Shaka is the night guard at our housing compound, and is quickly becoming one of my favourite Sierra Leoneans. He's smart - not only part of the literate minority, he also speaks all the major dialects in SL: English, Krio, Temne, Mende, and Fula.
He's good-natured and polite, always expressing genuine gratitude when we give him leftover food or a bottle of water.
And his work ethic is tremendous. Shaka works 12 hours every night, arriving as dusk falls just before 7 p.m. and diligently keeping watch until 7 a.m.
He willingly helps out with tasks that go beyond the job description.
When Rebecca and Bremen, a pair of American students living below us, were understandably freaked out by the discovery of a hairy spider bigger than my hand inching its way through their living room, they called upon Shaka to bring the crisis under control. He calmly asked if they had a broom and, upon hearing there was none, nonchalantly climbed onto a chair and crushed the immense arachnid with his bare fist. Pretty badass, no?
It's not the only example of Shaka's quickness to be of assistance. While I don't know what normally occupies his days, this weekend he plans to spend some of the daylight hours showing Bryna and Patrick around the market to score the best deals on local produce, ensuring that they don't get gauged on prices.
For these reasons, among others, we had a house meeting and decided to give Shaka a raise. Tomorrow's a big day for him. His salary will increase by 130% - from Le 140,000 a month to 180,000.
Alternately stated, it jumps to $60/month. Or $2/day ... or $0.17/hour. And that's more than a large majority of Sierra Leoneans.
Fuck Halloween. That's frightening.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Getting around Freetown
Getting around in this city is an interesting enterprise. For those of us not working for the UN (read: without SUVs at our disposal), the options are shared taxis, chartered taxis, and poda-podas. None are fast.
Freetown is mired in a state of perpetual gridlock, save for the weekends - so much so that Bryna has coined the term FTT, meaning Freetown Traffic Time, as a catch-all term to explain tardiness of any sort.
Ironically, whenever traffic grinds to an especially lengthy halt, one can all but guarantee there are at least a couple of Sierra Leone's finest at work; it seems as though about 70% of the po-po's work hours go into ineffectual roadside guidance.
It can be a headache to deal with on a daily basis, but relatively speaking, it's not that bad. In fact, the driving is tame enough that I wouldn't be all that intimidated by the prospect of getting behind the wheel. I've not yet seen an accident, presumably because the dense traffic never allows anyone to get moving with any semblance of speed.
So far, I've relied primarily on shared taxis. These are taxis that run along loosely defined routes and pick up passengers to fill their four seats as they go. When a taxi has an unfilled space, it beeps as it approaches (just one of countless opportunities to fill the city with that shrill noise) and slows down enough that you can yell your destination. If they like what they hear, they stop.
It's generally advisable to negotiate your fare before getting in the cab. Though hucksters are rare, I have been asked to pay as much as Le 10,000 (a little over $3) when no local would ever be asked for more than Le 2000. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen a local charged more than 1000 (about $0.30).
And while I don't mind paying a small white man tax (I generally pay 2000 for my rides to and from work, though a local would only pay half that), I actually laughed and walked away when someone tried to charge me Le 5000 a couple days ago. That's less than $2. Which I'm sure makes me sound cheap.
But it's not really about the fact that I can afford a couple bucks. I don't like it when I know someone's trying to rip me off, and I don't like setting a precedent that tells local taxi drivers they can get away with charging all white people far higher fares. From what I've seen, locals don't like it either.
A few days back, after the driver and I agreed to a Le 2000 price when I got in, he tried to up it to 3000 when he let me off. Thirty seconds prior, the guy that got on with me disembarked having paid 500. I protested, and the guy next to me jumped in, admonishing the driver and saying if anyone would have to pay an extra 1000 for my fare, it'd be him, essentially shaming the driver into abiding by the original deal.
The good samaritan was far more representative of the average Sierra Leonean than the cabbie.
Yesterday, a similarly good-natured fellow advised me - after watching me unsuccessfully attempt to flag a cab to Congo Cross, the turntable (local term for roundabouts) nearest my house - that I should really take a poda-poda instead. Having never done this, I no doubt looked unsure.
Poda-podas are clunky minibuses that run along slightly more defined routes than the shared taxis. There is a fare collector that sits nearest the door and yells the destination out of the window all day, jumping on and off, often before the vehicle has stopped, to let people pile in.
Poda-podas are cheap. My ride home cost Le 800 (about $0.25). They're also very uncomfortable, packing upwards of 20 people into a modified vehicle not much larger than a minivan. The modifications optimize space at comfort's expense, leaving hard benches as the only interlocutor between passengers' hindquarters and the jarring roads. But I got home relatively quickly and could definitely see myself using poda-podas more frequently.
Today's commute to work was probably the strangest one yet, though. I was picked up almost immediately upon setting foot on the main road where I generally flag a cab in the morning. I rode shotgun and, though the driver picked up and dropped off other passengers on the way to my station, I noted quizzically that no exchange of money ever took place.
Instead, Samura (I learned his name before the end of the trip) sung happily, albeit poorly, to his Christian CD, pausing occasionally to yell at friends we passed on the street. When a song called "Days of Elijah" that I recognized from my days at Highview Community Church came on, I said something in passing about not having heard the song in a while.
Samura nodded that it was a very good song and quickly scanned to another track on the album, saying something to the effect of, "I can't get the words for this one. You tell me what it says?"
I paused briefly, not really knowing what to say, and then figured, "Why not?" I rumaged through my knapsack, grabbed a pen and notepad and began scribbling down the song lyrics as fast as I could, while Samura paused it whenever I started to fall behind. He even pulled right up to my building as I finished writing (I normally just get dropped off at the street entrance).
After a few unsuccessful attempts to pay him, I got out of the car and started my work day, uneasy about the free ride but happy that I was at least able to provide him with something in return for one of the more pleasant rides to work I've had to date. Never a dull moment, I suppose.
Freetown is mired in a state of perpetual gridlock, save for the weekends - so much so that Bryna has coined the term FTT, meaning Freetown Traffic Time, as a catch-all term to explain tardiness of any sort.
Ironically, whenever traffic grinds to an especially lengthy halt, one can all but guarantee there are at least a couple of Sierra Leone's finest at work; it seems as though about 70% of the po-po's work hours go into ineffectual roadside guidance.
It can be a headache to deal with on a daily basis, but relatively speaking, it's not that bad. In fact, the driving is tame enough that I wouldn't be all that intimidated by the prospect of getting behind the wheel. I've not yet seen an accident, presumably because the dense traffic never allows anyone to get moving with any semblance of speed.
So far, I've relied primarily on shared taxis. These are taxis that run along loosely defined routes and pick up passengers to fill their four seats as they go. When a taxi has an unfilled space, it beeps as it approaches (just one of countless opportunities to fill the city with that shrill noise) and slows down enough that you can yell your destination. If they like what they hear, they stop.
It's generally advisable to negotiate your fare before getting in the cab. Though hucksters are rare, I have been asked to pay as much as Le 10,000 (a little over $3) when no local would ever be asked for more than Le 2000. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen a local charged more than 1000 (about $0.30).
And while I don't mind paying a small white man tax (I generally pay 2000 for my rides to and from work, though a local would only pay half that), I actually laughed and walked away when someone tried to charge me Le 5000 a couple days ago. That's less than $2. Which I'm sure makes me sound cheap.
But it's not really about the fact that I can afford a couple bucks. I don't like it when I know someone's trying to rip me off, and I don't like setting a precedent that tells local taxi drivers they can get away with charging all white people far higher fares. From what I've seen, locals don't like it either.
A few days back, after the driver and I agreed to a Le 2000 price when I got in, he tried to up it to 3000 when he let me off. Thirty seconds prior, the guy that got on with me disembarked having paid 500. I protested, and the guy next to me jumped in, admonishing the driver and saying if anyone would have to pay an extra 1000 for my fare, it'd be him, essentially shaming the driver into abiding by the original deal.
The good samaritan was far more representative of the average Sierra Leonean than the cabbie.
Yesterday, a similarly good-natured fellow advised me - after watching me unsuccessfully attempt to flag a cab to Congo Cross, the turntable (local term for roundabouts) nearest my house - that I should really take a poda-poda instead. Having never done this, I no doubt looked unsure.
Poda-podas are clunky minibuses that run along slightly more defined routes than the shared taxis. There is a fare collector that sits nearest the door and yells the destination out of the window all day, jumping on and off, often before the vehicle has stopped, to let people pile in.
Poda-podas are cheap. My ride home cost Le 800 (about $0.25). They're also very uncomfortable, packing upwards of 20 people into a modified vehicle not much larger than a minivan. The modifications optimize space at comfort's expense, leaving hard benches as the only interlocutor between passengers' hindquarters and the jarring roads. But I got home relatively quickly and could definitely see myself using poda-podas more frequently.
Today's commute to work was probably the strangest one yet, though. I was picked up almost immediately upon setting foot on the main road where I generally flag a cab in the morning. I rode shotgun and, though the driver picked up and dropped off other passengers on the way to my station, I noted quizzically that no exchange of money ever took place.
Instead, Samura (I learned his name before the end of the trip) sung happily, albeit poorly, to his Christian CD, pausing occasionally to yell at friends we passed on the street. When a song called "Days of Elijah" that I recognized from my days at Highview Community Church came on, I said something in passing about not having heard the song in a while.
Samura nodded that it was a very good song and quickly scanned to another track on the album, saying something to the effect of, "I can't get the words for this one. You tell me what it says?"
I paused briefly, not really knowing what to say, and then figured, "Why not?" I rumaged through my knapsack, grabbed a pen and notepad and began scribbling down the song lyrics as fast as I could, while Samura paused it whenever I started to fall behind. He even pulled right up to my building as I finished writing (I normally just get dropped off at the street entrance).
After a few unsuccessful attempts to pay him, I got out of the car and started my work day, uneasy about the free ride but happy that I was at least able to provide him with something in return for one of the more pleasant rides to work I've had to date. Never a dull moment, I suppose.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Sierra Leone's tourism potential
Having been in
We piled into a van for the hour-plus drive across the abhorrent roads that dot the Sierra Leonean landscape. Along the way, we passed stray dogs, goats and chickens – all commonplace here – as well as young children attempting to collect road taxes at makeshift roadblocks, which our driver James bypassed using a series of loud honks and the occasional yell to encourage the children’s acquiescence.
Still, the sight was simultaneously amusing and concerning – amusing because it was innocent enough, concerning because it could quite easily escalate to something that’s not.
The behaviour of these young kids, often not even 10 years old, was clearly learned, an emulation of rebels and soldiers collecting taxes to allow for safe passage. In a situation where endemic poverty could conceivably spark instability, it's concerning to think that such young children have internalized the message that taking over a public road by force somehow grants them authority over it.
(Bonus points to anyone that can guess what song popped into my head when I saw these roadblocks.)
All in all, it was an amazing day that really highlighted for me the country’s enormous potential for a tourist industry. While the purist in me would love to see the country’s sparsely populated beaches remain unspoiled,
All that stands in the way are perception and infrastructure.
Save for a reasonable road from Freetown to Makeni, infrastructure is essentially non-existent. The drive to River No. 2 would’ve taken about 15 minutes on Canadian roads, but instead turned into a 2.5-hour roundtrip adventure not for the weak of stomach.
Paved roads in even this one small segment of the country would open up comfortable modes of travel to the many (at least seven) beautiful beaches on the coastline. And with daily flights out of Heathrow,
The other major impediment would require less money, but more work to address. The vast majority of people beyond the African continent know precious little about the small West African nation. And the 2006 release of Blood Diamond did little to help.
True, DiCaprio and co. brought a cursory knowledge of the country’s existence and the violent, decade-long conflict that tore it asunder from 1991-2002 to many people that would not have otherwise known about it. But it also inadvertently reinforced a prevailing notion that
Basically, SL is battling a public relations nightmare. While the country is rightfully identified as one of the least developed corners of the globe, I’ve seen little evidence to suggest it is unsafe.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Beauty in the bucket
Before I left
I should preface these remarks by saying that our landlady attempted to bring water to the house, upping the rent to $450 (my share being $200 and hopefully dropping to $140 if we fill our empty room) as a result. For all intents and purposes, it didn’t exactly work.
Still, we do get a trickle from some of our sinks, some of the time, which I will admit is convenient when it comes to washing one’s hands and the like.
But I’m quickly learning that running water is one luxury I don’t have much difficulty living without, and not having Internet was actually much more frustrating for me.
Of course, Internet is by no means a necessity. But I’m a social creature and not having contact with basically anyone I ever knew prior to two weeks ago was far more daunting than the prospect of bucket showers.
A bucket shower is pretty much precisely what you’re imagining. In the absence of running water, you fill a bucket, and pour the water over yourself using a smaller bucket, or perhaps a measuring cup. Simple enough, right?
And I’ve actually grown rather fond of them. Sure, the showers themselves are not as pleasant as back home. No matter how hot the climate, water that cold can be a shock to the senses at first, and you always have to be diligent to ensure none of the water gets into your mouth, as it’s certainly not fit for drinking.
There is, however, a strange beauty in the bucket shower; at the end of it, you do feel clean, with the added bonus of knowing you conserved a ton of water.
As one who was often chastised by my parents for my excessively long showers, my hope is that the positive feeling I’ve derived from stumbling across a less wasteful way to clean myself will instill a long-term respect for water sustainability that I’ll carry with me upon my return to my native land.
In the meantime, I’ll have to become well acquainted with the bucket, as the hot is bound to become even hotter as the dry season sets in.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Meditations on post-secondary education
Editor’s note: I had kind of forgotten about this post, which I wrote late last week, but still wanted to put it up. Now that I officially have Internet at my place, it will hopefully be the last time there’s a disconnect between the writing and posting of these, but probably not. And I realize that I haven’t posted any photos yet – truth is I haven’t taken any – but I’ll try to buck that trend soon.
This afternoon, among other parts ofFreetown , we toured Fourah Bay College , the oldest university/college in West Africa , founded in 1827. Boasting a stunning view from atop the city’s Mount Aureol
This afternoon, among other parts of
As we took a break in the small outdoor café and I sipped my Vimto (think Grape C-Plus), ABJ, an awesome Sierra Leonean journalist with JHR and a student at
We had a good conversation about life at the university, and it was interesting for me to compare with my own university experience back home. The impression I got was that the students of
Which is to say that, save for a few refreshing pockets, it was nothing like Laurier.
Of course, my hands are too stained with the sins of neglecting my studies to admonish my peers from the pulpit. I was – rather, still am – a poor student. Hell, I’m nearly two weeks late with my first assignment for my distance ed. course as I write this.
But there was a time, throughout first year and much of my second year, when I was excited about my studies. The whole environment here just gave me pause for reflection.
I’ve often waxed philosophical on my issues with the Canadian school system, particularly how it pushes such a high percentage of its students towards university, neglecting the skilled trades and setting up many students for failure.
But I couldn’t help but wonder if I wouldn’t take the sickly stray dogs strewn about a campus that can’t justify superfluous annual renovations over the ugg boots and indifference that so often pervades
Besides,
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Radio Kalleone: My life for the next seven months
Editor’s note: This was written on the evening of Monday, October 20. I’ve since spent two days at work and the excitement I describe below remains, though I may not be spending all my time at the station, working also with the Kalleone brand newspaper and Culture Radio, as well as hopefully running a workshop or two in the rural areas of the country. I value my free time, you see.
Today was a good day.
I've officially been in Sierra Leone for a week and, with our training complete, today was day one of my placement at Radio Kalleone.
Of the five trainers in Sierra Leone as part of my group, I’m the only one who was placed at a media house that JHR has not previously worked with, which was initially a source of excitement. That quickly changed.
On two separate occasions shortly after my arrival, when speaking with two of my JHR predecessors in
Then, on Thursday, when JHR intern and my new friend ABJ took us around to our various media houses, no one at the station even knew I was coming.
Needless to say, this didn’t exactly fill me with confidence. And so I was a little nervous as I made my way to the office today (the main office, not the station office we’d visited already). I tried to go in with an open mind, knowing that JHR would find me a suitable situation if this one didn’t pan out.
Man, was I pleasantly surprised.
It’s true – Radio Kalleone currently offers very little news reporting. The station is a hugely popular one, but that popularity has been built on its entertainment and sports programming (it’s named for the country’s football hero, after all). I like entertainment and sports at least as much as the next guy, but that’s not why I’m here.
Fortunately, in the next couple months, the station wants to re-brand and re-launch with an increased news and human rights focus, and they want me to play a major part in many aspects of that – from helping brainstorm marketing strategies, to programming ideas, to working with their journalists to give them the skill set to be leaders in the Sierra Leonean mediascape. If I play my cards right, they will become a leader in human rights reporting as well.
From my discussions with the station manager today, I’ve gone from extremely leery to tremendously excited. The projects they’re envisioning for me are absurdly ambitious for a six-month volunteer placement (when you factor out my three weeks of vacation).
Yet unsurprisingly, I don’t care. My philosophy has always been that it’s way cooler to shoot for something hopelessly beyond your reach than to achieve that which was plainly achievable.
Heeding the advice of those who have gone before me, I am trying to take a cautiously optimistic approach as I go forward at the station. I’ve been told often that many in the Sierra Leonean media talk a good game, but the actions don't always follow (for a host of reasons too multifaceted to get into just yet).
In fact, to give you an idea of the media standards, The Concord Times, one of the most respected papers in the country, today ran an article about Obama that was so blatantly ripped off (without credit) that the article’s lead consisted of the comment moderation jargon that appeared on the website it was stolen from:
Discussion Policy. Your browser's settings may be preventing you from commenting on and viewings comments about this item. See instructions for fixing the problem.
Anyway, at this point, it’s been all talk. But the station manager seems to be very serious about this re-launch; they just purchased a new transmitter that will allow them to broadcast throughout the entire country.
And, though ambitious, from what I’ve seen in my whopping one day, his goals aren’t completely unrealistic. Either way, I’m happy to work my ass off to see just how realistic it is. Besides, who doesn't enjoy a good re-launch?
Oh, and on my way home from dinner tonight, I turned my head aloft for some stunning stargazing. Remember how clear the skies were when
Yeah. Today was a good day
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Plans meet practice
Editor's note: This post was written yesterday evening (Wednesday, October 15).
As my third day of training wraps up, I’m definitely beginning to understand why Freetown is such a well-liked city. And in the process, I’m starting to think I badly over-stocked some items when packing.
Example #1: Bug repellent. I brought a lot. So far, I’ve seen one, maybe two mosquitoes. In three days. I have no bites.
So while I fully understand that it only takes one ill-fated nibble to contract malaria and I still intend to sleep under a mosquito net, I’m significantly less paranoid that my trip is about to get cut short by this much-ballyhooed disease, particularly after learning over a couple of beers on nearby Lumley Beach last night that one of my soon-to-be roommates has had malaria three times. He remains unafraid of it, so I shall too.
On the plus side, I’ve been on doxycycline for three days with nary a sign of pesky anti-malarial side effects.
Example #2: Sunscreen.
Now don’t get me wrong. Freetown’s hot, often oppressively so. Being only eight latitudinal lines above the equator will do that to you, I guess.
But while I do a lot of sweating and a lot of water-drinking, I haven’t yet used sunscreen, nor have I once regretted that fact. I’m not even convinced my tan’s darkened despite lots of time spent out of doors (Hell, half the restaurants are outside).
Now I’m no scientist, but I imagine this has something to do with Sierra Leoneans not corrupting their environment and fucking with nature by punching holes in the ozone layer. Who’s developed now, North America?
My initial suspicion is that I’ll be safe reserving the sunblock for the beach and the especially skin-melting days to come (the downside of missing the daily hard rains of July and August is that I will catch the most hot and humid SL has to offer).
Example #3: Theft.
Okay, so that one doesn’t have a lot to do with what I packed, but it definitely reflects my pre-departure expectations based on the fear-mongering literature I came across constantly.
Thus far, theft has yet to rear its ugly head (and I grant you, it’s been only three days) for any trainers. We’ve had two scares, the latter as our lead trainer lost her camera only to discover it slipped from her pocket in the JHR office.
The former incident was my own folly, when during our day one lunch I noticed my sunglasses were no longer swaying from my t-shirt where I’d left them. My gut reaction was to marvel at the impressive stealth of whomever theifed ’em, before chuckling to myself when I discovered I’d knocked them off in the JHR van when I was shifting my knapsack.
Rather, I’ve quickly become enamoured with the affability of the locals. Yesterday, I was chatted up by a friendly police officer who invited me to his wedding on Christmas Day, in spite of knowing me for approximately three minutes (though the cynic in me reasons that having white people present must be viewed as a sign of wealth).
Within minutes, another guy offered to escort me through some of the slums if I need to go there for a story, and a third benevolent stranger dodged into traffic to stop the flow of cars and let me cross. And while I’m sure these examples could quickly be written off for potential ulterior motives from poor people that view me as a source of cash, I flat-out like Sierra Leoneans.
At this point, I don’t feel I’ve overpaid for much of anything owing to the anticipated ‘white man tax’. My cell phone cost $35 with no plan to lock me in, for example.
Of course, the real tests will begin next week when I’m no longer being accompanied by Elvis and ABJ, JHR’s superstar Sierra Leonean hosts. Luckily, I met a woman today who offers affordable Krio (local dialect) lessons, which should go a long way towards helping my negotiating stance whenever I need a poda-poda (think of a cross between a taxi and a city bus).
As my third day of training wraps up, I’m definitely beginning to understand why Freetown is such a well-liked city. And in the process, I’m starting to think I badly over-stocked some items when packing.
Example #1: Bug repellent. I brought a lot. So far, I’ve seen one, maybe two mosquitoes. In three days. I have no bites.
So while I fully understand that it only takes one ill-fated nibble to contract malaria and I still intend to sleep under a mosquito net, I’m significantly less paranoid that my trip is about to get cut short by this much-ballyhooed disease, particularly after learning over a couple of beers on nearby Lumley Beach last night that one of my soon-to-be roommates has had malaria three times. He remains unafraid of it, so I shall too.
On the plus side, I’ve been on doxycycline for three days with nary a sign of pesky anti-malarial side effects.
Example #2: Sunscreen.
Now don’t get me wrong. Freetown’s hot, often oppressively so. Being only eight latitudinal lines above the equator will do that to you, I guess.
But while I do a lot of sweating and a lot of water-drinking, I haven’t yet used sunscreen, nor have I once regretted that fact. I’m not even convinced my tan’s darkened despite lots of time spent out of doors (Hell, half the restaurants are outside).
Now I’m no scientist, but I imagine this has something to do with Sierra Leoneans not corrupting their environment and fucking with nature by punching holes in the ozone layer. Who’s developed now, North America?
My initial suspicion is that I’ll be safe reserving the sunblock for the beach and the especially skin-melting days to come (the downside of missing the daily hard rains of July and August is that I will catch the most hot and humid SL has to offer).
Example #3: Theft.
Okay, so that one doesn’t have a lot to do with what I packed, but it definitely reflects my pre-departure expectations based on the fear-mongering literature I came across constantly.
Thus far, theft has yet to rear its ugly head (and I grant you, it’s been only three days) for any trainers. We’ve had two scares, the latter as our lead trainer lost her camera only to discover it slipped from her pocket in the JHR office.
The former incident was my own folly, when during our day one lunch I noticed my sunglasses were no longer swaying from my t-shirt where I’d left them. My gut reaction was to marvel at the impressive stealth of whomever theifed ’em, before chuckling to myself when I discovered I’d knocked them off in the JHR van when I was shifting my knapsack.
Rather, I’ve quickly become enamoured with the affability of the locals. Yesterday, I was chatted up by a friendly police officer who invited me to his wedding on Christmas Day, in spite of knowing me for approximately three minutes (though the cynic in me reasons that having white people present must be viewed as a sign of wealth).
Within minutes, another guy offered to escort me through some of the slums if I need to go there for a story, and a third benevolent stranger dodged into traffic to stop the flow of cars and let me cross. And while I’m sure these examples could quickly be written off for potential ulterior motives from poor people that view me as a source of cash, I flat-out like Sierra Leoneans.
At this point, I don’t feel I’ve overpaid for much of anything owing to the anticipated ‘white man tax’. My cell phone cost $35 with no plan to lock me in, for example.
Of course, the real tests will begin next week when I’m no longer being accompanied by Elvis and ABJ, JHR’s superstar Sierra Leonean hosts. Luckily, I met a woman today who offers affordable Krio (local dialect) lessons, which should go a long way towards helping my negotiating stance whenever I need a poda-poda (think of a cross between a taxi and a city bus).
First night in Freetown
Editor's note: Until I get set up in my house (with Internet), which could be as soon as tonight, my posts will likely not make it online the day they are written. In those cases, I'll note the actual date. This next one was written on my first night here (Sunday, October 12). Hope all is well back home.
I’m writing this in a Catholic guest house in Freetown at 1 a.m., which is 9 p.m. back home (Sierra Leone is further west than England so the time difference is only four hours).
The trip here went pretty smoothly; the biggest hiccups were our flight departing Heathrow for Freetown nearly an hour late and arriving into a thunderstorm that brought on minor turbulence and a brief holding pattern until the landing was deemed safe.
The woman seated next to me was praying and said it was the closest to death she’s ever been, but I think she’s a bit of a drama queen considering I slept through most of it. The turbulence was akin to riding the Wilde Beast at Canada’s Wonderland.
Otherwise, not too much to tell at this point. The flight from Toronto was probably the most comfortable I can remember (props to British Airways and their atypically reasonable definition of leg room) and I got my fix of Western culture for a while by watching Forgetting Sarah Marshall and 30 Rock.
Four of our five JHR trainers are here, with the last one arriving tomorrow from Senegal. My biggest anxieties about this whole deal remain professional intimidation, as the four journalists I’m working with seem to universally trump me in the experience category. But everyone seems great so far, and I hardly expect that to be an issue.
I met Elvis, JHR’s Sierra Leone director, tonight at Paddy’s. It’s a 24-hour bar/restaurant in Freetown, on which the bar in Blood Diamond is based – supposedly quite the hub of activity for expats and locals alike. It was really enjoyable eating my garlic chicken dinner outside, on the water, though the stray cats were a bit of a nuisance. Regardless, it sounds like Paddy’s will be a frequent haunt for the JHR crew.
Elvis informed me that Radio Kalleone, where I’ll be working, is a station of mostly young men with a large sports (read: football, translate: soccer) interest, so that has at least curbed my anxiety – sounds like a place I’ll be able to fit in.
Anyway, can’t even begin to describe the myriad thoughts swimming through my head right now, so I’m going to shut down the laptop and get some much-needed sleep.
I’m writing this in a Catholic guest house in Freetown at 1 a.m., which is 9 p.m. back home (Sierra Leone is further west than England so the time difference is only four hours).
The trip here went pretty smoothly; the biggest hiccups were our flight departing Heathrow for Freetown nearly an hour late and arriving into a thunderstorm that brought on minor turbulence and a brief holding pattern until the landing was deemed safe.
The woman seated next to me was praying and said it was the closest to death she’s ever been, but I think she’s a bit of a drama queen considering I slept through most of it. The turbulence was akin to riding the Wilde Beast at Canada’s Wonderland.
Otherwise, not too much to tell at this point. The flight from Toronto was probably the most comfortable I can remember (props to British Airways and their atypically reasonable definition of leg room) and I got my fix of Western culture for a while by watching Forgetting Sarah Marshall and 30 Rock.
Four of our five JHR trainers are here, with the last one arriving tomorrow from Senegal. My biggest anxieties about this whole deal remain professional intimidation, as the four journalists I’m working with seem to universally trump me in the experience category. But everyone seems great so far, and I hardly expect that to be an issue.
I met Elvis, JHR’s Sierra Leone director, tonight at Paddy’s. It’s a 24-hour bar/restaurant in Freetown, on which the bar in Blood Diamond is based – supposedly quite the hub of activity for expats and locals alike. It was really enjoyable eating my garlic chicken dinner outside, on the water, though the stray cats were a bit of a nuisance. Regardless, it sounds like Paddy’s will be a frequent haunt for the JHR crew.
Elvis informed me that Radio Kalleone, where I’ll be working, is a station of mostly young men with a large sports (read: football, translate: soccer) interest, so that has at least curbed my anxiety – sounds like a place I’ll be able to fit in.
Anyway, can’t even begin to describe the myriad thoughts swimming through my head right now, so I’m going to shut down the laptop and get some much-needed sleep.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Forty-one
Forty-one. Forty-one hours until I board British Airways flight 0092 to Freetown, via London, England. Just 41 more hours of anticipation. It'll be almost two months to the day I received word that JHR wanted to send me.
I've said pretty much all my goodbyes. Hell, I've done more than my share, with seven official going-away parties under my belt and countless more one-on-one farewells.
But excessive though it all may seem, with a whopping 213 days between my departure and the end of my contract in Sierra Leone, I have a hunch every second spent with my beloved homeslices will be necessary to help me ward off homesickness. I'mma miss y'all. And thank you for making me feel so absurdly blessed in my final few weeks in Canada.
But for now, my attention shifts to a boatload of packing, a few beers with my pops and a presumably tearful airport goodbye from Mama Brown (though her anxiety has thankfully given way to increasing excitement for me over the last week).
Once I'm finally 'on the ground in Freetown', I'll try to throw together a short post to let everyone know the flights went alright. Let's fucking do this. One love.
I've said pretty much all my goodbyes. Hell, I've done more than my share, with seven official going-away parties under my belt and countless more one-on-one farewells.
But excessive though it all may seem, with a whopping 213 days between my departure and the end of my contract in Sierra Leone, I have a hunch every second spent with my beloved homeslices will be necessary to help me ward off homesickness. I'mma miss y'all. And thank you for making me feel so absurdly blessed in my final few weeks in Canada.
But for now, my attention shifts to a boatload of packing, a few beers with my pops and a presumably tearful airport goodbye from Mama Brown (though her anxiety has thankfully given way to increasing excitement for me over the last week).
Once I'm finally 'on the ground in Freetown', I'll try to throw together a short post to let everyone know the flights went alright. Let's fucking do this. One love.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
How accurate is accurate enough?
In a little over 12 hours, I will be taking in Mariatu Kamara's CIGI lecture, which I blogged about a couple weeks ago. Hopefully, I will be buying and beginning to read her book, The Bite of the Mango. So perhaps that's why my thoughts tonight have been dwelling on Ishmael Beah's more famous Sierra Leonean memoir, A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier, which I read about six weeks ago.
Or perhaps it's because I saw the Hunter S. Thompson documentary Gonzo this evening, and it's got me thinking about the role of writers and what lengths we must take to ensure the complete accuracy of everything we write - whether as journalists or writers of memoirs.
I chuckled when, during the movie, Thompson explains that he completely fabricated lies about a democratic candidate in the 1972 primaries being on illegal pyschedelic drugs throughout the campaign. Why? Well, he didn't like the guy and wanted Senator George McGovern to get the nomination (which he did).
Now, I definitely don't think most journalists should start acting like Thompson, even if his writing - in all its distorted, unapologetic, subjective glory - had more impact than most journalists can ever aspire to.
But what of the memoir writers? Current JHR volunteer Jared Ferrie wrote an excellent article (seriously, I normally don't care if you click on the links in this blog, but check this one out) about some of the accusations being leveled at Mr. Beah for alleged inaccuracies in his own memoir.
As Ferrie's article notes, the accusations quickly draw to mind the case of James Frey, whose addiction memoir A Million Little Pieces drew immense praise before some of it was exposed as fabrication and the author was quickly villified by the same people that weeks earlier had showered him with love (I'm looking at you, Oprah).
When that story broke, my good friend Michelle Pinchev wrote an editorial for The Cord that I loved, in which she questioned what difference it made whether Frey's story was 100% true.
To me, these memoirs don't derive their importance from their ability to hold up to a word-by-word fact-checking. I haven't read Frey's book, but it's about an out-of-control drug addict and I frankly wouldn't expect a pitch perfect retelling of his life story.
In Beah's case, I care even less. Whether the kid - and whether he was 12 or 15, he was still a kid, a kid who was fed cocaine and gunpowder and compelled to slaughter entire villages - was a child soldier for two months or two years is immaterial to me.
Either way, I feel his memoir is an accurate reflection of the experience of a notable segment of Civil War-era Sierra Leonean children, and the horrific details provide a glimpse to help outsiders understand just how truly devastating that period of the country's history was.
What'd you do as a kid? Most days, I played baseball with my best friend, sometimes mixing it up with mini-sticks instead. Didn't exactly leave me with the nightmares and guilt associated with being a harbinger of death. Do we really need to quibble over the exact details, as if to suggest Beah's trauma wasn't traumatic enough if it was only two months? I'm sure it felt more like two decades.
So, you know what? I look forward to Ms. Kamara's memoir with high hopes of an engaging read that will illuminate for me something about Sierra Leone's history. I just hope that no one at the talk tomorrow has come with hopes of poking insignificant holes in the story of one who has already suffered enough.
Editor's note: On a completely unrelated note, I went back and read Brandon's post about A Long Way Gone tonight. For an interesting discussion of the role of Western familiarity in this and other African literature, check it out.
Or perhaps it's because I saw the Hunter S. Thompson documentary Gonzo this evening, and it's got me thinking about the role of writers and what lengths we must take to ensure the complete accuracy of everything we write - whether as journalists or writers of memoirs.
I chuckled when, during the movie, Thompson explains that he completely fabricated lies about a democratic candidate in the 1972 primaries being on illegal pyschedelic drugs throughout the campaign. Why? Well, he didn't like the guy and wanted Senator George McGovern to get the nomination (which he did).
Now, I definitely don't think most journalists should start acting like Thompson, even if his writing - in all its distorted, unapologetic, subjective glory - had more impact than most journalists can ever aspire to.
But what of the memoir writers? Current JHR volunteer Jared Ferrie wrote an excellent article (seriously, I normally don't care if you click on the links in this blog, but check this one out) about some of the accusations being leveled at Mr. Beah for alleged inaccuracies in his own memoir.
The allegations that dog him revolve around inconsistencies uncovered by The Australian, which makes the following claims among others: The rebel attack that drove Beah from his village took place two years later than is claimed in the book; that means he would have spent about two months as a soldier when he was 15 and not two years beginning at age 12.
As Ferrie's article notes, the accusations quickly draw to mind the case of James Frey, whose addiction memoir A Million Little Pieces drew immense praise before some of it was exposed as fabrication and the author was quickly villified by the same people that weeks earlier had showered him with love (I'm looking at you, Oprah).
When that story broke, my good friend Michelle Pinchev wrote an editorial for The Cord that I loved, in which she questioned what difference it made whether Frey's story was 100% true.
To me, these memoirs don't derive their importance from their ability to hold up to a word-by-word fact-checking. I haven't read Frey's book, but it's about an out-of-control drug addict and I frankly wouldn't expect a pitch perfect retelling of his life story.
In Beah's case, I care even less. Whether the kid - and whether he was 12 or 15, he was still a kid, a kid who was fed cocaine and gunpowder and compelled to slaughter entire villages - was a child soldier for two months or two years is immaterial to me.
Either way, I feel his memoir is an accurate reflection of the experience of a notable segment of Civil War-era Sierra Leonean children, and the horrific details provide a glimpse to help outsiders understand just how truly devastating that period of the country's history was.
What'd you do as a kid? Most days, I played baseball with my best friend, sometimes mixing it up with mini-sticks instead. Didn't exactly leave me with the nightmares and guilt associated with being a harbinger of death. Do we really need to quibble over the exact details, as if to suggest Beah's trauma wasn't traumatic enough if it was only two months? I'm sure it felt more like two decades.
So, you know what? I look forward to Ms. Kamara's memoir with high hopes of an engaging read that will illuminate for me something about Sierra Leone's history. I just hope that no one at the talk tomorrow has come with hopes of poking insignificant holes in the story of one who has already suffered enough.
Editor's note: On a completely unrelated note, I went back and read Brandon's post about A Long Way Gone tonight. For an interesting discussion of the role of Western familiarity in this and other African literature, check it out.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Signing my life away - quite literally
Well, I just signed what will probably be the most interesting contract of my life. My favourite two excerpts:
And:
I love that phrasing - "Substantial rights." We're not just talking one or two here. I even had to have a witness corroborate that my signature was given free from duress.
Damn, that'd be concerning if the job was anywhere in North America. Funny how perspective works, eh?
I understand and acknowledge that the Overseas Position will take me out of my home country for an extended period of time. During this period, I understand that I will be in unfamiliar surroundings and will be exposed to risks to my person and possessions. I understand and acknowledge that I may suffer damage to my property, and/or suffer physical injury, illness or death. … I freely and voluntarily accept and assume all such risks, dangers and hazards.
And:
I HAVE READ THIS OVERSEAS EMPLOYMENT CONTRACT, RELEASE OF LIABILITY & INDEMNITY AGREEMENT, FULLY UNDERSTAND ITS TERMS, UNDERSTAND THAT I HAVE GIVEN UP SUBSTANTIAL RIGHTS BY SIGNING IT, AND HAVE SIGNED IT FREELY AND VOLUNTARILY WITHOUT ANY INDUCEMENT, ASSURANCE OR GUARANTEE BEING MADE TO ME …
I love that phrasing - "Substantial rights." We're not just talking one or two here. I even had to have a witness corroborate that my signature was given free from duress.
Damn, that'd be concerning if the job was anywhere in North America. Funny how perspective works, eh?
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