Slogans Galore

A poda-poda or truck in Sierra Leone isn't complete without a slogan painted on front and back. Many are religious, some are public service announcements, others are just plain whack.

Take your pick:

Loose You Face (smile!)
God's Time Is The Best
Manners Make Man
All Eyes On Me
Respect The Elders
Relax, God Is In Control
God Bless Islam
Mother's Blessing
Respect Woman
Respect Police
Nor Vex (Don't be angry)
In God We Trust
God Bless The Owner
To Be A Man Is Not Easy
Back Up

Temne Magic

I went to a sleepy town called Mile 91 (named for its distance from Freetown) for the 15th Anniversary celebration of James' employer, The Future in Our Hands. It featured a lively display of traditional dancing and magic from the Temne tribe.

This is James bustin' a move with a Temne dancer. Check out the smiles all around. They love it.

Mackay: "Impossible! It's too small, he can't fit in there. No way." Guess what happened next.

The woman in blue is a ferocious drummer. The little kid in blue is a huge Giants fan.

Secret societies are big here. A youth society performed ritual dances, featuring this 'devil' who wore Hello Kitty mittens as he twirled.

They Said It Couldn't Be Done

Five other dudes and I went to Sherbro Island for Easter. We rented this poda-poda for the long, bumpy journey and then jumped on a 4-hour boat ride down a beautiful river to reach Bonthe, a curious old town on the island.

From Bonthe we planned to find a beach on the other side of the island for camping. Easier said than done. We asked around and the general consensus was that boats were too expensive for a volunteer budget and hiking there was too difficult. However, one local man said it best: "Oh, there is no path. It will not be possible to reach there...but you are on a mission and you cannot be stopped." So we found a random boy to guide us and set out the next morning.

On the way out of town, we watched this blacksmith make machetes for us (just in case). Very impressive.

During the hike, we trekked across this swamp (James, Jason, and guides Alpha and Crew above) and sank into mud up to our thighs. We passed through lots of tiny villages along the way and stopped briefly to greet the chief of each one. Six white guys with giant packs entering their remote village must have been a sight to see.

After five hours, we reached the promised land: miles of untouched beach stretching as far as the eye could see. The beachfront villagers of Gbalo greeted us with open arms. Most of them didn't speak a word of English or Krio (they speak the island language, Sherbro). Above, our new friends watch as we transform their hut into our camp for the night.

Dinner and I, together at last.

The hike back to Bonthe included a drinking water shortage, an endless march through 100-degree desert, a rattlesnake, a village swim, and a dugout canoe ride along the island coast. We all came back in one piece. Mission accomplished.

Make Some Noise

We saw a rapper named Bu-Berry perform at the soccer field on Saturday night. It was expectedly lame, so my friend Mackay said "Hey, let's get up on stage" as a way to combat boredom. Soon enough, six of us bounded up onto the rickety setup and were greeted by a thunderous roar from a few hundred of our closest Makeni friends. We danced around like fools for one song and then backed away before we completely stole the show from the poor guy. But honestly, Bu-Berry needed us. After our cameo he screamed into the mike, "Make some noise for the white people!!" Oh, what a night.

Believe it or not, a few hours later I was sitting in the second row of the cathedral for Palm Sunday mass. Different crowd from the night before, I think.

In other news, my radio feature about Maine ice fishing aired on the NPR show Weekend America and is featured on the public radio website Hearing Voices. Check it out.

What's My Name?

My friends somehow convinced me to grow this wacky beard-ish thing. Should it stay or should it go?

I am a man of many names here. My African name is Issifu (or my spelling: Izzy-foo), in honor of a little kid with a runny nose I met at the beach. Our friend Yamba recently started calling me Emmanuel Grant "because it sounds good." My last name usually becomes either Fullah (an African tribe) or Fulham (an English soccer team). And Pa Foday, the ancient man who sleeps in a burned-out building near my front door, apparently thinks my name is Mr. Brown. My neighbor once asked him why he calls me that. He slowly lifted his head to look at me and stammered, "Notto you name?" Fair enough, old Pa. Call me as you wish.

I camped on the beach last weekend with four other guys. We slept under palm-branch huts with the crabs until a giant rainstorm soaked us and we went running for shelter at the nearby beach bar. The next day we were supposed to eat giant lobsters that my friend Mohamed had been saving for us, but they were stolen overnight. When we finally left, there were no taxis in sight because of the fuel crisis (a gallon of gas shot up to about $7 over the weekend). With no other option, we walked a couple miles up the road, kicking around half a coconut shell until we found a lone taxi ready to overcharge us.

Then it was on to Freetown for a Filipino karaoke party. It was fairly uneventful until a bunch of Filipino girls started line dancing to a heavily accented rendition of Achy Breaky Heart. Fantastic.

Game Time

Apparently it's Track and Field season. Last week I took a bus full of radio kids to "Sports Day" at a school in Magburaka, 20 minutes from here. Everyone ran in their socks or barefoot on the dirt track, just like in Chariots of Fire. All running events ended with someone passing out at the finish line or before -- guess no one told them to hydrate before the race. My girls ran a 4x100 meter relay as special guests from Radio Maria and they finished a solid second place. The boys were supposed to run, but they were preempted when chaotic victory celebrations on the field after every race forced the organizers to quit early. The above photo is from this week's Sports Day at Saint Francis secondary school for boys, which is next door to my workplace.

Some highlights from Magburaka:

My personal favorite event -- the Tug-of-Peace.

The Disabled 100 meters. The girl in yellow busted out with an amazing victory dance when she was given her award of one Snickers.

These kids are fast.

I helped another VSO with kid control at the Makeni library on Saturday. After coloring and lots of Play-doh fun, we played a fine game of chicken-chicken-monkey. You never see ducks or geese around here anyway. And it's funnier with that name.

The Ex-Combatant Life

Last week's Pikin News topic was street children. We interviewed a 14-year-old boy named Franklin who lives in the town square and is a former rebel soldier. That means he couldn't have been more than 6 years old when he was taken from his family, given an AK-47 and forced to join the Revolutionary United Front. He now sleeps on top of tables in the market and pushes wheelbarrow loads to pay for his school fees. Franklin hasn't seen his family since the war.

Speaking of boy soldiers, you should read A Long Way Gone by Ishmael Beah. Rumors have begun here that a Hollywood film called Child Soldier (based on this book) is in the works and a crew is coming to Makeni next month to begin research. They're rushing to finish building the new hotel in town to accommodate them. So I hear.