Row, Row

One of the best parts of Buchanan has always been the beach. A less mentioned aspect of our maritime location are the multiple rivers running through our area. Apparently there are three, though I can only name one of them, the St. John River (or St. John’s, which just goes to show how little attention I pay). The closest I’ve ever come to the rivers is the one time I walked to it, went halfway across the bridge, stared longingly into it’s cool depths where I saw what looked to be frog-lizard mutations and possibly the start of schistosomiasis. So I didn’t go in.

Last Saturday we again went to the river – which, I couldn’t tell you – this time, to cross via canoe. The idea was suggested by some missionary friends who had done it before, and swore that the cute, tiny houses just down the river would be worth it.

Upon arriving, we see four canoes, unreliable looking, clearly on their last legs, and barely able to carry a bird down the current let alone full-grown adults. Standing next to them are their equally unreliable boatsmen. I swiftly assess the situation and announce that myself, Natalie, and another similarly proportioned girl will take one canoe. I left the other 6, much larger, passengers to fight it out for two more canoes.

We wade through the water and take our seats, and already I feel us listing to the left. Apparently so does our driver, Chris. He motions for us to scoot to our right, which we all do in unison, and the canoe wobbles precariously. “Moves like that our going to put us in the water, Jessica,” Natalie warns.

Chris seems able, more so than the old grandpa paddling the other canoe. He’s quiet though. I know because when I’m nervous I don’t shut my mouth, and despite all my banal, stupid questions, I can’t get him to say more than five words.

“So Chris, you come out here often?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“Great. You go to school?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Bassa High.”

“Oh! You like it?”

Silence.

“No?” I mutter. “Okay.” And we continue wobbling back and forth as we make our way down the river.

At one point, after what seems to me a close call, I decide to just stare at the bottom of the canoe. If I can’t see us tipping, maybe I’ll be less apt to try and correct. Because every time I correct, I over correct, nearly tipping us.

“You’re going to be the one to put us in the water,” the other missionary girl tells me. Why is this all my fault? There’s three other people in the canoe! All I can think about is the book I just read where a pilot was shot down in the Pacific and spent 46 days stranded on an inflatable life raft beating away sharks, and though the water’s only about three feet deep, I imagine that’s just deep enough for sharks. Poor timing, my literary choice.

Finally we reach shore, and I’m the first one out, practically tipping the canoe – again – in my eagerness to leave its unstable body.

The place we end up is called Edina, apparently a play on Indiana, or so I’ve heard. It’s one of the oldest villages around, and was one of the first places to be settled when Liberia was founded. You can tell by the architecture, very reminiscent of southern, colonial structures in the U.S. Edina is deserted though. After the war, those living there were too worried to come back. Since then, a majority of the houses (wood) have burned down, a large number remain empty, and a few are still inhabited, the residents lovingly patching up holes in the roofs, adding a new coat of paint here or there.

It seems like a lost cause though. The land is slowly retaking what the settlers first took. Every house in one way or another is being reclaimed by nature. At one house greens sprout from the gutter. Another has been completely overtaken by a mango tree, so that the first thing seen is the tree, the second the house within. Trees are sprouting up through the cracked floors, bugs entering through the broken ceilings.

Amid this though there’s incredible tranquility. With no one around, it’s peaceful, much more than my area of Buchanan, where even in the middle of the night there seems to be something making noise. The beach too is magnificent. Untouched, the waves crashing like bolts of lightning. I didn’t go in. It looked too powerful.

And then all too soon we’re back at the canoes, readying for our 20-minute glide back to the original shore.

My first observation upon stepping in is that our canoe seems to have taken on a bit of water in our absence. And yes, upon closer inspection, I can see a leak through which water is quietly filtering and pooling below us.

“Uh, we’ve got a leak guys,” I inform them. No one cares.

I return to my staring-at-my-feet strategy, but this time there’s no comfort, because all I see is that we’re sinking, albeit slowly.

“Don’t look at the water, Jess,” Natalie tries to warn me. But too late. We cross through a patch of water that’s clearly being used as a toilet, and the brown bubbles floating on the surface make me want to vomit. Please, God, if you’re going to tip us, don’t let it be here. I see the water at my feet that’s trickling through the crack in the canoe’s exterior, and imagine all the bacteria wiggling between my toes. Slowly I try to angle my feet so they’re out of the water.

Finally, alas, we reach shore, and I’m so happy I could kiss the ground but for the Liberians all standing there laughing at me.

At the end of the day, looking back, it was probably not something to be so worried about. But everyone has their fears right?

And to the missionary woman who, after Natalie told her the canoes scared me, said with saccharine insincerity, “You knew the water was only three feet deep right?”, all I have to say is this: There’s a reason you weren’t in my canoe.