Nataša's Sierra Leone Adventure - Part 11 - Am I a Spy?

I talked with Mohamed the caretaker, he would try to arrange me a motorbike with a driver to visit the villages around. I wanted someone who spoke the language, and who knew local customs. I wanted to come as a friend's friend, to visit, not as a silly spectator, I didn't just want to come and watch them. I could join the UN missions, if I stayed around longer, said Mohamed. He would come with me, if he had time.

But next morning it rained heavily, The sky was grey, and clogged with clouds, the bamboo wood in the construction of the house squeaked stretching from the dampness, the flowering hibiscus bush in the garden was beaten severely by the raindrops, the roads were muddy, and full of puddles. The rain seemed incessant, obstinate, dominating. It made you retreat and wait. I stayed in the house, and read, my book, books I found lying around in the house, I found some tea, but couldn't make it, the generator was off. Noone came to visit me while it was raining. Everyone hid in their shelters. It tired out after a few hours, but the clouds were still hanging low, promising more water for plants, animals, people. It was too late to organise a longer ride, to do anything ambitious today. I had plenty of time for myself. More time to compensate for the time I haven't got at home.

Simpson came over with a bunch of bananas as a gift, sat down on the soft sofa in my spacious living room, and told me his wife was cooking lunch for me that day. She was making a groundnut soup, he remembered it was one of my favourite dishes. That was fancy, and they had to use meat for that. I was touched. He also arranged at work for some time off, to come with me around to the villages, when it stopped raining in the afternoon. “Is it OK with your wife?” I asked. “That is no problem, you shouldn't worry yourself, you'll meet my wife,” he said. He suggested we walk to a nearby village, where some of his relatives live. It was just a small village, he said, a couple of miles away, within walking distance, but that was then perfect with me. It was not a good day to drive around far. I was happy to go with him, he will help me communicate, they spoke Mende here, and not that I could speak Krio but for a few phrases.

Seinya dropped by for a visit as well. She came by regularly, sometimes with her daughter, sometimes without. She sat in my house, and we talked, or just sat in silence, or I played with Fati. The silence in between our talks made me uncomfortable. I took over conversation, asked questions in such cases, talked and said more than I wanted. And felt it was wearing me out. Silence in social settings is a sign of uneasiness, I learned at home. She watched me and smiled, leaning back on the sofa, while I was sweating. I had to take it easy, I realised. If there is not much to say, then just wait, was how Seinya or Simpson managed this. Words and thoughts have to come naturally, if they don't, it's no problem. Another thing I learned.

Something was troubling Seinya. I could see her worried expression, which did not wear away with my days in Zimmi. After a couple of days she came for a visit with a purpose. She wanted to discuss about her personal problem, that lingered in the air, whenever we were together. It was a financial issue. She was a single mother, of two teenage girls going to school in Bo, and the little Fati. Her husband divorced her, and stopped participating financially, he had two other wives. She had to provide for her three children by herself, as well as for the rest of her extended family. Her job contract was ending by the end of the year, leaving her professional future uncertain. The salary was low, and coming in late, the foreign NGOs from this area were moving to Liberia, together with the repatriated refugees. I felt with her. Sierra Leone with all its economic problems made life for many really difficult, which was so more real, when you faced it through countless personal stories. On the other hand her situation resembled problems quite a few women faced in my country as well, where the statistics says, every second and a half marriage breaks up. I could understand Seinya's need. For her I was a link to the wealthy world. She was hoping I could help her in some way, most likely providing a financial resource. I had mixed feelings about this. She was my friend here, but I didn't really know her that well. I knew she could use a help, but at the same time I could see so many people who needed help here, even more than her. I promised to see what could be done, and left her enough money for a bag of rice. I think she had bigger ambitions with me than that. The dream solution for Seinya would be to start a midwife clinic, as that is her proffession, which of course she would need funds for. That is something that would be needed in the area as well. We spoke of pregnancies, and deliveries, complications, and death statistics. It was quite bad, to put it mildly. Seven women died in Zimmi just in the month before, because of complications at birth delivery. She visited some, during pregnancy, and told them to go to the clinic, but women most often didn't, there was no money for that. Complications were quite often connected to bad health conditions, and malnutrition. Seinya was frustrated about this, and I got depressed. Sometimes in such situations I felt, we all needed to help this world get better, do something practical, whatever we could. Academic career suddenly seemed so out of place. So, could I help start a clinic? For something like that, I would need to be more than just a passer- by. And then, I would probably choose to fund or find donors for projects in the field I know better.

*

Simpson took me to a nearby village. He put on his spotless white trousers. He came with his walkman, earplugs in, listening to a Steady Bongo - Lansana Sherif tape. Off we went, and soon we took the side road out of Zimmi toward the river, where our village lay. We passed houses and fields, some people were at home, they stopped in their work around the house, or in the fields, and waved, exchanged greetings, comments with Simpson. Sometimes they came to us, and we got introduced. Everyone greeted us, everyone noticed us. Many were acquaintances, friends, or relatives. Some were just interested, how Simpson found me. Simpson spoke to me about Zimmi, about himself. When I asked about the music he listened, he lent me the walkman. I listened to No Girlfriend Business, and loved it, listened to it all the way to the village and further to the river and back, dancing to it, and laughing and singing to the texts. Simpson was smiling. I didn't know I missed the music so much. I felt like a little girl. He wanted to give me the tape, but I was going to buy Sierra Leonean music in Freetown. I promised Simpson to send him some tapes with Slovenian music.

The village was small, with a few houses and almost deserted, most of the inhabitants were out on the fields. The chief was old and emaciated, his clothes were worn out. He sat in the shade, in front of one of the houses, resting in an old chair. We came to greet him, and I handed him some money, being greatful to be a visitor. It pleased him, and made him smile. In one of the houses there were some women and a lot of small children. They were in the middle of quiet house chores in the shade of the indoors. They came out, when they saw me, and we greeted. On of the little girls started crying, when she saw me. The women laughed at her, and she wailed louder, when I tried to come closer to make friends with her. I didn't have to go far to scare a child with my otherness. I retreated and went out and around the house to get out of her sight. There were carpets of palm oil seeds being dried on the ground. Three goats were taking a rest under the shade of a roof in the middle of the village. It was calm and quiet. We went further down the path to the wide lazy river. It was shady, clean and peaceful, I wished I could take a swim. I took off my flip flops and waded at the bank of the river. There was a boat made od a single piece of log, waiting on the other side of the bank. Then we went back the same way to Zimmi, walkman headphones on my head again. Simpson let me be with myself, walking in front of me. We walked through the town to its other side, and came to a bridge, where the road would take us further down to a nearby diamond mine. I kept taking pictures, of children, bush, streets, houses, whatever seemed worth taking a picture of. If there were people involved, I asked for permission. They didn't mind, but in this case I had to do with portraits. I was in the mood for photography.

Once again back in the centre of Zimmi, Simpson told me, we have to return to the police office, which we passed, as I was being called. I thought he was making a joke, I didn't hear anything. I didn't notice them calling me. I followed Simpson back some sixty yards. Their office was strategically located, with the good view of the main street. It comprised of a desk with a chair and a table with benches on either side. One was sitting at the desk, another couple of them at the table. They were in the middle of lunch, having some couscous with chicken. By then I was hungry. We greeted and then they asked me to sit down on the bench at their table.
“So, we have seen you around the last couple of days,” one of them started in a serious tone hid position demanded, still finishing his meal.
“You've been snapping all around. Who are you and what is your mission here? You know we had a war here, and we are very near Liberian border,” continued the other one in the same manner the first one embarked on.
I immediately took my formal voice and articulation to explain myself. I used my most proffesional title in introducing myself. It flashed through my mind they could confiscate my pictures in the camera. I explained the best of reasons I had, what I was doing there, also involving my professional interest. I did it without much thought. Simpson was watching the different me. I was not the same person that was dancing around not long ago.
It seemed the policemen were satisfied with my answer, they were just doing their job. I felt nothing unpleasant was going to happen after all. They were respectful and nice, though still very serious. Nevertheless my lighthearted mood was shaken. It was still a small interrogation. I was no longer just a harmless incognito traveller I wanted to be, who was making friends with the local people. I was also a possible spy.

Simpson introduced me to his lovely wife. She was cooking in her makeshift kitchen. It was just a thatched roof to the ground right next to the junction, you had to bend to get in. I passed it many times before. I sat there with her for a while, and watched her cook. She was busy, but in a good mood, soft and calm. She and Simpson got on well, he told me so, but you could also see. “She was cool, she took it easy,” he often told me. She was a good wife. Her food smelled delicious. She fetched a plastic basket, and put in pots with food for me and I put in the water in a plastic bag I bought. She also put in some bananas for desert or snack. I couldn't wait to have my lunch. I enjoyed my meal, shared it with my friends, there was plenty.

Simpson and Seinya came back in the evening. Simpson stayed for a long time to watch TV, we found a programme with a Nigerian movie. It reminded me on the Mexican soap operas my aunt likes to watch at home. The story was complex. There was a woman who was the sister to a brother who fell in love with the girl who worked for them. He made her pregnant. The sister didn't like the simple but god and pious girl her brother chose, and always treated her badly. She intrigued, and made the brother believe, the child was not his. There was a lot of suffering involved from all the protagonists, at one point or another. The pregnant woman died at birth. With all the side stories, which would take space of another blog, the story ended well. The sister redeemed before she died, and the brother finally took care of his baby son. Simpson was really enjoying it all. I almost fell asleep, but wanted him to see it to the end. Nigerian films are looong.

As much as I wanted to go on to other villages, or at least stay, I decided to leave early next morning. I wanted to get in touch with my mother. On the arrival to Zimmi I discovered there was no cell phone coverage there. That was quite inconvenient in my case at the time. I was concerned for my mother's health condition, it was not stable, and I wanted to check on her. My friends informed me a couple of months later, when I was back home, they finally got coverage, and that would not be the problem again next time I come.

I was going to Kenema, Simpson and Seinya arranged everything with the bus driver. They came to fetch me at the compound, carried my bag, and walked with me to the bus stop. I had a reserved seat on the bus, when I came there in the morning. My friends and some children waited, until the bus left, and waved me goodbye. I knew some wished they were in my shoes. Especially Simpson. He told me so. Kenema for him would be a great adventure. I had to reflect my privilege again, the freedom of moving around, coming to distant places so far from home. For me Kenema was just the next stop, for some of them it could be the ultimate fun. I was hoping, almost promising myself to come back again to visit them, and stay a longer time. And then I will take some friends on a trip to Kenema. Yes, it was friends, I was leaving behind.