“Imagine A Mirror Of J-Bay Combined With A Reversed Gold Coast And Mini Skeleton Bay”

Created by our friends at Wasted Talent, with support from Monster Energy. Words by Alexei Obolensky.

The road to Liberia — Robertsport, to be exact — is long, winding, and not for the fainthearted. A 12-hour layover in Casablanca, followed by a flight so rowdy it rivals a Friday-night Ibiza run. Immigration on arrival is, to put it bluntly, a shit show. A man appears, dressed in 2008 Chelsea Away kit and takes our passports. We’re too tired to care. Eventually, the passports return, Visas freshly stamped thanks to some pre-trip strings pulled. We drag coffins and Pelican cases into the hustle, noise, and heat that only Africa can conjure. 

“Give me your fucking shoes,” a man demands. I politely disappoint him.

Coffins are strapped to the wooden roof rack of a weathered Nissan. Cigarettes are lit, Pelican cases balanced on our laps. The key turns — cough, sputter, and a plume of black smoke — and we’re on the way. Six hours of dirt roads lie ahead. 

…

“Only Club Beer left.” 

“Is it cold?” 

The display bottle is grabbed from the shelf, its dust ceremonially wiped clean.

“No.” 

Liberia, despite being beautiful, isn’t famed for its infrastructure. Paved roads are a rarity, and the heat — unrelenting, searing, the kind that hovers at 45°C in the shade — makes cold drinks less a convenience, more a fleeting treasure. Below lies the order of drinks in preference, as verified by our crew. Take two away from the list daily, thanks to inevitable sellouts. By day three, you’re left with warm Club or water. 

It’s a lay day. Another one. Liberian lay days are slow affairs. We wait for Club Beers to cool and fantasise about a mythical Tsing Tao restock, while getting gently stoned on soft weed from Sierra Leone. Life, for all its imperfections, feels good.

If you’re ever found yourself in Bali, Costa Rica, or Sri Lanka, wondering, “what was this like 100 years ago?” — this is your answer. 

The debate between unspoilt paradise and blown-out tourism is a fascinating one. What’s needed here is a charming American on secondment to USAID, tasked with cracking the code of Liberian tourism and figuring out how to strike the right balance.

The pros of unspoiled paradise? They’re in the name. Paradise, untouched. The cons of blown-out tourism? Equally obvious. Yet the downsides of unspoiled paradise rarely get airtime: it’s hard to reach, accommodations are few, and creature comforts are limited. Likewise, the pros of blown-out tourism — paved roads, air conditioning, a steady flow of cold beer, and menus that venture beyond rice and fish — are things you don’t think about until they’re gone.

But none of it really matters. Robertsport, for now, is paradise. 

We’re greeted by a run of fun waves on arrival and spend the first few days surfing our brains out, knowing a slew of lay days looms on the horizon. Uptown Robertsport might just be one of the most wave-condensed destinations we’ve ever had the honour of visiting.

Imagine a mirror of J-Bay — its rocks and wave quality — combined with a reversed Gold Coast — its sand and water colour — and a mini Skeleton Bay tucked at the end of the point. This setup leads into the fishing village of Robertsport, framed by the sprawling, mangrove-lined Lake Piso behind.

Each day begins at dawn. We gather our essentials and embark on the ritual morning walk. “Going for a walk” here means trekking to the furthest point, checking the waves along the way back, and making it home by lunchtime.

We score — not a score score, but enough to count it. Eli throws tail, BG carves on a Frankenstein of a board that shouldn’t work but does, and William delivers his usual twin-fin masterclass. Between sessions, we pore over swell maps, dissecting wind, period, and energy, led by our all-things-Africa guru AVG. The potential here feels boundless. Plans for a return during a proper swell event are already in motion.

Word has spread — we’ve got boards to give away. Fins, leggies, the whole stash — and the groms are hungry. Peter, manager of the Robertsport Surf Club, takes charge, ensuring the boards are distributed fairly between the kids. With the Liberian nationals around the corner, the better boards are stashed away in preparation for heats. 

The Groms of Robertsport are everywhere — never annoying, always inquisitive. They sit with camera crews on the beach, hang out on our balcony with us, and watch the world go by.

Some mornings, we sit in silence, waiting for waves. Other moments are punctuated with howls of laughter. The soft thud of a falling coconut sends the kids running into the bush to see where it landed. Once they find it, they crack it open and share it around with the crew. 

We notice some of the kids are pretty cut up, likely from running through the bush, so we take a moment to tend to their wounds. Word gets out, and before long, we’ve got ourselves a makeshift NHS walk-in clinic, with a line of kids forming at our steps.

Some days, the kids are off to school; other days, they don’t. It’s hard to figure out the school schedule, but we do see kids getting scolded by the community for surfing when they should be in class, and honestly, they’re right to do so. There’s a strong focus on education in Liberia, and with a literacy rate of just 48% — even lower in rural areas and for women — it’s clear that education will play a pivotal role in shaping the country’s future.

In the water, the talent of the local kids is undeniable, with 90% identifying as goofy footers, which makes us wonder if they’ve ever surfed a right. We marvel at some of their techniques; without technical instruction and limited access to surf videos, they’ve just worked out their own way of doing it. Boards are ridden in all sizes and shapes, like a living museum of surfboard history, in all stages of repair and disrepair. One kid stands out, riding an old Channel Islands board with every fin box missing.

“I’m a girl boss, a general, a surfer – 8 years in the game.”

We meet Faith and Patience, the top female surfers from Robertsport. Surfing has taken Faith places — first giving her a scholarship through school, and now sending her to university in Monrovia, where she’s studying agricultural management. These girls are role models in their community and inspire the younger girls to follow their path.

Liberian transport works like this: motorcycle taxi or walk. We typically go for the former. Liberian motorcycle taxis are a bit like European ones, in that you can negotiate your fare upfront — though it can vary slightly depending on stops, traffic, and extra charges for luggage. But that’s where the similarities end. The rest is chaos. Beautiful, 125cc-powered chaos.

It’s standard to pile four people onto a single bike, or if you’ve got kids along for the ride, no problem, sir — up to six people can fit. We zip around on these bikes nearly every day, no shoes, no helmets, hair in the wind, and DEET stinging our eyes. The drivers are all male, and aside from fishing, being a motorcycle taxi driver seems to be the main — and most aspirational — job for men aged 18-30. They hoot and holler, always on the horn, clutching the day’s cash or, for those who’ve climbed the ladder, flaunting their Gucci or Supreme fanny packs.

We (somewhat foolishly, in hindsight) decide it would be a good idea to round up every biker we can for a shoot. The purpose of this shoot? Still unclear, but it’s gracing these pages, and for those of you who’ve seen M.I.A.’s subliminal music video for Bad Girls, you’ll get the reference.

5 p.m. rolls around, and a ragtag group of bikers has shown up, enticed by our promise of 100 Liberian Dollars for anyone who brings a bike. We line the lads up in a V-formation. They do one run while a curious crowd watches. We regroup by the football pitch for another take. But that’s the last semblance of order we see.

Our carefully planned V-formation, complete with camera crews, radios, and all the trimmings, has completely unraveled. Now, there’s a crowd of about a hundred, and fifty bikes are rioting on the main road — wheelies, burnouts, eight people per bike, some guys even standing on the handlebars, nearly surfing the bikes. One guy eats it hard — three on the bike, standing on the handlebars, and boom, it all goes south. The crowd goes wild.

We are masters of disaster, and things are spiralling out of control. You can taste the testosterone in the air. This is equal parts exactly how we hoped it would go, and equal parts terrifying. There’s no clear way to end what we’ve unleashed.

The Videoclub is where football-obsessed Liberians gather to watch the Premier League, Champions League, and La Liga. Football in Liberia is a huge deal. Local team games, held on Wednesdays and Saturdays (we even witnessed the Bikers vs. Surfers match, complete with fights), draw massive crowds to the town’s football field. The familiar drone of Premiership commentators blaring at full volume from the Videoclub floats down the dusty roads of Robertsport, creating a surreal soundtrack against a backdrop of aluminum-sheeted huts and dug-out canoes.

Liberia is a loud country, and the soundtrack is rooted in US gangsta rap, with some early 2000s R&B and, if you’re lucky, a bit of UK garage. Stormzy. Ja Rule. Dr. Dre. 50 Cent. Kelly Rowland. Anything with an offensive bassline and a rap or hip-hop beat blaring at full volume is in. Music spills out of every hut, every phone, every bike.

Despite English being the official language of Liberia, it’s a different kettle of fish compared to the English we know. Shortened, clipped, no frills. Things aren’t asked for — they’re demanded. “Give me water.” It’s English, but stripped down. No excess noise. Diet English. At first, we wonder if people are rude or if they don’t like us, but then we realise it’s just how people talk. “What is this?” becomes “What thing this?” When asking how someone is, the reply is always just “fine.” Need someone’s attention who you don’t know? “Hey Fineboy… Hey Finegirl!” I now wonder if the guy at the airport was politely asking for my shoes. It’s all a matter of perception, after all.

I was still nursing a recovering broken ankle and decided that an inflatable surf mat was the best choice for this trip, which, unsurprisingly, sparked the kids’ curiosity beyond belief. “Give me air board,” comes the command. I duly oblige and watch the kids riding the mat on the end section of the wave, sipping my warm Club Beer, wondering what the future holds for Robertsport.

To support the community of Robertsport, we invite you to contribute to: www.universaloutreachfoundation.org.

Words by Alexei Obolensky.