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...
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