bomi lake

I haven’t really tried to do anything much off-ship since the accident. Being a passenger in a car on these roads is honestly frightening, and I kept having visions of being smashed into by another taxi. Or a bus. Or a truck.

Today, however, I ignored my fear (and the nasty case of bronchitis I can’t seem to shake) and piled in with nine other friends to visit Bomi Lake. It formed when a mining company hit an underground spring, and is also the home of a mineral water bottling plant. We were promised a swim in a clean, parasite-free lake (no schistosomiasis for us!) and I jumped at the opportunity. We drove through the countryside, all orange and green and smelling like damp earth and cookfire smoke, until arriving at Tubmanburg.

Not wanting to arrive to the lake and be told to drive back to the ship, we stopped at a UN camp and checked to make sure it was all right. The Nigerian guard assured us that it would be no problem. The three or four Liberian policemen we stopped and spoke to assured us the same thing. (You know where this is going, right?)

Our first stop was Pak Point. The rocky road winds up the side of the mountain before depositing your car in a little flattened area. A carefully kept path guides you up even further until you’re on top of the world, looking down over the lake and the villages and everything is turquoise and brown and it looks like a dream. We braved a less-than-stable metal ladder to climb up into a little treehouse-esque perch, where we learned just how far it is to China and feared slightly for our lives as the boards creaked underfoot.

Pak Point was not our goal, however, so we jumped back into the trucks and headed down to the lake. We arrived at the lake sweaty and excited, staring eagerly at the cool green water. At which point our dreams were dashed, because, let’s face it: this is Africa. Nothing is easy. The Nigerian guard at the gate crossed his arms, shook his head, and informed us that we couldn’t pass without written permission. We tried to reason with him for a while, and then headed back up the road to hunt for permission.

Our search was initially utterly fruitless. We found a Nigerian UN camp and spoke with the guard there, who informed us that he was powerless to give us the proper permission. We needed to speak with his superior, who unfortunately was unavailable. The Liberian Chief Inspector was headed to town, and everyone was busy preparing. We pushed him a little, and he said he’d try to call the man. It was then that a white truck pulled out of the gate and roared off down the road. Oh, our not-so-helpful Nigerian man told us, pointing to the car, that was him. He’s gone now.

We, however, were not willing to let that be the end. We jumped back into the cars and took off down the road, following the elusive Nigerian who held the power to let us swim. We followed him right to the gates of a Pakistani UN camp, and were delighted to see that one of the guards there was a man who we had been talking to up the hill at Pak Point. He opened the gate for us with a grin, and directed us to go park next to the Nigerian’s car.

I honestly can’t say enough about how much I love the Pakistani UN here in Liberia. Every time I’ve gotten into a scrape up country this year, they have materialized out of the bush to lend their aid. They’ve pulled my taxi out of a ditch, given me a ride on top of their load of bamboo, helped up clear the road after the accident, and now were running interference with the Nigerians. We chose a bad time, honestly; as we were waiting for the Nigerian to finish a phone call, the Liberian Chief Inspector rolled through the gates of the camp. But our Pakistani friends made sure the Nigerian heard our plea. He made an exception to some vague rule, placed a call to his friend at the lake, and we were in the clear.

The rest of the afternoon proved to be more than worth the wait. The water was cool and clear, and a little gazebo on the dock provided shade and a place to sit while we ate our lunches. There was even a diving board built out over a drop-off at the edge of the lake. We took turns diving and flipping and belly-flopping into the water, reveling in the feeling of being out of the city. I overcame a lifelong fear and actually flipped off the board; it only took me about an hour of standing on the plank, crippled by my indecision, much to the amusement of those watching who took turns talking me into making the jump.

We arrived back to the ship around dinner time, a little browner and more than refreshed.