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In Balamah, a village surrounded by a patchwork of forest and small farms in central Liberia, I asked a boy if there had been much killing in the area during the recent civil war. I named some of the warring factions. When I was a teen-ager, in the early seventies, I spent a year in Liberia living with a geologist uncle and his family, and I visited Balamah several times. I danced there for the first time in my life, with a circle of youngsters who chanted and banged sticks on cracker-tin lids. I hiked into the jungle beyond Balamah looking for elephants, and met children who had never seen a white person.
They shrieked in terror at the sight of me. I was also present once when a bush devil came through. He was on a mission to capture children for one of the mysterious bush schools that indigenous Liberians attend to acquire the knowledge and the ritual scars that will enable them to become full members of their tribe.
He has seen the masked devil and has been told of his supernatural power; no human part of the devil is allowed to show. The bush devil who came to Balamah when I was a boy arrived after dark with an assistant.
They heralded their entry into the village with musical instruments, and the entire community scattered in terror, racing to their huts. I was told to lie face down and not look up until the devil had passed. If I disobeyed, my host told me, a curse would be placed on him. In those days, Balamah was reached along a narrow footpath through dense jungle, and its roofs were thatch.