Soggy Freetown… and Dakarois Diversions

Today is a day that makes you want to crawl back into bed with a good book and a hot cup of tea. Actually, that's exactly what I did this morning (minus the tea -- I finished the kerosene last night making popcorn and so am stove-less). I awoke around 7 to the daily rooster cacophony and the telltale sounds of an all-out deluge. Pulling on a long sleeve shirt to ward off the morning chill (okay, only a chill by African standards, but you get soft to the cold quickly over here), I snuggled in with Lizzy Bennet and Mr. Darcy. (Yes, I'm reading Pride and Prejudice in Freetown. Sometimes a little contrast is good for the soul.)

A few hours later, peering sheepishly at the clock on the wall and bemoaning the rain, which had not let up in the slightest, I finally dragged myself out of bed and into the shockingly cold shower. I’d allowed myself a lazy morning because I’d be sticking around work for a 10 p.m. videoconference (that’s what you get coordinating across Washington, Freetown, and Sydney), but I figured lying in bed still at 9:30 was pushing it.

And so, my pants rolled up to my knees and my feet encased in the clammy smelliness of my rain sneakers, I ventured forth into the dismal day. Our compound was mostly deserted: the kids peeked out at me from the back door, and my dedicated helper (houseboy/little brother/friend) Idrissa emerged from the dry comfort of the house to open the gate and close it behind me, but otherwise all I saw were two very soggy and pathetic chickens trying to shelter by the garage door.

It’s enough to make me positively yearn for the sunshine of Senegal, in which I basked shamelessly last week. Not to overstate things – it’s also rainy season in Senegal, and we did get drenched once or twice – but the weather there was spectacular compared to today. I still have the tan (and peeling shoulders) to show for several days of delighted sun worship: first while wandering around Goree Island (see photos) – a stunning place filled with bright Mediterranean colors, and with a somewhat contested historical legacy as a slave gateway – and then exploring the beach-turned-artist’s colony, Toubab Diallo.










I was in Senegal for a quick getaway with a friend from the States who had come all the way to West Africa to visit me. I figured Salone alone wasn’t enough to warrant the trip – and besides, was looking for an excuse myself to get out of town for a few days – and so we headed north a few hundred miles (by air, of course) to the French-speaking Senegal.

The contrasts between Senegal and Sierra Leone were striking (if predictable). Senegal is much more industrialized and much less poor than Sierra Leone. Dakar is officially twice the size of Freetown but feels much larger, with modern (if somewhat crumbly) high-rises, fully tarred (if often potholed) roads, and an arid flatness that stood in stark opposition to the lush forested hills of the Freetown peninsula.

I was fascinated by the trappings of modernity: Nando's fast-food chicken (a favorite from my days in South Africa), Mobil mini-marts with fully-stocked shelves, streetlights. Jason was fascinated by the mosquitoes – considerably more vicious than in Salone – and by the fact that all the street sellers spoke to him in Italian. (Dakar is a destination for European tourists, and we were usually pegged as either Spanish, to my delight, or Italian, to Jason’s delight.) The tourist traffic means that Dakar also sports a full retinue of vendors and con artists, all eager to talk, sell, guide... Freetown, on the other hand, is a vacation destination for – well, for the rare intrepid souls like Jason, and those living in places like Monrovia or Conakry – and thus tends to leave you to your own devices.

My favorite part of the trip, by far, was an evening of live music with a new friend and freelance journalist, Rose. (See her wonderful blog, now linked from mine.) Senegal is known for its music – having produced, among many others, the legendary Youssou Ndour – and Rose is a bit of an expert, writing extensively on West African music. I had never met her, but used the kind of thin connection that only works on the far side of the world – “I used to hang out with your brother’s girlfriend’s butler” – to convince her to take us out for a night on the town. And it was well worth it: ensconced in low comfy couches in a tiny lounge, just a few feet from the musicians, I soaked in the kind of rich, melodic, soul-stirring music that I long for here. (In Freetown, a “live” show is actually someone lip-syncing to their own recording, which itself involves no instrumentation beyond an electronic keyboard. Entertaining in its own right, but no Youssou Ndour.)

On the whole, though, I did not fall in love with Senegal or the Senegalese. To be fair, the fault lay in large part in my own inability to communicate with anyone we met. (Despite the best of intentions, I arrived in the country able to say little more in French than “I don’t understand” and “Where is the toilet?”) Perhaps the most entertaining consequence was one memorable night at a swanky Dakar establishment, where the bartender – who spoke not a word of English – decided to try to woo me via Jason. At one point, when I went to the bathroom, he spent several minutes trying to determine my marital status; Jason, though he understood the gist of the question, was not sure whether he was being asked if I was married or if I was single (an important distinction for a Yes or No question). It was all a bit like junior high, when you’d approach the best friend of the girl you liked instead of the girl herself. I spent most of the night in silent bemusement, looking back and forth between Jason and the bartender (at least 10 years my senior, by the way) as they struggled to communicate. Needless to say (?) Monsieur Bartender and I did not ride off into the sunset together, but Jason and I did get free drinks all night. That’s something.

But language difficulties (and generous bartenders) aside, I found the Senegalese to be much less warm than Sierra Leoneans. (Perhaps tellingly, the nicest woman we met – proprietress of a small eatery on the beach in Toubab Diallo – turned out to be from Sierra Leone.) Though I feel bad making the comparison, I’m also somewhat delighted to find that I’ve become so partial to Salone and Salonians. Just give this country a little time to fix up the roads and rebuild the hotels and the tourists will be coming in droves.

And on that note, out into the rainy night I go…

It's raining, it's pouring ...

I keep searching for words to describe the deluge of rainy season in Freetown: the pouring and rushing and gushing and flooding and all-out inundation that has saturated this city in recent weeks. It rains almost every day, and the sun is a rare and revered vision. Yesterday, the mere glimpse of morning rays spurred the city to an orgy of laundry-washing, stroll-taking, spring-cleaning, and sun-basking, and prompted some friends and I to pile into a battered IRC utility jeep and brave the flooded and potholed road to Lakka beach. (Unfortunately, the clouds arrived before we did, and the rain was not far behind.)

The mere frequency of rainshowers would be striking enough, but the truly jaw-dropping, mind-boggling, indescribable thing is the sheer power of the rain. Never in my life have I seen water fall from the sky in such quantities, so quickly, and for such duration. Take the heaviest, most violent rainstorm you've ever experienced – maybe a sudden afternoon downpour in a tropical locale that churned the ocean into a frenzy; maybe an early-spring drenching that seeped hungrily into the hard, semi-frozen ground and chilled you to the bone. Remember the pounding, drenching, driving rain. Remember how it poured in through that one window you left open; how it flooded your basement in a matter of hours; how it made you want to curl up inside, warm and dry.

Now, multiply that storm by a magnitude of 10… or 20… or 50. Imagine rain that arrives in a rush but lasts for hours – or days – without letting up for a moment, pounding loud enough to wake you from the deepest sleep and turning streets into rushing rivers. Within moments, water surges out of overfull gutters and rushes down every incline, washing piles of mud and gravel and hefty stones from dirt side-streets into the main tarred thoroughfare, and carving new gullies in already deeply-rutted roads. Sometimes it feels as though the whole city will be washed away.

Venture outside in the heaviest rain and even a golf umbrella won’t keep you dry. Many of the locals cover their hair with a plastic bag and just accept the drenching; others are clad head-to-toe in plastic fisherman-style rainsuits, with knee-high rubber boots. When it gets really bad -- when roads are impassible, when the rain seems to pour through your umbrella and to pound upward from the sidewalk – many people succumb, hunkering down somewhere dry. Appointments are delayed, plans revised, workdays interrupted… but not for long. As soon as there is the slightest easing of the monsoon – from a deluge to a mere downpour – people set forth again, picking their way along the highest ground or slogging through mud and shin-deep puddles.

Nonetheless, there is a certain romance and majesty and fellowship to it all. It can also be gloriously fun. I remember the very first really strong rain we got. It woke me up early one Saturday morning, pounding me out of bed and luring me to the open porch on the front of our house. I found my housemate, Ajay, lining the front courtyard with buckets and basins and giant pickle barrels to capture the precious drops (we were in the midst of a water shortage at the time), and filling dozens of empty 1-liter water bottles. I ran out to join him, ostensibly to help but really to revel in this remarkable, refreshing, invigorating shower. Laughing, I turned my face to the sky, feeling the giant droplets pound on my face, drench my hair and clothes, and run in rivulets down my neck, my back, my legs. I twirled in circles, face still upturned and arms outstretched. Then I squelched through the puddles and toward Ajay, splashing him with a full basin and shaking water from my hair until I dissolved into childish giggles.

Another shower early in the season caught me downtown, walking along Siaka Stevens Street. I was carrying an enormous black umbrella, and a young professional, umbrella-less, passed on my left and said with a wry smile, “Aren’t you going to cover me?” So I did, sharing my umbrella as long as we shared paths, then smiling to myself as he darted off down a side street with a parting wave.

The next day, in almost the same spot, I was walking through another afternoon inundation. A young girl of maybe nine or ten, drenched to the skin through her ragged tank top and shorts, passed me in a near run. “Sistah,” I called to her. “You want to walk with me?” Nodding shyly, she agreed, and we walked a few blocks under my umbrella in near silence – her nodding or shaking her head in response to my questions, but never saying a word nor turning her eyes from the pavement. When we reached Pademba Road, she turned up and I turned down and she ran off again through the pouring rain, dodging puddles.

I try to remember how much I enjoyed these early rainstorms, before the hassle of the rain and the unbroken greyness of the days began to get to me. Yesterday, when the shift in weather drove us from our spot on the sand and under the cover of a nearby restaurant, I tried not to grumble about the lost sunshine. After all, we were still sipping beers and playing cards on a beach – hardly a bad way to spend a Sunday. And the ocean was, if anything, more beautiful in the rain: a stunning silver-grey against a steely sky, the surf pounding boisterously upon the beach.

Besides, we’re just one week into August. There’s still a long, wet way to go before the sun returns.

Poda-poda proclamations

Most of the minibus taxis plying Sierra Leone's potholed roads sport rather dramatic proclamations across their battered, road-worn noses. The vast majority are religious -- divided roughly evenly between Christian, Muslim, and indeterminate -- and a good number (oddly) echo American patriotic phrases.

Here's a selection that I spotted in just one morning commute:

In God We Trust
Live on Hope
De Commoners
God na God (a Krio phrase meaning "God is God")
United We Stand
God Bless
Face Reality
Mother's Blessing
Fear Judgement Day
Praise Be to God

And two of my favorites that I see periodically around Freetown:

I am covered in the blood of Jesus Christ
and
The Sorriest Part

Scenic Salone

More pictures, as promised. First, some of Koinadugu's beautiful green mountains. This is in the northern part of Sierra Leone, approaching the Guinean border.



















Second, two views of Tokeh, my favorite of the beaches near Freetown.

Young Salone in Pictures

I've gotten complaints about the lack of pictures in my blogs, so I thought I'd try to remedy that, starting with a collection of kids' photos (I have a soft spot for them). The technology has balked at uploading any more pictures today, but I promise more will follow -- including some of Salone's stunning scenery. (And for those of you who were worried: yes, the water is back on in Freetown. Reservoir is up to 30 feet and a potential public health disaster seems to have been averted. Phew.)

Things We Take for Granted -- Part 2: Water

As I write this, Freetown is in the midst of a severe water shortage. It has me a little anxious (and more than a little dirty), and thinking about how much we take water for granted.

Walk into your bathroom or kitchen and turn on the tap. Out flows safe, clean water -- hot or cold -- for your drinking, cooking, bathing, cleaning, flushing, and general wetting pleasure.

This certain and bountiful supply is not available here in Salone. In much of the country, as in much of the continent of Africa, people (usually women and girls) spend long hours each day lugging buckets of water from wells or rivers, often over long distances. This water is not purified or treated, and is often contaminated, but nonetheless serves for drinking and cooking as well as bathing and cleaning. Waterborne diseases are common and sometimes fatal, contributing to a life expectancy of just 37 years, and one of the world’s highest child mortality rates: 296 boys and 269 girls out of every 1000 die before the age of 5.

Even in Freetown, and even under the best of circumstances, only a subset of the population has access to piped water inside their homes. Many use communal outdoor taps, like the one just up the path from my house, which means the sight of women and children carting sloshing buckets is nearly as common within the city as in the rural areas. But at least this water is treated and relatively safe to drink.

Normally, I have running water in my house (cold only) from the municipal water supply. Toilets flush, sink taps function. I shower by filling sawed-off 1.5-liter plastic bottles from a knee-level tap, which is actually much more pleasant than you might imagine – except on chilly mornings, when the cold water makes for a rude awakening. My house is shielded from periodic water outages by two water tanks, also filled from the municipal supply, which provide several days’ worth of water if the municipal supply runs dry. (In such cases our neighbors, particularly one very sweet 17-year-old girl and her young brothers, will occasionally turn up to get a few buckets of water from our tap.) Like most foreigners, I don’t drink the water, but I use it for everything else.

As I write this, however, Freetown is in the midst of a severe water shortage. The reservoir at the Guma Valley dam, in Freetown’s suburbs, has dropped to just 6 feet, its lowest level since it was built in 1967 and well below its 100 foot capacity. Blame is placed on deforestation and unusually low rainfall in recent months, but the water company’s failure to anticipate or take steps to mitigate the situation is also criticized. Another culprit is the swelling Freetown population; originally built to serve 300,000 people, the dam now provides water to more than 1 million.

As a result, water has been sharply rationed over the past week or so, leaving many people without enough for daily use. What does arrive is discolored and full of silt from the reservoir bottom. Some families have managed to dig wells in swampy areas, or are forced to collect water from the immensely polluted streams and rivers around town, but neither water source is safe for drinking. Others collect as much as possible when the taps do turn on, and then make do with what they have until the water comes back.

In my house, we still have a bit of water in our tanks, thanks to careful rationing in the past few days, but it won't last long. We bathe much less frequently and with much less water, and leave toilets un-flushed for as long as possible, but still we watch the level drop by a few inches every day. And we are far luckier than most Freetonians, not least because we can afford to buy bottled drinking water, and (if push comes to shove) pre-filled tanks at $50 apiece to use for other purposes. But still, I feel dirty and anxious – much more for my neighbors than for myself – and I worry that things will get much worse before they get better.

Concern grows by the day about the health consequences if the shortage continues. An unrelated but timely cholera outbreak in another major Sierra Leonean city, Kenema, feels like a dark warning of things to come. UN agencies and NGOs review plans for emergency measures. Prices for bottled water, already out of reach for the majority of poorer residents, climb as nervous residents stockpile drinking water. With a slightly guilty conscience, I buy my extra cases of water and make plans to head upcountry next week (where the rains have been normal and there is no shortage) if things don’t improve.

Meanwhile, everyone hopes for rain – the one way out of this crisis. A Muslim cleric called for a day of prayer today to ask God to send rain, and I’m sure many Christian services will do the same this weekend. I rather hope it works.

World Cup, Kamalo-style

Just before England and Portugal kicked off their quarter-final World Cup game today, the streets of Freetown were awash in yellow-and-green clad Brazillian fans gearing up for their team's game against France later tonight. (The English fans, also plentiful here, presumably had already crammed into bars and makeshift theaters around the city.) World Cup fever is perhaps not as intense here as it is in much of the world – I hear Mexico City pretty much shuts down every time there is a game – but it has certainly captivated legions of Salonians over the past few weeks.

My own favorite match thus far was when Italy faced off against USA – an exciting game in its own right, but much more so for the venue and company with which I watched it.

At the time, I was traveling upcountry with one of my supervisors from Washington (Yongmei) and a Sierra Leonean research assistant (Phillip). We were spending the night in Kamalo, a remote village (officially a town, but you’d never guess it) and headquarters of Sanda Loko chiefdom in Bombali district. Sanda Loko, we were told, is one of the poorest chiefdoms in one of the poorest districts in Sierra Leone – but as the guests of the family of a high-ranking government official, we were showered with hospitality. The family even bought us a goat, giving us the choice to either bring it back to Freetown with us or let them slaughter and prepare it for lunch. (We chose the latter).

Incongruously, and thanks to the official’s family, Kamalo boasted a satellite TV “theater” in the center of town: a non-nonsense, rectangular clapboard building, zinc-roofed and windowless (to prevent non-paying peekers), with a chalkboard outside to advertise the feature show. These type of theaters are a common sight around Sierra Leone – dozens of similar but smaller versions pepper the neighborhoods of Freetown and other major towns, each with a chalkboard outside listing the day’s games and the price of admission – but it was not something I’d expected to find at the end of the long, rough dirt road we’d just trekked.

Showing that day were two World Cup games: Ghana vs. Czech Republic at 3 p.m., and USA vs. Italy at 7. We arrived in town too late to watch Ghana’s 2-0 victory, but for the second game, Yongmei offered to pay the admission fee – Le 500, or about 15 cents – for everyone in town, so we could all watch it together.

Thus, a few hours later, we joined a crowd jostling its way inside the theater. The room was large, hot, and dim. At one end was a medium-sized color TV, and facing it were several dozen rows of wooden benches, stretching back in tight formation. A second TV stood some ten feet to the right, with a corresponding seating area, but it was small and the picture was poor, and everyone chose to squeeze in front of the better set.

I took a seat near the front, so it was only at halftime when I turned around and saw the sea of faces behind me – men, women, and children, sitting, standing, and stretching to peer over shoulders and heads – that I realized just how many had crammed into the building. (We were later told the total was around 300). Smaller children clustered at the very front, plopping themselves down on the dirt floor, or clambered onto the laps of relatives or strangers (including me), and a gaggle of latecomers crammed the doorway, blocking any hope of a cooling breeze.

The crowd threw itself into the game, with loyalty split pretty evenly between the two teams. I also embraced the fun: trash-talking with a young Italian supporter to my right and celebrating (or commiserating, as appropriate) with an enthusiastic American fan in front of me. The game itself was an exciting one: two goals, three red cards (a penalty used to throw a player out of the tournament, leaving his team shorthanded for the duration of the game), and much drama in between. At one point, with the game still tied 1-1, the Americans slipped the ball beautifully into the net, and the middle-aged man in front of me – an elected local councilor and probably the most enthusiastic USA supporter in the room – grabbed me in a crushing embrace, bouncing both of us up and down in paroxysms of joy. Only after several minutes did the news filter through his enthusiasm that the goal had been called a no-goal by the referees. He released me in horror and disbelief, and I was really afraid he might start to cry.

The game ended in a draw, and as we spilled out into the darkness after the closing whistle, I joined my fellow USA fans in grumbling about the poor officiating and tough breaks, and commiserating about a game we felt we should have won. But really I was just delighted at the whole experience, and started grinning as soon as I was out of sight.

I'm heading down to a bar on Lumley Beach now to watch the Brazil game with a couple of Tanzanian friends. I'm sure it will be a great game, but I somehow doubt it will match Kamalo in terms of style.

Lungi departures

I recently traveled home to the U.S. for a wedding, a reunion, and some family time, and am currently posting from a friend's apartment in New York City. What follows is nearly verbatim from my journal entry while waiting to depart Lungi (Freetown's airport) a few weeks ago.

I love this airport scene. Okay, I love it and hate it, as I am stuck in an interminable line in steamy heat. But still...

I’m in Freetown’s Lungi airport, several stages into the rather extended departure process. First step was lugging – with the help of a very kind housemate – my enormous suitcase along the dirt road from my house to Wilkinson Road. Second was the taxi – crammed with 5 passengers, 1 driver, 2 suitcases and a backpack – to the hovercraft launch. Then the hovercraft itself: a large ferry, of sorts, bottomed with an enormous black inflatable tube, which brings you from Aberdeen across the bay to Lungi in 20 minutes. (For a bit more money, you can save 10 minutes and take a helicopter, but this time I decided to try the water route).

And now I’m standing in line for what seems to be security, to be followed (I presume) by immigration, check-in, and boarding. Three hours after leaving home, I still have three more hours to my 10:30 p.m. scheduled departure – if the flight departs on time, of course, instead of the frequent 8-12 (yes, twelve) hour delay.

Meanwhile, I’m entertained by the scene at the airport. Jostling and loud, chaotic and confusing, the crowd is a pageant of colors and personalities.

I’m dazzled by the array of West African matriarchs, splendid in their colorful regalia, serene, dignified, and utterly immune to the chaos around them. The elder aunties sit in a line against the wall; my favorite, even plumper than the rest, is bedecked from head to toe in shocking baby-meets-fuscia pink. I probably like her best because she smiled at me when I first passed, stepping gingerly over her toes and trying to maneuver my massive suitcase without any casualties.

I’m amused by the patchwork of uniforms. Policemen wear silly blue shirts with white sleeves, or the slightly more dignified pressed blue sleeves. (I’ve yet to discern the reason for the difference). The porters wear either mechanic-style light blue shirts and everyday pants, or ridiculous orange jumpsuits – a choice that seems roughly generational. And of course there are the white foreigners, too many of whom are outfitted in safari-style khaki, often involving too-short, too-tight shorts on pale white legs.

I’m intrigued by the occasional altercations that pop up intermittently around the hot, crowded terminal. The most recent was a shouting and shoving match between a cop, a well-dressed Sierra Leonean man, and a disheveled, wild-eyed white man with a mop of wiry black hair and the obligatory khaki green uniform. It ended peacefully, as far as I could tell, and provoked only mild interest from the crowd.

The line snakes endlessly back and forth, a parade of towering luggage carts, some pushed by passengers, others by porters. The cart in front of me has been abandoned – I think it had something to do with a noisy argument earlier between a plainclothes porter and an airport official – and is left to be pushed along by passing porters and, sometimes, me. Eventually, the people behind me in line convince me to skirt the lonely cart and push onward. As we leave it behind, I wonder what will become of it – or its owner – and I clutch my own cart tightly.

Of popcorn and peanuts

So for those of you thinking that Freetown seems to offer little more than frustration and privation, I’ve got two words for you: peanuts and popcorn.

Both of these everyday delicacies abound around town. Peanuts, known locally as groundnuts, are a staple in Sierra Leone, grown widely and used extensively in local dishes. But this does not detract from their deliciousness when purchased, warm and roasted, from a roving streetside vendor. They are carried in a large flat tin platter, balanced (like most loads) upon the head of a (usually young and female) salesperson. Measured out by the cupful and wrapped in newspaper, they cost just a few pennies for a healthy handful.

And such taste! Forget your can of roasted Planters, munched from the living room couch in front of the Patriots game. Forget, even, those steaming carts of roast nuts that pepper the streets of Manhattan. These Salonean peanuts are simply a delight: carefully roasted and then exposed all day to the beating rays of the African sun, they are an explosion of hot salty flavor.

If peanuts are a predictable Sierra Leonean treat, popcorn is an unexpected delight. I can't remember the first time I noticed, while winding in a jam-packed taxi through Freetown’s maze of narrow streets and alleys, an old-fashioned, movie-house popcorn maker perched incongruously in front of a tiny tuck shop. Dazzling beside the dusty street, these red and chrome poppers – seemingly more at home in a circus tent than an African capital city – are a common sight around Freetown. Much of the time they sit silently, bellies full of fresh, uniformly delicious (seriously, PopSecret can’t hold a candle to it) popcorn.

But sometimes, when you’re lucky, you find one in action: popping cheerfully above the whirr of the generator, tempting nearby noses with the heavenly scent of newly-popped corn. I think the proprietors of one particular popper, along the main road through Tengbeh Town, time their popping to coincide with my commute. They sit grinning beside their trusty machine, knowing that its smell is torturing those of us stuck in taxis in the crawling, often standstill evening traffic. When I (inevitably) cave and buy a plastic baggie-full of that delicious, freshly popped corn – available sweet or salty – they calmly take my few hundred leones, utterly unconcerned that they’ve ruined my dinner.

Overnight in Bumpeh

Last week, I spent five days "upline" or "upcountry" -- meaning outside of Freetown and its environs – touring chiefdoms in Bo and Tonkolili Districts. It was a rich and fascinating experience that I'm sure will provide fodder for more than one posting, but for now I'll start with one particularly memorable night spent in a village in Bumpeh-Ngao chiefdom.

I'm sitting on a hard wooden chair, wobbling a bit on the uneven dirt, and a young girl named Hawe is asleep on my lap. It's nighttime, the moon is nowhere to be seen, and we've turned off the kerosene lantern, so the only light comes from the expanse of stars above our heads.

With me are a small group of new friends. Vivek, the American founder of an organization providing primary justice services in these villages. Joseph, one of the organization's community-based paralegals. A few of Joseph’s family members and neighbors. Our driver Mr. Tarawally. A smattering of children play quietly in the dirt nearby, and from beyond our little circle come the sounds of evening domesticity, mixed with the buzz and churn of the jungle at night.

Vivek and Mr. Tarawally and I have just finished dinner: rice and groundnut stew (canned beans for the vegetarian Vivek) prepared by Joseph's wife. We are tired from a long day of driving on dusty, rutted, rocky, poorly-maintained roads, and from the sweltering heat of the Sierra Leonean interior. This is the third night of our five-day trip, and one of the more remote villages that we are to visit. We are staying at an amputee camp, built by international NGOs to house a few of the thousands of people who lost arms, hands, or other limbs to Sierra Leone’s brutal civil war. (Earlier, when I’d shook the hand of one of our hosts, I felt fingers that had been cut off before the first knuckle. His other arm ended in a stump just above the wrist.)

Joseph is standing in the shadows a few yards away from me, recounting some of this area’s experiences during the war. A slight man with a soft smile, he has a deceptively calm demeanor, but is tough and independent. In measured tones, he tells of one night when the RUF rebels entered a nearby village in search of his brother. Not finding him, they punished the villagers instead, killing dozens and terrorizing the rest. The brother survived, but the village was decimated.

As Vivek asks questions, gently probing the raw wound of the story, I think about Joseph’s brother and wonder how he must feel when he remembers the lives taken in his name. And I think about Joseph, who speaks with quiet rage of the atrocities committed against his neighbors, and wonder where he – like so many of his countrymen – finds his reserves of forgiveness (or resignation?) that allow him to live side-by-side with his former tormentors.

As Hawe’s head lolls heavily against my shoulder, I am overcome by my own exhaustion, and I struggle to follow the conversation. Idly, I realize that these stories of brutality and hardship have become so normal that they barely keep me awake.

***

In the morning, Vivek and Joseph and Mr. Tarawally and I – accompanied by Joseph’s young son – walk down to the nearby river for a swim. We reach the water by way of a narrow footpath, and find a few adolescent boys already there, washing themselves and their clothes upon the rocks. The river is broad and deep and slow-moving, and appears black against the brilliant green of the surrounding vegetation. The locals believe that there are ancestral spirits that live in this river, and on this morning, I am tempted to believe them.

We dive in, and the water feels crisp and refreshing. Vivek and I paddle out and away from shore (to the great consternation of Joseph, who does not swim, and the great envy of his son), stretching our cramped muscles and washing away the sweat and dirt from the previous day – and, perhaps, the stories of the night before. As the men soap themselves and banter back and forth, I float on my back and listen to their laughter.

Things We Take for Granted -- Part 1: Lights

"Salone" (the local name for Sierra Leone) is frequently a lesson in "things we take for granted". Here is the first of many on my running list:

1. Lights

I'd been warned about Freetown's "frequent power outages" -- but it turns out this is more a case of "infrequent power provision." (Note: anywhere outside of Freetown, there is no such thing as a public electricity grid, so even the patchy power here in the capital is a luxury.) The National Power Authority, through some mix of ineptidue, corruption, and scarce resources, can manage to provide power to only a fraction of the city at any given time. If you live near a government minister or NPA employee, you might get light almost every night, for a few hours. If you live in a normal middle-class neighborhood, you might get it once or twice a week. If you live in a poorer part of town, your part of the grid will almost never be turned on.

Wealthier Sierra Leoneans and expats -- along with businesses -- have gas-powered generators, which guzzle expensive fuel and churn out electricity (in homes, usually just for a few hours a day) to power lights and fans, charge laptops and cell phones, and provide other luxuries of modern life. Everyone else just relies on candles.

The lack of electricity is perhaps most striking in the urban center, just after the sun goes down. The first time I stayed late at work and walked out of my building and into a pitchblack street, I was literally struck dumb. Around me were all the trappings of urbanity -- modern buildings, crowded streets -- but in near total darkness. Think about it: have you ever been in a city where things are completely dark? No streetlights. No neon signs. No light spilling out of storefronts or buildings. As I stood on the corner of Siaka Stevens and Howe Streets, smack dab in downtown Freetown, the only light to be found was from the headlights of passing cars -- or the candles set out by curbside vendors to illuminate their wares. It was truly disorienting.

Another casualty is the refrigerator. Only the truly lucky (or well-off) have electricity consistently enough to run a fridge. For most of us, that familiar appliance stands dark and hulking, used for dry storage and to keep food away from insects and scavenging critters. And as for having cold drinks or frozen food in the house -- well, you can imagine.

In my first few weeks here, I kept forgetting about the lack of power. At first I was staying in a hotel with 24-hour electricity (not to mention air conditioning and cable TV), and working in an office with the same. When I moved out of the hotel and in with friends, our generator was out of fuel so we literally had no electricity and no lights once the sun went down. TVs sat idle, and we played music on battery-powered speakers and read by flashlight, or (more frequently) sat on the porch and chatted by candlelight, watching the dark cityscape below us and the coastline beyond.

The lack of power became more of an issue when I was stuck at home for a few days with an eye infection. Unable to read because of my eyes, and feeling too sick and miserable to leave the house, I found myself with literally nothing to do. My portable DVD player and laptop both died with a few hours of use, and my iPod and cell phone eventually followed. With no way to charge any of them, I felt unbelievably isolated, helpless -- and utterly bored!

Now I'm much more aware of the value (and uncertainty) of electricity. I plug in my phone and iPod every time I'm in the office. And anytime our power comes on at home -- in my new house, we're at the whim of our neighbor, whose generator we share -- I scurry with my housemates to plug in computers, portable DVD players, and anything else we might want to charge. We then plop down together in front of our one fan, and bask in the luxury of moving air -- for as long as the power lasts.

Welcome to Freetown

I thought the best place to start my "dispatches from Sierra Leone" would be to paint a bit of a picture of the place itself -- starting with Freetown, the capital of Sierra Leone and my home base for the time being.

Freetown is a ramshackle city of probably 1 million people, spilling across a series of lush green hills and marshy lowlands, which in turn cluster around white sand beaches and a complex of peninsulas and inlets.

The city has much of the chaos and confusion that typify urban areas in this part of the world: narrow, potholed or downright crumbling paved streets and even narrower dirt roads, crammed with cars, mini-buses (known here as Poda Podas), pedestrians, street peddlers, beggars, and stray dogs; air filled with blaring music, honking cars, shouted greetings, and the constant whirr of gas-fueled generators to take the place of the almost non-existent state power authority.

Maneuvering the street, whether on foot or by vehicle, is nothing less than an adventure. Pay too little attention to the ground beneath your feet and you may fall suddenly through a large gap in the sidewalk and into the teeming gutter below; pay too much attention to the ground and your may get whacked upside the head by one of the oversized loads people carry on their heads -- everything from building materials to crates of homemade bread to 5-gallon jugs of water. And at all times, watch out for the speeding, veering, careening, threatening traffic; NGO-mobiles, public taxis, motorbikes, and private vehicles of every stripe are equally unconcerned about the safety of pedestrians, and equally likely to veer suddenly and without warning into your path.

Most of Freetown's buildings, like its roads, are in an advanced state of disrepair – due both to wartime damage and the ravages of time and poverty – or have been abandoned entirely in favor of makeshift structures erected from assorted scraps and huddled in the shadow of the crumbling colonial buildings. But the bustle of commerce is clearly evident – not only in the petty traders peddling everything from scientific calculators and cheap flip-flops to cucumbers and CocaCola, but also in the thousands of banners and billboards advertising an array of competing cellphone providers, travel agencies, and brands of beer.

From downtown Freetown, if you wind your way up into the western hills you'll find stunning views and the larger houses of expats and elites. And if you wander down toward the beachfront you'll find beach bars, restaurants and dance clubs -- many of which are bustling nearly every night of the week, and filled to bursting on Wednesdays and Fridays. Even in the nicer parts of town you'll see heaps of garbage left to smolder and rot on the street, because the promised collection trucks never came; and even there the municipal electricity may come just once a week, or even less.

But in the city and the environs alike, you can feel the warmth of this nation's people; their rush to celebrate at the slightest excuse; and their love of life -- even when it seems that life has rarely loved them back. Shouted greetings abound: "Padi, kushe?" (friend, how are you?); "Ha de bode?" (How the body?); and the common and friendly (if off-putting), "Hey, white girl? Will you be my friend?" In response to that, there's little to do but smile.


(Photo credit: Y. Zhou)