Liberia: Nothing’s Permanent

‘Hallelujah, Praise Jesus! Blessed be the Lord!’ I couldn’t sleep. It was 1 am in Monrovia, and I was tossing and turning in my bed at the guesthouse. No earplugs could block out the enthusiastic revival underway at the Lamb’s Kingdom, right next door. It sounded like the entire congregation was actually in the guesthouse kitchen. But I probably couldn’t have slept even if the worshippers pulled the plug on the keyboard, abandoned the drums, and went home. I was waiting for Oyv’s middle-of-the-night flight to land, at the airport some 60 kilometers distant from Liberia’s capital city.

I’d only arrived in Monrovia myself a day or so earlier, from Senegal. Already tired of winter (a bad sign, in November), I’d lit out for our annual African escape ten days ahead of Oyv. I spent the extra time on my own drifting from one fishing village to another on the coast of Senegal.

I’d been to Senegal before with Oyv when we decided in a moment of insanity to roadtrip – by public transport – from Dakar down to Freetown, in Sierra Leone. One thing led to another and that turned out to be the first of a repeating pattern. Exhibit A, this trip we’re on right now, the fourth year in a row. This time we’re overlanding from Liberia to Cote d’Ivoire. Every year we have the same conversation:

Sar: So, where do you think we should go in December?
Oyv: The Philippines? Beautiful beaches.
Sar: They drive so sensibly. I don’t think there’s even a risk of malaria there. How about India?
Oyv: Everything is so orderly and the food is delicious, so no. Japan?
Sar: But it’s so clean. Belize?
Oyv: (shuddering) To sit on a swing and take Instagram photos? Let’s go back to West Africa.
Sar: I have been feeling awfully comfortable and well-rested. I need a break.

And so here we go again.

Senegal isn’t really that far from Liberia, but it took me three flights landing in Cote d’Ivoire and Guinea on the way to finally reach Monrovia.

The airport was quiet, two main rooms and only one luggage belt. I filled out my landing card and documents in hand, surveyed the three queues for passport control: ‘Liberians’, ‘VIPs and Diplomats’, and ‘Resident Aliens’. There was no queue for people like me who thought for no apparent reason that Liberia seemed like a prime holiday destination. I collected my bag under a prominent sign warning ‘Alcoholism Strictly Prohibited. Be Aware of the Consequences’. A security guard swung open a big rusty gate and I emerged blinking into the hot humid sunshine.

My ride was waiting for me – Joshua, a driver from the guesthouse, spotted me pretty easily. He took charge of me and my backpack, bundling us into his car. We drove for an hour past little villages in bright green fields and banana plantations. Then we hit traffic and it was nearly an hour more until Joshua dropped me off. I was tired; but there was no revival at the Lamb’s Kingdom that night at least, so I slept well and then spent the next day acclimatizing to yet another messy new city.

‘Almighty God, Merciful Heaven!’ Amen. The crusades wound down next door and Oyv arrived, without his backpack which had evidently remained in Copenhagen or possibly Casablanca. No one knew where – the airport staff didn’t have a computer to trace it on. But he had wisely packed some flip-flops in his carry on, so he was ready to face Monrovia and its sweaty humid heat.

Monrovia is not really that big – it’s a city of just under 2 million people. In places it looks like nothing so much as a sprawling village of tin-roofed shacks, brightly painted buildings and broken jagged sidewalks.

The streets heave with people and vendors, overwhelming traffic and the shouting, honking and screeching that comes with it. A different song blasts from speakers set up every few metres outside shops. Not to mention from churches, also every few metres. I’m not sure the number of churches in Monrovia but on a Sunday morning praise music echoes in the streets.

Although we generally tend to avoid spending much time in major African cities, we as usual had things to do here. We needed to trace down and collect Oyv’s missing luggage for starters, and we also needed to apply for visas at the Cote d’Ivoire Embassy.

So we stayed, and in between errands we went to the Ducor Palace Hotel. One of the first luxury hotels in West Africa, the Ducor was built in 1960 in response to a burgeoning clientele of affluent international visitors and VIPs. At the time it was one of just a few five-star hotels on this whole continent. It drew important guests from many African countries too: Idi Amin himself (the monstrous Ugandan dictator) among others. But a bloody coup in 1989 signaled the start of nearly 15 years of civil war, inspired by Liberia’s former President Charles Taylor. The Ducor closed its doors in the midst of the violence and fell into ruin, along with the rest of the tourism industry here.

Under siege in 2003, the hotel wasn’t of much use – except for Taylor’s army snipers, who used the Ducor’s position on a hilltop overlooking the city to their advantage. In 2007 the new government evicted squatters from the hotel and planned to refurbish it but that never happened. And even as Liberia recovered from war, Ebola struck and the disease hit the already beleaguered country hard.

Today the hotel compound is fenced off, surrounded by loops of barbed wire. With our offer of a few dollars the security guard grudgingly allowed us inside. We stood on the terrace near the peeling diving board and looked at the empty pool Idi Amin once swam laps in – while carrying his gun, as the story goes.

We went inside what must have been an impressive lobby, its floor to ceiling windows now just empty frames. Lingering on the sweeping staircase leading to the next floor, it’s easy to imagine infamous dictators making grand entrances.

We climbed up eight floors of empty rooms and lounges to the roof.

There’s a brilliant view from the terrace at the top – Monrovia below and all around.

The silent ruin testifies to a prosperous past and dashed hopes for the future.

Like the Ducor itself, nothing much feels permanent around here.

But Liberia keeps on keeping on. We’re here, aren’t we? Visiting a small and relatively unknown country because something about this part of the world keeps bringing us back, again and again.

Read More

Check out the rest of my stories from the road, for more of our adventures (and misadventures) in Liberia and Senegal.