Waking up in Freetown
Grand Regency Guest House
10 Benjamin Dr
Barbadorie, Lumley
Freetown
Not as hot but just as humid as expected when we arrived. The night was hotter and more humid than expected--though we were in a closed room to cut down on the generator noise and exhaust fumes.
The usual hustle and bustle of an airport and helipad--this time though, in a tropical setting and in the belly of a rusting but structurally sound hangar. Bradley tells me the arrival terminal is much improved since his first trip three years ago.
The bishop's right hand man (and travel agent for our local movements, tip-
negotiator, and general social "mechanic"), Rev Isasc Ken-Greene, worked us through the lines and the helicopter (a Soviet-era Hip?) ride from Lungi airport to Freetown. Everywhere people were politely asking to help, asking us to buy something (CDs, DVDs, local area maps) or just asking for a handout.
My first encounter with a begger was a young man with no hands--of course (why should it be, "of course"?) I first averted my eyes while he quietly walked past our particular group waiting for the helicopter. Then, ashamed, I watched as he visited with other travelers--an old German gentleman I'd seen on the plane, a British Army officer--they all chatted amiably with the young man (whom I saw quite openly smile and laugh a couple of times). The German gentleman was later met at the door by the young man; the German looked around the boy, around his hips and poked at his shirt for some reason. With the stub of his arm he lifted his t-shirt so the old man could put some bills or coins in his pocket.
How to be that comfortable with the unchanging sadness and still share a smile? At one point I wanted to take him by his stubby wrists and pray--hoping for a dawn-of-time physical miracle. The only (why should it be, "only"?) miracle is the ongoing, repeating, expanding ressurection being worked in my heart.
The ride in the helicopter was an exciting experience for many--beating the air into submission, we cut across the South Atlantic to Freetown, disembarked, reclaimed our baggage amidst jostling baggage carriers--some working for Paramount Airlines, some working for a handout. Crammed onto the "new" CRC bus and wended our way to the guest house. It was not an easy trip for the driver, or for me--the roads were narrow, people-lined, unpaved and no shoulders at times.
What can I say about the people? How do I describe the endless squalor? "It is just like what you see on TV" I confessed to my two fellow teammates as we prepared for bed.
Faces...faces...some blank, some smiling and laughing in a social exchange; half-naked children playing games with sticks or with their imaginations; many, many faces turned to our bus--curious, sometimes smiling, sometimes waving hands, sometimes bland or perhaps scornful looks. It went on and on--always another turn, always more faces....
Most people seemed dressed in clean, often stylish (for Western hemisphere casual) clothes--but the shacks and shanties! Corrugated steel, one-room 8'x10' places dotted the drive along the beach; in the city, as we skirted the edge of Freetown to get to the guest house, the structures improved somewhat...still the steel corrugation was on most roofs. But the streets remain pocked and unpaved, with water running constantly in the gutters--how much sewage? How much from damaged pipes? How much from natural ground water?
It's approaching 8am and there is a constant stream of children walking along the street below our roof-top porch. Most are smartly dressed in myriad of school uniforms. Some labor under buckets or large circular platters laden with who-knows-what, balanced on their head.
We are getting ready for breakfast after which we will meet up with Augustine, our bus driver, and Alfred Lewis, the CRC Director, and Rev Ken-Greene for some mission-oriented touring of Freetown before we start the trek to Bo.
10 Benjamin Dr
Barbadorie, Lumley
Freetown
Not as hot but just as humid as expected when we arrived. The night was hotter and more humid than expected--though we were in a closed room to cut down on the generator noise and exhaust fumes.
The usual hustle and bustle of an airport and helipad--this time though, in a tropical setting and in the belly of a rusting but structurally sound hangar. Bradley tells me the arrival terminal is much improved since his first trip three years ago.
The bishop's right hand man (and travel agent for our local movements, tip-
negotiator, and general social "mechanic"), Rev Isasc Ken-Greene, worked us through the lines and the helicopter (a Soviet-era Hip?) ride from Lungi airport to Freetown. Everywhere people were politely asking to help, asking us to buy something (CDs, DVDs, local area maps) or just asking for a handout.My first encounter with a begger was a young man with no hands--of course (why should it be, "of course"?) I first averted my eyes while he quietly walked past our particular group waiting for the helicopter. Then, ashamed, I watched as he visited with other travelers--an old German gentleman I'd seen on the plane, a British Army officer--they all chatted amiably with the young man (whom I saw quite openly smile and laugh a couple of times). The German gentleman was later met at the door by the young man; the German looked around the boy, around his hips and poked at his shirt for some reason. With the stub of his arm he lifted his t-shirt so the old man could put some bills or coins in his pocket.
How to be that comfortable with the unchanging sadness and still share a smile? At one point I wanted to take him by his stubby wrists and pray--hoping for a dawn-of-time physical miracle. The only (why should it be, "only"?) miracle is the ongoing, repeating, expanding ressurection being worked in my heart.
The ride in the helicopter was an exciting experience for many--beating the air into submission, we cut across the South Atlantic to Freetown, disembarked, reclaimed our baggage amidst jostling baggage carriers--some working for Paramount Airlines, some working for a handout. Crammed onto the "new" CRC bus and wended our way to the guest house. It was not an easy trip for the driver, or for me--the roads were narrow, people-lined, unpaved and no shoulders at times.
What can I say about the people? How do I describe the endless squalor? "It is just like what you see on TV" I confessed to my two fellow teammates as we prepared for bed.
Faces...faces...some blank, some smiling and laughing in a social exchange; half-naked children playing games with sticks or with their imaginations; many, many faces turned to our bus--curious, sometimes smiling, sometimes waving hands, sometimes bland or perhaps scornful looks. It went on and on--always another turn, always more faces....
Most people seemed dressed in clean, often stylish (for Western hemisphere casual) clothes--but the shacks and shanties! Corrugated steel, one-room 8'x10' places dotted the drive along the beach; in the city, as we skirted the edge of Freetown to get to the guest house, the structures improved somewhat...still the steel corrugation was on most roofs. But the streets remain pocked and unpaved, with water running constantly in the gutters--how much sewage? How much from damaged pipes? How much from natural ground water?
It's approaching 8am and there is a constant stream of children walking along the street below our roof-top porch. Most are smartly dressed in myriad of school uniforms. Some labor under buckets or large circular platters laden with who-knows-what, balanced on their head.
We are getting ready for breakfast after which we will meet up with Augustine, our bus driver, and Alfred Lewis, the CRC Director, and Rev Ken-Greene for some mission-oriented touring of Freetown before we start the trek to Bo.
posted by Bo-Bound at
11:10 AM
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