All right, I'm settling into the absence of my boy and had a productive morning and can, therefore, legitimately check in for real.
But before I get to Monrovia I have to tell you about a little non-event that happened as I was passenger in a British owned and operated Defender (yes! for you afficianados-hunter green) this afternoon. Well, I'll start with my morning, which began with a little quiet shooting across the lagoon from my hotel at early morning fishermen, then I wound up stopping to shoot a man giving shave haircuts with a comb and a razor blade on the side of the street-which led to a series of impromptu interviews with four of the men who'd been watching because, they told me, they had something to say. And they did.
Three out of four were of the opinion that the UN should give them more money-as in them, personally, because they were out of work and hungry (they didn't look as if they were living lives of luxury, but I will say that they looked clean and fed). When asked what they thought of the notion that (a) the job of the UN was creating and maintaining security so that Sierra Leoneans could then create their own opportunities and (b) the UN and the international/NGO community has already and continues to pour millions and millions of dollars into Sierra Leone and would like to soon see some return on their investment and (c) the UN will be leaving, or at least mostly gone, by December 2004, they said that the money that was being given didn't make it to the little man (there's that "Corruption!" again). But they didn't seem to worried for the security of Sierra Leone when the UN was gone-they were more concerned about jobs and food. Which is ultimately good for the future of this country, I imagine.
The fourth man, a student at university (I would put him at around 30-33), wanted to thank the UN and the international community for their help and said that he wanted his Sierra Leonean brothers to start doing things for themselves. At first I thought he was putting me on, but he clearly disagreed with his three friends, who had clearly believed their respective messages, so I thought that was interesting. Of course, my new friends would like to see me again, so I had to tell them that it would be a busy week for me.
After this brief insight into the Sierra Leonean psyche and hair style (uniformly shaved for men, lovely braid patterns and odd reddish wigs for women-learned on earlier forays) I hit River Number Two with said British Defender owner. River Number Two, for those of you who aren't in the know, is considered "Paradise Beach" by all. It is also a big $$ earning locally-run cooperative that takes us whiteys (at least half of whom are Lebanese, by the way) for all we deserve. It's a lovely, garbage-free white sand beach complete with the requisite thatched roof huts. I had hit my British colleague up because I'd yet to see this icon of luxury and thought that I could justify a short trip if I took my camera to document the "new face of Sierra Leone." Within hours, we were back on the road, with the Defender's first flat tire.
A small crowd gathered as was of course going to happen, and a man in a white shirt stepped out, took charge, undid the nuts (or are they bolts?) in a jiffy and basically did a full half of the tire change-and then walked away. If you've never been to Africa you will say, "Yeah, and??" But if you have been to most places in Africa, or to many other places, you will understand that a flat tire can be the beginning of many bad things, the very least of which 10 "helpful" hands who then later ask you for money. This man just walked away before we had time to thank him. It was a simple gesture that will have me thinking for a while.
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But what about LIBERIA?? You all want to know. I've rambled on so long now that I really must get back to logging footage, but I'll give you some tidbits:
Monday:
Land. Hit UN office around 4 p.m. Jacques Klein, the Big Cheese in charge of the UN mission in Liberia (UNMIL to you) happens to have a free moment at 5, so I wonder-woman in the bathroom while Rob runs around like a mad dog for several hours in a desperate attempt to procure us a room for less than $180/night. Rob succeeds, in the form of a convent we get for $25/night. Baaaaasic. No AC, fan, shared bathroom, but safe. I interview Klein, who is quite the character. Klein explained how this mission has a Chapter Seven mandate, which allows UN peacekeepers/makers to kill. Though they haven't had to yet, Klein says they will if they have to. Which remains to be seen. Klein is of the opinion that a few good men who can strike "surgically" will do the trick.
We collapse.
Tuesday:
We visit Internally Displaced Persons-IDPs (from the war) at a staduim far out of town. This is sad but not as sad as the IDPs we then visit in a former Masonic temple. The sleeping quarters we saw in the staduim were at least separated by walls, or at least some of them were. The temple was layers of wide rooms without walls, where people lived, ate, changed, slept, were sick and did what they had to do in full view of all. We saw many who were just curled up sleeping on mats. I had imagined that the place might stink, but Rob said that it didn't (though for those who want to know, many times during his trip Rob said I was very happy to have no sense of smell--I never heard him say, "Wow, it's too bad you can't smell This!"). They had outhouses outside and even a crude playground, but it was the inside that got to me.
We also shot as much Monrovia visuals as we could get, including some good UN checkpoints. UN personnel here are armed and wear helmets and body armour. Because although things are secure in Monrovia, you never know. The air is still tense and we watched a MODEL (splinter group of the LURD rebels who were fighting Charles Taylor) truck get pulled over at the checkpoint right in front of us. It's funny how a bunch of guys standing up in the back of a pickup can seem threatening.
I'd been harrassing people all day long in an effort to get out of Monrovia, preferably on patrol with a Bangladeshi or Nigerian batallion, and I had been given the number of the UNMIL Force Commander, Lt. General Opande, who had forgotten about me after the first time I called. I think on a whim, because he'd forgotten, he invited me to go out with him the next day. Score!
Wednesday:
It wasn't until we boarded the helicopter, half an hour late, that I believed that we were going to go on patrol with Opande. Our flight was full with random military characters from places like the Philippines and France, but my favorite were the two BAD ASS-looking (and that's what counts, no?) Canadian Special Force dudes. I've never seen so much gear attatched to human beings as these guys were sporting--guns, radio collars, canteens, pouches of shit that just looked cool, dangerous, and ripped forearms that let you know they knew how to use it all. My pacifist civilian self didn't want to be impressed, but I was. It's especially impressive how these guys dangle out of the open helicopter door as you're about to land, then jump out as it's hitting the ground, putting themselves first in the line of fire and defense.
Our first stop really had us wondering whether we would need a little defense. Though the Special Force guys later told us that the scene was relatively tame, imagine a group of gun-weilding teenaged boys running full-speed in your direction, holding their guns high above their heads, cheering wildly. Literally, wildly. There was much hooting and shouting and dancing as the General stepped out of the helicopter. They were saying, "We want peace," as we got closer. I have to say that it was a sight that made me wonder how fast the adreneline could change. Hence the bodyguards.
Opande carries a walking stick, like most (all?) generals, I suppose. A British-trained Kenyan, he has a certain flair and style that works well for the camera, as he is well aware. He proceeded to cruise into the crowd smacking his stick against several legs and bottoms, clearing a path, establishing who was in charge. And he was. We proceeded in the caravan to the village center, where some rickety wooden chairs and a table sat in the middle of mud huts with thatched roofs. Completely at ease, Opande sat down and listened to the leader, a lanky rastafarian with a crazy look in his eye and diction that was even crazier tell his story. There was apparently some in-fighting between rebels, who should, after the peace treaty signed in August, now be former rebels. Opande listened, and then basically told the leader that he would take no more shit and neither would the UN-and that he could either return with food or --else! When food was mentioned, the surrounding group of rebels (who you did have to feel a bit sorry for-in their tattered tee shirts and flip-flops) brought their fists to their chests. They all want food.
Then the show was over and the boys ran around celebrating with their rocket launchers and guns in the air.
We flew to a village where we were to find another rebel leader who wasn't there. So we left, and flew on to Camp Number One, the home of Small General.
There are certain scenes you know will be in your movie. This is one of them:
Small General had a very bad day. Opande walked right up to him--and Opande is not short while Small General, as you might guess, is. Small General had made the mistake of leaving his maroon beret with a star on his head. Opande wanted to know who had made Small General a General. Small General had to confirm that, indeed, it had been Taylor. "There is only ONE General here!" declared Opande, who went on to say that he was hereby Demoting Small General. A sweep of the hand and the beret is gone, tossed aside, in front of all of Small General's troops. Small General had been a very bad boy, it seemed, allowing or encouraging rapes, summary road blocks and general terrorization of the local civilians in the time since the last time Opande had been to visit him about such matters.
Oooops. Small General had also apparently been neglecting his troops' training, as they weren't nearly clean in their formation-forming as the previous group we'd visited were. Opande stepped aside and let the current Minister of Defense (himself quite a controversial character, a man who was the Minister of Defense under Taylor) rip the troops up one side and down the other. Which was kind of interesting, given that he knew many of them personally. He used the word "bullshit" a lot. They were given two days to gather their guns and then the UN was going to return to collect them--a sort of pre-disarmament because they had lost the right to keep guns on their person before the official disarmament began.
The whole time, we were surrounded by a convoy of several UN vehicles that had traveled overland to meet and, presumably, defend us. It's the guys who travel in these overland convoys who take real risks. We just hopped back on the helicopter.
That was a great day.
Thursday:
More quick visuals caught on the run before we got a ride to the airport. All in all, we were happy with what we were able to get done there.
Monrovia is edgy, expensive and not travel friendly (much like, we were told, Sierra Leone a couple of years back). They have no electricity outside of generators and haven't for the whole FOURTEEN YEARS of war!!! But their roads have Sierra Leone beat hands down, and electricity is a fresh commodity here as well. Makeni and Kailahun don't have any power that doesn't come from a generator--which is something that just IS a part of my film, the hum of generators. Bummer. We took many taxis (crammed four to the back, two in front--with all of our gear) and weren't mugged or killed, much to our UN colleagues' astoundment.
Nope, the big moment happened to Rob, during his eight-hour stay at Lungi airport, on the way to London. When he got to London he noticed that our big bag had been ripped open, lock be damned. He's not yet counted the damage. I guess I'm grateful that it happened on his way out.
Now I really do need to log. Just wanted to give my fans something to chew on while I'm in Kenema (diamond country!) and back to Kailahun. I'll be out till Friday because I have much to do before I leave.
I dedicate my sunburned bottom to all of you in snowy, rainy and otherwise chilly climates. Sounds romantic but I just have to walk out the door to have my shirt soaked through with sweat. The days grow progressively hotter as we move into the dry season. Hamdullah.
Less than a week to go-yikes!
Posted by Jessie Deeter at November 16, 2003 03:55 PM