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.
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?” 
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.
