08.01.25

Monrovia, Liberia

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I boarded the Royal Air Maroc flight at half past midnight and by ten past the first hour of the new day we were off on our way to Monrovia. I was twice lucky with my seat - being randomly allocated the emergency-exit window and with one of the only empty seats on the plane being the one right next to me. Good start. Since it was a flight through the night, I bought one of those memory foam travel neck pillows and finally gave in to buying myself an eye mask. Both were an absolute blessing and I drifted in and out of sleep through the darkness of the flight listening to a harps and beats album. The plane’s wheels abrupt landing on the tarmac brought me out of my dream state and I took a moment to prepare myself for arriving in sub-saharan Africa for the first time in a while - this also being my first time on the lower west side of the continent.

I drowsily walked through the sterile atmosphere of the small airport which had a malfunction in the overhead spotlights so they flashed on and off like a dystopian disco, appropriate for the ungodly hour of 4.40am and a rude awakening to get me through the passport queue. I was slightly worried about my visa situation as the only visa I had was sent to me as a PDF on Whatsapp from a contact of Axel at the Liberian immigration office. My half open eyes observed my surroundings: a queue of young burly Turkish men with the same haircuts who made me wonder what kind of business they might be up to in Liberia, a group of three young American girls who I assumed were here for a Peace Corps mission, and anti-corruption posters on the wall which promoted reporting bribery (or ‘extortion’, as they called it). My visa apprehension was made worse when the lady at the passport counter, once I had presented the PDF printout, asked me for an official copy of my visa. ‘This is all I have, I’m afraid.’ ‘No sir, you must have an official copy with this’, to which she pointed out a line in small copy at the bottom of my print-out which clearly stated it. Woops. ‘I’m so sorry, but this is all I have.’ She shook her head in frustration. ‘Ok sir, ten dollars please’. Shit. Axel had told me that it’s a good idea to carry some American dollars with me, but I had obviously forgot to bring any and literally didn’t have a single note of any currency on me. ‘I’m so sorry, but I don’t have any cash. Can I pay with card?’. She shook her head frustratingly again, but then, much to my pleasant surprise, stamped my passport and let me through.

As I waited for my backpack on the empty conveyor belt, I knew that Axel would be waiting on the other side, and it dawned on me that this would be only the second time we’d be meeting in person... the first being at 4am in a techno tent at Shambala Festival, when I was introduced to him by a friend of a friend and he told me about his amazing project. We’d had a couple of online calls since then, as I created the album for his first solo EP, and it was during those calls that he invited me to join him. So here I was, greeting Axel on the other side in the darkness of the early morning, and within minutes a deal for a mobile sim card had been sorted with those eager touts who wait at the entrance of airport doors.

Part II: Into the jungle

Land of the setting sun

Musings from a solo cycle

An Autumn olive harvest

Memories from a road-trip

City roaming