My walk to work

Hello once again. I have been wishing lately that all of you could come here to see for yourselves what it is like, because pictures just don’t do it justice. But since I know that will not happen I thought I might try to paint a word picture of my walk to work in the morning. Here goes…

I wake up at 6:00am while it is still quite dark. The high-pitched drone of the crickets, frogs, and birds outside my windows is almost deafening. After a moment the power comes on and I wash my face from the bucket in the bathroom. After a little breakfast and Morning Prayer with Robin, I grab my lab coat and ever-present umbrella and I’m off. By this time, about 6:30, it’s light outside. The air is pleasantly cool and a light mist lingers in the hollows. I dodge a flattened scorpion on the path from our house to the main drive of campus. The drive is lined with bushes bearing yellow flowers which seem to glow in the morning sunlight. I share this path with a few others who are on their way to work, and several scrawny dogs, all of whom appear to have nursing puppies hidden away somewhere. I pass through the Cuttington gate and onto the main road. The red dirt and gravel is often still soft in places after the previous evening’s rains.

As I walk I pass many locals whose attire and lifestyles seem to range from very Western to the most traditional. There are men in Dockers and polo shirts carrying briefcases; there are women in the colorful wrap-around skirts called lappas, with tubs of goods or bags of charcoal balanced on their heads for the day’s selling. There are children in rags pushing wheelbarrows and others in royal blue uniforms making their way to the Cuttington primary school. Even after three weeks I’m still something of a spectacle, or at least an oddity. The children look at me, wide-eyed, and flash brilliant smiles. Some yell, “White woman white woman!” to get my attention (in Liberian English it comes out sounding more like “Wyoma, wyoma!”). Occasionally a baby, tied to her mother’s back, will begin to cry in terror. With almost every adult I meet I exchange, “Yeah, hello. How are you?” It’s not like in the States, where people so often completely ignore each other as they pass. This adds to the feeling of community and interdependence which seems so strong here.

There is tall green grass on my right as I walk, and a pond thick with lily pads which are blooming now but will be closed in the afternoon as I return to campus. The shell of a rusted-out car rests on the bank, a reminder of the poverty and destruction that have plagued this beautiful place. To my left is a large palm tree with many dead branches where swallows have built dozens of spherical nests. Our friend Martha says it reminds her of a Christmas tree decorated with colored balls. I pass a small house and store where the family is preparing for the day. Some are sitting in the doorway of the mud house with a thatched roof, and others are cooking over the fire. There are always several small children running around with the chickens. The cars race past on the road we share, blaring their horns to alert us pedestrians to their presence. It’s our responsibility to leap out of their way, not theirs to dodge us.

By now it’s been about twenty minutes; I’m almost to the Phebe compound and there are even more people on the road. As I turn into the muddy drive I pass a congregation of people waiting for a bus or taxi to take them I don’t know where. I feel their stares as I walk. I pass a solid sign, built into a stone foundation, “Phebe Hospital.” There are several hand-painted billboards as well, encouraging people to help rebuild Liberia by acting against gun violence, and to respect and include people with disabilities. I make it in the front door, pass through a long waiting room full of somber faces, and arrive in the body of the hospital. The smell of urine, feces, and festering wounds hangs in the heavy air but only takes a few moments to get used to. In the halls I meet several employees who, with warm smiles, welcome me by name. These nurses are surrounded by suffering and death every day and yet they seem to possess a rich and deep-rooted happiness. I hope it’s contagious. When I arrive on the ward the nursing students are just beginning their day with a soulful African hymn and a prayer of thanksgiving for the new day.

And so, with a peaceful walk, a myriad of smiles and greetings, and a prayer, begins another day.