I bought a pith helmet.
Does that statement need explanation? Is it a little too colonial? A little too Heart of Darkness for our modern sensibilities? Well, like everything, there's a story behind it, and here it is.
After two weeks scrambling around the canyons, waterfalls, and plateaux of Doucki, I was exhausted. However, I still had one major challenge before me. In order to meet up with friends in Kedougou, Senegal, I had to take the mountain road down from Mali-ville in northern Guinea. All the guide books said that it was only 50km from Mali to the border post at Segou, and Kedougou was 12k farther along the road. It's possible to hike in 6 to 12 hours, say the guidebooks. All downhill, with shortcuts through the bush and amazing scenery, as if any of these writers had done such a thing. But, exhausted by two weeks of hiking, I got it into my head that this would be a good idea.
I was wrong.
I stopped off in Labé, Guinea to get some supplies and have a rest before I attempted an all-day hike in the middle of hot season. (See any problems with this idea yet?) It was here that I bought the pith helmet, but the shape of the hat, which I found in both Guinea and Guinea-Bissau, didn't really sink in until I was well on my way into Senegal.
The story is this. I hiked about 30k down from Mali through some amazing scenery. The weather wasn't bad, rather cool because of the elevation, and at the end of the dry season, the trees had lost their foliage, making the trip a bit eerie in the ashey haze from the harmattan winds. The beginning of the hike was like a nice, autumn day. But after 30k, things began to unravel. I came off the mountain onto a middle plateau, and the heat and the sun really started to pick up. I'd seen no one for a few hours of this trip, and around about 1:30 in the afternoon, a guy on a motorbike drove by and stopped. "Where ya goin?" Senegal! "Oh, you've missed your road. You can still get there on this road, but it's another 30k." Well...damn. "Jump on, I'll give you a lift...idiot (which is what he must have been thinking at the time)."
It was a good thing I got a ride, because another 30k of hard hiking lay ahead of me, and I did not have the resources to complete the hike. When we got to Loungha, the Guinean border post, he said that he had some stuff coming along in a camion (a huge truck) and that I could catch a ride all the way to Kedougou with them when they came through. Now to explain things a bit, the road from Mali to Kedougou is barely even a road. It comes off the highest part of the Fouta Djalon plateau and is a twisted mess of unpaved, rocky, on-in-four grade track. This guy had done it on a motorcycle, and the 50k had taken him about 5 hours. It was even worse in a truck.
So I waited around this border town until 4:30 in the afternoon. Just when I thought I'd had enough and it was better to spend a little money on a moto into Senegal, I heard the roar of a big truck. Here was my camion. After about two hours in customs (i.e. bribe negotiation) we were on our way. Since I didn't have any money to pay these guys, I was in the back of the camion, which is kind of like a dump-truck when you get right down to it. There was a car seat back there crunched in between two enormous truck axles. Looking at these, I could only help thinking, "If this truck flips...I really have no escape plan," but, I settled in, my head and shoulders just peeking out from the lip of the truck bed and off we went. As we drove away from the border post, waving to the customs officials, I realized what a sight I must have looked. Here I am, dirty, sweat-streaked, in torn clothes (all my clothes are torn now, the shirt and pants I was wearing have each been patched about six times), sitting in the back of a camion like I'm Teddy Roosevelt on my way to the inaugural ball. But, like any good fool, I was smiling, ragged, and looked a mockery of any kind of civility. At that moment, I felt as if the only thing I needed was for Jambe to bring my hammock and my pink gin sundowner. My pith helmet is made of grass. My clothes, patched with bright African pagne fabric are a laughable embarrassment that will be completely replaced when I reach Dakar. My hair has gotten long after four months traveling, and like my first year in Niger, it's become rather sun-bleached. Charlie Chaplin could not have conceived a more ridiculous scene. Arriving in Kedougou, tired, hungry, dehydrated, beat up, and sore, I couldn't help thinking how appropriate it was that I entered Senegal, the last leg of my trip in sub-Saharan Africa, totally wrecked by four months on the road, but grinning like a happy fool nonetheless.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The Colonial Treatment
Okay, now for a funny one.
I visited Dalaba, Guinea last week, one of the smaller cities in the Fouta Djalon region. The Fouta is an area in West Africa unique to Guinea. The high plateau is called Le Chateau de l'Afrique Occidental because most of the area's major river systems (including the Senegal, the Gambia, and some tributaries of the Niger) are sourced in these highlands. It's an area that can boast some of the best hiking in West Africa plus the unique culture of the Peul people, who dominate this area and are almost single-handedly responsible for the Islamic faith in the region. It's become sort of a recipe for my favorite places to travel: combine awesome scenery with a unique culture and I'm there. So far I've found it in Boukoumbé, Benin with the Somba people and in Dogon Country, Mali. Now I have the Fouta Djalon in Guinea to add to that list. Next up? I could only hope for Niger's Aïr Mountains or the Andes' Incan ruins. I'll settle for the Bijagos Archipelago in Guinea-Bissau next week.
But for now I'll focus on the Fouta. I went to Dalaba for the hiking, but also for the climate and the colonial architecture. Dalaba sits high up on the plateau, making the days hot but dry and the nights cool, even bordering on cold, a rarity in West Africa outside of the desert regions. As a result, Dalaba became a sort of rejuvenation center for the French colonials during their time here. Unfortunately, the only colonial architecture left behind is the old governor's mansion, the Sili Villa. Luckily for me (and you), I got a personal guided tour of the colonial mansion and can share that experience here.
I'd had this kind of thing happen before, in Sassandra, Côté d'Ivoire, and, more memorably, in Klouto, Benin. You wander up a disused paved road (probably the only one in town) to discover a mansion, completely uninhabited, with one old man sitting outside as guard or caretaker. For a small "fee" (negotiable, but usually around a couple bucks) he'll give you the history of the house and a grand tour around the interior. The history usually goes something like this: The house was built around the turn of the century by the French governor (or bought by said governor from some citizen who decided he'd had enough and was returning to France). After independence, the state took over the mansion from an indifferent civil servant ("Fine, go. We never wanted you as a colony anyway."), and turned it into a retreat for a corrupt president and his cronies (or in Guinea's case, a corrupt, paranoid president and his equally corrupt, terrified cronies). The house gets used for various autocratic excesses and bacchanals until the people decide they've had enough and there's a coup.
By now, the new corrupt government wishes to distance itself from the past corrupt government and it rightfully does so by moving away from Presidential playhouses. At least in one's own country. It's the 80s now, and wireless transfers make it so much easier to funnel money out of the country and into a Swiss bank account. So the state-owned villa is allowed to go to seed. Anyway, why would you want a villa in your own country when, with all that stolen money, you can have several in France?
So now the house sits abandoned by all save one guard (I think to be conidered a caretaker the property must have some kind of value of which to take care) in the employ of, presumably, the state. He sits, day in, day out, with not much to do except stare at the marble statue of a horse. So when a white guy with a couple bucks comes along, he jumps at the chance to play tour guide.
"This is a colonial bedroom, where the governor had his bed. Take a picture."
Where's the bed now?
"Oh, someone probably used it for firewood. Take a picture of where it used to be. For a souvenir."
This guy was particularly enthusiastic that I take pictures of everything. "This is a colonial bathtub."
It's made of cement.
"I know. That's colonial cement. This is a lightbulb. A colonial lightbulb. Take a picture. And over here is the colonial sink. And here, the colonial toilet."
And is that a colonial turd floating in the bowl?
"Yes... Take a picture!"
Overall the houses are dilapidated shells just waiting for some enterprising individual to rehabilitate them as a hotel or private residence. But for now, they'll just continue to sit in their decay, year after year, with a little old man watching over as it slowly crumbles into dust.
"But colonial dust."
Take a picture.
I visited Dalaba, Guinea last week, one of the smaller cities in the Fouta Djalon region. The Fouta is an area in West Africa unique to Guinea. The high plateau is called Le Chateau de l'Afrique Occidental because most of the area's major river systems (including the Senegal, the Gambia, and some tributaries of the Niger) are sourced in these highlands. It's an area that can boast some of the best hiking in West Africa plus the unique culture of the Peul people, who dominate this area and are almost single-handedly responsible for the Islamic faith in the region. It's become sort of a recipe for my favorite places to travel: combine awesome scenery with a unique culture and I'm there. So far I've found it in Boukoumbé, Benin with the Somba people and in Dogon Country, Mali. Now I have the Fouta Djalon in Guinea to add to that list. Next up? I could only hope for Niger's Aïr Mountains or the Andes' Incan ruins. I'll settle for the Bijagos Archipelago in Guinea-Bissau next week.
But for now I'll focus on the Fouta. I went to Dalaba for the hiking, but also for the climate and the colonial architecture. Dalaba sits high up on the plateau, making the days hot but dry and the nights cool, even bordering on cold, a rarity in West Africa outside of the desert regions. As a result, Dalaba became a sort of rejuvenation center for the French colonials during their time here. Unfortunately, the only colonial architecture left behind is the old governor's mansion, the Sili Villa. Luckily for me (and you), I got a personal guided tour of the colonial mansion and can share that experience here.
I'd had this kind of thing happen before, in Sassandra, Côté d'Ivoire, and, more memorably, in Klouto, Benin. You wander up a disused paved road (probably the only one in town) to discover a mansion, completely uninhabited, with one old man sitting outside as guard or caretaker. For a small "fee" (negotiable, but usually around a couple bucks) he'll give you the history of the house and a grand tour around the interior. The history usually goes something like this: The house was built around the turn of the century by the French governor (or bought by said governor from some citizen who decided he'd had enough and was returning to France). After independence, the state took over the mansion from an indifferent civil servant ("Fine, go. We never wanted you as a colony anyway."), and turned it into a retreat for a corrupt president and his cronies (or in Guinea's case, a corrupt, paranoid president and his equally corrupt, terrified cronies). The house gets used for various autocratic excesses and bacchanals until the people decide they've had enough and there's a coup.
By now, the new corrupt government wishes to distance itself from the past corrupt government and it rightfully does so by moving away from Presidential playhouses. At least in one's own country. It's the 80s now, and wireless transfers make it so much easier to funnel money out of the country and into a Swiss bank account. So the state-owned villa is allowed to go to seed. Anyway, why would you want a villa in your own country when, with all that stolen money, you can have several in France?
So now the house sits abandoned by all save one guard (I think to be conidered a caretaker the property must have some kind of value of which to take care) in the employ of, presumably, the state. He sits, day in, day out, with not much to do except stare at the marble statue of a horse. So when a white guy with a couple bucks comes along, he jumps at the chance to play tour guide.
"This is a colonial bedroom, where the governor had his bed. Take a picture."
Where's the bed now?
"Oh, someone probably used it for firewood. Take a picture of where it used to be. For a souvenir."
This guy was particularly enthusiastic that I take pictures of everything. "This is a colonial bathtub."
It's made of cement.
"I know. That's colonial cement. This is a lightbulb. A colonial lightbulb. Take a picture. And over here is the colonial sink. And here, the colonial toilet."
And is that a colonial turd floating in the bowl?
"Yes... Take a picture!"
Overall the houses are dilapidated shells just waiting for some enterprising individual to rehabilitate them as a hotel or private residence. But for now, they'll just continue to sit in their decay, year after year, with a little old man watching over as it slowly crumbles into dust.
"But colonial dust."
Take a picture.
Reflections
It's been about one week since I left Sierra Leone. More than any other country so far, I've gotta say, that place has everything. It's the only country I've been to that combines jungle, beaches, mountains, and savannah in equally beautiful measures. Hell, even the mountains combine jungle and savannah, and Freetown Peninsula has lush green hills for hiking if you want to escape from the beach for a while. The country's a tourist gold mine just waiting for people to come back and discover it. Sierra Leone is safe now. The war is over. Valentine Strasser spends most of his time in the Stop Press cafe, sitting in a corner by himself, remembering his former glory as the youngest world leader of his generation. (Look him up; it's good for you.)
However, even with all that the country has to offer, I ended three weeks with the uncontrollable urge to get out. Why? Chalk it up to some pretty minor setbacks worsened by an existential mid-trip crisis. I tried to hike Mount Bintumani, one of West Africa's highest mountains, and failed for reasons so stupid I won't bother to mention them here. Nevertheless, the failure was palpable, and I've now sworn to return to Sierra Leone some day and rectify my mistake. Vengeance will be mine (channeling Skeletor there).
Failure's always a bit of a bitch, but it has the uncanny ability to teach you things about yourself. For me, the failure of Bintumani was aggravated by an inability to cross into Guinea. For three days I tried to arrange something, but all my attempts kept falling through from Kabala, Sierra Leone to Faranah, Guinea. Eventually, I went back to Kamakwie, where I'd met some awesome French NGO workers who put me up for the night and sent me on my way the next morning. But I couldn't shake this sense of defeat. That is, until I got to Guinea, found a night bush taxi (which I ordinarily avoid like the speed-freak death-traps they are), which raced through the darkness from Kindia to Mamou at about 100 km/hr on the roller coaster roads of the Fouta Djalon. Sometimes you just need to run, and this was one of those times. It didn't hurt that I had Rage Against the Machine blasting in my ears, steadily by my side the whole way.
But back to this malaisem, this existential crisis. What caused it? I think I have to blame the amount of amazing people I met in Sierra Leone and Liberia. That sounds absurd, but hear me out. After 12 weeks on the road, and more than two years in Africa, I felt like I'd lost all sense of self. I have not been home since I left Indiana on January 7, 2008. In my time in Niger, I had no neighbors, which allowed me to really claim my village and my region as my own. However, I left that on September 7, 2009 and only had one week back to say goodbye. That was a pretty traumatic experience already well documented on this blog, so I'll save you any further trauma reliving it.
In Burkina and Mali, where there's a strong Peace Corps presence, I couldn't feel this loss as acutely as I did later, specifically in the last few weeks. In Liberia, I began to meet and spend long periods of time with new and interesting people. NGO workers, ex-pats, Peace Corps Response Volunteers. After being solitary for so long (throughout most of Côté d'Ivoire), it was nice to be able to share stories and build new relationships. However, the life of a traveler is transitory, and after a few days, I move on, unsure if I will ever see this or that person ever again. Of course, you exchange email addresses and hopes, but the reality is you never know.
So it was with Liberia, so it was with Sierra Leone, so it will be with everywhere I go. I met some awesome people, but slowly, they had to leave, and I had to move on. I think all of this meeting and parting came to a head my final week in Sierra Leone, when fatigue and several setbacks all seemed to jump me at once. I realized that I've been away from home a very long time. I haven't seen anyone from my past life in America in over two years. That was alright as long as I could build a new life in Niger, find new supports. However, I left that behind over three months ago, and now, now I'm doubly removed from any kind of past life. It's difficult to determine where you are without anyone who knows you. And when all your new relationships have to, by nature, end, it's difficult to find continuity.
Sometimes though, all you need is a light heart and some Rage (Against the Machine). I threw off my doubts and my losses with the realization that I'm doing something amazing. That's not to boast or appear proud. I'm just continually confronted by new cultures, new landscapes, awesome people, and challenging situations. And I realized I was complaining about that! It's difficult to continually meet and leave people and places that you're falling in love with, but we always carry these experiences with us, and if we leave parts of ourselves with others, it only means we have more reason to carry us back.
I don't really know the point of this blog. Only that it needed to be written to demonstrate that it's not all candy and rainbows on the road in West Africa. I've been very lucky so far (Ivory Coast excluded), and running through the cool, Guinean night with the Bulls on Parade, I realized how amazing life is, and how much living there is left to do.
However, even with all that the country has to offer, I ended three weeks with the uncontrollable urge to get out. Why? Chalk it up to some pretty minor setbacks worsened by an existential mid-trip crisis. I tried to hike Mount Bintumani, one of West Africa's highest mountains, and failed for reasons so stupid I won't bother to mention them here. Nevertheless, the failure was palpable, and I've now sworn to return to Sierra Leone some day and rectify my mistake. Vengeance will be mine (channeling Skeletor there).
Failure's always a bit of a bitch, but it has the uncanny ability to teach you things about yourself. For me, the failure of Bintumani was aggravated by an inability to cross into Guinea. For three days I tried to arrange something, but all my attempts kept falling through from Kabala, Sierra Leone to Faranah, Guinea. Eventually, I went back to Kamakwie, where I'd met some awesome French NGO workers who put me up for the night and sent me on my way the next morning. But I couldn't shake this sense of defeat. That is, until I got to Guinea, found a night bush taxi (which I ordinarily avoid like the speed-freak death-traps they are), which raced through the darkness from Kindia to Mamou at about 100 km/hr on the roller coaster roads of the Fouta Djalon. Sometimes you just need to run, and this was one of those times. It didn't hurt that I had Rage Against the Machine blasting in my ears, steadily by my side the whole way.
But back to this malaisem, this existential crisis. What caused it? I think I have to blame the amount of amazing people I met in Sierra Leone and Liberia. That sounds absurd, but hear me out. After 12 weeks on the road, and more than two years in Africa, I felt like I'd lost all sense of self. I have not been home since I left Indiana on January 7, 2008. In my time in Niger, I had no neighbors, which allowed me to really claim my village and my region as my own. However, I left that on September 7, 2009 and only had one week back to say goodbye. That was a pretty traumatic experience already well documented on this blog, so I'll save you any further trauma reliving it.
In Burkina and Mali, where there's a strong Peace Corps presence, I couldn't feel this loss as acutely as I did later, specifically in the last few weeks. In Liberia, I began to meet and spend long periods of time with new and interesting people. NGO workers, ex-pats, Peace Corps Response Volunteers. After being solitary for so long (throughout most of Côté d'Ivoire), it was nice to be able to share stories and build new relationships. However, the life of a traveler is transitory, and after a few days, I move on, unsure if I will ever see this or that person ever again. Of course, you exchange email addresses and hopes, but the reality is you never know.
So it was with Liberia, so it was with Sierra Leone, so it will be with everywhere I go. I met some awesome people, but slowly, they had to leave, and I had to move on. I think all of this meeting and parting came to a head my final week in Sierra Leone, when fatigue and several setbacks all seemed to jump me at once. I realized that I've been away from home a very long time. I haven't seen anyone from my past life in America in over two years. That was alright as long as I could build a new life in Niger, find new supports. However, I left that behind over three months ago, and now, now I'm doubly removed from any kind of past life. It's difficult to determine where you are without anyone who knows you. And when all your new relationships have to, by nature, end, it's difficult to find continuity.
Sometimes though, all you need is a light heart and some Rage (Against the Machine). I threw off my doubts and my losses with the realization that I'm doing something amazing. That's not to boast or appear proud. I'm just continually confronted by new cultures, new landscapes, awesome people, and challenging situations. And I realized I was complaining about that! It's difficult to continually meet and leave people and places that you're falling in love with, but we always carry these experiences with us, and if we leave parts of ourselves with others, it only means we have more reason to carry us back.
I don't really know the point of this blog. Only that it needed to be written to demonstrate that it's not all candy and rainbows on the road in West Africa. I've been very lucky so far (Ivory Coast excluded), and running through the cool, Guinean night with the Bulls on Parade, I realized how amazing life is, and how much living there is left to do.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Rockin' those Freetown Streets
This entry will have almost nothing to do with Freetown, but I liked the title. Deal with it. While I haven't been rockin' the city, I have had an amazing time traveling around provincial Sierra Leone and visiting the variety of landscapes it offers.
I started down south near Sulima, on the coast, about as Liberian a city as you can get in Sierra Leone. It's one of those places I went to because it was out of the way, only to discover that there was very little I could actually do there. I wanted to sleep on the beach and just enjoy the ocean. The village chief didn't have any problems with it. Neither did the police or a village council. However, once the Navy got involved, my plans were quickly derailed. I ended up hanging out with Staff Sergeant Davis for the night and left early the next morning. No worries, for those who fear my current legal status after Côté d'Ivoire, they just told me it was too dangerous to sleep on the beach, and I ended up just hanging out with the Navy guys, listening to stories about the war. Not exactly a cheery subject, but of all the ways to understand a country, war stories are the some of the most interesting in a country like Sierra Leone.
The next morning, I jetted out of Sulima on a motorbike early enough to get the first bush taxi to Poturu, the jumping off point for Tiwai Island. Tiwai Island is a 12 square kilometer island in the middle of the Moa River, which flows through the Gola National Wildlife Reserve. The area is some of the most pristine in the Lower Guinea Rainforest, which stretches through Sierra Leone, Liberia, Côté d'Ivoire, and Ghana. Here, however, is one of the densest concentrations of primates in the entire region, eleven different species including the endangered diana monkey and red colobus. The island also hosts the very rare pygmy hippo, of which there are less than 2000 left in the wild. However, they're very shy, so our chances of seeing them were slim. But then we did! Ha, nope, they were just rocks. They didn't even look all that much like hippos.
I spent a bit more time than I'd originally planned in Tiwai in part because the jungle is just so beautiful: towering cotton trees with buttress roots you literally have to climb over, the gentle night noises which lull you to sleep, and some great swimming in the river (if the oyster shells imbedded in the rock don't tear you to shreds). But I also met some other white people! This was a real shock, as I hadn't really seen all that many who were traveling since I was in Mali, over a month ago. I stayed an extra night to hang out with my new friends and before I knew it I was pulled along for the beaches on Freetown Peninsula.
Now, if you've been a longtime reader (and why would you be, this is a pretty shoddy operation I'm running here), you may remember me gushing about the beaches of Busua/Dixcove. The best beaches I'd ever been to. Well no more. I've found a beach which knocks any Ghanaian beach out of the water. Freetown Peninsula has 40km of pristine beaches. Pristine mostly because of a war, but who's keeping score there? The beaches stretch the entire length of the peninsula, which is itself dominated by a mountainous green landscape. Because there are so few tourists in Sierra Leone (the war's over, I swear!), it's easy to have a beach entirely to yourself, which is exactly what we had at Bureh Beach. I could go on and on describing this paradise to those of you who are suffering in winter right now, but I'll break it down like this: fine ochre sand backed by green mountains, falling into a beautiful turquoise sea. Maroon Island, which is just a tiny little thing, is a fifteen minute swim from shore and seems to perfectly complete the image of an island paradise as an aesthetic point to the curve of the bay.
Did I mention that the only food you can get on the beaches is lobster and barracuda? Often I've faced the dilemma: Do I really want to have sweet, succulent lobster for the third time in two days? Wait, being from Indiana, I've never faced that dilemma. But I had no problem answering with an ecstatic YES.
See, now the problem with this description is that I keep wanting to say, "But the best thing was..." as if there is any one thing that could be described as "the best" in Paradise. Like there's one thing better than all the rest. However, my favorite thing I feel as if I have to describe in detail here. At night, after the moon had set, which was around midnight this night, if you braved the cold air and swam out past the breakers, you were rewarded not only by the warm water but by thousands of tiny lights which sparked with every movement you made. The scientific explanation came from one of my fellow travelers, Dave. The spot is a breeding ground for a specific species of zooplankton, which lights up as a defense mechanism when it senses another body in the water. Whatever. The explanation is fascinating, but only secondary to the wonder of thousands of tiny blue-green lights, like the stars reflected in the ocean, swarming over your entire body. Whenever we thrashed, it sparked a reaction among the plankon like a pale green aura that encompassed you like a sea spirit. As we marveled at the sight, one of the guys shouted over the roar of the surf, "I'm 30, and I feel like a kid! This is amazing!" It really was, like nothing I'd ever seen before. Exhausted after 30 minutes of swimming and trying to take in this unique experience, we returned to the shore and curled up on blankets around the fire, only a thin layer of cloth between us and the sand, nothing between us and the stars.
I'll leave it at that. My love song for Sierra Leone beaches. Tomorrow I head up to Outamba-Kilimi National Park, hopefully for some close encounters with the animal kind: hippos, elephants, leopards, etc. Don't know what we'll find, but I'll definitely write more soon.
I started down south near Sulima, on the coast, about as Liberian a city as you can get in Sierra Leone. It's one of those places I went to because it was out of the way, only to discover that there was very little I could actually do there. I wanted to sleep on the beach and just enjoy the ocean. The village chief didn't have any problems with it. Neither did the police or a village council. However, once the Navy got involved, my plans were quickly derailed. I ended up hanging out with Staff Sergeant Davis for the night and left early the next morning. No worries, for those who fear my current legal status after Côté d'Ivoire, they just told me it was too dangerous to sleep on the beach, and I ended up just hanging out with the Navy guys, listening to stories about the war. Not exactly a cheery subject, but of all the ways to understand a country, war stories are the some of the most interesting in a country like Sierra Leone.
The next morning, I jetted out of Sulima on a motorbike early enough to get the first bush taxi to Poturu, the jumping off point for Tiwai Island. Tiwai Island is a 12 square kilometer island in the middle of the Moa River, which flows through the Gola National Wildlife Reserve. The area is some of the most pristine in the Lower Guinea Rainforest, which stretches through Sierra Leone, Liberia, Côté d'Ivoire, and Ghana. Here, however, is one of the densest concentrations of primates in the entire region, eleven different species including the endangered diana monkey and red colobus. The island also hosts the very rare pygmy hippo, of which there are less than 2000 left in the wild. However, they're very shy, so our chances of seeing them were slim. But then we did! Ha, nope, they were just rocks. They didn't even look all that much like hippos.
I spent a bit more time than I'd originally planned in Tiwai in part because the jungle is just so beautiful: towering cotton trees with buttress roots you literally have to climb over, the gentle night noises which lull you to sleep, and some great swimming in the river (if the oyster shells imbedded in the rock don't tear you to shreds). But I also met some other white people! This was a real shock, as I hadn't really seen all that many who were traveling since I was in Mali, over a month ago. I stayed an extra night to hang out with my new friends and before I knew it I was pulled along for the beaches on Freetown Peninsula.
Now, if you've been a longtime reader (and why would you be, this is a pretty shoddy operation I'm running here), you may remember me gushing about the beaches of Busua/Dixcove. The best beaches I'd ever been to. Well no more. I've found a beach which knocks any Ghanaian beach out of the water. Freetown Peninsula has 40km of pristine beaches. Pristine mostly because of a war, but who's keeping score there? The beaches stretch the entire length of the peninsula, which is itself dominated by a mountainous green landscape. Because there are so few tourists in Sierra Leone (the war's over, I swear!), it's easy to have a beach entirely to yourself, which is exactly what we had at Bureh Beach. I could go on and on describing this paradise to those of you who are suffering in winter right now, but I'll break it down like this: fine ochre sand backed by green mountains, falling into a beautiful turquoise sea. Maroon Island, which is just a tiny little thing, is a fifteen minute swim from shore and seems to perfectly complete the image of an island paradise as an aesthetic point to the curve of the bay.
Did I mention that the only food you can get on the beaches is lobster and barracuda? Often I've faced the dilemma: Do I really want to have sweet, succulent lobster for the third time in two days? Wait, being from Indiana, I've never faced that dilemma. But I had no problem answering with an ecstatic YES.
See, now the problem with this description is that I keep wanting to say, "But the best thing was..." as if there is any one thing that could be described as "the best" in Paradise. Like there's one thing better than all the rest. However, my favorite thing I feel as if I have to describe in detail here. At night, after the moon had set, which was around midnight this night, if you braved the cold air and swam out past the breakers, you were rewarded not only by the warm water but by thousands of tiny lights which sparked with every movement you made. The scientific explanation came from one of my fellow travelers, Dave. The spot is a breeding ground for a specific species of zooplankton, which lights up as a defense mechanism when it senses another body in the water. Whatever. The explanation is fascinating, but only secondary to the wonder of thousands of tiny blue-green lights, like the stars reflected in the ocean, swarming over your entire body. Whenever we thrashed, it sparked a reaction among the plankon like a pale green aura that encompassed you like a sea spirit. As we marveled at the sight, one of the guys shouted over the roar of the surf, "I'm 30, and I feel like a kid! This is amazing!" It really was, like nothing I'd ever seen before. Exhausted after 30 minutes of swimming and trying to take in this unique experience, we returned to the shore and curled up on blankets around the fire, only a thin layer of cloth between us and the sand, nothing between us and the stars.
I'll leave it at that. My love song for Sierra Leone beaches. Tomorrow I head up to Outamba-Kilimi National Park, hopefully for some close encounters with the animal kind: hippos, elephants, leopards, etc. Don't know what we'll find, but I'll definitely write more soon.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Definitions
I'm a week deep in Sierra Leone, so this should probably be the last post I make about Liberia. I can't help that the country has a bit of a hold on me, and eventhough I am loving Sierra Leone, I have to give a farewell entry to Liberia after nearly two weeks away from the Internet.
Liberia made its impression on me in a number of ways. It's essentially a land defined by destruction. Liberians are rebuilding everywhere, so you could say it's also a place defined by reconstruction, but this would hide the signs of the war, which are apparent everywhere. There are a few new cement houses, but the majority of people in Tubmanburg and Robertsport, towns very close to Monrovia, are still living in shacks pieced together from corrugated zinc, rusting desert tracks, and palm leaf. Many are without even that and just squat in ruined, pre-war skeleton houses. The wrecks without squatters are overrun with vegetation, as the jungle slowly retakes what it lost when civilization conquered nature.
In some of these places, the land has grown up too thick for much exploration, all but obscuring concrete walls and twisted rebar. Other places, however, for one reason or another, haven't been overtaken, and they stand out as beautiful broken shells, ghosts of a fabled past. I've explored a variety of these, mostly small churches and one-story houses, but perhaps one of the best I've found is in Robertsport: St. Bethany's School for Girls, the jewel of ruined beauty in provincial Liberia.
The school is a massive boarding house set on a steep hill overlooking all of Robertsport and Lake Piso. For those of you who are curious, Robertsport was once a gem of West African beach getaways, boasting some of the best surfing and the most pristine beaches in the area. I was awestruck by the school when I saw it from the town's mayor's office and knew I had to explore. The staircase up the hill is cracked and parts of it are missing completely. I had to scramble over the broken masonry to get up to the main building, only to realize the grand hall's floorboards were pulled up long ago, leaving only the supporting beams. These were still solid enough to provide access to the rest of the classrooms, cafeteria, and dorm rooms however. I spent a good hour up there photographing the building and longing for a camera with a better lens and more shooting options, but as it was, my time spent in this ruin really brought home how much Liberia (or at least the Americo-Liberians) had before civil war tore the country apart.
The people of Liberia are in large part defined by this war, and how could they not be when they're still surrounded by its aftermath? Many people's lives were completely disrupted for years at a time as they moved from place to place without a home, escaping the destruction. I think of my own life: twenty-three years living in a developed country where the worst violence I ever experienced was the occasional beating in junior high (it's a hard life when your mother's a teacher). How would I have survived rebel incursions which started when I was six years old and lasted until I was twenty? All those years, I was at school in Carroll County, Indiana. One school, one home, and the occasional spring break trip to Georgia. What would I have had after fourteen years knowing nothing other than violence and fear?
The short answer is that I would have had nothing. No education, no health care, certainly very little food and even less by the way of a normal life. But if living and working in Niger for two years has taught me anything, it's how remarkably resilient people are. This isn't to say that there's nothing wrong with being exposed to the occasional horror like that of Liberia's civil war. No one should have to experience something like that. But we do have to admire and respect those who have come through such an evil time and not let it destroy their future. Because above all, Liberians seem to be defined by their resiliency and their hope/faith in the face of the great challenges they've been through.
This hope is, in the end, what defines Liberia for me. There are probably some who live or work there who may disagree, but this is what I've taken away from that country. I guess if you can survive something so terrible, you can survive nearly anything. Entire communities were uprooted and tossed like chaff to the wind, displaced by violence and a fight that wasn't theirs. They ended up as refugees in Sierra Leone, Guinea, Ivory Coast, even as far as Ghana and the United States. Slowly, they've made their way back and are looking for those places torn from them by war.
On my last night in Liberia, in Robertsport, I met one of these amazing young people who will be one of the standard bearers for the future. I wish I could remember her name, because I was so taken by her drive and determination. She was one of those who at 17 has already done more and been through more than I may ever do. At 25, I felt a bit like I'd wasted most of my life. She was taken out of a refugee camp in Ghana at the age of four, and now, at 17, she seems to have all the resources and the will to do great things. She wants to be a fashion designer, to start the first teen magazine for girls in Liberia as a way to promote women's empowerment. Most young girls don't have access to any kind of magazine meant specifically for them. One may ask, "How does this help a young girl who may worry about ten thousand other issues the average Liberian confronts everyday?" Well, I think that anything that can lift up a young girl and make her feel pride in her people and herself can't be all bad. It sounds like an interesting project, one among many ideas this girl wants to put into practice. She, and others like her, are the future of Liberia, of Africa, and, quite possibly, of the world.
Addition: The Internet, is quite possibly, good for everything. The girl's name is Lovetta, and you can find out more about her here:
http://www.strongheartfellowship.org/akawelle/Designer.php
http://www.cnn.com/2009/LIVING/wayoflife/12/22/o.gifts.that.give.back/index.html
Liberia made its impression on me in a number of ways. It's essentially a land defined by destruction. Liberians are rebuilding everywhere, so you could say it's also a place defined by reconstruction, but this would hide the signs of the war, which are apparent everywhere. There are a few new cement houses, but the majority of people in Tubmanburg and Robertsport, towns very close to Monrovia, are still living in shacks pieced together from corrugated zinc, rusting desert tracks, and palm leaf. Many are without even that and just squat in ruined, pre-war skeleton houses. The wrecks without squatters are overrun with vegetation, as the jungle slowly retakes what it lost when civilization conquered nature.
In some of these places, the land has grown up too thick for much exploration, all but obscuring concrete walls and twisted rebar. Other places, however, for one reason or another, haven't been overtaken, and they stand out as beautiful broken shells, ghosts of a fabled past. I've explored a variety of these, mostly small churches and one-story houses, but perhaps one of the best I've found is in Robertsport: St. Bethany's School for Girls, the jewel of ruined beauty in provincial Liberia.
The school is a massive boarding house set on a steep hill overlooking all of Robertsport and Lake Piso. For those of you who are curious, Robertsport was once a gem of West African beach getaways, boasting some of the best surfing and the most pristine beaches in the area. I was awestruck by the school when I saw it from the town's mayor's office and knew I had to explore. The staircase up the hill is cracked and parts of it are missing completely. I had to scramble over the broken masonry to get up to the main building, only to realize the grand hall's floorboards were pulled up long ago, leaving only the supporting beams. These were still solid enough to provide access to the rest of the classrooms, cafeteria, and dorm rooms however. I spent a good hour up there photographing the building and longing for a camera with a better lens and more shooting options, but as it was, my time spent in this ruin really brought home how much Liberia (or at least the Americo-Liberians) had before civil war tore the country apart.
The people of Liberia are in large part defined by this war, and how could they not be when they're still surrounded by its aftermath? Many people's lives were completely disrupted for years at a time as they moved from place to place without a home, escaping the destruction. I think of my own life: twenty-three years living in a developed country where the worst violence I ever experienced was the occasional beating in junior high (it's a hard life when your mother's a teacher). How would I have survived rebel incursions which started when I was six years old and lasted until I was twenty? All those years, I was at school in Carroll County, Indiana. One school, one home, and the occasional spring break trip to Georgia. What would I have had after fourteen years knowing nothing other than violence and fear?
The short answer is that I would have had nothing. No education, no health care, certainly very little food and even less by the way of a normal life. But if living and working in Niger for two years has taught me anything, it's how remarkably resilient people are. This isn't to say that there's nothing wrong with being exposed to the occasional horror like that of Liberia's civil war. No one should have to experience something like that. But we do have to admire and respect those who have come through such an evil time and not let it destroy their future. Because above all, Liberians seem to be defined by their resiliency and their hope/faith in the face of the great challenges they've been through.
This hope is, in the end, what defines Liberia for me. There are probably some who live or work there who may disagree, but this is what I've taken away from that country. I guess if you can survive something so terrible, you can survive nearly anything. Entire communities were uprooted and tossed like chaff to the wind, displaced by violence and a fight that wasn't theirs. They ended up as refugees in Sierra Leone, Guinea, Ivory Coast, even as far as Ghana and the United States. Slowly, they've made their way back and are looking for those places torn from them by war.
On my last night in Liberia, in Robertsport, I met one of these amazing young people who will be one of the standard bearers for the future. I wish I could remember her name, because I was so taken by her drive and determination. She was one of those who at 17 has already done more and been through more than I may ever do. At 25, I felt a bit like I'd wasted most of my life. She was taken out of a refugee camp in Ghana at the age of four, and now, at 17, she seems to have all the resources and the will to do great things. She wants to be a fashion designer, to start the first teen magazine for girls in Liberia as a way to promote women's empowerment. Most young girls don't have access to any kind of magazine meant specifically for them. One may ask, "How does this help a young girl who may worry about ten thousand other issues the average Liberian confronts everyday?" Well, I think that anything that can lift up a young girl and make her feel pride in her people and herself can't be all bad. It sounds like an interesting project, one among many ideas this girl wants to put into practice. She, and others like her, are the future of Liberia, of Africa, and, quite possibly, of the world.
Addition: The Internet, is quite possibly, good for everything. The girl's name is Lovetta, and you can find out more about her here:
http://www.strongheartfellowship.org/akawelle/Designer.php
http://www.cnn.com/2009/LIVING/wayoflife/12/22/o.gifts.that.give.back/index.html
Monday, February 8, 2010
Invest West Africa
I've been in Monrovia, Liberia for about a week now, and I've done almost nothing. Oh true, I did spend four days milling about the Sierra Leone embassy trying to get a visa (it's amazing how quickly they'll process the paperwork after you fall asleep on the consul's couch waiting for a freakin' signature) and wrestling with ATMs (when only one bank controls all the cash machines in the city, the inefficiencies of West Africa become very apparent). I probably walked five miles a day trying to find a working machine while on a treasure hunt for the legendary Leonean visa.
Basically, Monrovia has been one big pit stop after eight weeks on the road. Now most would stop here and say, "Really Sterling? You chose a city that less than a decade ago was only somewhat controlled by Charles Taylor and a cavalcade of competing warlords?" Well, it's true. Monrovia has seen better days. At one point in time, Liberia was one of Africa's brightest stars. It was stable, with a strong, commodities-based economy, and an educated elite. However, that educated elite, almost all descended from American slaves repatriated to Africa, controlled all facets of life in the country. The great majority of indigenous people lived in grinding poverty. However, that all changed when one plucky young army officer named Samuel Doe decided to speak up for indigenous rights...by slaughtering most of the landed elites in government and installing himself as President. Gotta love the underdog.
The only problem with getting rid of everyone who knows how to run a country is...well...there's no one left to run the country! Doe tried to steer the ship of state for a while, not too effectively, and, before long, the country descended into a brutal 14-year civil war. Talk about landing on the rocks. And thus, Liberia became known to the rest of the world as "that jungle place in Africa where they're all killing eachother." Congo? "No, not that one." Angola? "No..." Libya? "Ya, something like that."
But the civil war ended over five years ago. Charles Taylor is being tried for war crimes in the Hague. One of the largest UN contingents ever deployed still has boots on the ground; the country's safe, secure, full of happy smiling people! Actually, dark humor aside, Liberia is probably one of the most refreshing countries I've visited in West Africa. Sure, Monrovia is in ruins, but they're rebuilding. There's a massive UN presence all throughout the country. There are more Bangladeshis and Nigerians here than in some parts of Nigeria and Bangladesh (especially in the unpopulated parts of those countries). Every car on the street seems to be driven by an aid or development organization. The major influx of capital in the form of volunteers, development workers, drivers, cars, and money has pushed prices sky-high for foreigners, as most of the secure hotels and restaurants cater exclusively to outsiders and wealthy Liberians. Americo-Liberians who fled during the conflict, however, are returning and bringing a lot of their own wealth back with them.
One can only hope that with the influx of services catering to a wealthier clientele (you wouldn't think development and UN personnel would rank among the wealthiest people in a country would you? Try coming to Africa sometime) that basic services will return to average Liberians. The money doesn't look like it stands much chance of trickling down, but promising signs can be seen in new roads and renovations to buildings that are nothing more than a burnt out shell after 14 years of fighting.
Walking through Monrovia, it's impossible not to notice these hulking monstrosities all over the city: collapsed cement housing, broken high-rises, and once elegant, beach-side homes torn by bullet-holes and neglect. The most impressive of these former glories is the old Ducor Hotel. At it's height in the 70s, it was a five-star hotel, catering to dignitaries both famous and infamous, including Sekou Toure and Idi Amin. From it's perch on Mamba Point, it overlooks the Atlantic on three sides with a view encompassing all of Monrovia on the fourth. It was, in its hey-day, the shining achievement of unadulterated excess and one of Africa's best hotels. But then the war came. So it goes. When it ended and the new owners (a Libyan conglomerate which has bought up and renovated some of the best hotels in West Africa) cleared the building, they threw out over 350 families who were squatting in the ravaged wreck. I don't know where those families went, but it's most likely they took up residence in some other abandoned building in Monrovia (there are plenty to choose from) or moved down into the slums along the beach. As opposed to the rest of the world, beach front property in Monrovia is a poor man's domain. The wealthy tend to stay at home behind their ten foot-high concrete walls and concertina wire.
One would think that the poverty, inequalities, and wreckage would overwhelm the population, but I've found Liberians to be the most hopeful people I've yet encountered in West Africa. They elected Africa's first woman president four years ago, and most still stand behind her. The legacy of corruption and graft in the country is hard to overcome, but she's trying. The refrain among all the people I've met is that they were just tired of fighting. After 14 years, there were many who knew nothing other than violence. They just wanted it to end. Even now, with all the problems, the average Liberian seems reticent to complain, the ghosts of the past still too near. As a result, they're remarkably hopeful. Whereas many in Niger didn't have much faith in the democratic process, here they're looking to America and putting their faith in the ability to overcome their own history.
One of the other remarks I've heard again and again is that I'm the only independent traveler anyone has met in Liberia. Everyone asks what my "mission" here is. Am I a Volunteer? Aid worker? Development professional? UN worker? Liberians and expats, the Lebanese community and every other white person I've met: all are amazed that I decided to come here and see this country. Why do you travel? To see new places, meet new people, and then take back those experiences to the US. And then, when you get back, you'll write a book about our country. Well maybe, but that's too far in the future to tell. For right now, I'm just keeping a blog.
And then the most important, most vital thought I've heard from more than one Liberian on more than one occasion: And you'll be able to tell people that they should come back to Liberia. That we need them. We're a safe country now. We're stable. We're trying to recover and we need people to visit. We need people to see us as more than a war, as more than refugees and amputees. We need people to see us as human again.
I only hope this helps.
Basically, Monrovia has been one big pit stop after eight weeks on the road. Now most would stop here and say, "Really Sterling? You chose a city that less than a decade ago was only somewhat controlled by Charles Taylor and a cavalcade of competing warlords?" Well, it's true. Monrovia has seen better days. At one point in time, Liberia was one of Africa's brightest stars. It was stable, with a strong, commodities-based economy, and an educated elite. However, that educated elite, almost all descended from American slaves repatriated to Africa, controlled all facets of life in the country. The great majority of indigenous people lived in grinding poverty. However, that all changed when one plucky young army officer named Samuel Doe decided to speak up for indigenous rights...by slaughtering most of the landed elites in government and installing himself as President. Gotta love the underdog.
The only problem with getting rid of everyone who knows how to run a country is...well...there's no one left to run the country! Doe tried to steer the ship of state for a while, not too effectively, and, before long, the country descended into a brutal 14-year civil war. Talk about landing on the rocks. And thus, Liberia became known to the rest of the world as "that jungle place in Africa where they're all killing eachother." Congo? "No, not that one." Angola? "No..." Libya? "Ya, something like that."
But the civil war ended over five years ago. Charles Taylor is being tried for war crimes in the Hague. One of the largest UN contingents ever deployed still has boots on the ground; the country's safe, secure, full of happy smiling people! Actually, dark humor aside, Liberia is probably one of the most refreshing countries I've visited in West Africa. Sure, Monrovia is in ruins, but they're rebuilding. There's a massive UN presence all throughout the country. There are more Bangladeshis and Nigerians here than in some parts of Nigeria and Bangladesh (especially in the unpopulated parts of those countries). Every car on the street seems to be driven by an aid or development organization. The major influx of capital in the form of volunteers, development workers, drivers, cars, and money has pushed prices sky-high for foreigners, as most of the secure hotels and restaurants cater exclusively to outsiders and wealthy Liberians. Americo-Liberians who fled during the conflict, however, are returning and bringing a lot of their own wealth back with them.
One can only hope that with the influx of services catering to a wealthier clientele (you wouldn't think development and UN personnel would rank among the wealthiest people in a country would you? Try coming to Africa sometime) that basic services will return to average Liberians. The money doesn't look like it stands much chance of trickling down, but promising signs can be seen in new roads and renovations to buildings that are nothing more than a burnt out shell after 14 years of fighting.
Walking through Monrovia, it's impossible not to notice these hulking monstrosities all over the city: collapsed cement housing, broken high-rises, and once elegant, beach-side homes torn by bullet-holes and neglect. The most impressive of these former glories is the old Ducor Hotel. At it's height in the 70s, it was a five-star hotel, catering to dignitaries both famous and infamous, including Sekou Toure and Idi Amin. From it's perch on Mamba Point, it overlooks the Atlantic on three sides with a view encompassing all of Monrovia on the fourth. It was, in its hey-day, the shining achievement of unadulterated excess and one of Africa's best hotels. But then the war came. So it goes. When it ended and the new owners (a Libyan conglomerate which has bought up and renovated some of the best hotels in West Africa) cleared the building, they threw out over 350 families who were squatting in the ravaged wreck. I don't know where those families went, but it's most likely they took up residence in some other abandoned building in Monrovia (there are plenty to choose from) or moved down into the slums along the beach. As opposed to the rest of the world, beach front property in Monrovia is a poor man's domain. The wealthy tend to stay at home behind their ten foot-high concrete walls and concertina wire.
One would think that the poverty, inequalities, and wreckage would overwhelm the population, but I've found Liberians to be the most hopeful people I've yet encountered in West Africa. They elected Africa's first woman president four years ago, and most still stand behind her. The legacy of corruption and graft in the country is hard to overcome, but she's trying. The refrain among all the people I've met is that they were just tired of fighting. After 14 years, there were many who knew nothing other than violence. They just wanted it to end. Even now, with all the problems, the average Liberian seems reticent to complain, the ghosts of the past still too near. As a result, they're remarkably hopeful. Whereas many in Niger didn't have much faith in the democratic process, here they're looking to America and putting their faith in the ability to overcome their own history.
One of the other remarks I've heard again and again is that I'm the only independent traveler anyone has met in Liberia. Everyone asks what my "mission" here is. Am I a Volunteer? Aid worker? Development professional? UN worker? Liberians and expats, the Lebanese community and every other white person I've met: all are amazed that I decided to come here and see this country. Why do you travel? To see new places, meet new people, and then take back those experiences to the US. And then, when you get back, you'll write a book about our country. Well maybe, but that's too far in the future to tell. For right now, I'm just keeping a blog.
And then the most important, most vital thought I've heard from more than one Liberian on more than one occasion: And you'll be able to tell people that they should come back to Liberia. That we need them. We're a safe country now. We're stable. We're trying to recover and we need people to visit. We need people to see us as more than a war, as more than refugees and amputees. We need people to see us as human again.
I only hope this helps.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Rebels and Roadblocks: Escaping from Côté d'Ivoire
This is taken directly from my journal 30 January 2010. My exit from Côté d'Ivoire turned out to be even more interesting than my near arrest in Bouaké. For those of you who think I'm an idiot for even considering traveling in countries who've all been through major conflict in the past decade, I'd advise continuing no further.
Knut and Bianka have lived the past ten years in Kenya. She's a doctor; he's an electrical engineer. They never planned to end up in Kenya, but on a trans-African road trip, they just fell in love with it and never left. They regaled me with stories of sailing around the world (Knut had his own boat and took tourists to all ports of call in all the far-flung seas and oceans.) It's actually where they met and fell in love. Knut now tends to travel on land, working with German embassy projects all over Africa, and Bianka's work takes her to the refugee camps and the like all over Kenya. Needless to say, I was fascinated with these tales of adventure from seasoned travelers and felt amazed that they'd be at all curious about my adventure. I guess hoofing it around West Africa by oneself can seem pretty interesting to other wanderers as well.
Taking a ride from Knut and Bianka would turn out to be one of the best decisions I have yet made on this trip. The road from Man to Danané is paved the entire way and really rather nice. We left around 8 am and were at the gendarme's post by ten. They told us in town that we had to get our passports stamped in Danané because there was no passport control at the border. It quickly became apparent that the commandant had never done this kind of thing before as he had to be instructed by a junior officer. After he had stamped two of the passports, Knut's and mine, he said that we had to pay a little something. I objected saying it was "obligatoire," at which he took some offense, refusing to stamp the final passport. I suggested to Knut and Bianka that we just leave, as there had to be something near the border if he didn't know the procedure for exiting the country. As I got up to leave, he lectured me on how he was doing us a favor (instead of his actual job), and called me a "bad boy" for leaving Bianka behind without a stamp. He took care of her passport, and continued to call me a "bad boy." I couldn't tell if he was joking.
If I hadn't gotten a ride with Bianka and Knut, I don't know if I'd be in Liberia today. I think it would have been nearly impossible to get a car in Danané, where the road basically ends. Despite this being the main road from Côté d'Ivoire into Liberia, these border posts only see a few people a year and probably no Westerners for months at a time. The entry book was pitifully empty at the first control point, which we thought was the border, where we were asked to pay 5000 cfa (about $10). I don't know why I thought this was legit, but I did it, assured that we would have to pay nothing else the rest of the way to the border. At the second stop, a mere 12km down the road, we were told we had to pay again. "Because this is a different post. You paid at that post, but that isn't this post, and you have to pay to cross." We didn't pay that time through, as we'd forgotten the car papers, and had to return to Danané, a full hour's lost time on the shoddy, unpaved road. We picked up the papers from the commandant (who pointed at me from across the yard and shouted "BAD BOY!") and again started for the border, bouncing over crater-like potholes, fording giant puddles, and teetering along crevices carved by the rain. I don't know how I fell asleep on the way back to the border, but I somehow slept through about three more border posts, where uniformed men demanded 5000 cfa at each site. Knut and Bianka, though, are old hands at handling African corruption, and we didn't pay a dime. After another 45 minutes, I awoke just in time for the complete clusterf*** at the bridge.
I think there were two main reasons we were finally able to cross. The first was the involvement of a woman who obviously had a lot of influence in the community taking our case against some younger guys who make a lot of money exploiting those who move through this basically lawless land. The other factor? After over 30 minutes of arguing and near violence, I think these same punks realized that they might have pushed a little too hard against people who weren't going to be pushed around. When I walked over to the Liberian side, I didn't realize that I was steps away from a UN border post, with Bangladeshi blue helmets looking on from behind their razor-wired compound walls. I think they realized that if I took the time to strike up a conversation with any of the UN peacekeepers, the "rebels" would have had bigger problems to deal with. Once we got to the Liberian side, it was all smiles and sunshine. Though we still had a good ten hours to Monrovia, we were all glad to be out of rebel-held Côté d'Ivoire.
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