IN THE TAXI

With time I got used to taking taxis. I hardly ever take one for myself now – and if I do, it is only because my destination would be hard to reach otherwise. Sharing a cab is much more fun: you might get stuck between two huge African mammas (at such moments I always wish somebody would take a picture of me), there might be a cute baby staring at you with its enormous eyes, or you might hear or, better still, get involved in an interesting conversation. It is the latter I want to quote today.

7 a.m., the driver complains to a lady passenger:

Driver: …and the one that’s in France! He always says: I have exams! I need money!

Lady: Yeah…

Driver: So I sent him fifty thousand francs last month. Fifty thousand! And you know what he said?

Lady: Uh-huh.

Driver: Fifty thousand is not enough! How is fifty thousand not enough?! Fifty thousand I sent!

Fifty thousand francs CFA is seventy-five euro.

On my way home, the price for the trip is basic, 100 CFA (0,15 euro):

Me: Lycée León M’ba, 100 francs.

Driver: Ok.

(I get in.)

Driver: You can’t pay 100 CFA! It’s too little!

Me: That’s the price for this trip and we both know it. You said it was ok.

Driver: Of course it’s not ok! You white people must pay more! You’re rich!

Me (patiently): If it’s not ok, I’ll get off here. You said it was ok.

Driver: You white people with all your money! You do the same work as the African and you get paid so much more! You get your European contracts! You must pay more!

Me: I am not rich, I have a local contract, I earn the same as my Gabonese colleagues and I will not pay you more than 100 CFA. If it’s not ok, I’ll get off here.

Driver: You earn so much more! You are rich! You white people are rich and you get your expatriation benefit!

We got to my place. I paid 100 francs. I’ve had this conversation countless times.

Going to my French class, I took the taxi for myself for 1000 CFA (1,5 euro):

Driver: So it’s cold in France, yes?

Me: Wouldn’t know, never been there.

Driver: ??!?

Me: I’m Polish. You will notice I don’t speak good French.

Driver: I’m from Ivory Coast. Are there black people working in Poland?

Me: Yes, of course.

Driver: You must take me then. We get married?

Me: I’m afraid I already have a husband.

Driver: Not a problem. We get married and you take me to your country.

Me: Thanks but no thanks.

Driver: Oh, come on… I work hard, I’ll be good for you.

I kept saying no so he wished me a good day.

The taxi driver stopped twenty metres away from the place indicated by the lady passenger:

Lady: What are you doing?! Are you stupid?! I told you to stop and you didn’t stop!

Driver: I couldn’t stop where you told me to stop.

Lady: Are you stupid?!

Driver: I would’ve caused an accident!

Lady: I don’t care! You’re stupid!

The lady had told him to stop on a roundabout.

The taxi drivers are not Gabonese. The Gabonese are far too proud to take such a demeaning job. They are from all over Western Africa: Ivory Coast, Benin, Togo, Cameroon, Senegal, Nigeria… They drive around the city for hours on end – you often see them eat or take a nap in their taxi. They do not make much money and they very rarely own the questionable vehicle they drive; they must pay its owner a daily fee. They are very much looked down on by the Gabonese, who insult them for no reason at all. Do not take for granted, however, that they are all uneducated immigrants. We once met a Nigerian driver, who came to Gabon as an engineer and lost his job. He needed money and he took whatever job there was available. I’m convinced he’s not an exception. Life’s tough for a taxi-man in Gabon. Which maybe justifies a little why they want to make as much money as possible off a white girl.

NEWS FROM THE FRONT

Life in Africa has not been treating me all that well lately.

First of all, since March I've been struggling with an impossible sinusitis. It was first treated with an antibiotic which I dutifully swallowed for seven days. I got a bit better but after a week or so all my symptoms came back. The doctor thus prescribed another antibiotic, a stronger one, to be taken three times per day for ten days. It was accompanied by a huge number of other pills, of which I have not missed one. After a few days I had to get back to the doctor's: I was feeling extremely unwell. I had my blood analysed and it turned out I have a strong infection and typhoid fever. The doctor added another antibiotic, to be taken twice a day for, initially, five days. I was also low on iron.

After one of the most terrible weekends of my life - made into thus by the typhoid fever (I shall spare you the details) - I thought there was finally a breakthrough. I was better, extremely weak and tired, but better still. Today was supposed to be my last day with both antibiotics. I had an appointment with my doctor at 9 am.

He decided that I should continue with the antibiotic treatment for the typhoid for five more days (to make sure it goes away completely). I insisted on repeating the blood tests afterwards. I prefer to be too careful now. Typhoid fever - check.

As far as the sinusitis is concerned, my doctor gave up. I still feel pain and pressure in my sinuses and my left ear has been blocked for ten days now. According to some weird audio test that the doctor performed "my left ear is not ok". Surprise, surprise, I've been saying this for over a week and nobody reacted. The doctor contacted me with a laryngologist, whom I subsequently called and who must already think I'm some kind of an idiot because our conversation went like this:

- Hello, is this dr E's practice?
- Yes, I'm doctor E. I'm with a patient now, I'll pass you on to my assistant.
- I'd like to make an appointment with you.
- Yes, I'm with a patient now, I'll pass you on to my assistant.
- Yes. I'd like to make an appointment with you.
- Yes, yes, but I'm with a patient now, I'll pass you on to my assistant.
- Oh, ok.

Now should I blame this on my blocked ear, the doctor's phone or, more traditionally, my French?

Well, anyway, I wish I could tell you something more interesting or more optimistic. Sadly, for too long a time my life has been revolving around illnesses and antibiotics and I really wish it was over by now. I want to go to the beach, to the gym, to dinner and not die of fatigue afterwards! So, my dear readers, I need you to concentrate your positive energy on my sinuses! Three, two, one... GO!

EQUATOR

I haven't been doing much lately. That's of course if you assume that trying to get over my sinusitis and typhoid fever is not much. The scope of my activity has been, however, limited to what you can do around the house: lying on the sofa, pestering my boyfriend, watching Gilmore Girls and, inevitably, reading.

I'm not one for reviewing books - it always seems a daunting, complex task. Hence, this post is not meant as a review; I simply want to tell you about a book you've never heard of.

Equator by Miguel Sousa Tavares is a novel mostly set on the islands of São Tomé and Príncipe. I found out about its existence through our visit to the country in question and, hearing that it told the story from the beginning of the XXth century, when the plantations were still working, I decided to read it as soon as I could lay my hands on it. It felt like a grand finale to our marvellous journey. When we got back home, I ordered the book (in English, translated by Peter Bush).

I must admit there are many things I greatly enjoyed about it. It is written in a lovely, old-fashioned style, which gives it the air of the great novels from the beginning of the past century. The plot itself is gripping and full of surpises. Nothing is missing: love, friendship, politics, treachery, crime, justice... You could even say the novel tries to encompass too many topics throughout its 370 pages. This is why, in my opinion, some plots are not sufficiently developed, which would call for either removing them from the book or extending them adequately.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Equator tells the tragic story of Luís Bernardo Valença, a rich bachelor with firm if idealistic ideas about slave labour and equality among men. Appointed by the King himself, Luís Bernardo finds himself on an impossible mission: he must leave everything behind and sail to São Tomé in order to take the post of Governor and try to convince the British that the thousands of labourers shipped to the plantations from Angola are not treated as slaves but as Portuguese citizens. A practically impossible task, even more so as Luís realises that there is no help to be anticipated from the plantation owners. The British Consul's initial friendliness is a comfort. But will he stand by Luís with equal eagerness when he finds out about a very improper love affair? The plot thickens. It seems there is no way out.

As I said above, I have a feeling that the author tried to include a tad too much: a vast historical background, the slave labour dispute, the issue of colonisation, the omnipresent themes of love, friendship and loyalty... patriotism and sense of duty... a man torn between what he wants to do and what he must do... loneliness... and, finally, the hot, humid, insane equatorial climate.

Consequently, you will be surprised to know what I liked most about Equator. The story is fine (if a bit cliché), the pace is fine (if a bit slow at times) but what attracted me most was... the fact that it is set here, right here, and Luís Bernardo, in spite of being a fictional 1907 character, experiences many things which I have been through, too: the drastic change of milieu, the heat, the rapid, intense sunsets, the impossible humidity, the predictable rain, the diseases...

Let me finish with a quote:

Palm trees on the main avenue opposite swayed in the wind and more than anything else reminded Luís Bernardo he was in Africa, even though on the high seas at the Equator. He was intoxicated by the suffocating smell of chlorophyll coming from land, evervated by the dank humidity in the air (...). He sighed deeply, looked all around, to the mountains shrouded in damp mist, and looked back, whispering enthusiastically, "I'm going to enjoy this! I'm going to love this!"

No, not a bad book after all.

GABON ALSO CARES

For the past week the world has focused on Poland. Western world, you might want to correct me but you would be very wrong to think that. I was rather surprised at how many people cared about what had happened in Smolensk.

During the days following the crash, I received messages and phone calls of support from all my friends and acquaintances, both Gabonese and European, including the security men guarding my building. But that is just the personal level.

The crash has certainly not passed unnoticed by the media and authorities. The day after the accident, l'Union, the country's most important newspaper, printed not only an article relating what had happened, but also a condolence letter from the Gabonese president, Ali Bongo Ondimba (I couldn't help but notice the spelling mistakes... but I suppose good intentions matter). Moreover, the Delegation of the European Commission in Gabon has lowered its flag to half-mast, adding a Polish one next to it. There is also a book of condolence available at the Delegation, which everyone is free to sign. Due to all my illnesses I have not yet seen the book but there was rumour of Ali Bongo himself planning to come and sign it. And even though in the end he did not, there is now rumour of somebody planning to provide him with the book in the intimacy of the Presidential Palace. I also found out that in one of Libreville's churches a mass was celebrated for the crash victims (for several reasons I did not attend).

And all this in a small African country, where maybe ten Polish people permanently reside. I must say I am rather impressed.

Apart from the above, not much to report. Maybe just that my sinusitis has proved to be sinusitis + typhoid fever (yes, again), and this time my Widal & Felix results are 1/160, as opposed to 1/60 the first time I had it. This amounts to two antibiotics and an overwhelming fatigue. Mental note: never wait with the blood tests. Even if they are expensive.

AWAY FROM HOME

Today more than ever I feel far away from home. My mind wanders through the wide streets of Warsaw's city centre. I walk down Nowy Świat and Krakowskie Przedmieście, I have some coffee, which keeps me warm - the spring day is bright but cool. I reach the Old Town, take a turn around the Saski Park, come back to Marszałkowska street and enter one of the shops. I renounce the heat and the sun, the sea views and the juicy green of the forest. I wish to feel the atmosphere of my city, I want a familiar language around me, I wish to be enveloped in the feeling that I belong, the sensation of sharing the past and the present with those surrounding me.

I want to share my country's mourning. This morning Poland lost nearly one hundred of its leaders, including the president. I will not pretend that I supported him - the truth is I wanted him as far away from the political life as possible. But this great tragedy makes me feel for him and his family, as well as for the families of all those who died. I am terribly sorry.

I do not want to give you a picture of the crashed plane. I upload a picture of sunny Warsaw instead. A picture from home.

Media about the plane crash:

• The Guardian.

• Le Monde.

• Gazeta.pl.

• El Pais.

JE RESTE AVEC TOI!

Last weekend we went on a one-day trip to the Akanda park - a small national park north of Libreville, which is mainly a reserve for birds. We took the boat and set off in the hope of seeing some wildlife.

We got to the Bird Island (l'Ile aux oiseaux), a pretty place by the way, didn't really see any extraodrinary birds but there were hundreds of seagulls (or something of the kind) and it was the quantity rather than the quality that made the views special. To go back to Libreville, we had to wait for high tide, otherwise there was not enough water in the river for the boat to pass. Our guides - although this is not the appropriate term, really - were Nigerian and they took us to Moka, a Nigerian village right next to the island.

We were of course a great attraction for everyone. Many people came up to shake our hands, some of them asking to buy them a drink at the local bar. Men tried flirting with us girls and a huge group of kids immediately started following us. At first they kept to the other side of the road, watching us, smiling and giggling. When the villagers offered to take us to the beach, the kids became braver. They came up to me and our visiting friend, Giulia, took our hands and refused to let them go. It would've been much easier if I were an octopus - each of my arms was grabbed by at least three children, two more hanging on to my backpack. In this strange symbiosis we reached the beach, where I told the children to let me go for a second, so that I could find a place to sit. I also took a few pictures of them, which flattered them greatly. They were happy to pose and insisted on my taking photos. I remember thinking that they would inevitably request some money for all the photos I'd taken. They never did.

We sat down on some improvised benches, starving. We couldn't take out our food though - with fifteen kids swarming around us, there was no way to eat without sharing. And we didn't have enough food to share with everyone.

The children were not giving up: as soon as we sat down, they cuddled up to us - a breathing and talking cocoon, impossible to peal off. Je reste avec toi!, a twelve-year-old kept saying. As I had nothing better to do, I took the guidebook and started showing them the pictures. Suddenly, I was drowning among heads and arms and fingers pointing, all the kids crouched beside me, extremely excited. We talked and they taught me the local names for some fish.

When we finished, Giulia suggested teaching them a song. We had some fun with Itsy Bitsy Spider (inspired by a picture of a spider in the book) and then we tried the less complicated I'm a Little Bunny, which they were still singing when we were getting into the boat. They never asked for money or sweets. I had fun with them and they had fun with me. It was enough for both parties. I felt surprised.