Hi, from...

Wyoming

2006-09-01T01:56:00.000-04:00

Historical materialism & the end of history and the last man

2006-07-24T17:51:00.000-04:00

First, came nature and its rubber trees.

Then, came man and the greed of man.

Voila! The multinational corporation is birthed and continues to endure in all its glory.

In response to child labor practices, the president of Firestone Natural Rubber told a CNN interviewer that "each tapper will tap about 650 trees a day, where they spend perhaps a couple of minutes at each tree." This equals more than 21 hours of labor per day.
(source: Wikipedia)

Walking and working

2006-07-23T18:54:00.000-04:00

Long road ahead: man and young boy reconstruct a piece of the road between Buchanan and Monrovia.

B.Y.O.C(hair): children walk back from a day at school.

The Birth of Cool: this kid just looked so at ease with the eye of a camera and a hulking white Land Cruiser in front of him.

The classic steel bridge with rust, missing bridge panels, and wonderful thick overgrowth welcomes the woman to cross with her market goods.

Life aquatic II

2006-07-17T18:33:00.000-04:00

When this happens...

Call or walk to your local Triple AAA office for assistance. Nothing like the mysterious pitter-patter of ten pairs of feet walking through wet mud to lend a helping hand and pull your car out of the mud.

Continue to your destination. Have a nice day.

Life aquatic I

2006-07-17T17:43:00.000-04:00

Waves control sailboats

Rubber bricks pull men down (river)

War moves people: over various conflicts, displaced populations walked this route for safe passage towards Grand Kru.

Sun moves people: in about 25 minutes, the town will be pitch black with productivity coming to a near standstill. The nonfunctioning power line reminds people of a different time.

Alphabet soup

2006-07-17T17:03:00.000-04:00

"G" is for golf course. My guess is it's a palm plantation
with not a lot of plantation remaining.

"H" is for Americo-Liberian house (in the back).

The history of Liberia as a political entity begins with the arrival of the Americo-Liberian settlers, or African American settlers, who established a colony of “free men of color” on its shore in 1822 under the auspices of the American Colonization Society.

The majority of present-day Liberians, however, derive their historical roots in the varied traditions of several ethnicities of indigenous West Africa. The Americo-Liberians confronted various indigenous groups in their struggle to gain a foothold in Africa and, later, extend their control into the interior.

(Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liberia)

"Z" is for zinc roof. You're not living large until you get some shiny or rusted zinc to cover the dome of you and your loved ones. This is a part of Monrovia where zinc is "plenty."

"H" is for health. "H" is for hope.

Destination: Monrovia to Greenville, Sinoe County

2006-07-15T13:12:00.000-04:00

Hershey's dark chocolate photo shoot: dark brown river waters run into, over, and around a mangrove swamp forest.

Yay! We're landing. Or, so I thought. This stopover in River Gee allows other UN peacekeepers to board and the pilot to orchestrate a photo. Girl with bananas atop her head assumes an elegantly natural position while kids look on.

Fear of one's own self

Docking station

How to become a smooth cultural chameleon

2006-07-15T12:42:00.000-04:00

Easily conversing with strangers either in a Monrovian squatter house or in a NYC elevator has never been my ace card. It’s more like my three of clubs. Most people earn rapport with the community in which they live with bright smiles, inviting gestures, and excessive cordiality. I do it with sheer presence and persistence. I’ll be the one buying eggs and an orange Fanta from you every week. I’ll be the one earning blank stares for being the ever-perspiring “Chinaman” in sub-Saharan Africa clad in shorts and sandals every afternoon. Sometime between my first walk in Monrovia and my last walk to get groceries, I will become an alien fixture. Whether it’s the teenage auto mechanic who watches me upside down on his trolley or the same group of ex-combatants (called “ex-coms” here) turned petty thieves hanging around, they will come to recognize and accept me as if I were scripted a small part in their daily performed play. At least, this is my faint hope.

To accelerate social acceptance, I have been playing basketball with the neighborhood kids. Down the street from where I live, there is a fully functional basketball court. Actually, it’s surrounded by 1.5 walls. There is one complete wall. On the other wall, half of a wall is broken down with long sticks in its stead. The other two directions consist of shacks and a field of mostly grass, some broken glass, human waste, and trash.

Naturally, you have your army of “show boaters.” Some seem to think they have more talent in their right toe than all of AI’s talent combined. The “passing the ball” phenomenon which has taken America and Europe by storm hasn’t really reached here yet. From a cross-cultural perspective, when I was in rural West Java, Indonesia, kids refused to play with shoes. Here, everyone on the court is wearing shoes of some sort and are willing to share with those who don’t have shoes. Popular styles include faux Chuck Taylors, dress shoes of many varieties, and regular basketball shoes.

Besides getting some great outdoor exercise that extends beyond my digits from typing all day, I get to discover a new set of rules for playing basketball with these 15-25 year olds.

Rules:

No fighting (it’s spray painted on the wall).
Teams are set up 3-on-3.
Games are up to 5 points by 1, with 2-pointers being allowed from a painted line.
All games have referees. This could be the Liberian Rasta who is really high and doesn’t give a shit about the game. Or, it could be the man trying to woo another female who also doesn’t give a shit about the outcome of the game. On average, I’d say the referee will be making his call from about 40 feet from the spot of the foul. Despite the flaws with this system, no one seems to object. The fact that he is impartial, not whether he is correct or incorrect, seems to give this person great power in deciding the outcome of a close game. I loathe this system.
You don’t have to clear the ball.
As is usually the case, tease the fat kid to no end.
After scoring a point, the offensive team inbounds the ball from under the basket.

Still, these games are a lot of fun and everybody puts a lot of heart into the game. This definitely earns my respect and ensures my return to the basketball court. Though far from becoming the alien fixture I aspire to be, I am now “basketball Chinaman” to one kid who lives in the area.

Mother, where have all the windows gone?

2006-07-12T19:18:00.000-04:00

Best place to nap in Monrovia: I sat through a World Cup match and this gentleman with a red shirt was still there 2 hours later on the roof (double-click to enlarge image). He even slept through a soccer match going on beside him on the roof. It looks like he's lying beside a pond but it's just water collecting on the roof (a love motel for mosquitos this time of year). Take note of the window-less facade of the building. Many of the "missing parts" of buildings (windows, light fixtures, furniture, etc.) were looted during the peak of the war in 2003.

Lots of yellow cabs: a rival to the New York cab scene on Fifth Avenue? A $150 USD yellow paint job is all that separates a car owner from becoming a taxi driver. Despite the multitude of "student driver" cars around Monrovia, I don't think adminstering driving tests is a central priority for this country. Ok, it comes in a close third after food security and peace.

Never a dull moment in Monrovia: I'm not sure what kind of building this was before the war but like many other buildings around the city, they've become the habitats of squatters. The towering buildings in the background were either unfinished or completely looted. Many of the previous governments in power in Liberia "rented" ministerial facilities from private citizens (i.e. your friends who charged the government exorbitant rental fees in exchange for various favors that government officials requested). What's a political system without good ol' patronage, nepotism, and cronyism?

A colleague of mine pointed out an interesting aid program that was offered to the government of Liberia. You may have heard of "schools-in-a-box" carried out by UNICEF and UNESCO where conflict areas are sent various teaching materials: chalkboard, pencils, a ball, visual aids, etc. This gives teachers and students to commence or resume schooling activities. Given the degree of rampant looting here, one donor came up with an intervention called "ministries-in-a-box." Its contents? Desks, chairs, office supplies, etc. for government ministries.

How can you not love the beach?

2006-07-12T18:50:00.000-04:00

Community-driven defecation field on your left and right. Oh yes, based on the # of nugs, the field appears to have high usage.

I'm a 10-second walk to this point (Mamba Point area). Sometimes after work, I breathe in the salty air, listen to the sound of crashing waves, and try to avoid watching people drop the deuce. I'm 99% certain that my wat/san professor would show picture #1 to demonstrate how NOT to set up sanitation facilities for people living in urban slums.

Memo to George W. Bush

2006-06-30T20:17:00.000-04:00

MEMO
RE: Gun control

Sorry about your less than stellar presidency. The war in Iraq, crisis at Gitmo, handling of Haditha, reconstruction in Afghanistan, negligence of global poverty, increasing numbers of Americans without health care, ineffective NCLB policy, and other programs you've supported aren't going so well.

In an attempt to reach out and move beyond petty party differences (I'm not a Democrat), I'm going to give you an idea that may very well salvage what little credibility and respect the American people have for you and your cronies. I know you're not so good with words (newspapers are all leftist rags, right?) or oral communication, so I've attached this self-explanatory picture. Essentially, people can deposit arms in these boxes. I snapped this photo in Liberia. No, not Siberia. I said, Liberia. No, Mr. President, Gaddafi is not the president.

I know what you're thinking.
1) The boxes are blue. Americans will mistake them for USPS mail boxes and deposit tax documents or even worse, mailed donations to the RNC. Solution: we'll paint them a different color.
2) How will I afford this program? We can divert some of the future wastage from Katrina reconstruction or the $300 billion we're planning to spend in Iraq.

Think deep. I know you can do it, George. I hope you will take this memo into consideration.

Grand Gedeh 2

2006-06-30T19:59:00.000-04:00

Vai Town: site of an INGO-supported health clinic. A woman carried her baby 4 hours to get basic medical treatment here.

I spy Ethiopia(ns). The day I flew in to Grand Gedeh, a member of the Ethiopian battalion shot himself in the stomach or chest. Word going around was that he was depressed and attempted suicide.

A newly built, INGO-supported market center.

Grand Gedeh One

2006-06-30T19:36:00.000-04:00

United Nations: white tape, red rope

MI-8 with Ukrainian pilots included

Man vs. nature. Nature wins.

Forests under electron microsope.

Tim says: Wow, you're a pretty looking thing.
Plane says: Back off. 2 months ago, my landing gear wouldn't open and I crashed here with 40 people inside. The Airbus 330 ain't got nuthin' on me! (Roar...cough, cough)

Today's menu: popcorn and bread

2006-06-24T20:19:00.000-04:00

June 21, 2006

My meals in the field suck. That first sentence should be a good indication of my mood. I’m hungry after running a handful of focus group discussions (FGDs) in some of the project sites and being drilled by cowflies. For breakfast, I had a tasteless meal of oatmeal making me feel like I was gearing up for the Preakness. After 20 minutes, I had a decent Nature Valley granola bar at the sub-office. As I headed out to the sites, I decided to get some bread I had surprisingly seen on display in the streets.

As I popped out of the car, I walked up to a seated woman breastfeeding her child. Oh, if only I could enjoy such a nutritious meal. I’m dead serious. Instead, I’m about to eat bread. It conjures up memories of Columbus’s scurvy-stricken voyage and a Revolutionary War soldier pulling out a fungus-ravaged biscuit after a day of battle. A child of about 5 comes running up to the stall with his slightly older brother bumping him aside. I look to the “elder” and ask him for 2 long rolls of bread. He opens the display only to use his large mitts (hands) to separate a grouping of 3 loaves. “Mmmhhhm, tasty,” I think to myself. Then he takes a used plastic bag from the ground and throws in the loaves. Let’s just assume the bag has “fallen” off the table.

The use of a used plastic bag, of which they don’t even do in Monrovia, is a topic that doesn’t concern me. Fine, he’s a decided to be an Earth ranger and likes to recycle. The problem with white bread in this situation isn’t its lack of nutrients. It’s that it leaves marks.

Halfway through chomping 2 pieces of bread like it was 1 whole piece, the piercing sun illuminates what I’m about to eat. Upon closer inspection, it’s not the indentation of a child’s finger on bread. It’s a mixture of dirt, dust, and whatever else his Velcro-like hands picked up prior to molesting my soon to be eaten piece of bread. Long story short, I could continue no longer with the bread.

Next on deck is popcorn. After a day of doing various hand shake-snaps with everyone from the baby to the school principal, I shove down buttered popcorn for lunch.

And who could forget the nectar of the gods. Only bottled water to complement this nutritious meal of 1 Clif Bar, 2 Nature Valley granola bars, ½ of 2 long rolls of bread, and 1 bag of popcorn. Wait, does my daily Malarone (malaria) pill and Centrum pill constitute food?

Ok, I’m done writing about something only my mother would be aghast at.

The fieldwork was solid today. I really feel privileged to record the voices of these youths. They have taken precious time from their essential daily chores to help me understand their choices, or lack thereof.

Flight to Grand Gedeh (jee-dah)

2006-06-24T20:16:00.000-04:00

June 19, 2006

I left on a rainy morning for the UN airfield in Monrovia. Whether I was able to get on the UN helicopter flight to Zwedru would be determined later. I check in and throw my bag into an x-ray machine that doesn’t seem too sensitive because it missed my colleague's metal stove and my large pocket knife. I found out minutes later I was added onto the main flight list. Waiting in the lounge, it was nice to enjoy the Korea v. France replay already knowing the outcome would be 1-1. It's pathetic that I can derive this much extended pleasure over a tie.

We walked about 200m to the helicopter on a red earth field in knee high grass. About 50m and a barbed wire fence separated us and a woman doing her daily chores. I sit next to a Chinese peacekeeping engineer, an Eastern European UN worker, a few Liberians working for various INGOs, and… You get the idea. The cosmopolitan cabin looks more like an intersection at W. 4^th on the Lower East Side. I was slightly nervous but something within me thought, "Hey, you're a nice person. Nice people can fall 1000m out of the sky and be ok." I’m a child of the 80s and the passive recipient of “Red fear” messages so am I to blame for being concerned by reading spray-painted Cyrillic letters perhaps saying “DANGER” or “CAPITALIST PIG”? I jump at the chance to grab my colleague’s MP3 player with any kinds of tunes.

“Do you have any earplugs?” a Brit asked to the Ukrainian co-pilot.
“No, we don’t have them,” the young pilot remarked.
“You know, they’re mandatory for UN aircraft.”
“Ok, fine. I will check.”
Enter Liberian airport worker with neon UNMIL vest.
“Ok, we ran out.”

After 10 minutes of asking the question that nearly everyone already knew the answer to, off we went. The only “earplugs” to be found was a Liberian NGO worker shoving pieces of toilet paper in his ears and smiling at me, “This is Africa.” He must’ve misunderstood me because I thought his idea was brilliant.

There’s something soothing about a helicopter ride. Its rolling, A-train feel with metronomic rhythms certainly puts me more at ease than being on an airplane. I guess it was my lucky day. I got to listen to Usher, Maroon 5, and Aimee Mann while pondering the different roof styles one encounters going from northern to southern parts of Liberia. There’s not much variation though. It’s either some sort of palm thatch roof or zinc.

As expected, the foliage is a grand patchwork of green. It’s the type of dense vegetation that doesn’t allow anyone to even get a peek into what lies beneath the forest canopy. The pathetic red scars of earth called roads are no match for the seasonal over growth that looms over.

Unfortunately, the ride is the same for much of the 1.5 hour ride. I think of how many people this Ukrainian fighter MI-8 turned UN humanitarian chopper killed in its former days. Where had it served? Was this the vantage point US soldiers faced on their first tour of duty with VC shooting from what seemed like every tree and shrub? Eerie.

We slowly descend and the air is much hotter than the early morning wetness of Monrovia. There’s even some tasty dirt passing through the submarine windows into the cabin I can taste.

We drive about 5 minutes and we’re at the field office. I’m excited to be there and try to convey it. The focus group discussions with the staff go well. Despite the sweat falling from my forehead, I think the respondents can see I’m glad to hear their opinions. How does Tony Robbins stay so jazzed and freshened up all the time?

They’ve already selected potential sites for Tuesday thru Thursday. One person I’ll be partnering with has assured me that I’ll get to see “remote” Liberia. It should be fun.

I have dinner at a UN dining facility for only $3. The World Cup is blaring with Spain v. Tunisia coverage. We also encounter a UN worker who seems like she’s been there too long. She has her work cut out for her as she covers 7 of the 13 counties in Liberia for UNMIL program policy. Anyways, we have Jolla rice and chicken. I guess this is what they’ve served all month.

Now, I’m typing from the WFP guesthouse. It looks exactly like a guesthouse I stayed at in Punta Arenas, Chile. There are featherweight doors with wall-to-wall laminated carpeting of bamboos crossed with ugly roses. I feel like I should have some tea, an empanada, and brainstorm some questions about how the weather’s been in Patagonia. It’d be nice to see some glaciers but I’ve got more FGDs to do tomorrow.

Mass email home

2006-06-24T20:14:00.000-04:00

June 14, 2006

Hi all—

Just wanted to send a mass email to let you all know where I am. The past year, I’ve been in NY doing the grad school thing. I’ve temporarily relocated to Liberia until early August for a summer internship. I’m doing some program evaluation for an HIV/AIDS project in 2 counties near Cote d’Ivoire.

I’ve been in Monrovia for about 2 weeks and live the life of a broke intern in expat’s clothing. Most packaged goods are from Lebanon and a trip to an “exotic Liberian market” only reveals outdated b-list Chinese consumer goods w/ requisite “Q.C. passed” gold stickers. The post-war economy along with the 15,000 strong UN presence brings with it $2 bottles of water and $15-25 per meal at a UN/NGO frequented dining spot. A liter of Club Beer (Liberia’s own) can be had for $1 when sitting on concrete slabs in a bar w/ a chain link fence (it’s breezier that way) or for $4 while overhearing conversations in French, German, or Russian. Apparently, beer is the spice of life for most expats I’ve met.

Luckily, I didn’t expect Monrovia to be exciting and it’s not. There used to be a functioning military tank in our front neighbor’s yard (former transitional president) but with the departure of that, it’s just a grassy alleyway down to a beach w/ ominous riptides and thus, a less interesting email to you all. I’ve also been to a couple NGO gatherings but aside from that, I’m not out much. Most expats have a driver or drive their organization-issued Land Cruiser but where do they all go during non-working hours? It’s not safe to walk around at night, especially since the city has no electricity. The place I live in runs on massive generators.

Aside from the UN helicopter rides I get to take for visits to the field, I’m happy to stay cooped up in my living space watching the World Cup. I get “live” score updates every time the alley down the street erupts into cheers. Tonight, it’s me, another intern from SIPA, and a menu of beans on toast.

One of the most interesting night scenes in Monrovia was driving home one night. I saw some kids jockey for position under a working generator-powered street lamp. As we drove closer, they pushed and they shoved. Only a second after did the driver tell me they were finishing up their homework before the light went out. Somehow, this is the best indication it’s a good time to be working here.

Tim

Western market

2006-06-24T20:10:00.000-04:00

May 29, 2006

I worked the full day despite numerous encounters with my borderline obnoxious yawning during several one-on-meetings. The sites in Grand Gedeh and Sinoe, where I’ll take trips to, are reported to be remote. Both areas are accessible only by a 2 hour UN chopper ride when seats are available for NGO workers. A counterpart of mine only drank water on a recent trip to Grand Gedeh because he couldn’t find anything to eat around the sites.

My trip to the expat market was fascinating. $4 for a 1 lb. bag of rice, $5 for jam, and $6 for the small bottle of Herbal Essence which I didn’t buy since I brought it over. No Costco-sized portions. The aisles were relatively full with goods which further confirms the idea that half the city’s residents wear the light blue UN-flattering gear or are Tonka-d out in a Land Cruiser. A good ¼ of the items I came across from TP to canned hummus to dried fruits were all from Lebanon. “Why can’t they just import all this from Ghana?” a colleague remarked, “It’d be much cheaper.”

It’s 11 p.m. and I’ve finally arrived at an appropriate sleep time. Personally, this is the proudest moment of today.

LAX-IAD-BRU-SENEGAL-ROB

2006-06-24T20:06:00.000-04:00

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:

(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
gold-toothed colleague who is to meet me is nowhere in this crazed passport control center
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
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.

no. 26

2006-03-26T17:10:00.000-05:00

i don't have a prescribed formula for good birthdays but here's my attempt at keeping a record of a good one--which happens to be my 26th.

not only are the following elements great friends, but they form the basis of a wonderful birthday celebration sans excessive alcohol and stressful planning:
* she gives the gift of a succulent, roasted chicken with a red wine reduction and rosemary potatoes.
* she gives the gift of a delectable, moist brownie cake topped off w/ vanilla ice cream
* he does the dishes and offers to buy me the first beer at the mercury lounge

Throw in these friends, mix with eclectic bands (Luke Temple, Kelley Stoltz, Mystery Jets and Noisettes) at an intimate venue, add some "I was drunk the night before" humility and a dash of late nite Ukrainian diner action and you’ve got yourself a birthday to remember. yesterday was kind of similar to my 24th: cakelove, love from DC friends and broken social scene-love at the black cat.

i could've ended up hovering over a porcelain bowl with arms outstretched gripping the rim of a toilet (no. 21), drunkenly full off of a baskin robbins log cake of chocolate cake/vanilla ice cream (no. 14, 15, 16, 17, 18) or depressed at the theft of my recently received rubber ball (age 7), but instead i'll go w/ no. 26.

perhaps at no. 40, i'll graduate to conic hats and melting pieces of wax on cake.