Online Liberia

Check out the following two presentations of Tim Hetherington's photographs of Liberia during its violent "crisis".

Liberia Retold

Liberian Graffiti

Hetherington was also involved in filming the below documentary which details the end of the violent conflict in the country about eight years ago.

Fourth, Morning Mocha

Step 1:

Wake up to an African children's choir. This can be energetic and soulful. If a less vocally talented kid is asked to lead it can also be energetic and awful...but in a cute way.

Step 2:

Untuck mosquito net and crawl out of bed. Shorts, shirt, flip flops...ready.

Step 3:

Greet anyone you may see in or around the house.

"Good morning."

"Good morning. How did you sleep?"

"Fine. And you?"

"I say thanks to God."

Step 4:

Take plastic, purple mug. Scoop in one teaspoon of Nescafe instant goodness.

Step 5:

Open tin of milk powder. If tin is empty find Nancy who might let you in to the store eventually... Scoop two heaped teaspoons of milk powder in to purple mug.

Step 6:

Open sugar. Allow sugar ants to disperse. Silently grumble about the person who didn't close the sugar properly allowing the sugar ants excited access. Drop two sugar cubes in to purple mug.

Step 7:

Open cocoa powder. Scoop one teaspoon of cocoa in to purple mug.

Step 8:

Add hot water from the flask to purple mug half full of powder. Stir. Continue to stir.

Step 9:

Bring purple mug of mocha magnificence out on to veranda and sit in the cool(er) morning air. Watch this little world go by. Greet the farmers as they go past. "Buwaa". Greet the kids as they bustle around doing their morning chores. "Morning Uncle!" Greet the little groups of Mogborians who pass by on their way to school with their little green uniforms and their little black plastic bags which might have a worn out copy book, a pencil and probably a razor blade* inside. "Kahuin ye na?"

*The razor blade is for sharpening the pencil. And may have already been used to give a boy a haircut.

Step 10:

Repeat process during cool of evening.

Third, the 4th July

There is a whole bunch of people who think that 4th July is the day when a nation celebrates the overthrow of its colonial masters and the declaration of its independence.

What a load of nonsense.

The 4th July is the day we celebrate the birth of a girl called Massah. Because she makes the world a more beautiful place.

Stick that in your firework and smoke it.

Second, Peemeh

I was in a small poda poda mini bus on the way to Banta trying very hard yet failing really quite spectacularly to grasp the most basic mende greetings. I don’t know if it was the 5 am start from Freetown that was making my mind sluggish. I had really been quite on edge when I squeezed on the bus that morning with my team of American interns – I just had no idea what I was doing and the reality of a year in Sierra Leone was stretching itself out in front of an intimidated me. I found myself seated next to one of my team leaders, Laura and a Sierra Leonean poda poda “apprentice” called Francis. My conversations that day with both Laura and Francis would be the start of my finding my feet in a place I quickly grew to adore.

Francis would say something really basic like “Hello” – “Buwa”. And I would repeat it. And then my mind would take that little piece of knowledge, crumple it up in its hand and nonchalantly toss it over its shoulder.

“I’m sorry Francis, what was it again?”

Looking back that turned out to a blessing disguised as stupidity because it gave Laura the kind of idea that occurs to a lover of exclamation marks and the word “awesome”.

“Let’s make a song out of it! And that’ll help us remember!!! This is going to be awesome!!!”

I can tease Laura because she knows I love her but it actually worked a treat and turned in to a ridiculous rap which we performed to the great hilarity of our children when we arrived. Imagine your reaction if a bunch of West Africans came to your house and started (badly) singing at you with a broadly smiling enthusiasm which you can tell is putting exclamation marks after everything in its head while warbling and rapping the following -

“Hello! Hello! Hello!
Thank you!
How are you!? I thank God!
What’s your name!?”

The kids still sing it at me from time to time.

Francis also gave me a quite precious gift on that dusty and slow road to Banta. He gave me my name. Visitors to Sierra Leone will not have to wait long before they are renamed and for me it was Francis who did the honours. He called me “Peemeh”, the man who runs. And Peemeh has been my African alter-ego ever since.

I have yet to meet another Peemeh which just makes the name all the more “mine”. Since the locations and circumstances around them are so different so there are differences between “Mark” and “Peemeh”. They dress differently, speak differently and spend their time differently. Probably the biggest difference is how much time I spend with children as Peemeh. There are few things I find as joyful as playing ridiculous games, singing silly songs and literally making fun with a group of kids. I was leaving from Belfast City Airport to fly to Freetown via London last year and while I was queued up at security the wee girl in front started playing a little game where she would take her bag and nudge my hand luggage until it nudged back. She seemed to think this was just hilarious entertainment until her father informed her that she wasn’t behaving herself. And I realised that I hadn’t really spent any time with children when I had been at home in Belfast. And how that was about to change. Because I was about to be called “Uncle Peemeh” again.

Alright then, who wants to play Balance Ball?

First, The Mango Tree

In two weeks time I will be packing my bags, frustrated about why I always leave things until the very last moment and wishing I had an intern to bail me out like last August. In two weeks and one day I will be on a plane to West Africa full of Sierra Leoneans flying home to celebrate 50 years of independence.

And so the adventure will continue...

As we entered April it struck me how soon all of this was going to happen. Today a nurse stuck a needle in my arm to restock my supplies of resistance to typhoid, something which also makes future travel feel close. And so over the next few days I will be blogging about the things I am most looking forward to. Of course I could tap on my keyboard about the many things I will miss about being with my family and friends in Belfast and some of the things I won't be excited about finding myself once again in the midst of...but let's be positive here...

First, The Mango Tree.

I am looking forward to the journey to Banta immensely. Sitting in the van watching the jungle and villages rush past. Waving to kids amused by my funny coloured face. Testing out my rusty krio and even rustier mende on women and kids selling on the side of the road. I love taking this trip with interns and answering their wide eyed questions, pointing things out as we drive and feeling their nervous excitement but I am actually looking forward to travelling alone this time around and just being able to focus on my own feelings of being back again. And then we'll reach Mosenesi Junction and suddenly I'll feel like a coiled spring.

The road from Mosenesi to Ngolala isn't particularly long but my mind plays tricks all the way along as it flicks through memories of numerous past journeys, trying to recall exactly how close that particular corner or village now makes us. Staring out the front window and wanting to see one thing - the mango tree. Ryszard Kapuściński writes about how where you see a mango tree you can often be confident that there will be a village nearby - these trees are so often used as meeting places as people enjoy the shade they provide not to mention the annually amazing season of fresh fruit. The mango tree I will look for sits almost directly opposite the entrance to my African home - Children of the Nations' Banta ministry site.

When I last arrived I stepped out of the van and knew I should wait until everyone else was ready so that we could greet the children, who had all lined up at the gate, together. As the team of interns I was with unloaded from the vehicle I sneaked a peak around its corner. Maseray was stood at the gate post beside Marie Marrah and I could see her do a shy little smile and mouth, "It's Uncle Mark!" I pulled a silly face at her and hid behind the van again. Checking that everyone was ready I turned around to lead them through the gates to where the children were starting to sing their greeting to us.

"You are welcome, welcome now!
You are welcome, welcome now.
So you are welcome.
And I am welcome.
And you are welcome, welcome now!"

But as I turned around I almost tripped over Pastor who had broken from the ranks to wander over and say his own personal hello. He looked up at me and wordlessly jumped up in to my arms.

I was welcome.