See the big one here.
Hello
- John Conway
- To steal something from a better writer than myself, I'm a drunk homosexual with low moral fibre.
Showing posts with label africa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label africa. Show all posts
Saturday, 4 April 2009
Travel Map.
Not quite sure why I bothered with this, even updated it makes me feel like I've hardly been anywhere. Which I suppose is technically correct but still...
See the big one here.
See the big one here.
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
My holiday is over.
Well, I think we can finally say my Africa mourning should come to an end, it has been a week. There’s a smattering of my better photos across the blog and should you really be interested in my scribblings I’ve got links to all the posts below. I’ve also included the videos I took of course (Chimp Smash!), and the bulk of my photos are now on Facebook (and I’ve included links to all eight frigging albums below). The experience always fades depressingly quickly, it’s irritatingly easy to get mired back into general life. Work’s not been too bad, though sleeping has been weirdly difficult. I think I’m now reacclimatised however.
This has probably been the favourite holiday I’ve taken, everything just seemed to work for once. It’s also a snook in the eye (is that a real phrase or have I imagined it?) for people who proclaim themselves to be ‘off the beaten track’ types. I noticed before I went that a number of such people questioned why I was going, which seems odd. But I suppose it isn’t that odd, because what such people tend to want is places well supplied for the backpacking tourist; well run ruins/temples, plenty of guesthouses/hotels, eateries that sell local and western food, and a population used to dealing with tourists who only speak English. We all do really, whatever we say. All of this is available here of course, though not in huge amounts, and it’s quite easy to avoid (but more importantly easy to find when needed - this was a holiday after all).
Most people I spoke to didn’t understand why I would want to go to Sierra Leone for that matter (main reason being that it’s A: Africa and B: where Michael is), not helped by the fact that many just seemed to take their immediate prejudices of parts of Africa with recent conflicts and apply them with little actual knowledge. Some such prejudices are of course true, but not all, or indeed that many to be perfectly honest. In a lot of ways people are happy, their problems are mostly long term and which doesn’t really affect day to day lives or their reception of foreigners at this point in time. The most dangerous thing I encountered was hippos and a lack of seatbelts.
The country’s problems are hardly over, Michael thinks there may well be another war at some point, and I agree. Not that it matters if I agree or not because frankly he knew more about it than pretty much any other of the volunteers I met when out there, as evidenced by his excellent Krio which pretty much pissed on most other westerner’s attempts.
Lots and lots of photos.
The stuff what I wrote.
First few days in Freetown.
Being an introduction to this glorious epic.
Makeni.
Being an overly football focused account of the one time rebel lair of fair Sierra Leone.
Outamba.
Being an astonishing tale of hippos and scrabble.
Bambuna.
Being a nail-biting account of a swim in dangerous waters.
Kabala.
Being an expedition to the dusty outback and its fine sellers of goat meat.
Hill.
Being an account of a most perilous climb and much scaling of rocks.
A lazy day of pig and pool.
Being a break in the journey and a thrilling chase by rabid hounds.
A trip to Bunce Island.
Being a sombre story of slavery and industrial decline.
Trouble in Freetown.
Being a terrifying account of gunfire and rioting in fair Sierra Leone's capital.
Lobster at Lacca.
Being a nihilistic time on the sand, featuring the consumption of many fish.
Tacugama and home.
Being a comic yet melancholy tale of chimpanzees and our hero's return.
Video clip goodness.
These should be uploaded, but frankly they aren't. Tomorrow. Maybe.
This has probably been the favourite holiday I’ve taken, everything just seemed to work for once. It’s also a snook in the eye (is that a real phrase or have I imagined it?) for people who proclaim themselves to be ‘off the beaten track’ types. I noticed before I went that a number of such people questioned why I was going, which seems odd. But I suppose it isn’t that odd, because what such people tend to want is places well supplied for the backpacking tourist; well run ruins/temples, plenty of guesthouses/hotels, eateries that sell local and western food, and a population used to dealing with tourists who only speak English. We all do really, whatever we say. All of this is available here of course, though not in huge amounts, and it’s quite easy to avoid (but more importantly easy to find when needed - this was a holiday after all).
Most people I spoke to didn’t understand why I would want to go to Sierra Leone for that matter (main reason being that it’s A: Africa and B: where Michael is), not helped by the fact that many just seemed to take their immediate prejudices of parts of Africa with recent conflicts and apply them with little actual knowledge. Some such prejudices are of course true, but not all, or indeed that many to be perfectly honest. In a lot of ways people are happy, their problems are mostly long term and which doesn’t really affect day to day lives or their reception of foreigners at this point in time. The most dangerous thing I encountered was hippos and a lack of seatbelts.
The country’s problems are hardly over, Michael thinks there may well be another war at some point, and I agree. Not that it matters if I agree or not because frankly he knew more about it than pretty much any other of the volunteers I met when out there, as evidenced by his excellent Krio which pretty much pissed on most other westerner’s attempts.
Lots and lots of photos.
The first of many.
The second batch.
Lot three.
The quartet (or, in DVD language, The Quadrology).
Fifth lot (and we're still not done...)
Group six.
Septimus.
Eight and done!
The stuff what I wrote.
First few days in Freetown.
Being an introduction to this glorious epic.
Makeni.
Being an overly football focused account of the one time rebel lair of fair Sierra Leone.
Outamba.
Being an astonishing tale of hippos and scrabble.
Bambuna.
Being a nail-biting account of a swim in dangerous waters.
Kabala.
Being an expedition to the dusty outback and its fine sellers of goat meat.
Hill.
Being an account of a most perilous climb and much scaling of rocks.
A lazy day of pig and pool.
Being a break in the journey and a thrilling chase by rabid hounds.
A trip to Bunce Island.
Being a sombre story of slavery and industrial decline.
Trouble in Freetown.
Being a terrifying account of gunfire and rioting in fair Sierra Leone's capital.
Lobster at Lacca.
Being a nihilistic time on the sand, featuring the consumption of many fish.
Tacugama and home.
Being a comic yet melancholy tale of chimpanzees and our hero's return.
Video clip goodness.
These should be uploaded, but frankly they aren't. Tomorrow. Maybe.
Wednesday, 25 March 2009
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, 13 March 2009
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).
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).
Friday, 6 March 2009
First few days in Freetown.
Hard to know where to start really, I'm in Makeni right now preparing to go on a Hippo expedition but should probably do this chronologically before I begin to forget.
Getting Here.
It would have been a crime to fly from London without doing something, so an afternoon of semi-organised fun was on the cards. It was very pleasant, lunch with Graeme, Gav, Tan, JP & Nicky, then a jaunt around the Darwin exhibition (good fun, especially the protestors outside - and The Natural History Museum is magnificent), followed by some wine & cheese place, and finally getting lathered at a random house party in Clapham. I like Tan's Soho flat, don't think I've ever seen in a place that more screamed Opera Queen.
The next day was the long one, with all the usual tedium of travelling anywhere by plane on the cheap. Hours in Heathrow, a short flight, a couple of hours in Barcelona followed by a very long flight. Eventually arrived in Lungi (after nearly getting off at the wrong airport - being completely unaware the plane was stopping somewhere else first - I still have no idea where) and suddenly it was five in the morning, and I was very tired, and I had an airport to navigate through. Luckily the airport is a similar size to Wylam Post Office so this wasn’t overly long. At the other side of Customs I was met by a slightly greasy looking Michael.
Ferry.
We stayed at Lungi overnight, devoid of sheets but thankfully with a fan, grabbed a few hours sleep and then made a dash for the early ferry. We booked a car following breakfast (very curry like breakfast, nice but strange, will take a little getting used to). This was something like nine in the morning, our driver was drinking Guinness from a can. And I am reliably informed the Guinness here is strong...
We were in plenty of time for the ferry though, and sat on the top deck, watching it fill. It was absolutely rammed, though most people stayed downstairs thankfully. There were a load of kids doing a school run, mostly uniformed, the girls notably forced into green dresses and bonnets. Not to mention a significant number of folk carrying fish to sell.
First look.
Once across the bay (so large it would take half a day to drive around, hence the need for a ferry) we made a dash for Michael'a house (well, Michael's friend Aisling's house) and hired a car. Our driver, clearly a very clever man, decided that avoiding the main road was best and took us through the smaller streets. This proved to be doubly wise when he broke down, and we had the entertaining spectacle of watching him steal wire from a house's fence to try and repair his suspension, while arguing with the drivers of cars now trapped behind him and nearly getting his head kicked in by said furious drivers.
We had the option of inspecting some of the many posters plastered all over the place, mainly religious, often Christian. The Christian's here aren't really interested in the meeker, kinder side of the New Testament, as is perfectly demonstrated by some of the more grandiose titles they give Jesus. There's also some weird ass graffiti in places. However by far the most common posters seem to be for this creep here, who as I type has finished his three day mission to exploit the people of one of the poorest countries on earth with his sinister, TV evangelicalism. But hell, who am I to argue with a man with such a talent for healing the sick.
Beaches.
So we eventually made it to Aisling's, she has a lovely house (I'd say little but it's actually rather large) in a shared compound. It has electricity and water some of the time, a number of rooms and a pretty kick ass balcony for smokes and drinks. We had a bit of a rest and freshen up, and then Michael took me to the beaches.
Lumley beach sits right by Freetown, and it's absolutely lovely, not to mention amazingly clean and quiet (astonishingly so - while Freetown isn’t on par with the likes of Cairo, it’s not exactly small either). We tried a few bars and watched a brilliant method of fishing involving a big net, a very long piece of rope, and a crowd of about twenty people at either end dragging it the shore. We had a look at the catch before we went for dinner, very impressive. The afternoon proved to be a short one, I met some more of Michael's friends, the names of which have mostly escaped me, and we had drinks (deciding not to try the bar which apparently refuses to serve white people) and then dinner. Now I'm not kidding you about this, dinner nearly killed me. I ordered Pepper Chicken, it sounded nice, I was warned it was hot, I liked the sound of that. It arrived, I liked the look of it, so of course I dived in.
I managed about a quarter, and that nearly did me in. In the process of which I got recurring hiccups so fast I barely had time to breath, and I drank a two litre bottle of water in the space of quarter of an hour. Michael tried it after me, and didn't fare much better. Unlike any spicy food I've had before, it got steadily worse the more I ate. Absolutely magnificent, in a Great White Shark kind of a way.
Freetown Proper.
The next day I got to catch up on some sleep and then we had a wander around Freetown’s centre. On our mission in we changed cash with a street vendor, saw the famous Cotton Tree (where slaves were originally sold, then later freed), had a look around the almost empty tourist markets (not many tourists you see, I felt quite bad only to be looking and not buying). The slums were interesting, they're self policing and rather large, but seemed safe enough.
That's one of the most noticeable things, this place feels so safe (more so once you're out in the countryside) and people absolutely love you here, kids especially. Some want money, some want to talk to you, some want their pictures taken (for example the lady in the picture below), some just want to stare half caught between terror and fascination. There's some odd assumptions about white people, the one that we're all rich is probably true from their context, others are bizarre (white people have larger brains, explaining the very contrasting states of Africa and Europe/America - one to keep the bigots happy that).
We also visited Freetown's main hospital, and Michael's friend who is a nurse there. He spends most of his life working there, out of a class of thirty he is the only nurse who stayed on in the hospital itself, most others seemingly going elsewhere where they can make better money (a large number of whom have gone to Iraq).
I'm running out of time so must dash. Got loads more to say but it can wait, have a few more photos instead.
Getting Here.
It would have been a crime to fly from London without doing something, so an afternoon of semi-organised fun was on the cards. It was very pleasant, lunch with Graeme, Gav, Tan, JP & Nicky, then a jaunt around the Darwin exhibition (good fun, especially the protestors outside - and The Natural History Museum is magnificent), followed by some wine & cheese place, and finally getting lathered at a random house party in Clapham. I like Tan's Soho flat, don't think I've ever seen in a place that more screamed Opera Queen.
The next day was the long one, with all the usual tedium of travelling anywhere by plane on the cheap. Hours in Heathrow, a short flight, a couple of hours in Barcelona followed by a very long flight. Eventually arrived in Lungi (after nearly getting off at the wrong airport - being completely unaware the plane was stopping somewhere else first - I still have no idea where) and suddenly it was five in the morning, and I was very tired, and I had an airport to navigate through. Luckily the airport is a similar size to Wylam Post Office so this wasn’t overly long. At the other side of Customs I was met by a slightly greasy looking Michael.
Ferry.
We stayed at Lungi overnight, devoid of sheets but thankfully with a fan, grabbed a few hours sleep and then made a dash for the early ferry. We booked a car following breakfast (very curry like breakfast, nice but strange, will take a little getting used to). This was something like nine in the morning, our driver was drinking Guinness from a can. And I am reliably informed the Guinness here is strong...
We were in plenty of time for the ferry though, and sat on the top deck, watching it fill. It was absolutely rammed, though most people stayed downstairs thankfully. There were a load of kids doing a school run, mostly uniformed, the girls notably forced into green dresses and bonnets. Not to mention a significant number of folk carrying fish to sell.
First look.
Once across the bay (so large it would take half a day to drive around, hence the need for a ferry) we made a dash for Michael'a house (well, Michael's friend Aisling's house) and hired a car. Our driver, clearly a very clever man, decided that avoiding the main road was best and took us through the smaller streets. This proved to be doubly wise when he broke down, and we had the entertaining spectacle of watching him steal wire from a house's fence to try and repair his suspension, while arguing with the drivers of cars now trapped behind him and nearly getting his head kicked in by said furious drivers.
We had the option of inspecting some of the many posters plastered all over the place, mainly religious, often Christian. The Christian's here aren't really interested in the meeker, kinder side of the New Testament, as is perfectly demonstrated by some of the more grandiose titles they give Jesus. There's also some weird ass graffiti in places. However by far the most common posters seem to be for this creep here, who as I type has finished his three day mission to exploit the people of one of the poorest countries on earth with his sinister, TV evangelicalism. But hell, who am I to argue with a man with such a talent for healing the sick.
Beaches.
So we eventually made it to Aisling's, she has a lovely house (I'd say little but it's actually rather large) in a shared compound. It has electricity and water some of the time, a number of rooms and a pretty kick ass balcony for smokes and drinks. We had a bit of a rest and freshen up, and then Michael took me to the beaches.
Lumley beach sits right by Freetown, and it's absolutely lovely, not to mention amazingly clean and quiet (astonishingly so - while Freetown isn’t on par with the likes of Cairo, it’s not exactly small either). We tried a few bars and watched a brilliant method of fishing involving a big net, a very long piece of rope, and a crowd of about twenty people at either end dragging it the shore. We had a look at the catch before we went for dinner, very impressive. The afternoon proved to be a short one, I met some more of Michael's friends, the names of which have mostly escaped me, and we had drinks (deciding not to try the bar which apparently refuses to serve white people) and then dinner. Now I'm not kidding you about this, dinner nearly killed me. I ordered Pepper Chicken, it sounded nice, I was warned it was hot, I liked the sound of that. It arrived, I liked the look of it, so of course I dived in.
I managed about a quarter, and that nearly did me in. In the process of which I got recurring hiccups so fast I barely had time to breath, and I drank a two litre bottle of water in the space of quarter of an hour. Michael tried it after me, and didn't fare much better. Unlike any spicy food I've had before, it got steadily worse the more I ate. Absolutely magnificent, in a Great White Shark kind of a way.
Freetown Proper.
The next day I got to catch up on some sleep and then we had a wander around Freetown’s centre. On our mission in we changed cash with a street vendor, saw the famous Cotton Tree (where slaves were originally sold, then later freed), had a look around the almost empty tourist markets (not many tourists you see, I felt quite bad only to be looking and not buying). The slums were interesting, they're self policing and rather large, but seemed safe enough.
That's one of the most noticeable things, this place feels so safe (more so once you're out in the countryside) and people absolutely love you here, kids especially. Some want money, some want to talk to you, some want their pictures taken (for example the lady in the picture below), some just want to stare half caught between terror and fascination. There's some odd assumptions about white people, the one that we're all rich is probably true from their context, others are bizarre (white people have larger brains, explaining the very contrasting states of Africa and Europe/America - one to keep the bigots happy that).
We also visited Freetown's main hospital, and Michael's friend who is a nurse there. He spends most of his life working there, out of a class of thirty he is the only nurse who stayed on in the hospital itself, most others seemingly going elsewhere where they can make better money (a large number of whom have gone to Iraq).
I'm running out of time so must dash. Got loads more to say but it can wait, have a few more photos instead.
Thursday, 29 January 2009
My week summarised.
I have many things to say. A bullet pointed dash through is the way forward. It's the future.
-Holiday.
Africa is booked. 1st - 23rd March. Aha! Ahahahaha!!! Cannit wait. Really can't. Mustn't get too excited though, more to the point I mustn't go mad in the shops and spend loads of money on Africa gear so I end up looking like Indiana Jone's retarded brother. (Then again I already did that at New Year.)
-Bendy.
Back to earth (or Newcastle) though, I did Yoga on Monday, either I'm very out of practice or the teacher was really bad (probably both to be honest) but the next day I was so stiff I found it hard to move my arms. Funny, I don't remember it being like that before. The presence of several cuties shall ensure my return however, that and the fact it's free.
Oh dear.
Dave's plundering of the BBC comedy archives continues by them commissioning a new two part Red Dwarf special, and if that's not a terrible enough idea (does no-one remember the Allo Allo reunion for God's sake?) it's accompanied by the even more perplexing Red Dwarf: Unplugged. It's over, let it die with some dignity, don't turn it into Only Fools & Horses please!
-Superpop.
Guess what, B*Witched played at Powerhouse the other night. B*frigging*Witched. And I found out too late to go. Gutted doesn't even cover it. There was something quite spectacular about the particular combination of nineties pop and Irish jigs.
David Attenborough, gent that he is, has been receiving death threats from Christians because he doesn't mention God in his programs. His response, a spot on explanation of just why they're so woefully wrong.
They always mean beautiful things like hummingbirds. I always reply by saying that I think of a little child in east Africa with a worm burrowing through his eyeball. The worm cannot live in any other way, except by burrowing through eyeballs. I find that hard to reconcile with the notion of a divine and benevolent creator...
Daft Bint.
Michelle Hanson's column (borderline dreadful at the best of times) particularly irritated me this week. Just read it, and wonder what it is about a game like Brain Training (essentially a mini-game collection designed, admittedly on spurious evidence, to keep your mind active) that so offends this most luddite of scribblers. Her sneering condescension at Nintendo might be a little better if she didn't mention watching Casualty, 'why not play a musical instrument?' you daft titwitch.
Wesley Crusher.
I just joined twitter (see to the right), you can follow people's twitters. Aside from the obvious (Stephen Fry and Neil Gaiman straight off) I found Will Wheaton on there, that's right, Weill Wheaton. Go on, I dare you to try and find someone lower on the celebrity chain.
-Holiday.
Africa is booked. 1st - 23rd March. Aha! Ahahahaha!!! Cannit wait. Really can't. Mustn't get too excited though, more to the point I mustn't go mad in the shops and spend loads of money on Africa gear so I end up looking like Indiana Jone's retarded brother. (Then again I already did that at New Year.)
-Bendy.
Back to earth (or Newcastle) though, I did Yoga on Monday, either I'm very out of practice or the teacher was really bad (probably both to be honest) but the next day I was so stiff I found it hard to move my arms. Funny, I don't remember it being like that before. The presence of several cuties shall ensure my return however, that and the fact it's free.
Oh dear.
Dave's plundering of the BBC comedy archives continues by them commissioning a new two part Red Dwarf special, and if that's not a terrible enough idea (does no-one remember the Allo Allo reunion for God's sake?) it's accompanied by the even more perplexing Red Dwarf: Unplugged. It's over, let it die with some dignity, don't turn it into Only Fools & Horses please!
-Superpop.
Guess what, B*Witched played at Powerhouse the other night. B*frigging*Witched. And I found out too late to go. Gutted doesn't even cover it. There was something quite spectacular about the particular combination of nineties pop and Irish jigs.
David Attenborough, gent that he is, has been receiving death threats from Christians because he doesn't mention God in his programs. His response, a spot on explanation of just why they're so woefully wrong.
They always mean beautiful things like hummingbirds. I always reply by saying that I think of a little child in east Africa with a worm burrowing through his eyeball. The worm cannot live in any other way, except by burrowing through eyeballs. I find that hard to reconcile with the notion of a divine and benevolent creator...
Daft Bint.
Michelle Hanson's column (borderline dreadful at the best of times) particularly irritated me this week. Just read it, and wonder what it is about a game like Brain Training (essentially a mini-game collection designed, admittedly on spurious evidence, to keep your mind active) that so offends this most luddite of scribblers. Her sneering condescension at Nintendo might be a little better if she didn't mention watching Casualty, 'why not play a musical instrument?' you daft titwitch.
Wesley Crusher.
I just joined twitter (see to the right), you can follow people's twitters. Aside from the obvious (Stephen Fry and Neil Gaiman straight off) I found Will Wheaton on there, that's right, Weill Wheaton. Go on, I dare you to try and find someone lower on the celebrity chain.
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