Leaving Harlem

View fullsize

The plane from Brussels into Monrovia lands at night.  It comes up from the direction of Guinea, banks a clockwise circle around the bay of Liberia and descends as if returning from Sierra Leone.  It's dark.  Pitch black. I can only see a few lights twinkling and it turns out they are from the airport. My view is partially obstructed.  I occupy a right aisle seat and while there are only two seats per row in the section, the guy next to me is sleeping, slumped against the window partially obstructing my view and I have to peer over his scalp as if I am trying to sniff his blond oily hair remnants.  I have never found the Flemmish particularly attractive. What's worse, there is a blinding glare produced by the man's overhead light which can be turned off only by a switch caught in a space formed by the man's right thigh and crotch of his elbow.  I am tempted to play a fool man's Jenga, but elect instead to cover the overhead light with my left hand while extending my neck further.  I know the passengers behind me are thinking what the hell, why the orange hand visual light effects on landing and is the Chinese guy really going to make a move on a man simply trying to work off three Stella beers?  I really don't care.  I am Taiwanese-American. I do think, my first view of Africa in almost three years and it is literally through a white man. 

It's been a twenty-two hour flight.  Of interest is that there is a ton of Chinese on the plane (I can tell from their mandarin accents) who surprise surprise do a lot of infrastructure development in Liberia.  I swear, America will die before it learns.  A Muslim man freaked out the flight attendant by praying in all directions next to the lavatory.  There is a dearth of pens on the plane despite a plethora of immigration forms.  A large Ghanaian woman thinks I am the devil. 

"Do you believe in Jesus?" she asks

 "I don't but I respect those that do," I say

 "Then what do you believe?  Who created you for example?"

"My parents I hope."

"And how about their parents."

"My grandparents."

"But I mean all the way back."

" I wasn't there."

"Well I love you.  I love you with all my heart." 

"Uh, you don't even know me."

"But I love you still.  You are my brother.  I am your sister."

The Ghanaian is large and before I move to any seat not next to hers, her very jiggly voluminous arm spills onto my thigh, which is already warm.  She had eaten a lot of crackers and she smacks her lips to clear her teeth.  With perfume the woman smells savory.  At the end of her speech she reaches out to hold my hand.  Woe, does this woman not know that holding hands for most men is an act more intimate than sex? I pull back.

I was worried about coming to a country where people spoke English. I lived six months in Rwanda in 2007 setting up systems for a small hospital that as of last month just became a 250-bed hospital.  There I spoke French.  In El Salvador, I ran a clinic next to the San Salvadoran dump, spoke Spanish and sweated from my forearms.  When working in a different language, which I would say in my case can be spoken at a high intermediate to fluent conversational level, you don't notice chatter, quips, profanity or utterances.   You are deliberate and purposeful with language because you really have to think before you speak or process what is spoken through a series of linguistic check lists-- grammar, accent, pronunciation.  Language spoken by a foreigner takes on a formality not unlike giving an academic talk or asking a really beautiful person on a date for the first time.  This feeds idealism.  Hearing snide remarks or being aware of the arrogance behind people's tones corrupts.  In Accra when the plane had to land to refuel and pick up passengers before assuming the last leg to Monrovia, a hardworking slim Black man from the maintenance crew worked hard to vacuum and clean unoccupied seats before the onslaught of new passengers.  He bumped ever so slightly into an overweight woman who was engaged in a conversation about her large engagement ring and numerous other rings now affixed to it.

"You should say excuse me," she said

"What?" the worker said

"You should say excuse me," she said

"I don't understand.  What are you saying?" the worker said

"When you are working around us you should apologize.  You got in our way"

"I don't understand.  I am sorry."

The man left confused but knowing something bad had just happened.  I wanted to say, hey bitch, learn to say thank you!  And, your rings are ugly!  The woman continued to chide the man for a full five minutes after he left.  She shook her head. She claimed that that man was an uneducated Nigerian who should be taught manners.  

"In Liberia we don't do that," she said.