procrastinatory bits and fits

The past month or so has been over the top busy and I’ve found my time, energy, and momentum for updating this woefully low. That said, life in Sierra Leone has stayed nothing short of complicated and colorful. Have a glimpse from where I’m sitting into all that I’ve been seeing:

sandy steps racing forward:

 

varied faces of tempered team work:

daily life on bold display:

hot commodity handling:

human traffic and human security:

shadows and reflections:

kids with grown up responsibilities and grown ups looking to forget theirs:

vistas both jarring and tantalizing:

fine dining and fine details:

natural beauty and man made madness:

until there is time to write more, here’s hoping these shots provide a captivating glance into what I’m seeing these days.

xx from SL!

When mom said, “You mean it’s not just a tropical vacation party?” I figured it time to speak of the series of minor to major glitches that accompany all the delights of living and working in Salone. That, and the fact that over the past two weeks these glitches have been arriving one after the next.

What began with a text message from the president announcing that there was not an impending fuel crisis in SL, has seen a fuel crisis overwhelm SL. Mental note: surefire way to ensure a fuel crisis is to announce that there is no forthcoming fuel crisis. Word on the streets - which, in spite of the fuel crisis have been just as crowded as ever - is that the IMF said government spending was too high, and as such, there has been a cancelation of the government’s 20% subsidy on fuel. While the hike in price is one thing, new regulations also demand that fuel be sold in liters, as opposed to gallons, complicating the cost of public transport fares, generating ridiculous, hours-long queues at all petrol stations, and inciting overall fury that trumps any road rage I’ve seen elsewhere.

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</div>Now, speaking of traffic, can I just say that Sierra Leone has the whackest traffic situation, ever? I’ve never been in a place with the roads so narrow, potholed, devoid of order or demarcation, and full of irreverence. Given the frequency of massive traffic jams, and that I generally have a driver hauling me around, I’ve taken to working during my commute to the office, from the office, towards meetings, returning from meetings, etc.

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</div>How effective might this be? Well, you’d guess that with a laptop it’d be no big deal. Wrong. This bogus PC I’m working on is rife with unexplainable problems that have disabled any hibernation/sleep ability and thus requires a manual powering down and 10 minute long system reboot. Likewise convenient, the internet scenario here requires a dongle – aka an individual USB-drive SIM-card modem – that in addition to being incredibly slow (think .25 kb/s), is pre-paid and runs out of airtime just when you most desperately need to get online. Or, if you’re lucky like me, it straight up breaks, requiring a 45 minute commute to visit the “modem shop” “in town” during working hours. Thrice. In two weeks.

Now, if these visits were peachy, or in any other way productive or something other than demoralizing, I might not be so annoyed. However my latest adventure with Sierratel was thoroughly gear-grinding.&nbsp; I was first told that my account balance was too low (only to inform the Director of Accounts that he was using the wrong account), then informed that my laptop had a virus by the Director of IT (an incorrect diagnosis according to my up to date antivirus software), then made aware that it was an operating system dilemma…because I’m running Windows XP. After 2 hours deliberating with 5 different folks working there (three of which asked for my phone number and told me they loved me…), determination still outweighed aggression and depression. I really didn’t want to have to reference my *Stateside husband, the computer engineer* while flirtily offering the Director of IT a soda, in order to be able to speak with the Director of Commercial Business, or to have to inform him of all the Sierratel accounts at the Ministry of Health, only to try and talk myself out of a 300,000 Leone ‘price tag’ (read: bribe) for a new modem. After hour four on a Friday afternoon, the offer of an ‘unofficial receipt’ and a price reduction to 200K, and being yelled at for my disrespectful indignance, I settled for settling and took the new, p.o.s. modem if for no other reason than needing to shake the urge to kill everyone in that office and myself. Needing solice after such haranguing one might opt for a hot shower, or cool drink, or to relax in front of the tube. No dice this round, buddy. All the holiday festivities found the ‘water guys’ off duty for a week, which translated to us running out of running water. A bright side of this was that the water guys didn’t wake me up with their giant truck during their 3AM water-tank refilling process. No real difference to make lately, however, as the local power source has been defunct and we’ve had no electricity, and therefore no AC or fans, and thus a 90 degree house with 95% humidity. As such, sound sleep has been a luxury that I’m not properly partaking in.

Beyond these recent delights, I managed to break our washing machine by pushing the button you push to run the machine. Yes, you read that right. And so, naturally, on the day that I managed to find an electrician/mechanic to come repair the bunk machine so that I wouldn’t have to hand wash my clothes again (which, btw, with 95% humidity and no spin-cycle never really dry, leaving you with a refreshing scent-ual infusion of mildew), it would wind up that our generator battery bottomed out and we realize that the fuel source on the compound had been mysteriously depreciating.This is all to say that I am very much aware of the fact that *This Is Africa,* particularly as any complaint or relaying of these realities results in someone informing me of my current location. Knowing that these are very much white woman problems really does nothing to alleviate their associated dilemmas. Nor do warnings that the rainy season is coming soon and that these calamities are likely to exponentially increase. Aside from maintaining a well stocked bar (plus or minus ice), my only solution has been massive vitamin-D intake and sea side playtime. And so, on a bright end note, I’ll bring it back full circle with some of the (well justified?!) tropical vacay party pics from the past few weeks.
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Back on Bureh with a battalion of Beach Buddies</div>
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Stepping away to the white sands of River #2 (read more about this great chunk of paradise)&nbsp; </div>

Part of the reason for returning to Freetown after a mere one night away was to join in the raucous celebrations and parties planned for the holiday week. Word of the first, notable affair made it’s way from the capital to me on the beach for good reason: the CEO of Sierra Rutile was hosting his annual Easter Sunday/Independence celebration. At the time I was only informed that there would be dancing, booze, and a pool, but that was enough to sway me back to the city. After linking up with my buddy Valeri - a dear mate from SIPA who has taken a short contract here in Freetown as well - for dinner and hearing that he knew the host, I was convinced the decision was for the better; little did I know the night would be the closest thing to Miami Vice this side of the Atlantic.

Freetown’s finest, me and the Georgians, Walid making waves, Katy taking a puff, and dancing Swedes

The copious blue, white, and green painted rocks, flags, posters, and signage dotting the roads around town in honor of independence day, while sprightly and patriotic, paled in comparison to the decorated scene at the home of this local big wig. It wasn’t til after the fact that I learned he is cousin of the president and that before the conflict, rutile exports were the top earner for the government, netting 75 million dollars in revenue in 1990 alone. While there wasn’t much in the way of drug trafficking, prostitution or Cubanos, the vibe of the party had a decidedly new wave 305 thing going on given the lavish celebration in the midst of a place with so little. The lush surroundings, posh women, and handful of bars created an air of elitism that palpably wafted above the lap pool. Regardless, the host couldn’t have been lovelier nor the dancing more ridiculous, and I was left with only the slightest memory of an afternoon spent in a poverty-struck village.Freetown’s finest, me and the Georgians, Walid making waves, Katy taking a puff, and dancing Swedes

Jubilation over the 50 year anniversary of Independence from Britain seemed to have overtaken everyone, with nearly every Freetowner donning blue, green, and white clothes and accessories, tons of villagers coming to the capital for the festivities, and all beaches, roads, and restaurants teeming with the hundreds of diaspora that made their way back to party. Mardi-gras style parades and presidential presentations were met by all night sea-side parties, major football games, and beach front revelry. Perhaps the highlight of the 5 days of festivities was a very relaxed party at the home of Alan, the only white Sierra Leonean guy I’ve met thus far, who happens to house the largest private collection of Sierra Leonean art in the world.  The spectacular display, coupled with a handful of live musical performances, including a group of traditional Malian musicians (video forthcoming, fingers crossed!), was really something special.

Colin by the sea shore and a lobster lunch
independence day crew:  martha, mohamed, valeri, katy, therese

Walid, wailin’

Malian Musicians

There was hardly a blink of professional accomplishment in the few working days of the week before the parties resumed, this time with a Royal Wedding celebration hosted by the British boys of IMATT, the International Military Army Training Team. No one seemed to mind the irony of celebrating the monarchy’s next family during the national festivities in honor of independence from said monarchy, most probably because of the ‘Fancy Dress’ code. Likewise, it was hard to focus on what many view as a dire lack of progress here over the past 50 years, with the bevy of revelers -  ranging from miners cloaked in Africana-gear, to soldiers dressed as pirates and aid workers wearing their finest regalia and hats – in such high spirits after a week of such good fun.

The party that is my life in Sierra Leone just don’t quit! It’s basically been a week of celebrations (religious, royal, and other) from the moment we left the office last Thursday. “Quiz night” at the local Irish pub, followed by a sojourn into Freetown’s latest (and absurdly posh) night club, O-bar, to a late-nighter dance party at Atlantic bar, started off the extended holiday weekend in proper form. It was at this last bar the week prior that I sighted Katy – a gal that I had been e-introduced to when I was planning for work in Uganda, 6 years ago, by an undergraduate professor; despite a few online exchanges and a handful of mutual friends, we never met outside the context of facebook - who I creepily sauntered up to and inquired if it was in fact she. After both of our brains basically exploded by the serendipitous nature of the encounter at a beach bar in Sierra Leone, we became dear buddies, and over the past week, travel pals. Our adventure over the four day Easter holiday weekend took us to the Banana Islands, a paradisiacal retreat about 2 hours from Freetown, touted as Sierra Leone’s answer to Robinson Crusoe. The three islands, once a bastion for British slave trading, are now home to about a thousand people, with the ‘capital’ island offering a lovely guest house with 3 thatched roof huts, solar power, and beach-front bon fires. After a quick 30 minute fishing boat trip from mainland, Katy and I stepped ashore to find a handful of familiar Freetown faces who would ultimately serve as excellent jungle-trekking partners and volleyball (err, banana-ball) teammates. We made our way across the island in search of relics and faunal-delights: half-buried canons and gravesites from British Navy men who passed on the island while stationed there after the abolition of slavery; washed up Portugeuse Man-O-War and massively tall termite hills; monkeys and babies; and fisherman and their finds (sea cucumbers!). The overall shortage of fresh water was made up for by the abundant lobster and fresh fruit, the absence of AC and fans by the sound of the sea crashing outside our quarters and a magnificent morning view.

Despite these glamorous features, it’s been about 4 years since this facility has been developed and it has yet to be launched for use by the fishing communities. Moreover, the extent of artisanal fishing, shrimping and trawling activities here in Sierra Leone, where 80% of dietary protein comes from the sea, demands such robust landing sites for fish to be cleaned and processed, as well as facilities for boat and net repairs to keep the industry moving; here in Tombo the need is even greater as this coastal area is the most productive in the country. The fishermen of SLAFU gave us a tour of the fringes of the existing (hectic and filthy) landing zone, following the tour of the new facility, which made the need for the pristine and functional facility’s opening seem even more great. I heard a handful of reasons for why the site remains ‘unlaunched,’ ranging from the fact that there were too many rocks in the surrounding waters, to something about not being able to get fuel into the fuel tanks, but nothing that sufficiently justified the scenario.