I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this – but Freetown is definitely different to London. Cold wind and occasional rain have been replaced by warm breezes and prolonged tropical storms. Packed tubes have been replaced by crammed podas, and pigeon scattered pavements have given way to packs of dishevelled street dogs. But it’s not just the fabric of the city that’s so different. On an almost daily basis, events go on that would stop London still, but which pass almost unremarked in Freetown. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes ugly, sometime hilarious, and sometimes heart braking, these events stand the city in starker contrast than anything else.
A few weekends ago the traffic in the centre of town seemed worse than usual – which is saying something for Freetown. We jumped out the Poda Poda and discovered the reason after walking just a few feet. A brass band, kitted out in full blue and white American Marching Band regalia was making its way slowly up the centre of the busiest street in the city. Behind the band stretched a parade of men and women, wearing matching t-shirts and carrying large banners displaying the slogan, ‘No Justice, No Peace’. I wasn’t sure whether to it was a statement of protest, or a threat.
A few days later – another road and another strange event. Walking up the side of a steep hill we were passed, at great speed, by a wheelchair heading in the opposite direction. An old man was sat calmly in the chair, and a young boy was stood on the back axel occasionally ramping up the speed with his foot as if were a skateboard he was on, rather than the rickety old chair of an ill and elderly man. They must have been hitting 20 miles an hour, straight towards the traffic, without any form of break.
Another day and the same road had turned suddenly into a gushing river. When the rain falls, it falls hard and comes fast. Great torrents of brown, rubbish strewn, sewage filled water pour down the steep hills surrounding the city, rush through homes, markets and makeshift football pitches, and converge on the roads. We, thankfully, were in a friend’s car, staring out in awe at the speed at which the scene had changed in front of us. And it was just as we passed a stall where we sometimes buy pineapple that Banke uttered the words that will stay with me for ever… “Oh my word” She said quietly, not even believing herself, “I think that’s a dog floating past.”
A different road and this time a Poda. Banke and I had just finished work and were heading home. We jumped onto a Poda and were followed onboard by a strangely conspicuous looking man wearing a smart red jacket, green shirt, and round tortoiseshell spectacles. We crammed ourselves onto the third bench and he sat down on the bench behind.
“Are you Anna?” He muttered quietly in a heavy accent, directing the question at Banke. Banke looked at me confused, then looked back at him. “Are you Anna?” He repeated urgently.
“Am I Allah?” Banke asked surprised (no wonder she had looked so confused).
“Anna!” He said again. Louder now. “Are you Anna?”
“Oh – no. No I’m not Anna.”
“I thought you were Anna. I only got on because I thought you were Anna.” The spectacled man looked slightly panicked as he turned and shouted to the front of the Poda.
“Apprentice, I need to get off. This isn’t Anna.” The Apprentice passed the message to the driver, who looked annoyed to be stopping again so soon. The man apologised softly to Banke, fought his way out of the Poda and then disappeared into the crowed street. Banke and I stared at each other for a few seconds and then burst into laughter. What on earth had just happened? It felt like we had just found ourselves in the middle of a poorly thought through spy novel. Whoever ‘Anna’ was, this man clearly didn’t know her. Had he been given a description of ‘Anna’ and instructed to jump onto a Poda when he saw her? Banke and I looked around hoping to share the confusion with our fellow passengers who must have watched the whole event unfurl. But strangely no one else seemed to even be aware that anything had happed. Even the Apprentice, who had had to open the door for him and get out to let him past, was acting like nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. Banke and I were truly baffled and spent an enjoyable Poda ride home inventing wild explanations as to what had happened and exactly who Anna might be.
On a slightly more sinister note – a friend of ours found herself caught up in a scene from a nightmare when she visited a market recently. She was walking from stall to stall when suddenly a loud crowd of men came dancing past. She thought that one of them was in costume with something taped to the side of his face, but as he came past it turned out that it was his eyeball, pulled out of its socket. Once the men had passed the market women apologised to her and explained that she had just witnessed a ceremony of one of Sierra Leone’s many Secret Societies. Whilst part of me wants to learn more about these secret societies, another part of me desperately wants to pretend that they don’t exist. Definitely the darker side of the city.
I have only been here for five weeks, and already I feel like a have seen more strange things, and been in more peculiar situations, than I could ever cram into a year of living in London. There’s never a dull day in Freetown.
Thursday 29 July 2010
Saturday 24 July 2010
Red tape and miscommunications
Here’s a story of how I have tried (and so far failed) to get a box of my belongings through the Freetown customs.
(Next week I promise I’m going to experiment with ‘micro-blogging’. I’m aware that this is another ridiculously long blog entry.)
June 16 - London
It’s the last Wednesday before I leave the UK for Freetown. My Mum and I have just spent a strange hour in a railway-arched Bermondsey industrial estate, at the offices of Robert Clare. A shipping company that we have been reliably informed is the best with regular routes between London and Freetown.
Just as we are leaving the office, Clare (presumably the Clare, of Robert Clare) hands me her business card. On the front are her details and the office addresses for both Freetown and London. On the back she has written in Biro the name ‘Mabel’ and a mobile number.
“When you get to Freetown just pop into the office and ask for Mabel. Tell her that Clare sent you.”
“Thank you!” I say, gratefully receiving my first concrete contact in Sierra Leone.
“Freetown’s amazing.” Claire beams. “You’ll have a great time.” And then slightly ominously she adds. “If you have any problems, any problems at all, and not just with the shipping, find the office and we’ll help you.”
“Great – thank you” I repeat, unsure whether I’m feeling comforted or just slightly more alarmed.
June 28 - Freetown
And so, on my second week in Freetown, I reported as instructed to the Robert Clare office in the comfortingly familiar Wellington Street. Walking up a dark flight of steep stairs I emerged into a bright and airy room which was officially the main administration office for the shipping company. I say officially, because at that moment in time it seemed to have been turned into a clothes shop. A crowd of people were gathered around a street seller who had decided to bring his wears off the street and try his luck in the rich looking offices. (This turns out to not be all that unusual. Sierra Leoneans do not have the same attitude to private space and office security as we have in the UK. This means that in most buildings it is hard to distinguish between those who work there, those who just sort of hang out there, and those who are trying to sell things to the people who work and/or just hang out. Indeed rather surprisingly we have found that one of the best places to buy chicken is inside the Ministry of Health and Sanitation!)
Walking further into the room I spot someone sitting behind a desk and guess that she is the most likely person to actually work here.
“Hello” I say rather too cheerily. “Is it possible to talk to Mabel?”
“She’s very busy.”
“Oh – no problem. Is there someone else I could talk to? I’ve got a box of stuff coming over on a ship. Clare in London told me to come to this office when I arrived in Freetown.” I say holding up the business card just in case proof is needed.
“You need to talk to Mabel – I’ll go and see if she’s busy.” This is slightly confusing – but none the less seems like encouraging progress.
Mabel is a large woman who seems to fit well behind an imposing desk. She looks annoyed to have been disturbed.
“Clare told me to come and see you.” I repeat. “Clare from the Bermondsey Office.” I offer dumbly after an uncomfortable pause, just in case Mabel has forgotten her business partner.
“The ship doesn’t dock until July 16. But you need to get a TIN number before that, so we can clear it through customs.”
“Oh – Ok…” That makes sense, except. “What’s a TIN number?”
“Tax Identification Number. Go to the NRA office and ask for a TIN number then bring the number to us.”
“Ok" they didn’t say anything about needing a TIN number in London but apparently it’s a new rule. Mabel wrote an address and some instructions on a piece of paper and then handed it to me.
Back on the street I noticed that the NRA office wasn’t that far away – but then it started to rain. – July 16 was ages away, deciding there’s plenty of time I head back to my office in the opposite direction to the NRA building. This, predictably, was a mistake.
July 13
I entered the NRA office cursing myself for leaving it so late.
I waited for a counter to become free and then explained what I was after.
“You need to fill out this form and give me a photocopy of your passport.” The lady behind the counter explained. This wasn’t going to be a problem – I had a photocopy with me, and I could fill out a form. Correction – I could fill out most forms – this one? Not so much. The form in question had been written for a country that was far more organised then Sierra Leone. In most countries being asked to write down your address would not be such a stumbling block – but in Sierra Leone it was a real poser. We have never been told our address, and bizarley before this form, it had never occurred to me to ask for one. Our house has no number, and is on a road with no name.
I glanced nervously at the NRA lady and then wrote. ‘VSO House, Cockle Bay area, Freetown.’ Several impossible questions and insufficient answers later, I pushed the form back over the counter.
“That’s all I can fill in.” I said apologetically. The NRA lady scanned the form, politely ignoring all the empty spaces.
“It’ll do.” She said to my great relief. “Come back in two days and you can get your number.” Two days! The ship is docking in four, as long as nothing goes wrong, two days should be fine.
July 15
I walk back into the NRA office, wait for an empty counter and step up. It’s the same lady again.
“I’ll go and see if your number is ready. Do you have your Resident’s Visa?”
“Um…no.”
“Well you can’t get a TIN number without a Resident’s Visa”
“Well you didn’t say that on Tuesday.”
“I thought you knew.” – Brilliant.
“I didn’t know.”
“Do you have a Resident’s Visa yet?”
I go outside and phone VSO to ask if I have a Resident’s Visa yet. The answer is no – not yet – it’s with the Immigration Office. Brilliant. I go back inside and explain this.
“You can’t get a TIN number without a Resident’s Visa.” The NRA lady repeats unhelpfully.
“You should have told me that on Tuesday.” I repeat even more unhelpfully.
“I thought you knew.” This conversation is going nowhere. I’m late for a meeting. I leave the NRA office empty handed.
A few hours later VSO ring. I can get my Resident’s Visa tomorrow.
July 16
I walk into the NRA office clutching my shiny new Resident’s Visa. I wait for a counter to become free and step up. Once again, it’s the same lady. There are lots of people in the office, but she seems to be the only one who actually works here.
“I’ve got my Visa.” I say, and triumphantly hand it over. She takes it, turns it over, opens it up, and hands it back.
“You need a photocopy of it.”
“You didn’t say that yesterday.” She looks like she’s just about to say that she thought I knew, so I quickly cut her off. “Can you take a photocopy here?”
“No. We don’t have a photocopier.” I glance to the corner of the office where there is a stack on aging office equipment still in boxes, waiting to be unpacked, and collecting dust. Amongst the boxed computers and printers, there’s definitely a large box with a picture of a photocopier on the side. They do have a photocopier – they just haven’t opened it yet. I look back at the NRA lady. She shrugs.
“Up the street, turn right, second shop on the left. There’s a photocopier there.” Brilliant.
Five minutes later I return with the photocopies. (I took two sets of both sides to cover all eventualities). I hand them back across the counter and the NRA lady walks into the back office. A few minutes later she returns carrying a torn-off-corner of scrap paper. Written on the paper is the word “Burley” alongside a series of numbers and dashes. She hands me the scrap of paper.
“That’s it?” I ask incredulously.
“That’s it.” She confirms.
“Thank you for all your help”. I say, trying not to sound too sarcastic but failing miserably.
I take the scrap of paper up the steep stairs of the Robert Clare office, praying I’m not too late. I hand it to the lady behind the Robert Clare desk, praying that it really is a TIN number. She copies it down in a ledger and hands it back.
“Am I in time? It’s not too late?” I ask.
“No” she smiles kindly. “The ship’s not due to dock until next Tuesday.”
(Next week I promise I’m going to experiment with ‘micro-blogging’. I’m aware that this is another ridiculously long blog entry.)
June 16 - London
It’s the last Wednesday before I leave the UK for Freetown. My Mum and I have just spent a strange hour in a railway-arched Bermondsey industrial estate, at the offices of Robert Clare. A shipping company that we have been reliably informed is the best with regular routes between London and Freetown.
Just as we are leaving the office, Clare (presumably the Clare, of Robert Clare) hands me her business card. On the front are her details and the office addresses for both Freetown and London. On the back she has written in Biro the name ‘Mabel’ and a mobile number.
“When you get to Freetown just pop into the office and ask for Mabel. Tell her that Clare sent you.”
“Thank you!” I say, gratefully receiving my first concrete contact in Sierra Leone.
“Freetown’s amazing.” Claire beams. “You’ll have a great time.” And then slightly ominously she adds. “If you have any problems, any problems at all, and not just with the shipping, find the office and we’ll help you.”
“Great – thank you” I repeat, unsure whether I’m feeling comforted or just slightly more alarmed.
June 28 - Freetown
And so, on my second week in Freetown, I reported as instructed to the Robert Clare office in the comfortingly familiar Wellington Street. Walking up a dark flight of steep stairs I emerged into a bright and airy room which was officially the main administration office for the shipping company. I say officially, because at that moment in time it seemed to have been turned into a clothes shop. A crowd of people were gathered around a street seller who had decided to bring his wears off the street and try his luck in the rich looking offices. (This turns out to not be all that unusual. Sierra Leoneans do not have the same attitude to private space and office security as we have in the UK. This means that in most buildings it is hard to distinguish between those who work there, those who just sort of hang out there, and those who are trying to sell things to the people who work and/or just hang out. Indeed rather surprisingly we have found that one of the best places to buy chicken is inside the Ministry of Health and Sanitation!)
Walking further into the room I spot someone sitting behind a desk and guess that she is the most likely person to actually work here.
“Hello” I say rather too cheerily. “Is it possible to talk to Mabel?”
“She’s very busy.”
“Oh – no problem. Is there someone else I could talk to? I’ve got a box of stuff coming over on a ship. Clare in London told me to come to this office when I arrived in Freetown.” I say holding up the business card just in case proof is needed.
“You need to talk to Mabel – I’ll go and see if she’s busy.” This is slightly confusing – but none the less seems like encouraging progress.
Mabel is a large woman who seems to fit well behind an imposing desk. She looks annoyed to have been disturbed.
“Clare told me to come and see you.” I repeat. “Clare from the Bermondsey Office.” I offer dumbly after an uncomfortable pause, just in case Mabel has forgotten her business partner.
“The ship doesn’t dock until July 16. But you need to get a TIN number before that, so we can clear it through customs.”
“Oh – Ok…” That makes sense, except. “What’s a TIN number?”
“Tax Identification Number. Go to the NRA office and ask for a TIN number then bring the number to us.”
“Ok" they didn’t say anything about needing a TIN number in London but apparently it’s a new rule. Mabel wrote an address and some instructions on a piece of paper and then handed it to me.
Back on the street I noticed that the NRA office wasn’t that far away – but then it started to rain. – July 16 was ages away, deciding there’s plenty of time I head back to my office in the opposite direction to the NRA building. This, predictably, was a mistake.
July 13
I entered the NRA office cursing myself for leaving it so late.
I waited for a counter to become free and then explained what I was after.
“You need to fill out this form and give me a photocopy of your passport.” The lady behind the counter explained. This wasn’t going to be a problem – I had a photocopy with me, and I could fill out a form. Correction – I could fill out most forms – this one? Not so much. The form in question had been written for a country that was far more organised then Sierra Leone. In most countries being asked to write down your address would not be such a stumbling block – but in Sierra Leone it was a real poser. We have never been told our address, and bizarley before this form, it had never occurred to me to ask for one. Our house has no number, and is on a road with no name.
I glanced nervously at the NRA lady and then wrote. ‘VSO House, Cockle Bay area, Freetown.’ Several impossible questions and insufficient answers later, I pushed the form back over the counter.
“That’s all I can fill in.” I said apologetically. The NRA lady scanned the form, politely ignoring all the empty spaces.
“It’ll do.” She said to my great relief. “Come back in two days and you can get your number.” Two days! The ship is docking in four, as long as nothing goes wrong, two days should be fine.
July 15
I walk back into the NRA office, wait for an empty counter and step up. It’s the same lady again.
“I’ll go and see if your number is ready. Do you have your Resident’s Visa?”
“Um…no.”
“Well you can’t get a TIN number without a Resident’s Visa”
“Well you didn’t say that on Tuesday.”
“I thought you knew.” – Brilliant.
“I didn’t know.”
“Do you have a Resident’s Visa yet?”
I go outside and phone VSO to ask if I have a Resident’s Visa yet. The answer is no – not yet – it’s with the Immigration Office. Brilliant. I go back inside and explain this.
“You can’t get a TIN number without a Resident’s Visa.” The NRA lady repeats unhelpfully.
“You should have told me that on Tuesday.” I repeat even more unhelpfully.
“I thought you knew.” This conversation is going nowhere. I’m late for a meeting. I leave the NRA office empty handed.
A few hours later VSO ring. I can get my Resident’s Visa tomorrow.
July 16
I walk into the NRA office clutching my shiny new Resident’s Visa. I wait for a counter to become free and step up. Once again, it’s the same lady. There are lots of people in the office, but she seems to be the only one who actually works here.
“I’ve got my Visa.” I say, and triumphantly hand it over. She takes it, turns it over, opens it up, and hands it back.
“You need a photocopy of it.”
“You didn’t say that yesterday.” She looks like she’s just about to say that she thought I knew, so I quickly cut her off. “Can you take a photocopy here?”
“No. We don’t have a photocopier.” I glance to the corner of the office where there is a stack on aging office equipment still in boxes, waiting to be unpacked, and collecting dust. Amongst the boxed computers and printers, there’s definitely a large box with a picture of a photocopier on the side. They do have a photocopier – they just haven’t opened it yet. I look back at the NRA lady. She shrugs.
“Up the street, turn right, second shop on the left. There’s a photocopier there.” Brilliant.
Five minutes later I return with the photocopies. (I took two sets of both sides to cover all eventualities). I hand them back across the counter and the NRA lady walks into the back office. A few minutes later she returns carrying a torn-off-corner of scrap paper. Written on the paper is the word “Burley” alongside a series of numbers and dashes. She hands me the scrap of paper.
“That’s it?” I ask incredulously.
“That’s it.” She confirms.
“Thank you for all your help”. I say, trying not to sound too sarcastic but failing miserably.
I take the scrap of paper up the steep stairs of the Robert Clare office, praying I’m not too late. I hand it to the lady behind the Robert Clare desk, praying that it really is a TIN number. She copies it down in a ledger and hands it back.
“Am I in time? It’s not too late?” I ask.
“No” she smiles kindly. “The ship’s not due to dock until next Tuesday.”
Monday 19 July 2010
Poda-ing about town
Getting around Freetown can be slightly…problematic. The weather is not conducive to long leisurely strolls from place to place (blog entry on ‘when shopping trips go wrong’ coming soon). In the rainy season the downpours can be so dramatic and so sudden that even putting one foot in front of the other can seem like an epic battle. Outside of the rainy season there’s a good chance that by the time you’ve walked for more than 10 minutes, you’ll be so drenched in sweat, that you may be mistaken for a victim of the rainy season that time somehow forgot.
Added to the difficulties presented by the weather, are the hazards presented by pretty much everything else: The distinct lack of pavements, the open drains and sewers, the aptly named ‘manholes’, and alarming absence of ‘manhole-covers’.
So, in short, walking is out. This leaves you with four options.
Option 1: Taxi. You would be forgiven for thinking that Option 1 is an easy and straightforward option. Unfortunately you’d be wrong. Taxis in Freetown are mind bogglingly complicated. There are a few key rules that you must learn. Once learnt these rules only serve to confuse you further:
• Rule 1: Taxis don’t go where you want them to go, they go where they are going, and its good luck if that coincides with the destination you had in mind.
• Rule 2: Anyone can jump in, or out, of a taxi at anytime. If there’s a spare seat the taxi is not full. (This actually makes a lot of sense now, but at first the idea of successfully hailing a taxi and then having other people hopping in with you seemed strangely galling.)
• Rule 3: (And this is where it gets really confusing). Never tell a taxi driver where you want to go before you get in a taxi. If you do this then it means you have chartered the taxi, and although it slightly increases your chances of ending up in the right place, it also costs you five times as much. Unfortunately the flip side of this rule is that if you get in the taxi without saying where you want to go, there’s a good chance that you’re in the wrong taxi.
• Rule 4: All taxi journeys cost 900Leones, apart from ‘two-way’ journeys which cost double, unless of course you accidentally charter a taxi (see rule 3), in which case it costs 5,000Leones. Confusingly ‘two-way’ does not mean return; it just means a journey that is twice as far as a one-way. Even more confusingly some ‘two-way’ journeys cannot be done in one taxi, so you must pay ‘one-way’ to two different taxis. And just to add to the general theme of confusion, I’m not at all sure what journeys constitute two-way and which are only one-way. I just know that if I took a taxi to work I would have to take two taxis and still have a fair distance to walk at the end.
As you may have gathered, I haven’t really managed to work out the taxi system yet. So…
Option 2: The Poda Poda – ahh the Poda Poda. I have an unreasonably soft-spot for the Poda Podas, which baffles the majority of Westerners (and a good proportion of Sierra Leoneons) who refuse to get into them. Poda Podas are like buses, only much smaller and with far more people in them. They are essentially battered and compact mini-busses in various alarming stages of disrepair. Staffed by two men - one Driver and one ‘Apprentice’, (who sits in the back, collecting the money and yelling unfathomable things out of the open window), they rattle and clatter around the city, carrying more men, women, children and chickens then you could possibly imagine.
Officially, if such a thing were written down (which seems highly unlikely), Podas can carry 17 people. Two in the front next to the driver, and fifteen along four crowded benches in the back. The benches themselves are works of impressive ingenuity. The back bench spans the whole width of the van and seats four. The three benches in front can sit three and are mounted so that the far seats are against one wall, leaving just enough room for passengers to clamber in and out via a tiny walkway against the other wall.
Once all the bench space is filled the three-seater benches turn into four-seaters via a sliding panel that can extend each bench to fill the full width of the van. Once full, a Poda Poda is therefore really full and there is no clear etiquette as to whether people sat on the sliding panels across the gangway are expected to move to allow passengers off, or whether it’s acceptable for passengers to clamber over each other in their bid for the exit.
In practice Poda Podas often carry far more than their (already ambitious) allocation of 17. There seems to be another rule (although again, I doubt this has found its way to any form of actual rule book), that if you’re only taking up the space of one seat, you only pay for one seat. This leads to the surprising practice of quite tough looking teenage boys spending long journeys sitting on each others laps. On one of my more memorable Poda Poda rides home, I found my self crammed on the back bench with four teenage boys filling two seats to my left, and two junior school boys sitting on the seat to my right. All six of the boys passed the journey by alternating between singing along loudly to the Rhianna album being blasted from the front speakers, and grinning at me before bursting into amused/bemused laughter.
There is no such thing as a boring Poda Poda ride, and my soft-spot stems from the fact that, although hot and crowded, Poda Poda journeys are also immensely amusing and incredibly good natured. People say good morning as you step on their foot trying to squeeze through the impossibly small gaps, money and change is passed hand to hand through the passengers on the way to and from the Apprentice, jokes are shared and explained, and on the far too frequent occasions I fail to recognise my stop, heart felt apologies and detailed directions are offered to set me back on track.
I have learnt today that Poda Poda translates to ‘to strive and struggle to find a living’, basically the Krio version of ‘makings ends meet’. It’s a philosophy with a lot more meaning on the streets of Freetown.
Option 3: Okada (motorbike taxis). Option 3 is not an option. Although widely acknowledged as the fastest route around town, with the added bonus of being the only transport option that will actually take you where you ask to go, Okadas are also the most dangerous transportation mode known to man – with the possible exception of home-made kerosene rocket packs. The main piece of advice offered to the newly arrived is “check that the driver’s not drunk before you get on.” Ermm…so never use an Okada in Freetown.
Option 4: Friends with cars. This is an excellent option. Thank you Natalie. Thank you John. You’re both stars.
Added to the difficulties presented by the weather, are the hazards presented by pretty much everything else: The distinct lack of pavements, the open drains and sewers, the aptly named ‘manholes’, and alarming absence of ‘manhole-covers’.
So, in short, walking is out. This leaves you with four options.
Option 1: Taxi. You would be forgiven for thinking that Option 1 is an easy and straightforward option. Unfortunately you’d be wrong. Taxis in Freetown are mind bogglingly complicated. There are a few key rules that you must learn. Once learnt these rules only serve to confuse you further:
• Rule 1: Taxis don’t go where you want them to go, they go where they are going, and its good luck if that coincides with the destination you had in mind.
• Rule 2: Anyone can jump in, or out, of a taxi at anytime. If there’s a spare seat the taxi is not full. (This actually makes a lot of sense now, but at first the idea of successfully hailing a taxi and then having other people hopping in with you seemed strangely galling.)
• Rule 3: (And this is where it gets really confusing). Never tell a taxi driver where you want to go before you get in a taxi. If you do this then it means you have chartered the taxi, and although it slightly increases your chances of ending up in the right place, it also costs you five times as much. Unfortunately the flip side of this rule is that if you get in the taxi without saying where you want to go, there’s a good chance that you’re in the wrong taxi.
• Rule 4: All taxi journeys cost 900Leones, apart from ‘two-way’ journeys which cost double, unless of course you accidentally charter a taxi (see rule 3), in which case it costs 5,000Leones. Confusingly ‘two-way’ does not mean return; it just means a journey that is twice as far as a one-way. Even more confusingly some ‘two-way’ journeys cannot be done in one taxi, so you must pay ‘one-way’ to two different taxis. And just to add to the general theme of confusion, I’m not at all sure what journeys constitute two-way and which are only one-way. I just know that if I took a taxi to work I would have to take two taxis and still have a fair distance to walk at the end.
As you may have gathered, I haven’t really managed to work out the taxi system yet. So…
Option 2: The Poda Poda – ahh the Poda Poda. I have an unreasonably soft-spot for the Poda Podas, which baffles the majority of Westerners (and a good proportion of Sierra Leoneons) who refuse to get into them. Poda Podas are like buses, only much smaller and with far more people in them. They are essentially battered and compact mini-busses in various alarming stages of disrepair. Staffed by two men - one Driver and one ‘Apprentice’, (who sits in the back, collecting the money and yelling unfathomable things out of the open window), they rattle and clatter around the city, carrying more men, women, children and chickens then you could possibly imagine.
Officially, if such a thing were written down (which seems highly unlikely), Podas can carry 17 people. Two in the front next to the driver, and fifteen along four crowded benches in the back. The benches themselves are works of impressive ingenuity. The back bench spans the whole width of the van and seats four. The three benches in front can sit three and are mounted so that the far seats are against one wall, leaving just enough room for passengers to clamber in and out via a tiny walkway against the other wall.
Once all the bench space is filled the three-seater benches turn into four-seaters via a sliding panel that can extend each bench to fill the full width of the van. Once full, a Poda Poda is therefore really full and there is no clear etiquette as to whether people sat on the sliding panels across the gangway are expected to move to allow passengers off, or whether it’s acceptable for passengers to clamber over each other in their bid for the exit.
In practice Poda Podas often carry far more than their (already ambitious) allocation of 17. There seems to be another rule (although again, I doubt this has found its way to any form of actual rule book), that if you’re only taking up the space of one seat, you only pay for one seat. This leads to the surprising practice of quite tough looking teenage boys spending long journeys sitting on each others laps. On one of my more memorable Poda Poda rides home, I found my self crammed on the back bench with four teenage boys filling two seats to my left, and two junior school boys sitting on the seat to my right. All six of the boys passed the journey by alternating between singing along loudly to the Rhianna album being blasted from the front speakers, and grinning at me before bursting into amused/bemused laughter.
There is no such thing as a boring Poda Poda ride, and my soft-spot stems from the fact that, although hot and crowded, Poda Poda journeys are also immensely amusing and incredibly good natured. People say good morning as you step on their foot trying to squeeze through the impossibly small gaps, money and change is passed hand to hand through the passengers on the way to and from the Apprentice, jokes are shared and explained, and on the far too frequent occasions I fail to recognise my stop, heart felt apologies and detailed directions are offered to set me back on track.
I have learnt today that Poda Poda translates to ‘to strive and struggle to find a living’, basically the Krio version of ‘makings ends meet’. It’s a philosophy with a lot more meaning on the streets of Freetown.
Option 3: Okada (motorbike taxis). Option 3 is not an option. Although widely acknowledged as the fastest route around town, with the added bonus of being the only transport option that will actually take you where you ask to go, Okadas are also the most dangerous transportation mode known to man – with the possible exception of home-made kerosene rocket packs. The main piece of advice offered to the newly arrived is “check that the driver’s not drunk before you get on.” Ermm…so never use an Okada in Freetown.
Option 4: Friends with cars. This is an excellent option. Thank you Natalie. Thank you John. You’re both stars.
Thursday 8 July 2010
First thoughts of Freetown
The setting for the city has to be high on the list of the most beautiful in the world. High rolling hills sweep gently into great creeks, sandy beeches and the wide, warm blue waters of the Atlantic. Clouds drift around the hills and fill the valleys, obscuring the lush green landscape and adding a strange dream-like quality to the scene.
But the peace of the surroundings does little to still the chaos of the over crowded city. The population of Freetown is around 1 million, and the cities infrastructure would struggle to support even a third of that number. For every well built house there seems to be 10 poorly constructed, corrugated iron homes crammed into the dark, damp spaces between buildings. With more houses clinging precariously to steep hillsides, and filling the horribly flood-prone bay areas. Having pipe-bourn water directly into your home is a rare luxury, and the electricity supply, though greatly improved, is still sporadic at best. Those who can afford it have bought diesel generators, which clatter and splutter into life at every power-cut, spewing out fumes and adding to the background roar of city life.
The streets are permanently clogged with traffic – only the motorbikes make good progress, weaving dangerously between the cars, often carrying passengers and ambitious, awkward loads. (Yesterday I saw a passenger holding a large pane of plate glass precariously between himself and the driver. The glass was wider than the bike by several feet on either side, and every corner seemed likely to be their last). The task of easing the congestion is entrusted to a huge army of traffic police who are stationed at almost every junction. Men and women in smart blue uniforms with both arms encased in impossibly white cotton, who beckon on one stream of traffic whilst holding back another. They are surprisingly successful in their mission, but the proverbial rearranging of deckchairs on the sinking titanic can’t help but spring to mind.
Away from the traffic the streets are vibrant and colourful. Large billboards tower above the major junctions with patriotic slogans about the importance of tax, and nation saving messages about HIV prevention and women’s rights. The buildings themselves have bold, bright adverts painted directly onto their facades – promoting various telecommunications companies, brands of beer, powdered milk and other foods and fuels. People set up stalls along the nonexistent pavements, selling bread, eggs, fruits, vegetables, sweets, home-cooked biscuits, plantain chips, and pretty much anything else you can think of. Those who don’t have a permanent pitch walk from sale to sale, balancing impossibly huge loads on their heads with astonishing poise and remarkable skill. Taking advantage of the long lines of standing traffic, they sell their goods directly to drivers and passengers through vehicle windows. A long ride in gridlocked traffic can pass far easier with a bag a plantain chips to keep you occupied!
And the people of Freetown are fantastic. They are warm and welcoming making moving around the city easy, enjoyable and surprisingly hassle-free. My experiences in Malawi prepared me for relentless sales techniques and crowds of children passing their time with an enjoyable game of follow the Westerner (enjoyable for them that is, rather less enjoyable if you happen to be the hapless Westerner). But my experiences here have been entirely different. People are happy to talk to you, but on the whole wait for you to talk to them first. They’re also happy to explain their culture and help you feel less confused than you look. A good example of this was a woman selling beautiful clothes and materials at a market I visited on my first weekend. On giving me the price and noticing my shocked expression she laughed and said, “You haggle, that’s what we do. I give you a price, you give me a price, I give you another price.” “Can I give you a ludicrously low price?” I asked only half joking, trying to feel my way through the system. She laughed again, “Of course!” She said with an infectious giggle, “But you’ll never get it for that price!” And she was right, I’m a terrible haggler.
I wish I could show you pictures of the city, but unfortunately the internet connections I’ve found so far make loading a picture a task to save up for when you have a spare fortnight. I’m afraid for now you’ll have to put up with my rambling descriptions while I continue my hunt for a fast speed connection. I’ve got so much more I want to share – future instalments will include, my house, housemates and friends, the joys of Freetown’s public transport, what I did on my birthday, beeches that you thought only existed in your dreams, meeting the Freetown war-amputees football team, and my first experiences of travelling up-county. Oh, and I should probably also tell you something about my job!!
Miss you all loads so please keep in touch!! Will try and blog again soon.
Lots of love
Freya
x
But the peace of the surroundings does little to still the chaos of the over crowded city. The population of Freetown is around 1 million, and the cities infrastructure would struggle to support even a third of that number. For every well built house there seems to be 10 poorly constructed, corrugated iron homes crammed into the dark, damp spaces between buildings. With more houses clinging precariously to steep hillsides, and filling the horribly flood-prone bay areas. Having pipe-bourn water directly into your home is a rare luxury, and the electricity supply, though greatly improved, is still sporadic at best. Those who can afford it have bought diesel generators, which clatter and splutter into life at every power-cut, spewing out fumes and adding to the background roar of city life.
The streets are permanently clogged with traffic – only the motorbikes make good progress, weaving dangerously between the cars, often carrying passengers and ambitious, awkward loads. (Yesterday I saw a passenger holding a large pane of plate glass precariously between himself and the driver. The glass was wider than the bike by several feet on either side, and every corner seemed likely to be their last). The task of easing the congestion is entrusted to a huge army of traffic police who are stationed at almost every junction. Men and women in smart blue uniforms with both arms encased in impossibly white cotton, who beckon on one stream of traffic whilst holding back another. They are surprisingly successful in their mission, but the proverbial rearranging of deckchairs on the sinking titanic can’t help but spring to mind.
Away from the traffic the streets are vibrant and colourful. Large billboards tower above the major junctions with patriotic slogans about the importance of tax, and nation saving messages about HIV prevention and women’s rights. The buildings themselves have bold, bright adverts painted directly onto their facades – promoting various telecommunications companies, brands of beer, powdered milk and other foods and fuels. People set up stalls along the nonexistent pavements, selling bread, eggs, fruits, vegetables, sweets, home-cooked biscuits, plantain chips, and pretty much anything else you can think of. Those who don’t have a permanent pitch walk from sale to sale, balancing impossibly huge loads on their heads with astonishing poise and remarkable skill. Taking advantage of the long lines of standing traffic, they sell their goods directly to drivers and passengers through vehicle windows. A long ride in gridlocked traffic can pass far easier with a bag a plantain chips to keep you occupied!
And the people of Freetown are fantastic. They are warm and welcoming making moving around the city easy, enjoyable and surprisingly hassle-free. My experiences in Malawi prepared me for relentless sales techniques and crowds of children passing their time with an enjoyable game of follow the Westerner (enjoyable for them that is, rather less enjoyable if you happen to be the hapless Westerner). But my experiences here have been entirely different. People are happy to talk to you, but on the whole wait for you to talk to them first. They’re also happy to explain their culture and help you feel less confused than you look. A good example of this was a woman selling beautiful clothes and materials at a market I visited on my first weekend. On giving me the price and noticing my shocked expression she laughed and said, “You haggle, that’s what we do. I give you a price, you give me a price, I give you another price.” “Can I give you a ludicrously low price?” I asked only half joking, trying to feel my way through the system. She laughed again, “Of course!” She said with an infectious giggle, “But you’ll never get it for that price!” And she was right, I’m a terrible haggler.
I wish I could show you pictures of the city, but unfortunately the internet connections I’ve found so far make loading a picture a task to save up for when you have a spare fortnight. I’m afraid for now you’ll have to put up with my rambling descriptions while I continue my hunt for a fast speed connection. I’ve got so much more I want to share – future instalments will include, my house, housemates and friends, the joys of Freetown’s public transport, what I did on my birthday, beeches that you thought only existed in your dreams, meeting the Freetown war-amputees football team, and my first experiences of travelling up-county. Oh, and I should probably also tell you something about my job!!
Miss you all loads so please keep in touch!! Will try and blog again soon.
Lots of love
Freya
x
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