Sunday, 13 March 2011

Blog 2: The Vultures Strike Back.


The pollution and Rubbish problem is unbelievable.

The week started in a peculiar fashion. John had some family matters to attend to and was away for the majority of the weekend. So, I decided that after two weeks working solidly in Freetown I was due a little bit of leisure time. Those who know me personally will know how pale I am and I'll be damned if I do not get some semblance of a tan while I am here, so I headed out to relax under the tropical heat. After dozing off I was woken by a scuffle beside me and thinking it was John mucking about I kicked out my leg – only for what I thought was John to squawk back at me in indignation.

I opened my eyes to find it was only a bloody great big vulture who had mistaken my pale hue for a corpse of some kind. Naturally I felt flattered by mother nature.


After chasing off the vulture I decided that sunbathing could wait for another day. I walked into town for an amble around a market or two but strangely, everywhere was quiet, in some places even deserted. I headed for the Cotton Tree (a 500 year old tree at the centre of the town planted by the first freed slaves who colonised Sierra Leone) unaware of what lay ahead. Coming out of the next junction I found myself confronted by what seemed to be the entire Sierra Leone Army, guns aimed, running towards me.


At that point, I wanted my mummy.


A man grabbed me and pulled me to the side of the road, telling me I was getting in the way of the procession.


'The what?!' I said, staring at him blankly, still wanting my mummy, until he explained it was National Armed Forces Day and that I would have blocked the combat troops demonstrating a drill. Realising I was now stood in a MASSIVE crowd of cheering citizens, I felt a little embarrassed for my alarm. It was an impressive spectacle to see the might of the military stride past but I left soon after that. I find all things army uncomfortable and having studied Sierra Leone's civil war it was all a bit too weird for me.


The following Monday, I went to the SLPP's (the main opposition party) headquarters to see if I could arrange a meeting with a few of their candidates (of the 19 standing) for the leadership of the party. We had to sweet talk a giant thug on the gates by saying we were loyal supporters and I had flown in especially to provide the SLPP with election winning resources – I was, of course, talking out of my arse.


Luckily my arse turned out to be quite the flatterer.


The editor of the party newspaper was very enthusiastic about my project and promptly gave me the numbers to all 19! After watching each of them in turn being interviewed on the TV I decided that Mr Andrew Keili was not only the most capable and promising candidate but also a man who seemed opened to new ideas. Fortunately my prediction was correct and I met him on the Tuesday in his office. Mr Keili has some pragmatic approaches to tackling the rising socio-economic problems that are blighting Sierra Leone and he was receptive to the idea of Open Source. As a result I will be working with his business CEMMAT on evaluating OS for the mining sector as well as the country as a whole. Mr Keili provided me with a number of useful documents which has improved my understanding of the country's problems and I am pleased to say I now have a friend in politics. Mr Keili recommended I speak with the minister of public affairs; Mr Alpha Khan.

Myself and Mr Keili.

It took two weeks for Mr Khan to pick up his phone.


In the meantime I started sorting out my school projects with Extra Mile. Michael Fielding, the director, is a truly dedicated man and it was really nice to see a familiar face. After arranging the various meetings I'll be attending next week, including with the Vice President of Charles Magai University, we went to his beach cottage with his volunteers to relax for the day. The beach itself was astounding; to put it into context, it was the beach where the famous bounty advert was shot.

Jackie in his school uniform. Jackie lives in the Extra Mile compound.


Obviously I was royally sunburnt.


I spoke at great length with a French lady from Handicapped International about the legacy of child soldiers. Thorough psychiatric care is of paramount importance as yesterdays child soldiers become tomorrow's uprisings. I wrote this poem as a result:

Children of the Soil

'Orange tik nobar bon lem' - An orange tree will never bear limes


While young hungry mouths chew bitter pith

not strong enough to pierce its skin

not strong enough to eat their crops

not strong enough to grip their chalk.

Still teething. Still teething.


Mosquito's draw the sweetest juice

without sowing seeds for further fruit


What zest of life

From wilted flowers,

What relieving shade

From rotting seeds?


The Thuglords of this eternal summer

Those weeds to many,

Those locusts, those grazers.

They germinate nothing but herd rusted flocks.

Failed crops. Failed crops. Failed crops.


'No Harvests here. Nothing grows up round these parts.'


Those kids,

They are passion's pips

spat into dust

Those pulped bruised seedlings

Autumns arable chaos

sown into soil to rot in the fields

a crop full of crosses and parasites.

Those Thuglords,

They cast spider-webs for dew drops

that could relieve parched tongues

but instead string them as necklaces

or as nooses.


They feed on nurseries,

on saplings, on futures.

They teach you what it is to be a man

My Belladonna, my poisoned child,


It's the insects that farm this land.


I wanted to immerse myself in the literature and history of Sierra Leone and decided that a book store was the best way of going about it. This seemed logical, until I tried to find a book store. I still haven't found one as such, there are book vendors who sell mostly second hand trashy fiction like 'the Da Vinci Code' but nothing specific to SL. However, in a superb twist of fate, in asking for directions to a bookshop (that later turned out not to exist) I met a young writer by the name of Walter Davies.


Walter turned out to be a member of Pen International, an organisation that promotes writing as an important development tool worldwide. I met with Walter on several occasions demonstrating the system we built for SL and gave him a few useful pieces such as Celtx; the free professional scriptwriting software.


Walter introduced me to Mr Mohammed Sheriff, the president of SL's Pen International division and two time winner of the BBC world service playwriting competition. Mr Sheriff was very positive about using Open Source to help PEN in it's school programmes, as well as for their community of writers, who are struggling to get even the most basic resources.


It was a very productive meeting and I'm pleased to say that I will be setting up Sierra Leone's first ever Poetry Slam as a side project. Mr Sheriff is also going to introduce me to UNICEF as he thinks my project will be of great interest to them. When he said that, I was flabbergasted. UNICEF? Wow.

Myself and Mr Sheriff

Slam Poetry could be a very useful social empowerment tool here. For a start it is much more community focused that written poetry; requiring performance, power and a live audience. Secondly, it's a cheap art form and can be practised and written by anyone, regardless of their background and to some extent literacy. What excites me most about organising a Slam here is that poetry is still seen as a mostly aristocratic pursuit. In England with the likes of Byron Vincent and Kate Tempest poetry has become a cool and popular art form. A poet winning the Slam in Krio would be amazing. I'm confident if it's organised correctly it will be a long lasting event and to ensure healthy competition, I'm putting up the prize money myself.


I didn't get chance to meet Alpha Khan as he was called into an emergency meeting. I did however meet with the co-ordinator of Political Affairs and Mr Khan's right hand man – Mr Agibu Jalloh.

Myself and Mr Jalloh.

Mr Jalloh was American educated and as a result has a thick Chicago sounding accent. He called me Jimmy relentlessly, even after I stressed my name was James. I found him a likeable chap. He is, however, quite formidable and the presentation itself was an intense experience. I had to be very patient as the meeting was constantly interrupted by officials and phone calls. Luckily, he was receptive to the idea and gave me a plethora of useful contacts, including the Attorney General and Minister of Justice Mr Kargo and the Director General of Ministry Human Resources Mr Surror.


I met with both ministers later that afternoon to arrange further meetings and discussions.


Despite the success of acquiring these contacts, the day left a peculiarly sour taste in my mouth.

I had the overwhelming impression that the ministers were not particularly fussed about putting in place policies for the future of their institutions. An example of which was Mr Kargo who said the legal system's IT infrastructure was to be put in by a development organisation, but he couldn't remember which and then promptly left. He had given me at most two minutes of his time.

Still, even small progress can be built on and I have some important meetings with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and International Development, Ministry of Finance and the Registry Office still to come. Fingers crossed!


I also went to the Tacugama Chimpanzee Sancturary, located about 8miles of out Freetown. Seeing wild Chimpanzees was fantastic but being in actual jungle was even better.

John enjoying victory after a 2km uphill trek.

At the sanctuary, I learnt what animals there are in Sierra Leone, something which had being surprisingly hard to uncover.

It turns out the wildlife here is still vibrant and diverse, despite the carnage inflicted by the civil war on the animal populations. The species include: manatees, elephants, pygmy hippos (apparently they are still big, I wanted a pocket sized one!) hawks, leopards, vultures, chameleons, barracuda (had a lovely Barracuda steak the other day) a range of horrendous spiders, pygmy kingfishers, sea owls, bats (you see thousands of them every dusk) monkeys, pangolins and snakes, lots of snakes.


Including spitting cobras. Jesus.

In fact, the only non poisonous snake here is the grass snake, but it will still cause you trouble if it bites you. This is because the locals believe grass snakes only attack witches and therefore, being bitten by one, may cause you to be centre of unwanted magical attention.

John was telling me that when he was last in the provinces he had seen a baby cobra fight with a chameleon. The chameleon turned bright red and scared the cobra away. If I encountered a cobra, I'd probably just cry.

Here's a lovely great big cockroach. They keep turning up dead on their backs around my flat, which is nice.

Cockroaches

Cockroaches

Lumber

Like

Legged

Severed

Thumbs


Ambling round my kitchen

For rice grains and crumbs.


They come to die on my kitchen floor

A spiritual journey

that ends

by the mop bucket.


Floating on tiles for me to find

Come sunshine, come coffee.


I was talking to a local elder about the Leopard Society the other day. I'd heard bits and pieces here and there about the Leopard Society; a cult much feared for their cannibalism and ritual practise in West Africa. He told me how they used to terrorise the British under colonialism, as well as the local villagers, taking travellers at night and plundering sick and vulnerable villagers from their beds.

Whilst many felt this tradition died long ago, he said there was somewhat of a recurrence during the civil war – something Freetown museum confirmed. The museum said a revival during the war was quite likely as reports of cannibalism and maiming had been common across both Liberia and Sierra Leone and that rumours of 'leopard people' were abound. The elder said they were still in practise and warned me to watch out for myself in the provinces; I felt this was a bit ridiculous considering it's been nearly ten years since the end of the war. Many traditions have become purely ceremonial, for cultural reasons, as the majority of the population in the provinces is now Muslim.


Then John passed me a newspaper from late last month. The headline read: 'ritual murder of Fourbah College student'. His genitals and other parts of his body had been removed.

I couldn't find the newspaper article to post up, as many newspapers don't have online facilities, but I found this article on the same murder: http://canvassnews.com/?m=20110308

After reading it, I decided to take the elder's story a bit more seriously.

Wednesday, 23 February 2011

First week



The view from my window:



First Week

The trip over:


After saying goodbye to my parents I boarded the flight from Heathrow. On the plane I was greeted by the promise of lions and tigers glowering out of the little tv screens nestled in the back of the seats. The cats gave way to beautiful stewardesses, causally throwing the Kenyan Airways logo between them whilst riding elephants and feeding giraffes. I found myself suddenly wishing I was going on Safari with Kenyan Airways. These flickering colours licked the narrow gangway with sufficient illumination as to find ones seat. On each seat lay a blanket and a pillow wrapped in polythene envelopes which wistfully promised more comfort than economy seats really deliver. Sure enough, my knees locked horns with their age old enemy – the seat in front.


That said, after so many years working on this project, I felt exuberant to be on my way. The lights on the runway fizzed and sparkled like popping candy and I took childish delight in the roar of the engines, relishing the blur of rain-swept fireworks past the window.


Goodbye England, next stop Sierra Leone. Well, sort of. I had to change flights in Kenya and Ghana first!


The lady next to me explained how she had returned to Kenya before Christmas to spend time with her sick father, only to leave the weekend before he passed away. She was now returning for his funeral but assured me it was going to be the celebration of a lifetime. She invited me to stay with her family during my time in Africa to soak up the sights and sounds of Nairobi. It was a tempting offer.


We landed in Nairobi just before daybreak, the city pricked with needles of light as far as the eye could see. For the next three hours, I was in limbo. Relegated to the airport lounge, I decided that people watching would be the most satisfying way to pass the time. I found the best seat in the house & watched the lounge come to life. Within the first five minutes Miss Tanzania 2011 had tottered past - complete with sash, crown and obscene heels, I then observed a handful of government ministers sprawl across their own private area (one of four such areas I later found out) and giggled at a couple who were desperately trying to write postcards before returning to Australia, thus ensuring that authentic 'from Africa' stamp.


I began to get a little nervous about my project.


Clarity, as it often does, came in the bathroom. After washing my face I saw that I was dressed like a complete twat and promptly relaxed. Cheap Fila running shoes, thick white sports socks, THE most functional shorts ever designed and a faded burgundy t-shirt sympathetically complimented my newly shaven head. All in all, I looked suspiciously like an American tourist.


So much for subtlety.


I soon realised that anticipating my arrival would be counter productive; getting into a fluster would probably make me less capable if things went wrong. So, I relaxed, put my feet up and set about writing my first poem of the trip.


The poem didn't materialise however, rather I stared blankly at the sizzling tarmac until it was time to board. By chance I had the fire escape seat. The steward briefed me on how to escape before anyone else in the event of an emergency (win?) and I unfurled my legs to settle into my important role.

After all, with great legroom comes great responsibility.


We made a stop in Ghana before arriving in Sierra Leone. I must admit, at that point the reality started to set in. The final twenty minute descent into Freetown sparked an inferno of hypothetical disaster situations; the most frightening being what to do if no-one met me.


There is good cause to be concerned about this; Lungi is the only airport in the entire country. It has a reputation for being as dangerous as it is difficult to navigate. On landing I was swept into a fray of Chinese and Russian diplomats who were being ushered into armoured vehicles. Luckily my guide, Kom, found me trying to explain to a soldier that I wasn't a Russian Diplomat (due to my pasty complexion it was an easy mistake to make) and that someone was waiting for me.


Kom and I took a minibus to the shoreline and savoured a picturesque beer on one of the most beautiful beaches I have ever seen.


Let me explain the options across the water.


  1. The helicopter. This is the most expensive, most lavish and probably most dangerous option. Out of the 3 helicopters in the fleet only one is working, one is grounded and the other fell into the sea in November.

  2. The hovercraft. This too had sunk and was out of service.

  3. Water-taxi. These small canvas boats have large outboard motors and are notorious for capsizing or stopping half way until a larger fare is negotiated.

  4. The last option is the ferry, which is the one we opted for. Four huge outboard motors transform a boat which was originally designed to amble into a rocket ship.


The estuary collides with the Atlantic ocean halfway across and is choppy to say the least. We were all made to wear life jackets from the outset in case of a 'roller-roller' as the driver put it...


Arriving

Gnarled twisted timbers

beaten by coarse sea-salt zephyrs and birds feet

reach as fingers out of the waves

The pier receives us like a handshake.

The city swims with material

cloaks of fine red dust

silks of flecked paint

bullet woven concrete lace

all flutter past the window.

Freetown tastes of burnt sugar and mangoes.

Make shift shacks split palm groves with washing lines and ball games

Whilst cigarettes and soft drinks are traded through car windows.

Everything moves

Everything sings

Underneath the Cotton Tree.


There are three things that hit you when you arrive in Freetown. The first is the heat; which swallows you in it's satisfying yet tiring snare. The second is the dust. The government, in conjunction with the Chinese, have begun rebuilding all major roads which has coated everything in a rich film of brick-red dust. The third is the traffic - which is simply unbelievable.

However, I can't help but fall in love with Freetown the second I'm whizzing through it's chaotic streets. I have never experienced driving like it anywhere in the world: it is absolute mayhem. There are no discernible lanes, traffic comes from ALL directions at once, every road is a maze of pot holes and 5ft deep sewage ditches and motorbike taxis arrogantly weave their way through any gap imaginable. The taxi I am in is an old Nissan Sunny; a car favoured by grandmas in the UK. It is missing both it's front and rear bumpers, has no headlights, has only one wing mirror and rattles continually as if the car itself is choking on the dust. The windscreen has cracks like varicose veins that kiss the pickled dents in the roof; you can tell this car has gone for a 'roller-roller' before.

I arrive at my flat to a lovely welcome from the Metzkey family. I meet my guide for the next four months – a local lad the same age as me, his name is Jon. We head out for a walk to get a taster of the town.

Sierra Leoneons are passionate people, whose vibrant and explosive tendencies erupt out of every pore in Freetown. It is a city of palm trees and razor wire, of great pride and bitter frustration.

Development since the war has slowed in recent years which has lead to a rise in inflation and unemployment. These are serious issues as male unemployment was one of prominent factors in the build up to the war. Similarly, food riots rocked the countries rehabilitation last year.

Food prices are still spiralling upwards. In the last month alone the price of bread has increased

by a quarter. As a result the election next year is the hot topic and with good reason; it feels as if Sierra Leone is at a crossroads for its future.

The right leadership will be crucial.

I will return to the political spectrum later in my blogs as the leadership election is coming up for the main opposition party; the SLPP (Sierra Leone peoples party). I am going to be talking to some of the candidates about Open Source development as well as the future of Sierra Leone over the next couple of weeks.

I'll leave you on my experiences of Valentines day in Sierra Leone.

The people in Freetown are beautiful things and Valentines day is woven intricately into the TV channels, bustling markets and passing chatter. It is a much more sincere celebration of romance than in England.

That said, my companion Jon has turned out to be somewhat of a lady's man. Texting culture is quite different here, so I wanted to give you a taster of some of the texts Jon has received on this most romantic of days:

'I wish a hundred thousand loves to you and a hundred thousand more. Let us be buried together in an embrace that starts today and lasts until we pass away' – girl A

'If they took away the sea, the sand, the sky and the earth, my love for you would still remain. It is as constant as the stars and we will love each other for eternity and beyond' - girl B

'You are due to appear in love court. Your crime? Being loved too much. Your sentence? Half an hour of non stop kissing. Love you forever my sweet' – girl C

'My love for you will stay even when I die, it will be whispered in the winds of time and in the smiles of our children' – girl A (again) she seems quite forward and a little obsessive...

In the spirit of this great romantic tradition, I also thought I'd try my hand at a love poem. There is a Krio expression, 'old firewood' which explains the relationship with an amicable ex-lover. It is a fantastic image of the flammability of an old relationship and how the briefest of encounters can spark a new romance with an old flame.

Old Firewood

The moon has rouged cheeks tonight

Maybe he blushes at the exposed earth;

Coarse in her nudity.

Or maybe he uses blusher

To entice the eyes of admirers.

Slick yet parched.

Everyone feels the midnight heat

Flush their faces with the jewellery of summer;

In each bead swims a curious crescent.

We watch her move.

So does the moon.

A street full of suckling stares

swing

synchronised

with her hips

our time now counted

In the beat

of hard swallowed hearts

and the ticking

of her footsteps.


The rhythm of her waistline

clicks for our attention,

as if to say:


Watch her move.

We do.


The moon indulges in his foot fetish

his cold steel drawn all over her sequinned shoes.

He is a jealous lover,

constantly kissing her body

until his glitter lipstick coats her skin

in cool blue powder.


Such a chivalrous gentleman,

the moon lays himself down

in the viscous bubbles of a spilt drink...

But really he is the voyeur,

sneaking peaks at slender calves

and ankles wrapped in ribbon.


Her heel pierces his puddle like an orgasm.


Ripple

After Ripple

after ripple

of delight.


She is his old firewood

Together they spark daybreak.

Once satisfied he arcs across the sky

promising to call on her again

when the cycle is just right.


To rekindle sequins

and to raise baby moons.