Notes from

Sierra Leone

The Bush

20 May 2004

The darkness of the bush limits your vision. This is not the Africa of the endless plains: the lions and giraffes dotting the horizon in the Serengeti, the lone camel in the Sahara. In the bush—the so-called jungle—your view is limited to the tangled branches surrounding you and the dense foliage above. I walk on paths cut by armies of men with dull machetes. I drive on roads laboriously ripped through tough swooping vines. The light is intense in the clearings of the roads; the sun beats on rust-colored earth once shaded by myriad cool leaves, and it is easy to forget the bush that creeps in on each side.

To experience the (relatively) unadulterated bush, I visited Tiwai Island on a humid weekend in April. In truth, Tiwai Island was farmland only decades ago. A researcher from Hunter College in New York visited in the late seventies and noticed its rich population of primates. With his prodding, the Government of Sierra Leone declared the twelve-square kilometer island stretching the seams of the Moa River a preserve. The natural vegetation of the island was permitted to grow and is now traversed by overgrown research paths forming a grid across its face.

Tiwai breathes gently, rhythmically. Insects hum a constant soundtrack. Each molecule of the syrupy air clings to me as I push through it, coating me in fine mist. Through the air I make out silhouettes silently crossing the overgrown path and disappearing into the dark foliage. The last mangabey notices us just after he passes. He backs up onto the path, turns his inquisitive head to take a longer look with his curved tail up, then dashes away to warn his troupe of our presence.

I become aware of the chatter of thousands of termites swarming beneath my feet. Termites look like a cross between a writhing maggot and a fat ant. They do not swarm onto my legs nor bite (like the ant that once clasped a chunk of my toe in its jaws and refused to let go as I tried to detach it from my bleeding flesh [1]), so I pause to be grateful for the benignancy of the termites. They are, after all, most likely humankinds’ primary source of protein in our early days. Poke stick in mound, pull it out with nutritious lunch attached. Or: chase lion with stick, evade lion’s claws swiping at your paper-thin skin, jab stick into gullet, and carry lunch slung over shoulder to woman in cave. Which is more realistic? (But which appeals to our egos…?)

I switch on my digital camera and take video clips of my companions as they push ahead, rotating their heads from the treetops (was that a…?) to the ground (watch out for the…!) to the bush that enveloped them. I hold the camera out and turn it on myself to prove my presence. I play the clip back. I stumble over branches and distractedly fight the grasp of creepers as I watch the replay of myself pulling my body forward wearily, almost zombie-like, like something out of the Blair Witch Project. I try again, carefully attempting a neutral expression, but again I had the dull look of one on a chain gang. Or a subway rider in New York. I give up and turned my camera on more pleasing subjects like tightly packed groves of bamboo bursting out of the forest to offer their delicate leaves to the sky.

A red colibus sits nestled in the Y of a tree branch thirty meters above us. She looks around and turns a questioning face down to us as we turn our faces up to her. She feigns a nonchalant air as we point our binoculars at her for a better look at her tiny face. Eventually, the red colibus decides to air on the side of caution and she leaps improbably across the treetops and out of view. Disturbed leaves and nuts tumble through the canopy, distracting our eyes as we search for her movement. A few hornbills pass overhead, dark against the sky, admonishing us with a low “shh, shh, shh, shh, shh.” We keep walking down the meandering path. The darkness of the bush provides refuge for threatened animals with few hiding spots to turn to. The canopy protects us from the heat of midday.

The bush is feared here. It is seen as something of a refuge for mysticism and for evil. Children used to be taken to the bush for years before puberty and during adolescence to learn the secrets of the tribe—a sort of apprenticeship where they may learn practical skills such as hunting as well as the legends and traditions of their people. Children, both male and female, are circumcised during this time. People often use the phrase ‘bondo bush’ to describe female circumcision, referring to a powerful woman’s society that is responsible for this initiation ceremony in parts of the country.

I hear that today, time spent in the bush is often shortened to just days or weeks, or the time it takes to carry out the circumcision. It seems that children cannot be spared for the lengthy traditional teachings anymore. Even the bondo bush may be on the decline, as it is gradually becoming criticized for forcing girls to be circumcised who do not wish it, and dragging girls even against their parents’ will to be forcibly circumcised. International groups are spreading the word about the health dangers of female circumcision and its link to the high maternal mortality rates in Sierra Leone. Still, 85 to 90 percent of women in Sierra Leone have undergone this invasive, damaging procedure.

Even the mosquitoes are said to come from the bush. When asked how to reduce mosquitoes and hence malaria, village leaders and traditional birth attendants in Kwidadu gestured toward the outskirts of the little village and told me they would have to cut the bush—but added that since there was too much bush, the mosquitoes would keep coming.

*     *     *

This is where I wanted to include a quote from Graham Greene’s writing about his first trip through Sierra Leone and Liberia in Journey without Maps; however I loaned that book away and cannot remember to whom! With the high turnover rate among aid workers here, I’m sure the book is already adventuring in some far-off country.

I was also hoping to include a paragraph about the Ranshoo, a tall devil that lives in the bush, but I can’t quite remember the details. Here are the bits that I recall: if you are in the bush and he passes by, you will feel him as a chilly breeze. You might want to put food at the edge of the bush to appease him, since he has the power to kill swiftly and unexpectedly. If you find people dead in their beds, with no evidence of foul play and no reason to suspect a natural death, then it was the Ranshoo that killed them.

More research needed – if anyone has details about the Ranshoo, do write!

[1] I was swarmed by such ants one afternoon in June while posing looking at red flowers growing among the burnt ruins of a cabin in Outamba Kilimi National Park. Before Dan could even snap the picture, I became aware of tickling feet streaming up my legs, accompanied by piercing bites. I pressed against my jeans with my hands, but these are the type of ants that you actually have to pinch individually to do any damage. I ran a few meters to a patch of what looked like barren earth, only to discover that the earth was breathing with ants, excited for the express meal delivery. At that point, with shocking pricks all over my body, and a few ants even reaching my hair, I picked up my camera and ran as fast as I could to the river, where I took off all my clothes to reveal swarming hungry black masses coating my thighs and making trails up my torso! Dan started brushing the ants of my discarded jeans and pointed out the heads of ants who had been crushed along the hem of my pants, yet were still stubbornly gripping the fabric with their vicious pincers. I heard that such ants are used for stitches somewhere in South America (anyone have information on this?). You let the ant bite across your cut, then pinch off the body and the head holds for some time.

Next article: Dis en Dat

Disclaimer: Opinions expressed in the personal notes are my own. Facts presented are accurate to the best of my knowledge, but this site should not be taken as an authoritative resource.

Copyright © 2004 Julie Greene