the road from kono

 

“Small Small” reads the front the poda poda.  Two small words that described anything but the amount of people crammed into the mini bus that was headed to Freetown.

It was 5:30 am and still dark out.  But the open “park” I was in was already buzzing with people surrounding the vehicles that would be traveling to Freetown and Makeni that morning.  The mini buses (a bit larger than the typical poda poda transport that have four benches behind the driver and can boast loading at least 20 to 25 people) were already filled to what seemed like capacity. 

I had asked around the day before to find out what time the vehicles would be loading.  Without getting any concrete consistent answer, my colleague Fabundeh and I agreed 5:30 am should certainly be early enough.  Maybe not.

I spoke to the driver and asked if there was any chance one more could fit.  “we don fill up, we don fill up” was all I got in response.  (we’ve already filled up)  The chaos of people yelling and shouting while pushing and shoving into the vehicle made me wonder what exactly “filled up” meant, but regardless, at this point I don’t think I would have wanted to be squeezed in.

But I did need to get to Freetown.  I had been traveling “up country” to Bo for a training of paralegals and then on to Kono with Fabundeh to meet with the Village Parent Groups and a survivor I am writing a story about.  My time in Kono had been wonderfully fruitful.  I really saw the work of FAAST reaching the people.  These groups of volunteers, made up of everyone from village chiefs to teachers to police officers to mothers and even students, committed to looking out for human trafficking.  They are excited to be part of this call to justice, even when it defies the traditional and cultural practices.  A call to bring an end to the exploitation of children, which is rampant everywhere you look.  A call to treat children with love and respect.  A call to allow children to grow with possibilities and opportunities to become more than another seller of goods or themselves on the streets.  A call to change the standards of disciplinary action against those who violate this call.

Yet after a few days of primitive guesthouses, the stagnant upcountry heat, motorbikes and dusty roads – I was ready to get back to a busy week of preparing all that I had accumulated.  I just needed a ride.

As I was beginning to lose hope a man called out to me, “driva wan yu, driva wan yu!”  The driver had found space…or at least made space. 

Ten minutes later we are speeding down the dirt road, bouncing from pothole to pothole, leaving a cloud of dust behind us (as well as entirely engulfing us).  I am positioned, or wedged may be a better way to describe it, between the driver and the two people already squished into the passenger seat.  I have nothing to lean my back against and I can’t extend my legs for I am seated on the center console behind the gearshift. 

So there I sit, knees hugged to my chest, gathering a thick layer of dirt and sweat, bouncing along with the rest of the passengers (who must have exceeded 40 and included two live chickens)…for the next seven hours.  Yes, seven hours.

You just have to laugh.  There is no other thing to do. I marvel at the thought of myself, the only white girl in the dense sea of beautiful black faces all of whom didn’t seem fazed by the journey at all. 

Similarly to the night before when Fabundeh had suggested going for coffee (an idea I welcomed with skepticism because I have yet to experience a “coffee shop” that sells more than Nescafe) and we stop at a busy street side eatery.  Although “coffee” (aka very sugary powdered milk with half a spoon of Nescafe) was served, it came accompanying a piled high plate of “macaroni and beench” (aka a plate of black eyed peas piled high with greasy spaghetti and some sort of meat toped with ketchup, a glob of mayo and sliced onion.  Bona petite!  And all for about 50 cents) hmmm…just let that one settle.  Then imagine the white girl, squeezed onto a bench of hungry “coffee” goers devouring the plate that I am looking at in amazement. 

See, you just have to laugh.  I absolutely love moments like these!  And I love that my God knows me inside and out…including how much is too much.

Once we finally arrived in Freetown and I unfolded myself from the accordion I had become, I was hot, I was tired, and I was still far from my final destination…home.  I finally got a taxi into the center of town, which was as crowed as the bus was packed.  Taxi after taxi passed, disregarding the name of the location I was calling out.  And as I was pushed and jostled from every direction, horns blaring so loud I couldn’t hear myself think, I really was about to lose it.  I felt it welling up from within me.  This was my limit. 

And at that very moment, through the crowds came a white Land Cruiser with the FAAST emblem printed on the side.  It was as if Elijah came riding in on a golden chariot, that’s how happy I was to see Sengbe.  We were far, far away from the office on a side of town our Program Manager would rarely frequent, but my God knew what I would need at that very moment and gave them some reason to be headed in my direction. 

Again, I just have to smile. Simple, beautiful, messy, chaos!  And I am just along for the ride in the midst of it.