-7 
March 7- 
We reached Conakry, French Guinea, early in the morning, and 
waited hopefully for the official who would give us news as to 
the possibility of our going ashore. As soon as he had spoken to the 
Captain, we saw the sign go up over the gangway ”No Shore Leave” and 
our hearts sank, but with the aid of an interpreter the Captain 
learned that passengers could go ashore with a note from him certify- 
ing who they were* 
A native priest came on board to see about getting a passage 
to Freetown for his wife (he was an Anglican priest); we got talking 
to him, and he volunteered to take us all into town in his car. 
It meant piling six of us, including the Chief Engineer, into a small 
Ford, but we sat on each others* laps, and in a fewmoments were in 
P.Z.'s. This is one of the chain stores along the coast; Paterson & 
Zachonis is apparently in every town in West Africa. Bernice and 
the boys bought themselves topis, and the priest then took us out 
to see a man named Vialla, who calls himself Chasseur de Caimans. 
We thought he might have some other animals besides crocodiles, but 
that was all he had, and dead ones at that. He had some handsome 
bags and cigarette cases made of crocodile skin, and showed us some 
fine photographs that he had made of animals and of scenery in French 
Ghinea. We all went across the street to a verandah cafe, and sipped 
Dubonnet and soda, while he talked to us about his country and the one 
to which we are going. Liberia, he promises us, will be very droll, 
with the government all black! 
Our next call was the native market, where we saw kola nuts, 
mangos, and many things we were unable to recognize. One pitiful 
thing about these native markets is the small quantities of things that 
are displayed for sale: One onion divided into segments, two thin 
slices of papaya turning brown in the sun, little piles of native 
condiments a teaspoonful on a leaf. 
The day was hot, but the streets of Conakry are so shady 
with their magnificent avenues of mango trees, whose branches meet 
and interlace overhead, that we didn’t mind strolling about the town. 
We walked to the restaurant that Vialla had recommended, where we had 
vermouth, and then asked for lunch. Apparently it was a pension 
and not a hotel, and didn't serve transients, but we eventually 
wangled some sandwiches, which turned out to be absolutely inedible. 
The bread was so tough, and the salami and sardines so strong, that 
we abandoned the idea of having lunch at all. By the time we got 
back to the ship in the middle of the afternoon we were hot and tired 
with the unaccustomed exercise - nearly three weeks since any of us 
had walked more than the length of the ship. 
