I knew there was going to be a dedication for my mural in Zwedru.  But, I've been to those kind of events in Liberia.  There are always way too many speakers.  So, all week long, I told my Liberian counter-part that I wanted singing and dancing at the dedication but no speakers.  I wanted a celebration that would be remembered and actually enjoyed.
 
You can't have a dedication without speakers in Liberia.
 
I wasn't completely ignored.  Plans were for a school choir to sing a few numbers - and they were great!  But, there were also about seven people (who had absolutely nothing to do with the mural) scheduled to speak.  There was no dance troupe.  I really wanted to photograph somebody in traditional Liberian clothing.
 
None were invited.  It wasn't in the budget.
 
H O W E V E R, in the auditorium across from my mural, there was a three-day workshop that had budgeted for the Ballet Gedeh Roosters, the best of Grand Gedeh's three dance troupes, to perform a cultural show.  I'm not sure how they came up with their name.  I didn't occur to me to ask until it was too late.  But, much to my delight, the troupe put on their costumes in my mural room.  And, they were more than happy to allow me to take all kinds of photos and video.  I got the portrait photos I wanted all along, including this adorable young girl who was one of the dancers.  And, it was much better than anything I would have been able to take during an actual performance.  I know this for a fact, because I attended their performance.  I couldn't get close at all.

My motorcycle taxi driver knew my friend Daniel and knew exactly where to go once we reached his village of Tugbaken.  But, honestly, in a cluster of twenty thatch-roofed homes, it wasn’t going to be that hard.  An unscheduled celebration began the moment I arrived.  Village elders showed up, representatives of various village groups were present, but most touching of all were the women.  About a dozen of them sang and danced for at least fifteen minutes.  I only knew one word in Grebo.  But, after a while I recognized that they sang “aweeoh” or “thank you”.  They were giving thanks for my safe arrival in their village.

Daniel said they all heard the announcement on the radio that he had a white man friend in Zwedru.  He told his neighbors that I was going to visit.  However, many of them never truly believed what he had to say until I showed up and stumbled off the motorcycle.  Yes, let the celebration begin.

If you are really welcomed in a Grebo village, there is protocol to follow.  And, it involves kola nut, a bitter nut with all kinds of ties to family ancestry.  Believe me, protocol was followed!  I’d never felt so welcomed in all of my travels.  At least 40 people crammed into the home as soon as I arrived.  I have no idea how many more were outside.  So, at least a fourth of the village showed up to make me feel at home.  And, when you’re at home in Tugbaken, you are given kola nut from the men and crushed hot peppers from the women.  The first is bitter and the second one burns.  In both cases, you’re going to need something to drink.  I was given water, alcohol and a dilemma.  I’d only had bottled water the entire time in Liberia.  I knew this wasn’t from any bottle.  Also, I don’t drink alcohol, but I certainly didn’t want to offend this group.  I quenched my thirst and washed down the bitter taste of the kola nut with the well water.  And, I took one sip of the alcohol.  I feared the fire of cane juice (distilled sugar can juice), which I can barely tolerate.  Instead, it was anise flavored pastis.  It was actually good, which pleased all my hosts.  But, I kept to the sip.

I felt completely welcomed.  However, my hosts told me that this was just an informal welcome ceremony.  The real welcoming would happen the following day.  I didn’t know what to expect.

A steady stream of visitors passed by throughout the day and evening. The list included local chiefs, village elders, friends, family and a whole lot of curious children.  The person I remember most is the village historian.  He informed me that there had been a lot of white men come to Tugbaken with their NGO projects.  However, I was the first white man to ever spend the night.  I had no plans to make local history when I came to River Gee County.  It happened anyway.

What could top an historic night in Tugbaken?  I’d suggest a day of welcoming from the Grebo community.  The village had a chief, but it was his superior, the clan chief who took charge of the ceremony.  Yes, there was kola nut, pepper, water and alcohol.  On this occasion, I knew I could pass on the alcohol.  It meant a little more for everyone else and nobody was offended.  One would think that a second kola nut session was sufficient, but it wasn’t over.  The clan chief very formally presented me with a white chicken feather.  It’s what you do in Africa.  Honored guests are presented with chickens.  I was only given a feather this time because the little critter was already simmering in my meal of cassava leaves.  In my six years of living in Africa, I’ve seen lots of people receive chickens.  However, this was my first time.  I didn’t mind the honor without holding the actual bird.
I’ve always tried to be kind and generous, but I’ve never been able to out-give Africans.  Today was no exception.  You might think two kola ceremonies might be one more than necessary.  You would be right.  And, that was before I found out about the third kola ceremony. 

Yes, there was a third ceremony.

This time it was with the elders from my village of Tugbaken as well as from the neighboring village of Parken, just three minutes away.  There was more singing by delightful women, more kola nut, more pepper and more alcohol.  The clan chief was seated next to me until a local politician showed up.  He was higher in the pecking order and he very gladly translated as the village speaker proceeded with the ceremony (and he drank my alcohol). 

I thought things would wind down as I finished the kola nut, but it was actually just getting started.  The men of the two communities had a live chicken to present.  Two chickens in one day!  As far as I knew, that was just unheard of.  I was told to accept it with both hands and hold it to my forehead to receive the blessing.  It was actually a rooster.  It was explained that you give roosters because they are the first noise you hear in the morning.  If you receive a rooster, others will listen to your wisdom just as they listen to the rooster way too early in the day.

Kola nuts were from the men.  Peppers were from the women.  Since the men presented me with a rooster, the women were not going to be outdone.  I’ve never heard of anyone getting two chickens in one ceremony.  But, I just collected my third rooster of the day.  And, as unbelievable as it may sound, there was more.  They had to gown me.  I received a large African shirt with matching pants made from traditional country cloth.  And, you don’t receive such a gift without wearing it.  I was ushered to my home to change clothes.  When I stepped out of the house, fully adorned with the matching hat, the women of the community sang as they escorted me back to the celebration.  Before the meeting was over, I was formally introduced to every elder and community representative.  I loved the kindness and generosity.  However, under the excess layers in the African heat, I was a sweltering, soaking mess.

Their final gift was an African name for me.  My friend Daniel’s African name is Karpeh.  So, my African name, similar to my African brother’s, is Karpehyee.  Its translation is “peacemaker”.  I thought that was especially appropriate since I met Daniel when I was a Peace Corps volunteer.  I suggested I should add an African middle name, Nyepluh.  Everyone laughed when they heard a white man say the Grebo word for “white man”.  But, since it was what many people called me anyway, I thought it might as well be official.

Three kola nut ceremonies, three roosters and an African suit.  All welcoming should be done.  It just wasn’t the case.  Daniel said I needed to go to the neighboring village of Parken for my fourth kola nut ceremony.  It didn’t matter that I just had a joint Tugbaken/Parken welcoming for kola nut ceremony three.  There were more people in Parken awaiting a visit from the white man.  And, at every ceremony, they mentioned how surprising it was that a white man would be such a good friend with a Liberian.  It just didn’t happen.

Kola nut ceremony number four was in the home of the local chief.  It had more women singing, percussion instruments and some fun dance moves.  Fortunately, none of them involved me.  The village elders showed up wearing lappa skirts, dress coats and a variety of hats, all inspired by the style sense of one of Liberia’s early presidents.  At the end of the ceremony, each time, I told the people in Grebo that I accepted their welcome.  Of course, I don’t remember any of those African words whispered to me.

After the ceremony, I visited a local school.  We were trapped there for a while during a rainstorm.  When we were finally free to go, it was suggested that we go back to the chief’s home in Parken.  I didn’t realize that it was for kola nut ceremony number five.  That’s right – five, count ‘em, five kola nut ceremonies.

This occasion was hosted by the people of Yourwarken, a village about a half hour away.  They heard of my visit.  Everyone far and wide heard about my visit!  One chief walked two hours to meet me.  It appeared all the villagers wanted their chance to meet the white man in their midst.  There was kola nut, pepper, water, alcohol and my fourth chicken of the day.  I asked a couple of the chiefs who were especially kind to me if they ever heard of that.  Nobody had.  I can’t imagine ever being so welcomed again.

To end every ceremony, the tradition is to ask about the guest’s mission.  I explained about my murals with the U.S. Embassy and the hope to help stop stigmatization of Ebola survivors.  When that project was over, my next  mission was to find my long lost friend Daniel.  I knew I had one friend in the Deabo region.  I never expected that I would have so many new friends in such a short time.  Now, I had a new mission.  I wanted to return home to tell friends in America what it really means to welcome a visitor.  Nobody can welcome a person like the Grebo people.  The word needed to be spread.

Consider yourself informed.

All signs indicated an amazing African experience, if half the fun was getting there.  I was well cared for, and slightly worried over, as this adventure to River Gee County started.  Two of my Liberian artists, Patrick and Koko, took turns watching over me as I waited at the Zwedru parking station.  I truly believe that “parking station” is such a better term than “bus station”.  First of all, there were no buses and second of all, I parked myself there for four hours waiting for a ride out of town.  There were no schedules.  Vehicles left when they were full.   So, while I waited for my ride, my friends took turns babysitting me to see that I got off safely without being ripped off in any way.  I wasn’t worried in the slightest.    My guardians were very protective.

Transportation, fortunately, changed since my Peace Corps days.  Back then, the main way to get around were money buses.  They were not buses.  They were pick-up trucks with three long wooden benches inside a wooden frame.  Once you crawled in and took your seat, there was no moving around because the buses never left until there was no room to move around.  And, there were occasional chickens and goats as well.  The “room” in the back of the money bus was too short for me to sit up straight.  I had to slouch over and my head hit the rooftop on way too many bumps.    But, it appeared that money buses were a thing of the past.

Good riddance!

Now days, the parking stations were filled with old station wagons and occasional vans.  In the front seat of my wagon, two passengers were to fit on one bucket seat while four people crammed into the back seat.  I decided not to suffer.   I splurged because I could.  I bought the two seats that were actually one bucket seat.  I honestly could barely fit into the spot.  I held my very overweight backpack the entire trip.  I had to position my arm over the backpack so I didn’t keep bumping the driver as he shifted gears.  I don’t know how it would have been possible to fit another person in that space.  But, if I hadn't purchased the second seat, it somehow would have happened.

Of course, none of this “luxury” reduced the enormous guilt I felt when four adults and an infant squeezed into the back.  I just couldn’t make any eye contact as the trip began.  Yes, I paid for the space I had, but I really felt like a rich American.

Eventually, we hit our first of several police checkpoints.  Now, as the token white man, I was usually the focus of attention, but at the first stop, one of the Liberians reached his frustration point.  I heard him say, “I’m a Liberian and I have the right to speak!”  Of course, he spoke the truth.  But, whenever you demand your rights in situation like this with police at checkpoints, there are going to be delays.  This time was no exception.

But as I said, having a token white man aboard usually slowed everything down for the others.  I had to see the immigration officer at each checkpoint.  I had to explain my “mission” and show my passport as the driver paid a bribe to another officer.  I double checked this suspicion with another passenger.  Yes, there was money involved, but the amount was different at every station.  The driver and the officers had to negotiate “the appreciation”.

I assured the guy there was no “appreciation” involved in the transaction. 

And, my driver confirmed the whole thing.  He said that the bribe could range anywhere from $75 to $100 or even $200.  Before you have a complete heart attack, you divide Liberian dollars by about 100.  Still, it’s theft and extortion.

It wasn’t yet rainy season, but there had been some rain.  My driver knew what he was doing.  He negotiated two spots where the sink holes were so treacherous that I couldn’t believe it was possible that we didn’t get stuck.  I had to congratulate him.  In another spot, all passengers had to get out of the vehicle so a lighter load would hopefully pass through the mud hole.  That worked.  But finally, we hit the mud hole that put the “gee” in River Gee County. 

It was truly amazing.

The mother of all Liberian mud holes is on the other side of Zwedru.  I’m told, and I fully believe, that some Liberians intentionally dig the holes deeper so trucks must get stuck.  Then, the drivers have to pay these same Liberian entrepreneurs to help dig the trucks out of the muck.  There is actually a small village that has sprung up around the site where truck after truck gets stuck and it can take weeks or months to clear things up.  In the meantime, those villagers have learned to gouge the living daylights out of anyone trapped along their path, or so I’ve heard.

This mud hole in River Gee wasn’t that bad, but there were two distinct paths to choose from.  There really was no choosing, though.  One van was already stuck in the first path.  It looked like it could tip over at any moment.  We unloaded from our station wagon and our driver sped through the second path.  Well, that was the plan anyway.  He, too, was stuck.  I fully expected that I’d have to join the others to push us out of the muck.  I don’t like to do things like that on any occasion.  But, I was wearing flip-flop sandals and knew I’d be even more useless than usual.  This could take hours of delay and possibly a night on the roadside.  However, a few four-wheel drives showed up on the opposite side of the mud hole and my driver reached for his ropes to get us pulled out.  I was so impressed with his preparation.

Now, I have to admit that a white man standing along the side of the road during an event like this is a little unusual.  Most white men travel in air-conditioned land rovers owned by the UN, UNESCO, some ministry, US AID, an embassy, the Red Cross or some other NGO.  They don’t cross Liberia like Peace Corps volunteers in public transportation vehicles.  As one four wheel drive vehicle passed by me, it came to a stop.  A young Liberian man opened the back door and called out, “White man!”

I trotted over to the guy and said that I was just fine in the vehicle I was in.  And, I thanked them for their thoughtfulness.  However, I had a really good driver – and sufficient legroom - so I wasn’t about to give him up.

Plans were to get to the home of my friend Daniel in one day.  Plans changed.  It was about ten in the evening when I arrived in Fish Town.  Daniel lived an hour and a half somewhere off the main road in a little village.  I wasn’t going to try that at night.  Nope, I went to the first guesthouse I could find in Fish Town.  And, my hostess, Sarah, knew just what to do.  She asked if I wanted a bath.  And, would I like hot water?

It was a bucket bath, but it was my first hot water in over two weeks.  Heaven.

In the back of my mind I thought about taking a motorcycle back to Zwedru.  They could get past mud holes that catch cars for sport.  However, the hour and a half ride from Fish Town to Tugbaken changed all that thinking.  It was just too long to sit without moving and I couldn’t imagine that pain for five or six hours.  I’d take my chances on four wheels. 

In spite of the pain, and I’m not kidding about that, the trip to Tugbaken was beautiful.  River Gee was as lush as I remembered Liberia and the majority of homes were adobe block with thatch roofs.   It was like a motorcycle ride in a National Geographic magazine.  But, all that pain was forgotten as soon as I hobbled off the motorcycle and was greeted by my friend Daniel.

After official discussion with my twelve muralists in Zwedru, I told the members of the community that I needed help.  There were people who I wanted to find.  My search wasn’t as successful as I had hoped.  I was told that many people who lived in Zwedru back in my Peace Corps days never returned after the war.  The only person anyone knew about for sure had died in a car accident.  But, one of the twelve, Jeffrey, was determined to pull off an African miracle for me and find my friend Daniel.  He was a man on a mission. Jeffrey said that Daniel's last name was common in the southern counties of River Gee and Maryland.  He was going to make some phone calls.

After three or four days with little news from Jeffrey on Plan A, I determined that I was going to go south looking for Daniel on my own.  Plan B.  I assumed his village would be somewhere on the road to Harper.  If I went to Fish Town, the county capital, surely someone would know him!  I told my contact at the American Corner Library about my intentions.  Jouthy was more than just a little skeptical.  And, he knew more than me.  He suspected Daniel lived in a village that was far from the main road.  He was fairly sure I’d never find the village or my friend on my own. 

Unfortunately, I had to agree.

But, I wasn’t about to give up.  There was also a Plan C.  Jouthy said he would go to the local radio station in Zwedru and have them contact the radio station in the next county, Radio Gee.  If they made a special announcement, word would get out since it is the primary form of communication in the area.  A reunion would be an incredible news story!  At least, I thought so.  It would have worked too.  Daniel is now a school principal so many people would have known him.

But, back to Plan A and Jeffrey.  He showed up one day to paint, late, but he had a smile.  And, he said, “I have a surprise for you.”    That was the truth and then came the lie.  He said, “Contact was made with Daniel, but yesterday he left for the US.”  Confusion continued.   Why did Jeffrey have that smile?  About four in the afternoon, Jeffrey ushered in a stranger and said, “This is the substitute for your friend Daniel.”  It might have been 26 years, but I knew Daniel and this wasn’t my friend.  How could anyone think a substitute would do?  Like I said, there was confusion.   Then, I saw someone rush through the door.  My best friend survived a horrible civil war and persecution in the Ivory Coast!  I’d lost contact with him for over a decade and finally he was in front of me where I could hug him.  I just couldn’t believe it really happened.

Jeffrey got a hug, too.

First things first.  How did he get the word?  Jeffrey asked around and found people who knew the family.  A call was made to River Gee County making contact with Daniel's cousin who lived in a neighboring village.  The young man sent word that one of his teachers was looking for him in Zwedru AND IT WAS A WHITE MAN!  Daniel knew that only one white man would come to Zwedru looking for him.  He immediately took a motorcycle taxi and rode five hours to see me. 

It wasn’t until later that Daniel and I both learned that the radio station actually made the announcement.  He was already on the way to Zwedru when the broadcast message went out.  It declared that he was wanted in Zwedru to meet a white man friend.  Everyone he knew heard about it.  On his return to River Gee County, he was given the message – repeatedly.  Nobody could imagine he’d already been to Zwedru or actually had a white man friend.

When I passed through Fish Town, I had to stop and thank the people who helped in the search.  The guy at the radio station who made the announcement was a distant relative of Daniel’s.  Small world at times.  I personally think he missed a great radio interview, but it never occurred to him.

Once reunited, I figured I had to ask.  So, Daniel told me a little about his experience in the civil war.  He lived in a small village outside of Zwedru.  However, he came to town to visit on a weekend.  Zwedru was in a panic.  One of President Doe’s main men was assassinated just on the edge of town.  Everyone wanted to flee and there just wasn’t enough transportation.  Daniel tried for two days to escape.

He was trapped in Zwedru with trouble on the way!

Fortunately, one transport truck stopped briefly in town and Daniel found a long lost friend he hadn’t seen in twenty years.  That man made arrangements to get Daniel and his family to the south of the country to Kanweaken and then to Pleebo.  Things were relatively safe for a year and Daniel found another teaching job.  However, eventually the Liberian Peace Council (one of the many rebel groups in the conflict, none good) captured the town where he lived.  As he fled the area, he ran past bodies strewn about the roadside.  It was time to leave Liberia for safety in the Ivory Coast.

But, there really wasn’t much safety in the Ivory Coast.

Daniel’s letters spoke of getting beaten and robbed by the police on more than one occasion.  If the police acted that way, the Ivorian army was no better.  Both were brutal.  There just wasn’t any kind of hope in the situation. 
The Ivory Coast remained Daniel’s refuge until 2001.  At that point, rebels in the Liberian civil war crossed the border and attacked refugees.  Daniel decided that it was time to flee the Ivory Coast and go back to Liberia.  His destination was Tugbaken, the place of his birth.

Miraculously, all of Daniel’s family members survived the conflict.  They were separated during the war, but connections were reestablished once they returned to their homeland.  And, I am delighted to report that I not only had my miracle in Zwedru but I had time in my schedule to visit Daniel’s African village.  But, that’s a whole other adventure.