To The Bight Of Biafra 

Wednesday, 17 January 2018
Malabo, Equatorial Guinea – a.m.

ARRIVAL

My accomplices are supposed to be on my flight from Ethiopia. After boarding, I still see no sign of Nate Zoller and Mike Nulty. I wait for them in the baggage claim at the Malabo airport for hours. Then, just as I’m about to walk out, I catch a glimpse of a very much out-of-place surfboard coffin bag emerging onto the luggage belt.

There are no more arrivals scheduled, and from my research I’m certain that there aren’t any local surfers in Malabo. These have to be Nate’s boards, I decide. The tag confirms it, but there is still no sign of its owner. I can’t be sure if I should leave the bag to be sent home, or take it. What if he doesn’t arrive? What if I’m the only one who makes it? I decide to claim the bag as my own and walk out into the humid unknown of equatorial Africa. 

Wednesday, 17 January 2018
Malabo, Equatorial Guinea – p.m.

DETENTION 

To kill time, I take a walk near my hotel, around the old colonial neighborhoods of Malabo. In a letter from the board of tourism, I was told it would be safe to do so, even with my camera. I’d also been told not to take photographs of anything official. No shots of the police, no images of the presidential buildings—also, no photographs of the locals. That leaves just the sea and the church. 

Prior to the discovery of “black gold” in 1995 by the American oil company Mobil, the ex-Spanish colony of Equatorial Guinea was relatively unheard of, save for it’s colonial history and a bloody coup d’état, during which president Francisco Macías Nguema was deposed, tried, and executed.

In August of 1979, Teodoro Obiang Nguema Mbasogo (Nguema’s nephew) took control of the government. He’s ruled the country ever since. As Africa’s longest serving president, he’s been accused of the brutal repression of opponents, electoral fraud, and corruption—all made possible by the wealth and power he has amassed by selling away the country’s oil and gas resources.

Mbasogo has faced a string of coup attempts during his nearly four decades in power. In the most famous, the failed “Wonga Coup” of 2004, a group of international mercenaries led by private military contractor and British ex-SAS officer Simon Mann tried to overthrow Mbasogo and his government, and replace him with an exiled opposition leader. Mostly due to a lack of operational secrecy, the plan was a terrific failure.

Today, Mbasogo’s paranoia and need for control has resulted in a blanket ban on mass forms of communication. This began in November of 2017, when the local Internet was taken offline for a week during Equatorial Guinea’s last election. Not wanting a West African “Arab Spring,” social platforms like Facebook, WhatsApp, Twitter, and Instagram have since been blocked.

At the surface level, the capital, Malabo, is surprisingly clean and well maintained. The streets are swept, the signage is clear and well posted, and the avenues are lined with hard working Equatoguineans and Asians. The locals run everything from electronics stores to bars, restaurants to grocery shops. 

Out on the pavement, few people actually take notice of me. I ask one or two if I can take their portraits, but I’m flatly denied. I get the impression they aren’t accustomed to tourists, and are worried about trouble from the opportunistic and ever-present police and military.

A large, older soldier does all the heavy talking and plays the bad cop, while a short, quiet young man plays the good cop. “Terrorist, terrorist!” the big one shouts, pointing at me. 

I’d heard and read a little about the main attractions in Malabo—the beautiful neo-gothic Santa Isabel Cathedral and the Plaza de la Independencia, which separates the cathedral from the presidential building. As I enter the impressive basilica, I notice numerous, heavily armed policemen and military personnel guarding every corner outside.

Exiting onto the road, now facing the presidential building, I quickly turn to depart, lest I draw any undue attention. Unfortunately, I stick out like a sore thumb and three military personnel briskly make a beeline for me. They don’t look happy. 

On paper, I should be allowed here and I haven’t done anything wrong. Unfortunately, the officers don’t agree. 

A large, older soldier does all the heavy talking and plays the bad cop, while a short, quiet young man plays the good cop. “Terrorist, terrorist!” the big one shouts, pointing at me. I shake my head and try to conjure up my best Spanish vocabulary. He grabs my camera, either not understanding, or not caring to understand, then begins flicking through my images. 

“Illegal, illegal!” he continues shouting, pointing to photographs of the cathedral, plus an old rusted roof and some street signs I’d shot. I try to explain that I’m a tourist, not a terrorist, and that I’m in the country to surf. Using a printed map that I’m carrying, I show him I was merely walking from my hotel to the cathedral and back. 

Unfortunately, this has the opposite reaction I’m hoping for. He grabs the map and starts shouting even more aggressively about terrorism and illegal documents. He then forces me to sit down, and walks off with my camera to call his superior, who will apparently take me away. 

The good cop smiles at me, not saying much. The third, who I’ve dubbed the ugly cop, glares disapprovingly. A heart-wrenching half-hour goes by with no clear outcome as the sun sets and it begins to get dark. Finally, the bad cop returns shaking the map at me. Apparently, his phone is out of airtime or data, and he cannot reach his superior. 

I make one final plea, saying I’m here as a tourist—and that I have a local connection who obtained the letter of tourism for me. If they can just escort me back to my hotel, I’ll call him to come down and verify everything. This seems to change things. Immediately, the bad cop calms down. “Go back to your hotel and don’t leave,” he says. “Go to sleep. And if I see you here again, I will arrest you.” 

Then he hands back my camera.

Thursday, 18 January 2018
Ureka, Equatorial Guinea 

BUSHMEAT

Nate and Mike can’t believe surfing has brought them to this corner of Africa.
As it turns out, they missed their connection in Addis Ababa, but they’ve arrived this morning. We’re all ready to finally leave the city for the coastal jungle, and to do some real exploring. 

We pack the car, and start the three-hour drive south from the northern coast of Bioko Island, where Malabo is situated. Our destination is Ureka, at the end of the road. The route takes us through pristine equatorial jungle, complete with monstrous ceiba trees and, sadly, numerous bushmeat stalls. Though it’s illegal, the sale of bushmeat is a serious problem for the local wildlife. It’s also a danger to the health of the human population.

But as poverty and empty stomachs knock on the door, locals are forced to hunt whatever they can from the jungle to eat or sell. A variety of creatures hang by their tails at huts every half-mile: an African python, giant rats, small antelope, some sort of pig, a monkey, porcupines, etcetera. 

If this is happening on the national road, I try to imagine what goes on behind the scenes. 

Friday, 19 January 2018
Moaba, Equatorial Guinea

TREK

We’re on the very edge of the West African jungle. The sun is setting into a haze, illuminating everything with an orange glow like an old lens filter. Our contacts at the Bioko Biodiversity Protection Program have supplied us with a tent, a tarp, and a portable platform to keep our camp raised above the sand and the insects.

The hike from Ureka is beautiful. The tide is low, which makes the three-hour journey on foot across the compact, volcanic beach a pleasure. The waves don’t look great, though. Mostly 1-foot closeouts that dump straight onto the beach. 

I swallow back the horrible, nagging doubt that I’ve led us here only to get skunked. At the end of the longest stretch of beach, we cross another river before heading uphill and into the jungle for the final part of the hike to our campsite. We pass a massive spider web stretched across a gap in the canopy where a large tree has recently fallen. One of the meanest spiders I’ve ever seen hangs in the threads. Soon after, we drop back down toward the sea. Our guide, Ivan, tells us we’re close to our destination. 

I start to hear waves breaking. Around the next bend, I catch a glimpse of a runn-ing wave through the thick bush. It looks defined, and most importantly, surfable—a hollow, peeling right wedge in front of a river mouth. The swell direction and angle of the cliffs form peaks that split up across the beach. The river is clearly feeding the shallow sandbanks. As a bonus, the steep canyon and cold river behind us funnel a light and whispery offshore wind straight out to sea. 

Saturday, 20 – Friday, 26 January 2018
Moaba, Equatorial Guinea

WATER

Our first session is good. Nate reports the heavy outflow of freshwater from the river is strange to surf in—the buoyancy isn’t the same as fully salted seawater. We come across a giant leatherback turtle laying eggs. According to a passionate and very knowledgeable local named Juan Cruz, she is in a birthing trance and can’t see or sense us. We spend an incredible and unforgettable two hours watching and learning about these mysterious creatures. 

We take a long hike to Punta Santiago to hunt for more surf, but the trek yields no waves. Back at camp, we cool off under a nearby waterfall. The offshore bathymetry here fascinates me. A deep underwater canyon appears to focus the swell, while the cliffs offer an incredible point of refraction. Together, with the shallow river mouth, the setup produces enough jungle wedges to keep us occupied.

I start to hear surf breaking. Around the next bend, I catch a glimpse of a running wave through the thick bush.

Laying in my tent, after a simple but delicious dinner, I listen to the rainfall. I’m surprised it’s taken this long for it to arrive. We’ve been here for days and the southern coast of Bioko Sur is one of the wettest places on Earth. January is the driest month of the year, which is one of the reasons I chose it. Still, dry is a relative concept. 

With the rain comes humidity. We’re wet constantly—sweating in the tent at night, during our daily hikes, and in the ocean while surfing. At the moment, we’re very likely the only surfers in Equatorial Guinea, and quite possibly the only people to have ever surfed this coast.

[Feature image: Californian Nate Zoller treks through dense rainforest, hunting for surf on Bioko Island.]