The low hanging sun danced hazy off the morning fog. Moisture, draped temporarily over cotton and rubber trees, softening the edges of cassava leaves and muting popo (papaya) trees in the distance.
From a distance, in a blink, behind the cool mist, it looked like the Africa of storybooks, of every old movie and cliché. But the rubber trees are planted in rows, and between the seeming “wildness” that sprouts beside them, people cultivate small plots of land, build houses, grind a thousand footsteps in the same direction into a well-worn path.
And that green ribbon of land is different every time I go by. The placement of the sun, my mood, the moisture in the air, all conspire to paint a new picture- compose a new song. From the subtleties of daily routines dictated by time- bathing or brushing teeth – to the million things that blur into the background only to stand out as if alone only today, just this once…the popo trees fully grown out of the long abandoned foundation of a forgotten home, the fading bus stop signs on the side of the road.
And the seasonal things.
Skeletal cotton trees with bright blooms tipping their branches begin to leaf and cabbages neatly sprout green heads. So too, the stark white against the dun colored dirt. Dust blowing lightly across the ground, clinging to blades of grass and the feathers of chickens pecking for breakfast. A lone bird stood white feathered and unmoving in the breeze, ornamental and elegant against the surrounding green and brown.
It was strange to see just one after weeks of watching clusters of them. Five or seven at a time, soaring in asymmetrical patterns against the orange of dusk filled sky. And I wondered if this was the end of their time here. Migratory, I was told they came only for the dry season and then moved on. later, as if to assure me of their presence and the dry season’s endurance , I watched as handfuls of them dotted my yard in search of food.
Tags: liberia, observations, travel
I’ve been trying to write about my Brightspots. Words evade me despite the sincerest appreciation I have. And appreciation is dull and lifeless in my explanation. But I continue to try to clarify how family is sometimes blood and sometimes choice. And that far away from home and the people who love you because you are theirs, others sometimes invite you into the love they have to share and wrap you there – in a nucleus of affection, banter, prayer, laughter…and in my case, food- because they choose to.
I didn’t know what to expect. In truth I’d only met N and F twice. A fluke of mutual acquaintance put me in their path and their extreme kindness extended goes well beyond that. I’m still trying to find the words to express my gratitude…I’m still failing…
“when will you leave Liberia? What will you do after?”
Common enough questions. I responded as usual, “April. If I don’t find a job somewhere in Africa then I’ll return home to the States.” I then volunteered that I have friends in Uganda and Tanzania who might have employment information for me there.
He mused over that for a short time and then asked me, “ what if they wanted to send you to Darfur?”
I laughed quietly to myself and then shook my head, “I probably wouldn’t go,” I said, “it is dangerous.” we walked on for a short time, headed to a teacher training. “would you go?” I asked, enjoying the casual conversation.
He turned to look at me and said, “yes. Even today if they called I would go.” he still smiled but his face and voice were earnest as he continued. “here in Liberia people came to help us during our crisis. Without that help we would not have been successful in recovering.” he continued, “Sudan, even Iraq, if they asked me I would go.” he talked about the need for outsiders to be present to help alleviate conflict. “it is needed in Somalia. If people had not come to Liberia because it was not safe we would not have emerged from our crisis.”
I felt smaller. Humbled.
And for him…for him I felt…I’m not sure what I felt. the words aren’t quite right. Buut -pride is closest.
Proud that there are people who think of a greater good and act accordingly. Awed that someone who lived through what Liberia lived through could see beyond his own struggle…even his own recovery…to return the decency other nameless people bestowed upon his country, his country(wo)men.
I don’t know if I’d be up to going to Darfur or the DRC if the opportunity arose. I watch the job announcements for the IRC and note that Iraq, Afghanistan, and DRC dominate their vacancy list. But the potential danger, the stress, makes me question if that is work I was meant to do…work I want to do. In the shadow of a man who has already lived through hell at home and is willing to live through hell at someone else’s home…I’m uncomfortable with what that says about me.
Belecca’s friend was fussing. I didn’t understand why and Belecca didn’t look upset. Instead she shook her head in agreement and smiled at me.
“What’s wrong?”
“They are making that bag into two bags instead of one big one for her to carry her market things.”
The bag in question, held lightly in her hands, was being scrutinized. Its seam was sewn with red thread. The bag itself, was nondescript. One like a thousand I’ve seen, made of a durable plastic of some sort woven together – what you might expect to find 100 pounds of flour in, or in this case, USAID food donations. After some scrutiny and a quiet discussion, a knife emerged and the woman held the bag taut between her fingers while a young man pressed the knife against the threads. I could hear the paced and deliberate snapping of the threads as the knife pressed against them. I watched for a while, mesmerized by the quiet concentration. The breeze rustled the plastic and scattered dust at our feet.
The bag will be sewn again, to the woman’s specification. Careful stitching to transform it into whatever she needs. Saved and reused. Careful careful. Bottles – plastic water and glass liquor bottles filled with palm oil or kerosene; mayonnaise jars filled with petrol. In Gbarnga there are makeshift stalls – USAID sacks graying and tattered, used as curtains against the shade -the rickety tables, strewn with rusting hinges, doorknobs, and axe heads, ready for resale. Plastic bag and discarded paper are torn and used as makeshift plates for fried plantains, yeast rolls, or shortbread.
Used clothes litter the market. Shirts announcing blood drives in small town Michigan and University of Texas pride.
Driving through the countryside the other day, I saw an older man, tall and graying, wearing a shiny satin-like pajama set- white with tiny flowers; accented, of course, by a red baseball cap.
This is where Americans could learn how to truly recycle. Not simply cans and paper into more cans and paper for use and disposal, but the saving of…the re-use of…new identities for… Here, disposable is a foreign and unheard of concept instead of an expectation.
“I want to ask what country you are from.”
He had been staring at me while I searched out taxi prices to kakata. An older man, slender, graying, with a sort of lean that I assume was palm wine induced, and a cigarette dangling from his fingers.
When I replied he said, “but you are a black from America.”
I concurred but was feeling uneasy. I knew how this was going to go before he approached me. When he was staring at me as people are prone to staring at me. I knew and yet I was torn between who I am and who I have become through experience.
He held out his hand to shake mine and I acquiesced. The handshake lingered inappropriately and I tried to tactfully remove it from his grasp. He continued to talk. “I lived in Germany for a while, but my family -brothers and sisters – are naturalized citizen in that America. I would like to talk to you.”
“you’re talking to me right now.”
And then he made a kissing gesture and said something about visiting me that I didn’t quite hear because I turned brusquely, scanned the street for oncoming traffic and crossed without looking back.
The seasoned part of me wanted to ignore him as soon as he approached. There was nothing tangible to base it on but in my gut I could feel this scene play out even before it did. South Africa attuned my sense, making my hyperaware of all circumstance that might result in being molested by taxi drivers, police officers, or random men who wanted to “greet” me.
The problem is complex though. Part of it is that it is in my nature to smile and speak. I’m southern. Not to mention I give what I’d like to receive – and friendly open faces make my days easier -they are like gifts of sunshine in England or gifts of shade in Liberia.
The other issue is that I’m a guest here. Moreover, I’m a guest doing a job. Beyond my work with the Ministry of Health, I am also an American- a black American – and fair or not people assign what they know of a country – of a people – to whatever representation they have access to. So if I’m rude. If I’m sullen or antisocial. Hell, if I’m just having a bad day, that ceases to be just me and begins to be…peace corps volunteers, Americans, blacks, foreign women, white women…
My first few months in South Africa were brutal for me in this vein. Trying to navigate the nuances of a place that values people and greetings like no other place I’ve been while balancing my “otherness“ that drew so much attention proved difficult. And after a plethora of inappropriate comments and touching, I shut down. At one point I stopped talking to men. Period.
sitting in a khumbie (minivan taxi) in Pietersburg, a young man persisted in talking to me. He kept trying to get my attention. He may even have tapped me on my arm. For the entire ride…more than an hour, I ignored him. I never even made eye contact. I sat rigid in my seat staring out the window at the passing scenery. Back in the township, preparing for the last leg of my trip into my village, I realized that same man was on my taxi heading for Makushoaneng. He was someone from my village who couldn’t remember my name but who remembered my face. And now he’d remember this.
I snubbed him. Pretended as if he didn’t exist.
And it doesn’t matter that I was reacting to a dozen other people who didn’t have my best interest at heart, he‘ll never know that…it only matters that I was “too good” or “thought too little of him” to talk to someone who might have become my friend.
But my gut is usually right.
I can usually feel out a situation in the first few moments and foresee if it will end in “take me to America” or “I’ll visit you tonight” complete with a leer or something else suggestive…but I persist in having the conversation, in giving the benefit of the doubt. When I feel compelled to be rude without provocation or to dismiss someone before I have cause my mind recalls that taxi ride in South Africa.
Walking back to my house I spotted two familiar faces. They both smiled greeting and we fell into step talking about the holidays and the coming weeks. Roland and Jallah walked me through the nursing campus to a new shop I’d heard about. They taught me how to say “I’m not a white woman”, we talked soccer and they walked me home. Fully respectful. simply friendly and open as people are wont to be friendly and open.
South Africa, or the stooped man with a cigarette could have colored my reaction to them. I could have smiled tightly and walked quickly on. But I would have missed a walk through my community with a couple of friends; and people, more than place, make anywhere home.
There are no eggs. I’m still fuzzy on why but there are no eggs.
Ok no is a slight exaggeration. But there is definitely an egg shortage. What usually sustains me during the course of the day, two sometimes three of the boiled buggers at a time, have all but disappeared on the compound. For a few days, they were apparently even scarce in Gbarnga. And the scarcity has driven up the cost. In the course of about four days they went from 10LD each to two for 25LD to 15LD each (5LD is the smallest note). The cost may seem negligible but for some -especially the small time suppliers on the compound – it is cost prohibitive. That means that even when there are eggs…there are fewer eggs.
That has left me without a solid food plan to make it through the new year (for I’m hoping this supply shortage is a seasonal issue and not a long term predicament). Bread isn’t particularly filling and fruit (and by fruit I mean bananas) aren’t really either. I may have to branch out to peanut butter.
Yesterday I broke open a can of Parade ravioli bites. I cracked the can and ate them cold (no power to heat them). That isn’t a long-term solution. Heck it isn’t even a short term solution as I’m down to one final can and can neither replenish or afford to replenish my stock until I’m next down in Monrovia.
Alas, my friend Bright, both a literal and metaphorical bright spot in my world, has arrived in country bearing gifts from my sister. Among them beef jerky and sour patch kids. I have never been so excited about dried meat (save maybe South African biltong) in my entire life.
Food aside, I anticipate a Bright spot beyond what she carries in her bag for me and I can’t wait to see her smiling face and meet her family.
Liberia takes everything back. The land, the people. They are all seemingly swallowed, digested, and then sprout anew. Be it the banana peel I throw beside the trail to my house. The next day I see it brown and trampled. in a week it is gone. Eaten or carried away. Ground into the earth to replenish new bananas and other greenery that sprouts in its place.
A dead roach, belly up in a corner on the floor is carried away, piece by brown papery piece, by an unending legion of ants. In their wake they also carry forgotten or overlooked crumbs, discarded egg remnants. Whatever can be taken and that the earth doesn’t seize first.
It is true of houses…left standing idle, sun baked bricks gray or brown against the lush greenery of the Liberian landscape. And when the plants don’t take it – Papaya tree sprouting in a doorway, unknown vines creeping through windows – new occupants do. Building behind, beside, over what was already there. Dismantling. Or adding on. Reclaimed.
Even the people. Especially the people. Liberian ex-pats who fled the war or followed love or education. They are folded back into society beside the former soldiers, politicians, tribal leaders, history, culture, religion. All of it swallowed or planted and re-grown.
I find myself succumbing. Unsure of exactly what I’m discarding or what will sprout in its place…career, love, identity, words…Liberia staking her claim. A cyclic affair – she eats her own tail only to birth it again- something will fill the vacancy.
Tags: future, liberia, observations, transition, travel, volunteer, work
Yesterday the kids, playing who knows what in our front and side yard, screamed with delight when the current finally buzzed on. The last week or so it hasn’t come on until 7pm. Gutz guessed they are saving an hour each night so that we can have current until noon on Christmas. Its as good a guess as any in the absence of an actual explanation. Not to mention it brought to mind something I hadn’t really thought about…how do you cook a Christmas meal when you don’t have current.
It’ll be the night before. As much sense as his explanation makes, I’d hate to be sitting around on December 25th waiting for the coal fire to heat up. So garlic mashed potatoes will be my addition to the table. And BushDiva is grilling a chicken…her personal specialty.
We’ll be joining an expat crew…Emme, her honey, Patron Saint of Peace Corps Volunteers, BushDiva and myself. Somehow I don’t think anyone will be making dressing…but a woman can dream can’t she?
I’d planned to make a cake or something…to satisfy the sweet tooth but it became more of an undertaking than I’d anticipated. I could make it from scratch – a personal favorite when mixes are as expensive as they are here…but I’d have to buy everything…eggs, vanilla, milk, flour…not to mention the pan. And when I started doing the math in my head, along with the hassle of having to construct and experiment with a dutch oven…it just seemed too much.
All the more so because after a few “cool” days, the heat seems to be picking up steam…as folks said it would. And today was blazing.
I trailed to the hospital in search of internet and was met with grave news…it will most likely be down through the New Year.
Merry Christmas to me.
There is something acutely incongruous about hearing feliz navidad on loop while swerving and dipping down a pot holed road- lush greenery rising up on both sides. This Christmas is definitely green.
it doesn’t feel like Christmas, music to the contrary. Although as I write it I’m unsure of what it feels like in adulthood. I’m unable to wrap my head around a specific set of emotions or expectations. It hasn’t been about presents in more years that I can remember. Mostly it is about family; an excuse to gather together and eat good food without the rush of daily obligations. my aunt’s house on Christmas Eve- the smell of gumbo filling the air and people bustling around talking and laughing, comes to mind.
But I haven’t been a regular at Christmas eve gumbo since college.
My first Christmas “alone” was 10 years ago – in South Africa. I remember taking it much harder than I’d anticipated. Everything was wrong. It was the middle of summer and the heat was intense. My host family decided I should cook (with no notice or preparation). I decided on chicken curry and lemon meringue pie (hand whipped meringue!) plus cake from scratch.
I think it was my first chicken curry – I’d only been with my family since October. The oven was too hot so the cake was Cajun style on the outside and raw in the middle. I kept shaving the edges off, whittling it smaller and smaller until a miniature version of the original was finally deliciously solid. And the pie…the final insult to lonely injury. After browning the meringue – miraculously perfect – in the same hell-like oven that had scorched the cake, my host mother stuck a finger into its center.
“it is still raw,” she informed me solemnly, unaware that the creamy consistency was as it should be.
She was helping. Had no way of knowing…but it sent me to my room, eyes brimming with tears that I was desperately trying to conceal. It passed. And the next year? I don’t even recall where I was…I think bopping around the coast with a fellow volunteer; the previous year’s trauma all but forgotten.
I don’t foresee tears this holiday season. I’m not sure what my exact plans will be…Emme is hosting a dinner at her house and I think my friend Nikki will be here visiting from the states…either of those would be a wonderful.
Whatever I do, I don’t anticipate tears being a part of the program – ruined pies or not. Still, my green Christmas feels odd. Southern sensibilities prevailing, I don’t expect snow no matter where I am but it feels like something is missing . Or maybe the time just isn’t quite right yet. Maybe as the days inch forward and the 25th reaches out to pinch my cheeks, maybe this green Christmas will sneak up on me and make more sense.
“oh Christmas tree” rounding out the play list of carols as I bumped and swayed in the backseat, I could only smile. The only Christmas trees I’d seen had bee on the sidewalk outside one of the big grocery stores in Monrovia – young men hawking the diminutive (often fully decorated including fake snow) plastic trees – along with stacks of pirated DVDs of every show or movie imaginable, bags full of bed pillows, and maps of Liberia. Green Christmas indeed!
Tags: family, friends, liberia, observations, travel
Firestone: a Brightspot perspective
“some people hear me and think that I’m in constant support of everything that Firestone does, Firestone thinks I’m one of their biggest critics. The truth is I’m practical and I don’t blame any outside person for the condition of Liberia.”
I was fidgeting some in my seat, staring at Dad Brightspot as he quietly and deliberately explained his view of Liberia to me. The conversation had begun simply enough, although I don’t remember exactly what we were originally talking about. But our focus meandered a little and the conversation pivoted on firestone.
For my part, I’ve read – not a lot but some – about firestone’s history in Liberia. And from what I’ve gleaned, I’ve found them appalling. I remember thinking about the tires on my car and wondering if I were contributing to the exploitation I was reading about.
Dad had another perspective. Not exactly a glowing endorsement of the company that has been leasing land from Liberia for more than 80 years at a mere 6 cents an acre, but not an all encompassing condemnation either.
Our conversation meandered between what I’d read and what he experienced.
Dad stressed the lunacy of “throwing the baby out with the bathwater”. in his view, focusing solely on the shortcomings of firestone diminished the things the company has done. “sure there has been exploitation he said, but they are here. Other companies give us words of support, firestone provides actual jobs.”
I struggled with it, struggling with the idea that doing anything – even if it was exploitive and damaging – was still doing something. My actual father and I have had this conversation numerous times. Because I work internationally sometimes and pay attention to international work even when I’m stateside, I am often critical of the work. I try to balance between the instinct people have to pat non-governmental organizations (NGOs) on the back simply because they are NGOs. Without considering what they do or the impact they have. Or from a capitalists perspective – looking at the things that we don’t do – can’t do – here in america so we do it elsewhere, away from prying eyes.
Dad Brightspot spoke to the idea of jobs. No matter how small the pay or bad the housing. No matter the absence of schools or medical care. He was looking at money coming into Liberia. He looked at the resources firestone provided (before the war) in the form of training and rubber tree clones. He sees opportunity even in the midst of everything else because, as he repeated tirelessly, at least they are here. Who else is here?
At first I thought our perspectives were opposing. I tried to listen. To really hear and understand what he was saying. And toward the end I realized that both perspectives are necessary. The globalized economy is a big bad capitalist machine and it does not care for cogs that are not part of the machinery. Firestone makes Liberia that necessary cog. And on the other side, I feel an obligation to hold firestone (and anyone else) accountable for how those cogs are treated-especially when I benefit.
Liberia can appreciate the opportunity but that doesn’t mean america, americans, can’t demand …more.
Tags: liberia, socialcommentary, travel