For LIB

These days Liberia is stuck on the brain. It was only a year ago that my daily tour of Monrovia would commence soon after returning to the house sandwiched between Gurley and Randall Streets. The evening would be buzzing with the chatter of the line in front of the hand pump and pots hissing with preparations of palm butter, pepper soup, and potato greens. After stretching my legs I would race along the coast soaking in the sights and sounds of the city.

Passing Miami Beach, I would weave through the congregation of pam-pam drivers with neatly folded red, blue, and green bills tucked between their fingers. A chorus of Colloqua, Krio, French, and Mandingo would ring out through the revving of motorcycle engines. Somewhere unseen the Newport Street masjid would sound the call to prayer. Many of these young Liberians lived through a generation of war. But a whole generation can’t ride bikes forever. Many others came from neighboring Sierra Leone and Guinea – to hustle – taking advantage of a poor country that insists on using the US dollar as one form of currency. Now they say the pam-pams are banned in town.

Ahead would be the city’s prime real estate, where the first settlers began to create Africa’s oldest republic bringing inherent identity hierarchies over from North America. Today, Monrovia’s fanciest hotels occupy Mamba Point catering towards aid workers, ambassadors, and international business people with sushi dinners and all-you-can-eat buffets.

Leaving the hotels and hawkers behind I would climb the hill leading through the fortress that is the US Embassy. Charging downhill, the past splendor of the Ducor Hotel would float somewhere above the city. Along the way my eyes would swallow boutiques displaying the bright greens and oranges of traditional dresses, old cars being fixed by older mechanics, and children chasing after flat soccer balls. My finish line would lie ahead of me in Water Side – the entrance to West Point, the largest slum in Monrovia.

That was a year ago. These days, I run through the tree-lined streets of my suburban Maryland neighborhood. Almost inevitably, I unconsciously begin to compare the driveway basketball hoops and luxury SUVs with my previous home. I cannot shake the feelings of trepidation that follow. The latest news coming out of Liberia only intensifies the anxiety.

Every day now there are reports of growing tensions and apprehensions. There are reports of teargas, a forced quarantine for the next 21 days, and an attack on an Ebola outpatient clinic, all in the same West Point community of 50,000. All outbound flights may soon be ended, as the country could enter a virtual lockdown. These scenes strike nerves too close to home in a society still seeking to rebuild after a decade of civil crisis.

My phone suddenly vibrates, interrupting the music pouring from my headphones. It’s a message from Sis Teta in Monrovia: You guys are running away from Ebola like June passing by July.

In the past week I’ve attended a poetry fundraiser to support Gaza after a month of massacre and war crimes, and a protest in support of the ongoing struggles in Ferguson against the violence and repression of the new-age American Police State. But what does it mean to stand in solidarity with Liberia in the face of a growing epidemic and continued political malpractice?

Friends paint a picture of a government unable to tackle the epidemic with inexperienced doctors and nurses, a lack of supplies, and no proper logistical operations. One that has maintained a lasting peace, but provided what many see as little in terms of basic social services.  A recent editorial from a leading Liberian newspaper demands international support immediately to combat the epidemic, claiming a legacy of corruption has led to mismanagement of the unfolding situation.

So  many of the lessons learned that year were about understanding the psychology of conflict and trauma, the costs of a donor-driven agenda, and the limits of foreign investment, as the country’s land and natural resources are continuously being sold off at a staggering rate. It is estimated today that around half of the country’s land has been promised to foreign companies and investors.

I tried to understand how a country so naturally rich, so inundated with foreign aid, could still struggle with providing electricity, running water, and roads. In that process, I found a society struggling to trust. Chapters of ‘growth without development,’ corruption and nepotism, and violence, have all contributed to a pervasive lack of trust. As a friend reports:

Liberia’s history of bad governance and foreign exploitation explains citizens’ reluctance to trust the intentions of government officials and international health workers. Years of extortion by police, vast and highly visible inequalities in wealth and a sense that even aid workers arrive to enrich themselves have taken their toll.

Perhaps we now know too well to think that the 21^st century will swiftly bring just solutions to the crises of the world, especially those facing black and brown marginalized people at home and abroad. The repeated call from Liberia is one for international support. But for the West, what is the proper response when you can’t simply send airstrikes to eradicate Ebola? It seems that Liberia needs (what Iraq and Afghanistan also needed) an army of doctors, professors, and public health experts who are ready to join hands with local champions for justice.

After leaving, it took months to even begin processing the rawness and realness of everything I experienced. Nearly a year later, I find myself thinking of her every day and my heart shakes at the scenes playing out. Running past the privilege of my neighborhood I can still see the city on its hustle, the women selling butter pear and palm nuts and the pam-pam boys raising their eyebrows ready to give me a lift.

What form can love and compassion take to leave dark days behind and step into a better tomorrow?

The Air Up There

The air up there is thin. Struggling to reach 15,000 feet, my heart rapidly knocks against my chest, rattling my ribs and threatening to smash through my sternum. The dry climate reflects itself in the jagged brown mountains that stare all-knowingly. Rising up to meet the clouds they are only dwarfed by even sharper edges – snowcapped and silent – towering above. At these heights the oxygen is increasingly scarce. And the air, parched and crisp is poised to pierce through any ego.

Bouncing around the backseat of a van, the ceremonial is passed to me as we make our way along winding roads to the departure point. My handlers are young, hip Ladakhis, continuously on their hustle to make the most from the steady flow of the tourist season. These months bring the height of their income; for the rest of the year the region is largely cut off and buried in snow. Eyes glued to the other side of the window, at any given point the mountains encompass us circling 360 degrees of the horizon.

My companions are two 22 year olds. Another NRI who has also come to this corner of Kashmir on vacation, and our guide, a local college student whose summer climbing supplements his tuition fees. Before we set out, we sit with our handlers at a makeshift tea stall planted at the foot of a small stream. Once more the ceremonial is passed around, this time with the first of many bowls of Maggi which will mark the journey through high mountain passes. The masala stings my already weathered, chapped lips nearly 12,000 feet above sea level.

All week I’ve prided myself on my ability to adjust to the pahadi culture and high altitude. In the cutest Hindi imaginable, I repeat, “Chalne ke adat hai pechle janum se.” My certainty brings laughter and skepticism from my new friends. And with the final slurps we are off – to conquer or be conquered by the Himalayas.

Our first day is four hours of steady climbing. By early evening we reach “base camp” – a series of tents set to house wandering tourists, and the locals accompanying their adventure tourism. It seems as if this site is a staple of the trekking economy. Unable to keep my eyes off the imposing view of Stok Kangri, I begin to meet my fellow travelers.

There is the French physiotherapist who has quit his job to wander India for the next six months. He has taken to Buddhist philosophy and provides surprisingly good advice on watching where impulses and desires come from. His girlfriend is off practicing yoga poses. In full Surya Namaskar, she intermittently appears prostrating in front of the Himalaya. Soon enough they both wander off amidst some boulders to meditate.

There’s also the Tibetan immigrant who has made India his home. Over the subsequent hours, accompanied by several glasses of rum, he tells his incredible story. After fleeing Chinese occupation of Tibet, he made his way to Nepal where he climbed with the Sherpas for nearly a decade.  Following his time in Nepal, he came to India and has subsequently travelled the subcontinent north to south, east to west, even venturing out to remote islands. Now, Ladakh is home where he has become a self-made anthropologist, geologist, and historian of sorts. Scrolling through his digital camera he explains how he wants to bring scientists to see the isolated parts of the region he has explored, where he has discovered fossilized remains, as well as documented local traditions and practices.

At night, the stars shine ferociously. Like a million tiny specks of silt burning through the sky transmitting the Light we are searching for.  In between those aerial fires are wisps of the Milky Way, like curling smoke upon a nocturnal canvas.  At the rooftop of the world, the villages are few and far between to cause any type of light pollution. Once again I tilt my head backwards as I brush my teeth, inhaling starlight.

All was well that night, that is, until that sudden 4 am wake up. You know the one where you get up with a start and sense of purpose. Unzipping the double layers of my tent, I quickly zigzag between the dozen or so encampments sprawled across the cold ground. I shine my flashlight up the hill, illuminating my destination. The makeshift structure is three walls of neatly stacked, level, rounded stone. I dart around to the open face to gratefully find smooth ground with a single hole in the center.

***

I swear I died at least twice that day.  With nothing left in my system, the lack of oxygen became even more noticeable along the steep hike. Over two hours of incline, I was forced to stop literally every twenty steps. My heartbeat – pounding – ricocheted off my eardrums making each lumbering step thunder in my head.  Sucking wind, I bargain: if the sins and substance abuse of the past years can be released through my pores then this is all worth it.

My pride gets me through, refusing the assistance of any man or pony. Atop the Ganda La Pass, prayer flags flutter in the cold wind. Below, the valley is illuminated by the still rising morning sun. The Himalayas stand stoically, asserting their stature, ignoring our minute achievement. Besides me, a group of American college students pull out a bottle of Old Monk to celebrate the ascent. I decline as shots are taken of the sweet-syrupy rum to mark the occasion. And then down we go.

The remainder of the day is spent walking through the stark and beautiful landscape. Jumping through streams, walking into narrow rock corridors, and marveling at the majesty.  After a few hours, I lodge my protest at taking a step further while the sun is at its highest. Finding a collection of bushes I drop down, immediately falling asleep for the next hour.

By evening we reach the village that will be home for the night. The local monastery stands on top of a small hill and we once again climb up to pay our respects. In Ladakh, the cultural and religious dynamics are defined by Tibetan Buddhism, which has been predominant for well over a thousand years.  Our home-cooked dinner is momos stuffed with local vegetables – the antidote needed for deep sleep.

Returning down through the evolving landscape brings us face to face with the dust and concrete of new construction. Roads and bridges are slowly coming to connect the trekking routes and villages that are becoming popular. Reaching the River, I jump in a raft alongside scores of Israeli, European, and Indian tourists as we battle rapids to where the Zanskar meets the Indus. Jutting up to kiss the sky are the brown and unmoving mountains, keeping steady, watching all along.