Tuesday, March 10, 2009

"Pray the Devil Back to Hell"

This last weekend Monrovia has played host to an "International Women's Colloquium." It was a giant gathering of dignitaries (19 heads of state!), NGOs, and community representatives to discuss ways to empower women to improve their situations in conflict, post-conflict, and third-world countries. Cool stuff. There was also a trade fair. Cooler stuff. The fact that Liberia was able to host so many important people without anything crazy going down, is a testament to how far this country has come.

But the real cool stuff was last night. The whole event was hosted at Samuel Kanyon Doe Sports Complex, a giant football stadium. Last night they had all the chairs out on the soccer field and they showed a special screening of a new documentary, "Pray the Devil Back to Hell" on the big score screen, to a crowd of thousands, the president of Liberia in the audience.
The flick is about a group of Christian and Muslim women who came together during the Liberian civil war to pray and protest for the sake of peace. The film didn't fully grip me until I saw footage of the very stadium I was sitting in filled with displaced people seeking refuge. The proximity of it all was overwhelming.

I don't think it is out on DVD in North America yet, but when it is available, don't hesitate to watch it. It is a well told grassroots story about a group of women who managed to bring about change through their prayers and perserverence.

After the film was finished, the president spent almost half an hour wandering around the crowd, shaking hands and making quick conversation. Ellen Johnson Sirleaf is the first female head of state in Africa. To see a person of her position naturally mingling with the crowd was such a refreshing sight. She could easily take on a superior attitude that many past and present Liberian and African leaders have taken in the past, but instead she chooses to be a woman of the people. Fellow volunteer Chris even snuck in a handshake. Apparently she has soft hands.

Monday, March 9, 2009

Friday, March 6, 2009

Going To Town

Since I spend half of my time here in Liberia up in Ganta, I figured it would be ideal to introduce you to the place. I will do so by having come along with me on my late-afternoon walk, covering the fifteen-minute distance from the compound where I am staying and the town. This is a ritual I enjoy every second day or so.

I head out just before 5:00pm, just late enough that the evening has taken the edge off the African heat, but still giving me lots of time before sundown (6:30-7:00). From the compound I cross a swamp/farm and reach my dirt path that will lead to the main road.
The path is lined with all sorts of exotic trees and buhes, peppered with chickens and dogs, and little kids yelling “Queplu! Queplue” (which is “White-man! White-man! in their Mano dialect.)

On my way I pass through the Methodist Mission. Now I can’t tell you about Ganta without telling you about George Harley, the Methodist missionary. He showed up here carried in a hammock in 1923, back when roads were a foreign word here. In fact he was the first person to introduce the wheel to the local Mano tribesmen! After the wheel, he taught them how to fire bricks, how to plank logs, and how to build strong houses. He opened a hospital, a school, built a road, had a car (dismantled into pieces) carried up from Monrovia, built an airstrip, learned how to fly, built an airplane, and flew himself in from the coast. All in all the quintessential jack-of-all-trades. Ganta is his legacy, because if it weren’t for him, it would still be a gathering of mud huts in the middle of the jungle. It is now the second largest city in the country. During my walk I pass his last work here before he left back for America. A beautiful stone church with stain-glass windows. Because of where it is (a country where not a single wall is straight) it is the Since it is exactly 5:00 now, the church bell starts to ring. I stop a listen to what I find to be the most beautiful sound in the world. That and loons, but there aren’t any loons here.

Past the church is the main road into town. I walk along it, dodging dust clouds spewed from motorcycle tires that whip by. I wave at some kids at the side of the road (yelling “queiplu! Quieplu!”). On the way I stop at one of the many small stands selling sweets. I buy some peanut brittle.
The center of Ganta is one straight strip of shops about eight blocks long. It is always a bustling places full of building supply shops, general merchandise, and street sellers selling everything from fried plantain to roasted “mystery meat” on a skewer.

I make a beeline for the market, ignoring yells of “WHITE MAN!” from every second guy’s lips. The market is a cramped group of stalls with low coverings, forcing me to duck my head. Shopping here is a bit of an art. It is unwise to ignore to ignore people, so you usually end up talking to just about everyone. “How the day?” “The day is fine.” “How the business?” “The business good, thank God.” Something like that. It is also unwise to flat out say “no” to what they are offering you. I find myself using words like “later” and “next time” a lot. They all reassured me that there was no pineapple today but there would be tomorrow.
With your photographic enjoyment in mind I wander over to the meat section, where the market ladies in vain try to fan the flies away. It smells of fish and rotting meat. The chicken feet they are selling don’t help. Here’s some beef.
I leave the market pineapple-less but I bought some limes. Nothing like limes to make water interesting.

My next destination is Ganta’s best kept secret. Here it is:
This little shack is the home of a giant brick oven and one really friendly Guinean baker, who happens to make the best little baguettes around. Nothing in Ganta comes close to sinking your teeth in a piping hot fresh loaf.
This being the end of my shopping, I go by a general merchandise shop and buy a cold coke. There are some chairs outside so I sit down and watch the Ganta bustle stream by. The coke (in a glass bottle of course) being drained I get up and start heading home. The motorbike drivers all offer a ride home, but I refuse, pointing at my legs. A white man that walks everywhere? Weird!

The walk home is uneventful. I stop near the church to watch a football (soccer) match. Never are Liberians more energetic and argumentative. At one point the ball goes wide, hits a palm tree, bounces off my foot, and back into play. The referee just pretends nothing happened.

Here is the last view of my walk, just outside the compound, looking back over the trees that I have snaked my way through. Below me is a bitter ball farm. I still haven’t found out what bitter ball is.
On my way into the compound I get mobbed by a group of kids. “Take my picture, I beg you, take my picture!” How could I resist? They all strike up poses and don’t stop laughing until the camera is back in the bag and I’m stepping inside.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Mountain Madness


I'm pretty mad about mountains. I go crazy without them. I miss them like family. So when the opportunity arose to go up to the only serious Liberian mountains and climb Mount Nimba, the highest point in the country, I didn't hesitate.

Yekepa is a mining ghost town; the leftover of a huge iron ore mining operation by Lamco. It used to be called "mini-New York" because it is probably the only town in all of Liberia that has a complete power grid. Nestled in a lush valley surrounded by mountains, it lies just minutes away from the boarder with Guinea. Lamco left in a hurry when the war started up in 1990, leaving behind skeletons of giant warehouses and machinery as a memento.
Mining has just begun again, this time under the world's largest steel company, Acellor Mittal. They are already half a million dollars in debt on the project.

We whisked through the town on our way to bigger and better things. The winding road led us to the site of the orginal iron ore pit mine. What was once the tallest point around is now a massive layered pit with an emerald lake at the bottom (which is called Emerald Lake).
We left our faboulous driver Solomon with the car, and started our trek. It was the early afternoon and slightly overcast. A cool breeze nipped us we climbed along. We got to higher plateau and were awarded with a breathtaking view of the Ivorian forest stretching for miles. A brief rumble in the distance went unheeded.
We carried on fueled by our quest for reaching the peak. We didn't realize the situation we were in until, after an hour, we reached the top. The distant rumbles were getting to be quite regular and they were increasing in volume. A flash of lightning toar through the sky over Ivory Coast and a huge thunderstorm started marching towards us. Another one was coming from over Liberia. We abandoned all thoughts about the bottle of champagne we had dragged with us to pop at the top, and started the speediest decent known to man. We weren't fast enough.

The two storms met us simoultaneously. Devilish whisps of cloud whisked around us and the thunder burst above our heads. That fact that we were standing on top of a mountain famous for its iron ore was not lost to us. The rain hit us heavy and hard; each drop puncturing our clothes and leaving a sting. Within a minute I was absolutely drenched. I felt a river of water fall down my back and into my shorts. Not one inch of fabric was saved. What had been a mountain of dust turned into a waterfall of mud that we picked our way through with our hearts beating fast.

We made it to the car in less then half an hour. Solomon was waiting for us, headlights on and cutlass ready, scared not for our safety but for whatever might come out of that cloud at him. He'd never touched a cloud before.

Climbing to the highest point in Liberia during a thunderstorm may not have been the brightest idea, but it was definetly one of the more thrilling experiences I've had in my life.