Showing posts with label My blog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My blog. Show all posts

Wednesday, 2 March 2022

How many lies are too many?

Coming back to Monrovia after a 3 year gap has been deflating and discouraging. It's been a crash landing and, the plane has still not come to a complete full stop. 

The almost-2-hour ride from RIA to central Monrovia is enveloped in complete darkness at night. Crashing into another vehicle with broken headlights at night on the RIA Highway is a recurring what-if nightmare and, to experience this road after an exhausting series of flights from abroad is a terrible way to come back. 

They are widening the Highway which is good, but meanwhile, you have to come through this depressing darkness , riding for hours, hoping not to have an accident, if you flew in at night. 

When you finally make it to the edges of Monrovia, you will see an insane an amount of traffic on the same small road, chaos, some lights, garbage, even fully visible at night. From the edge of Congo Town all the way to central Monrovia, everything was dark, hardly a few street lights here or there. 

If you aren't a saving-the-world international development worker, living a humble life in a fully serviced compound, you will arrive in a house or apartment building which is yet again dark. If you are lucky enough to have a back up generator, you can have that turned on and, then sit and weep , wondering what you are doing in a country which doesn't have electricity. 

Not having stable electricity has been the bane of my existence here. I'm getting close to my mid-40s so I'm really not a fan of living like this. 

But, we have to pretend like everything is good. So good that 200 years of Liberia's history was being marketed and celebrated in a grand style. There are - or rather, still are, and will be there, rusted, for next 10 years -  hoardings everything talking about this grand event. I believe some of these hoardings mention a Monrovia that is green and clean. 

Speaking of cleanliness, Monrovia is filthy. It is exponentially more filthy than before I left. There are mountains of garbage on Centre Street. I literally exclaimed in horror when we passed by it. 

The controversial 'Monrovia is the dirtiest capital' comments by the EU Ambassador which I'd seen on my Facebook feed started to make sense. 

The state celebrated 200 years of existence by a very grand event at the SKD Stadium, attended by dignitaries from neighbouring states and the United States of course. In fact, the celebrations were launched end of last year, marketing the Bi-Centennial celebrations as Year of Return, copying what Ghana has more successfully done, attracting African Americans 'back home.' Ghana though is far more advanced as an economy and has thriving sectors and markets compared to Liberia. 

Liberia has already implemented the 'returnee' policy in its earliest post war era under Ellen Johnson Sirleaf. Many appointments in administration were made to Liberian diaspora but how many of these professionals actually returned? Everyone talked about how the merely channeled their salaries back to the US where they still had rents and school fees to pay. 

From what I understand with Ghana is that the Diaspora is welcomed back to live and work. I am not sure how many appointments are being made in its state infrastructure, at least not critical ones. Ghana is a much more thriving and stable economy but I can't imagine who wants to come back to Liberia given that literally nothing works. 

And more, importantly, these Bi-Centennial celebrations are hollow if they don't engage with Liberia's problematic past and, the contradictions of the 2003-present post-war era. And, they haven't. It seems it's all been pomp and glory. That this particular populist, anti-establishment , anti-elitist government has promoted such a narrative points to the supremacy of power and that of the state. It is vital to keep promoting a grand narrative of Liberia as a free and unique state for black people and, the symbolisms of the first independent republic, despite its horrific history as a settler colony, have to be perpetuated at all cost. Not even a from-the-slum-footballer-turned-President is going to tinker with this image. So, we keep playing this tune and even amplify the notion of freedom so much so that we continue to be a beacon for return to the continent. 

See this piece: CONFRONTING DUPLICITY Liberia bi-centennial celebration: why it needs to reconcile history and identity

In the midst of this grand farce, the price of produce knocked me out. I couldn't believe that a rather small pineapple costs 700 LD! 4 mangoes which literally fell off a tree cost 200 LD. 4 bananas cost 100 LD. Shitty, over ripe bananas. There is no cultivated fruit in Liberia. They all fell off a tree. I'm livid. 

Everything is so damn expensive and nothing works. 

But somehow we have to participate in the falsehoods of narratives, the lying propaganda that state machineries and hegemony operate with. How many lies are too many? 

Friday, 10 July 2015

Writing versus blogging


I spent quite a bit of time recently looking for blogs to add to the reading list on my blog. It seems the blogosphere is full of whimsical, superfluous space. Bloggers are filling it up with clever one-liners and the most stylised photographs. 

My potato greens seems so dull, drab in comparison. There are not enough pictures of mason jars in it. 

Still, I was drawn enough to these virtual, made up drawing rooms to stare at pretty nothing space. Should I make my blog also pretty and whimsical?

For the longest time I've been obsessed - in fact, am still determined - about becoming a writer. I've been collecting anecdotes, narratives, stories and observations in my head for some, hoping to unleash my work of genius sometime soon. 

Until then, I need to figure out how to incorporate more mason jars in my blog. 

In other news, one of my Greek QMW mates decided to drop me an e-mail to lecture me about not being so sympathetic either towards the Leftist Greek government nor the average irresponsible Greek. I do not want to get into the details of her politics but it did amuse me that she only writes once in a blue moon - usually it is a fantastically long update about her life, full of witty long rants, much like herself - and only decided to write because she'd randomly logged into Facebook to see my status about haughty EU leaders. 

After a disturbingly horrible dining experience at our favourite Mamba Point Hotel last Friday, we have decided to never step into a restaurant again. So, we decided to google some desi recipes a few nights ago and went off to Exclusive Supermarket on Center Street to buy ingredients. We found everything including Dawat Basmati rice. It had Amitabh Bachan's photograph on it. 

While shopping, I saw an Ahamdi family also browsing the aisles. The father had the typical topi on his head and the mother was wearing a burqa. The children were a cranky boy who clung to his father and a chubby girl dressed in a kappa print shalwar kameez who kept staring at me. Somehow, they seemed so out of place here, far removed from Pakistan. I kind of admired them for coming so far from home to be part of the Ahamdi mission here but given how poorly average Ahamdis are faring in Pakistan, they might as well be in Liberia. They also reminded me of American missionary families we knew of while studying at the American Baptist school in Dakar. 

Start drinking wine while you cook. It gets you in the mood for….

Haresh made delicious saibhaji (The receipe he used is here), which I've had at my sister in law's in Dubai, and I made karela keema (The recipe I used is here). We followed the recipes to the letter and were extremely impressed at how well the dishes turned out. 

I was fascinated with the karela. I have never made it and, was recently inspired to try to make it after eating a delicious karela at a Pakistani couple's house who live on Bushrod Island a few months ago. 

It is really an ugly vegetable with the strangest skin and texture. I imagine NASA had the same feeling discovering Mars with all its crooks and crannies. And, it's really bitter. But it's worth cooking and enjoying. 

On a roll, tonight we decided to finally use the oven and made ourselves the perfect lasagna. We found the recipe here. We were giggling at how well it turned out and enjoyed plate after plate with red wine.


What a way to end the week!

Samarkand

The domain name of my blog is potato greens, a Liberian dish, and the name of the blog is We travel not for trafficking alone.  One of these days, I'm going to share a recipe for my take on potato greens but meanwhile would like to share the poem from which the name of the blog is derived:

THE GOLDEN JOURNEY TO SAMARKAND

PROLOGUE 
We who with songs beguile your pilgrimage
And swear that Beauty lives though lilies die,
We Poets of the proud old lineage
Who sing to find your hearts, we know not why, -
What shall we tell you? Tales, marvellous tales
Of ships and stars and isles where good men rest,
Where nevermore the rose of sunset pales,
And winds and shadows fall towards the West:
And there the world's first huge white-bearded kings
In dim glades sleeping, murmur in their sleep,
And closer round their breasts the ivy clings,
Cutting its pathway slow and red and deep. 

THE GOLDEN JOURNEY TO SAMARKAND 

EPILOGUE
At the Gate of the Sun, Bagdad, in olden time
THE MERCHANTS :
Away, for we are ready to a man!
Our camels sniff the evening and are glad.
Lead on, O Master of the Caravan:
Lead on the Merchant-Princes of Bagdad. 
THE CHIEF DRAPER :
Have we not Indian carpets dark as wine,
Turbans and sashes, gowns and bows and veils,
And broideries of intricate design,
And printed hangings in enormous bales? 
THE CHIEF GROCER :
We have rose-candy, we have spikenard,
Mastic and terebinth and oil and spice,
And such sweet jams meticulously jarred
As God's own Prophet eats in Paradise. 
THE PRINCIPAL JEWS :
And we have manuscripts in peacock styles
By Ali of Damascus; we have swords
Engraved with storks and apes and crocodiles,
And heavy beaten necklaces, for Lords.
THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN : But you are nothing but a lot of Jews. 
THE PRINCIPAL JEWS :
Sir, even dogs have daylight, and we pay. 
THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN :
But who are ye in rags and rotten shoes,
You dirty-bearded, blocking up the way?
THE PILGRIMS :
We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go
Always a little further: it may be
Beyond the last blue mountain barred with snow,
Across that angry or that glimmering sea,
White on a throne or guarded in a cave
There lives a prophet who can understand
Why men were born: but surely we are brave,
Who make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.
THE CHIEF MERCHANT :
We gnaw the nail of hurry. Master, away! 
ONE OF THE WOMEN :
O turn your eyes to where your children stand.
Is not Bagdad the beautiful? O stay! 
THE MERCHANTS in chorus :
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand. 
AN OLD MAN :
Have you not girls and garlands in your homes,
Eunuchs and Syrian boys at your command?
Seek not excess: God hateth him who roams! 
THE MERCHANTS :
We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.
A PILGRIM WITH A BEAUTIFUL VOICE :
Sweet to ride forth at evening from the wells
When shadows pass gigantic on the sand,
And softly through the silence beat the bells
Along the Golden Road to Samarkand.
A MERCHANT : 
We travel not for trafficking alone:
By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned:
For lust of knowing what should not be known
We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand. 
THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN :
Open the gate, O watchman of the night! 
THE WATCHMAN :
Ho, travellers, I open. For what land
Leave you the dim-moon city of delight?
THE MERCHANTS with a shout
We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.
The Caravan passes through the gate 
THE WATCHMAN consoling the women
What would ye, ladies? It was ever thus.
Men are unwise and curiously planned. 
A WOMAN :
They have their dreams, and do not think of us. 
VOICES OF THE CARAVAN : in the distance, singing
We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.

I first came to learn this poem in my days at UNJLC, Islamabad in 2002.

My supervisor, a wonderful Keith Chapman, shared it with me. It was part of a colleague's e-mail signature and I was struck by the beautiful imagery.  Keith and I had a wonderful relationship. He was a good mentor! He loved Ella Fitzgerald and I would stream London's Jazz FM and we would enjoy the music in our room.

Once, another UNJLC colleague came in barging and told us to keep it down and Keith was infuriated with this colleague's brusque manner. In fact, it was strange to see this outburst because the music was not that loud.  In fact, Keith asked me to turn it up.

My favourite stanza from this poem is:

We travel not for trafficking alone;
By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned:
For lust of knowing what should not be known
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand.

I think this stanza captures the mystery of life and desire, the journey to explore the world and ourselves, the restlessness that we feel but also the sense of nostalgia we have for time passed and all we left behind. 

Sunday, 2 December 2012

10,000 page views!!

Potato Greens has had 10,000 views! 





This calls for a mini celebration which entails making a piping hot cup of tea to beat the Chicago cold and me posing for a photo, like when my blog reached 5,000 hits back in November, 2011:



Tuesday, 1 November 2011

5,000 Hits on Potatogreens

Not that I care about numbers and statistics and all that, but I just wanted to say that I have had 5,050 hits on my blog! Yay! It is surely worth a blog entry!