This is an email I received from the guy sitting next to me at the internet cafe. I never spoke one word to him and he apparently got my name and email address by looking at my screen:
"Please Sahnah i am just in love with u, i like ur style from the very first day i set my eyes on u , am always thinking about u in my ways. u attracted me a lot. u are fantastic, u are everything, please reply me."
WTF?!!
19 August 2009
18 August 2009
Freetown
By a series of miracles, I have finally arrived in Freetown (Capital City of Sierra Leone). Okay, I’m being dramatic, but this trip across the border was neither the longest nor the most difficult but certainly the most uncertain trip of my life. I really didn’t think that I would ever make it here.
The trip started out well. Taxi from my house to the main departure station. Another 2 hour taxi ride to the border. And then things started going downhill. I spent a total of 4 hours at the border, 2 hours of which was trying to barter with the mean and greedy controller who wanted me to pay $250 for a visa (oh, I didn’t have time to get a visa ahead of time). After negotiating the price down to half, I got a marriage proposal, and then the same guy arranged a ride for me to Freetown (as opposed to multiple stops in a bush taxi). The ride was with a guy named Suleyman Barry. He is French Guinean who does consulting work as an engineer in West Africa. Sounded good then. Turns out he’s a power trippin, ill-tempered, weirdo. He took it upon himself to attempt to become my knight in shining armor, which meant that he wouldn’t let me do anything I wanted (when to eat or pee, walk on the right side of the road, open my car window…). Of course he made some serious passes at me, but just to assure everyone, I was never seriously threatened, only disgusted and annoyed.
Back to the story. When we finally crossed the border, it started raining heavily. After 3 hours of slow driving in mud and rain, the car broke down. We sent the driver running to the closest village (8 miles away) to find a mechanic. The mechanic came after 2 hours, but then went away and came back. I was too depressed to ask why. Because it was raining so hard, we had to sit in the car with the windows up for nearly 4 hours, and I thought I would die from heat exhaustion. Unfortunately, the 4 hours of wait did not bear fruitful results and we had to wait for a tractor to come for us. The tractor pulled us for nearly 3 hours and we arrived a village called Zimmi around 10pm. No electricity. No running water. Still with this crazy man. And extremely hungry. I realized that all I had that day was a piece of bread and a whole can of cold spam with mayo, but again, all we could find was bread. They tried to put some more mayo on it and I just couldn’t do it (mayo freaks me out and I avoid it at all cost in the states) so I just took the bread. After a cup of “tea” that tasted more like chocolate favored water and powder milk, I passed out under my mosquito net.
The next day wasn’t much better. We waited and waited and waited until the car could get fixed. It was 4pm when the mechanic finished, but then I overheard a guy saying how this town is 8 miles from the border. Wow. 8 miles in 16 hours. Not the pace that I need to be going at if I ever want to make it to Freetown and back to Monrovia for my flight. We then rode for 11 hours straight and FINALLY arrived in Freetown at 3am. I was dirty, I was wet from the rain, I was hungry (probably at least 3 pounds lighter than when I left Monrovia), and I was annoyed and constantly bickering with this Mr. Barry (he preferred I didn’t call him his first name).
After some more bickering with Barry, I ditched him first thing in the morning, which of course he took as an unimaginable insult. But as soon as I got on the moto taxi, I felt alive again. I found a place to stay, took a long, cold shower (running water!!), and got myself a chicken shawarma. Now I’m sitting in an airconditioned internet café and planning my next 4 days out =)
Initial impressions of Freetown? Much busier and densely populated than Dakar or Monrovia. Harassment is much more, but I’m irritable at the moment and have been better about just shutting people down. Even though most people can communicate in English, Leoneans prefer to speak Creole. The Muslim influence is much larger here (70% compared to the 30% in Liberia): I love hearing again the mosque calls and Koran readings blaring throughout the city. Overall, the energy is AMAZING. I love that in one direction I can see the ocean and in the other I can see tall hills. I will post entries as I continue to explore the city.
The trip started out well. Taxi from my house to the main departure station. Another 2 hour taxi ride to the border. And then things started going downhill. I spent a total of 4 hours at the border, 2 hours of which was trying to barter with the mean and greedy controller who wanted me to pay $250 for a visa (oh, I didn’t have time to get a visa ahead of time). After negotiating the price down to half, I got a marriage proposal, and then the same guy arranged a ride for me to Freetown (as opposed to multiple stops in a bush taxi). The ride was with a guy named Suleyman Barry. He is French Guinean who does consulting work as an engineer in West Africa. Sounded good then. Turns out he’s a power trippin, ill-tempered, weirdo. He took it upon himself to attempt to become my knight in shining armor, which meant that he wouldn’t let me do anything I wanted (when to eat or pee, walk on the right side of the road, open my car window…). Of course he made some serious passes at me, but just to assure everyone, I was never seriously threatened, only disgusted and annoyed.
Back to the story. When we finally crossed the border, it started raining heavily. After 3 hours of slow driving in mud and rain, the car broke down. We sent the driver running to the closest village (8 miles away) to find a mechanic. The mechanic came after 2 hours, but then went away and came back. I was too depressed to ask why. Because it was raining so hard, we had to sit in the car with the windows up for nearly 4 hours, and I thought I would die from heat exhaustion. Unfortunately, the 4 hours of wait did not bear fruitful results and we had to wait for a tractor to come for us. The tractor pulled us for nearly 3 hours and we arrived a village called Zimmi around 10pm. No electricity. No running water. Still with this crazy man. And extremely hungry. I realized that all I had that day was a piece of bread and a whole can of cold spam with mayo, but again, all we could find was bread. They tried to put some more mayo on it and I just couldn’t do it (mayo freaks me out and I avoid it at all cost in the states) so I just took the bread. After a cup of “tea” that tasted more like chocolate favored water and powder milk, I passed out under my mosquito net.
The next day wasn’t much better. We waited and waited and waited until the car could get fixed. It was 4pm when the mechanic finished, but then I overheard a guy saying how this town is 8 miles from the border. Wow. 8 miles in 16 hours. Not the pace that I need to be going at if I ever want to make it to Freetown and back to Monrovia for my flight. We then rode for 11 hours straight and FINALLY arrived in Freetown at 3am. I was dirty, I was wet from the rain, I was hungry (probably at least 3 pounds lighter than when I left Monrovia), and I was annoyed and constantly bickering with this Mr. Barry (he preferred I didn’t call him his first name).
After some more bickering with Barry, I ditched him first thing in the morning, which of course he took as an unimaginable insult. But as soon as I got on the moto taxi, I felt alive again. I found a place to stay, took a long, cold shower (running water!!), and got myself a chicken shawarma. Now I’m sitting in an airconditioned internet café and planning my next 4 days out =)
Initial impressions of Freetown? Much busier and densely populated than Dakar or Monrovia. Harassment is much more, but I’m irritable at the moment and have been better about just shutting people down. Even though most people can communicate in English, Leoneans prefer to speak Creole. The Muslim influence is much larger here (70% compared to the 30% in Liberia): I love hearing again the mosque calls and Koran readings blaring throughout the city. Overall, the energy is AMAZING. I love that in one direction I can see the ocean and in the other I can see tall hills. I will post entries as I continue to explore the city.
11 August 2009
Pilgrimage to Sierra Leone
I will be traveling to Sierra Leone in a bush taxi for 8 days, starting this Saturday. I met an Indian girl who had just finished traveling from Sierra Leone to Monrovia via bush taxi by herself and she felt completely safe doing so. Sierra Leone has huge significance for me since it was the first country I had done legitimate research on. It was my introduction to Sierra Leone, the diamond trade, the civil war, and child soldiers that had made me change my undergrad major from biology to international relations. Other countries dear to my heart are DRCongo, Rwanda, and Haiti, but SL also has a huge place in my heart. I’ll be spending most of my time in the capital city, Freetown, but will also be traveling through the rural counties. I’ll then be back in Monrovia for two days before I head to London, and finally returning to NYC!!
Liberian things
Liberian things
I realized that I really haven’t written much about the Liberian culture. Sadly I sense that some of it has been eroded by decades of insecurity and war, but there still exists some very Liberian things:
Everybody who has a cell phone has two cell phones. There are no monthly plans and instead people use “scratch cards” to refill their minutes as they go. There are primarily two carriers in the country but it is expensive to call between carriers. So people have two cell phones, one for each carrier. One can distinguish carriers by the first two digits of the cell phone number.
Because calling can be expensive, it is best to answer your phone when someone calls than to wait and call back. So everybody answers their phone at all times. It is not uncommon that a director of some organization will be presenting and he will answer his phone in the middle of his own presentation. Liberians also have no concept of putting their phones on vibrate or silent, so it’s constant ringing during meetings.
Liberians love spicy food, which of course makes me really happy. In general, I find the food much more agreeable than I had found in Senegal or Mauritania. My favorite dish is rice and pepper soup with fish.
Most Liberians are without electricity. Only the foreigners and Liberian elites have the means to maintain a generator. The generator, too, has its problems and it is not uncommon to hear someone complaining, “my generator’s trippin!! I feel violated.”
There are quite a few Liberian expressions, but I can only think of a couple at the moment.
-Instead of saying I’ll be right back, they’ll say “I’m coming small.”
-Instead of saying someone needs to lose weight, they’ll say “she/he needs to reduce.”
-It is common to add “o” to the end of a phrase: “Ih-rainy-o” means that it’s raining hard.
The Liberian women change their hair ALL the time (using extensions of various kinds). Most of them change their hair at least once a week, making it really confusing to remember or describe someone by their hair style.
Liberians mostly listen to three kinds of music: hiphop/r&b, popular west African music (Senegalese, Ivoirian, etc), and country. The most popular artists are Brandy, Akon, Beyonce, and Brandy. Did I mention Brandy? I don’t know if I missed something while I was in the U.S. but Brandy apparently made a comeback much larger than I ever knew.
Even if you’re not necessarily considered an “elite” it is a big no no to walk on the street and get things for yourself. It took me quite some time to get used to it, but now I just hand someone money to go get me a scratch card, a bottle of water, boiled eggs, or cigarettes. Merchants will stare back at you blankly if you go out of your house gates, walk to the stand and ask for some water.
The most common pick up line has been, “I wanna be your friend. Give me your number.” which is much more preferable than the Senegalese pick up line “I love you. Will you marry me?” But it’s still creepy. I simply respond to the Liberians by saying, “I don’t know you. You don’t know me. What you asking my phone number for?” And then they’ll crack up and go on with their daily business.
These are all generalizations of course. It’s definitely important to keep in mind that my time has been spent disproportionately with Liberian elites. What I haven’t mentioned is how much I appreciate the Liberian humor. Especially when it comes to their understanding and coping of the war and current stagnation of the country. They make fun of themselves and laugh it off. We were passing by two banners: one that read “is corruption our number one public enemy?” and another that read “This road is built by the Liberian government with your taxes.” Someone read it out loud and the entire crowd just started cracking up, some even falling off their seats. It might sound like they’re too pessimistic or cynical, but I find Liberians to have a healthy sense of humor, as well as a balance between idealism and practicality.
I realized that I really haven’t written much about the Liberian culture. Sadly I sense that some of it has been eroded by decades of insecurity and war, but there still exists some very Liberian things:
Everybody who has a cell phone has two cell phones. There are no monthly plans and instead people use “scratch cards” to refill their minutes as they go. There are primarily two carriers in the country but it is expensive to call between carriers. So people have two cell phones, one for each carrier. One can distinguish carriers by the first two digits of the cell phone number.
Because calling can be expensive, it is best to answer your phone when someone calls than to wait and call back. So everybody answers their phone at all times. It is not uncommon that a director of some organization will be presenting and he will answer his phone in the middle of his own presentation. Liberians also have no concept of putting their phones on vibrate or silent, so it’s constant ringing during meetings.
Liberians love spicy food, which of course makes me really happy. In general, I find the food much more agreeable than I had found in Senegal or Mauritania. My favorite dish is rice and pepper soup with fish.
Most Liberians are without electricity. Only the foreigners and Liberian elites have the means to maintain a generator. The generator, too, has its problems and it is not uncommon to hear someone complaining, “my generator’s trippin!! I feel violated.”
There are quite a few Liberian expressions, but I can only think of a couple at the moment.
-Instead of saying I’ll be right back, they’ll say “I’m coming small.”
-Instead of saying someone needs to lose weight, they’ll say “she/he needs to reduce.”
-It is common to add “o” to the end of a phrase: “Ih-rainy-o” means that it’s raining hard.
The Liberian women change their hair ALL the time (using extensions of various kinds). Most of them change their hair at least once a week, making it really confusing to remember or describe someone by their hair style.
Liberians mostly listen to three kinds of music: hiphop/r&b, popular west African music (Senegalese, Ivoirian, etc), and country. The most popular artists are Brandy, Akon, Beyonce, and Brandy. Did I mention Brandy? I don’t know if I missed something while I was in the U.S. but Brandy apparently made a comeback much larger than I ever knew.
Even if you’re not necessarily considered an “elite” it is a big no no to walk on the street and get things for yourself. It took me quite some time to get used to it, but now I just hand someone money to go get me a scratch card, a bottle of water, boiled eggs, or cigarettes. Merchants will stare back at you blankly if you go out of your house gates, walk to the stand and ask for some water.
The most common pick up line has been, “I wanna be your friend. Give me your number.” which is much more preferable than the Senegalese pick up line “I love you. Will you marry me?” But it’s still creepy. I simply respond to the Liberians by saying, “I don’t know you. You don’t know me. What you asking my phone number for?” And then they’ll crack up and go on with their daily business.
These are all generalizations of course. It’s definitely important to keep in mind that my time has been spent disproportionately with Liberian elites. What I haven’t mentioned is how much I appreciate the Liberian humor. Especially when it comes to their understanding and coping of the war and current stagnation of the country. They make fun of themselves and laugh it off. We were passing by two banners: one that read “is corruption our number one public enemy?” and another that read “This road is built by the Liberian government with your taxes.” Someone read it out loud and the entire crowd just started cracking up, some even falling off their seats. It might sound like they’re too pessimistic or cynical, but I find Liberians to have a healthy sense of humor, as well as a balance between idealism and practicality.
the adventures never end
I have been requesting to be out in the field more since I’ve been getting a little antsy at the office. So I joined a team of social workers on a two day trip to the rural counties to first, reunify “poverty orphans” with their biological parents, and second, to continue tracing parents of other orphans still remaining in institutions. The “ambulance” was mostly filled up with items for the families like bags of rice, sleeping mats, blankets, mosquito nets, etc. Consequently, there was very little space left: a sitting area for about 4 adults. Unfortunately, 6 children and 5 adults (including myself) were forced to cram into that little space. I had two kids on my lap, which could’ve been much more tolerable had the roads been not so bumpy. It took us over 6 hours to arrive at our first village, but during those 6 hours, the children spilled juice everywhere, stuffed themselves with some weird looking “chocolate biscuit”, and then got sick and starting puking. We couldn’t believe that it was already dark outside and we had only arrived at one of five destinations.
The villages were a great experience. The parents and villagers were so happy to have their children returned despite the initial resistance to take them back during the tracing process. The town chief was called and there was usually dancing and praying as well as a long conversation between the social workers and parents. In most of the villages, the people spoke different dialects and did not communicate in English. In the first village, a very old lady came to greet us and started yelping while flapping one of her breasts with her hand. I was terribly confused but figured that it had something to do with her joy of having children being returned to their mothers’ breasts? I was completely occupied by the joyous reception but then realized that no one was monitoring the other kids who we left in the ambulance. I walked over and as soon as I open the car door, one of the girls projectile vomited onto another one.
So we cleaned the ambulance best we could, wrapped up the reunification paper work, and headed out. It started raining heavily, of course, and the poor ambulance couldn’t make it up the long muddy hill, so we all got out of the car and walked back down the hill. With a kid in each arm, we trudged through the mud while the car reattempted the hill with a much lighter load now. We finally made it over the hill but because it was getting too late, we decided that we would find a place to sleep at the next destination and finish the reunification process the next day. We arrived in a small town called, Gbarnga, around 10pm, looked around for a place to sleep for quite some time, and found a place for the women and children (men slept in the ambulance). There were only two mattresses in the room, so I had 4 of the kids cuddled up next to me. I passed out almost immediately but the kids woke me up 3 times during the night to go pee, so my sleep was not as deep as I would have liked it to be.
The next morning was unexpectedly relaxing. We walked around the market and had somewhat of a substantial breakfast (fried eggs on bread with mayo; they’re obsessed with mayo here…). Then we went to 4 different villages and finished the reunification process by 8pm in the evening. What was amazing is that even though the kids were sick, hungry, drenched in rain and all kinds of bodily fluids, they never complained once. I probably struggled a lot more than the kids did; by the end of the trip, the kids were patting my back, helping me up from my seat, and feeding me bananas. I was already missing the “conveniences” of the city and desperately wanted a shower (especially after a village kid peed on me while I was holding him) as well as a toilet of some kind (we had been peeing on the side of the highway the entire time; at some point I just stopped caring and peed in broad daylight as cars passed by).
Yes I was exhausted and bruised from the car ride, but I still loved being out in the field. I tried my best to keep my smile and look somewhat energetic, but everyone knew that this wasn’t my normal routine. Pictures are posted below...? above..? (we'll see if the internet cooperates)
The villages were a great experience. The parents and villagers were so happy to have their children returned despite the initial resistance to take them back during the tracing process. The town chief was called and there was usually dancing and praying as well as a long conversation between the social workers and parents. In most of the villages, the people spoke different dialects and did not communicate in English. In the first village, a very old lady came to greet us and started yelping while flapping one of her breasts with her hand. I was terribly confused but figured that it had something to do with her joy of having children being returned to their mothers’ breasts? I was completely occupied by the joyous reception but then realized that no one was monitoring the other kids who we left in the ambulance. I walked over and as soon as I open the car door, one of the girls projectile vomited onto another one.
So we cleaned the ambulance best we could, wrapped up the reunification paper work, and headed out. It started raining heavily, of course, and the poor ambulance couldn’t make it up the long muddy hill, so we all got out of the car and walked back down the hill. With a kid in each arm, we trudged through the mud while the car reattempted the hill with a much lighter load now. We finally made it over the hill but because it was getting too late, we decided that we would find a place to sleep at the next destination and finish the reunification process the next day. We arrived in a small town called, Gbarnga, around 10pm, looked around for a place to sleep for quite some time, and found a place for the women and children (men slept in the ambulance). There were only two mattresses in the room, so I had 4 of the kids cuddled up next to me. I passed out almost immediately but the kids woke me up 3 times during the night to go pee, so my sleep was not as deep as I would have liked it to be.
The next morning was unexpectedly relaxing. We walked around the market and had somewhat of a substantial breakfast (fried eggs on bread with mayo; they’re obsessed with mayo here…). Then we went to 4 different villages and finished the reunification process by 8pm in the evening. What was amazing is that even though the kids were sick, hungry, drenched in rain and all kinds of bodily fluids, they never complained once. I probably struggled a lot more than the kids did; by the end of the trip, the kids were patting my back, helping me up from my seat, and feeding me bananas. I was already missing the “conveniences” of the city and desperately wanted a shower (especially after a village kid peed on me while I was holding him) as well as a toilet of some kind (we had been peeing on the side of the highway the entire time; at some point I just stopped caring and peed in broad daylight as cars passed by).
Yes I was exhausted and bruised from the car ride, but I still loved being out in the field. I tried my best to keep my smile and look somewhat energetic, but everyone knew that this wasn’t my normal routine. Pictures are posted below...? above..? (we'll see if the internet cooperates)
"monkey island"
One Sunday morning we decided last minute to head to a place known as “Monkey Island.” Nobody had reliable information on this monkey island. Do we get to touch the monkeys? Are they monkeys or gorillas? How many monkeys are there? How many bananas should we bring? How far away is it?
With all these unanswered questions, we hired a driver who seemed to know where he was going. We bought about 3 dozens bananas and crammed into a small cab. During our 2.5 hour ride there, 3 times we got a flat tire. Once the back bumper fell off, which the driver seemed to be totally uninterested in fixing even though it had been dragging on the road for 5 minutes. We finally asked him politely if we should take a look at it, and only then did he seemed to take notice. The driver’s name is Saidu. As much as we’d like to say that the monkeys were the highlight of the trip, we all know that without Saidu our adventure wouldn’t have been half as exciting. Saidu couldn’t speak English. Only after multiple miscommunications (or rather lack there of) did I have the sense in me to ask him where he was from and figure out that he was from French speaking Guinea. So finally the communication problem was solved, but now that we could actually converse, he just wouldn’t stop talking. He drove at very inconsistent speeds, at times going a tad too fast for our liking and other times just rolling along the speed of pedestrians. He chain smoked in the car, which was fine except that each time he tried to light his cigarette with matches the car swerved. Once we arrived in the village, he started chugging this wine like liquid. I tried a swig of it and realized that it was closer to hard liquor and that he had already drank a full bottle of it. We rented a “motor” boat that was really a canoe with a small motor on it. We parked the canoe 5 feet away from the island and finally met the monkeys. We realized that they were not monkeys but chimps. So we threw our bananas at the chimps and watched them rinse the bananas, peel them, and eat them one after another. After 30 minutes, we were ready to leave but Saidu just seemed too enthralled by the chimps that we stayed for a full hour. He really got into making the chimp noises and motions, jumping up and down on the canoe. Just when you thought he must be tired, he would finish a cigarette and start his communication with the chimps all over again. The canoe trip back to land, a brief stop at a nearby beach, and some time with the villagers were uneventful but relaxing.
We piled back into the taxi and drove for about 5 minutes when Saidu tells us he’ll be right back. We waited. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Maybe he was doing number 2, we all wondered? Finally he came back and we drove home in less than 1 hour! What a fun day with fun people and fun animals.
With all these unanswered questions, we hired a driver who seemed to know where he was going. We bought about 3 dozens bananas and crammed into a small cab. During our 2.5 hour ride there, 3 times we got a flat tire. Once the back bumper fell off, which the driver seemed to be totally uninterested in fixing even though it had been dragging on the road for 5 minutes. We finally asked him politely if we should take a look at it, and only then did he seemed to take notice. The driver’s name is Saidu. As much as we’d like to say that the monkeys were the highlight of the trip, we all know that without Saidu our adventure wouldn’t have been half as exciting. Saidu couldn’t speak English. Only after multiple miscommunications (or rather lack there of) did I have the sense in me to ask him where he was from and figure out that he was from French speaking Guinea. So finally the communication problem was solved, but now that we could actually converse, he just wouldn’t stop talking. He drove at very inconsistent speeds, at times going a tad too fast for our liking and other times just rolling along the speed of pedestrians. He chain smoked in the car, which was fine except that each time he tried to light his cigarette with matches the car swerved. Once we arrived in the village, he started chugging this wine like liquid. I tried a swig of it and realized that it was closer to hard liquor and that he had already drank a full bottle of it. We rented a “motor” boat that was really a canoe with a small motor on it. We parked the canoe 5 feet away from the island and finally met the monkeys. We realized that they were not monkeys but chimps. So we threw our bananas at the chimps and watched them rinse the bananas, peel them, and eat them one after another. After 30 minutes, we were ready to leave but Saidu just seemed too enthralled by the chimps that we stayed for a full hour. He really got into making the chimp noises and motions, jumping up and down on the canoe. Just when you thought he must be tired, he would finish a cigarette and start his communication with the chimps all over again. The canoe trip back to land, a brief stop at a nearby beach, and some time with the villagers were uneventful but relaxing.
We piled back into the taxi and drove for about 5 minutes when Saidu tells us he’ll be right back. We waited. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Maybe he was doing number 2, we all wondered? Finally he came back and we drove home in less than 1 hour! What a fun day with fun people and fun animals.
A weekend on the beach
Last weekend was Independence weekend for Liberia. So my friend Heather, Genevieve, Lydia, and I decided to head for the beach. Because it is rainy season in Liberia until October, it came as a pleasant surprise that it was sunny the entire weekend. Well, we were more than pleasantly surprised. We were jumping up and down ecstatic!! What is more, because Liberians were expecting bad weather, nobody else had come to the beach. So it was just us four ladies and the proprietor, who turned out to be the best story teller and entertainer ever.
We immediately jumped into the ocean and frolicked around. After drying off, we screwed open our bottles of red wine, gave each other massages, and snacked on fresh pineapple while watching the sunset. Then we had a nice grilled fish dinner and plantains, played some drunken volley ball, and danced for hours and hours. It was already becoming too freakin romantic and we couldn’t stop whining about it either, so we decided that anyone who utters the word “romantic”, “man”, or “single” would have to put money in a jar. We took nice cold showers at the end of the night, piled onto the bed, and started telling stories like we were kids in summer camp. Musa, the proprietor, told the craziest stories of all, having been a national hero/ex-football player who attended a lot of extravagant parties on the continent hosted by all kinds of shady politicians in the 80s and 90s.
The next day we just laid under sun all day and intermittently got up to take walks. We played with the kids from the village, talked to the fishers (who only caught 4 fish that day… which seemed weird to us since we could literally see fish weaving in and out of the sea), and took an excessive amount of pictures. Unfortunately most of Heather’s body got sunburned, while my poor sun-deprived bum and back got burned as well. It was just what all of us needed though, especially after the emotional week with Matthew’s passing and burial.
We immediately jumped into the ocean and frolicked around. After drying off, we screwed open our bottles of red wine, gave each other massages, and snacked on fresh pineapple while watching the sunset. Then we had a nice grilled fish dinner and plantains, played some drunken volley ball, and danced for hours and hours. It was already becoming too freakin romantic and we couldn’t stop whining about it either, so we decided that anyone who utters the word “romantic”, “man”, or “single” would have to put money in a jar. We took nice cold showers at the end of the night, piled onto the bed, and started telling stories like we were kids in summer camp. Musa, the proprietor, told the craziest stories of all, having been a national hero/ex-football player who attended a lot of extravagant parties on the continent hosted by all kinds of shady politicians in the 80s and 90s.
The next day we just laid under sun all day and intermittently got up to take walks. We played with the kids from the village, talked to the fishers (who only caught 4 fish that day… which seemed weird to us since we could literally see fish weaving in and out of the sea), and took an excessive amount of pictures. Unfortunately most of Heather’s body got sunburned, while my poor sun-deprived bum and back got burned as well. It was just what all of us needed though, especially after the emotional week with Matthew’s passing and burial.
08 August 2009
Sorry about the lack of blog entries!! I have so much to share and so little internet and computer access. I'll try to post all my backed up entries and pictures within the next few days. You can look forward to a two day adventure into the rural counties (ended up with a lot of bodily fluids on my clothes, including urine, vomit, and slobber), my upcoming solo trip to Sierra Leone, my first experience of seeing a very mutilated, dead corpse (brains, intestines, and severed hands), and a trip to the beach!!
28 July 2009
the passing of Matthew
Matthew passed away on July 23rd. I mentioned him briefly in a previous blog entry. The 3 year old with TB who looked like he was 6 months old.. He had a hernia, which he underwent surgery for, and also had a condition called spinal bifida. There is no qualified surgeon in Africa to treat this condition so he was planning to leave for his surgery to the US in just two days. TWO DAYS. We had visited him about 2 weeks before his passing and I was so surprised to hear that he had improved dramatically, because to me, he still appeared so small and frail. The department of social welfare was involved for a variety of reasons (neglect, poverty, adoption, etc) that are not too important now... The worst part of the whole situation is that Lydia and I got the call in morning before his birth parents ever found out. That day they happened to be in the city and happened to have scheduled a meeting with Lydia. So when we picked them up in our car, they still didn't know. After an awkward car ride that seemed to last forever, we stepped out of the car and Lydia finally broke the news to them at the office.
The next day we attended the burial. Matthew's mother was very quiet the entire car ride, but once we got to the burial site, she started wailing. She didn't stop for the next two hours. There is something so distinct about a mother's wailing who had just lost her child. Whether you've ever birthed a child or not, you understand that a mother's pain and loss is different from anyone else's... She then fainted a few times and didn't make it to the actual burial site. In all of the family's suffering, however, I took comfort in the grand father's role as a gentle and loving patriarch who fostered an equally loving atmosphere for his children and grand children. We knew that the mother was loved by her husband and that the father-in-law and that the rest of the family would step in to care for Matthew's little brother during the mother's suffering.
So after an emotional day, we were riding back in the "ambulance" when we witnessed a little girl get run over by a motorcycle not ten feet from our car. A huge crowd immediately gathered around the bleeding driver and shrieking girl and everyone started yelling at each other. After watching a cop car casually drive by without stopping, Lydia intervened and arranaged for immediate medical care. Both the driver and girl were standing, albeit badly scratched up and injured, which is just about what any of us could handle at that point.
Although I only met Matthew for a brief moment and know that hundreds of children die everyday, I hope that he knows that he was special and that he was loved by his family. May he rest in peace.
The next day we attended the burial. Matthew's mother was very quiet the entire car ride, but once we got to the burial site, she started wailing. She didn't stop for the next two hours. There is something so distinct about a mother's wailing who had just lost her child. Whether you've ever birthed a child or not, you understand that a mother's pain and loss is different from anyone else's... She then fainted a few times and didn't make it to the actual burial site. In all of the family's suffering, however, I took comfort in the grand father's role as a gentle and loving patriarch who fostered an equally loving atmosphere for his children and grand children. We knew that the mother was loved by her husband and that the father-in-law and that the rest of the family would step in to care for Matthew's little brother during the mother's suffering.
So after an emotional day, we were riding back in the "ambulance" when we witnessed a little girl get run over by a motorcycle not ten feet from our car. A huge crowd immediately gathered around the bleeding driver and shrieking girl and everyone started yelling at each other. After watching a cop car casually drive by without stopping, Lydia intervened and arranaged for immediate medical care. Both the driver and girl were standing, albeit badly scratched up and injured, which is just about what any of us could handle at that point.
Although I only met Matthew for a brief moment and know that hundreds of children die everyday, I hope that he knows that he was special and that he was loved by his family. May he rest in peace.
the passing of little Matthew ..
picture 1. Lydia, me, and the ambulance
picture 2. Matthew in Lydia's arms
picture 3. Matthew (he was able to sit up only for a few minutes)
19 July 2009
Rain everyday
+ mice
+ mosquitoes (I tried to sleep underneath the covers but when I woke up I had bites on my freakin eyelid and ears)
+ malaria pills
+ cell phone malfunction
+ computer breakdown
+ no public transportation
= homesickness and sleep deprivation.
I keep telling myself, everything’s fine. Everything’s easy. Life is comfortable. I love Liberia. I love my friends here. BUT, I also need to accept that I kinda love New York more, that I love my old friends more, and that I love my life more when I have access to technology and transportation. This might be obvious to others, but apparently I have a short memory span and struggle with this every time I travel. Rather than exaggerating and freaking out like I really should, I go into denial, tell myself that everything is okay and let things build up.
So, I just had to make a few adjustments. I stopped the malaria pills. I started reaching out to some of the foreigners. Talking to them makes me feel normal. To share the dorky excitement of working in a post-conflict country… I went salsa dancing. Found amazing Argentinean and Peruvian dance partners who can actually dance on 2 (sorry if that doesn’t mean anything to you) and sweated the night away. I stepped up the yoga and running. I found an amazing live reggae bar. I found a nice resort that I can have a brunch buffet by the beach, drink coffee, and read all afternoon.
The rest of the issues? I just have to deal with and move on. I only have 4 more weeks here (CRAZY) and I can deal without a computer. I can and have to deal with the mice and mosquitoes. And I have to accept the daily rain and just hope that there’ll be enough sun left in NYC when I get there and that I’ll take a kick ass vacation to somewhere warm in October or November.
Of course it doesn’t lift my spirits when we go out to the field to find a 3 year old boy with TB who looks like his barely 6 months old and can’t walk or talk. It doesn’t help when I have to visit an orphanage every week and fall in love with every single one of the 90 kids there. It doesn’t help to go into a GBV meeting and learn about all the new gang rape cases in the month of June.
And it doesn’t help to go to a national health conference and observe yet another yelling match. Oh, and then the crazies that come into the office everyday. The begging. The cursing. The loitering. The fighting. The office is like a freakin overflowing emergency room.
On a more positive note, I have been working on exciting projects. I just conducted a training for the departmental social workers on the orphanage accreditation process and regulations/minimal standards for the operation of orphanages. I’m developing a curriculum in collaboration with UNFPA (population fund) to train master trainers who will then go out to the rural counties and train medical staff on clinical responses to SGBV (sexual gender based violence). I’m revising the National Social Welfare Policy as well as the Liberian Ministry of Gender’s report to UNCRC (United Nations Committee on the Rights of the Child). Good stuff.
And my birthday weekend was great. Like last year, it was a whole weekend of celebrations. Friday, one of the interns baked me a cake which was great, but she unfortunately missed the memo about my hating karaoke and we ended up karaoke-ing until wee hours of the morning as I was passing out in the corner of the room. Saturday my boss and I spent the entire afternoon at our friend’s house situated right on the beach. We grilled some chicken on the bbq, drank a bottle of whiskey, and got pedicures and manicures. Sunday the neighbor, Sam, hosted a vodka party. He’s as shady as anyone can get, but kinda fun to hang out with. He has a big belly, 3 black SUVs with tinted windows, gold chains, and young women prancing around his compound at all times. I didn’t even make it to mid night (my actual birthday) and passed out early. My actual birthday was low key, just cooking at home and relaxing with a small group of friends.
Thanks again for all the lovely birthday wishes!! I'll try to post some more pictures in the next couple of days. Mwah!
+ mice
+ mosquitoes (I tried to sleep underneath the covers but when I woke up I had bites on my freakin eyelid and ears)
+ malaria pills
+ cell phone malfunction
+ computer breakdown
+ no public transportation
= homesickness and sleep deprivation.
I keep telling myself, everything’s fine. Everything’s easy. Life is comfortable. I love Liberia. I love my friends here. BUT, I also need to accept that I kinda love New York more, that I love my old friends more, and that I love my life more when I have access to technology and transportation. This might be obvious to others, but apparently I have a short memory span and struggle with this every time I travel. Rather than exaggerating and freaking out like I really should, I go into denial, tell myself that everything is okay and let things build up.
So, I just had to make a few adjustments. I stopped the malaria pills. I started reaching out to some of the foreigners. Talking to them makes me feel normal. To share the dorky excitement of working in a post-conflict country… I went salsa dancing. Found amazing Argentinean and Peruvian dance partners who can actually dance on 2 (sorry if that doesn’t mean anything to you) and sweated the night away. I stepped up the yoga and running. I found an amazing live reggae bar. I found a nice resort that I can have a brunch buffet by the beach, drink coffee, and read all afternoon.
The rest of the issues? I just have to deal with and move on. I only have 4 more weeks here (CRAZY) and I can deal without a computer. I can and have to deal with the mice and mosquitoes. And I have to accept the daily rain and just hope that there’ll be enough sun left in NYC when I get there and that I’ll take a kick ass vacation to somewhere warm in October or November.
Of course it doesn’t lift my spirits when we go out to the field to find a 3 year old boy with TB who looks like his barely 6 months old and can’t walk or talk. It doesn’t help when I have to visit an orphanage every week and fall in love with every single one of the 90 kids there. It doesn’t help to go into a GBV meeting and learn about all the new gang rape cases in the month of June.
And it doesn’t help to go to a national health conference and observe yet another yelling match. Oh, and then the crazies that come into the office everyday. The begging. The cursing. The loitering. The fighting. The office is like a freakin overflowing emergency room.
On a more positive note, I have been working on exciting projects. I just conducted a training for the departmental social workers on the orphanage accreditation process and regulations/minimal standards for the operation of orphanages. I’m developing a curriculum in collaboration with UNFPA (population fund) to train master trainers who will then go out to the rural counties and train medical staff on clinical responses to SGBV (sexual gender based violence). I’m revising the National Social Welfare Policy as well as the Liberian Ministry of Gender’s report to UNCRC (United Nations Committee on the Rights of the Child). Good stuff.
And my birthday weekend was great. Like last year, it was a whole weekend of celebrations. Friday, one of the interns baked me a cake which was great, but she unfortunately missed the memo about my hating karaoke and we ended up karaoke-ing until wee hours of the morning as I was passing out in the corner of the room. Saturday my boss and I spent the entire afternoon at our friend’s house situated right on the beach. We grilled some chicken on the bbq, drank a bottle of whiskey, and got pedicures and manicures. Sunday the neighbor, Sam, hosted a vodka party. He’s as shady as anyone can get, but kinda fun to hang out with. He has a big belly, 3 black SUVs with tinted windows, gold chains, and young women prancing around his compound at all times. I didn’t even make it to mid night (my actual birthday) and passed out early. My actual birthday was low key, just cooking at home and relaxing with a small group of friends.
Thanks again for all the lovely birthday wishes!! I'll try to post some more pictures in the next couple of days. Mwah!
old post from 10 days ago
The weekend started out by entering the ministry van (which we’ve endearingly termed “the ambulance”) to finding a 9 year old child in the back. He had been picked up by one of our social workers at the central police station. The child had been abandoned by his parents due to his mental illness and had been wandering in the middle of the street until a woman dragged him out and took him to the police station. I tried to talk to the child to get some more information from him but he just stared back. He had neon polka dot shorts on and painted toe nails. I put a shirt on him and fed him a banana while we were heading to the safe home. I found out today that the child had an epileptic seizure two days later and has not been conscious since.
We had a relatively relaxing night, drinking tea and reading our books (I’m almost finished with the autobiography of Benazir Bhutto!). When I was lying in bed, very unfortunately with my glasses on, I saw a mouse come into the room. It was a small and fast little bastard. It just wouldn’t stay away from my bed. Every time I tried to force myself to sleep, it would scurry underneath the bed or up and down the curtains behind the bed. So after much deliberation and disappointment at myself for making it such a big deal, I went out into the living room and slept on the couch. It probably wasn’t a better choice but at least I didn’t hear it moving around before falling asleep.
Saturday morning 4 social workers, my boss, and I headed to the rural counties to visit an orphanage. The ride was 3.5 hours each way on horrible roads, so our bodies were aching when we got back to the city at 10pm. It turned out to be a fun road trip though. We took breaks on the side of the road and munched on grilled corn and deer meat. We jammed to all kinds of interesting R&B and hiphop. Oh, and Celine Dion.
There were 3 reasons for the trip: to investigate the death of a 14 year old girl in the orphanage, to do a general evaluation as a part of its accreditation process, and to profile all children so that they may potentially be reunited with their parents or relatives. Our final assessment: the 14 year old girl was neglected for more than 5 days after having contracted malaria and was not brought to prompt medical care even when transportation and ability to pay was not an issue. Other than the case of neglect that led to the death of a child, the orphanage was running well compared to other orphanages in the country, but still well below the legal standards that have been put forth by the Ministry.
We then moved onto the profiling of the children. This is always my favorite part of our visits. We get to sit with the children and talk with them for hours. Again, I fell in love with this particular boy named Richard. He was wearing a green sweater that he had on backwards in over 90 degree weather, washed out cotton shorts, and white and pink boots. His belly was tightly swollen from having suffered malnutrition. He had the cutest husky voice and beautiful eyes.
This orphanage experience was drastically different from the one in the capital city. It was surrounded by hills where chicken and dogs were running around. That brings its own dangers in terms of children running off on their own or threats of disease and snake bites, but this rural setting seemed much more conducive for the children. Unfortunately, or rather fortunately, we will be recommending the closure of this orphanage due to the mishandling of the malaria case and non-compliance with minimum standards.
The next morning my boss and I went to yoga. We had been doing power yoga with a different instructor during the week, but decided to check out the hatha yoga instructor this time. After an extremely challenging and sweaty session, we sat in a circle and ate fruit salad and a vegan meal (eggplant and bulgar wheat). It was everything hippy that one could possibly imagine: listening to Dalai Lama’s chanting, burning candles, and sharing the negative experiences from our work week while holding hands.
EVERYBODY’s getting sick from malaria. I actually think I’m getting hallucinations and the vivid dreams again from the malaria pills. I don’t even know if this is supposed to be one of the side effects of this particular malaria pill, but it’s definitely happening. This is why I stopped taking them when I was in Senegal (different pill), but I’m waking up completely tired and disoriented. I’ll have to weigh the risks and the side effects during the next few days to see if I’ll continue with the pills.
So… my computer broke down. The hard drive is damaged. I don’t know why. I lost all my data. I do have most of it backed up but not all of it. I have to get a new hard drive, or just decide to do without one. Anyhow, I’ll post another entry about the birthday extravaganza in the next few days!!
We had a relatively relaxing night, drinking tea and reading our books (I’m almost finished with the autobiography of Benazir Bhutto!). When I was lying in bed, very unfortunately with my glasses on, I saw a mouse come into the room. It was a small and fast little bastard. It just wouldn’t stay away from my bed. Every time I tried to force myself to sleep, it would scurry underneath the bed or up and down the curtains behind the bed. So after much deliberation and disappointment at myself for making it such a big deal, I went out into the living room and slept on the couch. It probably wasn’t a better choice but at least I didn’t hear it moving around before falling asleep.
Saturday morning 4 social workers, my boss, and I headed to the rural counties to visit an orphanage. The ride was 3.5 hours each way on horrible roads, so our bodies were aching when we got back to the city at 10pm. It turned out to be a fun road trip though. We took breaks on the side of the road and munched on grilled corn and deer meat. We jammed to all kinds of interesting R&B and hiphop. Oh, and Celine Dion.
There were 3 reasons for the trip: to investigate the death of a 14 year old girl in the orphanage, to do a general evaluation as a part of its accreditation process, and to profile all children so that they may potentially be reunited with their parents or relatives. Our final assessment: the 14 year old girl was neglected for more than 5 days after having contracted malaria and was not brought to prompt medical care even when transportation and ability to pay was not an issue. Other than the case of neglect that led to the death of a child, the orphanage was running well compared to other orphanages in the country, but still well below the legal standards that have been put forth by the Ministry.
We then moved onto the profiling of the children. This is always my favorite part of our visits. We get to sit with the children and talk with them for hours. Again, I fell in love with this particular boy named Richard. He was wearing a green sweater that he had on backwards in over 90 degree weather, washed out cotton shorts, and white and pink boots. His belly was tightly swollen from having suffered malnutrition. He had the cutest husky voice and beautiful eyes.
This orphanage experience was drastically different from the one in the capital city. It was surrounded by hills where chicken and dogs were running around. That brings its own dangers in terms of children running off on their own or threats of disease and snake bites, but this rural setting seemed much more conducive for the children. Unfortunately, or rather fortunately, we will be recommending the closure of this orphanage due to the mishandling of the malaria case and non-compliance with minimum standards.
The next morning my boss and I went to yoga. We had been doing power yoga with a different instructor during the week, but decided to check out the hatha yoga instructor this time. After an extremely challenging and sweaty session, we sat in a circle and ate fruit salad and a vegan meal (eggplant and bulgar wheat). It was everything hippy that one could possibly imagine: listening to Dalai Lama’s chanting, burning candles, and sharing the negative experiences from our work week while holding hands.
EVERYBODY’s getting sick from malaria. I actually think I’m getting hallucinations and the vivid dreams again from the malaria pills. I don’t even know if this is supposed to be one of the side effects of this particular malaria pill, but it’s definitely happening. This is why I stopped taking them when I was in Senegal (different pill), but I’m waking up completely tired and disoriented. I’ll have to weigh the risks and the side effects during the next few days to see if I’ll continue with the pills.
So… my computer broke down. The hard drive is damaged. I don’t know why. I lost all my data. I do have most of it backed up but not all of it. I have to get a new hard drive, or just decide to do without one. Anyhow, I’ll post another entry about the birthday extravaganza in the next few days!!
05 July 2009
03 July 2009
30 June 2009
Saturday morning my boss and I visited an orphanage. The children were surprisingly well-disciplined and approached me one by one. They said hello, but the rest of our interaction was mostly non-verbal. They just wanted to touch me and be touched. For the next two hours, we sat there and just held each other. There was a 1 year old baby boy named Noah that I just couldn’t let go of. He had big, sad eyes and a quiet demeanor. When I laid him down to put him to sleep, he rolled over on his stomach with his eyes still open and started crying without making noise. All those things that I thought mattered in life. My education. My career. My goals. All of it seemed so unimportant for those two hours. All these children wanted and needed was affection. I was so emotional that I couldn’t look into a child’s eyes for more than a brief moment. I couldn’t really talk. I could barely smile. I seriously thought that I could live with these children for the rest of my life. I would be so happy just making sure that each kid was hugged and kissed before they went to bed. It was a passing, irrational thought, of course, but it reminded me of how I need to keep myself in the field and never distance myself too much.
The children were fascinated by my glasses, nose ring, and hair. They kept saying, “Real hair. This is real hair.” I would then have to tell them that they have real hair too and that it’s just as pretty as mine.
There are a total of 29 kids in this particular orphanage, ranging from 18 months old to 8 years old. There are a total of 115 orphanages registered in the entire country, and of those, 90 are planning to close. I also found out that there is a specific reason for “lack of funding.” Many of these orphanages are not providing even the most basic services or infrastructure, but all the while making a profit from the funding that they receive from the government. More importantly, orphanages have become the primary site for trafficking, rape, drugs, and abuse. So it is not that funding is lacking per se, but that funding is being deliberately cut by the government for non-compliant and mismanaged orphanages. Equally interesting is that the ministry estimates that at least 50% of the children have parents or immediate family, but they are either unwilling or unable to take care of their children. So the ministry is in charge of evaluating each and every one of these orphanages, doing psychosocial evaluations of all the children who currently live in orphanages that are to be closed, and trying to reunite the “poverty” orphans with their families who mostly reside in the rural counties. From Thursday through Saturday, we will be visiting orphanages in the rural counties, so I’m very excited to be getting out of the capital city.
That same night, my boss was invited as guest judge for a beauty pageant so she, her aunt, and I got dressed up and headed to the city hall where the beauty pageant was to be held. The pageant, I realized, was actually a kind of a prom for students from 4 different universities so everyone was dressed up. After a 2 hour delay, the pageant finally started. The first 30 minutes were entertaining. The next 5 hours (I’m not exaggerating, we were at the pageant for 7.5 hours) were the slowest 5 hours of my life. The majority of the program was pretty much like a strip show that later turned into a dance off between the different schools. There was “entertainment” in between the appearances, which involved a bunch of dudes in fake bling coming on stage and lip-sync-ing (?) to top 40 hip-hop from 5 years ago. The aunt (who I now call auntie) was sitting there just ripping apart all the contestants, which provided a little bit of relief, but both of us were giving the death stare to our boss for having brought us there. By 5 am, everybody was drunk, naked, and dry humping. Around 6 am we finally got back to the hotel that auntie owns and passed out. It was really like a big slumber party, with the three of us getting ready together for the pageant, sleeping in the same bed, watching movies, waking up and rolling around all afternoon.
Auntie decided to call me Chinese-African girl, which is just wrong in so many ways. There is actually a huge Chinese presence here, but they don’t have such a good reputation. Apparently they just built a new embassy that is so huge that Liberians call it the China village. Anyways, Liberians definitely have had more exposure to Asians than an average African would in another country. So when auntie first saw me, she said, “You have a behind for a Chinese girl. You keep eating the way you do, eating all that foufou, you’ll become full African by the time you leave.” Since then, she’s been calling me Chinese-African girl every single time. Auntie is certainly not the only one that has commented and it seems that everyone agrees that I just need to gain more weight to make my half-African butt a full one.
Sunday afternoon we went to a cousin’s house for an amazing dinner. It was amazing because they had really good salad. And good chicken. And good collard greens. It was like Thanksgiving. We ate and drank for hours.
I haven’t had internet for the past two days and it seems that I’ll have very irregular access from this point on. With the travels coming up this week, I probably won’t post another entry until the end of this week!
The children were fascinated by my glasses, nose ring, and hair. They kept saying, “Real hair. This is real hair.” I would then have to tell them that they have real hair too and that it’s just as pretty as mine.
There are a total of 29 kids in this particular orphanage, ranging from 18 months old to 8 years old. There are a total of 115 orphanages registered in the entire country, and of those, 90 are planning to close. I also found out that there is a specific reason for “lack of funding.” Many of these orphanages are not providing even the most basic services or infrastructure, but all the while making a profit from the funding that they receive from the government. More importantly, orphanages have become the primary site for trafficking, rape, drugs, and abuse. So it is not that funding is lacking per se, but that funding is being deliberately cut by the government for non-compliant and mismanaged orphanages. Equally interesting is that the ministry estimates that at least 50% of the children have parents or immediate family, but they are either unwilling or unable to take care of their children. So the ministry is in charge of evaluating each and every one of these orphanages, doing psychosocial evaluations of all the children who currently live in orphanages that are to be closed, and trying to reunite the “poverty” orphans with their families who mostly reside in the rural counties. From Thursday through Saturday, we will be visiting orphanages in the rural counties, so I’m very excited to be getting out of the capital city.
That same night, my boss was invited as guest judge for a beauty pageant so she, her aunt, and I got dressed up and headed to the city hall where the beauty pageant was to be held. The pageant, I realized, was actually a kind of a prom for students from 4 different universities so everyone was dressed up. After a 2 hour delay, the pageant finally started. The first 30 minutes were entertaining. The next 5 hours (I’m not exaggerating, we were at the pageant for 7.5 hours) were the slowest 5 hours of my life. The majority of the program was pretty much like a strip show that later turned into a dance off between the different schools. There was “entertainment” in between the appearances, which involved a bunch of dudes in fake bling coming on stage and lip-sync-ing (?) to top 40 hip-hop from 5 years ago. The aunt (who I now call auntie) was sitting there just ripping apart all the contestants, which provided a little bit of relief, but both of us were giving the death stare to our boss for having brought us there. By 5 am, everybody was drunk, naked, and dry humping. Around 6 am we finally got back to the hotel that auntie owns and passed out. It was really like a big slumber party, with the three of us getting ready together for the pageant, sleeping in the same bed, watching movies, waking up and rolling around all afternoon.
Auntie decided to call me Chinese-African girl, which is just wrong in so many ways. There is actually a huge Chinese presence here, but they don’t have such a good reputation. Apparently they just built a new embassy that is so huge that Liberians call it the China village. Anyways, Liberians definitely have had more exposure to Asians than an average African would in another country. So when auntie first saw me, she said, “You have a behind for a Chinese girl. You keep eating the way you do, eating all that foufou, you’ll become full African by the time you leave.” Since then, she’s been calling me Chinese-African girl every single time. Auntie is certainly not the only one that has commented and it seems that everyone agrees that I just need to gain more weight to make my half-African butt a full one.
Sunday afternoon we went to a cousin’s house for an amazing dinner. It was amazing because they had really good salad. And good chicken. And good collard greens. It was like Thanksgiving. We ate and drank for hours.
I haven’t had internet for the past two days and it seems that I’ll have very irregular access from this point on. With the travels coming up this week, I probably won’t post another entry until the end of this week!
26 June 2009
I went out with the foreigners last night. I found out that I had been living with a recent SIPA grad from Nigeria all this time at my temporary residence. He and other UNICEF staff, consultants, and fellows went out to dinner and shared experiences. It seems like Liberia will be a great place to network professionally since it’s so saturated with foreign workers.
I went into the town center this morning to accompany Reuben, the administrative assistant who is now one of my closest co-workers. He introduced me to the head commissioner at the Liberian Embassy, who promised me unlimited re-entry into Liberia for free! The city center was pure chaos of course, but I would have to come back and explore it on foot rather than vehicle.
When I got back to the office, there was a 19 year old girl named Princess (it’s her actual legal name), who wanted her son Obama to be adopted by another Liberian couple. Obama is now 7 months old, but Princess is already pregnant with another child. After a yelling match that involved mostly screaming at Princess to get her tubes tied, the social worker and my boss finally filled out the necessary paper work and sent her on her way.
Orphanages and adoption are huge national issues at the moment. First of all, orphanages are closing due to lack of funding and the ministry is in charge of coordinating the reunification with relatives or birth parents, which is preferable to domestic or international adoption. However, because many children have been trafficked into orphanages and internationally adopted by unknowing parents (mostly westerners), adoption has now been suspended. So today we started developing intake forms for social workers to fill out during visits to orphanages that are about to close.
The rest of the afternoon was spent interviewing social workers for the new Peace Building Project. A total of 80 social workers will go into the rural communities and finally start referring returning refugees and war victims to appropriate social services. Their salary is a meager $100 a month. Once hired, they will be trained by our ministry, which I am totally excited about. The interviewees range from fantastic to not fantastic at all. It was like American Idol, really. The crazies and out of controls, the comedians, the talkers, the shy and painfully awkward ones…
I stepped out to get some lunch at the ministry cafeteria. The lunch lady is Mrs. Margaret. She’s big, loud, old, and barely understandable. When I asked her for food, she said no more food left for ministry workers unless we’re a part of the professional training that was going on. Then she called me into the kitchen, had me squat down next to her, and gave me a plate to eat anyway. I think she was trying to hide me from the rest of the ministry people. As I gulped down my first glass of Liberian tap water, I gained my official approval from Mrs. Margaret. We’ll see how long it takes for my stomach to react now…
In the evening I dropped off my luggage at my boss’s house and we headed to a soccer game. She made a phone call to a good friend who was able to get us VIP tickets. He rolled in with his SUV, blaring Jay-Z. He used to be a banker in the states and has now returned to Liberia for the rebuilding, working for its central bank. We arrived at the stadium and got seated two rows away from the President! Soccer games are really a must experience in Africa. The energy was insane. The rain was pouring down and the crowd was roaring the entire time. We could only stay for half of the match, however, out of fear that the Liberian national team would lose and that the security situation would get out of hand. We then came back home, drank some wine, and relaxed. This housing situation with the boss is going to work really well =)
Side note: I already started my weight gain. Pants are barely fitting. The Liberians love it. They’re on a mission to make me bigger. And I have some good pictures. Will post them when I have a better internet connection.
I went into the town center this morning to accompany Reuben, the administrative assistant who is now one of my closest co-workers. He introduced me to the head commissioner at the Liberian Embassy, who promised me unlimited re-entry into Liberia for free! The city center was pure chaos of course, but I would have to come back and explore it on foot rather than vehicle.
When I got back to the office, there was a 19 year old girl named Princess (it’s her actual legal name), who wanted her son Obama to be adopted by another Liberian couple. Obama is now 7 months old, but Princess is already pregnant with another child. After a yelling match that involved mostly screaming at Princess to get her tubes tied, the social worker and my boss finally filled out the necessary paper work and sent her on her way.
Orphanages and adoption are huge national issues at the moment. First of all, orphanages are closing due to lack of funding and the ministry is in charge of coordinating the reunification with relatives or birth parents, which is preferable to domestic or international adoption. However, because many children have been trafficked into orphanages and internationally adopted by unknowing parents (mostly westerners), adoption has now been suspended. So today we started developing intake forms for social workers to fill out during visits to orphanages that are about to close.
The rest of the afternoon was spent interviewing social workers for the new Peace Building Project. A total of 80 social workers will go into the rural communities and finally start referring returning refugees and war victims to appropriate social services. Their salary is a meager $100 a month. Once hired, they will be trained by our ministry, which I am totally excited about. The interviewees range from fantastic to not fantastic at all. It was like American Idol, really. The crazies and out of controls, the comedians, the talkers, the shy and painfully awkward ones…
I stepped out to get some lunch at the ministry cafeteria. The lunch lady is Mrs. Margaret. She’s big, loud, old, and barely understandable. When I asked her for food, she said no more food left for ministry workers unless we’re a part of the professional training that was going on. Then she called me into the kitchen, had me squat down next to her, and gave me a plate to eat anyway. I think she was trying to hide me from the rest of the ministry people. As I gulped down my first glass of Liberian tap water, I gained my official approval from Mrs. Margaret. We’ll see how long it takes for my stomach to react now…
In the evening I dropped off my luggage at my boss’s house and we headed to a soccer game. She made a phone call to a good friend who was able to get us VIP tickets. He rolled in with his SUV, blaring Jay-Z. He used to be a banker in the states and has now returned to Liberia for the rebuilding, working for its central bank. We arrived at the stadium and got seated two rows away from the President! Soccer games are really a must experience in Africa. The energy was insane. The rain was pouring down and the crowd was roaring the entire time. We could only stay for half of the match, however, out of fear that the Liberian national team would lose and that the security situation would get out of hand. We then came back home, drank some wine, and relaxed. This housing situation with the boss is going to work really well =)
Side note: I already started my weight gain. Pants are barely fitting. The Liberians love it. They’re on a mission to make me bigger. And I have some good pictures. Will post them when I have a better internet connection.
24 June 2009
My boss! Oh my boss. So I forgot to describe my very first interaction with her. She yells at me to go into her office, then slams the door on a woman’s face who was trying to barge in. She then tells me that she’s really a nice person but that sometimes some people cross the line. She constantly puts people on the spot, has an amazing sense of humor, doesn’t hesitate to just grab food out of people’s hands for herself … Men literally have their head down with hands in between their legs when they talk to her. She emasculates both men and women viciously yet somehow manages to balance it with her humor and maternal qualities. For those of you who were with me in Senegal, she’s like Anne-Marie times three if you can even imagine. The things that she says are absolutely hilarious, although she could really say anything and it would still be funny. For example, she said this morning, “I’m not trying to make anybody rich but me.” Whatever the context, who says that?
She offered to rent out her room to me this morning. I briefly hesitated at the thought of living with my boss, but professionalism has been completely redefined by my experience at Planned Parenthood (in a very positive way). Really, professionalism is and should not be mutually exclusive with keeping personal life private, at least in the social services field. She lives on the “other side of town” with the rest of the “social welfare people” (the health ministry staff constantly shake their heads and mumble, “oh, those social welfare people…” and suck their teeth). We’ll all be commuting to and from work together. So my housing situation is finally settled then. Not a “family” setting per se, but like so many of my past living experiences, I’ll be with an outspoken single woman (my Senegalese grandma had been widowed for over 20 years, my Ecuadorian mom was abandoned by her husband, and I haven’t quite figured out what my boss’ situation is other than the fact the she is a single mother) who will yell at me incessantly and take care of me all at the same time.
Equally exciting is the fact that she’s close friends with the president (president Sirleaf) and her family. She was talking about a private dinner party that she attended with the president last night and she described the president as a ball-breaking lady in her 70s that intimidates even my boss herself. Can’t wait!
Today we went to the police station. Once we got there she asked me what happened to Maurice? I told her that she left him at the parking lot of the Ministry. She does this often. She’ll ask for people that she left behind either on purpose or by neglect. Anyways, we accidentally walked through the “exit” and the guards made us come back out and go through the “enter” side of the door. We met the head of the women and children protection office, who presented us with a trafficking case. The social workers, the department of social welfare (us), the police department, the parents, and the victim all sat down for two hours and had the craziest, most productive discussion together. Long story short, the handicapped girl had been abused by her father, but the social workers mishandled the case because the girl was 17 at the time of abuse and still a minor, and then the parents were trying to take her out of the group home accusing the social workers of kidnapping and trafficking. After coherent conversations, yelling matches, and crying, each of us (Yes, including me. My boss totally put me on the spot) went around and expressed our final opinion and came to a conclusion. Somehow there was a balance between something that resembled community justice in which the most respected (for example, the aunt of the victim who was the family mediator) informally came to a conclusion and a more modern justice system in which staff from different fields followed through with official protocols to complement the former decision. Meanwhile outside there was constant shrieking from a rape victim who had just come into the station.
Other random things:
-I found the most amazing yoga class. Since my instructor in Seattle I haven’t found a good one, but this yoga instructor was amazing and I got a great workout last night. Combined with some running and jump roping, I think I’ll be able to stay in decent shape.
-Oh, an example of the Liberian accent: “We-yi-ah?” means where are you at… imagine entire sentences being spoken in that incompleteness with a West African accent..
-I love love love the smell of Africa. Every African country I’ve been to, it smells the same. It’s intoxicating. It smells a little of dirt and of something burning…?
She offered to rent out her room to me this morning. I briefly hesitated at the thought of living with my boss, but professionalism has been completely redefined by my experience at Planned Parenthood (in a very positive way). Really, professionalism is and should not be mutually exclusive with keeping personal life private, at least in the social services field. She lives on the “other side of town” with the rest of the “social welfare people” (the health ministry staff constantly shake their heads and mumble, “oh, those social welfare people…” and suck their teeth). We’ll all be commuting to and from work together. So my housing situation is finally settled then. Not a “family” setting per se, but like so many of my past living experiences, I’ll be with an outspoken single woman (my Senegalese grandma had been widowed for over 20 years, my Ecuadorian mom was abandoned by her husband, and I haven’t quite figured out what my boss’ situation is other than the fact the she is a single mother) who will yell at me incessantly and take care of me all at the same time.
Equally exciting is the fact that she’s close friends with the president (president Sirleaf) and her family. She was talking about a private dinner party that she attended with the president last night and she described the president as a ball-breaking lady in her 70s that intimidates even my boss herself. Can’t wait!
Today we went to the police station. Once we got there she asked me what happened to Maurice? I told her that she left him at the parking lot of the Ministry. She does this often. She’ll ask for people that she left behind either on purpose or by neglect. Anyways, we accidentally walked through the “exit” and the guards made us come back out and go through the “enter” side of the door. We met the head of the women and children protection office, who presented us with a trafficking case. The social workers, the department of social welfare (us), the police department, the parents, and the victim all sat down for two hours and had the craziest, most productive discussion together. Long story short, the handicapped girl had been abused by her father, but the social workers mishandled the case because the girl was 17 at the time of abuse and still a minor, and then the parents were trying to take her out of the group home accusing the social workers of kidnapping and trafficking. After coherent conversations, yelling matches, and crying, each of us (Yes, including me. My boss totally put me on the spot) went around and expressed our final opinion and came to a conclusion. Somehow there was a balance between something that resembled community justice in which the most respected (for example, the aunt of the victim who was the family mediator) informally came to a conclusion and a more modern justice system in which staff from different fields followed through with official protocols to complement the former decision. Meanwhile outside there was constant shrieking from a rape victim who had just come into the station.
Other random things:
-I found the most amazing yoga class. Since my instructor in Seattle I haven’t found a good one, but this yoga instructor was amazing and I got a great workout last night. Combined with some running and jump roping, I think I’ll be able to stay in decent shape.
-Oh, an example of the Liberian accent: “We-yi-ah?” means where are you at… imagine entire sentences being spoken in that incompleteness with a West African accent..
-I love love love the smell of Africa. Every African country I’ve been to, it smells the same. It’s intoxicating. It smells a little of dirt and of something burning…?
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