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