... the following was written yesterday but i was unable to connect to the internet...
Yesterday was strange and wonderfully unsettling. It started with a four hour meeting to review a final draft of a constitution for the Human Rights Reporting Network.
We can't read it because the room that holds the printer is locked. We are waiting for Jah Rule to come with a key.
We've been sitting here since 9:00 a.m, also waiting for the other journalists to arrive. By 10:00 a.m, most of the editors have casually strolled in from a variety of newspaper and radio stations in the area. We face each other in plastic arm chairs on the second floor of the Liberian Media Centre.
The back door opens onto a towering green hill, housing built into the rock where some women wash their clothes in metallic buckets. The wide open door offers no breeze to relieve the pressing heat. Journalists in jeans, some in soccer jerseys. One newspaper editor, Heston, is draped in a lime green tee-shirt. It's pasted with a picture of a donkey that reads, "I'm a Smart One."
The man in the ass shirt keeps rewinding through the constitution. "We are going to be here for hours," I think. I look over at another JHR trainer, the impatience is permeating. I try to relax. "Ride the wave, this is what it's like. You're just used to the Canadian way," I think.
I am tempted to mimic my previous boss at CTV from our story meetings. When it gets out of hand or if the assignment editors are lingering too long she shouts, "NEXT!" But I refrain. Today is my first day. This is their constitution and it's being put in place so that when Journalists for Human Rights leaves the country, they have a mandate to continue the work.
I stop making suggestions, letting them decide what they want. And back and forth they go again.
By 1:00 p.m, we are almost finished approving the six-page document. One man asks if there will be compensation for the executive. Another answers, "This is a sacrificial job, o!" We all laugh. And lunch is around the corner.
A woman from down the road brings a trays of rice, chicken and fish. We line up. I choose the fish. Head and tail overflowing the sides of my plate. It's complemented with a heaping spoonful of rice and three fried plantains.
"What kind of fish is this?" I ask the ass-man.
"River fish!"
Oh.
I take a bite, delicious and fresh. The green peppery paste is a nice addition.
After lunch Aaron and Jah Rule take me to buy a cell phone. The shop is run by Lebanese merchants. Aaron tells me the Lebanese are practically running Monrovia. We then move on to a fancy grocery store, also run by a Lebanese family that imports St. Andre cheese from France. I'm tempted. St. Andre is my favourite. At $11 for half a pound, it would leave a bad taste in my mouth. So I pick up 24 Club beers - made right around the and considerably cheaper than the imported Heineken and Becks.
Following suit, we pay Liberian parking attendants some money for opening our car doors. They call me, "bossman" - I feel even worse. I wonder how many foreigners do this kind of work to thrive on a false sense of power.
Later in the evening after a Bangladesh dinner near the beach, we head to a local bar where ex-pats mingle on the concrete patio lit with unforgiving fluorescent lights. I meet a lot of friendly aid workers, and some who just can't be bothered to make efforts with another one.
One woman from Calgary, Jo, is here trying to get running water to Liberia. If her idea works she will offer her methods to other impoverished countries around the world. She's from Calgary and it was her 20-year-old son's idea. He's back home, calling her from pay phones in snow storms.
As the volunteers and overseas workers dance to songs I've collected on my iPod, a row of Liberians stand on the other side of the gate, gazing in. I ask another volunteer what they are doing. "Half of them are here to rob us on our way out and the other half are taxi drivers."
I look at their faces. Staring blankly ahead. Back to the ex-pats, grinning drunk mugs.
After a few more songs, we call it a night. We cut through the line of people, reaching for a taxi. One man, missing a leg on wooden crutches approaches. "Please, boss, give me some money." I am tempted to take out my wallet, but there are too many people around.
Back to the mattress.
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