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Travel Writers: A real taste of Africa
By Matthew Hill
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Location: Freetown, Sierra Leone
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 It was just another rainy season night in Sierra Leone when I landed. The airport is a couple of hours drive from the capital Freetown, due to the state of the roads rather than the distance. So I elected to take the helicopter shuttle to the city instead; quite an experience! The chopper was ex-Soviet military and should have been scrapped at the same time as communism. Since it was overloaded with people and cargo I had a fairly nail biting seven minute ride!
Next morning I had my first real sight of Africa. And what a sight! Colour everywhere and people bustling around. Few have jobs so they wander the streets selling wares from baskets a-top their heads: mangoes, bananas, flip-flops, CDs. While most were scruffy in old clothes and no shoes, school children were immaculately turned out in clean pressed uniforms with shoes, ties and sometimes even straw hats.
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Before I could do much else I needed to get some money changed. Banks exist, but it was far more fun to use a shady-looking money changer. $100 bought me 290,000 leones and since most of the bank notes are 5000s I left the guy with a meaty wad of cash bulging in my pocket! Sensible!
I loved visiting the national stadium, a cavernous concrete bowl that dominates the skyline. The Olympic rings are painted on one wall and a Fifa World Cup sticker adorns one of the dugouts. Oh, the irony! I’m afraid to say that neither of these great events will ever grace this arena. I also went to the beach, one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. A sandy lagoon overlooked by rain forest backing onto the roaring Atlantic. Fresh lobster was washed down with ice cold Stars, the delicious local beer. This place illustrated the enormous gulf between the 'haves' and the 'have nots' that exists in this land.
I was fortunate enough to venture into the interior of the country, where my brother was working. I loved the place names on the journey, like fictional towns in a children’s story book. We passed through Port Loko, Bombali and finally arrived in Kabala, the capital of Koinadugu district. This was the Africa I had seen on the news. |
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The way of life was fascinating for my untrained eye. Amid the mud huts, livestock and people in traditional African dress emerged a tremendously heart-warming tale. The previous week, two locals had stumbled on a diamond by the side of the dusty road. They took it to Freetown and sold it for $25,000, in that instant forever changing life as they knew it. I struggled to grasp the magnitude of the find. I thought of winning the lottery every week for a year and was probably still not even close.
One night I was taken 'out-on-the-town’ by one of the locals. The guy was keen for me to have 'a real taste of Africa' and therefore arranged for a young girl to escort me for the evening, an arrangement I was uncomfortable with. Keen to avoid offence I left the bar with the girl but explained to her that I would only walk her home. When I say home I mean stable. No joke. I felt great pity for this girl, whoring herself to pay for school, no more than 15 years old. I gave her a few thousand leones and went home saddened by a side of everyday African life that I will never truly comprehend.
Nor was this my only good deed. I had taken 20 kg of children’s clothes with me for the local Red Cross tent. What gave me more satisfaction, however, was the gift of a football I had taken. I gave it to the boy who lived next door to my brother and the look on the lad's face when he saw the ball was something that will never leave me. I imagine the ball will be so cherished that it won’t be kicked, not even once, in fear that it might burst or be stolen by bigger boys. Hassan is the proud owner of the finest football in Koinadugu, better even than the one used by the district team (I know this because I watched one of their games). The romanticist in me hopes one day this boy will emerge as the next George Weah. Hassan Timbu: remember the name!
When I left Freetown on the helicopter on the first leg of my trip home I had a frog in my throat. Not because I knew I would never return, but in sadness that the extraordinary people I met on my trip will never make this journey. The young girl from my night out, Hassan, the mango vendor and the street children playing football with junk outside the national stadium. I will remember them all and pray that some day they’ll stumble across their diamond. |
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