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: