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.