So, the end has come.
From time-to-time on this trip I have jotted things down that I deem worthy of inclusion in this, the final blog. Things that succinctly state the experience or the feelings or the things I have learnt. Things that describe the harrowing journey from blinkered everyman to enlightened being. Ahem.
I've said it before: I'm a lucky lucky boy. A year to one's self is a priceless commodity in AD 2012. For the first time in my adult life I have been free of the pressures of work and of westernised conformity. My thoughts have had the time and space to wander and wallow: through dreams and sights to experiences and memories, some long-forgotten. I've written about my thoughts, read about them, tried to make sense of them. I've read more books this year than in any year since I was still deemed a schoolchild, and I have made note of passages that resonate with the me-holding-this-pen, or the me-whom-held-this-pen-three-months-ago, or before.
To feel how I feel now is proof positive this year was the best decision I ever took. I can't say it any better.
I shan't ramble any longer. I'll just say thank you for reading, and will sign-off by borrowing from a writer (Doris Lessing) I encountered on the journey here:
"...growing up is afterall only the understanding that one's unique and incredible experience is what everyone shares."
Friday, 30 March 2012
Tuesday, 27 March 2012
#053: Back to the Future
My time in Sierra Leone was up. My time doing this thing, being this person, is to end in one single week. I am slightly disbelieving that it is over. The future holds with it a silent dread. Of returning to work and giving over my head which has been so free of the associated thought and stress. Of the potential of the things I have found, the things I wish to do. Of how the me who exits this last year fares, compared to the me who entered it.
But I have one final fling yet to embrace. Three nights back in New York City, with sister and the occasion of her 30th year.
Being once more in the States brought recent memories flooding back: the sights, the sounds; the people and the towns; the long lonely roads. What is this? Another desire to add to the list I have collated over the past twelve months. To once again drive these highways? The urge is stronger than I had expected. I may have to find myself an aging millionairess and relieve her of her life's worth.
For an age the plane pauses before taxiing; the queues at passport control file slower than any I encountered in this whole year; the subway trains drag their heels. (I note, with some humour, the inclusion of a Canadian glacial lake in the JFK "Welcome to the United States" showreel.) Emerging onto Broadway at 34th Street I am instantly up to pace with the locals; Africa-time a memory; an urgency to walk the five blocks to the hotel.
And there there is sister, looking every bit the extra from a Sex and the City party scene, not-diamond encrusted shoes sparkling in the chic lighting of the bar. She has no ideas for the evening, so I take her to the East Village, to a cocktail bar called Elsa where the beer taps are housed within a Singer sewing machine. And then it is time to eat, so we make our way under the East River into Brooklyn, to Williamsburg, home of 'loads of amazing restaurants' according to my new New York acquaintances with more than a finger in the pie of the local food scene. There we find The Guru Burger, and thoroughly feast. It is really quite late, and raining, so we hastily conclude the evening on the banks of the river looking back across to the many lights of Manhattan.
This visit is short. Two whole days and two halves. The list of things to do is extensive, and I have intentions to slip in one or two additional stops on our whirlwind tour. Whole Day One starts with a leisurely breakfast before we hit the Guggenheim. Becky is impressed with the materials of the John Chamberlain sculptures which fill the spiralled interior. I am drawn to the Francesca Woodman installation; photographs juxtaposing her female form with nature.
We criss-cross Central Park for a couple of hours, then stop for late lunch at its southwest corner. The evening's entertainment is to be provided by Broadway, so we swing by Times Square to get some cheap tickets. A stroll round the shops and a coffee fills the time before the performance: the blue muppets - not of colour - of Avenue Q. It is a technically superb musical, the players operating the muppets in full view of the audience. Everyone is a little bit racist.
Whole Day Two features an early start. The trick to scaling a skyscraper is to do it at 8:30am on a Monday, a Tuesday or a Wednesday. We make our way to the Rockerfeller Centre and are upon its' roof before 9am. It offers the best views: north over the park and south covering the whole of downtown Manhattan, the congruence of the rivers, and the full flank of the Empire State Building front and centre. Today is jam-packed. Nine things to do. But first, breakfast.
Afterwards it is north to Natural History, dinosaurs, deep sea creatures and dead and preserved relatives of the species I have seen about the world. Greenwich Village is the next stop. My surprises are less surprise and more additional-things-to-fit-into-an-already-busy-enough day: a short walk down the High Line with its differing perspective of the city, and a birthday cake from a renowned cupcakery. Becky wants to photograph a location from Sex and the City and Gay Street, which are in very close proximity. Lunch is next, taken at John's Pizzeria just another five minute walk away. Then it is south. All the way south to South Ferry and the free ferry ride to Staten Island, past the Statue of Liberty and back again.
Straight back on the subway, we head to City Hall and the footbridge over Brooklyn Bridge. The views here rival those we saw from the top of the Rockerfeller. Monday is just about complete. We pause at the hotel to drop off items collected throughout the day before making our way to Madison Square Garden to watch the American equivalent of Becky's sport of netball: basketball. The home crowd see their team, the Knicks, take a ten point lead which they promptly throw away to trail by nine. But some raucous support and some bizarre in-game entertainment during the many breaks in play see the team turn it around and they end up the victors.
All too soon it is ended. The next morning brings with it my final re-pack of the year. We fly early evening and both have a desire to see what we can see in the boutiques before setting off. We split up. A few hours to browse before the commute to JFK and the seven hour flight. Back to the UK.
Back to the future...
But I have one final fling yet to embrace. Three nights back in New York City, with sister and the occasion of her 30th year.
Being once more in the States brought recent memories flooding back: the sights, the sounds; the people and the towns; the long lonely roads. What is this? Another desire to add to the list I have collated over the past twelve months. To once again drive these highways? The urge is stronger than I had expected. I may have to find myself an aging millionairess and relieve her of her life's worth.
For an age the plane pauses before taxiing; the queues at passport control file slower than any I encountered in this whole year; the subway trains drag their heels. (I note, with some humour, the inclusion of a Canadian glacial lake in the JFK "Welcome to the United States" showreel.) Emerging onto Broadway at 34th Street I am instantly up to pace with the locals; Africa-time a memory; an urgency to walk the five blocks to the hotel.
And there there is sister, looking every bit the extra from a Sex and the City party scene, not-diamond encrusted shoes sparkling in the chic lighting of the bar. She has no ideas for the evening, so I take her to the East Village, to a cocktail bar called Elsa where the beer taps are housed within a Singer sewing machine. And then it is time to eat, so we make our way under the East River into Brooklyn, to Williamsburg, home of 'loads of amazing restaurants' according to my new New York acquaintances with more than a finger in the pie of the local food scene. There we find The Guru Burger, and thoroughly feast. It is really quite late, and raining, so we hastily conclude the evening on the banks of the river looking back across to the many lights of Manhattan.
This visit is short. Two whole days and two halves. The list of things to do is extensive, and I have intentions to slip in one or two additional stops on our whirlwind tour. Whole Day One starts with a leisurely breakfast before we hit the Guggenheim. Becky is impressed with the materials of the John Chamberlain sculptures which fill the spiralled interior. I am drawn to the Francesca Woodman installation; photographs juxtaposing her female form with nature.
We criss-cross Central Park for a couple of hours, then stop for late lunch at its southwest corner. The evening's entertainment is to be provided by Broadway, so we swing by Times Square to get some cheap tickets. A stroll round the shops and a coffee fills the time before the performance: the blue muppets - not of colour - of Avenue Q. It is a technically superb musical, the players operating the muppets in full view of the audience. Everyone is a little bit racist.
Whole Day Two features an early start. The trick to scaling a skyscraper is to do it at 8:30am on a Monday, a Tuesday or a Wednesday. We make our way to the Rockerfeller Centre and are upon its' roof before 9am. It offers the best views: north over the park and south covering the whole of downtown Manhattan, the congruence of the rivers, and the full flank of the Empire State Building front and centre. Today is jam-packed. Nine things to do. But first, breakfast.
Afterwards it is north to Natural History, dinosaurs, deep sea creatures and dead and preserved relatives of the species I have seen about the world. Greenwich Village is the next stop. My surprises are less surprise and more additional-things-to-fit-into-an-already-busy-enough day: a short walk down the High Line with its differing perspective of the city, and a birthday cake from a renowned cupcakery. Becky wants to photograph a location from Sex and the City and Gay Street, which are in very close proximity. Lunch is next, taken at John's Pizzeria just another five minute walk away. Then it is south. All the way south to South Ferry and the free ferry ride to Staten Island, past the Statue of Liberty and back again.
Straight back on the subway, we head to City Hall and the footbridge over Brooklyn Bridge. The views here rival those we saw from the top of the Rockerfeller. Monday is just about complete. We pause at the hotel to drop off items collected throughout the day before making our way to Madison Square Garden to watch the American equivalent of Becky's sport of netball: basketball. The home crowd see their team, the Knicks, take a ten point lead which they promptly throw away to trail by nine. But some raucous support and some bizarre in-game entertainment during the many breaks in play see the team turn it around and they end up the victors.
All too soon it is ended. The next morning brings with it my final re-pack of the year. We fly early evening and both have a desire to see what we can see in the boutiques before setting off. We split up. A few hours to browse before the commute to JFK and the seven hour flight. Back to the UK.
Back to the future...
Monday, 26 March 2012
#052: Hanging with Rosario Dawson's Mom, and other stories
Preface
Before I start rambling my way through this epic installment (it covers my whole month in Sierra Leone), I feel it is important I set the scene. Many an acquaintance, indeed nigh-on every person I spoke to about coming here, questioned why I was doing so; why I would choose to come to a violent West African country; the country of the blood diamonds, beset by the problems of the developing world, only recently saved from the ravages of civil war: the drugged child soldiers and the mass mutiliations and amputations. Why on Earth would I risk turning a dream of a year into a nightmare.
The truth of it is I took more of a risk walking home from the pub in Maidenhead for the last fifteen years than I did in coming to Sierra Leone. The collective international perception of the country is nothing short of scandalous. This is an utterly peaceful country; a positively peaceful country. From what I have seen, the biggest plus to come from the horrific conflict is that Sierra Leoneans never again want to witness the likes of it again. The populous strives to keep the peace.
Alusine told me of war: rebels determined how much limb to relieve you of based on the length of the sleeves of the shirt on your back, before passing an axe through your cuff. Alusine walked for the best part of two weeks to escape the rebels, with no food or water to speak of. He said that people turned to eating the leaves from the trees to keep from dehydration.
This all ended over a decade ago. In 2002, democratic elections were held and the country has been stable ever since. Indeed, voter registration was taking place while I was there, in advance of November's Presidential elections. Biometric registration. Miles ahead of the UK. Anyone found guilty of fraud (such as double registration) is heavily punished. I was told of a man who is now serving a seven year jail sentence for just this crime.
I shan't lie: the bustling markets house quick-fingered urchins with eyes peeled for ill-guarded wallets and, in certain areas, if you are stupid enough to leave your bag unattended, then a man with eight mouths to feed, who earns little more than pennies every week, might just help himself.
But there is a real scarcity of violent crime. In Reading I have been punched to the floor and seen a friend get repeatedly kicked in the head. In Maidenhead I have nursed a stranger on the Friday night pavement; a stranger whose features I could not discern for the blood. These things are virtually unheard of in Sierra Leone whereas they are daily occurrences in the provincial towns of middle England. I'd even wager that the problem of marketplace pickpockets pales in comparison to the balletic bandits of Barcelona. How many people do you know who have been to the Catalan capital and returned with tales of dipped pockets? I know I've only been there five times and the problem has occurred on three of those occasions. A 60% return is not to be sniffed at.
I can, with all honesty, say I feel safer in Sierra Leone than I do in a lot of places in my home town (God only knows how I survived eight months living on the Bomber estate without serious incident). The welcome is second to none as is the eagerness to share, as everyone who caught wind of my small-small attempts at learning some Krio was testament to.
I'll close this preamble with a bit of background. Sierra Leone is a country on the West African coast, about the size of Wales, population about 5.5m, with 2.5m of those squeezed into the capital of Freetown, so named because it was the docking port for returning slaves at the onset of abolition. Freetown sits on the northern tip of a north-south peninsula, which is joined to the rest of the country at its eastern midriff. And I'll be spending my four weeks here in the community of John Obey, on the Atlantic towards the south-western end of the peninsula, at an ecotourism project called Tribewanted.
The Various Varied Tribewanted Trades
Tribewanted is an endeavour that gives a visitor the opportunity to live in a community in a breath-taking setting. It strives to be sustainable, introducing modern eco solutions to the local area, providing full-time jobs and experience for 30 locals. A visitor can be as hands-on in their involvement as they choose. The current on-going projects include earth-dome building and maintenance of the permaculture garden but, being right on the beach, it is just as acceptable to spend your time in a hammock or lounging on the sand. There are a range of accommodations from which to choose: tents, pitched just a few metres from high tide, for those budget travellers, up to a deluxe construction called the 'Honey Dome': an earthbag building featuring private compost toilet and bucket shower.
The thirty local employees are divided between a number of job roles:
> Construction - the centrepiece of the project is the accommodations built using the earthbag technique. This involves reusing a ricebag, filling it with local earth, a small amount of granite and a small amount of cement, and stacking the bags (much like the ice blocks of an igloo are pieced together). It uses much less cement than traditional methods so is far more cost effective. The ricebag walls are then coated with more of the earth/cement mixture before being finished with a similar mix containing a measure of sand. The technique was taught by CalTech (part of the University of California) and the workers are duly certified. The hope is they will take their skills and earn independent work once the Tribewanted construction is complete.
> Permaculture - Tribewanted has its own garden, producing peppers, tomatoes, lettuce, squash and other vegetables. Right now they are battling a salinated water supply and a visiting tribe of locust, not to mention the parched weather of the Sierra Leone dry season. But plans are afoot for a new fresher supply of water and a terraced section, built using recycled tyres and complete with irrigation system. Much research has also been done into non-chemical ways to battle the invading locust. It represents a big job, but one which should see the project producing all its own vegetables.
> Chop - the kitchen employs five people and every day lays on three meals for visitors. Breakfast is a relaxed help-yourself affair with oats, fruit, bread and eggs. Six days a week lunch is served to workers and visitors alike. It is traditional Sierra Leone fare: local country rice (which is amazing stuff) with fish and a local sauce. It can be very very spicy but, after a few weeks certainly, one's palette becomes familiar. Some of these lunch dishes are among the tastiest things I have ever eaten. In the evenings dinner is often a more European-influenced affair, with pasta and salad to accompany the fish. Living, as we do, on the beach amongst a fishing community, you can't really get more local food than the catch of the day.
> Security - more to appease the concerns of visiting Westerners, a few guys are employed to provide security for the project. Working in shifts (one during the day, two at night), the guys are often found helping out around the project or, in the evenings, helping visitors with their Krio. For someone like me, who learns best by doing and repeating, their help means I can get by with Krio pleasantries and even a little in the way of where I am going and what I am doing.
> The fish trade - not employed by Tribewanted, but by far one of the most important jobs around, is the one of fisherman. Living and working right next door to the project, the fishermen buy a canoe fashioned from the trunk of a tree, thus enabling them to paddle out into the Atlantic and cast their homemade net once or twice a day. They are completely reliant on the tide - too high and a venture out could spell disaster. Indeed, they are unable to fish at all during rainy season, so stormy is the sea. The fishermen sell their catch to traders, whom immediately smoke the fish in the village, preparing it for market. This helps preserve the fish, as there is no electricity with which to make ice.
> Management and transport - also employed by Tribewanted are Fatorma, the local manager, and Mr. Alie, the driver. Fatorma's job is to oversee the progress of work and to assign tasks to workers, whilst generally managing the finances of the project. Mr. Alie drives the Tribewanted pick-up, collecting visitors from Freetown and helping with the twice-weekly shopping run to Waterloo. He is also available for hire by any guests who wish to explore further around the peninsula.
Hanging with Rosario Dawson's Mom
On my first weekend at the beach, Isabel (or Big Momma to the locals) and I took a trip with Perfectman, one of the local fishermen, in his boat to Black Johnson beach - the next bay along from John Obey. It took about an hour to paddle round the head of land to the North and we spent an hour or so hanging out on the beach, Perfect introducing us to the locals and assisting in the procurement of refreshments. Later in my trip, Perfect's expert tuition would turn me from clueless bystander into competent patcher (fishing net mender) in the space of fifteen minutes.
Having walked along the bay at Black Johnson, we somehow timed our return trip perfectly: the sun was setting and, for perhaps the only time in my four weeks there, the sunset was not totally obscured by the Sahara-induced haze. Isabel took some stunning photos while Perfect and I paddled along. But she was unfortunately too preoccupied to spot the turtle that surfaced ten or fifteen yards ahead of us before diving again.
How not to 'Be Prepared'
Tribewanted always has a volunteer manager staying at the project. This is someone either from or with experience of 'the west' and their role is to provide a cultural bridge between international visitors and the community and opportunities available in the area. For the duration of my stay the volunteer manager was Mark, a South African chap from Cape Town who had spent eight years plying his trade in the IT sector in the UK.
The two of us decided we wanted to do a hike so arranged with Daniel (Tribewanted's local tourist rep) to cross the peninsula from Coba Wata to Big Wata, taking in the peak of Picket Hill on the way. At Coba Wata, Daniel negotiated a guide for us, and how much we should pay the local head man for the privilege of walking from the village.
As you are probably aware, I am someone with some experience of hiking, so a three or four hour jaunt up a hill and back seemed like a pretty relaxing way to spend a day: the flora and fauna of the bush; a spectacular view or two...I had spent about twelve years in the Scouts as a youth, time that nurtured an instinct intrinsic to my being to always 'be prepared'. So when we were about to set off and it was revealed the hike was more like seven hours long...and we had no food...
Daniel quickly sourced us a mango each and, as we ventured into the bush, Samuel - our guide - passed a village acquaintance: the poyo man. Poyo, or palm wine, is a naturally occurring drink tapped - believe it or not - from palm trees. It is naturally alcoholic to the tune of about 1%, naturally carbonated when fresh, and is considered a food stuff in these parts because it relieves hunger and is actually nutritious. So Samuel got us a bottle on the spot and we continued on our way.
Having been totally unprepared in the rations department, I felt altogether more comfortable with the walking, which featured a steady incline for the three or so hours it took to reach the top. The sweating perhaps a little less so, but I feel we were helped by the thick canopy; rarely were we in direct sunlight. At the top the view was marred by clouds, which came as no surprise (many's the time when mountainous destinations have been shrouded thus). But perhaps the most unprepared I felt on the whole route was when we came upon a snake...
Samuel (who had led for every step of the six previous hours) paused to adjust his footwear while Mark (a few paces ahead of me) and I continued on down the clear path. Samuel caught me up and, as he did so, started jumping up and down on the spot shouting "Snake, snake!" Of course, Mark and I both stopped dead, Mark spinning round to find he had just stepped over the creature, oblivious. The cause of Samuel's excitement was preoccupied in a face-off with a frog, and quickly darted from the path into the bush. It wasn't until we returned to Tribewanted that the Temne name 'horuff' (sic) which Samuel gave us, translates to 'viper'. In fact, the snake was a horned viper and administers its' venom via the spike on its' head. It is one of the deadliest snakes in the region.
The Dark Night of the Sloans
I sat myself on the seafront boulder, outside the door of my tent, for the combination of sunset and high tide. Yet, even as I sat there, the sea took with it great swathes of the beach; a foot-high step appearing in the middle of the shore and gradually retreating from the swell as more and more sand was washed away. Long-shore drift in real-time. I would estimate that, in the ten days I have lived here, 300 cubed feet of sand has been removed from immediately outside my doorstep.
As wave after wave pounded the sand ridge, I watched as crabs were evicted from their burrows at a moments notice, before being flushed out to sea or miraculously scrabbling to safety. One fellow gingerly investigated the hole of an as-yet safe compatriot, nosing his way inside before accepting his lot with a short-lived stint as sentry.
As the Saturday of my middle weekend in Sierra Leone slowly ticked by, it started to feel like I had been allocated to completely the wrong table at a University reunion dinner. Lying in the hammock I gave a shudder, involuntary yet revealing. My initial thought as I watched more and more people arrive and air-kiss each other on both left and right cheeks throughout the day, was that this evening is likely to be hellish and I will, more-than-likely, make excuses for myself and find somewhere quiet and unassuming to pass the night by. I had no desire to spend an evening with a holier-than-thou clique of the table-topping 'volunteer-what' jet-set. Paradise had turned parasitic.
If I had been completely honest with myself from the outset I would have anticipated the obligatory campfire rendition of 'Wonderwall'. Fortunately, though, the invasion was wholly tempered by the presence of Kirsty and Emily who, themselves, get exactly this much of a mention. The alumni-aria was rounded off, quite perfectly, with messers Hendrix, Marley and Spears. Tally ho.
It didn't take so long to banish the memory, the ex-pat contingent slowly filtering away during the course of the next day, leaving us to reclaim the hammocks. Isabel was back from volunteering as an administrator for an AIDS clinic in Freetown and Kirsty and Emily stayed a few nights, so the four of us took a walk to Bureh beach. Along the way all manner of things had been washed ashore (TV remote?), apparently detritus from a sunken Korean trawler that had been fishing illegally nearby and ran into trouble. At Bureh we found the high tide (given impetus by the full moon a couple of nights before) had broken through the beach and joined with the lagoon behind, so we couldn't make it as far as the village. However, the local lads swam out and said hello, offering their assistance. We contented ourselves with a swim before heading back to John Obey for lunch.
Isabel returned to Freetown before dawn the next day so in the afternoon Kirsty, Emily and I decided to visit Tacugama Chimpanzee Sanctuary. Here are housed (currently) 98 chimps; mainly youngsters rescued from being kept as pets and living lives of film-watching, alcohol-drinking and cigarette-smoking. It takes a long time to ween them off these things and they pass through five phases of rehabilitation before release back to the wild. The sanctuary has various enclosures to help them through this process, including some fairly large sections of the Western Peninsula Forest. If you ever find yourself visiting, keep your wits about you: the chimps can be very protective of their food and are a deadly shot with a rock in hand!
A Beginner's Guide to Retail Therapy
Elijah, head of the Chop team, goes into the town of Waterloo twice a week to stock up on supplies. The market there is bustling to say the least: narrow streets lined with traders selling everything you could possibly need. I joined Elijah on a couple of his excursions and learnt a thing or two about safely negotiating the thronged streets:
> Don't step on other people's bananas
> Your mentor likely has a sixth sense for buses sneaking up on you from behind; stick close
> If at all possible, avoid causing speeding wheelbarrows to collide and spill ground nuts all over the floor
> If someone shouts "white man", they mean you
> Unless you aren't white
> If a superstar Liberian popster cruises past in a convoy of pick-ups crammed with sound systems and entourage, prepare for the whole town to stop what they are doing, rush you, and start dancing
> If you accidentally kill a goat, be sure to pay the owner
Maidenhead District Scout Association Pioneering Champion 1994 versus John Obey District Speed-Pioneering Display Team 2012
In 1994, I and my crack team of pioneers were crowned Maidenhead District Scout Association Pioneering Champions. So refined were our skills, so honed our technique, that our lookout tower of big logs tied to other big logs looked more like a NASA satellite dish. You know the ones: the huge dishes out in the New Mexico desert or somewhere similar. Still, we beat Pinkneys Green and, if I've learnt anything in this life of mine, it's that beating Pinkneys Green is all that truly matters. As I still dine out on that glorious victory (and, of course, that 6-1 thrashing we handed them in the Cub Scout Cup, despite being massive underdogs (Daniel Horner literally scored direct from a corner; what are the chances?)), I thought I should introduce my skills to this little corner of Africa. It's what Baden-Powell would have wanted after all.
Tribewanted installed a water pump near the project which also serves the fishing community. A short way up a hill from the pump is a large water tank which feeds the taps in the Tribewanted kitchen, toilets and housing. This tank has to be topped up a couple of times a week. This involves repeatedly filling six large jerry cans and walking them up the hill, lifting them up a ladder to the top of the tank and emptying them inside. One particular morning Abu (one of the construction team), Hassan (trainee carpenter in the construction team) and myself took on the task of filling the tank by about a quarter. This meant 48 jerry cans had to be pumped full, carried, lifted and emptied. This much water required just shy of three thousand accumulative pumps. It is fair of me to say this is tiring work. Especially in Africa. In dry season. And it is forty degrees. So when the ladder that is climbed to scale the tank started to fall apart, I figured it was time to do something. And that is where pioneering came in.
That same afternoon the three of us sourced the wood and rope and I set about teaching Abu and Hassan the art of the square lashing. Not one hour later there were just three lashings to go and I found myself being challenged to a race: first to finish their square lashing wins.
Competition was fierce but I won, of course. Beating Pinkneys Green isn't just some stroll in the park you know. I have real pedigree. But Abu and Hassan picked it up really quickly and proudly paraded their new ladder past the other workers on the way to the tank. They have themselves a pretty proud old pioneer right here too.
The High-Octane World of Professional Yahtzee
Visitors came and went over the course of my month in John Obey; some for a night, others for more. It was on the occasion of my first evening with New York couple Scott and Laura, towards the end of my stay, that Scott uttered the immortal words: "Do you know Yahtzee?"
Scott and Laura were in West Africa for three weeks - Tribewanted for five nights - using the experience to gather content for their new website: eatyourworld - a site where you can discover and share traditional and typical cuisines and food stories from around the world. On top of this Laura is a writer, putting together a story on community tourism, whilst Scott, a photographer, used his keen eye to capture pictures of their time here, including shots of every single food item that passed under their noses. We introduced them to the poyo - fresh out of the palm that morning - and also to the ginger beer which Aminata (one of the chop employees) had made the same day. Mark had been given a gift of scotch that week; scotch that went so well with the ginger beer you would swear they were separated at birth. We christened the re-conjoined twins a 'Ginger Leone'.
Not long afterwards the battle dice were out and Scott instantly "happened upon" his best-ever-game scorecard: a three-Yahtzee game. Four hundred and eighty-something points. Nice, I said, as my expression dropped into the featureless stare of my Yahtzee-face. Three Yahtzee's. He would have no idea that I was impressed.
My memory is hazy, but I was introduced to the sport by my Grandma, at the age of eight or nine. Quite young, you may think, to enter a world where the stakes are so high: to winners, the spoils, while losers are consigned to the gutter, forever. But Grandma knew what she was doing. She knew I was ready.
Grandma died before I was out of primary school and I was left without my six-sided mentor. Yet, in those few short years, she instilled in me a profound sense for the game; a sense for the dice. I knew an early four-of-a-kind with the sixes could make or break a game, freeing up your top, or giving a firm start to your bottom. And I knew that, sometimes, you've just gotta take a chance.
Scott took the first two games, Laura the third. This was serious.
A couple of days later the three of us conscripted Daniel to take us on a tour of the local beaches, to find out more of other community tourism initiatives in the area. Tourism isn't greatly developed in Sierra Leone, so there is great potential here to build it up in the right way; protecting the great beauty of the land, showcasing the wonderful welcome of the people, providing much-needed investment in one of the least-developed countries in the world.
We began our trip at the roadside in John Obey, hoping to get a ride to Tokeh. While we waited, Scott was seconds from inadvertently buying himself a raw fish to eat, until Daniel stepped in and convinced the trader to return his money. Daniel was just beginning negotiations with a motorcyclist to ferry us in pairs up the road when a rickety taxi carrying one patron pulled up. The four of us and a mother and son clambered in, and it wasn't until we reached Tokeh that we realised the original passenger had made the journey in the boot.
Tokeh is a bigger community than John Obey and has a secondary school. The beach there is a pristine white and we walked along it - in the midday sun - towards Number Two, a village at the mouth of River #2. A private American businessman is commissioning a new hotel - a series of chalet-style accommodations - on the beach-front at Tokeh. At present it is hard to tell how the buildings will look, as only foundations are in place, but it is a very big development, flanked by typical local constructions (houses and bafas) that, I suspect, will contrast greatly.
We waded across River #2 to get to the village, and lunch. Number Two is a regular haunt of weekend visitors, and it strives to be sustainable. There is solar power and, like Tribewanted, bags for recycling (although there is no state collection of refuse or recyclable items, so the bags are a statement of intent more than anything). Unfortunately the toilets at Number Two seemed to run to a hole in the ground; no signs of composting. Daniel hails from the village and is a great advocate for doing things the right way. He introduced us to his mother; and his brother, who owns a huge allotment with many successful vegetables that he sells to the villagers. Between him and Daniel, I suspect they pretty much run the place.
Next on the tour we needed to return to Tokeh, so Daniel arranged to courier us on a couple of motorbikes. After thirty-two-and-a-half years in this world, this was my first journey on such a contraption, and I was wearing flip-flops, shorts, a skimpy t-shirt, and no helmet. Mother, I apologise. The road was, shall we say, bumpy; the bike struggled with any inclines and regularly threw me a foot or so into the air. Perhaps the most exciting part of the journey was when we passed a patch of land - a very large patch of land - being cleared for a new owner. A common thing in third world countries is to deforest not by hand with axe or saw, but to burn the forest to the ground. The flames licked ten feet into the air and bent over the road in wicked arcs as we passed. I suspect the fact we were moving was the only thing to keep up from getting burnt.
In Tokeh, Daniel contracted a taxi for three hours (for 50,000 Leones - about $11) to ferry us south to Kent and then back up the coast to Bureh and finally John Obey. In Kent we found the remains of a slave fort and a holding cell - now with a school built on top of it - a slightly uncomfortable sight. The youth of Kent have recently built a bar/restaurant in an amazing location looking out to the sea and Banana Island, although we felt the area needed some work, both aesthetically and professionally, if it is to regularly attract tourists; certainly under the 'community tourism' banner.
Up in Bureh we found our favourite beach of the day. The bay there offered a little surf and we managed to ride a couple of waves. We were introduced to Tommy, a local 'entrepreneur', who brought us oysters on the beach and showed us around the village.
Bureh sits on a small headland with the bay on one side and a beautiful beach on the other. Unfortunately, like much of the peninsula coast, rubbish is a real problem. The back of the beach was totally covered in it, which was a complete turn-off.
Tommy walked us through the forest behind the beach, and his conversation with Daniel became slightly heated. The forest was beautiful - we saw one huge tree whose trunk exploded into many fine boughs, sprouting in all directions. We asked Daniel what the two of them had been talking about. We were told the forest is sacred to the community but, despite this, had just been sold to Lebanese developers. The likelihood is their ancient trees will be cut down in the near future. Daniel was incensed. Number Two had been approached to sell their whole village, beach and all, to Chinese investors for a paltry $500,000. Thankfully they refused, seeing things in the longer term. There is a real danger that Sierra Leone, with its stunning beaches, landscapes, forests and wildlife, could be destroyed by the wrong kind of investment. This is a poor country. The culture here is to take the easy money when offered. That Number Two refused that cash was an exception. Unless the right kind of initiatives are supported, the beauty that is intrinsic to the land, the people, could easily be lost.
As we exited the forest we came across a village football match, where we met a living legend.
Prince Williams of Bureh was taking part in the match, for the side playing in skins. Presently he approached to bid us hello. To say he was ripped is an gross understatement. His proud breast would make silicon ashamed to be called an implant. And silicon isn't even sentient. All three of us became instantly bashful at his gaze. His face was surely crafted by the likes of Michaelangelo and, when he smiled, we all just melted. He may well have caught me casting a glance at his exquisite torso, his rippling stomach. And you know what? If he did, I am not ashamed.
I am not ashamed.
A couple of nights before, Scott and I had shared the spoils in two games of Yahtzee, and after the tour the three of us played once more. This may come as news to the uninitiated, but by playing Yahtzee, you learn something of yourself; your true self. For instance, I now know that I can be an aggressive roller: had I aimed that third roll away from the other dice, I may have gotten the five, and the Yahtzee, I was looking for. As it was, I still won the game. This was due to some cunning points allocation of difficult rolls; sacrificing my topsies in favour of a strong bottom, ably led by my 'of a kinds. Scott had written me off. But from out of nowhere I had back-to-back wins. It was great Yahtzee.
The next day was my last full day in Sierra Leone. I spent it in the community, saying the first of my goodbyes and taking snaps of the project and the workers. I hadn't expected it what with looking forward to seeing friends and family again, but I was feeling a tinge of sadness to be moving on. The difference to the way of life in the south of England is marked; there is something truly warming about living in this community as I have done in the past month. People's roles dovetail so everyone plays a part; the community takes great care of itself, of its' own. The contrasts to the West are stark, and not just in the obvious aspects of wealth and development, standard of living conditions. The human aspects: the ability to live together in harmony, to resolve disputes amicably, to share; these all stand out.
For my last Sierra Leone sunset, Laura, Scott and I walked down the beach back to Bureh to swim in the sea and look back upon the stunning peninsula. Tommy predictably swam out to meet us and offer his wares so, after turning down a massive carving of an antelope (with 16 horns), Scott haggled for friends price on 14 oysters. That night we played our final game of Yahtzee.
I'm not going to lie; the standard of play was spectacularly bad. Bad, that was, until the last few rounds, when Scott somehow pulled out a couple of magical third rolls to consign Laura and me to yet another defeat. As much as it pains me to say it, Scott was a deserving champion. (Although Laura will be quick to point out she had the highest single-game score of the series.)
Football: A True Underdog story
Football is huge in Sierra Leone. And I mean huge. Every day you cannot fail to see dozens of replica shirts being sported, the English Premier League taking the lion's share of people's obsession. Almost everyone I spoke to supported one of the big teams: Manchester United, Chelsea, Arsenal. I even saw a Grimsby Town shirt.
John Obey, being just as football mad as the rest of the country, has a team. They are very much low down in the footballing hierarchy - their pitch is the one at the primary school; a rocky patch of dirt only really big enough for seven-a-side at most. Abu told me about training and asked if I would like to join in. I hadn't played for almost a year, but I jumped at the chance.
The guys trained without goalkeepers - scoring is achieved by playing the ball onto the opposing posts - and showed far greater technical ability than is nurtured in the UK. They formed neat passing triangles and strived to keep the ball over getting it forward quickly, as is my education in the game. Later that week John Obey hosted a seven-a-side game against Tombo, local rivals with a much better footballing pedigree, who play several levels above John Obey. There was a fairly sizeable crowd for the Saturday evening match, the primary school benches brought outside to accommodate the fans. Tombo were such overwhelming favourites that the John Obey manager hadn't made time to attend, expecting a drubbing. Within ten minutes of the thirty each-way match, John Obey were 4-0 up, and in stunning fashion too - the goals flying in from all angles.
The Tombo team was clearly struggling with the label of favourites, whilst John Obey revelled in the freedom of rank outsiders. Towards the end of the first half Tombo pulled a goal back. Then they hit the angle of post and crossbar, collapsing the goal to great mirth from the gathered crowds.
The second half was a more nervy affair, John Obey content to soak up the pressure and preserve their lead. They were helped by a couple of great saves from their 'keeper although, to be fair, the Tombo 'keeper made a couple of fingertip saves as well - one of which was preceded by Abu sprinting along the touchline, Mourinho-like, thinking a fifth goal was about to be scored. Tombo struck the bar once more, but the game, and the spectacle, was completed by John Obey adding a fifth goal on the break; everyone under the height of four feet (and Abu) mounted a delirious pitch invasion in celebration, mini Jan-Aage Fjortoft's circling, arms outstretched, all around the ground.
Since that historic victory, John Obey have been inundated with offers of matches from teams desperate to pit themselves against the emphatic vanquishers of Tombo. As I left Tribewanted for the last time, farewells completed, the back of Mr. Alie's pick-up was filled with the John Obey football team, catching a lift to Waterloo for their first test since the Tombo game.
Waterloo is about twice as big, and even further up the footballing ladder!
Lastly And, By All Means, Most
I want to sign off this edition by saying tenki to everyone I met in the community of John Obey. You all made me feel most welcome and I'm proud to call you all friends.
The Tribewanted team: Mark, Fatorma, Mr. Alie, Daniel
The chop house: Elijah, Coco, Aminata, Bale, Yenken
Permaculture: Pa Braima, Momoh, Samuel
Construction: Abass, Abu, Alphonso, Hassan, Sullie, Mahmoud, Mohamad, MJ, Samuel, John
Security: Alusine, Junior, Saidu
The fishermen: Perfectman, Alie, Mohamed, Michael Siseh, Figoman and everyone else
Miss Mary
From the village: Chief Assan, Sieh Siseh and all the football boys
And, of course, the kids: Momoh, Usman, Mohamad, Christoph, the other Momoh's!
Thank you all for making my stay such a wonderful and unforgettable time. I truly hope to see you all again soon.
Before I start rambling my way through this epic installment (it covers my whole month in Sierra Leone), I feel it is important I set the scene. Many an acquaintance, indeed nigh-on every person I spoke to about coming here, questioned why I was doing so; why I would choose to come to a violent West African country; the country of the blood diamonds, beset by the problems of the developing world, only recently saved from the ravages of civil war: the drugged child soldiers and the mass mutiliations and amputations. Why on Earth would I risk turning a dream of a year into a nightmare.
The truth of it is I took more of a risk walking home from the pub in Maidenhead for the last fifteen years than I did in coming to Sierra Leone. The collective international perception of the country is nothing short of scandalous. This is an utterly peaceful country; a positively peaceful country. From what I have seen, the biggest plus to come from the horrific conflict is that Sierra Leoneans never again want to witness the likes of it again. The populous strives to keep the peace.
Alusine told me of war: rebels determined how much limb to relieve you of based on the length of the sleeves of the shirt on your back, before passing an axe through your cuff. Alusine walked for the best part of two weeks to escape the rebels, with no food or water to speak of. He said that people turned to eating the leaves from the trees to keep from dehydration.
This all ended over a decade ago. In 2002, democratic elections were held and the country has been stable ever since. Indeed, voter registration was taking place while I was there, in advance of November's Presidential elections. Biometric registration. Miles ahead of the UK. Anyone found guilty of fraud (such as double registration) is heavily punished. I was told of a man who is now serving a seven year jail sentence for just this crime.
I shan't lie: the bustling markets house quick-fingered urchins with eyes peeled for ill-guarded wallets and, in certain areas, if you are stupid enough to leave your bag unattended, then a man with eight mouths to feed, who earns little more than pennies every week, might just help himself.
But there is a real scarcity of violent crime. In Reading I have been punched to the floor and seen a friend get repeatedly kicked in the head. In Maidenhead I have nursed a stranger on the Friday night pavement; a stranger whose features I could not discern for the blood. These things are virtually unheard of in Sierra Leone whereas they are daily occurrences in the provincial towns of middle England. I'd even wager that the problem of marketplace pickpockets pales in comparison to the balletic bandits of Barcelona. How many people do you know who have been to the Catalan capital and returned with tales of dipped pockets? I know I've only been there five times and the problem has occurred on three of those occasions. A 60% return is not to be sniffed at.
I can, with all honesty, say I feel safer in Sierra Leone than I do in a lot of places in my home town (God only knows how I survived eight months living on the Bomber estate without serious incident). The welcome is second to none as is the eagerness to share, as everyone who caught wind of my small-small attempts at learning some Krio was testament to.
I'll close this preamble with a bit of background. Sierra Leone is a country on the West African coast, about the size of Wales, population about 5.5m, with 2.5m of those squeezed into the capital of Freetown, so named because it was the docking port for returning slaves at the onset of abolition. Freetown sits on the northern tip of a north-south peninsula, which is joined to the rest of the country at its eastern midriff. And I'll be spending my four weeks here in the community of John Obey, on the Atlantic towards the south-western end of the peninsula, at an ecotourism project called Tribewanted.
The Various Varied Tribewanted Trades
Tribewanted is an endeavour that gives a visitor the opportunity to live in a community in a breath-taking setting. It strives to be sustainable, introducing modern eco solutions to the local area, providing full-time jobs and experience for 30 locals. A visitor can be as hands-on in their involvement as they choose. The current on-going projects include earth-dome building and maintenance of the permaculture garden but, being right on the beach, it is just as acceptable to spend your time in a hammock or lounging on the sand. There are a range of accommodations from which to choose: tents, pitched just a few metres from high tide, for those budget travellers, up to a deluxe construction called the 'Honey Dome': an earthbag building featuring private compost toilet and bucket shower.
The thirty local employees are divided between a number of job roles:
> Construction - the centrepiece of the project is the accommodations built using the earthbag technique. This involves reusing a ricebag, filling it with local earth, a small amount of granite and a small amount of cement, and stacking the bags (much like the ice blocks of an igloo are pieced together). It uses much less cement than traditional methods so is far more cost effective. The ricebag walls are then coated with more of the earth/cement mixture before being finished with a similar mix containing a measure of sand. The technique was taught by CalTech (part of the University of California) and the workers are duly certified. The hope is they will take their skills and earn independent work once the Tribewanted construction is complete.
> Permaculture - Tribewanted has its own garden, producing peppers, tomatoes, lettuce, squash and other vegetables. Right now they are battling a salinated water supply and a visiting tribe of locust, not to mention the parched weather of the Sierra Leone dry season. But plans are afoot for a new fresher supply of water and a terraced section, built using recycled tyres and complete with irrigation system. Much research has also been done into non-chemical ways to battle the invading locust. It represents a big job, but one which should see the project producing all its own vegetables.
> Chop - the kitchen employs five people and every day lays on three meals for visitors. Breakfast is a relaxed help-yourself affair with oats, fruit, bread and eggs. Six days a week lunch is served to workers and visitors alike. It is traditional Sierra Leone fare: local country rice (which is amazing stuff) with fish and a local sauce. It can be very very spicy but, after a few weeks certainly, one's palette becomes familiar. Some of these lunch dishes are among the tastiest things I have ever eaten. In the evenings dinner is often a more European-influenced affair, with pasta and salad to accompany the fish. Living, as we do, on the beach amongst a fishing community, you can't really get more local food than the catch of the day.
> Security - more to appease the concerns of visiting Westerners, a few guys are employed to provide security for the project. Working in shifts (one during the day, two at night), the guys are often found helping out around the project or, in the evenings, helping visitors with their Krio. For someone like me, who learns best by doing and repeating, their help means I can get by with Krio pleasantries and even a little in the way of where I am going and what I am doing.
> The fish trade - not employed by Tribewanted, but by far one of the most important jobs around, is the one of fisherman. Living and working right next door to the project, the fishermen buy a canoe fashioned from the trunk of a tree, thus enabling them to paddle out into the Atlantic and cast their homemade net once or twice a day. They are completely reliant on the tide - too high and a venture out could spell disaster. Indeed, they are unable to fish at all during rainy season, so stormy is the sea. The fishermen sell their catch to traders, whom immediately smoke the fish in the village, preparing it for market. This helps preserve the fish, as there is no electricity with which to make ice.
> Management and transport - also employed by Tribewanted are Fatorma, the local manager, and Mr. Alie, the driver. Fatorma's job is to oversee the progress of work and to assign tasks to workers, whilst generally managing the finances of the project. Mr. Alie drives the Tribewanted pick-up, collecting visitors from Freetown and helping with the twice-weekly shopping run to Waterloo. He is also available for hire by any guests who wish to explore further around the peninsula.
Hanging with Rosario Dawson's Mom
On my first weekend at the beach, Isabel (or Big Momma to the locals) and I took a trip with Perfectman, one of the local fishermen, in his boat to Black Johnson beach - the next bay along from John Obey. It took about an hour to paddle round the head of land to the North and we spent an hour or so hanging out on the beach, Perfect introducing us to the locals and assisting in the procurement of refreshments. Later in my trip, Perfect's expert tuition would turn me from clueless bystander into competent patcher (fishing net mender) in the space of fifteen minutes.
Having walked along the bay at Black Johnson, we somehow timed our return trip perfectly: the sun was setting and, for perhaps the only time in my four weeks there, the sunset was not totally obscured by the Sahara-induced haze. Isabel took some stunning photos while Perfect and I paddled along. But she was unfortunately too preoccupied to spot the turtle that surfaced ten or fifteen yards ahead of us before diving again.
How not to 'Be Prepared'
Tribewanted always has a volunteer manager staying at the project. This is someone either from or with experience of 'the west' and their role is to provide a cultural bridge between international visitors and the community and opportunities available in the area. For the duration of my stay the volunteer manager was Mark, a South African chap from Cape Town who had spent eight years plying his trade in the IT sector in the UK.
The two of us decided we wanted to do a hike so arranged with Daniel (Tribewanted's local tourist rep) to cross the peninsula from Coba Wata to Big Wata, taking in the peak of Picket Hill on the way. At Coba Wata, Daniel negotiated a guide for us, and how much we should pay the local head man for the privilege of walking from the village.
As you are probably aware, I am someone with some experience of hiking, so a three or four hour jaunt up a hill and back seemed like a pretty relaxing way to spend a day: the flora and fauna of the bush; a spectacular view or two...I had spent about twelve years in the Scouts as a youth, time that nurtured an instinct intrinsic to my being to always 'be prepared'. So when we were about to set off and it was revealed the hike was more like seven hours long...and we had no food...
Daniel quickly sourced us a mango each and, as we ventured into the bush, Samuel - our guide - passed a village acquaintance: the poyo man. Poyo, or palm wine, is a naturally occurring drink tapped - believe it or not - from palm trees. It is naturally alcoholic to the tune of about 1%, naturally carbonated when fresh, and is considered a food stuff in these parts because it relieves hunger and is actually nutritious. So Samuel got us a bottle on the spot and we continued on our way.
Having been totally unprepared in the rations department, I felt altogether more comfortable with the walking, which featured a steady incline for the three or so hours it took to reach the top. The sweating perhaps a little less so, but I feel we were helped by the thick canopy; rarely were we in direct sunlight. At the top the view was marred by clouds, which came as no surprise (many's the time when mountainous destinations have been shrouded thus). But perhaps the most unprepared I felt on the whole route was when we came upon a snake...
Samuel (who had led for every step of the six previous hours) paused to adjust his footwear while Mark (a few paces ahead of me) and I continued on down the clear path. Samuel caught me up and, as he did so, started jumping up and down on the spot shouting "Snake, snake!" Of course, Mark and I both stopped dead, Mark spinning round to find he had just stepped over the creature, oblivious. The cause of Samuel's excitement was preoccupied in a face-off with a frog, and quickly darted from the path into the bush. It wasn't until we returned to Tribewanted that the Temne name 'horuff' (sic) which Samuel gave us, translates to 'viper'. In fact, the snake was a horned viper and administers its' venom via the spike on its' head. It is one of the deadliest snakes in the region.
The Dark Night of the Sloans
I sat myself on the seafront boulder, outside the door of my tent, for the combination of sunset and high tide. Yet, even as I sat there, the sea took with it great swathes of the beach; a foot-high step appearing in the middle of the shore and gradually retreating from the swell as more and more sand was washed away. Long-shore drift in real-time. I would estimate that, in the ten days I have lived here, 300 cubed feet of sand has been removed from immediately outside my doorstep.
As wave after wave pounded the sand ridge, I watched as crabs were evicted from their burrows at a moments notice, before being flushed out to sea or miraculously scrabbling to safety. One fellow gingerly investigated the hole of an as-yet safe compatriot, nosing his way inside before accepting his lot with a short-lived stint as sentry.
As the Saturday of my middle weekend in Sierra Leone slowly ticked by, it started to feel like I had been allocated to completely the wrong table at a University reunion dinner. Lying in the hammock I gave a shudder, involuntary yet revealing. My initial thought as I watched more and more people arrive and air-kiss each other on both left and right cheeks throughout the day, was that this evening is likely to be hellish and I will, more-than-likely, make excuses for myself and find somewhere quiet and unassuming to pass the night by. I had no desire to spend an evening with a holier-than-thou clique of the table-topping 'volunteer-what' jet-set. Paradise had turned parasitic.
If I had been completely honest with myself from the outset I would have anticipated the obligatory campfire rendition of 'Wonderwall'. Fortunately, though, the invasion was wholly tempered by the presence of Kirsty and Emily who, themselves, get exactly this much of a mention. The alumni-aria was rounded off, quite perfectly, with messers Hendrix, Marley and Spears. Tally ho.
It didn't take so long to banish the memory, the ex-pat contingent slowly filtering away during the course of the next day, leaving us to reclaim the hammocks. Isabel was back from volunteering as an administrator for an AIDS clinic in Freetown and Kirsty and Emily stayed a few nights, so the four of us took a walk to Bureh beach. Along the way all manner of things had been washed ashore (TV remote?), apparently detritus from a sunken Korean trawler that had been fishing illegally nearby and ran into trouble. At Bureh we found the high tide (given impetus by the full moon a couple of nights before) had broken through the beach and joined with the lagoon behind, so we couldn't make it as far as the village. However, the local lads swam out and said hello, offering their assistance. We contented ourselves with a swim before heading back to John Obey for lunch.
Isabel returned to Freetown before dawn the next day so in the afternoon Kirsty, Emily and I decided to visit Tacugama Chimpanzee Sanctuary. Here are housed (currently) 98 chimps; mainly youngsters rescued from being kept as pets and living lives of film-watching, alcohol-drinking and cigarette-smoking. It takes a long time to ween them off these things and they pass through five phases of rehabilitation before release back to the wild. The sanctuary has various enclosures to help them through this process, including some fairly large sections of the Western Peninsula Forest. If you ever find yourself visiting, keep your wits about you: the chimps can be very protective of their food and are a deadly shot with a rock in hand!
A Beginner's Guide to Retail Therapy
Elijah, head of the Chop team, goes into the town of Waterloo twice a week to stock up on supplies. The market there is bustling to say the least: narrow streets lined with traders selling everything you could possibly need. I joined Elijah on a couple of his excursions and learnt a thing or two about safely negotiating the thronged streets:
> Don't step on other people's bananas
> Your mentor likely has a sixth sense for buses sneaking up on you from behind; stick close
> If at all possible, avoid causing speeding wheelbarrows to collide and spill ground nuts all over the floor
> If someone shouts "white man", they mean you
> Unless you aren't white
> If a superstar Liberian popster cruises past in a convoy of pick-ups crammed with sound systems and entourage, prepare for the whole town to stop what they are doing, rush you, and start dancing
> If you accidentally kill a goat, be sure to pay the owner
Maidenhead District Scout Association Pioneering Champion 1994 versus John Obey District Speed-Pioneering Display Team 2012
In 1994, I and my crack team of pioneers were crowned Maidenhead District Scout Association Pioneering Champions. So refined were our skills, so honed our technique, that our lookout tower of big logs tied to other big logs looked more like a NASA satellite dish. You know the ones: the huge dishes out in the New Mexico desert or somewhere similar. Still, we beat Pinkneys Green and, if I've learnt anything in this life of mine, it's that beating Pinkneys Green is all that truly matters. As I still dine out on that glorious victory (and, of course, that 6-1 thrashing we handed them in the Cub Scout Cup, despite being massive underdogs (Daniel Horner literally scored direct from a corner; what are the chances?)), I thought I should introduce my skills to this little corner of Africa. It's what Baden-Powell would have wanted after all.
Tribewanted installed a water pump near the project which also serves the fishing community. A short way up a hill from the pump is a large water tank which feeds the taps in the Tribewanted kitchen, toilets and housing. This tank has to be topped up a couple of times a week. This involves repeatedly filling six large jerry cans and walking them up the hill, lifting them up a ladder to the top of the tank and emptying them inside. One particular morning Abu (one of the construction team), Hassan (trainee carpenter in the construction team) and myself took on the task of filling the tank by about a quarter. This meant 48 jerry cans had to be pumped full, carried, lifted and emptied. This much water required just shy of three thousand accumulative pumps. It is fair of me to say this is tiring work. Especially in Africa. In dry season. And it is forty degrees. So when the ladder that is climbed to scale the tank started to fall apart, I figured it was time to do something. And that is where pioneering came in.
That same afternoon the three of us sourced the wood and rope and I set about teaching Abu and Hassan the art of the square lashing. Not one hour later there were just three lashings to go and I found myself being challenged to a race: first to finish their square lashing wins.
Competition was fierce but I won, of course. Beating Pinkneys Green isn't just some stroll in the park you know. I have real pedigree. But Abu and Hassan picked it up really quickly and proudly paraded their new ladder past the other workers on the way to the tank. They have themselves a pretty proud old pioneer right here too.
The High-Octane World of Professional Yahtzee
Visitors came and went over the course of my month in John Obey; some for a night, others for more. It was on the occasion of my first evening with New York couple Scott and Laura, towards the end of my stay, that Scott uttered the immortal words: "Do you know Yahtzee?"
Scott and Laura were in West Africa for three weeks - Tribewanted for five nights - using the experience to gather content for their new website: eatyourworld - a site where you can discover and share traditional and typical cuisines and food stories from around the world. On top of this Laura is a writer, putting together a story on community tourism, whilst Scott, a photographer, used his keen eye to capture pictures of their time here, including shots of every single food item that passed under their noses. We introduced them to the poyo - fresh out of the palm that morning - and also to the ginger beer which Aminata (one of the chop employees) had made the same day. Mark had been given a gift of scotch that week; scotch that went so well with the ginger beer you would swear they were separated at birth. We christened the re-conjoined twins a 'Ginger Leone'.
Not long afterwards the battle dice were out and Scott instantly "happened upon" his best-ever-game scorecard: a three-Yahtzee game. Four hundred and eighty-something points. Nice, I said, as my expression dropped into the featureless stare of my Yahtzee-face. Three Yahtzee's. He would have no idea that I was impressed.
My memory is hazy, but I was introduced to the sport by my Grandma, at the age of eight or nine. Quite young, you may think, to enter a world where the stakes are so high: to winners, the spoils, while losers are consigned to the gutter, forever. But Grandma knew what she was doing. She knew I was ready.
Grandma died before I was out of primary school and I was left without my six-sided mentor. Yet, in those few short years, she instilled in me a profound sense for the game; a sense for the dice. I knew an early four-of-a-kind with the sixes could make or break a game, freeing up your top, or giving a firm start to your bottom. And I knew that, sometimes, you've just gotta take a chance.
Scott took the first two games, Laura the third. This was serious.
A couple of days later the three of us conscripted Daniel to take us on a tour of the local beaches, to find out more of other community tourism initiatives in the area. Tourism isn't greatly developed in Sierra Leone, so there is great potential here to build it up in the right way; protecting the great beauty of the land, showcasing the wonderful welcome of the people, providing much-needed investment in one of the least-developed countries in the world.
We began our trip at the roadside in John Obey, hoping to get a ride to Tokeh. While we waited, Scott was seconds from inadvertently buying himself a raw fish to eat, until Daniel stepped in and convinced the trader to return his money. Daniel was just beginning negotiations with a motorcyclist to ferry us in pairs up the road when a rickety taxi carrying one patron pulled up. The four of us and a mother and son clambered in, and it wasn't until we reached Tokeh that we realised the original passenger had made the journey in the boot.
Tokeh is a bigger community than John Obey and has a secondary school. The beach there is a pristine white and we walked along it - in the midday sun - towards Number Two, a village at the mouth of River #2. A private American businessman is commissioning a new hotel - a series of chalet-style accommodations - on the beach-front at Tokeh. At present it is hard to tell how the buildings will look, as only foundations are in place, but it is a very big development, flanked by typical local constructions (houses and bafas) that, I suspect, will contrast greatly.
We waded across River #2 to get to the village, and lunch. Number Two is a regular haunt of weekend visitors, and it strives to be sustainable. There is solar power and, like Tribewanted, bags for recycling (although there is no state collection of refuse or recyclable items, so the bags are a statement of intent more than anything). Unfortunately the toilets at Number Two seemed to run to a hole in the ground; no signs of composting. Daniel hails from the village and is a great advocate for doing things the right way. He introduced us to his mother; and his brother, who owns a huge allotment with many successful vegetables that he sells to the villagers. Between him and Daniel, I suspect they pretty much run the place.
Next on the tour we needed to return to Tokeh, so Daniel arranged to courier us on a couple of motorbikes. After thirty-two-and-a-half years in this world, this was my first journey on such a contraption, and I was wearing flip-flops, shorts, a skimpy t-shirt, and no helmet. Mother, I apologise. The road was, shall we say, bumpy; the bike struggled with any inclines and regularly threw me a foot or so into the air. Perhaps the most exciting part of the journey was when we passed a patch of land - a very large patch of land - being cleared for a new owner. A common thing in third world countries is to deforest not by hand with axe or saw, but to burn the forest to the ground. The flames licked ten feet into the air and bent over the road in wicked arcs as we passed. I suspect the fact we were moving was the only thing to keep up from getting burnt.
In Tokeh, Daniel contracted a taxi for three hours (for 50,000 Leones - about $11) to ferry us south to Kent and then back up the coast to Bureh and finally John Obey. In Kent we found the remains of a slave fort and a holding cell - now with a school built on top of it - a slightly uncomfortable sight. The youth of Kent have recently built a bar/restaurant in an amazing location looking out to the sea and Banana Island, although we felt the area needed some work, both aesthetically and professionally, if it is to regularly attract tourists; certainly under the 'community tourism' banner.
Up in Bureh we found our favourite beach of the day. The bay there offered a little surf and we managed to ride a couple of waves. We were introduced to Tommy, a local 'entrepreneur', who brought us oysters on the beach and showed us around the village.
Bureh sits on a small headland with the bay on one side and a beautiful beach on the other. Unfortunately, like much of the peninsula coast, rubbish is a real problem. The back of the beach was totally covered in it, which was a complete turn-off.
Tommy walked us through the forest behind the beach, and his conversation with Daniel became slightly heated. The forest was beautiful - we saw one huge tree whose trunk exploded into many fine boughs, sprouting in all directions. We asked Daniel what the two of them had been talking about. We were told the forest is sacred to the community but, despite this, had just been sold to Lebanese developers. The likelihood is their ancient trees will be cut down in the near future. Daniel was incensed. Number Two had been approached to sell their whole village, beach and all, to Chinese investors for a paltry $500,000. Thankfully they refused, seeing things in the longer term. There is a real danger that Sierra Leone, with its stunning beaches, landscapes, forests and wildlife, could be destroyed by the wrong kind of investment. This is a poor country. The culture here is to take the easy money when offered. That Number Two refused that cash was an exception. Unless the right kind of initiatives are supported, the beauty that is intrinsic to the land, the people, could easily be lost.
As we exited the forest we came across a village football match, where we met a living legend.
Prince Williams of Bureh was taking part in the match, for the side playing in skins. Presently he approached to bid us hello. To say he was ripped is an gross understatement. His proud breast would make silicon ashamed to be called an implant. And silicon isn't even sentient. All three of us became instantly bashful at his gaze. His face was surely crafted by the likes of Michaelangelo and, when he smiled, we all just melted. He may well have caught me casting a glance at his exquisite torso, his rippling stomach. And you know what? If he did, I am not ashamed.
I am not ashamed.
A couple of nights before, Scott and I had shared the spoils in two games of Yahtzee, and after the tour the three of us played once more. This may come as news to the uninitiated, but by playing Yahtzee, you learn something of yourself; your true self. For instance, I now know that I can be an aggressive roller: had I aimed that third roll away from the other dice, I may have gotten the five, and the Yahtzee, I was looking for. As it was, I still won the game. This was due to some cunning points allocation of difficult rolls; sacrificing my topsies in favour of a strong bottom, ably led by my 'of a kinds. Scott had written me off. But from out of nowhere I had back-to-back wins. It was great Yahtzee.
The next day was my last full day in Sierra Leone. I spent it in the community, saying the first of my goodbyes and taking snaps of the project and the workers. I hadn't expected it what with looking forward to seeing friends and family again, but I was feeling a tinge of sadness to be moving on. The difference to the way of life in the south of England is marked; there is something truly warming about living in this community as I have done in the past month. People's roles dovetail so everyone plays a part; the community takes great care of itself, of its' own. The contrasts to the West are stark, and not just in the obvious aspects of wealth and development, standard of living conditions. The human aspects: the ability to live together in harmony, to resolve disputes amicably, to share; these all stand out.
For my last Sierra Leone sunset, Laura, Scott and I walked down the beach back to Bureh to swim in the sea and look back upon the stunning peninsula. Tommy predictably swam out to meet us and offer his wares so, after turning down a massive carving of an antelope (with 16 horns), Scott haggled for friends price on 14 oysters. That night we played our final game of Yahtzee.
I'm not going to lie; the standard of play was spectacularly bad. Bad, that was, until the last few rounds, when Scott somehow pulled out a couple of magical third rolls to consign Laura and me to yet another defeat. As much as it pains me to say it, Scott was a deserving champion. (Although Laura will be quick to point out she had the highest single-game score of the series.)
Football: A True Underdog story
Football is huge in Sierra Leone. And I mean huge. Every day you cannot fail to see dozens of replica shirts being sported, the English Premier League taking the lion's share of people's obsession. Almost everyone I spoke to supported one of the big teams: Manchester United, Chelsea, Arsenal. I even saw a Grimsby Town shirt.
John Obey, being just as football mad as the rest of the country, has a team. They are very much low down in the footballing hierarchy - their pitch is the one at the primary school; a rocky patch of dirt only really big enough for seven-a-side at most. Abu told me about training and asked if I would like to join in. I hadn't played for almost a year, but I jumped at the chance.
The guys trained without goalkeepers - scoring is achieved by playing the ball onto the opposing posts - and showed far greater technical ability than is nurtured in the UK. They formed neat passing triangles and strived to keep the ball over getting it forward quickly, as is my education in the game. Later that week John Obey hosted a seven-a-side game against Tombo, local rivals with a much better footballing pedigree, who play several levels above John Obey. There was a fairly sizeable crowd for the Saturday evening match, the primary school benches brought outside to accommodate the fans. Tombo were such overwhelming favourites that the John Obey manager hadn't made time to attend, expecting a drubbing. Within ten minutes of the thirty each-way match, John Obey were 4-0 up, and in stunning fashion too - the goals flying in from all angles.
The Tombo team was clearly struggling with the label of favourites, whilst John Obey revelled in the freedom of rank outsiders. Towards the end of the first half Tombo pulled a goal back. Then they hit the angle of post and crossbar, collapsing the goal to great mirth from the gathered crowds.
The second half was a more nervy affair, John Obey content to soak up the pressure and preserve their lead. They were helped by a couple of great saves from their 'keeper although, to be fair, the Tombo 'keeper made a couple of fingertip saves as well - one of which was preceded by Abu sprinting along the touchline, Mourinho-like, thinking a fifth goal was about to be scored. Tombo struck the bar once more, but the game, and the spectacle, was completed by John Obey adding a fifth goal on the break; everyone under the height of four feet (and Abu) mounted a delirious pitch invasion in celebration, mini Jan-Aage Fjortoft's circling, arms outstretched, all around the ground.
Since that historic victory, John Obey have been inundated with offers of matches from teams desperate to pit themselves against the emphatic vanquishers of Tombo. As I left Tribewanted for the last time, farewells completed, the back of Mr. Alie's pick-up was filled with the John Obey football team, catching a lift to Waterloo for their first test since the Tombo game.
Waterloo is about twice as big, and even further up the footballing ladder!
Lastly And, By All Means, Most
I want to sign off this edition by saying tenki to everyone I met in the community of John Obey. You all made me feel most welcome and I'm proud to call you all friends.
The Tribewanted team: Mark, Fatorma, Mr. Alie, Daniel
The chop house: Elijah, Coco, Aminata, Bale, Yenken
Permaculture: Pa Braima, Momoh, Samuel
Construction: Abass, Abu, Alphonso, Hassan, Sullie, Mahmoud, Mohamad, MJ, Samuel, John
Security: Alusine, Junior, Saidu
The fishermen: Perfectman, Alie, Mohamed, Michael Siseh, Figoman and everyone else
Miss Mary
From the village: Chief Assan, Sieh Siseh and all the football boys
And, of course, the kids: Momoh, Usman, Mohamad, Christoph, the other Momoh's!
Thank you all for making my stay such a wonderful and unforgettable time. I truly hope to see you all again soon.
Friday, 23 March 2012
#051: How to spend a handful of hours in Bangkok
Every now and again you bump into someone you know somewhere totally random and out of the blue. I once inadvertently sat opposite a record-label-owning acquaintance in a tube train, for instance. And there are a fair number of tubes going around at any one moment in time. Still, I know quite a few people who live in London so, sooner or later, I was bound to see one of them amongst the 7,000,000 I don't know. This sort of occurrence wasn't something I was expecting to happen on the other side of the world, though.
Walking down the main street in Auckland, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and turned to be face-to-face with an old school colleague, Matt Travell. He had emigrated a year before and I happened to walk by his office as he was heading in. It's a small world and all that. Except it's not. It's even smaller. You only need to get sixteen people in a room together until you are more likely than not to have two with the same birthday. Try to work that out.
Someone else tapped me on the shoulder in Auckland. I hadn't ever met this person before though. They asked if I was going to the Roger Walters gig, without even the slightest attempt at an introduction. I said no, because I wasn't, and they left. Never to be seen or heard of again. I didn't know them from Adam, nor they me, and I was oblivious to the fact Roger Waters was even in the city. So I guess I've developed a Pink Floydy (Floydish?) hue over the past few months. At least from the rear.
One of the folk I shared a room with in Auckland this time around was a chap called Nobu, on a week-long holiday from Japan. He told me he had lots of English friends, but that I was the first Englishman he had met who wasn't stupid. I didn't argue. I found him to be a very perceptive chap, our Nobu.
Enough of that. My next task was to get myself to the coast of West Africa, and it was going to take two-and-a-half days. Flying out of Auckland, for twelve hours, would bring me to Bangkok. Quite perfectly, the flight was very mildly booked, so I had a three-seater to myself which would serve me well for the intended body-clock reset. I'd be crossing six timezones on the half-a-day flight.
After a few weird sleeps I arrived in Thailand, six hours earlier than four in the morning. And seven hours later than 3PM. Unfortunately, the way things worked out there, I had time to do little more than while away a few hours near to my Bangkok hotel. I say Bangkok, but I was actually about 25 miles from Bangkok. Like spending a night in Maidenhead.
Luckily, google earth showed me to be positioned just a few blocks from a park. I headed there and picked out a spot shaded by the fronds of a palm tree, alongside a small lake, where I made my acquaintance with some local wildlife. The spiders were keen jumpers - one little translucent chap religiously scaling me throughout the afternoon, no matter how many times I ushered him away. I shared the bank with a two-foot long lizardy fellow for a very short while, until he made his way into a pipe feeding the fountain at the lake's centre - too quick for me to capture a holiday snap of the two of us. I considered following him in there but could barely get my nose in the opening, let alone a whole head and a pair of shoulders.
Now, many's the time when I've found myself startled by wildlife. Even living all my years in the UK. There's the two obvious childhood spider incidents (scorched into my memory) and that time when a squirrel flung itself from a hedge, face-first, into my chest. There may have once been a riverside battle with a gibbon, but my memory is hazy on the matter. However, none of these quite compares to being startled by three five-foot long dragons arrowing forth at me from beneath a bush. Just look at the silly Englishman getting scared by harmless park lizards...
All I'll say is, Japan only needs to make them 25% bigger, and Matthew Broderick has a sequel in the bag.
Making the short walk back to the hotel, I was confronted with a huge pop-up market, transformed - in the space of a couple of hours - from seemingly run-down collection of hardboard constructions into a bustling and vibrant place to buy, sell and barter; stalls stretched away as far as the eye could see. As with all things, hindsight once more proved its' decisive mastery, leaving me wishing for even a single extra day on the fringes of this South East Asian metropolis.
From there it was the little matter of flying another seven time zones into the west: nine hours to Nairobi, four hour sit (in terminal limbo), six hours to Accra, one hour sit (in plane), two hours to Freetown...
Walking down the main street in Auckland, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and turned to be face-to-face with an old school colleague, Matt Travell. He had emigrated a year before and I happened to walk by his office as he was heading in. It's a small world and all that. Except it's not. It's even smaller. You only need to get sixteen people in a room together until you are more likely than not to have two with the same birthday. Try to work that out.
Someone else tapped me on the shoulder in Auckland. I hadn't ever met this person before though. They asked if I was going to the Roger Walters gig, without even the slightest attempt at an introduction. I said no, because I wasn't, and they left. Never to be seen or heard of again. I didn't know them from Adam, nor they me, and I was oblivious to the fact Roger Waters was even in the city. So I guess I've developed a Pink Floydy (Floydish?) hue over the past few months. At least from the rear.
One of the folk I shared a room with in Auckland this time around was a chap called Nobu, on a week-long holiday from Japan. He told me he had lots of English friends, but that I was the first Englishman he had met who wasn't stupid. I didn't argue. I found him to be a very perceptive chap, our Nobu.
Enough of that. My next task was to get myself to the coast of West Africa, and it was going to take two-and-a-half days. Flying out of Auckland, for twelve hours, would bring me to Bangkok. Quite perfectly, the flight was very mildly booked, so I had a three-seater to myself which would serve me well for the intended body-clock reset. I'd be crossing six timezones on the half-a-day flight.
After a few weird sleeps I arrived in Thailand, six hours earlier than four in the morning. And seven hours later than 3PM. Unfortunately, the way things worked out there, I had time to do little more than while away a few hours near to my Bangkok hotel. I say Bangkok, but I was actually about 25 miles from Bangkok. Like spending a night in Maidenhead.
Luckily, google earth showed me to be positioned just a few blocks from a park. I headed there and picked out a spot shaded by the fronds of a palm tree, alongside a small lake, where I made my acquaintance with some local wildlife. The spiders were keen jumpers - one little translucent chap religiously scaling me throughout the afternoon, no matter how many times I ushered him away. I shared the bank with a two-foot long lizardy fellow for a very short while, until he made his way into a pipe feeding the fountain at the lake's centre - too quick for me to capture a holiday snap of the two of us. I considered following him in there but could barely get my nose in the opening, let alone a whole head and a pair of shoulders.
Now, many's the time when I've found myself startled by wildlife. Even living all my years in the UK. There's the two obvious childhood spider incidents (scorched into my memory) and that time when a squirrel flung itself from a hedge, face-first, into my chest. There may have once been a riverside battle with a gibbon, but my memory is hazy on the matter. However, none of these quite compares to being startled by three five-foot long dragons arrowing forth at me from beneath a bush. Just look at the silly Englishman getting scared by harmless park lizards...
All I'll say is, Japan only needs to make them 25% bigger, and Matthew Broderick has a sequel in the bag.
Making the short walk back to the hotel, I was confronted with a huge pop-up market, transformed - in the space of a couple of hours - from seemingly run-down collection of hardboard constructions into a bustling and vibrant place to buy, sell and barter; stalls stretched away as far as the eye could see. As with all things, hindsight once more proved its' decisive mastery, leaving me wishing for even a single extra day on the fringes of this South East Asian metropolis.
From there it was the little matter of flying another seven time zones into the west: nine hours to Nairobi, four hour sit (in terminal limbo), six hours to Accra, one hour sit (in plane), two hours to Freetown...
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