I always search for local connections when I travel. I have learned that taxi drivers, sales clerks, maids and waiters can be invaluable resources when in a foreign destination. I know some uninformed travellers consider these people invisible and ignore them. Not me! I know buried treasure when it stares me in the face. I appreciate their wealth of information.
On my first trip to Zorzor, back in my Peace Corps days, I found myself with Isaac, a friendly van driver. He had me sit up front with him which certainly helped endear him to me right away. I found it always good to ask a Liberian about his family when you ran out of things to say. So, eventually, that question came up.
Let me tell you, Isaac had a family.
For starters, the guy had four wives and thirty-nine children! All four wives and most of the children still lived under one roof. (A few of the adult kids had married and moved out of the family home). Still, I was a little on the incredulous side of the conversation. So, Isaac took me home after he dropped off all his other passengers. I’m sure he didn’t do something like that every day, but I must have entertained him as much as he fascinated me. I met three of the wives and counted thirty-nine birth certificates. Of course, I took a partial family portrait.
When you visit an African home, there is usually food involved. So, I shouldn't have been surprised that Isaac also fed me, but I didn't think that was included in the fare for his van ride. There was a bean dish with what tasted something like gizzards. I didn't like it, and when I learned it was snails, I liked it even less. I tried to tactfully not eat any more. Then, there was a second dish. I didn't know what kind of meat was in it but Isaac called it groundhog -- and it was delicious. I’m still not sure what an African groundhog might be.
Isaac was on my list of people to hopefully locate while in Fissebu. I asked about him for days without any luck. Finally, one evening, I took a walk on the main road that went from campus to the village. Several people recognized me as the mural man. There are no secrets when you’re one of the very few white people in Africa. One very kind gentleman stopped to talk to me. I asked him if he knew Isaac. To my delight and dismay, he did. I was delighted to finally get news but it wasn’t the news I wanted to hear. Isaac passed away last year. I’m guessing he wouldn’t have been more than 65 years old. That’s much too young to die but it’s a statement about healthcare in the developing world. He had to go to Monrovia for treatment. That’s a horrible drive when you’re healthy! It had to be a horrible experience for anyone traveling sick.
After I learned that Isaac actually lived in the village of Yeala, I met more people who knew him. I even learned his full name, Isaac Golo. One man from Yeala said that even the villagers couldn’t keep track of how many children the man had. They only estimated. However, they were quite sure that Isaac had at least another ten children since I met him in 1989.
Isaac’s memory will always hold a special place in my travels.
On my first trip to Zorzor, back in my Peace Corps days, I found myself with Isaac, a friendly van driver. He had me sit up front with him which certainly helped endear him to me right away. I found it always good to ask a Liberian about his family when you ran out of things to say. So, eventually, that question came up.
Let me tell you, Isaac had a family.
For starters, the guy had four wives and thirty-nine children! All four wives and most of the children still lived under one roof. (A few of the adult kids had married and moved out of the family home). Still, I was a little on the incredulous side of the conversation. So, Isaac took me home after he dropped off all his other passengers. I’m sure he didn’t do something like that every day, but I must have entertained him as much as he fascinated me. I met three of the wives and counted thirty-nine birth certificates. Of course, I took a partial family portrait.
When you visit an African home, there is usually food involved. So, I shouldn't have been surprised that Isaac also fed me, but I didn't think that was included in the fare for his van ride. There was a bean dish with what tasted something like gizzards. I didn't like it, and when I learned it was snails, I liked it even less. I tried to tactfully not eat any more. Then, there was a second dish. I didn't know what kind of meat was in it but Isaac called it groundhog -- and it was delicious. I’m still not sure what an African groundhog might be.
Isaac was on my list of people to hopefully locate while in Fissebu. I asked about him for days without any luck. Finally, one evening, I took a walk on the main road that went from campus to the village. Several people recognized me as the mural man. There are no secrets when you’re one of the very few white people in Africa. One very kind gentleman stopped to talk to me. I asked him if he knew Isaac. To my delight and dismay, he did. I was delighted to finally get news but it wasn’t the news I wanted to hear. Isaac passed away last year. I’m guessing he wouldn’t have been more than 65 years old. That’s much too young to die but it’s a statement about healthcare in the developing world. He had to go to Monrovia for treatment. That’s a horrible drive when you’re healthy! It had to be a horrible experience for anyone traveling sick.
After I learned that Isaac actually lived in the village of Yeala, I met more people who knew him. I even learned his full name, Isaac Golo. One man from Yeala said that even the villagers couldn’t keep track of how many children the man had. They only estimated. However, they were quite sure that Isaac had at least another ten children since I met him in 1989.
Isaac’s memory will always hold a special place in my travels.
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