Walking the Walk
Look ma! We showered! Thanksgiving on the beach in Monrovia.
Two nights ago I slept in a fancy American-style embassy apartment. Tonight Krista and I are sharing a bed in the village of Medina in upper Lofa County. The two worlds could not be more drastically different.
This is the third straight day we’ve spent on the bus and there are two more travel days to go before we get home to Sanni. Exhaustion. Lack of routine. Lapses in hygiene. This much travel is rough anywhere, let alone in Liberia.
K has a horrific head ache, but I’m finally doing better. While she rested I sang ‘Old McDonald’ with the kids outside then they agreed to sing if I would dance. Duh! Of course I said yes. They started right off with ‘Pressure’ and it was a best-of Liberian music for the next 45 minutes while I worked up another sweat and undid the hot bucket bath they made me take in the open-roof cane hut out back. (Although I went reluctantly it felt divine.)
Staying with the embassy couple was nice, but it made me reflect on how easy (or not?) it would be to slip back into a modern, comfortable, life and blur the memory of the last six months with distractions like television, granite countertops, and shelves of knick-knacks. I stayed with a super nice couple and they made me feel right at home… maybe that’s it… it was too at home, too easy, too comfortable.
I’d taken a cold bucket bath just the night before and slept under my mosquito net, wrapped in a lappa. Suddenly I was talking about art, sipping wine, and washing my hair in my first hot shower since leaving America. I still remembered how. I’m still definitely American… somewhere in there.
It hit me the strongest when over the husband’s shoulder someone in the next building (not embassy) emptied a bucket of waste water from the 6th or 7th floor window. This is still Liberia… but places like this exist in Liberia? Their apartment was nicer than plenty of hotels I stayed in while in America. And it felt weird. They’re nice people and I have no doubt they have done and continue to do a lot of good work… it’s just dramatically different from the work we do in Peace Corps.
The extravagance shocked me. Thanksgiving at the Ambassador’s house was a who’s who of tan, buff bodies dressed in the latest western fashions, stuffing themselves with rich food and expensive drinks. (I would be remiss to exclude myself from that last bit.) Just a few hundred yards away thin boats cut across the waves, likely fishing for a small meal. I watched a young man daftly maneuver a football next to the razor wire on the beach and wished I could hop the fence and join him. How can these two worlds coexist? Let alone on top of each other. Why must the extremes be so… extreme?
I know it’s complicated. I’m just not sure I can see myself working in those circles after Thursday night. I need to feel closer to the people I’m serving. I need to walk the walk if I’m going to talk the talk.
Tonight I ate two bowls of rice and soup since K was too sick to eat. God I hope I don’t wake up with thunder in my belly. I don’t know where the bathroom is and it’s pouring rain. Here’s to everything that comes along with walking the walk…
Prom and Graduation
Last year’s seniors line up for their graduation procession. Graduation should have happened in June, but was delayed because of WAEC scoring… or something.
Last weekend we had the Junior-Senior prom at school and all the kids wanted to dance with me, swarming and grabbing at me. It sounds sketchy, and it was, but most of it was in good fun.
Graduation for last year’s seniors was later that weekend so K and I put on lappa suits and trekked to campus again. The ceremony was cute, but my speech was small awkward with my cracking voice. I’m excited for next year when it will be my kids. I’ll almost certainly cry.
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- Proud families gather in their finest clothes.
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- And, of course, there has to be some shouting
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- Since I’m the 12th grade sponsor they asked me to award some diplomas. I ruined all their pictures by smiling. Sorry yeah…
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- Krista got in on the action too. Surprise!
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- Excited families run to collect their new graduates. They’ll sing and chant, surrounding them and escorting them home for the party.
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- They got her!
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- Krista was bluffin’ in her fine lappa suit.
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- Our principal sits with his daughter, Mercy, and observes the whole ceremony like a proud father.
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- They’re next! Some of my 12th grade ‘boys’ gather after the program.
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- I tried to return to my seat after calling the principal to come so we could start, but my students trapped me inside their dance party.
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- We played the ‘paper game’ for at least an hour. My name was put in the mix and in the middle of a bite of bitterball soup I heard, “Ms. RB, please come dance with George Karway!” He’s my prefect and the captain of the quizzing team. That wasn’t rigged at all… LOVE IT.
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- Prom date 2011!
Call me Cake Boss
My German Choco-Lalla Cake. It tasted a lot better than it looked.
Baking the birthday cake was a roller coaster, a nail-biting, anxious afternoon squatting over the coal pot. The Choco-Lalla proved to be a great substitute for cocoa (of course the store they took Krista to in Monrovia didn’t have any) and I mixed until I thought my arm would fall off. When’s the last time you worked up a sweat stirring something? Oof. It was worth it, though. It was smooth and fluffy and actually looked like cake batter.
I stoked the fire and excitedly filled the first pan. While it baked I dug out the hammer and cracked the coconut for the topping. There was an unusual amount of sizzling coming from the coal pot so I went to investigate. I’d over filled the pan and it was oozing out all over. Sigh. Good thing I had enough batter to make three more rounds. K and I devoured it for lunch (just like hot brownies!) and I put on another pan while I kept peeling and grating the coconut.
K and I got distracted talking and the fire burned down. I took the cake off so I could stoke it back up and it cooled enough to fall. It never bounced back. It also would not come out of the pan! Ok. I can still make two more, I thought, holding my breath. The third one didn’t quite rise all the way, and then wouldn’t come out of the pan either.
By this time a heated football match was happening in the front yard. Just as I was putting the last pan on the fire with a prayer the ball flew through K’s wash and bounced off the coal pot. Tired, ashy, and anxious, I snapped.
“Real football players can control where the ball goes!” I screamed. “Go home! You can have the ball tomorrow!” I stomped inside and threw it in a box. “Very mature, Bekka,” I thought, realizing my mistake as soon as it happened, but still too late. They swarmed the door. “RB! I beg!” they pleaded, giving the half-hearted salute. “Gbao!” I shook my head and returned to my post fanning the coals. Four hours in and I still didn’t have a cake… just plates and plates of delicious chocolate crumbs.
K walked out and had a quiet conversation with the boys. I have no idea what she said, but they turned quietly and went home… or at least somewhere else. Climbing back onto the porch she shot me a glance that said it all. “Sorry,” I said apologetically. “Let’s review,” she said. “You just baked a chocolate cake. On a coal pot. In Africa. Without chocolate.”
“I know. I know,” I replied. “But I wanted it to be a good cake… not a good Africa cake.”
I’d finally finished cleaning and grating the coconut and I forced myself to take a deep breath. Maybe I’d just make a fresh start tomorrow? But I’d already invested almost five hours of sweat and muscle. Snap out of it woman! It doesn’t matter so much how it looks. Perfectionism is my vice, even in Africa. It was time to bathe and go to prom (my first!) so I took the last cake off the fire. It was perfect. Light. Springy. Pulling away from the edges of the pan.
I shook my head at my own ridiculousness and took everything inside, covering it with a lappa. Take time, white woman. Distance breeds clarity and there were 85 drunk, horny, “kids” waiting for me on campus.
…and I hadn’t written my speech!
Taking Responsibility
Aaaaamaaaan it’s been another rough week. My 12th graders had their junior-senior prom last week so there was no class Friday. As their sponsor, however, I had to reach to campus at 7:00am to sign for their dishes.
Speed walking the deserted road I had a bad feeling about the situation, so I was not surprised to reach an empty campus. No one in the classrooms. No one in the outer buildings. Six girls throwing a kickball. I poked my head behind our principal’s house, but Annie had no idea what I was talking about so I thanked her and started a slow walk to the market. I needed a few ingredients for a friend’s German choco-lalla cake and I was sure I’d see some students along the way.
I reached all the way to motorbike parking before spotting Youhn Paul… or was it Konah? There are twins and one of them is in 12th grade, the other in 11th. At school Youhn Paul wears a tie so it’s easy. “Konah? Never mind. Sorry yeah.” But before I could cross the road again I heard, “Ms. RB!” and Melvin, another senior, ran out from behind a house in a football jersey and cleats. I asked him why no one was on campus and he shrugged. “I’m on my way now.” I told him I’d come after going to market.
I crossed the street and went into Ronnie’s shop. “Morning-o,” I said. He turned, “Where’s Krista?” I ignored him. “Ronnie, can I come back and look at some bottles?” He shrugged and returned to what he was doing. I wanted brandy but picked out a small bottle of whiskey to replace the vanilla and bought a big pack of margarine. I can only imagine what he thought I was doing with that at 7:30 in the morning.
I made a loop through the market and slowly made my way back to campus. The ghost town had been replaced by at least three raucous games of football/kickball and students swarmed. Thank goodness seniors wear ties! I found Mercy, our Financial Boss, and asked her where to go. We got a total run around then half an hour later someone finally showed up to unlock the primary school (and let the students inside!). We were ushered into a small back room full of bags of donated rice and giant tubs of bowls and spoons.
“You can have 50,” the woman said. I started counting them out in stacks of ten and put my hand right in a bowl of gray goop. The dishes had been thrown back in the bins without being washed in the least. I made a mental note to eat before prom and excused myself. I’d told two 11th graders they had to reach to the house at 9:00am to retake their quizzes. Both had been caught spying and deserved zeros, but that doesn’t satisfy me these days. It doesn’t help them learn math: it just teaches them that I’m mean.
One of them, Ephesians King Dalm (that is a name) stares blank and terrified in my class. He often turns his papers in blank or badly spied. I need to have a serious (private) talk with him, but that’s impossible at school. “If you don’t reach to my house the zero will stand.” I didn’t really expect to see him, but as I turned from the main road, carrying all my bags and three dozen eggs, I saw him. “Ephesians!” I called him over. “I reached to the house, but you weren’t there,” he said. I smiled. “I’m reaching there now. Le’go.”
I tried to crack his thick shell the entire fifteen minute walk and made only small progress. Once home I never mentioned the quiz. I tutored him for an hour on solving equations and couldn’t get the grin off my face when, after the tenth try his eyes lit up. It was painful to watch up to that point. He’d sit for five to ten minutes, pen hovering just over the paper, face blank, mouth slightly open, eyes scanning in all directions as if answers floated through the air.
“Ephesians, you’re too afraid of making mistakes,” I said finally. “Just do something.” I went inside and dug out the pouch of pencils I brought from America. “Here,” I said, handing him one. “You can’t solve problems without making a few mistakes. Now you can erase them. Please. You have to write something.” He smiled shyly and took it from me. We worked some more problems and I sent him away with an assignment to bring to me Monday morning.
I finally had my coffee around noon and rolled up my cake baking sleeves.
“Likely as not, the child you can do the least with will do the most to make you proud.”
Mignon McLaughlin
Hard Knock Life
Oh man, I need a break… of multiple kinds. Saturday’s trip to Gbarnga was long and exhausting… the opposite of what I needed. My leg didn’t give me as much trouble in the taxi and I thought it would, but a few of our drivers were crazy. Heading out of Sanni we stopped and put someone in the broken trunk. He lay on the floor and held it closed as we tore down the road. Then, not five minutes later, we nearly hit a motorbike stopped in the middle of the road, veering violently at the last minute. The ol’ ma next to us shrieked and Krista and I took a collective deep breath.
We headed toward the lush mountains and Krista smiled, “I missed this.” I had to agree. I never feel like I’m in Africa quite as much as when I’m squeezed into a bush taxi, wind and red dust blasting my face and twisting through my hair.
What should have been a 45 minute trip to Ganta took closer to an hour and a half as the driver stopped for everyone on the road and had to “release water” count it, three times. Less than five minutes from central Ganta the car stopped and rolled to a halt. Krista and I shared an eye roll and I was reminded of Matt’s principal when we all traveled for site visit in July. “If you break down we’ll break you down for wasting our time.” Just as we were contemplating walking to town, he started the car back up and we sputtered into Ganta.
We were already running late, but I had to bank. Krista met someone at the bank last month so we thought he would help us. Not today. She never called him and chances are he’s holding a grudge. We went back downstairs and I begged the guard to help me. He let me cut the entire line, which included some of my students. I felt like such a jerk, but it was one of those days you have to do what you have to do. I dug in my bag and gave them some plantain chips as I left. “See you Monday,” I said sheepishly as we rushed out and down the street to the taxi stand.
And there we waited. For almost an hour. Flies buzzed around my foot and tried to squeeze under the bandages. I watched an adorable little girl eat a giant piece of yellow coconut candy while making small talk with the union man. When we finally loaded into the car I was delighted to be sitting next to the same little cutie… until 20 minutes out of town she gurgled and that yellow coconut candy came right back up. “Oh, Ruth! You vomit-o!” her mom laughed. The car kept flying down the pockmarked road as they cleaned her up just in time for it to happen again. Oh, this is going to be a good trip.
We swerved back and forth between patches of pavement and got into a Mario Cart style race with two other drivers. Tearing down the road three taxis wide, all we needed were some banana peels (something I should mention Krista and I usually like to chunk out taxi windows, but were oddly missing today).
Gbarnga was fine, but it made me grateful to be in Sanni. It’s big, busy, and sprawling. Men went crazy shouting at us on the street and motorbikes zipped by, too close for comfort. No one wanted to speak Mano with me and I struggled to remember the small Kpelle I leanred in Kakata. This was definitely not ‘my area‘.
After the meeting we went to a bar for some cold drinks and ended up staying to dance, even though my leg was a mess I couldn’t resist as “African Man” and “Teaching you the Thing” blared from the corner. Paula’s isn’t really a place for dancing (there are no mirrors, a mainstay in Liberian clubs) but Krista and I took over the corner and got Dani and Anjulie to join us for a few songs. Within a few minutes I was drenched, the sweat mingling with the layers of dust remaining from the taxi. Thankfully we called it an early night and by 11:00 we had parked the mattresses in the living room and were drifting off.
Krista had to get right back in a taxi Monday and go to Monrovia so I’ve been home alone most of the week. The kids had been bad at school and I’m fighting a cold or something. Right as I left for school yesterday I started crashing and by the time I got to my last class in 11A I felt like a motorbike really had hit me. My whole body hurt and I felt feverish. I was actually tempted to write some problems up and go sit down in the back, but I made it and they were the best class of the day, probably because they could tell something was wrong with me.
Recess was pandemonium. I’ve confiscated more this week than ever before and, for the first time, thrown people out of both 12th grade and 11B. I hate doing it, but being a bitch is part of my job. I have to teach the math, but also how to be respectful members of a class. I keep collecting calculators and books from other classes, one girl both Monday and Tuesday. They have to do math problems to get anything back from me, but the one it really punishes is me. The rationale is that if they aren’t going to do math during class I’ll make them do it on their own time.
I probably had fifteen kids vying for my attention at recess and all I wanted to do was lay down. When I finally reached the end of the line I stumbled to a friend’s house and laid on his couch for about five hours. When I got home I took my temperature: 102°. Nice. I crashed in bed and am feeling much better today. My leg still hurts, but one thing at a time. My fever is also down to 99.5° which is hardly anything. All things considered I’d think about staying home from school today, but Krista still isn’t back. Our principal is freaked out enough that she might be sick (we didn’t even tell him) that it would be too much for him if I was sick too. I’ll just try to take it easy. Hopefully the kids will cooperate today… even though I don’t know why they’d start now when the rest of the week has been so rough.
Just keep morning forward. One day at a time.
“Kites rise highest against the wind—not with it.” Winston Churchill
A series of unfortunate events
Today we’ve been in Sanni for two months. It feels like so much longer… but also so much shorter. It could be last week that Lindsey’s UN friend pulled up in the front yard with mattresses and a gas tank. It could be five years ago that I plugged in my ipod at Wilson’s and addressed a sweaty crowd on spin bikes.
Neither of those things are true. What is true is that I’ve been in Liberia for five months and what seemed impossible at first is true at last. I am happy. I am comfortable. I am home.
Last week was a series of unfortunate events, but, well, that’s life. Sometimes it’s really good. Sometimes it’s a little rough. Keep swimming and ride the wave.
Monday someone accidentally cracked my computer screen… the night before our power got turned back on. Students showed up for me in packs, often before 7:00am. “Ms. RB, I beg. I am failing your class.” Yep. I know. I also know I don’t recognize you: bad sign. I just kept getting farther and farther behind on sleep. I was writing lessons an hour before I had to be at school. Then the bat fell on me in the bathroom. Then I fell hard coming out of Margaret’s shop (our new tailor) Thursday afternoon.
I was taking my retro dress back to have the sleeves removed and a group of knee-highs yelled “Quiepolu!” I turned to give my obligatory wave and “Ka tuoo” and hit the ground hard, sliding down the gravel hill. My dress came up and it was bare skin on sun baked dirt. I had my share of spills in America, but even my bike wreck wasn’t like this. There is something about the ground here that’s like sand paper covered with broken glass on my white skin. I’ve fallen three times, always on hills, always waving at kids yelling some version of “white woman!”
A woman passing by stopped. “Sorry yeah. Is your watch ok?” A few weeks ago I bought a giant orange one in the market. “It allllright. I sakay,” I tried to dismiss her as I watched blood start pooling in my sandal. Fuck. I was at least a 20 minutes walk from home. I didn’t want to hike up my dress by the motorbike parking to assess the damage, but I knew it was bad. I hobbled to the club, where Krista and I were going to meet, and texted her to hurry. She told me to go ahead, but she usually carries the keys so I took a seat and Serena brought me and cold soft drink.
A group of pros were already drunk at the next table. “Quipolu, what happen to you?” Rebecca slurred, sloshing her glass. I mumbled something and was relieved when Serena pulled up a chair next to me and looked at me with cautious, quiet concern. We sat in silence, exchanging knowing glances as one girl delivered a loud soliloquy about how she does business. Krista and Romeo showed up just as I didn’t think I could take anymore. I got drinks to go and we trekked home.
It was a total mess, but at least my dress was entirely unscathed (it’s the small things some days). All the kids think it was a motorbike wreck. “RB, did you cry?!”
The pump spoiled a few days ago and we have to haul our water from down the road. We were almost out of water and Krista was getting sick. I’d been fighting runny belly since Monday when a long, unpredictable day forced us to eat street meat. That same night the city power cam back on for the first time in over a week. We rushed home to turn our lights on for the first time. Nothing. They never came to connect us. Yes, TIA, but you have to be kidding me.
We still haven’t turned in our grades (over a week late) because we’re hoping to crunch everything in Excel. Oh, Jesus. All the grades are currently scratched on attendance sheets and heaped in a corner of the living room. Far from ideal, but class rosters still are not finalized…
A bump in the night
Oh sweet Jesus. I was just in the bathroom taking my nighttime bath when I heard scuffling overhead. “Maybe it’s a cat? Or a rat? Or a cat eating a rat?” I thought. “Be cool.”
Not two seconds later a giant bat flopped out of a tiny crack between the ceiling and the wall. I screamed (like any normal person) and ran for the door just as it took flight and circled the small room before flopping back to the floor inches from my foot.
I continued to shout a string of curse words and Liberian English as I grabbed my lapa, tied it around my soapy body and bolted into the dark house, slamming the door behind me. While I was fumbling for a candle Krista emerged looking both amused and cautious. I tried to control my laughter as I explained the situation and she bravely went to check. “Oh my god it’s huge!” she affirmed, slamming the door again.
It continued to thrash around then got quiet. Krista poked her head in again. “Your glasses are on the floor… but where is it?” Further investigation discovered it collapsed on the floor in the corner by the toilet, laying on its back and still moving. We ran back to the hall to regroup and decided to trap it under a bucket. After a small pep rally Krista rushed in and slammed the bucket over it. We put an Algebra book on top and there it remains.
I finished bathing in peace, albeit with a few jitters. TIA, man, TIA.
To Ms. S at her House
I have very little control over anything in my life these days. For the first time in my life I don’t mind. One of the Australians asked me what I would do after Peace Corps while we were at Club Universe Saturday night. I stared at her blankly then smiled and said, “I have no idea!” She furrowed her brow and shrugged in confusion.
Matt and Bret came up from Ganta this weekend. It was nice, but having guests is exhausting so I heaved a big sigh when they left. Just as I got settled into the chair and pulled out a copybook Krista turned and asked, “Why is that taxi driver walking up to our house?” Sure enough he came in speaking loud Mano and shoved a letter into my hand.
“To Ms. S at her House”
The careful cursive gave it away as my student Emmanuel from 11A. He’s a regular visitor and I cannot figure him out. He’s a smart kid and he’s getting good grades, but he keeps giving me things. First it was coconuts. Then he tried to brush the yard. Then $100LD fell out of his copybook while I was grading it. And now this letter…. telling me there is a bag of coal. Krista and I both ran into the yard, but the driver was long gone. Sure enough, though, a giant sack of coal lay on the side of the road! Two neighbor kids helped drag it inside and Krista and I just stared at it before erupting into laughter. I sat back down.
“I give up,” I said. “This day has a mind of its own!” Not two minutes later I hear “knock! Knock!” and my 12th grade prefect George is outside. He wondered if we could do quizzing…. in an hour. Why not? I bathed and walked to school to find the campus deserted. I kicked myself for not bringing a book and dusted off a chair in the courtyard. Fifteen minutes later a few boys trickled in and, after they swept the classroom, we started quizzing. They are such a crack up. And so smart! They are going to be my pride and joy. I can tell already. I stayed for two hours, but at 4:00 finally told them I had to go.
Krista and I cooked a leisurely dinner (soup again) before I fell asleep on my yoga mat. Today was just as rambling and up and down… but it is what it is and there is no point trying to strong arm or muscle it. This is Africa. This is the turning point I kept waiting for in life, but only hesitantly dreamed was coming. All things are possible through belief and continued effort. Walk boldly in the direction of your dreams and settle in to your truth.
My heart is home.
“The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.” Eleanor Roosevelt
New shoots
Last night at the club I leaned over and asked Romeo why he’d volunteered to teach at our school. He looked at me and said, “You. I look at you and Krista volunteering to come all the way from America to help my country. I should do my part.” I told him not to make me cry. He laughed and flashed his big smile.
I am so grateful for the people I have met here and the opportunity I have been given. Hope sends up more new shoots every day.
“Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds you plant.”
Robert Louis Stephenson
Election Time
The first round election is in the morning. Sanni has been crazy-o! Right now our neighbor is hosting a big dance party in his yard. (Romeo called it illegal campaigning.) I’m sure it will continue until sometime in the morning. Normally I’d be ecstatic because they’re playing very good Liberian music, but I’m just not in the mood tonight…
life magnanimous 