Chapter Six - The Reward for Good Work

Wednesday, August 7, Freetown: It rains in bellowing torrents overnight. Not much sleep possible after 6:00, but with sky grown quiet, I am out to see what the beaches look like with the dawn.

There’s a rainbow shooting out from the clouds laying low over the Atlantic.

At the fishers’ cove is the 50-foot bright-yellow derelict pontoon hover-craft, once THE way across the channel (2009-ish), now just a museum piece, high-up, partially inflated and stranded. An older guy rustles from on board, perhaps the caretaker, and hails me over to claim he’s one of the board members of the “Clean Beaches Association.” No sorry man, don’t have any money on me (which is true). He relents.

The cove has at least 20 massive wooden fishing canoes

pointing out, now only half in the water at low tide. The chatter between the men preparing on board and the women on shore provisioning them has probably been going on for at least a couple of centuries now. The boats will go out on the receding afternoon tide and return at dawn, hopefully laden (barracuda, snapper).

As planned, Rogers, Avril, Calvin and I are out again before 9:00, First-L bound, Kabbah behind the wheel. During down moments, our two local colleagues share the local scene and their lives.

Rogers aspires to a future in mass communications. He’s from a small village near Bo, capital Southern Province. He thinks he’s around 29 but doesn’t know exactly, a casualty of the civil war (1991 – 2002), that brutal bedlam largely divided along tribal lines: on the one hand, the Mende in the south (made up the pro-government Civil

Defense Force [CDF] militia along with the Tamaboros, Hunters, Donso, Kapras, and Kamajors) and, on the other, the Temne in the north (largely made up the Revolutionary United Front [RUF] rebel forces, along with the Limba, Kuranko, Mandingo, Loko, Fula, and Yalunka).

Rogers returned to his village last week, uncle had passed. Yet he couldn’t attend the actual memorial as the local Poro secret society presided, strictly, strictly a members-only (“halemo”) affair. He explains: no invites are extended to non-initiate (“kpowa”) relatives as they are nearly certain to become hysterical witnessing what the society does to the body in ceremony. From the unspeakable mutilations and wholesale amputations common in Salone’s conflict -- oh so mildly portrayed in Blood Diamond -- one can only imagine. He adds: if a non-member was to have intruded, the society would ensure he or she joined the departed as part of the ritual. A law unto themselves.

Avril is a Freetown guy, planning a law career. He refreshes me on the main political parties, the Temne- and Limba (northern)-dominated All People’s Congress (APC) and the Mende (southern)-supported Sierra Leone People’s Party (SLPP), the latter newly in power with President Bio’s (relatively peaceful) election, March-April, 2018 (five-year term, two term max.). (His Excellency is a retired Sierra Leonean brigadier general in the Sierra Leone Army [SLA] who served for a few months as interim president during the war.)

Flush from our access to the State House yesterday, I keep telling the two of them that I will be sure to announce my APC membership when we meet with the Pres and First-L. I am not certain if their laughing assurances of my certain suicide is appreciation of humor or dread of misstep in the presence of Power.

Today, we reach even further into the nation’s education leadership, a day-long meet-and-greet fest:

We reach First-L’s compound at 8:45. The absence of any vehicles around the driveway means she’s not in as yet. We will come back later.

Then over to the MEST by 9:00. It’s a great meeting with Emily H., Deputy Minister (and thus MEST’s no. 2) and Alhaji M.K., Chief Education Officer. They are entrusted (saddled) with the meaningful training and performance standards for the 30,000 public school teachers nationally as well as the monitoring of another 57,000 in the private sector. By the close, they are Excited with the prospect of collaboration, including a possible delegation to Spanish Lake. Dep.

Minister mentions she is already familiar and intrigued with APS, having found the website. Alhaji starts a little stand-offish but warms rapidly when he learns that Jay and I met with his Liberian counterpart Dr. Duopu, MOE Deputy Minister for Instruction last week in Monrovia, apparently an opinion leader for him.

By 10:00, we are back at the State House (gatekeepers heed us, the Pres is calling again) to meet with Lans K., special advisor to the President Bio for education. The president has already acted to make education accessible, eliminating all public school fees. His aim is to enable full primary student literacy by the end of (presumed) second term, nine years off. The question is not whether the Mission aligns. Lans too is jazzed about possible collaboration. The question is capacity to meet a potential 30,000-person or even 87,000-person demand.

At 11:15, we are sitting with Kelleh G-M, Dean of Engineering and Architecture, Fourah Bay College (FBC) University of Sierra Leone. The dean laments the high incidence of illiteracy in his own school, number of dropouts and the “normal” of testing fraud (e.g., individuals paid by students to take their exams). Indeed, as we drove onto the university’s mountain top grounds, two campus police walked past taking an imposter test taker to lock-up. The dean labels this common occurrence the “syndicate mentality.” He too expresses strong interest in collaborating with APS.

Just after noon -- notwithstanding driver Kabbah’s grumbles over the narrow, steeply ascending road and, I gather, his concerns over his squealing brakes on the inevitable way down -- we reach the summit of Lester Peak, the tallest vantage in the mountains ringing Freetown and practically perched over the American embassy/fortress, already high over the city. The clouds accommodate, parting adequately for major photo op.

30 minutes later we pull up to First-L’s office compound for the fourth time in two days. She’s in and I’m able to see the downstairs receptionist again (“Amy” is the name I learn) to push the chance for a meeting in the last afternoon hours today (since we leave in the morning). And again, it’s “we will call you.”

Midafternoon now, we are back down in town-central for our time with the very articulate and widely experienced Staneala M. B., Chair of the Teaching Service Commission Sierra Leone. The Pres and MEST Minister have assigned her the task of training every teacher in the country to competence. It happens that the Lans K., president’s special advisor, had come by here after our meeting with him, singing our praises. Staneala too is pumped at the collaboration

prospect.

At 6:00, with Jay now back among us, we start a rousing three-hour meeting with Rogers, Avril and five of their colleagues.

All of these guys were part of our Freetown Youth for Human Rights teams in 2007-2009. They have always been special, tons of initiative. Now a decade gone, one’s a mom and social worker, three are journalists (one of them owns and edits a local paper), two are working to become lawyers, and another (Patrick N.) owns and runs the 150 pupil Delbert International School nearby in Wellington.

Jay acknowledges their progress but challenges them hard to cut out the passive and step up their games by 20x. They declare ready to work with us on campaigning for higher educational standards, a core team on the ground.

As we are confab’ing with these seven, Kenya Air emails that our “KQ 504” flight back to Monrovia will be five hours delayed tomorrow, departing 8:30 in the evening instead of 3:30. Groovy, that means another chance in the morning to attempt to charm my/our way in to see the First-L.

Thursday, August 8, still in Freetown: Last day in Sierra Leone, I start out early again (6:30) toward the beaches. A “ poimoi” (“white man” in Mende) standing over a tripod overlooking the fishers’ cove cannot help but draw some company. A security guard stationed nearby comes over and hangs for a good 15 minutes. He travels over an hour to-and-from work, makes something like $100/month and sends almost half of that to his mom in the provinces. A reality bender. How is that possible?

I stop at another vista for a time-lapse shot on the way back to Family Kingdom, this time attracting Dwight, another older guy claiming he is a board member of the Beach Clean-Up Committee, the chairman in fact. One ponders who around here is not on that committee. Dwight is better at PR than yesterday’s hover craft caretaker dude, assuring me that he’s not looking for a donation. Yet, he also wants to show me the back of his leg and the mangled, puss-infested, witch doctor-directed dog bite suffered up-country that hasn’t healed for months. Impressive looking injury man. Dwight asserts he’s a freelance video guy with his own TV station and is ready to make documentary on the Mission. While Thus, the call-back shoe shifts to other foot. Dwight, my brother, got your number man.

With our extra time today, Delbert International School proprietor Patrick will drive Calvin and me out to Wellington to tour the place. We go by way of (how else?) First-L office compound. I appear again

before receptionist Amy, third day running. Apparently now tired of seeing my face, she guides me upstairs to the office of First Lady’s personal assistant Phylis K. She is solicitous, very receptive, supplies her mobile and email for follow-up, but First-L is going to be fully engaged today. Cool, we will provide new letter meeting request for Jay’s return to Freetown in two weeks.

Patrick drives us over the Lester Peak mountain pass in driving rain and then around traffic paralysis to reach his school by late morning. He has taken on Delbert International from the founder, his grandmother. Patrick is huge on the dream while current facilities are modest (an understatement). They are educating about 150 kids, up to secondary level, in a window glass-less, natural light-only two-story building, C-shaped around a courtyard.

It’s summer and between school years, so only about 20 kids are

around, none older than eight, sitting on benches in the various classrooms, reciting the lessons off respective blackboards while rain again hammers the tin rooves above. Patrick’s wife, with a 12-month old daughter wrapped around her neck is finance. The teachers are five in number, including Patrick g-ma, all but one of them seeming to be blind in one eye (coincidence?). Patrick is ready and uber-willing to train – and have all teachers train – on Study Tech. Plan: Jay will deliver in two weeks on his Freetown return.

When we are at last on the road back toward town, there’s about 90 minutes left to catch the airport boat at Aberdeen. That’s going to be a challenge as the main road is frozen in that direction. Yet, Patrick has a plan, what might be akin to taking “city streets in lieu of freeway” but in this case is taking a seemingly impossible zig-zig through blind alleys, all only wide enough to accommodate one car, one direction. Patrick is either a magician or crazy-lucky because this all works with no standoffs with opposing cars for at least five miles and until we almost to the home stretch.

Yet, while oh-so-close to making the sea channel transit on time, here we are at dead stop face-to-face with a cab and a bus on an upward rock and dirt track only wide enough for us or them. Now previously

cool-calm-collected Patrick, as we say in Liberia, “puts his jeans on,” i.e., goes in full throated Creole-expletive attack on these morons opposing us. Turns out this alley is designated one-way in our direction (small paper stating “exit only” glued to a wall up there at the turn-in). With Calvin and I viewing the drama from the comfort of our seats, Patrick has apparently convinced them. Still, at least another ten minutes tick by while the nitwits must delicately back away to resolve the impasse.

We are on our way again, back on paved streets, making good time. We pass a billboard for a regional financial institution depicting a young man deep in thought, gazing into the distance with his fist over his chin, and the message: LET YOUR BANK DO THE THINKING FOR YOU. Tempting, but ultimately not recommended.

All is well. We pull into the shuttle boat terminal at 3:30, half-hour

early. Jay joins us from the other direction and we are boarding SeaCoach, Lungi-bound. As I’m about to set foot on the vessel, I hear my name behind. It’s Captain John, not commanding today but wishing us safe journey. That was nice of him. He probably doesn’t meet cray-cray admirers of his sea skills like me every day.

The water and weather over to Lungi are sublime, with diamond sunlight on the waves to port and the boat seeming to proceed more over the channel than in it. The time here has been amazing, foundation established for national teacher training in Study Tech.

Which brings to mind another truism of our 14-plus years of efforts in the region: the reward for good work? More work

Flight arrival back in Liberia is through the sparkling 21st Century terminal. Times are changing in West Africa, literally by the day.