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.