The Rainy Season

I was quite annoyed with Gearoid when he scheduled to do research during the worst time of year in Sierra Leone. We left a beautiful Dutch spring and imminent summer and arrived right in the middle of the dry season and are staying right through the rainy season. More than likely, our flight will concur with the unofficial end of the rainy season. The clouds will lift and the sun will shine as our plane leaves the country. Ok, that’s not going to happen but mostly because we’re flying out at 11PM at night. To top off the weather snafu, we’re returning just in time for a grey Dutch winter. So, yeah, I was annoyed.

The rainy season hasn’t been too bad though and by the end of the dry season, I was begging for rain. The heat was oppressive, the humidity became unbearable, and the buildup of impending storms would significantly alter the atmosphere. The air felt like it was boiling, my hair curled unattractively, and our clothes would stick to us as sweat ran down our bodies. I would stare out the window and attempt Jedi mind-control to get the rain to come. Finally, big winds would swoosh in before massive black clouds inched their way over the sun and the rain would pound down. The first big storm found me standing on a terrace with my arms spread wide welcoming the cooling wind and the cool rain drops after the unbearable heat from the night before. The wind was so powerful that my skirt whipped between my legs and my hair flew out behind me. I watched as people on the street hurried to safety and school children rolled and danced in the cool rain. I felt like I could breathe again. My stunt in the rain and the wind eventually gave me a sore throat and a cold that lasted a week but at that moment, it was totally worth it.

The first real rainstorm

The violent storms usually began in late afternoon, trapping us in our house for the evenings. It worked out nicely because evening storms lead to cool sleeping. The start time of the daily rain storms inched up earlier and earlier and the violent thunder and lightning disappeared, softening the rainstorms into steady falling rain. Some days we would wake up to rainfall and it wouldn’t stop until the following midday. At first it was kind of nice to be trapped in the house on a lazy weekend. We would sleep in, read, flip through the 4 channels on the TV that were in English instead of Arabic, and go for quick walks in town when the sun came out for approximately 1.5 hours. We kept cans of food in the house as back-up in case we couldn’t make it to the market or grocery store. One cozy rainy weekend, our landlord knocked on the door to make sure we were ok because he hadn’t seen or heard anything from our house for some time.

The novelty of cozy weekends inside wore off around the 3rd weekend when we found ourselves stuck at home or at work during the weekdays. In the mornings we left as soon as there was a break in the clouds or fully attired in head to toe rain gear. One morning, the rain was extremely hard but I had a class to teach so I borrowed Gearoid’s protective gear and luckily found a bike looking for customers. I made it to school to find that other teachers had braved the rain as well. However, the students who were only 25 feet from the school in the shelter of the boarding kitchen area, refused to run over for their lessons because the rain was too hard. In the afternoons, we had to be crafty and leave as soon as there was a break in the rain.  At times the break would last as long as a phone conversation. I would literally call Gearoid to tell him I was on my way home and upon hanging up the rain would start falling again.

Stir craziness ensued. As entertainment we would pick fights with each other over trivial (although they seemed life changing at the moment) things like how to properly make toast and who’s turn it was to unclog the shower drain. We formed quick addictions to TV series that we happened to have on our external hard drives. Between episodes we would sing the theme songs to our new obsessions- Chuck, Peep Show, etc- until we could get our next TV fix. Our books (including all of my Dutch homework) stared forlornly at us from the shelf, asking us with their unread words why we were rotting our heads with procedurals instead of using our imaginations and widening our vocabulary. Why did you brings us if you were just going to leave us and spend time with the mobsters of Boardwalk Empire and the detectives of the Killing instead? Eventually, the number of TV shows on the hard drives dwindled, the humid air ruined the TV connected to the satellite, and we rekindled our relationships with books again.

The constant rain and dampness affected our house and hygiene as well. Our laundry would be washed but the rain would prevent it from drying properly so all of our clothes started to smell like mildew. I started spritzing myself with a travel bottle of Fabreze so I didn’t smell like a dirty bathroom. Pale green mold started to grow on things, especially anything made of leather, in our bedroom. Clothes we didn’t wear often enough blossomed with white splotches of mold and our suitcases became covered with a fine paisley carpet of green and white. Small injuries and cuts took longer to heal, a small scratch taking weeks to finally scab over. Our sheets had the damp feel they would usually get from being by the beach or in a lakeside house without the pleasure of a beach or lake nearby. You know when you were a kid and you went to the bathroom after swimming and you had to wrestle your swimsuit back on and it still felt like it was off-kilter? That’s what getting dressed in the rainy season is like. I would have wrestling matches with my shirts and more than once Gearoid would have to intervene as I cursed and stamped my foot in frustration as my Old Navy cotton t-shirt outmaneuvered me again.

Traveling around Makeni was difficult making traveling outside of it near impossible. Dirt roads became rust colored rivers and shoddily paved roads started to wash away in the rain. What is usually a small stream of sewage became a rushing river of trash that would flood local houses and make the road almost impassible. We often got trapped in small restaurants or on people’s porches when the rain decided to end its reprieve early. After an hour or so, the rain would stop and life would begin again. Women selling food on their heads started calling out their fares. Ocada drivers rushed past trying to make up for their lack of work. People left the confines of their house and resumed their habitual outdoor life until they were forced back in again by the rain. Most of life in Sierra Leone is lived outside. The rain, although good for the crops and the lush countryside, is not conducive to this preferred outdoor lifestyle.

There is one main perk to the rainy season. The country cools down. Local people dress up in beanies and winter coats while we walk around in tank tops and flip flops. We find we need a top sheet at night to sleep comfortably and on a couple of occasions my slipper socks came out of the drawer, protected from mold, to warm my feet. As the time between rains increases and the world becomes warmer again, I’ve realized how much I appreciated the cooler temperature despite the mold, stir craziness, and other inconveniences that came with the season. I’ve lost my tan for lack of sun and our fruit and vegetable choices have dwindled down to cucumbers and bananas but I’m happy to say that although it was touch and go at times, we have survived the rainy season so far and it hasn’t been that bad. 

A rainbow after the rain

The Celebrity Lifestyle

You know when celebrities complain about their fame and the intrusion on their personal and private lives? I totally get it. Before living in Sierra Leone, I would have jumped on the “Why are they complaining, they’re rich and famous” bandwagon. However, our experiences here have led me to sympathize with their plight. Ok, I know the lifestyle is not the same. I’m surrounded by people living in poverty, electricity is a privilege not a given, and I consider Diet Coke from the grocery store a luxury.

Admittedly, foreigners live better over here. We can afford transportation and don’t walk most places like locals do. We eat at “expensive” restaurants (i.e. Gearoid and I usually go to this one restaurant and after drinks and dinner we leave spending on average $5 but to a local person, that’s a lot of money for a meal for two) and drink the imported alcohol instead of the local beer (this is due more to fear of typhoid than snobbery). We take trips to the beach and order lobster and have the luxury of spending a weekend not working. Women like Aminata and Frances clean our houses and it is not out of the norm to make specific requests to them like “Can you clean my shoes for me?” If we can’t be bothered to go to the market we can ask someone to go for us and give them the equivalent of about 50 cents for their time. Those of us with drivers can go out drinking and know that the driver- who has probably been working since 6AM-will wait to bring us home whenever we’re ready. We sit by the pool on Saturdays and pretend that poor people are not just outside the walls. Well- the list goes on and as I write this I can sense the bitterness slipping into my tone. Too sum up, we live comfortably in a place that is often uncomfortable. We live in a manner that we couldn’t afford to back in our respective home countries. Admittedly, some people take advantage of the situation but there are others, like Gearoid and myself, who try to live comfortably without flaunting our “wealth” and taking advantage of the people here (i.e. we do not have a driver or a private vehicle for that matter).

Not being an actual celebrity (much to my disappointment) I’m only guessing how they experience life. Although not the same, the events below may be similar to events/experiences in their own lives.

·        Just like Norm, everybody knows our names or at least thinks they do. I can’t walk down the street without someone yelling Natasha, Tasha, Asha, Sarah, or Stephanie at me (the last two are other white girls who I am commonly mistaken for). Gearoid often goes by Millar here because, his name being difficult for Americans/Europeans to pronounce, is near impossible here. One time I was referred to as Millar’s wife. Some people actually yell my name with a “good morning” or “how are you?” but a lot of people just yell it to see if that really is my name. They seem surprised when I actually respond. If they don’t know our names, they just repeatedly chant “opporto” until acknowledged.

·        People think it’s ok to touch us. There’s a difference between a curious child trying to see if the white comes off when they rub your arm and older kids and adults who give you a pinch or try to hold your hand. The other day a girl literally came up to me and took my nose- you know, how you do with toddlers. When she went to honk my nose again and the bike I was on still sat there, I leaned away and said “no thank you” whilst urging the driver on. In what world is that ok? I will also reconsider taking any toddler’s nose again.

·        People follow us home. When we were staying at St. Joseph’s between houses, I went to the market one day. A man on the street greeted me and shook my hand and started talking about something he thought I knew about. I told him I wasn’t the same white woman he was confusing me with. Of course, I then had to tell him my name and he said he would walk some more with me. Luckily, a friend of his on the street attracted his attention and after I had to introduce myself to the friend I made my way to the market by myself. Later that day, as I was sitting on the balcony reading, the man stood on the street calling up to me. “Natasha! Don’t you remember me? We met today.” I told him I couldn’t invite him in because this was a school and annoyed, continued my reading inside. When we were living in the company house, Gearoid often had visitors as well. They would come and knock on the door and ask for jobs, money for surgery, or just to say hello.

·        People assume we know other “famous” people. Last time we were here, we were living in Syracuse, NY. When people heard the NY part of the answer, they excitedly asked if I knew Usher and Fifty Cents. When I tell people I lived in Washington DC they ask if I know President Obama.

·        People know where we go and what we do. Just like those tabloids I pretend not to read, people here know what’s going on with all of us. Strangers or mere acquaintances ask things like “How is your typhoid?” or “I heard you were working for this company and were offering people jobs.” One day I met a man who I had never seen before and he said he saw me the night before with 3 other women and one man at the local club Flamingos. He was completely right and it was completely creepy.

·        People assume we’re rich. By local standards, we are very wealthy. However, unless we break it down to every individual who approaches us how much we owe in car payments, student loans, and what it costs to live somewhere like America or Europe, people don’t get that we’re not walking ATMs. When going to change Euros with the moneychangers, they get excited at the “wads” of money they expect us to change to Leones. The 20 Euros we get changed is always accompanied by a look of disappointment. We’ve been asked several times to just provide $4,000 dollars to build a local school or give $800 to fix someone’s car. Although, this is technically possibly, we’re certainly not planning on living here for the rest of our lives and need this money for our own future. For example, one day we might want to own a house. While it’s ok for people here to live in their family homes for the rest of their lives, my parents have adjusted quite well (and rather quickly) to life with grown up children (i.e. we only visit and don’t move back in).

·        We get to skip the line. I have to admit that I feel quite guilty about this one. Lack of efficiency, minimal understanding of the value of time, and an unexplainable cultural power play mean that people spend a lot of time waiting. Excuse my language but going to the bank is dealing with one huge clusterfuck. There are no lines and if you are a person of importance or white, you can skip the crowd and visit the bank manager in the back of the building to be taken care of.  Luckily for me, Gearoid deals with the banking here and this system, or lack of system, drives him crazy. When he tries to be politically correct and avoids the “first line” of corruption of skipping the line he goes crazy with impatience. Forty-five minutes after seeing no progression except for the man who pushed past those with less status and made his way to the bank manager, Gearoid expressed his displeasure to the bank teller. She told him to go on to the back room. He explained that the people in front of him had been waiting longer.  She shrugged her shoulders and told him to go to the back room. He questioned her as to what these other people would do when the bank closed in 15 minutes? She told him to go to the back room. He exclaimed that this is corruption and left the bank angrily. Now he has developed a perfected science in which he will only go to the bank on certain days at certain times when he knows nobody will be there and he will not be persuaded to do things the “easy” way. Although I haven’t had to deal with the bank situation, the few times I’ve been sick have brought me to the local clinic. I guiltily walked past the hundred or so people camped out on the benches and floor, greeted the nun in charge, got blood taken, and then guiltily walked back out of the clinic. When it was confirmed that I had typhoid, because that’s what it usually was, I received a phone call, returned to the clinic and walked shamefacedly back to the pharmacist where I picked up my waiting meds. This is not the usual protocol for most people here. When I expressed my guilt, I was told not to worry about it because “I have a job,” i.e. your time is more valuable than theirs.

·        We wear oversized sunglasses so we don’t have to greet people. Everyone says “hello” and “how are you?” to everyone here. We don’t blend in and as a result, everyone and their mother and their third cousins come out to greet us. At first it seems like just a friendly thing you do here. However, after months of hellos it gets exhausting. Any sign of potential eye contact leads to greeting one another. Greetings often occur in multiple languages. After English, there’s Krio and then the 5 line Temne exchange. When you finish the multi-lingual greeting with one person, the next person is lined up waiting for his/her turn. The sunglasses not only serve as a barrier between us and society but also allow us to walk down the street in a semi-reasonable amount of time.

·        People are really interested in everything we do here. I once heard an interview with Jennifer Aniston talking about the paparazzi following her as she went to buy toilet paper. The same thing happens here. People cross the street to hear us converse with an ocada driver. They stop walking when they see us coming so they look at us up close. I often send Gearoid to the market to pick up dinner items and he comes home annoyed from the many people who giggled and commented on his actions. “The opporto is buying onions.” Giggle giggle. “The opporto is going it make African chop.” Giggle giggle. “The opporto uses African money.” Giggle giggle. If we’re sitting in a public space having a drink or conversing with other opportos, crowds form around us. People stand patiently leaning with a hand on their hip silently watching us. Most of the time we’re not doing anything interesting. However, I’m sure the few times we’ve made a spectacle of ourselves (I’m mostly referring to myself) by throwing a fit in the middle of the street because the rice and beans woman sold out, dancing and singing back at the “opporto” chanting children, and creating our own dance floor on an outdoor patio on a quiet Friday night have created lasting impressions and don’t dispel the stereotype that we’re “interesting” people.

·        People are shocked that we do normal things. I’ve had to fight a woman away from a broom I was using because she was shocked that I was sweeping. If the weather is bad, an employee at the school insists that she go to the market for me because there is no way I can deal with mud. Kids stare in amazement/amusement through our back fence and watch us eat, clean, and converse with each other. We hear comments like “Ha, a white man in Africa” or “The white buys African food” when we walk through town or the market. When we walk home, ocada drivers ask if we’re lost or need a ride. When we answer “no” they smile knowingly and congratulate and commend us for getting some exercise. When I share with people what I cooked for dinner the night before, they don’t believe that I cook for myself. I crack up the women at work with stories about how Gearoid folds laundry, cuts pineapple, and does other domestic chores. One woman warned me that he might find a better second wife if I keep making him do “woman’s work.”

·        We get propositioned all the time. Everyone asks to be our friend. I’m proposed to at least twice a month by ocada drivers- which is way more than I’ve been proposed to by Gearoid. The other week when walking home I was stopped and asked to be a woman’s girlfriend. I pointed to a giggling Gearoid and said I was with him. She told me not to over think it and just go with it. I really don’t remember what excuse I gave before I escaped her firm handhold. People tell us all the time they love us and an expat I know was even asked to be a perfect stranger’s lover. These people don’t know us at all but see us as status symbols and walking wallets. Although, I have to admit it is healthy to the ego to be told I’m good looking on a daily basis by perfect strangers.

·        People take our photographs. Last time I was here and worked at the feeding center, mothers sat their semi-soiled recently plumped up children on my lap and a traveling photographer took our picture. My picture is posted all around the northern region of Sierra Leone. My hope is that the mothers tell their friends and family that I’m the woman who taught them how to play and talk to their children. Most likely, I’m described as an opporto they know. This time around, my university students have been taking my picture. Some of them asked for me to pose with them and I begrudgingly did so. However, I caught others surreptitiously standing behind me and getting pictures taken while I was helping other students.  I’m pretty sure I’m on someone’s Facebook page tagged as their lecturer.

There is no anonymity for us here and I really do feel for those who have no privacy at all. I long for the days when I can walk down the street and nobody gives a damn- when I’m not yelled at, poked, taunted, laughed at, or even noticed. If we’re not celebrities here than we are definitely zoo animals. There are times we without a doubt feel trapped. Admittedly though, being able to afford fresh lobster softens the blow.

Totally (not) acting the celebrity. Despite the sunglasses on a rainy day, this situation could not be anymore un-glamorous. I'm standing next to a sewage river next to the prison wall outside of our compound.

Banana Island

I am one of the few volunteers at UNIMAK who hasn’t asked for anything. Most of the other volunteers need help with logistical things like housing, transportation, internet, child care, etc. However, with Gearoid as my reluctant benefactor I haven’t needed any type of support. I have been helping Sister Eleanor with her communications course, which means I’ve taken over the lecturing and paper grading of 3 of her 7 classes. The lecturing required a little bit of preparation so that I could appear knowledgeable about what the day’s topic was. However, the grading of exams, essays, and finals has proven to be extraordinarily time-consuming. My tendency to procrastinate has not made the paper grading any easier.

Sister Eleanor, knowing the time it takes to grade that amount of papers (along with deciphering the horrible grammar and handwriting), requested, unbeknownst to me, that I receive some type of compensation. She spoke to the registrar, who happens to be a friend of mine, and he whole-heartedly agreed and said he would speak to the vice-chancellor of the university, who happens to be on good terms with Gearoid. The vice-chancellor approached Gearoid privately and mentioned my hard work and questioned what type of compensation I might want. (Why speak to me when I have a “husband” to make my decisions?) Gearoid very quickly reassured him that I was fine and didn’t need anything. (Why consult me when he as a male can make my decisions?)

I chatted with my registrar friend about this series of events that concerned me but at which point I was never consulted. I joked that all I wanted from the university was a ride to the beach and a half million Leones (about 100 euro) to pay for my stay there. Three weeks later, he made my joke a reality and as the “leader” of the trip (it was very kind of them to allow me to make decisions as I am just a mere woman) I chose (drum roll please) Banana Island. We weren’t lucky enough or financially sound enough to go the last time we were in the country and my registrar friend said it was lovely. I was very excited as it had already been 2 months since I left the Makeni city limits. The night before the trip I woke up with a fever during a rainstorm. Gearoid suggested we reschedule the trip and I told him that if I’m going to be miserable I would rather be miserable on the beach.

So along with my reluctant benefactor, my registrar friend, a Spanish psychologist (who should write her own blog because if anything is going to happen here, it happens to her), and a hilarious driver who kept threatening to eat my registrar friend’s pet monkey, we made the first leg of our journey to the beach. Once we got to the beach, we had to take a 20 minute boat ride to the island. I enjoyed the first 5 minutes of the boat ride, declaring “This is worth the paper grading!” to skeptical stares, until my seasickness kicked in and I tried to enjoy the rest of the ride vomit free. After the nautical leg of the journey, we had to walk through a jungle and the local village for about 10 minutes before we got to the “resort” we were staying at.

Dalton’s guesthouse was simple but comfortable. Our room only had a bed but we were fortunate enough to have our own bathroom with running water. A covered area housed an outdoor cantina where we ate our meals, played pool and other games on a damp table, and gazed out into the gorgeous ocean. Before our lunch, we wandered along the beach and climbed giant lava rocks looking for treasures. The lava rocks are studded all around the island and only reveal themselves when the tide is out.  As a result, there are several shipwrecks located under the sea near the island. The treasures we were looking for were pieces of sea glass and shards of pottery from extremely old ships. I am happy to say that we did not walk away empty handed.

Happy with our treasures, my registrar friend and I decided to brave the wild ocean while Gearoid and the psychologist watched from a raised platform that offered more beautiful views of the island. The waves were powerful and giant rocks rose out of the sand. Our plan was to get past a certain rock in order to avoid the waves and then safely snorkel. Unfortunately, past the rock was a rip current. Before I knew it, I was being quickly swept away from my friend and the part of the beach we were staying on. My friend tried to help and repeatedly swam closer to me reaching out his hand. I was a bit reluctant. I wanted to remain alive but was battling with the shame of the ocean having pulled my bathing suit top down. If I did what he told me to do and we successfully made it back to shore, I would have to forever look him in the eye and know he saw my bare chest. Please remember that my ancient ancestors were Puritans who left behind the indecentness of Europe- propriety of some sort is ingrained in my DNA. However, at the same time I fully recognize now that my modesty was going to kill me. Somehow, I managed to grab his hand, maintain my modesty, and hold onto the snorkel/mask, when a giant wave pushed me head first and backwards over a cluster of rocks. Gearoid later admitted that this was the point when he stopped laughing and taking pictures of my plight and really considered the seriousness of the situation. However, luckily I popped up mostly unscathed (there were a couple of scrapes on my knees and elbows) and being able to stand ran back to the safeness of the shore. My friend, after his own journey over the cluster of rocks, joined me on the sand and we stood wobbly legged and panting as the residual adrenaline ran through us. This plan of ours was definitely on the list of the stupidest things we’ve ever done.

Luckily, the weather allowed for no more adventures that night. A light downpour kept us in the cantina and we spent the evening playing an assortment of games and reliving our near-death experience. We had a delicious dinner of rock lobster (I apologized to and thanked the live lobsters for giving us their lives but admittedly didn’t feel any guilt when I was tearing into their succulent tail meat. After a weekend at the beach, I am once again a firm vegetarian. I promise) and headed to bed early. The next day we woke up to a beautiful sunny morning and I reluctantly dressed for a morning swim before breakfast. The tide was not in as much as I would have liked and after a couple of tentative splashes in the water, I decided that swimming on this portion of beach, so close to the dangerous rocks, was not for me.

Later in the morning, we traipsed through more jungle to another beach on the island. Instead of outcroppings of giant lava rocks, we were able to enjoy the wide expanse of smooth sand. After everyone else made it into the ocean and assured me that there were no hidden rocks, I joined them and stayed there for approximately 2 hours. It felt so nice to float, swim, and relax without my newfound ocean fear. Back at Daltons, we had one more delicious meal (sorry Mr. Grouper) before sorting our beach treasure and then heading back to the boat for the mainland. The clearer weather prevented a rough boat ride so seasickness was not a factor. Although, the brilliant sun ensured that despite sunscreen my face would resemble the dearly departed lobster I had recently enjoyed for the next few days.

Oh, and I later found out my fever was a result of me having typhoid again.

Sadness

In my 30 years of life, I’ve considered myself lucky to have only lost one grandparent. My Grandpa Shorty died when I was 5 and although I don’t remember everything surrounding his death and the funeral, I was old enough to retain a few memories. For instance, I remember that because of the funeral I missed my first ever (and only) ballet recital in which I was supposed to wear a Minnie Mouse-like costume. I also remember being so upset at the thought of never seeing my beloved grandfather again that my dad had to escort me out of his own father’s funeral and ask me to calm down because I was upsetting the other people. He asked me to help my grandmother and I did so by bringing her and my distant relatives Dixie cups of water to help with their grief. I only knew my Grandpa Shorty for 5 years but he had made a lasting impression and his death was my first experience of losing a loved one.

Twenty-five years later, I sadly received the news that my Grandma Mary, Shorty’s wife had died. The week before, I had been sad that I was missing a family reunion but happy that my grandmother was able to be with all of her children for the first time in years. My parents made sure to Skype me while visiting my grandmother so that we could see each other. Grandma Mary was not a fan of technology and her computer-less house meant that I mostly stayed in touch with her via phone calls and hand-written letters and cards. A week later after the missed reunion, I received an email with the sad news that she had passed away in her sleep.

I’ve always been close to my family, making my decision to travel and live abroad somewhat difficult. Not only do I miss big events like weddings, birthdays, and the birth of new family members, it has also been difficult to miss the casual Sunday night dinners, weekday game nights, BBQs, and impromptu Saturday meet-ups. Missing the death and the celebration of the life of my grandmother has made my life choices even more difficult. When I got the news, I was floored and couldn’t believe it to be true. I also felt frustrated and angry that at that moment there was nothing I could do. My phone here isn’t equipped for me to literally pick it up and call the States. The older computer I’m using doesn’t have Skype capabilities and access to electricity and internet are on a set timetable. With the time difference, even if I had Skype, I couldn’t make a call without the risk of waking someone up.

I happened to read the sad email while in Sister Mary’s office. She was having a meeting and I quietly put my hands in my face and tried to contain my grief. After the meeting she came up to me and apologized for the craziness of the morning. My red face and puffy leaking eyes told her something more than annoying teachers was wrong. I’m very grateful that she was there when I found out. She gave me a hug, brought me down to the chapel for a prayer, and gave me tea and biscuits (the English kind). Then Sister Mary made sure to tell everyone we encountered that my grandmother had died. This was a little awkward for me. I’m no stranger to crying in public (I’ve been known to throw public fits when my vegetarian food comes sprinkled with chicken or the movie I want to see is sold out) but when it’s something more serious and personal, I attempt to keep it to myself and then cry hysterically in the comforts of home with loved ones. However, Gearoid is my only loved one here and he can only soak up so many tears. The other nuns and the teachers I worked with gave me sad smiles and offered their sympathy with a common phrase used here, “Osh-ya.” Her sharing of my sad news did make me feel less alone. There happened to be a special mass at the school that day and they incorporated my personal sadness into the sermon. Afterwards, students sweetly came up to me and shared their sympathies in sign.

I think my expression of grief was very strange for the Saloneans. Having witnessed firsthand expressions of grief here, I understand the confusion. There is generally an immediate wailing from the women that despite its heartbreaking nature sounds like a beautiful song. I know for a fact that the wailing isn’t a song because when I asked someone what a woman was singing, I was told that she was crying because her child died. This intense and expressive wailing strikes you to the core and whenever I hear it, whether at the hospital or walking down the street, tears spring to my eyes. After the appropriate amount of wailing, people seem to get on with their lives. If you offer your sympathies, you get a matter-of-fact thank you. They go back to work, follow their daily routines, and make friendly conversation with friends and colleagues. My walking around like a zombie with red occasionally leaking eyes for a week was strange and prolonged to them and for one person I apparently didn’t accept his sympathies in the appropriate way so he extended them two more times until I got it right.

Coincidentally, the president of Sierra Leone’s own mother died and this past weekend was the funeral. I didn’t witness any wailing because presumably that occurred right after the news of her death. Instead, a party-like atmosphere developed in Makeni, which happens to be the president’s home town. Shops and restaurants were closed and around 2PM on Saturday an enormous and loud convey of vehicles escorted Mama Koroma’s body back to Makeni. Dealing with my own grief, I generally stayed inside with distracting books and funny movies but when I left the compound I couldn’t help but notice the increased police presence and the crowded excited atmosphere. There were no black clothes and somber attitudes, just a happy respect for the life lost and the desire to show the important people in the country that they were properly mourning the president’s mother.

Needless to say, the last week has been difficult. My family was very supportive and very understanding that I couldn’t make it home for the funeral. Via e-mail, broken Skype calls, and Facebook, I was able to keep abreast of what was going on. I’m happy that everyone was able to be there together but it is bittersweet to see the pictures and note my absence from them.

The literal ocean between us during the last 2 years unfortunately prevented me from staying in touch with my grandmother as much as I usually did. I will miss her and I grieve her death but feel slightly appeased knowing that she was able to spend her last days with all of her children, she went peacefully in her sleep, and that she’s finally reunited with my grandfather in whatever happens after death. 

Working Conditions

Gearoid and I, for the most part, are really enjoying our work here in Sierra Leone. However, we have both experienced some things that have had us scratching and shaking our heads in amusement and/or confusion.

·        It is perfectly acceptable to pick your nose in public here. Gearoid and I have laughed with other expats about who we’ve been talking to when the nose excavations begin- priests, colleagues, kids, the mayor. It’s distracting in conversations but in my workplace it’s worse. With a background as a preschool teacher I am predisposed to tell people to stop picking their nose/get a tissue/etc. As a lecturer at a university I’ve noticed that it is extremely difficult to talk about 18^th century poetry (of which I am an expert thanks to Wikipedia) when a 50 year old gentleman in a very nice suit is sitting front and center digging for gold. Words literally stopped coming out of my mouth and tried to reform into a response I would give to a 3 year old. Somehow, I managed to distract myself and return to the rhyming scheme of the poem. 

·        National power has recently arrived at UNIMAK (the local university) but before power became 24/7, the generator was used during set times. It was not unusual mid-lecture for the power to come on. As soon as the lights came one, no matter what I was doing or saying, at least half the students rose and battled for the handful of plugs in the room in order to charge their phones and laptops. There were no apologetic looks or gestures. Why waste power for common courtesy?

·        Perfectly acceptable excuses not to come to work or university lectures in Sierra Leone: being sick, it’s raining, my mother’s brother died, my mother’s brother really didn’t die but he’s dead now (this is actually a very common excuse), having another job, televised trial of a war criminal, knowing that if you get a grade of 45% in the class you’re still able to pass, being a teacher who hasn’t been paid for 4 years by the Ministry of Education, being a teacher who is paid by the Ministry of Education and the paperwork takes years to get adjusted so he/she can still get paid even if he/she doesn’t show up to work, being at work yesterday, etc. Some of my students at UNIMAK actually decided to attend class and on not one, not two, but on five occasions were kicked out of class by the finance office because they hadn’t paid their school fees in entirety.  One day, my class of 30 plus dwindled down to 4 students.

·        Logistical matters are often not considered. With the blessing of the head of the school, I started offering weekly trainings to the teachers of St. Joseph’s. The trainings took place once a week during the last hour of school. I found out several weeks later that when the teachers were coming to visit me, they were sending the students home instead of covering for each other. Students were losing out on education so the teachers could play educational games with me. It was my own fault for assuming everything was taken care of.

·        I know I lecture at a Catholic University but it’s difficult not to be stumped when discussing poetry, Shakespeare, or grammar and the students make comments such as “the devil never asked for forgiveness” and “the Almighty decides what’s best for us all” in response to  a question or comment. I just don’t see how comments like these are relevant when discussing how many sentences should be in a paragraph.

·        In addition to my trainings, it appears that teachers can get out of teaching if: it’s raining, they don’t have enough paper, they want to take a nap on the floor, something more interesting is happening elsewhere, they have a classroom with a window, etc. This isn’t the rule but it has happened and there are unfortunately repeat offenders.

·        First year university students at UNIMAK get the pleasure of reading the Merchant of Venice. At first this was surprising to me because in the States most people read this play early in high school but the other things I’ve had to teach to “university” students here makes this play look like complex physics. While teaching this play, our focus was more on the literal aspects of the play rather than symbolism. For example, who are the characters and what do they do. After reading the play, we showed the film version of the play to the students. While watching with them, they interrupted the movie to ask for an explanation. I was confused because we had just read the play and discussed in detail what happens. It turns out that they needed me to point out the characters to them. The white people blended together in the film and they couldn’t tell who was who.

·        The other day I was approached by a teacher who attends my trainings. She told me she was angry because she had missed the last four weeks of trainings and I hadn’t come and found out why. She told me she had had surgery then pulled down her shirt, took out her breast, and showed me a scar. Bewildered, I apologized and all was forgiven.

Gearoid’s work includes him travelling to various villages outside of Makeni and conducting interviews. He bought a motorcycle (his mom’s worst nightmare) and his assistant drives him around. During the course of his work he has come back with many interesting non-research related stories.

·        Someone tried to sell him an 8 inch scorpion. They were promptly told they had the wrong white man.

·        He’s had to remove his shoes and roll up his pants to wade through marsh land. One day some women were giggling that if the water got any higher, he would have to remove his pants.

·        He was propositioned to be a woman’s second husband. Thankfully for me he deterred.

·        To the delight of the elders and the intense fear of the children, Gearoid was the first white man ever to visit this 55 year old village. His research assistant teased a pair of 6 year old girls staring with open mouths at Gearoid that the white man was there to pick his second wife and was trying to choose between one of them. They didn’t enjoy this revelation.

·        Sadly one interview was interrupted when a man came to tell the woman being interviewed that her son in another town had died. The woman promptly lifted her shirt up and ran out of her house wailing. Meanwhile, her other son continued to sit with Gearoid calmly smoking a cigarette. Gearoid asked about his dead brother and the man shrugged it off and made a statement saying they couldn’t even be sure he was dead.

·        Gearoid gives all of his interviewees aliases to maintain their anonymity. He offered one man the option of picking his own alias, thinking the man would choose Ali, Abu, Mohamed, or another common name. The man chose Rambo and now when Gearoid quotes this man in his research publications, he’ll have to refer to him as a famous Sylvester Stallone character.

·        One day, Gearoid and his assistant stopped the motorcycle when they saw a half dead black mambo snake in the road. It was trying to protect itself while the lower half was colorfully smashed on the road. Of course pictures had to be taken.

·        It’s rainy season here which means that occasionally Gearoid and his assistant get stuck driving in inclement weather. Imagine this- a black man in a yellow raincoat has a white passenger. The white passenger has a thin plastic yellow poncho on over his body and his giant book bag. He’s put a bicycle helmet on over the hood of the poncho, which is billowing behind him, as well as aviator sunglasses to protect his eyes. He sits hunched and huddled behind the driver but occasionally looks up and notices the surprised open mouthed stares of local people who have never seen a white man look so ridiculous. True story.

Despite the long drawn out Sundays with no electricity, life is rarely dull here and unlike at home, we’re quite ready for Mondays to arrive. 

Giant Scorpion

Kids following Gearoid

Gearoid, a man with directions, and his assistant

New Digs

Sadly, we were asked to leave Disneyland Fortress. We knew this might happen but the actuality of it happening was a little difficult to handle. I was really going to miss Frances. We managed to squeeze an extra week out of the company whose house we were luxuriating in due to lack of housing in Makeni because of the marathon. On the morning of June 11^th we said goodbye to nearly constant power, AC, the big flat screen television, and (sniff, sniff) Frances and moved back into the guesthouse at St. Joseph’s. That same afternoon, Gearoid burst into my office at St. Joseph’s and said he had just been kicked out of the company’s office. Apparently, because Gearoid was unwilling to sign an agreement stating he would not write anything that would “harm the reputation” of the company they couldn’t allow him access to anything else anymore (he was perfectly willing to sign something stating he would not commit libel or slander). The timing of our move and his ousting was a little suspicious. Needless to say, our ties to this company were cut.

 

Their decision to bar us from their house and their company turned out fine in the end. Gearoid continued his research by conducting interviews of people who live villages affected by the company and considered the few instances of people refusing to talk to him as good data in itself. My commute time and costs were cut down considerably as I simply had to walk down the stairs of the guesthouse to my office. St. Joseph’s was actually pretty comfortable. There is power for about 4 hours every night, including internet access. In the mornings, we were provided with a lovely breakfast spread and there was a small kitchen area so we could occasionally cook for ourselves instead of frequenting local restaurants. The kids who live at the school got used to seeing us and one night (by happenstance it was the same weekend as Day of the African Child) we hosted a movie night for them. The wonderful staff at the school helped me (by help- I mean they did it for me) make popcorn and Kool-aid for the kids. With the usual difficulties, we managed to hook up a projector and show them the Lion King. I want to assume that the kids were able to follow the story. There seemed to be appropriate laughs and sounds of outrage during parts of the film. However, I realized too late that the majority of them, due to being hearing impaired, were unable to appreciate the beautiful music of the movie and instead had to settle for the comical image of me bobbing my heading singing along while I graded the sub-standard essays of my university students.

Staying at the school was not without its difficulties though. There was limited privacy and I hardly ever left the school compound. However, the biggest issue was the lack of sleep. The power shut off right before 11PM which effectively stopped the fan which was our only source of relief from the heat. Having spent 6 weeks with AC so strong that we slept with socks and blankets, this was a big adjustment. Our mosquito net was also inadequate and we often woke up to the itchy bites of a mosquito that made it through a tear or to us smacking ourselves while half asleep to stop the crawling sensations created by the gnats that were tiny enough to render the net pointless.

The noise was the worst though. During the day, the school compound is peaceful and quiet as deaf children only make so much noise when playing. We often forgot how peaceful the school was until we were on the streets of Makeni and children shouted and sang to us. We only assumed the peacefulness would occur at night as well. Unfortunately, the night guard liked to sleep under the window of our room. His three dogs would start barking and fighting between 2-3AM. We asked the man to tell his dogs to be quiet and for one night we got peace. It got so bad at times that Gearoid would leave the room and wake up the man and tell him to shut his dogs up. We usually got 20 minutes of peace before the man fell back asleep and the dogs continued torturing each other and us.

The mosques began anywhere between 4-6AM. There are at least 3 mosques in hearing range of the school and every morning we heard the call to prayer. Three separate times. In the world of Sierra Leone, it does not make sense for the calls to prayer to be synced with each other. I really believe these mosques were in competition with each other- who could be first, who could be the loudest, who could be the longest. Some mornings, the entire prayer rather than just the “call” was loud-speakered over the town. When the mosques were finished with their daily competition, the church bell across the street began to ring and welcome members for the 6:30AM mass. If we managed the difficult task of falling asleep in the cool precious minutes between religious calls for worshippers, the school girls would wake us up at 7AM. I don’t know what time the primary school across the lane begins but I do know that a series of girls stand and ring a big brass bell continuously for at least an hour and half to let the children and anyone trying to sleep nearby know that school will eventually be in session.

Almost 3 weeks later, respite and sleep have finally come. We’ve moved into what we hope is our last house before we leave the country later this year. My co-worker’s roommate is leaving Sierra Leone and we have taken her place. We’re on a nice secure compound filled with a variety of people/families and friendly dogs that are more than happy to eat any leftovers we have. The compound is a lot closer to the center of town than Disneyland Fortress was and if weather and time permits it, I can easily walk home from work. We get five hours of power each night and although it’s not a large flat screen, we do have a small TV with 3 satellite channels. Our kitchen has a gas stove and a semi-working fridge. Aminata, although lacking the Western training of Frances, comes 3 times a week to do laundry and cleaning. The rainy season is here, meaning that the nights are generally cooler so the lack of a fan or AC doesn’t bother us too much. With the exception of the lack of water pressure in the shower (spitting water at each other would be so much more effective than our shower, that I long for days of old-fashioned bucket showers), it’s a comfortable place and we’re happy that after almost 3 months we can finally unpack our suitcases and settle in. 

Living room....

....hallway....

....kitchen....

and view when when I lay in the backyard reading.

Opporto Invasion

The beginning of June was important for two reasons. First it was Gearoid’s birthday. I felt like a crap girlfriend for not planning anything for him, especially considering the amazing birthday trip I received to Istanbul this year. At the last minute though, I was able to get him a Salonean football jersey and bake him a cake (it was a box cake but we put Flake candy bars in it to add some excitement). We also had a nice evening out with some friends.

Part of the reason behind the low key birthday celebrations was due to the other important event that took place on June 9^th. Makeni hosted a marathon. I’m not a 100% sure but I’m fairly confident that this was the first marathon ever in Sierra Leone and if it wasn’t the first in the country it was definitely the first in Makeni. An organization called Street Child of Sierra Leone, with the help of some supporting organizations, dealt with what I’m sure was a logistical nightmare to put on this event to raise money for their organization.

When I finally jumped on the “returning to Africa” bandwagon in late winter/early spring, I did research on which organizations to contact so I could do some meaningful volunteer work while I was in Sierra Leone. During the time of my research, I discovered that the marathon was taking place. Gearoid and I were both surprised for many reasons. June is the beginning of the rainy season and if it’s not raining it is extremely hot and definitely humid. Having just run a marathon in a cooler more ideal setting and having suffered in that cooler more ideal setting, the thought of anyone running in what we consider “hell on earth” (more because of how the sun stores residual heat in the town of Makeni rather than for other hellish-like attributes) was absurd. My soul and spirit were still healing from my own marathon experience and all thoughts of running any distance made me want to curl up and cry. Gearoid, on the other hand, seriously considered training for the half-marathon race (this of course never happened).

When we actually got to Makeni, some of the volunteers we met mentioned the marathon but their tones had a “yeah right, it’s never going to happen” cadence to them. We saw a few posters around and friends seemed to half-heartedly train for whichever race they committed to (there was a 5k, ½ marathon, and full marathon). We knew that for this supposed marathon over 200 foreigners were flying in to run or to cheer someone on who was running. The week of the race, we heard rumors from friends about the copious amounts of white people they saw on the streets. I saw maybe a handful more foreigners than usual but other than that, there was no indication this race was going to happen.

Having decided not to run any of the races, I decided instead to capitalize on the supposed hordes of foreigners descending upon Makeni by manning a craft table that benefitted St. Josephs (the hearing impaired school where I work). I had the tailors at the school make purses, kindle covers, laptop bags, jewelry, and other “westernized” African goods to sell. The morning of the race I woke up early to get to the race site. As I woke up, I was really happy that I wasn’t running and didn’t have to do any of the pre-running rituals that usually accompany a big race. I didn’t have to worry about if I slept, ate, or went the bathroom enough. I just got ready as usual and left.

The streets were quiet that morning and police walked around at various intersections waiting for something to happen. While at the school picking up the crafts, I heard an ambulance (something you never hear here) and went to the road to see what was going on. The first runners were making their way past St. Josephs. I clapped and cheered them on. My interest sparked the interest of the children who board at the school and we all stood together and watched the increasing number of runners. The students had no idea what was going on. They saw white people running and asked each other what was happening. They looked at my own white skin and signed to me asking if I was going to run. With a smile, I told them I wasn’t running and tried to explain how far these people were running. As more runners made their way past the school, I shouted hello and encouraged the children to wave. (Most of the runners were probably unaware that this was a school for the hearing impaired and I didn’t want to shock anyone-or make a spectacle of the children themselves- by encouraging a random cacophony of noise).

When we made it to the site of the finish line, I was really kind of surprised and shocked by the atmosphere. These people had pulled it off. There was a festive ambiance with a marching band performing while onlookers cheered for the 5k runners who were finishing the race.  At the finish line, runners were given very cool homemade wooden medals, a packet of water, and an energy bar. During the course of the morning, local performers came and entertained the growing crowd of spectators as runners of the different races trickled over the finish line. When the first person to finish the marathon came in, the crowd went wild. It was a Sierra Leonean and you couldn’t see him as he ran across the finish line because of the journalists, race attendants, and proud Saloneans who surrounded him. The fun and festive atmosphere made me regretful that I chose not to run one of the races and that I was so cynical of its potential success.

Waving to and watching the runners

The race did end up being successful. A ton of money was raised, the visitors brought some additional income to local merchants, and nobody died. We were really concerned about how the runners would cope with the difficulty of the race and the harsh weather conditions. However, people trained properly and the organizers put a lot of effort into medical care. Some aspects of the race were less comfortable to the runners than a race in the West would be. For example, at most organized races there are lines of porta-potties and lines of runners waiting for a turn in the portable toilets before start time. Race courses usually also have bathroom facilities set up along the course. Plumbing of any kind really is a luxury here and no such facilities were available to the runners. Before the race, the runners were told that if they needed to use the bathroom, to do it in the open to avoid possible snake bites. Along the race, they did as the locals did and relieved themselves in open air.

Many of the local people had no idea what was going on. They obviously saw the race but questioned what was happening. Gearoid’s research assistant stared at him in confusion as G cheered for a lone marathon runner coming up to the finish line. Gearoid had to explain that during races, people cheer for the runners as a way of offering encouragement. I asked the teachers I train to do a writing assignment about their thoughts on the marathon. Reading the assignments, I had to laugh out loud several times. One woman said that when she saw all of the people running- white and black- she thought something bad had happened until someone explained otherwise to her. Another man stated that these types of races are for foreigners and black people find it a waste of energy (meanwhile the world’s marathon winners are Africans). The lack of understanding is understandable when day to day life is spent trying to survive and do the best for your family. Despite the marathon and the changes in traffic patterns, the market continued as normal, laundry was done, and people went to work. After the race, with the exception of the 200 plus white people having dinner at a local expat restaurant, you wouldn’t know anything different had happened. Hopefully next year, the success will continue and the race will mean something more to both local people and the foreigners who come to run it.