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, 16th 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
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