Floating Over Land And Sea: Part IV

Wer place we will walk eh nah?

I know Liberia was in a war that lasted for almost fourteen years. I know that many, many of our people vanished in a senseless and useless carnage. I say senseless and useless carnage because, had the war been because we wanted change in mindset and attitude, it did not happen and it has not happened. If the war was because we wanted good roads, more hospitals or safe drinking water, these things are yet to be realized. If this war in Liberia was intended to stop corruption and build new infrastructures; if the war was ever intended to put a hold on nepotism and cronyism, bring in pipe-borne water, some street lights in Monrovia and electricity in an area that covers 43,000 square miles, I was not able to lay my hands on any of these things in a substantial way while I was in Liberia, from December 9-23 of 2009.

For the fifteen days I was in Liberia, I was a victim of a police rampage. Police in downtown Monrovia went around deflating the tires of any and every vehicle that was parked on Gurley Street near a Money Gram office. Their contention was that I had parked my truck on a very busy portion of a street that had zero no-parking sign and where none of them was present to direct traffic. Tickets and citations were out of the question, as far as making money for government or the city of Monrovia was concerned. A strange kind of police justice pollutes the air around Gurley Street and probably some other areas of the city.

Many of those reading this know by now that I was born in Firestone and that I worked for Firestone before the war drove many of us out of town. So when I was advised to have someone chauffeur me around Monrovia after being away for almost twenty years, I wasn't that excited, for I am not used to people driving me around. Driving me around has a funny feeling about it. It puts me in a different category…a category that does not pair up with the person I am.

You see, when you are a Divisional Superintendent in Firestone, the rubber trees greet you as you drive out of your driveway into the morning mist; you mingle with them the whole day while you are working, and they bade you farewell as you enter your driveway after a long day’s work. Driving recklessly on the rubber plantation of Firestone is not an option. And the twelve years I drove those Firestone pickup trucks among those thousands of acres of trees, I never had an incident. But since I was the new JJC (Johnny Just Coming) in town, I listened and heeded the advice of all those who felt in their hearts that I needed someone to drive me around.

Many drivers in Monrovia do not look out for pedestrians, even though crosswalks are visibly marked from ELWA Junction in Paynesville to Jallah Town Road Junction, near the Ministry of Heath. There are no traffic lights in the entire city. From Isaac David School in Paynesville to some part of Monrovia, there are street lights. It was depressing and scary driving through Monrovia, especially after four years of an Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf Administration. Another sore eye is the chaotic situation of vehicles competing with hundreds of motorcycles called pam-pams, driving on both the paved portion of the road and the sidewalks. The constant blowing of horns is absolutely annoying and ear-numbing. That must be the reason for the name, pam-pam.

As we drove through the sea of people and as cars and pam-pams left the main road to drive on the sidewalks, and as humans scurried for safety, I overheard a lady asking: “so wer place we will walk eh nah?”

After a day or two of complete madness, I decided to take the steering wheel and drive myself around. Varney could not understand why I was not tooting the horn more often? He was shocked that I was so easy-going with these people, whom I knew, were desperately trying to make ends meet. I was in no rush, especially in a city with no traffic lights. I immediately got conditioned to limiting my driving to 20-25 MPH, even in places where I could have gone a bit faster.

One of the reasons why I wanted to travel to Liberia was to find out what happened to the two lots we purchased on Robertsfield Highway in 1987. What made it more difficult for me was that I had forgotten the location where the property was. The deed for the place was in my possession. And one person I did not forget all along was the friend who took me to purchase the two lots. I had written him on many occasions inquiring about the place. I never got a response. I was determined this time to find my old workmate from Firestone and the place he encouraged us to purchase. I was not deterred by the land-snatching news I kept hearing about while in America.

I also wanted to visit and see the Urey Chicken Farm in Careysburg. I would use that time to travel onward to Harbel, the last place I resided before boarding a KLM flight for America, many years ago. I would use that time also to visit the airport where I learned, my friend had a business entity.

Except traveling via Schefflin, taking any other route to Careysburg is a daunting task. If you decide to take Somalia Drive, from SKD-72nd Junction to Soul Clinic, for example, the challenge is huge. There are about five to six thousand people that have taken over this portion of Monrovia. It’s like China Town without the cars and motorcycles. Driving through here is a nightmare. If, however, you decide to take the Congo Town-Duport Road route, you will encounter another three thousand people on a daily basis, blocking traffic and selling all and everything you ever laid eyes on. This major highway in and out of Monrovia has been taken over by people who are determined to remain there until Judgment Day. In fact, the area is called the largest commercial district in Liberia. With all this commotion, I decided to take the latter route to the chicken farm in Careysburg.

As I drove away from the nightmare at Red Light, I began to recall those places I could remember. I did not see Parker Paint but there was the Coco Cola factory on my right and Mount Barclay on my left. I came unexpectedly upon Fendell, where I spent two years at the College of Agriculture and Forestry. I did not turn into the Fendell Campus of LU, but I did see some serious construction work going on there. The road was so, so, for I had to dodge potholes every now and then. They came upon me from nowhere. As I drove on this Monrovia-Kakata Highway, I kept wondering why in God’s name Government Ministers were given 1000 gallons of gasoline per month. I wondered which parts of Monrovia or Liberia these honorable people drove to. I also wondered whether these were the same people who, twenty five years earlier, were vehemently preaching against government waste, nepotism, sectionalism, and all the corrupt activities known to mankind. I wondered whether the Liberian government was just this big, corrupt shoe that a few people crave all the days of their lives to jump into, while poverty and destitution suffocated the air around them. Each generation despises the generation before it. Yet, there is not much the people can boast about.

It took forever to reach Careysburg. I drove to the Urey Chicken Establishment, saw the wonderful setup and asked some questions. If in the not-too-distant future I wanted to become a farmer, purchasing the chicks and feed and utensils and medications would now be easy. Before now, chicken farmers had to congregate at RIA and wait for KLM or BCAL to bring in chicks from Europe.

As I left the chicken farm I saw a familiar face...someone whom I had worked with in Firestone. “You’re familiar,” I said to him. “What is your name again?” After almost twenty years out of Liberia, I was able to recognize some faces but names were difficult to retrieve. “Oh, boss man, my me is Moses Kaine,” the familiar face lit up.

Moses Kaine was one of those workers who followed me everywhere I was transferred to. From Divisions 18, 20, and 21 to Divisions 2, 3, 5, and 7, Moses Kaine was always there. We hugged and snapped fingers and this man, whom I had not seen in almost twenty years, began to narrate the story of my departure from Liberia for America. He knew the day, the month, and the year I left Liberia! What a funny world, I thought.

Leaving the chicken farm I saw the Careysburg Police Station and a Patrol Car parked near a small Check Point. I remember those days when drivers feared the Careysburg Police. Entering Careysburg then was like leaving the East Coast and crossing over into, say Alabama or Mississippi. No one wants to be pulled over by the police in these Southern States. As I left I wondered whether people in Careysburg still “got those razors bottom their shoes.”

As I drove toward 15 Gate I remembered Phillips’ Farm and old man Taylor and his family. Old man Taylor had a truck that he used to pick up blocks of rubber from Goba Town to Firestone. Every Monday Moring we students from Division 21 in Firestone would get up early and wait for that ride to Todee Mission. I remember no Monday that old man Taylor hesitated to give us a ride. He was kind to us.

A feeling of nostalgia came over me as I turned right at 15 Gate toward Harbel. 15 Gate, the junction to a completely different world in Liberia was said to have a story of its own during the war years. As I drove up, a chain was let down by a guard who manned a check point into Firestone. I drove through, passing Division 15 and the bungalow where ETH and Zoegar Reeves used to live. I passed Division 11 where John Kaykay, Roland Massaquoi and I did our internship under the watchful eyes of SS Allison. I tried going to Division 11 bungalow where I lived when that famous announcement was made on April 12, 1980. The road was muddy, so I changed my mind and decided instead to take a peek at the Duside Hospital, a quarter of a mile away. I saw a lady carrying a bundle. It was her young child. She must have just been released from the hospital and was walking toward the main road to catch a ride to one of the many Divisions on the plantation.

As I drove away from the hospital and passed the road going to Division 10 School, I thought of the Otto’s and the Crabbs and the Karmohs and the Wonlahs who once lived in this area. I also thought of Charles Mayah and the many others who lived at Division 10 Light Camp but who never got to use the light. I drove passed Division 4 and thought of Nettie and Victoria Peters; I also thought of Brown Poure and Alfred Kargbo, my Group Managers; I thought of Jensen Bowier and Bill George and their families. Brown Poure and Bill George will not be able to read this.

I was now approaching Division 4 School and the place I used to live with my family. In this vicinity also lived the Kruahs, Judge Hall, Henry Dennis, GI Sirleaf, Lionel Kennedy, the Elliotts and the Gears. Even though erosion had damaged the road going to the house where I lived, I could not visit Firestone without seeing the damage that was done to Center Site. A feeling of helplessness overwhelmed me as I realized that the place I once lived was no longer there. High bushes had now taken ownership of Center Site and Honey Moon.

I left Center Site wondering whether the 14 years of war was even necessary. I drove and passed Bondiway, where the Stipendiary Magistrate of Firestone settles disputes. As I approached Du Bridge over the Farmington River, I thought of Isaac Collins who was the Manager of the Brick Plant near by for so many, many years. I thought of Overseers Gbollie and Tommy and Tamba whom I had worked with. I thought of headmen Luogon and Yahkpawolo and the many other headmen that I promoted. Bedell, the Divisional clerk, came to mind along with the hundreds of employees who had shared the rainy and sunny days with me as we tried to make our latex budgets to keep alive.

At Division 2, I stopped for a group of people who needed a ride to Harbel. “Oh, de other man got good way, O,” I overheard some of them saying. I wish these people knew how I had craved for years in America to come back to Liberia just to do something like this. I find a lot of satisfaction giving a helping hand to the needy, especially when I am driving a pickup truck!

As I waited at Division 44 for some of my passenger to disembark, I thought of Victor Bestman and Pinko Lardner; I thought of Gabbidon Cooper and AA Padmore; Aaron Smallwood and John Rivercess; John Teamah, Keith Jubah, the Seikajipos and Oldman Pencil; I thought of Mr. Freemantle, the fire chief. Most of these people no longer live or work on the plantation, but I had to mention some names to give me that solace of knowing that I was back in the place I born and knew best.

Driving toward downtown Harbel, I missed the Community Church where I got married and where, I heard, a lot of death and destruction occurred when the NPLF occupied the area. I saw Harbel Gardens but did not see the General Market behind the Oriole Store where school uniforms were sold and where a boy about fifteen years old, ran up to me one day in early 1990 and told me that some people were asking for me. I did not know this boy and never saw him again, afterward.

I stopped at the Harbel Supermarket to get me some bottled water and a roll of paper towel. Even though the paper towel had 79c written on, the actual selling price was $2.60 (about L$172). I thought that was too much for such a Dollar-Store size product. As I drove toward Central office and the Post Office and toward Fish Creek and out of Firestone, I thought of Ashley Rennie, Nathaniel Reed (who worked in the staff mailroom), Henry Dennis, Sr and Mrs. Jallah; I thought of CJ Whisnant, PJ Bracewell and Stephen Snoh; I remembered Ed Morgan and the Varfleys and the Korvahs and the Vanis...all people that I had lived and worked with in those days on the plantation.

As I crossed the Farmington River and entered Smell-No-Taste, I thought of the citizens who had complained about the pollution that Firestone had caused to the water they drink and use as a source of income. I thought of all the memories of Firestone when I was there and realized that for sure, time had passed and that the war had left many of us employees scarred and helpless and still wondering: whether Firestone had any kind of Severance deal or compensation for those employees who, not of their own accord, went into exile to live and to see and fight another day; whether there was a provision somewhere in the company’s policy handbook for Liberians who become victims in the time of war or during a disaster.

At Smell-No-Taste, I found the business spot of my friend’s at the airport toward what used to be called EXCHEM. I left a note and my cell phone number with the attendant, hoping to get a call from my friend…a call that ultimately would lead to us getting together and finally finding the location of the two lots we had purchased many years ago.

As I drove on the Robertsfield Highway for the second time in a week, I had that strange feeling that I would get that call and that I would definitely find the only property we possess in Liberia. I glued my index finger to my middle finger as I drove pass Marshall Junction, toward Schefflin and onward to ELWA, the Total Gas Station, Golden Keys Hotel and finally, the SKD Sports Complex.

Floating Over Land And Sea: Part III

Tie your seatbelt, my man.

I lost contact with the outside world when I boarded United Airlines 0950 for Brussels en route to Liberia. Access to my cell phone was unavailable, lost...zero service! My computer was of no use to me even as I sat at the African Terminal at Brussels Airport. My plan to travel to Liberia had not taken into consideration a global air card for my computer or a special chip for my cell phone. That was one of the many reasons why I could not wait for day to break. It was extremely necessary that I get a telephone as urgently as possible.

Anyone who has been absent from Liberia for a protracted period of time gets an advice: She or he must be accompanied through the city of Monrovia or the country by someone who knows the town and its many intricacies. The exchange rate and how to handle the bunch of Liberian dollars when, for example, $100.00 is converted to L$; such confusion, I must admit, does need someone who knows the town and all its bargaining techniques.

So on December 10, 2009 at about 9 A.M., I was on Tubman Boulevard along with Varney, the friend who voluntarily agreed to be with me. We were waiting for a taxi to take us to town to get me a cell phone. We stood on the sidewalk for awhile, for it was rush hour and getting a quick ride at this time was not easy. Finally, a taxi that was letting off a passenger, pulled up. “Run to the other side,” Varney shouted to me.

There were three other persons in the back of a 2000 Toyota Corolla-type vehicle. I am not a small person. I tried to squeeze myself into the car but half of my body was still outside. The driver got down and forced me in by pushing on the door. Varney was also struggling to get settled in. By the time we took off, a passenger was sitting on Varney’s lap and I was resting on the door knob.

As the taxi merged into traffic, I heard the driver saying to the lone passenger in the front seat: “Tie your seat belt, my man.” Without any hesitation or argument, the male passenger complied. I also observed that the driver in this jalopy had his seat belt securely clicked around his waist and chest. I was impressed. I was indeed impressed, for the argument I hear from some is that Liberians in Liberia are not law abiding. For example, I was told that cars do not stop when students are getting on or off school buses in Firestone. I was adamant in arguing that if a law demanding drivers to stop for school buses is passed, Liberian drivers would surely follow the rule. The seat-belt-episode in a beat-up taxi closed the deal for me.

We got down somewhere on Carey Street and walked to Randall Street, between Benson and Broad Streets, where Varney did some hard bargaining that finally led to the purchase of a Nokia phone from Lone Star. For $40.00, I was again in touch with the world. There was no contract to sign, I did not need a credit card, and the process was just that simple. This was the first time in almost twenty years that a bill won’t be in the mail for such a major transaction!

There was nothing else to do after the phone purchase, so we went to the corner of Broad and Randall Streets to get a taxi out of down town Monrovia. Rehabilitation work was in progress on Broad Street near the Ministry of Education. The chaos I experienced trying to get a taxi was unbelievable. There was a sea of people and the place looked like an outside mall with goods of all types: sellers, buyers, huge bales of L$ on tables of money changers, taxis and loaders, wheelbarrow pushers, regular cars and drivers, ordinary passersby and visitors like me; helpless policemen, bankers and depositors, interns, etc. I tried to capture the moment on camera but was advised to back off. My camera would be snatched away, I was told. I took the advice. Besides the huge crowd and and the madness that engulfed this section of Monrovia, my first 24 hours in Liberia was uneventful.

Your head too hard

A call came in from one of my business partners in America asking me to pick up some money from Money Gram for his family. By that time, I had taken delivery of a pickup truck we had sent to Monrovia. Because of the driving condition in the city or in Liberia as a whole, I was advised to have a “person of the town” chauffeur me around. Who best to do this but my man, Varney? We took delivery of the truck from a friend in Bardnesville, who was kind enough to keep it safe at his place. The friend also went out of his way to register the truck for us. As for the tag or license plate, he told us before hand that after four months, the government entity responsible to issue license plates had not done so. In America, we did not buy his story. We could not imagine a vehicle plying the streets with no tags or with a four-month temporary tag. Not only that, in Liberia as I write this, the owner of a vehicle is responsible to print or manufacture anything for a temporary tag.

I get depressed to know that people in power easily forget the simple things that make International Standards pleasant for everyone. I wonder how difficult and tedious is it to order or make license plates for vehicles in a country like Liberia. There are more cars in Montgomery County, Maryland than there are cars in the entire Liberia. How does a government monitor or track down potential terrorists or law breakers in a society where license plate information is hand written by the owners? What is wrong with Liberians who are paid to think for the ordinary of us?

In Bardnesville, we asked for a sheet of plain paper and printed the tag information from the registration document. We then drove to Red Light to an Internet cafe to get a computer-generated printout. I wanted the temporary tag on the truck to look decent. It was a damn shame, I felt, that after four months of paying for license plates, I had to improvise in such a way in a country that was 162 years old. (I was told that there were vehicles plying the highways of Liberia carrying temporary tags for a year or so.) Blaming the war for the lack of progress in such a tiny area of government responsibility can no longer stand as an excuse.

The money at Money Gram had to be picked up. So at about 10:00 A.M., Varney and I drove off to the Money Gram office at the corner of Broad and Gurley Streets. By this time the road rehabilitation on Broad Street had crossed Randall Street and was approaching Gurley Street junction. Coming down crown Hill is scary. The pot holes are like craters and controlling the traffic jam at Broad and Johnson Streets is obviously a stressful assignment for the two policemen stationed there.

We parked in front of the Money Gram office and I went in to get the money. Varney followed me. When we came out about 30 minutes later, I saw that the four tires on the truck were flattened. I was shocked and confused. I immediately called America to tell my friends what I was seeing. All kind of things were going through my mind. Was this an introduction to any ordeal I might face while in Liberia? Having one tire flat on the streets of Monrovia is one thing; having all four tires completely out of air is quite a strange thing to think about.

Still on the telephone to America, I approached the watch sellers and money changers that were stationed were the truck was packed. “Do you guys know what happened to my tires?” “Do you know who did this to these tires?” I bravely asked. “The police did it; they came around and deflated your tires; they said you were not supposed to park here,” I was told by the bystanders who obviously were not as stunned as I was. “What do the police expect me to do with all four of my tires flattened?” I inquired of people who seemed sympathetic and willing to help.

There were no No-Parking signs and there was no police officer telling drivers not to stand or park on Gurley Street. I did not believe the police would do such a thing. I was a bit skeptical. A ticket or a citation that would generate some kind of revenue for the government was, I thought, the right thing to do to drivers who broke the law. As I stood there befuddled and sick in the stomach, I saw four policemen approached an SUV parked on the opposite side of the street. In less than 30 seconds they had taken the valves from the tires of the SUV. The owner had gone into the Money Gram office to do business. Before I could bat my eyes the police officers had disappeared around the corner unto Broad Street where the road work was being done.

About five minutes after the incident and as Varney and I stood beside the immobile truck wondering where to purchase valves for the tires, a boy about 15 years old approached us with tire valves for sales. How did he know we were in distress? How did this young man know exactly where to come to sell his ware? I was beginning to put together a serious hunch, but I let it skip my mentality. We bought four valves for a dollar each, took off one tire and put on the spare that had not seen service since the truck was purchased, brand new, 8 years before December 12, 2009.

One particular fellow was very helpful to us. He helped with removing the tires, taking them somewhere on Carey Street to be pumped and to put them back on the truck. Varney had some Liberian dollars for me so I told him to take care of our man. I felt somehow that the “man of the town” would not be kind and gentle to this guy who had been so helpful. While Varney wasn’t looking, I slipped $5.00 into our good friend’s hand. I didn’t care how much he was given later, but I felt good that he would be satisfied.

Before I left the scene, all of us who had been immobilized converged on PATROL 1, a police car that had just pulled up. We were furious and talking all at once. Why were our tires flattened? We wanted to know from the five policemen that were sitting in that vehicle, why tickets weren’t issued and how did they expect us to get out of the place? “Do you need help?” One of the officers in the front seat asked. The question was sarcastic, for we knew that the policemen knew exactly why we were fuming. “Why did your men take the air out of all the tires on our vehicles?” One of the infuriated owners asked, with fire in his eyes. “Your head too hard,” one of the policemen in the back seat shouted out. “Your Liberian people, your head too hard.” A mob was beginning to gather around the police car. Without further explanation, PATROL 1 sped away, leaving us standing in awe, with gaping mouths and rolling eyes.

It was obvious that the police knew they had done us wrong. The big, fat chief who sat in the front seat had some tire valves in his hand that he apparently wanted to give back. That was one reason why they returned to the scene of the mischief.

One of the guys who, obviously, was also a victim of the police raid, walked over to me as tension subsided. “These are some of the things we will have to put up with if we decide to come to live in this country,” he consoled me. He too must have been a visitor who had been victimized by the police whom citizens depend on for protection of life and property.

I thanked the brother for the comforting thought. As I got into the car to leave, a vehicle pulled up as the driver tried to disembark. “Don’t park there; the police will take the air out of your tires,” I warned him. Both of us took off, he turning right unto Benson Street and I going left in the opposite direction.

As we drove out of town, rocking and rolling from the terrible road condition in downtown Monrovia, I kept wondering why there were no signs to warn drivers that parking was not permitted on Gurley Street.

Floating Over Land And Sea: Part II

After living outside of Liberia for almost twenty years, I decided to visit the country and see for myself and feel for myself what it is like to return to the place that carries the scars of war. I wanted to see some of the places that were well known and often mentioned during the war years. I wanted to hear more stories of what happened during those many years of my absence. The saga of my trip continues:

The plane carrying me landed at Roberts International Airport on Liberian soil at about 8:20 pm local time on December 9, 2009. When I left the same area on May 8, 1990, a lot of family members were visibly on hand to wave me good bye. As I came down the steps of SN Brussels I did not see a lot of people anxiously waiting. There were two persons waiting at the end of the stairs as passengers disembarked. There were also some airport personnel on the tarmac. I said hello as I passed them and headed toward a building that looked to me like a refurbished warehouse. I needed to readjust my sight; I needed to readjust everything about me; for the building I was heading to, houses Immigration and Customs.

The advice I got from the few friends that knew of my trip was that I needed to have some small denominations of US Notes. I heeded the advice, even though, at first, I wanted a Rocket Scientist to lay down the logic behind this simple and clear-cut warning. Before leaving America, I asked my bank teller to change two-twenty dollar notes to one-dollar bills. My wallet was pulling me down before I even boarded the plane for Liberia!

At Immigration, I encountered nothing out of the ordinary. My passport was inspected and stamped. I did not see a lot of attention paid to the Yellow Book. The next stop was at Baggage Claim. Anxiety of lost bags took over the atmosphere at that moment; especially when workers who were supposed to be watching or serving as security, as visitors took possession of their suitcases, etc., were themselves busy taking bags off the carousel. I don’t know what the deal is at Baggage Claim, but the experience was weird.

As I waited for my bags, a fellow with a cart approached me and volunteered to be with me until I was through with Customs. The place was getting really crowded. My overnight bag, winter jacket, computer, and the one-dollar bills in my wallet were all contributing to the uneasiness I was beginning to feel. And the rumors of theft and other hear-say and they-say did more to raise the temperature of fear that was slowly beginning to overpower me.

I identified my suitcase and garment bag, placed them on the cart, and was directed to the Customs officer. The young lady was pleasant and did not give me hard time. I unzipped my bags, she took a quick glance inside, and said to me, “Welcome to Liberia and Merry Christmas.” “Thanks and Merry Christmas to you,” I replied.

The fellow with the cart and my bags did not let me down. He was with me until I got outside into the hot Liberian night. As I climbed into the car that had come to pick me up from the airport, I realized that I had spent about an hour and a half in the country of my birth and that my wallet was no longer one of the heavy items I was complaining about a few minutes earlier. After all it was Christmas Season.

All of my previous trips to America before the war, when I returned, I went straight to where I resided in Harbel, Firestone. As I left the Airport this time, hitting a few pot holes here and there before reaching the Smell No Taste-Firestone Junction, I realized for the first time in almost twenty years that I was not heading to Harbel but instead, the car turned left toward Monrovia. Not many people in Firestone know me and the few who do were unaware of my coming.

The trip to Monrovia was smooth; the two-way lane is paved. I saw people walking in the dark and felt worried for them. My mind ran to the war years and what it meant to those who dare to walk these same paths. I wondered and began to imagine the fear and hellish condition these same people must have endured. I thought as I rode to Monrovia, about the many unemployed Liberians who could benefit from the generosity of the Ministry of Public Works. Robertsfield Highway is made narrower by bushes on both sides of the road. Why aren’t the people working on this highway? From Smell-No-Taste to Marshall Junction, the bushes need to be cleared from both sides of the road.

Besides thinking about the road-side bushes and the people walking those dark pathways on Robertsfield Highway, I was also busy trying to figure out at about ten o’clock pm, where on this highway did my family purchase two lots of land some 23 ago? All I could remember was that not far away from the spot where the land was bought, on the left-hand side of the road, was the home of E. Reginald Townsend.

If I thought the road to Monrovia was dark, if I felt the effect of a few pot holes here and there when I left the airport, the one dangling, non-functioning traffic light at ELWA-Congo Town Junction made it crystal clear to me that I was entering a city that had seen and was still experiencing tough times.

My first night was spent in a hotel. I did not miss much, for I had access to the Internet and I watched CNN International. I did not fall into a deep sleep, for I could not wait for morning to see Monrovia and its people.

My first week in Liberia:

Floating Over Land And Sea: Part I

For almost twenty years I have lived out of Liberia. America has been good to me: I am healthy, my family is fine, and I am not in the street, homeless. Yet, I keep dreaming about a place that has seen devastation and carnage for fifteen long years; I keep wanting to go back to to the land where my mother and my father are buried; but more importantly, I want to go and see where it all began for me. Here is my journey:

I sat down one day and I began wondering: It’s almost 20 years since I left Liberia; there is relative peace; a lot is happening in that country; sometime in 1987, I purchased two lots of land, the location of which I can’t remember; the friend who took me to purchase this piece of land and who also bought some land in the same area, is alive and well; why not take a trip to Liberia for once and experience for myself the situation, the condition, the everything. After all, Liberia is the country of my birth; I did not harm anyone while I lived there and those who did some horrible things to people, are all there, having a lot of fun, living with unbelievable consciences intact. So why sit here in America, the land of paradise and listen to rumors about the land of my parents, the land where my navel string is buried.

Because I am a terrible traveler, I emptied my closet into a garment bag, a suit case, and an overnight bag and took off for Liberia on December 8, 2009. Why am I a terrible and unusual traveler? Take for example, this weird characteristic of me: If I am visiting friends for the weekend say in Philadelphia, two hours away from where I live, I would fill my garment bag with a suit, about six pairs of pants, five shirts, nearly all of my under clothes, toothbrush, toothpaste, towels, shaving materials, just anything I can put my hands on. I pack as if I am leaving Egypt for the land of Canaan, never to return. That’s how bad I am whenever I try leaving my house for a two-day or two-week trip.

After talking and putting off, talking and procrastinating, turning over possibilities and impossibilities in my mind, I decided that no matter what, my calling at the moment is to take a trip to Liberia and the time was now…this December…this year of our Lord, 2009!

My children were excited for me, but their mom, my wife, thought I had become obsessed and possessed. She took me to Dulles Airport in Virginia and without even giving me a hug and a wifely blessing, she drove off to Maryland while I ran with my belongings to the United Airline International Check-In counter.

At about 6:15 pm Eastern Time or about 11:15 pm in Liberia, on December 8, 2009, I was in the clouds, 36,000 feet, with about 250 others heading to Brussels where I, along with other Liberians and Ivorians and other Nationals, would later on be heading to Africa.

The Boeing777 United Airlines plane did not miss a beat. We landed in Brussels about 5:30 am local time. The flight was smooth, the food was fine and the individual movie sets were just new to me. I listened to music and watched a Martin Lawrence movie and a few other movies. I slept for a while, but it is never normal for me to sleep in any plane for more than 20 or 30 minutes. I am not afraid to fly, but I sometimes ask myself whether it is right to be so close to touching the hand of God?

At the SN Brussels Terminal, I did not see anyone I knew. I did see someone who resembled someone I know. I walked up to the person and asked: “Are you Fatu?” “No, I am not, but Fatu is my sister.” That person, from photos I have seen, is a Minister in the Liberian Government.

Checking my overnight bag at Dulles Airport was tough for me. Things that could not make the flight in my suitcase of 50 lbs had to be squeezed among my under clothes in my overnight bag. That was not a good move. Security at Brussels is tougher. Two packs of brake shoes I was carrying almost got trashed. I could see them on the screen as my bag went through the monitoring machine. You need to tell just one Liberian that you are traveling and your life becomes miserable. I remember the dried monkey meat, bundles of bunnies and art work that burdened me when I arrived at JFK almost 20 years ago. The freedom to enter Liberia in 2009 with only my personal belongings was not to be.

The flight to Ivory Coast and then to Liberia began at about 12:30 pm Brussels Time. As we crossed the Mediterranean Sea into Africa, a feeling of anticipation began to eat into me. I could not imagine what to expect when I finally arrive at Roberts International Airport, which, according to my itinerary, would be at 8:30 pm, Liberia Standard Time (or is it GMT?)

After about six hours, SN Brussels #247 landed at Abidjan Airport. My seat was located in the center isle, so I did not get to see the beauty of Abidjan from the air. I could not leave the plane when it landed, so I did not get to even see what the inside of the Airport Terminal looked like. The story of the beauty of Liberia’s neighbor to the east as told by thousands of Liberians, who lived in that country during the war years, was a sight I wanted to experience. Anyway, Liberia was my destination, not Abidjan!

The one-hour wait at Abidjan Airport was short. The plane was no longer packed and as we waited, Liberians were now leaving their seats greeting each other and making friends. I started a conversation with a Missionary couple who were visiting Liberia for the 5^th time since 2005. I also saw a classmate from Todee Mission whom I had not seen in more than 30 years. He remembered my name and I called out his at the onset. From then on we immediately clicked and sat together en route to Monrovia.

Jonathan Morris and I were schoolmates for years on Todee Mission. I was one or two years ahead of him. He was a smart fellow. On the plane to Monrovia we reminisced about those tough days when we could hardly afford two cents or five cents to buy peanuts or Ma Ruth’s kala. We talked about and tried to remember all of our school and classmates: Emmanuel Bowier, Francis and Dorothy Taylor, Eugenia Simpson, Clara Bass; Afi, Aku, Mary, and Kofi Amet; Joseph Barr, Irene Jensen, Joseph Siakor, Robert Kamah, David Smith; Prince, Lincoln, and Amy Porte; Varney Boima, Teacher Lemgo, the PE teacher, and Monsieur Berry, our French teacher; and finally, we could not end a Todee Mission conversation without mentioning Francis R Ametowobla, the Principal of Todee Mission. He was a man of his time.

As the SN Brussels plane flew over Sassandra and nearing Buchanan, there was silence in the plane. Someone wondered whether there were lights at RIA, whether we would be landing on a tiny strip of airfield with dimmed lights. As we approached Monrovia, as the flight map showed, Jonathan Morris, my old Todee classmate, suggested that we sing the Lone Star Forever. Without hesitation, others joined the chorus as we floated over land and over sea.

We landed at Roberts International Airport, Margibi County, Liberia, at exactly 8:20 pm on December 9, 2009. We clapped and cheered. After 19 years and 7 months, my feet touched the soil of the land I kept dreaming about while living in the most powerful country in the world.