Listening to the Land

Words and photography by Ed Dingli

In the furthest corner of Northern Liberia, close to the borders of Guinea & Sierra Leone, lies a little village named Lisco Camp, at the base of the Wologizi mountain range and surrounded by dense jungle that is home to a multitude of diverse species. I am here with Axel Drioli to document his ‘Sounds Across Continents’ project in which he follows the migration route of birds, recording their songs and collaborating with local musicians and village folk to create audio documentaries. ‘Birds connect us all’, he says.

The alarm goes off at 5am and we snooze for a little longer, reluctant to let go of dreamworld and step into the darkness of the morning. But the distant hum of Moses’ motorbike grows louder as he approaches and forces us to do so. He is early, as always. This time Mama Sata rides with him. She has prepared some food for us to take on our long hike. We plan to go as deep into the jungle as we can today and therefore won’t be returning to the village at lunchtime.

It is colder than usual and still dark as we set off in position with Mama’s food strapped tightly to the back. Moses goes at full throttle as we cross the savannah until we reach the perimeter of the forest. As we enter the jungle, the paths get narrower and narrower, and I sometimes have to reach out in front and push away stray vegetation that would otherwise smack Moses in the face. He wears clear goggles underneath his beanie that reads ‘COOL’ in large letters. We need to disembark a couple of times so he can lay a plank across a stream or duck under a fallen tree trunk. At one point, we are freewheeling down a steep and uneven gravel hill and almost tumble into a hedge. I ask Moses if we should get off, and he replies with, “Yes. Prevention is better than cure.”

Eventually, the forest is so dense that we cannot carry on with the bike any further, so we leave it behind, strap our belongings to our backs and set off on foot into the dense unknown. An African emerald cuckoo calls out from the treetops towering above. It is impossible to see, but its call rings out loudly below. In the distance, a great blue turaco makes its presence felt. This one I can now make out thanks to its distinctive screech.

We hike deeper into the lush rainforest, following Moses, who somehow finds a path through despite the overgrown vegetation. Every now and then we climb over or duck under a fallen tree and cross streams on stepping stones. When there aren’t any stepping stones, we create a path ourselves by dropping in some large stones. The soundscape is incredible, and we stop many times for Axel to record, as Moses and I stand aside in silence and bewilderment. I now realise why we spent the first few days outside the forest, as it is impossible to spot anything through the thickness of the dense vegetation. We do, however, get lucky a couple of times. A large owl takes flight overhead, mobbed by screeching smaller birds who chase it away. Axel says this is how smaller birds protect their nests from birds of prey. Another time, a couple of yellow-casqued hornbills fly noisily above, making an ambulance-like siren sound.

We hike for six straight hours into the dense jungle. The fact that it is home to chimpanzees and many other wild primates keeps me alert most of the time. I am both incredibly excited and somewhat apprehensive about the thought of coming face to face with them. At some point, we reach a river that’s too deep for stepping stones, so we remove our socks and shoes, roll up our trousers and wade across it, picking up a few stones to take home.

On the other side of the river is the first and only clearing we have come across, with an abandoned hunters’ shelter built in the middle of it. It is a simple construction of sticks and branches that make up an A-frame, with UNHCR tarps – the kind you would see in a refugee camp – providing the waterproofing and shade. Inside there are a couple of pots and pans, a small handmade trap, a fire pit and two beds made of thin sticks placed horizontally over supporting branches. The outside space is rather pleasant and we choose it for a much-needed rest and lunch break.

We have been walking pretty much non-stop since dawn. Moses brings out Mama Sata’s dishes, carefully wrapped up in cloth – the African way. It is the usual cassava and king rat stew, but it also contains small dried fish, which I eat with the cassava and rice as Moses and Axel gladly eat the meat. The three of us dig our spoons into the same dish. I take the opportunity to get to know a little bit more about Moses. He is quiet and friendly, a gentle soul. He is 25 years old and dreams of becoming a civil engineer. His mother passed away when he was a child, so he paid for his own secondary education by working on farms. He now owns his own little house in the village, which he shares with his brother. Together, they own a small plot of land on which they farm potatoes, cassava, pineapples and bananas – of which he brings us a bunch most mornings.

The topic of war comes up. I ask if it reached Lisco village and he says it did… Everyone had to flee the village and leave everything behind. He was a young child but still remembers it. They survived by hiding in this very bush and eating cassava. Thankfully, it seems he was too young to be recruited as a child soldier, but the ones slightly older than him (i.e. my age) weren’t as lucky. He says that people from the village joined either side – the rebels or the common soldiers. I guess it depends which side your tribe was aligned to. I ask if those who went to fight returned to the village after. “Those who survived, yes.” “And did they manage to live in peace after having fought on different sides?.” “Yes, after the war, everything was ok. People got back to work.”

I wonder about how difficult it must have been for families to settle back next to neighbours who fought on opposing sides and the trauma that must still haunt the minds of the older ones who went through it. Not that there is any sign of it here, in this peaceful place. From the little time I’ve spent here, you’d never guess the recent hardship they have been through.

When we return to Lisco camp, Chief Kpoto tells us that the villagers are very happy to have us around and are very impressed that we like to eat their food. It makes the king-rat stew a bit more digestible and makes me appreciate the welcomeness we have received from the village folk. I reflect guiltily on whether they would be welcomed with such open arms if they were to visit our own villages back home.

In the West, we would call a place like this ‘undeveloped’. But if ours is the ‘developed’ world, with so much disconnection – not just to each other but to our natural environment too – is that the way we wish places like this to develop?

In a way, the lifestyle in this tiny, unassuming, remote village in the North of Liberia is what many in Europe dream of returning to. It is almost completely self-sustainable – they grow their own rice, coffee and seasonal vegetables. All the waste produced goes back into the ground for the chickens, dogs and birds to feed on – who poop it back into the ground, which in turn acts as fertiliser for the trees and plants to grow again, making for a completely circular system. The only meat is hunted and therefore appreciated by the village folk. And the buildings are made out of the very same material upon which they stand – mud bricks that are dug out of the ground and left to dry, and then constructed in a frugal way. And once the humans that occupy them are long gone, they will return to the ground from which they came.

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