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!

Supernatural

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?

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

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

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 . . .

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

“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

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“

or

‘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

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

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

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

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.