I entered the convent.
Less by choice and more by necessity. It is the only place that will have me. Or rather the only place I can afford. So, for this week, I’m staying at the St. Theresa convent. Sparse digs but pretty clean and affordable ($20 a room…split between me and BushDiva) with two twin beds and not much else.
This is my first time venturing into Monrovia. I must admit, what I know of it so far, it is not my favorite city. Crowded and dirty as many cities are, it is also depressing. Again I am reminded of New Orleans, where poverty dances with opulence in the strangest ways.
We walked from the convent to a hotel with a restaurant. The few blocks are along a dirty pitted street that smells of urine, burning refuse, and burning cassava greens intermittently. The breeze never seems to shift enough to waft saltwater freshness to clear the air. Instead, snatches of the blue ocean dart in and out of view, hidden behind high walls with broken glass and razor wire tops and abandoned buildings with once colorful walls chipping and peeling.
The restaurant, of course, is built up. The outside seating terrace has an almost unbroken view of the ocean at just the right angle to catch the last of daylight as it slinks away behind a wash of clouds that eventually drench the entire city in a needed shower. But a few hours later and it the street still smells of urine. The street on one end houses the American embassy, in the middle holds MSF (Doctors Without Borders) and the Carter Center, and the other end…darkness.
Walking home at around 9pm, we were struck by the darkness. The few streetlights only heightened it as we walked away from them. People lingered in front of poorly lit buildings and languished on cars. The usual motorcycles revved past us – slowing occasionally to see if we were in search of a quick escape. Nearing the convent, the lights disappear completely. A man stepped out of the shadows, shaking himself free of urine before wandering off. A woman walked by me, almost grazing me, without every making eye contact or acknowledging my existence.
We were glad to be home. Or rather…glad to be back to our respite for the night.
I haven’t decided if my feelings about Monrovia are because it is still new. Still a foreign place that has no meaning for me…no favorite spots to eat, no friendly faces or familiar routes. Time will tell me and I’m curious to see.
It’s the touching.
A slight graze of a hand on my shoulder, down my arm. Or sometimes I catch myself watching as his hand slides down her side to her hip and rests there softly, or while dancing, his hands lightly guide her behind to move with him.
It feels pornographic. Not because it is over the top in any way except my own head…only because in rural South Africa –in my rural South Africa- men and women didn’t touch. At all. Men held hands. Women held hands. But I can count on one hand the number of times I saw a man and woman touching intimately and it wasn’t in my village.
Further north and west, my Nigerian ex was cagey about public displays of affection of any kind. Granted, religion complicated the equation but in general he said it wasn’t something you saw much of in Nigeria.
But here is different. Here I watch women sit on the laps of their male friends. And those male friends sandwich her on the dance floor. And it is all in fun. It doesn’t mean anything.
At least I don’t think it means anything.
I asked Gutz about and he let out a hearty bass-filled laugh. “It is just friendship,” he assured me with his hand on my shoulder. And it didn’t feel wrong or inappropriate.
But then tonight, at Gutz’s birthday party I met someone new – someone out of my established context of friendly. The music made it impossible to hear which forced us to sit unnaturally close. And when his hand grazed my leg the first time I assumed it was an accident – and after that…well I wasn’t sure. And it wasn’t a groping of any kind. It wasn’t a caress or anything obviously – well – obviously anything.
But I’ve been conditioned (because South Africa or not, in America touching my leg means something!).
So I moved my leg casually out of range and the conversation continued. But I still can’t tell if that is a universal attempt to get familiar or simply a gesture between new friends or for that matter, simply an accident of proximity.
Because this place is all about the touching it seems. Or rather, my little microcosm seems to be all about the touching.
I danced at Gutz’s party. Speakers set up on his porch with Larry the DJ mixing West African rhythm with the occasional American mix-in. And folks danced, the closeness of bodies working out subtle hip thrusts and pivots. Asses moved in isolation from torsos while legs bent folks lower and lower. All the while the music throbbed.
And it doesn’t look raunchy like a cheap bootyshake video. Instead it looks like flirting. The good kind. Where you push the other person right to the edge of what they are comfortable with and dare them to meet you there. So his hips gyrate in her direction and she meets the thrust –almost – and then spins slowly or he drops lower, head bobbing boob level but without the perversion.
Sometimes it is comical, my tiny Sierra Leonean friend looked a little like a poodle trying to mount a German Sheppard, but he was confident doing it and the Sheppard didn’t seem to mind. Mostly it feels like a good time. Like dancing is dancing and nothing more. Like friendship is familiar and comforting. Like I won’t go two years – or even six months – without a hug or a gesture of physical kindness that doesn’t imply something more.
Of course I’m still new here. Still working through people’s perceptions of me and my perceptions of what I see. Experience will carve out my path and in the meantime I’ll dance like I never do back home – just for the unselfconscious flirting fun of it.
Today was one of those days…mef dreams chased me and I woke up tired. It is hard to complain though- unlike my friend who bit her own hand thinking it was a troll attacking her, my dreams are just vivid. Interesting even. Just not restful. So I woke up off of one of those where I was teaching an acquaintance of yore (yeah I said yore!) how to swim or something along those lines, and discovered that BushDiva was tackling the bathroom.
The smell of bleach shuffled into the hallway and took my breath away. Even after BD gave the all clear (removed her little index card sign that warned us to keep out) I still waited a while, until the fumes shuffled on.
Sparkling clean (me, not the bathroom, BD is convinced it will take a few rounds to whip it into shape) I emerged from my “shower” with washing on the brain.
Ahh washing, that thing that took me less than 90 minutes (including drying time) back in Oakland is now a perpetual endeavor and an all day affair. Perpetual because it is hot and dusty and I sweat and am stinky. All day because I’m washing by hand.
BD has this all down to a science. She washed all her own clothes in her previous PC incarnation and to see her clothes you would never know they didn’t come from a wash and spin cycle. Mine are less so…not bad but definitely not diva status. I did wash clothes by hand in South Africa- just not for very long. In training my host mother informed me that I was part of the family and that she washed the family’s clothes, and later, I tried…I tried so hard…but Queen, my aunt, kept commenting on how unclean my clean was. And then there was the sheets incident.
Trying to wash a set of full size sheets resulted in a muddy mess and me in tears. After that I hired Queen, retired my bucket and Omo (the world’s best- if most corrosive – laundry detergent), and was all the happier for it.
But here…here I think I will be washing for myself. I haven’t found a compelling reason enough not to and I’m getting the hang of it out of sheer necessity. So this morning I threw some clothes in to soak with some detergent – part one. And after a few hours I followed up with a bar of soap scrubbing all the especially vulnerable areas – think armpits and necklines. Then more soaking. Then comes the rinsing.
Rinsing is hard enough with water coursing over your clothes – it is all the more difficult when the water has receded (as it had by this point in my day) and you are working with a 40 gallon trashcan full of slightly murky water, some buckets, and a pitcher.
Clothes don’t rinse themselves so I rang out each garment and tossed them with a plastic thud, into a clean bucket. Then I poured pitcher after pitcher of clear water into the bucket, swished the clothes around, and waited. Fifteen minutes or so passed and I repeated the process. Once the water looked fairly clear – maybe not Brita filter clear but definitely not Mississippi mud, I moved to the next stage.
Wringing. Wringing is an art form that I am still perfecting. My dad is the pro. When I was little, on those occasions when he would wash my hair, he would also wring it dry. And I do mean dry. My little scalp would be pulled tight across my skull and he managed to coax every last drop of water out while I begged for mercy. He’d be very useful here. Here I find myself wringing within inches of my life. And then I find myself shaking clothes out in front of me with a satisfying snap(a trick I picked up from BD). It is pretty effective and it gives a wonderful cooling sensation as the tiny droplets fall all around you.
You see, Liberia is the second wettest or gets the second most rainfall on earth…something like that (Sierra Leone is apparently number one). That means the air is often pretty pregnant with moisture which can make drying clothes a pretty big hassle (think hanging a towel to dry in New Orleans on a sultry August day and then think wetter). Granted, we are moving quickly into the dry season which is very helpful, but I still need all the help I can get.
Add to this little scenario, we hang our clothes inside our covered and screened patio where there is little direct sun. Seems counterproductive I know, but since Liberia is home to the fly (not sure if it is a mango fly, tsetse fly ,or what precisely) that lays its eggs in wet clothes. When you put those clothes on the eggs latch onto skin, burrow, and later you are host to a wonderful larval pet.
Sound fun? Then I’m telling it wrong or you are one sick monkey! Just know that we hang stuff in the pseudo-outdoors to avoid incubating new friends.
Ok, all shaken out I finally hang and wait.
Waiting on a Sunday requires patience, the ability to sleep, and a good book. Luckily I was in possession of all three at some point. Even so…even with washing and reading and sleeping…today was still a brutal wait for the electricity to come on. Then I could cook (we have an electric stove that is only good after 6pm) and type and…well that is pretty much all of it but still…I was happy to hear the slight buzz that signals power. And a little later we heard the faint rumbling that belies the return of water.
And sure I could have wandered outside today – into the brutal heat that everyone was trying to escape…but that would have required me to eat something to avoid passing out after walking more than five steps. And since I never made that happen I never made it past the yard. Next week for sure.
Thankfully, tomorrow marks the beginning of the week and a return to some semblance of routine and a highly probable week-long trip to Monrovia. Who knows, maybe I can befriend some benevolent INGO/UN person with a washing machine and a soft spot for a schlep in the field.
I sound like tubercular Theresa or something. I’m not sure where the hack came from but it appears to have put down roots. Wednesday I was under the weather and stayed home from work- sore throat and sleepiness my constant companions. But after BushDiva squeezed me some orange juice and I got some rest I was pretty good the next day.
Except this cough.
The cough is lingering like an unwanted guest.
It was with me this morning when woke up (after a crappy night’s sleep for a number of reasons) early and again after I went back to bed to emerge a few hours later. It was with me while both roommates seemed to withdraw into what seemed more introspective time.
Chatty as I am, I tried to read cues and stayed to myself most of the morning.
I did my morning papers (the artists’ way), did some laundry, and read most of the morning away. And when I couldn’t fight hunger anymore, I pulled together The Milagro Beanfield War, my Nalgene bottle full of water, and my cough and took a walk to Starbucks.
My usual breakfast (a wedge of something akin to laughing cow processed cheese, a boiled egg, and some bread) in tow, I headed to the County Health Department where a table in front of the building is shaded and catches the breeze from two directions. I think I’ll call it – the reading room.
I perched myself there. An old man followed me over and tried to entice me to pay his tithes in church on Sunday. I firmly declined and then lost myself in the book. Later, a colleague I met on Friday engaged me, haltingly at first, in a questionable conversation about malaria that morphed into one about the Liberian healthcare system and the place of government versus INGOs.
After an hour or so I extracted myself from the conversation and headed toward one of the local markets at the Airstrip. There I met Koma, one of the market women who decided we should be friends and passed a group of kids who pointed out the obvious, “black American” (an observation I appreciate as Fancy was followed by a serenade of “white woman white woman white woman” which sounded more like “whywo whywo whywo” not to mention in South Africa, I was a lekgowa – white person- despite my protestations of the contrary).
Passing the Bangladeshi UNMIL post all razor wire and screaming generator– an incongruent sight across from what appears to be an incomplete church construction- I received my first wave. Usually the soldiers simply stare as they, or I, walk by. One day on campus, BushDiva got a group of really young looking soldiers to smile as they drove off – one with his finger pushed far into his nose – prompting her to pretend to dig in her nose as well. He laughed and so did his two mates. The closest thing we’ve had to interaction until today. So I took the wave and walked on.
Cooking plans shifted when BushDiva invited me along to a soccer game on campus with Bongo. And while we didn’t watch much –if any – of the professors competing against each other, I people-watched. People are the same all over the world. A gaggle of young women giggled together and tried to distract some of the player as they approached the goal. Young men, wanting to be cool, posed nerdily for a photo while the truly cool guys wandered onto the field oblivious to any notion that they should remain on the sidelines. And of course kids…kids who take a liking to you and want to sit close and whisper things to you as their new best friend.
We followed Bongo home after the game. Sitting in her neat apartment, we talked about life and books. I discovered that I met her brother in the airport in Brussels – the patient man who told us about the Liberia of his childhood and the one he visits periodically now.
And then I received a text message from Emme (who lives across from Bongo) inviting us for dinner. So we wandered over for curried lentils, potato greens (cooked a lot like collards), jasmine rice (a rare treat), and fried plantains. Oh…and Amarula! My girl has Amarula!!! And finished up the night watching bootleg copies of The Boondocks: season 2, that she bought on Girlie Street in Monrovia for less than three dollars.
Timing a little off, BushDiva and I hadn’t thought through our way home. Not allowed to ride the motorcycles, our only transportation home was walking along the dark road that is such a short trek in daylight. Walking at a considerable clip, a swiveling eye behind us and in the bush beside us…occasionally walking into the bush as cars and motorcycles raced by us with no regard to the expanse of road on the other side…we finally saw the lights to our turn off.
“Never again,” we muttered to each other, but for tonight it was our happy ending.
“Monrovia” “Gbarnga” “Monrovia”. Men yell out destinations they are sure our “otherness” is looking for. A sea of red-black faces stare through the heat. Children, clad in stained tattered tops or woolen footed pajamas, hide their faces, stare, or simply ignore the bustle and movement around them.
I notice the noise less. Instead, the colors and smells vie for attention. The bright greens, reds, and blues of the plastic buckets and strainers fight against the deep reddish brown of palm oil; and the slightly dulled white of a wheelbarrow full of sugar is set against the unassuming lime-green of ripening passion fruit.
The smells waft in and out dependant on my place in the market. The beginning of the dry season, dust flies up and mingles with the work and sweat of the day in a gritty pungent musk that engulfs everyone. The dried shrimp, small and pink – the size of a few large beans- rest haphazardly beside crabs almost as small. They smell of the ocean. Further into the array of stalls, beyond the colorful lapas bright and inviting against the orange brown dirt, the smell of drying fish stakes claim. Their brittle bones show where the flesh has broken and flaked away into fishy dust.
The occasional chicken scratches under a table…beside a man crouched on the ground eating lunch.
A crowded stall, women and men sitting on low benches and peering at those passing by, is home to palm wine. The milky-white drink is poured from 25 liter jugs – orange brown smudges on the outside -into plastic cups and half liter water bottles.
Ginger and tomato paste, an assortment of beans and tomatoes, are all familiar even in their slightly varied incarnations. But there are mysteries there as well…a red powder heaped on the table, small berries of varying sizes and color, even a table full of “medicine”. Powders, barks, and metal jewelry – in South Africa it would be muti (moo-tee) but I haven’t learned its West African moniker.
On our way out, a single stalk of sugarcane rested on a plastic mat. An old man with missing teeth answered our question, “how much?” with “five dollars”. A ten LD (liberty dollars) was handed over and then the old man looked purposefully uncomprehending – stubbornly ignoring that he had said five dollars twice.
Back where we started, a bundle of taxis scream out “Monrovia” “Gbarnga”, and we are piled into the rolling wreck – seven deep. The breeze from the open windows whispers cooly as the rubber trees race us home and the market recedes.
The fireflies blinked close to the ground in a game of silent hide and go seek as two boys pumped vigorously to fill their buckets. I sat on the steps peering up beyond the silhouette of the palm trees at my front door. Tonight was the first night since I’ve been here that I’ve really seen stars. Tonight the usual cloud covering resembled a jumble of cloth someone had swept to the side – streaks of static electricity marking the wrinkles and momentarily lighting the sky- leaving a clear view up. And the absence of power on our end of the compound offered darkness as a contrast to the twinkling overhead.
Something must be wrong with the grid. The generator roared as loud as ever as we went in search of candles. The hospital and homes closer to the generator burned lights bright and inviting as ever, but on our side – further away from the noise- the light bulbs looked more like candles and the one 220 outlet in the house couldn’t produce enough energy to power the tiny part-time refrigerator or our short circuiting two burner stove. We ate by dull bulb and flickering candles, our eyes trying desperately to adjust to the dim light and failing.
We were quiet tonight, as if the absence of light marked the absence of noise too. None of our usual laughter or friendly ribbing. Wry-ly retired to her room and BushDiva to hers. I sat in the living room pecking away on my computer, conspicuous that the door was open even as we were unable to see outside because the lone-street light vanished periodically as power surged and then retreated. Finally, after giving up on the idea of a breeze in the still dark air, I locked the door and retreated to my room.
Stubborn or optimistic, the almost useless light casts eerie shadows through my room. Voices from outside float through my open windows as the breeze picks up – a peace offering for our dark night.
The laughter emerging from the back porch was continuous. And loud. Raucous even. Strands of conversation in different voices bounced off the screens and escaped on the cool breeze snaking its way between the mesh – keeping us cool.
The “us” was me, BushDiva, Wry-ly, Emme, and Benin*. Emme is an IFESH scholar working in Bong County and Benin is an RPCV now working with an INGO in the area. They, like me and BushDiva, are both black American women. We marveled at the improbability of it. Blacks Americans are not widely represented in development work so to have us all here within walking distance of each other is incredible.
BushDiva and I had met Emme when we first arrived but Benin was a new addition. She walked toward the house earlier that day and asked for Wry-ly who wasn’t there. I was juggling a long distance call and trying to make sure I captured any message. Benin was rather quiet, but as she turned to go she mentioned in passing that she was a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer (RPCV) which of course peaked my interest. Distracted, I got off the phone and called in to BushDiva to come out.
We compared stories and histories and laughed for a bit. As she prepared to go to her guest house (she actually lives in Monrovia) I invited her to dinner. As luck would have it, Emme (who had been MIA for a week or so) called and she agreed to join us as well.
I pulled together some lentil soup and couscous and we sat around and talked and laughed until it was late. Wry-ly, generally quiet, didn’t say much but seemed to enjoy herself as well.
Dinner behind us we decided it was time to end the evening. So out we trailed, all five of us, to walk Emme to meet her motorcycle taxi and Benin home. Only halfway to Starbucks (which is also the taxi stand) we realized we hadn’t locked the back door. So Wry-ly headed back to the house. Then we realized Emme’s usual driver wasn’t available and finally dissuaded her from jumping on the back of some random driver (most of the drivers are ex-combatants from the war) and to just stay the night.
That left only Benin. We began walking to the opposite side of the compound –tripping and laughing and generally having a great time at 10pm on a dark and pitted dirt road. After meandering around, following the road one way, gazing down another with a row of seemingly identical houses in the absence of light, we realized Benin had no idea where she was staying. This inspired hysterical laughter on our part. Our evening of dinner and laughter was about to turn into a slumber party.
But no, one more street to try, we finally found the house – only to discover the gate was locked. What to do. Benin began the connect-the-dots phone calls she needed to make to actually contact the woman in the house. At the same time, a man came outside and began talking into his phone, “they have been walking up and down the street…not sure where they…” we couldn’t her everything but we heard enough to prompt BushDiva to ask, “are you calling the police on us?” Of course not, instead he was calling his neighbor to let us in…since clearly we were unable to help ourselves.
One ward for the night taken care of, we headed home and in route saw a university bus pull up to the hospital. Peering inside we made friends with George, father of Princess, Peace, and Love, who agreed to carry Emme back to her home on campus. So we all piled in for the short ride.
On the way back, George talked about e work he was doing – how he did it to make sure his kids could go to school. He talked about things getting better “small small” but was adamant that he could see it. And he talked of hard work and how after the war young people didn’t seem to want to do it. But he was willing…for himself and for his kids.
We arrived back at the hospital in time for George to pick up the nurses he had originally come for (it is one of the shift changes) and we thanked him and waved as we walked home.
*most names in my Liberia blog have been fictionalized for privacy
Tags: crazystuff, liberia, travel, volunteer
“I think I’m gonna like it here…I’m very very glad to volunteer…”
Ok… so things are definitely looking up here. Meeting and hanging with LA (aka Gutz) has been a source of both entertainment and networking. He has gotten in the habit of introducing me and BushDiva to everyone he knows as his colleagues or friends – situation dependant. Add to that, BushDiva and I are trying to be a part of whatever we can be a part of.
Today’s mission was to observe one of Gutz’s classes. An introduction to computers, his class is designed to just get people comfortable with the idea of using one and the basics of Word and the internet. We perched in the back of the class, helping one student work a mouse – she hadn’t quite mastered the double click. Towards the end, Gutz called me up to talk about the internet. Of the roughly 20 young folks in the class about seven or so had never been online – this week will be their maiden voyage.
I remember trying to explain the internet to a class of high school students in rural South Africa about nine years ago. My description was met with blank stares and knowing head nods that seemed to say, “oh, the American has finally lost it. It must be the heat.” Here it was a less daunting task. Gutz worked a metaphor of people carrying information on their heads- picking things up and putting them down again. I followed comparing Google to a vast and almost limitless library. I even got a question at the end. Later this week they’ll experience the real thing and I think there will be some clarity.
Gutz returned to his other job, with the county health team, and BushDiva and I wanted to check out the campus internet lab. In our search, BushDiva stumbled upon the campus bookstore and began to make friends, and connections, for the logic club we want to do.
That led us to J. J has just returned to Liberia after being away for 16 years. He works in the administration and is eager to work with us to help us cultivate Liberian buy-in for the critical thinking/logic group we want to form. We talked and laughed with him for about 30 minutes shivering in the gale of cold air from his air condition. When we asked why the cold, he replied, “I’ve been in Kentucky and Atlanta too long. I can’t stand the heat now. I’m not a little man anymore either,” he joked with us, patting his belly.
There was still no water today. The electricity flickered on for about seven minutes – just long enough to heat water for some paste tasting oatmeal – but that is little solace against the absence of water. I need to wash my hair. I really really need to wash my hair. Desperation is setting in and tomorrow, after work, I may be forced to resort to a bucket. A throwback to my South Africa days, it doesn’t work well but is better than nothing.
Sundays are touted as lazy and in some respects, interminable. But I had high hopes. After sleeping in until almost 10 – still recovering from last night- I awoke to a quite house. BushDiva and Wry-ly had been up early and then returned to bed for more sleep. Only Fancy sat, earphones on, working (or at least pretending to with her departure looming in two days) when I finally emerged from my bed. Sunday stretched before me but I was feeling good – LA invited us to lunch and to hang out.
Of course the invite was for 12 and 12 came and went with no call. Bummed, I figured it was time to rethink my strategy for the day. But before too much time passed, LA sent word that the food was ready. The whole house pulled itself together and we marched past the water pump (the first time for me and BushDiva) to a cluster of houses on the edge of the compound. There we found LA languishing under the shade of two huge trees with four of his friends. They were playfully arguing over a soon emptied bottle of Baileys and tussling each other on the rusting hospital bed in the yard.
Something about our arrival sobered the good time. The playful ribbing slowed and then stopped completely. Then LA’s girlfriend disappeared, little girl sitting at her feet getting her hair corn-rowed neatly and expertly in tow. Next, the professor excused himself. By the time the lunch table and lunch emerged, only Psychology and the woman with the Bailey’s bottle remained. But even as she lingered, she declined to eat with us.
We dug in heartily. The communal bowl was the size of a plastic washtub and was filled generously. Wry-ly and Fancy picked out rice and plantains to maintain their vegetarian status, BushDiva, LA, and myself helped each other break up the fish and remove bones, and Psychology picking here and there between us. Delicious.
Conversation meandered and soon LA and Psychology were leading me and BushDiva out to the small river that borders the compound and sources our lunchtime fish.
Mosquitoes the size of dimes were everywhere by the cooling hour of five so BushDiva and I departed for home with plans to meet up for dinner. But life is fluid and Sundays low-key, so our dinner plans dissolved into conversations at the nursing school, sitting on the side porch while the men drank beers and flagged down a woman selling warm banana bread.
We’ll try dinner again later this week…but in the meantime, LA is hosting more palm butter – this time with fufu- for lunch tomorrow. Days are looking more delicious…I mean interesting!
After dinner BushDiva got the bright idea that was should crash the reception. By that point we had eaten and we were fairly certain the food had been served there, so Fancy called around to make sure it was ok and we were invited to join. Of course by that point, the party was winding down but the novelty of the three of us (Wry-ly didn’t come) didn’t go unnoticed.
A woman, introducing herself as the aunt of the bride, chatted and laughed with us for a little while. Turns out she is the comptroller of the Liberian House of Representatives and her nephew is a colleague of ours. After some more talking and joking she invited us to join her and her nephew at the local nightclub.
After a moment’s hesitation we were sold. So at 10pm we loaded up six people in an extended cab truck, and headed to the Serengeti.
The parking lot was littered with an assortment of vehicles – belying the hodgepodge of patrons – UN, Africare, local taxis with “Barcellona” and “Nissan” painted on the sides. We filed past the sparse, mostly Liberian, crowd outside and walked through a wooden door leading to a large room. Chairs and tables were set up on one level, the DJ booth a glassed off room nestled in the corner, while the dance floor was a step or two below in a kind of sunken living room style.
It wasn’t very crowded, but maybe 10 or 15 people crowded around the single wall of mirrors dancing with…themselves? The mostly Ghanaian and Nigerian music provided a bootie shaking groove that enticed us to get on the floor. And dance we did. Folks were happy to join us, but without the grinding groping frenzy that I usually associate with clubs. Instead we joked and danced, created a soul train circle and applauded everyone as they showed off their moves in the center.
Around 12 we began winding down but the smell of fish wafted by. BushDiva and I perked up and looked to our colleague LA to find out if he could hook us up. He could. He smiled brightly and gestured for us to follow him outside. There, to the side of the building, was a covered area with a coal pot grill glowing in the shadows of the weak lights slanting under the cover and highlighting enormous butterflies – their wings beating softly against the pale wall.
After a soft discussion – Kpelle, Kru, or Liberian English, I’m not sure – the man pulled two large fish from a bucket, skewered them through the mouth and out their tales, and placed them on the grill. We jumped up and down with excitement while Fancy looked horrified and moved toward the shadows. Laughing, LA wrapped her in a friendly hug and we all fell into conversation. Fifteen or 20 minutes later, we assembled around a table (dragged out especially for our purposes) and dug into the best tasting fish I’ve ever had. A slight crunch on the outside and so sweet and delicately smoky on the inside, the Liberians called for more pepper sauce and cleaned the plate by sucking the fish head’s brain. LA then brought over a small treat of cow meat (no one calls it beef apparently) on skewers. My mission is to learn the proper ration of peanut butter to maggi cube to recreate such a delightful event in my mouth. BushDiva, crazy as ever, joked that she would floss later to see if she could find pieces to savor later on!
We jumped into the truck and headed the 8 or 10 miles down the dark and pocked street around 2am. There we found our doorstep dark – the electricity was gone for the night. So we stumbled around in the dark – BushDiva and I drunk on animal protein and conversation – and fell asleep excited for the
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