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.
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