Who's counting down to Christmas? 

I mean, seriously, what is there not to love about a jolly old guy with a sleigh and eight reindeer?  And with unlimited funds, the guy travels the globe giving presents to all good little boys and girls.  Somehow he manages to do it every year.  Yep, call him a right jolly old elf or Santa Claus or Saint Nicholas.  Whatever you call him, everyone loves him.

But, shhhhh!  We know he isn't real.

I, however, know someone who is the closest thing to a saint that I'll ever meet.  He's the best friend I made while I was in the Peace Corps.  So, if I had a sleigh with eight flying reindeer, I'd go visit Daniel in Liberia as often as I could.  And, if I had unlimited funds like the guy at the North Pole, this friend is the first person on my "nice list" that I'd help.

Now, you may remember that I once blogged about Daniel when I located him after so many years of separation.  But, this guy deserves an update.  I don't remember all the details, but when Daniel fled Liberia during its civil war, he didn't just sit around in the Ivory Coast moaning, "Woe is me!  Woe is me!"  And, to be very honest, I might have done that after the police in that country beat me and robbed me on multiple occasions.  But, that is not Daniel.  He helped those organizations (Perhaps the Red Cross or the United Nations? I'm not sure.) in the Ivory Coast who came to support the refugees.  During that time, many Liberians qualified to immigrate to the United States as refugees.  Daniel could have, and should have, been one of them.  As I remember it, he was so useful helping with the refugees that the "powers that be" wanted him to remain in Africa a little longer because they needed him.  America could wait a little bit for Daniel.  And then, for reasons I don't understand or remember, his opportunity to flee the conflict disappeared.  Daniel remained in the Ivory Coast until Liberian rebels made it unsafe to stay there.  Then, he returned to the village of his birthplace, Tugbaken, in southeast Liberia.  

Tugbaken remains his home.  And, I can testify that it is so very beautiful.  It's like walking in the pages of a National Geographic.  But, when you sit in the comfort of your living room reading that magazine, you cannot possibly imagine what it is like to live without electricity, running water, air-conditioning, refrigeration, television, internet and the rest of the things that most of us just expect out of life.  There are no shops in the village.  The closest ones require a walk of at least and hour and a half.  In Liberia, the average annual income is around four hundred dollars.  If that is the average, there are a lot of people in rural Liberia living with much less than that average.  They survive on subsistence farming, mostly rice.

Life in Tugbaken, and most of rural Liberia, is as it has been for generations.  It's a hard life.  A few modern conveniences have slipped in since my Peace Corps days.  Fortunately, there is a community well that is sealed and clean.  Everyone in the village, including visiting Americans, can safely drink from that well.  That is life changing!  There are also solar powered lights.  Yep, even in Tugbaken, little solar panels can be spotted on top of thatched-roof dwellings.  When I lived in Liberia, I had a kerosene lamp.  It lulled me to sleep.  When the sun when down at seven, I was soon in bed.  So, yes, I was very well rested in my Peace Corps days.  Solar lighting would have rocked my time in Liberia.

Also in Tugbaken, these days everyone has access to cell phones.  And, there was even one home in the village where everyone could get their batteries charged.  I'm guessing it was solar-generated as well, but I could be wrong about that.  However, it really wasn't easy to get telephone reception so far in the bush.  For the best luck with your call, you had to walk outside the village and up a small hill.  Then, it was possible to call friends in Zwedru, Monrovia and beyond.  Communication with Daniel remains difficult in a country without good telephone service and no postal deliveries.  That's right.  It is impossible to send him a letter.  So, it probably comes as no surprise that I've never gotten a phone call from Tugbaken either.  But, we have been able to communicate by way of his daughter's Facebook account.  His daughter lives in Harper, a rural capital city, with Internet access. 

But, times they are a changing.

You may remember that in recent months I finally took the plunge, kicking and screaming, and bought a smart phone.  That's right.  I'm slowly learning about apps, "Hey, Google", and the rest of things that have so addicted most of the rest of the world's population and caused so many auto accidents.  And, one of those apps is WhatsApp.  Low and behold, I can make and receive phone calls from friends all over the world now.   That does not include Tugbaken.  But, when Daniel comes to visit his daughter in Harper, he can use her telephone, Internet service and one very special app.

So, Christmas came early this year when Daniel called me on WhatsApp.  I couldn't ask for a better present.  I must confess, I've rarely ever heard so much joy in another person's voice upon hearing me on the other end of a phone conversation.  I don't know how often Daniel will visit Harper.  But, I do know one thing that he will do from now on, every visit.  And, I can hardly wait.

I got a little update on Daniel's life that confirms my sainthood theory.  First of all, he's still a teacher and the principal at his local school.  Need I say more?  But, there is more to say.  It is a building constructed by the teachers in the community.  I've never heard of that anywhere else in the world.  It's an entire school taught by saints in my mind.  At one point, the school was supposed to be replaced by a facility built by the government.  However, the contractor took the money and ran.  Ran where?  Nobody knows, but he had the money to finance his run.  And, the villages of Tugbaken and Parken still share a school built by their teachers.

I've already told you about the average income for Liberians.  It's my guess that the three paid teachers at this school make less than the national average.  But, that means a few of the teachers work for free.  Who does that?  Nobody that I know at any school anywhere else.  More reasons for sainthood in my mind.  And, Daniel told me at one point, one of the teachers was sick, the other teachers were missing, and he alone ran the school.  The school has five or six classrooms.  He had to rotate around the school and teach each group of students.  How anyone can do that and maintain their sanity is beyond my comprehension.  When the other teacher recovered and came back to work, Daniel had to take some time off for his own recovery.  Who could blame the guy?

And, just to get a more complete picture, when the school day is over, all of the teachers have to go to their rice farms and work.  It is backbreaking.  But, if you don't work the farm, you have nothing to eat.  Life is a struggle for everyone in the community.
                                                           What can you do for five dollars?

Daniel also explained that many of the children in the community can no longer afford to go to school.  Education used to be free, but the government now requires that students pay an annual fee of 1000 Liberian dollars.  For many families it is just too much to afford.  I checked a currency converter to find that it equals a little over five dollars.  So, a cup of coffee could pay the education fees for a child in Liberia for an entire year.  That puts a lot of things into a whole new perspective.

I'm still looking forward to Christmas.  But I don't need any presents.  I seriously wish that I had funds to support my personal friend and nominee for sainthood.  I wish Saint

Nicholas could help fix up the school in this village and give Daniel and his teachers a real Christmas surprise.  And, I know there are plenty of children in this community who would be on Santa's nice list.  I would love to give them some Christmas cheer and pay for their school fees, every year.

I wish a Merry Christmas for Tugbaken and all the best to my friend, Saint Daniel.

After "yeah, man" the third word I heard a lot in Jamaica was "respect".  It wasn't used in a sentence.  It was a one word statement.  If you want to tell someone how important they are or how much their actions or words mean to you, this is a really good way to do it.  That one word emphasizes the point very well.  It's always good to end an experience on a high note . . . with a little respect.  And, in Jamaica, I received my respect.  I had two mural dedications in two days.

ROSE TOWN - The first presentation was in Rose Town at the Rollins Enterprise Center where my new mural on panels was just installed.  The ladder was still up and a man was cleaning up little smudges as I arrived.  I'd say that was freshly mounted.

The U.S. Ambassador, Donald Tapia, was there for the ceremony and ribbon cutting.  It was my first time to see him during my stay.  His schedule was crazy busy so I was pleased that he made time for my mural.  The ambassador sat in one of the four seats set aside for dignitaries at the event.  While he had a spare moment alone, I slipped in next to him and said, "I don't think I'm supposed to give presents to embassy people, but I have something for you."  I gave him a copy of my Jamaican folk tale Anansi and the Market Pig as a way to say thank you for bringing me to this island. 

Now, I didn't know who the four reserved seats were for, so after a little talk, I thought it was best to vacate the seat for whoever belonged there.  As it turned out, I belonged there.  So, I got to turn around, sit down, and get to know the ambassador a little better.  I thoroughly enjoyed our time to talk.

No matter in what country the ceremony may be, all kinds of people need to speak at events like this.  Everyone needs their moment in the spotlight.  A representative from the Embassy Public Affairs Office spoke, and she did her homework.  She knew this was mural 60, in 26 countries and 4 continents.  I was impressed with her preparation.

The ambassador spoke, as did I, then a local member of Parliament, and Greg Bailey represented Edna Manley College.  The ceremony was short, sweet, and desperately hot - even at nine o'clock in the morning!  Greg almost broke a sweat, which just never happened the entire month I was in Jamaica.  Shortly after the ambassador cut the ribbon, he needed to hurry on to his next event.  We closed up shop and left too.

STANDPIPE - Just like when teaching a lesson for the second time, things always go smoother.  The ambassador showed up again, and it was so nice to be greeted by name.  This time I knew I was supposed to sit near him.  More people showed up to speak.  Other people showed up to be seen.  And, many people in the community came to genuinely thank me for the project.

When it was my turn to speak, I told them that I'd been away for a week and this was like coming home to Standpipe.  It was a good way to start a speech.  I explained a few things about the mural, focusing a lot on their loodie board.  I confessed that I'm an American and I would just toss the dice.  But, I loved how Jamaicans used their whole bodies to roll the dice.  It was kind of a dance when they played and it was so much fun to watch.

I spent a while talking about my two secrets concerning the mural.  I knew everyone could tell that I illustrated things about Jamaica and their local community, but most people didn't see the secret text "Standpipe" that was hidden in plain sight until I pointed it out.  It was an audible "aha!" moment in the crowd with an unexpected round of applause.

The second secret concerned the domino with the numbers 5 and 9.  I told them it was a huge controversy while we painted.  So many people stopped to tell us that dominoes didn't have a nine.  I seriously wondered if I was crazy (always a possibility) but I distinctly remembered seeing nines in dominoes.  A Google search proved I wasn't imagining things.  But, the tiles only go to six in Jamaica.  But, then I shared the reason for those numbers.  It was my mural number 59.  And now, they knew both of the secrets and they could explain them to their friends in the community every time they shared the mural.

The final person to speak was a representative from the community.  And, he could not have possibly been more gracious and sincere with his thanks.  He really didn't have to say anything.  His smile said it all, and he was truly so very pleased with the project.  Respect.

It was still another hot morning in Kingston.  I was drenched by the end of the ribbon cutting.  Greg almost broke out in a sweat for the second time in two days.  Almost.  And, the ambassador had to race off to another event.  But, the dedications left such a warm feeling in my heart that will last a lot longer than twenty minutes of blistering heat under a Caribbean sun.

I mean, seriously, if you go to Kingston, Jamaica, don’t you have to go to the Bob Marley museum?  Yeah, man.

I had three stereotypes about Jamaica in mind before coming to the island.  I’m not 100% sure, but Bob Marley may have helped to implant all of those ideas.  First of all, I knew that everyone in Jamaica had dreadlocks.  Anyone who could possibly sport them in my folk tale book Anansi and the Market Pig certainly did.  So, the rat, cat and bull didn’t, but almost everyone else did.  But, once you land in Jamaica, you quickly learn that isn’t the case.  Yes, you can see those locks every day and every place, but most people sport something a whole lot shorter and, my guess, a lot more comfortable.

My second stereotype about the people of Jamaica is that they all say, “Yeah, man.”  Well, it actually sounds more like "Ya mon", but they do.  It’s true.  No stereotype at all.  Every one of them.  You hear these two words all day long, from everyone, anywhere you turn.  I don’t know if Bob Marley said it as well, but chances are good.  Oh, yeah, man.

And the third stereotype?  That would be weed, kaya, ganja, pot, reefer, grass, dope or whatever else you might want to call marijuana.  It’s legally and readily available in Jamaica in two-ounce quantities.  But, I honestly don’t know how much is required to actually make up two-ounces.  I have no interest in ever knowing that.  And, the best friend I made during my stay in Jamaica has never used the stuff.   Thank goodness.  But, Bob Marley did.  It’s in his music, on his album covers, photographed, documented and even portrayed in murals at the Bob Marley Museum.  He believed it to be a healing herb.

I knew they guy’s name and could tell you two songs by this reggae legend (Buffalo Soldier and One Love).  But, that’s about all I knew of this national hero.  So, yes, before I left the island, I had to learn more at the Bob Marley Museum, a Jamaican Heritage Site.

The museum was his actual residence as well as his recording studio, until Marley died of cancer in 1981.  And, the home was a treasure from the 19th century with a lot of the original colonial wooden architecture intact.  I personally would have preferred more of the furnishings but that was only preserved in the kitchen and master bedroom.  However, the walls were filled with photographs, paintings, gold and platinum albums from around the world, costumes, awards, newspaper clippings, posters and a Lifetime Achievement Grammy.  There were also a couple of bullet holes in the walls.  Yep, there was an assassination attempt in 1976, rumored (depending on who you talk to about it) to be political in nature, that was fortunately unsuccessful. 

Robert Nesta Marley was born on February 6, 1945, on his grandmother’s farm in Nine Mile, British Jamaica, a rural community in the north central part of the island.  His mother, Cedella Booker, was 18 years old and his father, Norval Marley, was a white Jamaican from England and somewhere around 55 to 60 years old.  I’m not going to touch that.

The opportunities in young Bob Marley’s life changed when he moved to Trench Town, an area of Kingston, when he was twelve.  (In case you just have to know, Trench Town is the area of Kingston right next to Rose Town, where my mural number 60 was painted.)  In Trench Town, Marley was influenced by musicians in the community, both family and friends.  By 1963, (when Bob was 18) he had already formed Bob Marley and the Wailers.  And, two years later, the group debuted their first album, which included “One Love” and brought them world-wide attention.

In the sixties, Marley converted to Rastafarianism and the message of this movement spread around the world in the lyrics of his reggae music.  It’s hard to sum up a religion in a few words, but one of the main founders, Marcus Garvey, was inspired by a “back to Africa” movement.  Really devout followers, grew their hair out in dreadlocks, inspired by a lion’s mane.  Haile Selassie, the crowned ruler of Ethiopia, was viewed as a Biblically fulfilled king of Africa and the Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah.  And, smoking cannabis was a way of communicating with God.

I have the feeling that any day is a good day to visit the Bob Marley museum.  There were several groups of school children there when I visited.  My guide tried hard to direct our little group around their way and out of their path.  But, there were a lot of people roaming the building.

And, hopefully, if you go there, you’ll have a guide as excellent as the one I had.  From what I heard there were a lot of good guides.  In every corner of the house, you could hear the guides/performers/singers working their hardest to pull the lyrics of classic reggae hits out of their visiting guests.  And, isn’t that the experience you want in a musician’s home?  There were people, of course, who knew all the lyrics and swayed just right to the beat.  They sang with the guides, harmonized and danced.  It just wasn’t me.  I didn’t know the lyrics and I have no moves.  But, I do recognize a good public speaker when I hear one.  I was well informed and entertained.