boarding ‘the pelican’ boat at midnight
The 7 hour flight to London, 3 hour flight to Malaga, 2 hour refueling break, 4 hour flight to Lungi airport, and (after finding the helicopter unavailable) the 1 hour boat ride across a massive bay to reach Freetown at midnight were sufficient indication that my time here in Sierra Leone, and the realities of life within, would be hectic, constantly moving, and full of surprises.
After a full week in country, my amazement hasn’t ceased and I continually find new things to be excited by. Be it the constant availability of mango or lobster at any meal, the architecture, the azure sea viewed from every balcony and window, or the cacophony of Freetown’s horrendous traffic, my expectations have all been either completely off-base or completely exceeded.
The street scenes get me the most riled up every day. This is most likely because I spend an exorbitant amount of time in the car. There are no traffic signs or lights, but plenty of roundabouts and traffic ‘cops’ or directors, who only serve to make the congestion worse. The roads are bad and ‘induced dancing,’ as my lovely driver in Uganda, Nasuru, used to say when the potholes were so bad that the passengers bounced in unison, is the norm. From the time my driver here, the lovely Kebbeh, arrives to carry me to work at 8 am, to our late evening returns home (punctuated by day time meetings with Government officials across town and site-verification visits to hospitals in neighboring districts), I spend a lot of time ogling the sights of the streets.
Constant sources of hilarity are the messages inscribed across the dashes or rear windows of other cars likewise stuck sitting in traffic. Many vehicles here have prolific messages splayed across their glass – I’ve seen those ranging from the grammatically incoherent to “do you it go,” to the religiously disturbing, like “covered in the blood of Jesus.” It also seems that everyone missed the memo on correct helmet use, as the many, many folks using Okadas (motorcycle taxis) for transport will don a hard plastic head covering yet they neglect to make use of the neck strap, which dangles by their jaw, unclipped, as they whiz through, with upwards of four passengers, the sitting 4-wheel drives (namely, white NGO landcruisers).
Possibly a more striking street scene to behold here is the mix of architectural styles and bizarre integration of socio-economic statuses across neighborhoods. On one block one might pass 2, fairly large, western style houses protected by cement walls and uniformed guards, a 3rd that was partially completed – maybe 5 years ago – and now sits as a cinder-block-and-mortar -only home of squatter inhabitants, 4 or 5 corrugated tin and plywood shanty-town style shacks, and 1 or 2 mid-sized, wood-slatted, single-shuttered window’d, and zinc-roofed Krio-style houses. While the congregation of all these varied dwellings in one small area is shocking to my eye, it’s these last ones that fascinate me the most. Upon first sighting a Krio home, I blurted out “that looks like it belongs in south Georgia,” only to be quickly informed of the Krio housing tradition and culture brought to Sierra Leone by the thousands of returned slaves that were shipped here after the abolition of slavery (bringing many ‘western’ cultural elements, including building structure and style).
krio houses
Though I’m still parsing the overall culture and lay of the land, after a week I can confidently assert that Sierra Leoneans are proud and kind people. The scars of war haven’t been as visible to the unfamiliar eye as I anticipated; the scores of amputees we’ve heard of aren’t teeming left and right, the stories of forced conscription and sexual assault aren’t spoken of, and the “dirty face” of mineral mining and the extractive industry isn’t described in such dirty language. The number and breadth of NGOs here does, however, far exceed that which I imagined would still remain ten years down the line. Beyond these NGOs, though, the other facets of the economy, extractive industries included, have been far larger than I anticipated: the ‘market dominant ethnic minority’ of Lebanese business holders is striking – nearly every shop, bar, hotel, restaurant, or other company seems to be Lebanese owned. While this translates to excellent hummos and baba ganoush availability (as well as aesthetic services (at home bikini waxing, what?!) and aesthetically pleasing people), it also speaks about the status and function of local people within the SL economy. I haven’t quite put my finger on it yet, but poverty certainly looks different here than that within other African capitals I’ve visited. Once my finger is more articulately positioned on this, I’ll report back. In the mean time, I’ll share some street side snaps.
Before signing off, I’d be remiss to not mention the pleasantly surprising quality of Life opportunities for expatriots residing in Freetown. I’ve been lucky to shack up with my friend, teammate, and supervisor, Erin, and have taken residency (at least temporarily) at her (and Danielle’s!) abode on King St. Danielle’s sweet kitten, affectionately named Kitty, has taken a liking to me, and I to it, in addition to the gorgeous balcony, hot-water showers, large living room, and well appointed kitchen. Given the availability of the latter, and my love for annually hosting jewish-themed dinner parties, I welcomed myself to Sierra Leone /ingratiated myself with new friends by preparing a Passover Seder for 8. Our abbreviated Haggadah (downloaded from the web) helped order the affair, which felt like an extraordinarily special celebration of freedom, given SL’s own afflicted history. Some special shots of us celebrating freedom in Freetown:
The place was fairly empty, with only one or two kids peddling small wares like necklaces and local masks. We set up shop, dined deliciously, and then had a major sighting...the glass eater. Now, I know that there is food insecurity within SaLone, but I've a feeling that very few resort to this!He, covered in body paint and sweat, approached us and encouraged us to watch and snap photos before he began to eat handfuls of broken, green glass followed by handfuls of hot, golden sand. We were both rather horrified and asked him to stop before he put the glass shards up towards his eyes, suggesting he would start slicing his eyeballs, Buñuel style. He stopped, rubbed his belly, and then regurgitated shards into a massive bowl, before telling me he's been doing this since the age of 8. I gave him the equivalent of 50 cents and have had nightmares ever since.Images below; proceed with caution!
