JoAnn: Safe and Sound in Malabo

Back to my journey: My Spanish host dad, JuanJo, accompanied me to the airport in Madrid. I think he was a bit nervous about leaving me there--a naive-looking blanquita on a plane full of strangers.

I must admit, I was nervous, too, but soon after we took off, I struck up a conversation with the nice lady next to me, and was calm for the rest of the six hour flight to Malabo. I landed safely at the Malabo international airport, which consists of one gate and one terminal. I passed through customs with no more hassle that I expected, and met Jaime, one of the directors of the malaria control project.

A few other Americans (Marathon employees) arrived recently, and Jaime took us on a minibus tour of Malabo and the surrounding areas. We picked up the others at the Marathon compound, which is totally secure. I had to give my passport as collateral to enter. We went directly to the ex-pat's residence, which has the eerie feeling of a deserted suburb.

The Marathon executives live in Western style houses all situated on one road. There is a pool, tennis courts, a bar, but nobody seems to be around. I met the others, almost all Texans with southern accents, and we hopped in the minibus and began the tour.

The area directly outside the compound felt like something from Jurassic Park--hotels under construction, thick foliage, giant prehistoric-looking trees. Instead of taking the main highway into the center of town, our driver veered onto a dirt road, straight into the jungle. We drove past a few little settlements, called Patios, of ten to fifteen houses build from found wood and scrap sheet metal.

Kids with swollen bellies ran around in their underwear or in nothing at all. Groups of young men parked their cars next to muddy puddles, and used pieces of cloth to wash their cars with the mucky water. A bustling market sold meat (antelope, porcupine, monkey), cheap things imported from China, second or third-hand t-shirts. Certain stands at the market had hand-painted "Bar" signs, and sold San Miguel beer. Others advertised haircuts and braiding.

We stopped at a place called "Cold Wata" where people come to get water and wash their clothes. The women soaped up their things and smacked them against the concrete to slap out the dirt. We passed through the hospital, which consisted of about 15 buildings, all housing different specialties: Pabellon de Pediatria, Pabellon de Planificar la Familia, etc.

We drove through the center of town, where the Spanish colonial influence is most apparent. There are mission-style houses (crumbling), a cathedral, and a wide road that runs parallel to the harbor, where three or four large ships are docked. We drove by some bars and restaurants where expats like to go with names like Paradiso, Tropicana, etc.

After the tour, we retreated, back to the compound. After having seen both the city and the compound, I felt glad that I was staying with a host family, and not going to be cooped up for my time here.

Jaime took me to meet my family. Within the center of the city, it's hard for me to distinguish between the poor and the very poor areas, so arriving at the house, I didn't really know what to think. I was lead through a narrow alley strewn with old car parts, springs from a mattress, and lots of trash. A hen and her chicks seemed out of place in the urban neighborhood.

My host mother, Elizabeth, met me at the door of her house and greeted me with warm "You are welcome!" I was incredibly impressed with the house--new-looking ceramic floors, a television and dvd player in the living room, ceiling fans, a clean bathroom. This is going to be fine, I think.

My room is very nice. For the first time in five years, I have a double bed, and my little balcony overlooks the neighborhood. Very fine. I met my little host brothers Ryan (4) and Bethel (2). They were just waking up from their nap, and were little angels.

After about an hour, my host father, Lucio, arrived home from a soccer game. He is from Nigeria and pastors a church near the house. When I thanked him from his hospitality, he said, "Thank God."

"Do you like Nigerian cinema?" Elizabeth asked me. I didn't know they were making movies in Nigeria. Elizabeth put one called "Don't Dare Me," in the dvd player. It was set in the 1940s in Nigeria, and touched on all subjects: temptress femmes fatales, choosing a wife, pleasing one's husband with good food. It was cheesy and full of dancing, but not boring.

This morning I was awakened by two sounds: the rooster crowing from below my balcony, and my host father leading the family in the morning prayer songs. I believe this family will take good care of me. Today I meet the ministry of health director of Malaria control--more to come.