we met a Pakistani on the way to the beach

Yesterday Isaac, the driver supervisor from work, and I made plans for me to practice driving.

I was pleased that driving a stick shift is a skill not forgotten since it's been a few decades for me. So, I drove on some quiet dirt roads, usually resisting the impulse to tear through there and take advantage of the 4-wheel drive. The truth is, he drove most of the way, and I was fine with that. I'll get traffic practice soon enough.




We went out to Bushrod Island, which is where a lot of people live in a variety of communities (Vai Town, Clara Town, etc.). Many people whom I know live out there. There used to be two bridges but one is faulty and the Chinese are rebuilding it. But with just the one bridge and so many people, there's tremendous congestion. The stop and go traffic is really bad throughout most of Monrovia most of the time, but as people were preparing for the holiday weekend it was probably even worse.

We went to Hotel Africa, which was Liberia's only 4-star hotel. Here's what it looks like now:


It was destroyed when the war first started in 1990, and has been squatted and vandalized since. A phone company used to have a tower on it and have security, but even they have left. It's really sad to see the destruction, and you can see how beautiful it used to be, as the gorgeous flowering trees survive through the weeds. But mostly, it's just horrible. As much as I hear and see and read and learn about the war, the horror never ceases to viscerally impact me.

The villas and surrounding land of Hotel Africa are now an UNMIL base for a Pakistani contingent. We approached the gate and asked if we could come in (this was Isaac's brilliant idea) but were denied entry because we lack UN documents (which, of course we do: we are not with the United Nations). The guards were nice though and suggested we park our car right there to avoid vandalism while we traipsed around the Hotel outside their perimeter. When we came back to the car, the guard said, "Oh, the Major wants you to come in." It suddenly became a very big deal that we enter the compound because their top officer had been informed of us. (Thank goodness Isaac understood what the guys were saying because I was lost and confused.)


Truth be told, I was a little leery, but some guy hopped in the back of our car and we drove through, enjoying the view of the villas. And let me just say: those Pakistani UNMIL guys keep a very clean ship. The grounds look fabulous, orderly ... and there's even a cricket field now. We reached the Mess Hall and the Major pulled up in his vehicle and our guide disappeared. He showed us around there (again, super clean and orderly - and I was quite surprised to see a cat lounging in the hallway, demanding attention). The view of the river was phenomenal and it was soooo quiet and peaceful. He invited us to dinner but Isaac insisted we move on to the beach, so we exchanged telephone numbers and promised to stay in touch - Major says they have functions there and he'll invite us. I'd be there in a heartbeat, between that incredible Pakistani hospitality and the environment. And it quickly became clear: Major is lonely and he wanted company. He apologized that we were denied entry, "Please understand that many Americans are very negative about Pakistan, and so we are very careful." Apparently when I first spoke to the guards I mentioned having Pakistani friends, and that's what led to the complete change of heart. (Actually, I was talking about how awesome Pakistani food is, but it worked.)

(Standing, talking, and suddenly fresh fruit juice appears like magic!)
GLORIOUS PAKISTAN!

As we left UNMIL, we headed out to Cece's Beach. No, not Obama's beach. :)



The beach was awesome. Truly awesome. We walked on the beach, crashing waves to one side, palm trees to the other. Isaac pointed out the city, we watched men fishing. We came back to cabanas and watched the sun go down with beers in our hands.






Regretfully we left, braving the horrific traffic. We saw the secretary of our office who asked where we'd gone and then pointed at me laughing, "I like this one! She loves the good life!"

True that.

It was a very good day.

how these things work

I had to go to a work function yesterday. At one point a large white man spoke, and the German intern and I looked at each other and said, "Who is that?" We had no idea, and it was not made clear.

When lunch was served, the man made a beeline to me. "You look so familiar to me. Have we met? Where are you from?" he asked. We chatted a little, it was clear we hadn't met before but we would meet again.

He looked at my pendant. I rarely wear necklaces as they make me feel like I'm being garotted, but my friend Felicia gave me some fleur de lis necklaces that I do wear on occasion. For the first time since arriving in Liberia, I had put one on as an afterthought that morning.

"Are you a Saints fan?" he asked.
"Of course." No need to go into details with him about how I despise American football as a whole, but New Orleans has utterly captured my heart, even its football.

"They won last night. Did you watch the game?"
"No, I didn't see it on my TV. But many of my Facebook friends were posting throughout, so I felt like I was."

"It was on Armed Forces TV."
"Oh, I don't have that."
"Me neither. I called my buddies to find somebody to watch it with." "Oh, that's smart. I'll have to do that."

"Maybe next time, I'll give you a call?"
"Sure, that would be great." I miss the camaraderie of watching a Saints game with friends - and while hanging out with expats isn't my favorite thing in the world, they do serve good snacks.

So then I started asking around about who he is and who he works for. Piecing together bits of information: think Halliburton running the legal system of a third world country. It's murky, he's likely involved in top-secret clearance stuff, keeps a low profile.

He also likely makes huge money. If I'm going to be a mercenary, I might as well get loaded.

My higher-ups want closer connections with him/them - they have loads of money and power. But I'm more ... personal in my wishes. If I build social capital with him and his fellows, it will not likely be used to advance my workplace. But if I could get in good with them, I might have career possibilities - if they have enough prestige to overcome my youthful indiscretions which currently prevent me from getting employment with the U.S. Government or any kind of clearance.

Will he really call? I don't know. Will I be able to work anything from this random moment? I don't know. Would I be willing to dig myself in with murky forces of questionable morality? Probably. Taking things head-on as I am now, it's not the way to get things done here. While I've met many highly intelligent Liberians, none of them works where I am. They toss ridiculous impediments in the road and I spend too much energy and time avoiding the obstacles. I need to strategize the avoidance better, but it's a different set of skills - it's being a bulldozer but demanding adoration. To bulldoze, I need more power. My position grants me far less than I expected, so I'm really on my own.

Meeting the former Justice/AG/Minister of Justice - I will work that however I can. But it's not enough. I need to capture the random moments - and put myself out in places where they can occur - and use them to my advantage. Otherwise, I'll spend the next 8 months in an office redoing power points listening to not very intelligent rants. Something more needs to come of this all.

twilight zone

I just got call from a co-worker who sounded angry when he said, "You came back to Monrovia and we stayed in Gbarnga and you didn't call!"

Um, you called me at 8 pm on Sunday. "Um, won't we see each other at work tomorrow?" "I hope so!" he said.

What?

Really, what is this?

I know he likes to chit-chat on the phone: he's extremely sociable. He's fun to hang out with because he's funny, chatty, outgoing, super friendly with everybody.

But so why is he calling me? How did he even get my number?

Being in Gbarnga was fine, but when the driver and I saw each other across the crowded parking lot, I almost rushed into his arms. OK, we did rush towards each other, but stopped with a handshake. I was happy to come back to Monrovia. It's crazy and dirty and crowded and chaotic and smelly ... but it feels like home.

And we drove away, and the Executive Director and Administrative Assistant rushed out of the hall to wave goodbye. Really. Like my aunt and uncle used to do when we were driving away to catch a plane to not see them again for another two years. Our little faces would peer out the back of the station wagon and wave until we couldn't see anymore (yeah yeah, no seat belts. Sue my parents). They were like that - they came out to wave and then they went inside. Not just a casual nod.

There's this fantastic writer about anthropology and qualitative analysis ... his name will come to me. But we read this article about when he was in India and somebody packed him a lunch and included a piece of charcoal. And that made absolutely no sense to him, and he had to dig into spoken and unconscious culture to get to the reason. (Was it Michael Agar?)

These two work things: the phone call and the happy waving, they don't really make sense to me. At all. I'm coming up with numerous theories, and I'll test them and retheorize and retest those.

There about many things I love about Liberians, and one is that I'm never alone. Not really. Is this a manifestation of that?

And how forgiving are they when I don't conform?

And do they really like me, or do they go through motions like this? And if they do really like me, why?

I may be socially awkward, but I'm also trained as an anthropologist. Perplexing, this all. Like when we were at the restaurant today - why didn't she hand the baby to me? She started to, I started to instinctively put out my arms. Then she went straight for the young man at my side. I'm not offended at all - I just find it curious. And why do they have advertised that they serve goat soup and dumboy every day? Do they (every day that isn't Sunday)? And why? Those aren't the most common foods here - but they're ones I'm seeking. Are the people from the country? How good is their food? Oh, I hope it's really good and really cheap, because it's near me and I'd love to be a regular.

No worries, I'm not always lost in my head about these kinds of things. But given a moment to pull back and reflect ... fascinating.

daily special: baby girls

My boss gave my contact info to a young fellow living next-door to me, so today we tried to go out to lunch. [Note to self: Monrovia is completely shut down on Sundays. No food.]

We went into a place nearby called The Green House and I asked if there was food? Yes, yes, they said. Where to sit? Family was everywhere. A woman stood up and said, "Just a minute." She was holding a newborn baby (less than a week old) and just handed it to the fellow with me and then moved some chairs around to accommodate us.

This 28-year-old Englishman had never held a baby before. Never. Nowhere.

Avoiding the conversation about how incredibly bizarre that is to me that he's NEVER held a baby before (and about the wealth and privilege that likely denotes), I just have to point out how cool it is that the woman just handed her niece off to an awkward stranger. "Sing to her," she said. "Um, I don't know any songs." OK, the dude's just playing helpless now - everybody know songs! "Jiggle her a little," I said, and he started doing abrupt deep knee bends. "Um, smaller."

During this time a 2-year-old had caught my eye and we were having fun conversation. She has sooooo much personality and I can see she'll be a handful for the adults in her life. Super cute and smart.

They were not, it turns out, actually serving food. Just beer. And babies.

We'll be back. Soon.

[ETA: We traipsed all around Monrovia and finally found a place open which is Lebanese and I got the falafel. It tasted quite lovely but immediately affected my digestive tract. The rule is: Liberian food, no problem except when I eat too much and feel to full. Other countries' food (hamburger, pizza, chicken, falafel), count on intestinal upset. I think the spicy hot Liberian food victors over whatever makes my stomach queasy.]

negotiations

I had a miraculously successful shopping expedition today. I found everything on my list, from strainer to shelfliner paper to an exercise bike for a reasonable price (and red!).

Most goods here are unreasonably expensive and I have no idea how everyday Liberians can afford them. The shelfpaper was $20 for what would be maybe $6 back home (it's a big roll, but still!). I looked at the shopgirl and said, "How much? In U.S. dollars?"

This shopgirl was awesome - she was super helpful and understood my descriptions of everything I was looking for. And then she looked at me and gestured for me to move closer and whispered, "Negotiate with him," pointing toward the owner, a hefty Lebanese man. And so I did. And he happily made a deal because he got to tell me I was pretty and smiling, and he told stories of when his father was a shopkeeper of women's clothes, and then his wife came in and she rolled her eyes at her husband and we passed understanding as well.

I still paid too much, but it's highly doubtful I'd find it anywhere else, much less for cheaper.

Then I went to look at a store where I'd been told there are exercise bikes for sale. I saw one that caught my eye - the only one in my price range, and it's RED! I tried it out and while it's not perfect it should work ok for me to burn off frustration while watching TV. And the owner (or maybe a worker, I don't know) came to give me the hardsell but I was already sold and so I asked questions about how many more in stock, their hours on Monday when I can get transportation, etc. "So, it's $250?" I asked. "Yes, but come see me and we'll talk about that ..."

OK. What does that mean, though? How much can I talk him down? What's the best strategy?

My go-to person on these kinds of questions is Isaac (driver supervisor at work), who will likely help me on Monday, but he's not a good negotiator. "What's your lowest price?" he asks. Rarely does anybody budge much for him - it seems that he takes the sport out of it.

In Liberia there's an assumption that expats pay considerably more than locals. I benefit from that assumption, as my salary is multifold more than locals' (and that higher pay is also a result of the assumption that I cannot live with inconveniences - and it's also hazard pay, as serious illness is mandatory in this part of the world).

And while I may pay more sometimes, the truth is that I can afford it. I'm not talking about the scam that is expat housing - I mean like when a girl is selling plantains, I'm not going to negotiate the difference between 15 and 20 Liberian dollars (about 7 cents). I'm giving her 20 LD and don't want change. I'm happy paying 50 LD for a pineapple because that's still less than $1 USD.

The problem is that I don't want people assuming I'm doing this because I'm white - because I've been a poor person in this area before, when the small bits did matter. I can afford to be generous now and I want to be ... but I hate stereotypes as a result.

So maybe I'll offer $220 for the bike and see if he takes it. Maybe $200? I'm just so embarrassed to have a Liberian go with me to get it - it's an insane amount of money for something so unnecessary.

Nothing is simple in Liberia.

relatively speaking

I love it when people tell me how dangerous Liberia is. Oh, sure, I know it is. It could easily plunge into warfare again - a horribly brutal warfare that spared no innocents - though I seriously doubt that will happen so long as UNMIL is here (based upon the extremely intense earnestness of a Ukrainian policeman I just met - he was exhausting to be around, but I could easily see him single-handedly keeping peace in the entire country if that's what he had to do. He had the same single-minded focus of an action hero, no exaggeration).

And I don't make many foolish choices. I don't wander unknown areas after dark, I live with window bars and guards and next-door to the US Embassy. I try to walk not like a victim (though if in work heels, I do look down a LOT to avoid breaking my neck). I have pretty good instincts of avoiding danger - I have a hyper-attuned spidey sense of warning. I did just have money stolen from my unguarded purse at work, but while that annoys me I don't think it means that Liberia is unsafe - just that my work's security is a crock and that both my supervisor and I need to pay closer attention to our instincts (this theft happened during a meeting about how a computer was stolen ... and she and I both wanted to move our purses out of the unlocked room but didn't want to make a scene and so dismissed our instincts).

But I think that what makes me street-hardened is my time in New Orleans. I lived in a dangerous neighborhood of a dangerous city, and I loved it. Not because of the violence, but because of the REST of the reality there. I loved my neighbors, my apartment, the second lines, the food, the conversations - I loved it all, and I was unwilling to run away from it to be safe.

So when two expats and I went to a supermarket yesterday and a fight broke out, we had very different reactions. I saw the pre-fight drama outside the store and immediately assessed the situation and kept on walking. The fight moved inside a few minutes later and there was a whole bunch of shouting and threats of violence. My reaction was to glance the aisle to see if there was sufficient, effective intervention, and then to continue gazing at the ingredients of every cookie package (why is hydrogenated shortening the second ingredient in ALL of them?). The others, an American and a Romanian-Hungarian, got a little worked up. "What's going on? Who's going to slap who?" "Not me, so I didn't paying attention," I said. It didn't even register with me, as accustomed as I've become to regular threats and actual shootings, stabbings, etc.

New Orleans, you made me tough.

a recurring theme

A co-worker came into my office. We'd never exchanged much more than hellos before, but he came for the water cooler (our office is the watering hole).

"So," he said, leaning back and looking at me, "Are you sure you're white? Front and back?"

He had to repeat it several times and then I finally got it.

"Yep, because you sure look African to me!" he said, with a wicked smile.

Oh soul.

It's one thing when random strangers comment about the junk in my trunk. But co-workers? That's sleazy.

The thing about Liberian men though is that rarely do they make me uncomfortable with the attention - they're pretty good with the "no means no" thing. He did make me laugh, and maybe feel a little flattered, but that will be the end of it. If it comes up again, I'll shut it down.

It just is funny that the standard of beauty is so random. In the U.S. in most communities I'd just be considered fat, that's all. Here, there's a wide range of women's builds, and I just don't think there so much pressure to conform. I could be wrong - one of my Liberian friends in her 60's says she's struggled with her weight and I think she was hinting at an eating disorder or self-esteem issue. She made a point of how it's different for her than for me or others - I need to explore her thinking on that more.

Anyway, I don't think anybody is telling me I have to slim down, though I am going to go see if I can find an exercise bike today (I heard of a store within walking distance). It will be good for when I get home too late to go for a walk, and I have plenty of space for it and a TV to watch. I think that my body is a symbol of wealth and prosperity: I'm clearly not starving. I also propel my bulk at high speed for Liberians - I do not walk, I stride, and I cannot tell you how many Liberians have commented on that. Was recently told I'm "vibrant." In the U.S., fat = unhealthy, but how inaccurate that is on a very regular basis.

Anyway, these African hips and I will keep on moving forward.

all the legalities

Yesterday was a big day for me, documentarily speaking. After getting back from Gbarnga, I suggested to Isaac (the driver supervisor) that we get my drivers license (we because he knows some ... shortcuts in the system).

So yesterday morning we headed off to the Ministry of Transport. Getting a drivers license here is a complicated process that involves numerous stops and requirements that cannot be fulfilled (such as driving exam requirement, but no possibility of such - no examiner, no car, etc.). I don't feel bad skipping those steps because I am licensed in the U.S., and most jurisdictions honor that the requirements have been met elsewhere. I do feel icky about the "extra" I had to pay. I hate bribery and corruption, and it doesn't make me feel better to meet the people and believe they are nice and this will go to feed their families. Nor does it make me feel better to be told repeatedly that there is no other way.

But, all that to the side: I have a drivers license now! When I have some time we'll take out a work car and get me some driving experience here: and then I will buy my own car.

Speaking of buying my own car ... I haven't been able to open a bank account (and therefore couldn't get money wired to me) because I didn't have my passport - but I got it back yesterday with a residence visa. I'm here legally!

It was a very convoluted process and I don't even want to know about the bribes paid. The secretary took care of it, but it took a long damn time. So, yesterday a co-worker picked me up from work to get drinks, and he'd been given my passport (through about 4 sets of hands). We said something about Sarah Palin and he said, "Oh, yes, that reminds me. Here's your passport, Sarah Palin."

Um, what?

I understand he's Romanian/Hungarian, and that there's a connection to be made between to Americans, much less two Alaskans. But DON'T CALL ME SARAH PALIN.

Anyway, a productive day. And now I'll spend my weekend editing books, which is NOT so pleasant.

call me Korto and other Liberian linguistics

I received a Liberian name tonight: Korto. They told me it means strong, go-getter. It came about from the comment about my Liberian hips, and they laughed and said I must be from Lofa (where the women have the best asses ... how do I know these things?), and Korto also means the kind of woman that men fight over. I said I didn't like that part - I want to be the fighter, and I hate men fighting over me.

Today I said I only catch about 15% of what people are saying. That's not really true - I just often don't care enough to keep listening, especially when they're telling and retelling goofy inside jokes. People talk a LOT, which is endearing but also annoying when it takes so much energy for me to comprehend. Sometimes quiet is not a bad thing. I just about ripped the head off the driver yesterday because he would just NOT STOP TALKING and repeating himself. I'm not saying at all that there's anything negative about Liberian talkativeness - just that I'm old and crotchety.

One of the stories that I've heard about five times today is a misunderstanding because "plantains" and "panties" sound about the same in Liberian English. People talk fast and they leave out most of the word. Sometimes I have no idea how they understand each other because it sounds like nothingness to me. If they take time to speak directly to me, I usually understand - but talking amongst themselves, I'm lost if I don't catch the key terms. I can figure out what they mean contextually usually, it's just the pronunciation that's so damn rough. Plus my bad hearing doesn't help - truth is, I don't understand a lot of what's said when people are speaking American English that I was raised with. The sounds are blurred and indistinguishable, and I rely heavily on reading lips. A doctor years back when I got a physical for teaching said I have significant hearing loss in one ear and minor in the other but that was the end of the conversation - and my hearing is considerably worse now. I'm not really ready to try to get hearing aids because I'm not even sure it would help, and I've just learned to compensate by knowing that I won't understand everything said/happening around me.

But take that inability to distinguish sounds and throw it in a heavily accented pidgin and ... frankly I just zone out a lot. I'm like a dog who hears "bone" "walk" "bath" "cookie" - and the rest is Charlie Brown teacher talk.

Anyway, we're in Gbarnga. I have yet to see anything here that makes it special to me - it's a nice enough town but I don't feel the need to have a summer home here. We're having a training workshops for magistrates and ... I'm shy. I need to step up and let my charming show, but frankly I'm kinda tired from not sleeping well, and kinda grumpy, and I know I won't remember names and details so I just pull off to the side and edit the damn books that we're trying to finish. Seriously, I've interacted with almost nobody besides my co-workers. And I feel dreadfully underdressed - all the men are in full suits, all the women in beautiful Liberian dresses. I need to get me some dresses in Liberian style because all the clothes I have make me feel woefully underdressed and self-conscious. And apparently, with my hips I can pull it off.

*****
On that last point - I just got this email from an expat mailing list I'm on: "Dress For Success has contacted me through my church looking for an
organization to donate women's suits to. If you are interested,
please contact me via email."

Um, what? Dress for Success, which seems to be a valuable organization in the U.S. and I applaud its efforts, wants to clothe women in a country with the most beautiful dresses ANYWHERE? Um, really?

Look, nice gesture, but here's the deal. There are many women in the U.S. who are in poverty and need help with their wardrobe to help get and keep a job. Women in the Liberia, however, don't wear western-style suits. Younger women wear jeans and other casual wear, but if you want to look professional, you dress Liberian. Some who've lived much in the U.S. have their clothes from there, but that goes to my next point: there's a huge issue with illiteracy and employability of women here. They don't need a suit to sell at the market or be a housekeeper, and the people who are applying for the jobs that require dressing up, well, they're not in need of donated suits.

My point is ultimately: meaning well is not enough to be of value.

hips don't lie

I walked into work carrying my luggage (we took off today and are in the north of Liberia for a training), the driver behind me.

"Did you hear what he said?" the driver asked.

"No." (Honestly, that's usual. I miss a lot, but mostly I ignore a lot. Most guys who talk to me after I've walked past, it's to hit on me or be too friendly or ask for money. I know I walk fast, but I'm not turning around.)

"He said, 'Oh! I've never seen an American with Liberian hips!'"

to a random Liberian

Today I was chatting with the security guard at my new apartment and he asked what NGO I work for and what we do. He seemed rather uninterested in my answer and said, "What we need is more jobs! We don't have jobs because it's after the war ... " Then he said the government & foreign donors should provide them. And then he complained about nepotism.

My thoughts (and response, though we were cut off) were:

1. Hey, have you heard about the economic issues ALL ACROSS THE WORLD? Record high unemployment in the U.S.? Are you aware that this is not only an issue for you?

2. I'm sorry the U.S. dropped bombs in Liberia and - oh, wait. It was Liberians who did all the warring (with some regional support). The U.S.'s hands are dirty all the damn time, but about this one? Take some responsibility. I remember arguing with other Liberians before, and they were insisting that American Marines should have come to keep peace in Liberia and then war wouldn't have gotten so bad. Um, I'm sorry - are all Liberians children? You cannot keep your own peace, but you want outsiders to take control, and then you will complain about all that? What?

3. I told him: "So, start a business and create jobs. Who is stopping you? I would be very happy to buy things at a Liberian's store, but instead my only shopping options are pretty much Lebanese. Even the President recently exhorted the Lebanese shopkeepers to make way for Liberian shops, but, um, hello? Get a good business together and people will come. Really. But don't ask the business class to step aside.

4. He said once UNMIL leaves, Liberians fear war will break out. Again: take some responsibility. If you're afraid, then DO SOMETHING. The peace needs to be LIBERIAN to last, not UN held.

5. You want foreign donors to create jobs because of nepotism in Liberian society? Um, well, have you noticed that outsiders are fucked up and dysfunctional too? Because we are! He was saying something about the US Embassy being built next-door and it should hire Liberians and I cut him off. "I have gone past there plenty and there are ALWAYS Liberians working there. My government is providing your fellow citizens jobs. Why are you criticizing that hiring?" Oh, because HE didn't get a plum job there.

So. I'm grumbly because of a headache and a stressful work environment (I need to lay the smackdown SOON on my workmates, but I need to set the stage first; and a foreign donor is forcing something to print before it's ready so I'm spending my weekend editing).

And mind you: I'm not saying all or even most Liberians have this worldview. But enough do to annoy me. You're not children. You are responsible for your own destiny.

Liberian handshake

Liberians like to shake hands - often at every greeting. They have a particular handshake that is a shake and then the middle finger of each person do a "snap." Done right, it's a loud, resounding SNAP! Sadly I do it not always perfectly, so sometimes I barely get a dull thud.

It's also a lingering handshake - if you try to rush it, the snap won't work right. Oftentimes you are talking while shaking, taking time for the nicety.

Today my supervisor came to ask if I could come to a meeting. I knew absolutely nothing about it. I showed up and met the man and shook his hand. I would not let go of his hand because there was no movement toward the snap. He was turned talking to somebody else, and I had a strong grip on him. Don't deny me my snap! I do this when meeting Americans and Europeans, too - I shake and linger, waiting for the snap. It's all so ungratifying without.

I watched this fellow throughout the meeting and realized very quickly: he's not Liberian. He looked Liberian and the accent might have been (though I think it was different): sure enough, he's from Sierra Leone. A neighboring country, brought into devastation by Liberia's tyrant and turmoil, but apparently a world apart.

having a moment

It was a good day. I've discovered the secret balance: the more time I spend with Liberians and the less time with expats, the better my day.

I had a lunch date with a friend of my best Liberian friend. While I miss Fred more and more each day that I am here, his friend LB helped take the edge off. And we had a really good time - he took me to a perfect place for me (Liberian and clean) and we shared our food with each other. Anybody who's ever dined with me knows that I have serious order regret and am sure that whatever the other person got is better than mine, so I try to avoid that with strangers so that I won't eat off their plates - and when he suggested he order cassava leaves and I order the palava (which was pretty nasty, BTW) to satisfy my indecision, he got in good with me. But my favorite part was that I'd throw out an idea and he'd actually put it in a good argument form. I'd say, "People here often think life is so easy in the U.S., but I think it's actually not." He'd say, "Yes, from what I've seen of my friends who have moved there, they have to always worry about the mortgage, not falling behind on debt, and those things. It's a constant stress that weighs them down and makes them less joyful than when they were here." Exactly!

You see, I keep having problems with the people I work with trying to tell me whatever they think I want to hear instead of standing up to me. It's exasperating as hell, but I think it comes from a culture of foreign donors: say whatever they want to hear so they give you money, then turn around and do whatever you want. (I let the driver supervisor have it today though for feeding me a line - and I think he fixed the problem. And when he drove me home later and took off his sunglasses, I realize I have a huge crush on the smile lines around his eyes.)

So it was awesome to spend lunch with LB, and though he warned me the first time he called that he's really busy with work, and he lives pretty far out of town, I hope we find time to hang out regularly.

I had several incidences of this sort of thing today, but the one I want to remember is getting lost. Somehow I took a turn from my new apartment (went to check in with the landlord to make sure it's ready to move in) to the behind-the-street action. There is a whole damn village there right between busy commercial streets. I just kept getting deeper and deeper into it, and I had huge flashbacks of the refugee camp with the style of the housing, and probably some of the same people. They were there, parents helping children with homework, doing laundry (by hand of course), cooking, playing games, talking, carrying food home, carrying water, etc. etc. A thriving life there, with narrow windy foot path that I lost, so I asked directions. The thing about being in a Liberian community is that I never feel alone. While people aren't pushy (with the exception of some young men), the instant I need help they're there.

And waves of nostalgia flooded me. I used to be sitting on one of those stoops, in one of those plastic chairs, talking and laughing. And I could probably join in now if I wanted, but I'd rather be invited. (Though, who am I kidding - if I stopped to chat with people, I'd be invited with very few exceptions. Liberians are very hospitable and social.)

While I stick out like a huge sore thumb, I feel so at home. How can that be?

stereotyping

These evening I was sitting on the neighboring hotel's restaurant patio to catch the sunset, reading The Help and sipping a Club Beer (brewed here in Monrovia).

A man was sitting at a neighboring table; some other men came to join him and one reached over and grabbed a chair from my table to pull it over to the other table. I quickly glanced up, then resumed reading.

A voice that is learned in expensive African boarding schools, with a very precise English accent, asked if it was all right that he'd taken the chair. I looked up and said, "Sure. If not, I'da yelled or something," I said - making a joke, obviously.

"From your accent, I believe that would be the case."

Did that bastard seriously just take all 300 million of us Americans and combine us into one aggressive group? Are you fucking kidding me?

I immediately snapped, "Hey now, that's not fair. That's not how all of us are." Because there are of course aggressive Americans - many of them I know from law practice. Some of us are belligerent and obnoxious.

Others, however, are not. I'm about as polite as a person can be (with strangers at least). There are quiet, shy, nonassuming, polite Americans everywhere you turn.

Anyway, he made a stupid comment. What's really stupid is how it rankles.

beach access

I read somewhere that my hotel has a pool and gym access across the street at another hotel. I've walked/driven past it dozens of times and never seen it, so today I finally asked Middle Management Murphy. He walked me over - because there is no sign, and how the hell am I supposed to find something without a sign when there are numerous other businesses along the way? Good god.

So security opened the gate and MMM showed me the fitness room (though he couldn't find the light switch) and the pool. I said, "What about beach access?" "Yes, but you cannot go there alone."

I lasted about 20 minutes there beside the pool, reading The Help, and kept seeing the concertina wire surrounding me. I gave up, grabbed a hat, left everything else in my room, and headed for the beach. Alone.

I'm sure that there are people who are given safety advice and heed it. I'm sure they do not act in reckless rebellion anytime a stranger tells them to "be careful." I am sadly not one of them.

I will also add that I swung by the restaurant (looking for the VIP) and asked a worker there I chat up. "What do you think about me walking on the beach, Grace?" "You? It's safe - any beach, any time."

The truth is somewhere in between. I do not have to take a security guard with me, as MMM demands (warning me of "disgruntled fellows"). I also will not be strolling there at midnight.

But there I went. Some women said hello as I first entered, and another woman shouted hello and followed with a baby on her hip. I'm sure she wanted to tell me something, but I wasn't in the mood so I waved and kept going. Yes, I know about the undertow. Yes, I know there's a bull's-eye on my forehead. Have a nice day.

I know there's a tremendous amount of raw sewage in the ocean there, but I still had to stick my toes in the water. It was wonderfully nice and warm. The sand is a bit large, which I actually prefer because it sticks less to my skin that way.

I walked along awhile alone, and then I approached a big throng of people - playing soccer on the beach, water polo in the ocean. A few young men approached and wanted to keep me company but I kept on walking and thanked them, but no. Some children greeted me, some adults - and others not. In a casual way, and it was fine.

But the mounds of garbage were troubling, and the child shouting at me as I saw him taking a dump on the beach. The backend of such shacks, the poverty. It's so striking. I climbed up at one point and walked through the neighborhood - and on the one hand, it felt comfortable because it reminded me of the houses on the refugee camp. On the other hand, I didn't know anybody and I know it's not the smartest place to walk.

But I made it back in one piece of course, with just minor sunburn on my arms that should turn to tan.

Honestly, I will likely seek out a beach resort where I can walk without worry or garbage, and where I can sit in a lounge chair and hot young men bring me cool drinks. I'd spend some money to spend a day there every few weeks or so. It really is a beautiful setting here.

But I also won't close my eyes to the garbage and the poverty.

first Liberian Thanksgiving

Huge thanks to Richard and Elaine for their hospitality, Barney for the invitation, Clarence for the companionable ride up to Kakata through Firestone Plantation, and Gus and Ellen.

There was a wonderfully seasoned fish, corn pudding, quiche (Richard is vegetarian), fried plantains, rice with beans, and for dessert a pawpaw (papaya) pie (YUM!!) and a cake that Clarence picked up at a church fundraiser bakesale.

another view of Liberia

Today I was invited to join some people driving up to Kakata.

I spent the day in the car with former Liberian Attorney General/Supreme Court Justice/Minister of Justice and an American engineer who is responsible for so much of Liberia's infrastructure still standing from the 1960's.

We went to visit their friends outside Kakata, and we drove through the Firestone Rubber Plantation (pictures to follow). The friends have a beautiful farm and home outside Firestone. They prepared a feast for us to celebrate Liberian Thanksgiving.

It was a really fabulous time and I'm so grateful for the hospitality. I really enjoyed myself and hope to be invited out to the farm again.

The problem I have is that as we approach the beautiful farm, we are surrounded by abject poverty. How do I reconcile wealth and poverty? How do I handle my own feelings about the luxury of a 4,000 square foot home surrounded by mud huts?

Mind you, these are good, kind people who worked hard (they went to school and worked in the U.S. and nurse and engineer; they are retired and have returned home, and they run a school and a clinic nearby). But it is still very weird to me to have other people not invited to the table - the drivers, the maids, the people serving and cooking the food, etc.

My feelings are complicated and will take me a long time to figure out.

say what?

Walking down the hill at Mamba Point wearing my American best (sneakers, workout clothes, travel purse), a Liberian man said, "You look Africana."

While flattered, I am perplexed. My clothing? My skin tone? None of it looks African. And why did he add an "-a"? Afrikaner, did he mean?

I would march right back up the hill and demand an explanation, but I'm not sure I'd find him.

In a week I'm moving in to the apartment up the hill by the U.S. Embassy. It will work for awhile.

life as an expat

Yes, I have lived internationally before, but I've always been fit right in with locals - living, eating, working with them. I would see people driving in their big white Toyota 4-Runners, as I was sweating and walking or riding too many people in a taxi, and I honestly didn't think much about them except to sneer a bit.

I'm now in the 4-Runner. I have a driver at my call. I stay in a hotel that costs each day more than the Liberian's monthly average salary, and I'm looking at renting an apartment that costs more each month than a mortgage payment in Southern California - and it's replete with razor wire everywhere to deny access, a compound gate, and housekeeping and laundry service. Yes, somebody to clean up after me and to wash my laundry. No, really. Yes, I have been the housekeeper before on more than one occasion. Funny how life trips.

My favorite irony of this whole situation is that when I went to go look at this apartment, I said "Oh, this space is too big! I don't need a 2-bedroom. Anybody here in the same situation who need a roommate?" The owner/manager wasn't there, just some assistants and painters. One fellow said, "There is a man who just moved in who needs a roommate." My boss's secretary said, "Oh, no. No. That is not ok for you to live with a single man." "Now, [Secretary], don't just say no. Ask how good-looking he is." She started laughing and we asked the fellows, "Where is he from?" "Nigeria." Secretary and I looked at each other and simultaneously said NO.

I will admit it: I have a bias against Nigerians. I have met many wonderfully nice Nigerians, and they tell me to never trust Nigerians. It's not a real prejudice, just a caution. And it's the only nationality that ever gives me any pause really.

So, later (while getting a ride home from the driver in the 4-Runner) I turned to a co-worker and asked if she knew anything of these apartments. She happened to be just that evening meeting at the adjoining cafe with a man who lives there. Who is Nigerian. I joined them, and he is utterly delightful. I like him very much. He actually does have a roommate already, but I can have him as a neighbor and that sounds great. The price of this huge 2-bedroom is less than I expected, so today I'll go look again. The owner is an American married to a Liberian, and from our brief phone conversation & what Nigerian Neighbor says, she's also delightful. Furthermore, I can do a short-term rental there, so if and when I find something more local, I can move out. And there are worse neighbors than the U.S. embassy ... right?

So after seeing Nigerian Neighbor's apartment and meeting his roommate and chatting him up a bit, we rejoined the large group. Perhaps 22 people or so, mostly white expats with a couple of black faces in the mix. My colleague introduced me and I tried to chat up some people, but they had their own private conversations going and nothing I tried seemed to spark real connection and interest. I moved to the other end next to a Liberian fellow who knows the expats from having been a driver and having dated somebody in the group, and he was also delightful. He's from a tribe I've never met somebody from before that I can remember (Kissi). Being the super ray of sunshine that I am, I nearly made him cry as I led him to talking about his younger brother starving to death in the war.

Liberians do not generally like to talk about the war - it's New Orleanians and Katrina (though many do not like to talk about Katrina, and it's very painful, it comes up repeatedly), and I'm told unlike Sierra Leonians who will talk about their war. But they will give me pieces if I ask the right way.

There is something so comfortable in interacting with most Liberians. Conversations just flow along so much better. I've noticed over the past years, I have a hard time talking to people especially with any small talk. I am not a great conversationalist at all. Maybe I've always had this shortcoming and it's only recently become obvious to me, or maybe I just recently developed it.

But I don't usually have this problem with Liberians. Some Liberians don't like me right away, but I usually win them over. I'm funnier with Liberians, more animated. The best part of me comes out, a part I otherwise repress. My guard comes down and I feel more myself. This is not always the case, but very often.

And some Liberians, we just instantly connect in a way that rarely happens to me with other people. The finance director of where I work, from the minute we met our eyes smiled at each other and we sense a deep connection between us that we will explore. Other people are starting to win me over. Real friendships take time, but we are starting. I believe their invitations.

I also believe the invitation that today I am going on a roadtrip with one of the most influential men in Liberia. It's a strange set of circumstances that I'll have to blog about later because I need to leave the air conditioning of my room and set out on a series of today's adventures.

day 1: potato greens for lunch

Day 1 in Liberia. I arrived late last night, finally to my hotel after 10 pm (mishaps along the way, including being taken to the wrong hotel). The smell of Africa made me feel right at home.

I got to work at 9 am for a staff meeting. I'm exhausted and jetlagged, but here I am.

My new colleagues are very accommodating of my love of Liberian food, so off to lunch we went for potato greens! Yum! Only the country director joined me with the potato greens, and everybody else got various non-Liberian foods. More for us!

I have a week ahead of meetings and acculturations and various other places to show up. So far so good.

Liberia is not quiet.

Every place I go, I am looking for familiar faces in the crowds.

I am tired of living out of a suitcase.