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.
