Road Less Travelled

I sat upright abruptly on an empty mattress in our barely furnished house in the outskirts of Freetown to the sound of the cockerel and the call to prayer ringing harmoniously from the mosque. 6am local time, the air hot and sticking my hair to my face as I decided to venture to the beach and return before my family arose. Opening the door and walking into the town down the hill, the full power of the sun hit like an impossibly bright and large lightbulb, reflecting the corrugated iron rooves like cracked mirrors catching rays. Pacing into town to catch the pudapuda, I kicked up the shocking orange dust of the Sierra Leoneon streets into swirls around me, inhaling particles along with the aroma of raw fish and meat from the markets. It was the break of day and yet already fairly busy in town; swathes of people preparing to set up stalls, voices calling across the street, some walking aimlessly across the road, merging with the morning traffic. Tie dye tunics in rich colours in folded piles sat next to delicately carved masks and figurines. Stalls selling jewellery and faux designer watches were all being set up by keen eyed merchants hungry for the first sale of the day, throwing their offers of 'a thousand leones, good price' as I wandered by, towards the heart of Freetown. Catching a pudapuda (a sort of mini bus)is easy at this time, as they are slightly less full and still frequently seen on the road.It wasnt long before I found one, quickly exchanged a price and location and jumped into the back, with only one other fellow passenger. The road to the beach is laden with pot holes and is poorly made and points, but there is a point on the journey from the centre to the coast where the road is fairly smooth, and one can lean their head slightly out of the window to catch the breeze as the vehicle maintains a speed which makes this experience pleasurable. The scape of markets and houses becomes hotels and restaurants and as the puda puda whirls in a fury of haste past people carrying fruits on their heads and packs of cigarettes in baskets and babies on their backs wrapped tight with cloth.And then suddenly the air is salty and the azure pans into view,the sea and sky merging-blending so intensely that the only way to differentiate is the little diamonds on the ripples of waves next to a cloudless skyline.I hand over my money hastily and jump out across the tarmac to the sand.The beach is almost empty,tranquil and verging on silent.A very real postcard.