Entry by Heather - June 9, 2009

Our New and Improved Blog

Finally, we have a vehicle for Ryan to blog from Africa with photos! All our previous entries are still here on this page for you to read. But, you can now click HERE to read our all new blog. Please sign up to follow us at our new blog.

Ryan - April 22, 2009 

WHAT AMERICA MEANS TO AFRICA

          Living in Cameroon has exposed me to things that regularly haunt me in my nightmares. I remember once, when I was in Switzerland on a two-week "escape" from death threats, waiting to go back to Cameroon, I was in a student hostel. I was sharing my room with four other "poor" travelers, one of whom was Irish. It was about 1pm, and I was taking a nap. I was dreaming--imagining myself being chased and shot by my enemies in Cameroon. The Irish guy started to climb up the bunk bed to reach his bunk and shook my bed.

          I woke up immediately in a panic. "GET AWAY FROM ME!," I shouted, hitting my head against the wall, and pushing myself back into the corner against it. I kept shouting, my voice shaking, for perhaps ten seconds more until I realized where I was and that I was safe. The Irish guy muttered some words I can't repeat, and essentially said, "Whoa. It's cool, bro."

          This sort of experience has made me realize that I'm far from being a normal, happy American--I've seen what can happen in society and I've seen the worst of humanity. We were robbed twice with two more robbery attempts before I left for this last fundraising trip. The second robber came through our ceiling. Ever gone to sleep staring at the ceiling, clutching a knife, wondering if someone is going to drop down with a weapon to rob you? I have.

          I've lost my sense of security in this world. It's a personal effort for me to remind myself that I'm safe and secure. Just the other day, early in the morning, I went to the grocery store.. When I came out to my car in the parking lot, I put my groceries on the passenger seat and immediately locked my doors, waiting for the usual crowd of beggars and/or people selling things to surround me. It didn't happen. I smirked to myself, and once again, forced myself to remember that "I'm okay."

          It's funny. When I read about post-traumatic stress syndrome, I identify with the symptoms. But logically, I know that things are stable and that overall everybody is okay. It's a constant effort.

          That's where America comes in, specifically my home town, Sparks, Nevada where I'm currently fundraising. Being here is restoring my faith in the world, I guess. I've made a habit of writing down things that remind me that the world is good. A few examples come to mind. I was driving along a street in my Mom's neighborhood one day and there were two little girls selling Kool-Aid on a corner. They were in summer shorts and their scraggly blonde hair was blowing in the wind. I stopped, purchased a cup of sugar water, and gave them all the change I had in my car. It came to about five dollars, but to the little girl who had her cupped hands filled to the brim with money, it was a fortune! She gleefully thanked me and I watched the girls come together to count their hard earned money.

          Two little girls, safe on a street, selling kool-aid on a sunny afternoon....this exemplifies what America does for me when I'm home.. I know those little girls won't forget me or that experience. From one American to two others--we shared in the entrepreneurial spirit that makes our country special.

          Another day I drove to the grocery store (I have a habit of doing that when I'm home!) and I saw teenagers advertising their car wash to help raise funds for their school activities. I had my car washed and gave them double what they asked--I told them that they have no idea how special what they were doing really was. I said that having school activities is a privilege not to be taken lightly--I've seen the opposite.

          Safe streets. Honest police. Paved, smooth roads. Grocery stores that are calm and filled with every food you can imagine at low prices. Smiling clerks. Green lawns. People who take pride in their homes. Excellent customer service as a norm, not an exception. Traffic lights. Channel blocking for parents. People who take turns when driving. Windows without bars. Nice homes not surrounded by compounds. School bands. Cheerleading. School gyms and athletic fields. No bars on every corner. YMCA. Boys and Girls Club.

          You can see where I'm going--America is phenomenal, and despite its problems, is still the greatest beacon of hope and inspiration for goodness that I have thus encountered on the planet. I have strong doubts that another place could take its place in my heart. When the captain was rescued from Somali pirates by heroic Navy Seals, I was moved to tears. I thought of other countries who have hostages being held, terrified for their lives, as we speak--do they have the hope that our Navy Seals gave to me as an American? I sadly doubt it. After the Captain's rescue, I listened to Whitney Houston's version of the Star Spangled Banner. I closed my eyes, hot and red with tears, and realized, "Our flag is still there."

          My sister Heather invited me to a grass roots rally with her family. I enjoyed meeting a lot of new people, but I met someone very special, a young Philippine woman. She was exercising her right to speak out, and told me, smiling ear-to-ear, "I just became an American citizen in February!" I hugged her and said how happy I was for her. She was a lovely young lady who had obviously made a tremendous effort to learn English and become a productive part of her new country. I said to her, "I was born here. You are from the Philippines. But you know what? It doesn't matter. We're Americans together. Immigrants such as yourself are what America is all about! Congratulations and welcome!"

          I'm so happy that this hard-working, beautiful girl has had her dream come true, that she's worked for it, and that she appreciates it. If only the deserving Cameroonians that I know could experience such liberation.

          When Barack Hussein Obama was elected President, every Cameroonian I knew was ecstatic over his election. Although I don't share the Obamamania, it showed me that they see America as the land where anything is possible, and his election re-inforced their belief. Most Cameroonians that I've met have one of two opinions on the United States--they either love us beyond what's to be expected or they resent us and seem to hate "white people" (they often forget that millions of Americans are not white).

          Overall America represents HOPE to the people of Cameroon, specifically the children I work with. As much as I try to make sure that we have a multicultural approach to our work (we've had volunteers from Cameroon, China, Japan, Germany, Holland, Norway, Denmark, France, Switzerland, Haiti, America, England, Algeria and more) I cannot stop people from seeing me as "The American." At first, I tried to downplay the fact that I was American, trying to smoothly make sure I didn't tread on any toes. But after many experiences, I've learned to embrace the positive side of being American and I consider myself a spokesperson for my country (I'm forced to do that whether I like it or not). I take pride in saying things like, "In America, if you hit a child in a school, it's not okay. Or, "In America, if a girl is raped, she knows the police will try to protect her."

          My gratitude and pride for America does not come from an arrogant, "we're better than everyone else" approach, or from whatever administration is currently running the show..  It comes from the individual American heroes that I personally know, such as my brother-in-law Robert, who dedicates countless hours to his Boy Scout Troop because he wants them to be successful and happy in life. It comes from my nieces Kayla and Shannon, who compete in Rodeos in the Nevada desert, sweating and struggling to be the best they can be. It comes from my diplomatic friend Dan Whitman, who defended the defenseless in Cameroon. It comes from my Mom who put herself through college and graduated number one in her fifties. It comes from myself, someone who has learned to stand up for what I believe in and to use my status as a blessed American to do the good that I can in this world.

          Many times it feels inappropriate to compare Cameroon and America, and of course, in most cases, it is. I can't just expect Cameroon to follow cultural norms from America because I know in my heart they're good for people. But I do hold our orphanage work to American standards, regardless of where we are on the planet. To me America is still a beacon of hope, an ultimate standard for excellency.

Ryan - January 21, 2009 Blood Drops and Flying Fish

          As always, the Christmas season erased a lot of the stress and usual anxiety of my life in Africa. Watching the George C. Scott version of "A Christmas Carol" almost every night while I wrapped presents put me in a cozy Christmas mood and helped me affront the challenges we're currently facing.

          Perhaps the greatest Christmas gift of this year was watching Daniel have his first "real" Christmas. Because of his handicaps and previous life of neglect, Daniel never experienced a Christmas that went beyond people drinking beer and blasting loud party music.

          We don't take Christmas lightly at the New Hope Orphanage. Our traditions include a candlelight feast, a nativity pageant, singing Christmas carols, reading traditional texts such as "'twas the Night Before Christmas," sharing Christmas memories, exchanging presents, having Santa come, delivering Christmas presents to street children on Christmas day, and more.

          On Christmas eve, as we shared what Christmas means to each of us, when Daniel's turn came he took a long time to express his feelings. Tearfully, he said that he never knew that a Christmas could feel so special and be so wonderful. He said that he'll never forget how meaningful his Christmas experience was (and that was only the beginning of Christmas eve). Daniel is an inspiration to me and a constant reminder of why I'm here.

          After Christmas, we traveled to the ocean shores of Limbe in our mini-bus and had what I'd call the perfect adventure trip. From shell collecting to splashing in the waves to falling asleep in our tents to the gentle sounds of the ocean, it was a memory we'll share forever.

          Again, in Limbe, the highlight of the experience came from Daniel. He had never swam in the ocean before, and due to his deformed legs, the ocean terrified him when I took him into the water for the first time. Even with two life jackets and floating water gear, he was afraid each time the waves would move him. He'd scream and clutch to me and beg to go back to the shore. But I persisted.

          Over the next few days, he learned to calm down and began to have fun in the ocean water. The day before we left, I offered to take him for a last swim. He hesitated, but when we passed the waves and got into calmer water where we could float, he finally experienced the beauty of the ocean.

          We turned and faced the shore and looked up at the green, rain forest-covered mountain a few miles behind the beach. The pointy blue tip of the mountain pushed towards the sky through immense, thick  clouds. The dark turquoise ocean water was cool and soothing. We gazed in silence as the majesty of the scene inspired our very souls.

          Then something truly remarkable happened--a memory that Daniel and I shall never forget. Dozens of fish, perhaps a school, jumped up out of the water all at the same time and flew into the air in the shape of a rainbow and went back into the water.

          Such a vision comes perhaps once in a lifetime. In the car on the way home from Limbe as we shared our favorite vacation memories, Daniel recalled the flying fish. I'll forever be grateful to those fish for allowing us to be the audience for their spectacular performance.

          We all made fantastic memories in Limbe. We hunted crabs at night on the beach with flashlights and had a great feast. We kept many crabs alive in a plastic pool and had a giddy time watching them walk around and make us laugh. We found a river behind the shore about a twenty minute walk away from our campsite, and had the courage to float down its brown waters together in a boat. The silence of the river, the lush jungle on each of its sides, and the sounds of tropical birds provided the ultimate African adventure--worthy of Henry Morton Stanley himself.

          Aside from the glamor of adventure, the beautiful sunsets, and the excitement of sand castles and shell collections, we all suffered greatly due to one part of tropical adventure that's often overlooked: insects. Each of us came back to Yaounde covered in insect bites that cause itching not soon to be forgotten. My legs, Paige's legs, and Tanja's legs looked like pepperoni pizzas. The children's legs looked like brownies with burnt chocolate chips everywhere. These wounds came from more than simple mosquitos.

          In Limbe, there's some sort of fly that bites without inflicting any pain, but once it flies away, there's a round drop of blood where it made its feast. Insect repellent did little good--why would insects who live in such an intrepid place be threatened by a simple squirt of some silly "white-man" product?

          The flies are not the only ones who are attracted to foreign invaders. The people of Limbe are less exposed to Westerners than the people of Yaounde, and the children especially take the time to stop and observe the crazy happenings of the strangers at the campsite. We regularly had a crowd of children observing the fascinating creatures in front of them reading weird books, using bottles of Lord knows what, and speaking their strange languages.

          I had created a pirate adventure display from the rum bottles we collected, sea shells, driftwood, candles, and other treasures we collected. On a bamboo stick, I placed a paper-mache skull that I had created along with a pirate hat and fish nets we found on the beach. Alexis told me that people were asking her if I was a "marabou" (witch doctor). I found this hilarious, and one day as the small crowd of children stared at us in fascination, I decided to have a little fun.

          I took my paper-mache skull in one hand and a coconut in the other, and proceeded to chant and shake while looking over the crabs. My language actually came from an episode of Bewitched where Uncle Arthur convinces Darrin to perform a fake chant against Samantha's mother, Endora. Za-ga-zoo-zee-za-ga-zoo-zee-za-ga-zoo-zee-zim!

          Remembering Diane Fossey's method of "scaring away intruders" by pretending to be a witch, I expected the children to flee. Instead, they found me all the more intriguing and hilarious, and for the next few days, we could hear them repeating my chant and giggling. So much for fooling them!

          Limbe gave us many surprises, but one surpasses all surprises I've had in Africa concerning the children. I forced everyone to bring along a book. Jeanine brought Oliver Twist. Alexis, Tom Sawyer. Daniel, a philosophical book on happiness. Raissa, Pirates of the Caribbean.

          I watched in awe as the Green Eyes kids spent hours and hours reading their books and loving each minute. Not once did I have to ask them to read--they had discovered the joy of reading. After reading, they'd discuss what they'd read together as if they had candy to share.  I joined in the enthusiasm and finished Wuthering Heights. Paige finished Great Expectations.

          My heart was simply chuckling as I finally witnessed this breakthrough I'd been waiting for over the past three years. Reading is power.

          Post-Limbe had it's ups and downs. Paige left us to go back to the states. It is never fun to say goodbye to a volunteer, especially my niece whom I cherish. We all dreaded her departure, and I felt especially sorry for two people: Dodo and Tanja, our German volunteer. Tanja was mostly sad, I'm guessing, because she knew she'd be stuck with the crazies of the orphanage (okay, the crazY of the orphanage, me) without Paige's calm, cool, sane presence.

          For Dodo, the loss hit him for different reasons. Paige is the first volunteer who has selected Dodo among her "favorites." Cyril always gets the starring role because he's so small and puts on the baby act, and Joel gets a lead part because he's pure charm and glitter. But Dodo is usually left behind a bit. Not by Paige. She took him under her wings and he cherished her. He knew she meant it when she squeezed him and called him her "Prince."

          The night before she left, we had a small party. Earlier that day, Dodo asked if he could go to the store to get a gift for Paige. I said that was fine, imagining that he'd purchase some gum or other small item.

          Dodo bought Paige a pack of cookies and she was thrilled. He proudly gave her his gift, and I won't forget the love in his eyes as he looked up at her and said "I love you" to Paige.  I was very proud of him, but the next day I discovered a new corner in Dodo's heart that took my pride to a new level.

          While I was buying supplies at the market, I saw the type of cookies Dodo had purchased for Paige. They were a bit on the expensive side, not like the cheaper ones sold everywhere. He paid 600 fcfa ($1.25) for the cookies, and I know for a fact he spent his entire savings on his beloved Paige.

          Dodo has a depth to him that is rarely exposed and it seems that whenever I doubt his potential to overcome his past abuse and develop into a loving, good person, I'm proven wrong with precious examples such as this. But not to worry--Dodo doesn't have his head in the clouds.

          A while back, we had to kill our rooster because it was sick. Everyone was sad to kill it because we had grown quite fond of him. The evening following his death, we all felt a little down. Daniel, in his usual tender manner, said, "I hope the rooster is in heaven." Dodo replied, "He's in the fridge."

          Dodo seems to have a balanced grasp of reality. And on the serious side, these children must do just this order to survive the world of Cameroon. I believe in the power of Green Eyes in Africa to protect and transform these children. When they follow what they're taught they blossom and demonstrate capacities for emotional depth, generosity, and friendship. We want to help them develop the moral principles necessary to lead meaningful lives and integrate into their African existence with realistic perceptions.

          Unfortunately, as I have often stated, most of the values and "cultural" things thrown at us in a typical day outside the orphanage stand in direct defiance of what we believe in. Tonight, after our yoga class, we went to get some ice cream. We selected Mahima, a supermarket that is normally rather pleasant. On the loudspeakers in the store, a rap song was playing. Obscene lyrics were repeatedly echoing through the store.

          I asked an employee to direct me to the management, and when I found a manager I explained that such a song is entirely inappropriate for customers with children (or anyone in a public place, for that matter). He spoke English (I believe he was from India). He seemed to listen.

          A Cameroonian supervisor of some sort-- a large, overbearing, wig-wearing woman, began to make fun of me and laugh boisterously, even clapping her hands. The Indian manager assured me he'd change the music, but the woman began making a scene as if I were some sort of intruder in her store.

          I walked away from these two people, and went to the front of the store where another Indian manager was at a counter. I told him that we were not going to make a purchase and we were leaving because of the offensive, obscene music playing throughout their store. He looked at me as if I were crazy.

          We drove to another place that sells ice cream, and on the way, I said the following to Raissa, Dodo, and Joel:

          "You may not understand why I did that. You may never understand. But in order for wrong things to continue in this world, all it takes is for people to shrug their shoulders and do nothing. Maybe I won't change anything, but at least I tried. At least I stood up for your right not to be exposed to explicit music in a supermarket."

          Tanja and I then proceeded to explain the power that music has over people and culture. Tanja pointed out that soldiers always march to music. When we do yoga, we play soothing music. Even when we aren't aware of it, the lyrics, feelings, and messages of music enter into our minds and influence us. Tanja explained that music actually changes the chemistry of the body (she should know, she is a concert cello player).

          I truly feel that the power of negative music has a great hold over the people in Cameroon. Loud party music, often in native languages, is blasting everywhere you go. Once, I asked a Cameroonian friend to translate a song that was playing. She laughed and translated it for me. I’ll spare you the details.

          I don't need to continue with proof of my theory. If people, especially children, are exposed to such messages day in, day out, all day, every day of their lives, they WILL be influenced in ways that will hurt them. Casual attitudes towards sex, party-drinking mentalities, and heavy base beats not only numb the mind and prevent meaningful conversations, they lead to miseries such as AIDS, spousal abuse, infidelity, sexually transmitted diseases, and laziness.

          In my opinion, Cameroon will not advance culturally or economically until its people are empowered to understand the cultural importance of music. This applies to countries such as the United States as well, of course. The difference is that in Western countries we have laws and options pertaining to music and its distribution. I feel shame knowing that apart from the popularity of Cameroonian's own unfortunate music selections, my country has bombarded them with rap music that only pushes them deeper into attitudes that lead to poverty and misery.

          Our children are carefully protected as much as possible from any music that will clutter their minds with harmful things. They have been taught that music has power over them. I truly hope that as they become more independent they'll paint the musical canvas of their minds with inspiring notes of color and prevent it from being sloshed with "musical" mud.

Paige’s Blog – Fun Surprises

 Africa has so many fun surprises.  Like creeping things that creepeth; those mosquitoes with their little striped rears and evil ways, for one.  They may not creep directly against the ground, but they most certainly have the monopoly on everywhere else—including along the ground. I squashed one on the wall through my mosquito net last week and left it there.  “Mosquitoes, be ye warned.”  Judging by the behavior of vagabonds in days of old, however, namely pirates, this method does not promise incredible results.  Looking at my feet, it doesn’t appear they’ve been daunted.  It’s amazing how easily they can get the better of you.  One soon tires of covering every exposed area with mosquito repellant.  For one thing, on the arms it inevitably spreads to the fingers and very easily travels to an itching eye.  Mosquito repellant is not friendly to the eye and is also very difficult to remove or rinse out in the car when all fingers are similarly contaminated.           Mosquitoes here are different from the ones at home and significantly harder to kill.  For one, there is not a time of day where mosquitoes are not on the prowl; of course there are more when the sun sets.  Dengue fever is carried mainly by day mosquitoes and malaria by those out at night.  They have striped rear ends.  They are also faster.  “Closing in” even from a short distance, palm flat, they still manage either to disappear or find their way to the crevice between fingers (I theorize), escaping with their lives.  It occurs often enough to marvel.  I am used to mosquitoes flying upward once I swat at them; these ones dart downward and out of sight.  Landing for more than a second at a time is also atypical.  Not surprisingly, my feet always bear the red results of my scratching.  Big bumps are mosquitoes and small, hard bumps are spiders or ants.  Toes and the sides of the feet are not exempt; on the contrary, I believe toes at least are mosquito favorites.  And nothing is more infuriating than the eternal itch on bony areas.My first night here, I met a large spider in my room.  Fortunately it was on the other side of my suitcase rather than right by my feet.  I tried to smash it, but without success.  I saw it again a few weeks later, still in the same corner, but as it didn’t seem to be interested in me, I left it there to perhaps catch a small cockroach.  I could deal with it staying in its corner if I didn’t see it often…  It has, however, been smashed since.  Ryan was moving boxes around (my room is the storage room, after all) and I warned him of the spider.  It was on the side of the next box we moved and then met its death.  There are actually not a lot of large spiders here.  For the most part, I’ve seen mostly daddy-long-legs.  The real plague is cockroaches, actually that’s probably more descriptive of ants, although here cockroaches are just a fact of life.  There are cockroaches in your house.  Les cafards.  Cockroaches are omnipresent (ants to a much greater degree), so while cleanliness reduces their numbers, they will always be here.  They will always be everywhere else, so there’s really no way to keep them out.  Turn on the light in the bathroom, wait a few seconds, then go in.I have had nights of wrath with the more unpleasant insects.  I was on the rampage against cockroaches.  If they were going to be in there when I went in there, they were going to die simply for being so unpleasant.  The big ones were sentenced for their size and the smaller ones because they would reach that size and it is so sick smashing big bugs.  I don’t mind killing them; I mind feeling it under my shoe.   I went in the bathroom.  There it was by the wall.  I grabbed an empty water bottle and it ran into a hole behind the toilet.  I filled the water bottle and proceeded to drown it out.  After 10 seconds or so, it emerged in a panic, but I was not going to feel sorry for it.  That was the end of cet cafard.  For some reason, I hate them more in the bathroom than in the kitchen (but they haven’t been in the food).  That cockroach was a lucky one.  Up until the point I shall refer to, I had avoided smashing the big cockroaches because I wasn’t about to smash them with my shoe.  This night, also, I had great need of les toilettes (I have a bad habit of drinking water right before bed).  Still bleary-eyed from sleep, I spotted a cockroach in my path.  I did a hop, skip, and a jump to the bathroom door to avoid meeting it with my toes.  I swept aside the curtain (there is a curtain or mosquito netting in front of most doors to help keep mosquitoes down to a minimum) and a mouse ran out (into Tanja’s room, haha).  I did a hop-skip back to my doorway.  I am not afraid of mice or cockroaches, per se, but I do have an aversion to critters running across my feet, especially still half asleep.  I have never actually had this happen, however—I don’t know why I take such great pains to avoid it.  Determined to clear my path to the bathroom, I grabbed a water bottle (this one was also empty).  The cockroach was still there.  Bam!  He was mortally wounded.  I didn’t want to smash him again.  I passed safely into the bathroom, turning a blind eye to the suffering cockroach on the way back.  Hopefully he would die by morning.  Morning came and I scooted a shelf/table/desk thing back against the wall.  I had pulled it up to the bed to write a little something before bed.  There was the cockroach wiggling his legs at me.  Gross.  But I also felt sorry for it.  My mental apology went something like, “Ohh, poor cockroach.  I’m sorry you are so disgusting and huge or else I would have killed you completely last night.”  I forget what I did to finish him off, but he did then perish.  I pondered his fate.  How did he get under my door?  If he had been able to get on his feet and retreat out of the open, he would not be helpless on his back again.  Tanja is a light sleeper.  Perhaps she heard my short burst of, “Ew, ew, ew, ew,” directed mostly at the cockroach, and feeling forced to eliminate him.  I pictured her leaving her room in the morning, spotting the cockroach, putting two and two together and giving him a push under my door with her shoe.  I never asked anyone, because I was completely satisfied and amused by the scenario I came up with—whether it was true or not.  We do have traps for the mice now, by the way, (cardboard and “mouse glue”) but we have only caught the small ones.  And a cockroach.  Looking inside ourselves, we find…worms!  Getting worms here is kind of like having the flu—it happens to everybody, no biggie.  It seems to be that way with malaria as well (with the obvious exception of cerebral malaria), except that malaria is much more immediately miserable.  That I do not completely understand, however, as I always thought once you have malaria, you have it forever, experiencing symptoms every now and again.  It’s little wonder most of us acquired worms for two reasons.  One, I often walk around the house and outside (on the cement and occasionally set foot on the grass, but of course there is always dirt) without shoes.  Of late, I have been more diligent.  The kids drink tap water at school.  The filter I drink out of here was pronounced ineffective by Jean (pronounced “John”, with a French “j”)—the filters need to be changed.  The concept is actually much worse than the condition, at least at first.  Symptoms consisted of abnormal bowel movements (of course) and occasionally, usually after a larger meal, discomfort in the abdominal area—just a feeling that something abnormal is going on in there.  No real pains necessarily; more like malaise of the intestines.   Actually, I still have them and so does Ryan.  Experiencing the same symptoms, we plotted murder in our hearts and took Vermox with our dinner, making everyone else take one as well.  Ryan doesn’t seem to be feeling very different after taking it and he took it earlier than I did, but as for me, there is definitely a battle going on in there.  Apparently the Vermox says experiencing severe cramping and diarrhea while on the medication indicates an army of worms.  I wouldn’t quite call my current experience severe, but it falls short of pleasant.  Well at least my insides will cease serving as the extendable section of a motor home for whoever wants to move in.  Hey, isn’t the extendable section usually an eating area?  Appropriate.  We shall all be taking our second and hopefully last pill in two weeks to kill all the eggs.  Now, a little later since taking the Vermox, I have beheld them with mine own eyes, though not alive.  It’s a shame, really; after all, I was an excellent host.  Milk as it is in the United States does not exist here unless you work for the U.S. Embassy and can order it with your other groceries.  I believe you can purchase sterilized milk here (the norm for France, and Cameroon was colonized by the French), but it is very expensive.  I have also seen sweetened condensed milk and of course what we have at the orphanage, used sparingly, powdered milk.  The kids take bread with something or another on it for a lunch of sorts at school and for the first little while, I ate a roll for breakfast and then starved until 4:00 when the kids got home and actual “lunch” was ready.  We also hadn’t had milk for those few weeks.  However, when nausea from hunger starts becoming a regular occurrence, it’s clear some kind of snack is a necessity.  Finally we made a trip to the bank and I had some Cameroonian francs.  Just a sidenote:  Cameroonian francs are not the same as those from France, and those from France do not exist anymore since the euro.  Ryan, Tanja, and I went to a supermarché and got a few things.  I usually have milk with a sugar cube and/or some crackers or something to hold me over if there isn’t anything available in the fridge.  One day I dropped a sugar cube in my milk and three specks floated to the top.  I looked in my cup.  There were three ants in my milk.  Since I hadn’t noticed them before, I inspected the sugar.  Many ants.  Hmm, oh well.  I fished the ants out of my milk and then fished the rest of the ants out of the sugar.  Later, seeing Ryan getting a sugar cube, I told him about it.  His response was a knowing laugh and, “There are always ants in the sugar.”  He then added, “If I write a book someday, the name of one chapter will be ‘Ants in My Coffee’”.   I think he just drinks them; I still fish them out.  I woke up the other night to a mosquito buzzing in my ear.  I hid under my blanket.  How did the daggum thing get in?  Soon stifling, I emerged with that mosquito on my most wanted list.  A simultaneous flourish of the blanket ensured he was no longer by my head.  I switched on the light.  Show yourself.  I dare you.  I looked around.  I looked up.  Ahem.  “I looked around the moustiquer and what did I see?  One ginormous cockroach looking at me…”  There he was, come to avenge his brother.  And that mosquito was still in there somewhere…  I opted to escape the clutches of the mosquito net.  I was out; they were in.  I gave the mosquito net a little shake.  Monsieur Cafard ran up higher.  Dope.  I smacked the top of the mosquito net and he fell onto the bed, fleeing for his life.  So much for your brother.  I must have extinguished another mosquito life before resuming my slumber.  Now I have sisters after me, too.  Though the ratio has improved significantly since, the tenth day I was here I realized the water had been out 50% of the time.  5 in 10 on, 5 in 10 off.  Filling the big plastic dish-washing bowls from the reserves stored on the side of the house (in a big garbage can and what look to me like big gasoline cans) with water to do the dinner dishes, Alexis asked me if we kept water reserves like this at home.  I know Ryan has told them that the water never goes off in America (maybe a few times in a lifetime).  But I also think if it were me living in Cameroon, that would seem pretty unreal.  It’s so normal here.  So I told her again; the water never goes off.  My family has a little water stored under the house just in case of an emergency, but we have never had to use it that I can remember.  As for personal hygiene, the first day without water is no big deal.  The second day is a little greasy, but most of the time tolerable.  The third day, however, is disgusting.  I will take water stored in empty water bottles and wash my face properly by that time.  We have only had three days in a row once since I’ve been here; if it happens again, I will also take stored water to wash my hair, which looks wet from grease by that time.  Today the water was off for most of the day.  Apparently it’s back on now since someone just went to wash, and I am SO glad.  While it’s only been a day, I did not shower yesterday and I am a sweaty, greasy, stinky mess.  The last time I showered was the day I had a fever, so perhaps that accelerated the process, but I am pretty much disgusting today.The power hasn’t been off for more than a few minutes at a time (or total), the water is usually on, we have hot water here at the orphanage, and I’ve been almost the picture of health.  All in all, a few bugs and days without water seem a very small price to pay to be here with these kids.  I am the oldest of six and simply have nine more siblings.  My next “blog” will be about them.  Happy Thanksgiving!  

Paige’s Blog – Chickens, Mosquitoes and Flashcards

 Tanya says we can start a zoo.  The Japanese ambassador’s wife just gave us four fuzzy little ducklings, and is considering giving us a peacock (what would we do with a peacock?), we found three baby mice in a nest in my room, and now we have chickens. You would think a person would need to have plenty of space in order to take on such an assortment of living things.  Not so.  The orphanage has a front yard half of which is the driveway, the other half a modest patch of grass with some flowery bushes, and a side area for doing and hanging laundry.  There is a small space behind the house and along the other side that allows you to walk all the way around.  Where, you ask, did we put the chickens?  In the little walking space behind the house.  Do not despair for the chickens (four hens and one cock), however, because they have plenty of room.  Two people can walk side by side there and they have a full half of the space lengthwise.  I have peeped over the (very) makeshift obstruction that keeps them in their space a number of times today and they are all pecking and clucking happily.  We were even petting one, perhaps not a great idea since they will be eaten for Christmas.  We will eat the ducks, too, if we have to spend more than pittance to feed them.  Money is not growing on trees or anywhere else after the economic crisis in the United States and things are pretty tight.Chickens cost the equivalent of $5.00 each now and $10.00 at Christmas.  To feed them for two months costs less than $20.00 (5 per chicken—I am not counting the cock), so it’s another way to save a small amount of money and we’re taking advantage of it.  I am glad it saves us money and I am glad we have chickens.  My family had chickens for most of the time I was growing up and it must be for this reason that it makes me happy to hear them clucking and “bawking”.  I even look forward to getting the eggs when we acquire some laying hens.  For some reason, we are told the ones we have don’t lay eggs.  Asking why, we were told it has to do with the climate, but I’ve racked my brain and there’s nothing there that helps me understand how that is possible.  Don’t chickens everywhere lay eggs?  I am curious enough to look into it.  Or maybe the chickens will lay an egg before I do.  Before I look into it, that is, not lay an egg.  Peacock...we’ll see.  Besides the fact that it, too, would need to eat, it would also mess the place up with, well, urea.  It can strut around awkwardly in the small grassy area.  Maybe.  Mice.  There are mice in my room.  Saturday was a clean up and clean out day.  The boys cleaned up their room and washed the walls, and Ryan was both directing and performing various cleaning tasks.  I took it upon myself to start cleaning out the storage room, which currently doubles as my room, since there is normally only one volunteer.  In the last box, I discovered an old mouse nest.  Shredded paper, mostly…but it moved.  “Current mouse nest?” I thought, and inspected more closely.  Yes, it was definitely moving.  I reported my find to Ryan and after a day’s attempt to make them our pets, their mother accepted them back and disappeared with them.  This story displays folly at several points, perhaps, but no harm was done and the problem will now be solved by mousetraps.  The baby mice still had closed eyes, so did no scurrying of their own—nevertheless, I have heard mice scratching and scurrying about a number of times during the night.Perhaps we can add ourselves to the display of zoo animals as well!  Cyril remembered our “mosquito goodnight”.  The next day, with me rubbing his head as he passed, he looked up at me and grinned.  “Mosquito,” and I got a pinch and a look of great delight.  He got a pinch, too.  “Mosquito!”  Pinch, pinch, run, pinch…that’s how the game goes!  The next day after a pinch, I “saw” a mosquito on Joel and gave it a smack so it couldn’t bite him anymore.  That became immensely popular as well, so now pinching is accompanied by a friendly slap on the arm, back, or feet to “get” the mosquitoes.  Last night, Tanya commented, “That is a cruel game you are playing.”  But she was smiling.  Joel, then Alexis and Jeanine, then Adriana all joined in and it is definitely a favorite.  The only problem is it’s all of them against one of me.  I do a lot of running.  And get a lot of pinches.   Flashcards on my laptop have remained a hit.  Last night I had four or five kids crowded ‘round practicing “Survival Phrases for French”.  I was practicing my sentences on whoever came to my doorway or happened to be situated next to me.  For example, I repeatedly asked Alexis, “Vous sentez-vous bien?” (Are you feeling all right?) and “Allez-vous mieux?” (Are you feeling better?)  Every time Adriana would say something, I would ask, “Qu’avez vous dit?” (What did you say?)  And my favorite thing of all to say to everyone who said anything was, “Pouvez-vous parler plus lentement?”  (Can you speak more slowly?)  Just after I had mastered this sentence, Jean (who speaks only French) came to the door to say something to one of the kids.  I was only too delighted to practice on him and immediately blurted, “Pouvez-vous parler plus lentement?” with a huge smile.  Always smiling anyway, he sported a laughing smile just then, also approving of my increased French-speaking abilities.  I pointed to my computer to show him the source of my amazing skill.  I have continued to ask that question quite often and have peppered the day today with it, but with variations such as “Pouvez-vous jouer plus lentement?” (Can you play more slowly?) when Alexis beat me in a card game and “Pouvez-vous manger plus lentement?” (Can you eat more slowly?) when Raissa was eating next to me and I felt like saying my favorite sentence again.Adriana came into my room just now and asked if I was writing to my family or to my friends.  I said yes, and she wanted to type something, so here is her message: “hello   my  name  is  AdrianaI  am  a  friend   of    paige          I  love   you  guysPaige   is  a  good  friend   for   me   she   like  to  play  with  usPaige  like to dance  and  sing   and say  pouvez-vous  parler  plus  lentement  and   say mouskyto!   this  is  my  story… .  would   you  like to  be  in  Cameroon?”I laughed reading what she wrote (and gave her a big hug).    

Paige’s Blog – First Impressions

 “So, how do you like Cameroon?” has got to be the strangest question.  I am still unsure how to answer it.  I could say, “I like it,” which seems so incomplete it’s almost not worth saying.  Or I could say, “I don’t like it,” which is untrue in most of the ways it implies.   I love the orphanage and the kids here.  I love the warm weather and the rain.  I think so many of the people are beautiful.  I don’t like poverty or crowds.  I don’t like avoiding eye contact with people (selling things) when the car is stopped.  I definitely do not like the polluted air we breathe whenever we drive anywhere.  Every breath is a breath of exhaust, often comparable to standing directly behind a school bus starting up.  I actually have yet to experience an errand without a slight headache on the way home from so many lungfuls of carcinogens.  The problem is not the number of cars, per se; it is more the lack of a “smog check”, from what Ryan tells me.  If emissions are too high, a car can still pass with a little extra money.  Many cars or taxis are belting out black exhaust.  Not even wealthy government officials bother with a convertible.There are so many beautiful sights both in the people and countryside and so much that is depressing and degraded everywhere you look.  Once when asked, “What was your first impression of Cameroon?” I answered, “More shacks”.  It was not a Cameroonian asking the question.  My mental picture of Yaoundé was actually fairly accurate, I think, but there are more true shacks.  A shack to me is a grayish, dilapidated old building that looks somewhat unsteady and would be condemned if it found itself in a city in the States.  Certainly no one would be living in it.  The homes in Cameroon look to me like an assortment of shacks, sheds, and run-down buildings.  Most Cameroonians I have seen on the street look like they have enough to eat.  It is a compliment here to say someone is looking fat, actually, as excess weight is a sign of wealth, and there are some wealthy people, but it appears most get only enough, and of course that does not mean many are enjoying a nutritionally balanced diet.  There are also the handicapped people, who are not helped here.  Daniel was not helped before he came to the orphanage either.  His mental capacities are perfectly intact, but his legs are deformed and I understand he has had a rough life, extremely so.  Maladies and deformities, especially those less understood, are often attributed to “witchcraft”.  While we avoid eye contact with the hundreds of people selling anything and everything approaching the windows when the car is stopped, we do give what we can to the handicapped people begging on the streets.  Soon we will also be making regular visits to a handicapped center about an hour away from the orphanage.  Another interesting experience:  Wedding bells are ringing (not really).  Tanya has been offered a hand in marriage.  She is somewhat concerned about this, however, as she has spoken with this fellow only twice and the first time, he mentioned his wife and kids.  We may have thought it a unique experience, except Tanya’s German travel brochures warned her about this very thing.  Many African men and women apparently try to marry themselves to white foreigners as a way to get to Europe.  Tanya has not accepted his offer just yet, as she has also been offered numerous phone numbers and I’m sure she wants to weigh her options. (yes, I’m joking!)One beautiful thing, of course, is the rainforest.  Tanya expressed her desire to see the nature surrounding Cameroon, so we took a hike one day while the kids were at school.  (They have done the same hike before, though.)  It is not possible to drive all the way to the mountain, so we parked and walked a ways through some very poor neighborhoods.  As before mentioned, the bulk of Yaoundé is packed with ramshackle buildings, but there are also sturdier ones and larger structures peppered throughout.  I think some are more solid than they appear.  All are dirty; the humidity adds discoloration to walls and surfaces over time as well which makes it appear even more so.  Closer to the outskirts and rainforest areas, however, the sturdier structures are largely replaced by those that have partially caved in and mud-brick houses people have constructed themselves.  Deep rain gutters run alongside the roads on both sides and in some cases threaten foundations as they expand.  Poverty is everywhere, but the people continue on from day to day working and selling what they can to make a living.  There are unfinished houses, chickens and other animals, produce for sale on every street, men doing various forms of manual labor, laundry hung out to dry.  Virtually everyone hangs their laundry, the orphanage included.  I doubt, however, that many of those had irons, without which you will eventually acquire mango worms.  Some kind of fly lays eggs in laundry hung out to dry and which burrow under your skin and are really quite disgusting considering they also “hatch” from your skin and come wriggling out when they’re ready.  Around and even on the mountain we were climbing are the homes of those who use it.  The heat and steep incline combine to make it an arduous task to tend their crops.  We were careful not to tramp over them as we found our way to the top.  And once we reached the top, we were well rewarded!  It was beautiful.  Looking down, we could see the city with its many trees and a lake in the distance.  Tanya scooted down as far as she could along the cliff that was the other side of the mountain to look down into the rainforest and I followed suit shortly thereafter.  Sitting there, you can also hear all the sounds of the rainforest.  There are constant sounds like the buzzing of insects, one of which sounded like a cicada, and the more refreshing sounds of birds, my favorite.  A “quiet” rainforest is actually pretty noisy.  I always thought the silly little “rainforest sounds” option on my alarm clock was less than accurate—it actually isn’t that bad.  They left out the cicadas, though, which aren’t very soothing.  The people we met on the way were very friendly.  One young lady was unhappy when we declined to purchase anything.  For some reason, I especially wished I could help her.  Apparently she had called out to us, “Hey girlfriends, won’t you buy something from me?  I’m poor.”  And then she was upset as we passed.  I hadn’t had money with me anyway.  Other people called out to us just to be friendly.  On our way down the mountain, some people gathered outside their house said hello and told us we were welcome on their mountain and something about some not allowing it…but that we were always welcome.  They may or may not have been intoxicated, actually, but I don’t know.  They were friendly.  And I was genuinely touched by a man irrigating a ditch who climbed out to help us find a way across.  He was so friendly for no reason.  I don’t know why exactly I was so grateful to him, but I really did appreciate his small act of kindness.  I have a lot yet left to see of Cameroon, but the first few glimpses are a lot of food for thought!  Thus my confusion, I guess, at being asked what I think about Cameroon.  Perhaps I should respond with a “What do you mean?”  The people?  The culture?  Poverty?  Food?  Scenery?  Kids?  I think a lot of things!  Socially, culturally, and personally, it has already been quite the experience.    

Paige’s Blog – September Madness, My First Few Days

 Getting to Cameroon was an ordeal, to say the least, starting with my visa.  My passport was no problem, thank goodness, but when we got to the visa, the problems began.  I still am not quite sure what the actual requirements were… Reviewing my list of visa requirements from ZVS, the company through which I was getting both my passport and visa, and checking it thrice, I sent in all the papers and pictures required, fingers crossed.  I was pushing the deadline.  After a few days, I got a call from Stephen, a ZVS agent, saying that the Cameroonian consulate was requesting additional information.  On my visa application, I had indicated I would be staying at the New Hope Orphanage for my stay in Cameroon, and they needed a letter from the orphanage inviting me to Cameroon, also indicating that I would be staying with them and the duration of my visit.  I arranged for this letter and it was faxed to the number I had been given over the phone.  The letter wasn’t good enough, we were told Monday morning; it needed an official Cameroonian stamp.  This would not have turned into such a problem except that Ryan was in the United States trying to raise some money.  Jean, the orphanage guard, took the letter to get stamped, but was told only Ryan could get what was needed, as the letter had to be “notarized,” in effect.  In addition, he was harassed by the Cameroonian officials “helping” him, who refused to speak with Ryan via phone call.  Bottom line, Ryan had to sign in front of a “witness”.  But, from the United States, this was not possible.  Each step in this process was another day.  Unfortunately, Ryan had to be involved as much as I was, calling and emailing, calling and emailing again.  In the end, we were able to find a barely suitable substitute in the form of a fax cover letter from someone in the U.S. Embassy who knows Ryan and was able to help.  The entire day on Tuesday from 7 a.m. until about 1 or 2:00 p.m. our time (when the consulate closed in Washington, D.C.) was phone calls and emails nonstop—that was the climax.  I have only praise for Stephen from ZVS—he could not have been more helpful and did everything in his power to get my visa to me on time.  In the end, though, the Cameroonian consulate decreed they could get my visa to me…two hours after my flight was to leave, and no sooner.  Never mind that the cover letter they deemed acceptable had been in their possession for 3 business days and all other requirements 5 days before that.  Another $200 swallowed by Air France in rescheduling fees.              To absorb some of the blame, I was pushing the deadline.  I was originally way ahead of the game, the hang-up being proof of departure for my passport.  Once I finally had that, there were only 3 weeks left before my departure date.  Visa processing requires only 5 days, rushing it, but admittedly, “pushing it” is never a good idea.  Even though rescheduling the flight was necessary, by that time I was simply relieved I was getting the visa at all.  That morning, things had promised to become only more complicated.  It seemed to me that the Cameroonian consulate was not overly-excited about giving a visa to this American girl (which is essentially all they would have known about me from my application) and I was questioned in suspicious tones days into this mess by someone in the Cameroonian Embassy when calling to see if we could get things taken care of once and for all.  I have absolutely nothing on any “record” that would make them think twice…maybe a speeding ticket.  I can’t drive overseas anyway, and if I could, well, just take a drive in Cameroon.  I don’t think that would be a concern.  They should have been very familiar with my “case” (at least their computer system should have) since this was not the first time they had been contacted between Stephen, Ryan, and myself.  I gave them the information they needed to look me up and that I needed a “tourism” visa, etc.  (If it was business or tourism, then tourism).  “What is your name?  Why do you want to come to Cameroon?”  Normal questions to verify identity, perhaps, but not in this case.  There was certainly not a friendly helper on the other end of the line.  I answered all questions clearly and cooperatively, however, yet hung up discouraged.  I had been told I could only get a one-month tourism visa that could be extended once I was in Cameroon, so I had not applied for the correct one.  Judging by the experience I was currently having, that did not seem like a simple process.  Where was all this coming from?  How was it possible that after all the phone calls and emails, this had not come up?  What about the “notarized letter”?  What did this new information mean—did I have to start back at ground zero?  Which information was correct?  How in the heck was I supposed to get this taken care of by the next day?  If this guy knew what he was talking about, could I get it taken care of in a week?  I have no idea what those requirements really were or why I was told they were necessary, because they vanished into thin air and my next phone call said I was getting my visa.  Too late for my flight, but I was getting it.  I have a 6-month “long stay” visa.  And at the end of all that, I am finally here.  Goodnights with the boys last week was hilarious.  Cyril, Joel, and Dodo are 8, 9, and 10 respectively.  With a French-style kiss by the cheek through the mosquito net, I informed them that I was a mosquito.  “Je suis a mosquito…wait, how do you say mosquito?”  “Moustiquer,” answers Joel.  “Okay, je suis un moustiquer, bzzzzzzz…”  I stick my finger through a hole toward the top of the mosquito net, continuing my buzzing.  “I’m a big mosquito; if I were un petit moustiquer, I would get you through this hole.”  “No, two moustiquer,” says Joel, indicating that the hole is actually two adjacent smaller ones.  Enthusiastic about my ability to say “mosquito friend” in French, I agreed.  “Oui, me and my mousquiter amie.”  They smile at my increasing French vocabulary and love to help and learn with me.  We do English/French flashcards together…I usually start on my own and am soon joined by others.  “If you were a mosquito,” says Joel, “I do this.”  He squashes an imaginary Paige-mosquito between flat palms.  “No,” joins Cyril, taking hold of the mosquito net on both sides of a reddish spot.  “If you were a mosquito, I do this.”  He smashes the area together, leaving me as the reddish spot.  I burst out laughing; it was so funny!  I love and adore these kids.  Joel then requested I stick my finger through again, and enjoyed squashing it as a bug.  Saying “bonne nuit” to Joel and Cyril together in the middle bunk and blowing kisses to Dodo on the top, and still laughing, I was off to say good night to the girls.  And by the way, I discovered via Ryan that mosquito is actually “moustique,” and “moustiquer” is mosquito net.  So I guess I was calling myself a mosquito net, but they knew what I meant.   Even when I crossed over from “moustiquer” to “mousquiter.”  The next night, I asked Joel why he was sleeping on the floor and he answered, “Because Cyril pee and I don’t want.”  Cyril was in trouble for not telling anyone—I just hadn’t caught on yet.  The younger kids soak up affection like they’ve never had enough (which for much of their lives has been the case) and I love my three little snuggle-bugs, Joel, Cyril, and Adriana.  Those three were right by my side the first night.  Sitting on the couch, I had Joel on one side, Cyril on the other, and Adriana at my feet.  Before the night was over, I had thwacked them all with a pillow and we had a wonderful time enjoying the revenge that followed.  Dodo had wandered in and out of the room a few times and I suspected he wanted to join us on the couch, but was hesitant.  I believe he did take part in the pillow fight, however.  Determined to win him over completely, though, on the third day after just a little bit of acknowledgement and attention, there was victory.  Dodo came of his own accord and placed himself next to me.  Dodo, in general, maintains a more stand-offish approach; he is not the first to ask for attention, but I suspect needs it just as much.Apparently my pillow fight had deemed me an acceptable target.  “You come over here,” Joel requested the following day, taking my hand and leading me back to the side of the house.  My laundry had been soaking for a few minutes and Joel was supervising me.  His hand guiding me felt very sweet.  “Okay,” continued Joel, stopping.  “Stay right…here.” And about ¼ of a second after letting go of my hand, “Psshhhhhh!” I was soaked.  And that, of course, was the start of a waterfight!  I love waterfights.  And I love that they felt free to douse me, haha.  Joel, Cyril, Dodo, Tanya (also a volunteer) and I had not a dry spot betwixt the lot of us.  I should have taken a picture afterwards of my soaking self scrubbing my dirty laundry by hand for the first time.  I felt very content, actually—wet but warm after wonderful fun with the kids, and I didn’t mind the scrubbing.  Joel came out again in dry clothes, marveling just a little that I wasn’t cold.

            What a marvelous first few days. (sigh) 

October 27, 2008 - A Death in the Family - Ryan 

Cameroon has been good to me lately. I'm feeling positive about the future and I'm grateful to be here. But death has knocked on our door. Our first assistant, Jean, who lives at the orphanage and is like a guardian angel to all of us, has suffered a serious loss. Yesterday morning he found out that his five-year-old little boy died on Saturday night. 

It's a long story involving his ex-wife who was a terror in Jean's life. She would physically beat Jean, and stole his children away from him after he had cared for them, alone, for years. She sent thugs who beat him bloody and took his kids. He loyally pays for his children's food and schooling but has been cut off from them because of his ex-wife and her family. They are members of the most aggressive and corrupt tribe in Cameroon. He's from the gentle, peace-loving North of Cameroon. They were a bad match. But, as Jean says, "In the beginning, it was wonderful." 

The saddest part of all this comes from the fact that Jean and I could have saved the child. He was vomiting from apparent food poisoning for over a week, and was hospitalized when the vomit became nothing more than black blood. They only contacted Jean once the boy was dead. Surely, we could have intervened for the child and found proper medical care.  Jean is undoubtedly enraged on the inside, but his exterior is calm and poised. He has not eaten in two days,  and the only way to describe his facial expression is to compare it to a deer with headlights glaring into its eyes. 

Yesterday was the first time I've directly had to deal with death in Cameroon. I offered to loan our mini-bus for transporting his child's body and coffin to the burial site. Jean doesn't have the money to pay for a morgue and neither do we, so immediate burial was necessary. I went to pick up the coffin with Jean and his brothers. There it was: a tiny wooden coffin for a tiny little boy. A baby, really.

We then went to the neighborhood where the body was kept. Jean and his brothers went to put the body in the coffin, and I waited in the bus. They came back and we loaded it into the back  of the mini-bus. Knowing that a small child was inside this coffin was upsetting, to say the least. The coffin looked like a cheap wooden box quickly assembled by inexperienced workers. The lid was not sealed. Looking at it, I could see light in the spaces between the coffin and  the coffin lid 

Tons of family members and friends began loading into the mini-bus, piling over one another,  and I had to begin shouting at them because I was not willing to overload a bus meant for fifteen people with thirty or more passengers, the way they often do in Cameroon. We drove to the grave site in complete silence. Jean said it was a graveyard. I expected to see headstones and the like.  But it was nothing more than a dirt area with wooden crosses here and there in the middle of green foliage. The hole was there. The read earth of Cameroon was ready to reclaim this child.

The thought of his flimsy wooden coffin going into this hole was disturbing. The thought of burying a five-year-old baby boy was worse.  A few words were said, a prayer was said, the coffin was lowered.

I stood in horror as I watched Jean looking down at his little boy being lowered into the ground. Jean had told me stories of this child. When he had custody of him, he would take him to work with him on his back, tied closely to him with a large piece of cloth. That's the way Jean is. He's not concerned with appearances. He had a baby boy to care for, he had to go to work, so he carried him on his back the way a mother usually does in Cameroon. As Jean watched the coffin going into the ground, he undoubtedly thought of his boy's warm little body, safe and snug against his back. He surely though of his giggle, his smile, and his eyes.

Jean's  face was numb. His black eyes were twitching but not moving away from the coffin. 

Jean has two children. Both are boys. His other little boy, who is around 8 years old, came and stood by me. He didn't say anything. The dark skin on his face was dry,  giving it a whitish-purple color. There were darker lines staining his cheeks where tears had rolled down. 

I, too, had tears falling off of my face. But since I'm white, the only visual evidence of  my tears were my red cheeks. 

I put my hand on his shoulder, knowing that Jean could not do the same because of his ex-wifes selfish family, and said, "You must know that your father loves you very much. He's there for you." The little boy stared at the grave. "Your little brother is up there," I said, pointing to the sky. "He's in peace." 

I have never been to a child's funeral. I hope to never see one again. 

Jean is taking three days off to be with his family and figure out exactly what happened to his child. He hopes to re-gain custody of his older son so that he can send him to a boarding school where he'll be safe and secure. Jean is a hero of mine. Never have I met someone so loyal, so honest, so  kind, and so innocent. It hurt me to watch a part of Jean disappear into the ground. Jean knew that later in life, he would have had an influence on his child.

If the spirit of Jean was within his boy, we have truly suffered a tragedy. He had only two sons. Now he has one.

Jean has faced one of the ugliest things that life can inflict. I can't think of any appropriate final words for this blog. 

Goodbye, little one.

September 16th - Between Two Worlds - Ryan

FIRST, an FYI: WE DID NOT MOVE TO THE NORTH. A great part of my heart and soul is still in the north. But the realities of moving so far away, coupled with the reality of being so far from the protection of the US Embassy were just too much. The isolation of the north is epic, romantic, calming, and like a dream....but isolating ourselves so far from the stores, services, hospitals, and other benefits of the big city just wasn't a plausible idea.

However, when Paige (our volunteer who will be with us until January) comes later this month we definitely plan to visit the north and help out the people in Jean's village (Jean is our first assistant, profiled in our second documentary).

People keep asking if we moved to the north...so hopefully they won't think that anymore. I feel bad for not making that clear.

It's midnight in Salt Lake City. My bones are tired from working on our brochure ALL day today. My head should be hurting, but it's mostly my body. Why? Must be the strain of hunching over a computer all day. But I'm very excited for our new brochure to be completed. Jeremy Munns designed our beautiful DVD cover for the second documentary and did a wonderful job. His work is excellent. 

The brochure is only part of our new approach to this work. We're finally ready to take a giant step out of ghetto "grass roots" work into streamlined, professional non-profit work. I wish there were a magic wand to get to that point....but there isn't. Non-profit work is SO demanding, time-consuming, and difficult that most non-profits fizzle out and die within the first year. Not us! Never! 

We're ready to launch some serious new approaches to our work including our online boutique, a quarterly newsletter, brochures, and a new fundraising committee. The committee has amazing members who truly believe in what we're doing. I know we're in for great things over the next year. 

FInancial stress makes up about 45 percent of my anxiety problem. I'm sure most people feel that way in life, not just me. I just worry too much. The Cameroonians live life on a day-to-day basis with the mentality that things will work themselves out tomorrow. I wish I could be more like that. I seriously need to learn to live in the now and enjoy today...I always find myself wishing for yesterday. 

I suppose people who are raising kids like I am feel that time goes super fast because the kids change DRAMATICALLY every six months. I always consider our kids to be these tiny little people...and our girls (except Adriana) are anything but tiny these days. They're adolescents, now. They're curvy and tall and I hate it! What happened to my little Alexis? She's practically a woman and for some reason that breaks my heart. Where did the time go? 

Cyril finally lost his two bottom teeth. NO! That's the official moment when a "baby" becomes a "kid." He'll soon lose his top teeth and my little Cyril....tiny little chunk of energy...growing up. I'm only 28, and perhaps it's funny that I'm processing emotions that older people are usually processing. But truth be told, I feel like an old man in more ways than one. 

Being home has been great for me (minus my disgusting love handles, man boobs and clothes that will not fit thanks to pizza and Carls Jr. milkshakes). But coming home is always so difficult to understand mentally. What world am I a true part of? I feel so divided between America and Cameroon that I can't honestly say which one feels more like "home." 

I detest living out of a suitcase. I miss my room in Africa where I can organize my things, sit at my desk, and fall asleep in a familiar bed. My Mom's house is so comfortable and beautiful, but it's not where I belong. 

Did I just answer my own question? I guess physically I'm more at ease in Africa (house and organization wise) but socially I suppose I'm more at ease in the USA. I certainly don't relate to the materialism. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy getting new things just as much as anyone else. I guess I just understand that it SO does not matter on the grand scale of things, you know? 

I've read some good books since I've been back. 1984 (GO READ IT IF YOU HAVE NOT YET READ IT!), Ordeal by Hunger, and "Be Your own Shrink." I didn't finish that last one. Who needs a shrink when you have the Golden Girls seasons 4 and 5 on DVD? 

I can't wait to see the kids again! I miss them terribly and making the brochure and seeing their beautiful faces in all the photos makes me ache to be with them and hear their laughter. Raissa and Falonne have the world's greatest laughs....Daniel, too. 

Daniel still finds everything that I say to be hilarious. That's because he's fairly new. The other kids just roll their eyes most of the time. FUNNY STORY! At the orphanage I am always coming down the stairs singing some weirdo song that I made up. How can I explain that? Basically, I'm spinning around the kitchen or doing some sort of dorky ballet leap and saying, "Who went poo upstairs and left that magical, special smell? It's like flowers and sunshine all around!" 

That's not the funny part. 

The kids are used to my freak shows of singing and dancing when I've had too much coffee. They usually go on with whatever they're doing and completely ignore my insane displays. Adriana is our second newest kid. One day I was singing some horrid song to about something gross or who knows what to the tune of a Disney princess song, and our volunteer Hanna noticed something. "While you were singing, nobody was watching you except Adriana. She was staring at you in utter fascination and awe. She LOVED your song!" 

It's because Adriana was new! Unfortunately, today, no matter how brilliant my interpretation of somwhere over the rainbow with lyrics about morning breath is, Adriana couldn't give a rat's behind. 

Such is the life and the entertainment of living in a concrete compound! 

OH! That's another thing that I noticed while being home. When I was at my Mom's, except for going out to do Green Eyes stuff, etc. I hardly EVER left her house. I read, made shell crafts out of the shells from clams I ate, set up a new shelf display above the stairs, organized photo albums, had photo shoots with my nieces, and watched a lot of the Golden Girls. One day my niece LaRee (18) and I realized that I was totally being boring and didn't even go out. IT"S BECAUSE I AM USED TO COMPOUND LIFE! Going out in Cameroon is always such a hassle and you never know what you'll see or the headaches you'll encounter. Plus, the traffic is atrocious. Plus, with no money, where can you go? Anyplace nice in Cameroon is also HORRIBLY expensive. 

So, I've become a person who is able to be content (most of the time) in one place and keep my mind busy with "creative" activities. The kids are the same way. I guess it's like making lemonade when life gives you lemons. Only, I would have to say that I PREFER living like this. It makes me feel more secure and safe. The "outside world" (meaning the chaotic city of Yaounde outside of our compound gate) has become scarier to me. Weird. 

I'm so tired. Goodnight. Pray for my kids...they all have a fairy godmother little stuffed animal doll thing that my Mom gave them to sleep with. Each doll has their names embroidered on it. It comforts me to know that they can squeeze that and think of Mama Sharon when they fall asleep. My Mom talked to all of them on the phone the other day. Was she bawling? Of course. She misses the kids horribly and worries about them. I told her that she HAS to include them in her count of grandkids and she does.
Okay, really, goodnight.

April 14th - The Confessional - Ryan

I woke up this morning feeling guilty. I felt guilty because last night I lost it a bit with the kids. Keeping things in order in a house with eight "normal" children, one handicapped boy, employees, and volunteers is, at times, an exasperating job. 

We have charts, lists, reminders, children who serve as "inspectors" and more in order for our scheduled program of cooking, cleaning, studies, etc. to be easy to follow. But it seems that sometimes I end up being the bad guy who has to follow up on everyone in order to have things done ON TIME and CORRECTLY. 

The thing that made me lose it yesterday was coming home to the house and smelling the stench of our garbage filling the thick, humid air. It's the rainy season, so it rains like crazy each afternoon. It rains so strongly that it rips our curtains that hang on our balcony. Before the rain comes, it's stiflingly hot due to the humidity in the air and the blazing sun blaring down from a cloudless sky. I feel like I always mention that I'm "covered in sweat" in my blogs. But it's true. I'm always sweaty, sticky and hot. My body isn't made for this climate. My ancestors come from cold countries (England, Scotland, Ireland and Denmark) and I suppose that through the ages people like me have bodies that are acclimated for cold, not humid and hot, climates.

So the stench filled our compound, making me want to gag. I was the only one who seemed to be offended by such heinous odors. I checked our garbage bins, and sure enough, they were filled to the brim with uncovered, rotting food. My Mom, during her visit here, explained in detail to everyone involved in our work that we must wrap all of our garbage in plastic bags, or it will attract flies, and flies bring disease.

Our kids are often sick with coughs, sick stomachs, diarrhea, and headaches. I know that these illnesses come in great part because of the flies that swarm our trash. I had overlooked this before, but since my Mom explained the real dangers of having a lot of flies around us, especially when we eat, I have taken cleanliness very seriously. I have been very diligent in wrapping our trash in plastic before putting it in our large garbage bins. 

The dining area was disgusting, the fridge was smelly, and due to the insanity of the past few days around here, I had failed to see that people were not doing their jobs.

Hence a frenzy of yelling, directing, and cleaning began and lasted for one hour. Falonne was not in the group of kids in trouble, for she always does her work with excellence. Daniel is handicapped, and does not have chores,  so he, too, was exempt from the lecturing.

I went to bed tired and sick of dealing with what I have do deal with. But when I came downstairs this morning and saw Daniel diligently working on his French assignment I gave him yesterday, I remembered why I'm here and why it's all worth it.

Daniel and I organized his studies for the day. He's required to write his thoughts in his journal (using good French), copy his English vocabulary words, and answer his questions about chapter one of Gone With the Wind.

After organizing Daniel's studies, I went up to our dance room for a quick work out of aerobics, sit-ups and push-ups. But I was interrupted by a visit Vinny from the British Council, who came to give us good news. Vinny has arranged for Daniel to be able to take English classes in their facilities. Hooray! This is a huge breakthrough for Daniel and will undoubtedly open many doors for him in the future. Vinny is a tremendous friend to our orphanage and I'll forever be grateful for his kindness.

While Daniel was taking his placement exam for his courses, I decided to run some errands on foot in downtown Yaounde. Walking through the "marche central" area is always an adventure, to use a euphemism, so I held my bag tightly and away I walked in my reliable Teva sandals. If only I could somehow record all the things that are said to me as I walk through Yaounde. Today I had a plethora of comments made, many good and many bad. The following things were said, shouted, or hushed at me as the white man in a foreign land:

"White man! White man!" --This is phrase #1 in Yaounde for someone with my physical characteristics. It's not too offensive. I'm used to it.

"HEY AMERICAN!" --The man who shouted this to me gave me two thumbs up and a big smile. I returned the gesture and smiled. He made me feel good.

My first errand was to go to the MTN cell phone network offices, for my phone has disappeared and I had to replace it and get a new subscription. On my way, I wanted to buy a pair of shorts on the street as most of mine are worn-out. I wanted a simple pair of sporty shorts for exercising. I knew that a fair price would be around 2,500 FCFA, about $3.00. I  saw a man  selling clothing. I saw a pair of shorts I wanted to purchase.

"How much?"

"Twelve thousand five-hundred." (Almost $30)

"Goodbye."

"Wait! Wait! I'll make you a deal. Nine thousand." (About $20)

"I'm not an idiot. The most I will pay for shorts like these is two thousand. Goodbye and good luck." 

I began to walk away. "Give me the money," he said. I bought the shorts and did not say thank-you.

I then proceeded to make my way through the crowds to the MTN offices. Upon entering, I saw five lines that were almost out to the doors of the building. I got in the first line and pulled out a book to read, knowing I'd have to wait. I waited 20 minutes, and noticed that people kept coming in and taking cuts in front of my line. After the fifth person took cuts, I said something to the guard and raised my voice in annoyance. He ignored me and said I could go to another office if I wanted. Then another man tried to cut in front of our line (I know the type well-- the "rich" Cameroonians who think that the rest are ignorant villagers and don't deserve respect). I said, "Excuse me, sir. The line starts back there."

He got in my face and shouted, "DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM?"

"Why yes, I do have a problem, I've been waiting thirty minutes and I'm tired of people taking cuts."

"YOU HAVE A PROBLEM?!!!!!!"  Again, he invaded my personal space and was clearly not happy to see a white man talking to such a "powerful" person as himself in a less-than-you-are-a-rich-God tone. 

"Just a little one. People keep taking cuts. Can't we all just get along?" 

I smirked and turned my head back into my book. Of course, all of this was watched by a room full of Cameroonians impatiently waiting in line. Sometimes I admit to feeling uneasy and scared when I'm the only white person in sight within miles. So I waited as more people took cuts. I saw a friend of mine and he said he knows the manager of that MTN store. He mentioned the manager's name out loud, and mysteriously, I did not have to wait much longer and my line functioned as it should have in the first place. The cashier, who had glanced at me with dirty looks, was especially kind and even offered a "present" of 2,000 franks credit in my new phone.

Oh, Yaounde. The city of a million inconveniences and instant change once dynamics of power are shifted.

It was time to make the 15-minute walk back to the British Council to see how Daniel was doing. On my way, instead of becoming flustered and angry at the aggression that permeates the area, I decided to analyze the situation logically. I thought, "Most of these people don't even look at me. Most of them are just going about their business." I observed their faces. "That lady there looks like she's really nice. That man over there has a pleasant look on his face. That person smiled at me when I smiled at him." That helped, and I realized that the aggressive, rude, racist people (and believe me, there are TONS), ruin the reputation of all the nice people out there. You attract what you project, so I decided to think, "Most people here are very nice just like me and they want us to all get along just like I do."

I have two choices, get mad and go crazy, or be positive and get through days like this. My Mom said very wisely that anger will only hurt me in the end, and won't change a thing. That's true.

Daniel and I arrived home after a bumpy, dirty ride through Yaounde and I was surprised to see Falonne home from school early. She was home because....I'm going to let you, the reader of this blog, guess this one....

Go on....guess! If you can prove that you actually guessed the reason she was home before reading the next line I will shave my head.

The reason? She had a WORM IN HER EYE. YES. GASP. GAG. SHRIEK. A worm in her eye. It's a worm that's been traveling through her body, and now it has chosen to take up lodging in her eye, causing her intense pain and discomfort. Jean took her to the hospital immediately. But this being Cameroon, Falonne said that she was ignored by a woman at a front desk applying make-up and purchasing jewelry from a street vendor passing by. The woman told Falonne to come back tomorrow. Customer service DOES NOT exist here, and if it does, it's a rare miracle. How could that woman not take Falonne's OBVIOUS physical suffering into account and try to help her? It's a cycle. Corrupt government=poverty. Poverty=desperation. Desperation=crime and misery. Constant crime and misery=jaded people who lose their sense of compassion for others. Jaded people=no help for Falonne today.

Falonne went to bed early tonight, hoping that sleep would help her avoid discomfort. I saw the worm up-close in her eye. It's a clear color, and you have to look close to see it wrapped around her eyeball. The thought of a free-roaming worm nourishing itself on your eyeball is a thought that I did not anticipate processing in my mind during my lifetime. But here I am--looking the thought directly in the eye.

SICK. This is sick.

Our internet lady came by the house to collect our bill, and she told me that she's had those worms in her eyes a number of times and it's not big deal. No big deal. No big deal. No big deal. I'll just keep telling myself that as I fall asleep tonight and imagine the day my "inner worm" is awakened and chooses to view the world through my eyes.

Today was so jam-packed with anecdotal stories that I want to keep writing forever. But my body is so tired that I feel my eyes drooping and my fingers growing heavier and heavier as I type. But just one more thing...

Daniel has the daily assignment from me of writing in his journal. Tonight is the first time I had time to take it and correct his French (the average Cameroonian's French is atrocious....it's very sad. Think of the most backwards town in nowhere USA where nobody has all of their teeth....think of their grammar, their comprehension of English. That's Cameroonian french. I'm not being insulting, I'm telling the God-honest truth). Curse words are interjected into almost every chain of sentences.  If I were to translate their French into English, it would sound something like this:

"That woman is no good person 'cuz he don't want no **** like that in his car." Note the use of feminine and masculine words used interchangeably.

Of course, there are people who speak beautiful French here. But they're one in 1,000 so I'm justified in generalizing here. The reason the French is so poor is because people don't learn French as their first language, they learn their native languages from their different tribes first. So French is actually a second language to them, and God knows that learning a second language, and especially mastering it, is never easy. Cameroon selected French and English as their official languages in 1960. Whether it's fair or not to expect Africans to speak "good French," the reality is that if they do speak it well, their chances of success shoot much higher, and their government has made it official. Thus, a good citizen of Cameroon should speak good French. Period.

Back to Daniel and his writing in French in his journal. Even if his French is poor, he's working his tail off trying to get better....and his broken French writing is beautiful to me.

I read in his journal and he had really spilled his heart and soul into his grammatically-battered French.

"For the first time I'm being treated as a human being," he wrote.

"I'm part of a family. I'm learning what love is. I'm respected for the first time, and I don't want to kill myself anymore. This is like a dream and sometimes I don't believe that I'm actually going to be able to stay here because it's all too wonderful to be true." 

He wrote much more. Daniel is a damaged, traumatized young boy, barely fourteen. He's been rejected, beaten, abandoned, and alone his entire life since his parents died when he was a small child. He's been rejected as a "sorcerer" because of his deformed appearance that makes Cameroonians think he's cursed and evil. He has severely deformed legs and spinal chord damage from cerebral malaria. But he has the mind of a king and he understands that he will go far if he stays with Green Eyes in Africa. My dream is to train Daniel to take my place as Director of this work in Cameroon one day. He can do it. He's a brilliant boy. I'm grateful that I was raised in a family and in a culture that taught me to "love one another" and treat people with the respect they deserve. This boy was sent here directly from God, guided by his personal guardian angels. I really believe that.

After I read his journal, without saying a word, I went in to find Daniel once again listening to one of my English lesson CDs I make for the kids. I knelt down, put down his journal, and held him for a few minutes, squeezing him tight. I told him I love him and looked him right in the eye and told him he's mine now. He is my boy. I feel more of a responsibility for this precious child than I have ever felt for any of the children, even though I've known him for the shortest amount of time.

I don't know who is being helped more. Daniel or me? I thank God for the life I lead. I wouldn't trade it for anything, and I must cherish every moment here, because childhood is fleeting, and one day my kids will be grown up and no longer with me. 

Time for bed. My new kitty, Dot, is meowing at me and trying to walk on the computer. She knows when to say when. Goodnight.

April 10th - Ryan's Typical Day

It's 3:37 AM. God knows why I'm awake....I cannot sleep past 5 am these days.  I'm not excessively unhappy or suffering from insomnia. I fall asleep like a tired puppy every night, but I wake up no later than 6 am. I have so much to do; I think my early risings must be due to this factor. I have not written a blog in ages. Sitting down to the computer, organizing my thoughts, choosing the right words to express what I'm feeling...it takes effort and time. AHHHHH! My new kitty just hissed and screeched as my friend Christina's cat crossed her in the hallway. Scary sounds.We've been watching her cat, Sally, for her while she traveled in Canada. Calm down, it's just kitties. Thank God it's not a robber....something I've always got in the back of my mind when it's dark since our neighbor's house was recently robbed. No worries--our neighborhood residents busted out their machetes and taught him a lesson. He won't be back soon.

Yesterday was a day that exemplifies quite perfectly what my life is like here in Yaounde, Cameroon. I thought I'd write about what happened yesterday--morning till night--and that would help me make up for lost blogs that I should have been regularly submitting to the website.

I was awake at 5 am. I felt rested; I slept quite deeply and peacefully thanks to the air conditioner that's right next to my bed and blows fresh air on my face as my body tries to keep cool amidst the humid, hot air that fills the house during the rainy season. I got out of bed felt ill. Sprinted to the bathroom and emptied my stomach of the contents of yesterday's Ndole, a native food that's made from leaves that grow in Yaounde's surrounding rainforests. It's a dark green, mushy dish that's made from crushed leaves mixed with peanut sauce that gives it an oatmeal-like texture. It's seasoned with native spices I cannot describe, and garnished with dried fish (soft after cooking) and chunks of beef. The side dish is always ripe plantains (a banana-like vegetable that's a staple of the Cameroonian diet). I love Ndole, but most foreigners here hate it. It's got a bitter tone and is best with piment--the hot sauce we add to anything we can here. Ndole is good for many reasons. To me, it's one of the most satisfying foods ever created. You can feel the B vitamins from the dark green leaves entering your body, and it cleans out your gut leaving nothing behind....a nice feeling.

I went out on the veranda for coffee and to listen to the birds as they wake up the neighborhood. So many different sounds fill the foggy, tropical air in the morning. It's very calm and peaceful, a nice time to reflect before beginning another crazy day in Africa.

Then I checked my emails. I had an email from my brother Patrick and Heather Moore, our fundraising coordinator, saying we're in a mini-crisis due to the American economic situation. People are not donating right now because everyone is worried about their finances. The dollar is so low that we're paying double for many things we used to find inexpensive. I felt the pressure to get to work on raising money.

I wrote a letter to a philanthropic woman in Minnesota who lived in Cameroon and donates to gospel missions here that share the "good word of God." I hope the letter will turn up some funding, even though we are more action than preaching. We need help now more than ever. We're down to $2,000 in our account. But finances will work out and as Adrienne, our supervisor and cook said, "Nobody's hungry. Nobody's sick. Stop worrying."  That's Africa. As Baloo in the Jungle Book says, "Look for the bare necessities, the simple bare necessities, forget about your worry and your strife." Baloo also lives in the rain-forest. I like the way people of the rain-forest think--why worry? We'll be okay. I know we'll be okay.

I then moved on to organizing my receipts from the past few months, categorizing them into food, house bills, medical expenses, gas, taxis, car repairs, employee salaries, etc. It felt good to tackle that project. I am a very good record keeper, I don't let money go unaccounted for. But I find myself with large envelopes to sort through in order to keep things current. It's a constant project. I've become quite the accountant, converting American dollars (rapidly becoming more and more useless) to Cameroonian franks and vice-versa, tallying up totals, adding them up, dividing and categorizing. At times it's fun. At times I think that the pile of accounting that needs to be done is like a pile of acidic poison that's going to melt a hole in my desk and that will poison me if I touch it. It's nice to be caught up, at least with categorizing. I'm not poisoned.

Adriana, 10, is always the first one up. The kids are on Easter break, so most of them sleep in. She's starved for attention, so she comes directly to me asking me questions that are obviously "I need you to pay attention to me" questions. "Uncle Ryan, what's this for?" "Uncle Ryan, do you know where I want to travel someday?" "Uncle Ryan, who do white people always have red cheeks?" "Uncle Ryan, do French people eat Ndole?"

"Adriana, do you want to watch a DVD? I'm trying to work, darling."

She was excited at the proposition and I let her put on Tarzan. She wasn't too happy that I insisted she watch it in English, not with the French language track. But she was soon giggling and loving the gorilla humor and Jane's shock at Tarzan's primitive behaviors. Trust me, I can relate to Jane in more ways than one. The other children gradually woke up, one by one,  and mozied on in to watch Tarzan with Adriana on my computer while I finished organizing my paperwork. But soon everyone was hungry, and we were out of bread, so I decided to make a breakfast that would fill their stomachs and give them the vitamins my Mother the nurse found they were lacking while she was here. Our kids are too skinny, they all look about three years younger than their real ages.

As I always do when I prepare food here, I invented my own recipe. I'm not a trained cook, but I am good at taking what we've got and making something tasty out of it. Yesterday's idea was fruit beignets. With the help of Falonne, our oldest girl and our little Mommy of the house, I cut up pineapple and bananas and made a batter consisting of flour, eggs, a can of coconut milk, baking soda, and sugar. I fried up the beignets in oil and the house smelled like Main Street in Disneyland. The kids wolfed down the beignets, as did I. Nothing is yummier than freshly cooked pineapple that's juicy and tender. And how could anything with those ingredients, fried in oil, taste bad?

The day had begun. Everyone was busy running around doing their thing, cleaning their rooms, washing clothes, doing their chores. At 10am our current volunteer, Emily, a cousin of our U.S. diplomatic friend Tad came over. She's here for two weeks. She's only 16, but seems about 22. She's prepared with lanyards to make keychains, the game Twister, crayons, glue and much more. The kids were excited to see her. I asked her to "get to work" on the thank-you cards we owe all the people who have shown us kindness recently.

I then sent Jean on a trip to run errands with our car that was just repaired two days ago. It's a miracle--our car is working again. His mission: Take Daniel to the computer school to see how much computer training costs. Daniel is our newest resident, he's got deformed legs. We recently purchased a wheelchair for him and we're trying to make his life as comfortable as possible. Mentally, he's all there. Physically, because of cerebral malaria, he has trouble controlling his hand-head coordination. At his school he receives no special treatment that would help him succeed. He's mocked, ignored, and failed this entire year because the teachers brush him aside and refuse to allow him extra time to finish his assignments and take his exams. He needs to take them orally, because writing takes him twice as long as the average non-handicapped child. But Cameroon being what it is (handicapped people are looked down upon and often considered sorcerers) he's unable to succeed in school.

I have basically said to hell with his futile schooling, and I'm pulling him out of their discriminatory system and putting him on a new path. We're going to find him English classes and pay for him to have computer training. He loves computers and English, and with those two skills he will be able to succeed much more than he would be able to with a "diploma" from one of these Yaounde high schools that, to me, are nothing more than a place where they hoard 150 students into one class and provide absolutely no real education whatsoever. Schooling here is one of my greatest frustrations. Yesterday, Dodo was unable to tell me how birds reproduce. He did not know that they lay eggs. The day before, Alexis was amazed that I knew how to mix two colors to make a new color. I said "Guess how I made that light blue." She said, "With red?."

No finger painting in kindergarten, no lessons on nature with a bulletin board about bird's nests, nothing. But what can I do? With Daniel, I can get him the hell out of their ridiculous system and give him some concrete skills. He's also going to be my "student of literature." His first book is Gone With the Wind, the world's best-selling book after the Bible. We're analyzing the characters together, and talking about history, racism, and how to follow a story so that he can write a paper on what he thought of the book. It's quite fun.

The average "college graduate" from Yaounde schools has never read a book, other than a paper-back textbook, from cover to cover. There are no libraries anywhere. Not one, except in the foreign Embassies where they have libraries for their citizens. How could anyone become truly educated without access to books? You can thank the Cameroonian government for that. Instead of creating useful public institutions for their people, they build grotesque palaces for themselves.

But I digress. Back to my day.

After sending Jean to take Daniel to the computer school, pick up medications, and buy traditional African wicker shelves, it was time to tackle our "social services" files. Two days ago, our "social worker" came to "check on our work." He's actually much nicer than he used to be (no more fake police officers with machine guns threatening to close us down). But he still wants a mountain of paperwork from me, things that I do not consider relevant to our work. But I will provide it, as I need to appease the government here. Otherwise, they'll find a way to kick me out of the country, close our center, or worse, have me threatened or killed. You may think I'm exaggerating, but it happens. Just ask the French government who summoned Paul Biya (our dictator) to France after a 24-year-old French girl was shot in the head following corruption-exposing activities. I need to keep the government on my side. This is their country, they've got the power.

After I got my social services papers in order (by the way, Daniel had been rejected by social services numerous times before finding us), it was time to go to Vinny and Gill's. They're a brilliant couple from the British High Commission who provide friendship, love, outings, and kindness to all of us. Truly, they're like prim, proper, perfect angels. We adore them. They've got more class than Audrey Hepburn and they love our kids. We needed to deliver our thank-you cards to them and pick up a financial donation they'd prepared since they're aware of our current "poverty."

Driving home from Vinny and Gill's with Adriana and Daniel in the car, we passed a dirt road where men were cutting the grass with machetes. I deliberately put a pleasant look on my face and said bonjour to them. The last one looked up at me and held out his machete with a look of bloodthirst in his eyes. "What the hell was that?" I asked Daniel. He shook his head and said, "Cameroonians are mean." Adriana said he's jealous of my skin. Whatever his problem was, it was very disconcerting to see a man menacingly holding up a machete to me. Machetes, among other weapons, were recently used to kill over 100 people during a country-wide taxi driver strike that turned into a chaotic anti-government uprising. Fortunately, it lasted only three days.

But still....I can FEEL the underlying anger in the Cameroonian people, especially the men. Many of them are hungry, poor, and miserable. The poverty leads to anger and resentment towards their government, towards people with money, and towards white people. I'd be angry too if I were a strong Cameroonian with no opportunity for success. The anger is understandable, but at the same time, to me, terrifying. I guess the way they see white people is the way the French peasants saw Marie Antoinette. Very understandable. But I dread the day those machetes cut more than grass.

After my disturbing encounter with machete man, we went to a local grocery store and bought little ice creams for Daniel and Adriana. Both of them need attention. Daniel, because he's handicapped and new to our house, and Adriana, because she's the only girl of her age in our orphanage and doesn't have a play buddy like the other kids. We bought some traditional African dolls on the side of the road to use as decorations in the house. They're so beautiful. And  the young man who sold me the dolls was very kind and gave me an entirely fair price. I can't generalize too much about Cameroonians because there really are a great deal of sweet, humble people among the machete men. 

With Adriana,I thought I had made progress with her on this little outing, making her feel special. I want her disobedience and negative-attention seeking to stop. But no such luck. As soon as we got home, Adrienne, our supervisor, told her to finish her dishes. Yesterday was her turn. She refused. Adrienne began doing her work for her, since, "It's easier to just do it myself rather than fight with Adriana."

Time for lunch. Everyone needed to quickly eat their salad before Momo, our ballet and modern dance teacher, arrived for our lessons from 4 to 6 pm. I knew I was in for more drama with Adriana. She REFUSES to eat salad. But our salads contain the vitamins necessary to prevent the illnesses that suck up our funding. I insist that each child eat their tomatoes, carrots, green peppers, and onions. Adriana hates salad. Everyone else takes a huge plate and dives in with pleasure. The compromise with Adriana is that she gets one spoonful with no lettuce. Just tomatoes, carrots, and peppers.

She, once again, refused to eat it. We recently sent her for three days to her Grandmother's for refusing to eat. She's stick-thin. She MUST eat and she MUST eat what we prepare. We don't have the time or money to make "special" meals for Adriana.

Momo was very angry with the kids because they did not stretch or rehearse their dances for our June recital. This recital is very important to his reputation and to our orphanage as we're going to charge $20 a ticket. It has to be a good show. The kids have had hours and hours of weekly training in classical ballet. They're ready to perform. But they can be lazy and they do not take Momo or myself seriously some  of the time when it's time to practice. Momo is one of the hardest workers I've ever seen. He trains in dance with Chinese ballet dancers from 8 am to 3 pm every day, and on wednesdays and fridays comes to donate his time to our kids. He loves them but also stresses the importance of discipline. I supported him in his lecture, telling the kids that NOTHING that is worthwhile comes easily. They need to stand up straight and endure the difficulty of dance in order to create something worthwhile and beautiful. This lesson applies to anything in life worth doing--you must work, sacrifice, and suffer a bit in order to reap the rewards of hard work and determination.

Momo left and we began an intense rehearsal of going through our newest choreography one-by-one and critiquing each other. We went through our dance from the film Enchanted, our Jazz number from the film Chicago, and Falonne's solo to Christina Aguiliera's song "Beautiful." Our consultant Simone has an orphaned niece and a nephew who are going to perform with us in our June recital/fundraiser. I then proceeded to catch them up on their choreography. "Now children, remember: Alignment, extension, turnout. These are the most important aspects of what we're doing." All three of those things require serious muscle flexing. I was exhausted.

Dance time was over, moving onto dinner time. But before that, Simone had news for me. She had taken Adriana to her office to discuss Adriana's problems. "Adriana has something to say to you," She said. Dripping sweat, I sat down in front of our air conditioner in the dance room, and said, "Go ahead, Adriana."

"Uncle Ryan, I'm sorry for disobeying and not being respectful. " (tears) "I won't do it anymore. Please forgive me."

"Adriana," I replied, "I forgive you 100 percent. But I need you to be serious this time. I have so much on my shoulders. I do not have time to follow you around and yell and punish and make sure you're following our rules and the house schedule. Do you know why Falonne's life is easy? Because she obeys our rules and does her chores when it's her turn. You only make your life harder when you do not do what you're supposed to do." 

She nodded and we discussed in-depth the consequences of making poor choices. 

I told her to come give me a fake hug, because a real hug would have drenched her in my dance sweat.

I went to take a shower (hot water was gone from the train wreck of showers the kids take between 6:30 and 8:30). After my shower, my back was hurting from ballet rehearsal so I asked Cyril to walk/stomp on it and for the kids to pound it with their fists. Within ten minutes my eyes were closed and I was asleep on the floor.

Sometime thereafter I ended up in my bed and I remember asking someone to close my door. I didn't brush my teeth. My new kitty purred next to my head and nuzzled her face under my ear. I was out.

I slept from 10 pm until 3am, and here I am.

It's now 4:52. Adriana will be up in two hours and another day will begin. You'd think I'd be crazy now. But I love this whole mess. I love the giggling, the fighting, the cooking, the dancing, the challenge, and the richness of my life. I wouldn't trade it for anything---machete threats, diarrhea, exhaustion and all. Wish me luck with our salad shooting today. I'll need it.

Blog #8 Ryan's Holiday Message and Thank You!  

What actually constitutes a childhood? As Overseas Director of Green Eyes in Africa, I tell people that my goal in Cameroon is to give the children of the New Hope Orphanage a "childhood," since our motto is, "Every Child Deserves a Childhood." I came up with the motto after witnessing that the vast majority of Cameroonian children are not protected by laws, police, social services, or from abuse, and are thus robbed of their innocence. I wanted our formerly abused children to feel what it is like to simply be a child in a safe, secure environment.            

The New Hope Orphanage is now well into its third year of providing such an environment for these children, and in turn providing them with what we define as a childhood. But being temporarily safe in an orphanage is not our ultimate goal--our ultimate goal is to provide these children with a well-rounded view of the possibilities that are open to them in life and the consequences they will face if they make poor choices. We want them to be prepared to defend themselves in the harsh, unfair, and often brutal world of urban Cameroon, and ultimately avoid the mass misery of impoverished, desperate people.

             Education is a top priority in our work. Without it, no child has a chance in Cameroon. Our kids began their education in the Cameroonian public school system, which has over 100 students per class, severe physical punishments, and discrimination based on tribal differences. This system was failing these kids, so this year they have been placed in a quality private school where the class sizes are limited and a creative learning environment is maintained. All of the children are passing their classes and learning academic responsibility. They all realize that if they fail at school, they only fail themselves in the end. 

            After education, exposure to a variety of activities and ideas is high on our priority list. The children have had the opportunity to interact with people from all over the world, totaling over twenty countries. I make an effort to recruit overseas volunteers, diplomats, non-profit organization workers, teachers, missionaries, and others living in Cameroon to come and visit our orphanage. Some volunteers, such as Tirill from Norway and Dana from Canada, have stayed with us for weeks at a time. Each visitor and volunteer brings something unique from their native country to give our children an understanding of different cultures. Joe Hoe taught them about the Great Wall of China. Elkine taught them about life in Haiti. Mariana taught them how to make Dutch cookies. Japanese diplomats taught them how to make origami artwork with paper. Vinny taught them that chips in England are what Americans call french fries. These things are quite significant considering that the average Cameroonian child never has the opportunity to interact with a person from another country, or even from another village, in their lifetime.

             Perhaps one of the most exciting events over the past years was attending the Cameroonian National Ballet. For two years, Chinese classical and modern dance coaches trained a group of impoverished Cameroonian young people to dance with a grace and power such as I have never seen. Our children were mesmerized as they watched a spectacle of ballet, partner dances and modern and traditional African dances come together in a performance we will never forget. After the show, our kids got to meet the dancers, who agreed to pass by our orphanage. For months now, every week, the New Hope kids have been taking modern and ballet dance classes from these talented young Cameroonians, They're gaining discipline, self-confidence, and physical strength with each course.

             Teaching English has been a challenge we've undertaken from the beginning of our work. Today, the children are able to carry on basic conversations in English and are doing daily interactive lessons with a listen-read-repeat program we created to accelerate their progress. They know that if they become fluent in English, their career and educational opportunities will greatly increase.

             The childhood given to these children is a busy childhood. Each day is full of new adventures and at times it gets overwhelming. But we've got small traditions, such as singing around the piano at night, that maintain a sense of calm and continuity in our lives. In addition to myself, the children are cared for by a loving live-in Cameroonian staff that enriches their lives and keeps them safe.

             In the early days of our work, the children under our care were viewed as "victims" by those around them. Visitors came by to see the "poor little orphans" and "help them." Today, when people visit, it is often said that our children are the best-dressed, best-mannered, and best-behaved children they've seen in Cameroon. Our kids no longer have the complex that they are poor, helpless, pitiable beings. They're empowered, even obnoxiously confident at times, and are learning that now it is their time to give back.

             There is an American couple that has opened Yaounde's first center for mentally disabled children. They care for twelve severely handicapped and mentally challenged children, and it has been our goal to regularly visit these children and bring them over to our orphanage to play. Our kids are learning to accept those who are different and to serve those who are less fortunate than they. Each time we sing our orphanage "theme song," the children are reminded of their future responsibility. They sing, "Et un jour nous allons partager l'amour que l'on nous a donne" (and one day we will share the love that has been given to us).

             Our original group of children has been through adjustments. We've taken in a young blind mother and her baby, who came to us sick with typhoid fever over a year ago. We were able to place Julien back with his mother, who is stabilized after living with us and nearly dying from AIDS. We took in Joel's cousin Jeanine, whose mother's epilepsy has severely crippled her. And this summer, we took in a nine-year-old orphaned girl named Adriana, who had her first swimming lesson just yesterday. We look forward not only to the near future, which will undoubtedly be bright, but to the future children that will be helped by our "alumni," such as Adriana.  We have had so many wonderful accomplishments this year. We know that your donations keep this work alive.

As Overseas Director of Green Eyes in Africa, I personally ask anyone reading this to donate to what we are doing. Any amount, no matter how small, does help. Living here in Africa I see the results of your generous kindness daily. Thank you for continuing to help us. We are making a difference!  Thank you, thank you, thank you!  

Blog #7

Hello friends, Heather here. Just thought I would answer a recurring question that I get through the email quite often about our move to the North. Ryan mentioned in a previous blog that we would be moving to the North in December. We have not yet done so. A move of that magnitude requires more planning. We are currently researching our options and I will post more information when we reach a resolution. Thank you for all your emails and your generous donations. We love our donors!  

Blog #6 The Power Bill  

It's a good thing that I am finally learning to "choose my battles wisely." Life in Cameroon presents battles each day; battles that should never even have to be fought.  For example, paying the power bills. I grew up in Sparks, Nevada. I then rented my own apartment in Salt Lake City, Utah. In both cities, power bills arrived regularly each month. I looked over my power bills, paid them, and went along my merry little way. In Cameroon, power bills present powerful problems. We moved into our new house in December, 2006. The former resident was a Dutch man who was working in technology development in Cameroon. He left his electricity contract with the national power company of Cameroon in tact so that we would not have to go through the hassle of negotiating our way into a new contract. But our "real estate agent" who helped us find the house said that I had to re-establish a new contract in my name, and that the deposit for doing so was $300.00. He said that the Dutch man had in fact already cancelled his contract, and had taken back his $300.00 deposit. I went to the power company and found out that the Dutch man had not cancelled his contract, and that he had not taken back his $300.00 deposit. He left it there. Why did our "real estate agent" lie to me? I can't be sure, but I have a vague picture in my mind of him keeping a portion of the Dutch man's deposit after sharing it with a dishonest member of the power company, all the while making me believe that the Dutch man took back his $300.00.  

So six months passed in our new house with no power bill. In June, a power bill for $720.00 arrived with a warning that they were going to shut off our power. So Sandrine, our orphanage supervisor, went to the power company to talk to the director and see if we could make payments since it was such a large amount, and they had failed to send us a single power bill. He said yes, she paid $200.00, and we assumed everything was fine. On July 19 we paid another $200.00 as promised. Four days later the power company sent agents to shut off our power. I took out our receipts, showed them to the agents, and said that we had an arrangement with the director. They said they were obligated to shut off the power. I said that was not right since we were making payments. They decided to "pretend" to shut off the power by giving us a paper to take to the power company saying that our electricity had been shut off. Apparently they felt sorry for me or they were waiting for bribe money to pay for their "kindness." They got no money.  

So on July 25 Sandrine and I went to the power company headquarters in Yaounde. It is on a rough road filled with potholes. We pulled into the parking lot trying to avoid a huge open sewer drain hole filled with trash. It had mostly been covered with wood, but for some reason the power company was unable to locate some more wood to cover this particular open area.  We walked up the dark, filthy hallway to the director's office. There was a small crowd of people waiting in the heat to see the big boss. He sat behind his desk with his glasses almost falling off of his nose, half-yelling at the people trying to take care of their power bill problems.  He told us to explain our problem when it was finally our turn after 45 minutes of waiting. We told him that we had come to pay the rest of the money we owed. He looked into his computer, surrounded by random piles of photocopies, folders, and manuals, and said that we still owed $720.00. We showed him our receipts of the $400.00 we recently paid and waited 20 minutes while he figured out what to do about that. I hate to think what we would have done without those receipts as proof of payment.  

He and his assistant decided to send us downstairs to pay the rest of our bills--which amounted to exactly $320.00. It should have been more since their agents "shut off our power" but he said that they made a mistake and we did not have to pay the extra $12.00 fee for having had our power shut off. He said that before going back to him that we must make photocopies of everything for him with our own money.  We went downstairs and waited in a long line to pay our bill. The woman in the cashier window was sitting in a dingy room with dirty walls and garbage on the floor, and there were thousands of dollars (Cameroonian franks) scattered randomly all over her desk. Upon our turn, the woman insisted that the Dutch man had cancelled his contract and that we owed them an additional $300.00. We firmly said that we were authorized to continue using his contract. He never terminated it or received his deposit. She smugly said to give her the $320.00. We gave it to her in bills of 10,000 Cameroonian franks. She bluntly said to give her a bill of 1,000 franks, I suppose because she did not have change. She owed us 50 cents change but did not bother to give it to us or say, "Sorry, but I don't have change." She then told us we owed an additional $12.00 fee for our power being turned off. We said that the director said to wave the fee because of their mistake. 

We went back up to the director, waited in line again, and apparently he had a change of heart. He said that we now had to pay the $12.00.   Before returning to the cashier, we left to go search a copy machine to make copies. We found an internet cafe with a copy machine. We waited for the internet cafe employee to stop fighting with the two men ahead of us, and for her to fix the broken copy machine. We made copies of the bills for everything we paid, except the $12.00, which we still had to pay. We went back up to the director and gave him the photocopies. We went down to the cashier to pay the $12.00 and she said we could not pay until a woman upstairs "processed our request." We went back upstairs and walked down a dark hallway to find a secretary in a back room full of piles of papers. She took our paper and gave us a handwritten 15-digit number on the back to give to the cashier to "authorize" our ability to make the payment. We went down to the cashier and I gave Sandrine a 10,000 fcfa bill ($20).

I went out to wait in the car. Sandrine came out to the car and asked me if I had two 5,000 fcfa bills. I said no. The woman with an entire counter full of money did not have change for one 10,000 fcfa bill?  Sandrine went back inside and I waited in the car for what felt like an eternity. Sandrine came back out. I assumed that the $12.00 was paid. No, it was not. Sandrine said that they insisted that we give them 75 cents more. "But I thought they said we owed twelve dollars?" I asked.  Sandrine said that the woman upstairs did not authorize $12.00, she authorized $10.00. The cashier had sent Sandrine out to the car to get exactly 75 more cents from me because the woman upstairs had not authorized $10.00, she authorized $10.75. We had no way of knowing the exact amount because the woman upstairs did not write it down, she only wrote down her impressive 15-digit number. Sandrine went back into the offices to pay the 75 cents. The cashier told her to go to the back of the line. She refused, stating that she had waited long enough, and another power company agent started insulting her. Sandrine stood her ground and paid the 75 cents.  

While she was going through this circus, I watched a red car fall into the sewer hole in the parking lot. Instead of getting out of the car and seeking help, the man screeched his tires until the air smelled of smoke. He then shut it off and went into the power company headquarters, leaving his car diagonally dangling in the hole. I was glad we did not drive into that hole.  Sandrine came back out and said, "It's a good thing you waited in the car. If you had been in there, you would not have been happy." In the end, the cashier had changed her attitude. She asked Sandrine, "Is that my son-in-law out there in the car?" (In Cameroon older women are always the "mother" of younger women and they refer to each other as if they were related by blood). Sandrine gave a fake smile and said, "Yes, of course." "That's great," the woman replied. Sandrine said that the woman wanted to have contact with me so she started being polite to Sandrine. I wondered to myself if it might not have been better to be polite to me in the first place if she wanted me to "have contact" with her? Sandrine was frustrated with the woman's attitude. "Why is it 'great' that I am 'with you? Because you're white?"   

We had been in the power company offices since 10:30 am. It was now 1:00 pm. I drove away half-angry, half laughing as Sandrine gave me a few more interesting details about the power company. The power company was not created by Cameroonians. It was created by Americans, then turned over to Cameroonian directors. Hence the huge pothole in the parking lot? The up-and-down the stairs-change-the-price game of the employees?  Sandrine told me that we were lucky they did not actually shut off our power or we would have had to bribe the agents to turn it back on, even after paying our bill. And she also said that we were lucky to have only spent two and a half hours in the power company offices, since frequently when she goes there the power is out and nobody can pay their bills until the power comes back on. The POWER is out in the offices of the POWER COMPANY. Now there's a reason to be angry or to laugh. I simply must choose to laugh or I'll never maintain my sanity in this country.  

Blog #5 The Embassy Fashion Show

Yesterday we participated in the 2nd annual U.S. Embassy Fashion Show against Child Labor to celebrate international anti-child labor day. They told us to be original this year, as last year's fashion show was somewhat boring since everyone made traditional African outfits that all start to look the same. That is, until our awesome ambassador Niels Marquardt came out barefoot, in shorts, a USA t-shirt, and a crazy hat and danced like a fool in front of everyone. Go Ambassador Marquardt! Sandrine was SHOCKED at his behavior, but loved his accessible personality and his fun, human essence.  

So this year, we got as original as can be. Our kids STOLE THE SHOW as they walked down the runway at the U.S. Embassy, as Royal Princes and Princesses. We practiced a little scenario with them:The prince walked out, and the princess joined him, taking his hand. They walked down the runway together holding hands. The prince knelt down and the Princess gave him a caress with her magic wand.The prince kissed her hand, stood up, and escorted her off the runway. IT WAS BRILLIANT! The American Ambassador, his wife, the Minister of Social Affairs, all of the Media in Cameroon, diplomats from other embassies...they were all there.

But there was a sad overtone to the whole thing. The US Embassy specifically stated to all of the participating NGOs this year to BRING CHILDREN WHO HAVE BEEN ABUSED so that this fashion show can be about THEM. They also said to bring crafts made by victimized children for the craft fair before and after the fashion show. We were the only Western NGO that participated. The rest were Cameroonian. Not to my surprise, all the other NGOs had almost NO victimized children in the fashion show. Instead, they had 20-something girls replace the kids and try to become superstars. It was sick. Where were all the children? Sandrine and I decided not to be in the show because they asked us to keep the focus on victimized children. "Make the fashion show about the CHILDREN," we were told. Is that a difficult concept? It is sad that people used the opportunity to get into the American Embassy and advance their personal interests instead of helping the children of their country by giving them the experience of a lifetime.  

And the crafts? They bought them at the market and brought them to the embassy to sell them for double price to Westerners. What kid knows how to carve a wooden giraffe and paint it? Please. Whenever I see an NGO I ask to see photos and meet actual people who are being helped by them. If all they have is shiny brochures and a lot of nice-sounding "education, advancement of children, children protection, blah blah blah," I just walk away. SHOW ME RESULTS OF YOUR EFFORTS AND SHOW ME RECEIPTS OF HOW YOU USE YOUR MONEY. So much money goes through "committees" before it is used, and about 1/4 of donated money ends up getting used legitimately.  

In their defense, there were 2 or 3 NGOs from Cameroon that seemed to be legitimate. But it is really easy to fool Westerners with pictures of poor children. So many African NGOs are such a scam and it makes me and Sandrine sick to our stomachs that people are capable of exploiting ORPHANS for their own gain! Example: In front of Paris Disneyland, there are countless African men walking around with papers of an "NGO" in their home country and photos of suffering orphans. They have sign-up lists and people throw Euros at them. But where is the follow-up? How do they know where their money is going? That is exactly the kind of scam that hurt the children in our center before they lived with us, and the exact type of thing that caused me the most dangerous and scary experiences of my entire life.  

We were supposed to show our documentary at the event, but due to its potentially controversial content, the Embassy opted not to show it. I understand why. You are just not free to say the truth in this country in many situations because it can backfire horribly. This would have been one of those situations, I suppose. Even writing this blog, in the back of my mind, I have thoughts of a bullet going through my head or a bomb being put under my car. People who speak out are often taken out here. Scary. It makes me think of the lady in the Constant Gardner who spoke out and was hung from a tree. And, Diane Fossey, anyone? It is widely believed that the Rwandan government had her machete-chopped to death because she was exposing too much truth about their activities.  Sandrine was pretty upset about the documentary not being shown. She said, "If everyone always plays nice, and nobody says the truth, things will never change. Someone has to speak out! Why hide the truth?" I said that diplomatic circles and relations are very complicated and that the game is not easy to play. The right moves can only be made at exactly the right time or more harm than good can be done. But still, it is frustrating to have the truth on your side and not be able to proclaim it openly and freely.  

So we were not only the ONLY NGO that had numerous victimized children in the show (there were other children, maybe 5 or 6, who could have been victims...but about 50 adults), but we were the only NGO that brought paper mache castles, friendship cards, etc. made by the kids to sell. I saw a few others who said that children made their crafts. I hope it was true. But unfortunately, our humble children-created art was not too popular. We made $30. Oh well. It was not about the money. It was about the networking, establishing and maintaining our reputation in the diplomatic community, and making the kids have the time of their lives, which they did.  

The children were BEAMING with joy the entire time (except Dodo, who freaked out at the last minute, terrified of going out on stage! But he did it and actually smiled.) I was also beaming with pride and joy at how far we have come as an NGO. We are doing amazing things and seeing Raissa dressed up as a Princess reminded me that her life REALLY IS the African Cinderella story!  The US Embassy here is phenomenally beautiful. The gardens and the building are enormous. I am so grateful that they're here. Being there feels like being in a fantasyland. The clean bathrooms, the floors, the gardens, the flag waving....ahh, it's so beautiful! With the boys in the bathroom I asked some questions: What does it smell like in here? Does it stink? Is there soiled paper? Is it clean? I said "Voila, une toilette Americaine." I get tired of going to semi-nice restaurants here and walking into a bathroom that smells like a sewer with poo everywhere, not toilet paper, no soap, no toilet seat, and many times....nothing but a hole in the ground. The boys were amazed, although our bathrooms at home are kind of nice, too. But because nobody in our house is used to modern bathrooms, they're always smelly and they break the faucets and all that stuff all the time. Wait, I take that back, our girls are immaculately clean and tidy. It's the boys who are little hooligans!  

I am no longer timid about saying that the American way, overall, leads our planet in innovation, leadership, sanitation, and modernity. I love my country and I am not afraid to say it. Sure, there are a million horrible problems, but guess what? Anybody who wants to insult the USA needs to take a good look around the planet for a country that does more good in this world. Which embassy hosted this event? Which Embassy speaks out against corruption? Which embassy has befriended all of my children and made them feel special so many times I've lost track? The EMBASSY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA IN CAMEROON. I love them! I also love diplomats from other embassies....Germany and Holland have wonderful people here in Yaounde, as well. As well as the British, they're sweethearts! Dreams come true....literally. With Green Eyes in Africa, DREAMS COME TRUE! Enjoy the photos! I know we did. Talk about dreams coming true for all of us!

Blog #4 Yaounde. Sad. So Sad.

It's going to be a huge change to move to the extreme north of Cameroon. Here in Yaounde we live in the country's capitol, where there's basically everything one could need--from supermarkets to U.S. Embassy friends who can help  in the event of a crisis. We're surrounded by dense rain forest on all sides--rolling hills of vegetation so thick you can't even walk through it.  We're moving to the north where the land is flat, wide-open, and desert trees like the Acacia dot the skyline with wisdom and simple elegance. I cannot wait to move. And after my conversation with my good friend Christina who works for the World Wildlife Fund last night, I am once again reminded of why I need to get the children and myself the HELL out of Yaounde.   

Christina shared a terrifying story of something that happened to her a few days ago. We were chatting until 11 at night, tired after a fun dance class in our orphanage dance studio. Few things shock me in Africa these days. I'm used to seeing deformed beggars on the streets, hungry children, lepers, blind people,  filth beyond imagination, horrible car accidents...the list could go on. You get the idea. But Christina's story takes the cake on "expats' nightmare stories" of living in Cameroon.  It was 8pm and she was driving from one end of Yaounde to the other, crossing through downtown. She took the street that goes in front of Score, a modern supermarket where I go if I need "western" products you cannot find at African markets. As she drove close to Score, she noticed a mob of people smashing a corpse in the street surrounded by broken glass. "The person was clearly dead, but the mob continued to pick up the body, throw it back down, and smash it, kick it, and destroy it," Christina said.  She nervously began to back her car away from the mob when it turned its attention to her. "White woman! White woman!" the crowd of angry men jeered. She was terrified and had to decide between driving dangerously fast in reverse or running over the people coming at her car. Before arriving to her car, the mob took to shaking and smashing a taxi in front of her. She had time to maneuver her car away from their fury. A man about three feet from her car was approaching, and suddenly, "His head exploded. Someone shot him in the head right next to my car." 

Christina was hysterical and a man near her car said that the mob had been stopping cars and robbing everyone in them. The police came and shot the man whose body was being mutilated on the street, and the man who was shot in the head was actually killed by police trying to break up the madness. She was able to get away. But she explained that what was most disconcerting was the realization that,

1. She is not considered a human being here, she is merely "white woman." She had nothing to do with the conflict, but became an immediate target of the mob because of her skin color (not to mention blonde hair), and

2. That in the event of the breakout of widespread chaos and violence in Yaounde, "White people would be dead before we knew it. Nobody could stop angry men like them from killing us." 

I have also felt the feeling of not being human, of being "the white man." Christina said that as a Canadian she has deeper fears than she would have as an American, because the American embassy is enormous in Yaounde but the Canadian high commission is merely an office in a large office building. Then her next comment sent chills down my spine. "In the event of an emergency, such as rebels overthrowing the government or widespread anger against whites like in the Ivory Coast, Yaounde would become a trap. There are merely a handful of roads that leave the city, and blocking them off would be simple. There would be nowhere to go. People would be killed with no way to escape." 

Today is Christina's 8th year anniversary of living in Africa. The mob incident is the worst experience she's had. She also shared her second most troubling experience that happened 4 years ago. Note to self: Stay away from Yaounde Taxis.  She was in front of the Hilton after working out in their gym, trying to get a taxi back to her apartment in Bastos (a neighborhood in Yaounde). It was only 6pm and still light outside, so she decided not to pay extra to have her own taxi that would take her directly home without picking up other passengers ($3). A taxi pulled up and she offered her price for a ride home, and three men got out of the taxi and forced her inside. They put her in a headlock and held her arms behind her and drove away. She began to physically resist and fight them, but  then calmed down, realizing that resisting them was useless. She said that what followed was mental torture worse than anything she's ever experienced.  "How long have you been in Cameroon?" one  man asked. "Four years," she replied. "Well, you seem shocked that this is happening. You should have realized by now that Cameroonians are mean and we dream of raping white women." 

She remained silent and described an "electric" feeling of terror that went from her head to her toes. She says the experience was surreal and that she was literally in disbelief of what was going on. "Where are we going? What will they do to me?" she wondered. They took all of her belongings as they drove further outside of the city into the hills surrounding Yaounde. She said that her greatest fear was arriving in an obscure house and being gang raped. They took all of her jewelry but she kept one earring in hopes that she could poke one of the bandit's eyes with it. After taking all of her belongings, including her shoes, and driving around for what Christina says felt like 2 hours, they pushed her out of the taxi.  In the dark, barefoot, she ran for an hour until she arrived at the Greek Embassy. She pounded on the gate of the embassy in hysterics, desperate for help. The guard of the Greek embassy immediately took his gun and went to the site where the robbers left Christina. He did not find them. Christina was able to get a ride home and was not harmed--physically. Christina is a tough cookie and runs her own show. She didn't let the event scare her out of Cameroon, or even Yaounde.  

But, these stories and my personal experiences HAVE scared me out of Yaounde. I feel in my heart that if I stay in this insane, horrible city for much longer something bad will happen. My dream is to live my life in Africa, but honestly, I could not live my life in Yaounde. It seems that I do fine for about three months at a time, then I have a breakdown from the daily grind of being treated with disrespect and constantly worrying about someone stealing from me, lying to me, or trying to harm me.   Not to mention that I have already lived under death threats in this city and my would-be-killers are still at large, free to do what they want. They bribed their way out of going to jail long ago. Who is to say that they aren't just postponing their plans, waiting for the right time to attack me or kidnap one of the kids from my orphanage? (The latter would be in the goal of making it look like I sold the child). Christina agrees that the North will be calmer and safer. My experiences there have confirmed this--life is slower, people are nicer, and you don't have the claustrophobic feeling of being trapped in a never ending ghetto in the jungle.  And in the north, whether in a car or on foot, in the event of a national war crisis or emergency one could escape to Chad, Nigeria, or another remote area of Cameroon where you could find legitimate help. The people of the north are much less concerned with tribal origins and race than the people in Yaounde. They are naturally peaceful and their simple ways of life are unaffected by constant greed, obsession with money, and power games like rich, corrupt thieves vs. poor, ignorant criminals  in Yaounde.  The majority of northerners are simple farmers who live in mud or grass huts/houses and they go from morning to night without thinking about much apart from what they have to do to keep food in their stomachs. And trashy western culture is much less pervasive in the north than in Yaounde. It's like in Yaounde the worst of the west and the worst of Africa clash in a chaotic campaign to make people be the worst they can be.  The mob mentality of uneducated, angry, impoverished people meets 50 cent rap "bi**h, ho, mother fu**er, I got what you need if you're in to taking drugs, I'm in to having s*x I ain't in to making love " lyrics. Not a pretty picture.  When I see American rap videos on television here and the power they have over young Africans wearing marijuana-leaves/rap star T-shirts, I shudder with shame of my country.

We should be exporting what makes America great, instead, we export the exact opposite.  As I'm writing this I'm listening to Madonna's 80s hit, "Holiday." She sings, "Holiday. Celebrate. Just one day out of life...it would be so nice!" What ever happened to popular music that didn't talk about drug use, killing, meaningless and random sex, and showing off gluttonous wealth? Well, maybe Madonna's 80s stuff did have a little gluttonous wealth promotion...hence "If he can't give me proper credit I just walk away....cause we are living in a material world and I am a material girl." Yet I digress. Back to the blog. So there's Yaounde. Not exactly the Disney dream I wish I lived in. But as much as I feel hatred and resentment towards me as a white man living here, there are times when being white comes with advantages. 

In the internet cafe where I check my emails, I usually purchase a month at a time. I'm given a number to access my internet time. But two weeks ago my number didn't work. I had 14 hours left on my account. The cafe director had no record of my purchase. I insisted that I had paid my money and that I knew I had time left. He believed me and restored my account to the time I had left. The Cameroonian man next to me found the situation very funny. He said, "You're a white American so you got your time back. If you were one of his Cameroonian brothers he never would have believed you."  Sad. So sad.  

Blog #3 Cleaning off my plate 

I should kick myself for not getting right into blogging when I first came back to Cameroon last month. So much has happened, in fact, this has been the most magical and eventful time in my almost two years in Africa.  

**Note, some people say, "You should not say Africa. That is insulting to the individual countries in Africa. It's a huge continent!" They have a point. But guess what? I like saying Africa--the word in my mind conjures up images of beauty and adventure--so I am going to say Africa. Africa. I love Africa! There are so many reasons....future blogs will amaze and inspire you and PROVE that miracles and dreams are possible! But I kind of feel the need to clean off my plate of the bitter sauce that has been on it for too long. So here we go!   Let's talk about why Africa is not so loveable at times. 

In past dark moments on the dark continent I found myself saying, "I hate Africa, but I love the people I work with." This is no longer the case at all. I hated "Africa" because I live in Yaounde, a terribly chaotic and dangerous city full of insane driving, aggressive people, garbage, and racism. As a white man here I do not feel welcomed. But things will change soon. Read on to see why!   As my Norwegian best friend Tirill was here with me these past few weeks, we seemed to get a lot of unwanted attention on the streets. She had her butt grabbed so many times we stopped counting, a woman defecated in front of us in the street (in front of the Hilton for God's sake), she was called "slut" and "whore" and told she was not "in her country." I am used to such comments, which usually follow saying "no" to someone selling this or that. On the streets of Yaounde, I'm referred to as "Le Blanc!" "White man!"  Sometimes I wonder if they think I'm human on the inside just like them and that I have feelings and problems, too. Not that everyone was rude. There are many, many lovely people in Yaounde. But  Tirill summed it up nicely, "In Norway, if someone is rude, you are shocked. Here, it is the other way around. You're super surprised when someone is actually nice to you." 

Customer service is non-existent here, and Tirill got frustrated with people harassing us every time we wanted to buy food or anything else. One day we got ice cream and we asked for a plastic cup to put it in, and the lady said that they were $2.00 each. Thin little plastic cups!? We had to go through TWO store managers in order to receive a free plastic cup after spending $5.00 on ice cream. That is the absolutely perfect example of why I do not appreciate Yaounde. 

Yesterday I got an email from the US Embassy warning Americans that crime against whites is on the rise. Last month, within two weeks, clients in 4 restaurants and hotels were robbed at gunpoint by men with sawed-off shotguns and two American women were accosted in a taxi, one being punched repeatedly in the face, and dumped out of the taxi after the attack.  In March a church overnight retreat was interrupted by armed men who forced everyone on the floor as they took all of their belongings. A CHURCH RETREAT! Puts new meaning to prayer, huh?  "If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take after these robbers blow my head off. Amen." I hear so much about how horribly racist Americans are, especially after hurricane Katrina, but racism against whites here can be brutal and makes me feel a little bit confused about the whole idea of racism.

Two months ago a white man was driving a car full of his neighbor's kids home from school. Someone on the street shouted out, "The white man is kidnapping our children! He's a child trafficker!"  The street was blocked and the man was pulled out of his car by an angry mob and beaten. The police stopped the violence and took him away to verify that he was not a child trafficker. Street justice rules here. Fortunately, the man was okay. It makes me glad that I've outrun the people who have tried to do that to me and the kids. One night we were followed by a car on our way home from an event at the American School of Yaounde. I started to freak out a bit, wondering if it was Madame Adzaba who finally sent her gunman to shoot me a hot one in the head. But I let the car pass after slamming on my breaks, and the man inside screamed at me, "What are you doing with all those black children in your car?" I said it's none of his damn business and drove away. I floored it and rushed home as he followed me closely behind. But I knew back streets in our neighborhood so we managed to lose him.  That was a day I said to myself, "Sometimes it is hard to love Africa." 

Don't worry, just a few more not-so-happy stories and then we'll be on to happy stuff. But I need to rant just a little about the police. First of all, in our neighborhood, the police arrested a young Cameroonian girl for not carrying her ID papers. They took her to someone's house and all of them raped her.  The other night my taxi was pulled over by police (on foot with guns, they never have cars), and they asked to see all of our papers. I only had a photocopy of my passport, and he said the copy was not good enough. He began yelling at me and saying, "Would you accept a copy like this in Europe? Is this how they do things in Europe? You have no respect for our country! You have no respect for Cameroonian authority! You think you can do whatever you want in our country!"  Having learned from brutal experience that shouting back only makes things worse, I immediately began nodding and saying, "Yes Sir. Yes SIR. Yes Sir I am so sorry. I will never do this again. I will get a good copy." I maintained an innocent, respectful expression, but my taxi driver was getting mad at the officer, saying, "Just leave him be tonight." But the "officer" was not satisfied. "Give me your bag," he  said. I gave it to him. He took out all of my things, which were nothing more than ordinary items you would take out to dinner, and said, "This is very suspicious. Step out of the car." I said, "Yes, sir. One moment." I called Wade from the US Embassy and told him what was happening and that I really did not want to go to jail. He said, "Hand him to me." On the phone I assume that Wade verified that I am a legitimate American and asked for his name or badge or whatnot (which the officer never would have given). The officer handed me the phone, yelled at me again, this time close enough so that I could smell the beer on his breath, and said I was free to go. I called and thanked Wade for his help and apologized for interrupting his Saturday night. He said, "No problem. He was just waiting for you to pull out your wallet and give him money. Plus, he was drunk. We see this every day." 

Thank God for Wade. He's the hero of every American in Cameroon.   But, as one of my favorite books, The Secret by Rhonda Byrne, says, "What you talk about you attract." So I don't want to talk anymore about these negative things. I want to focus on the magic moments I have been having at our orphanage recently.  Baby Das as we call her (her name is Grace, but she calls herself Das) is rapidly learning English and it's a blast to teach her. I just say whatever I need to say in French and then say it immediately in English. Our favorite is saying I love you back and forth. Her little 2.5 year old voice is so adorable when she tries so hard to speak English. I love you becomes I yuv you. And we're learning body parts. So far we have hair, eyes, nose, and mouth. When she says mouth she sticks her tongue all the way out as she makes the "th" sound, squinting as she looks at me saying the word. These are the moments that make it all worth it! More of them will be shared soon, I promise.

I traveled to the extreme north of Cameroon with Tirill where there are giraffes, elephants, monkeys, gazelles, you  name it. Epic scenery and adventures were ours for the taking, and we are moving the orphanage there in December!   Until next time.

Blog # 2 America the Beautiful 

The female shuttle driver from the Holiday Inn to the train station reminded me of what it means to be an American and why I love America. She and I were discussing the upcoming presidential elections and talking about the candidates. She wants our next president to unite our "terribly divided country," as she put it. As we chatted we found ourselves on the same political page. She had a thick Long Island accent, something that symbolizes a "classic American" in my mind. She was open, friendly, talkative, and kind.  She walked with a limp as we unloaded my suitcases, and I was stricken with a sense of who she was.  She's a hard-working, honest, patriotic American. I felt compelled to give her a hug. As I hugged her, I said, "I love you because you're an American. You said our country is divided, but good people like you and me will keep it strong. Take care."  She actually said, "I love you, too." We had quickly understood one another simply because we are Americans. We represent what I consider the fabric of our nation's stability: A love of our country and a common culture of hard work, friendliness, and honesty.  I had no fear that she would drive me off into the countryside and rob/kill me. I had no fear that she would try to steal my money. I felt no hostility from her because I am  a white foreigner. I feel these things almost every time I'm in a taxi in Cameroon. That's why, when I'm in the states, I find myself humming America the Beautiful. And before I seem too gushy over a "perfect nation," I'll mention her last comment.  "Be careful in the airport. Someone was shot there this morning." 

I stood in line with my mostly-Muslim/Arab fellow passengers for my layover flight to Casablanca, Morroco thinking about the shooting, and trying to quiet my fears that someone may have a bomb or chemical weapon in their suitcase. Hearing Arabic languages is naturally a bit unsettling in an airport. Not from racism, but from the fact that most terrorists speak Arabic as their native tongue and that on the news people who kill "infidels" like me resemble the people who were standing in line with me.  One woman was wearing a head-covering. She was pushing a stroller with a little girl in it. The little girl was wearing pig-tails and a pink jumpsuit. I thought to myself, 'I'd have chosen a similar outfit for that little girl if she were mine.' Then I thought of her future of covering her "man-provoking" hair and submitting herself to a religion I will never understand. I'm sure the mother of that little girl is a good Mom. I felt a connection with her because we obviously both love the children in our lives. In spite of our differences, she gave me hope in a common humanity that only wants the best for everyone. My niece Rachel Hansen said something in response to a comment I made about my fears concerning the growth of Islamic extremism around the world and my anxieties over my world-traveling responsibilities.  She said "I know it's scary. But I just have a feeling that most people in this world don't want to kill anyone." The majority, yes.  A frightening, growing minority, no.  But I'll choose to focus on the Muslim woman and her little girl's pink jumpsuit. A pink jumpsuit is definitely a start, right? 

Fears of en route terrorism aside, I have the privilege of being reminded how good people can be every day. I may not lead a life of name-brands and luxury, and I'm never going to make a lot of money doing what I do, however, I  wouldn't trade the gift of being reminded how wonderful people can be by watching them reach out to Green Eyes in Africa and the New Hope Orphanage for anything. After my car robbery in Salt Lake, in which I lost all of the gifts and donations I had collected for the children, I felt betrayed and stunned. "How could this happen to me, of all people?" I asked myself. I wept as I realized that about $1,500 dollars of toys, books, educational materials, DVDs, and more were gone forever. I had spent hours bargain hunting and crossing off the wish lists of my kids in Africa. Gone. Because of one monster who smashed my car window and took what was not his (hers?).  But that's when a bad thing turned into a beautiful thing. Tragedy turned to triumph.  My friends Alex Thompson and her Mom took me to their house and we got into their attic. They donated tons of fun toys, lotions, and other gifts for the people in Africa. Alex's Aunt gave me about 15 DVDs with French language tracks for the kids from her personal collection. Even the Star Wars collection--something my boys should not live without! It was a nice start. The next day, I visited my spectacular friend Vicki Evans who surprised me with a proposal. "I'm taking you shopping and we're replacing all of the stolen items. On me," she offered. To add magic to an already-phenomenal offer, her friend Dave from the Episcopal Church headquarters walked into the office, heard what we were up to, and added $100.00 cash to our gift-replacement fund. So a horrible, depressing event turned into an experience of, once again, watching beautiful generosity blossom before my eyes. 

I pity the people who pass their days without seeing the best of those around them. In this line of work, I see it every day, and experiences like this one are precisely why I have hope for this world and for my work.  So on this note of hope and optimism, I re-enter my African existence. I'm ready to go back to my kids in Cameroon. I'm pumped up with love from my family, friends, and donors who believe in this dream. And now I'll turn my iPod back on to Hilary Duff, smile at the strangers all around me, and let my firm belief in the goodness of people fly me to Africa with no fear!

Blog #1 Honesty and the Underwear Wanderer

I've been procrastinating starting this online blog for Green Eyes in Africa. I'm afraid of it in many ways. I have this idea that blogs are meant to be blunt--and I don't want to offend anybody by writing honestly and openly about the realities of living in Africa.  But honesty is the guiding principle of my life, and if there's one thing I've learned from living in a foreign land, culture, and people...it is that HONESTY is EVERYTHING. I live among people who live in a shattered world...a world of misery, of suffering, of hypocrisy, of lies, disease, and injustice. At the root of all this suffering, truly, I blame, entirely, DISHONESTY. So these blogs will be honest. They'll paint a picture of the truth--as I see it, as I live it, and as I experience it. Granted, some truths are "relative," so if I present something as truth, remember that I'm only human and I can only see things through my own "Green Eyes in Africa." 

Right now I'm sitting in a Holiday Inn in Long Island, New York. I'm en route to Africa--home, I guess. Coming "home" is a weird thing for me now, since I've left my American life for a different life in Africa. I have two families--a loving, amazing American family, and a loving, amazing African family. It's a strange, confusing existence at times.  I'll never stop being American. Everything about me seems to be American. And yet the American world is not where I feel most at home. It's where I feel most comfortable, that's for sure. But "at home," no. I feel like I'm meant to live in Africa where I can dedicate myself to something bigger than just creating a career and making money for myself. During the really bad times in Africa, during the death threats, the battles with the corrupt government, the replacing of my epic dreams with nightmarish realities, I've become a new person. It's as if I've passed the point of no return. I'm hooked on my mission, a mission that I have felt spiritually responsible to follow since an experience on a mountain in Ecuador. I've invested so much in Africa that turning away from it would probably (quite literally) send me to the looney bin. So I'm determined to face the nightmares that are undoubtedly ahead. But these days in Cameroon the nightmares are fewer and fewer, and the joys are becoming more frequent. 

Of course, the primary joy of living in Cameroon comes from the beautiful children with whom I live at the New Hope Orphanage. We're a family. I don't consider myself their "father," it just seems to official a name or something. But I know that I'm the closest thing to a father these kids have ever had.  I got an email yesterday from Sandrine and the kids. She types individual messages from them for me. While I'm in the states, those emails always remind me of why I do what I do. Julien, 11, cracked me up in his last message. He said, "We can't wait for you to come home. We all want to see if you're skinny or fat." I've left Africa a few times since I moved there in 2005, and each time I've returned about 10 pounds heaver than when I left. The kids are the first to shout out, "You got so fat!" But I can't consider it an insult. In the world of Cameroon, having extra weight on you is not a negative thing. It symbolizes having enough to eat. And, keeping up my tradition, I'm once again going home substantially heaver than I was when I left.