Beach Boys & Biscuit; Lobster Heaven - 24th August 2007

Beach Boys & Biscuit

Hung around in Lumley, where the hotel was, and walked on the beach, while my dad went to work. I got approached quite a lot by young men, who were mainly friendly and wanted to offer their services as ‘THE main beach boy’, who could help with arranging… well, anything touristy, really; trips, barbecues, drumming shows. I also got some minor hassle from guys who wanted to chat. Individually they were no problem, leaving me alone as soon as I said I wanted to walk on my own. But it was a little tiresome just because of the numbers of people I had to tell to go away, which I don’t like doing, and I did have to be firm with a couple of them, who argued the point of wanting to be my friend – “You no want to be my friend? Why you no like me?”

The hugely long beach takes quite a while to walk along and back again, so I was pleased to snack on boiled peanuts (slightly sweet and juicy) and a sweet deep-fried pastry for my lunch. They were sold to me from plastic tubs, which two small children, of about four and seven, carried on their heads.

Lobster Heaven

The evening was the moment I had been waiting for, for months; lobster at Paul’s…



Before the war, the beach resort at Lakka, down the coast from Freetown, was a tropical paradise. It still is, except that the restaurants, bars and places to stay are falling to pieces. Since the war, tourists have stayed away, and the failure of the government to maintain the road to Lakka has compounded the problem, because locals are not willing to spend hours navigating the ‘road’, whilst ruining their cars. The road is so appalling it has become a national joke, and it is exhausting just to sit as a passenger and be continually jolted for the hours it takes to drive a few kilometres.

Anyway, after being thrown around on this stretch of mud, ponds and rocks, we finally got to Lakka, where I was going to stay in a beach shack for the weekend. ‘Pierre’s Resort’ used to be the classy, French-frequented Cotton Club, but its collapsed clubhouse and collection of wooden cabins are now slowly mouldering into the beach. It is still charming, though, and the scruffy paintwork in amongst palm trees and overgrown paths, has an appeal that would be wiped out by maintenance, a refit, redecoration and – in the case of fallen-in roofs – a rebuild. My shack was full of colonial styling, which had clearly once been gorgeous and quite luxurious. Salty sea air, torrential rainy seasons and neglect have eaten away at the fixtures and fittings, the paint and the furnishings. But there’s the possibility of outside investors taking over the management and revitalization of the old Cotton Club, so if you want to experience this magical place as it is, you’ll have to visit soon.





There was no time to hang out in my home for the weekend; we had a reservation at Paul’s place, a couple of hundred metres’ walk down the beach. A call that morning had assured that a large lobster was caught and kept alive in the sea, ready for our evening meal. Paul doesn’t have customers very often (rainy season, effects of war, lack of road), and we were the only ones eating that night, so I was able to watch the meal’s preparation.





It went like this: massive lobster killed and cut in half lengthways, it’s glistening flesh and shell smothered in secret recipe garlicky seasoning. Fire lit, chips cut, oil heated and chips cooked over fire, lobster grilled over fire, helper sent to Pierre’s Resort for Star beer. What could be better? as Rick would say.





I felt amazingly lucky, gorging on the best lobster possible (for about €10 each), perfectly cooked, with salty chips, lime on the side and cold beer to drink, whilst sitting at a makeshift, tie-dye tableclothed table, in candlelight, on a beach, in a warm breeze, with palm trees swaying and friendly locals chilling out nearby! Absolutely nothing could be better! The lobster was slightly charred on the outside, cooked right through, and had moist, tender flesh.







Pillows and covers that smelled powerfully of damp somehow didn’t seem a problem, as I fell straight to sleep, with the sound of waves crashing just metres away, and warm rain thrumming on the roof.

Beach Life – Shacks & Seafood - 25th August 2007

Waking up in my own mouldy beach shack was idyllic. After a strange breakfast of delicious char-toasted baguette and butter, with disgusting tea made from mildewy teabags and powdered milk (They had no jam. Or fruit. Or real coffee. Or milk.), my dad came to pick me up.



Another jolting trip along a non-road, further down the coast, and I got my first glimpse of the white sand and aqua water of No2 River Beach. This beach is like a Bounty Bar advert, with mountains and rain forest stretching down to the white sand, and hardly anyone about.

There’s a couple of stalls selling nice souvenirs, like jewelery and sculptures. You can also order clothes, which are made while you wait, from locally dyed material. There’s a large kitchen in a building next to the stalls, from which food is served to customers in thatched shelters on the beach. Deliciously fresh pompano fish in a herb and tomato sauce, came with yummy, starchy sweet potato chips, and was washed down with Star. A very thin mummy dog and a scrawny chicken became our friends as they gobbled up scraps of leftover chips.





Then heavy clouds rolled over, and a downpour started. The downpour kept going, so we decided to leave, and headed back towards Lakka, stopping at the Italian-owned restaurant at Sussex Beach for tea. I never got to see the actual beach here, because the restaurant overlooks a tidal lagoon, with the sandbank beach on the other side. The tide was low, but I still didn’t want to wade through seawater with my camera. I’m told it’s another gorgeous stretch of peopleless sand (yellow this time) and palm trees.



If you go to Sussex, you’ll meet the soppy little dog, who tempts visitors to tickle it’s tummy by walking up to them and flopping on its back at their feet, tail wagging furiously.

Tonight we had a second date with Paul, which was pretty similar to the previous evening, except that I had freshly caught crab (y.u.m.), and pa had prawns. It was also my second and last night at the beach hut.

Leaving Lakka - 26th August 2007

I slept deeply again - that sea air? Pure food? Exhaustion from bumpy roads? After a breakfast of toasted baguette and Nescafé with powdered milk, I sat on an old wooden beach lounger and talked to some local boys, while I waited for my lift. They took me on a tour of lovely Lakka village. It is nestled in the forest, where mudbrick and corrugated iron-roofed houses and huts are scattered in glades between palm tress and the sweet-smelling flowers of creepers. It wasn’t the best time to visit, apparently, because most of the villagers were at one or other of the various churches – it was Sunday. My guides weren’t at church, because they were Muslim, apart from Augustine, who had decided to take the day off because it was his birthday.





My dad arrived and took me away from Lakka, which had begun to feel like home, even though I had only seen it for the first time two days earlier. I felt sad to leave.

Nevermind, we were back off to Sussex for lunch. I still didn’t see the beach, but the groupa carpaccio was fantastic, and I had a glass of chilled Chardonnay – the first wine I’d had in soooo long. I felt the nectar trickle down my throat and got that warm feeling as it spread out in my stomach. Wine is of course especially wonderful when you’ve been deprived for a while. The main course was barbequed angelfish with chips and salad.





After the tiring journey back to Freetown, we decided to eat our evening meal at the hotel. Their rooftop restaurant has good views over the sea and nearby buildings, and the wall is made of windows, which we opened up to hear the sea and feel the breeze. After being such greedy pigs all weekend, we both ordered a small mixed salad, which was nothing special, but nice all the same. Also, to settle our full stomachs, we enjoyed G&Ts.