A Travellerspoint blog

Little Yoga Break

This is quick. I started a series of "Lunch & Learn" workshops here; we do them on Fridays. Things like: Tips for a high quality check-in with your boss or How to make Google sheets work for you, etc. But today, we did a little yoga session. It was so fun! Led by Charles Brewer, the head of our data team who has spent time in India where he picked up yoga. (Charles also did a stint in Atlanta, not far from where I grew up.) If you think this world isn't small, just ask a bunch of questions: you'll find connections, I promise.

Here are photos of this beautiful team. Pretty awesome.

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Posted by sarahglover44 14:07 Archived in Liberia Comments (8)

The Joy of Sweat and Tears

I am sweating so much, maybe they will not see that the water on my face is tears. But then I remember that my forehead pinches unmistakably when I cry - even more so when I try to hold it in - and I am on the verge of ugly sobs. That said, I am sweating madly, and these people have never seen me before, much less seen me cry...so perhaps it is my secret. I doubt it.

That was last evening; I was in the large Baptist church across the street from my compound. I walk by it every day 4 times at least, to, fro, to, fro. In an earlier post, I wrote about a group of children playing a game in their fenced-in yard - an adult in the middle of their circle with all the markings of a youth pastor (big energy! big smiles! be encouragement!). The children's laughter, neighbors watching.

Several evenings, I have heard singing from this church. The other churches I walk by, the singing is accompanied by (actually drowned out by) insane electronic sound systems. But in this church across from me, I hear only voices. And last night, I decided to see if I could go in and listen.

Walking into a compound is walking into someone else's property, which is carefully safeguarded. Though the gate to the church compound was wide open, I still walked in hesitantly. I removed my Red Sox cap. I kept looking for someone to greet me / wonder what the hell I was doing on their property. It was dusky; actually, it was dark, making me more unsure.

I had to walk to the front of the church to get to an open door, at least 30 yards into the compound. I stood in the doorway, and saw that a group of about 15 people were sitting in pews, and two people were leading the singing. It was choir practice. Three short rows of pews were just to my left, parallel to the church's side wall. Then, there were rows and rows of pews facing the front of the church. A woman came to me in the doorway and asked if I wanted to listen. She invited me to sit in one of the side pews next to her.

It was gospel music, and then I was crying. Though this can't be quite right, it reminded me of home. It is almost never that I'm in a church in the US listening to acapella gospel music. But unquestionably, what rose in me was both a comfort of and longing for home. Home of the spirit? Home created by these amazing voices? I wiped my face and my eyes. I looked down at my feet. I closed my eyes and rocked with the music.

The bass voices through tenors were in the first row of pews facing the front of the church; the altos through sopranos were in the pews perpendicular. This meant the singers were in an L-shape relative to each other, watching each other's faces and creating harmonies. A gentleman was standing and leading the lower voices; a woman faced our pews and led the higher voices. They gestured and sang; they stopped mid-line, adjusted, and started again. Everyone was wiping sweat from their foreheads and faces. Other than the woman who invited me in, no one paid me any mind.

Jennebah introduced herself to me and asked if I would like to join them for Sunday services: "we start at 10:30." She asked my name, asked to confirm my last name, and then asked me to write it down. This happens all the time; I pretty much give my name to anyone who asks. I don't know; it doesn't seem like it can hurt. (TBH, I also give my phone number and now I am getting WhatsApp texts from several people who address me as "Mummy" and "Auntie." Why not?)

Jennebah was going back and forth with another woman sitting in front of us, though the singing never stopped. Then, she handed me a sealed envelope and explained it was an invitation to a set of upcoming services, including a dinner, to celebrate their 30th anniversary. When I got home and opened the envelope (perfectly sealed, a clean and new white letter-sized envelope - if you had asked me if envelopes like this exist in this country, I would have been doubtful), I found it to be a formal invitation, complete with my full name written at the top, my title ("Participant") and signatures of people in the church.

I had already been in the same spiritually full, tearful state earlier in the day, so this singing spilled over my already overflowing cup. On my after-lunch walk around my office, I cued up Kate Bowler's Everything Happens podcast, and listened to her conversation with Father Gregory Boyle, founder of Homeboy Industries. I was walking through dusty roads, listening to roosters crowing, exchanging high-fives with 6-7-8 year olds, and seeing women and men who I know are eking it out every day. I know they fill their bellies and their children's bellies with water when there isn't enough money for food. I know most of them cannot read. I know that anyone older than 45 fled from or somehow otherwise survived more than a decade of brutality.

While my eyes are filled with these images, what I hear is Father Boyle saying to Kate: "The goal of going to the margins and allowing the folks at the margins to make you different is joy. Joy that everyone is inhabiting in an exquisitely mutual way." And I know that it is true. I know that is a reason - the reason - I go "to the margins." It is the joy that is present and can sustain us. Open us, feed us. Carry us. Join us.

After the singing, I went home (drenched - in tears, sweat, and by that time it was raining. Because of course it was.) I dialed up a YouTube video of Father Greg and Pema Chodron talking together. I mean that is Mecca, those two in conversation! And Pema and Greg share a joke that they both love a particular line - but aren't sure which of them said it first. They attribute the same line, each to the other: "The measure of our compassion lies not in our willingness to be in service to those on the margins, but only in our willingness to be in kinship with them." Greg kept saying in the podcast: it's not about you. It's not about you. Pema says: don't get attached to your own story; let it go.

Sometimes I translate that for myself like this: Sarah: make yourself a bit part in your own story. I love the notion of not being the center of my own story; I feel the move from center to periphery (to observer, to acceptor) almost physically.

I've been thinking alot about why I am here. The reasons are these:

  • I made a decision almost 20 years ago that the whole world is our family. Paul Farmer taught me this, as conveyed by Tracy Kidder in Mountains Beyond Mountains, the wonderful book he wrote about Farmer and Partners in Health. I read the book precisely 18 years and 3 months ago, which I know because in a photograph, the book is splayed on my bedside table in Bozeman Deaconess Hospital, where I'm holding my glorious newborn daughter, Sophie. She is 1 day old, and from how the book is splayed, I am about half-way through it.
  • We must be proximate to one another. I learned this from Bryan Stevenson, through his talks, his book, and the worldview-shaping memorial and museum he established in Montgomery. I first heard Stevenson in 2014; I was newly divorced, single-momming my 7-year old, feeling disconnected from purposeful work. I got to the conference by claiming I needed to be there, when really I just wanted to go. (This is mega out of character for me. I have a character affliction of telling the truth.) My wonderful mom and step-dad traveled to Boston to be with Soph so I could manage it. I was sitting in the back of a Marriott ballroom at an airport hotel in San Francisco. It was dim; the food was lame. Bryan Stevenson, whom I had not yet heard of, was on stage. "You have to be proximate to the need," he said. More than once. I was working at Harvard at the time, and this call was a lightning bolt for me. While I would never trade my 5 years at Harvard.....It is not. Proximate. To the need. I realized I was on Neptune - if I was even in the solar system. I needed, wanted to get proximate. I set myself off on proximity experiments - everything from getting a new job to working a weekly soup kitchen to becoming friends with the operator of an old-time, pull the metal grate closed elevator in the Leather District in Boston where I worked. I believe Stevenson says we have to be proximate to the need to be effective in our work (his being justice). My proximity experiments teach me that we need to be proximate for our humanity.
  • A learning from Pastor Jeff at First Church of Somerville to "walk the Jesus ways." I can believe in God or Jesus. Or not. But I can walk the Jesus ways regardless. I joined the Jesus-ways with the space I am finding in Buddhism. The four limitless qualities of Buddhism are loving kindness, compassion, joy and equanimity. I think walking these Buddhist ways in the footsteps of Jesus, or walking the ways of Jesus with the limitless qualities guiding us is...wonderful.

And finally: why not? It's not that a Liberian adventure is good/better/best. It is simply that it is me. And this adventure is a manifestation of my values and interests. The shape, location, color, density, propensity, length, solo-ness, togetherness of your adventures will be different than mine because you are you and I am me. It's the embrace and acceptance of these adventures that grows ourselves and, as Father Boyle might say, creates these mind-blowing opportunities to inhabit joy.

Amen. Namaste.

xo

Posted by sarahglover44 19:15 Comments (10)

Better than Dunkin'

So it turns out I am falling a little bit in love with my quirky little neighborhood. Familiarity breeding comfort and connection. Two tween girls find me on my walks and throw me hand signals - you know, like they are posing for Instagram. We laugh and smile, I throw the hand signals back, and soon I will know their names. I came home late on Saturday night, and another neighbor came out and called for our compound's security person to open the gate for me when he didn't show right away. Maybe this neighborhood is adopting me a little bit.

I live on a dead-end street, and when I walk up to get to the main street, I walk past two wells. Young kids drawing water out of these wells every time I pass, no matter the time. Yesterday, a 5-ish year old girl, holding one bucket in her hand, walking with another bucket on her head. She kept stopping to change the bucket she was carrying from one hand to the other hand because the metal handle had to be sharp in her palm. I offered to help, but I am old and probably a little scary. I don't think she understood my offer, but she paused, and in her high-pitched 5-year-old voice explained that she was taking water home. She is a beautiful, beautiful child. I wish I was taking pictures all the time, but also do not want to do anything that could make these people feel I am making them objects of curiosity. Because they are not; they are beautiful. Living here is hard, and I see more grace, dignity, kindness, and community than I see anything else.

This afternoon on my walk, there was a 4-ish year old little boy, swinging around a porch post, with a cardboard box on his head. The box had a 1"X 5"ish rectangle cut out across the front panel, so he could see out. He was a knight! Or a goblin! Or a Transformer! A gooney kid, whose mom or dad or auntie or sister made this hilarious mask for him. Boo! I took his photo because...I mean, how could I not? For real.

I did lots of things this weekend. I think I've turned the page - or enough pages - to be comfortable to try things, instead of constantly feeling on the edge (of disaster?) when trying things. So here are some snapshots from my outings, and I am finally uploading some photos.

  • I walked to the street market near(ish) me. Lions and tigers and bears! Well, no, not those things. But still plenty to ogle at and, at times, be a little afraid of. Snails the size of Nerf footballs (I AM NOT KIDDING) - in their shells, their heads and antennae wriggling out. When I leaned in to look, the proprietor said "I can crack open the shells and clean them for you to make it easier for you to cook them." Yikes. This made me think the chicken feet might be a better place to start.
  • Dried fish, fresh fish, whole fish, fish filets. Shrimp, crabs, and many other things that come from the sea. Later that day, I walked on the beach and past a neighborhood that spilled onto the sand. Maybe 100 people were out, pulling in wooden fishing boats, unfurling, straightening and wrapping up their nets. The boats are about 2.5 times the size of a canoe and similarly shaped. The men row into the ocean, catch fish, and bring back full nets. The women sit on the beach, with large, brightly colored plastic bowls between their legs, and ready the fish for sale. The sand is shiny with scales.
  • Bolts and bolts of fabric, brightly colored designs. It's easy to imagine this fabric transformed into dresses and headwraps by tailors who are in small shops all over. (In Senegal, I remember one of my favorite sights was young men walking down the street with their sewing machines held on their shoulders.)

I could have gotten a gel manicure for 550 LD (that is $3). I almost bought a copy of the Invisible Man for 650 LD (only $3.50...but why is it so hard to convince my brain that 650 "dollars" is a small amount of money??). I bought donuts for the security guys at my compound. (Did I mention that these guys semi-live on my back porch, and tap on my kitchen window when they want me to turn the porch light on or off? They also greet me in the morning at the kitchen window. A little alarming, until it turns out we enjoy each other.) The whole donut operation was right in front of me: a giant mound of dough, two women trading off with one another to pinch off bits of dough, fold the bits into crescents, and drop these half-moons in a bubbling bowl of grease sitting on a fire. #betterthandunkin

I found a great road to the beach that I can walk to. Just beyond the fishing neighborhood, I came to an inlet where the water created a bit of a pool, before narrowing into a small river. My face is cracking open with a smile as I try to figure out how to describe this: 60 or so bodies, mostly boys and young men, I first thought, but when I looked more closely, I saw plenty of girls who were in shorts or underwear swimming, splashing, jumping, falling into the water Lipton Iced Tea style, throwing balls to each other, dragging their dogs into the water, laughing, laughing, laughing. Their barely clothed and some unclothed bodies slick in the water, running onto the sand, and then chasing the water into the sea as the waves receded. Like at every beach anywhere. Honestly, it was glorious.

I went to two (count them: TWO!) clubs. Fri night was Ocean Drive; Sat was D. Calabash. Live music at D.Calabash. Alotta struttin by people digging the music and the shisha. I tried a new restaurant for lunch on Sunday, and had my first jollof rice. I had two great motorbike rides. I finally uploaded a couple photos; check out the right side of the page.

People: this world is so wild and magnificent. I don't know how to tame or inoculate against the crap stuff that is a bit overwhelming, and, to state the obvious, dangerous. I don't know if I am happy or disappointed to be far away for the election that is now just a couple weeks away. I do know that I feel exquisitely lucky to be where I am, doing what I am doing. Many of you are part of how and why I got here. Thank you.

xo

Posted by sarahglover44 19:15 Archived in Liberia Comments (5)

What would you choose: pig foot or chicken foot?

I chose pig. My work colleagues are finding it very entertaining to keep introducing me to African food. And Cece, my sister-aunt, takes the lead, making sure I am around the table, spoon in my hand, while we all dig into the large, plastic bowl with rice and whatever dish they have decided on for the day. Today, it was poombah or poolah or some kind of something that I really have no idea what. But in it were pig feet and chicken feet. She asked which I wanted. I chose pig. They were happy about that because they prefer chicken. Today, there were 5 of us around the bowl, and a couple others wandered in for a couple bites. I have to say, this communal and casual eating thing is kind of awesome. Just like dress, there don't seem to be rules that can be broken. You can wander in, wander out, grab a spoon, dig in.

It's very possible I am wrong about this and/or just not yet seeing or knowing the rules to break. How does the food get paid for? I'm not sure yet.

I climbed out of koko last week, and took myself for a nice dinner at the Ocean Drive Beach Club on Friday. I can walk to Ocean Drive, and it's a place where you pay $10 to enter, then they apply the $10 to your food+drink bill. That's pretty common here. It was a beautiful evening; I was sitting on a huge deck, looking at the ocean. Lights strung across the deck came on when the sun set. Some people were playing in the water, and I saw one tall young man walking down the beach. He stopped about every 50 yards and broke into this Michael Jackson-like dance groove. A little moonwalk, a little wave. Then, he started walking again. Entertaining himself? Practicing? Delighting in being on the beach on a clear night? Maybe he was just nuts, but I found myself wanting to have the audacity to break into dance moves whenever I wanted to.

I hired a motorbike to take me home, and I have to say that riding on the back of a motorbike is pretty fun. Gonna pick my days and my roads somewhat carefully, but my motorbike days are not over yet.

I spent Saturday and Sunday at the Libassa EcoLodge (www.libassa.com). Wow - gorgeous and utterly relaxing. I sat on a deck overlooking the ocean for most of Saturday. The food was great, my little room completely cute and comfortable. Being at the tail end of the rainy season and not fully into the dry season, there were only a few other people there, so it was quiet. Kind of heavenly. (Not cheap; this overnight with food and lodging ran me $200, not including getting there and back. This "dual" economy is mind-blowing.)

The EcoLodge people have two other lodges in Liberia, and I'll try to get to both of them. One is also on the coast; the other is in the region of Nimba, west of here and where Nimba National Forest is. It's a 6 hour drive from Monrovia.

A great discovery about Libera: they love popcorn! Popcorn is sold on the street everywhere, and I befriended a lady who lives 2 blocks from the office who has a popcorn machine set up in front of her house. She makes popcorn snack bags every day. This is my kind of place. A popcorn bag on the street is on the "Liberian" side of the economy (vs. the ex-pat/NGO side): it usually costs about 20 cents (50 Liberian dollars), and comes complete with a spoon. I didn't know about eating popcorn with a spoon, but now I do.

I have landed on one fruit and vegetable stand near my house that I visit almost daily; I get a couple bananas, garlic cloves, ginger, cucumbers (lots of cucumbers here!). One day she had two avocados, so I bought those. This almost-daily interaction is nice, and it relaxes me to go to the same woman. We greet, we smile; she fills my little plastic bag, and then I will see her the next day. Because I'm me, I bring an old plastic bag for her to fill, and she chuckles at me, just like many of you do.

Last night, I made my magic red lentil soup, with garlic, onions and carrots I bought from her stand. I brought a large pot of it to work. After many days of these people feeding me, I wanted to feed them. They liked it, and we had another circle around the table, bantering and eating. What a gift to be wrapped into this group.

Hugs and love to you all; thank you for kind words about this blog - I love the challenge of trying to capture it. As Ross Gay says about how his "delight meter" gets better when he asks himself to notice delights, I hope that my empathy and curiosity meters are rising to this task.

xo

PS - Because everyone should have the magic red lentil soup: 1 onion, 2-3 carrots. Dice them and saute in 2T of olive oil in a big soup pot. After about 5 min, add 2-3T of cumin, 1t-ish of tumeric, and a couple cloves of garlic. Maybe a couple shakes of cayenne pepper if you like that. Cook until spices are fragrant; 30-45 seconds. Add 4 C broth of your choice; 1 C red lentils (rinsed); 1 can diced tomatoes w/ juice; 1 can of garbonzo beans, drained. Voila. You can stir in bunches of kale or spinach at the end if you want; throw in rice or quinoa. If you are my Auntie Caitlin, you'll stir in a dollop or two of peanut butter. ;)

Posted by sarahglover44 19:55 Comments (5)

The KoKo Method

Hi Wonderful Humans - I'm due for an update. I confess I am feeling an odd combo of overwhelmed and kind of flat. Or maybe I am flat because I am overwhelmed? Instead of ideas popping of things to share with you, I am casting about for what might be interesting. Which is another way of saying I am casting about for what is moving me - and right now, I am just kind of making it. Keep on keeping on - the koko method, which is, honestly, a magic key to life.

A couple of updates:
1. I now have a corkscrew/bottle opener AND - wait for it - a can opener. My Rising colleague Rose found the corkscrew; it took her 4 grocery marts, and it was her story of popping into one shop after another that made me think "oh, I can do that! I can pop into any store I want!" For some reason, I previously was feeling like I needed...permission? a recommendation? someone vouching that the place was ok? I have no idea - but Rose (almost literally) opened the doors for me. I also have a can opener! Precious had a can opener in her apartment that she couldn't figure out how to use. It's a Zyliss MagiCan. With that kind of name, I figured there had to be a following. Oh yes - one YouTube video later, and I am a MagiCan wizard, opening cans like you read about. #blackbeansandrice

2. A few of you have asked about whether it is possible to get school supplies to children in our schools. I'm going to look into that. My guess is that it will be donating money, and us buying the supplies here, and then distributing. Thank you for wanting to do this! More soon.

On Sunday, I went to a beach called Tropicana that is just south of town, about 30 minutes. Several people recommended it. Victor and his son took me. When we got there, they charged us $5 each to enter, and then we sat at a nice table on a nice covered deck and they handed us menus that offered $10 smoothies, $20 pizzas, and $15 hamburgers. ??? There was also some Liberian food on the menu...but this wasn't the beach experience I had in mind. I came with a bag filled with things for the beach: a towel, water, snacks, sun block. I didn't use any of it, though. At our table, we were looking at the beautiful beach and ocean...but there literally was a sign that said "no swimming." !!! Victor and I took a long walk on the beach, he filled me in on lots of history starting in 1979 (the year of what they call the Rice Riot, when the people demanded lower prices for rice. He characterized it as the event that ultimately led to the war). When we got back to the Tropicana pavilion, I bought $30 worth of juice for Victor, his son and me. And then we left.

After this, I realized I am pouring a shit ton of energy into making the best of things - which is not a bad life orientation. But come on: a beach with no swimming? Not the beach for me. (Or, as Victor pointed out, for any Liberians - absurdly expensive. A rip-off for expats and richer posers.)

I'm coming off the energy and newness of entering, and swimming a little more in the day-to-day. (Not swimming at the beach, of course! badum-bum)

Some of you are asking what I do with the days, what my work is. I get picked up by Victor and Precious in the mornings, 8-ish. (Liberians seem to be very early risers.) We go to the Rising offices, which are about a 10 min drive from me. The office is in a walled compound (almost everything is), and is a 1-story building w/ about 7 rooms, a kitchen, and 2 bathrooms. The electricity, internet and water all go off pretty regularly. There is a generator when the electricity goes off, and there always is a discussion about who can turn the generator on, who should turn the generator on, and then finding that person. I think I have figured out that the water is pretty much off every day in the middle of the day. Ask me if the toilets work when the water is off. Then ask me how to use a bucket of water to flush the contents of a toilet when the water is off. I can do that as well as I can open a can with the Zyliss.

I sit in the largest of the rooms with 6 other people. People work very quietly. Every now and then one of the women will kind of start singing - more than a hum, less than a song. It's nice. My job is to help the management team, a group of 6, get better at their work: how they project plan, how they manage people, how they design systems (of learning, distribution, curriculum adoption) to flow out to 95 schools. My favorite work in the world is to help a team become better than it ever thought it could be. So as I get to know this team, I will be doing the work I love the most. Finding connection, trust, understanding them and their work - this takes some time.

I wanted to mention something about the dress here. I was worried about it ahead of time - worried about what women are expected to wear, and also about being hot! I needn't have worried about the norms side of things. Anything goes. I can't see that there is a norm to break. For awhile, I was looking for anyone wearing shorts, and thought maybe I had found that shorts is the line not to cross. But then there was a hot day, and everyone was in shorts. ;) So, that's a relief! I don't think there is a way to screw up dress. The older women are definitely more frequently in African dress - beautiful, vibrant prints; long dresses; head wraps in the same fabric (often with coordinating shoes and handbag). On Sundays, I would say most girls and women are in African dress - often matching. Two or three ladies in completely matching dresses and head wraps, flagging a motorbike to take them to church. I am saying "African dress" - maybe that's ridiculous, given the size and range of this enormous continent. Liberian. But it is just like what I saw in Senegal and Guinea. West African?

Christian Dior would be proud - or not: a solid percentage of women wear CD plastic slides. A Dior version of the Adidas slides that I guess are everywhere in the world.

Want to hear a couple of things I knocked out of the park? Sure you do.

  • I successfully loaded WhatsApp on my computer. Heart in my throat while doing that because: how does it know? How does it synch? How does it connect to my account? How does it not send me down a rabbit hole of logins and passwords and 2-factor authentication (things sometimes make me cry)? It was flawless!! I scanned one QR code, and, voila! It loaded perfectly on my computer. Which I have to have because the internet in my apartment drops from my phone about every 15 seconds. I wish that was an exaggeration.
  • I threw a fanny pack in my luggage at the last minute. Lesson: NEVER TRAVEL WITHOUT A FANNY PACK. Seriously, write this on a sticky and put it in your suitcase so you don't forget.
  • I got a pedicure at a little salon near my apartment. Might be my only chance to sit in a hair salon watching ladies get weaves and braids. The pedicure was solid, and now I have pretty toes.

On Sunday morning, I hung outside my little compound on the corner waiting for Victor to pick me up. Little boys - as in little: 3 years old? - were running around and around the block, turning motor bike tires with sticks. Chasing the black tires which were almost as tall as them, and spinning the tires forward with sticks - it was out of the movies. Flashes of color as their little feet, in brightly colored Croc-like shoes, raced down the street. Big smiles, including mine.

xo

Posted by sarahglover44 07:06 Archived in Liberia Comments (4)

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