Back in 2009, I took Royal Air Maroc flights into Liberia. They go at silly hours, landing at two am and taking off at four. On the hour-long drive from the airport to the capital, there was endless pitch-black jungle and uncut brush. But things got better over the years. The brush got cut down and people built more homes and businesses on that stretch of highway, and really, everywhere. I wandered around Liberia without fear, without cause for fear. And it was in this place and through this wandering that I learned to be a photographer. I talked my way past the ECOWAS peacekeepers and hung out around the abandoned Ducor Hotel as kids played in the empty swimming pool, or with friends having impromptu pizza parties in the rain on the roof with a view of the Atlantic and the city. I got my first big assignment when Tim Hetherington recommended me for an NYTM gig doing a portrait of the president. I poured over the images in his book “Long Story Bit by Bit” as I sat on my balcony on Old CID Road, listening for his pacing and watching for the metaphors as I sipped coffee and ate papaya with lime. I took UN choppers to the remote southeast town Harper, wandering into Masonic Lodges and drinking beers with old men on porches of plantation style homes in various states of disrepair. Investigating a ridiculous situation that ended up in a copyrighted legal code that few people could access, I brushed up close with corruption and learned just how slick and kool-aid drinking the rich and powerful can be when justifying their advantages in this world. In 2011, I traveled in a land cruiser along the border with Ivory Coasts crisis, paying $9 a gallon for dirty gasoline poured into the tank with a hose and a funnel. I arrived before help did, but told myself I was a certain kind of help anyway. I slept in the car with two other French journalists and a great driver named Richard, who took the front seat while we spread mosquito nets and sprawled out in the back. During Liberia’s elections, on a whim I road tripped north with my friend to visit a farm a couple of hours from the capital. It was a break from covering riots and the voting. We drank Savannahs and listened to Nigerian pop. I left but I always returned. I’d go back to my balcony on Old CID, and make my way through West Point’s alleys and tin shacks and then I’d wander around the market at Waterside and buy cheap tacky gold jewelry that I’d wear until it turned green, and sometimes I’ll still wear it anyway. Now that Delta and the regional West African airlines have pulled out, I’m taking the same Royal Air Maroc flight, landing at two in the morning. But today, I feel fear. I’m glad that I’ve got these memories and pictures to keep me company. And as much as I’m covering a big news story, I’m also going to be searching for hope, warmth, and a special feistiness I never knew existed before I first got to Liberia. Monrovia, I reachin’ back. (with too many people to name or tag. so endlessly glad for great colleagues and friends.)
Posted on: Wed, 24 Sep 2014 11:24:01 +0000
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