Steve's Freetown Fun

I thought I should mention, the road trip wasn’t entirely fun and games. In each city we did some research, and I spoke with civil society organizations to spur interest in joining the civil society coalition for constitutional reform. I met with the National Movement for Justice and Development in Kono, and the Sierra Leone Indigenous Miners Movement in Kenema to discuss constitutional reform issues. Both of these groups expressed interest but also concern about affording a trip to Freetown to participate in conferences or workshops on reform. They want to have a voice, but can’t figure out how to get one. One of my bosses told me this is essentially the problem with the CSOs around the country: they’ll express an interest in participating, if they can get something out of it—money, resources, publicity—but their interest will wane or disappear once they need to do something for it, or if there is no money for per diems or transportation and accommodation wherever the conferences or meetings are going to take place.

We also researched the conditions facing miners in the East and South. Walking into the illuvial mud-puddle mines was a pretty incredible experience. I can’t imagine standing in that muddy water, sifting through dirt looking for tiny rocks for 10 hours a day, all for compensation of rice and soup or about $2 per day. I can understand the Fawaz crew’s opinion that they preferred their job working for the construction supplies company, just selling merchandise, loading goods, and driving things around the country. It’s a guaranteed paycheck and a lot less hassle.  The people at Koidu Holdings were also remarkable. They straddled this line between defensive public relations word-voodoo and friendly promotion of their positive local employment programs. The guesthouse operator in Kono told me that you need to go and speak with the people who have been evicted from their land by Koidu Holdings in order to really know how the company treats the local community. Apparently when they decide it’s time to expand the mines, they simply inform people that they are moving, and begin digging. People are forced to relocate without even a mention of compensation. Of course, they are supposed to pay for relocation and resettlement, but if the government is being bribed already, you can probably guess how much anyone monitors the resettlement procedures and payments.

Finally, we were researching women’s access to justice and women’s rights in the provinces. The best answer we got on this topic was from a man who works for the Sierra Leone Human Rights Commission in Bo. We asked “with the passage of new bills in 2005, and 2007, what has changed? What is women’s access to justice in Bo?” and the gentleman responded quickly, without hesitation, and without irony: “ZERO!” The major problem is that police are untrained, women are too poor or economically dependent on their husband/family to report domestic violence or prosecute abuses of their rights, and there are simply no lawyers to take their cases. Lawyers exist in these areas, but they refuse to take cases prosecuting domestic violence. All too often, the perpetrators will be clients of the lawyer, or prominent members of the community, and it would be dangerous for the lawyer to defend the victim because they might face career suicide in the area. In Kono we heard rumours of the local chief having been caught keeping a 13 year-old mistress, and the uproar this rumour had caused was palpable. But, at the same time, there was a universal acceptance of the futility of the situation: he would never be prosecuted because there would never be evidence to substantiate the claims, and she would never pursue it because she would never know it was her right to escape sexual abuse by the chief, and he would simply continue his life and probably do it again with another 13 year-old. In Bo, we learned from the HRC man that the challenge facing women is on several levels. They would have to escape the village and come to the city to report the case, costing money for transport, food and potentially accommodation. Then they need money to pay the police to report their case—either in bribes to report it at all, or for paper, pens, and other materials used in reporting the case. Finally, they need money to return to the city several times to pursue the case, hire a lawyer to take the case or pay the police to prosecute it themselves—with the added problem that the police are not adequately trained as legal counsel, so their counsel is already less skilled and less trained than the defendants’ counsel. It is an almost impossible burden. Yet, in Kono the police line commander pursued a campaign of implementing the 2007 Domestic Violence Act and prosecuted over 100 cases in 2008. Since then, he said “people are aware, people are sensitized, and people are scared” which has either resulted in less reporting of cases or in lower incidences of violence against women. We may never know which one.

Upon return to Freetown, Arthur helped us change some money and return us to the house. During our trip we had learned that he was a good, trustworthy man, helpful and knowledgeable in situations like police checkpoints and local tax roadblocks, where he guided us through without need for a single bribe (in a country considered by the UN to be one of the most corrupt in the world, that is a surprising feat). However, it was passing through Central Freetown where we really learned just how much Arthur cares about his community.

Driving around the Cotton Tree (the center point of downtown Freetown, a gigantic cotton tree that has been the city center since it was founded in the 1800s), a bunch of little girls approached the car seeking money from us—not an uncommon occurrence in Freetown as you are sitting in traffic. We are used to his, but Arthur suddenly became very upset and was yelling in Krio at a couple of these little girls. It took me a moment to hear the Krio, but I finally realized what he was saying as he wagged a finger at one of the smaller girls in a scolding manner. He yelled “why you not at school? Where’s your uniform? Where’s the money I gave you for go to school!?” and scolded her. The girl was shocked and played dumb… but when we stopped again a few meters forward the girls came back and one of them proudly showed Arthur her fully filled attendance form from school. He smiled and congratulated her, and returned his attention to the smallest girl. She stood coyly smirking and swaying in the sun, but his ire was not abated. He asked if she remembered him, remembered him meeting with her mother, remembered the money for a uniform and school fees… and softly her facial expression turned until she smiled a huge toothy grin and exclaimed “OH! Yes!” Arthur was partly appeased, but told her that he would be back tomorrow and wanted to know what happened. The other girls tried to tell him she had been going to school, but he wanted to talk again tomorrow.

This is a man of many talents: Arthur informed us when we met him at our apartment that he had been the man to tile and paint the interior of the house, and had been a driver for many years—including stints for the BBC, and a Swedish documentary film-making group—a mechanic, and carpenter. But, perhaps his greatest talent is caring. “Uncle Arthur” the girls called to him in unison. Uncle Arthur didn’t have much money of his own, although he clearly managed, but he somehow found a way to sponsor the education of several Central Freetown kids.

Bo is the second largest city in Sierra Leone. It is a sprawling city, contrasted mostly from Freetown in that it is largely flat, with rolling hills instead of the steep mountains of the Northern coast where Freetown is found. It is also more inland, away from the ocean but at the junction of a couple rivers. It is a student city, known for its nightlife and population of activist students always interested in political issues and promoting their causes.

We didn’t spend much time in Bo, but we did enjoy a night at the Sir Milton Hotel, a meal at Cool Zone, and a delicious assortment of street meat and bread for dinner. We even picked up a great CD of Sierra Leone rap and R&B from one of many music and DVD stores. These stores are a bit of an experience, selling burned mix-cds out of a storefront, and blasting a sample of the music into the street late into the night. You don’t need to go the nightclubs, just stand outside of these stores and you can enjoy the music and dance your heart out.

The EU recently completed construction on a length of beautifully paved highway from Bo to Freetown, so the trip home was a quick 3 hours despite the distance being similar to the 6 hour drive to Kono only days before. It’s amazing how much could change in a country like Sierra Leone by the construction of effective transportation routes. In the 1960s, the government destroyed the national railroad that had been built by the colonial administration out of jealousy and concern for the control of national resource exports which they thought were being smuggled by the controllers of the railway. Today, the people of Sierra Leone feel distant from each other from one corner to the next, despite the entire country being approximately the size of South Carolina. The new Bo road was a poignant example of how quickly things could change with an improved transportation network.

One of the greatest contrasts between life in Sierra Leone and life at home is the amount of human interaction throughout the day. At home: we get up, get our coffee, walk through a sea of people, cross the road at cross-walks according to automated signals (or drive down the road according to automated signals, or get in a taxi where a machine tells us how much to pay), swipe a card or touch a fob to access a building, buy a breakfast snack from a vending machine, turn on our computers and get started for the day.

In Sierra Leone: we get up, step outside and wait for a taxi, bargain for the price, the taxi picks up and drops off seven other passengers en route to your destination—each saying “Good morning!”—and as the driver navigates the streets he uses a series of honking, hand gestures, and nods to understand when it’s his turn to go or to let other drivers move through the streets. Police officers control traffic through hand signals and whistles, there are no traffic lights to guide people through. Finally, you get dropped off at the street and again a hand gesture, honk and nod allow you to cross the road and the people on the second floor of your building all wish you a good morning as they buy their breakfast sandwiches from the lady who comes around every morning with a smorgasbord of sandwich-fillers and bread to serve the office communities. The lady comes up to offer breakfast, and you might buy a snack; another lady comes by mid-morning with a lunch-style snack as well in case you are hungry. We turn on our computers and start our day, but in this case we have interacted, shook hands, wished good morning, and spoken with anywhere from 10 to 50 people before we even got started.

I don’t know what is better. There is a certain convenience and orderliness to the automated lifestyle we  live in the West. But, there is a certain relief and pleasure to the ordered chaos of the human-oriented lifestyle I find here. I will miss having so many people shake my hand and wish me a good day, or smile as we pass on the sidewalk. Even the yelling of “white boy!” or “friend!”, the hissing, and the offering of consumer goods ad nauseum will be missed—especially when a response to the yelling normally solicits a call back of “enjoy your time!!” or “Salone is beautiful!!” That’s right, demand I enjoy myself, announce the quality of this place—it deserves it.

It is not uncommon to come across a broken down car, truck, van, or other vehicle either pulled over to the side or simply stopped in the road on the provincial main roads. Safety is not forgotten as the drivers, passengers and sometimes bored bystanders use their mechanical skills to fix the vehicle. No, no, they use traffic cones. Sort of.

Instead of the orange pylons you might find in Europe or North America, the innovative mechanics grab clumps of rocks and grass from the roadside and place them on the road guiding traffic around the broken down vehicle. Less bright and conveniently noticeable, potentially dangerous as traffic rushes forward at speeds upward of 70mph, but surprisingly effective.

A recurring discussion from the trip was brought up by many of the Sierra Leoneans I met along the way. They wanted to talk about their friends or family who had moved to America, or England. They wanted to talk about how everyone dreams of getting away from Sierra Leone, and nobody understands the good things they have in Salone.

 Arthur told me a story of his friend who moved to Maryland seeking “greener pastures” and expecting to find wealth, happiness, opportunity, and safety. Instead he found himself getting robbed, working three minimum-wage jobs, barely getting by. Within five years the man was desperate and depressed, stuck in America with no hope and unable to afford the plane ticket back to Sierra Leone to start over. He thought America was the land of opportunity but instead he just found dead-ends and hard knocks. Arthur just kept repeating, “greener pastures, greener pastures” and shaking his head. “People are always looking for greener pastures, but they never look to build up their home.”

Jessie from the Rendezvous guest house had similar stories. His brother moved to the USA when he was just a boy, and eventually joined the armed forces. Now he is in Afghanistan, fighting for America. The last time Jessie saw him was before his first tour in Afghanistan, when the younger brother was able to stop in Sierra Leone in transit to the Middle East for his first visit home in over a decade. Jessie spoke of his brother with affection, but I could sense the world of distance between them since his brother grew up in America. For Jessie, it is the impossible dream, one he doesn’t want to chase because he appreciates his good fortune in Salone, and one that he warns against when he sees the young people partying in his club. “The kids,” he says, “grew up with television, with American shows, with news from around the world. They don’t know what America is really like, they just know what they see on TV and think it is this paradise. They don’t know.”

Both Jessie and Arthur are examples of a generation of Sierra Leoneans who want to stay home, who want to improve their country and build Salone into a place of dreams, hope and opportunity. They are frustrated by the corruption in government and the laziness they see in idle youths who sit around and then beg white foreigners for money. They want the kids to know that America isn’t exactly like they see on TV, the world outside of Sierra Leone is not necessarily a paradise, you don’t just show up and get record deals and put “money in the bank” as a popular Sierra Leone rap song declares. But, what can they do except encourage their friends and family to stay, and who are they to quash dreams of a better life—dreams of the West.

Kenema is the third largest city in Sierra Leone, and the fastest growing. It also appeared to me to be the most planned/organized, and to have the best infrastructure. Kenema is, like Sierra Leone in general, blessed with an abundance of natural resources. The guy I met on the plane in from Colorado School of Mines is working in the nearby Kambui Hills doing geological surveys for yet another type of precious stone or mineral which will be pillaged by another mining company if found in good supply, as expected. But, this leaves Kenema well-stocked with money and resources as the proximity to exploration and excavation of minerals, diamonds, and a large river, Kenema has stable, reliable hydroelectricity.

We pulled up to the Rendezvous guest house a little confused about how to get inside, but the boy sitting by the gate guided us through the front courtyard to the bar/night-club where the manager, proprietor, and staff were sitting watching an awful Nigerian soap opera (all of them are awful, it’s hilarious). Pleased as punch to have visitors, the owner-operator Jessie led us upstairs, showed us the price list for the rooms and gave us options. Place looked good, price was right, so we took it. One caveat: they wanted to warn us that they are hosting a party at the nightclub downstairs for the end of Bekke exams (junior high school) that night… just so we are aware. Knowing full well that these Sierra Leonean night club parties tend to go until about 6am, we went for it.

After touring around Kenema and searching (and finding!) for the house where Alex slept on the floor last summer during his tour of West Africa, we grabbed dinner of street meat and bread and settled in for the night by having some Star beers with Jessie out front. After a while Katie and Alex headed to bed but I was in for the long haul, wanting to witness the party scene in Kenema.

While Jessie and I sat out front monitoring the door and chatting, I learned some interesting things. He owns the guesthouse and bar, but normally lives in Freetown. Lately the manager had been sending reports that there were no, or very little, profits from the business and so Jessie came down to check it out. In three weeks he made over 3 million Leones ($750 USD) in profit. Suffice it to say the manager was no longer with the guesthouse by the time we arrived. Jessie also shared that he had a girl in Kenema, and a wife in Freetown. This is not surprising any more. It seems that any man who has business in different parts of the country probably has a young girlfriend or two in each of those places, all the while keeping a wife and family in Freetown.

As young people filled the club and the DJ blasted loud beats into the silent African night, Jessie and I drank beers, discussed the different perspectives on life from an African and an American experience, and he expressed his fears for the kids of Sierra Leone today. They grow up envying America, wanting to dress like Americans, wanting to copy the pop culture they see in TV and movies, things that Jessie’s generation did not experience because TV and movies didn’t get over here back then. He said, “Sierra Leoneans love fashion, and they love music. But they don’t like to do things second-best, they want to take the fashion, music, and lifestyles that they see from abroad and do it better, bigger, crazier. They would rather look good than eat, some of them!”

Pulling into Tongo Field was a pretty fascinating experience. Every town we visited upcountry it felt as though the whole town noticed us—the group of white people passing through in their huge white 4x4, blasting Sierra Leone rap music, we were pretty hard to miss. But, one of the most memorable spots was a brief stop in the town of Tongo Field, between Kono and Kenema.

Thinking nothing of it, we pulled in and started off on a brief walk around town. Arthur told us later that as soon as we got out of the car two guys asked him if we were looking for diamonds (because they could help with that). But, the real show happened about 100 yards up the road/mountainside.

As we climbed up this rocky, natural mountainside of a main road, flanked by shops and stands, several of which sold all the necessary materials for becoming a diamond miner—very reminiscent of old western movies of the gold rush—we found ourselves establishing a small gathering behind us. Finally, we reached a clearing, a sort of town center where motorcycle taxis (known as “ocada”) gather and look for fares. Here, we were mobbed.

The ocada drivers wanted to know everything we could tell them: what is your mission in Tongo? What brings you here? What do you think of Tongo? (Followed quickly with the statement that it was much nicer before the war, we should keep in mind it was once a much more beautiful place.) Having satisfactorily answered their questions, we were told “You are welcome!”

One man, Mohamed, was very pleased that some of us are from America. He said, “I’ve always wanted to move to America” looking with interest to our female intern for signals of the likelihood of assistance with immigration. Apparently he loves Obama so much that he says “Obama is MY President!” and claims “I voted for him too!” His enthusiasm for Obama and for America was great for sharing a laugh and several high-fives.

Then, as we stood surrounded by Ocada drivers, we hardly noticed that our crowd of little children followers who had been gathering behind us en route up the road had doubled. Until, one of them got up the courage and touched one of our hands. That was all they wanted: to touch a white person. It isn’t that none ever come through Tongo, but it is infrequent enough that it was certainly the news of the day. As we handed out high-fives and smiles, the kids were pleased and followed us back to the car to see us off.

As we walked back down the road, the familiar yells of “White man! White man!” heard from nearby were punctuated by one little girl pointed at Katie, correcting her friends: “No! She is da women!”

When we made our original plan to motorcycle around Sierra Leone there was not  a single person, Sierra Leonean or ex-pat, who appreciated that we felt it was safe enough. Everyone, uniformly, declared their shock and amazement that we would do such a thing. One reason is that the roads in the provinces are barely manicured dirt paths, and even the paved roads are slick with oil coming to the surface during the rainy season. One road specifically, from Kono to Kenema, is notoriously bad. When we got stopped at a police check point on our way from Kono, and let the police check our passports, I took the wheel for the next leg. We stood around for a few minutes, taking a leg-stretching break, and then started loading back into the car. As I stepped into the driver’s seat, the police who had just checked our passports came running over to the car urgently! “Wait, wait!” they yelled.

“Yes?” I replied innocently.

“Do you know this road? This road is dangerous!”

“Oh, it’s okay, I’ll go slow, and if I don’t then this guy (points to Arthur the driver) will beat me up and take the driver’s seat back!”

The policeman laughed and told me to be very careful, and we were off.

I’ll be honest, it wasn’t the worst road I’ve ever seen. There were a couple spots that were tricky, but mostly it was like average off-roading conditions, and the car we were driving was a tank that had no trouble with the road. I will say my limited mountain-biking experience was handy in picking routes through the rocks and rain-washed mud and dirt road. It was awesome.