One particularly tough Sunday in Salone, en route to the Turtle Islands.
04 September, 2011 - 6 BOUGIES
Dan Heyman and I want to get a belt line going. We want to
sell African wax print belts, made in Sierra Leone, to fancy boutiques in New
York. So far, we’ve trained a tailor called Osman to make belts the way we like
them, and I’ve just found a guy who can make buckles for us out of recycled
metal. He specializes in recycled coke cans. We’ve also done a lot of shopping
around for cloth, and I pride myself on now having an eye for a good African
wax print. At least, I think I can spot a good belt in a piece of cloth.
Here is one (actually two combined into one) of our belts on a palm tree. Dan and I did a shoot in the Turtle Islands.
Wax prints use dye and wax to print patterns on cloth. The
end result is any pattern that the designer wants, printed in any colour that
the dye can make. The possibilities are almost endless. The designs on these wax
prints are often crazy and usually all over the place. Bright colour and flashy
designs are popular. Woman here dress with a bravado and spunk that is not in
the fabrics of Western culture. Some great prints that I’ve seen include
multi-coloured crisscrossing chickens, red umbrellas on blue, blue ponies
prancing on yellow, never ending murals of Escher styled fish and, my
favourite, yellow sparkplugs on dark checked blue with “6 Bougies” inscribed in
between the sparkplugs.
I came cross the 6 Bougies print on a street in Waterloo,
just outside of Freetown. Dan and I were
shopping around for wax prints for our belts, and looking around for cool cloth
in general. When I stumbled across the 6 Bougies cloth I couldn’t help myself.
It wouldn’t make a good belt, but it was pop art; Pop-art that was truly
African. Or so I thought. I bought half a lappa of the cloth, which is 3 meters
by 1.5 meters, for Le 24,000 which is a bit less than $6. I thought that I
could make some good pants out of the cloth.
The yellow sparkplugs were what sold it to me initially, but the “6 Bougies” written on the cloth was intriguing me. The pattern is made of 6 sparkplugs, which form a circle around some guy’s face. The sparkplugs also have “1940” written on them. The mystery behind the arbitrariness of the cloth was fascinating me. I googled “6 Bougies” and found some links to a Dutch wax cloth manufacturer, called Vlisco. One link had a picture of my “6 Bougies” print on it, and a story about African wax prints. Click here to have a look. It blew my mind.
Basically, the story goes that in the 1800s a Dutch
sailor/entrepreneur thought of a bright business idea in Indonesia. He noticed
the popularity of the vibrant, local wax print batik cloth. He also noticed
that he could mass-produce the same wax prints in a cloth factory in Holland at
a fraction of the price of the handmade Indonesian batiks. This Dutchman then
took a bunch of the patterns back home and endeavoured to undercut the wax
batik market in Indonesia. Genius, but not in the way he intended.
When his ships made it to Indonesia with their cargo of
cloth, the Indonesians turned their noses up at what they saw as counterfeit
wax prints. I’m assuming that the smaller batik craftsman in Indonesia rallied
together against the bad big trader offering his cheaper alternative, in much
the same way that Walmart is received by shopkeepers in small Townville. And
so, the Dutchman was thwarted. At a loss at what to do with their boatloads of
cloth, the Dutch ships pulled into Ghana. On the way home to Holland I am
assuming. They tried selling the colourful, Indonesian styled, wax prints to
the ladies of Ghana. And they sold like wildfire. Not long after that, the wax
prints were being demanded and sold all over West Africa; from Senegal to the
Congo. Holland, namely Vlisco, is still supplying wax cloth to women of class
in West Africa. China and Hong Kong now fill the cheaper and more prolific
niche of selling imitation Dutch wax prints to the everyday woman. What you
hear is correct. The rice farming, baby toting women of Koinadugu in northern Sierra
Leone, 2 hours walk from the nearest dirt road, wear brightly coloured wax
print cloth made in Hong Kong, which is an imitation of Dutch wax print cloth,
which is an imitation of Indonesian wax batik cloth. Incredible. This is why
Dan and I are eager to turn this cloth into belts and sell it the hipster crowd in
New York. After all, I heard from a good source that what hipsters want is
irony.
6 BOUGIES
The story behind the 6 Bougies print goes a couple layers
deeper. The print was first made in 1940,
which explains the date on the sparkplugs, and sold in the Congo. In those
days, Belgium was still mining heavily there, and there were a healthy portion
of wealthy mine managers. Apparently, the Belgian expats running the mines were
not very modest, and were quite competitive about flaunting their wealth. Not
that unlike some of the expat lifestyles I’ve seen in Sierra Leone. One of the
things that these expats did was import six cylinder cars. These cars must have
been even more out of place than the yellow hummer and Porsche that drive
around the streets of Freetown. In the Congo, in which few people would have
owned a vehicle of any kind in the 1940s, these monstrous 6 cylinder cars became
a symbol of prestige and opulence. The cars were known as “6 Bougies” by normal
people. Bougie is derived from the French word for candle, and in this case it
means sparkplug. Since 6 cylinder cars need 6 sparkplugs, “6 Bougies” became
the colloquial name for these fancy cars. Apparently, the term was used in
local conversation to mark something as being “very fancy.” I can hear a woman
in the Congo complementing her friend’s new grass roof. “Oh, but that is very nice,
very 6 Sparkplugs.”
Back in Holland, Vlisco got word of this phrase. In order to
keep up with the times, Vlisco produced a lappa that women in the Congo could
wear that had “6 Bougies” written on it, with 6 sparkplugs making a circle
around the pattern to cater for the everyday woman who couldn’t yet read. It
went down very well. Vlisco’s market research is still alive and well, and they
pride themselves on being able to sense what the upper echelon women of Africa need
to be able to distinguish themselves from the crowd; to mark themselves as
bourgeois. One modern day equivalent of the now iconic “6 Bougies” cloth is a lappa
with Play Station controllers on it. In 2011, Vlisco released an “8 Bougies”
pattern, because now 6 cylinder cars just aren’t quite as fancy as they used to
be.
To add one last layer, the word “bougie” is also a modern
adjective that can be used for people that are trying to be classier than they
actually are. When they are trying to be bourgeois, and failing. At least, this
is according to the Urban Dictionary. Although in this case the word is derived
from bourgeois rather than sparkplug, I think that it dovetails with way “6
Bougies” is used very nicely.
When I pick my pants up from the tailor this week, I am
going to wear those 6 Bougies with pride. I will look at those yellow
sparkplugs, and let my chest swell with irony.
Wearing my 6 Bougie pants in the IPA office in Freetown
21 August, 2011
Today I had my haircut. Or rather, "I don go to de barba." It was a small place on the side of the street by the Aberdeen junction. Right next to the Aberdeen Women's Clinic. I wasn't actually planning on getting a trim today, but when I saw Mohammed and Ibrahimovic they told me that I would be more handsome without my beard. It had to be done. I ended up getting the two of them a haircut too. For all 3 of us it cost Le 18,000, which is a bit less than R30. Most of that went towards my "VIP cut" and specialised beard trim. I don't think the barber, Suliman, got to cut white-boy hair very often, but he did a fine job. Here are the pictures:
View of the barber shop from the street. There was some heavy music playing on the sound system when we walked in. I think the music was Nigerian. All I could here were loud Gunshots and afro-pop. Loud gun fire is popular in bad-ass gangster music in Sierra Leone, which I find interesting.
Mohammed in the middle, and me just getting started in the mirror.
Ibrahimovic, with Mohammed and me in the mirror behind him.
Mohammed in the foreground, spot the white-boy in the back.
Close to the final product. The barber says I'll have trouble keeping the Sierra Leonean ladies off now.
14 August, 2011
Yesterday we visited a waterfall outside Freetown; Evan, Jessica, Allyson, Tom and Me. During the rainy season there are often waterfalls pouring off the roofs of our houses, and sometimes even raging rivers in the streets, so the real rivers and waterfalls are quite impressive.
We were promptly met by a guy called Hakim, who said that he was the local tour guide. We said that we wanted to see the waterfall, and he said "let's go." On the way we went by the old St. John's church that was built by the British in the 1840s. It was built by the red, porous rock that is around Freetown. It's called Laterite I think. Only the really old buildings seemed to be built from it, but I think I'd build my house from it if I built a place in Freetown.
To get to the waterfall was about a 15 minute walk. Once we were there, we swam in the pool of water at its base, which was a good place to gaze up at the water thundering down. There is a great natural water slide just to the side of the base of the waterfall as well. When we'd had enough of that, we dined on bread, sardines, laughing cow cheese, and condensed milk.
Jessica, Evan and Allyson in the water.
On the water slide above with Tom in the foreground.
The walk back was one of my favourite parts. We weren't fortunate enough to get a first class ride on the back of a truck. Instead, we walked, almost the whole way back to Regent. The great part was the rain, that absolutely bucketed down on us as we walked, soaking us through. The rain made intricate and fast moving patterns in the muddy red puddles on the road. We starred at the puddles in the bucketing rain for awhile, appreciating the beauty. The good thing about tropical rain, is that you don't even get too cold. We made one stop to buy some "poyo," locally brewed palm wine made from the sap in palm nut trees. It's rancid, and costs Le 2000 for a 1.5 litre bottle. There was a fly and some other small bugs floating in the top of it. Bargain. Soon after our purchase, and after about 30 minutes of walking, a car passed us going the same direction as us and took mercy on the poor white people in the rain. We all piled into the back seat of their car, soaking, which they graciously said they didn't mind. "It is good to be kind," they said. They ended up giving us a lift all the way passed Regent, to Wilberforce, and they wouldn't even take any money for the ride. Thank God for the rain and for kind people.
07 August, 2011
Yesterday was a great day. Although it was technically a Saturday, I thought that I would include it on the Salone Sundays page because it was so cool. I've written a short piece about it:
Lunch with Fatoma
I was sitting in a poda-poda, weaving through downtown Freetown. It was a Saturday, and I was on my way to Fatoma’s house in Kissi, the Eastern side of town. I live in the West end, a good hour and a half ride apart in normal traffic. I was stoked that I had cracked an invite to Fatoma’s house for lunch. His wife, Cecelia, is an infamous cook.
The minibus taxi in which I sat was stripped to the bare bones. It had probably ended it's career as a mail van in Europe 20 years ago, and was now eking out its retirement in West Africa. It had lost along the way all of its floor paneling, all of its lining, and all other superfluous things, which are unnecessary for driving. It was a lean metal cage on wheels, lurching along, belching black smoke, stalling, starting. Somehow always starting. It was probably a good thing that the floor was bare, dirty metal, because the young child next to me was throwing up on it. He must have been about 9 years old, and was being very brave. Not complaining, just throwing up quietly. His mother, who’s lap he was sitting on, stroked his back affectionately. The taxi driver didn’t complain either, he just said that the mother should buy some water to help clean the taxi when they stopped. There were 8 people, including myself, sitting in my row of seats in the taxi. I didn’t try and count how many where sitting in the rows behind me. There were 5 rows I think, although ours was definitely the fullest. Two of the people were children sitting on laps, one of them throwing up.
I got out near Eastern Police. I paid Le1000 – about R2 – for the ride, which had lasted about 30 minutes. This is downtown Freetown. I needed to catch one more poda-poda to “old-road” and then get out by “shell-old-road.” Then I would be near Fatoma’s house. I walked along the street, which seethed with people, colour, red dirt, and poverty. It was the rainy season – apparently it can rain 900mm in August – and everything was glistening with wet in the yellow noon light. There was movement everywhere, people moving, ocada motorbike taxi’s flying by, poda-poda taxi’s lurching by, dirty red rivers gushing in the roadside gutters, water dripping from bright umbrellas, from bright people; all moving.
I eventually made it to Fatoma’s neighborhood, where he met me. We walked shoulder to shoulder, sometimes hand in hand, up his street to his house. There were kids on the square outside Fatoma’s building playing soccer in the rain, on the red, hard earth, having a great time. I walked inside to get a big hug from Fecito and Facelia, Fatoma and Cecelia’s young son and daughter. Inside, Braveheart was playing on the big TV. The DVD was grainy on the screen and the subtitles were worded oddly, as if the person had been Chinese, maybe. And the were the dirty European savages fighting eachother in Scotland. I told Fatoma that one of my ancestors featured in the film, Robert the Bruce, but that he was of one of the bad guys in the film.
This time of the year is the beginning of the hungry season in Sierra Leone. As we went on our way, Fatoma and I agreed that we were not hungry. We were very lucky.
19 June, 2011
I was reading an article in one of Freetown's newspapers last week. A good, standard city newspaper called the "Standard Times." The newspapers here are generally dominated by corruption scandals, some politician being defamed (often blatantly sponsored by another politician), and procurement adverts for NGO funded development projects. Soccer, especially the European leagues, dominate the back pages. The article that I was reading was different though. It took up the whole of the second page, and was entitled Does Anything Matter. The first few lines read: "Can moral judgments be true or false? Or is ethics, at bottom, a purely subjective matter, for individuals to choose, or perhaps relative to the culture of the society in which one lives? We might have just found out the answer." After I read that, I initially dismissed the article as someone's philosophical rant. I guess I just didn't think that the "Standard Times" was the place to read about subjectivism versus objectivism.
However, I was shown up for judging the newspaper article by its cover. That same day, I read the exact same opening lines in an article on Project Syndicate, a very clever website where Stiglitz, Rodrik and other academics put up their op-eds. The article I was reading was entitled Does Anything Matter? And it was by Peter Singer, a professor of bioethics at Princeton. He was commenting on a recent publication by Parfit, an Oxford professor. This time I read the full article, and it was really good. You can have a look at it on http://www.project-syndicate.org/commentary/singer75/English. When checked Peter Singer's against the article in the Standard Times, not only were the opening lines the same, but the entire article was a word for word cut and paste. The only thing that the Standard Times omitted was Peter Singer's name.
I've never seen the Cape Times, or even the New York Times, put a professors work on the entire second page of their newspapers. I guess Freetown's Standard Times is one notch ahead in terms of academic content. If they had only referenced the name of where the article came from. Unlike roses, an article by anon is just not as sweet as an article by a big professor from Princeton.
22 May, 2011
After a fruit brunch of Guinea mango, sweet little "rope" mango, banana, pineapple, papaya and lime, I found Ibrahamovic at the car wash down the road. The chairman of the car wash, Freeman, was complaining that the owner of the plot wanted to close off the water and build a house on his property (what's up with that?). It's common for guys to cut pipes and use the water, it saves them a couple hundred metres of walking when they need to fetch water. Ibrahimovic and I left the car wash scene and went to find Mohammed in Sussu village, which is a community of shanty houses sandwiched between our housing complex, the sea and the luxury Barmoi Hotel. We made our way through narrow paths that weave between zinz-roofed houses, where girls braid each other's hair and ladies cook fish and rice. When we found Mohammed he proudly showed me his room, which he had all to himself. From there we went off on a stroll around the neighbourhood.
We live on a peninsula, which makes me feel quite at home, and which is beautiful. We walked to the (non-operational) lighthouse and to some great big trees that seem to often grow right on the sea water's edge. One of the trees has the continent of Africa carved into it. The guys loved having a camera around, and were eager for some pictures. Mohammed says that he has a budding acting career, and wants to do some more camera shooting sessions sometime soon.
My day ended with Ibramihovic and Mohammed at "the Rock;" an open air local hangout next to the dilapidated Cape Sierra Hotel, which is where all the expats and reporters camped out during the war apparently. I feel like I am more into the neighbourhood now. A lot of guys know my name. They call me John, Jonny or John the baptist now that I have a beard. Apparently "Grant" sounds like "John" when said with a South African accent. Mohammed and I also now have our own handshake, and he keeps telling me that he knows some women who really want to meet me. Apparently the beard doesn't chase them away, and he refuses to believe that I'm both happy and single.
Hearkening back to this morning, before the fruit. I stumbled upon a deep conversation on my way to the shower (a la bucket). Some friends, Tom and Mekenzie, had slept over the night before. They were talking about the ethics of serving on the Mercy ship in cases when people were uncomfortable and not enjoying it. As I poured a bucket of water over my head I remembered something that was told to me before I left Cape Town. "Never try and do things for God. He doesn't want that. Do things with Him." I think that the same applies to people trying to serve God in places like the Mercy ship, or any place where people are trying to do "good things." Tom, Mekenzi and I talked about that for awhile, and then decided to go get some other good things, like a big bunch of fruit from the lady up the road.
15 May, 2011
I went to the Mercy Ship this Sunday. Jane White, legend, organised Canadian Dave and Dave and me a pass onto the ship, which is docked in the Freetown harbour until December. The ship has Gurkha soldiers on it for security, which I think is pretty awesome. Apparently there is a whole subculture of Gurkhas who provide security on ships around the world. I took some pictures of the ship when it was pulling into the harbour in February. As an indication of scale, try and find the two landrovers on the left hand side of the photo. There were 12 of these in single file lining the top deck.
The Mercy Ship is a floating hospital that docks into developing country harbours and provides free medical care, mainly for certain specialised operations that are generally unavailable in the country. The ship is stocked full of doctors and nurses from all over the world, most of whom are paying volunteers. It's a pretty awesome concept I think. About 450 people on board the ship I think.
On the ship, we got given a little tour by our friends on board. Followed by a free dinner, church service (a women from Ghana spoke on "worshipping in spirit and in truth") and then to top it all off, free Star Bucks. That's right, I said it, they have a Star Bucks coffee shop on the ship. The ship also happens to be full of young people. This basically doubles the young expat community in Freetown. I'm looking forward to getting to know a bunch of them a bit more.
08 May, 2011
This Sunday was "explore the neighbourhood and make friends with people" Sunday. I had met two young guys yesterday chilling by a tree, Mohamed and Ibrahim, a.k.a. "Ibrahimovic." They had wanted to hang out that night, but I had a beer pong tournament to get to with Caleb and some other expat guys (Caleb and Dan ruled supreme). So I arranged to meet with Mohamed and Ibrahimovic in the morning.
After a massive Guinea mango for breakfast, which is almost a meal in a mango, I made my way back to the tree where I had seen them. My date with Mohamed and Ibrahimovic started with watching soccer in a packed, hot and steamy schoolroom, where it is standard for guys to take their shirts off. The entrance fee was Le 1,000, which is about R2. Arsenal were playing Stoke City. Arsenal is really popular over here, and Mohamed was telling me how he loses his appetite when Arsenal loses games. Stoke beat Arsenal 3- 1, which was a bit of an upset. I hear that many Arsenal fans are switching over to Barcelona these days. At the half time break, we went down to get some lunch (lunch was my idea). Mohamed and Ibrahimovic took me to the place where they usually eat; on a bench on the side of the street, by the local car wash where the local "brothers" hang out. I had rice and extra spicy groundnut stew for lunch, for Le 3,000.
After the soccer our date ended, and I went back home to sit, skype home, reflect on the meaning of life and generally do little. The book of Oz, My Utmost for His Highest, was particularly good today. Sunday 08 May draws to a close on the porch of our house, as it often does these days.
Ending another day in Freetown on the porch
01 May, 2011
The first of May has been a gloriously slow day. The slowness began when I went to IMATT, the British military establishment on Leicester peak in Freetown. The architect of my day was Katie Christie, my one South African friend in Freetown, who also goes to my home church in Cape Town(!), CHS. Katie has made loads of friends with the British soldier guys at IMATT, so I managed to winkle an invite with her to an English breakfast this morning. Going to IMATT was like leaving Sierra Leone and entering a different country. A country with houses that I think were shipped into Freetown on container ships, complete with "two [Landrovers] in every garage and a chicken in every pot." After the English breakfast, we wandered through the massive bar area where Man-United and Arsenal were fighting it out on a big flat screen, unlucky Man-U, and down to a swimming pool. "The best pool in Sierra Leone." There, we lounged about for a solid few hours with some dack British soldiers and a bunch of Mercy Ship ladies that I had just met the evening before at Katie's baracuda braai. By the time we entered back into real Sierra Leone, I was feeling thoroughly relaxed and exhausted. It felt like a Sunday. What made it feel extra-Sunday like, was ending the day at the International Church, which is a tiny little once a month fling with expats and a couple Sierra Leoneans.
I am feeling absolutely exhausted now for no particular reason. Onwards Monday, onwards.
24 April, 2011
Running up to this Easter Sunday I had had to make the choice between staying in Freetown, joining the in town Easter happenings, or climbing Mt Bintumani. So, on Sunday morning April 24 I found myself looking over the junglee forests that are on the foot hills of Bintumani. We had climbed the peak on Saturday, and all we had to do on this fine day was to walk down the mountain to our car parked in the nearest village. We were at camp 2 (aptly named), where we had spent the second night. There is a little stream that runs past the camp with luxuriously chilled water. It was a little stream though; no swimming allowed, just splashing. I had walked down it in the twilight after my splash the evening before and found an opening in the trees where there is an awe inspiring view of the forest at a place where the little stream disappears into a sheer drop. And, a nice granite boulder to sit on.
Junglee forest from the granite boulder
This is the place that I ended up on Sunday morning, joined by Caleb, Libby and Tom, breaking some not quite stale but very squashed bread, drinking the left over Jonny Walker that I had brought along in my SAA water bottle. Remembering what a great day Easter Sunday is. Thank you Jesus.
Bread and whiskey on Sunday morning: Myself, Caleb, Libby and Tom
19 June, 2011
I was reading an article in one of Freetown's newspapers last week. A good, standard city newspaper called the "Standard Times." The newspapers here are generally dominated by corruption scandals, some politician being defamed (often blatantly sponsored by another politician), and procurement adverts for NGO funded development projects. Soccer, especially the European leagues, dominate the back pages. The article that I was reading was different though. It took up the whole of the second page, and was entitled Does Anything Matter. The first few lines read: "Can moral judgments be true or false? Or is ethics, at bottom, a purely subjective matter, for individuals to choose, or perhaps relative to the culture of the society in which one lives? We might have just found out the answer." After I read that, I initially dismissed the article as someone's philosophical rant. I guess I just didn't think that the "Standard Times" was the place to read about subjectivism versus objectivism.
However, I was shown up for judging the newspaper article by its cover. That same day, I read the exact same opening lines in an article on Project Syndicate, a very clever website where Stiglitz, Rodrik and other academics put up their op-eds. The article I was reading was entitled Does Anything Matter? And it was by Peter Singer, a professor of bioethics at Princeton. He was commenting on a recent publication by Parfit, an Oxford professor. This time I read the full article, and it was really good. You can have a look at it on http://www.project-syndicate.org/commentary/singer75/English. When checked Peter Singer's against the article in the Standard Times, not only were the opening lines the same, but the entire article was a word for word cut and paste. The only thing that the Standard Times omitted was Peter Singer's name.
I've never seen the Cape Times, or even the New York Times, put a professors work on the entire second page of their newspapers. I guess Freetown's Standard Times is one notch ahead in terms of academic content. If they had only referenced the name of where the article came from. Unlike roses, an article by anon is just not as sweet as an article by a big professor from Princeton.
22 May, 2011
After a fruit brunch of Guinea mango, sweet little "rope" mango, banana, pineapple, papaya and lime, I found Ibrahamovic at the car wash down the road. The chairman of the car wash, Freeman, was complaining that the owner of the plot wanted to close off the water and build a house on his property (what's up with that?). It's common for guys to cut pipes and use the water, it saves them a couple hundred metres of walking when they need to fetch water. Ibrahimovic and I left the car wash scene and went to find Mohammed in Sussu village, which is a community of shanty houses sandwiched between our housing complex, the sea and the luxury Barmoi Hotel. We made our way through narrow paths that weave between zinz-roofed houses, where girls braid each other's hair and ladies cook fish and rice. When we found Mohammed he proudly showed me his room, which he had all to himself. From there we went off on a stroll around the neighbourhood.
We live on a peninsula, which makes me feel quite at home, and which is beautiful. We walked to the (non-operational) lighthouse and to some great big trees that seem to often grow right on the sea water's edge. One of the trees has the continent of Africa carved into it. The guys loved having a camera around, and were eager for some pictures. Mohammed says that he has a budding acting career, and wants to do some more camera shooting sessions sometime soon.
Mohammed and Ibrahimovic posing by the lighthouse.
Mohammed says that 50 cent is his favourite artist.
The big tree with Africa carved into it.
Enjoying some potato leaf and rice with Ibrahimovic at "the Rock."
Hearkening back to this morning, before the fruit. I stumbled upon a deep conversation on my way to the shower (a la bucket). Some friends, Tom and Mekenzie, had slept over the night before. They were talking about the ethics of serving on the Mercy ship in cases when people were uncomfortable and not enjoying it. As I poured a bucket of water over my head I remembered something that was told to me before I left Cape Town. "Never try and do things for God. He doesn't want that. Do things with Him." I think that the same applies to people trying to serve God in places like the Mercy ship, or any place where people are trying to do "good things." Tom, Mekenzi and I talked about that for awhile, and then decided to go get some other good things, like a big bunch of fruit from the lady up the road.
15 May, 2011
I went to the Mercy Ship this Sunday. Jane White, legend, organised Canadian Dave and Dave and me a pass onto the ship, which is docked in the Freetown harbour until December. The ship has Gurkha soldiers on it for security, which I think is pretty awesome. Apparently there is a whole subculture of Gurkhas who provide security on ships around the world. I took some pictures of the ship when it was pulling into the harbour in February. As an indication of scale, try and find the two landrovers on the left hand side of the photo. There were 12 of these in single file lining the top deck.
The Mercy Ship is a floating hospital that docks into developing country harbours and provides free medical care, mainly for certain specialised operations that are generally unavailable in the country. The ship is stocked full of doctors and nurses from all over the world, most of whom are paying volunteers. It's a pretty awesome concept I think. About 450 people on board the ship I think.
On the ship, we got given a little tour by our friends on board. Followed by a free dinner, church service (a women from Ghana spoke on "worshipping in spirit and in truth") and then to top it all off, free Star Bucks. That's right, I said it, they have a Star Bucks coffee shop on the ship. The ship also happens to be full of young people. This basically doubles the young expat community in Freetown. I'm looking forward to getting to know a bunch of them a bit more.
Fishing boat in the foreground, Mercy Ship in the background. Taken when the Mercy Ship was pulling into Freetown.
08 May, 2011
This Sunday was "explore the neighbourhood and make friends with people" Sunday. I had met two young guys yesterday chilling by a tree, Mohamed and Ibrahim, a.k.a. "Ibrahimovic." They had wanted to hang out that night, but I had a beer pong tournament to get to with Caleb and some other expat guys (Caleb and Dan ruled supreme). So I arranged to meet with Mohamed and Ibrahimovic in the morning.
After a massive Guinea mango for breakfast, which is almost a meal in a mango, I made my way back to the tree where I had seen them. My date with Mohamed and Ibrahimovic started with watching soccer in a packed, hot and steamy schoolroom, where it is standard for guys to take their shirts off. The entrance fee was Le 1,000, which is about R2. Arsenal were playing Stoke City. Arsenal is really popular over here, and Mohamed was telling me how he loses his appetite when Arsenal loses games. Stoke beat Arsenal 3- 1, which was a bit of an upset. I hear that many Arsenal fans are switching over to Barcelona these days. At the half time break, we went down to get some lunch (lunch was my idea). Mohamed and Ibrahimovic took me to the place where they usually eat; on a bench on the side of the street, by the local car wash where the local "brothers" hang out. I had rice and extra spicy groundnut stew for lunch, for Le 3,000.
After the soccer our date ended, and I went back home to sit, skype home, reflect on the meaning of life and generally do little. The book of Oz, My Utmost for His Highest, was particularly good today. Sunday 08 May draws to a close on the porch of our house, as it often does these days.
Ending another day in Freetown on the porch
01 May, 2011
The first of May has been a gloriously slow day. The slowness began when I went to IMATT, the British military establishment on Leicester peak in Freetown. The architect of my day was Katie Christie, my one South African friend in Freetown, who also goes to my home church in Cape Town(!), CHS. Katie has made loads of friends with the British soldier guys at IMATT, so I managed to winkle an invite with her to an English breakfast this morning. Going to IMATT was like leaving Sierra Leone and entering a different country. A country with houses that I think were shipped into Freetown on container ships, complete with "two [Landrovers] in every garage and a chicken in every pot." After the English breakfast, we wandered through the massive bar area where Man-United and Arsenal were fighting it out on a big flat screen, unlucky Man-U, and down to a swimming pool. "The best pool in Sierra Leone." There, we lounged about for a solid few hours with some dack British soldiers and a bunch of Mercy Ship ladies that I had just met the evening before at Katie's baracuda braai. By the time we entered back into real Sierra Leone, I was feeling thoroughly relaxed and exhausted. It felt like a Sunday. What made it feel extra-Sunday like, was ending the day at the International Church, which is a tiny little once a month fling with expats and a couple Sierra Leoneans.
I am feeling absolutely exhausted now for no particular reason. Onwards Monday, onwards.
Running up to this Easter Sunday I had had to make the choice between staying in Freetown, joining the in town Easter happenings, or climbing Mt Bintumani. So, on Sunday morning April 24 I found myself looking over the junglee forests that are on the foot hills of Bintumani. We had climbed the peak on Saturday, and all we had to do on this fine day was to walk down the mountain to our car parked in the nearest village. We were at camp 2 (aptly named), where we had spent the second night. There is a little stream that runs past the camp with luxuriously chilled water. It was a little stream though; no swimming allowed, just splashing. I had walked down it in the twilight after my splash the evening before and found an opening in the trees where there is an awe inspiring view of the forest at a place where the little stream disappears into a sheer drop. And, a nice granite boulder to sit on.
Junglee forest from the granite boulder
This is the place that I ended up on Sunday morning, joined by Caleb, Libby and Tom, breaking some not quite stale but very squashed bread, drinking the left over Jonny Walker that I had brought along in my SAA water bottle. Remembering what a great day Easter Sunday is. Thank you Jesus.
Bread and whiskey on Sunday morning: Myself, Caleb, Libby and Tom
17 April, 2011
Herewith is the first Salone Sunday entry:
I've been working and sweating like a mine worker for the better part of the last 3 months, and having a great time while doing it. Over the last few weekends I have managed to get away and not work, which is awesome, and something that didn't happen for the first month and half that I was here. 2 weeks ago I ran away on a boat to the Turtle Islands. Last night I slept on Tokeh beach. The idyllic tropical beaches feature prominently in relaxation time here. They are beautiful.
Sundowner with Fred and Mikee, Tokeh beach.
So beautiful in fact, that a couple buses worth of local "East Side" Freetown peeps decided to throw a massive party on Tokeh beach last night too, rougly 40 metres from where we were camped out on the sand. These outings to beaches are very popular this time of year, and this one included massive speakers, a makeshift stage/catwalk, a mini-Michael Jackson dancing kid, a comedian, and a fashion show! All set up on the sand and surrounded by makeshift palm-tree leaved houses. My friends and me, being the only white people around, were an instant hit at the party. We got pulled up onto the stage twice, first to dance, and then to join the comedian. The guys here party late, way after we left them at about 01:30am. I think that the party went on till day break, and then everyone just packed into the buses and left without sleeping. When we woke up in the morning the beach was deserted and all to ourselves. The most prominent feature of the rest of the day was being slow and sloth-like on the beach and in the turquoise water. The waves are gentle here (I kind of miss the bigger South African surf), and I'm sure that the water is more salty, so its awesome for lying back and floating in and moving as little as possible. This served the purpose of the day well.
Cheers
