jrwelterweight's Journal

American Japan
Just outside of Yokosuka-chuo Station in downtown Yokosuka, gathered in a pack around Marion’s Crepe shop late in the afternoon, you’ll see one of the city’s predominant features: Americans.
Just away from the city center on Route 16 the street is lined with several Irish bars and restaurants serving hotdogs, burgers and milkshakes, all of which are strategically positioned opposite of the U.S. Navy Japan Headquarter, one of the largest and most important overseas U.S. naval facilities in world.
For Americans in Japan longing for a taste of home, this just might be what the doctor ordered. Parallel of Route 16 is Dobuita Road, one of the city’s main attractions. It features American country-style bars (where you might just see a Confederate flag), several Mexican restaurants, an army surplus store and clothing stores that sell everything from NFL jerseys to American baseball caps. There are English speaking housing and mobile phone agents and currency exchange businesses as well as military uniform tailors.
Having lived in Yokosuka for two-and-a-half months I’ve become tacitly conscious of how immediately distinguishable other Americans are, seeing them on a daily basis walking on sidewalks, shopping, eating and waiting on train platforms among other things. They’re attracted by certain restaurants and establishments, dress in different attire, talk louder, hang out together and are, well, just plain American. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all.
However, somehow by seeing them I see myself, and I don’t want to see myself. I traveled across the Pacific from Seattle to get away from the States for awhile and see something different, be someplace different, even to be someone different. I live with a Japanese woman in a Japanese-style house, eat Japanese food and try to speak Japanese. I dress more formally and according to the season, bow and greet my neighbors and, well, try to be Japanese.
Since the spring air became balmy and the cherry blossoms came into bloom the navy base opened its doors for one day to welcome local residents to its annual cherry blossom festival. People by the thousands lined up in Misaka Park adjacent to the base on Green Bay waiting more than an hour just to gain entrance.
I went with a group of Japanese friends for flower viewing, hoping to buy some nachos at one of the plethora of food stalls lining the base. Security was tight and everyone went through metal detectors where our bags where searched. Once inside we immediately came across a McDonalds and then a strip of restaurants including Popeye’s, Subway and Mean Gene’s Pizza among others. It looked like America. It felt like America. As my friends sat on a grassy knoll between two parking lots eating fajitas and pizza I watched as off-duty sailors walked around with plastic cups of beer in their hands wearing backwards caps, t-shirts, sunglasses and shorts. In the distance a navy cover-band was playing the Eagle’s “Hotel California.”
Had I really left home? Was this Japan? Perhaps I’d entered some weird warp that transported me back home.
“A-ii-su-ku-ri-mu!” an American sailor working in a food stall shouted, which is the Japanese pronunciation of ice cream. “A-ii-su-ku-ri-mu!”

Japanese-ish
After scrapping through an uneventful week spent mostly alone, Takayo and I usually share the weekends together.
“We’re meeting my friend Oolong on Saturday. Don’t you remember?” she asked, visibly irritated. It’s not that I wasn’t paying attention, but for reasons unbeknownst to me some details evade me. I groaned to myself. Great. Just great.
“And on Sunday we’re gonna’ meet my friend Maririn and see her new baby.”
“Oh, right,” I said while internally grumbling. How I looked forward to a relaxing weekend alone with Takayo; some simple activity like going to the park or watching a movie. On the holiday a few days prior we went to her friend’s house for supper. The weekend before that we went on a double date to an expensive French restaurant with a couple she was trying to play match-maker with.
I sat quietly as she and her two friends chattered away in Japanese. Occasionally they’d break from their conversation to ask me something.
“Carter-san, why did you become a vegetarian?” Tamaki asked me. I considered a good way to explain it in Japanese and so began…
“When I was in high school I had a part-time job at a restaurant. Our customer would…er….um, is okay if I explain it in English?” Both Tamaki and Keiko spoke English.
“Yes, yes. Please,” he said. And so I continued my explanation.
“You don’t seem like an American,” Keiko suddenly said in Japanese.
“People in America think the same thing,” I replied. “They always think I’m Russian or something.”
“Ah, yes, yes, yes,” Tamaki said. “And you use words Americans don’t use, polite words.
“I don’t think I could be with Carter-san if he were a typical American,” Takayo said.
“I’m a person without a country of his own,” I said.
“You seem Japanese-shi,” Keiko said.
Weekend after weekend of meeting with Takayo’s friends, I was subjected to these conversations, all in Japanese all the time. There’s always a point of mental exhaustion, where the ability to listen and understand wanes. The more I try to think of an appropriate comment or response, the more fatigued and tired my mind becomes.
However, after running a gauntlet of these encounters, my Japanese has improved. Words come easier to me and Japanese pounds through my thick ears and reaches my brain, the meaning less and less obscure than before.
Who knows how long I’ll be here. But surely I’m learning much, and hopefully much more.

Oh Lovely Trains
I've been in Japan for a week-and-a-half now and have formed a routine. In the morning I walk Takayo to the Yokosuka Station about a mile from our place, then return and study Japanese for 2 hours or so and fiddle around on the computer, searching for jobs and checking my email. After lunch I head for the Yokosuka-chuo station which is a 10-minute walk down the main street, and I take the trains to where ever I happen to be going that day. Usually Takayo and I decide on a location the previous evening, the point being that I have to plan ahead and get used to traveling to different cities on my own and learning how to get around.

The train system here is fantastic. There is a liberating feeling not having a car. You don't worry about parking, traffic or gas. It's very quick and stress free. Rush hour is a different phenomenon than we experience because the trains continue to arrive and depart on schedule. The only difference is how crowded the cars become. Sometimes I have to stand for a few stops until some seats clear up. However, Takayo's father was telling me stories about the subways in the Tokyo area; how there are so many business men commuting that the station attendants sometimes getting behind the embarking crowd and shove until everyone is packed into the subway car. I haven't gone as far as Tokyo yet, but I'm planning on going fairly soon.

So there I was sitting on the Keikyu train from Yokosuka to Yokohama. A quartet of plump Americans stood chatting at the other end of the car when one of them approached me.
"Excuse me," he said. "Do you know if this train goes to Shimbashi?"
"I'm not sure," I replied, producing my train map. He studied it for a minute furrowing his brows. "Let me ask someone," I said. I tapped the shoulder of the woman sitting next to me. "Um, excuse me," I said in Japanese. "Do you know if this train goes to Shimbashi?" She looked at my map.
"I don't think it does," she said. "You have to transfer at Shinagawa Station."
"I see, I see," I said. "Thank you very much." I turned to the American. "Well, according to her this train doesn't go that far."
"Well, someone told me that and Shinagawa this train becomes a local train and you can take it all the way to Shimbashi."
"Look, I'm pretty new at this," I told him. "This is my first time riding the trains here. Your best bet is to transfer at Shinagawa." The train stopped at the Kami-Ooka Station and the woman got off.
"Can you ask someone else for me? How about that guy? He looks well traveled." He pointed to and older Japanese man in a tan trench coat. Oh man, I thought.
"Excuse me," I said to him, repeating the hefty American's question.
"You can take this train," he said in English. "About 45 minutes."
"Thanks very much," I replied.
"Where did you learn Japanese," the American asked me.
"College."
"I've lived here for three years and I haven't learned any. Nice to meet you," he said shaking my hand.
"Nice meeting you."

Trombone Blood & Taka's Mum
It was fairly late as I sat in the living room of Takayo’s parents. Takayo was still working and her mother was rambling on about something. Not only is it difficult for me to understand Japanese, but especially when I’m tired. I watched her kind face with patent fatigue just wishing she’d let up and listen to the television which was softly streaming some news program. Takayo’s father sat watching it silently, occasionally taking slow sips from a large cup of tea.
Most evenings I have dinner with them while waiting for Takayo. They’re very nice, and her mother always fixes some vegetarian food for me. But when the conversation starts flowing I’m in trouble. I try my best making grunts and agreeable noises. Sometimes I kind of get what she’s talking about. If I don’t I try to act like I do. I can offer a short comment from time to time. But it’s always a long wait until I hear Takayo opening the front door.
Someone was playing a piano on the television set.
“Do you play any instruments?” her mother asked me last night while Takayo was in the shower.
“Uh, when I was a child I played the trombone,” I replied in Japanese. “But my arms where too short and it was difficult to play it. I couldn’t really play it at all.” Her father cracked a smile.

* * *

We were moving some furniture from Takayo’s small house into the upper floor of her parents’ house. On a small cement stair way leading down towards their front door there was a smattering of dried blood drops.
“Eh!?” Takayo gasped. “Someone must’ve gotten hurt here.” I examined the blood. On the entry way of the house next door there were a few blood drops. As we walked back to our place the blood drops created a trail. We followed it down the hill towards the main street by the 7-11. Intermittently the drops turned into collection, like handful of coins had crashed onto the ground; probably a location where the individual had removed their hand from the wound to examine it. Near a stone wall there were several crimson slashes on the stone walkway. The trail went cold.

Japan Train Blues
So I wake up and I’m in Japan. Not just that, I’ll be here for awhile. Living in a small, cold house, and alone for most of the day without any certainty is definitely an insecure feeling. The only thing to do is learn and try and get by. So that’s just what I’ve been trying to do.
Takayo was teaching me to use the trains. The rail map looked like a tangled plate of spaghetti, a color coded nightmare. She arranged an itinerary for me and using the internet and my Tokyo city atlas I tried to make due. She played a tough game and made me do everything. After all she had to work the next day and from that point on I was on my own. So from the station near our place in Yokosuka, we took the Keihin-Tohoku line up to Yokohama station. Without looking at the rail signs, the place is a chaotic swarm of moving people. So it was easy to lose sense of things.
She made me transfer to several different rail lines in order to go to different locations. I was supposed to get off at the Kikuna station on the Minatomirai line. After several stops I was convinced we had a few more to go. But to my horror I saw the Kikuna sign disappear behind the closing doors of the train as it began to lurch forward.
Yesterday was my first time riding the trains by myself. Takayo and I have come up with a learning game. Each day she gives me a new assignment, or rather a destination to go to. So with shaking hands and a thumping heart I passed through the ticket gate of the Yokosuka-chuo station and took the limited express up to Yokohama.
Takayo assigned me to go to the Yokohama stadium where the Bay Stars baseball team plays. Once I arrived at the bustling station in Yokohama, I consulted my crumpled pocket map with its red scribblings of helpful notes and wandered up to a platform to catch a JR line train to Kannai. There were trains on both sides of the platform, and each would soon head in opposite directions. I picked the one that seemed correct, and after sitting in it for several minutes looking across at the other train, the insecurity that I’d selected the wrong train turned into a palpable fear. I nudged the fellow to my right who was sleeping.
“Does this train go to Kannai?” I asked in Japanese.
“No, that one is on the opposite side.”
“Whoa! Thanks a lot!” I rushed off and took the correct train just as it was leaving, and two stops later I was in Kannai loitering about the baseball stadium. I snapped a photo to prove I’d made it.
Today I face a slightly more difficult assignment. Takayo is sending me to Kawasaki which is even busier than Yokohama. Once there I have to leave the station by foot and walk to the Keikyu-Kawasaki station and take the Keihin-Tohoku line back to Yokosuka.
If dear reader, you are confused by all of these different train lines and stations I’ve mentioned and can’t keep it straight, you’ll know just how I feel. God forbid I should catch the wrong train and wind up who knows where.

Good bye and Good luck!
Well, that's it from Freetown. Mr. Lewis and the Awoko staff held a farewell dinner for me and another person with the paper named Austin. He's going to China for two years. I had a vegetarian pizza to my immense delight. Mr. Lewis said some kind words about me and I spoke to everyone and thanked them for making me part of their family. I'll have some pretty strong ties to this country when I leave, and maybe some day they will be tugging me back. But that has yet to be seen.
I finished writing my final article for IPS which was a post-election piece about the barriers women encountered while campaigning and the challenges they face. Jacklynne, the editor in South Africa called me up and said some nice things. She's going to recommend me to IPS North America so I can do some stories locally in Seattle. I've kind of been plugged into a journalism pipeline, and things have worked out better than I could have imagined. The only thing that remains is to say good bye and come home. To be sure, I'm not coming home, but someone is coming home. Good bye from Freetown and thanks for reading.

love Mike

The Twelfth &Final Round
Well, there's not too many more blog entries left in the old coffee can, just a few rolling around at the bottom. I'll try to plug at least one more out before I take the plane home.
I enjoyed the comments on my previous entry, even from those of you who I don't know. I'm glad that so many can have a window into my experience here. Keep those comments rolling!
I've been really struggling to get the interviews for my final IPS piece because the rains put a total lock-down on the city (drenching my poor shoes for the upteenth time) and due to the fact that the parliamentary results aren't all out yet, which my interviews are entirely dependent on. So it didn't help that I was sent out with the sports reporter, a really cool guy named Bernard, to meet some footballers and the coach for the national boxing team of Sierra Leone. The football guys were a bunch of jolly gents, especially a guy known as Sweet-K who promised to get me a Leone Stars football (soccer for you Americans) jersey.
The boxing coach was a lanky dusty fellow named Ali Bangura and it was difficult to snag a conversation out of him, but his lack of teeth told the story. Bangura, a fighter in the 60s and 70s, was understandably upset because the government, just before the All Africa Games, notified he and his boxers that there was no funding for them to travel. Imagine training rigorously for months only to not compete. Bernard had previously warned me that it would be ill advised to spar with any of the fighters who would take out their anger on me. Recover from the flu, I took his advice.
But Bangura asked me to hit the bag and then gave me a brief workout, having me hit his hands.
"Mike, if you train two months with me, you'll box perfectly," he said. So I'll have to think about coming back and undergoing intensive training so as to represent Sierra Leone in the next All Africa Games.
Well, I've got just a few days left to do a hell of a lot. I hope everyone is doing well and that's all from Freetown.

Elections and the 'Or Potor 'in the North
Well, the elections have come and gone. The process was peaceful and credible. I, as one of the international observers, was able to view polling stations. I saw as a ballot box was opened and watched election officials count the votes. The held up a given ballot, announced who the vote was for and separated it into a pile. On ambiguous or incorrectly marked ballots, they asked for the opinion of observers present. I know I helped save a couple of votes that they were going to put in the 'invalid" pile. The process was fair credible and violence-free; really the perfect result. I think the process was more important than the outcome. Now we're awaiting the results. After the elections I was lucky enough to travel in-country again.
I met a friend of a UW professor, a man named Kempson Thomas. He's helping this professor make preparations for the arrival of his entire class Aug 25th. They'll stay in Freetown for a few days and then head up north to a place called Kagbere to study for three weeks. So I decided to accompany Kempson on one of his trips so I could see more of the country. Our journey got off to a disasterous start as he was flagged down by a police officer after driving the wrong direction down a one-way street. He managed to talk his way out of receiving a traffic ticket and was directed down another street where he was again stopped for driving the wrong direction by other officers. An argument ensued and somehow Kempson got us out of trouble. Soon we were flying over the pavement towards Makeni, the largest of the northern cities, the palm trees whipped by and Freetown disappeared.
The ride to Makeni was about three hours. Once in town we drove to the house of a local paramount chief who is helping with preparations for the students' arrival. I sat at his place spooning mouthfulls of rice while his children ran about yelling "Or Potor" meaning white man, to get my attention. I'd wave and smile until the went shrieking off in the other direction in laughter.
We all piled into the Chief's SUV and headed towards the town of Kagbere, the town the students will stay at. The pavement disappeared and soon we were balancing along a galloping dirt road in the dark with the clouds dropping bullets of rain on us. It was a miserable car ride. It was stuffy in the car and my stomach was turned like a crepe. To make matters worse, the Chief, in an attempt to de-fog the windows, turned on the heater. I some how fell asleep or passed out, I'm not sure witch until I heard the call of "Mike, are you sleeping?" "Yes," I replied and woke up back into driving hell. AFter two and a half hours we finally arrived. I flopped into a bed I shared with Kempson and slept.
In the morning a villager was kind enough the warm a bucket of water over a flame for me so I could bath. While washing in a latrine area I got a strange smile on my face and thought, "Jesus, what the hell am I doing out in this small African town?" It felt pretty far away from home. Kempson and I walked to different houses so he could check the rooms being prepared for the students. People gave me long looks. Most were quite friendly and eager to meet me. The children gave me funny looks and shouted 'or potor, or potor!' We also watched some workers building several mud and stick houses that the UW professor commissioned them to build for his class. All in all there were 25 to 30 houses in Kagbere. When night came darkness reigned supreme. There were no generators or lights. So we went to bed around 8:30.
The next morning we fueled up with anchovy sandwiches and piled back into the Chief's vehicle to make the return trip. The ride back was much better, even though there were eight people crammed in the car, plus a crowing rooster. Luckily I got a window seat and the sun splashed the country side. We whizzed by little villages. Curious people looked at me. Some smiled and some shouted "Or potor," so I waved.
The bumpy ride was too much for a poor teenage girl sitting in the back and she vomitted all over herself and my belongings (good god!), so we pulled over and I passed out my water for everyone to wash off with. The sent her to a river up ahead to wash off and we drove up to pick her up. She emerged wearing nothing but her underwear with her jugs hanging out. I guess she didn't have any more clothing, so in she hopped. I was shocked. Soon the vehicle screached to a hault again. Kempson had seen a girl walking with a basket of limes on her head, and explaining how his wife love limes, tried to haggle a good deal. He bought her entire basket for Le 5000 (Le 3000 = $1). So the girl lifted her basked off her head and dumped the all the limes through the car window, and off we went with a naked girl, a crying rooster and the floor rolling with limes while children outside shouted "or potor! or potor!"
Six hours later I was back in Freetown with my head spinning. And that was the trip, and that's the latest from Sierra Leone!

D-Day Minus 1
Tonight is election eve. All of the political parties held huge rallies in Freetown throughout the week. Tuesday was the PMDC party's day. I went wit Betty to Victoria Park in the center of town to see their candidate, Charles F. Margai, speak. We arrived early and met some of our colleagues from France Radio Internation. I also bumped into a Canadian named Jennifer who is with an organization called Journalist for Human Rights. She knows me from my white-guy columns. We argued about US politics before the fun began. The crowd swelled into a massive orange sea. I saw two white faces in the crowd and intantly recognized them to be my advisor from UW, Professor Hoffman and his buddy John. I quickly greeted them before making my way to the center stage where I waited for Margai. The park was so crowded that people began climbing trees to get a better view. The stage quickly filled and I was completely surrounded by humanity. I had to take a deep breath and close my eyes, thinking to myself that I would be back at my peaceful room at the YMCA later that night. I goofy local reporter I've met a few times was crammed directly behind me. He could even bring his pen to his note pad he was so crowded. "I'm pressed from all angles," he grunted to me with a funny smile.
Finally Margai showed up and came onto the stage. However, the police decided they'd let too many people on stage and began forming a perimeter. They just started shoving everyone every which way. I got caught is a knot of police who where about 10 strong with 3 more behind, pushing their mass. I was grabbed by what felt like an octopus with hands, and manhandled towards the back. I looked over towards Betty who was just smiling as she was shoved, so I took it all in good humour and got a few photos of the cops shoving us. I managed to make my way to the front to catch the last half of Margai's speech. I took a photo of him yelling into a mic which was put on the front page of the next days edition.
Wednesday was the APC rally. Since I'd come down with the flu, I felt like avoiding another suffocating crowd, especially since Freetowners largely support the APC. So I finished up my work for IPS which has since been posted (Check their website dear reader, at www.ips.org. Then click the Africa news link and scroll down to check for my articles) I went to the electrical building with the Awoko accountant, a nice man named Fouyar (sounds like fire), where we perched on a balcony overlooking the main street. The roads were absolutely clogged with red-clad supporters. We snapped some photos, but then this one guy on the street got really pissed that I took his picture and turned around violently. He looked like he really wanted a piece of me, and his friend had to drag him away.
Thursday was the SLPP's day. However, they were unlucky because the previously pleasant whether turned sour and the skies opened up dropping bullets, absolutely clobbering them. Wet political shirts clung to the SLPP supporters while the marched down Saika Stevens Street. Early in the day I woke up in a heavy sweat. The flu had gotten the better of my and I was about to call in sick when I got a call from Med. He told me about a press conference that Christiana Thorpe, the head of the National Electoral Commission would be attending (an inteview of opportunity that IPS wanted), so I pulled my crumpled body out of bed and slowly made my way to the office, and then to the British Council up a big hill where the meeting was being held. I was doubtful of getting the interview, but as luck would have it, Thorpe took the time to talk with me and I sent the interview off to IPS. I'm not sure if it's been posted yet. It wasn't nearly as interesting as my interview with the minister of social welfare who had some shocking things to say about female genital mutilation. So I'm not sure if they will use it, but here's hoping.
Well, I'm back States' side in a little over two weeks. See everyone soon!

TV on the Radio
I haven't been doing as much work for Awoko these days because I've been concentrating on my assignments from IPS. Nobody seems to mind though. I met with one of my adviors from UW the other day, a nice man named Danny Hoffman, a professor of anthrophology. He speaks Krio and knows his way around. He came to the office and I introduced he and his buddy John from Arkansas to the Awoko staff. They treated me to a nice supper and we chatted for awhile. It was nice speaking with other Americans.
I finally got an interview with the elusive minister of social welfare, gender and children's affairs; a woman named Shirley Gbujama. I was required to track her down for a Q&A piece, but she'd been in Nigeria. She finally came back to Freetown, but was leaving the next day. Med managed to convince her to see me, saying over the phone that I was an important journalist who came all the way from America to interview her. I had to ask her a bunch of questions about female genital mutilations and about some unfortunate comments she made years ago. It was a tough interview and she openly told me she wished she hadn't participated in it, but I got what I needed and sent it off to South Africa.
Yesterday Awoko had a big televised raffle to celebrate the paper's 9th anniversary. They were giving away a bunch of stuff and using this computerized program to select numbers at random. They'd then call up the winners and try to interview on-air. Everyone had assigned jobs but me. However, since Med is camera shy (he was going to give the vote of thanks at the end), his job was delegated to me. So I waited patiently until the end of the show, and the host said, "and now we have Michael Carter to give the vote of thanks." So I walked up in front of the cameras and said somethink like this:
"I'd like to thank our sponsors, GCB, Celtel, Ecobank, Dr. Richard Coker, Freetown Cold Storage and the Brewery. Most of all I'd like to thank our readership. With out you none of this would be possible. Someone once said that newspapers have nothing to sell but their credibility, and Awoko has that. Thank you for making us one of Freetown and Sierra Leon's best papers." Every one clapped and the was the end of the show, and that's the end of my blog.

Salone Women Peacekeepers
     I didn't think I had an assignment today. So I was planning on writing up my final draft for IPS and write out a piece for Awoko using the same research I'd done, but taking a different angle. However, I was assigned to go out with Abi on what I thought would be a short outting to cover a peacekeeping march from and organization called Salone Women Peacekeepers for Election 2007. We met up with them while they were assembling in the city park. The had a small marching band to lead their procession and were several hundred strong. I was the designated photographer, a role I'm not used to. But it seemed more fun that carrying around a pen and note pad. I snapped a few shots before the women got moving. They had a police escort which stopped traffic as the marched down the city streets of Freetown. I darted around, weaving in and out of the singing crowd, occasionally climbing up onto things for a better angle. I met the chairperson for the Sierra Leone human rights commission who I'd previously interviewed as she joined the ranks. Liberian women also came in support and a large contingent proceeding along with us. It reminded me of my protesting days in Seattle, marching through Capitol Hill against the War in Iraq.
     The first stop was the SLPP party headquarters. The crowd amassed at the entrance, meeting SLPP representatives to deliver their message against election violence. The SLPP representative gave some hollow words of support before condemning the APC. We moved on as the march redntered the streets. Abi and I stayed near the front, and I would dart around the body of the march to take photos. We headed down Siaka Stevens Streets, one of the main roads in Freetown, towards the APC party headquarters where the women delivered the same message to waiting APC representatives. He made a longer, more uninteresting speach and condemned the SLPP while pledging his party would abstain from election violence. Next stop was the PMDC pary headquarters a few blocks away. They were the most inviting, though the loud speaker stopped working so I couldn't hear the words their representative delivered. Finally we moved off to a hall where the march ended with speeches from various ranks of the non-violence movement. Suddenly there was a ruckus towards the back of the room. Everyone stood up as the current vice president and current SLPP presidential candidate, Solomon Berewa made his way to the front. He sat with the women listening to them speak. However, Berewa, who is aged has a problem of sleeping in public which has earned him the dubious nickname, the Sleeping Bomba. His eyes grew heavy and his chin dropped towards his ches. So he had was of his cornies fan him to keep him awake. He finally spoke for several minutes and sounded genuine until he too took the opportunity to bash his APC opponent.
      Abi and I finally left late in the afternoon and I was sweating it out whether I would have enough time to finish my work for the day. We caught a ride back with a Reuters reporter. I had a fish sandwich and pounded out my article. The IPS piece hit a snag when my buddy Med, who was helping me out, came down with a case of malaria. He was going to get me election demographics and also was going to transcribe an interview I recorded where the woman sopoke Krio. I went to his house and brought him a sparkling drink to make him feel better. I had to wait around for my other buddy Ophie, so he could transcribe it for me. I've got it now and I'm headed back to my place to finish the work. That's all from Freetown.

Various
Today I didn't have an assignment with Awoko, so I planned to write out my article for IPS. I'd been dreading it. I painstakingly transribed all of my interviews which I had recorded. By the time I was done I had nearly 10 pages scribbled out. After our staff meeting today I went back to my place and did some laundry before forcing myself to sit and write. I had so much material and conductedso many interviews that I flew through writing imy article, and within 45 minutes had nearly banged out a first draft. It's not finished yet, but I've got a good bite on it. My deadline is not until Friday, so I've got plenty of cruising room. So I'm going to take the time to write to you about some various things.

Food I've eaten in Sierra Leone:

Cassava leaves and rice: Every Sierra Leonean loves of good plate of cassava leaves and rice. Cassava leaves are ground up and mixed with palm oil and spices. Before I came to Freetown I read that it was delicious, but have since changed my mind. I hate it! It seems like I'm always stuck eating it. Usually fish or bush meat is mixed in the sauce.

Fufu: Another product of the cassava plant, it seems to be the most popular dish on Friday and Saturday. Fufu is the root of plant. It is ground and reconsititued with water and forms this doughy mass. It's served with a spicy sauce with meat mixed in. Fufu is sour tasting and when I got through eating it the taste was too much for me.

Pepper soup: I ate pepper soup during my last night in Kenema. I was trying to land a plate of fish and chips which is my favorite thing over here, but the place only had cassava leaves and pepper soup. I cringed at the options and opted for pepper soup. The stock is a brown meaty broth with some hunks goat or cow meat. It wasn't untasty and I found some delight in some slices of plantain included in the soup.

Potato leaves: The leaves of sweet potatoes prepared much like cassava leaves in palm oil and mixed with spices. Also untasty and mixed with meat. Need I say more?

Goat soup: I had goat soup in Moyamba junction on my way to Bo. It was a little puddle of slop in a bowl served with a plate of rice. All I can say is that I ate it.

Produce: Sometimes I like to get some fresh foods. I go to the fruit vendors by the supermarket and haggle for cucumbers, roma tomatoes, mangos and bananas. The mangos are the most tasty, but are falling out of season and becoming smaller and more expensive. The bananas here are much tinier. I usually eat them with wheat cakes from the supermarket imported from the UK. Almost all packaged food stuffs are imported and expensive.

Can of beans: I finally got fed up with the cassava leaves and invested some money in a metal spoon and bought six cans of baked beans. Not that baked beans are particularly tasty, but they taste not weird. I know the flavor and can spoon some out into a sliced chunk of bread and make a sandwich. I was having some bowel problems earlier and the laxatives here don't work too well. The beans were cheaper, tastier and more effective.

Random things:

I held hands for the first time with a boy. Over here you see it pretty regularly on the streets. Buddies hold hands like it's nothing. The handshakes last a lot longer here, and you tend to squeeze more. And why, if you start walking it just turns into holding hands. I met this guy on the street named Ali. He's pretty cool and came back to the YMCA last night to visit. I gave him a few biscuits. This morning I ran into him again and we had a long handshaked. He walked with me and it just turned into hand holding. No problem!

When people want to get your attention they hiss. I first noticed it when I was in Bo with Med. When he'd flag some motorcycles down for us he'd his at them. Sure enough a bike would pull over. Now any time I hear a hiss I look around. Usually it's some child interested in the skinny white guy walking around holding a big umbrella.

TV: What's a TV? I haven't watched one in over a month! What a relief!

That's it from Freetown.

Freelancer Blues

     The election is in 12 days and it's really crunch time. I'm finally making progress on the articles I was commissioned to write from IPS. The editor in South Africa asked me for the contact information for another credible journalist in Freetown, so I recommended my buddy Med. I've been assigned to write about female parlimentarian candidates' views on female genital mutilation (FGM) and have also been asked to interview the minister of social welfare, gender and child affairs regarding some unfortunate comments she made some years ago. I tracked her down to find out rather unluckily that she's in Nigeria. I informed the editor who asked for a suggestion for another person to do a Q&A article on. I thought about it and told her the NDA party had a woman for their vice presidential candidate, to which the editor was delighted. I noted that the door was not shut on the interview with the minister, because she may come back in time before the election, to which the editor replied that she'd float the bill for three pieces. So I some how managed to accidentall talk myself into a third assignment. It's tough because I'm trying to do work for Awoko and IPS. So I feel like I'm being tugged in two directions. IPS is a big news sight, so it's a good opportunity for me and I'm trying not to blow it. Luckily Med has a similar assignment in interviewing female candidates, so we're joined at the hip. We double up on the interviews and meet with a lot of the same people for our respective stories. Their might be a little overlapping on out sources, but that's the way it goes.
     Med was so happy when he heard the news that I recommended him to IPS. The money they pay ($150 per article) is about a month's wage for him. I'm hoping that if they like his work he can become a correspondant for IPS in Freetown and cover Sierra Leonean news for them.
     In other news I finally got my luggage. It's been over a month and they must have left my suitcase out in the rain at Heathrow because there was some water damage to my things. But I'll give my clothes a good wash and everything will be just fine. Also it looks like I won't be staying any longer as I previously noted. If a runoff election occurs, it will be held four weeks after August 11. My work was gracious enough to extend me a two-month leave of abscense. I really can't press them any further, and I need the money to pay for tuition. Besides, I'm a bit homesick and two extra weeks seems like a long time. So I will return home on the 28th as planned. That's all from Freetown. All the best!

The Great Race
Politics, politics, politics. It's all we ever talk about any more. It's the easiest way to strike up a conversation. People are reluctant to tell which way they are voting, but quick to give their opinion. No one knows what's going to happen. There are nine political parties contesting for the presidency, but only three are viable parties: the Sierra Leone People's Party (SLPP), the All People's Congress (APC) and the People's Movement for Democratic Change (PMDC). The SLPP is the current ruling party and the vice president, Solomon Berewa is trying to become the next leader. The APC candidate, Ernest Koroma is supposed to represent the new APC. For those of you who don't know, the APC was in power for many years in a single party climate. They became corrupt and greedy, eventually leading to a military coup d e'tat The PMDC candidat, Charles Margai is the real wild card. His fathre and uncle were former prime minsters representing the SLPP in the 1960s. Margai expected the SLPP would nominate him years ago, but he stepped aside for the current president Tejan Kabbah. This time around he was certain the SLPP would pick him, and when they announced Berewa as their candidate he was furious and broke away, forming his own party to challenge for power.
Politics in Sierra Leone is drawn across ethnic lines. The Timnes in the north always support the APC, and the Mendes in the south always vote for SLPP. But Margai and the PMDC have effectively created a split in the SLPP, giving the APC a real chance at taking the presidency. However, the winning candidate must capture 55 percent of the vote on August 11 to become the next leader. If 55 percent of the vote is not captured, the election will go to a runoff, where the two candidates who received the most votes will have a show down exactly two weeks after the 11th. The PMDC will not get that kind of support. At best Margai is a spoiler for the SLPP, and that may well be his game. He wants revenge on the SLPP for failing to nominate him and he has a chance to hurt them.
In the even of a runoff, the race will be between Berewa of the SLPP and Koroma of the APC. The real question is, what will the PMDC contingency do? As ethnic Mendes, will they vote SLPP, or cross party and ethnic lines to put the APC in power? Opinions vary. Some Mendes say the will obstain or vote for Koroma, and others say they will never cross tribal lines. The minority Krio, former freed slaves that came to form an elite, will vote APC in all liklihood. The real questions is what will Margai's supporters do? When this answer is learned, the outcome will be known.

Motorcycle Diaries

     I've been in country for the past week. Late last Saturday I found out that I was traveling with a UNICEF team to the cities of Bo and Kenema in the interior of Sierra Leone. I went with my buddie Med and we were going to write up some articles about th team's work as they were conducting two, two day conferences with children about HIV/AIDS awareness.
     So it came to be that I was stuffed in a Landrover with five other people, crashing along the pothole filled muddy dirt road to Bo, a five-hour ride. On the way with stopped at a junctioin town, really just a restuarant a few shacks and a bunch of vendors under bright umbrellas, where I ate goat soup with rice for 2000 leones. Mr. Jollah and Daramola snacked on cernals of roasted corn. About 30 miles outside of Bo a massive road construction project was underway, and soon we were cruising along smooth asphalt. Med is well connected and managed to get us free lodging in town, though the place was rat hole, though perhaps I'm just being econocentric.
     Bo is referred as "Sweet Bo" or the "Second," as in the second largest city. Once in Bo the taxis dried up and swarming droves of motorcycles buzzed about the streets. If you need a lift you make a hissing sound which is like yelling "hey!" and a bike will stop. 1000 Leones later you're on your way to where every you like.
     I met up with a student from Duke University who I had previously been introduced to via email in Seattle. He happend to be in Bo when I arrived so we met up. He was just getting over malaria, but seemed chipper enough. He showed us around to some of his favorite restaurants before we parted ways, and Med and I chose this little cafe with a couple of wooden benches. I had marcaronni, which was greasy spaghetti noodles and beef, and he had some god-awful sandwhich with what looked like dry burger. The shop keeper had a TV on playing a Bollywood film called "Disco Dancer." Although there were no subtitles the story was simple enough and the music and singing was so great that I later bought a copy once back in Freetown.
     Med and I attended the conference in the morning and pounded out a couple of articles before emailing them back to the office from an over-priced under-tech internet cafe. There really wasn't much to Bo. It was much quieter than Freetown; a nice change.
     Soon we were on our way to Kenema which is much closer to the Liberian border. Kenema has a bunch of Lebanese diamond merchants, as their shops are prevelant throughout town. The conference was the same as the one in Bo and painfully boring, so when we heard Charles Margai, the PMDC presidential candidate was coming to town, we left the building and waited along the main road and watched as his orange-clad supporters poured down the street. To my glee the were drinking orange powder brews and cans of Fanta. They were too camera friendly, overcrowding my frame. As march made its way past us and Margai's convoy came by, we followed slowly behind and made our way to a soccer stadium where they were gathering for the delivery of the PMDC manifesto. We managed to get up on the rickety wooden platform Margai and his PMDC cronnies spoke from. I jumped in front of hiim and snapped a photo. He wore an odd grin, perhaps remember me from a previous press conference I attended. He said little about his policies and instead, blasted the ruling SLPP party for campaign violence and alligned himself with the larger, more threatening APC party. I decided then that he doesn't believe he can win the presidency, but rather he is trying to take his revenge on the SLPP and bring them down, as it was his former party and he was vying for their nomination for president. He may well be the deciding factor in the outcome.
     Med managed to track down a female PMDC candidate that had been beaten up by SLPP thugs in a hospital in Kenema, and while interviewing her I got a weird phone call on my mobile from this large online news site called Intra Press Agency, or something like that. The call was from the South Africa based Africa editor and she commissioned me to do two stories for their site. I was a bit shocked and have no idea how she hear about me, but quickly agreed to her request. So I'll be juggling that with my work for Awoko and be a busy little correspondent from now on. That's all from the front.

Vimto, Top and Coke paint the town red

     I've been trying to post for a few days now, but every time I get on the computer in the office, it's inevitably taken away from me by busy staff members. So I coughed up a few bucks in an internet cafe. I only have one interesting story from the past few days.
     On Wednesday I was walking to the office in the morning and I passed a shop preparing a stack of APC t-shirts branded with a red blazing sun and Ernesto Koroma's name. I had a feeling that it was to be the day the APC contigent responded to the SLPP parade a few days early. I went with Mr. Lewis and Ophie to a hotel in Aberdeen to cover the launch of the Eurpean Union election observation. It wasn't so interesting, but on the way there I saw APC supporters all over the city wearing red. On the way back Mr. Lewis made the mistake of turning down the street of the APC headquarters where traffic was a mess. The car was soon engulfed by a swarm of APC supporters who reached in the windows and slapped the hood of the car.
     "You, that watch," Mr. Lewis said, looking at me. He noticed my watch on my right wrist which was comfortably resting out the window. Seeing his point, I took it off replacing it on my left.
     Once back at the office, there was a constant stream of people parading down Saika Stevens Street from noon to 5 p.m. The all packed into the national stadium several kilometeres away. The Awoko staff warned me not to go on the street to watch. The APC has kind of a bad reputation among the paper staff, fairly or unfairly, as being rough and more violent than the other parties.
     "Mike, even I'm afraid!" Mohammed Ali said. The APC parade didn't look so threatening to me. Some of them had on red santa hats and others carried Elmo dolls. Whistles blasted and car horns honked. It looked festive. Finally Betty accompanied me to the corner where we climbed a balcony overlooking the street. From up there I was out of the way and free to snap photos. Evidentally the staffs fears were not entirely unfounded. I was talking with a girl working with and NGO at the YMCA, and she walked into the crowd carelessly, where someone unzipped her backpack and began taking things out. But other people noticed and made sure all her things were returned.
     In the end I was most impressed by the choice of beverages APC supporters were drinking. The previous Saturday, SLPP supporters were drinking from green bottles of Sprite and Freshup. the APC contingent counter with bottled Coke, Vimto and Top. I'm really hoping the PMDC party can muster up enough support for a march of their own. Their color is orange, so I would expect they would have Fanta and Squeeze among their ranks. But it's a signifcantly smaller party with little chance of winning. That's it from Freetown.

The Man in the Green Hat & Ophie's ill-fated mangos
     So after I left the National Electoral Commission headquarters, where I was elbowed in the chest, I returned to the office to do a write up. Now every now and then a car with a bunch of green-clad kids would drive down Saika Stevens Street whooping and hollering. Well, after a while it turned into a massive SLPP parade. Tens of thousands of people poured down the street, all wearing green hats, shirts and skirts. I followed Ophie and Austin down to the street, and took Austin's green hat and put it atop my head. Now as one of the few white guys in downtown Freetown I'm used to being stared at, but this was completely different. A white guy where a green SLPP hat is probably one of the strangest things as I soon discovered. People where transfixed. They looked at me with amusement and astonishment. Who the hell's the SLPP's white supporter?
     "Look at how they admire the white guy in the green hat!" Austin said with a broad smile. The streets swelled with teaming masses of SLPP supporters and once back at the office, somone shouted that Solo B himself was coming (SLPP presidential candidate). We all rushed out onto the street. People were swigging from green Sprite bottles, had green coconut tree leaves jammed in the grills of their cars. It was a green flood! Solo B's vehicle final made its way past us and Austin grabbed my camera and snapped a shot as Solo B poked out of the sun roof of his SUV. The parade ended in the national stadium where participants were evidentally treated with refreshments.
    Ophie had been boasting he could take me to a market where I could get mangos for cheap, so yesterday I drug him out of the office and made him take me. What a mistake. He took me to the east end of the city by foot, which is the poorest, dirties busiest part of Freetown. It's hard to describe the streets. Cars and people weave together along with guys pulling carts around. It's so crowded, and most of the traffic is caused by pedestrians. When a car honks everyone jumps out of the way as it speeds past. I was nearly squished between a poda-poda van and a delivery truck, and then a cab nearly ran me down. I was really disoriented, but Ophie kept pressing forward and I had to stick to him so as not to get lost in the swelling mob. The best way to describe it is comparing it to a bees nest. Everything is moving and pulsing. You go with it or get out of the way. The markets where just as crowded on muddy streets with sewege running across from time to time. In the end Ophie failed to find any mangos and we made our way back to the office much to my relief. I was shaken up so I went back to the YMCA quickly thereafter. Unluckily they've been having problems with their generator, so we were without power for the second day. It finally came back on around 9 p.m.
     Oh, I should briefly explain the electrical situation. Before I came to Freetown I was telling people the city loses power at night. Actually, that's not quite accurate. The city never has power. Everything is run on gas generators. Even the power plant around here is a building filled with gas generators. So there a loud blasting of generators running throughout the night. Also, stray beagle dogs roam around the streets for some reason. Who knows where they came from. Maybe it was a failed experiement of the British colonizers. But when the people leave the streets late at night, the beagles own the street and I hear them fighting loudly all night. Good god! That's all from Freetown.

The Greens: SLPP
      Today I went to the National Electoral Committee headquarters where the SLPP (ruling party) presidential candidate and his running mate where submitting there nomination for the election. I has my ratty little red notebook that I use to scribble notes down on, but Mr. Lewis gave me a tape recorder with a microphone attachment, and instructed me to use it instead.
     It was a 15-minute car trip to the edge of town where a bunch of SLP (Sierra Leonean Police) were hanging outside the NEC building, a few of them with old AK47s. Things got started around 11 when SLPP vehicles clad with the national flag rolled up to the building. Their supporters, wearing green, smiled widely and clapped as the Solomon Berewa (aka Solo B) and his running mate Koroma approached the committee officials. Although I had been instructed to remain seated in the press section, I realized soon that it was not an advantageous position, so I got up and joined the other reporters who had circled Solo B during the process. It was crowded and sweaty. I couldn't make out what anyone was saying, but finally the NEC commission spoke and I shoved my mic near her lips. Solo B was asked to give a statement on how his party would ensure a nonviolent campaign and election, and I poked the mic in his face too. Next was Koroma. They didn't say anthing great, just that their party always follows proper conduct and so on and so forth. But as Solo B got up to address questions from the press, some photographers began shoving eachother, trying to claw their way to a better spot. There were some SLPP goons wearing black that began shoving the knott of reporters,and this guy wearing a black stocking cap put his elbow in me and began shoving me backwards.
   "Hey hey hey!" I shouted. "Stop!" He cleared a line infront of Solo B and stood with his back to me. I wanted to put him in a sleeper hold and drag him to the floor, but that's not being a fair and objective journalist, now is it? After the candidates and the thugs left I got in Mr. Lewis' car, and in an attempt to find a shortcut away from the hubub, he turned on a muddy side street the stretch for a couple of traffic infested miles. He kept honking and rolled his window down to shout with regularity. Once we got back in town, traffic was a mess. We got stuck behind some coolies pushing a cart of full of curagated metal sheets. I saw an amputee with his leg missing at the knee pass us. People swelled in the hot streets and the sun beat down hard on us. I barely felt the air condition in the car. I got back and pounded out the story, and that's the story of the day.

2 bug, a lizard; Sah and Ophie on the streets

     I returned home after a boring assignment, and while reading my book "Africa Unchained" I noticed a large bug flying around, followed by a lizard crawling up the wall. I managed to crush the bug with my shoe; as for the lizard, I chased it with my ubrella, but it wedged itself between a crack in the ceiling. Who knows where it went. I woke up and saw an awful black spot roaming about the wall. Oh god.....I watched it carefully as I ate breakfast. It was a cockroach, and when it moved down to smacking height, I gave it a good whalop with my shoe. It was rather early, so I'm sure my neighbors awoke to a sudden "smack!"
    Since we don't publish on the weekends I had the day off, but I still meandered around the office. The situation at Heathrow airport is miserable; more than 60,000 misplaced bags plus the a complete shutdown of the facility due to a car bomb. What does that equate to? My bad still isn't here.
    Ophie took me on the street to swap money on the black market (the rates are better) so I could buy some second hand clothes (as I insisted upon). We met the money dealer who led us into a nook where we could not be easily seen from the street. Bills were exchanged and counted, and out we went. Ophie is a smiley guy and got me resonably good deals on a pair of shorts and two shirts. But he is suffering from malaria, so we returned to the office so he could rest and a guy named Sah took me out to buy some shoes, pants and socks. He is a tall quiet guy who walks slowly, but in a straight line. "Mike, just wait a minute," he said as I tried to cross the street a bit to hastily. He took me to a shack that had piles and piles of shoes occasionally taking me by the hand. I found a pair of Wolverines that fit smartly, so I tried to buy them.
    "30,000 Leones," the shop keeper said.
    "25!" I shot back.
    "Mike, hold your peace," Sah said. He spoke at length to the shop keeper and I walked out with the shoes for 20,000. Sah is shrewd. He always got me the best deals. Two pairs of pants for 10,000, two pairs of socks for 5,000. He insisted I walk in front of him, even though I wasn't sure the direction he was heading.
    "I keep you close because of pickpockets," he told me. I quiet, but good man, Sah.
     I had a go at hand washing some of my laundry last night. I washed a few pairs of boxers with success, so I moved onto a new pair of black jeans I had been avoiding cleaning for awhile. I wound up with a bucket of inky water. I tried to dry the pants out, only to watch black drips stain the floor. The other day I stepped in a cesspool (sp?) so I had to srub my sickly stinking shoe as well. I kept it a good distance from the bed while letting it dry. Good god what a smell.

Vitmo: Well, its just a red pop that's really sweet and supposed to taste like berries, probably. I've found it in the u-district, so it's not so unusual. That's all from Freetown.

The Reds: APC
   So I got sick and spent the other night crapping my guts out. After taking a day off spent mostly in bed, I returned to work wearily. I was sent with Abi to the APC party headquarters where they were to announce the vice-presidential nomination. In the press room speakers blasted music so loud that I couldn't hear Abi when she screamed in my ear at the top of hear lungs. Oh, okay...I nodded back to her. I sat agains the back wall along a small red bench with 10 other people waiting for the announcement which was supposed to commence around noon. But they have an expression here, BMT: Black Man Time, meaning that nothing runs ontime.
     After waiting for two hours an APC spokesman began speaking, taking potshots at SLPP president Kabbah. Kabbah has been blasted recently from other polical parties regarding Libyan president Ghadaffi's visit last week, where he named, among other things he'd done for the well being of Sierra Leone, sent two ship loads of rice several years ago. Well, no one knows where the rice went and rumor has it that Kabbah sold it to his ministers.
     During an intermission I had a fish, two Fantas and a Vitmo, the latter of which was bought for me by an APC supporter named Ceicil who told me to talk about the APC when I returned to America. Way ahead of you Ceicil, way ahead of you.
     After two more hours of blaring music the room was abosultely packed and some shoving ensued before the APC presidential candidate made his way into the room. Following the announcement of his vice-presidential nomination, bedlam broke out as the crowd swarmed towards the nominee. They were cheers as he rushed out of the room followed by shoving and several scuffles. I was by the door and was pinned against the wall as everyone swarmed out of the room after the nominee who was hastily escorted away. In the confusion I was separated from Abi, and made my way through the pushing crowd out onto the street where I took a cab back to the office. Abi and I met up there and pounded out the copy which will run in tomorrow's paper.
    I was asked to start a column by Mr. Lewis about my experience in Sierra Leone as a foreigner. I've titled it "The White Guy," because occassionally on the street, people shout "hey white guy!" That's all from the front line.

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