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.