The Road to Galai

Every morning at 7:30 am Harriet chimes, “Ellan.” It’s my wake up call to let the housekeeper in. She cleans, cooks. Well, she used to cook until I became too shy to taste her Liberian dishes. She washes clothes by hand instead. She works six days a week for about six hours a day. I pay her $80 a month, a common wage for domestic help. It is slightly less than what a secondary school teacher earns. She has three school- aged children and married to a security guard. We don’t talk much. I’m not sure what we would talk about. Her life is remotely different from mine. I tried talking with her a few times, but the confused look on her face soon quieted the chatter. She understands basic directives and money. Maybe that is all she needs to know. “How much?” Is almost always responded with the price and her hand out.

I like Harriet. She does her work and is a very good cook. She is punctual and surprisingly young. Every morning she pays 20 LD one-way to ride a motorbike taxi to my house. I think riding motorbikes is cool, but dangerous. Maybe that explains the allure. I am daring death or at least a broken clavicle every time I hitch a ride.

Former combatants were given money in exchange for arms and an overwhelming majority bought motorbikes. They are cheap, dependable, and can quickly pay for themselves as motorbike taxis. While many Liberians waited in exile as the civil wars swelled thunderously over towns and villages, they witnessed new and different modes of transportation and thinking. The motorbike taxi is a product of exile. At least that is how a Liberian explained it to me. “They didn’t have these before the war. You saw these in Ivory Coast, Guinea. We had real taxis before the war.” Plato confidently told me. Real taxis with meters drove on paved roads before the wars. It is hard to believe Liberia had a functioning transportation system from the decrepit roads and ill-maintained cars. I rode in an early model Nissan Stanza with seven people. Three up front while the driver shifted gears, and four grown men in the back. The car ahead had as many people with one person hanging off the back. Necessity makes people do crazy things.

Last Saturday, I took the motorbike to a remote village behind Cuttington. Galai is a medium-sized Pelle village with no school or electric generator. Its main source of food and revenue is harvesting rice and animal husbandry. Goats, chicken, and dog are the main sources of protein. A few orange, plantain, and coconut groves dot the landscape and provide shade. It is a beautiful village, but not romantic in any sense.

Upon my arrival many village men welcomed me with ceremonial handshakes and a traditional kola nut offering. Kola nut is chewed or made into a drink and contains caffeine. Extremely bitter, but surprisingly addictive, I took a few bites. Only one woman came to watch me speak English and take pictures--Fenta. She was to show me around the village and be my female guide. The rest of the women were busy harvesting rice in the village. An idyllic scene of communal harmony and cooperation unfolded as I walked through the village. The half-naked children stared and pointed at me—the stranger. I couldn’t help but wish I were back in the States, during Old Navy’s end of the season sale. “I could buy all these naked children board shorts and t-shirts.” I thought to myself. One boy wore a pair of trousers, but the fly was completely broken. His uncircumcised penis just hung out there. “What was the point of having pants?” I thought.

I began to wonder were the citizens affected by the conflict. The village was so harmonious and idyllic I wanted to romanticize it. I wanted to believe they never had a reason to fight. Still, I needed to know. As Fenta demonstrated how to sift moist rice and dry the fine grains on a mat, I noticed the mat was not a regular mat at all. In faded, yet clearly visible, letters I saw UNHCR.  United Nations High Commission on Refugees supplied this village with food. If not all people were displaced, some certainly were. This village had more stories to tell, but I didn’t have enough time. Our motorbike driver was only paid by the hour and it was time to drive home. I left too early, but with an open invitation. In a few weeks I will return for the day and maybe bring books, clothes, ideas, a new way. No, I will just return to listen and nothing more. No need to make premature promises I can’t keep.

Palm Wine: An alcoholic drink made from fermented palm sap.

A quick motorbike ride from campus to Phebe Junction costs about 25 LD and there you can buy basic necessities and drink palm wine under a tree. A small cup of palm wine costs $10 and a big cup costs $25 LD.

Friendly stranger to Palm wine lady dealer: “I’d like to try a small bit of palm wine, please.” Palm wine lady to friendly stranger: “$10 small cup. $25 big cup.” Friendly stranger again: “Yes, I would only like to try a little bit. Hmm, will it make me drunk?” Palm wine lady: “Yeah, you get drunk! $10 small cup. $25 big cup!” The small crowds of locals sit under a huge and shady cottonwood tree. “Will I go blind? Why is it murky white in color? Why is an ant floating on top? Can’t she filter that out?” All these thoughts raced through my mind. I took the big cup and took a swig. $25. Big Cup. The small crowds of locals all toast. I just realized I was at the Pelle version of Cheers. The G-Star Production Company is maybe not quite like Cheers. I never remember an episode where kids were welcomed or where coasters said such interesting lines like “Love the Ladies cka Lady Lover.”

 A ragtag group of children found me sitting under the tree. In Pelle, one said: “My mom is going to buy me a pair of eyeballs tomorrow” pointing to my glasses. Two girls touched my cheap silver necklace and I pretended to gobble up their hands as they grabbed at my necklace. It became a game of keep away. After a few minutes I grew bored. They tugged on my necklace a few times hoping to squeal with delight, but I ignored them. I wanted to be teacher for a while. I wanted to play Simon Says. Like “Simon says; touch your ear. Simon says; touch your nose.” However, we were communicating with nonverbal cues and a translator. First I had to gauge if they knew them the parts of the face in English. “Show me your nose,” as I pointed to my nose. They all touched their noses. I took my hand down and said, “Show me your nose. Nose. Nose,” they looked perplexed. I quickly touched their noses and said, “Nose, Nose, Nose. This is your nose” “Show me your ears,” and they immediately pulled their ears and said “Ears!” I could have stayed longer, but my ride was ready to say goodbye. I walked to the center of camp where dried out hotdogs rested on a coal grill beneath a thatch roof. “Come inside.” Plato invited me into Harriet’s hut to eat. This man is always eating. I stooped down to find a crude bench and table with three women and a man eating kitali soup. I had just drunk palm wine and didn’t want to press my luck with too much culinary variety. I declined. Then the children from before had followed me and were standing in hut giggling and reaching into my backpack. A coal pit was still fuming from dinner and I did not want them to fall over on it. They wanted to play. I walked outside and they followed. I played rocket ship. Lifting a few kids in the air and I made a swooshing sound and pretended they were in flight. Then more kids showed up and a crowd of four or five Pelle children drew close smiling with curiosity. “Oh, boy! I can’t pick up all these kids. I’ll throw my back out.” I thought to myself. Some probably weighed forty pounds and I have a hard time carrying a sack of dog food from the cart to the scanner at Wal-Mart. “Just leave it. I’ll scan from here.” Says the Wal-Mart Checkout Lady. They are always so helpful with the detachable scanner.

Young Girl points to Friendly Stranger then points to the dried up hotdogs on the grill. Friendly Stranger to Young Girl: “Noooo.” I walked back inside and she follows. She lifted up my bag and found two bags of plantain chips. “They found your chips. Give it to them.” Plato said. Her mother quickly ushered her out. I walked out too. Outside she sat on a low stool and looked impatiently at me. Her crossed arms and pout said a lot. “Chips! You are not leaving without giving me something. I played with you and made you laugh. Now, give me the chips! I opened the bag and said. “Now, you must share.” I counted loudly the amount of children standing around and modeled it for her. I took a chip and gave one to each child, saying “One, two, three, four, five.” She screamed back “Six, seven, eight!” Wow, she was quick! Her mother waked out and I gave her one bag of chips. She watched and then sat back down on the stool. Next she began sharing the chips with every child. My work was finished and I walked inside. Plato was finishing his meal and talking about birthday ads at the television station. “Your birthday will be announced on Cuttington University TV for only 200 LD.” Plato explains. A young woman named Bee Williams nods her head. It was a good deal.  “With a name like Williams her ancestors probably left slavery in the United States for freedom in Liberia. Now descendents of those American slaves sit in a thatch and mud hut, covered in coal dust, discussing televised birthday announcements.

Monrovia, Liberia

Everyone has their agendas—retrieving lost bags, Cellcom internet adaptors, and electric kettles. I had a lot less on my agenda—scratch cards and change USD. This took maybe 20 minutes and was done in between everyone else’s busy schedules. I just traveled along and watched our chaperone’s legs nervously jump as the time was eaten up by American consumerism. The road to Kakata and Bong County is notoriously bumpy and dangerous at night. I knew he didn’t want to drive back at nightime, but he had to concede to the electric kettle and internet connectivity. He even allowed us to stop at the Exclusive Supermarket for our last candy bars and fresh yogurt. I thought our driver and chaperone would get hungry on the way back. I bought bread, drinks, and chocolates. We shared while Electric Kettle and Internet Connectivity asked a million questions like an interrogation.

We dropped Electric Kettle and Internet Connectivity at their houses and quickly jumped back in the van. We left them in shock. They didn’t have running water, electricity, or an electric stove. They had their caravan of items looking silly on the bare floor. Peace Corps was there to greet them. Bong County was far, far away. Maybe only 60 miles, but the road was terrible. Thankfully, it didn’t rain. The chaperone had stories at nearly every bump in the road. As a child, he sang with the national choir and sang for President Tubman, 16^th president of Liberia. As the accordion played, they sang “President Tubman we welcome you. Welcome you. Welcome you. “ His face lit up as he sang and pumped his imaginary accordion to his chest. Memories were like knives that cut his heart, but sweetly reminded him of the past. Now, the road was corrupted from twenty years of disservice. One bridge had been sloppily blown up to prevent arms transportation. We could still see it from the hastily constructed new bridge. People walked across it to fish, but cars couldn’t go. Bitter reminders floated by as the van jostled us around like rag dolls.

We arrived at Cuttington University with great relief. Our chaperone said he was going to miss me. I was the least demanding of everyone and had thoughtfully wrote him a thank you note. He asked me in front of the delicatessen at Exclusive if I penned the letter. I admitted I bought the postcard at The Oasis in Austin. A few nice words and a card from halfway around the world touched him. I was touched too by everything I had seen in Monrovia.

The Intercontinental Ducor is mythic. Everyone talks about how great it once was. Truth be told, it wasn’t that great. The power would go out and the windows didn’t open. You’d just sweat in the tropical hot box. However, the Ducor is a metaphorical and real symbol of post civil war Liberia. A former employee lives in its ruins, but keeps old brochures around. He took me on a tour and showed me pictures. This was a spot of extreme pride—even now. Nigerian soldiers part of the UNMIL keep squatters to a minimum. Child soldiers stripped the place to its bare walls allowing the Atlantic to beat it down further. Once the home of West African prestige, this place is just sad. Maybe it will come back from the brink of despair. Hopefully