A few weeks ago, Saypah was telling a story about a woman who got raped by a chimpanzee. I know, incredibly random. But also striking – was this a story that she heard growing up, or something that was told during/after the war? Rape was so common here during the war, and is still a huge problem – we’ve heard a really wide range of estimates on the number of women who have experience sexual abuse, ranging from 33% to 75%, but the fact remains: a large number of women in Liberia have been the victim of some sort of sexual abuse. It seems logical that stories like this are the result of the years and years of conflict. They have to be. It was interesting because she told this story with all the kids listening, the idea of “rape” wasn’t something she hid from them. Basically, a woman has a pet chimpanzee, but as it grows up it gets tooooo strong and toooo big. One day, the chimp rapes her and she gets pregnant. Her husband has been dead for a long time, so many people in the village are whispering and there are many rumors. The woman is scared that the baby will be deformed but it’s a nice little boy and he grows up happy and healthy, but never knows who his father is.
He takes a wife and she gets pregnant. When she has the baby, it’s a chimpanzee. The nurses at the hospital are scared, so they kill it and tell the couple the baby just died. The same thing happens a second time. Then a third. On the fourth baby the nurse decides she has to say something, so she calls the man in and tells him, “Look. Your baby is a chimpanzee. All the others were too but I killed them.” And the man was veeeery angry, so he went to his mother and demanded to know who his father was, and the mother tried to lie and lie, but she knew that she had to tell him. So she told him what the chimpanzee did to her and the son grew very angry, very very angry. He went to the chimpanzee and he killed it. Then he killed his mother. Then he killed himself.
Seriously, that’s how the bedtime story ended. I was like, “Ummmm, well, wow.” What do you say to an ending like that?!? I mean, that has to be a remnant of war: a horrible story with a theme of rape and murder? I just listened, I don’t want to butt in and say, “No, that’s impossible. This is biologically impossible.” Maybe I should have – the kids are listening and “learning” . . .but I don’t know, she was so emphatic, and she believed it so much. She’s quite a good storyteller actually, it’s just that this story was so jarring.
After a little reflective silence, Saypa continued, “You see, the black man is always destroying. That is his wish. But white man’s wish put ship on the water. White man’s wish put plane in the sky. White man’s wish made the radio talk. White man’s wish put submarine under the sea. Black man’s wish is to destroy. Black man’s wish is to kill small children. Black man’s wish is bad.”
Wow, wow, wow. What do you say to that? No! Not all Africans want to destroy! Not all Africans want to kill! Most don’t! At all! But what do I know? She was the one who lived through war, who witnessed the murder and rape of her family and friends. I can tell her she’s wrong, I can tell her that human-chimp babies are biologically impossible, I can tell her that the “black man’s wish” is not to destroy, I can tell her there are many “white man’s wish”-es that are bad and wrong and destructive, I can tell her these things but I really don’t know what it will accomplish.
It’s hard to imagine what this country was like without war, before war. It comes up suddenly, in simple conversations, sometimes in matter of fact tones, sometimes tones of sadness, sometimes tones of pride: I survived. Matthew, who works in the Peace Building Unit with Thorodd, my classmate from Georgetown, drove us to work a couple times. One day, we were simply driving, chatting about mundane things one minute and then suddenly the conversation shifts to the day he had to flee to Cote d’Ivoire and almost died on the way: “When we crossed the border, we were so happy. Covered in mud. No clothes. But it was the happiest feeling ever.”
At the soccer game last week (more on that at some point. . .), my friend Javi met and talked with some ex-combatants. Javi can certainly tell the story better and in much more detail (my roommate Jenny and I are hoping he’ll write something to put up as a guest post, though it might be in Spanish….). Basically the boys were 24 years old – making them about 18 when the war ended. Making them incredibly young when the war started. They told him about doing/being forced to do cocaine, heroin, and pot as seven-year-olds and then going out to kill people. Javi talked about their scars – bullet wounds, large cuts, needle marks – which they showed him. The one guy was in Chucky Taylor’s Anti-Terrorist Unit (ATU). Chucky is insane – he grew up in Orlando but later joined his infamous father, Charles Taylor, in Liberia. If you want a better idea of what this young 24-year-old probably witnessed/participated in, and how Chucky Taylor went from Orlando to his father’s stronghold in Gbarnga (the town I’ve visited a few times…) to being the commander of a security unit known for its utter brutality, and just to get a better sense of what child soldier/ex-combatants went through, and what Liberia was like during the civil war – read this article:
http://www.rollingstone.com/news/story/22828415/american_warlord/2
Hearing Javi tell the story – the point he made that was most intense was the fact that this 24-year-old kept saying, kept wishing, with anger rising in his voice, “But that life is over! I want a happy life! I want a happy life!” He’s 24. He can’t go back to his village because the people know what he did. The police know him. He’s marked as a killer. As Javi put it: “They not only stole his childhood away from him. They stole his entire life.” Parts of everyone’s life were stolen – from the victims, from the ex-combatants, from the people that fled to Guinea, Sierra Leone, Cote d’Ivoire, and the US. And it always comes up. It didn’t go away when Ellen got elected: all the underlying tensions are still in place and hearing Javi talk about his encounter with that 24-year-old, it just highlights how tenuous the peace actually is. There is a whole population of fighters here (who were often victims as well), and there’s a whole population of straight-forward victims – and there aren’t jobs, and there aren’t strong local governments….but the commanding structures of these militias are still in place. Yet on the surface, it’s a peaceful country, it’s moving forward, there’s hope. But there can’t be any of those things if you’re not addressing the needs of people who wish for happy lives but who have been branded as life-long killers.
There are definitely programs and initiatives going on – Thorodd just visited an agricultural center in Nimba County that works extensively with ex-combatants. They go out in to communities and talk to them about whether or not they will accept reformed soldiers back. Meanwhile, they are training these former soldiers in a 4-month agricultural skills training program. If they successfully complete the program, they’re given some capital to start their projects and then sensitively reintegrated into the host communities. I’m really not sure how “sensitive reintegration” works on a practical level. . . but I’m hoping to get up there and visit the center at some point.
So, the black man’s wish vs. the white man’s wish. I should have told Saypah she was wrong. When Charles Taylor and Chucky were around, people just needed to survive, a lot of the killers were children! A seven-year-old forced to do drugs and shoot family members isn’t making a choice. And once you’re forced to do that: what else is left to do but keep killing? Charles Taylor’s Presidential campaign slogan speaks volumes: “He killed my Ma. He killed my Pa. But I will vote for him.” In a country where this mentality has been instilled in a large portion of the population, there’s no capacity to wish. The actions Saypah witnessed weren’t the “black man’s wish” in Liberia. Everyone just wanted to survive, the wish is now – to move on, to have a happy life. The challenges are so vast though, it’s hard to imagine the wish coming true for so many in a generation of victims and fighters.
28 June 2009
27 June 2009
NO PHOTOGRAPHY apparently means NO PHOTOGRAPHY
I was so smug. I knew I wasn’t supposed to take pictures, but I really wanted a picture of the seal: UNITED STATES EMBASSY MONROVIA. It’s pretty and rather colorful and just begging to be photographed. And I got two good ones. I would show you the picture so you could see how pretty the seal is, but they were both deleted by an Embassy Official. I was so proud of myself too, chuckling as I walked away with my pictures in tow. So smug. Ha! No photography! Whatever, Embassy. I was on my way to meet Kristen from Gbarnga, in town for a couple days, for dinner. I was actually looking out at the ocean as I walked, thinking about the mixed reviews I had heard about Monrovia before coming – and musing over its harshness and beauty. There’s filth and beauty and the dirty aspects just make the pretty aspects even more pronounced. I was in my own little world thinking about juxtaposition, still smug about my pictures. Then I heard the guard behind me telling me to stop. I thought about running, but then thought – eh! Me! I can talk my way out of this.The guard would have none of my talking. He could have cared less. And made me walk all the way back to the main gate. After he shot down my initial attempt to talk my way out of it, I wanted out of the game. I told him I would just delete the pictures in front of him, but he insisted I go see his supervisor. Awesome. I really wasn’t in the mood, and was pretty indignant. These are my excuses for being mildly bitchy: fatigue from my field assessment that day, filth from the sweat and travel, the fact that I was dropped off at the wrong hotel and had to walk 20 minutes to the right one, with ominous stomach irritation. I should have just kept my mouth shut – I mean, the guard was doing his job to protect my country’s Embassy, I shouldn’t be a jerk. But really – the seal? Why on earth would you paint such a pretty seal and not let people take pictures of it!? He didn’t answer me when I posed this question.
His supervisor wasn’t very nice to start. And I actually tried to be nicer to him. The supervisor takes down all my information and then says, “Isn’t this the second time we’ve stopped you?” Absolutely not, though I had previously taken an illegal picture of the embassy without getting caught (see above). So this guy proceeds to call his supervisor. And I wait outside the embassy for a couple minutes with guard #2. I realize I am being not friendly, but at this point it seems pointless to fix it. Then a young State Department guy emerges and asks, “Took a picture?” Yeeeep. I was pretty annoyed with myself because I then proceed to have an amicable conversation with this guy after being annoyed with the guards, who are, again, simply doing their jobs. That wasn’t very cool, I know. I tried to apologize with handshakes but they had had enough of me. To be honest, they were a little too seriously for the offense committed, but again, doing their jobs. Thank for you protecting my embassy, Guards.
Anyway, the State Dept. guy, Nick, takes my passport info, deletes the two pictures I took, and then explains that the expat embassy community is really small, and they are always looking for new people to hang out with. So, got detained AND got on the embassy email list for Embassy/Marine parties. Toga party, July 18th. Oh the randomness of being an ex-pat.
Project Assessment Day Treks
Last week, I went to Beajah, Bomi County and Gbarma (not to be confused with Gbarnga), Gbapolu County. We went out and met with community members to assess potential projects in the counties. I’m working with the County Development Support Secretariat (CDSS) within the Ministry of Internal Affairs (MIA). CDSS works along with Liberian Decentralization and Local Development (LDLD), which is a joint MIA/UNDP (United Nations Development Program) effort to increase the capacity of local government and community structures. There are 15 counties within Liberia, and this project is focused on 6 pilot counties. Each county is allocated US$100,000.00 to start a variety of projects. Within each of the six counties, one “growth center” has been selected. The growth center is a village or town that is a hub (or potential hub) of economic activity within the county. They’ve already done 1-2 site visits to each village to give some background and let community members know what’s happening.
So now we’re going into the villages and sitting down with groups of community members to assess the feasibility of a variety of projects within each county. UNDP has hired three Liberian consultants who have expertise in implementing these types of projects and can assess the economic feasibility: rice/cassava/plantain/pineapple farms, rice/cassava mills, vocational training centers, and cold storage units (more on cold storage later….). I have a bunch of concerns, to be honest – number one: we are assessing, not promising. But I’m not sure how clear that is to community members. No matter how much you explain that, I fear there might be some confusion there. And I’m really not sure how clear this is being made to begin with. Also, if multiple projects are deemed “feasible” and implemented in the same village – will there really be the capacity to manage more than one project? It’s often hard to find the people to manage one project, let alone multiple ones. I’m not sold on the strategy of implementing multiple projects in one village at the same time.
The mandate of the LDLD/MIA Project is to build local capacity. That’s the primary goal – not poverty reduction, not income generation. Build the capacity of the local level governments. I’ve mentioned before how Monrovia was a city built for 200,000, but with internally displaced people (IDPs) fleeing to the capital during the war and never going back, the population has soared to 1.5 million – in a county with a total population between 3 and 3.5 million. Much like the population, all the government activity and power is in Monrovia. Local leaders have very little power to make and enact decisions without either coming to Monrovia to get a signature or approval of some sort. Ellen’s government has really been pushing for “decentralization” – there’s legislation pending in the Senate right now which should be passed before I leave. Anyway, this project that I’m working on is a direct response to the need for decentralization: we’re trying to give local governments the capacity to not only make decisions, but to actually carry them out. Another element of my work that is related to decentralization is creating a template Ordinance that can be used throughout the various counties to dictate how decisions are made at the local level.
With that in mind, the approach is somewhat different than that of an NGO. An NGO might show up in a village and ask: What do you need? It might be a well, or a school, or a clinic, or a farm, or a cold storage unit. If any of them is identified as the primary need, the project is (ideally, but not always) formatted to create structures that will support said project. What we’re doing is going in to communities and trying to figure out what community or management structures already exist – and then introducing projects that will give those structures the opportunity to gain more experience and build capacity. Do they have a farming cooperative already? How can we help that be more efficient?
It’s interesting to look at development from this angle – having the priority of building local capacity and community structures, with poverty reduction as a secondary objective. We are basically bolstering up projects that would exist (in theory) whether or not we come in with money or not. It’s not the poverty reduction isn’t important or valuable, it’s just not the focus of these funds. It does make sense, too. If the community structures are stronger, if the management is reliable – the projects will be more sustainable and poverty reduction will be achieved. There is a place for the other approach too, if it’s done “well” – which is really hard to define. . . Another concern of mine is that community members will – justifiably – tell you what you want to hear in order to get projects in their communities.
So we’re going in, identifying projects and assessing their feasibility: economic as well as in terms of management capacity. We are not implementing these projects - of course, training is part of the budget, but the communities are in charge. They have the local knowledge and local capacity, and we’re just assisting them with some guidance/training in management. It’s great in so many ways – it’s very Chambers-ian (for any Morfit grads reading this). Buuuuuut at the same time . . . we are depositing US$100,000 into a community bank account? And allowing the community to disperse these funds? Hm. That’s really the way it should be. And it does work towards building the management and accounting capacity of local governments. But I question whether Liberia is at the point where this is going to be an efficient approach. Or if $50,000 is going to slowly disappear. . . But, that’s our mandate (a word used ohhhhh so often in magic UN world…and a word that often seems to justify decisions that don’t otherwise make so much sense...). The funds will be monitored of course, and the projects followed up on, so it’s not like we’re throwing money in a bank account and walking away. I feel like such a pessimist – maybe everything will run smoothly! :)
Back to cold storage. This, clearly, is not my area of expertise. Luckily, we have a consultant who knows his stuff! He was trained in Syracuse on the technical side of refrigeration and he knows it inside and out. He’s good. I don’t know how to make a refrigerator, he does. And that’s cool. However, there are multiple gaps in his understanding of our project that are seemingly insurmountable. So while he really really does know how to make a refrigerator, I now am apparently the one assessing the management/economic viability of the cold storage projects.
That’s completely fine. Now, the two towns we went in to last week didn’t seem like the best candidates for cold storage. It would certainly help them – there’s no doubt! But in terms of how we’re approaching this: does the structure exist to support this project from the beginning. No, neither made sense at all. Cold storage dramatically improves the fishing industry in villages. However, the two we went to last week don’t even have fishing industries! They are hubs where people who actually fish come to sell their fish – but the number of fisherman in the villages: 0. The UNDP argument is that a cold storage in these places would be great, no doubt, but would require the formation of a fishing cooperative that doesn’t exist, therefore it doesn’t fall into the infamous mandate. I agree – but the cold storage consultant is not getting this. It would be great for the consumers and the community – no one is arguing that – but it doesn’t fit the goals of LDLD.
When I try to explain to him that it’s not really viable with what we’re trying to do, he asks: “why don’t you want to help these people? Why can’t you see this will help them?” I try to explain – “I know this will help them. An NGO can come in and do it. Or WHO or FAO. It would be great. But it’s not in our mandate.” I instantly feel lame throwing out mandate mandate mandate, but it’s completely true. He just shakes his head and starts over, “But why don’t you want to help these people?” We had this discussion for about an hour yesterday. It’s frustrating because we’ve done these site assessments, but I’m pretty positive he didn’t assess – but told people they were getting it. Concerning, no doubt. I worked with him on Wednesday’s site visit, trying to get some information from community members – how many fisherman in the village (0); how many fish sold in the market weekly (not clear); how much do fish cost (varies). Whoi! A little difficult to put together a report on economic viability with that info – but it says a lot about the fact that the community probably isn’t ready for a cold storage unit in terms of management.
This LDLD Project is a big project, it’s “real” – run by the Government and UNDP – not run by some clueless Peace Corps volunteer alone in a village looking for something to do…but it kind of feels the same way at times. I do have to keep in mind, these were the first two treks, and myself and the consultants are still learning the process – so hopefully next week will be smoother. We’re heading to Grand Bassa County and River Cess from Monday to Wednesday, I’m really excited to get out for a couple days and see a little deeper into the countryside . . .
So now we’re going into the villages and sitting down with groups of community members to assess the feasibility of a variety of projects within each county. UNDP has hired three Liberian consultants who have expertise in implementing these types of projects and can assess the economic feasibility: rice/cassava/plantain/pineapple farms, rice/cassava mills, vocational training centers, and cold storage units (more on cold storage later….). I have a bunch of concerns, to be honest – number one: we are assessing, not promising. But I’m not sure how clear that is to community members. No matter how much you explain that, I fear there might be some confusion there. And I’m really not sure how clear this is being made to begin with. Also, if multiple projects are deemed “feasible” and implemented in the same village – will there really be the capacity to manage more than one project? It’s often hard to find the people to manage one project, let alone multiple ones. I’m not sold on the strategy of implementing multiple projects in one village at the same time.
The mandate of the LDLD/MIA Project is to build local capacity. That’s the primary goal – not poverty reduction, not income generation. Build the capacity of the local level governments. I’ve mentioned before how Monrovia was a city built for 200,000, but with internally displaced people (IDPs) fleeing to the capital during the war and never going back, the population has soared to 1.5 million – in a county with a total population between 3 and 3.5 million. Much like the population, all the government activity and power is in Monrovia. Local leaders have very little power to make and enact decisions without either coming to Monrovia to get a signature or approval of some sort. Ellen’s government has really been pushing for “decentralization” – there’s legislation pending in the Senate right now which should be passed before I leave. Anyway, this project that I’m working on is a direct response to the need for decentralization: we’re trying to give local governments the capacity to not only make decisions, but to actually carry them out. Another element of my work that is related to decentralization is creating a template Ordinance that can be used throughout the various counties to dictate how decisions are made at the local level.
With that in mind, the approach is somewhat different than that of an NGO. An NGO might show up in a village and ask: What do you need? It might be a well, or a school, or a clinic, or a farm, or a cold storage unit. If any of them is identified as the primary need, the project is (ideally, but not always) formatted to create structures that will support said project. What we’re doing is going in to communities and trying to figure out what community or management structures already exist – and then introducing projects that will give those structures the opportunity to gain more experience and build capacity. Do they have a farming cooperative already? How can we help that be more efficient?
It’s interesting to look at development from this angle – having the priority of building local capacity and community structures, with poverty reduction as a secondary objective. We are basically bolstering up projects that would exist (in theory) whether or not we come in with money or not. It’s not the poverty reduction isn’t important or valuable, it’s just not the focus of these funds. It does make sense, too. If the community structures are stronger, if the management is reliable – the projects will be more sustainable and poverty reduction will be achieved. There is a place for the other approach too, if it’s done “well” – which is really hard to define. . . Another concern of mine is that community members will – justifiably – tell you what you want to hear in order to get projects in their communities.
So we’re going in, identifying projects and assessing their feasibility: economic as well as in terms of management capacity. We are not implementing these projects - of course, training is part of the budget, but the communities are in charge. They have the local knowledge and local capacity, and we’re just assisting them with some guidance/training in management. It’s great in so many ways – it’s very Chambers-ian (for any Morfit grads reading this). Buuuuuut at the same time . . . we are depositing US$100,000 into a community bank account? And allowing the community to disperse these funds? Hm. That’s really the way it should be. And it does work towards building the management and accounting capacity of local governments. But I question whether Liberia is at the point where this is going to be an efficient approach. Or if $50,000 is going to slowly disappear. . . But, that’s our mandate (a word used ohhhhh so often in magic UN world…and a word that often seems to justify decisions that don’t otherwise make so much sense...). The funds will be monitored of course, and the projects followed up on, so it’s not like we’re throwing money in a bank account and walking away. I feel like such a pessimist – maybe everything will run smoothly! :)
Back to cold storage. This, clearly, is not my area of expertise. Luckily, we have a consultant who knows his stuff! He was trained in Syracuse on the technical side of refrigeration and he knows it inside and out. He’s good. I don’t know how to make a refrigerator, he does. And that’s cool. However, there are multiple gaps in his understanding of our project that are seemingly insurmountable. So while he really really does know how to make a refrigerator, I now am apparently the one assessing the management/economic viability of the cold storage projects.
That’s completely fine. Now, the two towns we went in to last week didn’t seem like the best candidates for cold storage. It would certainly help them – there’s no doubt! But in terms of how we’re approaching this: does the structure exist to support this project from the beginning. No, neither made sense at all. Cold storage dramatically improves the fishing industry in villages. However, the two we went to last week don’t even have fishing industries! They are hubs where people who actually fish come to sell their fish – but the number of fisherman in the villages: 0. The UNDP argument is that a cold storage in these places would be great, no doubt, but would require the formation of a fishing cooperative that doesn’t exist, therefore it doesn’t fall into the infamous mandate. I agree – but the cold storage consultant is not getting this. It would be great for the consumers and the community – no one is arguing that – but it doesn’t fit the goals of LDLD.
When I try to explain to him that it’s not really viable with what we’re trying to do, he asks: “why don’t you want to help these people? Why can’t you see this will help them?” I try to explain – “I know this will help them. An NGO can come in and do it. Or WHO or FAO. It would be great. But it’s not in our mandate.” I instantly feel lame throwing out mandate mandate mandate, but it’s completely true. He just shakes his head and starts over, “But why don’t you want to help these people?” We had this discussion for about an hour yesterday. It’s frustrating because we’ve done these site assessments, but I’m pretty positive he didn’t assess – but told people they were getting it. Concerning, no doubt. I worked with him on Wednesday’s site visit, trying to get some information from community members – how many fisherman in the village (0); how many fish sold in the market weekly (not clear); how much do fish cost (varies). Whoi! A little difficult to put together a report on economic viability with that info – but it says a lot about the fact that the community probably isn’t ready for a cold storage unit in terms of management.
This LDLD Project is a big project, it’s “real” – run by the Government and UNDP – not run by some clueless Peace Corps volunteer alone in a village looking for something to do…but it kind of feels the same way at times. I do have to keep in mind, these were the first two treks, and myself and the consultants are still learning the process – so hopefully next week will be smoother. We’re heading to Grand Bassa County and River Cess from Monday to Wednesday, I’m really excited to get out for a couple days and see a little deeper into the countryside . . .
26 June 2009
An Exercise in Trust (or: An Offering to Karma)
I did something ridiculous last week. I knew it was ridiculous, but I did it anyway to test something – though I’m not quite sure what. A man approached me on the street between Internal Affairs and Foreign Affairs, where I was walking to catch a ride home. He started talking:
Hello, Miss. Can’t you please help me. I am from Uganda. I am a teacher, I teach grade school students. I am here for a conference but (I actually forget these details – but something went amiss with conference planning…). I was expecting a daily stipend but the office is now closed and I can not collect my money until Monday, and then I will go right to the counties. Please help me with some money – $40 – so I can have a place to stay tonight, I have no where to stay, I know no one here. I hear that it is very dangerous here at night. Please, save a man’s life. I will come to you and drop the money next week once I receive the stipend. I can give you my passport if you need it. You can hold it until I return, please please, help me. Help me. Save a life!
I know this sounds horrible, but to be honest, I was a little annoyed. It was Friday afternoon, I just wanted to get in the car and go home to shower for happy hour, I didn’t have any US dollars on me, there’s something unsettling about having a grown man beg you to save his life, and I didn’t really believe the story compleeeeeetely. It’s not the worst thing ever, but it’s sad? frustrating? misguided? that any African can see me and think I have much capacity to help them. In the Gambia I was once brought in the room of a dying, wrinkled old woman (who was so cute and had been rather nice to me) and asked to “do something.” I was really upset – and just remember shaking my head and saying, Mi waawa hydara. I can’t do anything. I wanted to help, but I just couldn’t do a thing. She was really old and dying. I couldn’t change that with my Advil and Neosporin. I was utterly useless. Sometimes that’s hard to explain. I am starting to tell people here, “I am almost in as much debt as Liberia. I really can’t give you money.”
Ah! But this man, he was rather persistent. He was begging me. He kept saying, “Save a man’s life!” Alright alright alright just stop saying that! Admittedly annoyed, I took a second – ok, so what if I was ever in this position? Traveling, get your wallet stolen or something, no where to stay, no money, no contact info in the country, no way to get money from home. Essentially desperate. Honestly, in my travels in Africa, my nationality and appearance give me almost instant credibility (along with the misconception of wealth/ability to heal dying people I mentioned before), so if I went to someone with money and promised them to re-pay them if they just could help me out temporarily, it probably wouldn’t take long to find someone. I would be saved by someone. When I go out into the world, I count on karma to take care of the serendipitous meetings of people who know the things I need to know, and can show me the places I need to see, and can help me, direct me, take me in, feed me, save me.
Hm. I have benefited from blindly trusting handouts, and car rides, and advice in multiple countries. I took a deep breath, and totally accepted the fact that there was a good good really good chance I was being taken (there were strong strong correlations with the pregnant wife in hospital story that you could hear on the Barra ferry in Gambia every time you crossed, and which may have been true some of the times…..). Anyway, I embraced the potential loss of money, and I gave him most what I had – about $2000 Liberty – almost $30 bucks.
I would be so happy if he brought the money back and my inclination to doubt could be blown out of the water. I would love it if he came to my office tomorrow. It has nothing to do with the money, $30 bucks gone, I’m ok with that. But it’s strictly about his story: was he telling me the truth? Was he sincerely stuck and in need of help? I still don’t know – a week later and he hasn’t shown up at my office yet with the money. I’m ok with that. I expected it, but I just really wanted to be wrong. (Though he could still show up sometime next week. . . . . . )
Hello, Miss. Can’t you please help me. I am from Uganda. I am a teacher, I teach grade school students. I am here for a conference but (I actually forget these details – but something went amiss with conference planning…). I was expecting a daily stipend but the office is now closed and I can not collect my money until Monday, and then I will go right to the counties. Please help me with some money – $40 – so I can have a place to stay tonight, I have no where to stay, I know no one here. I hear that it is very dangerous here at night. Please, save a man’s life. I will come to you and drop the money next week once I receive the stipend. I can give you my passport if you need it. You can hold it until I return, please please, help me. Help me. Save a life!
I know this sounds horrible, but to be honest, I was a little annoyed. It was Friday afternoon, I just wanted to get in the car and go home to shower for happy hour, I didn’t have any US dollars on me, there’s something unsettling about having a grown man beg you to save his life, and I didn’t really believe the story compleeeeeetely. It’s not the worst thing ever, but it’s sad? frustrating? misguided? that any African can see me and think I have much capacity to help them. In the Gambia I was once brought in the room of a dying, wrinkled old woman (who was so cute and had been rather nice to me) and asked to “do something.” I was really upset – and just remember shaking my head and saying, Mi waawa hydara. I can’t do anything. I wanted to help, but I just couldn’t do a thing. She was really old and dying. I couldn’t change that with my Advil and Neosporin. I was utterly useless. Sometimes that’s hard to explain. I am starting to tell people here, “I am almost in as much debt as Liberia. I really can’t give you money.”
Ah! But this man, he was rather persistent. He was begging me. He kept saying, “Save a man’s life!” Alright alright alright just stop saying that! Admittedly annoyed, I took a second – ok, so what if I was ever in this position? Traveling, get your wallet stolen or something, no where to stay, no money, no contact info in the country, no way to get money from home. Essentially desperate. Honestly, in my travels in Africa, my nationality and appearance give me almost instant credibility (along with the misconception of wealth/ability to heal dying people I mentioned before), so if I went to someone with money and promised them to re-pay them if they just could help me out temporarily, it probably wouldn’t take long to find someone. I would be saved by someone. When I go out into the world, I count on karma to take care of the serendipitous meetings of people who know the things I need to know, and can show me the places I need to see, and can help me, direct me, take me in, feed me, save me.
Hm. I have benefited from blindly trusting handouts, and car rides, and advice in multiple countries. I took a deep breath, and totally accepted the fact that there was a good good really good chance I was being taken (there were strong strong correlations with the pregnant wife in hospital story that you could hear on the Barra ferry in Gambia every time you crossed, and which may have been true some of the times…..). Anyway, I embraced the potential loss of money, and I gave him most what I had – about $2000 Liberty – almost $30 bucks.
I would be so happy if he brought the money back and my inclination to doubt could be blown out of the water. I would love it if he came to my office tomorrow. It has nothing to do with the money, $30 bucks gone, I’m ok with that. But it’s strictly about his story: was he telling me the truth? Was he sincerely stuck and in need of help? I still don’t know – a week later and he hasn’t shown up at my office yet with the money. I’m ok with that. I expected it, but I just really wanted to be wrong. (Though he could still show up sometime next week. . . . . . )
Bong Mines Train Excursion
Sunday, 21 June 2009
How many people does it take to charter a train? Apparently about 35. That was last Sunday’s activity: boarding a train and heading out to Bong Mines (where I had gone by car a few weeks ago to meet with the Malayah Association). It was cool to get to see the countryside while sitting on the outside deck of an old train. The trip there was uneventful except for the random woman in our group who decided to fulfill a lifelong dream of standing on the roof of a moving train and raising her arms in the arm as a sign of victory. I don’t know who she is or where she came from – but I couldn’t even watch. I enjoy doing things that are a little risky, but that was just dumb. There’s a line. Anyway, aside from that the train chugged on up the slight incline to Bong Mines and we arrived in style, though a little later than planned.
Some people had their cars on the flat bed of the train to go tour the mines, but I was amongst those who did not. So we went into town and grabbed motorcycle taxi’s to take us around. I shared with Maura, and was driven by a guy who recognized me from my last visit: You are the white woman who came here before and spoke Fula. He was a good driver, but sadly the bike was not strong – we got a flat tire at the first lake. Which was really fine, he went back to fix it and me and Maura sat in the grass to wait. Some people with pineapples and bananas passed us, so we purchases some and enjoyed them while we waited. It was pretty great, even though we didn’t get to see much of the mines. A random man did approached us and demand to know what our “mission” was at the mines, we kept explaining we were just tourists, but he was not appeased. Nonetheless, he left us alone. By the time our driver, Jacob, returned, it was time to head back to catch the train home.
We stopped to see Ma Finda in the town and she, of course, gave me 50 plantains to bring home with me – even though I only stopped to see her for a few minutes. So nice. We rushed down to town to meet the train, which was a little ways outside of town loading the cars and those people. We waited and waited and Maura started a game of duck duck goose with the crowd of kids who had gathered to stare at us. Still the train didn’t come. Apparently, the guy who kept asking us what our mission was, had called his friend and they were preventing the train from leaving. We were supposed to report our presence to them, but didn’t know. They held us up for a while, but after about 45 minutes we were allowed to go.
The way home was gorgeous with the sunset and much much faster – the slight incline down made a huge difference. Just outside of Monrovia, we were picking up speed as we passed through a town, blowing the horn all the way. But right after passing over the main road of the town the train started to slow dramatically, and one of the train guys ran past me to the back, saying, “We’ve struck someone.” It was truly an “Oh shit” moment. We struck someone!?! The train we’ve chartered has potentially taken someone’s life?!? Seriously horrible! That alone makes you think “oh shit.” I can’t not go look though, so I rush to the back of the train too. From the last flat bed, we can see a huge crowd forming around the tracks behind us. It’s getting dark. A huge crowd is forming. IF the person was struck and if the person was killed. . . how will the huge crowd react to the train-full of foreigners? Another dose of “oh shit.”
Luckily, we didn’t actually hit the person. Apparently, it was a guy on a motorcycle who wasn’t paying attention – so as the train was coming he kept crossing, the front of the train passed him without striking him but the conductor thought it would have been impossible for him to stop himself from hitting or getting pulled under the side of the train. But somehow he actually did. Once this was clear that we didn’t kill anyone, we got the heck out of there and home to Monrovia.
How many people does it take to charter a train? Apparently about 35. That was last Sunday’s activity: boarding a train and heading out to Bong Mines (where I had gone by car a few weeks ago to meet with the Malayah Association). It was cool to get to see the countryside while sitting on the outside deck of an old train. The trip there was uneventful except for the random woman in our group who decided to fulfill a lifelong dream of standing on the roof of a moving train and raising her arms in the arm as a sign of victory. I don’t know who she is or where she came from – but I couldn’t even watch. I enjoy doing things that are a little risky, but that was just dumb. There’s a line. Anyway, aside from that the train chugged on up the slight incline to Bong Mines and we arrived in style, though a little later than planned.
Some people had their cars on the flat bed of the train to go tour the mines, but I was amongst those who did not. So we went into town and grabbed motorcycle taxi’s to take us around. I shared with Maura, and was driven by a guy who recognized me from my last visit: You are the white woman who came here before and spoke Fula. He was a good driver, but sadly the bike was not strong – we got a flat tire at the first lake. Which was really fine, he went back to fix it and me and Maura sat in the grass to wait. Some people with pineapples and bananas passed us, so we purchases some and enjoyed them while we waited. It was pretty great, even though we didn’t get to see much of the mines. A random man did approached us and demand to know what our “mission” was at the mines, we kept explaining we were just tourists, but he was not appeased. Nonetheless, he left us alone. By the time our driver, Jacob, returned, it was time to head back to catch the train home.
We stopped to see Ma Finda in the town and she, of course, gave me 50 plantains to bring home with me – even though I only stopped to see her for a few minutes. So nice. We rushed down to town to meet the train, which was a little ways outside of town loading the cars and those people. We waited and waited and Maura started a game of duck duck goose with the crowd of kids who had gathered to stare at us. Still the train didn’t come. Apparently, the guy who kept asking us what our mission was, had called his friend and they were preventing the train from leaving. We were supposed to report our presence to them, but didn’t know. They held us up for a while, but after about 45 minutes we were allowed to go.
The way home was gorgeous with the sunset and much much faster – the slight incline down made a huge difference. Just outside of Monrovia, we were picking up speed as we passed through a town, blowing the horn all the way. But right after passing over the main road of the town the train started to slow dramatically, and one of the train guys ran past me to the back, saying, “We’ve struck someone.” It was truly an “Oh shit” moment. We struck someone!?! The train we’ve chartered has potentially taken someone’s life?!? Seriously horrible! That alone makes you think “oh shit.” I can’t not go look though, so I rush to the back of the train too. From the last flat bed, we can see a huge crowd forming around the tracks behind us. It’s getting dark. A huge crowd is forming. IF the person was struck and if the person was killed. . . how will the huge crowd react to the train-full of foreigners? Another dose of “oh shit.”
Luckily, we didn’t actually hit the person. Apparently, it was a guy on a motorcycle who wasn’t paying attention – so as the train was coming he kept crossing, the front of the train passed him without striking him but the conductor thought it would have been impossible for him to stop himself from hitting or getting pulled under the side of the train. But somehow he actually did. Once this was clear that we didn’t kill anyone, we got the heck out of there and home to Monrovia.
Mud and (weak attempts at) Surfing
Robertsport, Day Trip
Saturday, 20 June 2009
Ex-pats told us we would need a four wheel drive. Liberians told us that normal taxis would be fine. We believed the home people, primarily out of necessity – we didn’t know where or how to get a four wheel drive. Thus, three low-lying yellow and green taxi’s headed off on Saturday morning for a 2 hour drive to Robertsport, in Cape Mount County. The crew: my roommates Javi, Jenny, and Jacob, along with their Harvard classmates Momar and Oyebola, and then my classmate Kathy, along with “the Princeton girls” – Christine, Maura, Payal.
The main road was great – very smooth, nice, easy easy. After some slow going at the police and immigration check points (the other interns ID’s came in handy: “Office of the President”) we made it to the dirt road, passing grown men chiseling large rocks into small stones with small tools. The work looked slow and tedious, but they were each sitting next to huge piles of little stones. Impressive. It really wasn’t a terrible road at all. It has been flattened and is getting prepped to be tarred (thus the chiseling) – however, there are potions where they are laying drain pipes or doing other stuff – diversions that curve down off the main road and are usually filled with water. Rather muddy. Not easy deh for the low lying cabs. But we trucked along and along fine fine. Until Sidi, carrying the Princeton girls and Kathy, hit the mud.
A good amount of mud. Mud up to mid-tire, mud up to the bumper. Needless to say, the cab was stuck. We all unloaded out of the cars, preparing ourselves to push the car out. Corporations pay people good money to create these team building exercises like ropes courses and whatever else teambuilding people do, but really, they should just send people to Africa and have them figure it out. Teambuilding. It was fun – we – being Momar, Jacob, and our fantastic drivers – pushed the cab to solid ground. I was really quite ready to help, and did for a second, but I was standing right by the one wheel and had an image of slipping and getting run over, so stepped back to watch.
The rest of the ride was smooth – but with the police check point delays and the getting stuck, we didn’t get to Robertsport until after 12. Which was a bummer because we needed to leave around 5ish. It was cloudy but really rather beautiful – forest butting right up against the ocean, surfers dotting the water, kids hanging out under the trees, blown out buildings as the backdrop to the newer tourist tents. And not a single Bumster. It was glorious. Next time we go we’ll definitely stay over. The guys who made the movie Sliding Liberia, which I mentioned on here before, we there so we hung out with them and “used” their surfboards. Also met Albert, the Liberian surfer from the movie. Definitely check it out if you haven’t yet – it’s cool – and gives a good picture of Robertsport. Much better than I am painting with my words and pictures.
I mentioned we “used” their surf boards. It’s a loose term. It fits if by “used” you mean floated on before getting rocked by the massive and beautiful waves. In Costa Rica last year, I felt like quite the rock star. Both me and Amy were up on our first and second tries, and were clearly impressive to our instructor. He was especially impressed by our humility, which was funny because we were less than humble. Anyway, I was less than humble on my way to Robertsport. “Oh I love surfing.” “I’ve done it before.” “I’m not great, but. . .” Mmmm hmmm. Right, Maggie. The current was stronger, the waves were bigger, the board was smaller, and there was no one there to tell me exactly which wave to take and when to start paddling and even give me a little push so I could actually catch the wave. But no matter, I would have been rocked by the wave – like I was the one time I thought I was going to catch one.
I paddled my heart out. And then I was moving, face down on the board the wave was lifting me and lifting me and I kept paddling. The water foamed white around me and I push myself up from the board, ready to stand and impress myself and others. Then the board was gone. And I was upside down in the water, hands over my head to protect me from the missile-like board and having flashbacks to boogey boarding crashes at the Jersey shore as a kid. I was significantly less panicked than I used to be as a child getting rolled around under water as a wave has its way with you. Nonetheless, I popped up completely disoriented with my hair covering my eyes and spewing water out of my nose. Very similar to the Jersey days except with significantly less people and cleaner water.
That was the closest I came to surfing that day. Alas. Later, Albert, the Liberian surfing expert, took me and Jenny out to give us some lessons. He took us out far! This is when it becomes clear that I only spent a week at the Jersey each summer, and not months. I get nervous going too far away from the beach. But Albert took us out aways, near rocks. I’m a wimp with water, clearly, and now I will even reveal perhaps one of the most embarrassing things an aspiring surfer can admit: I get sea sick sitting on the surf board for too long. Seriously. It happened in Costa Rica. Ridiculous. I don’t even know – anyway, I didn’t get terribly sea sick on this trip, but much longer out there and it would have been a problem. I’m going to have to take Dramamine next time – because there will be a next time. I will stand up and surf in Liberia. Hopefully.
On the way home we only got stuck once, and a group of road workers in bright yellow slickers pushed us out. They were really cool. There was soooo much traffic in the market, so it took forever to get back to Monrovia. And then, just before the bridge to cross back into the city, our car died. Dead. Bam. Done. Luckily, another one of our parading cabs was right near us, and after some bickering over the price, we joined the other car. Ended the night with Bangladeshi food at a restaurant called B. First – 7 people, $28, and good food!
Once home, I finally hung up my mosquito net with the help of Jacob, one of my room mates. I wasn’t really getting terribly bitten before the last two nights. I attribute that to the fact that everyone else got their mosquito nets hooks put up for them a few days ago (for some reason I was skipped) and the mosquitoes were hungry and desperate. Usually they don’t like my blood too too much. So now I can sleep much better and wake up Malaria-free. :)
I posted the pictures of Robertsport – http://picasaweb.google.com/mtd933. Enjoy!
But also check out Sliding Liberia if you want to see cool surfing footage and interviews with people who lived through the war. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0eru45CK5Y)
Saturday, 20 June 2009
Ex-pats told us we would need a four wheel drive. Liberians told us that normal taxis would be fine. We believed the home people, primarily out of necessity – we didn’t know where or how to get a four wheel drive. Thus, three low-lying yellow and green taxi’s headed off on Saturday morning for a 2 hour drive to Robertsport, in Cape Mount County. The crew: my roommates Javi, Jenny, and Jacob, along with their Harvard classmates Momar and Oyebola, and then my classmate Kathy, along with “the Princeton girls” – Christine, Maura, Payal.
The main road was great – very smooth, nice, easy easy. After some slow going at the police and immigration check points (the other interns ID’s came in handy: “Office of the President”) we made it to the dirt road, passing grown men chiseling large rocks into small stones with small tools. The work looked slow and tedious, but they were each sitting next to huge piles of little stones. Impressive. It really wasn’t a terrible road at all. It has been flattened and is getting prepped to be tarred (thus the chiseling) – however, there are potions where they are laying drain pipes or doing other stuff – diversions that curve down off the main road and are usually filled with water. Rather muddy. Not easy deh for the low lying cabs. But we trucked along and along fine fine. Until Sidi, carrying the Princeton girls and Kathy, hit the mud.
A good amount of mud. Mud up to mid-tire, mud up to the bumper. Needless to say, the cab was stuck. We all unloaded out of the cars, preparing ourselves to push the car out. Corporations pay people good money to create these team building exercises like ropes courses and whatever else teambuilding people do, but really, they should just send people to Africa and have them figure it out. Teambuilding. It was fun – we – being Momar, Jacob, and our fantastic drivers – pushed the cab to solid ground. I was really quite ready to help, and did for a second, but I was standing right by the one wheel and had an image of slipping and getting run over, so stepped back to watch.
The rest of the ride was smooth – but with the police check point delays and the getting stuck, we didn’t get to Robertsport until after 12. Which was a bummer because we needed to leave around 5ish. It was cloudy but really rather beautiful – forest butting right up against the ocean, surfers dotting the water, kids hanging out under the trees, blown out buildings as the backdrop to the newer tourist tents. And not a single Bumster. It was glorious. Next time we go we’ll definitely stay over. The guys who made the movie Sliding Liberia, which I mentioned on here before, we there so we hung out with them and “used” their surfboards. Also met Albert, the Liberian surfer from the movie. Definitely check it out if you haven’t yet – it’s cool – and gives a good picture of Robertsport. Much better than I am painting with my words and pictures.
I mentioned we “used” their surf boards. It’s a loose term. It fits if by “used” you mean floated on before getting rocked by the massive and beautiful waves. In Costa Rica last year, I felt like quite the rock star. Both me and Amy were up on our first and second tries, and were clearly impressive to our instructor. He was especially impressed by our humility, which was funny because we were less than humble. Anyway, I was less than humble on my way to Robertsport. “Oh I love surfing.” “I’ve done it before.” “I’m not great, but. . .” Mmmm hmmm. Right, Maggie. The current was stronger, the waves were bigger, the board was smaller, and there was no one there to tell me exactly which wave to take and when to start paddling and even give me a little push so I could actually catch the wave. But no matter, I would have been rocked by the wave – like I was the one time I thought I was going to catch one.
I paddled my heart out. And then I was moving, face down on the board the wave was lifting me and lifting me and I kept paddling. The water foamed white around me and I push myself up from the board, ready to stand and impress myself and others. Then the board was gone. And I was upside down in the water, hands over my head to protect me from the missile-like board and having flashbacks to boogey boarding crashes at the Jersey shore as a kid. I was significantly less panicked than I used to be as a child getting rolled around under water as a wave has its way with you. Nonetheless, I popped up completely disoriented with my hair covering my eyes and spewing water out of my nose. Very similar to the Jersey days except with significantly less people and cleaner water.
That was the closest I came to surfing that day. Alas. Later, Albert, the Liberian surfing expert, took me and Jenny out to give us some lessons. He took us out far! This is when it becomes clear that I only spent a week at the Jersey each summer, and not months. I get nervous going too far away from the beach. But Albert took us out aways, near rocks. I’m a wimp with water, clearly, and now I will even reveal perhaps one of the most embarrassing things an aspiring surfer can admit: I get sea sick sitting on the surf board for too long. Seriously. It happened in Costa Rica. Ridiculous. I don’t even know – anyway, I didn’t get terribly sea sick on this trip, but much longer out there and it would have been a problem. I’m going to have to take Dramamine next time – because there will be a next time. I will stand up and surf in Liberia. Hopefully.
On the way home we only got stuck once, and a group of road workers in bright yellow slickers pushed us out. They were really cool. There was soooo much traffic in the market, so it took forever to get back to Monrovia. And then, just before the bridge to cross back into the city, our car died. Dead. Bam. Done. Luckily, another one of our parading cabs was right near us, and after some bickering over the price, we joined the other car. Ended the night with Bangladeshi food at a restaurant called B. First – 7 people, $28, and good food!
Once home, I finally hung up my mosquito net with the help of Jacob, one of my room mates. I wasn’t really getting terribly bitten before the last two nights. I attribute that to the fact that everyone else got their mosquito nets hooks put up for them a few days ago (for some reason I was skipped) and the mosquitoes were hungry and desperate. Usually they don’t like my blood too too much. So now I can sleep much better and wake up Malaria-free. :)
I posted the pictures of Robertsport – http://picasaweb.google.com/mtd933. Enjoy!
But also check out Sliding Liberia if you want to see cool surfing footage and interviews with people who lived through the war. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0eru45CK5Y)
This, too, is Liberia.
Written Friday, 20 June 2009:
So, my trip today to Bomi [last Friday] was, not terribly surprisingly, cancelled. This is the third failed attempted to get out into the field with my government counterparts. However, this time, it’s actually not their fault. The rubber workers of Guthrie are on strike in the region we were planning on going to. They haven’t been paid in ?????. Apparently, the sight of UN and government cars are often the target of angry striking people, and therefore, we were forced to stay at the office today. This, too, is Liberia (a favorite phrased used by the people when things just don’t go right – it was bound to be the title of a blog entry sooner or later….)
It’s not the end of the world, I do have things to do. I’m actually researching Agro-processing in Ghana to see if we can set up some informational meetings/small training sessions there with people who are doing it on a large-scale (though it’s been impossible to contact anyone so far. . . anyone know anyone in Ghana?). Also, trying to get an outline together about the information I’ve been gathering about communal farming policy. Looking over the City Ordinances for Monrovia and a suburb, Brewerville (pronounced Bro-ville) and outline the role of City Officals. There’s some political reason they want the mayor out so we are looking in to the legal road to do that. . . or something. Also trying to generalize that Ordinance to create a template for all other cities in Liberia. I like the farming aspect of the job best :)
* * *
We actually ended up going to Brewerville today to pick up some documents. The mayor was just outside of town at the Unity Conference Center where they were holding closing ceremonies for the Truth and Reconciliation Conference (TRC). The Truth and Reconciliation Commission, also TRC, is responsible for bringing peace and reconciliation back to Liberia, a lofty goal. Their mandate calls for them to 1.) investigate gross human rights violations; 2.) provide a forum to address issues of impunity as well as allow both victims and perpetrators to tell their sides of the story; 3.) investigate the roots of the conflict; 4.) conduct a critical review of Liberia’s history to address socio-economic and political causes of conflict; 5.) specifically address the atrocities committee against women, children, and vulnerable groups and pay special attention to gender based violence; 6.) publically report all findings. (https://www.trcofliberia.org/)
We were at the Conference just for an hour or so – and didn’t actually see anything, except for the arrival of the Vice President. I also found a woman selling Moringa seeds outside so I bought a bunch from her and got her number. That was rather exciting. (Moringa was a tree that was all over Gambia and is really healthy – but isn’t around here too much). This is a somewhat dull blog post, but more interesting ones to follow this afternoon . . . . . .
So, my trip today to Bomi [last Friday] was, not terribly surprisingly, cancelled. This is the third failed attempted to get out into the field with my government counterparts. However, this time, it’s actually not their fault. The rubber workers of Guthrie are on strike in the region we were planning on going to. They haven’t been paid in ?????. Apparently, the sight of UN and government cars are often the target of angry striking people, and therefore, we were forced to stay at the office today. This, too, is Liberia (a favorite phrased used by the people when things just don’t go right – it was bound to be the title of a blog entry sooner or later….)
It’s not the end of the world, I do have things to do. I’m actually researching Agro-processing in Ghana to see if we can set up some informational meetings/small training sessions there with people who are doing it on a large-scale (though it’s been impossible to contact anyone so far. . . anyone know anyone in Ghana?). Also, trying to get an outline together about the information I’ve been gathering about communal farming policy. Looking over the City Ordinances for Monrovia and a suburb, Brewerville (pronounced Bro-ville) and outline the role of City Officals. There’s some political reason they want the mayor out so we are looking in to the legal road to do that. . . or something. Also trying to generalize that Ordinance to create a template for all other cities in Liberia. I like the farming aspect of the job best :)
* * *
We actually ended up going to Brewerville today to pick up some documents. The mayor was just outside of town at the Unity Conference Center where they were holding closing ceremonies for the Truth and Reconciliation Conference (TRC). The Truth and Reconciliation Commission, also TRC, is responsible for bringing peace and reconciliation back to Liberia, a lofty goal. Their mandate calls for them to 1.) investigate gross human rights violations; 2.) provide a forum to address issues of impunity as well as allow both victims and perpetrators to tell their sides of the story; 3.) investigate the roots of the conflict; 4.) conduct a critical review of Liberia’s history to address socio-economic and political causes of conflict; 5.) specifically address the atrocities committee against women, children, and vulnerable groups and pay special attention to gender based violence; 6.) publically report all findings. (https://www.trcofliberia.org/)
We were at the Conference just for an hour or so – and didn’t actually see anything, except for the arrival of the Vice President. I also found a woman selling Moringa seeds outside so I bought a bunch from her and got her number. That was rather exciting. (Moringa was a tree that was all over Gambia and is really healthy – but isn’t around here too much). This is a somewhat dull blog post, but more interesting ones to follow this afternoon . . . . . .
18 June 2009
Fear Not the World But the People
I spent Monday and Tuesday of this week visiting Gbarnga (Ban-ga), being carted around on a motorbike checking out various farm sites and feeling the wind in my helmet-less hair. Few things are better than that. However, it only took a few hours back in Monrovia to remind me why motorbike riding is the utmost asinine thing you could ever do in the capital city – especially when it’s dark, and even more especially when it’s raining. It all began with a missionary and a drunk prostitute.
I went to Gbarnga on Sunday for a BBQ at Tate and Kristen’s house (an RPCV couple living in the area). My driver stopped the car at the beginning of the 3.5-4 hour drive and had me lead us in prayer before we started the ride, which really can’t hurt on these roads and with these drivers. The BBQ was really nice: meat on a stick, fried plantains and grilled mangos, Lebanese food, potato salad, tequila shots, and a man with a guitar. A fantastic combination, great weather, and a good time. I stayed with them in their guest room – they are great, super welcoming, and cool. Monday morning, I headed off to a meeting Tate set up for me with one of his coworkers who has some knowledge about communal farming. And by “some knowledge,” I mean taught me more than I’ve learned since being here. Great guy – Fahn. We’ll definitely be talking again soon. He was headed on a week long field trek to Lofa county, so he set me up with his coworker Jeff, who carted me around on his motorbike to a Palm Oil Plantation/Processing Site. The site is using the Freedom Mill to process the palm oil - which decreases both the time and physical energy needed to produce oil. Winrock Internation, the organization that Tate works for, is training local metal workers to make the mills so that it's actually sustainable (hopefully). If anything breaks or goes wrong with machines, there is the local capacity to fix them even if Winrock has left Liberia. It's a good plan! From there, we went off to Cuttington University (a private University located just outside Gbarnga) to see who we could meet there.
When I was planning on going to the BBQ and then missing work on Monday, I was hoping they would be fine with it because I was meeting with people about farming. And then it turned out that my work people had scheduled a meeting at Cuttington on Tuesday, so I would just stay and meet them there. Once I arrived, however, I realized that “scheduled” was a strong word – they had thought about it on their end, and it was up to me to find the right people to meet with and schedule something one day in advance. Ha. Luckily, when Jeff and I arrived at Cuttington, there was a 60-something missionary man there who was a huge help and super nice. Me, I am skeptical of missionaries after meeting some absolutely horrid ones in Gambia (just not nice or cool people). But this man made me considerably less distasteful of missionaries as a whole.
So I set up my meetings, and then met up with Kyla (PC at Pheobe hospital) to head out to Kpatawee Falls – beautiful. I actually think it would be better to go there in the dry season, because the water was rushing so fast it was hard to appreciate the intricacies of the falls, but the power was more than clear. Check out the pictures, if you so please: http://picasaweb.google.com/mtd933
Tuesday: my people arrived, only slightly late, and we had a really successful meeting with the Dean of the School of Agriculture about a potential collaboration between MIA and the University. They essentially want to create an internship program for agricultural students to work on the government agriculture projects. There’s also interest in training farmers in a short, non-degree program. All in the works, but interesting.
I had actually set up another meeting at C.A.R.I, which is the agricultural training center in the region, but we didn’t have time because we had to go back to Monrovia (I won’t dwell on the wasted resources of sending two cars, and five people out to a meeting 4 hours from the capital…). It was a much faster ride in a government car, and I was home and showered by 5:30. The missionary man, who had been such a big help to me, was actually in Monrovia for the night and didn’t know many people in the city, so I had told him I would go out with him. Thus, after a long weekend out, I cleaned myself up and headed into the city around 6. Met up with some people for yoga, and then did dinner with my missionary friend. It was really nice – he’s had an interesting life in international business and has traveled all over the world and bought my dinner.
From there I went to meet up with my housemates, who were also doing dinner in the area, to all share a cab home together. We call cabs to take us home at night because some of them can be a little shady or drunk. So one cab comes, and half the roomies jump in there, and I’m waiting for cab number two. But there’s confusion, and another cab pulls up and we run out in the rain and jump in. I jumped in the back seat first and realize there is a woman sitting in their already. But no matter, we’ll all squeeze in and we do. Though in the close quarters, it’s clear she’s drunk – from both her breath and from the bottles jingling at my feet. The driver, who is NOT the one we called, says, “No worries. She is my boss lady.” Hm. And then he gets out, disappearing into the compound next to where we were. At this point, the whole situation becomes quite clear: he’s arranging this woman’s work for the night. He then reappears, saying: “He said you should come.” And the woman gets out and we drive away. That’s clearly not cool or ideal, but if the man could get us home safely, I would have stayed in the cab. However, the bottles in the back, the drunkness of the woman, and his insistence that he “never drinks” kind of made us all wary. My one room mate pretended to be sick and we got off at the main road to wait for one of the cabs we usually take.
So we’re standing on the main road, under the awning of Lucky Pharmacy, watching the rain and the cars pass on the slick, dark road. My back was turned, but suddenly I hear a scraping sound, screaming, and a horn. Barely visible on the road is the outline of a capsized motorbike. Apparently it had been clipped by a passing car. The three passengers of the bike had immediately run/limped off the dark road so they weren’t hit. As they sat on the sidewalk recovering, a big SUV with it’s bass blasting comes barreling the other way, hits the fallen motorcycle, and drags it for about 50-75 yards of loud screeching and sparks. The motorcycle driver, in full yellow rain gear, sprints after his bike as a rather large woman gets carted our way on the back of a skinny man.
She’s bleeding from her knee and her foot and they bring her in to the pharmacy, where she is immediately yelled at by the owner for getting blood all over the place (there was a fairly good amount) and kicked out. Me and Javi go in and demand gauze or something – they must have something she could cover it with! Come on! I was annoying by this owner – turning a bleeding woman away! Just give her some gauze at the very least! So the owner gives us a small piece after I demand it and tell him I will pay for it, and I go out and give it to her as she gets in a car that magically appears and drives off in the opposite direction of the hospital, which is directly across the street from us. We also saw another accident on the way home. The next day, walking around the city, I witnessed another motorcycle crash right behind a taxi emblazoned with the phrase: Fear not the World but the People.
I went to Gbarnga on Sunday for a BBQ at Tate and Kristen’s house (an RPCV couple living in the area). My driver stopped the car at the beginning of the 3.5-4 hour drive and had me lead us in prayer before we started the ride, which really can’t hurt on these roads and with these drivers. The BBQ was really nice: meat on a stick, fried plantains and grilled mangos, Lebanese food, potato salad, tequila shots, and a man with a guitar. A fantastic combination, great weather, and a good time. I stayed with them in their guest room – they are great, super welcoming, and cool. Monday morning, I headed off to a meeting Tate set up for me with one of his coworkers who has some knowledge about communal farming. And by “some knowledge,” I mean taught me more than I’ve learned since being here. Great guy – Fahn. We’ll definitely be talking again soon. He was headed on a week long field trek to Lofa county, so he set me up with his coworker Jeff, who carted me around on his motorbike to a Palm Oil Plantation/Processing Site. The site is using the Freedom Mill to process the palm oil - which decreases both the time and physical energy needed to produce oil. Winrock Internation, the organization that Tate works for, is training local metal workers to make the mills so that it's actually sustainable (hopefully). If anything breaks or goes wrong with machines, there is the local capacity to fix them even if Winrock has left Liberia. It's a good plan! From there, we went off to Cuttington University (a private University located just outside Gbarnga) to see who we could meet there.
When I was planning on going to the BBQ and then missing work on Monday, I was hoping they would be fine with it because I was meeting with people about farming. And then it turned out that my work people had scheduled a meeting at Cuttington on Tuesday, so I would just stay and meet them there. Once I arrived, however, I realized that “scheduled” was a strong word – they had thought about it on their end, and it was up to me to find the right people to meet with and schedule something one day in advance. Ha. Luckily, when Jeff and I arrived at Cuttington, there was a 60-something missionary man there who was a huge help and super nice. Me, I am skeptical of missionaries after meeting some absolutely horrid ones in Gambia (just not nice or cool people). But this man made me considerably less distasteful of missionaries as a whole.
So I set up my meetings, and then met up with Kyla (PC at Pheobe hospital) to head out to Kpatawee Falls – beautiful. I actually think it would be better to go there in the dry season, because the water was rushing so fast it was hard to appreciate the intricacies of the falls, but the power was more than clear. Check out the pictures, if you so please: http://picasaweb.google.com/mtd933
Tuesday: my people arrived, only slightly late, and we had a really successful meeting with the Dean of the School of Agriculture about a potential collaboration between MIA and the University. They essentially want to create an internship program for agricultural students to work on the government agriculture projects. There’s also interest in training farmers in a short, non-degree program. All in the works, but interesting.
I had actually set up another meeting at C.A.R.I, which is the agricultural training center in the region, but we didn’t have time because we had to go back to Monrovia (I won’t dwell on the wasted resources of sending two cars, and five people out to a meeting 4 hours from the capital…). It was a much faster ride in a government car, and I was home and showered by 5:30. The missionary man, who had been such a big help to me, was actually in Monrovia for the night and didn’t know many people in the city, so I had told him I would go out with him. Thus, after a long weekend out, I cleaned myself up and headed into the city around 6. Met up with some people for yoga, and then did dinner with my missionary friend. It was really nice – he’s had an interesting life in international business and has traveled all over the world and bought my dinner.
From there I went to meet up with my housemates, who were also doing dinner in the area, to all share a cab home together. We call cabs to take us home at night because some of them can be a little shady or drunk. So one cab comes, and half the roomies jump in there, and I’m waiting for cab number two. But there’s confusion, and another cab pulls up and we run out in the rain and jump in. I jumped in the back seat first and realize there is a woman sitting in their already. But no matter, we’ll all squeeze in and we do. Though in the close quarters, it’s clear she’s drunk – from both her breath and from the bottles jingling at my feet. The driver, who is NOT the one we called, says, “No worries. She is my boss lady.” Hm. And then he gets out, disappearing into the compound next to where we were. At this point, the whole situation becomes quite clear: he’s arranging this woman’s work for the night. He then reappears, saying: “He said you should come.” And the woman gets out and we drive away. That’s clearly not cool or ideal, but if the man could get us home safely, I would have stayed in the cab. However, the bottles in the back, the drunkness of the woman, and his insistence that he “never drinks” kind of made us all wary. My one room mate pretended to be sick and we got off at the main road to wait for one of the cabs we usually take.
So we’re standing on the main road, under the awning of Lucky Pharmacy, watching the rain and the cars pass on the slick, dark road. My back was turned, but suddenly I hear a scraping sound, screaming, and a horn. Barely visible on the road is the outline of a capsized motorbike. Apparently it had been clipped by a passing car. The three passengers of the bike had immediately run/limped off the dark road so they weren’t hit. As they sat on the sidewalk recovering, a big SUV with it’s bass blasting comes barreling the other way, hits the fallen motorcycle, and drags it for about 50-75 yards of loud screeching and sparks. The motorcycle driver, in full yellow rain gear, sprints after his bike as a rather large woman gets carted our way on the back of a skinny man.
She’s bleeding from her knee and her foot and they bring her in to the pharmacy, where she is immediately yelled at by the owner for getting blood all over the place (there was a fairly good amount) and kicked out. Me and Javi go in and demand gauze or something – they must have something she could cover it with! Come on! I was annoying by this owner – turning a bleeding woman away! Just give her some gauze at the very least! So the owner gives us a small piece after I demand it and tell him I will pay for it, and I go out and give it to her as she gets in a car that magically appears and drives off in the opposite direction of the hospital, which is directly across the street from us. We also saw another accident on the way home. The next day, walking around the city, I witnessed another motorcycle crash right behind a taxi emblazoned with the phrase: Fear not the World but the People.
***
I am hopefully headed to Robertsport this weekend to chill on the beach and do some surfing! It's supposed to be an amazing place to surf even for people who actually know how to surf. They just made a movie about it - Sliding Liberia - which is a traditional surfing movie PLUS some cultural stuff that highlights the difficulties of post-war life in Liberia. Here's some links that are cool:
http://www.slidingliberia.com/
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0eru45CK5Y
To be honest, I can't actually look at either of these because my internet is too slow, BUT I did see the movie last week and it was really great.
http://www.slidingliberia.com/
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0eru45CK5Y
To be honest, I can't actually look at either of these because my internet is too slow, BUT I did see the movie last week and it was really great.
12 June 2009
Malayah Association of Bong Mines: War Against Poverty
Project Brief:
The Malayah Association was founded by Finda Francis, a woman of Bong Mines who wanted to find a way to respond to the destruction and devastation in her community.
The first phase basically centered on “Susu” loans (each week members pay in a certain amount, which is pooled and given to one person to start a small project, such as soap making). The association still does Susu loans, but has also moved in to agriculture, which is an area it hopes to expand in the coming months.
I originally thought it was a women’s group, but it actually pulls in all members of society – old, young, men, women. Rev. Anthony works closely with Ma Finda with the association’s organization. He’s also incredibly nice and welcoming – really fantastic people.
One man told me, “Before the war, we were lazy. We had life very easy. But now, we know we must work. We know we must rely on the land.” And so they are trying, slowly slowly, to establish a livelihood from farming – which is heavily promoted in developing countries, but much easier said than done, especially when considering the fact that it is all dependent on manual labor. It’s truly not easy, deh.
“Malayah” is translated from Kissi to mean “help me,” but it’s really more in the spirit of “self help.” Currently, there are 72 members (50 of whom are actively engaging in the agriculture project). The goal is to increase the skill level of community members so that they can have some sort of livelihood whether or not the mining company ever comes back. They farm rice, plantain, bitter ball, banana, eggplant, pepper, banana, corn, and are looking to add more vegetables to the farm as well. The farms are not centrally located – they were unable to get one large plot of land.
Opportunities:
1. Niapele Project School Feeding Program: Linking with NP to provide produce for the school feeding program will give the Malayah Association a consistent buyer. Presently, Malayah is trying to become a Government Accredited NGO, so that they have some credibility within both Liberia and the international community. Their association with the Niapele Project is not a formal link, rather NP is contracting them to be involved with the school feeding program.
2. Transportation: Bong Mines has access to a train that runs directly to Monrovia three times a week, giving community members the ability to easily and cheaply transport their goods to a larger market.
Challenges:
1. Transportation: While Malayah does have access to the train to Monrovia, getting the produce to the train is in itself an issue. The walk to the farm is about 45 minutes. Furthermore, the road is not good and difficult to access by car. In order to transport the goods back to the town, association members must pay a driver to pick produce up – it’s not cheap and it has an impact on profits. The Association is working to find a plot of land (5-6 acres) so that all the farms can be located in one place.
2. Revival of Mining Industry: There are rumors that the Chinese are coming back to re-open the mines, however I’m not sure when that will be. It’s also an interesting issue – because I wonder how many people will shift from agri back to mining if the company comes back. There are the undeniable benefits the community will feel in terms of commerce and emerging businesses, but there’s also the issue of the environmental implications: what impact will the waste have on the soil? Water? Produce?
3. Funding: Malayah is looking to expand their activities from Susu loans and agriculture to supporting sick members, peacebuilding activities, and working within the community to settle land disputes. The registration as an NGO can cost up to US$300, and there is also the need for tools and transport costs. Obviously, the goal is to be self-sustaining. And hopefully associations like the one with NP will help with that, as will a more targeted marketing approach; however start up costs are necessary and do go a long way when used well. And this group really seemed to have its act together. (They were also rather kind to me :))
More information:
If you’d like more information about the Malayah Association, you can check out Niapele’s project description (http://www.theniapeleproject.org/blog/story-field-women-malaya). When I was getting on the plane to come to Liberia from Ghana, an African woman boarded and saw someone she knew, who asked how her time in America was, “Oh but the money is finished there! It’s all finished!” That said, if you’d like to donate directly to the Malayah project you can contact me :) Or if you’d like to donate to the Niapele Project’s school feeding program, you can do so on their website (it is separate from Malayah but still doing good things!). No worries though, the money is finished in America and it’s not easy deh!
The Malayah Association was founded by Finda Francis, a woman of Bong Mines who wanted to find a way to respond to the destruction and devastation in her community.
The first phase basically centered on “Susu” loans (each week members pay in a certain amount, which is pooled and given to one person to start a small project, such as soap making). The association still does Susu loans, but has also moved in to agriculture, which is an area it hopes to expand in the coming months.
I originally thought it was a women’s group, but it actually pulls in all members of society – old, young, men, women. Rev. Anthony works closely with Ma Finda with the association’s organization. He’s also incredibly nice and welcoming – really fantastic people.
One man told me, “Before the war, we were lazy. We had life very easy. But now, we know we must work. We know we must rely on the land.” And so they are trying, slowly slowly, to establish a livelihood from farming – which is heavily promoted in developing countries, but much easier said than done, especially when considering the fact that it is all dependent on manual labor. It’s truly not easy, deh.
“Malayah” is translated from Kissi to mean “help me,” but it’s really more in the spirit of “self help.” Currently, there are 72 members (50 of whom are actively engaging in the agriculture project). The goal is to increase the skill level of community members so that they can have some sort of livelihood whether or not the mining company ever comes back. They farm rice, plantain, bitter ball, banana, eggplant, pepper, banana, corn, and are looking to add more vegetables to the farm as well. The farms are not centrally located – they were unable to get one large plot of land.
Opportunities:
1. Niapele Project School Feeding Program: Linking with NP to provide produce for the school feeding program will give the Malayah Association a consistent buyer. Presently, Malayah is trying to become a Government Accredited NGO, so that they have some credibility within both Liberia and the international community. Their association with the Niapele Project is not a formal link, rather NP is contracting them to be involved with the school feeding program.
2. Transportation: Bong Mines has access to a train that runs directly to Monrovia three times a week, giving community members the ability to easily and cheaply transport their goods to a larger market.
Challenges:
1. Transportation: While Malayah does have access to the train to Monrovia, getting the produce to the train is in itself an issue. The walk to the farm is about 45 minutes. Furthermore, the road is not good and difficult to access by car. In order to transport the goods back to the town, association members must pay a driver to pick produce up – it’s not cheap and it has an impact on profits. The Association is working to find a plot of land (5-6 acres) so that all the farms can be located in one place.
2. Revival of Mining Industry: There are rumors that the Chinese are coming back to re-open the mines, however I’m not sure when that will be. It’s also an interesting issue – because I wonder how many people will shift from agri back to mining if the company comes back. There are the undeniable benefits the community will feel in terms of commerce and emerging businesses, but there’s also the issue of the environmental implications: what impact will the waste have on the soil? Water? Produce?
3. Funding: Malayah is looking to expand their activities from Susu loans and agriculture to supporting sick members, peacebuilding activities, and working within the community to settle land disputes. The registration as an NGO can cost up to US$300, and there is also the need for tools and transport costs. Obviously, the goal is to be self-sustaining. And hopefully associations like the one with NP will help with that, as will a more targeted marketing approach; however start up costs are necessary and do go a long way when used well. And this group really seemed to have its act together. (They were also rather kind to me :))
More information:
If you’d like more information about the Malayah Association, you can check out Niapele’s project description (http://www.theniapeleproject.org/blog/story-field-women-malaya). When I was getting on the plane to come to Liberia from Ghana, an African woman boarded and saw someone she knew, who asked how her time in America was, “Oh but the money is finished there! It’s all finished!” That said, if you’d like to donate directly to the Malayah project you can contact me :) Or if you’d like to donate to the Niapele Project’s school feeding program, you can do so on their website (it is separate from Malayah but still doing good things!). No worries though, the money is finished in America and it’s not easy deh!
Bong Mines: Communal Farming Research Trek, June 10-11
Bong Mines used to be a thriving community known as “Little America.” It’s sitting on over $6 billion worth of iron ore (according the locals) and used to have 30 – 40,000 residents, including over 3,000 Germans from the German mining company (funny, though, that they called it “Little America” and not “Little Germany” . . . . . . . . ). It was a large, wealthy place, and the workers still talk about how well they were treated by the mining company: free housing, free schooling for children, free health care for workers and their families (much better treatment than you hear about from Firestone (more on that at some point), another huge presence in the country). Very well done, Germans.
But during the war, the success of the town turned out to be a curse: when the war was raging Bong Mines was hit hard. It was well know for its wealth and the rebels came and looted, killed, and destroyed buildings. I’m not sure when exactly the Germans left, but they did – handing out promises of employment and pensions upon their return. The main headquarters is now a skeletal structure on the side of a hill. And there are countless other skeletal buildings. The church building is completely blown out – the “new” church is a stick, rice bag, scrape metal structure nestled within the crumbling walls of the old church. And the Germans never came back – 14 years of war and the entire infrastructure of the company destroy, the pieces of paper given to residents promising employment and pensions are now meaningless.
To get to Bong Mines, you drive 1.5 hours from Monrovia to Kakata, and from there you get a jeep to Bong Mines. The drive to Kakata was very smooth, enhanced by the awesome music played by UNMIL Radio (“The Voice of the United Nations Mission in Liberia”), which plays the most random, but fantastically catchy songs. The words are in English but I have no idea where they find this stuff, though I’d like to know. The one song I particularly liked was super catchy (the driver and a couple passengers were singing along) and had a chorus of, “Life. Oh Life. Ohhhhhh liiiiiiiiife. Oh life. Bam bam bam.” Not everything has to take on elevated meaning because of the war, but it’s interesting to be singing this chorus over and over in this happy, hopeful, cheerful tone and then talk to the man next to you who explains that Bong Mines was his home before the war but he fled when the fighting got so bad, and never went back. It makes you wonder about the people who stayed – what did they do for those 14 years?! How did they survive?
I went there because a friend of mine, Megan, who works with an organization called the Niapele Project (http://www.theniapeleproject.org/), is working to establish a partnership with a farming cooperative in the village. The Niapele Project (NP) works to increase the capacity and sustainability of Liberian organizations that are working to help returning refugees and refugee children. The idea is that the farming association in Bong Mines will be contracted to provide food for the Niapele Project’s school feeding program.
The organization, The Malayah Association, was founded by a very cool woman: Finda Francis. They kept translating “malayah” (a Kissi word) as “help me,” but I think it is more in the spirit of “help myself” or “self help.” Ma Finda talked about her “vision”: she looked around her after the war and saw many orphans, widows, widowers, unskilled/uneducated young people, and a destitute town with no jobs. She came to understand that the community had to help themselves if they wanted any relief from poverty, but she wondered: Where to start? How to start? And with what? So she started the Malayah Association (I’ll be posting more about this specifically at some point today).
So, I arrive in Bong Mines around 1 after a less-than-smooth but not terrible ride from Kakata. The road is not paved and is quite rolling with many many potholes. I was sitting in the middle of the front seat, which offers a lovely view of the road but is slightly uncomfortable, especially in a stick shift. Also, the jeep kept breaking down. . . nonetheless, I arrived by one, ready to head out and see the farm. I called my contact there, Rev. Anthony, and he sent someone to pick me up at the car park, and take me to the compound.
I arrive at Ma Finda’s compound and immediately realized that I had forgotten the basics of a visit to an African village. 1. The white visitor is given water and told to rest. 2. Cooking commences. 3. Village tour. 4. More rest. And that’s pretty much how it went – the farm viewing, it seemed, would have to wait until tomorrow. Which was unfortunate because I had planned to leave at 7am. . . but once you are in a village, you are often at the mercy of said village. So, Ma Finda brings me mineral water and starts cooking slightly spicy tomato pasted plantains and crawfish (delicious! My first crawfish experience actually). Finda lives with her husband and children in one of the old mining workers quarters – even post-war they really aren’t too bad. Very sturdy, you can tell they were definitely even nicer at some point.
Rev. Anthony took me on a quick tour of the town – school, church, main drag. I told him I spoke Pulaar, so we went and visited the Fulas (they are everywhere and it’s glorious) and then he had to head back to seminary class. He sent two young girls, and members of the association, Hannah and Benitta to come hang out with me. In the evening, Hannah took me around to show me the train and the market. Each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, a train comes from Monrovia to Bong Mines, it used to be for the iron ore but now it brings supplies and produce to Monrovia for sale. It’s a great way for the farming association to transport their goods, and the amount of goods was incredible! I’ll post pictures soon – bananas, plantains, palm oil, bitter ball, pepper, crawlfish, corn, charcoal – all in mass quantities! It was incredible – the amount of produce and goods moving out on such a regular basis. Really impressive.
From there we went to see Hannah’s stall in the market. She was in 11th grade when the war got too bad to be in school, but she’s clearly a really, really smart young woman and speaks English very well. She works in agriculture with the Association but also has a business – selling plastic buckets and sandals at the market. African markets are amazing: all these woman who are friends, selling pretty much the same thing from stall to stall. You wonder how they make any money? How people in the village decide who to buy from? Although, Hannah was the only woman I saw who was selling plastic buckets, and they’re a sure sell.
There were a ton of empty stalls though, I honestly thought people had just started to go home already because it was getting later. But Hannah says: “Hey, this market used to be much bigger. All these empty stalls used to be filled up. But all these people are dead. They died during the war.” Wow. I found it so moving, and also a little eerie, that the stalls still remain empty. And they aren’t just all the stalls at the end of the market, or all the ones in the last row, or far away from the road. They are interspersed between filled stalls, two empty ones here, another one next to Hannah, three more four rows over. Pronounced, specific emptiness. I knew if I had asked: “Who was here? Who sold what here?”, Hannah would know them by name and a story about their families. Now, I’m sure once the population gets back to its former size (if ever), the stalls will be filled in again, slowly slowly. But for now, they are strikingly empty.
Not surprisingly, the people were really so nice to me. The ones I was hanging out with were mostly Kissi, and they told me they are related to the Fulas – both are derived from the same tribe in Sudan. Many of the women in the association came to visit me and chat, and – of course – I got my very own Kissi name, which pretty much rocks: Siah Tamba (first born girl child drum). After a delicious dinner of Potato greens and rice, I went back into town again with Rev. Anthony, back from school, to see the people loading up cars with produce to take to Monrovia. So, Bong Mines definitely has a lot of poverty, but they are also definitely working hard. There was so much commerce, it was great. Still has a long way to go, but I found the activity quite impressive. And at night the town was BUMPIN’. Fancy, popular hip-hop music blasting on the street, people everywhere, generators throbbing, TVs visible inside the shops along the road. We went in to a small shop and sat in the back and watched a little TV: WWF wrestling highlights from 1991-1994. Talk about mullets. And you know, perhaps it was the setting or the fatigue, but it was soooo much better than wrestling today – it didn’t even look as fake! Quite entertaining AND really amused me since I had been savoring the post-dinner-sitting-in-silence-staring-up-at-the-dark-night-sky time that I don’t get in Monrovia. But instead ended the night with Brett “The Hitman” Hart’s mullet and hot-pink spandex. Rock on.
And then, still having seen nooooo farm, it was time for bed and a reminder of another African detail I completely forgot: there is absolutely, categorically NO ventilation in African bedrooms. I was smoldering. Smoldering. Covered with sweat, just hoping to be able to fall asleep and get through the night. It was soo soo hot in that room, but around 3am it suddenly got cool and it was glorious. It was so hot, and not just hot – heavy, stuffy, suffocating – that it prompted me to use my aircon for the first time in Monrovia last night.
The plan: wake up early eeeearly, go to farm quick quick, head back to Monrovia and go to the office (not because I have a specific task, simply because I told them I would be back by noon). The problemo – woke up to rain and wailing. Not only was the weather miserable, someone had died in the night. I heard the wailing start around 5:30am. It was far away, but it was clearly the wail of death: shrill, high pitched, frantically rhythmic. I heard it was a middle aged woman who had been sick for some months.
Obviously, I understand that people need to go mourn, but some still show up to chat and hang out with me. Really, so terribly nice. Another issue, however, is the confusion over my mission. I went there on what was essentially a research trip – I wanted to see how their farm worked. But when a white woman shows up in your village, even when she says repeatedly, “I’m just here to learn from you,” it’s hard to believe that she isn’t going to help in some way, and that she really did just come to take your knowledge and food. So despite multiple attempts to explain myself, I am now considered a partner in their efforts. And that’s not a bad thing, I want to help, I just hope I can find a way to do so (see entry “Malayah Association: War Against Poverty” if you’re interested in helping too J)
My American-ness came out a bit in the morning as we waited and waited for the rain to subside. Just sitting, waiting. Got a bit impatient – not because I wanted to go, but just because I felt I should get back to work at some point. But they were just so so so nice, and so welcoming, and so thankful that I was there. We finally had a quick little meeting, and then the rain stopped and a motorbike came to take me to the farm. That’s right – the white girl needs a motorbike to take her to a farm that old, crippled women walk to. Mmm hmm. But it was far deh! About a 10 minute motorbike ride and we only went to the closest one and saw it from quite a distance, because of the time and the weather. Crazy. This one old woman kept showing me her leg, which got bashed up in the war and didn’t heal correctly – and she walks out there a few times a week.
It was a great trip – I actually did get a better sense of what’s going on in the world of communal farming and got to get out into a Liberian village and really hang out with people and get to know them a little. I’d really like to go back to visit again, so hopefully I’ll be able to work that. After having ANOTHER delicious meal, I made my way to the car park with an escort and about 30 plantains (literally), only to find what I suspected: no cars were going at that very moment. No worry, I had planned for this and I love motorcycles, so I wrapped all my stuff in plastic, it’s strapped to the back of the motorcycle, and I ride gloriously out of Bong Mines, sandwiched between two young men in the pouring rain.
It did dawn on me that this wasn’t the smartest idea I’ve ever had. I was on a motorbike. It was pooooooouring. I was going into the bush. And I was sandwiched between two men. Hm. However, it was a great journey – the guys, Emmanuel and Eddie, were really nice and great and the ride was as smooth as possible for an unpaved, pot-hole ridden, dirt road. It also dawned on me at one point that I was too old to be spending a Thursday on a motorbike in the pouring rain, soaking wet, covered with mud – but that was a fleeting thought: even at 27 I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do on any Thursday.
But during the war, the success of the town turned out to be a curse: when the war was raging Bong Mines was hit hard. It was well know for its wealth and the rebels came and looted, killed, and destroyed buildings. I’m not sure when exactly the Germans left, but they did – handing out promises of employment and pensions upon their return. The main headquarters is now a skeletal structure on the side of a hill. And there are countless other skeletal buildings. The church building is completely blown out – the “new” church is a stick, rice bag, scrape metal structure nestled within the crumbling walls of the old church. And the Germans never came back – 14 years of war and the entire infrastructure of the company destroy, the pieces of paper given to residents promising employment and pensions are now meaningless.
To get to Bong Mines, you drive 1.5 hours from Monrovia to Kakata, and from there you get a jeep to Bong Mines. The drive to Kakata was very smooth, enhanced by the awesome music played by UNMIL Radio (“The Voice of the United Nations Mission in Liberia”), which plays the most random, but fantastically catchy songs. The words are in English but I have no idea where they find this stuff, though I’d like to know. The one song I particularly liked was super catchy (the driver and a couple passengers were singing along) and had a chorus of, “Life. Oh Life. Ohhhhhh liiiiiiiiife. Oh life. Bam bam bam.” Not everything has to take on elevated meaning because of the war, but it’s interesting to be singing this chorus over and over in this happy, hopeful, cheerful tone and then talk to the man next to you who explains that Bong Mines was his home before the war but he fled when the fighting got so bad, and never went back. It makes you wonder about the people who stayed – what did they do for those 14 years?! How did they survive?
I went there because a friend of mine, Megan, who works with an organization called the Niapele Project (http://www.theniapeleproject.org/), is working to establish a partnership with a farming cooperative in the village. The Niapele Project (NP) works to increase the capacity and sustainability of Liberian organizations that are working to help returning refugees and refugee children. The idea is that the farming association in Bong Mines will be contracted to provide food for the Niapele Project’s school feeding program.
The organization, The Malayah Association, was founded by a very cool woman: Finda Francis. They kept translating “malayah” (a Kissi word) as “help me,” but I think it is more in the spirit of “help myself” or “self help.” Ma Finda talked about her “vision”: she looked around her after the war and saw many orphans, widows, widowers, unskilled/uneducated young people, and a destitute town with no jobs. She came to understand that the community had to help themselves if they wanted any relief from poverty, but she wondered: Where to start? How to start? And with what? So she started the Malayah Association (I’ll be posting more about this specifically at some point today).
So, I arrive in Bong Mines around 1 after a less-than-smooth but not terrible ride from Kakata. The road is not paved and is quite rolling with many many potholes. I was sitting in the middle of the front seat, which offers a lovely view of the road but is slightly uncomfortable, especially in a stick shift. Also, the jeep kept breaking down. . . nonetheless, I arrived by one, ready to head out and see the farm. I called my contact there, Rev. Anthony, and he sent someone to pick me up at the car park, and take me to the compound.
I arrive at Ma Finda’s compound and immediately realized that I had forgotten the basics of a visit to an African village. 1. The white visitor is given water and told to rest. 2. Cooking commences. 3. Village tour. 4. More rest. And that’s pretty much how it went – the farm viewing, it seemed, would have to wait until tomorrow. Which was unfortunate because I had planned to leave at 7am. . . but once you are in a village, you are often at the mercy of said village. So, Ma Finda brings me mineral water and starts cooking slightly spicy tomato pasted plantains and crawfish (delicious! My first crawfish experience actually). Finda lives with her husband and children in one of the old mining workers quarters – even post-war they really aren’t too bad. Very sturdy, you can tell they were definitely even nicer at some point.
Rev. Anthony took me on a quick tour of the town – school, church, main drag. I told him I spoke Pulaar, so we went and visited the Fulas (they are everywhere and it’s glorious) and then he had to head back to seminary class. He sent two young girls, and members of the association, Hannah and Benitta to come hang out with me. In the evening, Hannah took me around to show me the train and the market. Each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, a train comes from Monrovia to Bong Mines, it used to be for the iron ore but now it brings supplies and produce to Monrovia for sale. It’s a great way for the farming association to transport their goods, and the amount of goods was incredible! I’ll post pictures soon – bananas, plantains, palm oil, bitter ball, pepper, crawlfish, corn, charcoal – all in mass quantities! It was incredible – the amount of produce and goods moving out on such a regular basis. Really impressive.
From there we went to see Hannah’s stall in the market. She was in 11th grade when the war got too bad to be in school, but she’s clearly a really, really smart young woman and speaks English very well. She works in agriculture with the Association but also has a business – selling plastic buckets and sandals at the market. African markets are amazing: all these woman who are friends, selling pretty much the same thing from stall to stall. You wonder how they make any money? How people in the village decide who to buy from? Although, Hannah was the only woman I saw who was selling plastic buckets, and they’re a sure sell.
There were a ton of empty stalls though, I honestly thought people had just started to go home already because it was getting later. But Hannah says: “Hey, this market used to be much bigger. All these empty stalls used to be filled up. But all these people are dead. They died during the war.” Wow. I found it so moving, and also a little eerie, that the stalls still remain empty. And they aren’t just all the stalls at the end of the market, or all the ones in the last row, or far away from the road. They are interspersed between filled stalls, two empty ones here, another one next to Hannah, three more four rows over. Pronounced, specific emptiness. I knew if I had asked: “Who was here? Who sold what here?”, Hannah would know them by name and a story about their families. Now, I’m sure once the population gets back to its former size (if ever), the stalls will be filled in again, slowly slowly. But for now, they are strikingly empty.
Not surprisingly, the people were really so nice to me. The ones I was hanging out with were mostly Kissi, and they told me they are related to the Fulas – both are derived from the same tribe in Sudan. Many of the women in the association came to visit me and chat, and – of course – I got my very own Kissi name, which pretty much rocks: Siah Tamba (first born girl child drum). After a delicious dinner of Potato greens and rice, I went back into town again with Rev. Anthony, back from school, to see the people loading up cars with produce to take to Monrovia. So, Bong Mines definitely has a lot of poverty, but they are also definitely working hard. There was so much commerce, it was great. Still has a long way to go, but I found the activity quite impressive. And at night the town was BUMPIN’. Fancy, popular hip-hop music blasting on the street, people everywhere, generators throbbing, TVs visible inside the shops along the road. We went in to a small shop and sat in the back and watched a little TV: WWF wrestling highlights from 1991-1994. Talk about mullets. And you know, perhaps it was the setting or the fatigue, but it was soooo much better than wrestling today – it didn’t even look as fake! Quite entertaining AND really amused me since I had been savoring the post-dinner-sitting-in-silence-staring-up-at-the-dark-night-sky time that I don’t get in Monrovia. But instead ended the night with Brett “The Hitman” Hart’s mullet and hot-pink spandex. Rock on.
And then, still having seen nooooo farm, it was time for bed and a reminder of another African detail I completely forgot: there is absolutely, categorically NO ventilation in African bedrooms. I was smoldering. Smoldering. Covered with sweat, just hoping to be able to fall asleep and get through the night. It was soo soo hot in that room, but around 3am it suddenly got cool and it was glorious. It was so hot, and not just hot – heavy, stuffy, suffocating – that it prompted me to use my aircon for the first time in Monrovia last night.
The plan: wake up early eeeearly, go to farm quick quick, head back to Monrovia and go to the office (not because I have a specific task, simply because I told them I would be back by noon). The problemo – woke up to rain and wailing. Not only was the weather miserable, someone had died in the night. I heard the wailing start around 5:30am. It was far away, but it was clearly the wail of death: shrill, high pitched, frantically rhythmic. I heard it was a middle aged woman who had been sick for some months.
Obviously, I understand that people need to go mourn, but some still show up to chat and hang out with me. Really, so terribly nice. Another issue, however, is the confusion over my mission. I went there on what was essentially a research trip – I wanted to see how their farm worked. But when a white woman shows up in your village, even when she says repeatedly, “I’m just here to learn from you,” it’s hard to believe that she isn’t going to help in some way, and that she really did just come to take your knowledge and food. So despite multiple attempts to explain myself, I am now considered a partner in their efforts. And that’s not a bad thing, I want to help, I just hope I can find a way to do so (see entry “Malayah Association: War Against Poverty” if you’re interested in helping too J)
My American-ness came out a bit in the morning as we waited and waited for the rain to subside. Just sitting, waiting. Got a bit impatient – not because I wanted to go, but just because I felt I should get back to work at some point. But they were just so so so nice, and so welcoming, and so thankful that I was there. We finally had a quick little meeting, and then the rain stopped and a motorbike came to take me to the farm. That’s right – the white girl needs a motorbike to take her to a farm that old, crippled women walk to. Mmm hmm. But it was far deh! About a 10 minute motorbike ride and we only went to the closest one and saw it from quite a distance, because of the time and the weather. Crazy. This one old woman kept showing me her leg, which got bashed up in the war and didn’t heal correctly – and she walks out there a few times a week.
It was a great trip – I actually did get a better sense of what’s going on in the world of communal farming and got to get out into a Liberian village and really hang out with people and get to know them a little. I’d really like to go back to visit again, so hopefully I’ll be able to work that. After having ANOTHER delicious meal, I made my way to the car park with an escort and about 30 plantains (literally), only to find what I suspected: no cars were going at that very moment. No worry, I had planned for this and I love motorcycles, so I wrapped all my stuff in plastic, it’s strapped to the back of the motorcycle, and I ride gloriously out of Bong Mines, sandwiched between two young men in the pouring rain.
It did dawn on me that this wasn’t the smartest idea I’ve ever had. I was on a motorbike. It was pooooooouring. I was going into the bush. And I was sandwiched between two men. Hm. However, it was a great journey – the guys, Emmanuel and Eddie, were really nice and great and the ride was as smooth as possible for an unpaved, pot-hole ridden, dirt road. It also dawned on me at one point that I was too old to be spending a Thursday on a motorbike in the pouring rain, soaking wet, covered with mud – but that was a fleeting thought: even at 27 I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do on any Thursday.
You gotta know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em
Written 9 June 2009:
I’m sitting in my bedroom listening to traditional African drumming and singing coming from the hotel. It’s grand opening night tonight. We were not invited but I had the chance to sneak my way – a man offered to get me in if I went and got dressed up for the occasion. The problem – quite humorous, I admit – was that I had just changed into my “nice clothes.” So I told the man this, and he laughed in my face. Ha. He thought I was kidding, but it’s the nicest I’ve looked in a while. Perhaps indicative of a problem . . .
Anyway, it’s the GRAND OPENING of the Robert L. Johnson Kendeja Resort. I mentioned this before – it’s a huge, fancy, ridiculous place in the midst of regular Liberian people. It just seems opulent and obnoxious. I have since heard some of the back story which is both interesting and makes the place seem a little better. First of all, Mr. Johnson – who I never heard of before coming to Liberia but who I believe owns BET and who is known here as “the richest black man in America” – went to Ellen and said, “I want to invest in Liberia, what do you need?” Apparently, a very nice hotel. Ok, I can see that, you can’t encourage tourism without a nice place to stay.
I think I mentioned that they knocked down the youth cultural center in order to build the hotel. That is still true, but they already broke ground at the new site of the cultural center – which will also include a clinic and a brand new school. Currently, the hotel employs just under 200 Liberians, and I heard that will increase to 300-400 when it is running at full capacity. So, I still think it’s oddly placed and mildly offensive, BUT it isn’t, perhaps, the devil. I got all this information from Sekki, my new friend at the Attaya Shop. I’m still boycotting the hotel though.
Mostly, the music has been drumming and clear African rhythms, but not long ago I heard, “You got know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, you gotta know when to walk away…..” Very random. Ellen is actually there for the ceremony. I kind of wish I had gone over – after dressing much nicer than I am now apparently – just to check out what’s going on. But Irena, in Saypa’s compound, had just gotten back from traveling and brought me a pineapple, which was so so nice of her, so I went there instead to eat it (delicious!!!) and chat (they are awesome). They've started to try to teach me Kpelle (pel-lay) . . . though I think I may have already written about that so I'll stop here. . .
I’m sitting in my bedroom listening to traditional African drumming and singing coming from the hotel. It’s grand opening night tonight. We were not invited but I had the chance to sneak my way – a man offered to get me in if I went and got dressed up for the occasion. The problem – quite humorous, I admit – was that I had just changed into my “nice clothes.” So I told the man this, and he laughed in my face. Ha. He thought I was kidding, but it’s the nicest I’ve looked in a while. Perhaps indicative of a problem . . .
Anyway, it’s the GRAND OPENING of the Robert L. Johnson Kendeja Resort. I mentioned this before – it’s a huge, fancy, ridiculous place in the midst of regular Liberian people. It just seems opulent and obnoxious. I have since heard some of the back story which is both interesting and makes the place seem a little better. First of all, Mr. Johnson – who I never heard of before coming to Liberia but who I believe owns BET and who is known here as “the richest black man in America” – went to Ellen and said, “I want to invest in Liberia, what do you need?” Apparently, a very nice hotel. Ok, I can see that, you can’t encourage tourism without a nice place to stay.
I think I mentioned that they knocked down the youth cultural center in order to build the hotel. That is still true, but they already broke ground at the new site of the cultural center – which will also include a clinic and a brand new school. Currently, the hotel employs just under 200 Liberians, and I heard that will increase to 300-400 when it is running at full capacity. So, I still think it’s oddly placed and mildly offensive, BUT it isn’t, perhaps, the devil. I got all this information from Sekki, my new friend at the Attaya Shop. I’m still boycotting the hotel though.
Mostly, the music has been drumming and clear African rhythms, but not long ago I heard, “You got know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, you gotta know when to walk away…..” Very random. Ellen is actually there for the ceremony. I kind of wish I had gone over – after dressing much nicer than I am now apparently – just to check out what’s going on. But Irena, in Saypa’s compound, had just gotten back from traveling and brought me a pineapple, which was so so nice of her, so I went there instead to eat it (delicious!!!) and chat (they are awesome). They've started to try to teach me Kpelle (pel-lay) . . . though I think I may have already written about that so I'll stop here. . .
09 June 2009
The Waiting Game
Monrovia isn't the worst place in the world, at all. But I really enjoy getting out of here. I know I need to be based here to meet with people and discuss things that are going on. However, it’s really frustrating because I find myself just waiting for meetings, and then often they get cancelled. I just had a misunderstanding with a woman from the Ministry of Gender and Development. We had a 1:30 meeting but I called her to tell her that I needed to be back at MIA by 2:45 for a 3 o’clock meeting. I wanted to make sure that our 1:30 meeting time meant 1:30 and not 2:15 or 2:30, as often happens. I showed up at 1 (because I wasn’t doing anything else), wait until 1:45, and then find out she misunderstood my rather poor Liberian English (totally my fault) and thought I wanted to meet her at 3. We’ll have to reschedule. So when I’m in Monrovia I have stuff I should be doing, but it all involves working into other people’s schedules. If PC taught me anything it was the ability to wait weeks or months or even years for things to get done. I can do that no problem sitting under a mango tree chatting and cooking attaya. But sitting at a desk in a suit just waiting, waiting, and waiting . . . it’s just not healthy or right. It’s not the waiting that kills me, it’s the location.
Also, in perfect karmatic fashion after complaining about how cold the offices are here: I walked all the way back from the Ministry of Gender and Dev today, it’s actually not far - only about a 20 minute walk. But in the hot hot sun, me I sweat tooooo much, and then I return to my office only to find it sweltering – the air conditioner broke. The one time I want it to be freezing, I am now sitting in a pool of my own sweat, in my suit, waiting to meet with my Minister, insssaaaaaa Allah! This meeting has been scheduled multiple times and keeps just not happening. To be fair, he’s a rock star and is quite busy. Not meeting with him doesn’t frustrate me as much because I know he’s not sitting up in his office hanging out. I thought he was Ellen’s cousin, but then someone told me last night they were brother/sister, I’m not sure – but in either case, they are quite close. When she leaves the country, he is acting-President. So he’s got some power here. But hopefully today we can chat about community based farming initiatives and see what his vision is.
Tomorrow, I am heading to a place called Bong Mines. A friend of mine, Megan, who works here for the Niapele Project has a partnership with their women’s farming group (here’s their info on the project: http://www.theniapeleproject.org/blog/story-field-women-malaya and
http://picasaweb.google.com/msullivan215/Malaya#). So I want to go check it out and just get an idea of how successful communal farms function. Probably a good thing for me to know :) I’ll stay there until Thursday, then head back to Monrovia. Friday is a day trip to Bassa County, and then I may head back to Gbarnga again on Sunday for a BBQ/possible work related meetings on Monday, and then Tuesday another day trip to Bomi County. During those seven glorious days out of the office, I should be able to set up some meetings for later next week, and will also have some information to organize and case study stuff to type up.
So I just got out my meeting with the Minister - it went well-ish. Didn't find out anything new or really get a better idea of who to talk to, but just solidified my jobs. I do really need to start focusing more on the administrative task: basically setting up a template system for admin and accounting that can be used in the 148 "cities" throughout the country. It's time sensative. . . meaning it needs to be done by next week, which doesn't play well into my seven office-less day plan. I've contacted the one guy I am waiting to hear from, but I have not yet heard back. If I have to come back early to meet with him on Thursday, I'll do that. But I'm not coming in to the office tomorrow to sit at a desk and wait more. It'll be great to check out this farm and see what's going on . . . . .
We hired a local woman to cook for us three nights a week. Living with 8 people in a small kitchen makes it difficult for all of us to cook our own meals. Last night was the first night: Potato greens (the leaves of the potato plant = delicious) over rice. It's good. Tonight it my favorite: Check rice and sauce. West African dishes are notoriously heavy on the oil. These are no different. Yet I am determined that on this trip to Africa I will not gain excessive amounts of weight. So even though I absolutely love oil soaked rice dishes (seriously), I am only trying to eat them three times a week. There's just something not right about gaining so much weight in developing countries, a feat that I have consistently accomplished throughout my life.
Closing sidenote on a lesson learnt: Be stingy with number giving. A man who helped me find a carpark the other day and who I talked to a bit about farming stuff, asked for my number. He saw me use my phone, I couldn't lie and say I didn't have one. And I didn't mind, he seemed nice. So I gave him the number. Thought nothing of it, figured he may or may not call. Oh, oh, oh, he called. 21 times since noon today. 21 times. No more number giving. Ever.
Also, in perfect karmatic fashion after complaining about how cold the offices are here: I walked all the way back from the Ministry of Gender and Dev today, it’s actually not far - only about a 20 minute walk. But in the hot hot sun, me I sweat tooooo much, and then I return to my office only to find it sweltering – the air conditioner broke. The one time I want it to be freezing, I am now sitting in a pool of my own sweat, in my suit, waiting to meet with my Minister, insssaaaaaa Allah! This meeting has been scheduled multiple times and keeps just not happening. To be fair, he’s a rock star and is quite busy. Not meeting with him doesn’t frustrate me as much because I know he’s not sitting up in his office hanging out. I thought he was Ellen’s cousin, but then someone told me last night they were brother/sister, I’m not sure – but in either case, they are quite close. When she leaves the country, he is acting-President. So he’s got some power here. But hopefully today we can chat about community based farming initiatives and see what his vision is.
Tomorrow, I am heading to a place called Bong Mines. A friend of mine, Megan, who works here for the Niapele Project has a partnership with their women’s farming group (here’s their info on the project: http://www.theniapeleproject.org/blog/story-field-women-malaya and
http://picasaweb.google.com/msullivan215/Malaya#). So I want to go check it out and just get an idea of how successful communal farms function. Probably a good thing for me to know :) I’ll stay there until Thursday, then head back to Monrovia. Friday is a day trip to Bassa County, and then I may head back to Gbarnga again on Sunday for a BBQ/possible work related meetings on Monday, and then Tuesday another day trip to Bomi County. During those seven glorious days out of the office, I should be able to set up some meetings for later next week, and will also have some information to organize and case study stuff to type up.
***
So I just got out my meeting with the Minister - it went well-ish. Didn't find out anything new or really get a better idea of who to talk to, but just solidified my jobs. I do really need to start focusing more on the administrative task: basically setting up a template system for admin and accounting that can be used in the 148 "cities" throughout the country. It's time sensative. . . meaning it needs to be done by next week, which doesn't play well into my seven office-less day plan. I've contacted the one guy I am waiting to hear from, but I have not yet heard back. If I have to come back early to meet with him on Thursday, I'll do that. But I'm not coming in to the office tomorrow to sit at a desk and wait more. It'll be great to check out this farm and see what's going on . . . . .
We hired a local woman to cook for us three nights a week. Living with 8 people in a small kitchen makes it difficult for all of us to cook our own meals. Last night was the first night: Potato greens (the leaves of the potato plant = delicious) over rice. It's good. Tonight it my favorite: Check rice and sauce. West African dishes are notoriously heavy on the oil. These are no different. Yet I am determined that on this trip to Africa I will not gain excessive amounts of weight. So even though I absolutely love oil soaked rice dishes (seriously), I am only trying to eat them three times a week. There's just something not right about gaining so much weight in developing countries, a feat that I have consistently accomplished throughout my life.
Closing sidenote on a lesson learnt: Be stingy with number giving. A man who helped me find a carpark the other day and who I talked to a bit about farming stuff, asked for my number. He saw me use my phone, I couldn't lie and say I didn't have one. And I didn't mind, he seemed nice. So I gave him the number. Thought nothing of it, figured he may or may not call. Oh, oh, oh, he called. 21 times since noon today. 21 times. No more number giving. Ever.
Why the Peace Corps Rocks
I needed to get out of Monrovia. I was feeling trapped, and just wanted a solo escape. I had heard that there was a village, Gbarnga, that was only 2 hours away AND had a leper/TB basketweaving colony. What better get-a-away could you find?
Saturday morning, woke up at 6:15 and got myself together – traveled uber light since I would only be gone for the day. I walk to the junction to grab a car, but it’s Clean the Nation Day. Yes, the infamous African clean the nation day where public transport comes to a standstill from 6am to 10am on the first Saturday of each month. This is actually only the second one in Liberia, great timing on my part. Luckily, motorbikes can run, so I jumped on the back of one and headed to “Red Light,” so named not necessarily for lewd activities that might take place there, but for the traffic light that characterizes the area. Sadly, the motorbike could only take me as far as Samuel K. Doe Stadium. And from there I had to walk. I thought Red Light was fairly close by . . .
But I just kept going and going. Actually, it was a good thing because I had no idea what I was going to do when I got to the car park: cars couldn’t leave until 10 and it was only 8ish as I was walking. I don’t know if anything would have struck me about the area if I had never heard about Red Light. But in the back of my mind I kept thinking about the fact that I was advised to possibly only go there with a Liberian. I think knowing that made me more cognizant of the situation, which was a good thing, but perhaps made things seem a little more intense than they actually were. Anyway, there were a lot of people milling around the streets, and no cars in sight. I actually walked completely through Red Light without seeing any “car park.” It was crowded and for one 10-foot span the smell of feces in an open space was more pronounced than I’ve ever experienced. I stayed on the main road, and it was fine. But the side streets were packed with people and small stalls and lots and lots of mud.
The thing I noticed most: no one seemed to notice me. Which on one hand you think, great, I’m blending in. I, clearly, was not blending in. For me, not being acknowledged is not a good thing – you can’t make a connection with anyone if they don’t look at you, say hello back, or at least smile. And, while not a guarantee of safety, I think making a connection does reduce the chances of having any type of problem. It was interesting to be completely ignored, and slightly unsettling, and very crowded. I stopped at a police junction to get their advice on a car, and then asked them if I could stop and rest a second at their post. Without even looking at me, they told me to move on. That was fine, but something I’ve never experienced in West Africa, police may be corrupt but they always let you sit and chat.
I continued on, not seeing any place that looked like a good place to stop and settle in for a bit. Finally, after about an hour of walking, I came to yet another police checkpoint and figured I’d see if they were more friendly. They were. We chatted and I told them where I was going and one actually found a car for me that was leaving sooner than 10. As I was standing there with them, as luck would have it, a woman approached and flashed a Peace Corps ID card. Of course, I pounce: Hello! Peace Corps! Me also! Mary Ellen, it turns out, was on her way to Monrovia to head back to the States after finishing up here. As we went our separate ways she mentioned that there were Peace Corps in Gbarnga, in Pheobe Hospital. This knowledge would prove vital.
Off I go – first car to Kakata. That turns out to be about an hour and a half ride. I was comfortable in the back seat next to Gami, who was a Kpelle woman from Lofa county. Very nice and helpful, and we ended up getting in another car together to make the last leg of the journey to Gbarnga (pronounced Ban-ga). It was a fun car ride – everyone was chatting and laughing. Sadly, I still don’t speak Liberian English so I was out of it most of the time, which was fine – it was a scenic ride: so many trees, and even some rolling hills. The car was a bit decrepit, we had to stop for repairs a few times along the way, and didn’t roll in to Gbarnga until around 2. So I would have pretty much had to leave at 3 to get back to Monrovia before dark. . .
I went to the motorcycle taxi guys and asked: Do you know where the lepers are? They had no idea what I was talking about. Ha. What? Who? Lepers? It dawned on me that I had some false information. Amy had visited the leper colony in 2007 and had mentioned the village’s name to me, but the only thing I remembered was that it began with a “G.” There are multiple towns that begin with “G” in this country. After asking about 15 different motorcycle taxi guys with no luck, I decided to head to Pheobe Hospital to look up the PCV.
The hospital was nice – had a huge compound with lots of living quarters for staff. I got quite the tour roaming around trying to follow the directions to the PC house. Finally I found it, but sadly it was empty. Hm hm hm. A bit of a conundrum: what to do? Go back to town and drive all the way back to Monrovia? It was looking like that was the only option, so I started walking to the road and spotted a Peace-Corps-esque looking couple in front of me. I stalked them, subtly, until I was close enough to awkwardly call “excuse me!” Turns out they weren’t PCVs, but as I was talking to them, a young woman, clearly a PCV, walks out of a nearby building. Kyla, very nice, working in the health sector, was on her way to dinner at the house of a local NGO couple. Would I like to come and sleep on their floor? Why yes, I would. This is just one reason that Peace Corps rocks: show up in a random African village at mid-afternoon and get offered dinner and a place to stay and shower. Fantastic.
So we head back to Gbarnga and meet up with the other PCVs from the area – Casandra, Ed, and Lauren. The five of us show up at Tate and Kristen’s house for dinner: home made tortillas and BBQ’ed chicken and cold drinks and red wine and great company. I reeeeeeeked from my travels and was utterly filthy, but Tate and Kristen are RPCVs from Cameroon, so they didn’t mind. They are awesome, and are not only working here, but are raising a two-year old here! They were so welcoming, and just genuinely cool, good people. It was really a fun night to sit around and chat, talk about all our different PC experiences. Some of us were in Africa, but there was also Dominican Republic, Guatemala, and Tonga thrown in there as well. It was great night J Tate works on some Ag projects so I am hoping to actually have a work related reason to go up there and hang out. But even if I can’t justify it with work, I’ll probably still visit.
So, Peace Corps serendipity. Great weekend. Sunday morning we woke up and Kyla and I went for a walk around the community of Pheobe. She’s only be in town three weeks, so she’s still learning as well. As we walked around, we met Julie, a young guy who was standing outside a really, really nice house. Next to Pheobe is an area called “New Airfield,” which is pretty much all new houses built after the war. It’s still clearly a poor-er farming community, but I really think this was the nicest and most well-kept village I have ever been to in my life. The lawns were manicured! There were flowers that served no purpose other than to look beautiful! Every single lawn and yard was swept perfectly clean. I really was amazed. It was lovely! I was ready to buy property.
Julie walked us around a good part of the neighborhood, pointing out all the trees, plants, and crops. It was a great review for me, a nice refresher course from old Gambie, so I don’t look foolish showing up at a community farm and not be able to identify beans or eggplant (garden egg) or something. Though, admittedly, that’s still a possibility. He also took us around to the riverside, and even the cemetery. I thought it was interesting to go to the cemetery and even walk around some tombs, because in Gambia I wasn’t even allowed to look in the direction of the cemetery as a woman. That’s an exaggeration, but I certainly wasn’t allowed to go there, and never did. And I’m sure there were no marked graves.
This one actually had rather large, above-ground cement tombs for “special people,” meaning those with money. But there was also the head nurse at the hospital that was just buried a few weeks ago: she was riding in an ambulance on her way to pick up a pregnant woman when the ambulance struck a parked truck, hidden in the dark on the side of the road. I actually saw the ambulance on the side of the road before hearing the story, and it was reeeeally mangled. Two people died in the crash. That’s a huge problem along the roads upcountry – cars or big trucks break down and park off to the side, but they don’t have reflectors, so you can’t even see them until it’s too late. Needless to say, I will not be driving at night. I was talking to Kyla about this, and it’s ridiculous to think about all the capacity that was lost because of that one truck parked on the side of the road: an ambulance in a country that has very few, a highly skilled nurse in a country that has very few. Furthermore, the ambulance driver was arrested for reckless driving. Have to blame someone apparently, though I’m not sure why the person who parked the truck isn’t accountable as well?
After the walk, I made my way home to Monrovia. It was a direct ride and went much faster. I had the whole front seat to myself: not because I insisted, but because the driver insisted. He kept saying, “No, no! You’re skin is too big!” Hm. Interesting. I didn’t argue too much because by taking the front seat and paying just a fraction more, the car could leave right away without waiting for another passenger. The only problem: it was mid-day. The sun was too hot. And I was sitting like a tortured bug under the magnifying glass that was the windshield. I got pretty burnt. And all I could do was sit there and burn, for 4 hours. I knew I was burning, but I had no sunscreen, no cloth to cover myself. I am pretty red, but turning gloriously bronze J
It turns out, there IS actually a leper colony around Gbarnga, though I think the one Amy was talking about was actually in another village called Ganta. Ah-ha. Next time. But I didn’t even need lepers to have a great time!
Saturday morning, woke up at 6:15 and got myself together – traveled uber light since I would only be gone for the day. I walk to the junction to grab a car, but it’s Clean the Nation Day. Yes, the infamous African clean the nation day where public transport comes to a standstill from 6am to 10am on the first Saturday of each month. This is actually only the second one in Liberia, great timing on my part. Luckily, motorbikes can run, so I jumped on the back of one and headed to “Red Light,” so named not necessarily for lewd activities that might take place there, but for the traffic light that characterizes the area. Sadly, the motorbike could only take me as far as Samuel K. Doe Stadium. And from there I had to walk. I thought Red Light was fairly close by . . .
But I just kept going and going. Actually, it was a good thing because I had no idea what I was going to do when I got to the car park: cars couldn’t leave until 10 and it was only 8ish as I was walking. I don’t know if anything would have struck me about the area if I had never heard about Red Light. But in the back of my mind I kept thinking about the fact that I was advised to possibly only go there with a Liberian. I think knowing that made me more cognizant of the situation, which was a good thing, but perhaps made things seem a little more intense than they actually were. Anyway, there were a lot of people milling around the streets, and no cars in sight. I actually walked completely through Red Light without seeing any “car park.” It was crowded and for one 10-foot span the smell of feces in an open space was more pronounced than I’ve ever experienced. I stayed on the main road, and it was fine. But the side streets were packed with people and small stalls and lots and lots of mud.
The thing I noticed most: no one seemed to notice me. Which on one hand you think, great, I’m blending in. I, clearly, was not blending in. For me, not being acknowledged is not a good thing – you can’t make a connection with anyone if they don’t look at you, say hello back, or at least smile. And, while not a guarantee of safety, I think making a connection does reduce the chances of having any type of problem. It was interesting to be completely ignored, and slightly unsettling, and very crowded. I stopped at a police junction to get their advice on a car, and then asked them if I could stop and rest a second at their post. Without even looking at me, they told me to move on. That was fine, but something I’ve never experienced in West Africa, police may be corrupt but they always let you sit and chat.
I continued on, not seeing any place that looked like a good place to stop and settle in for a bit. Finally, after about an hour of walking, I came to yet another police checkpoint and figured I’d see if they were more friendly. They were. We chatted and I told them where I was going and one actually found a car for me that was leaving sooner than 10. As I was standing there with them, as luck would have it, a woman approached and flashed a Peace Corps ID card. Of course, I pounce: Hello! Peace Corps! Me also! Mary Ellen, it turns out, was on her way to Monrovia to head back to the States after finishing up here. As we went our separate ways she mentioned that there were Peace Corps in Gbarnga, in Pheobe Hospital. This knowledge would prove vital.
Off I go – first car to Kakata. That turns out to be about an hour and a half ride. I was comfortable in the back seat next to Gami, who was a Kpelle woman from Lofa county. Very nice and helpful, and we ended up getting in another car together to make the last leg of the journey to Gbarnga (pronounced Ban-ga). It was a fun car ride – everyone was chatting and laughing. Sadly, I still don’t speak Liberian English so I was out of it most of the time, which was fine – it was a scenic ride: so many trees, and even some rolling hills. The car was a bit decrepit, we had to stop for repairs a few times along the way, and didn’t roll in to Gbarnga until around 2. So I would have pretty much had to leave at 3 to get back to Monrovia before dark. . .
I went to the motorcycle taxi guys and asked: Do you know where the lepers are? They had no idea what I was talking about. Ha. What? Who? Lepers? It dawned on me that I had some false information. Amy had visited the leper colony in 2007 and had mentioned the village’s name to me, but the only thing I remembered was that it began with a “G.” There are multiple towns that begin with “G” in this country. After asking about 15 different motorcycle taxi guys with no luck, I decided to head to Pheobe Hospital to look up the PCV.
The hospital was nice – had a huge compound with lots of living quarters for staff. I got quite the tour roaming around trying to follow the directions to the PC house. Finally I found it, but sadly it was empty. Hm hm hm. A bit of a conundrum: what to do? Go back to town and drive all the way back to Monrovia? It was looking like that was the only option, so I started walking to the road and spotted a Peace-Corps-esque looking couple in front of me. I stalked them, subtly, until I was close enough to awkwardly call “excuse me!” Turns out they weren’t PCVs, but as I was talking to them, a young woman, clearly a PCV, walks out of a nearby building. Kyla, very nice, working in the health sector, was on her way to dinner at the house of a local NGO couple. Would I like to come and sleep on their floor? Why yes, I would. This is just one reason that Peace Corps rocks: show up in a random African village at mid-afternoon and get offered dinner and a place to stay and shower. Fantastic.
So we head back to Gbarnga and meet up with the other PCVs from the area – Casandra, Ed, and Lauren. The five of us show up at Tate and Kristen’s house for dinner: home made tortillas and BBQ’ed chicken and cold drinks and red wine and great company. I reeeeeeeked from my travels and was utterly filthy, but Tate and Kristen are RPCVs from Cameroon, so they didn’t mind. They are awesome, and are not only working here, but are raising a two-year old here! They were so welcoming, and just genuinely cool, good people. It was really a fun night to sit around and chat, talk about all our different PC experiences. Some of us were in Africa, but there was also Dominican Republic, Guatemala, and Tonga thrown in there as well. It was great night J Tate works on some Ag projects so I am hoping to actually have a work related reason to go up there and hang out. But even if I can’t justify it with work, I’ll probably still visit.
So, Peace Corps serendipity. Great weekend. Sunday morning we woke up and Kyla and I went for a walk around the community of Pheobe. She’s only be in town three weeks, so she’s still learning as well. As we walked around, we met Julie, a young guy who was standing outside a really, really nice house. Next to Pheobe is an area called “New Airfield,” which is pretty much all new houses built after the war. It’s still clearly a poor-er farming community, but I really think this was the nicest and most well-kept village I have ever been to in my life. The lawns were manicured! There were flowers that served no purpose other than to look beautiful! Every single lawn and yard was swept perfectly clean. I really was amazed. It was lovely! I was ready to buy property.
Julie walked us around a good part of the neighborhood, pointing out all the trees, plants, and crops. It was a great review for me, a nice refresher course from old Gambie, so I don’t look foolish showing up at a community farm and not be able to identify beans or eggplant (garden egg) or something. Though, admittedly, that’s still a possibility. He also took us around to the riverside, and even the cemetery. I thought it was interesting to go to the cemetery and even walk around some tombs, because in Gambia I wasn’t even allowed to look in the direction of the cemetery as a woman. That’s an exaggeration, but I certainly wasn’t allowed to go there, and never did. And I’m sure there were no marked graves.
This one actually had rather large, above-ground cement tombs for “special people,” meaning those with money. But there was also the head nurse at the hospital that was just buried a few weeks ago: she was riding in an ambulance on her way to pick up a pregnant woman when the ambulance struck a parked truck, hidden in the dark on the side of the road. I actually saw the ambulance on the side of the road before hearing the story, and it was reeeeally mangled. Two people died in the crash. That’s a huge problem along the roads upcountry – cars or big trucks break down and park off to the side, but they don’t have reflectors, so you can’t even see them until it’s too late. Needless to say, I will not be driving at night. I was talking to Kyla about this, and it’s ridiculous to think about all the capacity that was lost because of that one truck parked on the side of the road: an ambulance in a country that has very few, a highly skilled nurse in a country that has very few. Furthermore, the ambulance driver was arrested for reckless driving. Have to blame someone apparently, though I’m not sure why the person who parked the truck isn’t accountable as well?
After the walk, I made my way home to Monrovia. It was a direct ride and went much faster. I had the whole front seat to myself: not because I insisted, but because the driver insisted. He kept saying, “No, no! You’re skin is too big!” Hm. Interesting. I didn’t argue too much because by taking the front seat and paying just a fraction more, the car could leave right away without waiting for another passenger. The only problem: it was mid-day. The sun was too hot. And I was sitting like a tortured bug under the magnifying glass that was the windshield. I got pretty burnt. And all I could do was sit there and burn, for 4 hours. I knew I was burning, but I had no sunscreen, no cloth to cover myself. I am pretty red, but turning gloriously bronze J
It turns out, there IS actually a leper colony around Gbarnga, though I think the one Amy was talking about was actually in another village called Ganta. Ah-ha. Next time. But I didn’t even need lepers to have a great time!
08 June 2009
05 June 2009
“Politics is like PBS, without the ‘P’”
My co-worker, who lived in Atlanta during the war, has this quote on a bumper sticker on her car. It’s awesome to see everyday sitting outside our government office. And it’s true. Right now, I’m supposed to be a in the midst of a 6-7 hour drive to the bush, to visit a fishing village, Bogeazay, and discuss plans for a cold storage facility. But instead I am sitting at a desk, in front of a computer, in an office, waiting for the current to be put on so I can access the internet.
The trip was cancelled because of “politics.” The superintendent, who had previously agreed to the plan, then decided that he wanted the project to happen in his village, which is more isolated and harder to visit and brings in less fish on a daily basis. Doesn’t seem to make much sense. The Minister overruled the decision, but wanted us to postpone the trip until ???. It all has to do with party politics, which I don’t have a clear understanding of here yet. The President, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, is part of the Unity Party. And this Superintendent who is not happy is Liberty Party? There are other actors from different parties involved as well, I don’t have a good handle on the details, but I know the BS of politics prevented me from getting out of the city and seeing what the counties actually look like. Frustrating.
The problem I face now is that my main project – creating a streamlined communal farming policy – really can’t be tackled without getting out to see what’s actually happening. I’ve started to stalk some people on the phone to see if I can meet with them and chat about what’s going on out in the field, but haven’t had much success yet. Hopefully, I’ll make some progress today and then be able to actually get out next week. I don’t have internet yet because the Minister is out of town today, and so there’s no rush to put the current on. Although, there’s also the chance that we’re out of fuel . . . . .
***
The woman who graciously lets me share her office, Ann Dora (who is a rock star), came to MIA from the Ministry of Planning. She was pretty high up there, but was not getting any respect – it was a male-dominated ministry and her ideas were not respected or listened to. So she resigned and joined Ministry of Internal Affairs (MIA). This all happened a couple months ago, but last night on her way home from work she was listening to the radio and the headline was: Mass Resignations at Ministry of Planning. The story proceeds to mention her, and then the Minister of Planning, her former boss who wasn’t very nice to her while she was there, proceeds to get on the radio and talk about how he doesn’t know why she left, she was a valuable asset, was a very good worker, etc etc. Then he makes the comment: “She’s moved on to greener pastures. She’s making three times her salary.”
That’s a lie, she might be making a little more (maybe?), but definitely not three times more. As she was explaining this to me this morning, she was clearly a little annoyed and kept saying how it was bad to be on the radio. I wasn’t putting two and two together until she spelled it out for me: the false information about her high salary could make her vulnerable to armed robbery. Which she’s already been a victim of twice. During the County Development Agenda (CDA) process, government officials went out in the communities and met with local people to gather their ideas and input into how the counties could be improved. It’s an element under the Poverty Reduction Strategy (PRS) approach – where local level participation helps formulate policy. Anyway, she was very active in that process, and had received a LD$50,000 (Liberian Dollar) check to pay all the county level workers. Things leak here, people heard about it; she left the check at the bank, but armed robbers showed up at her house while she was out and beat up her husband, father, and daughter.
When you’re thinking about development, it’s easy to overlook this stuff. It’s not just about getting the money to people so they can survive, it’s also about the rule of law – allowing people to feel secure. Then there’s sanitation. There’s health care. There’s housing. Garbage removal. Roads. Schools. Electricity. There’s a lot do. Another thing I never really thought about before – a developing country’s blood bank.
A friend of mine works at the Clinton Foundation here, she’s doing policy development and research on blood transfusions. She was telling me about how there is no formal blood bank in Liberia – what often happens is that if your family member needs blood, you donate. But it’s not tested, for anything. There’s clearly an element of trust and desperation there that is not safe. During the rainy season (high malaria season), the demand for blood jumps by over 100%, with most of the recipients being children. Whether the blood is from family or other volunteers, it’s still not tested. I forget the percentage she told me, but some ridiculous percentage contains syphilis, hepatitis, more malaria, or even HIV. So, you have a child who is so sick and so worn down from malaria, a disease of the blood, and you’re giving him or her blood to save their lives . . . but that might also infect their already depleted immune system with another disease. Basically the logic is: save their lives and then treat them for syphilis. Pretty ridiculous. And pretty difficult to address as well, without infrastructure, storage facilities, reliable electricity, and trained staff.
There's just so much to do here. On so many levels. The farming policy I'll be working on seems to pale in comparison to the other health, security, infrastructure etc etc etc etc etc issues. But, at the same time, in a society that is needs its agricultural sector to be strong enough to support itself and it's urban population, it's important to have a strong farming sector. One of the major challenges facing agriculture in general, is the fact that the rural population is so depleted - so many people fled to Monrovia and never went back. The challenge now is to stimulate "reverse migration." The idea is basically to develop the rural sector to encourage people to return "home." Sounds great, but really really really incredibly difficult. Anyway, I need to go stalk people and try to make them give me some insights into the current communal farming policy.
Hoping to take a mini-out-of-Monrovia adventure this weekend . . .
The trip was cancelled because of “politics.” The superintendent, who had previously agreed to the plan, then decided that he wanted the project to happen in his village, which is more isolated and harder to visit and brings in less fish on a daily basis. Doesn’t seem to make much sense. The Minister overruled the decision, but wanted us to postpone the trip until ???. It all has to do with party politics, which I don’t have a clear understanding of here yet. The President, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, is part of the Unity Party. And this Superintendent who is not happy is Liberty Party? There are other actors from different parties involved as well, I don’t have a good handle on the details, but I know the BS of politics prevented me from getting out of the city and seeing what the counties actually look like. Frustrating.
The problem I face now is that my main project – creating a streamlined communal farming policy – really can’t be tackled without getting out to see what’s actually happening. I’ve started to stalk some people on the phone to see if I can meet with them and chat about what’s going on out in the field, but haven’t had much success yet. Hopefully, I’ll make some progress today and then be able to actually get out next week. I don’t have internet yet because the Minister is out of town today, and so there’s no rush to put the current on. Although, there’s also the chance that we’re out of fuel . . . . .
***
The woman who graciously lets me share her office, Ann Dora (who is a rock star), came to MIA from the Ministry of Planning. She was pretty high up there, but was not getting any respect – it was a male-dominated ministry and her ideas were not respected or listened to. So she resigned and joined Ministry of Internal Affairs (MIA). This all happened a couple months ago, but last night on her way home from work she was listening to the radio and the headline was: Mass Resignations at Ministry of Planning. The story proceeds to mention her, and then the Minister of Planning, her former boss who wasn’t very nice to her while she was there, proceeds to get on the radio and talk about how he doesn’t know why she left, she was a valuable asset, was a very good worker, etc etc. Then he makes the comment: “She’s moved on to greener pastures. She’s making three times her salary.”
That’s a lie, she might be making a little more (maybe?), but definitely not three times more. As she was explaining this to me this morning, she was clearly a little annoyed and kept saying how it was bad to be on the radio. I wasn’t putting two and two together until she spelled it out for me: the false information about her high salary could make her vulnerable to armed robbery. Which she’s already been a victim of twice. During the County Development Agenda (CDA) process, government officials went out in the communities and met with local people to gather their ideas and input into how the counties could be improved. It’s an element under the Poverty Reduction Strategy (PRS) approach – where local level participation helps formulate policy. Anyway, she was very active in that process, and had received a LD$50,000 (Liberian Dollar) check to pay all the county level workers. Things leak here, people heard about it; she left the check at the bank, but armed robbers showed up at her house while she was out and beat up her husband, father, and daughter.
When you’re thinking about development, it’s easy to overlook this stuff. It’s not just about getting the money to people so they can survive, it’s also about the rule of law – allowing people to feel secure. Then there’s sanitation. There’s health care. There’s housing. Garbage removal. Roads. Schools. Electricity. There’s a lot do. Another thing I never really thought about before – a developing country’s blood bank.
A friend of mine works at the Clinton Foundation here, she’s doing policy development and research on blood transfusions. She was telling me about how there is no formal blood bank in Liberia – what often happens is that if your family member needs blood, you donate. But it’s not tested, for anything. There’s clearly an element of trust and desperation there that is not safe. During the rainy season (high malaria season), the demand for blood jumps by over 100%, with most of the recipients being children. Whether the blood is from family or other volunteers, it’s still not tested. I forget the percentage she told me, but some ridiculous percentage contains syphilis, hepatitis, more malaria, or even HIV. So, you have a child who is so sick and so worn down from malaria, a disease of the blood, and you’re giving him or her blood to save their lives . . . but that might also infect their already depleted immune system with another disease. Basically the logic is: save their lives and then treat them for syphilis. Pretty ridiculous. And pretty difficult to address as well, without infrastructure, storage facilities, reliable electricity, and trained staff.
There's just so much to do here. On so many levels. The farming policy I'll be working on seems to pale in comparison to the other health, security, infrastructure etc etc etc etc etc issues. But, at the same time, in a society that is needs its agricultural sector to be strong enough to support itself and it's urban population, it's important to have a strong farming sector. One of the major challenges facing agriculture in general, is the fact that the rural population is so depleted - so many people fled to Monrovia and never went back. The challenge now is to stimulate "reverse migration." The idea is basically to develop the rural sector to encourage people to return "home." Sounds great, but really really really incredibly difficult. Anyway, I need to go stalk people and try to make them give me some insights into the current communal farming policy.
Hoping to take a mini-out-of-Monrovia adventure this weekend . . .
Air Conditioning and Liberian English
I am freezing and I can’t understand English.
You would think having an air conditioning in your office would be a good thing. But it’s a curse. I prefer natural air in general to air conditioners, but here there is very little choice in my shared office. There’re just so many reasons why it’s wrong:
- Waste of energy
- Sometimes right before it rains, it’s not even that hot
- I’m physically uncomfortable, have goosebumps, and am shivering. In Africa.
And then I walk outside and start sweating profusely because the temperature change is so drastic. The aircon really disturbs me. Right now, I don’t have a room mate at the intern house (. . . think Real World Monrovia :( . . .) and I refuse to sleep with the aircon on, for multiple reasons that closely echo the ones above. It’s really pretty great (though admittedly a little hot) – but you can hear the ocean through the open window! And, sometimes, there’s even a nice breeze right before it starts to rain. There will be 5 girls in the house once everyone arrives, and three rooms. Thus, one lucky person gets to be gloriously alone. I am hoping to scare people away from being my roommate by insisting on sleeping with the aircon off and the windows open while maintaining a somewhat vile personality. Insaa Allah that will do the trick.
Aside from being alternately shivering/freezing and oppressively hot, I can’t readily understand English. I’m getting better, but Liberian English is a whole different dialect than Gambia English. It is certainly English. That’s true. But me, I can not understand too many things. Sometimes, I’ll be sitting there and I think people are talking in a local language, and then I hear a sentence I understand and realize it’s English. It’s so much thicker than Gambian English! My problem is that I keep speaking Gambian English, so I sound non-American, but still, no one really has a clear idea of what I’m saying. As soon as I get a better grasp on it I will profide examples. My favorite thing so far is adding "oo" at the end of words or sentences to express emotion. "That's bad oo." It's fun. Another interesting thing about the Liberian language - when you ask, "How are you?" or "How is the morning?" - the common response is "Thank God." I didn't really think too much about it, but then a friend was telling me that it's left over from the war: the shortened form of Thank God I'm still alive.
You would think having an air conditioning in your office would be a good thing. But it’s a curse. I prefer natural air in general to air conditioners, but here there is very little choice in my shared office. There’re just so many reasons why it’s wrong:
- Waste of energy
- Sometimes right before it rains, it’s not even that hot
- I’m physically uncomfortable, have goosebumps, and am shivering. In Africa.
And then I walk outside and start sweating profusely because the temperature change is so drastic. The aircon really disturbs me. Right now, I don’t have a room mate at the intern house (. . . think Real World Monrovia :( . . .) and I refuse to sleep with the aircon on, for multiple reasons that closely echo the ones above. It’s really pretty great (though admittedly a little hot) – but you can hear the ocean through the open window! And, sometimes, there’s even a nice breeze right before it starts to rain. There will be 5 girls in the house once everyone arrives, and three rooms. Thus, one lucky person gets to be gloriously alone. I am hoping to scare people away from being my roommate by insisting on sleeping with the aircon off and the windows open while maintaining a somewhat vile personality. Insaa Allah that will do the trick.
Aside from being alternately shivering/freezing and oppressively hot, I can’t readily understand English. I’m getting better, but Liberian English is a whole different dialect than Gambia English. It is certainly English. That’s true. But me, I can not understand too many things. Sometimes, I’ll be sitting there and I think people are talking in a local language, and then I hear a sentence I understand and realize it’s English. It’s so much thicker than Gambian English! My problem is that I keep speaking Gambian English, so I sound non-American, but still, no one really has a clear idea of what I’m saying. As soon as I get a better grasp on it I will profide examples. My favorite thing so far is adding "oo" at the end of words or sentences to express emotion. "That's bad oo." It's fun. Another interesting thing about the Liberian language - when you ask, "How are you?" or "How is the morning?" - the common response is "Thank God." I didn't really think too much about it, but then a friend was telling me that it's left over from the war: the shortened form of Thank God I'm still alive.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
