My apartment is, literally, merely yards from the Atlantic Ocean, close enough to feel the waves breaking on the beach. The sand is yellow-orange, medium-to coarse-grained with small pebbles, and in places there are rounded gunmetal rocks, looking soft enough to stroke. I tried to find some information on the geology of the coast here, and think that these might be basalt, but that’s just a (barely) educated guess. There are some shells, but not many; some sandpipers, but not many, and though I’ve seen plenty of people fishing I’ve yet to see a single fish. Nor have I seen any whales, though I do spend time looking for them several days each week! Palms dot the edge of what in most places is civilization rather than forest, and immediately beyond them are the businesses and residences of Monrovia. Supposedly there are strong rip tides here, and I have yet to see anyone do more than play or bathe right at the water’s edge. Since I don’t know anyone who ventures out in the ocean to tell me where it is or isn’t safe to enter, I have elected not to experiment deeper than ankle-height.
It all sounds idyllic, and the beach is beautiful, so long as you use your distant vision. Near vision will show you the inevitable garbage – the discarded fishing gear, the ubiquitous plastic bags tangled and snarled around bits of wood and rubber and glass; even the occasional needle or syringe. Tempting though it is, I don’t go barefoot.
I’ve heard mixed things about the safety of the beach: It’s not safe. It’s safe if you stay near the hotels. It’s not safe if you’re alone. It’s not safe if you’re a female. It’s safe if you’re a white female. It’s not safe after dark. I have so far limited my solo excursions to daylight hours, stopping at the edge of the “hotel district,” such as it is. I’ve seen many people jogging, playing soccer or just strolling and have stopped briefly to chat with several of them. Truthfully, they have stopped to chat with me, to ask why I am picking dead grasshoppers and beetles off the beach or collecting rocks in a bucket. I imagine they must think me the local equivalent of the crazy cat lady.
Limpets on rocks, Monrovia, Liberia, Mar 2019
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Limpets on rocks, Monrovia, Liberia, Mar 2019
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I woke up late for the second day in a row, at nearly 0900! It must still be the time zone adjustment, or perhaps the lack of strong morning light in my room. Fortunately today is, really, a day of rest for me rather than a work day. I made a cup of coffee and decided to drink it poolside. It’s already 80F and the humidity is… well, high, whatever it is. The Atlantic is booming only a 100 feet away, and I can see splashes occasionally when the waves hit two big rocks that jut out of the water at low tide.
I was starting to write that I’d seen very few birds since I arrived, which is perhaps not surprising but is still disappointing, when a brown dove and a pied crow came to the pool, and overhead something fast, white and medium-sized flew by (not a bird of prey, not a heron, maybe a large tern?). The crow perched on a fence post for several minutes. It’s call is very similar in pattern to that of our ravens, but is softer and has a soft, hollow rattling character to it. Each time the pied crow called, it dipped down in a parody of a courtly bow: body almost parallel to the ground, head forward and “crest” feathers erect, wings partially outstretched but held toward the ground so that the tips were perhaps six to eight inches lower than the body.
As I walked back toward my apartment, past blooming bougainvillea and into my air-conditioned domicile, I thought to myself that this is definitely going to be a different experience from that of Peace Corps in Cameroon. I mean, I have someone doing my laundry for me three times a week! I don’t even do laundry for myself that frequently. I’m sure I will enjoy the comforts of the slightly more affluent urban life, but I think I shall miss the less hectic and closer to nature aspect of being in a rural area.
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Two weeks ago I left Unalaska to begin an overseas journey of at least a year. The two weeks since I left have been a whirlwind of activity – a series of so long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehen visits with friends in both Unalaska and Anchorage; eight days of training in an industrial park in Sterling, VA; so far vain attempts to complete my taxes and other finance-related projects; and seemingly endless shopping. With every passing day I find at least one more thing that, really, I just ought to take with me because, well, I might actually need it. My bags get heavier by the day and yet I know – I’ve done this before – that I will ultimately find that I need, want and use only about half of what I take with me.
I’ve met quite a few new colleagues, including three who will be working with me in Liberia; have confirmed that I have a place to live in Monrovia, 169 meters or so from the Atlantic Ocean (thank you, Abi, for this information!); and now know that rainy season flooding is bad enough that I should’ve packed my Extra Tuffs. Apparently Monrovia is second only to Quibdó, Columbia, in terms of capital cities with the highest annual rainfall: 182 inches a year. Who knew? I did get a yellow and white parasol… I mean, umbrella, to tide me over until my boots arrive.
Tomorrow I fly IAD-BRU-ROB, and by Friday evening I will once again breathe the warm, humid air of Sub-Saharan Africa. Between now and then I am on a mission to find pork.
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