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.
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