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 7th and 8th
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 2nd 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.
