The Story of Mohamed

I went running on the beach after work yesterday. Traffic was terrible getting from the Embassy to the beach and my usual 25 minute commute took almost 40 minutes. That doesn’t sound like much of a difference, but that put me at the beach later than I prefer. What the delay meant was that I could choose to cut my run short because it would get dark sooner than I planned, or I could stick to my original schedule and run the last bit in the near dark. On this particular day, I had a challenge from my coach so I decided to keep my training schedule and risk the last part of the run in whatever darkness would hit at the end of my session. What, you may ask, has any of this to do with someone named Mohamed? Well, I’m trying to set the scene so you can understand my particular frame of mind when I met Mohamed.

Now back to the run. I have been running consistently 3-4 days a week and trying to improve my stamina and run times. Lately for each session, I have been running 20 for minutes, walking for a minute and then running another 20 minutes. I felt good about that. My coach thought I could do better. He challenged me to do 20 minutes running, reduce the walking to 30 seconds and then run the remaining 20 minutes. I thought this was ridiculously difficult, but decided I might give it a try. I didn’t make my mind up to try it until I was all the way through the first 20 minute run and about 25 seconds into the walk when I thought, oh heck, if I’m going to try this, I only have 5 more seconds to walk! So I took a deep breath and started running, hoping for the best. I felt great and kept going. About 8 minutes from the end of the run (and the place where my car was parked) it started to get pretty dark. My feet were having trouble finding the road and hoped I wouldn’t step in any large holes or trip over a speed bump. The lights from the approaching cars helped some. Remember, in Sierra Leone, there is virtually no power and hence, no street lights. Then, I actually started to run faster—that was definitely not part of my program--but I still felt good and really wanted to get back to the car in one piece. At last, there was the car and I scrambled in. I don’t know what felt better; the fact that I had run nearly 40 minutes non-stop (that measly 30 second rest hardly counted) or the fact that I had survived the darkness without injury, or the fact that I was safe in the car. All in all, I was excited and tired and just wanted to get home after a long day.

As I left the beach road, I could see a line of card stopped ahead of me. The same traffic that had delayed me earlier had obviously moved to my current location and I was dead stopped a long way from home. I was cursing my bad luck and feeling even more anxious to get back to my cozy apartment where there would be a hot shower and dinner on the table made by my wonderful housekeeper Mariama. So I was sweating hot in the car that was not moving an inch, when a large black man walked by my open driver’s window and said, “Hi Madam Becky.” Now, contrary to popular belief, I am not personally known to everyone in Freetown. Obviously this man knew me from somewhere. It was dark and I could not see his face very well but he greeted me again and said, “Madam Becky, it’s me, Mohamed.” Of course that meant that I should also know him but I could not recall from where. Finally I asked him, how we knew each other and he told me he used to be a security guard at my apartment. That explained some of my memory lapse—on this night he was not in uniform but in street clothes. He told me he was on his way to his new job and a few other details about his life. I learned he didn’t have enough money for a taxi (they call it ‘transport’ here) so I offered to pay for his taxi. It’s not very expensive (about $1) and I can afford it so I gave him the money. He remained standing next to my car talking to me as I sat in traffic. I decided to be helpful and offered to drive him to the closest taxi junction so it would be more convenient and cheaper for him to get to work. He was very grateful and climbed in the passenger side. The traffic was still not moving at this point, so Mohamed began to talk again. I should mention here that almost everyone in Sierra Leone is poor--desperately poor. The things you and I take for granted, they cannot even begin to afford, such as a $1 taxi ride. I asked Mohamed an innocent question: Why was he not working at my building any more? His answer turned out to be a long story which broke my heart. Mohamed said that one night when he was on duty at our security gate (a run-down shed, really) he fell asleep sitting in a chair, and the head of Embassy security reassigned him. This happens all the time, I am sorry to say. The guards work 12 hour shifts, 5 or 6 days a week and they are always tired and hungry. Sometimes the only food they get all day is from one of us at the apartment complex. For the privilege of working 240 or more hours a month, they earn 200,000 Leones. Presently, $1 is worth about 3800 Leones. That comes to about $52 per month. Mohamed said he has a wife and 5 children to support. Imagine how far that money has to go. Mohamed said when he lost his job at our apartment building, the security firm relocated him to a complex much further from his house. Because of the distance from his house to the new location, he cannot afford ‘transport’ to get to work so he has to walk—probably about 4 miles each way. His story got worse from there. I began to feel a little guilty about my nice apartment and my hot food waiting on the table. Mohamed said the house he was renting is owned by two sisters who are fighting over who gets to manage the building. The sisters somehow decide they don’t want to rent to Mohamed anymore (because one of the sisters wants to live there) so they threw Mohamed’s possessions out of the house and told him to find another place to live. His family had to be split up between various friends and family until they can find a new place. He recently found a place, but it’s 2,400,000 Leones –up front-- for the year’s rent. That is also typical here. Sierra Leoneans pay all their rent a year in advance. I cannot fathom how someone who makes $52 per month can possibly afford $631 for annual rent all in one lump sum…so he explained how he planned to accomplish this. He told me he sold all of his possessions that are worth anything: tv, dvd player, etc. He was still 400,000 short so he told me the only thing left to sell was his bed. I was in disbelief. He will have to give up a good night’s sleep just to keep a roof over his head. Logical me wondered how he will manage to stay awake at his new job if he can never get proper sleep at home. I thought of how ironic it was that this whole saga started because Mohamed fell asleep in a chair at the Embassy compound. Now it looks as though that chair might be the only place he can sleep again.

All during the story, Mohamed moaned and told me how worried was about his finances and how much he missed his family. Because they are all split up around town, he does not get to see them very often. He also explained that he cannot afford ‘transport’ to go and visit them. I felt terrible; all this because I went running on the beach in the near dark and got stuck in traffic. I felt like I should do something to help Mohamed but all I really did was listen. I knew that his story was typical of almost everyone working at the Embassy in a low-paying job. I hate the fact that the Embassy contractor does not pay them a decent wage, but that is the prevailing wage all over town. The security guards are very lucky to even have a job; most of the people in Freetown are unemployed. I have no earthly idea how they provide for their families.

Mohamed never really came out and asked me for money. I gave him ‘transport’ money of 10,000 Leones, which is about 5 times extra what it will cost him to get to work. I hope he appreciated my gesture and can use the money for some good.

I desperately want Sierra Leone to advance so the people can enjoy a better standard of living. But I cannot do that all by myself. I have given money to people who have sick children, money for school fees, and money for people to visit their families far away in another province. But I cannot help everyone. I wish I could. I wish people in developed countries could witness what I see every day: children as young as 5 with younger siblings tied to their backs as they help their mom sell things by the side of the road; children as young as 2 or 3 who sit alone playing in the dirt as cars fly past right next to them; children who don’t have the privilege of going to school --carrying water jugs on their heads wearing very tattered and dirty clothes; handicapped people who do not have anything more than old wooden crutches to rely on for transportation—they use these for their whole lives; children who are sick with malaria who die because their parents don’t have enough money for medicine. This is life in a third-world, poverty stricken, war- recovering country. I read some of these facts before I came, but nothing prepares you for the abject poverty you see every day. You never get used to it. If I see Mohamed again, I will give him a little more money and tell him I will pray for him.

Hash Run and Sunday Run

For those of you who are wondering, yes, I am still running. Not as often as I would like, but still in the habit. Ever since my first experiment with a 10-k race in Austin for the Austin American Statesman in 2007, (where I was joined by 30,000 other runners) I have considered running an integral part of my life. If I don't run, I don't feel like myself. It helps me exercise, stay fit, and I work out all sorts of problems by running and thinking about things. It's a way to clear my head and let off some stress. I highly recommend it to anyone who wants to find balance in their life. When I first started running, I could not run to the end of my street, so don't have to have any experience to run. I started out slow and I'm still not a fast runner, but I have built up a lot of endurance and stamina over the past two and a half years. If you want a new challenge--try running.

There is a Monday running group called the "Hash House Harriers" and about 50-60 people (both Ex-pats and Sierra Leoneans) run together each week. They have silly traditions after the run and they even drink beer when they get back (which I was initially appalled at but soon got the hang of ....). We set trails, we arrange special runs on the weekends, and do other social activities. It's a great group of people. After 10 runs, you get a Hash name. The group chooses for you. I am now officially called "Pink Lady" and it's official because the group voted on my name and then poured beer all over me. Not what I would have liked as an official ceremony, but it's tradition. A couple of weeks ago, it was my turn to set a trail. We choose a location, mark the trail with shredded paper and the next day the whole group goes on the run by following the paper. I hope you can follow this! Anyway as I was setting the trail with two other guys, I was initiated into the group of people I call "real runners." By this I mean that I got hurt. A real runner is dedicated, trains hard, and eventually gets hurt. I had gone two plus years without so much as an injury. I had been lucky, but that Saturday my luck ran out. I was running down a steep hill that was covered in lava rocks. I set my foot down in the wrong place and as soon as I tried to move it to take the next step, my foot jammed in the rocks and I went down like a ton of bricks. Falling is strange; it's in s-l-o-w motion and you can do nothing to stop it even though you can see the fall coming for seconds that feel like minutes. You know it's going to hurt and there is not a damrn thing you can do to avoid it. I fell on my left arm and hand. I fell hard enough to know I should try and keep myself from crying in front of the guys. Luckily, they were far ahead of me and didn't actually witness the fall, or they probably would have died laughing. So, there I was smashed on the rocks and rolling around trying to stop the motion of hitting any more of my soft body parts on the hard rocks. My shoulder and hand got the worst of it. Both my knees were cut and bleeding but that sting had not hit me yet. I got up as quickly as I could, brushed off the dirt and my bruised ego and scampered down to join the guys. As soon as they saw me, they were worried. Because we were by the ocean, they took me right in the water and washed off the blood. It was then that I noticed that my left hand had a bruise the size of a golf ball. Oh oh, that didn't look good. There was no ice near by (only lots of bright sunshine) so I toughed it out and contined to set the trail. My hand was throbbing but I tried to ignore it since there was nothing I could do. I did run the trail the next day with the group, but my heart was really not in it. I have to tell you that the bruises on my arms lasted a full two weeks. If anyone tried to give me a hug and happened to touch my arms; wow, pure pain. My knees were scabbed over and ugly for the same two weeks, which is particularly bad when you wear dresses to work a lot. But the worst part was the golf ball sized-bruise on my left hand. The bump finally went away but in it's place was a black bruise that made me look like an i.v. drug or heroin user. It was so painful that even typing the first week was difficult. Did I get an x-ray? No. Even if I had, the clinics here probably would not have read the x-ray correctly. I just took ibuprofen a couple of times and waited it out. I still have slight pain in that hand and I think I probably broke a small bone. Welcome to the world of "real runners."

Tonight I went for a typical Sunday run at the beach. It was about 5:00 pm and it had finally stopped raining--which it had been doing for the past two days, since it's rainy season now. I arrived at the beach to park my car and the very first thing that happened, irritate me. Welcome to Sierra Leone--third world country. I was still inside the car, turning off the radio, taking off my jewelry (no need to draw any attention to yourself here), and hiding my purse in the back seat. I looked out my drivers window and there was the source of my irritation. An African mom was standing there with her three little children and one infant tied to her back in the traditional African way. I had not even gotten out of my truck and I was already being accosted by people begging for money. People beg for money all the time here. If you give money to everyone, you will have no money left for yourself. I don't mind giving sometimes, but today I just wanted to enjoy my time alone on the beach and not be confronted by the needy women who seemed to exploit her children for the soul purpose of playing on my sympathy. How could I not give her something? I would have to answer to God and her children; not to mention that I could not even exit my car with her standing there. I reached into my purse and gave her some money and wished for the 100th time that the government of this country would do something more to help it's people so mothers with lots of children can find a decent way to earn money besides preying on white people who run on a Sunday.

Running here in Sierra Leone is much different than running in the U.S. Try to imagine that you are a white person and almost everyone around you is black. You might say you 'stand out.' When I run, people notice me; and it's not for my quick speed. Add to that, the fact that most black people here do not run; they have far too many other back-breaking things to do with their bodies to incorporate running into their routine. So a person who runs is is already somewhat of an oddity. Someone running for fun? What in the world for? So here is me running along the beach. Some of the young black men make comments when I run past....comments like "thanks." I wonder what that means. Does it mean they are thanking me for being cute as I run past? I hope so. Does it mean thanks for saving us from boredom? Probably more likely. Some people say "run faster." To those people I want to turn around and say, "why don't you try running and see how fast you go!" Some people say "white man" or "white woman" (like they can't tell the difference?) and I guess I'm glad at least they know their colors. In Austin, no one would call out the color of my skin as I ran past.

As I drove home, I saw a little girl about two or three years old standing very near the road as cars whizzed past about 30 miles per hour. Not a parent or adult or even another child was anywhere nearby. I used to be surprised by such a sight, but not anymore. Children are often left alone here--its common--but it still upset me that a child that small had no one at that moment to care for her. Next I saw a couple of starving dogs searching endlessly for food. You can see the ribs of the dogs, the skin diseases eating away their furry coats, and the fleas that drive them crazy enough to scratch themselves even in the middle of the road. I have written about starving dogs before, but I never get used to it. The dogs in the U.S. are so pampered. Here we are sometimes glad when a dog dies because it does not have to suffer anymore.

The last stop of my running Sunday was buying bread from a small stand on the side of the road from Abu and his wife Awa. I have been getting bread from them for a couple of months now. They always smile and greet me like a friend and I like ending my day seeing then and having fresh bread for dinner. There are bright spots here in Sierra Leone, you just have to look for them. I will pray for all the people who don't have bread tonight, for all the dogs who don't have food and I hope that the money I gave that woman and her children will help feed them dinner. When you look at the food on your dinner table tonight, be thankful that you have enough to eat. Many people in the world do not. I see it every day here.

All Aboard!!

I leave tonight at 9:40 EST. I'll be in London at 10am London time on Saturday morning; which is somewhere around 4am my time. I hope to catch a nap then tour London for the rest of the day. After that, some sleep at night and then back on the plane to Sierra Leone at 1pm Sunday. I arrive in Freetown around 7pm Sunday night. A person "an Expeditor" is meeting me. When I asked how he will know who I am, I was told that he will be holding a sign with my name on it. Wow, I'm a movie star and a diplomat! Never thought I'd have a sign at the airport.

Today was spent on those last minute things that never seemed to get done earlier; like applying for Student Loan Repayment and signing my will. That was fun...thinking about dying. I think I scared my kids with the thought of my demise. Let's hope it does not happen for many, many years. I also got a safe deposit box at the State Department Credit Union. I KNEW there was a reason I opened that account! I got to go the "little room" in the back of the bank and use my key to "match" the key from the bank and put away my jewelery. A lot of "firsts" in this job. In so many ways, I feel like I'm doing all the things in life that an independent adult does. I guess I've arrived!

Here is my new address:

Becky Cheney
2160 Freetown Place
Dulles, VA 20189-2160

You can send things regular mail with US stamps. All mail goes through Washington DC for security purposes. Go figure. Speaking of security, everyone keeps telling me to be careful. I guess my trusting nature is worrying a lot of people. I promise to try and remember that I'll be living in a third world country and that I can't do things the same way I did them on Silver Creek. I promise NOT to run at night and I promise NOT to be friendly with strangers.

I have to get the laundry, pack, etc, etc. Somehow I ended up with TWO bottles of good champagne in the frig. Wish some of you were here to celebrate this momentous moving with me.

I love you all and promise to keep in touch. I don't know what my communication options will be in Freetown, but I'll notify you that I've arrived somehow.....look out for smoke signals!!

Becky