About 60% of Sierra Leone’s 10 million or so people are under the age of 25. That’s young. Very young. Only about 2.5% are over 65. Life expectancy for men is about 58 and for women, 61. I’m not quite sure what to make of those figures, because a walk through the cemetery shows people living to a fine old age.
The name “Sierra Leone” dates back to 1462, when Portuguese explorer Pedro da Cintra, sailing down the West African coast, saw the tall mountains rising up on what is now the Freetown Peninsula and called them the “Lion Mountains,” or ” Serra Lyoa .” Successive visits by English sailors and later British colonization modified the name to “Sierra Leone.
Freetown was populated in waves first in 1787 by London’s Black Poor (~380), emancipated black slaves working for London’s elite (they lasted just over 2 years). Then, in 1792, by nearly 1,200 Black Loyalists who had fought with the British Army during the American Revolution. When Nova Scotia, Canada, didn’t work out as planned, they came to settle in Freetown. In 1800, a third group of freed slaves arrived from Jamaica – the Maroons. The last group, by far the biggest, comprised more than 85,000 African slaves rescued by the British Navy’s anti-slavery patrols when Britain abolished slavery in 1808.
In downtown Freetown is what’s left of the Old Cotton Tree – a mammoth landmark felled by storms in 2023. It was under this tree that freed slaves from the UK and the USA gathered to pray in thanks.
Other places of key importance are marked with plaques, like the steps that the freed slaves climbed after they came ashore.
And the gate to King’s Yard, where returnees were quarantined on arrival. The latter is now part of the massive Connaught Hospital, the oldest and biggest hospital in the country. It dates to 1912 when Prince Arthur, the Duke of Connaught gave it his name.
Close to the Cotton Tree is St John’s Maroon Church, one of the oldest churches in the country. The Maroons were the third wave of freed slaves to arrive. They came from Jamaica and settled in this part of town, Maroon Town.
There they met the earlier settlers, the Nova Scotians, who had already been acculturated. It was these who began to transform the wild and aggressive Maroons into a literate Christian community. It was not an easy task, as the relations between the genteel Nova Scotians and the intemperate and bellicose Maroons were not always harmonious. Nevertheless, a good many of the latter were christianised, and in a few years a small group of God fearing Maroons had emerged, led by Charles Shaw Harding.
It was this group that seceded from the Churches of Nova Scotians, allegedly repelled by these early Christians’ pretentious arrogance, to found the Maroon Church which was erected in 1822. Reportedly some of the most accomplished stone masons and metal workers ever to return to Black Africa, they stamped these credentials on the structure of their church, hence its unique architecture.
It is a lovely spot. Like so many churches the world over, it was locked. But a kindhearted soul who has been with the church since he was 7 (he’s now 65) opened it up and showed us around. He pointed out where Rev. William Rowland Peck is buried under the tiles in the top right corner.
It turns out though that this is not the gravesite – it’s headstone, rescued by Christopher Fyfe in 1956.
Two years ago I found lying on the ground a handsome black slab engraved to the memory of the Reverend William Peck, a young Methodist missionary who died here in 1829. By kind consent of the Mayor, it has now been moved to a safer place inside St. John’s Maroon Church, Westmoreland Street. Only this
single stone has survived in the burial ground to commemorate the Methodist missionaries, although William Fox’s account of the Mission describes how Peck was laid to rest beside several other deceased colleagues in the shade of “a large African plum tree”.
He tried to lift the heavy mahogany pews. He proudly noted that the roof has never been changed. And that the church’s two bells are originals.
St George’s Cathedral, completed in 1828, is the baby of the colonial governors and today the seat of the Anglican diocese in Freetown. Plush is the word that came to mind when we entered. The plaques on the walls make for interesting reading, a walk through history and those remembered. If you have a half-hour and are looking for respite from the heat and the noise, it’s the place to come to. As we’ve found everywhere we’ve been, people are friendly and helpful. We were directed to the visitors’ book, not realising that we were signing pages after the late Queen of the United Kingdom had left her mark. My mother would have loved that.
By contrast, the Catholic Cathedral of the Sacred Heart showed none of St George’s restraint. It’s like no other Catholic Cathedral I’ve seen. There’s nothing ornate about it. It has a lived-in, much-used, much-loved feel to it. The Christmas decorations were still up – my mother would have baulked at that. The stained glass windows depicting various saints all had a lengthy inscription on the lower pane telling us about the saint, what they represented, and how they’re usually depicted.
Strongly associated with the Sisters of St Joseph of Cluny, there are a couple of plaques remembering nuns who’d spent time in Sierra Leone.
It was 1823 when Anne Marie Javouhey stepped ashore in Freetown. She was the first European woman to set foot on Sierra Leone soil and she soon came to love both the country and the people. She was there for some weeks during which her desire to have a community established in Sierra Leone grew. It was then that the ‘seeds’ of the foundation were planted, however, it was another 43 years before the foundation came to be. In fact, Anne-Marie died 15 years prior to the foundation.
In October of 1866, the first group of Cluny Sisters came ashore in Freetown.
Some of the Irish nuns have been recognised for the work they’ve done in the country. Nuns like Sr Teresa McKeon, Sr Mary Sweeney, and Sr Hilary Lyons.
As we wandered around town, we caught the occasional remnant of British life. But it was up in Hill Station that it really came into play.
On an escarpment, 250m above the city of Freetown, is the small settlement of Hill Station. This was an exclusive resort built for the British colonial administrators and staff between 1902 and 1904. Modelled on the Indian hill stations (such as Simla) and the sanatorium at Aburi, Ghana, it aimed to provide cooler, more healthier abodes for the Colonists. Ronald Ross’s recent discoveries on mosquitoes and malaria also prompted the move away from the city, and the increasing desire for racially segregated housing and cordon sanitaires.
It was curious to see the houses built on iron stilts. Apparently, this was to keep the snakes and other critters away and was also tied to the desire to breathe cleaner air and get away from the mozzies.
The houses are quite spectacular, if fairly dilapidated. It’s here that the President lives. On our way up, he was coming down. A convoy of 12 big black range rovers topped and tailed with two motor cycles and an ambulance. This is normal – him going to the office. The car windows were blacked out so it was a matter of guessing which car he was in.
We had a peek inside the British Club. It didn’t take much imagination to picture the ladies sipping cocktails on the terrace as they looked over the city while the men bellied up to the bar inside.
The dated opulence of Hill Station stands in stark contrast to the city’s slums. I can’t get my head around what happens here during rainy season when it can rain for 14 hours a day. The water has to flow downhill which means that the coastal slums like Kroo Bay are in danger of being washed away. Thousands are affected each year. How ever bad the conditions are in the dry season, when the rains come it has to be horrendous.
I wasn’t comfortable driving through Kroo Bay slum. I think that kind of voyeuristic tourism stinks. And yet sometimes it provides much-needed income for the residents. We did stop to have a look at the King Jimmy market and had I not recently embraced the concept of döstädning I’d have been down there in a heartbeat.
When it all gets too noisy, those in the know head to Tacugama, the chimpanzee sanctuary. Considering how close we are in make-up to the chimpanzee, we’re doing a pretty good job of getting rid of them. Hunting is a serious issue here – not surprising given that so many live below the poverty line and food is food is food.
Tacugama rescues chimps whose owners have belatedly realised that even the cutest baby pet can sometimes grow into a strong, aggressive adult. They also take in chimps who have been injured or orphaned. Word has gotten out and some chimps arrive of their own accord.
It’s pretty clear that everyone working here is a fan. A big fan. They know their chimps by name, by personality, by attitude. They can tell their moods and anticipate the stone hurling, when it comes.
I’ve some stuff going around in my head about all this so I may well come back to it in a separate post. In the meantime, here are things to keep in mind the next time you run into a chimpanzee.
No visit to Freetown would be complete without a visit to the Peace Museum. The installations chronicle the Civil War that raged from 1991 to 2002. Hollywood has protrayed the conflict and others like it so the reality of Child Soldiers was not new to me. That didn’t make it any less shocking though.
If I write about my experience (my head is still wrecked from all I read and saw) it’ll be as part of my Grateful Series over on Unpacking. [I did – I wrote about it.]
In the meantime, we’re getting ready to head up country. To the mountains. To the quiet.
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