Sierra Leone 2019 - 2020

SLARI was a long-established Government Para-statal staffed by highly qualified agricultural specialists but suffering from corrupt practices and uncoordinated management. A large European Union Grant was not delivering the expected results and VSO was asked to supply three volunteers to support the project. My role was to help SLARI to develop its project management skills and systems and to support relationships with the donors. The placement required a great deal of diplomacy and patient building of trust. It mostly involved working in the headquarters in Freetown and just before the end of my stay I toured four rural research centres with the SLARI Monitoring Officer to provide a report and make recommendations. Before my work could deliver many tangible results COVID led to the repatriation of volunteers after five months of my one-year placement. I was telephoned at 14.30 in my office in Freetown and told that I was booked on the 18.00 plane. A one-hour minibus trip followed by a hurried packing of belongings marked the end of my VSO career.  

Paul Hague explains.

Life Must Go On  

In the developing world people are endlessly resourceful in the daily task of keeping the family housed and fed. In Freetown I lived in ex-pat comfort a short distance from the churning swirl of Lumley Market and its busy streets of sell-everything stores. Closer to me on the dirt road around the back of the block were a small collection of make-shift shack stalls selling mainly fresh fruit and veg. One such was owned and run mostly everyday by a big lady, I guess in her forties, with an undefined number of children. She would go to the distant larger markets a few times a week to purchase produce and would bring it back to her stall to sell to the local area. I was one of her regular customers.  

We would exchange news of daily concerns as I passed by, and we became familiar enough for me to enquire after her family. One day as I passed, I saw that she was not her usual ebullient self. She was listless and unsmiling.   

“Are you not feeling well?” I enquired.  

“I have malaria”  

“You don't look well, maybe it would be good to get help from the hospital”. She nodded.  

A couple of days later I noticed that the stall was closed up. I was concerned that she was worse than I suspected.  

The day after as I came past again her teenage son was serving at the stall and I began to select my fruit and veg. I asked how much the pineapples were and he told me that he would find out, disappearing behind the stall into the interior of the shack. Eventually, I came to pay and offered him the cash.  

“You must give it to my mother”  

I looked around, puzzled. There was no one else there. Then I noticed a plastic bottle containing yellow fluid suspended from the rafters on string. From the bottle there was a clear plastic tube leading down towards the floor. As I followed its line a hand emerged from under the table into which I put the cash. It emerged again a minute later with the change. I realised that this lady had come back from hospital before her treatment was complete because she needed to keep earning money. She was lying under the table covered with produce with a drip attached to her hand. I wished her well as I left, as usual, humbled by the dogged uncomplaining resilience I had witnessed.  

A few days later I passed again, and the mother was completely restored to health. I asked how she was feeling. She said she was fine and waved away my concern.  

The Soldiers of Today  

My experience of soldiery in Sierra Leone was shallow but not generally positive. I came across them on three occasions.  

Sierra Leone culture is naturally disputational. It not unusual to see people in aggressive argument without it descending into physical violence. As a startled European at the start, people would put you at ease by explaining  

“That's how we Salones are, it doesn't mean anything.”  

It also didn't mean that people were not friendly and generous. One day I went to the Congo Market a long way from home and got caught in a torrential downpour. I stood under the high roof of the covered market waiting for the huge cloud to pass over. A market woman came up to me with a plastic chair and insisted that I sit down. After 15 minutes or so the rain stopped I looked round for her to say thank you but could not see her. I put the chair to the side and set off. I had gone for about 200 metres when I was hit by another storm in the form of the market lady who had chased after me to give me hell for not appreciating her thoughtfulness. After a dressing down in a very loud voice with people gathering, I explained that I had searched for her and was very appreciative of her kindness. Having received my apology and thanks she was calm again and we parted friends.  

Not so with the soldiery.  

My first encounter was a brief one. I sat behind a man in uniform in the mini-bus as we crossed across town. Traffic in Freetown moves slowly and is frequently held up in traffic jams. There are also swarms of boys on small motor bikes who weave in and out of traffic with passengers keen to get to work quickly. Then there are tuk-tuks imported from Asia in great quantity. As our mini-bus slowed to a halt at a road junction, a tuk-tuk weaved in front of the bus to claim a space – a normal occurrence. The soldier, who had sat quietly up until now, threw open the door, marched to the tuk-tuk and punched the driver in the face. He then walked back to the bus and sat back in his seat without comment. The tuk-tuk driver made no fuss and drove on when the jam cleared.  

The second incident occurred when a truck carrying soldiers moved across the road forcing a bike boy to swerve and almost crash. He drove alongside and shouted at the driver. When they stopped the soldiers jumped from the back and gave the boy a severe beating.  

Finally, I was in a mini bus going to see friends at Congo Cross for lunch on a Sunday. The mini bus pulled to a stop and I stepped down from the double seat next to the driver. Barring my way was a stereotypical African Army soldier. Tall, solidly built, in full fatigues, with shades and carrying an assault weapon. I looked at him and started to move around him.  

“You go inside” he said loudly and aggressively.  

I began to explain that I wanted to go along the street, but he was in full bully mode.  

“You go inside” he said even more aggressively.  

At this point I thought that there must be some sort of problem in the area which meant that no one was allowed to enter. As I turned to get back on the bus a passenger spoke up and explained in Creole that I wanted to get off. He waved me away, now satisfied that he could have the seat by window without opposition or threat to his status.   

It all left me with a feeling that being in the army, or maybe some sections of it, gave people a sense of power that most of us do not experience directly in Western Europe.   

Just to give balance, on another occasion I decided to walk home from work (about a 90 min. walk). As I approached my home area there is a barracks which forbids the public to walk in front of it. This requires you to cross to the other side. As I walked on I passed a soldier sitting on the side of the pavement.   

“Hey” he shouted after me. I turned and he waived me over.  

“I have seen you running on the beach.”  

“Yes, I like to go running but I don't go very fast these days.”  

“No but you run very strongly, I like to see that”.  

We chatted for a while and agreed to look out for each other on future runs. He could not have been more friendly and respectful. Beach runs are a weekend social event that look like the London Marathon in the early morning. Large numbers of young men and women join in along with a few old ex-pats.  

The War Goes On  

Most people in the UK were aware of the civil war that broke out in Sierra Leone in the 1990s. The terrible conflict between competing political militias led to the most terrible atrocities and the forcing of children to fight as soldiers. One of my academic work colleagues told me how at the age of 10 she had had to flee suddenly one night with her politician father as their car was torched outside the house. They spent a long time in Guinea to preserve their safety. The war, now 20 years behind behind, was an unspoken part of the presence.  

It was the day before New Year and I asked some of the younger work colleagues how they intended to celebrate. Most had nothing special planned but one told me that he would probably go to the national football stadium in town. He was excited at the mix of stalls and DJs that would line the concourse around the stadium.  

I decided to have a look with half an idea that I might go the next day, so I walked the half hour walk to the stadium on my way home in the late afternoon. When I arrived, I saw that approaching the stadium was not a straightforward process. It involved a mazy route through narrow entrances to the area around the stadium. As I was carrying my work computer in my backpack, I cautiously wound my way round to the narrow opening in a wall that led to the stadium concourse. There were the usual collections of open air and enclosed stalls chaotically spread around the area. There was not much business. I decided to go in.  

As I went into the concourse a young man somewhere in his late twenties, I guessed, approached me in a cheery way. He was tall and lean and was carrying a beaker of beer, although I judged him not to be drunk. He immediately struck me as having an odd manner, being over-friendly and yet slightly distant. I was on alert. We spoke at the entrance. He was curious about why I was there; I explained that I had heard about the New Year Celebrations and wanted to see it. He enthusiastically explained what would happen and insisted that he show me around. I decided that it would be easier to go along with him than to try to get rid of him. All of the time he carried his cup without ever finishing it or trying to get me to buy him more. The tour went well and we went into the stadium itself through a lightly guarded entrance.  

Eventually, I thanked him and said that I should leave for home.   

“Where are living?  

“Lumley”  

“I will walk with you to the taxi place”  

There was no escape and we walked along the dirt track that led more than 300 metres to the main road. As we walked he talked about the Youth Building that he attended at the end of the track. He told that all of the local young people of the area gathered there and that it was one of the notorious areas of the city. At that point he hailed another young man, probably in his early twenties who was of medium height, well built with dreadlocks. Thomas and I sat together on a wall while he talked of the dangers associated with the area and how I was lucky that he had accompanied me.  

“If I had not been with you you would not have walked out here with your bag” he said matter of factly without threat or boastfulness. Thomas talked in a more settled manner and was very receptive to conversation. After a short while I again reminded them of my need to get home and Solitaire cheerfully accompanied me onwards. By now he was telling me that he had been a child soldier during the civil war and his slightly detached manner gave credence to his story. I decided that it would not be sensible to enter his history with him, especially as he asked me several times if I had ever been a soldier, this time with more intensity in the question and greater interrogation of my answers.   

As we walked along the main road to the bus stop he talked of how the road had been blocked off with barricades in his time as a soldier. We approached a path at the side of the road that rose several metres above the road. It was a risky place with a sheer 10 metre drop to the road. Easy to push someone off. I went up with him ready to move quickly, if necessary, but remaining in calm conversation. It turned out that he wanted me to see where he lived from the high path. We descended on the other side, and he courteously bade me farewell as I stepped into a bus.   

I didn't go back the next night as it felt too much of a risk after my experience with Solitaire . I never knew how much of his story was true and what the cause of his disturbed state was, but it did make me aware that there must be many child soldiers, now part of adult life but carrying a huge burden of pain with them. I was glad that I had spent some time with him.  

De-Colonialising Aid  

The international aid industry has rightly been accused of imposing Western models and values in developing countries. The current trend is to decrease the role of us Western ‘do-gooders' and to increase support and use of indigenous country volunteers.  

In Sierra Leone there was an admirable employment of local young people both as volunteers with expense allowances and young managers of projects. This worked well on clear and supported projects.  

The limits were exposed one day on a project to support victims of a land slip that had killed dozens of people on the steep hills surrounding Freetown, when soaked earth ploughed through villages. The project was to help victims to re-establish their lives. The inexperienced workers decided that cash hand-outs was the most effective way to help and turned up in a village. A young mother was given cash. Before they could continue the good work a crowd of angry people began to gather determined that they also should be given money. The young workers were forced to flee before the situation became dangerous.  

Just being indigenous is not a guarantee of experience and understanding. When I visited Lesotho a business that aided education for local children had long realised that individual school fee payments had aroused jealousy, so instead supported schools for the whole community. Our young Sierra Leone workers should have had this basic cultural knowledge but didn't. Good ideas without sufficient support and understanding can do more harm than good.  

Unusual Practices  

VSO thought that they had done a smart deal when they rented a large new three flat building in Lumley, a market area of Freetown. The Country Director shared her flat with a Ugandan woman and I shared with Abraham, my Indian Finance colleague at SLARI. Upstairs was a young aid worker.  

We shared a pleasant few months of water and electricity cuts, a loud all night partying festival and lots of runs along the sandy beaches nearby. The market was close by and colourful and the bus station with 50-meter queues for an hour ride on a minibus to work just five minutes' walk away.  

I had the pleasure of one day meeting with the landlord. He was a gentle, educated man who worked for the UN in central Africa. We chatted amiably, swapping tales and parted company with good feelings towards each other.  

Some weeks later I spent a quiet evening in my flat blissfully unaware of a drama taking place around me. When I went down to see the Country Director she asked if I had been bothered. She had received demanding letters from the landlord wanting more money for the contract. This had been followed by an unannounced visit by some aggressive men. She had locked herself in and hidden under a table. I had seen nothing.  

It seemed that our gentle landlord had let an unscrupulous relative take over management of the property, and he saw the chance of more money. Instead, after an exchange of letters he lost his stable tenants.  

Finale

SLARI was a long-established Government Para-statal staffed by highly qualified agricultural specialists but suffering from corrupt practices and uncoordinated management. A large European Union Grant was not delivering the expected results and VSO was asked to supply three volunteers to support the project. My role was to help SLARI to develop its project management skills and systems and to support relationships with the donors. The placement required a great deal of diplomacy and patient building of trust. It mostly involved working in the headquarters in Freetown and just before the end of my stay I toured four rural research centres with the SLARI Monitoring Officer to provide a report and make recommendations. Before my work could deliver many tangible results COVID led to the repatriation of volunteers after five months of my one-year placement. I was telephoned at 14.30 in my office in Freetown and told that I was booked on the 18.00 plane. A one-hour minibus trip followed by a hurried packing of belongings marked the end of my VSO career.

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