In other news.

My, The Wire is amazing.

Star Trek.

Ok, I know it's just a trailer, and ok, it's by the people who made lost, and ok, playing Kirk as a twenty-second century James Dean is quite clearly a shit idea, but...

My the new Star Trek Film looks rather good. Could Star Trek (gasp) be actually be about to stop being the bland, shit, pretty right wing parody of the original it became in its later years? Possibly.



Mind, that Leonard Nimoy cameo looks wince inducing. How many years has he been trying to escape from that role for now?

Laziness.

I have much to do, many things to be getting on with, I should be a busy beaver. I also currently have a dog lying on my leg so getting up to do these things would cause her to have a major strop, as she is currently sleeping. Daft cow.

Also, I have been very much enjoying this wonderful, wonderful 'Best Of', in particular the (brilliantly transvestite heavy) DVD. (Though where's the video for Love Song For A Vampire!? Nothing like a lady vamp with early nineties curtains to really set things off.) Random fact - Bryan Adams took the photos for the new release.

Also, there's a double whammy of Spiral and The Wire to watch. No work tonight then!




ANyway, here's two of the missing videos.

The London Boys.

At about the age of eight I'm pretty sure this was my favourite song ever.

And I'd completely forgotten about it until today, God bless Youtube.



Reets, I'm off to listen to my sexy new Annie Lennox best of album and do some more dissertationing.

Tacugama and home.

We went back to Freetown by sandtruck. It was full this time, but sadly we were forced to get off at a police check point (there was a recent traffic accident involving white volunteers and I think they were getting paranoid) so the rest of the trip was in a Poda Poda. We were only away for a day in order to go to the chimpanzee sanctuary at Tacugama.

Chimpanzees (Babu, in Krio) are in danger here as the rainforest (must confess, until we went to the sanctuary I had no idea Sierra Leone had rainforests) has been sorely depleted. Not least of all by the American Embassy (largest compound in the country) which we passed on the way. I would never (dare) suggest foul play had taken place but a few weeks before building commenced, the boundaries for protected areas of rainforest shifted dramatically, leading to a large area of ex-rainforest to be cleared which was promptly build upon.

The sanctuary was fascinating, largely because the chimpanzees are fascinating creatures. Part of the Great Ape family they’re one of our closest cousins in species terms. They’re four times stronger than a man, incredibly intelligent for animals, and a dab hand at rock throwing and climbing (I was envious about how casually they could climb and jump from tree to tree). The rock throwing especially was a treat, particularly because it really scared the two Americans with us, but what I really liked (and it actually feels quite wrong to even type this) was the fights. These broke out periodically (the main pen we got to see were nervous about us for ten minutes, watching us closely and throwing the occasional rock, but soon just got on with their day) and were quickly over but were fantastic, even just listening to the angry chimp screaming was a treat. I tried to video a couple of these, however they tended to break out quite unexpectedly so I only ever really caught the tail end.

We saw much of the rest of the sanctuary, including the feeding of some of the older, wilder chimpanzees. At this point a couple of them really took our presence personally, and hurled a large number of rocks through an electric fence, never got us though. The whole thing felt weirdly like Jurassic Park, not least because of how dangerous chimpanzees can actually be. A number of years ago several escaped, and ended up killing several people, they bit the testicles and ripped an arm off one of the men before they killed him. We also went into one of the ricketiest hides I’ve ever seen to try and see some of them in the trees, sadly no joy there.

The sanctuary is small but impressive, and the people there do good work. It seems they were a minor media hit a number of years back when they looked after a very rare, albino chimpanzee who sadly died very young. There were a few tourist / researcher facilities there (I very much liked the research room) but Tacugama is primarily there for the chimps themselves. They only do tours twice a day, at feeding times, for the rest it’s a closed shop to us tourists.

Rather than stay in Freetown (which can be very, unbelievably noisy at night) we retreated back to Lacca to spend what time we had left there. And that was pretty much it, we spent what time we could there, and then Michael came back to Freetown with me and I pretty much made to leave after packing and saying my goodbyes to Aisling, Amy and a few people there. We managed a final lunch at a place called Bliss he had been banging on about, and admittedly it was very good. I even got a takeaway wrap for the airport. We said our good byes and then he returned to Lacca (curse him) and I began my very slow journey home.

I left for the ferry at half seven, arrived at the airport at half eleven and then had to wait until five thirty for my plane to leave. I don’t mind saying at this point I was at the lowest ebb I can remember in a very, very long time. I’ve never felt that bad leaving a holiday before, and I was incredibly morbid for a large part of it. Smoking a solitary cigar over the side of the ferry. Even trying to cheer myself up didn’t help, I never really realised just how utterly depressing most Motown lyrics are before. Even Sugar Pie Honey Bun by the Four Tops left my feeling almost suicidal.

But I slept for pretty much all of my longest flight (Freetown to Casablanca), helped muchly by the fact the plane was almost empty and I had an entire row of seats to lie upon. When I woke I was in better spirits and spent much of the remainder of the journey bored. I got off at Casablanca and immediately noticed how cold it was, now if you’re in Morocco and find it cold, and you’re coming back to Britain, and it’s March, you know bad things are ahead.

I was bored out of my mind at the airport but wide awake. Eventually we boarded, another, thankfully shorter flight and then I was in London. And it was cold, and I had half a day to kill. To make matters better I find Halifax have put a block on my card because I tried to use it abroad, panic is over when I find my credit card will stretch to an Underground pass. I had sent round the usual texts and Gav was free so spent the afternoon with him, drinking Cranberry Juice (which I craved when abroad, and even the western style supermarkets didn’t stock) and eating in one of his locals and then I was off again. 10pm now and a four hour train journey, which I stupidly sleep for most of, and then a taxi home. It’s ridiculously early, and I’m a bit of a mess as I always am after a day and a half of travelling, but I’m back. And that will have to do for now.

Lobster at Lacca.

The beaches Michael was taking me too are up next to Lacca village, not far south of Freetown (the beaches in that area are in amazing condition considering how close they are to a capital city) and so is called Lacca beach.

Now I’ll be up front about this, as a general rule I don’t like beach holidays, partly because I find them dull but also because of who and what they tend to attract. There’s nothing worse than a beautiful beach packed to the gills by speed boating Australians, Americans running full moon parties, or southern British ‘travellers’ getting all mystic on weed and learning to fire-dance; the majority of whom will inevitably be fitted with ill advised dreadlocks (a flat out rule, if you’re white, dreadlocks make you look like a bell end). However, after two weeks in Salone I was rather ready for a bit of beach action, and Michael assured me I would like this beach. He was right too.

We went for a Salonian travel method this time, which was to catch a lift on a sand truck, which is actually pretty cool. The problem came to actually getting onto the thing. Michael was already up before I realised quite what was going on, and I realised these trucks were actually rather large. Now we travelled twice by this method, and this was the first, and I will admit I had a minor hissy fit getting on and off both times, much to the amusement of those on the truck / watching from the street, and I imagine much to Michael’s exasperation. For most of the holiday I have confidence in saying I’ve been pretty good, I had no real problems with the heat (aside from needing afternoon naps for my first few days), I never really got ill or food poisoning (even after drinking well water) I’ve been better with money than usual, I could go on. But those four times I did kind of freak out because I’m not exactly a climber, especially in flip flops, but I managed.

A lot of people found two white guys travelling by sand truck to be hilarious, people were laughing at us in the street, one or two even seemed quite angry, but it was very fun. The way there was not comfortable mind, because the sand trucks going to the beach are of course empty, and the roads are not good roads. We were banged about a bit, rougher even than Michael would be in prison, and I got a few bruises (one at the bottom of my back which still twinges now whenever I sit down) but before we knew it we were there.

We stayed in a guest house next to the village, it was modern enough and had permanent power (well, as near as) because it was fitted with solar panels by some enterprising soul. And Michael was right, the beaches were wonderful. Devoid of everything I usually hate (as mentioned earlier).

We spent most of our time at the main Lacca beach, this being through the week they were very empty (not totally mind, which is a good thing) and a lot of fun. However one day we went to a more popular beach simply called Beach Number Two, which (although the sand was whiter and the waves a touch more extreme) I didn’t think was as good as Lacca. Beach two is more popular with the weekend honkey crowd, mostly UN types, and thus is not only pricier but also not benefiting a town as the Lacca beach is. On Lacca there are a number of small bars (though only a handful) all of which have a selection of sun-loungers and chairs, and all of which are run by guys from the village itself. It’s a perfect little set up, made better because of the food.

The food was truly the highlight of Lacca, don’t get me wrong the food elsewhere was nice enough but it was becoming a touch monotone (there’s not much variation in Kasava, and most of the country seems to survive on four or five dishes, all rice based). The reason for this is that everything you eat in fish terms is caught that day, sometimes right before you eat it, and some of the guys on the beach really know how to cook fish (simply, seems to be the key). We had Red Snapper, Barracuda, Mackerel, one or two others I can’t remember the names of right now (though Michael should be able to bump my memory when he reads this). All were beautiful, almost perfectly cooked, but without a doubt the highlight was the lobster.

The whole experience was brilliant, Junior (waiter and cook, and a very nice man) has a lobster trap on the seabed a short distance out and he sends someone out to fetch a couple. Michael and I then got to pose with our live (and slightly violent) dinner, getting our photos snapped, before they were taken to be cooked (still on the beach on a home made grill). I’m not going to say what it is on something so public as a blog but lets just say the cook gave us a bit of a appetiser, which which consumed on a walk to get our appetites going, when we got back the lobster was ready.

We had a couple of Cuba Libres as we feasted, and frankly it was the nicest food I can remember having in a very long time. And while it was a lot by local standards, considering what we had it was ridiculously cheap by British standards. An absolutely perfect meal.

There are a few VSO types based in Lacca, but we ended spending most of our time with a girl named Emma. Her dad is Salonian (he owns the complex we stayed in), her mother half Irish and half Brazillian, all in all a pretty cool bundle and we got on very well. Her craic (I’m not fond of the Irish spelling, but typing it the Geordie way made that sentence look a little dodgy) is brilliant, in fact reminded me a lot of Kate which made her very good company. She gets, much to my amusement and her disgust I imagine, called Apoto by locals despite very clearly being black. Although Apoto means white man technically (well, Portuguese to be precise) in Krio it is pretty much means westerner instead. Mind, she also gets called white, which seems a bit rubbish considering she grew up in Ireland (and lets face it Ireland has probably never had more than seven black women on its soil at any one time) classed as a black minority, and then comes to her father’s country and is classed in the white minority.

We also met Chris (old English hippy), Simon (young Canadian cynic) and a few others. Perplexingly one night we had a ‘Montage Party’, organised by a Canadian lady. Despite being very much an organised fun sort of event (right, for forty-five minutes we shall have arts and crafts, then for ten minutes the merriment can commence) it was quite good. But everybody took it so seriously, even Michael mysteriously, and being the soul cynical voice can get tedious at times. Still, my comments amused me, if nobody else.

Frankly I think my montage was pure, artistic genius.

That was when we met Emma and most of our other nights were spent drinking on the beach, like our days really, broken only by the occasional swim. Even at night swimming in the sea was wonderful, the only difference is that in the dark there were these little nippy things that occasional got you, but otherwise it was cool. Playing in the stronger waves at beach two was particular good, they weren’t quite in the death waves of Guatemala leagues, but still mint.

That was how pretty much the rest of my holiday went. I can’t really go into much detail about Lacca as it’s pretty much a blur of swimming, sleeping, sunbathing, reading, drinking and eating fine fish. Not to mention travel by sandtruck. Most notably this is where I caught the sun most, I’m a reddish brown right now, though experience has taught me that if I hit that with plenty moisturiser it will turn into a sexy tan for a week or two. Yay!

Trouble in Freetown.

Well, not trouble for us particularly, but it was definitely there.

There are times in Africa where you do the African thing, you travel like the locals in a Poda Poda (literal translation = ‘slow slow’) bus, jammed in five or six to four seats and feel very good about yourself for mingling. But then there’s times when you think fuck it and charter a taxi so you get a seat (or in this case a seat and a half as we had the full back three) to yourself. You can wear seatbelts and everything, and spread your legs, it’s all very luxurious.

We were on our way to Freetown and the coast for our final week or so, but on route Michael got a text from Amy out in Freetown (no signal for a good chunk of the journey, so it was delayed) saying there was a kick off in the centre. More information (which turned out to be totally wrong, due to idiots panicking) that it was engorging into a full on revolt and had already reached the beaches.

The driver and other occupants were totally unconcerned with this and continued on, dropping us off in one of the outer parts of Freetown (Kissy I think, though I may be wrong). Eventually we established it was far smaller scale than we had heard, limited to a couple of streets right in the centre (and for all that it’s no London, Freetown is not a small city) and so didn’t really affect us at all. Nevertheless we got ourselves bikes (for once the better option as the traffic was jammed with people trying to get out of the city, and they could do a bit of weaving) and gave them very firm instructions to get us to Congo Cross and avoid the affected areas entirely. They did a grand job, though it was a bit hair-raising (and more than a little bit fun if I’m honest, I love a bit of risky biking) and we got to Amy’s without a hitch.

The kick-off itself was less a revolt than a street brawl between the two major political parties. I don’t know the full details (will do some digging online shortly, I’d imagine some agency will have mentioned it, buried away in their international section) but the gist is that supporters of the party in power at some point took it upon themselves to raid the opposition’s political headquarters. In response, opposition supporters decided to besiege City Hall. It could almost be comical if it wasn’t for what happened to certain people who got caught in the middle of it. A number of rapes and deaths most notably, and then the police broke out the tear gas and eventually broke it all up (or maybe it was the army, or somebody else, well, someone did).

But we didn’t see a jot. We stayed in Freetown that night (stocking up on rum and cigars at one of the supermarkets first, call it beach preparation) and had a meal on Wilkinson Road with Amy and some of the Freetown volunteers. It was decent enough, and a pleasant enough night, but over quite quickly, and then the next day it was time to hit some beaches.

A boat to Bunce Island.

My final day in Makeni was mostly spent elsewhere. We planned a day trip to Bunce, the countries single UNESCO noted historical site, and as it was away on the coast a number of hours driving was involved. We cosied up to Kieran and had him bring his monster 4 by 4 which made things easier, things were then made more difficult by Michael managing to get us lost (and there aren’t many roads in Sierra Leone, so it’s quite impressive he did) but an enterprising hitch hiker managed to put us right so we eventually arrived.

Bunce Island is not far from the coast (you could probably swim the distance if you really wanted), but obviously a boat is required (especially as that particular strait isn’t the most pleasant) which you have to get from Loko. Before we can do this you need to pay your respects to the chief of the village; in a country that’s ostensibly a democracy, large parts of the power still lie with hereditary tribal chiefs - want a good reason why Sierra Leone’s so fucked? That’s a one right there.

Fortunately he was away so we weren’t forced to be polite to the self important little twat. There was however some kind of gathering in the village centre, and as we drove through a rather large crowd were staring at us. Not that I’d say they were being openly hostile, but sometimes people glare and it isn’t necessarily because they’re about to give you flowers. But it was ok, we weren’t chased by any rabid women (my least favourite of the rabid genders) from a secret society, as apparently happened to poor Saahil.

The fishermen tried to completely rip us off, but luckily we had Michael, who seems to have become truly Salonian in his attitude to money and haggling, and their demand for two hundred thousand Leones was smartly reduced to a far more reasonable forty thousand. And then we were off.

Glance at any of Sierra Leone’s (somewhat limited) promotional literature for tourists and they’ll tell you the island caretaker - who acts as its tour guide - has lived on the island all his life and never leaves. This is a bit of a lie, it used to be true but his family got too large (multiple wives and kids numbering in the double figures is not an uncommon experience here) and he now lives in the village. But he came across with us on the boat, and showed us round.

The island was the centre of the British Slave trade in that area, slaves were brought to the island (bought from the local chiefs, presumably the ancestors of those still in charge), they were kept there and tested to make sure they were fit enough, and then they were sold to traders. Tested is a very innocent word for a sadistic regime which involved starving slaves for a number of days and then seeing if they were fit enough to do horrendous exercise. If they were unable to do this their throats were slit and they were dumped in the sea. There is a graveyard, we saw it. Only high up British officials and collaborators went in there, with some delightfully carved dedications to their good and noble lives. Just lovely.

The site itself is the remainder of the fort, which was extended and remodelled a number of times over the years as the British, Portuguese and French - among others - captured and recaptured it. It’s in ruins now, and mostly overgrown, and is quite inappropriately beautiful; all the more so as it has a slightly desolate and raw feel, a little bit eerie even. The guide showed us around, he only spoke Krio, and did so in such a thick accent I really couldn’t understand a word and Michael was forced to translate. He certainly had passion for it, but to be honest I’d think I would have preferred just to see it myself in my own time as the tour felt more than a little whistlestop, and I didn’t really learn anything I didn’t already know.

We saw it all however, including the ‘guesthouse’, which is a rather grandiose title for the hut where white men with the money could spend several days having purchased a slave lady or two to keep them company. Not to mention the pens they were kept in, in the cellar / dungeon. Nice, eh?

Afterwards we returned to the mainland and took a little detour to see the old railway docks. These are currently guarded as the government hopes to reopen the railway lines at some point (though let’s face it, it isn’t happening any time soon) and they need to stop people plundering what’s there for scrap, but we pretended we were from a company making an inspection and because we were white - and in a four by four - they let us go straight through.

Bit sad, but that’s how things work in Salone, it’s a country with little to no tourism, and so white people are associated with the UN, or America, or with aid agencies, and thus are important. At least that’s why I’m assuming it is, this also sits uncomfortably with the fact that most Salonians you speak to, certainly those with little education, believe that white people are naturally cleverer than black people. This can be understandable, if looked at from the point of view that people could very well want to believe this as it gives a reason for the current state of Salone and much of Africa (when compared to the west) that makes it not anyone in Africa’s fault. People here have access to international media, they see the rest of the world, and they see Asian countries with similar pasts prospering where they aren’t.

There’s surprisingly little belief that occupation is the cause of current problems as it is well remembered that when Britain withdrew from the country there was electricity, running water, railways and many other mod cons now lost on a large scale. Sadly the country has been in a decline since, and then the war destroyed much of the remaining infrastructure and the country is now dependent on aid, unable even to feed itself; sixty percent of its food is imported using AID money, and as any history student will tell you, if you want to maintain stability you need to keep people fed.

The railway docks we visited were the biggest evidence I saw of this decline, they are totally deserted and as they were left. The old buildings and machinery sit around rusting rail tracks that lead to large machinery at the water’s edge. There are even the rusting wrecks of ships lying still in dock, it’s like a nightmare of the English old north as remembered by Margaret Thatcher and her cronies.

The whole experience was actually rather sinister, unlike Bunce which feels right in its deserted state, the docks just felt wrong. It almost felt like standing in a calm before the storm, it wasn’t hard to imagine the hordes appearing from the buildings or over the crest of a hill. One too many late nights on Resi 4 methinks.

Our journey back was faster now we knew the way, though still overly bumpy (roads here are very sketchy in places, as will come as no surprise I imagine) and then we were back and it was my last night so we joined everyone in Ibrahim’s for a goodbye feast of hummus and meat. This isn’t the actual dish, you just get served a plate of hummus with a token attempt at salad (they aren’t big salad eaters, the Salonians) and a plateful of pitta bread. But what you do then is go to one of the roadside meat guys at MP Junction which is just round the corner, and they serve you up a number of skewers of meat, fried with onions and pepper. And it goes together really, really well. There’s nothing compliments a nice vegetarian dish better than meat.

A lazy day of pig and pool.

Mennah still ended up being a pretty ace night, and grottily we made our way back the next morning. The upside of this was it was pork day. Presumably because of the high Muslim population, you don’t get to eat a lot of pig in Salone; local Muslims are big on the not drinking and eating pork, less bothered about modesty of dress (judging by the amount of titties on display in the street in general). However two pigs are killed a week (for all of Makeni) and you can buy it in the morning.

As we descended Michael and Kieran were summoned away; bad news was had, a traffic accident in Freetoiwn led to four VSOs being hospitalised and medi-vacced out of the country. Their taxi was run off the road by a drunk Red Cross worker in a four by four, then as they lay in the wreck they were robbed before anybody actually got them medical help. A really horrible way for things to happen to some very nice people (I met Ben and Chloe when in Freetown). But my presence wasn’t required for this, so I went to collect the pork.

This led to a rather bizarre incident once I had said raw pig, the bike I was riding was chased through the streets of Makeni by dogs, one of whom tried to bite my leg. Thankfully I had my combats on so no skin breaking took place, as had it done so I would have had to leave the country (no medical facility in the country has 24 hour power, meaning that people with animal bites have to be whisked abroad). Gave that little bugger a bit of a kick, if only to make the sod stop gnawing at my trousers.

But I got the pork back, and when Michael returned we cooked it and had a bit of an outdoor lunch and tried not to think about what had happened. It was like the Darling Bugs of May with less white tablecloths and more plastic tableware. And after that an afternoon of cold beers and swimming in the pool at Apex (which was, and there is no other word to describe it, manky. Not a fluid ounce of chlorine in sight).

We also had a couple of nights out at the real local bars (we were the only white people in there, just like I like it). One was a converted shipping container, with room for two barstaff and about six people. The other was a poyo bar. Local drinks range from a bit weak and weird (poyo) to pretty vile (local spirits) to alright but not as good as the stuff at home (Star Beer) - needless to say we had lashings of all three.

Hill.

After our little expedition at Kabala, we decided to spend the night up Mennah hill, this being equator line Africa we didn’t exactly need tents, which was extra ace. The climb was short and to be honest quite easy, even for a wheezing old queen like me, only sharp in a couple of places. But once we were up it felt like we’d scaled a mountain, the views and the feeling of being on top of the world were pretty indescribable (and sadly didn’t come out anywhere as near as impressive when photographed).

We had a bit of a mess about, I joined Michael and Kieran in doing the whole Rambo thing, scaling various rocks and feeling dead wild and that. The experience got even better when Michael fell into a cave like a big, curtain haired girl (mind it was quite good inside so we forced our way through and joined him).

We were just about sensible enough to collect firewood before it got dark (not enough mind, leaving our two army brats to go foraging for more later on, in the dark). It was fun sleeping up there, we had a proper African sunset - all ominous skies and a bloodied orb vanishing into the dusty horizon - and then after a while the stars began to come out. We had them for a few hours before the moon put in an appearance and hogged the light. Night time skies are magnificent in a country with such a sketchy power grid, because night time lighting is feeble at best, less competition so to speak. And the views were wonderful as well, it’s hard to appreciate just how green Makeni is until seen from above, then abruptly you notice it’s a leafy bloody suburbia when compared to pretty much anywhere else in the country.

Throughout the evening we could hear the comforting - and thankfully distant - sound of gunfire. Not Civil War 2: The Makeni Incident breaking out I’m very pleased to say (Makeni was at the heart of the last war, being the RUF headquarters, and hills like Mennah were very much a part of that); instead this was an army training range. My eyesight still being not the best (though much better than that of an elderly mole, which is what it pretty much was before the laser surgery) I couldn’t really see what was going on; however Michael and Kieran assured me the soldiers were standing so close to the targets they were aiming at that to miss would be pretty difficult. Not the most robust of training then, good news for any future rebels I’m sure.

The night went by pretty well, there was an absolutely beautiful breeze (one you don’t get in Makeni itself, presumably being stopped by all that wretched greenery you don’t really notice), the boys (when Michael and ‘K The King’ - as is Kieran’s preferred moniker - are together you tend to instinctively think of them as ‘the boys’) and I were in a fairly good mood and we had fun with the fire. Not as much fun as Kieran, who managed to set his sleeping bag on fire and spent the next couple of minutes squealing like a chimpanzee and flapping it about like Graham Norton on speed. Kieran also provided further amusement when he mistook a pretty tiny ant, carrying a twig, as a scorpion and had an (admittedly quite miniature) hissy fit about that also.

The problems came later on. It was quite difficult to sleep because the ground was very hard (note for next time, need more padding) and sometime in the early hours the wind disappeared. This both raised the temperature and required some last minute deeting up. This didn’t help Michael much mind, his hand was bitten at some point through the night and swelled to truly Rocky Dennis proportions. He was a bit of a Beadle for the next few days.

Back Home.

So I’m back in Britain now, and as I have complained almost incessantly to anybody who will (or has no choice but to) listen, I am bullock shrinking freezing. I got off the place in Morocco and was cold (Morocco!), and if you’re cold in Casablanca and you’re coming back to Blighty you know things can only go downhill. London was bad, but Newcastle was worse. As my Mum cheerfully described it, the wind is like a knife right now... But enough of the now, what of the past?

I have decided to scalp you, and burn your village to the ground.

Little bit of Youtube goodness (just because I have proper internet again, and I can).

First of all Bill Bailey Junior... sorry... "Tim Minchin"... on Evolution.




Secondly a couple of clips from The Addams Family Values, probably my favourite childhood movie (and let's face it, pretty fucking mint still). I could pretty much put the entire movie up here but I'll restrain myself to...

The weirdoes getting revenge on the WASPS.



And Grandma!



This was on Filmfour tonight but I only caught the second half sadly. Wonderful, wonderful film.

Freetown Babu.

Freetown Babu, originally uploaded by Non Blonde John.

Well I'm back, and trying to get used to the cold. I'll finish my updates soon, and get all my photos up (so, so many - and why so many of trees?) but in the meantime I'm giving Flickr a try and may as well spread the goods.

This is a chimpanzee (babu in Creo) at the Tacugama Chimpanzee Sanctuary in Freetown. He looks peaceable enough but he and his mate were quite handy when it came to the rock throwing. Little git.

Kabala.

Back to Makeni again for a couple of days, and then we made our way to another town to visit an Indian VSO volunteer called Saahil. He has lived in Kabala for a couple of months and is the first volunteer there since the war, so far he's based alone but is waiting on more joining him soon.








Kabala is smaller than Makeni, it's cooler and dustier too, a touch more remote. In terms of things to do and see there is admittedly sweet bugger all, however we did have the fun of climbing one of the local hills, and then enjoying the breeze (from the Sahara I'm told). I found the climb quite difficult, but not impossible, at home I would have found it difficult too but the heat did make things worse. I drank three litres of water that morning. There was another climb too, to a higher local hill, which Michael and Saahil seemed quite keen to do, but I had to be a spoilsport there. We were approaching midday, and I had drank all my water, and climbing in the cooler morning had been difficult enough. I did insist I could find my way back on my own easily enough (which was of course a complete lie, but I would have given it a go, and most likely staggered into the first bar I found) but they came back with me.







There were a couple of other new experiences here, the first was a feast of goat (one to add to the meat list) and onions, cooked with a magnificent amount of pepper which was consumed while watching (sigh) Première League football. But then again I will confess to readily agreeing to the football, mainly because there really was nothing else to do (English football is very, very popular here, Arsenal and Man United being the most popular unsurprisingly – everyone I talk to knows where I come from in relation to Newcastle United). We also had a try of Poyo, now this is natural alcohol you tap straight from a tree, and takes some getting used too but I can see the appeal. It doesn't smell bad, just strange, and the taste is pleasant enough when you get used to it, the real challenge is that you need a good eight or nine mugs of the stuff to get drunk, and I do mean mugs.

Bumbuna.

So back to Makeni and the next day we had another, smaller trip in mind. In the afternoon Kieran picked us up again and we were off once more. Well, we were eventually off after we waited to find out who had borrowed his car without asking. But eventually we were away, this time to a place called Bumbuna. We were due to see the waterfall there and also the (apparently now complete) hydroelectric dam which, in theory at least, will be able to provide power for most of the country. In the end we only saw the falls, but they were amazing in themselves. The water was like ice, which in this climate is a true blessing. It was a very short walk to the falls themselves, and then we lounged around the basin and river for an hour or two with the inevitable accompaniment of a load of local kids who had followed our car from the last village we passed.












Michael and Kieran were straight in of course, climbing the dodgy bits and braving the currents before anyone else. Tash and Gearoid stayed out, and I was half and half, enjoying the water but not feeling particularly suicidal and so avoiding the worst bits. So there was some lounging on the rocks, and swimming, and daring the worse bits. One highlight had to be Kieran climbing the side of the waterfall and then being unable to get back down without help. Highly enjoyable.








As can be seen from the pics we also stopped at a nearby village for African Fanta (we both couldn’t find the dam - does it really exist? - and to be honest couldn’t be bothered to look) and got assailed by the local child life. Kids here really love having their photo taken. Except for some of the younger ones who still think you’re going to steal them away (honkeys are a bit of a bogyman for young children, we’re demon seers who abduct kids you know).

Outamba.

After staying in Makeni for a few days plans for a trip were arranged. A vehicle was found and five of us (myself, Michael, Gearoid, Tash and Kieran - who works at Fatima on the mental health project) drove out to the national park at Outamba-Kilimi. This is very out of the way, and the tourist area consists primarily of a number of huts with beds and mosquito nets, a toilet block and an area for fires, clustered together near the river.

It was several hours drive north to get there, during which we passed a number of villages and checks points (I gather travel between provinces is very much frowned upon for most Salonians, the crackers tend just to get waved through however) while listening to a mix of music from the very good to the downright awful, via The Killers who rank very much as hmmmm on the scale of talent. One highlight was the ferry, essentially a wooden construction which carries cars across the river Kilimi, somewhat rickety and swamped by kids whenever Opotos come near. Getting on it is a gamble, and then once your vehicle is on a couple of blokes pull you across using wire rope.






Officially you can see both hippos and elephants at Outamba, however it is very unlikely you will see elephants (only a couple of hundred left in the country) so we didn't do the nature walk, where you sometimes get lucky. Instead we spent a lot of time in the river (blessedly cool, absolutely beautiful in fact) and all got a bit sun burned, and had camp fires and cooked meals. It was a lot of fun, the fun being heightened by the fact that absolutely nobody had brought any form of acoustic guitar. Which is a shame in many ways, because I've often wondered if burning a guitar and basking in the tears of its distraught owner while kicking him repeatedly in the face would be as much fun as I suspect.

Our arrival was tempered by finding we were not alone, almost as soon as we arrived we were greeted not by one of the local wardens, but by what can only be described as a big, gay, fat fuck off American woodsman type. The type with cargo shorts, a 'fanny-pack' and a baseball cap; all garb you could almost forgive him for wearing on holiday if it wasn't evidently clothes he wears every time he leaves his house in Wisconsin. He came from one of the cabin and (in a joking tone, but clearly not actually joking) asked if we had brought the beers.

I'm not sure, but I think my somewhat chilly response may have been the reason he then left us alone and then departed the next day. I do so hope it was.









The highlight of this little trip was of course seeing the hippos. We took two boats downstream, and this was where things get a little complicated. I was in one boat with Michael, Kieran and one warden. Tash and Gearoid were in a second with another warden. One problem was caused by the fact their boat started to fill with water very shortly after leaving the bank, requiring them to make a number of emergency stops to bail it out; this culminated, in what can only be called an episode, on the bank of the river when Tash got stuck in the mud and the two had a fantastic argument about whether she should leave her shoe or not. The other little problem was that the boats needed to be balanced. So in ours Michael and Kieran sat side by side in the centre (as they're both nubile, twinky types) while I sat at the front (because I'm a big fuck off bear with pear hips, like the aforementioned yank but with better fashion sense – and a personality). This meant I had the front oar. I tried, for at least five minutes, but my contribution wasn’t exactly helpful.

Well, I made sure I tipped the warden well.

But the hippos themselves were astonishing, we lurked across the river from them and they kept an eye on us. Dangerous of course, because hippos can hold their breath underwater for five minutes at a time, and so could easily have appeared below us with little to no warning. They're truly magnificent beats however. And a definite highlight to remember. Sadly photos didn't really do them justice.









Not much else to mention from Outamba, we played Scrabble, I came second and the person we were convinced was going lose actually won. There was a lot of campfire cooking, leaving Kieran to pretty much cream himself every time he got to throw on extra logs. And on the way back was passed a crashed and abandoned lorry, seemed to have been there a while too.

Makeni.

So I'm now well into my trip, but in terms of actually blogging about it I'm further behind than Salone is in the Human Development Index. However, as I now have an afternoon's worth of sun to avoid (caused by the lovely pair of red shoulders I’m currently modelling) we may as well jog on.

The next day we caught an early taxi, with some nearby Canadians, to a place where we could get a similarly early taxi to Makeni. Transport in cars and vans here is odd, for a start there is a policy of more people than seats. In a five seater car for example you'll get at least seven people. The driver gets a seat to himself, two others get to go shotgun, and four in the back. Random crevices, boots and roofs can provide space for more people. Now I'm all for going African, but this was too soon, so we paid extra to have a seat each in one of the vans heading Makeni way.







When I arrived I met Tash and Gearoid, Michael's flatmates, and then got the whistlestop tour. I got to see the start of filming for the film on AIDS he is helping to fund / produce (which I brought equipment for from Britain) which is being directed by a somewhat studly local guy called Tyson. We had a wonder around the town, met his football team, saw Magbenteh hospital, and tried to get used to everyone staring at me and shouting. Of course I soon find out from a doctor that the trousers I'm wearing are bad trousers, because they look like army trousers, and wearing said evil trousers can get me arrested. Obviously my preference would be to avoid this, so after a trip to Fatima (beautiful, beautiful air conditioning - horrid, horrid financial corruption) and a spot of lunch (getting quite keen on Kasava, but don’t people here eat anything else) I made damn sure I got changed before witnessing the Epic Match.

This was Michael's team vs. a team sponsored by Flamingos, a local nightclub. It was quite a violent affair, there were a couple of impressive fouls, and victory was eventually attained by Michael’s bunch. He went on in the second half, the country’s love of the Apoto clearly doesn’t extend to football etiquette and Michael found himself as battered as his team. The support was quite full on too, Michael's team (Magbenteh, sponsored by a doctor from the hospital, Bernard, the same man who warned me of my imminent clothing arrest) had been told their supporters weren't allowed to attend because of a minor matter of getting violent. They came anyway, but mostly behaved themselves, though the attention from the young kids (more concentrated when you stand in one place for a while) started to get a bit annoying.










A night out followed, beers with the team (though most were Muslim, so stuck to soft drinks) and then out to Flamingos nightclub, notable for the bad music, lecherous blokes (I approved highly of this) and minging toilets.

Over the next few days I met various people and found my way around. I saw the town centre with it's domineering, unfinished monument, colourful shops and grandiose (not to mention shiny) banks. Had schawarma for lunch (this is my second time, and this time there were no chips) and then a walk around most of the town, taking in the Council and various other sights. I was quite amused to see, when visiting Michael's Council office, that his office appears to have been decorated in the manner of a late-Victorian opium den / brothal.

There's a pretty decent crowd here, unsurprisingly the white people tend to seek each other out, though the UN lot seem a bit distant from the rest. A lot of the talk seems to be around the volunteer work they do, and the staggering around of corruption which seems to pervade it all. One or two seem utterly sick of it all, one or two others seems to have their head firmly wedged in the sand (or to be more accurate wedged in the arses of the wrong people) and everyone else seems caught halfway.