Cat Call

Today, I lived the dream of straight guys the world over: I got hollered at by a smiling schoolgirl in a uniform.

To quote Closer, "It was the moment of my life." There I was, stuck in traffic, listening to smooth jazz (...), patting myself on the back with a "Well done, Avs."

Then I remembered I was in Liberia.

And the schoolgirl wasn't flirting at all: she was getting my attention so she could cross the road.

Today, I lived the disappointment of straight guys the world over.

Liberians of both genders respond to the ksss-ksss sound that says, "Waiter/stranger/prospective lover, please look in this direction," turning the world into an endless construction site.

Personally, I refuse to respond to a ksss-ksss from anybody.

Until today, that is.

Evidently, I'm a sucker for a girl in uniform.

How Liberia is like Game of Thrones

Last month, I devoured two seasons of medieval porn (more commonly known as Game of Thrones) in six days. Then I re-entered the outside world and wondered whether I was still in Westeros.

• Liberia has a recurring cast of lords (called Big Men) vying for the Iron Throne. 
• Liberia has rebellious wildlings whom the city-dwellers keep an eye on. 
• Liberia has confusing, drawn out civil wars -- no dragons, though, just gunfire. 
• Liberians use black magic against their enemies. 
• Liberia has traditional religions ("the old gods...) and Christianity ("...and the new"). 
• Introductions to strangers must ultimately answer the question, "Who you ma, who you pa?" 
• Most of the population lives in super simple shelters.  
• Prostitutes are a totally regular part of society.  
• Kids are casually given away to be raised by other families.

This place is almost art. To quote my imaginary friend Method Man, "I like the misery. I like this world."

Marley

I loathe earrings. I went out of my way to get six piercings that now sit idly like freckles. Under the weight of a look from my mother, I may cave and wear studs but that's it. The idea of gleaming, wiggly metals hanging off the sides of my face is just wrong.

I can't be bothered with the decoration.

So you'll understand, then, why I chopped half my hair pre-Liberia and the other half mid-venture. On a practical level, I know myself: I am irritable and twelve months of sweaty strands gingerly cupping my neck was not, at any point, an option. On the vanity front, however, I had no intention of dating (...) and wanted to see if I could still look at myself in the mirror unadorned.

As it turns out, I can. Cool. Experiment over. I'll be growing out my "Jewfro" until 2014. (For the record, my great-grandpa's last name was Kaulmann; "Jewfro" applies.)

My haircut was never supposed to be a discussion piece but I came to the wrong damn country to go unnoticed.

On Saturday, I made my first trek to Exodus, a hotspot for the locals. The place has good music. I like that. But you've got to be in the right mood: you've got to be cool with some guy's sweaty hand gingerly cupping one of your buns. It's like New York with cheap beer.

But I digress.

In 90 minutes at Exodus, I had two complete strangers (one male, one female) come up behind me and grab a handful of my hair. And hold onto it. Before starting a conversation with me. I can't even convey the depth of the violation that is having a stranger -- one who is not shampooing you -- grip your skull. I have no words. In Liberia, though, hair is more or less community property.

And with good reason.

Almost no women go into public with their own hair. Hair is bought. (The best lit shop on Airfield Road looks like American Apparel but is actually a wig vendor.) Wigs are socially acceptable -- no, socially prescribed -- in the capital and elsewhere. Women actually sporting their own thick hair fall into three categories:

• Women whose household budgets don't allow for things like wigs;

• Dreadlock rastas quietly growing in numbers, influenced by Jamaica and Sierra Leone; and 

• Neo-hippie repatriates who were born and/or grew up in the States. (Hi!)

A wig is an important status symbol for the upwardly mobile. The hair pieces in question, though, are not even a little bit natural looking: these are flowing, Harlequin novel tresses. And because they're expensive and malodorous when wet, you'll see women drenched in rain capped with plastic bags. When they aren't busy keeping the hair dry, women are seen slapping their hot, itchy scalps through layers of wig. There are few things stranger than a composed bank teller or supermarket cashier suddenly beating the crown of her head (repeatedly and without explanation).

I will stick with my fro, thanks. But I may take to wearing a hat.

Spectator

This weekend, I buckled and watched Zoolander, a film I'd never seen (or ever wanted to see) in its entirety. I now join the rest in the globe in praise of "Blue Steel".

Something was missing in it for me, though, and my enthusiasm was tepid and fleeting. It was a lot like watching sports.

Later, I stood with a beer on a friend's balcony. In the distance, virgin marshland; below, Slipway Community. Slipway is a shantytown of zinc-roofed shacks and squatters packed so tightly that adults must get stuck in the alleys. And from my perch above Slipway, I watched the Liberia-Nigeria football (err...soccer) match.

I use the term "watched" loosely, however, because I didn't actually see the game. (That doesn't sound like me at all.) Instead, I watched the reactions of the Slipway children, pouring out of their homes at regular intervals, screaming and running with their tiny fists in the air. Every climactic moment yielded the intense collective cry of five dozen kids on a sliver of land. I eventually dragged myself inside to join the dinner party I'd come for and which, through no fault of its own, fell flat in comparison to the scene outside. The match was a draw but it didn't matter: up and down Tubman Blvd, crowds roared. You've never seen a city celebrate 2-2 so proudly for miles. Motorbike drivers did handstands on handlebars. There was spontaneous dancing. Fans trickled out of the stadium on the cusp of religious ecstasy and walked the hour home in darkness. This was my introduction to vicarious euphoria. It's electric. (Boogie woogie woogie.)

In future, I think I'll experience the things I've avoided through the visceral joy of Liberian spectators. It is so much better than watching the real thing.

Now then. How to get a shantytown to watch tennis and Austin Powers...

Shortest. Visit. Ever.

Liberians don't know anything about looking their age or counting calories so they are missing the tact that comes with living in the West.

Last weekend, I walked into my aunt's house.

Me: Hi Aunty Mary.
Mary: I seh, Avril, you gettin' hips finally. Come so, turn 'round.
Me:  Okay then, great chatting with you. Mom, I'll just collect you later.

I think I'll stay indoors 'til I turn 30. Twenty-five days isn't so long.