Out of Africa

Last night I left the continent for the first time since arriving.

That's nine months. I could have become someone's mommy in all that time. {{shiver}}

Departing is bittersweet and all but, man, did I need a dose of first-world problems (also known as live-action www.whitewhine.com). I turn to Wikipedia to some shed light:

Out of Africa is a 1985 romantic drama film starring Robert Redford and Meryl Streep. Denys prefers the free, nomadic life of the Maasai tribe on the open landscape to [Karen's] European customs of luxury, ownership and titles.

Nine months into my trek, I'm equal parts Denys and Karen; I'll let you know which way I tip.

And if you find yourself in London or Indonesia or Berlin in the next thirty days, look a girl up.

No Country

My mom is not, by anyone's definition, patriotic; still, I never thought anything of her not getting a U.S. passport despite 45 years of residence.

I, myself, have been carrying two passports for no real reason since I turned 21. I'd never even used the Liberian passport until I drove to Sierra Leone last month (when, suddenly, it was useful to be an African traveler). At the border, after being laughed at by idle customs agents for not being especially Liberian, this transpired:

Agent: You sound American.

Me: I grew up there. 

Agent: When did you come to Liberia?

Me: September. 

Agent: Why are there no stamps in this passport?

Me: I just renewed it.

Agent: When did it expire? 

Me: Years ago.

Agent: You came into the country with an expired passport?

Me: No. I used my American one.

Agent: How is that possible? You can't be both.

Me: I can't be both?

Agent: It's against the law.

Me: How is that possible? 

Agent: It just is. 

Me: And no one said anything when I asked to be Liberian?

Agent: Hmm. Yeah. You fell through the cracks. 

I have since verified that I am, indeed, totally illegally carrying a foreign passport in addition to my Liberian one. It seems I'm going to have to pick one. (Is eenie-meenie appropriate?)

I had a friend, M, who used to refer to certain situations as reverse-racism, suggesting that actual  racism only went one way along the human greyscale. I always thought that was funny. Expats sometimes refer to Liberia's citizenship requirements as racist. So does Wikipedia:

Its citizenship laws have been widely accused of being explicitly racist. Multiple citizenship was not permitted nor is it permitted in revisions of the constitution. Liberia is also one of the relatively few remaining countries in the world conferring nationality solely on the basis of race. Only persons of black African origins may obtain citizenship (although Liberian law allows members of other races to hold permanent residency status).Within Liberia itself, the wider implications of the policy are part of a heated debate in which native Liberians themselves have acknowledged that non-African permanent residents are crucial contributors to the country's economic activities and innovation system, mainly the wealthy and affluent Lebanese community.

So on the one hand, you've got foreigners who settle in and fall in love with Liberia but are never allowed in the club; then you've got brats like me who don't know anything about anything but get a membership card without trying (as long as I, you know, resign from all the other clubs).

There are repatriates here who spent years abroad but have always, always been Liberian and would forfeit citizenship elsewhere in a heartbeat. I haven't decided whether this is patriotism or a way to mollify resentment towards the been-tos -- Liberians who have lived or studied in (and, thus, been to) the West. I am not a been-to and feel no such guilt. But my mother is. And for all her beef with the country, her passport will always read L-I-B-E-R-I-A.

And when the men come for me, I will give them back my Liberian passport and thank them for letting me visit.

Bonding

Me: Hey Will.
Will: Hey.
Me: Would you like to drive my family north on a creep-tastic Sunday adventure?
Will: YES.

 

 

UNMIL

Stories like this 

have always irked me since 

once upon a time 

my mom 

was one 

of those UN folks 

shot 

just going to work one day.

Liberia, Ivory Coast Disagree Over Deadly Ambush on UN

Liberia has called a deadly ambush Friday on a village across the border in Cote d'Ivoire an "act of terrorism" and has ordered the immediate closure of the border. But the Liberian government has said it cannot confirm whether the attackers came from within its territory, while the Ivorian government firmly asserts they did.

The ambush killed seven UN peackeepers, eight civilians, and a soldier.

The United Nations Mission in Liberia (UNMIL) that has a 8,000-man peacekeeping force in the small West African nation, also condemned the attack. The ambush has been the most recent in a series of attacks on Ivorian villages since last year’s post election crisis that officially ended with the April 10, 2011 capture of former Ivorian President Laurent Gbagbo.

(Source: http://tinyurl.com/cjo3cua)

Stars and Stripes

I have never been to the Grand Canyon. I've never seen the Mohave or Rushmore or the Great Lakes. I've never had beignets in New Orleans or lobster in Maine. All the bison I've ever seen were through a date's binoculars in Golden Gate Park. I have never been fishing or seen a prison town or ordered a milkshake. I have never called a soda pop. Did you know you can grow up on East 30th and not once climb the Empire State Building on West 34th? You can.

I never thought about how cool any of this might be until I left America. And not "cool" as in bursting-with-Williamsburg-irony (contrary to what Sylvan refers to as my alleged "hipster sympathies"). No. I mean, sincerely cool.

It was here in Liberia that I first had pork chops with applesauce, a dish I truly believed only the existed in the Brady home. (For the record, this wasn't on a menu: some English dude made it. And it was rad.) In Liberia, I blast '90s radio with heavy bass as I drive home. In Liberia, I steam Brussels sprouts and read On The Road. Being here, somehow, has made me more American.

And also less. I frequently cover my mouth in shock when I hear myself say:

"EHN!?" ("What did you say?")
"Wha you seh?" ("'Sup?")
"Wheh you goeen so?" ("Where in the hell are you off to?")
"Ehn-hehn!" ("See? I told you!")
"Tenk you yah" ("Thanks, dude.")

"No" and "Hello" now have an extra "oh" at the end as far as I'm concerned.

Welcome to Survival 101.

The thing is, though, that I was always more afraid to see the States than I was to fly alone to Namibia at 8 or trek alone to Thailand at 27. No one knows how overwhelming the endless plains and 'burbs and kitsch of America are to a city kid born to foreigners. Last week, I confessed that the sound of cars reminded me that the world hadn't disappeared; two Dutch girls and a German laughed. They thought I was kidding but I was not: small towns scare me. (Don't even get me started on the countryside.)

But here I am, living in Liberia like it ain't no thing. Where is the logic? How can I roadtrip it through Africa without really seeing the country that made me? I'm doing it all backwards -- something about knowing where you going by knowing where you come from springs to mind.

So it's settled. Next spring: America by car, East Africa by Jeep. Be prepared. I will roll up on you, wherever you may be. (Please disregard my accent.)

AC/DC

Last week, I discovered this fascinating thing called thunder. You may think you've met thunder; you have not.

Imagining cannons in a cave in an earthquake? You're still way, way off.

I was sure the world was folding in on itself. I fell out of bed. Knots knit their way across my back as the sky lit up in warning. I shook; the house shook. I hid under the pillow; I hid under Will.

(Do skyscrapers muffle thunder? Does open water intensify it? Should I have seen 2012? Does it hold an explanation?)

Then: stillness. The power died, the fan sputtered off. I checked my phone: it was 12:51am. Good: just six hours of restless sweating until the alarm.

There is no sleep without electricity. My life is dictated by that humming cube of metal: the generator.

Monday-Friday

Wake up at 7am. Wake up again at 7:30am. Cook.

Remember at 7:59am that generator shuts off at 8am; bathe under a trickle (or wait 11 hours). 

Perspire standing still until 8:30am.

Hop in mercifully air-conditioned car.

Arrive in mercilessly air-conditioned office.

Turn off air-conditioning at 9:01am. Open terrace door.

Remember what generator sounds like; suffer through 8 hours of dull jack-hammering.

Race to finish Emails before WiFi and power die at 4:59pm.

Hop in mercifully air-conditioned car.

Melt in humid, darkening house from 5:30 to 6:59pm.

Grin when you hear the generator come to life at 7pm.

Contemplate doing laundry in the two-hour window you now have. Decide against it.

Cook/read/Scrabble in front of the fan until 8:59pm.

Sit in the dark at 9pm.

Continue to cook/read/Scrabble at 9:01pm when the second generator turns on. 

Shower (hallelujah!) and brush teeth in questionable tap water (which will, inevitably, run dry  overnight because there's a secret leak in the reservoir on the roof. Wait two days for refill).

Fall asleep in front of the fan.

Wake up shivering at 2am.

Wake up at 7am. Wake up again at 7:30am. Cook.

Realize at 7:59am that you forgot to charge your phone/laptop/toothbrush/Kindle.

Hear generator shut off at 8am.

Chuck something breakable across the room.