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
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
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
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