Magic Mali

From Pristine Pays Dogon…

Our trip to Dogon Country starts in the city of Mopti along the Niger River. The driver is supposed to drop us in Dourou, a village along the Falaise, or the 150 kilometer long escarpment from where we have to take a brief but steep hike down into the valley full of the mysterious villages, myths and rites of the Dogon people. After leaving the main road, we drive for a few hours along a road which is in fact nothing more than a pile of rocks. Luckily, our driver has made this trip numerous times before and has no problem finding the way in his battered, old grey Peugeot sedan.

The history of the Dogon people is based on oral tradition and, therefore, rather muddled, but it is clear enough that they were not the first inhabitants of the valley. Their predecessors were the Tellem, who were hunters, built their houses on the rock on the cliff face, buried their dead in caves high above these houses, and made some of the earliest cloth and wooden objects in sub-Saharan Africa. Nobody knows how they entered their homes; tradition has it that the Tellem were able to fly or use magic powers, but it seems more likely that the wetter climate of the previous millennium allowed vines and creepers to cover the cliff, providing natural ladders.

After lunch, when the scorching midday heat is over, we start our hike, which takes us from Dourou along the plateau to Nombori in the valley. The scenery on the plain is a beautiful combination of red rock, yellow grass and green trees in the afternoon sunlight. The silence is overwhelming and only interrupted by gusts of warm, dry wind which turns our skin into sandpaper.

Once we have made it down into the valley, hopping from rock to rock for about 200 meters, the sun is about to set, and we settle into our ‘campement’ for the night: a rooftop of one of the village houses. Dinner is simple and prepared by the family that owns the house.

After our first night under millions of bright stars and breakfast, we spend the next three days hiking from village to village, setting off early every day and resting at campements between 10am and 3pm, when the heat is unbearable and the only sensible thing to do is take a siesta against the backdrop of the picturesque villages with their Hansel and Gretel-like granaries (storage houses). Nights are always spent on roof tops, under the stars, providing the most spectacular wake-up scenes imaginable. One thing that strikes me is that the male Dogons, who are farmers, are actively taking part in the farm work, a rare phenomenon in Africa. Also interesting to know is that the Dogon people invest in buying cows, which they give to a Peul (a pastoralist tribe also roaming the valley and other parts of Mali) to take care of. The day they need their money, they sell a cow or two, thus providing an alternative banking system, as no physical banks are available in the valley.

After four days in Pays Dogon and a spectacular climb back up to the village of Sangha, the driver is there again to take us

… To Ancient Djenné;

A town that hasn’t changed much since the Middle Ages. Djenné is most famous for its mosque, the largest mud structure in the world, a Word Heritage Site standing more than 18 meters tall. It was originally built in the 13th century and rebuilt several times since, the current structure dating from 1907. Every year, thousands of people volunteer to resurface the mosque with mud before the start of the wet season preventing the building to collapse under the heavy African rains. The view of the mosque is even more spectacular on Mondays, when thousands of street stalls make up the most colourful market one can imagine. We spend a few days roaming around the pretty town, which unfortunately has suffered from a sad mistake made by development workers a few decades ago: the Djennenké used the nearby river to bathe in, do laundry, clean kitchenware etc until foreign aid provided money to install numerous water pumps, pipes and taps throughout the town, requiring trenches to get rid of the waste water. Channels get clogged with a black, slimy substance which smells horrendous and poses a serious health hazard. Luckily we are here in the dry season, and are staying at a cute and comfortable hotel on the outskirts of town serving delicious three-course meals made of home-grown vegetables and home-made jams in the candle-lit courtyard.

And along the Niger River…

There are several ways to reach Timbuktu, the remote Sahara desert town once famous for its position in trans-Saharan trade of especially salt and gold. We decide to travel with the locals by river on the COMANAV, a diesel ferry; a journey which takes us about two days and two nights. At this time of year, the level of the Niger river is already quite low and the ferry not too crowded. The bottom level and the space underneath is taken up completely by cargo: fruits and vegetables, Chinese and traditional medicine, smelly meat, a car, animal skins and anything once could possible want to sell along the way(clearly, water melon season is at its prime). The middle deck contains first, second and third class cabins, and the top deck an open space where fourth-class passengers stay, a bar cum restaurant (including DJ with humongous PA system) and luxury cabins. Our first class cabin is basic but comfortable enough with a basin, fan and bunk beds. Toilets and showers are at the far end of the deck, and way cleaner than most other facilities I have seen in Africa (or on European trains for example).

The journey is relaxing, with plenty of excitement once you reach a larger village where the ship docks. The DJ starts playing LOUD music (Céline Dion of course being very popular), and everybody frantically offloads their merchandise. An in promptu market immediately develops at about 10 meters from the shore, and lasts for about 45 minutes, after which the ship horn blows, a sign for the traders to pick up their wares and get back onto the boat to continue the journey. Whether day or middle of the night, the scene repeats itself around six times. The rest of the time is spent on deck, reading a book while passing small fishing villages and entertaining the kids on board, who can’t get enough of the pictures of their own country in the Mali travel guides we carry with us, and eating our simple meals of meat and couscous or rice (and the most revolting Nescafé ‘coffee’ ever: with ginger and lemon) in the noisy bar.

…To AQIM in Timbuktu

We reach Timbuktu before schedule, a first in Africa, and, this being Timbuktu after all, a place with a magic sound and history to it, settle in the best hotel in town, a boutique style place with beautifully decorated rooms and a roof terrace overlooking town. Timbuktu isn’t much more than an outgrown village at best, with only two paved roads, many donkey carts and mopeds, and a few four wheel drive cars with turbaned Tuaregs changing the streets into clouds of dust. Timbuktu enjoyed its golden years from the late 15th to the late 16th century, and its decline since is more than apparent. But somehow we come to like the place, discover explorers’ houses (some of whom made it home after reaching Timbuktu, others who didn’t), visit the tiny Catholic church (its caretaker interestingly enough being a Muslim), watch ancient Arabic manuscripts in a small library, are invited to a Tuareg wedding ceremony, observe the Friday prayer at the mud mosque, and enjoy a camel trip into the Sahara desert, where we visit a Tuareg settlement. We drink traditionally prepared tea, have our meal under the stars, and ask tons of questions about these fascinating people, who live at night and find their destinations guided by the stars, all of which they know by heart.

On Friday afternoon, our journey comes to an abrupt end, when we hear about a kidnapping of four tourists and the murder of one of them on the outskirts of town, near Flamme de la Paix, in the exact spot we had lunch just two days before. The Malian president has ordered for and planned an evacuation of all tourists from Timbuktu (only 22 it turns out later) the next day. After consultation with the Dutch embassy and the police, we decide to leave our hotel and spend the night at the police station rooftop with most of the other tourists, where we have easy access to information and feel we are safest. The entire operation is impressive and well-organised. The hotel gives us mattresses and sandwiches to get us through the night, police and army guard the police station and provide a heavily armed convoy to the airport the next day, and the president sends a plane to come get us. Then again, this journey did not end too well for those directly affected. We learn from embassy representatives who pick us up from the Bamako airport that it was indeed Al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb (AQIM) that was responsible for the attack, probably trained and supplied with weapons in Libya by Khadaffi. The three people (a South African, a Swede and a Dutchman) have not been heard of since.

Journey across Continents

As the plane makes its way above this green and wet country, I realize how much Bangladesh resembles Holland. Thousands of neatly arranged fields of different sizes, roads built on dikes to prevent them from flooding, trees planted along them. It doesn’t really matter that the green of the fields is that of rice instead of grass. Hills, too, are scarce, and can only be found in the north- and southeast.

 

A month of field visits and work at the head office passed so quickly; a time of impressions of a country rarely visited by tourists, and facing many challenges, not in the least the burden of a huge, 150 million population, 10 million of which live in the capital alone. The government has certainly taken impressive measures: to address pollution, vehicles in Dhaka are not allowed to use petrol, and move on gas instead (unfortunately, the low gas price has encouraged many to buy cars, contributing to the traffic jams which are beyond anything I have ever seen anywhere in the world). Plastic bags are banned.

 

Despite the struggle for space (every square inch of the country has a purpose), I can’t help but come to the conclusion that although many people live in dire poverty, this country isn’t as badly of as Sierra Leone or Liberia. Infrastructure (roads, electricity, water) are in place, even in small villages, and thanks to local production of almost every imaginable product, a dollar stretches far, and buys much more than in West Africa, where most products are imported.

 

Bangladeshis are incredibly hospitable, as I experienced especially during the second half of my stay. Colleagues, friends, co-workers’ families: they all invited me to their homes and places of interest, offering me more tasty food than one can eat in a week, their lovely company, their time. The importance of family is apparent, and I think this may have to do with Muslim culture, which does not particularly encourage interaction between people from opposite sexes unless they are family. This is apparent on the street, where much is going on and everybody is involved in some or other activity, but most of the people present are men. Women are scarce out there, and remain indoors most of the time, although I do believe that they are much valued and respected. Maybe due to the lack of gender balance, I miss a certain vibe, energy, passion perhaps, that you can feel in the streets in Africa.

 

I still find myself pondering about this as we descend into Dubai, its dry, expansive flat desert emerging below. For a couple of days, I fight the intolerable, 45 centigrade heat and enjoy the clean, pothole-free streets, functioning traffic lights and public transport, zebra-crossing minding drivers, supermarkets filled with products I can only dream of in West Africa, Arab history and the extreme luxury and bling probably only present in the UAE. I absorb it all: the old narrow streets in historic Bur Dubai and Deira along the Creek, with their textile, gold and spice souqs (with hundreds of lovely scents I can smell til this day), the beautiful Jumeirah Mosque, and the tallest building in the world right next to the globe’s largest shopping mall. It is all there, but, apart from the old part of town, the place is without character.

 

On my way ‘back to base’ I get stuck in Nairobi for two days. It is winter, and the country is largely brown and dry, a crisp, cold air blowing through the capital’s streets. I forgot, but am quickly reminded again, of Kenya’s level of development and East African hospitality. Unfortunately, my Swahili only comes back slowly. The highlight of my stay is undoubtedly the fresh passion fruit juice served at breakfast, of which I down three glasses.

 

And now it’s ‘back to normal’… I realize this when the tropical rain forest appears below me, the humid, sticky air surrounds me as I disembark the plane, and the scary water taxi takes me across the wild Atlantic to the Freetown peninsula. ‘Home’ at last…

 

Of Tea Gardens and Stick Dances

Sylhet Division in northeastern Bangladesh has the perfect climate for growing tea, as the British discovered around 1850. No need to train local people and develop their skills; just “import” laborers from other parts of your empire, say somewhere in current India, dump them on an estate and let them sweat for you. In this way, you at least prevent your workforce from running away, as they are Hindus and dependent on the caste system and can never intermarry with the local Muslims. You also ensure sufficient work for BRAC, because you pay peanuts (about half a dollar for a day’s hard work) to your workers plus give some basic housing and healthcare, so people don’t have enough money to send their children to school, and free education for the poorest of Bangladesh’s people is necessary.

 

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It was interesting visiting some of these ‘tea garden’ one-room schools last week. They are hidden in between small village houses and small, colorful Hindu temples, in perhaps the greenest part of the country (although it is really hard to distinguish between green – greener – greenest in a place which is, well, considerably GREEN). Compared to other BRAC schools, the kids’ clothes are dirtier, their bodies skinnier, their enthusiasm probably even greater, and their curiosity more explicit. You are welcomed with ethnic songs about work in the tea garden and the typical Indian ‘dance with the sticks’, performed perfectly by pupils who can’t be over 8 years old, and then asked a million questions. You definitely can’t leave without shaking every kid’s hand.

 

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Meanwhile, the parents continue their hard work. Luckily, their children have taught them how to write their names, and prepare oral rehydration salts when they are sick. The tea leaves they pick are processed in one of the amazingly efficient (and incredibly humid) factories, and turned into many ‘cuppas’, either in Bangladesh itself or abroad, or into the absolutely undrinkable, but pretty decorative 7-layer tea the region is known for.

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The Bangladeshis Who Stare at Pushpo Didi*

Whereas the Lonely Planet sucks as far as maps are concerned (excuse my French), its information about THE STARING GAME is pretty accurate as I discovered during my first days in flood-prone Bangladesh.

Fridays here are like Sundays in most other countries; a perfect opportunity to go out and explore. Never mind it’s only the upperclass part of town I have decided to go. It is where I am based (in one of BRAC’s training centers) and it won’t hurt to find my bearings. But only two blocks from ‘home’, I’m afraid I have already lost them… And the staring started even before that!

There are virtually no women on the street. Imagine a white woman walking by, fighting with her umbrella, and scarf/dupatta to cover certain body shapes. On a Friday morning, in the rain, sightseeing or something like that (without having had breakfast, because she has misread the weekend breakfast times on the canteen door). Honestly, who can blame those men? At this time of the day, I can buy cars, the latest models of Nokia phones and extremely beautiful local clothing, from plain and simple cotton to silver embroidered silk, but finding a place to sit down and have something to eat seems more challenging. Finally, Mr Baker shows up. I discover later that it’s a local bakery chain with many outlets, serving fresh sandwiches, pastries, and chocolates, a whole shop full of them, and hot coffee (REAL coffee). That’s all I need to refuel and continue sightseeing in Gulshan. For your information: there isn’t actually anything worth seeing.

The next couple of meals (with the right timing!) are full of anticipation. From my side, because I am curious to see how long the 50 or so pairs of eyes will keep staring before the kids actually open their mouths and say something, and from their side for exactly the same reason. As I discover later, they are all just too shy (including the adults) to address The Foreigner. But God! / Allah!, once that actually happens, there is no stopping them any time soon!

What is your country? What is your name? What is your father’s name? What is your mother’s name? How many brothers and sisters do you have? What is your brother’s name? What does your brother do? Are you married? How old are you? What is your qualification? When did you come to BD? How long will you stay in BD? What do you think about the political situation in BD? What is your favourite food? What do people eat in your country? What is the difference between Holland and The Netherlands? Why do you use a fork and knife? Do you like cricket? Do you like football? Can I be your friend? How old are you? Do you like BD? What do you think about the traffic situation in Dhaka? Will you visit BD again? What is your religion? What is your room number? How much is your salary? What is your phone number? Can I take your picture?

Especially the last question, or rather the scene afterwards, cracks me up, as about ten 17-year-old kids are all lined up taking my picture. Who is the tourist (well, visitor at least) here?! I am even asked to solve the problems in their ‘love lives’: “I have a girlfriend and she wants to marry me, but I don’t want to marry her. What should I do?”

These poor college kids were selected by BRAC to attend a special training to develop their English and computer skills, so they are practicing as much as they can. Even amongst themselves they try to speak English. Meanwhile, I throw in the three sentences of Bangla I know here and there, and manage to get what I need from the little corner shop (though, admittedly, ‘chocolate’, ‘Coca Cola’ and ‘Pringles’ are pretty universal words so that one’s easy). Anyways. I’m loving this place so far. It is very likely that four weeks from now, I may be utterly annoyed by being asked the same questions over and over again. However, the people are amazingly friendly and that’s probably not going to change any time soon.

—-

* Bangla name given to Floor by her dear BD colleagues in West Africa, meaning something along the line of ‘flower’ for ‘pushpo’, and ‘didi’ meaning ‘sister’

Them Bells Sure Ain’t Ringing in Freetown

Bells should have started ringing after the week kicked off extremely productively. They REALLY SHOULD HAVE, but they didn’t. Probably because this is still Africa, and the only thing you can count on is that nothing goes according to plan. Especially when it comes to 1) depending on people; and 2) looking for any type of service. And of course, often these two are interlinked.

Things started going downhill on Wednesday, when The Passport Saga was exactly one week old. Seven days before, my passport and some money had been sent off to the Bangladesh High Commission in Nairobi (for lack of a facility closer to’home’), where they miraculously arrived last Monday (via the scenic route: Sierra Leone – Senegal – South Africa – Kenya) and a visa was issued promptly. Getting the document back though, is not so simple. Despite having paid the exorbitant amount of over 360 dollars (US) to the – globally known but in Africa now seriously despised – parcel company with the red and yellow logo.

“I sent an e-mail to Nairobi the day after you told me the package was ready. They responded that they were busy. I sent them another e-mail this morning [Friday] and now I am waiting for a response. That’s the procedure.”

- “I think you are going to call them now.”

“I have to wait for their response. That’s the procedure.”

- “You are going to call them NOW.”

The call is placed.

“Oh, you did not get the e-mail? But you ANSWERED the e-mail. Your response is in my mailbox.”

Some talk on the other side.

“But I have the e-mail here. I will send it again, with your reply.”

“Oh, so you were busy. Well, can you send someone to the High Commission now, to pick up the package? It’s urgent. Thank you.”

I warn her: It’s Friday afternoon in East Africa, when Muslims go for prayers, and probably don’t return to office after. I guess 99% of the HC staff is Muslim. She just gives me a blank stare. A few hours later, the lady calls back. “The courier went to the HC, but did not find anyone there. They were probably out for lunch.” Or for prayers???
To be continued on Monday.

 

Saturday morning. My friend Jen shows malaria symptoms so we go to get her tested. The lack of professionalism at the lab is appalling and will not be detailed here. The good news, though, is that it isn’t malaria. The next question is: where to find an ear-nose-throat doctor in Freetown on Saturday? The answer we have four hours later: NOWHERE. Not in Emergency Hospital. Not in Choitram Hospital. Not in Bathhurst Clinic. Not in Connaught Hospital. In fact, we don’t necessarily need that ENT guy, just any doctor (this country has around 200 doctors for a population of over 6 million) who has that very-basic-instrument-with-the-little-light-with-which-you-can-look-into-ears. Right. Instruments are a rarity here. We end up downtown (taking 40 minutes to cover 3 kilometers) finding the ENT clinic, which is closed on weekends, but we do get the doc’s number and he gives an emergency phone consultation and a promise to sort everything out first thing Monday morning.

 

That’s what you can get in terms of medical care. And we are lucky here, because we have an air-conditioned car and money. It’s pretty depressing, although I do admit I’m not referring to poverty (I came to terms with that a long time ago), but to the lack of necessary services and especially the people’s mindset. Total apathy is never going to move this country (admittedly: continent, with a few exceptions) ahead.

 

And then of course there are the other, small things, that contribute to my current desire to throw in the towel once again (although I never really get to doing it): the generator’s near-explosion followed by darkness, the office driver who doesn’t speak English, is illiterate and doesn’t really know town that well, the guy saying “I love you, you are wonderful, I want to marry you” the second you meet him (randomly on the street), running water which is still not exactly running, the armed robberies (“armed” meaning: knives, machetes and broken bottles) which are on the increase because of the rainy season (two SL colleagues got robbed last week), the cleaning lady who is not coming to work because she had an ‘accident’ (i.e.: her husband attacked her with a knife), and harvest time at the farm, which means eating a lot of bitter gourd, an ‘aquired taste’ which I haven’t managed too well…

 

Today I also realized it’s been 4.5 continuous years (FOUR AND A HALF YEARS) in Africa, and seven years in total. I figure that at some point the damage the continent does to a Westener must become irreversible. God knows how close to that point I am… For now, it’s all about The Passport. The Passport is my ticket out of this place for about a month. I’m looking forward to finally visiting Bangladesh. And enjoying a little luxury in Dubai on the way back. Sweet :-)

 

Perfect Weekend in Freetown

Saturday after work. A short but deep nap. A brief taxi ride to Lumley beach. BRAC Microfinance staff is playing BRAC Programs in a football match. Many Sierra Leoneans had similar ideas to spend the afternoon; at the extreme end of the beach, no less than five different groups are trying to score goals. Three local beach bums are recruited as goal keepers and referee. Itxe2x80x99s a beautiful afternoon. The place has a resort feel to it, but without tourists (and neglecting the derelict buildings under the palm trees). The ocean breeze only cools the contestants down a little bit, as the play intensifies when the minutes are ticking away. The final score isnxe2x80x99t exactly clear, but it doesnxe2x80x99t matter. There are softdrinks and shoarma when the game is over. Afterwards, as the sun is setting over the Atlantic, a lazy half hour beach stroll,followed by some drinks at the best beach bar in Lumley make for a pretty perfect Saturday afternoon and evening.

 

No lie-in on Sunday this week; the alarm goes off at the usual time. Sturdy shoes, plenty of water and some chop chop are packed, and then itxe2x80x99s off to the chimpanzee sanctuary in Regent, a quaint little place in the hills just outside Freetown. After the taxi drops us, itxe2x80x99s only one kilometer uphill. According to the sign post. Itxe2x80x99s definitely more than that, and the final 150 meters are so steep and the humidity so intolerable that we reach the sanctuary completely drenched. The chimps, who have all been rescued from Sierra Leonean families who kept them as pets after their mothers had been killed for bush meat, are eagerly awaiting us. Or rather: their lunch. And when they are disturbed, they throw stones at you. Clearly the rehabilitation process hasnxe2x80x99t been finalized yet.

 

Supposedly itxe2x80x99s only a 20 minute walk along the main road to the village of Charlotte. In reality, after descending back to the main road, we walk along the unpaved and extremely dusty xe2x80x98short-cutxe2x80x99 into Freetown and the midday heat for about an hour, followed by another 20 minutes or so through the village itself. Itxe2x80x99s tiny, and picturesque and tranquil with its Krio houses. The nearby water fall is a perfect lunch spot, even though, at the end of the dry season, xe2x80x98fallxe2x80x99 is a bit of an exaggeration for the trickle coming down the rocks. Itxe2x80x99s very peaceful and quiet though. We have our bread, sardines, coke (here they are again!) and Pringles, hang out, chat to some other expats who have fled the craziness of Freetown, take some pictures. There are even a few drops of rain, although no serious downpoor to indicate the rainy season has started. When we head back after a couple of hours, we look likexe2x80xa6 Well, we look like people who have sweated and hung out in the dust for the greater part of the day. Transport is scarce, but luckily some people from one of the big mining companies take pity on us and the sorry state wexe2x80x99re in, and give us a ride back to town in their comfortably air-conditioned Landcruiser.

 

Nothing can spoil this amazing weekend. Not even the water, which has stopped running. Againxe2x80xa6

 

The Same Journey, Vice-Versa

Of course I made it back to Freetown, about a week ago. The first eleven hours of the drive were almost zen, spent mostly listening to music. Therexe2x80x99s something about Orffxe2x80x99s Carmina Burana while crossing the remote south-east corner of the country…

 

Obviously, also this time, there are many stops along the way, especially on the Liberian side, with extremely explicit requests for small-small, notably from the heavy-set immigration commander wearing sunglasses in his pitch dark office about halfway to the border: xe2x80x9cI no wanxe2x80x99 see yo documenxe2x80x99. Today Friday. I wanxe2x80x99 ma weekenxe2x80x99,xe2x80x9d meanwhile holding out his opened hand to me, waiting for some money from the xe2x80x98whixe2x80x99 womaxe2x80x99. Who clearly has no intention of giving anything to support the two or three girlfriends the man undoubtedly keeps apart from his wife, and leaves the office with her documents in hand and all her nasty-looking American and Liberian dollar bills in her wallet.

 

Once across the border, there arenxe2x80x99t exactly any decent lunch spots along the way (neither are there on the Liberian side), so Fulah bread (similar to small baguettes) and tinned sardines are washed down with ever available Coca Cola at the shelter of the first police checkpoint in Sierra Leone.

 

After that, all goes well until it gets dark, when, luckily, we are back on paved roads. The final three hours of the journey are basically a struggle for survival against people and cattle crossing the road, broken down vehicles (not marked with triangles but tree branches, the amount and size of which grow the larger the car or truck concerned, sometimes meaning that half the forest has been hauled onto the road), moving vehicles without lights, or oncoming traffic with bright lights, completely blinding the driver, who, considering the challenging circumstances, does an amazing job. No matter how impossibly dangerous the traffic itself, the road is marked with an impressive amount of traffic signs, mileage indicators and road reflectors, something entirely unknown in the neighbouring Land of Liberty. Salone is way ahead.

 

Salone is also preparing for 50 years of Independence on April 27. Freetown is getting more and more festive, its streets adorned with thousands and thousand of little green, white and blue triangular flags, people wearing jewelery in the same colors, different printing companies competing to design the fanciest t-shirt, and hawkers selling badges, stickers and can openers in the national colors. This yearxe2x80x99s Independence celebrations are going to be BIG. I hope I will have an opportunity to take part in them. Chances are great, though, that I will be in Liberia againxe2x80xa6

 

Freetown xe2x80x93 Monrovia by Road

The couple of times I traveled between Monrovia and Freetown, it was always by plane. Listening to stories from colleagues, however, made me really want to go by road, even if only once. Last Thursday was the day.  

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Itxe2x80x99s just me and the driver. To avoid traffic and arrive before dark, we leave Freetown around 6AM. The road to Bo (the second largest city) is perfect, un-potholed tarmac. The sunrise over the palm plantations in the east and the mysterious fog slowly dissolving in the west are quite spectacular. We pass through numerous tiny villages where people are going about their business at the usual slow pace. The sun and humidity simply donxe2x80x99t allow for a fast lifestyle.

After Bo the road starts to get worse. Itxe2x80x99s nothing compared to some of the roads in northern Liberia during the rainy season, but nevertheless itxe2x80x99s pretty bad. At some points itxe2x80x99s hardly more than a track leading through some tiny villages. Knowing that this is the road to the border just blows my mind. Along the way we come across some secret society stuff we are not supposed to witness and the driver is quick to dismiss it when I purposely decide to ask him about it anyway. Some Bundo initiation dance, including brightly colored headdresses, and a number of straw puppets along the road indicating a bush school nearby. Secret societies are the one aspect of West African culture hardly any outsider will get to know much about. All I know is that the women societies are very powerful; they still practice female genital mutilation (circumcision) as one of the rituals involved in the transition from girl to womanhood, and according to the latest health survey, almost 96% of Sierra Leonen women have experienced it. The methods applied are outdated, the custom repulsive and often deadly. But who am I to judge?

 

Ixe2x80x99m determined to make it across the border without paying any bribes. Itxe2x80x99s another custom I donxe2x80x99t want any part in. But first we have to cross the Moa River. On a ferry. Although the word xe2x80x98ferryxe2x80x99 is a little bit of an exaggeration to describe the couple of planks we drive onto and are then hauled across the waterxe2x80xa6

  

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Leaving Sierra Leone and entering Liberia isnxe2x80x99t exactly a straightforward process. The Immigration point at Zimmi where I have to get my OUT stamp is two hours away from the actual border. We then get through a police checkpoint and are checked at the border police station. Then on to another Immigration where a certain Kevin explains that I have a problem because I have overstayed my SL visa. Itxe2x80x99s nonsense as I have a residence permit, but hexe2x80x99s clearly after some small-small. I give him a business card instead. Then itxe2x80x99s on to Port Health to have my Yellow Fever certificate checked. Then on to the check point to cross the Mano River Bridge. On the other side, through Liberian pre-Immigration, Immigration, past the Commander, Port Health once again, some other vague office where I am told xe2x80x98Go, go!xe2x80x99 by an overweight somebody, then on to luggage check (they decide to leave my bags unopened when I tell them they contain dirty laundry as there is no water to wash clothes in Sierra Leone), and the police check point. On the road to Monrovia another two check points where some officials are trying to make some extra money. After one and a half years in the country, I finally get to drink palm wine, and realize I havenxe2x80x99t missed much as itxe2x80x99s pretty disgusting. And then, when we almost reach the capital, the rush hour traffic jam in Douala and Vai Town. I arrive around 6. It has taken exactly twelve hours to get here. It was a wonderful and exhausting experience. And it has to be repeated in the opposite direction in about two weeks timexe2x80xa6

 

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Room with a View

Itxe2x80x99s been four weeks since I arrived in Sierra Leone on an exhausting overnight journey. Leaving the terminal building at Lungi can be awkward for the first time visitor. Whereas youxe2x80x99d find taxis at most other airports around the world, you have to choose between water taxi, hovercraft, helicopter, scary small boats or the road to reach Freetown, which is situated on a peninsula. Luckily I have been here before, take the water taxi and am picked up on the other side by the driver. At five in the morning I finally put my head down.

 

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Ixe2x80x99m still unsure whether I like xe2x80x98myxe2x80x99 new house or not. I think I do. My spacious room is on the second floor and has a balcony overlooking part of Freetown, palm trees, the Atlantic Ocean and kilometers of white and unspoilt beaches on the mainland. But the water supply is problematic; we are using jerrycans most of the time, which isnxe2x80x99t a problem until even those run out and we canxe2x80x99t flush the toilets. Itxe2x80x99s pretty disgusting.

 

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I think I have settled in pretty well. I met most of my colleagues last year already, and had some idea about the layout of the city, which is pretty hilly. We live close to public transport. I have joined the UN gym around the corner. Spending time on a treadmill on 15% incline seems rather futile though, because on the way back home I have to conquer a 45% hill… However, the airconditioning is heaven, and the exercise is a good way to clear my brain. Thursday nights are for quiz night at the Irish Pub. Teams of around six members each are competing for a weekend away in a beach resort, but unfortunately the BRAC team hasnxe2x80x99t been very successful so farxe2x80xa6

 

Work is fine and busy. It isnxe2x80x99t always possible to concentrate, because the heat and humidty are overwhelming and a productivity killer, but Ixe2x80x99m trying small-small. I still donxe2x80x99t speak a word of Krio, the coastal language similar to Liberian English, but much more unintelligible. I sweat and sweat and sweat and I can smell the thousands of people with the same problem who have sat in the same taxi before. Going shopping downtown is exhausting but rewarding. You can have cappuccino and incredible food and then spend between one and four dollar (max) on clothes and shoes. Itxe2x80x99s a bit tricky because you have to screen the items on sale, watch your purse, avoid bumping into people and stepping into nastiness and try not to get hit by the cars all at the same time, but it is worth it. And when I get home, whether there is water or not, nothing beats the ocean view. 

Sweet Salone 2011

Sierra Leone, here I come! Het heeft xe2x80x98evenxe2x80x99 geduurd voordat duidelijk was of ik nog terug zou gaan naar West Afrika, maar dat is dus gelukkig wel het geval. Gister de defintieve afspraken gemaakt, en ineens vertrek ik morgen al weer naar tropischer oorden voor nog een jaartje communicatie en projectvoorstellen schrijven voor BRAC in Sierra Leone en Liberia. Deze keer met xe2x80x98Sweet Salonexe2x80x99 en daarmee alle absurde hectiek van het verkeer in Freetown als basis. Bekende omgeving en gezichten, wat in sommige opzichten handig is, maar in andere misschien ook juist niet, de tijd zal het leren. En weer terug naar twee keer per dag rijst, even slikken…. Nu nog snel te laatste spullen pakken. En de rest zien we verder daar wel weer…