Farewell

I’m torn between wanting to write and write and not wanting to say much at all. All I seem to be able to string together is “I can’t believe I’m leaving tomorrow!”

When I look around I’m struck by how quickly Monrovia has come to feel like home. The rhythms of the city are familiar. Local greetings are now my own. Liberia is so different from any place I have known, yet after only seven months, I sometimes forget I have lived anywhere else.

To be fair, each day is filled with challenges and frustrations, and they tend to recur or grow because there is no way to escape the realities of living here. However, the joys and achievements and rewards experienced here mean even more, given the obstacles people have to overcome to realize these successes. It takes a strong, determined person to work hard and follow rules in a country where all systems are being rebuilt and nothing is guaranteed. Everyday citizens are rebuilding Liberia day by day, simply by carrying on.

Today has been wonderful because I have shared every meal with friends. This morning, Alfred came by early to take me to work so we sat down, ate scrambled eggs, and talked about my return home. I always enjoy our time together, and I’m grateful we had a few minutes this morning to catch up. This afternoon the department I work for at the Ministry held a lunch in my honor. There was singing and dancing, kind words of thanks, and I was given a new Liberian outfit! I am going to miss my friends and colleagues at work, particularly the time they would take to ask me how I was doing and what I was enjoying about Liberia. And tonight I went out for dinner with a few friends from the foundation. I insisted on saying, “I can’t believe I’m leaving!” every few minutes, but other than that it was a normal night out. (Side note: it rained all day and because most Liberians find the rainy season cold, our driver Joseph was wearing a parka and I LOVE NY ski hat when he drove us to dinner. I wore a tank top.)

When I walked out of the office today, I realized I may not see my Liberian colleagues again. There are lots of people I see infrequently or maybe once every few years. But in today’s world of infinite possibilities and “if you want it badly enough it will happen” mantras, it is hard to really conceive of leaving someplace you have become familiar with and people you have shared a piece of your life with knowing you may not return.

However, I think many of us have built connections here that we will work hard to sustain. It would be nearly impossible to come and work alongside Liberians and simply close the door on this experience when you leave. I am grateful for the opportunity to have lived and worked here, to have shared those aspects of life and relationships that transcend culture, to have dipped my toes into new surroundings.

Not all Liberians are of one mind regarding assistance provided by expatriates during the rebuilding phase, but I want to share a note that one of my friends received from a Liberian colleague, which really moved me:

As you return to the United States, look back, remember we remain united in the cause of humanity. I hail you for the courage to have traveled to the unknown. I can safely assume you have a different story now. Go well, for you have contributed immensely to a country and a people recovering from years of war.

He is absolutely right. I definitely have a different story now.

Lofa!

Earlier this week, I joined a few colleagues for a trip to Voinjama, the capital city in Lofa county. Lofa is in northeastern Liberia and it borders Sierra Leone and Guinea (http://www.humanitarianinfo.org/liberia/mapcentre/reference/country_pdf/LIB001Counties_County%20Capitals_Districts_20040319.pdf)

The first three hours of the trip are on paved road (not without a good amount of bumps and potholes) and the last five hours are on dirt roads. I took some Dramamine as a precautionary measure. The condition of the roads tends to be worse in the rainy season, and even though we bounced around a lot, I’m told we were traveling on one of the better paths in the country.

As we drove north to Lofa I was struck by how green everything was! There were farms and ponds and thick forests, and it was obvious that we had left the city far behind us. Voinjama has lots of hills, and it was wonderful to take advantage of them and walk, run or hike on our own! The stores and restaurants that we saw looked quite similar to those in Monrovia, accompanied by the same signs advertising a long list of items you can purchase or consume inside (a list like: soup, pepper, concrete, zinc, and batteries is not uncommon).

Our driver, James, grew up in Voinjama, although he left during the war when fighting got too intense. He took my friend Meredith and I to his family’s village. Of the nine houses that his father had constructed there, only two remain. James showed us the school he went to and the business his father used to work for. I could tell by the way he described his childhood that he had really enjoyed it, though when war came in his teens it changed everyone's way of life.

Lofa was particularly hard hit. Fighters frequently crossed the borders in and out of Liberia from Sierra Leone and Guinea. Today, there is a new hospital in Voinjama and many international NGOs have a presence there. Voinjama felt quite peaceful and I couldn’t really imagine intense fighting happening there, although we saw enough ruins to remind us. One building we passed at an intersection was absolutely riddled with bullet holes. I think it’s a small grocery store now.

I really enjoyed the people of Lofa. Outside of the NGO presence, cars aren’t particularly common in Voinjama, so wherever we went, people stopped to stare and wave. Some children would cry out, “white women! white women! white women!” when they saw us, and we did make a couple of babies cry…but I suppose that is to be expected. We definitely look like strangers to them. It will be strange to come home and just blend in again. Where’s the fun in that?

Not your average waiting room

A few weeks ago I was eating lunch with friends and lost a filling in one of my molars. I assumed I couldn’t have it fixed in Liberia, but one of my colleagues told me that Mercy Ships runs a dental clinic out Redemption hospital. Mercy Ships is a global non-profit organization that operates hospital ships in developing countries that generally don’t have an adequate number of doctors and other health professionals, or well-resourced health facilities. Mercy Ships are staffed by volunteers who perform some surgeries and procedures on the ship, and others off, at facilities in neighboring communities. The Mercy Ship dedicated to West Africa is currently docked in a Liberian port in a part of Monrovia called Bushrod Island. I’ve posted some pictures from the drive to Redemption here.

The dental clinic was perfectly clean and well-equipped. The procedure was simple, and carried out by an Australian dentist named Tania who kept calling me “hon” and telling me I was a very good patient.

It felt sort of funny to line up with dozens of Liberians to receive a free medical service, although being in this new setting allowed me to experience some of the anticipation and uncertainty that the other patients were likely feeling. A young Liberian woman next to me started up a conversation. She was curious about what I was doing in Liberia. She had clear opinions about the progress the current government is making and the potential that the international community believes her country has to rebuild. She looked about my age and told me she was 26, then asked how old I was. When I told her 29, she laughed and said, “But you look like a girl!” (an opinion that seems to be shared by people on multiple continents)

It was her next question, though, that I thought was quite telling and indicative of the Liberian experience. She asked me if my parents were alive. Her mother died when she was in her teens and her father had left years before, so she had grown up in Monrovia with a few of her siblings. She hoped to make it to France for graduate school. Many Liberians lost family members during the 14-year civil conflict, and average life expectancy here is under 50 (47 for males, 49 for females). Coming from an environment that often seeks to minimize difference, I was jolted by my new friend’s simple question, which pointedly reminded me how distinct our realities are. Soon after our conversation ended, I was called into the clinic. When I left, she was still waiting patiently in line, then looked up to wave goodbye as I turned the corner.

Goodbyes

With slightly more than three weeks left in Liberia, I'm trying to appreciate the things I do each day, the aspects of my life that have become routine here. I have been taking pictures like a madwoman: buildings, billboards, traffic jams and taxis, usually all photographed from a moving car. While I look forward to coming home, it's hard to leave a place you may never return to, to leave people you have created relationships with. It's hard to accept that life will go on without me in this place!

One big change came tonight when my friend Jenna left, headed back to Chicago. Jenna and I were on the same flight to Monrovia and she, Guthrie and I all arrived on the same day. We lived and worked together for six months and never seemed to get tired of one another. It's strange to be back at the apartment without her. Guthrie and I sort of tiptoed back in when we returned from the airport, not wanting to get all the way inside and discover what we knew to be true...it's down to two of us!

I'm posting a few pictures of the group and the sights we enjoyed our last few days together. This weekend we went back up to Robertsport and stayed overnight at a tented camp right on the beach, which may just be post-war Liberia's first vacation spot. It poured most of the time, but we enjoyed just being away from the city and spending the weekend together before some of us began to move on.

Moving through the maze

Jenna and I had very ambitious plans for our Saturday, which centered on a visit to Waterside market for as much fabric as we could carry. We thought we'd start early and try to beat the crowds. Forgetting that Liberians tend to wake up before sunrise, our 9:30 a.m. start time probably didn't qualify as early. Walking down Randall Street, no one paid too much attention to us, except for some aggressive sunglasses peddlers. As we got closer to Waterside and the general business district, both the foot traffic and horn honking intensified. Despite the fact that there is a complete lack of marked lanes, crosswalks, signs and traffic lights, there is a functional traffic system (well, it may depend on how you define "functional," but cars get from point A to point B at least). When you're actually driving in a car, it doesn't seem as chaotic, but when you are a pedestrian you are actively part of life on the street, simultaneously looking out for your safety and seeking out gaps in traffic so you can move from one clogged street to another.

Descending into the maze of streets that make up Waterside, you can literally feel the crowds thickening and the space between you and the next person shrinking. Mopeds zip past, honking if you are lucky. Boys with wheelbarrows full of goods edge past you, and men pushing jugs of water up the hill on metal carts maneuver deftly around. You wonder how people can move so quickly and firmly wearing only flip flops or sandals. Pools of rainfall from the previous night's storm gather in potholes and along the curbs, another element to negotiate beyond the crowds, vehicles, and people selling everything from kitchenware to jeans to toothpicks.

We ended up making a second trip to Waterside, negotiating around potholes and puddles we barely missed earlier that day. On our drive up the hill, out of the market, the entire right half of the street was full of pedestrians and wheelbarrows. Alfred managed to squeeze our pickup truck past a car coming down the hill in the one open lane that remained, without batting an eye. As I watched the streets teeming with people disappear behind us, I began singing along to the music playing in the car.

Many months later...

I was feeling reflective today and the break from the rain put a skip in my step on my walk home from an off-site meeting (side note: being able to walk anywhere is a big deal!). When I got back, I decided to take a few pictures of our apartment complex to share with everyone.

In addition to the exterior of the building and our pool, I am including a picture I took while leaning out our front door. In that photo, the pool is on the left and the entrance to the complex is out and to the right. Cell phone reception in our apartment is horrible, so we always have to stand outside to take calls. I often find myself pacing up and down, taking in the view. The last picture is of a parade that marched down Randall street two weekends ago, in celebration of a religious holiday. The buildings should give you a good sense of what some of the main streets in central Monrovia look like.

You're getting warmer...

Yesterday, I toured my second hospital in Liberia. While there were lots of people waiting for assistance or simply hoping to be seen that day, it was a very quiet, orderly scene. I'm told I was lucky it wasn't raining, since some parts of the facility are open-air and it gets wet pretty quickly now that rainy season is here. Very few rooms have air conditioning, and I don't believe the delivery room is one of them. All beds have mosquito nets on them -- a fairly new addition, I am told.

When we entered the room full of moms and their newborns, I was struck by how many babies were wrapped up in layers of blankets. It's not the hottest time of year here, but it safely reaches the 80s when the sun is out. I saw a couple babies in snowsuits! It's typical to see Liberians wearing ski jackets or winter hats during rainy season, so this wasn't entirely surprising.

During a meeting today, I told a Liberian colleague about the visit and the snowsuits. She explained that Liberians believe that keeping a baby warm helps it to grow. Then she recalled how shocked she was when she saw a white woman here carrying her baby outside with bare legs, and no shoes or socks. She told me that she had thought to herself, "Isn't that baby cold??"