New Digs
We just moved from Tilda’s Guesthouse to a small one-bedroom apartment at the compound next to the President’s residence. The compound contains the Chinese Economic and Business Consulate, whatever the hell that means, and is the place I am sure where most Liberians assume we Asians might live. This is the place where security directed me one month ago when I came to pick up friends staying with the President’s son, who was sponsoring a medical mission at JFK Hospital. After a short explanation of why I had stopped my vehicle at the gate beside a soldier in UN battle fatigues surrounded by sand bags pointing a machine gun at my face, one of the secret service men in charge dressed in black suit, black shirt and red tie, looked at me then my white Toyota Camary with big bad IRC sticker affixed to the hood and side doors, then back at me and said, “The Chinese embassy is up the road.”
“No, I am here to pick up guests of James Sirleaf,” I said, “the guests are named Jennifer and Eric and are part of the surgical team from Connecticut working at JFK hospital here under the auspices of the President.”
“You see that sign,” the security man said pointing to a red sign 25 yards up the dirt side path with yellow stars and sickle, “take a right right there.”
“You are not understanding me,” I said, “I don’t need to go to the Chinese embassy. I am here to pick up friends of the President.”
“I don’t speak Chinese,” he said.
“I am not speaking Chinese,” I said
“Move the car,” he said, at which point I had an irrational urge to get out of the car and run across the field of corn and cassava towards the President’s residence screaming. In the microsecond of intense imagination where one can create a catalogue of fictitious experiences, I was saddened at the physical and emotional consequences of being shot in the back. I crumbled to the ground with an umph and a thud. My legs bent back, there was no blood but ragged holes. My funeral was sparsely attended. My pin striped charcoal suit I made in Thailand was there in a sea of black. Fuck it. I moved the car.
A series of very tall coconut trees with their bottom portions painted white and a smooth stone path for pairs of automobile wheels to roll extend an impressive 100 yards leading to the entrance--a grey flaking metal gate. There three or four unarmed guards wearing bright orange school traffic crossing vests sit passing time on benches outside a small stucco kiosk. Two beeps of the car and the gate, like any Monrovian gate, opens. The guards must smell Asian because each day at day’s end, as soon as I make the left turn in the direction of Sinkor across two lanes of heavy Tubman traffic onto the long driveway, inward swing the doors. Open Sesame (seed) I think. I can change cars, disguise myself, come with company, be a passenger, not slow down, stall the engine and the results are the same.
“Thank you,” I yell.
“Welcome boss man,” the guard always says.
“I am not boss man,” I say.
“Yes,” the guards says, “you are welcome.”
It’s hard for me not to think of the movie Out of Africa, or Jurassic Park each time I drive into our new neighborhood of lush, palm, grass, coconut, and orange gravel paths. White herons walk daintily among the herbage, lifting their legs in an exaggerated display of flexibility and care. Multi-colored lizards look, think then dart to the latest in mosquito buffets or hot stone lounges. Workers dot the estate engaged in a variety of activities from cutting the lawn with machete, walking the periphery so as to secure it, watering the plants, and raking the cement tennis court. All day there is a crash of sea waves echoing against the west end of the compound wall. In the evening there is singing from somewhere—Odysseyian sirens that mesmerize and which are kind of creepy.
The other day, after dumping the garbage, I stopped to talk to one of the workers prepping bright red palm tree seeds into a metal pail. Cassava greens in palm butter (oil) is Liberia’s signature dish and it is from the palm seed that this scrumptious spicy dish is prepared. In retrospect, I must have seemed like an idiotic boy marveling how Pringles come from tubers called potatoes, “Do you crush the seeds to get the oil?” I asked the worker.
“No,” he replied, “you must boil the seeds for a long long time, then one can squeeze squeeze squeeze until the butter comes out.”
“But from where do the seeds come?” I asked.
“From the top of the palm tree,” the worker said pointing to the various palm trees around us with dried red lace-like drooping fruit. In the crotch of each tree were pine cone like receptacles out of which the red palm seeds were plucked. It was not obvious to me how one climbed these trees some of which were kind of tall. The trunks were not smooth but covered with fronds and jagged bark-- not easily shimmied. The man continued, “The palm tree is so very important to us. We use the seed for palm butter. We use the branches to make sure the roofs of our houses don’t leak. From inside the bark we can draw wine.”
“Can you use the trunk for wood?” I asked trying to participate in this world of manly utility. Prior to the conversation I realized I had mistaken palm trees for coconut trees. I had never tasted palm oil prior to coming to Liberia. My roof is made of tin and timber. I use canola. My specialty is cold chicken soup.
The worker looked at me as if I had just suggested we burn down the local rain forest for fun, “No, we do not use the palm trunk for wood,” he said, “if we did that, the palm tree would die.”
Alvin is our gardener. Sam, the former tenant, used to work for USAID. When he learned that USAID was going to shift its funding in Liberia towards agricultural programs, he left USAID to start a seed and plant shop in Sinkor which is now thriving, which has allowed Sam to move to a bigger place. Sam is serious about everything he does and consistent. Being in the agricultural business now, he planted a garden around the apartment periphery and encircled the patio with various tall potted plants. He taught Alvin how to care for these plants which consists of daily watering, periodic weeding and once in a while fertilization. The area is beautiful and when you step in or out of the house one cannot help but feel a sense of calm and beauty in simple deliberate green things that grow.
The garden has given me the idea to beautify IRC hospitals, most of which resemble unsightly dust bowls where people die. I am a firm believer that if something is ugly on the outside, it cannot be pretty on the inside. But if it is pretty on the outside, there is a chance that the insides follow. Back in Rwanda, the Partners in Health (PIH) Hospitals where I worked in 2007 all had beautiful foliage, manicured bushes and solid flowers. What many people don’t know about PIH’s founder Paul Farmer is that in addition to him being a master clinician and fiery patient advocate, he is an arborist, who factors aesthetics into every hospital he builds. In Rwinkwavu, there was even a fish pond. After a period of adjustment where patients threw objects into the pond or tried capture the fish from the pond, patients began to gather around the pond for respite against illness, to think, literally reflect and watch. It was really kind of miraculous. Out in the middle of nowhere, where the week’s nightly event was time under the stars to listen to angry cicadas and drink warm Orange Fanta; in a place where daily kids came in dying of hunger, babies seizing from meningitis, and adults coughing up blood from tuberculosis, there was a beautiful fish pond with carp and gold fish, lilies and frogs. This fish pond was one of the greatest indicators I think that great things were happening at Rwinkwavu—a detail more powerful than any death statistic, accreditation score or clinical performance indicator.
Alvin usually has the hose running when I come out at 8:00 to drive to work. Alvin is tall, thin and muscular and wears tight old faded t-shirts, raggedy jeans and flip-flops. We pay Alvin 25 dollars a month. I actually don’t think we need Alvin. I am baseline against housekeepers, gardeners, car washers and the like because it makes me feel like I can’t take care of myself, be responsible to my own. But, I know Alvin needs the money. And it is not much money after all.
“Morning, boss man,” he says.
“Morning,” I say, “Please call me Wilson.”
“Morning,” Alvin says. I extend out my hand. Alvin looks surprised, wipes his hand against his trousers before extending out his hand to shake. “Thank you for doing such a great job,” I say, “the garden really looks nice. I can’t believe how much water these plants need. What will happen when it rains?”
“The plants need lots of water,” Alvin says, “Even when it rains, the plants must receive care.”
“No doubt,” I say, “hey, what do you think about me having you plant plants at the hospital we are running?” I introduce the idea of Alvin planting bushes, flower, shrubs, ground cover and the like at JDJ fifteen minutes away near Paynesville. “It’s so ugly. I know you can make it pretty. A good hospital needs to be pretty don’t you think? ”
Alvin is excited at the idea. “Yes, you tell me what you need,” he says, “and we can make the hospital good for the patients.” Alvin takes me around the side of the building to show me what kind of plants he is thinking about including what plants require minimal care, will survive inauspicious feet, will grow fast, will be bright, will provide cover. He pulls at stems, caresses leaves, picks a flower, and crushes an ant and a munching bug to emphasize his various points. It is obvious Alvin knows what he is doing. I am kind of envious.
“Sounds good,” I say, “let’s get this done in the next couple of weeks before the rains.” We exchange numbers. I tell Alvin that my project manager will be contacting him so he can show her the plants he is thinking about and so she can bring him to visit the hospital to draw up preliminary plans. I am happy about the idea and think that the idea can be as simple as it seems.
It is 8:15 and it is already hot—85 degrees and humid. Time to get to work. I unlock the driver side door and begin to climb in. “Well thank you, boss man,” I say. The cabin is surprisingly cool.
“I am NOT the boss man,” Alvin says smiling, “I am Alvin.”
“All right, Alvin,” I say.
We wave good-bye to each other—a casual slow up and down of bent left arm and hand-- me first, then Alvin. I close the car door, start the engine and make a U-turn on the grass, which I loathe to do, but all is grass here. I drive away.
