Waking up in Moyamba.
This is the actual audio from the morning I’m about to describe. I recommend listening to it while you read for a more immersive experience. Enjoy!
My phone’s alarm lifts my slightly annoyed eyelids. It seems silly, but I find myself missing my alarm clock back home—its soft, touch-activated light, symphonic soundtrack and beautiful minimalist aesthetic. I love my alarm clock.
As I silence my phone, my awareness settles on the bubbling chatter floating through the steel bars on my window, straight past the tie-dye curtain. I’ve never experienced a morning so full of life.
Does my second-story room sit just above a school? Seriously—where are all these kids coming from? I walk over to the window to investigate. Pulling aside the curtain reveals a thick fog filling the village below me. It’s nothing like the nearly-freezing fog I know from Willamette Valley winters. That much is obvious by the simple fact that I’ve been sweating all night.
If you’ve never experienced sleeping in a hot, humid climate with no AC, I’d definitely recommend it. Unique experience. Though not altogether pleasant…
We rolled into the small Sierra Leonean town late last night. Moyamba was sound asleep at that point. The only lights within miles were the two guiding our car down the road. Despite the fact that I still can’t actually see anything, Moyamba is obviously bursting with life now. Kids jabbering on about who-knows-what, parents undoubtedly telling them to wash up for school, giggles bouncing back and forth across the street, and confident, careless voices throwing songs into the damp morning air.
As I’m writing this, I’m beginning to understand why that morning seemed so unusual. I’ve lived just outside a small rural town for most of my life. The only audibly lively mornings I experience are full of bird chatter and the occasional sprinkler watering the hazelnut orchard next door. Even when I lived in town, people got ready in the comfort of their insulated home, walked out to the vehicle in their own driveway and went wherever they needed to go. A small-town American morning looks much different than a small-town Sierra Leonean morning. Independence is deeply woven into the fabric of our society. Now back to the story.
There’s a certain therapeutic peacefulness among the chaotic chatter. The soft continuous rumble of voices outside anchors me—I feel strangely at home. Though I’ve only just arrived, it’s as if I’ve been hastily tied into the complex web that holds this town together. The sense of isolation and loneliness that typically rides just below the surface of my consciousness seems to lose its strength in the unintelligible conversation that floods my ears.
Showering is pointless. But brushing my teeth is never pointless. Wherever I am in the world, I may as well be minty fresh. I put on my least sweaty set of clothes and walk downstairs for breakfast. Duck below the ledge that marks the middle of the stairs; straight past the little wiry dog; hop over the mini trench and head left; dodge the colorful hang-drying clothes strung across the corridor; past the car; smile at the guy smoking peacefully on the porch; just past the car; in the open wrought-iron gate to the right.
Of course, I’m the last to arrive for breakfast. Five smiling sleepy faces sit around the table, with preset, plastic-wrapped plates in front of them. “Good morning,” Pastor Francis says in his warm, inviting timbre.
I take my seat, Pastor Francis prays, then we peel the plastic wrap off our delicious breakfast—a couple fried eggs, some sliced plantains, a small loaf of bread and some ketchup and mayo on the side. Of course—just like in America—breakfast is hardly complete without a cup of coffee. A Nescafé instant coffee packet is a familiar friend to my palate in a day of new flavors. Unsurprisingly, life in West Africa tastes quite different from anything I’ve experienced before.
