Downtown Freetown
19 June 2003

Traffic circles counter-clockwise around the Tree. Although Sierra Leone was a British colony, they chose to switch from driving on the left like the Brits to driving on the right side of the road in the 1970’s, a few years after independence. At that time, there were few cars in the country, so the switch wasn’t too difficult. The decision made good sense since all the surrounding West African countries were former French colonies (where they drive on the right), or in the case of Liberia, American.

To get downtown, the driver took Hill Cot Road, which winds down the mountains and affords a long view of the ocean and the city below. A number of houses are nestled into the crevices in the steep hillsides. The exposed dirt around the houses may be a sign of erosion from the heavy rains.

Traffic jammed up as we neared town. The crowded buildings looked hastily thrown together and were patched with rusty tin sheets or scraps of wood here and there. A few of the more solidly-constructed buildings appeared to have been partially destroyed, perhaps during the war. Nothing looked like my idea of a store or restaurant or office— people seemed to operate only small informal enterprises. Many were selling small quantities of gum, towels, or sandals, which they carried in their hands or in metal pans balanced on their heads. Everyone seemed to be walking somewhere.

I was nervous to be dropped off amid the crowds and worried that people would harass me, or at the very least stare at me. There were no white people or obvious foreigners whatsoever. My fears turned out to be unfounded; the streets and people were much less intimidating once I was actually walking around. Few people paid me more than a passing glance, except for someone here and there who stopped to ask if I was lost or needed help.

After registering at the embassy, I walked down the street to eat at Balee Star. There were two choices: Potato Leaf and Sour. A customer who spoke English pointed out a plate of Sour, which was a meat and rice affair. I ordered Potato Leaf and sat down at a plastic table. Potato Leaf came to me as a plate of white rice and a bowl of sauce. The sauce was composed of a finely minced vegetable (which might have been green and leafy at some point), a little onion, and a few white chunks of fish. All this was stewed in a generous amount of red chili oil. It was delicious and spicy.

I then walked west away from the Cotton Tree down Siaka Stevens Street until I saw a sign for an Internet café. Across from the café was a large gray electric company building with all the windows in the bottom two stories blown out. I’m not sure that anyone still works there.

I entered the tiny Internet café climbed a tight staircase to a small landing with three doors. I pushed the middle door open to reveal a small, dark room with about half a dozen computers. Everyone looked up. A woman in a bright green blouse explained that Internet access is Le 5,000 ($2) for one hour. I sat down and signed onto Yahoo. The connection was very fast, much to my surprise!

After my session, I followed the directions of a well-dressed lady at the café to the “Metro Stationary Store." Inside, several Lebanese-looking men stood behind a long glass display case. Customers ask for what they want from in front of the case, and the attendants bring the goods from the other side, which was filled with notebooks, calculators, HP printer cartridges, and more. I chose a dark blue planner with both English and Arabic writing. (Many of the imported goods here come from Arab-speaking countries; labels on canned goods and soap, for example, are often written in both languages.) Upon returning to work, I discovered that while a full page was allotted for each day from Saturday to Wednesday, Thursday and Friday only got half page each--I guess Thursday and Friday make up the weekend in the Arab world.

While I waited at the embassy for a driver to bring me back to work, I took out my camera to take a picture of the ocean, which I could see down the street. A guard approached me to say that I am not allowed to photograph the embassy. “That’s fine; I’m just taking a picture of the ocean over there.” I pointed down the road. The guard repeated himself a few times, and eventually left.

I snapped a picture of the ocean. Immediately, another guard appeared to ask if the previous guard had explained that I cannot photograph the embassy. I said yes, but I wasn’t photographing the embassy. He said that not only could I not photograph the embassy, but my back had to be to it for all pictures so it would be clear that I wasn’t photographing it. “Are you American?” he asked me. “Yes,” I answered. “Then you know what I am talking about.”

My driver arrived a while later. As we drove through town down Siaka Stevens Street, I started reading the many dusty signs a little closer. The dirty hole-in-the-wall with a tattered sheet for a door was a photocopying service; the low wooden shack painted blue with a sagging tin roof was a salon; the dark cement room with no windows was a restaurant. I guess my eyes weren't quite open when we drove through the first time.

Next article: Lumley Beach

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Copyright © 2003 Julie Greene