Vignettes (no images)

Today—16 February 2013—has been memorable.

I slept in ‘til 8:30a and decided I wanted breakfast. Except for when Olu and I were in Freetown, Sierra Leone last week, I have not eaten breakfast. Our accommodations in Freetown included a breakfast buffet, so . . . .

The sumptuous meal this morning included fried “spam” (really a Lebanese version of processed chicken with cayenne that looks like Spam) and eggs, with a piece of flatbread.

My sole agenda for the day was to return to what is left of the refugee camp to see how the Ricks service-learning project was going. Readers of Revisiting Liberia will recall the post, “Redemption,” that introduced Mrs. Hawa Sirleaf. Her husband and children died in the Liberian civil wars and her living conditions are deplorable. Today Ricks students were meeting to make bricks for her new house. (There will be a post—with images—forthcoming.)

I made my way to the camp. Along the path I met my good friend, Robert (see post, “Friends in Real Places”). We walked along for quite a while. I was amused because it was apparent that Robert did not think I knew where I was going. Now and then he would talk to others on the path and, then, I would tell him what he had said. For example, I had told him about Mrs. Sirleaf and he asked someone on the road where “omah” was. I laughed and told him I knew where “omah” was. [“Omah” is a Liberian-English term of respect for “old person.”]

Finally, Robert followed me to the mud pit where the students were working.

There were eight Ricks students, three former students, and James Blay. James is the Service-Learning Director at Ricks and a recent Mercer graduate. Readers will have to wait for a glimpse of the process of making mud bricks. I was awed by how labor-intensive it is and how hard the students worked.

About 1p I was in the palava hut at Olu’s house; that is where I take my lunch each day. I was delighted that Olu was there—along with Mia and Q, his children. We had what turned out to be a working lunch, during which we had focused conversation about my project. Olu is something of an expert on Edward Wilmot Blyden and I run my ideas by him.

In the course of our conversation we were talking about Blyden’s relationship to Ricks. I’d found a source that claimed that Blyden was on the Ricks faculty for five months in 1888—the year after Ricks was established. Olu told me about an article I have not seen in which Blyden described his first visit to Ricks.

Then Olu said, “You know that Blyden donated property to Ricks?” I did not. Olu: “I have the original deed.” I shuddered. Was there a chance that I would see and touch a piece of paper that Blyden wrote and signed? Olu disappeared into the house and returned with a worn brown envelope. Soon I had before me—I would not hold it because it is so fragile—the deed, drafted in Blyden’s hand, signed by the man, and with an official embossed stamp affixed, dated May 3, 1889.

I ran my finger over the signature . . . .

Olu then produced another document. This one also had to do with Ricks property. It was signed by John J. Cheeseman, President of Liberia. I note, too, that I mentioned Cheeseman in one of the “Edina Road” posts. Cheeseman was born in Edina and rose in politics. Before being elected President of Liberia in 1891 Cheeseman had founded the Liberian Baptist Convention in 1880.

Once more, I ran my finger over the signature . . . .

I needed to go to Duala—my regular Lebanese grocery is there—so I asked Olu to borrow the Nissan that we had taken to Sinoe a month ago. Off I went. Did my shopping and headed back to Ricks.

Duala is surreal. Congestion beyond description. Low-income street market where a shopper can purchase a tablespoon of mayonnaise, for example. Nerve-wracking taxis and motorcycle taxis that have no regard for courtesy on the road. [An aside: I’ve been lots of places in the world from Buenos Aires to Beijing to Seoul to Manila to Paris to London to Bangkok to Rangoon to Prague, and to NYC, Philadelphia, Boston, Los Angeles, and Atlanta. I’ve never seen traffic like I find in Monrovia and, especially, in Duala.]

Frankly, driving through Duala is compounded by being a white man. Since 2008 I have been comfortable driving in Liberia. Over the years I have had to learn how to deal with the attempts of local law enforcement—or pretenders—to procure money for various reasons. I’ve paid attention when I’ve been with Olu and we’ve been harassed. I have developed a strong edge. Indeed, some at Ricks call me “The White Liberian” because of my learned skill of deflecting the scam artists, in or out of uniforms.

This afternoon I had the most aggressive, yet, encounter. An officer of the Liberian National Police flagged me down. I complied with his request to pull over. We then entered a thirty minute or more pissing match. From the beginning it was clear to me that he wanted money and I was determined to resist. I know that giving in only creates more challenges (there is a well-developed communication among officials; they share successes and failures in attempts to shake down people).

The officer took offence that I would not let him hold my driver’s license. I pointed out to him that I was looking out for myself because I knew that giving up documents were often a ploy to collect a bribe. I held my DL firmly, out of reach, for the officer to see. The drama ensued and escalated. When the officer began making threats to impound the car and arrest me for not obeying the commands of a policeman I thought I needed help.

I called Olu. Olu talked to the officer. It was a stalemate.

The whole time I was creeping along the road. Sometimes the officer would stand in front of the car; when he would come back to talk to me I would creep ahead.

Olu told me that he was calling the chief of the LNP and that the chief would call me and I could give the phone to my nemesis. Meanwhile, the officer and I continued our creeping confrontation.

Things came to a head at a junction. I pulled onto the shoulder and committed to a shouting match. The officer accused me of not respecting the laws of Liberia. I accused him of failing to be a welcoming agent of the State. He accused me of not respecting his person. I accused him of attempting to intimidate a visitor.

It really was a scene. A crowd formed. It was theatre.

Finally, I said to him: “We have done our best. Why cannot we be friends? What is your name?” He smiled broadly and said, “I am Elijah. Who are you?” I said, “I am Rick.” He did not understand, so I showed him (again) the Ricks Institute card on the dashboard. “I am Rick,” I said.

I wish I had a picture. He made the incorrect connection between “Ricks” and “Rick.” (It happens often.)

We shook hands, Liberian style, three or four times. It was snappy, indeed.

And, I was on my way.

Now I’m “home” and happy and clean and looking forward to another day.