It is an international expert who starts the panic in the expatriate community. He is driving down a narrow track, the view obscured by high grasses, comes around a bend and into an armed rebel band lying in the road having a smoko. Till then the rebels have been a rumour, or rather a known entity considered to be physically distant who could be treated disdainfully.
The international expert is from a European country, and we are in an African country. The country is Sierra Leone and my brain says about May 1990 though the history books indicate probably September 1991. He is an agricultural expert, ostensibly teaching subsistence farmers with generations of knowledge, the virtues of commercial mono-cropping. He is part of an international aid project, where I, as a destitute backpacker have gained employment.
We are in the south of the country, in the town of Bo, close to the Liberian border, and their civil war has spilled over. This is the start of what became a decadal conflict.
This part of the world is home to voodoo. There are regular reports of human sacrifice, often brutal, by groups having a panther or crocodile as their totem animal. Spending a weekend in a rural village, I listen to the voodoo drumming and chants from a neighbouring village ringing through the night air. When I wake in the morning the same community is singing ‘The Old Rugged Cross’. It is as if with the sunrise they remove their voodoo image and don a Christian persona. All over the continent Africans have proven adept at incorporating the colonist’s religion into their faiths.
My job is to be a white face trying to limit theft. It’s as simple as that and an impossible undertaking. The aid project has a Technical Services Centre (TSC), and I am the manager due to an international technical expert departing with a serious illness. As a local employee, I am cheap (though included, nod, nod, wink, wink, say no more, a regular payment in a European currency; the one and only time in my life I could claim a Swiss bank account).
Behind high walls lined with barbed wire, TSC houses a fuel depot, and being the logistics centre has about fifty containers of various materials. With workspace for all the trades, trucks, cars and motorbikes, water pumps and solar panels, are service, with buildings and technical equipment maintained. Being part of the world where the electricity supply is sporadic, fuel rationed, and materials scarce, the centre is a prized asset for any looting guerrilla band. The Bo hospital surgeon often came seeking fuel the generator, the last item on his list before he could conduct an operation. Given the resource discrepancy between what lies within the walls of the Centre and what is outside, it is not surprising that petty theft is endemic.
Upon spotting the rebels lying in the road, the international expert quickly reverses the car, does a U-turn and races off. Within hours of hearing news that rebel bands were so close to town, the expatriate community is loading their vehicles and departing for Freetown, the national capital. Even the last avocado that the bored housewives had been eyeing off is picked.
In a more ominous sign, the priests and nuns were also packing. There is Sister Hillary who arrived for six weeks in the 1950s, and Father Bob who in the far distant past came only for a couple of years. Neither of them have ever left before, except now they are saying that wars like this rage for years. They are to be proven correct.
Father Bob sits at the upstairs veranda at the Black and White, the pub most frequented by the expatriate community. Whiskey is Father Bob’s favourite drink. There is a story of a person approaching Bob demanding money, Bob stands up by the seat, grabs the man by the collar and says, ‘I might be Catholic but I don’t do guilt.’ He then pushes the man into another seat and says, ‘now have a whiskey and tell me your problems.’ My cohort is a group of old beer drinkers. We know not to stick cigarette butts into empty beer bottles because they might still be there when the replenished bottles return from the brewery. We throw cash down to the polio ridden crippled beggars below and assure ourselves we are doing a worthy deed.
Liberian dictator, Samuel Doe, was dead. He had been captured by a minor rebel leader, Prince Johnson, who slowly tortured Doe to death. Johnson videoed the execution and it played to packed cinemas. People walked out saying, ‘Eh. He died like a man.’ I refused to watch it.
The person responsible for instigating the Liberian civil war, and for it entering Sierra Leone, is Charles Taylor, the nemesis of then President, Samuel Doe. Liberian born Taylor was educated in the United States from which he fled under a corruption cloud. He then worked for President Doe, who jailed Taylor for embezzlement. Taylor escaped, fled to Libya for military training, then returned to Liberia and has launched an attack to seize power.
Taylor has a vested interest in destabilising Sierra Leone. For a start he needs the country’s diamonds to fund his war effort. He seeks to punish the country for allowing peace-keeping ECOWAS military forces to base themselves there. And he needs to force the refugee camps that are dotted along the border between the countries further away. Former generals from Samuel Doe’s army are recruiting in the camps, building a new army to invade Liberia. Taylor is determined to prevent that from happening.
The camps are being serviced by Red Cross and Medicine San Frontiers (MSF), which is where I come into the picture. The Technical Services Centre has reoriented to service Red Cross and MSF through the provision of vehicles and fuel. After the evacuation of the expatriates to Freetown I willingly remain behind to manage the TSC. It is fun, exciting even, being just about the only expatriate in town. Plus, I am doing something valuable, transport supplies to the refugee camps, that gives satisfaction.
Relaxing in the Black and White one evening, I receive a radio call from the head office in Freetown. To strengthen the connection, I move to a clearing opposite the pub, sitting on a log to talk. Two passing cops see me. They race back to the police station and return with other officers. I am arrested. I later learn they claimed there was a rebel commander communicating with troops. Within half an hour my workforce has mobilised and raced to the police station to explain the situation. Within another half hour, amidst profuse apologies, I am released back to the pub.
Provided a trail bike I zoom around streets bustling with pedestrians. One day a big snake sprawls across the road with all bystanders keeping a respectful distance. Thinking I can assist by killing the snake I race at the head but get the creature’s wrong end, crushing the tail. The snake rears up and its head smashes into my helmet. Which provides a demonstration why bike riders should wear a helmet.
For about a month we have worked, the war still seeming distant, until the rebels announce, inevitably, that they are intend capturing the town. It is not their intention to carry that action out as it would result in too many deaths on their own side. The declaration is more a propaganda piece, and it has the intended impact as people panic and start to flee. The announcement causes Head Office to direct closure of TSC and relocation of the vehicles to Freetown. As Red Cross and MSF were pulling out there was no reason to remain. They are advising the people in the refugee camps to start walking the 250 kilometres to Freetown. Food posts will be set up along the way while a new refugee camp near the capital is built.
I inform the drivers that we need to take the vehicles to Freetown. They readily agree conditional they could return the next day. No matter what was going to happen they want to be with their families. This request is reasonable, so I agree.
It is now a Saturday and there is a funeral underway, jamming the narrow streets. Led by a horse drawn carriage, the hearse is a glass cabinet on wagon wheels. Women mourners wear huge bustle dresses and carry an umbrella to protect them from the sun. The men dress in black dinner suits with top hats. Their gospel vocals are superb as the grieving brethren are well versed in the wails and chants for farewelling the deceased. This could be New Orleans in the mid 1800s and I take solace in the soaring choir.
Given it is the day that the rebels claim they are going to take the town of Bo all traffic there has ceased. Having given the drivers my word I undertake to drive them there. The project has assigned me a twin-cab Volkswagen Kombi, a protype four-wheel-drive with synchromesh interface, capable of carrying all fourteen drivers that need to return home. I am accompanied by a British volunteer that we call Bill the Fish because he works in fish culture. This means his role is to advise on improving the quality of captive fish species, but as a volunteer he has plenty of free time to party. A friendly person also interested in driving into rebel territory, Bill becomes a life saver.
Our instructions are clear: drive directly to Bo, drop off the workers, load two brand new motorbikes and anything else valuable we can fit in, refuel, and then return directly to Freetown. It is one of those ‘Do not pass GO, do not collect $200’ situations. Everything goes smoothly: no interruptions on the journey, the drivers waving goodbye on Bo streets that have gone strangely quiet, we drop into the centre to refuel and to load the vehicle. We are ready for the return drive when we one of us says, ‘let’s drop into the Black and White for a beer.’
Confidently I turn the corner and pull up in front of the pub, turn the engine off, and then we find ourselves surrounded by child soldiers.
‘Oh fuck! We’re fucked.’ It was a literal heart in mouth moment. Kids sloppily carrying guns bigger than themselves, possessing limited cognitive capacity and with a head full of drugs which means they are capable of any atrocity. They stink. ‘Why were we so fucking stupid?’ I shout, being frozen to the car seat, incapable of movement, racing pulse, dry mouth, swirling eyes, my brain is humming ‘nearer my god to thee.’
‘Boys, boys!’ A voice calls. ‘Come and have a drink.’
In the darkness of the downstairs bar sits a lean man in military fatigues, holding up a beer. A broad grin covers his face because he wants to chat and knows we are trapped. He is a warlord, a general on the losing side, trying to organise the refugees into a new army, and the child soldiers are his bodyguard. He has come to town as he is curious to see if the rebels do carry out their threat.
As the bartender serves a couple of cold beers, our khaki clad host says, ‘Now tell me boys. Who is going to win the FA Cup this year?’
I have no idea of course, and this is where Bill saves the day as he at least knows about the topic. Bill is a skilful interlocutor whose wit brings a laugh to our hosts lips – ‘the only thing Fulham are good for is to dig diamonds for you.’
It is a normal day, warm and humid, the initial justification to stop for a beer along with providing an excuse for why I am perspiring. We are in an unforgettable scene – sitting with a warlord in a bar in an African jungle, surrounded by child soldiers, and sipping beer while we discuss English football.
Two beers down and it’s coming my turn to buy a round, suppressing panic about being stuck here and what the outcome is going to be, when our host says, ‘OK. You can go now.’
Without hesitation we race back to the car and take off.
The road to Freetown is unmaintained bitumen, heavily potholed with decaying edges, and full of thousands of refugees moving towards Freetown. It fits the Western stereotype of what roads in Africa are meant to be. Capable of easily destroying a car wheel, negotiating it requires rapid speed changes with skilful manoeuvring.
My complete focus is on avoiding potholes and refugees. They want a ride and try to block the car, while I know if I stop then so many people will jump on board the axles will snap.
A gap of a few hundred metres appears and in that space is a man and three children. We screech to a halt, push them on board as other refugees run towards us, and then I rapidly accelerate away.
I am expecting him to be grateful for the lift, but he is unsmiling. He has survived horrors; he doesn’t know what has happened to his wife and assumes she is dead. He has no idea where any other family members are. Aside from the ragged clothes they are wearing they have nothing. Existence is outside his control and he has become completely fatalistic. He is just walking with his children, one foot following the other. He has no expectations; he just wants to survive. Bill and I are grinning like Cheshire cats congratulating each other for being kind human beings.
After a couple of hours, when we are a long way ahead of the moving mass, we pull up at a restaurant. Our refugee family eats two huge plates of cassava and rice. I have no idea when they last had a full meal, and they have no idea when they next will.
It is when we start driving again that Bill and I realise our mistake. What do we do with these people? Where do we take them? Years later, when I work for Red Cross, I learn there are many valid reasons not to pick up refugees, which includes violent retribution from belligerents. In our case, being a bleeding heart is a classic example of not considering potentially consequences.
We do not know where Red Cross and MSF are establishing the new camp, or even if they are yet in a position to accept people. There is a police check point at Mile 49, the intersection where the northern and southern roads meet before heading down the peninsula and into the capital. We know there are drunken paramilitary soldiers on duty. There are rumours they are shooting Liberians. We are in a vehicle with two motorbikes that the paramilitary would love to requisition. Our fears grow.
Just prior to Mile 49 we pull into a village and give the man 5,000 Leone. It is nothing to us, there are 600 Leone to US$1, but is equivalent to two months salary for the average public servant, and they haven’t been paid in months. The man knows he could be killed for it. He says he will find a room to rent and wait for his people to arrive. Which makes us aware that by coming with us the man and his children have lost the protection that comes with being part of a mass of people who are in the same situation.
After we drop our passengers, we never see them again. I have no idea what happened to them.
At Mile 49 the soldiers are drunk and harassing people. Bill and I cruise through the checkpoint, protected by official branding on the door, and our white skin. If we had the man and his children on board we may not have been so lucky, though perhaps I am just engaging in an after the fact rationalisation.
The experience in Sierra Leone has left me with a desire for more work in the aid industry. Who wouldn’t want a career with high levels of satisfaction, well paying, and providing travel to exotic locations. It is time to continue through Africa, though now the aimless drifting has been replaced with an objective. If I want to be an aid worker, I require formal qualifications and further work experience.
Nelson Mandela has recently been released from prison. South Africa is not on my agenda as it sounds ugly and violent. However, that is where the next opening appears and I am to spend ten phenomenal life-changing years there, as transformative for me as it is for the country.
Background
In the slavery days, the forerunner to colonisation, people from this portion of West Africa were recognised for their rice growing skills. The is a story of the Seminole Indians who fought the last great American war, after the US civil war. The tribe was comprised of escaped Sierra Leonean slaves who mixed with refugee Native Americans in the Florida swamps. They didn’t lose the war but signed a peace deal and were killed off during a forced march to Oklahoma.
One of the first Europeans to travel through the region, Mungo Parkes, recorded that at every tribal boundary he would be taxed about half of what he had. Perhaps it was because the area was terribly inhospitable, one of the last parts of Africa to be habituated by humans, and they were awfully poor. Due to the prevalence of malaria and other diseases, Europeans named the are ‘the White Man’s Grave’.
Sierra Leone is considered to have had a relatively benign colonialism. English philanthropists opposed to the slave trade bought land from King Billy and established Freetown. Slaves, either purchased or captured from slaving ships, were brought here to be released beneath the ‘Freedom Gate’. These philanthropists were driven by altruistic motivations, though they failed to recognise the massive diversity across the continent and instead assumed that all Africans were a homogenous entity. The returned slaves were known as Krioles, after their language. They constituted about 2% of the population and held political power.
Sierra Leone’s population came from the same ethnic-linguistic lineage. With a long history of intermarriage this continued under the monotheisms, Christianity and Islam. Girls typically followed their mother’s religion and boys their father’s. Post-colonial Sierra Leone’s long term ruler led a one-party state and then in 1985, too sick to continue, transferred the baton to the head of the Presidential Guard, Joseph Momo.
In the 1930’s author Graham Greene travelled through this region, writing a book called Journey Without Maps, because the only map he could find had a blank over the area with the word CANNIBALS stamped in red. Greene described ‘a seediness about the place you couldn’t get to the same extent elsewhere.’ The journey was his physical and psychological exploration, where he was exposed to deadly diseases in consequence gained a refreshed desire for life. Greene’s younger cousin, Barbara, accompanied him, writing her story in A Land Benighted, where she noted that she was a young socialite who only agreed to accompany Graham because ‘I was a little bit tipsy on champagne at the time.’ Barbara records the hammock borne sick Greene as unfocused when tempted by two prostitutes, while Greene’s book indicates he was astutely aware of their presence. Barbara mocks herself for getting irritated that Graham’s socks keep slipping down around his ankles, rather than maintaining a good English knee height.
Graham Greene returned to Sierra Leone during World War Two, writing The Heart of the Matter, a meditation on guilt. Some consider it his best book. Based in the capital, Freetown, one of character is a Syrian diamond smuggler who blackmails the main protagonist.
The Lebanese of West Africa were called ‘the Syrians’ because they arrived before the nation-state of Lebanon was formed. In the early 1900’s men, escaping conscription into the Ottoman army, paid ship captains to take them as far as possible. Some paid to go to New York and unscrupulous captains dropped them off around the corner. Their families joined them, and they became instrumental in building west African capitalism. After independence many countries introduced anti-Lebanese policies, though this did not occur in Sierra Leone.
The Lebanese ran the economy including the black-market diamond industry. My memory recalls Sierra Leone one year officially recording $3 million in exports to the Antwerp diamond centre while Antwerp recorded about $200 million in imports, meaning most of the diamonds had been smuggled out of the country. Lebanese families owned the beachside bars where expatriates hung out getting boozed, and children prostituted themselves. I was sitting on the beach controlled by one of the bars and saw a young girl running her hand up a white man’s leg towards his crotch. There was nothing I could do about it and feeling helpless I left.
Liberia had a comparative but distinctly different history to their neighbour. The prevailing myth is that, like the English philanthropists, Americans established Liberia as a homeland for ex-slaves. Another version of history says slaveowners foresaw an end to the slave trade, did not want freed slaves remaining in America so sought somewhere to dump them, along with their bastard progeny, couched in the language of benevolence.
In contrast to the relative genetic homogeneity of Sierra Leone’s population, distinct lineages migrated into what became Liberia, coming in from the north and that south and then being separated by the impenetrable Gola Forest. There was little engagement between these groups in either relationships or economy. Politics was dominated by long-term dictators, usually overthrown in coups and public executions held on the main beach. The Firestone company had a rubber plantation in Liberia, run along the same lines as the antebellum south, and in the 1960’s was accused by the UN of practicing slavery. So much for liberation in Liberia.
Taylor achieved his goal, being Liberian President from 1997 until 2002. An estimated 200,000 people died in the two civil wars that started when Taylor instigated his overthrow of Samuel Doe and concluded when he relinquished the presidency. Taylor was eventually convicted of war crimes and remains in prison.
In the mid-1990’s Sierra Leone melts down. A country with a history of intertribal and interreligious marriage that considered conflict an imposition by outsiders, descends into all the horrors that war contains. Sierra Leone’s special feature is mass amputations. A referendum is called, and as most of the population are illiterate, proof of voting is done by dipping a finger in ink. The rebel warlords want the referendum boycotted, so pay bounties to child soldiers to remove hands, which in the child soldiers’ drug addled brain includes feet. The country ends up with the highest number of amputees in the world.
George was an American working in Sierra Leone where he met and married local woman, Esther. With the onset of war, they relocated back to the States and started a Sierra Leonean support group. One of the last letters I received from them said they couldn’t face it anymore and had ‘turned away.’ Esther no longer wanted to know her own country.
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August 2023
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