Monrovia: City of Darkness

Monrovia is a city of darkness.  Deeply wounded after 14 years of civil war, the city is slowly healing but there are clear scars that permeates from every direction.  The first and most obvious sign, is the sheer darkness of the city.  With major electrical infrastructure destroyed from the war, the night from within the city is no different than being lost within a concrete jungle. 

I left France from the Toulouse airport with a thick spring jacket, a vest, my backpack a box filled with software, MENTOR (the NGO I am interning for) clothing and some small luxuries like cheese and artificial sweetener.   I did my best to bring some luxuries over to a world that is without.

Switching from Toulouse to Brussels, I noticed an equal number of white and black faces – a blend of people I was not expecting.  I even heard some Southern drawl coming from a few in the business class.  Most people were heading to the Ivory Coast but a few were heading to Liberia which, I expect,  as either humanitarians or as missionaries.

The plane descended upon Monrovia and the landscape appeared.  An endless sea of green palm trees consumes the horizon.  As the plane approached the tarmac, the airport parking for the United Nations appeared with several dozen helicopters and off-road vehicles.  The plane taxied to the arrivals area of the airport passing several USAID and other NGO cargo drop off ports.  The level of need for outside help here is obvious from the first few visual seconds and this is even before the plane touches ground. 

The plane doors opened and I took my first few steps out into Real Africa.  This is my first time in Africa and though I have seen Third World poverty before, I was about to walk into the shock can only be called cultural.  The humidity struck me like a angry tsunami and instantly I am drenched by the wave.  I watch as the matted skin of people, who once had plane-provided air conditioning, now start to glisten in the ocean-like air.

My passport was checked five times in the airport.  Once at the arrivals desk, once (as typical of me in airports) in the airport police office as my visa was reviewed, once as I entered the baggage claim, once when I got my baggage at customs and once when I was leaving the airport with my baggage.  It was a super-festival of identification verification. 

I met my MENTOR head driver, Blama, and we headed off to see the Country Director.  The sun was setting.  Things are in a constant state of decay here.  The building are a clear memory of the war with shattered and burned down walls.   With the power grid destroyed by the war, the streets become dark very fast.  There are a few homes lit by generators but mostly the cars produced the lights which make the city glow. The two lane street opened up onto Liberia’s biggest road – a recently renovated four lane “highway” which eventually enters to many major building such as those run by major government or by various humanitarian organizations.  Each building is surrounded by a large concrete wall and crowned in the Liberian’s major import – razorwire. 

Razorwire is everywhere.  Is it the Christmas tinsel of every wealthy home here.  There is a constant fear of theft in Monrovia and even though barbwire is essentially useless, it does give off an assertive blend of “don’t come here if you are poor” and “welcome to safety if you have money”.  

Though sharp and highly infected with tetanus, nothing escapes the humidity.  Everything electronic eventually falls to pieces.  In the office, there are stacks of power bars that give high electrical shocks when plugged in.  Outside, the metal street signs cry rusty tears.

There is a definite feeling of colonialism here.  With an unbelievable 80% unemployment, the willing labour force here is so obvious that most of all of what I usually do for myself gets done for me.  I don’t make my own coffee here.  In fact, leaving coffee open for all to take would leave the coffee/tea coffers dry and so we have a coffee manager to ensure that we have our hot drinks when we want them.  I am driven around everywhere by personal team drivers and my place is cleaned and my clothes are ironed.  I feel uncomfortably undependent. 

And yet, I also feel that I am in prison but in reverse. As we drive around, we enter gated hotels and building with endless security. These prison walls, though heavily barbed and thick reinforced, are protecting those that reside within them instead of protecting those that live outside.  There is an uneasy claustrophobia here which is spooning me like a new girlfriend.  

There is also very little in terms of local agriculture.  The local market seems to produce only  a few items: pineapple, banana, potato, onions, lettuce, chives, papaya, pathetic looking ginger, chilli peppers and cucumbers.  With such fertile land, it seems remarkable that there is basically no agricultural industry here. To get any sort of variety, all of which are imported, you need to go to one of the few high end supermarkets to buy western style food. The price of these is essentially double that of the US or Canada.  Olive oil goes for USD$11/litre and milk goes for USD$2/litre.  Chickens are imported from Brazil. Bread is more like leavened cardboard yet the pita was oddly delicious though this may be accountable to the large community of Lebanese who live here and basically own everything.

This is a brand new experience for me.  The humanitarian world in high security areas is a strange place.  Every moment is a new experience and I am loving the adventure.   A few days ago , I headed out to some remote part of the country for a few days to see how one of our the sentinel sites are functioning.  The sentinel site is  a hospital which provides us with data on malaria cases in the area.  My first time in a Third World hospital.  My next post will describe this provide details.  Hopefully, I will get photos up soon…  

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