Goodbye, Robertsport

I spent my last weekend in Liberia at Robertsport. It was a magical weekend that I’ll remember for a long time to come.

We left Liberia around noon. Despite the impending departure, I was in a very high spirit, and played a dance playlist in Alex’s car, the two of us laughing and dancing, much to the chagrin of our passenger in the backseat, who was trying to sleep. She was dismayed by “a rave on a Saturday morning.”Although the early onset of the rainy season had been inconvenient, it also brought out the lushness of the “bushes.” The road to Robertsport, which by now had grown very familiar to me, looked strangely beautiful and lively. The crowded, colorful Duala market where vendors sell their goods out of jars under billboard signs against rape; the congested single lane road where cars might stop in the middle at any time; the green forests dotted with tall coconut trees full of unpicked coconuts; the occasional wreckages on the windy, undulating road; the stretch of water lily pond where you might or might not get to admire the beauty of the water lilies depending on the time of the day you’re there; the small crowd of people gathered under the bridge in the narrow river doing their laundry, bathing, washing, and frolicking; the old, yellow taxis that dart in and out of the tiny villages along the road, every time slowing the traffic as they slowly gear up or down; the “best dirt road in Liberia” where trees on both sides are died red from the dust storm kicked up by every passing car; the lone foot-travelers who appear every now and then with buckets, trays, and whatever else they may be holding on their heads; the trucks that are weighted down by overloaded cargo and people either standing on the top or in the back, hanging on for dear life. These are the mental images that have been engraved along with the physical memory of the cars going too fast over speed bumps that are impossible to see until the car is too close.

When the view of the beach finally popped into view, we were singing “Start wearing purple” as we sometimes do. We checked into tent number 10, the one right under the huge mango tree. I was excited to see that the mangos are finally getting larger, but still sadly green and very firmly so. I was sad to think that I would not see the day they ripen.

The water was the most calm I had seen. The waves were pleasant splashes, unlike some previous days, when the waves were violent and would throw me all the way back to the beach, reaching out my limps to regain my balance as if an overturned turtle. No rips current either—I could safely stand and hop around. I was emboldened and went further out and spent more time alone. The water felt warm and refreshing on such a hot, stuffy day. I kept on waving my arms and legs under the water to admire the light pattern the sun and the ultra clear water were making on my skin. I’ll always remember that it was in Liberia that I learned to play in the ocean.

We started the champagne and partying around sunset, which was beautiful, but no more so than the other beautiful sunsets that one gets here. Dinner included lobster, and was good but not especially so. Still, dinner at Nana’s Lodge has a kind of signature taste that’ll be hard to forget. All the wine and heat made me sleepy, so I went for a nap right on the beach, just on the sharp ridge where the beach slants down into the water. The sound of lapping waves, the ocean breeze, and the dark, starry night sky felt soothing.

Later, though, the clouds rolled in, and pelts of rain started unexpectedly, making everyone scramble for cover, grabbing their chairs, glasses, and bottle of whatever—wine, beer, vodka. Within minutes the lightning show started and went on for hours. If I were a Romantic poet, I wouldn’t written a poem, as it was one of the most sublime experiences I had had.

But there was more. I followed Paul and Anthony to the water. Out on the beach, the spectacular lighting show felt more like a seizure-inducing Japanese anime show. In the warm water, green fluorescents were everywhere. I kept waving my arms to see them, and never in my life had I felt so at one with nature. The national anthems we sang afterward, and the all-night storm that kept the tent cool but loud gave the whole night a gentle descend from that spiritual high. It was a perform storm.