It started innocently enough… Michael, a young gentleman who worked diligently for my landlord and kept the courtyard and environs incredibly neat, told me about his dream to go back to secondary school to finish his education. He’d dropped out of school when he was twelve to support his mother and siblings. He speaks little English and can barely read… let alone write, in any language. But, he’s bright, quick with a smile and always very friendly and accommodating.
Michael’s situation is a very common phenomenon here and according to a recent UNICEF and Ministry of Education, Youth and Sport report titled, “The Out-of-School Report” up to 40% of primary school-aged children do not attend school, despite the government’s commitment or lack thereof to the International Convention on the Rights of the Child. In Sierra Leone, “Article 28 of that Convention (Right to education): All children have the right to a primary education, which should be free,” is a complete misnomer. It’s one thing to have the right to free education but it’s another to see it in action or make it happen.
The Report forcefully illustrates the point that poverty is the major reason for children being out of school… among the many other reasons including early marriage, child-pregnancies, bullying and harassment from peers and teachers, disabilities, sexual abuse, peer pressure, cultural tradition, and so on. So, the streets in Freetown are often flooded with young children selling bags of water (straight from an untreated water supply), household goods including soaps and medications, charcoal, etc. And, their futures are reflected in the faces of the young men who hang about street corners trying to eek out a living selling fish heads, discarded tee-shirts or mismatched shoes.
But, a small revolution is at hand and I’m proud to be a supporter…
One day, as I sat in the courtyard reading, Michael approached and sat down beside me. We exchanged pleasantries and he eventually asked me what I was reading. I replied it was a book about the beautiful, bountiful science that surrounds us. (see the reference at the end of this post) He said he was interested in science, biology and chemistry… and asked if I could find him a book on science so he could study and prepare for some sort of secondary school exam.
Initially, I must admit, I was taken aback. One of the things I’m trying to avoid is “helping out” the hundreds of people who’ve asked me for money. It’s another fact of life here in Freetown – people see the colour of my skin and immediately assume I have buckets of money and that I’m freely distributing “western aid” on every corner. So, Michael’s request didn’t surprise me but it was the first indication from him that he’d like my help. And, it wasn’t money he wanted… but a book! To study! To further his education! I couldn’t say “no, next time…” or my new favourite “polite push-off”, “I’ll pray for you.” (when people ask what religion I am I say “I’m an atheist” and they seem happy to hear… little do they know)
I came face-to-face with my conviction to help in a sustainable way and to avoid contributing to the “aid mentality” that’s so prevalent in this country. However, a book… a lasting, sustainable and helpful instrument… that, I could justify.
So, the following day I wandered down Garrison St. near the Victoria Park market, amidst the dozens of street hawkers and managed to find a photocopied version of a biology textbook, written in 1980 – edition four – for Le40,000 or about $12.00. (the initial price quoted was Le150,000) I scooped it up and delivered it to Michael later that night. My gawd, you’d have thought I conjured a rain of coins… He was thrilled. And, for the next several weeks I watched his page-progress through the textbook.
A week or so later, Yousef, one of the young security guys, told me he was very interested in economics and business. I’d noticed Yousef reading over Michael’s shoulder on several occasions and felt his interest was genuine. So, when Yousef asked if I could find him a book on business, I quickly accepted the challenge. Books are a rarity here… and with a 75% illiteracy rate it’s easy to see that the market for books and reading is very small – despite the number of daily newspapers.
However, I managed to track down a very well-used, secondary school workbook on business and economics. And, Yousef was thrilled. He’s since read through that one and he’s now into a math book – probably a grade ten level – that he’s devouring. This second book was a real challenge… I was aided by a primary school teacher and neighbour, MarVel, who took me to a shack outside her school. And, because I was MarVel’s friend, the shop-owner sold me the book for Le20,000 or just about $7.00.
There’s another young man, Moses, an Okada driver who’s frequently shuffled me about on the back of his motorbike and who is very interested in football/soccer. “Moses the motorcycle man” went to school till he was about eight and has been working at a variety of “jobs” since then – almost 12 years. He regularly regales me with football stories as we zip among the traffic of Freetown. (Sometimes I have to tell him to stop waving his left hand about and hold onto the handlebars… but he’s very passionate about football.)
I was given a copy of a new book by a Sierra Leoneon footballer named Mohamed Kallon who plays in the European league and is a legend among young Sierra Leoneons. It was a promo-copy and terribly written… but it was local and just perfect for someone who had very few reading skills. (it’s written at about a grade four reading level) When I handed the book over to Moses – the first and only new book he’s ever owned – he beamed.
I guess the revolution is spreading… and yesterday another neighbourhood child asked me (Uncle Stephen because of my “silver and gold hair” and advanced age) if I could find her a book about science fiction – “space and other worlds”, in her words. She said she was in “form three” which is roughly grade eleven… That’ll be my mission, among others, this week. I think I recall seeing a photocopied version of an Asimov novel among the street hawkers near the market…
It may be a small, peaceful revolution but at least it’s a start… and who knows – maybe one day, one of these readers will evolve into the next Gordimer or Asimov or Einstein or Gates. And, like most revolutions, the initial supporters often don’t get to see the end results… but it’s the seeds of revolution that can spark eventual change.
Today I’m hopeful…
Stephen
Monday, August 31, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Sierra Leone hits Los Angeles…
We’re famous in Sierra Leone… and proof enough is this excerpt from an L.A. Times article. For the full story – and pictures – click on this site.
Check out the article at http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/world/la-fg-resort25-2009aug25,0,4391065.story
Excerpted from the L.A. Times… August 25, 2009 written by Scott Kraft
“On a recent weekend, several dozen visitors parked their SUVs in the packed-sand lot and strolled through tropical stands of palm trees to the beach. Young village workers, some barefoot and others in sandals, took food and drink orders from bathers relaxing on the beach. In the restaurant's open-air kitchen, Bendu and his crew chopped tomatoes, onions and garlic for the fish marinade and placed skewers of barracuda and shrimp on the grill. A large pot of freshly cut potatoes bubbled in oil over a wood fire. The restaurant serves whatever the fishermen catch -- for less than $10 a plate, including fries or rice.”
“Among the day-trippers that Sunday was the U.N. secretary-general's special representative and his son, a Canadian journalist teaching in Sierra Leone, Dutch relief workers and half a dozen seminary students from Nigeria, Guinea, Indonesia and Ghana.”
I’m the “Canadian journalist teaching in Sierra Leone” and I spent the afternoon with Scott and the photographer, Liz, at the beach… my usual place of Sunday worship. (although, I have to admit, the heavy rains have dampened my worship ceremonies)
Later that week, I had dinner with Scott and Liz at the Country Lodge hotel, (I’ve written about that place before) where they were staying in grand luxury, and shared an evening of journalistic triumphs and trials here in Sierra Leone.
I should also mention that I had another dinner at “the Lodge” with a delegation from War Child International who were here working on some humanitarian project. Among the group was a Canadian photographer and a “rising or emerging” pop singer named Sy-ria (or something like that) who grew up here but is now living and working in Vancouver. Ah… a taste of “home conversation” about hockey, Stephen Harper, the Canadian media environment, etc.
The “foreigners” continue to flit through Freetown and for some reason I tend to meet up to share stories and nibble on news from the rest of the world. Last Saturday, I was part of a delegation that included a Danish woman from the labour movement… and the Sierra Leone Labour Congress. We were addressing the photographic union here and discussing training curriculum and pilot projects.
I’m also doing some ongoing training for the journalists at UN Radio through my friend, Sputnik. She’s the “chief” of that UN department and while traipsing through the UN building I met another Canadian, Reg, who’s in charge of UN staff security for Sierra Leone. Yes, it always helps to know people who know people who can keep us safe.
These relatively few interactions with “foreigners” often sustain and replenish my need for outside contact… and it’s fabulous to share stories and viewpoints on Sierra Leone, West Africa, and the rest of the world. It helps me feel more connected and less isolated.
Awaiting visitors,
Stephen
Check out the article at http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/world/la-fg-resort25-2009aug25,0,4391065.story
Excerpted from the L.A. Times… August 25, 2009 written by Scott Kraft
“On a recent weekend, several dozen visitors parked their SUVs in the packed-sand lot and strolled through tropical stands of palm trees to the beach. Young village workers, some barefoot and others in sandals, took food and drink orders from bathers relaxing on the beach. In the restaurant's open-air kitchen, Bendu and his crew chopped tomatoes, onions and garlic for the fish marinade and placed skewers of barracuda and shrimp on the grill. A large pot of freshly cut potatoes bubbled in oil over a wood fire. The restaurant serves whatever the fishermen catch -- for less than $10 a plate, including fries or rice.”
“Among the day-trippers that Sunday was the U.N. secretary-general's special representative and his son, a Canadian journalist teaching in Sierra Leone, Dutch relief workers and half a dozen seminary students from Nigeria, Guinea, Indonesia and Ghana.”
I’m the “Canadian journalist teaching in Sierra Leone” and I spent the afternoon with Scott and the photographer, Liz, at the beach… my usual place of Sunday worship. (although, I have to admit, the heavy rains have dampened my worship ceremonies)
Later that week, I had dinner with Scott and Liz at the Country Lodge hotel, (I’ve written about that place before) where they were staying in grand luxury, and shared an evening of journalistic triumphs and trials here in Sierra Leone.
I should also mention that I had another dinner at “the Lodge” with a delegation from War Child International who were here working on some humanitarian project. Among the group was a Canadian photographer and a “rising or emerging” pop singer named Sy-ria (or something like that) who grew up here but is now living and working in Vancouver. Ah… a taste of “home conversation” about hockey, Stephen Harper, the Canadian media environment, etc.
The “foreigners” continue to flit through Freetown and for some reason I tend to meet up to share stories and nibble on news from the rest of the world. Last Saturday, I was part of a delegation that included a Danish woman from the labour movement… and the Sierra Leone Labour Congress. We were addressing the photographic union here and discussing training curriculum and pilot projects.
I’m also doing some ongoing training for the journalists at UN Radio through my friend, Sputnik. She’s the “chief” of that UN department and while traipsing through the UN building I met another Canadian, Reg, who’s in charge of UN staff security for Sierra Leone. Yes, it always helps to know people who know people who can keep us safe.
These relatively few interactions with “foreigners” often sustain and replenish my need for outside contact… and it’s fabulous to share stories and viewpoints on Sierra Leone, West Africa, and the rest of the world. It helps me feel more connected and less isolated.
Awaiting visitors,
Stephen
Friday, August 28, 2009
The power of words…
We are all aware of the power of the pen – or in many cases the potency of the pixel. Words have the power to enlighten, no question, but they can also be used to confuse… used for good and for evil. I’m not talking about a language barrier – this time. I’m talking about jargon… it’s rampant and annoying and confusing.
And, all you have to do is randomly list these “jargon-y” words… and somehow donors give, NGOs salivate, politicians are elected and the “development community” grows. I sometimes feel like I should create a document listing all these jargon words with instructions to order them any way you see fit…
For example… “Please use these words, in any order, when considering our development organization for funding… capacity building, stakeholders, facilitating civil society, NGOs, INGOs, organizational, structural development, training, engagement methodology, implement, consortium, humanitarian initiatives, strategic objectives, engaging project affected peoples, opening dialogue…” Well, you get the picture. None of this makes any sense but look at what “makes sense” to those involved here.
From a vacancy advertisement in Premier News, issue 446.
“… to undertake a conflict sensitivity capacity assessment of a consortium of NGOs and to review/document Case Studies on Conflict Sensitive Approaches (CSA) in Sierra Leone. The consultancy will develop an Assessment Methodology; provide expert support to the Consortium members during CSA self-assessment, setting Change Objectives and developing partner agency Capacity Building Plans.”
Have your eyes glazed over yet? By the second sentence you should be fully lulled into a hypnotic trance… and then, almost subconsciously, I hit you with my funding request.
Here’s a quote from a funding application I received… Oh my, what am I supposed to think?
“… is intended to strengthen the practice of SGBV (something to do with gender-based violence – or wife-beating, more specifically) sensitivity throughout and beyond a broad consortium of humanitarian, peace-building and multi-mandate development NGOs.”
Perhaps it is a language barrier… pontificating beyond understanding as a way of achieving one’s end and sometimes filling one’s belly. Yikes.
From “ENCISS – Enhancing the Interaction and Interface between Civil Society and the State to improve poor peoples lives (ENCISS),
The purpose of the ENCISS Programme is the increased capacity of representative civil society to participate in, influence, contribute to and monitor the Poverty Reduction Strategy and Local Government policy, planning and implementation, and strengthen capacity of the Government of Sierra Leone to engage in constructive dialogue with civil society within these policy frameworks. The focus of ENCISS will be improving the interface between state and non-state actors.”
Please forgive my innocence and ignorance… but honestly, what are these people really doing? Say what you mean and communicate it clearly for the rest of us, please!
Searching for clarity – beyond the gobbledegook, blather, chatter, prattle, drivel, double-talk, gibberish and development-speak.
Stephen
And, all you have to do is randomly list these “jargon-y” words… and somehow donors give, NGOs salivate, politicians are elected and the “development community” grows. I sometimes feel like I should create a document listing all these jargon words with instructions to order them any way you see fit…
For example… “Please use these words, in any order, when considering our development organization for funding… capacity building, stakeholders, facilitating civil society, NGOs, INGOs, organizational, structural development, training, engagement methodology, implement, consortium, humanitarian initiatives, strategic objectives, engaging project affected peoples, opening dialogue…” Well, you get the picture. None of this makes any sense but look at what “makes sense” to those involved here.
From a vacancy advertisement in Premier News, issue 446.
“… to undertake a conflict sensitivity capacity assessment of a consortium of NGOs and to review/document Case Studies on Conflict Sensitive Approaches (CSA) in Sierra Leone. The consultancy will develop an Assessment Methodology; provide expert support to the Consortium members during CSA self-assessment, setting Change Objectives and developing partner agency Capacity Building Plans.”
Have your eyes glazed over yet? By the second sentence you should be fully lulled into a hypnotic trance… and then, almost subconsciously, I hit you with my funding request.
Here’s a quote from a funding application I received… Oh my, what am I supposed to think?
“… is intended to strengthen the practice of SGBV (something to do with gender-based violence – or wife-beating, more specifically) sensitivity throughout and beyond a broad consortium of humanitarian, peace-building and multi-mandate development NGOs.”
Perhaps it is a language barrier… pontificating beyond understanding as a way of achieving one’s end and sometimes filling one’s belly. Yikes.
From “ENCISS – Enhancing the Interaction and Interface between Civil Society and the State to improve poor peoples lives (ENCISS),
The purpose of the ENCISS Programme is the increased capacity of representative civil society to participate in, influence, contribute to and monitor the Poverty Reduction Strategy and Local Government policy, planning and implementation, and strengthen capacity of the Government of Sierra Leone to engage in constructive dialogue with civil society within these policy frameworks. The focus of ENCISS will be improving the interface between state and non-state actors.”
Please forgive my innocence and ignorance… but honestly, what are these people really doing? Say what you mean and communicate it clearly for the rest of us, please!
Searching for clarity – beyond the gobbledegook, blather, chatter, prattle, drivel, double-talk, gibberish and development-speak.
Stephen
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Shooters take to the streets...
No, no, not "that" kind of shooting...I mean shooting of photographs - or "snapping" as it's called here.
I've been doing workshops on photographic technique, composition, business and ethics for the Indigenous Photographers Union of Sierra Leone and the final "class" ended with a fieldtrip through town. Can you imagine... 60 photographers gathering at the Congo Cross junction to march and snap down to the Youyie Building - where most of the government ministries are located. It was a photographic extravaganza.
There we were... snapping, talking to people, getting people to pose, stopping traffic, doing portraits of police officers, snapping billboards and graffiti... shooting buildings... and wrapping up our workshop series.
It was an awesome sight... and it was the first of its kind in Sierra Leone. Wow... it almost felt like a "movement" or the blossoming of an industry. Very cool.
Most - probably 90% of the photographers still shoot with colour film (there's no such thing as B&W film here anymore) and most photographers are using film cameras that are at least ten years old. Manual focus, manual wind, no light meters, some with no controls or dials that work... and yet we made it all work. I'll be doing a "post-workshop evaluation" next week where we'll be looking at several samples from each of the photographers... so that should be interesting. Then, the Union wants to enlarge and frame the best photos for exhibition. Wow. What a good idea.
It was awesome and I'll try to upload some images from the fieldtrip.
Gotta love technology... or the lack of it.
Stephen
I've been doing workshops on photographic technique, composition, business and ethics for the Indigenous Photographers Union of Sierra Leone and the final "class" ended with a fieldtrip through town. Can you imagine... 60 photographers gathering at the Congo Cross junction to march and snap down to the Youyie Building - where most of the government ministries are located. It was a photographic extravaganza.
There we were... snapping, talking to people, getting people to pose, stopping traffic, doing portraits of police officers, snapping billboards and graffiti... shooting buildings... and wrapping up our workshop series.
It was an awesome sight... and it was the first of its kind in Sierra Leone. Wow... it almost felt like a "movement" or the blossoming of an industry. Very cool.
Most - probably 90% of the photographers still shoot with colour film (there's no such thing as B&W film here anymore) and most photographers are using film cameras that are at least ten years old. Manual focus, manual wind, no light meters, some with no controls or dials that work... and yet we made it all work. I'll be doing a "post-workshop evaluation" next week where we'll be looking at several samples from each of the photographers... so that should be interesting. Then, the Union wants to enlarge and frame the best photos for exhibition. Wow. What a good idea.
It was awesome and I'll try to upload some images from the fieldtrip.
Gotta love technology... or the lack of it.
Stephen
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Two sides of the same coin…
The statistics don’t lie… Sierra Leone ranks among the lowest of the low (sometimes sitting on the very bottom) of almost all United Nations, World Bank and development analysis. From infant and maternal mortality to unemployment… From poverty levels to illiteracy rates… From average life expectancy to gross domestic product and exports… Sierra Leone is a desperate place.
But, there’s a flip side to the Sierra Leone coin and I’ve had a brief glimpse at that burgeoning underside. Actually, it’s the top-side of the coin… and it remains elusive and mostly hidden behind high, razor-wired, concrete walls and darkened SUV windows. There is a small but elite group… mostly foreign, among our populace. They are here… preserved and rarefied.
Country Lodge, a rather understated moniker for the country’s swankiest hotel, overlooks the city and out over the ocean from the heights of Hill Station. If you’ve got enough money or the right connections, you’ll be invited up the bumpy, winding road to the reserved heights of western amenities. No bucket baths in this place… gleaming tile, tablecloths, western food and an outdoor pool and hot tub are available for about $150 a night. The price alone prevents most locals from visiting… so only the well-heeled traveller and occasional UN or international aid group can afford to wine and dine there.
I managed to wrangle an invitation to a reception at Country Lodge hosted by UNICEF for the visiting African director… and enjoyed “nibbles” and a double gin-and-tonic on their bill. It was my first visit to the place and I realized, zipping up the hill and through the monstrous iron gates on the back of an okada (little motorcycle taxi), was probably a touch inappropriate… given the lines of white SUVs and untarnished luxury motorcars. I did get a few looks but have realized that the colour of my skin allows me a certain flexibility among the glitterati.
And speaking of glitter… Sierra Leone is home to some of the world’s largest diamond, gold, bauxite and mineral mines. In fact, the Kono district in the south east of the country is infamous for its foreign-owned diamond mining. (the movie “Blood Diamond” is based on the plentiful diamonds that helped fund dictators, rebellions and heinous acts of suffering) Apparently, throughout the 70s and pre-conflict, diamonds could be found on the streets and paths following a heavy rain. The interesting thing is that Sierra Leone has this incredible wealth – gold and diamonds – only a scratch beneath the dirt surface and yet people and villages are dirt poor. The money is there but it’s quickly siphoned away by a very few wealthy mining companies and individuals.
The country’s natural resources are plentiful – lumber (although there are now environmental factors contributing to the industry’s downfall), fruit and vegetables, spices, minerals, fertile grounds, sunny skies and warm temperatures yet there’s almost no industry or manufacturing here. For example, mangoes and coconut grow everywhere and 95% of the crops are wasted or rot on the trees. I regularly buy mangoes on the street where they’re sold for pennies but nothing is refined or finished… You’d think I’d be able to get a fresh, delicious mango fruit drink or shake somewhere… but no… I end up buying stale-dated Ceres tetra paks instead.
Speaking of manufacturing and industrialization… that reminds me of another one of the more glaring examples of this two-sided coin. Electicity – or the lack of power to the people, as I’ve written before. The President keeps saying, “oh, it’s coming next month, next week, tomorrow,” but it’s been almost 25 years in the making including several regime and government changes along the way. It seems there are certain areas of Freetown that have been designated “essential” including the president’s compound, the State House, a bank or two and several of the more infamous hotels. Country Lodge, for example, is on the same hill as the president’s home and thus enjoys almost 24-hour electricity. I should add that many of the houses I passed on my way up the hill were without power. Infrastructure, including power lines, are rare commodities.
Some areas in the western part of Freetown have more power than others. I know one area that enjoys about eight hours a day of NPA (National Power Authority) electricity… and coincidentally that neighbourhood is up Wilkinson Road and home to many UN staffers and aid groups. The east, on the other hand, has very little electricity and is home to the poorest areas in the country. It seems you have to live in the right area… or on the “right” side of the tracks to enjoy even the slightest flickers of electricity.
There’s a bar at the western most end of Lumley Beach called the Atlantic, appropriately enough, and it’s run by an ex-Brit named J.W. Okay, I’ll admit, I’ve been there a couple of times and while it’s no where near as famous Paddy’s (as depicted in the movie “Blood Diamonds”) the Atlantic is still a hot spot especially among the ex-pat community, UN workers, NGOs, the Lebanese and those of us with lighter skins. The bar sits on the sand and overlooks the beach. And, you wouldn’t believe the sunsets… incredible. Again, the only locals you’ll find there are the staff and the sex-trade workers.
The other hot spot, besides Paddy’s, is a place called the “Office” that features another gorgeous view of the ocean. It’s a new place, lots of chrome and glass, but costs Le15,000 ($3.00) to get in. I’ve been told “it’s the place to see and be seen” which is probably why I haven’t bothered to cough up the entrance fee. (I had a tour of the place one afternoon when I got lost in that area) And, if you’re truly a Sierra Leoneon a-list type, you can visit the “whiskey bar” (Le150,000 entrance) that apparently offers a selection of over 100 imported whiskeys.
Interestingly, the majority of local businesses are owned by Indians, Chinese or Lebanese men. There’s the expected racism between each ethnic group and Sierra Leoneons… not to mention the inherent Sierra Leoneon tribal divide between the Fullers, the Mende, the Mandingo and the Temene. These divides create economic disparity as well. And, it’s not uncommon to see Indian families driving to and from shops in fancy-ish cars. And, it’s quite common to see Lebanese families peering from their balconies down onto the busy streets in the west of Freetown. I’ve heard tell that the Indians and Lebanese live in a world unto themselves… separate and distinct and somehow above it all.
As with any city in the world… there are those with money/power and those without. The disparity between these groups in Sierra Leone is huge. On the one hand you have the blind beggars (lead around by small children) in the streets… asking for money from the occasional Hummer or dark-window SUV. The thing is, there are very few Hummers around and a great number of amputees, disabled or elderly beggars.
I live somewhere in the middle… occasionally riding in a white SUV and sporadically asking to borrow Le5,000 from colleagues for a taxi back to my apartment. I can’t say I live on both sides of the coin but I occasionally catch glimpses of each side as it spins in the air.
Counting coins,
Stephen
But, there’s a flip side to the Sierra Leone coin and I’ve had a brief glimpse at that burgeoning underside. Actually, it’s the top-side of the coin… and it remains elusive and mostly hidden behind high, razor-wired, concrete walls and darkened SUV windows. There is a small but elite group… mostly foreign, among our populace. They are here… preserved and rarefied.
Country Lodge, a rather understated moniker for the country’s swankiest hotel, overlooks the city and out over the ocean from the heights of Hill Station. If you’ve got enough money or the right connections, you’ll be invited up the bumpy, winding road to the reserved heights of western amenities. No bucket baths in this place… gleaming tile, tablecloths, western food and an outdoor pool and hot tub are available for about $150 a night. The price alone prevents most locals from visiting… so only the well-heeled traveller and occasional UN or international aid group can afford to wine and dine there.
I managed to wrangle an invitation to a reception at Country Lodge hosted by UNICEF for the visiting African director… and enjoyed “nibbles” and a double gin-and-tonic on their bill. It was my first visit to the place and I realized, zipping up the hill and through the monstrous iron gates on the back of an okada (little motorcycle taxi), was probably a touch inappropriate… given the lines of white SUVs and untarnished luxury motorcars. I did get a few looks but have realized that the colour of my skin allows me a certain flexibility among the glitterati.
And speaking of glitter… Sierra Leone is home to some of the world’s largest diamond, gold, bauxite and mineral mines. In fact, the Kono district in the south east of the country is infamous for its foreign-owned diamond mining. (the movie “Blood Diamond” is based on the plentiful diamonds that helped fund dictators, rebellions and heinous acts of suffering) Apparently, throughout the 70s and pre-conflict, diamonds could be found on the streets and paths following a heavy rain. The interesting thing is that Sierra Leone has this incredible wealth – gold and diamonds – only a scratch beneath the dirt surface and yet people and villages are dirt poor. The money is there but it’s quickly siphoned away by a very few wealthy mining companies and individuals.
The country’s natural resources are plentiful – lumber (although there are now environmental factors contributing to the industry’s downfall), fruit and vegetables, spices, minerals, fertile grounds, sunny skies and warm temperatures yet there’s almost no industry or manufacturing here. For example, mangoes and coconut grow everywhere and 95% of the crops are wasted or rot on the trees. I regularly buy mangoes on the street where they’re sold for pennies but nothing is refined or finished… You’d think I’d be able to get a fresh, delicious mango fruit drink or shake somewhere… but no… I end up buying stale-dated Ceres tetra paks instead.
Speaking of manufacturing and industrialization… that reminds me of another one of the more glaring examples of this two-sided coin. Electicity – or the lack of power to the people, as I’ve written before. The President keeps saying, “oh, it’s coming next month, next week, tomorrow,” but it’s been almost 25 years in the making including several regime and government changes along the way. It seems there are certain areas of Freetown that have been designated “essential” including the president’s compound, the State House, a bank or two and several of the more infamous hotels. Country Lodge, for example, is on the same hill as the president’s home and thus enjoys almost 24-hour electricity. I should add that many of the houses I passed on my way up the hill were without power. Infrastructure, including power lines, are rare commodities.
Some areas in the western part of Freetown have more power than others. I know one area that enjoys about eight hours a day of NPA (National Power Authority) electricity… and coincidentally that neighbourhood is up Wilkinson Road and home to many UN staffers and aid groups. The east, on the other hand, has very little electricity and is home to the poorest areas in the country. It seems you have to live in the right area… or on the “right” side of the tracks to enjoy even the slightest flickers of electricity.
There’s a bar at the western most end of Lumley Beach called the Atlantic, appropriately enough, and it’s run by an ex-Brit named J.W. Okay, I’ll admit, I’ve been there a couple of times and while it’s no where near as famous Paddy’s (as depicted in the movie “Blood Diamonds”) the Atlantic is still a hot spot especially among the ex-pat community, UN workers, NGOs, the Lebanese and those of us with lighter skins. The bar sits on the sand and overlooks the beach. And, you wouldn’t believe the sunsets… incredible. Again, the only locals you’ll find there are the staff and the sex-trade workers.
The other hot spot, besides Paddy’s, is a place called the “Office” that features another gorgeous view of the ocean. It’s a new place, lots of chrome and glass, but costs Le15,000 ($3.00) to get in. I’ve been told “it’s the place to see and be seen” which is probably why I haven’t bothered to cough up the entrance fee. (I had a tour of the place one afternoon when I got lost in that area) And, if you’re truly a Sierra Leoneon a-list type, you can visit the “whiskey bar” (Le150,000 entrance) that apparently offers a selection of over 100 imported whiskeys.
Interestingly, the majority of local businesses are owned by Indians, Chinese or Lebanese men. There’s the expected racism between each ethnic group and Sierra Leoneons… not to mention the inherent Sierra Leoneon tribal divide between the Fullers, the Mende, the Mandingo and the Temene. These divides create economic disparity as well. And, it’s not uncommon to see Indian families driving to and from shops in fancy-ish cars. And, it’s quite common to see Lebanese families peering from their balconies down onto the busy streets in the west of Freetown. I’ve heard tell that the Indians and Lebanese live in a world unto themselves… separate and distinct and somehow above it all.
As with any city in the world… there are those with money/power and those without. The disparity between these groups in Sierra Leone is huge. On the one hand you have the blind beggars (lead around by small children) in the streets… asking for money from the occasional Hummer or dark-window SUV. The thing is, there are very few Hummers around and a great number of amputees, disabled or elderly beggars.
I live somewhere in the middle… occasionally riding in a white SUV and sporadically asking to borrow Le5,000 from colleagues for a taxi back to my apartment. I can’t say I live on both sides of the coin but I occasionally catch glimpses of each side as it spins in the air.
Counting coins,
Stephen
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Sharing the pie...
One of the most disconcerting things about Freetown and Sierra Leone is the status of “the media” or, to be more specific, the unprofessional attitude of journalists, editors and media owners. Don’t get me wrong… there are some very ethical, responsible and diligent reporters around. But, they seem to be in the minority. As a result, the public perception of reporters and the newspapers and radio stations they work for is very low. People are either threatened by or disgusted by reporters… many of whom are young, only functionally literate, unpaid or severely underpaid, untrained, unskilled and usually hungry.
Let me back up a little bit. The post-conflict, fragile state of this country has fostered a ton of international aid, a proliferation of NGOs (legitimate and not), a tentative democratic government and an uncertain, sometimes frustrated attitude among its citizenry. In fact, I’ve inquired from several people about the current state of the country compared to conditions before the conflict throughout the 90s. To a one, they’ve all said, “things are the same if not worse.” Unemployment is a huge problem, poverty, hunger, strife, unhealthy living conditions are rampant, healthcare is almost non-existent, corruption at all levels is obvious and ever-present… marginalization is at its peak… and anger, frustration and fear are a scratch beneath the surface. This tenuous state contributes to all kinds of scams, corruption, deceits and downright plagues of mistrust, misapprehension and abuse.
Reporters and editors… indeed the entire media industry is not immune from these deceits, scams and abuse. And, I’m constantly amazed at how low reporters and editors will stoop to pocket a few Leones – for food, medicine and the basic necessities of life. Everyone here is out to make some extra money… however they can. How can I blame them? How can one judge when they “have to” in order to live… And, wouldn’t I try the same things if I were in their shoes or shacks?
I’ve compiled a list, ever-growing it seems, of unethical and unprofessional things reporters and editors do to make a living… unfortunately contributing to the fear and loathing of public perception. I’m amazed at the brilliance of their scams… For example, let’s start with reporters. It’s not uncommon or unheard of for a reporter to approach a businessperson, show their media ID card, and demand money NOT to write a negative story about the business or personal life of the business-owner. Yes, it’s outright blackmail… and it’ll cost you Le50,000 (about $30 CDN) to escape a tarnished reputation and potential loss of income. And, that’s a mild one.
I had an editor tell me about an instance where a reporter sniffed out an Indian business-owner who was allegedly having affairs with young boys working in his shop. Of course, there was no proof, no verification, no credibility to the story but four journalists approached the Indian man and accused him of “being a homosexual and paedophile”. The accused paid off the four reporters. Within a week, however, the story appeared in three other newspapers… The unsubstantiated story was “sold” by the four original reporters to other reporters, who “broke” the story, which was untrue from the beginning.
The opposite happens as well. A reporter will write something positive, an advertorial in essence, about a business or a politician, and they’ll take the published article back to the subject and demand a “token” for his services.
Of course, reporters or editors are paid by politicians, sometimes, to ignore stories… “Don’t report this corruption, breach of trust or whatever, and I’ll pay you Le100,000.” Or, more often than not, reporters, editors or publishers are paid a monthly stipend to support a politician or political party. Independent media is a long-forgotten ideal… shoved aside by the necessity to feed one’s family.
Or, here’s another not-so-ingenious scam… a reporter will read a story in a competitor’s paper, copy the article, put his name on the piece and submit it to his own editor the following day… Yes, plagiarism is rampant whether it’s stealing something off another reporter or off the radio or via the internet. In fact, it’s not uncommon to read stories straight from the BBC website or Yahoo news… and it’s so blatantly obvious – full sentences, proper grammar, story structure, etc. – things that don’t usually happen in local reports.
NGOs unfortunately contribute to many unethical practices in the media… In order to get a story or press release into the papers or on the radio, an NGO or aid organization will call a press conference… where they offer the reporters “transport” money, a free meal and a one-sided, biased press release praising their own work. Often the press release is published verbatim and never verified, properly sourced or credited. Among the industry, this is referred to as “coasting”.
Organizations will often hand-deliver press conference invitations to media offices (there’s no postal system here and very few folks have e-mail or regularly check their e-mail accounts). I recently discovered that a receptionist (sort of) was holding back these invitations and “selling” them to the reporters… If the receptionist or front line security person suspected an invitation would pay significant “transport” money, they’d offer them to the reporters for a fee. Again… everyone wants his or her piece of the pie – to the point where the pie cannot sustain anyone.
I recently hosted a community forum on “the future of media in Sierra Leone”. In attendance were community members, reporters, editors, friends of the media and some government types. When I began my opening and introductory lecture, I was confronted by a bobbing, throbbing video camera… that captured almost the entire workshop, including the three other presenters and footage of the audience. Ostensibly, the video was for a local television station and was to air as “news” later that night. (Workshops are considered “news” here… despite the fact that the content of most workshops, mine included, is not “news”) And, sure enough, a segment of the workshop did appear on the TV news. (There are only two TV channels in Freetown, one is government owned and operated and the other is a private organization owned by a Sierra Leonean in the U.S.)
But, what was interesting… and ingenious… was what else the reporter did with all his footage from the workshop. He approached my organization and sold the country director a CD copy of the workshop. Any NGO, including JHR, likes to have records of our activities so the market is ripe for video or print “proof” of activity. Then, he sold copies to each of the presenters… smart, talented people from radio, the university and from a branch of the government. And, got a free lunch at the workshop, he got paid from his TV station and he probably made close to Le400,000 from “my” one-day workshop. I should’ve asked for my “cut”…
Here’s another scam from the TV world… When a reporter is asked to attend a function, they’ll often say, “I have to buy batteries and tape first,” which is a not-so-obvious way of saying, “pay me first and I’ll show up to record and report your event, function or activity.”
Interestingly, when an editor suspects a reporter of getting paid to write or produce a story, they usually want their “cut”. For example, a reporter will write up the proceedings of a press conference… and receive Le50,000 from the NGO or organization. Some editors will demand their Le10,000 – Le20,000 cut of the proceeds in order to publish the story. Or, if an editor smells a blackmailed piece… he’ll demand his piece of the pie to publish the article. It’s a vicious cycle… or downward spiral.
Because most reporters, radio and newspaper, don’t type or don’t have access to a computer, an organization will “employ” a typist to translate a story from handwriting to print-ready copy. This typist, who doesn’t earn much, will charge the reporters to type out their stories. The reporters are handcuffed by their inability to type or access a computer. I should add that in most cases these typewritten versions of articles are full of spelling mistakes, typos, little or no punctuation, etc. And, no one does much proofreading…
Of course, the age-old battle between advertising sales and editorial purity continues… similar to publishing constraints in western media, I might add. If there’s no advertising, a newspaper won’t publish. If an advertiser wants a feature article, they get it – if they pay. If an advertiser wants a full-page ad on page three (an especially prized media placement) they get it – if they pay. If an NGO wants to issue a press release or public service announcement (PSA) on the radio – they pay. Media owners, editors and reporters will bend over backwards to get ads… selling the soul of reputable media, just like we do in the west. The bottom line, money and profits, are still the driving force of media industries around the world. Desperation leads to all kinds of unethical contributions to the media, especially in Sierra Leone.
In most newspapers, reporters are considered “freelancers” meaning they get paid for the story if or when it runs in the paper. I’ve heard tell of editors receiving a reporter’s copy and re-writing the piece, putting their own byline at the top of the page… They then refuse to pay the reporter. Instead, the editor receives the freelance payment and the reporter won’t eat that night.
I’m not exactly preaching from an elevated podium when I talk about unethical reporting or pure journalism. I’ve accepted gifts or graft from advertisers (nothing big like a car or house…) But, I once received a “magic bullet” blender from an advertiser… and I’ve been on press junkets hosted by public relations firms. In fact, I still use a jacket I got from Canon cameras while shooting at the Olympics several years ago. And, I’m usually happy to drink the coffee and eat a donut at Canadian press conferences. So, I’m not pure… and don’t proclaim to be entirely above accepting some media perks along the way. And, there’s no telling what I’d do if it came down to feeding my family or providing medication to loved ones. But, what I’ve seen in Sierra Leone would make most western editors, publishers and media owners cringe in disbelief.
But, let’s look at the reality of the media industry here… the pie is small… many people need to eat from that pie… and it’s perhaps wise to divide it up so more people can eat.
Searching for solutions,
Stephen
Let me back up a little bit. The post-conflict, fragile state of this country has fostered a ton of international aid, a proliferation of NGOs (legitimate and not), a tentative democratic government and an uncertain, sometimes frustrated attitude among its citizenry. In fact, I’ve inquired from several people about the current state of the country compared to conditions before the conflict throughout the 90s. To a one, they’ve all said, “things are the same if not worse.” Unemployment is a huge problem, poverty, hunger, strife, unhealthy living conditions are rampant, healthcare is almost non-existent, corruption at all levels is obvious and ever-present… marginalization is at its peak… and anger, frustration and fear are a scratch beneath the surface. This tenuous state contributes to all kinds of scams, corruption, deceits and downright plagues of mistrust, misapprehension and abuse.
Reporters and editors… indeed the entire media industry is not immune from these deceits, scams and abuse. And, I’m constantly amazed at how low reporters and editors will stoop to pocket a few Leones – for food, medicine and the basic necessities of life. Everyone here is out to make some extra money… however they can. How can I blame them? How can one judge when they “have to” in order to live… And, wouldn’t I try the same things if I were in their shoes or shacks?
I’ve compiled a list, ever-growing it seems, of unethical and unprofessional things reporters and editors do to make a living… unfortunately contributing to the fear and loathing of public perception. I’m amazed at the brilliance of their scams… For example, let’s start with reporters. It’s not uncommon or unheard of for a reporter to approach a businessperson, show their media ID card, and demand money NOT to write a negative story about the business or personal life of the business-owner. Yes, it’s outright blackmail… and it’ll cost you Le50,000 (about $30 CDN) to escape a tarnished reputation and potential loss of income. And, that’s a mild one.
I had an editor tell me about an instance where a reporter sniffed out an Indian business-owner who was allegedly having affairs with young boys working in his shop. Of course, there was no proof, no verification, no credibility to the story but four journalists approached the Indian man and accused him of “being a homosexual and paedophile”. The accused paid off the four reporters. Within a week, however, the story appeared in three other newspapers… The unsubstantiated story was “sold” by the four original reporters to other reporters, who “broke” the story, which was untrue from the beginning.
The opposite happens as well. A reporter will write something positive, an advertorial in essence, about a business or a politician, and they’ll take the published article back to the subject and demand a “token” for his services.
Of course, reporters or editors are paid by politicians, sometimes, to ignore stories… “Don’t report this corruption, breach of trust or whatever, and I’ll pay you Le100,000.” Or, more often than not, reporters, editors or publishers are paid a monthly stipend to support a politician or political party. Independent media is a long-forgotten ideal… shoved aside by the necessity to feed one’s family.
Or, here’s another not-so-ingenious scam… a reporter will read a story in a competitor’s paper, copy the article, put his name on the piece and submit it to his own editor the following day… Yes, plagiarism is rampant whether it’s stealing something off another reporter or off the radio or via the internet. In fact, it’s not uncommon to read stories straight from the BBC website or Yahoo news… and it’s so blatantly obvious – full sentences, proper grammar, story structure, etc. – things that don’t usually happen in local reports.
NGOs unfortunately contribute to many unethical practices in the media… In order to get a story or press release into the papers or on the radio, an NGO or aid organization will call a press conference… where they offer the reporters “transport” money, a free meal and a one-sided, biased press release praising their own work. Often the press release is published verbatim and never verified, properly sourced or credited. Among the industry, this is referred to as “coasting”.
Organizations will often hand-deliver press conference invitations to media offices (there’s no postal system here and very few folks have e-mail or regularly check their e-mail accounts). I recently discovered that a receptionist (sort of) was holding back these invitations and “selling” them to the reporters… If the receptionist or front line security person suspected an invitation would pay significant “transport” money, they’d offer them to the reporters for a fee. Again… everyone wants his or her piece of the pie – to the point where the pie cannot sustain anyone.
I recently hosted a community forum on “the future of media in Sierra Leone”. In attendance were community members, reporters, editors, friends of the media and some government types. When I began my opening and introductory lecture, I was confronted by a bobbing, throbbing video camera… that captured almost the entire workshop, including the three other presenters and footage of the audience. Ostensibly, the video was for a local television station and was to air as “news” later that night. (Workshops are considered “news” here… despite the fact that the content of most workshops, mine included, is not “news”) And, sure enough, a segment of the workshop did appear on the TV news. (There are only two TV channels in Freetown, one is government owned and operated and the other is a private organization owned by a Sierra Leonean in the U.S.)
But, what was interesting… and ingenious… was what else the reporter did with all his footage from the workshop. He approached my organization and sold the country director a CD copy of the workshop. Any NGO, including JHR, likes to have records of our activities so the market is ripe for video or print “proof” of activity. Then, he sold copies to each of the presenters… smart, talented people from radio, the university and from a branch of the government. And, got a free lunch at the workshop, he got paid from his TV station and he probably made close to Le400,000 from “my” one-day workshop. I should’ve asked for my “cut”…
Here’s another scam from the TV world… When a reporter is asked to attend a function, they’ll often say, “I have to buy batteries and tape first,” which is a not-so-obvious way of saying, “pay me first and I’ll show up to record and report your event, function or activity.”
Interestingly, when an editor suspects a reporter of getting paid to write or produce a story, they usually want their “cut”. For example, a reporter will write up the proceedings of a press conference… and receive Le50,000 from the NGO or organization. Some editors will demand their Le10,000 – Le20,000 cut of the proceeds in order to publish the story. Or, if an editor smells a blackmailed piece… he’ll demand his piece of the pie to publish the article. It’s a vicious cycle… or downward spiral.
Because most reporters, radio and newspaper, don’t type or don’t have access to a computer, an organization will “employ” a typist to translate a story from handwriting to print-ready copy. This typist, who doesn’t earn much, will charge the reporters to type out their stories. The reporters are handcuffed by their inability to type or access a computer. I should add that in most cases these typewritten versions of articles are full of spelling mistakes, typos, little or no punctuation, etc. And, no one does much proofreading…
Of course, the age-old battle between advertising sales and editorial purity continues… similar to publishing constraints in western media, I might add. If there’s no advertising, a newspaper won’t publish. If an advertiser wants a feature article, they get it – if they pay. If an advertiser wants a full-page ad on page three (an especially prized media placement) they get it – if they pay. If an NGO wants to issue a press release or public service announcement (PSA) on the radio – they pay. Media owners, editors and reporters will bend over backwards to get ads… selling the soul of reputable media, just like we do in the west. The bottom line, money and profits, are still the driving force of media industries around the world. Desperation leads to all kinds of unethical contributions to the media, especially in Sierra Leone.
In most newspapers, reporters are considered “freelancers” meaning they get paid for the story if or when it runs in the paper. I’ve heard tell of editors receiving a reporter’s copy and re-writing the piece, putting their own byline at the top of the page… They then refuse to pay the reporter. Instead, the editor receives the freelance payment and the reporter won’t eat that night.
I’m not exactly preaching from an elevated podium when I talk about unethical reporting or pure journalism. I’ve accepted gifts or graft from advertisers (nothing big like a car or house…) But, I once received a “magic bullet” blender from an advertiser… and I’ve been on press junkets hosted by public relations firms. In fact, I still use a jacket I got from Canon cameras while shooting at the Olympics several years ago. And, I’m usually happy to drink the coffee and eat a donut at Canadian press conferences. So, I’m not pure… and don’t proclaim to be entirely above accepting some media perks along the way. And, there’s no telling what I’d do if it came down to feeding my family or providing medication to loved ones. But, what I’ve seen in Sierra Leone would make most western editors, publishers and media owners cringe in disbelief.
But, let’s look at the reality of the media industry here… the pie is small… many people need to eat from that pie… and it’s perhaps wise to divide it up so more people can eat.
Searching for solutions,
Stephen
Saturday, July 4, 2009
The rainy season…
Saturday morning… and I can’t help comparing and contrasting recent activities, weather, locations and company with how and where I used to spend my Saturdays. As you can imagine, it’s very different here in Freetown. There are times when I miss my Canadian homeland… Saturdays are one of those times. What I wouldn’t give for a Saturday morning Globe and Mail newspaper or the Toronto Star’s crossword puzzle and a freshly brewed cup of coffee. And, a quiet walk through the streets or along a park path… those are some of the things I miss, especially today.
I was out very late last night – Friday – following an evening, candlelit dinner (infrequent power here, remember) with a young journalist and his family and a party closer to the beach at the other end of Freetown. The dinner, a delicious mix of ground cassava leaves, palm oil, spicy peppers, chicken (a very expensive commodity) and fish, was quite wonderful. Of course, all that was served over the ever-present heap of rice. Most Sierra Leoneons will tell you they haven’t eaten till they’ve had their plate of rice for the day. After dinner, I climbed down the “mountain” to grab a taxi to attend a party at another friend’s house. The party, a casual collection of UN Radio folks, was very interesting and festivities didn’t wrap up till well into the morning hours. Dinners and parties aren’t the norm here but it’s been a long, gruelling week and tippling with journalists, locals and some of the intelligentsia of Freetown was very nice.
It was great to get calls from Isaac and my parents this week… after learning the way around the “ban” on calls to Sierra Leone is to use an international calling card. After two months here, these connections (and e-mails from friends) have become salves to some of the bumps and scrapes inherent with living in Africa. And, noting Canada Day here in Freetown was a slightly lonely entry in my daily diary. The honourary Canadian consul, Frances Fortune, is out of the country and there are scant few other Canadians around… so the day was spent scrambling from one meeting to another, organizing workshops, tracking down NGOs, waiting for government ministers, etc. The American Embassy and the numerous folks involved in their work here held countless events for their July 4th celebrations. I’ve been representing JHR, and Canada I guess, by attending music nights, cocktail parties, silly soirées and other arrogant “red-white-and-blue” bashes.
Other events of the week included the incessant memorials to Michael Jackson contrasted against the passing of two local journalists – one in a car accident up country and the other from typhoid – a stark reminder of the fragility of existence. Just another week, as they say…
It’s “raining buckets” here this morning after a night of storms, howling wind, thunder and lightening. The water cascaded in its impression of Niagara Falls off the roof of the house crashing onto the patio outside my window. And the roar of the wind through the coconut trees was a wall of loud static drowning the groan of the generator from next door. In the first light of morning, awoken again by the crowing rooster, I sit on the verandah watching the rain stream from the thick grey skies.
The weather has finally changed… and the rainy season is upon us. I asked my colleague, Jordan, why the news shows here don’t have weather reports. His response was very funny… “Why, when all they’d say is ‘it’s hot today and it might rain’”. True enough. That, and the only weather station in Sierra Leone was destroyed during the war and hasn’t been replaced. The crumbling shell of a satellite weather tower remains on the horizon but it records nothing and predicts nothing. But I suppose, just by looking up at it, one can predict… it’s either raining or cloudless and hot. Sky gazing… probably just as effective as any weather station…
Interestingly, there are clouds in the sky these days and they roll across the shoreline and up over the hills behind Freetown. Sometimes they’re ominous and at other times they seem to careen gently through the sky. I can’t tell if it’s about to rain or clear. Strange skies… and I’ve been told to always carry an umbrella because “we Sierra Leoneons never know when it’ll rain. It could come at any time.” And, I’ve been caught several times… dashing for the cover of a tin shack or concrete overhang. It’s not a cold rain and funnily enough it only adds to the humidity and heat. Within minutes of the rain cessation, it’s humid as heck… and the raindrops running down my back are quickly exchanged with beads of sweat.
Tomorrow is “beach day” as Sundays have become affectionately known. It’s my reprieve and solace from some of the hassles, noise, frustration and crowds of Freetown. Beach Two is our chosen destination and I’m looking forward to swimming, napping, reading, walking and quiet time. And, weather won’t play a factor… rain or shine – any day at the beach is a day well spent.
Pictures will follow, I promise.
Stephen
I was out very late last night – Friday – following an evening, candlelit dinner (infrequent power here, remember) with a young journalist and his family and a party closer to the beach at the other end of Freetown. The dinner, a delicious mix of ground cassava leaves, palm oil, spicy peppers, chicken (a very expensive commodity) and fish, was quite wonderful. Of course, all that was served over the ever-present heap of rice. Most Sierra Leoneons will tell you they haven’t eaten till they’ve had their plate of rice for the day. After dinner, I climbed down the “mountain” to grab a taxi to attend a party at another friend’s house. The party, a casual collection of UN Radio folks, was very interesting and festivities didn’t wrap up till well into the morning hours. Dinners and parties aren’t the norm here but it’s been a long, gruelling week and tippling with journalists, locals and some of the intelligentsia of Freetown was very nice.
It was great to get calls from Isaac and my parents this week… after learning the way around the “ban” on calls to Sierra Leone is to use an international calling card. After two months here, these connections (and e-mails from friends) have become salves to some of the bumps and scrapes inherent with living in Africa. And, noting Canada Day here in Freetown was a slightly lonely entry in my daily diary. The honourary Canadian consul, Frances Fortune, is out of the country and there are scant few other Canadians around… so the day was spent scrambling from one meeting to another, organizing workshops, tracking down NGOs, waiting for government ministers, etc. The American Embassy and the numerous folks involved in their work here held countless events for their July 4th celebrations. I’ve been representing JHR, and Canada I guess, by attending music nights, cocktail parties, silly soirées and other arrogant “red-white-and-blue” bashes.
Other events of the week included the incessant memorials to Michael Jackson contrasted against the passing of two local journalists – one in a car accident up country and the other from typhoid – a stark reminder of the fragility of existence. Just another week, as they say…
It’s “raining buckets” here this morning after a night of storms, howling wind, thunder and lightening. The water cascaded in its impression of Niagara Falls off the roof of the house crashing onto the patio outside my window. And the roar of the wind through the coconut trees was a wall of loud static drowning the groan of the generator from next door. In the first light of morning, awoken again by the crowing rooster, I sit on the verandah watching the rain stream from the thick grey skies.
The weather has finally changed… and the rainy season is upon us. I asked my colleague, Jordan, why the news shows here don’t have weather reports. His response was very funny… “Why, when all they’d say is ‘it’s hot today and it might rain’”. True enough. That, and the only weather station in Sierra Leone was destroyed during the war and hasn’t been replaced. The crumbling shell of a satellite weather tower remains on the horizon but it records nothing and predicts nothing. But I suppose, just by looking up at it, one can predict… it’s either raining or cloudless and hot. Sky gazing… probably just as effective as any weather station…
Interestingly, there are clouds in the sky these days and they roll across the shoreline and up over the hills behind Freetown. Sometimes they’re ominous and at other times they seem to careen gently through the sky. I can’t tell if it’s about to rain or clear. Strange skies… and I’ve been told to always carry an umbrella because “we Sierra Leoneons never know when it’ll rain. It could come at any time.” And, I’ve been caught several times… dashing for the cover of a tin shack or concrete overhang. It’s not a cold rain and funnily enough it only adds to the humidity and heat. Within minutes of the rain cessation, it’s humid as heck… and the raindrops running down my back are quickly exchanged with beads of sweat.
Tomorrow is “beach day” as Sundays have become affectionately known. It’s my reprieve and solace from some of the hassles, noise, frustration and crowds of Freetown. Beach Two is our chosen destination and I’m looking forward to swimming, napping, reading, walking and quiet time. And, weather won’t play a factor… rain or shine – any day at the beach is a day well spent.
Pictures will follow, I promise.
Stephen
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Shutting down the city…
It was an eerie drive into town last Monday… I’d gotten up especially early to head downtown to replace my phone – the most important communication device in Sierra Leone, before going to the jhr office. I managed to catch my landlords, Mala and Krishen, in their car and asked for a lift into the central part of Freetown, where they own and operate two electronic shops – Mala replaced my stolen phone at a decent cost… and I managed to salvage my phone number through a variety of folks at the mobile service provider, Zain. I’m re-united with beloved and despised phone service, in other words.
The drive from Aberdeen (my neighbourhood) through Murray Town, around Congo Cross and along Siaka Stevens Street was abnormally quiet. It was eerie… and there were more people on the street than normal. I didn’t think much of it but as we drove into the central part of downtown, Krishen noticed that many of the shops were still closed. Crowds of people were everywhere but auto-traffic, crazy motorcycles and jammed poda-podas were non-existent. The streets had been taken over by throngs of people.
Krishen, a very intelligent and sensitive man, noted the “difference” in front of his shop… and warned me, “Stephen, the shops are closed and there are too many people on the street… it could mean trouble. Stay close to the car, just in case.” Krishen and Mala were here through the conflicts in the 90s and have seen trouble in Freetown before… I took his advice very seriously.
However, I was curious… and things seemed safe. (no echoes of explosions or gunfire seemed to indicate things were relatively safe) I explored a little farther afield to discover that the Sierra Leone Drivers Union was holding a “special meeting” at the National Stadium in central Freetown. In effect, the taxi drivers, the poda-poda “boys” and every other commercial transport vehicle were “on strike” – for the morning at least. They’d gathered at the Stadium – thousands and thousands – to protest against police harassment/extortion, huge fines, unnecessary arrests and poor working conditions.
People were late for work. Students, in the midst of exams, were late getting to school. Shopkeepers didn’t open their shops in the morning. Street vendors were stuck far afield and didn’t make it to their street corners. And, it felt like the city had shut down…
Several government folks addressed the throngs of drivers and recognized the newly appointed/elected executive of the Drivers Union. The event had its problems but by 2:00 p.m. many of the commercial drivers were back on the street. Throughout the day, I could hear loud roars from very crowded poda-podas. People rode the roofs (street surfing) of the mini-vans. Taxis carrying up to ten people roared around town. And, I never knew if they were celebrating or protesting.
By Tuesday morning, the city had returned to its normal hustle and bustle complete with commercial taxis, poda-podas and motorcycles ushering people to and from work, school, shops, homes, etc.
What struck me on Monday was how precariously close this city and this country are to uprisings, violence, outbursts of anger or frustration, and so on. People, Krishen and Mala included, are wary of what might happen… what “differences” in their routines could mean… what to do IF something were to happen. They’ve seen the signs before… Being in a “post-conflict” culture means people have to be constantly vigilant, aware and ready to act – in whatever manner will keep them safe.
The city was held hostage on Monday morning… a reluctant victim of no public transport system, a reliance on commercial taxis, a sprawling geographic footprint, corruption, poverty and frustration. Thankfully the hostage-takers/commercial drivers released the city, without violence, later that day.
Learning to walk before running…
Stephen
The drive from Aberdeen (my neighbourhood) through Murray Town, around Congo Cross and along Siaka Stevens Street was abnormally quiet. It was eerie… and there were more people on the street than normal. I didn’t think much of it but as we drove into the central part of downtown, Krishen noticed that many of the shops were still closed. Crowds of people were everywhere but auto-traffic, crazy motorcycles and jammed poda-podas were non-existent. The streets had been taken over by throngs of people.
Krishen, a very intelligent and sensitive man, noted the “difference” in front of his shop… and warned me, “Stephen, the shops are closed and there are too many people on the street… it could mean trouble. Stay close to the car, just in case.” Krishen and Mala were here through the conflicts in the 90s and have seen trouble in Freetown before… I took his advice very seriously.
However, I was curious… and things seemed safe. (no echoes of explosions or gunfire seemed to indicate things were relatively safe) I explored a little farther afield to discover that the Sierra Leone Drivers Union was holding a “special meeting” at the National Stadium in central Freetown. In effect, the taxi drivers, the poda-poda “boys” and every other commercial transport vehicle were “on strike” – for the morning at least. They’d gathered at the Stadium – thousands and thousands – to protest against police harassment/extortion, huge fines, unnecessary arrests and poor working conditions.
People were late for work. Students, in the midst of exams, were late getting to school. Shopkeepers didn’t open their shops in the morning. Street vendors were stuck far afield and didn’t make it to their street corners. And, it felt like the city had shut down…
Several government folks addressed the throngs of drivers and recognized the newly appointed/elected executive of the Drivers Union. The event had its problems but by 2:00 p.m. many of the commercial drivers were back on the street. Throughout the day, I could hear loud roars from very crowded poda-podas. People rode the roofs (street surfing) of the mini-vans. Taxis carrying up to ten people roared around town. And, I never knew if they were celebrating or protesting.
By Tuesday morning, the city had returned to its normal hustle and bustle complete with commercial taxis, poda-podas and motorcycles ushering people to and from work, school, shops, homes, etc.
What struck me on Monday was how precariously close this city and this country are to uprisings, violence, outbursts of anger or frustration, and so on. People, Krishen and Mala included, are wary of what might happen… what “differences” in their routines could mean… what to do IF something were to happen. They’ve seen the signs before… Being in a “post-conflict” culture means people have to be constantly vigilant, aware and ready to act – in whatever manner will keep them safe.
The city was held hostage on Monday morning… a reluctant victim of no public transport system, a reliance on commercial taxis, a sprawling geographic footprint, corruption, poverty and frustration. Thankfully the hostage-takers/commercial drivers released the city, without violence, later that day.
Learning to walk before running…
Stephen
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
The language barrier...
It’s “sort of” English… and I’ve heard it described as “broken English”, “bastardized English” and “an English dialect”. Krio is the predominant language here in Freetown… but is it a language on it’s own or is it a form of what we know as “proper” English? I have to admit, I’m struggling with this aspect of life here…
At times I feel like I’m speaking a different language… and at times I feel like I’m speaking a “broken” or “improper” version of what I learned in public school. My colleague, Sulakshana, said she feels “dumber” when she attempts to speak Krio and I know exactly what she means. And, I don’t know if I should be correcting the written version of Krio or if that’s what people understand as “English”. I wonder about “the Queen’s English” and I wonder about the many different forms of English I keep hearing.
I had dinner with two Americans the other night and Doug, a legal intern from the southern States, brought up the issue of “American English” vs the Queen’s English… and what we speak in Canada – “proper” English… or so we like to think. At another dinner engagement, I overheard some folks from the U.K. who obviously had a good grasp of the English language, accent and all.
I can’t tell you how many newspaper articles I’ve started to read and then given up on… because 1) the writing is so “bad” or 2) the structure is impossible to follow or 3) I just don’t understand the language. Is it written in English? Or, is it “bad” English? Or is it the English most Sierra Leoneons understand as “proper” English?
Here’s an example of something that ran in the paper just the other day. I think I know what the writer is trying to say… but it’s so awkward I couldn’t read past this paragraph. Oh, to clarify… Zain is a mobile phone/internet provider here in Sierra Leone.
“The sales profile of GSM operator Zain has nose-dived from the twelve billion Leones monthly margin to a paltry one billion Leones. Why this is happening for three months running, cannot be explained in terms of isolated global financial shock reflecting on the local economy.”
And here’s another example… taken straight from an e-mail sent by a fourth year mass communications student at a local college. I can’t decide if the barriers are language-based or simply a lack of literacy skills.
“am very much happy with your trainnig worskhop at fatima confrence hall , really we are much more inpress with the trainnig , because of this reason, i have total love for you , and admired at you so much keep it up Stephen i have never been in the professon but through your inpressive traing that you have given to us , i have love, concern and interest over the field , i discused with mitthew that i want to join you in your office an work, i need your direction and help hoping you to reply thanks from friend”
Here’s a snippet from a conversation I had in a taxi the other day… Driver: “how de day?” Response: “Day fine, how da day?” And, when I was getting out of the car, on the wrong side, apparently. Driver: “Take time, take time.” Which means be careful… and then, after I was safely on the side of the road he said, “go see come” which means “see you later”. And, spray-painted on walls I’ll sometimes read, “Nor da piss ya” which means, and I’m sure you got it, “don’t urinate here”.
And, while on the back of an okada I was instructed to say, “small small” which means to slow down and be careful… I guess I could also have also said, “take time, take time”. As you can imagine, Noam Chomsky and other esteemed linguists would have a field day in a place like this.
Of course, there’s also the local tribal languages… Mendes in the southern provinces and Temne (pronounced Temini) in the north. Freetown offers a cultural and linguistic melting pot… which makes for some interesting eavesdropping.
But, in any and all languages, conversation is usually animated, sometimes loud bordering on shouting and complete with arm waving and open hand gestures. Emphatic is how I’d describe all the languages spoken in Sierra Leone. And, emphasis is one thing I always understand… with a smile, a handshake and nod.
Smiling and nodding…
Stephen
At times I feel like I’m speaking a different language… and at times I feel like I’m speaking a “broken” or “improper” version of what I learned in public school. My colleague, Sulakshana, said she feels “dumber” when she attempts to speak Krio and I know exactly what she means. And, I don’t know if I should be correcting the written version of Krio or if that’s what people understand as “English”. I wonder about “the Queen’s English” and I wonder about the many different forms of English I keep hearing.
I had dinner with two Americans the other night and Doug, a legal intern from the southern States, brought up the issue of “American English” vs the Queen’s English… and what we speak in Canada – “proper” English… or so we like to think. At another dinner engagement, I overheard some folks from the U.K. who obviously had a good grasp of the English language, accent and all.
I can’t tell you how many newspaper articles I’ve started to read and then given up on… because 1) the writing is so “bad” or 2) the structure is impossible to follow or 3) I just don’t understand the language. Is it written in English? Or, is it “bad” English? Or is it the English most Sierra Leoneons understand as “proper” English?
Here’s an example of something that ran in the paper just the other day. I think I know what the writer is trying to say… but it’s so awkward I couldn’t read past this paragraph. Oh, to clarify… Zain is a mobile phone/internet provider here in Sierra Leone.
“The sales profile of GSM operator Zain has nose-dived from the twelve billion Leones monthly margin to a paltry one billion Leones. Why this is happening for three months running, cannot be explained in terms of isolated global financial shock reflecting on the local economy.”
And here’s another example… taken straight from an e-mail sent by a fourth year mass communications student at a local college. I can’t decide if the barriers are language-based or simply a lack of literacy skills.
“am very much happy with your trainnig worskhop at fatima confrence hall , really we are much more inpress with the trainnig , because of this reason, i have total love for you , and admired at you so much keep it up Stephen i have never been in the professon but through your inpressive traing that you have given to us , i have love, concern and interest over the field , i discused with mitthew that i want to join you in your office an work, i need your direction and help hoping you to reply thanks from friend”
Here’s a snippet from a conversation I had in a taxi the other day… Driver: “how de day?” Response: “Day fine, how da day?” And, when I was getting out of the car, on the wrong side, apparently. Driver: “Take time, take time.” Which means be careful… and then, after I was safely on the side of the road he said, “go see come” which means “see you later”. And, spray-painted on walls I’ll sometimes read, “Nor da piss ya” which means, and I’m sure you got it, “don’t urinate here”.
And, while on the back of an okada I was instructed to say, “small small” which means to slow down and be careful… I guess I could also have also said, “take time, take time”. As you can imagine, Noam Chomsky and other esteemed linguists would have a field day in a place like this.
Of course, there’s also the local tribal languages… Mendes in the southern provinces and Temne (pronounced Temini) in the north. Freetown offers a cultural and linguistic melting pot… which makes for some interesting eavesdropping.
But, in any and all languages, conversation is usually animated, sometimes loud bordering on shouting and complete with arm waving and open hand gestures. Emphatic is how I’d describe all the languages spoken in Sierra Leone. And, emphasis is one thing I always understand… with a smile, a handshake and nod.
Smiling and nodding…
Stephen
Monday, June 22, 2009
Learning about trust - naive or blind
I've had my first taste of how my naive trust can get me into trouble. Or, perhaps it was my blind stupidity. Sigh.
My flatmate, Jordan, and I escaped as per usual to the beach on Sunday. Again, we visited a previously unexplored beach... Mamma Beach, and to our delight, it was empty, pristine, sunny and absolutely lovely. Jordan, our esteemed driver Patrick and I set up "camp" at one end of the beach and were sure there was no one around... so sure, in fact, I left my beach bucket, radio, towel and "man-bag" under the shade of a palm tree as I gleefully splashed around in the ocean.
Soaked and rejuvenated, I returned to our encampment to discover my bag was missing. Oh dear... I had my glasses, notebook, camera, money, phone, etc. stored neatly inside and was immediately struck by the shock of being a victim of my own stupidity. Not to mention the potential hassles involved in replacing those things.
After a search of the hill and brush behind the beach, I found my bag - minus the money, camera and phone. "eh bo" as they say here... Yes, what a disappointment to discover I'd been robbed. But, they'd left the bag, my glasses (thank goodness), my small notebook (a version of a personal diary) and my trusted pens.
I reported the "crime" to the local security post, about a twenty minute walk into the nearby village, to a half-dressed "police officer" who immediately took out his handcuffs and notebook to document the incident. He dutifully wrote out the details of the crime and then said, "you should have left your belongings here at my post." Yeah but... I wanted my camera with me and I was expecting a call... so... No excuses, however. It was my own fault, in other words. Yes, he was correct.
Upon reflection I realize I'd let my guard slip. I'd become a tad over-confident and let my Canadian naivety trump my adopted Sierra Leoneon cautiousness. And really, when I think of it, despite the difficulty of replacing the phone and camera, and the loss of money, it was a rather mild reminder to be careful - at all times. What if it had been my computer? What if it had been my "shooting camera"? What if it had been a paycheque or rent money? I'd be devastated...
As it is, however, I've been reminded to be vigilant, cautious and careful of where and what I leave around. You never know... a difficult lesson has been learned - the hard way.
This will not dissuade me, however, from my almost weekly visits to the beach. It will not shake my resolve to explore and learn as much as I can about Sierra Leone. It will not derail my attempts to get to know people. But, I'll be careful... or more careful from now on.
Learning valuable lessons...
Stephen
My flatmate, Jordan, and I escaped as per usual to the beach on Sunday. Again, we visited a previously unexplored beach... Mamma Beach, and to our delight, it was empty, pristine, sunny and absolutely lovely. Jordan, our esteemed driver Patrick and I set up "camp" at one end of the beach and were sure there was no one around... so sure, in fact, I left my beach bucket, radio, towel and "man-bag" under the shade of a palm tree as I gleefully splashed around in the ocean.
Soaked and rejuvenated, I returned to our encampment to discover my bag was missing. Oh dear... I had my glasses, notebook, camera, money, phone, etc. stored neatly inside and was immediately struck by the shock of being a victim of my own stupidity. Not to mention the potential hassles involved in replacing those things.
After a search of the hill and brush behind the beach, I found my bag - minus the money, camera and phone. "eh bo" as they say here... Yes, what a disappointment to discover I'd been robbed. But, they'd left the bag, my glasses (thank goodness), my small notebook (a version of a personal diary) and my trusted pens.
I reported the "crime" to the local security post, about a twenty minute walk into the nearby village, to a half-dressed "police officer" who immediately took out his handcuffs and notebook to document the incident. He dutifully wrote out the details of the crime and then said, "you should have left your belongings here at my post." Yeah but... I wanted my camera with me and I was expecting a call... so... No excuses, however. It was my own fault, in other words. Yes, he was correct.
Upon reflection I realize I'd let my guard slip. I'd become a tad over-confident and let my Canadian naivety trump my adopted Sierra Leoneon cautiousness. And really, when I think of it, despite the difficulty of replacing the phone and camera, and the loss of money, it was a rather mild reminder to be careful - at all times. What if it had been my computer? What if it had been my "shooting camera"? What if it had been a paycheque or rent money? I'd be devastated...
As it is, however, I've been reminded to be vigilant, cautious and careful of where and what I leave around. You never know... a difficult lesson has been learned - the hard way.
This will not dissuade me, however, from my almost weekly visits to the beach. It will not shake my resolve to explore and learn as much as I can about Sierra Leone. It will not derail my attempts to get to know people. But, I'll be careful... or more careful from now on.
Learning valuable lessons...
Stephen
Monday, June 15, 2009
Meet me in Makeni… (How I love alliteration.)
Okay, the hotel doesn’t have running water, showers or flush toilets… and the beds are uncomfortably lumpy… There’s limited electricity from 7:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. (nothing during the day) The mosquito nets have holes in them… and the overhead fan makes enough noise to wake the dead (grinds, clangs, clunks and whirls…) The complimentary morning coffee is a pot of Nescafe and the “continental breakfast” is a small, under-cooked loaf of white bread with a dollop of margarine. Makeni is hot… dusty and noisy. And it certainly isn’t Freetown.
But, it does have some elusive charms including a “main drag” that looks like it’s a set from an old spaghetti western. I kept thinking I’d meet a cowboy or two as I strolled amidst the okadas (motorcycle taxis) and vending stalls. Many of the buildings are two storey colonial structures… balconies and railings line the streets and I swear I could hear a tinkering piano from deep in the bowels of a “saloon”. By the way, they spell “salon” (as in hair-dressing and “barbing”) as “saloon”… which takes me back to the days of marking term papers at Sheridan College.
The drive from Freetown through the countryside to Makeni was incredible. Scenes that reminded me of those made-for-TV docu-dramas about African wildlife and “primitive” villages were everywhere. Around every curve or over every hill, there appeared a small collection of mud huts with thatched roofs, subsistence gardens, clean clothes hung on tree branches to dry and young children in various states of dress.
I’ve just returned from hosting a two-day workshop on journalism and human rights at the Fatima Institute in Makeni. Makeni is about three and a half hours drive outside of Freetown… “into the provinces,” as they say. It’s remote, in other words. And the Fatima Institute is a lovely little college that started as a Catholic mission site. Most of you know how I feel about missionaries and Catholics. Yikes! The Institute is one of two colleges in the area and it hosts a mass communications program, under which I was invited to give my workshop.
The workshop, “reporting from the frontlines: getting the most from your subjects” was attended by approximately 60-70 reporters, students and college faculty. I arrived in Makeni on Friday at noon and by 2:00 p.m. was enthralling a hall full of eager, bright learners. Of course, the promise of dinner on Friday evening and a certificate presentation on Saturday evening helped fill the hall.
The workshop covered topics such as, the fundamentals of journalism, what is news, interview skills and then story outlines and structures. I’ve heard and read on the evaluation forms that they really enjoyed the participatory aspect of the workshop… and the “fun” of having a Canadian lecturer talk to the group. Interestingly, the cultural and language barriers weren’t as prevalent as I’d thought they’d be.
They, of course, didn’t “get” my references to hockey, the prime minister or the CBC news… but they enjoyed hearing stories about Canadian journalists.
There’s a strange phenomenon here (one of several) around “certificates”. It seems with every workshop a certificate is awarded to the participants. It denotes nothing but attendance but is highly valued. I think it’s probably due to the lack of formal education in the country. So, every workshop, every training session and almost every meeting awards a certificate… which is often laminated and carried around in a dirty, beat-up file folder. People, especially the journalists, covet these “awards” and in every meeting I’ve had with reporters, they swing them about proudly.
So, at the end of my two-day workshop, we held a formal certificate presentation ceremony… much like the ones I skipped when I graduated from anywhere. Photos were taken with certificates, hands were shaken, smiles were recorded on little video cameras… and there I was… matriculating in Makeni. (oh how I love alliteration)
Till next time,
Stephen
But, it does have some elusive charms including a “main drag” that looks like it’s a set from an old spaghetti western. I kept thinking I’d meet a cowboy or two as I strolled amidst the okadas (motorcycle taxis) and vending stalls. Many of the buildings are two storey colonial structures… balconies and railings line the streets and I swear I could hear a tinkering piano from deep in the bowels of a “saloon”. By the way, they spell “salon” (as in hair-dressing and “barbing”) as “saloon”… which takes me back to the days of marking term papers at Sheridan College.
The drive from Freetown through the countryside to Makeni was incredible. Scenes that reminded me of those made-for-TV docu-dramas about African wildlife and “primitive” villages were everywhere. Around every curve or over every hill, there appeared a small collection of mud huts with thatched roofs, subsistence gardens, clean clothes hung on tree branches to dry and young children in various states of dress.
I’ve just returned from hosting a two-day workshop on journalism and human rights at the Fatima Institute in Makeni. Makeni is about three and a half hours drive outside of Freetown… “into the provinces,” as they say. It’s remote, in other words. And the Fatima Institute is a lovely little college that started as a Catholic mission site. Most of you know how I feel about missionaries and Catholics. Yikes! The Institute is one of two colleges in the area and it hosts a mass communications program, under which I was invited to give my workshop.
The workshop, “reporting from the frontlines: getting the most from your subjects” was attended by approximately 60-70 reporters, students and college faculty. I arrived in Makeni on Friday at noon and by 2:00 p.m. was enthralling a hall full of eager, bright learners. Of course, the promise of dinner on Friday evening and a certificate presentation on Saturday evening helped fill the hall.
The workshop covered topics such as, the fundamentals of journalism, what is news, interview skills and then story outlines and structures. I’ve heard and read on the evaluation forms that they really enjoyed the participatory aspect of the workshop… and the “fun” of having a Canadian lecturer talk to the group. Interestingly, the cultural and language barriers weren’t as prevalent as I’d thought they’d be.
They, of course, didn’t “get” my references to hockey, the prime minister or the CBC news… but they enjoyed hearing stories about Canadian journalists.
There’s a strange phenomenon here (one of several) around “certificates”. It seems with every workshop a certificate is awarded to the participants. It denotes nothing but attendance but is highly valued. I think it’s probably due to the lack of formal education in the country. So, every workshop, every training session and almost every meeting awards a certificate… which is often laminated and carried around in a dirty, beat-up file folder. People, especially the journalists, covet these “awards” and in every meeting I’ve had with reporters, they swing them about proudly.
So, at the end of my two-day workshop, we held a formal certificate presentation ceremony… much like the ones I skipped when I graduated from anywhere. Photos were taken with certificates, hands were shaken, smiles were recorded on little video cameras… and there I was… matriculating in Makeni. (oh how I love alliteration)
Till next time,
Stephen
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Power? to the people...
Tuesday June 9, 2009 at 5:25 p.m. the power went out – again. We were fortunate to have power for most of the morning… before leaving the apartment for my meetings, etc. in the heart of the city. But, now that I’m home – my home away from home – no power, no lights, no fridge, no fans and unable to charge computers or phones. It’s incredible how much I – and the collective “we” – have come to depend on reliable sources of electricity. And here in Sierra Leone it’s never reliable and a constant topic of conversation.
There’s no rhyme nor reason as to when the power will be on or when it’s off. One day the power will be on during the day – when most people don’t need it. The next day we’ll have no power… and the next it’ll be on for a couple of hours late at night. It’s totally random. Or is it?
One of the other most talked about topics around here is corruption… from the police on the street to the highest levels of government. So, here’s my theory. There must be some guy who sits in a huge room full of switches that control where and when the power is distributed. And, depending on who makes their “payments” to my fictitious switch operator, that’s where the power will be channelled. I can see it now… a room full of wall switches, on and off, and this lone, powerful, electrifying guy sitting in his broken down swivel chair rolling himself from side to side flicking this switch and then that one. It’s an amusing thought.
We once had power in our apartment for an entire evening and into the night… I figure the guy in the switch room had flicked our neighbourhood’s toggle and then fallen asleep. It was a rare and wonderful treat to tuck in under my mosquito net and feel the fan swivelling it’s delicious swirl of cool air across the room. I awoke to a fully-charged phone and computer. And, I could shower in the dim light of my overhead bulb in the bathroom. I was getting used to cold showers in the dark… but morning power and light was a treat, a welcome relief thanks to my sleeping switch operator.
The National Power Authority (NPA) runs the electrical supply to the entire country and is based on Siaka Stevens Street in downtown Freetown. It relies on the Bumbuna Dam, a hydro-electric facility in the northern part of Sierra Leone. And, while driving back from Mile 91 last week, I could see the long lines of wires, most of which were badly damaged during the war. Interestingly, the dam is only fully operational during the rainy season… yet, to placate Sierra Leoneons, the All People’s Congress (APC) government continues to tell us that 24-hour power is almost here… any day now… possibly by the end of the month… or maybe even by Cmas. The “power date” continues to come and go… and no one really makes a fuss about missed deadlines, etc. Hmmm, it sounds suspicious to me.
It’s a wonder, really, why no one is looking into smaller solar powered alternatives given the consistent sunlight we experience. The power/electricity dilemma continues to be a source of international aid, however, and I wonder if governments, because they’re so heavily reliant on aid, are choosing to continue their pursuit of hydro power at the risk of losing aid dollars. But really… so much future investment depends on 24-hour power. Imagine having a factory that sits idle when there’s no power. Or, what about the offices downtown that operate on six to seven hours of power… at inconsistent times. Most office buildings run huge generators to even out the power supply at a tremendous cost to the environment, to pocket-books and to noise levels in the city. But to most, it’s a fact of life… and one that, while people talk about it, there doesn’t seem to be much anyone can do about it.
So, I have a stock of candles… and try to charge my computer and phone when I can. When the power’s on, I’m thrilled… and when it goes off, I complain. But, it’s just something I’m learning to live with – or without.
By candlelight,
Stephen
There’s no rhyme nor reason as to when the power will be on or when it’s off. One day the power will be on during the day – when most people don’t need it. The next day we’ll have no power… and the next it’ll be on for a couple of hours late at night. It’s totally random. Or is it?
One of the other most talked about topics around here is corruption… from the police on the street to the highest levels of government. So, here’s my theory. There must be some guy who sits in a huge room full of switches that control where and when the power is distributed. And, depending on who makes their “payments” to my fictitious switch operator, that’s where the power will be channelled. I can see it now… a room full of wall switches, on and off, and this lone, powerful, electrifying guy sitting in his broken down swivel chair rolling himself from side to side flicking this switch and then that one. It’s an amusing thought.
We once had power in our apartment for an entire evening and into the night… I figure the guy in the switch room had flicked our neighbourhood’s toggle and then fallen asleep. It was a rare and wonderful treat to tuck in under my mosquito net and feel the fan swivelling it’s delicious swirl of cool air across the room. I awoke to a fully-charged phone and computer. And, I could shower in the dim light of my overhead bulb in the bathroom. I was getting used to cold showers in the dark… but morning power and light was a treat, a welcome relief thanks to my sleeping switch operator.
The National Power Authority (NPA) runs the electrical supply to the entire country and is based on Siaka Stevens Street in downtown Freetown. It relies on the Bumbuna Dam, a hydro-electric facility in the northern part of Sierra Leone. And, while driving back from Mile 91 last week, I could see the long lines of wires, most of which were badly damaged during the war. Interestingly, the dam is only fully operational during the rainy season… yet, to placate Sierra Leoneons, the All People’s Congress (APC) government continues to tell us that 24-hour power is almost here… any day now… possibly by the end of the month… or maybe even by Cmas. The “power date” continues to come and go… and no one really makes a fuss about missed deadlines, etc. Hmmm, it sounds suspicious to me.
It’s a wonder, really, why no one is looking into smaller solar powered alternatives given the consistent sunlight we experience. The power/electricity dilemma continues to be a source of international aid, however, and I wonder if governments, because they’re so heavily reliant on aid, are choosing to continue their pursuit of hydro power at the risk of losing aid dollars. But really… so much future investment depends on 24-hour power. Imagine having a factory that sits idle when there’s no power. Or, what about the offices downtown that operate on six to seven hours of power… at inconsistent times. Most office buildings run huge generators to even out the power supply at a tremendous cost to the environment, to pocket-books and to noise levels in the city. But to most, it’s a fact of life… and one that, while people talk about it, there doesn’t seem to be much anyone can do about it.
So, I have a stock of candles… and try to charge my computer and phone when I can. When the power’s on, I’m thrilled… and when it goes off, I complain. But, it’s just something I’m learning to live with – or without.
By candlelight,
Stephen
Monday, June 1, 2009
Heading "up-country"
Other than heading to the local beaches, I've been sequestered in Freetown since my arrival. But tomorrow, I'm heading "up-country" to a place called, Mile 91, which, coincidentally is about 100 miles from Freetown. I'll be checking out the scenery, meeting some folks from several NGOs and hanging out with some African farmers. Maybe we can share shepherding secrets...
I'll be spending the night in the village and then traveling to another village, Yoni, to visit with an NGO that's operating some sort of computer/internet training program... Imagine, a computer lab in the middle of this tiny village. Should be interesting.
I'm looking forward to meeting lots of folks, (I'm brushing up on my Temne and Fuller language books) taking lots of photos and seeing the country.
Back soon,
Stephen
I'll be spending the night in the village and then traveling to another village, Yoni, to visit with an NGO that's operating some sort of computer/internet training program... Imagine, a computer lab in the middle of this tiny village. Should be interesting.
I'm looking forward to meeting lots of folks, (I'm brushing up on my Temne and Fuller language books) taking lots of photos and seeing the country.
Back soon,
Stephen
It's part of living the African life...
There are some things one must get used to in Africa… they are part of life. And, I’m learning and adjusting. But, there are some things I’ll just never understand.
I can live with these…
I continue to pay the “white man’s tax”, as I affectionately call the extra-charges I pay on produce from the street market or on taxis to get anywhere. It should cost, according to my bargain-wise flatmate Sulakshana, Le700 to go from our street to my office. Me, I regularly end up paying Le2000 – Le3000. And, I’m a prime, glowing target for extra charges anytime I’m out in the evening. They see me a mile away, even in the dark, and I’m sure I can hear the “ching-ching” of a cash register as they approach. Not that there’s such a thing as a cash register around here.
Shaking hands is always a polite custom anywhere in the world but here it’s taken on a whole new meaning. The customary greeting, in Sierra Leone, is to shake hands with one flick of the wrist, then a hand-move up the thumb and back again. That movement is followed by raising your hand to your heart, especially if you’re keen on meeting that person. The hand to the heart is also a significant sign of respect. And, holding hands while talking to someone is completely normal… guys with guys, girls with girls… and guys with girls. I’ve had entire conversations with men while holding their hands… And, I’m regularly shown across the street or to a destination I’ve been hunting by a young man who takes my hand and leads me to my goal. It takes a bit of getting used to.
Speaking of shaking hands… the children in my neighbourhood have taken to gathering along the side of the path and shaking my hand whenever I arrive home. Today, I lost count at twenty kids… ranging in age from about three to twelve. We all share a giggle at the process.
The processes and paperwork involved in getting almost anything done around here is extraordinary. I was invited to join the IMC – Independent Media Commission, and I had to fill out several long forms, get my picture taken for an ID card, obtain a letter of referral from a media professional, have my photo verified… then pay my dues of about $5, and enter an approval process through two of the present commissioners. Strange… And, that’s nothing compared to trying to open a local bank account. Finger-printing, computer pictures, endless forms, guarantors, notes and numbers. All that… and the only thing I need to make a withdrawal from my account is a hand-written card with some sloppy numbers written on it. No ID necessary as long as you have that card and number.
The constant noise around town is sometimes deafening. Contributing to the bustle and bristle of noise pollution are taxis, okadas (commercial motorcycles) and poda podas, (crammed mini-vans) and the occasional private vehicle. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme nor reason to the honking… but it’s constant. Now, I like using a car horn as a way of communicating with other drivers and have even been known to randomly beep my way through an intersection… but Freetown honking and traffic is ridiculous. The only thing I can figure is a taxi will honk if they have room and are going in your direction. Oh, and they honk when they pull to the side. And they honk when someone walks in front of the car. And they honk to signal they’ll pick you up as you yell your destination in an open window. The honking is constant and random.
Then, of course, there’s the hum, buzz and growl of generators that abound in the commercial districts of the city. It’s like a car engine being revved, spewing fumes and noise... I’ll never get used to the choking smell of diesel fuel or car exhaust from un-tuned engines and barely effective mufflers wafting through the busy streets.
Amidst the noise, street vendors and children seem to yell from every corner… “water”, “mango”, etc. Kids, some as young as six or seven, sell bags of water, mangos, cartons of sweets, shoes, socks, towels and so on, to drivers along the street from buckets on the tops of their heads. They sell untreated water from a local tap so only the local taxi drivers are able to stomach the contents… and the other goods are either expired or second-hand, found stuff. I keep wondering… in my North American naiveté, if these kids shouldn’t be playing soccer or hanging out at home instead of working the streets as they do.
I’m learning to love the process or ordeal of going to bed… It usually involves candlelight, because the electricity is out. It follows a cold shower, usually the third of the day. And, I have to crawl under my mosquito net, tuck the tangles of net around my mattress along the sides and bottom of my bed before crashing on the sponge-like pillow. But, once under the net, I switch on my headlamp/flashlight and open my book, snug as a bug in a rug (sorry, bad choice of words). Once inside, the netting looks quite exotic by headlamp light… and I can’t help feel like I’m in the wilds sleeping under a tent listening to the wicked winds in the coconut trees.
I think I’ve mentioned the rooster in the courtyard… it regularly greets the sun at 5:30 a.m., everyday! And, I’m getting used to rising with the sun, reading in bed and then getting up to have my first coffee of the day. (more on coffee later)
I could certainly get used to swimming in the Atlantic Ocean off the shores of a pristine beach… Ah, there’s nothing like it. I’ve made it my mission to explore and swim along every known beach in Sierra Leone. Some of the loveliest beaches in the world lay within about an hour drive of Freetown and around the peninsula. And, because they’re usually deserted I try to shed my trunks and splash around au natural at least once per visit. I could definitely get used to that… although, I’m sure anyone watching from afar has to wonder at the sight and flash of white butt and tan lines leaping into the waves.
Other things I’m getting used to:
- women and children carrying huge buckets, baskets and bags of coal on their heads
- being asked “how are you” or “how’da body” and answering “body fine”…
- breaking a sweat on the way up the hill from the apartment to the street… and seeing men and women carrying towels with them throughout the day to wipe their brows.
- four or five police officers in various degrees of uniform trying to direct traffic along round-abouts or junctions.
- hand-washing clothes every third day and sometimes having to change clothes twice or three times a day.
- cultural or sporting events that end suddenly because the lights went out. Everyone seems to take all of this in stride, as if it’s totally normal to not finish a song or end a game.
- drinking coconut water right from the nut.
- loud, distorted music and emcee announcements I can’t understand.
- constantly locking everything up when I leave and the extraordinary measures one must always take to keep things safe.
- marching bands in the middle of the day… sometimes there are two or three a day. They are often part of a church service, ribbon-cutting or funeral. It’s a Felini-esk sight, for sure.
And, the one thing that’s driving me crazy… and I’ll never get used to:
Freeze dried coffee in the morning… sigh!
Craving Tim Horton's coffee,
Stephen
I can live with these…
I continue to pay the “white man’s tax”, as I affectionately call the extra-charges I pay on produce from the street market or on taxis to get anywhere. It should cost, according to my bargain-wise flatmate Sulakshana, Le700 to go from our street to my office. Me, I regularly end up paying Le2000 – Le3000. And, I’m a prime, glowing target for extra charges anytime I’m out in the evening. They see me a mile away, even in the dark, and I’m sure I can hear the “ching-ching” of a cash register as they approach. Not that there’s such a thing as a cash register around here.
Shaking hands is always a polite custom anywhere in the world but here it’s taken on a whole new meaning. The customary greeting, in Sierra Leone, is to shake hands with one flick of the wrist, then a hand-move up the thumb and back again. That movement is followed by raising your hand to your heart, especially if you’re keen on meeting that person. The hand to the heart is also a significant sign of respect. And, holding hands while talking to someone is completely normal… guys with guys, girls with girls… and guys with girls. I’ve had entire conversations with men while holding their hands… And, I’m regularly shown across the street or to a destination I’ve been hunting by a young man who takes my hand and leads me to my goal. It takes a bit of getting used to.
Speaking of shaking hands… the children in my neighbourhood have taken to gathering along the side of the path and shaking my hand whenever I arrive home. Today, I lost count at twenty kids… ranging in age from about three to twelve. We all share a giggle at the process.
The processes and paperwork involved in getting almost anything done around here is extraordinary. I was invited to join the IMC – Independent Media Commission, and I had to fill out several long forms, get my picture taken for an ID card, obtain a letter of referral from a media professional, have my photo verified… then pay my dues of about $5, and enter an approval process through two of the present commissioners. Strange… And, that’s nothing compared to trying to open a local bank account. Finger-printing, computer pictures, endless forms, guarantors, notes and numbers. All that… and the only thing I need to make a withdrawal from my account is a hand-written card with some sloppy numbers written on it. No ID necessary as long as you have that card and number.
The constant noise around town is sometimes deafening. Contributing to the bustle and bristle of noise pollution are taxis, okadas (commercial motorcycles) and poda podas, (crammed mini-vans) and the occasional private vehicle. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme nor reason to the honking… but it’s constant. Now, I like using a car horn as a way of communicating with other drivers and have even been known to randomly beep my way through an intersection… but Freetown honking and traffic is ridiculous. The only thing I can figure is a taxi will honk if they have room and are going in your direction. Oh, and they honk when they pull to the side. And they honk when someone walks in front of the car. And they honk to signal they’ll pick you up as you yell your destination in an open window. The honking is constant and random.
Then, of course, there’s the hum, buzz and growl of generators that abound in the commercial districts of the city. It’s like a car engine being revved, spewing fumes and noise... I’ll never get used to the choking smell of diesel fuel or car exhaust from un-tuned engines and barely effective mufflers wafting through the busy streets.
Amidst the noise, street vendors and children seem to yell from every corner… “water”, “mango”, etc. Kids, some as young as six or seven, sell bags of water, mangos, cartons of sweets, shoes, socks, towels and so on, to drivers along the street from buckets on the tops of their heads. They sell untreated water from a local tap so only the local taxi drivers are able to stomach the contents… and the other goods are either expired or second-hand, found stuff. I keep wondering… in my North American naiveté, if these kids shouldn’t be playing soccer or hanging out at home instead of working the streets as they do.
I’m learning to love the process or ordeal of going to bed… It usually involves candlelight, because the electricity is out. It follows a cold shower, usually the third of the day. And, I have to crawl under my mosquito net, tuck the tangles of net around my mattress along the sides and bottom of my bed before crashing on the sponge-like pillow. But, once under the net, I switch on my headlamp/flashlight and open my book, snug as a bug in a rug (sorry, bad choice of words). Once inside, the netting looks quite exotic by headlamp light… and I can’t help feel like I’m in the wilds sleeping under a tent listening to the wicked winds in the coconut trees.
I think I’ve mentioned the rooster in the courtyard… it regularly greets the sun at 5:30 a.m., everyday! And, I’m getting used to rising with the sun, reading in bed and then getting up to have my first coffee of the day. (more on coffee later)
I could certainly get used to swimming in the Atlantic Ocean off the shores of a pristine beach… Ah, there’s nothing like it. I’ve made it my mission to explore and swim along every known beach in Sierra Leone. Some of the loveliest beaches in the world lay within about an hour drive of Freetown and around the peninsula. And, because they’re usually deserted I try to shed my trunks and splash around au natural at least once per visit. I could definitely get used to that… although, I’m sure anyone watching from afar has to wonder at the sight and flash of white butt and tan lines leaping into the waves.
Other things I’m getting used to:
- women and children carrying huge buckets, baskets and bags of coal on their heads
- being asked “how are you” or “how’da body” and answering “body fine”…
- breaking a sweat on the way up the hill from the apartment to the street… and seeing men and women carrying towels with them throughout the day to wipe their brows.
- four or five police officers in various degrees of uniform trying to direct traffic along round-abouts or junctions.
- hand-washing clothes every third day and sometimes having to change clothes twice or three times a day.
- cultural or sporting events that end suddenly because the lights went out. Everyone seems to take all of this in stride, as if it’s totally normal to not finish a song or end a game.
- drinking coconut water right from the nut.
- loud, distorted music and emcee announcements I can’t understand.
- constantly locking everything up when I leave and the extraordinary measures one must always take to keep things safe.
- marching bands in the middle of the day… sometimes there are two or three a day. They are often part of a church service, ribbon-cutting or funeral. It’s a Felini-esk sight, for sure.
And, the one thing that’s driving me crazy… and I’ll never get used to:
Freeze dried coffee in the morning… sigh!
Craving Tim Horton's coffee,
Stephen
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Wondering about weather...
Canadians have an extraordinary way of living with weather - all kinds of weather - from snow in May to rain in December. And, we talk about it, incessantly, it seems. We say things like, “oh, it looks like it’s going to be a nice day.” Or, “I hope it’ll be a nice day today.” We inquire about the weather when we talk to neighbours… We keep an eye on the sky, in other words. We regularly check the weather network for news of rain or snow or even the occasion sunny day. And, weather often makes front-page news… snowstorms, hail, floods, etc. Weather affects us all… all the time.
Here in Freetown – and probably throughout West Africa, weather is just not an issue. It’s sunny and hot… everyday! And no one seems to mind or notice the occasional deluge of rain and wind. We had a huge storm last night… The wind howled. The lightening lit the skies with firecracker precision. And the rain poured. Yet, in the morning, the sun was up. The humidity was back in full force. The ground was dry… and everyone got on with their day. I was in town today and no one commented on the storm. No one mentioned the heat. People continued to step over the open sewer drainage ditches… this time they were full of run-off… and no one batted an eye.
When I hike up the hill leading from my apartment to the street, I regularly greet the security guards, the construction workers, the kids and street vendors with niceties including, “it looks like it’ll be a nice day,” and they look rather shocked I’d even notice or mention it. For them, of course it’s going to be a nice day… It’s the same every day.
Sierra Leoneons don’t have to dress for the weather… there’s no such thing as a winter wardrobe or summer clothes. They don’t have a selection of hats. They don’t have a winter coat or snow boots… obviously. I remember someone saying, “there’s no such thing as inappropriate weather in Canada. It’s how you dress that’s inappropriate.” Here, linen pants (for the men) and cotton shirts is the norm and most appropriate choice of clothes – every day.
I’ve been told that there are basically two seasons here – dry and wet. And, I’ve heard we’re heading into the “rainy season.” Supposedly the “wet season” and rains are to begin sometime in June. I can’t wait because I love a good, sky-clearing, blood-curdling storm… However, I’ve also been told the temperature doesn’t drop… it stays in the thirties but apparently the skies do open and the rain falls. Maybe then people will start to talk about the weather and notice that one day’s weather is different from the next.
I’ll let you know…
Stephen
Here in Freetown – and probably throughout West Africa, weather is just not an issue. It’s sunny and hot… everyday! And no one seems to mind or notice the occasional deluge of rain and wind. We had a huge storm last night… The wind howled. The lightening lit the skies with firecracker precision. And the rain poured. Yet, in the morning, the sun was up. The humidity was back in full force. The ground was dry… and everyone got on with their day. I was in town today and no one commented on the storm. No one mentioned the heat. People continued to step over the open sewer drainage ditches… this time they were full of run-off… and no one batted an eye.
When I hike up the hill leading from my apartment to the street, I regularly greet the security guards, the construction workers, the kids and street vendors with niceties including, “it looks like it’ll be a nice day,” and they look rather shocked I’d even notice or mention it. For them, of course it’s going to be a nice day… It’s the same every day.
Sierra Leoneons don’t have to dress for the weather… there’s no such thing as a winter wardrobe or summer clothes. They don’t have a selection of hats. They don’t have a winter coat or snow boots… obviously. I remember someone saying, “there’s no such thing as inappropriate weather in Canada. It’s how you dress that’s inappropriate.” Here, linen pants (for the men) and cotton shirts is the norm and most appropriate choice of clothes – every day.
I’ve been told that there are basically two seasons here – dry and wet. And, I’ve heard we’re heading into the “rainy season.” Supposedly the “wet season” and rains are to begin sometime in June. I can’t wait because I love a good, sky-clearing, blood-curdling storm… However, I’ve also been told the temperature doesn’t drop… it stays in the thirties but apparently the skies do open and the rain falls. Maybe then people will start to talk about the weather and notice that one day’s weather is different from the next.
I’ll let you know…
Stephen
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Under a “slivery” moon...
Yeah, I know… the song actually goes, “…under a silvery moon” but tonight I’m sitting under the barest sliver of a new moon as it rises above the Atlantic. The sky is clear and I wish I knew more about the stars… I’m watching the moon’s progress and the slow emergence of millions of twinkling stars from the verandah of my apartment. Through the grates and above the concrete walls and razor-wire, of course. The tide is sliding back into the small bay, which we overlook… and the fishermen, who wade in the water, have gone back to their huts and rooms after a day of combing the low waters for crab, fish, lobster, shrimp and assorted other goodies to sell in the market.
I’m starting to notice the oddest things about Freetown. Yes, there are plenty of differences but some things are just unexplainable and I find myself becoming more and more curious about just how things work around here. Many of these observations have to do with international aid programs… and well-meaning NGO (non-governmental organizations), I’m sure.
While strolling back from our neighbourhood market, where I bought a delicious “pear” – actually, an avocado by Canadian definition, I saw a lovely woman carrying a finely woven basket on her head. Okay, that’s not unusual… but hanging over the side of the basket was a small, stuffed Homer Simpson doll, complete with yellow skin and blue pants. I couldn’t help but feel weird about the juxtaposition of such an American icon alongside the traditional basketry of West Africa. “Doh”, very strange.
The other day, I noticed my taxi driver wearing a “Relay for Life – Cancer Run” tee-shirt that came from Calgary, AB, and bore the date 2006. Okay, where did he get that? When I asked after his shirt, complimenting him as I expressed interest, he had no idea where Calgary was… and no idea that the “Relay for Life” was a fundraiser for the Canadian Cancer Society.
I can’t avoid a certain “tag” that keeps following me around… I’d asked our landlady, Mala, who’s been so kind and generous, about a set of sheets for my bed, which seems to be an odd size. The next day, she showed up with a folded sheet and tucked inside was a tag from “Value Village”, which, as many of you know, is my second designer of choice in Canada. (the first being Mark’s WorkWearHouse).
While in the market today, I noticed a shop selling electronics… one of many, by the way. And, since I’m in the market for a big-screen TV, NOT, I ventured into the crowded shop bombarded by local hip-hop music. The owner of the shop, Auruda, said they sell speakers… big, loud, honking speakers… reclaimed from recycling ships bound for China. They, the ships, often stop by this giant sea-port on their way down the coast. The shop buys – or steals – these speakers and reclaims and reassembles the parts into these huge boxes… and they’re very popular here. The sound quality is terrible… but they’re loud, and that’s what counts.
While I was with Samuel in his home area of KrooBay, I was given a lesson on making soap from a woman stirring a gelatinous mixture of ingredients in a small room in the middle of the slum. She explained the process and Samuel translated from her native Fuller language. The Fuller tribe is the third largest group in Sierra Leone. The soap is made with palm oil and an assortment of other ingredients culled from trees, plants and buckets of what looked like dirty water. In the end, I bought a small bag of her dried soap and used it this morning to hand-wash my expanding pile of dirty clothes. Miraculously, it foamed up and did a far superior job on my stained shirts and dusty pants. I’d been using small pouches of “Tide” from our expensive “ex-pat” grocery store but I’m now convinced that the homemade soap is the way to go.
Everyone has at least one mobile phone… and many carry more than one. There are three major suppliers of satellite phone service, Zain, which all the jhr folks use, Africell and Comium and the competition for customers is fierce. One of the little tricks these companies use is to limit the calls from one service to another… so, people have taken to carrying phones and service from each of the suppliers. A Zain phone is sometimes difficult to reach if you’re using an Africell service, for example. People might not have power for days on end; they may only eat one meal a day; and they probably work for free… but they carry two or three cell phones. Again, an interesting juxtaposition.
I’ve become a bit of a celebrity among the little children in our neighbourhood… There are about 30, ranging in age from about four to ten or twelve, who are home-schooled or sell things on the street and have extra time on their hands. They got a real “kick” out of my attempts to play soccer/football with them the other day. They were playing/kicking around a small bag of stones in an empty lot up the hill from the apartment. I regularly stop to chat and this time I tried to get in on their game… much to my own embarrassment and chagrin. I didn’t score a goal and they took great pride in teasing me, cajoling me and then trying to convince me to join them again another time. I’ll try to work on my goal-scoring skills in the meantime. They are incredibly affectionate and their smiles are infectious.
Checking in from Freetown… with lots more stories to tell.
Stephen
I’m starting to notice the oddest things about Freetown. Yes, there are plenty of differences but some things are just unexplainable and I find myself becoming more and more curious about just how things work around here. Many of these observations have to do with international aid programs… and well-meaning NGO (non-governmental organizations), I’m sure.
While strolling back from our neighbourhood market, where I bought a delicious “pear” – actually, an avocado by Canadian definition, I saw a lovely woman carrying a finely woven basket on her head. Okay, that’s not unusual… but hanging over the side of the basket was a small, stuffed Homer Simpson doll, complete with yellow skin and blue pants. I couldn’t help but feel weird about the juxtaposition of such an American icon alongside the traditional basketry of West Africa. “Doh”, very strange.
The other day, I noticed my taxi driver wearing a “Relay for Life – Cancer Run” tee-shirt that came from Calgary, AB, and bore the date 2006. Okay, where did he get that? When I asked after his shirt, complimenting him as I expressed interest, he had no idea where Calgary was… and no idea that the “Relay for Life” was a fundraiser for the Canadian Cancer Society.
I can’t avoid a certain “tag” that keeps following me around… I’d asked our landlady, Mala, who’s been so kind and generous, about a set of sheets for my bed, which seems to be an odd size. The next day, she showed up with a folded sheet and tucked inside was a tag from “Value Village”, which, as many of you know, is my second designer of choice in Canada. (the first being Mark’s WorkWearHouse).
While in the market today, I noticed a shop selling electronics… one of many, by the way. And, since I’m in the market for a big-screen TV, NOT, I ventured into the crowded shop bombarded by local hip-hop music. The owner of the shop, Auruda, said they sell speakers… big, loud, honking speakers… reclaimed from recycling ships bound for China. They, the ships, often stop by this giant sea-port on their way down the coast. The shop buys – or steals – these speakers and reclaims and reassembles the parts into these huge boxes… and they’re very popular here. The sound quality is terrible… but they’re loud, and that’s what counts.
While I was with Samuel in his home area of KrooBay, I was given a lesson on making soap from a woman stirring a gelatinous mixture of ingredients in a small room in the middle of the slum. She explained the process and Samuel translated from her native Fuller language. The Fuller tribe is the third largest group in Sierra Leone. The soap is made with palm oil and an assortment of other ingredients culled from trees, plants and buckets of what looked like dirty water. In the end, I bought a small bag of her dried soap and used it this morning to hand-wash my expanding pile of dirty clothes. Miraculously, it foamed up and did a far superior job on my stained shirts and dusty pants. I’d been using small pouches of “Tide” from our expensive “ex-pat” grocery store but I’m now convinced that the homemade soap is the way to go.
Everyone has at least one mobile phone… and many carry more than one. There are three major suppliers of satellite phone service, Zain, which all the jhr folks use, Africell and Comium and the competition for customers is fierce. One of the little tricks these companies use is to limit the calls from one service to another… so, people have taken to carrying phones and service from each of the suppliers. A Zain phone is sometimes difficult to reach if you’re using an Africell service, for example. People might not have power for days on end; they may only eat one meal a day; and they probably work for free… but they carry two or three cell phones. Again, an interesting juxtaposition.
I’ve become a bit of a celebrity among the little children in our neighbourhood… There are about 30, ranging in age from about four to ten or twelve, who are home-schooled or sell things on the street and have extra time on their hands. They got a real “kick” out of my attempts to play soccer/football with them the other day. They were playing/kicking around a small bag of stones in an empty lot up the hill from the apartment. I regularly stop to chat and this time I tried to get in on their game… much to my own embarrassment and chagrin. I didn’t score a goal and they took great pride in teasing me, cajoling me and then trying to convince me to join them again another time. I’ll try to work on my goal-scoring skills in the meantime. They are incredibly affectionate and their smiles are infectious.
Checking in from Freetown… with lots more stories to tell.
Stephen
Monday, May 25, 2009
Surreal Contrasts...
The drainage river at KrooBay... and Kent Beach... This is a place of extreme contrasts, for sure.
KrooBay and Kingtom
This fishing trawler had been landlocked for several days thanks to a low tide... People in KrooBay work in and around scavenging for anything to sell or use in the neighbourhood. Reclaimed land in this area is mainly from refuge that floats down the "river" during the rainy season. Yes, in Western terms, this is an environmental disaster... but when survival, food, shelter and clean water are a priority worrying about what floats into the ocean is less of an issue.
Kissy Road market
The Kissy 
Road market is a main thoroughfare through the city running past the clock tower, linking the east and west ends of Freetown. Saturday and Sunday are "market days" and obviously the busiest time of the week. Hundreds of thousands of vendors, shoppers and street people flock to the market... and one lone, white, Canadian with a camera.
Road market is a main thoroughfare through the city running past the clock tower, linking the east and west ends of Freetown. Saturday and Sunday are "market days" and obviously the busiest time of the week. Hundreds of thousands of vendors, shoppers and street people flock to the market... and one lone, white, Canadian with a camera.
Sometimes It's Surreal
Life in Africa can be consuming… intimate and exhilarating. So much is going on in this area of the world! Nigeria is erupting. Zimbabwe is facing severe food shortages. Sierra Leone is struggling through a media crisis… (the Sylvia Blyden case is exploding) Guinea continues to abuse people’s rights across the spectrum including the judiciary, health, children and women. And it just goes on and on. Yet, life seems to continue to tick along…
On Saturday, I loaded up my “shooting vest” (thanks to Mom and Dad) and spent the day lugging around my “big” camera, memory cards, glasses, notebooks, etc. while sweltering under the 40-degree sunshine. I walked down to a local football field, a dusty stone field where a group of 16 year olds were playing. There are some amazing players here and for many of them, soccer/football is an optimistic ticket out of the area. (Think inner city American basketball courts or home-based ice rinks in Canada) They are incredibly serious about their training, the games, their coach, etc. despite playing in flip-flops, sandals or even bare feet. I don’t know how they do it… but the dedication to the game was remarkable.
Then, I took a taxi into town to meet with a group of photographers I’d met last week. They operate a studio, of sorts, opposite one of the grocery stores I’ve frequented. The studio isn’t more than a room with an old Polaroid passport camera perched on the street in front. I’d stopped in there to have my picture taken for yet another identity card… this one for my IMC membership. Anyway, the group of up to fifty photographers hang around the studio… occasionally shooting a wedding or funeral. None of them have regular work and they shoot with the most basic of equipment… But, each of them have images from the war and I’m meeting with them again today to talk to them about preserving the images and documenting the re-development of Freetown and Sierra Leone. I emphasized the importance of those photographs to the history of Sierra Leone and I’ll try to encourage them to continue shooting… and documenting.
The four or five guys I met up with on Saturday are very keen to develop their connections with newspapers and magazines in the area so one of my workshops will be to bring these shooters together with newspaper reporters and editors… At the moment, the papers don’t use photography at all because they don’t have cameras. So, it kind of makes sense to try to get the cameras and photographers hooked up with the newspaper reporters and stories… and maybe get them all working together.
On Saturday, a very keen photographer named Samuel Karoma, offered to take me around Freetown to do some shooting… and in the middle of the afternoon, I jumped on the back of his little motorcycle and we zipped through traffic to central Freetown, a place called “PZ”, which is the busiest street/area in town. Kissy Road is the only street that connects the poorer area of East Freetown with West Freetown… and is the only artery through the city. It was chaos… and after parking his motorcycle, we strolled through the stalls, traffic, crowds, etc. Samuel kept very close… and repeatedly told me about the pickpockets, thieves, scammers and “nasties” that regularly hang out in the market. And, he kept telling me that as a white man, I was a prime target… So, he acted as security guard, tour operator, photo-guide and translator.
Samuel is a very interesting young man… very smart, eager and thoughtful… and a decent driver. Although, I had to keep telling him to “go slow” as he zipped between cars, curbs and crowds and my knees are rather banged up from getting a bit too close to neighbouring parked vehicles. Samuel ran for political office during the previous election and was very narrowly defeated in his efforts. He’s got all kinds of thoughts on how Freetown and Sierra Leone can rebuild…
After shooting at the market, Samuel took me to his apartment… in a place called Kroobay. The slums of Kroobay and Kingtom are linked by a bridge over a drainage ditch that regularly floods in the rainy season, hence the teetering scaffolds we gingerly traversed. The area, one of the poorest places in Sierra Leone, is home to about 5000 people who live in shacks, huts and small, makeshift buildings built on landfill, sewage and garbage that accumulates during the rainy season. I photographed the children, pigs, chickens and rats that occupy the area… and met some incredibly hard-working, proud people. One group was melting tin cans and moulding them into pots and pans. Another guy was building a two room house out of bricks of garbage for his family of five. I also met the local chief who sat in a darkened room with his three wives… officiating over the area. Despite the poverty, dirt and garbage, these people were proud, welcoming and open to my visit.
After visiting with Samuel’s sister in their room, we zipped back to the studio where we shared a drink… and talked about the importance of politics and people.
I’ll try to post some pictures to give you more of an idea of what it was like…
On Sunday… Jordan and I chartered a taxi to take us to Kent Beach, a deserted area about an hour east of the city. The beach was incredible… and not a soul in sight as we pitched our towels and bottles of water into a small, shaded hut. Then it was into the water… the gloriously warm, wavy Atlantic Ocean. The beach went on and on and I managed to stroll for almost an hour in one direction without seeing a single person.
I couldn’t help contrast this experience with the hustle and bustle of Kissy Road and the Clock tower market in central Freetown. On Saturday, I was pressing my way through hundreds of thousands of people… and on Sunday, I was alone with the birds, sand and waters of the Atlantic. It was surreal.
More later,
Stephen
On Saturday, I loaded up my “shooting vest” (thanks to Mom and Dad) and spent the day lugging around my “big” camera, memory cards, glasses, notebooks, etc. while sweltering under the 40-degree sunshine. I walked down to a local football field, a dusty stone field where a group of 16 year olds were playing. There are some amazing players here and for many of them, soccer/football is an optimistic ticket out of the area. (Think inner city American basketball courts or home-based ice rinks in Canada) They are incredibly serious about their training, the games, their coach, etc. despite playing in flip-flops, sandals or even bare feet. I don’t know how they do it… but the dedication to the game was remarkable.
Then, I took a taxi into town to meet with a group of photographers I’d met last week. They operate a studio, of sorts, opposite one of the grocery stores I’ve frequented. The studio isn’t more than a room with an old Polaroid passport camera perched on the street in front. I’d stopped in there to have my picture taken for yet another identity card… this one for my IMC membership. Anyway, the group of up to fifty photographers hang around the studio… occasionally shooting a wedding or funeral. None of them have regular work and they shoot with the most basic of equipment… But, each of them have images from the war and I’m meeting with them again today to talk to them about preserving the images and documenting the re-development of Freetown and Sierra Leone. I emphasized the importance of those photographs to the history of Sierra Leone and I’ll try to encourage them to continue shooting… and documenting.
The four or five guys I met up with on Saturday are very keen to develop their connections with newspapers and magazines in the area so one of my workshops will be to bring these shooters together with newspaper reporters and editors… At the moment, the papers don’t use photography at all because they don’t have cameras. So, it kind of makes sense to try to get the cameras and photographers hooked up with the newspaper reporters and stories… and maybe get them all working together.
On Saturday, a very keen photographer named Samuel Karoma, offered to take me around Freetown to do some shooting… and in the middle of the afternoon, I jumped on the back of his little motorcycle and we zipped through traffic to central Freetown, a place called “PZ”, which is the busiest street/area in town. Kissy Road is the only street that connects the poorer area of East Freetown with West Freetown… and is the only artery through the city. It was chaos… and after parking his motorcycle, we strolled through the stalls, traffic, crowds, etc. Samuel kept very close… and repeatedly told me about the pickpockets, thieves, scammers and “nasties” that regularly hang out in the market. And, he kept telling me that as a white man, I was a prime target… So, he acted as security guard, tour operator, photo-guide and translator.
Samuel is a very interesting young man… very smart, eager and thoughtful… and a decent driver. Although, I had to keep telling him to “go slow” as he zipped between cars, curbs and crowds and my knees are rather banged up from getting a bit too close to neighbouring parked vehicles. Samuel ran for political office during the previous election and was very narrowly defeated in his efforts. He’s got all kinds of thoughts on how Freetown and Sierra Leone can rebuild…
After shooting at the market, Samuel took me to his apartment… in a place called Kroobay. The slums of Kroobay and Kingtom are linked by a bridge over a drainage ditch that regularly floods in the rainy season, hence the teetering scaffolds we gingerly traversed. The area, one of the poorest places in Sierra Leone, is home to about 5000 people who live in shacks, huts and small, makeshift buildings built on landfill, sewage and garbage that accumulates during the rainy season. I photographed the children, pigs, chickens and rats that occupy the area… and met some incredibly hard-working, proud people. One group was melting tin cans and moulding them into pots and pans. Another guy was building a two room house out of bricks of garbage for his family of five. I also met the local chief who sat in a darkened room with his three wives… officiating over the area. Despite the poverty, dirt and garbage, these people were proud, welcoming and open to my visit.
After visiting with Samuel’s sister in their room, we zipped back to the studio where we shared a drink… and talked about the importance of politics and people.
I’ll try to post some pictures to give you more of an idea of what it was like…
On Sunday… Jordan and I chartered a taxi to take us to Kent Beach, a deserted area about an hour east of the city. The beach was incredible… and not a soul in sight as we pitched our towels and bottles of water into a small, shaded hut. Then it was into the water… the gloriously warm, wavy Atlantic Ocean. The beach went on and on and I managed to stroll for almost an hour in one direction without seeing a single person.
I couldn’t help contrast this experience with the hustle and bustle of Kissy Road and the Clock tower market in central Freetown. On Saturday, I was pressing my way through hundreds of thousands of people… and on Sunday, I was alone with the birds, sand and waters of the Atlantic. It was surreal.
More later,
Stephen
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
News of the day...
Dear Friends:
Thought I’d shoot along some news of the day from bustling Freetown. Perhaps “shoot” is an inappropriate word… "send" along some news from Freetown… that’s better.
Yesterday, I had a very interesting and insightful experience. The Independent Media Commission (IMC) hosted a press conference for local journalists and media owners. It was billed as “a dialogue between media stakeholders regarding the state of the media industry in Sierra Leone.”
Approximately 50 local reporters from radio, newspaper and television crammed into the small conference room of the IMC in Kissy House on Siaka Stevens Street (Stevens was the former President of Sierra Leone). The room was brutally hot and the conversation was rather heated.
The Independent Media Commission was first established in 2001 immediately following the civil war. (It took them four years to assemble and publish their “media code of practice”) They’ve worked very hard to establish this code of conduct and rules of practise for the media industry… and for the most part the journalists and publishers abide by their guidelines. Otherwise, the IMC has the legislative right to fine or even close a media outlet. So, most folks take it very seriously… and they’re quite closely connected to the government and the Ministry of Information, which has its inherent challenges, as I’m sure you can imagine.
The Chair of the IMC, a very powerful and articulate woman named Mrs. Bernadette Cole, opened the meeting with cautionary words… “My dear colleagues, it is an understatement to say that the peace we currently enjoy is rather fragile. A provocative statement, a message of hate or an insinuation of religious, tribal or ethnic animosity could whip up tension which could lead to complete breakdown of law and order. …it behoves the media sector to refrain from fanning the flames of divisiveness and discord among political parties and other groups in the society. The IMC therefore implores all journalists to be circumspect in the running of their media institutions and do all in their power to maintain our hard earned peace.”
In a local paper, the Standard Times, an article by Edetaen Ojo, also talked about the media industry in post-conflict countries. He says, “…the first signs of an emerging or spreading conflict have frequently manifested in the form of restrictions on media freedom and freedom of expression. These restrictions were either blatant and stringent or they were in the form of more subtle controls on the media, suppression of freedom of expression or the development of conflict-inciting media outlets.” He goes on to make the point that freedom of expression in the media industry is key to maintaining peace.
Obviously, Mr. Ojo’s opinion differs from that of the IMC. And, for the most part, I too see the restrictions, requests and threats from the IMC as a form of media self-censorship. The request from the IMC to not “fan the flames” and the threat of fines or worse, will limit the press in their role as watchdog, educator and protector of human rights. Is there a difference between “fanning the flames of divisiveness and discord” and straight, truthful, accurate reporting? I think so but that’s only my perception. And, when it comes to emerging countries, developing media industries, insecure governments or societies on the brink of peace, that line becomes very fine…
It’s sure a strange and interesting media environment. I should add that there are probably a dozen or so active newspapers on the streets of Freetown. Some are good while others are… less good. Radio stations outnumber newspapers mainly due to the subscription cost and a very low rate of literacy among potential readers. The radio stations share a very fragmented audience with vividly divided loyalties… a great number of niche radio stations, in other words, cater to small audiences. But, the newspapers that are produced here are a very influential form of education and action.
Other stories I’m following include a case where the publisher of Awareness Times, Dr. Sylvia Olayinka Blyden, has fled the area due to an ongoing police investigation. She wrote a story last week about how the government tried to fool a local community, the East Kailahun district, with a scheduled state visit from the First Lady of Sierra Leone, Sia Koroma. Blyden was tipped off that this visit would be from an imposter – an alleged “friend” of President Koroma, and not the real First Lady. (there were a lot of wink-winks and nudges about that term, of course) Police have targeted Blyden’s businesses, arrested her managers and harassed her customers while Blyden lays in hiding. The police have asked Blyden’s lawyers, and issued press releases, asking for her surrender to a local station but she’s yet to appear.
Of course, Blyden’s choice of headline for her story last week was rather scandalous, “President’s Concubine Revealed as Imposter”, which I’m sure raised some eyebrows and apparently achieved its desired impact… Presidential intervention. She should have known… but this is a technique that most of the papers here use regularly… scandalous headlines, yellow journalism and the “enquiring minds” approach to news. Other headlines from yesterday’s papers include… “Koroma Vexed, Ministers Worried,” “Girl 12, Raped,” and “Local Courts are Criminal”.
All the news that’s fit to print… or blog about…
From your roving friend,
Stephen
Thought I’d shoot along some news of the day from bustling Freetown. Perhaps “shoot” is an inappropriate word… "send" along some news from Freetown… that’s better.
Yesterday, I had a very interesting and insightful experience. The Independent Media Commission (IMC) hosted a press conference for local journalists and media owners. It was billed as “a dialogue between media stakeholders regarding the state of the media industry in Sierra Leone.”
Approximately 50 local reporters from radio, newspaper and television crammed into the small conference room of the IMC in Kissy House on Siaka Stevens Street (Stevens was the former President of Sierra Leone). The room was brutally hot and the conversation was rather heated.
The Independent Media Commission was first established in 2001 immediately following the civil war. (It took them four years to assemble and publish their “media code of practice”) They’ve worked very hard to establish this code of conduct and rules of practise for the media industry… and for the most part the journalists and publishers abide by their guidelines. Otherwise, the IMC has the legislative right to fine or even close a media outlet. So, most folks take it very seriously… and they’re quite closely connected to the government and the Ministry of Information, which has its inherent challenges, as I’m sure you can imagine.
The Chair of the IMC, a very powerful and articulate woman named Mrs. Bernadette Cole, opened the meeting with cautionary words… “My dear colleagues, it is an understatement to say that the peace we currently enjoy is rather fragile. A provocative statement, a message of hate or an insinuation of religious, tribal or ethnic animosity could whip up tension which could lead to complete breakdown of law and order. …it behoves the media sector to refrain from fanning the flames of divisiveness and discord among political parties and other groups in the society. The IMC therefore implores all journalists to be circumspect in the running of their media institutions and do all in their power to maintain our hard earned peace.”
In a local paper, the Standard Times, an article by Edetaen Ojo, also talked about the media industry in post-conflict countries. He says, “…the first signs of an emerging or spreading conflict have frequently manifested in the form of restrictions on media freedom and freedom of expression. These restrictions were either blatant and stringent or they were in the form of more subtle controls on the media, suppression of freedom of expression or the development of conflict-inciting media outlets.” He goes on to make the point that freedom of expression in the media industry is key to maintaining peace.
Obviously, Mr. Ojo’s opinion differs from that of the IMC. And, for the most part, I too see the restrictions, requests and threats from the IMC as a form of media self-censorship. The request from the IMC to not “fan the flames” and the threat of fines or worse, will limit the press in their role as watchdog, educator and protector of human rights. Is there a difference between “fanning the flames of divisiveness and discord” and straight, truthful, accurate reporting? I think so but that’s only my perception. And, when it comes to emerging countries, developing media industries, insecure governments or societies on the brink of peace, that line becomes very fine…
It’s sure a strange and interesting media environment. I should add that there are probably a dozen or so active newspapers on the streets of Freetown. Some are good while others are… less good. Radio stations outnumber newspapers mainly due to the subscription cost and a very low rate of literacy among potential readers. The radio stations share a very fragmented audience with vividly divided loyalties… a great number of niche radio stations, in other words, cater to small audiences. But, the newspapers that are produced here are a very influential form of education and action.
Other stories I’m following include a case where the publisher of Awareness Times, Dr. Sylvia Olayinka Blyden, has fled the area due to an ongoing police investigation. She wrote a story last week about how the government tried to fool a local community, the East Kailahun district, with a scheduled state visit from the First Lady of Sierra Leone, Sia Koroma. Blyden was tipped off that this visit would be from an imposter – an alleged “friend” of President Koroma, and not the real First Lady. (there were a lot of wink-winks and nudges about that term, of course) Police have targeted Blyden’s businesses, arrested her managers and harassed her customers while Blyden lays in hiding. The police have asked Blyden’s lawyers, and issued press releases, asking for her surrender to a local station but she’s yet to appear.
Of course, Blyden’s choice of headline for her story last week was rather scandalous, “President’s Concubine Revealed as Imposter”, which I’m sure raised some eyebrows and apparently achieved its desired impact… Presidential intervention. She should have known… but this is a technique that most of the papers here use regularly… scandalous headlines, yellow journalism and the “enquiring minds” approach to news. Other headlines from yesterday’s papers include… “Koroma Vexed, Ministers Worried,” “Girl 12, Raped,” and “Local Courts are Criminal”.
All the news that’s fit to print… or blog about…
From your roving friend,
Stephen
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Okay... life is sometimes grand! This is the beach get-away I mentioned previously. It's called, "Beach Two", for reasons that aren't exactly clear. But, the water was clear, the sand white, the skies blue... and the sun hot! What a paradise just a bumpy, 45 minute drive from central Freetown.Gotta love how quiet and serene life can be at times... sure makes me miss the cold climes of Canada. NOT.
I'm still trying to work out some way to write, research and blog from the beach. Any suggestions?
Settling in...
Dear Friends:
I’m sitting on the verandah of our new apartment in Aberdeen, a “quaint” neighbourhood in Freetown. Okay, quaint isn’t exactly the right word to describe it but for Freetown, this is about as twee as can be. We’re around the corner from the MSF offices and down the street from yet another UN initiative. (They’re everywhere here… and are very well regarded) I’m watching the evening sky turn a bright pink… clouds edged with light from the setting sun. It’s quite miraculous, actually. The verandah looks out over a small, walled enclosure we’re calling our courtyard, which in Africa has an entirely different meaning, as I’m sure you can imagine. Razor-wire and shards of glass top the eight foot tall wall… which is the norm around here.
It’s still brutally hot and humid and this “pasty white man” as I’m affectionately known, has melted, burned and sweated his way through almost two weeks of tropical Sierra Leone temperatures. Whew… But, the joke is that after several more weeks, I’ll resemble a native Sierra Leoneon. Okay, not quite.
I’m in my new, semi-permanent dwelling now after a week at a guest house near the national stadium in Freetown proper. It’s a bit of relief to be out of ear-shot of the soccer matches, Bob Marley celebrations (he died on May 11 and the concerts were deafening), political rallies and other assorted parties held at the stadium and on the practice fields.
Soldiers used to march/drill and clap on the fields very early in the morning, usually the most humid time of day here… It’s a wonder how any of them made it through the drills. I watched from the guest house balcony on several occasions and couldn’t believe the military activities going on there. Yes, there’s still a very real threat of uprising although the present government is actively working on keeping the peace while the leaders of the RUF (revolutionary united front, I think) sit in cells awaiting trials for all kinds of atrocities. Interestingly, May has been declared RUF month and there are celebrations and skirmishes arising across the country. Politics is rampant here… and everyone seems to be involved, educated and intrigued by what goes on in government offices. Very interesting indeed.
Today was my first official day “in the office”, which JHR operates on Pademba Road, a major thoroughfare through the city. It’s always busy… taxis, poda-podas (mini-vans usually loaded to the gills with passengers) and motorcycle taxis (too dangerous given the crazy road conditions and overly confident drivers). The honks and toots are continuous and thousands of people stroll past the office in a day. Whew… it makes this porch an oasis of peace amidst the bustle of the big city.
I’ll be spending the next couple of weeks in meetings with key media industry folks trying to put together a needs assessment. Yes, the development community jargon is rampant… and I’m trying to come to terms with the vagueness and development-speak I’ve been bombarded with. Strategic community development arising from increased dialogue amongst key industry programs… Okay… what it really means is that I’ll be meeting with journalists, editors, media owners and the Ministry of Information to ascertain what it is they think might be helpful from a media development organization like Journalists for Human Rights.
Following this needs assessment, I’ll be putting together an action plan that involves community forums (to increase dialogue among stakeholders) and student workshops (I’ll be working with the Mass Communications dept. at the university) I’ll also be teaching a journalism course at the university and another local college, which will be very interesting. They’re very eager to develop the local media and increasing readership, education, etc. while at the same time working towards developing more community awareness around human rights issues. Yes, I’ll need to bone up on the UN declaration of human rights, including the rights of the child and of women. The straight journalism stuff will be pretty basic, in western media terms, and I’m looking forward to teaching writing skills, interview techniques, photojournalism and story structure.
Yesterday was a huge reprieve from the hustle and bustle of Freetown… A Swiss couple I met at the guest house took three of us to the beach. Beach Two, to be exact, about an hour outside of Freetown proper. After a very rough ride through several villages, we arrived at the most pristine beach I’ve ever seen. The sand was pure white… and the waters of the Atlantic Ocean was clean and warm… excellent for swimming and bobbing through. The waves were lovely… high and powerful, which made for some fantastic body surfing and wave diving.
We set up a small beach umbrella and shared a lunch of fresh crab, smoked barracuda and pita bread… how civilized, don’t you think? And yes, this white man turned a lovely shade of lobster red about half way through the day… which made for a rather disturbed sleep, as you can imagine. But, it was so lovely to spend the day away… on an almost deserted beach. I have to get back there… and am trying to figure out how to report/teach journalism and human rights awareness from the beach. You wouldn’t believe how beautiful it was.
And then today… after several hours in the office, I shopped through the local market looking for sheets, vegetables, a handbag, a chopping block, etc. It’s absolutely chaotic on the market streets… and one has to be incredibly aware of what’s around. Taxis roar by, honking and swerving through the traffic. Street vendors outnumber the shops by about one hundred to one and they’re very eager to sell you a bar of soap, a tube of toothpaste or a pair of jeans that still have the Value Village tag hanging from the pocket. Countless vendors ply their trade along the streets… and bargaining is the name of the game.
Of course, I must pay the “white man tax” on most of these things, which is just fine… but I have to remember to offer half what the item costs… we meet somewhere between the two extremes and I feel good about the “deal” I’m getting and they feel like they’re taxing the white man. Interestingly, my colleagues here in Freetown are of brown skin – an Indian woman and a mixed race young man from Manchester, UK. (Yes, I’ve had to become a Man U soccer fan in order to have something to talk to taxi drivers about). They, the two JHR trainers, are burdened by my “white presence” and we share lots of laughs about the differences in the way we’re all treated by the Sierra Leoneons. Jordan, the guy from the UK, has done experiments… He walks ahead of me and watches how people react to me strolling down the street… They and he can see me coming from blocks away. It’s the white-glow… apparently.
We still don’t have power for most of the evening… the national electric grid is hit and miss at best. So, when the power is on, we all madly dash to wall receptacles to charge our phones, computers, lamps and torches. We do, however, have running water… bracing, cold water but it’s a welcome relief to sunburn and humidity. I’m typing this letter by candlelight, which is romantic, I know. And, I ate my first home-cooked meal tonight… spaghetti, because I was missing Canadian comfort food. We have to boil all of our drinking water because there’s no such thing as treated municipal water… and bottled water is relatively expensive. So, there’s barely a lull in activity around here… whether I’m hand-washing my clothes or trying to replace burning candles. It’s sooo good though… fitting into life here in Africa. It makes me wonder about all the so-called necessities of life in Canada. Perhaps living a simpler life… with its hardships, energy, challenges and rewards is a better way to deal with the environment, the developing world, economic challenges and political woes.
I’m thrilled to be here… living up to the challenges and enjoying the rewards of life in Africa. I’m sure there’s more… but for now, I’ll sign off.
With great excitement and joy…
I remain yours,
Stephen
I’m sitting on the verandah of our new apartment in Aberdeen, a “quaint” neighbourhood in Freetown. Okay, quaint isn’t exactly the right word to describe it but for Freetown, this is about as twee as can be. We’re around the corner from the MSF offices and down the street from yet another UN initiative. (They’re everywhere here… and are very well regarded) I’m watching the evening sky turn a bright pink… clouds edged with light from the setting sun. It’s quite miraculous, actually. The verandah looks out over a small, walled enclosure we’re calling our courtyard, which in Africa has an entirely different meaning, as I’m sure you can imagine. Razor-wire and shards of glass top the eight foot tall wall… which is the norm around here.
It’s still brutally hot and humid and this “pasty white man” as I’m affectionately known, has melted, burned and sweated his way through almost two weeks of tropical Sierra Leone temperatures. Whew… But, the joke is that after several more weeks, I’ll resemble a native Sierra Leoneon. Okay, not quite.
I’m in my new, semi-permanent dwelling now after a week at a guest house near the national stadium in Freetown proper. It’s a bit of relief to be out of ear-shot of the soccer matches, Bob Marley celebrations (he died on May 11 and the concerts were deafening), political rallies and other assorted parties held at the stadium and on the practice fields.
Soldiers used to march/drill and clap on the fields very early in the morning, usually the most humid time of day here… It’s a wonder how any of them made it through the drills. I watched from the guest house balcony on several occasions and couldn’t believe the military activities going on there. Yes, there’s still a very real threat of uprising although the present government is actively working on keeping the peace while the leaders of the RUF (revolutionary united front, I think) sit in cells awaiting trials for all kinds of atrocities. Interestingly, May has been declared RUF month and there are celebrations and skirmishes arising across the country. Politics is rampant here… and everyone seems to be involved, educated and intrigued by what goes on in government offices. Very interesting indeed.
Today was my first official day “in the office”, which JHR operates on Pademba Road, a major thoroughfare through the city. It’s always busy… taxis, poda-podas (mini-vans usually loaded to the gills with passengers) and motorcycle taxis (too dangerous given the crazy road conditions and overly confident drivers). The honks and toots are continuous and thousands of people stroll past the office in a day. Whew… it makes this porch an oasis of peace amidst the bustle of the big city.
I’ll be spending the next couple of weeks in meetings with key media industry folks trying to put together a needs assessment. Yes, the development community jargon is rampant… and I’m trying to come to terms with the vagueness and development-speak I’ve been bombarded with. Strategic community development arising from increased dialogue amongst key industry programs… Okay… what it really means is that I’ll be meeting with journalists, editors, media owners and the Ministry of Information to ascertain what it is they think might be helpful from a media development organization like Journalists for Human Rights.
Following this needs assessment, I’ll be putting together an action plan that involves community forums (to increase dialogue among stakeholders) and student workshops (I’ll be working with the Mass Communications dept. at the university) I’ll also be teaching a journalism course at the university and another local college, which will be very interesting. They’re very eager to develop the local media and increasing readership, education, etc. while at the same time working towards developing more community awareness around human rights issues. Yes, I’ll need to bone up on the UN declaration of human rights, including the rights of the child and of women. The straight journalism stuff will be pretty basic, in western media terms, and I’m looking forward to teaching writing skills, interview techniques, photojournalism and story structure.
Yesterday was a huge reprieve from the hustle and bustle of Freetown… A Swiss couple I met at the guest house took three of us to the beach. Beach Two, to be exact, about an hour outside of Freetown proper. After a very rough ride through several villages, we arrived at the most pristine beach I’ve ever seen. The sand was pure white… and the waters of the Atlantic Ocean was clean and warm… excellent for swimming and bobbing through. The waves were lovely… high and powerful, which made for some fantastic body surfing and wave diving.
We set up a small beach umbrella and shared a lunch of fresh crab, smoked barracuda and pita bread… how civilized, don’t you think? And yes, this white man turned a lovely shade of lobster red about half way through the day… which made for a rather disturbed sleep, as you can imagine. But, it was so lovely to spend the day away… on an almost deserted beach. I have to get back there… and am trying to figure out how to report/teach journalism and human rights awareness from the beach. You wouldn’t believe how beautiful it was.
And then today… after several hours in the office, I shopped through the local market looking for sheets, vegetables, a handbag, a chopping block, etc. It’s absolutely chaotic on the market streets… and one has to be incredibly aware of what’s around. Taxis roar by, honking and swerving through the traffic. Street vendors outnumber the shops by about one hundred to one and they’re very eager to sell you a bar of soap, a tube of toothpaste or a pair of jeans that still have the Value Village tag hanging from the pocket. Countless vendors ply their trade along the streets… and bargaining is the name of the game.
Of course, I must pay the “white man tax” on most of these things, which is just fine… but I have to remember to offer half what the item costs… we meet somewhere between the two extremes and I feel good about the “deal” I’m getting and they feel like they’re taxing the white man. Interestingly, my colleagues here in Freetown are of brown skin – an Indian woman and a mixed race young man from Manchester, UK. (Yes, I’ve had to become a Man U soccer fan in order to have something to talk to taxi drivers about). They, the two JHR trainers, are burdened by my “white presence” and we share lots of laughs about the differences in the way we’re all treated by the Sierra Leoneons. Jordan, the guy from the UK, has done experiments… He walks ahead of me and watches how people react to me strolling down the street… They and he can see me coming from blocks away. It’s the white-glow… apparently.
We still don’t have power for most of the evening… the national electric grid is hit and miss at best. So, when the power is on, we all madly dash to wall receptacles to charge our phones, computers, lamps and torches. We do, however, have running water… bracing, cold water but it’s a welcome relief to sunburn and humidity. I’m typing this letter by candlelight, which is romantic, I know. And, I ate my first home-cooked meal tonight… spaghetti, because I was missing Canadian comfort food. We have to boil all of our drinking water because there’s no such thing as treated municipal water… and bottled water is relatively expensive. So, there’s barely a lull in activity around here… whether I’m hand-washing my clothes or trying to replace burning candles. It’s sooo good though… fitting into life here in Africa. It makes me wonder about all the so-called necessities of life in Canada. Perhaps living a simpler life… with its hardships, energy, challenges and rewards is a better way to deal with the environment, the developing world, economic challenges and political woes.
I’m thrilled to be here… living up to the challenges and enjoying the rewards of life in Africa. I’m sure there’s more… but for now, I’ll sign off.
With great excitement and joy…
I remain yours,
Stephen
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