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.