Yesterday I learned that one of the reasons why the AK-47 is the weapon of choice for West African rebels is light enough for a child to carry. Oh. Duh. I had been checking out a clean version of the same guns that were being handed over by the fighters in Liberia, thinking how very archaic the mechanisms were, like the Ford of the gun world, it seemed. I was asking my British soldier/teacher why they haven't improved on the system since then. Though when I fired the gun, and even I hit the target, I began to think that maybe it wasn't such a bad system.
It was Colin's fault that I was on a firing range with two British soliders, part of IMATT, a British-led international group of soliders here for a ten-year training program of the RSLAF, the local army. Colin had a yen to fire guns, see, and I just happened to be around. So I got my first training in marksmanship-we'd done sort of gun identification and avoidance training with Centurion, but this was from the other side. And now, having fired the AK, as well as a handgun, I can see why boys find these things plain fun. Though that must surely be part of the danger, especially for the child soldiers. Because looking down the barrel of theAK, I just wanted to hit the target. It was easy for me to forget that the gun in my hands had been taken from an RUF rebel, most likely used to kill in some not-so-pleasant ways. I had thought that all of the guns taken from the soliders were destroyed, but apparently the late-comers were saved by the Brits for their target practice. The Brits are replacing the RSLAF AK's with a gun of British origin, one that doesn't fire automatically. Our hosts allowed Colin and I to fire the weapons automatically, and I can now see that what I've been told about the accuracy of automatic weapons, or at least this flavor of weapon, is true--you would be very unlucky to be hit by the spray of an automatic weapon in the hands of a drugged fighter.
In any case, it was an education. For those who want to know, I was slightly more accurate with the hand gun, though I did hit the target with both. I also learned to load, unload, lock and unlock the safety catch, which will hopefully never come in handy.
I did a final interview with Colin, a sort of wrapping up state-of-the-union, which was good but I was having sound issues that turned out to be the fault of a cable--a new technical glitch for me, one I happily managed to avoid in Liberia. We had a handful of kids as audience, but these, unlike those in Kailahun (I interviewed Richard and Seb near an old school, because it was a beautiful setting, but then wound up with 20-odd children right behind me, giggling, making comments and raising a general ruckus, just as Seb and Richard were getting to the heart of the matter. At one point I turned around and told the kids that if they would kindly shut the FUCK up I would give each a pen. The deal was only on if they didn't say another word. They couldn't help themselves, and when the leader tried to claim pens at the end of the interview, I reminded him of the terms of our deal and asked whether he had met them. -I talked, he said. That's right, said I. No pen for you.), these were an excellent, quiet audience. Colin promised Victor a copy book and pens, and he'll be back with those.
We went to Willie's house, to meet his wife and get more of how he lives. He lives in a tiny concrete box, with a large family, but his wife made the best cassava leaf chicken I've tasted here. I was the only eater, as Colin wanted the rest of the family to get the food. I shared a plate with Willie and his wife. It's kind of funny, kind of awkward, to be squeezed into a dark room with two British coppers and this police man and his silent wife, with the usual throng of kids watching from the wings as we eat, but so it goes. I wanted to honor Willie. Who then broke my heart by giving me a police beret I had offered to buy and a couple bolts of lovely fabric. I don't know what they cost, but Willie earns maybe $50-60 a month. I didn't want to insult him by giving him money, but I know that the price of a bag of rice, the staple here, has risen tremendously lately, so Colin is going to buy Willie a bag of rice for me. What else can you do?
Now, in the company of my IMATT soliders in Freetown, I'm off to spend the day at the country lodge--I joke not. It's apparently some new swank ex-pat frequented place in the hills around here. Tomorrow, I'll be checking in with Brigadier Simon Porter about a graceful exit strategy from this place.
Stay tuned-
Things have been moving fast. I can't remember where I left you but I was surely in the process of waiting for Opande. Waiting to talk, waiting to go, waiting for word of any action, just waiting. In the end, I think I've got something special. Of course not in the way I had originally envisioned, whereby the Force Commander would be staring down the soon-to-be ex-combatants, who would be waving their guns in his face. Well, just a little bit of gun-waving, enough to be interesting.
That didn't happen. Having had more time to prepare properly the UN managed to pull off a controlled disarmament kick-off. Unlike December's fiasco, which Opande describes as "anarchy," (the inside scoop on that debacle is that Opande told the powers-that-be in New York that he wasn't ready to disarm, but Klein, the head of the mission and its political leader, insisted that they go ahead with some sort of disarmament in December, because there was meant to be a big donor's conference in December and a successful start to disarmament was supposed to make the big givers happy.) the checks and balances and personnel on the ground and rows and rows of barbed wire lanes that the combatants navigated to reach the various disarmament stations seemed to keep everyone in line. There were the inevitable ambushes of combatants by other combatants as they were on their way to the disarmament sites, as well as glitches in things like food transportation, but overall I witnessed a functional taking of arms. All of the other questions that follow, the R's (reintegration, rehabilitation) of the DDRR process, remain to be answered.
This time around, unlike the first time, I got a lot more of Opande the man, but none of the drama of the day Rob and I followed him with the Special Forces men and were greeted by a group of wild gun-toting youth. How many of those scenes do you need though, really? My most arduous day involved running (I exaggerate not) around nine holes of golf. Opande advised me to quit after three. The scene was marvelously colonial, on the slopes of the Firestone tire complex, home to the only golf course in Liberia. That was our Saturday, which began with a 6 a.m. pickup to go to a disarmament site-in-the-making at what was once the Voice of America camp. There, Opande was briefed and briefed a slew of politicos on the readiness of the VOA site for disarmament (good, but shoddy buildings that won't weather the coming rainy season well). Following that we had golf and then my first long interview, on the beach at night.
Interviewing Opande was one of my biggest challenges. Not because he didn't want to talk to me (by the end of a couple days, as he was moving his entourage, he would look around and ask, "Where is Deeter?") but because he has less than zero patience, so I knew I had to be fast, but fast to find an empty place on a beach that was far enough away from people and music to be quiet yet close enough to some form of light to be feasible. I chose the beach because interviewing indoors was for me not an option. Too ugly, wrong sort of scene. I had no time during the day to scout these sites, so I would have to take Opande's word on the beach and then make the staff scramble to move lights, tables, chairs, etc. while keeping the FC entertained enough to allow me to do a proper sound check and try not to worry too much about the fact that the key and fill light on his face were backwards. In the end I think I got more than I had a right to expect under the circumstances, but you always want more. I wanted more time, primarily.
Opande opened the second disarmament site, Buchanan, on Tuesday. That was a press mob-fest. Not pretty but got good footage. I don't like that whole struggle for pole position. There was a moment of tension when the FC was called over by a group of angry men, former MODEL fighters, who claimed that their weapons had been taken by their commanders. The rules of disarmament are currently that you cannot go through the process (and, more importantly, collect your $75, training, medical attention and some food) without a weapon or a significant amount (I think it's 150 rounds) of ammunition. It will be interesting to see how the UN handles these guys-Opande said that it was up to MODEL leader Boi Boi, who also posesses my favorite rebel name, to figure out a solution. We'll see. Opande was very accommodating of me throughout, and got the helicopter to drop me off directly at Roberts Field airport so that I wouldn't miss my flight back to Freetown after our Buchanan visit. When I left, they were on target to get their 250/day men, women, and boys disarmed.
Seb (you'll remember, our British major, currently working in the country under the IMATT umbrella, i.e. he's armed again working to help train the RSLAF national soldiers) picked me up at the UN helipad in Freetown and we drove directly to Bo, a mining town on our way to Kailahun. Our traveling companion was Billy the Scotsman, who started in with how the hired help was lazy and went on from there. Needless to say, the conversation was hot and heavy for several hours. Good to be reminded that not everyone comes from the land of the politically correct.
Seb and I carried on to Kailahun, where he checked in with a few old colleagues and the Sierra Leoneans who worked for him as houseboys and security guards. The two best things that came out of that visit were a discussion between Seb and Richard, his former boss, and an interview I did with Momoh the houseboy while he ironed the UN military observers' uniforms. Momoh is the son of a village chief, a handsome man in his thirties who spent the ten years of war in neighboring Guinea. He cleans, shops, and generally does the bidding of the MILOBS as he tries to get enough money to continue his arrested studies. He earns 100,000 leones a month, which is less than U.S. $50. He works seven days a week, with three days off a month. Momoh gave me the most articulate reasons I have yet heard for Sierra Leoneans needing to help themselves as well as the best arguement for giving him a raise. When I told him that I had heard various UN discussions about the pay given their hired help, and the general consensus seemed to be that they couldn't pay them more than teachers, police and government workers, who all earn a similar wage to Momoh's, he said that the UN should pay its workers more because their jobs were temporary, unlike those of the teachers and the police, and, having no contracts, they had no fallback positions, health or any other form of insurance. He added that as a well-funded international body the UN could afford to pay more. I asked him if he knew what the UN military observers he serves earn and he said that he did not. I didn't tell him that they make $115 a day in addition to their salaries.
I spent the night on a sweat-soaked bit of foam that reached from my head to my knees because I had been frantically tracking the progress of my flight out of here and wound up locked out of the house that had offered to put me up for the night. So I snuck back into the MILOBS's "sitting room" and grabbed the foam. Seb dropped me off yesterday at the poda-poda station and I paid $2 extra for a seat in a station wagon rather than take a mini-van. At least I had a seat in a station wagon, though it's been a while since I was one of four across that bench. I didn't know whether I should be concerned or relieved that our driver took a moment of prayer before we began our journey. Next to me was a young woman with a plastic bag on her lap. Experiened traveler, I thought to myself, "Oh shit, there's the puker." It took me a while to realize that it was worse than that. Every few minutes she would rip off a deep chest cough and spit something into the bag. I kept my head turned to the window. It was either dust or tuberculosis, I figured.
We made it to Makeni in a mere three hours, and Colin gave me no end of grief about my appearance. I was covered head to tow in fine red dust. It was so bad that when I got out of the shower and looked at myself in the mirror I went back in. I followed Colin to a "cocktail party" held in the Makeni town hall (think high school gym) celebrating the first official hand-over of security by the UN to the people of Sierra Leone. The Vice President, a quiet man with a budha-like face, was even present, though the lights cut out during his speech. Those pesky generators.
Now, in the supreme glory of the African system, a fine example of what the Brits call "muppetry," ("muppetry," the practice of random institutional stupidities is distinguished from "buffonery," the stupidity of the people themselves) I am waiting to hear whether I shall be lucky enough to get on my flight back to the UK--a flight, mind you, that will leave a full day later than it should have. Not only is SNA not going to compensate me for missed flights and hotel expenses, but my name is apparently not on the sacred passenger list. So the fun begins. I'll try to switch my other tickets as my men in Freetown take my ticket to the office to recieve a chicken scratch mark that will, if I am very lucky, guarantee me a seat on the plane. So it goes.
More as I can.
So, after all of yesterday's kick-off noise and excitement the dust settled and I realized that the one major gap in my recording of the first day of disarmament was the guns. I had made the decision to stick with Opande, who was advised to stay away from Gbarnga (pronounced "Banga") disarmament site until the afternoon, when the guns had already been collected. I was given shit for this decision by an African colleague, who apparently was at the site filming away from the beginning. But he didn't get to witness the Force Commander blowing up a bunch of surface-to-air and other missiles, a total of 150 flavors of munitions, apparently, that were found in Charles Taylor's mansion after his departure. All I know is that when the pile didn't blow the first time I had a moment of thinking, "hmmm...I wonder what happens when this shit backfires?" Like in a bad Saturday Night Live skit. Anyway, the ammo was dutifully blown up, and we were able to witness the blast cabled to us in the safety of our bunker--at least 100 meters (I'm not so good with distances) from the blast. It was large and satisfying destruction, and a good symbol of the blowing up of rebel arms that happens at the end of each day.
Have I mentioned what it's like to try to keep up with Opande? It's following a human dervish. Which is why when we visited the disarmament site yesterday it was all I could do to keep up with the General, forget about the rest of the b-roll--though let me say here and now that the site of these scarecrow kids getting searched again and again and standing in lines with their mats and their pail of toiletries really got me. For all of those kids you are skeptical about, who you think will just take the first disarmament payment and go you do see in the faces of others the fatigue that comes when you simply can't take any more. The site of Opande going up to those kids, shaking hands and telling them, "War is over," is impressive, and makes you believe. Makes you want to believe, anyway. It's good stuff. But catching it, catching Opande, his expressions, the rebels, the cutaways, the wides...it's enough to keep me doubting my skills all of the time. And then there is the missing b-roll...sorry friends, I have to geek out for a moment. I've found that a hair bobble can hold on the little rubber jobby that keeps mic attached to the camera. At least the batteries have held out on Opande's mic, thank god, because I sure as hell can't stop him once he's on a roll.
Today, I knew that Opande was office-bound and I asked him whether I could go back to Gbarnga and get some rebels disarmed. Opande generously allowed me to head with a convoy back overland--I was worried because I knew that the disarmament would be over by afternoon, and we got a late start, but my driver, "Tofee" (I'll get his spelling right), one of Opande's right-hand men (a man like Opande needs more than one right-hand man), understood my urgency and made it happen. I got some amazing footage. The thing is that some of the kids really do carry guns that are just about as long as they are tall. And then I watched and filmed as one of them, who I would have sworn was no more than 10 years old, told the UN workers that he was born in '85. He stuck to this story when he was teased and called a liar. Repeatedly. Kids like that one make me understand the whole aid worker impulse. Because I found myself wishing I had candy, a pen, a ball, money, something to give him. Maudlin, I know, but true. He was so thin. They all wear baggy, baggy jeans, which help mask how very thin they are. This guy had to have weighed less than 100 pounds.
There were 255 rebels disarmed yesterday-five more than were meant to be, versus a rumored 205 today. Apparently a couple of the LURD rebel leaders weren't playing ball today, and needed a little talking-to. The UN has so much in making it work this time. The politics also involve a love story between the Iron Lady (Aisha, the woman who loves to throw cash to her followers) and her husband. More on that to come as I can. Let's just say that the lady is not pleased.
Anyway, I'm back and off to diner at my new friend Jane's house. Jane, as in Jane Jacobs, friend of Colin's, as it turns out, and my most wonderful hostess. She lives in an oasis in the middle of chaos. Really. Those of you who felt me sweat in Makeni should be heartened that I've landed in the most incredible luxury that makes doing my job, or finishing my job, a real pleasure. Jane has AC, hot showers, a cell phone she insists on lending me and food she keeps cooking for me. Let's hear it for Jane. If I wasn't pretty sure we'll have the chance to return the favor in California one day I would feel a bit guilty, taking such complete advantage of her hospitality as I have. In the meantime I am simply grateful.
There are so many things I don't want to forget. Today's is the sign at the side of the road declaring: The Jaben Lewis Flow Family Estate. Which apparently consisted of two tiny broken brick buildings on the edge of the jungle. My other favorite was the sign for the Cryogenic Institute of Sierra Leone, found on the road to Freetown. The entire concept is wonderful.
Here I sit outside the Force Commander's office (that's how everyone refers to Opande out here, though for my purposes it's ususally just faster to use Opande), waiting for a sign that things are going to begin. Aside from shooting back pains, sweat that removes my sunscreen and the fact that my pants don't stay up as well as they should (those low angle shots are a bitch), the most difficult part of my job here is accepting the fact that I can control exactly nothing.
As in nada. Not where we go, who we see, who will be speaking, acting, doing. I'm trying to get cutaways when Aisha is throwing dollars into the air--the good and the bad news is that there is no telling how the action will happen and from which direction it will come.
Last night's meeting was worth doing, and Conneh was very expansive in his enthusiasm for the disarmament process. Then he started to get into the infighting between he and his wife Aisha, and Opande tried to convince him that he had the woman under control. Which remains to be seen, really. She wants to oust a govt. man that her husband wants to keep in, and was going to make that part of the disarmament deal. All inside baseball stuff, none of which belongs to the film. But it does affect the drama. I was invited to take my leave of the boys when they wanted to get down to boy business. I was lucky to have been allowed to film anything, but as a journalist I wanted to be there for it all. I shut up and walked out.
This morning we were meant to go immediately to the disarmament site--oh, we're off out. More as I can.
This will be quick, but just to update friends, family and fellow wanderers.
It's about 8 my time and I'm about to go film General Opande in a meeting with Sekoh Conneh, LURD chairman, or maybe not--as we spent the day with wife Aisha Conneh, who is currently treated as the LURD chairman in many ways. This is important because both parties have to bless the disarmament process, still scheduled to kick off early tomorrow morning. I think that it could be exciting in more ways than one, especially as the first site is only designed to process 250 LURD fighters at a time, and the UN was swamped with far too many would-be participants in December.
But I'll fill you in on more politics later. Yesterday was a whirlwind tour helicopter tour of the country with Opande and crew--doing everything from breaking the record for the fastest bridge-opening ribbon-cutting ceremony ever to visiting a disarmament site that's a bit behind schedule but not, the Force Commander tells me, as behind as it was several days ago. I think that the reason I like Opande so much thus far is that he is extremely hands-on. He is the king of the-man-who-makes-it happen. Though the way it works is that he has a lovely aide who scribbles as fast as his doubtless cramping hands can write to take down the holy commands--to build new bridges, get hospitals missing supplies, dig wells, look into missing transport, persons, food...the list is never-ending, and if I didn't know the type of cash the UN has to back up the General's writ I would be inclined to believe that this was all part of the show. But I'm tending to think that the intent is real, though I think that the implementation of these grand plans can sometimes get lost in translation.
I have to go or miss the meeting, but today was even better. The picture I have of today is of Queen Aisha, called the Iron Lady, for the magic she is meant to wield as much as for her strength, methinks. A bit of research on her and her influence and power in this region is good stuff--black African magic. Anyway, she descended upon her subjects from our UN helicopter in the middle of one village and you should have seen the chanting, dances, great shows of tears and affection. Which nearly caused a riot when she distributed about $700 in cash. She then couldn't resist throwing a wad of cash into the air as she boarded our helicopter. It was actually a decent get-away diversion as the crowd went nuts.
But I'm safe and sound and getting stuff I hope that you will want to watch. Over and over again.
So, I'm back in Monrovia, after only a day and a half in Sierra Leone. Colin, who the faithful will remember as my British copper from before, drove down to pick me up in Freetown Saturday morning. We did, of course, a new seafood extravaganza on a terrace overlooking the beach before heading back to Makeni.
Have I mentioned the heat? It was hot last time. This is a new heat. I'm too tired to think up an appropriate metaphor but the only time I can remember being hotter was in New Delhi in June. And then I wasn't working. Colin's had to leave his air-conditioned palace and the current accomodation is a cute little hotbox house w/neither AC or fans. Your body leaves a trough in the mattress--not so nice when you wake up in the sweaty trough. The sort of sleep you want to hit fast and hard.
Inevitably, I woke up on Easter Sunday to a vintage Jessie where-am-I-who-am-I-and-what-am-I-doing-here sort of angst that reminded me that I've come to do get some work done. That wasn't helped by word from Kemal (you'll remember him, too, my UN connector) that I wouldn't be able to get the flight out to Monrovia until the day disarmament was to begin, which wouldn't have helped the cause at all, given that that's what I've come to do, disarmament. After a few frantic phone calls Colin managed to rustle up a non-UN flight, and now here I sit with Jane Jacobs, my Monrovian UN connection.
Between then and now Colin and I managed to get a bit done--the best bit being meeting Willie, Colin's police counterpart, also from before. If Colin's shrunk some since I saw him last Willie appears much as I remembered him, full of big hand and facial gestures that can't help but make you laugh. Colin and I woke up early to catch Willie's morning ritual, which included a fastidious boot shine. We got Willie taking a broken motorcylce to be fixed and Willie taking a man to task for a load of jerry cans and other sundry items hanging off the "canopy" of his car. It wasn't the crap that bothered Willie as much as the fact that the man had failed to produce his driving license "upon demand." That, Willie told the man and I, was the cardinal sin. If he couldn't produce someone in Makeni who would effectively post bail for him the man was going to spend a bit of time in jail, waiting for the court to decide his fate. This while the driver of a vehicle involved in a fatal car accident had been free for four months while the police and the coroner and several other interested parties complied the correct report that would take the matter to court.
I bought Willie and myself a lunch of ground nut stew and some form of meat he swore was "cow." I made the mistake of taking a hearty bite of the stew and wounding up nearly taking out a tooth on the stone or bone hidden in the rice. After that I sucked up the rice and spit out the bits. I didn't notice Willie spitting out any bits. When I couldn't chew the meat I didn't take a second bite. I'll catch up with Willie's family upon my return. I love Willie, and I love the way he interacts with Colin.
I showed my demo reel to Colin, whose reaction was interesting. He got what I saw in Willie, for example, but thought that Opande rang false, and he didn't think that he helicopter scene worked at all. Interesting, especially since when we went back to the helicopter school, where I had envisioned meeting a lovely, articulate mother and son, who could explain to me and to my audience exactly what the destroyed school meant to them. You know, the hardship, the lessons missed, etc. I wound up with two extremely shy women who spoke softly in Krio and would hardly look at me. Not exactly thrilling material. It was humbling to be reminded of how very little I can control in this game if I want to be a journalist, or at least fairly "journalistic," or, at the very least, at least not a blatant faker. I interviewed the headmaster again, as well as another young teacher, a man who was quite eloquent. It was too bad that I hadn't found him on the first go-around, because he explained well both the school's hardship and the good that the UN has done in general for Sierra Leone. Ah, well.
Too bad as well is the fact that Father Brioni, an Italian priest who's the Father for Kabonka village for some 20-odd years off and on, can't be in this film. He's funny, feisty, and has a lot to say about the UN--particularly about the "lack of compassion" with which this whole helicopter debacle has been treated. Father Brioni has just had himself built a lovely new house in the middle of a nearby village. It is remarkable for its lack of security--i.e. none of the gates/guards/barbed wire that characterize the rest of the expat living quarters in this country. It's an oasis of calm and quiet, with Italian tiles and a Moroccan-style garden carved out in the center. When I complimented him on the comfort of his home, he laughed and told me that he justified it to himself by saying that everyone in Sierra Leone deserved to live like him.
Got Colin cooking dinner by candlelight for himself. He cooks pasta most nights-pasta bought in Freetown, imported from afar. Have to remember to ask him about that on camera, though I've given him lots of grief in person for not frequenting the local market, where you can find all sorts of amazing fruits and vegetables--Chinese eggplant was the most exotic sighting in my last visit.
Now I must go, as I think I'm stretching my hostess's good will. I don't know when I will write again, so here's to disarmament, to finding Opande, to his willingness to remember that it was he who invited me here.
Things in Monrovia are alive in a way that they weren't when we first came. Let's hope that they stay that way.