When Heathrow began offering flights to Freetown a few years ago, the New York Times sent their travel coorespondent on a mission to visit as a tourist and a decide if it was ready for tourism. The result was a somber no. This country is not ready for visitors; don’t come. The bottom of the UN Index of Quality of Life is no joke. My nearly two weeks here have been very tough.
I got a taste of the obstacles that permeate every daily activity here as soon as I arrived at Lunghi airport. CITA’s representative, James, met me at the airport to escort me to Freetown. We needed to walk a ways from the airport before finding a cab for less than $60. The price plummets to about $2.50 once outside the gates. A cab missing its door handles and seatbelts took us a few miles away to the ferry. Our hour long ride was serendaded by select videos from the early 80’s of American pop and homemade evangelical films: Krio dubbed film of Christ’s baptism, Sierra Leoneans on a ranch dressed as cowboys singing contemporary praise songs, the original Live Aid (or something) with Kenny Rogers, Tina Turner, Michael and Janet, and Bryan Adams Everything I Do. Some war amputees then performed a song for the first class passengers. Then we landed in the worst city I been in yet; worse than Guatemala City and Cleveland. We dodged through people and cars pouring off the ferry and continued dodging people and cars through the unlit streets of Sierra Leone’s only city. Masses of people crowded off the street with candles and blaring radios. After several bouts of aggressive price haggling we caught a cab for local fare. Thankfully, I only spent two nights in Freetown. I gathered my stuff from James’ apartment and set off with him and Sarah, CITA’s treasurer, for Kabala.
I had thought we were taking a bus the 230 km to Kabala. If I had known what to expect, I may have not been able to go through with it. The three of us with baggage in tow hailed cabs. We slowly cut through the smog and crowds of Freetown until we got to the edge of town. We waited around for a half hour or so while various cab drivers competed to fill their cars with passengers trying to get out of town. The three of us stuffed into a backseat of a decrepit Toyota, I thought we were finally ready to go. An older woman took the front seat. An older woman joined the first in the front seat. A man with baggage of is own squeezed in next to me. Sweating on each other with scarcely enough room to breathe in the humid polluted air, we were ready. I still assumed the other people packed in with us must only be heading a mile out of town or so. We were able to stop several times to add water to the car to keep it going which gave us a needed chance to stretch legs and readjust positions. Our first car only took us to Makeni – about halfway. There we stopped in the market and searched around again for drivers filling cars headed through Kabala. I hadn’t realized our fortunate we had been with our first driver. The second cab was significantly more broken down and crowded. The crew headed from one rural outpost to another was noticeably more haggard and sweaty than the Freetown crew we started out with. Two to a seat, children coughing on me, and the gearshift ramming into my leg every 10 seconds we set off again. Once we made it past the first checkpoint, the driver stopped to pick up another passenger to share his seat. Fortunately James nearly came to blows with the driver telling him he’d lose our 3 fares if he insisted on such a dangerous arrangement. Somewhat fortunately as well the car burst into smoke every few miles so we needed to stop frequently. Picking up passengers for the roof each time.
I got a taste of the obstacles that permeate every daily activity here as soon as I arrived at Lunghi airport. CITA’s representative, James, met me at the airport to escort me to Freetown. We needed to walk a ways from the airport before finding a cab for less than $60. The price plummets to about $2.50 once outside the gates. A cab missing its door handles and seatbelts took us a few miles away to the ferry. Our hour long ride was serendaded by select videos from the early 80’s of American pop and homemade evangelical films: Krio dubbed film of Christ’s baptism, Sierra Leoneans on a ranch dressed as cowboys singing contemporary praise songs, the original Live Aid (or something) with Kenny Rogers, Tina Turner, Michael and Janet, and Bryan Adams Everything I Do. Some war amputees then performed a song for the first class passengers. Then we landed in the worst city I been in yet; worse than Guatemala City and Cleveland. We dodged through people and cars pouring off the ferry and continued dodging people and cars through the unlit streets of Sierra Leone’s only city. Masses of people crowded off the street with candles and blaring radios. After several bouts of aggressive price haggling we caught a cab for local fare. Thankfully, I only spent two nights in Freetown. I gathered my stuff from James’ apartment and set off with him and Sarah, CITA’s treasurer, for Kabala.
I had thought we were taking a bus the 230 km to Kabala. If I had known what to expect, I may have not been able to go through with it. The three of us with baggage in tow hailed cabs. We slowly cut through the smog and crowds of Freetown until we got to the edge of town. We waited around for a half hour or so while various cab drivers competed to fill their cars with passengers trying to get out of town. The three of us stuffed into a backseat of a decrepit Toyota, I thought we were finally ready to go. An older woman took the front seat. An older woman joined the first in the front seat. A man with baggage of is own squeezed in next to me. Sweating on each other with scarcely enough room to breathe in the humid polluted air, we were ready. I still assumed the other people packed in with us must only be heading a mile out of town or so. We were able to stop several times to add water to the car to keep it going which gave us a needed chance to stretch legs and readjust positions. Our first car only took us to Makeni – about halfway. There we stopped in the market and searched around again for drivers filling cars headed through Kabala. I hadn’t realized our fortunate we had been with our first driver. The second cab was significantly more broken down and crowded. The crew headed from one rural outpost to another was noticeably more haggard and sweaty than the Freetown crew we started out with. Two to a seat, children coughing on me, and the gearshift ramming into my leg every 10 seconds we set off again. Once we made it past the first checkpoint, the driver stopped to pick up another passenger to share his seat. Fortunately James nearly came to blows with the driver telling him he’d lose our 3 fares if he insisted on such a dangerous arrangement. Somewhat fortunately as well the car burst into smoke every few miles so we needed to stop frequently. Picking up passengers for the roof each time.
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