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.

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 roommate 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

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

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.

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

"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.  

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!

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!