MALARIA MEDS FOR BREAKFAST
BY MAX HUDGINS
I thought the best thing that could prepare me for a trip to Africa was spending sixteen years of my life growing up in Panama. I was wrong. The best preparation for Africa is, in fact, the flight over. Sick, tired, and essentially traveling Panama for the last two weeks was my preface to yet another plane ride. This time to Sierra Leone. On Air Senegal, there is no boarding order. Everyone’s group is number one and that’s who they look out for.
Once on the plane, I realize that, besides the flight attendants, I stand out as the only white guy. Most of the other passengers are likely going home to see moms, dads, sisters, brothers, cousins, uncles, grandparents and other friends. Not me. I more often than not get a lot of jokes and odd stares when I tell people my dream vacation destinations. To be fair, countries like Albania, Bosnia & Herzegovina, Bulgaria, and Sierra Leone aren’t exactly tourist hotspots. While most other people might choose to tan on the Amalfi coast, party in Barcelona, or eat croissants under the Eiffel Tower, none of those places really ever interested me. I’ll have my summer vacation in Sierra Leone thank you.
Before we even take off, we notice a guy seated in front of us who started the welcome party a little too early and was very, very, drunk. He was on the phone with his girlfriend right up until he lost signal, the captain at one point confiscated his large Modelo, and I’m pretty sure he was the one smoking in the bathrooms (which also had no water). He also managed to piss off everyone around him and was threatened to be put on the no-fly list. I felt bad. Largely because he would have one of the worst hangovers in about six hours and still be stuck on a plane.
While going through SL customs the customs agent asked us for a “tip”. Visas and yellow fever vaccines were in order so what the “tip” was for I have no idea but we obliged anyway. When in Rome. To get to Freetown from the airport you have to take a shuttle to a water taxi, both of which only run when flights come in. After going from Panama to DC to New York to Senegal to The Gambia and, lastly, to Sierra Leone in the span of about a week, I was exhausted, smelly, still sick, and just ready to be done with the day. On the boat ride from Lungi to Freetown, I had the opportunity to sit up front and take in the full view of the stars and the Freetown lights. It was there that my attitude changed. I tasted the salt from the Atlantic. My exhaustion and smell of my own sweat dissipated. I felt that I came back to life, and began to remembered just how much I enjoy the actual travel parts of travel.
The first thing I notice about Sierra Leone is how reminiscent it is of home. Granted, there are a lot of differences and I wouldn’t exactly say Panama and Salone are similar countries but a lot reminds me of where I grew up. The jungle, rainy season, the humidity, an overall relaxed and laid-back attitude, even the smell of cheap diesel, which I thought I had gotten used to taking water taxis and run-down busses my whole life, still proves to be headache inducing.
What’s most surprising is the military presence. Anywhere you look you can find someone in a camo suit, beret, and sunglasses toting a rusty AK. Still, seeing bunkers, barricades, checkpoints, and guard towers with RPG-7s hanging out of them is always a nice treat for a guy who studied Peace, War, and Defense. These guys stand out to the majority of foreigners, but in places like the Sani Abacha market, I think I tend to stand out more than them.
Everyone else seems to have a rhythm that, as a foreigner, is hard to lock into. They all seem to know where to step to avoid hitting that lady carrying drinks in an ice bucket on her head and when to move out of the way when a truck full of cut wood rolls through. Then there’s me. Probably messing up someone’s commute because I didn’t realize there was a bus behind me while taking pictures of the stature in the middle of the market.
Most nights here are spent at Lumley beach with beer and the best oceanfront views Freetown has to offer. When traveling anywhere, my drink order is usually the same: whatever is popular with the locals. In the former British colonies of West Africa, Guinness (often my go-to order anyway) is the drink of choice for many. But I can get that just about anytime I want in the states. While in West Africa, Nigerian Star beer has been the best drink with any meal.
If beer isn’t to your liking and you want something a little fancier, palm wine is the way to go. I have no idea how it’s made. Even with my experience serving wine, don’t ask me what varietals are in it, what it would pair well with, its clarity, tannin concentration, if it’s dry or not, tasting notes, or persistence. And no, if I had to guess, it’s probably not a vintage. We got a scoop of the good stuff from a guy on the side of the road and put it in our empty water bottle, sipping it as we drive around the peninsula. Still, one of the better wines I’ve ever had.
After a week in Sierra Leone, we set our sights on a lovely luxury weekend in the markets and on the beaches of Accra, Ghana. Apparently, you need visas to get into some countries. Who knew? Not us. We booked our tickets to Ghana without checking and, lo and behold, you need visas. Right before we hopped on the boat to cross the bay between Freetown and Lungi, we were pulling a rush job: filling out paperwork, taking headshots, and paying for visas 12 hours before our flight. Yes, Wells Fargo, my card is in my possession and you can authorize my payment to Africa Diaspora Resource Center Ghana for a visa. Yes, I know there’s a foreign transaction fee.
Walking around the markets of Accra I notice people seem to hate my camera here more than Freetown. It makes sense. To me, it would be like going to the supermarket and seeing some weirdo who doesn’t speak your language take photos of you and your kids in the cereal aisle. You probably wouldn’t react well. For that reason, I keep my camera down and off in the busier parts of Accra. While the interactions are often positive, I have had an old lady or two grab at me or tell me no pictures unless I pay. Don’t worry, I got the memo. You and your market stall are safe.
The coast is riddled with colonial-era forts-turned-refugee camps turned-prisons. Once monolithic symbols of Portuguese, Spanish, Danish, Swedish, Netherlandish, German and British oppression, they now lay empty and crumbling. Ussher fort in Jamestown stands out. Overlooking the once beautiful beaches and fishing villages, the only things to see now are mountains of used clothes, probably donated by some well-intentioned family from the Midwest who wanted to make a little difference. Out of work fishermen fix up their boats all day only to be outfished by large industrial trawlers who unload their catch at Jamestowns brand-new industrial fishing center, courtesy of China. The industrialization of Jamestown has brought jobs to local fishermen but the fish are footing the bill. Walking down what should be a pretty beach feels apocalyptic. Livestock live right on the beach surrounded by plastic waste and old clothes. With these views in mind, I still decided it would be a great idea to go surfing…
…albeit a lot further down the coast. Growing up surfing I know waves when I see them. Kokrobite beach had none. Well, that’s not completely true. Kokrobite beach had some, but the overcast combined with the waves’ choppiness, small size, and little power didn’t exactly inspire confidence. I held out hope, when I come to surf West Africa, I surf West Africa. Unlike Panama, getting out there is the easy part, catching the waves is the real challenge. Still, I am outclassed by guys twice my size on boards half as big as mine. They ride like pros on waves I thought uncatchable, and that continually evade me. When I do manage to catch one, my attempt to turn a much bigger board than I’m used to knocks me off after only a few seconds. But at least I can say I caught one. I surfed the great waves of Kokrobrite off the coast of Ghana, surrounded by bits of plastic bags. Another unfortunate reminder of home beaches and life in the 21st century.
Back again to Sierra Leone, same song and dance. Land, customs, buy exit tickets, buy ferry tickets, wait for bus, take bus, wait for ferry. This time in a heavy downpour, two guys with umbrellas escort a line of around 50 people to the ferry three at a time. That is, until the rain lets up and they decide “ah screw it, just walk the thirty feet to the boats.” The waves are choppier this time on account of the weather, and halfway through my dad leans in and lets me know these things occasionally sink. I probably could have guessed that from the rain leaking through the roof onto passengers, the ten-second orientation that just showed us where life vests were, or the fact that we’re rocking back and forth like a freighter in the North Sea. Now I’m seasick and looking for the exit.
West Africa has been an experience I likely will not forget anytime soon. I’ve embraced living like the locals, sipping star beer, taking long walks on the beach to rusty abandoned ships, and eating okra, cassava leaf, ground nut stew, and fufu. Despite instructions to take them every day before, during, and after my trip, I’ve even stopped taking malaria meds. Who knows, if I’m unlucky, I might get a not so gentle reminder of West Africa much sooner than I hoped for.
MAX HUDGINS is an American traveller, scuba diver, and writer. He was born in Washington, DC, but grew up in the Republic of Panama since he was four years old. He has travelled extensively throughout Latin America and Eastern Europe and his favourite country to visit is Albania. You can find him on Instagram @m.hudg or via email at maxhudgins02@gmail.com.