time, on a cross

A friend of mine likes to use the term "bending time," which I have stolen from him and now myself use, giving him credit of course.  Here in Lunsar, we are indeed able to "bend" time.  The minutes and hours expand and contract as I read, write, run, talk, and work.  Time is malleable here.  It takes on a protagonist or antagonist role.  It even fights you, drags you slowly on your belly through dusty savannah trails with tall grasses.  A hot itchy car wash.  Then at times it puts you on a bucking bull, cinch belt tightened, and lets you out into the ring with clowns, barrels and adoring fans who want to see blood.  But most of all, it is navigable. Put your paddle-less canoe into it's gentle currents, ease back, and watch as the cathedral of trees overhead open and close on a world of inner possibilities.

Yesterday I went into the center of town at high noon in search of a soccer ball, peanuts, and local currency.  The transport of goods, when not packed away in shipping containers or 18 wheelers, can be herculean, awe-inspiring, entertaining, and sad.  But it is visible.  Down to the 5 year old child selling hard boiled eggs with cedar red powdered hot pepper from a tray on top of her head, a colorful bandana holding it firmly in place.  I watched as the world went by on heads, perfectly postured gaits and flip flops below.  I found a peanut vendor rather easily.  A large red plastic bowl held a mountain of roasted peanuts.  An empty plastic mug sat on top.  "How much for your peanuts?" I asked.  "One-thousand seven hundred," the girl replied, no older than 13 years, eyes cast down with lips holding back a smile.  "Okay, I will take them," I said, not wanting to bargain here even though it is customary in the market.  It is less than 20 cents.  Money is, and is not, the answer here.  Since the discovery of diamonds in the 1930's the people of Sierra Leone have not benefited from the hundreds and hundreds of millions of dollars generated from their often clandestine and violent sales.  I smile at her and make some flat joke about the beads of sweat that drip off of my greying beard and say good-bye.

Lunsar Market

We found a place called "David's Nightclub and Restaurant" across from the market and stopped to inquire about lunch.  "We don't have anything prepared today," the woman said as she washed clothes on a washboard in a cavernous courtyard with scattered plastic tables upon which sat old, cloth floral arrangements.  "How about some omelettes," I inquired.  "Yes, I can do omelettes with chips for you," she responded as she showed us to a table near an old concrete stage above which hung revolving colored spotlights.  Grass grew up in the cracks of the concrete floor.  The night club was ordered closed by the local government since Ebola hit the area in May, 2014.

David's Nightclub

As we waited for our meals, a group of young boys, probably around 7-8 years old, sat cutting plastic bags with a pair of scissors.  We walked over and started grilling them with addition and subtraction problems.  They haven't been to school in over 6 months now and closed their eyes when they responded, mostly accurate, to our math games.  Teachers were supposed to conduct lessons on public radio but apparently weren't paid or not enough kids had access to radio.  Anyway, it appears to have stopped.  Another, girl, a little person named Elizabeth, 15 years old, walked slowly towards our table, stopped and said,"I don't have a mummy or a daddy."  And stood there.  My colleague, Richard, a surgical oncologist from the area in Northern California, was in the midst of counting the money we just exchanged.  Haves and have nots in an empty night club waiting for eggs and fries.   Time on a cross.

We ate and paid and emerged back onto the dense, serpentine market place street.  I spotted a soccer ball hanging up from a a crickety wooden stall.  "How much is this lovely ball?" I asked the girl who came running over when I stopped, her 5 year old legs with energy to spare.  "Five thousand," she said, shyly with a smile that seemed to start on one corner of her mouth before running to curl up the opposite side.  I thought of my daughter wanting to sell breath mints at the end of our driveway to passerbys.  "Will you take six thousand," I replied, the smile now flattening in confusion.  "It is five thousand," she reiterated.  Her mom then came over and I gave her six thousand, we both smiled, and we were on our way.

I took that soccer ball to work with me last night to give to Ibrahim, a thirteen year old boy who has recovered from Ebola but still has detectable virus in his blood.  So he cannot be released yet.  He has been with us for 18 days now and has seen his father die in the bed next to him and has witnessed countless children die since he has been there.  When I left, he was sleeping with the ball underneath his blankets.  All of the flood lights remain on in the white tents at night.

I worked with a young Sierra Leonean doctor last night named Kafoe.  He is quiet and efficient.  His hair line has retreated creating a more prominent forehead that gives you the impression of more active contemplation.  I hadn't worked with him before and got a chance in the middle of the night to talk with him about his life.  He informed me that he is one of 70 practicing Sierra Leonean doctors in the country, a country with a population of 6 million.  He detailed the non-existence of health care in Sierra Leone, even well before Ebola.  He balanced his fears for his country with his fear of not being able to make a living once all the international medical groups leave.  His languid eyes harbored the distance they often do when the road has been long and hard.  The look eyes have when they have borne witness to massive casualties.  Dry, forlorn. We shared some protein bars that I brought along and I found out that he is applying to a residency program in Cameroun where I have worked intermittently for a number of years since I served there in the Peace Corps.  We have acquaintances in common, it turns out.  Kafoe has been caring for Ebola sufferers since it first came to Sierra Leone.  He showed me pictures on his phone of loved ones he has lost.  His corners brightened as he told stories about them.  Later, as I lay down on the cot in the medical tent, I heard him unzip the tent and walk outside.  I had no idea what time it was or where he was going.