Everything is branded

At LISGIS, everything is branded. Cars? Branded. (USAID, UNFPA) Surveys? Branded. (USAID, UNMIL, UNFPA) My desk? Branded. (UNDP) My shirt? Not branded yet. But I did see a sign yesterday advertising UNMIL souvenirs. So there is hope.

More on Liberia's general branding bonanza later. For now meditate on the absurdity.

Palm trees and poverty

Here is the view from my hotel: palm trees on high, poverty down below. More on my neighbors, these makeshift shelters, later.

My new home

This is where I have spent the better part of my week, at LISGIS, Liberia's national statistics office.

Traffic accident? Nothing the Ministry of Transport can't fix (or cause)

Some traffic accidents are more memorable than others. This one, which apparently involves a Ministry of Transportation vehicle, takes the cake. There is no evidence that the Ministry's vehicle (white van in the upper-right) caused the problems. Still, the thought that it might have been the culprit is pretty funny, even if everything points to a tanker with failing brakes (left-hand portion of the frame).

Downtown Monrovia

Above: Broad Street, downtown Monrovia, in a peaceful reprieve from the humming host of yellow taxis.

Above: a church on Broad Street, Monrovia, with average Liberian shops and eateries down below.

Luxury, but with a Liberian twist

My hotel room in Liberia is fancy. This kingly space has a big bed, a sofa set, a spacious bathroom. By way of other amenities, it also has air-conditioning, satellite television, and in-house laundry service--the luxuries you would expect for $150 a night.

But even in my bastion of opulence, it hard to ignore the corrosive climate of Liberia. Take the walls. Although mostly clean and pristine, there are some spots with minor mildew and others with major water damage.

Consider, too, my view. From my window, on most days, you can see the ocean. But now, before you reach that magnificent vista, you see a minor body of water forming on my floor, the drippings from my ceiling.

Liberia's humid climate infiltrates everything. The roads are full of water. The potholes are ponds. The drainage ditches, sometimes dry, are now streams.

Structures fare no better. Downtown Monrovia is filled with dour, gray buildings, which would be beautiful but for the decay of Liberia's oppressive heat and punishing humidity. Even the stately pleasure domes, which expats do decree, degrade slowly in the soggy wet. Take my hotel: luxurious but leaky.

How the other 1% live

Ocean-side hotels. Satellite television. Private cars. Expats in Liberia live a life of luxury.

Most Liberians walk or, when distances are large, vie for a sweaty spot in an over-crowded taxi. Expats never walk. Instead, they drive--or are driven--in clean, climate-controlled cars.

Most Liberians have no electricity. According to Liberia's Poverty Reduction Strategy Paper, "less than 2 per-cent of rural residents and 10 percent of urban residents have access to electricity." Most, even in Monrovia, light their homes with candles. Expats, in contrast, have 24-hour access to electricity.

Most Liberians have modest toilet facilities. The lucky few share a single "flush toilet"--which must be primed before each flush--with several other households. The less lucky many use rivers, streams, ponds, open-air latrines, or toss-away baggies. Me and my ilk, we have our flush toilet--no pail of water prime required.

Most Liberians purchase small units--a cup of rice, a baggy of oil, a single egg. Expats buy in bulk--a six-pack of bottled water, a pack of cigarettes, a 40-day stay in a luxury hotel.

Liberians subsist. Expats luxuriate, enjoying first-world splendor amidst third-world squalor, leading lives that even affluent Liberians cannot.