Liberia Journal: What Mothers Want

Liberians have lots of great expressions, and I've enjoyed learning some of them as we traveled the country. I've shared a few of them here on my blog — how da body, tryin' small, a fish cup of rice.

My ear got used to the patois after we'd been here a few days, and I was happy to be able to rely less and less on our translators. I found myself slipping into Liberian English enough so that I could understand what people were telling me. I even was able to adapt my own spoken English with a touch of patois so that they could better understand me. It was fun and satisfying to connect with people through our talking, listening — and our shared language of simple human caring.

We met so many strong, proud Liberian people who are digging in to do the hard daily work of rebuilding their ravaged country. On this trip, we made a point of talking with lots of women. Most of the one-on-one conversations I had were with the grandmothers and mothers, sisters and daughters whose bright outfits often provided the only spots of cheerfui decoration against the drab browns of their mud-brick huts. Their personalities were as colorful and distinct as the fabrics they wore.

The fortunes of Liberia's people are being raised by hard-working businesswomen like Tetee, who has been supporting her family for two years by selling goods in her small shop. Photo: Nancy Farese for Mercy Corps

Liberian women are the cocoa farmers I met, like Mary and Samah and Annie. They're vegetable farmers who have also been trained in secretarial skills, like Isabella. They're businesswomen, like Tetee (in this picture), who has been supporting her family for two years by selling goods in her small shop. Many of them, like Wadey, have horrific stories of their experiences during the war years. It was hard to hear their stories of the violence that has scarred them.

And yet, they are looking forward with hope. That's the thing that stays with me the most from this trip.

To a woman, they talked about education — their number one priority for their children and themselves. "When there is no education," said Isabella, "you are blind. You can't do anything. Education is the key." They're earning their own money and counting every penny to try to save enough to pay school fees so their children can learn to read and write. They're absolutely ecstatic about the Mercy Corps literacy classes and other training that are helping them acquire the basic skills to get ahead.

They're also applying their own sweat and muscle to the hard slog of farming. They're eagerly absorbing new methods of planting, mulching and composting to improve their yields.

And the many people who have had Mercy Corps training in community-building are showing how much they have absorbed those lessons. Clearly, they deeply value respectful dialogue and inclusive democracy. At every village meeting I attended, people packed into the palaver huts to participate and listened with the utmost courtesy and attentiveness as each person spoke.

These are the some of the images and memories that will stay with me as I wind up this trip. I'm thinking about one expression I learned: "Papa na come." It means, "Things will be good," as in "Papa's gonna come." I think Papa here is meant to signify any family provider.

But after this trip, I've coined my own version of this saying. It's "Mama na come." Because I think the women of Liberia — the same women whose uprising helped lead the country away from a cruel dictatorship and towards a democracy led by a woman president, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf — are showing the way to this beautiful country's future. I'm betting on their success, because I've seen with my own eyes what they're accomplishing.

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Rice is a staple food in Liberia. But it's not easy for Liberians to fill their bowls or their bellies these days. Like poor people the world over, they've been slammed by the steep increases in food prices of the past couple of years.

Driving around the country, we do see rice for sale — in small shops and roadside stands and open air markets. I stop to talk to the vendors about what it costs.

A "fish cup" of rice now costs about 28 cents in Liberia's cities — three times what Liberians paid just four years ago. Photo: Bija Gutoff/Mercy Corps

This photo shows what Liberians call a "fish cup" or sometimes a "salmon cup" of rice — the empty sardine (or salmon or mackerel) can is the common unit of measure for a small purchase, perhaps enough for a family's meager meal. In the capital Monrovia, a fish cup of rice now costs about 28 cents. In the rural areas, a fish cup of rice costs half that much — about 14 cents.

Little as the amount is, it's three times what Liberians paid just four years ago. And the hike in the price of rice is just one of the factors that are causing people to go hungry. Liberia is among a handful of countries at the very bottom of the list of the world's poorest.

I've seen gut-wrenching evidence of the country's poverty in my travels this week. Even for a writer like me, it's hard to put in words.

But I've been haunted by my photo of the fish cup. It reminds me that you can measure suffering in these very real daily examples — and you can measure progress that way, too. Mercy Corps is working in tiny towns and villages around Liberia to help people grow more food, to fill their supper pots with more fish cups of rice today and, most important, to learn the farming techniques that will keep them supplied with fish cups long into the future.

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The jeep bounces hard over deep ruts, and strains to get a grip though thick, slick, sloshy gullies of mud. Photo: Bija Gutoff/Mercy Corps

When Mercy Corps talks about rebuilding infrastructure in a country ravaged by war, the words can sound abstract. What the heck is infrastructure?

Think of it as the body of a country: the roads are like bones, the electrical grid is like muscles, the communication and water systems are like veins and nerves. Each one gives the body an ability: to move, to work, to speak and listen, to make things happen. In Liberia, it's a body that's sorely damaged and gravely dysfunctional.

This is what happened to Liberia's roads after 14 years of conflict. This is not a remote village track. It's the main road to the villages of Gbarpolu County, in the north. The jeep bounces hard over deep ruts, and strains to get a grip though thick, slick, sloshy gullies of mud.

The cars they use here seem held together with gum and duct tape. Photo: Bija Gutoff/Mercy Corps

As I bump up and down, I think about how SUVs in the U.S. are used to haul groceries and get the kids to soccer practice. Here, an SUV would be genuinely useful. But local people don't have them. The cars they use seem held together with gum and duct tape.

People here say that road repair is a number-one priority. It's essential to all their goals and projects. In order to build anything, do anything, you have to be able to get there. I'm glad that Mercy Corps is helping to repair the roads and bridges that allow villagers to get their goods to market.

There's much more we can do to help bring this body back to life, so the Liberian people can get where they want to go.

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Photo: Bija Gutoff/Mercy Corps

In Parker Town, Gbarpolu County, in the north of Liberia where Mercy Corps has a number of agriculture programs, I rounded up these children for a group portrait.

I guided the older ones to stand in back and brought the smaller ones to the front. This everyday exercise, where we live (as a mother, how many times have I heard my own daughter or her friends grumble about the obligatory group photo?), seemed to be an entirely new experience for these kids.

Still, like children everywhere, they quickly got the idea, and a few were soon posing and posturing. Each child is so different. The thumbs-up boy in the blue t-shirt seemed a natural leader. The girl in the turquoise v-neck dress had an intensely frank and honest look about her. The one in bright green was so open and friendly. And the littlest ones, though a bit wary, were eager to take their place up front.

Every child wanted to be in the picture. And that's the way it should be: every child should be in the picture. Each one can grow up to make a contribution to Liberia's recovery, if they simply get the essentials: nutritious food, a decent education, a chance.

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Photo: Bija Gutoff/Mercy Corps

It's so lush here, it's seems like every plant would grow, and grow hearty, all on its own. But of course, like anything, there's an art and a science to successful agriculture. To get the highest yields from their crops and gardens, Liberian farmers are learning new techniques from Mercy Corps.

We visited a demonstration garden in Vaye Town, Gbarpolu County, where women and men are making their own compost, seasoning it with a touch of a local plant that naturally repels nematodes and using it to mulch their vegetables. They're getting more sweet potatoes by planting a single spud in each mound.

They've also learned to plant each kind of vegetable – cassava, corn, okra, cowpeas (beans) and groundnuts (peanuts) – in its own row or mound, so they can create and monitor the conditions in which it grows best.

In a land this fertile, it makes sense to focus on agriculture as the main development vehicle, as "President Ellen" has done. Mercy Corps is working with Liberian farmers to coax their next meal – and all the meals of their future – out of the ground.

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Photo: Bija Gutoff/Mercy Corps

Today the palaver (meeting) hut was full of children as we began our visit to Parker Town, Gbarpolu County, Liberia. In fact, I think there were more children than adults. They followed us around as we toured the village, by turns curious and boisterous and cranky and shy, just like children everywhere. The little boy in this photo that I've posted here kept catching my eye and grinning. A couple of times he ducked behind the post, then popped out with his huge sparkling grin, delighted with that small bit of peek-a-boo.

What makes these children smile? One of the few "toys" I saw was an old, retired cassava grater that had been reimagined as a tiny car. With a bit of string, this tin can has managed to fire a small child's imagination.

What does it take to fire ours? I watch these children who have so little, and I'm amazed again and again at the ease of their smiles. Just a little shy at first, they glom onto me as soon as I reach out my hand or crouch down to say hello. Each one offers a handshake, a grin, or a tummy awaiting a tickle. They touch my hair, my arm, my camera bag, my pants. They jostle to get closer.

An old cassava grater, re-imagined by local children as a tiny toy car. Photo: Bija Gutoff/Mercy Corps

I want people to know about Liberia and, more important, to care about Liberia. The women and men I have met are warm and friendly. Greetings are important: each person takes the time to shake hands, offer the traditional "How da body?" or its local dialect equivalent, to look me in the eyes and smile and say, "You are welcome here."

It's a more sincere connection than I often encounter back home, and I'm struck that we could learn a thing or two about courtesy and respect from the Liberian people.

The land itself is lush and green. The coconuts and bananas and papayas and "pam" (palm) nuts evidence a natural abundance that could help transform people's lives. Here, amid grinding poverty, the women and men are working hard to learn new and better ways of supporting themselves through farming, business skills and education.

Bit by bit, they're getting stronger. But they desperately need our help. My notebook is full of sights, sounds and impressions, and I'm eager to share them with you in hopes that you'll begin to care about these lively, lovely people.

But when I saw this boy's smile, I wanted to do everything I can to help.

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Photo: Bija Gutoff/Mercy Corps

Pounding rain, deep red mud...and a hundred smiles.

We've been bouncing over the worst roads I've ever seen. Adolphus, our driver, seems to think he's at the Indy 500. If another car tries to pass him, he speeds up — in the broiling heat, I've kept the window down (the AC is broken), but I've learned to roll it up really fast when a huge muddy puddle looms...or when another car passes.

We are visiting villages so poor, the children literally have nothing to do. There are no toys, no books, no games, not much to eat.

As a mother, it's hard to see poverty so deep. I hug and tickle and make funny faces at every child I see. Their initial shyness disappears in an instant. Liberians are friendly people, and as soon as you offer the expected greeting — "How da body?" — they instantly relax into a warm, open greeting.

Everywhere I look, there are children laughing and playing. You wonder, how is this possible? And yet it's just the spirit this desperately poor country needs to be able to recover from the brutal war years.

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