Rhythm 16 - Lubebay Disco

On my visit to Kenema a few weeks back (see Rhythm 14), after a few near misses I was finally able to indulge in one of the more intriguing social hotspots in the town, known only as ‘Total’.

To clarify, that isn’t a name of a jazzy club or bar – it’s merely a set of tables and chairs surrounding the forecourt of the Total petrol station, where you can drink to your heart’s content from the fridges inside the adjoining shop.

In addition, music is predictably blared through creaking speakers. It’s the usual combination of Salone classics and the latest favourites – including the omnipotent hit of the day, P-Square’s ‘Chop My Money’...which everyone is singing and dancing to right now. We’ve heard it up to ten times in one day, which is actually no bad thing.

Drinking and dancing in a petrol station took an interesting twist when we looked up at the signage on show at the Total. On one side, there is the predictable word ‘Shop’. On the other, however, we noticed that the word ‘Lubebay’ was directly about what is ordinarily known as ‘the pit’ in modern parlance. To those not quite with me, it’s the hole that mechanics work on the underside of the car from.

My only real memory of a pit is from Eastenders, when Grant pushed Phil down the one in The Arches after he found out that his brother had ‘screwed’ his wife Sharon. Poor Grant.

We made our own memories on this occasion, when we decided that the only option was to dance in the Lubebay. As you would, when nobody gives two hoots if you get in there or not. You can do allsorts in a Lubebay – six people can dance snugly, three less snugly, and you can even do a modified but equally titillating lap dance above someone in the Lubebay below.

Like anywhere in the world, Sierra Leone throws up random opportunities for fun. However, if you’d told me before we arrived that I’d dance in a Lubebay with a beer in my hand, just metres away from a petrol pump, I’d have laughed at you.

Rhythm 15 - Hypocatical

Most readers of this will know that I confidently present myself as ‘anti-pet’. It makes me quite unpopular at parties, as I generally decide not to shirk the discussion should someone ever ask me whether I have them or not. Some might say I even happily provoke the debate that often ensues.

Around six weeks ago, we had something of a fraught week of mouse sightings. Nobody sane actually likes mice that invade their house, despite what they might say. At best they are a nuisance; at worst, they have been described by yours truly as “furry little b*****d things” that are dirty and cause havoc.

This set us thinking, and we ascertained that the most effective way of alleviating our rodent friends was...to acquire a cat. Or ‘puss’, as they are affectionately known in Krio. This was quite the detachment for me, as you might expect.

With pride swallowed, we asked the caretakers of our flat to keep their ears open to any nearby male kittens that needed a home. Less than a week later, we had received the merchandise. We had already decided on the name of ‘Ishmood’ – a clever combination of the two caretakers who helped us find him, Ishmael and Mahmood.

It turns out that our new housemate is actually...(yelp)...quite fun to have around. This is, of course, quite challenging for someone who thinks that pet ownership is the final and patronising victory of man over beast. Discuss.

An interesting footnote to Ishmood’s arrival is the fact that despite assurances that he was a ‘man puss’, he is in fact a girl. That hasn’t stopped me calling him ‘mate’ or referring to him as ‘him’. To me, he’s a boy trapped in a girl’s body and that's that. 

Thankfully, Ishmood has served and is still serving his main purpose, which is to be a merciless killer and eschewer of pests. His first kill was a cockroach, which was stridently placed on my flip flop. And we haven’t seen a single mouse since his arrival.

Rhythm 14 - The Smooth and the Rough

Anyone worth their salt knows that the words Sierra and Leone are synonymous with diamonds – blood diamonds, no less, as immortalised by Leone-ardo himself.

The irony of the phenomenonal volume of natural resources the country has is just how much (or little, as the case may be) people benefit from their discovery, sale and re-sale across the world. But that’s for another time.

On a recent field visit to Kenema and Kono districts, I was able to see the two sides of the diamond business in technicolour. This involved (a) visiting a diamond dealer shop in Kenema Township, and (b) observing the effect of mining on communities in both districts.

The dealer shop we were lucky enough to visit was named ‘Ameriken’ – which was either a clever play on words, a worrying typo (well, painto) by the sign maker or simply a rubbish name. I’m almost certain it was the latter, but you never know.

The Lebanese chap who owned the shop was more than happy to show us a variety of diamonds on his expensive-looking desk (which had Liverpool and Brazil football logo stickers affixed to it, tastefully). These ranged from one particularly attractive one worth $80,000 to a pile of around 100 small ones that would total $200. 

His knowledge was extensive, and mightily impressive, but he did squirm at a few questions that were asked in relation to the origin of his diamonds and expressed his micro-displeasure of the Kimberly process, that entails that all should be certificated in-country and declared on arrival at the country of disembarkation.

On the flipside, any journey to the east of the country isn’t complete without seeing the effects that are wrought by diamond (and any old, for that matter) mining. Along the main roads, you can actually see some of the small mines being mined by men, women and children. As well as that, you can’t escape without seeing at least 100 people carrying a mineral sieve – about dartboard size – slung over their shoulder. 

The absurdity of this situation can’t be lost on many people. If even half of the people mining tended to farms instead, this country could most likely feed itself and then some. Yet it simply doesn’t happen, as people chase their fortune by forlornly searching for something that could make their fortune for a while but not sustain them long-term. 

Seeing all of this firsthand takes some accepting, especially when the resultant (though clearly not the only reason for) poverty slaps you in the face as you traverse between villages and towns. It’s pretty stark, when you think about the end product of many of the diamonds – a sparkling engagement ring on a fiancés finger.

Rhythm 13 - Leone Stargazing

A few months ago now, we were lucky enough to secure tickets for the African Nations Cup Qualifier between Sierra Leone and the three-time defending champions Egypt, at the national stadium here in Freetown.

Getting into the stadium was an experience – a friend of ours had her ticket stolen just before entering but after some brinkmanship she got past the first line of security. It turned out the head ticket person at the gate wasn’t pleased with this, and promptly roughed her up and removed her from the stadium (we were able to get her back in, with some extra brinkmanship).

Prior to the game, the Leone Stars (as the national team is known here) were handily placed in their qualifying group but were underdogs before the kick off. Rather than give a self-indulgent match report, watch the video below for what happened:



That’s right, Sierra Leone beat Egypt with a last minute penalty. And the game featured a number of African football clichés – woeful pitch, searing heat and terrible goalkeeping mistakes. It was amazing.

As you can just about see in the video, policeman were actually dancing around the pitch – and thus leaving their post – when the penalty was given and subsequently scored by Mohamed ‘Poborsky’ Bangura (who recently transferred to Celtic). The video doesn’t feature the very brave streaker, in nothing but white briefs, who eluded policeman for about 30 seconds before being escorted from the fray.

The sheer elation of the moment when Poborsky scored the winner sent electricity across the whole stadium, yet also gave a glimpse of how things could get out of control so quickly here. When the final whistle blew, the crowd stormed the pitch and the stands erupted with fervent emotion. It was at that point where it seemed only right to exit, and enjoy a victorious walk home amidst car horns, whistles and flag waving.

I have been to a lot of sporting events, many of which had a lot more riding on them, and none of them compared to this.

Rhythm 12 – Copyright or Wrong?

The UK is no stranger to people flouting copyright laws. My first direct experience of this was one of my brother’s university flatmates who purposely bought a CD writer to copy albums and sell them to students unable to pay HMV or Our Price’s (remember them?) inflated tariffs. That was 1997.

Nowadays, of course, the market for copied DVDs and CDs has been supplanted by lay people indulging in illegal downloading – whether it be music, films, software, or even books. We have the power, should we have a broadband internet connection, to pay nothing for these commodities.

In Sierra Leone, it’s not quite the same sketch. Realistically, pretty much nobody has an internet connection capable of downloading files so large. And official music and film shops don’t really exist (I’ve never seen one that doesn’t sell copies). Therefore, the market for hawking films and music on the street, and even in stand-alone shops, has continued to flourish. Until recently.

In July, the Government introduced the 2011 Copyright Act that would potentially prevent any sales of copyrighted goods. The logic being that it protected the intellectual property rights of the artists. Having witnessed how the download era has affected the music industry in the UK, I recognise how difficult it is for musicians to make any money. There is clearly a similar issue within the music fraternity here.

On the day following the Act being passed, the streets were emptied of people whose livelihoods depend upon the sale of copyrighted goods, with the fear they’d potentially be picked up the Police, read the riot act and have their stock confiscated.

All of this begged the question of what merit there is of introducing a law that looks good in theory, but cuts of the lifeblood of so many young people in one of the poorest countries in the world?

The simple equation is that people would simply not listen to music outside of radio broadcasts, if it wasn’t unofficially produced and sold on the street. No longer would boys be able to tap on your vehicle window to entice you to by ‘Salone Mix 2011,’ ‘Reggae Classix,’ or the like.

Rhythm 11 – Sweet Love

Some readers may be aware of the phenomenon that is the Africa Mercy, a ship that rocks up along the coast of West Africa to deliver health care – well, major surgery – to those most in need but unable to pay for it. In Sierra Leone, health care is only free for pregnant women, lactating mothers and children under five years of age.

The ship is just one of Mercy Ships’ fleet that do the same thing across the developing world. It is truly amazing work that the Mercy Shippers do, donating their time and skills, and actually paying to be one of the crew. There are some creature comforts on board, however, the highlight/lowlight of which is an official Starbucks coffee outlet!

Given its ubiquitous status on the patchwork quilt of Freetowners thoughts, it should come as no surprise that we have made up a song about the Mercy Ship. A current hit in Salone is Busy Signal’s version of “Nightshift” – see below – to which we have amended the hook lyric to the following:

‘Gonna give you some sweet love...sweet love...on the Mercy Ship’

It doesn’t quite connect when it’s written down, but if you give it a go it does become quite addictive. I’m often singing it – either in my head or out loud – at my desk, walking down the street, or even when swimming. The true irony of the new lyric is that the Mercy Ships organisation is actually faith-based, and thus I’m not entirely sure we’d have their blessing (see what I did there) for the song becoming its anthem!

As you’d imagine, we are extremely intrigued about what it looks like inside – the health care bits as well as the living conditions – and have been trying to find a way of having a look around. It turns out that tantrums really do work sometimes, as after we showed our upset at missing out on a raffle prize of a guided tour at a fundraising quiz recently, someone from the ship caught wind of our predicament and actually offered us a tour with no strings attached. Get in.

Rhythm 10 – Dealing with wrong numbers (with a Wolverhampton accent)

When your phone rings in Sierra Leone, you have very little guarantee that you’ll know the person on the other end is. You can accumulate all the numbers you like from the various networks on offer – social and professional – but there will always be someone who’ll choose to call you unannounced.

This doesn’t bother me a jot during the hours I’m awake as it could easily be a work-related call, but when I’m in bed it’s a different matter. Unfortunately, it seems to happen the most when you’re asleep.

My policy for answering unknown numbers is the same as in the UK – blissful ignorance and quick click on ‘Silence’ to stop it ringing. However, if I don’t know the number here, I give each one due diligence and give them a name in my phone’s memory (namely Prank 1, Prank 2, Prank 3, etc. – I’m currently at Prank 12). That way, I can track if they are repeat offenders – then I’ll answer and attempt to let them know they have a wrong number.

The other day, I had around the 9th call of the evening from a Guinean number (Prank 12) when I decided to test a new technique – answer and speak to them in a Wolverhampton accent. The dialogue went as follows, with Queen’s English translation alongside for those uninitiated:

“Orrite” – Hello

(Muffled silence)


“Ow am ya?” – How are you?

(More silence)

“Terrah a bit!”

(Line goes dead)


This turned out to be a master stroke, as I haven’t had a call from the same number since. The shock and awe at hearing such a strange dialect must have scared them witless, no doubt, and they will no longer waste their credit and my time!

Rhythm 9 - Following the Black Country derby, remotely

I’ve mentioned a few times the nuances of supporting an English football team here, but this weekend was pretty special. You can keep up-to-date very easily, but there are just some times when you need moral and practical support.

Given the importance of Wolves’ game against the Albion yesterday, aligned with the fact that I was going to be at large – well, at brunch if that helps set the scene – I enlisted the services of my good buddies and fellow Wolves fans, Ben and Joseph. See below for how things played out:

David: Morning gents, it’s Dave all the way from Freetown (this is my SL number). Hope all is jolly. So it’s the derby day showdown today and I need score and key event updates...can you assist?

Joseph: Hi Dave, I’m out and about with low battery but I will update you as long as technology allows! Which will die first – my phone or our hopes for the season!?

J: Big Mick: “We can’t force the issue because we might find ourselves 1-0 down and facing an uphill struggle, so we have to be patient.” Inspiring!

J: 1-0 Wolves, Fletcher!!!!!!!

Ben: Just seen your text. 20 mins in, Wolves 1-0 up. Come on!

B: 2-0! Both from corners. Get in!

J: 2-0 Guerdiora!!!!!! (I’m so excited I can’t spell!)

D: All good news so far – keep them coming!

B: Refreshing to see Wolves pushing for more rather than backing off and defending.

B: Half time. Bit more pressure from West Brom towards the end of the half but Wolves on top and playing the best I’ve seen them for months. Really working hard.

J: 2-0 at half time. By all accounts The Sh*t have been, well, sh*t! Woeful defending, long may it continue...

(At this stage, my phone told me there was ‘There is no room for new messages’ – which told me more excitement was on its way.)

B: 3-0! 2^nd for Fletcher. Temporarily lost my stream!

B: 3-1. Gave away a pen.

J: Odemwingie pulls one back from the spot, 3-1. 55 minutes gone.

J: 3-0 Wolves, another for Fletcher!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(Joe’s or my phone, or possible even the time space continuum, was playing up there, as the 3-1 message came before the 3-0.)

D: Crikey, my pulse rate is off the chart!

B: West Brom with a lot of pressure and a couple of big missed chances. 20 mins to hold on.

B: Jarvis just coming on!

J: Into the last 15 minutes, still 3-1 and tension is high...

B: It’s all over! 3-1. What a game. Vital. Great stuff. See you soon buddy!

J: Full time, 3-1 and we’re out of the relegation zone!

D: Amazing, thanks so much for the updates – I just punched the air in a (relatively) very posh restaurant! My Eggs Benedict tastes even sweeter now...

J: It was a pleasure! Bon appétit!

If that doesn’t exhibit the benefits of modern technology when you're thousands of miles away from an event you just have to know the outcome of, I don’t know what does. And it’s high ho, Wolverhampton...

Rhythm 8 – Kenema Special

So I’ve finally got around to giving some detail to my trip to Kenema towards the end of March. It was fairly momentous – perhaps only for me – and gave me some first-hand experience of both my organisation’s work and what life is really like for people in a rural setting here in Sierra Leone.

(If you haven’t worked it out already, this isn’t going to be the usual ironic, trying-to-be-funny stuff I usually write.)

The embers of the maternity unit

In February, a fire totally demolished a significant portion of the Kenema Government Hospital – including the whole of the maternity unit that my organisation supports. The maternal death rates in Sierra Leone are some of the worst in the entire world – one in 8 mothers die as a result of a pregnancy-related complication – which means the work that we do is essential in not only raising the standards of health care but actually in saving lives there and then.

So when the fire ravaged the maternity unit, which we have done so much to develop, it meant that so much was lost. The worst being the fact that word of mouth spread about the fire, meaning that the rate of women admitting themselves for a hospital birth plummeted in the following month – despite the arrangement of a temporary area within the units of the hospital that survived.

At the end of my visit to Kenema, I took a visit with our Reproductive Health Coordinator to the hospital. It was heartbreaking, as there was simply nothing left of the previous structure. All the work we’d done in construction, purchasing equipment and generally raising standards to tackle the horrifying mortality and morbidity statistics for mother and child – were gone in an instant. Seeing it first-hand left a sour taste, especially considering it’ll take a year and a million dollars (yet to be funded) to build again.

A very Salonian census

The main reason I was in Kenema was to assist a colleague from New York to conduct a census of villages in which we implement community-based distribution of medicine for children under five. The basic premise is to conduct a mortality survey after one year, to ascertain the differences we are making. In order to do this, we needed to take said census of the catchment we are going to use to measure against.

Joining our team of 14 local enumerators, who were the people actually gathering the information from the communities, we set off to some of the most remote locations I’ve ever been to. It sounds simplistic, but it was oddly enthralling to find out how people in rural areas of Sierra Leone live their lives – whilst at the same time, contributing to our efforts to assist with their health.

It’s impossible to put into words what the experience was like, and I’ve probably explained it horribly vaguely, but rest assured it was life changing (and I don’t say that lightly). To spend five days understanding the context in which my organisation does so much of its work was invaluable, and affirmed to me the decision to come here. 

Moonlighting for amputees

The civil war between 1992 and 2002 was notorious for the cutting of limbs as a tactic to prevent voting in elections, and thus many people of all ages continue to struggle with such after effects. A friend who has previously spent some time in Kenema asked me to visit some friends of his while I was there, who were associated with a local NGO/charity that supports amputees and war wounded people in the area.

It was fascinating to hear some of the stories they had, even in the few hours I spent with them, and it turns out I was that impassioned that I’ve decided to help them fundraise for them – to help develop themselves into a sustainable organisation that helps the wider amputee community. I also plan to go back and meet the whole group, which will no doubt give me even more inspiration to lend a hand.

Diamonds aren’t forever

Aside from amputees, the other most recognisable factor in the war is diamonds. Blood diamonds, to be specific – a la Di Caprio’s performance in a woefully bad Zimbabwean (he calls it Rhodesian) accent. Kenema just so happens to be one of the hubs for diamond mines, and there’s no getting away from it – every second shop on the main road is a diamond dealer.

The curse of the diamond is pretty obvious, as their presence only serves to create further problems. Simplistically, many people are more prepared to work in diamond mines than farm the lush and arable land, as they search for their fortune instead of helping the country feed itself (as it used to be able to). There is much talk of the agricultural sector taking off, but it will take years and whole lot of application. We’ll see, I guess.

This blog’s random sport shirt

Kenema was just as plush as Freetown in this department, as some weird and wonderful samples of sporting attire crossed my bows. I always like it when a sport that would have no logical connection with the country rears its random head, and thus this was my personal favourite:

Newcastle Falcons Rugby Union, circa 2008-09!

I’m not sure what Jonny Wilkinson would make of it here, but I’m pretty sure nobody would know who the hell he is. I don’t think rugby would compute, despite the colonial heritage, which was pretty obvious when a friend took a rugby ball to the beach recently and the children couldn’t deal with the fact the ball bounced all over the place!

Signing off

After doing hefty blogs so far, I’ve decided that from now on it’s going to be much easier to just do one rhythmical observation at a time. This should mean shorter, more frequent musings when they actually come to mind – rather than long, daunting ones for me to write and you to read!

And with that, I’m offski.

Ciao, for now,

D.

Rhythm 7 - Momentous month, not so momentous tale regaling

This is what I’m calling a ‘holding’ blog. You could perceive this as a desperate attempt to prove that I have blogged at least once per month since we arrived. But you'd be half wrong.

Since my last entry, I have turned 30, Sierra Leone has turned 50, and my work has increased exponentially. Thus it’s been impossible to find time to scribe.

There is much to say and lots to tell, but it’ll be May by the time I get round to relaying any of it. Apologies, y’all - I guess we've been having too much rhythmical fun!

Ciao, D.

Rhythm 6 – Peter Crouch or Jesus Christ?

After some inertia, the rhythms are starting up again. For anyone intrigued by my perspiration, we are again connected to the power. It was a long ol’ four weeks without it, and we’re pretty privileged to live next door to the Vice President – who finally had enough and moved his house and Laura’s office (and still our abode) onto a different line!

So I’m writing this from Kenema, where I’ve been working ‘in the field’ for the last week. There’ll be a blog devoted to the trip very soon, as I’d like to strike while the iron is sizzling. But for now, these are my latest musings...

Crouchy or Christey? You decide!

So as you might have worked out, I appear to be a doppelganger for two historical figures. From place to place across Sierra Leone, it’s either one or the other. Previous football choices have been Jonathan Woodgate or Gabriel Batistuta (my personal favourite), but since donning a beard Jesus has been a constant.

Egotistically, I have to admit that the Crouch comparison doesn’t quite compute. I think it’s simply because I’m (a) white, (b) thin and (c) tall, and because football is so ruddy popular. But maybe I’m wrong.

So the question to anyone reading is...am I more like Peter Crouch or Jesus Christ? Answers on a Facebook comment, please. I won’t be offended, unless of course you insinuate that I look like that idiot from My Family, or Rodney Trotter.

The King of Pop is alive and well

Taxi journeys here are quite the experience, and there is something of a non-religious leap of faith whenever you choose to part with the standard 1,000 Leones (14p) for a fare. They travel on set routes and people hop in and out, so it’s much like mini London buses scooting around – with a little imagination, I’ll admit!

There are various characteristics of drivers and their vehicles, all of which mean that you never quite know what you’re going to get. The last few weekends, we’ve headed into ‘town’ to buy a bike for Laura (currently I’m chickening out) and then to get material for clothes making. On the most recent occasion, we were lucky enough to happen upon what can only be described as a Michael Jackson impersonator.

He’d chosen the (ahem) angsty 20 year old Michael era, fully complete with wet-look-mini-fro. The taxi was something of a shrine, too, with pictures of his idol plastered on the dashboard and windows. Something also tells me he could moonwalk, but thankfully he didn’t attempt that whilst driving – that would be plain foolish and probably painful. What topped off the experience was the fact the gearstick was covered in a cuddly toy (not a life size model of Bubbles, before you ask) that got thrashed around as he up and downshifted through the gears!

The elusive hangover cure

Talking of taxi journeys, on a few occasions recently I’ve had the fortune of staying up until 5am painting the town old gold and black – with the misfortune of drinking too much (all my fault, yes) and having to wake up at around 9.30am to get a taxi we’ve booked to get to the beach.

Anyone who knows me well knows that I get hangovers. Bad hangovers. The ins and outs of why are not for this arena, but needless to say I am something of a wreck when I haven’t (a) slept it off and (b) drank any water when arriving home from said dance and drinkathon. Back home, I have a simple solution – get out of bed, take Sinutab, go to shop, buy Lucozade and Observer, walk to park while drinking Lucozade, sit down on bench, read Observer, finish Lucozade, walk home. Job jobbed in around one hour.

Sierra Leone hangovers do not allow for any such escape. The fan helps, but the overriding heat (thus rendering a slow walk pointless) being the silent killer. That along with the not-so-silent killer, the ongoing street noises and loud discussions by all and sundry of Murray Town. I’m still working on my cure, but currently nothing works until five hours of consciousness when I can finally manage some salted popcorn, that hits the spot. Diving into the sea is also a big help. Only then do I feel like me again.

Arrogance does pay off in the end

Since we’ve been here, we’ve been to a number of pub quizzes at the slightly cliché but well located Irish bar. Sadly, none of these have had a sport round. As you definitely won’t recall from Rhythm 1 back in December, I stated “show me the sport in any quiz and I’ll get at least 8 by myself” which was quite the prophecy.

At a recent quiz in aid of Aberdeen Women’s Centre, not only did we get 10 (yes, that’s full marks) in the sport round but we actually won! Only the second quiz win in my life, after the halcyon days of Sixth Form quizzes circa December 1998. This means that the only thing I’m arrogant about in my whole life is justifiable! I mean, who else would have known that Kenya reached the Semi Finals of the 2003 Cricket World Cup? 

This blog’s random sport shirt

The congruence is tangible, as this blog’s shirt emanates seamlessly from the previous sentence. Not the Kenya shirt – that would be ridiculous – but I recently happened upon the following:

Pakistan’s Cricket World Cup shirt from 2003!

The days when the Rawalpindi Express really was express, Inzamam’s beard was black and good ol’ Wasim was swinging it both ways (this sentence will make no sense to most readers). Cricket here is known about but not really popular, and thus there will be little fanfare and jibes about England getting mullered by Sri Lanka over the weekend. Lucky me.

Signing off

As I said at the beginning, I’ve been in Kenema District for the past week. I’m actually tinkling the keys to write before my last night’s sleep here. I have many tales to tell, some of which will be winging their way to the blogosphere pretty darn soon.

Hope all are jolly well grandioso. I most certainly am.

Ciao, for now,

D.

Rhythm 5 – Reduce, Reuse, Forget about it

Freetings from Greetown. Time is rolling on, we’re almost 3 months into our stint here, which seems like a lifetime and seconds depending on what mood I’m in. It’s a good feeling, whatever it is.

The temperature is starting to rise, in fact my temperature is starting to rise – given the fact we’ve had no power and bucket showers only for the last 2 weeks. The road works nearby are moving on apace, but it does mean you’re doomed if you think you’ll be able to come home at the end of the working day and have enough battery power to waffle on for a blog session.

Anyhoo, enough bluster already. There’s another Rhythm to regale.

Not quite the 3 R’s

I’m not talking about the one with ‘rithmetic at the end here, that Blunkett waffled on about (with some merit, admittedly) in the late 90s. Instead, this is where I break down how unready Sierra Leone is for environmental reform.

Rather than bang on about how dirty it is here, I thought I’d simply witter on about how resourceful people are here with we would consider caput. Yes, water is sold in 500ml bags that end up all over the place, and yes, people burn rubbish here with abandon. However, when it comes to really utilising something as much as possible before the bloody thing just won’t fit any purpose whatsoever, then people here really do have one up on the West.

Whether it’s a pot that’s cooked a million meals, a flask that’s been filled every day for the last 10 years, numerous items of clothing that last 5 years or more, a mobile phone that has outlasted all the phones I’ve had put together or a taxi that has dropped in and out of more potholes than your diaphragm could care to remember – there is very little waste of material items here. And, of course, things actually get fixed when they break.

Admittedly, this is a reflection of the situation people find themselves in, but on the other hand it teaches us a bloody good lesson and dances on the concept of throw-away consumerism (that, of course, I’m not denying I’m part of).

So people reduce what they need to make their life function (or simply don’t have it in the first place), and reuse everything if it can have any random purpose, but there simply isn’t the option for people to recycle. It’s nowhere near the agenda, not even close, which again shows how far from the ‘normality’ of life in the UK the infrastructure is in Sierra Leone.

Spreading the wealth

Like any good Lambrini Lefty, I love a bit of wealth redistribution. So when it comes to purchasing essential items such as loo paper, bread, eggs, candles, vegetables and water, we – like any defensive midfielder worth their salt – put it about a bit.

We live in Murray Town, in the West of Freetown, and have got to know the surrounding area pretty darn well. Along our road and the nearby streets, there are a number of characters whom get a few thousand Leones from us pretty much every day. When compared to the sanitised and Lebanese-owned (many who were born here) supermarkets where you can pretty much get everything, it’s quite the juxtaposition.

So for my two breads rolls every morning, there is A-Boy and T-Boy’s shop. We also bought a crate of Star Beer for a weekend beach jaunt from them, which was on the proviso we brought the crate and empties back (we did, with some difficulty). For loo paper and water sachets, there is the joyously rotund Pa Ba. And finally, I often get my eggs from a currently unnamed old lady who sits chewing the fat with her pals all day, down by the main road (Wilkinson).

Humble pie tastes horrible

Something I’ve always been critical of with British history is its refusal to admit its mistakes from years gone by – most notably, the colonial era. Quite sadly, it seems that many people are almost proud of the brutal power we used to expunge. Scary.

One of the most glaring errors is slavery, of course. A few weeks back now, we and a few friends took a trip to Bunce Island, which was little else but a slave castle. Unfortunately, Bunce was quite the factory for sending slaves to the Caribbean, Georgia and South Carolina when the British had control – around 50,000 were ‘processed’ per year before being shipped across the Atlantic, during the second half of the 18^th century.

The island is now pretty derelict and overgrown, aside from a few ruins, with provisional plans afoot to develop it into something close to a stereotypical tourist attraction. That doesn’t make the stories any less horrible to listen to from the caretaker (who we had to pick up on the way – he looked like Morgan Freeman, ironically) and the official tour guide.

Bunce was effectively used as a way of seeing how strong the slaves were, with only those deemed to be up to the journey across the ocean surviving their experience there. The most dehumanising aspect was the branding of people on their chest – think Ewan McGregor in Angels & Demons – with a different letter (A, B or C), depending on which slave master you were to be sold to. Sobering stuff, when you consider how welcomed you feel when you say you are English to any normal Sierra Leonean on the street.

Hair style hoodoo

One thing that hasn’t escaped my analytical side is the distinct lack of male hairstyles here. You would have thought that with the aspirational culture that follows the interest in Western (and especially US) music and culture, there would be a staggering array, but no – there are probably less than 10% of men who do anything other than shave their head clean on a regular basis.

Cutting hair for many men consists of little else but a small razor blade scratched on the scalp, which I happened upon for the first time a few days ago when walking through the friendly community we pass, when heading to the swimming pool at the UN compound. Seeing a child have his hair cut in this manner, I was taken aback.

All this isn’t to say that Sierra Leonean men aren’t cool, which makes it even weirder that they aren’t dreaded up to nines. Women and girls are quite the opposite, with wigs, extensions or a simple braid (of their real hair) being almost ubiquitous. Also, you can quite easily expect them to have a totally different ‘do’ from week to week, which initially proved a challenge before I’d got to know everyone in the office!

This blog’s random sport shirt

The knowledge of football is second to none here, as many times your watching a game you hear an in depth Krio discussion (at a high decibel level, with little decorum – much like in Europe) of specific refereeing decisions. The Premier League and La Liga are the most loved, of course, but I did find this beauty recently:

FC Nuremberg’s home shirt, 2009-10

The Bundesliga is not exactly big, but is probably the next most popular, with Serie A probably after that. I’d like to think the chap wearing the shirt takes a keen interest and finds a way to stream games over the internet. Or perhaps not.

Signing off

All done for another one of these here Rhythms, hope you’ve enjoyed some more samples of life here in Salone. All being well, there should be another pretty darn soon.

And finally, I have just uploaded some snaps on Laura's Facebook profile and our Flickr account (in the folder Sweet Salone 3, and best viewed in full screen): http://www.flickr.com/photos/18046506@N00/. Enjoy!

Ciao, for now,

D.

Rhythm 4 – January news, not blues

Right then, I’m back on the bloghorse after an unintentional break. We’ve been...blah, blah...crazy...blah, blah...busy.

It’s been an interesting few weeks, with no less material to comment on than during December. Alas, here goes...

What’s in a name change?

So there are numerous NGOs here in Freetown, that is pretty obvious as soon as you arrive. Almost bar none, they have numerous brilliant white 4 x 4 vehicles with their insignia on the side, just so (a) you can be totally sure it’s an NGO car and (b) so NGO workers like us can wave at each other as they go by. Simple.

I’m perpetually intrigued by the weird and wonderful make up of the sector here. You seem to meet people all over the place who work for this one, or that one, who are all doing the same, same but different work in places across the country. One that intrigued me a lot on arrival was GTZ (German Technical Cooperation), who are something akin to DfID but do a lot more work on the ground. Their office is right next to mine, and we’ve got to know some of the GTZ people, who are all very jolly. They also have a very affordable and palatable canteen within their compound, owned by Sierra Leoneans, with a variety of African and Western food on offer at a reasonable price. I’m a regular.

When coming out of the office a week or so ago, I saw what my eyes could only convey as being a hilarious joke. Someone had changed the lower-case logo of gtz to ‘giz’ – yes, that very wonderful slang term for you know what. When I told a friend about the graffiti, expecting them to laugh and for it to be removed soon after, I was informed that this is their new name and no joke whatsoever! How could they not have consulted anyone about this? In fact, thinking about it, I don’t much care. It gives me a bloody good laugh every day as I leave the office, and when I tell Laura (who often joins me) and friends I’m going for ‘giz’ at lunch we end up in hysterics!

I must stay away more often

Being a big sport fan, surprisingly I have very few superstitions. My only one is that when I’m out of the UK, my teams tend to do well. Sod’s law and all that. Thus it has come as no surprise that England won the Ashes and Wolves have had high-profile performances recently, which have not gone unnoticed and put down to my absence. Very rational, I think.

In terms of my football viewing, it has been sparse but spectacular. I’ve only watched two matches, those being Wolves’ wins against Chelsea and United – what a choice! The experience of watching a game at a local bar is something else. Picture a room about the size of a school classroom (maybe a touch bigger and a lot warmer) with around 40 seats in rows and 3 TV’s at the front showing 3 different games concurrently!

On both occasions, I was more than happy to enjoy supporter anonymity since the fanaticism for both teams is something else. At the end of the United game, there were cries from non-United fans of “we are all wolf!” which almost tempted me to shout and scream that “I am a real wolf!” but thought better of it for fears of reprisal and of people questioning my mental state. I am clearly not a real wolf, by any stretch of the imagination.

One thing Laura gave me advance knowledge of was the misspelling of some team names that are not so well known, on the chalkboards that are outside local bars that show the games. The best one so far is for the recent League Cup semi-final – Arsenal vs Piswich!

Truly, truly brilliant.

Animal magic

The environment here is all around you. It’s green and lush, the atmosphere is extremely dusty and it’s very difficult to not think about the temperature every waking hour – whether you’re hot or cold, which happens daily as a result of my office’s air conditioning unit. Grrr.

On a different level, there are animals wandering around everywhere. Chickens (and their chicks), cats and dogs – so many dogs – are always in view when walking down the street, often trampling through the raw sewage that is in the gulleys and drains. Barking dogs in the dark are a scary prospect, for which we often need to call on someone to help us find our way past. No surprise for Laura and I there, then.

One of the most amazing things we’ve experienced here was last weekend, at the beach. At around 1.30am in the morning, the chat turned towards phosphorescence – where plankton emits light in water – which occurs in the sea off the coast here. This means that you can get in the sea in the dark, which we promptly did, and wave your hands and body around to actually see it! It’s hard to explain, but if you can imagine waving your hand in the water and ‘sparks’ coming off it, you’re half way there. Wonderful.

Another fascinating experience we had recently was the sound of toads (or frogs, maybe) on the roadside, in the drains. The noise was almost deafening, and when you have to walk past them you feel like you’re about to be enveloped an army of them!

This blog’s random sport shirt

After a bountiful start, I’m becoming picky about what I consider to be random enough to feature here. To be topical, with the Super Bowl around 8 hours away as I write this, I was very interesting to see the following beauty:

Atlanta Falcons (NFL), No 7 – Michael Vick

Given that Vick has not quite covered himself in glory in recent years, and done some bird as a result, I had to wonder whether dog fighting goes on here. Regardless, the chap who was adorned by a Vick jersey seemed perfectly happy despite it being around 15 sizes too big.

Signing off

Given the dearth of a blog for over three weeks, I’m going to assemble another later this week. Lucky you – there might even be a few snaps here, too, in the next few hours. Bandwidth depending.

Again, hope all is grand with all. Keep in touch, and keep it Bebop and Rocksteady.

Ciao, D.

Rhythm 3 – Freetown festivities

Despite the title, I’ve decided not to make this one a bloated merry-go-round of what Christmas was like in Sierra Leone. Fear not, though, as I will be touching on a few nuggets here and there – and also be fully reassured that it was a-mazing to be here for the weird and wonderful festivities that the country has to offer.

Sipping on gin and juice (well, water) out of a bag

So you’re drenched with sweat from a five minute walk to the shop, and your brain tells you to get some fluids in. Now you’d probably and rightly expect for the obvious next action to be to open a bottle of water and take a swig (gulp, more likely, maybe even a glug) – but as with most things here, I’m being proved wrong at an exponential rate. Long words aside, you get water in bags here – yes, that’s 500ml bags of water that you rip off the corner with your teeth and then squeeze the dehydration killer into your throat.

This took some getting used to, in fact I scoffed massively at other people doing this when I first arrived that I vowed never to do it, but it actually has some merits. Firstly, it’s cheaper than getting water from supermarkets (and thus you buy it from small Sierra Leonean shops), secondly it’s quick and simple to do and finally you can always squeeze multiples of them into a large bottle you’d like to reuse and carry around without the fear of an embarrassing water bomb incident.

Whilst lounging around on Christmas Day, some of our friends ventured to the next beach along to find some booze for cocktails. I was expecting a bottle of vodka, but they returned with sachets of gin! This made me wonder where they draw the line – could they put Real Ale in one? Or for your really hard drinker, Special Brew? Methinks it would be quite funny to see how they would go down in places where you have to put a brown bag around your alcoholic drink in public. Maybe that’s just me.

Showing them how it’s done on the football beach

Since being here, I haven’t been able to get away from the craving for playing football. Kids play it in the street with whatever they can find, and there are always people playing on the beach – usually with ‘keepy-uppy’ (which I hate, for the record) being the usual choice. However, on Boxing Day I noticed that there was a proper game being played on the beach only 20 metres away from our table. This was too tempting.

So I whipped off my shirt, wandered over and asked if I could join in. It was quite a serious game, it turned out, and I had to wait my turn as one of the nominal substitutes once I’d got permission to play from the chap wearing a full Chelsea strip and wearing (very wet, from the sea) trainers. When I was finally let loose, they actually seemed to think I was quite good, in so far as they passed actually passed me the ball, something that rarely happened when I was in football teams as a child (boo hoo). They soon realised I wasn’t, of course, but I did play as well as could be expected given the circumstances (i.e. I’m rubbish) and was pretty good at not giving the ball away. My team lost – they play one goal then change the teams – which is something I’m quite used to. I was wearing my Wolves swimming shorts, after all!

Following this, I returned to our table where Laura informed me that she’d never seen me so red, and it duly dawned on me quite how hot I’d become. Hence followed a 20 minute dip in the sea, but it was a good few hours until I’d got my normal colour back. I was no longer “white boy” (my quickly acquired nickname, more on this later) and was “red boy” instead!

Who let the dogs out?

As some readers of this will be acutely aware, Laura and I are not the greatest fans of our canine counterparts. This has led to putting us into jeopardy given the number of stray dogs that wander all over the place, and especially on our walk home from the main road we usually get dropped off on when taking taxis.

When travelling in 2005, our survival technique to evade the attentions of street dogs was to imitate them. I developed quite the bark, which has served me well across the world, as a means of stopping a dog coming near us and in some cases they actively slope off in terror. Here, however, you simply say the word “pass” in a deep voice and it seems to do the trick – but that doesn’t mean we haven’t had to be chaperoned by the nearest Sierra Leonean to take pity on us, when dogs start loud barking or showing their gnashers for a fight with a pal of theirs.

Dogs here are essentially mongrels of the highest order, and essentially quite ugly. Some friends and colleagues have taken some in as pets and done the requisite inoculations for them. My views on pet ownership are well documented (well, in the pub anyway), and here it seems even more odd, but Sierra Leone is the not the place to preach. It’s an extra security measure, if nothing else.

Mobile refrigeration

Freetown (and Sierra Leone at large) has many oddities, but one of my personal ironic favourites is the procurement of wheelchairs and pushchairs for the housing of cool boxes in which the owners sell cold drinks from!

Nobody pushes a child around in a pushchair, or at least I haven’t seen them do so yet, so it makes you wonder where they came from. It could be that they have been supplied by NGOs (and thus from donor’s money) as part of a project, as I’m sure the wheelchairs have. Which is a shame, of course, but at least the new owners are being resourceful even if they have got their new wheels illicitly. I’ve yet to purchase from one of them, but that day will come soon I’m sure.

Answering the call

Given the obvious physical differences between Sierra Leoneans and expats, it’s no surprise that there is one or two simple term for foreigners. As I teased earlier, the term that is generally used for me is “white boy” or “white man,” with Laura often called the same but sometimes treated to “white girl” for her troubles.

What is really fun about this is the fact that there is no concept of keeping these terms under wraps. If I recall correctly, Thai people used the word “falang” but it was generally hidden in a sentence. This is the not the case here – the words are simply touretted out at you as you walk past. Depending on where you’re walking, you often have a group of 10 children ecstatically chanting it in an echo-like scenario. This happens routinely during our short-cut walk to the UN swimming pool through a small community (where I’ve also been called “Peter Crouch” by some youths on a few occasions), and oddly I quite look forward to it!

When I get chance to say my name, it is usually greeted with glee from any Christians I speak to, and thus my “Bible name” seems to impress. One of the great things about being here is that you so rarely meet any animosity from the local people, and pretty much everyone says hello on a daily basis. It doesn’t seem to get boring either, as simply saying “kuche, ow di body?” (“hello, how are you?” in Krio) gets an enthusiastic response from children and adults alike.

This blog’s random sport shirt

It seems the lower leagues of English football are a hotbed of action for Sierra Leoneans to engage with. Following my Norwich find, I happened upon the following:

Southend United home shirt, circa 2007-08!

This one is from around the time when Wolves reject Freddie Eastwood scored a magnificent free-kick against United in the Carling Cup. We signed him on that evidence, foolishly. One day I will pluck the courage to ask the wearer of the shirt whether he actually supports the team. For now, I’m just happy to be reporting the randomness of what I’m seeing.

Signing off

So that’s it for another Rhythm. In terms of other festive occurrences, should you be interested: I sang carols (and enjoyed doing so, in my baritones) for the first time in 11 years; I had barracuda instead of turkey on Christmas Day; I bought the best Secret Santa present, if I do say so myself – a set of scary three Beefeater-esque dolls that need to be seen to be believed; and we spent an amazingly unique and enjoyable few days in Kabala, one of Northern provinces of Sierra Leone for New Year.

That brings me to my blatant plug of Laura’s fab blog, and handily has an excellent breakdown of our New Year fun, meaning I don’t need to replicate! You can find it at: http://owdibody.blogspot.com/

Any and all feedback on my scribing and stories is very welcome. And I do hope all readers had a jolly festive period and are enjoying the fruits that 2011 has to offer so far.

Ciao, D.