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.