LIVE from LIB
I swear it was just yesterday I was slushing through the wintry mix on a Sugar Hill block in Harlem avoiding dog feces not appropriately curbed; the next I’m walking towards the beach in Congo Town, Monrovia with some serious rain boots on (it’s barely raining) wondering when it is I might see the beachside feces I was warned would ruin the otherwise pristine façade. Shit happens here too. I’ve resolved to save my rain boots for the field. For when it really rains. Until then, I will wear my slippers like everybody else, stumbling and sliding over rocky side walks-- (my heels won't work well here I lament internally) Alas, I will wear my slippers and they will not know I was born there…until I open my mouth.
Today marks the 10th full day since I touched down on the soil of my mother’s birth. My arrival here has oddly enough brought us closer together after a rocky 1st quarter of the year. Just a few months ago I was planning a wedding and contemplating another round of grad school entrance exams. Now I’m resting after a full day “in the field” in my room for the week in Cestos, “The City of Natural Beauty”.
10 full days in Monrovia, 2 trips to Waterside, 1 night out in expat heaven, 1 night meeting family, most of whom I’ve never ever seen and 1 full day in Rivercess County (a 6 hour drive- 3 of which was like a real life rollercoaster- away from Monrovia) and I still can’t believe I’m here. My stomach can however, I’ve had potato greens, jollof rice, acheke and fish, dumbor and groundpea soup, cassava leaves. Oh my. This glorious land I’ve heard so much about from as early as I can remember. Sweet, Sweet Liberia oh.
My arrival in Monrovia was marked by the bumpiest landing. I knew it was rainy season and as the torrential downpour came down I was simply happy to have made it out of Murtala Mohammed Airport in Nigeria safely where my passport had changed so many hands within a 5 hour layover. I had envisioned all sorts of ways I would feel and things I would do upon stepping off the plane at Robertsfield. Touching the concrete (what escaped my initial plan was the heavy downpour part of the equation) and thanking God for the opportunity to see a peaceful Liberia in my lifetime became the least of my worries as I sleepily stumbled off the plane and was ferried to the bus that was to carry us to the main airport building. . As for the airport building..there is only one. One building that is, and after a 2 minute ride we were greeted by a white can with red painting with ominous words “Ebola is Real”. In case some of us forgot, I thought. After a quick customs passport check we retrieved all of my belongings successfully and I literally had to beg to carry my own bags to a luggage cart. I had already spent $5 in Nigeria for the "courtesy" of not having my bag checked for the saucer that was detected in my carry-on. Here in Liberia, two ladies served as I guess "Customs Control Officers" blocked access to the luggage carts until they “checked” my bags.
A little hassle about the airport exit fee and we were off. On the car ride, I heard (and saw) how things were. The most shocking observation was made, that “life was easier, and at least we were eating” during the war. The street was paved, the nature surrounding the road---beautiful. As it continued to rain, and we journeyed on past houses roofed with zinc and small children, women, and men awake and hustling on an early Friday morning, we began to see just how hard things were.
Now ten days in, I’ve heard and seen for myself the exasperation people feel with Ma Ellen, Africa’s first female president. At once, I start to wonder about the woman I idolized. People are ashamed here that they voted and campaigned for her. Is the blame all for her to bear? Was it all for Taylor? Where in within the complex cycle of “missing funds” or “endless internal distress” can one truly rise up above the rest? Monrovia is still dark at night and government workers complain of 3 months delay in pay. I see mansions next to zinc roofed homes on my way to the beach. I see children that live too far from school in thatched roof housing and a water well that is in disrepair. Dead snakes and other animals have contaminated one town’s only clean drinking water source. The health worker I met today tells me he refers people to the “quake”. “Quake?” I say, my Liberian speaking and hearing is getting re-acclimated. “Oh, the creek!” ( I say in my familiar series) “At least the water is running there,” We all nod in weak and knowing agreement. Ten days in I’ve reached one of the endless last miles.
