Amara, thy name is trouble

So I have a son. Not the kind of son that storks deliver after a man and a woman love each other very very much, get married, then paint a nursery, but the kind that happened when I found a kid who is awesome, struggling, is 14, has one parent that lives 100 miles away, and is covered in a huge glop of potential. I don’t remember the first time I met Amara, but I remember thinking when I’d see him around that he was as awake as a can of Redbull, dumb as a can of lead paint, and likeable as a steak and potato dinner with a gorgeous girl….right now that just seems like the most likeable thing that comes to mind.

Anyway, I’d love to say I’m taking to my paternal role well, but but given the amount of fussing I aim at him, I think ‘maternal’ is the role I auditioned for- we discussed this, and he does in fact now refer to me as ‘mom.’

It amazed me how much goes in to putting a student together. And not just money- but yeah, a lot of that- but time spent even making trips to get everything. From his white socks to his blue uniform tie. We did a great job though, after assembling him, he’s equipped with state-of-the-art ball point Bic pens, 80 page notebooks, some goofy backpack, and a smile that you’d have to put in a steel box to hid. 

He comes over in the evenings after school to eat gads of rice and sauce with me- the kid adamantly hates on the home-made pizza I try to entice him with- then he’ll go over his notes while I make lesson plans for the next school day. I must be an awesome mom, because after he eats ever last bit of his dinner, he takes all the dishes out back to wash before he studies.

So after I got him into school, though, he hasn’t been able to do all the odd jobs he used to for food money, etc., so I told him I’d hire him as a full-time student. Bad grades equals him getting fired. We’ll see at the end of the term…

But this hasn’t exclusively been a unidirectional parenting situation. Given my, albeit diminishing, cultural ineptitude, in a few situations I’ve had to defer to his bitter judgment. We’ve kind of got a Yin/Yang authority relationship in the marke3t, for example- him taking the wheel during haggling, and myself holding the reigns when  it comes time to pay. And not that my Temne is excellent, but he’s also been helping me along quite a bit with language, and, when necessary, laughing at me quite a bit when I ask a cop to beat me (Sapto) instead of asking him for the key to the water well (Ansapo).

 But hey, before you start whistling the Andy Griffith Show theme song and picture Amara and I skipping off to the fishing hole, there have been some tense moments.

Like- the first nature club meeting my school had.

As one of the four directing teachers, I was shepherding students around the wharf area. Being a club concerned with the environment, it was a good area to look around- the latrine built over the river bank with a smiling pile of excrement under it…..Yeah, it disappears when the tide comes up, but it floats down 30 feet to where women are washing pans in the water and children are bathing.

Anyway, as I played prison warden and simultaneous teacher, I looked over and casually freaked out as I saw Amara getting a five-star whoopin from this very very loud, very very angry dude. “Oh goodness… what has this boy done now…”

Amara’s version of events- He was standing by the vendors (probably trying to get his swerve on with this bread girl I think he likes) when some random guy walks up and starts smackin him around. No greeting. No, “Hey, just a heads up, I’m gonna try to kill you now!” Just WWF smackin.

The fact that Amara isn’t really a big guy worked in his favor, because by the time I got over to him, about 20 people were wedging them apart, trying to save the little guy from brain damage. The Frothing Lunatic was being drug away and Amara had a look of hurt puzzlement duct taped across his face.

“Amara… what in Pete’s name did you do?!”

“No… I didn’t do anything…”

I don’t know if it’s the innate ability of a parent to divine if their ward is speaking truth, or if it’s the stunned, lamb-like manner with which he claimed innocence, but I could really tell he didn’t know what he’d done to cook that guy’s chili.

Turns out some lass (Amara didn’t even know her name…I think it was something like Lying Dingbat?) had tried to get Frothing Lunatic more interested in her by saying Amara was spreading rumors that she and Frothing Lunatic were going to get married. Like I said, Amara didn’t know Lying Dingbat from the man on the moon- he was just the unfortunate recipient of some weird girl’s finger point. But what guy would be weird enough to open fire with his fists on a boy without any confirmation? Only some Frothing Lunatic. Don’t touch my son again. Mamma Bear will anger.

The other situation that had me thinking Amara had really spilled all the skittles, was when I was riding my bike past the Police Station……..and he was inside yelling at the cops. I’d have given a Benjamin to see how shocked I looked- if it had any likeness to how I felt inside, it would have been worth every cent.

There’s usually a mob gathered in front of the police station, but I’ve never known its nucleus member before. Like a mood ring, the mob always had different shades- the shade of this one was triumphant.

I approached the throng with the hurried but apprehensive gait of someone unsure if they left the gas on in the house, and Amara was vomited out of the mass right on to me. I checked his wrists for shiny metal cuffs- nothing.

“Well?”

“I caught the thief!”

Of  course this entered my worried, pessimistic ears as “I was caught thiefing!” and my eyebrows shot off the top of my head as fast as “WHAT?!” shot out of my mouth.

He started blurting out the story- Some money I’d given him for school fees had been stolen almost two months ago. I relentlessly gave him a hard time about it for a while, joking, but he was sincerely upset about the whole thing and I let it rest and forgot about it. Amara didn’t.

When he found the notebook he’d tucked the money inside sitting in someone’s house and a snitch told him he’d seen this guy steal it, Amara went straight to the police and had the dude THROWN IN JAIL. This is about the time I entered the story, Amara and everyone else present were insanely excited about the dump truck of justice that got parked on this guy’s face.

As I write this, I kid you not, this guy is still in jail, literally held for ransom at Amara’s will until a family member pays back the money he stole. If Amara wanted, he could walk over to the jail, tell the cops to let him go, and the guy would go free. But my little surrogate son is vindictive. I don’t know what a proper parent’s response would be here:

“Uh… BAD Amara! How many times do I have to tell you to not hold community members for ransom?!”

He told me last night that he took his prisoner a bowl of food and lectured him on how it’s wrong to steal, even in desperate situations… So I guess I’m actually not sure if he needs any explicit parenting here.

Quotes from the boy:

“I don’t like women… Only education!”

“I’m not a monkey… you are a monkey!” (wow, good one, Amara)

“I don’t need to get a woman… I need to get a book then the women will try to get me.”

“Pizza?” I can not eat American chop and African chop. I will constipate…you must constipate boku.”

Anyway, he’s a good kid and I pray that I’m doing right by him. Two years seems like a substantial amount of time to integrate and effect change, but I was thinking today it’s also a long enough time to tie a few heartstrings to a community and the people it holds.

The Great Gbanky Race

“Oh wow, I didn’t know this would be such a big deal.”

The organism that is my village had constricted around the echoing walls of the abandoned rice processing plant that owned a seemingly painted view of the river. Two fo the most humbling trees I’ve ever stood under built a living box on the banks, their roots like straws in the water. The box was stuffed with people.

The stacks of speakers set up inside the abandoned complex slapped my eardrums with the most popular songs saturating Sierra Leone’s pop-charts and lent a festive scent that vendors had caught and swarmed to. Like an avalanche, the citizens had slid to the “Gbanky Race” in such a way that made me think there were more smiles than there were faces in Mambolo that day.

The Gbanky Race is the annual canoe race that invokes the same excited feel as Chinua Achebe’s wrestling competitions. The race is run from the banks near Catonkah to the mid point in the river in direction of Obersay. No more than a half mile roundtrip, the wiley dugout canoes the competitors were captain of hardly cleared the water by inches as they started the race and the tightly packed box of humans cheered.

I would have attended the race regardless, but when Abdraman solicited me for the use of my boat several days earlier, the race gained a great deal more interest. My juvenile, virgin boat to be set not only against the waves, but competitors as well? I agreed of course. If someone was going to take my child into battle and deflower it, I suppose I’d rather that person be made of cast iron like Abdraman than blood and skin and other wimpy stuff.

I can hardly pretend to be proficient yet in Temne, and Krio even gets lost on me occasionally. So, it’s no surprise I was a little confused when Abdraman came the day before the race asking it was alright to talk to some “mammy” about winning the race for him by giving him something that would surely endow him with strength- I resorted to smiling and nodding like an idiot. Why Abdraman would need any more strength was beyond me, and I just wasn’t seeing how the frail old woman I thought he was referencing could import it to him. Answer: Holy Water.

He burst through my door when I opened it for him on race day, “Oh, be brought a little pop bottle full of water. Staying hydrated like a champ.” Then my living room got wet and wild as he flung water at the boat with a semi-maniacal, Grand-Canyon smile on his face. “It will give me strength so I don’t tire in the race!” I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to try a sip.

My dugout canoe has been acting the part of a couch in my house lately, so I as a little nervous some jungle bug had eaten a fatal hole through it. I didn’t want to see a Titanic recreation half way across the river. But what better to protect my boat and its occupant from the water than… with splashes of water.

A moat, portcullis, awful beasts, lasers, and a TV playing a low-quality Richard Simmons VHS couldn’t have deterred the human tsunami that flooded my house later. It was the party to carry the boat down to launch. Abdraman didn’t do anything more than smile as my baby boat was hoisted out my double doors in the front, whoosps, hoops, and hollers were echoing in the house. Alright, this was getting fun.

Okay fast-forward to the start of the race. From my VIP perspective in the judge’s motorboat in the river, I expected an epic. I expected snapped paddles, blood spilling into river water, collisions, capsizing, sweating, cursing. I expected Ben-Hur. Instead I just got a good laugh.

My new boat looked as absurdly white next to the muddy farm boats in the race as I look absurdly white walking down Market Street in Freetown. There was Abdraman, then there was everyone else. I just finished reading A Brief History of Time, but even if I tapped Stephen Hawking’s vocabulary, I just don’t think I could express how absurdly far ahead Abdraman was from the peloton. After rowing through highschool and university for eight years, my definition of a “solid win” is like… a boat length of open water. Abdraman just ripped my dictionary in half.

At the award presentation after, I tripped through the crowd as I heard my name shouted, instructions following that I was to come forward to say something in the mic. Due to the poorly timed fire ant assault on my legs, I only managed to say, “I brought the boat, Abdraman brought the muscle.” Before I limped away to smack the nasty critters off me.

I’m not sure if I’ll take my couch/boat out to race next year, but I guess I did ask a man the other day how much he would charge to carve me some big paddles…

Alright, well as always, the end of my post will deteriorate into disparate fragments of little things I want to mention. Like: All the hair in my armpits fell out the other day. This isn’t said to raise alarm, but just next time you see me and think, “He’s a little different…” It’s probably because my pits are naked. I really feel neutral about the whole thing- I see my armpits about as often as I see my gallbladder- but it’s still remarkable.

Also- I recently felt like James trying to eat my way out of some freak-sized peach. There’s this police roadblock that I pass through every trip to Freetown where people in cars in need of food have developed a symbiotic relationship with fruit vendors in need of hungry people.

“Banana! Banana!” “I don’t want that.”

“Plums! Plums!” “Nope. Not feelin it.”

“Coconut! Coconut!” “No, you guys just aren’t- OH SWEET, WHAT IN THOMAS EDISON’S NAME IS THAT I WANT IT GIVE IT ME.”

I handed some pieces of paper through the car window, and they had a hard time fitting a prehistoric papaya back through to me. Really it’s a crime I didn’t take a core sample or do Carbon-14 dating on it because surely this monster fruit had ruled the planet with whatever ruled before the dinosaurs. Besides being a great conversation piece taking up all my lap the rest of the way to Freetown, It was a feast for every volunteer with a mouth at the hostel (including two volunteers from The Gambia that must’ve followed astrological signs to be present at The Consumption).

Alright, before I start expounding on my other more trivial trivialities- library I’m building, two year old Mabinty I taught to dance like a dinosaur, Zombie-defying medical supplies I discovered in a dark basement, my recent, passionate, fully exclusive relationship I’ve embarked on with spam- let us kindly put this ramble to rest.

PV=nRT

Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) is the cutting of or removal of the clitoris.

Complications are generally: Sex for females can become exceedingly painful, nerve ends distorted by the cliterectomy sometimes never heal. Part of a ritual, the knife used to cut the first girl is used for subsequent girls without sterilization. In large groups of girls, this has been said to lead to the introduction of blood-borne diseases, like HIV, during the removal. Psychological significance, no matter the age of the female, can only be imagined.

The coin is flipped now- the perceived advantages of the tradition: During the time of healing after the cliterectomy, priceless instruction is given to the newly circumcised girls. How do you cook? How do you run a household? How do you get, keep, and live happily with a husband? It’s a time when, given the immobilization caused by the removal, the girls are an almost literally captive audience.

A spotlight has illuminated the tradition on the international scene, the WHO, extensions of the UN, and Equality Now championing the awareness campaign fighting to eradicate FGM. Deeply intercalated into West African culture, however, it is proving a hard element for them to distill and eliminate.

For example, like an oil company hearing about the plans for a car that runs on air, the circumcisers that derive their well-being from the tradition have strove to perpetuate it. A child born to an uncircumcised mother aided by a midwife who is also a circumciser will somehow be suffocated. “Babies die at childbirth if the mother is uncircumcised.” An uncircumcised woman is labeled a “borka” and can be unofficially sentenced to the societal fringe. Political doors are closed to her as well as employment opportunities.

Labels and labeling are a strange game. In the debate over abortion in America, one party waves a flag declaring their “Pro-Choice” stance. So what does the opposition party name itself? “Anti-Choice?” Of course not, they are “Pro-Life.” Republicans in the US wouldn’t want to be labeled as “Anti-Democracy” as much as Democrats would fain be called “Anti-Republic.” So would those in favor of maintaining the tradition and preventing the legislative outlawing of FGM consider themselves “Mutalists?” Of course not, they would be “Traditionalists.” And that is what I would like to briefly address. The razing of tradition.

When men spear through buildings, a city, and a nation’s heart with planes, 11 men and women set their countries on fire by self-immolation, and hand grenades are sent into night clubs and bus stops like bowling balls, it is clear that in our globalized theater, men hold the character of their cultures central. Even as removed as I am, the few radio waves that make it through the jungle to my back porch tell the same story of frictions between cultures; white collared cataclysm in the EU, cars and people alike retooled into bombs in the Middle East, and lethal riots in Libya, Syria, Egypt, and Liberia are all shoves against would-be walls forcing a conformity.

Globalization expansion paralleling the speed of technological growth, the dynamics of globalization are sometimes shrouded in as much mystery to governments and their analysts as computers are mystery to survivors of the pre-digital world. Where cultures expand to overlap, painful interactions due to misunderstanding can occur. Where there is misunderstanding, toes will be stepped on.

Sit tight and read this example of cultural ignorance- A student was sitting in a classroom. That would have seemed normal and right except every other student was outside singing the national anthem. Being my responsibility that week to keep students where and when they were supposed to be, I called the boy out of the room with puffed-up authority.

                His limping approach told me without having to ask why he hadn’t joined his peers at assembly, but the question of why there were forty-or-so black circles all over his leg took its place.

“Iron.”

“Iron? You were burned with an iron?”

“Yes.” He looked down and away not showing me his face.

“Who… burnt you with the iron?”

“My mother.”

What kind of depraved punishment was that? What kind of parent does that? Refusing to answer why his mother had burned his lower leg with a cherry-red iron, I wrote his name on my arm and marched to find the closest senior teacher, planning to find out what Sierra Leone’s version of Social Services was.

“It was to heal him.” The senior teacher explained.

“What?”

“They think the heat enters the bone and it heals the child.”

A maniacal mother I’d been cursing in my mind’s eye transfigured to a desperate mother trying whatever she knew to heal her child. You might think I’m pointing out the mother’s medical ignorance here, but I’d like to emphasize my own.

I’m not condoning the use of flesh-burning techniques to heal, and certainly not giving my blessing to the practice of excising a woman’s sex organs, but one thing I wholeheartedly would endorse and encourage is the use of ears and eyes before words and uneducated action. It seems that, given our planet isn’t increasing in volume, as the number of entities in our world increase along with social temperature, the pressure on us will increase as cultures collide with greater frequency. Boiling, freezing- sometimes an explosion- results from these variables going too far askew, and given the narrow range of conditions our species can survive in, let us try something. Being observant.

Observant of the way people differ from you. Observant of disparities. Observant of intentions behind actions. Observant even of the fact that the fervency you supplicate yourself to your religion with can be matched or surpassed by those subscribing to a different set of beliefs. Observant of the toes we don’t even know we might be about to crush.

I’m sure this carries little weight coming from a young mind with no expertise. However, at risk of sounding extremely disrespectful, I’ll say it is much more common for adults to wear glasses to help them see than it is for youth. For example, even the small amount I’ve aged in Mambolo, a Temne dominated region, I’ve lost perspective on the Mende and other tribal regions of Salone that are diverse as river rocks. It’s not because I’m growing senile or ignorant- of course I’ve been learning more and more every day- but when I take time in Freetown to look around at a mish-mash coming together, I see I’ve been becoming narrowed. We’re natives and therefore products of our own culture, and it takes exercise to grow our minds to allow room for different cultures and creeds to crowd in with our own. Observation is that exercise. Observation and the utilization of the awareness that follows.

Let’s look around often. Please.

Giving Thanks

[Being the introduction of the post, this is the part where I hook ya in with a weird little story]

It wasn’t the wrong side of the bed, but I was turned upside down relative to how I remembered falling asleep. Maybe it was something to do with the two fried spamwiches I had pushed down my throat before becoming comatose, but I felt like I’d been stung in the brain by an entire beehive and my body was marshmallow. This is why God invented Folgers, energy drinks, and… screaming children? Seemingly coming from the square of pale sky that said, “Hey!” through my window, the wails of an aggravated child outside made it more unpleasant to remain in bed than it was to pull up the tacks holding my limbs down. I tottered. Around. Just doing whatever people do in the morning. The thought of masticating last night’s leftover rice for breakfast was menacing, so again I tottered. Down the street. Getting crackers from this guy’s shop was common enough, but the next few brain waves I had were new. My back to the rising sun till now, turning to walk back home squared me to a huge, new sky.

                All of Hank Rearden’s furnaces were burning just below the tree line. The clouds streaming up in columns were yet to be back lit and imitated the black clouds that must have billowed from Haphaestus’s own forge. Surely Rome and every other great civilization were burning below the horizon. The vibrations of the new day that found their way through my leaden lids would’ve rung like gold if they could’ve been sounded. I was transformed to a single note in the Gloria. A 5^th, 6^th- and 7^th dimension for good measure- unfolded on me. Whatever kind of polyester that space-time fabric is made of became infinitely deep under my feet as my brain bore down, laden with whatever was overwhelming it. That would really have to be the last time I fry processed meat-by-product and willingly ingest it before sleeping…

[Great! The introduction over, this is where I use a hook to segway from the introduction to the post’s body]

                I think what I was experiencing besides a confounded stomach was thankfulness. For my situation. For the quick silvers of a sunrise and the cherry heat of a rich sunset I knew would come later. For the food in my hands and the baggy shorts on my legs. For the fact that I can walk, swallow, breathe, twist, and talk. I’ve been a little introspective throughout the day, thinking about what other than- upcoming Thanksgiving. Geography aside, I suppose the essence of the holiday can be maintained well enough for me. Barely.

                Given that the only part of ourselves we really leave after we’re ushered through death’s door into the next room is family, and given they’re an ocean and gigantic land mass away- it’ll be a little harder to be with that part of me that’s most worth appreciating.

[Now here’s the part where I talk about my pseudo-family so everything seems alright]

                I recently got a sim card back that allows me to call anyone in Peace Corps Salone free of charge. Awesome. (I forgot my last phone didn’t know how to swim or else I wouldn’t have dropped it in the Great Scarcies River) Anyway, Kim in Rokupr has been giving me the numbers of fellow volunteers so I can replenish my phonebook. It’s really a charming game we’re playing- she gives me just the numbers and somehow fails to tell me who owns them. Ten times out of nine I end up having a great little chat when I call them. It’s a testament to their warmth of character that someone can call them up after a month of off-the-radar oblivion and they’ve maintained such a level of amiability. I’ve never felt “stuck” in Salone, but if I was actually going to be stuck somewhere for a holiday, this is the pseudo-family I would choose to spend it with.

[Now this is the part where I come across as somewhat arrogant, and even extol the advantages of a holiday abroad]

                During my introspection, a little spaceship from my past gracefully crashed into my conscience. The spaceship held a seemingly alien memory of being shudderingly cold, but on the hunt- on the hunt for a great deal. The days of newspapers made obese by their diets of ads and coupons leading up to my Black Friday shopattack were like days of gladiator training before the colesseum. I think it takes longer to flip through the Best Buy ads than it takes my students to study for their term tests.

                I was glad when I realized that whole component will be excised from my holiday season this go around. Sure I’ll struggle to come up with some gift ideas for those within gifting-distance, but they’ll be made at the blacksmith and tailor’s, not purchased from Target and encased in that freakishly strong plastic. It’s not the presence or absence of gifts or even the intentions they’re bought with, but the environment you have to enter to get them back home can be abrasive. I feel lucky.

                Another facet of abroad-for-the-holidays I’m convincing myself is a positive, is the massively different frame these will be set in. Say someone thiefs your shower from your house… then every other amenity you’re used to. You’ll be pretty darn grateful for even a bucket of water and bar of soap. A pot to boil water in. A mattress. A wall with a window in it. Obviously too many things. Like I said before, the penultimate thing I couldn’t be thankful enough for is my family living on a blueberry farm in a valley’s trough, but stripping parades, football games, and commercials out, the lesser things are easy, easy to see.

[Anyway, this is the part I realize I’m writing a little too far towards the fringes of ponder some- therefore boring- and I come up with a humorous or endearing ending to make anything random I’ve just written seem fine]

I guess the thing I’m most thankful for at the moment though is the semi-permeability of my skin. If I was just living in a waterproof bag, I wouldn’t be able to sweat as profusely as I am on my porch right now. Even if it’s spamsweat from last night’s gluttonous chow session, the wind brushing past me makes me feel quite fine. The radiation from that nuclear sunrise this morning has cooled throughout the day and its activities- my school had a devotion ceremony this afternoon wherein it dedicated itself to everyone’s respective version of God, and a handsome Peace Corps volunteer there got to play a few hymns on a sexy, battery-powered LK-30 Casio Keyboard. A letter from the states turned bookmark has turned fan for me, and every flap I like to think flicks me with a little bit of my family of friends that will be celebrating their thanksgivings soon.

                Maybe it comes from being around such happy, friendly people every day here, but I feel charged with enough good will to write to everyone reading this that you should just pretty much have an excellent holiday season and hug your family and stuff.

Going "Home"

                “Tumble Dry Low” was all I could think as I was flipped like a pancake and gently slammed against the smooth, surprisingly abrasive ocean bottom. I’d love to say profound thoughts and unattained dreams glided through my surprised mind in my dying moments, but as the wave tried to churn me to butter, I actually just thought, “Socks have to deal with this business all the time.” A few decades later, the wave that I had been trying to body surf tired of using me as its plaything and continued past to hiss up onto a two-mile long crescent of white sand. Bureh beach looked beautiful as I gagged out a mouthful of salt water, its blue swells, transparent as each wave crested before turning to bubbles, were the temperature of an old bath and could float you for entire days. The furry palm tree-d mountains blasting up from the beach line promised to divulge the entire cast of Lost if you only waited long enough, and the rare cloud hurrying off to its work inland dropped only shadows, not rain. I glanced around for someone to propose marriage to, but, only seeing fellow dudes, I decided to head back to our beach hut and eat some papaya instead. What a waste of a picturesque location.

                After days of working on project proposals and printing out papers to organize my school’s library, for some reason the idea of staying at a tropical beach for a few nights seemed like something I could tolerate. The tragically, miraculously underdeveloped beaches in Sierra Leone harbor small-scale operations boasting huts for sleeping in, hammocs for reading in, and dinners of fresh-caught fish for burying your face in. Violently giggling to myself as  I read through Puck’s stunts and Bottom’s exuberance in A Midsummer Night’s Dream later that evening, I hardly noticed that my hammock was being rocked by the warm breeze coming from the direction of the orange sky that was busy extinguishing itself in the Atlantic.

                Now, it’s a strange feeling and journey to coming back to my village from there, but I’ll at least try to explain the route.

                The first thing to be done is find a shady spot because you might be standing by the side of the orad for a while. A taxi found and a price negotiated, nothing is left to do but try and brush enough sand off your legs to make the close quarters of 8 people ina 5 passenger car seem bearable (Seat belts? Don’t be ridiculous). Now you’re at Waterloo! Not quite a battleground but surely as crowded as Napoleon’s famous fizzle, Waterloo is a place you go to go someplace else. Sitting in a van, taxi, or lorry for an hour waiting for it to fill up can be sweaty, so thank goodness there are one thousandth of a million people shoving water for sale, rice cakes, and “COLD DRINKS COLD DRINKS ONE FOR TWO THOUSAND,” through your windows. Alright, hopefully you’re in the front seat as you drive out of town, you might have some sway over what the (possibly operating) radio blares and be able to hang your head out the window like a dog. Rogbury junction now? Great, usually they sell those skewers of some kind of bush meat and you usually don’t wait long for a taxi to Bomoy-Luma. Landmarks to look for along the way are Port Loko that has a wall around it, and the river with all the naked people washing in it. If you get to Kambia, you’d best get out and go backwards because you’re about to cross into Guinea.

                Bomoy-Luma is an inspiring place. It inspires me to spend boku Leons on stuff. It’s the site of a tireless market that will probably still be maintained by cockroaches after mankind extinguishes itself. I think whatever spirit a bulk-buyer at Costco or Sam’s Club has, lives inside me and has translated itself into Sierra Leone. If you’re anything like me, when you find another lorry, taxi, unicycle, dump truck or winged Pegasus to take you to Rokupr, your bag will be a little heavier with flour and cheese packets and margarine and fruit. I suppose a lunar buggy would even have to stop and change a tire or fix a snapped axle on that next road, so don’t get too anxious if it’s not an expedited trip. My worst (just kidding, BEST) experience there entails escaping from a taxi with the kid that was sitting on my lap as a ditch of water attacked the car and drowned everything from my ankles up to my knees. If this happens, just lift the taxi out, continue on your way, and forget that your butt is soggy. Alright, so you’re in pretty much beauty-central now- Rokupr. The pimply road downhill to the warf gives your eyes an emerald dinner (you’ve been traveling for five hours, so any meal is appreciated) before you’re sinking up past your ears into the busy waterside fiasco. Somehow I’ve always showed up in time to get the last boat out that day, so if you’re going to try the trip bring a boquet of shamrocks for luck. At this point, feeling a pleasant little buzz through the boat from the speck of a motor perched on the back, you can think to yourself, “Home free.” That is if you can hear your thoughts. The density of humanity on those boats is red-line, and I’m working on copying their acoustic properties to amplify my lessons at my students. Alright, after Rocino, Makot, Rowolo, and Carpasseh, you’re bumping into the concrete warf in Mambolo. A short walk fraught with friendly greetings later, you’re unlocking the door to Mambolo Manor, throwing your bag down, and collapsing onto whatever surface will support your tired bones. Congratulations, you just traveled about a hundred miles and it took 7 hours.

                Look, I know this is a stalker’s treasure map if they want to find me, but really- I’d love to have guests. Anyone, on any part of the creep spectrum, is invited.

                Anyway, you might laugh if you watch the day in rewind and realize you had taken a bath in the ocean just that morning. As nice as the whole indulgence of the beach was, I guess I’m realizing how attached I’m getting to my village and community when, instead of thinking, “Good to be back in Mambolo,” I think, “It’s good to be home.”

A post wherein I do not hesitate to use the 'Vagina' word

I was dubious. I caught my reflection in a pane of glass across the humid room and spent a moment studying it. It wasn't afraid or scared. Not disgusted. Maybe the dip in my brow betrayed concern, but then again I've always had a cave-man brow. All in all I was pleased that my face accurately represented my feelings. Just mostly dubious. I mentally manipulated the 10cm ruler I'd been drawing with earlier in the morning, and superimposed it across my fist. That was big.

Didn't we all learn when we were kids that squares don't fit through circles, and 9cm baby heads don't come out of holes... that size? Haven't the last four hours of labor proven that this just isn't going to work out, and the baby should come up with another route of escape? The mother was putting up a great fight and making enough sound to make the titans behave, but still... I was dubious.

"Goodness," I thought, "If I was ever confused about everything going on down there, I sure have it figured out now." I'd been surprised that morning by a wolf howl coming from the relatively deserted clinic. "Baby?" I asked the replacement CHO in charge. "Come. See."

Let's call her Tina. Tina had foresaken clothing. Eschewed it completely. I had to resist the urge to jump forward and catch her. She was completely stable on her feet, but she was also comppletely thumbing her nose at every bit of legislation Newton put into law. Her stomach projected her center of gravity well over her feet, but the principles of physics had given her a wide berth- anything knows the times when it's advisable to leave a woman alone. Because of hormones and such.

Well let's check out this room... Mattress on the floor- I wonder if it has always been brown. Plastic sheet over the mattress- I later wished I would've used it as a poncho. Glass cabinet in the corner- Good. It was harboring all the tools I'd seen relating to child birth.

As I was debating whether privacy was culturally significant enough to close the windows Tina was pacing by, the nurse galloped past me, a needle in her hand leveled like a lance. A handful of cc's of oxytocin later, Tina was really behaving like a woman who was going to drop a baby between her legs. The "water" that had broke earlier was just an appetizer to the main event I was sure.

"Shouldn't I be feeling weird about this?" I thought as I eased her down onto the mattress. It was at this point, as I wiped the slickness from Tina's legs with a lapa, being stared at furiously by her painful lookin vagina, that I took a moment to glance around the room. My brief, aforementioned internal dialogue with the pane of glass concluded, I straightened and took stock of the situation again. The nurse had taken off her shirt. Okay, weird. Roll with the punches. The replacement CHO was sitting on a pile of sacks in the corner, his eyes giving me a sparkling 'Thumbs up, dude! You got this!" he had confided to me earlier that he really hadn't done many deliveries before so he was really glad myself and the nurse were there. Translation: Help. Tina being the room's only other occupant, I guess there couldn't have been a deafening uproar as he said, "I'll be back soon." The disbelief those words had saddled me with vanished as I spied him clinging to a motorcycle, revving away. Um. Okay.

Between her screams at me to find her mother, give her a drug drip, and generally not let this be happening, Tina and I got along quite well. Drinks of water were easy to give, and I could tell the crunching pain in my hand was infentesimal next to her own as she wrung my fingers. How do I make this woman's pain stop?

Solutions I thought of: Jump on that big belly... It'll shoot that baby out like a banana. Or- get a snorkel mask and go in there after it.

My second strategy was partial prophecy as I found my latex-gloved hands exploring the unseen topography of the baby inside her. At the nurse's request to "make sure the baby was right," I tripple confirmed that that entailed putting my hand in a vagina. It did.

Alright, I'd seen enough profiles of the birthing process to know the face should be forward and down. Or was it up? I felt the slightest bit embarrassed when I realized I was bending my head backwards, trying to see if it was the best way for a baby to escape from a uterus. Okay, I remembered this medical poem I'd read- definitely face down.

A few excrutiating centimeters later, Tina was really screaming. What's the Temne word for "PUSH"? With a meteoric entrance, the nurse joined me at the battlefield of thighs and instructed me to pull this part like so and scoop my finger here like this.

"Maam, a significant amount of juice from your vagina has just sprayed up my entire arm."

Is what I wanted to say, but instead "o-fino!" escaped my mouth as the baby's head escaped into air. As it laid on its side as we suctioned mucous from its nose and mouth, its rib cage expanded with its first breath. With his first breath. I had a vauge understanding that I'd never fallen in love with something or someone so quickly and as completely. I cradled his head and lifted his quivering body onto a dry bundle of cloth. I'd picked up babies before, but only my sister's son before had made me wish I was alone to cry freely.

Forty-five minutes later after wiping the baby boy dry, I stood in front of a chalkboard apparently giving a chemistry lesson. My mind, though, was certainly a half mile away with the life that had just begun.

Gossip

If gossip is talking about someone behind their backs, out of earshot, or in private, then I've decided it's not gissip if I say what I'm thinking about some people in the world's loudest, public forum. I really can't think of anything bad to say about these individuals anyway, so I suppose the worst consequences would be supersizing their egos or catapulting them into the spotlight of international fame. Anyway, if you've acquiesced to lend your ear to some pseudo-gossip, may I present the profiles of Mr. James, Abdraman, Santige, and the kid at the warf.

Mr. James gives the impression of time. He defines experience and is constantly wearing an attitude impervious to trivialities. A young'un wants to argue political history? Best not contradict him, he was there. A teacher is impassioned about a too-small increase in a pay check? You just earned a chuckle coming from a mile deep in his chest. Mr. James is living, walking proof that you'll get "there" on time without rushing, and the world will keep spinning tomorrow like it has for countless millenia. A wealth of gigantic, slow, mischevious smiles, his occasional one-line contributions are all delivered in an absurdely baratone voice. If this man ever looked at me and said, "Simba... Remember me..." I would laugh in disbelief, then die in sheer, gleeful contentment.

So Abdraman isn't made of the same stuff as us. I imagine the ingredients used to create him were as follows: A saw blade. A horn's worth of gunpowder. A dozen scoops of glass shards mixed with beef jerky. Like 5 trillion Y chromosomes. A level bushel of magma with melting tank barrels sticking out. G.I. Jane was his surrogate mother, and the egg extracted from a lion was fertilized in a tricky process by Zeus, the Kraken, and a T-rex that happened to be passing by. Seriously people, do you get I'm trying to explain this is a really tough dude? In a brilliant display of irony though, whatever astrological signs qued up to watch his birth decided to give him the personality of an infant panda bear. Really nice. What a great guy to have as a friend.

I'd guess Santige escaped from a cartoon somewhere around the age of 16. That was 484 years ago. From his blue hat and the silvery black hair flipping from under it, to his coal-composite feet that hurt the ground he walks on, this is one harmless fellah. He posts up by a post in a ruined building near the warf and spends his days... chillin. I'm constantly surprised that the prayer beads milling through his hands haven't turned to dust, and I think he saves his energy for the singular purpose of greeting psser-bys. Not exactly fast on his feet, I was surprised to see he'd followed me and my bike to the bread-vendor near the warf. IAfter spying some children gazing in abject terror at my bi-wheel, I glanced at my bike to find Santige singing a little song to it as he wiped mud-speckles from its metal frame with his own handkerchief. Okay, how endearing.

So there's this kid at the warf who, if the situation arose, would be rounded up with the usual suspects. This guy was created to create trouble, and hdoesn't seem to appreciate the concept of being quiet, proper, or always polite. You'd think that golf-visor he wears around would fall off during one of his thousand odd-jobs he does, or that his shirt would be dustier from the cars he scrambles around repairing. He told me yesterday that he had just visited Freetown and saw a movie poster. The man on the poster had my skin, hair, and nose so he started yelling in the street that "I KNOW THIS MAN!" His characteristic juvenile stupidity is absolutely charming... In short, if I'm lucky enough to raise a son in the future, I hope he turns out just like this punk.

There are literal thousands of people in Mambolo at least as interesting as these. I count myself lucky as having so much time here to meet so many more.

Stuff and stuff

I had the vision of a dragonfly. The strength of a stegosaurous. The speed of a Gecko, and the prowess of a Lemur. And my stomach was really really right.

Having just punched myself in the mouth with fistfulls of jerky, candied fruit, pringles, nuts, more jerky, and a 45g progein drink to wash it all down, I looked at my clcok- 6 a.m. There being hardly a dent in the cornucopia contained in my recently arrived care packages, my binge didn't hurt my conscience so much as my alimentary tract. The carbohydrates, proteins, and fats raiding through my system gave me the aforementioned mental and physical rush. So what if I've lost 20+ lbs. since stepping of the plane, today I could wrestle an elephant.

And win.

Time to get ready for school. I revie2wed the notes I scrawled the night before- dear Lord, please reveal to me how to make Relative Abundance of Isotopes interesting to these students- then slammed a few chilly cups of rainwater against my skull. Knut was tied up outside trying to drown out Rihanna on the radio with his own howling, so I gave him the rest of last night's rice to keep his mouth busy. It's hard to believe that the new collar keeping him tied outside could be so loathed and loved- him doing the former, and me the latter. Okay, the dog was sated, I was prepared to pour some chemistry into young brains, and my stomach was stuffed like a boy scout's bag. Must be time to go.

The ride I had to school thuis morning was typical of every ride between my Mambolo Manor and Scarcies Secondary school (this morning in particular, I could've parted a heard of buffallo with my exceptional mood though). Children spilled out of houses like an ocean set free, shouting "Issa Kabba!!" with enough intensity to cause them coronary distress. I've often wondered if I'd be responsible to stop and perform CPR if one of the little onces crossedover from "impassioned yelling" to "passed out and not breathing." The women that sells those delicious little pepper snacks was out cooking, so I had to stop and trade a few words of traditional greeting before aiming my bike at the hill leading up to school. I'm probably a few thousand miles removed from the nearest X-Box, so dodging blue-clad Scarcies students on the road has taken Halo and Call of Duty's place. The school once gained, a meet-and-greet always ensues, every day you'd think you'd just met your colleagues. If I bumped into you in the staff room, our conversation would typically go something like this:

"Good morning! Hello!"
"You're welcome! Hello."
"How did you sleep?"
"I tell God thank you!" What about you?"
"Me too! I tell God thank you!"
"hello. Thank you. Thank you."
"Well that's all!"
"thank you. We will see each other later."

One national anthem, school song, and brief sermon later, we would both find ourselves teaching class. My students are awesome. Awesome, but behind- by no fault of theirs (teacher's strikes, etc.). They'll probably all be in neck braces if they keep glancing between their notes and my board work so frequently.

BOOM. My payload of knowledge bombs dropped on the school for the day, I suppose it's time to proceed to the Mambolo clinic for a whole storm of heart-wrenching problems, jokes and rattling laughter, marasmus represented alongside ballooning Oedema, easy conversation when patients are scarce, infections trying to steal limbs, and an abundance of the fattest happiest faces that could exist on human children. I love hte hospital. Obviously not because I like seeing the harsh diseases that people are dashed against (I may stray towards the awkward, but I'm not strange), but I'm in love because the hospital is an avaible avenue of education on a base level surpassing any classroom. What good is the study of commerce if malaria is ravaging your body? All the formulas you could memorize in physics are worthless if your brain is being snacked on by syphillis. HIV/AIDS, manageable for a community if education is provided, should surely take priority over a literary analysis of "So Long A Letter." Yes, children can eat eggs- it's a good source of energy. No, having intercourse will not kill your baby if they are still breast feeding. No, AIDS is not a myth. No, malaria nets do not make good fishing nets. Yes, the leading cause of pregnancy is sex.

With Al-Kamara, the CHO of the Mambolo clinic, to show me the ropes, nothing feels more comfortable now than to climb the few steps to the clinic, shake a few hands, and see what I can do that day to help (we're having an elephantiasis awareness campaign this weekend...ask me for more details- I'm the guy wearing the Hellen Keller Foundation shirt).

Well I don't think I've ended any of my recent posts with exhortations to tkae the best of care of yourselves and- if you're in the mood or not- to take care of everyone you can reach around you. But, as always, I hope you are. I'm a huge fan of love and other stuff like that.

Also- I'll admit my writing styles are outrageously influenced by whatever book I'm reading at the time- quirky when I'm reading Douglas Adams, succinct if I'm plunged into Hemingway, or lugburious if I'm trudging through Victor Hugo. The last three books I've read have been The Fountainhead, Jurassic Park, and Les Miserables. And apparently this is the kind of post that yields.

Reset

"YOU'RE ABSURD."

Is what I wanted to scream at an appalingly visible flower in the ditch. It looked like the beginning of the universe had been mounted on a green stem then forgotten by the sdie of the Kambia-Conakrey highway. The flower was completely disrespecting its context. You see, I was having a rotten day and it's purple fringed white confusion, a biological representation of the Mandlebrot set, was insisting that life is inherabtly, gorgeously miraculous. I was being subjected to my pet peave of African cahllenges though- transportation issues- and I wasn't about toput up with anything beautiful.

"Thisssss car isn't registered away from me!" Energetically slurred the man that had sprung behind the wheel when the driver stepped away on an important peanut-buying mission. Not caring to witness a property dispute of IMAX 3D proportions, I politely asked the woman sitting on my lap if she would allow me to step out of the car, and, after she put her chickens back in the baset on her lap, she did just that. Fifteen minutes later found me positioned on top of the same seat and under the same woman/bundle of disgruntled fowl. A quarter of an hour had only yielded more frustrations ad the Okada drivers conspiratorily beckoned me to their swift, cheap, and comfortable Honda motorcylces that the Peace Corps decreed we volunteers shall not mount- on pain of being catapulted back to the US of A. The taxis lumbering by were too full or headed the opposite direction from the Kambia bank I was desperately trying to reach before it closed in 25 minutes.

Anyway, the peanuts having been purchased, the man having yielded the driver's seat, and myself having ground half a centimeter of enamel away, the motor started.

My fear of getting to the bank after the doors had closed were not justified. My 2:59 p.m. arrival a minute before closing was greeted by a smiling, AK-47 toting guard and a few heartbeats later I was back on the road looking fora a car. But not before patronizing a cooler-carrying youth with some cold drinks and a roadside butcher selling a few handfuls of sizzling goat. My blood pressure still high, the thoughts going through my head only belonged in an R rated brain.

"Man... you are really enjoying life."

The voice, not my own, came from the dark. My eyes ached, trying to find the quiet source fighting the afternoon sun to look intoa complex of low overhanging tin roofs. Finding a solitary outline, I asked, "Wetin?"

"Your life... is great," the low, raspy voice replied.

Shifting slightly as he pulled a cigarette from his mouth, I noticed he looked like he belonged in the darkets corner of a pirate-bar. The ghost issuing from the glowing tip of the white stick in his mouth wrapped him in a 4th dimensional surrealism. His hat pulled so low revealed little of his face.

I looked at myself through his eyes and noticed how right he was.

"Oh man... I'm such an idiot."

I'm sure he interpreted my stuttered, "Thank you sir, I know" as arrogance, but to me it was the first dominoe in an internal monologue of self-beration. Little frustrations, annoyances, and every occurence making me vex were put back in their proper places as I took stock of my life here.

The oversized hosue I was returning to was a treasure chest of comforts- food stocked on shelves, a thinck mattress in a hand-carved bed, a solar light to keep nighttime outdoors, a battery-powered piano to slide my thoughts across, silverware, plates, filtered water, books, bicycle, aradio, and furniture all surrounded by lockable doors, glass windows, and a roof that didn't leak.

More essential than the tangible, though, I thought about the friends that live near my jewlery box. Thepastor from the local Baptist Church that discusses the latest BBC news report with perceptive additions. The carpenter that lives across the road that regales me with farming stories and magnificent tales of everything we'll be planting behind my house at the onset of the next rainy season. The police employed at the station next door, reslient to whatever problems crashed into them that day- always ready to share a full round of my favorite flavor of humor- sarcasm. The shop owner athe the warf, proud member of the Black Leo family, that turns up in the most unexpected corners of Mambolo and rips a smile out of me. Abdraman,who comes over at 5 in the morning to work out with me, offer to take my clothes home to wash, and connect me with any community member.

All these friendly faces mixed among the radiant, ready smiles of complete strangers living in the foreground of the paradisical Mambolo backdrop was a stiff, needed backhand against the negative adjectives I'd been smearing across my day.

"Man... such an idiot."

I remember getting back to my house, joking that Knut looked like the "purtiest thing ever," his white fur taking on the pink shades of the sky as the sun was ushered below the horizon (I'm sure it was offensive to him, but his english is still weak and he had to swallow the emasculating comment without retort). After a needed night's rest, I woke with a cool breeze sifting across me through the window, and thought, like I have every morning when I've woke lately, "Okay... don't be an idiot today." And then about every amazing thing that entails.

4 Pages

It's a strange exercise to remember my life a year ago today. If I grind my mental gears hard enough though, I can tear my mind out of its current environs and wrench it back to my emerald Eugene- back to this place called America. A year ago today I would have just finished a summer of barbecues. Of house sitting. Of pulling on tar-crusted shorts every morning to spend a day working on rooftops with just a hat proclaiming 'Chase Family Roofing' between myself and the sun. A retreat back to Armitage Road at quittin' time was always eagerly executed at the healthy pace of five miles over the speed limit- Susan's dinner well warranting the law-bending haste. A green picnic table under green walnut leaves was a surreal way to end the days, the company as good as the food.

But now, 365 days later, the sun that filtered through those leaves is 8,000 miles away- the entire expanse of the atlantic and breadth of America separating me from my home, family, and community. My new brand of sun, forged in an equitorial furnace, is the kind of sun that makes dinosaurs feel like going extinct. This sun glints off the oceans and beaches like it's expecting one of those little creatures scientists draw at the beginning of the homonid evolution progression to come struggling out of the salty brine onto the shore. This sun is stinkin hot. The forests of palm trees, like oversized dandelions in silhouette, fluidly jostle the shores of the atlantic, relentlessley carpeting everywhere one might care to look inland. The visible humidity harbored by the vegetation does little to discourage the primordial atmosphere lent by the rich sun and leaves me constantly wondering which direction King Kong will charge me from. Romanticized sunsets represent the last vestiges of the sun's ride across the sky, their oranges and purples here in the evenings preside over the swell of the jungle's nightime soundtrack, the crickets and frogs engaging in their timeless struggle to out-volume the other.

You see, I'm in Sierra Leone now, a coastal country on the diving side of Africa's western bulge. I'm sitting at a desk in what was only a dream I loved to talk about a year ago. That dream boiled over into reality for me four months ago when I washed up on the white beaches of Freetown, carried by President John F. Kennedy's 1961 initiative, the Peace Corps. Now I wake up and go to bed every day in a jungle.

With its three goals of providing trained and qualified teachers and facilitators to petitioning and willing countries, promoting understanding of Americans abroad, and promoting the understanding of 'abroad' by Americans, I joined the Peace Corps on its landmark 50th birthday. I will be in Sierra Leone until August of 2013 serving in the capacity of a science teacher, myself constituting fifty percent of the science faculty. After an initial two months of orientation to the Sierra Leonean educational system and a cursoory training in the local, unwritten language of Temne, I've been deployed on the banks of the Great Scarcies River to attempt to integrate into this eden its residents have named Mambolo.

The subsistence of my community is held in the technicolor green tidal flats brimming with rice planted by a thousand muddy hands. The result of this strenuous planting done in the rainy season comes to fruition in the genesis of the dry season, wallets and stomachs swelling as the work of the harvest commences. The ripening of most fruits coincides with the harvest celebrations, and the agricultural cycle prepares to repeat- the orchestra of the village being conducted by this bi-seasonal rhythm.

My reception here in Mambolo, characteristic of all things Africa, was overwhelmingly warm. The Peace Corps withdrew volunteers from the country in 1992 at the beginning of Sierra Leone's eleven year civil war. I'm one of forty-eight volunteers in the second group of educators to return, last year being the first deemed safe enough to revive the program. Peace Corps' legacy in this country is sterling, many of the current government officials here boast of their education provided by Peace Corps volunteers. Schools here already understaffed were thirsty to receive science teachers especially, as I found out their laborotires were merely collecting dust during the war time interim.

At the time of writing this, I've been living on my own in Mambolo for over a month. I believe I've spent my time well. Topically, I've gained things like a painted house, dugout canoe, fat white puppy, hand-made machete, and a few carved and polished pieces of furniture. I've also spent time doing some more nebulous, very cliched things. Like gaining perspective. Building relationships. Learning patience. Exhaustively studying the concept of loneliness. Essentially, all the things you can imagine a geographically displaced soul might do given it has enough challenges and enough time to read thick books.

I don't pretend to be a seasoned trans-atlantic traveler after these last few fastest, longest four months of my life. In fact, laughing at myself is at least an every day occurence as my remaining naiveties are exposed by legions of unexpected situations. Chickens foraging in the teacher's staff room. Eyeless fish heads lurking in every soup. Babies spitting milk on me they just extracted from the glaringly uncovered mammary glands next to me in the boat/car/church/hospital. Radio stations plauged by the legendary 80's. Not every day though, but still too often, I'm finding myself in situations that... fracture me. Sometimes I hear stories and have situations poured on me that leave me more somber than chagrined. Female genital mutiliation. Rope marks on a boy where he was tied ankle to wrist while his father beat him. Skeletons with the faintest heartbeats, held in the arms of confused mothers. Teachers accepting girls bodies as extra credit. The yellowed eyes of every febrile man, woman, and vacantly staring child with malaria. Women with a limp, gingerely held arm, or swollwen eye that was earned in the middle of the previous night. I am absolutely infatuated with this community and its citizenry, but I'm living here with my eyes open- conscious of the fact that every rose garden is full of thorns.

Just like words couldn't have convinced me what this experience would impart to and imprint on me, likewise it would be impossible to express how much I regret every mile between myself and everyone I know living life under Oregon's umbrella of Douglas Firs. Fires, floods, earthquakes, or half naked brigades of children demanding I play soccer couldn't drive me out of Sierra Leone before my two years are served. But when it's time to head home, I'll be at the airport check-in at least two hours early.

Boat

I think quite a bit while I brush my teeth in the mornings. I try to get all that kind of thing out of the way early in the day, and the mindless, but otherwise crippling, activity of oral sanitation lends itself nicely to that. This one morning I was thinking how the sunrise looked exactly like the sunset. Except on the other side of the sky. You see, I was awake particularly early this one morning because I needed to get on my bike and go somewhere. To Matiti.

My mental faculties exhausted by the strains of observation, I played foot-hockey trying to keep Knut inside while I locked my door and saddled my bike. The tires hissed pleasantly over the sand and gravel roads that are punctured with post-pubescent potholes (meteoric craters, really). It's always beautiful wherever and whenever I wander in Mambolo, but this particular route is my favorite. Smoke from cook fires and sleepy greetings spilled out of the palm trees on either side of the road, and I think I remember a ravenous pack of children shaking off their morning daze to give me an uneasy feeling I was on the set of a zombie movie as they harassed me down the road. They can be quite quick.

Matiti finally reached, I waited. Something that's done quite often here, off course. No one really has clocks, or wrist watches, or anything but the sun, so time is fluid and vague. I think the presence of a cracked, square wall-clock crooked in this old man's arm the day before had connected with something very Western inside me. Maybe that's why I ended up commissioning him to build a boat for me. He was a little late this morning, but that's alright- he's cooler than the last ice age.

Let's just talk about this dude real quick- he's at least three hundred years old. The distracting, basketball sized yellowed clock he was holding held most of his attention during most of our interpretor-mediated conversation the day before, but after he gave it a look of contentment, brushed it tenderly with his hand, he said he'd build my boat. For Le60,000 and food for three days. When we shook hands to seal the deal, I was reminded of the cast iron handle of my cooking pan at home. The guy has a thanksgiving-sized helping of old-man-strength.

His seasoned, hurculean strenght was exhibited for five hours the next morning after I arrived on my bike. By the time the cotton tree crashed down into a meadow, he was covered in sweat, had utterly humiliated me by insisting I sit and not help, and besides rivulets of sweat sliding out from underneath his hat, seemed no worse the wear. Upon further inspection, the tree was gigantic. It would seem like that could've been observed while it was still vertical, but the result is that the plans for the sleek, one-man racer I had asked for were altered. Basically we're making a party barge now. I left the sound of axes carving a hull fit for five passengers behind me as I rode my bike back home, almost late to catch the lorry to bring me to Freetown where I've been the last 24 hours.

Just a snapshot of what I've been doing lately. Take care, everyone.

Not Just Subsisting

My goodness, what a quick two weeks. Really I’ve barely passed the germination of my two years here, but I’m happy to see this many days have passed on the calendar and I’m still kicking- and not just subsisting, but really loving life. I feel bad, but too much has happened since I washed up on the palm-tree plagued banks of Mambolo to give a full account of everything. Here are some highlights:

Probably my favorite part about this eden is the water. The Great Scarcies is the crown that sits on the northern side of Mambolo, clipping the roads short on two warfs. The one that is still in use is the gem on the crown in my opinion- the nighttime there being lit by fat candles and the single generator that does a booming business charging everyone’s phones (and my Kindle… dude, I’ve read like 6 books since I’ve been here). It’s the hangout spot in town, and I’ve already made innumerable trips down to buy Acheke, bread, or play grapf with whoever feels like beating me that afternoon. The coming and going of boats is another facet to the pull of the warf. Plying the rivers from Rokupr all the way to Freetown, the boat captains are all cut of the same humorous, easy-going cloth. Their character, and everyone else’s that’s brave enough to clamber into the leaky hulls, was exemplified nicely on one of the trips I’ve taken to visit Kim and Lauren in Rokupr when our engine died a pathetically short way off the dock—seriously, if I would’ve jumped overboard, the ripples would’ve made the dock fisherman’s bobbers bob. Well here this boat full of 50 people goes drifting listlessly along with the tidal current, and the small boy with the 10 ft. stick at the front of the boat is forced to start doing battle with the random bushes we’re encountering on our leisurely kamikaze float. The people in the boat could be less concerned, even as we enter the outer atmosphere of a planetoid sized bush that happens to be growing in the middle of the Scaries, they’re still locked in mortal argument about the recently elected paramount chief. The captain, meanwhile, seemed entirely unconcerned, noticing but not caring about the boy in the bow getting completely demolished by this prehistoric bush that we’re now passing through the core of. After a quick carburetor surgery, our massive, hulking, miniscule 15 horsepower engine was able to again complain our way down the river. Outside the gravitational pull of bushes, the river has this indescribable beauty that I’m going to try and describe- Ancient Egypt. Barring the raisin sized motors clinging to the back of a few boats, I really can’t see how it would be much different than a snapshot of the Nile a few thousand years ago. The saturated greens of the rice fields pockmarked by mud-speckled farmers flood out from the river’s indefinite banks till they’re told to stop by the legions of palm trees guarding the more solid ground inland. The majority of boats are home to white sails that tug their small load of men and rice sprouts down the river, and the rest are simple dugout canoes that run on the sweat of farmers. The cool breezes really don’t hurt your mood when you’re trying to take it all in either.

I know that was a long one, but there are obviously a few other good things I’ve done or had happen to me while I was here  that don’t have to do with water. Maybe not a good thing but still remarkable, I came back after fetching water this morning and there was a kid in the living room of Mambolo Manor (my house/crib/pad/palace). And by kid I mean small goat. Just chillin. Knut, the puppy he is, was in complete submission-mode, more worried about looking cute like he always is than about the eat-everything-it-can animal that had magiced its way inside our fortress. I said, “Goat! Leave!” It acted like it was dumb and just sniffed some of my shoe tongues I’m sure it planned on eating. It got the point after I told it, in very vocabu-delic words, what kind of entrée I was planning to turn him and his relatives into. Stupid goat. Stay out of my house.

Um, I guess another highlight would have to be when Kim came to visit Mambolo and made the mona lisa of all meals. We made this thing called ‘Pizza.’ Every attempt to recreate it over these next several years will just be that- an attempt.

Alright, I’ve been doing some productive stuff too- with school looming on the near end of the distant spectrum, I decided to commence working my way through the laboratories—cleaning (if I find myself inhaling acid fumes, I quickly search out the nearest base and waft those fumes… so… see how that works?).  Whatever labs that haven’t been used in 15 years look like, that’s what these labs literally resemble. The stereotypical ‘inch of dust’ is of course represented, along with a myriad of other, unforeseeable, mutations. The chemicals have corroded their way into the open, out of bottles and into a speed dating arena where they all love each other, the moths have taken revenge on the poster depicting the best way to dissect an insect, and all hell has broken loose in the skeleton closet- I think the annelids are jealous of the vertebrates, because their perfectly encased specimen blocks have somehow ended up smashed through the jumble that used to represent a school of fiercely-toothed fish.

Look, I’m back in Makeni for the day just visiting and doing bank business- this lady over my shoulder is reminding me that I’ve paid for an hour of internet, and that hour is up. So I need to go. I really hope all y’all stateside are enjoying the fizzling end of the summer and, as you jump back into work, school, or more play, that you do it safely and in good attitudes. If this post was rambling, then I apologize-  blame the mephelquin pill I just ingested.

Take care!

Story Time

I was thinking about how gorgeous of a thing memory is today. I suppose it was inevitable that we evolved language in order to express to others these, sometimes incredible, situations that bombard all five of our senses. Somehow these memories settle between our ears in our , and can be recalled whenever we want to relive their ghost; and my goodness- is it getting crowded between my ears lately. What got me started thinking about it was my lunch time walk and subsequent sheltering in a palm hut off the side of Steshon Rd. while an afternoon shower grazed Makeni today. Josh and myself thought a frosty Fanta sounded like a good pit-stop on our walk to find the honey vendor in the market, and somehow didn't see the oil-black cloud sliding across town. As we ducked through the stick-framed door, we aimed smiles at two of our Language and Cultural Facilitators, sheepishly grinning back at us while the waitress handed them each a perspiring bottle of mid-workday Guinness.

Jackpot.

You've got to understand, these guys are like the Rolls Royce of story tellers. A free jukebox of funny tales- as easy as lifting a finger to push play on. As Josh and I settled into our chairs to enjoy our cold drinks-and-a-story, we flipped through conversation topics like the channels on a Wednesday afternoon. Oh what was that? Mob justice? Go back to that one. Primetime has started.

Last week, by word of mouth, we heard about something that would've made national news back home. A career thief had finally been apprehended and tried by the paramount chief in Makeni. His subsequent beating by a mob and execution raised more than a few eyebrows in our group- the method of death as remarkable as the measure of punishment. I didn't know a tactful way of broaching the subject to get an explanation, so I simply asked, "Is it common to kill thiefs by inserting limes up their...?" And I let my hands do the rest of the talking with a quick, admittedly obscene, gesture. Receiving hearty laughs and head nods instead of the furrowed, somber eyebrows I expected, I pursued my line of questioning and found out the following: Do not steal anything in Sierra Leone. If you do steal something in Sierra Leone, hope that there aren't many young men around or they'll beat the tar out of you. If you do get caught stealing in Salone and there are enough younger vigilantes around you to reach critical mob-mass, then pray that there isn't a lime tree growing nearby or a lime vendor selling for cheap. Something to do with the acid content of a DOZEN OR SO limes entering the blood stream without first passing through the liver, etc. is lethal. Not to mention the tissue trauma that introducing a few handfuls of limes in an unusual manner must cause. My next question of course was whether with white people like myself were possible targets of a back-door-limeing. The reassuring answer was no.

Anyway, memory is good for more than just remembering how to stay lime-free. It's good for remembering days like today. I think there's still some sand behind my ears, but I really would rather keep it there as a reminder of the waves I was swimming under, through, body surfing on, and watching crash against the beach I was at in Freetown this morning. If I wasn't in the tepid waves, then I was in a beach chair with a cold drink in my hand (Carlsburg's Motto: Probably the best beer in the world.........really? Not a very confident sounding slogan). My lack of shirt, bounty of friends, and sun breaking through the rainy-season clouds complemented the palmtree ridden scenery nicely. Just to show us where the lorry parks in Freetown were, the PC saw fit to put us up in the Stadium Hostel for a night. This morning we were free to explore as we saw fit, and a number of us were curious enough about Lumley beach to go pay a memorable 3 hour visit before a cramped ride back to freetown. No regrets about the angry sunburn painted on my shoulders.

Well I really doubt I'll write again soon- it's our last week of training and there's plenty to buy if I'm going to be domestically responsible. You know, shop enough to make my house in Mambolo feel like a home. I figured I'd organize my house purchasing in a way that I organize my every activity: in a food-centric manner. Buy a coal pot to cook food on. Buy things to prepare food on the coal pot. Buy things to eat the food with. Buy a bed to sleep in after I eat. Buy clothes to wear to go to buy more food at the market when i wake up, etc. etc. So far I've just bought the coal pot. But really, it's going to be an relaxed, fun week ramping up to our swearing in next Friday. The departure schedule is already posted at the training hub telling us what day, time, and car we'll be taking to our sites. The group is breaking up. Training is almost at an end. I think I'm more than ready to go start serving my community for the next couple of years.

Take care.

A Letter to my Roommate

Dear roommate,

I know it's been a while since we've really comminicated face to face, but I feel like after tonight's...misunderstanding...that some explanation is in order. I hope you accept this letter with an open mind and can see things from my point of view- just as I have tried to imagine myself in your position.

Really though, where did it all go wrong? As I sat frustrated, recovering this evening after our...dance...I rewound the clock in review of our relationship to try and discover the virulent moment our friendship turned sour. I remembered fondly the first fork our friendship came to. Can you think back to it? That night you woke me up with the gentlest nibble on my hip? I thought surely this was a violent act of low-handed, night-time terrorism. But after I called the Peace Corps Medical Officer and later verified neither you or I had Rabies, I realized it was a subtle introduction and sincere extension of friendship to me. After that, I tried my hardest to be the best possible cohabitator I could. I realized my american scents and foods were strange, so I tried to keep them cleanly stowed. I can only blame myself for upsetting you so much that you were driven to tear the plastic bags containing my foodstuffs to shreds. Even the local trash that I accumulated I realize would have been a bother in the small environment we share. I'll admit my inconsiderate behavior completely justified you spreading funfetti-size fragments of it around our room- no matter how well I thougt I had packaged it up and out of your way.

But in explanation of my obvious frustration tonight, there have been several things you've done that I think most would interpret as critical transgressions against myself. Mostly it's the summation of minor events that has set me so on edge, things like- waking me up at all hours of the night, not ever fetching water, eating my food and not replacing it, leaving peanut shells on top of my mosquito net at night, doing that thing where you tug at my hair while I sleep even though I've told you stop at least three times, and generally creeping the bajeezies out of me when I wake up and you're sitting on the floor staring at me. And I'm still struggling through the process of cultural adaptation, but I'm positive not everyone in Sierra Leone poops on someone's bed when they're out during the day and then doesn't clean it up.

Really- I'm not saying it's your fault you were born a mouse, and it's something I'd never wish to change. But, I do think there are a couple of things we could stand to modify in our relationship. I'm sure you found it as unpleasant as I did to find yourself being chased by me, naked, around our room tonight. To avoid more flying shoes, american explatives, blockades constructed out of cardboard, and general rodent descrimination, I suggest we find an equilibrium as to what is acceptable behavior in our shared habitat. You really must believe me when I say I wasn't going to actually do anything with that kitchen knife I was waving around when you were corralled in that corner tonight.

Please feel free to come to me anytime to talk about this. I know you've never even let things like me eating or sleeping keep you from gaining my audience, so I'm sure we'll have all this sorted out soon.

Sincerity abounding,
Jared Hooley

I Like Africa

Having your tin roof hammered by rain isn't a bad way to wake up. I guess it wasn't this bad an hour ago when I opened my eyes, but it's swelled to a downpour that's testing the capacity of the newly dug ditches lining the streets of Makeni. It'll never get old watching the race to get buckets under spouts of rainwater funneling out of the broken roof gutters. I talked to a resource volunteer from the SL-1 group, and she actually listed 'catching rain water' as a daily activity. I'm sure X-Box Kinnect will develop it into a game and I'll be able to dazzle whoever happens to be in the Best Buy lobby watching me play the demo when I get back.

Alright, can we just talk about chalk for a second. Really though- it's just some short, fragile, powder stick. A dime would laugh at its circumference, and, after an eraser has its way with it, it's about the shortest lived thing ever. But baby, I tell ya- it packs a dynamite punch. It's got the power to set 50 brains reeling in confused pain, has the capability to put a room full of people to sleep, or, ideally, can lift concepts out of a book and seemingly magic them into the minds of curious students. Alright, maybe I've been using my spare time to read too much Harry Potter these recent few days, but I've had to find fun anywhere I can manage to during summer school this last week. Not that it hasn't been enjoyable- the kids have been good. My JSSI class valiantly rose to the occassion to learn about the differences between plant and animal cells (even if Musu still adamantly claims there's no difference between her and a mango tree). My JSSIII class, battling through several sleepy mornings, has even managed to show me on their tests that they know the definitions of 'ecology,' 'population,' 'community,' etc., and the smartest ones have every classification from Kingdom down to Species at their brain's fingertips. Really, I think I'm more nervous than they are while I'm writing the test questions up on the board, but I've been reassured that I'm actually connecting with the class after I pick up their exams.

So just one more short week teaching in summer school ahead of us then we visit Freetown for a night. The program here thought it worthy to have a portion of training devoted specifically to the country's capitol- which is appropriate considering its population alone comprises over a third of all Sierra Leoneans. I feel a shade conflicted when they're giving us safety and security briefings about the beautiful Freetown beaches though- do I wear a speedo or a bullet proof vest? It'll be hard to get a sexy beast image on the beach if I'm wearing around a flack jacket... I thought the bug bites, skin rashes, boils, and ragged face 'beard' were already significant enough hinderances. I think I'll split the difference and wear swim shorts and a smile (You can get away with so much if you're armed with a smile here). So after the visit to the capitol, we've got just one week till swearing in. I'll admit that a change from the training class schedule will be welcome. I hope I enjoy the change of scenery to a more serene Mambolo as much as I've been imagining I will.

Alright, well the rain has stopped now. The eves are just dripping and the temperature has started to climb back up. I could keep myself locked inside reading all day, but I gave Ibrahim a toy car last night and he keeps driving it around on the veranda backwards... I feel that if he gets behind the wheel of a car, I'll be responsible for his confusion if i don't go set him right.

Make sure everyone around you is doing well, and while you're at it, make sure you're taking care of yourselves too.

Mambolo

Do I call this guy Phillip? Mr. Turray? Principal Turray? Phill? I suppose if I'm going to be working for him for the next several years I should start big... Looks friendly enough. I'm sure he'll be forgiving regardless. "Mr. Principal Turray, my name is Jared Hooley." "Jerly O'day! Nice to meet you!" Close enough. Let the site visit begin.

I was unfortunate enough to have to experience paradise by myself this last weekend. The smells, sounds and colors of the sunsets over fields of technicolor green rice-- the palm trees scattered throughout looking like fireworks in sillhouette, the cool breeze that is constantly filtering across the salty Great Scarcies river, and the slow but contented pace of small-village life in Mambolo shot me through with a feeling of selfishness. Did I really deserve to spend the next two years living in a postcard? The fact that my school has unparalleled laboratory facilities by Sierra Leonean standards, and honestly even surpassing highschools in the United States, only aded to my glee-ridden guilt. Most of the visit consisted of my mind staggering around my (future) green village trying to reconcile any hardships I had been imagining with the reality of the Eden I've been assigned to. Transportation issues? Not a problem. A quick boat ride to the nearest volunteer should only be an hour, and Freetown an expedited four hours by ocean in the open air- rather than in a more costly, time consuming poda. School facilities? Fully equiped and seperate Chemistry, Biology, and Physics laboratories should be sufficient. School integrity? As Mr. Turray was giving me a tour of the school, a courier drove on campus to present him with an award certifying that his school had performed better than any of the multitude of other schools in the district on the WASCE exam. So you see, my village and school are just too good to keep to myself. Fortunately, the house the community is providing exclusivly for me has SEVEN BEDROOMS. (I don't know what I would've done if I didn't have a different bedroom to sleep in every night of the week.) I suppose they thought if my friends had any sense that they'd be visiting often.

I don't get to go back to Mambolo till August, which really is a shame, but Makeni has dished out only good times lately (pretending that day with a 103 fever never happened). We had a staff/trainee wide talent show today accompanied by food and pop as a celebration for completing our first week of teaching at summer school. Honestly I can say I've only been having fun while teaching these kids. They're so used to note copying and pure lecture classes that anything deviating from that absolutely melts their brain's faces off (and if there's one thing I enjoy, it's a good brain face melting). I suppose my class has all the stereotypes that would be found in an American classroom though-- the cluster of girls that would rather sit and chat than listen to whatever the definition of 'respiration' is, the troublemakers that mean well but were just given two, three, or eight times as many shares of energy as they need, and the 'smart' ones in class whose fingers are drained of blood after being constantly held in the air to answer my questions. I know I'm supposed to appreciate the last category most, but really it's the troublemakers that make class an enjoyable battlefield for me. After all, they're the ones that write ridiculous things on their first exams I collected this morning, like- "May God Bless Mr. Hooley. May God make him president and very healthy." or "GOOD LUCK TO MR. BANGURA. HE IS VERY SMART AFTER ALL." And honestly, after glancing at a few of the answers on young mr. Bangura's test.....
Question: Name the first step of the Scientific Process.
Answer: Liquid, Solid, Gas
Question: Name two of the eight characteristics that all living things share in common.
Answer: 1. Goat. 2. Cow.
He's going to need some luck. Anyway, teaching is a blast.

In an unrelated note, I attempted to turn myself back into a respectable homo sapien today. I bought q-tips. It was the closest I've ever come to doing surgery on myself. I let out a tittering giggle when I pictured a midevil battering ram trying to break through the castle walls made of wax in my ear. Without going into too much detail about texture, amount, or color properties, I'll just say I could've made a new candle to light the Salone nights with. My hearing is in HD now.

Take care of each other, and take care of yourselves!