There’s nothing more obnoxious than developing world elites. Oil rich southerners with their boots, ripped tank tops and over all “I’m the master to your slave ” demeanor make me cringe. The UN workers who go from air conditioned vehicle to air conditioned sushi restaurants can’t be forgotten and the IMF workers (so I’ve heard, but have yet to experience) make even the UN and World bank workers squirm, but they all pail in comparison to the developing world elite.
The well off, Americo-Liberian, who, has created an all too familiar master-slave society. Blasting your music for the whole slum outside your apartment to here, while you lounge on your balcony and order the security to stop what he’s doing so that he can trek up to your apartment and carry down your dirty bath water.
You park anywhere you want and cause a huge scene when you’re told you can’t. No, the guard doesn’t know who you are and yes, you look like the driver (that’s why they treated you as such). Some drivers do have gaudy looking shoes too. Calling the Lebanese owner of X hotel and restaurant doesn’t change anything (he doesn’t know you either…yet), except for the fact that I’ve now put in my headphones to muffle your incessant screaming.
Most expats come with some form of white man’s burden, which tends to limit and even eliminate their master like attitude (at least publicly). but Americo-Liberians have the opposite of that. Their people were slaves so when they got dumped off by Americans and deemed “free,” they created the only society they knew. Now they are the masters with hundreds of years of oppression to make up. So while generations of Anglo-American youth are trying to make up for slavery by being too political correct and giving every hungry street child a dollar, Americo-Liberians are making up for lost time and relishing in a master’s lifestyle.
I hate to break it to you my man, but you do look like your driver.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
A Day in the Life...
A few of my favorite (daily) things:
the use of small in Liberian English. Wait small, talk small, try small. (I tryin’ small to have plenty patience)
-Water bags. I like sucking down half a liter of water in under 5 minutes.
-The wind from motorbike rides, even with the occasional glide into on coming traffic.
-The response I get when I ask why we might be doing this. “There can be less traffic on this side.” (fair enough my man, drive on).
-The heavy rain even if it’s up to my shins in the streets.
-daily coconut water
-Adding an extra 15 minutes to our drive anywhere so that Phil and I can find a man with a wheelbarrow of coconuts.
-Mosquito hunting. Often a spur of the moment thing (quick kill in the kitchen). Sometimes pre meditated (get out of bed to find the buzzing). See it and smack it.
-BBC radio news: focus on Africa, while in the jeep.
- the soundtrack that comes along with focus on Africa BBC
-The Liberian handshake. It’s a standard handshake, glide your middle finger as you let go and snap with the other person’s finger and your thumb. There’s something truly satisfying about it when you finally get a good snap at the end.
The awkward moment you experience when you innately go for the Liberian handshake with someone who just got here. Nothing makes people more uncomfortable then dragging your finger across their palm and realizing they aren’t going to reciprocate.
Settlers of Catan and the heated battle that always ensues the second the game’s begun (I am not giving you my wheat, man!)
Billboards: Violence against women=justice (that's not what you mean)
Just a bit of the things that fill my days…Brehaung’s back to work.
the use of small in Liberian English. Wait small, talk small, try small. (I tryin’ small to have plenty patience)
-Water bags. I like sucking down half a liter of water in under 5 minutes.
-The wind from motorbike rides, even with the occasional glide into on coming traffic.
-The response I get when I ask why we might be doing this. “There can be less traffic on this side.” (fair enough my man, drive on).
-The heavy rain even if it’s up to my shins in the streets.
-daily coconut water
-Adding an extra 15 minutes to our drive anywhere so that Phil and I can find a man with a wheelbarrow of coconuts.
-Mosquito hunting. Often a spur of the moment thing (quick kill in the kitchen). Sometimes pre meditated (get out of bed to find the buzzing). See it and smack it.
-BBC radio news: focus on Africa, while in the jeep.
- the soundtrack that comes along with focus on Africa BBC
-The Liberian handshake. It’s a standard handshake, glide your middle finger as you let go and snap with the other person’s finger and your thumb. There’s something truly satisfying about it when you finally get a good snap at the end.
The awkward moment you experience when you innately go for the Liberian handshake with someone who just got here. Nothing makes people more uncomfortable then dragging your finger across their palm and realizing they aren’t going to reciprocate.
Settlers of Catan and the heated battle that always ensues the second the game’s begun (I am not giving you my wheat, man!)
Billboards: Violence against women=justice (that's not what you mean)
Just a bit of the things that fill my days…Brehaung’s back to work.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Rogues on Randall
For over a month now my life has been the Urban Youth survey. Eat (sometimes), sleep (hardly), breath (deep breaths in and out) the survey. Waking up every morning to a down poor and debating a shower given the inevitability of becoming absolutely drenched. Walking to the survey site in streets flooded with water wondering why I even bother with a rain jacket, while Liberians yell “this is Africa!” (yes, thank you).
With the recruiting of these young street youth now happening in my neighborhood I’ve made it my goal to meet all of them. With 3 robberies and 1 robbery attempt under my belt I’m determined to know all of them. I’m just waiting for one of these guys to come in with my boyfriend style gap jeans on (I will rip those off you). Remember my face, sucker. If I see you or your friends scaling my back wall again, I’ll know where to find you. If it's not someone we’ve recruited maybe while they’re running away in the dark, I could chuck my card at them. I may as well add a note that says “Dear rogue, I will find you. I want my shirts back.”
Spending my days surveying criminals (get your hand out of my backpack please) and getting yelled at by said criminals because I wont give them my snack money—
“give me that money!”
“I don’t think so”
“You don't need to eat, you need to give it to me to get home.”
“my man, I can’ give you this”
“then if you people wont help me, you should just leave liberia!”
(oh trust me, I’m on it) “go away from here man, we’re done.”
as if you’re the first guy to try and get something out of me, fool. Where’s a motorbike? I’m heading back to the office.
All I need now is hostage negotiation and I’d say I’ve rounded out my time here. Oh wait, did that last night (the hostage being my friends stolen cell phone). 20 min of getting my friend to try and negotiate his phone back, using my phone (for something small). Luckily he was talking to Phil when it got ripped out of his hand, so Phil made first contact and texted me the “terms.” Status of said negotiation currently undetermined, but I did enjoyed the many phone calls throughout the night from the hostage taker.
With the recruiting of these young street youth now happening in my neighborhood I’ve made it my goal to meet all of them. With 3 robberies and 1 robbery attempt under my belt I’m determined to know all of them. I’m just waiting for one of these guys to come in with my boyfriend style gap jeans on (I will rip those off you). Remember my face, sucker. If I see you or your friends scaling my back wall again, I’ll know where to find you. If it's not someone we’ve recruited maybe while they’re running away in the dark, I could chuck my card at them. I may as well add a note that says “Dear rogue, I will find you. I want my shirts back.”
Spending my days surveying criminals (get your hand out of my backpack please) and getting yelled at by said criminals because I wont give them my snack money—
“give me that money!”
“I don’t think so”
“You don't need to eat, you need to give it to me to get home.”
“my man, I can’ give you this”
“then if you people wont help me, you should just leave liberia!”
(oh trust me, I’m on it) “go away from here man, we’re done.”
as if you’re the first guy to try and get something out of me, fool. Where’s a motorbike? I’m heading back to the office.
All I need now is hostage negotiation and I’d say I’ve rounded out my time here. Oh wait, did that last night (the hostage being my friends stolen cell phone). 20 min of getting my friend to try and negotiate his phone back, using my phone (for something small). Luckily he was talking to Phil when it got ripped out of his hand, so Phil made first contact and texted me the “terms.” Status of said negotiation currently undetermined, but I did enjoyed the many phone calls throughout the night from the hostage taker.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Two's Better Than One
Helen,
These last two weeks have been insane. Even the word insane doesn’t seem to explain the madness that has been our job for the last two weeks and the weeks to come. How about exhausting, stressful, and a constant test of patience and your ability to stay on top of everything, all the time. Organizing, running and monitoring a survey in the city with a team of people relying on you to make it all go right. From programming and survey problems to logistic issues and equipment transportation, all of it is in your hands. It is an unbelievable load to handle and you do it so well. There are new challenges everyday that would make most people give up, but you don’t. The 6 am wake ups, 18-22 hr work days, constant fight against dehydration and sickness (because of the 18 hr work days) are all rough, but you’re not alone. I will test PDA’s, check programming code and organize as little or as much as you need me to. Staying up until 2:30am for the 5th day in a row, after 10 hours of surveying and an hour of traffic back to the office? You bet, sign me up. Frustrated? Me too, but heck two’s better than one in my mind and so long as I can keep my eyes open, I’ll stick it out with you, gladly. You’re dedication and desire to do the best you can always amazes me. The next 2 weeks are going to suck, in the best way. Bring on the late night tea, popcorn dinners and many more nights of wanting to throw PDA’s out the window. Your quite entertaining while sleep deprived anyhow. Kudos to you, you’re wonderful, Helen. Now let’s survey some criminals!
These last two weeks have been insane. Even the word insane doesn’t seem to explain the madness that has been our job for the last two weeks and the weeks to come. How about exhausting, stressful, and a constant test of patience and your ability to stay on top of everything, all the time. Organizing, running and monitoring a survey in the city with a team of people relying on you to make it all go right. From programming and survey problems to logistic issues and equipment transportation, all of it is in your hands. It is an unbelievable load to handle and you do it so well. There are new challenges everyday that would make most people give up, but you don’t. The 6 am wake ups, 18-22 hr work days, constant fight against dehydration and sickness (because of the 18 hr work days) are all rough, but you’re not alone. I will test PDA’s, check programming code and organize as little or as much as you need me to. Staying up until 2:30am for the 5th day in a row, after 10 hours of surveying and an hour of traffic back to the office? You bet, sign me up. Frustrated? Me too, but heck two’s better than one in my mind and so long as I can keep my eyes open, I’ll stick it out with you, gladly. You’re dedication and desire to do the best you can always amazes me. The next 2 weeks are going to suck, in the best way. Bring on the late night tea, popcorn dinners and many more nights of wanting to throw PDA’s out the window. Your quite entertaining while sleep deprived anyhow. Kudos to you, you’re wonderful, Helen. Now let’s survey some criminals!
Monday, June 6, 2011
Rains Down in Africa
No one’s on time in this country. In a country where 10 o’clock really means 11:30, you might as well not set a time and just set a ball park. "You can be here after lunch, yea?" That’s about as good as saying: be there at 3 because that’s when they’ll get there. The rainy season makes this timely issue even more of a problem. Liberians hate the rain. They HATE it. So when it starts to rain the streets are empty. Everyone has found even the smallest bit of covering to stand under until the rain passes. Because of this fear of rain everyone is even later than normal and thinks the fact that it was raining is a justifiable reason. I told you to be here at 10. “Yea.” Ok, well what time is it now? “It’s 11:45. There was rain.” So you’re late. “Well no you said 10.” Yea and it’s 11:45. “But you said 10 and it rained." I wonder how many more times we can say it’s 11:45 and she can then reply with: you said 10 (yea, you're late!).
It rains for 6 months out of the year here and you’re telling me that being almost two hours late because it rained is ok? Apparently it is, because every single person was late to this office on Saturday. It’s moments like these where I think: how does this country function at all!? For 6 months people are just late because it rained. Not just late, super late because during the dry season they are late. I’m way too timely for this.
Their fear however is understandable when you also realize that with the wet season comes sickness and death. People are dropping like flies. Someone is very sick every week and it’s the norm. The rain brings an upsurge in malaria, typhoid and cholera. If you’re growing up in a place where you associate rain with deathly illness then, heck yea let’s all stay inside until the dry season returns. Unfortunately I love the rain. You need an encyclopedia with pictures to figure out what all these bites on your arm are (mosquito? I don’t know, wait for the fever). “My arms hurt.” In an achy way or a workout way? “I can’t tell.” Well if the aching spreads, it’s clinic time, baby. “Maybe it’s 12 hr work day pains???” I’d take that over any illness.
Can’t wait for July. The rains only get worse. My raincoat in a bag has its work cut out for it.
It rains for 6 months out of the year here and you’re telling me that being almost two hours late because it rained is ok? Apparently it is, because every single person was late to this office on Saturday. It’s moments like these where I think: how does this country function at all!? For 6 months people are just late because it rained. Not just late, super late because during the dry season they are late. I’m way too timely for this.
Their fear however is understandable when you also realize that with the wet season comes sickness and death. People are dropping like flies. Someone is very sick every week and it’s the norm. The rain brings an upsurge in malaria, typhoid and cholera. If you’re growing up in a place where you associate rain with deathly illness then, heck yea let’s all stay inside until the dry season returns. Unfortunately I love the rain. You need an encyclopedia with pictures to figure out what all these bites on your arm are (mosquito? I don’t know, wait for the fever). “My arms hurt.” In an achy way or a workout way? “I can’t tell.” Well if the aching spreads, it’s clinic time, baby. “Maybe it’s 12 hr work day pains???” I’d take that over any illness.
Can’t wait for July. The rains only get worse. My raincoat in a bag has its work cut out for it.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
"I Love My Life"
Six weeks, it took to get an electricity connection in my new apartment. Six weeks to get a connection that, without fail will go out during a rain storm (it rains almost every night), will go out at random throughout the day and that is so unstable in terms of voltage, that anything worth anything needs to be plugged in through a stabilizer. (Did my fan short out AGAIN?) Six weeks of : We need light. “Yea, 2 weeks.” 2 weeks later: Hi we need light now. “Yea you didn’t pay” (lies). Yea, yea we did (twice actually). “Well we can do it for you for something small (a bribe).” I’ve given you that (TWICE) how about you do it now. 5 weeks: it takes 3 people, 5 days in a row to go to the company office and sit there until they come to my place. One week and many struggles later (no, no more small things for you!) and we have a connection…that shorts out within an hour. Julian: it shouldn’t be making that popping sound. No breakers are installed in the apartment (say it with me: fire hazard) and we get those put in. All is well after a battle with a contractor over the idea that when you say “we’re friends, now” it means that you give us a deal, not that we pay you twice as much. We’re not friends anymore. Thanks so much, leave now.
I was content with my little unstable electric connection, until I woke in the middle of the night to my fan no longer blowing on me. It’s truly amazing how a fan and the slightest bit of perspiration can cool you down (it’s a beautiful combination). Fan not blowing=electricity off, but it’ll come back in a couple hours. It didn’t. We come to discover, through the lovely help of my neighbors, that my electricity cable has been stolen. It was stolen from off the top of a 3-story building guarded by guards, a cement wall and barbed wire. Hey guards, what the heck? Now my cable is being thrown in a pipe and secured in a cement trench, in which my neighbor’s cable sits. Try stealing that, suckers. (no but really, don’t). Now we get to have the sketchy electricians come back and do it all over. If you say “2 weeks” or “something small” to me one more time, we’re definitely not friends anymore. Thanks for letting me enjoy electricity for at least a week.
On top of which we’re back to “8 days a week” at the office. Back to losing my weight in sweat, reading and changing survey sections (the 7th time is still the charm), and going to sleep thinking of survey answer skips. If yes, SKIP TO IN067. If they don’t use one of these 7 weapon choices, SKIP TO other.
When I have weeks (or months) like these I put in my headphones (or just step outside) and listen to a very popular song here. “I Love My Life.” Never fails to make me laugh. I don’t have light (I love my life). I don’t have water (I love my life). I’m in Liberia (I love my life). At least that’s how my version goes.
I was content with my little unstable electric connection, until I woke in the middle of the night to my fan no longer blowing on me. It’s truly amazing how a fan and the slightest bit of perspiration can cool you down (it’s a beautiful combination). Fan not blowing=electricity off, but it’ll come back in a couple hours. It didn’t. We come to discover, through the lovely help of my neighbors, that my electricity cable has been stolen. It was stolen from off the top of a 3-story building guarded by guards, a cement wall and barbed wire. Hey guards, what the heck? Now my cable is being thrown in a pipe and secured in a cement trench, in which my neighbor’s cable sits. Try stealing that, suckers. (no but really, don’t). Now we get to have the sketchy electricians come back and do it all over. If you say “2 weeks” or “something small” to me one more time, we’re definitely not friends anymore. Thanks for letting me enjoy electricity for at least a week.
On top of which we’re back to “8 days a week” at the office. Back to losing my weight in sweat, reading and changing survey sections (the 7th time is still the charm), and going to sleep thinking of survey answer skips. If yes, SKIP TO IN067. If they don’t use one of these 7 weapon choices, SKIP TO other.
When I have weeks (or months) like these I put in my headphones (or just step outside) and listen to a very popular song here. “I Love My Life.” Never fails to make me laugh. I don’t have light (I love my life). I don’t have water (I love my life). I’m in Liberia (I love my life). At least that’s how my version goes.
Friday, May 20, 2011
M.I.T
The education system is a slowly improving institution in Liberia and one of the popular reasons for aid workers to come and take part in “building capacity” here. How nice of you, you American high school teacher, to come to Liberia and fix the school system. You know better. You teach in Massachusetts and obviously know how a proper school should run. “My students go to MIT when they graduate.” Of course they do. You’re teaching in an upper class, privileged neighborhood where the kids get every ounce of guidance they need. Your job is easy. “What’s wrong with these Liberians? These kids just don’t compare.” I’m five seconds from turning around and throwing my tonic in your face.
These kids are growing up in a country that went through 2 civil wars that destroyed the country’s infrastructure and tore apart their families. Let’s forget about that for now. Let’s also forget about the fact it’s hard enough to get Liberians in school seats. Sitting in school earns 0 Liberian Dollars a day, while selling plantains on the street can feed your baby sister for the day. Instead, let’s assume that none of that has anything to do with the capacity of Liberian students (wouldn’t that be nice) and assume that they just learn differently than other students. How about you do your job as a teacher and actually figure out how the students learn and teach in that fashion? How typical of you to come in with your “one way is the write way” mindset and blame it on the children when it doesn’t turn into X suburbia high over night. Not every school has the funding or support of an affluent community (like mine). Sometimes getting students to understand the material, like you at the end of the year and decide that getting a degree at any level is better than drugs or a gun (have you seen a weapon at your little prep school?), means more than an entire school going to MIT.
Take some pride in your job and do what your title implies; teach. Take responsibility for your students and stop blaming them for your inability to understand how they learn best. By the way—giving Liberians books and buying them new desks does not mean crap. They have to be able to read the books. You put them in shinny new uniforms and given them all a box of pencils and then blame them for not meeting your prep school American standards. Do yourself a favor and find a job you actually enjoy. I bet you became a teacher for the summers off. Go back to Massachusetts, fool.
These kids are growing up in a country that went through 2 civil wars that destroyed the country’s infrastructure and tore apart their families. Let’s forget about that for now. Let’s also forget about the fact it’s hard enough to get Liberians in school seats. Sitting in school earns 0 Liberian Dollars a day, while selling plantains on the street can feed your baby sister for the day. Instead, let’s assume that none of that has anything to do with the capacity of Liberian students (wouldn’t that be nice) and assume that they just learn differently than other students. How about you do your job as a teacher and actually figure out how the students learn and teach in that fashion? How typical of you to come in with your “one way is the write way” mindset and blame it on the children when it doesn’t turn into X suburbia high over night. Not every school has the funding or support of an affluent community (like mine). Sometimes getting students to understand the material, like you at the end of the year and decide that getting a degree at any level is better than drugs or a gun (have you seen a weapon at your little prep school?), means more than an entire school going to MIT.
Take some pride in your job and do what your title implies; teach. Take responsibility for your students and stop blaming them for your inability to understand how they learn best. By the way—giving Liberians books and buying them new desks does not mean crap. They have to be able to read the books. You put them in shinny new uniforms and given them all a box of pencils and then blame them for not meeting your prep school American standards. Do yourself a favor and find a job you actually enjoy. I bet you became a teacher for the summers off. Go back to Massachusetts, fool.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Beat into Submission
I have a pretty set routine here. My days begin and end in the same way with some unexpected exceptions (bush breakdowns, tracking ex-coms, health issues ect) in between. For a while it was all surprising. Every experience was a new learning experience and would prepare me for the next. A bit of excitement and slight fear would come with most experiences simply because learning to survive here is less of an “ease in to it” process and much more like shock therapy. Many different researchers and organizations alike, openly admit that Liberia is without a doubt the most difficult place they’ve worked in. Even though I was living here I believed that and didn’t at the same time. Logistics are impossible here, technology is consistently touch and go and even though the rest of Africa has a rising middle class investing in the growth or their respective counties, Liberia is at the bottom with 4.8% of the population being middle class. Liberia is a rough place.
The earlier experiences coupled with excitement and fear have officially faded. I am no longer surprised or shocked at the inner workings, or lack of working in Liberia. Explaining instructions to staff 6 times. Waiting 3 weeks for electricity when they said “we’ll do it tomorrow.” Knowing full well that a bribe could solve this problem. Knowing that one bribe is not enough, being dirty and sweaty everyday all the time and accepting it. Accepting that walking for 3 hours out of this jungle is the only way out. Knowing that every job (even getting your passport picture done on the street) will be a battle.
What scares me the most about all of this is that it’s no longer new. I am, for the most part, used to it all. When you say I can do it in 2 hours, it will take 4 and I’m used to that. I’m used to bartering for everything. Convincing the store owner, the motorbike driver, the electrician, the cell phone company and even our bounty hunters that X thing does not cost that much. I know it, you know it and we can spend 30 minutes arguing about this until you either take the amount we all know it costs, or I just walk away from you. You want to laugh and pretend to be offended? I can do that too. Knowing that getting a local to get these things for you will be cheaper, but also knowing that they will take their cut, undoubtedly (what change?). I’m used to that. Worn down from the everyday antics and at least mild malnutrition becomes the norm (at least I’m not sick). Finding a comfortable rhythm in one of the most difficult places in the world is a fascinating realization in itself. Whether I’ve become comfortable or have just been pushed passed the breaking point, I’m adjusted nonetheless...or beat into submission, but I don’t really see a difference. I should get out of here before I convince myself that I could stay.
The earlier experiences coupled with excitement and fear have officially faded. I am no longer surprised or shocked at the inner workings, or lack of working in Liberia. Explaining instructions to staff 6 times. Waiting 3 weeks for electricity when they said “we’ll do it tomorrow.” Knowing full well that a bribe could solve this problem. Knowing that one bribe is not enough, being dirty and sweaty everyday all the time and accepting it. Accepting that walking for 3 hours out of this jungle is the only way out. Knowing that every job (even getting your passport picture done on the street) will be a battle.
What scares me the most about all of this is that it’s no longer new. I am, for the most part, used to it all. When you say I can do it in 2 hours, it will take 4 and I’m used to that. I’m used to bartering for everything. Convincing the store owner, the motorbike driver, the electrician, the cell phone company and even our bounty hunters that X thing does not cost that much. I know it, you know it and we can spend 30 minutes arguing about this until you either take the amount we all know it costs, or I just walk away from you. You want to laugh and pretend to be offended? I can do that too. Knowing that getting a local to get these things for you will be cheaper, but also knowing that they will take their cut, undoubtedly (what change?). I’m used to that. Worn down from the everyday antics and at least mild malnutrition becomes the norm (at least I’m not sick). Finding a comfortable rhythm in one of the most difficult places in the world is a fascinating realization in itself. Whether I’ve become comfortable or have just been pushed passed the breaking point, I’m adjusted nonetheless...or beat into submission, but I don’t really see a difference. I should get out of here before I convince myself that I could stay.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Brinys In Training
Warning: It’s a long one. Settle in for a bit.
“Brinys! Good to see you back in the bush!” Yes, I’m glad you’re excited while I’m still recollecting how this happened, again. The break down:
Wednesday: I inherit the task of creating a better way to track respondents down (because that’s easy).
Friday: I, in a lapse of judgment say: I want to see Gbarpolu, “Phil’s going, go with him.”
Sunday: I find myself packing for Gbarpolu. Face wipes. Check. Head lamp. Check. Bug spray. Check. You know the rest. Hey, at least we’re not going to pass through Sabas town with bad tires.
Monday: Phil and I make it to Gbarpolu, head in to a cook shop and order some food. This time, there’s no questions about what it is. Phil just leans in and says “bush meat.” It’s dark and I can’t see it anyway. I still can’t decide if that’s better than seeing what I’m eating. The Bounty Hunters in the bush are in their last two weeks of tracking and this time I need to focus on the inner workings of how they find who they find. I have to return to Monrovia with a slew of ideas for tracking in the city. Bush tracking and city tracking…I don’t think I need to point out that they are two completely different animals, but let’s go find some ex-coms. Who’s excited? Brinys: the bounty hunter in training.
Tuesday: divide up the county and decide who will venture where. Gordon, Albert and Phil in one direction. Brittany, Agon and Weefah in the other. “Be back by dark” Okkie dokkie, Phil. 30 minutes of tracking discussion with my two bounty hunters and Weefah motions that this “road” to the left is what we need. For the next 30 minutes there’s no chatting. Only maneuver suggestions. If we go in this divet to the left the car won’t tip. Agon hop out and direct us over this “bridge.” If we balance on the tree trunk there we can make it through this turn. Welcome to Sando Village. Population: 20, sweet. Let’s cut to the chase. The guy we were looking for, wasn’t there, but we got some decent leads. Back in the jeep we go. Right on schedule.
10 minutes in, we’re stuck. We assess the situation and retrieve the shovel, axe and machete from the jeep. At least it’s not raining. We convince a man walking by to tell the men in Sando village to come and help us. In the mean time we shove planks of wood under the tires. Reverse. YES! Forward again. Awe come on, stuck again (we’re definitely walking). Is that rain? Figures. How did I get stuck in the bush again? Where’s a UN jeep with Nigerian Police when you need it? Phil thinks I’m dead for sure. Queue arrival of six villagers with picks and machetes in hand. Who knew I’d be happy to see that. “Brittany get in the jeep.” Don’t have to tell me twice. 20 minutes of hacking away at the road and throwing wood and rocks into gaps means we’re ready to give it another go. “It is not advisable to keep Brittany stuck in the bush.” You know, I couldn’t agree more. How about you get us out of here. We barrel through the turn while villagers and Agon jump out of the way. We pay the villagers for their handy skills (that’s a 53109! Receipt code…) 15 min later, another tricky situation and were back on the main road. We were not back by dark. Lesson learned: Brinys and bounty hunters in a jeep without Phil=Brinys stuck. Do not repeat, again.
Wednesday: Track guy with Phil and Agon. If you take this road to the left, you can drive until Teekay town and then it’s a two hour walk. “ We drive pretty far into the jungle, chat it up with some villagers and decide that the guy we need is in a farther village. We’ll tackle that tomorrow.
Thursday: After sleeping in a town with essentially no food, no lights and the most bugs I’ve seen yet --Brittany and Weefah on motorbike. 4 hours through the bush. I get the dorky looking helmet. Phil and Agon, 6 hours, start walking. See you tonight. After all this Phil and I head back to Monrovia, dirty, hungry and tired. As soon as I get into town someone corrects my mistake (I got my phone stolen). It’s 9pm, I don’t have a phone or apartment keys and I haven’t eaten since 8am. Nice to see you too, Monrovia.
“Brinys! Good to see you back in the bush!” Yes, I’m glad you’re excited while I’m still recollecting how this happened, again. The break down:
Wednesday: I inherit the task of creating a better way to track respondents down (because that’s easy).
Friday: I, in a lapse of judgment say: I want to see Gbarpolu, “Phil’s going, go with him.”
Sunday: I find myself packing for Gbarpolu. Face wipes. Check. Head lamp. Check. Bug spray. Check. You know the rest. Hey, at least we’re not going to pass through Sabas town with bad tires.
Monday: Phil and I make it to Gbarpolu, head in to a cook shop and order some food. This time, there’s no questions about what it is. Phil just leans in and says “bush meat.” It’s dark and I can’t see it anyway. I still can’t decide if that’s better than seeing what I’m eating. The Bounty Hunters in the bush are in their last two weeks of tracking and this time I need to focus on the inner workings of how they find who they find. I have to return to Monrovia with a slew of ideas for tracking in the city. Bush tracking and city tracking…I don’t think I need to point out that they are two completely different animals, but let’s go find some ex-coms. Who’s excited? Brinys: the bounty hunter in training.
Tuesday: divide up the county and decide who will venture where. Gordon, Albert and Phil in one direction. Brittany, Agon and Weefah in the other. “Be back by dark” Okkie dokkie, Phil. 30 minutes of tracking discussion with my two bounty hunters and Weefah motions that this “road” to the left is what we need. For the next 30 minutes there’s no chatting. Only maneuver suggestions. If we go in this divet to the left the car won’t tip. Agon hop out and direct us over this “bridge.” If we balance on the tree trunk there we can make it through this turn. Welcome to Sando Village. Population: 20, sweet. Let’s cut to the chase. The guy we were looking for, wasn’t there, but we got some decent leads. Back in the jeep we go. Right on schedule.
10 minutes in, we’re stuck. We assess the situation and retrieve the shovel, axe and machete from the jeep. At least it’s not raining. We convince a man walking by to tell the men in Sando village to come and help us. In the mean time we shove planks of wood under the tires. Reverse. YES! Forward again. Awe come on, stuck again (we’re definitely walking). Is that rain? Figures. How did I get stuck in the bush again? Where’s a UN jeep with Nigerian Police when you need it? Phil thinks I’m dead for sure. Queue arrival of six villagers with picks and machetes in hand. Who knew I’d be happy to see that. “Brittany get in the jeep.” Don’t have to tell me twice. 20 minutes of hacking away at the road and throwing wood and rocks into gaps means we’re ready to give it another go. “It is not advisable to keep Brittany stuck in the bush.” You know, I couldn’t agree more. How about you get us out of here. We barrel through the turn while villagers and Agon jump out of the way. We pay the villagers for their handy skills (that’s a 53109! Receipt code…) 15 min later, another tricky situation and were back on the main road. We were not back by dark. Lesson learned: Brinys and bounty hunters in a jeep without Phil=Brinys stuck. Do not repeat, again.
Wednesday: Track guy with Phil and Agon. If you take this road to the left, you can drive until Teekay town and then it’s a two hour walk. “ We drive pretty far into the jungle, chat it up with some villagers and decide that the guy we need is in a farther village. We’ll tackle that tomorrow.
Thursday: After sleeping in a town with essentially no food, no lights and the most bugs I’ve seen yet --Brittany and Weefah on motorbike. 4 hours through the bush. I get the dorky looking helmet. Phil and Agon, 6 hours, start walking. See you tonight. After all this Phil and I head back to Monrovia, dirty, hungry and tired. As soon as I get into town someone corrects my mistake (I got my phone stolen). It’s 9pm, I don’t have a phone or apartment keys and I haven’t eaten since 8am. Nice to see you too, Monrovia.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Hopes and Dreams
Staying in this line of work and keeping your hopes and dreams is difficult to do. Your sunshine, rainbows and basket of cute puppies assumption about how you will help bring peace and end poverty in this country drains out with every power outage (which I’m enjoying right now) you experience. I don’t know about you, but I can’t bring peace to a country with a head light. End poverty with a horrible internet connection? Heck no. It’ll take me 20 minutes to download the UNDP’s piece on poverty in Liberia, shoot looks like that won’t be solved.
Ok maybe being in this field doesn’t kill your hopes and dreams, it just reshapes them. For example: I hope these ex coms are successfully reintegrated, turns into I hope I find these ex coms in a stationary place. Heck even jail will do (at least I know they’re not going anywhere). I dream about turning this armed robber into an honest carpenter turns into, you’re home now has walls? YES! Party time. Dream fulfilled. A friend of mine recently said that innovation and jaded don’t go hand in hand in international development (http://resistingthecoolaid.blogspot.com/2011/04/sustainability.html). Although there is definite truth to that, sometimes their experience makes them seem jaded. Innovation seems lacking because the original hopes and dreams were repeatedly beat out of them with a reality stick. Or at least that’s how I see it. I’m of course, excluding the UN from this. Their little check list of post conflict success makes it easy to say they’ve done their job well, so they can move on with their fleet of jeeps to a new destination…check list in hand. Bring on the peace.
Sure, sometimes the realistic beat down and donor pressure (they are just as at fault here) leads organizations to re implement programs that hardly meet the definition of success, but that doesn’t mean that innovation has escaped them completely. Innovation, just like their hopes and dreams, simply reshapes into something more obtainable. They know what can and cannot be achieved so innovation comes in baby steps. Like: now I’m writing this with a head lamp and candles. Baby steps. Now would be the time to say “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
For those orgs that re implement mediocre programs, knowing full well that it didn’t work, well they’re not jaded, they’re just looking for a way to spend their excess money.
That must be nice.
Ok maybe being in this field doesn’t kill your hopes and dreams, it just reshapes them. For example: I hope these ex coms are successfully reintegrated, turns into I hope I find these ex coms in a stationary place. Heck even jail will do (at least I know they’re not going anywhere). I dream about turning this armed robber into an honest carpenter turns into, you’re home now has walls? YES! Party time. Dream fulfilled. A friend of mine recently said that innovation and jaded don’t go hand in hand in international development (http://resistingthecoolaid.blogspot.com/2011/04/sustainability.html). Although there is definite truth to that, sometimes their experience makes them seem jaded. Innovation seems lacking because the original hopes and dreams were repeatedly beat out of them with a reality stick. Or at least that’s how I see it. I’m of course, excluding the UN from this. Their little check list of post conflict success makes it easy to say they’ve done their job well, so they can move on with their fleet of jeeps to a new destination…check list in hand. Bring on the peace.
Sure, sometimes the realistic beat down and donor pressure (they are just as at fault here) leads organizations to re implement programs that hardly meet the definition of success, but that doesn’t mean that innovation has escaped them completely. Innovation, just like their hopes and dreams, simply reshapes into something more obtainable. They know what can and cannot be achieved so innovation comes in baby steps. Like: now I’m writing this with a head lamp and candles. Baby steps. Now would be the time to say “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
For those orgs that re implement mediocre programs, knowing full well that it didn’t work, well they’re not jaded, they’re just looking for a way to spend their excess money.
That must be nice.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
For Truth?
I’m pretty convinced that if I was to construct a survey around drugs, sex, abuse and alcohol and then conduct this survey in the US, it’d be difficult to get an honest response. Hardly any American is going to tell a surveyor how often they buy cocaine or that they have a wife, a girlfriend and yet frequently enjoy some late night female company. Denial would be the response of choice in the US because, heck, who wants the fact that they have a profitable drug business operating on the weekends to be public knowledge? No one. Sure you spend your Saturdays with women who charge by the hour, but you keep that to yourself.
This however, is Liberia and the bounty hunters (in the bush or in the hood) get the info we need. Liberian men will admit to things that many Americans would never admit to. In the bush: “You spent how much money on “going on the block” (prostitution) this week?” I could buy three meals with that. Wait, and you have a wife? Who’s got belly (her ego is prego) and you have a girlfriend? (in a school uniform, classy) I’m struck by your cavalier attitude. In the hood: you spent all that money on rubber bands? Previous job: drug dealer. Current job: hmmm let me guess…drug dealer? What are the rubber bands for? To tie you plastic bags, ok. Seeing as how you have bought 3x the amount of rubber bands than last month, I’d say you’re doing rather well for yourself. Oh good, you agree. So you’re expanding your drug trade with the money we hoped you’d change your life around with (give me the money back, you honest little hustler).
Things we’ve realized: prostitution, drug dealing, stealing and my favorite so far, fighting:
[What happens if someone get you vex (makes you angry)? “I’ll find something and hit them in the head with it, brother” For truth (really)? Ok, let’s not get him vex]
are all acceptable things to admit to. Beating and drug usage (for the most part) at present are not, but if these things happened in the past, they’ll tell you all about it. The difference between what I find acceptable and what they’re willing to say openly, always amuses me. You pushed you girlfriend into a wall once? Oh, I guess she should keep her mouth shut then? Oh, you agree again. Not surprised.
Despite the Liberian honesty on these matters, they are masters at never overtly asking for money. “You have something for me?” Do I? “You were suppose to send it to me in the field” We were supposed to send you a lot of things. “Yea, but you said yesterday that…” Oh you need money? Why can’t you just say “where’s the money!?” We have people admitting to illegal actions and you can’t say we need money? I just wasted 20 min deciphering your rambling. The things that are culturally acceptable here...man.
This however, is Liberia and the bounty hunters (in the bush or in the hood) get the info we need. Liberian men will admit to things that many Americans would never admit to. In the bush: “You spent how much money on “going on the block” (prostitution) this week?” I could buy three meals with that. Wait, and you have a wife? Who’s got belly (her ego is prego) and you have a girlfriend? (in a school uniform, classy) I’m struck by your cavalier attitude. In the hood: you spent all that money on rubber bands? Previous job: drug dealer. Current job: hmmm let me guess…drug dealer? What are the rubber bands for? To tie you plastic bags, ok. Seeing as how you have bought 3x the amount of rubber bands than last month, I’d say you’re doing rather well for yourself. Oh good, you agree. So you’re expanding your drug trade with the money we hoped you’d change your life around with (give me the money back, you honest little hustler).
Things we’ve realized: prostitution, drug dealing, stealing and my favorite so far, fighting:
[What happens if someone get you vex (makes you angry)? “I’ll find something and hit them in the head with it, brother” For truth (really)? Ok, let’s not get him vex]
are all acceptable things to admit to. Beating and drug usage (for the most part) at present are not, but if these things happened in the past, they’ll tell you all about it. The difference between what I find acceptable and what they’re willing to say openly, always amuses me. You pushed you girlfriend into a wall once? Oh, I guess she should keep her mouth shut then? Oh, you agree again. Not surprised.
Despite the Liberian honesty on these matters, they are masters at never overtly asking for money. “You have something for me?” Do I? “You were suppose to send it to me in the field” We were supposed to send you a lot of things. “Yea, but you said yesterday that…” Oh you need money? Why can’t you just say “where’s the money!?” We have people admitting to illegal actions and you can’t say we need money? I just wasted 20 min deciphering your rambling. The things that are culturally acceptable here...man.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Street Cred
So, I get in my cab last week and get greeted with “yea I don’t travel without a weapon on me-o.” (awesome cab choice, Brehaung). The conversation continues with something about cab drivers and crashing and danger. “If it seem like bad ting will happen I can stab the driver and get out quick quick.” (I should get out quick quick, where’s a motorbike?) More about trips down to Broad Street (my neighborhood), sketchy cab drivers and then “I get out and hit the driver in his face.” By the end of the cab ride it’s just crazy woman and me. “Why don’t you move tis way.”(no I’m good over here, armed and dangerous). By the end of the ride, I get out, shake my head and say the only thing you can say at this point: “oh, Liberia.” This all happened right after Phil brought up street cred. Liberia, of all the places I could be gaining street cred. What gets me is that there are tons of expats around the world gaining equal street cred and having a lovely time. Where’s my CV shirt? On top of listing the places off in alphabetical order, I’ll group them by level of difficulty. Liberia should go in bold, maybe in a different color and in bigger font on the shirt, because let’s be honest, not ever street cred country should be treated equal. Heck not even every African country should be equal (because Africa is not one place).
Soon I’ll be lining up for jobs with a bunch of eager beavers who have earned equal street cred. I’m sorry, you were where? Beirut? Accra? Tunis? No. Not the same to me. Did you have decent electricity? Running water? How long can you go without a shower? Can you track down an ex combatant? How about a drug dealer? Stranded in the jungle in the rain? No. Revoking your street cred is pushing it, knocking it down a notch or 2…or 12, is fair. I’m not discrediting your time in Geneva, I’m just saying there should be a point system and you should get a 3. Oh you don’t speak French? You get a 4. Come back to me when your nurse thinks putting on gloves before drawing your blood is unnecessary.
ipal workers: I give you a 10.
Soon I’ll be lining up for jobs with a bunch of eager beavers who have earned equal street cred. I’m sorry, you were where? Beirut? Accra? Tunis? No. Not the same to me. Did you have decent electricity? Running water? How long can you go without a shower? Can you track down an ex combatant? How about a drug dealer? Stranded in the jungle in the rain? No. Revoking your street cred is pushing it, knocking it down a notch or 2…or 12, is fair. I’m not discrediting your time in Geneva, I’m just saying there should be a point system and you should get a 3. Oh you don’t speak French? You get a 4. Come back to me when your nurse thinks putting on gloves before drawing your blood is unnecessary.
ipal workers: I give you a 10.
Monday, April 4, 2011
The first Milestone
I am of the firm belief that only wusses count down their time here by days. Eager much? That said I’ve officially been in Liberia for 1/3 of my allotted time. The first of three Milestones. 2 months. 8 weeks. 56 days (hypocrite). So, in the spirit of this accomplishment, because it is an accomplishment, I’m going to throw out some tips and favorites (from my all of two months of experience).
Shared taxis:
Seating: Since the back seat of these golden chariots are nice and snuggly (i.e. your head is in someone’s armpit), slow, shallow breathing is the best way to go. 2 reasons: 1. There’s a less likely chance you’ll notice the odor spreading across the back seat. 2. Someone’s hand, arm, shoulder, donut bucket or toddler (they’re the worst, squirmy little suckers) is jammed up against you in a way that restricts any normal, deep breaths.
Singing: There will be singing in the golden chariot. Sometimes to music and sometimes not. If it’s just one person, let them do their thing. They will serenade the entire cab all on their own. “I can be your hero baaaaaabyyyyyy” (gotta love Enrique). Be warned: if it’s Akon, Justin Bieber (yes, Liberia has a bit of Bieber fever) or P squared, it’s going to be a full cab affair. Know the lyrics people. You don’t want to stick out more than you already do. As a side note: I was shocked to find myself singing to Nelly and Kelly. Not on the list of songs to know, but luckily on my list. Close call.
Food:
“Are those ants in my oatmeal?....the hot war will kill them. I’m good.” Learn to embrace eating small creatures such as these. It’s happening whether you're consciously aware of it or not, so get over it, or don’t eat. The fridge is your friend. Stick something with little bugs in it, in the fridge and it’s edible in 15 minutes. Problem solved. You need the protein anyway (seriously, you do).
Health:
Think you got something? Google it. You and a friend checking off symptoms and figuring out what meds to buy at the pharmacy is the way to go (I am not advocating this, only suggesting). Go to a clinic and you’ll come out with more holes in your arm than a heroin addict and a malaria diagnosis (no, I’m sorry. Every fever is not malaria). And, every infection is not a mango fly! (had to get that out). Google it. Mental Health—when you stop asking yourself what the heck you’re doing in Liberia, worry. I’m convinced that so long as I think I’m nuts for being here, I’m ok. Even while typing that, I must admit I thought: that sounds nuts!
Responses:
“White woman!” Response: “Black boy!” (It’s only fair).
Favorite quote so far:
I’m war affected. If they didn’t have 2 wars, you think I’d be here? They should give me aid.
–Ben, during a “Make Fire” meal.
Most interesting name acquired:
Brehaung (on my Liberian Driver’s License documentation). That’s a keeper.
56 days down, 120 days (and change) to go.
Shared taxis:
Seating: Since the back seat of these golden chariots are nice and snuggly (i.e. your head is in someone’s armpit), slow, shallow breathing is the best way to go. 2 reasons: 1. There’s a less likely chance you’ll notice the odor spreading across the back seat. 2. Someone’s hand, arm, shoulder, donut bucket or toddler (they’re the worst, squirmy little suckers) is jammed up against you in a way that restricts any normal, deep breaths.
Singing: There will be singing in the golden chariot. Sometimes to music and sometimes not. If it’s just one person, let them do their thing. They will serenade the entire cab all on their own. “I can be your hero baaaaaabyyyyyy” (gotta love Enrique). Be warned: if it’s Akon, Justin Bieber (yes, Liberia has a bit of Bieber fever) or P squared, it’s going to be a full cab affair. Know the lyrics people. You don’t want to stick out more than you already do. As a side note: I was shocked to find myself singing to Nelly and Kelly. Not on the list of songs to know, but luckily on my list. Close call.
Food:
“Are those ants in my oatmeal?....the hot war will kill them. I’m good.” Learn to embrace eating small creatures such as these. It’s happening whether you're consciously aware of it or not, so get over it, or don’t eat. The fridge is your friend. Stick something with little bugs in it, in the fridge and it’s edible in 15 minutes. Problem solved. You need the protein anyway (seriously, you do).
Health:
Think you got something? Google it. You and a friend checking off symptoms and figuring out what meds to buy at the pharmacy is the way to go (I am not advocating this, only suggesting). Go to a clinic and you’ll come out with more holes in your arm than a heroin addict and a malaria diagnosis (no, I’m sorry. Every fever is not malaria). And, every infection is not a mango fly! (had to get that out). Google it. Mental Health—when you stop asking yourself what the heck you’re doing in Liberia, worry. I’m convinced that so long as I think I’m nuts for being here, I’m ok. Even while typing that, I must admit I thought: that sounds nuts!
Responses:
“White woman!” Response: “Black boy!” (It’s only fair).
Favorite quote so far:
I’m war affected. If they didn’t have 2 wars, you think I’d be here? They should give me aid.
–Ben, during a “Make Fire” meal.
Most interesting name acquired:
Brehaung (on my Liberian Driver’s License documentation). That’s a keeper.
56 days down, 120 days (and change) to go.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
8 Days A Week
If there were 8 days a week, we’d be working all of them right now (queue Beetles song). This last week set the pace for the rest of my time here in lovely Liberia. The phrase “burning the candle at both ends,” comes to mind. Actually, we’re burning the candle, period. If it could be burnt on both ends and in the middle, that’s what we’d be doing. Tight deadlines with limited resources tend to push you as far as possible. Someone may end up throwing a computer out the window, but hey if it makes you feel better, throw away, my friend.
Saturday--9:30am: hail a golden chariot to the office
10:15am: in the office—after a call to the roommate, it’s concluded that I’ve lost my thumb drive with all the work I’d done the previous night in that golden chariot (way to start the day off right).
10:20am: get survey files from Tricia and begin redo of the lost work. Estimated time: 5 hours. 5 hours of which I need to do new survey work and accounting codes. I’m already loving this day.
2:00pm: Helen, Phil and Ben (BAM or Ben jammin’. Not Ben who went to the Bush) arrive.
5:00pm: Switch from survey work to accounting work with Ben jammin’. Helen’s taken to dancing around the balcony, a sure sign that work time needs to end. “I gotta get outta here.” Can’t do anymore survey work, must leave. Do we leave? No, no we do not. Tricia, Helen and I agree (reluctantly) that we need to finish this stuff tonight. We don’t want to work Sunday (ha!). 2 more hours (Fine, if there’s food). Let’s get this done.
7:00pm: Done? Yea, with half of it. Tricia writes variable names, skips and makes sure everything is perfect, Phil writes the programming code, I turn it into paper, Helen checks it for errors so she can prep for training (Bounty Hunters in the Hood to come). 4 people, 1 survey. 1 change and all 4 have to be updated. Nightmare. Sure, I’ve looked at this survey section 6 times, but it’s not perfect yet. The 7th time’s the charm, maybe. Ben jammin’ meanwhile fights with accounting errors. Maybe if you ask nicely that accounting program will download within the hour.
9:00pm: Helen’s out. Her job hinders on me being done (and I’m not). Break free while you can!
9:30pm: Ben jammin’, I think we’ve lost our weight in sweat. My eyes can’t read these column coordinates anymore and if the power keeps cutting in and out one of us may have an aneurism. "Why is October spelt 5 different ways in this accounting file!?” I can only think of three ways…
10:15pm: I've now begun laughing at random. “I’m out of here at 10.” It’s after 10, Ben jammin’. “We’re leaving.”
10:30pm: Come home to find my thumb drive on my dresser in my room. What a way to end the day.
Finished it on Sunday. Bring on Monday.
Saturday--9:30am: hail a golden chariot to the office
10:15am: in the office—after a call to the roommate, it’s concluded that I’ve lost my thumb drive with all the work I’d done the previous night in that golden chariot (way to start the day off right).
10:20am: get survey files from Tricia and begin redo of the lost work. Estimated time: 5 hours. 5 hours of which I need to do new survey work and accounting codes. I’m already loving this day.
2:00pm: Helen, Phil and Ben (BAM or Ben jammin’. Not Ben who went to the Bush) arrive.
5:00pm: Switch from survey work to accounting work with Ben jammin’. Helen’s taken to dancing around the balcony, a sure sign that work time needs to end. “I gotta get outta here.” Can’t do anymore survey work, must leave. Do we leave? No, no we do not. Tricia, Helen and I agree (reluctantly) that we need to finish this stuff tonight. We don’t want to work Sunday (ha!). 2 more hours (Fine, if there’s food). Let’s get this done.
7:00pm: Done? Yea, with half of it. Tricia writes variable names, skips and makes sure everything is perfect, Phil writes the programming code, I turn it into paper, Helen checks it for errors so she can prep for training (Bounty Hunters in the Hood to come). 4 people, 1 survey. 1 change and all 4 have to be updated. Nightmare. Sure, I’ve looked at this survey section 6 times, but it’s not perfect yet. The 7th time’s the charm, maybe. Ben jammin’ meanwhile fights with accounting errors. Maybe if you ask nicely that accounting program will download within the hour.
9:00pm: Helen’s out. Her job hinders on me being done (and I’m not). Break free while you can!
9:30pm: Ben jammin’, I think we’ve lost our weight in sweat. My eyes can’t read these column coordinates anymore and if the power keeps cutting in and out one of us may have an aneurism. "Why is October spelt 5 different ways in this accounting file!?” I can only think of three ways…
10:15pm: I've now begun laughing at random. “I’m out of here at 10.” It’s after 10, Ben jammin’. “We’re leaving.”
10:30pm: Come home to find my thumb drive on my dresser in my room. What a way to end the day.
Finished it on Sunday. Bring on Monday.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Going Native
Have I mentioned that I currently live with somewhat of a legend? Since day one, I say his name pretty much anywhere and I get “oh you live with him??” So you know him? “Well no, but I know of him.“ When I was still fresh off the plane I would get “This is Brittany,” followed by my roommate’s name. What’s up with mentioning who I live with? “He’s like a legend here.” That of course did nothing for my newbee reputation at the time. Darn. After 5 min of interrogating him, he laughs and says “well yea, I guess if the expiration date of an expat is 1.5-2 years max, being here for 3 years makes me something.” You mean, other than nuts?
There’s a reason behind the expiration date. 1 ½ to 2 years gives you enough time to settle in, figure things out and get your job done effectively (your boss Stateside or in Europe doesn’t need you going native either). Scratch that, both done and effectively may be taking it a bit far. The 2 years is nothing in comparison to the amount of work that needs to get done. Yea, you may be really effective in the 2 years you are here, but then someone else comes in, does it how they see fit and changes everything up. Doesn’t sound too effective to me. If I were the local staff, I’d be pissed. You’re going to come in here and do everything your way because you think it’s better? It was fine before! Who the heck are you? Oh right, the new boss. The 3rd one in 6 years. Great. Ugh white people. Siding with the local staff? A bit. Don’t worry it’ll subside. Expat bosses wouldn’t need to be cycled in and out if a local could do what expats do ( yes, I said that). It’s true. Going native? Heck no. This is Liberia. I couldn’t truly fit in, even if I wanted to (and I don’t). Have you seen me? Not happening.I could get a Liberian wardrobe, eat palm butter everyday (clog an artery), speak perfect Liberian English and still would not be native.
So, the whole “they might go native while they're here,” reason behind the 2 year expiration date—I reject that. 2 year expiration date, due to your mental health? Now, that I could get behind.
Bendu out.
There’s a reason behind the expiration date. 1 ½ to 2 years gives you enough time to settle in, figure things out and get your job done effectively (your boss Stateside or in Europe doesn’t need you going native either). Scratch that, both done and effectively may be taking it a bit far. The 2 years is nothing in comparison to the amount of work that needs to get done. Yea, you may be really effective in the 2 years you are here, but then someone else comes in, does it how they see fit and changes everything up. Doesn’t sound too effective to me. If I were the local staff, I’d be pissed. You’re going to come in here and do everything your way because you think it’s better? It was fine before! Who the heck are you? Oh right, the new boss. The 3rd one in 6 years. Great. Ugh white people. Siding with the local staff? A bit. Don’t worry it’ll subside. Expat bosses wouldn’t need to be cycled in and out if a local could do what expats do ( yes, I said that). It’s true. Going native? Heck no. This is Liberia. I couldn’t truly fit in, even if I wanted to (and I don’t). Have you seen me? Not happening.I could get a Liberian wardrobe, eat palm butter everyday (clog an artery), speak perfect Liberian English and still would not be native.
So, the whole “they might go native while they're here,” reason behind the 2 year expiration date—I reject that. 2 year expiration date, due to your mental health? Now, that I could get behind.
Bendu out.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Keeping up with the Jones's
Friendships here are a funny thing. The entire expat community is based on a hierarchy of how long you have been in the current country. The second you meet someone new, you spout out how long you’ve been here and where you work. Josh, 10 months, Carter Center program coordinator. Mike, 7 months, Oxfam. Three months or less and you’re still fresh (even though 3 months feels like an eternity to most). If you can still express how long you’ve been here in terms of weeks, just give up now. Newbee. There’s a great chance that you’ll say something that annoys the “veterans” near you, so just do yourself a favor and don’t have an opinion until you’re deemed worthy. “Oh you mean Mercy Corps Sean? That dude, I don’t talk to him.” Not yet you don’t. Did he say something too flowery for you? Awe, does he think he’s going to solve poverty? Shucks. Don’t worry, Sean. I’m sure there’s someone newer coming in on the 5:30 flight tonight.
I’m about ready to silk screen my CV on my shirt and get introductions out of the way. I’ll give you 2 min to look my credentials over and then we can get on to having an actual conversation. At least that’ll save me from 15 minutes of getting “sized up,” so to speak.
“Actual conversation”
-So I was just in Kenya for 3 weeks. You have to go there, it’s amazing!
-I know! I did some work there. In a month I’m off to Ghana, then ugh back to civilization for a bit (did I hear that right?)
-ew. For how long? (ew?)
-A week, I know, but then I’m back here in Liberia, before heading to Zambia. So it won’t be too bad. (It’s a miracle that I’m not laughing)
-oh yea I have a friend in Zambia, I think I’ll take holiday there before relocating to Mozambique ( …I get it! We’re competing)
Someone should have told me. I was too distracted by your seemingly blow dried hair to notice that this was “keeping up with the Jones’s: Expat style.” On the back of my CV shirt I’ll just list off where I’ve been (in alphabetical order for extra brownie points) and end it with how much I detest civilization with something like “ hot showers are for babies.” While you ramble on about how disgusted you are by proper amenities, I’m still stuck on the fact that you have a blow dryer. By the way, your friend from the UN over there is complaining about the fleet of new cars they just got. Him and I should chat. Do they have good tires? I bet they’d get you to the bush and back. How nice.
I’m about ready to silk screen my CV on my shirt and get introductions out of the way. I’ll give you 2 min to look my credentials over and then we can get on to having an actual conversation. At least that’ll save me from 15 minutes of getting “sized up,” so to speak.
“Actual conversation”
-So I was just in Kenya for 3 weeks. You have to go there, it’s amazing!
-I know! I did some work there. In a month I’m off to Ghana, then ugh back to civilization for a bit (did I hear that right?)
-ew. For how long? (ew?)
-A week, I know, but then I’m back here in Liberia, before heading to Zambia. So it won’t be too bad. (It’s a miracle that I’m not laughing)
-oh yea I have a friend in Zambia, I think I’ll take holiday there before relocating to Mozambique ( …I get it! We’re competing)
Someone should have told me. I was too distracted by your seemingly blow dried hair to notice that this was “keeping up with the Jones’s: Expat style.” On the back of my CV shirt I’ll just list off where I’ve been (in alphabetical order for extra brownie points) and end it with how much I detest civilization with something like “ hot showers are for babies.” While you ramble on about how disgusted you are by proper amenities, I’m still stuck on the fact that you have a blow dryer. By the way, your friend from the UN over there is complaining about the fleet of new cars they just got. Him and I should chat. Do they have good tires? I bet they’d get you to the bush and back. How nice.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Be Like Botswana
Tea, George Michael, Paul Collier and a rainstorm: all the things that make a beautiful start to a weekend. I met up with Julian last night and every time we get together it becomes an academic geek fest, coupled with hours of judging the surrounding society (oil hungry southerners, yea Julian and I). “Hey did you go to Paul Collier’s talk on Monday?” No. I didn’t. I was busy loading up on antibiotics. I did know he was in town though and knew it would be broadcast over the radio. So, I do know what was said. As a precursor: I do not view post conflict development from an economic lens. Yea you need it. Yea money is good, but if you take the needs of a people and filter them only through economics, you’re an idiot. Did I just call Paul Collier an idiot? Not directly. I wouldn’t do that. Collier literally told the Ministry of Finance what to do. He also added insult to injury by waving his finger while speaking (in case you were wondering). “Yea! He turned away from the audience, toward the minister and lectured him on what to do in Liberia.” Inappropriate in front of hundreds of Liberians? Most definitely.
He continued to go on and on about how resources in a country are key for development. “I think he either forgot where is was or just didn’t care.” You’re honesty going to talk about how diamonds can save a country in a country where diamonds helped do just the opposite? Well, he did just that. I was offended, and I was only listening to it over the radio. Apparently the Minister of Finance took this verbal beating like a champion though. Kudos to him. To Collier’s credit (not really) he gave one example of success; Botswana. Opinion: This is typical Collier to me. I don’t know him obviously, but I willing to make this generalization. It seems to be his style to say something that may have a kernel of truth to it (resources fuel development), site one, maybe two success stories (which means nothing!) and run with it. No, I’m sorry Sir, that’s not how theories work (miss that day in school, did we?). Every moment he spent talking about how Liberia has gold, diamonds and soon oil, was like a stab in the side of the entire audience. Liberians were flustered and expats were in shock. “Botswana was such a success story.” Shut up about Botswana, man. We get it. You think every nation that has these resources should be Botswana. Julian: “the next thing I know he’s going to site Saudi Arabia as a successful oil state.” Well people recognize them. “Yea, because they bought their legitimacy with oil!” Come on Liberia you have oil, be Saudi Arabia. I wouldn’t put it past him.
Ok fine. The resources here could be an asset, but to make that statement and lecture the Minister of Finance as if the entire resource and war history of Liberia doesn’t come into play, is obscene. Julian and I agree on a phrase that captures his talk: How dare he. At least he raised my blood pressure a bit. Good thing George Michael was playing on the projector in the restaurant. His faith album lightens any mood, even when walking home on flooded muddy streets.
He continued to go on and on about how resources in a country are key for development. “I think he either forgot where is was or just didn’t care.” You’re honesty going to talk about how diamonds can save a country in a country where diamonds helped do just the opposite? Well, he did just that. I was offended, and I was only listening to it over the radio. Apparently the Minister of Finance took this verbal beating like a champion though. Kudos to him. To Collier’s credit (not really) he gave one example of success; Botswana. Opinion: This is typical Collier to me. I don’t know him obviously, but I willing to make this generalization. It seems to be his style to say something that may have a kernel of truth to it (resources fuel development), site one, maybe two success stories (which means nothing!) and run with it. No, I’m sorry Sir, that’s not how theories work (miss that day in school, did we?). Every moment he spent talking about how Liberia has gold, diamonds and soon oil, was like a stab in the side of the entire audience. Liberians were flustered and expats were in shock. “Botswana was such a success story.” Shut up about Botswana, man. We get it. You think every nation that has these resources should be Botswana. Julian: “the next thing I know he’s going to site Saudi Arabia as a successful oil state.” Well people recognize them. “Yea, because they bought their legitimacy with oil!” Come on Liberia you have oil, be Saudi Arabia. I wouldn’t put it past him.
Ok fine. The resources here could be an asset, but to make that statement and lecture the Minister of Finance as if the entire resource and war history of Liberia doesn’t come into play, is obscene. Julian and I agree on a phrase that captures his talk: How dare he. At least he raised my blood pressure a bit. Good thing George Michael was playing on the projector in the restaurant. His faith album lightens any mood, even when walking home on flooded muddy streets.
Friday, March 4, 2011
My Chinese Woman
So as previously stated, I am back from the bush after long hours of bounty hunter check ups, days of oil covered mayo layered, egg and bread and not one, but two decently noteworthy jeep rides, to and from Monrovia. What I didn’t mention was that the wonderful walls of Make Fire left me with a souvenir; a pretty significant scratch (borderline cut if you will) on my elbow. Nothing to fret over. I bandaged it and moved on with the rest of the week in the bush. Flash forward to a week and a half later and my slightly obsessive desire to pick at it led to a small (in my opinion) infection. By Sunday the need for me to get it taken care of was apparent and my first thought was: well heck if I have something sharp and sterile, coupled with some rubbing alcohol and a band aid this problem would not be a problem.
My roommate, who’s lived in Liberia for years, has no such materials in the apartment (what!? Who are you? Really). “I have Neosporin.” No, that will not do anything to the swollen,infected, angry wound on my elbow. I need to attack this thing with conviction and you have Neosporin, failure. This is a particularly perplexing issue simply because it’s Sunday and nothing is open. Nothing. Crap. So I wake up in the morning and head to what he deems the best clinic in Monroivia. Health care here is touch and go and sporadic in terms of services. You need to know what you need and choose the right one for that need. For me- “The Chinese Clinic that's 2 blocks from here.” Good. Email my director and tell her I’ll be late on Monday. This needs to be dealt with. It’s not too good at this point. I mosey down there and come to find that the doctor’s on vacation. “You should go to the one in Sinkor. His sister is the doctor there.” Fine. Onward. Because of the fact that I am already 45 min late, I head to work and tell my director what’s going on. She didn’t read my email (no biggie), but she sends a local staff member with me to the Chinese clinic. “Your job is to make sure Brittany get’s taken care of today.” Le’ go, Camelia!
We stumble into Chinese clinic number 2 and I explain the mess that is my infected elbow. Here’s what I wanted: cut it open, drain it, clean it and bandage it (with some possible antibiotics on the side, since it’s spread a bit). Here’s what she does: Takes my temperature (typical), Takes my blood pressure (oh it’s low, great) and the prescribes what I need. “Ok I give you injection, some pills and a cream and it be ok.” No, why aren’t we cleaning it out? Drain it. Come on look at it. It wants to be drained. “No, we no need.” Ughhhhh woman. “You take injections and pills and rub cream and it be ok in 3 days.” Yea, you said that. Ok fine. I know the antibiotics are legitimate, because I’ve heard of them before, so I’m good there…despite the fact that the rest of the box is in Chinese. The cream (also in Chinese) is clearly explained with pictures on the box. Good to go there. The injections are another form of the antibiotic. Clean needle, you bet I checked that. Camelia leaves the room after her “You’re butt is going to hurt for days” comment and says she’ll come back after the needle part. Bring it on. I return to the office sore and medicated and coworker Helen tells me that Ben has an infection in the countryside and is “going under the knife for it today.” Dang it! I wanted that! Unfair. He also has a bad fever that knocked him out for days. Mine wasn’t too bad yet. “Oh and Philip is heading back, he has a bad fever too.” The original bush team is just doing spectacular right now. All three, down for the count.
Day two: Head back to the clinic for the second round. She notices that my wound is extra angry today and has begun oozing. Cooooooool. Drain it! It’s better in terms of swelling, yes, but please OPEN IT! She agrees that there is something in there and it needs to come out (you think?). “It may be mango fly. They burry in after bite.” No, it’s not a bite, but hey if it means you’re going to get serious with your little tool kit, sure it’s a fly. Next 35 min: ouch. At least Ben got some kind of anesthetic when they dealt with his. Despite the large hole she’s now created in my elbow, I am relieved that it’s cleaned out. Shot two. Other side please. I’m sore over there still. I slowly walk to a taxi and get to the office. Ben’s there and we swap stories. I am weak and in pain from the meds and draining session and he can barely walk. Philip is back and is sent in for a malaria test. Those are another tricky thing to get done right. “We need a clinic with the right test.” Two tests are available: the finger prick and the machine. We cacus about it and talk about where the staff has gone before for malaria. Calls are made and we find a machine. Go, Phil, go.
Day three: Ben calls: “is your doctor for real?” Yea. “She has a legit medical education and you think she knows her stuff?” Yea, I mean I’m exhausted, but it’s been 2 days and it’s on its way to healed, like she said. My Chinese woman knows what she’s doing. “I’m coming with you. Let’s get some injections.” Yes, let’s. She looks at it and it’s doing great. She gives it one more splash of alcohol, a swab and I’m ready for injection number 3. I tell her about Ben and how we have the exact same thing, but they cut his open much sooner. “Oh it is also mango fly, yes?” Sure. “Brittany, let’s get some injections.” His hole is bigger and needs more days, but he gets the same treatment and is still going back. Thursday- I finish the antibiotics and just have a band aid to cover the still healing hole. Philip has malaria and is on the meds. Ben is getting better, but still has trouble moving…and we’re all still at work. I’m first to the finish line, but they aren’t far behind. Health care in Liberia, you take a group effort. Shout out to the clinic I chose and my Chinese doc. You are much appreciated.
PS: I now own rubbing alcohol and hydrogen peroxide. I will not be repeating this experience.
My roommate, who’s lived in Liberia for years, has no such materials in the apartment (what!? Who are you? Really). “I have Neosporin.” No, that will not do anything to the swollen,infected, angry wound on my elbow. I need to attack this thing with conviction and you have Neosporin, failure. This is a particularly perplexing issue simply because it’s Sunday and nothing is open. Nothing. Crap. So I wake up in the morning and head to what he deems the best clinic in Monroivia. Health care here is touch and go and sporadic in terms of services. You need to know what you need and choose the right one for that need. For me- “The Chinese Clinic that's 2 blocks from here.” Good. Email my director and tell her I’ll be late on Monday. This needs to be dealt with. It’s not too good at this point. I mosey down there and come to find that the doctor’s on vacation. “You should go to the one in Sinkor. His sister is the doctor there.” Fine. Onward. Because of the fact that I am already 45 min late, I head to work and tell my director what’s going on. She didn’t read my email (no biggie), but she sends a local staff member with me to the Chinese clinic. “Your job is to make sure Brittany get’s taken care of today.” Le’ go, Camelia!
We stumble into Chinese clinic number 2 and I explain the mess that is my infected elbow. Here’s what I wanted: cut it open, drain it, clean it and bandage it (with some possible antibiotics on the side, since it’s spread a bit). Here’s what she does: Takes my temperature (typical), Takes my blood pressure (oh it’s low, great) and the prescribes what I need. “Ok I give you injection, some pills and a cream and it be ok.” No, why aren’t we cleaning it out? Drain it. Come on look at it. It wants to be drained. “No, we no need.” Ughhhhh woman. “You take injections and pills and rub cream and it be ok in 3 days.” Yea, you said that. Ok fine. I know the antibiotics are legitimate, because I’ve heard of them before, so I’m good there…despite the fact that the rest of the box is in Chinese. The cream (also in Chinese) is clearly explained with pictures on the box. Good to go there. The injections are another form of the antibiotic. Clean needle, you bet I checked that. Camelia leaves the room after her “You’re butt is going to hurt for days” comment and says she’ll come back after the needle part. Bring it on. I return to the office sore and medicated and coworker Helen tells me that Ben has an infection in the countryside and is “going under the knife for it today.” Dang it! I wanted that! Unfair. He also has a bad fever that knocked him out for days. Mine wasn’t too bad yet. “Oh and Philip is heading back, he has a bad fever too.” The original bush team is just doing spectacular right now. All three, down for the count.
Day two: Head back to the clinic for the second round. She notices that my wound is extra angry today and has begun oozing. Cooooooool. Drain it! It’s better in terms of swelling, yes, but please OPEN IT! She agrees that there is something in there and it needs to come out (you think?). “It may be mango fly. They burry in after bite.” No, it’s not a bite, but hey if it means you’re going to get serious with your little tool kit, sure it’s a fly. Next 35 min: ouch. At least Ben got some kind of anesthetic when they dealt with his. Despite the large hole she’s now created in my elbow, I am relieved that it’s cleaned out. Shot two. Other side please. I’m sore over there still. I slowly walk to a taxi and get to the office. Ben’s there and we swap stories. I am weak and in pain from the meds and draining session and he can barely walk. Philip is back and is sent in for a malaria test. Those are another tricky thing to get done right. “We need a clinic with the right test.” Two tests are available: the finger prick and the machine. We cacus about it and talk about where the staff has gone before for malaria. Calls are made and we find a machine. Go, Phil, go.
Day three: Ben calls: “is your doctor for real?” Yea. “She has a legit medical education and you think she knows her stuff?” Yea, I mean I’m exhausted, but it’s been 2 days and it’s on its way to healed, like she said. My Chinese woman knows what she’s doing. “I’m coming with you. Let’s get some injections.” Yes, let’s. She looks at it and it’s doing great. She gives it one more splash of alcohol, a swab and I’m ready for injection number 3. I tell her about Ben and how we have the exact same thing, but they cut his open much sooner. “Oh it is also mango fly, yes?” Sure. “Brittany, let’s get some injections.” His hole is bigger and needs more days, but he gets the same treatment and is still going back. Thursday- I finish the antibiotics and just have a band aid to cover the still healing hole. Philip has malaria and is on the meds. Ben is getting better, but still has trouble moving…and we’re all still at work. I’m first to the finish line, but they aren’t far behind. Health care in Liberia, you take a group effort. Shout out to the clinic I chose and my Chinese doc. You are much appreciated.
PS: I now own rubbing alcohol and hydrogen peroxide. I will not be repeating this experience.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Big Brother
Africa, there’s never a dull moment with you. Liberia’s neighbor, Ivory Coast has taken their little presidential disagreement to a whole new level (they’ve started shooting http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-12582014) The fighting has become so strong that now instead of hundreds of refugees coming into Liberia a day, up to 5,000 have come in 24 hours. Schools are shut down and NGO workers in the country are evacuating. UNHCR is flipping out because of the massive influx and the rest of the UN community is estimating that this could lead to another civil war (we’ll see about that). Liberia, I am happy to say is just peachy. What else is going on in Africa? Oh yea, Qaddafi. This fool. He has riots and fighting going on in Libya and is doing what he does best, oppressing people.
Fun facts about this dude: He is known as the “Big Brother” of Africa. His country is the training base for many “special forces” around the world. ( Al Qaeda, rebel forces who fought in Liberia and Sierra Leone, the list goes on). Big deal? Not unless he’s looking for some fighters to save his Libyan butt from riots in his own country.
Here’s how he works: He trains you. He sends you in to start some conflict in a country. You set up the government and are permanently indebted to him. He needs some support, you give it. After all, he owns you. Let’s apply this to Liberia just for fun. Let’s say that during the civil wars in Liberia, the special forces (I like to think of them as high ranking rebels) were trained on Libyan territory. They go in and do what they do best (wreak some havoc) and in the end are promised a reward by the leaders who “employed” them to fight (which they were). Let’s say they never got this reward and fell under the radar during the reintegration process (which they did). So we’ve got Libyan trained Liberian “special forces” wandering the city with no real job skills, who are angry because they have yet to receive what they thought they would years ago. Neglected by the bad, the good and the international. Excellent. In the words of Johnson (local Liberian NGO worker) who enlightened me on this topic: “No one pays for that kind of skill.” Except Qaddafi. Johnson's argument was that if Qaddafi owns them, then there would be no hesitation on the part of these special forces to come running if Gaddafi calls. “He’s the big brother of Africa. You do what he says.” What if he doesn’t call them? “They could start something here out of spite.” That’s what scares locals like Johnson the most. The big brother made promises he didn’t keep and these highly trained special forces have one skill; bringing on violence. “You want his attention. You get it doing what he taught you to do.” So, 1. They go to Qaddafi’s aid in Libya. 2. They join the madness in Ivory Coast. 3. They rally up some old buddies and put their training to use in their home country because they were never reintegrated properly and are wandering around angry. All winning options…if you’re them. Maybe they’ll just continue to wander around jobless and not cause any trouble. Research topic change? Absolutely. I'm snatching up Johnson’s number and we’re chatting about this more.
Great work Qaddafi, thanks for nothing. I liked you better when you brought your own sleeping accommodation to New York and literally set up camp on D. Trump property. You won me over when in response to your choice of accommodation you replied: “that’s how I roll.” Just don’t “roll” your trouble into Liberia. That goes for you too, Ivory Coast.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Sabas Town
I wish I could say the drive on the way back from the countryside was uneventful. Or even that it was the expected 8 ½ hours, but it wasn’t.
Because Ben left us days before, Philip and I could split up and each ride in a different jeep. Of course I enjoy your company Philip, but the bounty hunters in jeep 2 convinced me that riding with them was way cooler than riding in jeep 1. I mean heck I rode in that one on the way here and wanted to mix it up and experience the driving skills Moses had to offer. Woot woot, jeep 2. We’re off, jeep 1 takes the lead. See you later Philip! Moses rushes the team at the water stop because it’s already almost 2pm and we need to get to Buchanan before dark (5 hours away). The roads to Buchanan are not pleasant to maneuver through, even in daylight so bumping along in the dark is not an option in his mind. Estimate arrival time in Monrovia: 10pm.
2 hours in. Moses is a good driver, he knows how to work these roads and definitely knows the area. He likes keeping the conversation in the jeep going even if he’s the only one talking. He knows someone in every town and announces each county we enter. With no marker in site…“Welcome to Rivercess!” How do you know? We’re in the jungle. As we trek up the beginnings of a wooden planked bridge we feel the tires lose grip and we slide around. A bridge is not a good place to do this, but hey it’s Moses, we’re good. Everyone notices and a conversation on the quality of the tires (they are complete crap) begins. This UNHCR borrowed vehicle is a disaster. 3 or 4 tires have no grip. We move forward and in 15 min a tire blows. “Shhhhiiii, man-o bad tires.” We all hop out near one hut and wait as they change the tire with the spare on the back. Commence rain fall. “AWWW see this tire is no good too!” He points to the patches and punctures. Great. One spare and it’s almost as bad as the flat. Put it on and “by the grace of God we get to somewhere with tires.”
“Don’t bounce hard-o. take time yea? This blows and we walk.” Moses is worried. This tire is in rough shape as it is and we have narly road ahead. On top of which we’re racing the daylight. “Hey! Take time!” Lawrence is the one paying closest attention to the tire. “I have no fear. It either make it or not.” Oh Moses, I’m glad you have confidence. Boom! Same tire, flat. We’re screwed and we all know it. No spare, no service and no town close. It’s dusk. Crap. We all hope out again. Moses takes two guys and they start walking. They need to flag down a motorbike to carry the tire to town. We remove the tire and sit in the road to wait. Kelvin wonders off into the trees trying to find cell service (not happening homie). Brinys you feel bad about the tire? (as in am I worried). I'm too focused on where were going to sleep if we can’t make it back. Worried? No. Focused on back up plans. “Philip wouldn’t leave you yea? He can’t go to Monrovia without you.” I’m sure he would think that if he knew what has happened, but we can’t call him. Jeep 1 is trekking along.
If Bounty Hunter, Yamah was in this jeep I bet she wouldn't be lovin' IPA right now. It did make us know Liberia. In the hitchhiking sense.
“We might walk it, Briny—that ok?” How far we talking here? In reality if we have to I will. End of story. 3 hour walk to the closest town. Ok. 20 more min pass. One last attempt, cars are wizzing by like mad and we need to slow them down. Throw things in the road. Done. UN vehicle, heyyyyyyyyyyyy, what’s up Nigerian police force. “What happen to your car?” Two tires blown. We get them to ferry us to town with one tire, while Moses comes on a bike and collects the second tire. 20 min later we’re there. We can’t fix these. No one has any money. Ummmmm I have IPA allotted funds for this trip. Luckily I’ve used none of it yet. Done! Definition of IPA expense right here. Despite the fact that I’m stranded with them, Lawrence admits that if I were in jeep 1, they could not get home. Period. Let’s write up some expense receipts. Description for expense: these tires are worthless pieces of crap! Next goal. Call Philip. I’m the only one with money on my phone so bounty hunter, Helen and I wander off to find service. “You have to climb the wood tower two flights up and face to the left. Maybe you get some.” Helen: “really? Ok le’ go”” Thank you Liberia. You make everything so easy. Off we go. Helen: Hey! How you call the town?! Sabas town-o! ok. Up we go. We fill jeep 1 in on our situation. They’re in Buchanan and will wait. Fine. Helen, let’s eat. Briny buys. Bush meat, again. What is it? Who knows, again. 3 hours pass filled with many conversations about briny and her marriage status, why she choose Liberia and her Liberian English skills. Let’s move on. It’s dark and we’re two hours outside Buchanan, 5 outside Monrovia. Tires fixed. 5 min in, tire wabbly. Change to spare. Son of a…..
We reach Buchanan at 10pm. Jeep 1 is not there.They are in Monrovia. Turns out they didn’t wait. Moses, don't fall asleep on me buddy.Monrovia arrival time: 1am. All exhausted and in slight disbelief about how the day turned out. Happy we aren’t sleeping in the Bush tonight. Home at last. 7 am, up for work.
Ps--This experience landed me a Liberian name: Bendu: said Binu (Liberian version of Binta—my Gambian name).
Because Ben left us days before, Philip and I could split up and each ride in a different jeep. Of course I enjoy your company Philip, but the bounty hunters in jeep 2 convinced me that riding with them was way cooler than riding in jeep 1. I mean heck I rode in that one on the way here and wanted to mix it up and experience the driving skills Moses had to offer. Woot woot, jeep 2. We’re off, jeep 1 takes the lead. See you later Philip! Moses rushes the team at the water stop because it’s already almost 2pm and we need to get to Buchanan before dark (5 hours away). The roads to Buchanan are not pleasant to maneuver through, even in daylight so bumping along in the dark is not an option in his mind. Estimate arrival time in Monrovia: 10pm.
2 hours in. Moses is a good driver, he knows how to work these roads and definitely knows the area. He likes keeping the conversation in the jeep going even if he’s the only one talking. He knows someone in every town and announces each county we enter. With no marker in site…“Welcome to Rivercess!” How do you know? We’re in the jungle. As we trek up the beginnings of a wooden planked bridge we feel the tires lose grip and we slide around. A bridge is not a good place to do this, but hey it’s Moses, we’re good. Everyone notices and a conversation on the quality of the tires (they are complete crap) begins. This UNHCR borrowed vehicle is a disaster. 3 or 4 tires have no grip. We move forward and in 15 min a tire blows. “Shhhhiiii, man-o bad tires.” We all hop out near one hut and wait as they change the tire with the spare on the back. Commence rain fall. “AWWW see this tire is no good too!” He points to the patches and punctures. Great. One spare and it’s almost as bad as the flat. Put it on and “by the grace of God we get to somewhere with tires.”
“Don’t bounce hard-o. take time yea? This blows and we walk.” Moses is worried. This tire is in rough shape as it is and we have narly road ahead. On top of which we’re racing the daylight. “Hey! Take time!” Lawrence is the one paying closest attention to the tire. “I have no fear. It either make it or not.” Oh Moses, I’m glad you have confidence. Boom! Same tire, flat. We’re screwed and we all know it. No spare, no service and no town close. It’s dusk. Crap. We all hope out again. Moses takes two guys and they start walking. They need to flag down a motorbike to carry the tire to town. We remove the tire and sit in the road to wait. Kelvin wonders off into the trees trying to find cell service (not happening homie). Brinys you feel bad about the tire? (as in am I worried). I'm too focused on where were going to sleep if we can’t make it back. Worried? No. Focused on back up plans. “Philip wouldn’t leave you yea? He can’t go to Monrovia without you.” I’m sure he would think that if he knew what has happened, but we can’t call him. Jeep 1 is trekking along.
If Bounty Hunter, Yamah was in this jeep I bet she wouldn't be lovin' IPA right now. It did make us know Liberia. In the hitchhiking sense.
“We might walk it, Briny—that ok?” How far we talking here? In reality if we have to I will. End of story. 3 hour walk to the closest town. Ok. 20 more min pass. One last attempt, cars are wizzing by like mad and we need to slow them down. Throw things in the road. Done. UN vehicle, heyyyyyyyyyyyy, what’s up Nigerian police force. “What happen to your car?” Two tires blown. We get them to ferry us to town with one tire, while Moses comes on a bike and collects the second tire. 20 min later we’re there. We can’t fix these. No one has any money. Ummmmm I have IPA allotted funds for this trip. Luckily I’ve used none of it yet. Done! Definition of IPA expense right here. Despite the fact that I’m stranded with them, Lawrence admits that if I were in jeep 1, they could not get home. Period. Let’s write up some expense receipts. Description for expense: these tires are worthless pieces of crap! Next goal. Call Philip. I’m the only one with money on my phone so bounty hunter, Helen and I wander off to find service. “You have to climb the wood tower two flights up and face to the left. Maybe you get some.” Helen: “really? Ok le’ go”” Thank you Liberia. You make everything so easy. Off we go. Helen: Hey! How you call the town?! Sabas town-o! ok. Up we go. We fill jeep 1 in on our situation. They’re in Buchanan and will wait. Fine. Helen, let’s eat. Briny buys. Bush meat, again. What is it? Who knows, again. 3 hours pass filled with many conversations about briny and her marriage status, why she choose Liberia and her Liberian English skills. Let’s move on. It’s dark and we’re two hours outside Buchanan, 5 outside Monrovia. Tires fixed. 5 min in, tire wabbly. Change to spare. Son of a…..
We reach Buchanan at 10pm. Jeep 1 is not there.They are in Monrovia. Turns out they didn’t wait. Moses, don't fall asleep on me buddy.Monrovia arrival time: 1am. All exhausted and in slight disbelief about how the day turned out. Happy we aren’t sleeping in the Bush tonight. Home at last. 7 am, up for work.
Ps--This experience landed me a Liberian name: Bendu: said Binu (Liberian version of Binta—my Gambian name).
Sunday, February 20, 2011
The Two HQ's
“Brinys! Ready for the bush-o?!” So ready. So ready for the 8 ½ hour jeep ride on the finest roads Liberia has to offer. Headlamp, check. Passport for checkpoints, check. Chlorine, check. Pepto and wipes, check. 2 jeeps and 5 bikes full of our finest surveyors and we’re off. 4 hours of rough riding and a cracked windshield later and we pop in to the last town with “good” food. Into the hut we go for some bush meat, served in bowls with rice that I share with two surveyors. This place is like a dirt sauna with blazing hot food, great combination. “How you like the food?” What is the meat? Shrug. “It’s just bush meat.” Rat? Ben answers from the other end of the hut: “too big for that.” Monkey? Philip: “no, not. I’ve had that.” Ok, I’ll just eat it then. They get a second bowl and we eat up because, “you need to get big. Bush meat make you big.” What’s going to be big is the stomachache I’m going to have when this is all over. I can do this. Digestion of steel, in theory.
Onward! “Man I love IPA, they makin’ me know Liberia.” I realize that many of the surveyors are from the city and haven’t seen much of what we’re seeing. 3 more hours of being tossed around in the back of the jeep, 3 instances of the jeep almost tipping over and they say: “This is Liberia, too. You ok Brinys?” That was my first time hydroplaning on mud, but I’m in the front seat with a seatbelt, so I’m excellent. Are you? Much of their comments about how “this is Liberia, too” came in a tone of surprise. Some of them are experiencing this with me and in some cases I knew more about what we were getting into, at least in terms of the roads. Only one more hour to go.
Success. We’ve made it. Finding a guesthouse wasn’t as easy. We arrived on Valentine’s Night and Camella, who we sent ahead to prepare everything, says finding somewhere for tonight has been hard. “Love is in the air.” You mean prostitution’s in the air? “Hahaha Briny, yes.” We finally find somewhere acceptable (i.e. with mattresses) and decide to set up headquarters for the next two weeks. 7 am meet at HQ and let the tracking begin. From 7-9am we get them prepped, debriefed and sent off to find and survey the ex-coms. 6:30-midnight we take all their data, sync it, load it, talk about problems and update everything. Charge and repeat. Within 3 days we have a system that works and in the middle of the days we stick around HQ and keep track of progress. Except for when 2 teams decided they would essentially draw straws on who takes Brinys out for the day. Where’s my sunscreen? Let’s go!
Once we have a break, Philip, Ben and I go eat at Make Fire. You yell this when you pull back the curtain and enter so he knows you’re there. He also goes by the name Make Fire. Guess what he does. This is the staple place of our diet for all three meals, everyday--our HQ. Dirt floor, metal roof, wood bench. Menu- Tea, Bread, Bread and Egg, Spaghetti. What else do you need really? A clogged artery, perhaps. All of this is covered in oil, thrown into a plastic bowl and served with a side of mayonnaise. The tea is actually tea with a ton of condensed milk. Washed? Maybe. Good thing I brought Pepto. I love me some Make Fire.
Every night is a hectic recap of the surveyors’ day. I went to three towns to find them (dang).They died (oh, dang). My PDA stopped working (ughhhhh). I have three guys who say they are the same guy (no, they are not all Patrick). We should announce their names on the radio (we did, twice). Who gets the phones? (ex-combatants who were in the control group. I quizzed you on this!). Did you give that respondent a phone? Yea. Where’s the tracking sheet? He had it (what are you, 5?). I need to keep track of 1000 phones and sims here, try and find the sheet…please.
12 hr days of finding people is rough, but kudos to them. They’re doing it and doing it well. We trust them to know what needs to be done to find these people. Working into late hours of the night to bring everything in and smooth out all the kinks is rough too, but worth it. When this HQ is cleared, all we need is a trip to our HQ again. Make Fire! One tea-o!
They function so well that we move on early. Back to the Monrovia tomorrow, leaving a team behind to function on their own. The other six teams head back with us and break off to other counties. The bounty hunting continues, but this time without Brinys. I think.
Onward! “Man I love IPA, they makin’ me know Liberia.” I realize that many of the surveyors are from the city and haven’t seen much of what we’re seeing. 3 more hours of being tossed around in the back of the jeep, 3 instances of the jeep almost tipping over and they say: “This is Liberia, too. You ok Brinys?” That was my first time hydroplaning on mud, but I’m in the front seat with a seatbelt, so I’m excellent. Are you? Much of their comments about how “this is Liberia, too” came in a tone of surprise. Some of them are experiencing this with me and in some cases I knew more about what we were getting into, at least in terms of the roads. Only one more hour to go.
Success. We’ve made it. Finding a guesthouse wasn’t as easy. We arrived on Valentine’s Night and Camella, who we sent ahead to prepare everything, says finding somewhere for tonight has been hard. “Love is in the air.” You mean prostitution’s in the air? “Hahaha Briny, yes.” We finally find somewhere acceptable (i.e. with mattresses) and decide to set up headquarters for the next two weeks. 7 am meet at HQ and let the tracking begin. From 7-9am we get them prepped, debriefed and sent off to find and survey the ex-coms. 6:30-midnight we take all their data, sync it, load it, talk about problems and update everything. Charge and repeat. Within 3 days we have a system that works and in the middle of the days we stick around HQ and keep track of progress. Except for when 2 teams decided they would essentially draw straws on who takes Brinys out for the day. Where’s my sunscreen? Let’s go!
Once we have a break, Philip, Ben and I go eat at Make Fire. You yell this when you pull back the curtain and enter so he knows you’re there. He also goes by the name Make Fire. Guess what he does. This is the staple place of our diet for all three meals, everyday--our HQ. Dirt floor, metal roof, wood bench. Menu- Tea, Bread, Bread and Egg, Spaghetti. What else do you need really? A clogged artery, perhaps. All of this is covered in oil, thrown into a plastic bowl and served with a side of mayonnaise. The tea is actually tea with a ton of condensed milk. Washed? Maybe. Good thing I brought Pepto. I love me some Make Fire.
Every night is a hectic recap of the surveyors’ day. I went to three towns to find them (dang).They died (oh, dang). My PDA stopped working (ughhhhh). I have three guys who say they are the same guy (no, they are not all Patrick). We should announce their names on the radio (we did, twice). Who gets the phones? (ex-combatants who were in the control group. I quizzed you on this!). Did you give that respondent a phone? Yea. Where’s the tracking sheet? He had it (what are you, 5?). I need to keep track of 1000 phones and sims here, try and find the sheet…please.
12 hr days of finding people is rough, but kudos to them. They’re doing it and doing it well. We trust them to know what needs to be done to find these people. Working into late hours of the night to bring everything in and smooth out all the kinks is rough too, but worth it. When this HQ is cleared, all we need is a trip to our HQ again. Make Fire! One tea-o!
They function so well that we move on early. Back to the Monrovia tomorrow, leaving a team behind to function on their own. The other six teams head back with us and break off to other counties. The bounty hunting continues, but this time without Brinys. I think.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
A New Problem
As mentioned before I live in downtown Monrovia, which is walking distance from Mamba Point. Mamba Point, where all the Western government and UN employees hang out. It’s the money of the city and presumably very nice. I finally decided to go into Mamba with a friend who works over there and experience what I knew was going to be the quintessential expat lifestyle. We go to a hotel restaurant and sit on the balcony facing the ocean. We order overpriced western food, of which I still managed to get really cheap and enjoy pretty good service surrounded by high profile expats. Feel like a colonialist yet? “Hey at least were not sitting where those guys are.” Ahead of us on the white, ocean breezy balcony are 5 tank top wearing, beer drinking, from the south without a doubt Americans sitting in the perfect viewing seats that both look over the ocean and at the poverty stricken locals walking down below.
We couldn’t help but assess every single group of people sitting around us. Sipping their imported drinks and eating $20 sandwiches. Hypocrite I know, but I had a local beer and a $7 sandwich. “I wonder what they all do here?” My friend and I confirm that the group next to us is UN of some sort, US Aid across the way and the loud southerners…”here for the oil, I bet.” Usually I would discredit my own statement as a joke, but him and I both know that the newest billboard in Monrovia says; “A New Day for Liberia: drilling oil in early 2011.” HA HA. Just what they need I’m sure. A new day huh? More like a new problem. Diamonds, gold, rubber…let’s throw oil into the mix and see how that goes. I can’t wait for that nightmare to begin.
“Soak it up, you’re going to the bush.” Despite our 1.30 hr judgment of the society sitting around us, the thing that makes me the most uncomfortable about being surrounded by this kind of colonial society, is that I am quite comfortable. It almost bothers me that I’m not bothered by them. Almost. The way they conduct themselves has its flaws, of course, but I will still enjoy the amenities they offer. Not too often naturally given that I am now in the Bush, where no such amenities are offered, but I like that too.
We couldn’t help but assess every single group of people sitting around us. Sipping their imported drinks and eating $20 sandwiches. Hypocrite I know, but I had a local beer and a $7 sandwich. “I wonder what they all do here?” My friend and I confirm that the group next to us is UN of some sort, US Aid across the way and the loud southerners…”here for the oil, I bet.” Usually I would discredit my own statement as a joke, but him and I both know that the newest billboard in Monrovia says; “A New Day for Liberia: drilling oil in early 2011.” HA HA. Just what they need I’m sure. A new day huh? More like a new problem. Diamonds, gold, rubber…let’s throw oil into the mix and see how that goes. I can’t wait for that nightmare to begin.
“Soak it up, you’re going to the bush.” Despite our 1.30 hr judgment of the society sitting around us, the thing that makes me the most uncomfortable about being surrounded by this kind of colonial society, is that I am quite comfortable. It almost bothers me that I’m not bothered by them. Almost. The way they conduct themselves has its flaws, of course, but I will still enjoy the amenities they offer. Not too often naturally given that I am now in the Bush, where no such amenities are offered, but I like that too.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Bounty Hunters
It’s official. I am leaving with two of the guys in my group (Philip and Ben) to the countryside, known as the Bush, in less than 24 hours. I’ve spent all week learning this ex-combatant reintegration survey we’re running inside and out…now I know why. IPA has chosen 28 of there best local Liberian surveyors to come out with us and evaluate whether what Landmine Action (the NGO implementing the program) chose to do with the ex-combatants in these rural areas worked or didn't.
I channeled my inner high school teacher this morning and gave out a quiz to all the surveyors on the 60+ page survey that they also need to know in their sleep. Just for fun I’m going to throw out a question I gave to them. What are 3 main tasks of the surveyor? Build a good relationship with the respondent (yeah, yeah), conduct the interview (no kidding) and track down the respondent. Track as in they may not be where they say they are or where they were last time so take a motorbike, a truck, or just yourself and find them. This is their most important job, You don’t track them down you can’t evaluate them.
Surveyor question: What if they’ve left the country for Ivory Coast?
IPA answer: we’re not sending you outside the country so don’t worry.
Personal thought: if they’ve let for the Ivory Coast then we know whether the reintegration program worked or not then…I’m going to go with didn’t work for now.
Either way if part of what we’re asking these surveyors to do is trek around different far off villages and find these ex-combatants, and they have successfully surveyed for IPA before, then I’m thinking they have pretty decent bounty hunter skills.
So off Philip and I go with 28 of these rockstar surveyors for at least 1 week, possibly 2 and Ben will hop in some form of air transport and meet us early in the week. Catch up with you when I return.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Destination: Old Road
Let’s run through my first 2 days of work. Monday, after 2 days of hibernation, my director picks me up at 8am outside the Stop & Shop, yes that’s where I live, and begins to instruct me on how to get to work from now on. The office, of course is way on the other side of town (where they all live, naturally) and the commute can be quite difficult. “Do you drive stick?” No. “oh we’ll you’ll learn.” Great. Yea, let’s tack on “learning how to drive stick in a run down SUV on the fantastic streets of Liberia” to my list of things to do right now. That has not taken place yet..
So as we’re driving she points out where I will need to go to catch taxis and what I need to say/the hand signals I need to make to get where I need to go. Hand signals are very important. Where the office is located requires that I make the “one” hand signal, yes as in point your figure up. As a side note: I live so far from the office that sticking my finger up on this side of town means nothing. I need to catch a taxi into the neighborhood (Sinkor) first (25 min), get out somewhere in Sinkor and then stick my finger up for an Old Road taxi. Get out somewhere on Old Road and walk it (40 min total, maybe). Then, you pretty much do the same thing on the way back.
Clear? Not so much right? Who’s stoked for the next morning? Me.
Tuesday: 8am Ok game time--wave down a taxi. Yes! “Goin’ to Sinkor.” There’s some mumbling mixed with a “yea, yea” as I hop in and this man drives off while I’m still not quite in. So far, doing good. Second side note: shared taxis are what I need because they are cheap, since the driver crams as many people as possible in one tiny car. I’ll give you a minute to imagine that smell. Liberians aren’t keen on the big D.O. for the B.O.
I recognize how much each person seems to hand the driver, so I don’t get the “expat” price and by the time I recognize that we’re within Sinkor I lean forward from the middle seat: “So I need Old Road, where do I go?” The entire car answers me. “You know the hand signal? In town that don’t work, but you get out…oh! See that man? He do hand signal. The next ten minutes are all about 5 people waving their “one” signal in my face. “Don’t turn your finger at all, that’s the signal for AF.” Awesome, I turn my finger out of momentary laziness and I end up at the random air field in Monrovia. Let’s not do that. Where do I get out? “Oh, we tell you.” Taxi pulls over. “Go, go that’s an Old Road Taxi. Give her the change man!”
I jog to the next rose scented sardine can on wheels and tell them, I need Keyhole. Which is the specific area I need on Old Road. How I remembered this, I don’t know. The guy in the front says “don’t worry I go to same place, you don’t remember me?” (Are you kidding me home boy? No, no I don’t). Despite my hesitation he does get out right where I need to be. You’re are awesome, man! (My bad, you’re in the workshop we’re running). 5 min walk later and we’re there. Success. Let’s not do that again. Dang, I have to get home, which was not at all the same. “200 to get in town.” Ummmm hahaha no, I’ll give you 60, 200, no. What do I look like to you? Oh, yea- an expat.
P.S. survival questions continued. You like camping? Bugs? I can handle both. “Good because we might send you into the jungle with the boys at the end of the week.” More on that later.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
So it begins...
"We just throw you over the fence and see if you can make it home on your own." About an hour into my time here in Liberia this is what a fellow expat tells me over dinner. 24 1/2 hours of travelling with little to no sleep and this is exactly what I want to be talking about, my ability to survive. Granted the night went exactly as I thought it might. I get off the plane, hop in the UNHCR borrowed vehicle and immediately get a phone call: "Welcome to Liberia! Have the driver bring you to dinner."
By the end of the night, the entire IPA office was there to meet me/watch me struggle to stay awake at the table. At some point, fries were brought to the table. I'm using the terms fries here because they we cut up and fried, but whether they were actually any vegetable that I had ever seen is yet to be determined.
Alot of the time was spent talking about a new project IPA is looking in to starting....and what exactly the Monterey Institute does over this internship period. Shoot, give me an opportunity to talk about the Monterey Institute over a plate of mystery fries and it's bound to be a good time. My director and I went back and forth for awhile over the "uniqueness" of the choosing process. She didn't choose me to begin with, I was offered up to her. She had many others to choose from, just none from MIIS. Not receiving a long list of people was foreign to her. I didn't choose them to begin with, I was given to them. So neither one of us chose the other, but hey "we're happy you're here now!" Thanks...
After too many minutes talking about the choosing of interns, they move on. "What happens if an org rejects the intern?" In theory we have back ups, but I didn't have those. You take me or I stay in Monterey. "Oh don't worry, if you can't hack it, we'll still send you home. There's plenty of time for that." I hate to break it to you buddy, but if this doesn't suit me, I'm sending myself home. Speaking of home...I've been up for 28 hours now, take me to my apartment. I need to rest for the coming months of free slave labor you'll be putting me through. Free on your end of course, not mine.
oh and by the way, if you threw me over that fence, I'd so make it home on my own.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
The Expat's Intro
Let's lay out some basic facts. For those of you who don't know me or what this whole thing is about, I think a basic introduction is in order. You should know what you're getting yourself into ahead of time. I'm Brittany and I am going to Liberia for the next six months to work with an NGO in Monrovia called Innovations for Poverty Action (check that out to the left!). I study Conflict Resolution and will be taking part in two of their projects; ex-combatant reintegration and urban youth. They're expectations of me seem a bit high, so let's hope I don't fail them miserably, for my sake at least.
more about me: I have a very unique fascination with war, conflict of any sort really, and have traveled all over the place (The Gambia, Pakistan, Sierra Leone ect). While abroad I tend to, scratch that, do observe and evaluate everything, all the time. Food, weather, language, cultural practices....you name it, I'll probably say something about it. Sometimes very harsh things. Abrasive even, but in a good way (or at least I think so). There's a reason I've named this "Rants of an Expat." I'm not trying to sugar coat anything here. Whether it be good or bad, I'm going to lay it out like I see it.
So now that I've unintentionally, yet thoroughly given the impression that I'm an angry elitist, I should change the subject a bit and say that I am very excited, even giddy I suppose you could say, about leaving for Liberia. I have the feeling things are going to get a bit rough while I'm there given that their next door neighbor, Ivory Coast, isn't so stable at present and has hundreds of refugees (a day) flooding into a country full of young men and boys who are all too familiar with the inner workings of a semi automatic weapon (that would be Liberia). Can you say mobilization? I can, but I'm hoping it doesn't go that far. Flying into a country possibly on the verge of conflict, sign me up. Now that you know me, let's get this crazy train rolling.
more about me: I have a very unique fascination with war, conflict of any sort really, and have traveled all over the place (The Gambia, Pakistan, Sierra Leone ect). While abroad I tend to, scratch that, do observe and evaluate everything, all the time. Food, weather, language, cultural practices....you name it, I'll probably say something about it. Sometimes very harsh things. Abrasive even, but in a good way (or at least I think so). There's a reason I've named this "Rants of an Expat." I'm not trying to sugar coat anything here. Whether it be good or bad, I'm going to lay it out like I see it.
So now that I've unintentionally, yet thoroughly given the impression that I'm an angry elitist, I should change the subject a bit and say that I am very excited, even giddy I suppose you could say, about leaving for Liberia. I have the feeling things are going to get a bit rough while I'm there given that their next door neighbor, Ivory Coast, isn't so stable at present and has hundreds of refugees (a day) flooding into a country full of young men and boys who are all too familiar with the inner workings of a semi automatic weapon (that would be Liberia). Can you say mobilization? I can, but I'm hoping it doesn't go that far. Flying into a country possibly on the verge of conflict, sign me up. Now that you know me, let's get this crazy train rolling.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)