The Exorcism of DJ Bluff

          To celebrate my first few weeks in the community, my principal recently presented me with a token of his appreciation: a live chicken in a burlap sack. This was a significant gift and I was thrilled that he felt that I deserved a item of such value. Unfortunately for this fowl, no animal in Sierra Leone dies a natural death. Domestic animals are bleating pieces of walking protein. Any game is fair game. I was told not to feed my cat too much lest he disappear in the night into a stew pot. Two of my young neighbors and I set up my coal pot on my veranda as clucks and squawks of blissful ignorance came from the sack in the corner. When the leftover homework assignments from my last class failed to start the coals, a plastic bag doused in kerosene did the job. As the fire burned and cauldron bubbled, I removed the chicken from the bag. Holding the bird against the floor, I opened my keen French knife. Food chain – get used to it. A quick flash of cold steel completed the circle of life, but all philosophizing aside I was getting a tad peckish. As if on cue, a white landcruiser with the Peace Corps emblem on the side pulled up to my house to deliver my bicycle. Eyeing the pile of feathers, smeared blood, and two clawed feet protruding from under the lid of the steaming pot, the PC coordinators congratulated me on my steps towards community and cultural integration. Bon appétit.   

            The other day my friend Osman asked me if I'd like to join him to do a little “agricultural work.” We walked for about half an hour into the bush on single file foot paths, first through lush shady forest, then across a shallow river where cows were drinking, into rolling grassland punctuated by large cleared farms. We came to the family peanut plot, about 200ft by 100ft. With the second growing season of the year completed it was time to prepare the field for the third. For several hours, we gathered the dried dead grass that covered the ground and heaped it into a massive stack in the center as well as a long continuous pile around the perimeter of the field. Then the mother of the family took a bunch of dry grass and struck a match, making a hissing torch. She turned the center mound and edges of the field into a rectangle of deep orange licks of fire, spewing dense acrid smoke. Standing upwind, we watched the fire keep the bush at bay, turning the rotting grass into rich ash for fertilizer.     

            The next day my friend Osman asked me if I'd like to join him to do a little more “agricultural work.” Why not, I got to indulge my pyro side yesterday, how bad could it be? We made our way back to the same field. The sky was painfully blue against the solitary limp palm tree. Instead of Osman's mother and sister, waiting for us were 5 hugely muscular farmers with crude hoes banged out by the village blacksmith. Taking the smallest hoe, I swung it against the crusty soil. With a dull thud it made an indent the size of an eggcup. For eight god-damn hours we labored in the hot sun, hunched over tilling the entire field by hand. My right shoulder aching from the repeated shocks of the hoe, I kept at, if only for the reason that my well intentioned compatriots said that as a white man I was welcome to stop and rest at anytime. Within a few hours my one bottle of water was exhausted. A bucket of well water was brought to the field and I reasoned I'd get dehydration before giardia. Bottoms up. Despite the grueling work, the Sierra Leoneans were turning over the earth at a rate five times faster than I. As the unturned dirt grew smaller they gained their second wind, excitedly clawing into the final section of the field. A communal dish of rice and beans was brought and we surveyed the result of our energies. It took 6 professional farmers and one tiny white dude a day to turn over a field, a job that could could have been done in an hour with a gasoline rototiller. It it easy to talk about how most of Sierra Leone  practices slash and burn agriculture to feed itself, but it takes a day of turning your soft white hands into bloody pulps to gain the faintest taste of what it would be like to live by subsistence farming.

            The morning after my turning my upper body into jelly to make the unforgiving earth yield up a few peanuts, my principal informed me that I would be going on my first long distance bike trip. A colleague teacher had passed away in the next town down the highway and to attend the funeral my principal would go by motorcycle, “and you'll go by bicycle.” Mmmm, OK! I learned how to ride a bike only a few weeks before coming to Sierra Leone; I never had a need to learn growing up in downtown Boston, the quintessential walkable city with great public transport. The Peace Corps had asked if I knew how to ride and I said yes, them rented a public bike in Boston and went down to the park by the Charles River to make the statement true. After almost hitting a jogger and several trees, I was able with great concentration to stay up and propel myself forward on two wheels. Fast forward to Sierra Leone. I set off in the early morning from Mile 91 to Moyamba Junction, a journey of ~11 miles. Having only started to bicycle, I had yet to build up any of the necessary muscles. Thank God the entire distance was on one of the few paved highways in the country. The longer I peddled, the greater became the protest from my aching legs, which rose to a whining crescendo on the long uphill stretches. Knowing that I couldn’t turn back, from my sense of pride more than anything, and to stop would have only prolonged the exertion, I forced myself to enter a zen-like state of JUST KEEP PEDALING. Reaching Moyamba Junction I shakily got off the bike, having felt ever bump in the road through my coccyx, and purchased a bag of roasted peanuts and a hard boiled egg. Treat yo'self. I then joined my principal for the memorial service, which was like many other social gatherings I have attended – a group of men sitting in a circle around a massive plate of rice and oily vegetable goop. Afterwards, I gingerly hopped onto my bicycle for the dreaded return trip. But I had earned a glorious reprieve. The trip home was almost exclusively downhill. Still savoring the novelty of bicycling, I shot down long stretches of highway barely pedaling, feeling like I was piloting an F-16. The countryside from the road was sweeping vistas of high grass and shrub land and a few surviving tunnels of cool overhanging trees. Most beautiful was when the road curved around the base of Sabaray, a lumpy green mountain forest reserve with its peak shrouded in clouds. There was a delightful Doppler effect of small children screaming “oporto” as I sped past small roadside villages; clusters of mud houses with steep thatched roofs and smoking cooking fires. Along the shoulder of the road people had lain their clothes and harvested crops to dry on the hot tarmac, along with stacks of firewood and charcoal for sale. Mothers and young girls waved as they stood topless waist deep in streams, pounding out piles of laundry. As the radio tower of Mile 91 appeared and grew near, I regained my strength and pushed on towards home. After a blissfuly cold bucket-shower, the rest of the day was spent on my veranda with a mug of tea and Paul Theroux's Dark Star Safari.                     

            A loud clang reverberated through my house from someone knocking on my metal front door. Pulling back the deadbolt, I opened the door to see a man in a blue and black Dominoes Pizza delivery shirt. It was my neighbor's uncle coming to greet me, but if he had brought a hot greasy delivery pizza with cinnamon sticks I would have sobbed incoherently. An unfailing source of constant quiet entertainment for me is the amazing array of donated American clothing which can be seen on the streets of Sierra Leone; hats, sweatshirts, and especially t-shirts. A burly street trader was peddling his wares in a black t-shirt which read “Fuck Google - Ask Me.” A medical orderly sported a shirt saying “I'm Big In Japan”; a motorcycle driver “Kiss Me I'm Irish.” A carpenter was replacing a corrugated metal roof dressed in a matching McDonald's drive-through clerk's button-down and hat. A small boy with a bucket of fried doughnut cakes wore a pink shirt saying “Don't You Love Asian Chicks?” When I was with Osman in the market as he bought a purple L.L.Bean jacket, I thought of the world of distance between the small open front wooden and tin shop and the 24 hour company flagship store complex in Freeport Maine. I have seen dozens of teams from every professional sport; any bread or fruit vendor in a Red Sox, Bruins, Patriots or Celtics jersey gets my business. When someone needs an inexpensive shirt, functionality trumps aesthetics, or else the local carpenter is a fan of the Topeka Christian High School's Marching Band. Rough looking men wear Hello Kitty and young girls wear Harley-Davidson shirts with flaming skulls. I had a keen moment of nostalgia when I saw a shirt from the Tim Horton's of West Gwilliamberry Ontario, a small town I pass every year near Parry Sound. The single best shirt I have seen was worn by a young boy in the front row of a school awards ceremony. His black t-shirt with an arrow pointing downward read “I Got Your Stimulus Package Right Here.” 

     

            To hear your own voice wafting from a crackling radio in the teacher's lounge is a very disconcerting moment, mostly because my voice sounds an octave higher than it does to myself. Thus far I have been on the radio seven times and will be back every week. I have been able to participate in the radio shows conducted by my colleague teachers, the Youth In Focus and Good Governance Program, to discuss contemporary political and social issues. Primarily I have been asked to contribute my American perspective on the topic of the day, which is revealed 5 min before I swagger into the sound booth. At that moment I instantly go into debate mode; my training from the Brooks Quimby Debate Council has been invaluable. I frenetically jot notes, turning a kernel of an idea into an  talking point. When my fellow panelists restate and build upon my ideas I know I've guided and influenced the discussion; if only it was a British Parliamentary debate round. Rhetorically pleasing clichés and rehashed empowering Obama campaign lines get extra points. When a caller to the show asked where I learned to talk about politics, I gave an on the air shout-out to the Bates debate team. A program on government ineffectualness and delayed projects was particularly memorable as the panelists and I just sat back and let callers, ordinary men and women from the community, vent their ire; a radio show which could have happened on either side of the Atlantic. It is especially gratifying when my students and people around town say they heard me on the radio and that they like the discussions. “How was my Krio?” “We understood you and what you were trying to say.” “But did I speak it well?” “You're trying.”       

            There is a deep, answerless, soul searching question I am perpetually asking myself: why'd I eat that? Sierra Leonean cuisine is delicious, but as the diet is comprised primarily of carbohydrates, sugar, starch, and grease, I have at times experienced the profoundly unsatisfying sensation of being full without being satiated. Rice is the undisputed staple. It is the main meal, or meals, of any given day and it is served with a wide variety of hearty vegetable sauces, many of which contain large amounts of oil. While this it is hard to say no to these sweet meals, when you eat large volumes of low-nutrient food, that is what you begin to crave. The Minnesota State Fair has got nothing on the street vendors of Sierra Leone. And so as I walk about the town I have to consciously exerciser great will power not to overindulge in the plentiful and delicious street food. I say this as I slowly masticate a doughy onion and spam turnover pie like a highly contented ruminant chewing its cud, the grease glistening on my keyboard. My self restraint is not helped by the fact that most items go for the price of 500 Leones; 10 cents. Every day in my school yard there is a lady with a bucket of coals roasting ears of corn, which are not but a vehicle for salt and butter. I close my eyes and taste Vermont in the summertime. The worst is when a child with a bucket of fried peanut-banana cookies on his head walks right in front of my veranda. Why have a fresh cucumber and onion salad when there are baked sweet potatoes with gravy? As a rule so as not to oscillate between deprivation and binging, I limit myself to one item a day. But the choice is so hard; is it to be a mini loaf of warm crusty bread, a soft or hard donut, a sugar shortbread cookie, a wafer-thin ginger cracker, gingerbread or rice bread, a peppered hard boiled egg, honey-sesame seed roll, peanut brittle, or a peanut-sugar-flour bar today? I'm feeling a butter roll day.         

            To undo some of the damage mentioned above, I have taken to running and biking down rural  dirt roads and paths to explore the countryside and the surrounding villages. The biggest trouble I have getting a solid workout on my runs is that each time I pass the checkpoint at the edge of town the police officer makes me stop and drink a cup of palm wine with him. Still gaining confidence on my bicycle, I keenly learned an important lesson in Newtonian mechanics when I found that my bike can stop much quicker than my body can. Elephant grass is a good cushion though; it was either that or hit a baby goat. My favorite excursion is to three villages in the bush, Mawoor, Matinka, and Marunia, each three miles further than the next down the narrow dirt road from my house. The first time I entered Marunia and walked down the main street, a mass of children followed behind me. A massive skeletal house overgrown with ivy, its roof destroyed by fire and walls smoothly eroded and crumbling from the rain, had an unearthly macabre beauty. A young boy came up to me, one of my students who travels 9 miles one way to go to school, to tell me the village chief wanted to greet me. The chief's house was the same as every other in the village; a small, muted brown, low mud brick house with a towering steep thatched roof to shed the heavy rains. Sitting on the veranda on a hewn wooden stool worn shiny with age and use was the chief. To my neophyte eyes he too appeared the same as the other older men in the village; a muscled and stiff sinewy form from a lifetime of work, gnarled teeth and slightly opaque eyes from the slow onset of cataracts. But his sage knowledge from a lifetime of experience which earned him his position of authority and respect set him apart. Extending a heavily calloused hand, he introduced himself in English as Edward. We sat and kept time together for a short while. Several dozen children stood watching in a silent semicircle. Edward said not to mind their stares, as I was for some of them the first white man they had seen in the village. He told me that as there is no money for trading, the youth of the village go into the bush and work in the fields to grow their food. Presenting me with the gift of a bag of peanuts, he thanked me for what I was doing for the community, though given the labor everyone here does everyday and my knowledge of my own limited contributions, I am at a loss as to what this might be. Hopping back on my bicycle I proceeded to the next village. A wonderful thing about the bush is the absence of man-made noise; only birds, the trickle of rivers, rustle of foliage and the knocking of bamboo poles in the wind form a background noise. In the open countryside with no wind, it is supremely silent. Reaching the next village, I weaved around chickens and potholes. Then I saw something that almost made me fall off my bicycle. Resting between two houses was a hulking combine harvester. In faded green and white paint the name of an NGO was proudly displayed, proclaiming their generous donation to the community. Across the revolving thresher were clothes hanging to dry. The cab was full of cobwebs. Much aid is focussed on these glamorous big ticket gifts and projects, a bridge to nowhere that makes donors feel good or a piece of heavy technology that an organization can boast about but is useless after the first time it breaks. Western planed initiatives theorized in a sterile vacuum attempt to jump vital steps in the development process. The result is subsistence farmers working to grow more calories than they burn with iron hand tools while complex machinery is used as a clothes line. This creates at best minimal to no positive development and at worst a culture of dependency. I say this like I know what I'm talking about.          

            In a nation with a low life expectancy and an inordinately high infant mortality rate, there are some cultural defense mechanisms in place to soften unbearable losses. For example, parents wait a week or two after the birth of a child to name it at a large festive ceremony called a pul-na-do. As we all must expire eventually, the passing of the elderly is tragic but slightly easier to bare as they had been blessed to have had a long life, just as it is in our culture. The deaths of adolescents and younger men and women is the most devastating for a family, and the death of a woman in her child bearing years is catastrophic. Last week my principal's niece died. She was in her early twenties. I went to the house of the family where there was a large group of people assembled. The men and older women were sitting silently on the house's veranda and under nearby trees as a soft rain drizzled down. The younger women were crying softly; some were keening and wailing profusely, failing on the ground and clawing at the muddy earth. All heads rose slightly as the sound of an ambulance's siren approached the gathering. Slowly backing up to the house, the back doors of the ambulance were opened and the family carried the shroud-draped body into the house. With a crunch of gravel the ambulance drove away. She died of a sickness though I was unable to learn what it had been. All assembled sat for several hours, just to be with the family.

            The next day I left school early along with several teachers to attend the burial. A group of forty or so men and women had gathered at the low concrete mosque near the house. The voice of the muezzin echoed from a tinny speaker at the top of a pole made from a piece of railroad track serving as an improvised minaret. The family said I could wait outside while they preformed Islamic prayers. I asked if I might join them and they showed me how to preform ritual ablution; the washing of the hands, forearms, face, head, ears, mouth, and feet three times before prostrating oneself before Allah. In  mosque the sexes are segregated; women pray behind the men so as not to distract them. As the imam led us in praying and kneeling supplication, a long beveled wooden coffin rested silently in the corner. As we all rose, six male relatives stepped forward as pallbearers and carried the coffin from the mosque and into the bush, the procession following in its wake. In a grove formed by several palm trees looking over a maize field a deep grave had been prepared. The body, tightly wrapped in a white sheet was lifted from the coffin and placed on a humble bier at the graveside; the casket was to be reused when the inevitable demand arose. The imam said another short series of liturgical prayers in Arabic. Only the men were present for the actual burial; I did not ask why. The closely swathed corpse was lowered into the earth facing Mecca. Stout boughs were angled from the right side of the floor to the left wall of the grave to form a tomb, and leaves were placed on top of this to keep out the dirt. Then the husband of the departed stepped forward, holding a shovelful of rocky red earth. His voice trembled with emotion and though I could not speak his language there was no doubt as to what he said. He slowly turned over the shovel and the dirt splattered down onto the leaves of his wife's sepulcher. The gravediggers quickly filled in the hole in the earth, forming a mound in the shade of the palm trees. This was the only burial marker; Islamic graves are unadorned as all are equal in death and before the eyes of God.               

            Those who have spent time with me in America know that I am a man who appreciates the finer things in life. To keep an even keel as I ride the ups and downs of Peace Corps service, I have adopted many small niceties to pad my already cushy existence. Ambiance and mood lighting is key; why use a flickering LCD lamp when I've a glowing kerosene lamp and custom built candelabra? The walls of my home are a newly painted restful blue and the worn yellow and red linoleum flooring has been replaced with a deep green and gold pattern. Osman recently delivered a varnished bookshelf and I have greatly savored organizing the massive personal library I have inherited. A tablet-reader just isn't as satisfying as a hardcover at the end of the day under the mosquito net. I have had several shirts made to order by a tailor. The elaborately embroidered turquoise suit, custom sewn for the swearing-in ceremony, rang in at $32 for the cloth and work. Unambiguously, most important place to focus one's energies to derive satisfaction and live comfortably is in the kitchen. Several tea bags in my water filter give me a spigot of iced-tea. The single best small investment I have made has been a $3 plastic juicer. Each day for 25 cents I purchase 8 oranges or grapefruit and drink a pitcher of fresh squeezed juice (see: screwdriver). One has to take full advantage while they're still in season. As I have no refrigeration, and each trip to the market is a protracted excursion, I have become highly proficient at delectable one-pot creations. For long slow cooking projects I fire up the coal pot and sit on my veranda simmering beans or lentils while people go by, gaping at a man cooking. Fast fire on demand from my gas stove is ideal for quick meals. The sound of boiling, slicing, and sizzling is accompanied by 1930's jazz from my ipod speakers, and you ought to see me do my stuff. A noodle soup of stewed onions and eggplant with a packet of ramen makes a highly satisfying dinner. Lightly fried flour flat bread called chapatis I learned to make in Tanzania have been taken a step further with the addition of curry power or cumin and sautéd onions to the dough. Folding one around a tomato and cheese omelet creates an obscene breakfast taco. Hot-chocolate powder is readily available and is an excellent substitute for sugar, making tremendous chocolate French toast. Bananas complete Quaker Oats oatmeal and Aunt Jemima pancakes. A bottle of straight-from-the-hive honey and fresh-ground peanut butter can be slathered over everything. In Peace Corps Sierra Leone, it's all about gracious living in conditions of hardship.

            First and foremost, my job as a Peace Corps volunteer in Sierra Leone is to be a teacher. School is now in its fifth week. It is the national habit for nobody came to school on the first week, save for a handful of dedicated students, one or two teachers, and the Peace Corps with his book. The second week only half of the pupils came, so I spent the time doing introductory getting to know each other style lessons. I took my classes out to the painted world map adorning the side of the school building to show them where I come from. I asked the students if they knew where Sierra Leone was; silence. I asked if they knew where Africa was; a brave young man pointed to the Atlantic Ocean. I told my students they could ask me any questions they wanted about me. “If you don't have brothers and sisters, what would happen if you died?” (Not planning on it). “Are you married / how many wives do you have?” (Yes / 50). “Why did you leave America for Sierra Leone?” (Life experiences and adventure). On the third week effective teaching finally started. I teach five class streams; 201, 202, 203, 301 and 302. The classes are the rough equivalent of 7^th and 8^th grade in middle school and there are ~45 students to a 200 level class and ~65 at the 300 level. I teach 20 periods a week: 10 Social Studies, 8 Language Arts, and the 2 periods of the all-school Literary-Debate Society. Each period is 40 minutes. I see each group of students only twice a week for a given subject, or only once on some weeks as school has been canceled halfway through the day many times. This makes continuity in teaching extremely difficult. The style of teaching practiced is exclusively wrote memorization, with little emphasis on conceptual learning; students can perfectly recite the scientific method but have a very difficult time applying the steps if given an example.   

            Classes are supposed to be taught exclusively in English but if I were to do this I would just be miming for the period, so I say a point in Krio, then very slowly in simple English. The classrooms are painted concrete and a blackboard; two or three students to a wooden bench and table. The only school supplies the students have are notebooks and pens; the notes teachers write on the board that they diligently copy become their textbook. Corrugated metal roofs make the sound of the classes in the next rooms reverberate into a grating din. I teach at one of the better school in Mile 91. I had my students write an in-class paragraph telling me about a powerful memory. Some produced well crafted responses but the majority were barely comprehensible. But the things they wrote were staggering. Some described when one of their parent or siblings died, seeing a pedestrian run over on the road, having to scrape together money for school or food, their parents having to pick one child to sent to school and three to the farm. Others told of when they scored the winning goal of the big game, exciting trips to Freetown, and shared treasured moments with their friends and family. Despite the difficulties, my kids are full of energy, enthusiasm, and I love them. I only wish I and the educational system could do them justice. As is instructed on the national curriculum, I recently taught a class on English phrases. Many classes take the pattern of the presentation of material, then a call and response between me and the ~45-65 students in a class. “Everyone, what is an idiom?” “MR. SAM, IT IS A COLLOQUIAL METAPHOR!”

            The difficulties that I have encountered at my school have not been on the part of the students, so much as problems with the engrained teaching practices of Sierra Leone. My school has 16 male teachers and 1 female teacher. It is by no means uncommon for teachers to have sexual relations with their female students, sometimes for the promise of a passing grade. At the first staff meeting, one of the items on the agenda was: teachers, please don't fuck the students. Another point was that students should not have to come to the teacher's rest area to ask teachers to teach their scheduled classes. Multiple times though when I have witnessed this the students are left disappointed, as the teachers are not even at school. Apathy is a major problem. On many occasions I have had to go into classrooms to ask the unsupervised students to keep their noise down so as not to disturb the class I am trying to  teach. There are few things as frustrating and demoralizing as having a class of young students call “please come teach us Mr. Sam!” and having to tell them that I cannot. The single most jarring aspect of school in Sierra Leone is the flogging. Corporeal punishment is the order of the day. For small offenses such as, making noise, sleeping in class, or failing to take notes students can receive multiple lashes with a switch. Some mornings the tardy students are flogged, from two to six lashes, as they enter the school compound. “It's not like it is in America” the teachers have told me, “these are African children, they need an iron hand, how else will we make them come to school on time?” The teacher at the gate is usually winded by the end of the line; beating children is hard work. Some teachers just give a token swat, others border of sadism. Most use a stick, but the more enthusiastic ones use a thin strip of tire - the rubber laced with steel makes a sickening deep thwack. I have seen teachers hold a student's wrist up while they beat their backside. Others draw a circle in the dirt and if the pupil stumbles out before their flogging is done the punishment begins again. The worst is when the students' screams and whimpers waft over the schoolyard. I apologize if anyone takes issue with what I type but I write only what I have witnessed. I have yet to have a school day pass without some degree of flogging. Never have I seen any transgressions which in my belief warrant such punishments. The staff knows I am opposed to their practices, but for them it is just how things are done, and I have to be extremely careful picking my battle with the people with whom I will be working each day for the next two years. One of the most gratifying things I have experienced has been having very little behavioral problems in my classes after telling my students that I will never flog them. Much of these problems stem from the fact that in Sierra Leone teaching is for many a place-holding occupation, a job until a more appealing opportunity presents itself. Teachers' accreditation is minimal and not mandatory. Many professional educators and temporary teachers do genuinely care about their charge, but the endemic and ingrained negative practices and obstacles are daunting. It's my students that keep me motivated.

            Getting out and about clears your head and is a breath of fresh air. As much as I love my town, the countryside of Tonkolili District is breathtakingly beautiful. There are several Peace Corps stationed in the next major city from me, about 25 miles to the northeast. There are two ways to go: along the circuitous highway which is a lunar landscape of potholes and washboards of earth and fractured asphalt, or the direct Old Railway Line. The Line is a narrow bush path, only wide enough for people walking in single file. Kept smooth and clear by use, it is perfect for a motorcycle or bicycle. Hopping on my bike the other morning, I made my way up the Line. As I pedaled along through the silent tall grass, trilling birds with long flowing tail feathers shot out of the bush in front of me. Vistas of rolling greenery dotted with palms looked like a scene from a post card; too vivid and picturesque to be believed if not seen in person. Sections of the path were tunnels of delicious cool shade formed by dense overhanging trees. Coming to a short bridge of planks resting on rusting I-beams, I saw small fish darting in the clear water of a gently moving river. Down to my drawers in a flash, the cool water was blissfully rejuvenating. There have been several times when I have consciously said to myself: “this is why I'm in Peace Corps.” Peddled at breakneck speed through the heart of a massive sugarcane plantation straight towards an ominous towering anvil-head storm cloud gravid with electricity and rain was one such moment. Passing a short water tower strangled by vines, I realize the obvious: that the Old Railway Line was exactly what its name implied. Sierra Leone once had a functioning railroad system for transporting passengers and freight. Though still a viable route, the dirt path through the bush is all that remains of this advanced piece of infrastructure. Pedaling through a small hamlet, I passed by fruit vendors set up on a long slab of cracked concrete directly next to the path, a former railway station. Built during the British colonial period, the train system was not destroyed during the civil war. In the 1970s and 80s the rail network was defunded and intentionally allowed to wither into oblivion, as it primarily benefited the rival ethnic group of those who held political power. Coming to a clearing in the bush I saw a once-proud depot, now a concrete skeleton with trees growing through the empty high arched windows and doors. 1919 was engraved into the faded facade.                       

            The Mile 91 junction is the place to be after dark. The hub of town is quite active at night  making it very safe, and in the cool hours I enjoy just sitting back and watching the spectacle. To advertize the night's film, the local movie house pipes their audio outside for all to hear. The sound of Bollywood dance numbers and Nigerian B-movie explosions floats over the evening, mixing with the African beats playing from the open-front bars at deafening decibel levels. The Sierra Leonean version of a coffee shop is the ataya base, which serves a potent brew: one part water, one part tea, many parts sugar. Along the sidewalk lines of smoking kerosene lamps create pools of warm light, illuminating vendors' wares and faces in the dark. On a clear night the sky drips with stars, with the Milky Way making a creamy swath across the sky. At the junction is a modern gas station, the neon green and yellow lights of its sign and facade forming a strangely futuristic oasis. It also offers the only refrigerated drinks in town. There is nothing quite a delightful as being able to feel the cold running down your esophagus. A plate of spicy rice and beans for 50 cents is complimented perfectly by a $1 Sierra Leonean Star beer. People are out to see and be seen; young men swaggering about, young women in roaming posses, store owners vying for one more sale, old men sipping their ataya, old women selling buttery sweet potatoes and corn from glimmering coal pots. If you asked me what there is to do in town, I would have difficulty articulating a list. Just being here is entertainment. 

            “Beauty and Handsome Contest – Presented by Money Making Machine at the Sierra Leone Muslim Brotherhood Primary School” the sign read. How could I say no? MMM, a local youth group, was putting on a pageant, and for the hefty entrance price of 5,000 Leones I knew it would indeed be a show. I only had no idea what to expect. When the evening arrived I went to the school where a high enclosure had been made in the school yard. Swarms of people were there but only those who paid could get in, a policeman with a billy club made sure of that. I paid for my ticket, but just having white skin was enough for him to wave me through the line. In Peace Corps lingo, to receive special treatment because of your preferential pigmentation is called pulling a Kurtz, or HODing (Heart Of Darkness). Inside were several hundred people standing in rows of plastic chairs and dancing to the rhythms of a DJ playing local music at the obligatory overwhelming volume. African women can dance and move is ways no caucasian can ever hope to achieve. Two bare pulsing lightbulbs on either side of a raised concrete stage lit the scene, powered by a throbbing generator. Several times the machine died and the crowd was plunged into darkness with a loud 'AWWWW” until the contraption sputtered to life again. I naively arrived at 10 when the event was to start; by 11:30 the exhibition began. By definition, a pageant seeks to showcase an idealized form of beauty and “handsome,” which by the nature of its prominence will be seen as a style to be aspired to and emulate. A woman in 6 inch heels, a tube top, and booty shorts with braided hair to her waist sashayed onto the stage with a mic, introducing the event as an opportunity for empowerment. Then one by one the contestants, 6 men and 6 women in their late teens paraded onto the stage as the crowd roared and jumped. Sharing their names, the Senior Secondary School (High School) they were attending, their ethnic group (all Themne), and religion (Muslim and Christian), they performed a series of turns and poses. They then left the stage one by one and reappeared in turn, each time in a different elaborately lurid and garish outfit. The twig-thin teenage girls winked at the crowd and worked their bodies with moves of calculated seduction in a swirl of body-tight sequin dresses and schoolgirl outfits. The girls showed as much skin as was possible, and the boys sported matching head to toe get-ups of counterfeit Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Prada and Burberry which would put Canal Street to shame. American pop-culture fashion was taken to its absolute extreme; gold necklaces the size of anchor chains and massive imitation platinum crosses, huge sunglasses, fake designer handbags and rhinestone encrusted Rolexes, narrow brimmed fedoras to the side, wife-beaters and jeans down around the ass showing four inches of Calvin Klein underwear, and hightop Nike kicks. The entire show was a kaleidoscope of sexual objectification and material fetishism and the audience ravenously ate it up. To paraphrase Frantz Fanon's The Wretched Of The Earth, the young people of Sierra Leone have learned by heart what they have seen in Western pop-media and transformed themselves not into a replica of America, but rather its caricature. Having had my fill of the anthropological spectacle, I left the pageant at 1am and made my way home in solitude, drinking in the darkness and silence. Apparently the show lasted until 5am.

            A new sign has appeared at the junction. “Studio B Mass - The Empire of Classic Sound, presents INTER CREW MUSICAL COMPETITION. Featuring: Texas Crew - The Biggest, Toughest Crew - The Hard Team, Black Most Unit - The Actors, Make It Rail - The Endless Train.” How can I say no?  

            It is inevitable living and working in Sierra Leone that one will encounter moments of irreconcilable cultural difference. What matters in those moments is how you conduct yourself and the lessons you take from them. One day, a large number of students were milling about the school yard during lunch break. I was sitting in the shade with a book. Suddenly all the students' attention was directed at a loud commotion in one corner of the yard. I approached to see what was the matter and saw a yelling, swarming mass of students around a teenage female student. She was being carried on her back and she was convulsing in a epileptic seizure. As her spasms became more violent, her legs and torso were dropped and she was half dragged face-down across the ground. I quickly asked an adult what the hell what was going on and they said it the devil was inside the girl. A teeming circle of students stood tightly around the girl as she twitched face down on the ground. I had no idea what to do but it wasn't going to be nothing. Reacting instinctually, I violently tore my way through the crowd to the girl and shouted for the students standing over her to step back. Kneeling down and turning her onto her back, I held her head in my arm, brushed the sand from her face and pulled her shirt back on. “Somebody fucking help me” I yelled as several teachers approached, “she's having an epilepsy seizure.” The science teacher knelt down next to us saying “No, it's the devil.” “She needs to see a doctor!” “No, this is African magic” he said in sickeningly patronizing voice. Another teacher came up and placed his hand on her head and shrieked about the power of Christ, an impromptu exorcism to drive the devil out while another teacher slapped the soles of her feet. “Let me take her to the hospital! Please!” “The doctors can't do anything for African magic,” the science teacher said to the silly ignorant stranger. Ignoring them I carried the girl as best I could a few feet into the shade until she relaxed and slowly came to. I called the sisters at the Catholic clinic and they said to bring her to them. We slowly walked to the clinic where I made sure she immediately saw the doctor and did not have to pay for any treatment. After taking her home, I went back to school in time to teach my next class, a social studies lesson on population demographics and the reasons for Sierra Leone's high infant mortality rate and low life expectancy. My fellow teachers didn't mention the incident and I wasn't in the mood to make small talk with them. Later that night, reflecting on the day, I chose to treat the episode as a violent catharsis. Confronted with an extreme situation, I feel I did the right thing despite what those around me were doing. I can sleep at night.                 

            Bluff: verb – to show-off in a self confident manner; to dress or carry oneself in a slick fashion. My favorite Krio word which will travel in my lexicon back to the US, bluffing could be translated as swagger. But bluffing does not carry a negative connotation and its meaning can have a dash of tongue-in-cheek humor. Ever since my work at the radio station began, I had toyed with the notion of an American music radio show. I floated the proposition to the production manager and asked him if the idea was crazy. “Does next week work?” was his reply. I said that it did. Listening to music from home; just to pop in my ear-buds is always an instant escape to Fry St, Rainbow Island, or the roof in Boston. But this was serious business. In preparation for the program I spent a lengthy Saturday morning in my boxers draped across my couch with a mug or Arabian coffee and my iPod. I viewed the object of my program as to share a range of music popular in America with songs that had a continuity of feel, all of which I had yet to hear in Sierra Leone. Local popular music is predominately highly synthesized auto-tuned bass heavy tracks. I aimed to play songs similar to Sierra Leonean musical tastes to peak listeners' interest, and lesser known tracks by American artists popular in Sierra Leone. Also, I had to be hyperconscious of the fact that I would be playing music on a radio station popular in the community and area I will be living in for two years; I ain't DJ-ing for a Bates party. My playlist arranged, a fitting monicker for my radio persona was all that remained. In a moment of clarity the answer presented itself: DJ Bluff. Arriving at the radio station at 4:00 on a Sunday, I was told to wait until a time opened up. A few minutes to 8:00 I was asked if I was ready. Indeed I was. Sinking into the control chair, I felt like an organist sitting before the rows of sliders, knobs, switches and pulsing lights. DJ Armani was there to show me the ropes; I plugged in my iPod and he pushed up the slider marked “mic,” I introduced myself to Tonkolili District as DJ Bluff - your new favorite oporto, and pressed play. For one hour in the sound booth I introduced songs, took texts from listeners, promoted the station and upcoming programs, gave quips about US music, and absolutely rocked out, dancing around the booth. For your listening pleasure, the songs from the evening are as follows:

1. Give Life Back Music - Daft Punk

2. Everlasting Light - The Black Keys

3. Beta Love - Ra Ra Riot

4. G.O.O.D.G.I.R.L.S. - The White Panda

5. Costin' - Zion I & K. Flay

6. Livin' My Love (feat. LMFAO & NERVO) - Steve Aoki

7. Heads Will Roll (A-Trak Remix) - Yeah Yeah Yeahs

8. Next Girl - The Black Keys

9. Bottoms Up - Keke Palmer

10. Electric Feel - MGMT

11. Lady Killers (feat. Hoodie Allen) - G-Eazy

12. Homecoming - Kanye West

13. Pursuit of Happiness (Nightmare) [feat. MGMT & Ratatat] - Kid Cudi

14. Sleepyhead - Passion Pit

15. One More Time – Daft Punk

Walking home that night a group of young boys ran up to me calling “DJ Bluff!” Now numerous people on the street call me by my new handle, which I'll take over oporto any day. I have had many people from all over town, a teller at the bank, hardware vendors and store owners, and my students tell me they loved the music and hope I'll do another Americana program. With pleasure.  

            And indeed a week later I was able to make my second appearance as DJ Bluff, to the tune of an hour and a half program:

1. What's Golden – Jurassic 5

2. Memories (feat. Kid Cudi) – David Guetta   

3. On' n' On - Justice

4. Nosebleed Section – Hilltop Hoods

5. Lose Yourself to Dance (feat. Pharrell Williams) – Daft Punk

6. Flashing Lights – Kanye West

7. The Reeling – Passion Pit

8. Pumped Up Kicks – Foster the People

9. Gifted – N.A.S.A

10. Going On – Gnarls Barkley

11. Well Known - G-Eazy

12. Let's Go – Calvin Harris

13. Shempi - Ratatat

14. Cry For You - September

15. Instant Crush (feat. Julian Casablancas) – Daft Punk

16. Don't Stop the Music - Rihanna

17. In The Dark - DEV

18. Madness (The 2^nd Law) - Muse

19. Don't Lose Your Head – Zion I

20. All I Could Do - G-Eazy

21. D.A.N.C.E. – Justice

During the program I encouraged people to text me to give their feedback on the music. A positive reception is always encouraging: HI DJ I LOVE THE MUSIC YOU ARE PLAYING SO MUCH YOU MAKE ME FEEL HAPPY CONTINUE PLAY THEM THIS TEXT BY HENRY

            One day when my phone showed an unknown number ringing, I answered with mild interest. “Hello, I'm with the US Embassy and I'll be coming to your town and I'd like to talk with you.” They had my curiosity, but now they had my attention. Tucking in my last clean shirt, I nervously anticipated their arrival having no idea what to expect. What hornet's nest had I inadvertently drop-kicked? I was very relieved to meet a friendly embassy officer who lived in the same neighborhood as where I went to High School. She informed me that two former US Congresspeople would be touring Sierra Leone, meeting luminaries and viewing American development projects, including Peace Corps. Would I be interested in having lunch with them when they came through town? I put on a tie for the occasion. As the two former Congresspeople each had two decades in the House, I was anticipating a formal business lunch. But as soon as they, a lady and a gentleman, stepped out of the white SUV and jovially slapped me on the back, all tension evaporated. Over a plate of gourmet rice and sauce, they told me of their thoughts on Sierra Leonean development and I shared stories of my experiences. We hit it off marvelously; their perspective from years in the halls of power and mine from living and working on the ground creating rich conversation. As they hopped into the SUV with diplomatic plates to fly back to the US the next day, we promised to stay in touch. I had tremendously enjoyed their genial and engaging company. Walking home, a neighboring family warmly greeted me and I stopped to chat with them on the veranda on their cracked mud-brick, rusting zinc roof house. We made relaxed conversation about the local schools, events around town, and the approaching storm clouds. The father was wearing a faded and torn shirt and shorts, savoring a cigarette after a long hard day. The mother was topless, breast feeding an infant as her other four children helped shell peanuts for the family to sell. With a smile she gave me a handful and wished me a good-afternoon as I retired to my house. I thought of the incalculable gulf between the four men people with whom I had shared time in the space of a few hours. Two had spent decades in the most powerful governing body in the world on critical committees, and are still active in the workings of Washington. The other two were a subsistence farmer and petty trader, semi-literate and working to provide for their family. But what had made my time with them all worthwhile was that they were all genial and kind human beings who made no pretenses or lamentations about their stations in life. We all enjoyed each other's company and connected on our commonalities. That was the most important thing.          

Seared and Learning In Sierra Leone

One definite aspect of Peace Corps service in Sierra Leone is that it teaches you to appreciate small pleasures, especially those that remind you of home. Yesterday I splurged and purchased a bottle of milk ($1.75) from the Lebanese owned western style grocery store in Bo. The lack of reliable power means that refrigeration is a commodity and so dairy is hard to come by; the only other dairy I have had is the occasional wedge of laughing cow cheese. A bottle of milk is not only a creamy indulgence, the lack of milk products means that we have to be conscious to periodically take in dairy so as not to loose the ability to easily digest lactose. But the real treat of the day was the apple. For fifty cents, I purchased a refrigerated apple, and as I sunk my teeth into the cool sweet fruit, I closed my eyes and felt I was under my Grandfather's apple trees in the meadow in Vermont. It is amazing how evocative a familiar taste can be; each bite, including the core, was fully savored with great care standing in the sun on the dusty street corner as motor cycles zipped by. It was the most delicious apple I have ever eaten.  

As pre-service trainings nears its completion, eight weeks of lectures, lessons, practicums, and teaching in summer school, my time with my host family also begins to draw to a close. For the two months I have called the Koroma family house home, I have been truly welcomed as a part of the family and I would not trade the experience as it had been an emersion into Sierra Leonean culture and life, but my home stay has not been without its frustrations. As a guest in the house it is already culturally expected that much will be done for me, but this is compounded by the fact that as a white American it is believed that I am incapable of doing most things for myself as I have a machine to do everything for me in the US. After the second week, I had to prove that I was capable of pouring my own tea water in the morning so that my 7 year old sister did not do it for me. The family was surprised when I was able to fetch water from the well for my own morning bath. At times when I an unable to do something proficiently the first time, the family is loath to give me the practice to build the skills, a problem made worse as everything I can do an African child can do better. Each time I have tried to wash my clothes by hand, my siblings have laughed at me and taken the wash from me to do themselves. Several times I have asked Mama Abibatu if I can learn to cook some Sierra Leonean dishes. She has always said yes, but after my brother and I return from the market with the ingredients, I am rarely able to go alone, Mama has always prepared them herself while I looked on wistfully. While I have been able to help out more as of late, I can now help to sweep part of the house before my sisters take the broom from me, I am still in many respects treated like a child. While my family is always well intentioned, and I will miss their company and kindness, I feel that I would rather fail in doing something for myself and learn in the process that just have it done for me. Regaining my autonomy once I move to Mile 91 will be a breath of fresh air, though I will miss not having my sisters run to greet me each day as I come home.

Last night I had a particularly wonderful evening with Mama Abibatu and my sisters. The conversation we shared followed the pattern which our most engaging and interesting talks have taken, Mama tells me about an aspect of life Sierra Leone and I share its American counterpart. First she spoke about politics in Salone; here there are two main parties, the red All People's Congress and the green Sierra Leone People's Party. The ACP usually favors infrastructure development and the SLPP favors education, though the current President, Earnest Bai Koroma of the ACP has instituted large scale educational reforms. Then at length I told her about the red Republicans and blue Democrats, American politics and Barack Obama, who is loved here. Mama shared stories of the Sierra Leonean civil war. She was in Freetown during the conflict and each day when fighting occurred near the city, she would go down to the bush before sunrise and hide until nightfall. She told of how as the conflict devolved, the various tribal groups formed militias to protect their own kind. In Mile 91, a large rebel camp was located in a walled compound that now is filled with the houses of government infrastructure workers. Then I told her the stories in great detail of what happened on 9/11 and the week of the Boston Marathon bombing. This evening spent on the veranda telling stories while watching the moon slowly rise made me feel how close I had come to the family in the two months of living together.  

Peace Corps is challenging, no doubt about it, but what makes things interesting is that the way in which the experience is challenging is constantly changing. When we first touched earth in Sierra Leone it was the immediate heat which stifled our movement and felt as if a hot washcloth was across our mouths. Now it bothers me not as greatly as my base level of acceptable body odor and sweat has recalibrated itself to my new environment. Ask me again though when the real hot season rolls around. Next there was the challenge of learning Krio and integrating into my new community and settling into living with out host families. Experience slowly gained over time has snowballed, and as I walk about Bo and chat in Krio I know that my functional ability will only increase the longer I am here. Some of the greatest challenges have been learning to deal with the frustration of being unable to do anything easily with my host family and the tedium of sitting through protracted ineffectual Peace Corps lectures. In one week I will travel to Freetown and swear-in, formally transitioning from Peace Corps Trainee to Peace Corps Volunteer, after which I will move into my house at Mile 91 and prepare for school to start several weeks later. While I'll have something with meat on the bone for me to sink my teeth into, I'll go from familiarity and routine to starting from scratch again.               

A month has elapsed since I wrote the above paragraph, and as I sit at my desk in the living room of my new house, I am at a loss of where to begin. The past few weeks have seemed like a year, each day being a full odyssey unto itself. For the sake of my reader I will highlight only the more memorable moments and sentiments. When all of us Peace Corps Trainees traveled to Freetown we stayed in the same guest house where we had been lodged when we were fresh off the plane from America only two and a half months previously. To be there was shockingly surreal, as it made me think on what I knew and who I was at that point, and how much progression had occurred in such a short time. The 8 weeks of training had accomplished, more or less, what it was designed to achieve. I know how to utilize the Peace Corps resources at my disposal to ensure my health and safety. The eight week emersion of living in a Sierra Leonean home has made me not only functional and conversant in Krio, but has more importantly allowed me gain an understanding of the new cultural in which I live. It was with nervous reluctance and trepidation when as neophytes we began to do something as simple as a walk around town and through the market. Now we eagerly look forward to such excursions as an escape from the tedium of our lectures and routinely stay out till all hours. We're on a first name basis with proprietor of our favorite watering-hole. Most importantly, I now feel I am ready to teach. While I know that what I know now is only the tip of the iceberg, I know I can do this. Perhaps I am still in the honeymoon phase, but time will tell.

The swear-in ceremony itself was a akin to graduation in that we were given encouraging speeches by a series of dignitaries, including the US Ambassador, the President of Sierra Leone's chief of staff, the Minister of Education, Science and Technology and Minister of Foreign Affairs. In classic Sierra Leone fashion, the program was halted when the power went out and the conference hall was plunged into darkness for a few minutes. We then swore to defend the Constitution. To make it official we signed a document with the text of our oath; next to the desk was a giant poster of JFK. From there to our real induction ceremony – a day on the beach. The beauty of Sierra Leone's beaches have to be experienced to be believed, and I have yet to see the finest. After placing an order for a hookah at the thatched open front beach bar where we staked out, we ran across the the powdery white sand and plunged into the blue serf of the Atlantic. The water was the perfect temperature, ever so slightly cool. As I bobbed in the rolling waves under the warm sun, looking over the swaying palms and rising hills of Freetown beyond, I commented to one of my fellow recently inducted Peace Corps Volunteers: “damn I love conditions of hardship.”

The next several days were spent saying anxious goodbyes to my friends as they left one by one for their various sites in each corner of Sierra Leone. Though we have known each other only a short time, the extraordinary baptism of fire which we have undergone together over the past few weeks has made the 40 people of Salone 4 indelible comrades in arms. We know we can rely and talk to each other about anything; homesickness and nostalgia, the stresses of acclimating and adapting to our brave new world, and the intricacies and nuisances of the various stages and levels of diarrhea. I know we are all eager to begin the experience and work we were sent here to undertake, but hereto we have been together all day every day, and always had each other for mutual support and solidarity. As each group boarded their Landcruiser and pulled out of the guest-house driveway, it struck home that soon we would be on out own and that instantly everything would go from theoretical and nebulous to practical and tangible. Though we knew it was time, this anticipation of departure was especially keen for those who would not have a site-mate in their community with whom they could commiserate. I do not have a site-mate. When I arrived at Mile 91, the Peace Corps Landcruiser dropped by off at the junction. I said goodbye to my friends in the vehicle and we wished each other good luck. Then they drove off and disappeared round the bend of the dirt road. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and thought: now begins the next two years.

Now that I was finally at my post, there were two orders of business for the two weeks until the beginning of school; learn about and begin to integrate into my community, and make my dusty drab house into a sumptuous designer bachelor pad. Challenge accepted. I developed the routine of having one day working in my house, reading and relaxing, then dedicating the next to being as extroverted as my stamina and the midday heat allowed. Fortunately I have an amazing next door neighbor who has helped immeasurably on both fronts, becoming my guide, Themne teacher, and close friend. Osman Kanu is 17 and has an amazingly kind, warm, and quietly effusive disposition. Since I have moved in, each day the Kanu family has given me a large bowl of whatever meal they have cooked for the day, usually rice and a sauce, without being asked or expecting pay. When I offer to contribute monetarily, they decline, saying that they appreciate the work I am doing, though I am at a loss as to what this might be. Before I came to Mile 91 I took a massive US high school world history book, thinking it might come in handy. Low and behold Osman is a passionate student of History and I am thrilled to facilitate his learning. Many nights we have read from the textbook and plan to finish the entire tome in 2 years. We teach each other our languages. At night we read by the light of an exquisitely carved and varnished wooden standing candelabra which I designed and Osman built by hand. In addition to attending the first year of Senior Secondary School, high school in Sierra Leone, Osman is a highly skilled carpenter's apprentice. I have watched him saw and plane boards and have seen beautifully crafted furniture take form in his workshop with only the use of hand tools to make the pieces. This has naturally led to the most satisfactory of arrangements: let me give you wads of the US government's money, and you can build me awesome custom furniture for my house. In addition to building a sofa, love seat, armchair, coffee table, long table, wall shelf, bed, full length vanity case, and clothing rack for the previous Peace Corps occupant of my house, Osman has built for me a table, office desk, bench and seat for my toilet, kitchen shelf, book shelf, two chairs, and the candelabra. The finished desk upon which I am typing this, Osman created from rough lumber in a single day. The price his carpentry shop overseer posed was 70,000 Leones; 50,000 for materials and 20,000 for labor. 70,000 Leones is about $16. After the varnish dried Osman carried the desk to my house on his head. Did I mention he is 17? Osman has also helped me paint the inside of my house, taking it from a blotchy muted light blue to a restful deep blue. Maps of Sierra Leone, West Africa, the African continent, the world, and pictures of home now decorate the walls. As we transformed my living living room, I pumped G-Eazy and Daft Punk from my battery mini-speakers, then the Kanu family and I ate rice and beans together. Cultural exchange at its finest. Osman has also helped my to purchase items in the market, such as a giant water barrel, avoid paying the “white man tax.” Once a week I draw water from the well in the yard with a rope and bucket and fill the barrel which stands in my kitchen next to my tiny one burner gas stove. In addition to beautifying my home, these projects also have given me a sense of pride and ownership of my new house. Lord knows I'll spend a good deal of time here. Soon I plan to pull up the worn and drab patterned linoleum floor covering and put down more aesthetically pleasing flooring. No matter the ups and downs of my Peace Corps work, I'll always have a comfortable and restful retreat to call my own; its all about making my house a home. Above my desk hangs a string of Tibetan prayer flags from my mom's greenhouse in Boston and in the kitchen rests a small bottle of pure Vermont grade A maple syrup, worth its weight in gold.                  

On the days I have not been indulging the in felicity of unbounded domesticity, I have taken to walking about my community to get my bearings in my new environment. In the morning, I will head our of my house and just walk without a set purpose, returning in the evening to collapse into bed. As I greet people on their verandas, I have yet to have an interaction that was not friendly and welcoming. Many shared their strong memories of Peace Corps from before the civil war and of the gentleman whom I am replacing. On these days I will spend 5-15 minutes talking with each group of people I encounter, keeping time with the policeman at the checkpoint on the road out of town (who shared his jug of palm wine), the manager of the local radio station, the imam of the area's largest mosque, the town blacksmith (who had me work the bellows of his smithy as he pounded out farming machetes on his anvil), and shopkeepers and vendors in the market (so as to develop relationships and take mental notes on what is available and where). On the days when I have felt lonely and isolated, going out into town  has always buoyed my spirits. However the constant attention at times is very tiring. Greeting people is an indispensable part of the culture in Sierra Leone and to fail to do so is a major foux-pas. This means that a every time I leave the house I must greet, at least for a moment or two, each adult I pass. There is no such thing as a expedient or quick trip into town. This is compounded by the fact that as one of the only 4 non-Africans in town (more on the others later), and a high profile one at that. I am a celebrity; most everyone knows my name, and the young children who don't yell oporto (white man) like a high pitched broken record. To this I call back othemne (Themne man) or attempt to ignore it as best I can. Always being the center of attention can be brutally tiring at times, and I am attempting to focus on recalibrating the expected pace of life and appreciating the sincere extensions of hospitality.       

It is the formation of little comforting rituals which has made the transition into my new life infinitely more comforting and familiar. Each morning since the start of school I have arisen at 6:30. This is after floating in and out of consciousness for an hour after the call to prayer from the nearest mosque partially wakes me at 5:30. Flicking my cheap Sierra Leonean lighter 50 or so times, I light my little one burner gas stove and heat a pot of water for my morning cup of Earl Grey tea or cardamom Arabic coffee with sugar and milk powder. For breakfast I either slice a number of bananas into a pot of oatmeal with a hearty dash of cinnamon or saute onions and eggplant for a two egg omelet which I put on bread with mayonnaise. A breakfast of champions eaten as I listen to the morning news from the BBC World Service over my shortwave radio. This is usually the voice of the only native English speaker I hear all day. At the end of the day after all is said and done, I take a bucket shower of cool water by candle light in my tiled bathroom where the sloping floor makes the water run into a drain. Then I curl up with my head lamp under my giant canopy mosquito net and write a page in my journal. Each day is filled with so many small events and I want to record my sentiments on any one day to chart my own progression. Even three months in it is amusing to read the entries from my first few weeks in Sierra Leone. After that I read one poem in my book of the 101 most famous poems in the English language. Then I read my book of the week until I find myself rereading the same paragraph over and over, switch out the light, and listen to the crickets and occasional howling stray dog as I drift off to sleep.   

To be a white man in Sierra Leone naturally means that I am a racial minority, but it is being a hyper-privileged minority that at times I have had to eschew and downplay. Though I am routinely offered, and I decline, the best seat or the first serving, most of this is because of the great culture of hospitality in Sierra Leone. The overwhelming majority of times race has come up in conversation, Sierra Leoneans and I talk of how as people we all have the same basic emotions as human beings; hopes and dreams, fears and worries, no matter the color of our skin and that race doesn't matter. The only explicitly harsh words against white people I have heard have never been directed against me and have been in the context of discussing colonialism. As one wise older man said: “the white man came and gave us the Bible and told us to read, and when we looked up he had taken our land.”

            But it has been the few times when Sierra Leoneans have advanced ideas of white racial exceptionalism that have truly stunned me. I'm a skinny-ass honky. One day I was passing a worker, who could have been on the cover of a bodybuilding magazine, digging a massive irrigation ditch with only a pick and shovel. We warmly greeted each other, and as part of greeting I thanked him for the work he was doing and said what a strong man he was. To this he replied, “no, you are a white man, you are stronger than me,” lowering his eyes slightly. Once greeting an old man in a thatched house out in the countryside, as we shook hands he gently touched my right forearm with his left hand, saying ”white skin is so beautiful.” A old lady brought me a plate of rice and beans, for which I thanked her effusively. To me she said “no, thank you. Do you know what it means for a white man to come from America to Sierra Leone to help my black brothers and sisters?” I have only heard such comments on a handful of occasions and I always try to be as outgoing and personable as I can, denying any inherent white status to the person who has made the comment with a laugh to make light of the situation. But even the fact that a few such comments have been made is arresting. Whether it is a legacy from over a century of colonial rule, decades of ineffectual and corrupt leadership and a civil war, a dependency of foreign aid, or a combination of those factors, I know not. Nor can I offer an answer to the problem of racial self-effacement, but I do feel the solution and the action must come from Sierra Leoneans for Sierra Leoneans, and not from a white voice.            

As the days passed in turn, and the start of school was still several weeks away, I began to feel very restless and stir-crazy. Without any real work to sink my teeth into I was feeling despondent and so went out looking for something, I didn't exactly know what. As so out I went, introducing myself at the various offices around town, explaining who I was, the few skills I posses, and that I was happy to lend a hand in whatever capacity I could. Like a pilgrim I arrived at the Our Lady of Guadalupe medical clinic. The staff is comprised of one volunteer doctor from Italy who will be there for a few months, two nuns from Mexico who have been in Sierra Leone for two years and are trained nurses, two Sierra Leonean nurses in training, and three volunteering Sierra Leoneans who help in the pharmacy and lab. I told them that I am an English teacher, and that the extent of my medical training was that which I received when I became a lifeguard 4 years previously. The extent of that training was rub lotion on it. I offered whatever help I could. Why yes we would very much appreciate your assistance the sisters said, can you come in tomorrow? Indeed I could and did.

            The next morning at 8:30 I began taking the medical notes and records from the patients who sat patiently waiting. Through the gates a motorcycle sped in and a mother leapt off, running inside holding her semi conscious infant. I watched and fetched supplies from the medical cabinet as the staff quickly worked over the child as he writhed and moaned. He was in the advanced stages of malaria. The nurses did all that they could to bring his high fever under control but as is so often the case here, lack of knowledge of disease and how to fight it leads people to seek medical treatment for themselves and their children after it is far too late. After a time, the child's jerks and groans became softer and less sporadic until he stopped moving all together. It was 10:45. The Italian doctor called me into her office where she and a scared teenage girl sat. As the doctor speaks Italian and English, and Krio is similar enough to English; she is able to roughly communicate with patients but she asked me to help facilitate a conversation with my more advanced Krio. I told her the 16 year old swears she has not had sex. I then helped explained to the teenager that as she had said her period was late and had a positive pregnancy test, this was slightly dubious. That day at the clinic, a woman had been stretched out on a bench resting for what she knew lay ahead. She was pregnant with her seventh child and in the early afternoon she began having contractions and going into labor. The clinic is equipped for births, but this woman's case was far more serious. She was only six and a half months pregnant. She needed to go to a full hospital immediately and fortunately the clinic has a rather advanced ambulance. But there was still a line of people who had been waiting hours to be seen and only a handful of staff. And so as the mother was lifted into the ambulance, the nurses remained at the clinic while the doctor, the woman's husband and I jumped in and shot down the highway, siren blaring. The drive to Bo, the nearest major city, is two hours and fortunately the road is paved. The woman was laying on a gurney in the center of the ambulance and said that she could wait no longer. With the Italian doctor gently giving instructions and encouragement, a tiny baby boy was born. The newborn could have been held in the palms of my hands. There was no clamp in the ambulance medical kit and the doctor asked me if I had anything that could suffice. I tore off a strip of cloth from the mother's wrap, a piece of colorful fabric to tie off the umbilical chord. Holding up the child for the father to see, the doctor asked what he wanted to name his son. Pointing at me the father said, Samuel. The final stretch of road to the Doctors Without Borders hospital was an endless 5 miles of washboards and frozen waves of earth over which we had to creep at an agonizingly slow pace. Examining the mother, the doctors said she would be fine, but that there was no realistic hope for the child. Being born two and a half months premature is extremely serious anywhere, let alone the nation with the world's highest infant mortality rate. Swathed in a blanket against his mother's chest, Samuel, his mother and father, the doctor and I made our way back up to Mile 91 in the ambulance. Sitting silently next to me, the mother took a small pouch from her wrap with her delicate fingers and took a pinch of snuff. I very gladly accepted a pinch from the extended pouch. As I savored the effects, we sped past a mini-van bus with a goat tied to the roof. Reflecting on the day, a death, a birth, the sights sounds and smells working in the clinic, I was struck by how unfazed I was by it all. The next day the mother came into the clinic for a follow up. She told us Samuel in now is heaven.

             Three months ago as I sat in the terminal at JFK, if you had told me what I would be seeing and doing, boarding the jet would have been infinitely more nerve wracking. But after only 12 weeks of Peace Corps, planet Sierra Leone has cease to be disconcerting. Since my first eventful day at the clinic, I have been back many times. I have helped to change bandages on mangled legs, distributed medicine, helped set IV drips, prepared injections for the nurses and even given injections. Witnessing an epileptic seizure, I tried to explain to terrified onlookers that it was a noncommunicable disease and not demon possession. As I was taking the temperatures of waiting children to determine who were the most serious cases to be seen first, I thought of how heinously illegal my hands-on help in the clinic would be in the US, and how unqualified I was. I then realized the stunning fact that I am very qualified. I can offer another pair of clean hands, I can take directions and efficiently do what needs to be done after being shown once, I am not squeamish, and I can speak both English and Krio. Adapting to Sierra Leone means having to accept and understand that there is just a different set of rules here; there are no rules. 

Especially in my position, it is amazing what doors you can open just by asking. Mile 91 has it's own radio station which broadcasts music and talk programs, and as it focuses on local issues it enjoys quite a large following. Radio is particularly important as it is the one outlet of mass media which can reach a very wide audience in Sierra Leone; radios are cheap and the majority of the adult population is illiterate. Three of my fellow Language Arts teachers at Benevolent Islamic Secondary School are involved at the 91.0 station; one is the production manager and two conduct an evening talk program called Good Governance in which a panel discusses national politics concerns, with a focus on how the community can get involved and access their government. I expressed my interest in assisting at the radio and with the program. Several days later I got the word, come on down to the station tonight for our broadcast. The two teachers and I had about a half hour prep during which I speed read a pamphlet on Sierra Leone politics and scribbled notes as if I was preparing for a debate rebuttal. The atmosphere was very much “we'll do it live.” It was with nervous excitement that I stepped into the broadcasting booth. The two panelists and I introduced ourselves. To remain calm, I tried to ignore the microphone a few inches in-front of our faces which transmitted our every utterance to an unknown number of ears, people whom I would see in town, live. Over the next 45 minutes we discussed the the issue of the night: the responsibilities of members of parliament and how citizens can communicate grievances to their elected officials. The Sierra Leoneans spoke of the problems of citizen's apathy, corruption, and politicians who are very good at talking and little else. I was asked to comment on the differences between politics as I see it here and in the US. I said we have the same problems. The entire program was in Krio. As I type this I am at the station waiting to sit on a panel discussing the proposed redistricting before the upcoming election of the Yoni Paramount Chief.

Three and a half weeks into living at my site, my feeling is so far so good.