(Courtesy of Moved to Monrovia)
Daiyouga's uncle, Stanton Peabody, was a Liberian journalist who chronicled some of the nation's best (and worst) years. Stanton wrote for Liberian newspapers, including the Daily Observer.
Like her American uncle, Liberia was rooted in democracy. Since the country's inception, the President and other representatives were fairly elected. Yet, in Stanton's earlier days, Liberia was without a key element of the a modern, democratic state--a (completely) free press. Criticism of the leadership by the media would incur serious consequences. Like many journalists throughout history, Stanton Peabody and his colleagues did numerous stints in Liberia's jails. These journalists often ran afoul of Liberia's Presidents by hard and objective reporting on the administrations' policies.
It is important to note that Stanton's work was neither scathing editorial nor pointed satire. His purpose was not muckraking, but the presentation of stone facts to empower a true Liberian democracy. His journalism did not end with reporting, though. As a "press activist", Stanton organized the Press Union of Liberia in order to unite and protect his fellow journalists. His travels took him through Liberia, Africa and the rest of the world.
Luckily, a good number of Stanton's pictures and slides from the older days are still intact. They tell a tale of a much different Liberia. The little American experiment in colonization had grown into a proud country. By the turn of the 19th century, Liberia was arguably one of the jewels of Africa. In the 1970's and 1980s, when many of Stanton's photos were taken, Monrovians enjoyed peace and prosperity as Liberia became the 3rd richest country on the continent.
One building that defined the Monrovian landscape was the Ducor Hotel. Completed in 1967, the Ducor was operated by the Intercontinental Hotels Group --the same group that currently owns Crown Plaza and Holiday Inn brands. The Ducor was the first luxury hotel in Liberia and was also one of the first five star hotels in all of Africa.
We headed west away from ELWA towards downtown Monrovia. We passed a large
Doe was the Liberia's 21st president. Besides being the impetus and namesake of a very nice stadium, President Doe is most-known for:
- Luxuriating on the Liberian $50 banknote
- Establishing the fashion precedence of the well-manicured half-fro and the African dictator "Power Glasses" look. The lenses of Doe's glasses were said to be able to stop a 7.62 machine gun bullet and would melt the heart of any woman he looked at. Literally.
- The first Liberian president to take power by military coup instead of democratic election. In the spring of 1980, Doe's forces attacked and killed President William Tolbert Jr. and executed many of Tolbert's cabinet. Ironically, Doe was himself attacked, captured, tortured (on grisly, YouTube-able videotape) and killed in 1990--thus beginning Liberia's bloody civil war.
But there would be no war today--at least not in Liberia. Along with the conflict brewing to our east in the Ivory Coast, the Jasmine Revolution's ripple effect was being felt in nearby countries. Yet, you wouldn't know it from the gentle scenery in Liberia. Men, women and children went about their evening routines, seemingly oblivious to any turmoil past the borders.
The route downtown took us through an area called Congo Town. The houses were similar to ELWA. Most of them were modest, single-story dwellings with sheet metal roofing. Many appeared to also be home-based businesses in money changing, phone card sales, neighborhood "beer joints" or Playstation and Xbox repair. The signage was either in the form of weathered, wooden signs or written in paint directly on the house itself. I chucked at the irony. In my modern, western world, I have a 15-minute drive and still have to use Google to find Playstation or Xbox repair shops. In "primitive" Liberia, I would just need to walk down the road.
Amazing.
After a few minutes ride, the trappings of the Liberian suburbs quickly melted away. Its core became a familiar pageant of third-world urban sprawl. The corrugated metal strips that served as rooftops in Congo Town were only as good as fencing material inside the city.
All of the main streets and many of the side streets were paved. More than a few appeared to be newly built or refinished.
Regardless of condition, the curbs and "sidewalks" were littered with street vendors. It was well past 6pm local time, but roadside vendors seemed to actively occupy every inch of space. Again, the cottage industries of money changing and phone card sales dominated. As the street widened, we found several food vendors selling fruit, fish and cooked dishes under multi-colored umbrellas that looked like gigantic, halved beach balls. Everywhere we went, someone was hustling their wares. The city appeared to be one giant store. Zahnga explained that this is how the locals made money to eat and exist. Every day from sunup to sundown, hand-to-mouth. In day zero, I mentioned the distance and barriers between African-Americans and Africans immigrants. One of the common refrains heard from Africans in the USA is that "African-Americans are lazy". Being an American, I understand (and even secretly celebrate) the laziness that comes with extreme prosperity. Being an African-American, I both abhor and adore the quirky twists and the je ne sais quoi that some of my people can add to 'lazy'. But after what I saw in the evening hours of Monrovia?
You guys are absolutely correct. We're lazy. Compared to this? We're lazy as hell. You blokes got this round. African-Americans 0, Africans-in-America 1 .
Black-on-black rivalries aside… If you've had your fill of eating, talking on your mobile and converting Liberian Unity Dollars in to USD, the rest of the street vendors sell petrol and engine oil for the incessant swarms of motorcycle drivers on noisy two-stroke, Chinese bikes called "Pem-Pems" in the local English. The riders (called "Pem-Pem boys") use the bikes not only as personal mobility but also for socio-economic mobility. Often, local boys will work the same roadside stalls to save up enough money to buy a pem-pem. Once purchased, the bikes are used as taxis to ferry the (mostly car-less) population around the city. Though Monrovia has no shortage of regular taxi cabs, the rainy season can render some roads impassable by car. The nimble bikes can maneuver where cars cannot.
Most pem-pems are decked out with more stickers, doo-dads and flair than a 13-year-old girl's notebook. Many are also adorned with scriptures or other religious text. Divine intervention or otherwise, Pem-Pem boys need all the assistance they can muster, for there are surely parallels between the life expectancy of these two-wheeled believers and 19-year-old American infantrymen that fought in the Vietnam war. At least the Americans had rifles, tanks and air support. Monrovia's Pem-Pem riders bravely flit in and out of traffic with (maybe) a 20-year-old open-face helmet and Philippians 4:13 to protect them from SMSing cab drivers and bellicose two-and-a-half ton trucks. Notice that I did not mention anything about Pem-Pem Girls. Though I did see female or two on the bikes, most of Liberia's women seemed smart enough to avoid the situation altogether. As we continue our journey, you will see this male-female dynamic elsewhere.
How many pieces of "flair" do YOU count? (Hint - 19)
We were now inside the city proper. I noticed two things. First, Monrovia had zero qualms with placing large cell and satellite towers wherever they felt like. The mobile infrastructure was the most available, affordable and reliable of anywhere I have travelled. Consequently, nearly everyone in the city carried a mobile phone. The picture formed by burned out hulks of concrete high-rise buildings topped with inverted mobiles of dish arrays seemed surreal. Were it not for the palm trees and early 90's Japanese econobox cars, downtown Monrovia almost had a Gibsonesque, cyberpunk feel about it. After passing a street vendor loudly hawking phones and SIM cards, I halfway expected to stop at a West African version of the famed Chatsubo bar.
The 2nd thing was that the billboard and advert models were all black. And not the safe, non-threatening (beige or sexless) black women that still dominate American television and print media. These were stunning, in-your-face-sexy dark and lovely women. I'm sure it sounds odd that a black person would be astonished to see billboards and advertisements featuring black people in Africa. I'll admit..the feeling was both funny and embarrassing to me. But even though it can sometimes be a pleasant or amusing experience, culture shock is culture shock. I was dealing with an immersion that I had never experienced--even in predominantly black US cities like Atlanta, Georgia or Benton Harbor, Michigan.
We rode southwest up Broad street. The setting sun appeared to have no effect on the traffic. The cab drivers were still weaving through crowds of people.
Daiyouga and Zahnga were arguing over directions and old landmarks.
"The old British School was that way."
"No, no… it was over there.
"That can't be. THERE'S the ocean and THERE'S Tubman Boulevard….of COURSE it's that way!"
A consensus was reached just as Ducor Hotel sitting on its big hill. Zahnga noticed both Daiyouga and I craning our necks out the SUV's windows to get a better view.
"You guys want to go up there?"
"Oh yeah!", Daiyouga enthusiastically replied. I nodded in affirmation, although it was all on auto-pilot. We hadn't sat down for more than 15 minutes since stepping off the plane. I was feeling good and tired from the trip, heat and jet lag. Luckily the rush of a new city kept me going. We made our way up the big hill towards the Ducor.
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