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.