Lumley Beach, billed as Freetown’s party playground, is the backdrop to Beach Road, which is flanked by a string of bars, restaurants, and hotels.
The beach itself has a tideline of trash on the sand, washed up from the sea. There’s a lot of trash in Freetown. It’s as bad as I’ve ever seen. The first Saturday of each month is designated as a clean-up day. Residents hit the streets and remove the household waste that clogs the drains. It’ll take a long, concerted effort to clean up the city.
Farther out of town, the next beach along the coast is Lakka Beach. Tempted by the thoughts of fresh lobster for our NYE dinner, we headed out to the infamous restaurant, Paul’s.
The traffic was horrendous. KKs and motorbikes vied with top-of-the-range jeeps and trucks for their place in the race to an ever-moving finish line. The roads were lined with stalls selling everything from ‘cables that won’t catch fire’ to fresh coconuts and boiled trotters.
As I looked out of my window, the world looked in at me.
Some were surprised to see a grey-haired middle-aged white woman and showed it. Others smiled and waved. And some made the universal pinched-fingers-to-mouth sign asking for money for food.
During the 11-year civil war, the city was where people from the provinces came to find refuge. When the war ended, many chose to stay. The city couldn’t handle the numbers either in terms of infrastructure or jobs. The slums expanded and now house more than 60% of the population. Many live on a foundation of compacted trash. But it wasn’t always this way.
That I was being driven to a lobster lunch wasn’t lost on me.
I wanted to take photos of the trash-filled river we drove across but I didn’t. I felt that doing so would be intrusive and that sharing them with you would be wrong.
We turned off the main road and onto one of the many red dirt roads leading to the beach. On either side of us, small communities went about their business. We passed a church and a school and another school in the making. A funeral parlour, a bar, and a place to rent chairs. This somehow made more sense now as we’d seen trucks laden with random chairs moving around the city as we’d driven out. There’s good business in renting chairs.
We passed a long, gated compound with murals on the wall depicting what the RCRC prohibits and permits for children.
The Ravera Children Rehabilitation Centre (RCRC) was founded in 2009 after three years of cooperation between an Italian missionary priest Fr Bepi Berton and an Italian doctor Robert Ravera. Fr Bepi had been in Sierra Leone for 40 years when he invited Dr Ravera over to work with ex-combatants, all children. The centre we passed is the programme’s first residential therapeutic community, built in 2009.
What comes to mind when you think of Sierra Leone?
Blood diamonds? Child soldiers? Ebola?
They come to my mind, too, but not initially. One of my very good friends grew up in Freetown. She is one of the most intelligent, most beautiful people I know. When I think of Sierra Leone, I first think of her. Everything else comes after.
You could say that I was predisposed to like the place. And I do. Immensely. But I’m still finding my feet, still trying to figure out how to deal with the very, very obvious divide.
And the expectations.
I didn’t, for example, expect to rock up to a beach bar in Lakka and see an extensive cocktail menu that could hold its place in any European cocktail bar. The Mama Salone, the young lady told us, is a cocktail an Italian bartender at Gigibonta showed her sister how to make. Her Caipirinha was excellent, too.
We both went for the lobster, memories of a lobster dinner in Cuba tickling our gustatory buds. Not usually a mad fan of rice, the rice here, much like the rice in Tanzania, is delicious. I’m already setting aside space in my luggage to bring some back.
Afterwards, we walked the beach and watched the fishermen setting out. Lakka is primarily a fishing town, depending on fish and tourism for its livelihood. It’s still the holiday season and prices are generally inflated. Many Sierra Leoneans are home from the USA, the UK, and other European countries. They bring money with them and a different view of value. Their tourist dollars, pounds, and euro are welcomed.
I haven’t yet seen many who are paler than I am, other than those I’ve met who are part of the city’s expat community. Those I have seen I saw on Beach Road, outside the more upmarket hotels.
We’d been driven out but were taking a KK back. Rather than have the lovely Abdul come to us, we walked through the Island Resort with its private chalets. slowly up to the main road, passed a dirt football pitch, a bar showing Champions League football, a hairdresser braiding a woman’s hair, and a child using a washboard to do laundry.
Smiles all around.
The drive back, this time in a KK, seemed longer, more hectic. The exhaust fumes were terrible. I saw one billboard urging people who have been coughing for more than two weeks to get checked for TB. I wondered at the health of the KK drivers’ lungs.
There is so much to learn. I was reminded from a line from a Jake Needham novel where Inspector Sam Tay says something like travel makes you appreciate how good you have it at home.
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