stone age

crack.
crack.
crack, crack.
i have just written about stepping back in time with housing, but today i stepped back in time and into a different world.
crack.
i was getting a tour a some different areas around where i live and work from some of the teachers i have been working with and they took me (thanks esther) to rock hill.
crack, crack.
the sound i was consistently hearing was not that of fireworks or even a gun, but rather the sound of hammers striking rock.
back before the wars here, they had industrial machines that crushed rock. now they have dozens and dozens of people who do the work by hand and without any modern tools. as i walked around, i saw the whole process: first the guys who would burn a car tire on or under the rock they wanted to remove. the heat would soften the rock and make it easier to extract. secondly, they would go in with pick axes and sledgehammers and break out big chunks of rock. thirdly, those big chucks would be purchased and brought by hand to a nearby area where it would be broken down. fourth, the rocks would go down an invisible order of people who would make the rock progressively smaller and smaller. until finally, you would have the people who would gather the small rocks and fill a halved three gallon plastic, water jug with the crushed rock, put it on their head, and walk to the end of the street where it would be sold to whoever drove up to by the rock.
crack.
the sold rock sells for 25 liberian dollars a split jug. there are 60 liberian dollars for every 1 usa dollar.
crack, crack.
i saw everyone from little boys and girls to old men and women doing this work.
imagine a boy of fifteen sitting on a rock with his knees up and out. the soles of his sandaled feet are facing one another under the gaze of his unprotected eyes. every few seconds he brings down a one pound hammer to make the four inch rock become half its original size. after breaking one, he breaks another, and another, and another.
i was thinking many things as i watched this. i will share two. what if all the ex-combatants who are missing legs and are on the streets of monrovia begging for money moved to a place like this and applied themselves to crushing rock with their strong upper bodies? would they be willing to apply themselves to such tedious work? also, what if someone brought in a big rock crushing machine which could do this all at the push of a button or two? this machine could be a hundred times faster and much more efficient, but dozens of people who are just eking by would be out of a job entirely...

pictures - not yet

i know many of you are anxious to move beyond my fragmented and inconsistent posting of words to see pictures. well, i continue to have problems posting those much cherished photos, but i do promise to post photos when i return to the states and have a chance to download what i have taken.

nimba county, part IV

driving out of monrovia brought me directly into the pages of a national geographic magazine. the cinderblock homes with tin roofs dissolved into dense jungle only to be broken up by small villages dotting the lanscape here and there. these villages invariably had at least (if not all) homes made from clay bricks and thatched roofs. at first i had to blink my eyes to assure myself that was seeing was not a mirage but a reality.
there would be at least one thatched roof building, where the palm fronds would reach about a foot shy of the ground. but the ends would be open and the smoke from the fire and the cooking food would come streaming out.
and the homes, simple as they were, were much more creatively decorated from the outside than our own. instead of monochromatic or dichromatic exterior with little design, many of the homes were decorated with dimple designs which gave the home personality. think of an adobe wall from the southwest united states with white hand prints repeated over and over again on a wall. or a geometric design.