On To the Next One

Contributed by: Dave

The rain that lasted all day was appropriate. After saying goodbye to the kids, we were all feeling rather gray. We spent it finalizing some travel details, packing and generally feeling down.

Thankfully, we had something to look forward to. That night, Joseph Lamin of the Masanga Children’s Fund had offered to take us out to dinner. We hadn’t gotten much time to know him, so we were looking forward to it. Even prior to arriving in Salone, most of our communication with him was second hand, passed on by Schools for Salone’s Cindy Nofziger.

Joseph is a force. With Schools for Salone, he’s built 16 schools in 6 years. He’s responsible for overseeing all the projects on the ground—no small task in any country, let alone Sierra Leone. He guided our school to completion. For that, we’ll be forever grateful.

We were anxious to talk to Joseph. During the opening ceremony of the school, several of the speakers mentioned the need for a number of things now that the primary school was open. They ranged from a laptop, to a vehicle, to a secondary school to an orphanage. Joseph is a man who we could trust. We wanted his input.

His answer was surprising. He said that if we wanted to do anything, an orphanage would be the most valuable. But, he said, we shouldn’t feel obligated to do anything. What we had done was enough. On that point, we disagree.

We mention this farewell dinner for one reason: our work with Sierra Leone is just getting started. We’ll be moving on to other film projects that most likely won’t have anything to do with Salone, but these kids and this country are embedded deep within our hearts. As long as there are kids like the ones we know and people like Joseph that can help us help them, we’ll do whatever it takes to get it done.

Don’t be surprised when you get an email from us announcing our next fundraiser.

FOLLOWING UP WITH THE KIDS FROM B2RD

Contributed by: Dave

PART II

Tonight, we hosted the African premiere of BROWNSTONES TO RED DIRT. The guests of honor? The kids from the Children in Crisis Primary School.

In classic Salone fashion, traffic from the east end of town (where the school is) to the west end of town (where the theater is) was terrible. The poda poda we had hired to get them to the screening arrived an hour and a half late. When it finally pulled to a stop in front of the Lagoonda Entertainment Complex, children came barreling out. And they kept barreling out. Somehow, Aunty Musu and Sento managed to get all of the children from the orphanage into one van.

They occupied the first three rows of the theater. As it went dark, we suddenly went from very excited to very nervous.

We didn’t know what to expect of their reactions. What would they think of our portrayal of them, the school and their stories? It was a feeling we hadn’t had since the kids in Brooklyn saw the movie for the first time.

We certainly couldn’t have predicted the reaction we got.

There were the obvious cheers and laughter when a kid appeared on screen for the first time and there was the rather profound silence when the Brooklyn kids spoke in English (we really should’ve prepared a version with Krio subtitles), but what was shocking were the moments in the film that played with great weight and seriousness back home were met with levity here. Where we saw drama, they saw shared pain that they had overcome together. We thought reliving the memories of the war would be painful, but rather than pain, they found joy in seeing their stories of survival in a darkened cinema because it was a testament that they had been heard. It was surreal.

When the final frame played, it was time to say goodbye… for now. We said goodbye to them in a parking lot as they boarded their poda poda for their long journey home. There were tears from both sides. Promises were exchanged. Hugs were given. And given again. It was horrible and gut-wrenching, yet, somehow uplifting. We always knew we’d never be done with these kids—now, it seems they know it too.

FOLLOWING UP WITH THE KIDS FROM B2RD

Contributed by: Dave

PART I

Yesterday was emotional. Today was fun.

At every stop on the festival circuit, people ask the inevitable question, “Where are they now?” We’ve been able to give vague updates gleaned from letters and emails, but today, we got to ask that question ourselves.

One-by-one, we brought in the kids from the film to hear what they were up to now. We don’t want to give away too many spoilers from our upcoming DVD release, but we can tease it a little. Balla is doing fabulously. Not only has he continued to draw, he’s working as an apprentice at a graphic design shop. Apprenticeship wasn’t for Emmanuel, who decided to open his own small business (wait til we share his new setup). Chief (Abdul) is killing it in school and is on a university track. Gladis is still teaching others how to dance… and still dances with Augusta. Augusta is enrolled at one of the top girls’ schools in Sierra Leone and just represented her school in a dance competition that she placed second in. We couldn’t have asked for better updates—they’re all doing so well.

Aunty Musu attributed a lot of the children’s success to the secondary school sponsorship program we established in 2009 through Schools for Salone. Not every child has a sponsor (hint, hint), so she makes sure the kids know that having one is a privilege. She has told them that they must earn these scholarships and if they don’t, they will be given to a more deserving student. Every night, she says, the students rush to the table to do homework together. Aunty Musu and Aunty Sento get progress reports every two weeks and the results are glowing (they could hardly contain their pride when sharing this with us).

We also sat down on camera with each child that has a sponsor. Consistently, we heard the same thing. The sponsorship changed my life. Without education, I am nothing. I will make you proud. Truthfully, communication back and forth to Salone has been a challenge to the sponsorship program, so hearing that the program is having the desired results was extremely reassuring (and if you happen to be one of our sponsors, look forward to getting a video message soon!).

During the interview process, Chief, Balla and E stuck around, but they didn’t just hang out, they helped. We may have first seen it yesterday, but today we really witnessed how these kids, if we can still call them that, have transitioned into leaders of their community. Given the necessary resources, they are going to, as Balla said he wanted to do in BROWNSTONES, “Push Salone forward.”

We can’t wait to see them do it.

THE OPENING OF THE NEW CIC

Contributed by: Dave

The chatter in the car on the way to the new school opening belied how nervous we were. It was forgettable at best: discussions about the new power lines, the traffic being as bad as ever, radio deejays sharing universal vocalisms. It hid what simmered under the surface: what would it be like to see our kids again?

But as we bumped up the final stretch of the steep, dirt road and saw the school over a rise, it was fairly vacant. The school was stunning, sure, but there were only a handful of people in attendance. In true Salone fashion, the government had decided that classes wouldn’t resume today, September 5^th, the day we were told when we booked our trip. Rather, they’d start September 18th. Most people were still on holiday in the provinces. For the first time, we started to wonder if we’d actually see our kids. We had to had to push that thought away—it was time to start setting up our shoot.

SFS’ Cindy Nofziger had told us to prepare for music. Loud music. And lots of it. Her prophecy didn’t disappoint. Two giant speakers soon began blaring American and African hip-hop, simultaneously wiping out any chance we had to record decent sound and acting as a beacon that drew in the people of Kola Tree village. We scanned each face that passed, hoping one of them would be one of our kids.

It’s amazing, then, that the first two kids snuck passed us without fanfare. Clay was the first to whisper: “There’s Chief” (or Abdul as he is referred to in the film). Sure enough, there he was. And next to him? Balla.

We made our way over to them and their wide smiles banished any nerves we might have had. We exchanged huge embraces and exclamations of joy and disbelief. Chad and Clay showed baby pictures. Josh, who had spent so much time getting to know these kids and composing music to capture their spirit, met them face-to-face for the first time.

As Chief and Balla disappeared to help set up, we wondered who would be next. Rushing in, with dozens of kids around her, came the school’s headmistress, Aunty Musu. Though she didn’t have much screen time in the film, Aunty Musu has been our point person since we left. We have grown incredibly close. She’s an amazing woman who soothes huge groups of children with her calming voice and earns their respect with her authoritative, but loving rule. The kids are who they are because of who she is. Our reunion was overjoyed.

Then Emmanuel came bounding down the hill. “E” is very dear to us. In addition to being a sweet, savvy and street-smart kid who wowed audiences across the world with his self-reliance, he’s probably the one we spent the most time with in 2008. He acted as our translator then, so he was with us for a lot of down time. In that time, we became friends and seeing him again was unreal.

One of the two Sierra Leonean girls in the film, Gladis, tried to slip in discreetly, but when we saw her, we wouldn’t let her pass quietly. Hugs were exchanged and it was time for the official opening to begin. Augusta, the final child from the film (and the one closest to Chad’s heart), was nowhere to be found.

The ceremony began beautifully, with Aunty Musu’s familiar call, “Helllllllllllllllllloooo” and the children’s response, “HI!” Perhaps more than anything, this brought us back to those days underneath the mango tree. A Christian and Muslim prayer followed. The head table included Aunty Sento, who founded the first CIC during the war, Aunty Musu, Joseph Lamin of the Masanga Children’s Fund, the chairman from the village elders and the village’s chief. I was honored to be up there with them representing Copper Pot and everyone back home. We each made a few remarks. When Aunty Sento spoke, she became so overwhelmed by CIC’s journey from a vision to the school it’s become that she wept openly and couldn’t continue. At times, they broke into song, with all the kids—by now over 100 village children had gathered—singing along. On behalf of all of Copper Pot, I was made an honorary chief and given the name, Pa. Koroma Bai Dave. We were all presented with garas, traditional African dress, and told we were welcomed now to the village as family.

And somewhere, in the middle of the chief’s speech, we spotted Augusta. Shy, but smiling, she waved. They were all there finally.

In a day we’ve all worked towards for so long, a day full of emotion, there was a particular moment that got to us. At the ceremony’s end, they asked the orphans to come forward. The first kids we met at CIC were in this group of 20, as were all five of the kids featured in the film. Chief—Abdul, our Chief, not the village chief—took the microphone. He made a brief speech, then led the group in a welcome song. Three years ago, these were mainly shy kids who had trouble speaking on camera. But here they were, leading their classmates and village in song. They had grown up into kids that the other students looked up to.

We had always felt badly that the students in the film had graduated from primary school and wouldn’t benefit from the new CIC. But from what we saw that day, we were wrong. The kids from BROWNSTONES seemed to have a new confidence. They were proud of the school—even though they wouldn’t attend it, they knew that it was their stories and strength that had inspired the effort to build the school. More than Schools for Salone, the Massanga Children’s Fund, Copper Pot or the countless donors, the school was built by them. All they had ever asked was that their stories be told. The new building standing atop a hill in Kola Tree is evidence that their voices haven’t just been heard, but they will continue to ring out for years to come.

THE DAY AFTER GAME DAY

Contributed by: Dave

After the insanity that unfolded at Sierra Leone’s 2-1 victory over Egypt yesterday, we wisely planned a bit of a quiet day today. Kei Kamara had spent much of his interview talking about the importance of football in Sierra Leone, and though we had certainly witnessed this for ourselves, we felt we needed to capture the average person’s passion with our cameras.

Right across the street from our hotel, games covered Lumley Beach. Picture your local beach on Fourth of July with blankets and umbrellas covering every available inch of sand. Replace those blankets and umbrellas with balls and makeshift goals and you’ll have an idea of what it was like.

Kei would later tell us that on Sunday, Lumley is the place to play. Guys would run from Kissy, miles away on the opposite side of the city, just to get there to play until they ran out of light. Even the national team gets in on the action. Over their winter holidays, the team arranges games along Lumley. Like the kids that dream of representing Salone, the Leone Stars head to the beach to work on their skills. If the tide is in too far, they sit in the sand, catching up until the water recedes and the game is on.

Unfortunately for us, the tide came in and we were sent searching for another match. We settled on a red clay pitch bordering Man of War Bay. When we arrived, no one was there. We decided to shoot it anyway—it was too picturesque to pass up. We were quickly met by curious children. They poked around our cameras a bit, then disappeared into high grass along the shore. Moments later, they materialized, carrying a small ball. The game began. It was still going a half hour later when the rains rolled in and sent us scattering to get our equipment safe.

And the rain. Oh, the rain. We plowed through Freetown as water flooded through the streets. To our driver, it was nothing. It was a way of life.

A catchall phrase around these parts is “This is Africa.” It’s meant to explain away things like late or missing vans, shady government officials and the general maddening frustration foreigners feel at this way of life. We’ve never been too fond of that sentiment. Because to us, this—the welcoming kids, the sandlot feel of games along Lumley, the resilience and adaptability of the people in face of inescapable challenges like the rainy season downpours—is Africa.

GAME DAY, PART 6: GAME ON

Contributed by: Dave

After a coach finally booted Chad from the field, he and I rendezvoused on the sideline and began looking for Clay and Josh. Unfortunately, when we met, just before the anthem, Clay and Josh were with a representative from the channel broadcasting the game. Though we’d cleared our shoot through every Sierra Leonean organization possible, the Confederation of African Football (CAF) owned the rights. We wouldn’t be able to shoot the rest of the game.

We were, however, invited to stand on the sidelines and watch the game. And what a game it turned out to be.

We’d never heard an anthem like this. There was a band to accompany the crowd, but it was quickly drowned out. Full-throated, earth-shaking, passion-filled fans belted out every word. It must have been heard throughout Freetown.

When you hear Kei talk about the treatment of the team or see how the conditions they are supposed to play in lack the basic necessities of a high school team, it’s hard to believe that he willingly turned down a chance to play for Bob Bradley and the United States Olympic team years ago. Kei knew the conditions he would be asked to play under if he played for Sierra Leone. But still, he chose green, not red, to go with his white and blue.

Why? That anthem stood for everything: the president’s speech to the team moments before gametime, the masses outside whose exuberance seemed to at times threaten the team’s safety, the flag in every home on gameday. He is a part of that. He may have spent his adult life in America, but it’s clear what this game, this team, this country, mean to him.

The Leone Stars would go on to capture a 2-1 victory and move to second in their group for AfCon qualifying. For us, the result may have been irrelevant—the experience is one we never thought we’d have and one that will never be duplicated—but for the people of this country, it clearly means so much more. Maybe our sports back home are too packaged and presented too neatly. We’re told who to root for and why. We’re given canned reasons to believe someone is an underdog and read storylines meant to prompt a reaction. That’s probably what we’re doing now. But when Kei tells you that he thinks that the Leone Stars can be the next Ivory Coast, and you can see he really means it, then you see what winning a qualifying match means to a country in need of hope and a little bit of celebration, you can’t help but want to see the green, white and blue flying over Brazil in 2014.

GAME DAY, PART 5: CHAD EARNS HIS FIRST CAP

Contributed by: Dave

Originally, we had been told we could go into the locker room with the team to film Kei getting ready. But since we had fallen so far behind the bus in the chaos, the federation thought that we might be disruptive. Instead of filming their final preparations, we were guided out to a space under the stadium where the Leone Stars would enter before making their way down the tunnel to the pitch.

Energy coursed through the building. Above us, the stands shook. Even from where we were, we could see that fans were crammed into every space available. It was hard to believe it was the same place we had spent the last several days.

Chad hadn’t planned on using the elaborate steadicam system that we had huffed to the stadium (quick note for the non-techies out there: the steadicam allows the user to run alongside action while keeping the motion silky smooth, but it also requires a vest that looks like a flak jacket and a swing arm that makes its wearer look a bit like a three-armed cop from the future). When he saw opportunity, though, he took it. He began ripping stuff out of our bag and assembling the equipment faster than I’ve ever seen him do it. He finished with no time to spare—no sooner had he stood up than the door to the locker room swung open.

The Leone Stars were about to take the pitch.

Chad was too.

As Kei came out, Chad started following him from the side, but decided to hop behind him for a better angle. Not knowing what the hell else to do, I followed the two of them, the entire time expecting Chad to peel off.

Didn’t happen. Chad followed Kei into the tunnel and I followed Chad.

We’ve mentioned we’re former athletes. We’d be lying if we said we didn’t fantasize about running out of a darkened tunnel to be greeted by blinding light and the screams of thousands of fans. Thanks to Kei Kamara, we lived that dream.

Chad took it a bit further. As Kei ran out, the fans started to see the Leone Stars. The intensity grew. And grew. And grew. And then suddenly, Kei was running out onto the field, clapping for his fans. Chad didn’t stop. He followed him across the pitch, steadicam in hand, looking every bit the part. It was epic. Later, when we regained our sanity, we realized that Chad probably could’ve been tackled by security. But damn, it was cool. That kid’s a baller.

GAME DAY, PART 4: IT’S LIKE THIS FOR EVERY GAME

Contributed by: Dave

The team bus turned down the final stretch of road to the stadium to an explosion of sound. People screaming, horns blaring, vuvuzelas vuvuzelaing. Sirens wailed, contributing to the chaos. Bright colors flashed along the street as seemingly everyone waved a Sierra Leone flag. It was peaceful at first. People stood at a respectful distance from the bus and waved and cheered wildly.

Then, something happened. The bus made one final turn and suddenly, it was a madhouse.

The coach’s van, carrying Chad and I, was never more than three feet from the players’ bus. There was barely enough room for a person to pass by. In New York, where jaywalking is an art, an attempt to get through would result in a smacked hood or an injured pedestrian. But where we saw impassability, the fans saw opportunity. As we turned, they surged between the van and the bus. And instantly, we were stuck. We couldn’t move forward without hitting them… and they were not moving. The bus slowly crawled ahead of us. The gap widened, inviting more and more people.

Quietly, from the back of the van, the goalkeeping coach, who hadn’t spoken a word, said, “Close the windows if you want to keep those cameras.”

People began to notice that the coach was in our van and they started flocking to it. Men pounded on the doors and windows, they rode on our hood, they hung from the back of the van. Enjoying the brief (but absolutely necessary) respite from shooting, we took the opportunity to ask the head coach if it’s always like this. “Every game,” he responded. When we finally scraped through large iron gates better suited for Jurassic Park than a football match, we were relieved. We still had no idea where Josh and Clay were, but we knew Abu would take care of them.

Inside these walls, the madness was curtailed. The van rolled to a stop just yards from a pair of steel doors 15 feet high labeled “Home Team.” A dozen military and police officials guarded it. The coach’s assistant hopped out, slammed the door behind him and proclaimed, “This is the coach, the white coach.” He tried to get security to open the door, but when the throngs of fans realized that the door to the stadium was going to be thrown open wide enough for a van to pass through, they saw their chance. They rushed towards the van, quickly surrounding it. The fine men and women of the Sierra Leone police and military did their best to secure a perimeter around the van, but there were too many people. Seeing what was happening, the coach said he’d just get out and squeeze through an entrance small enough for a person. Chad and I jumped out of the van and stood beside him. The coach’s assistant still hadn’t had any luck getting the door open, so he scaled the doors and continued his assurance that he was with “the white coach.”

The instant the door opened, the crowd pressed forward and people were literally being squeezed through the entrance. In a true, “You jump, I jump” Titanic moment, Chad reached back, grabbed my hand and we burst through the door and found ourselves standing outside the Sierra Leone locker room.

GAME DAY, PART 3: A PRESIDENTIAL PUMP UP

Contributed by: Dave

Finally safely aboard the coach’s van, Chad and I figured we’d be at the game shortly. Clay and Josh followed closely behind. But rather than turn right along Lumley Beach Road to start the direct, 10-minute drive to the stadium, we turned left. Curious. As the road to the stadium bent left, heading towards the center of Freetown, our thoughts ran faster than our cameras. Perhaps this was some sort of way to throw off the masses of fans seeking a glimpse of their heroes. Or maybe it was the opposite, the route was meant to pump up the team, showing them how much their supporters cared. Either way, as the van climbed through the hills, we had a front row seat to the Leone Stars’ parade.

As the procession rounded the corner of yet another switchback, the trees parted briefly. Freetown stretched all the way to the ocean, a jumbled clutter of congestion. In the center of that mass of hazy humanity, there it was: the National Stadium. Even from here, we could see it was full. I can’t really explain how the energy traversed that distance, but it did. It socked us right in the chest. Suddenly, and maybe for the first time, we knew what this match—strike that, this sport— meant to the country.

Chad and I took our eyes from the stadium and turned them to the team bus, which had slowed to a stop. For the second time in less than five minutes, I was taken aback. I turned to Chad and, as calmly and professionally as I could, whispered: “I think we’re about to meet the President.”

The van pulled to a stop, the team poured out, the passenger side door flew open and we quickly joined the stream of hangers-on. We were rapidly escorted into the equivalent of the White House. The team took its seats and nervously awaited the arrival of the President. Their anxiety was two-fold: not only were they about to be addressed by the Head of State, they were also, as Kei pointed out, less than two hours from kickoff and had yet to even stretch.

The president entered the room without much fanfare. The Leone Stars stood at attention before he told them to sit down and rest. Formalities were exchanged, introductions were done, and then the president rose to speak.

Here at Copper Pot, we’re sports junkies. We love sports movies, even if they can be formulaic and schlock-y. And what’s a sports movie without a riveting pump up speech from the coach?

Well, in our movie, that speech is delivered by President Ernest B. Koroma.

We listened as the president told his team that they have the ability to help the country’s healing, how they can guide Salone from its tormented past, how if they could beat Egypt today, the world would know about Sierra Leone for something other than it’s bloodied history.

It was stirring… and when there’s a Josh Johnson score behind it, it’ll challenge anything Coach Eric Taylor uttered in Friday Night Lights.

He finished to applause and as rapidly as the team entered, it started to leave. He shook each player’s hand. Kei, always the showman, looked directly at the camera before his turn came up: “I can’t believe I’m going to meet the president.” As we caught Kei shaking the president’s hand, I turned to Chad to make sure that he knew we had to get going. Chad, knowing that it was on my bucket list to meet a president, mouthed and gestured, “Shake his hand. You.” Realizing that the president was by the room’s only exit, I figured what the hell. Keeping the camera running, I mustered up a feeble, “Thank you, sir.” Chad fell into the line, firmly grasped the president’s hand and headed out to rejoin me in the coach’s van. It wasn’t until much later that I realized I wouldn’t actually be able to check the item off my bucket list, for it, too, had been in my pickpocketed dummy wallet.

While Chad and I met the president, Clay and Josh were on an adventure of their own… and you can read about it on an upcoming blog from Clay himself.

GAME DAY, PART 2: GET ON THE BUS… OR VAN

Contributed by: Dave

Gameday began without a hitch. It had been decided that Chad and I would meet Kei at his hotel, film with him as he rode the team bus to the hotel, and shoot with him all the way through the national anthem and kickoff. Then we’d meet up with Josh and Clay, who would be a part of the team’s motorcade through Freetown in the vehicle driven by Abu, our guide. Kei was the first to let us know that things might not go according to plan.

Apparently, unlike most soccer federations, the Sierra Leone Football Association expects its players to make their way to Freetown at their own expense, and then it reimburses them upon arrival. In a not uncommon occurrence, the team hadn’t been paid—and we were less than three hours from kickoff. Kei told us that though we were supposed to leave at 2:30, some of the players were protesting and had left the hotel. He told us not to worry, the game would be played, but we might be a little late. He disappeared to get some more information.

Fifteen minutes later, he returned, popped on some dope white Dr. Dre headphones, and made his way to the bus. We followed.

When we rounded the corner and saw the bus, it was clear we might have a problem. It already looked full to capacity. Kei had warned us that though everyone approved of us filming their ride, there would be a lot of standing. At this point, we weren’t quite sure if they’d even be able to do that.

Kei signed a couple of autographs, then hopped on the bus. We tried to follow, but New Yorkers have nothing on West Africans. The crowd surged forward and though we were at the front, the door slammed in our face. Kei did his best to get us on, but as it pulled away, he could only give an apologetic shrug.

Dejected, we headed back towards the street to meet up with Abu, Josh and Clay. A team representative asked if we needed a ride, we declined, then saw him board a van carrying the team’s coach. We quickly pivoted and hopped in, finding ourselves aboard the second car in a 10-car procession led by a police escort. Fully expecting chaos upon arriving at the stadium, we took solace that we were riding with the coach, knowing that he surely would get in without issue (for those of you English and Humanities teachers heading back to school this week, feel free to use this paragraph as an example of foreshadowing).

GAME DAY, PART 1: PREPARATION

Contributed by: Dave

There are just some things you can’t prepare for.

Last night, we spent hours—literally, hours—dissecting how today would go. Two days of shooting Kei Kamara’s training with the Leone Stars had forced us to re-evaluate our strategy. From day one, we knew that the torrential downpours that appeared at a moment’s notice threatened to destroy our equipment or, at the very least, severely limit our mobility.

Day two had yielded a much larger threat. At the end of a relatively calm training, Kei made his way over to the Leone Stars supporters, took off one cleat and hurled it into the stands. Not surprisingly, mayhem ensued in the crowd. What was a shock, though, was the reaction from the small number of fans who had been watching the practice from the field. These supporters each had some connection to one of the players. They were each allowed in by security before the entrance gates were locked. They were screened. But when they saw Kei’s boot was up for grabs, they rushed him and began grabbing at him, tearing for his other shoe, literally lifting him off the ground at one point. Always the fan favorite, Kei somehow managed to escape the madness with both his body and status among his supporters unscathed (he did, however, leave shoeless).

Calm was quickly restored, but only for a moment. The gates on the far end of the field swung open to allow the Leone Stars bus to exit. As it did, fans came running towards the few remaining players who chose not to board the bus. Kei had opted to ride home with his brother, which placed him on a collision course with the mob rushing towards his car. He quickly hopped in the passenger’s seat and we were given an idea of what Beatlemania must have been like. People surrounded the vehicle. A dozen fans quickly turned into 50. Then there were a hundred. Kei’s brother couldn’t get his car free of the masses. Kei opened the window a crack, then tossed a stack of player cards into the air, sending men and boys scattering to get one. Kei’s car sped away with hundreds chasing.

We knew that if the reaction of 200 fans could make us feel unsafe, the 45,000 inside National Stadium on gameday could pose a problem. Our fears weren’t unwarranted: not only had my dummy wallet containing $20, an expired license and a 2009-2010 New York Rangers schedule been pickpocketed during the madness, but we heard the government had already called in 1000 additional members of the military for the game. Apparently, the two governing bodies of Sierra Leone’s football association had disagreed on ticket prices. Rather than reach a compromise, two sets of tickets were issued, rendering one useless. Tension was on the rise. We needed to be ready for anything. And we thought we were.

We had dissected every possible scenario. What if we’re separated? What if one of us is injured in a stampede? What if we can’t find the car and need to cab it home? Our preparations went above and beyond. First and foremost, we had decided to leave the game at least 10 minutes before the final whistle (I had excellent preparation for this as I never stayed for a complete game as a child so my dad could “beat the traffic.”) We stashed money in secret places on our body. We left our passports behind, but carried a copy on us. Non-essential electronics stayed in the room. We gave each other the Disney treatment—which is to say we took digital pictures so we could show the authorities what we looked like and what we were wearing on the day we disappeared. We even had headlamps stashed in each bag so if we had to make our way back to the hotel in the midst of one of Freetown’s famous blackouts, we’d at least be able to light the way.

In short, we thought of everything. Or had we?

Kei Kamara: Leone Star, Great Guy

Today, we finally had the chance to speak with Kei Kamara on camera. We knew Kei would be a great interview—look no further than this YouTube clip of his Michael Jackson goal celebration to know that the guy is comfortable in front of the camera.

We imagine a lot of our readers are based in the tri-state area. You might not follow Major League Soccer and if you do, you probably support one of the teams along the Eastern seaboard. Let us tell you a bit about Kei.

Back home in Kansas City, Kei plays for Sporting KC. If you grew up going to MLS camps, you probably know Sporting better as the Kansas City Wizards. In the last year, they dropped that name, opened arguably the best soccer facility in the country and sold an insane amount of season tickets.

For a newly rebranded team trying to win fans to soccer, Kei is a publicist’s dream. Personable, funny and a social media machine, he’s accessible to his fans, a force on the pitch and a humanitarian off of it (we first connected with him through our mutual support of Schools for Salone). Kei shared the spotlight with fellow Kansas City resident Chad Ochocinco, a surprisingly big soccer fan, when the two exchanged friendly barbs over Twitter. Sadly, when the media-loving Ochocinco pulled a reverse Tony Meola and laced up his soccer boots during the lockout, Kei was on national team duty and the pair never faced off in their long-anticipated penalty kick shootout. Kei has now earned eight appearances (caps, for the uninformed) for Sierra Leone’s national team and he’s still seeking his first international goal.

His fans in Kansas City—and there are many that wear his #23—know Kei as a fun-loving, Chipolte-eating, snowball-fighting star that often Tweets from the handle he created for his dog, @ChelseaTheDog23. Admittedly, that’s how we knew him before today. We knew a bit about his history, but Google can only take you so far. Today, we got a chance to see Kei represent his nation—not by wearing the green, white and blue, but by showing us a spirit of hope unbroken by years of war and everything that comes after.

In the States or in Salone, it’s easy to forget what Kei’s been through. Laughter comes easily to him and between drills, you’ll catch him with his teammates, hamming it up for our cameras, or, as he says shamelessly, flirting with the fans. But talk to him for a bit and it’s evident that, no matter how fast he is with a ball at his feet, he can’t outrun the pain of a wartime childhood.

Moments after we started rolling today, he began talking about when the war came to him. He was only six when the rebels attacked. He knew there was a war on, but didn’t think much about it until the explosion rocked his school. Though his family had told him to stay put if the rebels invaded, six-year-old Kei fled with the rest of his classmates and teachers. As aimless bullets ripped into the crowd around him, familiar faces fell to the ground. Kei stopped running. He didn’t see his brothers. They were older than he was and they weren’t in the same class. What if they had listened to their parents? They’d have stayed sitting at their desks. He had to go find them. He remembers stepping on and over the bodies of the people from his village as his tiny frame pushed against the current of the fleeing masses. But that’s all he remembers. The rest is a blur. He says he somehow found his brothers and they must have made it home together. But home didn’t stay home for long—forced to flee, Kei bounced around West Africa before finally landing in California.

Eventually, Kei’s journey—and his skill on the pitch—brought him back home, where he wore the colors of his country and stood on the crab grass field in front of thousands of his countrymen as the strains of his national anthem played. Kei is a hero to the Leone Stars supporters who will chant his name tomorrow. This country loves its football, after all. But Kei is more than that. His story, remarkable as it is, is echoed by everyone in this country. Each of those supporters has their own story of pain and loss. Somehow, they all survived together. Somehow, they managed to keep their hope alive. And now, somehow, they’re all managing to heal together. Wearing the jersey or not, Kei is a symbol for Sierra Leone and the country’s resilience. When a guy like him makes it, it’s a victory for the entire country.

Damn, we want him to score tomorrow.

Much love,

The Brownstones Crew

Shooting Training With the Leone Stars... In a Monsoon

We’ve been to Sierra Leone’s national stadium before. Three years ago, we toured it, partially because it’s played an important role in the country’s history as it’s where the president proclaimed that the “War don don,” or that the war was over, but mainly because we’re soccer fans (and, in Chad’s case, an ex-college star from Vermont, where soccer is huge). When we visited, FIFA had just deemed the stadium unsuitable for play.

Despite talking about the development of the country in our last post, looking just at the national soccer team, it’s hard to say that much has changed.

Scrub crabgrass covers the pitch. Two days before gameday, it was still unlined, leaving the 18 a general area up for debate. Drainage, a seeming must in the rainy season, was non-existent. Even before the intense rain began pouring down, the ball would come to a sudden stop in puddles.

It’s hard to believe that this team is trying to qualify for the same World Cup that features teams like England and Spain. Even in high school, if our field was under siege from rain in the days before a game, we practiced somewhere else. You’d be hardpressed to find a team playing in worse conditions. It’s surely a change for Kei Kamara, who we’ve come to profile today. In the States’ Major League Soccer, Kei plays with Sporting KC, whose stadium numbers among the best soccer facilities in the country.

Still, the conditions of the field or the absolute downpour didn’t deter Kei, his teammates or the hundreds of fans that came to watch.

From a film perspective, shooting in the rain was one of the most technical challenges we’ve ever faced. The rain came down hard—and sideways. It drenched us—in retrospect, we probably should’ve brought more rain gear—and the equipment. We constantly were wiping down the lenses and feared that the material would be useless.

And of course, by useless, we mean EPIC. Rocking our new variable frame rate camera, Chad shot amazing slow motion footage of Kei—the pouring rain, the vibrant green, white and blue of the stadium bleachers, the mud flying everywhere—it all contributed to beautiful footage that we can’t wait to share with you.

Tomorrow, we will be back at the stadium, filming the training, before meeting up with Kei to shoot an interview. If it’s anything like today, we expect it to be a special day.

Much love,

The Brownstones Crew

Development Abound in Salone

Those of you that know the Copper Pot team personally know that we are made up of former athletes. Ok, athletes might be a stretch—let’s call us gym class heroes. Today, we merged our athletic prowess with our love of cinema. The result? An epic shoot in Sierra Leone’s national stadium amidst a downpour.

Let’s back it up for a minute. Last time we were in Salone, it was April, which, apparently, is the best time to visit. We can get down with that. The weather was gorgeous; albeit a bit hot and sticky, but beautiful blue skies met gently breaking waves that lapped against the shore in front of our hotel. Soccer matches were strewn about the beach. Countless beach bars serving Star beer, chicken, fish and rice dotted the white sand. When the tide came in, it washed over our feet as we sat in plastic chairs. It was, simply put, quite delightful.

Flashfoward to the Salone return of the Brownstones crew. We had longed for a return since we left in 2008 and once the final brick of the school was put in place, it was only a matter of time before our return. When it turned out that the day the new school opened for business fell only two days after an African Cup of Nations qualifier between Sierra Leone and Egypt, we figured we had to be there, rainy season be damned. Plus, we had heard we’d be here at the tail end of the monsoons—that might not be the correct meteorological term, but that sure is what it felt like.

It was a simple start to the day. After sleeping til well after noon like a bunch of college kids, Clay, Chad and Dave opted to go for a run along the beach road to jolt themselves back to life. Naturally, it was at this instant Salone chose to show us how vicious her rainy season could be. Torrents of rain poured down upon us, giant puddles covered the road, sand was ripped out to sea. It was a hell of a start.

Soon thereafter, we met with Abu, our guide and driver for the trip. Abu had come recommended to us by Schools for Salone, an organization that you know all about if you know anything about Copper Pot or BROWNSTONES TO RED DIRT. If you happened to find your way here as a new reader, suffice it to say that SFS is the amazing US-based organization that made our dream of building a school here in Salone a reality. We love them. You should too.

The first task we needed Abu’s expertise with was exchanging money. Not hard, you say? Well, last time, when we exchanged money, we did it on what was commonly referred to as the “black market.” This process consisted of parking in a shady part of town and having our then-guide haggle over exchange rates with men who certainly didn’t spend their days as bank tellers. Better rates were given for newer bills and higher denominations. It was a baffling process that seemed to take forever.

Today, Abu told us it wouldn’t take “any time at all”—good news, considering we lingered a bit long at lunch and thought we were running about a half hour late to meet Kei Kamara at the national stadium.

Knowing that what seems like a “short while” in West Africa can seem agonizingly long to an American, we hopped in the car, doubt coursing through the SUV that would serve as our transport for the week. We were in for a shock.

Not only did the drive take less than 10 minutes, but the route that we took followed the same we drove every day to the Children in Crisis Primary School. We were blown away by the changes. In three short years, developments had sprung up all along the road. Yes, there is still unimaginable poverty—that hadn’t changed. But there were signs everywhere of foreign and local investment: developments like condo complexes, shopping centers and gas stations. It was simply amazing.

When Abu pulled into a supermarket where we were to change money, we all pooled our cash, expecting the black market back alleys we knew from last time. We started to hand it to him, knowing he’d get a better rate, but he told us the four of us should change our own money. Admittedly skeptical, we walked in to be greeted by a friendly staff and an exchange rate better than advertised than what we saw in the US. We poked around the store and were surprised to see that the store offered many of the comforts of home—from Snickers bars to Jack Daniels and Gilette razors. These brands may be thought to be international and readily available, but last time we were here, we have no such memory.

Of course, there’s a lot that can be written by a lot smarter people about development in a third world country than the chuckleheads here at Copper Pot. And, of course, as of this point in the trip, our shooting schedule hasn’t brought us much past the reaches of the tourist section of Freetown, so we have yet to see how far the development extends, but it was encouraging to see the growth. In our film, Balla, one of the children from Sierra Leone, says that Sierra Leone is a good place and “everyone should come to Salone.” In the last three years, it seems like that message has gotten out to the people. It seems like people are starting to believe in Salone again—from what we saw three years ago, there’s no reason not to.

Much love,

The Brownstones Crew