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.

Nataša's Sierra Leone Adventure - Part 10 - No Girlfriend Business

I woke up the next day and walked around. I met with Seinya, and her lovely one year old daughter Fati, who fluttered around in a lace dress. Seinya was not fluttery at all, I could see something was worrying her, making her spirit heavy. I was wondering what it was, but it did not seem appropriate to ask someone you knew so little. She introduced me to her friend Simpson, another local NGO worker, an electrician who worked for Caritas. He was a cool guy, relaxed, and not pushy, and I felt comfortable in his company. I wandered around the town. There were so many disabled people, people with limbs missing, on crutches, sitting around, not doing much. Most of them too young to be invalids. The massacre and devastation of the war seemed still so fresh, the consequences so vivid.

I had seen this before, I thought, when I was in Bosnia, the first time two years after the war there, and then several times later. And Bosnia I knew from before so I could compare. The first time I drove through Sarajevo from the airport, I started to cry uncontrollably. Just at the look of the blackened skyscraper skeletons, big holes in the walls of buildings, numerous small holes done by snipers in the still lived in buildings, the burnt down National Library. Deserted villages. Even worse in the charming Mostar with the collapsed medieval bridge. The atmosphere was just dead. I was depressed. Then I met people, friends, colleagues. We went out, and they spoke of horror, fears, hunger, pain. And then the survival strategies. About those they spoke with so much black humour, and on such a positive note – on several occasions - in the end we all laughed to how they all fought to find a small chunk of a tinned sardine in a big pot of boiled rice, the food that landed out of the sky as UN help to civilians, to save them from starvation. The spirit can basically survive anything.

You could see that in Zimmi as well. The life definitely went on. People cooked, they farmed, they went to work, and had children, they travelled, played football, and joked. Their lives continued, however scarred they had been by the deaths and losses of the beloved ones.

I went to the market, which was lively, and bought a pineapple, I had some more tea. Then I went to the school next door to my compound, and wanted to take some photos of the children. All of a sudden they swarmed around me, several classes of children of various ages. They were lively, some a bit wild. I had to use my teacher authority to make some order, they all wanted to stand right in front of me to be in the picture, all wanting to be in the front row. I spoke louder, in a more determined voice, showing them with my hands where I wanted each of them to stand, the smaller ones in front, the bigger at the back. If I moved back, they followed me like a big hive, giggling and chattering. A teacher came, helped me control the crowd, and posed for the picture as well. Wonderful pictures of children with so many different expressions, brown faces, big eyes, all in blue uniforms. Great colours!

I walked on, and on the other side of the street further on watched a football game played by local boys, all in copies of shirts of the famous football players such as Zidane, Ronaldo, Beckham, Essien. They were all aspiring to become good football players one day, maybe even make a career which would take them abroad. Football a ticket out of poverty, the chance for a better life, a wish of many African boys. I am sure there were a lot of young talents among them to be discovered.

In the afternoon Simpson came over, and accompanied me on my walk out of the village, and down the road, that led further on to Liberia. Everyone asked me, if I was on my way to Monrovia. I wished I was, we were not far away from the border crossing. It suddenly seemed so easy, accesible, a normal way to continue the journey. But I had a single entry visa, and a return ticket from Freetown. We got to the first police checkpoint outside the village, and I sat down with the policemen to have a talk with them. There were five or six of them, just sitting there, not having to do much. The local people were walking back and forth from their fields on the other side of the checkpoint, carrying bundles, vegetables, firewood, and tools. There was very little traffic. Actually none while I was around. I told them a little about Slovenia and myself. They listened with interest, they wouldn't mind talking longer. But at this point I was with Simpson, and followed his guidance. I knew he thought it was enough. So we said farewell.

***

I took pictures everywhere. The countryside was beautiful, it was deep green, and fertile. A lot of people, adults, and children came back from the fields with their hoes or sometimes vegetables, as the day was approaching its end. In Zimmi it rained more often than in Freetown, so I spent some time just in the house, and read a thick book I brought with me. When the rains came, that was a wonderful excuse to idle in bed. I loved the sound of it heavily pattering on the roof, the feeling that the time had stopped. Just being by myself, and taking a nap in the middle of the day. I really was on holidays, and left everything behind, work as well. What luxury!

Simpson came by again after work, and we went out in the afternoon. While watching another football match by adolescent boys on the local playground, someone came to introduce himself. He was a medical nurse for Caritas, his name was Kanei. I could see Kanei had a strategy of approaching. He did not encounter me by accident. He was following me around for a while, down the couple of streets Zimmi provided, waiting for the right moment to meet with me. The football field seemed to him to be the most appropriate. He was really trying hard to be my friend, much too hard. Saw in me an opportunity of a better life. The more I casually tried to explain him, I was not the right person to help him come to Europe, just because I was from Europe myself, the more persistent he was. Simpson smiled to himself, I could see he found it amusing. I invited both guys for a drink, but declined to accompany the medical nurse around, to visit his patients, and see, how he gave penicilin jabs. My father was a doctor, and I saw him work many times, I apologised. I wished him good luck, also in finding someone for a life companion. That's how desperate men sometimes get, not having the right opportunities, I thought. I had to hide sometimes from him in the next days, as he was a persistent felow, looking for me all around. We laughed about that with Simpson. He was one clever guy, and knew how to stay near me, no propositions, just offering his presence. And he also spoke openly of his family, his wife and children.

Nataša's Sierra Leone Adventure - Part 9 - Stay Away from Big Fish!

The guest house in Zimmi looked nice and recently built, just a couple of yards off the road. But Seinya the nurse guided me to another, the international guest house she said. I tried to understand what was wrong with this one, at least trying to check it out. She said it was for the local people, and it was not safe for me, with no guards. It didn't convince me really, but she seemed quite confident of what she was doing and saying. There is a better place for foreigners, trust me, she said. I like to forget being a foreigner as much as I can, when I travel, as difficult as it can sometimes be, being white, coming from Europe being seen as someone who has money, a lot of opportunities in life they don't have, everything better, they think. But it's not always all better what we have in our western lives, I sometimes try to explain, although it's hard to deny, how much more privileged we are in many ways. So they figured, I was worthy of something better than the local guesthouse. Or did they think, I also had more money to pay for the luxury. I was to find that out.

Seinya asked a man, who was standing nearby, a cousin of hers, she later explained, to take my bag and carry it for me. He put it on his shoulder, and then on his head. The road was too rough, and muddy from the recent rain to have the bag pulled on its wheels. I obediently followed my new companions, chatting about my day of travelling from Bo. I like to trust my instinct, and it told me everything is fine.

We walked two hundred yards or so down the road, past a football field and a school, to the edge of town. Finally we stopped in front of a high wall. It turned out they took me to the UNHCR compound, inside a high barbed wall, with a security guard and everything that went with it. The caretaker was not around, so they went to fetch him. We sat down on the plastic chairs in the middle of the courtyard, someone brought for the two of us, and waited. I played a little with a puppy, and talked to Seinya about her work. She helped with the repatriation missions of Liberian refugees, which were quite regular now as the situation in Liberia stabilised. One of the camps where the refugees made an overnight stop on their way back back home was in Zimmi. After a while Seinya said, I can see we will be friends. It was nice to be accepted in such a straighforward manner in new places, by people who were strangers just moments ago. It happened to me on several occasions, and it is something I would wish to experience once again.

When the caretaker Mohamed arrived, I was accomodated in one of the three houses at the compound. One was for the staff, another one was temporarily occupied by a middle-aged mineral trader who was doing some business, probably in connection with the nearby diamond mines. I was in the one belonging to the UNHCR high comissioner in this area who was originally from Mali, but had been away due to a serious illness. Noone knew, when he was coming back or what exactly was wrong with him. They said he got some disease in the bush, not malaria, and was gone for more than a month, hospitalised in Dakar. Everyone hoped for him to get well.

Unexpectedly I got a house of my own. A room, with a big bed, and a private bathroom, a kitchen and a big living room with a really big TV, a satellite radio I didn't use, generator which was running from seven to eleven at night. All a great luxury in these parts. I could stay here for long, I thought. I could easily accustom myself to the role of a UN high commisioner, especially after starting to read some of the books and leaflets lying around. It all cost me only 20.000 leones for a night, which was also very reasonable. Mohamed the caretaker told me I could ask him if I needed anything, he was at my service. He could arrange for local women to bring me meals, if I was hungry, or help me plan my trips to the villages. I was starving that evening, and it was late. We went to town, where they reopened a small restaurant just for me. It was owned by a Liberian refugee family, a beautiful lady with her daughter and the daughter's little baby girl who was just two weeks old, who cooked for me in the dark of the back kitchen, while they sat me at the table in the front room which resembled a home setting. Someone outside was playing music on his battery run radio and selling tea out of a big thermos bottle, everything was laid back, the dusk started closing the day, and I could see mosquitoes coming out through the door frame. They made me fried eggs, bread, and chips and some hot tea with sweet condensed milk. I thought it was one of my best meals, everything so deliciously tasty, I hadn't been eating much in the last few days. I felt relieved, my appetite returned, and with it my happiness. With a full belly I returned to my new dwelling.

There where five men anxiously waiting for me at my doorstep. I realised there was the FIFA football match on that evening, and all of a sudden I became one of the privileged few TV owners in Zimmi, definitely the only one at the compound. What power, what status! I unlocked the door and let all the eager spectators in. The game had just started. It was the match between Brazil and France. The security guard, the caretaker Mohamed, a mineral trader staying in the other house of the compound, who immediately made a short interview with me, and promptly told me to stay away from the big fish - whatever that meant - and a couple of other men, there we were, watching the game together, cheering and commenting. France won with one goal, it was a deserved victory. After the game I was left alone in my new residence. No big fish. The mission of the day was accomplished. Again I found myself a place to sleep, and a safe one it seemed as well. The rest was to come.

Nataša's Sierra Leone Adventure - Part 8 - A Story About Some Waiting and a Poda Poda

The night in Bo was full of heavy drumming rain, which finally made me sleep well. I did not get up early, and just took it easy. I finished with packing, and came down with my bag to check out. The lady at the reception helped me hail down a motorbike driver. He was a slender teenage boy, who liked to smile. I sat at the back, the bag in my lap, my hands holding to the end of the seat behind me, the wind and fumes blowing into my face. It was 1000 leones, as usual, but the boy suddenly decided he wanted to get an extra 2000 for the not so big bag. It didn't harm to try and earn some extra. We were both laughing and arguing about it a bit, I said no way, and then I let it rest. Getting off the bike I handed him 2000 for a good start of the day. For a second he wanted to complain, but then looked at me, and in a moment of wordless communication we both knew, he should be happy with the tip, as that was all he was going to get. He waved with a smile, and roared off to pick the many other passengers of the day.

It was around nine o'clock, when I got to the station, and the park was not buzzing, as it had probably been earlier in the morning. They led me toward its end, where poda poda for Zimmi was supposed to be waiting. There were two, one with a couple of people already sitting in it, and the other one of them with no passengers or luggage, a completely empty and a very old poda poda. They didn't want me to think that was the one, I could have changed my mind or something. I immediately knew it was going to be a long wait. The other passengers were yet to come, I was the first one. Maybe one had already left in the early morning. But the good side of it was, that I would get one of the comfortable and soft seats in front, next to the driver. A seat with a view.

So this was going to be a day of observation, contemplation, meditation, when one went within. I set myself into a very tranquil, peaceful state, relaxed, and huddled inside. And then I just watched out of there, thoughts came and went, thoughts about people I saw, about things that had happened to me the day before or earlier, or some time in life. Thoughts travelled, while my body rested. Sometimes it makes certain things in life clearer, sometimes I come to conclusions, and most often not, but sitting like that, doing nothing is just so rare in my everyday western life, it makes it worth travelling for itself. And when I had enough, I could always come back out, socialise, read, or do whatever I wanted. Getting into that state kept me calm, patient, not frustrated one bit, which is very useful for travelling in many African, or other countries, where time has different dimensions than at home.

In other words, I sat at the drive park for four hours and a half, and took in some more life. And what did my wait look like from the outside? I did some writing into my little leather notebook, I took some pictures of children, and some lorries, I had a coke, I watched and listened to the vendors, travelers, and children, I bought some chewing gums and candies, I read a few poems by Samuel Hinton The Road to Kenema I bought in Freetown, I bought a measure cup of peanuts, I talked to some people, who came and left, I bought a 500 Unit Celtel card to call home. I couldn't reach anyone. People were busy back home, on meetings, at work, it was midmorning, they didn't have time to answer the phone. I got myself some bread and cheese, and water for lunch, and then sat down and watched again, and took some pictures. I had another coke, which I never drink at home. We were not leaving until the poda poda was filled to its last capacity, with a huge bulk of luggage tied on the roof.

Finally on the bus, I was seated next to (read together with) a very respectable man. He was well dressed, well mannered, reserved, not starting a conversation with a white lady, he was sharing the seat with, until she decided to talk to him. He was a teacher of Islamic studies at a Freetown College heading home for a visit, to a small village some fifteen miles before Zimmi. On my left side was our driver. I tried to seat properly in my dress, exposing knees in a non-Islamic tradition, which kept being either in the way of the transmission gear or too close to the respectable gentleman's legs on the other side, and my handbag lying on the floor somewhere under my legs as well. That seat was not all for myself after all, which I didn't really expect, but I was still sitting there in the middle like a privileged one, high and straight like a queen gazing into the green horizons.

Our bus driver was an older gentleman, very neat and orderly. I saw him as someone who would deserve to be at home, retired even, and have some comforts of the predictable unadventureous life. He nevertheless took his job seriously. He was very systematic and organised in everything, also in driving, and together with his young assistant they seemed to make quite a compatible couple, being each others opposites. Alhadzji was young and bursting with energy, in a never ceasing positive good mood. He was constantly given orders by our driver. Alhadzji climb on the roof, Alhadzji, open the door, Alhadzji find the tools, and he would always jump enthusiastically with a big grin on his face. Climb on top with such ease, jump on and off the bus while driving at quite a speed with the same ease, and believe me, I have seen many conductors before and after do the same thing, but his skills were acrobatic.

The poda poda was packed with people wanting to reach their destination. It was old (maybe as old as myself), and needed to be handled with a lot of feeling. When we all got (read squeezed) into it in Bo, the poda poda after several attempts didn't start. So, they had it pushed, and that seemed to help. Hmm, not a good way to start a long journey into the bush, I thought. A few kilometers out of Bo the poda poda broke down. It was the clutch. Some of us had to get out, the driver calmly got a bag of tools and a blanket, lay down under it, and fixed it in some fifteen minutes with Alhadjzi's assistance.

I had a look at the passengers. Noone complained, we all understood this was the state of things for the time being, it was noone's fault, at least not among us. We were of all ages, including a very small baby girl. Well, only she took the liberty to cry every now and then. I was a bit worried we wouldn't make it to our final destination, but my concern was again uneccesary.

And it didn't take long for all of us to discover, that the poda poda had a life of its own. The engine stopped, whenever we started driving in low gear. When there were holes in the road, or if we were in the middle of a flooded road, the motor went off. Our driver kept reigniting successfully. I was sitting next to the driver, so I could see the state of the gear handle, the difficulties he had with shifting. He had a special way of doing it, very gently and precisely.

I will never forget this poda poda. Most of the others I travelled with broke down once on the way, and they were also fixed one way or another. But this one was like a living being. It had a life of its own. It actually seemed to have a human soul, as it sometimes hapens to very old cars. The best thing about it: it had its own voice, it honked and hooted uncontrollably every once in a while, while the driver unsuccessfully tried to stop it turning the steering wheel, hitting on it, or sometimes somewhere underneath it. The hooting actually became quite regular towards the end of the journey, and nothing seemed to help. We came driving through the villages hooting, many waved at us. It reminded me on political delegations driving through our city, with police cars blaring and making way for the big black Mercedes cars hiding very important men, presidents and such. Well, on a smaller scale I guess, that's a bit how we felt.

The road was nice and paved for the first thirty kilometers, but then turned into nothing more than a muddy path, potted with holes or embedded with rocks, that had to be avoided. The journey lasted all day. We got off and on the bus, when the road was too bad or too steep, and walked over the part of it, or helped push the poda poda, but we slowly and steadily moved on.

The wet season rains kept coming and receding and sometimes they caught us in the open. We drove through villages, junctions and some bush. We drove through a big plantation of rubber trees, each of the trees heavily scarred by cuts into the bark to catch their rubber fluids. The numerous trees were bleeding into pails tied around the trunk. Thirteen kilometers before Zimmi we had to cross the river on a makeshift raft. Everyone got off the poda poda again. We waited for the rafters under the roof of someone's kitchen, as it was raining again. There were two big pots on the fire, one of rice, and the other with a good looking thick groundnut sauce. It made me realise how hungry I was. But the food was not for us. We were ready to cross the river, when the rafters came.

The vehicle was pushed on the raft, and they got it across manually by pulling along a rope from one side to another. The passengers sat on the edge, and around it. I talked to a nice lady passenger I noticed, because she was wearing a T-shirt with a sign “Women take action, otherwise you are going to stay poor!”. She was a Liberian refugeee, many residing in this area, as we were close to the Liberian border. She was a teacher in Liberia, and now she was just a refugee with no regular job. Hopefully she would be able to go back, but didn't know exactly what was waiting for her there. I wished her all the luck, and she wished me good journey. We would both like to see each other again, but we had to follow our own separate ways.

We were getting near Zimmi. The driver asked for another one of my candies, which he spotted soon after our departure in one of the front pockets of my bag, when he leaned over my lap towards my bag to have a closer look, and asked me in a straightforward manner what I had in there. I showed him my sweet treasure, and he clearly gestured he needed one of those. I was quick to understand, and serve him. He then kept asking for them regularly throughout the journey with that same clear gesture. I was happy they kept him going, hoping the small sacrifice would also help the poda poda stay in good health, and not brake down again. He said he would stop for me in front of the one and only guest house in Zimmi. I guess he would do it in any case, but he pretended he needed the candies to do that. So they turned out to be my small bribery, and good luck.

We made it to Zimmi. The moment I got off, I was approached by a couple of people who were sitting nearby, as if they knew I was coming. They were not hasslers, this was not a place people visited without a purpose. It was off the way in Sierra Leone, but it was very close to Liberian border, it was on the passageway for the repatriation of Liberian refugees. Is this your first time in Zimmi, a nice lady asked? Don't worry I'll organise everything, I am a nurse for the UNHCR here, she said. Just follow me.

Banana Island Excursion 2006

This is posted on behalf of Rosalyn Wright.
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A trip to Banana Island held much significance for me to a few reasons. Firstly, some of my family originate from there and secondly this same family had warned me that I needed a truck, a canoe and the power to fend off snakes if I ever wished to go there.

Well….go there I did and luckily I did it with no truck, no canoe and luckily without encountering any snakes.

On a misty Friday morning the twelve of us gathered at the Aqua Sports Club in Aberdeen to go on the VSL 2006 Excursion to Banana Island.

Now there are two ways to get to Banana Island. Take a ride towards the east through the new section of the peninsula road to Kent and then the boat ride from there takes about 20 minutes. Or you can go the scenic route from Aberdeen and take in all the picturesque beaches.

I was amazed and excited to find two speed boats docked and ready to take us on our trip. Nothing prepared me for when I rocked up to that speedboat, no lie, I felt like the next Bond girl. The boat ride was exhilarating and awesome. The view of the West African coastline took my breath away. Goderich, Lakka, Hamilton, Sussex, Baw Baw, John Obey, Black Johnson, Tokeh, No2, York, Bureh Town and Kent. As each beach slid by my eyes picked up the changing colour of sand like a high definition camera. So so san san! (so much sand!)

The morning mist lifted rapidly revealing the cut of landscape. No wonder it is named Lion Mountain - the terrain is majestic.

I was just imagining what life would have been like for the first free settlers of Freetown when we approached Banana Island. It looks like three dense patches of forest floating in the sea. When the boats stopped we couldn’t wait to get in the water. A few of our group snorkelled and got to view the amazing fish and sea life. The water was extremely salty which made it quite easy to swim but I tired quickly and decided to go back to sitting pretty in the boat.

Finally we all climbed back on board, the boats docked by the shore and we disembarked. At this point there was only one thing on everyone’s mind – food. We enjoyed a picnic lunch of Jollof, pepper chicken and plantains, fruits followed by a lot of shortbread.

After lunch came the tour with our guide Edward Johnson. He wasn’t a local but he travels over to Banana Island from Freetown at the weekends to do the tours. The Island is approximately five miles end to end. There are no roads only clearings, a few small village communities and a lot of churches! Banana Island was where a lot of the first settlers went to live after the abolition of slavery - maybe because it was uninhabited, close to the main land but far enough to avoid conflict with the existing population.

In terms of wildlife the island had an array of beautiful flowers- pink, orange, red and yellow. I have no idea of the species but I do know that similar flowers can be purchased in pricey florists up and down the UK! On Banana Island I enjoyed their beauty for free.

As we walked we met a villager who introduced us to an eight week old monkey whose mother had recently died. He seemed petrified of so many humans staring at him but we all kept a non-threatening distance from him to reduce his anxiety. But he soon loosened up for pictures – we live in a celebrity driven world and he wanted his 15 minutes.

One of the historic sites on Banana Island is a slave cave which predates the first settlers and it is located further along from an area called Banjoko beach. The enclosure was built to hold slaves before they were forced into hard labour in the Caribbean and America.

After a lengthy trek our guide still insisted it was “not far”. We all know that is one of the great lies in Sierra Leone. Time is just a concept and “not far” tends to be about a good 40 minute stretch away. By the time we returned to the dock it became clear to us that this had been a very important trip for us all. We all love to think we know a fair bit about the country but most of us have only seen a very small corner of the red soil that is Sierra Leone.

I was very proud to learn more about my heritage in the hours spent on the island. I sat back on the speedboat and watched the island disappear into the distance. As it floated in the ocean so too would it float in my mind forever.

Being on the open water is very freeing. I know it’s a cliché but fresh sea air really does make you sleepy and as my eyelids became heavier I felt a sharp dig in the ribs and somebody mentioned dolphins. Not one but a school of them. Like a rocket on the rise they jumped out of the water and I squealed with delight. Sweet sweet Salone.

Rosalyn Wright