The first two days in country were spent shopping for house supplies, dipping in and out of crowded, dirt floor markets along the crooked streets of Monrovia
The heat and street dirt combined to make a sweaty paste across foreheads, underarms, and staining our clothes with red, damp creases. Traffic crawls through the narrow streets of Monrovia; motor cycles with two to three passengers and the daily market haul, Toyota van taxis packed to the brim, people turning their faces against the smeared windows to find their own corners to breathe, constant lines of white SUVs displaying every NGO emblem, and crowds of people, pushing this way, then suddenly that way. Vendors wield goods for sale in front of car windshields. Others carry food items; live chickens, stacks of cell phones, toilet seats, bike tires, cardboard palates displaying wash clothes, sunglasses, and bins of recycled clothes items.
These drums of clothing are filled with the sort of things mass produced for western discount chain stores, manufactured in export processing zones ofSoutheast Asia , and now for sale in outdoor markets of West Africa . Some are donated by Goodwill, Salvation Army charities, shipped in containers with other goods to a local Liberian merchant where they are sold street side in places like Waterside, Rallytown, or Dulalla. Some are the after season items that do not sell of the sale racks. Others are second quality, printed backwards, inside out, or with zippers in not quite the right place. Some are simply imported by Chinese or Lebanese wholesalers. Regardless of where they are coming from, it is highly possible to spot a 23 year old in full on hip hop wear, with a T shirt printed inside out that reads, “Baby bump here”, with an arrow pointing to his belly button.
Finally, as the merciless sun began to move to a lower position and cast gentler shadows across the city, we loaded up and began the traffic bound crawl. Slowly working our way out of the city, we headed towardsGrand Cape Mount County
During the 3 hour drive from the capitol to our little fishing town destination, we three shared good humor, a chocolate bar, cassette tapes of local West African music, and presented the same story to each security check point officer, rationalizing our presence and car loaded down with supplies. We rolled down the windows and were lulled by the truck engine, the circulating air, and the waning sound of Monrovia disappearing behind us.
Despite it being the dry season, the countryside is very green. The town crouches along the beach, up the sharp, red dirt hillside, past cement and corrugated tin covered houses to where the hospital sits overlooking it all, underneath waving palms. The houses and other structures look eerie, almost haunted. Faded paint, open walls covered in lichen, with grass and vines spurting up and around the remnants of manmade construction, like ruins…ruins from grand days gone by, quietly standing, while a sleepy fishing town still ravaged and stunned from years of war goes about its daily business of catching fish, running market tables, and hauling water.
These buildings appear temporary,or in various stages of reconstruction, though really, very little work is being done. Families live, have been living, in these broken down interiors for generations, sometimes planting vines and herbs in paint cans to line the falling down concrete steps, or to set in the arch ways of cavernous doorways.
Some buildings are scared by bullets, some still bear the sprayed paint slash markers or graffiti, made bade various rebel groups that moved through the town multiple times during the war years. These homes and their inhabitants were ravaged over and over. I am told that each group would come and loot-the first wave taking valuables and food staples, furniture, and livestock. The second wave would strip the light bulbs, doors and windows, roof materials, terrorizing families in their midst. When there was nothing left for the next wave of rebel soldiers, young boys with guns hanging out of the back of pickup trucks, there would be anger and increased violence against the village people, who would hide in the undergrowth of the forest, sometimes for days, when the rebel caravans stormed through. If they were found, there would often be "punishment" from rebels, for having nothing left. There are mass graves throughout town, and posters reminding women that "rape was, and still is, a crime".
Today, time seems juxtaposed; nothing changes, yet there is little indication of permanence, other then the presence of familiar faces in the dirt and grass yards on a daily basis. Or, there are box houses, made of mud and straw and tin, homes with chickens and goats and worn soccer balls running wild. Any shutter or painted portion of a building that hasn’t faded against the sun and sea salt and so retains a recognizable color is some variation of azure blue. You see it here, just enough that it becomes a theme. I’ve come to equate it with this part of the country, like the ocean; I refer to it as Liberian Blue.
The heat and street dirt combined to make a sweaty paste across foreheads, underarms, and staining our clothes with red, damp creases. Traffic crawls through the narrow streets of Monrovia; motor cycles with two to three passengers and the daily market haul, Toyota van taxis packed to the brim, people turning their faces against the smeared windows to find their own corners to breathe, constant lines of white SUVs displaying every NGO emblem, and crowds of people, pushing this way, then suddenly that way. Vendors wield goods for sale in front of car windshields. Others carry food items; live chickens, stacks of cell phones, toilet seats, bike tires, cardboard palates displaying wash clothes, sunglasses, and bins of recycled clothes items.
These drums of clothing are filled with the sort of things mass produced for western discount chain stores, manufactured in export processing zones of
Finally, as the merciless sun began to move to a lower position and cast gentler shadows across the city, we loaded up and began the traffic bound crawl. Slowly working our way out of the city, we headed towards
During the 3 hour drive from the capitol to our little fishing town destination, we three shared good humor, a chocolate bar, cassette tapes of local West African music, and presented the same story to each security check point officer, rationalizing our presence and car loaded down with supplies. We rolled down the windows and were lulled by the truck engine, the circulating air, and the waning sound of Monrovia disappearing behind us.
Despite it being the dry season, the countryside is very green. The town crouches along the beach, up the sharp, red dirt hillside, past cement and corrugated tin covered houses to where the hospital sits overlooking it all, underneath waving palms. The houses and other structures look eerie, almost haunted. Faded paint, open walls covered in lichen, with grass and vines spurting up and around the remnants of manmade construction, like ruins…ruins from grand days gone by, quietly standing, while a sleepy fishing town still ravaged and stunned from years of war goes about its daily business of catching fish, running market tables, and hauling water.
These buildings appear temporary,or in various stages of reconstruction, though really, very little work is being done. Families live, have been living, in these broken down interiors for generations, sometimes planting vines and herbs in paint cans to line the falling down concrete steps, or to set in the arch ways of cavernous doorways.
Some buildings are scared by bullets, some still bear the sprayed paint slash markers or graffiti, made bade various rebel groups that moved through the town multiple times during the war years. These homes and their inhabitants were ravaged over and over. I am told that each group would come and loot-the first wave taking valuables and food staples, furniture, and livestock. The second wave would strip the light bulbs, doors and windows, roof materials, terrorizing families in their midst. When there was nothing left for the next wave of rebel soldiers, young boys with guns hanging out of the back of pickup trucks, there would be anger and increased violence against the village people, who would hide in the undergrowth of the forest, sometimes for days, when the rebel caravans stormed through. If they were found, there would often be "punishment" from rebels, for having nothing left. There are mass graves throughout town, and posters reminding women that "rape was, and still is, a crime".
Today, time seems juxtaposed; nothing changes, yet there is little indication of permanence, other then the presence of familiar faces in the dirt and grass yards on a daily basis. Or, there are box houses, made of mud and straw and tin, homes with chickens and goats and worn soccer balls running wild. Any shutter or painted portion of a building that hasn’t faded against the sun and sea salt and so retains a recognizable color is some variation of azure blue. You see it here, just enough that it becomes a theme. I’ve come to equate it with this part of the country, like the ocean; I refer to it as Liberian Blue.
The beach, with long sand fingers that spread and stir the ocean inlet, breaks the rolling blue, causing cascades of white surf to circle and spread up the side of a golden shore, which runs the length of the town. Wooden canoe like vessels with sails sewn from patches of collected plastic scraps can be seen at work early in the morning or late afternoon. The bear names like "God Children", "Afro Arab", or my favorite "Goodluck These Eyes".
Women and children line the beach, watching the skyline, waiting with plastic basins of every color, to do the work of processing the catch once the fishermen return. On good days they can be seen with whole fish balanced on heads, walking back from the beach towards the market. Other times the nets are cast from shore, and teams of men, assisted by small children, work to reel the nets to the beach. The movement is coordinated, arm and shoulder muscles moving in unison with each pull and long stroke, they drag nets full of smaller fish, and a variety of crabs, from the ocean up onto the beach.
Women and children line the beach, watching the skyline, waiting with plastic basins of every color, to do the work of processing the catch once the fishermen return. On good days they can be seen with whole fish balanced on heads, walking back from the beach towards the market. Other times the nets are cast from shore, and teams of men, assisted by small children, work to reel the nets to the beach. The movement is coordinated, arm and shoulder muscles moving in unison with each pull and long stroke, they drag nets full of smaller fish, and a variety of crabs, from the ocean up onto the beach.
Fishing is the way and work of life here in Robertsport. It is not just the primary industry, it defines the culture of this small community. Most families are fishing, selling their catch in town, or drying and smoking whole fish in oven huts built off the side of their homes…with no refrigeration, this is the only way to preserve the fish. Most meals are made with some variation of a broth, seasoned by dried fish, torn carefully into the pot at the beginning of the cooking processes. Other ingredients seem to be the all powerful Maggi bullion cube, onion, red Argo oil, and dried red pepper.
Mornings are characterized by fishermen convening silently on the beach, unrolling their sails, made simply from patchwork sewn plastic, wrapped with plastic twine around a simple bamboo mast and boom. Midday, the beach is rather empty, save for the random swimmer, or perhaps the fishermen napping beneath their overturned boats, waiting out the heat of the day until its time to push their boats off the beach again, for the evening catch. Smoke curls from the huts at the edge of the beach, where the wives of Kru Town
On Fridays there is the early morning call to the town Mosque. On Saturday evenings, the gospel choir rehearses at the town hall. Sunday Mornings, people dress in lace and traditional print fabric wraps and dresses. Men crowd and lean forward around domino tables, telling stories in Vai, Gola or sometimes English, sharing bottles of Club beer, waiting for the relief of the evening breeze. During the weekday afternoons, around 1pm , you see the school children in royal blue dress uniforms stream down the hillside, through town, stopping at roadside stands to buy a plastic bag of water, a donut from a well worn plastic jar, picking their way home. Evenings are quiet. The heat relents slightly, casting soft shadows. Cook fire smoke laced with red pepper fills the air. Children gather and hang on the side of the water pumps, playfully swimming the level up and down, to fill containers of every size, or, can be seen going to the streams. They balance plastic buckets and drums on their small heads, glancing sideways at you to say a shy hello, their expressions serious, ever conscious to avoid spilling a drop.
Roosters crow at all hours of the day and night. Dogs bark and scuffle in dirt yards, nipples sagging, their backs scraggly with wild fur, or bare, depending on their condition. People call to each other on the road, into each others' windows, or argue from yards away. Radios blare BBC Africa or remixed R&B songs. Children pull toy trucks made out of plastic bottles with bottle caps fastened for wheels with bits of twine, spin bicycle rims in front of them with sticks, or pound tomato cans as drums.
The generator to the hospital on the hill kicks on after dark and whines through the night, and sometimes, the babies in the pediatric ward stop crying as they are rocked to sleep. Far away, down the hill, at the edge of town, waves lap and pound the beach, keeping rhythm and time, always.
The generator to the hospital on the hill kicks on after dark and whines through the night, and sometimes, the babies in the pediatric ward stop crying as they are rocked to sleep. Far away, down the hill, at the edge of town, waves lap and pound the beach, keeping rhythm and time, always.
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