Over the course of the last few weeks I have been inundated with events, experiences, thoughts, ideas, stories and random occurrences. When over-stimulated I tend to freeze. The delay in my writing emphasizes this. But, just like anyone who likes to weave a tale and gets used to putting it to paper, the thoughts start to pile up like unprocessed files on the desk of a professional who had been forced to take an unexpected leave of absence and returns to an inability of knowing where to start.
These next few posts are my feeble attempt to return. I have a feeling they will be unorganized and disjointed but rather than waste more time in an attempt to shuffle things around I will trust you my reader to organize things as you see fit.
the event: the tale of the magic rock
On a recent drive to a new village I saw a large boulder surrounded by bamboo fencing and barbed wire. I was struck by the man power it must have taken to build that study fencing and found it odd it appeared to have only been done to fence in a rock. I said as much and was subsequently enlightened.
Once upon a time there was a rock. This was not just any old rock; It was a magic rock. The problem was nobody was aware of this for a very long time. Generations of families came and went and still nobody knew about the secret powers of this rock. Every time it thought it was going to be discovered something happened to prevent its discovery and so it lived on, undiscovered. For a very long time this rock was the only one who knew he was a special, magical rock. Before it was discovered little was known, after it was discovered much….
Once upon a time there was a man who had his heartbroken in the most painful of ways. The love of his life and his very best friend went off and demolished his heart and punctured his hope for happiness in the most classic of ways. Although he was not a vengeful man or a man who festered on past events, this event changed everything. Every waking moment he thought about retribution and every sleeping minute he dreamed about redemption. He ruminated so hard and so often he frequently found himself miles away from home or anything familiar because he would walk for hours on end thinking. After snapping out of one of these ruminating stupors he frequently found himself in unknown far away places. He also periodically found himself startled out of a dissociative state holding a bowl of rice that was cold and spoiled from hours of uneaten existence.
Once upon a time this heartbroken man forgot what he was about to do. He did this a lot. He did this because he could think of nothing else but revenge. In another dissociative state he sat himself down next to a rock. After a significant amount of time went by he back against this rock in a huff wondering if he will ever realize his fantasies of revenge. The mix of these two states, one of intense emotion juxtapose to one of intense dissociation, allowed him to enter into the state of mind that is required to become one with a rock. Interestingly in order to enter the rock you had to be in a state where you were wholly human (i.e., feeling a continuum of intense emotions) and wholly nonhuman (i.e., disconnected from your ego). And then, without warning, this man sunk right into this rock and disappeared. The only thing that could be seen was his eyes. But for him, he could see everything.
Once upon a time a man entered a rock and a new state of existence. Following his immersion, he could see everything that was in front of him and everything that was behind him, and in fact he could see and hear everything that was going on in that village at that very moment. He saw and observed everything anyone in that village was doing or saying or thinking without effort and he was amazed. He even lost himself in this new magical state of mind and was elated when he realized he could hear and see “them”. They had decided to move in together and the rumor was they were happy and in love. He hated to think about it and he hated himself for wishing ill will on them, but he couldn’t help it. They had betrayed him and he was damaged and enraged but he also was quite curious about what it was like for them behind closed doors.
Once upon a time their lived a man who frequently visited the magic rock for the experience of knowing all. Shortly after he started “joining with” the rock he learned that the relationship his ex love of his life and former best friend had established suffered from one fundamental flaw. This flaw would eventually ruin them. This flaw was the infiltration of their former acts of betrayal into their new relationship and he saw them suffering for it every day. Based on the fact they had both been so dishonest to their best friend and lover, neither one of them could truly trust the other and the lack of trust was destroying their relationship. They were both suspicious about everything and assumed on some unconscious level disloyalty from the other was enviable. What they didn’t know, and what the man in the magic rock had learned from his new power was that they had actually loved each other intensely and struggled seriously with the choice that they had made which resulted in his heartbreak. They both had genuinely loved him and yet they also had fallen in love with each other and although they held out and refused to allow this love to be realized for a very long time, they eventually lost the will to fight and decided they were willing to pay the consequences. The problem was the guilt was killing them and them and their love. When this very hurt man learned all of this his anger left him and he realized there was nothing he could do that would be worse that what they were suffering and so he moved on.
Once upon a time there existed a man who although it was known had suffered two very significant blows, managed to pull out of his funk and become the village mediator. His ability to read minds was awe invoking and his knack for seeing past the superficial presentation of problems became so well know he became a local Zo of sorts. What no one knew was that he owed his special perceptive powers to a rock. He never told anyone but he chose to use his newfound powers for good and with that was able to get over his heartbreak and help others.
Once upon a time the town counselor became very ill and decided to pass along his knowledge and special abilities to his favorite nephew. Although this nephew was worthy of this gift, the gift got the best of him because he loved the knowledge and power he gained from seeing things as they were seen through this rock. He began to manipulate the power he inherited for personal gain and quickly became very wicked and distrustful. He cheated, and blackmailed and did anything he wished to exploit those that he had knowledge about. This man was eventually killed for his wicked acts. Although the village never truly realized how all of this connected to the rock their collective intuition knew it was somehow connected and therefore with the death of the wicked nephew came the partitioning off of the magic rock. And so now the rock sits, wishing to be utilized for what it was in a state of nonhuman humanness. The tales about its strength, as ire as they were, came from a place of truth.
And so the story goes..........from love to hate and back again and everything in between.
Showing posts with label Liberia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Liberia. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Monday, April 30, 2007
Those Dark Eyes
So after two weeks of “toughing it” in Gbarnga I returned once again to Monrovia. I do not intend nor do I wish to capture my experience here solely based on the happenings of Monrovia (as it would not be fair or just) but I have a story to tell.
Monrovia seems to be a strange and ironic city; an anomaly that clearly has very little in common with the rest of Liberia. It seems important to keep emphasizing this reality because if not, this reporter is relaying a microscopic version of a much bigger picture. Stated another way, it would be like describing New York State solely through a lens focused on New York City. If you completely ignore the daily grind of Albany, Rochester and Ithaca you are, at the end of the day, describing an entirely different state. However, one significant thing Monrovia has in common with the big apple is its cost of living. The cheapest rental price I have heard of thus far for a one bedroom apartment is 850 dollars a month and more commonly tenants are renting very small stuffy apartments for no less than one thousand US dollars of month. Now, those of you who have traveled to Africa may be thinking of urban hot spots like Cape Town or Marrakech or even Accra but please do not forget – Liberia is considered a hardship post by most organizations (i.e., the American Embassy and the UN) and it has the lowest retention rate of volunteers by most international NGOs. In other words, there are very few residences here worth anything close to one thousand dollars a month. You can call it extortion or you can call it the principle of supply and demand, but for now, I am going to call the whole thing shocking.
But I digress. What I really wanted to share with you was the ‘two cent tour’ I received today from my new Liberian friends, Chris and Mohamed. Chirs and Mohamed are two Liberian men who have survived everything from nearly being conscripted into Charles Taylor’s child armies to living as a refugee and IDP respectively, for 5 and 7 year stints.
Currently, Chris and Mohamed are in a band. I randomly met them during intermission, 2 weeks ago, while they were playing at an ICRC event. They were nice enough guys, they liked my hat, and by the end of the night we were getting along swimmingly. Their band was phenomenal (for those of you who know me and my tendency to behave like a groupie towards just about any musician and his guitar, this is likely not very surprising). Although they were probably impressed with their ability to impress me, what they didn’t know was that they had me an hour earlier with their velvety voices, downy drumming abilities and silky dance moves. After an hour or two of yucking it up with these new acquaintances, we were fast friends. They each had there own fantastic story and I learned they had recently traveled to Portugal and Greece to compete musically. Their contemporary Liberian jams have a slight Rasta flare with a West African base. They were good everywhere and had a 2nd place prize trophy from an international music festival to prove it. In two short months they will be departing for Germany and will stay there for 1 year playing and performing all over the country.
This morning Chris and Mohamed called and wanted to hang out. I agreed but we couldn’t figure out what to do (especially given some of my security restrictions). But, I needed to practice driving my manual land cruiser and they needed to run a few errands - so we compromised. They would give me a tour and I would put on the air-conditioner, make a few stops along the way and come to their next gig. “Fair enough” I quickly replied, “fair enough.” We even managed to get in a few games of billiards along the way.
We met up in Sinkor at the LoneStar cell tower and headed straight for the local YMCA. I had mentioned I loved to play basketball and they told me where I needed to go if I wanted to find a decent pick-up game. If anyone is curious they play at 8 am on Sundays. Upon entering I quickly witnessed some true talent. Messy and lacking in fundamentals granted, but undeniable talent can not be ignored - even in it is in its most raw and unrefined form.
Next we went past Providence Island, a small island off the west coast of Liberia. This island is famous because it is where a large ship (sent by a number of Mississippi plantation owners) dropped off approximately one hundred and fifty thousand freed slaves in veiled effort to “send them home.” After that we went to this massive abandoned hotel called Duko Palace. In reality it is an unsafe skeleton of a building that is run down and rat infested and houses approximately 1200 IDPs (mankind and animals alike). We slowly climbed 11 flights of stairs in the pitch dark. There were no railings and gapping holes in what used to be eloquent marble floors. For a minute I felt like I was stuck in a third world version of Hotel California. A peak down the hallways illustrated room after room of makeshift housing quarters filled with families cooking over charcoal pits, cleaning and going about their daily business. They just so happened to be 9 stories up in dark, humid and musty hallways. The scarcity was invasive and it seemed like prayers were not answered here at all. The unanswered prayers got caught in the dust and grime, making it hard to breathe. If any of you have seen Children of Men the last few scenes are excellent visual comparisons. Upon reaching the penthouse, we stepped out onto a massive desk that offered breathtaking views of every major landmark in Monrovia. It was remarkable.
Directly ahead was only the ocean, to the left was Broad Street and to the left West Point (the most dangerous slum in Liberia). Completely ruled by gangs, even Police officers do not enter West Point without permission from the slum lords. Chris and Mohamed were visually anxious just talking about it. Please note that its namesake is the slightly more familiar but not necessarily less cryptic or enigmatic West Point in the infamous U S of A. When asked if they have ever been attacked or robbed in West Point or anywhere else in Monrovia they quickly disclosed they have never set foot in West Point and “of course” they had many experiences of being robbed at knife point in Monrovia. On more than one occasion they had been forced to give up every material possession they had on their body. Mohamed indicated that just last year he was forced to give up his shirt and jeans and Chris quickly added that he had been robbed of all his money and cell phone only to encounter someone else a few minutes later who was willing to sell him back his very own cell phone. Even though it was evident Chris didn’t have any more money to give, he was given one hour to get some. If he didn’t find the cash he would be jumped again or marked for life as a troublemaker on the streets. The “repurchasing” of your own cell phone quickly became an inside joke we referenced often and I would highly encourage every one of you to avoid misplacing your cell phone around me or you may find yourself charged for it’s safe return.
At the end of the day this place is a mess. Things are beyond worn out. My adolescent pal Liberia seems indifferent and apathetic but every once in a while he looks at me with those dark eyes and I am left with a sense of something. I’m not sure what it is yet but I think it is a feeling of hope tied to how it could feel to look into those eyes one day, after he has been given the chance to heal. This feeling suggests that maybe only he is real and that everything else, the violence, the unemployment, the whole damn mess, is imagined. He has to be real. Just a few short hours after my adventure I look back at my photographs and see him there as true as anything ever was. I can even see glimpses of what he was during his youth, before the war, before the desolation. He was almost smiling in some of the pictures but in others, not at all. Something had made him smile though, but it seems the smile was not for joy. Perhaps it was for me, because he knew I might need it now, afterwards. And perhaps there are days when I will look or feel sad for the same reason, because he seems to have guessed that there would be an afterwards. A snapshot of his youth would have him standing below a mango swinging his stick, not gently, but with that fierce disposition and intelligence shining in his eyes. Even today his posturing suggests he embodies the meeting point of hostility and relentless hope and I am left with conflicting feelings of curiosity, hesitancy, hopefulness and skepticism all in the same instant.
Monrovia seems to be a strange and ironic city; an anomaly that clearly has very little in common with the rest of Liberia. It seems important to keep emphasizing this reality because if not, this reporter is relaying a microscopic version of a much bigger picture. Stated another way, it would be like describing New York State solely through a lens focused on New York City. If you completely ignore the daily grind of Albany, Rochester and Ithaca you are, at the end of the day, describing an entirely different state. However, one significant thing Monrovia has in common with the big apple is its cost of living. The cheapest rental price I have heard of thus far for a one bedroom apartment is 850 dollars a month and more commonly tenants are renting very small stuffy apartments for no less than one thousand US dollars of month. Now, those of you who have traveled to Africa may be thinking of urban hot spots like Cape Town or Marrakech or even Accra but please do not forget – Liberia is considered a hardship post by most organizations (i.e., the American Embassy and the UN) and it has the lowest retention rate of volunteers by most international NGOs. In other words, there are very few residences here worth anything close to one thousand dollars a month. You can call it extortion or you can call it the principle of supply and demand, but for now, I am going to call the whole thing shocking.
But I digress. What I really wanted to share with you was the ‘two cent tour’ I received today from my new Liberian friends, Chris and Mohamed. Chirs and Mohamed are two Liberian men who have survived everything from nearly being conscripted into Charles Taylor’s child armies to living as a refugee and IDP respectively, for 5 and 7 year stints.
Currently, Chris and Mohamed are in a band. I randomly met them during intermission, 2 weeks ago, while they were playing at an ICRC event. They were nice enough guys, they liked my hat, and by the end of the night we were getting along swimmingly. Their band was phenomenal (for those of you who know me and my tendency to behave like a groupie towards just about any musician and his guitar, this is likely not very surprising). Although they were probably impressed with their ability to impress me, what they didn’t know was that they had me an hour earlier with their velvety voices, downy drumming abilities and silky dance moves. After an hour or two of yucking it up with these new acquaintances, we were fast friends. They each had there own fantastic story and I learned they had recently traveled to Portugal and Greece to compete musically. Their contemporary Liberian jams have a slight Rasta flare with a West African base. They were good everywhere and had a 2nd place prize trophy from an international music festival to prove it. In two short months they will be departing for Germany and will stay there for 1 year playing and performing all over the country.
This morning Chris and Mohamed called and wanted to hang out. I agreed but we couldn’t figure out what to do (especially given some of my security restrictions). But, I needed to practice driving my manual land cruiser and they needed to run a few errands - so we compromised. They would give me a tour and I would put on the air-conditioner, make a few stops along the way and come to their next gig. “Fair enough” I quickly replied, “fair enough.” We even managed to get in a few games of billiards along the way.
We met up in Sinkor at the LoneStar cell tower and headed straight for the local YMCA. I had mentioned I loved to play basketball and they told me where I needed to go if I wanted to find a decent pick-up game. If anyone is curious they play at 8 am on Sundays. Upon entering I quickly witnessed some true talent. Messy and lacking in fundamentals granted, but undeniable talent can not be ignored - even in it is in its most raw and unrefined form.
Next we went past Providence Island, a small island off the west coast of Liberia. This island is famous because it is where a large ship (sent by a number of Mississippi plantation owners) dropped off approximately one hundred and fifty thousand freed slaves in veiled effort to “send them home.” After that we went to this massive abandoned hotel called Duko Palace. In reality it is an unsafe skeleton of a building that is run down and rat infested and houses approximately 1200 IDPs (mankind and animals alike). We slowly climbed 11 flights of stairs in the pitch dark. There were no railings and gapping holes in what used to be eloquent marble floors. For a minute I felt like I was stuck in a third world version of Hotel California. A peak down the hallways illustrated room after room of makeshift housing quarters filled with families cooking over charcoal pits, cleaning and going about their daily business. They just so happened to be 9 stories up in dark, humid and musty hallways. The scarcity was invasive and it seemed like prayers were not answered here at all. The unanswered prayers got caught in the dust and grime, making it hard to breathe. If any of you have seen Children of Men the last few scenes are excellent visual comparisons. Upon reaching the penthouse, we stepped out onto a massive desk that offered breathtaking views of every major landmark in Monrovia. It was remarkable.
Directly ahead was only the ocean, to the left was Broad Street and to the left West Point (the most dangerous slum in Liberia). Completely ruled by gangs, even Police officers do not enter West Point without permission from the slum lords. Chris and Mohamed were visually anxious just talking about it. Please note that its namesake is the slightly more familiar but not necessarily less cryptic or enigmatic West Point in the infamous U S of A. When asked if they have ever been attacked or robbed in West Point or anywhere else in Monrovia they quickly disclosed they have never set foot in West Point and “of course” they had many experiences of being robbed at knife point in Monrovia. On more than one occasion they had been forced to give up every material possession they had on their body. Mohamed indicated that just last year he was forced to give up his shirt and jeans and Chris quickly added that he had been robbed of all his money and cell phone only to encounter someone else a few minutes later who was willing to sell him back his very own cell phone. Even though it was evident Chris didn’t have any more money to give, he was given one hour to get some. If he didn’t find the cash he would be jumped again or marked for life as a troublemaker on the streets. The “repurchasing” of your own cell phone quickly became an inside joke we referenced often and I would highly encourage every one of you to avoid misplacing your cell phone around me or you may find yourself charged for it’s safe return.
At the end of the day this place is a mess. Things are beyond worn out. My adolescent pal Liberia seems indifferent and apathetic but every once in a while he looks at me with those dark eyes and I am left with a sense of something. I’m not sure what it is yet but I think it is a feeling of hope tied to how it could feel to look into those eyes one day, after he has been given the chance to heal. This feeling suggests that maybe only he is real and that everything else, the violence, the unemployment, the whole damn mess, is imagined. He has to be real. Just a few short hours after my adventure I look back at my photographs and see him there as true as anything ever was. I can even see glimpses of what he was during his youth, before the war, before the desolation. He was almost smiling in some of the pictures but in others, not at all. Something had made him smile though, but it seems the smile was not for joy. Perhaps it was for me, because he knew I might need it now, afterwards. And perhaps there are days when I will look or feel sad for the same reason, because he seems to have guessed that there would be an afterwards. A snapshot of his youth would have him standing below a mango swinging his stick, not gently, but with that fierce disposition and intelligence shining in his eyes. Even today his posturing suggests he embodies the meeting point of hostility and relentless hope and I am left with conflicting feelings of curiosity, hesitancy, hopefulness and skepticism all in the same instant.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Transitions
This is a post about transition. Its settings include Denver,Minneapolis, Janesville, Chicago, Brussels and Liberia. The characters are mostly African and American. The time is 10:55 am in Monrovia, which meansit is 2:55 am in Denver - or at least I think it is: time involves numbersand numbers tend to overwhelm me.
My goodbyes in Denver were hectic and I'm sorry for those I missed – I am already desperately missing my day of the week and the little boy crainewonders; and, I can already predict poor Kristy will be forced into recitingplay-by plays frequently leaving me wishing I had access to real time footage. The training in Minneapolis went well and my time in Chicago was a delight.
I know many of you are quite curious about my father's big retirement party.Well it went off without a hitch, thanks to my brother and Shelley. My presence was a surprise (however my father claims he had a dream I would bethere) - for someone who always thought my work and interest in dream interpretation was slightly bizarre, he sure sounded like a true Jungian when he was interpreting his own dream sequence. His reaction to my arrivalwas much more subdued than my mother's, who was recovering from the fact that her sister and my uncle had also made a surprise appearance from Texas. The toasts were touching and I feel profoundly grateful I was able to be present for a celebration of the man I have always admired most. Hisbravery, idealism, generosity, talent (both in poker as well as in surgery) and outrageous sense of humor were highlighted and observed. My only hopeis that he is proud of what he has managed to accomplish thus far in life.He asserts he has no worries about boredom in retirement and already claims to have no idea how he was able to accomplish anything meaningful while hewas working full time. Together, they plan to travel and explore and areheading to Spain in April and Egypt in January – where I plan to join them for a little R & R.
As is often the case in travel, things didn't work out the way they were planned and rather than arriving in Africa 9 days ago, as expected, I was briefly delayed in Brussels due to airplane problems out of Chicago. Myself and ten fellow 'strandedees' were put up for two nights in Ghent, a smalltown just outside of Brussels. Ghent and its neighboring town Brogge arefilled with canals, castles, dragons guarding the city and amazing waffles, chocolate and beer. They call the area the Venice of the North.Fortunately, due to overcrowding in the airport hotels, American Airlineswas forced to put us in a 5 star hotel with amazing beds fitted withEgyptian cotton sheets – a lovely place to be resting while overcoming aheinous bout of jet lag.
The airport in Monrovia is an eyesore but I quickly realized I have been infected for life and was relieved, like a breath taken from an inhaler, to be back in West Africa. The new president in Liberia has declared a 'zero tolerance' policy on corruption and had apparently cleaned house at theairport a few weeks ago. I arrived to serious staffers in freshly starched uniforms fixated on getting us in perfectly formed lines and putting usthrough multiple checkpoints for what appeared to be nothing more thananother very intense look at my oh so serious passport photo. I was dropped off at CVT headquarters by a friend I had made in Brussels (an American attorney in Liberia working in the justice department training localattorneys). In route to Liberia I also met an ex US military solider who served in Afghanistan and Iraq and is now doing highly paid contract workfor the State Department. When asked what he felt about the war and ourcurrent administration he simply stated: "I just did what I was told to do." He was sharp and sweet and built like an ox and his gentle dispositionand simple analysis of the "facts" puzzled me. The other travelers were all missionary folk heading to Liberia to adopt flocks of children – 4 a piece to be exact. One of them had 9 biological children and 7 other Liberian adoptees at home. This experience is an entirely separate chapter of myexperience to date but please remind me to tell you about it as it was interesting to say the least – a bit like watching Jesus Camp, I suspect.
The minute I stepped outside the airport I was struck by humidity and heat.Although it was already 7 pm, the heat was relentless and intense. The trees and bushes are much lusher than in Nigeria and it is clear I will bedealing with an entirely different beast here in comparison to the dry heatof Plateau State. Although overwhelming, I felt myself giving off a big sigh, delighted to know I have arrived where my heart had been pointing meand I now know that on some level Africa has infected me for life. In spiteof my exhaustion, I found myself grinning. There is something about Africa that got into my blood and stayed there.
Visually, I observed flock after flock of women and children sauntering downthe dusty pothole ridden roads with jerry cans and baskets carrying fish,bananas and peanuts (aka: "grumpy") on their heads. Boys were seen pushing wheelbarrows and playing football in dusty packs. The heat is heinous, theroads are a mess and everything is run by generators, but I briefly hadair-conditioning in my room and there is running albeit cold water and flushing toilets in the house and office.
As a committed traveler and connoisseur of originality, I know that gathering the fruits of wanderlust will hopefully enable me to see the worldwith a wider, more original lens. And, in the words of Mark Twain (and in honor of my father's favorite quote from our recent trip to Arizona),"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness."
gwen
gvogel22@msn.com
Liberia phone: +231 (0) 690 9880
Liberia office: CVT, 8th Street Beach Side, Sinkor, Monrovia
US Office: Center for Victims of Torture, 717 East River Road, Minneapolis, MN 55455, USA
My goodbyes in Denver were hectic and I'm sorry for those I missed – I am already desperately missing my day of the week and the little boy crainewonders; and, I can already predict poor Kristy will be forced into recitingplay-by plays frequently leaving me wishing I had access to real time footage. The training in Minneapolis went well and my time in Chicago was a delight.
I know many of you are quite curious about my father's big retirement party.Well it went off without a hitch, thanks to my brother and Shelley. My presence was a surprise (however my father claims he had a dream I would bethere) - for someone who always thought my work and interest in dream interpretation was slightly bizarre, he sure sounded like a true Jungian when he was interpreting his own dream sequence. His reaction to my arrivalwas much more subdued than my mother's, who was recovering from the fact that her sister and my uncle had also made a surprise appearance from Texas. The toasts were touching and I feel profoundly grateful I was able to be present for a celebration of the man I have always admired most. Hisbravery, idealism, generosity, talent (both in poker as well as in surgery) and outrageous sense of humor were highlighted and observed. My only hopeis that he is proud of what he has managed to accomplish thus far in life.He asserts he has no worries about boredom in retirement and already claims to have no idea how he was able to accomplish anything meaningful while hewas working full time. Together, they plan to travel and explore and areheading to Spain in April and Egypt in January – where I plan to join them for a little R & R.
As is often the case in travel, things didn't work out the way they were planned and rather than arriving in Africa 9 days ago, as expected, I was briefly delayed in Brussels due to airplane problems out of Chicago. Myself and ten fellow 'strandedees' were put up for two nights in Ghent, a smalltown just outside of Brussels. Ghent and its neighboring town Brogge arefilled with canals, castles, dragons guarding the city and amazing waffles, chocolate and beer. They call the area the Venice of the North.Fortunately, due to overcrowding in the airport hotels, American Airlineswas forced to put us in a 5 star hotel with amazing beds fitted withEgyptian cotton sheets – a lovely place to be resting while overcoming aheinous bout of jet lag.
The airport in Monrovia is an eyesore but I quickly realized I have been infected for life and was relieved, like a breath taken from an inhaler, to be back in West Africa. The new president in Liberia has declared a 'zero tolerance' policy on corruption and had apparently cleaned house at theairport a few weeks ago. I arrived to serious staffers in freshly starched uniforms fixated on getting us in perfectly formed lines and putting usthrough multiple checkpoints for what appeared to be nothing more thananother very intense look at my oh so serious passport photo. I was dropped off at CVT headquarters by a friend I had made in Brussels (an American attorney in Liberia working in the justice department training localattorneys). In route to Liberia I also met an ex US military solider who served in Afghanistan and Iraq and is now doing highly paid contract workfor the State Department. When asked what he felt about the war and ourcurrent administration he simply stated: "I just did what I was told to do." He was sharp and sweet and built like an ox and his gentle dispositionand simple analysis of the "facts" puzzled me. The other travelers were all missionary folk heading to Liberia to adopt flocks of children – 4 a piece to be exact. One of them had 9 biological children and 7 other Liberian adoptees at home. This experience is an entirely separate chapter of myexperience to date but please remind me to tell you about it as it was interesting to say the least – a bit like watching Jesus Camp, I suspect.
The minute I stepped outside the airport I was struck by humidity and heat.Although it was already 7 pm, the heat was relentless and intense. The trees and bushes are much lusher than in Nigeria and it is clear I will bedealing with an entirely different beast here in comparison to the dry heatof Plateau State. Although overwhelming, I felt myself giving off a big sigh, delighted to know I have arrived where my heart had been pointing meand I now know that on some level Africa has infected me for life. In spiteof my exhaustion, I found myself grinning. There is something about Africa that got into my blood and stayed there.
Visually, I observed flock after flock of women and children sauntering downthe dusty pothole ridden roads with jerry cans and baskets carrying fish,bananas and peanuts (aka: "grumpy") on their heads. Boys were seen pushing wheelbarrows and playing football in dusty packs. The heat is heinous, theroads are a mess and everything is run by generators, but I briefly hadair-conditioning in my room and there is running albeit cold water and flushing toilets in the house and office.
As a committed traveler and connoisseur of originality, I know that gathering the fruits of wanderlust will hopefully enable me to see the worldwith a wider, more original lens. And, in the words of Mark Twain (and in honor of my father's favorite quote from our recent trip to Arizona),"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness."
gwen
gvogel22@msn.com
Liberia phone: +231 (0) 690 9880
Liberia office: CVT, 8th Street Beach Side, Sinkor, Monrovia
US Office: Center for Victims of Torture, 717 East River Road, Minneapolis, MN 55455, USA
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