Saturday, April 23, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Sidebar #1: A Brief History of Liberia
"I would rather, if need be, bury them on these free, sunny shores, myself alone at midnight, or trust them in the forest to the tender mercies of the African hyena...than to leave them as drudges in America…"
--Liberian Immgrant --c1850's
Liberia's history begins right here in the United States of America. Even in the early 1800's, the issue of slavery was hotly a debated topic. Free blacks, abolitionists and many religious leaders were among those strongly against slavery. On the other end were wealthy southern American farmers who were spearheading the South's economic growth. Even Thomas Jefferson wrote in 1820, "Nothing is more certainly written in the book of fate, than that these people are to be free…". Obviously, we know now that Thomas Jefferson was extremely "down with the brown" and was ready to capitalize on the benefits of emancipation. When he was not busy creating universities or writing the Declaration of Independence, TJ spent tireless hours on his business plan for a chain of adult entertainment establishments for "former mandatory day laborettes".
In 1816, a group of whites (led by University of Georgia president Reverend Robert Finley) founded [inhale] The American Society for Colonizing the Free People of Color of the United States [exhale]. This group met in Washington, D.C. to discuss the idea of removing African-Americans from the United States by colonization. After several elderly members passed out from lack of oxygen after saying 'The American Society for Colonizing the Free People of Color of the United States', someone within the organization had the smarts to shorten the name to the American Colonization Society or ACS. The ACS basically believed that blacks would never be equal in America, and America should facilitate their resettlement somewhere in Africa. Kinda like busing, but the other way around..and this time with sailing ships instead of Bluebirds.
The ACS had several prominent members within its ranks;famous Kentucky congressman and diplomat Henry Clay, ACS secretary and U.S. Supreme Court clerk Elias B. Caldwell, and "Star Spangled Banner" author Francis Scott Key. George Washington's nephew and Phi Beta Kappa man Bushrod Washington was elected president of the ACS at the D.C. conference.
It should be noted that the debate among blacks was as heated. Some did not want to go to Africa and felt that America was their home. Black Abolitionist David Walker was quoted as saying "America is more our country than it is the whites--we have enriched with our blood and tears." Yet others felt that they would never get fair treatment or equality in America and welcomed the idea of repatriation.
A few years later in 1819, the ACS' activities caught the ear of U.S. President James Monroe. That same year, Congress authorized the US Navy to seize any ship carrying black slaves. Though the importation of slaves had been banned in the US some 10 years ago, slave runners were still slipping through the cracks. Coincidentally, the law also required the President to resettle the freed prisoners "beyond the limits of the United States." Monroe worked out an agreement with the ACS. The U.S. government would pick up the bill for 300 people to migrate to Africa. This included basic supplies to start a colony. In exchange, the ACS would handle all of the other details like transportation, paperwork and Dramamine. In 1820, the first settlers set sail on a chartered ship called the Elizabeth. Unfortunately, shortly after landing, the Yellow Fever (delivered by the African Air Force) killed many of the settlers. The remaining survivors returned back to America. A new group set out the following year--this time more successful than the first. On April 25, 1822, these settlers raised the American flag, named their fledgling colony Liberia and also named the capital city Monrovia--in honor of U.S. President James Monroe.
The new Liberians quickly encountered the native population and eventually fought skirmishes over land and other resources. The uppity settlers found the native Africans barbaric with their primitive huts and nakedness. The native Africans were unsettled by the newcomers' sense of entitlement to their ancestral lands. The natives also wondered what sort of a idiots wore hot-ass wool 5-piece suits in the middle of equatorial Africa. After uneasy truces, the natives were allowed to live within the colony. However, it was not as equals. The natives were obligated to pay taxes, but could not vote. And in the ultimate irony, the native Africans were literally whipped for their transgressions--just as slaves were back in America. The book This, Our Dark Country by Catherine Reef documents an interesting exchange:
"In 1840 a new immigrant in Monrovia was horrified to hear other colonists say that "the best way to civilize these Natives is with [gun]powder and ball. " The newcomer remarked, "I wonder to think that people who themselves have but just been redeemed from fetters should...look with an evil eye upon the freedom of others…"
I guess you can take the African-American out of America, but you can't take the America out of an African-American. Or something like that... Nonetheless, after growing weary of lukewarm leadership by America-sent officials, the Liberians voted to become Africa's first independent republic in October of 1846. Months later, elected Liberian delgates drafted a Declaration of Independence and Constitution on July 26, 1847. Back in America, the government in Washington (who was a bit weary of the bills and realized that colonization should probably be left to the French) said "Uhhmmm....Ok...Whatever, dudes."
Just like that, Liberia was officially an independent nation.
One month later, the new Liberian flag was raised over Monrovia. The flag had eleven stripes (to commemorate the eleven signers of the Liberian Declaration of Independence) and a single, large white star (where we would put our 50) that represented one united country. And we all know that you ain't nothin' without a flag!
--Liberian Immgrant --c1850's
Liberia's history begins right here in the United States of America. Even in the early 1800's, the issue of slavery was hotly a debated topic. Free blacks, abolitionists and many religious leaders were among those strongly against slavery. On the other end were wealthy southern American farmers who were spearheading the South's economic growth. Even Thomas Jefferson wrote in 1820, "Nothing is more certainly written in the book of fate, than that these people are to be free…". Obviously, we know now that Thomas Jefferson was extremely "down with the brown" and was ready to capitalize on the benefits of emancipation. When he was not busy creating universities or writing the Declaration of Independence, TJ spent tireless hours on his business plan for a chain of adult entertainment establishments for "former mandatory day laborettes".
In 1816, a group of whites (led by University of Georgia president Reverend Robert Finley) founded [inhale] The American Society for Colonizing the Free People of Color of the United States [exhale]. This group met in Washington, D.C. to discuss the idea of removing African-Americans from the United States by colonization. After several elderly members passed out from lack of oxygen after saying 'The American Society for Colonizing the Free People of Color of the United States', someone within the organization had the smarts to shorten the name to the American Colonization Society or ACS. The ACS basically believed that blacks would never be equal in America, and America should facilitate their resettlement somewhere in Africa. Kinda like busing, but the other way around..and this time with sailing ships instead of Bluebirds.
The ACS had several prominent members within its ranks;famous Kentucky congressman and diplomat Henry Clay, ACS secretary and U.S. Supreme Court clerk Elias B. Caldwell, and "Star Spangled Banner" author Francis Scott Key. George Washington's nephew and Phi Beta Kappa man Bushrod Washington was elected president of the ACS at the D.C. conference.
It should be noted that the debate among blacks was as heated. Some did not want to go to Africa and felt that America was their home. Black Abolitionist David Walker was quoted as saying "America is more our country than it is the whites--we have enriched with our blood and tears." Yet others felt that they would never get fair treatment or equality in America and welcomed the idea of repatriation.
A few years later in 1819, the ACS' activities caught the ear of U.S. President James Monroe. That same year, Congress authorized the US Navy to seize any ship carrying black slaves. Though the importation of slaves had been banned in the US some 10 years ago, slave runners were still slipping through the cracks. Coincidentally, the law also required the President to resettle the freed prisoners "beyond the limits of the United States." Monroe worked out an agreement with the ACS. The U.S. government would pick up the bill for 300 people to migrate to Africa. This included basic supplies to start a colony. In exchange, the ACS would handle all of the other details like transportation, paperwork and Dramamine. In 1820, the first settlers set sail on a chartered ship called the Elizabeth. Unfortunately, shortly after landing, the Yellow Fever (delivered by the African Air Force) killed many of the settlers. The remaining survivors returned back to America. A new group set out the following year--this time more successful than the first. On April 25, 1822, these settlers raised the American flag, named their fledgling colony Liberia and also named the capital city Monrovia--in honor of U.S. President James Monroe.
The new Liberians quickly encountered the native population and eventually fought skirmishes over land and other resources. The uppity settlers found the native Africans barbaric with their primitive huts and nakedness. The native Africans were unsettled by the newcomers' sense of entitlement to their ancestral lands. The natives also wondered what sort of a idiots wore hot-ass wool 5-piece suits in the middle of equatorial Africa. After uneasy truces, the natives were allowed to live within the colony. However, it was not as equals. The natives were obligated to pay taxes, but could not vote. And in the ultimate irony, the native Africans were literally whipped for their transgressions--just as slaves were back in America. The book This, Our Dark Country by Catherine Reef documents an interesting exchange:
"In 1840 a new immigrant in Monrovia was horrified to hear other colonists say that "the best way to civilize these Natives is with [gun]powder and ball. " The newcomer remarked, "I wonder to think that people who themselves have but just been redeemed from fetters should...look with an evil eye upon the freedom of others…"
I guess you can take the African-American out of America, but you can't take the America out of an African-American. Or something like that... Nonetheless, after growing weary of lukewarm leadership by America-sent officials, the Liberians voted to become Africa's first independent republic in October of 1846. Months later, elected Liberian delgates drafted a Declaration of Independence and Constitution on July 26, 1847. Back in America, the government in Washington (who was a bit weary of the bills and realized that colonization should probably be left to the French) said "Uhhmmm....Ok...Whatever, dudes."
Just like that, Liberia was officially an independent nation.
One month later, the new Liberian flag was raised over Monrovia. The flag had eleven stripes (to commemorate the eleven signers of the Liberian Declaration of Independence) and a single, large white star (where we would put our 50) that represented one united country. And we all know that you ain't nothin' without a flag!
Day One, Part One - In Country
"Meaningful travel is something that should be planned and budgeted like food, savings or rent. A dedication to see the world requires a manic disdain for fear, predictability, entrenched opinions, comfort and at times, self-preservation. But...the rewards are something greater than life itself." --BT
I awoke to the hypnotic drone of the 767-300's big engines. There was a bright light shining through the closed shade of my window. It was now daylight. The flight attendants were moving down the aisles, smiling and serving passengers morning beverages. I looked over and saw that my travelling mate Daiyouga was already awake and was fiddling with the display screen on the seatback in front of him. After opening the window shade to half-mast, I turned on my own display, tip-tapped the screen until I reached the Moving Map application and checked our bearings against the bright picture out my window. We had been aloft for almost 10 hours.
The plane flew east along the platinum-edged brown ribbon of the coastline. Through the cloud break, I looked down and saw a city made of dense, but orderly city blocks that could easily have been West Palm Beach or even San Diego. The only difference ? Along with regular concrete and steel highways, were networks of red dirt roads that were still as wide as any four-lane American freeway. We were passing the Ivory Coast and heading east into Ghana. The big Delta jet flew along the base of the west African "skull" until we began our descent into Accra, Ghana.
For reasons quoted by Delta representatives as being "due to enhanced security measures" , a flight from Delta's hub in Atlanta, Georgia flies eastward PAST Liberia and then lands in Ghana for a pit stop. After refueling and security checks, the plane takes off, flies BACK the way it came and finally ends its journey in Liberia's capital, Monrovia.
We eventually landed at Kotoka International Airport and took an unusually long route across the airport's runways. After coming to a stop, we sat on the tarmac looking out the windows while other traffic taxied past. I took a look out the window and saw thick brush bordering the runway's perimeter. A faded, orange windsock hung limply in the still, hot air outside. Old, rusted hulks of old DC-9s, prop airplanes and Bell "Huey" helicopters littered the overgrown edges of the airport. After sitting there for some time, we made our way towards the busier part of the runways. A pack of small Fokker 50 prop planes scooted past us--most of them sporting unfamiliar liveries like "Ghana Airways" and "Ethiopian Airlines". Once at our gate, a crew of "TSA" types came aboard and searched what seemed like every inch of the flight before letting the Ghana passengers on. All seemed to be locals except for one white guy with a tight black polo shirt, crisp khaki "duty pants" and buzz-cut and cop moustache. His perfectly manicured "high and tight" and deliberate motions screamed U.S. federale. A second security team, also Ghanains, went down the aisles and asked everyone to identify their luggage in the overhead compartments. A very beautiful dark-skinned woman in khakis, polo and a white vest searched between the seat cushions and also behind the headrest cushions. What they were looking for is beyond me. The whole process took about thirty minutes, after which we were airborne once again. This flight would streak west and finally deposit us in Liberia.
A few hours later, we landed at Roberts International Airport in Monrovia. Daiyouga and I collected our bags and walked down the steps into the terminal. The heat was very strong, but not initially oppressive at 91 degrees Fahrenheit. However, the clouds from Ghana had not made their way to Monrovia. It was mid-afternoon and the African sun had no opposition. We loaded our bags onto carts and went through customs. The brown-uniformed agent checking our bags looked at Daiyouga, glanced at me and went back to methodically checking our bags. Without stopping his inspection, he looked up at Daiyouga again. The man spoke in accented english.
"Where you from?"
"Right here"
The agent looked suspiciously at Daiyouga.
"Eh? Where?" The man gave a bored smile that suggested disbelief.
For only the second time since knowing him, Daiyouga slipped into Liberian english. The pace of their chatter immediately turned to a quick, staccato exchange.
"Ri' here… From Li-BE-RE-uh!." The word 'Liberia' almost seemed to be two syllables.
"Righ' here where?" The guards ears were telling him one thing, but his eyes probably weren't in agreement. Daiyouga looked less of a local than I did.
"Congo town...Ri' d'a wey."
This seemed to pacify the agent who went back to repacking our suitcases. He looked up at me.
"You fro' here too?"
I shook my head 'no'. In my desire to blend in as much as Africanly possible, I wasn't quite ready to open my mouth yet and was in 'observe' mode for the time being. The security agent finally finished repacking the bags. He looked at our passports one last time and waved us on. We placed our luggage back on the carts and made our way outside. A swarm of wiry teenagers, dark, sinewy twenty-somethings and middle-aged men with wounded clothing and robotic gestures descended upon our carts like locusts. These were not airport employees, but were hungry men bent on extricating our dollars. Their aggression was equalled by an almost innate deference. Daiyouga and I managed polite "No thank-you's" as we pushed past, looking for friendlies. At the end of the airport pick-up lot, we saw Daiyouga's older brother, Zahnga (ZAHN-gah). He had parked a silver Toyota Prado SUV in front of a small airport lounge and was apparently directing some of the doorside hustlers to load our gear into the Prado. As Daiyouga and I stood there watching the men work, I really began to feel the heat. Perhaps Zahnga noticed my discomfort and grinned.
"Hey guys, dad's in the lounge. Go inside and say 'hello'. We'll be done here in a few."
I don't know about Daiyouga, but I couldn't have been happier heading into some sort of shade. We walked inside the small, dark lounge. The walls were plastered with advertisements for Guinness, Heineken, Fanta and the local brew--Club Beer. Daiyouga's father, S.T. Eugene Peabody, sat at a table discussing business with another man. While we stood just inside the doorway waiting for the two to finish, I felt a wave of the "traveller's rush". Long flights combined with jet lag, dehydration, heat and culture shock from alien sights and smells can sometimes produce an intense, sudden feeling of disorientation. The key is to take some deep breaths, think about how wonderful it is to see new places and new people, and then immediately have a cold beer. Mr. Peabody wrapped up his conversation, exchanged a strange handshake with his colleague and finally waved us over. Daiyouga hadn't seen his father in almost four years. It had been 14 years since I had seen him back in Michigan. Mr. Peabody hugged his son and shook my hand. He hadn't changed one bit since I last saw him. At 5'6", Mr. Peabody was shorter than all of us. Yet, his stern and commanding presence made him seem like a man twice his height. But he wasn't without a sense of humor. Occasionally , Mr. Peabody's taciturn demeanor would give way to a boyish, Mona Lisa grin. He would sometimes chuckle and joke with his sons--this was one of those occasions, as he quickly ordered three Club Beers, smiled broadly and motioned us to sit down. The waitress promptly brought out a tray of beers and retreated back The small restaurant was cooled by a small, white plastic Chinese corner AC unit.
As father and son caught up on old times, I drank my beer--thankful to be out of the heat. Club Beer is bottled and brewed locally in Monrovia (along with Guinness Foreign Extra). Similar in taste to America's Yeungling Light, Club Beer is a surprisingly decent summer lager.
We drained our bottles and got up to leave. Outside, our suitcases were packed neatly in the SUV and Zahnga was handing our helpers 10 and 20-dollar Liberian bills (the exchange rate is roughly 70 Liberian Unity Dollars to 1 US Dollar). Mr. Peabody got in the passenger seat while Zahnga drove.
The highway from the airport was wide and newly-paved. Like the gigantic wooden roller-coasters of old, the road rose and sank through Liberia's big rolling hills--absolutely lush with green vegetation. Almost immediately, Daiyouga started to remember familiar scenery that he had left decades ago.
We soon found ourselves stuck behind a slow-moving truck. It was carrying huge sticks that were over 20 feet long and were as thick as a man's thigh.
Zahnga explained that these were cut from some of the largest Liberian trees and were used as scaffolding in construction projects.
The countryside gave way to residential and commercial buildings. Like many Third World countries, Monrovia's landscape was dotted with half-finished and open roof buildings. But unlike many of Latin America's cities that are dotted with faded monuments of cinder-blocks and exposed rebar, a healthy amount of the construction here appeared to be recent or even in progress.
Newer, three-story homes intermingled with aged shacks with rusted metal roofing.
For a country slightly larger than that state of Ohio, the homes we passed had plenty of elbow room. The suburban "blocks" were divided by wide, red sand roads and alleys. Each dwelling had plenty of room between the other.
The Peabody family lived in a neighborhood called ELWA. This stands for Eternal Love Winning Africa Radio Healthcare Education Services. ELWA grew from a settlement centered a Christian radio station founded in the 1950's. It more or less expanded into a community.
A few turns later, we arrived at the house. Like many in the city, their house was surrounded by 10 foot walls that were topped with razor-spiral barbed wire. Liberia's post-war poverty produces a somewhat healthy crime rate. These days, Liberia isn't plagued with violent crime like we are in the West. Instead, there is a steady stream of larceny, "cold water" embezzlement, break-ins and other types of theft. Along with the high walls, hiring private security is also commonplace. Ironically, the poverty levels make the cost of hired help very affordable. Along with government types, expats and the well-heeled, many of Monrovia's rising middle-class citizens are able to afford "security men" to watch over and guard their homes. The Peabody's were no exception. Zahnga pulled the SUV up to the big red gate and honked the horn. Moments later, the heavy red gates swung open. We drove through and came to a stop in front of the house.
We got out, unpacked and brought our bags inside. Mr. Peabody flashed one of his rare, broad smiles and patted me on the back.
"Welcome to Liberia! Is it too hot for you?"
"No, no.." I lied. I was feeling the heat and was again glad to run from air-conditioned car to air-conditioned house. Mr. Peabody grabbed a cold bottle of water from the refrigerator and sat down.
Daiyouga's mother, Comfort Peabody, came into the living room and greeted us with laughs and hugs. Comfort also lived in Michgan and stayed back to finish raising her boys while Mr. Peabody returned to Liberia after the war to help redevelop the country.
She showed me around the house and to my room. It was a standard room with a large bed, adjoining bathroom and two small Chinese floor fans. The room was very quiet. Except for the birds and the occasional child's voice, it was almost serene. I settled my suitcases, sat on the edge of the bed, looked out the window and took a huge breath. I held it for a few seconds, closed my eyes and thought. ..
Here I am. Africa. The cradle of civilization. Wow.
I slowly exhaled and opened my eyes. Though still daylight, the sun began to drop slightly. I got up from the bed and walked in the living room where everyone was catching up on old times.
"There's beer in the refrigerator." said Mrs. Peabody.
"Ah, yes. Thank you." Not to be a rude guest, I went into the kitchen and pulled out a frosty Club Beer from the freezer. With my new friend in hand, I went outside on the porch to have a look around.
Daiyouga and Zahnga came out moments later. Daiyouga sat down with his own Club Beer. The porch had chairs and a black, metalwork table. With plenty of shade, it was the perfect spot to sit and relax. But Zahnga was back up and was almost pacing up and down the porch. He was a young man so full of vigor and purpose that it was difficult for him to sit still. You could see that a plan had already hatched in his mind. He disappeared inside and then came back out just as quickly with keys in hand.
"You guys ready to go see the city?"
Daiyouga and I looked at each other with a bit of surprise. We hadn't sat down for a full 20 minutes, but there was nothing on our agenda. We almost replied in unison.
"Okay."
I went inside, hurriedly grabbed my camera, two bottles of water and changed into a lighter, insect-repellent Craghopper's t-shirt. The three of jumped back in the Prado and started off to downtown Monrovia.
Continued in Part Two...
I awoke to the hypnotic drone of the 767-300's big engines. There was a bright light shining through the closed shade of my window. It was now daylight. The flight attendants were moving down the aisles, smiling and serving passengers morning beverages. I looked over and saw that my travelling mate Daiyouga was already awake and was fiddling with the display screen on the seatback in front of him. After opening the window shade to half-mast, I turned on my own display, tip-tapped the screen until I reached the Moving Map application and checked our bearings against the bright picture out my window. We had been aloft for almost 10 hours.
The plane flew east along the platinum-edged brown ribbon of the coastline. Through the cloud break, I looked down and saw a city made of dense, but orderly city blocks that could easily have been West Palm Beach or even San Diego. The only difference ? Along with regular concrete and steel highways, were networks of red dirt roads that were still as wide as any four-lane American freeway. We were passing the Ivory Coast and heading east into Ghana. The big Delta jet flew along the base of the west African "skull" until we began our descent into Accra, Ghana.
For reasons quoted by Delta representatives as being "due to enhanced security measures" , a flight from Delta's hub in Atlanta, Georgia flies eastward PAST Liberia and then lands in Ghana for a pit stop. After refueling and security checks, the plane takes off, flies BACK the way it came and finally ends its journey in Liberia's capital, Monrovia.
We eventually landed at Kotoka International Airport and took an unusually long route across the airport's runways. After coming to a stop, we sat on the tarmac looking out the windows while other traffic taxied past. I took a look out the window and saw thick brush bordering the runway's perimeter. A faded, orange windsock hung limply in the still, hot air outside. Old, rusted hulks of old DC-9s, prop airplanes and Bell "Huey" helicopters littered the overgrown edges of the airport. After sitting there for some time, we made our way towards the busier part of the runways. A pack of small Fokker 50 prop planes scooted past us--most of them sporting unfamiliar liveries like "Ghana Airways" and "Ethiopian Airlines". Once at our gate, a crew of "TSA" types came aboard and searched what seemed like every inch of the flight before letting the Ghana passengers on. All seemed to be locals except for one white guy with a tight black polo shirt, crisp khaki "duty pants" and buzz-cut and cop moustache. His perfectly manicured "high and tight" and deliberate motions screamed U.S. federale. A second security team, also Ghanains, went down the aisles and asked everyone to identify their luggage in the overhead compartments. A very beautiful dark-skinned woman in khakis, polo and a white vest searched between the seat cushions and also behind the headrest cushions. What they were looking for is beyond me. The whole process took about thirty minutes, after which we were airborne once again. This flight would streak west and finally deposit us in Liberia.
A few hours later, we landed at Roberts International Airport in Monrovia. Daiyouga and I collected our bags and walked down the steps into the terminal. The heat was very strong, but not initially oppressive at 91 degrees Fahrenheit. However, the clouds from Ghana had not made their way to Monrovia. It was mid-afternoon and the African sun had no opposition. We loaded our bags onto carts and went through customs. The brown-uniformed agent checking our bags looked at Daiyouga, glanced at me and went back to methodically checking our bags. Without stopping his inspection, he looked up at Daiyouga again. The man spoke in accented english.
"Where you from?"
"Right here"
The agent looked suspiciously at Daiyouga.
"Eh? Where?" The man gave a bored smile that suggested disbelief.
For only the second time since knowing him, Daiyouga slipped into Liberian english. The pace of their chatter immediately turned to a quick, staccato exchange.
"Ri' here… From Li-BE-RE-uh!." The word 'Liberia' almost seemed to be two syllables.
"Righ' here where?" The guards ears were telling him one thing, but his eyes probably weren't in agreement. Daiyouga looked less of a local than I did.
"Congo town...Ri' d'a wey."
This seemed to pacify the agent who went back to repacking our suitcases. He looked up at me.
"You fro' here too?"
I shook my head 'no'. In my desire to blend in as much as Africanly possible, I wasn't quite ready to open my mouth yet and was in 'observe' mode for the time being. The security agent finally finished repacking the bags. He looked at our passports one last time and waved us on. We placed our luggage back on the carts and made our way outside. A swarm of wiry teenagers, dark, sinewy twenty-somethings and middle-aged men with wounded clothing and robotic gestures descended upon our carts like locusts. These were not airport employees, but were hungry men bent on extricating our dollars. Their aggression was equalled by an almost innate deference. Daiyouga and I managed polite "No thank-you's" as we pushed past, looking for friendlies. At the end of the airport pick-up lot, we saw Daiyouga's older brother, Zahnga (ZAHN-gah). He had parked a silver Toyota Prado SUV in front of a small airport lounge and was apparently directing some of the doorside hustlers to load our gear into the Prado. As Daiyouga and I stood there watching the men work, I really began to feel the heat. Perhaps Zahnga noticed my discomfort and grinned.
"Hey guys, dad's in the lounge. Go inside and say 'hello'. We'll be done here in a few."
I don't know about Daiyouga, but I couldn't have been happier heading into some sort of shade. We walked inside the small, dark lounge. The walls were plastered with advertisements for Guinness, Heineken, Fanta and the local brew--Club Beer. Daiyouga's father, S.T. Eugene Peabody, sat at a table discussing business with another man. While we stood just inside the doorway waiting for the two to finish, I felt a wave of the "traveller's rush". Long flights combined with jet lag, dehydration, heat and culture shock from alien sights and smells can sometimes produce an intense, sudden feeling of disorientation. The key is to take some deep breaths, think about how wonderful it is to see new places and new people, and then immediately have a cold beer. Mr. Peabody wrapped up his conversation, exchanged a strange handshake with his colleague and finally waved us over. Daiyouga hadn't seen his father in almost four years. It had been 14 years since I had seen him back in Michigan. Mr. Peabody hugged his son and shook my hand. He hadn't changed one bit since I last saw him. At 5'6", Mr. Peabody was shorter than all of us. Yet, his stern and commanding presence made him seem like a man twice his height. But he wasn't without a sense of humor. Occasionally , Mr. Peabody's taciturn demeanor would give way to a boyish, Mona Lisa grin. He would sometimes chuckle and joke with his sons--this was one of those occasions, as he quickly ordered three Club Beers, smiled broadly and motioned us to sit down. The waitress promptly brought out a tray of beers and retreated back The small restaurant was cooled by a small, white plastic Chinese corner AC unit.
As father and son caught up on old times, I drank my beer--thankful to be out of the heat. Club Beer is bottled and brewed locally in Monrovia (along with Guinness Foreign Extra). Similar in taste to America's Yeungling Light, Club Beer is a surprisingly decent summer lager.
We drained our bottles and got up to leave. Outside, our suitcases were packed neatly in the SUV and Zahnga was handing our helpers 10 and 20-dollar Liberian bills (the exchange rate is roughly 70 Liberian Unity Dollars to 1 US Dollar). Mr. Peabody got in the passenger seat while Zahnga drove.
The highway from the airport was wide and newly-paved. Like the gigantic wooden roller-coasters of old, the road rose and sank through Liberia's big rolling hills--absolutely lush with green vegetation. Almost immediately, Daiyouga started to remember familiar scenery that he had left decades ago.
We soon found ourselves stuck behind a slow-moving truck. It was carrying huge sticks that were over 20 feet long and were as thick as a man's thigh.
Zahnga explained that these were cut from some of the largest Liberian trees and were used as scaffolding in construction projects.
The countryside gave way to residential and commercial buildings. Like many Third World countries, Monrovia's landscape was dotted with half-finished and open roof buildings. But unlike many of Latin America's cities that are dotted with faded monuments of cinder-blocks and exposed rebar, a healthy amount of the construction here appeared to be recent or even in progress.
Newer, three-story homes intermingled with aged shacks with rusted metal roofing.
For a country slightly larger than that state of Ohio, the homes we passed had plenty of elbow room. The suburban "blocks" were divided by wide, red sand roads and alleys. Each dwelling had plenty of room between the other.
The Peabody family lived in a neighborhood called ELWA. This stands for Eternal Love Winning Africa Radio Healthcare Education Services. ELWA grew from a settlement centered a Christian radio station founded in the 1950's. It more or less expanded into a community.
A few turns later, we arrived at the house. Like many in the city, their house was surrounded by 10 foot walls that were topped with razor-spiral barbed wire. Liberia's post-war poverty produces a somewhat healthy crime rate. These days, Liberia isn't plagued with violent crime like we are in the West. Instead, there is a steady stream of larceny, "cold water" embezzlement, break-ins and other types of theft. Along with the high walls, hiring private security is also commonplace. Ironically, the poverty levels make the cost of hired help very affordable. Along with government types, expats and the well-heeled, many of Monrovia's rising middle-class citizens are able to afford "security men" to watch over and guard their homes. The Peabody's were no exception. Zahnga pulled the SUV up to the big red gate and honked the horn. Moments later, the heavy red gates swung open. We drove through and came to a stop in front of the house.
We got out, unpacked and brought our bags inside. Mr. Peabody flashed one of his rare, broad smiles and patted me on the back.
"Welcome to Liberia! Is it too hot for you?"
"No, no.." I lied. I was feeling the heat and was again glad to run from air-conditioned car to air-conditioned house. Mr. Peabody grabbed a cold bottle of water from the refrigerator and sat down.
Daiyouga's mother, Comfort Peabody, came into the living room and greeted us with laughs and hugs. Comfort also lived in Michgan and stayed back to finish raising her boys while Mr. Peabody returned to Liberia after the war to help redevelop the country.
She showed me around the house and to my room. It was a standard room with a large bed, adjoining bathroom and two small Chinese floor fans. The room was very quiet. Except for the birds and the occasional child's voice, it was almost serene. I settled my suitcases, sat on the edge of the bed, looked out the window and took a huge breath. I held it for a few seconds, closed my eyes and thought. ..
Here I am. Africa. The cradle of civilization. Wow.
I slowly exhaled and opened my eyes. Though still daylight, the sun began to drop slightly. I got up from the bed and walked in the living room where everyone was catching up on old times.
"There's beer in the refrigerator." said Mrs. Peabody.
"Ah, yes. Thank you." Not to be a rude guest, I went into the kitchen and pulled out a frosty Club Beer from the freezer. With my new friend in hand, I went outside on the porch to have a look around.
Daiyouga and Zahnga came out moments later. Daiyouga sat down with his own Club Beer. The porch had chairs and a black, metalwork table. With plenty of shade, it was the perfect spot to sit and relax. But Zahnga was back up and was almost pacing up and down the porch. He was a young man so full of vigor and purpose that it was difficult for him to sit still. You could see that a plan had already hatched in his mind. He disappeared inside and then came back out just as quickly with keys in hand.
"You guys ready to go see the city?"
Daiyouga and I looked at each other with a bit of surprise. We hadn't sat down for a full 20 minutes, but there was nothing on our agenda. We almost replied in unison.
"Okay."
I went inside, hurriedly grabbed my camera, two bottles of water and changed into a lighter, insect-repellent Craghopper's t-shirt. The three of jumped back in the Prado and started off to downtown Monrovia.
Continued in Part Two...
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Part Zero - Preface: Why Liberia?
BT: When my friend and RVEG teammate Daiyouga (pronounced day-YOU-gah) decided to make a trip to Liberia and asked if I would like to join him, it wasn't necessarily a quick answer. For him, the decision to go was easy…Liberia's civil war, which caused his family to flee the country some 20 years ago, had ended. For my friend, this was a trip home to rediscover family, friends and old sights, sounds and smells that flitted and haunted about the dim corners of my friend's memory.
For myself, it was a bit more complex. My thoughts on Africa created attitudes that eventually spawned their own civil war. One one side, fantasies of the beauty and history of the Motherland. On the other? My outright fear and disgust at incessant images of ultra-violence and perpetual despair. As an avid lover of the outdoors, I often rub elbows with many in the survivalist/preparedness communities. Its members can range from earthy, "granola" ultra-light backpackers to grizzled, hard men who sit in their homes--stocked with more food, guns and ammunition than the Washington Bullets' locker room. Yet, it is definitely the latter group that I find myself drawn to. Along with their prowess in fieldcraft, their knowledge of long-forgotten, old-world skills like skinningand well-digging reminds you that years ago, man could accomplish anything despite access to only primitive tools. Because let's face it. If the grid REALLY went down and stayed down, how many of us dazzling (sub)urbanites would have the tools and mindset to survive a long haul?
However, I also wonder how many of our crowd would actually leave the comfort and safety of the rual fortress (unarmed, no less) to walk the streets and truly experience a real, post-SHTF environment. After seeing several unsettling images from the Liberian civil war, I was not even sure that *I* was ready for such an experience. Yet, a trip to Africa represented more than another pushpin on the wall map. It would be an adventure travelling to a country that most Americans deathly afraid to visit. When I posted for gear recommendations on a message forum filled with actual tough guys and doorkickers, I got this response:
"Why? Do what you like, but it seems like a huge risk just to see first hand the condition of a place that is worthless, and that no one cares about.
I have a better option for you. Go buy a new pair of Air Jordans and a set of whatever clothes are trendy at the urban clothing store. Now walk through the ghetto at night.
There, you just saved a ton on airfare, and you'll probably only get pummeled and stripped naked. At least they won't cut your heart out and eat it."
Yikes! Though that represented the harshest reply, I received similar responses across different demographics. Though I knew it wouldn't be that bad, there was some measure of truth in that guy's assessment. Even after the war, Liberia is rife with several things that can kill you. There are mosquitoes carrying yellow fever, mosquitoes carrying the Usutu virus, and mosquitoes carrying malaria. Like most Third World countries, Liberia comes with the standard compliment of burghal accessories such as suicidal taxi and motorbike drivers, criminal products of poverty and of course, the constant specter of flash-violence. Even as I mulled over the trip, Liberia's eastern neighbor Cote D'Ivoire (or the Ivory Coast) teetered on the brink of civil war and was fighting active gunbattles mere minutes from Liberia's borders. To me, any man choosing the path of a survivor had to make at least one trip to a country who has recently gone through their own personal TEOTWAWKI. Liberia would definitely be a place where real, honest-to-goodness survival takes place.
There was also a matter of ancestry. My relationships with Africans have always been great--just as they with for any other race, or nationality. However, my relationship with Africa has been an interesting one at best. As a product of late 1960's/early 1970's America, I grew up smack in the middle of our Pan-African movement. As a young child, I remember Afro-centric marketing, dashikis, exotic images of African art and of course, the afro. Just like the Italians, Irish or any other ethnic group that made it to the United States, I was taught that our roots and blood came from the "Old Continent" and that Africa was my ancestral home. The only difference was that our trip to America was a bit different. Unfortunately, as I got older (and became a deeper student of world history), I became very conflicted about those teachings for a number of reasons:
- I was born in the great land of Hiawatha, Ipods, John Moses Browning and Barry Sanders. America is the land that my ancestors fought to build and defend. All of my grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts and uncles were Americans who loved American things. Most, if not all of my loves were American-made.
- Though it was the European slave traders who created and fueled the machine, there were indeed Africans who were willing cogs. Knowing this fact was hardly enough to build any resentment, but it did little to strengthen my affinities towards the continent.
- Okay. Even if the above weren't true, you mean to tell me that not a SINGLE entity on the entire continent sent a rescue party to come save my great-great-great-grandfather from brutal servitude??? Coming from an American culture that will send an entire battalion of futuristic death machines to retrieve the body of one soldier, this was another conflict.
Even if you remove those feelings, there was an even larger conundrum. As an African-American, tracing your deeper roots is a bit more difficult than opening an account on easyfamilytree.com and dedicating several weekends to the task. A search for even great grandparents can send one down a path endless rat-holes that lead to dead-ends, cryptic and decomposed slave trading records as well as expensive games involving mad scientists and DNA tandem repeat markers.
Yet, Liberia is a country that was explicitly settled and founded for freed American slaves, by freed American slaves (much more on that later). Considering that *someone* back in the early days of my family tree took the infamous "North American Job Fair Cruise" out of west Africa, Liberia represented a logical starting point to explore my origins. Perhaps I would not be able to mentally approach the trip to Liberia as a pilgrimage. But there was no doubt that it would make one hell of an expedition.
In the end, I was overtaken by a mixture of curiosity, fear, machismo and the explorer's compulsion to share candid scenes of the world with those who would not ordinarily set foot on or see these lands.
Daiyouga: For me, it was a very easy decision. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to return home to Liberia. Would it look the same? Would it be different? Would all those sights and sounds you’ve held on to all these years dissolve into a cloud of synthesized memories only to be proven false upon setting foot back in Monrovia? What would that first reaction be like?
I left Liberia in the back of a SUV in late 1990. I still remember looking back at our old house in Congo Town as we drove off and thinking to myself that this is probably the last time I would see this place again for a long time. What I didn’t realize is how true that would turn out to be. I knew I would be joining my siblings in the USA, but I thought it would be an extended vacation until all this so-called “war” stuff would end and afterwards, we would come back home. Sadly, that turned out to be far from the case.
Fast forward to two months later in January and we were settling into our new home in Benton Harbor, Michigan. Home...Michigan. Yes, for 2/3’s of my life I lived in Michigan. I grew up in Michigan. Went from elementary school to a working professional in Michigan. Michigan was home. But I never truly felt I was from Michigan. Similar to the first 10 years of my life, there was a big body of water outside my bedroom window. But it wasn’t quite the same. The waves were much calmer. The sunset was on the left instead of the right. The water was fresh and not salty. And of course the biggest difference of all, the weather. In Liberia, it rained from April to October, and was dry from November to March. In Michigan, it snowed from October to May, rained from June to August, and September was this confused month that could not make up its mind as to what sort of temperature it wanted to be or what form of liquid it wanted to drop from the sky. Michigan was a very different experience but one I eventually grew accustomed to. It became home. Everything from the Blossom Time festival to that 588-2300 EMPIRE jingle on the TV became the defining memories of my youth. But there was more. More than those memories in that small town in Southwest Michigan. There were memories of a small country in West Africa that had to be revisited.
It was with great surprise when I learned that BT would be joining me on my visit back home. I had many stories but only with your own two eyes could you really see what I was talking about. We booked our Delta flights and were ready to set foot in Monrovia. What would be waiting for us? We knew Liberia was rebuilding, but would it still be to hard to look at? Will my old neighborhood look the same? How will Monrovia look after 20 years? Would my descriptions of Liberia be as accurate as I remembered? Please stay tuned for Day 1 of our trip.
Monday, April 4, 2011
2012 Candidates
Our Liberia post is almost finished. Please be patient!
In the meantime, we have been discussing next year's destinations. Early candidates include:
Israel - For some reason that I just can't put my finger on, this country is on my absolute shortlist.
Japan - We called our man in Japan a few weeks ago to make sure he was intact after the tsunami. It turned out that everything was fine. Yuji-san and his mother are safe and sound. After some small talk, we discovered that Yuji wants to climb Mt. Fuji. No, it wasn't meant to rhyme. Yes, we're actually interested. Are we in shape for the climb? That's another story.
Canada - Hiking and camping the beautiful wilderness of the Canadian Shield. During this excursion, we will make alcohol stove poutine and learn colorful local phrases like 'Les Ours?!? Ici?!?' and 'Excusez-moi, mon ami..combien coûte le Ruger Alaskan en le .454 Casul?'
Thoughts? Votes? Alternative requests?
In the meantime, we have been discussing next year's destinations. Early candidates include:
Israel - For some reason that I just can't put my finger on, this country is on my absolute shortlist.
Japan - We called our man in Japan a few weeks ago to make sure he was intact after the tsunami. It turned out that everything was fine. Yuji-san and his mother are safe and sound. After some small talk, we discovered that Yuji wants to climb Mt. Fuji. No, it wasn't meant to rhyme. Yes, we're actually interested. Are we in shape for the climb? That's another story.
Canada - Hiking and camping the beautiful wilderness of the Canadian Shield. During this excursion, we will make alcohol stove poutine and learn colorful local phrases like 'Les Ours?!? Ici?!?' and 'Excusez-moi, mon ami..combien coûte le Ruger Alaskan en le .454 Casul?'
Thoughts? Votes? Alternative requests?
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