“Morning-o!” I called out to friends in front of the County Health Department building.
“You are busy with work?” someone called after me.
“Small small,” I replied; a very West African response which – like adding “o” to the ends of words, I’ve taken to doing. I’m not sure what feeds my inclination to not just adopt but ingest the norms of the places I live. Be it the expression “right right true true” from my time at FAMU or the slight curtsy and holding the elbow of my outstretched arm when handing someone something from South Africa (a sign of respect); it is something I find myself doing unconsciously – a sort of habit that sneaks up on me.
Maybe it is a survival instinct of my nomadic upbringing, a desire to try to seem less foreign; or a malleable aspect of my mannerisms, porous even, that absorbs the world around me and wears it like others wear the newest styles. Probably some hybrid of the two…
I don’t adopt everything. While in South Africa I would kneel before my host father to present him a basin of water to wash his hands, retreat, kneel to present his food, retreat, kneel to retrieve his dishes. While I never felt it was intended to subjugate me (and it prevented my arthritic host mother from having to do it), it still isn’t something that I felt the need to pack up and bring home – much as the men in my life might enjoy it.
Still, there are things that trail me no matter where I go…if I’m distracted and ask the time I will probably ask in sotho, “ke nako mang?”…
Ironically, all the things I do to make myself more at home wherever I am become the things that stand out the most once removed from their cultural or geographic context. No matter…I’ll keep traveling and see what nuances I pick up next.
Tags: liberia, me-ness, observations, social, travel
The rain came running. I could hear it; feel the wind that carried it, before the first drops fell. I sat pondering time and tadpoles while enjoying the breeze until the rain began to run under the door. Walking to the back of the house where Sierra Leone was napping, rain snuck through the small openings in his windows (there is no glass, instead the university has boarded up all but a quarter of the window – leaving a cut out covered in mosquito netting at the top).
I sat beside him nudging him gently and he mumbled, “you love the rain” through his sleep distorted voice.
I do love the rain. But this rain was brash, the thunder brazen. I could hear the storm banging fruit from the trees, lifting the tin off the roof, and puffing the curtains in and out like some crazed wolf from a three little pigs fairy tale. Suddenly, God cleared her throat. I started and SL laughed.
“what was that?”
“Just the rain.”
“Is this what the rainy season is like?” I asked disbelieving.
“Yes,’ he answered laughing at me.
A few minutes later we heard someone knocking at the door. Aaron stood on the front steps, clothes stuck to him and the cooled air visibly chilling him. He was speaking quickly as he walked into the house – headed directly for SL’s office. It took a moment…a moment and the water streaming into the office to realize what he was saying.
The roof had blown off.
Literally.
About a quarter of the tin roof had blown completely off the house and wrapped itself around a tree. That left a gaping hole the size of the office in the roof and water was pouring in. every few moments a different section of the ceiling would yield a hole or seam and brown water would gush through into the buckets we tried to assemble beneath them. But there were more breaches than buckets and eventually a whole section of the ceiling caved in raining the turbid water onto the bed and floor. Then another gave way.
SL watched from doorway, his posture and expression barely changing.
We hurried about, collecting his books and papers, his clothes and electronics the best we could. Eyeing the ceiling in each room as we worked the ceiling tiles darkened where rain water had blown into puddles and settled their weight ready to descend onto the floor below.
Darkness fell, blending the indoor puddles with creeping shadows. The rain subsided but the clouds still lingered and thunder rumbled in the distance like a hungry stomach.
Tags: crazystuff, friends, liberia, observations, travel
This morning it was a damp patch of dirt, the color only slightly darker than the surrounding cinnamon brown. Yesterday it had been a muddy puddle; all that remained of the vast and fairly deep puddle that had obstructed the rocky road that runs in front of Sierra Leone’s house. I’d watched the water suspiciously for weeks, eyeing the slight movements on its surface that I was certain were mosquitoes eggs.
Instead, tadpoles.
On our way to the Friday market, camera in hand for once, I stopped to take a closer look. And sure enough, there were dozens of tadpoles squiggling about the muddy water. Fighting for air or food I really don’t know.
I looked up to the cloudy sky and hoped for rain – for their sake. Their home had been receding steadily in the intensity of heat in the past few days.
But last night there was no rain. And this morning, as I walked by the puddle, I saw the small black bodies encrusted in drying mud, flies swarming where future frogs had swarmed before.
And it all comes down to timing in life – and in death. Looking up at the sky this afternoon the sky broadcasted its intent to rain. And I watched – and listened – as the winds picked up and water fell from the sky cooling the heavy air.
Too late for the tadpoles though. Rain pounding against SL’s roof, the corrugated tin vibrating against the wind, mangos and butterpears (avocados) falling from trees heavy with fruit.
Timing is essential. Be it in relationships, careers, or tadpoles
Tags: friends, liberia, observations, transition, travel
Change gon’ come…
Time is so relative, despite appearances to the contrary. Sixty seconds to 60 minutes to 24 hours…and days turn into months turn into years. Neat. Orderly. The same for everyone. Except it isn’t.
For the last five months time has been this slow moving vehicle transporting me through my Liberian experience. And I had my head out the window checking out everything that passed by. But after a while the scenery stopped changing and looking at my watch seemed pointless because the moments were passing slowly and they were the same moments over and over again.
Until now. Now with a month left to service and things flying by at incredible speed. So fast I am prone to missing them.
In the last two weeks my world has been thrown out of sync. And it all began so innocuously. I was finally called to do the training that was originally scheduled for October of last year. Finally. Meaning and form to my time here. And so I jumped into a Ministry of Health vehicle and headed north. My return bled into the Easter holiday and so I was busy here and there without really realizing how much time had passed. How quickly time was passing.
Until today.
Today I headed to the County Health Department for the first time in a long time. I sat and chatted with friends and talked about nothing and everything as is typical. From there I headed to the market at Airstrip by way of Africare. It had been a while since I’d been there and I needed to arrange a few things and at the same time it allows me to circumnavigate the Bangladeshi UNMIL station where I am generally stared at uncomfortably. On my return trip from the market, however, I took the long way and found myself staring at something that wasn’t registering familiar… when my eyes finally focused I asked the closest people to me what was obvious to anyone with sight, “UNMIL is gone?”.
Gone.
Just like that. Nothing left save a few sand bags and the concrete steps that use to lead up to their shower area. The whole compound had been disassembled and most of what remained was razed. And so I walked by, staring bewildered at the empty space where my discomfort had lived.
Change gon’ come.
I wanted to stop by the hospital this morning. Wanted to see Baby Grace but afraid of seeing her and of not. Afraid of what looking on her would do to my rended heart. Fearful that the loose hanging sheet that shielded her from nosey eyes might be neatly folded away and her space conspicuously absent
And so I went about my day, “too busy” to check in.
Later, sitting with Mary Tia, the desire to know overtook me and I asked quietly, “is baby Grace still there?”
She died two weeks ago, her head more than 67cm when she passed. She must have died shortly after my last visit.
They buried her in the clothes people had gifted her with. And just like that…
change gon’ come…
and come, and come.
Only a few more weeks spread out ahead of me before my “what next?”. A few weeks for everything to happen- anything. Time, that once slow moving vehicle, has a foot to the accelerator and I’m holding on and watching the scenery change with increasing speed.
Tags: future, health, liberia, observations, transition, travel, volunteer, work
In a throwback to biblical times or movies about India, the training took place on a Leprosy and TB rehabilitation community. The turn off of Ganta highway and down a dusty road passes a series of what appear to be one-room brick duplex homes. Where the doors are left slightly open I catch a glimpse of white mosquito net standing in contrast to the darkness inside. Children play out front, boys rolling big metal circles with sticks, girls climbing freesia trees that perfume the air.
Not everyone in this particular stretch of housing has leprosy, other family members move to the facility as caretakers. And so children with mottled skin and men with missing limbs play and sit amid flawless complexions and fully limbed companions.
Tom and Matthew, two nurses returning from dispensing medication, cleared away some of the mystery of the disease…for instance, there are different kinds and severity of leprosy and not all of them result in the obvious disfigurements. Also that it could take upwards of a year…sometimes longer…to treat. When I asked more question of some of the clinicians assembled for the workshop I’m evaluating they didn’t understand my curiosity, for them it is just another illness like malaria or TB.
Walking from my lodging, a short distance from the buildings where the workshop is housed, I greet curious faces that waved reluctantly the first day and more readily on subsequent mornings. The adults stare out form covered porches or where they have gathered in the shade of mango trees.
It is the children that are excited for my presence -or rather, the presence of the workshop. Workshop equals food. The first few days a few boys lingered at breakfast and lunch. They were summoned often, “my pekin, come throw this away” and eagerly complied as the plates they were taking had the remains of the meal on them. Each boy rushed to take a plate and shoveled food into his mouth quickly while eyeing workshop participants – other plates – for the next bite.
Each day the numbers grew. Now there are several kids vying for plates. What strikes me most is their tendency to share – sometimes by force but mostly by choice. After summoning Edith to come get my plate and disposable water bottle (they can sell those and so they search them out diligently) she wandered over to her girl friend by the pump. A swarm of boys descended. Everyone grabbed a handful and shoved in smiling mouths. Later, when someone handed Edith the remainder of his soda I watched as they examined the bottle – I wasn’t sure if they had had soda before. One of the bigger boys grabbed it from her and tipped it up. Disgust –or more likely surprise – sprang to his face and he shook his head back and forth while Edith looked on in laughter. She took a more tentative sip but still looked bewildered by the taste or fizz or something.
While good natured as they tussled for food the very tussle is telling; they aren’t looking for candy to ruin their appetites and teeth – they are eager for food. I am reminded of Mama Bright who has a swarm of 15 or so children that descend on her house each day (except Sunday) to do whatever odd jobs she has set aside for them. When they are finished, she cooks up a huge pot of rice and soup for them. For some, she suspects, this is their only meal.
“what are the symptoms of malaria,” he paused here and looked around the classroom, “we are all affected by malaria every day so give me some symptoms.”
The trainees began to list off the various symptoms that I’m currently recovering from. I’m a strange bird, I had a perverse sense of inclusion since I now have more than theoretical knowledge of a disease that is so common in Africa. Granted, given my current lethargy and malaise I’d be overjoyed to only have theory instead of practice…but I look for joy where I can find it – perverse or otherwise.
My mild case aside, the sobering reality is that malaria is responsible for 40-46% of ALL deaths in Liberia, 65,000+ children die each year here from it. It isn’t as sexy as AIDS or as headline grabbing as Ebola, it is simply the mundane killer…the car crash to HIV’s plane crash – far more frequent with an inverse amount of attention.
At any rate, this training is the launch-pad for my work in Liberia. I’ve been waiting for it to materialize for months. This training is responsible for training the trainers (TOT) of the county Basic Package of Health Services (BPHS) trainings that will train and refresh all the clinicians in Liberia with the most essential medical knowledge.
My work-plan has to be tweaked. Instead of helping to plan, rollout, and evaluate the county trainings I will instead evaluate this TOT, create an evaluation tool for participants (that can be used at the county level as well), and hopefully – meet with the Ministry of Health’s Monitoring and Evaluation. My departure time here is fast approaching…I’ll see how it goes.
I staggered – literally -to the bathroom with my flashlight in hand. A few hours later I wrapped myself up in the bedsheet against the blazing cold. I say blazing because Ganta is not cold – it is barely even cool at night. Then this morning I found myself lethargic and sleepy and slightly nauseated. As the hours passed I slumped lower in my chair.
Two liters of water into my day (and not even noon yet) I knew it wasn’t dehydration. I was all the more certain because I’d been feeling not quite right for more than a few days. So I sent Sierra Leone a text asking him about symptoms and pulled aside one of the doctors on site for our training and inquired the same of him.
Two finger jabs, one malfunctioning test, and one positive test later and I had a diagnosis – malaria.
The thing is that in the scheme of things I’ve been pretty lucky. Two years in southern Africa and I escaped with a little head trauma, multiple sinus infections, and that is about it. Of all my international travels that is probably the worst of it. Unlike friends, I’ve never had breakbone fever, or giardia, or bilharzias, or anything like that.
The streak has ended.
It could be worse – a lot worse. While I don’t feel good I don’t feel horrible. I have bouts of fever and chills but pretty mild in the scheme of things. And I’m lethargic but I can get out of bed and function.
Essentially I have a suppressed case of malaria because of the prophylaxis otherwise, from everything I’ve been told, my malaria-inexperienced self would be on my hiney! This is more like Liberians (older than 5 of course) do…continue to go to work and socialize. It seems as if it is like a hay fever or a slight cold, something you can’t avoid and so you live with the nuisance. Never mind the strain most common here is pretty dangerous. Never mind the symptoms of malaria – when not suppressed – are pretty heinous, folks go about their days multiple times in a year with little attention to the parasites that converge periodically in their veins.
So I took the first 8 of my 24 tablets to be taken in 3 days (Coartem). Hopefully by midday tomorrow I’ll be feeling much better- if not we’ll figure out plan B.
I’d been fooled before. Gotten excited and mentally prepared only to be disappointed when the call never came or the whole thing was called off. And so I packed, but I didn’t alter my Wednesday plans. All the more so since I had been calling our counterpart for two days to try and solidify our travel plans regarding the scheduled Training of Trainers- the whole reason I was placed in Liberia.
My calls were the result of a fluke. Hitching back from Kakata I caught a ride with a Ministry of Health vehicle. And when the “boss” asked me what I was doing I began to explain about the training that was supposed to be happening “right now but had been canceled again.” He peered at me through the rearview mirror and informed me that it had started the week before – as scheduled. Only I never got a call and no one sent a car.
and so I was hanging out with Sierra Leone today, in the wake of so many unanswered phone calls and text messages, and we were just leaving his house when the text came in that the driver was on his way. I strolled home, pulled together the remainder of my things and waited…and waited…and waited.
Tee arrived, pleasant and accommodating. Graciously detoured the short ride up the side road between Phebe and Gbarnga to the unfinished house of Charles Taylor. The skeletal remains of huge columns framing breathtaking views of the unruly foliage all around are all that remain. That and his initials carved at the top. It was an unsettling field trip; tangible evidence of how close in time and distance the civil unrest was. The house looming like the history that weights life here.
From there we stopped at a nondescript location to see the legendary catfish swarm and vie for bread. And from then it was just road. Jutted, potholed, eroded road. But despite the horrid conditions we made it to Ganta in short order and without incident.
Ganta is known as a happening place. A place that never sleeps. A place where you can get hot soup (pepper, goat, or cow meat) at 2am. Midday on a Wednesday, it was difficult to distinguish typical city bustle from the unique liveliness of this well-known Nimba County city.
Our end destination was the Leprosy Treatment compound where the three-week training is being held. Even with my late arrival the day was long. It broke at 5:30 to resume again at 7 and end for the day at 9pm. They were still going strong in my session at 9:15 when I departed. In need of a shower, the guest house turns off the generator at 10, we were dropped off at our compound for the night. Tomorrow is another day…I’m fascinated to see what it brings.
Too much time had passed. And while we’d connected briefly (and infrequently) by phone, the tangible is better than the verbal, especially where family is concerned. so I headed south to see the Brights and bask in the laughter and acceptance they so readily offer. Of course there was food – my chronic hunger is a running joke – and chickenfoot – a domino game they introduced me to upon my last visit.
And there was a baby shower.
Turns out some things are unchanged despite geographic variation; the difference is solely in the details. This particular baby shower, with many of the well know of female Liberian social and power elite, everything was turned up a notch – or 10. There was a dj, complete with enormous speakers and an amp, TLCAfrica was present to take photos and report on the event, and the whole affair was catered by Rosie’s (and delicious doesn’t begin to cover it).
Of course it was a woman’s affair – at least until the sun went down. The games behind us (because apparently games are universal), the men filtered in and the music cranked up. And then the party was in full swing.
We headed back north and I spent the night with the Brights. More chickenfoot and jumbling towers (a jenga-like game) but this time with an addition of Berkeley, a nephew who returned to Liberia to live and work about a year ago. In true familial fashion we ribbed on each other in a running stream of good natured insults. You have to love family…and the Brights and their extensions have invited me in and made me part of theirs!
I left my second visit with tears scratching at my eyes, my breathing rapid, my vision blurred. It had been more than a week since my previous visit to Grace, the abandoned hydrocephalic baby at Phebe hospital. I’d been distracted.
Her bed was shrouded by white and pink sheet, a new addition from the last time. When I pulled it back I sucked in my breath. Her head had grown. Now the size of a misshapen cantaloupe atop a tiny bony body, her eyes were sunk far into the sockets and rolled back often so that only the whites were visible. Her shirt, too large for so small a frame, swallowed her arms and legs forcing me to seek out a tiny foot to stroke.
My visit was brief. Too selfish to linger and look upon what I imagine is her suffering, I contributed to her care fund and left.
But Emme and Austin had heard me mention her and were curious to visit themselves. Unsure about putting her on display, I acquiesced because I hate to think of her alone in there, sheet shielding her from the rest of the world.
We walked in and Austin pulled back the makeshift curtain and Emme reached out a slender finger to stroke the tiny foot. We each cooed softly, “hey sweet baby” “hey darling” “hey beautiful” while reaching for some fragile extension of her body to touch. She grasped the single brown finger Austin held out against her spread fingers.
Nurses wandered in, curious about our presence.
“you came to see Grace? Miss Phebe, our queen,” she smiled as she adjusted Grace’s pajamas so that her hands emerged from the arm holes. “We named her Grace Phebe, she’s ours. We play with her at night when the visitors are gone so people don’t stare.”
I was touched. My fear alleviated that no one was giving her touch or love. But the nurses stood around Grace, proud mothers and fathers all.
Her head was 59 cm. Fifty-nine centimeters and growing.
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