TIA (or, 'The Best Beach Getaway Ever')

I've been in Liberia long enough to really embrace the TIA philosophy. This is Africa, we say, shaking our heads and grinning as things unfold differently than they would in the developed world. This past week, I went on a short holiday that just screamed TIA. It was nothing short of hilarious.

The wards are well staffed right now. Dr. Gary comes back this week, so we're going to have to open up another ward to house his patients and things are going to get busy again. But for the time being, things are good. Since I've been here six months now, my boss suggested I use my vacation days and take a break. I jumped at the chance, and my roommate, Maria, and I booked a little cottage on a beach about half an hour away from the ship. We knew we weren't getting terribly far away (you can see the ship from White Sands Beach, where we were staying) but being off the ship, if only for a day or two, and deciding our own schedule was an opportunity too tempting to resist.

As we packed our things to leave, torrential rain battered the ship. Undaunted, we pulled on rain jackets, popped open umbrellas and piled ourselves into a battered yellow taxi. We took off through the pouring rain, stopped at the bakery for provisions and arrived to White Sands in triumph. To find that Ellen, the owner of the place, was in town. With the only key to the cottage. TIA. So we sat on the porch until the rain got too serious, at which point we retired to the empty bar where we sat some more. About two hours later, Ellen arrived to unlock our little haven.

It's a little round, concrete building. Maria, my lovely Kiwi friend, called it the killing shed, noting that all it lacked was hooks from which to hang the newly slaughtered meat. One corner houses a bucket-flush toilet and a little nook for showering from another bucket. In the main room, a double bed, a couple chairs and a little table makes up the rest of the furniture. A single, dim green bulb was frighteningly wired to the ceiling, promising at least a little light once night fell. We spent the remainder of the afternoon lazing on the bed, reading books and chatting as the daylight faded. Dinner was a quiet affair; chicken and chips in the still-empty bar, after which we pulled chairs out onto the sand and watched the dark ocean, drinks in hand. We retired to our killing shed. exulting in the fact that we were off the ship past eleven at night, and fell asleep to the sound of the rain drumming on the rooftop.

The next day dawned grey. Rain came in gusts, so we lounged in bed for a while until a break in the wetness when Maria dashed out to ask for hot water for our tea. One of the workers returned with a huge tray of toast, eggs, tea and coffee. In short, all the breakfast ever. We feasted. The rest of the day was spent in a languorous haze. Every time the rain stopped, we ran out of our cottage, exploring up and down the beach, hunting for crabs, watching fishing boats and swimming in the choppy ocean.

As evening fell, we retired once again to our now-familiar bed to read short stories to each other, our favourite pastime during those rainy days. We were happily ensconced in our sheets and blankets when we heard the hum of the generator starting. Our light bulb flickered on, casting its sickly green glow over the room. Almost immediately, we heard a popping noise as the light flared to a brilliant, blinding white. And then shattered. Tiny shards of green glass covered every corner, blanketing the bed and embedding themselves in our hair. After the initial exclamations of Lord, help us! we sat in stunned silence for a moment before breaking into uncontrollable laughter. TIA.

We shook out our bedding and crawled around the room collecting pieces of glass for about fifteen minutes before Ellen, our hostess, showed up. She came to help us sweep, and we were happily employed at that task when we heard the same popping sound again. We looked over at the fan as it started to glow orange and then caught fire. We screamed, Ellen shouted something unintelligible and practically commando-rolled over to unplug the red-hot unit. It was only then, after everything electrical in our room had committed fiery suicide, that she informed us that they had hooked up a new generator that night. It was making too much current, and things were blowing up all over the compound. Maybe we shouldn't have turned on the light. TIA, baby. We spent the rest of the evening happily employed in playing cards and reading stories by the cozy (and much safer) light of a kerosene lantern, falling asleep again in the hopes that our final day would be a sunny one.

True to form, it wasn't. When we woke up, the rain was bucketing down, and we resigned ourselves to hours more of cards and books and laziness. Not a bad deal, honestly. It was wonderful just to be away from the constant thrum of the engines and the inevitability of constant human interaction that defines this ship. I do love people, but being away from them at times provides such a welcome refreshment. Plus, I can't think of anything I'd rather do in the pouring rain than lie propped up in bed with a good book and a hot cup of tea.

Just before lunch, the rain stopped. We ventured outside and were met by our first glimmer of hope; a sliver of blue sky just above the horizon. Emboldened by this promise, we applied sunscreen, put on our suits and prepared to enjoy a real day at the beach. We were not disappointed. The sun gained strength, the clouds scudded away across an ever-bluer sky, and soon we were having to reapply that sunscreen. Joined by some friends from the ship, we played in the waves and lounged on the beach until the growing rumble in our tummies reminded us that it was almost time to get back to the ship. We packed up, passed out our extra supplies of milk and water bottles to the security guards at the compound, called our faithful taxi-driving friend Alfred to come get us, and bid a reluctant farewell to our killing shed. We arrived back to the ship, triumphantly sun-kissed and confused all our friends by trying to explain what a wonderful time we'd had. At the beach. In the pouring rain.

There are some vacations that you'll never forget. I'm pretty sure this was one of them.

(The rest of the photos are here.)