Like paradise, Equatorial Guinea is made up of equal parts of charm and horror.
The sign on the wall of the quaint seaside restaurant reminds citizens that September 27 is the international day for tourism. “El turismo,” it declares: “instrumento al servicio de la paz y del
dialogo entre civilisaciones.” (“Tourism: an instrument in the service of peace and dialogue between nations.”) “Viva el turismo nacional y internacional en Guinea Ecuatorial!” (“Long live national and international tourism in Equatorial Guinea!”)
The sentiment is laudable, and the scenery is divine. It’s just such a shame that it’s so darned difficult to get into the place.
The island of Malabo, clearly visible from the Cameroon coast (on one of those rare, cloudless days, of course) seems to be just a tantalising hop away. And yet it has maintained its shroud of mystery ever since anyone can remember-a Devil’s Island famed for unspeakable menaces, brutal dictatorships, massacres of thousands of innocents scarcely reported in the outside world.
It took some doing to get here – arguments at the consulate in the Cameroonian commercial centre of Douala; phone calls back and forth to my contact on the island itself, who seemed to have finally despaired of the success of my mission to set foot on the island at least once; and finally the intervention of two beautiful women who had an instinct for the kind of wiles that would make a difference: eyelashes fluttered seductively in the face of the deputy consul, a friendly bribe slipped across the desk, and doors swung miraculously open.
Malabo is one of two incongruous parts that constitute the Republic of Equatorial Guinea – the island itself, and a tiny enclave on the mainland. Malabo Town is sleepy and laid back in its very Spanish way. It is always astonishing how quickly the local culture will change as soon as you cross the artificial border that divides one African country from another – and it was my determination to experience the only Spanish-speaking part of sub-Saharan Africa that had spurred me to get here.
So now I’m here. The sense of foreboding falls away almost immediately. There is clearly a formidable military presence everywhere, but life goes on.
It is two in the afternoon. Since morning I have walked one-and-a-half times around the little town. It doesn’t take long to take the whole thing in. You get the sense that people begin to recognise you.
I am falling into the rhythm of the place. The myriads of little bars and cafes precariously clutching the sidewalk are part of the rhythm. It has been years since I have been called on to use the little Spanish I know. So it comes as no surprise that I confuse the barmaid by mixing up the words for hot and cold.
It is the middle of a hot and lazy afternoon. Malabo is in siesta mode. I sit down outside a sluggish downtown bar to refresh myself and gather some of the thoughts that have crossed the horizons of my mind in the few hours that have lapsed since I landed here. Caliente is “hot”, fria is “cold”. The barmaid gets her knickers in a twist because I have got my wires crossed, and by the time she has figured out that I want an ice cold beer, and not the warm one she has brought as per instructions, she has come to the firm conclusion that I am just another foreign idiot.
Africa’s post-colonial schizophrenia. I recall the words of Ferdinand Oyono’s powerful novel Houseboy: “Who is this black man they call a Frenchman?” the villagers ask themselves of a Cameroonian who has fled to their island to die. “Who are these black people who call themselves Spanish?” I ask myself. I feel totally at home.
Because its African possessions were so inconsequential, the world tends to forget how stubbornly Spain held on to them. While independence had swept through the bulk of the continent by the mid-1960s, Equatorial Guinea was reluctantly cut loose only in 1968, after a long and bitter struggle. (Spanish Sahara fared even worse. There, Spain didn’t even bother with any kind of devolutionary process but walked away and let the Polisario continue to fight their bitter war for Saharoui self-determination – this time against the king of Morocco, whose forces had obligingly stepped into the breech.)
Today Spain does not seem to take its former possession of Fernando Po very seriously. Whereas Britain and France go out of their way to present themselves as the doyens of the diplomatic corps in their respective former colonies, Spain has all but washed its hands of its African past. The Spanish embassy in Malabo is made up of an informal cluster of Portakabins on the outskirts of town. The old Spanish cultural centre is far more elaborate and obviously plays a far more important role in the daily life of the island.
Now here’s an interesting connection. The former motherland having downgraded its relationship with its ungrateful African offspring, the Guinean president, fearing a retribution similar to that which he wrought on his murdered uncle (his predecessor as head honcho of the country) throws himself at the mercy of Spain’s North African successor. The presidential guard is composed exclusively of Moroccan soldiers.
“This be Africa-o,” my guide had said, after confiding this information during our morning stroll. “Ha-ha! Dis Equatoria’ Guinea-o. Yet dis our African president have guard for Moroccan man only. He no trust own Guinea man. Na so ‘e be for Africa-self.” And he spits quietly into the hot tarmac.
This island is a paradise. Like paradise, it is made up of equal parts of charm and horror. People are living there.
Archive: Previous columns by John Matshikiza