There was power in SLARI guesthouse till the morning. I had the fan set up so close to bed that I woke up dry and not too hot. Things are possible.
I filled up Nigerian visa form – all six pages of it – got the email from Amyn with the invitation and her passport scan and about 9:20am set off to the printers. I thought maybe it was too early but then I remembered nothing on this continent takes as much time as you thought it would.
And of course. The printers I saw the day before were open for business but they didn’t have internet. I was directed to an internet café up the road. There uploading of 6MB of documents took 15mins and by the time we printed the passport photo page correctly it was beyond 10am. Printing of 9 pages in b&w was 9,000le.
I also found ginger juice, 1,000le for a small and not full bottle (it’s the way they do it here, not filling the bottles up). Nice but the Francophone versions have more bite.
I took a moto to Liberian Embassy, or rather the moto took me. The same driver spotted me on the street and called me out. We went.
I asked the driver to wait so we can together go to Nigerian Embassy. With me entered a… Japanese tourist. I remembered David mentioned a Japanese passport in Nigerian Embassy in Conakry and I wondered if he was the same. The man came with all his luggage, a not very huge rucksack, complete with I think a tent and a mascot of what looked like Snufkin from the Moomins. Ah the man was ready for Africa, his mobile phone on a spring chain, all landmarks marked on the map. I also mark important things on the map and in Freetown I have 3. He had maybe twenty, including a Shell petrol station from which to take busses to Kenema – he was going straight to Liberia and also collecting his passport today. The station he showed me on the map on his phone looked like possibly the one I was dropped off coming from Bo so I said yeah you could find transport there however I doubted it would be easy – I was told all transport leaves early and later on there are no passengers.
Our visas were handed over immediately, the madame secretary wished us safe journey and welcomed us to Liberia.
I didn’t ask my moto driver friend to wait for me in front of Nigerian Embassy as I didn’t know how long it would take. Also, perhaps after seeing me sitting at the edge of the “garden managed by Nigerian High Commission” there was a new sign now: “no waiting no parking police.”
I entered and signed myself in a second visitor this morning. The visa man came quickly. He looked at all the documents, read the application form, took 2 photos, passport and the money (he didn’t count and it was 50 notes) and said he’d take them to the visa officer and I would be granted an interview date. Interview??!
First time I ever applied for a Nigerian visa, in 2001, I went through an interview in Warsaw Embassy. It was December, the ambassador had Easter decorations in his office, to the joy of his secretaries. He was asking me where in Nigeria I would be.
Now this interview, with my phantom flights? Ugh. The visa man came and told me to come on Thursday at 12pm. One must really wanna go to Nigeria to go through all this.
I left the embassy and started thinking that I should dress up for that interview. My only shirt is so dirty I stopped wearing it long ago. My shorts that are converted from long trousers? Shame. I’d have to ask my guesthouse if they did laundry. They do so possibly I’m safe.
I went downtown. A good landmark in downtown Freetown is cotton tree – a huge tree under which it’s said slave trading was taking place. It took me a moto and a tuktuk to get there. Somehow the motos either asked ridiculous prices or they didn’t wanna go there altogether. I found one who took me to some junction, 4,000le overpriced, from where I took the tuktuk for 2,000le.
Next to cotton tree there is Sierra Leone National Museum and the Bradt Guide says it’s interesting. But the Bradt Guide also says it’s free and with a donation and here I was being asked for 37,500le! I passed. I went to post office instead. Post office looks like from deep communism of 1975. Since have 2 sets of postcards I’m looking mainly for stamps.
The stamps & deliveries counter lady directs me stamps counter. The stamps counter lady directs me to a man that stands behind all the counters. The man that stands behind all the counters calls a lady from stamps counter. She comes to us and they start conferring. They lead me to a room in which there is an elderly man and they say he has to supply the stamps. He will supply the stamps to them and they will call me when he does so.
It took maybe 10 minutes, the lady from the stamps counter comes out with the stamps and calls me. She even has postcards. Oh boy. The postcards look like deep communism 1974 but they are possibly from around 1994. Anyhow, postcards are available, one must not complain. I buy psotcards and stamps, 5,000le each. I gave the lady the money and she just grabs them and starts talking to someone. I ask her to count, it’s 20 notes, she says “it’s okay, you white people you don’t lie”. Ha madame, you have not met the white people yet!
I walked down the street. It’s a very busy downtown and there is not much to see. Many beggars. Hawkers of all kinds. I look into the guidebook to find some food. There is a Downtown Restaurant nearby and there is a Crown Bakery that has a word “coffee” in its description. Bell ringing!
Downtown restaurant is of course Lebanese – the Lebanese have taken over restaurant business from Conakry to Monrovia and beyond. And it has a quite good shawarma. 25,000le. While I eat shawarma it rains.
Crown Bakery is a luxury. Air conditioning! Dressed up staff! Crazy prices!! White people abound!!! Espresso!!!! However, double espresso at 30,000 that’s my two manioc leaves lunches so I settle for Turkish coffee for 15,000le. It arrives complete in a brass coffee pot and cardamom. 15,000le well spent.
I continue walking towards what the guidebook marks as Africana Print Market. And it’s a printed wax material marker, colourful and busy. I snap some secret photos, ready to be lynched. Nothing happens.
I return to Cotton Tree and try to get a moto back to Lumley. The drivers either tell me high price or don’t wanna go. I catch a tuktuk to Congo Cross (2000le) and from there a shared taxi to Lumley (1500le). When those taxis pull up there is very little time in which one has to shout his or her destination and understand the driver’s answer. Obviously there is no orderly queueing.
Back in Lumley I went to Jeska Mac for lunch but they only had krein krein – the oily green stew with dried fish – and shawarma. I took shawarma, 15000le, but it wasn’t nice.
In the guesthouse I chatted with two men who also stay here. They work with tourism in Sierra Leone and they asked me how they can increase the number of tourists in the country because apparently it’s very low. Of course I said make the bloody visas cheaper and easier to obtain. I mean $120 via a travel agency is a lot. $100 and 3 days waiting time is also ridiculous. You want encouragement – take clue from East Africa where visas are $50 and on arrival or online. Or South East Asia. And they were listening. So – if in the future you’ll go to Sierra Leone and you won’t need visa, you’re welcome.
I showed the men my Bradt Guide and that they write about the guesthouse. They were in awe. They were showing the book to other people in the guesthouse, they recognised one author from the pictures, they read the acknowledgements in the book, they want a copy and how they can order it. I didn’t mention that perhaps the very low value for money in this part of the world may be putting tourists away. When I said it’s a bit expensive over here – though this is nothing they have control over – they brought up South Africa. Yes, South Africa is not cheap but a $30-40 accommodation in SA is a very comfortable accommodation. In SA you really get value for your money in pretty much everything. When I mentioned reputation of some of the countries – I think I talked Burkina Faso – around their response was interesting – one of them asked me if he should avoid New Zealand because of the recent attack there. In a way, he was right, although Burkina Faso and Mali are in constant state of emergency. We also discussed chimps and how we share over 98% of DNA with them and importing old cars.
I asked one of them where I can eat good roasted fish. He said “200 kilometres from here down the beach.” I asked if he meant 200 metres and he seemed confused.
Anyway, after dark I walked down to the beach. I bought a scotch egg, which was much better than yesterday, covered in fish nugget type of meat. I also had a small fish nugget, tasty.
It wasn’t 200kms and it wasn’t 200m but it was maybe 500m till the fish place. There was an open air joint but they had no fish, only goat meat soup, so I only took Guinness, a chair and sat in African night bliss on the beach, alone, 10 meters from the sea until 9pm when they called me for the chair because they were closing.
On my way back I couldn’t find cold bottled water – everywhere was “room temperature”, room here being +30. I entered a pharmacy and asked for plaster. My scratched knee wound is still a bit moisty and occasionally stings. I was presented with a pure plaster, that is without any cotton bandage. When I asked the seller if he thinks I should put this plaster with glue all over the wound he only kept saying “you must dress it, you must dress it.” Second pharmacy – same. Pure plaster. I asked for some cotton dressing and they didn’t have it. Third pharmacy – the lady offered to dress the wound and she brought out a cotton bandaid. When I told her I’d like to leave the wound to dry for the night she only advised using the iodine.
Fourth pharmacy, the man behind a counter says he will dress and clean my wound. He calls me to the back. In the back there is a woman who, using her smartphone flashlight, looks at my wound says I must clean it with hydrogen peroxide otherwise the bacteria will eat it. And they will clean the wound for me because obviously I will not be able to do it myself because cleaning the wound means I have to remove all the dead skin and make the blood flow again. And she insists they will do it, the whole procedure is 20,000le. I ask her if she’s a doctor. She says she’s a pharmacist. The man returns to the back. He brings out a set of scissors and holders, he puts on rubber gloves, he takes our a piece of cotton wool. He pours the hydrogen peroxide on the wound. It turns white but I don’t feel any stinging. Then he starts rubbing the cotton wool into my wound. The pain is maybe is not excruciating but I cry. Then he uses a new piece of cotton wool pours hydrogen peroxide on it. And rubs again. And again. And again. And then he pours something called Dettol antiseptic liquid and rubs a new piece of cotton wool into the wound. The stinging pain lasts forever. In the end the wound really looks clean and, I don’t know, fresh, the blood didn’t flow. Then the man takes a piece of gauze drops a few drops of something red onto it and sticks it to the wound and glues it with plaster. It’s called Mercurochrome solution and the name kinda indicates it does contain mercury. It’s some sort of antiseptic and Google says it may or may not contain mercury. This one is from India.
I’m supposed to keep the bandaid till Thursday and come back for replacement. They ask me what antibiotics I take. !!!! I say none, the woman brings out pénicilline powder but when I say I’m allergic she doesn’t bring anything else. She says I cannot “wet the wound.” The plaster is coming off already now.
And tomorrow I was supposed to be on the beach. Don’t wet it.
Of other wounds and scars I have a blister on my right index finger from holding the moto metal in Guinea. I have a small blister on the outside of left middle finger from holding this holder that’s above windows in cars. Priest’s hands. My left arm was so sunburnt by sticking out elbow through the windows that skin peeled completely 3 days later. The burnt scar is almost invisible by now. Struggle is real.
Coming back to Maman 