Most towns in Liberia, even if they are little and very remote, tend to have a Monrovia parking, where passengers can get a seat in a car going all the way to town. Most of these parkings are run by the Liberian Rural Transit Union, which monitors taxis and drivers, sets and collects fares, and even issues receipts when passengers pay in advance. This last is particularly helpful if your car breaks down and you have to get another car- the Transit Union can send a replacement car, and your receipt means you don’t need to re-pay the fare. On the day I was leaving Foya, I showed up to the Monrovia parking at 7:30am, paid my fare, and was overjoyed to hear that I was the third seat filled in the car- only three more to go before we could be on our way. I was looking forward to the ride, and to being back home after almost a week away. And surely my outstanding travel luck would hold for eight more hours, and see me home safe. Of course, the travel gods despise hubris above all things.
 |
| one of the alternatives to bush taxis |
There is an informal rule of travel here that I call the “rule of three’: if three things go wrong or get in the way of a trip, call it off and try again tomorrow because the universe is trying to politely suggest that things are about to go horribly awry. I forgot (purposely discounted) this rule, because I really wanted to get home. My birthday was two days away, I had guests coming to visit, I missed my cat, and I had promised my school administration that I would be on campus to help with the last two days of semester exams since I am the chairperson of the Testing Administration Committee. I had very compelling reasons to be patient (willfully blind) in the face of the expected delays (universe’s warnings) to travel in a remote part of the country.
[Maybe now is a good time to state for the record that I did in fact arrive home, safe and sound and only slightly the worse for wear. I hate to spoil the ending, but for the sake of my loved ones I jumped ahead small-small.]
 |
| securing the load, including a live goat in a sack |
Warning sign number one was the fact that it took five and a half hours to fill the car, and three passengers on three separate occasions paid their fee and then changed their mind about traveling that day. A young woman came to reserve a spot, left to get her money and load, and never came back. Another woman was heading to Monrovia to go to school found out that it was still semester vacation and decided to wait a week. The driver got into a strong debate with a gentleman taking his son to some doctor, the gentleman got vexed at the tone and diction of the driver’s comments, and he stormed off, taking his fare and his ailing offspring with him. I ignored this sign and paid for a second seat so that we could finally depart. This meant I had the entire front passenger seat to myself, a fantastic situation since the other passengers were all large, causing a larger than average amount of squishing and squeezing and associated discomfort in the back seat.
Warning sign number two came thirty minutes into our journey, at the immigration checkpoint for in Kolahun. Within the fifteen counties of Liberia are numerous districts, and at the border of each district is a checkpoint- usually a cement hut on one side of the road and a knotted and frayed rope extending across to the other side, lowered by one of the LIberian National Police staffing the site once a vehicle has passed ‘inspection’. At most checkpoints people are curious about my nationality, destination, and sometimes marital status, but I never have to do anything more than show my id card and chat with the guard. On the way to Foya, I’d had to get out of the car and walk through the checkpoint, and the inspector had asked for my passport (safely hidden in my house in Kakata) and generally given me a hard time. So I was already apprehensive approaching the checkpoint coming back from Foya. The car was stopped, the driver got out to do the usual song and dance, and the inspector requested that everyone get out and walk through. But the car didn’t follow us- it had ‘spoiled’ and refused to start until the driver spent some time wheedling and pleading and working some magic with wires. Thirty minutes later we were back on the road again. The driver promised to stop in Voinjama to have an electrician look at the problem so that it didn’t crop up later at a less-opportune time, but when we got to Voinjama he declared the problem ‘fixed’ and we kept going.
Warning sign number three was the driver having to fight the clutch for every up- and down-shift over the hills above Zorzor, while we sailed along behind two giant UN convoy trucks blowing up an impenetrable fog of red dust. In the rainy season most roads in the country become rivers of mud, since there are few coal-tar roads. In the dry season (November to March), they are re-surfaced to remove ruts and holes, and are actually quite pleasant to travel on, aside from the dust. It’s usually not too much of a problem, since there arent too many cars traveling one right behind the other. But when you are in a taxi stuck behind huge and slow-moving cargo transport vehicles it’s a different story. We found ourselves in the catch-22 of having to stay far enough behind the truck to have any visibility at all, but needing to get close enough to pass, all without hitting any unseen oncoming traffic, baby goats, or small children. The whole time our driver was playing chicken with the trucks, he was grunting and fighting the gear shift and pumping the clutch far too much for my personal comfort.
We stopped in Zorzor again to eat and refuel, and I got to watch the sun set through the trees of Salayea District. About an hour south of Zorzor is the border between Lofa and Bong Counties and yet another checkpoint. We stopped and the driver and guards did their thing while the back seat passengers urged them to “go quickly, go quickly, we beg! One big truck coming, we must get in front the truck, driver let’s go!” The rope was lowered and we pulled out onto the road in front of yet another UN truck, and the car spoiled again. In the middle of the road. In front of the truck. As the sun was sinking behind the mountains. With no cell reception. Still at least four hours from Kakata, and two hours from the volunteers in Gbarnga, who would let me spend the night on their couch in a heartbeat if I could call them.
After poking around under the hood and fiddling around with a frayed looking bit of rubber he pulled out of a plastic bag, the driver determined that the issue was the fan belt, and that the replacement he had was the wrong size. One of the security guards wandered over to make helpful comments (“Your car it spoil-o” and “Wicked car have so-so problems”) and mentioned that there was a mechanic in that very village, which made us all excited until he clarified his use of the preposition to mean that he resided in the village but was currently ‘in the bush.’ Dead end.
At this point I took stock: 1) this happens all the time to Liberians, and one of the ladies from the back seat had spread her lappa out on the dirt road behind the car and started napping, so it was not a big deal; 2) I had half a bottle of water and half a package of ginger biscuits left over from our stop in Zorzor, so I wouldn’t starve/die of thirst before I got home; 3) we would probably be on the side of the road for a while (see above re: unavaiable mechanics and napping passengers) so I should put my headphones in and try to find my ‘so-so car problems’ zen.
Two hours later I was awoken from my fugue state by the arrival of the driver, accompanied by a mechanic and a cadre of mini-mechanic minions. They poked and banged and messed around with the engine for a while by flashlight, improvising car tools from rocks and sticks and plastic bags, and a little after 10pm they got the car running again. The ol-ma woke up from behind the car, the male passenger, James, left off yelling at the driver to take his seat, and we all got ready to go. The driver reached down below the steering wheel to fiddle with the fuse box again because the repairs had voided whatever magic he had worked at the Kolahun checkpoint to fix the electrical system, and whatever he did made the engine shudder to a halt.
James started yelling again, the mini-mechanic minions turned the flashlight back on, and the driver popped the hood. The mechanic suggested disabling the electrical all together and running a wire directly from the battery to whatever needed power under the hood, but the driver insisted that he needed his lights on to run at night. They found a compromise, got the car started, and we pulled onto the road. We made it across the county line about 200 yards down the road. and the car spoiled yet again.
I was pretty much done with the whole trip at that point. It was late, I was tired and hungry and had no idea where I was, I had no cell reception, and I came to terms with the fact that I wasn’t getting home. So I asked myself what Prince, our safety and security officer, would do. I figured he would have the male passenger walk him back up the road to the security checkpoint which was well-lit and well-staffed, then he would borrow a phone from someone who had service, and he would call Prince to make sure someone knew where I was and get some advice. So that’s what I did. I told James that he was going to carry me back up the road (“I will carry you now?” “You will carry me now.”) and he handed me over to the head security cop with the air of entrusting a sacred burden (“This is one Peace Corps, she trying reach Kakata. You can find her seat in car?”).
I was ready to sit there all night if necessary, and at least I had nothing to fear from snakes in a well-lit cement hut, but apparently I had been punished enough, because the Travel Gods saw fit to grant me maybe the greatest blessing of my life. The guard called over a young woman from the village who had been charging her phone with their generator and informed her that she would carry the white woman to her house to sleep. So I was led through the dusty night by the beam of a tiny flashlight to a mud and thatch building.
She showed me into a sweet-smelling, dimly-lit haven decorated with photographs of her family and brightly-colored paper flowers. A net-draped bed in the corner was covered with fresh sheets. After the day I’d had, it was heaven on earth. I put my bag down, and my host asked (rather pointedly) if I’d like to wash the dust of travel from my feet and collected soap and a bucket of water. I was a little shaky trying to stand on one foot, so she knelt down outside her front door and washed my feet for me. She let me choose the inside or the outside of the bed to sleep on. She let me use the only pillow. She heated water for my bath the next morning. No one in my life has shown me greater kindness, and I realized as we walked back through the village in the dawn that I didn’t even know her name. It was Annie. I will never forget what she did for me when I had nothing, and I will always be more grateful than words can describe.
Back at the checkpoint, I bought some bread and sat watching the sun rise over the Lofa River. The previous 24 hours caught up to me in a rush of tears of exhaustion, confusion, frustration, and gratitude. When he saw my face, the guard asked if I missed home.
After the previous day’s trials, I really appreciated the ease with which I found a car to Gbarnga, got a seat in a taxi to Kakata, and finally made it home more than 30 hours after the start of my journey. I arrived home to an empty house on the day before my birthday, but my wonderful, amazing roommate left me a note on my door wishing me the happiest of birthdays. Sleeping in my own bed, after a truly epic adventure, was close to a religious experience. There truly is no place like home.
