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.