I quickly realized that there's very little anonymity here. I don't blend in so well among Liberians. However I've never felt that I really stick out either, probably because people don't react to my presence in a major way. They notice I look different, but I'm not the first white person they've seen, and they have more important things to think about.
So yesterday I was jarred a bit when I walked outside of my office and waved back at a small child who promptly started to cry. I smiled at her, and she just wailed harder, and reached for her father. I ran back inside and tried to tell myself that just because I made a child cry it did not mean I have no maternal instincts or abilities.
Driving home from work I asked our driver Alfred for his take. He told me that he had been in a similar situation when he went to visit a friend of his and brought one of my colleagues along with him. His friend's son started crying immediately upon seeing my white colleague and couldn't be consoled. Alfred's explanation: "Sometimes, Alexis, children are afraid of your color." Bill's suggestion was that Liberian children who played with dolls growing up aren't as afraid of white people, because the dolls are often white.
This morning I had another experience of standing out, but this one worked to my benefit. I was jogging up a hill, away from a crowded outdoor marketplace called Waterside. The street and sidewalk were clogged with people moving in the opposite direction, and some people were sitting outside of their storefronts or on walls alongside. When people began taking notice of this pale jogger weaving up the hill, they started yelling "helloooooo" and as more and more people saw me, more and more started chanting. It was pretty energizing. And funny that something that would have been extremely annoying or creepy back home was somehow very welcoming here.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
We were counted!
As I think I mentioned in a previous post, Liberia's national census began last Friday. The last time the country conducted a census was 1984. The President declared Friday to be a national holiday so that everyone could stay home from work and be counted. There was much anticipation.
It turned out that few Liberians were counted on Friday, but we learned that the census was meant to take several days. There were 10,000 people staffing the project, more than 3,000 in Monrovia alone. It was an old-fashioned, door-to-door, pencil and paper effort, bound to last longer than 24 hours.
On Sunday afternoon there was a knock on our door. We answered it to find a census worker, ready to count us! Obviously we weren't counted as Liberians, but as non-citizens working in the country for a finite period of time.
There weren't too many questions...name, age, marital status, religion, continent of origin, etc. I was designated "head of household" by my housemates, which was pretty great.
The photo I'm posting is the census worker marking our door with chalk, letting the world (well, really our immediate neighbors) know that we had been counted. I don't think I have been this excited about a national effort since the first time I voted. This was Liberia's first census in nearly 25 years and I got to be part of it!
Saturday, March 22, 2008
A true celebration
During the course of each week, we spend a good amount of time with our drivers. There are two in particular -- Alfred and Bill -- who we see most regularly, because they staff the day and night shifts for our jeep. They have already earned a special place in our hearts -- they're the people that navigate the city for us, carry us around at night, and the ones we trust to tell us if the area we're going to is particularly safe.
Last week we learned that Bill's father had passed away. He mentioned that the wake would be on Friday night, and a group of us decided to go. We were told to arrive around 6:30 or 7, and we got there close to 7:30. We were all dressed pretty conservatively, and were a little unsure of what the experience would be like. As we pulled up to the house, we saw people milling around outside, and heard music playing. We thought that we must be in the wrong place, but it turned that the wake wasn't going to start for a couple of hours.
So we headed back down the dirt road and into Monrovia. We all changed into more casual clothes and grabbed dinner. We made our way outside of the city once again, and when we arrived at 10:30, there was a party going on.
Bill was thrilled to see us, and introduced us to his sisters and brothers. The front yard was full of people, at least 75 I think. There were a few guys playing DJ, and nearly everyone was on the dance floor. We jumped right in, and didn't stop dancing for 2 1/2 hours. The majority of time I had five girls in my dance circle, the youngest was 6 and the oldest was 11. Let me tell you, they knew every word to every song that was played, and the youngest had moves that I've never dared try.
I had a blast dancing with these girls. They had a real presence and a pure joy about them. They were still young enough to be unselfconscious and were very affectionate at times. And let me tell you one more time, they were dancing machines.
When it was time to go, Bill got on the microphone explaining that we had to leave because we have a curfew. His family was going to keep at it for another few hours. We got some applause, and one of his sisters shouted out that we did well on the dance floor. They thanked us endlessly for coming, and we thanked them right back. Bill's family welcomed us into their home and their celebration of his father's life. I think each of us drove away feeling grateful and peaceful, and that we had helped in some small way to honor Bill's father's memory.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Special delivery
I think this is perhaps my favorite photo taken in my time in Liberia thus far.
Yesterday we were driving from work, on our way to a screening of Iron Ladies of Liberia (a documentary exploring Ellen Johnson Sirleaf's first year in office, airing on PBS on April 9) at the U.S. Embassy, when I saw it. It was being driven by a man wearing the trademark yellow and red uniform, and it is captured above. It was a DHL motorbike.
Watching the driver weave down a pot-holed street crowded with cars, people, and probably some animals, I was amazed. I had heard it cost over $100 to deliver an envelope via DHL, and a few hundred dollars to ship small packages. What was the driver delivering to this small store, crowded in between dozens of others on this Benson Street block? What path did this package take, from its drop-off point to this dusty street? And where in God's name is the DHL office in Monrovia??
Shipping something by DHL used to be so easy at work. We had an account number. We had mail guys who came around to our desks to pick up and deliver packages or envelopes multiple times a day. We knew the package would get to its destination the next day.
Every day I encounter something here that I used to take for granted -- and most are far more meaningful than this -- but seeing that DHL motorbike really struck a chord! I think I may frame that picture when I get home.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Take whatever you can get?
Just when I thought my day was winding down calmly, I heard some activity in the hallway outside our office. When I opened our door I saw rows of cardboard boxes, piled up against the wall. Every few minutes, boys pushing wheelbarrows would deliver another 10 boxes. Turns out they were full of clothing and shoes that had been donated in the U.S. and packed up for shipment to Liberia. Ultimately the goods will be provided to orphanages throughout the country. Apparently shipments like this used to come every three months, but it has been longer since the last delivery.
As we were moving the boxes into three surrounding offices, I noticed something quite curious. There was a label on each box that described its contents, and there were many (maybe a few dozen) boxes that contained winter clothes. That means sweaters and sweatshirts and long sleeves and wool...there hasn't been a day below 85 since I arrived! What organization sends winter clothing to Sub-Saharan Africa??
Now, my Liberian colleagues didn't seem to thing that receiving winter clothes was particularly silly, primarily because they consider the rainy season here to be cold (roughly May - October with temps ranging in the 70s - 80s). And really, who am I to get insulted on behalf of a country I've only lived in for two months...
...but I can't help it! The organization or company who sent these goods demonstrated a lack of caring about the people who would be receiving them. Shipping winter clothes to Africa says "I don't care if the people I sent these to can use them. Beggars can't be choosers. I just want to get them off my hands and get a big tax writeoff for sending them."
The boys transporting the boxes up to our floor were dripping with sweat. I have a sneaking suspicion they have very little use for winter clothes from America.
As we were moving the boxes into three surrounding offices, I noticed something quite curious. There was a label on each box that described its contents, and there were many (maybe a few dozen) boxes that contained winter clothes. That means sweaters and sweatshirts and long sleeves and wool...there hasn't been a day below 85 since I arrived! What organization sends winter clothing to Sub-Saharan Africa??
Now, my Liberian colleagues didn't seem to thing that receiving winter clothes was particularly silly, primarily because they consider the rainy season here to be cold (roughly May - October with temps ranging in the 70s - 80s). And really, who am I to get insulted on behalf of a country I've only lived in for two months...
...but I can't help it! The organization or company who sent these goods demonstrated a lack of caring about the people who would be receiving them. Shipping winter clothes to Africa says "I don't care if the people I sent these to can use them. Beggars can't be choosers. I just want to get them off my hands and get a big tax writeoff for sending them."
The boys transporting the boxes up to our floor were dripping with sweat. I have a sneaking suspicion they have very little use for winter clothes from America.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Recent history
I have wanted to write this entry since Friday evening, but I was sick of sitting in front of my computer!
Recently I was discussing Liberia's recent history with my housemate Guthrie, and we realized we were both in awe of what a pivotal time this is for the country. While clearly more dangerous and frightening and restricted, life under Charles Taylor was economically easier for most Liberians than it is now. If the primary takeaway after a full term of Ellen Johnson Sirleaf's democracy is that it's harder for everyday Liberians to get by, there may be some serious unrest here.
Are we really only less than five years out of Liberia's last civil war? What was it like here for those Liberians who couldn't escape?
One of our drivers, a spirited person and amazing storyteller, gave us some insight on Friday. His story had four of us completely caught up in his narrative; we paid little attention to the groceries sitting in our laps or the car getting warmer after he cut the engine so as not to idle in front of our apartment. I don't really remember what got the story started, just that as we were driving home from the grocery store he began discussing some of the ethnic tensions driving the first civil war here. His parents are descendants of Americo-Liberians (freed slaves from the U.S.) and Congos (freed slaves from the Caribbean), which make up roughly 5% of Liberia's population, but the majority of the country's leaders since the nation's founding. This was a major source of tension among the population (I'm simplifying here) and an impetus to civil war.
When our driver was caught in the street one day during the war and asked to speak in his dialect, he had to say he did not have one, which was a telltale sign of his identity (all Liberians speak English, but those with tribal or native roots -- all except the Americo-Liberians and Congos, I think -- also speak a dialect). The solider who stopped him pointed to the side of the road, where several corpses were lying in a puddle and demanded he "swim" with them. Our friend told him he could not; his life wasn't more valuable than theirs; if the soldiers wanted to kill him they should just do it. A child soldier was tasked with committing the crime, and he ordered our friend down the road. Luckily, he was able to overtake the child, and, as shots were being fired at him, ran into the bush, where he hid out for two days.
When he emerged the fighting was still strong, but he believed he could seek refuge in one of the country's many bodies of water. He hid out near a port, staying submerged with only his head above water for nearly a day, ducking underneath entirely when the gunfire got too intense. When things quieted down, he managed to make it back to his family, which was living in Monrovia. His mother, who had heard he had been stopped on the road and feared the worst, knowing he had no knowledge of any rural dialects, was speechless, and grateful.
A bit later he enrolled in high school (he was older than the traditional high school student, as school often stopped and started during the civil war), and understood quite quickly that the government was not supporting the schools or teachers. Most teachers were not paid and schools were underfunded, and students felt the impact. Our friend found this unacceptable -- that students who wanted to learn were essentially denied a quality education. He began organizing students in Monrovia, and they came together on a pre-determined day to publicly protest the government's actions, targeting officials and their property to make a bold, unified statement.
It's hard to convey the energy with which our friend told these stories, and the passion in his voice when speaking of this country's current president, what she stands for, and the promise of Liberia today. Liberia receives a lot of aid money from the international community, particularly the U.S., but I am confident that its funding would double if our friend went on an international tour, sharing his perspective on where the country has been and where it's going.
What I found particularly powerful was his revelation that many people who led the rebel groups, including now-young adults who are former child soldiers, walk the streets of Monrovia today. He told us that many of them were people we would never imagine holding a weapon, but who were responsible for killing dozens, sometimes hundreds, of Liberians. He sees around town, and he knows what they're accountable for. In a country where former rebel leaders hold seats in the Legislature, this should not come as a surprise. Politics and corruption go hand in hand; some Americans feel that way at home. But there's something eerie about people who used to terrorize their countrymen, disarmed now, going about their lives in very ordinary ways.
Recently I was discussing Liberia's recent history with my housemate Guthrie, and we realized we were both in awe of what a pivotal time this is for the country. While clearly more dangerous and frightening and restricted, life under Charles Taylor was economically easier for most Liberians than it is now. If the primary takeaway after a full term of Ellen Johnson Sirleaf's democracy is that it's harder for everyday Liberians to get by, there may be some serious unrest here.
Are we really only less than five years out of Liberia's last civil war? What was it like here for those Liberians who couldn't escape?
One of our drivers, a spirited person and amazing storyteller, gave us some insight on Friday. His story had four of us completely caught up in his narrative; we paid little attention to the groceries sitting in our laps or the car getting warmer after he cut the engine so as not to idle in front of our apartment. I don't really remember what got the story started, just that as we were driving home from the grocery store he began discussing some of the ethnic tensions driving the first civil war here. His parents are descendants of Americo-Liberians (freed slaves from the U.S.) and Congos (freed slaves from the Caribbean), which make up roughly 5% of Liberia's population, but the majority of the country's leaders since the nation's founding. This was a major source of tension among the population (I'm simplifying here) and an impetus to civil war.
When our driver was caught in the street one day during the war and asked to speak in his dialect, he had to say he did not have one, which was a telltale sign of his identity (all Liberians speak English, but those with tribal or native roots -- all except the Americo-Liberians and Congos, I think -- also speak a dialect). The solider who stopped him pointed to the side of the road, where several corpses were lying in a puddle and demanded he "swim" with them. Our friend told him he could not; his life wasn't more valuable than theirs; if the soldiers wanted to kill him they should just do it. A child soldier was tasked with committing the crime, and he ordered our friend down the road. Luckily, he was able to overtake the child, and, as shots were being fired at him, ran into the bush, where he hid out for two days.
When he emerged the fighting was still strong, but he believed he could seek refuge in one of the country's many bodies of water. He hid out near a port, staying submerged with only his head above water for nearly a day, ducking underneath entirely when the gunfire got too intense. When things quieted down, he managed to make it back to his family, which was living in Monrovia. His mother, who had heard he had been stopped on the road and feared the worst, knowing he had no knowledge of any rural dialects, was speechless, and grateful.
A bit later he enrolled in high school (he was older than the traditional high school student, as school often stopped and started during the civil war), and understood quite quickly that the government was not supporting the schools or teachers. Most teachers were not paid and schools were underfunded, and students felt the impact. Our friend found this unacceptable -- that students who wanted to learn were essentially denied a quality education. He began organizing students in Monrovia, and they came together on a pre-determined day to publicly protest the government's actions, targeting officials and their property to make a bold, unified statement.
It's hard to convey the energy with which our friend told these stories, and the passion in his voice when speaking of this country's current president, what she stands for, and the promise of Liberia today. Liberia receives a lot of aid money from the international community, particularly the U.S., but I am confident that its funding would double if our friend went on an international tour, sharing his perspective on where the country has been and where it's going.
What I found particularly powerful was his revelation that many people who led the rebel groups, including now-young adults who are former child soldiers, walk the streets of Monrovia today. He told us that many of them were people we would never imagine holding a weapon, but who were responsible for killing dozens, sometimes hundreds, of Liberians. He sees around town, and he knows what they're accountable for. In a country where former rebel leaders hold seats in the Legislature, this should not come as a surprise. Politics and corruption go hand in hand; some Americans feel that way at home. But there's something eerie about people who used to terrorize their countrymen, disarmed now, going about their lives in very ordinary ways.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
You can't help but smell it
I have started running in the mornings here (have I already mentioned this?) I didn't like going to the gym after work, and figured I could squeeze in a quick run before the car arrives. Quite possibly because I'm trying very hard to put the hot, thick air out of my mind, I've been taking in many different scents on my jogs around town.
When I pause at our front door, about to head outside, I can feel and smell the air seeping through the door frame. It's very different from the air-conditioned climate I've just spent the night in. It smells faintly of burning rubber and farm animals and heat (I realize this may be hard to imagine, but roll with it). As I step outside our compound and start to jog, I see the city waking up. It's early, but some Liberians are walking to work, others are carrying things to their families, and a few are zipping around on motorbikes. I fan away the exhaust from the bikes and cars (most use diesel fuel) as I run through clouds of it. Ironically, as I run past a couple of the nicest hotels here and head up a hill toward the U.S. Embassy, I smell raw sewage, which gathers in an open drainage system I jog past. Not my favorite, but it's brief.
As I keep moving up the steady incline, I pay less attention to the smells and focus on regulating my breathing. I say good morning to all the Embassy guards (I think they must be good people to know) and try to look like I'm really enjoying the hill. When it finally slopes down I head into a more residential neighborhood. It's dusty and sometime smells a little bit like friend food. There are piles of trash dotting the road, which I don't need to describe, and then take a right turn and go up a steep hill. I really need to remember to hold my breath right here, because there's a good five seconds for which you just don't want to be inhaling. If I'm lucky, someone is selling oranges on the side of the street and I get a burst of citrus. It's a wonderful thing.
At the top of the hill is a busy intersection that's already bustling when I arrive, so I'm hit with exhaust again. The road evens out and after about 25 yards I pass fewer people, though if I'm lucky I run past boys playing soccer in the street. At one of the last corners I take, there's a mechanic/auto body shop, and the accompanying smells fill the air.
Soon I'm welcomed back by the cool embrace of our air conditioning. While not nearly as aromatic as the streets of Monrovia, I like to believe it helps me to re-charge and appreciate all that I'm bombarded with when I step outside again.
When I pause at our front door, about to head outside, I can feel and smell the air seeping through the door frame. It's very different from the air-conditioned climate I've just spent the night in. It smells faintly of burning rubber and farm animals and heat (I realize this may be hard to imagine, but roll with it). As I step outside our compound and start to jog, I see the city waking up. It's early, but some Liberians are walking to work, others are carrying things to their families, and a few are zipping around on motorbikes. I fan away the exhaust from the bikes and cars (most use diesel fuel) as I run through clouds of it. Ironically, as I run past a couple of the nicest hotels here and head up a hill toward the U.S. Embassy, I smell raw sewage, which gathers in an open drainage system I jog past. Not my favorite, but it's brief.
As I keep moving up the steady incline, I pay less attention to the smells and focus on regulating my breathing. I say good morning to all the Embassy guards (I think they must be good people to know) and try to look like I'm really enjoying the hill. When it finally slopes down I head into a more residential neighborhood. It's dusty and sometime smells a little bit like friend food. There are piles of trash dotting the road, which I don't need to describe, and then take a right turn and go up a steep hill. I really need to remember to hold my breath right here, because there's a good five seconds for which you just don't want to be inhaling. If I'm lucky, someone is selling oranges on the side of the street and I get a burst of citrus. It's a wonderful thing.
At the top of the hill is a busy intersection that's already bustling when I arrive, so I'm hit with exhaust again. The road evens out and after about 25 yards I pass fewer people, though if I'm lucky I run past boys playing soccer in the street. At one of the last corners I take, there's a mechanic/auto body shop, and the accompanying smells fill the air.
Soon I'm welcomed back by the cool embrace of our air conditioning. While not nearly as aromatic as the streets of Monrovia, I like to believe it helps me to re-charge and appreciate all that I'm bombarded with when I step outside again.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Power walking
Liberians move at a casual, comfortable pace. There's no need to rush. In this climate, you get hot and sweaty when you step outside, so you can only imagine what happens when you raise your heart rate.
If it's not already obvious, my love of the power walk makes it clear that I'm not from around here.
Numerous people (including strangers) at work have commented on my pace ("Alexis, you are quick in moving!"). Our secretary knows I'm coming when she hears my shoes clicking on the tiles. Colleagues call my name when I head down the hallway. I know I should try to be a little less obviously American, but I'm finding this is one thing I can't give up. I just wish I didn't scare so many people when I overtake them in the hallway.
In another not from around here moment, I tried to order a coffee with soy milk at a local hotel. In my defense, this is perhaps the only hotel in Monrovia with a website, so I figured it was worth a shot. After explaining soy milk several different ways, the waiter finally laughed and said, "Soy milk? This is Africa!"
I drank my coffee black.
P.S. Also in my defense, they DO sell soy milk at the supermarket here, so the request wasn't as outrageous as the waiter thought.
If it's not already obvious, my love of the power walk makes it clear that I'm not from around here.
Numerous people (including strangers) at work have commented on my pace ("Alexis, you are quick in moving!"). Our secretary knows I'm coming when she hears my shoes clicking on the tiles. Colleagues call my name when I head down the hallway. I know I should try to be a little less obviously American, but I'm finding this is one thing I can't give up. I just wish I didn't scare so many people when I overtake them in the hallway.
In another not from around here moment, I tried to order a coffee with soy milk at a local hotel. In my defense, this is perhaps the only hotel in Monrovia with a website, so I figured it was worth a shot. After explaining soy milk several different ways, the waiter finally laughed and said, "Soy milk? This is Africa!"
I drank my coffee black.
P.S. Also in my defense, they DO sell soy milk at the supermarket here, so the request wasn't as outrageous as the waiter thought.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Robertsport
Desperate to get outside of Monrovia and see more of what we're told is Liberia's green countryside, a carload of us took a two-hour drive to Robertsport, the capital city of Cape Mount County. Monrovia is in Montserrado County, and Cape Mount is essentially the next county over. We've been talking about Robertsport for weeks now, although we didn't really have an itinerary until a couple days ago when I started asking our Liberian colleagues what we could do in Robertsport. Many said, "Uh, I'm not sure I could tell you," and I also got a couple "Nothing"s. Turns out the main attraction in Robertsport is the beach, which wasn't a bad thing at all.
The first half of the drive out was on paved road, but the second half was a dirt road, which was a bit bumpy but not unbearable. On the way home the terrain seemed rougher, although it obviously couldn't have been. Maybe our time in the sun and our general fatigue made it seem that way : )
Once we arrived, we did a quick driving tour of the town. The hospital in Robertsport sits atop a big hill (don't ask me how someone in urgent need of care could quickly hike up the dirt path), and when we drove up we were treated to a gorgeous view of the ocean below. As we drove back down we passed homes bordering on estates that must have been vacation getaways 30 years ago. You could easily envision people breakfasting outside, children playing in yards, adults relaxing in hammocks. Today, however, the properties are rundown, without doors and windows, and completely empty inside.
There were probably just 15 other people on the beach, so we had our choice of sand. Immediately upon our arrival about 10 kids ages 6-12 came over to check us out. We asked one of them to help us with something, and when he did, our friend Amanda made the whole crew peanut butter sandwiches. It was hard to lose our new friends after that, but we quickly realized they were interested in the plastic water bottles we had with us. They wouldn't leave until we told them they wouldn't get the plastic when we left if they kept it up! (It sounds mean, but we had hours ahead of us, and they had sort of wedged themselves all around our blankets and towels.) It worked though; they scooted off and came back only when it was clear we were leaving.
Many of us had spent yesterday afternoon focusing on work we had taken home, so today brought welcome R&R. The beach was very nice, and the surrounding scenery was richer than anything I've seen in Monrovia.
The challenging part about today was being able to envision how lovely Robertsport must have been in the recent past, a beach town for locals and visitors alike. Monrovia is equally (perhaps more so) run down, with most buildings in disrepair and makeshift homes sprouting everywhere, but you generally expect to find some degree of chaos, dirt, and dinginess in a major city. On our way out of Robertsport, we noticed a building with a majestic quality that neglect and abandonment couldn't completely eliminate. As we got closer, we saw faded letters above the once-ornate entrance: Tubman Center for African History & Culture.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Visas galore
So sorry for the lapse in postings; it has been a busy week at work and last night we were without internet. Tonight we had a couple friends over for Indian take-out, which was the perfect Thursday night activity. It sounds almost like a night in a U.S. city, except that we didn't actually have the phone number for this place, but we were really craving Indian, so I volunteered to go to the restaurant, put our order in, wait for it, and drive back with it. To be honest, I had a People magazine from our friend's recent trip back from the U.S. (Paris Hilton and Benji Maddon?? Eva Mendes in rehab?? Do you all want me to live in a celebrity-free zone for six months??) so I was quite pleased. But I've added the restaurant's phone number in my cell phone for future reference.
So six weeks into my time here and I've already been asked -- and agreed -- to help fill out electronic visa forms for some Liberian co-workers. One form required of people applying for a visa to the U.S. must actually be filled out and submitted directly online, so if you don't have computer access or skills, you're essentially out of luck. I'm essentially just a volunteer typist. One person I helped actually didn't get their visa approved, and I was confronted with the rejection letter and asked to explain this bad news. Luckily my first job out of college was working for a member of Congress whose office specialized in immigration casework. I explained that, as I understood it, the U.S. government sort of presumes that every foreigner who applies for a visa intends to violate the terms of their visa and stay in the U.S. permanently or beyond their approved stay. Applicants must prove they have something to come back to in their home country, like a job, school, family, etc.
Unfortunately, this applicant was both unemployed and not in school. I re-read the letter to them, which stated that they could of course re-apply at a later date. I was then asked, "So, if I can get an employment letter tomorrow, I can re-apply then?" Um, well, no, as that would be slightly suspicious, I would think, if you re-applied one day later and were suddenly employed. "Oh, so perhaps I'll wait a little bit, a few weeks, a month?" Um, well, I really can't advise you about what to do here, but if you ARE employed, it's probably a good thing to be able to demonstrate that you have a contract or a long-term commitment to this job. Just my two cents. Totally an educated guess.
I am totally going to be asked to submit another form for this person very soon.
So six weeks into my time here and I've already been asked -- and agreed -- to help fill out electronic visa forms for some Liberian co-workers. One form required of people applying for a visa to the U.S. must actually be filled out and submitted directly online, so if you don't have computer access or skills, you're essentially out of luck. I'm essentially just a volunteer typist. One person I helped actually didn't get their visa approved, and I was confronted with the rejection letter and asked to explain this bad news. Luckily my first job out of college was working for a member of Congress whose office specialized in immigration casework. I explained that, as I understood it, the U.S. government sort of presumes that every foreigner who applies for a visa intends to violate the terms of their visa and stay in the U.S. permanently or beyond their approved stay. Applicants must prove they have something to come back to in their home country, like a job, school, family, etc.
Unfortunately, this applicant was both unemployed and not in school. I re-read the letter to them, which stated that they could of course re-apply at a later date. I was then asked, "So, if I can get an employment letter tomorrow, I can re-apply then?" Um, well, no, as that would be slightly suspicious, I would think, if you re-applied one day later and were suddenly employed. "Oh, so perhaps I'll wait a little bit, a few weeks, a month?" Um, well, I really can't advise you about what to do here, but if you ARE employed, it's probably a good thing to be able to demonstrate that you have a contract or a long-term commitment to this job. Just my two cents. Totally an educated guess.
I am totally going to be asked to submit another form for this person very soon.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Special delivery
Some of you have asked me what I appreciate most about living in Liberia, and seem to be curious about what aspects of my lifestyle back home that I miss the most. While the climate can be tough, it allows us to enjoy the ocean and the pool a lot, which has been great. The friendliness of the Liberian people and their desire to welcome visitors is really special too. I have been asked countless number of times how I am finding Liberia and if I am enjoying being here. I'm also really glad I brought Scrabble and wish I had loaded up on magazines for the apartment.
In terms of what I miss the most, it depends on the day: fresh vegetables, pedicures, freedom of movement, and iced coffee have all rotated through the list (I know I could make iced coffee, but there's something about walking around outside on a sleepy, hot day and picking up an iced coffee that makes me happy).
Many of you have also asked about a mailing address for me, but I'm not kidding when I tell you there is no functioning postal system here. I quickly learned that if you want something from back home, you need to find out which ex-pat is traveling to the west and back, and see if they'll be willing to carry a few things back for you. Recently I found out that a woman I know here was going back to New York for a couple weeks, so I quickly emailed my mom to ask her to send her some sandals I left at home that I decided I *need,* clif bars, Aveeno lotion, and tupperware (you can't find any of these things here!!). I later found out that some of my colleagues also asked her to bring things back, generally things like a new computer battery or laptop, which of course made my requests seem a little frivolous, but I will not be ashamed. When you're far away from the comforts of home -- comforts of any kind, really -- it's the little things that help. It's a shame iced coffee wouldn't survive the flight.
In terms of what I miss the most, it depends on the day: fresh vegetables, pedicures, freedom of movement, and iced coffee have all rotated through the list (I know I could make iced coffee, but there's something about walking around outside on a sleepy, hot day and picking up an iced coffee that makes me happy).
Many of you have also asked about a mailing address for me, but I'm not kidding when I tell you there is no functioning postal system here. I quickly learned that if you want something from back home, you need to find out which ex-pat is traveling to the west and back, and see if they'll be willing to carry a few things back for you. Recently I found out that a woman I know here was going back to New York for a couple weeks, so I quickly emailed my mom to ask her to send her some sandals I left at home that I decided I *need,* clif bars, Aveeno lotion, and tupperware (you can't find any of these things here!!). I later found out that some of my colleagues also asked her to bring things back, generally things like a new computer battery or laptop, which of course made my requests seem a little frivolous, but I will not be ashamed. When you're far away from the comforts of home -- comforts of any kind, really -- it's the little things that help. It's a shame iced coffee wouldn't survive the flight.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Music and dancing
From what I can tell, Liberians are really into their music. We always have tapes playing in the car with pop songs from Sierra Leone and Ghana (occasionally there are religious songs too – usually just on Sundays), and the ringtones my colleagues have are completely catchy. It seems to bring our Liberian friends great joy when we demonstrate that we are enjoying the music. Singing along in the car often results in the volume being turned way up, and when someone’s phone rings and I start dancing in the office, I get a knowing smile from our secretary.
Every weekend I’ve been here we have ended up spending at least one night dancing. The Garden Café is where we found ourselves again last night. The place just gets packed with Liberians and westerners. There’s a live band on Fridays, but the selection can be mixed (“Let’s Get It On” isn’t super danceable, really). I ended up talking to the guy who was expressing his inner Barry White, and he’s a Liberian who has spent time in Gambia (many Liberians spent time in other countries during the war, either as refugees or with family). He was really excited when I told him that my dad and brother play the drums; he may have suggested getting a band together but I’m not sure I heard him correctly.
I am no authority on this, but I am guessing that with life not being the easiest over here, the constant presence of music and dancing provides a real outlet. It’s also a way for people who experienced 14 years of civil war to come together and connect.
Traditional dancing is also pretty popular, and last week we were treated to a performance by a dance troupe at an outdoor party. The men were good, but the women were really great – it didn’t hurt that they had these fun two-piece peach outfits and some body paint. When the dancers were finished, we all got down to some Akon (the Senegalese singer is super popular here) in outfits that were far less suited to the heat and humidity (jeans in Liberia = sweaty Betty).
Every weekend I’ve been here we have ended up spending at least one night dancing. The Garden Café is where we found ourselves again last night. The place just gets packed with Liberians and westerners. There’s a live band on Fridays, but the selection can be mixed (“Let’s Get It On” isn’t super danceable, really). I ended up talking to the guy who was expressing his inner Barry White, and he’s a Liberian who has spent time in Gambia (many Liberians spent time in other countries during the war, either as refugees or with family). He was really excited when I told him that my dad and brother play the drums; he may have suggested getting a band together but I’m not sure I heard him correctly.
I am no authority on this, but I am guessing that with life not being the easiest over here, the constant presence of music and dancing provides a real outlet. It’s also a way for people who experienced 14 years of civil war to come together and connect.
Traditional dancing is also pretty popular, and last week we were treated to a performance by a dance troupe at an outdoor party. The men were good, but the women were really great – it didn’t hurt that they had these fun two-piece peach outfits and some body paint. When the dancers were finished, we all got down to some Akon (the Senegalese singer is super popular here) in outfits that were far less suited to the heat and humidity (jeans in Liberia = sweaty Betty).
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