HOOKER BEATDOWN

It started out simple enough: a quick trip to the capitol city Monrovia to get paid and a visit with USAID. Stay one night and leave. That evening I’m invited out for drinks at Jerome’s Boulevard Café in Sinkor with colleagues. We eat light bar food and chat about all the eccentricities Liberia has to offer-- toilets that don’t flush, corrupt NGOs, and a staggeringly low life expectancy. The mood is light and we all feel comfortable. The evening wears on and we decide to go back to Paul’s apartment for a few more beers and a late night swim in his Olympic sized pool overlooking the Atlantic. It was great. As I regaling them with stories from my childhood from the Gulf of Mexico, we hear a loud crash and the sound of glass breaking. A woman in the adjacent apartment is frantically breaking out the windows and shouting, “So, you wanna kill me, heh?” I call for security and Paul and Austin run for the apartment. I run upstairs to get dressed. Still in my bathing suit and barefoot, I’m in no condition to confront domestic violence. When I come back down stairs I see a giant of a man from Eastern Europe—Igor the Barbarian yelling at Nice Nice the Prostitute. He had been choking her when she broke out the windows. He accuses her of stealing his passport and trying to extort $500 USD for the safe return of the passport. She denies all of his claims. He’s taken her keys and cell phone for collateral. “You get your phone when I get my passport.” It’s a standoff, an impasse and we’re thrown into the mess to act as mediators. Austin asks Igor the Barbarian to confirm his allegations of extortion by calling the number from which he received the calls. If your hooker friend’s cell phone rings as you claim then it’s proof. However, he can’t produce the phone number or the text messages demanding money. We wait for over an hour for the Liberian National Police to arrive. Igor the Barbarian calls his supervisor at one of the many agencies of the United Nations. Nice Nice calls her pimp, an off-duty Liberian National Police officer, and three more whores for backup. Tight Fishnets, Cheap Weave, and Cake Make-up all saunter into the compound. John the Pimp arrives minutes later. The three whores begin to demand for the return of the car keys and cell phone. Tight Fishnets looks at me and asks why I can’t just go into his house and get her things. “Sorry-o, but if he choked her what would you think he’d do to me? Besides, that’s breaking and entering and I’m not going to jail.” She nods and looks to her pimp. He doesn’t look like the chinchilla-wearing don from the movies. He looks desperate and tired. His t-shirt is faded from drying in the sun and yellow plastic shower shoes protect his calloused feet. He begins to coach them on their responses. I watch in disbelief as the police officer, who is sworn to be impartial instructs women in fabrication. When the real police arrive they don’t interview witnesses, but try to broker a deal and negotiate a reasonable bribe. This is a high price prostitute servicing a U.N. employee. Igor’s boss has also arrived and is trying to make the whole incident go away. I can’t believe I am sitting in between these people who are trying to come up with a reasonable solution. I gracefully bow out and sit on a ledge. I watch everyone find a price for justice. Tight Fishnets finally presses Nice Nice to give back the passport. “Dis about muney! Dey all want muney!” “Dey” would be the police, their pimp, and the U.N. employees. The police take the keys from Igor the Barbarian and give them to Nice Nice, who finally plays nice and gives back the passport and drives away empty-handed. This is just the way justice is served in this country. It’s wrong, but I can’t do much to stop this.

PUFF FACE

We all know Liberia is a challenging country in which to work. Decades of civil war and structural violence have left the country in ruins. With less than one hundred practicing physicians in a country of 3.5 million, basic medical care is a luxury reserved for well-connected elites. Although Cuttington University has an on-campus clinic, Agape Clinic, it has limited scope considering it has no doctor on staff. Only technicians and three nurses treat a campus community of more than two thousand students, faculty, and staff. I visited Agape clinic, for the first time in October of 2010, complaining of a high fever, body aches, chills, and severe nausea and diarrhea. An ungloved technician pricked my finger for a malaria test. It was positive. I was told that the severe nausea and diarrhea were symptoms of malaria. The nurse gave me Artesuanate and sent me home. One week later I can barely move from fatigue and my thoughts are clouded from fever. I go to the local public hospital, Phebe Hospital, for treatment. I finally meet a doctor who conducts a battery of tests. He then excuses himself for a meeting and I’m left to wait on a bench in the hallway. The hospital is scheduled to meet important dignitaries from the United Nations and the hospital staff ushers all patients outside. I’m told to wait outside in the rain. I refuse and demand treatment. I wait for over two hours before the doctor’s driver humbly returns to tell me, “He’s not coming. I’ll drive you home.” Weakened I climb back in the truck and go home. The next day I receive my treatment and diagnosis: severe malaria with complications. 1800 mg of quinine per day and Climetidine. I still go to work and attend the IFESH in-country orientation in Monrovia. I feel dedicated to the mission and persevere despite my condition. I know that Agape Clinic may give me an inaccurate diagnosis and Phebe Hospital may be strapped for doctors, but Firestone Hospital in Harbel is supposedly the best hospital in the country. Our country representative introduced us to Dr. Lawrence Sherman during in-country orientation and we may call him for emergencies. I don’t hesitate to call him Friday morning, April 15, 2011. After my visit to Agape Clinic Wednesday, April 13th for what seemed to be an annoying rash over my face and neck I decide to go to Firestone. The rash appeared Monday, April 11, 2011, and persisted for two days unabated. The Agape Clinic nurse had given me a cursory glance and a prescription for penicillin, which is hardly used for anything besides strep throat and tooth abscesses. However, penicillin is not even available at the clinic. My condition worsens and my face begins to swell. My eyes disappear behind a mound of fleshy dough. Yellow pus oozes and crusts over my face and neck.