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I'll be home in two weeks. This is clearly exciting. But a small part of me is also a tad nervous about the repatriation process.
You see, I've heard quite a lot about 'reverse culture shock' - how difficult it can be to return to one's original society after spending time abroad under vastly different circumstances.
As early as my first week in Salone, colleagues who were much more experienced expats than me explained that no one would be interested in hearing much about my life here once I returned to Canada. I immediately recalled a pre-departure breakfast with my buddy Scott Sobering, in which he told me I was one of the few people that had wanted an in-depth rundown of his summer in Peru. His pre-depature training had warned of the likelihood his friends would show major excitement prior to his departure and minimal interest upon his return.
Just a couple weeks ago, JHR sent me a reintegration handbook explaining the common experience of reverse culture shock:
In an overseas culture, host nationals expect newcomers to make mistakes and be different. Most intuitively understand that foreigners will experience stress adapting to the new physical and social environment and will long for their family and friends back home. At home, on the other hand, everyone expects the returnee to fit in quickly. They are much less tolerant of mistakes and have little empathy for the difficulties of reverse culture shock - such problems are not expected or often accepted.
'Intolerant' and 'unempathetic' doesn't exactly sound like my friends and family. My gut reaction is to merely assume that the people who have a difficult time with re-immersion simply don't have as wicked cool a support base as I do.
But my Toronto boss, Carissa, confided over dinner a couple weeks ago that the relative ease with which I adapted into Sierra Leonean culture makes her think the return home will actually be the toughest part of the experience for me. Only time will tell, I suppose.
The supposed isolation that comes with stepping off that plane does make logical sense. We're talking about eight months of life developments for my friends that, despite my best efforts, I'm not fully up to speed on. Eight months of inside jokes I won't get. Eight months of incomprehensible yet somehow hilarious bar stories - except that for me they'll probably be more parts incomprehensible than hilarious.
Perhaps this very process of reverse culture shock accounts to some degree for the fact that people that live and work abroad tend to turn it into a lifestyle, spending major chunks of their adult life on far-flung shores.
One of the JHR handbook's suggestions is to find mentors that understand the difficulties of reverse culture shock. This is one area where I feel I have a leg up, having such a wealth of friends that are not only interested in the kind of work I was doing abroad, but have also done or are currently doing similar things internationally. While I'm sure most people won't have entire notebooks filled with questions for me, I will be legitimately surprised if a select few aren't reasonably inquisitive.
And as far as I'm concerned, either reaction is fine. The fact I'm trying to prepare myself to some degree for this allegedly wide-ranging reaction is by no means a commentary on the beloved people who have been reading this blog. You are all beautiful, wonderful folks, whether you want a three-sentence summary of my last eight months or a three-day one.
Rather, this is simply a note of warning. To say that, sometimes, I might start rambling about something Sierra Leonean and you might have to tell me to stuff it. And on those occasions, I'll indulge the urge by firing an email to one of the cool folks I've met here.
Eight months is by no means an eternity, but in a situation as disparate from my Canadian life as this one, it is long enough to redefine what comprises a familiar day. And it will likely take me a little time to get re-acclimatized and back into the swing of Canadian life. Your patience is appreciated.
Rob Hayes is one of many prolific alumni of my first-year residence floor, Willison Hall, B2 - aka., quite possibly, the most stunning assemblage of minds on any Laurier residence floor in 2003-04. Oh, let's not be modest. Ever.
Rob and I have a lot in common. In first year, we were a pair of English majors in a sea of biz kids, and we did the only thing arts students with an interest in social acceptance would do: we played up the stereotypes of our kind.
For me, this meant things like editing essays for many a floormate and running a brief yet popular word-a-day program. Rob took the considerably more hilarious step of learning enough business terminology to deliver inspired pre-exam motivational speeches to our B2 peers.
If memory serves, we also reinforced the stereotype of the hard-partying arts majors, taking second and third in a Ty McLellan-led clean sweep of the podium during the speed trials for funneling in the B2 beer-lympics. We were the only three arts students in the competition, and it was my first-ever funnel, having entered university as a relative non-drinker. Even six years later, I imagine the lucrative salaries of our business counterparts are hollow compensation for that traumatic defeat.
Our shared interests run much deeper, though - Radio Laurier, relentless sarcasm, saving the world. The list goes on. At my Toronto going-away party with my Willison crew, Rob showed unparalleled interest in the quest that lay in front of me. In fact, he was so seriously considering applying for the JHR Liberia posting that he pulled me onto the back porch with a bottle of whiskey, saying, "We drink until you've convinced me to go for it."
Unfortunately for both our livers, I failed to talk him into it. But Rob hasn't let that avert his gaze from the general theme of improving the messy state of affairs on our planet. He even recently started a non-profit organization (I assume, given the dot-org suffix), and wrote a hilarious post about me.
So, when he asked me to help him in his latest quest, it seemed the least I could do. I now turn it over to Rob to explain:
I have entered a young advertisers competition (Cannes Young Lions), for which I had to make a commercial for Oxfam UK, and had 48 hours to do it.
I have two weeks to get as many views and votes as I can for it.... Mikey, I was wondering if you could pimp it on your blog - I recall you have a robust following....
Check out the video here - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3HZlvy4w0Hw
To vote, go to http://www.youtube.com/canneslions and search for 'therobhayes' (stupid website, no, there's no easier way), click my video, and give me a thumbs up. It's titled 'Oxfam ad'. Genius, eh?
... Come'on Mike Brown, it's about saving the world.
What can I say? I am a sucker for saving the world. He only has one week left. The more votes he gets before June 1st, the better. If you have a few spare minutes, I'd certainly appreciate you helping a brother out. Thanks. You're a pal.
... Oh, you want a Sierra Leone connection, eh? Well, according to a May 20th report from IRIN, Freetown is one of the world's most vulnerable populations to the very real risks of climate change. With your vote, Rob Hayes could fix that. Single-handedly.
Or at least score a trip to the Cannes Film Festival. Truth be told, I didn't have time to really read up on the details of the competition.
If you had told me when I first met Josh Smyth in grade nine drama class that he and I would be standing atop the highest mountain in North Africa together in less than a decade, I'd probably have had you committed. It seems I owe you a hypothetical apology.
Because on May 15th at approximately 10:30 a.m., we were doing exactly that, surveying the Moroccan High Atlas range from 13,671 feet up. It was the climax of an arduous yet beautiful climb, excruciating and wondrous with an intensity that few of my life experiences to date - if any - can rival.
Taking in the panoramic views afforded by the peak was an exhilarating high - the type that inspires naps, evidently, as Josh was resting his eyes on the edge of the precipitous peak within minutes of reaching the summit (see above). I can't blame him. The two-day climb definitely tapped the finite strength and perseverance reserves of this duo of out-of-shape 23-year-olds.
Despite that, and in some ways because of it, our venture to the top of Jbel Toubkal marked the pinnacle of my memorable Moroccan sojourn, and I'm sure to pontificate on it in far more depth soon enough.
But not yet. I have less than a week left in Sierra Leone, and much of that will be occupied with playing the role of tour guide for my brother, who arrives on Sunday night - meaning the brunt of my Morocco and Rwanda blogs will have to wait until I'm back on Canadian soil in June.
In the meantime, I'm hoping to get a few posts scheduled to fill the void while Matt and I are off tracking gorillas and steeping ourselves in the human capability for horror. But for those that need an urgent fix and haven't already discovered the more timely musings of my Moroccan travel comrade, you can read up on the first half of our time together here, on Mr. Smyth's engaging contribution to the blogosphere, Staring Out Of Windows. If you have any sense, you'll join his already considerable following while you're at it.
Admittedly, the idea for this post was pilfered shamelessly from Brandon's Zambia blog. But I like to think I would've come up with it on my own, given how essential music is to my day-to-day existence.
For me, a major part of music's transcendent beauty is that so many songs are plainly relatable to such a wealth of people who, save for their shared appreciation of a given tune, might otherwise have no discernible connection.
Many of the songs on this playlist came over to Salone with me without the slightest tie to SL or even Africa more generally, yet leave with a whole new significance on account of what they've meant to me here. That's kind of cool.
The rest are songs that I either didn't know or didn't like before coming here, but have come to appreciate for what they are. In a way, that's pretty cool too - even if admitting to enjoying some of them requires me to swallow a little pride.
In the interest of a throwback to the proverbial good ol' days, we're going to do this in cassette form. Side A represents the tunes that dominated the Salone airwaves while I was here, while Side B showcases the imported songs that came to define my experience just as much.
SIDE A
1. Bubere - "Kabuko"
For five of the six minutes in this song, I have no idea what is being said, but it's catchy as hell. The other part touches on the topic of proper health and sanitation. Regardless, though I haven't heard it at all recently, it was the biggest song in the city for the first two weeks I was here and, as such, will be forever on my mind when I think of Salone music. Unsurprisingly, I can't find it anywhere online, but I have a copy on CD and will play it for anyone who pesters me to do so when I get home.
2. Jordin Sparks feat. Chris Brown - "No Air"This song flat-out beat me into submission. Through no fault of my own, I think it was probably the one song I heard more than any other during my seven months in SL, contested closely by Brown's "With You". And in it's defense, at least the lyrics are challenging. Try as I might to figure it out, I just don't know how you're supposed to breathe with no air, Jordin.
3. Lil Wayne - "Lollipop"
I can't agree with this song winning the Grammy for Best Rap Song, or Lil Wayne winning Best Rap Album. But if the prevalence with which it's played is any indication, the Sierra Leonean masses would take no umbrage. And while the lyrics are laughably bad, the track is undeniably catchy. That - coupled with the fact that all things Lil Wayne remind me of my JHR colleague Craig and his ill-fated attempts to convince Patrick of Wayne's genius - is enough to grab it a spot on my Salone soundtrack.
4. Ne-Yo - "Miss Independent"
A song that gets massive airplay and has a positive message about women? It's not really a track you'd catch me listening to in my living room, but I can definitely get behind the notion of the inherent sexiness of independent women. (Sidenote: Is this song actually sampling Kanye's "Flashing Lights" or just blatantly ripping it off?)
5. Akon - Right Now (Na Na Na)
Yeah, I like Akon. What of it? So does everyone else in West Africa. The man, who traces his roots to Senegal, has seemingly been appropriated by the whole region, and his entire catalogue is played constantly. Outside of this track, his collaborations with Kardinal Offishall ("Dangerous"), Colby O'Donis ("Beautiful"), Kat DeLuna ("Am I Dreaming"), Lil Wayne ("I'm So Paid") and MJ ("Hold My Hand") lead a long list on constant rotation. I still think most his lyrics suck ("She made us drinks, to drink, we drunk 'em, got drunk"), but if there's anything that'd likely get me on the dance floor at a trashy nightclub, Akon might be it.
6. Jordin Sparks - "Tattoo"
It's amazing how much cultural context can impact definitions of taste. I distinctly remember the time this song came on in a poda-poda and I was relieved, not horrified, to hear Jordin Sparks. Don't judge.
7. Keyshia Cole - "Heaven Sent"
Despite hearing this song daily for months, I always thought she was saying "sinful heaven" instead of "sent from heaven", which I suppose is a pretty crucial difference. Such confusion is not uncommon, though. There's a popular song in a local language that Patrick swears revolves around the lyric, "Speaking of apple carts, why me?" I don't know what he's talking about - they clearly say "Apple Jacks". Regardless, I think this track stands as proof that some songs don't grow on you no matter how many times you hear them. Sorry Keyshia.
8. Timbaland - "The Way I Are" feat. Keri Hilson and DOE
Grammatical atrocities notwithstanding, I can't seem to hear this song without thinking of sitting in a small bar in Kabala on New Year's Day having just dragged my hungover self up and down a small mountain - and I still couldn't help but tap my toes. I suppose that's why everyone wants to work with Timbaland. File this one under 'another inescapably popular track that could potentially get me on the dance floor'.
9. Morgan Heritage - "Tell Me How Come"
I barely set foot in Kalleone's downtown office in the last month of my contract, instead working from the more laid-back studio, which meant my days were spent listening to whatever was on the airwaves at 105.7. Apparently, Kalleone listeners love Jamaican reggae music. I think I asked Popani, the Kalleone workhorse that does 12-hour days keeping the studio running seven days a week, the name of this track about 15 times. Much like I did with Al and Ryan Adams in The Cord office last year, actually.
10. M.I.A. - "Paper Planes"
If there's a country in the world where this song isn't beloved, I've yet to hear about it. It's still in reasonably regular radio rotation in SL and was also one of the few songs played in our house with any consistency. When I ranked the top albums of 2007 for my Radio Laurier show, Kala didn't crack the top 30. It's grown on me. A lot.
SIDE B
1. Eddie Vedder - "Hard Sun""There's a big, a big hard sun, beating on the big people, in a big hard world." Patrick and I had never spoken before we arrived here, and we both brought very little music. Yet we both had the soundtrack from Into The Wild, one of my favourite films of '07. It seemed a fitting one to bring, given that the movie follows someone leaving the comfort of the life they know right after graduating university, looking inward on an epic adventure. "Society", a deeply meditative track that often spoke to me in moments of quiet reflection, was a close runner-up, both for its insights into wants vs. needs, and because I thought often of the society I left behind and how it was moving on without me.
2. The Roots - "Duck Down!"
Given my hopelessly understocked music library, stumbling across The Tipping Point on Kevin's computer was like sipping at an oasis. I'm increasingly convinced this is one of my five all-time favourite albums and Black Thought is my favourite emcee. And this track in particular possesses a hugely restorative quality for me. Upon arriving home from work, it's amazing how quickly it can transform me from sheer exhaustion to a ball of energy and positivity. The Roots are more than music.
3. The Hold Steady - "Stay Positive"Though my mood after especially long days at Kalleone was sometimes better encapsulated by the track, "Lord, I'm Discouraged", the singalong chorus from the album's upbeat title track became something of an anthem for me as I sought to retain high spirits. Props to Kari for bringing this stellar album back to me after her vacation in Florida over Christmas.
4. Rise Against - "Savio[u]r"I could lie to you and grab a couple of lyrics, superimposing meaning to illustrate their relevance to my current station in life. I was an English major - trust me, I'm quite good at it. But there's nothing deep here. I just listened to this song a lot.
5. The Stills - "Rooibos/Palm Wine Drinkard"*
My initial reason for giving this song heavy rotation was that palm wine is a popular drink in Sierra Leone. Turns out, not so much in Freetown. I've actually only drank the stuff once, and it was in Guinea, just before Rebecca and I set off to track elephants with a guide who was drunk at 7 a.m. So I guess he's the palm wine drinkard in my story, but it doesn't really matter because the song's awesome.
6. Matt Mays & El Torpedo - "Tall Trees"*If I were to compile a video slideshow of my Liberia-Guinea adventure, it would be nothing short of criminal to set it to any song other than this. "Tall trees hanging over the road, feels like they're staring me down." Try spending hours a day on the back of a motorbike, traversing narrow dirt roads with jungle on both sides of you, and not thinking of this song. Impossible. This was my anthem anytime I headed to the border regions.
7. K'NAAN - "Take A Minute"*
"Fire in Freetown" would've been the obvious choice on an album so littered with Africa references that it dominated my playlist from its February release onwards, but "Take A Minute" edges "Fatima" as my favourite song on Troubadour. K'NAAN's lyrical flow has definitely come into its own since The Dusty Foot Philosopher. "I take inspiration from the most heinous of situations, creating medication out my own tribulations. Dear Africa, you helped me write this, by showing me to give is priceless." Mad props to B-Roc for sending me the whole album as soon as it came out.
8. Kings of Leon - "Be Somebody"
Okay, this might as well just be the entire album. Every song on it is near the top of my Media Player most played list. But I figured this one would function as a reasonable stand-in because the title fits with the theme of self-discovery and figuring out what I want to do with my life, as I spent a lot of time here mining my inner depths in what I deem a very healthy, introspective period. Nevermind that the song lyrics actually have nothing to do with that ...
9. Radiohead - "Packt Like Sardines In A Crushd Tin Box"
Every time I crammed myself into a shell-like poda-poda with 18-25 other Freetown commuters, this song title popped into my head until I finally had my buddy Ryrie send it to me. Its meaning will never be the same. Besides, it brings my JHR experience full circle, since I interviewed for this position on almost no sleep, after an 18-hour commute from Lollapalooza, which was headlined by Radiohead, and only made it on time because Ryrie drove to London to pick me up at 3 in the morning. Turns out Ryrie's been good to me lately. Thanks bud.
10. Shad - "I'll Never Understand"*
No playlist of mine would be complete without a Shad track and, as I think I made clear in a previous post, this long-time favourite has only grown more relevant in the last seven months. With my impending trip to Rwanda, I can't imagine it'll lose any of its impact. "I'll never understand how people can go on and live, the miracle of finding the strength to forgive, to resurrect peace, to close up wounds so deep that they pierce souls beneath heartbeats." A sombre playlist closer, perhaps, but still fitting for what has been an often sobering experience.
* - Even when I'm living in West Africa, my playlists still feature CanCon prominently. Turns out Canadian music's awesome.
Today, I woke up before 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning. I didn't know that was possible. So it's probably safe to say I'm excited about hopping a plane to Morocco to meet up with my buddy Josh. Not that I've had any time to think about it until today, mind you.
The last few days have been a whirlwind, working long days to finish up at Kalleone. Yesterday, I ran a well-attended workshop to bring my official work at the station to a close. I don't have time to reflect right now on what all that means to me, but am thrilled to report that they asked me to do a DJ set on the radio, repping Canadian hip hop when I return from Morocco. Time permitting, that should prove a highlight of this whole highlight-filled experience. And I may just get to break Shad and K'NAAN in this market, after all.
Though busy, the last few days have been awesome. On Thursday night, I had dinner and drinks with Carissa, my boss from Head Office in Toronto. We had a tremendous, lengthy chat, and it became abundantly clear that JHR has been pleased with my efforts, which is always nice to hear. I'm now more confident than ever that I can land another JHR contract if ever I so desire.
And I also feel that I know a lot more about the operations back in Canada, which makes me like the organization more. It's certainly got flaws, but the evening served as a reminder that, ultimately, JHR is a very young NGO run by caring, passionate people.
Carissa, for example, bartends a couple nights a week to supplement her modest JHR paycheque. It makes it easier to work hard for no money when you know the people back home aren't pocketing an extravagant salary either. At least I get the cool experience of living abroad.
Anyway, I'm going to have to cut today's musings short. Just wanted to provide a quick update. My flight lands in Casablanca in less than 24 hours, and I haven't really even thought about packing. So, I'm going to go do that. And then spend 12 hours sitting in the airport at Lungi waiting to board a 5:20 a.m. flight, because the ferry stops running this evening.
Please excuse the reduced blog frequency over the next couple weeks, but, you know, I wouldn't really have anything interesting to write about if I spent all my time on the computer. And I just might have scheduled one post to tide you over while I'm gone ...
Last night, for the first time in five years, the Kitchener Selects opened their KFL season without me in the lineup. And if the result is any indication, maybe I shouldn't come home.
Veteran first baseman Steve "The Pail-man" Hall keyed a monstrous nine-run second inning with a towering three-run blast over the center-field fence, while Doug Hoffman and Scott Clark combined for a nine-strikeout performance, as the Selects needed only five innings to dispose of the Bulldogs, 11-0.
The mere fact that I'm able to write this post means that my teammates are doing a good job of feeding my obsession. Within 18 minutes of one another, I received email updates on the comfortable victory from Trev, Glen, Scott and Fogal.
From the sounds of it, my boys issued notice to the league's other 13 teams that anyone with their eyes on the 2009 KFL title will have to go through the Selects. Throughout my time with the team, we've held opposing offenses in check with the kind of overpowering pitching and stalwart defense that again characterized play last night. But we certainly did not average more than two runs per inning.
In addition to Stevie's offensive firepower, Jamie Hickling showed no sign of rust in his return to the team after a two-year hiatus, going 3 for 3 with a walk, 2 RBIs and 3 runs scored. Kevin Ryrie and Reed "Diva" Laughlin weren't willing to let the old guys have all the fun, though, batting a combined 5 of 6.
Damn, I miss baseball.
I think this off-season has been the one in which I most consistently thought about ball, in part owing, no doubt, to spending it in such a warm climate. Equally responsible, I think, may be the fact that my ball team - which, as is probably abundantly clear by now, I care entirely too much about - is one of the few things I still feel ownership over back home, particularly with my involvement with The Cord coming to a necessary, organic and wonderful close.
Now, obviously, I hold no delusions that my contributions to the Selects parallel those of team lynchpins like Doug, Trev, Steve and Glen - but I do feel as though I've been something of a leader in the Selects' youth resurgence.
2009 will mark my fifth season on the team. Over the last three years (when comprehensive statistics started being kept), I have led the Selects in at bats (149), hits (53), runs scored (42), and stolen bases (30).
Off the field, I have become a co-captain, run the beer fund for a year, taken over the team finances, filed the paperwork for most of our tournament entries, functioned as the team statistician, done 95% of the writing for the team's website, and written countless strategy-related emails.
Last year, I also managed, coached and played for the first-ever incarnation of the Selects Under-23 team. Even from West Africa, I have played an unreasonably large role in off-season management.
So it certainly comes as no shock that I was daydreaming of ball as my teammates took to the diamond at Budd Park last night. At the risk of putting entirely too much stock in a dominant win over a team that didn't even make the playoffs last year, yesterday's result confirms my suspicions that this year could very well be a watershed one for the Selects.
We've improved every year I've been on the team. After my inaugural season was characterized by growing pains and we languished in 11th place, we've made the semi-finals for three consecutive years, last year knocking out world-class pitcher Casey Halstead in the quarterfinals and coming within a couple innings of eliminating another dominant hurler, Mel Ross, in the semis. We let that victory slip away, but something tells me this year's team might not have.
Even from thousands of kilometers away, the atmosphere around the team just feels different. There was talk of pre-season training in early January. We held four spring training practices. It all points to an interest in not only out-drinking and out-laughing the competition, but out-playing them as well.
And it's time, I think. After all, I made that drunken Phil's promise to my boy Brad Cleasby, Gold Glove second baseman extraordinaire, that I'd put off competing career ambitions to give the Selects five years to qualify for the world fastball championships. This is already year two.
In addition to the welcome offensive infusion of Hickling's stick, we've added a promising young pitcher in Brent Furtney and our other hurler, Scott Clark, is back full-time. I'm confident he'll return to his offensive form of two seasons ago and it all adds up to an exciting time to be on the Selects. And a pang of homesickness.
Perhaps more than last night's on-field exploits, though, I missed the post-game chill session. I can only imagine how jovial the mood must've been around the beer car as the guys got used to the strangeness of winning games before the season's halfway mark, when we usually stop playing possum and go on a tear to enter the playoffs.
At some point, someone probably shrugged their shoulders and uttered that timeless phrase, "He's a Clark", to explain away the absence of Dan C., whose fragility has earned him such nicknames as "Porcelain" and "Hangnail" (because that's all it takes to put him on the DL). That someone was probably Reed.
Who knows? Perhaps Fogal foolishly revisited the Talib Kweli vs. Beastie Boys debate and again came away looking like a racist. And even hypothesizing about what kind of outrageously politically incorrect statements Doug made would be sheer folly. But I bet I would've fucking loved it.
Last Monday, April 27, marked the 48th anniversary of Sierra Leone's independence. It was a day I'd been looking forward to for a number of reasons.
First and foremost, I'd been told Independence Day was one of the most festive days of the year, so it promised to be an edifying immersion in Salone culture. In this respect at least, I was not disappointed.
On the eve of Independence Day, Sheik called me up and told me to meet him at the clock tower in the East end shortly after 10 p.m. to watch the annual Lantern Festival.
In essence, this is a tradition in which various communities throughout Freetown build floats that parade through the streets from both the West and East ends, finishing in the middle around 1 or 2 a.m. Each float is followed by a truck or poda-poda laden with massive speakers to blast Salone music, with a crowd of 40 revelers or so dancing alongside their respective creations.
In general, I thought the floats were very well done, particularly those built by East end communities, which tended to carry political messages, commenting on the judicial system or depicting scenes of police brutality. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
It quickly became clear this night would end up making even my Salone music initiation seem tame. I was a little late getting away, thanks to the famously slow service at Senegalese, where I'd grabbed dinner to catch up with my buddy, ABJ. I dodged home quickly and was locking the door when Sheik called again.
"Just wanted to warn you - don't let anyone see your cell phone."
"Oh, okay. So ... I probably shouldn't bring my camera, eh?"
"No, I'd leave that at home tonight."
I returned inside, dropped off my camera and changed into a pair of shorts that had zippered pockets. Before I was even off Wilkinson Rd., the street from which Smartfarm branches, I was grateful for Sheik's warnings. There was no way I was getting anywhere with public transportation. I took a quick glance at the street and just started walking. Even six or seven kilometers out of the downtown, the roads were positively rammed with revelers.
I left my house at around 10:30. I arrived home again at 1:30 a.m. In the intervening three hours, I walked from Smartfarm to the East end and back. Without exaggeration, I would say I saw at least 200,000 fellow Freetonians. One of them was white. One. And even he was a few kilometers away from the center of the action, and moving in the opposite direction.
By the time I reached the landmark Cotton Tree in the heart of the downtown, the night's events would be best described as pandemonium. A group of police officers were directing people away from the space in front of the law courts, where men and women of import were addressing the seething masses. Upon spotting me, one officer did a double-take and grabbed my arm, pulling me aside.
"You're just out for a stroll?" he inquired.
Amused by the assumption that my arrival into the midst of this insanity could have possibly been accidental, I explained that I was meeting a friend at the Eastern clock tower to watch the festival. After a brief pause, he started leading me to a roped-off area and a discussion ensued with one of his colleagues about whether or not he could escort me through this no-fly zone. I began to protest immediately.
The way I saw it, such an action could have two possible repercussions. The first would be a riot, as thousands of Sierra Leoneans became understandably angry about the blatant double-standard being shown to a foreigner. I actually kind of wish I believed that might have been their response, but I think a second scenario would be more likely, in which they quietly internalized the message that the rules don't apply as long as your skin's not black.
By and large, Sierra Leoneans treat foreigners with a great deal of respect and hospitality, but fail to show their countrymen and women the same degree of reverence. If they did, I think it would do wonders for the advancement of their nation.
Regardless, I was not prepared to send such a message. I explained to the officer that I'd prefer to risk losing my cell phone and wallet, and he reluctantly led me through the teeming tangle of humanity. A few feet to the left, one of his fellow officers encouraged a group of Sierra Leoneans forward with the wildly unnecessary cracking of a whip.
Within seconds of the officer ceasing his escort, someone stumbled in front of me and tried to nab my cell phone from my breast pocket. I batted his hand away and kept walking. Over the course of the next hour, this would become common. I moved my cell phone and loose bills from my breast pocket to the zippered one where my wallet was already stowed. The shorts I was wearing had eight pockets and seven of them would be thoroughly and repeatedly molested as I proceeded towards the agreed-upon meeting place with Sheik, but no one was brazen enough to attempt the zippered pocket, at least under my watchful eye.
Having bypassed the downtown center, I was now in the East end, the most densely populated and least affluent part of Freetown save for the soul-crushing poverty of the Kroo Bay slum. I trampled through garbage-strewn sidewalks, eventually reaching the clock tower where Sheik had suggested we meet. I looked around in futility, unable to place him in the immense crowd.
"Are you lost, white boy?" someone asked. It was a fair question. A few feet to my right, a group of young men were kicking and pounding the sides of two cars attempting to traverse the masses. I stuck out badly and stuck around only briefly before beginning the long walk home.
Still, though we didn't end up connecting, I like that Sheik invited me into this den of activity. He would never have done that six months ago, which I like to think indicates I've proven myself street-savvy in his eyes.
My adventure was only half over, though. I began walking home, flashing a smile in response to the calls of 'white boy'. On this night, they weren't people looking for money. Their voices and visages betrayed a mix of astonishment and respect, as if to say, "Who is this crazy cracker and where can we find more like him?"
After walking for a time, an ocada driver offered me a ride for Le 5000. It wasn't a ludicrous price, so I decided to reward him by not trying to negotiate a lower fare, and we set off through Kroo Bay. Almost immediately, someone stopped us to say that this frequently-plied route was not accessible on this evening.
I told my driver to turn back. He ignored me and tried to go forward. Someone who was obviously drunk pushed the bike forcefully and I pivoted off the back and began walking away immediately as a small crowd started to form around the driver. No one gave me a second glance as I walked off and, a few minutes later, I saw the driver whip past me, so I know he got away fine.
About a half hour later and considerably closer to home, I ran into my friend Mohamed. It's remarkable to me that in a city of nearly two million, I still seem to be forever running into someone I know, or at least someone who knows me. Mohamed began trying to insist I take a taxi home, offering to pay for it, but I was steadfast in my refusal.
Counter to the logic of locals, I'd decided after this bike incident that the safest form of travel on this night was pedestrian. A car may provide a physical barrier between you and potentially volatile masses, but it also restricts you. Taking a taxi or an ocada meant giving up the freedom of choice; I was going wherever the driver said I was going. The ability to steer clear of volatility on foot seemed infinitely preferable.
And to be fair, I didn't really witness or hear of much violence. Hell, small children were interspersed throughout the crowd even as I trudged home. While I am legitimately surprised I returned to Smartfarm with all my personal property in tact, the only time I felt threatened was when my ocada driver ignored my instructions, at our mutual potential peril.
Still, I'd rather live my life and sometimes feel afraid than be afraid to live my life. It's nights like these that leave me feeling sorry for the high-paid NGO workers and Embassy folks that move about the city in SUVs, with few opportunities to interact meaningfully with locals. What I witnessed was amazing, and enriching far beyond anything I could read about the Sierra Leonean way of life from inside my guarded compound.
Anyway, there were obviously more than two white folk present at the Lantern Festival, as I later discovered that my colleague Marie-Jo had been there as well. She took in the night's events from a considerably different viewpoint, watching - and videotaping - from above. Since it will no doubt give you a better feel for the night's festivities than my prosaic ponderings ever could, I have exercised the considerable patience needed to upload a couple of her videos for your viewing pleasure. Do not get used to this. It took about an hour.
The first clip ought to give you an idea of the crowd's immense size, while the second one shows one of the floats and it's attendant moving sound system. Enjoy!
Understandably, Independence Day itself had a hard time living up to the night that went before. But that sure didn't stop Sheik from again giving me the low-down on the day's events.
After he and I did some work on one of his JHR stories from his small, two-room dwelling, we ventured off to the home of his childhood friend, Sheku. Sheku lives in a second-floor apartment along Kissy Road, which just so happens to be the main route for the Independence Day masquerades, and Sheik had asked in advance if we could watch from their balcony. Though he's a devout Muslim that doesn't touch alcohol, he still managed to produce a Heineken for me and though I was battling a cold and didn't particularly want a beer, I wasn't about to come off as unappreciative.
I'd heard about these masquerades only briefly and I still don't really understand them. It might be somehow tied up in the creepy secret societies that are omnipresent in Sierra Leone, but the main demographic that made up the paraders were uneducated youth, predominately of the drunk and high variety. Truth be told, I imagine Sheik gave me a considerably more nuanced explanation of the events than I'm reproducing here, but I was exhausted from a night of little sleep.
What I do know is that I'm going to miss Sheik Daud Fofanah as much as anyone in Sierra Leone. From day one, he's been a remarkably good host to me and I only hope that someday soon he makes the trip to Canada to visit his uncle and cousins, and I have the chance to repay his considerable kindness. Just today, he presented me with two pairs of Salone sandals - one for me and one for the imaginary girlfriend - as a going-away present.
On Sunday night, Sheik and I attended a shindig for Marie-Jo's departure (She actually texted me mere minutes ago as she boarded her plane out of SL, leaving me as the last trainer standing). As Sheik and I walked home after a delightful evening of free beer/Fanta and good conversation, he informed me that he's decided to alter his initial plan of pursuing a law degree, believing he can make a bigger difference for his country by sticking with journalism.
The next morning, he was voted by his peers to be one of the editors of the Aureol Torch newspaper produced by the graduating class of the Mass Communications department at Fourah Bay College. He's also in the process of writing his thesis on juvenile justice and the media in Sierra Leone, which I will have the pleasure of editing. I fervently believe in his potential to be a great journalist, and it warms my heart to see his considerable passion for it growing through the work we've done together.
But I've digressed considerably yet again. Those readers blessed with long memories may recall that at the beginning of this boundless post, I intimated that the festivity of the occasion was merely one of the reasons I'd been looking forward to Independence Day. The other two revolved around anxieties that were markedly different in kind.
First off, I was anxiously awaiting Freetown's pyrotechnic coming-out party. April 27th had long been identified as the day Ernest Bai Koroma's government would triumphantly throw the switch on the Bumbuna Hydroelectric Project that has been in the works for nearly 40 years. It would bathe Freetown in nearly 24-hour power and extend its hand of promise to Makeni and other parts of the provinces. Or so went the lore.
In reality, our power continues to come just as inconsistently and unpredictably as always. We rely on the highly scientific system whereby some dude on a motorbike rides around the city flicking switches to rotate who gets light. "You've had enough. Your turn." I kid you not.
Against this backdrop, it never fails to amuse me to see a public notice advertising a two-hour break in the service of the National Power Authority; no one else seems attuned to the irony that any day that saw electricity for all but two hours would be a monumental success, not an inconvenience.
Admittedly, I've been here long enough not to be surprised that the Bumbuna target date was missed. I'm sure it wasn't the first such target in the last four decades. But it was more than a little disheartening to witness this day drift past without, at least to my knowledge, even the slightest acknowledgement that the promise had not been kept.
That no one seems surprised is unfortunately telling. That no one seems outraged is downright depressing. This promise was not a footnote in the APC platform - it was the single greatest government priority of the last two years.
I've read one article about the date being missed, which noted in a manner befitting a government propaganda piece, that Bumbuna is complete but cannot be launched until the rains start. That could be valid, though I'm skeptical. But if it is true, does that mean that this top priority will only actually benefit the country for half the year? For the sake of the APC's 2012 re-election hopes, it better not.
The second anxiety I associated with April 27th also came and went without so much as a mention - but in this case, that was a good thing. Though I hadn't heard any rumblings about renewed political violence in about a month, when the last spate of tom-foolery was unleashed, Independence Day had been bandied about as the date for a possible repeat performance.
Hopefully, when I depart the country for good in a little over a month, this will mean I have continued reasons for cautious optimism about the future of Sierra Leone - and that seems to me a fitting cause for the type of raucous celebration Independence Day was cloaked in.
Today's my dad's birthday. And I'm 7536.7 km away.
It's roughly the same distance that separated me from my family on Easter, Christmas, Thanksgiving and my aged bro's 29th birthday. Then there are all the friends who have turned the page on another year without me by their side to buy them a shot or three. Before I get home, I'll have missed Mother's Day too.
A couple weeks back, I had an email conversation with my good friend Scott, in which he said he was "extremely jealous" of all my traveling. Understandable. Hell, it's my life and I'm pretty envious of it. So I certainly hope this post doesn't have even the smallest hint of self-pity in it, as I fully recognize and appreciate the awesomeness that is my current existence.
But there are trade-offs associated with pursuing amazing experiences like this one. In two months' time, who's to say I won't be green with envy for the stability of Scott's full-time job, the independence of having his own apartment, and the freedom of his own set of wheels?
And that doesn't even touch on the many important events I'll have missed in the lives of loved ones.
Last week, an absurdly good British photographer named Aubrey moved into Patrick and Bryna's old room here at 19 Smartfarm. He's been working in Salone off and on since 2004, funding a personal project that focuses on youth in the city through short-term contracts with NGOs. He speaks relatively fluent Krio, and shares my disdain for the many expats that operate in insular bubbles with minimal interaction with Sierra Leoneans. I'm sure we'll get along famously.
A few weeks back, shortly after Aubrey's return to SL, we had dinner over Senegalese to discuss the prospect of him moving in. He mentioned that by returning, he'd just missed his father's 65th birthday celebration. When he first came in 2004, he missed the 60th as well. Those are the types of details that don't get any play in romantic visions of life abroad.
My dad is many different things to many different readers of 42.6. For some, like my aunts and uncles, he is a brother with a famous penchant for long-winded diatribes about the cushy existence of Ontario's teachers.
For others, like my teammates on the Kitchener Selects, he's the parent least likely to miss a game, generally arriving just as the first inning gets underway to watch from atop the hill and disappear as soon as the seventh inning ends - even if his attendance means skipping dinner and driving straight to the park from a courier run to Windsor or Sudbury. I have no doubt that he'll make it to more games this year than I do.
But for me, my dad is simply one of the smartest, most hard-working people I'll ever know. Among some of my other better qualities, he's the man who instilled in me my insane work ethic. My experience as the child of a self-employed small business owner taught me that it was completely normal to work seven-day weeks, and return to work after dinner to get a couple more hours in.
That might explain a lot about the hours I tend to put into my own career pursuits and perhaps it doesn't sound like a good thing to the many friends I don't get to see as much as I would like. But it's also a quality I credit for a lot of my successes to date.
I could go on. His respect for sportsmanship in his years as my baseball coach certainly rubbed off not only on me, but a number of K-W's youth. My boy Polischuk frequently sings his praises even now, years after he last played under my dad's tutelage.
It would've been impossible to sit around the Brown dinner table without developing a healthy skepticism, thanks to his aforementioned diatribes (which do - occasionally - expand their scope to include things like sports, business and politics). Our political ideologies may not be particularly similar, but that critical eye to the world around me has become one of the central attributes I've drawn upon in my brief career in journalism.
And so, on this birthday, it stings a little to have to make do with a 15-minute phone conversation. But on the plus side, as I raise a glass in his honour, half a world away, I can be thankful at least that this isn't a milestone year (for his sake, I'll leave that part a mystery).
Happy birthday, dad.
Editor's note: I started writing this post shortly after my return from Liberia-Guinea to Freetown, but it fell onto the back-burner. With my next major trip (Morocco) a mere week and a half away, I figured I'd better finish blogging about the last one. Enjoy.
A seemingly universal pet peeve among everyone I know that has spent time on the African continent is being asked the question, "How is Africa?" Personally, every time I hear it, I have to suppress the overwhelming urge to utter a snide remark along the lines of ... "Well, Somalia continues to muddle along as a failed state, with more developments in the rampant piracy off the country's coast almost daily. Hm, let's see. Jacob Zuma is expected to be annointed as President of South Africa in the coming week despite a spotty record marred by allegations of corruption, fraud and even rape. On a lighter note, Kenyan women are getting creative in looking for ways to address the political impasse in the country, by withholding sex from the country's men. Oh, and don't even get me started on the mess in Zimbabwe with Bobby Mugabe ... What's that? You lost interest? Oh."
Of course, I don't say this. 'Cause the question is usually uttered as a harmless inquiry into my life and responding in kind with a sardonic attack would be less than genial behaviour. I usually go with something a tad subtler like, "Things in Sierra Leone are going really well, thanks."
Still, the question does kind of bother me, as it implies that this vast continent is more or less the same throughout. It's akin to asking someone in Antigonish, Nova Scotia, "Hey, how's North America?" They're probably not equipped to give a comprehensive answer. The Democratic Republic of Congo alone is about the size of all of Western Europe.All that being said, as I embarked on my March trip to Liberia and Guinea, I perhaps hypocritically expected the capital cities of these two nations to resemble Freetown in many ways - especially Monrovia. After all, like Freetown, it is the capital of a small, coastal West African nation, with an almost identical climate, seeking to recover from the same war that haunts my current city of residence.
And certainly, there are similarities. But it still struck me that my brief stays in Monrovia and Conakry yielded interesting contrasts to my current hometown.Let's start with Monrovia. This is, quite possibly, the strangest city I've ever been to. Monrovia was hit much harder by the war than Freetown, and it still bears considerable scar tissue from the fighting. Bombed-out buildings play host to squatters on a nightly basis. Hell, the only souvenir I ended up departing Liberia with was a money clip fashioned from a bullet shell. The city's not exactly all kittens and flowers.
But what immediately struck me about Monrovia was the juxtaposition. Yes, there are a lot of buildings that have yet to be renovated after the war, bullet holes scarring their brick exteriors. But right next door, you often find an amazing restaurant with a dapper interior.
This is one area where Monrovia annihilated Freetown: food. Though I spent only 36 hours in the city, that was about 34 more than I needed to conclude that the restaurant scene dwarfed Salone's. First of all, there seemed to be a far greater selection of food types available, including steak houses, sushi joints, Indian food and vastly superior Lebanese cuisine.
In the brief stopover I had in the city, I ate at three restaurants that boasted interior decor polished and chic enough that they were more suited to hip North American cities like NYC or Vancouver than war-ravaged West Africa.
The catch with all this decadence, of course, comes down to coin. Monrovia is damned expensive. The high incidence of swanky settings nestled among the rubble can be traced directly to the still-large UN presence in the city. And UNMIL (UN Mission in Liberia) is doing a fine job of driving cost of living through the roof.
For example, Rebecca is paying more than $600/month in rent. Admittedly, her place boasts some amenities I don't have in Freetown: 12 hours of guaranteed power, air conditioning, running water, and hot showers. But her place is also smaller than mine and definitely not three times better (I pay less than $200/month all in).
Another by-product of the sustained UN presence in Liberia is that Monrovians are far more accustomed to white people. Whereas I found Guineans to be very similar to Sierra Leoneans in their constant attempts to get your attention and/or sell you something, Monrovians were much more indifferent. Rebecca said she thinks there's a sort of pride about not treating white people as something special or otherwise out of the ordinary.
And so, as I wandered the streets alone after meeting the Liberia JHR crew over lunch, I was delighted at the sense of anonymity I felt. That's not to say, however, that Liberians are in any way unfriendly. Anytime I asked for help, someone was more than happy to provide it.
When I had a bit of a rocky entry to the city, it was not only my guardian angel Rosetta who demonstrated great concern. Shortly after I arrived safely at Rebecca's compound, she received a call from a man I'd shared a cab with, who was simply double-checking that the white man from Freetown had found her okay.
Such a phone call would no doubt happen in Freetown too. But not like this. Satisfied that I was okay, he never called back. In my first week here, I made the mistake of giving my number to an aspiring hip hop artist named Sugg whom I met on the street. He called about four times daily until I simply stopped answering.
My friend gave a guy her number one night and received 13 calls in the next 12 hours, beginning at 6 a.m. Sometimes, Sierra Leoneans are a little too friendly, so perhaps it isn't surprising that the relative anonymity I experienced in Monrovia came as a welcome reprieve.
Among my wanderings in Liberia, I visited the one-room National Museum, which was home to many a traditional mask, some interesting photographs (though mostly taken by Westerners in Liberia) and paintings of varying degrees of quality, mostly circa 2006. Though interesting, I found the museum visit simultaneously slightly depressing, as it highlighted the total destruction of war; it's not just infrastructure that needs to be rebuilt, but also the country's culture and historical memory.
In general, despite the brevity of my stay in Monrovia, I feel as though I got a pretty decent feel for the city and, outside of the above-mentioned demeanour of the locals and vastly superior food, I think the biggest difference from Freetown was the city's safety, particularly after dark. Whereas I wander Freetown alone at night without giving it much of a second thought at this point, no white people do that in Monrovia. Even locals are horrified when a Westerner so much as considers it and no one tries to defend the city from its reputation for theft and armed robbery.
Interestingly, though on paper it's a recently overthrown militant narco-state, Guinea's capital, by contrast, felt completely safe. In general, Conakry blew me away with its comparable development. The city boasted pretty legitimate highways, complete with on and off ramps and even solar-powered street lights! The roads were reasonably well-maintained and nearly twice as wide as those in Freetown, and some even included sidewalks lined with trees. Conakry gives you room to breathe.
In Freetown, a compact urban space designed for 300,000 that currently accommodates close to two million, the city is constantly on top of you. There just isn't real estate to operate and one's sense of personal space gets eroded pretty quickly by the city's smothering blanket of activity.Even the clincs in Guinea, which I had a chance to sample more than I would've liked, were night and day with Freetown. In Conakry, I sat on one of those plastic-covered raised beds with the butcher paper laid out on them, just as I would've in any doctor's office in North America. In Freetown, I had my wound treated sitting in a lawn chair in the corner of an office so small that the door had to be held at a strategic angle just to gain entrance. Solo B, my nurse, squatted on the floor.
On my first day in Guinea, when I walked into the N'zerekore gare voiture where all the taxis set off from, I was floored by the organization of it all. There were signs to indicate which city a given vehicle was headed for and they even had tickets to indicate proof of purchase! At the time, having just come from Sierra Leone and Liberia, I joked, "Who needs democracy?"
The development I witnessed in Conakry made it seem less and less like a joke, and more like a serious issue to grapple with. But at the end of the day, Guinea is still only 167th of 179 on the Human Development Index and I'm not optimistic it will get much better without a more democratic government taking hold. Militant narco-states might be able to out-develop a pair of war-ravaged fledgling democracies in the short term, but I'm not ready to declare it the superior governance model just yet.
And certainly, Conakry was by no means perfect. Their cuisine scene may have put Freetown to shame, but Liberia still held the distinct advantage there - though Conakry wins on affordability. It also - quizzically for a country whose population is about 85% Muslim - had the best beer of the three countries, with Guiluxe edging Liberia's Club beer, while Salone's Star beer ranks a distant third.
Truth be told, aside from the beaches being a poor man's Salone imitation, the only area where Conakry really failed to impress was in its public transportation. Put bluntly, Guinean taxis suck. I'm quite convinced they divided the city's population into groups of 1000 and chose the least knowledgeable, least intelligent person in each group - and then gave him a cab (I didn't see any female drivers). In nearly four days in the Guinean capital, I encountered only one cabbie who seemed like he'd ever been in the city before.
Of course, all these observations are merely first impressions and I spent precious little time in either Monrovia or Conakry. To compare them to Freetown is patently unfair on my part, and perhaps explains why this post probably comes off as disparaging of Freetown. That is certainly not my intent. Most days, I'm quite fond of this place and it's entirely possible that griping about its shortcomings is just part of the charm. Patrick's only been back in Canada for a few days and has already told me he misses the city.
I guess the point of all this spouting off - beyond simply creating for myself a written record of my impressions of the respective cities - is to illustrate the point that it is almost always folly to expect similarity in a continent shaped by so many differing factors. While it's true that Conakry, Freetown and Monrovia are capital cities in three neighbouring countries with strong ties, they are nonetheless the products of very different histories, and none have even the same Western connections.
Salone was a colony/protectorate of the Brits. Guineans speak French for a reason and it's, you guessed it, because they were a French colony. This influence was unmistakable in both the city's eateries and architecture.
As an interesting aside, Guineans are very proud of their independence - they were the first French colony on the continent to assert it - and don't particularly care for the French. Bryna and Craig got themselves into some hot water when they walked in front of the Presidential Palace - a major faux-pas - but were fortunate to be nabbed by a guard that loved Canada. He actually said, "You're lucky you're not French."
As for Liberia, it's strongest Western ties - generally exploitative in nature - are with America. The link is in fact so deeply embedded that US and Liberian dollars are completely interchangeable; it is not uncommon to pay for a meal using American money and receive change in Liberian, or even a combination of the two.
So, yeah, Freetown certainly has more in common with Conakry and Monrovia than Ottawa or Havana. But they were hardly the same and I suppose it's an indication of my nascent worldliness that I expected them to be in the first place.
Another editorial interjection: I hardly took any photos in Conakry or Monrovia and none of them particularly lent themselves to the body of this post. But since people generally seem to get excited about seeing photos, I've included a couple from each city below. The first two are from Monrovia, while the last three were taken on Conakry's coast.
