.
It does feel like this sometimes.
(Thanks to Ajay Patel for the photo)
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Monday, April 06, 2009
Groundnuts and Running Companions
I went for a run today on Lumley Beach, after work.
The sun was enormous and low in the sky, a shade of orange I would have sworn did not exist in nature, reminiscent of 1980s short-shorts and plastic bangles. The tide was high, forcing me to dodge the long arms of occasionally enthusiastic waves and venture reluctantly into softer sand.
I ran from Family Kingdom on the northern end of the beach, past the rainbow umbrellas and temporary tables of the new makeshift beach bar replacements; past the florescent orange Africell signs and Sierra Leonean national flags marking the site of a recent beach volleyball tournament; past the rubble of the old Bunker Bar, untouched since its demolition months ago. I turned back just short of the southern end, perhaps two and a half miles down the three mile stretch, at a billboard advertising a new national insurance scheme.
On my way back, the sun now hidden behind the wide band of haze that rings the horizon this time of year, I passed two little girls. Zainab and Mumuna, I later learned. 8 and 13 years old.
Zainab wore a pair of knee-length shorts and a black t-shirt. Mumuna wore a long flowered skirt and a tank top. Both walked barefoot and carried their halfbacks (flip-flops) in their hands. And both held, upon their heads, a wide tin platter topped with a bundle of fabric the size of a soccer ball. Within, I knew, were parched groundnuts – roasted peanuts – warmed by the sun.
The platters were much broader than their slender shoulders, and besides the bundle of groundnuts, each held a series of accessories – Zainab a pink plastic bowl tucked precariously into the side – including the halved tin cans they used to price sales. The largest tin, roughly the bottom third of a Campbell’s soup can, represented Le1,000 worth of groundnuts, about 30 US cents.
I passed the girls with a small smile and little thought. And then, a few minutes later, I heard the patter of small feet and intermittent giggles behind me. I turned and the girls were running just a few paces behind me, hands still holding halfbacks, platters barely moving at all. I marveled at their poise – models with a stack of encyclopedias on their heads had nothing on these two – and called out in Krio. “You want to run with me?” I asked. “Come, let’s go.”
I thought they would give up soon – you often get running companions on Lumley, but they usually bore quickly – but they followed me most of the way back. Past the orange volleyball court, past the beach bars, past several soccer games, past a pack of malnourished dogs and a smattering of young couples, holding hands and pointing at us with obvious amusement.
At that point I started to realize how it must look. Me, in proper sneakers and running attire, being matched stride for stride by two half-pint girls with wares on their heads. They rarely even reached a hand up to steady their loads, except once when Zainab dropped a pen she’d salvaged from the beach and in stopping to pick it up, upset her pink bowl. And they chatted amiably, if shyly, with me while we ran, turning their heads gingerly to not upset the trays balanced on top, but otherwise running confidently, coltish legs flying.
Eventually they started to tire, and though they egged each other on for a bit longer, they finally fell behind with another round of giggles and a wave. I finished my run alone, shamed enough by their impressive showing to sprint the last few hundred yards.
Next time I’ll try it with a tray on my head.
The sun was enormous and low in the sky, a shade of orange I would have sworn did not exist in nature, reminiscent of 1980s short-shorts and plastic bangles. The tide was high, forcing me to dodge the long arms of occasionally enthusiastic waves and venture reluctantly into softer sand.
I ran from Family Kingdom on the northern end of the beach, past the rainbow umbrellas and temporary tables of the new makeshift beach bar replacements; past the florescent orange Africell signs and Sierra Leonean national flags marking the site of a recent beach volleyball tournament; past the rubble of the old Bunker Bar, untouched since its demolition months ago. I turned back just short of the southern end, perhaps two and a half miles down the three mile stretch, at a billboard advertising a new national insurance scheme.
On my way back, the sun now hidden behind the wide band of haze that rings the horizon this time of year, I passed two little girls. Zainab and Mumuna, I later learned. 8 and 13 years old.
Zainab wore a pair of knee-length shorts and a black t-shirt. Mumuna wore a long flowered skirt and a tank top. Both walked barefoot and carried their halfbacks (flip-flops) in their hands. And both held, upon their heads, a wide tin platter topped with a bundle of fabric the size of a soccer ball. Within, I knew, were parched groundnuts – roasted peanuts – warmed by the sun.
The platters were much broader than their slender shoulders, and besides the bundle of groundnuts, each held a series of accessories – Zainab a pink plastic bowl tucked precariously into the side – including the halved tin cans they used to price sales. The largest tin, roughly the bottom third of a Campbell’s soup can, represented Le1,000 worth of groundnuts, about 30 US cents.
I passed the girls with a small smile and little thought. And then, a few minutes later, I heard the patter of small feet and intermittent giggles behind me. I turned and the girls were running just a few paces behind me, hands still holding halfbacks, platters barely moving at all. I marveled at their poise – models with a stack of encyclopedias on their heads had nothing on these two – and called out in Krio. “You want to run with me?” I asked. “Come, let’s go.”
I thought they would give up soon – you often get running companions on Lumley, but they usually bore quickly – but they followed me most of the way back. Past the orange volleyball court, past the beach bars, past several soccer games, past a pack of malnourished dogs and a smattering of young couples, holding hands and pointing at us with obvious amusement.
At that point I started to realize how it must look. Me, in proper sneakers and running attire, being matched stride for stride by two half-pint girls with wares on their heads. They rarely even reached a hand up to steady their loads, except once when Zainab dropped a pen she’d salvaged from the beach and in stopping to pick it up, upset her pink bowl. And they chatted amiably, if shyly, with me while we ran, turning their heads gingerly to not upset the trays balanced on top, but otherwise running confidently, coltish legs flying.
Eventually they started to tire, and though they egged each other on for a bit longer, they finally fell behind with another round of giggles and a wave. I finished my run alone, shamed enough by their impressive showing to sprint the last few hundred yards.
Next time I’ll try it with a tray on my head.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
A coup? Mutiny? Civil war?
This Sierra Leone headline caught my eye in my Google News alert today:
Sierra Leone: Murray Town, Police Surrender to RSLAF
RSLAF are the Republic of Sierra Leone Armed Forces, so you can imagine my surprise.
“Jeez,” I thought. “This is big news.”
And then I read on.
Freetown — The Murray Town and Sierra Leone Police cricket teams were the latest to be subdued by the highflying Republic of Sierra Leone Armed Force (RSLAF) as the 'soja boys' defeated both teams in the ongoing 20/20 cricket league.
Ah. Cricket. Of course.
Sierra Leone: Murray Town, Police Surrender to RSLAF
RSLAF are the Republic of Sierra Leone Armed Forces, so you can imagine my surprise.
“Jeez,” I thought. “This is big news.”
And then I read on.
Freetown — The Murray Town and Sierra Leone Police cricket teams were the latest to be subdued by the highflying Republic of Sierra Leone Armed Force (RSLAF) as the 'soja boys' defeated both teams in the ongoing 20/20 cricket league.
Ah. Cricket. Of course.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Salma Hayek and Sierra Leone
So it seems that Salma Hayek’s breast is all it takes to get pediatric health in Sierra Leone on the public’s radar.
We should have thought of that a long time ago.
In this ABC News piece, Salma first visits the Ola During Children’s Hospital, Sierra Leone’s only government children’s hospital, where I work with the Welbodi Partnership to help improve the standard of care provided to sick children. There she watches a week-old baby die a terribly painful (and utterly preventable) death from tetanus.
Tragically, this is not unusual. One in six children in Sierra Leone die in infancy. One in four die before their fifth birthday.
Salma then goes upcountry, to the provincial capital (misleadingly called “a remote corner of the country” by the ABC folks) of Makeni. Once there, she decides to breastfeed a tiny baby whose mother did not have milk to give.
This, of course, is what set the news media and blogosphere abuzz. Famous Hollywood actress gives breast to poor African child. History upended as light-skinned wet nurse feeds dark-skinned child. Bodily fluids shared on camera.
Breastfeeding is incredibly important to the health of young children, particularly in places like Sierra Leone, and is one of the best ways to ensure proper nutrition and protect against illness. And if Salma Hayek’s breast helps raise awareness of the importance of breastfeeding, so be it. (Though I can’t help but point out that Sierra Leoneans are much less abuzz about this than the rest of the world. The vast majority will never see this footage or the headlines that have accompanied it, and in any case have no idea who Salma Hayek is. At the hospital, we turned up the day after this film crew and were told only that some white people had visited the day before; none of the staff knew how famous she was.)
But the film’s focus on breastfeeding and on other preventive measures – specifically a vaccine to prevent tetanus – ignores another reality, one evident in the first few minutes of the piece when Salma watches that tiny baby die in what should be Sierra Leone’s premier pediatric care facility.
The Ola During Children’s Hospital should be in a position to provide accessible, high-quality care to sick children. Parents should come to the hospital early, as soon as their children get sick. Drugs and supplies – at least for the most common illnesses – should be available and free of charge. Nurses and doctors should be properly motivated and trained, and should have the medical tools and enabling environment they need to provide care.
In reality, however, the dedicated staff of the children’s hospital struggle to provide even a basic standard of care. The hospital has no x-ray, rudimentary laboratory facilities, and no back-up power supply. Doctors and nurses are forced to charge impoverished and severely ill patients fees for consultations, laboratory tests, and drugs and supplies in order both to provide the hospital with revenue to meet its running costs, and to supplement their own meager salaries. (A trained and experienced nurse makes less than $50 per month, not nearly enough to feed a family).
These fees mean that many parents wait far too long before they seek medical care for their children, and that too often they cannot afford urgently-needed medical interventions – medicine to treat malaria or pneumonia, a blood transfusion for a severely anemic child, fluids to treat dehydration in a baby with diarrhea. These delays cost the lives of hundreds if not thousands of children each year.
Prevention of childhood illness is absolutely essential, and UNICEF is right to invest in vaccines and the promotion of exclusive breastfeeding.
But even with the best prevention, many children will still get sick. If there is not a pediatric health system capable of providing effective, low-cost treatment for the most common illnesses, the country will continue to lose far too many young lives.
The Welbodi Partnership supports pediatric health care in Sierra Leone by partnering with the Ministry of Health and Sanitation and the Ola During Children’s Hospital. To learn more and to find out how you can help, please visit our website.
We should have thought of that a long time ago.
In this ABC News piece, Salma first visits the Ola During Children’s Hospital, Sierra Leone’s only government children’s hospital, where I work with the Welbodi Partnership to help improve the standard of care provided to sick children. There she watches a week-old baby die a terribly painful (and utterly preventable) death from tetanus.
Tragically, this is not unusual. One in six children in Sierra Leone die in infancy. One in four die before their fifth birthday.
Salma then goes upcountry, to the provincial capital (misleadingly called “a remote corner of the country” by the ABC folks) of Makeni. Once there, she decides to breastfeed a tiny baby whose mother did not have milk to give.
This, of course, is what set the news media and blogosphere abuzz. Famous Hollywood actress gives breast to poor African child. History upended as light-skinned wet nurse feeds dark-skinned child. Bodily fluids shared on camera.
Breastfeeding is incredibly important to the health of young children, particularly in places like Sierra Leone, and is one of the best ways to ensure proper nutrition and protect against illness. And if Salma Hayek’s breast helps raise awareness of the importance of breastfeeding, so be it. (Though I can’t help but point out that Sierra Leoneans are much less abuzz about this than the rest of the world. The vast majority will never see this footage or the headlines that have accompanied it, and in any case have no idea who Salma Hayek is. At the hospital, we turned up the day after this film crew and were told only that some white people had visited the day before; none of the staff knew how famous she was.)
But the film’s focus on breastfeeding and on other preventive measures – specifically a vaccine to prevent tetanus – ignores another reality, one evident in the first few minutes of the piece when Salma watches that tiny baby die in what should be Sierra Leone’s premier pediatric care facility.
The Ola During Children’s Hospital should be in a position to provide accessible, high-quality care to sick children. Parents should come to the hospital early, as soon as their children get sick. Drugs and supplies – at least for the most common illnesses – should be available and free of charge. Nurses and doctors should be properly motivated and trained, and should have the medical tools and enabling environment they need to provide care.
In reality, however, the dedicated staff of the children’s hospital struggle to provide even a basic standard of care. The hospital has no x-ray, rudimentary laboratory facilities, and no back-up power supply. Doctors and nurses are forced to charge impoverished and severely ill patients fees for consultations, laboratory tests, and drugs and supplies in order both to provide the hospital with revenue to meet its running costs, and to supplement their own meager salaries. (A trained and experienced nurse makes less than $50 per month, not nearly enough to feed a family).
These fees mean that many parents wait far too long before they seek medical care for their children, and that too often they cannot afford urgently-needed medical interventions – medicine to treat malaria or pneumonia, a blood transfusion for a severely anemic child, fluids to treat dehydration in a baby with diarrhea. These delays cost the lives of hundreds if not thousands of children each year.
Prevention of childhood illness is absolutely essential, and UNICEF is right to invest in vaccines and the promotion of exclusive breastfeeding.
But even with the best prevention, many children will still get sick. If there is not a pediatric health system capable of providing effective, low-cost treatment for the most common illnesses, the country will continue to lose far too many young lives.
The Welbodi Partnership supports pediatric health care in Sierra Leone by partnering with the Ministry of Health and Sanitation and the Ola During Children’s Hospital. To learn more and to find out how you can help, please visit our website.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Party favors
I had forgotten this story, but was cleaning my room today and found a little money-sized manila envelope, and I remembered.
Back in September, I was at a party thrown by some Sierra Leonean friends. It was a professional crowd, lots of IT specialists and bankers, and they liked to party. In typical Salone style, the drinks were plentiful, the food – meat on a stick, chicken wings, fish on a napkin – spicy, the music loud, and the dance floor filled to bursting.
At one point, I escaped to the balcony to rest my sore feet and cool down. As I sat chatting with friends, admiring the grinding bodies inside, another guest came around handing out little bits of paper. I accepted mine and turned it over. A party invitation? A complementary ticket to a new hot club? A flier for an upcoming concert?
No. It was an envelope for a church offering.
“St. Patrick’s Church, Kissy,” it read. “Friends of St. Patrick’s 10th Annual Thanksgiving Service, on Sunday 21st September 2008 at 9:30 a.m.” – just a few hours hence.
I looked at the man in mild disbelief. He misunderstood my questioning look. “If you can’t make the service but would like to make an offering,” he said, “you can just put it in the envelope and give it to me now.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said. He smiled and moved on.
Back in September, I was at a party thrown by some Sierra Leonean friends. It was a professional crowd, lots of IT specialists and bankers, and they liked to party. In typical Salone style, the drinks were plentiful, the food – meat on a stick, chicken wings, fish on a napkin – spicy, the music loud, and the dance floor filled to bursting.
At one point, I escaped to the balcony to rest my sore feet and cool down. As I sat chatting with friends, admiring the grinding bodies inside, another guest came around handing out little bits of paper. I accepted mine and turned it over. A party invitation? A complementary ticket to a new hot club? A flier for an upcoming concert?
No. It was an envelope for a church offering.
“St. Patrick’s Church, Kissy,” it read. “Friends of St. Patrick’s 10th Annual Thanksgiving Service, on Sunday 21st September 2008 at 9:30 a.m.” – just a few hours hence.
I looked at the man in mild disbelief. He misunderstood my questioning look. “If you can’t make the service but would like to make an offering,” he said, “you can just put it in the envelope and give it to me now.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said. He smiled and moved on.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Flip Flops and Foreign Affairs
On Tuesday I tried to go to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to drop off a document.
At the entrance, a handful of police and security guards stopped me, demanding to know where I was going and why.
“To the fifth floor,” I said. “Consular section. To drop off a letter.”
A particularly cocky officer leered at me self-righteously and pointed to my feet. “You can’t go inside in slippers. We only allow people in decent clothing.”
Now, before I continue, let me clarify a few things.
First, I was not wearing slippers, nor shorts and a tank top, nor beach attire of any sort. I was wearing a perfectly professional dress, which covered both my knees and shoulders (neither particularly mandatory in Freetown), and matching jewelry. I carried a briefcase.
I was also wearing flip-flops – a simple black pair – because I’d left my heels behind at the office in order to brave the uneven, often muddy, and always treacherous Freetown streets. I’ve learned the hard way that running errands in nice shoes is a danger to both the shoes and myself.
But calling my clothes not “decent” was a bit unfair.
Second, I am very sympathetic with the desire for professional attire in professional places of work. It is a particular pet peeve of mine that some visiting expatriates feel they can attend meetings in what amounts to safari attire. One of my most embarrassing days in Sierra Leone was when I met with both the Chief Justice of the Sierra Leone Supreme Court and the Inspector General of Police with two colleagues from Washington wearing jeans and T-shirts. (The CJ was in a suit, and the IG in dress uniform. I was in a skirt and blouse and heels.) I mean, would they have met with the Chief Justice of the US Supreme Court or the head of the FBI without putting on a suit and tie?
I therefore would have no problem with a Ministry issuing a code of conduct for such visitors, explaining the expectations for attire befitting the office of the Sierra Leoneans involved. And for the record, if I had been meeting the Minister of Foreign Affairs (or anyone else in the Ministry, for that matter) I would have worn my “decent” shoes.
This is somewhat different, however, from barring my entry to the building itself on the basis of a harmless pair of flip flops – a point which I made to the Fashion Police and to a senior official who happened by and explained that the police were merely enforcing a new Ministry policy.
“This is a government ministry, is it not?” I asked the official.
“Yes,” he said.
“So are you trying to exclude poor people from accessing their own government offices?” I asked, totally hypothetically as I am far from poor by Freetown standards.
“No, of course not,” he said, now looking around as I began to raise my voice. In my defense, I was hungry and hot and cranky after a morning of annoying errands.
“But you are excluding people who don’t have fancy shoes?” I insisted.
“Yes,” he said.
“So poor people without nice shoes can’t come visit their own government?” I asked, now enjoying my metaphorical high horse.
“Everyone is welcome,” he said. “They just have to wear decent attire.”
Hmmm.
In the end, they let me pass. As usual, my white skin overrules most rules – unfairly, of course, but then I really did need to deliver that document.
Monday, January 05, 2009
December is…
… four straight weeks of parties. And counting.
… lying in bed on a Monday evening (or Tuesday morning, or Sunday afternoon) listening to booming club music. The speakers must be right below my window.
... empty hospitals. No money to pay for medicine. No time to take the kids to the doctor.
… outings. The normally-tranquil peninsula beaches are taken over by parades of cars and taxis and poda-podas, hordes of people, free-flowing alcohol and freely-smoked ganja, and giant stacks of speakers blaring music. And waterside reveling galore.
… weddings. Processions of cars bedecked in pastel ribbons and flowers, with horns blaring and emergency lights flashing, stampeding their entitled way through jam-packed streets. A videographer perched precariously on the windowsill of the first car, facing backward to film the parade in all its glory. Along Lumley beach, one… two… three wedding parties taking photos: bridesmaids in dazzling colors, small children in chiffon dresses and tuxedos, groomsmen goofing around, everyone grinning.
… JCs. Sierra Leoneans living abroad (the diaspora) who come back for the holidays. Known somewhat disparagingly as “Just Comes”, this exotic breed can be identified by their flashy plumage (spanking-new designer clothes and lots of bling), strange accents (Krio infused with a Texas twang is perhaps my favorite), sense of entitlement (especially on the road – apparently if your car still has its shipping label from the port, you’re allowed to blast past everyone else) , enthusiastic partying (bottle of Baileys under one arm, bottle of wine in the other hand), and frequent displays of frustration and disapproval (‘What has this country come to!?’).
… amazing Christmas decorations. My local (Lebanese-owned) grocery store had: a life-sized dancing (mechanical) Santa Claus; a 10-foot-tall inflatable snowman; a sparkly silver reindeer with tinsel for fur and a red light bulb for a nose; spray-painted fake snow spelling out holiday greetings on the windows; strings of colored lights covering the roof and awning; and, on Christmas day, two unhappy cashiers with sparkly two-foot-tall Christmas trees – one silver, the other gold – on their heads.
… “Christmases.” Small gifts of money owed to staff, colleagues, friends, neighbors, strangers – basically anyone whose path crosses yours anytime in December has the right to request a “Christmas”. Many stores, restaurants, and office buildings put out brightly-wrapped boxes for the staff, with a tiny slot at the top and a holiday greeting scrawled on the side. A friend was badgered by the security guards at the main government ministry building until she dropped a few thousand leones in their Christmas box, at which point they pulled out a second box. “And for this one?”
… Christmas Eve at the national stadium. Kiosks set up around the perimeter, with thatched roofs and bamboo walls. Some sell cold beer, soft drinks, fried chicken, roast meat, fish balls, and popcorn. Others play music or movies. One, hidden behind a thatched doorway, is showing porn. Several are photo booths, with assorted backgrounds to choose from: flashy plastic flowers, a British flag, Arsenal and Manchester United team paraphernalia, a fake Christmas tree. I posed on a miniature armchair with a poster of the Chinese countryside behind me. Then we went in to watch the concert: hip-hop and pop stars, celebrating the birth of the baby Jesus with gritty lyrics and grinding hips. As we staggered out around 4 a.m., leaving thousands of our fellow concert-goers going wild in the stands – dancing, shouting, and occasionally throwing fireworks – a drunk policeman yelled at us for leaving before the main act. We had to give him our leftover beer to shut him up.
… Christmas Day with the family-less strays and castaways, eating roast duck, fish casserole, and a dazzling array of delectable desserts, including a Christmas pudding imported from London. ‘Yankee Swap’-ing gifts under the palm-frond Christmas tree.
… Boxing Day on an outing to John Obey beach. Childhood friends, now with children of their own, playing childhood games. A potluck picnic lunch. Cold beer. Speakers and a deejay. A sassy game of musical chairs. Sun and sand and good cheer.
... New Years Eve Salone-style: first church until midnight, then promenades in the street, then parties until dawn. Ringing in the New Year itself on a street in town, lined with vendors selling snacks and drinks, pop music blaring into the night.
… New Years Day, waking up at 10 after just 3 hours of sleep, exhausted and hung over, to the sounds of club music from a house down the street. The party continues, but I just can't keep up. Salone man dem sabi enjoy!
… lying in bed on a Monday evening (or Tuesday morning, or Sunday afternoon) listening to booming club music. The speakers must be right below my window.
... empty hospitals. No money to pay for medicine. No time to take the kids to the doctor.
… outings. The normally-tranquil peninsula beaches are taken over by parades of cars and taxis and poda-podas, hordes of people, free-flowing alcohol and freely-smoked ganja, and giant stacks of speakers blaring music. And waterside reveling galore.
… weddings. Processions of cars bedecked in pastel ribbons and flowers, with horns blaring and emergency lights flashing, stampeding their entitled way through jam-packed streets. A videographer perched precariously on the windowsill of the first car, facing backward to film the parade in all its glory. Along Lumley beach, one… two… three wedding parties taking photos: bridesmaids in dazzling colors, small children in chiffon dresses and tuxedos, groomsmen goofing around, everyone grinning.
… JCs. Sierra Leoneans living abroad (the diaspora) who come back for the holidays. Known somewhat disparagingly as “Just Comes”, this exotic breed can be identified by their flashy plumage (spanking-new designer clothes and lots of bling), strange accents (Krio infused with a Texas twang is perhaps my favorite), sense of entitlement (especially on the road – apparently if your car still has its shipping label from the port, you’re allowed to blast past everyone else) , enthusiastic partying (bottle of Baileys under one arm, bottle of wine in the other hand), and frequent displays of frustration and disapproval (‘What has this country come to!?’).
… amazing Christmas decorations. My local (Lebanese-owned) grocery store had: a life-sized dancing (mechanical) Santa Claus; a 10-foot-tall inflatable snowman; a sparkly silver reindeer with tinsel for fur and a red light bulb for a nose; spray-painted fake snow spelling out holiday greetings on the windows; strings of colored lights covering the roof and awning; and, on Christmas day, two unhappy cashiers with sparkly two-foot-tall Christmas trees – one silver, the other gold – on their heads.
… “Christmases.” Small gifts of money owed to staff, colleagues, friends, neighbors, strangers – basically anyone whose path crosses yours anytime in December has the right to request a “Christmas”. Many stores, restaurants, and office buildings put out brightly-wrapped boxes for the staff, with a tiny slot at the top and a holiday greeting scrawled on the side. A friend was badgered by the security guards at the main government ministry building until she dropped a few thousand leones in their Christmas box, at which point they pulled out a second box. “And for this one?”
… Christmas Eve at the national stadium. Kiosks set up around the perimeter, with thatched roofs and bamboo walls. Some sell cold beer, soft drinks, fried chicken, roast meat, fish balls, and popcorn. Others play music or movies. One, hidden behind a thatched doorway, is showing porn. Several are photo booths, with assorted backgrounds to choose from: flashy plastic flowers, a British flag, Arsenal and Manchester United team paraphernalia, a fake Christmas tree. I posed on a miniature armchair with a poster of the Chinese countryside behind me. Then we went in to watch the concert: hip-hop and pop stars, celebrating the birth of the baby Jesus with gritty lyrics and grinding hips. As we staggered out around 4 a.m., leaving thousands of our fellow concert-goers going wild in the stands – dancing, shouting, and occasionally throwing fireworks – a drunk policeman yelled at us for leaving before the main act. We had to give him our leftover beer to shut him up.
… Christmas Day with the family-less strays and castaways, eating roast duck, fish casserole, and a dazzling array of delectable desserts, including a Christmas pudding imported from London. ‘Yankee Swap’-ing gifts under the palm-frond Christmas tree.
… Boxing Day on an outing to John Obey beach. Childhood friends, now with children of their own, playing childhood games. A potluck picnic lunch. Cold beer. Speakers and a deejay. A sassy game of musical chairs. Sun and sand and good cheer.
... New Years Eve Salone-style: first church until midnight, then promenades in the street, then parties until dawn. Ringing in the New Year itself on a street in town, lined with vendors selling snacks and drinks, pop music blaring into the night.
… New Years Day, waking up at 10 after just 3 hours of sleep, exhausted and hung over, to the sounds of club music from a house down the street. The party continues, but I just can't keep up. Salone man dem sabi enjoy!
Monday, December 22, 2008
Introducing Ryann Sesay
I have a namesake.Little Ryann Sesay was born just 6 days ago, to my cleaner, Susan.
It's less of an honor than you might imagine to have a baby named after you. It certainly doesn't mean I'm beloved or revered. In fact, Susan was quite clear that the motivations were partly financial. "If it's a girl, I'm going to name her Ryann," she told me when I learned she was pregnant. "Then you have to throw the party."
The party is for a naming ceremony, usually held about a week after birth. (Ryann's isn't yet planned, in part because I didn't realize I'm supposed to choose the date. Oops.) Other obligations for supporting one's namesake can range from occasional birthday gifts to the payment of school fees. One Lebanese businessman I know is now paying tuition at the University of Sierra Leone for his namesake, Mohamed -- not a blood relation.
I am happy to play this role. (Well, maybe not the college tuition...) I like Susan, and have known her for 2 years now. And it's nice to feel part of a Salone family, even if only tangentially.
The weird thing for me is to call another person "Ryann". I'm the only Ryann I've ever known!
But deep down I'm pretty chuffed about the whole thing. I mean, isn't she beautiful? As you can see, my housemate Tom was smitten. And maybe jealous -- the baby would have been Tom if she'd been a he.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Monday, December 08, 2008
A Freetown welcome
It's nice to be back in hot, sweaty Freetown after a few weeks in the wintry US Northeast. When I'm away, however, I sometimes forget some of the details of Freetown life -- both the bursts of color and the everyday hassle.
Here are a few such moments from my first week back:
My elder guard, John, when I first arrive home, gesturing enthusiastically with his arms to suggest a stout, hefty body. "Yes, I know John," I say in Krio. "I've gotten fat." John grins wildly. "Yes!," he replies. "Such a body! You must have enjoyed your trip home!!"
A citywide fuel shortage because the price (negotiated between the government and the fuel companies) just dropped to $4.17. Long lines at filling stations, pumps shut down by mid-day, my car running on fumes until it finally refused to budge from a spot outside my office. Finding someone to find me a 5-gallon drum of petrol, then trying (in the dark) to pour said drum of petrol into my gas tank without wasting half of it on the ground and all over my legs and feet. Failing. Leaving my car behind for another night and heading home smelling of petrol.
At one of the most successful companies in Freetown, the CEO's personal assistant: wearing an unremarkable black skirt suit, and as her dress shirt underneath, a Hooters t-shirt.
Being stood up for not one, not two, but four separate business meetings in the space of a few days. Feeble apologies and blaming of "traffic", Freetown's catch-all villain for the incurably tardy and absent-minded.
A surf board and a sunny Sunday.
The sound of prayers for Eid-al Adha. Goats tied up for sacrifice outside every home that can afford them. Feasts divided in thirds: one third for family, one third for neighbors and friends, and one third for the poor.
Here are a few such moments from my first week back:
My elder guard, John, when I first arrive home, gesturing enthusiastically with his arms to suggest a stout, hefty body. "Yes, I know John," I say in Krio. "I've gotten fat." John grins wildly. "Yes!," he replies. "Such a body! You must have enjoyed your trip home!!"
A citywide fuel shortage because the price (negotiated between the government and the fuel companies) just dropped to $4.17. Long lines at filling stations, pumps shut down by mid-day, my car running on fumes until it finally refused to budge from a spot outside my office. Finding someone to find me a 5-gallon drum of petrol, then trying (in the dark) to pour said drum of petrol into my gas tank without wasting half of it on the ground and all over my legs and feet. Failing. Leaving my car behind for another night and heading home smelling of petrol.
At one of the most successful companies in Freetown, the CEO's personal assistant: wearing an unremarkable black skirt suit, and as her dress shirt underneath, a Hooters t-shirt.
Being stood up for not one, not two, but four separate business meetings in the space of a few days. Feeble apologies and blaming of "traffic", Freetown's catch-all villain for the incurably tardy and absent-minded.
A surf board and a sunny Sunday.
The sound of prayers for Eid-al Adha. Goats tied up for sacrifice outside every home that can afford them. Feasts divided in thirds: one third for family, one third for neighbors and friends, and one third for the poor.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Air Fresheners for Obama
I am sitting in traffic near St. John roundabout on Saturday, after a trip to the tailor and for lunch at Diaspora Cafe.
A gaggle of young men cluster around the car, trying to sell us the usual street-corner goodies: cheese balls, seat covers, bootleg CDs. I am a bit grumpy and my friend Marisa is on the phone, so we ignore them and wait for the traffic to move.
Then, from outside my window, I hear: “Obama air freshener.” This (needless to say) catches my attention.
I turn to see a teenager with an aren’t-I-clever smirk holding a plastic-wrapped air freshener in patriotic Red, White, and Blue. It looks like it belongs on a Chevy truck deep in Red State America.
“That’s not an Obama air freshener,” I say to him in Krio.
“Yes it is,” he replies.
“No it’s not,” I say. “Where do you see Obama?”
“His face is on the back,” he says without hesitation, handing it to me.
I turn it over. “No it’s not,” I reply. The back was simply more stars and stripes. It occurs to me that he had no way of knowing I am American, or an Obama supporter.
“Oh, but it says Obama here on the package,” he argues, pointing to the instructions (listed in at least 8 languages, starting with Chinese).
“No,” I say, now a bit peeved. “It does not.”
He pauses, not at all deterred and still smiling.
“Obama is American,” he says at last. “American is Obama.”
Ah. The logic is hard to combat. Besides, I like Obama, and love the idea that in this corner of Africa, America=Obama. (We could do worse than that particular association.) And that a man once criticized back home for not wearing an American flag lapel pin is somehow synonymous here with a pine-scented bit of cardboard in Red, White, and Blue.
I give the guy a smile for his effort, but resist his salesmanship.
“You’re not going to buy one?” he says, genuinely surprised.
“No.”
“Then you don’t support Obama. If you did, you would buy my air freshener.”
A gaggle of young men cluster around the car, trying to sell us the usual street-corner goodies: cheese balls, seat covers, bootleg CDs. I am a bit grumpy and my friend Marisa is on the phone, so we ignore them and wait for the traffic to move.
Then, from outside my window, I hear: “Obama air freshener.” This (needless to say) catches my attention.
I turn to see a teenager with an aren’t-I-clever smirk holding a plastic-wrapped air freshener in patriotic Red, White, and Blue. It looks like it belongs on a Chevy truck deep in Red State America.
“That’s not an Obama air freshener,” I say to him in Krio.
“Yes it is,” he replies.
“No it’s not,” I say. “Where do you see Obama?”
“His face is on the back,” he says without hesitation, handing it to me.
I turn it over. “No it’s not,” I reply. The back was simply more stars and stripes. It occurs to me that he had no way of knowing I am American, or an Obama supporter.
“Oh, but it says Obama here on the package,” he argues, pointing to the instructions (listed in at least 8 languages, starting with Chinese).
“No,” I say, now a bit peeved. “It does not.”
He pauses, not at all deterred and still smiling.
“Obama is American,” he says at last. “American is Obama.”
Ah. The logic is hard to combat. Besides, I like Obama, and love the idea that in this corner of Africa, America=Obama. (We could do worse than that particular association.) And that a man once criticized back home for not wearing an American flag lapel pin is somehow synonymous here with a pine-scented bit of cardboard in Red, White, and Blue.
I give the guy a smile for his effort, but resist his salesmanship.
“You’re not going to buy one?” he says, genuinely surprised.
“No.”
“Then you don’t support Obama. If you did, you would buy my air freshener.”
Thursday, October 09, 2008
An elegy for the beach bars
My favorite restaurant was just bulldozed to the ground, along with every other sand-in-your-toes, open-air beach bar on Lumley Beach in Freetown.
Okay, some of them were distinctly dilapidated and ramshackle structures. And some blasted music at ear-splitting decibels, eliminating any possibility of a peaceful walk on the beach. And I’m sure many of them lacked legal permits.
But what they had – in spades! – was character. From barebones Harris at the Aberdeen end, where some of Salone’s top pop stars smoked ganja in the gazebo; to skeezy Sea View, where prostitutes mingled with old white men; to De Village, where on Sundays you could buy a plate of delicious peppery goat meat with onions and white bread; there was a beach bar for every style and every mood. As edgy and laid back and no-frills as Salone itself – most of the bars sold only soft drinks or beer, and frequently ran out of either or both – they were a cornerstone of Freetown’s leisure scene for expats and locals alike. I can’t imagine what all the diaspora Sierra Leoneans (“JCs”, for Just Comes) will say when they come back for Christmas!
But the biggest loss for me is lovely, quiet, friendly Ramada’s, which served the best meal (by a long shot) in Freetown. Plastic tables on the sand, under the stars, and with the soft rush of waves in the background. A few soft lights scattered around, but mostly left to the moonlight. Two options on the menu: fish and chips, or chicken and chips, and both prepared better than any place else in town. The barracuda was always perfectly cooked, moist and delicious, and topped with a delicious peppery sauce. The chips were crispy and hot. The meal always took a long time to prepare – we’d joke they were out catching the fish – but you didn’t mind with such a gorgeous setting.
For two years, Ramada’s has been my go-to spot – for visitors on their first, or last, night in Freetown; for special meals with friends; for a romantic date. I feel like someone I loved has died, and I didn’t have time to say goodbye.
I hope the Ministry of Tourism has a good reason for bulldozing the bars, and it’s not just so they can give permits to their friends and families. I hope that from the piles of rubble will rise wonderful new options, part of a fresh tourist-friendly post-war Salone. I hope there will again be somewhere to kick off your shoes, curl your toes in the sand, and dig into a delicious plate of goat meat or barracuda, or tip back a crisp cold beer.
I hope so, but I’m doubtful. And for now, I’m in mourning.
Read more here.
Okay, some of them were distinctly dilapidated and ramshackle structures. And some blasted music at ear-splitting decibels, eliminating any possibility of a peaceful walk on the beach. And I’m sure many of them lacked legal permits.
But what they had – in spades! – was character. From barebones Harris at the Aberdeen end, where some of Salone’s top pop stars smoked ganja in the gazebo; to skeezy Sea View, where prostitutes mingled with old white men; to De Village, where on Sundays you could buy a plate of delicious peppery goat meat with onions and white bread; there was a beach bar for every style and every mood. As edgy and laid back and no-frills as Salone itself – most of the bars sold only soft drinks or beer, and frequently ran out of either or both – they were a cornerstone of Freetown’s leisure scene for expats and locals alike. I can’t imagine what all the diaspora Sierra Leoneans (“JCs”, for Just Comes) will say when they come back for Christmas!
But the biggest loss for me is lovely, quiet, friendly Ramada’s, which served the best meal (by a long shot) in Freetown. Plastic tables on the sand, under the stars, and with the soft rush of waves in the background. A few soft lights scattered around, but mostly left to the moonlight. Two options on the menu: fish and chips, or chicken and chips, and both prepared better than any place else in town. The barracuda was always perfectly cooked, moist and delicious, and topped with a delicious peppery sauce. The chips were crispy and hot. The meal always took a long time to prepare – we’d joke they were out catching the fish – but you didn’t mind with such a gorgeous setting.
For two years, Ramada’s has been my go-to spot – for visitors on their first, or last, night in Freetown; for special meals with friends; for a romantic date. I feel like someone I loved has died, and I didn’t have time to say goodbye.
I hope the Ministry of Tourism has a good reason for bulldozing the bars, and it’s not just so they can give permits to their friends and families. I hope that from the piles of rubble will rise wonderful new options, part of a fresh tourist-friendly post-war Salone. I hope there will again be somewhere to kick off your shoes, curl your toes in the sand, and dig into a delicious plate of goat meat or barracuda, or tip back a crisp cold beer.
I hope so, but I’m doubtful. And for now, I’m in mourning.
Read more here.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Reviving Dora
I had the most amazing experience this week.
On Friday, I donated blood at the children’s hospital, something I’ve been meaning to do for ages. There is a blood bank at children’s, shared with the neighboring maternity hospital, but blood is in chronic shortage – in part because people are reluctant to donate and in part due to difficulties with storage. As a result, patients needing blood are required to replace the blood they use before they’ll be given any from the bank.
What this means in practice is that a severely ill child will lie in a hospital bed – sometimes for hours – while family members run around trying to find someone willing to donate. (A similar scene unfolds in cases of trauma, or when a mother starts hemorrhaging after giving birth, and often to similarly tragic ends.) This process is complicated by local beliefs that only men should donate blood. In addition, families must buy the blood bags from a pharmacy across the street – the hospital itself is out of stock – which for many means trying to beg or borrow the money to do so.
Sometimes the family manages all this in time to save the child.
Sometimes they don’t.
So on Friday, I found myself lying on a worn leather examination table in a dark, cluttered room marked “Bleeding Room”, a needle in my arm drawing my A-positive blood for a little girl named Dora. (And yes, the needle was straight from a sealed package and the technician was wearing gloves.)
Dora’s mom waited outside the room. Dora, an adorable toddler, lay unconscious on Ward 2, watched over by her grandmother. She had malaria and was severely anemic, so much so her hands and feet neared mine in paleness.
My blood was out of my body just long enough for the team to test and label it. Just as the technician told me I could get up from the couch, a nurse hurried off to Ward 2 with a bag of my still-warm blood in her hands. I followed, and watched as they prepared the transfusion, then came back later with a doctor friend to check how Dora was doing. The doctor was worried that her heart might be overwhelmed by the volume of fluids given to her – not just blood but malaria meds and other fluids – but she seemed to be coping. We left her still unconscious and with her worried (but grateful) mother and grandmother at her side. I prayed she’d make it.
On Monday, I arrived at the hospital to find Dora not only alive, but sitting up and smiling at me from a windowsill. She was pink and alert and looked perfectly healthy. We took her photo (see above), though she refused to smile for the camera.
I was positively glowing all day, and kept stopping by to visit my personal little miracle. There were lots of jokes among the doctors about the super-duper powerful blood the little girl had been given – in other words, blood from a white foreigner – but they all knew as well as I that almost anyone could have given that life-saving blood.
The American Red Cross blood services no longer wants my blood, because I’ve been exposed to malaria and other sorts of nasty African pathogens.
No problem, I’ll happily save it up for little girls like Dora.
To learn more about the children’s hospital mentioned here and to find out how you can help, please visit the Welbodi Partnership, which supports paediatric health care in Sierra Leone by partnering with the Ministry of Health and Sanitation to establish the Sierra Leone Institute of Child Health.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Taxpaying as a virtue
Sierra Leone usually struggles to collect taxes, even from the minority of the population that can genuinely afford to pay.
Recently, however, at least some of the city's poorest residents are paying their local tax with pride, as documented in this BBC story.
The untold story in that piece is the enthusiastic collection practices by the local council, which has resulted in the shuttering of many small shops and kiosks for failure to pay back taxes. Many of those shopkeepers walk a very fine line between survival and starvation, and would probably express much less pleasure with the new tax collection regime.
Recently, however, at least some of the city's poorest residents are paying their local tax with pride, as documented in this BBC story.
The untold story in that piece is the enthusiastic collection practices by the local council, which has resulted in the shuttering of many small shops and kiosks for failure to pay back taxes. Many of those shopkeepers walk a very fine line between survival and starvation, and would probably express much less pleasure with the new tax collection regime.
Of highs and lows (again)
I’ve written before about the extremes of life in Freetown. One moment brings exultation, the next, devastation. Though exhausting, the experience can also be oddly intoxicating. My even-keeled life back home often pales in comparison to the roller-coaster ride of emotional and physical and aesthetic extremes here in Sierra Leone.
Sometimes, however, I yearn for an evener keel.
Last week was triumphant and thrilling, filled with hope and possibility. At the children’s hospital, we got the water running through all the wards for the first time in years, thanks to just $800 in plumbing equipment and the hard work and diligence of the hospital’s maintenance team. We found a source of medical-grade oxygen to use on the wards, a first in many years not only for our hospital but for all government health facilities. On Tuesday, I met with the Minister of Health and Sanitation, who was delighted with our successes and looking to replicate them elsewhere. By Friday, I roved the hospital with camera in hand, capturing the faces of our heroes – plumbers and maintenance technicians – and of the oxygen canister connected and ready to use. As we left the hospital on Friday afternoon, a junior doctor put one of his patients on oxygen, and we had visions of young lives being saved.
A few hours later, we settled in with cold glasses of wine at the Hard Rock guesthouse at Lakka Beach, watching the sky turn brilliant shades of orange and red. We awoke the next morning to find a beautiful sunny day, a rare gift in the midst of rainy season, and spent the afternoon soaking up vitamin E and positive energy from the surf and one another. By Sunday night, as I sat with friends along another beach, I was feeling refreshed, rejuvenated, and ready for anything.
And then, with a crash, came this week: the proverbial Other Shoe.
After spending Monday in the office, we returned to the hospital on Tuesday. We should have noticed the ominous buzz in the air, the palpably chaotic edge, but we did not. We were too pleased with ourselves for the accomplishments of the previous week.
We walked blithely past the packed wards, the hallways filled with waiting mothers and crying children. My colleague, a doctor, went off to check on the oxygen while I roved the corridors with a pile of posters to congratulate the maintenance team for their hard work and introduce our nurse training team. As I hung them, nurses gathered around, murmuring approvingly. “Di white pipul, den sabi mek!” said one. I laughed and then noticed one of the maintenance guys standing behind me. I pointed to his picture on the board. “What do you think?” He grinned.
Then, suddenly, his smile faded and he took my arm, shifting me away from the staircase. I turned and saw two men carrying a body wrapped in orange and yellow fabric. Numbly, I estimated the age: maybe 6 years old, definitely no older than 8.
A few minutes later, my colleague came down from the Special Care Ward, where we’d been delivering oxygen. She was a bit frantic, and we escaped to our office. Turns out she’d just seen a child die, the fourth to die in that ward since Friday, of the five who had been put on oxygen. The nurses were staging a revolt: they didn’t want the oxygen anymore, it just brought them destitute and dying children, and scared their other patients.
The oxygen canister was also empty, a nasty surprise, so we bundled it off to the factory down the street to be refilled. On the way back, sitting in standstill traffic just outside the hospital gate, a poda poda (minibus) behind us lurched suddenly forward, plowing through a crowd of market women and pedestrians and coming to a stop to the right of my car. My colleague, sitting in the passenger seat, recoiled in horror. “There are children under there,” she cried, jumping out of the car and into the melee. “Get the car inside and come back with gloves!”
And so I did, parking quickly and running back with the latex gloves I keep in my first aid kit. By the time I got to the street, a crowd had formed, curious and jostling. Two women sat on the curb, dazed but not seriously hurt. The children had been brought inside. Miraculously, they needed nothing more than a few stitches and some gentle words.
By this point, though, we were deeply shaken. We might have written off the day and headed home, but a delegation from the Ministry was due in an hour. Instead, we opted to hide in our office for a lunch break. I let my colleague and another doctor go ahead, while I returned to the outpatient ward to buy a cold packet of water.
A bad idea.
On my way, chaos found me yet again. Near the entrance to the hospital was a small crowd, with a woman in the middle in a dead faint. She was the mother of one of the injured children, and had been told her daughter had been “mashed” by a poda-poda. When she arrived and heard the truth – that her daughter needed stitches but would be okay – she literally collapsed in shock.
As this calmed down and I snuck past to buy my cold drink, a roar arose outside and I saw dozens – maybe hundreds – of people rushing the entrance of the hospital. Two cleaners in DayGlo orange vests stepped quickly outside and closed the door behind them. The crowd arrived, hungry for blood: if they couldn’t have the driver’s, who had fled immediately to turn himself into the police and get beyond the reach of vigilante justice, then at least they wanted to see the injured children. They milled around outside like the spectators at a rowdy football match. Inside all was quiet, but still with that ominous energy in the air, which I could no longer ignore. My little friend Ibrahim snuck up behind me and put his hand in mind. “Are you scared?” I asked. He shook his head. No. Mentally, I nodded mine. Yes.
Eventually things calmed down, and we even managed a half-normal tour of the hospital for the ministry representatives. By 5:10, my colleague and I were out the door and on our way home, desperate for the day to end.
The week since then has been much less traumatic but no less frustrating. Now, on Thursday night, I am dreading my return trip to the hospital tomorrow. I’m afraid the bad luck of this week is still not spent.
To learn more about the children’s hospital mentioned here, please visit the Welbodi Partnership, which supports paediatric health care in Sierra Leone by partnering with the Ministry of Health and Sanitation to establish the Sierra Leone Institute of Child Health.
Sometimes, however, I yearn for an evener keel.
Last week was triumphant and thrilling, filled with hope and possibility. At the children’s hospital, we got the water running through all the wards for the first time in years, thanks to just $800 in plumbing equipment and the hard work and diligence of the hospital’s maintenance team. We found a source of medical-grade oxygen to use on the wards, a first in many years not only for our hospital but for all government health facilities. On Tuesday, I met with the Minister of Health and Sanitation, who was delighted with our successes and looking to replicate them elsewhere. By Friday, I roved the hospital with camera in hand, capturing the faces of our heroes – plumbers and maintenance technicians – and of the oxygen canister connected and ready to use. As we left the hospital on Friday afternoon, a junior doctor put one of his patients on oxygen, and we had visions of young lives being saved.
A few hours later, we settled in with cold glasses of wine at the Hard Rock guesthouse at Lakka Beach, watching the sky turn brilliant shades of orange and red. We awoke the next morning to find a beautiful sunny day, a rare gift in the midst of rainy season, and spent the afternoon soaking up vitamin E and positive energy from the surf and one another. By Sunday night, as I sat with friends along another beach, I was feeling refreshed, rejuvenated, and ready for anything.
And then, with a crash, came this week: the proverbial Other Shoe.
After spending Monday in the office, we returned to the hospital on Tuesday. We should have noticed the ominous buzz in the air, the palpably chaotic edge, but we did not. We were too pleased with ourselves for the accomplishments of the previous week.
We walked blithely past the packed wards, the hallways filled with waiting mothers and crying children. My colleague, a doctor, went off to check on the oxygen while I roved the corridors with a pile of posters to congratulate the maintenance team for their hard work and introduce our nurse training team. As I hung them, nurses gathered around, murmuring approvingly. “Di white pipul, den sabi mek!” said one. I laughed and then noticed one of the maintenance guys standing behind me. I pointed to his picture on the board. “What do you think?” He grinned.
Then, suddenly, his smile faded and he took my arm, shifting me away from the staircase. I turned and saw two men carrying a body wrapped in orange and yellow fabric. Numbly, I estimated the age: maybe 6 years old, definitely no older than 8.
A few minutes later, my colleague came down from the Special Care Ward, where we’d been delivering oxygen. She was a bit frantic, and we escaped to our office. Turns out she’d just seen a child die, the fourth to die in that ward since Friday, of the five who had been put on oxygen. The nurses were staging a revolt: they didn’t want the oxygen anymore, it just brought them destitute and dying children, and scared their other patients.
The oxygen canister was also empty, a nasty surprise, so we bundled it off to the factory down the street to be refilled. On the way back, sitting in standstill traffic just outside the hospital gate, a poda poda (minibus) behind us lurched suddenly forward, plowing through a crowd of market women and pedestrians and coming to a stop to the right of my car. My colleague, sitting in the passenger seat, recoiled in horror. “There are children under there,” she cried, jumping out of the car and into the melee. “Get the car inside and come back with gloves!”
And so I did, parking quickly and running back with the latex gloves I keep in my first aid kit. By the time I got to the street, a crowd had formed, curious and jostling. Two women sat on the curb, dazed but not seriously hurt. The children had been brought inside. Miraculously, they needed nothing more than a few stitches and some gentle words.
By this point, though, we were deeply shaken. We might have written off the day and headed home, but a delegation from the Ministry was due in an hour. Instead, we opted to hide in our office for a lunch break. I let my colleague and another doctor go ahead, while I returned to the outpatient ward to buy a cold packet of water.
A bad idea.
On my way, chaos found me yet again. Near the entrance to the hospital was a small crowd, with a woman in the middle in a dead faint. She was the mother of one of the injured children, and had been told her daughter had been “mashed” by a poda-poda. When she arrived and heard the truth – that her daughter needed stitches but would be okay – she literally collapsed in shock.
As this calmed down and I snuck past to buy my cold drink, a roar arose outside and I saw dozens – maybe hundreds – of people rushing the entrance of the hospital. Two cleaners in DayGlo orange vests stepped quickly outside and closed the door behind them. The crowd arrived, hungry for blood: if they couldn’t have the driver’s, who had fled immediately to turn himself into the police and get beyond the reach of vigilante justice, then at least they wanted to see the injured children. They milled around outside like the spectators at a rowdy football match. Inside all was quiet, but still with that ominous energy in the air, which I could no longer ignore. My little friend Ibrahim snuck up behind me and put his hand in mind. “Are you scared?” I asked. He shook his head. No. Mentally, I nodded mine. Yes.
Eventually things calmed down, and we even managed a half-normal tour of the hospital for the ministry representatives. By 5:10, my colleague and I were out the door and on our way home, desperate for the day to end.
The week since then has been much less traumatic but no less frustrating. Now, on Thursday night, I am dreading my return trip to the hospital tomorrow. I’m afraid the bad luck of this week is still not spent.
To learn more about the children’s hospital mentioned here, please visit the Welbodi Partnership, which supports paediatric health care in Sierra Leone by partnering with the Ministry of Health and Sanitation to establish the Sierra Leone Institute of Child Health.
Monday, September 08, 2008
Making a Living Part I: Selling Scrap Metal
I've been wanting to do a series on the ways people scrape out a living in Sierra Leone.
My friend ABJ beat me to it with this touching short film about boys making a living by searching for jewelry and scrap metal in the gutters and streets of Freetown.
It is a glimpse of what it takes to survive among the poorest of the poor in this poorest of poor countries – teenagers elbow-deep in filthy gutters just to earn a few pennies for rice and a roof over their heads – and of the energy and ingenuity that allows them to do just that. Survive.
My friend ABJ beat me to it with this touching short film about boys making a living by searching for jewelry and scrap metal in the gutters and streets of Freetown.
It is a glimpse of what it takes to survive among the poorest of the poor in this poorest of poor countries – teenagers elbow-deep in filthy gutters just to earn a few pennies for rice and a roof over their heads – and of the energy and ingenuity that allows them to do just that. Survive.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
A Remarkable Sound
.
Another day at the children’s hospital.
Not a good day, overall.
Chaos on the streets outside, under a searing sun.
Chaos inside, the junior doctors overwhelmed. Patients and parents line the corridors.
In the hospital courtyard, my little friend Ibrahim – covered in scars from a long-ago kerosene burn – in hysterics. “I beat him for playing in the gutter,” says a man nearby.
A meeting with the maintenance team. Frustration all around. A suspiciously inflated invoice. Still no plan to fix the water pump. Another deadline.
On Ward 2 a little girl close to death, her eyes glassy, her mother terrified. A nurse adjusts the flow on her blood transfusion. “She’s improving,” she says, unconvincingly.
We trudge upstairs to Ward 3, short on optimism.
And then we hear it.
A remarkable sound.
A child laughing.
Towards me, down the center of the ward, runs a little girl in a flowered dress. Her belly peeks out through a missing button.
She laughs again. The sound brightens the ward.
I run towards her and she shrieks with delight, turns and runs away. Her steps are those of a typical toddler, unsteady but fearless.
Children nearby watch us through the bars of their beds. One or two smile weakly.
I ask her mother, who sits grinning on the windowsill, how long she’s been here. A few days, she says. Before that, another hospital. They gave her blood. Her feet and hands still have marks from the IV.
I ask the nurses. She has tuberculosis.
Her name is Mary.
She is playing hide-and-seek. Behind the curtains, around the cement pillars, under the worn metal cots. She giggles while I search.
I catch her and she collapses under my tickling hands, squealing with pleasure.
This is the best part of my day.
I say goodbye and walk away. I have to work.
She sneaks up behind me. I turn and see her impish grin, and can’t resist.
The game begins again.
Mary is laughing.
So am I.
To help support the hospital described here, located in Freetown, Sierra Leone, please visit the Welbodi Partnership.
Another day at the children’s hospital.
Not a good day, overall.
Chaos on the streets outside, under a searing sun.
Chaos inside, the junior doctors overwhelmed. Patients and parents line the corridors.
In the hospital courtyard, my little friend Ibrahim – covered in scars from a long-ago kerosene burn – in hysterics. “I beat him for playing in the gutter,” says a man nearby.
A meeting with the maintenance team. Frustration all around. A suspiciously inflated invoice. Still no plan to fix the water pump. Another deadline.
On Ward 2 a little girl close to death, her eyes glassy, her mother terrified. A nurse adjusts the flow on her blood transfusion. “She’s improving,” she says, unconvincingly.
We trudge upstairs to Ward 3, short on optimism.
And then we hear it.
A remarkable sound.
A child laughing.
Towards me, down the center of the ward, runs a little girl in a flowered dress. Her belly peeks out through a missing button.
She laughs again. The sound brightens the ward.
I run towards her and she shrieks with delight, turns and runs away. Her steps are those of a typical toddler, unsteady but fearless.
Children nearby watch us through the bars of their beds. One or two smile weakly.
I ask her mother, who sits grinning on the windowsill, how long she’s been here. A few days, she says. Before that, another hospital. They gave her blood. Her feet and hands still have marks from the IV.
I ask the nurses. She has tuberculosis.
Her name is Mary.
She is playing hide-and-seek. Behind the curtains, around the cement pillars, under the worn metal cots. She giggles while I search.
I catch her and she collapses under my tickling hands, squealing with pleasure.
This is the best part of my day.
I say goodbye and walk away. I have to work.
She sneaks up behind me. I turn and see her impish grin, and can’t resist.
The game begins again.
Mary is laughing.
So am I.
To help support the hospital described here, located in Freetown, Sierra Leone, please visit the Welbodi Partnership.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Cocaine busts
I returned to
On July 13, the Sierra Leonean authorities confiscated a plane filled with 600 kg of cocaine, with an estimated street value of $54 million. The Venezuelan plane, a fake Red Cross decal on its tail, landed in
This is all exciting, of course, but is also deadly serious for this small country working so hard to maintain peace and order after a decade-long civil war. In recent years, as demand for cocaine has increased dramatically in
To avoid this, or even the perception of this, the government of Sierra Leone President Ernest Bai Koroma has treated the case very seriously. Not only have they moved quickly to arrest suspects, and even to suspend very senior members of their own government, but have also taken steps to ensure those already arrested don’t manage to slip away. (Suspects and even convicted criminals have a way of disappearing from police custody from time to time.)
Therefore the police and military, afraid that South American drug barons might swoop in with a paramilitary force to bust their companions out of jail, have blocked traffic all along
Now I personally think it’s a bit far-fetched that the drug lords will risk any more men to rescue the small fry rotting in a
I can't fault the government for what is certainly an admirable show of force and a clear message to any drug lords looking to use
For one, they could do something about the laughable airport security. Last time I flew out of Lungi, the female security guard tasked with patting me down for weapons or contraband – because they don’t have a metal detector or any sort of scanner for persons or bags – decided I wasn’t a threat. Laughing, she gave me a big, friendly bear hug instead.
Huh.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Stories I Like to Tell, Part I -- My Friendly Corrupt Policemen
I'm back in the US at the moment, visiting family and friends, and I realized (to my occasional embarrassment) that I tend to tell and retell the same handful of stories about Sierra Leone. It occurred to me that if they make good fodder for dinner-party chat, they would probably also work well for this blog. My apologies to those of you who are family or friends and have heard these already...
This first installment introduces some of my favorite neighborhood police officers. Before I tell the stories, however, I'd like to offer a bit of cautionary context.
1) Not all public officials -- and not all police officers -- are corrupt. Despite conventional wisdom to the contrary, not every public official in Sierra Leone is on the make. In more than two years in Sierra Leone -- and in part, I admit, thanks to luck and sheer persistence -- I've never paid a bribe or other "encouragement" to a police officer, immigration official, or government functionary of any sort. (I have paid "kola", a traditional gift now usually given as cash, to local chiefs, but I'd argue that's a greyer area.)
In that time, I've certainly encountered officials looking for some palm greasing, as evidenced by the stories below, but I've also encountered countless individuals who chose not to take advantage of a potentially lucrative situation. (As one example, a friend visiting from the US realized that he had a single-entry visa to Sierra Leone but plans to enter the country twice, on either end of a side trip to Senegal. He was clearly in the wrong, and legitimately owed the government at least the $100 difference in price between the two visas, but when we explained the honest mistake to an airport immigration official, he waved us through without even hinting for a bribe.)
2) Small-scale corruption is often a matter of survival. When a senior government official embezzles hundreds of thousands of dollars intended for a life-saving project -- such as child immunization, school feeding, or rural road construction -- and buys himself a BMW and a big house, he deserves to be harshly judged. So too does a police detective who refuses to file a rape case unless the impoverished and terrified young victim collects enough money from family and friends to pay for paper, a pen, and transportation for the investigating officer. But when a low-ranking policeman paid approximately Le5,000 ($1.67) per day asks someone like me to give him Le15,000 to let me drive away with a cracked side mirror, I have a bit more sympathy (though I still refuse to pay). With skyrocketing food prices, the officer can hardly afford to feed his or her family on the normal monthly salary.
Certainly the collective impact of small-scale corruption can be enormous, and certainly such demands are more onerous on the transport drivers also scraping to survive than they are on rich expats like myself, but there is still something different -- in my view -- between a poor and poorly-paid small-time official scamming a bit of extra income, and a fat cat "big man" stealing big money. I don't accept either type of corruption, and go to great lengths to avoid paying even the smallest bribe, but I also don't judge the small official as harshly as I do the big man.
So, with those caveats, here are my favorite police corruption stories:
As a driver in Sierra Leone -- or, at least, as a foreign driver -- you generally don't face the kind of aggressive harassment you might be led to expect by typical stories of West Africa. However, police officers do pull you over, frequently, if you are driving a car without diplomatic or NGO (non-governmental organization) plates. They invent moving violations or imperceptible problems with your vehicle to try to extort a bit of money. (Once, when I was still new to Sierra Leone, an officer insisted that my left headlight was a bit dimmer than my right headlight and threatened to arrest me. It was false and rather silly but hard to prove.)
I've discovered that the best approach is to greet them from the outset with enthusiastic cheer, chattering away in friendly Krio before they even get a word in edgewise. "Officer, I am so glad to see you out here on the streets protecting us. How is your day going? Is the work too difficult? Is the sun too warm? Thank you so much for your hard work." Often, this approach preempts even the request for money, and after a quick and friendly chat, they wave me on my way.
Occasionally, I still find an officer who makes noise about this or that invented offence. My cracked side mirror is a frequent target, even though my car passed inspection (without a bribe) with the mirror just as broken as it is today.
The most memorable interactions, however, are with those officers that dispatch with the formality of pretending I've broken a law and simply ask point-blank for money. The first time this happened, I was driving down Wilkinson Road -- the main thoroughfare of western Freetown -- with a Nigerian friend of mine. The officer approached us with a smile and started chatting in rapid-fire Krio. (I remember being surprised, as people usually don't expect me to speak and understand Krio as well as I do.) He told us that he'd decided not to act like his fellow officers and threaten to arrest us for some nonsense offense. He didn't want to bully us, he said. Instead, he would just ask us nicely to give him a bit of money.
I kept a straight (but friendly) face, thanked him for his fresh approach, and politely declined. He looked disappointed but let me drive away.
The second time was during a city-wide crackdown on unsafe vehicles and other offenses. The police department itself was quite open about the purpose of the crackdown -- to generate revenue for the department -- and bragged publicly about the hundreds of drivers arrested in a 72-hour period and the millions of Leones collected in fines. I've no doubt that hundreds of others avoided arrest by contributing directly to the "revenue" of individual officers.
One afternoon during this crackdown, I was stopped by a cheery, ruddy-faced male officer with a somewhat grumpier female colleague. I gave my normal friendly greeting, and he replied with the following (conversation in Krio, English translations in parentheses):
Officer: "U no sae wi dae pa dis check." (You know we're on this "check".)
Me: Innocently. "Oh? Us kin check dat?" (Oh really? What kind of check?)
Officer: Chuckles. "Na u finances wi dae check." (We're checking you're finances.)
Me: "Mi finances?" Chuckles. "Ow u go check mi finances? Bank no dae naya." (My finances? How are you going to check my finances? There isn't a bank here.)
Officer: Chuckles again. "Well, na di finances na u pocket, na dat we dae check." (Well, the finances in your pocket, that's what we're checking.)
Me: Now genuinely amused, turn out my empty pockets. "Ah beg, finances no dae na mi pocket." (I'm sorry, but it looks like there aren't any finances in my pocket.)
He smiled at me. I smiled at him. Then I drove away.
No "finances" changed hands.
This first installment introduces some of my favorite neighborhood police officers. Before I tell the stories, however, I'd like to offer a bit of cautionary context.
1) Not all public officials -- and not all police officers -- are corrupt. Despite conventional wisdom to the contrary, not every public official in Sierra Leone is on the make. In more than two years in Sierra Leone -- and in part, I admit, thanks to luck and sheer persistence -- I've never paid a bribe or other "encouragement" to a police officer, immigration official, or government functionary of any sort. (I have paid "kola", a traditional gift now usually given as cash, to local chiefs, but I'd argue that's a greyer area.)
In that time, I've certainly encountered officials looking for some palm greasing, as evidenced by the stories below, but I've also encountered countless individuals who chose not to take advantage of a potentially lucrative situation. (As one example, a friend visiting from the US realized that he had a single-entry visa to Sierra Leone but plans to enter the country twice, on either end of a side trip to Senegal. He was clearly in the wrong, and legitimately owed the government at least the $100 difference in price between the two visas, but when we explained the honest mistake to an airport immigration official, he waved us through without even hinting for a bribe.)
2) Small-scale corruption is often a matter of survival. When a senior government official embezzles hundreds of thousands of dollars intended for a life-saving project -- such as child immunization, school feeding, or rural road construction -- and buys himself a BMW and a big house, he deserves to be harshly judged. So too does a police detective who refuses to file a rape case unless the impoverished and terrified young victim collects enough money from family and friends to pay for paper, a pen, and transportation for the investigating officer. But when a low-ranking policeman paid approximately Le5,000 ($1.67) per day asks someone like me to give him Le15,000 to let me drive away with a cracked side mirror, I have a bit more sympathy (though I still refuse to pay). With skyrocketing food prices, the officer can hardly afford to feed his or her family on the normal monthly salary.
Certainly the collective impact of small-scale corruption can be enormous, and certainly such demands are more onerous on the transport drivers also scraping to survive than they are on rich expats like myself, but there is still something different -- in my view -- between a poor and poorly-paid small-time official scamming a bit of extra income, and a fat cat "big man" stealing big money. I don't accept either type of corruption, and go to great lengths to avoid paying even the smallest bribe, but I also don't judge the small official as harshly as I do the big man.
So, with those caveats, here are my favorite police corruption stories:
As a driver in Sierra Leone -- or, at least, as a foreign driver -- you generally don't face the kind of aggressive harassment you might be led to expect by typical stories of West Africa. However, police officers do pull you over, frequently, if you are driving a car without diplomatic or NGO (non-governmental organization) plates. They invent moving violations or imperceptible problems with your vehicle to try to extort a bit of money. (Once, when I was still new to Sierra Leone, an officer insisted that my left headlight was a bit dimmer than my right headlight and threatened to arrest me. It was false and rather silly but hard to prove.)
I've discovered that the best approach is to greet them from the outset with enthusiastic cheer, chattering away in friendly Krio before they even get a word in edgewise. "Officer, I am so glad to see you out here on the streets protecting us. How is your day going? Is the work too difficult? Is the sun too warm? Thank you so much for your hard work." Often, this approach preempts even the request for money, and after a quick and friendly chat, they wave me on my way.
Occasionally, I still find an officer who makes noise about this or that invented offence. My cracked side mirror is a frequent target, even though my car passed inspection (without a bribe) with the mirror just as broken as it is today.
The most memorable interactions, however, are with those officers that dispatch with the formality of pretending I've broken a law and simply ask point-blank for money. The first time this happened, I was driving down Wilkinson Road -- the main thoroughfare of western Freetown -- with a Nigerian friend of mine. The officer approached us with a smile and started chatting in rapid-fire Krio. (I remember being surprised, as people usually don't expect me to speak and understand Krio as well as I do.) He told us that he'd decided not to act like his fellow officers and threaten to arrest us for some nonsense offense. He didn't want to bully us, he said. Instead, he would just ask us nicely to give him a bit of money.
I kept a straight (but friendly) face, thanked him for his fresh approach, and politely declined. He looked disappointed but let me drive away.
The second time was during a city-wide crackdown on unsafe vehicles and other offenses. The police department itself was quite open about the purpose of the crackdown -- to generate revenue for the department -- and bragged publicly about the hundreds of drivers arrested in a 72-hour period and the millions of Leones collected in fines. I've no doubt that hundreds of others avoided arrest by contributing directly to the "revenue" of individual officers.
One afternoon during this crackdown, I was stopped by a cheery, ruddy-faced male officer with a somewhat grumpier female colleague. I gave my normal friendly greeting, and he replied with the following (conversation in Krio, English translations in parentheses):
Officer: "U no sae wi dae pa dis check." (You know we're on this "check".)
Me: Innocently. "Oh? Us kin check dat?" (Oh really? What kind of check?)
Officer: Chuckles. "Na u finances wi dae check." (We're checking you're finances.)
Me: "Mi finances?" Chuckles. "Ow u go check mi finances? Bank no dae naya." (My finances? How are you going to check my finances? There isn't a bank here.)
Officer: Chuckles again. "Well, na di finances na u pocket, na dat we dae check." (Well, the finances in your pocket, that's what we're checking.)
Me: Now genuinely amused, turn out my empty pockets. "Ah beg, finances no dae na mi pocket." (I'm sorry, but it looks like there aren't any finances in my pocket.)
He smiled at me. I smiled at him. Then I drove away.
No "finances" changed hands.
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