World Cup 2010

(Sad Holland fans.)

Watched the final in a little bar with lively locals, Star beer, and a dinner of rice and cassava leaves. It would have been amazing to see Ghana in the finals, but it was still so much fun to watch the game with people who love it so much.

Rainy season

It is the wind that makes the difference. Without wind, the rain comes as a soothing shower. It brings cooler, fresher air and seems to wash away a layer or two of dust. The kids keep playing soccer and the women sit under umbrellas with their plantains, limes, and cucumbers for sale. But when the wind is there too, the rain feels violent and unpredictable. It rattles the windows and the palm tree outside our room. The tree rolls and turns and its long fronds slap back and forth, fighting the start of the rainy season. A flash of violet light comes through the window and seconds later a series of booming noises. “That’s probably the longest thunder I’ve ever heard,” David says.

Once it starts raining during the day, you know rainy season is coming soon. Locals are thankful for the rain: their crops need the water so they will grow. Aren’t I growing too? Aren’t I in Sierra Leone to learn and to grow? Maybe rainy season will be good for me too.

I'm sorry

Downtown is a wild maze. People, motorcycles, taxis, chickens, and buses weave around and past each other, honking and pushing to move on. A coworker drove us to get our internet and phones set up, and we got lost in the chaos. Men and women on either sides of the car, music blaring from shops along the road, dogs searching for scraps of food. At one point we heard a thump and saw that she had just bumped a man with her side mirror. She was going slowly when it happened, so we didn’t think much of it. Traffic slowed and the man, eventually catching up with us, knocked on the window. We waved and kept going, afraid he would make a scene and ask for money (not a rare reaction). After all, he was walking in the road. The man turned and walked to a police officer who was standing nearby.

The police officer waved us over, and we pulled to the curb. David rolled down the window and the man said, “This woman hit me with her car, and when I asked her to stop and talk, she did not say she was sorry.” The police officer said with a smirk, “You did not say you are sorry? Why did you not say you are sorry?” A few minutes of apologies and explanation and we were off again.

And that is when I learned the power of the words, “I’m sorry.”

MDR

My college roommates have a tradition that I hate. When one of us is being particularly dramatic- while telling a story, reacting to a situation, general behavior, etc.- the others might call you “MDR,” meaning “Most Dramatic Roommate.” I hate it because it has been bestowed on me many times, and to argue it only further proves their point.

I had a breakdown the other day. It started because the power was out all night. Without power, we have no air conditioning or fan. The heat made me restless and unable to sleep, so I laid in bed thinking about cool San Luis Obispo and wondering why we ever left. I got out of bed once I determined it was a reasonable hour, only to discover I had a headache. It was hot, I hadn’t slept, and I had a headache. I went into the kitchen to make some coffee and David followed me. He had opened a cupboard without me noticing, and as I was dumping the coffee grounds into the trash I stood up right into the cupboard door and bonked my head. Coffee grounds flew all over the kitchen and I burst into tears. I cried, “I’m so uncomfortable!” as I rubbed my head and wiped up coffee grounds.

Ladies, I’ll claim it. That morning I was definitely MDR.

4th of July in Sierra Leone

The neighborhood

Barf?

We are here in Sierra Leone, wandering our neighborhood and enjoying the thunderstorms that have come every night. But, we'll get to that.

My dear friend Leenie took us to the airport in San Francisco on Tuesday afternoon for the first of 3 flights and 1 helicopter ride that we would take to Freetown. An incident happened in the airport that is equal parts disgusting and hilarious. But wait, we'll get to that in a minute.

The weekend before that my old college friends got together for a reunion. It was so good to see their faces and hear about their lives, and I'll show some pics later. The reunion took place right before we left for our adventure. Everyone went their separate ways on Monday and Leenie took us to the airport on Tuesday. That brings me to my story.

David and I decided to get some food quickly before our flight. I bought a bowl of thick, red, cheesy and sour creamy glop called Mexican chicken tortilla soup. I took one satisfying bite and stopped to break into my roll for dipping. The roll was so tough that I lost my grip, my arm flew back into the bowl and the entire thing exploded onto my body. I stood up with a scream, frantically trying to pull my pants from my burning legs without stripping in the middle of the food court.

The soup covered an incredible range- all the way from my boobs to my knees, but mostly concentrated around my crotch. This would not have been so bad had it been a brothy, less cheesy and sour creamy soup. This particular soup, when spread over a body, was the exact consistency and colors of vomit. I stood there with what looked like barf (or perhaps the big D) all over myself, trying to wipe it off but it was too thick and sticky. Our plane was leaving in 25 minutes. I laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.

David had some extra shorts so I held them over my body and walked across the food court to the bathrooms. The soup was down my pants, on my shirt, between my legs, everywhere. I put the shorts on and tried to wash my pants and shirt in the sink. I could see people look at me disgusted from the corner of their eyes. I kept saying, "It's just soup," but I don't think they believed me. One women responded, "Oh, I just thought the flight didn't sit well with you." Duh. Another asked, "Do you have to travel far? Where are you going?" And I said, "West Africa." She shook her head.

Wearing a green shirt and huge, bright red shorts down to my knees, I carried the wet, disgusting pants through 3 airports before I got them clean and dry enough to wear. David called me a Christmas elf because of the colors and my legs looked so short.

So, that brings us to Sierra Leone! Back to lightning, World Cup, and red dirt roads. Slow internet, "How di bodi?" and palm trees.