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