fame

Happy Independence Day

I have a handover.

It’s a bad one.

Oh I did my first big night out in style, eventually rocking home at 5 am. Not only am I suffering from tsunami level waves of nausea I also have an equally strong ebb and flow of guilt washing over me. Firstly from stealing a shaker of cinnamon from the (last) club I was in, which if I remember rightly was in lieu of salt and was accompanying some non-descript shot I was throwing down my neck. In fairness though 1) at least by this stage I was being civilised enough to drink out of a glass which was progress on my earlier suckling of both Brandy and Gin from their plastic pouches. 2) I did have enough sense to actually stop taking the shots and just concentrated on licking cinnamon off myself I just continued to do so after I left the building.

And the other reason for the guilt is that we had a new driver start with us yesterday and the poor man should have finished his first ever shift at 12. After dropping me and the vehicle back I think he finished at 6am. Ooops. And I haven’t even had chance to feed him yet so that he doesn’t begrudge me this slight (!!) indiscretion.

But I needed a blow out – it was time.

Firstly, I was only doing what the rest of the country was doing to see in the 51^st anniversary of Independence from the British.

To mark the occasion I was really touched when the office cleaner brought his wife to meet me and then presented me with this gift to wear today, which they had hand made for me.

It’s a national flag tunic, and a hat

I think the plan was I wear it today in town while watching the processions but as I am definitely going to die at some point today, I think its best I do it quietly in my own bed and not leave the apartment. However the hat is a bit wee-willy-winky so I might put that on as I sleep.

In addition to tradition I had a surreal intense day yesterday which climaxed with my live interview with the BBC for their 5 Live drive time show.

The reason for my international fame related to the fact that yesterday was the verdict of the warlord Charles Taylor at The Hague. The ex Liberian president was found guilty of pretty much causing and perpetuating the 10 year long savage civil war in the country. There was a lot of tension in the city yesterday, security measures were put in place by the organisation to limit our movements away from potential area’s of risk, outside the special court for example, and there was a heavy armed military presence on the streets. Thankfully the verdict was positive and maybe it will help the country move on now. But the scars of this war go so very deep.

A trade mark of the rebels as they ravaged the country in the war was (amongst other horrific violence) to hack off the limbs of innocent people. And the BBC wanted to get an interview from someone in the country dealing with the victims.

And through a process of elimination it came down to me, despite the fact I’m not actually dealing with any patients directly.

Also, when I agreed to do it one hour before the interview I was not actually told that it was bloody live – oh no the BBC runner in London dropped that little bomb shell on my half an hour before. Jesus, I cacked my pants. My director cacked his pants. And I know people in both the Lyon and London office were cacking their pants too!!!

Initially it was going to be 10 minutes, but as the programme was overrunning I (luckily) only had 90 seconds of fame. And below for your listening pleasure is the link (I think you have to navigate 1hr 15mins into the programme).

http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/bigscreen/radio/episode/b01gk0n5/

I haven’t actually heard this myself as the internet is slow – I think I will leave it that way too!

And thanks to Kristy for putting up on my facebook wall, again I’ve not had a good enough signal to view it, so I hope the photos are not too incriminating!!!

So, in addition to this the day was filled with other highly charged events, including the departure of my project manager who we had decided not to renew a contract with, a member of staff showing me a picture of the body of his murdered brother lay out on the mortuary slab and also 2 difficult meetings at the ministry.

And this was all happening while trying to finalise the arrangements for my mission to Liberia next week. Which given yesterdays events is now questionable if I will travel and I won’t get the go ahead until Sunday lunch time. If one of my newly self-appointed protectors has his way I won’t be going anywhere – he made his point known very assertively yesterday.

So I needed a drink.

A lot of drinks

And now I’m dying.

And what has one of the drivers brought me as an Independence Day gift: 8 pouches of Brandy and 3 pouches of whiskey

Oh well hair of the dog and all that…..

Is It Wrong??

Well congratulations to me!

I’ve past the 3 month mark. Yep that’s right - I have survived 3 months in the land that was formally known as ‘White Mans Graveyard’ , which given the state of my health prior to leaving the UK is a miracle in itself! Mmmmmm maybe the pain of all those injections was worth it, although having not seen a rabid dog, or taken to stroking monkeys, I’m still not convinced about the 3 luminous pink rabies shots.

Now, I ended the blog last time informing you all of my escalated position to director and merely alluded to the fact that other staff were off. Well, let me enlighten you. I was actually acting as the Director, Support Services Coordinator, Finance Manager, Logistics Manager, Community Based Rehabilitation Consultant and oh – myself.( I think the trauma of the week left me incapable of updating the blog)

So, what did my new found status afforded me? Well I have become intimately acquainted with the water system within the director’s house, the rifts and grudges between the driver, Sierra Leone employment laws, the process for suspending staff, and most importantly how to flirt outrageously with ministry officials to get contracts signed.

 Oh God damn it, I admit it; yes, during the week that was as things got increasingly bad, my neckline responded by increasingly getting lower.

I am not proud. It was the act of a desperate woman. The only problem now is that I am having to avoid answering the phone as I think I may of err, well, agreed to go on one (or two) dates!!

So here’s the thing – is this wrong??

I mean I don’t think it’s a particularly good long term business strategy, but if it works short term (and I am only really going to be here short term), shall I just work with what I’ve got???

And ultimately the charity believes in ‘partnership’ working – I’m just doing what I’m told…..

Mmmmmm, I’m not sure, and so for now I’ll just continue to avoid the phone calls from the MP eh??

So while this is coping strategy number 1 (actually 2 if you count 'peanut butter finger' being the first), I’m not sure the next is much better. Let me introduce you to another pillar in my life:

Pegapack.

These little beauties come in the Gin, Whiskey and Brandy variety and I get 13 for a £1. BARGAIN OR WHAT!! My extensive research has concluded that the Brandy is by far the nicest and by the time you get to the end of it, it tastes virtually as sweet nectar.

Now, while I’m all for immerging myself into the local culture I am not too sure that coming home from work and sucking on one of these bad boys is the way to go!

What do you think – is this wrong??

You see, living here is full of these daily dilemma's, my culture and way of doing things competing with my environment. And I have to say my ‘Britishness’ is very apparent, not only with the national staff but also among the 3 French men. So what does it mean to be British here in West Africa? Well to the national staff, they see the British as being strict, and liking rules and regulations, sticking to these ridgidly. I am sure they had much more to say on this matter but lunch time was over and so we had to go back to our desks.

And the French are very, well French. They appear to like to use a lot of unnecessary words, talk to much and want to complicate and convolute things. They see the British as being too straightforward and logical. Well on hearing this of course I got straght to the point and told them my opinion on the matter!

And as for developing my language skills gereally, I am managing to understand Krio ‘small small’ (a little). Krio is in fact very bad pidgin English and as my best friends family are from Hull,  I’ve  got a heads up really. (that’s it, just lost all my facebook friends – Love you really, thank you for my postcards!).

Anyway for this week ‘job done done’, so ‘we go si bak’

xxx

I like you!

“I like you”. It’s a nice thing to say, wouldn’t you think? Well as I am now reaching month 3, I am actually getting a little tired of this expression.

I hear it a lot. Daily.  If I am lucky, a simply trip involving getting out of the car, crossing the road to buy bread can result in at least 2 ‘I like you’s’. In fact on one occasion a car screeched to a halt, just so the driver could pop his head out of the window to yell it to me.

Now in contrast to last year when by this stage I had already been on the radio and had my face splattered across the newspapers, I do not believe I have had much publicity here and so I’m not sure how all these men know me to like me. OK with some it’s different. For example the ones I meet formally like the government officials / MP’s/ partner organisations etc. when they phone me at 1am to tell me they ‘like me’ maybe because when they are reflecting on their day, my honesty, integrity and professionalism suddenly hits them.

Or maybe not.

To me, it is clear after years of searching; my bootie has found its natural home! In fact having now been asked if my mother is an African and skinny women passing me compliments, I almost feel proud of my adipose.

On the other hand it may be one of the root causes of my daily battles with the men.

 In their defence the harassment goes no further. And after some quick retort, indicating that while I appreciate their adoration the feelings aren’t reciprocated (exact expression ‘oh right’), they leave me in peace.

As annoying as this is, this is not really my biggest problem. That comes from generally being a woman in a male dominated environment. And women here do not have a high profile. In fact gender inequality and gender based violence is high. I could tell you that I know this by statistics of illiteracy amongst women or the absence of women in positions of power. To be honest though, nothing brought it home to me more gravely than one of my colleagues talking openly and frankly about the need to ‘flog’ his wife.  His simple, straightforward proclamation, without any hint of shame, pride, aggression or deviancy that ‘African women need beating’ will always haunt me. It was his truth. And to be honest it is most men’s – and shockingly women’s, truths.

Once again it would be easy for us to judge. To consider the country to be backward and take the old colonial stance that the people here are savages. They are not. They just hold different dogma’s which have been passed down from hundreds of years.  Don’t get me wrong, I am far from comfortable with this cultural norm, and don’t think I let my colleague go without a gentle but firm lecture on my opposite philosophies. (Obviously I made sure there was a bloody big table between us and lot of people around before attempting to do so, I’m not that brave!)

Equally I was glad, given my obvious resemblance to an African woman's shape, that I was at least able to shift my colleague’s position to a point where he expressed that he respected ‘European women were different’. Phew, my ample hide saved – for the moment.

My other actions, (you know  feeding random strangers), is also having some effect on building a level of support and protection around me. I have had feedback that I have managed to endear myself to the majority of the drivers and have gained the nickname ‘Darling Jo’. Now I am I sure this will only last as long as the cheddar cheese does, but for the moment it is nice to feel as though I am breaking through some barriers.

And talking of driving, I’ve just returned from another field visit on a circular trip to two other cities in the East and the South. Again the road was tough going taking its toll on the vehicle.

And now I have returned I have found myself in an interesting position. I appear to have acquired the position as director of operations. Our director has taken sick and evacuated back to France, but this has happened at the same time as his deputy being on holiday along with the other more experienced ex-pats, oh and just about half the staff in the organisation it seems. Joy. In fact this lack of leadership has already caused problems as logistics have been unable to organise and schedule the driver rota for this bank holiday weekend and so I am now under house arrest. As the organisations policy is that I am unable to use public transport (which will invalidate my insurance) and my lovely new home is isolated from the central region, I am stuck

Then again, I’m in charge – Mmmmmm, now I wonder how far my new found authority can take me……..