Bud Diamonds

BY JOHNNY WALKER

PHOTOS BY RYEN McPHERSON

A popular method of voter suppression used by the Revolutionary United Front (the rebel army that waged war in Sierra Leone for more than a decade and controlled the country’s diamond mines and revenues) was to cut hands off at the wrists. At least casualties like this man can sleep soundly knowing it wasn’t all for naught: Nowadays kids from around the world can zoom in and score black-market diamonds for pennies on the dollar!

The first thing you notice about Sierra Leone is that everything swarms you: the heat, the beggars, the officials (who are basically beggars with titles), and the particulate filth that comes in a country where they dispose of their trash by burning it on the side of the road. We traveled to this country held together by rubber bands and prayers to smuggle diamonds, for which we would either be handsomely rewarded back home in the States or end up in a third-world clink.

There were three of us: Colin Farrell (aka Ryen McPherson, whose photos grace the following pages), Greg Brady, and Johnny Walker. We used aliases to protect ourselves in case anyone ratted us out after the fact. There was a bundle of hundreds split between my two socks, another wad taped to Colin’s leg, and a third, even more impressive roll of $10,000 tucked into a homemade inner pocket of Greg’s boxers. We had no idea where to start looking but thought it would be best if we traveled to the interior of the country—the cities of Bo and Kenema, in particular, where the diamond mines are located and where we were likely to find the best prices.

So off we stumbled through the bush in a rented car toward Mt. Bintumani, the highest mountain in the country and our purported sightseeing destination. After several hours in Freetown traffic (a confusing gridlock of dirt back alleys and a few open-air marketplaces that supposedly double as main thoroughfares), we stopped suddenly on the side of the road to drop off the man whom we had negotiated to be our driver at his house. Then a newer, younger, and much less confident-looking boy climbed in. He was to be our actual driver for the remainder of the trip. It was here that we learned our first lesson of the African bargaining game: Always be specific. There is no fine print, only chaos.

This ladykiller with the machete is Alfred. Self-proclaimed police officer and award-winning con man, he would probably have a stroke if he knew we had diamonds stashed away in our shoes while taking this glamour shot.

Climbing Bintumani almost destroyed the car. Luckily we were able to navigate the dangerous tangle of dirt roads minus air conditioning and power steering, but with all of our tires intact. On our way to Kenema we stopped in Kono, a sort of intermediary district for the diamond trade, and we saw a few interesting stones but thought the prices a bit high. Greg had done his homework, and the rule was to be patient and discreet—if you’re caught, buying diamonds in Sierra Leone without a license will land you five years in prison, which, according to the locals, is basically a death sentence for people who look like us.

By the time we got into Kenema it was dark, so we decided to catch up on some rest and get an early start the next morning. Still without any solid contacts, we began to brazenly walk into the diamond offices (usually a stuffy room in the back of a general outfitting depot—think a huge garage open to public view) that lined the main boulevard. We struck pay dirt at the first spot, but after ten minutes of turning down subpar offers from the proprietor (mostly fancy stones and other items that were hard to properly evaluate) we were ready to give up. It was then that we were introduced to a Lebanese man from Kono who was in town visiting. He offered us a much better selection.

What started as a conversation about Greg buying some earrings for his wife evolved into something else entirely when we pulled out our own scale, eye loupe, and tester. The bargaining suddenly took on a much more serious tone. We purchased some “souvenirs” (lower-quality stones) and a few midsize workable (gem-quality) stones, but we were still waiting for the Big One—a three- or four-carat stone that should retail in Sierra Leone for about six or seven grand and bring back at least double that in returns stateside. The Lebanese seller didn’t have any stones that large on him but promised to stay in contact over the next few days.

Question 9B on the blackboard: “How many types of resources do we have?” An ironic quandary considering how this country will never benefit from the few resources it has. Evidently, Obama tours Sierra Leone more often than Santa Claus. But what trip is complete without finding American political ephemera in a tiny village at the foot of a remote mountain (Bintumani) that sees more Obama shirts than Americans?

On the way out of the office, a tall, native man in a salmon-colored shirt who had quietly watched the deal go down was suddenly demanding a commission. It was just a pittance, $20 or so, but after an hour of intense haggling we weren’t going to stand for it. “No, fuck that. The seller pays the commission,” Greg said. Colin laughed in the guy’s face. The Lebanese man smiled condescendingly and said, “That’s fine, but that’s not normally how things happen here.” Then he waved off the man in the salmon-colored shirt.

We left and went to lunch. Then we went to another shop on the same main drag. There they sent us to a second, ancillary building that was up one of the side streets, and I waited with the driver while the others went for round 2. They were sitting on the veranda talking to a man, and I can remember noticing the heat again—the stickiness of the air, the way my clothes gripped and tugged at my skin. Then a second man in a ratty Hawaiian Corona shirt appeared from the shadows and started speaking in a loud voice. I caught the “We’re fucked” look in my friends’ eyes, and through the cracked car window I heard him speak: “We know you already bought de diamonds.” The three of them disappeared into the foyer for about 20 minutes.

After Alfred was unsuccessful in his attempt to extort us for purchasing diamonds illegally, he was successful in hustling us under the guise of tourism. The following morning, he took us on an exclusive, under-the-table tour of some of Sierra Leone’s least developed diamond mines. Of course, now that we were “friends,” he could take liberties with the laws (as long as we took liberties with our wallets afterward).

By the time they came out I had already stashed my stones inside the plastic seatbelt cover, and I could tell that the tone of the conversation had changed. This time no one was threatening to turn our car inside out. Colin was showing the man—Alfred was his name—the part in our travel guide about window-shopping for diamonds. “We just want to take pictures,” Colin said. The bluffs flew back and forth like the salvos of machine-gun fire that had been so commonplace in this region only a decade earlier. Alfred explained that he had tailed us from the last office we visited, not the first one where we had actually bought stones. It was steaming in the car; the heat was like some kind of faceless terror, and I almost applauded when our new friend told us we should go to someplace quieter to further discuss the matter.

The fact that he was our “friend” was a good sign. It meant we would be paying for his and his cronies’ dinners. It also meant that although we weren’t in the clear yet, the situation was improving. As we sat down and ordered, he chattered away into his cell phone in the brilliant birdsong that is Krio (half English and half cockamamie nonsense), and we all started to breathe a bit easier beneath our forced smiles and enervating conversation about nothing.

The scene of the crime.

Our man Alfred was trying his damndest to find someone who would let us photograph a diamond. We had insisted that we just wanted a picture, although he kept assuring us that it was OK if we wanted more, because he could arrange that too. But we knew better. He must have realized he’d sprung his trap too early and was desperately looking for a way to get us back in his pocket. All we wanted was to get the fuck out of Kenema. We knew we’d blown the spot. Finally we heard a motorcycle approaching, which was good because it meant we were one step closer to being done with the whole circus. Then footsteps. Then, directly in front of me, came a sight that sent my stomach plummeting toward my asshole like a runaway elevator: the man in the salmon-colored shirt.

This led into the tensest five minutes of my life, which says a lot considering the previous hour. For some reason the man in the salmon shirt didn’t rat us out. Maybe we had a guardian angel and he just happened to be Lebanese.

Yes, we successfully transported the diamonds out of the country. The best part was that we didn’t have to stick them up our asses. Colin’s left Sierra Leone via the thumb of a latex glove, which he cut out and tucked beneath this tongue, ready to be swallowed at the first sign of trouble. Mine was taped to the inside of my Nikon, which destroyed the shutter forever. Greg almost missed the plane trying to get the Big One, and in the end he even held it in palm of his hand, which is closer than most people ever get to anything. And as for the shiny little rocks themselves, well, they’re proof. Proof that it’s still out there if you’re foolish enough to go looking for it.

The finished product. One and a half carats of uncut, unpolished African ice. Purchased from a Lebanese expatriate in Kenema, crafted by a Jewish jeweler in Las Vegas, and worn proudly by Ryen’s Mexican mother in San Diego. See more of Ryen’s work at stabtheprincess.com.