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.    

The Trials and Tribulations of Typhoid

Ok, so typhoid is not a cakewalk.

This is what I know about malaria, having had it twice 3 years ago: it makes you feel like utter crap. You are tired but you can’t sleep. Everything aches- your head, your back, your non-existent muscles, your bones, your limbs, your eyeballs…. You have no appetite but something deep inside of you tells you you’re hungry because all you’ve had for two days is a Snickers bar and a Coke. You feel nauseous and smells (all of them) make it worse. You’re usually in a tropical climate without amenities so you’re hot, feverish, bored, and generally blah (a commonly used medical term in my family). What’s funny about all of these symptoms is that it’s not the actual malaria that makes you feel this way but rather the medicine that is supposed to make you feel better causing all of these maladies. The medicine lasts 3 days.

On the fourth day you feel like the sun has started shining again. You feel stronger and light-hearted. Your pants are looser and you’re enjoying the fact that you lost 5 lbs but also don’t feel guilty about the quantity of food you plan on eating during the day because you’re famished after not eating the previous 3 days. You smile more and just generally feel happy. There’s a bounce in your step and although you may have to take a nap from using the excess energy you just re-acquired too quickly, you happily tell people you feel SO MUCH BETTER!

This is what I know about typhoid- jack shit. I thought I knew it but I don’t. Typhoid is trickier. With malaria, I know that after the 3 days of pills I will most likely feel better. I thought the same thing about typhoid. I took all of my pills. The Monday after the beach I thought I was exhausted because I had spent the weekend traveling, getting too much sun (so much in fact that a woman who I thought was trying to sell me something and I was politely ignoring, followed me so she could get a picture of the radioactive-red white woman), and sleeping too little on Saturday night. On Tuesday I thought I just had the blahs. I tend to feel that way on Tuesdays after over overexerting myself on Mondays. On this same Tuesday, Sister Mary strongly suggested that I return to the clinic for another test. Meanwhile, my co-worker was feeling off as well. Between the both of us, we had the symptoms of typhoid but individually one of us was tired and the other had a runny tummy. I won’t go into specifics but horrific things happen in the bathroom when you have typhoid. Everyone is different in how they exhibit the symptoms and I felt lucky that I was not reproducing a horror movie on my bathroom visits. Nevertheless, claiming too much work (it really was a busy work week) we deflected Sister’s instructions, I mean suggestions, and promised to go to the clinic the next day.

Wednesday morning I knew something was wrong. I didn’t sleep well the night before, was nauseous, and had no appetite. Me not having an appetite is a big deal because I’m usually thinking about the next meal while washing up the previous meal’s dishes. I rolled into work late looking like death, managed to choke down a banana and a cup of tea, and didn’t fight Sister when she hustled us into the truck to the clinic. My co-worker was having a good day and had a big smile on her face. She felt fine, slept well, and wasn’t recreating cinematographic movies in the bathroom anymore. We again, guiltily, walked past the hundred people waiting and received tests. We returned to work for one more hour of internet and electricity and then got coconuts and a ride home.

On Thursday, I woke up fine. I had a class to teach. I was able to eat breakfast. I was ready to face the day. Sister called me and I asked how she was. “Oh, I’m fine but you’re not.” Apparently, my typhoid levels were concerning and she was having the driver pick my co-worker and me up and to take us to the hospital. “But I feel fine and I have to teach at the university today. Should I call in a substitute?” “I should think so,” was the clipped response. I was picked up by the driver and brought to the school to pick up my co-worker. Before we were put back in the truck, I was given my first and definitely not my last fiery lecture by this tiny Irish nun (later in the week she referred to the both of us as idiots). “You should have listened to me and gotten tested earlier. I’ve been here forty years. I think I know something about typhoid!” Her Irish brogue got stronger as she continued her tirade.  I’ve witnessed this sweet Sister get mad at other people but have never experienced any nuns’ wrath myself. I felt both chastised and the overwhelming urge to giggle. Luckily for my safety, I managed to suppress the second impulse.

Once we were safely tucked into the truck with nowhere to go, Sister Mary dropped the big news that we’d probably need drips. Having been stuck with needles for other medical purposes before in my life, I wasn’t worried about it, finding the entire experience amusing. My co-worker on the other hand got a caged animal look in her eye and immediately tensed up. We were ushered into the hospital and happily watched the news about the Queen’s impending jubilee while we waited. Sister secretly slipped into the doctor’s office and then came out with a knowing smirk. “You both need a drip.” Then this tiny slip of a woman wrestled my healthier sized co-worker back into the hospital as she tried to escape. The doctor in charge of us, also thwarted escape attempts by keeping up friendly conversation and pushing us into a hospital room.

The entire experience sounds scarier than it actually was. We, being employees of the infamous Sister Mary, were treated to one of the two air conditioned rooms in the hospital, which also happened to have a TV. To ease any discomfort or fear, the nurses sent in two visiting English doctors. We had each other for moral support and our own bathroom. Gearoid came with a Snickers, a Diet Coke (Diet Coke in Makeni was truly the highlight of my week!) and snarky comments (these comments were about how lucky we were to be in this room and the conditions experienced by the general population in the rest of the hospital. I did have massive white guilt but once again it was sadly suppressed by the comforts I was receiving. I swear my soul gets darker each day!). We each received 4 IV bags with antibiotics. She got to nap and listen to music while I was able to amuse myself with my Kindle and Bossypants by Tina Fey while CNN aired in the background. We joked with each other and made inappropriate comments that had the nurses amused (not so much by what we said but more by our uncontrollable giggling). It was a relaxing comfortable day- with of course the exception of a needle in my hand. I had some minor side effects but generally left the hospital 4 hours later with a bag of Tylenol and a bruise on my hand. 

The first time around- pills and coconut water

The second time around- 4 IV bags

I also received some amazing medical advice from one of the English doctors. What happened with my co-worker and I is that we had shared a water bottle the week before when we had low levels of typhoid. Our “alarmingly” high levels of typhoid were pretty similar and we only learned in the hospital that we can pass our typhoid back and forth (I know for a fact she didn’t take all of her tablets so I’m blaming this all on her). This new information had Gearoid worried so I asked the doctor if I could kiss my boyfriend without passing the typhoid. She paused for a moment and said matter-of-factly, “ Just don’t wipe your butt, touch your mouth, and then kiss him.” This new precaution has completely killed the romance in our relationship! (ßinsert sarcastic tone because I don’t want people to misinterpret the previous statement as fact.)

I don’t think I accidently ate more poop and got typhoid again. My low numbers just grew bigger. Most likely due to a lack of rest (and bottle sharing). The one thing I learned about typhoid is that it is highly unpredictable. One day you’re fine so you live life normally and push yourself to catch up from being too tired to accomplish everything the day before. They next day you suffer the consequences of the previous day’s activity by literally dragging your feet while walking and leaning on walls to support yourself during routine conversations with people. You’ll wake up one day and have a super healthy appetite and the next day you can barely keep down your coconut water. After the hospital, I spent the next few days in bed watching movies and reading books. I would go out for a few hours of activity and social interaction but would return exhausted. I think I’m getting better. My bedtime of 8:30 has slowly increased to 9:45PM. I’m listening to my body and resting up.

See I really am ok! This was taken 2 days after the hospital visit.

Tropical Diseases in Tropical Locales (posted late due to a tropical disease)

Last Monday started out really well. My work colleague and I called and reserved rooms on the beach for the weekend. We giggled excitedly over our respective laptops and chatted about the upcoming weekend and how long this work week would be. The next day I found out I had typhoid. Over the past weekend I had what I thought was a bout of food poisoning and believed my exhaustion was due to the heat. The lovely Irish nun who I work for gently bullied me into a truck and took me to a clinic another nun in her order ran. Arriving at the clinic with a renowned nun, Sister Mary has been in Sierra Leone for almost 40 years, allowed me the privilege of moving ahead of the overflowing waiting room and into the testing room where I gave enough blood for malaria and typhoid tests. I then returned to work hoping for the best.

Two hours later the results were in and revealed I had a small level of typhoid in my system. What immediately annoyed and disgusted me was that somehow someone’s poop had gotten into me. That’s how you get typhoid, by pretty much eating poop. I made my way back to the clinic and received six different types of pills that needed to be taken twice a day for 5 days. I then returned to work to be gently bullied back into a vehicle and taken home. Before arriving home, the driver stopped and bought me some coconuts. Drinking fresh coconut water was also on the menu of my health care plan. Whole coconuts still in the husk are sold individually. Before you get your coconut, the woman chops off the top and you sip the clear-ish water right from the fruit. When the water is gone, you can give the coconut back to the woman and she will machete the fruit out for you. One thing I quickly learned about coconuts here is that the fruit is not necessarily the dry crunchy fruit you get in the West. Many fresh coconuts have what is called “jelly” and the fruit is pretty much a slippery white floppy thing. Sounds appealing right? If you don’t have an issue with the texture of food, it’s not bad.

After our coconut stop, the driver then stopped at the grocery store so I could load up on feel good foods. This primarily consisted of a Snickers bar, juice, and a beer for Gearoid so he would leave my Snickers bar alone (this plan, unfortunately, didn’t work). I spent the next several days taking pills and naps. I still went to work but left early. Concerned co-workers wanted to rush me to the hospital (local people get really fearful when foreigners get local illnesses) but seriously the only symptom I had was exhaustion. Typhoid turned out to be a great excuse to sleep in, take naps, and eat lots of coconuts. Compared to malaria, which I had twice the last time I was in Sierra Leone, typhoid was a cakewalk (this would later prove to be wrong, but that’s another blog post) and the week which I believed would be slow flew by.

               By the end of the week, we had done enough logistical juggling and Jedi mind magic against the rainclouds to get ourselves in a van with 10 other people and left late Saturday afternoon for the beach. The 2 ½ hour drive was uneventful but the excitement we had really began to blossom when the ocean appeared on the left and the mountains on the right. Despite everything that makes this country so difficult and frustrating, it has an amazingly beautiful landscape and you often have to let go of the difficulties and frustrations to realize it. Gearoid commented himself on the ride to the beach how beautiful and green everything is in Sierra Leone after a good rain and how the last time we were in the country he was too angry and frustrated to appreciate the beauty.

We turned off the highway onto the requisite ridiculously bad road to make the last brief leg of the journey (I swear, there is a conspiracy to keep the beaches as beautiful as possible by making it almost impossible to get to them by not fixing the ludicrously bad roads that actually lead to the sand and surf) and were dismayed by the giant beach party taking place. Salonean hipsters wearing swimsuits and scarves, socks pulled up to their knees, and an assortment of other oddball accessories danced in the surf to a Rihanna song that would play no less than 20 more times on the giant oversized speakers. Beer bottles, water packets, and other trash indicated where they had partied and where they would continue to party. With disappointment on our faces, we made our way to the place we would be staying. Our host Levi, assured us the partygoers would be gone soon and dinner would be ready in 45 minutes (meaning 1.5 hours). We settled into our respective shacks, had a quick drink, and then walked along the beach as far away from the partiers as possible and took a sunset dip in the ocean. It was beautiful. Let me say- I am a complete water baby. I love the water and had planned to spend the entire weekend floating along with the waves, even contemplating forgoing dinner to stay in the surf.

               That didn’t go over well with my companions, mainly Gearoid, so I was peer-pressured out of the ocean but was rewarded with a delicious dinner of freshly caught and grilled lady fish, rice and stew, and fries. We spent the rest of the evening singing loudly to familiar tunes, having a few (or more) drinks, and enjoying each other’s company. At one point, we made the journey back to the beach and took an almost midnight swim. Parents and grandparents reading this post, please don’t get worried or upset. I wouldn’t be writing this part at all if I wasn’t safely back at work but I also fully acknowledge that it wasn’t the smartest idea any of us have ever had. It was amazingly beautiful though. We picked a stretch of beach that the party-goers had ignored. Gearoid, being less inclined to swim in the best of situations, agreed to stand on shore watching our stuff and shined a flashlight on us in the ocean. The water was calm, the sky was clear, the stars were endless, and behind Gearoid I could see the outlines of two tall impressive palm trees. In the water we noticed that our movements were igniting the phosphorescence of plankton.  It really was a tropical paradise.

               The next morning was considerably less magical. I hadn’t slept well, due to not having imbibed as much as my companions which made me cognizant enough of the fact that the mattress and pillow sucked, everything was slightly damp and sandy, and we were in a shack and an intruder could come in and steal my beloved Kindle despite the fact I was cuddling with it. It turns out I had imbibed enough to be more than slightly paranoid. The next morning, the beach had less appeal than it did in twilight. The brightness of the day showed the trash that partygoers had left, the mange on local dogs hoping for a scrap of food, and the woman taking a dump in our eye line behind some rocks we had planned on exploring later in the day. I was a less charming version of myself feeling like I was covered with grit and sand, functioning on about 2 hours of sleep, and after it took 3 hours for the host to make us a breakfast of cold toast and eggs. I escaped the group and found a couple of tables and chairs down the beach and stared at the gorgeous skyline. I swam in the ocean to clean the grit and sand away as well as my foul temperament. After a few more hours of the beach and a delicious lunch, we all became friendly again and loaded into the van to make the hot dusty journey back to Makeni. Like all experiences here, it was an adventure with both good and bad elements. Would I do it again? Definitely.

Disneyland Fortress

The ultimate reason that we’re here in Sierra Leone is because Gearoid is doing research. He is evaluating a European company that is creating bio-ethanol fuel by growing and processing sugar cane. Gearoid’s research in a nutshell is to see what local people think about the company. What are the benefits and the limitations? In his preparation to come back to Sierra Leone, Gearoid had been in contact with the people with the company and had discussed what kind of support if any he needed from the company. Gearoid’s only requests were access to the findings of a survey the company was completing and that they sign a MOU stating they won’t sue him if his findings aren’t positive of the company. The company was eager to agree to these terms and offered other amenities such as housing and transportation. Ethical Gearoid gave a firm “no thank you” because he wanted his research to be as unbiased as possible and it might affect the interpretation of his research if it was found out he was living in a house paid for by the company he was evaluating. A very valid ethical argument on his part.

Then we got here and reality set in. The place where Gearoid needs to conduct research is farther outside the city limits than he expected and transportation was going to be an issue. The housing situation in Makeni was another problem.  The oven that was our first house was uncomfortable, filthy, unprotected, and was making me sick- literally. While living in these conditions, after delivering his recently arrived graduate student to her company house, Gearoid found out how the other half lived. He made the mistake of telling me. Air conditioning was blowing the house to an almost too cold temperature. One of the people living in the house revealed he was in the bath when the doorbell rang. Bath?! Doorbell?! I stopped Gearoid at that point. I didn’t want to hear more and then promptly went to take my bucket shower by candlelight. 

Two days later with a heat rash covering most of my body and Gearoid surviving off of two hour of sleep, he broke down and said he would ask about company housing. I asked him numerous times about the impact on his research and he stated honestly that the effects mean nothing if he can’t do his research because he’s sick and unable to sleep. I smiled in the dark heat of our room and trying not to scratch my rash, fell fitfully to sleep thinking about air conditioning.

After a brief respite at a guesthouse, we were given the go-ahead to move into the company house. At this point, living in the company house is still a temporary solution but it may become permanent and if it doesn’t we have a better housing option lined up. Our new place is outside of town near the village where I used to work and Gearoid played football. In order to get to the house you have to turn off the main highway onto a narrow dirt road that is lined with a few houses but mostly large mango trees. After passing through the trees, the shade gradually disappears and the land is filled with construction sites of houses in various stages of completion. Some of the more establish houses already have small farms with groundnuts, pineapples, and cassava growing. After the shade, it soon becomes obvious where we’re heading. Large compound walls with barbed wire loom up in the distance. It is a Disneyland Fortress. All the house needs now is a neon sign that says “White People Live Here. All Others Keep Out.” Granted this was my first impression as I was immediately put at unease.

Large metal doors opened, after a brief conversation with the guards, letting us into the compound. The house is huge with two en-suite bedrooms, two other decent sized bedrooms with a shared bathroom, a spacious entry way, a living room outfitted with satellite television, a large kitchen with two fridges, a freezer and an oven, and a couple of terraces in case you want to sit outside. The air conditioning greeted our skin upon first entering. It felt refreshing and sinful at the same time. We dropped our bags off in our room and I walked around the house with my mouth gaped open. This house with all of its comforts made me very uncomfortable.

Just across the road were poorer families with no power, who sent their children down to a well to carry water back to the house. The safety of the compound walls made me feel unsafe as if there was a target on our backs that announced to everyone around us that we lived here. The other people who live in Disneyland Fortress only leave and arrive on the compound via big white trucks making our existence out in this village even more noticeable. When I introduced myself to the woman who comes daily to clean the house, she ran into the kitchen and asked what I needed. I tried to explain I just wanted to know her name. The guilt was oppressive. I felt like a failure for being unable to live in our old house without water and power and comfort. How unfair that I got to live in this comfort while others were living in poverty down the street?

Then I got my first night of uninterrupted sleep in the AC. I actually woke up feeling a little bit cold and searched my luggage for some socks and a light sweater. When I returned home that afternoon it was by foot and the guards all thought I was just trying to get exercise-not realizing that I didn’t have the luxury of a big white vehicle driving me around. After a sweaty walk it was a relief to walk into a cool and clean home. My laundry had been cleaned and ironed and was waiting for me in a neat pile. The dishes that had been dirtily covering the counter were cleaned and put away. I washed up and made myself a cup of tea and then sat and watched Days of Our Lives on the giant flat screen television. Was I really in Africa?

The truth is I got over my guilt really quickly. I’m not trying to justify anything. Yes, all of the work I do is on a voluntary basis. I walk and get public taxis. I go to the local market for groceries to make local food. I talk to people on my walks and say good morning and how are you in the local dialect. Yes, I do all of that and it doesn’t make me feel better about my current living conditions. What sadly makes me feel better is the cool AC. The effective daily cleaning woman- Francis- and that I can unwind with an hour of television. I can live almost more comfortably than I did in the Netherlands. All that griping I did about not having an oven- I have one now. I can watch the Food Network Channel. Our house in the Netherlands didn’t have satellite TV, AC, or Francis. I enjoy living comfortably and despite all my good intentions to be a giving unselfish person the comfort of the house has eliminated all feelings of guilt that originally arose from moving into Disneyland Fortress.

That’s not to say that Disneyland Fortress is not a house in Africa. A family of lizards lives behind the television and at night we are constantly battling all manner of bugs that somehow find their way into the house. If Francis didn’t come daily, the bugs might overtake the house. One night I came home late after a get together and flicked on the light to see a swarm of flying ants calmly climbing the walls and ceiling. The only place where I get reception on my cell phone is behind the refrigerator and I have to crouch there to send texts and make phone calls. The bad reception makes it impossible to have internet.  A few days ago I came home to see a headless tailless green mambo snake that the guards had killed as it attempted to get into the house. The path I have to walk everyday is littered with mango carcasses that have fallen from the tree and cracked opened into pulpy messes that attract all manner of creatures. At night, the path is even scarier. When meeting friends for a drink or for dinner after the sun has set, I only have a flashlight to light the way and along with avoiding puddles and mango messes, I’m also making sure no creatures come out and get me. The other night a passing frog almost gave me a heart attack.

One of our guards proudly displaying the deadly snake he killed. I think it became someone's dinner after this picture was taken.

The comforts of Disneyland Fortress are also weakening me to life outside of the house. Once I leave the cool interior for someplace in town that doesn’t have a fan or AC- which is most places- I get very hot and am unable to cool down. One night our generator ran out of fuel and I was unable to make my cup of tea. I complained to a friend that if we lived in a house without power I would have a thermos of hot water ready for tea but with no power in this house I was unable to use the electric kettle. She reminded me that I have a propane stove that has nothing to do with electricity and I could have still had tea. It didn’t even occur to me as I am completely addicted to power again. Despite my newfound weaknesses, I choose the comfort. Because if I am going to be here for 6 more months and want to retain my happiness and love and affection for this country, I honestly need comfort. Disneyland Fortress isn’t so bad. The AC is worth the new darkness on my soul.