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.
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.
2 comments:
It would have been really funny if you had lived in Siberia. I'm glad you're safe :)
Um, it's pretty much Siberia.
Post a Comment