Thanks for being there.

Liberian small talk...

Me: "Wassup?"

LiberiaMan: "Fine."

Happens every time. I mean, it kind of makes sense if you think about it. If someone tells me not much is up, I'll then ask how they're doing. So Liberians are just cuttin' to the chase. Skip that meaningless answer and save a little breath.

"Hey, what's goin' on, man?

"Not bad."

-----

Some big-time Nigerian movie stars dropped by our studio. And pandemonium ensued. When you put 'Nollywood' actors live on the air, people will figure it out: If we besiege the station, maybe we can see them! After the interview, we released the celebs to the wolves in the street and hurried to our balcony to watch the madness. It was shades of The Beatles down there. Screaming girls, shirts tossed into the crowd, cars damaged, stars ducking into their SUV. Chaos.

An actor is mobbed by the masses as our staff surveys the scene.

The Listener is a friend to Radio. Radio needs The Listener to survive. The Listener is always around, and Radio appreciates it. Hence, our hosts sign off with a simple phrase: Thanks for being there.

Flomo Garbee is on the move

For some reason probably related to the color of my skin, I was ushered directly to a seat on the stage in the long schoolhouse that serves as a church. After taking the podium to bring greetings from Texas, I settled in for front-row seats to the show. The guest preacher (he prefers "musical evangelist") kicked, jumped, stomped and whirled his way through two hours of energetic singin' and screamin'. The keyboard player sported shades a la Ray Charles -- though I don't think he was blind. And behind the drummer was the most strangely genius schoolboy wall scrawl I've ever seen. There it was, unexplained in chalk: "Flomo Garbee is on the move."

You're supposed to go to the beach to celebrate former President Tubman's birthday. So I did. The grand balcony of this old shell of a beach house served as the stage for a hip-co (Liberian hip-hop) party. Felt like MTV Spring Break does Monrovia.

And in other news...

A throng of angry high school students surrounded a big house as we strolled onto the scene. They were chanting "We want Bopolu! We want Bopolu!" It was a call for the release of a school security guard holed up inside this health clinic, to which he ran for safety after slapping a boy unconscious. Now the kids wanted to avenge their classmate's injury. The crowd roared at the arrival of we, the journalists, and the Red Sea of teenagers parted as we confidently headed to the front porch. That's right, we're all over this story. Just doin' our job. The police demanded the harborers open the door, and we followed them inside, eventually watching them drag the man from a back room and handcuff him. Then came a classic West African police mishap. They had no vehicle. So the two policemen were forced to walk the suspect out the front door, through the student gauntlet, and up the road half a mile to the police station, all the while fending off the still chanting, chasing kids who wanted to beat the man to a pulp.

Power. Justice. Truth. Tires.

A bunch of snappy school kids darted down the road in hot pursuit of a police pickup, leaving the rubble of their former schoolhouse behind. The branch-wielding kids had set up a roadblock (of benches, chalkboards, and children) on the main route into Monrovia to protest the stealth demolition of the school a day earlier, and their teachers were carted off to Central Police for questioning. This was all the result of a land dispute, which is quite common here as Liberians flood back into their homeland after years of war and find someone sitting in their seat. The woman who claims this school/church's land happens to have connections to the President and Chief Justice. Amazing how easily that can get you a court order, police escort, and a midnight bulldozer.

Monrovia's judicial building is called the Temple of Justice; or from a convict perspective, the Temple of Doom. The judge's remarks at the official opening of the November term were like a stern warning from a ninth grade teacher: Show up to court on time. Know who your witnesses are. Be prepared. No jokes in the courtroom. Stay awake. No wonder Liberians are critical of their judicial system.

The Truth and Reconciliation Commission, where the horrors of civil war are recounted for all to hear. Outside is a subtle reminder of this nation's history of class conflict between elite Americo-Liberians (descendants of American slaves) and indigenous Liberians of various tribes. A tall obelisk lists the full names of those dignified individuals who built the place. At the bottom of the list: "And Five Other Aborigines Who Assisted."

Liberia is the home of Firestone Natural Rubber Company, one of the world's largest rubber plantations and the country's biggest employer. It's a fascinating place that hasn't changed much since the 1920s. Thousands of workers live on the plantation with their families, many of them in tiny row houses built with American red brick (an odd sight in West Africa). Firestone has become a magnet for human rights controversy. Acid attacks by illicit rubber tappers, brutality and rape allegations against Firestone security, industrial waste dumped into the river (above), eviction of squatters from the land, child labor caused by overworked employees. And that's just the start.

The Big House and Hoops

I arrived in Monrovia at 3:00 AM and I was inside the Central Prison by noon. Just visiting (Monopoly-style) of course. While waiting to enter the front gate, a pickup truck arrived with a fresh batch of criminals. Handcuffed in pairs and facing opposite directions so they couldn't run away, the newbies protested to no avail as we nervously watched and a few Bangladeshi UN peacekeeping troops hung out nearby. Then we entered the prison compound and were told to walk single-file like a class of first graders. We passed the gate of the female block, where I caught a glimpse of half a dozen women sitting around, looking bored. Then I looked up and into the eyes of a couple prisoners staring out of their barred windows. We turned a corner and the place suddenly came alive with frightening energy. A chaotic building to the right housed an ultra rowdy prison crowd. I'm not sure if it was a soccer game on TV, a live Rocky-like boxing match, or something much worse. I imagine the inside being something like Shredder and the Foot Clan's hangout from the Ninja Turtles movie. Workers toiled in front of us and a three-story building to the left held many more intense sets of eyes trained on us. We sat in a small waiting room with a long chalkboard listing the number of current prisoners for each crime. Armed Robbery: 170, Rape: 115 Murder: 60. And so on. An inmate popped into the doorway asking someone for food. Soon we began the orderly march out of there, besieged by a wall of hard faces and deflecting the half-hearted begging from behind bars. We're glad you made it, Grant, this is the prison.

On a lighter note, I happily discovered this is a basketball nation. Thanks to the heavy American influence, basketball is even more popular than soccer. At a preseason game featuring the two best teams in Liberia, I was shocked. The outdoor arena was awesome. The rims had real nets. The backboards were glass. They played hip-hop music at timeouts. And the talent was honestly fantastic. For a minute I wasn't sure if I was in West Africa or East Harlem. A pleasant surprise and a home comfort.