The Bridge to Nowhere

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.

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. 

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.

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, but around here it is nearly impossible to get any updates on things that are not the World Cup.  Even CNN International felt it was necessary to do a full story on Ronaldo’s new baby and Dunga’s firing, while less important stories like “JFK evacuated due to bomb” “Poland elects new president” and “Hundreds feared dead after oil tanker explodes in Congo” were relegated to the ticker at the bottom.  We heard the Ronaldo update 3 times before there was any follow-up on the JFK story.

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.  As is typical for teams I have selected, both teams were promptly eliminated that afternoon—Brazil to Netherlands and Ghana to Uruguay (“Uru-gone”, see below for explanation).  The Brazil match was surprising, but other than a passing desire to keep watching their distinctive style, I had no real attachment to their team.  Brazil is definitely not an underdog in the competition, and who can really dislike the Netherlands, even if they made the inexplicable decision to make their uniforms orange, a color which looks good on nobody, but is particularly bad on the Dutch coloring. 

Then it was time for the Ghana game.  It had rained steadily through the afternoon, so we called a taxi and rode down to the NP (yes, it’s a bar at a gas station), our home for the Ghana matches.  We arrived as the players made their way to the pitch and the space was packed.  Eventually we found seats and exchanged pleasantries with those squeezed around us, winning friends by explaining that we were for Ghana and resented Uruguay’s tactics.  The first half of the game was troubling: nobody scored, but Ghana looked tired and outmatched.  When they had the ball, they played frantically, often losing passes or missing shots in their rush.  As stoppage time wound down, literally as the announcer commented, “If Ghana is going to score, they only have twenty seconds left to do so”, something clicked and the ball sailed into the net.  1-0 at the half.

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, but around here it is nearly impossible to get any updates on things that are not the World Cup.  Even CNN International felt it was necessary to do a full story on Ronaldo’s new baby and Dunga’s firing, while less important stories like “JFK evacuated due to bomb” “Poland elects new president” and “Hundreds feared dead after oil tanker explodes in Congo” were relegated to the ticker at the bottom.  We heard the Ronaldo update 3 times before there was any follow-up on the JFK story.

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.  As is typical for teams I have selected, both teams were promptly eliminated that afternoon—Brazil to Netherlands and Ghana to Uruguay (“Uru-gone”, see below for explanation).  The Brazil match was surprising, but other than a passing desire to keep watching their distinctive style, I had no real attachment to their team.  Brazil is definitely not an underdog in the competition, and who can really dislike the Netherlands, even if they made the inexplicable decision to make their uniforms orange, a color which looks good on nobody, but is particularly bad on the Dutch coloring. 

Then it was time for the Ghana game.  It had rained steadily through the afternoon, so we called a taxi and rode down to the NP (yes, it’s a bar at a gas station), our home for the Ghana matches.  We arrived as the players made their way to the pitch and the space was packed.  Eventually we found seats and exchanged pleasantries with those squeezed around us, winning friends by explaining that we were for Ghana and resented Uruguay’s tactics.  The first half of the game was troubling: nobody scored, but Ghana looked tired and outmatched.  When they had the ball, they played frantically, often losing passes or missing shots in their rush.  As stoppage time wound down, literally as the announcer commented, “If Ghana is going to score, they only have twenty seconds left to do so”, something clicked and the ball sailed into the net.  1-0 at the half.

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.

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.