Fender benders and petty theft

I came to Sierra Leone fully expecting my time here to be a bit of a roller-coaster experience, with frustrating lows interspersed among euphoric highs. I was told to expect the first month to be a battle against culture shock, a difficult transition before what would no doubt be a great time on the whole.

Even when comparing travel resumes with my fellow JHR volunteers over beers during our first week, they expressed surprise at how limited mine was. I'd spent all of one day in my life outside the developed world, a day-trip to Havana to take a break from my all-inclusive resort.

"Well, everything else will seem pretty easy after this," surmised Patrick, my roommate who has lived a combined 2.5 years in Papau New Guinea and Zambia, among other international stays.

Needless to say, when the first month passed by with very little anxiety, the good days easily outnumbering the not so good, I was pretty stoked. Today, however, would mark one of the few brief dips in the line graph of awesomeness that has thus far charted my time in Freetown.

It likely didn't help that I started the day tired, having been up until 4 a.m. last night working on the distance ed. course that haunts me so. Nor were my spirits raised by the fact I didn't have enough free time to grab a meal until nearly 5 p.m.

But having co-produced two stories for the day, both falling directly within my human rights mandate, I was relatively pleased as I dragged my exhausted self from the office just before 7 p.m.

I wouldn't have time to make a stop at my place, but I should still be able to make it to Lumley Beach by 8 for dinner and drinks - a belated birthday celebration with Elvis, JHR's country director and SL renaissance man extraordinaire.

And yet I found myself calling one of my colleagues at 8:45 to inform them that, while I was still coming, it'd be at least another half hour before I got there. Dripping with the accrued sweat of a lengthy wait in yet another unmoving, overburdened poda-poda - though it fell well short of last week's 27-passenger load, the most I've been party to so far - I abandoned hope of catching a taxi from the Aberdeen junction and walked the 15 minutes to my house.

I changed into shorts and a t-shirt, gave myself a cursory cleaning and headed out again - weary, but very much looking forward to a drink with some friends. I was picked up by a poda-poda almost immediately, and even scored the rare luxury of the front seat - which provided a great view of the road rage that followed about 15 seconds later.

Our driver was cut off by a young punk in a taxi, and he didn't take especially kindly to the gesture, particularly when the offending cab promptly hammered on the brakes to pick up a young couple, obstructing the roadway in the process.

Naturally, our driver expressed his frustration eloquently and peacefully, his grill administering a love tap to the back of the taxi that sent it forward a few feet and brought its incensed owner out into Wilkinson Rd., a few choice words on his lips.

Three young men from our poda-poda promptly followed, one brandishing a metal weapon of some sort, to calmly explain just why our driver's action was justified. As angry drivers hung out of their windows to yell while they passed in the oncoming lane, I felt legitimately uneasy for the first time since arriving, though I was still pretty convinced what I was witnessing was nothing to be too concerned about.

Things blew over quickly, though the confrontation was long enough that one of the guys in the back of the poda-poda had time to hop up front with me. Turns out he should've been the cause of my unease.

I noted that he seemed to be sitting awfully close to me and suspicion crept in, causing me to lower my right arm to rest on my thigh, figuring that would send the message that my wallet was not to be fucked with. All the while, I felt a little foolish, given that every moment of suspicion I'd had to this point had been rendered completely baseless.

No longer the case. Though he never moved the arm closest to me, he deftly plucked at least one loose bill, maybe two, using his right hand before I put my hand directly into my pocket.

Reasoning to myself at the time that I wasn't 100% sure I'd seen him remove anything, I said nothing. I regret that now, as he definitely eased my monetary burden by about Le2000 and my silence cost me the chance to witness the meting out of the Sierra Leonean vigilante justice I've heard so much about.

Still, $0.60 is hardly the type of robbery to make a scene over, and I'd finally reached my destination, the Atlantic.

I strolled in to a beautiful beach side bar and restaurant. The ocean waves lapped against the shore less than 50 feet from the table I spotted my colleagues at. I smiled, told them I'd been robbed, and ordered a Beck's, which is quickly becoming my beer of choice.

To counteract the frustrations of the evening, I treated myself to my first steak since arriving here, and swapped stories of soul-sapping days with Bryna, both of us nonetheless smiling throughout. When dinner was over, I strolled onto the beach and watched a half dozen crabs scurrying about by the water's edge.

In what is becoming a common theme, the day's frustration was short-lived.