The Road to Monrovia

My friend Casimir from Cameroon has brought me to the taxi station. It's not really a station, I guess. Rusty yellow cabs cluster together in twos, threes, and tens at the market on Broad Street. Their licence plates replaced by painted numbers and letters. I've paid for two seats so I can have the front for myself. It comes to $10 U.S. for a three-hour trip.

In the back seat is Casimir's roommate, Prince. He has a large gap between his front teeth; one is chipped, and he's wearing scholarly reading glasses.

We've had to wait for him for 20 minutes after he bought his ticket because he forgot a "very important" document at his house. I'm trying to practice my Liberian patience. It's not always easy. Besides, Prince is from Sierra Leone.

Casimir leans through the open window of my passenger seat. "Take care of her," he pleads with the driver, who smiles back and nods his head willingly.

Two women and two children squeeze in the back beside Prince. There are no baby seats or seat belts. One curls into her mother's neck and the other sits on her friend's lap.

The road is littered with potholes. Our driver is manoeuvring around them, swirling around the road. At full throttle. I can't help but think of video games and how many points he'd rack up by the end of the journey.

He looks over at me, "Madam, is it OK if we stop for my friend?" I don't know why he's asking me, and not the others. Just because I'm foreign doesn't make me the Queen of England.

"Sure," I say. He pulls in under a short cliff, into the shade. But the sun still manages to find its way onto my lap in the front. Nobody groans or gets impatient.

Prince steps out of the car. The baby wrapped in a blanket, cradled in his arms. I can't help but compare it to back home. Strangers don't trust each other with their children where I come from. And it's rare that someone would want to hold a baby they don't know, assuming it may be a nuisance. The children are quiet the entire ride. And I start to regret not offering to hold one on my lap.

The driver's friend pulls up on the back of a motorbike. He too, squishes in the back. Now there are four adults and two children, all in the back seat.

And here I am, the white lady, upfront and comfortable with a great view. I start feeling ashamed. So I distract myself with the trees and the rolling hills, the small villages, the men selling massive palm leaves folded into rice bags on the side of the road.

Insert iPod. Norah Jones, Led Zeppelin and the Rolling Stones are my new travelling companions. There's Madonna, Lady Gaga and Jay-Z. Dave Matthews is here and so is Jack Johnson. Eryka Badu too. Jamairoquai, Metric, and Kings of Kensington. Let's no forget Bob. Bob Marley tells me "Every Little Thing… is Gonna Be All Right."

And it is.

I spot a official looking sign. "Don't Sleep in the Same Room as Chickens!" it reads. I chuckle on the inside.

I'm smiling the whole ride, actually. Even when the driver is going up a hill at 100 kilometres per hour on the wrong side of the road. I can't believe we don't have a head on collision the whole ride. We just miss a few, and I pray to God we all make it in one piece.

We eventually get to "Red Light". It's ironic because there are no traffic lights in Liberia. Anywhere. Red Light is just outside Monrovia and it's total chaos. It's where all the taxis meet to take passengers in all directions. Mostly full of merchants selling jelly shoes, long chains, jeans of all shapes and sizes. New, used. It's here.

Their stands are covered by umbrellas protected by tattered black garbage bags, preventing their merchandise from soaking in heavy rains. The others sell their goods from wheelbarrows. Fish, fatty goat skin, tennis balls.

Traffic is at a standstill, as usual. Talk about "Red Light."

Prince and I find a man who will take us to town. I hop in the back with our bags. He offers me the front, but I'm tired of playing Lady Muck.

We ride into town in silence. Not because there's nothing to say. I always seem to have a million questions. But it's been a long journey, and we silently agree that the noise in Monrovia is enough for now.

Prince gets out and we say our goodbyes. He's staying in Sincor. I'm off to Mamba Point.

And one of the best nights of my life soon follows.