Wi Fambul Dem (Our Family)

Post by Lara

25 June 2012

Almost 2 weeks ago we met our host family during a large, loud, rather disorganized “Pul-na-do", or Adoption Ceremony (the phrase literally means, "taking outside"-- because there is a big ceremony here when you take your newborn child outside for the first time and present her to the community).  Before we got to meet them, though, we needed to get from Freetown to the training site, which involved a long bus ride.

Because I was feeling poetic or something, I wrote most of this post in the present tense. For continuity’s sake, we’ll just keep it that way:

 I am not feeling well on the day we are to leave the city—digestive problems. We’re all quite used to feeling ill right now- the food is heavy on palm oil and spice which is tough on our unaccustomed bellies, and there are also plenty of viruses and bacteria to knock you down for a day or so. I believe the culprit this time was a “granat kek,” a peanut brittle-like cake that I bought from a boy in the stadium the day before. I knew it was iffy when I ate it but it looked so darn delicious I decided to risk it.  I’ll stick with the sesame seed “beni keks” from here on…they aren’t so sticky and I think are less likely to be harboring bugaboos.

The trip to our training site takes around 4 hours from Freetown.  The first hour and a half we are still in Freetown, weaving through narrow streets and trying to make our way to the UN-built highway that cuts through Salone.  One of our colleagues buys a package of biscuits [cookies] from a street vendor through the window as we sit in traffic.  I spend some time furtively snapping photos of the streets and buildings, nervous that I may offend someone.  The Sierra Leone guide book that we bought before leaving warned that people here often get upset if you take photos of them without first asking permission.  When I tire of that, I drift off for a nap.  (Some photos I snapped are below)

The highway takes us past miles and miles of palm trees, rice farms, and wilderness dotted with small villages.  The speed limit is 80km/hour, but traffic sometimes slows down, and the villagers all stop to watch the busloads of white people (pumoi or oporto, depending on the region) pass by.  We also are stopped on occasion by police blocks, which tend to let us pass through with no issues.  We’ve heard that when they travel alone, Peace Corps volunteers are nearly always questioned at these stops, so we’re advised to always have our Peace Corps ID and other papers with us.  Of course no 4-hour bus ride is complete without a rest stop...let me just say that Sierra Leone's public facilities look a whole lot like the rest of the countryside. Pull the bus over; guys stand; girls squat.

At the end of the journey, we pull off the new, smooth highway and onto a bumpy orange dirt road. We jostle up a hill for a few minutes and then pull into a compound with a large iron gate.  When the buses stop, we gather our belongings and shuffle out of the buses to a throng of people- our host families, waiting to see who will host which volunteer, all very excited to meet us.  The adoption ceremony begins with the same dignified air that we’ve become accustomed to in our short time here. The mayor, the representative of the Ministry of Education, and our country director all give small speeches.  Prayers are said by an imam and a pastor, and then they call the families up one by one and introduce them to their new charge.  They are in no particular order that we can tell.  Each family snaps a quick photo with their trainee, and they all shuffle out into the yard for supper.  There are not enough chairs to go around.

When it’s our turn, our family is told “Congratulations- it’s twins!”  We are the only couple in Salone 3, so our family is the only one lucky enough to get two mouths to feed for the next 10 weeks.  They are very pleased.  I am still feeling unwell, so I pick at my food and mostly push it around the plate. My host father looks over and states, “You eat poorly”.  

When everyone else is finished eating, they pick up our bags and lead us to their house.  It is just outside the training site, a 5 minute walk.  We meet our youngest sisters at home, age 5 and 8. They are thrilled to see us, and love to pet our “soft” hair.  I sit down immediately with our host mother and make a family tree to help me remember everyone’s name. We have a mother and a father, two brothers, and four sisters. Our Granny also lives with us.  Our mother explains to me that the older boy and the two older girls are a nephew and nieces who live here to be closer to their schools. The labels that we are used to putting on family at home are different from here—even though they are biologically cousins, the children call each other brother and sister because they live together, and they call our parents Mama and Papa. 

The house is small but very nice, with a gated-in veranda in the front and the back.  Our bedroom is bigger than the one we left in Ohio, and has an attached bathroom with toilet and shower area.  We spend a while unpacking our things, and then go to the parlour where they set out fried plantains and potatoes for us to eat. We eat almost all of it.  Afterward, the family gathers and they put on a Nigerian movie for us to watch.  We retire fairly early, ready to head to training the following morning.