Americans cannot drive.

Yeah, I said it.  And I mean it too. Understand this.

Americans do not know the various, multiple uses of a car, truck, Volvo, pick-up truck, bicycle, man even a wheelbarrow.  Americans cannot manipulate their vehicles with the preciseness, accuracy, minute details that I have witness during backseat riding in Liberia.  We have been babied throughout life with cross lines, signals, yield signs, and parking spaces.  The fact that we have a rules system only shows how limited in our creative expression and capability is when it comes to getting behind the wheel.

Third world driving needs to be the newest game on the next playstation series.  It is a serious task and challenge, with two different levels—city driving and back road driving. I will focus on the city driving for the sake of this blog because to talk about driving on the back roads is like taking a Pinto through the Grand Canyon.

It takes a skilled man to roll out in ongoing traffic in both directions just to sit there and wait until someone else stops and they proceed to turn left like they had the right of way the whole time.  Our two lane highways (one car one direction, the other car the other direction) have been moved to a six-lane highway, with the next vehicle close enough they can do a palm reading while waiting to move again. 

No stop signs, lights, speed limit warnings, nothing to even suggest there should be some rules to follow.  In fact we got pulled over just the other day, for what you may ask?  An illegal U-Turn during traffic? No.  Speeding over a pothole? No.  Failure to use a signal light? No.  We got pulled over because we weren’t wearing a seatbelt. 

I have seen a pick up truck hold 21 people, standing and sitting.  They park as close as fat girls in line an all you can eat buffet.  People cross the street like the old school video game “Hopper”, playing dash for your life just before a car speeds past as if they purposely wanted to pick you off.

It is custom to speed through the streets hand on horn blaring, daring a soul brave enough to cross to do so.   Driving is like the releasing of the bulls in Spain with all pedestrians fleeing for lives.

See in America, the car horn is used only for warnings.  But in Liberia, the horn talks more than crickets into the dusk of night.  I have heard the following statements via hornish, or hornagense:

“Hello”

“Excuse Me”

“You welcome”

“Where are you?”

“Where the ____ are you?!”

“Move.”

“Merge now”

“Get out the way!”

“I will whop your tail!”

“Do you know who I am?”

“OH, HELL NAW!”

“Don’t try.”

“Screw You!”

“Screw You too!”

“Step outside and see what happens.”

Now this is all mastered by how your lean, touch, press on your horn and most always is accompanied by facial and hand gestures.  The horn language is a very physical one, meaning that all your energy can not be spent on focused on the driving task, you must have the communication as well or you will not be allowed in the streets without having to be reduced to the one finger language we as Americans know.

Now, all the cars have battle wounds.  Velcrose veins for windshields, operation scars of crash repairs of tape or molding, amputees without bumpers, side mirrors, tires, even abuse victims with black eyes of dents and poundings from their tormentor.  I was dared to find one taxi without a scratch or dent on it, I was promised money.  This was two months ago and I am still searching. 

The ability to drive here is like learning to master karate. You go through different levels, new situations, come across some ninjas, but if you stay the course you will become a black belt.  Some may die, quit, or move and never make it to the end, but those who do, there will be no obstacle that will conquer you in life.

Except maybe having to detox and drive in a normal society.  

Now, you know why African taxi drivers are the way they are, because at home, they were the black belt and in America, they have been stripped of their driving power and had to conform to rules.  That’s a difficult task.

Here in Liberia, clothing is essential.  It is truly the culture of black people to be fly.  I mean dressed, fresh, clean, adorned, blingy, whatever we can call it or do; we have to look good in the process.  The thing in Africa is that in order to achieve your look, you simply purchase the fabric you want and you take it to your tailor.  In fact any compliments done in regards to clothing are normally answered by first stating, “Oh, my tailor….” Essentially, you are only as worthy as your tailor sews you to be.  So I knew immediately, if I was going to join the game in the clothing ranks…I was going to have to find me a tailor. A personal tailor.

I was limited by location.  My tailor would have to be a walking distance from my job and can only be visited during lunch hours. I would have to find someone who was creative, yet sophisticated in their style because I can’t be too African…I have to blend my ensemble together and sometimes the vibrant nature of Liberians clothing styles makes me blind in my right eye.  I had certain tastes and because of body size, certain restrictions.  I decided to find the best tailor, I would have to channel the spirit of my mother when it comes to bargain shopping.

My idea was to purchase three different pieces of fabric and go to three different stores and tell them my likes and dislikes.  With the fabric, they were to design a work related outfit and I would only spend $15 dollars.  Based on work, style, quality, and time I would pick my tailor and be able to send my future clothing desires to her and work directly with someone who would benefit me.

Great plan, right? Yeah, but I was broke so the experiment would begin with two stores.   I went to store one and proceeded with the task.  The woman barely looked at me, nodded her head and pointed to the young man who was sewing clothes.  He jumped up, measured every point of my body, smiled at me and went back to work.  I hesitantly left my fabric on the counter and walked out trying to smile, like a promise to be a good client.  She muttered the day and time and went back talking to her friend and I felt alone.  The young man waved by back and I walked out knowing that I didn’t care for the personality of the woman or store.  Just the sewer, who was the only one that was nice.

I immediately went to my second spot; a vibrant girl met me at the door.  I showed her my fabric and we went and looked at catalog designs together.  Long story short, she sold me and I was secretly hoping that she would win in my “Project Runway” challenge. I wanted to give her my money based on personality.

Well, when I went to pick up my outfit from store one, I was amazed.  I loved it, this wonderful blend.  I mean, the woman didn’t listen to me but got my criteria right on point.  Size was perfect everything…which only meant that my hopeful store number two had serious competition…so I cheated a little.  The next day, I wore my Store #1 outfit when I went to go check on the progress at Store #2 that way, she could see what she was up against without me saying a word.

I walk into store #2 and I hear a whistle.  I turn my head and there is the young man who sews in Store #1 sewing clothes at Store #2!  He looks at me and smiles, tells me it looks good and I model his creation for him.  He nods his head and goes back to work at store #2 and that is when I realized that my competition has a snag in it.  The person who actually sews the clothes moonlights for both stores!  This boy sewed both outfits, yet I went to two different places.  Am I paying for the designer or the creator? 

Because now it really don’t matter whom I make the order from as long as I have that young man sewing the outfit does it?  I need to just approach him on the download tip and see if I can work a dark parking lot, undercover deal.  My fifteen dollars is just overhead and I am thinking in order for me to make this thing more profitable for both of us, I should just cut out the middleman, you know?

I mean, he is the one who sized me, he overhead the specifications and he delivered.  The girl in the store just gave him the go ahead.  And my perfect competition has been compromised because of him moonlighting at different spots sewing for spare change.

So now, I am trying to catch him on a break or something outside both shops, hip him to my little game plan you know.  Because really, everything and everyone is a hustler out here in these Liberian streets and if its about me getting quality product for a cheaper price because we cut out the overhead, I am on it.  I mean this clothing game is serious, and I got to do what I gotta do to get my floss on without going bankrupt. So I am going to change the game.

Why do I sound like a character on the Wire? 

The lesson is not whether you can survive the storm, it is only if you can learn to dance in the rain. 

It’s these words that resonated me in the midst of a dreary day.  These words that reawakened a sense, a purpose, a prize in the position that had been graced upon me.  It is so easy to get suck in the Christmas syndrome of what Santa didn’t give you in the dawn of opportunity.

I take note of this from my young niece when last Christmas, she grabbed every present with her name on it furiously and then in the midst of tattered wrapping paper she sat in the middle of the room and cried. Cried so hard we all wanted to know what was the problem so we could find ways to solve it.  And she finally admitted that she wanted a laptop computer, just like her Auntie Jes.  Commendable yes, but she had only seen the computer for two days and this new want was not in a place where she could receive it.  So she sat in the midst of new clothes, new electronic keyboard, new games, new dolls, new toys upset about the one gift that wasn’t among the crowd.

And it was a night in Liberia, where I am trying to stretch my toes because my high heels aren’t broken in, upset because the curves I normally can sport are bloated out of proportion.  Tired and angry because for the fifth straight day, I can’t access internet for longer than ten minutes, praying to God for a miracle donor to come and purchase my books so I don’t have to worry about my American bank accounts.  Exhausted due to the fact I have been smiling faces all day that introduce them selves by letting you know that they are somebody, and your not.  It wasn’t that good.  It wasn’t that good of a day, Ice Cube.

So I am standing at a dignified party, panties scrunching my waistline, with my glass half-raised, waiting to gulp this piece of wine down so I can get a free work-related buzz, when this man stammers some things out and announced that his grandmother told him one “the lesson is not whether you can survive the storm, it is only if you can learn to dance in the rain.” And to that all glasses raised high to the rebirth and reemergence of Liberia, and my glass stood still.

Because it hit home.  I cry when I am inconvienced.  When things don’t go my way.  When I don’t know the next answer.  I am upset because something isn’t working the right way.  The people in Liberia don’t have it.  They don’t have what I claim is rightfully mine.  And here I am in a country, stuck in the first stages of survival and a hard day for me is not having my Internet fire up when I get to work.  In retrospect, I had to give counseling to a person whose mother is disabled, brother is crazy, and he in his third year of college is a caregiver whose family is quilting him for turning his back on them because he lost his second job which was partly their income and he is spending to much time in school.

I am standing in the middle of a country, throwing a temper tantrum because of a few items I’m not used to acting up.  Because I can’t download new music, my new outfit didn’t have the ribbon on it like I asked, because I’m short a few friends and people out here are really hungry…really, really hungry.  They pay $60 Liberian Dollars to watch television for an hour, and I am mad because I don’t know who won America’s Next Top Model.  They don’t have.  I mean they really don’t have it, never had it, don’t know about it…and I take it for granted. 

Example, its really hard for me to remember to give my leftovers away to my staff, not because I’m evil…but, honestly how many times do we dump food, or let it waste in the refrigerator.  Abundance is a bad habit we have in the states.

The one thing I know is that being out here is God’s blessing and an amazing way to get perspective of what life is and what it is about.  It’s not about me coming out here and just blessing Liberia via AMEU, with my work talents (hence the reason that I came out here) but instead, for me to learn.   So like my niece, I am in the midst of presents all around, and I am taking time to open each one of them…. I only hope that in the end, I don’t cry about what I didn’t get but I when I find myself in a rut, a hard place, in a room wanting to cry for home…. I find some time to dance in the rain, grateful for what I have.