Ahead of us, the red clay road cuts through a swamp where men use large mesh baskets to mine diamonds. But now, the baskets and shovels are being strewn along the path, and people are beginning to run barefoot across the rocky soil and into the overgrown wilderness. Something is wrong.
Before I have the chance to ask, the Chancellor, who I am walking with, says, “One of the vehicles fell down.”
Perhaps ten minutes before, vehicles on their way to a funeral had passed us on the road to Nyadiama, a village that’s located about a mile from Sembehun. They had called, asking why we didn’t get in, but the Chancellor decided it was better for me to walk rather than take a rickety trucks along the rugged dirt path. I try not to imagine what a Sierra Leone vehicle that has “fell down” would look like. I had contemplated it once before, while barreling down the highway from Freetown to Makeni in a run down poda poda. I sat against the window on one of the little benches you pull out to make extra space with my face bent towards the opening to get a bit of fresh air. If we were to tip over, I had thought, there’s no way I’ll survive. No seatbelts, no ambulances, people packed liked sardines… I decided then that car wrecks were something that were better not to imagine in Salone.
However, as we continued on foot towards the accident, I braced myself for the worse. I heard the wails of women as we approached the throng of people standing around the tipped truck. On the edge of the crowd, a man was rubbing a mashed up leaf into a deep gash that streaked across a woman’s eye. Tears streamed down her face, but she was silent. The accident was not as bad as I had anticipated to tell the truth. Then again, I didn’t see the worst of it because they had already taken some of the victims away on motorcycles to get to the hospital. I felt helpless standing there watching and holding my umbrella over the woman with the cut eye.
Eventually, we continued along the road to Nyadiama, where I attended my first Sierra Leonean funeral. After the body was prepared for burial, and people had prayed, the men carried the body to the grave while the women began to sob with exaggerated wails. The wails mixed with the sounds of prayers sung in Arabic, and rain steadily fell over the crowd.
I had been frustrated with many things earlier that day. I was tired of never being alone – of having people arrive at my home at 6:30 every morning and not leaving until I went to bed at night. I was disappointed that my house was not finished. I was frustrated because I did not know how to politely tell people that I am capable of sweeping my own floor and cooking my own food. Both the crash and the funeral put things into perspective for me. I have no real reason to complain about anything.
After the funeral, the Chancellor took me to see the site where he wants to build a new primary school. He had applied for funds from USAID a year ago, but still hadn’t heard back. “Now that you’re here, maybe things will change,” he told me. I wish that were true, but obviously I have no power to tell the US how to direct their development funds. Still, it was hard not to be hopelessly idealistic as I stood looking out at the grassy field with a cluster of young children standing a few feet behind me, knowing that if a school were to be built here they would no longer have to trek almost two miles to go to class.
Nevertheless, goals like building schools will have to wait. For now, I just have to focus on the basics of my job – teaching English to secondary school students. That in itself is no small task.
Yesterday, the principal of my school let me make the class schedule. It was exciting to feel like I was actually doing something for once. Prior to this, my major accomplishments had been starting a fire and answering basic questions in Mende. According to the Peace Corps stipulations, we’re only allowed to teach 16 classes a week so we can get used to teaching. At first, that sounded like a full load to me, but I don’t think I really appreciated just how great the need is for teachers at my school. I had agreed to teach all three levels of Junior Secondary School (JSS), which would total 15 periods a week. However, it turns out that JSS I is spilt into two classes. I said I would teach both even though it means 20 periods a week. I promise that decision was purely pragmatism on my part. Ever student that passes JSS I this year will be in my JSS II class next year, and I want them all on the same page. Less pragmatic is the fact that I may have agreed to teach five periods of JSS I math as well…
There’s just not enough teachers to teach math and science. The students are supposed to have five periods of all core subjects a week, but last year they only had three. Right now one teacher is teaching all the math and science classes. I might be biting off more than I can chew by agreeing to help out with math, but I couldn’t stand just leaving the classes out because there was no one to teach them. Oh well, I had the habit of committing to too much in the US too, and I always managed somehow. I suppose some things never change...
