Post election Obama euphoria

This city is still alive with excitement over Obama’s victory. Neighbors call out “Obama” when I walk or run by; the internet carries stories of Obama supporters expressing their joy at his election. My Obama t-shirt brings shouts of approval. And when I bought cooking gas at a Lebanese grocery store, the Lebanese man I spoke with was introduced as “Barak Obama.” (His actual name is Bahrat.)
Those fortunate enough to have access to television speak of staying up till near dawn here to see the results and listen to Obama’s victory speech (and McCain’s gracious concession remarks). Many have expressed the feeling that Obama as President will not only help bring more peace to the world but will change the image of America in the world.

Running in Sierra Leone (Bob)

In Mississippi it was hard to find hills to train on; here it’s hard to find a flat area. One of my runs is from our home in Hill Station (a residential ridge high above the central part of the city) through a valley and up a mountain peak (Leicester) behind the U.S. Embassy, and back home. It’s a run of about an hour, much of it on rocky, dirt paths. Usually young children shout out a welcome along the way. Adults give encouragement with a smile or greeting, or return a wave.

My track workouts are at the national stadium where I run with members of various clubs who are currently training for a national meet in December. The other day we did 600 meters/500/400/300/200/100 then repeated it. I was far behind the first set but keeping up with the end runners the last set. The coach is an enthusiastic former national sprint champion who yells encouragement to me from time to time.

The crazy runs are with the “Hash,” a weekly event for walkers and runners up and down steep dirt trails through mostly low income residential areas. As we run, people give friendly greetings and finger-pointing directions to those who lag behind the group. Because the trail setters intentionally put markers that lead to some dead ends or turnaround markers, the slow runners usually catch up to the faster ones doubling back. Betty, well on the road to her recovery from her back injury, walked with the Hash recently.

“Don’t eat your flashlight” (Bob)

Since we get electricity only about one night out of three, we use the generator we purchased to give us a couple hours of light most other nights. But we have a lot of hours with just candles or rechargable Chinese-made hand held lights. I had not realized how accustomed we were to having electricity routinely available back home.

To keep track of fuel use on the generator, our landlord suggested writing down the amount on hand and the hours it is turned on. So on generator nights I go out into the unlit parking lot inside the compound (which itself is surrounded by a high wall and has a tall metal gate). Alpha, one of the security guards, and I sit down on the steps to fill out the fuel book (we have duplicate copies). To write, we each put our narrow flashlights in our mouth to free our hands and shine on the books. Our mutual joke has become: “Don’t eat your flashlight.”

Pushing the refrigerator across the kitchen. More recently the periodic electricity has powered only half our outlets, a phased power plan that I suppose saves even more on the nation’s fuel costs (the power company is running a daily deficit at present). Sometimes this means we have to push our small refrigerator across the kitchen to the powered outlet. It also means sometimes we don’t get power for the water heater but do get it for the wall unit air conditioner in our bedroom. Those are special nights when we lie inside our mosquito net-covered double bed and have to pull a sheet over us because it’s chilly.

Romantic candle-lit dinners. On the brighter side of this darkness, Betty and I have been reacquainted with the charm of dinners by candlelight. We often eat on the balcony from which we can see barely visible lights of distant fishing boats on the ocean.

Images from Freetown (Betty)

Here are some images from Freetown, the capital of Sierra Leone. In recent years people have flooded to it from the countryside, mainly because of all the unrest during the war. And once people get there they discover the excitement of city life and they don’t want to go back to the village. It is an old city as you see from the mixture of old and new buildings, the streets are narrow and filled with cars, the sidewalks have been taken over by vendors forcing the pedestrians to walk in the streets with the cars. Still I find it exciting, in the sense that you always see something new or different, frustrating when you are in a taxi trying to get somewhere, the traffic is backed up, and you are smelling noxious fumes, scary as the taxi is always close to hitting either people walking along side the streets or the approaching cars.

Images from Charlotte village (Betty)

I am finally posting images from an earlier visit to Charlotte, which is an amazing village! Small old wooden houses, often called Creole cottages, probably built in the 1800’s or early 1900’, dotted the lush hillside, many surrounded by flowering shrubs. Some were in relatively good shape and even painted and others were falling down but still lived in. A guide appeared and invited us to walk through the village and up to St. John’s Anglican Church built in 1847. The notice board listed the names of some of the members who had made financial pledges. Near the stone built church were the ruins of an even older girl’s school started in 1816. Along the way we were warmly greeted by the villagers, especially the children, and allowed to take photos. Sierra Leoneans have had a really long history of interacting with Westerners and more evidence remains from those days than I have seen in many other African countries.

"We defeated the British"

I am teaching a section of the third year contemporary politics course (British politics) on American politics, with some history (including the defeat of the British). The class started at 10 but reached an enrollment of 40+ quickly. Most students seem used to lectures and feedback on the all-important final exam worth 70 percent of their grade. That’s fairly typical in the U.S., too, though the final is usually worth less.

But my style is different. I use debates, role playing, lots of discussions, and quizzes to keep students focused on the readings they need to have intelligent discussions. So when I divided up the class into teams to be in charge of presenting the next week’s readings in some interesting form, they were surprised. When I sent the first team out of the room to prepare, I had to ask several times for them to stand up, move out, and prepare. Outside the door they began talking in loud voices about their topic: the U. S. Constitution. So I asked one of our two class representatives to ask tell them to move down the hall - and not shout. My other class rep told me quietly: the students are not used to this kind of teaching, but they like it. We’ll see; I hope so.

My third class (comparative politics) is with graduate students: a grand total of three, when they all come. We had no classroom assigned, so we meet on the shaded balcony of one of the buildings. So far we’ve focused mostly on how to do research. I’m just glad classes finally started (early November); a Fulbright fellow in Mali says classes there won’t start till December.

Research isn’t easy in a country where almost all students can not afford books; and where book are mostly unavailable anyway. The internet cafes charge about $1 to $1.30 an hour with slow downloading. Campus computers (there are about 80) often have waiting lines formed behind the users. The university library suffers from students cutting out pages or even throwing books out the window because there is no copying facility available before the checkout and because copying costs money (though not much: about 3 cents a page). Still there is a reserve section (no check outs allowed). And the librarian, Mr. Oliver L. T. Harding, is enthusiastic and experienced.

100 + eager students in an unlit hall

Registration for the freshman human rights and democracy class kept growing. It quickly reached 50, then more than doubled by the time classes finally started. We meet in a large unlit hallway with no equipment, not even a blackboard. Students squeeze in five or six to a bench – wooden benches, no backs; narrow wooden desks. But students show every sign of being eager to learn. For them it’s a step toward a profession, a career.

I read before coming about a lecturer (as they call university-level teachers here) who had to practice speaking in a loud voice to be heard by a large class here. Speaking isn’t the problem; listening is. Even minimal conversation in low voices among 100 students creates a rumble that can quickly drown out a voice at one end of the class from being heard at the other. But so far, its not bad. My co-teacher, Ibrahim Bangura, insists on discipline and expelled one noisy student from class the first day. I’ve made an agreement with the students that is holding pretty well: whenever I raise my hand, the class should become quiet. I don’t do it very often, but when I do they are pretty respectful and quiet down.

In fact I’m proud of their behavior so far. We had a research workshop the other day. One class requirement is to do a 7-page research paper on a human rights topic of their choice. Another requirement is to do ten hours of community service: teaching human rights in a local school or other institution. They had many questions because they had not done either kind of assignment. But when I asked them to sit in groups of about ten and quietly (indoor voices; no shouts) discuss their planned topics, they were very quiet. And their proposals are sound.

But more than half flunked the first quiz. They’re not used to quizzes; I said one was coming, but the non-note takers apparently didn’t heed the warning. There will be more.

I’ve read their personal statements, including experiences in war and peace (more on that in a separate posting on this blog) and they have seen hell during the civil war which ended only a few years ago. They want to be peacemakers and human rights activists, lawyers, judges, etc. They also want to help promote peace. Community service in this class offers them a chance. And it reinforces what they learn in class and reflect on.