Refugees

As of 11pm last night my home became a refugee camp to 2 British women who had to evacuate their homes yesterday. I wasn’t prepared for this. I had of course prepared for the driver who is now living (much to my indignation and against my will) in a truck outside my home. And by prepared I mean of course I had bought enough food and provisions to cook for me and the driver during our ‘lock down’ (lets not forget the 3 guards of course, they are now a given), but now I have 2 extra mouths to feed.

You see today, since 3am this morning people have been standing in a queue waiting to vote in the general elections. By all accounts the queues aren’t moving, and people are standing in the wrong queues but lets forget this little point….

Its standard practice for charities to ground or ‘lock down’ their staff during these times. So as of now I am not allowed to leave my property until 8 am tomorrow.

To be fair though, the country pretty much locks its self down too, in terms of stopping all non official vehicle movement and people have been instructed to ‘vote, go home, stay home listen to the radio’ for the rest of today.

The other safety measure the charities have put in place is to move the cars into strategic positions, just in case any tension erupts and people have to be relocated. I lost the argument with the Director against having the driver live in the car outside my home for the next 3 days. The only reason I backed down was I was told my ‘safe house’ would be different to the French men and in the complete opposite direction– yippee, happy days, bring on the evacuation, free at last, free at last, God almighty I’ll be free at last!

I also had great pleasure in successfully challenging some of the other safety measure that my charity tried to enforce, like the ‘walking strictly forbidden in all circumstances’ statement. When I asked if they would be sending a nurse in to turn me and if I would be using nappies or a bed pan, they didn’t quite understand that they had in fact confined me to my bed. OK it was petty, but hey you’re not living with a man sleeping in a car outside your home giving you resentful glances!

Anyway amidst all our charities planning and preparations, and me shopping for a family of 5 (3 guards, 1 driver, me and….. oh OK…. I admit it, the stray dog that I’ve also taken to feeding = 6), for a protracted long lock down, VSO friends were looking on in quite a disparaging manner. They were open in expressing that they though all these actions were a little bit OTT. (To be honest my thought are not far behind them!) And I think somewhat proud at being the hardened British volunteers in the country enacting the ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ maxim.

Then yesterday 2 of these friend decided they had to leave their house after losing their own private battle against a bed bug infestation and so I offered them my spare room for the night while their house got fumigated. Amusingly they arrived at 11.30 last night slightly sheepish, with a mild look of horror on their face announcing that as of midnight they too have been totally grounded. Best of all until MONDAY! I couldn’t help laugh, which I think pissed them off a bit, but it was 12.01 so they couldn’t strop out! Saying that they have just taken an executive decision and gone out, breaking their curfew. I am not complained. We all realized at the same time that we had a serious and concerning problem - my house did not contain enough alcohol for 3 of us and so they literally have gone out on a beer run to the hotel next door!!

To be fair though, I’ve somehow landed myself quite well this election and dead impressed with my self preservation skills. Last I spent with diplomats and personnel from US government sitting by the Head of Security for West Africa at diner. On Thursday I spent the night at my friend who just happens to be the head of the security network for all the charities in the country. And now, despite the fact I possible don’t have the right quantity of food for 7 people (and the dog) beyond Monday, I have a guest who is a professional chef staying with me!! Fan-bloody-tastic. Grounded for days, with a chef  -Bingo – Sorted – this is the life!!

So, the only safety and security risk that this election so is posing me appears to the exposure to bed bugs and bankruptcy from feeding my ever growing dependants!!

XxX

Confectionary Wars

Anyone who’s done a pre-departure training to work overseas in development will have been given the lecture on the moment you hit a wall.

This imaginary wall is the moment you stop, look round and think – “what the F*** am I doing here”. It is soon followed by a barrage of negative, derogatory comments about the host county (which at that point isn’t feeling too damn welcoming as a host) and the rose tinted glasses are replaced by cataracts of shite.

Well I think this week I met this wall at full force.

The final nail in the coffin was when I was gently warned that if I uphold a contract that a partner wants to abuse he may use black magic against me. Is that so?!!! So this is how some healthcare professionals cope then is it??

Gosh, I struggle to understand why with such advanced management approaches the life expectancy in this county is only 48, and why close to 9% of women die giving birth. It’s a mystery to me!

But its OK don’t panic as I’ve provided myself with proper protection from the Black Magic, by scoffing a whole box of After Eight mints. I thought about Mars Bars, as a first line of defense, you know with him being the Roman God of War but I figured that After Eights had that sticky white centre to neutralize the Black. I think its worked, as other than feeling a bit sickly I’m not experiencing any stabbing pains as if a needle is being stabbed into my effigy and no snakes have appeared in my bed.

I am not clear how long I need to continue using this protection or if I should switch to a different approach, not sure which though – Miniature Hero’s, or should I use a whole Galaxy???

But in all seriousness its week like this that you realize that it would take forever to really understand the culture here, if you ever could. And you also wonder how many scars the 10 year rebel war left on the basic psychology of the society.

As we approach the presidential elections next week I am noticing, what I can only describe as a subconscious fear and tension sweep through the population. Everyone, including the British Foreign and Commonwealth Office are optimistic that all will go smoothly.

However, more than once I’ve been talking to people and totally out of context to the conversation they start to talk about being captured by the rebels or the time they had to flee into the mountains to escape. It’s strange, as although everything is peaceful, and the last election happened without incident, its as if the political activity and uncertainty is evoking a latent, remnant fear in people from the time politics brought devastation to their lives.

People are moving closer to their families and not willing to do anything that takes them too far away from their loved ones. They appear fearful to make decisions or do anything that could be misconstrued politically, even in the most tenuous of ways.

But unfortunately this translates into behaviours which are unprofessional and neglectful of their responsibilities and include lying, stealing and deception. But this is how they appear to cope.

So how do I cope?? Well apart from eating boxes of overpriced confectionary I try to remember the hell people lived through, and the wounds that I have come to believe most people are still nursing deep within.

But its not easy, and my head hurts from hitting that wall…. or maybe my effigy has been dropped on the floor headfirst!

Freaked Out

OK so here’s the deal. I was left in charge for a few days and, well, to be frank I didn’t like it much.

I didn’t like the fact that 2 members of staff ran away to Korea,

Or that another didn’t turn up for work for 2 days and on the 3^rd strolled in 2 hrs late

Not impressed by the mini-epidemic we appeared to get in the office which resulted in 3 staff having to go home early ‘sick’ each day.

Or by the driver who broke a serious security regulation by taking the car through a mass political rally against strict protocols

Nor did the 4 staff who abused the charity’s vehicle and made the driver take them home amuse me.

And I admit being slightly irritated by another driver who tried to steal money from.

And the same reaction was felt when the Koidu coordinator failed to tell me that there had been an outbreak of fighting in the city.

In fact I also wasn’t too chuffed by the builders who were so incompetent that the newly erected wall fell down.

Or by the air-conditioning maintenance team who flooded the finance office.

When the theft happened in Bo during the training and I got a message that the village witch hunters were being called to find the thief, I admit to being a bit disheartened.

And I know it’s only a little thing but when I found a member of my team sneaking around the whole building eating sweets left as gifts for people on their desks it made me a bit sad. Especially as her response to being found was a little giggle and a girlish confession “I like sweets”.

Luckily my manager and advisor, who decided ‘not to bother’ coming back into work after the training, will be none the wiser that their sweets are missing.

And even more fortunate is that neither they, nor any of the other missing personnel will have witnessed the best comedy strop of an acting Director that Africa has ever seen.

At 5.15 on Friday evening, I ‘flounced’.

I packed my bag in an over exaggerated manner, picked up the keys to the truck, and ‘swept’ out of the building, shouting over my shoulder in response to a questions fired at me:

“You will find I do not work weekend, it is now the weekend, so fare thee well”

I drove home, collecting a much needed Bounty bar and cider on the way, only to get home and discover I had left my keys in the office. It was somewhat with my tail between my legs that I had to drive all the way back to retrieve them. What makes it all the more hideous, is that when I got there the office was closed and so I had to call upon the man I had dismissed on leaving to also return. Ooops!

Can you imagine how much of a dick I felt?

Many people congratulated me on the construction of my fancy dress costume for last week’s party. Strange thing is guys – I didn’t bother – this is simply what I now look after being put in charge of an Aid Organisation in Africa!

Don't ask who the bones belong to!!!

New Clothes

People often ask me if it’s stressful living in Africa, which to be honest I find a bloody ridiculous question!

I mean the pressure, trauma and lack of basic resources is a nightmare when you’re trying to cobble together a fancy dress costume for the International Military Training schools’ Halloween ball!

Can you believe, Amazon don’t do next day, or any other day delivery for that matter, and there is a distinct lack of fancy dress shops in the city. And don’t get me started on the lack of charity shops!

And where’s my mum, when I need her eh!! I’m sure women must be given a secret of book of how to do things like make fancy dress costumes out of nothing with one days notice.

I however have not been granted that gift and so just I’ve thrown down out of frustration the net curtain and fishing wire that I was trying to fashion into some wings, and taken to ranting about it instead!!

You see I accidentally agreed to go to this party. A friend of a friend asked if I wanted tickets, so I said ‘yes’ not actually knowing that all my other friends had said no and that ‘oh by the way its fancy dress’!

 Fancy – effing – dress…….in Africa…….. I ask you!!

OK I may have been a little hasty in my response when I heard it was being held at the military barracks (mmmm soldiers), but that is purely for professional reasons of course. (Although I can’t remember the last time that my eye’s glazed over and I started secreting a little bit of droll out the side of my mouth when I was offered a so called professional opportunity, but anyway)

You see at the moment I am the acting Director, and therefore by default I am also head of security. Apparently I am now part of a ‘tree’ and people below me in the trunk are dependent on me. Oh so I see, so not only am I responsible for the safety of everyone working for the organization in 2 countries I also have dependants from about 6 other organizations – marvelous that, just fab!

So you see I NEEEED connections with the military and a man with a rather large weapon by my side. This is especially pertinent as I have managed to acquire my new surrogate family at the time of a large pre-election political rally, planned for tomorrow. Joy!!

To be honest I’m not too worried although I swear politics here is nothing like we’re use to. Each party has a day to rally and from the outside it actually looks as though the aim is to throw the biggest street party ever, and that’s how you win votes. Think carnival and there in lies African politics.

I am sure it must be more complex but all I’ve heard this election is whistles drums, loud music and lots of cheering, no actual political statements!

So you see tomorrow is officially party time so I have no choice but to go really. And given my shameful display at last Saturday’s party hosted by people from South America it’s best that if I go out in public again, it is under the cover of a costume. Seriously though, who thought letting me near the tequila was a good idea.

Well I can tell you that it was not a good idea.

In fact it was a very, very silly idea.

I know. I was the one crawling on my hands and knees between the bathroom and the bedroom.

And the one who was complimented this week in the supermarket by a complete stranger on ‘what I did with the hat’. I have no idea there was a hat.

I certainly do not have a hat!!!.

But obviously now I need a hat if I’m going to brave another party. But I haven’t got one. Because I’m in Africa and Amazon doesn’t deliver!

So, it’s either Lady Godiva or the Emperor then?

Nice.

Pride comes before a .......Pizza??

Now I know I’m nowt special, (and don’t bother with the “special needs” comment either thank you!!). In fact by my reaction to the first political pre-election rally this week I think I must actually be somewhat of a coward. I still stand by the fact that checking the British Foreign and Commonwealth Travel section and the British Consuls’ website every 5 minutes was just good plain common sense (No restrictions in place, all is well. In fact I think there’s more risk warnings about travel to the UK. Quite understandable when you consider the threat associated with deep fried mars bars and Birmingham’s broad street on a Saturday night!)

But there are some days when I am still a little bit proud of myself. Today is one.

Oh I haven’t done anything particularly grand or note worthy. I haven’t taken on the national debt problem or tried to affect the 1 in 5 infant mortality rate. Oh God no, all I have done is drove myself home all alone.

You see that lovely monster truck at the end– I parked that little beauty. OK yes it is in the bush and I am covered with scratches from the foliage that attacked me as I got out (left hand flippin drives), but not a bad first attempt.

This streak of independence has been building all week and I was in fact sat in the drivers seat on Thursday night. The problem was that after I switched on the engine and went to depress the clutch, it transpired that 4x4 pick up trucks are not built for fat little short arses like me! You cannot imagine the mix of resentment, bitterness but just a little sense of irony I felt handing the keys back to the French bloke who had every so gallantly presented them to me not 5 minutes before. A deep primeval noise emitted from the back of throat and I’m sure I saw the Frenchie’s pupils expand with fear. So now, this little beauty is mine for the weekend.

I’ll be staying in then eh!! It’s F’best!!

You see I haven’t told anyone here about my warning from the Saint Helena police for lack of due care and attention  while driving– I still maintain that the wall must have been crumbling for it to fall down like that with just a whisper of a touch!!

But looking at these sunsets from my balcony, I don’t think I’ll be too unhappy by my self imposed captivity!

The other thing I’ve done, is at long last joined the local hotel Gym. Now I quite enjoyed my session last Sunday and was (almost) happy to trot in on Tuesday after work. It didn’t last. I was faced with my idea of hell. Think sauna, no air conditioner, and the place packed with huge sweaty, stinky black and Lebanese blokes, grunting – yes that’s right grunting at themselves in the mirror. Then they saw me - cue tumbleweed moment! I hadn’t walked the 8 steps to the treadmill before I was covered in sweat. However I, and my matching cerise fitness gear brazened it out on the machine with the most nonplussed waddle I could muster! I must have lost at least 6 sodding stone in that 40 minute session. Sadly though the horror of it brought on a relapse of peanut butter finger and Star Beer, what with today’s stress, I don’t think there’s enough minute in the day for me to work off my coping strategies and I think I may have found a new one.

Folks, I have amazing news.

Complete evidence that this country is in fact ‘developing’. There is a pizza delivery place opened just up the road from me.

I AM DOOMED!!

Peanut Butter Will Save My Life

Recently I had one of the best weeks of my life.

And I think you were in it.

It was filled with, fun, love, laughter and most of all a LOT of cake.

I was surrounded each day with people that I love/admire/respect and did almost everything in one week that you can in England (well other than stealing a traffic cone on a drunken night out …..  I DIDN’T steal a traffic cone right??).

I realized I was blessed.

But then like the eejit I am I left it all behind to return to my life in sub-Saharan Africa. Yes I left behind the Spa’s, Tea rooms, Theatres, Cinema’s, Shops, Café’s, parks, Michelin star restaurants, babies, puppies,  for what? Well ‘ants’ it seems.

I must need my friggin’ head testing…

(BTW they do obviously have babies and puppies in Africa, but not my family/friends variety)

On a serious note I think leaving this time was emotionally harder than previously. My screaming like a banshee to the sales assistant in Brussels Airport sort of indicated that I wasn’t perhaps feeling too stable. But I really didn’t want a Versace Perfumes bag. I wanted my free miniatures. I don’t think throwing the aforementioned bag on the floor IS unreasonable when it’s so humongous that it couldn’t be folded to fit in my cabin luggage.

But still, back I came.

Now on the positive side the rains are nearly over, and I see beautiful blue skies and some strange unfamiliar birds reappearing in them. I have my stunning balcony view back, and the seeds that I planted in my tubs months back are now rewarding me with herbs and pretty flowers. And in all, I can once again see the beauty of Africa now that the cloud of constant rain has lifted.

On the other hand it hasn’t been the best of weeks, mainly I think because I put myself on a detox programme. No alcohol, cake, chocolate, crisps, peanut butter finger – nothing. I did very well for 3 days. Then my newly appointed project manager resigned. And the 2 best candidates for my project officer positions cheated in test leaving me with a big round cuddly joker as the only person I can offer a job to.  Think La La. That’s right I am employing a teletubby. In interview he listed his 3 weaknesses as “I laugh too much”, “I joke too much”, but then he couldn’t give a 3^rd answer as he was laughing too much!

Oh and the only other ex-pat who wasn’t a French man has run away, leaving me with just the 3 French. Admittedly I never use to speak to him, mostly because he was generally asleep of the time, but at least his presence in meetings made me feel a little bit less conspicuous amongst the Francophones.  Literally the man went on leave and simply didn’t get on the plane back. Now the way I look at it, if he’s from Bangladesh and finds it too hard being here, it really does confirm that I NEED to go out on a Friday night and get hideously drunk and eat pizza. How else will I cope?

So guess what?

I have a hangover.

It hurts.

I’m going back to bed to wallow in just a teeny bit of self pity, and then I’m going to get me a jar of the finest peanut butter I can find, get my finger in position, and then get on with living and surviving, with the ants and the French by my side.

xxx

Special Announcement.

Dear readers,

It has come to my attention that some of you may have inadvertently got the impression that I am as miserable as sin in my life in Africa.

I want to apologise to all concerned who have taken my facebook entries entitled, “Reasons I hate my job #.......”, literally. Obviously the fact remains that I do have some slight reservations about our (garlic stinking,) cousins from across the English Channel. However I can confirm that only gruesome acts of homicide, never suicide have occupied my thoughts.

I wish to also assure those who were able to detect the ever so subtle and discreet comments on this Blog, indicating slight negativity about the conditions in Africa, that all is in fact OK.

I admit that phrases like “Its all a little bit shit really”, may well give the impression that it is all a little bit shit to the more sensitive among you, but I can confirm that although it is most definitely all a little bit shit, this is not all shit!

In addition it is true that my plea for donations of 20k may have confirmed my desperate desire to escape, and indeed I would still be most grateful to receive the 20k should we manage to fundraise this amount, but mostly because I’m a lazy cow and would like to sit on my arse for a year eating pie.

And finally having been back in Blightly for nearly 3 days now, I think I have demonstrated top class adaptation and emotional stability through the spending over a grand on essentials such as Frizz Ease and blusher brushes. I am clearly functioning just fine and am obviously unaffected by the disparity between the world I left and the one I find myself sitting in now.

So just to smooth any furrowed brows out there, here are some positive statements about my life in Africa:

Have I mentioned that at long last, after searching high and lo, I am finally betrothed??

It is to the immigration officer who has admitted and released me from the country several times now but would only let me out this time round if I agreed for him to be my boyfriend. As I think he was actually being quite serious on the matter, I managed to placate him by agreeing that after he stamped my passport 10 times we would marry. I think I will make a lovely bride…. I must ask his name.

Apart from my fiancée, I enjoy watching (at unnatural) length other men at work:

I also have to admit that being a community worker at heart, I am enjoying the travelling around the country doing visits.

 Even better I am learning new skills along the way, such as this lesson from driver Yayah on ‘how to engage the wheels on a 4x4 vehicle’, to get up this main road in the Eastern Province.

Who’d have thought it eh, these 4x4’s were in fact made for use in Sussex, Leicester, Gloucester & Waterloo but in Sierra Leone NOT maybe England!



The Main Road linking Leicester to Gloucester -4x4 required!



And these are the other things I like:

• Crain Crain (food)
• Cassava (food)
• Potato Leaf (food – yes they cook with the leaf from the potato plant!)
• Plaintain (food)
• Gari (food)
• Jallof (food)
• The men (have I mentioned them??)
• Groundnut soup (food)
• Pega Packs – Brandy (alcohol)
• Pega Packs – Gin (alcohol)
• Pega Packs Whiskey (alcohol)
• Local Guinness (alcohol)

So there you have it. No need to worry at all my dear disciples. My entire essential needs are being met; food, alcohol, love, learning opportunities and most important most of all...... a trip home.

Its great being back!

Heaven & Hell

Much to the horror of every Sierra Leonean and Liberian I meet, I don’t do the god thing.

Don’t get me wrong, I respect that people gain great guidance, solace and fulfilment by having a bond with the great fella, but I’ve never quite been able to buy into the whole thing.

I blame the Methodist church and the Sunday school I was sent to, to get from under my mums feet on a Sunday. I was fine with the colouring in of the bible stories (although not sure that I was quite meant to do it on the actual pages of the New Testament), but the turning point came when I was presented with a candle on my birthday to blow out. WHAT - NO CAKE. Well even at the tender age of 7 I realized I had been conned and that was the end of my relationship with blokes in sandals and with beards (except after 7 vodka’s of course, then I’m not too fussy)

But here in these countries religion is big. In fact biblical style Miracles happen almost daily if you read the posters on the wall inviting you to a 48hr vigil at the national stadium. The lame walk, the dead rise again and the devil is extracted from the possessed. Most meetings workshops and events will open with prayers and generally there is always one or 2 reverends and imams in the audience to lead them.

The nice thing is Christians and Muslims live more than peacefully side by side. With a 60/40 Muslim/Christian ratio, in Salone inter-religion marriages are commonplace and are just a normal and natural part of society and (if the woman has not been made to confirm to her husbands faith), both will reverently allow each other to pray on the respected days. One of my drivers accepts with good humour that on a Sunday he has to come to work with an empty belly as his wife, a devout Christian, prioritises morning worship. Obviously I just see it as a great opportunity for me to get cooking and feed an extra mouth!

The neighbouring country it’s slightly different with a much more inflated Christian majority and from what I have gleaned from my visits there, an almost ferocious approach to worship. I know folk worry about me being in these countries, and given their histories for brutality and vicious wars I can understand. But I do honestly believe my greatest risk is being kidnapped and held hostage in a local church having my head dipped repeatedly in the font till I say the lord prayer.

I was once foolish enough to admit in a car full of staff from both sides of the boarder that I didn’t follow a religion. I may as well have moonied out of the window singing God Save the Queen for the shocked deathly silence response I got.

Well this declaration of mine had clearly been spread around our Monrovia office prior to the visit and lo and behold I was subjected to an increased number of offers to attend church, prayers appeared to take place when never before they had and a bible even appeared on my desk.

And some days, let me tell you, I can almost believe that there is a heaven and hell. And thinking about it could be right here in Africa. What with the most stunning beaches, amazing fresh exotic tropical foods and, lets be frank, the streets full of well fit, buff, topless blokes, this could well be heaven.

And then you go to a security meeting and hear that occasionally, in some of the remotest most distant parts of Africa young children disappear only to be  found dead with body parts removed after being a victim of a ritualistic, tribal killing. This I’m afraid, can only be hell.

Not too sure which version of the Bible or Koran reached those parts of Africa, but I sure as hell don’t remember colouring in that picture.

Oooops I did it again……

 OK troops it’s almost time to come in and get me before its too late.

I’m getting dangerously close to either being exposed or being expelled from the country.

It’s not my fault! I’ve told people often enough that I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing but  oh no people insist on sending me to high level meetings and giving me responsibilities. Fools.

I’m no longer just a danger to myself you know, this is getting serious.

On Thursday, the President declared an official state of national emergency with the Cholera Epidemic which has now reached over 10,000 cases with around 200 fatalities. http://www.examiner.com/article/west-silent-on-oil-rich-sierra-leone-cholera. Worse it’s suspected that it’s not yet hit the peak and at best guess, they are projecting that these number will more than triple.

So as the ‘health’ coordinator for the charity at the end of yesterday I was summoned by the Ministry of Health to attend a crisis meeting all day today.

So off I tootle, knowing full well that I had nothing to offer, but thought I’d better show willing, especially as I’m chasing them to give me back the money that they, err, ‘misallocated’.

But oh I couldn’t just keep my big mouth shut could I.

So this is what happened. All the people involved gave presentations on the (rather good) actions being taken. Obviously I didn’t quite understand most of it “bucket chlorination of wells” “sword and shield methodology” blah blah blah.

The problem came when I sort of noticed one small fact, that people with disabilities had of been missed off list of ‘vulnerable groups’ category.

Now in my defense I had a hangover (of course it’s Saturday morning, what else would I have??!!)

Second, I honestly believe that I have a little man living in my head who, without warning takes over my thoughts and speech processes. It could be voldermort, I’m not sure.

But what started as a simple innocent question as to why disabled people had been forgotten, came out as a full on accusative attack, followed by a rabble rousing sermon and ended up with a room full of top emergency and development humanitarian workers stunned into complete silence.

Even I was in shock. Especially as at the end of my little gremlins oration, and in response to the deathly silence in the room, the Ministry’s only response was “Wow!” “Well you think you’re doing OK, then suddenly this hits you”.

You see the gobby git in my head, suddenly started to do maths and throw out projections of his own about the % and numbers of people with disabilities who would probably contract the disease.

He then went on to describe in detail why disabled people where more vulnerable than the average population and then took turn to tell each and every Cholera response actor what they needed to do to prevent loss of life amongst this vulnerable group. Oh aye, he was well and truly on his soap box as he instructed Medicines Sans Frontiers and the District Medical Team that they needed to seriously rethink  the positioning of the emergency treatment units. He told the water and sanitation departments that they had to put more consideration into which wells they chlorinated. The people developing sensitization activities and materials were given a very stern warning about the things they needed to postulate over, and to the latrine guys, well he sort of shut up here as was clearly was completely out of his depth.

I only meant to ask a question and I ended up momentarily derailing the whole crisis response action in the country.

Ooops

Sorry about that.

Taxi for Jo………

So even though my ticket for my holiday back to the UK is now booked for the 20^th Sept, (yipeeeeeee) you could well being seeing me sooner than you think. And don’t rule out the fact it could be on the BBC – I’ll be the one with a pillow case on my head, handcuffed, being bundled into a police vehicle at Heathrow airport.

I think I’ll let the Ministry keep a few quid eh!!

xxx

Come Fly With Me

This is an official announcement:

The rainy season is shit!

Seriously shit.

I am living in a cloud.

Literally.

It’s wet.

And grey.



What was once my wonderful seaview :'-( 



I am wearing a cardigan.

And Socks.

I don’t like it.

I saw a slither of blue sky today for almost a full 30 mins. But by the time I had gathered all the cushions and unshackled the wicker furniture from its protective weatherproof tower, I only benefitted from 20 mins of diffused sunlight.

I promise you, I am as pale as when I arrived. And God only knows what vitamin D deficient illness I’m going to get – cos you just know I’m going to get it!!

So, as the most sunburnt I have gotten this year was in Birmingham my ticket is booked for a holiday back to the UK next month.

Yipeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, how cool is that eh!!!!!

I also need a break as I’m almost beginning to think I have now been here too long. I’ve stopped reacting like I think I should. I mean I didn’t even blink when I realised that everyone, even the most educated of my National colleagues, believe that witches use peanut shells to fly at night. I understand they mostly go to the USA. I’m not sure why.

Nor did I get particularly upset at the amount of Mmmmmm, shall we call it, ‘reallocating’ the Ministry have clearly done with funds that I gave them.

And even though every bit of mail that does get through to me leaves me with a much needed sense of being loved, I haven’t freaked that the man at the post office is now holding all my post hostage until I buy him phone credit. “Aye Bo” as the local expression goes!

So what’s going on?? Is this adaption? Apathy? Desensitization? Or dare I say it – has old age and maturity started to creep in?!!

Or is it just this confounded rain dampening my spirit once and for all!!?!!

But the rain isn’t just tempering my emotional reaction to life. Sadly it is having the more serious effect of compounding the Cholera problem.

Over 8000 people have now contracted the disease, it being most prevalent here in the capital, amongst the slum dwellers. But it is spreading, despite the desperate attempts of the Ministry and charities to contain and manage it.

Part of the problem lies in local people not changing their beliefs, attitudes and behaviours. So in the same way that the witches use the peanut shells to fly, other traditional beliefs are also hard to shake.  Therefore no matter how often a ‘do – gooder’ explains about clean water or handwashing, people do not change their practices, and when they get sick – well, it is the curse of that same witch wasn’t it!

And while on the surface the ‘re-allocation’ of a few $ meant for rehab hasn’t made me explode with rage, when people are dying due to drugs not being in the store because the money to buy them found a different destination, I find that I do have a little spirit left in me after all!

So I think time for a flight to the UK is in order.

Now where did I put those peanuts…….

Soap Opera

I am normal

(well within the limits of my usual boundaries, which I think we can all agree are questionable after giving up a well paid job and amazing family and friends to come here)

What I mean by that is that other than a slight hangover (again I assert, normal) I am not stressed, ill, travelling somewhere, getting ready for the office on a Sunday or generally running a whole sector of the health service single handed.

AND I’ve managed to grow another year older.

Impressive.

So what does one actually do on these sorts of mornings????

I’m not one to brag (much), but having stayed alive over these past few weeks is I believe incredible achievement. As is still being of sound mind. OK I admit if we look back to last weeks entry, maybe I was a permeating out through the edges of sanity, but still on the bright side, no one is dead and I am not giving favours in a prison cell to a big black mamma. Many people around me do in fact see that as a remarkable achievement!

I also realized that my last entry, (while clearly demonstrating what a fabulous grumpy old woman I am going to make), was a little random. First I’m throwing up over myself, then I’m screaming at the Ministry (Mmmm maybe throwing up over the ministry would have been a more effective strategy all round).

So in a nutshell, it has been my task to get the Ministry to adopt a national strategy for rehabilitation services. The policy document was written in consultation with them over 18 months ago but since then they have been skirting the issue. Why? Well, quite simply it is acknowledgement that rehabilitation services are part of the health service and that the government bears legal responsibility towards them.

Simple equation being

Policy = more work.

Divide that by ‘don’t really care’ and it gives you a total sum of ‘Apathy’

I can sort of understand this though. When babies are dying of malnutrition and malaria. When even as I type, there is a cholera epidemic taking over the city and threatening the lives of 1000’s of people living in the slums. When you have one of the worlds worse maternal mortality rates, I can sort of forgive their irritation as I come waddling through the door pressing the issue of wheelchairs, false legs and massage oil.

But still I think they went a step too far in avoiding the issues when ministry worker told my staff that he was  popping to the loo, and then did a runner, later to be found hiding a floor down in a Ministry of Agriculture office.

Despite this, I continued to frequently heave my arse up those 5 flights of stairs (obviously the Ministry buildings lifts are broken and they can’t afford to have them fixed), and eventually, on my 37^th birthday, managed to get the government to launch its first every policy on Rehabilitation. In one room I gathered MP’s, officials from the EU and French government, users, Ministers, professionals and International Professors of Health and Rehabilitation to witness and present at the event. OK so I had to do literally everything, including checking the ministers speech, (he didn’t know much about rehabilitation). I also had helped my director with his speech but eventually it was nice to see my efforts in print and on the TV.

And then the next day I ran a workshop for all the countries rehab professional (oh yeah and sort of got myself in the papers again)

And then the one following that, I inspired those same people to reform their professional associations and adopt new constitutions.

Not bad for a weeks work.



Rather unfortunate headline & terrible journalism but still...



And now it’s Sunday morning and I’m bloody bored. To make matters worse its just sinking in that actually I spent my precious birthday with a bunch of ******’s AND I’m missing the Olympics. What’s that about?!!!

All I can say is thank God, literally, that I have such a thoughtful friend who while I forgot to acknowledge and celebrate my birthday, managed to arrange for me to be taken out for a meal and be given presents. Ok it was by a complete stranger, who just so happened to be a very assertive priest, and who left me no choice but to agree to go out with him. He was clearly a man on mission and this one wasn’t from God, but a force much more powerful – an O’Reilly!

But as always even this event did not pass without incident……..

So here I am, the eve of the policy launch at the now empty but prepared venue, scared to move as a man of God has told me to stay put until he meets me. I stand at the entrance waiting patiently when at last I see a man start to approach me looking slightly inquisitively, a faint smile of uncertainty and welcome around his mouth. I am sure my expression mirrored his as there was that awkward moment where 2 complete strangers meet and introduce themselves at the same time.

There was a,

“Hello is it Jo/Joe/yes/yes/hi/hello” * insert nervous laughter*,

Both speaking and laughing and shaking each others hands simultaneously together. Both equally sizing each other up. He was younger than expected, a lot younger and not quite dressed as a priest. OK I wasn’t expecting the dress or anything, but something a little more conservative. Then again I’ve met the other priest friend of the O’Reilly’s and he is anything but traditional, so I followed this man indoors.

He sat; I sat, he asked, “so you’re the woman I have been phoning?”

 “Yes” I replied, slightly relieved but somehow not 100% convinced.

 I proceeded to ask “you are Joe aren’t you”, “Of course I am, we arranged to meet here”, came the reply,

“I called you to confirm half an hour ago”.

 Indeed this was most definitely true; problem was his accent seemed a little stronger than on the telephone and his English not as fluent. This seemed odd as while I know his pronunciation will have been polluted by those Yorkshire folk in Cottingham with whom he’s spent a lot of time, I wasn’t convinced that he could really understand me. Certainly when I asked, “Are you a priest?” his “yeah, yeah” answer was on the dismissive side for a man of the cloth.

“Let’s get a drink” he suggests, calling over a waitress. In no time at all, we soon had 2 bottles of water before us and a slight awkward smile and silence between us. I was first to break it and still suspicious asked

“So when do you go to the UK?” remembering an earlier phone conversation.

“Well I don’t have definitely plans but soon I hope”.

Mmmm I thought, scratching my head, the answer should have been ‘Friday’.

Just as I was about to ask another probing question another man approached the table and sat down and was introduced as Joe’s ‘friend’. At this stage those little faint warning bells turned onto great big sirens in my head and the words ‘DANGER ALERT’ began flashing before my eyes.

“SIR. Please. What. Is. Your. Name?” I implored.

“My. Name. Is. Joe. We. Have. Been. Speaking. On. The. Telephone”, came the equally insistent reply.

“Who then is that then”,  I say pointing at the “friend”, now completely convinced that I am about to be kidnapped and sold into sex slavery, my arse being too tempting for the local mafia not to make a profit from.

“A friend”

Right this was not working. I tried anther tactic.

“Who the hell (oh shit, just blasphemed at a priest), do you think I am” (bollocks, also just said shit – and bollocks)

“The English woman I called and arranged to meet here!” He continued, “Look I’ll call you”, getting out his mobile.

While he was fiddling with his phone and obviously activating some special MI5 type device that would make my phone ring and hypnotise me into going to see some puppies, I decided I would not be outdone by this serial killer and his fancy technology. I proceeded to return Father Joe’s last call, all the time thinking that if the mans phone opposite rings and I get out of this alive, I’ll have to find a gentle way of teaching the O’Reilly family how to distinguish priests from Gangsters.

The mans phone opposite didn’t ring and yet I heard clearly through my earpiece a nice, friendly, warm “hello Jo, I’m not far away now”

And at my “Thank you Father Joe, see you soon”, the ‘friend’ got up abruptly and took his leave, giving an admonishing look to “Joe”.

Joe meanwhile looked genuinely baffled stuttering, “but I arranged to meet you here” I’ve been talking to you on the phone” I’m Joe” “You’re the British woman”, but at seeing the murderous look on my face, he paid for his and more importantly my water, and swiftly followed his friend.

I took up my previous position at the entrance, half bottle of gratis water in hand, somewhat in a state of shock having escaped a life of prostitution, waiting for the real Joe to materialise. I even considered giving thanks to the Lord for my narrow escape and for sending me one of his loyal servants to save me.

But then I was awoken from this thought by utter amazement, as I witnessed a car pull up, a white woman get out, be greeted by ‘Joe’ (who approached this time with extreme caution) and was gobsmacked to hear the woman say in a clipped British accent ‘Oh Joe its good to meet you in person after all this time’.  WHAT???

By some strange twist of fate or coincidence, on that one night, of all the venues in this capital city, 2 Sierra Leone men, both called Joe were meeting British women for the first time who’d they’ve only ever spoken to on the telephone.

This cannot be for real, and yet it was. Someone please tell me who commissioned this soap opera and cast me as the leading lady, because I’m sure its time for the ads!!

XxX