Green Oranges on Lion Mountain: The Accidental Optimist [Paperback]

Joy is not Mother Theresa. But her refreshing honesty and humour combine to make her tale all the more harrowing, yet simulataneously uplifting. --The Herald

A fantastic book with humanity and humour. --Phil Hammond

Green Oranges on Lion Mountain illustrates the tenacity and determination of the people of Sierra Leone. --Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York

A fantastic book with humanity and humour. --Phil Hammond

Green Oranges on Lion Mountain illustrates the tenacity and determination of the people of Sierra Leone. --Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York

'Very down to earth, very funny, very human.'

'A fine book which sets our selfish Western concerns alongside the grim reality of life in Africa.'

Emily Joy puts on her rose-tinted specs, leaves behind her comfortable middle class life as a doctor in York and heads off for two years voluntary work at a remote hospital in Sierra Leone. Emily finds the prospect of life in a rural African village less than enticing. There is no equipment, no water, no electricity and, worst of all, no chocolate to treat her nasty case of unrequited love. Despite this, the Sierra Leoneans she meets (who, after all, have far worse problems to think about) inspire her with their courage and vivacity. Dr Em s poignant and often hilarious adventures show us how fulfilling volunteering can be

Emily spent her early years as an airforce daughter in England, moving to Scotland after her father crashed his plane into a stray water buffalo. She went to medical school in Edinburgh where she indulged in squash and eating chocolate. After graduating she opted for the life of a GP and set up shop in York. But it wasn't long before she was dreaming about life beyond her cosy back street surgery. VSO sent her to Sierra Leone where she spent two and a half enormously eventful years. She eventually returned to York with her moans about the NHS curbed and her life enriched from having experienced a culture so different from her own. Whether or not it helped her find her man or not, we will never know, but she now lives in relative bliss with her husband and two small children.

A machine gun knocking catapulted me into morning from the haven of my bed. Pa George stood barefoot in the doorway, arms folded. He looked me up and down. With my British reserve, I tried to observe him a little more surreptitiously.

"What for chop today?"

Neither of us were aesthetic examples of our race. He had a ploughed field for a face, his head driven forward on a stringy neck, led by a big nose and protruding bottom lip. A gargoyle carved in charcoal, I thought unkindly. However, judging by his expression, Pa George was thinking equally unflattering thoughts about me. What did he make of my podgy body, still clad in the mud-splattered sundress I had fallen asleep in some five hours earlier? And what about my bloodshot eyes and breath, still heavy with the fumes of Alan’s hospitality? All I wanted to do was collapse back into bed, but Pa George’s sinewy frame looked ready for anything.

"What for chop today?" he barked again. I assumed he was asking me what I wanted for lunch.

"Er...er," I stammered. Pa George pursed his lips and his black eyes challenged mine from deep weather-beaten sockets. Sweat popped out in globules over my forehead. Come on, Em, remember your Krio, think of a dish. There’s no Klaus to help you now.

"Um.....plassas?" I hoped plassas was good.

"Bonga forty leones." He said thrusting out his hand. "Rice ten leones, cassava leaf eight leones, pepper four leones, onion twenty leones, palm oil thirty leones." It took me a minute to realize that this was the shopping list.

"Uh..., okay. I’ll just go and find my money." I’d put it all in one of my bags. Now there was a point. Where were they?

According to Alan, my rucksacks would be here. However, like most doctors, I did not trust administrators - especially not Irish ones with a wicked sense of humour who dressed in pink and blue tie-dyed pyjamas.

Feeling Pa George’s eyes on my back, I turned to search my new abode for my elusive possessions. The sparse furnishings left little hiding place. Flimsy cotton curtains tried to soften the window bars and rusting mosquito mesh but they were no match for the stream of sunlight that was further fading an unsavoury mustard velour sofa. At the other end of the living room, a large table was covered with tie-dyed material that looked remarkably similar to Alan’s suit.

Before I could ponder further on Alan’s taste in clothing, I spotted my two muddy rucksacks through the open door to the kitchen. Moses had propped them against a chest-high, black and red oil drum that sat by the door. A thick black crack cut the concrete floor in half. Oh dear, I hoped the rest of the house was structurally sound. I was about to step over the crack when it moved. I recoiled. Good Lord! Ants!

My pulse gradually slowed down allowing my mother’s biology teacher gene to kick in. Such big ants and so many! I bent down for closer inspection. Each one made of large and small glossy black beads, all in perfect formation, their mission, to stop me getting to my money. Well I wasn’t going to be beaten by a couple of formicidae.

Taking a deep breath, I reached over and carefully lifted up the smaller backpack. I pulled out the plastic bag stuffed with money and something fell to the floor. It was the last of Klaus’ Minstrels. The ants were delighted. They congregated around the Minstrel, and started to rock it from side to side. Once enough of them had taken up position, they hoisted their massive prize aloft and bore it away. I watched, helplessly mourning the passage of my only remaining bit of chocolate.