The long-awaited food post

Editor's note: I actually started writing this post at the beginning of November. It's just never seemed as urgent as the ones that have made it up before now. Apologies to Trish, Brubs, McKee, Andre, and anyone else to whom I promised this post was coming "shortly". Though I clearly lied to you, I assure you I never did so with malicious intent.


I've lived in Sierra Leone for 5.5 months and I've eaten food prepared in my home exactly once. Even then, I didn't cook it.

Depending on your perspective, this is either damn impressive or downright pathetic. I clearly choose the former. At this clip, I'll annihilate even my year of Pilot Pita, Subway, Pizza Pizza and Ethel's, when I still occasionally returned to K-town for a delicious homemade meal, or even made myself such culinary complexities as Campbell's Chunky soup.

But whether owing to or in spite of my one-man support of the world's restauranteurs, no one that knows me would ever accuse me of taking the topic of food lightly. Eating is a passion, one that often manifests itself in neurotic patterns of ingestion - as evidenced by my self-imposed challenge of sampling the entire Ethel's Lounge menu before my departure.

And the food of Sierra Leone has generally sat well with me.

In our first week, we were introduced to a bunch of Western-friendly joints in Freetown, the vast majority of them run by the country's Lebanese entrepreneurial class. Admittedly, these places are good to know, as they offer something a little more familiar to the palate that even the most well-adjusted expat needs on occasion.

That said, I find that they're mostly overpriced and their Western dishes are sub-par imitations of the real thing. For example, save for the heaven-sent Bliss Patisserie where I sometimes hunker down on weekends to revel in free electricity, I've yet to have a good hamburger in Sierra Leone. They appear on most menus, but all seem to have been unfortunately re-interpreted - always swimming in mayonnaise and/or coleslaw to the point that the bun disintegrates into saucy chaos.

After a couple failed forays elsewhere, I've resolved to stick with a bi-weekly Bliss Burger to sate my carnivorous impulses; otherwise I'll wait until I find my footing on Canadian soil, when my loyalties return with increased fervor to my old friends: the Harvey's double original bacon cheeseburger, the A&W mozza burger, and the Big Ethel (refer to page 3).

Ground meat debacles notwithstanding, I've really hit my stride with the food here and for every example of an item the country's cooks have yet to master, there's a corresponding dish with which they put Western chefs to shame.

Take rice. It's a cheap staple food, which is immediately enough to qualify it for ubiquity. And while I generally approach rice with all the enthusiasm of watching that frustratingly awful Most Extreme Elimination Challenge, most places here actually do it quite well.

First off, there's jollof rice, pictured below at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant named Nix Nax where I was eating up to five times a week a couple months back, and where my roommates and I are among the only white patrons. Such loyalty has nonetheless failed to earn me so much as a smile from the waitresses in this customer service-starved society.



For $2, you get a rice unlike anything back home, imbued with a semi-spicy flavour all its own, instead of merely taking on the taste of the food around it, as per rice's modus operandi.

And the spicy food doesn't end with the jollof. Potato leaves. Cassava leaves. Crain Crain. Groundnut stew. All come with rice and a healthy level of spice - nothing particularly overpowering, but enough to ensure that your tastebads are at least awake. (Sidenote: I have to question how healthy they are, as they never skimp on the oil, necessitating a careful wiping of the lips at the meal's conclusion.)

Cassava leaves and groundnut stew (shown below, in that order) are probably my two favourite Salone dishes. They're also the most prevalent, available for purchase at every 'chop house' in town.




Each dish inevitably comes with morcels of fish or beef/goat floating in the bowl, making vegetarianism nigh impossible here in SL. Given the nation's less-than-stellar treatment of our animal brethren, such an attitude of non-accommodation towards broccoli-heads (a term of endearment I apply to vegetarians because I agree with them on a philosophical level and lash out in my bitterness at not sharing their willpower) comes as little surprise.

There are other Salone dishes to be had, of course. Acheke (pronounced, as far as I can tell "aah-check-ay", though I've never seen it spelled the same way twice) is pretty popular, though it's about the only thing I've had here that I found disdainful. It seemed to me to be simply a mish-mash of erstwhile leftovers that complimented each other poorly. Yam pepper soup is another one that springs to mind, though with much more favourable rememberances.

Interestingly, I've found my moderate familiarity with the country's cuisine surprises many Sierra Leoneans. I've had co-workers and random friends on the street ask me with a glib smile if I've ever tried cassava leaves and look somewhat astonished when I say I love them and eat 'em all the time, then begin listing off my other favourites.

Precisely why this comes as a surprise I'm not yet sure. Eating local cuisine seems to me like one of the easiest ways to connect to a culture, and I hope the reason some Sierra Leoneans are surprised is not because many of my white predecessors have shunned the country's culinary tradition. The food here has its definite flaws - such as the frequency with which you inadvertently chomp down on a sliver of bone or even a pebble - but it certainly deserves a sampling.

Outside of Nix Nax and the other chop houses, my familiar haunts include Delightful Fast Food, which serves lots of African cuisine as well as a decent chicken and chips; Montana's, home to the best pizza in Freetown; and my much-lauded Senegalese restaurant, where everybody knows my name and I their's (Emile, Christoph, Pascal, Fatu, Sheku, and Haja/Kairie).

Senegalese is another hybrid joint serving African cuisine, though I generally opt for their succulent roast meat or grilled fish (pictured below, with fried plantains, a sweet delicacy).




And that segues nicely into two other areas Freetown dominates the kitchen's back home: fruit and fish. Fruits - bananas, oranges, mangos, papayas - are predictably bursting with flavour, juicy and tropically delicious. But it's the seafood that really blew me away.

Back home, save for mussels, I generally work on the assumption I don't like seafood. Turns out that's only 'cause I don't live by the sea. All along the Western peninsula, crab, lobster, barracuda and bonita are served up as an affordable feast, and I've become a full-on convert - though I think this newfound appreciation will die a tragic death if I sample surf fare in southwestern Ontario.

But for all its strengths, there is one glaringly obvious elephant in the room amidst my laudatory treatment of Freetown cuisine: variety. There is none. If you're staying in Freetown for three months or less, it's very easy to enjoy Salone food. But beyond that, it starts to get stale pretty quickly. Cassava, groundnut, jollof, repeat. That's a lot of rice. If you're living in the provinces, I imagine the period before ennui sets in is halved.

The lack of choice extends even to the beverage market. My consumption of pop has skyrocketed in Salone, after I had nearly excised it from my diet with an atypically effective New Year's resolution back in '07. Other options are sorely lacking.

Even this carbonated playing field is sparsely populated. Coke rules the thirst-quenching arena as an undisputed champion, Sprite and Fanta (so far I've tried orange, strawberry, grape, lemon, apple, pineapple, tropical cocktail and cider - refer to list-completion neurosis alluded to earlier) serving as faithful underlings in the land Pepsi products forgot about (at the peril of their global profit margins, I might add).

The fact these beverages are still served in those badass, old-school glass bottles is a hollow consolation most days (though, let's be honest, some days I get pretty amped up about it).

Though I have no solutions for the beverage boredom, I've been casting my lot with the Lebanese in recent weeks, attempting to enliven my diet with the shawarmas, kous kous, makanek and hommous of places like Downtown and the uninspired yet temptingly close Basha Bakery.

Mostly, though, I've found myself dreaming ever more salaciously of a Canadian culinary coming home, haunted by visions of the Ethel's chorizo flambado, Subway's chicken and bacon ranch, Currie's curry, homemade fajitas and fettucini alfredo, and of course Bonnie Brown's world famous chocolate chip cookies.

Ah yes. This is what homesickness tastes like.

Malaria?

Both Rebecca and one of the Americans we met, Albert from New Jersey, contracted malaria ... Though I worried I'd suffer a similar fate, having not had the option of sleeping under mosquito nets most nights, I seem to have dodged that particular bullet (knock on wood).

It seems I spoke too soon. Thursday night, I went to bed around 3 a.m., feeling good after a fairly productive night. By 4:30, I awoke with chills so severe I turned off my fan and donned my Willison Hall sweater. An hour later, I was making repeated visits to the washroom and by 6:30 I was retching into a bucket beside my bed. When Patrick and Bryna woke up, I walked from my room to the living room - about 15 feet - and almost collapsed from the effort.

Most attacks of malaria start suddenly. The patient feels unwell and feverish with headache (often severe), aches and pains (including backache and pain in the muscles), mild nausea, and loss of appetite. Symptoms often mimic those of 'flu' but without the running nose and sore throat of true influenza.

Severe teeth-rattling, bed-shaking chills, followed over the space of a few hours by high fever, profuse sweating, and exhaustion are classic features of the malarial paroxysm. Other symptoms include a dry cough, dizziness, or faintness (especially on attempting to stand up), nausea, vomitting, stomach ache, and diarrhoea. Most travellers will feel too ill, weak, and exhausted to get out of bed while the attack is on.

- "Traveller's Health: How To Stay Healthy Abroad" by Dr. Richard Dawood

Oh, did I mention that shortly after getting out of bed, I developed a fever and a pounding headache? Or that the only thing I ate all day yesterday was a piece of pita bread - which I left two-thirds unfinished? All signs pointed to a textbook case of malaria.

Though my roommate Patrick gave me his malaria treatment and suggested I start taking it immediately, I decided to venture downtown and have tests done at an expensive but allegedly reliable clinic. The doctor put me on symptomatic treatment and said we'd wait for the results before we did anything else.

But when the chills returned yesterday evening marking the seeming onset of another attack of this typically cyclical disease, I decided to start the malaria treatment anyway, knowing that there were little to no side effects even if I didn't have malaria.

When I got my lab results this morning, everything came back negative. But listening to my symptoms of the previous evening, the doctor informed me that false negatives for malaria are very common, and the doxycycline I'm taking could be obscuring the results. She suggested taking the malarial meds anyway, just to be safe.

Being on doxycycline also apparently makes the symptoms of malaria way less severe when you do contract the disease (doxy being only 90-95% effective). Assuming what I've been experiencing is malaria, I shudder to think what it would have been like without that anti-malarial buffer.

Overall, I've taken any threats to my health here very seriously, expending many hours on diagnoses and treatments over the last couple weeks alone. I'm still making daily visits to Solo B about the burn on my leg, and he says daily treatment will continue to be necessary for at least another week (the photo below shows progress as of Thursday, though I don't think the photos really show how deep the burn went). Turns out I really did some damage.


With both my leg and my recent illness, the medical practitioners I've been visiting seem to know what they're talking about, so I'm fairly confident all will end up okay. But I definitely have a growing appreciation for the Canadian health care system. Here, even when my diagnosis sounds utterly reasonable and is probably correct, I can't seem to push the country's abysmal health sector statistics from the back of my mind, leaving me mildly terrified.

Over the last two days, I've been thinking back to a discussion I had with my colleagues over a couple beers on one of our first evenings in Freetown about this potentially fatal illness, and how flabbergasted I was by their flippant attitudes towards it. Patrick confided that he'd had malaria three times, yet was still not bothering to take anti-malarials. Kari, who had more experience on the sub-continent than anyone else in our group, had also passed on meds.

Five months later, while I still think anti-malarials are worthwhile, I can understand their attitude a little more. I think being in Africa actually makes malaria significantly less scary, precisely because it's so commonplace. Most locals cannot even count the number of times they've had malaria, and are more likely to show sympathy or concern if you have a sprained ankle.

And because of the high prevalence, it's the first thing people look for when any of the symptoms appear. Where you get into trouble is when you're not looking for it and it's misdiagnosed.

In any case, I've now taken two-thirds of the malaria treatment and am feeling significantly better than I was 36 hours ago. I expect to be back to work on Monday.

And this whole process is serving as something of an edifier in how manageable even the diseases deemed most frightening by Westerners can be, provided you're educated enough to identify the symptoms and affluent enough to afford the $10 treatment, making it all the more tragic that two million people die of malaria every year.


Editor's note: This entry was written while monitoring the live scoreboard of the Villanova-Pittsburgh game, and I'd just like to go ahead and profess my undying love for Scottie Reynolds for hitting that final shot. Pathetic as it may sound, missing March Madness has been one of the toughest aspects of being in Sierra Leone. I may need to enlist someone to provide me updates for next weekend's Final Four game. Go 'Nova!

West African travel trials

After my post about the recent Liberia-Guinea overland trip, I would understand if my readers felt a strong pull to retrace my journey. Indeed, I'm tempted to urge anyone and everyone in that direction, so amazing was my experience.

But I also recognize that such unconventional travel itineraries aren't likely for everyone, and my last post certainly focused solely on what went right about my trip. In reality, West African travel is also inextricably linked to the type of dangers, delays and disappointments that would drive some travelers to the brink.

In the interest of full disclosure, and to avoid becoming the type of travel writer that morphs every experience into the type of 'quaint' or 'charming' experience that the travel industry so adores, here's a sampling of some of the less savoury aspects of my journey:


1. Bribes and scam artists: All in all, I expected to pay more bribes than I had to, but corruption and its attendant hassles are still omnipresent in this region. The border crossing between Sierra Leone and Liberia was lined with a mind-boggling number of checkpoints - I'd guess 15 - and the passages between Liberia-Guinea and Guinea-Sierra Leone were not much better.

Even within Guinea, we frequently had to present our passports for inspection; it was the equivalent of being stopped four times on a trip from Waterloo to Ottawa.

The reason is simple. Most men and women in uniform make a living on the money they extort from travelers. Many of them are probably long overdue for their last official paycheque and, to be fair, I managed to get through most checkpoints without parting with my cash.

But no matter how insignificant the amount, I think I will always be off-put by anyone who feels a sense of entitlement for rendering either poor service or no service at all. For me, it's a matter of principle, not practicality. Which is why I found our trip to Iles de Los a tad frustrating.

Craig, Bryna, Patrick and I chartered a pirogue to the island for the day. By local standards, we paid our boatman very well to do so. And yet, within minutes of arriving on the island, he was already asking how much longer we'd want to stay and insisting we leave within two hours. Even after I'd clarified that in exchange for our fee, we would dictate when the boat left.

Then, after we did leave within his preferred time-frame, he had the nerve to add six paying passengers to our chartered boat, and drove at about 5 km/hour to conserve fuel.

When we made a small show of the fact that we shouldn't have to pay our full fare given that he hadn't upheld any of the tenets of our agreement, he gave us a downcast look of astonishment as though we were heartlessly trying to deprive him of his livelihood. Angry, I removed myself from the situation and left Craig and his fluent French to negotiate, but the man ultimately got his full fare less a dollar.

To be clear, the whole thing cost something like $27, split four ways. The money was not important to me. Especially on vacation, I'm not one to let money be a deterrent in what I do and I'm quick to tip anyone who delivers the service they've promised and does so well - even more so in a society where that's such a rarity. But I find it extremely frustrating when someone knowingly tries to rip you off just because they think they can.

That's probably why I was so impressed with Rebecca's moral stand against a group of corrupt guards in Guinea. As we rolled through their sleepy and entirely redundant security checkpoint around midnight, a soldier informed us we didn't have the proper papers to pass through and would have to pay a fee of 30,000 Guinean Francs (roughly $6).

Rebecca disagreed, correctly pointing out that we had all the necessary visas and proof of vaccination. She even had a personal letter from the Guinean Embassy in Liberia. The following conversation ensued:

Soldier, with impressive firearm in hand: "Get out of the car."
Rebecca: "Why?"
Solider: "Get out of the car."
Rebecca: "No."
(Repeat, at least three times)

Seeing that Rebecca was not threatened by his authority, the soldier simply left us to languish. A stalemate ensued, and after an hour of sitting there, the soldier let us through. I think our driver gave him something small, but given that it was far too late for us to do anything other than crash anyway, I was proud of my travel buddy for sending the message that foreigners can't constantly be made to hand over money just because someone feels like having money handed over to them.

All that being said, I did admire their creative tactics for extorting money. While crossing from Sierra Leone to Liberia, there seemed to be three preferred methods, all of which were more nuanced than the blunt orders of "Give me five thousand" I'd been inundated with in Kenema.

The first tactic hinges upon a quick perusal of your "particulars" (passport), followed by a welcome and the assertion, "You are my friend." The logic seems to be that friends share: "My money's your money, your money's my money, but since I have no money, mostly just your money's my money. Hey - speaking of which, give me some money."

The implication of not being corrupt is also popular. Under this strategy, upon finishing their inspection, the officers make a big show of how they're not going to extort any money from you: "No, sir, not going to ask you for money. Of course, should you decide independently that you'd like to reward this noble behaviour, we wouldn't be opposed - and hey, would you look at that? I still have your passport. Funny, that."

But I think my favourite approach was that of the more subtle officers. After writing down the details of your passport for no discernible reason, these officers resort to obvious statements and expectant body language, awkwardly saying things like, "Well ... this is the office."

I like to respond by feigning ignorance that they would even expect a kickback, saying something like, "Yeah, it's really nice. Hey, thanks for all your help" as I reach expectantly for my passport. Sometimes, surprised by your seeming ignorance of a widely-understood practice of corruption, they'll simply hand it over with a confused look.


2. Delays, delays, and more delays: In West Africa, patience is not a virtue; it's an absolute necessity.

Obviously, myriad checkpoints and bribe-thirsty officials can cause slowdowns, but they're unfortunately only one form of delay. Most others concern methods of transportation.

Since we didn't have our own vehicle, we were left to get around exclusively using public transportation. The thing is, taxis and podas do not leave until they're full, and they can often take hours to fill. What's more is that you'll never really know for sure how long this process is going to take.

As we waited on our poda from Lola to N'zerekore to fill up, the driver told us it would be 10 minutes. After 40, I asked him why we hadn't left yet since we had more than the 12 people he said we needed and his definition of 10 minutes was quickly losing credibility. He simply laughed. We ended up waiting 90 minutes to depart.

And even when they do leave, there's no guarantee that means you'll be reaching your destination anytime soon. Guinea is, as far as I can tell, one giant vehicular graveyard. Though every vehicle on the road in Sierra Leone looks poised for its untimely end, I have miraculously yet to experience a major breakdown on Salone roads. In less than two weeks in Guinea, I was party to four, even though the roads are generally better.

And, perhaps because the odds of actually reaching one's destination are anyone's guess, you have to pay upfront in Guinea. This policy brought about a rather heated exchange on the road from Mamou to Dalaba, a trip that should be easily doable in an hour. After an hour and a half during which our car had not exceeded 20 km/h and our driver had stopped, ostensibly to fix it, a dozen times, I was fed up with him.

Rebecca and I removed our stuff and flagged down another car. We then demanded at least a partial return of our fare, given that it had been taken on the pretense that our driver had a serviceable vehicle with which to take us to Dalaba.

There's something thoroughly frustrating about attempting to express anger and disgust in a language you don't really know, and I eventually resorted to yelling in an English-French hybrid (though I managed "Tu est un criminel!" and "Ton voiture est merde"), assuming my agitated voice and wild gesticulating would effectively convey the idea that I was less than thrilled with his service. But it got us nowhere in terms of a refund.

Ultimately, the only real way to ensure the timely departure of your vehicle is to either pay for every seat, which gets expensive fast, or take motorcycles, which comes with a whole host of other concerns - but we'll come to that in due time.


3. Welcome to Monrovia: Partly as a function of the above two points, including an incompetent motortaxi driver that showed up an hour late, a 40-minute squabble with corrupt Liberian DEA officials, and navigating around both a fatal truck accident and a bridge under construction, my best efforts to arrive in Monrovia before sundown on day two of my adventure went unfulfilled.

To further exacerbate the situation, 45 minutes spent attempting to contact Rebecca for directions to her place, as per our agreed-upon plan, had proved ineffective (I would later learn she'd been tied up with a phone call from her parents) and my taxi driver wanted to know where to let me off. Thank God for the kindness of strangers.

One of the women I'd shared a taxi from the border with took especial interest in my predicament and, in a show of impressive altruism, got out on a street corner with me, insisting as though I were her own son that she "couldn't just leave me in the streets". She called her brother, who came and picked up all her luggage, and then continued to phone Rebecca, eventually getting through. But not before I became quite conspicuous in downtown Monrovia.

Almost immediately after exiting the cab, an older man who was sitting against a brick wall began insisting on seeing my passport, lest he take me to immigration. My newly-minted guardian angel, Rosetta, told me in no uncertain terms not to show this uncredentialed man my passport and informed him that she'd witnessed me go through customs (though that was stretching the truth, since there had been no one at the customs office when I came through and an official there waved me through sans search).

A crowd gathered. Though I didn't really understand their Liberian-English discussion, as the crowd grew to 20, I got the impression most of those in it were on my side, but nonetheless felt uneasy as I backed up the steps of a closed storefront until my back was quite literally against a brick wall.

Fortunately, at this point, Rosetta got through to Rebecca and whisked me away into a cab. Shortly thereafter, I arrived to Rebecca's compound and gave Rosetta $25 for her trouble, as well as my sincere and profound thanks.

My friend Josh recently questioned how you can "really get to know yourself without being alone and afraid from time to time." After my experience rolling into a city of ill repute after dark, I feel as though I've met my quota for fear-inspired self-enlightenment for a while.


4. The Koladou Vine Bridge Incident: Though perhaps not as disastrous as The Spaghetti Incident, I have little doubt this episode will go down as one of the most memorable parts of an all-around memorable trip.

Having arrived in Kissidougou at around 1 a.m. the previous night, after a day of elephant tracking in which Rebecca and I had sustained ourselves on a loaf of bread with cream cheese, we were understandably exhausted.

As such, we allowed ourselves the rare luxuries of sleeping in and consuming a solid meal, agreeing to have a relatively low-key day. The plan was to visit the Koladou vine bridge, which - according to our trusty sidekick, LP (Lonely Planet) - hung above some rapids. But little Koladou would prove to be an elusive little spot.

After hiring a pair of young motorbike-taxis who seemed to know the village we spoke of, we set off in the early afternoon. They did not, in fact, know the village we spoke of.

To be fair, though, Guinea has done a really bad job of naming its cities and towns so as to avoid confusion. Almost everything ends in "ou" and places like Korodou happen to be in the same vicinity as our sought-after destination of Koladou.

After much discussion with a wide assortment of Korodou's natives, who seemed to take it as no affront that their town was not our intended destination, we set off and, after another three or four missteps, a broken-down bike, and about three hours, we finally found little Koladou.

The village came out to celebrate. Our arrival, it seemed, was the event of the year.

To get an idea of how far off the beaten path we were, let me just note that Koladou was only 30 km from our jump-off point of Kissidougou and yet virtually no one there had heard of it. The so-called road to Koladou was about 2 m wide in some places and wove between the huts of neighbouring villages in others.

Within a minute of our arrival, we found ourselves surrounded by Blafrickans young and old. We explained that we wanted to see the river, and they helpfully set off to show us the way. All of them.

As I paused halfway across a fallen log over the river to take a photo, I was hurled squarely into the surreal, turning to see a line of people stretching back across the log to the riverbank and up into the bush.

Ultimately, Koladou was a disappointment - well, sort of. The rapids were nowhere to be seen along this alleged river, which in reality was little more than a slow-moving stream. And as I looked at a wretched tangle of vines crashing haphazardly into the middle of the stream (below) and it sunk in that this was the landmark we'd just exhausted hours in search of, I'd be lying to say my spirits didn't dip a little. But my disappointment was fleeting.



What Rebecca and I found on that day was by no means what we'd set out to see. My hopeful visions of a mammoth vine bridge suspended dramatically 100 m above roaring rapids were hilariously off-base.

But rather than allow that disappointment to become a source of frustration, we just smiled meekly and reveled in the process instead, knowing that our day had nonetheless been a unique and memorable experience that simply yielded rewards of a different kind - in the grins and laughter of young children, rather than the raw power and beauty of nature.



It was on days like this that I was especially grateful to have as awesome a travel partner as Rebecca. I think most people would have become grumpy or angry on a journey with so many wrong turns and unfulfilled expectations.

But travel in West Africa cannot be truly enjoyed without persistent positivity and unflappable flexibility, and Rebecca possesses both attributes in spades. I will be forever indebted to her for not only suggesting this trip and doing most of the organizing, but also for being an absolute joy to share it with.

We had so many good conversations along the way that I would argue no one I've met since leaving Canada knows me better, and I'm pretty sure I could place her in a room with any 10 randomly selected friends and she could have them all identified and provide detailed stories about them within five minutes. Turns out I talk about my friends a lot. Weird.


5. My accidental African tattoo: For all the trials of finding Koladou, returning to Kissidougou would prove just as difficult.

Rebecca and I both ride motorcycle taxis far more regularly than most expats. To travel extensively in the remote parts of West Africa, one pretty much has to cultivate such a familiarity. But many people still question our wisdom on account of our willingness to use this method of transport, and the return to Kissidougou would illustrate why.

Though my driver was actually better than many of the other ones we'd used on the trip previously, even the best riders are occasionally bested by roads as non-existent as the one to Koladou, and so it was that I had my very first motorcycle accident.

Fortunately, we were traveling at low speeds when the bike struck a large rock and sent us both to the dirt, meaning no broken bones or meddlesome head injuries. In terms of structural damage, I merely re-aggravated a bad ankle sprain that I sustained and then worsened during the Selects' epic playoff run of '08.

Last fall, I stubbornly played through the injury with the help of painkillers and frequent icing, and I wasn't about to let it slow down my vacation plans now either. In spite of myself, I managed to soldier through many hours of fairly intensive hiking through the slot canyons, waterfalls, and otherwise rigorous terrain that characterized the four days immediately following my accident.

Alas, the tumble also yielded a more serious, surface level injury. When we took our spill, my right leg was pinned under the bike, with the white-hot exhaust pipe searing into my tender flesh for close to ten seconds, leaving me badly burned.

Once my driver got the bike off my leg, I leaned back and closed my eyes in pain, looking up just in time to see him pour something into the wound. Screaming at him to stop administering what appeared to be motor oil, I sent him to find Rebecca and bring her back. While I waited, I passed the time taking photos of the gruesome injury.



Fortunately, Rebecca had medical supplies on hand and, exercising caution and care that could only be described as antithetical to my normally cavalier attitude towards my own well-being, I sanitized my hands before thoroughly cleaning the wound with alcohol swabs - an exercise that's always good for discovering creative new twists on the profane.

Upon reaching Kissidougou, we purchased iodine, gauze and medical burn patches, with which I would attempt to stave off infection until I reached Conakry.

The moral: even in the sweltering heat of midday in sub-Saharan Africa, never get on a motorbike without long pants.


6. An ankle the size of my waist: Three days after my fall, it was time for Rebecca and I to part ways, as she returned to Liberia and I set my sights on Conakry. Finding myself with a day's grace before I was supposed to meet Bryna, Patrick and Craig there, and knowing that waiting a day would allow me a relatively hassle-free trip in a taxi shared with the five Americans I met in Doucki, I decided to cast my lot with a septet of snake-bitten Yanks for the intervening day.

This was a group who had encountered rotten luck at every turn of their journey from Dakar to Pita, via Mali-ville. They were running a downright impressive rate of broken-down vehicles that hovered around 80%. And their spirits were understandably sagging.

But they wanted to do a day trip to les Chutes de Kambadaga and, having only given it a cursory glance in a fly-by 15-minute stop the previous night, I thought giving it its due reverence seemed like a day well spent. It wouldn't take long for my hitherto excellent fortunes to turn sour.

We were on the road only briefly before vehicular impropriety struck again, and when it became clear that the vehicle wouldn't be restarting anytime soon, we decided to walk the rest of the way to the falls.

Unsure of where I'd be spending the night, I had all my possessions strapped to my back, which made for an exhausting 2.5-hour hike, though I had some good conversations about South Africa with Mark from Boston and about travel more generally with the unshakeably positive Virginia from New York.

About half-way to the river, our posse was joined by a 23-year-old Guinean with a gun slung over his shoulder. As far as I was concerned, this man gave off no threatening vibes, and I reasoned that he was on his way to do some hunting, but some of my American cohorts became uneasy.

In the end, he would prove an invaluable guide in aiding us to access the third waterfall and when we asked how much money he would expect in exchange, he brushed off the suggestion, saying something to the effect of, "We are all part of the universal brotherhood of humanity" to explain his lack of economic opportunism.

I thought it was a poetic illustration of the fact that, in spite of rampant Western concerns to the contrary, the overwhelming majority of strangers are well-meaning and helpful sorts.

With the help of our perceived executioner-cum-helpful guide, we arrived at the base of a spectacular waterfall and I once again found myself exercising an atypical show of restraint, sitting on the sidelines as my new friends all went for a dip in the refreshing waters, leery of facilitating a serious infection.

My attempt at caution failed miserably. Stepping across a seemingly stable stone path, one rolled loose and sent me into the shallow waters. My foot was soaked, as were the cell phone and camera in my pockets. I jumped from the water and quickly removed the memory cards and batteries from my camera and cell, and set them aside to dry, but I assumed the worst. It was my turn to be dispirited.

Luckily, neither was damaged and I didn't lose any photos of my trip. But I was not so fortunate with my burn. By the time I arrived to the guest house in Conakry the next night, limping badly after a 'Welcome to Monrovia'-esque arrival into the city, my ankle was as swollen as it's ever been. My Freetown colleagues reacted with understandable revulsion as I unwrapped the gauze to reveal my wound.



Now, before I'm inundated with a chorus of concern from my dear readers, let me assure you that I have been very diligent in tending to this injury. I sought out the best clinic in Conakry the next morning and shelled out $50 for a consultation, a sadistic scrubbing of the wound to deal with the infection, and a six-day treatment of Oxacillin.

Since returning to Freetown, I have made daily visits to Connaught Hospital's top medical man, Solo B, for changes to the dressing, and more than two weeks after the accident, I'm starting to see some progress. Visions of a gangrene-necessitated amputation are fading quickly from my paranoid mind.

And, as many friends here have pointed out, the burn looks likely to result in a scar that bears a striking semblance to a map of Africa. If that's the most dire long-term implication of my trip, then at least it was cheaper than a tattoo and comes with a considerably more badass story.


Frankly, in terms of potential deterrents to travel in West Africa, I could go on. Both Rebecca and one of the Americans we met, Albert from New Jersey, contracted malaria, for example. Though I worried I'd suffer a similar fate, having not had the option of sleeping under mosquito nets most nights, I seem to have dodged that particular bullet (knock on wood).

And then there was the bizarre situation Rebecca encountered the night we spent in Dalaba, in the home of a friendly local man named Monsieur Barrie. In a typical show of African hospitality, he had his wife prepare us dinner and breakfast, and put us up in a large room that I presume was normally his own, with nary a mention of recompense. At least from his lips.

The next morning, our host's dimunitive wife walked in on Rebecca in the outhouse and begged her for money, pleading that we not mention it to her husband. Reasoning that she'd probably been expected to feed us without any increase in her food budget, we happily obliged, and she scurried off to hide the cash without delay. Although strange and uncomfortable, it was the type of experience you just can't get at a five-star hotel in Las Vegas.

Ultimately, vacations in non-tourist destinations are a lot of things, and 'easy' is definitely not one of them. But in spite of the trials that often go hand-in-hand with such travel - and in some ways, even because of them - I think traveling in unspoiled locales is a profoundly rewarding experience.

There is an immense thrill in pursuing adventures that you know very few people will ever undertake, such as coming face-to-face with Bossou's chimpanzees, who receive only about 50 visitors per annum.

That said, I don't hate conventional travel destinations either. Times Square, for example, is about as touristy as it gets and, while I'm glad I spent minimal time there when I visited NYC in the summer of '07, I'm also glad I saw it. For me, it carries a symbolic significance as a representation of North American excess and its flashy, style-over-substance ADD culture.

More generally, I think one can learn a lot of interesting things about our society based on the tourism destinations that we make popular. In the end, I think I'm merely an advocate of accumulating as many experiences as possible and maintaining a positive attitude regardless of what you encounter.

But if you've got West African travel on the brain, pause for a second and reflect on whether stumbling blocks like those outlined above would ruin a trip for you. Hopefully, the answer's no and you'll have the unique pleasure of visiting an area that has yielded my most rewarding travel experience to date.

Trip of a lifetime

... And I'm back. I arrived home to Freetown two nights ago after an absolutely exhausting yet intensely rewarding vacation to Guinea and Liberia. I would be remiss to even attempt to fully encapsulate the awesomeness of this experience in one post, but here's a taste.

In the past 2.5 weeks, I have:

1. Traveled by foot, motorcycle-taxi, shared taxi, poda-poda, and even with a bunch of SL soldiers in the back of a RSLAF military truck, covering hundreds of kilometers a day. I hit three West African capitals, from Freetown to Monrovia to Conakry and back to Freetown, stopping in a number of small Guinean towns and villages along the way (N'zerekore, Lola, Bossou, Seredou, Macenta, Kissidougou, Mamou, Dalaba, Doucki, and Pita).


2. Spent an afternoon tracking wild West African chimpanzees in Bossou, eventually finding eight of the area's 13 known primates.


The photo below is the best shot I managed, taken as the smallest of the chimps took to the trees and swung towards us.


I'm still not sure whether he merely enjoyed having an audience or was testing to see if I would back down and bow to his authority over the territory. I did, but I was so enraptured snapping photos as our friend strode along the branch, causing it to bend down towards me (that photo is taken sans zoom) that I only heard our guide call twice for me to back away. Rebecca later informed me he'd said it six or seven times.

3. Visited the Pont Naturelle, a naturally occurring rock bridge in the middle of a small stream.



Here, we chilled briefly and wound down from the exertion of our chimp tracking with some Skol beer, the most prevalent brand in Guinea.



On our return to Lola, we bypassed Mount Nimba, the country's highest peak.



4. Downed a local concoction consisting of gin and Guinness (in the interest of an early morning start, I took only two shots in my beer, as opposed to the standard four) in the only bar in little Lola over a conversation in an entertaining mish-mash of French and English, while the men of this predominately Muslim nation reacted with horror when Rebecca proved the unthinkable - that a woman can, in fact, drink Guinness.

5. Tracked wild elephants in the Foret Classee de Ziama, near Seredou (pictured below), though not until after a delay brought on by our "guide" showing up an hour late, reeking of palm wine (at 7 a.m.).



Fortunately, he hired a new guide and while it was frustrating that the initial guy refused to pay this new guide in spite of the fact that he'd been well paid to render essentially no service, it was nonetheless nice to have someone competent helming our five-hour trek through dense forest.



Using a machete, he expertly cut a swath through the jungle-like brush and, when our palm wine drinkard started in fear as we crossed paths with a snake, he adeptly wheeled on his heels and sliced the serpent in half.



In the end, we did not catch a glimpse of the elephants, but the experience was still absolutely worth it. We spent the last three hours of the trek hot on the trail of at least one elephant, as evidenced by fresh tracks (below) and a steaming pile of dung, which our guide estimated was about five minutes old.



I'd guess we came within about 30m of the mammoth mammals, as we could hear them quite clearly. Alas, with dried leaves coating the forest floor, the elephants heard us as well and stampeded off whenever we got close, leaving us with nothing to show for our efforts except for wet shoes from wading through marshes.

Well, that's not entirely true. Wearing shorts in an effort to minimize the torrents of sweat I'd unleashed during the chimp tracking, I was also fortunate enough to have shredded legs from the thorny brush and a cornucopia of bites from the frequent onslaught of red ants. Still, the thrill of the chase was amazing.

6. Took a day trip to les Chutes de Ditinn, a breathtaking waterfall that had to be at least 80m tall. I can only imagine what it must look like during the rainy season, when our guide said the pool at the bottom gets about 20 feet deeper.





7. Spent an afternoon chilling in hammocks with a middle-aged Dutch musician named Henk who was in the midst of a two-month trip through Senegal, The Gambia, Guinea and Mali, before sleeping in a traditional Peul mud hut.



8. Tuned out the voices around me as I stared out across a breathtaking abyss of slot canyons on a moonlight hike of spiritual proportions, the wind swirling around me providing a tranquil soundtrack for the spectacle.

9. Became friends with a group of five American college juniors studying abroad in Dakar, while undertaking a rigorous hike through "Guinea's Grand Canyon."


Though I've never been to the actual Grand Canyon, hiking these slot canyons in the Fouta Djalon region certainly yielded its fair share of awe-inspiring views, such as the one pictured below, in which Dantel from the Bay Area peers over the edge of an immense cliff face.


We also stopped by a pleasant waterfall, where our guide, the infamous Hassan Bah, chilled out in a scene straight from The Jungle Book.


And to top it off, we checked out some of the area's caves (pictured below, featuring Henk) and hiked up a cliff face so steep I think it qualified as borderline rock climbing - all while I favoured a sprained ankle (more on that in the next post), Rebecca limped along on a twisted knee, and Emily from Tennessee battled heat exhaustion.



10. Experienced a very "small world" moment upon leaving our new friends in Doucki, only to encounter seven of their colleagues when we checked into a hostel in Pita, where we relaxed and shared travel experiences over Skol beers and rum and Fanta.

11. Crossed a rickety bridge in the vine-style, as part of a day-trip with this second group of Americans to the impressive, three-tiered Chutes de Kambadaga.





12. Feasted on a little slice of Paris in the heart of downtown Conakry. Though the name of Le Conakry may be uninspired, the complete reverse is true of the menu. For the unbeatable price of $9, I dined on a delectable three-course lunch of avocado vinaigrette, veal, and creme caramel au rhum (heavy on the rum), with a Flag beer. Good luck finding that in Freetown.

13. Sampled Guinea's stellar music scene, which easily ranks among the best on the continent, with an intimate night of world-class jazz at Chez Francis.



Sitting in the shade of tall trees as waves crashed onto the beach just feet away, we were among the 20 or so people treated to a performance by veterans of the Conakry nightlife scene, including one singer whose resume boasts a host of international appearances, the Montreal Jazz Festival among them. Again, not something that's readily available in my current hometown.

14. Relaxed on the beaches of Iles de Los, after a 45-minute ride in a pirogue (dug-out canoe). Okay, so beaches are one area where Freetown totally wins, but when you cite chilling on beaches like the one below as one of the major disappointments of a trip, let's just say you don't have the biggest problems in the world.



15. Did it all for less than $700.


Have I mentioned lately how much I love my life?

And I'm out ...

... for two weeks, give or take.

As part of my JHR contract, I'm granted three weeks of vacation time throughout my seven months. Thing is, I haven't yet touched mine, in part because of the anxiety I mentioned in the last post about missing the Special Court's RUF verdict.

And, to be honest, I think I need a vacation. Though I'm pretty confident I haven't allowed it to show outwardly, I've definitely found myself more easily frustrated in recent weeks when things at Kalleone don't always go smoothly.

So, dear readers, I'm afraid we must part ways for a brief but torrid love affair with other past-times. Hopefully, the comparative glut of content over the past week, and the knowledge that I'm out gathering more interesting tales to tell, will be enough to tide you over.

Through the magic of delayed posting, I'm actually already in Liberia. Pretty nifty, eh? Yesterday, after running a wildly successful workshop at Kalleone on concise script-writing (Go figure, eh? Not likely something many people would accuse me of being an expert in), I hopped a taxi to Kenema, in the south-east of Sierra Leone. Man, that was good times (I presume).

This morning, I made the rest of the trip to Monrovia, where I've met up with the Liberian JHR contingent and my friend Rebecca, the American student who was living with Bremen and Kevin in 19 Smartfarm's lower flat when I first arrived in SL.

From Monrovia, we have the skeleton of what I hope will be an exciting trip north through Liberia and into Guinea, meandering our way northwest to the capital, Conakry. From there, I'll head south (solo by this point) and return to lovely Freetown and the rest of my contract.

Am I stoked? Yeah, I'm stoked.