Firsts

My mom only vaguely grasps how much she lucked out with me: I was the teen least likely to get into trouble in Manhattan. (Caveat lector: this does not necessarily mean I was well-behaved.)

Imagine my shock when, for the first time in my life, I had a curfew.

It was city-wide.

I also went to sleep with a live duck in a burlap sac in the kitchen.

Yeah. It was a weird night for everyone in Monrovia.

Riot #2

Yesterday I did a really stupid thing, also known as "getting on a motorbike taxi in the middle of a riot."

It was awesome.

Do not tell my mother.

(Full article: http://www.iol.co.za/news/africa/youth-riots-erupt-in-liberia-1.1203535)

December 22, 2011 - Monrovia - Hundreds of young people took to the streets in the Liberian capital Monrovia on Thursday, angry at the government's late payment of casual workers' wages.

Demonstrations began peacefully but descended into riots during the afternoon. Tires were burnt, rocks thrown and at least one government-owned vehicle was set on fire.

A student who worked as a street cleaner for several days in early December told reporters, "The government owes me 30 dollars. They promised us we would be paid today, but nothing happened. They can't keep treating the youth badly."

Photo of the Day

Tell me this isn't a tree-person from Lord of the Rings.

Robertsport, Liberia

Chucky

There's a business downtown with a mural of Chucky (http://tinyurl.com/4svgou) on its gates. It's, like, the opposite of a welcome mat.

It gets me thinking about Liberia's own "Chucky" Taylor (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/2963086.stm).

I came home to find my roommate's housekeeper and driver discussing how Mr. Taylor would fare in a hypothetical election.

Both insisted that they'd vote for him. (Nevermind that he's, you know, on trial for war crimes.)

They also suspected he would win. 

Bear in mind that Mr. Taylor used to brag that you'd still vote for him if he'd killed both your parents (because in many cases, he had).

Surely, I asked, Taylor would win out of sheer fear?

"No," they said, "He would win fairly." 

This was one of the worst things I've ever heard before 9am. 

Why would you vote for a man held responsible for wars in not one but two countries, you ask?

Rice.

Or, rather, the price of rice.

From The Atlantic (full article: http://tinyurl.com/7kq5bb2):


In town, not far from a road sign that reads "The war is over," Rachel McCarthy, 28, leans against a wall nursing her baby son. Although Liberia is now at peace, McCarthy said she preferred the Taylor years -- in large part because staple foods, mainly rice, were less expensive. "Yes, there was war, but we had food. Today, although we're free now, and we have peace, it's not easy." 

I heard a Liberian say once that rice and footballs were all you needed to start a stampede. In retrospect, this was not a joke: rice is the life force in Liberia. Without it, my people believe that have not actually eaten anything.

I understand less and less about this country each day. 

Clubs

My friend was taken into custody for taking pictures near the American embassy. The cops were cool, though, and let the poor thing go with a warning. At the station, a question on the officer's report caught my friend off-guard.

Cop: Tribe?
F: What?
Cop: Your tribe?
F: I don't have a tribe.

The cop looked up, remembered he was speaking to an Austrian, and laughed.

There's something to be said about having a tribe.

The New York Times ran a story about the thousands of Native Americans being cast out of California tribes on a technicality (http://tinyurl.com/buosr9f).

They receive the news by mail.

Officially, I'm a member of three tribes. (Four, if you count New Yorker.) This is something I'd forget in the States and find myself constantly convincing other people of in Liberia. My middle name used to be something only long-term boyfriends earned the right to know. Here, it's a membership card, a secret password; it says, "Nevermind my accent: I'm one of you."

It also says, "Do not rip me off. I have people. And we will find you."

So to every Liberian I meet, I'm not Avril: I'm Massa. "Massa" rhymes with casa and broadcasts the tribe and county my dad was from. The listener always nods knowingly. Then I wait for the inevitable "Do you speak Vai?" which precedes the inevitable look of disappointment when I reply, "No. Not yet."

I am grateful there is no proper postal service lest they cast me out of my tribes by mail.

Tolstoy

The three of us sat in the front seat of an off-road vehicle to Cape Mount a few weeks ago. V manned the radio while I found myself happily feeding bites of flatbread to J as she drove in the dark. At one point, J mashed "chick" with "duckling" to describe how she felt.

Yesterday, I had another chickling encounter as I stood on Tubman Blvd, looking for a gap in traffic. Tubman is a 4-6 lane free-for-all with neither an an island nor traffic lights. It's a beast and crossing it is like playing Frogger. It scares me thoroughly.

I am 29.

So I'm sweating on the corner of Tubman and a little person appears beside me. It's a tiny girl. She's not even 7. She's in her uniform and she's looking up at me with huge, hopeful eyes. I'm a terrible person so I assume she wants to sell me something but she doesn't say a word. I step off the curb and forget all about her until I'm standing on the double yellow line in the middle of the road. Then I notice she's still standing next to me. And I realize she just wanted someone to cross with. She's got her that look on her face again so I wrap my fluffy wing around her and flip off drivers and we cross the rest of the way.

She forgets all about me when we reach the sidewalk and I watch her go.

Later, watching Into The Wild, I thought of my chicklings everywhere as the narrator quoted Tolstoy:

I have lived through much, and now I think I have found what is needed for happiness. 

A quiet secluded life in the country, 

with the possibility of being useful to people to whom it is easy to do good.

Photos of the Day

Spending two hours broken down here...

...on your way here...

...can be kind of fantastic.

BFF

Evidence suggests that adulthood is just high school, over and over again.

Personally, I'm starting to believe that we never leave kindergarten.

A friend got into a shared cab in which this happened.

Stranger: Hello.
Friend: Hi.
Stranger: Do you want to be my best friend?
Friend: Well, we've only just met. But we can get to know each other.
Stranger: So, you don't want to be my best friend.
Friend: We should probably hang out first.

Stranger flips out, muttering something about stingy foreigners.

On Friday, I was caught off-guard on a beach by a pack of 'tweens.

Pack Leader: We want to talk with you.
Me: OK. What do you want talk about?
Pack Leader: We want to make friends.
Me: Fine. We're friends.
Pack Leader: No, we want to be best friends.
Me: Oh. Well, that takes time.
Pack Leader: No, we can arrange it now.
Me: How?
Pack Leader: Well, we want to eat.
Me: And I see your associate has a basket of donuts beside her.
Pack Leader: Yes. Those are to sell.
Me: But you could just eat some, no?
Pack Leader: No. We want to sell to you.
Me: But I already ate.
Pack Leader: It is not for you to eat.
Me: Who is it for?
Pack Leader: For us.
Me: You want me to buy your donut and then give it to you so you can eat it?
Pack Leader: Not 'give.' Offer.
Me: But what kind of business is this?
Pack Leader: Not business. Friendship.
Me: I don't buy friendship.

The pack exchanged confused looks and backed away slowly.

It's exhausting to be asked for things all day. I'm going to be the worst parent.

Feist

Walking around Monrovia makes me hum this lyric all the time:

So much past inside my present

One of the coolest things about Liberians is their ability to refer to The War as though, in retrospect, it were just some ridiculous blip. The people are so strong: reminders of the death of a tenth of the population are everywhere.

I'm walking past a building I've passed countless times to and from my friend's house. Friend points it out one day.

J: See that church?
Me: Yeah.
J: Once, there were hundreds of bodies piled inside.
Me: What!?
J: It just became easier not to move them elsewhere.
Me: Wait - was it a church then?
J: Yep.
Me: And it's a church now?
J: Yeah.
Me: A church people use?
J: Definitely.
Me: So, it's not a monument?
J: No.
Me: Did they tear it down and rebuild it?
J: No!
Me: How could someone worship in there!?
J: Your people are very practical. 

Photo of the Day

Evidently, I camp

Buchanan, Grand Bassa, Liberia

Six More Years

Someone reminded me that I totally flaked re: election coverage.

President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf won the run-off with 90% of the vote. But between the boycott, the riot, the shootout and police chief's resignation, it was a bittersweet win.

(See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pyrrhic_victory)

Meanwhile, my mother and Madam Sirleaf are off to Oslo next month for the Nobel Peace Prize Ceremony.

I...am not.

Bjork

I've got a song on repeat today that goes:

If you ever get close to a human

And human behavior

Be ready, be ready to get confused

Observe.

The bottled drink you order in a bar or restaurant here will, without fail, come with a Kleenex.

The odds are that the cap will still be firmly in place.

The waiter, who is inevitably exasperated that you've asked him for...anything...will wait until you're watching and ask "OK?" before opening the damn thing. 

I have been collecting explanations for this for some time. The Kleenex is there to wipe the rim of the bottle, which apparently rusts over with reuse. Fine. But the whole "May I open this?" charade ensures that when someone roofies or, you know, straight up poisons you, it's entirely your fault. I'm all for going the extra mile to protect your customers, but I've also seen raw meat sit uncovered at high noon by the side of the road.

Speaking of roadside shenanigans, men pee shamelessly in plain sight despite murals crying "NO PEPE HERE." There is also a guy who wanders unchecked through traffic, shouting and shooting at phantom soldiers with his man-parts out.

Yet a cop pulled my friend over for indecent exposure -- he was riding shirtless on the back of a motorbike. At midnight. 

Help.

Photo of the Day

Hugo!

Front door, Monrovia, Liberia

(See http://truelifeliberia.blogspot.com/2011/11/expectations.html)

The Change

(No, this is not a post about menopause. Keep reading.)

There are weird moments when something shifts and, if you're lucky, you actually feel it happening. The second summer becomes fall where you are. Or when you realize you're not "just hanging out with" someone anymore. Or the first time your parents ask you for advice.

Everything slows just long enough for you to take notice.

Today, at 3:06pm, I really started living in Liberia.

There is Liberian Liberia, Lebanese Liberia and White Liberia. These groups can exist quite separately if they want to, interacting only out of necessity. In fact, it's possible to live in Liberia without really touching Liberia at all.

You can wake up in your 3K/month flat, go for a swim and be out the door before the cleaning lady arrives for the third consecutive day. You can honk to tell the security guard (whose name and face you won't learn) to open the compound gate. You can work eight hours and run back to your air-conditioned car and head to Stop & Shop for grapes and apples (which are, like, the only two things grown nowhere in West Africa). You can hit the squash club before dinner and drinks at one of the spots that mimics home. Payments for rent, groceries, car repairs, gadgets and nightlife nearly always go to a Lebanese owner. You can exist without ever patronizing a Liberian-run business. You can forget all about West Point, the 75,000-person tin-roof slum slowly falling into the ocean.

I'd like to give a shout-out to Heineken (though, really, I should have been drinking Club, which is Liberian). Heineken led me to say "Yes" to the French girl who asked if I wanted to trek through real Liberia on a Tuesday afternoon. For the first time in my life I was the foreigner who doesn't attract stares because, apparently, white people do not go where we went. And I proceeded to do half the things my mom lays awake at night hoping I won't do here. We walked across the old bridge to the flea market and drank water from a plastic sac. We played Chicken (http://tinyurl.com/4pyzck) with cocky motorbikers. We talked to street kids. We bought peeled, roasted plantain from a street vendor and ate it out of newspaper. We haggled over cloth and hunted for cocoa beans in alleyways. We contemplated unidentifiable meats and produce we'd never seen before. We walked for hours. We smiled at people who, eventually, smiled back. We thanked shopkeepers on our way out. We didn't look scared or appalled by bits of trash or the heat or poverty or proximity. We were just people among more people. A vendor asked for my empty water bottle and filled it with oil and sold it seconds later. Someone who had nothing to gain kindly told me my zipper was open. (Standard.)

And at one point I got tired of switching my bag to whichever shoulder was further from traffic and thought, "You know what? If someone swipes my bag, they can have it. I still have money in my coin pocket and shouldn't have brought my netbook anyway." It was at that exact second that, I kid you not, everything around me went Matrix and got realllly slowww; the wind blew past me and my shoulder blades fell and I actually became part of the world here.

Best. Heineken. Ever.

11.21.11

Today is my dad's birthday, a date I always need to be reminded of. I was especially thorough in my forgetfulness this year until my half-sister wrote to say:

Leave it to Dad to go out with a bang on his own birthday. Today marks twenty years.

This is going to be an irritating day.

Luckily, there are weekends. And weekends entail Occupy Wall Street dance parties that flood 14th Street with hippies and suits; learning Empire of the Sun is not, in fact, a prequel to Planet of the Apes; getting 100 points in the first play in Scrabble; realizing Top Ramen is the best imaginable Sunday morning food when you haven't eaten since Friday; secret beaches you wade through warm, waist-high lagoons to get to.

#winning

Photos of the Day

I stand corrected. This is what a date looks like here. 

Ducor Palace Hotel, Monrovia

Arrive at abandoned hotel.

Climb four flights.

Climb four more flights.

Reward self with cider on roof.

 Watch sunset.

Get cooked for.

Photo of the Day

So...this is what a date looks like here. Hate away.

Mamba Point, Monrovia

Photo of the Day

Alley Outside the Polls

Clara Town, Bushrod Island

Steinbeck

California in the '40s wasn't so different from Liberia today.

His name was Francis Almones and he had a sad life, for he always made just a fraction less than he needed to live. No matter how hard Francis worked or how careful he was, his money grew less until he just dried up and blew away. 

Expectations

There's this little frog that tends to hang out by the hinges of my screen door in the evening. I open the screen and it hops onto the tile, waiting for me to unlock the front door. I never let it in and I don't know what it's doing there but I don't mind since this is as close as I've gotten to having a puppy awaiting my return. I look forward to seeing it there.

There are a number of weirdnesses I now expect in Liberia.

If I go to a party, I expect it to be held around a pool, which will inevitably be filled with clothed Westerners come 3am. 

If I'm in a hurry, I expect there to to be five people slowly pushing a jalopy down the one road that goes anywhere.

If I go to a bar, I expect it to have a 180 degree view of the ocean (and, possibly, a stampede of Liberians sprinting to save someone from the vicious current of the aforementioned ocean).

If I go to a restaurant, I expect WiFi, Greek salad and to be able to sit there uninterrupted for six hours whether I order water or lobster. 

If I leave my mother's house on foot, I expect her guards to ask me for a treat I'm never going to return with.

And if I visit friends, I expect their guards to grill me but let the blondes and brunettes skip through. (I must be the only hooker in Liberia in Converse and knee-length shorts.)

Run-Off

I found myself stranded on one side of Monrovia Tuesday night due to tension near opposition headquarters.

I awoke on a sofa to an exchange between my friend and friend's housekeeper.

C: Did you vote?

Housekeeper: Yes. 

C: Where is the ink?

Housekeeper: I took it off.

This exchange is fascinating if you know a few things. 

1. The opposition bullied Liberians into boycotting Tuesday's run-off election, so

2. Turnout was distressingly low (out of fear or out of allegiance). Furthermore,

3. Your index finger is stained when you vote and

4. The ink lingers for a month, so 

5. To thoroughly remove it in a day requires scrubbing with bleach for hours

6. And being scared enough to subject your skin to that

7. And voting anyway.

Sometimes I could cry at the tiny, wonderful things. I feel like the guy filming a plastic bag in American Beauty (though, ideally, I'm slightly less creepy). 

Photo of the Day

The opposition gathers around empty teargas canisters after Monday's riot

(Photo Credit: Josie Stewart)

Hmm.

So, this is may or may not happening on my street:

At least three people have been killed in an exchange of gunfire between Liberian police and protesters as a mass opposition rally in Monrovia, the capital, turned violent on the eve of a presidential election runoff vote. 

What should have been a leisurely 10-minute ride was a panicked 90-minute roundabout race to get home and hide our Government of Liberia vehicle.

I'm on Mom-mandated lock-down.

Welcome to Liberia.

Fun, fun, fun, fun.

Bond

Long before I became myself, I was just some shy kid watching the world. And my foster sister, Edith, was the best person to watch. She had sixteen years on me and, in my eyes, was a goddess in leggings. Once, she saw me studying her as she dressed for a party and said, “Someday, Vee, your friends will disappear, one by one, until you're left with two who actually understand you."

I looked at her incredulously and left to play Duck Hunt.

But the girl was spot-on.

So when I moved to Liberia, I didn't expect to make friends. Acquaintances, sure, but not friends. Imagine my surprise when I met a girl I dread being away from. What an effing coup.

Then, another realization: I understand outsiders in a way I'll never get my family. People ask me what it's like to meet relatives in Liberia. My response is always "Cool" but what I mean to say is "Quiet." If my growing up in the States built a wall between the family and me, the war here added barbed wire and a moat. Our lives have neither overlapped nor run parallel; the teens are as unknowable as the elders. I so want memories with them but can't get past stare, smile, glance at clock.

I wish Edith had also told me that someday, my family would appear, one by one, and we'd have nothing to say to one another.

Identity

I can count on one hand the number of times I've screamed the F-word at the top of my lungs.

Three of these incidents took place in the last year. 

F #3 echoed down Church Street when I crushed my finger in the front door. 

F #4 earned a stern look from my mother, who'd just beaten me at Scrabble by one point.

F #5 was tonight when someone left a little virus on my flash drive, destroying every essay, every MP3, every photo to my name.

For an hour, there was no record anywhere of my twenties. I went totally ghost. 

And my first impulse was to throw up.

My mind went to my birth certificate -- was I still on the grid? What is it about property that makes you feel you exist because of it? I am not my flash drive. I have memory, too. I didn't suddenly not go to India because I lost the photos. Elliott Smith is waiting for me on iTunes. And I write essays in my sleep. Yet I felt as though I'd actually float away.

My evil-genius ex somehow restored everything. (I basically owe him a child now.) Still, I think I'd like to spend less time behind cameras and keyboards and ear buds and more time actually being part of the world.

And anyone who asks to borrow my flash drive can go F himself. 

Tricks

In the States, Halloween was the one night that obliterated any trace of your day job. Wilma Flintstone over there with the PBR could be a sex worker or a surgeon.

In fact, you might lean towards "sex worker" based on the size of her costume and the way she's throwing herself at Shrek.

In Liberia, Halloween is a little less complicated. The costumed revelers belong to an NGO, a grad school or an embassy. That's it. Mystery solved. The prostitutes still dress like themselves and nobody blurs the line. (This makes it very easy to stalk your prey online later, but we'll address that another day.)

There are no bookstores or cafes in Liberia so, clearly, there is no shop from which to rent a costume. You get creative. I turned a bed skirt, an Ace bandage and baby powder into an homage to Bride of Frankenstein. Someone came as the 80s. There was a giant baby, a German rapper and Gaddafi.

It was almost like being in New York. There was even a girl in the corner giving a lap dance.

Except here, the girl really was a prostitute. And I'm pretty sure the guy was a government official.

Hmm. Nevermind. It was exactly like being in New York.

Treats

There. Not one more word about outfits or photos. But today is, technically, Halloween, so I was feeling frisky.

           

Time

I spent three years in San Francisco getting calls at dawn from friends (on the East Coast) and family (in Liberia) with no understanding of how time zones work. I was eternally behind, expected to catch up.

Now it is me who is hours and hours ahead of my beloveds.

It's the worst.

By the time you guys are all simultaneously conscious (sometime around noon in Los Angeles), I'm deep in a mixed drink.

Time is an especially nebulous thing in Liberia.

A guy here told me, "If I have to wait three hours for a meeting to start and didn't bring anything to read, that's my own fault. I should have known better." I had no idea how serious he was being.

I'm invited to an event that starts at 1pm. Everyone else is told it starts at 12pm. I arrive at 12:15. No one else arrives until 2:30. I was ready to fault the organizers until I was invited to brunch.

Me: Picking me up?
J: Sure.
Me: When?
J: What time is it?
Me: 12:45.
J: I'll be there in 20 minutes.
Me: Cool.
J: 20 Liberian minutes.
Me: Oh OK. I'll see you in an hour.

(J arrives at 2:06.)

Understandably, then, the second number stored in my phone was for Alpha, a taxi driver described as "brilliant" because he is always, always on time. This is key when the after-hours alternatives are

a) social suicide (having your mother drop you at a party), and

b) suicide (getting on the back of an unlicensed motorbike on a street without rules).

Traffic? In a rush? No problem! You've got options:

a) Get behind the car with Ministry or Presidential plates and cruise through the lane that magically appears in gridlock, or

b) Just drive in the ditch (also known as the sidewalk). Pedestrians don't have rights!

Please forgive me if, when I return to the States, I show up places long after you've left. Or take out a family of five on my way. Force of habit.

Theft

There are a lot of ways to steal in Liberia.

The Minister of Agriculture described how new technology catches poachers (and pirates!) in Liberian waters. Gotta protect the fish.

As for individuals, everyone with the means lives walled inside a gated compound. The guards never leave. The windows are barred, giving everything within their shadow a hint of prison until sunset. I am "safe." But none of this matters from 6-7pm when I stand nervously on the balcony, waiting for the generator to illuminate the corners of the house.

See, my mother waited all year to tell me thieves descended from the ceiling and pilfered everything in her bedroom. While she was asleep in it.

The same happened to a girl across town this month. Only her own security was kind enough to guide the thieves to her bedroom. While she was asleep in it.

Yet there are worse things than burglary, as I was reminded by our driver yesterday.

Me: I only ever see people missing a leg here.
Jerry: Personal preference.
Me: Whose?
Jerry: Evil people.
Me: Oh.
Jerry: It could be worse.
Me: What is worse?
Jerry: In Sierra Leone, they would stop you and ask if you wanted short or long sleeves.
Me: Long sleeves?
Jerry: Long sleeves meant they'd only cut off your hands.
Me: What if you didn't respond?
Jerry: You got a muscle shirt.

Once, I heard a character say, "I can't bring myself to eat a well-balanced meal in front of my mother. It means too much to her." I feel the same way about thanking my mom when she follows me to the gate with a flashlight  in the dark.

Not in Kansas Anymore

Sometimes I forget I'm in Liberia. When I'm in a hotel restaurant; when I'm arguing with my mother; when the radio plays Blondie; in these moments, I could easily be back home.

Then there are other moments.

When you see two people handcuffed together and strolling with no apparent supervision.

When you see a blind guy walking arm in arm with another guy...who is also blind.

When your friend says, "UN Police party?" and you say, "Sure" and find yourself drinking punch from the inside of a cooler and dancing by a pool with half of Serbia.

When you spend a perfect Sunday for seven in blue-gold water at Cece Beach and return to a car suddenly missing its battery.

And you curse for a minute, think of the deflated soccer balls and rickety fishing boats you watched go by all day, and get over it.

High School

You know the awkward childhood friend you keep around when you become popular?

If Liberia is that band geek, the U.S. is homecoming queen.

No one knows they go way, way back.

A family friend made a documentary called Liberia: America's Stepchild which describes how, in the 1820s, the U.S. decided to send liberated slaves to Africa and chose Liberia as its dock (regardless of where anyone was originally from). "150 years later, Liberians were divided into two distinct groups: the often privileged American descendants, known as Americo-Liberians, and the indigenous [majority]. It was a division that would lead to political unrest and, ultimately, sow the seeds of war" (PBS).

Understandably, the U.S. feels a certain...responsibility...and has spent billions to stabilize post-war Liberia.

Liberia is one of the two African nations that was never formally colonized but the influences from abroad are palpable.

The earliest explorers gave Portuguese names to entirely too many things. French is spoken along the borders with Cote d'Ivoire and Guinea. There are two tribes (including my dad's) that are descendants of North African traders and account for Liberia's large Muslim population.

American and British English are mashed up in vocabulary and pronunciation in Liberia. My mom has a really absurd accent, which I blamed on her 30 years at the U.N. I forget she grew up listening to the BBC long before boarding school in England and college in the States; she really never stood a chance at sounding like a person.

The capitol, Monrovia, is named for the fifth president. Of America. Some indigenous Liberians -- my family included -- acquired the Anglo surnames of the local missionaries. And much of the architecture and cuisine scream Gone With the Wind.

Basically, you want to stay on Liberia's good side: it quietly remembers the phases you pretend you never went through. (See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salad_days). 

Happy

I'm gonna go ahead and reference The Simpsons again.

Milhouse, for anyone who didn't grow up with the show, is Bart's sidekick. No one knows why they're friends. Wikipedia describes him as one of the only characters with "visible eyebrows." He has no game whatsoever and is allergic to everything.

Basically, he's me.

And one day, at last, his crush notices him. He then falls off a cliff, is caught by an eagle and exclaims, "Everything's coming up Milhouse!"

Well-said.

Today I awoke before the alarm (also known as Someone Screaming My Name). Papaya and pineapple awaited me. The rainy season has ended. I acquired no new ant bites. My phone has more than five contacts in it. There were no unexpected animals in my hall. And water poured from the faucets at noon.

Today I didn't even have to use my AK / I gotta say it was a good day

Chores

When you first move out of your parents' house, there are things you're sure you're done with.

Like washing dishes...on cue.

This wouldn't be quite so brutal if we had, you know, running water.

Everything here is as manual as humanly possible. (I was floored when I found myself in an automatic car; an English girl promptly reversed it into a wall.) The clean, dry laundry I used to spend an hour on takes three days in Liberia. This is especially irritating because we own a washer and dryer. I can see them, yet everything gets hand-washed and hung to dry. (This is as good a time as any to mention that this is the rainy season.) We're ahead of the game in that we have a covered balcony from which to drape our business: I've seen many a load of laundry drying on roadside boulders and patches of grass.

I've never used a lawn mower but it's got to be easier than the alternative which is, apparently, hacking wildly at the grass with a sword. Liberians call it a reaper, which sounds about right: if I had to stoop in the hot, hot sun with this thing, I'd probably just start taking people out.

Still, my free time revolves around stockpiling and rationing water in all its forms:

• Rain (for cleaning)
• Bought (for drinking)
• Spring (for cooking)
• Well (for bathing)

My mother wept when I finally understood the meaning of all of this. It was a pretty Helen Keller moment for us. 

Attire

As my friend Theresa will attest, I have five distinct wardrobes:

• Winter (which never saw the light of day in San Francisco)
• Summer (which never saw the light of day in San Francisco)
• Resort
• Weekday
• Real-life 

In Liberia, I have two:

• Everything I acquired in Liberia
• Everything I acquired elsewhere

As far as Liberian women are concerned, only one of the two is appropriate for a respectable lady. Most days, I compromise and go half-Liberian but, like my mother, I find myself more and more inclined to concede defeat entirely. 

How to Go Liberian

Have your half-sister take your newbie ass to the market at Waterside on a sweltering day. Dodge puddles and pickpockets. Peruse hundreds of lappas (massive swathes of fabric). Let your sister haggle in Liberian English. Trek uphill (remember, it's a scorcher) to your preferred tailor. The tailor will ask, "Neat?" and you will reply "Sure..." because your sister is on the terrace and because you don't know what this means. The tailor will eye you and commit your measurements to memory. Have your sister hand him an unknown number of Liberian dollars. Leave without giving any additional information. Return two days later. Proceed to zoot (be enviably stylish). 

The excess fabric is often used for a head-tie, which is exactly what it sounds like. There are no rules for tying a head-tie -- it's all very interpretive-dance. I haven't gotten around to this head-tie business but hope to man-up someday.

There is no pauper-chic hipster aesthetic in Liberia. If you're upper-class, the locals can spot it a mile away.

The whole system confuses me, though, having seen Prada and Harvard gear on a janitor. 

Landmarks

Tomorrow will mark four weeks in Liberia. Things are finally starting to make sense to me.

But I can't shake the feeling that directions should include a cross street and a subway stop. 

"Hey. Where are we meeting?"

"Tides."

"Where is Tides?"

"Waterside."

"What?" 

"Just tell the driver to take you to Tides. The cab will be $5."

"But I'm coming from--"

"Doesn't matter. $5."

I don't like not knowing where I'm going. I don't like it at all. I'm a quick study if I can just walk around but my mom's sure I'll be kidnapped by the opposition. (She forgets I come equipped with the Perry family rage and a mouth like a sailor -- I'd be returned by noon.)  

I get sent to places that are "near Nineteenth Street" or "at ELWA Junction" or "behind City Hall"  since only major streets are named: everything else is a dirt road or an alleyway identified by its distance from the fish market or by which politician once lived there. 

Landmarks are my best friends here. But not everyone sees the same landmark, revealing a lot about the person giving directions. 

"Hello?"

"Hi, I need a taxi."

"OK. Where are you?"

"At the compound next to Palm Spring Casino."

"Next to what?"

"Palm Spring?"

"The compound with the red gate?"

"Yeah."

"The one across from Charles Taylor's place?"

"Across from WHAT???"

The New York Times

A warlord during [Liberia's] civil war in the 1990's, Mr. Taylor became president after the war ended. His forces [coerced] children into combat and made the hacking off of limbs their signature.

In 2007 Mr. Taylor became the first African head of state to be brought before an international court on war crimes allegations when his trial opened in The Hague. He is charged with instigating murder, mutilation, rape and sexual slavery during intertwined wars in Liberia and Sierra Leone that claimed more than 250,000 victims from 1989 to 2003.

Only someone who watched the war from 4500 miles away would give Palm Spring Casino as the nearest signpost. The locals know better; they share a nightmare that had a street address.

Critters

Election Day

My mother spent forty years in the U.S. without ever becoming a citizen. I guess she was never in the mood.

So on Tuesday, in Liberia, she voted for the very first time.

How cool is that?

I used to think of voting as this slightly inconvenient thing I got shamed into doing. Then I saw people standing serenely in the sun, in the rain, in puddles of mud for hours just to choose someone.

It blew my mind.

And I've been waiting 29 years for a bloody nose, a constellation of bruises -- some kind of street cred -- and Liberia cheated me out of this. There were no fights to break up, no attacks or riots, no reports of tampering or bullying: it was a nation of people on horse tranquilizers.

My sedative wore off at 7pm when I realized we'd be counting votes for the next five hours by flashlight. (Electricity is an amazing thing when you want but don't have it.)

Most of the country is hard to access so it could be a week or more before the votes are in. Stay tuned.

Photo Credit: Josie Stewart

Proximity

I like a three-foot radius of personal space.

I thought this was a byproduct of 11 years on subways, but other New Yorkers don't mind being touched. Then I heard my half-sister say, "After five minutes of spooning, he'd better get away from me," and thought "Hot damn! It's genetic." But my sister grew up sleeping four to a bed; she's got an excuse. So maybe it isn't genetic.

Maybe it's just me being awkward, ticking the seconds I'm in someone else's grasp. 

This quirk will be the death of me in Liberia. Here, I spent ten sweaty hours in a child's chair in a packed, one-room schoolhouse observing elections. Here, I let the elderly knead my arm for the length of a car ride when they learn I'm related to so-and-so. Here, I let people hold (and swing) my hand indefinitely. I suffer in silence. 

There is no personal space in Liberia. My uncle, his wife and their children share a room; he also comes by unannounced to do laundry. Male adolescents hold hands as casually as children. Women actually pat and evaluate each other's fleshiness. Strangers lean against you, squeeze your shoulder, use your knee to steady themselves, offer you food, touch your clothing, touch your hair.

Yet I've never seen Liberians kiss.

It's the strangest thing.

I caught expats snuggling on wicker at a bar on Saturday and my stomach didn't turn. That was new. It was actually kind of...sweet.

So if I get nothing else from my year here, I can now tolerate appropriate forms of intimacy. (Or, you know, at least six minutes of spooning.)

Photo of the Day

Waiting to Vote

Nancy Drew

Today feels like a good day to get punched in the face. It'd be worth it.

Three weeks ago, in a haze of jet lag, I agreed to be an Observer at the presidential elections. From 8am to midnight, my little notepad and I are in sleuth mode ensuring everything's "free, fair and transparent."

"Non-violent" falls into the "Nice to Have, But Not Required" category.

Ihwiho!

Liberian slang for "American accent" is "series." I think.

No one knows how to spell the word because no one's ever written it down. And no one ever knows what I'm saying because I'm never saying it right.

American English Rule	U.S.	Liberia
Pronounce “h” after “t”	Thought	Taut
Roll medial “t” into a “d”	Wadder	Watah
Pronounce terminal "y"	Happy	Happeh
An “r” sounds like “r”	Our	Owa
Conjugate the past tense	Seemed	Seem

I have three versions of everything I say since my first two attempts are always met with confusion. And Liberians do not use contractions, so....

Words I Can No Longer Use

I'm

You'd

She's

It'll

We're

They've

Get a Liberian teen to text you -- it'll age you ten years. (Did you know "d" means "the"?) 

The title of today's post is the president's battle cry. It took me two damn weeks to decipher: It Will Hold.

Sometimes I wonder if Liberians have united just to mess with me. Then I remember they have more important things to address: an entire generation missed going to school and more than half the population is considered illiterate. But this is a country in which only two of the 20 dialects are written -- Liberians were bound to do fascinating things with spoken word.

I hope they don't mind me butchering it a bit.

Pax

On Tuesday, Liberians will choose one of sixteen (what?!) candidates to take care of business for the next six years. This is a huge deal for a country that was still at war in '03.

There are only two parties worth putting money on:

• UP, powered by women and the elite
• CDC, powered by young, marginalized men

I drew the following parallel in traffic tonight. (Yeah. I'm a nerd. It's totally fine.)

President	VP	2005/2008	2011/2012
Ellen Johnson Sirleaf (UP)	Joe Boakai	Deified after groundbreaking win. Harvard grad. Inherited a mess from predecessor. Nobel laureate.	Second term in doubt.  Vilified domestically over broken promises.
Barack Obama (Democrat)	Joe  Biden

vs.

Candidate	VP	The Gist	Notes
Winston Tubman (CDC)	George Weah (Soccer Star)	Repeat candidate. Appeals to an older generation. Connects with combatants.	Upstaged by younger, lightweight,  random running mate with  a fanatical  following
John McCain (Republican)	Sarah Palin (Alaskan)

Here's hoping it's a peaceful election. I like it here. 

Thank You

Three weeks after my first post, I'm at 999 page views.

I realize that most of these are from a handful of you (Aaron), but thank you to anyone who has ever read my rambling and thought, however briefly, "Cool."

Humor

One time, at Salesforce, Lydia told a joke.

Lydia: What do you get when you pour hot water on bunnies?
Me: I dunno. Bunny stew?
Lauren: Dead bunnies?

(The correct answer, friends, is "Hot cross bunnies.")

My mother says I'm macabre. (Clearly, she hasn't met Lauren.)

"When did you get so wry, Vee?" she carps.

Let me clue you in on Liberian humor.

Mom: Pierre, I hope you bought gas for the stove or else what'll we eat?
Pierre: There's plenty of food in the bush.
Mom: I think you guys ate it all during the war.
Pierre: There is still some left.

Neither misses a beat or cracks a smile; I'm in the backseat, hysterical.

So let's be honest: a sunny disposition was never in the cards for me.

The Insider II

What did I tell you?

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-15211861

This year's Nobel Peace Prize has been awarded jointly to three women - Liberian President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, Liberian Leymah Gbowee and Tawakkul Karman of Yemen. (4 minutes ago)

The Insider

My mother was one of those kids who probably never believed in Santa. Maybe she had some secret source. Maybe she was playing the odds, just in case.

But at dawn, she pounced on my bed like bloody Christmas morning. Today, as usual, she knew something no one else knew. 

My mom is the president's speechwriter and the Communications Director of Liberia. She is 65 and, allegedly, retired. Scrabble stops and dinners congeal when she gets a call from a private number: she grabs a pen, clears her throat and answers, "Good evening, Madame President."

Madame President is her secret source. 

(My mom's a lot cooler than I am.) 

Have you ever played Telephone? In this version, the Nobel Committee tells the president she's strongly favored, the president tells my mom and my mom, who has something to say about everything, has no words. She throws away breakfast and runs to work half-dressed to start on a speech. 

Just in case. 

State of the Union

Elections are five days away.

I wanted to sum up the situation in Liberia. Then this crossed my path (courtesy of Josh) and said exactly what I wanted to.

Diplomacy

Our fridge has all of two things on it. One is a photo of me at five. The other is a magnet that says LIBYA. 

Two years ago, I couldn't find my mom for the life of me. She surfaces a week later to say she'd been flown to the desert to talk shop over camel milk with Gaddafi. (Note: this is not even the strangest thing this woman has ever said.)

It helps to know that Libya was a major benefactor of Liberia. As you can imagine, this became...tricky.

We're driving through Monrovia, for example, and Pierre says, "That's Gaddafi's building." I look up: it's U.N. headquarters.

Liberia severed relations with Libya this year. Unfinished projects (rice paddies, rubber farms) dot our country; the saddest and least-practical of these is the five-star hotel that was also, later, a homeless shelter.

Once, I asked a family friend what she was still doing with her husband. Not one of her reasons was entirely satisfactory. I must have gotten her thinking because a year later she left him.

I guess being friends with Gaddafi was a lot like that.

Venn Diagram

Age

So I'm reading a Nigerian tabloid this morning (it's best to just ignore all the weirdness in that sentence...) and settle on an interview with some actress.

Question: At 30, one should be thinking of settling down in marriage; is that on your priorities list?

Answer: {Irrelevant}

Question: But don't you think you're running out of time as far as marriage is concerned?

Hmm.

On the next page is a completely different interview. The interviewee is 28.

Question: Don't you think a time will come when men will be scared of you?

So now I know: it's a full-on conspiracy.

In the States, I never thought anything about turning 29. But in Africa, I'm...well, I'm starting to understand this scene:

Carrie: Hey, what the hell was going on in there?

Miranda: We were standing in a group of married or engaged women. We were the only single people in there.

Carrie: Miranda, we’re the only single people anywhere.

Miranda: Are you telling me that you didn’t see all those "Don´t worry, you’ll find someone" looks?

Carrie: You know what? Sometimes I think people and couples look at us and wish they had our lives.

Miranda: Nope, we make them uncomfortable and they don’t know what to say.

Personally, I don't worry about men or children. But Liberians do. And nearly everyone my age has a kid who can divide 144 by 12.

So I worry them.

"No fiancé back home?"

"Nope."

"Then you'll start looking when you go back?"

"Not really."

"How so? In Liberia, we don't rest until we're married."

"Oh. No I'm good, thanks."

Percentage of Population Under Age 14

Liberia: 44% 

U.S.A.: 20% 

That is a ton of Liberian children. It's also not uncommon to have kids early and get married 5-15 years later. I heard a radio show attack the lack of family values in Liberia; my mother countered that when your life is cut in two by war, you create stability however you can -- getting a ring was the least of a girl's worries.

Until now, apparently.

I hope my people don't mind if I sit this one out. I'll watch silently from the bleachers.

Ten-Four

I’ve been asked to post a picture of myself, which I had no intention of ever doing.

Not sure why I'm getting social media requests from someone who won’t join FaceBook (Janna) but today is my birthday and I’m in good spirits.

Photo of the Day

Campaign Rally in Sinkor

Entitlement

On Saturday, my mother’s phone rang. I heard her say, “OK” and hang up. Three minutes later I heard “Pohk-Pohk!” at the back gate: our security guard was awaiting the breakfast we had, evidently, promised her.

My mom’s beau, Pierre, keeps a mess of Liberian dollars in the glove compartment. I saw him dip into this stash three times that afternoon without actually purchasing anything.

Incident #1 involved the same security guard who, when asked how she was, replied, “OK, but nahting here,” which means, “I didn’t bring anything for lunch, which has somehow become your problem.” Pierre handed her 100 Liberian dollars and pulled out of the gate.

Incident #2 was a payment of 10 Liberian dollars to each of 10 rapscallions who had sacrificed a sandal apiece to watch (with joy) as our Jeep rolled over their shoes. Mom jested that they’d earned remuneration. Pierre took her seriously and, like a shopping mall Santa, had the boys line up for face-time and treats.

Incident #3 was the strangest by far. We’d pulled over to admire a carpenter’s handiwork when a cop reached his unsolicited hand into the passenger window and across my mother to shake Pierre’s hand; Pierre obliged. I’m still not sure they’d ever met but it doesn’t matter because the cop said to Pierre, “Saturday dry, oh.” This means, “I’m out of cash and my wife expects me to return with groceries.” Pierre sighed and tossed him a bill.

Some in the Liberian upper-class kvetch that this is a nation of dependents, of people who expect a salary for doing nothing and kickbacks for doing their jobs. But perhaps the accusation could be lobbed at the upper-class, too.

Finally, I had to ask, “Why are we giving away money?”

Mom said, “Because we have it.”

“And?”

“Because now we're entitled to a favor.”

The whole thing gnaws at me.

Beirut: Part II

I had the illest hummus at brunch yesterday, which got me thinking about a lot of things (but mostly: hummus). And as far as I can tell, Lebanon runs this town. (See http://tinyurl.com/6bqamdf).

It's a really interesting interaction because North Africa and sub-Saharan Africa have some beef I don't understand.

Though there is intermingling here, there doesn't seem to be intermarriage. This so perplexed me that I started asking around. This just about sums it up:

Me: Do you know anyone Lebanese married to a Liberian?
Mom: Well, the women return to Lebanon at a certain age.
Me: Do you know any Lebanese men married to Liberians?
Mom: No.
Me: No?
Mom: Well, there's one.
Me: So, there's one.
Mom: Yeah but the woman is half-Lebanese.
Me: So, no.
Mom: No.

My buddy recounted a story about "getting Leb'd" at dinner for seven one night. What in the hell, you ask? This is when a group goes out to eat (or drink or dance) and the well-to-do Lebanese in the posse up and pays for everybody.

Honestly, I hope to be baller enough to not only cover dinner for seven but do so so consistently that the act bears my name.

That is all. As you were.

Beirut: Part I

Have you been to a frat party in Liberia? It's exactly like the ones in the States except that....no, it's exactly the same.

Friday found me in a palaver hut (read: gazebo) with my mouth hanging open while twenty Beck's-wielding non-Africans stood mesmerized by beer pong (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beer_pong).

Adding insult to injury, the game took place on an official beer pong table. 

I want to know the thought process behind not just purchasing but transporting this thing to Africa.

Lictionary II

Small-small (idiom):
Little by little

So-so (adj.)
A lot of

Hallahalla (n.):
A ruckus

Hellbag (n.):
Any massive, heavy sac used to transport whatever to wherever

Dash (n.)
That little extra you request when buying in bulk or for being a regular, which the shopkeeper concedes to because (s)he's always already overcharging you anyway. (May also be used as a verb.)

Photo of the Day

Mischief in Snapper Hill

Débutante

My mother has taken it upon herself to make my year in Liberia some sort of coming-out extravaganza (Southern belle style, rather than un-closeted). I’m not sure she realizes I’m:

1. Not 15
2. Voluntarily single, and
3. A Yank

but I’ll let her have her fun. And everywhere that Shirley went, I was sure to go. (Think Mary’s little lamb hiding deadpan delivery.)

From 9 to 9, I’m never rumpled. My dresses graze the floor. I smell the way Sookie does to Bill. I am charming and always, always beaming. I go to dinners at the Chinese Embassy and lower my gaze and say, “Hello, Mr. Vice President. The country sings your praises. What an honor to meet you.”

At 9:01pm, I put on American Apparel and blast something dirty.

I don’t know where the template is but I’m certain there is one. “Hello [Title] [Last Name]. This is my daughter. She has moved home from the States. Her father was the Austin Perry of Cape Mount. She’s a wonderful writer.” And the person invariably responds, “Of course she’s a Perry: look at her face. I knew her pa.” And I show 32 teeth and shake hands and say something I heard in a movie.   

I allow all of this because, in her intros, I learn answers to things I would never ask my mom, like:

Do you want to leave Liberia?

and

Do you miss my dad?

and

Do you like my writing?

I imagine the answer to the last one is “Yes” until she finds my blog. (Hi Mom!)