Lay off the Iodine

The Boot

“I am not a xenophobe. I have my education from Peace Corps.”

“I understand. I am happy to hear that,” Evan gives me a solid nudge with his left foot.

“I am not a racist or a xenophobe….” 

The room is Spartan. We sit in a large, lobby-styled area with rooms branching off to the right. Another set of rooms lay behind an L-shaped cutout where the Immigration Officer speaks. Parts of the walls reveal bricks laid decades ago, their pockmarked, ochre colored rectangles a harsh contrast to the long-faded sea green paint on the walls. Ameba shaped mildew stains coat the drop ceiling. A few windows are open to the noon sun. Several people standby, one lingers outside the door.

“Now, can I see your documents?”

“Sir, we don’t have our passports. We came to town to see some volunteers off, and get a delicious Club beer at O.J’s.” This last bit has no effect.

“You don’t have documents? But you came through the border and they gave you documents,” his pronunciation is a little slow.

“Right, we came in on Friday and they gave us 15 days. We didn’t think we needed to see anyone else.”

“I am the Immigration Officer for Cape May County, Robertsport, Liberia and anybody that comes through here needs to see me. I need to record their information, movement, and mission…”

This is the umpteenth time we’ve heard the term, “mission.” It still sounds strange. “Mission.” Is a five-foot nothing, tanned, mustachioed and long-haired man, and his lighter toned, red-mustachioed, and blonde-haired counterpart, truly suspicious? Maybe that shouldn’t be a question. I can understand the caution my looks may cause on the Arizona/Mexico border. Robertsport is much different. Maybe I look Arab. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been confused as such.

Thirty-minutes have passed. I am angry. A Liberian Peace Corps Volunteer waits outside. No problems for her. Evan has explained several times that when we meet immigration we show them our Peace Corps I.D. - which the I.O. seized as we entered O.J.’s Sport Bar - and the officials find that sufficient, and usually conclude with a “thank you for helping our children.” People continue to shuffle about the office. The man by the door is now inside.

“Look, we understand this is your job and that you need to record us. There is no problem with that. Our passport numbers are on the identification card you have. It is the same as our passport. You can record that and we can go,” I try to reason.

“No. No, I need your passport to record your movement. You have a passport. I am not a xenophobe. I was taught by Peace Corps through elementary. I am not a xenophobe. It is not, I am not a racist, a bigot, a….” he continues through a tirade, pointing his finger in my face and raising his voice.

I am furious. Plugging my fingers in my ears I begin to convulse like a lunatic, shaking my head and upper body. Evan is smiling and giving me a firm kick on the foot. The volunteer on the other side of the door is gesturing signs of, “What is going on?” I stop. She comes inside and sits down to the right of Evan.

“You don’t need to yell, we are right here, sir.”

“Why don’t you have your passports?” His beer stained breath reaches across the table.

“We told you. They are at the campsite. The Robertsport Community Campsite. Next to Nana’s. Yes. By Nana’s. That’s where we are staying.”

“Well, go and take it.”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve been processed at the border. That is a long walk to the campsite. I don’t want to go back there.”

“I’ll send him. He can take it from your bag.”

“No. Not going to happen, sir.

“Why?”

“I can’t trust that,” this is a horrible mistake. I know it as it comes out. Evan rolls his head back and lets out a sigh.

“You can’t trust him, why? I am not a xenophobe…” again.

The people in the office talk amongst themselves and the I.O. We begin laughing that this is the first time we’ve ever been cut off from a bar before even entering it. The I.O. was inside the bar as we approached and were about to order. When the I.O. finishes, he is suspicious of what we are speaking about. An explanation is lost in cultural translation.

Evan produces his passport and World Health Organization card. Flipping through the pages, upside-down, he locates the Liberian visa and turns the passport right round. He scans more of the pages until he finds the entry stamp, marked April, 13th, 2012. Friday the thirteenth. We’ve been in Liberia for two and a half days. This is our 8th or 9th visit to an office associated with immigration. Back to the front page with Evan’s picture.

“Arizona. A cowboy”

“Yes.”

Several more questions are asked. The man writes down some numbers from the passport. His assistants have spoken with him a few times now. Things are progressing. My absent passport is still a problem. Two steps forward. There is no hope for me.

“You know. It really hurts my heart. It hurts my heart that we have to sit in here after we’ve done all our documents at the border. We thought we were finished with everything there. Now, we have to sit here. It makes me sad. I am happy to see Liberia and be able to tell people that it is beautiful and the people are kind. But, it really hurts my heart that we have had to sit in here…”

The process has taken almost an hour. The man by the door comes over. He and the  I.O. have spoken inside the side office. They return and talk to a younger looking man sitting adjacent from us. I am still talking. He speaks up.

“You’ve talked a lot. You’ve said many things.”

“Yes. Because it does hurt my heart and I don’t want to have to tell…”

He hands Evan back his passport and both our I.D.’s. We are confused. The numbers written on a scrap of paper are lost somewhere on the desk. The I.O. sits down. The man from the outside explains everything is finished here, partly talking to us, mostly to the I.O.

“So, how can you help me?” The I.O. asks.

“Help you? You kept us…I’m sorry we can’t help you. Thank you, though.”

Thanks are given to the man that came in. We shake hands, fumbling with the Liberian handshake that finishes in a mutual snapping of the fingers. He has some final words with the I.O. and walks out with us. His name is O.J.

Outers

            Coals are still hot from the previous night’s fire. Few people are awake. The sun is well behind the cotton tree to the east. Evan and I bring up the flame with a plate as a fan. He piles on a few pieces of left over wood. With no pot to boil eggs in, or water for coffee, I make use of a soda can. Evan cuts the top off two. He breaks open two eggs, cuts an onion and hot pepper, and fries it inside the can. I boil water in mine. One egg is fully submerged. I roast my bread on a stick. One hundred yards off to the left the spray of a set blows offshore. Standing up, it is easy to see that a swell is coming through. We work over a meal of eggs, bread, coffee, Clif-bars, and beef jerky.

            Morris is walking out over the rocks to Outers. Solid shoulder-to-head-high sets with the occasional overhead wave roll in. The set breaks for about 100 yards and slows, before threading past a tombstone rock, and continues for another 75 yards. Skirting the rocks, Morris allows a set to pass by and paddles out. He is 14 years old. Morris is born and raised in Robertsport. Later he will show us where he lives. Overhead sets make their way more consistently into the session. Outers is working. The wind is a good offshore. Paddling out, I watch Morris drop regular and thread the rock, catching his speed back and coming into the shallows of Inners. We take our fair share of shoulder-highs, late-take offs, and caught inside poundings.

High on a beautiful peaking overhead wave, Morris cuts back, makes a deep bottom turn, and stays up as he passes the needle. He is riding switch. It takes a moment to register.

            “Morris! Eh! Morris! Hell Yeah!”

            He paddles out with a grin.

            “Wow. Guy that one you get is nice. Really nice,” he tells me in his slow, vowel dropped Liberian English.

The last wave I took was poorly ridden at best, while he manages to ride overhead sets, switch. He is a good kid and lets us take our choice of waves. Other local boys are coming out now. Satisfied and exhausted, we paddle in.

Pictures, And not Very Good Ones…

                 Park City, Liberia, dude. Keep your tips up.

      This was nice to see. Ma Ellen graded the road making it a smooth 1 hour drive

                                  Real Tall. Real Phat Trunk. Really

Waterside

  Camp is set up under the fabled cotton tree, we put our fins in their boxes, add a fresh layer of wax, and walk out to the edge of the shoreline. There is a little swell coming in off the point at Nana’s, but the mid-afternoon wind knocks down what waves there are. It appears as though the tide is half up. Walking south, the sand is cool, and more granulated than that of Sierra Leone. We scope out Shipwrecks. Markedly different from the quiet, shallow beach break of its sister country to the north, the point breaks of Robertsport are wrapped in rocks. There is a mellow set of chest-high waves. Waves run their course straight into a ten foot tall, eight foot wide boulder. A giant splat wall. We let the set pass.

Over rocks, we manage new territory. The water is frigid, maybe a full ten degrees cooler than what we’ve been in for the past one and a half years. At 3:30 in the afternoon the sun reflects off the ocean, making it look like an oil slick. We paddle out together. A quick two strokes gets us around the splat wall. Boils of water appear every few feet. I point out some to Evan. He trails behind a bit and I slow. From an outer point a set comes in. It’s difficult to see out with the sun’s effect on the water. I paddle for  the first one and bail too late, over the falls. Yeah. There’s a whole bunch of rocks under there.  

Evan paddles for a wave as I surface. A little too far outside. The last wave is chest-high and clean. I grab rail too hard and pull myself off the back. Another set comes through. Evan tries to take the first. He is lost on the other side. I take the second wave and ease up on the rail. The wave is quick. Boils pop up. Under the surface, the stone strewn bottom is more evident than before. I lose it on a small turn. Paddling back out my hand smacks into something clear, soft, and huge.

“Ah! Eugh! Ah! Jelly fish!” 

“Yeah. I saw one over here.”

“They are huuuge.”

Waves continue to come. Evan snags one and pulls off a little early. The splat wall, rock boils, jelly fish, and foreboding mono-chromatic water are not enticing. We stay for another hour before paddling in. 

“Well, we failed to sit down and scope it all out,” I say. 

“Yeah. Probably should try and do that next time.”

“God. That was terrifying, ha!”

“What? Really, but you were trying any wave.”

“Oh yeah. I figured that was the best thing to do. Couldn’t think about the dark water or the jellies on a wave.” Evan agrees. We discuss a better approach for tomorrow.                                                                                                             

                                                                  Bad picture of fun waves. 

yeuxdusoleil asked: Is the peace corps a really good experience?,i wanna travel the world and help people but i'm somewhat unsure what the peace corps is about

Peace Corps is definitely a good experience to get out, try and do some good by some people, and learn a thing or two. Two years is a super long time to be away, in one place. There are great benefits personally and professionally from Peace Corps, but if you are down to travel, see new places/cultures on your own agenda and help, Peace Corps can sometimes stymie that sense of goodwill and adventure. 

There are plenty of rad alternatives to Peace Corps that aren’t so long term. I’m ending my service in July and looking at  the two years, now, it is short (development/projects) and long (time away, food, friends). 

There is a book somewhere in a bookshop titled Alternatives to Peace Corps. Take a look at that, it might turn you in a better direction. 

I’m stoked to talk more about Peace Corps through e-mail if you want…andre.beriau@gmail.com 

Anonymous asked: Hi Andre... I will be in Sierra Leone next week. I am almost done packing, but have a few questions. A coworker who was also in the Peace Corps advised me to buy an unlocked phone here in the states to use while living in Sierra Leone. Would you recommend this? Also, how often do you have internet access?

Welcome!

Peace Corps now supplies all volunteers with a phone, so you needn’t worry about that. 

I have internet access everyday of the week, because an NGO provided internet for the village and is based nearby. Other volunteers have access at least several times per month. Any major town will have internet cafes. Also, we have free internet in the PC hostel. During training you will be in Bo. There is an internet cafe about an hours walk from your training site. 

Enjoy staging and your last week in the States. Eat some good grub. 

Borderline

  Twelve miles from the border is an office with a single table and two benches. A man places an “out” stamp inside a random passport page. Today is the 12th. The stamp claims April 13th, 2012. It is just after 4:30p.m., in the town of Zimmi. If the driver can “run” to the border we’ll cross, on the cusp of its six o’clock closing, and be Liberia side by nightfall. The driver hustles the passengers; purchasing food, stretching, and going to the bathroom, back into the vehicle. 

Evan sits behind me in the middle row of the station wagon. The yellow, dirt crusted, Peugeot stops at the base of a pothole riddled hill. From the roof the apprentice shouts that there is an axel problem. Passengers offload. Under the vehicle the driver and apprentices mend the slipped axel with metal wire and rubber cut from an inner tube. Twenty-minutes passes. We load back. Evan’s head bobs as he wakes and sleeps. The driver is conscious of time and axel. He dodges the VW Beetle sized puddles as best he can. Another thirty minutes later the axel is out again. The passengers exit, ease themselves, and enter back. 

Hope of a crossing is fading with the light. Through the tall, sunburnt and dust covered grass, villages begin to grow in size. The road condition is improving - slightly. Ahead, houses appear, zinc shacks and single unit shops present themselves in larger numbers. We cross a rope flagged with rags and plastic bags. 

Passengers begin to scatter. Apprentices and police officers are offloading possessions. People move about. Our surfboards are unloaded. I pull my pack from the roof as passengers scramble for their things. Half a dozen police standby. 

“Stop! Stop!”

“What? This is my bag.”

“This is a police order. Are you above the law?”

“No. This is my bag, sir.”

“No. You do not unload your bag.”

My ability to assume grace under pressure fails me. Evan cuts me off with a quick, “Dude, no. Leave it.” The other passengers and their possessions are gone. At least six different officers and “officials” approach and tell us the same, different things. The time is no later than 6:15p.m. We sit on a bench outside the Gendema Police Station. My bag is only feet away. The boarder is less than 500 yards to the south. I take a pull off of Evan’s warm beer. Tomorrow. If a person meets Gendema after 6:00p.m. it is law that their possessions spend the night under the safe gaze of the police. I don’t fucking think so. 

Evan scouts out a guesthouse. The town is illuminated by kerosene lamps and candles. From inside the telephone charging centers and video clubs, Freetown’s latest hip-hop artists blend in a wall of bass-filled noise. Police officers attempt to talk with me in Mende. With gritted teeth I respond in Krio and inquire about the bag. Nothing. Eight o’clock in the morning. When the border opens. Blood boils. 

There is a guesthouse for 30,000Le for two. I advise Evan to go, wash and sleep - I’ll stay at the station, he should not have to suffer. He stays. True solidarity. Evan sits with the police while I scrounge food. When I return Evan goes for acheke, a mix of pasta, garrie, fish, eggs, mayonnaise, ketchup, and lettuce. Three and a half hours have passed. I have spoken a lot, to many different “officials.” 

“It’s a good thing I’ve been in Salone for a time.”

“Why?”

“If this was my first and only experience in Salone…Well, I would not tell people outside good things.”

“Why? We keep you safe. Tomorrow you can go.”

“Right. For now you treat me like dog shit. And it hurts my heart.”

“LIke dog shit? You know what is dog shit?”

“Yes. It is the shit from a dog’s asshole. It really hurts my heart.”

“Shit from a dog’s asshole? Wow.”

“Yeah. Not good. There is the apprentice. Before you said if the apprentice comes I can take my bag.”

The apprentice opens the door of the car. I explain to him what is happening. He is summoned by the police official. Evan returns with food and beer. 

“So. How can you help me?” Asks the official.

“Help you?”

“Yeah I got your bag for you.”

“Eh? You like soft drinks?”

“No.”

“Beer? I’ll buy you a beer?” 

                             Freetown to Border: Government Bus/Taxi: 12 Hours. 

                 Sometime after 9:00a.m. 4/13/12. Four more security posts to stop at

Anonymous asked: Hey dude. This is the same cat who posted directly below. Another quick question: What do you wear shoe-wise for teaching in the classroom? Are vans classy enough, or do you need something a little more professional?

Meow, what? Any type of shoe is fine. I wear boat shoes. They are comfortable. Sandals are o.k. too, maybe not during training, but at your village no worries. Sandals being like Birkenstocks, Chacos, or Teva’s. Unless you want to be associated with hippies and eight-year old kids with bug juice mustaches and dinosaur t-shirts, I’d just wear shoes. But the eight-year old kid is rad, too.