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