Friday, August 26, 2011

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 entrĂ©e 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!

Sunday, August 7, 2011

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