Monday, March 24, 2008

Robertsport, Liberia: Beaches and Return Journey


Our tents were set up under the Bilbao tree. There was no fresh water but was a drop toilet (squatting style) in the middle of the brush surrounded by a make-shift palm enclosure. It worked just fine for me.

The sand was bloody hot. We saw people doing unusual running and hopping leaps along a stretch and found it hilarious. Of course when we tried to walk on it ourselves (sans footwear) we found we were doing the same grooving moves. Ouch!

It was a relaxing setting to be in. Hot sun, slightly cooler shade, and refreshingly cool water. I tried to stay in the ocean as much as possible. There were several body boards that people had brought, but after the first day I opted against the death defying section of waves where the surfers prefer.

There were so many times we all looked at each other and remarked how we were in a tropical paradise. It was too bad that is was so difficult to get there by public transport.

The grand hotel that faced the beach in the picture above must have been an absolute luxury getaway before the war. Now it was an empty shell facing the almost completely desolate beach that stretched for miles.

As we stood by the shell of a hotel one of the other campers was aware of having some curious local onlookers. It was a small town compared to Monrovia and I am sure we were the entertainment of the weekend. I know I would be fascinated too if the positions were reversed.

This particular person leaned towards me and said, "It sickens me how we are television to them". I was taken aback, and in somewhat unusual fashion, I had an abrupt come back (in what may have been a bit of an exasperated tone).

"Well, we watch them in the same way."

In hindsight what I wished I had said was, "we are the guests in their country. They can do whatever they please. Why don't you go over and actually chat with them. They are always friendly and up for meeting anyone. They're actually individual people you might like. Why on earth are you here in Liberia? With that attitude you should go home." A touch harsh?

This is one of my favourite shots. Eerie and other worldly.

The dugout canoes are reminiscent of First Nations canoes in Canada. These are purely functional and are piled high with fishing nets.

As we enjoyed our weekend I often thought of the 5 taxi drivers who we had hired to drive us to Robertsport. The journey had taken 5 hours on the Friday and we were returning the following day. They were somewhere in the town. Were they sleeping in their cars? Had they found some food? Did they have money to pay for it? It was strange how little we cared about them as long as they performed their function.

We were paying them US$80 a taxi round trip. It was probably more money than they could ever make in a day. Mercy Ships pays US$5 a day to local Liberians who come and work along side us everyday. So much for Fair Trade prices and global fair wages. Although, the fact that I am even paying to work on board the ship still boggles my mind.

But as Nigel and I chatted with the drivers through out the two days we sensed a growing regret that they had taken us on. None of them had driven the road before and had no idea their cars were not made for such a journey. Two were involved in an accident which meant all the profits would be sucked away. Was it worth it? It was clear the answer was "no" by the end.

Then there was the damaged car. Our taxi driver rents his car from the owner at $900 Liberian dollars (LD) per day. A trip in a public taxi is $15 Liberian dollars per person per ride. A private taxi ride to town is US$5. LD$60 = US$1.

Life is poverty and a hardship in ways that I will never understand as long as I have a passport to leave these countries that I visit or work in. I have the opportunity to do and become anything I want to. Most of the world does not no matter how determined and brilliant they are.

On the drive back the two Liberians in our car said that they would like nothing more than to make a lot of money and travel Europe. In Africa there was nothing for them...or at least in Liberia. I thought about this as we drove in silence for some time. This was a pretty fair dream, not even extravagant by Western standards. it was one of my many goals that I had partially begun. But for them it was a distant dream that would never materialize. Perhaps they knew it somewhere. Is hope more important?

The waves rolled in and out as I walked along. Someone kept pointing out to me that my skirt was getting wet as I hunched down to get a good picture. I didn't much care at all.

One funny reversal occurred when some UN troops were sauntering along the beach. They saw us (Western girls in bathing suits swimming) and began openly taking pictures (sometimes awkwardly close). It was a strange sensation to be on display as though I lacked depth and therefore must not notice or mind. I thought of all the Westerners I had seen doing the exact same thing to Liberians, Malawians, etc. Everyone thinks everyone else is exotic and wants to capture it on digital imagery so that we can all go back to communities with other people like ourselves and say, "look at what I saw and experienced in person".

The ride back to Monrovia was tense. There was a sense of urgency in the air. Our driver wanted to get back to his wife and 5 children. He was wrapped up in angst over the accident. And to make matters worse, the driver of the car who had been in the ditch was sitting beside me in the back. I eventually discovered that he was sticking very close to get his accident payout which was the entire US$80 dollars that we were paying our driver.

Our driver was speeding dangerously and there were several incidents where he slammed on his brakes and we were left gripping the seat in front of us for dear life. Evidentally he no longer cared and just wanted to get home as soon as possible.

The worst incident on our return trip occurred as we reached the paved section of the main road. Our driver decided that gunning it as fast as he could would be the best. Unfortunately this is where at least 5 police check points were set up. They were after nothing more than a bribe.

I noticed a police check point coming up and as we got closer I became aware we were not slowing down. I leaned forward, pointed, and said "police" to the driver. The barriers were across the road with a blatant "stop police" sign. Beyond that was a plank with nails coming out of it.

Our driver registered it all a bit late and slammed on his brakes. We were barely able to avoid the sign and managed to swerve around it just in time before skidding to a stop a couple feet from the nails.

Now, I am sure this didn't look good, but I also think the police officer manning the check point was on a major power trip. He started screaming at our driver (who continually grovelled and apologised) accusing him of trying to drive past without stopping. I tried to interject and point out the battered windshield, but was essentially told to shut up.

We were directed to pull ahead and park so the traffic backing up behind us could get through. We pulled up, and much to our bewilderment, found that our car was speeding away. Well, there's nothing like an adventure with an errant taxi driver in post-war Liberia! We looked back to see if we were being chased. Nothing. But we all knew there was another police check point up ahead.

The next one we stopped for. And yes, they had been alerted to us. But as we had experienced in previous check points, as soon as you say you are a volunteer with Mercy Ships the smiles break out and you are welcomed and allowed to pass (with a bribe from the driver, of course). He only received a small, verbal slap on the wrist.

Why are some of the most beautiful places those where its own people can barely feed themselves from day to day while wealthy foreigners sweep in and suck up only the pleasure of life there?


The beaches were covered in these. I looked closely at them and discovered they were used in our budgie cages growing up so the bird had something to sand his beak on. A New Zealander told me it was part of a fish.


Ah, relaxation. I, a Western woman, take a moment to guiltily relax in the natural luxury of a country so impoverished and torn apart by war, its after effects, and the physical scars and losses. How lucky I am to be born by complete chance where I was.

Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Robertsport, Liberia: The First Evening

Roberts Port beach...well, there are miles of beaches around the small town of Robertsport.

It is paradise.

Our tents and hammocks were set up.

Some of the local children found us entertaining.

We were situated in front of a small inlet of of ocean water that was pretty stagnant.

The sun set was amazing. From about the point you see it in this photo it disappears into the harmattan, the layer of fine dust that blows every season from the Sahara Dessert.

Amazing skies.

I wandered up and down the beach. The evenings are muggy and hot. They days stifling unless you jumped in the cool water.

In another life I was a sea creature and lived in the water.



I head back to the campsite. We sit around a fire and talking for hours and then head to bed. Our small mouldy tent keeps out the thousands of ants (or so we think), but fails to keep out the monsoon rains that open up on us that evening. I have small trickles of water falling on my feet and bum and an occasional unknown insect scuttling across my body. I hear the occasional slap of skin from Nigel. But it is warm and I love camping and swimming so I am still in heaven.

The Bilbao Tree

We pitched our tents under the Bilbao tree.




Robertsport, Liberia: Arriving

After the accident (see next blog) we continued on towards Robertsport, a small town with amazing beaches, known as one of the best places in Liberia for surfing.

We slowly emerged out of the bush to some civilization.

Buildings began to appear as we drove along.

Many of the structures are shells of buildings that were in pristine condition before the war. It gives a ghostly hint of what things might have been like.


Liberia is also full of hand painted bill boards usually trying to bring about social change on issues such as domestic violence, rape, HIV, youth violence, education, etc..

We stop at the top of a hill in Robertsport beside the local Methodist church which has been maintained well.

The view is amazing and our first of the yellow sand we will be tenting on.

The church is also beautiful.

A surprise when I peared through the window.

A still church.


We finally arrive at the beach where we will pitch our tents.

What a view.

Robertsport, Liberia: The Journey There

A camping trip on the beach at Robertsport, Liberia, was our plan for the Easter long weekend. It was about 150 kilometres north of the port we lived at in Monrovia. But one has to take into account the conditions of the roads (only half were paved on this journey) and the number and difficulty of the police and UN check points along the way.

Then there is the problem of transportation. We could not take a Mercy Ships land rover (which would have been the best and safest vehicle for the trip) so were left with two options: Liberian mini bus or Liberian taxi. A mini bus would mean waiting hours on the road. In a larger group you were almost guaranteed not to get a ride. Private taxis were our choice (private taxis work the same in the western world and public taxis work like the bus system on a circuit picking up people along the way).

We hired 5 taxis. Although this picture makes them look quite nice, they are pretty decrepit. The nice coverings for the interiors are mostly obselete. Window handles are gone, doors don't open, cars are constantly stalling and breaking down, tires popping, holes everywhere, etc..

Our taxi wasn't the worst and this was the view from the driver's side before we set off.

This was the view from the passenger side. Did I mention there are no seat belts and the taxi drivers drive like maniacs?

We set off. It seemed almost good until we hit 45km of dirt road. Our driver had already been restarting his car constantly while coasting in neutral on the paved sections. I wasn't convinced he was going to make it. The dirt roads were littered with huge gaping potholes and ditches (while the paved roads just had potholes) and the cars were continually bottoming out.

The first mishap was predictable. Our car had a slow leak in the rear left tire. We had stopped for air on the way, but the dirt road flattened the tire completely.

luckily one of the cars had a spare, which utterly surprised me. We were pretty far from any civilization.

It was dusty. Everyone was caked in red dirt that the road kicked up as we drove.

Every mile or so there was a rickety old wooden bridge that required a very slow crossing. This one pictured was particularly detrimental for us. Our car was in the lead when another in our caravan quickly pulled in front of us and zoomed off in a cloud of dust. The dust clouds failed to settle quickly and we drove in a fog. Little did we know the car ahead had come to a quick stop in order to navigate a sudden bridge. We were a few meters from them when someone in our vehicle just barely saw them.

"Shit!", Nigel yelled. "Brace yourself!"

This was the point I looked out the front, but it was too late, we were screeching, skidding, and finally slammed into them before I could grip. I was thrown up to the ceiling and hit my head. We saw them lose control, barely make it over the bridge, and then break the barrier and plunge into the ditch on the other side.

Nigel immediately yelled at me, "get out of the car! The next one is going to hit us!" I turned around to look out the back window and knew we didn't have time to leap.

"Just brace yourself" I yelled back. The car behind us slammed on their brakes and managed to screech to a stop inches away from us.

We jumped out. Nigel ran over to the car in the ditch. I ran the other way waving my lapa (Liberian fabric wrap) to warn the other taxis to stop before there was a pile up.

Nigel went up to the window to see if everyone was alright. Thankfully they all were. Each passenger climbed out in a bit of a haze, whiplash being the worst thing anyone suffered. We were very lucky.

But the car was now stuck. The drivers were yelling at each other. I felt for them. Here was there livelihood and it was in a ditch in the middle of no where. They were angrily blaming each other.

There was discussion as to what to do. The car needed to be left so that they could file a police report (I am not sure what that would do in a country like Liberia). At the same time, it couldn't be left. It would almost certainly be stolen and the police were just as likely culprits as anyone else who might come along.

It turns out we were not far from the Pakistani UN base. They arrived on the scene and surveyed the damage.

The back was dented in, the back window shattered, and the front had a great dent where it had hit a tree and stopped.

But the whole middle section of the car looked fine and I was convinced it would still drive if we could just haul it out.

The UN sent for a vehicle with a winch.

We hitched a ride up the road to their base. The driver of the car continually commented on how the wonderful Muslims had saved us and how amazing the Muslims were. I agreed whole heartedly.

The survivors of the car in the ditch posed with their "rescuers".

The car soon joined us, not less than 20 minutes later. We climbed back in and continued on our journey. Such is life in Liberia.