A silly side of Sierra Leone

Today I experienced African tie-dying.

On a small hill behind house five, Aunty Mariama was hard at work with a clan of other aunties and children helping her create the colorful masterpieces. The commotion attracted Scott and I and we stood watching the spectacle for a while – Aunty Mariama yelling instructions in Mende to her many helpers as the hot water hit the dye with only a few moments to soak the white garments. A fire had been built early in the day where a large pot of water sat heating for the next dying session. Aunty Mariama would choose her colored powder, mix it with the dye formula and then add the hot water. Hands covered in thick rubber gloves sloshed the bright colors over the white fabric, which will eventually become a bedspread or tablecloth. Instead of rubber bands, Aunty Mariama stitches her patterns into the fabric – which in the end, after several colors are used here and there on the cloth – make for a masterpiece design.

Scott confessed he had his major doubts when watching the process of dying – on the dirt ground, no rinsing the bowls after each color and the hustle of the crowd gathered into the process. But, we both were delighted when they pulled the stitches out of the first two projects and they were beautiful with a perfect pattern. Once the aunties were finished with each color, they let the children soak any shirts or clothing they wanted to dye with the leftover color.

We jumped at the chance to join in on the fun and brought back the only white things we own: our towels. We used rubber bands to make a design and though we tried to help, the kids and aunties kind of took over to make sure we got purple and yellow tie-died towels (we didn’t choose the colors, mind you). The perfect souvenir from a summer spent in Sierra Leone.

Aunty Chris

Scott says the difference between African food and American food is the amount of love that goes into African food – the time that goes into preparing it and the tedious detail that each ingredient is given to make it taste just right. Although, we are spoiled here in Sierra Leone. We have Auntie Christiana – or fondly known as Aunty Chris – as our personal cook for our two months here. Not only does this woman love to cook, she is a professional – trained in culinary school. And, she’s very used to cooking for Americans. She even owns an American cookbook. She’s simply amazing – her ability in a kitchen (without an oven, mind you) is hard for us prim and proper Americans to understand. Scott explains the whole situation as “camping all the time.”

I sit outside in the kitchen area now as the wind blows softly through and watch Aunty Chris make spaghetti sauce. Chickens peck by along with a rooster here and there as young boys bring water they’ve pumped from the nearby well – their bulging muscles showing the work they’ve done. Aunty Chris sits on a crate outside the kitchen, which is a separate room behind the house we’re staying in. She cuts the carrots and green beans, she checks on the black-eyes beans she’s prepared and sets a cover on the cake she has baked as a surprise for us tonight. How she makes a cake without an oven is still a mystery to us, yet we’re delighted to taste it and will shower her with compliments tonight. Nancy is Aunty Chris’ helper – we tease the 15-year-old that she’s in a one-student culinary school. Nancy takes direction from Auntie and grinds the garlic, cuts open the tomato paste cans and mashes the onions, which I had the privilege of peeling a few minutes ago. Aunty Chris turns to the half-cooked chicken she’s boiled and begins to coat each one in egg and then bread crumbs and spices. She dabs spots on the chicken that the egg didn’t get to – just to be sure the entire chicken leg will fry.

She looks up and smiles – her teeth shiny white and a sort of genuine laughter in her eyes. The cloth holding her hair back matches the dress she wears – beige with a black design. In the background are the gardens of the COTN homes, beyond that the Sierra Leone bush – tall palm trees peeking out -- and past that are the rolling mountains, faint in the distance. I take my turn at mashing the onions and tomatoes in the mortar and pistil, only stopping when they are a slushy mix. She will add it to the spaghetti sauce in a moment. Aunty Chris is happy to be here – she considers all of the children at the COTN homes here hers since she was the first house mother when COTN set up shop in 1997. Cooking for us is just an excuse to visit them all – she gives the young boys a hard time when they say they are finished filling the barrels of water and she knows there are more to fill. She laughs at them. She greets one here and chats with one there – the Krio language rolling off her tongue like an instrument. And all the while, she cooks – for us. She lets me taste the sauce she’s combined together now over the charcoal stove. She motions for me to run my finger over the wooden spoon to taste. I obey and am delighted with the mixture on my tongue. She looks, waiting for my agreement that it’s good. And it is, I say, it is.

Banta Mokelleh

So, we are here – in Banta. This place is so very different than the capital city of Freetown. It’s the country – with clean air and lush jungle surroundings. The night is black with a magnificent view of the stars and the frogs croak loudly as we try to ignore them in our sleep. After being here almost a week, I understand why COTN wanted to bring the “home kids” here to live. Not only are they not exposed to the inevitable things in a big city, but here they have room to run, play and explore. Its safe and there’s space for lot of growth. As we walk among the school buildings, the medical and malnourishment clinics, I am simply amazed that this place exists – it’s like a haven in the middle of nowhere. Not to mention the houses where the children now live. Compared to the second floor of the school where they used to live, I imagine these buildings are a refreshing amount of space that feels like their own. Each Aunty decorates and arranges her house the way she sees fit.

The even greater impact, however, is that of COTN on the surrounding villages in Banta. Suddenly, a school is close by with the ability to offer help with school fees and food for lunch. Suddenly, education for the children of the village is not as impossible as it once was. And suddenly, after trust has been established, the village witch doctor is not the only option for an illness. Jobs are created, buying and selling becomes a demand, new pathways are created between villages that never existed before and parents become open to the idea of attending the Christian church that’s affiliated with their child’s place of education. Men emerge who are interested in becoming pastors for their own village church and soon new churches are springing up in villages all over Banta – 10 at the moment, with the help from certain people here at COTN. Two nursery schools began in villages that are too far away for such young children to walk to COTN’s school. Through that, these remote places are being exposed to English, education and the excitement that children have for learning. That’s just the tip of the iceberg. There’s a farm, weekly Bible studies, a girls church choir, health representatives in each village and teachers who are excited about education.

This is the ministry here in Sierra Leone that Scott and I are privileged enough to join. Just being here and seeing all that has been done is quite an honor. I just hope we can somehow offer something to help further what God is already doing here. I trust He knows the many reasons why we came much more than we do.

Friends in the rain ...

Scott and I were on our way back from a meeting at the office today when we caught site of a heavy rain headed straight for us. I looked behind us to also notice that we were being followed by three young, giggly girls I met yesterday in House 7. We debated making a run for it down the hill, but Scott convinced me that we should take shelter at the school until the shower had passed. There we sat with our three new friends. The obvious solution to combat any boredom was to play handclap games. Sali, Marie, Roselyn and I tried to teach Uncle Scott how to play. He got it eventually, but not before making the three girls erupt with laughter each time he purposely sang the song incorrect or slapped the wrong girl’s hand. We all giggled and laughed at one another as the rain poured down around us and I realized that that half-hour of rain was the highlight of my day. Scott and I are continuously reminded that the little moments here with these precious children who have been through so much, are some of the most important and beautiful.

Hundreds of nieces and nephews

In Sierra Leone, the customary term of respect for an older person as well as a term of endearment is to call them Aunty or Uncle along with their first name. So, the moment Scott and I arrived with the teacher team, we have been called Aunty Laura and Uncle Scott. Most of their African accents can kind of get Laura down, but when Scott introduces himself, there is almost always laughter and confusion because the sound of his name with the two hard consonants is so different from most of their African words or sounds. That distinction has somehow worked in Scott’s favor and lodged his name in every kid’s head. So, that combined with the fact that he is the only white male currently in our group (!) has made Scott the most popular of us all by far. Only here a few days, the children are still trying to remember all the girls’ names, mine included, but when Scott walks across the courtyard between the homes or in between school buildings, a peppering of “Uncle Scott!” rings out in young voices. Don’t get me wrong, I do get shouted at as well, but the popularity of Uncle Scott is beyond comparison. It is absolutely so much fun.

Now, to learn all 90-some names of the home kids so we can shout back at them…

Where we are: Our new home

The compound or COTN property in Banta Mokelleh is growing at a fast past since the home children arrived here a little more than a year ago. Here’s a look at what’s here and what we get to be a part of every day (and the interns aren’t even here yet!):

Off the main road:

Office – the COTN national office staff is made up of about six people

Guest House – attached to the office, this is where Reverend Angie Myles (fondly known as Momma Angie by everyone) lives; there are also two spare rooms for visitors, staff from the states and associates who are serving here for a year.

Counseling Center – a new building that serves as the home base for the counseling program.

School Kitchen – this is not like a school kitchen you would see in America. Its in a corner surrounded by tall branches as a fence which shelter the fire pits and charcoal stoves from the wind. Here, about six women from the surrounding villages cook lunch for about 500 students every day. Next to the stoves are three large wooden mortar and pistols, used to make the sauces they serve over rice.

Medical Clinic – a friendly room lit by windows boasts two beds for sick children along with medical supplies for the nurses who are on duty 24-hours a day. The head nurse – Aunty Agnes – also happens to be the wife of the chief in charge of the entire chiefdom of Banta Mokelleh. Somehow that makes me feel better when I visit with a question about a bug bite or headache.

Malnourishment Clinic – this little home is right next to the nurse and has an outside kitchen in the back. Built to model a typical home in the villages, this place is meant for mothers to bring their babies who are suffering from malnourishment. Not only are the babies fed and given medical provision, but the mothers are taught how to care and cook for their child so they can get enough nourishment to grow and be healthy.

Primary and Secondary School – the two buildings are separated by a soccer field (made of rocks, stones and dirt) and a basketball court. The primary school building, with six classrooms, was built in an L-shape with a courtyard area in the center. The secondary school building has three classrooms. Its large, covered outdoor area serves for school assemblies, ceremonies and church on Sundays.

Down the hill:

Nestled into the literal bush of Sierra Leone, about a ten minute walk down the hill from the office and school area, lies the children’s homes. Before you reach them, you pass the staff housing on your right – a collection of about five small homes that teachers and staff share while school is in session. Past that, though, you come upon a picture that doesn’t quite look real. Ten little homes sit in a U-shape, surrounded by the Sierra Leone jungle on one side and the COTN farm on the other. Tall palm trees frame the scene and you can see aunties leaned over, cooking in the outside kitchens behind each home. Children carry water buckets on their heads from the well near House 5 and chickens run rampant. The front porches of each home look into the middle – friends play games and ball and others help with dinner. It’s a scene from a movie or a book. Sometimes it doesn’t even seem real. To our delight, Scott and I (and eventually the interns) are taking over two of the children’s homes for the summer. One was not yet filled with children and the children from the other home were dispersed to the other houses during our time here. Eventually, COTN will build a special housing area for interns, but we are thrilled to be right in the middle of their lives this year.

The Details:

· * *Each house has a head Aunty and a “vice” Aunty. The head Aunty lives with the children in the home and acts as their mother, the vice is usually from one of the surrounding villages. She comes each day in the morning and helps with chores, cooking and caring for the kids. She leaves each evening and covers for the head aunty when she’s on holiday.

· * *Each home has about 10 to 13 children in it – all one gender, but ranging in age. This way, the older children are able to serve in the older sibling role and help the Aunties.

· * *Each house has a name that is painted in bold letters on the front: Strength, Truth, Hope, Integrity, Faith, Love, Courage, Joy, Peace and Grace

· * *In each home are two bedrooms – one small one for the head Aunty and one large one for the children, which is filled with five or six bunkbeds. Each home also has a living room, two toilet stalls and two shower stalls. And behind each house is the kitchen – a small room where the food is kept and where a fire can be made. Usually, however, the food is cooked and prepared on the cement slab that serves as a go-between from the house to the kitchen.

· * *Though none of the houses have electricity or running water yet, they were wired for both when they were built just a little over a year ago.

The Farm – this 50 acres begins past the children’s homes and provides pineapple, rice, palm oil, cassava (the common food source in Sierra Leone), potatoes, bananas, and okra to the homes. The pig house on the farm, which is home to about 10-12 grown pigs right now, provides a source of protein to the growing children every month or so.

The alarm went off at 4:30 a.m.

My eyes opened to the canopy of the mosquito net that hung from the ceiling around my top bunk. My sheet laid at the foot of my bed, still folded and unnecessary on such a hot night. I grabbed my headlamp stationed next to my pillow and began to prepare for our long journey ahead. We were finally going to Banta Mokelleh – departure time: 5 a.m.

Before we even arrived in Sierra Leone, Scott and I had heard horror stories of the trip to Banta. One said the ride was more than 12 hours on a bumpy, dirt road; another said she had to get out and push the vehicle up a hill; another said the vehicles have a tendency to break down. Let’s just say we were prepared for the worst – but an adventure all the same. In our instance, because of some issues with the COTN vehicles, we chartered two poota-pootas (you know, the 1980 Mazdas). In or on these two vehicles, we were supposed to fit the luggage for about 15 people (Scott and I alone had 6 bags) along with food to feed us all for about a week and a half and a random mixture of soap, a boom box, step-down boxes for electricity, teaching supplies and donations. To look at the hallway full of stuff and then to see where all that was supposed to fit was just silly. It made no sense at all, especially considering that we were supposed to fit as well – for possibly 12 hours, mind you. Despite such doubts, however, about half past 5 a.m., with the help of Scott and Quami, the drivers had actually done the impossible with room for us to spare. The key? Everything goes on the top. So, we’re driving into the African bush in a vehicle from the 1980s piled high with heavy supplies. “This wouldn’t even be allowed on the road in America,” Scott laughed. As we wedged ourselves into place, I felt as though I was part of a cartoon. And yet, to Quami and the African drivers, this was absolutely normal.

Scott and I ended up in the vehicle with Arlene, Quami, Dave and most of the food, which was packed into the back of the van – chicken at our backs and lettuce at our feet. We were left with two benches and the front seats.

The roads in Freetown are a story themselves. Most of them are dirt. During the rainy season, the packed dirt washes away, leaving large rocks and holes for the vehicles to find their way. If you can imagine two poota-pootas, stacked high with heavy luggage and supplies, stuffed full with food and people trying to drive on a road made of big rocks and potholes, that’s exactly how we started our journey to Banta Mokelleh. We drove through Freetown’s streets, passed people selling goods from their heads and little makeshift shops. We drove past the ocean on our left and mud shacks on our right. We traveled by mothers cooking breakfast and fathers on their way to a job. After about an hour, we made it through the city to where the roads widened and the people were less – To where the jungle soon surrounded us.

Scott and I sat on the first bench in the van -- I next to the window and hunched over to take everything in that we drove by and Scott hoping to find as much floor space as possible for his long legs. The wind whistled in and blew consistently in our faces, which was a welcome relief from the heat of the vehicle. Behind us sat Arlene, who periodically leaned forward to give us the history of an area or the name of the village we were approaching. “This is the point the rebels reached before they took Freetown,” she told us as we passed through a town called Waterloo. “This is where the rebels captured British soldiers during the war and held them captive.” This is Moyamba Junction and later, this is Upper Banta, she said.

Out my window was a world that we had never touched or experienced. A world that only existed in our occasional reading of National Geographic or in the untouchable stories of travel photographers and high profile journalists. Traveling on a wide road of packed dirt with occasional spots of concrete here and rough rocks there, we entered the bush of Sierra Leone. In the midst of jungle and palm trees were small villages. Homes made of mud and cement with thatch or tin roofs were not what I couldn’t keep my eyes off of. It was the people. Families sat in front of their homes – busy with laundry, cooking food or nursing a baby. Children scampered after our vehicles full of white people, barefoot with a small pair of underwear or cloth covering them. We passed women carrying babies on their backs and buckets of food on their heads from miles away. Children followed behind them with 8-foot tree branches in bundles, balancing on their small frames, concentration in their faces. Kids played on the skeleton of a run-down van, women waved with an occasional smile and Scott and I tried to take in the images passing quickly by us. “This is National Geographic stuff,” Scott said to me.

Occasionally, Quami would ask the driver to stop at a home or junction area and he’d purchase pineapples, nuts, mangos or bread for us to eat the following week. We stopped for breakfast around 10 a.m. on the side of the road – jungle surrounding us on all sides. Aunty Chris, our cook for these two months, amazingly brought out hard-boiled eggs, cheese and peanut butter to go with the bread we had purchased on our way through Freetown. Nothing like eating bread and cheese in the middle of the African bush – was this really happening?

It didn’t take long for me to realize that my feet were sitting on part of the engine, as the floor was extremely hot. I didn’t think much of it until about five hours into our journey when I started to smell burning and all of a sudden smoke started coming from my feet. We all stepped over each other in our effort to escape the vehicle as it quickly came to a stop. Scott dove back in for his camera gear – the precious equipment we’d taken such pains to transport all the way here. And then, there we were – standing in the middle of the dusty road, staring at a smoking vehicle as the noon sun quickly beat down on our already sweaty bodies. Now what? Quami and the driver inspected the problem and Arlene announced that we were getting out of the sun. She motioned the three newbie’s to follow. Arlene was taking Dave, Scott and I on our first real African adventure – what would happen?

We only made it about 30 feet away to a mud home with a shaded front porch. Arlene knocked on the door and asked in Krio if we could sit on the porch while our vehicle was being fixed. An old woman emerged and nodded yes, smiling. She left us to it, motioning for me to sit in the hand-made chair near the door. I obliged graciously. We sat with our waters, a granola bar and a melted candy bar to sustain us and marveled at where we were and what we were doing. I ran my fingers over the hard, caked mud that someone had plastered to form a wall and looked up at the thick, thatched roof. This was her home. The whole thing was honestly a bit surreal.

About 30 minutes later, Quami summoned the white people. The van had been fixed with the help of a few construction men who had stopped to offer any service they could. And, in no time, we were off again – such is Africa.

The poota-poota pulled onto the COTN property about 45 minutes later and there to greet us was Mama Angie, the COTN country director for Sierra Leone. Her smile and warm welcome made us happy – we were finally in Banta: Our home for the next two months.

A visit to school ...

Today we visited the school right down the hill from the COTN guesthouse. This is the first building that COTN built here in Sierra Leone. The foundation was painstakingly laid by a team of American volunteers in 1997. In the midst of the war, the roof was still yet to be completed, but it finally opened as a COTN school and orphanage around 2003. The bottom floor was used for classrooms, the second floor was living quarters for children and the women (known as “aunties”) who cared for them and the third floor is a large all-purpose room with a full kitchen, offices and a medical room. Now that the "home children" have all been moved to Banta Mokelleh, both bottom floors are used for school classrooms. The building is large and its obvious that a lot of hard work and planning went into it. It is still a school in Sierra Leone, however, where electricity is not always common – the classrooms are lit by windows and school supplies are treasures the teachers and students must share.

When we entered the gates of the schoolyard, it was obvious that we had come at recess time. Though there were no swing sets or slides, the children have room to roam and play to get their wiggles out. The moment we entered, we were suddenly swarmed with children from all sides – fighting to hold our hands, wrapping their black arms around our waists and clinging to our fingers and wrists. It was almost comical – they have so much love to give. We stood and played with them, asked for names and ages, favorite colors and dreams. We played hand-clap games and Scott lifted little ones into the air. A few boys played ball on the side and the older girls stood in clumps, some brave enough to come and speak in English to the white visitors. It was overwhelming in a sense because we were basically attacked by very excited children – all little replicas of one another in their green-and-white-checked school uniforms, which had rips here and tears there. They all wanted our attention and they were all happy with a smile, a hello, a touch. In another sense, it was amazing. What a feeling to be bombarded with little ones who want nothing more than to hold your hand, touch your strange white skin and smile up at you? It doesn’t get much better than that.

Oh yeah, the school was great, too.

Took place on June 13

It was the mother of all scavenger hunts.

Arlene thought it would be funny to send Scott and I on a hunt to purchase some Sierra Leone items. The problem for us was that almost every item listed was written in Krio, so we not only were clueless on how to pronounce the items, we had no idea what they even were. Our national “guide” was John, a Sierra Leonean who was an intern for COTN last year. He was explicitly instructed to not say a word to us – no help at all -- except how to get to the market where we would begin our hunt.

Talk about an experience. I think that was the day that Scott and I were officially introduced to this beautiful and crazy culture. The first part of the adventure began with just getting there. We took the “public transport.” Now, instead of a public bus in Sierra Leone, they have what they call a poota-poota. This vehicle is usually made out of a 1970s Mazda van, which has been gutted. In place of the original two bench seats and interior, four skinny, metal benches are welded in from the back to the front and only the metal frame of the vehicle remains. Now, if two people are sitting on each bench, the only uncomfortable parts are the lack of legroom and the fact that the benches sit very high so most people have to slouch a bit in order to fit. However, the benches are actually meant for four people – which, when smashed up against one another, somehow is able to work. So, here Scott and I are, waiting for a poota-poota that’s going into downtown Freetown, with John at our side laughing at our reaction to everything around us.

We find a poota-poota and clamber in. I think we might have chosen the hottest day for such an outing. Add in that we’re now hunched over on a metal bench in an old Mazda, riding down the bumpy road along with about 18 (yes, 18) hot and sweaty Sierra Leoneans, I think the day just got hotter. Scott was wedged beside me, his knees practically at his chest and we both just laughed out loud – was this really happening? Were we really squashed into a public transport van in the middle of Sierra Leone with a bunch of Africans? Yeah, this was our day. No big deal. We remembered together what a blessing it is to be experiencing such things together, for to try to explain such an experience hardly does it justice.

We made it to the center of the city. John weaved in and out of streets and people to guide us to the large market area where they sell everything from kitchen sinks to cucumbers. The sights and sounds almost exhausted our five senses. Everything around us was extreme and to take it all in was a job in and of itself, don’t mind that we actually had to do some shopping. We passed women and children carrying fruit, water, clothes for sale on their heads. Others had goods laid out on the ground. There were so many people that we had to be conscious of every step. Cars tried to make it through the crowd every once in a while. We stared wide-eyed at passersby, the Krio language ringing in our ears. The buildings reminded Scott and I of New Orleans – bright colors of greens and purples, with rot-iron railings and balconies adorning the second and third stories. Some had been abandoned, others had been burned, a few refurbished. We wondered how much of this had been destroyed in the war. We wondered if this was still the result.

The outside market finally came and our job began. We fell into our “clueless white people” roles quite quickly, asking the market men and women what certain items were and if they had them. We, of course, were met with laughter when John explained to them the “game” we were playing, yet that didn’t cause many of them to lesson their price. We are white, which to them means we have a lot of money to spend. (If they only knew.) John wouldn’t even tell us if what we had bartered was a good price or not, which did honestly make it more fun. There was a lot of repetition since we didn’t know the Krio pronunciations – we’d struggle to read it, the old woman or child selling would say it back to us with a strained face trying to understand what we needed. We’d repeat it, they’d repeat it and finally they’d understand (toward the end, we just gave them the list). Scott got into a ten-minute barter session with one woman who wouldn’t budge on her high price for green peppers and I think I spent way too much money on two lapas (the fabric that women wrap around them as skirts or dresses).

The deeper we got into the market, the closer together the stalls were and the more intense it was – whole fishes laying out for sale, parts of bright pink pig in baskets, children running around asking if we wanted to buy their goods (“You want? You want?”) and puddles of rainwater to avoid here and there in the pathway. Everywhere was constant movement. After finding, choosing, and purchasing plantains, tomatoes, a kitchen bowl, we visited a small grocery store (a room where you could wander about 5 aisles) for cheese and cookies. We then asked someone to lead us to the closest pharmacy once we discovered what AAA was (malaria medication). And, finally we ended up on a street where about five local newspapers were sold after asking a businessman where we could buy one – that completed our purchase list.

Meanwhile, John just stood by the crazy Americans with a smile on his face, tying to stifle his laughter at our frustrations with language, knowledge and how much we should pay for what. A few times he gave me a nod yes or no if I really begged, but for the most part, he did well with his promise to Arlene. We stopped off at a little restaurant and paid way too much for a cold soda, but it was worth it. Then, it was jumping on the next poota-poota to wedge our way into a seat with other Africans going about their day – we somehow enjoyed the bumpy ride home.

As most of you know, Sierra Leone is a rainy place. Scott and I have quickly learned that when it rains, it rains hard. As we stepped off the poota-poota with about a mile left of walking to the house, we looked at the dark sky in front of us and then looked at one another. There was no way we were going to make it. Indeed, about two minutes later, the buckets of water started pouring down. Walking on a dirt road that leads between mud houses and small, shack-like businesses, John quickly led us onto the covered porch of the closest home. We certainly didn’t know the owners, but then again, neither did he. That’s the beauty of the Sierra Leonean culture – so often, they see themselves as one community. It was absolutely no big deal for us to stand on the porch of someone we didn’t know, without asking, as they stood there too, eating their dinner and talking. For the two white people, we were just along for the ride. We had stopped attempting to understand and were just happy to experience such a day. In the end, John’s uncle happened to drive by in a very nice vehicle (equipped with air conditioning!); we hopped in and he took us up the hill to our home – another act of kindness by this culture. We were concerned about our dirty and rain-soaked bodies messing up his pristine SUV, but it was nothing to him. We were flattered at such treatment and in the way such help was given – with no hesitation. In our individualist American culture, it is so much more common to fend for ourselves. And yet this little taste of Sierra Leone was a refreshing change in mind and spirit.

Took place on June 12