Your favourite tee-shirt is in Liberia

You may wonder what will happen to your favourite tee-shirt your spouse insists you donate to charity. You've been told you can't wear it anymore because it's "too faded for public" or the hole in the armpit deems it "inappropriate" for gardening and climbing ladders.

But it has a history. You remember playing baseball in it as a teenager, or the time you and your dad bought matching ones at the amusement park, or when your best friend gave you her favourite one because you were moving away. It's not just cotton with sleeves, it's part of you.

Realizing you will never stop hearing, "That shirt is so not sexy!" you reluctantly toss it in the pile for charity. And with a tear in your eye, dump it at Goodwill or in that bin that's been taunting you at your local grocer.

On the way home, as your car radio blasts Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" (and yes, you brought the CD with you in preparation) you think nobody will appreciate that tee-shirt like you did. When Whitney hits her last "Yoooouuuuuuu", you come to your senses. You think about the journey your tee-shirt will embark upon and hope that it will make somebody else as happy as it's made you.

Well, you my friend, have made someone happy. There's a good chance it ended up in Liberia.

There are many Liberians walking around in tee-shirts with slogans like, "CANCER SUCKS!," "Martial Arts Momma", and "I Do My Own Stunts." I saw the latter on a three year old in a village that doesn't have access to clean drinking water. My friend Jess saw her small town U.S.A. school gym tee-shirt on a 70-year-old man walking the streets of Monrovia.

In every city you in which you wander throughout this country, you will find someone selling these wrinkly just-off-the-boat tee-shirts. They're floating on bent coat hangers in the market, or in placed in piles under umbrellas. They're folded into wheelbarrows, carted around by teenaged boys with pipes comparable to Schwartznegger's.

No, it wasn't the fantasy you imagined. It wasn't given to that poor man on the corner who chews on his lower lip all afternoon because he doesn't know any better or donated to an adult orphanage. It was sold to the everyman.

It's not all bad. You've boosted the economy in a country with an 85 per cent unemployment rate. And more than one person has profited along the way.

I've imagined it like this. The cargo ship arrives in Monrovia with a container of clothes including your tee-shirt. Someone on board makes a 100 per cent profit when he/she sells the clothes to someone waiting at the port. This person then loads them in trucks and sells them to their contacts in various cities. Those contacts sell them to local store owners. And then shop keepers resell them to the public. Four times sold.

Four people on this side of the Atlantic are profiting from your good will and your ability to let go.

And at least you won't be called unsexy anymore.

Nun times

The closest I ever got to a nun before today was when I played one in a high school talent show. Three of us were lip sinking to a song from Whoopi Goldberg's Sister Act soundtrack. We practiced our routine, including solos, for hours in front of my friend Lanna's mirror. Her older sister, Tracie, agreed to be our third nun, potentially against her better judgment.

We were a hit though, and got a lot of laughs. Tracie's popularity wasn't tarnished. That may have been because since we were between the ages of 15 and 18, there was no way we were going to gear up in veils and cloaks. We opted for tee-shirts, baseball caps turned backwards, and cropped white jean shorts.

Today is no exception. I didn't dress nun-appropriately. I wish I could say I wasn't expecting to visit. But instead of thinking about nun-wear I was preoccupied with the four-hour, pot-holed journey. Dusty roads included.

I haven't gone for barbie-sized shorts this time, but a stretched out, washed too many times, blue tee-shirt. With a scooped neck.

I'm noticing that the nuns won't look at me while I'm talking to them over ice cream at the dining table. I look down and realize I'm revealing too much. Adjustments are made and the awkwardness thaws faster than my bowl-full.

I don't just visit nuns for fun. In fact, I wasn't nuts about the idea to begin with. But my Cameroonian friend Casimir, who is a Catholic Brother, has once a month 'spiritual guidance' appointments with a nun. And because we're travelling together to Monrovia, I agreed to stop here on the way.

Here is Harbel. A town on the outskirts of the Firestone rubber plantation. Bald tires shaped like half moons arch upright in the ground, lining the main road. The rest of the tires underground make handy homes for ants and other sand-dwelling creatures.

We arrive in a shared taxi. Five of us crammed in the back. Our fellow passengers include an elderly man with yellowed teeth, clasping a cane shaped like a slingshot in his left gnarled hand. His wife, beside him, keeps staring at me while her daughter sleeps on her lap.

Climbing out of the contraption, Casimir and I take one motorbike taxi to the nuns' home. It's about a three minute drive over more worn red dirt roads.

Four nuns live at this house. But I was just expecting one.

Sister Josephine is Casimir's nun. She's Kenyan and has been living at the house for five years. Sister Maria and Sister Natalia from Italy, have been here since before I was born. They also live with a Brazilian nun, but she's out of town.

The women dress simply. They're all wearing long grey shapeless skirts, and white button up short sleeved dress shirts. Chunky silver crosses hanging from chains rest on their chests. Sister Josephine's hair is hidden under a veil but the Italian sisters show off their manly coifs.

While Casimir gets counselled, Sister Maria offers to show me their garden. She's taken a shining to me, maybe because I'm laughing at her jokes. She's pretty funny.

When their guard dogs start barking at me from inside their concrete cages, she says, "Don't mind them. They're male. They make a lot of noise, but nothing else."

Sister Maria points up to a tree with fanned leaves. "That's Papaya, there." Little bulbs of the fruit are beginning to sprout in the leaves' shade. "And over here, this is sour sour. (What we call soursop.) You know, people with cancer eat this instead of getting chemo. It's a better treatment," she says.

We stroll along the moss covered fence. I clasp my hands behind my back to appear more holy.

"You see that vine?" She points. "That's insulin!" One of the sisters has diabetes, so every morning she snips off three leaves, crushes them up and steeps them in boiling water. The diabetic drinks two cups a day and hasn't felt any pain since. She doesn't take pills or give herself injections anymore.

A tiny garden lines the house wall. "That's lettuce," she boasts. Fresh lettuce is a rarity in Liberia. "I brought some back from Italia when I went last year." I can't help but picture a nun trying to smuggle Italian lettuce into the country.

Then she shows me the chapel. From the outside it looks like any other room in the house. Inside, it's painted the colour of my 12-year-old bedroom. Mint, like Baskin Robbins Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream.

A giant shellacked tree trunk sits at the front of the room. On top is a white cloth with so much lace around its edges, it could be an oversized doily.

"Sister Natalia saved this tree from the ocean. It had come up on the sand so she put it in the back of a pick up." Wow. "Now it's our alter."

A rounded box is stuck to the wall, also shellacked. Carved palm leaves sprout out from the top. I want to go over and open its tiny door. "What's inside that box?" I ask.

"Jesus," she says as if I should have known.

Sister Maria doesn't elaborate.

We walk back to the living room. She has been complaining because they haven't been able to watch TV for three days.

"The other sisters say there's something wrong with the satellite but I think the woman who cleans broke it," she whispers. "She's always moving everything around."

I know very little about electronics but these nuns need amusement since they'd rather watch TV than read after dinner. And Harbel isn't exactly the entertainment capital of the world.

"I'll take a look at it," I say. I wheel it out on its stand and examine the wires like an expert. I make sure all the knobs are tight, which usually works. But there's still static.

"Jesus Christ!!" Sister Maria swears. A nun, saying the Lord's name in vain? Or is she just asking Jesus for help? No, it's definitely in vain.

I look at the four remotes and suggest new batteries. She goes to her room and comes back with some, but that's not the answer either. I keep pressing buttons.

"Jesus Christ!!!" Again, this time louder. I bite my lips to prevent bursting into laughter.

"I'm sorry, I just don't think I can do much. I think you need someone else to look at this."

So we continue our conversation instead, accompanied by a fuzzy muted football game.

I've always been curious about a nun's calling. How does it happen? Are some just delusional schizophrenics who are hearing things? Or does God really speak to them? If so, what does He say? Does He shout or whisper, or sing?

"I have a question for you Sister Maria. It's personal so don't feel like you have to answer it."
"No problem," she smiles.
"I know they call you a sister, so that means you are a nun, right?"
"Yes," she continues smiling without judgment.
"Well, I'm just wondering if you wouldn't mind telling me if you got a calling and what happened."
She laughs. "Well, for me it wasn't like what most people think, like God is talking to them directly."

Sister Maria presses her palm to her heart. "It's something that's inside," she admits softly. "I come from a big family. All my brothers and sisters wanted to make money. But me? No. I always gave everything away. I always wanted to give everything I had in myself to help others. I never wanted to become a nun because I thought I would lose my freedom. You know, freedom is very important. I didn't want to be stuck somewhere. One day I went to talk to my priest. I told him what I was feeling. He never told me to become a nun but I kept talking to him, week after week. And eventually I just decided to do it." She sips on a glass of water. "You know what's funny?" Sister Maria asks.

"What?"

"That when I became a nun I never felt more free."

I look at her manly haircut and suddenly feel envious. But not enough to convert.

Independence Day

Francis Kbangbai lets me invite myself over to celebrate Liberia's Independence Day. I propose the idea at our local watering hole. "Of course!" He agrees. "We will be happy to receive you."

He calls his wife on his cell phone. "Vic, Jane is coming over tomorrow." He passes me the phone and she asks what I'd like to eat. "Oh don't worry about it, I'm just coming for a visit."

"And don't forget to bring my hat!" Francis insists after hanging up the phone on his wife. He's been after it for days.

I told him I would give him one of mine because he gave his red one to his nephew.

Rain starts falling on the way to the old man's house, each drop getting thicker and faster. Goosebumps fight back from my limbs. A dress to the knees isn't fitting anymore. I'll turn back and change into jeans.

I pack my purse with a cardigan, and a raincoat my parents copped as a free-be.

Paying the motorbike driver 75 cents for an eight minute ride, my left foot finds the pavement before my right swings around to meet it.

Francis's house. I can see him inside his round hut planted in the middle of his concrete courtyard.

"You're late!" Vic scolds as I enter the palava hut. She's smiling though, pretending to give me a hard time as usual.

I hand Vic a phone card and place the cap on Francis's head. "My hat!" Francis exclaims.

On the table, rectangular cubes of barbecued beef decorate a white bowl. Beside it, chopped onions and orange and green chilli peppers.

With the help of a toothpick there's a method: sweet cow meat, onion, pepper, repeat.

The beef is tough and parts are impenetrable. I pray my innards can handle the rest.

"Sweet" cow meat because that's what those who sell it call it. On the road to Monrovia one can usually spot a teenaged boy selling some from his bicycle.

It's inside a wooden box painted blue, balancing on his handlebars. Sweet doesn't refer to added sugar, sweet means it's just that good.

Francis's school friend, also named Francis, is visiting too. He's a very tall man who lived in Jersey for 20 years and made his way back home to Liberia to start a farm. With the help of some Chinese agriculturalists. They give him advice. He lends them land.

He grows vegetables common to these parts. Cabbage, eggplant, sweet potatoes, cucumbers, tiny tomatoes. He's waiting for the fruits of his labour. His first crop will be ready in two more weeks.

"Would you like some beer?" He asks, leaning in. He must be at least 6"5. Friendly smile. Easy going. Bald.

I reach over to what I think is the table's beer jug, but it happens to be Francis's new mug. His nephew brought it back from the U.S. and Francis has yet to remove the bar code still plastered to the side of the glass.

"Francis!! This is your mug?" I tease.

He lifts it and raises it towards me, "Cheers to the only black father you will ever have."

Vic returns from the barbecue just outside, holding covered bowls of food. "Francis, move your bucket!" He laughs, lifting his mug out of the way.

Under the first plate, chicken cooked with cabbage, garlic and more hot peppers. The other, country rice.

Country rice is the tastiest and healthiest rice in the country. It's about half the size of Uncle Ben's with more than twice the taste.

Unfortunately most Liberians opt for the imported American rice instead.

Its appeal was instigated by the American tire company, Firestone. They own rubber plantations across Liberia, and boast of hundreds of thousands of rubber-producing trees in the country.

Once their ships are full with enough rubber to export, they depart for U.S. ports. They don't want to bring back empty ships so after unloading, they're packed with sacks of American-made rice.

Firestone managers pay their Liberian employees with this well travelled rice, instead of cash. They used to pay them in rice all the time. Now it's just once a month.

In need of money, most Firestone employees sell their pay in rice to a store nearby and the stores resell it to the public.

These bags stamped with American flags and slogans seem more appetizing to Liberians than what they can make and sell from their own farms.

The meal is delicious. "Thanks Vic," I say between heaping mouthfuls of country rice. "This is very good!"

She smiles and meets my eyes. "This girl," she says pointing at me with her index finger. "She says she doesn't need anything to eat. I say, next time I will just give her hot peppers."

We all laugh.

"Oh Vic?" Francis says in that tone where you know something funny will follow. "I have a new employer. I am teaching this girl Kpelle. In return she will give me lots of money."

"Yeah right," I tease back. "I'll pay you in beer."

Kpelle is the language of Bong County. It's also the most significant tribe here. So far I've learned how to say hello, how are you, fine thank you, what's the latest, what's your name, my name is Janey, go, come here, no, yes, thank you, what's wrong? and I am sick. I've also learned some of the Kpelle names for local dishes.

We finish up our food. Club Beer from tall green bottles continues to reach the top of my glass. It's Francis and Francis's fault.

I've brought my camera and they agree to have their picture taken outside as it's too dark in the hut.

"You won't miss the flashlight," the man of the house jokes. He's referring to his friend Francis's bald head. The man takes it well, and laughs.

I can't help thinking how much sleep George Costanza would lose over such a comment, trying to think of the perfect comeback.

"This is a wonderful way to spend the 26th," Francis says. "I'm so happy."

"Yes, it is wonderful." The other Francis agrees.

"It is. E'seh." I pull out the Kpelle, shaking his hand. He laughs.

Up to the main road to hail a motorbike. And the driver gets me home before night falls.

Passing Go

Waiting in this front seat of this yellow cab bound for Monrovia. Feels like forever.

Three women pile in the back. Blue-black spandex jeans suffocating their legs, hips and waists. Body parts begging through muffled screams for air. Pairs of dangling metallic earrings like hot irons set in the sun.

The ignition sparks, we're on our way.

"I forgot something," says the driver. We turn around.

He forgot an elderly woman. She's in her 60s. Elderly because here you're lucky if you live past the age of 44.

She slides sideways into the back seat beside the hip and hopeful. The wheels start rolling down Broad Street. Relief. Until…

"Stop the car!!" Our newest passenger insists.

The elderly lady taps me on the shoulder from the seat behind. "We are praying," she says solemnly. And the insides of the car turn silent. I bow my head, as sun rays stream through the front windshield like laser beams.

"Dear Lord," she begins. "Please oh great God, let us have a safe journey. Let you pour the blood of your son Jesus on this car to protect us. You are the lion that never sleeps. Amen."

"Amen," the rest of us say in unison, obeying the woman almost forgotten.

Straight faced and surprisingly humbled, we carry on.

First check point. A policeman stretches out his arm, prompting us to stop. Police always insist on making people's lives here more difficult. It's like a tragic drama, with a rehearsed and reliable ending.

They yell at drivers, threatening inconvenience with an underlying message that the car will never pass. Treating commuters like criminals on the run. Doubts dealt. Documents a must. Jail perhaps.

Backlash from the drivers who eventually hand the police anywhere between five and 100 Liberian dollars. Policemen paste a look of confusion on their faces, take the money, and open the gate for people to pass. The documents are not a must anymore. Nothing is. Dirty dollars, the ultimate password.

Lately I have learned that to flash my UN media pass in these situations. The UN trumps the police. Always. Bribes are never necessary. Smiles replace scolding.

We are pulled over to Gbarnga's immigration station. I show our driver my pass stamped with the UN logo, my name, a picture of me looking terrified and the words, "PRESS PASS". He gives it to an immigration officer who waves at me, beaming like an old friend. Gate opened. Success.

At the next check point, the driver is forced to pull over again, shows the officer my pass. No need for crumpled cash. Gate opened. And the next three check points follow suit.

Until we get to the fourth.

For the last 20 kilometres we've been driving behind a taxi pulling a car. A small rope is all that separates them. They stop at the shut gate.

The police officer yells and then punches the driver who's steering the second car.

I decide not to give my press pass to the driver this time. When the officer lets the brutalized move on, I press my pass up against the windshield to avoid this beast.

Backfiring, he struts towards the car staring me down. About to pounce.

"Are you trying to threaten me with that pass?" He spits aggressively into my opened window, inches from my face.

I don't have patience for these officers. Major players in corruption, preventing this country from progressing past Go.

"I'm not threatening you," I say sternly. "I'm just showing you my identity."

"Marry me!" he proposes, in the same tulmultuous tone. "I have big property. Lots of land." What?

I smile. When stuck, no answer is safer than a 'no' answer.

Then he offers me his toothy grin, patting my arm like we're old army buddies in on the joke. He motions at an officer to open the gate.

"Will you marry me?" He insists again, our car advancing forward.

"No."

Laughter erupts from the passengers, distilling the dense fear inside our car.

Further purification when Whitney Houston bursts "And IIIIIIIII Will Always Love Youuuuu" through the radio.

Mountain breezes through open windows and everyone singing along, out of tune.

Army dining

I barfed at the Pakistani Battalion last night. Hadn't eaten since breakfast. Went up for seconds.

Potato curry, basmati rice, kidney beans balancing slices of chilli peppers, inside metal trays shaped like eggs.

The chapatti still warm, half moon pieces bent backwards in a white plastic bowl under an airtight lid.

Thick soupy coffee in front of a Indian game show on a wide screen TV.

Laughter. Questions for us, foreigners. From their foreign base. And then reversed.

"How do you say thank you in Urdu?" Answered. Tested. Nodding. Best behaviour. Eyes darting at appropriate times between the show and each other.

Everyone smoking cigarettes. The entire army smoking cigarettes. Arching blue smoke mixing with the manufactured breeze of the hair-raising air-conditioned room.

Sitting in rows on faux leather couches with gaping glass ashtrays by our sides.

Stomach hurting. Stomach feeling queasy. Panic-queasiness. Longing for my own room. On my own time.

Maybe outside. Dark, clean, empty air around me.

Instead walking towards that door, that wide door made of ribbed aluminium. Scanning the inside of the stall. These walls were put together in an afternoon. Could have been a staple gun, OK, a nail gun. One man did this. Maybe two.

And then back. Back on this wrong colour of brown imitation couch. My friend Maryella by my side. Animated in her turquoise headscarf. I envy her efforts.

"I just puked," I whisper.

"Awww," She pats the crown of my head, gently moving her hand down my hair. Like a pet. And then her finger catches in my curl.

"I'm calling Mohammed," she soothes. Her motorbike driver.

"We can drive you," one of the soldiers says in his pronounced lisp.

Flick to an American movie. Leonardo DiCaprio. Kate Winslet.

"You like this?" He asks Maryella.

"I don't know what it is."

"Titanic," I say. But my queasy stomach has apparently managed to stifle my voice box as well. I'm as good as mute, irrelevant.

"We can't watch that. It's not proper," says a soldier. But the game show with the contestant gyrating to studio music seems to suffice.

More cigarettes lit and puffed. Glances. Nodding glances.

I'm going to get up and leave. How would that go? Too much talk. Too many questions. Too many unrehearsed explanations. Not enough energy to rehearse. Not enough energy.

One soldier starts asking for a pen to get our numbers. He questions Maryella.

"You're a teacher and you don't have a pen!" he snorts. Laughter. Overblown laughter. "It's like not knowing where my gun is."

"So where is your gun then?"

More laughter. "It's in a safe place. I know where it is."

Stomach still churning.

I force a smile across my face. Like putting on those plastic red lips thrown from exploded Christmas crackers. Biting that tiny ridge inside, the outside overlapping flesh. They look like real lips in photographs. If the lighting is just right.

I give Maryella a look that says, "I'm making a run for it."

Our knuckles press off the plastic paraphernalia. The man with the lisp speaks again. "The car is ready."

Outside, two pairs of blinding lights. A soldier stands by one vehicle, in a camouflaged uniform topped off by a baby blue UN baseball hat. He's got a gun.

Another jeep behind. The escort. The decoy.

I've seen too many Leonardo DiCaprio movies.

The cars are white, with UN letters stencilled on both sides. The back hatch is opened and slammed shut behind us. We sit along the sides, facing each other.

Now we are gyrating. We are rattling. In, over, around potholes. Too many potholes on these roads. When will they be fixed? Why is it taking so long to fix these potholes?

"So you will come for dinner tomorrow night?" It's the man with the lisp. He's driving. He sounds so peaceful. This vehicle feels like war.

Shouldn't he be yelling? Yelling at us and directing us into a ditch?

I've definitely seen too many Leonardo DiCaprio movies.

"Here is great, thank you." I say, getting my voice back.

The lisped man swings the steering wheel to the right. Stops the jeep. "See you tomorrow night!" He smiles.

His camouflaged compatriot jumps out of the vehicle, unhinges the back latch. We jump too. Jump into the dusty uneven ground.

Relief.

The nausea is gone. And then so are their cars.

Mabee's House

"This way!"

I can barely see. Casimir is leading me through darkened streets to Mabee's house. There are no street lights in Gbarnga town. A generator lights up a bar in the distance.

Otherwise I'm relying on my feet and the carrots my mother coaxed me into eating as a child. She promised they would help me see in the dark.

Mabee, short for Mabeatrice, is the cook at the Catholic Compound. She is a tall woman with a strong face and a solid figure. I can always tell when she makes my meals because they always taste ten times better than anyone else's efforts.

I'm down with a terrible cold. It takes all my might to walk, and with each step I keep thinking my bed would be a much smarter option.

Fluorescent orange flames light mounds of the town's garbage along the side of the road. The grey smoke bends towards us and I cup my hand over my mouth and nose.

The ground squishes beneath our feet and Casmir tells me it's because of the fine wood chips mixed in with the soil and sand.

Why are we doing this? This was Casimir's idea. And he's making me walk all this way.

Casimir had told Mabee I was ill and she invited us to a home cooked meal. It's an endearing thought. One I can't appreciate right now because of my throbbing headache and impending phlegm.

I have never been to Mabee's house before. I always see her in the kitchen over a coal stove or walking with her lady friends along the path to the pastoral centre. But I am intrigued to see how she lives.

"This is it," Casimir says quietly. I'm always softened by his patience when I have none left.

Her door is slightly ajar and the inside is glowing with orange candlelight reminiscent of a forgiving sunset.

We remove our shoes at the door, lining them up with the existing four pairs on a patch of concrete.

Mabee smiles a toothy grin. The candlelight makes the space between her two front teeth even darker. She gets up to greet us and then sits back down across from her seven-year-old daughter and her two female friends.

She motions for us to sit at a small wooden table under a big bowl that's covered with a plate and two empty bowls. The bottom of the burning white candle is stuck onto a ceramic blue and white fish with wet wax.

Sweat is already running down my face and chest. There is no breeze and the smell of smoke from the garbage fire twists through her front door.

I scoop the soup with an oversized spoon into our empty bowls. But Casimir insists that I eat all of it because he says he wants me to get well. I tell him we should share but he insists that he already ate at his house.

It may just be the best soup I have ever swallowed. She used the potatoes I brought her from Monrovia, some fish from down the road, onions, and small cabbages that could be mistaken for brussel sprouts if you didn't know any better.

The soup is savoured the way it should be. Although I can't taste all of the flavours, I feel grateful. And immediately regret my harsh thoughts on the way here.

Mabee continues talking to her friends, and doesn't invite us to join them. At first it seems odd. Coming from Canada that may be seen as rude. But it's not at all. She wants me and Casimir to enjoy a meal together with no interruptions. It's not said, but understood.

Casimir gives the cake we brought to Mabee's little girl who thanks him and brings it to her mouth with two hands as she stares at her mother and the two visiting women.

Their seated shadows cast moving shapes on the wall. A framed picture of the virgin Mary is the only other image that joins them.

After drinking what's left of our bottled water, Casimir suggests that we head back to the compound. I nod.

"Mabee, thank you so much for this soup. It was so good. You are an excellent cook!" I say.

She smiles and looks down humbly. I'm unable to explain how thoughtful I think she is and that I know it will help clear my cold.

"Mabee, I am happy for her!" Casimir exclaims. He's referring to the soup loosening my congestion. She laughs and we say goodnight.

We pass through the front door and out into the darkness. The fires have burned black. And all that guides me across the bouncy ground is Casimir's hand and his confidence to lead the way.

Visiting Francis

It's been more than two weeks since I've seen Francis. We usually meet at Gallah's place; a local bar at the bottom of the hill where Radio Gbarnga sits.

Francis and I never make a time to meet. We just happen to run into each other. Usually it's more often than not.

I'm sitting with my Liberian friends, Mulbah and Joe, and three other men I'd never met before, under the shade of Gallah's porch.

Beads of sweat run down my back, staining spots on my shirt a darker shade of blue. I pour my beer, listening to them talk about the latest political candidate running for office in Gbarnga.

My elderly friend still isn't here. He used to be the representative here in Bong County.

"Where's Francis?" I ask Mulbah.

"He was here earlier today, asking of you."

"I keep missing him!"

"He told me to tell you to visit him at his house."

Mulbah puckers his lips, and kisses the air, making a budgie-like sound. It's how Liberians get one another's attention.

I'm always amazed how the innocent chirp is able to penetrate the roar of the engine. A motorbike pulls over.

"Take her to the old man's house. Francis." Mulbah commands.

The pen pen driver nods. Everyone in Gbarnga knows Francis. Even though he's retired, he's highly respected.

When I arrive, Francis's wife Vivian is sitting on a plastic chair in their courtyard, listening to a news report. She has a small silver radio to her ear; its antenna stuck sideways to receive a signal.

She looks up. "Why hello!" she says beaming. "You came to visit us!"

"Yes, it's been too long!" I reply.

I look around, but no sign of the 73-year-old man.

"Is Francis asleep?" I ask.

Vivian laughs. "Yes, lets go and wake him up!"

Giggling along with her, I follow Vivian up two steps and through a sitting room. We pass a young girl with short braids tied in her hair. A granddaughter perhaps.

Vivian opens the door to their bedroom. And Francis lies shirtless, eyes shut.

She shakes his foot. He nearly jumps out of bed.

"Hello, hello!" he smiles, grasping for my hand with both of his. "What a nice surprise!!!"

"Here," he moves over. "Sit beside me." He doesn't want to get up yet. "Oh, I'm so happy to see you. I have missed you so much."

"I have missed you too, Francis."

I'm just as excited to see him. He always likes to give me advice. It's always sound and wise.

Also, he has an amazing sense of humour. He's able to demoralize those around him without really offending them thanks to his smarts and his charm. And of course, his reputation.

He used to work with Peace Corps, training new recruits about local food and how to live with few comforts from home. He was a lawyer, a judge. He initiated and approved laws in Bong County.

When people see him at Gallah's place, they bow. They shake his hand with two of theirs, a sign of respect.

He takes it all in stride. He receives them and is kind. But I can tell he thinks it's all a bit exaggerated. Though, I've never said anything like that to him. Not that I couldn't.

"You and all your questions!" he always says.

Francis shirts himself while I use their bathroom. I follow him outside.

"Don't say anything about my slippers!" he jokes.

I look down. Ladies shoes. Red straps with buckles hold the souls to his foot. He mutters more about the fact I shouldn't be saying a word. I stay silent and amused.

The grandchildren in the courtyard form a line. One by one, they shake my hand, noble and kind like their grandfather. He introduces two of his daughters.

One is named Angel. She named her own daughter after her. They both have faces like cherubs. It fits.

More people arrive and sit down. His old time school friend from 65 years ago who lives there too.

And another man he calls his son who isn't really. The man brought them a pineapple from Monrovia. Francis makes fun of him, saying he could have bought one down the road.

I sit with the couple in the courtyard until the sun goes down, drinking beer and taking names.

White Jim's attempt to brainwash me

I've been feeling sick for the last couple of days. So has Casimir. We decide it's time to find out if we have malaria. If we've been stung by infected mosquitoes we can start medication, preventing malaria from progressing and landing us in hospital. Or on the next plane home.

Casimir chooses the clinic closest to the Catholic Compound called the African Fundamental Baptist Mission.

I climb behind the pen pen driver and Casimir straddles the sun soaked seat behind me. Our motorcycle weaves along a narrow dirt path, through a forested area.

There's a clinic around here? Nothing but trees and a few homes made out of mud.

Two children scream, "White woman! White woman!" But that's nothing out of the ordinary. It always makes me smile. I enjoy the attention from kids because when they see me, it's like they've seen Santa Claus himself.

Though some children around the Catholic Compound call me Nina. I don't know either.

More trees. No more muddy abodes.

I turn to Casimir. "Are you sure it's near here?"

"Yes," he says convincingly. "He must be taking a short-cut."

The forest clears and the turquoise building appears. Red painted letters, AFBM are scrolled under its arches.

A half-built church stands nearby, stacked from blocks of hardened sand and pebbles. Remaining rows of brown cubes dry in the sun.

We speak to a lady through a tiny rectangular window in the front of the clinic. Another woman sitting on a bench nearby nurses her daughter.

First step. Register with the clinic. Casimir and I spell our full names for the woman and the streets where we reside. She copies them out in pen across two yellow pieces of construction paper, indicating we want to be tested for malaria.

"Go through there," the lady points.

We step through a swinging door, and two men with stethoscopes slung around their necks ask us to sit beside them at two wooden desks. We pass them our papers.

They take our pulses, breathing rates and temperatures. We are both 100 over 70. My pulse is slower than Casimir's but I'm breathing faster. We are both at 97.1. I'm amazed my temperature is slightly below normal in this heat. It must be 40 degrees Celsius out there.

"You are the same temperature and have the same heart rates!" They are both very excited. This is probably thrilling for them, when the monotony of pulse-taking drones on.

Casimir's nurse continues, "Well, you are both in perfectly good health." He's pretty happy. It's almost like he wants to show us the door. Like what were we thinking? We're fine!

The other says, "They are here for a different kind of test."

They motion us down the hall. We sit on a wooden bench. And wait. A white man in blue scrubs is taking orders from a Jamaican lady who trained in the UK. I met her once at an NGO.

I look up at the wall of photographs. "The Late" it reads.

Great, dead people. That's welcoming.

We are directed into a room where another foreigner is holding a big SLR. More photos to take of the dead.

Another male nurse wipes the tip of my ring finger with alcohol. Then he takes out the device he's going to prick me with; an inch of glistening metal with a pointed end.

I'm happy the frizzy-haired girl isn't pointing her shutter at me.

I scan the room.

"You're scared!" the nurse smiles. "Don't worry, my name is Stalin," he says gripping the shiny utensil.

I laugh.

It's too quick to flinch. In and out. Fast and painful but short enough not to panic.

The tip of my finger bleeds, and he wipes the end of it with a flat piece of glass and then slides an identical one on top of it. I know it they have names. I've just blocked out biology class. Forever.

The next part is my favourite. To dry the blood, he sits the glass on top of an oil lamp. Yes, an oil lamp. One we'd take camping (in the 80s) at home. But it's daylight. Other specimens are drying there too, layered on top of each other.

We are asked to leave the room and wait for our results.

I talk to the man in the blue scrubs for a while. Then the Jamaican lady appears.

"Good news, you're both fine."

"Phewph."

"But, before you go, we just have a bit of counselling we'd like to do. Follow me."

Counselling? For malaria?

We head down a hallway and reach a doorway where one white man and one black man are sitting, looking anxious. They obviously ran out of conversation a long time ago.

This should be interesting.

The men greet us. The white man says he's from the U.S. and is a missionary. The black man is Liberian, a missionary in training. They are both named Jim.

Here we go.

"So, I am a missionary from Virginia," the white Jim starts. "And we just have a few questions to ask you." It's already creepy.

Jim is a non-descript man. Someone who could easily work for the CIA. His grey hair is parted on the left. His nose looks like it's made out of putty. He has thin lips, and his deep set eyes are hidden behind some plain, out of date, wire-rimmed glasses.

Casimir and I are sitting side by side and they are on either end of us. It's like we are eating dinner on a television show, so everyone can face the camera. Except here there are windows. At least there are green trees to look at.

The black Jim doesn't talk much. The white Jim continues.

"So, can I ask you. Do you both believe in God?"

Uh oh.

I feel stuck. Yes I believe in some sort of God. Not necessarily one man with a long white beard in the sky. I do believe there's something bigger than us that many of us choose not to tap into, for whatever reason.

But does this guy really want us to spill our guts and then lecture us about the glory of Jesus for an hour? Apparently yes.

We both say yes we believe in God.

"Now, are you going to church here in Gbarnga?"

Casmir lies and says no. But Casimir is a Brother. He has dedicated his life to the church by sharing his teaching salary from his french lessons at the university and the high school with his fellow brothers. He makes more money than most of them. But there are rules. All in the name of God.

Casimir is obviously feeling just as uneasy as I am.

I also say I'm not going to church here. That's the truth.

"Now, did you go to church growing up?" asks white Jim. "Why did you stop?" and he continues along a similar string of interrogation.

I want to run. Run far away. But something is keeping me here. Fear.

Jim is a big menacing man. Not the type of man you'd expect to be carrying the word of the Lord. He is judging us but saying he isn't. He keeps telling us stories about his life, analogies of eagles and mountain peaks.

"Do you expect to go to heaven?" he asks Casimir.

"Yes."

"Why?" white Jim questions, as if it's a trick that he will surely explain the answer to.

"Because I know God loves me," Casimir says. "I know I am a good person but that's not why I will be let in heaven. It's because of the love I share with my personal God."

"But you don't think your God is any different from any other God, do you? white Jim questions, suggesting if Casimir said yes, he'd be burned at the stake. "And Janey, what about you? Do you think you will go to heaven?"

Oh gawd.

Nobody has ever asked me this kind of question. I am offended that this stranger thinks he has a right to ask me something so private. All because of a malaria test. I didn't come to confession or to apply for my first communion.

I know I have to really start lying because if I don't, we'll probably be taken to the closest river to have our heads dunked. Choir and all.

"Yes, I think I will go to heaven. I am a good person, I try and do the right things."

I don't even know if there's a heaven. I don't really think there is. I think we all go to the same place. I want to think our spirit lives on in someway, but I'd be ignorant to claim I have any of the answers.

"Well Janey," white Jim is looking satisfied. He is finally able to reveal the trick behind his question. Little does he know, I handed it to him on a platter. I kind of pitied the fool.

"You know," Jim continues. "I thought I did all the right things too. And then I was sitting in a church pew, listening to my pastor. You could hear a pin drop it was so silent."

Jim is going for dramatic effect.

"He started telling us this story of an eagle.."

I've tuned out. I'm concentrating on pretending to care and trying not to break a smile.

"Have you taken Jesus into your hearts?" My drifting thoughts are interrupted by the ridiculousness of the question.

I scan my life for story to tell. And it's easy. The last time I heard that line was in a tennis slash gymnastics camp. My mother and my friend Katie's mother had good intentions.

I played tennis against the brick wall at school across from my house. I was excited to try out a real court. I loved gymnastics. Back walkovers and front hand springs were some of my trademarks in the backyard of my primary school.

But after camp, when my mum asked me what was my favourite activity there I said bible study. And then promptly told her that I had taken Jesus into my heart.

When Katie's mom picked her up from camp, she said, "Mom, I can't wait to die so I can go home to Jesus." Her mother nearly drove off the road.

"Well Jim," I start. "I took Jesus into my heart at camp when I was 10-years-old. My favourite activity was bible study…."

"That's great Janey. I'm glad you found the Lord so young."

Oh do shut up. I picture my Granny Pammy saying.

White Jim keeps tapping his bible with two fingers.

"This has all the answers. The bible says going to church is mandatory, not a suggestion." Adopting aggression, white Jim switches out of his sweet Virginian drawl.

The more he talks, the more I resent him. And the more I want to tell him to shove his bible and his beliefs where the sun don't shine.

I know that if there is a God, he/she/it wouldn't care if I made it to church on Sunday. I want to tell him that. But I'm looking at this other missionary in training who really does have a heart of gold. Everyone in this room believes in the bible.

I think the bible has some good lessons in it, it's beautifully written. But it certainly isn't absolute truth.

And maybe I'm not as brave as some people I know. I picture my friend Aaron getting up, saying something polite but curt and walking out the door.

But I keep imagining what white Jim would say back to me if I did the same. Something condescending. Something to make me seem daemonic. As if I were neglecting my own spirituality in some way. I don't want to go through that.

I wonder how many other people feel the same way.

Rethinking midget

I'd never met a midget before. Whenever I said the word 'midget' in front my friends, Blair and Harmony, they'd always correct me. "Little people," they'd say. I'd always secretly roll my eyes, thinking that being politically correct didn't apply to smaller people. It's just for racism, sexism and homophobia, I'd think. Besides, I liked saying the word midget. It was funny to me.

I'd be at Harmony's, recovering on her couch from a night of partying the night before. She'd flick through more than 100 channels and settle on The Learning Channel's, "Little People in a Big World". I'd wish she'd move on. Anywhere else would suffice. Even golf. Little people were of no interest to me.

Blair was also fascinated by the show and I'd sit through half an hour of it at her house, bored out of my brain. I thought the whole thing was a bit strange. Loving little people like that.

But I didn't dare say anything. Not because I cared about their reactions, but because I didn't want to be different. I should be intrigued too. Shouldn't I?

My first real life encounter with a 'little person' was a few weeks ago. I saw one pushing a wheelbarrow. I thought it was hilarious. My friend Sara always says, "Janey would laugh at scrambled eggs." Regardless, it was funny. There are few things that amuse me here so when one comes, I ride with it.

This morning I was preparing my egg salad sandwich for breakfast. Mr. Tetay was boiling two eggs for me. I chopped onions while I waited. Mr. Tetay walked over, eggless.

"Have you ever seen someone like him before? That big man?" he said pointing, then flexing his muscles.

I peered around the corner, following Mr. Tetay's eyes. I couldn't see a man. Just a bunch of women huddled around a massive cauldron, like Shakespeare's witches.

"Daniel!!" Mr. Tetay shouted.

And there he was. The man poked his head out behind one of the women, as if he had been hiding under her colourful skirt the whole time.

Mr. Tetay laughed. "Come here," he said.

As Daniel walked over, Mr. Tetay asked, "Do you have people like this in your country?"
"Yes," I smiled.
"Oh, I thought maybe you had never seen one before."

I was relieved that Daniel was still about 10 feet away, unable to hear Mr. Tetay mocking his height.

It was the same man I had seen pushing the wheelbarrow. But this time he was smiling.

When he was within reach, I stretched out my hand.
"Hello," I said. "I'm Janey."
"I am Daniel." he replied, shaking my hand firmly, finishing it off with a traditional West African snap of our middle fingers.
"I've seen you before, with a wheelbarrow."
"Ah yes, I work here in the compound," he said proudly.
"Nice to meet you," I said.
"You too," he replied with a toothy grin.

I returned to my onions. And smiled. My first midget meeting.

Maybe midget wasn't appropriate anymore. But neither is 'little people' I thought. I wouldn't want to be referred to as big foot because my feet are size 11.

Daniel is a man. Who happens to come up to my mid thigh.

The Road to Monrovia

My friend Casimir from Cameroon has brought me to the taxi station. It's not really a station, I guess. Rusty yellow cabs cluster together in twos, threes, and tens at the market on Broad Street. Their licence plates replaced by painted numbers and letters. I've paid for two seats so I can have the front for myself. It comes to $10 U.S. for a three-hour trip.

In the back seat is Casimir's roommate, Prince. He has a large gap between his front teeth; one is chipped, and he's wearing scholarly reading glasses.

We've had to wait for him for 20 minutes after he bought his ticket because he forgot a "very important" document at his house. I'm trying to practice my Liberian patience. It's not always easy. Besides, Prince is from Sierra Leone.

Casimir leans through the open window of my passenger seat. "Take care of her," he pleads with the driver, who smiles back and nods his head willingly.

Two women and two children squeeze in the back beside Prince. There are no baby seats or seat belts. One curls into her mother's neck and the other sits on her friend's lap.

The road is littered with potholes. Our driver is manoeuvring around them, swirling around the road. At full throttle. I can't help but think of video games and how many points he'd rack up by the end of the journey.

He looks over at me, "Madam, is it OK if we stop for my friend?" I don't know why he's asking me, and not the others. Just because I'm foreign doesn't make me the Queen of England.

"Sure," I say. He pulls in under a short cliff, into the shade. But the sun still manages to find its way onto my lap in the front. Nobody groans or gets impatient.

Prince steps out of the car. The baby wrapped in a blanket, cradled in his arms. I can't help but compare it to back home. Strangers don't trust each other with their children where I come from. And it's rare that someone would want to hold a baby they don't know, assuming it may be a nuisance. The children are quiet the entire ride. And I start to regret not offering to hold one on my lap.

The driver's friend pulls up on the back of a motorbike. He too, squishes in the back. Now there are four adults and two children, all in the back seat.

And here I am, the white lady, upfront and comfortable with a great view. I start feeling ashamed. So I distract myself with the trees and the rolling hills, the small villages, the men selling massive palm leaves folded into rice bags on the side of the road.

Insert iPod. Norah Jones, Led Zeppelin and the Rolling Stones are my new travelling companions. There's Madonna, Lady Gaga and Jay-Z. Dave Matthews is here and so is Jack Johnson. Eryka Badu too. Jamairoquai, Metric, and Kings of Kensington. Let's no forget Bob. Bob Marley tells me "Every Little Thing… is Gonna Be All Right."

And it is.

I spot a official looking sign. "Don't Sleep in the Same Room as Chickens!" it reads. I chuckle on the inside.

I'm smiling the whole ride, actually. Even when the driver is going up a hill at 100 kilometres per hour on the wrong side of the road. I can't believe we don't have a head on collision the whole ride. We just miss a few, and I pray to God we all make it in one piece.

We eventually get to "Red Light". It's ironic because there are no traffic lights in Liberia. Anywhere. Red Light is just outside Monrovia and it's total chaos. It's where all the taxis meet to take passengers in all directions. Mostly full of merchants selling jelly shoes, long chains, jeans of all shapes and sizes. New, used. It's here.

Their stands are covered by umbrellas protected by tattered black garbage bags, preventing their merchandise from soaking in heavy rains. The others sell their goods from wheelbarrows. Fish, fatty goat skin, tennis balls.

Traffic is at a standstill, as usual. Talk about "Red Light."

Prince and I find a man who will take us to town. I hop in the back with our bags. He offers me the front, but I'm tired of playing Lady Muck.

We ride into town in silence. Not because there's nothing to say. I always seem to have a million questions. But it's been a long journey, and we silently agree that the noise in Monrovia is enough for now.

Prince gets out and we say our goodbyes. He's staying in Sincor. I'm off to Mamba Point.

And one of the best nights of my life soon follows.

First impressions of Gbarnga

It's been a while. And that's because I've been adjusting to life in Gbarnga.

A little overwhelming.

I'm not going to lie. I really didn't like it at first. My room was the size of a jail cell, and I'm willing to bet prison beds are more comfortable. Wooden slats digging into my back, the mattress slightly thicker than a stick of gum. On my second night I woke up at 5:00 a.m, restless and uncomfortable. My throat tightened as heat moved up my face and then the tears came.

It wasn't despair. Just disappointment.

It had been days of sampling the same four Liberian dishes. Taborgee, made with palm butter and packed with soda. So much so that those of us with untamed stomachs must pay a visit to "the throne" shortly thereafter. There's potato greens - leaves of sweet potatoes boiled to oblivion and then mixed with fish, chicken or goat with dense rubbery skin. The leaves look and taste like spinach, it's bearable on its own. But the meat adds a indescribable flavour of discontent. Then there's stew with green beans as soggy as my Saskatchewan grandmother used to make, until there's no nutrients left. And la piece de resistance… pepper soup. It's kind of spicy, with chicken, fish, goat (skin included, sometimes hair) and flabby beef. When I asked how it was cooked, someone said, "Water, pepper, and meat." So much for oregano.

Other than potato greens, all the food is orange. Tinted by palm oil. No matter which vegetable or meat item is included, it all tastes the same.

I had also only made one friend. As an 'extravert' I found it very difficult. I had my mind set on meeting a bunch of ex-pats. We'd go out for lunch, or to the bar for drinks. We'd compare 'war stories'.

But it didn't happen. And it still hasn't. Every ex-pat I've met in Gbarnga is married. And they like to stay inside. Some watch DVDs of Emergency Room to and I quote, "pretend we aren't here."

I don't want to pretend I'm not here. Now that I've moved rooms my entire world has changed. Sure the food could taste a lot better. Sure I could use a friend who gets my sense of humour or who makes me laugh until my ears hurt. But it's not happening. At least not yet.

I wake up under my sky blue mosquito net hanging like a tent, held up by six red strings. My sheets are stamped with actual-size red, blue, yellow and green Twister dots. I noticed the dots at first but didn't make the connection until I was tucking them in one day and saw the words: "Twister: The Game". So if I ever want to play, I don't need to pull out the rubbery mat. The best part is that the staff at the Catholic Compound doesn't even realize the connotations behind the bed spread. I think I'll let that one slide.

With cloudy eyes, I walk on the stoney path to the dining room. All the buildings here are sandy in colour with Christian crosses built into the bricks so the breeze can flow through. I pass the white dog with his big human-looking brown eyes. He's kinda creepy but I still like him. I haven't pet him yet, mainly out of fear. If he could talk, he'd tell me to go suck an egg.

Up three steps and down a corridor reminiscent of the pathways leading to the Monk Centre at U of T. I walk in the dining room and through the 'Staff Only, No Entry!' door to the kitchen. Coal fires in the corner, the back door is always open. No gas stoves, no double sinks. And definitely no microwaves in sight.

Mabee (Mabeatrice) has put out the instant Nescafe coffee I bought near the market, along with my powdered milk and sugar cubes. They are all on a tray. And beside them a big baby blue cylinder of boiling water. Slices of my white bread - the only kind you can get here - and peanut butter I bought for a buck. I make a one-sliced open sandwich, grab my coffee in the orange cup and head for my 'porch' that I share with whoever stayed in the adjacent rooms the night before. It's like a strip motel, the ones you see by the side of highways or in movies but rarely enter. This one faces inwards though. The rooms on the other side don't have bathrooms so everyone shares one at the end of the row.

I scan over my notes for the day. Today I'm reading Article 21 of the Liberian Constitution, the section on rights of detainees and fair trials. I'm preparing for our visit to the prison to discuss the penal system here. Many inmates have been detained for years without a trial or meeting a lawyer.

After a quick cold shower (under a real shower head), I get dressed and return my mug and plate to the kitchen window.

By then my omelette with lots of fried onions is ready. And more caffeine is consumed.

Then off to the radio stations; Radio Gbarnga and Super Bongese Radio. I pass a number of people along the way. I see the midget every day. He always has a serious look on his face, like he really isn't that small if you look close enough. I almost buy it. He always seems to be bossing someone around. The best day of my midget sighting (yes, we've already established that I'm going to hell) is when I saw him pushing a wheelbarrow. It really is a wonderful image and even better in real life. He could easily be an extra in an HBO TV drama.

I almost looked around for a candid camera but fortunately real life is often more entertaining.

You never pass someone here without saying hello. It isn't as romantic as it is in Ghana when you say, good morning, good afternoon or good evening in the local language. But it's still really nice to acknowledge them, wishing each one a good day along the way. It doesn't happen in the market when hundreds of people are milling about. You'd never get your shopping done.

I almost reach the gate. Another hello to the guards who ask me, "How was your night?"

Then across the street and up the hill to work.

When the sun goes down

At night, it feels like a ghost town. I'm sandwiched between Aaron and a pen-pen at top speed. Pen-pens are former child soldiers who now carry commuters on motorbikes for a quick buck. Abandoning their education, forced to shoot bullets at enemies over issues they couldn't comprehend. Now they think driving is their only option. And for many, it is.

The average pen-pen earns US $2.11 to $4.22 per day. It's not much, but it's a living. Most journalists here make the same amount.

I have yet to meet a pen-pen who smiles or seems at ease in his surroundings. These young men are hardened, devoid of childhoods they will never know or can barely remember, unable to tap into that carefree sense of joy developed in our youth. Instead, reliving the nightmares of unforgiving war and unrelenting fear.

We drive by shells of official buildings, painted signs wedged between crumbling statues that read, "Closed for renovation."

We eventually stop at the Red Lion bar, swinging our legs over the burning chrome and sticky plastic. We pay the pen-pen and he carries on, his face still stone cold. I wonder what he thinks of us foreigners, about to spend money on beer in an English pub, and how unfair he feels his situation must be. Or maybe the slide show in his mind is too intoxicating for him to care.

Aaron and I wait for the rest of our friends to pay their bill. We decide on a local bar.

Strings of red, white and blue light bulbs zig zag high above our heads, lighting our way up a newly paved hill. This is Randall Street, one of Monrovia's major arteries. But at 9:00 p.m. there are few cars in sight.

Most of the storefronts are shut, heavy metal gates hiding their windows and doors. The only businesses open are vacant restaurants and a few cramped bars.

One woman is cooking peeled plantains on a blackened grate over a coal fire. Some men gather on the street. "Take me to Canada with you!" one says. Lucky guess.

We're with Jane, the lovely Australian; Gabriel the sweet Englishman with a slight American accent,; Maria, the elegant German and her Swiss boyfriend Daniel. There's Caleb too, the jovial American with a big heart; English LIz who's getting on a plane tonight, going home after two months here because she misses her boyfriend; Ade, the Liberian starting a business to export wood; Jackie the Canadian who's dating a Pakistani soldier here, and Becca, at the other end of the table who sounded Canadian or American.

We all climb some concrete steps, holding on to a rickety wooden bannister that seems to swing in midair offering little support. It's a roof-top bar, with a welcoming breeze.

The hostess with spiral extensions braided into her hair brings over two thin wooden tables. They're covered in light plastic, stencilled with floral print. Kiawu strolls over to our table, introducing himself. He works at the bar too, and sits down joining in the conversation.

Later, Maria brings over a puppy and places it in Jane's lap. "I don't want her to leave," Maria whispers to me. "I'm hoping the puppy might make her stay." Though she knows she won't. Jane is going home on Monday so we're spending the rest of the week celebrating her farewell tour. She falls in love with the puppy, she's smiling ear to ear, lightly stroking its tiny brown head.

Kiawu then brings the puppy's brother to me, and I rest him in my lap. It licks my arm and nuzzles into me. I'm in love too. Mine has a white strip down his forehead, and at the tip of his tail as if he dipped it paint.

The puppies sit on our laps all night. And the conversation flows as much as the beer.

JHR workshop: Reporting on elections

Monday Jan. 17, 2010.

Liberian newspaper and radio journalists are back at the Liberian Media Centre for a JHR workshop, lead by Yeama from Sierra Leone. She is JHR's workshop facilitator. Her primary role is to travel throughout the country, talking to journalists at multiple media houses. Today she is wearing a fitted black dress. And of course, her trademark three inch high heels. I've already seen three pairs in four days.

Peter Quaqua, the Director of the Press Union of Liberia, starts us off. "I wanted to persist coming," he says. "I'm in the middle of many activities, but they keep calling me." 'They' is Yeama. She's one persistent woman. And she usually gets her way.

Quaqua is here to prepare journalists for the upcoming election in November.

"We cannot underestimate our responsibility," he reminds the group, standing up front beside a board of over-sized white paper. He plays with the blue marker between his fingers. "It is through your work and objectivity that the public will be able to make good decisions. This is one occasion where we cannot afford to be subjective or stupid. Remove yourself from the conflict."

The first African female president, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, will be running again along with George Weah who ran against her last time. His only claim to fame is that he's a former football star. Another candidate is Prince Johnson who cut off the ear of first full-blooded Liberian president, Samuel Doe, and then ate it on camera before killing him.

Quaqua continues, "When we get involved with cheating, people get disenchanted. Various sides try to influence the media. You see these child soldiers? These are people who have been easily manipulated. We don't want to be manipulated either. The future of Liberia is at stake."

He is referring to a common theme among West African journalists. Politicians pay them off to forward the party's message and influence the public. It's a successful strategy as most journalists survive on very little per story.

"Your responsibility is to be fair," he says sternly. "Your credibility is at stake. Your role is to present each one with their qualifications to the public. When you pick one candidate and highlight why they are good, you are putting everyone else against them. You cannot translate your vote into your work. Let the public make an informed decision."

He goes on to remind us that several media houses in the area are funded by politicians. "Let's use the example of Kings FM. It is owned and operated by candidate George Weah. How can we ask them to report fairly?"

I'm impressed with what Quaqua has to say and hope these journalists are brave enough to not accept bribes.

The next speaker is less enchanting. His name is Bobby Livingstone. He's from the National Elections Commission. The NEC is funded by the state. He talks to us like children. The only interesting thing he discusses is cross-border voting.

Liberia borders three countries: The Ivory Coast, Guinea and Sierra Leone. Many people from the same tribe trickle onto other sides of the border. It's the same reason why people from neighbouring countries get involved in each other's civil wars. Their father is living there, their aunt is just a few miles away. Border lines are ignored. Tribal lines are honoured.

Politicians have also been paying people to travel from neighbouring countries to secure more votes. Many other 'citizens' take advantage of this since a lot of them can't afford the cost of travel and it gives them a chance to visit with family and/or friends across the border.

One journalist asks me if we are able to do the same in Canada and the U.S. I tell him that our voting processes are very strict, and we must show identification at the polling stations.

Livingstone tells us that the NEC must rely on tribal chiefs, elders "and the rest of them" to ensure people don't cross borders to vote. There is no national ID system here.

Our JHR journalism trainer is up next. Aaron works at "Front Page Africa" newspaper. He works with journalists one on one, encouraging them to stay away from press conferences that spew propaganda unless there's actual news behind them. He helps them cover stories which highlight human rights issues and works with them to edit their stories. Aaron also holds human rights reporting workshops at the newspaper. I will be doing the same come Sunday when I move a three-hour drive northwest on a rare paved country road, to Gbarnga.

Aaron is here to continue Quaqua's talk on the most efficient methods in covering elections. He says the responsibilities journalists have during an election are exactly the same as their responsibilities when covering any other type of story.

"If voters don't understand what's going on then it's not a democracy. A journalist's job is to encourage this. This could possibly be the freest election that Liberia has ever had."

Lazy Sunday

It's Lebanese time again. This time, a restaurant. A blanket of dried palm leaves suspended 20 feet above shields our putty-coloured plastic table. The leaves surround the restaurant on every side. I feel like I'm in a Toronto Zoo exhibit, this time on the other side of the glass.

This is my formal introduction to Lamii, JHR's Liberian country director. He's chewing on a toothpick, scanning the room for onlookers.

I ask him what he thinks is the biggest human rights issue in Gbarnga, where I will be staying for months starting next Wednesday.

"The judicial system is very bad." His white teeth are almost blinding. The yellow-toothed at home would pay thousands to get them bleached his shade.

He continues, "People are detained if they are accused of a crime, without a hearing. There are some who have been in jail for years, without even committing an atrocity."

Jess is here too, telling us about visiting a Monrovian prison for a story she was working on with a Liberian journalism student from the university. One man has been detained for three years, accused of armed robbery and still hasn't set eyes on a court house. The other doesn't know what he's in for.

An inebriated stray cat resembling my first one as a child approaches our table but the Liberian waitress shoos her away.

It's Sunday today, the formal resting day in Monrovia. Most people are moving slower than usual. Others are working.

On our way to lunch I see crews of men, building new paved roads. It wasn't long ago when rebels were knocking everything down. Now the people are building it back up again. And even improving upon what once was. Many locals give Monrovia's female mayor and Liberia's female president the credit. People are tired of fighting. During the war, which ended less than a decade ago, all the markets had to shut down. People starved, trying to find anything to eat. Many survived on oil from palm trees.

After lunch Aaron takes me to the beach. He says he needs it as an escape every once in a while. Fine with me.

We go to "Thinkers Point," where other ex-pats assemble in clusters under thatched huts. Surf boards stuck in the sand. Two foreigners whip a tennis ball back and forth between two wooden paddles. I long to join them. But the waves are waiting.

"Let's go!" I say to Aaron, and we walk through the deep sand to the water's edge. The coffee (con leche) coloured sand squishing between our toes. Sinking deeper and deeper. If I stand in the same spot for more than a minute, my foot may be lost forever. These15-foot waves closing in.

The salty Atlantic is tepid, not shockingly frigid, like jumping into an Ontario lake on the first day of summer.

We move slowly into the grey daunting waters. The sky is still full of dust, blending the ocean's horizon into the atmosphere. Crash! I'm not fast enough to catch the wave and the bubbly wake hits my back with a mighty force. "I am smaller than all of this." I feel subjected to the whim of the earth's moods.

Aaron floats on his back. I wish I could do the same but I shouldn't even be as deep as I am after an ear operation a couple of years ago. I'm not allowed to get any water in it. And no plugs can do the tricks, the doctors say.

We play in the water and time disappears.

Eventually Aaron is ready to get out, so I join him. I'm not going to play roulette with the sea, apprehensive of being swept away into the raging riptides.

We sit in our salty soaked suits, drying off and talking about human rights and our families. An Australian girl and her Dutch male friend block our view of the ocean. "We are going for Ethiopian food tonight, would you like to come?"

"Yes, that sounds good," Aaron says. Jane looks at me, "You should join us too." And they disappear.

Later, Aaron and I say goodbye to the beach and squeeze into the back seat of a taxi with two other people. Taxi's consider themselves full with four in the back and one in the front. The 10-minute trip costs about a dollar. We could have hopped on the back of a motorcycle for hire, but I'm wearing a skirt and Aaron says our destination is too far away for two wheels.

We get out and transfer taxis. Each destination has a special hand signal to wave a taxi down. We stick out our right hand in the direction of where we want to go, moving it up and down, fingers straight.

Another close ride. But people don't care about resting their arms each other's laps or swinging them behind heads. There's no where else to put them.

Six of us sit on a patio. Two Americans; one with a British accent. A German, an Australian, Aaron and me. We order a variety of dishes with spongy sour bread that soaks up the sauce. Chunks of lamb and chicken sandwiched between.

Conversation moves from Gabriel's recent trip home, where he climbed a mountain in the snow. His eyelashes caked in ice. Maria, the German woman, talks about trying to save endangered sea turtles. People from her organization talk to locals, trying to prevent them from taking the eggs these turtles lay on the beach. "They will become extinct," she tells them. Maria says the locals are understanding and agreeing to stay away. I wonder what their alternative food source will be.

We plan some events before Jane the Australian has to leave. I haven't been to many of these places, so I'm grateful to be included. She is in the process of building a raft out of large plastic water bottles and wants to set sail in the swamp before departure.

"How many people will get on this raft?" I ask.

"Well, may be just one. My plan was to get 300 water bottles but I only have 25 now and I'm leaving in a week."

She asks me to save my empty bottles for her boat. I tell her I will.