Mice. While I realize they are probably just as scared of me as I of them, nonetheless, whenever I see one, I nearly scream. Their presence in my Liberian bedroom was initially apparent as I saw their droppings all over the room. Now, they have either multiplied quickly or have become much more brave as they scurry about in the evening as I write and reflect. If only a cat could be found. But that might open a whole other box of worms, almost quite literally, or fleas or other insects that I do not need crawling around in my bed with me at night.
500 ml bags of water. I have never been a big fan of plastic. This aversion stems in large part to the core material in plastics—that of petroleum. I prefer to avoid plastic jugs instead opting for the glass alternative. Taking my own bags to the supermarket is as much anenvironmental statement for me as it is a fight against big oil. Anyway, it seems I will have a difficult time escaping the material here in Liberia as my source of life is packaged in it. It appears West African countries have become big fans of 500ml plastic bags of water which can be easily opened with your teeth in order to allow for a quick quenching of your thirst. I have enjoyed a great many of these bags and have now resigned myself to buying large sacks of them to keep a constant supply of potable water available which seems better than using waterpurification tablets on a continuous basis.
Water leaks. Yes, while plastic bags can be great, as is witnessed when plastic bags have too much weight or get caught on anything sharp, they rip. I am not sure how the bag sprung a leak (though the first paragraph may signal a culprit) but I awoke one morning this week to find a water trail on the floor and my backpack drenched. My original idea of prepping my bag for work the evening before by placing two bags of water on the side seems to be misguided. While my computer survived the inundation (thanks in no small part to the carrying case Jay lent me) my papers had to be air dried at work in order to avoid taking on the mildewy odor that is quite common in this humid climate.
White man. I find it quite obvious that my skin color is white and in fact have never really questioned it. Lest I be in need of reassurance of my skin color, I find that anytime I am out in public, children and adults alike enjoy calling out “White man”, as if it were my name. While I became accustomed to “aramuie” in Morocco—which literally means Roman—I did not usually find children chanting to the extent that they do here. When I first encountered this phenomenon—largely when I was in Lofa County—I smiled and waved to the adoring fans. Now, as this has become more common and a bit annoying at the same time, I have come to ignore the heckles. It seems as though the chanting has grown more intense as I ignore it. Just this morning, a couple children chanted “White man, white man, white man”, for several minutes while I walked down the street. These children were out of eyesight but still seemed to enjoy their moment of viewing a foreigner.
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