A military coup in Sierra Leone removed Captain Valentine Strasser from office and replaced him with his deputy, Brigadier Julius Maada Bio on January 16, 1996.  Strasser was assaulted, handcuffed, and removed from the country by military helicopter.  He seized power in April of 1992 and had been struggling to rule the country while fighting an internal civil war ever since.

     Another African election.

     Since I was in charge of US Embassy security for Sierra Leone as well as The Gambia, I tossed a few things in a bag and grabbed the next plane for the capital of Freetown to see if I could determine what kind of an impact such a change in leadership might hold for the future of this war ravaged country.  The city is a gigantic termite mound of desperation and disappointment populated by about eight hundred thousand poverty stricken West African souls.  Most are unemployed and desperate enough to try anything that may improve their situation.  Many are refugees from the surrounding countryside driven into the city by the tide of rebel forces robbing and raping their way through the villages.  The only international airport is twenty five miles north of Freetown, and access to the city is restricted by a wide bay which makes visitors reliant on a poorly operated ferry system.

     My trip started off with the usual disappointment when my plane from Gambia was an hour late getting off the ground in Banjul, so I cooled my heels in the muggy, cockroach infested terminal for about 3 hours before we could lift off for Freetown.  Upon arrival, I was met at Lungi Airport by Momodou, my local African contact.  After bribing our way through customs, we made a bee line for dock in hopes of catching the 1700 ferry.  We arrived 25 minutes early to see the vessel chugging painfully away from the dock beneath a plume of black smoke with a steady stream of water pouring from the side.  I noticed that the craft was being guided by a tug boat that appeared to have been cabled firmly along side.  Momodou informed me that the country's only operating ferry had blown an engine and was taking on water so fast it needed a double set of bilge pumps to keep it afloat.  The normal thirty to forty minute trip now took well over an hour and a half, and the number of daily trips had been reduced considerably.

     I didn't say anything for a few moments.  I just stood there dripping sweat and staring bleakly at that departing ferry and the nondescript buildings on the distant shore.  Of course I realized this was Africa, but it seemed astonishing that any country would allow its only link to the outside world to collapse like this.  Studying the number of vehicles lined up ahead of us, I suddenly had serious doubts about whether or not we would be able to make it on the ferry even if it did return for another load.

     After an hour and a half, and no sign of the ferry at all on the far horizon, I decided the time had come to make a command decision.  If I wanted to spend the night in a hotel instead of swatting mosquitoes in the front seat of our pick-up, I was going to have to find another way across that bay.

     As usual, the sea  around the terminal dock was teeming with canoes.  Most were crude dugouts of questionable seaworthiness capable of holding only a half dozen local fishermen.  But a few were brightly painted fishing vessels thirty to forty feet long, designed to operate in open sea under fair to moderate conditions.  The locals used those as a cheap way to cross the channel.  During past visits I had studied such overcrowded vessels with amusement from the deck of the ferry.  Stories of those leaky vessels vanishing abruptly below the waves with heavy losses of life were frequent and hair raising. Passengers who didn't drown outright were forced to deal with the threat of sharks until another vessel happened by to rescue them.  But despite the risks, they continued to pounding their way back and forth across the bay. They never seemed to lack for eager passengers willing to place their trust in Allah to protect them from the unpredictable nature of King Neptune's fury.   

     But the lower the sun sank, the more appealing those canoes looked.  I was determined I was to avoid sleeping on the dock if there was any way around it.  Leaving our pickup in the care of our driver, I grabbed Momodou and hiked around the dock to the nearby sandy beach where the vessels were loading and off-loading Africans in front of a small village of thatched huts.  My friend appeared amused and incredulous at first, but nonetheless willing to follow me wherever I might lead.  As usual, my white face would raise the cost of passage considerably, but I couldn't have cared less under the circumstances.  After a brief inspection, we selected a vessel that had less water in the bottom than the others and grabbed a couple of locals to pack us out to the boat on their shoulders to avoid soaking our clothes.  We were tossed aboard amidst a chorus of chuckles and murmurs and bounced through the crowd to an empty spot at bow of the vessel.  I positioned myself strategically next to a young uniformed soldier.  The man eyed me curiously at first, but as soon as he realized I was American, he delivered a salute.  I smiled and returned his salute, and asked him how the war was going.

     "Good," he replied, rather unconvincingly.

     "I hear you guys have those rebels on the run now," I said.

     The man grinned and nodded, puffing his chest out in pride and adjusting his gun belt. "Yes," he said, "I think we do."

     "I also heard there was an American merc captured and killed by the rebels recently... is that true too?"

     There was a pause while the guy studied my eyes. Then he slowly nodded. "Yes, I heard that as well," he replied, "but I understand his South African friends made them pay for it."

     "Good," I said, "I hope you're right."

     Our boat resembled a huge banana.  It was about forty feet long, five feet deep, and ten to twelve feet across at the widest point.  There were no seats at all.  Passengers just sort of huddled together and squatted on the sides, clinging to each other to keep from falling into the sea.  We were powered by an aging, rusty 35 HP outboard motor that projected through an opening in the deck at the rear of the vessel.  When we boarded, two men were pounding on the motor and mumbling in puzzlement to each other, causing me to pause a moment to ponder the wisdom of my decision.  But people continued streaming into the boat, oblivious to any possibility that the vessel might not depart on schedule.  After a few moments, the light of inspiration illuminated the face of one of the men and he reached down and monkeyed with something, causing the engine to erupt reluctantly to life in a haze of blue smoke.  A cheer went up from the passengers, and several slapped the mechanic on the back in admiration until the motor suddenly sputtered, coughed twice and died.  The cheering was instantly replaced by sighs of discouragement and the two men bent over the engine once again, muttering and cursing in some local dialect.

     There were about seventy five people in the vessel, and more lining up on the beach waiting to be carried out.  The way the captain was cramming us together, it looked as though he intended to bring another twenty or so on board.  I glanced nervously at the rapidly rising water line and experienced a stark realization that my final act on earth was likely to turn me into dessert for a shark.  Turning to Momodou, I suggested he offer to pay the captain whatever he wanted to cast off immediately.

     After a couple of minutes of haggling, during which time another half dozen or so people climbed aboard, the captain finally agreed to sell us the extra space for an outrageous sum amounting to about $7.00 USD.  Once that was settled, he shouted an order to cast off and one of the men in the rear jumped up and grabbed a bamboo pole and began edging us away from shore while his partner pounding and yanked on the motor in a renewed effort to get it running again.  Just as I was starting to think our engine had breathed it's last gasp, there was a hesitant rumble, then a roar, followed by a cheer from the crowd, and our boat began to head slowly away from shore under the power of modern technology. The captain stood on the bow giving hand signals to the pilots as we maneuvered our way through a gently rolling sea peppered with dozens of small fishing canoes with sails resembling patchwork quilts.

     The enormous orange African sun had dropped behind the craggy green hills by the time we reached the Freetown ferry terminal on the southern bank forty minutes later.  The aging, wounded ferry was just limping away from the dock as we pulled in, causing Momodou and I to grin at each other in realization that we had made the right decision.  Our boat pulled up next to a steeply sloping stone wharf and we jumped out with the rest of the passengers.  Then we scrambled awkwardly up the slick incline, making our way carefully across a damp area that smelled strongly of human sewage. Suspicious, I glanced up and observed a dark liquid trickling out of a rusty pipe below the foundation of an old building above.  As I topped the rise, I confirmed my suspicion that the structure was a public toilet.

     When Momodou joined me, panting and dripping sweat from the tip of his nose, we began weaving our way through the crowd in search of the vehicle he had requested to meet us.  My lone white face glowed like a beacon in the twilight amongst the shuffling mass of humanity.  It was plain to see I was the center of attention.  Someone offered us a taxi, but I turned him down, thinking that Momodou's Land Rover would be around the corner.  Unfortunately, that turned out to be a bad assumption.  Our driver had come to the terminal thinking we were taking the ferry, and driven off when we hadn't appeared.  By the time we realized that, the taxi had taken off with a full load leaving us afoot.  Miffed, and tired, we joined the parade of humanity trudging up the narrow road.  We were surrounded by soldiers in jungle fatigues, old men, children, and women packing all manner of possessions on their heads.  By now, it was pitch black.  The only light seeped out of the small tin roofed shops along the road selling fruit, soap and cigarettes by candle light.

     After about a mile of this, a little red taxi roared by and suddenly screeched to a halt. The driver had a full load of Africans, but kicked them all out immediately when he learned from Momdou we would make it worth his while to take us across town.  At that particular moment, I was quite willing to pay any price he asked just to get off the street.  He deposited me in the front seat and we sped off down the road dodging chuckholes and pedestrians.  I gripped the dash, feeling like a monkey in the nose cone of a rocket, but grateful to be off my feet at last.

      Suddenly, the headlights blinked and went out. The driver cursed in Mandinka and pulled over, narrowly missing family of sheep that had picked that particular moment to cross the highway.  He jumped out and jerked up the hood, and began banging on the lights with his fists, shouting something about the will of Allah and cursing in Arabic for all he was worth.  After a minute or so of this, I glanced at Momodou and motioned for us to split. We faded into the darkness with the driver still pounding furiously on his headlights, apparently oblivious to our departure.

     Traffic was pretty thick now, so it took only a moment to grab the attention of another taxi. This guy wasn't quite as accommodating as the first one had been though.  His car too was fully loaded, but he didn't ask anyone to get out.  So we were forced to wedge ourselves between six other sweaty passengers.

After a few blocks he pulled into a gas station to get fuel.  By then I'd already had my fill of the "Sardine Express", so I grabbed Momodou and we hopped out and secured an empty taxi that had pulled in behind us.  After negotiating a decent price, the driver agreed to transport us across town without taking on any more passengers. 

     I spent the next three days rubbing shoulders with soldiers, mercenaries, and citizenry trying to get a feel for the local situation.  There were a couple of white south African "Executive Outcome" officers staying at my hotel.  They informed me that a lot of the action had taken place up country in an area called Kono.  They said that they were making progress, but still had their hands full with rebels who appeared to be getting resupplied with weapons and ammo from the Guineans.  One indicated that if that didn't stop soon, some action may have to be taken against the Guineans themselves.  When I tried to press him for more details though, got quiet and he changed the subject.

     Another merc, a Russian helicopter pilot assigned the task of ferrying personnel to the battle areas, advised me that there are still about two hundred South African foreign mercenaries in the country.  He said most were black Africans, but all had seen action in places like Angola.

      I had visited the country in October, and recalled thinking that things were on the verge of exploding then.  The rebels were threatening to attack the airport, and the city's only power plant was out of commission, causing extensive shortages of power and water throughout Freetown.  But on the surface at least, the situation seemed to have improved now.  Lights were on in some part of the city most of the time now, and my hotel had water the entire time I was there.  And despite the recent coup, the feeling among the local populace was more upbeat and optimistic.  Freetown was still not the kind of place you would want to bring your girlfriend for a vacation, but the degree of desperation appeared to have diminished somewhat.  The rebels were still attacking villages on a sporadic basis, but my contacts advised me that they were poorly armed and lacked ammunition much of the time.  A few had even been captured recently carrying inoperative, rusty weapons or home made mock-ups of AK-47s and RPGs.  The overall impression was that the loosely organized, rag-tag group was starting to come apart at the seams.  If that were the case, it might explain the recent RUF peace talk overtures such as the January 26th statement by Rebel representative Fayia Musa.  In a BBC interview, Musa urged the government to postpone February elections "so both parties (RUF and NPRC) will have time to negotiate peace".