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.