When it was time to leave Freetown, we were very eager to see the rest of the country. The country and its people we had seen so far consisted of those who were very urbanized (or so I initially thought), and full of the smells of a dirty city. We left early in the morning to start our long trip from the coast of Sierra Leone to the country northeast–closer to the Guinea border.
On top of our baggage that was piled up in the bad of the bus–blocking the view out the back–we were also carrying you cook (Yai Mata) and all of the food that her and her helpers would be cooking for us over the next three and a half weeks. We had bags and bags of rice (made in America but purchased in Freetown…the workings of globalization very apparent here), bonga fish heads with little white friends playing on them, groundnuts, sweet potatoes, dried noodles, shrimp-flavored MSG, hot peppers, potatoes, cassava leaves, and various other ingredients that we had. We also carried mounds of toilet paper our Western ways of living demanded (giggled at by our Salone friends.) and also are fearless leader, Tobangi. Tobangi (Dr. Clark Speed) had finally arrived the night before, and was now part of our team thus uniting the dynamic duo Pa Tobangi and Yai Gbako (Brook Kelly). We were now able to get our Leones for local purchases, and we were just waiting to use them! As we pulled out of Freetown, the land got much greener, but the soil continued to stay its deep red hue. The hills that crescent the capitol city were easy to climb in the bus, and as we did so, we would stop periodically to buy things from street sellers. It was wonderful to finally be able to do this after having turned away so many peddlers for two days! We bought biscuits and cookies in boxes, fresh baked loaves of French bread, and interesting soda flavors (after it was confirmed that the caps were not seal-broken). The French bread filled our bellies splendidly, and the cookies were fun and it was nice to share.
As the pit stops became fewer and the countryside grew more prevalent, the next phase of Africa presented itself to us. We saw a shift in vegetation as we traveled, and I tried to notice patterns in the landscape. Farmland was everywhere, but how and why was it laid out the way it was? These questions started to fill up a small notebook I carried while staring out the window. I guessed what crops were grown on the mounds, what the deep green patches could be, and their relation to the mounds. What elevations were predominant in the stages of farms placed, and why were some areas already smoldering from the obligatory burn? I used sketches to calculate distances and aksed questions to get my nearest classmates guessing as well. The land was beautiful! It was so green! And all that I had read about the large animals being hunted hundreds of years before in more high canopy environs flooded into my brain as I looked out the damp window. I could see small villages in the distance and farms dotting most of the land. Here was Africa. Here was Sierra Leone. Here was the land that was the hub of the Atlantic slave trade and the departing point from the middle passage. Gone was the shore that set sail the Amistad and behold the home of the more prisoners who made the journey for so many years. This land held so many violent secrets in its sublime beauty that I was overwhelmed and breathless. I wanted to get out of the bus and walk the eighty miles to the village of Kagbere to experience it all on the way. Meet the people and laugh with them. Step over the many obstacles that lay in my way, and arrive to my destination a wiser and more aware student. But at that stage, I could not contemplate the complexity of the land which lay before my eyes, and the destination was to hold its own mysteries and challenges that even a hundred year walk into the interior could not have prepared me for.
We arrived in the next large city called Makeni. Here was a quagmire of shops and stalls endlessly teaming with those who had things to sell themselves and those who were looking for things to purchase. Everywhere was the smell of petrol, and it was for that purpose we stopped. It was one of the only places while I was in Salone that I saw armed solders, and they appeared to be guarding the petrol pumps. The pumps were very interesting looking and deserve comment. Imagine a five gallon mason jar filled with a golden petrol sitting on top of a refrigerator. The refrigerator then had a hose that came out with a capped end. The end was put into the vehicle and the gas was measured by how much was removed from the mason jar. This may not be the way it was done, but as a foreigner looking out a bus window, that is what it appeared to work. People would line up their motorcycles to get the gas, and the lines looked like they were used as social areas. Directly on the side of the bus, a young man about 20 years or so created a show. It appeared that he did not want to pay for his petrol, and after a commotion of him trying to take off, the guards were able to straddle the bike enough to where he could not go anywhere. Others were holding his shirt and, shorts, and arms from the back end, and there were many angry shouts. After they pulled him off, the bike was pulled aside and people took his place in line. I watched what happened with great interest as we sat getting our bus’ tank filled. I expected the boy to be thrown to the ground or cuffed. I expected the soldiers to pull their guns on him and keep him in line, for I was sure the boy was going to bolt! Instead, I saw a sort of camaraderie between the guards and the boy. I saw the great concern everyone had over where his bike was going to be placed, and the relaxation everyone developed once the boy was taken aside. The boy obviously had friends, and they were standing a short distance away, but nobody was yelling at authority claiming wrongful assault (like we often see in the state regardless of who was wrong) and the boy was just talked while people mulled around. It was incredibly relaxed. I think I was the only one tense in this scene, and I was an invisible participant (probably one of my only times this was so). The next thing I know, the situation dissolved itself, and there was no longer guards around a boy, a boy, or those who cared. My guess is that they siphoned the gas back out of his tank and let him go. No harm…he just got caught, but all was normal again. Amazing.
By Makeni, we were in the interior of Sierra Leone. It was jungle from Makeni onward, and while we had seen jungle all around us coming into Makeni, our vision was no further than 100 yards off the side of the roads. It was the beginning of the rainy season, so the ground was moist and the bus slid all consistently, but it was nothing to worry us too much. Before we had left, Pa Kempson told the driver that the driver would be coming upon a couple of bridges near Kagbere. When we reached the bridges, he instructed the driver to “na go pan dEm…TEk da rod pan de gron, ehnti?” We were to go around the bridges because they were unsafe…Pa Kempson would know, for he makes the journey to Kagbere from Freetown at least twice a month—about a 100-mile drive. We neared the bridges and the driver got out to examine the bridge for himself. It was a measly bridge made of concrete, but from inside the bus, none of us were in any position to judge its safety. The driver jumped on it and analyzed it from all sides. He also looked at the alternative route through the mud off to its side; I never did find out why there even was a bridge there. As he came back inside the bus, he informed Pa Tobangi (Clarke), Yai Gbako (Brook), and Yai Mata that we were to go over the bridge. This was an interesting culture moment: The driver (about 35 years of age), was telling three elder (and paying customers) that the head honcho, Pa Kempson—a holy man, was not to be minded in this situation. The three elders immediately made their voices heard, and Yai Mata—wife of Pa Kempson—was especially flustered. Cries the likes of “Pa Kempson dohn say wi na go de tranga road” (Pa Kempson said not to do it) and “Pa Kempson hee sabi dis road ya!” (Pa Kempson knows what he’s talking about) filled the front of the bus. They were cut off by a youthful, booming voice of the bus driver telling them that Pa Kempson was not here to judge for himself. He demanded to know if ANYBODY there had driven a bus like this before, and that everyone should trust the judgment of a professional driver.
The bus went dead silent.
Yai Mata was flabbergasted, but she just shook her head. Yai Gbako looked to Pa Tobangi for his verdict, and Tobangi stared at the driver, nodded in resignation, and waved the driver to do what he does best. Looking back, I think Clarke was very pleased with the way the driver handled the situation. I think it reflected the manner in which professional young men in Sierra Leone, who all fight for those jobs that offer job security, will defend their decisions on matters of professionalism, and this will break deep cultural traditions due to pride, necessity, and determination…I loved every minute of it! After that incident, we came to adore our driver’s decisions. Some ways he judged too dangerous, but some he disregarded Pa Kempson’s wisdom. There were a few times we were ordered to pile out of the bus and hike up hills, and that was lovely. It was the first time we were really able to smell the jungle. We reached a village called Pbendembu and stalled in a spot of the road that was just recently paved with dirt (now mud because of the rains). We all piled out of the bus, pushed the bus deeper in the mud and ditch, then backed away to pray. We started singing a song that we had learned during the drive. This is how it goes:
Krio:
Teh God tenki tEEhla
Teh Papa God tenki
Ah go tehl em tenki!
Teh God tenki tEEhla
Teh Papa God tenki
Wetin du!
Wetin du fo mi
Ah go tehl em tenki
Wetin du fo mi
Ah go tehl em tenki
Teh God tenki tEEhla
Teh Papa God tenki
Translation:
Tell God thank you tell Him
Tell Papa God thank you
I’m gonna tell Him thank you!
Tell God thank you tell Him
Tell Papa God thank you
What He does!
What He does for me
I’m gonna tell Him thank you
What He does for me
I’m gonna tell Him thank you
Tell God thank you tell Him
Tell Papa God thank you
We would clap our hands and sing at the top of our lungs. The villagers of Pbendembu would join in with us, clap, and sing. The Pikin dEm (children) would swarm and play and laugh and cry, but we all loved Papa God and knew He would help save our bus!
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