My London-based company posted me in an isolated country in West Africa called Guinea-Bissau to buy shipload quantities of cashew nuts valued at millions of dollars from sellers of the commodity. I had to learn Portuguese fast, get the feel of the market, and find out the government requirements for the export of raw cashew nuts.
Guinea-Bissau: The Basics
Guinea-Bissau is an inaccessible, impoverished, and little-known country, yet one of the most beautiful places I have ever known. The capital, Bissau, is on the coast. Guinea Bissau’s neighbors are Senegal and Guinea Conakry. It boasts an archipelago of eighty-eight islands of white sands, azure water, and protected wildlife. Some of these Bijagos islands, locals say, have never been visited. Friends with connections took me to one of the islands, and while they waited in the canoe, I set foot in paradise.
The people of Guinea-Bissau are a handsome mixture of the Balanta, Fulani, Manjaco, and Mandinka tribes, with influences from the Portuguese colonizers, Lebanese traders, and people from the Cape Verde islands. Their variety bears testament to their history. The Mande from the Mali Empire controlled Guinea Bissau from the 13th century, extracting gold, slaves, and salt. The last occupiers in the 15th century were the Portuguese, who declared Guinea Bissau a colony and held sway until an ouster in 1973, by rebel fighters, following an 11-year war.
The rebel faction declared the unilateral independence of Guinea-Bissau on September 24, 1973. The newly independent country was plagued with continuous government overthrows. The instability prevented economic development. Limited access to health and education kept the population mired in poverty and illiteracy.
Meeting the People of Guinea-Bissau
I picked up Portuguese quickly. The Bissauans I met and befriended during my three-year stay were people who took life in stride, making themselves happy with the little they had. And it was extraordinarily little. Despite hardships, they enjoyed music, dancing, getting together to shuck and eat clams, romancing, and parading at Carnival with the bigger-than-life masks they created. Bissauans celebrate holidays with traditional Portuguese bacalao, a codfish dish; vinho de acajou, wine made from the cashew apple (the cashew nut is attached to the fruit’s exterior). Or Vinho Verde Branco if they could afford a Portuguese wine.
They weave “Panos” (stunning, intricate textiles that once served as currency). The “mamba” snakes, considered pests, are plentiful, huge but not poisonous, and primarily vegetarian. It was surprising to visit the homes of pious Catholics and see an erect wooden penis displayed on the mantle as a symbol of good luck.
Making Friends
Among my lasting friendships, I counted Senhor Gaudinho, the head of the assembly. A learned and courteous gentleman who invited us, during one of my daughter Catharine’s visits from the U.S., to dine at his home, praising Catharine for choosing the law as her field of study. He regaled us with stories about his law school days in Lisbon, and after dinner, he selected, from a shelf lined with bottles, a “snake wine” digestive: bottle of amber liquid containing a long, narrow snake. We declined while expressing our appreciation. As a parting gift, Senhor Gaudinho presented Catharine with a beautiful pair of wood-carved faces, in profile, of a Guinea-Bissau female and male.
I met Manuel, who also became a good friend, in the capital Bissau as I prospected for business contacts. He owned acres of fruit trees and forest in Bambadinca, a town in the central region, about two hours’ drive from Bissau (during the dry season). He had a sawmill, exporting logs to Portugal.
Manuel had a wonderful sense of humor, and if you could keep his romantic advances at arm’s length, he was great. Like all the men in Guinea-Bissau, he could not pass up the opportunity to flirt with every woman who crossed his path. Manuel was in his fifties, a mixture, like most Bissauans, of Portuguese and the local tribes. Lean and sinewy, he sported a mustache, glasses, and a winning smile, always ready to laugh and joke.
Becoming Part of the Family
Manuel and his wife, Senhora Isabel, had separated years before. They had three children together; Sandra, a teenager, and sons Carlos and Toni; in their early twenties, the boys worked with their father in the sawmill. Sandra shuttled between her parents. Their mother, Senhora Isabel, owned and operated a “no-frills” restaurant, one of the few restaurants in Bissau. The food was fresh and tasty, and the restaurant’s customers, from various projects and international organizations, filled the place. But no matter, Senhora Isabel always found a place for me, often at the family table in the kitchen, so we could talk while she went about directing the cooks and helping to prepare the food.
When Manuel came to Bissau to transact business and replenish supplies, he always visited and extended an invitation to spend the weekend at his house in Cucilintra. And, when my work allowed, I liked nothing better than to pack up bedding, mosquito repellent, and gifts from town and head out with my driver, Samba. While the distance from Bissau was only fifty-two miles, less than one hour on North American highways, in Bissau, the bad roads made the trip much longer, especially after the rainy season mudslides. Fortunately, my air-conditioned Peugeot 505 was a champ, and rode like a dream.
Sometimes, my friend Loka joined me. She worked at the American Embassy on the ground floor of the building where I lived. And during school vacation visits, my teenage daughter, Catharine, also enjoyed our trips to Manuel’s farm. His business associates from Portugal often came for game hunting weekends.
At Manuel’s House
Manuel built his house with logs from his forest. He raised the house from the ground to save it from flooding during the rains and keep out wildlife. A veranda surrounded the house. During the dry season, it was cooler to sleep outside in the tents that Manuel provided. I am not much of a camping buff, but the natural beauty of the surroundings and Manuel’s hospitality helped overcome my hesitation and fear of snakes.
During the day, we visited his orchards and the surrounding villages, but the main attraction for me was the Rio Geba, near the house. It was a big, beautiful, turbulent river that traveled over huge boulders, crashing and forming cascades and natural pools. The locals feared it because of the victims it had claimed, even blaming the fishermen, accusing them of making human sacrifices to the river gods to ensure a plentiful catch.
Manuel taught me how to “walk” in the river. He had grown up on it and instinctively knew every stone and crevice. When the river was calmer, my favorite activity was spending the day perched on a boulder in the middle of the river or sitting in a cave, nestled between rocks, hidden by a curtain of water from which I could still hear Manuel calling me for lunch from the riverbank.
We ate our dinner; at picnic tables; under trees, strung with light bulbs powered by an old noisy generator. The meals consisted of grilled river fish and roasted game meat, rice, avocado, grilled plantains, and the indispensable malagueta sauce, made by crushing green chili peppers mixed with lime juice in the mortar. And, of course, lots of beer. Dinner conversation was animated, and, as stomachs filled, someone would pick up the guitar and begin strumming a tune.
After a couple of whiskeys, Manuel would sing for us. Or, if he were extremely high, he would repeatedly yell, “Maria, quero que você seja meu!” (Maria, I want you to be mine) to the embarrassment of his sons. I would laugh it off.
Night Fishing for Langoustine
But the best times with Manuel came sometime around midnight. He would say to me: “Maria, let’s go fishing for langoustine,” as he removed his shirt. And in his bush shorts and rubber slippers, armed with a flashlight, a machete, and a plastic bag, he would set off ahead of me down the trail leading to the river. I followed him in my mosquito bite-prevention, ankle-length cotton dress, and jellybean shoes. Langoustines are tiny lobsters, and just as delicious. The thrill and excitement of the catch were unparalleled.
Manuel led the way into the river, the stars our only light, his single warning that I follow close behind him and place my feet exactly where he put his. Trusting him to know that, where I only saw water, he saw, or felt, a rock below the surface that was not visible. To Manuel’s annoyance, there were instances when the Portuguese weekend hunters followed us, laughing and joking loudly. Manuel wickedly accelerated his steps, and we would soon leave them behind, stranded, since they did not know the river and could not go forward or back and had to stand or sit in place on a rock and wait until we came back. I felt a bit sorry for them but did not regret leaving them behind.
I enjoyed listening to the rich sounds of the night, full of crickets and wild animals mixed in with the rushing water and the perfume of the bush on the riverbank, blending into a symphony that filled the senses. A nature high! Moments of absolute freedom!
Fishing for Langoustine: The Method
We made our way upriver, four hundred yards from where we started. Manuel would stop and shine his flashlight into a natural pool, where I could see five-inch langoustines swimming around. We would climb into the pool, trying not to disturb the sandy bottom too much, and go to work. My “job” was to hold the plastic bag in readiness and grab the langoustine from behind when Manuel shone the flashlight on his target, hypnotizing it, then pinned it down with the dull side of the machete. I would then reach down and carefully pick up the langoustine, avoiding its claws, and stick it in my bag. It took quite a bit of practice, and they escaped when I was not quick enough to grab them after Manuel released his hold, but all the same, I was having the time of my life.
We would catch eight or nine of the slippery, fierce creatures on a good night. I once had a langoustine latch on my little finger, and no matter how much I waved my hand around in the air, it would not let go until Manuel pried it off. My finger started gushing blood, and more remarkable than the pain was the smell of my blood as it permeated the night air. I could swear that the wild animals on the bank picked up the scent and became restless.
When we were satisfied with our catch, we would make our way back, with me carefully following in Manuel’s footsteps. We would usually stop at an oversized natural Jacuzzi. We would wedge the bag with our catch between two rocks, peel off our clothes, leave them on a boulder, climb down, and submerge up to our necks, leaning back on the stones, still warm from the day’s heat. Eyes closed, the jets of water would massage and rock me. It was as close as I’ll ever get to heaven.
After this delicious and refreshing interlude, we would climb out, put on our clothes, and head back to the riverbank. The Portuguese would usually have found their way back to the camp somehow and gone to bed. We would rekindle the embers in the grill, take out our still-fighting catch that Manuel would prepare for grilling, and, when they were ready, we would chomp with enjoyment on the crunchy meat of langoustine dipped in malagueta. And wash it down with a cold beer.
