Holiday!
Today, the outpatient departments of the hospital are closed, as are schools, administrative buildings, and the baker women are putting out bread at a later time, all in observance of a national holiday. Ask around, and most Liberians will ponder for a moment before recalling the reason-oh yes, this one is in honor of J.J.Roberts, Liberia's first president, an ex slave who migrated to Liberia in 1809 from Norfolk, Virginia. Some, particularly the children out of school uniforms and happy to climb mango trees and roam freely throughout the morning, will simply shrug their shoulders and say, "Holiday"! The unspoken implication also came through clearly-Why ask why white woman, its a holiday, that's all that matters.
So, after making rounds at the hospital, I worked for half a day along side the pediatric nurses. Together we changed the dressings of a burn patient, a 3 year old whose legs and lower abdomen were splash-scalded by an overturned cooking pot, and went down the line of creaking, rusted stretcher beds, hanging IV antiobiotics, crushing and dolling out daily allotments of iron pills, paracedemol and deworming tablets. With no outpatients to see, doctors and this nurse found ourselves free by lunch time, and so...off to the beach!
The walk down the succession of hills into town has become a slow process for me, now that people recognize us and call "Hello Kath-RYNNNN" from yards, underneath the overhang of tarp covered market tables, and sometimes even, the voice of a small child high in a tree! I can't help stopping to say hi, every step of the way. Today, there was a change in tone, a spirit of relaxation, that reminded me of Memorial Day, or Labor day in the US. Children skipped up and down the dirt road, carrying treats from the market tables, sweets or small bags of popcorn. Men crouched around domino games or lounged with bottles of Club beer, and women had finished cooking the midday meal early; now they spread straw mats or lappa cloth on the ground and sat together in the shade, nursing babies, shelling peanuts, and taking the rare opportunity to hold still.
We reached the beach to find the fishing boats quiet, over turned in staggered rows, with netting and sails rolled neatly beneath. The sky was clear, endless blue, and a happy sunshine gleamed off the ocean's surface. Someone had forgotten to inform the sea of today's holiday status; the tide was actively changing, drawing up energy to churn a sharp undercurrent to the left, and draw in neat little swells, just the size for a short, wild ride to the beach. I met the water like I always do, as if embracing an old friend, waded to my knees, and then dove through the breaks. The nurses at the hospital were intrigued, and slightly alarmed, to know that I swim in the ocean, and often exclaim, "Oh Kathryn, take care there, you swim TOO much!" Supersition and folklore mystifies the ocean in Liberian culture-most people believe, on some level, in the very real risk of spirits or people living beneath the sea catching a swimmer or fisherman by the leg, holding them down, and keeping them forever. I saw no such thing this day, swimming underneath with eyes open, able marvel clearly at the ocean floor and watch small crabs chase each other. Once far out enough to float peacefully, I reclined, the water cool and comforting around me. The clouds above moved quickly with a light but steady wind pattern, and I had a strange sense of deja vu, this perspective-image of the sky above from the ocean's surface, experienced many times in different places around the world, most notably my beloved home sate of Maine.
After a short time of floating, our quiet was interupted by a chorus of shouting. I lifted my head and began to tread water, facing the beach, just in time to see a trio of young boys, racing to the waters edge, shedding flip flops and tattered clothing as they arrived closer. One carried a flat piece of raw wood, about the length and width of his small, muscular torso. The three stormed into the ocean, diving forward to fling themselves into the breaks, surfaced, and immediately began the business of catching small waves that would carry them back up onto the beach. They were naked, their bodies glistening black against the white surf, their smiles so wide, their laughter deep and full. The one boy held his wood block square like a body board, and I realized quickly that they were quite good. Soon, I heard my own laugh, surprising myself, and soon I was swimming towards them. They grinned, we grinned, and soon, we were catching waves together, spilling up onto the beach in a pile of surf, legs and arms flailing, theirs small and mine long, all off us rolling in a big pile onto the sand, still laughing and gasping to breathe. We stood up and they shouted, "Friend, friend, watch me now, I catch that one, come on, we go..." and we were all off again!
We learned their names, Josa, Koffa and the smallest boy, Koffi. I noticed that Koffi just stayed in the shallow surf, where he could comfortably stand quickly if a big swell came in, and I went to him. Soon, the swim instructor in me was at work, teaching him to kick his feet from his waist, to arch his chest enough to rest on top of the water's surface, and to reach and circle his arms, use them to pull the water. I walked along side, cheering him on, helping with one hand lighlty placed beneath his stomach, slowly transitioning to encouraging him to work the water and take more and more of the weight of his own body, the same way I would guide small children with blond pony tails and Talbot's swim trunks from a pool's edge in Suburban America.
The games continued on, catching waves, giving each other the thumbs up sign for particularly good rides, until we dragged ourselves, waterlogged, onto the beach to rest. The boys showed us how to write their names in the sand, and we demonstrated ours. They asked for money, and we shook our heads no, but I gave them my water bottle to finish, and we walked with them up the beach, into the entrance path to Kru Town, the collection of shanty houses behind the beach, where the boys live. The sun was now a golden ball hanging low behind us, the temperature on our salt and sand polished skin was gentle for a change. We said good bye to the boys at the double log bridge, a tightrope type walk across a filthy stream that is this community's water supply, that separates the beach from the main road. We exchanged high fives and hand shakes with promises for more fun next time.
That night, as I lay in bed, every muscle fatigued and content, I experienced the same feeling of continued movement, as if still being pulled and propelled by the tide, that I remembered from being a young child after a full day at the beach. My childhood beach moments involved towels and coolers full of beach food, cold lemonade, ice cream in the car on the way home. In the drop off space between wakefulness and dreams, I thought of my little body surfing friends, wondered where they were sleeping tonight, and if they had eaten well. A mixture of tenderness for them, and discomfort at the disparities between us pulled at my otherwise complete satisfaction. Always, the ever present question, what are any of us really willing to give up, when we talk about working for equality in this world? And then the puzzling, humbling reality of the nice time we were all able to share together today, where maybe, for a small moment, none of these big questions needed to be answered.
Today, the outpatient departments of the hospital are closed, as are schools, administrative buildings, and the baker women are putting out bread at a later time, all in observance of a national holiday. Ask around, and most Liberians will ponder for a moment before recalling the reason-oh yes, this one is in honor of J.J.Roberts, Liberia's first president, an ex slave who migrated to Liberia in 1809 from Norfolk, Virginia. Some, particularly the children out of school uniforms and happy to climb mango trees and roam freely throughout the morning, will simply shrug their shoulders and say, "Holiday"! The unspoken implication also came through clearly-Why ask why white woman, its a holiday, that's all that matters.
So, after making rounds at the hospital, I worked for half a day along side the pediatric nurses. Together we changed the dressings of a burn patient, a 3 year old whose legs and lower abdomen were splash-scalded by an overturned cooking pot, and went down the line of creaking, rusted stretcher beds, hanging IV antiobiotics, crushing and dolling out daily allotments of iron pills, paracedemol and deworming tablets. With no outpatients to see, doctors and this nurse found ourselves free by lunch time, and so...off to the beach!
The walk down the succession of hills into town has become a slow process for me, now that people recognize us and call "Hello Kath-RYNNNN" from yards, underneath the overhang of tarp covered market tables, and sometimes even, the voice of a small child high in a tree! I can't help stopping to say hi, every step of the way. Today, there was a change in tone, a spirit of relaxation, that reminded me of Memorial Day, or Labor day in the US. Children skipped up and down the dirt road, carrying treats from the market tables, sweets or small bags of popcorn. Men crouched around domino games or lounged with bottles of Club beer, and women had finished cooking the midday meal early; now they spread straw mats or lappa cloth on the ground and sat together in the shade, nursing babies, shelling peanuts, and taking the rare opportunity to hold still.
We reached the beach to find the fishing boats quiet, over turned in staggered rows, with netting and sails rolled neatly beneath. The sky was clear, endless blue, and a happy sunshine gleamed off the ocean's surface. Someone had forgotten to inform the sea of today's holiday status; the tide was actively changing, drawing up energy to churn a sharp undercurrent to the left, and draw in neat little swells, just the size for a short, wild ride to the beach. I met the water like I always do, as if embracing an old friend, waded to my knees, and then dove through the breaks. The nurses at the hospital were intrigued, and slightly alarmed, to know that I swim in the ocean, and often exclaim, "Oh Kathryn, take care there, you swim TOO much!" Supersition and folklore mystifies the ocean in Liberian culture-most people believe, on some level, in the very real risk of spirits or people living beneath the sea catching a swimmer or fisherman by the leg, holding them down, and keeping them forever. I saw no such thing this day, swimming underneath with eyes open, able marvel clearly at the ocean floor and watch small crabs chase each other. Once far out enough to float peacefully, I reclined, the water cool and comforting around me. The clouds above moved quickly with a light but steady wind pattern, and I had a strange sense of deja vu, this perspective-image of the sky above from the ocean's surface, experienced many times in different places around the world, most notably my beloved home sate of Maine.
After a short time of floating, our quiet was interupted by a chorus of shouting. I lifted my head and began to tread water, facing the beach, just in time to see a trio of young boys, racing to the waters edge, shedding flip flops and tattered clothing as they arrived closer. One carried a flat piece of raw wood, about the length and width of his small, muscular torso. The three stormed into the ocean, diving forward to fling themselves into the breaks, surfaced, and immediately began the business of catching small waves that would carry them back up onto the beach. They were naked, their bodies glistening black against the white surf, their smiles so wide, their laughter deep and full. The one boy held his wood block square like a body board, and I realized quickly that they were quite good. Soon, I heard my own laugh, surprising myself, and soon I was swimming towards them. They grinned, we grinned, and soon, we were catching waves together, spilling up onto the beach in a pile of surf, legs and arms flailing, theirs small and mine long, all off us rolling in a big pile onto the sand, still laughing and gasping to breathe. We stood up and they shouted, "Friend, friend, watch me now, I catch that one, come on, we go..." and we were all off again!
We learned their names, Josa, Koffa and the smallest boy, Koffi. I noticed that Koffi just stayed in the shallow surf, where he could comfortably stand quickly if a big swell came in, and I went to him. Soon, the swim instructor in me was at work, teaching him to kick his feet from his waist, to arch his chest enough to rest on top of the water's surface, and to reach and circle his arms, use them to pull the water. I walked along side, cheering him on, helping with one hand lighlty placed beneath his stomach, slowly transitioning to encouraging him to work the water and take more and more of the weight of his own body, the same way I would guide small children with blond pony tails and Talbot's swim trunks from a pool's edge in Suburban America.
The games continued on, catching waves, giving each other the thumbs up sign for particularly good rides, until we dragged ourselves, waterlogged, onto the beach to rest. The boys showed us how to write their names in the sand, and we demonstrated ours. They asked for money, and we shook our heads no, but I gave them my water bottle to finish, and we walked with them up the beach, into the entrance path to Kru Town, the collection of shanty houses behind the beach, where the boys live. The sun was now a golden ball hanging low behind us, the temperature on our salt and sand polished skin was gentle for a change. We said good bye to the boys at the double log bridge, a tightrope type walk across a filthy stream that is this community's water supply, that separates the beach from the main road. We exchanged high fives and hand shakes with promises for more fun next time.
That night, as I lay in bed, every muscle fatigued and content, I experienced the same feeling of continued movement, as if still being pulled and propelled by the tide, that I remembered from being a young child after a full day at the beach. My childhood beach moments involved towels and coolers full of beach food, cold lemonade, ice cream in the car on the way home. In the drop off space between wakefulness and dreams, I thought of my little body surfing friends, wondered where they were sleeping tonight, and if they had eaten well. A mixture of tenderness for them, and discomfort at the disparities between us pulled at my otherwise complete satisfaction. Always, the ever present question, what are any of us really willing to give up, when we talk about working for equality in this world? And then the puzzling, humbling reality of the nice time we were all able to share together today, where maybe, for a small moment, none of these big questions needed to be answered.
You write so beautiful and detailed - I feel like I am there with you - amazing!
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