Chapter Four - Sweet Salone and the Art of Human Transport

Monday, August 5: It’s a travel day, Kenya Air, 3:10 p.m., going one country up the coast, to Freetown, Sierra Leone (“Sweet Salone”).

The day begins with a stark note that it’s indeed time to leave town: not just no hot water at the exclusive RLJ Kendeja Resort and Hotel, no water period man. OK, it will be like camping today.

We are in wrap-up mode this morning at Save … Liberia, meaning Jay is in virtual lock-down in his office, one line manager after another filing in, filing out. Calvin joins us mid-morning, assigned to take our decrepit U.S. dollars – wraith-thin from decades of passage in Liberia – and obtain crisper, newer bills acceptable in Salone.

We make it interesting by leaving a bit late from Sinkor (district of Monrovia) for Roberts Field (“ROB” in your international guide) with report of the rains having flooded the road in-between. Yes, six inches of water are over the highway about a mile out from the terminal, but pretty wimpy for our four-wheel drive White Wonder.

We arrive at ROB to find continuing use of the old one-story, WW II-vintage terminal,the brand new shiny 21st Century one sitting pretty and unused next door, still in debug-mode.

We settle in our coach seats, Kenya Air (KQ) flight 503. Providence again smiles. Calvin looks out the window to see Liberian Vice President Jewel Howard-Taylor pull up with her two security people, last passengers on-board . Monrovia is “small-world” in action, everybody knows everybody (I am pretty sure). Cal’s line to the VP is family, she is the godmother to his brother.

When Madam Howard-Taylor sits business class, just a few rows ahead of us humble folk back in coach, Calvin sidles up for a brief audience. She’s on her way to Accra and, yes, would be happy to speak with us for a few minutes when we get off at the first stop in Freetown.

So, the “we’re going to meet with the VP” postulate attached to the letter I wrote her last Friday … sticks. Great, cool, amazing (or perhaps a yawn, routine?).

We come down to Lungi Field to a driving rain, first try, no problem. It wasn’t always like this.

July, 2008: flew from Monrovia to Freetown with Jay, daughter Jenna, three-member film crew and the incomparable colleague Sammy Jacobs Abbey. We were on Elysian Airlines out of Nigeria, tiny puddle-jump prop plane. We, unfortunately, did not check the dictionary before that flight. “Elysian Fields: also called Elysium, is the final resting place of the souls of the heroic and the virtuous in Greek mythology and religion.” Source: Wikipedia. We might have been virtuous and all that in 2008, but there was (still is) too much to do to contemplate any final resting place.

Yet, here we trusting souls were, on board Elysian, approaching Lungi buffeting in zero visibility, the crew helpfully keeping the cockpit door open for us to behold the co-pilot reading the newspaper while the “stall alarm” blared. Apparently missing the runway twice (which we did) was a day at the office for these untroubled aviators. They found the pavement on the third pass. No shame in kissing the ground.

So, therefore enabled to take part in Humanity, Version.2019, we are now sound on the ground today after an appreciated instrument landing.

Waiting for all fellow Salone-bound peeps to get off the plane, we have a very encouraging exchange with Madam Liberian VP before we disembark. She is on her way to Ghana for an international commemoration of those taken as slaves in the 350+ years of the Middle Passage, back home by Sunday. Her Excellency recognizes me from our 2017 meet-up in her Senate offices. We brief her on our actions in the interim, including meeting with Education Minister Sonii on Friday. She will look over the material we delivered to her office last week and wants us to include Bong County (her home region) in our expansion. Jay and Calvin will follow-up.

Sierra Leonean immigration and customs are a relative breeze – relative to a decade ago – and we immerge from the Lungi terminal into the chaotic competition of the money changers and boat arrangers. Both functions are needed as: a) we will need Sierra Leonean cash to get around, 9,000 “leones” to a U.S. dollar (yes, that’s Le 900,000 for $100 U.S.); and b) one must cross a bridge-less five mile-wide, tide-intensive channel to actually hit the city.

So, in a steady driving rain, it’s from bus to shoreside wharf terminal. The weather is roaring on the tin roof. Nowadays, the boat is met at the end of a 100-yard pier, covered most of the way from the shore, plastic trash a foot thick on the embankment, now low tide with five-six kids on the rocks down below, all no more than seven-years-old, soaked to the bone and hawking for donations.

Back in, say, 2008, there was no pier, just shore. Back in 2008, we reached the so-called speedboat for the transit courtesy nice, young, highly muscled young man or men, depending on your girth. Jay and I only required one such dude to pick us up and, cradled baby style, to be carried through the low waves and dumped in the vessel. The more expansive Sammy and newly elected Mayor of Freetown at the time, the Hon. Herbert George Williams, the latter dressed in three-piece suit, each required two of these guys to skim the surf.

Meanwhile, back in August, 2019, we are now inside the Sea Coach

“boat/bus,” some 50 travelers (49 Africans and one me) huddled in the fully enclosed cabin at facing seats with tables in-between, powered by four 250 horsepower engines, the Africans asking each other stuff like “how come they haven’t passed out the life jackets?” and “Why aren’t we wearing life preservers for this journey?” Jackets are actually under the seats, people. What is with you people, afraid of some sort of disaster? Know something I don’t know?

As soon as we are at full speed, the one white guy aboard gets up (that would be me) and starts toward the stern with his iPhone, the floor bucking around at roughly 7.0 on the Richter Scale. The man asks the crew member at the back hatch (door) if he, the passenger, might be permitted onto the rear deck for a looksee. It’s DYNAMIC out there, boat pitching and rolling, four engines screaming, Lungi disappearing back into the mists of Africa.

After a few shots, the white dude has had enough of that so he tiptoes up the unsympathetic aisle to the bridge, gaining immediate permission from Captain John to come up. When I’m in and braced behind him, Cap comments dryly that I’m welcome forward, but not really out the back as he doesn’t have a rear view mirror if I had tumbled headlong overboard. Whoops, apologies.

I proceed to ride the whole way behind the captain, rolling, dropping and plowing across at a nice 15-20 knots. He’s expertly handling the incoming tide, cross currents and wind. With a full color GPS showing his course, Cap. J’s only too happy to describe his seaward passion, going for his master mariner’s certificate, all vessels, all oceans.

Over the din and the rock-and-roll counterbalancing, I am recalling to Captain John one particular passage of this channel, in 2008. The boat was open, dinky, two outboards, after dark, moon out, fortunately not too rough. Suddenly, no power, mid-transit, two-plus miles from any shore. All-quiet. Tide gently taking out to sea if memory serves.

This might be a nice interlude for the guy from America, but not necessarily for Jay, the Liberian, not in love with the wide ocean after his horrendous mid-90s escape on the tramp steamer Bulk Challenge from Monrovia’s harbor with rebel forces advancing and then stranded at sea for weeks, at times with no power, taking on water, and no neighboring country willing to take them, with a thousand other refugees.

Fast forward to 12 years later – boat power out 2008 midchannel over to Freetown -- it was the ubiquitous plastic waste that had fouled

both propellers. Then, the driver had simply stripped and dived overboard, unwrapping the props and, back on board, we were on our way in minutes.

… and now, today, 2019, another ten years hence, as I was reminiscing all this to Cap. John, a loud alarm sounds. Two of four engines fouled he announces unconcerned, trash around the props. He backs off power, crew clears the plastic and on we go again full-throttle.

Cap brings us in smoothly at Aberdeen, in the shadow of the bridge over to town. According to Jay, the prevailing cabin comment in transit was something like “only a crazy white guy would stand up there with the crew during our white-knuckle, near-death experience just passed.”

Now on solid ground, we are once again in the midst of the potential slaughter of minnow passengers swept toward the jaws of land sharks swooping in to offer local monies and transportation in no language I could possibly understand. But hey man, got Jay here man, secret weapon, cutting through the throng to suitable vehicles.

Here we meet driver Kabbah who, it turns out, we will hire for the next two days at $50 per to take us wherever. “Family Kingdom” is our hotel, at the beaches, the Atlantic across the road in front (westward) and the fishers’ cove, across another street to the north.

This whole coast area is hotels, casinos and food joints, Westerner-heavy-party-vortex (name your level of fun/”fun,” it’s all here) in the December holiday, dry-season time. But, of course, this is the rainy time, so it’s readily available spacious kitchenette suites, one each to Jay, Calvin and me, $115/nightly (that’s about Le 10,000,000.00, impressive), good internet, towels and, God is Great, running water. At this point, any temperature will be fine.

Mohamed Avril Karoma meets us at the hotel. He is from our Youth for Human Rights days, one of the hard- core members of our African Human Rights Leadership Campaign. Over the next three days, Avril along with “colleague” (very common word around here) Brahim Rogers will host us, of course conversant in the English they call Creole as well as in customs, directions and judgment on security.

“Hard-core” fits these guys and their 2007-09 teammates with whom we will be meeting Wednesday night. It’s been a full ten years since any intensive work with them, yet they have maintained communication and interest with us and fulfill the first prerequisite to accomplishing anything meaningful: show-up.