Joyful Girl in Berlin now in Liberia, West Africa

HOOKER BEATDOWN

2011-04-18T07:55:00.001-06:00

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

2011-04-18T07:09:00.004-06:00

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.

2010-10-12T05:57:00.001-06:00

Saturdays have a way of lingering for hours. The heat is so great till it plays tricks with the eyes. Huge grey clouds curdle on the horizon turning the sky into God’s coffee cup. There’s a child’s birthday party next door. West African pop music cackles through worn out speakers and children bob their heads to the rhythm. I sit in my sling chair on the front porch and fan the mosquitoes buzzing around my ear. My soft drink is miserably warm and I wait for the generator to kick on. The air conditioning comes on first with a long beep, then the refrigerator rumbles alive, to signal the electric night. We are about three hours from the electric evening, so I’m waiting outside hoping to catch a breeze. Then it happens. With a dull thud a young woman drives off the road into a ditch. I giggle to myself and relish the chance to break the monotony of the blazing afternoon. Most of the road has washed away from the heavy rain, but a small sliver of navigable terrain remains. It’s hilly and rocks shift from side to side, but most people seem to not get stuck. Most people until this Saturday afternoon.
Our eyes meet and her helplessly frantic stare erases my childish smirk. I call my husband outside to help. I think immediately of wooden planks, but that isn’t around. He quickly assesses the situation and calls to the gathering group of children. Party- goers who danced to afro-pop only five minutes ago were now circling the marooned car. “Go find plenty rocks-o! Plenty. Plenty rocks!” He bellows in his most affable demeanor and all the children scatter searching for large rocks. Nearly fifteen children find rocks, some larger than their heads, to fill in the ditch. When the ditch is full of rocks, we all try to push the car a little. A young girl, no older than eight, decked out in her best party regalia, eagerly pushes the bumper of the car. The car doesn’t budge. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to drive the car out of the ditch yourself.” I tell the woman driver, but she hesitates. “I don’t know if I can.” She is clearly afraid. My father taught me a long time ago about the danger of fear. “Just put the car in first gear and turn your wheel all the way to the left. Slowly ease out into the road. Slowly.” I calmly reassure her, but she tries to hand me the keys. “Go on now. Just go slow” and I open the door for her. She makes one last glance at me and I nod my head back. She steps inside and I give her a thumbs- up. “Back up! Everybody back up! Move from here.” I yell to the kids still hanging around the car. She gingerly eases forward and drives back onto the road. She waves and I applaud to the children’s efforts. They all run back for the party. It’s time to cut the cake.

Her life is in my hands

2010-06-04T06:35:00.003-06:00

She shuffles by the market women with her head down. Women whisper about her, but no one speaks to her. Her stomach is bloated, her eyes bulge, and her skin pulls tautly against hard bone. She is a walking skeleton—fragile and slowly dying. Her name is Maimah J. and I helped save her life.
In a tropical country people rarely starve to death. Liberia is covered with dense tropical forests and rich soil. This is not a country of genetic modification and agribusinesses. It is a country of community growers relying on traditional knowledge. They grow moderate surpluses and feed their community. This is not a barren wasteland of drought and famine. It is a recovering democracy with deep emotional wounds. This is the place I found her.
The sun’s setting rays cast curious shadows on the office floor. I don’t notice the ephemeral silhouette until she speaks. “Yeah, hello.” She is barely audible and I only see her bony fingers timidly hiding her face. I motion her in and she sits. Her voluminous belly looks odd against her frail frame. I have a litany of questions that she calmly answers. “My parents left me at the hospital to die, but I didn’t die. They told me I was going to die, but I got better. I went to Bomi Hills Elementary School. My teacher is Ms. Johnson. I have three sisters. I sleep outside the hospital now. I eat whatever falls on the ground.” She quietly says. I sit stunned and offer her my bottled water. She guzzles a liter of water in less than ten seconds. I tell her “Come on get up. I am going to help you.” I am not sure how I am going to help her, but food, clothes, and shelter are all I can think of. She’s dirty and covered in rags. Slowly she follows behind me. She stops on the road and squats to urinate. Directly in front of houses in full view of everyone she relieves herself. A part of me wants to cover her vulnerability. Another part of me wants to cover my face in revulsion. Conflicted, I wait. My partner welcomes her warmly on the front porch and they walk in our home together. “Honey, can you give her bath?” He asks me, but I’m unsure. “I can do it myself.” I’m relieved by her independence. I find a few lappas, towels, soap, and skin crème. She takes her time washing away the dirt and humiliation of sleeping outdoors and eating garbage. We prepare enough food to feed a soccer team. We are both nervous and clueless. “Let’s call UNMIL. Maybe Phebe Hospital. Where’s the missionary?” She steps out of the shower holding her dirty rags. I take them from her and place into a black bag. I later throw them away in a large pit outside to be burned. “Are you hungry, sweetheart?” She nods yes.
She curiously eats more than I think is usual. She shovels spoonfuls of rice, vegetables, and beans into her tiny mouth. Cheeks bulge with food and I wonder if she is getting sick. “Maimah, why did you come to the hospital?” In between gulps she says, “Diabetes, but my mom said it was African Sign.” African Sign is sorcery or witchcraft and many here believe in metaphysical etiology. “Is this why they left a Kissi girl in a hospital deep in Kpelle country nearly five hours away from home?” I begin to wonder. She grows tired and I prepare a place on the couch for her to sleep. In the morning we go to Phebe Hospital. We need to assess her health and find any information about her.

The nurses at Phebe all suck their teeth and audibly grumble when we arrive. Half glasses rest low on nose bridges and heads wag. A chorus of disapproving women erupts when we ask questions about Maimah. “Hmmph! I know this little girl. Yeah, she runs away from home because she doesn’t like the food. I know her mother. She sells produce behind the hospital.” Her mother arrives and gives her a sideways glance. She doesn’t smile at her and talks to the nurses in Kpelle. She doesn’t want her burdensome daughter anymore and wants to get rid of her. Maimah’s uncle walks out of the lab and introduces himself. Her uncle is a lab technician and hasn’t checked her blood sugar in months. He passes her everyday going to work and watches her slowly deteriorate. He wants to place the blame with Maimah. “She only wants to eats sweets and starchy rice. She can go home with you if you want her.” I stare stunned, but take her home and call a social worker. He arrives at home with the mother and uncle. My partner and I agree to take her back to her father in Bomi Hills on one condition. We must take the mother to re-introduce her to the community. The bus leaves Tuesday morning.
The bumpy ride makes Maimah and her mother sick. Her mother motions us to stop at an old memory. She tries to drop her daughter off at an IDP camp inhabited by old ghosts and strangers. She wanders around aimlessly trapped in a nightmare. “Let’s go here.” She points to a dense copse of trees. An older man named Konia wisely recognizes what is happening. He leans over to me and says, “These are internally displaced people. She’s pointing to a village burned down years ago.” A mother unaware of her daughter’s own age or sickly condition is trying to drop her off at an abandoned village. Konia takes the lead and questions the villagers. “Do you know this girl’s father?” He was able to track down the village in under an hour and guide us to it. She is welcomed home and we congratulate ourselves for a job well done.

Black magic Woman

2010-05-08T08:14:00.002-06:00

One hundred and three doctors work in a country of more than three million. Odds are that most Liberians will not see a doctor until it is significantly too late for medical intervention. Yet Liberia has a thriving health system designed to diagnose, heal, ,and comfort the sick. The traditional healers or Zoes are women with a calling from the ancestors to treat the ailing bodies of the living. She isn’t scary or extraordinarily mystical. She is exquisitely normal and down to earth.

My partner has a skin infection probably caused by the detritus falling from our ceiling, but without a functioning lab it is impossible to do soil analysis or deep tissue biopsy. Nearly five percent of the Liberian medical doctors have seen his swollen leg and all have shaken their heads in consternation. No one quite knows what it is. Reluctantly, I arranged for the Zoe to come from the bush. I didn’t call, but simply mentioned it to our housekeeper that I needed a herbalist. The next day she and her husband are at our house. She only speaks Kpelle and her husband speaks a broken English. I’ve been here longer and understand the accent better. It was like the episode of I love Lucy when a group of multilingual friends form a translation chain. Standard American English to Liberian colloquial, Liberian colloquial to Kpelle. We offer her a bottle of local rum made from sugar cane and about 400 Liberian Dollars (about $6 US) in exchange for the consultation and company. She returns Sunday with the leafy herb to take down the swelling. I hope she’ll stay for dinner. I can make country bread.

2010-04-24T15:11:00.001-06:00

Sooo tired of malaria. I don't have it, but feel like I do. My partner has it and I'm responsible for finding medicine, cooking dinner, and comforting the sick. These things would be simpler if there were more pharmacies or if pharmacies carried real drugs and not skin bleaching cream. Seriously?! I went to buy triple antibiotic cream in Gbarnga and the store clerk handed me fade me light cream. On the way back from the pharmacy, I saw a large banner advertising a herbalist--traditional healer. The sign read "Body Each" 'body itch' and had a painted picture of a person covered in sores. I almost stopped for help. Unfortunately, many Liberians will go to the herbalist and bypass sustainably good health for totems and untested herb remedies.

Burnt teeth and Ivorian fabric

2010-04-16T23:30:00.003-06:00

"No disrespect, but I don't want your man."

"Why did my husband take you into the market? You didn't ask if he was married."

"I'm not asking if he's married, unless I'm interested. Again. No disrespect, but I don't want your man."

I look hard into this woman's eyes and see her insecurity and fatigue. I'm not to blame for her husband's bad intentions. A few days ago, I ducked into a pharmacy to hide from the Liberian deluge. It was a sudden and violent storm that sent raw sewage gushing down the street. I was wearing sandals.

A pharmacy had a sign posted outside advertising German pharmaceuticals. I thought I may stay dry and find a transplanted German apothecary. Instead I found a young Liberian man with rotted teeth and a whole lot of ideas. Time flew by. We talked about health, religion, and education in Liberia. I then went to the more superficial topic of fashion and jewelry.

"Where do you think I can find Malian beads and Ivorian wax cotton?"

"Madam, I am not a woman. I do not know these things."

Simple response in a country that has clearly demarcated gender roles.

"But, I do know a woman who sells these things. I will take you there when the rain stops."

I hesitate, but go anyway. He knows the back way to avoid the flooded streets and raw sewage. We skip over stones like frogs jumping over lily pads. We finally make it to well- kept secret along Water Street. A small kiosk with a rotund Mandingo woman sells the most exquisite fabric in West Africa. Every piece feels smooth and has a wonderful weight to it. Unfortunately, I am nearly broke and try to strike a deal.

"Can I pick out a few I like and pay a deposit?"

"Sure, put your phone number and name on a sheet of paper." The rotund oma smiles with a shiny gold tooth up front. She then says something to the rotted tooth man in a language I don't understand.

Rotted tooth man looks at me and says:

"Pick up the fabric at my pharmacy on Friday. Friday's a holiday and she won't be working."

Friday's a holiday for sure. I reluctantly agree. My spidey senses are tingling, so I hurry onto a motorbike and zoom off to the house. The next Friday I am back at the pharmacy to pick up my fabric, but the burnt tooth man is not there. His wife is. She may accept my explanation, but she doesn't trust her husband. She gives me a coded warning and I feel a little foolish. No man takes a woman shopping without a hidden motive.

2010-04-16T23:01:00.001-06:00

These few weeks haven't been the easiest, but when is it ever easy in Liberia? The hydrocephalic baby passed away. I forgave myself for not doing more. Hopefully, I can pass on information or serve as a link to help future cases. Capacity- building is the hot word of development, but what does it truly mean? It means that doctors and staff should be trained on cutting- edge life- saving techniques here in Liberia. It means that children should not be thrown away by their parents out of ignorance and fear. People should be educated and allowed to grow physically and mentally without strain. I'm not sure what part I'll have in it all, but I'll try small- small

Happy Easter and a Rooster too!

2010-04-05T04:25:00.001-06:00

Yesterday, I celebrated Easter Mass with the Foundation for Women. FFW is a non-profit organization that provides small micro-finance loans to women and disabled people throughout Liberia. They are an amazing team of motivated and dedicated men and women. They are trying to address many of the inequities present in society by empowering the most marginalized members of society.

Great group of people.

Not so great church service.

Members of the church reenact Christ's sacrifice by offering the fruits of the labor. Some brought toiletries. Others brought clean cleaning supplies. Many brought farm fresh produce. Plantains. Bitter balls (fruit related to the eggplant.) Spicy peppers. Edoes (tuber related to the potato.)

And a large rooster.

As the priest is delivering a most Solemn Mass complete with incense and incantations, the rooster sounds loudly on the altar. The priest continues, but the rooster has found his own rhythm. He boasts and crows right along with a flock of boastful roosters passing outside. I begin to pray that the rooster at the altar will be freed tor un around the church. I think a three hour Solemn Mass will be more interesting if a rooster is running around. The priests dressed in his vestments. Altar boys in robes dropping their incense and picking up their hems to chase the chivalrous cockerel would be hilarious. "Come on rooster. Come on rooster. Saint Kizito please grant me an Easter Rooster." Yet, he isn't freed and I have to sit for three more hours on a hard wooden pew in an overcrowded church with no air- conditioning. Happy Easter!

Supernatural

2010-03-27T12:41:00.001-06:00

I can only imagine what happens during a Sande initiation ceremony. Drums keep time as initiates sway, twirl, and clap to the beat. Each movement is culturally symbolic and invokes ancestral spirits. Libations flow to Xala, the supreme deity of the cosmic universe, ancient prayers of prosperity are whispered, and elderly hands carve membership onto young supple flesh. The raised marks on the arm or neck identify the person and tribe. It is a mark of affiliation and affinity that binds them to their clan and culture. Young girls learn to be good women and wives. Social boundaries are clarified and reified for all to see. But, what happens when the social boundaries are transgressed whether real or imagined? How are deviance and the unwritten social sanctions imagined and experienced within the Kpelle society? I think that is best understood when things go wrong in the society. It is at the breach of normalcy that one can examine the perceived social norms of a society. At the fissure or rupture, one can examine normalcy and deviance. According to Emile Durkheim, deviance fulfills four unique functions for a society. It defines and reifies cultural norms and values. Deviance makes clear the demarcation between morality and immorality. Those who respond to deviance are unified in their struggle to denounce it. Yet, deviance can be bring about social change because it applies pressure to the existing boundaries. Kpelle society like all societies in the world is dynamic and subject to change. I am witnessing a society in flux. A young baby girl lies on her back in a crowded hospital room. She shares the room with two other infant patients. A sickly baby boy lies on a mattress with his mother who coos and whispers “I love you.” The next mattress over is a tiny premature baby girl. Her face is round with skin like brown velvet. She is without her mother, because she died in childbirth. Her family hasn’t sent for her, since they are probably still grieving. I try to think what it most be like to loose a daughter, wife, and mother of four. I wonder to myself as I softly murmur sweet nothings to the baby wrapped in the pink blanket, “Who will take care of the other children?” “Will the mother’s parents offer the available sister to the widower to perform a sororate marriage?” These may be some of the questions that the family must answer before they can pick up their little bundle of brown velvet. For right now, she lies next to a Kpelle surrogate grandmother. She’s taking her lunch right next to her—refusing to leave her side for just a few minutes. What the hospital lacks in modern medical technology the people make up for in love and devotion. However, not all the infants have an around the clock love support team. An infant was born hydrocephalic with only the hospital staff and the occasional curious spectator to provide for her. She lies behind a thin curtain. There is no modern prenatal care that would have diagnosed the condition. There are no neurosurgeons in Liberia and no medical evacuation plan for sick children. Although the staff immediately understood the constellation of medical conditions to be hydrocephalus, the family thought it was a supernatural curse. The body is not only physical here, but also metaphysical. Some conditions are understood to be the cause of abstract social transgressions. The parents thought she was a gena or supernatural monstrosity sent to warn and punish them for something. “Throw her away in the dark bush! Do it late at night so no one will see” are the instructions the parents gave to the hospital staff. They absconded with their guilt and shame to the bush to make peace with Xala. A gena could be understood as a culture- bound syndrome, because it takes a constellation of symptoms and reinterprets them according to cultural symbols and access to medical technology.
There’s a lot more I can say, but that will have to wait till graduate school.

Why are things so hard?

2010-03-18T14:20:00.001-06:00

Nothing is quite right here. The line at the bank grows longer and longer everyday. We wait hours to make a deposit or withdraw. There are only a handful of ATMs in Monrovia and most don’t work when you want it. Running around taking care of multifarious tasks may take the entire day. Yesterday I withdrew cash from the bank and tried to pick up packages from the post office. It took four hours and the package was being held for a bribe. Things should not be this hard, but it only gets harder for the most vulnerable of Liberian citizens, One such person is the smallest baby girl languishing in a dark corner of the ICU unit of the local hospital. This place is poorly supplied and the staff re-use gloves and surgical needles. Cures and treatments are hard to find. Prayer and witchcraft mingle with hypodermic needles and prescription drugs. A small three weeks old infant suffers from hydrocephalous. Her family abandons her as a bad omen. Her bulging forehead and dire prognosis sends her mother wailing back to the bush. There will be no shunts or third ventriculostomies to be implanted by skilled infant neurosurgeons for little “Helen.” She is without a family and slowly dying. It can’t be easy. A small donation cup rests above her head to pay for her care and eventual funeral. Hospital staff and visitors coo at the seemingly happy little baby. I wonder to myself, “How much would it cost to medically evacuate her to Ghana?” “How much would it cost to fly a neurosurgeon to Liberia for surgery?” So many thoughts cross my mind. However, my most pressing question is “Why is life so difficult here?”

Clouds Loom Overhead

2010-03-06T11:48:00.002-06:00

Gray clouds loom in the distance. The rainy season is almost here. It rains without notice and gives a welcomed reprieve from the intense heat. The earth is parched and red dust covers green leaves. Such an afternoon storm blew over Gbarnga during a meeting with the Elder Paramount Chief Borwor, an elderly and wise man. He gave me flirtatious glances as we discussed traditional moot courts. Most of the conflict he resolves deals with land tenure and family disputes. An unfaithful spouse. Yet, he handles issues of paramount importance. Land. Wars are fought over land. As the wind sweeps over the front porch and knocks over the small card table, I grab my notebook and we duck inside the Chief’s house. His living room looks like a small courtroom. Benches on each side of the room with his chair juxtaposed between the two parties. Here is where he rules. I am in his realm of authority. The war ended in 2003 and tribal lands were re-drawn and the Mandingo may have received an unfair shake. I can’t be for sure, but many of the land tenure disputes involve Mandingo tribal land. Two weeks ago in the northwestern most corner of Liberia, a young woman was kidnapped and brutalized. She was found outside a mosque with body parts missing. Mandingos are mostly Muslims and were blamed for her murder. In my opinion, this is the work of the Heartmen. Heartmen are witchdoctors who use body parts for powerful sorcery. Hmm, sorcery and Islam don’t fit together. There is a strong historic correlation between Heartmen killings and political aspirations. A mutilated body is dumped near a rival and he is never able to recover. His career is over. I can’t be sure this is what happened in Voinjama, Lofa County, but this event tore apart the community. Mosques and Christian churches were burned alike and people are dead. Rumors spread throughout this transnational community. Many fled over the border to Guinea and others hid in the thick jungle bush. Peace Corps pulled out after a harrowing 19 hours hunkered down in their small unsecure house. Thankfully, UN has the largest contingent in the world in a country the size of Tennessee. We are safe.

Tumbleweed in a Capricious Dust Storm

2010-02-20T14:21:00.003-06:00

The government of Liberia in partnership with UNMIL welcomed dozens of traditional dancers and acrobats from West Africa for a day of unity and peace. At first I thought this would be some clichéd tourist trap complete with women in coconut bras and grass skirts, gyrating for camera- clicking Westerners. I was right, but only partly right. Women in simply- sewn blue skirts and t-shirts keep time with the talking drums. My well-meaning white friend watches along and asks; “why aren’t they wearing traditional costumes?” She expected the women in grass skirts and coconut bras to entice camera-clicking tourists with prurient cultural fantasies. “Just wait!” I exclaim. A motley crew of tribal country devils and masked dancers crowd the stage. Three dancers dressed like electric pastel Mr. Snuffleupaguses (if there are any multiple Sesame Street Big Bird pals hanging around!) pirouette and leap through the air, creating a trail of bright colors like a 1960s acid trip. They jump into the air with high capoeira style sweeping kicks, but before they can finish a masked male dancer twirling like a dervish enters. He appears weightless. His grass skirt sweeps the floor then takes off into flight. The several layers of his voluminous raffia skirt looks like tumbleweed caught in a capricious dust storm. Then the most spectacular dancer takes the stage wearing a full- body raffia suit and a three-foot tall ebony mask. The dancer doesn’t look human, but rather like a small air vortex carrying red dust and debris through the air—a dust devil. The huge ebony mask falls off and he loses his humanness. The spirit of the dry harmattan whirlwind becomes him. It blows off stage into the audience scattering the crowd like rice at Karma’s wedding. Cameras click for the fleeting moment of brilliant spirit possession. It isn’t frightening like it may seem, but beautifully captivating and elegant. This is Africa.

I haven't forgotten . . .

2010-02-12T18:02:00.001-06:00

These few weeks have been amazingly beautiful and difficult.
First Jubilation of the Month
Congratulations to the New Orleans Saints for winning the Super Bowl. The enthusiasm is contagious even here in West Africa. Around 11:00 in the night, we crept over to a friend’s house with a DSTV satellite and watched the game. Unfortunately, we missed all the American commercials. ESPN International only has the rights to show the game and halftime show, but not the commercials. Oh well, you can’t have everything, but we were most pleased with the outcome. Our Liberian friend said to his girlfriend; “New Orleans lost everything when the storm came. They need to win tonight.” A young woman accustomed only to soccer said, “Okay, so we root for the losing team.” She cheered louder than all of us. The underdog won for all of us.
Second Jubilation of the month. . .
My partner and I orchestrated our biggest feat in country. We distributed 40 tons of books to the entire country. Liberia is a country without paved roads, a working postal system, or a total transparent and functioning government. This was a huge accomplishment. Sadly, many of the donated books were sold for profit and never made it to the students who needed it most. Oh well, we tried our best.

Third Jubilation of the month. . .
Also, congratulations to President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf and the Unity Party. Madam President has chosen to seek re-election in 2011. YAY!!! She gave a speech in Gbarnga (Bhang-A) and visited our church the next morning. I sat star struck a few pews back. She looks strong and has a steely visage. I understand why people call her the “Iron Lady.” I didn’t have the chance to shake her hand or say anything besides “good morning,” but it certainly made my week just to see her.
Fourth Jubilation of the month
Classes started this Monday and I am teaching five classes. At first I was overjoyed with the prospect of having a full workload, but my joy soon turned to sorrow. All the classes are consecutively scheduled every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday and not all in the same room. To get to each classroom I have to hike up a large hill in the midday sun with heavy history and sociology book on my backs. I will be fit like a marine at the end of the semester, or I will make a deal with a pen-pen driver to taxi me from class to class. I am not sure what option I will take, but if I look like a petite swimsuit model, you’ll know I jogged up several hills to class several days a week.
Yes, I still enjoy Liberia and thank God everyday that I’m here. I have a chance to work, research, and do something meaningful. I have decided to renew my contract for another year and return to Cuttington University. Not only will I have a chance to cultivate my academic interests, I’ll get a chance to collect some great art. West Africa has enchanting masks, statues, and paintings.

Human traffic

2010-01-17T14:54:00.004-06:00

“Maybe we’ll butt up in the human traffic.”

That was said to me as I walked out of Larice's Dress Shop on Warren Street in Monrovia. It means we may meet in the hustle and bustle of Monrovian life. It is the place for Liberian haute couture and a little extra.

After dropping off my material for a new skirt, all the ladies of the shop and customers chatted about Liberian colloquialism. It is one of the best places to have quality designer clothes made for a fraction of the cost you’d pay in the States. You can choose material from her selection or peruse the various shops on Waterside. Rarely is fabric sold my yard or meter. Instead it is sold by the lappa, which is approximately 2.2 yards. A complete women’s lappa suit has three pieces—skirt, shirt, and head wrap. Most lappas are sold in threes, but with a bit of luck or charismatic negotiating, you can get the buyer to split it up for your needs. I was lucky or charismatic enough to buy only one lappa for a skirt. The print was absolutely exquisite—navy blue with women’s silhouettes. The title of the print is ‘jealous woman,’ because the women stretch their long necks attempting to outshine the other while putting their hands on their hips. (unfortunately, i don't have a photo posted of the beautiful skirt, but I do have 1 of Larice's originals.) I only paid 140 LD or 2USD and it cost 14USD to have it made into a long A-line skirt. The average price for a lappa is between 120 and 150 LD, but there are more exclusive brands. However, you can buy the haute couture of lappas imported from Togo from Larice for around 40USD for three lappas. She won’t sell you just one lappa, so be prepared to make use of all three lappas. I suggest a head wrap or belt. Feel free to bring in a picture from a magazine and she can custom fit it to your measurements and the texture of the material. It isn’t simply a place to get a great fit, but a place to comfortably talk with Liberian women about their experiences during the crisis and their dreams for the future. Feel free to read the latest edition of Liberia Travel and Life magazine. While there I met the advertising executive for the magazine. She designs the layout of the ads and assists with the overall look of the magazine. This is a place to catch up on what’s new and happening in Liberia.
If you want a piece of art on your wall and not on your body go to Art for the Heart on Camp Johnson Road. A Liberian political cartoonist and artist runs this collective and takes commission work. If you have a picture or an idea, they can make it come to life on the canvas. Artworks range in price from $200 to $600. They also have postcards, but they are of poor quality. There are a few other art shops in Mamba Point that are a little cheaper. You never know what you’ll find in the human traffic of Monrovia. Take a look and venture throughout the city

Ganta City

2010-01-16T16:02:00.004-06:00

Red dust powders eyelids like kabuki theatre. Diesel fumes cling to their clothes. Through the night into the early morning they journey across dry riverbeds and rugged roads to be here. These are the teachers who will guide Liberian children to the future. Teachers and principals hitched rides in overcrowded cargo trucks, beat-up yellow taxis, and some walked on foot to make it to this ten- day workshop in Ganta City, Nimba County. My job was easy—monitor, evaluate, present new ideas, and give feedback. There is an overwhelming male majority, but I try to look fierce. I’m confident, but I don’t have wrinkles, gray hairs, or other elderly distinguishing marks. In a society that values maturity, I look like most of these teachers’ students. Being professional, arriving on time and cheerfully giving feedback helped make my stay in Ganta pleasurable. I stayed at the Hotel Alvino named after the hotel owner’s son. It is a newly constructed hotel with a complete bar and restaurant. The food is quite good, but slightly unimaginative. Jollof rice, fried chicken, fish, spaghetti, are all excellent dishes, but get boring after a few days. I suggest venturing out into the city to grab a bit of variety. G.B. is made from cassava flour and tastes a lot like fufu, but slightly harder. The city never sleeps and a nightclub adjacent to the hotel proves this at 5 a.m.. You can safely venture over the Guinean border to buy fresh produce, eggs, or a used car. Guinean taxes are remarkably low, thus Guinean investors buy cars that do not pass yearly inspections in Western Europe and export for sale in Guinea. They sell these less than stellar Nissans and Toyotas to eager West Africans. I recognize German bumper stickers on Liberian roads from my Berlin days.

“Ich bremse für Tiere“

‘I brake for animals.’

Guinea Road runs parallel to the Hotel Alvino and is a short twenty-minute walk to the border. If you want to experience true adventure, charter a flat-bottomed raft across the Saint John River. I recommend doing this during the dry season (October- April) when the river is at its lowest.

For a complete change of a pace make a side trip to the Methodist Compound, where you can buy crafts from people living and recovering from leprosy and tuberculosis. Some of the structures date back to the forties and sustained only superficial damage during the crisis. It is a worthwhile trip. A healthy person has little risk becoming infected by a brief visit, but it is best to check-in with the on-site staff and personnel.

Back on the main highway you can hitch a ride through Côte d'Ivoire into Burkina Faso. Most Monrovian traders worth their salt will buy at the port and drive their goods through Côte d'Ivoire into Burkina Faso for the final delivery. If you are strong and willing to ride on an overcrowded van through dry riverbeds and rugged terrains like the teachers and principals of Nimba County you can experience the true beauty of West Africa.

Delirium

2009-12-12T14:24:00.001-06:00

I live with two white male college students.

I can hear the sounds of black domestic violence through the thin walls.

I can’t make out the words, but the punctuated cries tell me their story.

It’s fraught with oppressive poverty, delinquent phone bills and NSF fees.

I call the landlady to complain. She hurries to our apartment.

I don’t have time to hide the cat. She walks in to find my two cats cavorting around the living room.

“You can only have one pet.” Is the first thing she says when I open the door.

“Give me a little time to find them a home.” I plead as Mr. Whiskers runs behind the curtain. Miss Emma has just swatted him with a vindictive paw. “Wow! He’s a magnum!” is the curious response from the landlady to the ongoing feline kerfuffle.

“What?”

“And this one is gonna be a mommy!” The landlady squeals with excitement.

“How can you tell?” I ask as I inspect Miss Emma’s fluffy belly. She’s purring heavily and her black coat feels soft and delicate.

DOG BARKS LOUDLY

END OF DREAM SEQUENCE

I wake up in the dark. I’m not sure where I am. Am I back in Tuscaloosa?

My body quivers and I am transported back to West Africa.

I stretch out my hand to touch the white gossamer mosquito net.

It is all just a dream.

In reality I live alone in a small concrete house in rural Liberia.
I take Lariam (anti- Malaria medication) and have the most vivid dreams. It's a side-effect of the medication. Sometimes I feel like the dreams are so real. I can hear, taste, and smell my dreams. Liberia is full of dreams and nightmares. I live in a parallel world.
I'm going to church tomorrow.

Tears and Smeared Make up

2009-12-12T14:20:00.001-06:00

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I teach in the palaver hut. We don’t have books, but everyone has an opinion. Some students walk in late and tend to their cell phone business. I ignore the overt rudeness and open the discussion. Today’s chat is health and gender.

How is it possible for there to be existing health disparities between males and females?

Next semester I want to collaborate with the County Health Department and include my students. If they are involved in their community, they will be more motivated and responsible. At least that’s what I think.

Class ends on a positive note. I walk to the administrative building to check my email. It is always a pleasure to be here. Although the internet works intermittently, I have a chance to catch up on the goings on of campus life. I find out The Miss Cuttington pageant was a mild scandal. It was biggest event in Bong County last Saturday. There were MCs from RTV, the winner from A Star is Born performed, and the audience rioted. It wasn’t anything major. UNMIL was not called out to quell the crowd, but crowns and tiaras were flying. In the crowds defense the MCs from Monrovia allowed a lot of dead air between acts and that agitated people. Some of the performing groups were apparently operating on L.I.B. time (not punctual). Instead of the MCs calling another act or telling jokes to fill in the space, they simply sat down and waited with the audience. This probably contributed to the fan’s eventual emotional upheaval. When the winner was called, the audience bum-rushed the stage crying shenanigans and voting fraud. Students are very animated here. There were tears and smeared make-up. The queen wasn’t crowned, because of the mob. All in all it was a success.

Ground Pea Queen

2009-12-12T14:19:00.002-06:00

My Peace Corps friends and I reminisce on forgotten luxuries, like continuous electricity, running potable water, and well-stocked grocery stores. I often walk to the Phebe compound to visit them. They have a secret hidden joy. They know where the best ground pea (peanut) candy is. If I can’t have hot showers or electricity, I can at least eat delicately roasted peanuts suspended in a brittle caramelized sugary shell. I like to put chocolate frosting on the small ground pea candy disks and call it ground pea kwee. Kwee is the name for all things Western. I can only buy Duncan Hines frosting at the Stop & Shop in Monrovia. Out here I just eat the candy and dream about the frosting.

Lenny is a mocha-colored dream girl from New Orleans. We’re the same complexion, but she has light green eyes that mesmerize the dark-skinned Liberians. She’s stationed at Phebe Hospital. Lenny shows me the ground pea lady’s stand. It’s in a terrible location, near a trash heap and a broken latrine. It smells like sewage and chickens scamper through the trash. I ignore the smell and eat my small piece of heaven on the way back to their house.

“I met a man in Monrovia.” Lenny begins

I’m more interested in not dropping any of the brittle goodness and keep eating.

“Uh-ha” I murmur.

“He’s an ex-marine and works for the United Nations.”

“Umm, ok.”

“I hope he’s not interested in only booty calls.”

“Umm, I hope not too.”

Just then a large piece of candy falls from her mouth and lands in the dirt.

“Shit!” Lenny exclaims

“You know the ants won’t even appreciate the goodness they’re about to eat. They’ll just swarm and cart it off without ever realizing that was the best candy in Liberia.” I wax philosophical. “I may give you a piece of mine.”

We make it up the dirt hill and a female dog is wagging her tale like a flag. Lenny calls out her name. It’s a white dog with brown spots. Keke is the name of all mutts around here.

“Hey Keke! Where’s your boyfriend.” Keke scurries off into the bush. Dogs don’t trust people. They know they are food and rarely pets. I walk in their house clutching two pieces of candy close to my chest. Their house is similar to mine, but only larger. Their kitchen is cluttered with cobwebs and ants march around the countertops undisturbed. I gobble up a piece of candy just so the ants won’t have a chance to eat it. I should mention that I have a maid and they don’t. The other roommates make it home and they invite me to dinner of lentils and couscous. I share the last piece of candy with Reilly and Wally. They’ve had long days traveling from Monrovia, and I’m feeling generous.

Moonlight Drive

2009-12-12T14:18:00.003-06:00

The evening sun departs and a bright moon shines through every window of the house. There’s a full moon on a cloudless night and we laugh.

Do you know what a goathead is? Wally asks me. The other girls chuckle shyly.

Nooo, should I?

Ahh, it is the Liberian term for cunnilingus.

How did you ever figure that out?

A goat was slaughtered at a party and a few Liberians asked the old Oma if she likes goat head. Everyone laughed when she said ‘yes’.

That is such an ugly term for such a beautiful thing. I want to stay, but the night is growing late. It’s time to go home.

Around 10:00 p.m. we head to the bus stop. The hospital has a shift change around 10:30 p.m. and the bus ferries the nurses back to Cuttington. We run into the head of the County Health Department—Gus. He’s on his way to pick up his fiancée from work.

“The bus comes in about half an hour.” Gus says. “Let’s walk to my office and sit.” The fluorescent lights flicker on and I see huge black binders resting neatly atop each other. “Malaria” “STIs”

“What’s all this?” I ask pointing to the binders full of data on diseases.

“Oh, I’m the county health analyst. I also give health talks in the community”

“If you ever need another person to deliver health talks let me know.” I say with a smile and bright eyes. He nods back.

Just then his second in command stumbles in the office—Alphonso.

Alphonso has a slight build and is clearly agitated.

“That girl will never be my friend again! She should never be your friend again either!” He blurts out to Gus.

Gus smiles and remarks that Alphonso was dating two women and the jilted lover caught him with another lady.

“She waste beer on me! I didn’ reac' to Joni’s vexation! I was sitting dere with Gorpu. Gorpu is a married woman! Wha' if I stood up and everyone woul' have seen me with Gorpu? That would have been bad for everyone. Lucky, I was cool.” Alphonso drawls out in Liberian English.

We all agree Alphonso is so very lucky to only have a stained collar. He didn’t feel bad for dating two women. He didn’t feel bad for dating a married woman. It was the woman’s reaction to his infidelity that had him vexed. Vexed is used so much in Liberian English. It means perturbed or annoyed and fell out of the American vernacular nearly a century ago.

I say good night and walk to the bus. A group of nurses are dressed in their pale blue and white pleated uniforms. There’s a large crowd of women and one woman is pleading with the male driver. In front of the graves of the slain healthcare workers killed in the crisis, a nurse waves her hands punctuating the stark moonlit sky. She swoops down and touches his foot. “I say. For why? Please. I beg you. Take us home.” The male bus driver is drunk and unwilling to drive to the neighboring village of S.D.K. He finally gives in and cranks up the bus. It lurches slowly forward and we bump through the bright moonlight on our way home.

This is Africa.

I'm Not a Bank

2009-11-15T16:29:00.004-06:00

I’m acquiring a wealth of knowledge regarding kinship, gender roles, the educational system, and political structure of Liberia, but should I have to pay for it? It seems many Liberians assume I am wealthy; therefore the bill should always come to me. Yesterday I rebuked that trend and I asserted that I am not USAID, the World Bank, or anyone’s personal ATM. I am privileged and possess more social capital than most Liberians, but I am not financially wealthy, nor do I appreciate being made to carry the burden of paying when I am simply a volunteer.

Today is the day we return to Galai. Our motorbike taxi driver picks me up at 10:45 a.m. We drive to Plato’s place and he stands outside. He wants to grab a drink of hot chocolate at his neighbors, before we leave. A brown dog sits on the steps of their porch. She stands to inspect him and I glance at her hanging teats. “Another whelping dog,” I think. I see so many whelping dogs, but so few feral strays. People eat dogs. No need for Bob Barker to remind the audience to help control the pet population, by having your dog or cat fixed. Here people eat the unwanted animals. However, some are pets. This healthy dog seems like a pet and she greets me with her dog hug. Two feet on my trousers and she stretches her body forward so I can scratch her chin. I miss my dog at home, but do not want a pet in this country. There are very few veterinarians and the weather is miserable for most long- haired animals. I wait for him to finish and we drive off to Galai.

The red gravel roads create clouds of chalky dust as we pass. Our driver is cautious at every dip and ravine, so we don’t crash. The dry season turns streams into mini deserts. We arrive in Galai dusty and tired. Our informal Kpelle emissary welcomes us with a scrumptious feast of bush meat, pumpkin, country rice, and pineapple. We sit under a huge tree and I take a small amount of pumpkin. I notice something cooked inside the stewed pumpkin. “What kind of meat is this?” I ask. “Bush meat. Hedgehog.” He answers. My stomach turns and I look down at a dog that is sitting near my feet. Maybe this scrawny dog will get all my bush meat. I try a piece to be polite. It tastes like tender roast beef, but is light and lacks a gamey flavor. I like it. I have two small portions. The country rice is soft and sweet. The dog only receives bones and gristle. I thank our host and he sends for palm wine. I wonder if I have to pay him more than a thank you, so I ask Plato. “You are his guest and he welcomes you. Last week he visited you. This is his time to return the favor.” Plato says. I sit back and wait for the palm wine.

A small cluster of townspeople gathers under the tree. We are guests and everyone wants an introduction. A very important man in the village, Papaet, sits next to me. He is the bridge contractor. The World Bank builds bridges with Liberian labor and engineering. He tells me the World Bank allocates money and hires a team of Liberian monitors and evaluators to ensure every task is done. However he doesn’t know how much the World Bank’s budget is. He just knows his cost. As he explains his role in building bridges throughout northeastern Liberia, a middle- aged man enters the circle. He begs to sit on my left side. He introduces himself as Jackson R. Dolo. “Please, I need a bit of soap to wash my clothes.” He begs, but the group of men scoffs. He turns to me. I have only questions. “Are you from Galai?” Jackson responds; “This is not my home. I am living with my sister. She married a man from Galai and I moved with her.” “Is that traditional for a brother to move with his sister,” I ask. Jackson says, “yes.” Papanyet a man nearly fifty with a broad chest, rough hands, and intelligent eyes raises his hand with authoritative power. Jackson sits silently. “Normally I would not say anything, unless it is untrue. I must rebuke what this man says.” Papanyet adds. He has domestic troubles and does not have a farm of his own. If he had taken care of his affairs while he was young, he would not be living with his sister.” Jackson meekly starts over. “I’m starving.” Papanyet raises his hand again. “No, you were handsome as a young man and never learned a trade or got an education. Your time has passed! Now is not the time to beg from this woman. It does not work like that!” Jackson mumbles, “I’m not lazy.” Papanyet turns to me and says, “It is a bad thing for a brother to live with his sister. If the sister would have problems with her husband, he could not act as the father. Jackson is bound to her in-laws.”

In accordance with patrilineal lines of kinship, the male son acts as the father and can negotiate on his sister’s behalf. If a woman does not have a brother, her paternal uncle’s son performs the same function. The maternal uncle’s son is important, but not doesn’t perform the same function or have the same prestige as the father’s son. If the “mother’s son” visits his newly married cousin, and he brings a chicken, the father’s son must bring a goat. The father’s son’s presence brings more commotion and excites the husband more than the mother’s son. Since the daughter is dowried, a breach in the marriage contract could result in return or forfeiture of the dowry or the bride. The father’s son or the father can negotiate such transactions. A woman brings a certain amount of wealth or goods into the marriage when she leaves her father’s home. This money is to ensure that she is properly taken care of. Now that Jackson lives with his sister’s in- laws, he is a disgrace to the other men in the village. He attempts to credit his disgrace to the civil war, but the whole crowd rebukes him. Everyone has lost something or someone in the war. “I have lost my brother, but I had to work with my bare hands to get what I have now.” Papanyet says. “My brother is dead and I had to marry his wife. It is my responsibility to my brother’s children to care for them. I have had to make may sacrifices for my family.” A levirate marriage is a custom by which a man may be obliged to marry his brother's widow. It was very common in ancient Hebrew culture hence the name and exists in many modern patrilineal societies. Anthropology 436- Social Structure is coming to life for the first time. I am diagramming the social structure in my head as he speaks. I want to contact Dr. Murphy, former professor, and tell him I finally understand why we had to map out those tedious charts on tests. This information is priceless, but I do not offer him any money for his story. He is the big man in the village and my offering of $1 would probably be insulting. I decide if I want to record his story, I’ll offer him a sitting fee. The sun is moving across the sky and our shade is retreating. We begin to disperse. I thank him and look over my shoulder to see Jackson hovering around a group of working men. A busy chainsaw makes a menacing sound. A tree needs to be felled and the men prepare their tools to go into the bush. Jackson stoops over with his hands on his knees. He doesn’t offer a hand or say very much. He will be left to beg for soap in the village, as the men work in the bush. I give him nothing, but a passing glance.

I walk through the village looking for art and furniture to purchase. I would like to replace my old wobbly dining chairs with sturdy wicker ones. There is a talented weaver and I pay him a visit. He offers me two chairs for 400 LD. They will be ready in one week. I hope they are large enough and durable. I will only pay if they are. I am realizing it is better to offer work than money.

2009-11-15T16:29:00.003-06:00

A small cluster of townspeople gathers under the tree. We are guests and everyone wants an introduction. A very important man in the village, Papanyet, sits next to me. He is the bridge contractor. The World Bank builds bridges with Liberian labor and engineering. He tells me the World Bank allocates money and hires a team of Liberian monitors and evaluators to ensure every task is done. However he doesn’t know how much the World Bank’s budget is. He just knows his cost. As he explains his role in building bridges throughout northeastern Liberia, a middle- aged man enters the circle. He begs to sit on my left side. He introduces himself as Jackson R. Dolo. “Please, I need a bit of soap to wash my clothes.” He begs, but the group of men scoffs. He turns to me. I have only questions. “Are you from Galai?” Jackson responds; “This is not my home. I am living with my sister. She married a man from Galai and I moved with her.” “Is that traditional for a brother to move with his sister,” I ask. Jackson says, “yes.” Papanyet a man nearly fifty with a broad chest, rough hands, and intelligent eyes raises his hand with authoritative power. Jackson sits silently. “Normally I would not say anything, unless it is untrue. I must rebuke what this man says.” Papanyet adds. He has domestic troubles and does not have a farm of his own. If he had taken care of his affairs while he was young, he would not be living with his sister.” Jackson meekly starts over. “I’m starving.” Papanyet raises his hand again. “No, you were handsome as a young man and never learned a trade or got an education. Your time has passed! Now is not the time to beg from this woman. It does not work like that!” Jackson mumbles, “I’m not lazy.” Papanyet turns to me and says, “It is a bad thing for a brother to live with his sister. If the sister would have problems with her husband, he could not act as the father. Jackson is bound to her in-laws.”

I'm Not a Bank

2009-11-15T16:11:00.001-06:00

2009-11-02T04:35:00.004-06:00

Black girl calls me ‘mama’ and buries her head in my lap.

I’m not her mama—just a stranger drinking palm wine under the tree.

She follows me around the campsite,

But I don’t take her home

Or even imagine taking her with me.

She can stay in the mud and thatch hut.

Round-faced with splotchy light brown skin

This little girl is pretty.

Her nose is runnin’ and her dress is filthy.

I wipe her nose with the white lace collar

Her snotty dampness touches me.

I can’t be anybody’s mama here.

Black woman calls me ‘bright skin.’

I’m not ‘bright skin’ but brown-skinned Emme from Alabama.

I’m black like they are, but not quite as black.

A young woman with a crippled leg wobbles into her yard to greet me.

She wants to be my friend. She says.

“I’ve seen you before, but never had the chance to talk to you. I admire you.”

“Why?”

“I guess . . . I just like you naturally.”

I’d like to chat, but I am expecting a package—a hen for my cockerel.

I thought raising chickens was a good idea.

The hen never arrives.

I’m left with the noisy chatter of ‘Roger the Rooster.’

He squawked his way out of my life this evening and hasn’t returned.

He won’t be missed.

He isn’t a dog, or a cat, or anything which should be missed.

I can’t scratch under his chin or rub his belly.

He just cock-a-doodle-doo- doos everywhere.

I’m sick of him.

Who has a story to tell?

Everyone has a few.

I’m ready to hear them,

If they are ready to tell them.

I won’t ask,

But when they’re ready,

I’ll listen.

local Palm- wine drinkard and proprietor- listed respectively

The Road to Galai

2009-10-24T03:34:00.004-06:00

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.

2009-10-18T15:14:00.005-06:00

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

2009-10-10T20:25:00.001-06:00

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

Dummer August in July

2007-07-08T11:04:00.000-06:00

Finally Günter Grass has responded to the ongoing debate regarding his previous involvement in theWaffen- SS as a 17- year old young man in the exhibition "Dummer August." In 20 pictures along with poems Grass details his feelings and thoughts. Unfortunately, I was a few hours too late to hear Grass read his own work. Today was the opening and I was too late.

The Future is the Hidden Present

2007-07-05T12:36:00.000-06:00

Walking along the ancient streets of Luebeck, I pondered temporality & causality as defined in early Buddhism. Letting go of desires and attachment are parts of enlightenment. We often fill our closets with things we don't need only because our hearts are empty. We hold onto people and things not realizing time destroys us all. Detaching oneself from desire makes us supple and allows us to escape the effects of time.

I bought my new suitcase today. It is so. It's time to leave.

Longing for Berlin

2007-07-03T13:50:00.000-06:00

Luebeck is really different than Berlin. The city is slower, greener and the bus fare is more expensive. Here there is no pissed stained Tacheles to dance the night away. There is no breathtaking view of the synagogue. Just an eerily peaceful monument to the city's war dead. After walking through this somber maze, I approached this super tacky fair. Once again a strange feeling overwhelmed me. The fair hadn't opened yet and we were walking through this city of false happiness and cheap consumerism. Ironically the leitmotif was everything American. American flags flying proudly and images of famous American sports and music figures juxtaposed against stands selling shitty crepes and fatty curry wurst. The whole day was just weird! I can't wait to get back to Berlin.

The end is the beginning. . . .

2007-07-01T09:48:00.000-06:00

Finally the last night in Berlin came and went without any problems. I passed my exams and said my goodbyes and see you laters. However, the end is often the beginning. Continuous circle of life.

Hey look mom! I'm on T.V!!

2007-06-22T11:06:00.000-06:00

Meeting a friend for a beer and ice cream (I know that is a strange combo) we were interviewed for a German news program. "What is your opinion about the beach bar scene here? Do you have any plans to visit another beach bar?" Steffi answered, "Its really nice, because in the United States, where we are from, there isn't much opportunity to sit on the beach and enjoy a drink." Well, that's when I interjected, "On the coast one can do that, but we live so far north it makes it difficult." Then the camera was all on my and I had 15seconds of fame, which will probably be edited down to one sentence or less-- "Berlin is cool!" Anyway, it was fun.

Heute

2007-06-19T11:42:00.000-06:00

Well, we are wrapping up this week. For the first time everyone showed up. A classmate said we should take a picture to commenorate this exceptional occurence. It was nice. Yesterday we had an excursion thoughtout the city and we really worked hard and had fun going through the city collecting pictures and information. My camera has technical problems and all the photos were deleted! Aaagh! Well, Elizabeth had taken back- up pictures. Gott sei dank! Thank God! I've planned on writing in German and I've began writing, but I need to re-edit. By the time I get to posting all my German thoughts it will be time to leave! Time slow down!!!! I can always make a memoir. Right now I don't have internet at home and it is always difficult to drive out here. So many pictures and texts. I just have to leave the blog alone for awhile and concentrate on preparing for the Exit exam. Boa Sorte!

Untitled

2007-06-10T05:02:00.000-06:00

Every morning is the sun's light,

Guiding me till I meet the moonlight.

Clouds over my head are dark and gray,

Yet from this path I will not stray.

Swinging shadows dance on the floor,

Escaping the heat they want no more.

The East Wind breathes softly on my face,

Whispering secrets into space.

Like the web a spider has spun,

I'm stretching my arms to meet the sun.

Feeling the energy of the tree,

Allowing God to set me free.

Reflections of the Most High

2007-06-09T06:35:00.000-06:00

While here in Berlin I've had time to focus on myself. No deadlines, papers, dog to walk, I've just got me. Solitary reflections can be lonely and uncomfortable. For ten days I lived alone in a second floor apartment in the former DDR. Quiet and peaceful I escaped to the innermost place. While there I experienced grief, sadness and anger. Catharsis. My man told me to go out and drink a beer after my days of isolation. A classmate and I went walking through the city and met many people, one of which was my brother Wika. I noticed him selling handmade jewelry and Mola crafts. He spoke to me in Spanish and told me he was from the Kuna people of Panama. We all sat together on the ground and he told me his mythology. Creation, evolution and culture was revealed to me by a man who called me Sister. "I don't think about nations or boundaries." He said, "When I come to Germany, I only think that I am seeing another side of Mother Earth. National boundaries are all in our head and is a sickness." He came to Germany to be with his son and feel the energy of the Earth. Among the Kuna, the man lives with the family of the wife (matrilocal) and believe that humankind is not the apex of creation, but rather connected to all things living and dead. He said, "We believe we come from the stars. And when we die, it is not the end, but the beginning." He was living in the moment with a stable sense of territory. This sense of stability in the world, being rooted, is something I desire. I'm trying to be grounded like him and realize that I am related to all beings and a reflection of the Most High.

Only photos

2007-06-05T11:28:00.000-06:00

2007-06-02T07:46:00.000-06:00

This was an exceptional day. I walked through a cold concrete maze made to look like a grave. Feeling so small against the massive leaning monument to all those who murdered during the Holocaust, I felt so insignificant. The ground was uneven and the walls leaned at 30% angles. At times I felt as if I would be swallowed whole. Grey slabs leaning in on me. I ran for the exit, but found myself trapped in that cold dead labyrinth that echoed the past. Who could ever deny this?"Ich kann gar nicht so viel essen, wie ich kotzen möchte!" I can not eat as much as I would like vomit! said Max Liebermann as Hitler triumphantly marched through the Brandenburg Gate. Collective madness and misery that infected an entire society like a terrible plague was finally dislodged from Western Europe. Hitler's nightmares have been destroyed. His lavish red marble decor now lines the Mohrenstrasse train station like rows of butchered meat. The walls ooze murder and shout injustice. Vergesst es nie, vergesst es nie! Never forget, never forget. Remember Rwanda? Don't forget Sudan. Vergesst es nie!

Cookin' Ain't Easy!!

2007-05-30T08:56:00.000-06:00

Everytime I live in Germany, I always find myself cooking and sizzling the day away. It isn't that I don't know how to cook, but sometimes I forget. For a long time I've wondered what it is that awakens my culinary senses. Could it be the fresh produce, that chokingly polluted air or something else that makes me want to whip up Waldpilz Geschnetzeltes and Kartoffel Salat?When I lived here about 7 years ago, admittedly, I was not a very good cook. I played around with things in the kitchen and usually regretted the mess I made. However, I learned quickly that McDonald's is a poor substitute for nourishment and walking three miles to get it wasn't any fun either. So, I taught myself to cook through trial and error. I remembered some of the tricks I learned from the Food Network and cautiously followed recipes I found online. It worked-- most of the time. Emeril's recipes are still too complicated to follow and I prefer the practicality of Alton Brown or Sara Moulton to any of the gonzo exotica dishes of Iron Chef.

So, what is it that makes me want to cook in Deutschland and not at home? Familiarity and friendships, plain and simple. At home I usually know exactly what is good to eat and I trust my "instincts" cultivated by my experiences in the United States. I know the 'cultural model' of dining out in the States like the back of my hand. Chain restaurants provide consistency, but with moderate quality and taste. Specialty restaurants that are family owned can be surprisingly delicious like Ruan Thai back home. There is nothing quite like their Pad Kee Mao or Green Curry with tofu. All their food seems to have a sweet taste of heaven that can't be imitated. I know everyone by name and a few are good friends. That type of relationship doesn't happen overnight or within a year of living in a foreign country. Dining out is a social occasion, where you sit back and enjoy another person's company. On the contrary, cooking at home for one is solitary and often reflective. It takes time to settle and find one's roots. Unfortunately, I've never had the time to find my roots here. Maybe when I move here with my husband at the end of the year, we'll grow strong roots together and I'll stop cooking (at least fo awhile) and get out and taste the world.

Mauerspaziergang- Walk along the Wall 29.05.07

2007-05-29T07:26:00.000-06:00

The rain kept coming down today. The clouds refused to stay away. This was Mauerspaziergang day. Heavy clouds looming overhead filled my heart with so much dread. A house divided can not stand, a wise man once said. Capricious and fickle, they waved the hammer and sickle. The other two flew, and of course, the red, white and blue. Mr. Hollywood came from afar and remarked that "Every man is a Berliner, forced to look upon a scar.” Ist es doch wahr? Walls made of concrete in tight physical spaces intruded onto private mental spaces. A totalitarian force obscured people's faces. Political aggression or moral transgression?"If you seek liberalization: Come here to this gate! Open this gate!"

SEE THE RING 28.05.07

2007-05-28T11:06:00.000-06:00

Karneval der Kulturen 27.05.07

2007-05-28T11:04:00.000-06:00

The rain seemed to hold back its fury, at least for awhile, as this year's Karneval der Kulturen 'culture carnival' in Berlin began. Turkish pop music blared out of a corner store, as a man selling Turkish fast food shouts, “Bitte schön, lecker, lecker, lecker! Ein Döner ein Euro. Bitte schön, lecker, lecker, lecker!” The heavy humid filled air carries the smell of multi- cultural cuisine throughout the bustling international crowd. Falafels, bratwurst, baklava all melt together as giggling children dance around the sidewalk eating wads of cotton candy. A cacophony of foreign tongues shouts, laughs, haggles, and scolds young children. CRASH!! A young boy breaks a bottle on the steps of a convenience store; a woman furiously mutters something in Turkish and begins clearing away the debris. The tempo changes as the parade begins. The crowd watches a group of young and agile people dressed in white loose clothing sway with the rhythm of African drumbeats and kick and play fight in the Afro- Brazilian art of Capoeira. Beyond the festive atmosphere, political expression is current and raw. “Kein Mensch ist illegal,” was a leitmotif carried throughout the parade. Masquerading asylum seekers chasing after the“visum,” while the "polizei" chased after them, made it clear that all was not well within Germany for the nearly 800,000 refugees and asylum seekers. Two large plastic and metal figures sculpted in the image of people with only "temporary protection" stroll through the street. Hollow and nearly invisible, those with "temporary protection" are without any guarantee of permanent asylum. Away from the pulsating rhythm of diversity and integration is the challenging future of Germany's diverse population.