LAX-IAD-BRU-SENEGAL-ROB

May 28, 2006

Three hot meals (1 lunch and 2 dinners), several trips to the WC (about 20, praise window seats) and 10 iterations of “Can I please have some more club soda…(blank stare from flight attendant) I mean soda water” ranging from “God damn, there’s a lot of turbulence”-consciousness to “(Sniff-sniff) I smell chicken coming down the aisle”-consciousness. Let’s not be shy—I am a huge fan of in-flight meals outside the US.

I have arrived in Liberia along with a plane load of NGO and UN personnel, private contractors, Liberian returnees (temporary and permanent), and probably your varied group of those seeking new opportunities in a country recovering from 14 years of war.

Signs that I’m not off to a good start:

1. (pre-Liberia) in Brussels, I needed to get a boarding pass. I show the ticket person my visa and she rolls her eyes. Apparently, my jpeg black and white visa printed on the back of a $5 Blockbuster coupon isn’t good enough. An older American gentleman steps in and laughs, “You don’t understand, he’s going to Liberia and this printed visa is the best you’re going to get.” In the end, I get my boarding pass and I’m off
2. gold-toothed colleague who is to meet me is nowhere in this crazed passport control center
3. my 40 lb. carry-on roller that’d make even the most hard core rollerblader covet my wheels, gets stuck in a sewage vent while an increasingly larger number of passengers disembarking are standing behind me trying to get into passport control. I finally liberate my bag after assuming a 45 degree angle w/ the ground and pulling as hard as I can
4. grey bag (full of my novels and 2 boxes of energy bars) thrown into checked baggage at the last minute at LAX is nowhere to be found after 4 flights. Should I be surprised? I’m at peace that these bars might have been pilfered for a short impact nutrition intervention.

The drive from the airport to Monrovia takes about an hour on a well-paved road. It’s close to 7 pm and the sunset fades behind the immense short, green foliage. Despite the lush scene, there aren’t too many farms. We pass as many UN-monitored checkpoints as we drive by mildly rowdy crowds of youths drinking and hanging out at video clubs (youth hangout joints where you pay to something on the tele). Where are all the adults walking around? The typical demographics just seem a bit off to me.

Moments of clarity:

Late dinner with my bosses at Mamba Point Hotel. As expected, prices are comparable to a Chili’s or Applebee’s. It’s good to know all the money I paid for my post-grad education has taught me lots and lots of acronyms since it was helpful in decoding tonight’s conversation.

I can’t believe I’m in West Africa. I always thought I’d be working in Asia. After reading some Naipaul, Conrad, Kapuscinski, and skimming more policy and position papers to fill up a small car, I’m really excited to finally be here. Still, I remain grounded. I’m here to do a job and if I can feel mushy and warm inside after battling with the lived realities of crushing poverty, corruption, and neglect of remote villages and girls, I suppose this will be classified as a “successful summer.