Miss America

Eight months in, I cave: I miss America. Or, more accurately, I miss my version of America.

I want to button up a hooded coat.

I want to ride a bicycle.

I want to fly somewhere without a passport.

I want to find waffles at 2pm.

I want to choose seats in a whisper in a movie theater.

I want to lay in a park.

I want to drink tap water in the middle of the night.

I want a can opener that opens cans.

I want to shower between 8am and 7pm.

I want to pillage a bakery.

I want to go to a concert.

I want someone to un-break my Oliver Peoples.

I want to eat pad see ew.

I want dry laundry that doesn’t smell like wet dog.

I want to have a beer on a rooftop.

I want a steady supply of dark blue denim.

I want to load a YouTube video.

I want to hear the words “Cash or credit?”

I want to talk to the locals and maybe, under my breath, say something they find funny.

I want every series season since September.

I want postcards reminding me it’s time for a check-up.

I want to cling for dear life to a subway pole.

I want an oven with numbers on the dial (Chinese, Arabic, any numbers, guys).

True Blood

This week, a man ate another man's face in Florida; he was shot on the spot. Years ago, a different man got rich helping his neighbors kill each other; he was finally sentenced today.

It seems all the bloodsuckers got what they had coming this week.

Charles Taylor sentenced to 50 years in prison for war crimes

Taylor was found guilty last month of 11 counts of aiding and abetting war crimes and crimes against humanity by supporting rebels between 1996 and 2002 in return for conflict diamonds. He was convicted of offenses including murder, rape, sexual slavery, recruiting child soldiers, enforced amputations and pillage.

Delivering the sentence on Wednesday, Judge Richard Lussick said Taylor's crimes were of the "utmost gravity in terms of scale and brutality".

But the judge added that Taylor was "in a class of his own" compared to others convicted by the United Nations-backed court. The 64-year-old warlord-turned-president is the first former head of state convicted by an international war crimes court since the second world war.

In his final address to the UN-backed tribunal the 64-year-old denied encouraging human rights abuses during the prolonged civil war in neighboring Sierra Leone, insisting he had in fact been trying to stabilize the region. (www.guardian.co.uk)

Rear Window

Liberian pedestrians over the age of 12 have a way of crossing in front of oncoming traffic that gives the appearance of running without actually moving any faster than their original walk.

It's the run of people who don't expect to (or worry they'll) get hit.

People wait...wait...wait until you're a meter away before strolling across your windshield like nonchalant deer in the night.  

This confuses me, given the number of collisions in Monrovia each week. Proof of our mortality is sitting, charred, on the front lawn of the police station.The incinerated lump was once a BMW carrying three twenty-somethings who crashed and caught fire and never made it out of the car.

Anyone who knows me knows I am not a driver by any stretch of the imagination. I got my license at 25 and let it collect dust until two weeks ago. I asked someone how to prepare for driving in Monrovia and he said, "Expect that the motorbike cabbie in front of you will lose his flip-flop; as you swerve to avoid him, the parked car in your path opens all four doors at once and a goat runs into the road."

Best advice I've ever gotten.

I wonder what it is that makes people reckless -- even the chickens seems to have a death-wish.

Then I remember the fourth time I met my half-sister. I was 26 and learned I had heaps of photo albums while she had no pictures of her youth: everything had been abandoned and lost during the war. Or I think of the ferocity of Liberian fury that, once aired, disappears as though it never was.

There is a powerful defense mechanism in having a short memory and in not looking too far ahead. I, on the other hand, have been fretting about how to send my kids to college since before I went to college; I recall every mortifying moment of my life and still cringe. All I do is look forward and backward, forward and backward...

...which is helpful when you're reversing your car and a goat runs into the road.

A Carol for Bianca (and Sierra Leone)

In my ten days in Freetown, the city gave to me:

   Goats-only parking

   Shady-sounding beachtowns 

   Beds made of concrete

   Streams outside windows

   Eight hours of this shit

   Hurling by the roadside

   in Gola Forest

   No gasoline!

   Hunting for clams

   Hills, fog, rain

   Incognito bugs

   And a reason to do it again

Mr. Pink

Consulting is rad because when you're in between projects it's perfectly acceptable to watch Reservoir Dogs at 9am on a Wednesday.

Nice Guy Eddie: C'mon, throw in a buck!

Mr. Pink : Uh-uh, I don't tip.

Nice Guy Eddie : You don't tip?

Mr. Pink : Nah, I don't believe in it.

Nice Guy Eddie : You don't believe in tipping?

Mr. Blue : You know what these chicks make? 

Mr. Pink : I don't tip because society says I have to. All right, if someone deserves a tip, if they really put forth an effort, I'll give them something a little something extra. But this tipping automatically, it's for the birds. As far as I'm concerned, they're just doing their job.

Mr. Blue : Hey, our girl was nice.

Mr. Pink : She was okay. She wasn't anything special.

I don't usually identify with Tarantino characters (apart from Beatrix Kiddo) but Mr. Pink is spot on. I tip. I tip all of the time. Yet in Liberia, I wonder why. Yesterday I read this, though, and reconsidered my alliance with Mr. Pink:

"Let's get down to basics. The official, lawful and totally outdated, statutory minimum wage is US 25 cents per hour for a 48 hour week - or US $2.00 per day. Most of the hotels, restaurants and bars who focus on young expatriate customers invariably do pay 25 cents per hour. There is no sick pay. No holiday entitlement. No job security. And no union. Think about that - 25 cents per hour for the waiter who serves you while you are paying US $18 for the meal and drinks."

Damn. I'd be surly as hell, too. Spitefully withholding my dollar doesn't seem so clever anymore.

Irie

Friday: beer, rainstorm.

Bare feet pounding sand in hut.

Technotronic! 'Sup.

Be Prepared

On the radio on Tuesday, a Liberian trying extra hard to sound like the BBC made a remark about the Boy Scouts of Liberia.

Me: Wait. What!?

T: What.

Me: There are boy scouts in Liberia?

T: Yes.

Me: What do they DO here?

T: Go to events.

Me: I can't believe this.

T: We call them chicken rogue. It make them mad but we laugh.

A rogue is a thief in Liberian English. Why would you call someone a chicken thief? Because small, nimble people thieve chickens.

Among other things.

Later that day, my colleague came in looking confused.

Me: What's up?

D: My little sister's sick.

Me: Is she OK?

D: Yes. She's my baby.

Me: You have many babies. How's your chimpanzee?

D: They took him.

Me: Who?

D: Thieves.

Me: To do what?

D: To eat him.

Me: How do you know??

D: They came over the fence at night. 

Me: Maybe they stole him to resell as a pet.

D: They left a blood trail. They took my dog, too. 

Me: Your...dog?

D: People eat dog here. They call it issue.

Me: They cooked your pets?

D: They cooked my pets. Meat is meat.

In the States, this would require family therapy and an immediate assembly of the neighborhood watch. 

Here, it's just Monday.

Berlitz

Someone I know lost his phone, so we made a deal: I'd replace it if he taught me something in Liberian English each day.

One morning:

Me: How are you?

T: You fail already.

Me: Fail how?

T: Start with Good Morning.

Me: It sounds too formal.

T: You can't skip it.

Me: Good morning. How are you?

T: Fine. What you want to know today?

Me: How do you compliment someone's clothing?

T: You say, "Where you sew you shirt from?"

I'm nice with languages but this one...this one is testing me. Observe: http://tinyurl.com/A-to-Z-Liberia. I think it's because I can't think of it as its own language and not, you know, English. Because why would I call a cartoon a muppet show? That is never going to happen. I'm on the verge of giving up speech entirely.

Extra! Extra!

The Daily Talk looks like a cupboard on the side of the boulevard, strategically angled to catch rush-hour commuters. It bursts open in the morning and shuts at night like a flower. Inside is a chalkboard broadcasting the biggest stories of the day.

It's a newspaper.

Photo credit: Rosebell Kagumire

It's as though "novel" and "retro" had a big wooden baby.  (And while we're on the subject of retro novelties: Rollerblades. Are. Everywhere. In. Monrovia.)

For a while now, I've wanted to write about this thing around which car and pedestrian traffic slows. But I am lazy. And Al Jazeera beat me to it:

In Liberia, a country where radios and televisions are luxuries most people cannot afford, one enterprising journalist has found a way to get daily news and information to Liberians. 

The Daily Talk [is] a chalkboard 'newspaper' displayed on the side of a decrepit wooden shack.

I met some of the passers-by that depend on him for their news: Michael, a former child soldier who makes a living selling souvenirs to international aid workers; Larry, who teaches the pupils at Hope School for the Deaf how to fend for themselves.

While the global media too often define Liberia in terms of the tragedy of the recent civil war, from its street-level perspective The Daily Talk describes a busy, hopeful nation in the process of renewal.

Kids

After former President Charles Taylor was convicted of war crimes on Thursday, I finally let myself watch Johnny Mad Dog. 

It just seemed right.

Johnny Mad Dog is a 2008 French/Liberian film that follows fictional (but spot-on) child soldiers as they march towards Monrovia. The film is almost incoherent if you've never heard Liberian English but you could watch it on mute and not miss a thing. (It's like 300.)

I have a real soft spot for dark, brutal tales. I don't know why. My mother, a self-described chicken, won't go near Dexter or roller-coasters because "the things [she] read at UN were scary enough." But if I've got an afternoon to myself, give me something disturbing to watch.

That said, Johnny Mad Dog is one of the eeriest films I've ever seen.

It took me several years to man up and watch Hotel Rwanda. I didn't really know why. Maybe I knew it would hit a little too close to home. But this movie...this Liberian movie...is home. The actors -- some of them actual former child soldiers -- have the features and inflections of my countrymen, people with whom I share sidewalks. I started to feel sick. I reminded myself it wasn't a documentary and the film became digestible. I was fine. Then I saw my cousin -- my cousin -- attacked in a scene and all the distance I'd created evaporated. I immediately felt sick again. And I remembered my poor mom and thought: Yes. The world is scary enough.

Mount Coffee

Y'know, just hangin' out at the old hydroelectric dam. (May you be reborn and bring my bill below eleven-hundred dollars).

1

2

3

4

5

Mad Men

I'm still doing the math but I'm pretty sure I'm only, like, 3/4 of a person in Liberia.

I've never lived anywhere where women were generally considered less-awesome than men. I'm not sure how I only recently noticed this, either -- I think the president and her Cabinet distracted me. There are billboards and public service announcements explicitly asking men not to beat or rape or stifle their women. These are important (if unsettling) messages because I get the feeling I'm only good for male ego-boosting; once it's apparent that I am not in the market for a sugar-daddy, I become more or less irrelevant.

I think I failed a job interview once when the interviewer made a crude joke about Liberian prostitutes and I paused, surprised, before giving a hearty laugh and a back-slap. (The interviewer, for the record, was American.)

A neighbor was floored when he realized I was steadily employed. "You and Will both work?" he gasped. (The neighbor, for the record, is American.)

When I shop for cars I can actually drive, the dealers only address Will. They hesitate to shake my outstretched hand and Beyonce suddenly plays in my head (When you're in the big meetings for the mils / You take me just to complement the deal).

My requests for fixes around the compound are white noise to the Lebanese. The Liberian security guard once asked me to recommend his friend, a housekeeper, to my husband. "You can talk to Will," I told him, "He'll be back soon." "No, no, no," he insisted. "I tell you, Boss Lady, and you tell the Boss Man." There are rules, you see. Eighteen years of private school just to be the funnel to my husband's ear. Beyonce suddenly plays in my head (Still play my part and let you take the lead role).

So what do I do? Bow out, fuming silently, and let the men talk business? Channel my inner frat-boy-exec and bust out scotch and cigars?

Maybe I take a cue from Bobbie Barrett: "You're never gonna get that corner office until you start treating Don as an equal. And no one will tell you this, but you can't be a man. Don't even try. Be a woman. It's powerful business, when done correctly."

Fancy

There is an episode of Spongebob Squarepants in which the protagonist, a sea sponge, is invited to the underwater bubble of his new neighbor, a squirrel. Spongebob is desperate to appear sophisticated (which, according to a slow-witted star fish, entails keeping your pinky raised at all times). So into the squirrel's waterless home Spongebob goes, pinky out, suffocating silently on air.  

I often wonder how indicators of sophistication develop. 

There are unusual words that find their way into casual speech in some circles of Liberians; of them, my favorite is buttress, a word I've heard in run-of-the-mill staff meetings (“…but to buttress what ___ is saying, I think that we should ___"). Not once in my 29 years have I used the word buttress. I concede, though, that I do now use the verb vex on a weekly basis. 

Beyond vocabulary, there are other weirdnesses intended to show social status (or, at the very least, upward social mobility). This may be a pan-African thing but I speak only for my people: Liberians seem to love photos of themselves in what I think of as unremarkable places -- particularly airplanes. A grim Liberian in a suit in coach is, like, the Holy Grail of profile pics. 

Photos capturing meals in upscale restaurants are also popular. And I don't mean that American-style my five best friends and me, perfectly-lit, perfectly angled, beaming over wine glasses pose (which, in itself, is really weird. Let's be serious). No. There is nothing poised or Facebook-worthy about the photos in question.

In other circles, class is indicated by the possession of a car (and the reliability of that car). Sometimes its in the number (and titles) of past employers who would readily refer you. Sometimes social standing rests in your last name alone.

Sometimes you shrink away from fanciness, though, as my driver Tony (28) did last month when we drove past a friend of his who pointed and laughed. Tony was immediately defensive: "It's not my car, man. It's the kwee girl's." Kwee basically means bourgeois, which is generally a hilarious insult to me but really stung that day. I guess you don't need "fancy" when you've got street cred.

Manbearpig

Yesterday, the front door opens and this (more or less) transpires.

Will: Hey.
Me: Hey Will.
Will: You know how you always wanted me to bring home a creepy-ass endangered species?
Me: Um. No?
Will: Half lizard, half sloth, half mole?
Me: UM. NO?
Will: Oh. Well, here you go. 

Pangolin (Smutsia gigantea)

Marshall, Marshall, Marshall

Find fisherman with sturdy vessel.

Row, row, row your boat...

...Gently down the stream...

...Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily.

I can't even begin to caption this one.

Lappa

On Saturday, I left my house wearing a lappa, a rectangle of patterned fabric you wrap around yourself and hope for the best. The theme of that night’s party was “Come as Your Country” and, having failed to find cowboy boots at the market, I decided to be Liberian.

For the record, I hate costume parties. (Incidentally, this made a love affair between San Francisco and me impossible.) Naturally, because this is my life, only 6 of the 200 attendees came in costume, so now I’m traipsing around in what appears to be a tablecloth for no effing reason. At some point, however, I forgot how out of place I looked and found myself flailing along to the techno.

Then I started to wonder if anyone realized I was in costume.

See, the following confusion occurs nearly every time I meet an expat:

Expat: What brought you to Liberia?

Me: I was into natural resource management and my parents are Liberian so I figured I’d check out the scene.

Expat: So, you were born here.

Me: No.

Expat: But you grew up here?

Me: Nah, I never lived here.

Expat: Is this your first time here?

Me: I came before and after the war.

Expat: {{Pauses}} You don’t sound Liberian.

Me: Right. I grew up in the States.

Expat: Do you speak Liberian English?

Me: Uh. It sounds kinda lame in my mouth.

Expat: {{Squints}} Wait -- so, you're not Liberian?

I imagine that showing up to a pool party in my lappa and head-tie finery put an end to the mystery. Maybe I make this a Saturday tradition, incorporate it into my wardrobe. Once you accept that you’re in an unsecured tube of cloth, it’s pretty damn cool. Lappas really hold their own when you're dancing/eating/visiting restrooms. They come off as easily as tear-away pants, yet no one suspects you’re a male stripper. Badass.

Eats

Sunday was an epic fail on the culinary front: the lamb was un-chewable and the haloumi disintegrated in the pan. So much for being classy: we threw everything away and ordered burgers.

Liberia is hit or miss when it comes to stocking your kitchen so I flip out when I find steel-cut oatmeal ($7.50) and slivers of brie ($11.00) and pita chips ($14.95). What I wouldn’t give for some of that San Francisco sourdough: the bread here rather consistently tastes like index card.

Sometimes the cost and effort of crafting deliciousness at home outweigh the benefits (see paragraph #1). Then again, going out to eat poses its own challenges. [FYI, Liberians put the stress on the second syllable of challenges. I love it.]

Rasta Bar. On a Thursday.

Waiter: Drinks?
Friend: Can I have a Club Beer?

Waiter: Large or small?

Us: Large.

Waiter: No large Club Beer.

Friend: Why did you even ask?

Waiter: I’m not sure.

Sam's BBQ. On a Saturday. 

Waitress: Drinks?

Me: Can I have a Coke Light?

Waitress: No Coke Light.

Me: OK. Fanta.

Waitress: Anything to eat?

Will: Can I have the quarter chicken with jellof rice?

Waitress: No jellof rice on Saturday.

Will: Jellof rice is served everywhere in Liberia.

Waitress: Mmm.

Will: Do you have fried rice?

Waitress: Yes.

Will: Isn’t that essentially jellof rice?

Waitress: Yes.

Will: Fine. I’ll have the fried rice.

Waitress: And for you?

Me: Can I have the BBQ ribs?

Waitress: No BBQ ribs today.

Me: The menu says they are a Daily Special.

Waitress: Yes, but not today.

Me: Tomorrow?

Waitress: No, probably not.

Me: Can I just get whatever Will ordered?

Food arrives.

Me: Can I have some BBQ sauce?

Waitress:  OK.

Ten minutes pass.

Me (to random waiter): Can I have some BBQ sauce?

Waiter: We don’t have BBQ sauce.

Me: Everything on your menu is barbecued.

Waiter: Ma'am, this restaurant does not serve BBQ sauce.

Me: What’s in the red bottle?

Waiter: Ketchup.

Me: What’s in the dark-red bottle?

Waiter: Ketchup.

One minute passes.

Waitress: Sorry for the delay. {{Sets what is clearly BBQ sauce on table}}

I can't even tell you how many nights I just skip dinner altogether.

Inception

Yesterday, at 2pm, I 'woke up' inside my own dream wearing exactly what I was wearing in real life and at the same time of day. My eyes were glued shut. I heard strangers’ keys in the front door. All I could do was sit with my back to the wall (when I managed to find the wall) and cry.   

When I really woke up, I had no idea what was going on.  

According to the property owner, the people who broke in and fled with my Scrabble were sending him a message. The prime suspects are the squatters he evicted from the adjacent property, which he'll renovate and rent for 3K a flat.  

I wonder if thieves know they climb into your dreams. Maybe I should be I grateful I have the luxury of Sunday afternoon naps and bad dreams that have an end.

Come Together

There's a woman I have seen three times now. She is 60-100 years old. She walks downtown as I drive to wherever it is that I work and she is always, always wearing a red wool hat.

It is 90 degrees in Monrovia.

My mouth hangs open as she passes by. Is she serious? How is she doing this?? It's enough to make you run back to the predictable nudity of the Castro.

Yesterday, I got publicly torn a new one at the end of my own workshop by a team that does nothing but ruin my day.

At the root of the assault was the fact that I am not "one of them."

When I am in the States, I feel mostly American (in mood, in pop-culture) but know there is something vaguely foreign underneath.

Here, to myself and to others, I don't have one un-American pore: I am a Westerner with a Liberian middle name. Hell, I don't even look Liberian; I've got half a mind to interrogate the milkmen of early-'80s Queens, NY. Years ago, I helped a friend (we'll call her Friend) cater a Sri Lankan cultural event; we got cornered by three guys.

Teen (to me): What part of Sri Lanka are you from?
Me: I'm not Sri Lankan.
Teens: Really?
Me: Yeah.
Teen (to Friend): What country are you from?
Friend: I'M SRI LANKAN.

In her defense, Friend had just gotten a perm and was looking especially exotic but her sense of self took a huge blow. I feel that now. Where is the justice in a world in which I leave the States -- where nobody can tell where I'm from -- and come to Liberia, where no one recognizes I'm one of them?

It sucks. I'm having an "I Suck" day.

Maybe I'd fit in in a red wool hat.

Anatomy of a Crime Scene

Wake up. Assume a drunk roommate pushed the coffee tables toward the open sliding glass door.

Wonder what Super Scrabble is doing on the balcony. Consider finding new roommates.

Realize every window in the house now looks like this. Spot suspicious safety pin outside.

Find stick tied to paint roller -- ideal for pulling coffee tables across living rooms in the middle of the night.

Find empty box. Contents missing.
Mourn briefly, then get really, really pissed. (It's Super Scrabble!)

Hmm.

Liberians have a different concept of time than I do so when I entered the living room yesterday I immediately assumed, "April Fools'?"

After a quarter century in New York and forty months in San Francisco, I have officially had my house broken into.

If you can call it that.

The only item taken, you see, was Super Scrabble. (RIP, friend.)

Photos to come.

The Boat

I have a friend who once decided to leave the States for two years. As he packed, I began to panic: what if he was The One? (In retrospect, this was a ridiculous idea; I think he's still laughing about it.) Google has failed me but somewhere there exists a dialogue to the effect of:

-You missed the boat.
-What boat?
-The boat that, when it comes in, is a boat but when it leaves, is a ship.

Below rear-window Madonna and Manchester stickers, many cabs in Monrovia have a little message. The messages are referred to as Taxi Wisdom. Taxi Wisdom is painted only on the back bumper, though, so you can't read it on an approaching car.

It only hits you as the car is pulling away.

Taxi Wisdom says a lot about Liberians -- mostly, that they are God-fearing people. My favorite is TROUBLE CAN'T LOOK FOR MAN.

I think it reminds me of friends who hand me their tattered lives and say, "Here. Fix this." Maybe it reminds me of me, making ships out of boats and forgetting I'm on a yacht.

A Life in the Day

One of the coolest stories I've ever read is six words long.

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

I am never going to write anything that sad and perfect but a girl can try. I present to you: a housekeeper.

Loved books. Husband ran: scrubs flats.

The Crosswalk

Last week, after failing to find a pool hall, I passed a man standing proudly on his knees on the corner of Broad St. 

"Will, what's happening?"
"He's crossing the street."
"On his knees?"
"His legs are damaged."
"Why isn't he in a wheelchair?"
"I guess he prefers to walk."

I couldn't believe it: the streets are unnavigable enough on foot or by car. Under the same circumstances, I'm pretty sure I'd go the Homer Simpson route ("They have chairs with wheels? And here I am using my legs like a sucker").

I ran through all the reasons someone would make a difficult life more difficult. Then I thought of a friend who once confessed that his greatest fear was paralysis. (This had never even occurred to me as an option: my own recurring nightmares involve free fall and silent assailants.)

Could it be that some people, above all, simply want to carry their own bodies across this earth?

I didn't dare ask the man anything; I knew how it would go.

"Sir, why are you walking?"
"I'm too tired to jog."

"Sir, do you need help?"
"Yes. I've been waiting on this corner for you for twenty years."

"Sir, is your wheelchair nearby?"
"No. It's in the shop, along with my Mercedes."

Instead I went home, where I sat on a chair and talked myself out of a run.

True Love Waits

(Note: The title of this post is a Radiohead song. I have not completely lost my mind.)

Someone I know was on the prowl, met a guy and made the mistake of hitting it off before asking him The Question.

The Question is not "Are you straight?" (if you, yourself, are straight) or even "Are you in a relationship?" (which, apparently, is not a dealbreaker here).

"How long are you in Liberia?"

"Four months."

End of conversation.

I had a friend who was never quite sure who she was, having spent every second year of her youth somewhere new. This always sounded so cool but now I see the downside: people without roots seem strange, fly-by-night. They're poor social investments. The expats who are here long enough see friends and lovers leave in cycles and it can be excrutiating. Eventually, you assess whether people are worth knowing by their answers to The Question.

The thing is, though, that contracts get unexpectedly renewed and life back home can lose its shine from afar. Four months has been known to stretch three years. Plans change. I, for example, was supposed to be starting an MBA stateside this August. I assure you that that is no longer the case.

I blame this entirely on my answer to The Question.  I should have said "Not long" and been a social pariah, alone with my books and homeward bound.