Surfing Liberia

Article by: Kate Thomas, October 2007

It was in a makeshift chop house in Monrovia that I first heard about Liberia's waves. The country was fresh from 14 years of civil war and I thought I'd seen enough of its secrets - bombed-out buildings, smiles falling off tired faces, amputees crying out for a crutch to lean on. Through the chop-house chatter came rumours of empty beaches and perfect tubes. I heard snatches of conversation about ebony sands buttered with thick ridges of gold, forgotten shipwrecks and three-metre barrels. The name 'Robertsport' was whispered as if it were Africa's greatest secret.

The surf spot is 50km (or a three-hour drive) north from the Liberian capital and about 16km from the border with Sierra Leone. Charter taxis ply the route for around US$50 return. Stretches of sealed road are interspersed with patches of dusty red earth. Waterlogged potholes give way to mangrove swamps and banana groves. The road is bound by 18 rickety bridges, numbered like the flags on the golf course at nearby Firestone (the largest rubber plantation in the world).

Our yellow Toyota ain't going no further. We throw swimsuits, sunscreen and surf wax into a wheelbarrow and cross a makeshift footbridge fashioned from old railway sleepers and slabs of iron. We walk across single file, one foot in front of the other, as if balancing on a beam in gym class. We find another taxi on the other side.

We throw swimsuits, sunscreen and surf wax into a wheelbarrow and cross a makeshift footbridge fashioned from old railway sleepers and slabs of iron.

I soon learn why the aid workers speak of Robertsport in hushed tones. Tucked beside Lake Piso, where forested islets float like lilypads and fishermen launch dugout canoes from golden stretches of sand, the town is picture-perfect. Decrepit plantation-style houses - more Mississippi than West Africa - line wide avenues that lean against the hills on the edge of town. The jungle spills onto the beach and from the water the only hint of civilisation is the charred remains of what was once a luxurious boarding house. Tired pieces of traditional fishing dhows lie washed up on big black rocks. There is little here but seafood and surf. You certainly won't find cocktails and deckchairs.

But you will find world-class waves. The coast of Robertsport is made up of five points; Fisherman's Point, closest to town, is a perfect wave for longboarders and beginners. It peels for hundreds of metres, and on the right day, multiple barrels and 400-metre rides are possible. Next is Cotton Trees, a series of two points that can link together into a fast, perfect left that alternates between hollow tube and long, rippable walls. Above Cotton Trees is Cassava Point, beyond which are two isolated point breaks that are rarely, if ever, ridden.

I wait my turn beneath the boughs of a giant cotton tree, among beached crabs and kids singing lazy Liberian hip-hop.

I'm travelling with Nicholai Lidow, the man behind surf flick Sliding Liberia, an independent picture about Liberia's bitter past and how surfing might be its future. He grabs his shortboard and paddles into the line-up, past fishing boats stuffed with lines, nets and cassava fish battered in sand. Warm shafts of sunlight fall through swollen clouds, spotlighting his white twin-fin. I wait my turn beneath the boughs of a giant cotton tree, among beached crabs and kids singing lazy Liberian hip-hop. There is a downside to having these perfect waves to yourself - no surf shacks. If you don't have your own board, one of the local boys might loan you theirs. Among these boys is Alfred, Liberia's first surfer. While running away from rebels during the war, he found a bodyboard in a rubbish dump and taught himself to surf. I ask him how he describes surfing to Liberians, many of whom grew up by the sea but have never heard of the sport. 'I say it's the sliding game the white guys do on TV,' he says. Robertsport is a soporific little town, and the only guesthouse closed years ago. Your best bet for some shut-eye is to set up camp on the beach, stringing together a shelter from discarded tarpaulin, fallen branches and lengths of old fishing twine. There is talk of an ecolodge springing up next summer. Sliding Liberia could do wonders for little old Robertsport.

We catch the last of the day's waves and ask a cabbie to take us back to the broken bridge. Despite the abject poverty, devastated buildings and flattened economy, as I look at the empty beaches I realise war-weary Liberia is richer than it thinks. We pile our few belongings into the car and I look out across the perfect sands one last time. There's a slogan on the car's bumper bar: 'Little is much'.