Grooves

I used to complain about uninspired, repetitive radio play in the States but the U.S. has nothing on Liberia. One morning, I heard a new Liberian song on my drive to work. Then I heard it again. I went into the bank, returned to the car, and heard the song two more times.

That's four times in twenty three minutes. On the same station.

And it wasn't even a good song. It was bad from the get-go. Combine terrible techno with lazy R&B and every unimaginative lyric you've ever heard.

Much of the catchy music in Liberia isn't Liberian. There's a song in particular by Nigerian twins about a guy whose girlfriend steals money from him. (It's all good, though, because she's beautiful.) This song makes me want to take a running leap into an empty pool. I was sure it had been quarantined to the region until I heard it in a bar in South Africa last month. Nightmare.

On occasion, though, a song will make you feel good and you'll look forward to it on a Friday night. Sometimes I like a song but haven't mastered the lyrics and just decide what the words are. This would probably work in America -- not so much here. One of my favorites, from Ghana, is about a guy...schooling...his girl. And I convinced myself that if I just kept singing along, the lyrics would reveal themselves to me. Today I succumbed to my own OCD and Googled the words. Surprise! Half the damn song is not in English. I know what you're thinking: no big deal, it's like Reggaeton, right? It is NOTHING like Reggaeton! Daddy Yankee's singing a language most of you learn anyway!  (If you retained nothing from high school Spanish, I have no sympathy.) How am I supposed to learn this song!?

Take it slow baby and wind for me
Move it closer and do let me see
You want to know the thing, you for be humble
Make you no dey take am dey gamble
Ino be gidigidi ibe simple
Make you no dey rush am so you no go fumble
Yde agorT yi reba wo fie den ne amirikatuo yi
I can give to you all nite long
If you feel it sing the song
Ybhyeea hyeea ay sono
Ybhye soa hye so a agye s anTpa nTn krono
(Gye s anTpa nTn krono) ansaana ybie yn pono yeaa
P wizzle tell al di likkle gal dem

I asked Will if I was the only one in Liberia singing songs in languages that knot my tongue -- surely Liberians, many of whom were displaced by the war, picked up the dialects of neighboring countries and understand the songs they are shaking to on the dance floor?

Not so.

Kinda cool, though, no? And trusting, like getting a tattoo in a language you can't read. Sadly, I am not a trusting person and will be translating all tunes from now on.

Edgy

The guys I know seem to get a real kick out of living in neighborhoods with edge. I guess the grit makes them feel a little powerful and dangerous. I thought about this the week my car was in the shop. The shop is part of a chain operating in only two cities.

Monrovia. Kabul.

Who in the world opens a business in Liberia and Afghanistan? An effing genius. 

Civil conflict is big, big business. (See Why We Fight if you think I lie.)  People need things. And things cost a bloody fortune.

Money aside, fragile states give you insta-street cred. Last month, in Cape Town:

- Hello! Welcome to the estate.
- Hi. I'm Avril, this is Will. We wanna ride horses and we wanna quad bike.
- You want to do...both?
- Yeah, we leave tomorrow. We have none of this stuff where we live.
- Where do you live?
- Liberia.
- Siberia!
- Liberia.
- Good God, that's worse. [Concerned maternal look]

This happened two or three times during that trip. ("Gun or machete?" a waiter asked, peeking under the table.) And since every report, article, and documentary about Liberia starts with the words "devastating," "fourteen-year" and "civil war." I don't blame people for thinking I'm in danger. Late last year, a journalist was overheard calming his irate girlfriend back home. Why hadn't he her called in days and days?  "Baby, baby, it's crazy here, alright? I'm in a war zone."

This was in an air-conditioned hotel lounge with WiFi and flat screens. The sun was shining.

So let me set the record straight. There are no bullets whizzing overhead -- I'll more likely get caught in a rip current or hit by a student driver. Crutched former child soldiers hold your car door open for you as you fumble with your shopping bags. I found myself in the passenger seat of a 4x4 at a 45-degree angle and not two minutes later had been pushed from the ditch by dry strangers who marched confidently into shin-high water. Someone will probably tell you your twenty is hanging from your pocket. Ghost stories keep me off the beach at night but, hell, that's basic self-preservation. There are occasional muggings and break-ins, fine, fine, but nothing explodes unexpectedly in the middle of the day.

Heartmen aside, I'd say I'm safer than the lot of you.

M.D.

Today I had the option to buy a clean bill of health for $50 or obtain a health certificate based on actual examination. Having nothing better to do, I figured I'd go to a Liberian clinic.

1pm. The receptionist is singing to herself and texting vigorously. The sign on the wall says Give only tay-tay water to your baby from birth until six months. That means, "Breastfeed your kids, kids." Newcomers to the waiting room instinctively greet the group; I immediately feel awful for not having done so. The crowd is transfixed by a 20-inch TV on the counter: there's an African soap on. The storyline involves a shipwreck and, somehow, an extramarital affair. The men and women across from me are heatedly analyzing the series though I'm pretty sure they're strangers to each other. The receptionist is still singing. A patient leaves the building briefly and returns with a beer and a bottle opener. The man across from me is asleep; he's in a green, short-sleeved suit. The woman beside me whips out her boob. The pharmacy door is wide open, leaving the drugs  completely unguarded. No one attempts to steal them. The sign on the wall says Go to the big belly clinic four times before delivery. My name is called. The doctor has to ask me questions twice because I don't know what he's saying. He puts a thermometer into my armpit and weighs me in kilograms. I have no idea what's going on. He sends me to the lab for some series of tests. The lab tech stabs me in the finger without warning and without gloves (bless her heart). She gives me a cup. I climb the stairs and dodge a leaky roof to find the Female Bathroom. There is no lock. There are no curtains, either, so it's just me and the traffic. I look around. Surely there's a paper bag or an opaque box in which to clandestinely transport my business through the bloody waiting room? Nope. There's no toilet paper but there is soap. The only working faucet is in the bathtub. Steeped in Western modesty, I wrap a trusty Kleenex around the cup and carry it proudly through the crowd. I needn't bother; no one is interested. They've all got lives. The tests say I'm clean. I pay $11. I pass a woman selling scoops of hot lunch from a plastic box. I leave. It's 3pm. I see now why the guy brought a beer to the doctor.

The Gossip

"The greatest trick the devil ever pulled 

was convincing the world that he didn't exist." 

- The Usual Suspects

I drove my mother to the president's house to pick something up or drop something off. She showed her face and the gate swung open. (Only in Liberia.) She climbed out of the car and into the arms of an official who asked her who I was.

- I'm her daughter.
- Daughter!?
- Yeah.
- How long have you been here!?
- A year.
- Why do we never see you??
- Umm...I keep a low profile.

The mouths of the nearby SSS guards fell open. "A low profile?" they mused.

Let me explain.

1. It is near impossible to go incognito in Monrovia.
2. I am the only person who wants to go incognito in Monrovia.

This is especially difficult given that I'm voluntarily on the outside of not one but two social groups -- Liberian "society" and the expatriate scene. Trying not to get wrapped up in the soap opera of one group necessarily means moving toward the soap opera of the other. It's like Pong. It's not that I hate people; people are fine. But the people here know each other. And there are no cinemas or concerts or cafes. So people just talk. A lot. About other people.

One day, over Ethiopian, a friend asked me why I didn't know (and couldn't supply her with) all the Liberian high society dirt that expats are generally not privy to. I didn't realize until then that I was failing at what, apparently, is my role as a go-between.

I hate having people I don't know sharing -- or inventing -- versions of stories from my personal life when their own lives get a little beige.  There are a million people in Monrovia, but you can get the grime on people you've yet to make eye contact with. It's like being a freshman at Amherst again. There's a cabbie here who used to casually dish out the late-night dirt, as simple as storytelling; a couple nearly broke up in his car. If I had a secret, I'd immediately export it to the States -- I couldn't even tell my favorite friend here. People can't help themselves: you've got to tell just one person, right? That one person can do serious damage here, though, when you're forced to live and party and work with the very same crew.

So I stay out of the whirlpool for weeks at a time and the words "I forget you're in Liberia..." have become music to my ears.

Thursday morning

The phone rings.

Me: Hello?
Will: Hi.
Me: Forgot something?
Will: Nope. I'm driving past the UN. A motorcycle crashed outside. An angry mob is throwing bricks over the gate. The guards are fighting them off with rakes.
Me: Okay then. Lunch?
Will: Sure.
Me: See you. 


End of call.