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.