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.