Timbo is here. I was there a while back, and have been thinking about it recently. I thought I'd share my thoughts below.
Dat magic o! And indeed it was. Magic breathed through the air, sighed amongst the trees, crashed with the Atlantic and shone through the flashing eyes of the children. The warm welcome, the gift of coconut water straight from the shell, the small fingers grasping with fierce focus; there was as much magic in these as there is in the rock-frozen footprints that cross the shore.
The people of Timbo know they live with magic, but maybe it manifests itself most clearly to their eyes. Magic runs deeply through West African life, but only here it has risen to the surface and left concrete prints for all to follow.
The footprints of Timbo mark steps taken on the road that forks between heaven and hell. These roads, swathes of multi-coloured rock, run through a smooth granite plateau and lead both down into the tongues of the ocean and back towards the warm sand. These roads that can be taken by any soul, the prints fit any foot.
Dat magic o! And indeed it was, the fit of each foot as much as the exuberance of those whose paths converged on this rocky shoreline. For most their own paths fought their way through rock and jungle to reach this point.
Timbo did not escape the violence of Liberia’s past, and the small town behind the coconut trees shows its scars. An ageless mother points to graves lying side-by-side; one her husband’s, the other the man that killed him. Behind these, stone foundations protrude from the vines, green monuments to structures that once were. Staircases covered in moss and entangled in growth lead to nowhere; the forest, crowding up to the rain-swelled sky, has taken over much of what once was. It sings its success with a choir of frogs, crickets, creakings and crackings, unidentified chatterings.
Turning the other way, the village spins with life. Balls of rubbish are chased across the dirt by cackling boys. Ladies’ feet tap out silent rhythms as nimble fingers braid reeds. Men sweat to pull ripe ears of corn that grow amongst the ruins. Voices ring out. The song of life joins the choir of the forest.
Dat magic o! And indeed it was, the path that led to this village on the warm shore.
The people of Timbo know they live with magic, but maybe it manifests itself most clearly to their eyes. Magic runs deeply through West African life, but only here it has risen to the surface and left concrete prints for all to follow.
The footprints of Timbo mark steps taken on the road that forks between heaven and hell. These roads, swathes of multi-coloured rock, run through a smooth granite plateau and lead both down into the tongues of the ocean and back towards the warm sand. These roads that can be taken by any soul, the prints fit any foot.
Dat magic o! And indeed it was, the fit of each foot as much as the exuberance of those whose paths converged on this rocky shoreline. For most their own paths fought their way through rock and jungle to reach this point.
Timbo did not escape the violence of Liberia’s past, and the small town behind the coconut trees shows its scars. An ageless mother points to graves lying side-by-side; one her husband’s, the other the man that killed him. Behind these, stone foundations protrude from the vines, green monuments to structures that once were. Staircases covered in moss and entangled in growth lead to nowhere; the forest, crowding up to the rain-swelled sky, has taken over much of what once was. It sings its success with a choir of frogs, crickets, creakings and crackings, unidentified chatterings.
Turning the other way, the village spins with life. Balls of rubbish are chased across the dirt by cackling boys. Ladies’ feet tap out silent rhythms as nimble fingers braid reeds. Men sweat to pull ripe ears of corn that grow amongst the ruins. Voices ring out. The song of life joins the choir of the forest.
Dat magic o! And indeed it was, the path that led to this village on the warm shore.