The Mosque [Thursday, July 26]

I stared down at my pale feet, alone in a sea of freshly scrubbed black feet lined up along stripes of black on the navy blue carpet. The rows of feet were only interrupted by plastic bags separating our sandals from the sacred floor.

Some men wore traditional African attire complete with the usual hat; others bright plastic colored Nike sweat-suits and American football jerseys stamped with "50 CENT" in ragged lettering.

Outward appearance didn't seem to matter. For the first time in two months there were no people staring, no shouts of "white boy," no hushed whispers, no indication that I was different in any way. No one reached for my pocket or held out their hand, waiting for a few coins. There was more important matters at hand.

They ran their fingers down their prayer beads, eyes fixed upwards, gazing through the fluorescent lights purple with age flickering on the white pillars and illuminating a thick blue stripe that encircled the walls.

The loudspeaker crackled a few arabic words. The men cried out a chant in response and immediately hundreds of bodies fell to the floor, their lips quivering with prayer millimeters from the dark carpet. I clumsily imitated Osman as he stood, bowed and prostrated himself.

Earlier in the day, I went with Tamara, Mags (both iEARN interns) and Mariam (Moses's older sister) to a morning conference on women's rights at TEDEWOSIL, (I have no idea what the acronym stands for) but their motto is "Thorough Empowerment and Development for Women and Girls in Sierra Leone." It's run by an incredibly charismatic lady who works to provide job training for impoverished girls. I'm not exactly sure what the conference was about as most of the speeches were in Krio, but, like most events in Sierra Leone, it began with a prayer that was followed by a plethora of speakers rambling on in a mixture of Krio, English, and development-speak. I wasn't really paying attention, trying to convince my camera work properly when the man presiding at the conference (on woman's rights!) said "woman are such tolerant animals." The three of us westerners exchanged shocked glances - this was a conference on woman's rights, after all, but we seem to be alone in considering his statement to be a bit demeaning.

After the conference, I went to iEARN and continued planning the exhibition with a few of the students. We went to one the schools to ask if we could use their hall, but the principal demanded Le 350,000, claiming that's the price set by the school board. I tried to explain that we weren't doing this to make money, but he didn't seem to understand the concept. Despite several of my students coming from that school, I was only able to bargain him down to 250,000. (Everything is negotiable is Freetown, even strict prices supposedly set by school boards.) Still, there's no way we could afford that, as I will probably be paying for the exhibition out of my own pocket... We returned to iEARN, where I asked Andrew to go talk to the ministry about possibly funding the exhibition while Mamadu went to go talk the principal at his own school, WAM Collegiate, about using their hall for the exhibition.

That evening, I had met Osman, my running partner, at his house in Eastern Freetown by the clocktower. He lives with one of his father's friends who owns a three story building that is still under construction, but when a city is as overcrowded as Freetown, that is only a minor annoyance.

Osman asked me what I wanted to drink - Sprite, Fanta, Coke, or Vimto. I attempted to refuse, knowing those 300 mL of chilled refreshment would cost more than Osman could afford. It was futile. Osman vanished, leaving me sitting on a second story balcony in the usual white plastic chair. I stared out at a battle between a line of parked podas, a line of podas creeping down the road, and the masses of people meandering, all squeezed onto a tiny one way street constrained by open sewers on either side.

One of his cousins and her friend sat opposite me on the balcony, engaged in a popular board game. They ignored me. Osman returned with a single frigid Sprite perspiring in the evening air. Two other cousins - both named Mariatu - swarmed around the two of us, talking excitedly, their Krio heavily intoned with the Barrie's family native Fullah language. The elder Mariatu was sent for a bottle opener, and returned with a rusting piece of metal inscribed with "STAR" - the local beer. We moved inside to a tattered couch. A poster of Mecca hung above us. I drank the last of the Sprite. The others kept chattering above the din of the streets just outside. Two teenage boys walked through the room, lugging a generator and a precious gallon of fuel. Although generators are usually too expensive for a single family, it seems that just about everyone shares one with a neighbor, lighting up the city in the twilight hours.

We walked through the streets over to the mosque. We did not go in, but instead around to the side, where Osman showed me how wash my face, arms and feet at a long concrete bench and sink, although the water was don don for the day so we had to buy two plastic bags of water for a few block (one block is Le 100). We slipped our sandals back on for the short walk over to the entrance. I put my sandals in a plastic bag and walked up the step into the mosque.

After about twenty minutes of prayer, Osman and I dodged our way through the streets still pulsating in the early hours of the night until we reached a friend's store.

Mohamed Bah manages a typical small shop. The interior is only big enough for a wooden bench and a small chair; tonight Mohamed was helping two younger Muslim men interpret the Koran. The two students pondered the Arabic letters, sometimes pausing to ask Mohamed for clarification. His face lit by candle, Mohamed quietly told me about the "beauty of Islam;" those who grow up Muslim "don't care about the faith, but converts in the West - they can research on the computer and know everything about the Koran and Islam. They're good Muslims."

My phone rang, providing an excuse to leave the cramped shop and return to the relative luxury of the YMCA. Osman insisted on walking me through the crowded streets of PZ before leaving me alone to walk the last half mile to the YMCA on the dark streets near the statehouse and Ministry of Defense. Darkness pervaded the city streets, nearly deserted except for dogs milling about, lapping water from puddles and barking at invisible opponents.