The warmth and moisture of the rainforest on Banana Islands spreads to everything the air touches. By the time we packed up and left on Tuesday, even clothing we hadn’t worn felt damp. In general, air in Sierra Leone feels thicker: in the city, it’s the thickness of pollution – trucks spewing black exhaust, a garbage dump the size of a football field, on fire – and in the forest, the air hangs with moisture so thick you can almost see it.

We woke up Monday morning with clean air in our lungs, scouring the Freetown grit and soot out of our lungs. We wandered down to the beach before breakfast, collecting some shells and taking a few photos (“snaps” as they call them here), then we returned to the thatched restaurant surrounded by logs growing thick with fungi and hammocks made out of discarded fishing nets. We had a breakfast of instant coffee, omelette, toasted buns, Laughing Cow cheese, and honey, which was incredible: made from tropical flowers, it was drippy, extremely sweet and tasted like fruit syrup – like nothing I’ve ever had in Canada. I know the flavour of honey varies depending on the pollen that the bees use… but this was beyond any variation I’ve ever tasted.

After breakfast, we decided to explore Dublin and set off up the slippery path of packed mud towards the village, careful not to lose our footing in our flip-flops. We walked among the wooden Krio houses (mended over the years with corrugated metals), waving and chatting to the local residents. We saw chickens and goats running free through the forest (which isn’t unusual for Africa, people tend not to pen their small animals), and fruit hanging from trees – guavas, limes… We visited the primary school, a long one-room building with a chalkboard and some rickety tables and chairs. Outside, the teachers were finishing up their duties for the term, filling out grade sheets and recording marks. They invited us inside, where we were treated to a cheerful and bouncing song-and-dance performance from the students, as well as lots of hugs, laughter and grins from ear-to-ear.

We also visited the other guesthouse on the island, where the cook gave us a tour of the grounds and the surrounding area. We saw the remnants of stone walls on the island built by slaves, now sinking back into the earth as the rainforest reclaims the land. Our guide also showed us what used to be a large pit ringed by stones and filled in with soil, where slaves that were too tired or ill to work were left to die. After the British abolished slavery in 1807(ish), they used the Banana Islands to stem the slave trade which still ran rampant out of West Africa. Some abolitionists established Freetown as a colony of return for freed blacks, and the British military set up shop on the Banana Islands to prevent slave ships from entering the colony’s waters. Still on the island are a few very worn and sunken cannons, with the year 1813 stamped into their shafts.

After our tour of Dublin, we went back to the cove where we’d landed on the island – Dalton had offered (for a fee, of course) to take us on a boat tour to the other large island, Ricketts. We piled back into the wooden fishing canoe, along with Dalton and his cousin Malcolm, originally from Ricketts. The ride took about 45 minutes, over much calmer seas than our trip to the island the previous day – we saw the big fishing boats from Tombo (another town on the coast) like giants drifting on the horizon, as well as the small-business fishermen bobbing in their individual canoes, casting their lines in the hopes of scoring a few barracuda or snapper.

From the sea, the Banana Islands look untouched by man – just two massive hills of lush green vegetation, with the occasional palm tree sticking out at an odd angle. The shoreline is mostly rocky, waves crashing on the huge grey stones that line the shore. The two main islands (there are a few smaller ones as well) are not very far apart – maybe 25 metres – and are attached by a man-made stone bridge, giving the islands an hourglass shape if viewed from above.

Ricketts was smaller than Dublin, home to about 150 people. Malcolm showed us around to the Anglican and Methodist churches – there is no mosque on the islands, even though they are home to a few Muslims… but as Malcolm pointed out, god will come wherever you call. We also saw the chief’s house, painted with a mural of Jesus ringing his doorbell and “Jones Mansion” emblazoned along the overhang of the roof. Dublin was a plethora of fruit too – breadfruit, sour sharp (and its sweeter cousin), papaya and avocado. Malcolm called over one of the boys who were hanging around playing soccer, who scrambled up the trunk like a monkey and used a long pole to knock down two
football-sized papayas – which we brought back to Freetown to share with the house.

We also saw the cemetery, completely grown over with foliage – the rainy season has started and everything is growing madly, too quickly to keep up. Malcolm said that every September, once the rainy season has ended, the community gets together and cleans up the graveyard then holds a big feast as a way of remembering their forefathers, a tradition they have been carrying on for generations.

Ricketts also has a primary school, but it’s incomplete – when the SLPP took power after the war, money was given to the community to build a new school and housing for the teacher, but today only the shells of the buildings sit abandoned on a hillside, trees and vines weaving their way through the walls. When the APC took power the money dried up, so the kids still take their lessons in the Anglican church in the middle of the village.

Getting fresh water on the islands is a big problem, and is part of the reason Malcolm moved to Dublin, which has a well in the middle of the village. In Ricketts, the well is a mile away, so when Malcolm was growing up, he woke up at 6 a.m. to make four trips to the well to gather water for the family before he started school for the day.

After our tour of Ricketts we headed back to Dublin to frolic on the beach. It was high tide so the sandy part of the beach was underwater, meaning it was less likely we’d get knocked over and dash our brains out on the rocks. We got some colour on our pasty skin and some sand in our swimsuits, then headed to our hut to relax before a dinner of fresh caught lobster.

The lobsters were right out of the sea, sliced down the back and filled with garlic and tomato sauce, grilled over an open fire with a side of rice and garlic sauce. Definitely the best lobster I’ve ever had, possibly one of the best meals of my life. We dug in with reckless abandon, sauce under our fingernails and shards of lobster shell littering the tie-dyed table cloth.

The next morning we got up, took another swim, ate another delish omelette and took a walk in the forest, where I got a record 15 mosquito bites in about 20 minutes. We walked down the coast to the site of a guest house which has been built but has yet to open, for reasons we were never really told. If they do get it up and running, it will give both of the other guesthouses on the island a run for their money – it has the best beach by far and boasts the most secluded location, although the forest is so thick that almost any home or hut on the island can be considered private.

After our jaunt and a final swim, we headed back to Kent to meet our taxi man… who didn’t show up. I called to ask where he was and he said he wasn’t coming – which wouldn’t be a problem in other parts of the country, since taxis are always going by… but not in Kent. It’s off the beaten track, meaning taxis rarely venture down to the town – so when they do, they extort foreigners for all they can because they know we’re desperate to get back to the main road. Luckily, Dalton was also heading up the peninsula to get some supplies for the Slovenian couple who had arrived at the guest house the night before, so he was able to get us into his shared taxi. One Nissan, a trunk full of bags, eight adults, a child and a baby: four adults in the back, three adults and the kiddies in the front… and one guy on the hood of the car. The taxi took us to Tombo, where we caught another taxi to Waterloo, then a poda poda to the east end of Freetown – at which point it started to pour, and we had no idea what street we were on. After about 15 minutes of wandering we found a taxi to take us home, making it a two-and-a-half hour journey… not the most relaxing end to the trip, but better than sleeping under a tree in Kent.

Yesterday we finished all our tourist-y stuff – shopping for fabric, jewellery and batiks. Today it’s just the last minute things: packing, one more trip to the beach, one more trip to Mary’s cookery for lunch, maybe a final World Cup game. We’re going out to an African restaurant tonight for dinner – which reminds me I have a fragment of a post on food that I’ll try to finish up and post today as well.

Dalton’s guest house as viewed from the boat ride to Ricketts (the thatched roof is the restaurant):

Then, we did some stuff and came back to Freetown.

…just kidding.

I meant to write a full post about the rest of our trip to the islands, but I never got around to it last night or this morning. I promise to finish it tonight and I’ll try to post it tomorrow (I know you’re on the edge of your seats), but things are getting down to the wire since we leave Salone in 48 (!!!) hours. I’m sure I’ll still have some things to say by way of wrapping up once I’m back in Canada, so if you’re interested, stay tuned even after we’ve lifted off the tarmac here in Freetown.

The rains are really ramping up here — lying in bed last night I could feel the thunder in my chest. I’m sad to be leaving, but I can’t say I’m sad to be missing the rainy season.

Hope all is well with you and yours!

Banana Islands is one of those places that makes you wonder why people live anywhere else. It’s the kind of place that I thought existed only in travel brochures – Robinson Crusoe meets Treasure Island meets Survivor. I half expected Jeff Probst to jump out from behind an avocado tree and announce the rules for today’s immunity challenge.

The islands lie just off the southern-most tip of the Freetown peninsula about a two-hour drive from Freetown. Our taxi driver, Almummy, took us along the inland route which is longer in terms of distance – but the roads are much better. We got to see some of the small hamlets within the peninsula and it was nice to feel
better-acquainted with village life, and be reminded once again that not everyone lives in Freetown, which can really seem like the centre of the Salone universe at times.

We got to Kent (the closest point on the peninsula to the islands) around 2 p.m. on Sunday. Waiting there was Dalton, the owner of the guest house we were staying at. There are two guesthouses on the Island: the Banana Island Guest House and Dalton’s – aside from coming highly recommended, Dalton’s is only 50,000 Le/night (about CDN$15) compared to 220,000 Le/night at the Banana Island Guest House.

Dalton ushered us down to the boat launch, scattered with
brightly-painted wooden canoes – the seafaring vessels of the small-business fisherman. No wharf or dock, just a small cove with a sandy beach and lots of people milling around… with the Banana Islands looming green and gray in the distance. There, with the Atlantic lapping at our toes, we met Debra, Dalton’s wife (and who, it would turn out, is perhaps the best cook I have ever met – especially considering the conditions she’s working in). We piled into what he called his “small” boat (about 16 feet long, with four sets of seats) and he revved up the outboard motor for the 30-minute trip across the water.

The day was windy and the trip was choppy – we roared over the waves and crash down the other side, bobbing in the water like a cork. A few times I thought the bow might go right under, but Dalton knew what he was doing and we landed safely in the cove on the main island, Dublin. We clambered out of the boat into the shallow water, and Debra led us up an old stone staircase into the jungle – marked with a single remaining lamppost from the days of the Portuguese settlers. The island is home to a scattered village – traditional wooden Krio homes tucked in the jungle, along cleared footpaths in a grid pattern. There was one store, which didn’t seem to be operational. The walk to the guest house was about five minutes with flowers and small plants brushing our ankles, along the well-worn paths made slippery by rain and moss.

We were the only guests at Dalton’s (although I don’t think there were ANY guests at the Banana Island Guest House, probably because the rainy season is getting underway). Arriving at Dalton’s, Debra seated us in the open air restaurant – two six-foot tables overlooking a rocky beach, and a giant tropical tree growing through the thatched roof – while she went to make up our room. Each room at the guesthouse is half of a round, thatched concrete hut with a bed frame and side table made of poured concrete. No electricity except for about an hour during and after dinner time, provided by a generator. We opted for a room with a built-in bathroom, since finding our way to the outdoor latrine at night in the rainy season might have proven challenging. While Debra prepared the room, we sat and watched the clouds drift in, eventually opening up and pouring rain. What do you expect from the rainforest in the rainy season?

When the room was ready we dropped our bags, changed into swimsuits and charged towards the beach… about 15 metres from our front door. It was still raining but the mix of the cool rain and warm ocean was the perfect antidote to 2 ½ hours of traveling. We rinsed off the sweat and dust and mud, then returned to our room to dry off for dinner, which Dalton had gone back to the village to fetch.

Dinner was half a grilled chicken each (a chicken which had been alive when we set foot on Banana Islan only hours before), and rice with garlic sauce. We sucked the bones dry and ate every grain of rice – Debra’s cooking was just fantastic. I know it partly has to do with the Maggi (a “spice” mix that comes like a bullion cube, my suspicion being that the main “spice” is monosodium glutamate)… but they put Maggi in everything here, and Debra’s cooking was still above and beyond – especially when you consider she’s slaving over a tiny outdoor fire in the middle of a rainforest on an island. We retired to our room for some of the coconut cookies we brought from Freetown, and lit a candle once they turned off the generator. We read for a bit, then fell asleep to the sound of the creatures of the rainforest on one side and the ocean on the other – the waves crashing on the beach, so close to our room it sounded like the biggest crests might even slip under our door and lap at the foot of the bed.

More tomorrow…

Well hellooooooooo.

No, I haven’t been kidnapped by diamond miners or swept away by a Lebanese millionaire — the Internet stopped working and then I came down with a nasty, nasty sickness (but I’ve dispatched the antibiotics now so I should be back to “normal” in no time).

I don’t actually have a real entry to post — I’ve just found myself at an Internet cafe so I thought I would check in and let everyone know that we’re still alive and (mostly) well. It’s been a very sweaty few days in Salone, although the sleeping weather is much better now

Alex and I spent last night at Tacugama Chimp Sanctuary, about 45 minutes outside of Freetown (still on the Freetown peninsula). We hired a driver to take us out there yesterday around noon, through the hills of the city, past the fortress that is the American embassy (some things are the same the world over), and smack into the village life of Sierra Leone. Still, there were always people along the road, selling fruit, phone credit and/or cookies or just lounging in the heat – rare was the instance where we were truly alone, until we turned onto the road for the park itself. The road up to Tacugama was paved at one point in time, but the lack of upkeep made the last 1000 meters a bit of a slog – luckily we had Med, a competent and kindly taxi driver (who was on time, too!).

The taxi deposited us at the bottom of a hill that I’m “inclined” (groan) to say was almost a 45 degree pitch. The sign at the bottom of this final stretch of road warns visitors that only 4x4s should attempt the climb – so it was up to us to hike the last 100 metres. We said goodbye to Med, set-up to meet the next day for the return trip to Freetown, and set off.

The sights, smells and sounds of Sierra Leone are no less intense outside the city, but they’re definitely different. The blaring horns, shouting voices and pounding music (or soccer match commentary) give way to chirping birds, screeching chimps, and the gravelly croaks of frogs. The lines of traffic snaking through the narrow and bumpy streets are replaced by hordes of ants marching their way along their own miniature highways. The half-finished buildings injured by war and ramshackle stores along the main roads give way to lush greenery and moss-covered trees (almost everything is covered in moss, in fact). Rich, damp earth fills your nostrils, erasing any lingering stench of burning garbage, exhaust fumes and body odour.

In short, it was a very welcome respite from the city. Don’t get me wrong, I love Freetown – the people and the energy are what gives Africa its charm, in my mind… but it’s also really nice to take a break from the hectic pace of life in the city.

We checked in and were escorted – along a skinny trail dotted with rocks and tree roots – to our quarters for the night: a round, thatched hut painted yellow inside, with a double bed, couch and private bathroom. Outside was a brightly-coloured rope hammock and small covered patio with a table and two chairs, overlooking the rainforest – in fact, the entire hut was shrouded by rainforest. Hello, paradise.

We dropped our bags, had a snack and decided to do one of the hikes that the sanctuary advertises as activities around Tacugama. There were a few short trails that were listed as about 30 minutes each, but we decided to make the three-hour-plus trek to Charlotte Falls – knowing that if I didn’t do it right away, I probably wouldn’t at all. We sprayed ourselves until our skin was thick with 30% DEET, and set off. The trails all started off wending their way down the steep, final incline to the sanctuary, but soon diverged into the bush. They were marked with a clever series of shapes – the trail to Charlotte Falls was marked with triangles, to get to Congo Dam you follow the circles – however, we sometimes came to a fork in the path where the way forward wasn’t clearly marked… and it became a matter of making a guess and then hoping to see your chosen shape within a few hundred meters.

The trail was the same lush forest as surrounded the sanctuary: damp, mossy and raging in so many different colours of green. The hike to the falls was mostly downhill – sometimes treacherously so, and I was tempted to sit down and scoot my bum along the red earth and fallen leaves – leaving an ominous feeling about how much energy we’d have for the return journey uphill. The trail took us through Charlotte Village, where we said hello to some of the villagers and admired their old wooden Krio houses. Seeing village life always leaves me conflicted – it seems like such a wonderful and uncomplicated existence, but I don’t know if I’d survive at it… I don’t know if I could adjust to the lack of “stimulus” – although, if traveled has taught me anything, it’s that I (like all humans) can be remarkably adaptive when the opportunity presents itself.

Anyway, we passed through the village and carried on to the falls, still downhill and through a series of wending and slippery paths – until finally on our left, over the dense foliage, we caught a glimpse of misty sheets of water cascading over water-worn rocks in the distance. We kept following the triangles until we had the falls in plain view (although still a ways away), at which point we came across a sign that said “No Trespassing – Property of Mr. and Mrs. Williams”. Not knowing what to do, we gladly sat down for a break, squished onto the only shady rock we could find.

After a bag of chips and a lot of water, we started hearing voices in the distance – the voices of children. Then, through the woods came a group of about 20 schoolchildren ranging in age from 8-10, coming from Freetown on a field trip. Their leader seemed completely happy to trespass, so we followed along with the kids, who were chirping “Auntie! Auntie! What is your name? Auntie, auntie, where are you from?” at me. We got right up to the base of the waterfall and enjoyed the spray on our backs, took some pictures of the kids and talked with them for a little while, and then we were back off (uphill) home. It was much less painful and shorter than expected, I think because we were both so dazed and sweat-soaked and dehydrated and hungry.

The lodge doesn’t provide dinner (but they do sell beer, which we immediately availed ourselves of) – so once we had showered in extremely cold water and relaxed with books on the porch for a while, we set about putting together a simple pasta dinner, carted in our bags from Freetown. The hut had a shared outdoor cooking facility, and a gas ring in the bedroom… with all the utensils one could need. (As well as a garbage disposal system that separated organic waste, cans/bottles/plastics, and papers – which puzzled me in a country that burns its garbage and certainly doesn’t have a recycling program). Penne and canned tomato sauce never tasted so good, and I’d be embarrassed to tell you how quickly we snorfed down our food, sitting out on the porch in candlelight. It would have been romantic if we’d actually stopped to think about it.

The hut had solar electricity, so we read in bed for awhile but passed out by 10 pm – four hours of hiking was probably more exercise in one day than I’ve done in three weeks in Freetown combined, thanks to the heat and the ubiquity/relative affordability of shared taxis.

We were up at 8 am, reading on the porch when a woman from the lodge brought us breakfast – instant coffee, hardboiled eggs, warm bread, butter (a first in three weeks), Laughing Cow cheese, strawberry jam and boiled cassava – to which we added a mango and two bananas. Sated, we headed up to the main building for the main attraction of the trip: the chimp tour.

Tacugama has been operating since 1995. It’s a sanctuary for orphaned and rescued chimps, the former usually a result of bushmeat hunters and the latter because of people who think having a baby chimp as a pet would be cute (or lucrative – as a performer or slave labourer). We started in the quarantine area, where new arrivals spend 90 days. Then, they’re moved into a starter area (still in a cage), where they have to get used to not being in direct human contact – they stay here until they’re acclimatized enough that the sanctuary thinks they can interact successfully with other chimps.

Chimps are extremely social, sharing 98.6% of their DNA with humans (although an adult chimp is five times stronger than a human, when provoked). Once they can be integrated, they start living together in large enclosures with jungle gyms and swinging ropes, where they can become dextrous at living the way a chimp lives – swinging from branches and sleeping in trees, not living in a house and sleeping in a bed, as they might have if they were a rescue. This is where we really first got to see the chimps in action – dangling wildly from the two-storey jungle gym, tightrope walking, galloping along the ground, stuffing their faces with potato. You’d have to be a really sour person not to get a warm feeling in your chest watching them play. There was some mesh strung up across our viewing area to protect us – the interlopers – from stones thrown at us by the chimps (who are very territorial)… but only one chimp decided we needed to be taught a lesson about trespassing, and he didn’t have very good aim.

One of the neatest parts of the tour was watching our guide interact with the chimps – calling out to them in chimp noises, addressing them by name, scolding them from stealing food from each other… and genuinely laughing along with their antics.

From the play-area, we moved along to the next stage in a chimp’s progression at Tacugama – jungle enclosures. We saw the chimps in both the smaller enclosure (where they’re not allowed to mate, made possible by an implant in the female chimps), and the larger one where four babies have been born. The end goal is to have these chimps released into the wild, but at this point they have nowhere to release them where they aren’t in danger of being poached for bush meat.

At the final, eight-acre enclosure, we were lucky to see the babies playing in the treetops and their mother Julie (the oldest chimp at Tacugama) lounging on a tree branch. One of the other chimps was playing on an overhanging branch and our guide kept calling out “Be careful, man, that’s dangerous!” with real worry in his voice. Julie just hung out in her tree and gazed right at us – what I wouldn’t give to know what was going through her mind.

Overall, it was a pretty magical 90 minutes, to top off a pretty wonderful weekend.

Apologies for being MIA… it’s a combination of not really having much to write about (I spent the weekend reading and enjoying the tropical breeze, which was wonderful for my mental state but didn’t result in any exciting adventures to chronicle), and finally having Alex here. I met him at the helipad on Monday night and we swept off to a nearby restaurant featuring a patio on the beach, feet away from the crashing waves. Waving palm trees and an ocean breeze – not the worst intro to West Africa. We gulped cold Star beer – the local brew – and ate hamburgers and French fries – putting off the run belly for one more night.

Tuesday we went downtown so Alex could start getting his bearings – and get a sense of Africa. I first visited the continent three years ago, so I had sort of forgotten the way it feels to be assaulted with the sights, sounds and smells for the first time. I’d be the first to tell you that one can’t lump all African countries into one pile, but in many ways the sub-Saharan region is similar… It’s complete sensory overload. I was able to relive the experience of stepping foot on the red earth of Africa through the expression on Alex’s face: wonder.

Things are dirtier here, they are chaotic, yet… they roll along. As I said yesterday to refer to our taxi (of course not to the driver’s face), which stalled numerous times and didn’t have the smoothest transmission, “It’s a shitbox, but it works.” We still got from A to B. The same can be said for day-to-day life here. Coming from the West, we’re so used to things working as they’ve been designed – and we get frustrated or indignant when they don’t, or when they’re delayed or have to be Frankensteined to run at all. Here, it’s about making the most of what you have. And when you live here, you have to live that ethos. Case in point: My Birkenstocks are literally rotting off my feet, to the point that the sole is cracking and I’m in danger of tripping with every step – as if the poorly-paved roads weren’t dangerous enough. I took my sandal into a local tailor, and he deftly stitched the sandal strap back into the sole – two quick stitches with heavy duty thread – and I was good to go. Yes, they’re not going to last me much longer… but they’re going to last longer than they would have had I just thrown them out at the first sign of
disintegration, and laid out the cash for a new pair. Another example: The poda poda (a van fitted with three rows of benches, used as a public taxi) I took home the other night had a broken sliding door. Instead of trashing the vehicle or trying to mend the finicky mechanism that makes the side door slide along the body of the van, they simply removed it altogether, and then welded on some hinges – now, the door swings outwards, kind of like a giant back-door on a normal car. It works.

Yesterday I had an interview in the morning at a local patisserie (five-dollar smoothies, but worth it for the fruit injection), then Alex and I did some groceries and flaked out at home. We went to the beach about 4 pm and frolicked in the soup-warm water, getting bowled over by waves. We went out for dinner at a local restaurant for Star beers and local fare… I think Alex was feeling the pull of something a little more “civilized” than eating fry-fry while sitting on broken wooden boxes beside the road. There’s no doubt that Africa takes a bit of getting used to… and there’s no reason to rush the process.

The power has been unfortunately shoddy since Alex arrived. We were getting power almost 24/7 for the first two weeks I was here and now it seems like it’s been off more than on. At least I have someone lying in bed with me in the stifling heat of the no-fan and
lots-of-candles. The trick is to shower and then get directly into bed, moving as little as possible… and leave the fan plugged in and switched on, in case the power makes a miraculous appearance in the night (so far, so good).

Today we planned to do the “attractions” downtown. This isn’t exactly a place for tourists, yet – but there’s a big arts market downtown (aptly named “Big Market”) and the National Museum housed in the old railway station (picture the depot in Road to Avonlea, not Grand Central Station). We took a taxi downtown and I headed into the offices of one of the biggest newspapers to interview the editor… and turned Alex loose on Africa. He returned to meet me at Nix Nax (downtown snack joint: Fanta soda, groundnut soup and jollof rice) in one piece – he’s got the hang of it quickly! However, our plans for sightseeing got interrupted with a text from one of the local freelance journos I interviewed last week, inviting us to attend the weekly government press briefing at the You Yi Building (a gift from the Chinese about 20 years ago, houses most of the government ministries). We both jumped at the chance.

The briefing was held in a mid-sized board room with chairs ringing a T-shaped table – the leg of the T about 3 times longer than the top. The government officials/guests sat along the top of the T, while journalists and members of the public sat along the rest of the table and on chairs ringing the perimeter of the room. Starting 20 minutes late, (“BMT – black man’s time,” Benjamin joked) the briefing dealt with the creation of the planning committee for the celebrations of Sierra Leone’s 50th anniversary of independence (1961-2011), and the Minister of Information briefly touched on the new agreement to lay undersea internet cables to Sierra Leone (so maybe it can finally be hooked up to the international banking system). Questions were permitted only on these two topics, and the Minister felt free to comment on the “quality” of the questions… and gave the first question to a reporter from the newspaper he owns, the New Citizen. However, the atmosphere was generally very friendly – the minister didn’t seem hostile or closed – although of course the only questions allowed were those dealing with the items on the agenda.

There were members of the planning committee for the 50th anniversary there, and some got up to speak. One member asked the room (filled mostly with journos) whether he would be able to count on the media’s support to further the cause and garner attention and publicity for the celebrations. The reporter from the New Citizen stood up to guarantee his paper’s support. So much for the fourth estate. As the editor I interviewed this morning would say, “If you want publicity, take out an ad in my paper.” Unfortunately not all media outlets share this vision. At least not yet.

Regardless, I scored an interview with the Minister for next Wednesday, so it was a day well spent. There was a Syrian Trade Fair (“First ever in Freetown!”) in the lobby of the building, so we decided to check it out. I expected booths of serious men proposing business partnerships and resource-extraction ventures: instead, it was a showroom of lush towels, decadent sofas in rich colours adorned with gold, glinting gold-and-glass teaware, garish costume jewellery in every colour, and a parfumier (mixing up imitations of famous scents for a fraction of the price). It was other-worldly… and Alex and I now have a friend to stay with in Damascus, if we ever happen to be in that neck of the woods.

We’re heading up to the FBC campus tomorrow to sight-see – and I, of course, have an interview. Then the weekend brings a trip to the chimp sanctuary, where I will be happy to spend 48 hours with my brain switched off – sort of a sanctuary for the mind as well, I hope. Hoping to finish my interviews by next week, so we can have a week and a half of true vacation… hard to believe this joyride chugs back into the station in two weeks.

(Ed. note: I wrote this yesterday but the Internet was so
infuriatingly slow last night I didn’t want to sit on the back porch any longer waiting for the post to send, for fear of malarial mosquitos.)

Today I saw a man carrying a toilet bowl on his head. I’ve been avoiding the “People carry everything on their heads here, it’s so crazy!” blog post, because it’s so cliché… not to mention condescending. But, people really do carry everything on their head – it’s not just an over-played image from National Geographic, and I continue to be impressed by Saloneans’ balancing skills. I can’t even carry a single book on my head, but here is a sampling of what I saw people carrying on their heads today (often completely balanced, not even using a hand to steady it): a stack of towels tied together three feet high; a two-foot heap of women’s underwear on a platter; about 100 bananas; 12 pairs of folded jeans; everything you need to sell cassava stew on the street (a pot for rice, a vat for the stew, bowls, utensils…); a two- by three-foot slat stacked with bread loaves; six dozen eggs; a small tree wrapped in a tarp; and a tricycle.

I didn’t have fryfry for dinner tonight, but I did discover some incredible street snacks downtown on Siaka Stevens – doughnuts and “groundnut cake” (giant chunks of melt-in-your-mouth peanut brittle which I am definitely smuggling on the plane back to Canada for everyone to try… too bad fryfry doesn’t travel well). So yes, I am coming home fat.

I was downtown because I interviewed the chairperson of the Independent Media Commission (like the CRTC of Sierra Leone, in a way), who I met by chance when I was up at the college… and it turns out I used some of her writings in my thesis proposal, too. I guess the Salone media scene isn’t a huge one. Tomorrow I have an interview at 8:30 am with the director general of the SLBC (Sierra Leone Broadcasting Corporation)… not too keen on getting up so early – the heat makes me lazy – but I can’t really complain since I’m getting an interview with one of the top dogs. It’s amazing how scheduling works here: I’ll call to ask if someone is willing to be interviewed, and they say “Come over now!” or “I can come at three today.” The furthest in advance I’ve organized an interview is about 22 hours… except for the one interview I have with a foreigner, who asked, “How’s next Wednesday for you?”

The heat makes time float by. For example, today the IMC chairperson was an hour late in meeting with me… but I just sat in the lobby of her office and stared into space. At home I would have been extremely bored, so I don’t know if it’s a heat or the fact that I have so much to think about and digest being here, so an hour with nothing to do is a welcome chance for my brain to catch up with my surroundings. I also passed about three hours just sitting in “my” office (Stephen is letting me use the Journalists for Human Rights office as a home base)… I guess I sent an email or two and read a journal article, but still. It’s the same on mornings at the house when I have nothing to do. I sit on the back porch with tea and read or write, and all of a sudden it’s noon.

One thing I’m starting to get really sick of is being stared at in the streets. Just like Rwanda, there are very few white people out and about (and most of them are hiding in air conditioned 4X4s)… so just by virtue of walking in the market, I attract a fair amount of attention. At least in Rwanda they had a Kinyarwanda word for foreigner (“muzungu”) – here they just call me “white girl!” Most people stare as I walk by, waiting to see what I’ll do or where I’ll go. Vendors assume I have lots of money and try extra hard to get me interested in their wares. Men take my hand and say they want to be my friend, they tell me I’m beautiful (I tell them my husband will be glad to know they think so), and a popular phrase is “I like your style.” It’s mostly men – the women just seem to watch me or ignore me – and it really runs the gamut from creepy to friendly. Some I can tell just genuinely want to say hello, whereas others are more persistent. It’s another reason I’m looking forward to having Alex here. Partly because it will discourage the men’s attention, and partly because I’ll be a little more oblivious to the staring – I’m sure they will still look, but I won’t feel quite so naked.

The kids can stare all they want. I have yet to see an ugly Sierra Leonean child. The kids up at the college yesterday were totally adorable; the girls kept wanting to touch my hair and my skin, and the boys wanted to take pictures with my camera. I think I find children here easier to get along with because they are much more open – less socialized into certain behaviours that are foreign to me. Cultural difference doesn’t turn me off (just the opposite), but it’s also exhausting. It’s tiring to adjust my behaviours and expectations, encounter after encounter, day after day. But kids? They’re just soaking it all in, and so am I.