In Sierra Leone, you spend a lot of time hearing about things that could have been or the way things should be. People are obviously frustrated with the government, with donors, with anyone they can make responsible for the problems they face. Nowhere is this more obvious than discussions about the airport. Freetown is on the Western Peninsula of Sierra Leone - overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Lungi- the only international airport- is located across the water. It's probably only ten miles as the crow flies, but by road it would take over 4 hours - more if you consider the condition of the roads. The result is that visitors to Salone have lasting memories of their first and last moments in the country. Your options are: helicopter (Soviet-run, crashed several years ago), hovercraft (sank a few years ago, but rumoured to be returning soon), water taxi, or ferry (slow, and also crashed several times). A big problem with these options is that during the rainy season, none are particularly pleasant, and all are notoriously unreliable. Oh, and all the flights arrive after dark and depart between 9pm and 2am, but there are only one or two hotels by the airport. Needless to say, the topic of airport transfer comes up frequently in conversations with ex-pats and locals. The ferries were supposed to be replace to run more efficiently. Instead, there is a new ferry service that runs just for the flights at $30 (compared to $1) - I don't know anyone who has taken it. One man we spoke with proposed a dual level service: run the $30-40 ferry for the expats, mining industry, and anyone who can afford it. Make it nice, but most importantly, make it run on time. Then use that income to subsidize the standard ferry service- the one the locals rely on to get to and from the market. Using the money from the 'luxury' service, you can keep the prices low but improve the quality and reliability Probably my favorite proposal is the promise to build a bridge from Freetown to Lungi. This has been under discussion since the airport was built and nobody really expects any progress.
This same attitude extends to nearly everything wrong with the country. The roads were supposed to be fixed by a Ghanaian company or the Chinese government, who contracted to a Senegalese company. There is a dam- Bumbuna- which is supposed to be providing power to much of the country In spite of the rains, power has not improved, and each outage is met by sighs of "but what of Bumbuna." Decades ago, prior to the war, Club Med had proposed building a resort on Lumley Beach. It would have brought several international hotels, and attracted a tourist industry. It never came, and now Sierra Leone is trying to rebuild tourism that was never there.
This extends, unfortunately, to human rights work as well. There is no law explicitly outlawing FGM, but it "should" be covered under the Child Rights Act of 2007. The government has never attempted to prosecute under the relevant section. Years were spent training a new juvenile court magistrate to adhere to international standards, but she has not been given a court because the old magistrate won't retire. The structures that are meant to be in place are not effective, but their failures are defended by talking about what should happen. But the promises of progressive realization seem to be stalled and the excuses are neverending. At what point do those excuses start to sound false? When do we accept that certain methods are not working? And will the time come that donors say, "enough is enough," and stop sending aid altogether? I don't know how to fix these problems, but nearly every Sierra Leonean has at least a few suggestions and it is clear that the government's solutions are not working. Maybe it is time to try something new and see what could be.
21 July 2010
16 July 2010
Pass Go and Collect $200
Remember Monopoly? Every time you passed Go, you got $200 automatically. It was pretty cool, since you didn't have to do anythig or think about anything, beyond just going around the board normally and staying out of jail. Moving around Freetown is kind of like reverse Monopoly -- you know that going through certain places (Congo Cross, Lumley Roundabout) you will get stopped by the police and they will (attempt to) collect money without doing anything. Most recently, I had my bike stopped and was told the driver would be arrested, even though his papers were all in order and he had a helmet (which, honestly, is an anomaly in Freetown). Since I refuse to pay a bribe, unless it is necessary for my safety, I politely asked the officer why the driver was being arrested, since everything seemed to be fine. He repeated a few random facts, then told me to get off the bike. I explained that my driver was very safe and it was getting dark and I wouldn't be able to get another bike at Congo Cross at rush hour. Couldn't he please help me? Then he informed me that if I wanted to just pay the driver's fine (for a still unknown offense), he would be happy to handle the paperwork on his own. Right. Luckily a female police officer came over and after a moment she let us go without money changing hands.
Corruption is simply a way of life here in Sierra Leone. It's a reality for everyone, although foreigners are obviously an easy target and many travelers will just pay rather than deal with the hassle. At dinner recently we shared stories and strategies from our experience. Some of us just play dumb and persistent, hoping the officer will lose interest. Those who work with UN agencies will flash their badges. One man programmed his phone with his friend's number under the name of the head of the Anti-Corruption Commission. When anyone gives him trouble, he challenges the person, explains that it is corruption, and offers to let the officer speak to Mr. Tejan-Cole about the sitution.
It isn't just police stops, although they are the most visible reminder of corruption. Getting passports renewed, getting appropriate letters, or anything that requires something from someone in power opens the door to corruption. Every detail of running a business, from registration to permits to imports and exports, all involves money lost to bribes. For someone like me, an intern here for a short-stay and without a private vehicle, it's possible (though perhaps inconvenient) to avoid paying. But for anyone who lives here long-term, it becomes an inevitability. As of 2006, the World Bank ranked Sierra Leone the eighth most difficult place to do business in the world. Transparency International placed the country in their fifth tier of countries perceived as "most corrupt." The effects of this are obvious: money is diverted away from development and humanitarian purposes. Medicines and food will go to waste in warehouses, waiting for someone to pay for them to be sent. Business and investment flows away from countries that desperately need it. The effectiveness of the government is undermined, as is public trust of the government. One aid worker I spoke to last year told me that they assume only one-third to one-half of aid will reach its intended target, and she believed that was a generous estimate. Anti-corruption is the new watchword, but the world has yet to develop an effective formula for eradication.
Any approach will need to address the root causes of corruption, which at the heart boils down to poverty and pervasiveness. No matter how much international training you give to public officials, judges, police officers, and more, they will remain susceptible to bribes until they receive a liveable wage. And until the population is convinced that bribery is not normal and acceptable, neither the supply or demand will dry up. When we drove to the beach several weeks ago, we came upon a makeshift traffic stop -- four or five young boys had tied a rope across the road and as we slowed, they held out their hands clamouring for money. The driver gave them a few coins-- probably around Le 500 total (around $0.13)-- and they celebrated and allowed us through. It was entertaining and relatively harmless, but it also speaks to what these children grow up with - whereas I played with toy cash registers, they replicate road blocks. It all becomes a cycle that continues to enhance poverty, and eventually results in aid being cut off (see, e.g., Haiti). I don't have a solution, but at least I'm doing a small part by refusing to engage in the practice.
In other news, speaking of transportation challenges, we are enjoying quite a bit of rain these days and I'm told the rains have officially begun. It isn't the seven days straight I was promised, but the rains are often significant and we haven't had a full day without rain in a while. After grumbling a little, we put on our boots and rain jackets, pay the extra to charter a taxi, and go about our days. On Wednesday night, we had gone to a friend's house and, perhaps lulled by the sunny, muggy day, didn't bring rain jackets. So of course it began a torrential downpour as we were leaving and we found ourselves standing on the side of the road as the water rose over our feet. We simply embraced the water and abandoned the useless umbrellas, but we also had a difficult time finding a taxi to take us - our friend was convinced it was because all the drivers thought we were crazy.
Corruption is simply a way of life here in Sierra Leone. It's a reality for everyone, although foreigners are obviously an easy target and many travelers will just pay rather than deal with the hassle. At dinner recently we shared stories and strategies from our experience. Some of us just play dumb and persistent, hoping the officer will lose interest. Those who work with UN agencies will flash their badges. One man programmed his phone with his friend's number under the name of the head of the Anti-Corruption Commission. When anyone gives him trouble, he challenges the person, explains that it is corruption, and offers to let the officer speak to Mr. Tejan-Cole about the sitution.
It isn't just police stops, although they are the most visible reminder of corruption. Getting passports renewed, getting appropriate letters, or anything that requires something from someone in power opens the door to corruption. Every detail of running a business, from registration to permits to imports and exports, all involves money lost to bribes. For someone like me, an intern here for a short-stay and without a private vehicle, it's possible (though perhaps inconvenient) to avoid paying. But for anyone who lives here long-term, it becomes an inevitability. As of 2006, the World Bank ranked Sierra Leone the eighth most difficult place to do business in the world. Transparency International placed the country in their fifth tier of countries perceived as "most corrupt." The effects of this are obvious: money is diverted away from development and humanitarian purposes. Medicines and food will go to waste in warehouses, waiting for someone to pay for them to be sent. Business and investment flows away from countries that desperately need it. The effectiveness of the government is undermined, as is public trust of the government. One aid worker I spoke to last year told me that they assume only one-third to one-half of aid will reach its intended target, and she believed that was a generous estimate. Anti-corruption is the new watchword, but the world has yet to develop an effective formula for eradication.
Any approach will need to address the root causes of corruption, which at the heart boils down to poverty and pervasiveness. No matter how much international training you give to public officials, judges, police officers, and more, they will remain susceptible to bribes until they receive a liveable wage. And until the population is convinced that bribery is not normal and acceptable, neither the supply or demand will dry up. When we drove to the beach several weeks ago, we came upon a makeshift traffic stop -- four or five young boys had tied a rope across the road and as we slowed, they held out their hands clamouring for money. The driver gave them a few coins-- probably around Le 500 total (around $0.13)-- and they celebrated and allowed us through. It was entertaining and relatively harmless, but it also speaks to what these children grow up with - whereas I played with toy cash registers, they replicate road blocks. It all becomes a cycle that continues to enhance poverty, and eventually results in aid being cut off (see, e.g., Haiti). I don't have a solution, but at least I'm doing a small part by refusing to engage in the practice.
In other news, speaking of transportation challenges, we are enjoying quite a bit of rain these days and I'm told the rains have officially begun. It isn't the seven days straight I was promised, but the rains are often significant and we haven't had a full day without rain in a while. After grumbling a little, we put on our boots and rain jackets, pay the extra to charter a taxi, and go about our days. On Wednesday night, we had gone to a friend's house and, perhaps lulled by the sunny, muggy day, didn't bring rain jackets. So of course it began a torrential downpour as we were leaving and we found ourselves standing on the side of the road as the water rose over our feet. We simply embraced the water and abandoned the useless umbrellas, but we also had a difficult time finding a taxi to take us - our friend was convinced it was because all the drivers thought we were crazy.
12 July 2010
Africa and the Nightly News
Last night, a month after it started, the first African World Cup ended in Johannesburg. I know I promised no more World Cup postings, but it serves only as a point of reference. This World Cup was meant to be a celebration of Africa. Even if their players could not advance, the focus would remain on South Africa, highlighting a forgotten continent. From the beginning, there were concerns about what that image would look like. For many people, Africa remains an unknown, painted only with the news stories of wars, poverty, crime, and disease. While these stories reflect the sober reality of the continent, they do a disservice by portraying Africa as one, homogeneous and static. In the coming months and years, football fans will remember this World Cup for the sights and sounds. The vuvuzelas and expansive South African sunsets. The penalties and the upsets and the questionable officiating decisions. Hopefully, they will remember South Africa more fondly than before, and seeing the good, they will travel more. They will begin to realize that it is not all tragedy, and it is not all dangerous, and it is not all the same.
Unfortunately, these will not be the only legacies for Africa. One month ago, on the eve of the games, Nelson Mandela’s great-granddaughter was killed by a car accident. This is not a uniquely African tragedy, but it cast a shadow on the opening match. Last night, during the closing match, two bombs went off in Uganda. The news of the bombs struck me deeply, having spent last summer in Kampala. One of the blasts was in Kabalagala – the busy neighborhood between our office and my friends’ apartment, which we walked each day. Had I been in Uganda this summer, I most likely would have been watching the match at the Rugby Club, the site of the second blast. We learned about the bombs through a text message that Joan, our Ugandan roommate, received from a friend at home. After a few minutes, CNN provided a short update: 40 people have died following twin blasts in Uganda’s capital. Then they returned to their discussion of the oil spill and the World Cup highlights. Even the ticker was restricted to World Cup highlights, although Aljazeera picked up the story on their news ticker. After nearly an hour, between phone calls and text messages, Aljazeera – the only network which had someone on the ground – gave us an updates from the sites and the hospital.
This morning at 8am, the networks finally provided a proper report. The death toll had risen to 64, with casualties estimated around 100. If a bomb had killed 60 people – or even 30, or even 15 – in the United States or London, the networks would have stopped their regular programming to cover the story live. Even a failed bomb in Times Square was breaking news. Hundreds are killed each week in Iraq and Afghanistan, but the media barely mentions the attacks unless there are high numbers of American casualties. I understand the reasons – they are war zones and it would be impossible to highlight each individual tragedy. But Kampala is not a war zone. Kampala is one of the safest cities on the continent, in one of the safest countries.
Over the next few days, we will learn more: who is responsible, why did this occur, and who was targeted. At the moment, blame is being placed on Al Shabab, a Somali terrorist group, as retribution for Uganda’s leadership in the AU mission to Somalia. Alternative theories include election-related violence or the Lord’s Resistance Army, the Ugandan rebel group now hiding in the DRC. Either way, the message is a clear attack against the Ugandan government and people. And yet they selected the final match of the World Cup – partly due to the crowds, but partly because it would make the news. And they targeted locations likely to be frequented by expats and wealthier Ugandans, because it would provoke international outrage and international attention. They knew that without these elements, their message would be relegated to the news ticker and perhaps short blurbs. Because conflicts and wars are part of the image of the one Africa and terrorist groups have bombed the embassies in Kenya and Tanzania. But the world should be outraged and shocked by such an attack. My thoughts are with Uganda this week, as they struggle to recover and face what could be a drastically new reality.
Unfortunately, these will not be the only legacies for Africa. One month ago, on the eve of the games, Nelson Mandela’s great-granddaughter was killed by a car accident. This is not a uniquely African tragedy, but it cast a shadow on the opening match. Last night, during the closing match, two bombs went off in Uganda. The news of the bombs struck me deeply, having spent last summer in Kampala. One of the blasts was in Kabalagala – the busy neighborhood between our office and my friends’ apartment, which we walked each day. Had I been in Uganda this summer, I most likely would have been watching the match at the Rugby Club, the site of the second blast. We learned about the bombs through a text message that Joan, our Ugandan roommate, received from a friend at home. After a few minutes, CNN provided a short update: 40 people have died following twin blasts in Uganda’s capital. Then they returned to their discussion of the oil spill and the World Cup highlights. Even the ticker was restricted to World Cup highlights, although Aljazeera picked up the story on their news ticker. After nearly an hour, between phone calls and text messages, Aljazeera – the only network which had someone on the ground – gave us an updates from the sites and the hospital.
This morning at 8am, the networks finally provided a proper report. The death toll had risen to 64, with casualties estimated around 100. If a bomb had killed 60 people – or even 30, or even 15 – in the United States or London, the networks would have stopped their regular programming to cover the story live. Even a failed bomb in Times Square was breaking news. Hundreds are killed each week in Iraq and Afghanistan, but the media barely mentions the attacks unless there are high numbers of American casualties. I understand the reasons – they are war zones and it would be impossible to highlight each individual tragedy. But Kampala is not a war zone. Kampala is one of the safest cities on the continent, in one of the safest countries.
Over the next few days, we will learn more: who is responsible, why did this occur, and who was targeted. At the moment, blame is being placed on Al Shabab, a Somali terrorist group, as retribution for Uganda’s leadership in the AU mission to Somalia. Alternative theories include election-related violence or the Lord’s Resistance Army, the Ugandan rebel group now hiding in the DRC. Either way, the message is a clear attack against the Ugandan government and people. And yet they selected the final match of the World Cup – partly due to the crowds, but partly because it would make the news. And they targeted locations likely to be frequented by expats and wealthier Ugandans, because it would provoke international outrage and international attention. They knew that without these elements, their message would be relegated to the news ticker and perhaps short blurbs. Because conflicts and wars are part of the image of the one Africa and terrorist groups have bombed the embassies in Kenya and Tanzania. But the world should be outraged and shocked by such an attack. My thoughts are with Uganda this week, as they struggle to recover and face what could be a drastically new reality.
07 July 2010
Opoto's Guide to the World Cup (Part III)
First of all, this will most likely be my final World Cup post, unless something seriously dramatic happens in the three remaining games. I’m not sure what the news situation is in America
The reason I’m done writing about the World Cup is that after Friday, I don’t really care anymore. I made a prediction for the final two in my last post: Brazil and Ghana Brazil to Netherlands and Ghana to Uruguay Brazil Brazil is definitely not an underdog in the competition, and who can really dislike the Netherlands
Then it was time for the Ghana Ghana
The momentum had clearly shifted by the beginning of the second half, with Ghana regaining the team work and ball-handling that got them this far. In contrast, Uruguay had one player who looked incredible (Forlan) and the rest of the team was just there. And then the power went out. The lights returned within seconds, but the projector and cable would need to reboot, and we waited in uneasy silence for what felt like twenty minutes, but was probably under two minutes. When the tv returned, they were replaying a shot. Uruguay had scored. 1-1. Despite Ghana’s efforts, and Uruguay’s acting talents, the game finished 1-1, bumping us to extra periods (2 periods of 15 minutes each). Luckily there is no break before the overtime starts, but by now we were all overly invested and our hearts were racing. As time drew down on the final period, the announcer reminded us “If nobody scores right now, then we’re going to a penalty shoot-out.” And Ghana connected with the ball and it flew past the goalkeeper, over players heads, and straight into the goal. Except it didn’t, because one of those players (Suarez) decided to leap up and stop the ball. With his hands. He received a red card, granting Ghana a penalty kick. And in that moment, Ghana looked like they had in the first half, as the ball careened wildly toward the goal and ricocheted off the top bar.
By now, everyone was on their feet screaming in outrage, in disbelief, in pain. The players lined up for free kicks: five of them, alternating between teams, Uruguay, Ghana, until Ghana missed a shot. But then Uruguay missed, and hope lived again. But then Ghana missed again and Uruguay made it and the game was over. And everyone sat down with a thud, silently realizing what had just happened. Suarez was carried around the field like a hero, even though he did little more than cheat and try to fake penalties. One of Ghana’s players was carried off the field from where he had collapsed in tears, devastated that he had missed the penalty shot that could have ended the game. And the collective wailing you heard was Africa’s last chance for a home victory in this World Cup.
The story has a happy ending, however. Uruguay advanced to play the Netherlands, who gained the support of much of the world, simply because they weren’t Uruguay. During the match, Ghana fans carried signs that said “UruGONE!” And following several brillant goals, including a timely skip to avoid an offsides call, the Netherlands emerged victorious. The headline in the Toronto Star read: “Netherland Advances; Defeats World Cup Bad Guys.” Ghana and South Africa were avenged, at least in part. And while I will probably watch the final game (Netherlands v. Germany or Spain), my heart is no longer in it, at least not the same way. So we’ll wait again, for another four years.
Opoto's Guide to the World Cup (Part III)
First of all, this will most likely be my final World Cup post, unless something seriously dramatic happens in the three remaining games. I’m not sure what the news situation is in America
The reason I’m done writing about the World Cup is that after Friday, I don’t really care anymore. I made a prediction for the final two in my last post: Brazil and Ghana Brazil to Netherlands and Ghana to Uruguay Brazil Brazil is definitely not an underdog in the competition, and who can really dislike the Netherlands
Then it was time for the Ghana Ghana
The momentum had clearly shifted by the beginning of the second half, with Ghana regaining the team work and ball-handling that got them this far. In contrast, Uruguay had one player who looked incredible (Forlan) and the rest of the team was just there. And then the power went out. The lights returned within seconds, but the projector and cable would need to reboot, and we waited in uneasy silence for what felt like twenty minutes, but was probably under two minutes. When the tv returned, they were replaying a shot. Uruguay had scored. 1-1. Despite Ghana’s efforts, and Uruguay’s acting talents, the game finished 1-1, bumping us to extra periods (2 periods of 15 minutes each). Luckily there is no break before the overtime starts, but by now we were all overly invested and our hearts were racing. As time drew down on the final period, the announcer reminded us “If nobody scores right now, then we’re going to a penalty shoot-out.” And Ghana connected with the ball and it flew past the goalkeeper, over players heads, and straight into the goal. Except it didn’t, because one of those players (Suarez) decided to leap up and stop the ball. With his hands. He received a red card, granting Ghana a penalty kick. And in that moment, Ghana looked like they had in the first half, as the ball careened wildly toward the goal and ricocheted off the top bar.
By now, everyone was on their feet screaming in outrage, in disbelief, in pain. The players lined up for free kicks: five of them, alternating between teams, Uruguay, Ghana, until Ghana missed a shot. But then Uruguay missed, and hope lived again. But then Ghana missed again and Uruguay made it and the game was over. And everyone sat down with a thud, silently realizing what had just happened. Suarez was carried around the field like a hero, even though he did little more than cheat and try to fake penalties. One of Ghana’s players was carried off the field from where he had collapsed in tears, devastated that he had missed the penalty shot that could have ended the game. And the collective wailing you heard was Africa’s last chance for a home victory in this World Cup.
The story has a happy ending, however. Uruguay advanced to play the Netherlands, who gained the support of much of the world, simply because they weren’t Uruguay. During the match, Ghana fans carried signs that said “UruGONE!” And following several brillant goals, including a timely skip to avoid an offsides call, the Netherlands emerged victorious. The headline in the Toronto Star read: “Netherland Advances; Defeats World Cup Bad Guys.” Ghana and South Africa were avenged, at least in part. And while I will probably watch the final game (Netherlands v. Germany or Spain), my heart is no longer in it, at least not the same way. So we’ll wait again, for another four years.
02 July 2010
New York State of Mind
Yesterday morning, driving to work, I felt truly homesick for the first time in a while. This isn’t to say I don’t miss my friends and my family (and, let’s be totally honest here, my cat) on a semi-regular basis. But I’m able to stay in touch thanks to the internet and cheap phone calls, and I have a mini-network of friends and adopted family here. This was something different than just missing people or places, rather it was a sense of disconnect between my lives here and at home. I left New York exactly seven weeks ago and I fly home in exactly five, which places me at a weird balancing point where either life seems to fit perfectly. I miss my life in New York, but I already dread going home where I know I will miss Freetown. With my sense of transitional limbo, it seemed an appropriate time to address a common question: How different is living in Africa? The short answer: not too much different. But that answer is conditional on a realization that the life of an ex-pat is inherently different than the local life, as most urban areas have built a thriving industry around the bars and restaurants designed to welcome the tiny microcosm that is the ex-pat community. The longer answer is that my daily life isn’t different in any big ways, but instead it’s the little things, the tiniest details that make my life wholly unrecognizable from my law student existence.
First, there’s my daily routine. In New York, when my alarm goes off, I hop in the shower, I make a pot of coffee, pour some into a travel mug, walk to school (or take the subway or a cab if it’s raining/I’m running late). I lock my two door locks. When I’m on the street, I’m an unrecognizable part of a crowd and other than the occasional catcall from my friendly, local construction workers, I manage to avoid interaction with anyone on the street. In fact, if my roommate is still asleep or already at work, I can often make it to school not having talked to anyone except the aforementioned cat. (Yes, I am aware of the ‘crazy cat lady’ implications of this comment). Here, I shower at night, when the power is more reliable and I know I can have hot water and decent water pressure. If I decide to have coffee in the morning, I do battle with our unreliable matches and stove to heat a kettle and make some french press. I lock our two sets of doors (glass front door, covered by a metal exterior door), and wait for Mohammed, our caretaker, to let us out of the compound, usually calling greetings back to his assorted family, including the three little girls who sprint to hug us every morning and night. I respond to the various good mornings and how are yous, while trying to brush off the hey, white girls or I want yous. I flag down an okada and we quibble over how much to pay, even though we always end up at Le 4000 – 5000, regardless of where we started. On the way home, we generally take okadas again (though if it’s raining, we’ll charter a taxi—cha-cha), making detours to pick up fresh baked bread for breakfast or grilled meat for dinner or stopping at the grocery store if we’ve decided to cook.
The big things you get used to fairly quickly—the different things you see and smell and taste and hear every day—and you can easily partition those things into the “Sierra Leone” file. But the little things sneak up on you, so you don’t even notice them changing. Things like sleeping under a bed net or spraying for cockroaches come first, becoming part of your daily routine just like taking your anti-malarials or picking up bottled water. Next it’s subtle changes in your speech habits—slowing down, pausing more, adapting your intonations to mirror those you talk to, slipping in occasional words or phrases in Krio. You start to become friendly with the street vendors and the okada drivers, knowing where to go if you want a specific type of bread or the best place to get a ride to Wilberforce. Power fluctuations become second nature, and only mildly annoying. Unlocking the door after work, you glance to see if there is NPA and waking up in the morning you listen for the generator. You check your mobile credit and buy scratch-off cards to refill when it gets low. Everything integrates seamlessly, until you leave and are abruptly struck by the distinctions. Of course, there are constant moments of ‘culture shock’ throughout. Every day I get propositioned by random men, or even young boys, telling me they love me and want an American wife. Or I get stopped by a policeman, who grabs the okada I am riding and informs me that he is arresting my driver (for no discernable reason) unless I want to pay his fine (read: bribe, which I did not pay, but rather appealed to his sense of mercy and my concerns over being left without a ride just as it was getting dark). The bars, particularly the nicer ones, are filled with prostitutes and older white men soliciting them, neither making any effort to disguise the transaction.
Frequently these moments come at the grocery store, looking for something specific. In general, the markets stock a decent supply of American and European products, down to Marmite and Nutella, although prices on some things can vary widely (Example: Herbal Essences costs two to three times more than Neutrogena). But there are random things you just cannot find, no matter how hard you look. Contact solution and tampons are unheard of, and must be rationed throughout the trip (although I’ve heard a rumour that one of the stores has contact solution right now). Dairy products are rare and highly overpriced—individual yogurts are priced Le 12,000 ($3) and higher, and milk comes either condensed, powdered, or heat-treated, to make it shelf-stable (In Uganda, fresh milk was available in bags, but that has not caught on here). A recent mission to find conditioner took nearly 3 weeks, checking every store in town and an accidental purchase of shampoo, made more difficult by the inconsistency of stocks from day to day.
Anyway, my homesickness has passed and I remain well, cheered by the (miraculous) recovery of my laptop, followed by the immediate backup of all my files. Not to turn this into a World Cup blog, but today marks the beginning of the quarterfinals, and thus deserves an update. Eight teams remain-- four from Latin America, three from Europe, and of course, Ghana. I'm willing to go on record with my pick for the final game: Ghana v. Brazil, a brilliant match-up with its roots in the street games common across South America and Africa, that will remind the world how football is meant to be played.
First, there’s my daily routine. In New York, when my alarm goes off, I hop in the shower, I make a pot of coffee, pour some into a travel mug, walk to school (or take the subway or a cab if it’s raining/I’m running late). I lock my two door locks. When I’m on the street, I’m an unrecognizable part of a crowd and other than the occasional catcall from my friendly, local construction workers, I manage to avoid interaction with anyone on the street. In fact, if my roommate is still asleep or already at work, I can often make it to school not having talked to anyone except the aforementioned cat. (Yes, I am aware of the ‘crazy cat lady’ implications of this comment). Here, I shower at night, when the power is more reliable and I know I can have hot water and decent water pressure. If I decide to have coffee in the morning, I do battle with our unreliable matches and stove to heat a kettle and make some french press. I lock our two sets of doors (glass front door, covered by a metal exterior door), and wait for Mohammed, our caretaker, to let us out of the compound, usually calling greetings back to his assorted family, including the three little girls who sprint to hug us every morning and night. I respond to the various good mornings and how are yous, while trying to brush off the hey, white girls or I want yous. I flag down an okada and we quibble over how much to pay, even though we always end up at Le 4000 – 5000, regardless of where we started. On the way home, we generally take okadas again (though if it’s raining, we’ll charter a taxi—cha-cha), making detours to pick up fresh baked bread for breakfast or grilled meat for dinner or stopping at the grocery store if we’ve decided to cook.
The big things you get used to fairly quickly—the different things you see and smell and taste and hear every day—and you can easily partition those things into the “Sierra Leone” file. But the little things sneak up on you, so you don’t even notice them changing. Things like sleeping under a bed net or spraying for cockroaches come first, becoming part of your daily routine just like taking your anti-malarials or picking up bottled water. Next it’s subtle changes in your speech habits—slowing down, pausing more, adapting your intonations to mirror those you talk to, slipping in occasional words or phrases in Krio. You start to become friendly with the street vendors and the okada drivers, knowing where to go if you want a specific type of bread or the best place to get a ride to Wilberforce. Power fluctuations become second nature, and only mildly annoying. Unlocking the door after work, you glance to see if there is NPA and waking up in the morning you listen for the generator. You check your mobile credit and buy scratch-off cards to refill when it gets low. Everything integrates seamlessly, until you leave and are abruptly struck by the distinctions. Of course, there are constant moments of ‘culture shock’ throughout. Every day I get propositioned by random men, or even young boys, telling me they love me and want an American wife. Or I get stopped by a policeman, who grabs the okada I am riding and informs me that he is arresting my driver (for no discernable reason) unless I want to pay his fine (read: bribe, which I did not pay, but rather appealed to his sense of mercy and my concerns over being left without a ride just as it was getting dark). The bars, particularly the nicer ones, are filled with prostitutes and older white men soliciting them, neither making any effort to disguise the transaction.
Frequently these moments come at the grocery store, looking for something specific. In general, the markets stock a decent supply of American and European products, down to Marmite and Nutella, although prices on some things can vary widely (Example: Herbal Essences costs two to three times more than Neutrogena). But there are random things you just cannot find, no matter how hard you look. Contact solution and tampons are unheard of, and must be rationed throughout the trip (although I’ve heard a rumour that one of the stores has contact solution right now). Dairy products are rare and highly overpriced—individual yogurts are priced Le 12,000 ($3) and higher, and milk comes either condensed, powdered, or heat-treated, to make it shelf-stable (In Uganda, fresh milk was available in bags, but that has not caught on here). A recent mission to find conditioner took nearly 3 weeks, checking every store in town and an accidental purchase of shampoo, made more difficult by the inconsistency of stocks from day to day.
Anyway, my homesickness has passed and I remain well, cheered by the (miraculous) recovery of my laptop, followed by the immediate backup of all my files. Not to turn this into a World Cup blog, but today marks the beginning of the quarterfinals, and thus deserves an update. Eight teams remain-- four from Latin America, three from Europe, and of course, Ghana. I'm willing to go on record with my pick for the final game: Ghana v. Brazil, a brilliant match-up with its roots in the street games common across South America and Africa, that will remind the world how football is meant to be played.
28 June 2010
Opoto's Guide to the World Cup
This is part two of an ongoing series, following the first African World Cup. In case you haven't been following the games, a quick update on where things stand. Friday evening marked the end of the group stage, from which 16 teams advanced (the top two of each group), to begin the knockout round. From here on, the tournament follows a typical bracket system that's a little easier to follow-- win, or you're out. For this stage, the match-ups are as follows: Uruguay v. S. Korea; Ghana v. USA; England v. Germany; Argentina v. Mexico; Paraguay v. Japan; Brazil v. Chile; Netherlands v. Slovakia; Portugal v. Spain. First item of note: only one African team remains-- Ghana, who now have the support of an entire continent supporting their quest. In case you're wondering, any loyalty to my home country went away when I realized we were playing Ghana, because my heart wouldn't be in it. Second item of note: the number of teams notably missing, particularly Italy and France, champions and runners-up for the 2006 World Cup. The group stage was marked by upsets and surprises, which have made the tournament even more compelling. However, for today, we're going to focus on two important lessons-- the first is sport related, the second is related to world politics/international affairs.
First, if you've ever watched a game of football, a number of qualities distinguish it from any other sport. The game is ninety minutes, divided into two halves, and they play straight through-- no timeouts, no breaks, and additional time added at the end to account for any stoppages. Teams have limited substitutions, and most players go full-time. Given the size of the pitch and the amount of running, this requires incredible athleticism, as demonstrated by the bodies of football players. It also remains fairly untainted by modern technology-- there are only four officials, with penalties decided at the sole discretion of the main referee. All calls are final and there is no review process. FIFA, the governing body, argues that this is essential to the "integrity of the game" and to ensure that the game is ruled the same from the grassroots level to the highest tiers. Which sounds noble and good, until you get to the highest levels-- the World Cup-- and see the effect a bad call can have. There have been questionable penalty calls, such as Kaka's red card against Cote d'Ivoire. Teams that are better at acting hurt (see Latin American teams, particularly Uruguay) get more free kicks awarded, more penalties against their opponents. However, the real drama emerges in the controversy surrounding goals: is the point awarded or not? USA came from two points behind to tie Slovenia, and then scored a third goal, which was ruled invalid because the player was (arguably) offside. In the reverse case, Argentina scored on Mexico from a blatantly offside position, but the referee allowed the goal. With a two goal deficit, England rallied and scored twice on Germany in a matter of minutes; the second goal didn't count, because the ref didn't see it cross from his angle. A simple replay showed the ball going in, but without the use of video replay or microchip technology, the decision on the field stands. While the belief in the ref's infallibility is charming, it is difficult to understand what the game would lose from a simple process to review questionable goals-- either through a microchip or simply a halftime video review of the few goals that would be called into doubt.
Perhaps the more enduring legacy of the World Cup is what it teaches us about international relations. Watching a team and their fans can reveal much about the national psyche. When North Korea (wearing all red and warming up with military precision) failed to advance, their hopes turned to South Korea, despite bad relations between the nations. With Ghana as the only African team in the knockout round (and now beyond), all of Africa is cheering them on. And as demonstrated this weekend, the rivalry between England and Germany grows more bitter each year; England fans bring inflatable bombers and chant "Two World Wars and One World Cup. England, England." The game has the capacity to unite -- community games have been used to reintegrate ex-combatant -- but also to divide. Italy went home under heavy security, due to death threats when they failed to qualify. Ghana's coach, Milo Rajevac - a Serbian native - has alleged that the demolition of his house was part of an attempt to intimidate him. If this interests you, check out How Soccer Explains the World, which goes into further detail on this subject.
I'll leave you with that and the news that my laptop remains on the fritz, so photo updates will be fairly scarce. More news to follow from my adventures in days to come.
First, if you've ever watched a game of football, a number of qualities distinguish it from any other sport. The game is ninety minutes, divided into two halves, and they play straight through-- no timeouts, no breaks, and additional time added at the end to account for any stoppages. Teams have limited substitutions, and most players go full-time. Given the size of the pitch and the amount of running, this requires incredible athleticism, as demonstrated by the bodies of football players. It also remains fairly untainted by modern technology-- there are only four officials, with penalties decided at the sole discretion of the main referee. All calls are final and there is no review process. FIFA, the governing body, argues that this is essential to the "integrity of the game" and to ensure that the game is ruled the same from the grassroots level to the highest tiers. Which sounds noble and good, until you get to the highest levels-- the World Cup-- and see the effect a bad call can have. There have been questionable penalty calls, such as Kaka's red card against Cote d'Ivoire. Teams that are better at acting hurt (see Latin American teams, particularly Uruguay) get more free kicks awarded, more penalties against their opponents. However, the real drama emerges in the controversy surrounding goals: is the point awarded or not? USA came from two points behind to tie Slovenia, and then scored a third goal, which was ruled invalid because the player was (arguably) offside. In the reverse case, Argentina scored on Mexico from a blatantly offside position, but the referee allowed the goal. With a two goal deficit, England rallied and scored twice on Germany in a matter of minutes; the second goal didn't count, because the ref didn't see it cross from his angle. A simple replay showed the ball going in, but without the use of video replay or microchip technology, the decision on the field stands. While the belief in the ref's infallibility is charming, it is difficult to understand what the game would lose from a simple process to review questionable goals-- either through a microchip or simply a halftime video review of the few goals that would be called into doubt.
Perhaps the more enduring legacy of the World Cup is what it teaches us about international relations. Watching a team and their fans can reveal much about the national psyche. When North Korea (wearing all red and warming up with military precision) failed to advance, their hopes turned to South Korea, despite bad relations between the nations. With Ghana as the only African team in the knockout round (and now beyond), all of Africa is cheering them on. And as demonstrated this weekend, the rivalry between England and Germany grows more bitter each year; England fans bring inflatable bombers and chant "Two World Wars and One World Cup. England, England." The game has the capacity to unite -- community games have been used to reintegrate ex-combatant -- but also to divide. Italy went home under heavy security, due to death threats when they failed to qualify. Ghana's coach, Milo Rajevac - a Serbian native - has alleged that the demolition of his house was part of an attempt to intimidate him. If this interests you, check out How Soccer Explains the World, which goes into further detail on this subject.
I'll leave you with that and the news that my laptop remains on the fritz, so photo updates will be fairly scarce. More news to follow from my adventures in days to come.
26 June 2010
A Photo Update (at last)
After much build up and anticipation, you can finally see some of the places and things I've been talking about! Admittedly, this is only a small fraction of the photos I've taken, but it took an hour and a half to upload just these, so deal with it. Photos!
Unfortunately, my laptop is currently having issues of the "grey screen/not turning on" variety, so I will be delayed in posting more photos until I can sort that out. Alternatively, I may try to just upload them directly through a computer at one of the cafes, once I figure out if my laptop is gone for good or just being cranky. Regardless, don't hold out hope for any new photos anytime soon. Consider it a good time to use your imagination and remember what the world was like before the internet.
I hope everyone enjoys their weekend and gets to watch as much World Cup as your heart desires.
Unfortunately, my laptop is currently having issues of the "grey screen/not turning on" variety, so I will be delayed in posting more photos until I can sort that out. Alternatively, I may try to just upload them directly through a computer at one of the cafes, once I figure out if my laptop is gone for good or just being cranky. Regardless, don't hold out hope for any new photos anytime soon. Consider it a good time to use your imagination and remember what the world was like before the internet.
I hope everyone enjoys their weekend and gets to watch as much World Cup as your heart desires.
25 June 2010
Human Rights and Customary Law
For convenience and to keep you updated on all details of my life, I'm linking to another post I wrote for the Leitner Interns blog. This goes into a little more detail about my actual work this summer and the issues/approaches I am taking to human rights.
In other news, it appears the rains have officially started. Every evening there have been heavy rains and/or thunderstorms, most often continuing into the morning, but stopping around the time I leave for work. It's been starting up again around 2 or 3 in the afternoon for several more hours. When I first arrived, I brushed off the comments about "the rains". After all, I've spent time in Oregon, I can deal with days of rain on end. Here's the thing about the rains here-- imagine a monsoon. Now imagine it lasting for 4 days straight. Now throw in a city built on various hills and winding roads, no drainage, and an inordinate amount of red dirt everywhere. On the one hand, it's pretty cool when walls turn into waterfalls and roads into rivers. On the other, when you're driving home and realize that the bridge you have to drive across (on an okada) is about 4 inches deep with dirty water rushing past? Maybe not as cool.
Also, as a World Cup update: USA advances to the knockout round (magic!) only to face Ghana on Saturday. As I may have mentioned, I think Africa deserves this one, so I'm torn between my country and my heart on this game.
Finally, watch this space for pictures, hopefully uploaded tonight.
In other news, it appears the rains have officially started. Every evening there have been heavy rains and/or thunderstorms, most often continuing into the morning, but stopping around the time I leave for work. It's been starting up again around 2 or 3 in the afternoon for several more hours. When I first arrived, I brushed off the comments about "the rains". After all, I've spent time in Oregon, I can deal with days of rain on end. Here's the thing about the rains here-- imagine a monsoon. Now imagine it lasting for 4 days straight. Now throw in a city built on various hills and winding roads, no drainage, and an inordinate amount of red dirt everywhere. On the one hand, it's pretty cool when walls turn into waterfalls and roads into rivers. On the other, when you're driving home and realize that the bridge you have to drive across (on an okada) is about 4 inches deep with dirty water rushing past? Maybe not as cool.
Also, as a World Cup update: USA advances to the knockout round (magic!) only to face Ghana on Saturday. As I may have mentioned, I think Africa deserves this one, so I'm torn between my country and my heart on this game.
Finally, watch this space for pictures, hopefully uploaded tonight.
23 June 2010
The Unavoidable Kindness of Strangers
Last fall, walking down Ninth Ave, the strap of my flip-flop broke-- leaving me with just one functional shoe. Last week, the same thing happened on Kroo Town Road. The first lesson from this should probably be something about investing in better shoes, since they'll last longer (I know, Mom) or my uncanny ability to destroy things in unusual ways (exhibit A: cell phone in washing machine). Leaving that aside, the lesson I took was from the differences in the two experiences.
In New York, my friends offered to get me a cab (for two blocks?), but otherwise nobody on the street blinked an eye. Nobody stopped, nobody offered any assistance, and nobody seemed affected by the fact that I was walking barefoot down the NYC sidewalk, even though it was killing me with every step. Here in Freetown, I know I attract a little more attention than NYC, particularly downtown or wandering among food stalls. However, many people walking down the street do not have shoes, even broken ones. When my shoe broke, I sighed and resolved myself to finding an okada.
Immediately, several women expressed their sympathy from their stalls. One man offered to take me to "his guy" to fix it. His vague illustration of where it was ("Just there", accompanied by a wave of the hand that suggested several side streets) and the fact that my shoes had cost $5 simplified my decision to say no and just abandon the shoes. Then an older woman came and clutched my arm, directing my attention down. She had slipped off her shoes and was indicating I should take them. "Just bring them tomorrow," she told me. Feeling slightly embarrassed that, yet again, things had shifted to address my inconsequential needs, I thanked her and politely declined. She also mentioned "the guy" who could fix them and called her son to take me there. "Just there" was actually just two streets down. (I'm cautious when told distances because of the inconsistencies that arise from a flexible relationship with time and the tendency to walk long distances.) As I made my way, barefoot through the dust, I attracted many looks of sympathy. A man, surrounded by cheap sandals, saw me approach and silently held out his hand for the shoe. Blind in one eye, he inspected it carefully, then selected a needle, pliers, and heavy duty thread, handed to him by an assistant, just like a scrub nurse. Within minutes, my shoe was as good as new-- probably better-- and he declined when I attempted to pay him. Eventually, I convinced him to take Le 2000 (about 50 cents) and headed home.
When you are traveling, you are always dependent on the kindness of strangers- offering directions or explaining the public transit. When my ticket wouldn't let me out of the Paris Metro, a man drew me in front of him and swiped us out together. But in Africa, it goes beyond mere gestures. In both Sierra Leone and Uganda, strangers who have so little have offered what they can, often with no thought of anything in return. The experience makes me feel guilty when I think back on my reaction to tourists in New York, generally avoiding eye contact and getting impatient when they cannot figure out how to swipe their subway pass (though I usually reach over and assist them). This isn't to say I'm completely heartless or that I don't regularly witness random moments of kindness in NYC, but Westerners (I'm extending this to USA, Canada, and Europe) are more likely to turn the other way if you're not a local, whereas the opposite has been true here. The lesson points more to an underlying attitude-- a sense of community and interreliance, mixed with unending hospitality. You do everything in your power to help, because you have and you do and you will rely on the community to get you through another time.
In New York, my friends offered to get me a cab (for two blocks?), but otherwise nobody on the street blinked an eye. Nobody stopped, nobody offered any assistance, and nobody seemed affected by the fact that I was walking barefoot down the NYC sidewalk, even though it was killing me with every step. Here in Freetown, I know I attract a little more attention than NYC, particularly downtown or wandering among food stalls. However, many people walking down the street do not have shoes, even broken ones. When my shoe broke, I sighed and resolved myself to finding an okada.
Immediately, several women expressed their sympathy from their stalls. One man offered to take me to "his guy" to fix it. His vague illustration of where it was ("Just there", accompanied by a wave of the hand that suggested several side streets) and the fact that my shoes had cost $5 simplified my decision to say no and just abandon the shoes. Then an older woman came and clutched my arm, directing my attention down. She had slipped off her shoes and was indicating I should take them. "Just bring them tomorrow," she told me. Feeling slightly embarrassed that, yet again, things had shifted to address my inconsequential needs, I thanked her and politely declined. She also mentioned "the guy" who could fix them and called her son to take me there. "Just there" was actually just two streets down. (I'm cautious when told distances because of the inconsistencies that arise from a flexible relationship with time and the tendency to walk long distances.) As I made my way, barefoot through the dust, I attracted many looks of sympathy. A man, surrounded by cheap sandals, saw me approach and silently held out his hand for the shoe. Blind in one eye, he inspected it carefully, then selected a needle, pliers, and heavy duty thread, handed to him by an assistant, just like a scrub nurse. Within minutes, my shoe was as good as new-- probably better-- and he declined when I attempted to pay him. Eventually, I convinced him to take Le 2000 (about 50 cents) and headed home.
When you are traveling, you are always dependent on the kindness of strangers- offering directions or explaining the public transit. When my ticket wouldn't let me out of the Paris Metro, a man drew me in front of him and swiped us out together. But in Africa, it goes beyond mere gestures. In both Sierra Leone and Uganda, strangers who have so little have offered what they can, often with no thought of anything in return. The experience makes me feel guilty when I think back on my reaction to tourists in New York, generally avoiding eye contact and getting impatient when they cannot figure out how to swipe their subway pass (though I usually reach over and assist them). This isn't to say I'm completely heartless or that I don't regularly witness random moments of kindness in NYC, but Westerners (I'm extending this to USA, Canada, and Europe) are more likely to turn the other way if you're not a local, whereas the opposite has been true here. The lesson points more to an underlying attitude-- a sense of community and interreliance, mixed with unending hospitality. You do everything in your power to help, because you have and you do and you will rely on the community to get you through another time.
16 June 2010
Mob Justice
Today is the International Day of the African Child. On 16 June 1976, thousands of black South African students protested the quality of their education and a law, which required they be taught in Afrikaans rather than English. As they marched through the streets, police barricaded their path and some of the students began to throw rocks. In response, the police opened fire and a massive riot broke out. Thousands of students were injured, and the death toll from the resulting riots is estimated between 200-600. The day is now celebrated to honor those killed in the Soweto uprisings and to recognize the rights of African children. It would be an understatement to say children in Africa don't have an easy life. Hunger, child labour, forced marriage, early pregnancy, beatings, FGM, limited education--the list goes on. Perhaps the most upsetting consequence is the constant exposure to violence these children face. Teachers beat their students to keep them in line. Husbands beat their wives and children. Children have witnessed the brutal wars that have ravaged the continent, often becoming soldiers themselves. There is a cycle of violence that forms, and public arguments quickly escalate into shouting and violence.
I have heard in the past about 'mob justice' -- the swift and violent response to any suspected crimes on the street. As it is hard to distinguish between the shouts that are merely expressive and those turning into mobs, I make a general rule to avoid both. This morning however, I became involved first-hand in an act of mob justice. Maybe I have gotten too comfortable with my morning routine or maybe I was caught off-guard by the absence of people waiting for taxis this morning. Either way, I must have let my guard down a little. When a van pulled up full of empty seats and nodded to our questioning "Town?", I was relieved to avoid the shoves and elbow jabs for the morning. As I started to hop in, I felt my bag get jostled. I adjusted it and turned to see a man behind me, crowding close. Since the normal method of getting in a shared taxi is to push and hope you make it, I was not surprised, though a little irritated given the lack of crowds. As I moved forward again, he pushed me slightly and I felt a tug on my bag, which I instinctively grabbed as I settled into my seat. In an instant, the man turned away rather than boarding the taxi and the man behind him shouted 'teef' while grabbing him by the shoulders and shoving him against the van. Thief. I double-checked my bag, but nothing had been taken and when the driver asked if I was okay, I told him nothing was gone and it was fine. However, even a suspected thief has broken the unwritten rules and within moments he was surrounded by a small crowd, all screaming and hitting him. I repeatedly told the driver that nothing had been taken and they should leave him alone. I wasn't even sure if he'd tried to take anything or if I'd just been jostled getting in. Then another passenger explained that he had a razor blade and had been prepared to cut the strap of my bag. He was a regular thief at that intersection and this wasn't the first time the people have punished him. I felt responsible and guilty for not doing more to stop them, but also unwilling to wade into that sort of violence. A police woman stood by watching as they continued to hit him in the shoulders and side of the head, and pulled off his pants to check for stolen goods. Once they'd found a set of keys in his pocket (not mine) they shouted and the police came over to intervene. I am obviously fine, though shaken by the role I played in the scene, however unwittingly. I am reminded to be more careful with my bag and more responsive to unnecessary pushing. But more than that, I wonder at how long the cycle of violence will continue.
This problem is not uniquely African, but it is widespread on the continent. Even minor disputes result in screaming matches when a simple apology might have worked. Surrounded by abuse and shouts, children grow up to replicate the same patterns. Violence is seen to be the only reliable method to force change in the government or to control protests by the citizens. Until this behavior changes, there is more which must be done to protect the children growing up in Africa.
I have heard in the past about 'mob justice' -- the swift and violent response to any suspected crimes on the street. As it is hard to distinguish between the shouts that are merely expressive and those turning into mobs, I make a general rule to avoid both. This morning however, I became involved first-hand in an act of mob justice. Maybe I have gotten too comfortable with my morning routine or maybe I was caught off-guard by the absence of people waiting for taxis this morning. Either way, I must have let my guard down a little. When a van pulled up full of empty seats and nodded to our questioning "Town?", I was relieved to avoid the shoves and elbow jabs for the morning. As I started to hop in, I felt my bag get jostled. I adjusted it and turned to see a man behind me, crowding close. Since the normal method of getting in a shared taxi is to push and hope you make it, I was not surprised, though a little irritated given the lack of crowds. As I moved forward again, he pushed me slightly and I felt a tug on my bag, which I instinctively grabbed as I settled into my seat. In an instant, the man turned away rather than boarding the taxi and the man behind him shouted 'teef' while grabbing him by the shoulders and shoving him against the van. Thief. I double-checked my bag, but nothing had been taken and when the driver asked if I was okay, I told him nothing was gone and it was fine. However, even a suspected thief has broken the unwritten rules and within moments he was surrounded by a small crowd, all screaming and hitting him. I repeatedly told the driver that nothing had been taken and they should leave him alone. I wasn't even sure if he'd tried to take anything or if I'd just been jostled getting in. Then another passenger explained that he had a razor blade and had been prepared to cut the strap of my bag. He was a regular thief at that intersection and this wasn't the first time the people have punished him. I felt responsible and guilty for not doing more to stop them, but also unwilling to wade into that sort of violence. A police woman stood by watching as they continued to hit him in the shoulders and side of the head, and pulled off his pants to check for stolen goods. Once they'd found a set of keys in his pocket (not mine) they shouted and the police came over to intervene. I am obviously fine, though shaken by the role I played in the scene, however unwittingly. I am reminded to be more careful with my bag and more responsive to unnecessary pushing. But more than that, I wonder at how long the cycle of violence will continue.
This problem is not uniquely African, but it is widespread on the continent. Even minor disputes result in screaming matches when a simple apology might have worked. Surrounded by abuse and shouts, children grow up to replicate the same patterns. Violence is seen to be the only reliable method to force change in the government or to control protests by the citizens. Until this behavior changes, there is more which must be done to protect the children growing up in Africa.
14 June 2010
An Opoto Guide to the World Cup
First, a brief lesson on random facts and useless information. Although most of the world calls it football, the United States of America remains resolute in calling it soccer. According to some, the term soccer evolved from a shortening of associational football (as distinguished from rugby football). In fact, this is a classic example of American exceptionalism—as with the metric system and British spelling, our young nation recognized the importance of throwing off colonial influences to exert ourselves as an independent nation. As such, it was only logical that we would rename football as soccer, retain rugby, and reappropriate “football” to describe a game we evolved from rugby. Although the United States won the first World Cup in 1930, we were not permitted to change the name to suit our purposes. Therefore, this Guide will use the commonly accepted “football” in reference to the game.
As Americans know, it is not necessary for a competition to include global participants in order to be classified as a world championship (see, e.g. World Series). However, in the spirit of inclusiveness FIFA decided to allow teams from around the world to participate in the World Cup—just like the Olympics. Also like the Olympics, the games are designed to replicated global power structures, which means that they should always be hosted and won by the wealthier and more powerful countries. Unfortunately, certain countries have rejected this belief (see, e.g. Brazil) and through a series of unlikely events, the World Cup is presently taking place in South Africa. In case you’ve been living on another planet for the past few years, I’ll point out that this marks the first time the World Cup has been held on African soil.
Well, that’s not a big deal, right? I mean, sure, it’s a huge competition and probably makes a ton of money for the host country, but South Africa is way down at the tip of the continent. Only a handful of African countries are even competing (Algeria, Cameroon, Cote d’Ivoire, Ghana, Nigeria, and South Africa)—none of whom are strong contenders. Surely nobody in Sierra Leone, whose national team was nowhere near qualification, would care about it. Except for one little detail: football is life in Africa. It is nearly impossible to go anywhere without seeing football games of every level—from youth (which here means 20-30) wearing full uniforms to barefoot children randomly kicking a ball without proper teams. Everyone has alliances to a mixture of teams (Chelsea, Manchester United, Spain, and Brazil are all popular), and one of the best ways to make friends in the shared taxi is to ask which team everyone supports. However, these alliances are less rigid than it would initially appear. While someone might tell you they absolutely cannot support Ghana, because they love Cote d’Ivoire (because they have several players from Chelsea), that really only matters if the two teams manage to face each other. Ultimately, the most important thing for this World Cup is to see as many African goals as possible, as many African wins as possible, and ultimately an African victory. While the individual nation that wins may be proud, a victory by any of these nations will be seen as a victory for the entire continent.
Understandably, this level of enthusiasm is highly contagious and it would be impossible not to get sucked into the competition. The bar next door has played all the games loud enough to hear from my office (starting at 11am) and when South Africa scored the first goal the streets were filled with cheers. Anyone with a television is broadcasting the game, and all the bars are packed for all three games of the day. With this in mind, it becomes important to pick your location carefully. Consider first the location and its amenities: Are there seats? Is it covered? How many screens and how large are they? Does the sound work? Is there a generator, just in case the power goes out? Do they have Star beer? None of these are determinative, but get weighed into the equation. Next, and most importantly, you consider the fan base and the match. For England-US, we decided to go to the Atlantic—a bar down on Lumley beach. Fans had their faces painted, flags waving, and the occasional vuvuzela blaring. Half the bar stood up to sing along with God Save the Queen, and a few (going for volume over quality) sang the Star Spangled Banner. The setting was idyllic—looking over the beach we enjoyed a fantastic sunset as the teams played to a draw.
It’s not a bad way to spend an evening, but for the important matches—the ones with African teams particularly, you don’t want to be surrounded by ex-pats or wealthy Leoneans. Instead, you make your way to the nearest local bar (doesn’t really matter which one), pay 1000 leones at the door, and order a blissfully cheap Star. Before the Ghana-Serbia match, we found ourselves trapped in a monsoon, the taxi slowly making its way through streets that had turned into rivers. We jumped into Frenzy, where we were greeted with momentary stares (being the only white people and among the only women), but attention was quickly diverted back to the game. Unlike most nights, there were relatively few unwanted advances, and instead we were able to talk about the match with the guys surrounded us. When Ghana scored on a penalty kick, the crowd was ecstatic—cheering, singing, and dancing through each of the countless replays that followed. When the game wrapped, the enthusiasm was unparalleled. After so many years, Africa had finally won on their own soil.
Wherever you are, I hope you have the chance to watch the World Cup. Pick a team and find yourself wrapped up in the energy—its better than the Olympics, Superbowl, Stanley Cup and every other playoffs combined. As a bonus to reading this absurdly long post, I have a challenge for readers. Anyone who correctly names three players of your national team (honor system: no using the internet) will win a prize from Sierra Leone.
10 June 2010
Buckets of Fun
Yes, I've opted to pun this week. Deal with it.
From Monday morning through late Wednesday night, I lived the dream of aging hippies and crunch types everywhere and went off the grid. To be fair, this was not a spurt of environmentalism brought on by the recent oil spill (which is the only international news we get consistent coverage of), but rather a trip to Kambia District in the northwest corner of Sierra Leone. I spent nearly a week in Kambia in March, through the Leitner Human Rights Clinic, which is how I connected with Sierra Leone in the first place.
To back up slightly, I should provide some details about my work this summer. As I've mentioned previously, I am in Sierra Leone working with the Centre for Safe Motherhood, Youth, and Child Outreach (CESMYCO). During the Spring semester, we conducted fieldwork and research aimed at beginning the process of eradicating female circumcision/female genital mutilation (FC/FGM) through community by-laws. My work this summer will pick up and expand on our recommendations from that project. I am in the process of conducting research to put together a publication on the status of women and children's rights through the customary law system, targeting the operational areas of CESMYCO-- Kambia District, Moyamba District, and Freetown/Western Area. If this project seems overly expansive and untenable, it's because it most likely is. At this point, my objective is to put together as much information as I can and then draw upon the expertise of others in completing my report. As is common with international work, and specifically with local NGOs, everything is subject to & likely to change. The trip to Kambia was my initial research trip, which allowed me to assess the viability of my methodology and adjust accordingly. Since we worked in Kambia in the spring, I already have considerable information about the existing community laws, so I wasn't completely devastated when some of my interviews were less than helpful.
Within Kambia District, we visited three different chiefdoms: Magbema (Kambia Town), Brimaia (Kukuna Town), and Tonko-Limba (Madina Town). CESMYCO was visiting to provide the women with seed rice as part of an alternative employment program. The women have formed into collectives, who will harvest the rice 3-4 times a year and return the loan to CESMYCO, who will establish a seed bank to extend the program. When we talked with women in March, many of them repeated their desire to end the practice of FGM, but the need to continue in order to keep their income. The average income in Sierra Leone is $100/month, with many in the rural areas living on $1-2/day. In contrast, the cost of initiation can be from $100-200 for each girl, which has given the soweis (initiators) considerable power within the community. As the women become economically independent, and more involved with alternative employment, we hope they will end the harmful practice of cutting. Over time, the bondo society could be restructured to train women and girls in skills and to establish these collective groups to provide income.
It is nearly impossible to describe life in Kambia District and the pictures I took hardly do justice. The town of Kambia lies very near the border with Guinea and is reached by a very long poda-poda ride, mostly on bumpy dirt roads-- with even the light rain we had en route, we drove through mini-lakes and rivers formed in the grooves. Everything is swathes of green and red-- fields of grass, crops, and palm trees, contrasted with the reddish brown dust that coats everything. Within minutes of arriving, I felt my skin coat with a layer of the dust, giving me a false sense of suntan that washed off when I finally showered. Kambia is fully "off the grid"-- following the war, there is no national power and no water, so everyone relies on generators and what can be fetched from the well. This meant that there were three hours of electricity each evening, and both showers and toilets were operated by bucket (hence the pun of the title). Once you adjust to the process, it's not too bad, but over three days I managed to get dirtier than I've been in a very long time. When I finally returned to Freetown, I was thrilled to see that we had power (which means hot water and decent pressure) and scrubbed myself clean.
In the next few weeks, I will be going on a similar trip to Moyamba District in the south, and will be excited to compare the landscape to the north. In spite of the dust and the heat, I really enjoyed my time in Kambia-- it's a quieter and slower life. Away from the noise and traffic of Freetown, you can enjoy the millions of stars, children playing football outside, and walking nearly everywhere you need to go. Pictures willl be posted within the next week (hopefully) so you can start to see everything I've been describing.
From Monday morning through late Wednesday night, I lived the dream of aging hippies and crunch types everywhere and went off the grid. To be fair, this was not a spurt of environmentalism brought on by the recent oil spill (which is the only international news we get consistent coverage of), but rather a trip to Kambia District in the northwest corner of Sierra Leone. I spent nearly a week in Kambia in March, through the Leitner Human Rights Clinic, which is how I connected with Sierra Leone in the first place.
To back up slightly, I should provide some details about my work this summer. As I've mentioned previously, I am in Sierra Leone working with the Centre for Safe Motherhood, Youth, and Child Outreach (CESMYCO). During the Spring semester, we conducted fieldwork and research aimed at beginning the process of eradicating female circumcision/female genital mutilation (FC/FGM) through community by-laws. My work this summer will pick up and expand on our recommendations from that project. I am in the process of conducting research to put together a publication on the status of women and children's rights through the customary law system, targeting the operational areas of CESMYCO-- Kambia District, Moyamba District, and Freetown/Western Area. If this project seems overly expansive and untenable, it's because it most likely is. At this point, my objective is to put together as much information as I can and then draw upon the expertise of others in completing my report. As is common with international work, and specifically with local NGOs, everything is subject to & likely to change. The trip to Kambia was my initial research trip, which allowed me to assess the viability of my methodology and adjust accordingly. Since we worked in Kambia in the spring, I already have considerable information about the existing community laws, so I wasn't completely devastated when some of my interviews were less than helpful.
Within Kambia District, we visited three different chiefdoms: Magbema (Kambia Town), Brimaia (Kukuna Town), and Tonko-Limba (Madina Town). CESMYCO was visiting to provide the women with seed rice as part of an alternative employment program. The women have formed into collectives, who will harvest the rice 3-4 times a year and return the loan to CESMYCO, who will establish a seed bank to extend the program. When we talked with women in March, many of them repeated their desire to end the practice of FGM, but the need to continue in order to keep their income. The average income in Sierra Leone is $100/month, with many in the rural areas living on $1-2/day. In contrast, the cost of initiation can be from $100-200 for each girl, which has given the soweis (initiators) considerable power within the community. As the women become economically independent, and more involved with alternative employment, we hope they will end the harmful practice of cutting. Over time, the bondo society could be restructured to train women and girls in skills and to establish these collective groups to provide income.
It is nearly impossible to describe life in Kambia District and the pictures I took hardly do justice. The town of Kambia lies very near the border with Guinea and is reached by a very long poda-poda ride, mostly on bumpy dirt roads-- with even the light rain we had en route, we drove through mini-lakes and rivers formed in the grooves. Everything is swathes of green and red-- fields of grass, crops, and palm trees, contrasted with the reddish brown dust that coats everything. Within minutes of arriving, I felt my skin coat with a layer of the dust, giving me a false sense of suntan that washed off when I finally showered. Kambia is fully "off the grid"-- following the war, there is no national power and no water, so everyone relies on generators and what can be fetched from the well. This meant that there were three hours of electricity each evening, and both showers and toilets were operated by bucket (hence the pun of the title). Once you adjust to the process, it's not too bad, but over three days I managed to get dirtier than I've been in a very long time. When I finally returned to Freetown, I was thrilled to see that we had power (which means hot water and decent pressure) and scrubbed myself clean.
In the next few weeks, I will be going on a similar trip to Moyamba District in the south, and will be excited to compare the landscape to the north. In spite of the dust and the heat, I really enjoyed my time in Kambia-- it's a quieter and slower life. Away from the noise and traffic of Freetown, you can enjoy the millions of stars, children playing football outside, and walking nearly everywhere you need to go. Pictures willl be posted within the next week (hopefully) so you can start to see everything I've been describing.
06 June 2010
Judging at the Special Court
Because the internet is being spotty, I'm just going to direct you to leitnerinterns.blogspot.com, where I just posted on my experience last week. I had the opportunity to go hang out on the bench of the Special Court for Sierra Leone, which was a truly amazing opportunity for a UN geek like me.
Other than that, I'm doing very well and had the opportunity to get in a lovely day at the beach last week. I will update more properly when I have a little more time, but there are two important reminders coming up in the next week, worth of celebration.
June 9: My mother's birthday
June 11: World Cup begins
Other than that, I'm doing very well and had the opportunity to get in a lovely day at the beach last week. I will update more properly when I have a little more time, but there are two important reminders coming up in the next week, worth of celebration.
June 9: My mother's birthday
June 11: World Cup begins
27 May 2010
Transitions and Dichotomies
On Friday afternoon we moved into our new, lovely apartment in Hill Station. It's directly below the Chinese Embassy and on the same route as many of the embassies (Ghana, Libya, Iran, and Egypt are all within walking distance). The first night was quite enjoyable to sleep with the a/c running long enough to chill our rooms, followed by a light rainstorm.
Saturday morning I headed off for my first day of work, having heard from Alfred on Friday that there was a meeting he wanted me to attend with him. The details were less than specific, so I hopped on an okada (motorbike taxi) without a clear idea of what to expect. After winding our way through the hills and traffic of Freetown, my driver dropped me at the office and Alfred and I set off for a "walking tour" of downtown Freetown, which more realistically involved stopping to see some people and running a few errands while walking to somewhere easier to get a taxi. From there we chartered a taxi to Wellington, just east of the city, home of the brewery for Star Beer (Sierra Leone's finest, not available at any of the "nice" restaurants).
While we drove, Alfred explained the purpose of the meeting-- CESMYCO has been working with soweis, the initiators for the bondo society, to abandon the practice of FGM. One of the steps in this process involves support for alternative employment. CESMYCO has provided seeds to the collectives of women to allow them to grow crops and create a seed bank, which will provide seeds for further groups of women. We met the chief initiator in Wellington, along with Frank, one of the men who helps to farm the land, and a representative from the Ministry of Education. We then hopped in another taxi to take us about a half hour away to Waterloo, after which the roads were "unautoable." After some negotiation, we arranged for several okadas which would take us to the village where the farm land was and everyone in town was highly entertained by the site of a white girl on the back of a bike. The road was truly undrivable for a car, as my driver steered us around potholes, makeshift dams (for the rains), puddles, and finally onto a small overgrown footpath. Eventually we emerged in a tiny cluster of homes, and Frank led us through the bush to the farm land. The agriculturalist conducted a thorough investigation of the soil, which to the best of my knowledge consisted of feeling the sand and then poking it with a machete a few times. Then again, I'm not a highly trained minister of agriculture. We discussed the program with the farmer and the initiator, who told us they have about 15 acres and have been very successful at growing eggplants and squash. Once it was confirmed that the soil was good, Alfred explained that we will be providing them with seed packets to grow rice, which can be harvested every 3 months. Given that rice is the staple food group of the country, and largely imported, the women should be able to feed their families and sell the remainder.
Sunday was a complete 180 from my day bouncing on okadas and standing in the middle of the bush with initiators. We woke up leisurely, enjoyed the view from our apartment, and dressed for the beaches, then went for a nice breakfast at Bliss, one of the local ex-pat favorites. They're known for the spectacular crepes, juices, omelets, and "the best coffee in Freetown." It certainly did not disappoint and was a pretty good value, though extremely high for Salone. After eating and applying sunscreen in the bathroom, we chartered a taxi and set off to Lakka to meet two Americans who Ashley had met at the beach last weekend. Sadly, upon our arrival, the sky had turned a menacing dark grey and we were only able to enjoy a short period of sun & swimming before the storm started and stuck around. The day was, in a nutshell, the complete opposite of my prior day, but a much needed mini-break.
Since Monday, I've been getting situated at the CESMYCO offices in Freetown and adjusting to our daily commute. We walk down to the Wilberforce roundabout, where we get into the queue (okay, mob) for the shared taxis to town. The process involves having your elbows out and being the first to touch the door handle of approaching taxis, while running alongside (surrounded by the rest of the mob), shouting "to town? to town?" If the driver gives any indication, usually a light nod, the doors are flung open and we begin to cram ourselves into the vehicle. On average, the taxi can hold 2-3 people more than there are seats, but there are at least 2-3 times that trying to get in any given car. We're starting to get much better at the process and the ride costs a spendy $0.25/person. On mornings like today, when Ashley left earlier and I felt lazy, an okada is a big expense at around $1. In the evenings, we're starting to explore the stalls of street food-- lots of meat on a stick and fantastic bread-- and enjoy our full satellite tv, which includes about 5 channels in English and 300 from Lebanon, as well as a few outings to things like reggae night down at the beach and free movies at one of the ex-pat favored restaurants. Still in the process of settling into what I'll be doing at work-- right now, researching grants for CESMYCO, but I'm trying to design a research plan to examine the by-laws in two other chiefdoms in Sierra Leone to complete the proposal we started with the clinic.
Saturday morning I headed off for my first day of work, having heard from Alfred on Friday that there was a meeting he wanted me to attend with him. The details were less than specific, so I hopped on an okada (motorbike taxi) without a clear idea of what to expect. After winding our way through the hills and traffic of Freetown, my driver dropped me at the office and Alfred and I set off for a "walking tour" of downtown Freetown, which more realistically involved stopping to see some people and running a few errands while walking to somewhere easier to get a taxi. From there we chartered a taxi to Wellington, just east of the city, home of the brewery for Star Beer (Sierra Leone's finest, not available at any of the "nice" restaurants).
While we drove, Alfred explained the purpose of the meeting-- CESMYCO has been working with soweis, the initiators for the bondo society, to abandon the practice of FGM. One of the steps in this process involves support for alternative employment. CESMYCO has provided seeds to the collectives of women to allow them to grow crops and create a seed bank, which will provide seeds for further groups of women. We met the chief initiator in Wellington, along with Frank, one of the men who helps to farm the land, and a representative from the Ministry of Education. We then hopped in another taxi to take us about a half hour away to Waterloo, after which the roads were "unautoable." After some negotiation, we arranged for several okadas which would take us to the village where the farm land was and everyone in town was highly entertained by the site of a white girl on the back of a bike. The road was truly undrivable for a car, as my driver steered us around potholes, makeshift dams (for the rains), puddles, and finally onto a small overgrown footpath. Eventually we emerged in a tiny cluster of homes, and Frank led us through the bush to the farm land. The agriculturalist conducted a thorough investigation of the soil, which to the best of my knowledge consisted of feeling the sand and then poking it with a machete a few times. Then again, I'm not a highly trained minister of agriculture. We discussed the program with the farmer and the initiator, who told us they have about 15 acres and have been very successful at growing eggplants and squash. Once it was confirmed that the soil was good, Alfred explained that we will be providing them with seed packets to grow rice, which can be harvested every 3 months. Given that rice is the staple food group of the country, and largely imported, the women should be able to feed their families and sell the remainder.
Sunday was a complete 180 from my day bouncing on okadas and standing in the middle of the bush with initiators. We woke up leisurely, enjoyed the view from our apartment, and dressed for the beaches, then went for a nice breakfast at Bliss, one of the local ex-pat favorites. They're known for the spectacular crepes, juices, omelets, and "the best coffee in Freetown." It certainly did not disappoint and was a pretty good value, though extremely high for Salone. After eating and applying sunscreen in the bathroom, we chartered a taxi and set off to Lakka to meet two Americans who Ashley had met at the beach last weekend. Sadly, upon our arrival, the sky had turned a menacing dark grey and we were only able to enjoy a short period of sun & swimming before the storm started and stuck around. The day was, in a nutshell, the complete opposite of my prior day, but a much needed mini-break.
Since Monday, I've been getting situated at the CESMYCO offices in Freetown and adjusting to our daily commute. We walk down to the Wilberforce roundabout, where we get into the queue (okay, mob) for the shared taxis to town. The process involves having your elbows out and being the first to touch the door handle of approaching taxis, while running alongside (surrounded by the rest of the mob), shouting "to town? to town?" If the driver gives any indication, usually a light nod, the doors are flung open and we begin to cram ourselves into the vehicle. On average, the taxi can hold 2-3 people more than there are seats, but there are at least 2-3 times that trying to get in any given car. We're starting to get much better at the process and the ride costs a spendy $0.25/person. On mornings like today, when Ashley left earlier and I felt lazy, an okada is a big expense at around $1. In the evenings, we're starting to explore the stalls of street food-- lots of meat on a stick and fantastic bread-- and enjoy our full satellite tv, which includes about 5 channels in English and 300 from Lebanon, as well as a few outings to things like reggae night down at the beach and free movies at one of the ex-pat favored restaurants. Still in the process of settling into what I'll be doing at work-- right now, researching grants for CESMYCO, but I'm trying to design a research plan to examine the by-laws in two other chiefdoms in Sierra Leone to complete the proposal we started with the clinic.
19 May 2010
Waiting
In case anyone was worried, I've arrived in Freetown with relatively little difficulty. There was an extensive layover in Heathrow, at which point I decided that is the absolute worst airport in the world. Finally landed in Freetown around 10:30, and took the helicopter over to Aberdeen without really knowing if anyone would be there to meet me or if there would be somewhere for me to stay. Luckily, I'd met a fellow law student, Adam, at the gate in London and he was scheduled to spend the night with Stephen, a Canadian who had met my friend, Ashley, when she looked at a room in his apartment. Stephen welcomed me to stay with him, rather than risking a trip to the YMCA and not having a room, so I've settled into their apartment for now.
Have been having some communication difficulties in reaching work, due to everyone being out of the office, phone numbers not working, and a series of missed emails back and forth. Needless to say, it's been more than a little frustrating, but I've been keeping my patient face on and waiting for everything to fall into place. Should be able to get through to work today, so I'm counting this week as a "settling" week and will get started in earnest tomorrow. We (by which I mean Ashley, as she did all the groundwork) have found an amazing apartment located on the hill by all the embassies. We're directly below the Chinese Embassy, with a view over the bay and all the amenities. Will try to post pictures once we've moved in, but one room has a walk in closet roughly the size of my bedroom in New York. As the internet is getting a little spotty, I'm going to sign off for now. Hope everyone is well at home.
Have been having some communication difficulties in reaching work, due to everyone being out of the office, phone numbers not working, and a series of missed emails back and forth. Needless to say, it's been more than a little frustrating, but I've been keeping my patient face on and waiting for everything to fall into place. Should be able to get through to work today, so I'm counting this week as a "settling" week and will get started in earnest tomorrow. We (by which I mean Ashley, as she did all the groundwork) have found an amazing apartment located on the hill by all the embassies. We're directly below the Chinese Embassy, with a view over the bay and all the amenities. Will try to post pictures once we've moved in, but one room has a walk in closet roughly the size of my bedroom in New York. As the internet is getting a little spotty, I'm going to sign off for now. Hope everyone is well at home.
14 May 2010
To Salone
It's summer, once again, which means I'm packing my bags, leaving law school behind, and taking a very long series of flights to Africa. As most of you know, I began working with the Centre for Safe Motherhood, Youth, and Child Outreach (CESMYCO) during the Leitner Human Rights Clinic this semester. Our project focused on anti-FGM advocacy in the Kambia District, specifically the use of community by-laws to eliminate the practice. I will be working with CESMYCO this summer to continue drafting and advocating for such laws, as well as using community efforts for advocacy at the national level.
I make no promises as to my consistency with updating this, but I'll try to check in every week or so. Until then, check out Sierra Leone and the Leitner Center.
I make no promises as to my consistency with updating this, but I'll try to check in every week or so. Until then, check out Sierra Leone and the Leitner Center.
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