Fisheries Forever

Meeting with community members in Greenville, Sinoe County about their current fishing industry and the potential for a cold storage unit in the city.

"Liberia Becomes Satanic Shrine"

I had a revelation on one of the long car rides of last week: I’m doing incredibly cool stuff this summer. Last semester, my internship consisted of sitting silently in an office I shared with two to three other interns, depending on the day. My desk was dilapidated and child-sized. My computer didn’t work. I read and took notes on things I’m not convinced ever got read. And I never once used the printer. Though I did get to go to a lot of interesting lectures and Senate Hearings, I myself was doing very little of substance. I did not contribute.

Today, I edited a Press Release from the Minister of Internal Affairs, in response to the National Chronicle newspaper front page headline, reading: “As Liberian Zoes, Witches, Bodeos Dedicate Chiefs’ Compound: Queen of the Coast Arrives – Liberia Becomes Satanic Shrine.” Underneath this headline is a photo of the President and then my boss, Hon. Ambulai Johnson. Apparently, the “Queen of the Coast” – also known as the Queen of Sheba, is from Egypt and not so much admired by the church. Our response was that we didn’t invite the Queen of Sheba, that the President had nothing to do with inviting her, and that the Ministry of Internal Affairs does not appreciate the Chronicle taking advantage of freedom of press in order to incite the people by accusing major leaders of witchcraft. Random, yes, but substantive as well.

After editing that, I worked with my two consultants on our project briefs – which are slow going and need to get done asap. I am finishing mine today, by the grace of Allah. Before editing the press release and meeting with the consultants I was working on a Communal Farming Policy that – if it actually makes any sense, which is hit or miss – will be given directly to the Minister of Internal Affairs and would be implemented at a nationwide level. Which, when you think about it, is pretty ridiculous. Cool. But also ridiculous.

Then there are the template ordinances and mayor Terms of Reference that I need to finalize with my counterparts, and that will be used to structure city-level governments throughout all the counties.

All this needs to be finalized in the next two weeks. Yikes.

Project Assessment Trek: River Gee and Sinoe

Day 1 and 2, 13/14 July 2009: Long journey, only to be delayed in Zwedru

Another adventure into the African bush, and here I am typing this in Zwedru, watching a Nigerian film and charging my phone, sitting on a leather couch, above me a chandelier, before me, drapes. This, too, is Liberia.

I’m staying in the Superintendent of Grand Gedeh’s house: Mr. Christopher Bailey. It’s quite a nice place, in quite a nice city. Zwedru has paved roads, night life, amazing city layout, and nice people. Seems quite livable, the model city for the decentralization efforts I would think. This is day two of the journey, and my second night in Zwedru, though last night should hardly count – since we didn’t arrive until 1:33am, after a long, arduous, painful journey from Ganta, on a road that would have been bad during the day, but turned terrible during the night: you can’t actually see the bumps so you hit them harder, more awkwardly. It’s far from glorious. This night driving on bumpy roads makes me annoyingly car sick. Sat limply in front seat, head flailing about with each bump, organs rattling, deep breathes to fight nausea. I had a hard boiled egg and laughing cow on bread for dinner, constructed in-transit (remember: bumpy) with my exceedingly sharp knife. Not advisable. I kept picturing accidentally puncturing my stomach and thinking about how not worth it that sandwich would be. And it wasn’t – it actually made me feel terribly nauseas. By the time we finally got to the Superintendent’s house, I was never so happy to see a bed on the floor covered with a silky green comforter. So fantastic.

Though I can’t really complain about the journey – I got dropped off at the Superintendent’s house and my green, silky, comfy bed and the men (traveling with 5 African men on this journey) then went to look for a place to sleep. They ended up sleeping in the car. So so so so so so glad I was not among them. We were supposed to drive on to River Gee this morning to meet with community members – about a 3.5 hour drive from here – but the car was far from agreeable, and spent the day in the shop after last night’s adventure.

On Monday morning, just before leaving MIA, I had a meeting with the Minister, who asked, “How are you getting to River Gee, flying?” No no, I say, we’re driving. He looks apprehensive as he asks, “Whose car are you taking?” I respond, “George’s.” He looks amused as he comments, “Well, I hope you make it back.” What a lovely omen, and already coming true after the first, and possibly easiest, leg of the journey.

So, what to do during a free day in Zwedru? Well, this morning I visited the unfinished mansion of President Samuel K. Doe. He started building the place to commemorate his birthday, and then the war broke out and he got killed before he could finish the place up. Doe’s death was beyond cruel, carried out by Prince Johnson. Prince Johnson was in my office last week for a meeting: so strange to see a known, violent, murderous, insane warlord-turned-Senator simply sitting at the conference table 10 feet away from me. If he had killed my family – how would I feel about him just sitting there? Man, I would be bitter and livid. Thinking about it that way gives you an understanding of the need for a good TRC. He should be held accountable. Interesting interview just published in Foreign Policy this month: http://www.foreignpolicy.com/articles/2009/07/07/you_cant_look_back?page=0,0&new=

Last night while we were driving, my body hanging limply against the seat belt, I listened to the conversation: TRC of course. President Johnson Sirleaf essentially gave the TRC credibility by really pushing for it, and then making the statement that she would support it no matter what the recommendation. That clearly puts her in a tough spot now that her name is on the list. My informants think someone bought out the Chairman of the TRC, convincing him not only to put her name on the list, but to release it without showing her first. All very political. Some people don’t want her to run again. But this TRC report brings both her and the warlords on to the same side – when she was trying to isolate them to get them out of power. Problematic in many ways.

Anyway, back to Doe’s mansion – it would have been gorgeous! Huge, nice design, lovely really. And the writing on the walls was epic. Said so much about Liberia during and post-war. Some of the most telling images were the crude drawings of rape and guns. Also striking, the messages scrawled on the walls in charcoal:

http://picasaweb.google.com/mtd933/TheWritingOnTheWallsDoeSUnfinishedMansionZwedru

Nigerian Film

This Nigerian film is going to depress me. You have in this corner the perfectly happy African couple. And in that corner, the pesky, non-supportive, I-don’t-approve-of-your-husband-African mother-in-law, in another corner, the once-in-love-with-your-husband-but-now-“born-again-Christian”-let’s-all-be-friends sister. And now, suddenly, shockingly, one of the happy couple’s kids just died. Oh man. I think the sister who once loved the man poisoned the kid. Oh man! Another one of the kids just dropped dead Good Lord, now the shock has killed the unborn baby in her womb! Wow.

This is ridiculous. My oh my I love Nigerian films. But they can be so depressing. They’re not a happy couple anymore. She’s rather depressed and going insane, and it’s wearing on him. Ugh, and the bitchy woman is totally poisoning the kids and now the wife, all to get a man. Ugh, and now the wife is really going crazy, accusing this amazing and attentive husband of cheating and trying to kill her (the influence of the sister) and being really really really mean to the husband. Who is a nice guy. And very sad. And who just got angry and beat the wife after years of being super attentive to the cost of his own health. And now everyone is against him and telling her she needs to leave him. Even though he’s awesome and she’s been a bitch to him.

Nigerian films are great – they can make you sincerely and passionately defend a man who beat his wife. Oh but wait! The mother-in-law just reappeared and is suddenly supportive – and encourages the daughter to take him back! And, gasp, they catch the sister trying to poison the last surviving kid. The end.

Travel Compadres

A quick note on my travel compadres. We are traveling in a much smaller group this time – only one car, with me and five men. George is the boss man, and also does the driving. Then there is Lendeh, 72 and obsessed with refrigeration. Then D. Karfala Johnson, the consultant for the rice/cassava mills. Then Aba and Lendeh’s travel mate (son?) – referred to collectively as “the young men,” though both are older than me, and pretty much around to fix/push the car if necessary. Anyway, they are all good people. George is cool, funny, down to earth. And then there’s Lendeh and Johnson. Both lovely individuals. Really. Lendeh is super nice to me, tells me he’s praying to be 30 again so he can marry me, and tries to buy me things often. Quite flattering. So, while not calling into question the nice-ness of these men, just imagine if you will a 10 hour car ride with 1.) Johnson: a rogue-preacher-like character always in sermon mode, paranoid that no one cares enough about redemption to listen to him: Are you listening to me? Maggie, are you listening to me? He also has the propensity to proclaim things like: “Wherever you are happy, there you beeeeee!” – his voice rising in volume and pompousness. And, of course, my favorite: “Life! What is life?! What is life but an empty dreeeeeeeeam?”

Then there’s Lendeh, who is set in his ways and only talks about refrigeration. I mean that literally, even when conversation shifts to the TRC he will swing it right back to refrigeration. And he is loud, animated, passionate, constantly in angry Donald Duck mode: arms flailing, irate sounding, and wide eyed. Please, I beg you, imagine a ten hour car ride with Donald Duck and the rogue preacher trying to talk over each other. Again, lovely people, but hour ten, car sick and exhausted, tests my already short-fuse.

Day #3, 14 June 2009: Fish Town, River Gee County . . .and then into the forest en route to Sinoe

The men are cooking a monkey and I have commandeered the Superintendent of Sinoe’s bed. It’s been a long day.

We started out from Zwedru, though right now that seems like weeks ago. Headed on the road towards River Gee, to the town of Fish Town. It was about a 3 hour ride on a muddy but not terrible road. I’m a little disappointed in the meeting in River Gee – small crowd, not very energetic, seemed like we were all going through the motions. Lots of women though, which was good. But we rushed, got all the information but didn’t spend any extra time there, which to me seems ridiculous after taking over two full days to get to the place. Two full days to get there and we only spend 3 hours there? Not the way I like to operate. Can’t wait to be the boss.

After the ok meeting, grabbed lunch on the Superintendent of River Gee’s tab, and headed on the road again – to Sinoe. An estimated 10 hour drive. It was already 3:45. I was ecstatic for another night drive, I assure you. And off we went, back in the direction we had just come for about 2.5 hours. Very pretty, lots of trees, farms, villages, and people selling lots and lots and lots of bushmeat. We had our choice of multiple monkey species, quite the variety was strung up along the side of road. Well, we passed about 6 full ones and one arm. The last place had three, hung by tails wrapped around their necks. I didn’t voice any moralistic opposition, primarily because I didn’t know on what moral grounds to oppose, besides pointing out the fact that their hands look a lot like our hands. I was surprised by my lack of bushmeat education awareness to be honest, and must rectify that. I also kept my mouth shut because I had only minutes before pulled out the morality card when I interrupted the 30 minute conversation about women from last night explaining that it was in everyone’s best interest if I didn’t expound on my thoughts on the subject but that I just thought they should know I disagree. The response was not the change of subject I had anticipated, but basically: “lighten up, Maggie, you’re one of the guys.” Ha. I am an African man who frequents prostitutes. Dream come true.

So the monkey was purchased, a full one, for $250 Liberian dollars (exchange is about 70 Liberty to US$1). Threw it up on the roof of the car, strapped it in, and we’re off. Poor monkey. Shortly after, we turned off onto the Sinoe Road, which was shrouded in mystery: would we actually be able to make it? There were horror stories of mud up to the top of the car and impassable sections of road. But we decided to try anyway. I supported that actually, the other option would have taken 15 hours, or more. So off we went, into the deep forest of the Liberian countryside.

It was beautiful – towering walls of old growth forest for miles and miles, interrupted suddenly by small patches of mud huts. As the conversation in the car darted between politics, how to keep the women you just see passing through certain towns happy and not asking for too much money (mm hm, still on that topic), the TRC, and how great and intelligent all the passengers were, it took a lot of restraint not to open door and jump out of the car and run into one of the villages and live there for, say, two years, three months. I restrained myself, while dreaming of a muzzle for poor Mr. Johnson, bless his soul, who loves to preach but has nothing terribly interesting to say. I’m being overly harsh – long drive, long drive.

The Sinoe Road was good. Good in the sense that it was fun and exciting, and never quite clear if we would actually make it. The excitement kept me from getting car sick. That, or the fact that I was actually hydrated today. Luckily, it hasn’t rained for a couple days and the ground was pretty dry in most places. That’s not to say we didn’t need the 4-wheel drive a lot, or that we didn’t almost get stuck a number of times – but had it rained today, we’d still be in transit, or we’d be camping next to our stuck car in the woods. We passed one big truck that had gotten sucked into the mud and didn’t look like it was moving any time soon. George did a good job with the driving, got us through some patches that weren’t easy. The car hung in there, although one mysterious light kept coming on…and the battery wouldn’t seem to charge.

That was problematic, because it made the lights flicker. And old growth forests in Africa are very dark. We needed lights. With the high beams on, you could see about 30 feet in front of you. Without them, only ten. George kept turning the high beams off to save the battery. At one point, the road started to seem smooth-ish and we began to pick up speed. I distinctly remember thinking to myself: we’re going too fast. The low beams illuminated the muddy hole in the road ahead just after it was too late. Bam.

George did have time to break a little, but we hit the reverse pot-hole pretty hard, with the car nailing the not-so-sloping upward slope of the hole with vigor, throwing us off course (but luckily not fully of the road) and leaving us in utter darkness and silence: the lights and the engine, both off. I was glad to have my seat belt on, for sure, since it stopped me from flying forward into the windshield. The car wouldn’t start, so here we are the in middle of the forest – Sapo National Forest actually – in vivid darkness, with no cell phone reception, and no idea how far the next village is. The sky was amazing. Perfectly clear with possibly the brightest stars I’ve ever seen. So gorgeous. The kind of sky that warrants waking people up to see – just really striking. I wasn’t worried about the situation: cars always re-start with a little push in Africa. Or someone comes along to help you. Or you take the monkey off the top of the car and roast it up before passing out in the car. In this case, a little push did the trick.

From there, smooth sailing to Sinoe, just long, muddy, and late. We arrived in town, Greenville, at midnight. This was a late night ride I didn’t mind though – no car sickness and an exciting adventure. We came to the Superintendent’s place to find a bed for me, but the place was packed. It’s actually more of a guesthouse owned by the Superintendent than his personal house. I can sleep anywhere, under any conditions – I may complain about it, but I can still sleep there – but I don’t mind being pampered and put in nicer places if it means I don’t have to witness loose men and their questionable activities. Thus my accepting when the Superintendent moved his stuff from a room and I stole his bed. He seemed like a really nice guy (though I learned later that he may or may not have stolen almost a million dollars from concessions in the area…….hm). By the time we were settled it was almost 1:00am, and the men went off to cook the monkey. I declined the invite. To be honest, I might have tried it if it was placed in front of me on a platter, but I was a little grossed out by the fact that monkey’s hands are very human like AND that the carcass had been sitting on the side of the road for ???? and on top of our car from 3pm to 1am AND it’s a monkey!

About to go to bed in the Superintendent’s room and some loud electronica is blasting through the walls – Oh Susanna. Random.

Day #4: 15 June 2009: Greenville, Sinoe

I felt like a cannibal. The monkey meat was densely packed and dark, and its hand, doused in cassava leaf and oil, floating in my food bowl, made me feel ill. Nonetheless, it was presented to me on a platter, and I looked at it as a research opportunity: why do people even want to eat monkey? Is it really so delicious?

Perhaps it was the fact that this one was killed over 24 hours ago, rode on the top of a bumpy car for 7 hours, was cooked at 2am the previous night, and had never known the glory of refrigeration….or perhaps it was because I kept thinking about it poor hand, our common ancestry, and all the hard work of the Bushmeat Crisis Task Force and the weekly newsletters I’ve browsed for the last year or so. Whatever the reason – the meat was not delicious. I cringed as I ate it and they all laughed at me – a few weak bites and I was spent. Conclusion: don’t eat monkey. No clear signs of Ebola yet.

So, this monkey lunch followed a long and productive morning/afternoon of meeting with community members in Greenville and visiting their fishing sites and market site. This is how these meetings really should work. Got a lot of great information, got to know people, spread the word about our project, got to walk around, see the community, understand the layout, etc etc. Fantastic. Great place for a cold storage – must get that brief done and get this money rolling . . .

Even after I passed my chunk of monkey on to one of the men, slightly nauseas and pretty horrified, I could still feel the meat in my teeth. I bought a Fanta to try to burn it out of my mouth, and then we all jumped in the car ready for the long trip back to Monrovia, estimated at 8 hours. It was 4ish, but again I didn’t mind because I was just ready to get home. We bumped along, bouncing on the hardened road – really hasn’t rained much at all this week – and felt like we were making fantastic time . . . until we hit a bump, then heard a rattle followed by a scraping noise that just wouldn’t stop. The rod connecting the two front tires had come loose on one side. To me, it didn’t seem completely necessary so I encouraged tying it up and continuing on. Turns out, it was necessary and George couldn’t really control the car so well. So, turn around, back to Greenville, check back in to the guest house, and settle in for one more night.

Went out for beers with Aba, George’s son, and Henry, Lendeh’s son who actually lives in Greenville, of course we talked about women, the TRC, and the Taylor trial, the most popular subjects in Liberia. After explaining why I would not accept my husband having girlfriends on the side, I made a comment about the bad-ness of Charles Taylor. Aba looked at me very very seriously and nearly whispered, “Do not say anything bad about Charles Taylor in Liberia.” He went on to explain that Charles Taylor was actually NOT a bad person, it was simply the people around him who were bad. And then explained that if Charles Taylor came back to Liberia today he would instantly be made President because the people love him, and admire him, and want him to be there leader. It was one of those moments, sitting at a plastic table, drinking beers, surrounded by African men and a few, scantily clad women, when the world seems to have shifted to a place you never thought it would go.

Wait – Aba, you like Charles Taylor? He did, he does, and he doesn’t think the man should be found guilty. Furthermore, the table next to us, having the same conversation, came to the same conclusion. Really makes you wonder what you’re working for and what this country will be like in ten years? Crazy.

Day #5, 16 July 2009: Homeward bound

We were supposed to leave Greenville at 4am, but delayed until 6am – ate dry, peppery rice and were on our way. Made amazing time, home in Monrovia by 1, asleep on my front porch until 6pm. Quite possibly the best nap I’ve ever taken. Went off to Garden Café – a live music/hooker bar (ohhhh just can’t seem to escape that) to see everyone after being in the bush for a week . . .

Charles Taylor Begins War Crimes Defense

This week, Charles Taylor will begin his war crimes defense in the Special Court for Sierra Leone in The Hague. Some stories and quotes from BBC:

Jerine Colendo, Monrovia: "I feel bad that Charles Taylor as a former president has been taken to a foreign land for trial. Whenever his birthday comes, I think about him. But equally so, justice has to be done. He has to face justice and there is nothing that we, Liberians, can do about it.

Alusine Fofana, Sierra Leone MP: "Even though Charles Taylor did not appear, I feel happy that his trial has started. I feel good that the day of justice is here and he will answer to any part he played in the destruction of Sierra Leone."

Deddeh Lavala, Monrovia:"I want the trial to be free and fair so that if Taylor is guilty of what he is accused of doing, he will be convinced that he is guilty and face the consequences. But if he is not then surely the law should set him free. Witnesses being called must feel free to testify in the name of fairness."

Amalia Smart-Kamara, Freetown: "I have come to the special court to listen to how the proceedings are going. I believe in justice and I am happy that Mr Taylor is facing justice. It is one of the happiest days in my life."

Ibrahim Khalil Sesay, Freetown: "Members of my family were killed by rebels. Without him the rebels would not have been as strong. I did not have the chance to go to watch the trial, but the trial starting is good news for the people of Sierra Leone, both dead and living."

For pictures and more quotes: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/shared/spl/hi/pop_ups/07/africa_charles_taylor_trial/html/1.stm

Some background articles:

The charges against Charles Taylor: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/4871656.stm

Taylor starts war crimes defense: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8147181.stm

Taylor made rebels eat enemies: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/7295300.stm

The Morning Commute and the Ability to Look Past

The body was on our left. Undeniably dead, sprawled out on side of the road. We were in the car, on the way to work in the morning, listening the BBC’s report on “Michael Jackson’s Monkey” (Seriously? Seriously). A relatively small crowd, orange cones, and two police officers directing traffic marked the scene. It was unclear if the body was struck by a car in the night, or murdered. The irreverence of the moment was what was most striking. A crowd of strangers, an uncovered body, legs exposed, face towards the road, on display for the unending line of traffic passing slowly, methodically by. We drove by only seconds before the monkey-keeper started talking.

Some of it maybe had to do with not wanting to really think, first thing in the morning, about a dead man – young-ish looking – who’s face was turned towards our car, who has a family and friends and didn’t want to die. It was easier to look at him as a body than to think about him as a man. You find that here – it’s often easier to look at terrible or sad or depressing things and acknowledge they are terrible or sad or depressing, but not to really think: children selling deodorant in wheelbarrows during school hours, government employees wasting the day sleeping on their desks, men with scars on their arms and faces from machetes or bullets, amputees, blind singers, grown men with shriveled legs crawling through the market begging. The list goes on. It’s not surprising, but it is shocking, how much you can look past without really, really letting it register.*

* During the same one-hour-ish family car ride, a BBC interviewer asked a man working with gang rape victims in London, “Were you surprised or shocked about [something or other]?” His response: “I wasn’t surprised, but I was shocked,” stimulated discussion about whether or not it was actually possible to be shocked, but not surprised. The verdict: no, but it makes you think for a second, and I like that.

Truth, Reconciliation, and Red Lips: Can You Have Peace without Justice?

"Charles Taylor used to call me ‘the girl with the red lips." My co-worker said this with a flattered smile on her face, but she has no illusions: he’s a brutal war criminal. He killed arbitrarily, depending on his mood, depending on the way a potential victim walked down the street. He took lives simply to take them, innocent lives, young lives, unborn lives, old lives, he made people die in undignified ways, just because he wanted to. And everyone knows this. Nonetheless, when Taylor comes up in conversation – and he often does – you certainly here about his war crimes and brutality, but you also hear about his charisma, his great smile, his ability to say just the right things to make people crumble a little: Ah, it’s the girl with the red lips. True assholes always seem to have that ability.

The TRC just released its report last week. I mentioned this in a previous post, the Truth and Reconciliation Committee (TRC) was formed to hear testimony about people’s actions during the war, and help the country move towards peace and reconciliation. The TRC had the mandate to make recommendations for the next step in the reconciliation process - thus the document last week. A document that recommends a list of people to be tried as war criminals, and another to be banned from holding public office due to economic crimes committed during the war. It’s been met with mixed reactions. Some people say it was too heavy handed, while others say that it goes too easy on some of the main perpetrators. Furthermore, it’s been accused of being overly vague about the wartime role of some key political players. Both of the lists include not only very wealthy Liberians, but heavily political Liberians. Many of whom are members of the Senate, House of Representatives, and various Ministries. Including President Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf. She’s not being recommended to be tried for war crimes, but recommended to be banned from holding public office for 30 years.

I haven’t actually read the report yet, so I can’t say whether it’s thorough, or goes too easy on certain people, or is too heavy handed. But putting Ellen on the list has definitely stimulated some interesting office discussions. Ann Dora, my co-worker with the red lips, began talking about her days working in the Executive Mansion before during the time that Wilton Sankawulo was the Chairman of the collective presidency that lasted from September 1995 to September 1996. This “collective presidency” brought together the previously warring factions into one joint government – meaning that Charles Taylor, leader of the National Patriotic Front of Liberia (NPFL); Alhaji Kromah, who headed the United Liberation Movement (ULIMO-K); George Boley of the Liberia Peace Council (LPC); and a civilian representing the interests of civil society, Oscar Quiah, were all supposed to be working together with Mr. Sankawulo.

[Sidenote: Wilton Sankawulo was not a politician by nature – he kind of got swept into it. He was primarily a writer – Liberian folklore, specifically Kpelle culture. He got his MFA from the Iowa writer’s workshop (which is impressive!) in the late 60s and has written ten books. Haven’t read any of his stuff yet but will look into it…]

Anyway, Ann Dora worked directly for Mr. Sankawulo, essentially as his administrative assistant. She worked closely with him in the executive mansion, and often saw and worked with Taylor and those other ex-warlords. During Sankawulo’s time as the Chairman, he was hosting his daughter’s wedding at his compound in Monrovia. Ann Dora had done all the arrangements, and had spent a good deal of time working on this wedding, so she was at his house the night before for the last minute preparations. But things weren’t right. There was a lot of talk going on around the city that Taylor’s people were mobilizing, and just a general sense of unrest growing in the city. So Ann Dora’s husband shows up at the house, asking her to come home. But she promises him things are fine and despite his protests, insists on staying.

Not long after, Taylor and Kromah appear with their people in the compound. Ann Dora is in the next room, listening, when the two warlords essentially tell Sankawulo that they’ve decided to take control, and they’ll kill him if he resists. After they leave, Ann Dora realizes she probably should have listened to her husband – and tries to leave. But there are no cars, people are running around naked and painted for war, and it’s clear she’s stuck. Luckily, her husband returned and got her out of there and that night, the city broke out into chaos and Sankawulo had to seek safety with Taylor, the only person powerful enough to protect him.

The point of the story: everyone has a connection to the war and war criminals and people who aided and abetted. Does it make it right? No. But in a place where half the population could be held liable, how to pick and chose who should be held accountable? The charge against President Sirleaf is that she provided financial assistance to Taylor when he was in the bush, prepping to take over Monrovia. She’s never denied that. The real question is how clear his insane-war-lord-ish-ness was at that point. I don’t know the answer to that, to be honest. Interestingly, the US supported Taylor, particularly Jimmy Carter – who really liked him. Not saying Carter should be on the list too, just noting that Taylor was a charming and convincing man . . .

I myself am currently supporting two warlords. Taylor was one of the founders of the cell phone company I use, Lone Star. And, best of all, the house that I am currently living in is owned by Mr. Saa Gbollie, current Representative for Margibi County and former, under Taylor. The headline of this article: "Saah Gbollie Was Responsible for My Torturing."* A co-worker told me to give some rice to the boys next store – former rebels – and they’ll make sure we’re protected. Again, there’s the underlying layer of surreality that you can so easily miss: we live in the house of a former rebel leader who is actually on the TRC report’s list to be tried for war crimes. And it’s not uncommon. That’s just how it is here.

It will be interesting to see how much truth and reconciliation this report will bring. So many on the list are in power - politically and financially. The former warlords are in the House of Representatives, so the likelihood of the recommendations passing in the House seem slim. It has stirred up some underlying tensions, but so far, in my limited scope of understanding, it seems to be mainly in the political realm and not spreading in the population. However, what do I know? I have too much to learn about the TRC - politicaly implications and motivations etc etc etc. It's difficult to tell where to draw the line with the accusations and the trials - and begs the question - can you have peace without justice? Without holding these public war lords accountable, how will the country move on? But at the same time, is the country strong enough and ready to address these issues without inciting more tensions?

*Full article: http://allafrica.com/stories/200811270843.html

Project Assessment Trek: Grand Bassa and River Cess

A bit over a week ago, we went on our second trek to check out two more of the six pilot counties involved in our project. This was supposed to be a longer trek, but ended up only being 2 days, 1 night, because the other team members were set on getting back to Monrovia as soon as possible (…even if it meant not doing as thorough a job as we should have...). Anyway, lots of driving down crazy unpaved roads in the dark, always safe and always fun. I kept some notes on during the trip and I think they’ll be able to say more and capture the mood in their original form much better than my verbose rhetoric will. It's a bit stream-of-conscious . . .

A quick overview – I’m going out to 6 villages in 6 different counties to do project assessments for a joint MIA/UNDP project that is aimed at increasing local governance capacity and advancing the goals of decentralization. So, here’s how the trip went down:

River Cess, 29 June 2009

Meetings: difficult/challenging but good!

Highly political - Informal market - Focus on technical - Walked to see sites – cool

Cestos = fishing village, cold storage = big deal

Rain came – heavy - Took refuge in church – took pics of heavy rain

Noticed what looked like a body lying in a dark corner

Was not convinced alive…but moved.

Woman.

Soiled lappa [skirt].

Laying facing wall

Me: Is she ok?!?

She’s sick, here for spiritual healing.

Me: Sick in the mind or the body?

In the body.

Me: So we just leave her?!?

Yes.

Cold Storage – very logical for fishing community

Ate lunch like starving

Felt terribly hungry – shaking.

Devoured entire plate: rice, eggplant, fish. Left only bones.

Worm?

Meds amy gave me for running stomach = lifesaver!!! [spent weekend sick with running

stomach, pain, fatigue, but meds cleared it all up]

Super Star Boat – US$2,500

Ghana – few days drive on river, not difficult

On the way here, team members kept saying road was terrible.

But not as bad as South Bank road in the Gambia. Would actually be considered a better road in The Gambia

Woman just came in and covered sick woman with a fresh lappa.

Matta – cool woman, in cold storage focus group, not “educated” but SMART.

Asked by David: Are you married to an educated man?

Matta's Answer: Yes, my first husband, before the war killed him, he was a medical

doctor.

Hiding in church from rain, 1 hour now. . .

Backtracking: Cold Storage Meeting

Got lots of info, frustrating at times

Lendeh – knows technical stuff well but told me I was “too interested in the economic side” – funny because I am NOT an econ person

Just want to actually justify projects and make sure they’re a good idea by lookin at REAL numbers. . . So hard to get real #s though . . .informal markets

Also, community members look at me and tell me higher prices because white denotes money

Original cost of canoe – US$15,000 – after other community members raised alarm, price revised to US$2000. Some people are honest!

Escaped church. . . Ankle deep in H2O. . .18:15 but where are we going to sleep?!?

The place we were supposed to sleep at got burglarized last night . . .

Buchanon. [a bigger town about 3 hours from Monrovia]

Found place to sleep

Smells like urine and bug spray.

Went to get beer with the old boys.

Hooker bar. Bakini’ed women painted on the walls. So loud music it was un-hearable, one Michael Jackson tribute song on repeat.

Didn’t finish beer.

Back to motel, confused how I end up in some places sometimes.

Sat and chatted with other team members in “lobby”

Chatting ended when ------- came home with women. Two.

Wanted to stab little man with sharp things. Disgusted/embarrassed.

Do what you want to do, but I don’t want to see it. Esp. older, married men.

Lame.

Bedtime.

Now horrified that this is a whore house

Old man Lendeh is vexed about the hookers – he was supposed to share room

with -----. I don’t blame the old man! I’d be livid. . .

I hear arguing in hallway, hookers leaving.

Not very long deh!

Can’t bring self to lay down in nasty bed.

Stood in room and took self portraits for 1.5 hours. What else can I write about….

Backtracking – the ride from Cestos to Buchanon was terrible

Road seemed MUCH worse at night. Tried to sleep

Seat didn’t recline

Felt car sick.

Also thought I was having a heart attack. Maybe just indigestion? Or OD'ed on

Amy’s stomach medicine?

2.5-3 hours in dark, bumpy, tired, dizzy, indigested, chest-painy, kept leaning

head on hand then punching self in face when we hit bumps. Often.

Tried deep breathes and happy thoughts.

Survived.

NOW exhausted. About to pass out. Sitting on side of nasty bed. Baby steps. Smell of urine has subsided – or I’ve adjusted.

Mosquito nets has holes. Wonder how much this place will cost me?

Grand Bassa, 30 June 2009

Sitting in a tea shop – owned by Fula men. Love breakfast of tea and bread.

3 motorcycles parked in front of a huge puddle as a parade of Buchanon Renewables 18- wheelers, honking and waving to people. New trucks. Shiny and Off to Monrovia.

Jumped in UNDP car, made good time to Desoe town – here by 11.

Toured town, chatted, took pictures with kids, men, women, chatted more. 12. 1. 2. still now the other car has not arrived. But no network to call them.

Not sure where they are.

Want to start meeting – but everyone else thinks we should wait for the other car. It’s been hours.

But village is bereaved. Old man died last night. They want to get on with their lives.

I started the meeting at 2:30. We arrived at 11. I think we waited ample. After 45 minutes they show up, annoyed that we started without them – they were carrying the Commissioner. Politics. Silly.

Meetings went well but we should have stayed longer to be more thorough .. .. .. big rush to get back to Monrovia. In UNDP car again - made it back to Monrovia by 10:30 . . . the other car got stuck, had to stay in whore house again. Ha. Glad i wasn't there. . . . . . .

The Death of the King of Pop in Post-War Liberia: Surprisingly Traumatic

When I first heard about Michael Jackson’s death, I took it with detached sadness. Being out of the media mix that is America, I’m not inundated with constant updates about the details surrounding his death, the possible funeral plans, his attitude at his final rehearsal. And that’s nice. Of course, I remember Michael Jackson fondly – excluding the shadiness and the increasing creepiness of his later years – he was a true rock star. We had every possible cassette tape you could own with a Michael Jackson song on it. Our Oldsmobile Cutlass Sierra complementary cassette tape was my first introduction to Man in the Mirror, and I distinctly remember being struck by the words each morning, buckled against the gray interior, surrounded by the “new car” smell, decked out in my plaid Catholic school uniform and grasping my oversized cooler/lunch box my mom made me carry (despite the fact that I got teased daily and pleaded with her each morning to just give me a brown paper bag). I still love rocking out to that song while driving. It’s an amazing song! All his songs – Man in the Mirror, Bad, Black or White, Heal the World – these songs were the odd but beautiful soundtrack of childhood growing up in America in the 80s and 90s. And so, yes, hearing that Michael Jackson is dead is rather sad, but being here in Liberia and missing the frenzy makes it almost surreal.

A surreal-ity which is only increased by the deep, deep sadness with which Liberians took the news. The Daily Observer, one of the country’s biggest newspapers, ran a full front page photo of MJ the day after the news broke. I heard a story about a Liberian newscaster reporting the story and breaking down on TV. Grown men and women cried in offices. A Liberian without access to internet gave me a note asking me to print anything I could about the death of Michael Jackson. The love that Liberians have for this man is striking. I didn’t expect people to even know about it, let alone mourn over it in a nation that has experience far greater tragedy than the death of a pop star.

There’s no mention of the legal problems, of the issues with children, of his strange and erratic behavior (I’m assuming that comes up in the US media, does it?). But here, he is just a pure and fantastic musician. Not a guy with a sad and tortured past, not a guy who’s clearly got some issues – but a man who can sing and dance and engage people and who is loved simply because of that. And also because of one particular song: Liberian Girl. It’s not one of his most popular in the states, but it gives him knightly status here in Liberia.

In an article in the Washington Times, a woman in Ganta, Nimba County – an area that experienced heavy fighting during the war and is a full day’s ride from the capital, talks a little bit about the impact of MJ’s Liberian Girl (ironically, a song that wasn’t even about/related to Liberia, as you’ll read…):

“ ‘When that music came out ... the Liberian girls were so astonished to hear a great musician like Michael Jackson thinking about a little country in Africa,’ Mrs. Carson said. ‘It gave us hope, especially when things went bad ... . It make us to feel that we are still part of the world.’

Mr. Jackson’s music video of “Liberian Girl” doesn't indicate the song was for or about Liberia. It begins with supermodel Beverly Johnson chanting in Swahili, a native language of East Africa. Liberians speak English. The video includes appearances by nearly 40 celebrities, including Paula Abdul, Danny Glover, Whoopi Goldberg, Olivia Newton-John and Steven Spielberg.

But what matters to Liberians are the lyrics: ‘Liberian Girl, you know that you came, and you changed my world ... I love you, Liberian Girl.’

‘The song promotes Liberian women and makes her feel good to be one,’ Mrs. Carson said. She has four daughters, who she hopes will become successful in a postwar Liberia still rife with many obstacles – including an 80 percent unemployment rate and an education system that still is recovering from years of civil war.”

For the full text of the article: http://washingtontimes.com/news/2009/jul/02/king-of-pop-uplifts-liberia/

This from the Daily Observer, in the obituary section, surrounded by the names and stories of regular Liberians:

King of Pop, Michael Jackson Is Dead

Published: 26 June, 2009
Los Angeles -- Authorities have confirmed the death of Michael J. Jackson. News broke Thursday afternoon that the star had called emergency services and had been rushed to the hospital, having suffered cardiac arrest.

Half an hour later, it was reported that he was in a coma. Shortly thereafter, credible sources reported he had died. He was 50. Medical minds say as many as 50 causes can lead to cardiac arrest, and that the care a patient receives in the immediate aftermath is critical.

In a brief but emotional press conference held by the family, Jackson's brother Jermaine revealed that Jackson's attending physician was present at the time he suffered the arrest, but that an hour-long effort to resucitate him had proved fruitless. An autopsy is underway.

Liberians will certainly miss the King of Pop, remembering him especially for his 1987 single, "Liberian Girl" from the album Bad. Jackson fans the world over are mourning his loss.

Funeral arrangements have yet to be announced by the family.

Website:http://www.liberianobserver.com/news/fullstory.php/aid/17119/King_of_Pop,_Michael_Jackson_Is_Dead.html

Black Man’s Wish

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.

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.

Slash and Burn Agriculture

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 . . .

Monrovia: heap of trash, outdoor market, billboard about modernization

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. . . . . . )

Bong Mines Area

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.

The beach at Robertsport :)

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)