Delirium or da larium?

Life’s a beach

2005-03-22T11:59:00.000-05:00

Monrovia lies on the coast, beside mile upon mile of golden beach. Majestic Atlantic waves wash in from the Carribean and South America, breaking powerfully on the African shore.

They are tantalizingly close, but brace yourself for the sad news: there’s cholera, typhoid and hep B in them there waters! The Monrovian sewage system was built in the 1960s. It was designed to service just over 100,000 people. It has been poorly maintained and is stretched beyond breaking point, as more than a million people now live in the Monrovia area.

When nature calls, most Monrovians head to the beach. So be warned. If you set off for a romantic sunset walk along the beach, you are likely to spy silhouette after silhouette of squatting Monrovian. On their haunches, hands out front for balance. Backside to the city, eyes on the sea. As the sun sets gloriously over a foaming surf...

“God willing, I will be back”

2005-03-21T11:54:00.000-05:00

I spied these words the other day on the back of a battered cab.

To the uninitiated, the phrase evokes Arnie "Call me Governor" Schwarzenneger’s infamous line in The Terminator, with a pinch of faith-based salt thrown in for a twist.These words were in fact spoken by former Liberian President Charles Taylor in his final address to the nation before going into exile in Nigeria.

If you want to see the man himself speak those words and you have a hankering to bid him good riddance as he boards the plane, get hold of a copy of the spellbinding documentary Liberia: an Uncivil War. But don’t watch it with your 6-year old niece, as it contains some gruesome scenes.

I’m going to make this entry a running list of the many and varied hand-painted Monrovian cab slogans. The entry’s title will be the last slogan I have encountered. So here goes:

"God willing, I will be back"
"No time to waist"
"No more jungle justice"
"My living should not be your concern"
"International legal hustler"
"Man suffer woman enjoy"
"Father, into your hands I commit this vehicle"
"No food for lazy man"
"Thy will be done"
"No matter your condition"
"Joyous heart"
"Don’t mind what they say"
"Jesus is the answer"
"Self-confidence makes a man"
"God’s precious gift"
"Chicken foot"

Street signs (Entry # 9)

2005-03-07T16:22:00.000-05:00

Just the other day street signs started appearing in Monrovia's Sinkor neighborhood.
Brand spanking new shiny blue signs, mapping out Monrovia's Manhattan-like grid. Counting the metropolis all the way from 1 to 21.

All of a sudden some people discovered they didn't quite live where they thought they did.
2nd street became 4th street, 8th 7th and 16th 18th.
Which is the more accurate indicator ? The old local knowledge or these gleaming upstart proclamations? Like the stop and go signs, these new additions just seem to add to the confusion...

Learning to drive (Entry #8)

2005-03-03T18:22:00.000-05:00

There's never a dull moment when you're driving in Monrovia.

Cars move left to turn right, pedestrians dash in front of you, and pot-holes line the streets. Traffic flows in a steady stream. To get out onto the main road you just toot your horn, put your foot on the gas, and pray that the sea will part. Amazingly, it usually does!

At anemic zebra crossings policemen wield two identical red signs. One reads "Stop" and the other "Go". In a country with minimal literacy [see entry #1], the fine distinction is lost on most drivers. If a Liberian driver sees a policeman holding a red sign, they know they either have to go or stop. It's that simple?

Apart from the signs held by policemen, there's not a single traffic sign or light in Monrovia. Charles Taylor once installed a traffic light, but it was soon disconnected. It caused too many accidents.

Roll Call, take 2 (Entry #7)

2005-03-02T18:18:00.000-05:00

Freedom Fry's bit on the side got stuck on the crapper. That makes two of them. It's fry or be fried and he's about to sizzle. Rhino's still pacing, with a glint in his eye. He's more stomp than charge, but racism is his red flag. Red Bull is down but not out. If the tropical diseases don't kill him he'll be rookie of the year. Dingo went MIA for a while, but she returned with a wagging tail.

Chairwoman Mao has fled the scene. A wannabe Panchan replaced her, but larium sabotaged the reincarnation. Voices told him to take to the street, strip off his clothes, give his money away. And you thought I was being cute...

The Walrus is convinced that a witch-hunt's on the way. Congo's a twenty-first century Salem and Liberia's next. So there's to be no fraternizing with the locals and the curfew's getting longer. Apparently sex in Liberia is a nocturnal affair.

Drumroll, bigband music, curtains. It’s Muppet time. Miss Piggy’s coming and she’sdetermined to fling Kermit across the stage, with a triumphant "HIYYAH!"

Kermit’s hoping Animal and the Swedish Chef will keep her at bay. Will a blur ofgreen flash across the screen? Stay tuned for the post-mortem from the old geezersin the booth.

The Victory March (Entry #6)

2005-01-11T16:44:00.000-05:00

You can’t miss him. He walks Monrovia. All day, every day. Along the line in the middle of the road.

He ventures forth like a sacred cow. Unflustered by the cars, trucks and vans that bustle around him. Honking, swerving, cursing.

His face is calm, his smile serene. His thick dreadlocks are growing out, but not down. They are yet to succumb to gravity. His shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a toned, athletic torso. His eyes are focused on a rapturous event in some other time. Every now and then he raises his hand. Acknowledging an adoring crowd in a parallel universe.

He is perhaps the only person in this whole town who looks content.

I’m told he was a LURD warrior. A footsoldier in the 2003 advance on Monrovia.

What a day it must have been. Embracing your enemy in the middle of the bridge, before crossing into the city center. Was he one of the first to cross?

Tomorrow, as yesterday, he will march on. Along the line in the middle of the road. Into a glorious past or a bountiful future?

Delirium or da larium? You be the judge.

Elections Liberian style (Entry #5)

2005-01-04T15:04:00.000-05:00

2005 will be a fascinating year in Liberia. Elections are scheduled for October, but they may be postponed.

The reasons for delaying include:

1. October is the wet season.

2. With 40+ potential candidates the presidential field will take some time to whittle to a manageable number.

3. The fear that Liberian civil society is not sufficiently established to prevent the emergence of yet another Liberian strongman to plunge the country back into conflict.

The reasons for proceeding according to schedule include:

1. In Liberia it is the wet season nearly all year long.

2. With 40+ potential candidates we need the pressure of an approaching October date to whittle the presidential field to a manageable number.

3. The fear that if elections are not held soon yet another Liberian strongman may emerge to plunge the country back into conflict.

The presidential field includes diplomats, warlords and soccer stars, and the cast of political parties reads like the screenplay for Monty Python’s Life of Brian.
Just substitute “Liberia” and “Liberian” for “Judea” and “Judean”:

-Liberian People’s Party

-Liberia Unification Party

-Liberia Action Party

-National Democratic Party of Liberia

-People’s Democratic Party of Liberia

-Progressive People’s Party

-United People’s Party

Intrigued? We’ve only just begun...

Delirium or da larium? You be the judge.

Bath in a bucket (Entry # 4)

2004-12-20T07:53:00.000-05:00

Today I saw a little girl on the side of the road. Bathing. There was hustle and bustle all around. People running and jumping and gesturing. Walking, talking, posturing. Behind her were makeshift stalls selling two or three items apiece. In front of her the traffic was gridlock thick. But she was oblivious. She had a grubby old bucket and sponge, she was butt naked and she was scrubbing herself down with soap. It was 3.00 pm.

Spot the contrast. Naked black Liberian girl scrubbing filth from her chest and legs. Europeans in shiny white SUVs, flicking lint from their linen shirts. Ramshackle shanty towns of woven palm leaves and rusted corrugated iron. Obscenely extravagant Presidential Residential Executive Mansion. A people in desperate need, lacking water, electricity, sewers, schools, jobs. A Transitional Government gaining a less-than-transitional taste for power, opulence and graft. An international community here to help Liberians. Paying rent to Lebanese landlords, buying groceries from Lebanese supermarkets, eating at Lebanese restaurants.

Delirium or da larium? You be the judge.

Roll the Credits & Road Rule 1 (Entry #3)

2004-12-13T14:44:00.000-05:00

The early settlers have been here since just after Taylor went into exile. They speak nostalgically of the days when they slept 20 to a container and the roads were empty. A number wear well-cultivated dismissive sneers. Your questions are irritatingly naïve.

Freedom fry is the real deal. A straight-shooting shock jock. Rhino is sharp and shrewd and he won't stop pacing. Red Bull is all heart, but he'll buck like the Dickens if you get up his nose. Dingo is too sweet to steal babies. Lagos loves to laugh. Sarajevo has worked many other hotspots and does not tolerate fools. Steel drum is so laid back he's horizontal. Banjul is gentle but firm, with a twinkle in his eye. Chairwoman Mao is guarded, but generous when engaged. Confederate is abundantly friendly and well-connected. Moonshine is dark, broody and rough around the edges. Idaho is super earnest with a huge smile. The quiet American! And then of course there's Beanpole.

When you're on the road you're supposed to do whatever it takes to stay safe. If you hit someone, you may have to keep driving.

But I heard a story about someone who didn't…

Beanpole was driving back to Monrovia after a hard day's work. He had a car full of people and darkness was descending. The traffic began to get thicker as he made his way through a crowded market area. Then the road cleared and he began to speed up. But something came at the side of his car from nowhere. He felt the rear tire lift slightly as it navigated a bump.

He screeched to a halt. What the hell was that?

In unison his backseat yelled "KEEP DRIVING!"

Beanpole leapt from the car and ran back to where a little girl was sprawled on the road. She was grabbing at her leg and she was screaming and she can't have been more than seven years old. A man was at her side trying to help her stand. Back at the market a crowd of people was massing. No time to think.

Beanpole swept the girl up in his arms. She was howling with pain and shaking with fear. He placed her in the back seat of the car and motioned to the man to get in. As he slammed their door he could see the market crowd charging towards him. He jumped behind the wheel, revved the crap out of the engine and got the hell out of there. Just in the nick of time.

Beanpole hot-footed it to the nearest hospital. But the doctor wouldn't see the girl. He wanted a big fat bribe from the tall lanky foreigner. So Beanpole drove across town to another hospital. Finally the girl was treated. She had a broken leg and she's going to be ok.

Delirium or da larium? You be the judge.

Places and people (Entry #2)

2004-12-10T13:26:00.000-05:00

Monrovia is a sprawling city with a deceptive veneer of normality. Believe it or not, commerce lines the streets. Stands and stalls, booths and huts, selling fruit, soda, phone scratch-cards and clothes. Painted billboards advertise cell-phones, milk and money transfers. Placards plug causes. "Stop bribery in our schools", "Fight HIV – be aware."

Put your sunglasses on. It's a blinding feast for the eyes. The people are gorgeous deep shades of dark and milk chocolate. Men, women, youths, kids, babies. Most wear western clothing – t-shirts and jeans, flip-flops and sneakers. Some wear flowing African colors. Greens and yellows and purples and browns, with head-coverings to match. School kids rush past in bright white shirts and royal blue pants, clutching UNICEF note-pads. A young boy pulls a match-box car along the side of the road with a fraying string. Mothers and sisters move rhythmically behind him in a sleepy, giraffe-like canter. They carry their load on their heads, balanced perfectly with the aid of a tiny bean-bag. A tub of fruit or a sack of rice, a bundle of newspapers or a crate of bread rolls. All for sale at the market. A father grabs his 2-year old daughter by the upper arm and winches her across a steady stream of busy traffic. And there are babies everywhere with thick frizzy curls, bundled snugly in a sling around their mother's lower back. One of them is fast asleep. Her head hangs so far back that if she opened her eyes she'd be staring at the ground.

Drivers are impatient, but there's surprisingly little noise. Vehicles in all manner of disrepair roam the streets. Most are overburdened with human cargo, spluttering thick black plumes as they struggle around potholes. The people are jam-packed inside and out. If they were animals this would be the slaughter-house express. Vans with back doors often have three or four people perched on the rear bumper, craning their necks to grab hold of something inside. Whatever it takes to stay aboard.

Many of the cars have hand-painted names or slogans:

"Father, into your hands I commit this vehicle"
"No food for lazy man"
"Thy will be done"
"No matter your condition"
"Joyous heart"
"Don't mind what they say"
"Jesus is the answer"
"Expensive boy"
"God's precious gift"
"Self-confidence makes a man"
"Vote for Jesus"
"Chicken foot"

The markets are full of color, goods, bodies and squalor. I'd love to get out and explore, but I'm full of indoctrinated paranoia.

"Don't go here"
"Don't go there"
"Beware of this"
"Forget about that"

If you want the details, they come thick and fast.

"An American was shot in his hotel room last month"
"A Brit died of malaria last week"
"A policeman was robbed at knife-point this morning"

So I'll fight the market wanderlust and stay within my cotton-wool bubble. At least for now. I'll slather on bug repellent, brush my teeth in bottled water and make sure I'm home by dark. My imagination swims with the faces and families of the policeman mugged at knife-point, the Brit expiring in a torrent of malaria-induced sweat, the American dead in his hotel bed.

And to add spice to the mix I also have fresh memories of sights even my vivid imagination could not conjure. Horrendous thrushes of venereal disease in full coral splendor. Just before lunchtime they showed us gruesome slide after gruesome slide. I didn't eat 'til breakfast. In case you didn't know, "AIDS is a time-bomb" and "If you have sex at anytime, with anyone, then you're playing with fire".

But it doesn't take long for someone to tell me that foreigners can sleep with any Liberian they want. All it takes is cash ...

Delirium or da larium? You be the judge.

Delirium or da larium?

2004-11-29T18:19:00.000-05:00

Entry #1: Monrovia

It’s three o'clock on a Sunday afternoon. My first in Liberia. I’m at a window with a river view. A luxury house with luxury expatriates in a luxury compound. Came home my second night to pressed clothes and a three-course meal. Setting aside the bars in the windows, I could be in any Caribbean or South Pacific resort. I’m four days off the plane but I’ve seen enough to know that much of the beauty is skin-deep.

Sixteen months ago this country was in white-hot conflict. Rebels were closing on the capital. It was Liberian child soldier against Liberian child soldier. Kids and teenagers at either end of the bridge, firing at each other from the fearless fog of a macabre contemporary war-dance. It was bananas in pyjamas meets gangsta-rap and hip-hop jive, to the steady beat of AK-47s.

Now the international community is back, with a cast of wide-eyed idealists, cynical old-timers and savvy elites. I’m one of them now, but I know not where I’ll fit. I’m a work awaiting progress.

The flight here seemed to last forever … and at times I wished it would. My mind was in overdrive, frenetically processing the immediate past and frantically anticipating the near-future. Farewells are horrible, even though there should be a reunion before long. Come soon my broccoli babe.

A bit of anxiety is probably natural when you’re heading somewhere like Liberia. A place where parasites and people have killed with impunity for generations. A place where a president once came to power by disembowelling his predecessor and executing most of the government cabinet on a resort beach. A place where the life expectancy is barely 40 years, 50% of the population are children and only 25% of females are literate. A place that gets 200 inches of rain a year. A place that does not even feature on the current Human Development Index – its aspiration is simply to appear on that list sometime soon. But my anxiety unnerves me. I’m fit and relatively young and I’m heading off to do something I want to do. I’m exhausted and I should be sleeping deeply. I don’t feel myself. Is it delirium or is it da larium?

On the plane from Europe to Africa a spectacular kaleidoscope of landscapes sparkled beneath me. Varied shades and hues of jagged and craggy then soft and sandy desert and coast swept by. Followed eventually by an undulating carpet of West-African dense green. As we homed in on Monrovia, flotillas of multi-layered ice-berg clouds floated past. Then we were through the clouds and fast approaching a small strip of grey. I thirstily gulped down every image. Roads, dwellings, people, bushes, birds.

Before I know it I’m on the tarmac in a heavy, humid stew. Bye bye aircon, hello beaded brow and clammy palms. People are waving me to the one modest building that is not a dilapidated shell awaiting reconstruction. It’s all I can do to put one foot in front of the other. I’m banking on my Brooklyn borough smarts to emanate “unflustered”, but I’m fooling no one. My spasming fingers hand my documents to a weary official. Soon I’m through the check-point and a new friend is carrying my bags to the parking lot. I’m relieved but perplexed. Where is he taking me? Have we got everything? What does he expect from me?

I’m the first to reach the bus for people like me and I’m a sore thumb forlornly craving ice. A steady stream of sweat fills the reservoir in the small of my back. Where a moment ago I had one friend, now I have dozens. Armstrong is the most persistent and I try to maintain a friendly conversation. I soon learn that Armstrong’s father died recently and business has been tough. I’m green and I’ve left my subway savoir-faire in New York City. I smile, mumble some inept platitude and retire to the air-conditioned comfort of the bus.

Finally the bus moves off, but we’ve driven barely a few hundred metres into the darkening dusk before the driver stops and asks if it’s ok for him to pray. Of course it is. I’m in an open bus on the side of a rural Liberian road, with the surly airport official who had stamped my passport. I’m desperately thinking of questions to ask, but all the possibilities seem mundane or inane. I have to say something. So I open with “I hear the dry season’s begun”. Raised eyebrows are her response. Before I can repeat my statement there’s a clap of thunder and the heavens open…

Delirium or da larium? You be the judge.