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!)

Dictation

So yesterday, I’m reading aloud to a girl I am, evidently, mentoring. It...did not go well.

Me: "The seller stated that when he must go to town with the orders…"

J: {Typing} THE SAILOR STATED THAT. WIN HE MUST! GO TO TOWN WITH THE OTHERS.

Me: Sorry – I meant "seller." S-E-L-L-E-R.

J: It ends in "i"?

Me: No, "r". {Points to "r" on the keyboard} Which letter is this?

J: “Ara.”

Me. Hmm. Let’s try another one. "In March, the troops…"

J: {Typing} AND MUSH THEM THROUGH…

Me: No, "March."

J: Right. {Points to “MUSH” onscreen}

Me: Wait. How do you say the third month of the year?

J: Wha munt?

Me: The one after February.

J: Oh! Deh terd munt?

Me: Yes! What’s that called?

J: "Mosh."

Me: Why don’t we both just read quietly for a while.