Robertsfield

I couldn’t see much of the ground during our approach to the Robertsfield airport outside of Monrovia. I suppose having the window blind closed made a difference, but even when it was opened, you can’t see much from the aisle. I did eventually open the blind and leaned into the empty seat beside me to catch the view, and saw mostly haze until about a thousand meters, when the dark, grey-blue ocean faded into sight, revealing a sliver of tan beach, backed by an increasingly verdant landscape beyond.

Closer to the airfield, I could start to spot open field and rough tracks cleared through the bush, leaving stark red soil in their wake. Not a village to be seen, though, nor even a road, as Robertsfield is pretty much far from everywhere, except the chaos which comes standard in the Third World.

Immigration was a jumbled mess, but paled to the baggage claim, where the luggage from a mostly full A-300 was dropped on a belt that would fit in my living room, making it about eight times too short. Almost immediately, the ground crew started dragging bags off of the belt and adding them to a dense pile in one corner of the densely populated room. I was lucky, and had pushed myself forward enough to see my two bags enter the room, then asked a couple of local passengers to make sure they both got around to my side of the space, so a couple of other local passengers could haul retrieve them. Twenty minutes after we hit the ground, the flight from Belgium would arrive. Perhaps their bags would stay on the plane until my flight was finished with the room, but I doubt it.

Bags in hand, I waited for the other six on this team; a Canadian geologist, Chinese turbine guy from Seattle, a Mechanical from Maine, and our Geotechnical, Civil (Hydro), and Project Manager (also a Civil (Hydro)) from Minnesota. We were met by our local element who had transportation, but also, and most importantly, had permission from the Ministry of Getting Things into Liberia to get us and our things into Liberia without having to deal with Customs, and we had a mess of stuff that would slow us down through Customs - weird tools, construction supplies, survey equipment, underwater stuff, to name a few. It was enough stuff to pack an extended Econoliner, leaving just enough room to shoehorn the humans into the remaining seats for the ninety minute drive into the capital.

Our first full day here might have been my best day at work in recent memory. Up with the sun to start, then a nice breakfast on the hotel veranda overlooking the mild Atlantic surf. We had a couple of hours before we introduced the team to the client, so we split into a few smaller teamettes and drove a couple of blocks to what serves as the local Home Depot, but was actually two blocks of small and mid-sized shops crammed into a street crowded with the types of people you’d find at a Home Depot in West Africa – builders, homeowners, contractors and consultants, and women selling road food out of hammered aluminum pans and from transparent containers balanced upon their heads. It was noisy and hectic, but still relatively cool, and the street had a feeling of industry and a sense of the day’s potential.

A few miles away, down increasingly crowded streets, through various market districts, honking continually, was the client, the Liberian Electricity Corporation, behind a chain link and concertina fence. The kickoff went well. The government expressed their commitment and desire for the project to be complete as soon as possible and the consultants expressed their commitment and desire that we take the time required to get it right the first time. The first twenty minutes were softly punctuated by the rovings of a colorfully dressed woman, who ultimately brought in two trays of coffee cups, one tray of instant coffees and adjuncts, a couple of jugs of hot water, a tray of cold sodas, a tray of glasses for the sodas, two boxes of tissues, and individual plates of snacks for the sixteen of us. It filled the conference room table. Why we don’t do this in the States is beyond me.

With assurances firmly stated, we started the hour and a half trek to the project site, a drive we’ll be performing twice a day until our field work is complete. The first third of the time is just a struggle to get through Monrovia, where traffic seems worse than Cairo, but slightly better than Baghdad during the occupation (the main difference being we probably weren’t going to get blowed up).

There are more motorcycles here per car than I’ve seen anywhere. Most of them are Chinese and Indian thumpers, probably no bigger than 125-150 cc’s. Most all of them are taxis, with fares oftentimes higher than the four wheeled versions, due to the fact that they can lane split and weave through the standstill. Rarely do I see one without a passenger. Some with two passengers, one with two passengers and a baby, one with a couple of stacked plastic hampers, one with a folder mattress on the passenger’s head. I wish we had an open car. Not only could I get better pictures, but I could better hear and smell the streets. Liberia is a poor, poor place, but there is rampant economic activity throughout the city. It’s exciting.

The second third is along a section of road running up the left bank of the St. Paul River. A section being reconstructed under contract with a Chinese firm. They seem to be making progress, but are obviously slowed by the need to maintain traffic and commerce along the road. This section goes by easily, especially when compared to the final third of the trek.

The last bit is along a road that, at best, makes our little lane at home seem like an immensely wide sheet of plate glass. It’s barely as wide as the Four Runners we’ve rented, and portions are so rocky and rutted that it’s a real work out to maintain hold of the Oh Jesus Strap. At one point, we cross a bridge with a deck barely two meters wide, although it seems much narrower as we cross it.

Over the final ridge and the project comes into view, a site of nothing but potential.