THE OTHER JEAN PAUL II

In Poland, the words Jean Paul II (John Paul II) have only one connotation. On hearing them, you inevitably think of Jan Pawel II, the dead Pope (and a much loved Pole), and the so-called JP2 Generation, a movement of young Catholics who claim to continue John Paul's mission on Earth. In Libreville, however, though Jean Paul II may well refer to the Polish Pope (whose face kindly looks upon the faithful from a billboard in the city centre), it is also the name of a very special place: a street full of maquis, tiny African bars, where you can taste the best grilled fish in town.

The Jean Paul II area is right in the city centre. By day it looks like a very long row of abandoned wooden huts, which in the evening transform like a restaurant Cinderella. They are no longer empty but quite the contrary: full of life and energy, thriving businesses, which look unpromising but smell like decent dinner.

All maquis include: a few wooden tables, some plastic chairs, a big mamma tending to the grill and her slow, unpleasant daughter serving the drinks. You personally choose your fish and haggle (yes, here too!) in order not to pay a ridiculous price. As side dish you may ask for rice, fried banana or the typically African manioc. The fish is served with a savoury sauce with onions and green peppers and maybe some mayonnaise, so make sure to stress you don't want any while you order. It is not just a matter of taste (I personally hate mayonnaise) - uncooked eggs (as well as vegetables) are a rich source of salmonella and the like. Our motto is "The prudent one does not get typhoid fever". Maybe not the noblest of mottos but works for us.

Jean Paul II is not just about the fish, though. If it were, we wouldn't like it so much. It is a typically African part of Libreville - frequented by the actual Africans - which is, at the same time, perfectly accessible to whites. It has all the marks of the African atmosphere: shabby wooden huts, each one with its own bad-quality loudspeakers playing music as loudly as possible (as if to beat the others), grilled fish prepared outdoors, the cooks violating every single health department's rule there is, the Gabonese and their loud discussions, people dancing, people arguing, people having one Règab after another... C'est chaud at Jean Paul II. And yet we're not unwelcome there, even if not exactly welcome either.

Yes, it's dirty, loud and most of the waitresses are unpleasant. But it's also colourful and real and lively. Full of contradictions, tiring, and yet fascinating. Just like Gabon.

Photo by Giulia.

AWAY FROM LIBREVILLE IS CLOSER THAN YOU THINK

After the Nyonié debacle, we were left with considerably less money and a still unsatisfied need to get away. I wanted to forget about my adorable little students for a while (and it's impossible not to meet them all the time when in town) and Jandro also needed some serious relaxing after weeks of hard work. All we longed for was nature, exercise and peace. It turned out easier than we'd imagined: we got what we wanted for 10000 CFA (15 euros), which is the cost of the boat that takes you to Pointe Denis.

Backpacks: 4,5 litres of water each, tent, sleeping bags, inflatable pillows, raincoats, food, first aid kit, Aspivenin (a complex machine which is supposed to save your life in the case of snakebite), bottle of wine (yes, we did!), book, photo camera, swimsuit, towel and toothbrush.

The navette was packed with people. This included several of my students with their families and a lot of subsequent HelloKasias. We got to Maringa, the part of Pointe Denis which is on the very pointe between the bay and the ocean, and were greeted by three of my students who must have arrived the day before. Fellow Librevillians (I feel linguistically creative today, sorry in advance) were already sunbathing and having relaxing beers - the beach day was in full swing. We adjusted our backpacks and walked away quickly.

The route: cross the savannah behind the restaurant, enter the forest, go through Wingombe (or, better still, around it, as you might be stopped by Ecoguards there), through the forest, arrive at Phare de Gombe, continue until you get to an abandoned Ecocamp and one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. On the way animal tracks: gazelle, elephant, buffalo and chimpanzee.

The wooden huts of the camp were not completely abandoned this time, though. Our arrival disturbed a young man, whose main occupation turned out to be sitting on a chair, reading. Upon mutual questioning, he found out we wanted to camp there and we were informed that he was a "turtle technician" from Gabon Environment. When we remarked that it was not turtle season, he stoically replied that c'est pas grave. He let us stay there and even made fire for us, while we wondered if the job of a turtle technician was to fix turtles when they stop working.

Evening: dinner, wine, silence, ocean, a sunset rewarding the long trek, a deserted beach at night, sitting by the fire, quiet conversations... followed by a terribly uncomfortable night in the tent.

The next day we woke up early and went down to the beach for a swim. We read our books and lay on the sand and listened to the ocean. When we got back to Pointe Denis in the afternoon, exhausted but really happy, it was still full of people and beer and my students. I felt as if I had discovered my own secret garden. And it made me understand why the little girl would not let just anybody on her secret.

A happy epilogue: in the afternoon of day two, one of the best showers we've ever had!

Pictures from the weekend here.

NYONIÉ: A WEEKEND IN THE MERDE

We really felt like going away - after all, Jandro had been working too much and I'd been sick all the time; it had been a tough month. In short, we needed to take a break from the daily grind. For our destination we chose Nyonié: just above three hours away from Libreville, known for its wonderful savannahs, easily spotted animals and a paradise beach. Expensive, clearly, but what isn't in Gabon. We set off last Friday and were supposed to enjoy the wildlife until Sunday afternoon. Three days, two nights and a deep breath outside of Libreville. Or so we'd thought.

The reality, however, decided to hit us right between the eyes: from the very beginning we felt that something was wrong. Namely, the boat that was supposed to carry us to the village was occupied not only by us and three other tourists but also by a group of sixteen French soldiers and their wives, all of whom showed inexplicable liking of cigarettes, tiny shorts and shouting.

It shocked us a little that so many people were heading for the place, as we were used to calm bungalow villages which could take up to fifteen people at a time. When we got to Nyonié our worst fears were confirmed: it was a huge holiday resort, providing accomodation for fifty/sixty (or maybe more) and, given that it was a four-day L'Ascension weekend, it was absolutely packed (with more French soldiers and also several of my students, but the latter I had expected).

Fine, we thought, we'll just get away from these people during the trips and we'll still have a good time, right? Wrong! But to understand why, you need to know how Nyonié works. The first night costs 150 euros (price to go up 15 euros next month) and this includes: transport (boat and 4x4), accomodation (wooden bungalow - no lock - containing two beds, two pictures, four hangers and a window), food (three meals a day), drinks (water, coke, beer available all day with no limits, open bar with all kinds of alcohol starting before lunch) and trips (trekking with a guide in the morning, 4x4 safari in the afternoon). Every following night costs 60 euros.

Upon our arrival, we were greeted by the young Belgian responsible for the place. He addressed us as Konjee... Konjee (damn-what do I do with this C before the K-I'd better skip it-problem solved)... Konjee-ka, which he later adopted as a general group noun, which meant Ms Kasia Koniecka and Mr Alexandre Giráldez Soage (Ahh, Konjeka, there you are, your lunch is ready! or Konjeka, you go in the white pick-up.). He told us that only one 4x4 trip will be available for us, as there were too many guests on the premises. And that the morning trekking started at six am.

Our first Nyonié experience was lunch. Open bar. French soldiers. French soldiers. Open bar. Can you imagine what it adds up to? The military men, together with their ladies, occupied a large table. The talking was loud, the laughing was loud, but all this I consider normal in large groups of friends. They did, however, go way over the line when they thought it appropriate to sing, shout and bang their fists on the table, making it impossible for anyone to have a conversation.

It is with them that we went on our 4x4 safari (What is a termite mound? Is it made of wood? Is it edible?), during which we found an elephant and molested it brutally by cutting off the poor thing's way with our big truck. I must admit that the views were lovely: the picturesque savannah, the undulating terrain, the forest, the birds... Of course, we didn't get to properly enjoy any of this, because the driver would never stop and let us admire the nature. Instead, he was driving like crazy in order to deliver what people had paid for: at least one elephant.

At dinner we decided we were going to leave the next day (a day early, that is): it was impossible to stand the shouting of the merry group, who kept drinking green things and singing idiotic songs, led by some kind of cultural animator, who seemed to have taken it upon himself to organise games and passtimes. It was then that we found out from my boss (who, accidentally, was also there) that it is nearly impossible to enjoy a tranquil weekend at Nyonié, as it is always full of French military men, whose main objective is to win their money back by drinking as much as they can.

Our last hope was the morning trek: we knew that getting up at five am may be discouraging. We had hiked in the jungle many times and we knew the procedures: you leave early, two guides, up to five tourists, you walk silently, you follow the elephant paths... Not this time, however. We left the village a happy group of twenty-one (!) with one (!) guide. From the very beginning we knew we would not see any animals. We did not even enter the jungle properly, we simply took the forest roads. A bunch of people were ahead of the guide, who didn't bother to check if anybody was missing anyway. Oh sweet Lord.

The Belgian guy never asked why we left early or if we had enjoyed our stay. He just took the money. Conclusion: Nyonié is your place if what you're looking for are free drinks, the beach and an extension of Libreville nightlife. If, however, you want to spend a quiet weekend enjoying the nature, hiking and tracking animals, you will be highly disappointed. As were we.

The pictures from our trip are here.

12 HOURS A DAY, 7 DAYS A WEEK

One evening, when we were out with our Italian friend, who was here for a short visit, we heard her make the following comment: I think it's so nice that people go out at night just to chat and enjoy the fresh air... At first, I didn't know what she meant but then it slowly dawned upon me: of course, in front of every building you see African people stretched out on their deckchairs, usually with a couple of pals, talking or reading newspapers. And yes, if you look at them from the European perspective, you might think they're just socialising in the open air. However, if you pass the same building three times on the same day, you will notice that they are always there. Moreover, it is their job to be there. They are the security guards and every house in the European part of Libreville employs them.

Obviously, our huge block of flats is also protected. There is a guard in the booth at the edge of our premises, who lets the cars in and out by means of a metal chain (see picture). He has a lovely smile and always waves at you. There are three or four more guards bravely securing the entrance. They work from six to six, seven days a week. They thus live either by day or by night, day off completely absent from their vocabulary. Personally, I find the day shift nicer for two reasons: 1) one of the guards has worked with some Poles and he greets me with a loud Siema! whenever he sees me (I've once also got a l'ascenseur niedobry, madame); 2) the night shift is usually asleep when I see them, their heads falling on their chests, which makes me feel extra-protected, clearly.

The jobs of our security guards are various. They are supposed to keep the terrain clean, find out when the energy will be back on and, most of all, get rid of any suspicious elements. I must say they seem to be doing their job most of the time. Whenever a new face appears downstairs, they come up with them to see if you are really expecting them (especially if the guests are Gabonese), for which I'm grateful when the air-conditioning technicians drop by and I'm home alone. For as little as three euros they will wash your car inside and out. They will push your car when it needs pushing. They will help you carry heavy stuff (like my suitcase the size of wardrobe... up eight floors when the lift was broken). Sometimes we tip them, sometimes we don't, and we still haven't worked out how to go about that tactfully. Ça va aller, I hope.

How terribly boring must their job me? Watching people go in and out, cars pulling over and starting...? Always the same, never a rest from the unbearable routine? You finish l'Union, the couple from the eighth floor is heading for the beach, you have a coke, the man from the third floor is walking his dog, you have your sandwich, the cleaning lady who works on the first floor has just arrived... that English couple's baby has just spilt her milk on the ground, you clean it and get back to your day of sitting. And yet they cling to this job because maybe it's a good one. Maybe it's the best they can count for. It scares me to think that this young man with a Clark Gable smile might end up doing this for twenty years. And I keep hoping that it's just my European nature which makes me rebel against such predestination. Hopefully, the Gabonese see it from a different perspective.

On a lighter note, a couple of days ago I was in the lift with one of the guards (they have a changing room on the first floor and almost religiously take the lift to get there), and I saw him use his Blackberry (Blueberry? Strawberry? I know it's a berry!). So maybe life's not so tough after all.

THE WHITER THE COOLER

For some time now I’ve been paying attention to the advertising campaigns in the streets of Libreville. As any other city, it is full of hoarding boards, sporting colourful advertisements for anything ranging from soap to wireless internet. These posters, I’ve noticed, have one thing in common: namely, the skin colour of the models.

Quick question: should African ads use black or white models? Is your answer black? Good, you are not wrong, it’s only natural. Nevertheless, you are not completely in the right, either. The models are never really black, they are never as dark as your regular Gabonese citizen, and their features are not typically African. No wide nose. No big lips. No African hairdos. No African clothes. The models are typically of mixed race, with café au lait coloured skin and, most commonly, very European faces. They are dressed in smart European clothes (sometimes sweaters!) and they do their hair in a European fashion. They are the rare stylish type you see in the French cafés of Libreville.

I am no sociologist but I suppose it’s another proof for the simple truth: the whiter you are, the higher your social status. If it takes a mixed model to sell a product, it means that most people strive to be like the mixed model, yes? They are not white, they are still Gabonese, but not the same, not quite your ordinary African mammas. It goes in line with the commonly known fact that African women do whatever they can to have a baby with a white man, because a mixed race baby will have an easier life - might even marry a white person! On the other hand, I’ve read in l’Union that secondary school girls frantically spend their pocket money on creams that are meant to whiten their lovely dark skin.

Before Gabon, my colour had never been an issue. I grew up in a nearly exclusively white country and it had never crossed my mind that the colour of your skin might define you. Here in Central Africa it’s your business card. You are judged and classified on this arbitrary basis. I have never seen a mulatto cleaning lady. I have never seen a white taxi driver. I have never seen a rough African face on a hoarding board.