With much appreciation to the paramedics, firemen and policemen who put themselves in harms way everyday to keep us safe.

Click below for the full photo essay.

Like being the movie premiere

There is no such thing as privacy in backwoods Africa.  If I needed to change clothes, I had four little kids staring at me from outside my tent.  If I wanted to bathe, I had half dozen people keeping me company even when I signaled it was time for me to dig the sand out of my bottoms which I prefer to remove when taking a bucket shower. If I needed to pee on a road trip, anyone passing on the roadside would not even think about looking away but rather I was expected to wave and make polite small talk while going about my business.  If I wanted to read a book alone?  Forget that. At one point, I counted an audience of thirty people on Nyangai Island watching me read.

I finally had to ask why the fascination as it was just comical to be of such interest.  Magdalene of Nyangai said it was because they found us so beautiful and they weren’t used to seeing anyone from the outside.  Call it third world television.

Momo & friends keeping me company while I attempt to put on underwear

Got a pee? Want company?

John Obey is filled with a supernatural vibe.  There’s an energy in the air, especially at night when the only light is that of cooking fires and candlelight. Faces I’m so familiar with during the day reflect a different light in the darkness- a bit of the occult perhaps. Given their vulnerability and belief in the paranormal, this little village provides the perfect backdrop for a sorcerer, A.K.A. a scam artist, to make a tidy profit.

One day a cell phone went missing from the solar shack where we charge up our electronic gadgets.  The next morning during our post-breakfast meeting, Filippo asked if the guilty party would please return the phone to a bin he placed behind the loos and no questions would be asked.  Sadly, that night, the phone did not make its way home.  The next morning, two of the local village managers suggested they bring in the big guns, the sorcerer!  Well, that got my attention.

After the meeting, Hooman and I sat at the breakfast table talking about the sorcerer.  I asked him what to expect.  According to Hooman (A2H), our resident earth-bag architect, the sorcerer is a powerful man in the area whom people fear.  He charges a whopping Le200,000 (US $50) for his professional services. A2H, the sorcerer would  come to the village and gather everyone in a circle.  He would announce that a phone had been stolen and there would be dire consequences for the guilty party if they did not confess by sunset.  The consequences?  A2H, the sorcerer would walk around the circle locking eyes with each of the villagers and with a booming ominous voice predict, “If the thief does not return the cell phone before sunset (eyes bulging and a pause for dramatic effect) they will be turned into a… a…(long pause building even more drama)….a rat!”  Hooman, went on to act out the trembling thief immediately dropping to his knees, hands together, wailing in a high pitched voice, “Oh god no! Please!  Please! Don’t turn me into a rat!”

Although the sorcerer was paid his Le200,000 he never came.  Who’s the real rat, eh?

photo of a 3' John Obey rat courtesy of the very brave Noah Balmer

Yenken at home

When Tribewanted kicked off its eco-tourism project in the village, Yenken  landed her job with Tribewanted which has changed her life dramatically.  She is now able to provide for her children and built a small home from some of the unused materials at Tribewanted.  She also just received her first ever micro-loan through Salone Microfinance Trust (SMT).  With the Le500,000 (US $125) from SMT, she plans to tarp her house to keep it dry and will use the rest of the money to stockpile palm oil for the rainy season when she hopes to sell it for a higher price.

Oosman, Mohammed, Yenken & Momo

Yenken was eager to show me her new home in the village.  It’s a mud structure framed with sticks and has a tin roof.  There’s no furniture and she sleeps together with her children on blankets stretched across the dirt floor.  To most it wouldn’t seem like much of a house at all, but it’s quite the rarity to find a Sierra Leonean woman who has her own home.

nearing nap time for Mohammed

In honor of International Women’s Day, I have two women’s stories I’d like to share this week. Today is Magdalene’s story.

A few weeks ago I visited some of the outer islands off the coast of Sierra Leone.  Nyangai Island is around 400 x 75 yards large, home to about one hundred fifty inhabitants and few if any speak English.   As our boat approached the shore,one of the first to greet us was twenty three year-old  Magdalene carrying her baby.  I was surprised that she could speak rudimentary English and asked her how she was able to pick it up.

Magdalene with her son (in red) and her brother sitting on the boat

A few years ago she had lived with relatives in the capital city of Freetown where she was able to attend school for four years and then her tuition money ran out.  With all that she had left she went in search of her mother on Nyangai, for me about a five hour speed boat ride, but for her, a twenty-four hour hellacious journey in an overcrowded leaking water taxi.  She told me when she arrived at Nyangai she found her mother and asked for tuition money , but within days her mother left abandoning her and her brothers on the island.  With no money to return to Freetown, Magdalene did the only thing she could do and married for survival.  Three years later, she has a baby and is stranded.  There is no school there for her, much less for any of the children.  She wants to become a nurse but will most likely live out her life on this tiny island.  Imagine the frustration of being stuck out there and knowing what life could be like.

I lay in my tent that night thinking of Magdalene and all of the other women I’d met with similar stories.  What if she were to ask the chief if she could charge people like me to camp on the end of the island, perhaps even offering to cook meals, do laundry, or better yet build a guesthouse that she could manage.  Perhaps she could start a school.  I ran some of these ideas past Magdalene the night before we left and it was obvious she was taking it all in but the thought of asking the chief was incomprehensible to her.  She said it wouldn’t matter because if the chief and her husband did allow it, they’d keep whatever she earned.  Grrrrrrr. The injustice of it all.  Where was her voice?  Where was her spark?  Why was she so complacent?

Imagine a world where all women are treated as equals and not just as chattle. What a beautiful place it will be! It takes an education to embolden and empower a woman.  If she’s treated like an animal, how will she ever believe she can be anything else?  How will she find her voice?

And?

So, I left frustrated, discouraged yet with a spark of my own.  I’m very curious to learn more about microfinance and how to be a voice for women like Magdalene.  I’ll share more tomorrow on Yenken, my friend from John Obey.

Then there is the matter of lunch.  Enough to break me down into a nut case after two weeks.  Everyday of the week it’s the same workman’s lunch waiting for you at the table. It’s a mountain of white rice topped with either groundnut pulverized with fish and hot peppers, or cassava leaves pulverized with fish and hot peppers. Resting atop the mound of rice are chunks of fish – middle bits, tail bits and then the heads.  After one week, enough already.  After two, absolute agony.  After three weeks, my body takes over and I start to twitch.  Bacon!  Cheese!  Maybe I’m a freak, but I need protein and fat.  The food fantasies start coming fast and furious.  I talk about food non-stop and eye the scrawny but delicious looking chickens that wander aimlessly around the village.

Fish, fish, fish, fish, fish, fish. Bring me a chicken!

The day I lost it was about two weeks in when that morning in the storage closet I found a tub of margarine and nearly cried. That’s when I knew I was losing it.  Later, I sat down at the table for lunch and something snapped.  I was ravenous but couldn’t eat.  I sat and stared at the fish and it stared back at me, as if challenging me to eat it.  I stirred it around and reluctantly brought the spoon to my lips.  I smelled its fishiness and saw those eyes looking at me and I just couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t eat it anymore.

Trying not to be rude but aware I was about to lose it, I stood up, swung my legs over the bench and a startled chicken and took off running like some lunatic.  I ran across the camp, down to the beach and pounded my way north until the beach finally ended where I began to scream , flail my arms and kick sand.  There was no one around anyway so it felt pretty good to throw a tantrum.  I scribbled evil thoughts in the sand which was surprisingly quite therapeutic. On the run back, it became apparent that drastic times required drastic measures.

The chickens were going down that night.

My new friend Wendie and I decided there were too many chickens roaming around and we wanted meat.  We asked one of the kitchen staff to go to the village and buy two chickens for us.  I’m such an animal lover but at this point I would have eaten my own dog.  That afternoon, I rooted through our outdoor kitchen like a mad woman and created some sort of curry marinade.  I must say, it’s the first time I’ve made a marinade while what I wanted to marinate was circling my feet.  Tapping my fingers on the counter, I was ready to kill the chickens myself.  Stomping a chicken?  Not very nice.  So, late that afternoon we watched as four villagers chased the chickens, diving on the ground arms outstretched  and hysterically laughing. I didn’t realize a chicken could run so fast and scream so loudly but they do.  Oh, but the smell and taste of grilled chicken, mmmmmmmmm!  Absolute heaven.  Thank you little chickens.

Can you smell the goodness?

There came a rumbling from down the dirt road. The dust was visible from over the trees and whatever it was it was large and moving fast. Suddenly a large truck rounded the corner filled with young men hanging onto the back. The image was eerily reminiscent of some of the war footage of the Revolutionary United Front (RUF) I had seen and it stopped me cold in my tracks. Like most African vehicles, this one sported a customized paint job and the slogan, “The Devil You Know.” I was mesmerized by this truck and its title and instinctively, and perhaps stupidly, raised my camera to take a shot.

RUF or fan club?

Just then, the men began screaming and the truck slammed on its brakes and came to an abrupt stop, kicking up red dust and gravel everywhere. Paralyzed by what was going through my mind, I stood on the side of the road fully aware that the rest of the group froze as well, probably cursing me and my camera. The men jumped off the truck and hurriedly made their way directly toward me. “Oh F#*&!” came out of my mouth as I awaited what I was expecting to be dismemberment. These loud men approached and I was shocked they were yelling “Suzie! Aw di bohdi? Aw yu sleep?” and extending their hands in welcome. I had no clue who these guys were but they knew me and were quite happy to see me. Funny how things turn out sometimes. They even asked for more snaps (photos).

not so scary after all