E:60 Liberian Amputee Soccer tes feat. Nas

E:60 Liberian Amputee Soccer Tease feat. Nas from E60 on Vimeo.

Tuesday May 4th E:60 presents the story of the Liberian Amputee Soccer Team, featuring narration and music by Nas.

Yaron Deskalo Liberia Journal: Nas

So part of the excitement about returning from a shoot - as you may recall - is looking through the footage.
The not-so exciting part? Transcribing interviews. It's not any easier when the interview subjects are a bit tough to understand: listen, scroll back, type, scroll back, listen again.  It's a process that takes about three times as long as it should.  That being said, nothing prepares you for the right soundbytes by actually hearing them say it, listening to their inflection, and watching their body language.
Still, after two full days, I've only gotten through four tapes.  It's going to be a long week.
So that discussion is exactly why I've neglected to update you on the meeting last Friday.
If you've had any chance to watch the trailer that Brian Liburd (our webmaster) posted on the blog last week, you likely heard a familiar voice. Or at least a familiar voice, if you like my type of music.
The song - over a section we cut on the brutality of the Liberian civil wars - was called 'Shoot 'em up'. The artist: Nas.
When I thought about somebody who could lend his voice to this piece, Nas was one of the first that came to mind.  Beyond the fact that he cut a remix with Statik Selektah called "Blood Diamonds are Forever" about the civil wars in West Africa that created a need for an amputee soccer league, Nas has the voice that bolsters the piece's credibility.  For those of you who listen to his music, it carries a rich blend of rhyme, storytelling, and flow, with more than just a hint of grittiness. Not that you need his credentials, but it's why he's regularly considered one of the best MCs and his first album, Illmatic, is often cited as one of the greatest hip hop albums.
So after discussions with Nas' manager a couple conference calls and emails, I put together the four-minute trailer and asked if those guys wanted to see it.  They would be in New York Friday. Good. I'll be there.
At the Standard Hotel, in New York's Meatpacking District, I pulled my laptop out, and in my 'makeshift office' in the hotel's restaurant, Nas joined me as we watched the trailer.  He knew what he was getting into (we'd spoken on the phone before I went to Liberia).  But this was a way for him to see what I'd shot, and most importantly, how I'd use his music in the piece.
From all indications, it seemed like he loved the direction.  He was particularly struck by the images we used from the civil war to his music. He told me 'Shoot 'em up' was the right music cut for that part of the piece, which was music to my ears since I couldn't agree more.
So the next step? Transcribe. But after that, I'll write the script and start putting together the piece.  Nas' manager suggests the best way for Nas to not only lend his music to this piece, but also voice the piece would be to have him up in Bristol, CT at ESPN and spend a day working on the piece.  More music to my ears.
I've told people time and again that my vision for this piece - more than anything - is to transport people to Liberia for the 12 or so minutes of this piece.  It's likely that no more than a handful of people who watch my piece in this country have ever visited Liberia, and another handful who ever will.  So my task, in telling you the story of the amputee soccer team through the eyes of one of its players is to have you experience what Liberia is like.  How desperate is it?  How much does this team mean to the country and represent change?  And most importantly, how does Liberia's past influence its present and plant seeds for what they say is a hopeful future?
Nas will help take us there. If there's one thing about his music - even though I grew up on Dre and Snoop - it's his ability for him to sound honest through his music.  He's more poet than rapper. And that's a compliment. That's why I hope his voice can help translate that message and answer those questions.
Oh yeah, and it doesn't hurt to have a multi-platinum selling artist lending his music.

-YD

Sneak Peek: Liberian Amputee Soccer Team

                                             Click here to view

Yaron Deskalo Liberia Journal (Back in Bristol)

Bristol/Friday

It's safe to say Bristol, Connecticut is a long way from Monrovia.
After a 30-hour travel day - Monrovia, Brussels, DC, Hartford - sleep in my own bed wasn't hard to come by.
And let me tell you, I couldn't put a price on my morning coffee after ten days of Nescafe.
The most exciting part about returning from a shoot is looking at what we shot. I don't often micromanage my crew and look at everything we shot through a monitor on-location. You always remember where your cameras were, but how they shot it is always a mystery.
Today, like a kid a candy store, I opened everything and took just one bite of each. Yes, my job is better than yours.
I quickly screened through half the video we shot. I can't get enough of the street scenes from Monrovia and the other areas we visited. There's something about those faces we shot. A curiosity I can't explain. Imagine the feeling of seeing something for the first time. For some that we saw, it was the huge $100,000 camera Gregg pointed at them. For others in extremely remote areas, as our security explained, it was a white person. And as I mentioned in an earlier entry, imagine a 6'4", 265 pounder.
Other highlights included our final practice on the beach and the music with the Liberian Crusaders for Peace. That stuff is stunning. More updates to come as I digest it all in the upcoming weeks.
But first, more pressing items, like the not-so exciting part about returning from a shoot: expense reports. And in a cash-only country... yikes.

-YD

Yaron Deskalo Liberia Journal Day 10

Monrovia/Brussels

We spent our last day with the Youth and Sport Minister. She gave us a different side of the amputees. Why are they poor, homeless, and begging? Well, frankly, much of it falls on their shoulders, according to her. Or at the very least, their management.
It's not just about soccer, she told me. It's about becoming valuable members of society. That's what the amputees have neglected to do.
I hear her. I do. And to some of the players, it rings true. But others, like the many talented people we met over eight days in this impoverished West African country, are products of unfortunate circumstance. And even the strongest of men have a hard time digging themselves out of these ditches.
When you see the Liberian Crusaders of Peace perform in the piece, you'll understand. When you listen to Richard Duo, you'll understand.

We left Monrovia on the red eye. We had a special visitor on the flight: Liberian President Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf. How about that? Too bad we packed our camera batteries. I would have snuck up front for an interview - one her communications dep't blew off... Though I couldn't have been happier with the way the Minister's interview went.

Leaving Brussels now. Bound for DC. Cheers to those that visit Monrovia in the future and can fly direct from Atlanta.

-YD

Yaron Deskalo Liberia Journal Day 9

Monrovia, Tuesday

Last full day in Africa.
Our bodies have taken a beating and have been largely ignored.
Yesterday, our director of photography, Gregg Hoerdemann, walked down to the lobby. He said he was feeling signs of malaria. He was tired and achy.
Seven straight days of shooting in 100 degree heat with a marine-size load to carry. No, bro. You don't have malaria. You are just tired. As expected.
We ended our shooting today with our final practice with the amputee soccer team. After getting our meat and potatoes in the first two shoots, it was time to add a bit of gravy. We brought the squad to the beach, where they often practice, and had them scrimmage under a setting sun.

This is my first trip to Africa. But for those foreigners that now live here, they all say that Liberia is a bit different. The worst, some even say.
You think about that when you see these amputees practicing in such a beautiful, natural environment. We're here trying to tell their story, but tomorrow we leave, and life continues for them. That happens every time you finish a story, but the desperation here is, well, the worst I've seen.
Two nights ago, as rainy season slid its way into West Africa, the sky opened up with a barrage of six straight hours of consistent downpour.
Earlier that day we visited Joseph Kolobeh's inhabitable shack. He told us when it rains, the tin roof leaks. As I stumbled out of bed around midnight to the steady, comforting sound of rain, I thought about Joseph and all the others under their tin shacks. They're getting soaked. Trust me, it wasn't just him. It was everybody in his neighborhood.
When we saw Joseph today on the beach - the same guy who defends goal with just his right arm, but yet can't even pump water from the area well on his own - he reminded us of his situation. He asked us whether we could help him fix his roof; he wasn't asking for our carpentry skills.
I tell him and the countless others that have requested anything from a handout to a home for their daughter in the states that we can't do anything. We are journalists, after all. It's not that we don't have a heart, but we aren't aid workers. All I tell them is that I am going to put together the best piece possible. Maybe something good comes from it.
It's not the first time I've been asked. Or even the first time I said no. It's just the first time that I've thought that these guys aren't asking for something to make them feel better. They just needed something to make them feel normal.
We finished up just before seven. The sun had nearly descended into the Atlantic. The crashing waves welcomed the night. Four of us left in our comfortable air-conditioned van. The team watched. Some waved. Others began to pile into their 10-person van. Soon, it would be full with all 18 of them.
Soon, we'd be on our way back to the America.

-YD

Yaron Deskalo Liberia Journal Day 8

Monrovia, Monday

This is a shoutout to our drivers. Hassan and ... Hassan (We also have a security guy named Hassan.). It seems ripe for some type of ultimate hilarity, but none has blossomed just yet.

Anyhow, driving in Liberia is no easy task. The city is a total sh*tstorm. There are no traffic lights and practically no lanes. It's a hodgepodge of Nissan Sunny yellow taxis, motorbikes and your occasional Japanese/Chinese/American car. It's enough to weave in and out of the traffic - which is accomplished by a simple double beep of the horn - but it's a total other to leave the confines of the city and travel down the much frequented two-lane 'highways'. When we traveled up to Gbarnga last week, a semi (one of the few I've seen) had toppled over. When we traveled back 30 hours later, the truck was still there, stationary on its side - though they were unloading its contents.

Today, we took the trip outside the city to Penson Gold Mine. We didn't know what to expect. We drove our normal route outside the city, where one mile can take 15 minutes in the bustling red light market.

Now, once you leave the city, you encounter potholes the size of half your car. No joke. It provides for a NASCAR like environment, weaving in and out of traffic. Then add cars coming at you in the other direction. Good times.

Passing 15 gate, I knew we were close to the turnoff.

And when we took the left down a jungle like road in Hassan's yellow Honda Odyssey, I hoped we were close.

I asked the owner of the mine, who we'd picked up on our way, how far away we were. 'Oh, close. Very close.' Translation: 'Well, we're a bit farther than you think, but should be there within the hour.'

We didn't go but 50 feet when we encountered your typical Liberian off-road: two totally different tiers of road separated by a ditch. Hassan took the road slowly and below us a huge sound bellowed from the car. It was one of those sounds that you don't expect to hear. Your axel smacking the earth and then scraping for 10 feet. I thought we were done, and we hadn't even gotten 'very close' yet.

It was the first time I questioned our driver. 'Hassan, you sure we can do this?' He got out of the car, peeked underneath, and gave his approval. 'Yes, fine.'

When you're on the road in a foreign country, you have to trust two people: your fixer and driver. Hassan said fine, so I said fine.

For the first time on the trip, I made sure we had our satellite phone somewhere in the back. Last thing I need is for the crew to drive deep into the jungle and our radiator blow, and we're stuck. Not a call I'd like to make to anybody - but at least I'd have the sat phone.

So 25 minutes later - the road did improve - we got to a little village. Every time we emerge from our car in one of these villages - populated by 50 or so people - the eyes of the community always seem to be transfixed on our audio guy, Chip. He's a big guy. He played college football. Maybe 6'4", 265 and built like a fridge. I swear they will be taking about the giant who visited the village for years to come. Always comical to watch the eyes of the children. Two days ago, he scared a pack of kids near Joseph's shack. He wanted to take a picture with the group of kids that had followed us. When he approached them, they scurried like he was the plague. He would later say the shirt with a skull on it probably wasn't the best idea. Funniest thing about Chip is that he's the nicest guy. He brought three soccer balls from the states and handed them out after one of the team's practices to the little kids who congregated around the field. Today, he was friendly as usual as we started our walk from the village.

We still had a journey ahead of us. 'How long?' asked our security guy, Abbas.

'Not far,' said the mine owner.

'Ok guys, let's go,' said Abbas. 'Thirty minutes.'

And it was pretty darn close, along a narrow path, winding trails, walking across single logs of water. I'm glad Indiana Jones was on TV the night before.

Mining is tough. These young men work hard the old school way - with their hands. They sift through pounds of dirt all for about 15 grams of gold per day - maybe $300. And of course, that mostly goes to the owner.

While diamonds were a contributor to West Africa's civil wars, gold also played a role. The mining still goes on today, deep into the jungle.

We spent about 15 minutes there, walked back, and drove to Monrovia. It couldn't have been more than 45 miles on Google Maps, but it was a good six-hour trip.

I'm not complaining, though. Not with Hassan behind the wheel.

-YD

Liberian Dancers

Yaron Deskalo Liberia Journal Day 7

Monrovia, Sunday

For some of you that have spoken to me while I've been out here, it's been quite an experience driving up and down the roads of Monrovia. I actually feel like I could navigate a visitor around here -- there aren't too many main roads. But when we sit in our comfortable hotel, at the end of the night, I can't help but think of the poverty out there.
I've seen poverty before. Whether in the DR, Venezuela or Brazil. I've seen tribal areas near Thailand's border with Myanmar (or Burma, if you prefer) that seem to be caught not just in a different time period, but in an alternate continuum. But in Liberia, the poverty is everywhere. We leave our hotel, and 300 feet away - poverty. Not just small shacks, but ripped clothes, kids running in sewer water or playing in alleys full of who knows what.
When we watched Liberian Crusaders for Peace today - a group of 14 playing Liberian tribal music for us - much of the 'neighborhood' down the street from our hotel came out to watch. It was another instance where our cameras brought kids out by the hundreds. Man, they were so excited. It was one of the few times where I saw those large brown eyes of these children without a look of fear, sadness or desperation. There was simple excitement. It proved there was life behind some of these eyes. After being to a hospital in Bong County, driving down any street in the capital city, or looking out the window, you swear sometimes that within these souls, there is no life. Or at the very least, not life the way we think of it.
If one of your senses isn't captured by what you see when this piece is fully produced, then I haven't done my job. But day in and day out, my crew and I think about how we can best bring our viewers to this West African nation. Sometimes it's the city, sometimes it's the music. But it's always the people.
I know everyone speaks of Haiti today. And I have never been - either before or after the earthquake - but for those that have, I wonder if before the destruction, Port Au-Prince looked like Monrovia. Because if it did, why did it take an earthquake to help that place? And what's it going to take to fix this place? As foreigners, we drive around this city thinking about the enormous challenge it will take to really turn this country around. As we see it, there are no multinational companies, no foreign investment, nothing.
How would you fix this country? I'm not sure I'd know where to begin.

-YD

Yaron Deskalo Liberia Journal Day 6

Monrovia

There’s always a great story in a red light district. Like the time I was penniless in Bangkok and had to walk 45 minutes back to a hotel just 24 hours after landing in Thailand. Or the time I spent all night in Amsterdam and should have missed my flight.

So when Friday’s agenda called for a visit to Monrovia’s red light district, my crew and I were amped. Over coffee, our Sierra Leone-based, Lebanese born security detail advised us on the trip I planned that morning. “I can’t be held completely responsible for what happens inside there,” he told us. Didn’t he know that those exact words fuel producers? Anything was possible.

This red light district is like any third world capital’s main market – crowded with people, impossible to navigate, and unquestionably dangerous. It is here, as we were told, where thieves live by day and mass murderers crawl through night.

Two of our main characters live there. We didn’t know what to expect. We had strict orders from security: stay in the car until they surveyed the scene, never stray far, bring smaller cameras, and leave on their command.

Our first stop was with Richard. After navigating through the streets – curious eyes scoping our intentions – we finally made it to a mud shack without water and electricity. This was where Richard grew up with his sister. He doesn’t see her much anymore; the scene is pretty desperate. It’s a converted swamp that in the rainy season can pose awfully difficult challenges for houses that aren’t built to sustain Mother Nature’s wrath. But like everybody in Monrovia, they somehow survive with what they have.

A mile away, which seemed like an eternity through the crowded foot traffic at red light, we visited Richard’s current home. He now lives with his guardian, Howard Napoleon, and his family. Richard doesn’t remember meeting Napoleon in 1990, but Napoleon will never forget it.
The time was 1990. Liberia’s civil conflict was less than a year old. Then-President Samuel Doe was slowly losing power to rival tribes both in the east and in the north and west. He was eager to flex his muscles at the expense of hundreds of civilians from rival tribes hiding at St. Peter’s Lutheran Church. Doe led his troops into the church. His thirty men opened fire and wielded their butcher knives. Twenty minutes later, 600 were dead. From a Reuters reporter on the scene: “The entire floor of the church was thick with bloodstains and bodies were huddled under pews where the victims tried to hide. Bodies of boys 7 or 8 years old were draped on the altar and a pile of bodies was half-hidden in a dark corner.”

One of those lifeless bodies was Richard’s father. Another was his uncle. Richard was slashed in the leg. He lost it completely. Napoleon arrived on the scene to take those wounded to the hospital, including two-year-old Richard. During our interview with Napoleon at his home in the red light district, in front of a group of forty children – an audience we seem to have everywhere we go in Liberia – Napoleon told us how awful that day was. When I asked him to describe Richard’s condition in detail, he wouldn’t do it with our young audience present. So after the interview, we moved away and set up for a second interview look. There, he told me that Richard’s intestines were falling out of his body from the knife wound. Napoleon thought there was no way Richard would survive. He also figured he would never find out because he fled to Ghana weeks later.

When Napoleon returned in 1997, he asked those he knew if ‘Baby Duo’ – Richard’s name to those who cared for him as a child – was still alive. Miraculously, he was. Napoleon tracked him down and introduced himself to Richard, who obviously had no memory of Napoleon’s heroic efforts. They instantly connected. And in 2002, Napoleon officially adopted Richard. Now Richard has his own family – a two-year-old daughter.

Tomorrow morning, we interview Richard at St. Peter's Lutheran.

See, there’s always a good story in the red light district.

-YD

The Ducor Hotel

The main interviews are being shot at this location.

Ducor Hotel Wiki

Yaron Deskalo Liberia Journal Day 5

Gbarnga/Monrovia

Well, that was a sleepless night.
No running water. Malaria country. No AC. I don’t want to sound like a Westerner, but you need your sleep when you work in the African sun in an unfamiliar territory.
Everytime I heard my overhead fan flicker, I opened my eyes and flashed my cell phone. I was going to do my best to avoid those white-winged mosquitoes that have left so many West Africans dead within hours.
I finally fell to asleep at 3:30. I was eager to wake up at 6. Because we had a five hour drive back, the crew was only put to work for a couple of hours. By 1:30, we were in Monrovia.
I never thought I’d say this, but I was so happy to be back in Liberia’s capital city.
I crashed on my bed a couple hours later, only to be awoken by tribal drums. Funny, we are in the city. I followed the noise to a conference room off the hotel (not exactly somewhere you’d expect to see face paint, hand drums, and dancing). It was a perfect end to the day. Our fixers have been trying to track down an African band for me as an element for this piece – one more way to bring my audience to this unique country on the other side of the Atlantic. I think we found them.
Stay tuned to see if I can make it happen and make them come alive on camera later this week.

Yaron Deskalo Liberia Journal Day 3

We're in Gbarnga. A four drive from Monrovia.
We had two guests with us today, Joseph Kolobeh and Richard Duo. Both are from Gbarnga. Both play amputee soccer.
Nearly twenty years ago, at the outset of Liberia's civil conflict, Joseph was ripped away from his home and in order to protect his family, forced to fight for one of the many warring factions. He was part of the Small Boys Unit (SBU) - a large group of adolescents trained to kill.
Richard, on the other hand was three-years-old in 1990. As he's been told, he was hiding in a Monrovian church when rebels attacked. They killed six-hundred. Richard was left an orphan and an amputee.
Meanwhile, Joseph's stint with the SBU was short-lived. An ambush left him without a left arm.
So today, two members of the team went back to their hometown, each with completely different back-stories.
We visited Phebe Hospital where both spent time recovering. Nothing prepared for me for what I saw in that hospital. It was as close to a morgue as it was a recovery center. Everywhere I turned I found lifeless eyes - whether the body was emaciated, amputated or motionless. The images were equally shocking to Richard and Joseph - or so it appeared. But then again, like most of you reading this, I know nothing about what every Liberian saw from 1989-2003. I can only imagine what Phebe was like during the war. Doctors few and far between. And not just AIDS, malaria or dysentery.
Today was the first full day we spent with the Richard and Joseph. It's hard to approach a pair like them. Their lives started on the same path, but the war altered their course. Today they struggle to recover. As they walked down a deserted row of houses at the Gbarnga Catholic Mission - where Richard recovered as an orphan - our cameras caught a moment. The two drifted off on their own, surveying the damage: burned out buildings, a once crowded dining hall now flattened to concrete and weeds, and dorms reduced to boarded up windows and filth.
Our entire crew - which has grown large - stopped for a moment and just watched the two of them walk. These two outcasts of Liberian society, each with his own physical impediment, sharing a common moment of despair and destruction.
We're always told to forgive and forget. Does Richard really forgive those that took his family, childhood and normalcy away from him?
Can Joseph forget all that he did - beheadings, rapes, and murders?
I'm not sure I know the answer to those questions. But for a moment today, it sure seemed like it.

-YD

Tuesday's practice with the Liberian amputee soccer team.

Courtesy: Glenna Gordon

Yaron Deskalo Liberia Journal Day 2

It was hot this morning. But at least it wasn't raining.
This is Liberia. 90 degrees in the shade. Hot.
We spent the first part of the day in downtown Monrovia. Our audio guy, a son of a Cuban mother, said Monrovia reminded him of Havana. Just minus the smiles and the music.
We are here to cover the Liberian amputee soccer team - the champions of Africa. When we stepped out of our van, onto Broad St, we were welcomed by one of the many beggars we would meet downtown. This one reminded us why we were here. He was a double amputee. As our security personnel reminded us, in the last two decades, Liberia had two choices: short sleeve or long sleeve. It wasn't about the shirt length, but where you wanted your arm amputated during the 14-year civil conflict. He was long-sleeve: without wrists.

When the afternoon sun was at its hottest, we went to watch the amputee soccer team practice. Liberia has many amputees - so many they have six amputee soccer teams, a full league. Today, the 18 finest assembled for a practice across the street from the President's mansion on a sandy pitch that is a sorry excuse for a soccer field. They are trying. And so are there coaches. A lack of funds prohibits them from practicing more than a couple times per month. Lack of funds also deems most of them homeless.

It is a sad state of affairs, but tremendously uplifting. These athletes have nothing. Less than nothing. But they still play, and fans show up to watch them. Able-bodied fans.

With an unemployment and poverty rate so high, everybody needs something. Even with nothing, these amputees provide that something. Even if it is for just a couple hours per month. It's a testament to the country's resilience seven years after a civil war. This country is behind, way behind. This team helps them remember their past while moving forward.

More on why that is tomorrow.

We ended the night at the Ducor Hotel. Wherever you live, imagine that five-star hotel turning into a catacomb, full of squatters, urine, and rubble. It's a symbol of Monrovia, but still is beautiful.

-YD

Yaron Deskalo Liberia Journal Day 1

Monrovia, 3-15-10, 7:30 p.m.

Monrovia is supposed to be hot. It's West Africa after all. Today, as we
concluded the second leg of our nearly 20 hour journey that began in
Washington DC, we were welcomed by rain. Not just the rain we see, but as
my cameraman, Gregg Hoerdemann described, "colors I've never seen before."
It was dark. Little contrast. Just black and white. We waited 10 minutes to
deplane. Looking out the window, it was a mere 40 foot walk to the
terminal. But we didn't walk that far. We walked down the slippery steps
to a sideways downpour only to board a bus, take off 2 minutes later, drive
close to the terminal, only to walk the final 10 feet in the downpour. The
whole operation made us wetter.

We were welcomed by one of the security personnel, who helped us skate
through security. Unlike the ubiquitious booths at any NYC area airport,
there were just two passport control booths here: Resident and Alien.
There's also only one baggage carousel. And you can see the bags being
loaded. So much for waiting at 11:45 p.m. at Miami's airport for 45 minutes
when you are the only flight... Here, the only flight arrives with the bags
moments later. Amazingly, our crew's 18 bags arrived... in one piece.
Always a good way to start a journey a half a world away.

I walked outside to a fog of humid air. Rain still dripping and the smell
of gasoline. We were finally in Monrovia. It'd been two years since I was
originally supposed to be here for the same story. Last time I was stranded
in Brussels with a missed flight. You see, flights to West Africa don't run
on the same frequency as NYC to DC. Twice a week, maybe three times a week.
I made my flight this time. I can't to tell the story of the Liberian
amputee soccer team -- the champions of Africa.

Our 2nd fixer was waiting for us. We had four baggage handlers eager to
await their payday from an American television crew. Mosquitos were
starting to swarm. I was only one pill deep of my Malarone at that point.
It is supposed to protect you from Malaria -- a disease even as I write now
scares the hell out of me. I saw these bugs flying, don't know if they were
mosquitos, but they were big. I ran to my bag next to one of our handlers,
and at the risk of looking 'Western' I grabbed a bottle of 'Off' and started
dousing my exposed frame that was now wet and unprotected below the elbows
and knees. I'm still itching right now, just at the thought of it.

By the time we hit the road, it was dark. Just after 7 p.m. I haven't been
everywhere, but I've been to Caracas, Santo Domingo, and Belgrade
among other places -- all brought back memories. But Liberia was
different. As we drove down one road, our security convoy leading us, it
was amazing to see how little light was with so many people around. People
were walking down the road, hiding in their shacks or simply staring -- in
pitch black. Liberia's Roberts Airport is not right in the center of town.
We came to learn it was about an hour away from downtown Monrovia, but it
was dark, and desolate and poor. So poor. Kids in the street without
shoes. People seeming to walk aimlessly. This is just a view from a car
window. I could be wrong. But it looked right.

It also looks a bit like I imagine a war zone. Even though the Liberian
civil conflict, which ran from 1989 to 2003 has been over for close to seven
years, it still felt like we were travelling through some undeveloped
country. And it is; Liberia has a long way to go. There seems to be
optimism, as we learned from our driver who pointed out such magnificent
government buildings and the 'big ass grocery store' that sits two miles
from our hotel.

It's hard to imagine what this place looks like during the day. I'll soon
find out.

-YD

Yaron Deskalo in Liberia, Africa

Liberia is a third-world country still recovering from a 14-year civil war.
Beyond the poverty, many are struggling to survive as amputees, who lost their limbs in the terrible conquest of various Liberian rebel factions.
While they struggle to make a living - some spend their days begging - amputees are trying to find a positive impact on society.
Some athletes have turned to amputee sports, like soccer.
What makes this soccer team so unique is that the players come from a variety of backgrounds - some were innocent victims of war atrocities, others are veterans responsible for deaths and destruction of hundreds.
They now take the field as a member of one team: members of the African amputee champions and signs of a rebuilding west African country when the world focus shifts in months to South Africa for soccer's premiere event..

-YD