Koidu and Back

Well I never thought I would be lost for words but boy, Koidu ‘city’ sure does take the breath away. And I mean literally.

I will never have the literary or photographic skills to do this place justice. But I will have a bash...

So the city is 8 hrs drive from Freetown and I was going there to be part of a weeklong training session delivered to local people and also meet the authorities and introduce myself as the new manager for rehabilitation.  

Glynis was right to comment on my last entry that I had the luxury of travelling in an air-conditioned Jeep. I can confirm that it made little difference to the outcome. Even with the suspension on a specially manufactured vehicle I managed to acquire several large lumps on my noggin from being thrown repetitively against the window.  I can promise you that for 4 of the 8 hour journeys we were not travelling on a road. There was once a road, pre-war, but the things I was hurled over, was not a road. As well as developing an intimate relationship with a pane of glass, I was also rammed up against one of my male colleagues for most of the trip. I have my suspicions that he took one look at me, and knowing the journey ahead, was filled with joy as he assessed my ample hips as a potential nice, soft, buffering pillow and hence he deliberately positioned strategically by my side. Rather too close to my side I hasten to add.

And what I arrived at was something that wouldn’t look out of place in a western movie. The place is so congested by dust, that at certain times you cannot see 100 meters in front of you. This is due to the fact that it is the dry season and the winds are blowing down from the deserts. The other contributing factor is that Koidu is in one of the main diamond mining regions and so the atmosphere is filled by the debris from the blastings . Now I know ‘dust’ has few calories but having ingested so much I have no doubt that I return a stone heavier.

'Koidu Snow'

Main Street through 'city'

Equally strange was the hotel, which Basil Faulty would have been proud of. But even that doesn’t quite do it justice. Strangest of all was the eclectic mix of people in there from groups of international aid workers (Doctors, Rights activists etc.) through to full on gangster and illegal diamond traders. It was utterly surreal. At night there would be a table of do-gooders discussing how to improve gender equality in the country and next to them some dodgy geezers taking delivery of a couple of prostitutes each! I tried not to think too hard about the noises in the next room to me!

The training went well and while I was not officially facilitating I contributed to it most days, and even dusted off  my GCSE Drama and led a few role plays. God knows what I was thinking….. I actually specialised in Stage make-up – I blame the dust.

In addition to earning an Oscar, part of my role was to make a formal speech and  present all 42 participants with their certificates, shake their hand and pose for a photo with them. Delightful. Utterly delightful.

But folks, if all that wasn’t enough I need to tell you about my ‘official visits’. The ones to the authorities were standard. They agree that we should work collaboratively for the sake of the people, shook my hand, and then forgot my name the second I walked out the door as busy greeting the next do-gooder. Memories of Romania came flooding back!

However visiting the beneficiaries themselves was a whole other story. I was taken to meet groups of disabled people living in the villages. On the first visit I was escorted into a small mud hut and sat behind a raised table next to the chief. Person after person then filed in and sat or squatted in the cramped space, while groups of half naked children gathered at the door and the tiny window to stare at me. I think there was a chicken in the hut as well at one point.  And I had to make a speech. And they were all there staring up at me attentively.  And at the end of every sentence they started bloody clapping politely.  It was never right. Jesus, don’t they know I’m from Bolton!!

And the second village was no better. Here I was even more mortified when one woman went and got what was clearly her Sunday best headscarf and used it as a table cloth for me as I was sat behind the requisite formal table. Apparently I am a ‘lady’ – clearly they haven’t read this blog then! The second village was actually a community of people with polio and the while you can’t tell, none of these blacksmiths (who were quite insistent that I took their photo) can walk or use their legs.

Village Blacksmiths

I wish I had taken more photo’s to share with you, but I am still struggling with the feelings associated with doing so.  The villages are just like you imagine deepest darkest Africa to be. The children do have swollen bellies from hunger and ones as young as 5 are walking with containers of water on their head. But the people I have met also have a spirit. And yes the groups I met of course wanted to tell me of their hardship and ask for help. But there was a common theme between both villages. They weren’t begging for money or food or clothing – all they wanted was a means to create a livelihood for themselves, so they can stand independently on their own 2 feet – and given that these are people who had been amputated in the war, victims of polio, leprosy etc and don't have 2 good feet, I can’t help but respect them.

What next I wonder – or maybe I shouldn’t……….

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