Working in an employment development programme was always going to be challenging on account of Sierra Leone’s weak state structures, that much was clear. I tried to prepare myself for the hot and sticky climate by going to the sauna, too. But as it turned out, everyday life in Sierra Leone has more pleasures and pitfalls than I expected: whilst the country is surprisingly safe – so much so that I can walk around the dark, labyrinthine streets alone at night without a second thought – the poor infrastructure presents a new challenge every day. The country hardly has any tarmac roads and the power and water supply is constantly on the blink, even in the capital, Freetown. I was soon able to get round the problem of malaria and food poisoning thanks to imported tablets, but I sometimes worry about the lack of basic healthcare. On the flipside, however, the dream beaches outside the city make up for the daily challenges I face. And the spontaneous conversations with Sierra Leoneans are also a highlight: the standard inquiries into your well-being, how well you’re sleeping, your work and family are often followed by illuminating and amusing discussions with complete strangers.

Sardine-tin buses or clapped-out taxis

When I’m not off working in the far-flung southern and south-eastern corners of the country, on paper my daily routine isn’t all that different to anybody else’s: going to the office, working, coming home, cooking and sleeping. But even the first task – going to the office – is an adventure in Sierra Leone: it usually involves walking along bumpy dust roads in the stifling heat to the nearest tarmac road to wait for one of the privately operated Toyota minibuses. Even though the seats have been torn out to make room for five rows of tightly packed metal benches, the demand exceeds the supply: sometimes you have to wait for up to an hour for one of the precious spots with your mouth full of dust.

If you don’t fancy the sardine-tin buses, you can always keep your eyes peeled for a clapped-out taxi, which usually splutter down the main streets with five passengers crammed into four seats. If you’ve kept a taxi driver’s mobile number, you also have the luxury option of calling a taxi to your house and hiring a cab to yourself all the way to work. As there isn’t a single light signal and only a few dozen road signs, though, you can only do so with taxi drivers who have already driven you home. Whether they actually turn up is also in the hands of the Gods: on average, they come every four attempts. One of my taxi drivers recently had malaria, the second had lost his car, the third overslept every morning and the fourth insisted on an advance.

Now, after four months of sweaty minibuses and taxi stress, my quality of life has taken a sudden turn for the better: a few days ago, after a bureaucratic marathon through all the red tape, I finally got a second-hand car imported from Switzerland. The old Toyota with air-conditioning and four-wheel drive is just the job for Freetown’s bumpy roads, which turn into muddy torrents in the merciless rainy season.

Working with absent participants

When you reach the office covered in dust and sweat, it’s as if you’ve entered another world: pleasantly air-conditioned and, thanks to a generator, usually with power, the office is a mini-oasis. However, as the Internet operates via satellite, it only offers a low bandwidth, so I sometimes end up battling with it for half a day to send an email with an attachment. If you’re supposed to do something with people from outside, things rarely go according to plan and the fact that registered participants simply don’t turn up (“too much traffic”), won’t leave their offices because it’s bucketing down or are sidelined with malaria doesn’t make the job any easier, either. Getting the government involved in local economic development is difficult, too: the entire department responsible for livestock at the Ministry of Agriculture, for instance, has an annual budget that’s slightly lower than my salary last year as a project manager in the Swiss Federal Administration.

Manioc, rice or expensive imports

I can change the 100-dollar bills I brought in from Switzerland into fat rolls of local currency at the supermarket. A large proportion of it goes straight on shopping: a box of Kellogg’s Cornflakes easily costs ten dollars. Almost all the food is imported. Nine years after the war, the country still hardly produces enough of anything to stock the markets in the city bar manioc and rice. Moreover, the manufacturing industry is still very much in its infancy. When I’m at home, I can rarely motivate myself to cook anything in the somewhat chaotic kitchen of my wealthy Sierra Leonean landlord’s family. Instead, I go to the Lebanese restaurant nearby, where they offer culinary alternatives to the ubiquitous rice with manioc leaves.

Party tunes and rattling generators

Fortunately, my landlord’s house has a generator, which means I have the pleasure of coming home to an air-conditioned room every evening and don’t have to lie awake in bed drenched in sweat anymore. However, it also means I can hear the generator happily rattling away well into the wee hours. And as noise control is not an issue here, at night you can often enjoy the sound of party tunes booming out through overloaded speakers, yapping stray dogs, shrieking muezzins and vociferous Free Church preachers. And since the beginning of the rainy season, frogs have now joined the chorus outside my window, too, adding a pleasant, almost rural accompaniment.

About the author

Pablo Padrutt is a programme assistant at the German Society for International Cooperation (GIZ). The twenty-six-year-old is currently on a ten-month placement in Sierra Leone as part of the post-graduate degree for developing countries NADEL at ETH Zurich, working for an employment development programme geared towards marginalised young people. Before his post-graduate degree, Pablo Padrutt studied international relations in Geneva and Buenos Aires and peace policies for the Swiss Federal Department of Foreign Affairs (EDA).