What Goes Up, Must Come Down

Last night (OK, this morning), after another poker win at Ariel's (I'm batting a thousand, and I think I've found my true calling), I made my way downtown on the 200 bus. It was my first time using it, so I didn't know quite what to expect.

The 200 route began sometime between the time I left Haifa in June and returned in August. It runs on the weekend, twice an hour from midnight to 5 a.m., and it is a relieving alternative to taking a taxi. Since it's the only bus running that time of night, it's the city's catch-all bus, wandering all around the Carmel to pick up and drop off its late-night riders.

Getting around Haifa is fairly simple. If you want to go up, you take a bus up; if you want to go down, you take a bus down. Makes sense, no?

Not when it comes to the 200 bus. When I got on around 1:30 a.m. and started heading down the hill, I didn't realize I was actually riding the tail-end of the bus route. The driver and I had a spirited conversation about this, which lasted until the end of the line -- at Hof HaCarmel, the main bus and train stations that mark Haifa's lowest extreme -- where he proceeded to shut off the engine and step off for a smoke.

He started the bus up again around 2, to begin the route anew. In other words, to go down, I first had to go up. About an hour after I had first got on, we passed where I started from, heading the opposite direction, to the university -- Haifa's highest extreme.

From there, we made our way back down again, before splitting off to the Technion, Merkaz Ziv and nearly to the main road that leads out to Haifa's suburbs, known collectively as the Krayot.

Then up to Hadar which finally, around 2:40 a.m., brought me to my destination near the German Colony.

Except for the need to get up around 8:30 to start work, I rather enjoyed the ride. I got a latenight tour of most of Haifa, and with so little traffic at that hour, and so few passengers to pick up and drop off, the driver had us flying through the roundabout- and narrow street-strewn city, only grudgingly stopping for red lights in the way. And it was certainly better than a ₪30 taxi.

A Grudging Congratulations

From a Mets fan to Philadelphia Phillies fans everywhere, my dad included, congratulations for your Game 5 clinch of the World Series.

Don't ask me how in the world you did it -- you couldn't manage to put a win together in May -- but here we are in October, for the second time in 28 years.

Happy off-season. We'll see you in April for what will surely be another year of dashed hopes and falsely inflated expectations for the New York Mets.

Cut His Mic!

At a conference the other night in Tel Aviv to discuss police brutality in the aftermath of the Akko violence, the Israelis in attendance showed why the Jewish state can be nothing other than a democracy: everyone has something to say. They also showed why the Jewish state will be hard pressed to ever reach final agreements on any of the issues keeping it from being a true nation: everyone thinks s/he is right.

The content of this short video isn't so important (good thing, because it's in Hebrew). Simply enjoy the exchange between an audience member tick off his laundry list of comments, and others' response.

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A Letter to Mossawa's Dorm Residents

Dear Mossawa Dorm Residents:

Last week, we gave Rania the thankless task of informing you, the four Mossawa interns living in the upstairs dorms, of the need to keep the common areas clean for all to use and enjoy. Even though we know you are constantly cleaning up after others, washing dishes, cleaning off counters, organizing the fridge, organizing the cupboard, taking out the trash, turning off lights, readjusting the timer to the water heater and turning on the water to the toilets after, time and again, someone inexplicably turns it off, and even though we know you rarely ever use the common area, and it's others who eat, drink and smoke there, we nevertheless wish to remind you that others live here, too.

We would like to follow up last week's notice by further reminding you that among the dorm residents are a 14, 15 and 16 year old, who, beyond the fact that they don't belong in a dorm intended for university and post-university adults, need quiet, especially at night, to complete their studies.

While we recognize that you, as working adults, are often in your rooms by midnight, and it is them, in fact, who often keep you awake, whether with loud poker games, watching TV with the sound turned to "distorted" or listening to music from your neighbor's five million watt stereo, it is important to bear in mind their need to study as the diligent students that they are.

On this note, a special request that the guys not enter the girls side of the dorm at night without permission, as the girls are embarrassed to be seen in their pajamas. This in spite of the fact that they are often on your side at night in their pajamas, and rarely do you go to their side.

We realize you are not the sole cause for these complaints. Therefore, rather than confront others directly for a mature and reasoned discussion regarding house rules, we encourage you to participate in the childish passive aggression of complaining to a motherly figure, so she can then pass along the complaint. So please let us know that someone ate the pizza you paid handsomely for and expected to eat for lunch the next day, and we will pass that observation along to them.

You may be uncomfortable with this method of confronting problems, as you are adults who entered a student dorm environment with the understanding that there would be inconveniences and annoyances. We would really like to invite you to our regular dorm meetings, really we would, but we feel the language barrier would be too high, even though everyone speaks enough English, Hebrew and Arabic for such a joint meeting to occur.

Relatedly, it has come to our attention that the basin of the kitchen sink has been smashed. We don't how or when, but we kindly request your assistance in a witch hunt to determine who broke the sink, which now needs replacement. If we cannot narrow it to an individual, the cost of the new sink will be spread evenly among all dorm residents.

Charging innocent students to repair something that was likely unintentionally damaged is completely unethical, we know, and wouldn't hold up in court, since we don't require our residents to sign any kind of contract upon moving in. But we feel that we, the dorm overseers, shouldn't be responsible for anything that happens in the dorms, even though in electing to run a dorm we are liable for its upkeep.

By the way, it is your responsibility to buy light bulbs, toilet paper and cleaning supplies. We just don't see why it is up to us to take care of our property, and ensure the students living here enjoy a safe, pleasant environment.

Sincerely,

The supposed dorm managers

Rights Abuses

I was woken around 6 a.m. yesterday by the piercing howls of Julie, Mossawa's so-called guard dog. Julie spends most of the day howling, screeching and whimpering, because she spends most of her days tethered to a wire in the debris- and garbage-strewn gutter in the back of the office.

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Nobody pays her much attention, except to occasionally shout at her to shut up from inside the office. Otherwise, the dog remains in her own filth and exposed to the elements all day and night.

I don't know much about how to take care of pets because I don't quite see the point in having one, and I rather detest the whole notion of a living thing that isn't human roaming around your home. But Julie's treatment strikes me as neglect, if not abuse.

I have expressed my discomfort with the situation to coworkers, and have received passive agreement with giving her to someone who can take care of her if we can't or won't. But, I'm told, the conditions from which Julie was first received (how long ago, I don't know) were far worse, an unsettling excuse for how she is living now.

First to Future

I woke up this morning to learn The Christian Science Monitor, a national newspaper of high regard and one I theoretically freelance for, will be ending its print edition come April. This makes the Monitor the first major newspaper in the United States -- maybe the world -- to go all digital.

No doubt, the news excites me greatly. It's been obvious for some time that newspapers will one day cease printing newspapers, moving their brand entirely to the Web. I see this as a positive development that will streamline newsgathering and dissemination, and produce richer and more engaging editorial content.

There's no guarantee the Monitor's experiment will work, in its entirety or at all, but it is heartening to see at least some in the print industry eager to embrace change, rather than run from it.

Listen to Yogi

Who else just wants it to be Nov. 5 already? Better yet, Jan. 20?

While all this talk of a certain Obama win makes me warm and fuzzy inside, it also makes me jittery. The McCain victory-speech-that-could haunts me: "Did you let those liberal media elites tell you who to vote for? No! They said I was down and out, but like the maverick I am, I showed them, thanks to your faith in my vision," as his minions cheer and I weep.

For the nation's top opinionators, the election already happened. Bob Herbert wrote this week that "John McCain didn’t get it. He seemed as baffled by the new politics as an Al Jolson aficionado trying to make sense of the Beatles." David Brooks followed him, writing that "McCain never took sides in [the] debate [over government intervention in banks] and never articulated a governing philosophy, Hamiltonian or any other."

See? Past tense. These guys are already telling us what went wrong in McCain's campaign -- more fodder for him should he win.

And what of the polls showing Obama's widening lead? Numbers don't lie, true, but they can only reflect how questions are asked and to whom they are asked, and they assume that responses are truthful.

People don't matter, anyway. States matter and districts matter. If the polls happen to not include those few thousands who actually make a difference, then the data are not very useful.

In discussing polls, there has been a lot of talk about the Bradley Effect, something I was taught to believe was true from a professor who was Tom Bradley's speechwriter when he ran for California governor in 1982.

The supposed hidden racism that kept Bradley from an otherwise certain win is feared to be Obama's downfall, as well. It's a logical conclusion, given that racism, both overt and not, still lies just below the surface of American society.

But On the Media, one of my favorite NPR programs, took a closer look at the Bradley Effect, questioning if it ever really existed at all, or if it is just a convenient excuse for Bradley's loss. If so, then Obama might have one less thing to worry about; only the unabashed racists won't vote for him.

Regardless, there's no saying what might ultimately motivate millions of Americans next Tuesday (especially these so-called "undecided" voters I keep hearing about. Are you guys brain dead, or just got cable for the first time in two years?).

Really, though, my Election Day worries are rather unfounded. Any scientist doing the math will tell you that Obama is probably going to win. His campaign is just too powerful a force to stop. It has too much money, too much presence and too many followers for McCain to keep pace with. It is finally what democrats never are and republicans are so good at being: unified, with a single message explained through a single narrative.

Just look at the unprecedented TV spot the Obama campaign paid for last night. I was wondering what they were going to do with all the money they've raised; here's my answer.

The 30-minute infomercial was tacky, in the way all partisan appeals are, but absolutely brilliant. With the Obama campaign, we've seen all the slick marketing and media tools long used for ill by the Karl Roves of the world, now effectively used for good.

My real worries, then, are for what comes after Election Day, when Obama has won but McCain won't concede, citing flaws in the count. His campaign has already been floating the idea of unfair or illegal election practices; it isn't a stretch to see the tables of 2000 turn, with republicans, finding themselves on the losing end, crying foul.

All the more reason Obama needs a decisive victory, so there is no question as to the true victor in this most important of contests.

In an email to me, my mom summed up the stakes quite well:

"If [Obama] doesn't win, it is not so much what I fear about a McCain presidency as much as what it says about America. I hope I am not looking for a new country to call home one week from tonight."

Hopefully it won't come to that, and Obama won't have to find a way to tell Americans they're idiots, without insulting them.

A Change in Season

I came back from Africa to find winter had moved in.

Despite this being my sixth time to Israel, I have never really experienced Israel change seasons, and the transition has been rather nice to be a part of. I don't mind the heat of Israel's summer -- it's preferable to the cold of New England's winter -- but now is just right, neither freezing nor sweating. Just very comfortable.

Not only temperature, but the weather patterns have changed, as well. No more constant sunshine. We had four days of continuous thunderstorms this week. Some have been quite spectacular to watch, particularly given our view of the Galilee in one direction, the Mediterranean in another direction and the coastline leading to the border with Lebanon in yet another.

Come to think of it, I haven't really been through a season change in nearly a year. I left for Israel's spring before the real cold and dark of New England's winter set in, then left Israel's summer for summer back in the States, before coming back to Israel in August for yet more summer.

I have no qualms about Israel's enduring sunshine that begs for beach days, but there is something quite pleasant in the change to cooler and wetter conditions. Maybe it's because I'm used to seasons from home, or that I'm glad to see Israel getting much-needed rain, or that I can now make winter foods, hot chocolate included.

Unfortunately, the winter also means less daylight. Since the country changed its clocks following Rosh HaShanah, it's been getting dark by 5 p.m, just in time for me to leave the office.

The Mossawa Sukkah

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Arab GPS

Work began at 9 a.m. today, which is something after 10 a.m. Arab time. Shadi, Nidal and I criss-crossed central Israel in a rented, sporty Nissan to meet with Arab businessmen.

The tour was in preparation for Mossawa Center's second annual economic conference planned for December, during which time we will convene Israeli business leaders -- Jewish and Arab alike -- to discuss how to improve the Arab private sector, link it to the Jewish economy in Israel and better integrate it with global markets.

We first visited a factory on the outskirts of Arara, which manufactures sheet metal and metal supports. After photographing the production line, I joined Shadi and Nidal who were in the adjacent office talking business.

One thing to keep in mind about any Arab social interaction is that they must always include a round of Arabic coffee, black as night, strong as the wind and doled out in small cups, often without handles.

Nidal Ottman of Mossawa Center

Don't mistake, I enjoy a good cup of Arabic coffee (it's good for you! Right?), which I define as striking the right balance between the sweetness of the sugar and the bitterness of the coffee (it's the only coffee I'll take with sugar). But easy does it, man! Don't let the few-ounce portion deceive you. I handle caffeine pretty well, but after two servings -- tops -- of the black stuff my brain is leaping out of my head.

Fortunately, the second meeting served tea. It took awhile to find the place because we didn't know quite where we were going, and rather than consult a map or key the location into an onboard GPS, it is customary to roll down your window every two blocks, beep at a passerby and interrogate him on the whereabouts of your final destination. Of course, this only works on the assumption that every person knows every detail of his area, which is far from the truth. Shadi got very good at three-point turns.

Shadi Khalilah of Mossawa Center

Lunch was at a falafel and shwarma place in town, which also ended with coffee. Then it was back to the same office for a meeting with someone else.

Naturally, all these meetings take place in Arabic, which renders me pretty much useless. I'm never quite sure what's expected of me at these events, or how exactly I should act (do I look interested, even though everyone knows I don't have a clue what's going on? Or can I take advantage of that free hotspot to surf the Web?). Nevertheless, they keep asking me to come to these things, and I'm more than happy to oblige since it gets me out and about, and I always learn something.

When this third meeting concluded it was just about 4 p.m., time to head back to Haifa. Except that Jafar called to say he was heading to Acre to oversee the return of some of the families to their homes. So we drove straight through Haifa and continued onto Acre in rush-hour traffic, my fourth visit in six days.

A religious Jewish boy in Acre walks past a sign that reads: "Jews, buy from your brothers."

Shadi and I had dinner at a surprisingly good restaurant, then we met up with Jafar at a meeting with local Arab leaders who have been involved with the families' plights. Then a second meeting. Then a post-meeting meeting. Then a lingering goodbye.

Then it was onto the families themselves, which came as a surprise to me since I figured the settling in part had happened earlier that evening.

Not as far as Jafar was concerned. This is a man who has made their well being his personal mission, and it is in his element that he is captivating to watch work.

Jafar is not a young man. He has a wife and children and a house he is gutting. But when we got to the first of the families' apartments, he was the first one to the top of the eight flights, taking the stairs two at a time. When we left a half-hour later, he still had a bounce in his step.

Mossawa Director Jafar Farah, second from left facing camera, sits next to an Arab MK (in suit) and Acre families who lost their homes to Jewish attacks.

In the two weeks since the Yom Kippur riots, Jafar has embedded himself into the lives of strangers, to the point where he knows everyone's name, what they do, where they come from and what they want and need. To the children, he is an uncle; to the adults, he is a brother. Since that first day when he was breathing in onions to counteract the effects of tear gas (who knew?), Jafar has been with the displaced families every step of the way.

His intensity actually frightens me, if only because he is never not in complete control of the situation (or if he's not, he does a damn good job giving the impression that he is). When the world falls apart around him -- a common occurance given this line of work -- he is rock steady, balancing passionate tenacity with soothing rationality. He has a finger for every pulse, but is pleasantly unruffled.

From the visit with the first family (where more coffee was served) it was onto a second, and then a third, at a hotel on a kibbutz some 15 minutes north of Acre itself. And despite a full day's work behind him, Jafar was all smiles with the kids and all business with the parents. The way in which he handles people -- persuasive without lecturing -- I am taking notes on.

My 14-plus-hour workday ended at 11:30 with Jafar dropping me off at the dorm. It was longer than I would have otherwise preferred, but we did good work today, and I got to get out of the office, so I have nothing to complain about.

Beginner's Luck

I have no idea how I went nearly four years in college without playing poker. Maybe I played once, and perhaps one other time before that in my life, but I think it's safer to say I have never played poker.

Until Saturday night.

In my weekly routine of escaping from lower Haifa, I went up to the apartment of Ariel, Hagai and Bryan. There was talk of a poker game, which I was nominally interested in; two trips to Akko immediately following coming home from Africa had exhausted me. I wasn't much in the mood to learn a game that surely would conclude with me having less money than when I started.

But Bryan took glee in patiently teaching Ariel and I how to play -- he even drew up a visual aid. As it turns out, when someone actually takes the time to explain it, poker is pretty easy to get.

We started playing around 9 p.m. After a few practice rounds, the real betting began; ₪10 bought 65 chips, with a big blind of two. An hour or two later, as we got into our second game, a few more people showed up.

Ariel, her first time out, was dominating. I, on the other hand, was very good at hemorrhaging money, and I had to buy back in halfway through the third game.

The time ticked by, and we went through beer, rum and martinis; olives, Hagai's homemade bread and the homemade pastries Bryan's officer's mother made for him (only in a Jewish army do mother's bake for her son's soldiers).

Ariel picked off the players one by one. For most of the time she had enough chips to simply out-raise everyone else at the table. But I had just enough, and betted just conservatively enough, to just barely hang on. By 3 a.m., it was down to just her and me; except for Hagai who was dealing, everyone else had gone home and gone to sleep.

In an effort to get to a winner so we could all go to bed, the big blind went up to 40. I won a few rounds to afford it. I saw Ariel slowing down, but I had hit my second win. I knew it was just a matter of time before I caught up and beat her.

At 4, after almost seven hours of near continuous play, I put down three sevens and a pair of fours; Ariel only had a pair of threes. That finally vanquished the woman who for hours had dictated to all of us.

The game was mine, as was the ₪120 that piled up. Not bad for the first time out.

"Home"coming

There's something about coming back to Israel.

First, heading south from Turkey and Lebanon, parallel to the coast, you can just barely make out the fields of lights on the horizon. But then you get closer and lower. The plane banks left, it's final turn towards your destination. Buildings and homes start to take shape. The lights get brighter.

Then, you cross over land, over the beaches of central Tel Aviv. Over roads and restaurants I know.

The plane gets lower, the ground gets closer, and you make your final approach into the big, new Ben Gurion airport.

It's the same view you would have coming into any country anywhere in the world. But there's something about coming back to Israel. Maybe the grandeur of Tel Aviv reminds us how far this land has come in such a short amount of time, and knowing my people were the catalyst for it. There can be little argument that from a pure development perspective, what was Palestine and is now Israel is, on balance, a good thing.

But as Don Rumsfeld once said about Iraq, Israel, too, looks great when flying over. Upon closer inspection, you see the faults that aren't easy to see from above. You see the tension, the listlessness, the apathy and the anger.

Many prefer not to look -- I don't blame them. But sometimes, it can't be helped because reality forces itself into sight.

Yom Kippur is supposed to be a day of humility, introspection and forgiveness. So I can't understand what a group of Jews were doing on such a holy day by attacking an Arab man for driving through their neighborhood.

They said he was being disrespectful, smoking and playing loud music. He denied it, but ultimately, it's irrelevant. If someone is obnoxious, you ignore it. At most, you call the police, because that's what a democratic country that values the rule of law does. There is no justification for vigilante violence.

What followed was a confrontation between hundreds of Jewish and Arab youths on the streets of Acre (Akko in Hebrew, Akka in Arabic). Through the police tear gas and water cannons, they destroyed shops and cars; 14 Arab families lost their homes and are now living in hotels with futures uncertain. For some, it wasn't the first time they faced anti-Arab aggression, and probably won't be their last.

For many Arabs, it is a pattern of abuse that has been slowly escalating since the Oslo Accords -- when Arab Knesset members supported the Rabin government's peace initiative, infuriating the right wing and setting them on a course to destroy the Arabs as a political force by any means necessary -- and went into overdrive in 2000, when the police killed 13 Arab citizens during demonstrations supporting the second intifada.

The Acre riots show us once again the farce that is Jewish-Arab coexistence in Israel. It is not much more than a tenuous denial of reality that enough people buy into enough of the time to keep things more or less status quo.

In the aftermath of Acre (fortunately, with the end of Sukkot, the crisis appears to have passed without further trouble), Mossawa Center has taken quite a prominent position, showing up in the headlines more than our small operation is used to. Mossawa's director, Jafar Farah, was interviewed on Al Jazeera English along with journalists from Haazretz and the Guardian.

Take note of how little air time the interviewer gives Jafar to speak about issues directly concerning him -- and this is Al Jazeera we're talking about, the news network created explicitly to give voice to Arabs.



Of course, I missed all of this. I left one country that fell into riots for another country that is coming out of 14 years of civil war, arguably the most brutal in West Africa. The warring factions stripped Liberia of everything, including its sense of self, and killed more than 300,000 in the process.

What I realized during 10 days there was that, while there are very, very bad guys, there aren't really any good guys -- just bad guys and better guys who reel them in only when they cease to serve a purpose: Saddam Hussein against Iran versus against Kuwait; Iran supporting Hezbollah versus supporting the Northern Alliance; Islamic extremists fighting communism versus fighting capitalism. Woe to the SOBs when they are no longer "our SOBs."

Same across Africa. Charles Taylor, though verifiably terrible, was just the guy who happened to be in power when the international community couldn't tolerate any more instability in that region. He was both the symbol and the starter of that instability, so he had to go, even though it was the same international community that for years supported, encouraged or just turned a blind eye to the war crimes he is today being prosecuted for.

There is now a UN peacekeeping force, UNMIL. The contributing countries include those West African nations that fueled and funded the civil war; same soldiers, different color helmet. The corruption is the big secret that isn't.

That is Liberia's reality, where government officials and aid agency workers live in neat compounds, while everyone else lingers in the chaos of the streets. UN Drive is one of the worst roads in the city and yet it is the road that leads to many of the offices for the international organizations and the Lebanese-owned hotels. Why haven't they fixed it?

On my way to Israel in August, I wrote about the tough time I had deciding whether to still come to Israel, or to go instead to Liberia for an eight-month journalism training project. I declined the latter offer, concluding that this brief trip would give me an idea of whether or not I could do it for longer in the future.

I'm glad I waited. Not to say I couldn't or wouldn't want to spend that amount of time in Liberia, but it would have been quite unwise of me to have made such a decision before seeing it first hand. And from a financial perspective alone, everyone I asked told me I couldn't do it for any less than $3,000; the organization in Canada was offering $1,600.

So between Israel and Liberia, it's now a no-brainer. Whether Israel was the right choice in comparison to a third, unexplored option, well, that's another question.

Israel is familiar, there's no doubt about that, and it's a good feeling to go somewhere in the world without the need to acclimate. But I don't buy into the notion that Israel is my second home, at least not like I used to in my more Zionist days.

I realized this when I left Ben Gurion, after a very speedy arrival -- off the plane, through passport control, through baggage claim and on a sherut all in about 40 minutes -- put me in such an upbeat mood I was whistling a tune as I walked through the customs declaration "green line."

From that final part of the air travel process, a set of automatic doors leads to Ben Gurion's spacious terminal, where friends and families gather eagerly with balloons and signs, keeping a sharp eye out for whomever they're waiting for. When they do, there are big smiles, shrieks of joy and bear hugs.

Nobody was waiting for me. Six times to Israel and there isn't a single person in the country I could comfortably ask to pick me up from the airport. Not that I would want or expect someone to get me at 1 a.m., but it'd be nice for the option to be there.

I think that's a good measure of home, when someone is waiting for your arrival. Absent that, ultimately, I remain a stranger in a land where everyone knows each other.

Extraction

If there's one reason to be turned off to going to Liberia, it's leaving it.

We arrived to the airport to find a throng of would-be travelers trying to push their way into the terminal, a low-rise building that puts passport control, check in, security and beverage bar all in one square room. There were separate lines for each, but given the limited space, it didn't really matter.

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Those, like me, who didn't have the departure card we received on arrival had our passports put in a stack to wait for a second customs officer to hand write our information into a large book.

Security, thankfully, was a breeze, since it was so lax. My bag went through the X-Ray machine, I was asked what was in it and they were satisfied with my answer; off to the plane. If Liberia abides by the liquid ban, no one was following it.

Just as soon as we got to the gate -- another building with a seating area -- it was time to board the plane. Of course, not everyone had made it there yet, so there was a traffic jam of people going in and out the same doorway.

Our final treat to await us -- and again in Abidjan, the capital of Ivory Coast -- was the routine delousing world health regulations require for all aircraft leaving Africa. The flight crew goes up and down the aisles with an unknown aerosol, spraying it into the air. Even though they don't specify what exactly it is, we were assured it was perfectly harmless.

And Chernobyl was just an atmospheric alteration.

Backing the Greenback

I'm sitting near the gate of my Tel Aviv-bound flight, nearly 15 hours after I arrived at Brussels Airport, which happens to be one of the most boring airports on earth; the one building of Roberts airfield might have more personality.

Interestingly, the Brussels Airport's motto is "Welcome to Europe," which I find a telling indication of Belgium's status as a nation. It's clean and quiet, but it isn't exactly welcoming. There are few places to eat, and what is here isn't what you might call appetizing. And except for one spot on the second level of Terminal B, all the seats and benches are unnecessarily hard.

For the first part of the layover, I had Kathleen and Vanessa to keep me company, who were waiting for their noon flight to the United States. We slept most of that time, except for a 13-euro breakfast consisting of tea, orange juice, two croissants, a piece of smoked salmon and a small salad. Then they bought chocolates at the duty free kiosk.

After our goodbyes, I caved to the 20-euro Internet fee and started blogging away, and I took in the entire Wednesday night debate on MSNBC.com, all of which works up quite an appetite.

That the most appealing eating option was pizza from the Pizza Hut stand is comment enough on Brussel Airport's offerings. At 3.20 euros a slice, it was expensive, but still better than everything else.

Two slices came to 6.40 euros. When I asked to pay in dollars, the amount somehow ballooned to $10.90. I'm no good at math, but I knew that was way too much, despite a relatively weak dollar.

I paid anyway, took a seat and checked the exchange rate online. Sure enough, thanks to the global financial crisis, a euro now buys $1.33; the airport was charging me more than $1.70.

"Your computers needs to be reprogrammed," I said to the cashier, showing him the official exchange rate.

We went back and forth for a few minutes in a good-natured manner, and he pointed out the placard in front of the cash register listing the food court's exchange rate. As a mere low-level, semi-skilled worker, he couldn't really do anything, nor did I expect him to. I just wanted to prove the point that the dollar isn't as weak as it once was; or, at least, that the euro isn't as strong.

But I always get my revenge.

After lunch, I went to the first floor duty free shop, intending to buy a bar of Belgian dark chocolate. The store was well stocked with all kinds of commodities, from alcohol and sweets, to spreads and cigarettes, all prettily packaged in a way that you hope will fool the person at home you're buying for into thinking you really put some effort into getting that decorative package of six organic cashews, when really it was a hasty, guilt-induced purchase as you ran to catch your flight.

It was in the midst of selecting the chocolate I would buy that I spotted it: a small table with two open boxes of chocolates -- the elusive sample stand.

Well believe me when I say that I ate nearly every damn piece laying out there, and then left the store without buying a thing.

Will all that chocolate make me sick? Probably, but certainly no sicker than I got from Brussels Airline's food on the way to Monrovia, which sent me to the bathroom again and again for the first two days in Liberia -- I hope you, too, share in the joy I get from the irony of falling ill from food enroute to Africa.

Now I'm crunched into the third-to-last row's window seat on a mostly full plane for a four-hour flight to Israel. It's back to my other reality, where I have the aftermath of Jewish-Arab riots on Yom Kippur to deal with. But what I'm most thinking about is, Who changes all the lightbulbs on the runway?

On The (Liberian) Media

On Tuesday, our last full day in Liberia, two very different radio programs invited us to share our thoughts about Liberia and its nascent press. In the morning, a muted conversation on UNMIL radio (50 minutes). In the evening, with the wine flowing, a more raucous debate on a special edition of Sky's 50-50 with T.max (one hour).

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The End of the Beginning

Hatchets, scalpels and plumbers, oh my! The 2008 race for U.S. president has come down to who is better at hypothetically wielding a metaphorical sharp object against a material better cut by a simple pair of scissors. Whoever wins better appoint Joe as White House plumber, and make it a cabinet-level position.

The media's reaction to the final formal sparring between Obama and McCain is that McCain came in swinging, and hit hard. Big Media called McCain aggressive; Small (conservative) Media claimed he "delivered in a big way."

The debate was less than cordial, true, but McCain's lunges missed every time. It was the rhetorical equivalent of pushing your head against someone's outstretched arm, exhausting yourself as your flailing arms fail to reach his midsection. Meanwhile, the other guy uses his free arm to cover his mouth as he yawns.

If McCain looked desperate -- and he did -- it's because, well, he is. As the stock market tanks, so too do his presidential prospects. Even the masterful Reality Rearrangers of his party and his campaign can't reset this game; too much has gone afoul, and to win, McCain needs Americans breathing an air of blissful ignorance. The last of that air was sucked out by the bailout.

McCain's tactic, predictable as it was, failed. It forced Obama to respond, something Obama was more than happy to do, using his exceptional oratory to command the event's narrative. While he calmly reiterated his policies and plans, McCain made huffy remarks, giving Americans no better reason to vote for him. He looked erratic and, frankly, crazy -- certainly not someone you would want with his finger on the trigger.

Meanwhile, I'm beginning to think Obama is under a heavy dose of sedatives, because this man does not flinch. He shooed away McCain's snickering like the buzzing of a pesky fly. He responded to McCain's carpet-bombing criticism with precision-guided rebuttals, such as when he pointed out one of the McCain campaign's chief hypocrisies:

"I do want to just point out that autism, for example, or other special needs will require some additional funding, if we're going to get serious in terms of research. That is something that every family that advocates on behalf of disabled children talk about.

And if we have an across-the-board spending freeze, we're not going to be able to do it. That's an example of, I think, the kind of use of the scalpel that we want to make sure that we're funding some of those programs."

Of course, we won't know the true winner of this and the previous debates until we know the winner of the election. I want to say Obama has it in the bag, but I've been through the 2000 and 2004 elections. It ain't over till it's over, and 20 days is a long time in politico-years. I can only hope some semblance of truth has begun to poke through the rubble of the alternate universe of the Bush administration, which imploded along with the unregulated mortgage market it helped create.

If anything, then, last night's debate is the final in an anthology of debates that seems to have had no beginning. It marks the last throes of the 2008 presidential campaign, unless, of course, you hear Dick Cheney make that claim, in which case prepare for another three year, trillion-dollar occupation of your political conscience.

No, really, we're just about there, and having come so far, I am dumbstruck to contemplate that the winner on Nov. 4 actually has a job to do after that. Makes me think of what Winston Churchill said upon the Nazi defeat at Alamein in 1942:

"Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."

Addendum: The End Gets One Step Closer

Hey, whaddyaknow ...

The Star at STAR

I made my last rounds to the radio stations early yesterday afternoon. On my out of STAR, I got into a conversation with Sebe Giddings, a young producer who grew up in Colorado. He badly wants to go back.

Sebe's day job might be putting the news on the air, but his real passion, he said, is to become a big star. Hip-hop mogul, to be exact, difficult to achieve in Liberia, where the music industry consists of men pushing wheelbarrows down the rutted streets stacked high with cassette tapes.

Sebe, who goes by Shiny P. Chocolate, shared with me his two-track demo disc, which I share with all of you here.

Like it? Think there's something to it? Know how to get Sebe/Shiny P. Chocolate heard? Let me know.

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Meet Liberian President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf (37 Minutes)

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Bridging the Digital Divide

On Saturday, we went to the American Library at the U.S. Embassy up the road, a sprawling campus of Americana. I had never been inside a U.S. embassy, and I was curious to see for myself what these much-talked about libraries were all about, a staple of American public diplomacy during the Cold War. The State Department has been criticized for cutting back on them since, and some suggest the American Library system should be retooled to focus on the Middle East and Central Asia.

Sure enough, it looked just like a library, with a very American theme, of course. (No ethnic cleansing here, just Manifest Destiny.)

We met with about 15 Liberian journalists for David to teach about blogging, a tough thing to maintain in a country lacking ready Internet access. Since there were so many trainees, Vanessa, Michael and I helped out.

In no time the group was tapping away, starting their first blog posts on a range of topics. A few clicks of the mouse and a collection of journalists who only minutes before saw their roles confined to reporting to a tiny country were now writing to the whole world. It was pretty cool, and so important. (For a list of their blogs, click here.)

The single greatest challenge in the post-Cold War, post-9/11 world is bridging the digital divide, getting the latest communication technologies into the hands of the billions who need it most, and training them how to use them effectively. Africa, Asia and South America largely lack the ability to share and spread information as quickly and efficiently as we can in the U.S., Canada and Europe.

It might not seem as pressing as HIV-AIDS, Malaria, good governance and climate change, but communication is about information. Information is education, education is knowledge and knowledge -- yes, you know it -- is power. If a majority of the world can't communicate, they can't coordinate, they can't organize and they can't be part of the global conversation about where to go next.

That's why on Monday Kathleen and I paid a visit to the Press Union of Liberia, or PUL, to hold a digital photography workshop for a dozen or so local photographers and videographers.

The photojournalism in the country leaves much to be desired. Like the articles they go with, the images published in the papers air on the side of scandal and sensation. They lack depth, and rarely look beyond the press conference snapshot, an alarming fact, because with illiteracy one of Liberia's many problems, pictures play an especially vital role.

The poor quality is partly due to the conditions Liberian photographers work under. Most are still using film, and those who do carry a digital camera don't have a computer on which to store the files. The concept of digital workflow doesn't exist.

Moreover, their editors aren't interested in human interest stories, and won't dedicate the time or resources those kinds of stories need; it's much easier to get a quick shot of the latest public figure embroiled in controversy.

Kathleen and I emphasized the importance of personal storytelling. We tried to instill in them a sense of power, that their images can, in theory, influence the course of their country. They seemed receptive, but in all liklihood, their reality will trump the ideal, a scary prospect with a national election looming in 2011 that will demand sophisticated and sensitive reporting.

Some of these photographers, along with editors and reporters, gathered at the Mamba Point Hotel Saturday night the mark the culmination of the media exchange project. It was also to honor Greg Stemn, a Liberian photojournalist with an extensive collection of work from the war years. Greg is a member of our group, coming back to Liberia for the first time since 2003; he has lived in the United States in the 1990s.

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It was a friendly, jovial and warm gathering, with kind words for Greg and tough words for Liberia's press environment. Though there was an expressed understanding that it is far from where it needs to be, like Liberia in general, the media here needs a new generation to take over, instilled with new skills and a new definition of robust, impartial reporting.

Pay, infrastructure and education. Until Liberia and the rest of the developing world build these social pillars, their people will remain cut out of the global conversation. The result is a new kind of colonialism that exacerbates the vast imbalance between their world and the developed one.

Whereas "Colonialism 1.0," of the 20th century and before, was about controlling natural resources, "Colonialism 2.0," of the 21st, is about controlling information. If the powerful (whether national governments, corrupt officials or supernational corporations) can keep people uninformed and uneducated, they can perpetuate a reality in which these people can't make proper decisions about their collective destinies, thus creating a false need for these outside entities to come in to decide for them.

Hence why Al Jazeera has been such a groundbreaking renegotiation between the Haves and Have Nots (though, in a twist of nuance, the people behind Al Jazeera -- OPEC sheiks and British media elites -- are themselves very much the former). The Qatar-based news organization for the first time brings to the mainstream a perspective that for decades has either been ignored or presented from the outside. Now millions of people can better control their own narratives.

Which brings us back to the computer room in the American Library and the conference room at the PUL. If only one of those Liberian journalists actually maintains his blog or starts up an online photo gallery, it will be one more Liberian sharing the country's unique story to the world. And in Liberia's case, it might be the only local storyteller the country has.

Single Images of Liberia: Media in Monrovia

A 10-day State Department-funded media exchange brings us to Liberia's capital, Monrovia, for meetings with UN, government and media officials.

Single Images of Liberia: Road Trip to Buchanan

During a 10-day State Department-funded program in Liberia, the media exchange group travels to Buchanan, Liberia's second-largest city, to investigate the alleged misuse of $50,000 allocated for a new school.

Meeting with the Minister

In this video excerpt, Liberia's Minister of Information, Culture and Tourism Rev. Dr. Laurence K. Bropleh evades questions about ministerial salaries. Outside his office, a young man "mows" the ministry's lawn.

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Live with T.max

On Tuesday we made our first visits to Liberia's news organizations. What luck we walked into Sky Radio towards the end of 50-50, the morning call-in program with its energetic host, T.max. And what further luck that the day's topic happened to be the U.S. election. Naturally, as Americans we are automatically qualified to comment on American politics (I suppose if Sarah Palin is qualified to be president ...).

As soon as T.max got wind of us being there, he brought David and me right into the dank recording booth, hooked up an extra pair of mics and headphones, and a minute later we went live onto the airwaves of Monrovia.

Listen below to the interview. And yes, your ears don't deceive, that is the theme to "Shaft" you're hearing as 50-50's outro music.

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The Road to Buchanan

We had two four-by-fours: A brand-new pickup truck and a decaying Nissan Pathfinder without seatbelts. For Friday's drive to Buchanan, Liberia's second city about 180 miles southeast of Monrovia, Michael put Vanessa, Kathleen and me in the pickup; he and Greg went in the Pathfinder, along with May, a Liberian reporter for Frontpage Africa. (Jessie and David were off tending to their own affairs).

The reason for our visit was to investigate a case of alleged stolen money. Last year, a Dutch women Michael knows entrusted $5o,000 to a Liberian man for the purpose of building a new school. Today, the structure remains a two-floor concrete slab, while the recipient of the cash is now driving around in a Mercedes with a private security detail.

The ride down was about three hours, not bad considering two-thirds of the trip is on some of the worst roads in the country (again, depending who you ask and how recently they've traveled the roads).

The first hour is the airport road, maintained by Firestone, which, in classic 20th century colonial form, has a 99-year lease on a huge swath of the country's rubber trees. The smooth grade let our expert driver, Benjamin, kick the truck up to 80 miles-per-hour. But as soon as we were through the rubber giant's plantation, the track turned to dirt, gravel and broken up concrete. Forget what you see in SUV commercials, there is no flying over gaps in the ground.

After that first hour, we bopped around the cab as Benjamin shifted gears, sped up, slowed down and swerved around as many obstacles as he could; those he couldn't we lumbered over. At times we rode so far over on the shoulder we were nearly in the brush.

The Pathfinder passenger's weren't as lucky, and it didn't help that its driver, we all later concluded, was the village idiot. When we reached Buchanan, it was a good 15 minutes until the Pathfinder showed up behind us.

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The video shows most of the rest: the current school mobbed with children of all ages; the "new" school that looks like something bombed in the war; an unannounced visit to the local police, who were surprisingly helpful and put together; and lunch at the desolate beach near the Mittal Steel plant.

What the video couldn't show because the battery died was the nighttime ride home, which had me in the Pathfinder. After an hour getting the Pathfinder's flat tire fixed, during which time the driver called the police because he didn't like the price the repairmen wanted (the difference, in U.S. currency, was a matter of a couple bucks), the convoy started back to Monrovia, only to have the Pathfinder lose its breaks at the top of a hill with an overloaded shipping truck charging up.

We skirted by the truck and eventually came to a halt in the middle of a village, where the driver began asking around for break fluid. Meanwhile, having just cheated death, we made alternative plans.

What started as a half-joke became the most appealing option: The pickup truck came for us, I squeezed into the cab, and Michael and Greg hopped into back -- as in, the open-air flatbed.

Fortunately for their vertebrae, we were just about at Firestone's well-maintained road, and they got a lovely view of the stars. As for me, my situation actually improved because I now had a seatbelt. Everyone else was just glad to tumble out of the truck in one piece at the hotel, five hours after we left the beach in Buchanan.

More car trouble awaited us the following evening, when Vanessa, Kathleen and I ventured from the hotel to an NGO expat party we were invited to. We requested a car from the hotel security guard. Soon, a man wearing a tuxedo came to us to arrange for one. He wanted $15-an-hour, a bit more than usual, but we were willing to pay.

Except not for the moribund van that barely made it up the short hill to the hotel. And not for the taxi he showed us to next; the windows didn't even work.

But they did!, the man in the tuxedo insisted, reaching into the broken glove box for the lever. He reached into Vanessa's side, afixed the lever to the door and rolled down the window. Vanessa then passed it to Kathleen, who passed it to the driver.

We sputtered down the hill to the street, and starting to talk to the driver, who seemed like a genuinely decent guy. If only he saw the trench in the middle of the street that he headed straight for. First the front wheel, then the back. Vanessa thought half the car fell off.

The three of us promptly got out, and when a group of bored, ex-combatants came by to pull the car out, they wanted money from us to do the job. We scurried right back up the hill to the hotel.

We started talking to another driver, who was waiting for someone else, but insisted he had enough time to take us to where we needed to go. It seemed a little sketchy, but he wanted only $5, so we agreed.

Three's the charm. He pulled up in a gleaming new SUV and got us to the party in no time.

The joke of it is that we were only going down the street and around the corner. I barely had time to put on my seatbelt and we were there. Any other city anywhere else in the world we could have easily walked, but you just do not do that here.

A couple hours later, we hitched a ride back from some Merlin folks, in their SUV that looked ready for war.

WWKD - What Would Koufax Do?

In May, when Michael invited me to join him on an October trip to Liberia, the first thing I did was check a calendar. Just not between Sept. 30 and Oct. 9, I said, between Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur.

Shortly thereafter, Michael got back to me to say the trip was set: Oct. 5-15. Scratch that request.

Still, it wasn't a very hard decision. I wasn't going to give up a 10-day, State Department-funded foray to West Africa because one of those days required special treatment. Like so many Jews before me, I would need to balance a commitment to faith with the pursuit of a secular life, something the Diaspora has been struggling with for more than two millennia.

I put off thinking about how I would handle Yom Kippur in Liberia -- only the second time I wouldn't be home for it, and the first time I wouldn't have access to a Jewish community -- least of all because I had no idea what to expect once in-country.

Would I fast? Would I work? Would I pray? I left these questions for when the moment arrived.

At home, even as a moderately observant family, we go the whole nine yards. There are only two places you'll find us on Yom Kippur: at shul praying or at home reading (and, if lucky, napping). There is no unnecessary work, and our lights are either on or off. Except for a semester in Europe during college, it's been 20 years of doing the same thing, plenty of time to refine the process to a precise science.

I get through the long day by breaking it down into five parts: Kol Nidre; the hours after Kol Nidre and before I go to sleep; morning services; the afternoon lull; and the final round of services in the evening before the agonizing five-minute drive home for bagels, lox and cream cheese.

This year, I wouldn't enjoy any of that nostalgic familiarity, not even a semblance of it (like I did for Rosh HaShanah, which I spent in Israel).

I brought a kippa and siddur with me, all but useless since the prayers for Yom Kippur aren't found in a regular siddur. I made do, and as the sun fell in the sky on Wednesday evening, I cobbled together mincha and ma'ariv services, including avinu malchenu, the only prayer specific to the Day of Atonement I could find. I repeated it in the morning.

I committed to not using the computer and not watching TV. I kept my cell phone charged, considering it essential, and I used the lights because in a country that has so few -- and so little electricity to power them -- I didn't feel comfortable leaving one in my room on all night and day (though the cleaning staff turns them on, anyway).

In all, I did the bare minimum by doing the bare minimum. Though I did leave the hotel for the radio stations, I didn't do any work, instead confirming plans for the days ahead.

Along with the two other Jews on the trip, I decided on a water-only fast, which took on a special dimension in Liberia.

Often associated with punishment, fasting on Yom Kippur actually is more a symbol of humility, and empathy with those for whom fasting is a regular occurrence, and not by choice. Liberia has many people who go without food, or at least a sufficient amount of it.

Much as this realization was cause not to complain, by 4 p.m. something didn't feel right. It wouldn't have been enough to break the fast at home, but I wasn't taking any chances here, where the nearest credible hospital is, well, I don't know where. I had a granola bar and a tiny bag of peanuts I had swiped off the airplane.

The real break-fast happened about three hours later. In the morning, a Jewish member of another UMASS-Boston delegation informed me of a break-fast that a group of expats were planning. Around noon, Vanessa, one of the Jews in our group, sent David, who I was with in the city at the time, an SMS with details about the break-fast.

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I called Vanessa. Vanessa sent me to Dan, one of the expats. Dan sent me to Leah. Leah sent me to Betsy. Betsy sent me back to Dan, and also gave me the number of Oku, the driver who would be bringing me to the break-fast location. The irony of a rapid series of phone calls and note-taking to coordinate the end of Yom Kippur didn't escape me.

Oku picked me up at the hotel at 4:30. We then went around the corner to the World Bank office to get Calista. Dan and Ben got in at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and, after a brief stop at Calista's $4,500-a-month apartment compound, we headed out of the city to Quelu Farms, a gated resort surrounded by jungle, to meet up with about a dozen others.

The sun sank behind the distant hills and three stars appeared in the dusk sky; it was time to eat. The all-American party moved from the pool area to the restaurant-bar where a $25 buffet of chicken, lamb and fish, potatoes, rice and vegetables awaited us.

And here's the kicker: There was Manischewitz! When the bartender reached for a jug of it amid the whiskey, gin and beer, I thought the fasting had gone to my head. And yet, there it was; a glass for everyone.

It was a social, but muted evening, mostly because the attacking giant bugs quickly grew intolerable. I left around eight along with several others.

I'm very glad Yom Kippur didn't disuade me from coming to Liberia -- I would make the same decision again -- but if I have my druthers, I will never need to. Frankly, it sucked -- big time.

The wonderful thing about Judaism is that it is so personal. I can be a Jew anywhere, and in any way I like. I, and no one else, decides what Judaism means to me. The big difference from Catholicism (besides that whole Son of God thing) is that Jews can communicate directly with God; no conduit required.

For as much as Judaism is about one's personal relationship with God, it is even more about one's participation in the community; that's the whole idea behind a minyan, praying in a group of ten. The soul of Judaism rests in the heart of the Jewish people, expressed through the celebration of tradition.

For me, that means the sweet aroma of brisket permeating the house's every pore; fighting for a spot on the living room couch but usually ending up on the floor; whispering, while the rabbi speaks, about who won the night's playoff game that nobody was allowed to watch; an afternoon nap in my synagogue clothes; and stuffing myself with bagels when the fast finally ends.

It's more than that I am accustomed to being home for the High Holidays. Home is the High Holidays. The two are inseperable, one in the same. Anything else just doesn't feel right, and Liberia, for sure, didn't feel right at all.

Multiple Reality Disorder

It's been more than two days since our bumpy ride from Roberts airfield to Monrovia, the former looking more like a regional train station than an international airport, and the latter looking more like the slum of a backwater town than the capital of the country.

The countryside is tropically idyllic. The air, thick and balmy, gives way to deep blue skies patched with fantastic white clouds, which turn into powerful storms. Rolling hills, lush fields, palm trees and other vegetation paint the earth green as far as the eye can see.

Also endless is the poverty. The road connecting the capital to the airport is lined with stunted shacks -- no electricity, no running water, no sewage; garbage piles up. Nearly all the vehicles are for international use so most of the locals walk daintily on the side of the road, balancing their wares on their heads as Land Rovers and nearly broken down vans sputter past, kicking up a fine dust.

The capital is not in much better shape. There are fewer shacks, but that's because many of Monrovia's more than one million residents (about a third of the total population) are squatters. Electricity, where it exists, mostly runs on diesel generators, so the rising cost of fuel, not to mention rice, a Liberian staple, has been crushing to the average citizen.

With an 85 percent unemployment rate, the people, though good natured and well meaning, are ripe for corruption. Even those with jobs often don't make enough to get by. A journalist can bring in $20 a month; a bag of rice is $40. So if it's between staying true to a code of ethics or taking a bribe to write a favorable story, the choice is often clear.

How desperate is Liberia? It depends who you ask and how relative you want to be. It's not Somalia, which 15 years after UN and U.S. forces failed to root them out, the warlords still rule; it's not Bangladesh, drowning under climate change; and I'm told it's better off than Haiti.

Those who come here frequently say they see rapid and marked improvement, particularly in the number of paved, passable roads, though many remain cratered with potholes that border on sinkholes. Traffic crawls as drivers gingerly steer their decrepit compact cars over, around and through the moon-like surface, though the slow pace is probably for the best, as seatbelts are scarce.

Even if the money and desire is there, it's hard to fix roads when torrential downpours undo the repairs. And because the city lacks good drainage, most of the water sits in the streets, turning brown as it tries to find a way to the sea.

Liberia isn't really sovereign, but a state of UNGO -- United Nations and non-governmental organizations. Every acronym is here: UNDP, UNMIL, WFP, EC, UNHCR, USAID, UNICEF, WHO. The whole world trying to put this place back together after a thirst for power, the temptation of greed and a penchant for megalomania tore it apart (all of which still lurk as powerful forces).

It's here, at the Mamba Point Hotel and a handful of similar hotels, that the internationals, and their partners in the local elite, come to play.

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The juxtaposition is jarring. Outside and across the street is a white sand beach, inaccessible because the locals who don't have plumbing use it as their toilet. Inside and behind the walls and gates are $150-a-night rooms, white linens and towels, hot water, air conditioning, wireless Internet and flatscreen televisions; a softly lit restaurant adorned in flora, tapestries and other African kitsch, serves fine alcohol and food from India to Italy, all set, just barely audible, to Billie Holiday and Frank Sinatra.

The connecting terrace leads to a glass-encased sushi bar, where guests can feast on fish imported from Belgium. Last night we wandered in to find a delegation sent by Robert L. Johnson, the American media mogul who started Black Entertainment Television (BET), here to create Liberia's first five-star hotel and hospitality training school. Johnson's "number two," said to be the tenth wealthiest black woman in America, sat at the center of the long table, like Jesus surrounded by his disciples. Food, drinks and good spirits were all in abundance.

The locals working at Mamba Point have some of the best jobs in a country lacking the labor laws to protect them. Abuses aren't apparent, but it isn't a stretch to conclude that with so few well-paying positions (a relative concept, though 15 percent tips at U.S. dollar rates can't hurt), they serve at the pleasure of the owners, who are Lebanese.

There is hope because the people have spirit. People want to move on and make things better. There is a strong emphasis on national unity ("Pay Your Taxes," many signs read). But the entire system has been completely looted (physically and emotionally), so restarting is no straightforward task. In certain regards, five years since Charles Taylor stepped down as Warlord in Chief, it remains a matter of where to begin.

A Bit Too West

I was about to go to bed last night when a snippet of news came across CNN International. A car-sized asteroid was to strike Earth, and in my neck of the woods no less. Excited for the coming collision, I immediately began researching the when and where, only to find out astronomers were predicting the asteroid was to enter the atmosphere over northern Sudan, the other side of the continent. So I put to rest any thinking of getting up in the pre-dawn hours for a chance to see the fireball.

So far, no credible videos have surfaced yet documenting the strike. I'll keep looking, but if you find one, let me know.

Into Africa

Hardly more than four weeks ago, I was agonizing over whether to stick with coming to Israel, or divert my plan to Liberia, for an eight-month gig with a Canadian-based human rights NGO.

No matter, I decided, I was heading to Liberia, anyway. Now the trip is upon me.

I am flying to Monrovia, Liberia's capital, via Brussels, where I will be meeting the rest of the group coming from the United States. They are about six or seven journalists and international media types, assembled by the Center for Democracy and Development, an NGO based at UMASS Boston.

I got to know Michael Keating, the NGO's associate director -- and a really decent man -- after a program I produced about Liberian journalists for You Are Here last year. In May, Michael sent me an email wanting to know if I would be interested in accompanying him on a short-term venture to Liberia.

Um, yes. Quite interested, in fact.

The 10-day trip is funded entirely by the State Department. As in, the U.S. State Department. You know, the one headed by ... what is her name again? The figure skater trying in the eleventh hour to give her boss a legacy worth noting.

If you, like me, are surprised to learn that the hard-power Bush administration supports, and quite generously, a soft-power program like this, it is in large part due to America's special relationship with Liberia, dating back to 1822 when we sent over a group of freed slaves to start up their very own colony, which became the Republic of Liberia in 1847. Hence why, among other traces of Americana, its capital is named for our fifth president, James Monroe, and many Liberians have very American-sounding names.

Needless to say, I am psyched for the trip, thrilled to go and flattered to have been invited. I also have not a clue what to expect, except for all the general assumptions one might attribute to a post-conflict country in Africa. I had to get a visa, a Yellow Fever vaccination, Malaria pills and withdraw $2,000 in cash for spending money because the country has no banking system.

The mission is media exchange and development. I suspect we will be meeting with journalists and public figures, conducting workshops and dialoguing. There is also supposed to be a good chunk of free time to pursue projects of our own. And I'm gunning for a ride in a UN helicopter.

Beyond that, only time will tell.

We are staying at one of the few international hotels, so Internet access is possible, but not probable. However, I will be documenting the experience in writing, photographs, audio slideshows and video. I will update the blogs whenever possible, and if I play my cards right, you can look elsewhere for a published story.

It's feet wet in about 16 hours. Stay tuned.

Soaring to Flight

Why is it that when you give yourself plenty of time, you don't need it, but when you are rushed, you do?

In June, when I left Israel for Berlin, on my way home to the United States, I arrived to Ben Gurion on the tighter side of what is recommended for an international fight, especially out of security-conscious Israel. On top of that, my airline moved up the time of my flight by about a half hour, without my knowledge.

It was my first time leaving Israel in almost four years, and my first time ever completely on my own, without a well-connected handler to ensure the security and check-in process went smoothly. When I showed up to the departure terminal, I didn't really know what to expect.

After my bags went through the unwieldy bomb-detection machines and I went through a first round of questioning, I was invited to a high-tech secondary screening where a handful of young agents picked through every plug, switch, adapter, battery and electronic shmitchik in my bags. Then I had a personal screening at a lone metal detector in its own quiet corner of the terminal.

Conveniently, however, while the agents I saw went through my things, agents I didn't see were going through my passport at a remote location and, in so doing, checked me into my flight. And since I was already screened, I was escorted through a special passage, thereby skipping the regular security lines.

I can't recall how long it took me from start to finish, but for security to go through my bags alone took at least 40 minutes, far longer than I had anticipated. And that was without the bulk of my camera equipment. This time around, on my way to Liberia, I have two camera bodies, four big lenses, a small video camera, audio recorder, portable hard drive, laptop, two cell phones and all the accessories that pile up that make those things work.

That and, did I mention?, I'm going to Liberia. You know, that country in West Africa that destroyed itself during a 15-plus year civil war that left more than 300,000 dead, destablalized its region, brought a UN peacekeeping force of 15,000 and led to the international arrest of its former president on charges of war crimes.

So I thought it prudent to arrive a bit earlier than in June.

I arrived a few minutes after 10 p.m. for a 1:10 a.m. flight, delayed to at least 1:45 (a mere 15 minutes before Israel changes its clocks for the season at 2 a.m.). Less than 40 minutes later, by 10:45, I was sitting at the gate, early enough to watch board the flight before mine.

It didn't look that way starting off. One glance at the crowds in the cavernous terminal and I was gearing up for the long haul, but my bags didn't even get checked, electronically or visually. I was still ushered to secondary screening, but only to be asked a few questions. Then it was onto check-in, carry-on screening (where I didn't even take off my shoes; they have this neat thing you stand on for a second that "looks" into your soles), passport control and, finally, the gate.

I suppose I had a few things going for me. I was able to tell the agents the reason for my travel was affiliated with the U.S. State Department, which never hurts. Also, it helps that the agents are not much older than I, which makes it easy to relate. And, of course, I'm an American Jew, something I made very clear when answering their questions. I realize it's probably wrong to think so (and completely contrary to what I'm working for at Mossawa Center), but it feels pretty good to be positively racially profiled.

Now I'm sitting quite nearly in a woman's bathroom. Why? Because the genius who designed the new Ben Gurion airport put all the electrical outlets only at the bathrooms' entrances. So I'm sitting on the floor plugged into the wall as women shuffle in and out.