In Which Junior Flashes Zoë, and She Flashes Him Back
on Zoe Page (Sierra Leone), 04/Oct/2010 06:30, 34 days ago
It’s Sunday, the day of rest. So, in a country where the Muslim majority and Christian minority allegedly coexist peacefully, I go to sleep dreaming of the former having a day off from prayer (or at least the 5am ringing of bells). My fan drowns out at little of the dawn chiming, but I am still up too early. I go downstairs to unlock the outer door (the one to which Junior does not have a key) so he can’t claim restricted access as the reason why things don’t get sorted today – he’ll just have to make up another excuse. I have breakfast (pain au chocolat of a sort....all that’s missing is the Sunday Times) and then discover we have no water in the kitchen or, I quickly discover, anywhere in the house. I am just settling back into bed to watch a little Make It or Break It when Junior flashes me twice. It’s not as interesting/disturbing as it sounds: ‘flashing’ here is theword for someone ringing you and then hanging up, what I would call ‘missed calling’ at home (as in ‘I’ll give you a missed call when I’m leaving”. I wander out of my room and down the stairs to see if he’s in sight before wasting credit calling and he is, in fact, already in the house, waiting downstairs with a random stranger. And me, in just my New Look jammies which, while rather pretty (polka dot hotpants and vest top), are slightly indecent for a respectable country such as this. I promptly proceed to flash the two of them, and I don’t mean in a missed call kinda way. Therandom is the carpenter, whose English is surprisingly good. He wants to measure the windows, so he comes up and does just that. As I show him out, Junior starts cleaning the house. No kidding. Out of nowhere he produces a mini broom (made of twigs tied together) and by the time I’m back upstairshe is sweeping the floors and won’t stop, despite my protestations that it’s really not necessary. I explain about the water and he goes out to open up the reserve tank, then I outwardly tell him I’m going to have a shower and inwardly hope that he’ll be gone by the time I’m done.It’s Maria’s last Sunday here, and she’s invited me to her farewell service at Church, so in my adapted version of a Sunday Best (pretty dress, fan, helmet) I drag my big ole’ Athiest self off just before 10am, with Junior tagging along to find me a bike, complimenting my ‘element’ (=helmet) on the way. We arrive in style on Ocadas, and find the service already in full swing, literally. A youngish (ok, my age) girl dressed in a tight pencil skirt and pink blouse is up on the makeshift stage, jumping about with more energy than an aerobics instructor on crack. She’s singing into a mic, and the audience are singing and dancing and clapping too. As we settle down, a good half hour later, the Pastor calls out for any first timers. I try to sink into my seat but it’s hard to go unnoticed as one of only 2 Pumwis in the room, and a bony finger digging into my back forces me up andout of my chair. I am, thankfully, not the only newbie. There are 3 of us, and we have to go up and say our names, where we’re from and who introduced us to the church. I am, from this point on, touted as Maria’s replacement. Whoops.The service is like none I’ve ever been to before. It goes on for a while, and I amuse myself by changing the word ‘God’ to ‘Godiva’ in my mind every time they say it. So while they’re screaming “Now let us put our hands together....for GOD” over and over again, I’m thinking, yeah, I could give a round of applause from some fine quality chocolate. It’s time for the collections and we dance a conga around the room (literally), dropping money into the purple buckets as we do. Then there’s another collection. Then we get a sermon, from the altar which is adorned with pound shop plastic flowers and the sort of foil Xmas decs last seen in a Toby Carvery circa 1987. It’s about how there are two types of crises, Demonic ones and Divine ones. I think it’s in Krio, but the quality of the mic and general racket means it could be English. It’s hard to tell.They have presentations from all the groups (children’s, youth, women’s, men’s) and since it’s a special service they all explain why they love Maria (and the Pastor who is also leaving today) and the common theme appears to be because she is punctual and teaches them about European time, rather than African time. The fact that she is from Australia/East Timor is irrelevant.We have a little David and Goliath interpretation, do lots of clapping, and then they give Maria a parting gift, which is a massive gift wrapped box. I am called up to pose next to her for photos (in my role as her replacement...one Pumwi in, one Pumwi out and all that). Maria gives an emotional speech and then they make her kneel and all pray over her.Then it gets worse.They call me up and make me kneel too. The floor’s super dusty. My pretty dress is going to get mucky. I am trying not to laugh and/or shoot Maria with a finger gun. She has to pray for me and although I’m muttering ‘Just lie, LIE’ her faith does not allow her to, so she says a little something about how I do not know God yet, but she hopes He will watch over me in Salone, and that He will touch my life and bring me into the church, but that she knows He does not like people to be forced. It’s a little heads up to the rest of the group, and I appreciate it, but by this point it’s gone 1.30pm and chocolate, Godiva or otherwise, is really the only thing on my mind.At the end, after final prayers (I take this opportunity to redo my hair and check my phone, on the assumption everyone else’s eyes will be shut) they start handing out bottles of Coke and Fanta. This is after the wafer and ‘wine’ we’ve already had (under strict instructions not to consume them until we were all ready to do so, as a group: ‘This is no Catholic Church! Here we take Communion TOGETHER!’Then things break up, and while Maria has more photos with everyone, a guy comes over to speak to me. He introduces himself as working for Marie Stopes (the Kenema office is right by the hospital) and then tells me lots of people will want to do bad things to me when they see my Pumwi skin, so I need to keep a tight hold of God as only He can protect me. This coming from a guy who works for a family planning / abortion clinic? Am I the only one finding this odd?We get a lift back as Maria cannot carry her box on a bike, and I dodge questions about where exactly I live from the woman in the bow (who, incidentally, stole my camera during the service, and took 5 million photos). Given the way I was introduced to the church, I don’t want her turning up to collect me for service next week... I distract her with talk of football – her husband’s car is adorned with Man United stickers, and she happily proclaims I am her new Manchester Sister. She then tells Maria she needs water, and Maria is not to forget to give her some, which is a slightly direct way of asking for some, please.Once they’ve gone, back at Polytechnic we open the box.It’s wrapped in a large DHL container Maria thought she’d got rid of yesterday, but inside it’s not quite full (though she’ll struggle to pack it all). She has some books of Prayers, some clot hes (a Kaftan thing) and some rather interesting trays, the most outstanding of which looks like a prop for Not Another Horror Movie. She’s clearly had a huge impact on them during her time there, but as much as I covet that one tray in particular, I don’t think I could fake a religion for a year in the hope of getting one myself.Maria wants to show me the fruit and veg market as I couldn’t find it yesterday (and was chased off from the 2 small stalls I did spot by the over-eager, in your face sellers). We head for Choitram for ice cream but it’s shut, so instead just go to the market which is...precisely those 2 stalls. This means my choices for the next 12 months will be cherry tomatoes, weird cucumbers, green beans, carrots and onions. I miss spinach already (and as an aside, I get a hilarious email from Beth today in which she regales a tale of a waitress in Freetown who said a dish came with ‘some vegetables like carrot and cabbage but not cooked’, only to producea salad: being Sierra Leonean and so unfamiliar with the concept, she didn’t know there was a word for it).We bike to Leader Price for extortionately priced ice creams: that name is only true if they mean leading the way in terms of cost. Still, it’s roasting, and I really want one, so even though it’s almost half my daily allowance, I get a faux-Magnum, and some Diet Coke, and call that lunch. I also get 10 litres of water, and stick it between me and the driver. It’s one way to stop them bumping and grinding, I guess. I get back to find Junior there again, and charging his phone, again. I may have words to say if/when an electricity bill arrives, as he’s always doing it (i.e. at least 4 times in the 2 ½ days I’ve lived here. Man, it feels like longer).I talk to Dr S through the railings and he says he is going somewhere (? Freetown) on Tues and if my house is not sorted by then he is taking me with him to wait until it is. This is...interesting. At about 5.30pm the carpenter miraculously reappears with 2 window nets (one for my bathroom, one for the sleeping area). Except...despite careful measuring this morning, the bathroom one is too small, and anything could still fly in. I continue unpacking while they work (I’ve stolen all the table-stools from the living room to stick my stuff on, and am also taking up two of the bedrooms, though since I have 7, it hardly matters). They wander off without a word but then come back with another piece of wood that they use to fix the gap sort-of. It’s a hell of a lotbetter than it was, though they’re talking about something else needing doing with Mr Barry. Not sure what, but they say it will be sorted tomorrow. While they finish off I show Junior my newly unearthed postcards of St Annes, though he seems disappointed I don’t have ‘one of that house wherethe Queen Elizabeth (sic) lives’.They leave and I decide to have tomatoes for my tea. Not just tomatoes, mind. I have cake too. I’m working on the assumption that I may have an interesting intestinal reaction to them, so it’s better to eat them all in one go rather than potentially waste some. Warped logic, perhaps, but then it’s so hot it’s hard to think clearly. The cake is good, though, but would be even better warmed (ha!) with yogurt or ice cream (double ha!)Maria comes over to drop some stuff off (she’s staying here tonight) and then we head out to Capitol (the reason she wants to stay here – it gets very dark and I’m a lot closer to it than she is).We meet British Laura, a former VSO who now works for Goal, and her two housemates. Interesting fact of the evening: it’s in her contract (and that of virtually all NGOs here) that she is not allowed to travel by public transport. Ever. So no shared taxis, Podas or Ocada for her. What do they all know that VSO doesn’t...?