the main streets are shops selling beds placed so precariously on stones just so that a driving passerby can appreciate its quality at the right angle. To me, these beds could well be a metaphor for the nature of domestic politics.
Mango trees everywhere made me feel at home in the tropics. The dilapidated taxis remind me of the Hindu concept of birth and death and rebirth in the afterlife. These yellow chariots must have done something good in their previous life to deserve another chance today. When I saw one particularly shiny taxi under the shade of a tree, I had to make a portrait of it. People launched a manhunt for the driver, who then happy obliged to become part of the picture, but only after turning on all its embellishing lights. And there, under his dear Peugeot were the twin signs of trans-Atlantic aspiration: U.S.A., U.S.A.
From above the hustle and bustle of Koloma market, I spot a motorcycle mechanic. He is an able hand at fixing the ubiquitous Indian TVS motorcycles that now and then give up on Conakry’s potholes. I ask if I can make his portrait. All his apprentices rush to join in the picture. But that is not the point. After some initial banter, he sits calmly while his restless son reaches out to grab the universe. A dad doing his share of paternal duty. That is the point.
In Guinea, football is not merely a sport. It has the same status as religion. Just as you don’t show up sloppily to church, in the football field too (which could be any available surface), players are always present in their crispest uniforms and shampooed shoes. I pass by an ochre mud field and witness a football match in progress. Unusually, these are two all-female teams. I close in on the goalkeeper. She acknowledges me before I make a portrait. Is she the keeper of her nation’s future?
Walking down Centre Emetteur in the chic neighbourhood of Kipé, I see young couples have come to take in the sea breeze and whisper sweet nothings to each other. I know exactly which couple I would like to work with. The guy who has his lady friend’s handbag around his neck. How could I resist? These are the things we do when we’re in love! Could this also suggest a hopeful new world order of relenting masculinity?
With few public spaces available for the youth to unwind themselves, Benares beach thrives with activity on any given day. One Sunday afternoon, amidst thousands of people, I train my attention towards a gaggle of girls sporting their teen fashion, taking selfies, and being their carefree selves. There is something deeply reassuring about it. I meet a fashion designer. It is a working day for him as he walks around the beach in his yellow-and-black designs. He makes a sale right then and there; he agrees to stitch me a shirt. It is the only other souvenir I take home with me, apart from all these memories.
Everybody's a star. Within our imagination, they make the constellation that is Guinea.
