Conakry

Conakry runs down a narrow peninsula into the Atlantic — one long city on one long road, ending at Kaloum's point — and carries one of Africa's great musical inheritances: the djembe tradition of the Mandé heartland passed through here to the world, national ballets drilled it to perfection, and the city still rehearses nightly in courtyards where the drums argue and agree. Mango trees shade half the streets and pay rent in season.

The sensible traveller takes the peninsula's rhythm as given — one road, many moods —; visits the Grand Mosque's calm and the national museum's masks; braves Madina market, an ocean with stalls; drinks the sunset on the corniche with grilled fish and the whole neighborhood; and books the twenty-minute pirogue to the Îles de Los, where Robinson Crusoe allegedly shipwrecked and the beaches make the claim plausible — another life, one bay away.

The Guide's honesty: the single road means the traffic has a schedule of its own — cluster your plans by neighborhood —; power comes and goes: the generator hum is the city's second drum; carry cash in small notes and patience in large ones; the rains from June to September are a serious commitment; and if a courtyard invites you to dance, the correct answer is yes — self-consciousness is the only mistake Conakry punishes.