What is Honesty?

Mon 11 Jul 2011 2:10:00 PM GMT

A Western concept of honesty entails more or less the following: If what you say really happened, it’s true. If what you took isn’t yours, it’s stealing. It’s based on facts. People get extremely angry when they’re lied to, for example, when someone cheats in a relationship.

A Cameroonian concept of honesty is quite different, and from what I’ve read, similar to most of Africa in general. I can’t speak for every single African. I can only draw conclusions based on personal experiences occurring over six years of living in Cameroon. I share what I’ve observed.

Here in Cameroon, the concept of honesty entails more than facts. The absolute truth may or may not be shared, depending on who is talking, and who could benefit or suffer from the truth. Frequently, truth is avoided in order to maintain the present moment’s peace. And this is seen as protection for the person who may become distressed at the truth.

We work with a bright and friendly woman, I’ll call her Mary. She serves as cook (when it’s not my turn) and as a caregiver to the children in our center into the evenings. Yesterday, I did a little detective work and found out that the day before the children were being disrespectful to Mary. They have a tendency to take advantage of her gentle nature. I can’t tolerate this, so I asked her to elaborate on what happened.

She said, “They wouldn’t come in out of the rain even after I asked them many times and they were not respecting me.” I reminded her, once again, that she must tell me of these things so that we can establish proper respect for her position. I was ready to bring in the children for a talking-to. Mary interjected, “It is no problem! Later that day they all told me they were terribly sorry and that they would never disrespect me again.”

This was a lie. I know our children. Not once have they done this on their own. Mary was telling a lie in order to avoid conflict; perhaps to save me mental stress. If lying avoids conflict, it is not lying; it is not wrong. I decided not to call Mary on her lie. I went along with it, reminding myself to accept the fact that my interpretation of honesty is different from hers.

After six years in Cameroon, I’ve realized that perhaps a good quarter of the things that have been said to me are entirely lies. Everyone seems to have an “association for children” just like ours. Everyone seems to know how to repair televisions. Everyone has apparently been to Europe or the United States. Everyone has a friend from California. Exaggerating one’s experiences or realm of knowledge (backed up with detailed stories) is the norm in my circle of associations.

Telling another person what they want to hear, and precisely pinpointing what this is, defines the game of Cameroonian honesty. The prize of the game is won by the fact that, here, a lie is true as long as you stick to it and don’t give in. Often, lies actually become accepted as truth,facts and figures aside.

Not long ago, I knew a Western diplomat who was very kind. She and I worked together on projects, and her good heart prevented her from seeing when she was being lied to. One day I related a story concerning witchcraft and how it “made someone die,” and explained that the majority of Cameroonians still believe deeply in witchcraft (this is a fact). Because she lived in a bubble of riches and privilege, she was shocked and disbelieving at this information.

“Not everyone!” she said, referring to her cook, whom she considered her friend. She could not believe that her cook believed in witchcraft. “Of course she does,” I said, “Go ask her.”

My friend triumphantly returned from speaking with her cook and said, “She said that believing in witchcraft is wrong and that it’s silly to believe in such things.” I overheard the cook give her a chuckle of goodwill while she was talking to the diplomat. The disarming chuckle is an excellent way of concealing true thoughts and keeping things light with foreigners.

I asked her, “How did you phrase your question?” She explained that she related the whole story to her cook and finished with, “You don’t believe in that, do you?” It was beyond obvious to the cook which type of answer her employer was seeking. I can’t really say I blame her cook. I understand why pleasing an employer could come above being honest.

My friend’s choice of words sabotaged her opportunity for clarity. I told her that things would have been different if she had said: “Ryan knows someone whose child was just killed through witchcraft. It’s so awful. What kinds of problems exist here because of witchcraft? How can we stop it?”

Had she said this, my diplomatic friend would have most likely received a great explanation of the evils of witchcraft and the sorcerers who practice it everywhere in Cameroon. Had she persisted, she probably would have heard stories of snake eyes and all-night exorcisms in churches where possessed people scream and writhe in evil languages. There’s a reason local buses are constantly filled with people selling potions to protect oneself against witchcraft.

In the Western world, the cook’s answer is an insincere fabrication, a lie. In Cameroon, it’s the way the cookie crumbles in order to maintain the present moment’s peace.

Some lies are worse than others, of course. Lies involving stealing cannot be tolerated, especially by me, since our money is donated. This is where it gets difficult.

Is stealing from the rich stealing? If you’re not caught, is it stealing? If someone doesn’t notice what you stole, is it wrong? Can those in desperate need or difficult circumstances justifiably lie and steal? No. No. No. Yes.

Over the years, I’ve been lied to and stolen from more times than I can count by people in whom I placed sincere trust. I suppose it’s partly my fault for being too much like my diplomatic friend—seeing what I want to see instead of accepting reality. Automatic suspicion goes against my very nature, but it is precisely this that will empower me in the long run.

I’ve recently had some serious battles against lies and stealing (the kind that hurts our organization; the kind that is undeniably wrong, cultures aside). I won’t go into detail. I'll just say that it was shocking, unjust, and sickening. But I’ve learned some incredible lessons that have fortified me with a new understanding of where I live. From now on, I’ll be better able to protect our organization and make sure our donations aren't squandered on thieves.

I feel liberated, but in a way I miss my naiveté. Once you’ve gained a significant understanding of the dynamics of the “honesty game” in Cameroon, you’re better able to spot a lie and realistically anticipate what you’re up against when dealing with money. This unclear process is discouraging, frustrating and hurtful most of the time. I guess it’s best to look at it as a challenging game.

But this game is hard. I prefer Pictionary.

The Black Burning Chair

Wed 18 May 2011 10:20:00 PM GMT

The black sofa chair was on fire. I had poured some lighter fluid on it and lit a match. As I watched the black chair ignite in tall, wiggling flames, I felt an odd sense of therapy. Why therapy? Because the chair was old, kids had peed on it, and earlier that day the chair was found to be the culprit of a very bad smell in the main room of the New Hope Orphanage. My Mom had provided the funds to purchase it, so I figured she’d understand the reasons that the chair’s time had come.

I admit, occasionally, I have those types of days. Days when, after pretending everything is okay, I sort of lose it and do something mildly crazy. That particular day I needed to watch that chair burn. Here is the back story -- that day we had a diplomatic guest coming over, and while getting everything in order, I kept catching whiffs of something truly foul. Everyone, adults and kids alike, had to go around as “nose detectives” to find the source of the smell. Joel found it in the chair, guessing that Aloha (Green Eyes in Africa’s youngest orphan) had peed on it.

BURN IT!

This blog isn’t about the chair. It’s about the lesson, the therapy, which the continuing story of the chair ultimately gave to me. And it had nothing to do with pee, a clean room, important guests, or even me. It had to do with Jean-Paul.

I’ve wanted to tell Jean-Paul’s story for a long time. His story is so overwhelming and unfair that I don’t really want to interview him to get the details. He’s our First Assistant and night guard. He’s the father of 17 children. He’s from Chad and is a reformed polygamist dealing with the aftermath of having produced so many children (many of whom died).

I’ve shared good and bad times with Jean-Paul. The worst was holding his dead little boy in my arms while he hunched and groaned in agony. I have a deep respect for him. He’s astonishingly tender and soft-spoken, which is refreshing in Cameroon, where speaking quietly and politely is not always the norm.

He loves the children of our center, and the children outside of our center for whom we care. He tenderly and patiently took care of Pepito, a 15-year-old boy in a wheelchair who could not do anything for himself, even eat. I’m always learning from Jean-Paul, randomly but consistently.

Before I go on and share what the chair has to do with Jean-Paul, I want to make a small disclaimer. I hate the idea of being “grateful” for what we have by pointing out the suffering of others. I hate statements like, “It was so sad seeing all those children suffering. It made me realize how lucky I am to be an American. We just take everything for granted!”

Does it make sense that those statements rub me wrong? I can’t really explain why…it just seems a little sick to feel better about my life because I see someone else’s misery. Maybe that’s human nature and normal. I don’t know.

Back to the burning black chair. As the flames began to get really tall, our diplomatic guest showed up. I quickly began to put out the fire, smoke going everywhere. A burning sofa chair probably appeared more unfavorable than the original state of the smelly sofa chair. (Don’t worry, the guest is still a dear friend of Green Eyes in Africa.)

The burned chair sat next to the house for a few days. The black fake-leather covering was melted away on a large portion of the chair exposing yellow foam underneath. I was so glad the smell was out of the house (I’m a nose person…if you want to watch a person act like a parrot caught in a fan…give me a disgusting mystery smell that lingers and cannot be found).

So what does the chair have to do with Jean-Paul? In his usual, humble way, he approached me about three days after my blazing therapy session. In his culture in Chad, looking someone in the eye is disrespectful. He never looks me in the eye. It drives me crazy. Oh well. He sees me as the Director, and I am the Director, so if that means he respects my position, so be it.

Without looking me in the eyes, he gently asked me for the chair. “Jean-Paul, it smells like pee and we’ve burned it half away.” He said it would be of great use to him and asked to have it. I felt like it was insulting to “give” it to him, but he insisted. Okay, Jean-Paul.

Now, I’m pretty sure that if I had lived through the things Jean-Paul has experienced, I’d be toting a machine gun around, covered in tattoos, smoking cigarettes, and wearing an eye patch. But one would never know Jean-Paul has been through the worst things a refugee can go through. He has the gift of patience. And that’s a good thing because the burned black chair story isn’t over—it gets worse.

Jean-Paul was carrying the chair on his head, walking back to his residence from our center. I have no idea how far away his residence is from our place, but I know it’s too far to walk to on foot with a huge, burned black sofa chair on one’s head. I am sure he was exhausted and sweltered under the black chair in the blazing sun.

ACT I: Jean-Paul Carries Chair
STAGE LEFT: Enter the police

I use the word police for lack of a better word -- “Protect and Serve” is not their standard. They stopped Jean-Paul and accused him of having stolen the chair. A foul-smelling, burned chair! I don’t know if they thought he was really stealing or not because he obviously didn’t have bribe money to give them.

The next day Jean-Paul told me that he had to provide proof to the police that he had not stolen the chair. I could not go into the police offices because it would just make things worse. A foreigner like me is automatically seen as a cash tree and no matter how ‘in order’ I have my papers and everything legal, they’ll find a way to try and intimidate money out of me. In this case, I’m guessing they’d invent some sort of “permit” I did not have in order to give away a chair, or they’d ask the most popular two questions, “What are you doing in our country?” and “Is that the way you do things in your country?”

So I told Jean-Paul that he needed to ask Bridget, our Nanny, to take a photo of him next to her with the sofas that match the burned chair and write a note saying that she gave him the chair.

Jean-Paul’s stories really do make me grateful for my privileged existence. Not only did he want a smelly, burned chair so that he’d have a chair like that for the first time in his home, he was accused of stealing it. Grrrr! It’s so frustrating. Seeing things through Jean-Paul’s eyes makes me feel like I’m spoiled, makes me feel grateful. But that’s sick, in a way, isn’t it? There needs to be a word to describe this semi-sweet emotion. I bet the Germans have one.

Change, Japan, Mary Poppins and Water

Fri 25 Mar 2011 10:15:00 AM GMT

Just when life gives you a nice little, comfortable routine—BAM! Things change. Ever noticed that? It seems to be the formula for life with Green Eyes in Africa. Each time I envision some sort of long-term, unchanging vision of the future, good old Cameroon sends us for a whirl and uproots my ideas. But after the change usually comes an unexpectedly positive outcome…

Before I continue my ramblings, which in light of the Japanese crisis seem trivial, I want to mention the sweet people of the Japanese Embassy in Cameroon. Our largest donation so far—a beautiful blue minibus—was donated by these good people. We drive around in a bus with side stickers that say “Japan Development Aid.” The Japanese Ambassador (three years ago) was a sweet, humble, kind man. His wife was equally as enchanting—she gave us a little flock of yellow baby ducks.

I mention the Japanese because my heart is broken over what’s happened in their country. I imagine how broken I would feel if 18,000 Americans were killed, say, on the coast of California. It must be devastating to each and every Japanese person. I can’t do much, but I can write this for them on behalf of all of us at Green Eyes in Africa:

“Green Eyes in Africa has known the kindness and generosity of you, the Japanese people. Your unique and loving culture has touched our lives. As we drive our minibus in safety and security, we remember you, especially during this terrible time for your country. Please know that we respect and honor you, and we know that you will get through this because nothing can stop the unstoppable Japanese spirit.”

I sat down to detail all of the changes that are making life rather challenging right now. But I find myself reflecting on what’s happened in Japan. Truly, each day is a gift. I think of the humble and smiling Japanese friends I’ve had here in Cameroon. I imagine 18,000 people like them facing utmost agony. It puts a terrible feeling in my stomach.

Well, then. I suppose I have a new perspective on all the changes that are shaking me up at the moment. We’ve had to let our cook/nanny move on. She just was not working out so we had to say goodbye. We’ve got a new cook/nanny coming (hopefully within a month), but for the moment, I’m Mr. Mom himself.

We’ve made some structural adjustments around here. Our awesome and talented African Director, Olivier, is dealing with his father’s debilitating illness. He’s had four funerals in his family over the past two months. His family depends on him, especially his father, and they need him to be available very often, sometimes all night in the hospital.

With Olivier’s outside pressures weighing him down, we’ve adjusted his responsibilities so that he can still be a major player in Green Eyes in Africa without the pressures of being a live-in Director. He’s now taken on the job of Overseer, taking care of most of his former tasks without the live-in aspect.

The live-in position is going to be transferred to the new Nanny. We need someone who can live in the center and be available almost all of the time. Although we’ve had brilliant female volunteers (American, German, etc.), we’ve been missing a constant mother figure. With three girls in the center we need a strong female presence.

We’ve selected an English-speaking woman who has lots of experience working in international settings and has experience cooking all types of foods. For too long, we’ve eaten only Cameroonian foods, which are heavy in oil and consist of mainly white starches (cassava, rice, etc.).

Everyone is excited for the new Nanny to arrive. I keep imagining that Mary Poppins (a la Africaine) is on her way! I doubt she’ll be able to help us clean the rooms with our minds and a song, but from what all of her recommenders say (Japanese, Australian, German, and British) she’s over-the-top bubbly and happy to a fault. I can handle that! Being too happy is a nice “fault” to have. I’m hoping that she’s “practically perfect in every way.” (Not really, she can be practically perfect in almost every way and that would be fine).

So while we’re waiting, I’m in charge of cooking, cleaning, washing, recreation, and all the rest that goes into taking care of a home and a bunch of children. I really like the feeling at the end of the day when everything is calm and I finish washing the dishes.

Thank goodness for Jean Paul, our night guard, who is so much more than a night guard. He helps with everything and is “Papa” to the kids. I could not do this without him.

And I pretty much go insane when the water is cut off (today is the third day in a row with no water). It is so challenging to manage potty training issues without water.

No water takes away all potential charm from being Mr. Mom. Stop and think for a minute: how many times a day do you require running water (faucets, toilets, showers, laundry, etc.)? We have to use buckets and plastic bottles filled with tap water. And then they start to run low. Once the water supply is low, unflushed toilets start to fill. It really…stinks.

We live in a country with so much rain it’s pretty much a marsh half of the year (RAIN-forest). And yet the totalitarian authorities are unwilling to provide adequate running water to the citizens of their capital city. I don’t say incapable, I say unwilling. They have p.l.e.n.t.y of money to create an efficient water system. I personally believe that by controlling water in this way—by keeping people in a state of instability, filth, and dependency—the people in charge maintain their control.

People who are used to constant inefficiency, inconvenience, and pathetic conditions (in this case, water) don’t really develop very high expectations for their lives, do they? It’s like the school system here—its deliberately kept subpar and ridiculously, even outlandishly unorganized. Again—people accustomed to efficiency in things such as water and education raise their expectations. And educated people with high expectations pose a threat to selfish "rulers" who wish to steal and harbor all things for themselves…

In conclusion, a question:

Would it be better that I adopt a typical Cameroonian attitude towards all this in order to avoid beating my head against a brick wall all the time?

I could succumb to the temptation of using the phrases that people use here when things are less-than-convenient. These phrases are ubiquitous throughout Cameroon (at all times) and reflect, in my opinion, a successfully broken people:

“On va faire comment?”—What can you do?
“C’est comme ca, non.”—That’s how it is.
“On doit supporter.”—You just gotta put up with it.
“Patience.”—Just be patient.
“C’est le Cameroon.”—That’s Cameroon.

(I think I’ll stick with the brick wall.)

PS--The water stayed off for four days. The last day, the electricity and internet also went out. When the water finally came back on the 5th day at 2am, somehow our sink overflowed in the kitchen and it flooded the kitchen and hallway (one of the kids must have left the faucet open). OH--and there's an unprecedented cholera outbreak in Yaounde--a disease transmitted by fecal matter germs. This just makes having no water all the more special, doesn't it?

The Cape of No Hope

Fri 18 Feb 2011 7:05:00 AM GMT

What I saw two days ago I didn’t even know could exist. Living in Yaoundé, a cruel city with beggars, street kids, omnipresent corruption, and injustice all around, I’d assumed that after roughly six years of living here, I’d seen it all. For example, in 2006 our Norwegian volunteer Tirill and I saw a woman stop dead in her tracks on a public road, lift her dress, and defecate in front of us. I had seen it all. I was wrong.

Driving in our minibus, before seeing something that will forever stay in my mind like the corpse of a dead animal, the kids and I saw something sad, but comical. There was an old woman, I’m guessing in her 70s, wearing a dress made out of worn-out, ripped up plastic bags. Although sad, it was funny because she was so creative. Her dress looked like a ball gown; like a long, flowing ballerina dress. The wispy pieces of shredded plastic bags were floating like feathers. From a distance, she looked like a lost performer from Swan Lake. When she walked by our car, the ballet was over. Reality set in. No pirouettes, no piques. Just wincing, hunching, and squeezing a walking stick.

While stuck in the traffic jam, I noticed another beggar approaching us. He was shirtless, going from car to car, wearing a Cameroonian flag tied around his neck. It was blowing behind him like a cape. First we saw the old ballerina and then a shirtless man wearing his country’s flag like a superhero. It was random. You find yourself laughing in these moments, sort of like when you feel like laughing when people are arguing even though you know it’s totally inappropriate.

The humor abruptly ended.

The man wearing the flag-cape walked closer to our bus and he was not only shirtless, but wasn’t wearing any clothes at all. This man was suffering from a condition I didn’t know was possible. His scrotum and testicles were swollen to the size of a soccer ball. My stomach sank with anger, pity, and acidic shock as I pondered what this man must go through on a daily basis, not only physically, but mentally and emotionally.

I watched him be rejected by each car he passed as he approached us. As I write this, he’s out there being rejected right now.

He obviously has nowhere to turn. He’s lost all dignity, because he’s forced to beg with no covering or people won’t see his condition. In a country where witchcraft is often the explanation for everything from AIDS to people’s disabilities, I’m guessing that in the eyes of others he’s lost his very humanity. I have no idea what his condition could be. Elephantitis, perhaps?

When he arrived to our bus, I analyzed his facial expression. I could see that was not mentally ill. His gaze was intelligent, no desperate. I lack words to describe what his face said to me. Tell my story? How can you sit in your car like that, seeing me like this? His eyes were human, soft, gentle. I handed him the change that I had in my bag, he thanked me by cupping his hands over mine, and continued on.

Cameroon is a rich country. They have everything from oil to bananas to pineapples to rubber to potentially brilliant tourist locations. And there is a “Christian” church on every corner, many of them with BMWs parked in front. New churches are going up everywhere, obviously costing thousands if not millions of dollars. They do nothing (well, not true, they sing and collect money). As long as they’re using private funds, I can’t really point a finger at them. But I can be disgusted by their hypocrisy.

But the churches are not the primary robbers of this country.

This man looks at the very people who pillage his country as they sit in their cars, scoffing, judging, and looking the other way as they think of what their servants are making for lunch.

There’s nowhere, nowhere for this man to turn. And the places that should have been created for people like this man were never built because the money is clutched tightly between the claws of the evil people who have the power in this country.

I would love to go into detail about these problems. But even I cannot speak out too openly. It’s dangerous. Let’s just say that the root of the problem rhymes with cover-mint.

I can, however, conclude with this:

When you think of the people of Cameroon, the good people who could have reached their potential and achieved their dreams, I want you to envision one thing. I want you to envision this man, begging in the street, naked and deformed, with his country’s flag tied around his neck.

What Would You Do?

Sun 13 Feb 2011 9:40:00 PM GMT

If right now you fell down and broke your arm, what would you do? Think about it for a minute. If you’re an American (or a citizen of a developed country), you’d probably be on your cell phone within seconds calling for help, or someone close to you would immediately take you to a nearby hospital. The hospital would be clean and efficient. You might have to wait a bit in the waiting room. Even if you had no money, the hospital would be legally obligated to treat you in the emergency room.

In Cameroon, things are different. Recently, one of our little boys named Modeste (11) broke his arm. Modeste is a tiny child. It seems as though he’s grown little more than an inch in the past four years. He’s an orphan. We provide lodging, food, and schooling (private) for Modeste and five other orphans who live with their Grandmother, Anastasie. They’re one of our “outreach families.” Her littlest orphan, Olga, lives in our orphanage.

Last week, Grandma Anastasie gave me a desperate call to let me know that Modeste had broken his arm. She called a few days after the accident. She said that their “traditional massages” were not working, and that she felt he needed to go to a hospital. Traditional massages? I can only imagine the agony Modeste went through as his broken arm was twisted and squeezed with no anesthetic.

We immediately arranged for Modeste to go to a hospital in spite of my reservations concerning the hospitals in Yaoundé. Normally, they’re filled with crowds of hopeless and impatient people waiting to be treated. They’re filthy, unorganized, and alarmingly inefficient.

However pathetic the “hospitals” may be, if one has enough money, one can obtain a higher quality of whatever is needed, as is the case with everything in Yaoundé. Those who cannot pay are not so lucky.

People without the funds for treatment are booted out the door. People die constantly after being kicked out, especially children. Grandma Anastasie was sent to the hospital in our minibus with an adequate amount of funding. We made sure they would be received and treated.

Modeste was examined and a cast was placed on his arm. Modeste’s agony was over.

But the question still haunts me: What do people do in situations like this in Cameroon? The average Cameroonian family brings in about $40 a month, if that. Modeste’s treatment exceeded this amount by far. What do impoverished Cameroonians do?? I’m afraid the answer is simple.

They suffer. They die.

Knowing that this situation is due entirely to corruption sickens me.

Grandma Anastasie is lucky to be a member of the Green Eyes in Africa family. She has somewhere to turn when in need. But other children who break limbs, the millions of kids out there without anything more than a shirt on their back, the thousands of children I see every day working in the dangerous traffic, selling things…what about them? Knowing that this needless suffering stems from corruption, it saddens me greatly.

It’s alarming how much we take for granted if we come from a country where things “work.” In spite of the many flaws in developed countries, they work. Modeste would not have had to endure the torture of “traditional massage.”

I’m happy that we were able to help little Modeste. He’s a good boy, always obedient and kind. But instead of having a good feeling about assisting this one boy, I find myself thinking of the others. The other children out there have no Green Eyes in Africa. We plan on growing and expanding, but it still won’t be enough. It’s an overwhelming thought.

With a corrupt government that robs any enterprise that begins to succeed, that sabotages the efforts of intelligent entrepreneurs who could make a difference, things won’t change anytime soon.

So once again, I mentally pick up my most useful fashion accessory: My horse blinders. I like to compare myself to a horse with blinders on the sides of my head, blocking out distractions that could scare me, make me jumpy, or worse, discourage me.

With these blinders on, I think of Modeste, who is healing and out of pain. I think of Grandma Anastasie who is at peace knowing her precious grandchild is sleeping through the night. They’re all I can see, for now. I smile.

Grandma Anastasie wrote us a letter, in spite of the fact that she does not know how to read or write. She went to the trouble to find someone who’s lucky enough to have these skills. It’s handwritten in pen with perfect handwriting. I’m assuming it took a few drafts to complete. This effort is an example of why I stay in Cameroon even though it emotionally strangles me on a regular basis:

Dear Green Eyes in Africa,

I have an enormous joy to come before you and express my immense gratitude for your kindness. I express thanks for what you do for my family in general and particularly what you have done for my grandson, Modeste, who recently broke his arm.

He broke his arm at school during recess while playing with friends. After breaking his arm, it was very swollen. We tried to heal him with traditional African massages, but the arm just kept swelling and swelling.

This is why I’m writing to say thank you for your big hearts. I am so happy to see that his arm is going to heal quickly. Once again, thank you with all my heart. I am without words to express my joy and thanks. I ask that God, high above, give you longevity, prosperity, happiness, and above all the money to be able to continue to help those in need.

Thank you,

La Grand-Mere Anastasie

PS: Cameroon being what it is, Grandma Anastasie came to our house two days ago. She was entirely upset. Her neighbors have accused her of stealing a television and other items from their home. They accused her of doing this on the day she was at the hospital with Modeste. She asked me for the x-rays and hospital papers to take to the police the next day where she had to defend herself against the accusing neighbors.

Why are they accusing her?

Because she has the good fortune of being assisted by a non-profit with “foreigners” who visit her house. Instead of being happy for this Grandmother who has lost so much, suffered so much, and cares for SIX orphans, they resent and hate her. This isn’t the first time we’ve had to defend her—we’ve even had to change her living location before. I try and avoid being too “public” for this reason. This is Cameroon—it really is a dog-eat-dog-survivalist environment. I’m familiar with it. That’s what poverty and desperation create. But it angers me when people like Grandma Anastasie are the victims.

Horse Blinders….Glad we’re here to defend her! 

Casablanca Before Sunrise: An Awakening

Fri 28 Jan 2011 8:05:00 AM GMT

I ended up having an unexpected adventurous awakening en route for Cameroon via Casablanca, Morocco, after having been a refugee at the Frankfurt Airport (cots and all).
Although inexpensive, Royal Air Maroc Airlines seems to be operated by ten-year-olds who don’t know what they’re doing. They have no concept of customer service (especially customers who are stranded in foreign lands), but they did arrange for me to stay in a hotel in Casablanca while stranded for two days.

After leaving San Fransisco and being stranded in Frankfurt, I made it to Casablanca around three in the morning, completely jet-lagged. I went to sleep in the hotel they selected, and didn’t wake up until six in the evening the next day. I thought it was eight in the morning. Such is international travel!

With my sense of time being completely out of whack, the next night I was unable to sleep. I watched T.V., and found an old Audrey Hepburn/Cary Grant movie. It took place in Paris. The film really played up the “exotic locale” aspect of Americans in a foreign land, so my inner sense of adventure was stirred. I wanted to have an adventure like Audrey and Cary (minus being shot at).

Life in Cameroon isn’t an adventure for me anymore. It’s life. Things that used to bring excitement, anger, passion, or drama into my life are just part of my everyday routine now. It seems that nothing can shock me. And, before my Casablanca experience, I thought my sense of wanderlust and African adventure was dead.

After Audrey and Cary enchanted me with their adventure antics, around three in the morning I decided to leave my hotel room. There were no noises on the street below, so I waited until five to venture out. I knew it may have been a dangerous thing to do, going out in the dark, but being stuck in a hotel room isn’t fun after too long.

I asked the men at the reception desk, “What’s open at this hour in Casablanca?” They told me that everything was closed and that venturing out in the dark was futile.

Desperate to get away, I left the hotel anyway and began walking the streets.
Morocco is a doorway to the African Continent, and was about to open my sense of African adventure and bring it back to life.

In Casablanca, there’s an area called the “Old Medina.” In an otherwise blah city, this area is quite interesting, with many shops containing fascinating Moroccan things to buy—lamps that look like they contain a genie, hookah pipes, and other intricate items, such as sculptures depicting camels and nomad peoples far off in the Moroccan desert.

I decided to enter the Old Medina, even though no shops were open. As I walked in, there were no sounds save a few coming from men sitting around a small shack eating some sort of brochettes. One of them shouted at me. I’m glad I do not speak Arabic, because I don’t think he was telling me how fabulous my shirt looked.

I ventured on. The streets of the Old Medina are narrow and old, with randomly assembled doors and windows, many of them colored. On any street, there are endless turn-off streets about three feet wide that seem to contain ancient mysteries.

My good sense told me to stop entering deeper and deeper into the winding streets, at risk of not finding my way out. I ignored it.

Walking these streets began to awaken my sense of adventure. It was completely dark, with the exception of randomly placed dim lights. Fortunately, the moon was full and bright, appearing frequently through moving rain clouds, providing enough light to see where I was going.

I encountered a few pedestrians along the way. As they approached, I felt nervous, because I was unarmed and moving deeper inside of the winding streets of the Old Medina. Anyone could have stabbed or robbed me without anyone knowing. I realized that I was probably being stupid, but continued on.

And then came the howling. Cats, found everywhere in Casablanca, especially in the maze of the Old Medina, were making the strangest noises I’d ever heard. I’ve heard cats make their weird mating calls before, but this was different. They were howling like wolves, some of them preparing to fight.

In the dark, the howling of the cats gave a feeling of mystery and danger. The howling was like a warning, and each shrieking sound made my heart beat faster.

I suppose I had become one of the cats—curious, wandering, and jittery, watching out for danger.

I walked past a group of men sitting inside of a two-foot alley way. It was too dark to see their faces. As I approached them, their conversation became louder and louder, until I realized they were talking to me. Most Moroccans seemed to be quite friendly, but this group was evidently not a fan of the stranger invading their labyrinth ruled by howling cats.

Exploring without a leather whip attached at my hip and an Indiana Jones hat left me somewhat disappointed. I felt so far from home, so isolated, so free.

As I walked down one particularly dark and empty street, all at once a man appeared on my right, standing in an alley. Reflexively, I let out a shout of terror. Although embarrassing, this reminded me that I didn’t feel safe but was enjoying the adrenaline rush of doing something, for lack of a better word, “Indiana-Jones-esque.”

The moon hid behind clouds, and rain began to heavily pound everything in sight. On the streets, they have covers above the windows under which people can walk without getting too wet. I darted under the coverings, jumping across instantly huge puddles, exploring at a slower pace, until the rain stopped. My shoes completely soaked, I had to pause for a moment in a dry spot. Directly across from me, I saw a soaked little black cat taking refuge in a small dry space under one of the awnings. The cat and I made eye contact a number of times, undoubtedly holding a mutual understanding of each other.

The rain turned to a drizzle, and by then, doors were opening and Casablanca was coming alive. Bread shops were opening, car horns began honking, and I passed woman after woman pounding some sort of corn flour into foot-wide cakes that looked like a giant pancake. I purchased a small one. It’s too bad that my taste buds couldn’t handle the bitter taste—I spit it out and gave the rest to one of my fellow feline wanderers.

There were now people everywhere. The women pounding their flour didn’t seem to notice me. Loitering men smoking cigarettes were more interested in making comments. I’ll never know what they were saying. I didn’t necessarily feel welcomed, but I felt alive. My sense of African adventure reawakened.

The light of day had begun to gently creep into in the winding streets. I decided to head back to my hotel. Before I left the giant walls that encircle the Old Medina, I stopped at a little store with miscellaneous items such as cookies and a few post cards. I looked over the postcards, and at my feet found a tiny little kitten, hiding safely behind a garbage bag.

I knelt down and caressed the pitifully skinny little animal, feeling a sense of finality, knowing that my experience had come to an end. I wanted to tuck the kitten into my pocket, but knew that his destiny was to join the pre-sunrise howling ritual someday, keeping the Old Medina mystery alive before the Casablanca sunrise.

Two days later, I was in Cameroon, which, unlike Casablanca, has now become familiar. The word familiar is a bit of an f-word to me, for my life pursuit has been one of avoiding the hum-drum and the ordinary. My worst nightmare is to live a “normal” life, without excitement, without howling cats and mornings before the Casablanca sunrise.

I’m doing my best to keep this spirit alive amid the chores of Green Eyes in Africa—accounting, cleaning up children’s messes, English lessons, teaching dance, swimming lessons, and the like. But in the spirit of adventure revival, the other day I forced myself to go to the Mokolo market, a completely chaotic place where they sell everything from shoes to blenders (on the ground). Normally, many sellers are aggressive and hostile. Some even grab your arm to try and make you purchase their knick-knacks.

I made it through the Mokolo Market more easily thanks to the cats of the Old Medina.

By doing things that make me nervous or even frighten me—I’ll keep my Casablanca sunrise alive. After all, Morocco is part of Africa, as is Cameroon. And where but in Africa can one find the best opportunities for adventure?

When things become drab, I need to listen, closely. I need to listen for the howling cats.

PS: They say that what you mentally put out into the universe comes to you. Well, precisely two minutes after I finished writing this blog, I received a call. Grandma Abomo, who cares for five of our orphans, called me to tell me that Modeste, 11, has broken his arm. Um, not really the type of adventure I was looking for. I’m off to deal with a broken arm.

The Perils of Poo

Thu 6 Jan 2011 9:55:00 PM GMT

Warning: Unless you’re a parent, this blog is probably going to groooossss you out!

Begin with the image at right. Yes, that is an orphan dropping.

Poo has taken those of us at Green Eyes on quite the journey. We’ve gagged, we’ve cringed, and become more wise. (?)

All right, so I’m writing this blog to recognize the tremendous patience and courage our volunteers Joe, Natalie, our African volunteers, and myself have demonstrated in the face of the most disgusting aspects of working with Green Eyes in Africa.

I’ve been doing this for six years, so I don’t even know what our work must seem like from an outsider’s perspective. Looking back, I imagined working with orphans as an epic, meaningful, touching, and always life-changing experience. The reality is far from that. Sometimes it gets so frustrating, so gross, so irritating, that we resent the very little stinkers we’re supposed to adore!

We’ll start with Aloha (nicknamed this because his real name is that of a little boy who recently died; not emotionally a good idea to have that name floating around at this time). Aloha,4, is a wide-eyed little cupie doll who couldn’t be cuter—physically. He’s completely melted the hearts of Joe and Natalie who have been his primary caregivers over the past four months. The fact that they still love him shows that they must be related to Mother Theresa.

You see, Aloha came to us with some, eh-hem, issues. The day he arrived, Natalie and I got him dressed and made him a nice glass of warm milk. We were ooing and aahing over his adorableness, excited to work with our newest little elf. He couldn’t speak coherently when he arrived, but we understood “chier” which means “shi*.” In French, this word is an offensive expletive, but in Cameroon, they’ve adopted it as the norm for referring to “number two.”

We told him to say “ca ca” instead, but “chier” was what he was used to. For the first time, he said, “chier” with a sense of urgency.

We went into the bathroom to place him on the toilet (the first one he’d ever used in his life). To him, it probably looked like a large monster’s mouth that was going to swallow him up and chomp him into oblivion. But he didn’t end up having to face the monster. Just as his pants came down, a projectile stream of yellow liquid squirted horizontally onto my pants and shoes. I began to gag, stuffed toilet paper in my nose, and watched as poor Natalie covered her face and said, “I’m sorry!” and excused herself (in order to avoid vomiting, no doubt).

I placed Aloha in the tub, washed him off, and reassured myself that this was a one-time adventure that was now in the past. Natalie and I found a second pair of clean clothes and resumed our goo-goo talking with Aloha, smiling and anticipating all of the fun things Aloha was to experience with Green Eyes in Africa.

“Chier!”

We ran to the bathroom, this time moving faster than the speed of light to get him on the toilet. Pants down! Lift him and turn him onto the toilet! So close, so very close we came. And yet, once again, a masterful mustard-yellow work of art was covering my pants, shoes, and the bathroom floor.

Natalie and I, being of sound mind and great intellect, decided it was time to place multiple rags in his underwear and not risk another firework display.

A few days later, we took Aloha to the doctor (he has Epilepsy). The poor little guy not only has Epilepsy, but he was severely malnourished and underweight (he looked two years old), had pneumonia, and intestinal parasites. We were given a long list of prescriptions and blood tests to complete, and were almost on our way, when…

“Chier!”

I rushed Aloha into the bathroom of the French medical clinic. This clinic is clean, modern, and efficient. The last thing we wanted to do was embarrass ourselves in front of a crowd used to eating escargot and sipping champagne with fromage.

We made it into the bathroom, I unbuttoned his little jeans, and now, ahh! Why did we tape his cloth diaper so tightly? The explosion was once again horizontal, only this time it came out from the left side of Aloha’s diaper. With toilet paper shoved in my nostrils, holding back gags, I began cleaning. But I had forgotten to lock the door of the tiny bathroom. “Aaaahhhhh!” a woman screamed as she tried to enter. I can only imagine what I looked like with toilet paper in my nose and a little African child in a taped-up diaper, surrounded by ****.

It took a bit of time, and many baby wipes to clean up the mess while Joe and Natalie attempted to make polite conversation with the Belgian doctor in his office.

Fortunately, all of this craziness has a happy ending. Well, no, it doesn’t, actually. Aloha still torments us with almost daily episodes of peeing or pooping in his pants. The trouble is, we all know that he is capable of using the toilet (with help) at this point, but seems to be using his excretory powers to control and manipulate the orphanage staff.

Little orphans like Aloha come with issues that are unfathomable. We have no idea what he’s witnessed or been subjected to before arriving here. We know it’s a control issue, we know that sometimes children seek negative attention just as much as positive attention, but when is the poo saga going to end?

The good news is that Aloha has recently been going full days without dropping surprises.

Perhaps we should create a volunteer brochure with the following statement:

WARNING: You will deal with poo. Poo is going to be part of your life. Together, who? Poo and you.

You Live, You (don't) Learn

Tue 4 Jan 2011 10:00:00 AM GMT

When you were eleven years old, did you do your math with a pen? I didn’t. I recall my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Smith, reprimanding another student for doing her math homework with a pen (it was, naturally, a mess).

Our volunteer Natalie recently helped Joel, 11, with his math. Joel struggles with math. She worked hard to help simplify concepts and make his math less intimidating. She did this, of course, using pencils. Joel completed a homework assignment with pencil, all correct, all neat, all ready to be turned in to his teacher the next day. Natalie had done an excellent job as a Green Eyes volunteer.

This scenario should represent an upbeat, happy little success story for our charity. But it is not. Let’s look a little deeper into the sorts of things we face as volunteers in Cameroon.

First: something simple. To me, the following statement is fact, not opinion:
When learning to do math, children are best served by using pencils, not pens, in order to be able to erase mistakes, which are numerous and frequent.

Joel turned in his assignment. His teacher rejected his (entirely correct) work on the grounds that it was not in pen. In Joel’s class, children are required to do their math work entirely in ink.

All of Natalie’s efforts went down the drain, and a disappointed and confused Joel came home with a failing grade.

Education systems are different all around the world. I’ve many international friends from Germany, France, England, Asia, Africa and other places. The French scoff at the American system that is “so easy,” as do Germans. The Cameroonian education system is based on the French system, which, to me, is nothing more than teacher-feeds-I-spit-back-out.

I won’t go into the lack of independent thinking, creativity, or intellectual freedom within the Cameroonian educational system. I feel a need to write about the absolute basics that are entirely absent as well as ludicrous practices that would baffle anyone with a sense of what it means to effectively learn something.

All of the children under the care of Green Eyes in Africa attend private schools. Public Schools are not an option because we are not child abusers. The public schools in Cameroon regularly beat children’s backs and hands with sticks, leave them dangerously unsupervised, and, due to overcrowding, leave room for rampant student-on-student abuse. These things all occur in private schools as well, but to a lesser degree.

Classrooms in our children’s private schools are filthy. The walls are brown and appear to never have been washed. The “administrative offices” are full of uncategorized, waist-high piles of papers. The only offices that are attractive (and essentially inaccessible to everyone) are the director’s offices.

Because we pay for our children to attend private schools, we expect certain standards to be met. Unfortunately, our children have been physically abused at times. Cyril (then 7) came home from school one day with dark purple horizontal lines down his back from being beaten. Raissa (then 12) came home with trembling hands from being beaten with a stick and referred to as a whore. We of course immediately took action in these instances and have since successfully prevented more physical abuse.
But other challenges seem to be out of our control. When Joel brought home a recent English final exam (from an “English Speaking School”), our volunteers Joe and Natalie looked over the questions.

Below, I’ve copied what was on this exam. Keeping in mind that this is a private school (expensive for Cameroon), do we have the right to be dissatisfied with this? We’re asking ourselves what we can do about this, if anything.

I’ve placed our observations in bold. As I begin to copy this, I struggle because the quality of the photocopy they used for the exam is so bad it’s hardly readable.
____________________________________________________________________________________
FIRST SEQUENCE EVALUATION
SECTION A: GRAMMAR

Answer all questions by crossing out the one in the answer column. (Confusing… “the one”)

I got to school late _____________the headmaster beat me. (A) Because, (B) So, (C) So until, (D) When.

This example demonstrates that being physically beaten in Cameroonian schools is the norm. Also, why are all options capitalized if they’re meant to be placed mid-sentence? Why the commas?

READING COMPREHENSION

One hot day a large, fierce snake was, coiled under a tree. It was it’s favorite time of the evening. When it did nothing at all except dream of all the rats and toads it was going to catch for food. however, this particular evening a praying mantis which was not very careful as to it’s direction tripled over the snakes tail.

(u.n.b.e.l.i.e.v.a.b.l.e…Can we not expect a basic understanding of it’s vs. its? Capital letters at the beginning of sentences?)

The snakes was disturbed and unfolded itself with a hiss and grounded the little creature the snake regretted it’s immediate action because the insect was not fit for it’s meal. The energy used in crushing the little praying mantis was equal to that for a far rat good his appetite and health. (Inexcusable)

Not far away from the scene was a fat rat. The snake had test it’s energy to go for a good hunt as it used it at all on the little praying mantis. (“snake had test it’s energy to go”??)

This Story Show that we must be careful as to how we react to situation.

…10. Why did the snake regret it’s immediate action by catching the praying mantis?

How is a child to make any sense of this or learn anything if the teachers themselves don’t even proofread their own exams? If this were public school, I would expect this, as Cameroon’s government has no standards whatsoever concerning anything to do with their citizens. But these people claim to operate one of the BEST schools in the city. Where is their pride? Where is their commitment to educating their students?

My immediate reaction to this absurdity is to go to the school and talk to the directors. But I could never do this because, 1. I’m an American and in the past once teachers found out that their student lived with a “white man” they were harassed, and 2. Even bringing up a complaint in the school would result in discrimination against our child.

So what do we do? We make up for this farcical school system by supplementing the children’s education through Green Eyes in Africa. At least they learn some basic things at school, but any creative activities, reading, writing, or other enriching experiences are up to us.

I’m grateful our kids have Green Eyes in Africa. But it’s truly scary to me to think of the millions of children out there in this country with a school like this as the “best” their country has to offer.

W.O.W. I just found out that this is not even the school’s fault. This exam came from the Cameroonian government. This is the mandatory exam for Joel’s age group---distributed all over Cameroon. Wow.

I was a Christmas Refugee

Thu 30 Dec 2010 9:00:00 AM GMT

With Green Eyes in Africa, I work with refugees. I now know what it’s like to be a refugee, sort of.

I’ve been in the states since October. I was supposed to stay until mid-January, but I began to feel like a fish out of water, especially as Christmastime approached. I decided to cut my trip short and return early to Africa, right before Christmas to surprise everyone in Cameroon.

It was a decision I began to regret as I laid on a cot in the Frankfurt airport. I was stranded in Frankfurt with thousands of other passengers. Once airport workers began to distribute water bottles to the masses, it truly began to feel like a refugee camp. The anger was palpable; the people were exhausted.

I left the United States on Monday, and did not arrive in Cameroon until Friday (the trip usually takes two days). After Frankfurt, my Royal Air Maroc flight arrived in Casablanca, way too late to catch my flight to Cameroon. The next flight to Cameroon wasn’t until two days later. They put all of us “refugees” into a bus and sent us to hotels.

Everyone was shocked, worried that we wouldn’t make it back in time for Christmas. I wanted to have a few days to get everything ready for Christmas at our center in Yaoundé. Now I knew that I’d arrive on the 24th of December at best.

I tried to make the most of the situation. Casablanca isn’t especially interesting, aside from craft markets and people watching. I made friends with a nice American girl who was stranded as well, on her way to meet her Nigerian family for the first time (her father was Nigerian). I also befriended two Cameroonian women who live in Germany and speak fluent German. They were rather fascinating.

The second day in Casablanca, due to jet-lag, I was awake almost all night and began to get stir crazy around four in the morning. Around 5:30, I decided to leave my room and take a walk. I had one of the coolest experiences of my life, so much so that I’ll have to write another blog to describe it. It was an experience that re-awakened my sense of adventure and reminded me of what makes me tick, especially in Africa. Later, with my American friend, I had another ah-ha moment that I’ll have to write about.

Royal Air Maroc is anything but professional. They said they would bus us back to the airport (one hour from our hotel), but left us stranded. My two Cameroonian friends and I had to jump in a taxi at the last minute and rush to the airport (at our own expense). Our flight was delayed, again, but only for a few hours, fortunately. Their planes are unkempt and reminded me of Southwest Airlines, only not as nice.

On a plane with hundreds of passengers and only a handful of children, I ended up sitting in a middle seat with a tiny five-year-old Cameroonian boy next to me. His parents and sisters were across from us. He was tired and bored. I felt so sorry for him. We became friends, drawing pictures and discussing the movie Cars and Spiderman. Being with this little guy made me even more anxious to get home to my kids in Cameroon. He luckily fell deeply asleep very quickly. I propped his head back up after it fell every now and then.

Our plane landed. People cheered. I walked through passport control, and saw my friend Cory waiting for me through the glass windows of the baggage claim area. I had made it. I got a lump in my throat as I saw her enthusiastic, beautiful smile welcoming me. Finally, a familiar face! But after one hour of watching the luggage claim go around and around, my bags were nowhere to be found.

My bags did not arrive with me. Christmas was in those bags.

I waited in a mass of angry people trying to push to the front of the lost luggage line. As with everything in Cameroon, those with “connections” were served first. One of my Cameroonian friends has a cousin who works at the airport, so we were served in a timely manner.

Cory and I arrived at the orphanage. My heart was beating. I had been so homesick for Cameroon, dreaming of this moment for weeks. My time in the U.S. this trip was stressful and overwhelming. I had been waiting to walk through this gate for a long time.

We set up the surprise in a special way with our live-in volunteers Joe and Natalie. Natalie told Joel, 11, that she had lost something outside of the gate and asked him to go and get it. Cory was waiting with the video camera, I hid across from her.
Joel walked out and saw Cory filming, turned around and saw me. Joel had taken on a lot of big brother responsibilities while I was gone, and because he’s the oldest, he sometimes is a little lonely. He came and gave me a hug, not saying much. He closed his eyes, crying a little.

The other kids trailed out, squealing and giggling, hugging my legs. I walked through the gate and saw Ornela, our special-needs girl. I picked her up and squeezed her tight, tears falling down my face. I had made it. I had made it for Christmas with my babies.

A little Christmas miracle happened and my luggage arrived at the airport that afternoon. Our Cameroonian Director, Olivier, was able to retrieve it in time for Christmas Eve.

We had a wonderful Christmas Eve opening presents, writing a letter to Santa, and catching up on all of the latest and greatest of Green Eyes in Africa.

Joe, Natalie and I set out all of Santa’s gifts, which were a major hit the next morning. The girls informed me that they saw Santa’s lights outside of their window and were dying to know if he ate the treat we left for him. He had.

Christmas morning was magical. But then I fell asleep for hours. I’m still jet-lagged and not entirely adjusted to Cameroon. Yesterday I went to bed at five in the evening, and woke up this morning at 4:30.

It’s great to be home. But Christmas is over, and I’m starting to notice all of the things I forget about when I’m in the United States (the grass is always greener).
Yesterday our youngest, Aloha, 4, pooped his pants and I had the joy of cleaning up the mess. I have no idea how such a miniature being is capable of excreting such a horrifically large amount of volunteer surprise. Apparently he punishes/plays games with volunteers in this way. This will be fun, for sure.

The water has been cut off for hours at a time each day since I’ve been home. It’s currently cut off. With all of the people we have in this house, it’s not pretty when the water’s cut off.

It’s the dry season; the heat is so intense that I’m wet with sweat from mid-morning until night. When I arrived, from just the few minutes I spent in the sun hugging the kids, my face was sunburned and swollen.

Yesterday Blanche and Olga decided to be mean brats to Ornela, locking her out of their room. Drama and punishments (sitting outside) ensued.

The neighbors kept their obnoxious music going all night last night—thump, thump, thump, thump. It’s on again. It’s 7 a.m. Thump, thump, thump, thump.

I’m going to go and see if the water is turned back on.

The Power of Dance...Unlimited!

Wed 15 Dec 2010 9:50:00 PM GMT

If anyone knows how to rock a stage for a good cause, it’s Gina Hernandez, Director of Dance Unlimited Studios in Reno, Nevada. Last night she hosted her third studio show to benefit Green Eyes in Africa, and it always gets me to thinking about the power of dance and its influence in Green Eyes in Africa’s work.
Gina has organized fundraiser shows, which help Green Eyes in Africa, but her influence actually goes much deeper than these events.
I could go on and on about how much dance has meant to Green Eyes in Africa; I’ll get into that. But first, I have to write about the impact that dance has had on my life and the impact that one person—Gina Hernandez—has had on me, and thus, people in Africa.
Picture it: 1996. I’m a semi-fat fifteen-year-old with braces and low self-esteem. It wasn’t the best of times. I was in High School, planning on graduating in three years instead of four (I did). In order to get my P.E. credits, I had to do a vigorous outside activity. I chose dance, as I had already began taking tap lessons. I arrived at Dance Unlimited Studios, an awkward nobody in my mind.
But I never felt like an awkward nobody under the care of Gina Hernandez. From the moment I stepped into her studio, she made me feel like somebody who could become somebody. As she does with all of her students, she threw me into classes that were above my level and pushed me to my limits. I excelled in tap, jazz, and hip-hop. Hip-hop became my passion (although, I can’t really say it was “hip-hop” because I danced to mostly pop stuff by Will Smith, Janet, and The Backstreet Boys, oh the days!). Unfortunately, because I cared what stupid people thought back then, I never pushed myself to master ballet technique—something I regret to this day.
Gina loved me, I knew it. She was an “outsider” when compared to my narrow circle of friends and family, somebody in the “real world” who I watched with fascination. She had command of everything she did. She was beautiful, strong, and confident. I wanted so much to impress her and make her proud. My home life—which I won’t go into here—was less than perfect, to say the least. Gina became a crucial mentor to me in a time when I could have crumbled and failed.
After incredible performances and competitions, I knew that I had become a real dancer; a somebody. Since my days at Dance Unlimited, I’ve never stopped dancing. I’ve taught dance every year since—whether for fun or professionally. In college in Utah, I rocked hip-hop cardio classes at 24-hour fitness, Gold’s Gym, and other dance studios and gyms. I taught at “Dance America” conventions and had the time of my life. I owe every minute of pride, excitement, and achievement to Gina Hernandez.
Now, flash forward to Ecuador: 2004, my first volunteering experience. I barely spoke Spanish in the first weeks. Communication was terribly hard. But I was instantly able to bond with the orphans and teens by teaching dance classes and arranging performances. Our best memories are of working as a team and hearing loud applause. Those kids will never forget what that was like. Gina—Ryan—Orphans in Ecuador.
Now, Cameroon: 2005. I find myself in the most horrific of circumstances in a corrupt orphanage where I’m being scammed and witnessing awful abuse. I have a plan to get the children out and start a new orphanage. How did we get through the hardest times? Dance. We relieved our fear and our pain through dance. Gina—Ryan—Orphans in Ecuador--Orphans in Cameroon.
Now, Cameroon 2005-2010. I’m in my sixth year of living in Cameroon as Overseas Director of Green Eyes in Africa. I can’t count the hours we’ve spent learning choreographies, performing for visitors, and relieving stress through dance. We’ve even installed mirrors to maintain a regular “studio.” Chinese Professional Ballet Artists, inspired by what they saw on a visit, installed ballet bars (in our former center) and worked with the children. Cameroonian professional dancers came and worked with our kids, impacting them emotionally. Their choreographies would liberate the children in so many ways—allowing them, at times, to express terrible anger and even cry in a dance.
Dance Unlimited and parents of dancers (esp. Deborah Reisinger!) donated tap shoes and costumes that we’ve put to amazing use. Last year, our children put on the Nutcracker for distinguished diplomats in a performance that was as magical as could be. It isn’t even possible to imagine those children forgetting the glory of that evening.
We recently had a child die from malaria. It was agonizing. I was a traumatized mess. To get through the pain, I danced. I sweat. I challenged myself like Gina used to challenge me. I don’t know how I would have gotten through those awful weeks without dance to clear my mind and help me process emotions I never thought I’d face.
Our most recent dance endeavor entails our G.E.I.A. (Green Eyes in Africa) cheer and dance team. The team consists of orphans, refugees from Chad, and many others. One of our girls, Aurelie, 13, recently arrived from war-torn Chad where she lived unimaginable horror. She rocked her first performance, felt applause for the first time, and felt beautiful in her uniform. She was special for the first time.
Never underestimate the power of dance. Never underestimate the impact that one caring individual can have in this world. All that we’ve done through dance I must credit to Gina Hernandez. There’s never been a time when I’ve danced that Gina has not crossed my mind.
Gina Hernandez, thank you for what you’ve done, from all of us.

America or Cameroon: Where do I belong?

Wed 8 Dec 2010 1:30:00 AM GMT

I’ve been in the United States for a few months, attempting to fundraise. This trip has been the strangest visit I’ve ever had. For the first time, I don’t feel at home in my native country. This is something I never expected. I adore America, but strangely, it no longer feels like home.

In my last blog, I wrote about dealing with a little boy’s death from malaria. That was a difficult time and I believed that I was in dire need of a visit to the United States to regain my sanity. The emotional pain was overwhelming. I figured, as I usually do, that things would be better in the USA. When things are bad in Cameroon, America seems entirely utopian.

In addition to the mental turmoil from David’s death, I also had malaria-turned-pneumonia in August and September. I’ve never been sicker in my life. I have had malaria numerous times; to me it’s no big deal. I know how to recognize it and treat it very quickly with minimal discomfort. I didn’t know I had pneumonia, so I kept treating malaria.

Coughing brought up brown (infected) blood. At night I’d wake up, feeling paralyzed with pain in my lower back and legs (I later learned that pneumonia distributes pain from the chest to other parts of the body). One night, the pain was so great that I was writhing in my bed, twisting and turning, until I actually screamed for help around three in the morning. Our African Director, Olivier, and our night guard, Jean-Paul, came in to help me.

I could hardly speak, shaking uncontrollably. I asked them to heat some water to put in the bathtub. For a few moments in the hot water I felt slightly better, but the pain returned. I called my Mom in the United States, hoping for a nurse’s advice. With no legitimate emergency room to go to, I simply had to endure the pain.

Days went by as the sharp pains got worse and worse; the coughing more and more violent. One day a shooting pain down my left arm and leg alarmed me (fearing heart stopping). My Chinese friend Yiewen happened to call me. She came over immediately and we drove around the city, looking for a doctor. Fortunately, my Belgian Doctor friend was in his office.

He gave me a glance and told me that I had advanced pneumonia and gave me a horse-sized antibiotic pill to swallow. But advanced pneumonia doesn’t go away quickly. It wasn’t until weeks later that I felt slightly better.

David’s death stressed me in ways I had never previously experienced. At best, I was getting four hours of sleep a night. Confusion, anger, and shock seemed to entrap me. My emotional state was bad enough to attack my physical state.

I’ve always had secret doubts and fears about Green Eyes in Africa. Would we make it? Could I handle it? What if…what if…what if? But my 30th birthday brought me an unexpected gift: The conviction that Green Eyes in Africa is meant to continue and expand, and that it is my destiny. The transition from 29 to 30 was, for some reason, very profound.
I’ve invested my heart and soul in Green Eyes in Africa. Any attempt to quit or leave this work would be, on my part, an act of cowardice. I hear constant talk of being “happy.” My goal is not to be happy. It’s to have integrity and be true to myself, which is a feeling that’s better than “happy.” Happy seems to come and go—but conviction is something to rely on. I feel lucky to have learned this.

Death at Our Door

Thu 5 Aug 2010 12:00:00 AM GMT

Yesterday I held a dead baby boy in my arms. Today I’m in a state of shock—but shock seems to be the wrong word. I cannot describe this feeling, for I’ve never held a dead human being in my arms before.

I’ve begun my day. I cleaned the upstairs rooms of our center, got the kids dressed and ready for a visitor this afternoon, shaved my face, and tried not to think about yesterday. But my face has been wet with tears since I awoke. Emotionally, I feel just two notches above dead.

The truth is, no matter how “normal” I strive to behave, inside of me is a sea of pain and rage provoked by my lack of understanding. How can something like this happen? Who is to blame? I don’t know what to do to process this. I’m not much of a believer, so the best two words to describe how I feel are: agonized and lost.

David was the five-year-old son of Jean-Paul, Green Eyes in Africa’s caregiver and night guard. Before I write about David, I owe Jean-Paul a few words of admiration.
Green Eyes in Africa was in charge of Pepito, a deformed but mentally sound boy in a wheelchair.

Each night Jean-Paul would lovingly help Pepito with his toilet needs, wash him, and talk with him for hours. He loved Pepito. Jean-Paul is the father of 16 children. He’s a former polygamist turned devout Mormon. For those who are unfamiliar with modern Mormonism, the majority of Mormons are simply good people living a lifestyle similar to devout Catholics. Polygamy is no longer a part of mainstream Mormonism—that ended about 100 years ago.

Jean-Paul is a religious, soft-spoken, gentle, and kind man.

Jean-Paul is a refugee from Chad who was forced to evacuate to Cameroon. In his homeland, he saw things that I cannot begin to talk about. Let me just say that mass murder, torture, killing, rape, and guns were involved. This man has seen the worst that humanity has to offer—yet for Green Eyes in Africa, he’s been a source of fatherly joy.

I’d say Jean-Paul is around 45 years old. But he looks older. After what he’s been through, it’s a miracle that he still carries such optimism and joy in his heart. That’s what makes this story even more awful. Jean-Paul did not deserve to lose his baby boy, David, his last child and his greatest source of pride and happiness.
Two days ago Jean-Paul did not show up to perform his responsibilities. In a frenzied voice on the phone, he said, “My boy is sick, I can’t come.” I understood, and assumed that his boy would be fine. People get malaria all the time in this country, including myself. I thought nothing of it.

His boy, David, is a five-year-old child with large beautiful eyes and a mischievous, yet endearing personality. Two weeks ago he joined all of us in a game of duck-duck-goose.

That night, our Cameroonian Director, Olivier Wendjel, told me that Jean-Paul’s boy was dead. “Malaria,” he said. The shock began. The disbelief began. What?

The next day, in the afternoon, Jean-Paul came to the house with many of his family members in order to use our minibus to transport his boy’s coffin. I assumed he would come with his boy already in the wooden box—but David’s corpse was wrapped in no more than a blanket.

Jean-Paul was sobbing so intensely that he slid down a wall and fell to the ground. I joined him, hugging him, trying to say what I could. But in reality, I had no idea what to say. I kept saying things to the effect of, “He’s with you in spirit. He’ll be your guardian angel.”

But I didn’t know if I believed what I was saying. Honestly, I don’t think I did.
Family members of Jean-Paul brought David’s tiny corpse and placed it in our arms. We uncovered his face. His facial expression was angelic. David’s face looked like the face of a sleeping angel, only, it was cold. And our kisses on his forehead did not wake him.

I tried to hold myself together, but I soon heaved in pain with Jean-Paul as we had this “last conversation” with his baby boy: his precious, innocent, wonderful baby boy.

Jean-Paul kept wailing phrases such as, “We won’t play together tomorrow. We won’t play together ever again. He won’t run tomorrow. He will never run again. My boy will never run again. He always shared what he had with his siblings. He will never share again.”

David’s mother had died years before. Jean-Paul was now losing her again, in a different way.

I continuously stroked David’s cheeks and head, looking at his tiny face. I had never held a dead person before—somehow I could not confront the fact that he would not wake up. I kept waiting for his beautiful eyes, with long black eyelashes, to open. But they did not.

Jean-Paul and I did not want to let go of David when it was time to put him into the bus to go and put him in his wooden coffin.

They re-wrapped David in the sheet, and placed him in his father’s arms. Kari Jaksa, an American volunteer living with Green Eyes in Africa, and I attempted to give a few last words of comfort to Jean-Paul. But he was not listening. It was impossible for him to hear anything through his heaving sobs.

Today, we sent food and money to Jean-Paul and his family. Olivier Wendjel made the delivery. I asked him how Jean-Paul was doing. The response was “no better.”
Losing a precious baby boy like David is something that will never be “okay.” I, myself, will never be the same after having experienced this. David’s round, tiny, beautiful, dead face is entrenched into my heart and soul. I have no answers. I am haunted.

I just know that I need to be damn sure that I appreciate every moment of life—for we never know what’s around the corner.

David, wherever you are, we love you. Jean-Paul, we love you…que Dieu soit avec vous deux.

Let's go to the ATM!

Fri 21 May 2010 12:00:00 AM GMT

So… simple things in life, such as going to the ATM, are not simple in Cameroon. Sometimes they are, and I’m sure I think nothing of it when they go smoothly. But this past Monday my experience was just so incredibly typical that I thought it necessary to put it into a blog as a “snapshot” of what one can expect when living in Yaoundé, Cameroon for anyone who might be curious or potentially traveling here one day.

Monday afternoon, I climbed into our mini-bus, which has a majorly cracked windshield due to putting cold water on it when it was extremely hot…again, a simple car wash can get all cracked out in Yaoundé. But that’s another story.

I drove towards downtown Yaoundé to go to the ATM machine and then pick up kids from school. As always, I drove through traffic that is difficult to describe—picture the cars as hundreds sheep all trying to get into a small gate at the same time. Or perhaps the rat scene from Indiana Jones 3…just turn the rats into yellow taxis.

There are no laws, no rules, no foundations of common courtesy, and no speed limits. Without exaggeration, I come close to having at least five car accidents each time I drive. Miraculously, this doesn’t phase me, and I’ve developed some sort of driving sense that I can’t describe…I just know somehow when two inches remain and I should accelerate.

Two taxi drivers were blocking a small intersection. This intersection has about a twenty-foot wide pothole section with holes as deep as a two feet, so there’s only one little track that cars use to cross. I waited as the taxi drivers fought with each other through their windows, their cars heavy with passengers (up to 9 in a car designed for 4).

“What the hell are you doing?” the first driver shouted. “Get out of the way!”
“What smells? You and your smelly ‘(word not appropriate for this blog, degrading term for women)’ in the back seat are the ones blocking the road!” The second driver shouted. Their voices were angry, loud, and, above all, typical for Yaoundé roads. I made it through and continued on.

As I approached downtown, I drove past dozens of “police” and “military” men, many holding long, automatic weapons. I use quotation marks because what I consider police and military cannot be applied to these gentlemen. Where were they trained? The fact that they’re all carrying automatic weapons is chilling. They’re driven around town in the backs of huge trucks as if they were sacks of rice, guns in hand. Maybe it’s not that disconcerting. Maybe I saw Hotel Rwanda too many times.

The 20th of May is Cameroon’s “Independence Day” so roads were beginning to be blocked off and the city was being prepared for the celebration. Any time the President of Cameroon goes anywhere in the city, half of the city closes down. The American School of Yaoundé was forced to cut two school days short due to road blockings.

Anytime the President is going to move, one can expect to wait hours in traffic (hours before he will be driven through town with convoys of military trucks). Many times it’s just best not to even attempt going anywhere. Think nothing of it. Although, each time this sort of thing happens, I wonder how many medical emergencies (in a city of millions) were made worse because people could not get to the hospital or clinic…

I made it to the bank in downtown and saw that the parking area in front had room for our minibus. I pulled in, began to park, and a man in a military uniform appeared at my window, waving his arms and shouting at me. Apparently, parking in front of this bank three days before the big celebration was going to put the country’s national security at risk. They sent me behind the bank to park in a dirt area.

I parked, and walked back down to the bank. The first ATM I tried to use refused my card two times, saying, “Your bank has refused your transaction.” I knew it was not true, but became worried the third time because I heard the machine stacking up the cash I had requested inside the little flip door before it said, “Service temporarily interrupted.”

I’ve had ATMs in Yaoundé say that I received cash I never touched more than once before. I’ll have to verify it online with Wells Fargo and make sure they didn’t do it again.

I gave up; worried that Wells Fargo would cancel my card again for too many attempted uses in a country they have marked as “notorious for banking scams.” I asked the guard standing outside the ATM doors if the bank was open, as I was worried about the cash pile I heard stacking up before their “interruption.” I wanted to speak with someone.

He said the bank was closed and that I should try their headquarters across town if I have any questions. I asked, “Do you think I should try the second ATM?” He said that the second ATM refuses “European” cards like mine, and that it only takes cards made in Cameroon (I’m never American here, always European). I had used the second machine many times. It’s identical to the first ATM in every way, with a VISA logo and all.

“Oh, I see,” I said.

This is a common occurrence in Yaoundé. Official people like this guard make up their own rules and regulations on the spot. They also make up stories in order to have an answer to your question instead of admitting that they lack the information you need. The day someone says, “I’m sorry. I don’t know,” will be a miraculous day.

My European card won’t work in the second machine, identical to the first. Thanks. Makes perfect sense.

I drove away to pick up the kids and went to try another bank. Fortunately, the other bank’s ATM gave me the cash I needed to buy groceries and some emergency supply foods.

It was rainy that day. It was Monday. I suppose the song really does apply internationally—let’s sing it together as a temporary replacement for ‘It’s a Small World’:

Rainy days and Mondays aaaaalways get me down…

Although, police blockades and ATMs that bypass users according to their European-ness were probably not the things that got the lady who sang this song “down” on her rainy Monday.

Culture Shock: Back to Cameroon

Wed 24 Mar 2010 12:00:00 AM GMT

What is it like to go back to Africa? Surprisingly, for me, it’s a culture shock every time. I’ve been living in Cameroon for five years, and yet each time I return from visiting the USA I go through a fresh culture shock. When I’m in the USA where there’s clean, running water, safety, security, organization and efficiency all around, I tend to forget just how different Cameroon is from my home country.

The first “taste” of culture shock came from the water. We do our best with what we have—a filter thing that sort of filters water. I took a drink of water and WOW! What a taste. The taste was a combination of dirt and plastic. Later that day, my stomach gave a strong reaction to the water by ordering it out of my body very quickly.

So things went fairly well without me being in Cameroon. We have an incredible African Director named Olivier. He keeps on top of things, but unfortunately he had to fire our nanny who was not fulfilling her responsibilities and was being rude and harsh to the kids, especially Pepito, who is in a wheelchair and severely handicapped. That’s just wrong. So she had to go.

Thus, with a part-time interim nanny, things were not really in order. We work to maintain a high level of sanitation at all times. But this area was definitely getting a B instead of an A. I’ve spent the day today cleaning out the house and making sure we’re all on the same page when it comes to cleanliness. As I’ve written this, two mice have appeared—one on the desk and one below it. The war is on!

I’ve made the goal of not getting angry anymore. It’s useless. I simply have to understand that everyone I work with is doing the best they can, and I can’t expect everyone to keep this house the way my family does in the USA. It’s a process of learning and improving together, one smelly peed-on sheet at a time.

This morning I dug out an old coffee maker that someone donated. I cleaned it off and plugged it in, and added coffee. It began making coffee, giving me a familiar cozy feeling, when suddenly it stopped and the room smelled like burning plastic. The electricity in Cameroon is never stable, so it can be hazardous to appliances. It zapped the coffee maker. Goodbye coffee maker.

This morning Olivier had to go out and we don’t have a morning nanny for the time being, so I was in charge of everybody. Pepito (in wheelchair) had to go to the bathroom. I put him on the toilet thing we have for him outside and he went pee. I put his pants and underwear back on and dumped the little plastic tub. I used to hate this task and I’d feel sorry for myself each time because it grosses me out. But again, in addition to eliminating anger, I’ve decided to eliminate all self-pity. Useless emotions are gradually taking an exit from my life…

It’s extremely hot in Yaounde right now (or maybe it’s just my body thinking it’s exceptionally hot). My back, chest, and legs are all sweaty from going up and down the stairs, lifting boxes, unpacking, etc. I was dying for a shower. And then the most notorious culture shock moment came as it always does: NO WATER. They’ve cut off our water. No running water means no flushing toilets. Hot weather with no flushing toilets…it’s a great combination.

The incompetence of those who are in charge of this city is astounding. But incompetence is probably the wrong word. They just don’t care. Laziness?

One could say that I’m “suffering.” At times I’ve said that. But I’ve chosen to live here. I’ve chosen this life. True, the inconveniences are numerous. But my reaction to them is what I can control. I’ve returned to Cameroon with new goals and a new perspective I’ve gained from reading the books The Power of Now, the follow-up book A New Earth, and the objectivist philosophy of Ayn Rand. Basically, I’m learning to live in the present moment and base my thinking on facts and logic. I’ll have to write a blog about that sometime.

The squeal of excitement from the kids when I returned was something very special. Olivier didn’t tell them I was coming back on the 22nd so they were completely surprised. Giving the new Princess and the Frog shirts to Ornela and Olga was priceless. They now have a Disney Princess who looks like them! It’s a privilege to be loved by these kids.

The culture shock will fade as it always does…and I’ll conclude that it’s all worth it as I always do.

Beyonce? Beyond help. Lady Gaga? Gag me.

Sat 20 Mar 2010 12:00:00 AM GMT

Lady Gaga and Beyonce unfortunately spit dirt on my face today. But it was my own
fault. I watched a video of their song I liked on the radio. Not only did she and Beyonce degrade themselves with obscene words and gestures, they actually, I can’t believe they did this, portrayed themselves as mass murderers and depicted the killing of an entire diner filled with people (poisoning).

All of this happened after Lady Gaga escaped from prison where other images of intense violence were depicted. Two women were shown aggressively punching each other in the face. I was sad, disgusted, and worrisome after viewing this garbage.

What does this have to do with Cameroon? Why am I writing about this in my blog?

For starters, living in Cameroon has given me a heightened awareness of humanity’s capacity to degenerate to levels of behavior that ultimately lead to the abuse and neglect of society’s most innocent and vulnerable members—marginalized women , children and handicapped people. Cameroon is a place where almost the entire population has not had access to freedom and education, and thus they’ve been pushed to live a life of pleasure seeking and escapism through alcohol, sex, and music.

The music they’ve chosen (and created) normally consists of five primary messages (with different variations): sex with strangers, sexual aspects of the female body, gaining riches, altering the mental state through alcohol or drugs, and violence. I see young kids walking around with T-shirts that have an image of an American rap star holding a weapon. Others with a rap star in front of a marijuana leaf. Not far back I saw a pre-teen girl wearing a shirt that said, “Will F*** for $”

In my opinion, entertainment combined with a lack of ethical, social, or moral filtering of popular entertainers (shock stars) has contributed greatly to a completely casual attitude towards sexuality in Cameroon . This process is a worldwide problem; however, in Africa its consequences are much more obvious and are being felt in an immediate, deathly way.

The non-analytical approach to entertainment has aggravated the AIDS epidemic and increased violence and abuse amongst uneducated populations. Such is the reality for a majority of young Cameroonians. I’ve personally witnessed this phenomenon.

Not long ago, our female Director’s friend came to our house in crisis. She had been physically battered by her “boyfriend.” Not only had he attacked this young woman, he had destroyed her living space. We went to the cement room she was renting and found her bed, dresser, and belongings completely smashed apart and covered in urine and scattered food, including eggs.

Was this young man perhaps uneducated? Upon what foundation was he building his life’s philosophy and outlook? Chances are this young man has never read a book (may not be able to read). Chances are he forms his primary opinions and ideas based on “popular culture,” which in his case means music that depicts women as disposable toys and promotes obnoxious riches and domination as the goals of life. Otherwise put: a great portion of rap music.

Disturbingly, even after two years with Green Eyes in Africa, the girls at the New Hope Orphanage protested when Hanna, a German volunteer and I stated that a man never has the right to beat a woman. The girls looked at us in confusion. The Western world views violence against women as primitive. Is listening to music that refers to women as “hoes” and “bi*****” any less primitive?

Once women are objectified as sexual objects meant for pleasure or reproduction, such as in tribal situations or in the re-birth of tribal behavior in modern entertainment, the next step is violence. Period.

Young Americans with access to education, counselors, churches, community groups, sports programs, a variety of artists and music, and freedom can watch a degrading video such as Lady Gaga and Beyonce’s latest and probably filter the message as gross, stupid, or put it the parody drawer.

But what of young, impressionable Africans? They see videos like this on the MTV-like channels that cater to Africa with music and videos with black-only artists. Hence,this Lady Gaga and Beyonce video will be widely distrubuted because Beyonce is half black, and she’s like a Goddess to young Cameroonians.

After surviving Lady Gaga’s video (don’t worry, I’m a survivor!) I looked up two other videos of songs I like. The songs “Do you remember?” and “Replay” both had videos depicting women grinding on men, wearing almost nothing, and not speaking.

Conclusion: Artistic freedom is essential in a free society. A free society promotes education (not just academic). Negative or degrading art can be filtered out through educated minds that have developed critical thinking skills necessary to avoid unwanted influences or behaviors that lead to pain, violence, and death. But when negative art bombards impressionable minds lacking a strong foundation through which art can be filtered, those messages replace empowering education. I see it every single day in Cameroon.

From Calcutta to Cameroon--Lessons from a Nun

Mon 28 Dec 2009 12:00:00 AM GMT

Clouds of dust rose up behind every car on the bumpy, rocky road as we drove along. We were lost in the chaos of Yaounde’s back neighborhoods, which don’t have the luxury of pavement. The dry season creates so much dust in these areas that motorcycle-taxi drivers wear surgeon’s masks and most people pull up their shirt, covering their faces. It’s strange to see this change in a city located in the center of the rainforest. People who normally go about their business under a cloud covering, dashing for cover during rainstorms, now appear as wandering nomads lost in the African desert.
The dust rushed into the car each time we rolled down the window to ask, “Do you know where the Sisters of Calcutta Mission is located?” We knew we were in the correct neighborhood, but in a city without street names and signs, we were at the mercy of pedestrians and their individual knowledge of the area. Most directions consisted of “go up and turn, then go down a ways, and pass a hill, and then turn like this (gesturing to the left).” It took over an hour of following this-way-that-way directions, then our Green Eyes in Africa minibus emerged from a final cloud of dust and there was the sign: SISTERS OF CALCUTTA.
These nuns from India were to decide the fate of a little boy nicknamed Pepito, a quadriplegic child living with other “Calcutta Sisters” in Edea, a town about two hours away. Pepito was a resident in a center organized by SUMEDIN, another non-profit with whom we work, until they had to close their live-in center. He was placed with the Calcutta Sisters and has since been living in an orphanage primarily suited for babies and infants. He’s a bright child, and we feel it’s necessary to take him under the roof of Green Eyes in Africa and send him to special-needs school.
We wanted the nuns to give him this chance, to let him come back to Yaounde where he can develop his acute mind, even if his physical development will always be impaired.
The gate opened, we drove in. As the dust settled, I saw a tall nun walking toward us with a welcoming expression on her face. She was a middle-aged woman, but had deep, brown, eyes that seemed youthful and witty. I greeted her and asked exactly what they did in their center. “It’s a center for elderly persons. We’ll meet them later.”
We walked past a well-maintained garden, albeit brown from a thick dust covering, and she led us into a back room with a small table and a large poster of Mother Theresa on the wall. We explained what we wanted for Pepito, and after showing some photos of our work, without hesitation, she said, “Please, take him. I’ll call the nuns in Edea and tell them you’re coming.”
Happy to know that Pepito would soon be joining the Green Eyes in Africa family, I thanked her, and she suggested we visit her center for the elderly. Having been in nursing homes in the states that were somewhat traumatizing as a child, I was anxious to see how Ornela, 7, and Joel, 10, would react to seeing the faces of those who are close to the end of their lives.
I was expecting to smell urine, I didn’t. The first room we entered was well-organized, with about 15 beds. It was a men’s bedroom, and there were four or five men in the room. A few looked up and smiled, others just stared at the wall. Sister Tobias, our host, approached them and began cracking jokes and speaking to them in a native language. I smiled and greeted the old men, wondering where they had lived their lives and how they ended up abandoned. Each of their weathered, wrinkled faces had a history behind it that nobody would ever know, except maybe Sister Tobias. It was obvious that she was the only friend many of these men had known in their old age.
We then crossed over to a women’s bedroom, and I heard someone screaming, “Whiteman! Whiteman! Whiteman!” A mentally-ill woman was lying on a bench and my presence apparently brought back memories of a gift-giving “whiteman” from her past. I shook her hand and looked her directly in the eyes. Again, I wondered, who was she? What is her story? She had sharp, intelligent eyes. I could tell that she had not lived her life in this mentally disturbed state. How must it feel to know you’ve played your cards, your game is over, and nobody cares what happens to you? Maybe that’s why she lost her mental capacities. Sister Tobias would know how this woman feels.
Other women bounced in glee at the sight of visitors. Others were too deformed to move. Many older women laid in silence, barely lifting the muscles on their weathered foreheads to acknowledge our presence. We walked back into the garden and saw a man pumping the handle on a well, filling water bottles. His arms were abnormally long for his body, and his head was the size of a baby’s. His eyes were bluish-white and his torso was bent and contorted.
“He’s been here a while,” Sister Tobias said.
The sight of this man was overwhelming. His physical appearance was like nothing I’ve ever seen. Ornella, 7, was staring but smiling and looking at me for reassurance. Joel, 10, watched the man closely.
“What do you think of this place?” I asked Joel.
“I want to help,” he said.
I’m often told that what I do with Green Eyes in Africa is a “sacrifice,” and “amazing.” People say, “I could never do that.” These compliments make me uncomfortable, because what I do with Green Eyes in Africa comes second naturedly. It comes down to the simple fact that I know I’m doing what I was meant to do.
But Sister Tobias—this hero of a human being before me—how does she do what she does? How does she maintain such a peaceful, calm, controlled demeanor in face of such atrocious suffering and injustice?
Who could leave their homeland, live in the dust clouds of Yaounde, care for shockingly tragic elderly victims, and still maintain a benevolent, cheerful, and compassionate attitude? Walking back to the mini bus, I watched her closely. The white and blue flowing cloth of her attire seemed to ethereally float around her. She has a secret strength, a rock-solid conviction.
Sister Tobias gives me courage. As we begin our work with little quadriplegic Pepito, in moments of discomfort, I shall think of Sister Tobias and her flowing robe of white, in hopes that whatever spirit is watching over her and keeping her strong will find the time to pass the Green Eyes in Africa house, and teach us how to stand tall like Sister Tobias.

Chickens, Mosquitoes and Flashcards

Wed 2 Dec 2009 12:00:00 AM GMT

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).

Fun Surprises

Wed 18 Nov 2009 12:00:00 AM GMT

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 – Fun Surprises

Paige’s Blog – Chickens, Mosquitoes and Flashcards

First Impressions

Tue 3 Nov 2009 12:00:00 AM GMT

“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.

Nori: A Woman of Africa

Mon 28 Sep 2009 12:00:00 AM GMT

Note: The names in this story, due to its extremely personal nature,
have been modified. All events remain unchanged, and the story stands
alone as a true account of what millions of African women endure every
day. Because I have a background in journalism, I felt compelled to
share Nori’s story. I felt a moral obligation to give Nori a voice,
although she was afraid to speak out. This is a story that should be
shared with anyone who cares about the women of Africa, who are, in my
opinion, Africa’s greatest strength and hope for the future.
–Ryan Oliver Hansen

The story below was written after I conducted an interview with Nori on
September 13, 2009.

Can a young woman’s torture make her stronger? Can a young woman, lost
in abuse, neglect, and cruelty, find strength from within? Nori, a
26-year-old woman from Uganda, has a story to tell. It’s a story of
triumph, almost unbelievable obstacles, and finally, a story of hope
for African women who are still entrapped within the cage of
social and physical domination.

Nori was born in the village of Zana, near the capital city of Kampala,
Uganda, in 1983. She was the only girl in a family of six brothers.
From the moment she was born, being female served as a curse.
“From my earliest memories on, I understood that being a girl meant
being something that was less, something that was not of value. My
earliest memories are of my father beating my Mother. This was my first
indication that being a woman meant one thing: Suffering,” Nori said.

As a tiny girl, Nori witnessed her mother being beaten and berated on a
constant basis by her father. “He would hit her, slap her, and punch
her. Eventually she would fall on the ground. Then he would kick her.
One usually blames alcohol or drunkenness in these situations, but my
father did not drink. His religious beliefs prevented him drinking. He had
no excuse of intoxication. He was just cruel. I hated him from the time I
could feel the emotions of hate. I hate him. He never loved me,” Nori says.

Nori’s mother was deaf and dumb, unable to verbally communicate with
her sons or her daughter. But Nori understood what her mother said
through her eyes. Nori loved her Mother, and was devastated when she
was separated from her at the age of eight.

“My Mother withstood so many years of abuse, and when I was eight, she
reached her end. She could no longer stay with my polygamist father.
He had so many women. He married three of them, but when he wanted, where
he wanted, he would add another woman to his collection, whether he
married them or not. My Mother left one day in hopes that she’d find a
way to become independent and come back and help her children,” Nori
said.

Nori’s father would spend money on his “favorite” women and leave
Nori’s mother and her children out of the loop. Nori and her brothers
would often go hungry. The primary reason for her mother’s departure
was not physical abuse, according to Nori, it was the fact that her
children were suffering. And one more tragic reason: Nori’s mother had
contracted AIDS.

“She knew that she could not stay with the AIDS disease killing her.
She knew there would be no care, no compassion, and no pity. She
realized that once she began dying, she would have been blamed for her
illness and cast aside,” Nori says.

Her Mother married another man, a non-polygamist, who treated her
better than her first husband. But she was still beaten, still treated
as property instead of a person. She had four more children with her
new husband, only one of whom was born with the AIDS virus. Nori
escaped her Father’s household and went to live with her Mother. She
stayed with her Mother for three years.

Nori knew that her mother loved her; that she wanted her to be happy.
She loved being close to her mother. Her one consolation amidst a sea
of confusion in life was being close to her mother. But because her
Mother did not have a voice, literally, she was forced to give in to
her husband’s wish that Nori leave their home.

“African men don’t want children who aren’t theirs to be around. They
don’t want to pay for their living expenses. My Mother’s second husband
was never good to me for this reason. He forced my Mother to send me
away. My Mother would hold me and cry because she did not want me to
go,” Nori says. “She wanted me to stay. But as a woman, she had to
respect the wishes of her new husband, who did not want me around.”

But Nori’s Mother was determined to keep her away from her cruel
father. She sent her to her Grandmother. Nori’s Grandmother on her
Mother’s side was willing to take Nori and to send her to school. Her
Grandmother paid for her to attend the Chambobo School for Orphans for
two years. Nori fondly remembers the two years she spent in school as
the happiest of her life.

“I was in school! I was learning. I loved learning. I loved my teachers
and they loved me. The two years went by so fast, and when my teachers
learned that I was leaving, they were heartbroken, as was I,” Nori
says. “Not only because I was losing my education, but because I was
returning to live with my Father.”

Nori’s Grandmother was unable to keep up with Nori’s school payments,
as she had a house full of orphans, as is often the case with African
Grandmothers. Against her personal wishes, she had to send Nori away.
Thus Nori was forced to return to the lair of abuse over which her
Father was King. Her dreams of education were over. Her nightmare had
just begun.

Re-married to an older woman, Nori’s father was now Grandfather to his
new wife’s grandchildren as well as father to his unknown number of
children created through polygamist relationships (non-marriage
relationships as well). He had no time or money for his daughter, Nori,
a girl of ten. Naturally, when Nori’s Step-Mother decided not to allow
Nori to stay in their home any longer, an arrangement was made. Nori
was to live with her Step-Mother’s daughter and care for her three
children. But Nori was glad to go.

“My Stepmother was a very wicked, wicked, wicked woman. She would allow
my father to beat me as he pleased. I was nothing to her. I would
always try to run away, but somehow, my Father would always find me. I
was never comfortable in that house because of the stick that was kept
in the corner. I remember staring at the stick, imagining what it would
do to me next,” Nori Says.

“ I would run and hide in the bush. But he would find me. Then he
would beat me and kick me. I hate him. I hate him. I still hate him today.”

Leaving to care for her Step-Mother’s grandchildren represented freedom
to Nori. At the time, she did not know that she was illegally being
traded as a slave and that she had a right to go to school.

“I worked as a maid and as a nanny for the children until I was twelve.
It was hard work. I was alone most of the time. Nobody talked to me as
a person, nobody cared about my feelings. I was alone,” Nori says.
But her solitude was soon to end. There was a “friend of the family”
who was often at the home of Nori’s Step-Mother’s daughter. He was a
man fifteen years Nori’s senior. His name was Kansanga. His presence in
the home became a regular occurrence, until one day, Kansanga displayed
an interest in Nori. He found Nori attractive, and wanted to have her,
intimately.

A price was negotiated between Kansanga and Nori’s Step-Mother. Nori
was sold to the man and was forced, once again, to leave a household of
misery for another that would be even worse. So much worse, this time
around, that Nori was to be pushed to the limits of human suffering.
She escaped the bonds of slavery and entered into the bonds of
forced-pedophilia.

But before this new life was to begin, Nori was required to undergo a
series of “preparations” at the hand of her Step-Mother. For three
months before moving in with Kansanga, Nori’s Step-Mother prepped
Nori’s body for her upcoming relationship. Weights were attached to
Nori’s reproductive organs. She underwent excruciating torture in order
to be “ready” for Kansanga.

“Later in life, when I learned that all women do not do this, I was
sad. Because of what was done to my body, I will never know the special
feelings of intimacy that other women experience,” Nori says. “I had no
idea that what was done to me is out of the ordinary.”

Nori was not married to Kansanga. Nobody found it necessary for a
useless child such as Nori to be given a wedding ceremony. She was
prepared (mutilated) to be Kansanga’s sex-slave, given to him, and from
then on was trapped in his house all day, forced to cook, clean, and
see that all of his needs were met.

Her natural instincts told her that what Kansanga wanted to do with
her was not good.

“I would try to refuse him. I found him intimidating and scary, and I
did not want to be with him. But when I would refuse him, he would slap
me and hit me until I would fall down. Then he would have his way,”
Nori says. “And I knew I was not the only female in his life. I knew
that he had many, many women in his life apart from me.”

Nori didn’t dare tell her Mother what was happening. “She would not
have been able to do anything, and Kansanga and my Step-Mother made
sure I had no access to her,” Nori Says. And soon after, Nori’s Mother
would not have been able to offer even compassion, for she was dead of
AIDS at the age of 32.

One year passed, and little Nori, now thirteen, found herself pregnant
with this Kansanga’s child.

“Kansanga, he didn’t have a reaction to my pregnancy. He didn’t care that
I was pregnant. I carried my baby and gave birth. I had a baby girl. I
loved my baby girl. I wasn’t alone anymore, and I would hold her, and
sing to her. She was my friend and my little baby,” Nori says. “I could
look into her eyes and see myself. Her eyes understood who I am. I
loved my baby girl.”

Life under Kansanga’s domination continued for Nori, and she had two
more children with him, one at the age of 16 and one at the age of 18.
But as she grew older, Nori’s voice within told her that she was not
living as she deserved, and, like her Mother, she decided to escape her
imprisonment. She risked her life to get away from Kansanga, and
through a series of fortunate events, she came into contact with Karen,
an American diplomat living in Kampala.

“When I found Nori I knew right away that this young woman had been
through enough, and that I had to do something about the injustice she
had endured,” Karen says. “She needed to get out of Uganda, because her
angry Father and this man, Kansanga, were a constant threat to her.”
Karen helped Nori find a safe place for Nori’s three children. They
were placed with responsible friends who care for them today, and Nori
left Uganda to live in Cameroon with Karen as Karen’s daughter’s nanny.
Today, Nori is safe, employed, and is saving her money to help bring
opportunities and freedom to her three children.

“My Father still hates me, because it is I, not him, who has traveled
and been given opportunities in life. Each day I keep busy so that my
mind does not think about where I was before. I cannot think about
it—it brings me into darkness. I pray to God each day to help me stay
on a safe path and keep my children protected. I know that God is with
me, I depend on God for strength,” she says.

Writer’s Note:

When I first met Nori, she was caring for Karen’s daughter at an
afternoon picnic. She was smiling and came across as a simple, young,
carefree girl. But in her deep-set eyes, I could see that there was a
story to be told. When Karen began sharing certain details of Nori’s
life with me, my shock and rage wouldn’t let me keep this story
to myself. Nori deserves to share her story.

All too often, stories such as Nori’s are overlooked by the Western World. The words
tradition” and “culture” are conveniently employed to
serve as excuses to overlook human injustice. In the media and academic
settings, Africa is often portrayed as a “noble” place full of “rich
culture and tradition.”

Africa has much to admire; much to praise. Africa is a diverse
continent with a plethora of fascinating traditions, foods, languages,
and landscapes. But in each country on the continent, lurking in the
shadows of mass slums, young women like Nori are silently suffering.
They consider what is happening to them to be normal, unaware that they
are individuals with human rights that should be denied to nobody.
Often, in the Western World, stories on Africa are criticized as
sharing only the “bad news” from the continent. Exposing the positive
events is, of course, a progressive way of bringing hope to a
continent. However, by ignoring stories such as Nori’s story, the world
is indirectly perpetuating intolerable abuse.

The governments of Africa, including Uganda, have, for the most part,
created laws that look good on paper. But the laws, when they
contradict “culture or tradition,” are easily overlooked. Would Nori
have been able to go to the police for defense? Would the fact that
rape of young women is illegal stop anyone from selling their
daughters? Is genital mutilation excusable in the name of “tradition”?

After writing the paragraphs about Nori’s baby girl, I was overwhelmed
with emotion and I had to take a break from writing to go downstairs in
the Green Eyes in Africa headquarters house. Charlotte, a 26-year-old
young woman was in the kitchen preparing food for the kids. She saw
that I was distraught, and I told her about Nori.

We then had the following conversation, which just added salt to an
already painful wound.

“Ryan, these things are not unfamiliar to me. They happen every day
here in Yaoundé, Cameroon,” Charlotte said.

“What?” I asked.

“Just this year, I was unfortunately witness to the female mutilation
of two little Muslim girls. My friend married a Muslim man, and
converted to his ways of life, including polygamy. She had no money,
and she felt forced to go into this marriage.

I was invited to attend a ceremony for her two girls, one eighteen
months old, one two years old. I went into my friend’s house. I saw a
woman covered in black cloth with only her eyes exposed. My friend was
distraught, and she went outside of her house. The father explained
that the visiting woman’s presence was an honor.

In the woman’s hands there was a decorated box. I was told that she was
a ‘special’ woman w ho had come to honor my friend’s family with her
presence. She opened the box.

Inside the box there was a bottle of alcohol and a knife-like
instrument, curved like a banana. The special woman and the girls’
father called all of the women of the family to come and watch the
ceremony.

The two-year old girl was then taken by the woman and was flattered
with baby-talk. ‘Don’t cry. Don’t cry. We will buy you candy.’
Then the girl was taken by a group of women and held in place. She was
undressed. The woman then proceeded to cut out the insides of the
child’s reproductive area. The child was screaming in a high-pitch that
hurt me deep inside (Charlotte cried as she shared this part of the story).
I immediately left the room. It was too much for me. I didn’t witness
the cutting of the second baby girl.

The special woman left. The girls had been sewn shut and I saw horrific
amounts of blood on their legs and on the ground. My friend was silent.
She couldn’t even speak. She was in shock.

I knew that all of the women who attended this ceremony, excluding my
friend and I, had been through this process and considered it a
necessary part of a woman’s development. I am horrified with the
decision of my friend to allow this, but she has no choice other than
to tolerate the wishes of her husband. She says she doesn’t want more
children. And somehow she’s been convinced that this ceremony was for
the good of her girls.

As a woman, I’m lucky to have had a strong mother. She was unfortunately sold to my father when she was fourteen years old in 1972. We are nine children in my family, seven girls and two brothers.

My father wanted that we girls be sold into marriage. My mother
refused. To this day, those of us who are not married, such as I, are
considered ‘lost opportunities.’ I am not close to my Father. I respect my Mother deeply. I don’t even speak to my father.”

Writer’s note:

As Director of Green Eyes in Africa, these stories touch me intensely.
They’re not just random stories I read in a magazine, they’ve been told
to me face-to-face by beautiful, intelligent young women who are doing
their best to stand up for their dignity and rights. These women, to
me, represent the millions of young women who are being abused, beaten,
and even mutilated in the hidden corners of African ghettos and
villages. They think that the injustice they’re experiencing is normal
as it’s masked by the words “tradition and culture.”

I hope that each girl under the care of Green Eyes in Africa develops
the strength that these two women have developed. And I hope that Green
Eyes in Africa can find a way to become more involved in the prevention
of female genital mutilation in Cameroon. Time will tell—but these
stories are burned in my heart and I shall never forget them. I hope
that you, the reader, will also remember these stories and share them.
Awareness of injustice is the first step, healthy anger is the second,
and realistic, organized action is the third…let’s get going.

September Madness, My First Few Days

Wed 16 Sep 2009 12:00:00 AM GMT

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)

Four Year Anniversary!

Fri 31 Jul 2009 12:00:00 AM GMT

The 25th of July we celebrated four years of Green Eyes in Africa in Cameroon. Every year that passes is full the good, bad, sad, happy, scary, exciting, triumphant, disgusting, inspiring, overwhelming, empowering, wonderful, miraculous...thinking over the past four years is quite overwhelming to me. But miraculous is the word that best describes how I see where we are today.
Our four-year celebration was my favorite Green Eyes in Africa event we’ve ever had, hands down. We were honored with the presence of the U.S. Ambassador, Janet Garvey, and many other prominent individuals. We spent days getting everything ready for our big “Hoedown” event. It was a blast to put everything together…I thought the best way to share the experience is to take on the third-person voice of a party guest….
I interviewed an actual diplomat who attended the party. The following is based on that interview.
Welcome to Yaounde, July 25 2009…4 pm.
About a week ago I received an invitation from Green Eyes in Africa for the party today. Inside my invitation was an adorable drawing by a child that had the words, “I hope you can come” written on it. How could I refuse such an offer?
Today was a day I shan’t soon forget…
After battling crazy traffic in Yaounde, I turned down a bumpy dirt road full of pot holes. I thought, “Where the heck is this place?” My invitation had directions, but with no street names or address numbers, I was sure to get lost. The street ended…there was the Green Eyes in Africa mini-bus and many other cars…I made it.
I walked through an obviously home-built tin gate, down little stepping stones surrounded by red earth and I saw the garage area decorated as if it were a barn, full of rope, lanterns, a griddle, cowboy hats, cans of beans, and more. A large painting on wood was hanging from the ceiling. It was of a sunset with the silhouette of a lone cowboy and it said, “Welcome to the Green Eyes in Africa Ranch Where Dreams Begin.” I heard the song “Ghost Riders in the Sky” playing on speakers and I saw many other smiling guests munching on appetizers and talking. The crowd was about half foreigners like me and half Africans, the Green Eyes in Africa family.
Dozens of children were running about dressed in different costumes. One was dressed as a Chinaman, another as an Italian ballerina. I knew we were in for a show—it wouldn’t be a Green Eyes in Africa get-together without dance performances. Ryan greeted me wearing a Green Eyes in Africa t-shirt, a neckerchief, cowboy boots and a large cowboy hat. Behind him came Olivier dressed identically. These people really got into the hoedown theme! “Howdy!” they said with enthusiastic handshakes.
I wondered if I was safe…there were “bullet marks” on the walls! I suppose there had been a shootin.’ I read a sign painted in redneck handwriting. It said: “Rules: 1. No shootin’ ‘fore 5 a.m. 2. No ladyfolk after 9 p.m. 3. Clean up after yer own horse 4.Keep yer briches on.” Another sign said, “Round Up Yer Donations! –Billy the (orphaned) Kid.”
Apparently the Sundance Kid had passed by earlier that day and written on a wall with coal. It said, “It just ain’t gentlemanlike to let those poor lil kids get to suffrin.’ I reckon as much.” I agreed with what he wrote. There was much more to see but Ryan and others came “roundin’ up” all the “folks” for the big hoedown kick-off dance. A group of enthusiastic adults and kids straight out of the Wild West did Ryan’s version of the “Hoedown Throwdown” dance from the Hannah Montana movie. They got the audience clapping and stomping and laughing out loud. I wonder who taught the kids to wink at the audience when they dance…they had obviously worked very hard.
As I mingled in the crowd, I met people from France, Germany, Japan, Cameroon, the United States, Jerusalem and more. It was entirely appropriate that the second dance was to the song, “It’s a Small World.” Ryan, Olivier and a group of kids representing America, Cameroon, China, Italy, Kenya and Tahiti danced their hearts out with ear-to-ear smiles to a reggae-remix of the famous song. They were supposed to have a British Soldier to complete the group, but that little boy had just been operated on and he wasn’t ready to perform.
Ryan and Olivier then gave very moving speeches. Ryan read the poem, “Don’t Quit” and paused many times in order to control his emotions. He obviously believed very strongly in what he read. Olivier’s speech impressed me very much, especially his words about the power of music and reading in children’s lives. His words about the future of Green Eyes in Africa also gave me much hope. He and Ryan work together to help the American side of the work balance with the Cameroonian side. Judging from the smiles on everyone’s faces in the pictures all over the house—they’re balancing things very well.
I wandered back into the yard and met a fellow for whom Green Eyes in Africa is caring —Idrissou. His face is terribly deformed with an extra appendage hanging down to his chest. But he was dressed in spectacular traditional clothing from his Northern Village (close to Chad) in Cameroon. It was cream colored and embroidered with sparkling maroon fabric. I wish he spoke English, his one visible eye told me that he has a tender soul. Ryan and Olivier introduced him to the American Ambassador as if he were their guest of honor.
I spent a good ten minutes in front of a large, framed painting of the “Green Eyes in Africa Family Tree” covered in small photos and photo captions. I saw all of the children and families that are currently being helped, people who have been helped in the past and moved on, and dozens and dozens of big-hearted, smiling volunteers amongst the “roots” of the tree. I was there in the roots. I felt proud to be part of this work.
I saw many guests gathering in front of what looked to be a Swiss-like mountain-village-esque area. On the wood yard barrier was a large, hand-painted Matterhorn Mountain and amongst white-washed rocks was a little Swiss Cottage on a huge heap of dirt with a sign in front of it that said, “Die EntrichHaus Von Der Wunderschon Berg.” Ryan told me this means, “The Duck House of the Wonderful Mountain.” Ducks were waddling around behind a fence marked with the words, “Imagination is Power.” But on a sad note, there was a little pink cross below the mountain.
Olivier told me that the day before the party, the guard dog got loose early in the morning and killed three residents of the Duck House of the Wonderful Mountain. One female was found dead, and Ryan attempted to nurse two others who were badly torn apart. They didn’t’ make it. Olivier said that Ryan cried and cried but that the four-year anniversary party was a good distraction from the sad event.
The premises of the new Green Eyes in Africa headquarters are rather small, but there was so much to see and do at this party. In the Pirate Room there was a music video showing touching images of Green Eyes in Africa’s work from the past four years. There were happy images and many I wish I could forget. But it’s important that people like me understand the realities of Green Eyes in Africa’s work. I suppose the difficulties they face are made lighter through their use of imagination.
Imagination is perhaps the most prominent ingredient in the whole Green Eyes in Africa Headquarters experience. From the “Pirate Room,” a room decorated like a pirate ship filled with swashbuckling objects and pretend treasure, to the mini-library surrounded with decorations representing every corner of the world, to the Swiss Mountain, to the Hoedown room…it was a lot of fun. It was all the more fun when I was given a tour by a bright “tour guide” child representing Green Eyes in Africa.
The evening went on and the fifty or so guests gradually began to leave. The last two dance performances were a hoot. One was a tap dance to an Abba song; the other an 80s tribute to the song “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” by Whitney Houston. They have so many beautiful costumes that were donated by friends in the U.S. That’s definitely showbiz (with), kids.
I wrote a comment in the guest book and glanced once again around the yard. I saw Grandma Abomo cuddling little two-year-old Majoie, one of six orphans for whom Grandma Ambo is responsible. They’re one of the Green Eyes in Africa families. I was glad to have attended this event and to have put something into the donation bag. I left in the hopes that more people like me will keep this work alive so that in another four years, when she’s six, Majoie will still be healthy and happy in her Grandmother’s arms.
Congratulations Green Eyes in Africa. Here’s to four more years…

(Lots of photos of the celbration on www.photobucket.com/GreenEyesinAfrica)

What America Means to Africa

Wed 22 Apr 2009 12:00:00 AM GMT

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.

Christmas Season

Wed 21 Jan 2009 12:00:00 AM GMT

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.

Update

Thu 18 Dec 2008 12:00:00 AM GMT

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!

Ryan's Holiday Message and Thank You!

Tue 9 Dec 2008 12:00:00 AM GMT

Blog #8

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!

A Death in the Family

Mon 27 Oct 2008 12:00:00 AM GMT

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.

Between Two Worlds

Tue 16 Sep 2008 12:00:00 AM GMT

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.

The Confessional

Mon 14 Apr 2008 12:00:00 AM GMT

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.

Ryan's Typical Day

Thu 10 Apr 2008 12:00:00 AM GMT

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.

Mama Sharon Hansen’s 5th Blog

Mon 24 Mar 2008 12:00:00 AM GMT

Gorillas, chimps, monkeys, a native village, the thick rainforest, a ride in an air-conditioned car thru wondrous countryside, air in the gorilla sanctuary so thick and humid I could feel it moving in my lungs, the sound of animals calling in the forest to each other, the buzz of insects, the knowledge gained of the peril these apes are in from poachers and starving villagers who actually eat them, seeing 9 baby gorilla orphans whose parents had been killed, a mother gorilla whose nursing infant was just about the most precious thing I've ever seen, quiet all around, the village well with a spout and pump handle from the 1800s, mud walled huts with tin roofs and no windows, cooking fires with large pots suspended over them, herds of goats bleating and running from where they were resting in the road, cackling chickens running all around...today I saw Africa.

The road to the sanctuary is paved with checkpoints where soldiers in khaki colored uniforms man small stations...a primitive toll road system. When we stopped to pay our toll, children selling bags of cut sugar cane surrounded us and we bought a bag. Another first for me...sucking the sweet juice was thirst quenching and refreshing. Very tasty. We turned onto a fairly wide washed-out-Virginia City type road that gradually narrowed to the width of the car - branches from the dense rainforest were brushing the sides of the car and covered over us in some spots as we drove higher and deeper along the red-earth dirt road...it actually was cooler than in Yaounde but the humidity was intense. By the end of our walking tour of the sanctuary I was fatigued just from breathing and can understand the slooooow pace that is typically African. It is exhausting to move in the heat under the intense sun. The best way I can describe the way the sun feels on my skin is to imagine a full day at Lake Tahoe coming home windburned, dried out, and with a mild sunburn. Then imagine going back out into the sun again the next day...that's how it feels. I am not just hot inside my skin but my skin tingles and has a burning sensation on the surface. And the moon here is smaller and much farther away...it is very different to be close to the equator.

The Swaney family of the US Embassy loaned us their car and driver for our trip, otherwise there is no way our little hunk-of-junk could have made it over the deep ruts and gullies from the intense rain that made the road a challenge for us. Richard, our driver, was marvelous, spoke English and took good care of us. We took rolls and sardines for the kids' lunch along the way, they love sardine sandwiches. Lots of water and only one stop when Adrianna felt carsick. So we all rotated so she could be in the front...the sanctuary is a small operation, completely run with donations volunteers, but vast in its impact. Cameroon used to have elephant herds and tons of apes and giraffes - but now, in all but a few areas, there are no elephants left, no giraffes, and very few apes. Some monkey species are almost extinct and Rachel, a milder version of Dian Fossey, has devoted her life to saving them. So we looked at the apes and the apes looked at us. It was impressive and we left her a small donation.

We were supposed to go swimming at the Swaneys but we were all so completely exhausted that we just had Richard drop us off at home. We all fell into bed and the kids slept for almost 3 hours, Ryan for 4. He is sick again with the same symptoms...fever, sweats, chills and like a dope didn't finish the antibiotics once he felt better, so now maybe he'll take the full 7 day course. Dang him anyway...he thinks he's invincible. Four Peace Corps volunteers showed up around suppertime and helped us feed the kids and do their evening chores. We used leftover rice, fried up onions, tomatoes and scrambled a dozen eggs, added sardines and voila! Dinner is served. Crackers and chocolate milk rounded out the meal and everyone went happily full to bed at 9 after Mama Sharon read them a story in English, which they understood since they had seen the movie - Monsters Inc. An almost perfect day, about as close to one as I have ever had. And it's my last...I leave for home tomorrow. But I don't want to talk about that...

A few things to catch up on...the easter egg hunt party at the US Embassy was a great success and a first for these children. They dyed eggs and hunted plastic eggs with treats inside, received easter baskets handmade by the Roth girls filled with American candies, Dodo and Joel won the three-legged race, they ate hot dogs and soda pop and chocolate bunnies...it was a marvelous day for them. And by the way, the US Embassy is an imposing place, beautifully kept, spit-spot clean, the grounds are immaculate, the Marines there are the Real Thing and I felt very proud to be an American and stand on American soil. Then we went off to tea with Jill and Vinny from England who work for the British High Commission...cream cakes with lemon icing, sandwiches and silly games...I had never seen a jelly-eating contest using a knife and fork before...table tennis --Vinny would not let me call it ping-pong--a tour of their absolutely lovely garden with banana and mango trees, sugar cane, flowering shrubs, a lovely oasis straight out of Out of Africa with a wide porch and lawns. They have no children and were exhausted by the time we left but happily so...so many good people love these children and Ryan.

The day before was a national holiday and we had looked forward to a "down" day with the children, just hanging out at home and relaxing a bit but it was not to be. There hasn't been a truly "down" day since I arrived and Ryan tells me it is always like this...so many visitors and activities here. Let me count...we have had birthday parties for 3 children, the DVD premiere here with around 20 people attending, lots of smooshing and PR work, tours of New Hope and Ryan telling his tale over and over; the major event with the Japanese Ambassador where every detail had to be planned and carried out to the Japanese formality standards - for example, the Ambassador and his wife had to have an escort from the moment they arrived until the moment they left and that was me! Plates of food, drinks, the requisite tour...It really was quite a sight to have John open the gate and this big Lexus limo flying Japanese flags on each side pulling in to our tiny yard with three bodyguards checking us out. The Ambassador was an unassuming man, his wife spoke fairly good English and was charming, Ryan made a speech, the Ambassador echoed Ryan's comments in his speech, the papers were signed and the check should be arriving soon. Again, probably about 20+ people in our little yard. Irina and her son Boris from Russia - Irina has lived here for 20 years and has a lovely restaurant, Mike and Nanette from the military, the Roth family, the Swaneys, three journalists who interviewed the Ambassador and Ryan, so many kind people I can't remember all their names, the children did a dance. It was exhausting. Ryan says he is always "on" and it's true. When we leave the compound he is using all his PR skills to obtain discounts or whatever, and there has been a steady flow of people thru here where he has to be the charming host...when we went to the European-style cafe there were four American girls eating at a close-by table so he went over to them and introduced himself...they are from Dickensen College on a foreign study program so he invited them to come and volunteer at New Hope. Well, sure enough, on the day of our hoped-for "down" day, 8 of them showed up! The four we'd met and four more of their classmates. While it is grand and they were terrific...they made the birthday cakes for Daniel and Adrianna and helped make dinner, played the piano and helped with schoolwork and English lessons, but again Ryan was "on" the entire time, being his affable host self and of course, we had to stretch dinner to feed the extras, too, and on Ryan's tight budget it isn't always easy to do. At home I just put more water in the soup but here it isn't quite so easy. Felicity came by just to visit one evening after she got off work, Clovis and his cousin Alex came by on Thursday evening with my going-away gift...a lovely amber necklace in a carved box and three hand made African masks...I was touched. Then the Easter egg event, the tea and we actually had a dinner invitation for this evening that we turned down from sheer exhaustion, Momo came Friday for the dance lesson, today's Peace Corps visitors, the Roths came by to pick up their DVD player, the crazy blind man who drops by when he needs a friendly chat, Adrianna's grandmother, Sandrine, Honorine, Grace, the Tutor...I am weary and a bit cranky, especially since this is my last evening with the children and I wanted it to be just us, but oh, well. This whole thing isn't about me...

And so the adventure ends...tomorrow I will shop for some trinkets to take home, spend a couple of hours with the children and head for the airport for the grueling trip home...it will be 32 hours before I am back in Reno. But my heart will still be here and I am already thinking about my next trip. Last night we stayed up a bit late and were all in Ryan's room, where the children end up every evening just before bed...one by one they just wander in until everyone is present to just hang out where Ryan is. He is their center and wherever he is, they are. It is touching to see how attached they are to him. We were listening to a silly nursery rhyme CD, singing along and reading the English words from a book...I was lying on his bed with Alexis falling asleep beside me, Janine brushing my hair behind me and Adrianna lying across me, Raissa at my feet, the boys sprawled out on the rug. I was stroking the soft ebony skin of these beautiful girls and thinking how empty my life will feel without them around me, missing their laughter and chatter, hearing their "Mama Sharon!" calls to me, their soft French accents...I have come to love them as my own and can't even think right now about leaving them. There is another fierce storm outside...the second one today...the wind is lashing the curtains, the lightning is illuminating the entire room, the thunder shakes the house and is so loud I can barely hear Ryan talking to me five feet away and the rain is coming down in buckets. I would like to think it is Africa's way of sending me off with a literal bang.

April 1, 2008 – Mama Sharon Hansen’s 6^th Blog

My luggage may still be in Paris, but I am home. Although, if “ home is where the heart is”, I am still at New Hope with my wonderful son and those precious children.

My last day was frantic as we tried to tie up all the loose ends. I had written out four long pages of instructions for Ryan regarding the changes I wanted to see in diet, hygiene, sanitation, cleaning and routine. So we had a Big Meeting with all the children, John and Adrienne in attendance to discuss the new plans. Ryan, Hanna and I had gone out shopping earlier in the day – by the way, the very hottest day yet with no cloud cover and broiling sun…this time I was uncomfortable as sweat poured down my spine and dripped into my burning eyes…and purchased kitchen plastic storage containers with lids (lots of tiny ants, remember), toilet brushes, kitchen towels, garbage bags, vitamins, new toothbrushes, cleaning supplies, hand soap in dispensers, disinfectants, shower curtains, a new DVD player (theirs has been broken for some time and since it is their only source of entertainment, I insisted we buy a new one. The dear Indian shopkeeper gave Ryan $30 off the purchase price), a small broom and dustpan and more…basic supplies commonplace to America but not easily found in Yaounde. I wanted a mop and bucket but we couldn’t find them anywhere…Ryan promises to keep looking. I put all our purchases out on the table and went through them one by one, explaining what they were and how they were to be used. I told them this new program wasn’t from Ryan or John or Adrienne, but from Mama Sharon, the nurse, and I expected full compliance. The children listened attentively, asked some pertinent questions and seemed to understand the need for the changes. We talked about disease transmission from flies, thus the garbage will now be bagged. And the bacteria on our hands from the bathroom that can make them sick, thus the new washing stations in each bathroom. And the need for more and better nutrition, vitamins and worm medicine…I told them when I return I want to see trim tummies with no worm bloat and some fat on their arms. They giggled and looked embarrassed but smiled shyly. I told them I want them to eat more and if they are hungry to ask for more. We also bought insulated lunch bags for each child and Ryan put their names on them, so now they can take some fruit or a yogurt to school along with their basic sandwich of Nutella or sardines.

Since initiating more food for them, I have noticed an increase in their energy, which may be a mixed blessing for Ryan! And Falonne is recovering nicely…she still tires easily but is back to her cheerful, helpful self. The next step will be to get them all to the dentist. They have huge cavities. And to get Janine to the eye doctor. I left her my eye drops and showed her how to use them when her eyes burn.

After the meeting it was time to finish packing and take my leave. The good byes had started the evening before when Adrianna came into my room with tears in her eyes and said, “Mama Sharon, you go tomorrow?” I told her she was a little beast and broke down crying as I held her thin little body close and hugged her tight. The children hauled my suitcases out to the car and we sat together one last time as I held each one of them close and whispered how much I loved them and would miss them. And that I would come back to them. It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do to tear myself away from their tear-filled eyes…Raissa was sobbing and so was I as we held each other, Janine was quietly weeping, the boys were all downcast and kicking rocks in the driveway, Alexis was snuffling and Ryan was staying busy snapping away with his camera. It had been decided that Dodo, Daniel and Falonne would accompany us to the airport, so I had a brief reprieve with them. At last we climbed into our rattletrap of a car and spluttered our way out of the compound and down the street, waving and waving until we turned the corner and my babies were gone from my sight. We hadn’t really had dinner, so at the last minute just as we were leaving, Alexis came out with a huge tomato and onion omelet she had made for me to eat in the car. I didn’t need to add salt; my tears were dripping onto the plate and salting her last tender gift to me. Ambrosia could not have tasted sweeter.

Ryan tells me that the car has since completely died and it was in its death throes on the way to the airport. I truly thought we would not make the hour long drive it was so bad. And then when we did safely pull up, I worried they would never make it back home again. (But they did). I tried so hard to soak in every minute of that last drive – every sight, sound, smell, every image to keep with me until I can go back, the feeling of the air, the sounds of French, the honking horns…all of it. As awful as much of it was, it still has a fascination for me – I think because it is so completely removed from my reality as to be surreal, not a single association with anything I know and with which I am familiar.

My experience in Africa tested and stretched me to accept a level of discomfort I would not usually tolerate here in the States without becoming terribly cranky and annoyed. Sure, I was only there for two weeks and Ryan has lived it for three years! Easy for me to talk! Could I ever live there as Ryan does? Not in one of the fancy air-conditioned homes with the lovely gardens and swimming pools of the American diplomats and military people but live at New Hope with the children? Care for them every day? I truly don’t know the answer to that question. One of my dreams has been to establish a clinic in Africa for mothers and babies to share my wealth of knowledge in my area of expertise…breastfeeding, infant nutrition, sanitation, hygiene, immunizations, disease prevention, well-baby care and followup, parenting skills, but am I strong enough to overcome the challenges Ryan has faced? Do I have the stamina, the courage, and the patience? After only two weeks “on-site”, as it were, I don’t know; it may be too late in my life for such a challenge. I think it may take someone younger and stronger, like Ryan, to make such a dream come true. And in the meantime I can focus on the health and well being of the New Hope family.

A few notes to finish up. One sticky subject is the issue of racism. For the most part I was treated well and with courtesy. However, there were instances where being white aroused contempt and a need to establish some degree of power over me or over Ryan and me, even when the children were involved. One example was the day we went to the Easter egg hunt at the US Embassy. The outer window was manned by two Cameroonians, employed by the US but nevertheless Cameroonian. The day was hot, the sun was directly overhead, we had Daniel with us and he cannot stand. He can walk with great difficulty but cannot stand for even a short time. He has to either move, leaning on his crutches or sit. So we approached the window, where, of course, Ryan has been many times and made eye contact with the guards inside. We were ignored for several minutes; our passports were not even pulled from the little slot to begin our entry process. Finally, one man slowly pulled Ryan’s passport through and then left it sitting on the counter and went and sat down. Mine remained in the slot while both men just sat there while we all broiled in the sun. Ryan was patient but finally stepped up to the window and said – hey! We have children out here, we are American citizens and you had better get moving right now! As he was yelling, an American Marine officer came into the entry foyer and told the Cameroonians to let us in AT ONCE… he said to them that Ryan is well known, we had children with us and we are obviously Americans, any American citizen is to be admitted to the foyer (which is air-conditioned) while passports are being processed. He was emphatic and annoyed and the guards let us go right in without further delay but they were smirking at us as we passed them. In their view it was some sort of power play, to us it was absolutely inhumane when they could see crippled Daniel and the other 8 children and cared not that they were standing in the hot sun.

We were ignored by a solitaire playing Cameroonian clerk at an information booth at a bank, we were refused service to cash our American Express Traveler’s Checks at a central bank where the exchange rate was even on a running electronic board behind the desk under a sign advertising traveler’s checks services. The woman was rude and told us to go and stand in a line to see someone at another window; she would not do it for us. She could have, it was part of their advertised services and part of her job but we were white. While she was refusing us, another man was shoving at us to push ahead of us and was trying to place his papers on the desk in front of us…literally moving into our place in line as it is felt to be his right to shove us aside because we are white and it is his country. At the gas station, a car pulled up beside us and the driver shouted, “Hey white! Give me money!” several times before driving off furiously when we ignored him. I was waiting for him to jump out of his car and rip open the car door and rob me because I am white. And when Daniel came home from school and started spouting clap-trap about racism in America and how Senator Obama would never be elected by Americans because he is black and Americans are so racist, Ryan had had enough and sat him down for a reality check. Are you hearing yourself, Daniel? A black man, who has been elected as a United States Senator by Americans both white and black, is actually running for President of the United States. Could a white man run for President of Cameroon? And so they had a discussion about racism in general, the tribal racism in Africa, the hatred between tribes, the genocide of their own people, the social status of people in Cameroon based on their skin shade – the darker the skin, the lower the social standing. Isn’t that blatant “racism”? And so on…

Yet, those were isolated incidents…consider the kind woman who opened my bottle of Coke for me, dear Clovis who was so kind to me and later at airport security in Yaounde, a Cameroonian guard saw me using my walking stick and waved me to the head of the line; in fact, every Cameroonian at the airport was friendly to us, we had a sweet waitress at our café who was beautiful and gracious, most of the Cameroonians who have any knowledge at all are generous and kind to Ryan and the children – Simone, Felicity, Momo and Happi, John, Adrienne, Sandrine…good people with no hatred in their hearts for anyone, black or white. But it seems anyone with a tiny degree of authority over a white uses it in an unkind way. Unfortunately that has been Ryan’s and, somewhat, my experience.

Air France was marvelous, as usual, and we were all set to take off on time at 9:20 PM, so I took my seat about 9 and got settled in for the 9-hour flight to Paris. Saying goodbye to John, Dodo, Daniel and most especially to Falonne, who has become my absolute favorite – I think because she was so sick, needed me so much and I was able to spend more individual time with her when she stayed home from school for those four days – and to Ryan left me weak with emotion, crying my heart out…that’s why I boarded the plane at the almost last minute; I couldn’t bear to leave them.

As we were preparing to take off, the Captain came on the speaker and said we would be delayed because the power had gone off as a storm was building and there were no runway lights. So we sat…and the storm began. I think we had a small window of time to beat the storm and be able to take off but we lost it due to the usual Cameroonian inefficiency – perhaps a generator at the airport would be a good idea since violent tropical storms are the norm in Yaounde, now wouldn’t you think??? So we sat and sat some more. The storm was fierce and we didn’t even leave Yaounde until midnight. So three hours sitting cramped on the plane. No problem. Smile.

We made the short hop to Douala (30 minutes) to pick up more passengers and the storm followed us, so we sat and sat in Douala until 3AM before we took off again. So now it was six hours sitting on the plane and I hadn’t even left Africa! We were given a glass of water twice and finally received some food at 5AM on the way to Paris. A very nice Cameroonian gentleman was my seat companion, he spoke some English and we chatted for a bit until we both decided to catch a few winks before we got to Paris.

Of course, we were then three hours late into Paris and Charles DeGaulle airport is a city in itself – five HUGE terminals. I originally had a four-hour window to catch my flight to San Francisco but that had now been narrowed to about 30 minutes. We landed on the tarmac somewhere out in a cow pasture (or so it looked to me) and took a slow bus to Terminal C where we were directed to a Transfer Station and more buses…mine had to take me to Terminal E, which was the last stop on their lengthy route. Then at Terminal E I had to catch a train to the gate area, so it was past my takeoff time when I got to my gate and I was in a bit of a panic, although I figured they would wait for delayed passengers and they did. There were more who boarded after me and we took off an hour late, arriving in San Francisco after twelve looong hours in those miserable seats. I again had a window seat and could nestle my head against the bulkhead and snooze a little so I actually didn’t feel too bad when we arrived in San Francisco. I had a four hour layover until I caught a United flight to Reno so I relaxed and walked to baggage claim when I heard my name called overhead to come to the Air France Service Desk next to carousel 8. Well, well, guess what? My bags were still in France but the nice lady assured me they would be delivered to my home the very next day. No problem. Smile.

I actually arrived in Reno at 10:00 PM Reno time Tuesday evening, which was about 6AM Wednesday morning my body time. Remember, I had actually left New Hope at 7PM Monday evening! So how many hours is that? And how many hours since I had awakened Monday morning? Too many for my jet-lagged brain to figure out, but enough that I was a little rummy, to say the least! Waiting for me at the airport was my dear, dear family with big posters and signs welcoming their “African Princess” home. It was a grand welcome and I was touched that they had come. Several of my grandchildren are around the same ages as the New Hope children, and I was immediately struck by their plumpness and rosy cheeks…they are not in any way “plump”, just average American kids with full cheeks and arms, no bloated bellies and it tugged at my heart to think of how stick thin my African children are, how thin their little faces are. It strengthened my resolve to do all that I can to make them healthy and hearty, and I will.

And now a plea from my heart to yours for generous donations so I can see those children plump up and be worm free and have their teeth fixed and get Janine some glasses…my family and I are just ordinary people, we work ordinary jobs and have families and mortgages just as you do and need your help to make all of this happen. Please think of how you can help in this great work…a monthly pledge on your credit card? A one-time donation? A regular schedule of donation? You can even specify how you want your money spent…to buy vitamins, or for the dentist or for the increased food budget we are going to need or for the school tuition for one of the children…whatever you can do is so greatly appreciated and needed. As you have read in these blogs, every single penny is accounted for and is solely to benefit the children. Ryan receives no salary. John and Adrienne receive modest salaries, which is only fair and right. Patrick donates all of his time. Expenses for the Green Eyes office are kept to a bare minimum and most expenses are covered there by donations also. But we do have to pay for a phone line and a computer, etc.

If my words have touched your heart at all, please go to the Green Eyes web site, (www.Greeneyesinafrica.org), see pictures of Ryan and the children, read more of the Green Eyes story, order a copy of the new DVD and put faces to all of the names I’ve shared and open your wallet for us. Without your help and donations, we can’t do this work. I wish I were a millionaire and could do all we need to do and more, and open New Hope to as many children as need us. While I was there, Ryan received two requests for placement of children with New Hope and he had to turn them down without even hearing their stories because we are unable to do any more right now. Please help us help them.

And so my Grand Adventure ends, at least this initial part of it. I don’t think I’ll ever look at American life the same way or walk through Costco without marveling at the abundance our way of life provides for us. The order, the cleanliness, the opportunities that abound for work, education, advancement, the safety and protection, the lack of disease, the long life expectancy, the medical care… we have it all and more. It is going to take me some time to process all that I have seen, done and felt, but I know one thing for sure…New Hope and those precious children are now an essential part of my life, my family, my future, my dreams and I am going to cherish them and serve them for all the rest of my days.

Oh, and my luggage arrived on Thursday. So all is well…..

Mama Sharon Hansen’s 4th Blog

Sun 23 Mar 2008 12:00:00 AM GMT

I deserve it and I am going to have it! This is my P&M blog...enough of this Sally Sunshine Stuff! (Just kidding). But this is going to be The Reality Check with some of the challenges I have faced during my visit to Africa. Basically, imagine a lifetime of camping out with 12 people - that's the level of inconvenience I am experiencing and that Ryan lives with every day. We lost water once for about 18 hours, the power has gone out twice for hours both times, the plumbing is horrible - Patrick, if you think my slow-flow shower at home is something, try a shower with a literal trickle or no flow at all when the washerwoman is outside all day using the water at her concrete tub. With no shower curtain so the water is spilling all over the floor out of the little ledge surrounding the shower area. The faucets barely flow, and then only after turning the knobs 30 times. The kitchen faucet flow doesn't even hit the sink, but rather the ledge above it and indirectly flows into the sink, spilling all over the metal sideboards. There is hot water, however. But, of course one cannot drink water from the tap so there are two big coffee urn type containers that are filled each morning and evening for the children to drink from...turn the spigot and fill the cup, with spilling onto the floor underneath a given. Then walk around the kitchen and track dirty water everywhere...

The stove is propane and has to be lit each time you use it...turn on the propane from the tank at the side of the stove, look around for the butane lighter that is never in the same place, turn on the burner knob and wait for the whoosh that scares me each time. If I can find an older child, I ask one of them to do it for me I am such a chicken...I won't even try to light the oven! There are no bowls, one large serving size spoon, one plastic spatula, one pitcher, one ancient can opener, a bare minimum of silverware and glasses, no storage containers or Handi-Wrap, no foil, no dishtowels, no washcloths - they use sponges and soak them in bleach every now and then to clean them, the sinks (double) are shallow and small so the large pots are carted outside to the concrete tub to be washed so when I need a pot, off I go outside around the house to find one. No small pans, or even medium ones - just huge pots. One frying skillet, 2 beat up cake pans, many of the plates (mismatched plastic) are chipped, broken or cracked. Almost every small bowl I pick up leaks from small cracks...the refrigerator is small and inadequate...the doors of both the main compartment and the freezer have no handles so you have to pry them open by breaking the seal. Water collects under the vegetable tray at the bottom and spills out when you open the door, so ditto the walking in water again and the dirty floor. The floor is cracked, worn and chipped...it is ancient linoleum, a dark ochre color and peels around all the edges. There are no cabinets, everything is stored on open bin-type things and in one ancient wooden cabinet with a worn top and 2 small shelves. A wicker open shelved handmade free standing shelving unit stands next to the stove and holds oil, sugar cubes, flour, seasonings and miscellaneous "stuff" like the butane lighter. And that's just the kitchen...

I have pulled my mosquito net down around my head six times, I think. My feet get tangled in it, or when I swing my legs over the edge of the bed to get out, a foot catches and wham! Down it comes. Sigh. There is a definite art to sleeping under a mosquito net! And Ryan has patiently re-hung it for me, his idiot Mother. Karen Blixen I certainly am not! My room is small...it's the storage room and has no air flow so it's stuffy but Ryan has given me his large fan so I sleep to the hum of the fan enclosed in my cocoon. The house stays amazingly cool with its thick walls and high ceilings and there is usually a nice breeze flowing thru the louvered windows. But the humidity is high...I bought some crackers and pretzels and within minutes of opening them, they were soft. Sigh.

I am hot and sticky all the time. Thank goodness for Shower to Shower powder! But then I catch a breeze and am cool and "fresh" again for a bit. I have actually gotten very used to it and am not uncomfortable. And let's talk about the BO thing...yes, almost everyone here has an odor but it is not unpleasant - it is a smell of sweat but not the gross kind from unwashed Americans in smelly gyms. Again, I am used to it and it does not bother me at all. I expected far worse...a continent of unwashed Americans! Very different here...definitely not an unwashed American unpleasantness.

John had to go and pay the power bill...one doesn't just pop it into the mail. It is hand delivered each month here and has to be paid in person. So John went at 5AM to stand in line and jump thru the necessary hoops...he returned at 10:30 AM. Can you imagine????? Just to pay one bill. And speaking of dear, dear John...he received some tragic news that has shaken him badly. The uncle who raised him and was like a Father to him fell into a well and drowned in John's village in the North of Cameroon. And additional tragedy...the man's son tried to save him and drowned, too. So poor John has such a heavy heart but is continuing to fulfill all his duties and smile for the children. His older brother, who lives in Yaounde, too, is returning to the village to assume the responsibilities of the family. As an aside, I spoke of the Cameroonian standard of dressing nicely when out in public...when John took his brother to the train station for the 17 hour journey home, he wore a brand new shirt (the creases were still in it), the new baseball cap I gave him with the "Nevada - Battle Born" logo on it, his best shoes and nice pants. Just to put his brother on the train...imagine the Reno airport and all the slobs wandering around. There is a classiness in these people that we lack...

I have been hungry much of the time here - not so much now; I think my stomach has shrunk. So many of the basic items in our diet in America are lacking here - no cereal or bread for toast in the morning, the eggs are small with pale yolks and have no taste, no bacon or ham (pork is not big here, mostly chicken or beef), no juice, but I did splurge on a carton of grapefruit juice...about a quart for $4. And some yogurt which is $1 per small carton, about the size of one of the kid-size cartons in the states. Much thinner than ours, not as sweet and flavors are limited to pineapple and strawberry mostly. No sandwich fixings - lunchmeat, cheeses, etc. for lunch, no Campbell's soup or canned anything. One can of green beans is $2and there just isn't anything to buy that we would consider "normal" food...no peanut butter, no snacks or Spaghetti-Os or pork and beans or spaghetti sauce or even tomato sauce, nothing processed. No fresh cold milk, the milk here is kept on the shelf and is not refrigerated...in one of the larger markets I spotted a small bag of what looked like potato chips, which they were but no salt! And crunchy rather than crispy. Sigh. Ryan took pity on me when he saw thru my brave front after several days of being hungry and using up so many eggs for omelets with tomatoes.... So we went and splurged on the grapefruit juice and yogurt and I even stooped to buying 2 cans of Chef Boyardee Beefaroni, I was so desperate and it's all they had at this so-called "American " store. And some raisins for myself and Falonne, the pretzels and that was about it. Then he took me to a European-styled cafe where I had lemonade and a real salad with avocado and actual salad dressing! Ahhhhhhhhh. And for a real treat, Hanna, Ryan and I went out one evening to a restaurant and I had a small steak and some potatoes! Heaven! But I am trying...last night Adrienne grilled some small whole fish over a charcoal brazier - the WHOLE fish, eyeballs and all. So I simply smiled and went to the kitchen where I cut off the head and staring eyes and proceeded to be just fine. It was quite tasty and appetizing once the head wasn't looking back at me! This morning I had a yogurt for breakfast and we are on our way to buy beignets for the kids and to take as our contribution to a pot-luck the Americans at the US Embassy are having as part of an Easter egg hunt to which we have been invited later today. One disappointment is the bread here...with French influence I expected crispy french-type breads but the rolls are like sawdust if they are wheat and like air with no taste if they are white. I am probably not being fair, really, since Ryan buys the cheapest rolls imaginable...there is probably delicious bread available. Ryan's economy is mind-boggling...for the birthday presents for the kids I taped together old used birthday wrap and when it ran out we used newspaper for wrapping! He says - quite correctly, actually - that the fun is in the unwrapping, not the paper. I guess...

Last evening we were sitting in the yard when there was a burning smell and floating ashes coming into the yard. We investigated and found that neighbors were burning branches in the middle of the road outside the gate. What if someone had come down the road? Oh, well - I guess they would just back up and go another way...and no one even raised an eyebrow. When the trash collector comes down the street starting at 7AM, he blasts his horn every few houses - a very loud air-horn on his big garbage truck - so the inhabitants can bring out their trash. I could hear him most of the morning as he made his rounds. And the neighbor's dog howls all day from loneliness, I guess. All day. And speaking of dogs ( weren't we?), there are very few stray dogs...Ryan says they are eaten. Oh,my. This is definitely not a "pet" culture...no one keeps animals as pets. They can't afford to feed them and why would they anyway?

We were all loaded up to head out to the Easter egg hunt at the US Embassy and the car wouldn't start. The poor thing is dying, no doubt about it. The transmission is so weak we can barely make it up a hill and Yaounde is a hilly city, it sputters and sputters when it first starts and takes a few minutes to really decide to run at all, stalls at the drop of a hat...John took it in to be "fixed" yesterday but I see no improvement. Also it seems there was barely enough gas to start it - evidently the gauge is inaccurate so we sputtered to the closest gas station and that helped considerably. Starting out on a hill is tricky so I showed Ryan the old San Francisco trick of pulling on the emergency brake, putting in the clutch, putting the car in first gear, gunning the engine and slowly releasing the parking brake. It works and we have started successfully on several hills now using this method. That minibus from the Japanese is going to improve the quality of life to no end around here.

There is red dust all over everything, so "cleaning" has a whole different meaning here. There is no clutter and of course, no knicknacks to "dust" - it is basic survivalist cleaning. The "broom" is a bunch of long twigs tied together that is used like a scythe back and forth to clear away dirt with the user bent over at the waist...back breaking! No mops or pails, just rags used on the floors on hands and knees or on the feet, sponges on the toilets and sinks with a bleach solution made in an old spray bottle. Rubber gloves are worn for all cleaning and the rags are used over and over again on the floors, so I am encouraging a different style of "cleaning" and some different products to use. By African standards this place is shining clean. By American standards it is not. So I am trying to compromise and find a happy medium...I no longer worry about sweeping up all the little piles of "dirt" I keep finding...there are severe termites and this debris is from them and is all over the house. No problem. Smile.

Doing laundry by hand is some fun. Bend over the concrete tub, scrub away on the tile ledge surface using a brush, cold water, of course, a harsh detergent called OMO dissolved in the water with a few suds, double rinse, (no fabric softener, of course) wring and hang on the line using the very few clothespins available. Thank goodness I had the foresight to bring some when Ryan told me I would be doing hand washing. The clothes dry stiff but smell good from the open air. I brought few clothes with me anyway, and I just wear them repeatedly and wash them out every now and then for sanitary purposes. No problem. Smile.

There is no telephone service here so it is all cell phones and phone cards and today Ryan ran out of minutes so we couldn't call the hosts of the egg hunt to tell them we would be delayed because of the dumb car...everyone text messages or leaves e-mail messages so communication isn't convenient, either. You have to have your cell phone close by every minute, check the computer several times a day and it is common to miss communications. It has happened to Ryan quite a few times...either his cell phone was out of hearing range or the people he needed to talk to weren't available, or the internet was down - a frequent happening here so life doesn't flow as smoothly and people are more flexible and understanding when the system breaks down. I find it extremely frustrating.

Money is another joy...they don't take Visa, remember (No problem. Smile.) and Ryan has a low withdrawal limit on his debit card so we have to go to ATMs frequently as money doesn't go far with such high prices. But the nearest ATM isn't working often so we drive around until we find one that is working, but even then the machine may be out of money and you can't get any cash. So drive to another, find a place to park, pay the 100 Cameroonian francs fee each time...well, let's just go to a bank, says I. Right, says Ryan. And stand in a line for 2 hours and then find that such a transaction (complicated for them because it's an American bank account and there is NO WAY Ryan would use a Cameroonian bank) can only be handled by some supervisor who is out and it isn't known when he'll return. Ryan has been there and tried that. So we continue to drive thru smoky Yaounde to try and get enough money for basic groceries or gas or to pay John and Adrienne their salaries, or to pay the guy who "mows" the lawn with a weed eater or to pay for the kids school taxis or the car repairs...this is a totally cash society and is completely pay-as-you-go. No billing, no credit, no checking accounts. So cash is always an issue day to day. I would go crazy...Ryan asks for discounts everywhere he goes but most merchants aren't interested...a few have been good to him, like the Indian store owners who give him a 15% discount every time. But their merchandise is limited...

So is that about all the P&M I need? I think so. I feel better now, so thanks for listening. I so much more fully understand the pressures Ryan is under every single day without ever any relief. Hassle is his way of life, inconvenience his norm, deprivation his standard, frugality his method and frustration his constant companion. It is incredible that he is surviving as well as he does. I truly don't think I could do it long term. It can be fun to "camp" for awhile, but try it forever. Every day shows me the glory of the West and our way of life and increases my desire to help these kids find a better way and to support Ryan in more specifics and ease his burden however we can. Being here has given me a depth and clarity I lacked...I thought I understood how hard it is to live here and do what Ryan does, but I really had no clue until I have walked a bit in his moccasins. And I've only scratched the surface of his life here and spent just a few days in his world. I definitely want to return and learn more and I am going to encourage others to come and stay for an extended time...Paige would be so perfect here...and as for the safety issue, I am completely safe here...in fact in talking with Ryan, he felt more fear in downtown Sparks as he sat outside the movie theater surrounded by Hispanic gang members wearing baggy low slung pants, speaking Spanish and giving him dirty looks. I understand and using wisdom and prudence I feel there is no more threat to me here than in Sparks. Most people are just going about their daily lives...some neighborhoods are not safe, of course, but that is true in the States, too. And in talking to other "ex-pats" as non-Cameroonians are called, they agree with me. They also just go about their lives...

We're off to the Gorilla Sanctuary tomorrow morning at 8 so off to bed I go...more later.

Mama Sharon Hansen’s 3rd Blog

Thu 20 Mar 2008 12:00:00 AM GMT

The ants are tiny and they bite, the cockroaches are huge and they don't. Bats come out in swarms at evening, there is an owl who swoops over every night and a family of gorgeous lizards residing here. They are about eight inches long, have orange heads and tails, a cobalt blue body and one is especially fond of Ryan. Every time he sits out on the second floor veranda, the lizard appears on the ledge, bobbing his head up and down- Ryan says he's doing his push-ups - and sits and just watches Ryan the whole time. They run up and down vertical walls with aplomb...there are also regular geckos, lots of little scurrying bugs and mosquitoes, of course. I am using my DEET, taking my anti-malarial and sleep in my net cocoon every night. I have been bitten, the bites itch for a bit and quickly disappear. I have had no health problems while here, I drink bottled water, no "traveler's complaint", I sleep like a rock except when the massive thunderstorms hit as they have the last 2 nights about 3 AM and wake me up with pounding rain, reverberating thunder, and constant lightning flashes. Yesterday we had two such storms, one around 4 and then the one during the night. I have rarely seen such rainfall - it flies in all directions and an umbrella is useless, the wind whips and everyone stays calm...this is the norm here almost every day during the rainy season which supposedly this is not...at home we would all be out on the front porch saying...wow..This morning when we went onto the veranda, the curtains were torn, a glass container had been shattered, water was pooled everywhere, and this is the "norm" for storms here...

Everyone needs to see the newest DVD to fully understand what I am seeing and what I am saying. At the close of the DVD a crippled boy named Daniel has walked on his crutches across the city and arrives at New Hope drenched in sweat...someone in a taxi told him there was a white man who takes care of children in this area, so Daniel went door-to-door until he found Ryan. He has visited often since that day and this weekend Ryan arranged for him to stay so he could determine if Daniel would fit in here and if it would work to have him move in. It was a grand weekend for Daniel - he and Falonne are in the same grade and he was so very happy, Ryan decided to add him to the New Hope family. Daniel has severe neurological deficits due to cerebral malaria when he was three but is bright and intelligent. So his "uncle" or whomever this custodial person is came and signed papers for us to have Daniel. Adrienne knows where he lives and told Ryan his living conditions were atrocious, he was neglected and mistreated, starved and beaten - the "uncle" proudly boasted of this as his way of "properly" raising Daniel. Handicapped people in Yaounde are usually considered to be "witches" and are kept behind closed walls - Daniel had never been anywhere and he went to church with us, to the little cafe for an omelet...the city has built a new park close by and Daniel insisted on walking thru it, even though walking is painful for him, declaring this was paradise...he was completely in awe of the trees and grass and little stream running thru it... he didn't want to leave but Ryan assured him we would return. To Daniel it was Disneyland...just a silly little park. We went for ice cream and Daniel preferred a bag of M&Ms - he has never tasted ice cream and was afraid. He is trying to find his place here and spends most of his time studying - writing is very difficult for him, he has a sort of palsy, but it is the one thing he knows how to do and has in common with the other children...he also knows how Ryan values education so he studies all the time. Ryan had the children making pictures for the Japanese Ambassador for the ceremony to hand over the check for the new minibus the Japanese Embassy is providing us and Daniel said he couldn't do it because he "had to study". It turns out he had never colored before, didn't know what crayons were and was again afraid of the unknown. He is stick thin and wears a constant grin, has a good sense of humor and is a beautiful child. Ryan is talking with the Shriners to see if anything medical can be done to help Daniel. And we are looking for a wheelchair so he can more easily go on outings. And so our family grows...

Ryan mentioned "drama" - Cyril came home from school and reported to Adrienne that he had been beaten over some infraction...when she lifted his shirt, his back was covered in black bruises from a thick stick whose outline could be seen all across his shoulder blades and along his lower back. The bruises were tender to the touch and I was horrified, but was told this is the "norm" here. The children attend a privately owned school - supposed to be one of the "better" schools in Yaounde - but even there children are brutalized. Falonne says it happens all the time to teenage girls in her school. So Ryan took pictures of Cyril's back and is going to the school owner, who is not Cameroonian, and make sure this never happens again to any of our children. Seeing children in rags picking thru garbage bins or weaving thru heavy traffic to sell trinkets or gum is painful for me...children here are not cherished, they are exploited to benefit adults. Their future is so bleak with no opportunities for employment or improvement...a "good" salary here is about $200 a month - with prices so high, how can they live? That's why they only have shacks, live two families to a 10X10 room, send the children out to beg, steal what they can, drink heavily and resent the village people pouring intoYaounde daily because of even worse conditions in their villages. The government is completely corrupt, I passed the governors wife's palace and was appalled at the decadence flaunted in the face of people like Adrianna's emaciated grandmother who starves herself to feed her grandchildren the basest sort of food like the disgusting manioc root most of the poor live on. Driving thru Yaounde I can feel the despair of the people, the restless energy waiting to explode in anger as gas and food prices rise and rise to feed the greed of the rulers here. I have discussed emergency preparedness with Ryan - evacuation plans and food storage for WHEN, not if, more civil unrest breaks out. He is in frequent contact with the American military and has ready contacts and help...yesterday I met Chris Wilson from the military and tearfully hugged him and thanked him for his watchful care over New Hope and my son. It does help to relieve my mind somewhat knowing the volatility of the situation here. The Cameroonians have no hope, no voice, no future and their frustration will explode.

And yet they are a beautiful people - their carriage is regal, they have a pride in the way they bear themselves...all the women have nicely done hair and headscarves or turbans, their clothing is almost always clean and colorful...on the same street you will see women in business suits and then also the long flowing muu-muu type dress most of the older women wear. Modesty is the norm and shoes are elegant, the men carry briefcases and wear suits, or shirts and nice trousers in the business areas of the city. At our social events here at New Hope, some Cameroonian women were dressed to the nine and the only inappropriate dressing was from Americans! We are the slobs everywhere...tank tops and grubby shorts and I can always spot the American in any crowd. I am ashamed at the lack of respect for the Cameroonian cultural norm of looking nice when out in public. Even in the poorest areas the women were fixed up to go and buy their manioc root at the local market stand. Everywhere Ryan and I have gone we have been treated well - even by people who had formerly been rude to Ryan. He was puzzled but I think one reason is that I am dressed nicely with earrings and my new African necklace, my makeup is on, my hair is arranged, not in some sloppy ponytail, I am wearing cologne, I am an older woman and I make a point of making eye contact, smiling and saying "Bonjour" to everyone I come into contact with - the parking attendant, the cashier at the store, the washerwoman here at New Hope. I always receive a smile in return and even some special treatment. A cashier at the local market Ryan has had fairly frequent contact with and who has usually been rude to him, was smiling and nice to me and even opened my bottle of Coke..." just for you" she said to me with a smile as she dug thru her drawer to find an opener. I guess drinking an open container on the premises is not to be done but I was dying of thirst and she took pity on me...and our newest friend Clovis from the local "Home Depot" type store where we bought the swing for the yard - we had to go upstairs in the store to look at some furniture for New Hope and I was a bit slow...Ryan told Clovis I had broken my hip a year ago and Clovis immediately took my hand and helped me up the two flights of stairs very tenderly. He then came home with us to reassemble the swing, we tipped him and paid for his taxi back and invited Clovis to the documentary screening, he was helpful in getting some furniture for us - even John was impressed with his honesty and helpfulness...he is in his twenties, reminds me of Dan the Man and he came to the screening and brought his girlfriend. Then he called Ryan to see when I am going home to make an appointment to bring me a "present", so tonight at 6:30, Clovis is coming over. He is just an average Joe, but seems a very decent young man and is an excellent contact at the store when Ryan needs paint or tools or whatever "Home Depot" type merchandise New Hope may need. Ryan has been consistently surprised at the positive response to me. Another factor is seeing a mother and her son together...Ryan holds my hand when we cross a street - it is a bit dangerous for a slow old lady and a taxi brushed my skirt it passed so close on one crossing - and people smile at us. I can feel a respect for my age, a polite nod or Bonjour, a small smile...in the States I am ignored as an old fossil not worthy of even acknowledgment everywhere I go so this has been nice.

A bit about the people I have met...we have had two social events...the documentary screening and the reception for the Japanese Ambassador and his wife and staff... and as I mentioned before people just stop by to say hi...I was in my room doing something when there was a soft knock. I opened the door to two familiar faces...Sandrine holding Baby Grace's hand. There was a blissful reunion between Sandrine and the children, and a touching reunion between Ryan and Sandrine. She had come to Yaounde for prenatal care and has been here many times since that first day. She is quiet and gentle, went straight into the kitchen and started washing dishes, is helping with homework, spent the night when the storms prevented her leaving and seems happy to have reconnected with New Hope. She plans to go soon to a far province with her baby's father and then come back to Yaounde for her delivery and remain here after the birth finishing her schooling and finding work. She is a sweet, unassuming person and I like her very much. Honorine came with Baby Grace and she is a creature to be pitied. She just sat gazing at nothing with her sightless eyes, we fed her, I conversed with her a little but she isn't quite all there. And Grace is...just Grace. A delightful little devil, a princess spoiled by everyone here, an imp, a charmer, her giggle is infectious and she seems well. Her behavior was normal, her health is good, Sandrine has been keeping tabs on her, she is still under the care of her father Benjamin and we all feel a bit better after seeing her again. The children have a tutor, Julien, who comes 4 X a week for 2 hours in the evening. He is doing a great job in catching the children up to grade level and they are all advancing rapidly. He is also a kind, gentle man and I liked him, too. Momo and Happi from the Cameroon National Ballet Company come every Wednesday for a 2 hour dance lesson and I think I'm in love with Momo. They push the children to excel, they are so dedicated to their art and have come to all the social events and also will be here Friday for a lesson since this week's Wed lesson was usurped by Japan's event. Momo and Happi tend to focus more on modern interpretive dance and Danielle - a lovely, gracious ballerina, teaches more of the classical form. They are such a blessing for these children...one example...as part of their lesson last week, Momo and Happi were teaching about emoting thru dance and were running the children thru various emotions...anger, happiness, etc and when they got to sadness and anguish, Dodo had tears running down his little face. Momo took him in his arms, comforted him and used him as an example of how dance can help us deal with our inner pain. It was moving and very significant in helping Dodo to be able to confront his suppressed inner feelings from his abusive past. My heart was ripping from my chest it was so full...

Adrianna's grandmother has been here twice...Ryan had agreed to some medical care for Modeste when he was staying here that is being followed up with, so she came once with Modeste and once with another grandchild about 2 years old. We were having pancakes so the tot ate with us and grandma took some pancakes in a plastic bag for later, too. Just to have some crummy pancakes was such a treat...but I digress. This grandmother has lied repeatedly to Ryan and is completely unreliable but I have pity for her...what would I do to help my grandchildren in her circumstances? Would I lie and cheat to try to provide a better life for them? Yes, I would. Yes, I would. So my heart goes out to her desperate heart. When she leaves, Adriana has a hard time...she was sassing John and had to be sent to her room. Poor little tyke...she loves her grandmother, who took care of her for so long and is the only Mother she has ever known and she misses her. One funny aside - the toddler was terrified of Ryan and me...cried hysterically when we came close and clung to grandma. Her big brown eyes followed us everywhere. My goodness...my goal in my later life is to be presentable enough to not scare little children and am I failing??? Ha Ha!

Meeting Simone was a highlight. She is beautiful, cultured, smart, wise and I love her. She handles Ryan with deftness and humor. She is a fabulous role model for these girls and has a presence they can emulate. She is a gift from God, I have no doubt. She has kept Ryan alive and going on when times were so dark for him. If I am the children's fairy godmother, Simone is their guardian angel. Nanette is adorable and a big sister to the kids, Mike from the military (he's a Las Vegas boy!) is Mr. Tough Marine made of marshmallow inside. He recently had the portable speakers repaired for the kids at his cost and is providing desks for the schoolroom...and he provided the military intelligence reports during the recent violence that kept us all on top of things. I trust Mike and am so grateful for him. The Roth family, the Swaneys, we are going to High Tea with Vinny and Jill from England on Saturday, Felicity from the Internet company, a crazy blind man came to the gate yesterday - he has stopped by before and is about a quart low and leaking. He loves to come here and sit with the children and just be with people around him. He is desperately lonely and has no one. So big-hearted Ryan has made a friend of him and he comes by and made quite a fuss over meeting me. Sad man, one of thousands of sad people here.

One thing Ryan is instilling in these children is a sense of their privilege and the need to help those less fortunate...there is a center with 12 severely (some completely bedridden) handicapped children in Yaounde run by an American named Natalie, a very nice young woman doing a horrible job no one else will do (remember these children are "witches" ), and these children come here and are doted on by New Hope. The new minibus is also to help them get out of their prison more often and go on outings with our children. I met three of these precious people yesterday and they were sweet and happy to be part of the happenings here...one of them, a little Down's Syndrome boy, sat with the Ambassador's wife thru the entire ceremony just beaming...

So visitors are many - the Roth girls came by to play with the kids out of the blue, Felicity is expected any minute, the kids are home now and just told us there will be no school tomorrow - I guess teachers here take frequent "holidays"...so we are going to stay up late tonight and watch a movie - I wonder if there is popcorn anywhere in Yaounde? Adrienne has made some sort of chicken and rice dish...so yummy! So we'll all eat, everyone is well now - even Ryan again, thank goodness - and just be at home enjoying each other. A priceless moment - and they don't even take Visa! More later!

Mama Sharon Hansen’s 2nd Blog

Tue 18 Mar 2008 12:00:00 AM GMT

The day we arrived 14 year-old Falonne had been taken to the hospital for a transfusion secondary to malarial anemia and worms. She was lethargic, weak, sleepy and ghostly pale. My nursing instincts kicked in, I assessed her, reviewed her meds and discussed her plan of care with Ryan. She stayed home from school for the next four days, slept as much as I could make her and we reviewed her diet to increase her iron stores. I made her spinach omelets. egg nogs, had her snack on raisins and she slowly has perked up. I proceeded to assess all the children; Janine and Adrianna had complained of chronic stomach pains, all the children are very thin and I found them all to have worms. In light of African hygiene, there is no way to keep them worm-free so I have initiated a quarterly Vermox regimen to keep them as close to worm free as possible. Janine needs an eye exam - she complains of her eyes burning alot and I think it's eyestrain and she needs glasses. I would like to see them all take vitamins daily since their diet is minimalist - I am making some recommendations there, too. Overall, they seem a healthy lot with plenty of energy and vitality. Also the day we arrived Ryan came down with what at first we thought was his recurring malaria but after 3 days when the anti-malarial pills didn't work, we decided it wasn't malaria even though the symptoms were typical - fever of 101, shaking chills, horrible sweating, nausea...so I decided to put him on Cipro for possible dengue fever or even influenza and after 2 more days he improved, although as of this writing he is still not 100% and is sleeping as I sit at his computer to write this. We tried to be seen at his local clinic but they were closed so I just took matters into my own hands, thinking that while I may not be able to diagnose his ailment, the treatment would be the same no matter what it is. And he is improving slowly...

Food here is primitive in nature, very simple and lacking in variety and complexity. Adrienne makes a large pot of something each day on the propane gas fueled stove...a chicken stew, boiled plantains (sort of a cross between a banana and a sweet potato), today it will be some sort of fish, last night we had a rice dish with bits of carrot and vegetables in it, the day before a creamed vegetable dish called ndole ( pronounced on-dough-lay), which Ryan loves but I found to be bitter, another day meatballs in a fresh tomato sauce with bits of onion and pepper. She is a good cook and everything is prepared completely from scratch with primitive tools...no blender, no chopping tools, no whisks or rubber spatulas, the huge iron pots are heavy and wonderful - of course, no electric frypan to fry the plantains, she does a good job with what she has. No kitchen table or chair - she squats on a small stool and peels or chops into a large tub at her feet, usually outside while she chats with John. And that is the meal. It is actually supposed to last for 2 meals - this main one and then the smaller one again at 7ish so portions are small. No salad, no bread, never a dessert, no "side" dishes...water is the drink of choice...no juices, no soda, one glass of milk a day ( powdered) at breakfast. Breakfast is the milk with two sugar cubes in it and a roll with margarine from a tub. They pack another roll with Nutella on it as a "lunch" snack to take to school - no hot lunch at school, of course. An orange is a treat, or a fresh mango - twice in this week only did I see them have fruit. I made them a tuna salad over the weekend when Adrienne is off and the tuna reminded me of cat food in it's appearance, smell and texture. I added lots of fresh tomatoes and lettuce, the mayonnaise here is close to ours so it was a pretty good salad. Another meal they loved and asked Mama Sharon to make again was plain old pancakes...real butter ( you all know me and my butter!) and syrup with a fried egg for each of them...they ate until they were full and satisfied. We've had pancakes twice now and several times I've scrambled some eggs or made omelets...so one of my tasks before I leave is to revamp their meals to bring their nutrition status up - more fresh green veggies, more milk, more fruit...

One surprise is how expensive everything is here - prices are the same as in the States for almost everything but our dollar is weak and money doesn't stretch as far, thus Ryan buys the cheapest of everything he can find - toilet paper, etc...but at the same time the street vendors sell a shirt for a dollar. Today I saw a vendor with heavy velour bathrobes for sale! A simple meal for two in a European style cafe runs $40 for lunch, so eating out is not ever an option. We took the children to a simple small cafe as a treat (they have $2 omelets and we wanted to celebrate Daniel joining our family here) since they never get to go "out"...Ryan laughed his head off at me when I asked him if they took Visa so I could pay for the meal - I just lost my head for a minute there. There is NO fast food, no JC Penny or Wal Mart, no movies, no shops to buy a new dress, no Baskin Robbins, NOTHING. Street after street with pharmacies, bars, copy centers, internet cafes, some small businesses selling tile or junk, government offices in walled compounds with long lines of people patiently standing in the hot sun, gas stations, tire stores, the rows of shacks and umbrellas I described before but no Western style "stores" like Mervyns or Albertsons in this huge metropolis. There are grocery stores, small usually and incomplete...the Indian run store where Ryan receives a discount has staples, a few sundries but no produce or meat. The store with lots of produce and meat had very few groceries. So "shopping" is never easy or fast...every excursion we have taken involves hours of horrible traffic, slow service, many stops...Ryan had to have a document copied and printed from his computer so we went to an internet cafe since he doesn't have a printer at the house. First you find a place to park - we were lucky and pulled right into a spot - go to a window and stand in line, pay your fee, then go around to the back of the "office" where the computers are, wait for an employee to direct you to the appropriate computer, hope to heck it is working, wait for him to set you up, then connect and do your thing, walk back around to the "office" to retrieve your document, hoping the printer is working properly, walk back around to the computer area again, shut down your computer and then leave. Head back into the traffic and on to the next stop, the pharmacy to buy the Vermox, then to a store for some red meat for Falonne, then to the "supermarket" for a few staples, another stop at a ATM to replenish my cash since they don't take Visa (smile), on to the gas station for gas and a nice surprise. There was an attendant who pumped the gas for us, waved us in to an empty pump and filled us up - no oil check or windshield wipe, of course, but how nice to have the gas pumped just like in 1950's America!

Each day brings a new adventure...yesterday we went to the Japanese Embassy and met with a tiny Japanese doll named Maiko who has arranged to have their Embassy purchase a minibus for the orphanage. On Wednesday there will be a ceremony to hand Ryan a check and it is going to be a Big Deal with their Ambassador making a speech, many diplomats are expected, some dignitaries, the press, friends of the orphanage, American military people, quite the event. The children will be dressed to the nines, they will do an African dance, the Japanese Ambassador will have an escort with full formality...and the minibus is a Mitsubishi 15 passenger van, brand new, air conditioned, with shocks! Today we took another hot hour long ride thru Yaounde traffic to the Mitsubishi dealership to finalize the deal...the actual car is in Douala and so it will be next week before Ryan actually takes possession, but, how wonderful it is going to be. No more taxis in the morning and afternoon for school, no more jamming all the children into the tiny Toyota to go to church...it will make life so much nicer for everyone. Plus it will eliminate harassment for Ryan on the streets - the Japanese want their logo on the side of the van saying something like " a gift from the people of Japan to the children of Cameroon" or whatever so no crummy policeman will mess with them like they do now when they see white people in a beat-up Toyota.

And speaking of taxis... there must be 10,000 little four door junky yellow taxis in Yaounde...they zip in and out of traffic like busy bees and honk madly. People wanting a ride hold out their hand, the taxi swerves over to them, they climb in and away they go. The driver stops again and again until the car is full...probably 6 or 7 people in a car built to hold 4 so it is kind of like a ferris wheel ride, some get on and some get off and then you get to ride a bit. If you want the taxi to yourself you have to pay extra...they are the most aggressive drivers of all and use their horns to warn you - watch out, I'm comin' in! Currently we have a taxi driver who comes for the children every morning for school at 6:45 AM and then brings them back home again at 3. Having the mini-bus will save that money but the extra gasoline will eat up any savings. The Mitsubishi dealership is handling the car registration fees - a huge deal here in both time and money. Everyone has been so completely kind to us everywhere we go - Ryan says it is because of me...older women are respected and deferred to here and seeing him with his old mother softens everyone's hearts. Awwwwwwwwww.

The kids are home now so time to go give hugs and kisses and talk about their day and get chores going...more later! :)

Mama Sharon Hansen’s 1st Blog

Sun 16 Mar 2008 12:00:00 AM GMT

Today is Sunday and tomorrow it will be just a week since my arrival in Africa, yet I feel a lifetime has passed in the experiences of these past few days. I scarcely know where to begin, but I guess at the beginning...

We arrived two hours late from Paris at about 9:30 PM on Monday March the 10th. The airport is small for a city of a million and a half people, very "primitive" - a word I will use often to mean very minimalist, basic, and lacking in any sort of frills. The walls were bare, the floor some sort of non-descript tile squares, the windows dirty, the paint chipped. The officials were surprisingly efficient and we moved thru passport check, etc very quickly from 3 lines...when it was my turn at the window to check my passport, I understood why - the bored official took my passport and stamped it without even glancing up to see if the pictures matched! And away we went to the usual clutter of baggage claim...one carousel, young men everywhere offering to help us load our bags, a noisy din in a small area. We found our bags and started toward the exit when I looked up and saw the face I knew from Ryan's DVD - it was John and his big grin with Hanna right behind him. We were home. The African night was soft with a faint scent of some sort of flower, warm but not unpleasantly so. We piled all of our gear into the ancient, beat -up Toyota 4 door and I had my first experience of Yaounde driving...probably 6 "lanes" of traffic all trying to exit a narrow passage to pay the parking fee to a guard. No order, no waiting for the guy ahead of you, no taking turns - just every man for himself, almost running into each other until someone would gain an edge of an inch and "win" his space. Bumper to bumper, horns honking - complete madness and yet it seems to work...there are no traffic lanes here, traffic moves as it does in the states, meaning they drive on the right as we do, but the similarity ends there. No traffic signals, no printed lanes on the road, no speed signs, no "exit" lanes or "merging" lanes - sometimes there are 2 cars abreast moving in the same direction, in the next second there may be 3! Add a smoking motorcycle buzzing by and there are now 4! And always the most aggressive guy wins. There are no speeders - everyone drives at 90 miles an hour! Entering an intersection to make a left hand turn is a life-changing experience. Edge over, edge over, worm your way into the intersection inch by inch and when your opponent weakens and slows imperceptibly, hit the gas and speed thru! Victory! Then add pedestrians trying to cross, beggars reaching out their plastic bowls to your open window or children trying to sell you something from trays they carry as traffic slows a bit, taxis swerving to the curb to pick up a fare and then speeding up to re-enter the traffic flow...driving here is always an adventure and to see John or Ryan driving calmly in this madness is awe-inspiring. Some of you ( Laura, especially, remembering me tearing around in the Jag scaring 10 years off her life) may think I would fit right in here with my driving style, but I wouldn't drive here for anything. My reflexes aren't fast enough! And my courage is very lacking!

Ryan says that Yaounde is one giant slum but that is an understatement...the "slums" of Harlem or LA are paradise compared to here. The streets are narrow ( except for vast boulevards in the city proper with giant roundabouts holding 6 cars abreast) and have no sidewalks, are lined with shack after shack - each measuring about 10X10, some are actually those giant boxcar things that fit onto trucks and trains. These are homes and shops and many people live in just that small space...adults, children...and there are tables by the hundreds lining every road with beach-type umbrellas over them to keep the equatorial sun from their heads...they all have a sign with the number 100 written on it; they are sitting there all day hoping someone will stop to use their cell phone and pay them the 100 Cameroon francs they charge. Endless vendors roam the streets carrying everything from suitcases, winter coats (yes, they sell here! If it gets below 1000 degrees they say it is cold and wear coats!), cored, sliced pineapples, candy, tennis shoes (they carry one on their head so customers will know their merchandise is tennis shoes), socks on carts, folded bolts of cloth, plastic buckets with sodas or beignets, suits, dresses...the variety of merchandise they carry around all day in the hot sun is endless. Most carry burdens on their heads...it is not unusual to see someone with three buckets balanced one on top of the other on their head, walking along at a casual pace. Roadside stands have huge bunches of bananas, piles of mangos, loaves of bread...it is quite a sight as we speed along. Despite all the traffic, everyone here walks everywhere or they take taxis...more on the taxis later.

It feels like LA in the summer most of the time...humid but with a cooling breeze. There have been two ferocious thunderstorms this week - monsoon type rain, howling winds, lightning - the clouds build all day, it gets more and more humid and then the show begins. One storm lasted about 4 hours, the one today only about 2. Then it passes and the air is clean and cool. And we clean up the pools of water, the ripped curtains, the debris in the yard...put the dog back out (her name is Wilma) and resume life. Nature at her most spectacular for sure.

The orphanage itself is in one of the "better" parts of town...sort of the second best area of Yaounde. The best area is where all the diplomats live. And while the homes there are large, they aren't even as nice as Wingfield Springs. High walls and gated, of course. Moorish in appearance, actually, but very minimalist, not luxurious as we would define it. But their streets are paved...

Imagine the worst washed out riverbed road in Virginia City you have driven your 4 wheel on and that is about what Ryan's street is like. Huge mounds, gullies, rocks...of course, there are no city services, so after the rains have washed out even more gullies and ruts, the citizens fill the largest potholes with whatever is at hand - blocks of concrete, today we passed some men putting broken pieces of a tile floor into the "roadbed" to fill some huge holes. Again, it seems to work sort of okay. We drive slowly - ever so slowly maneuvering up, over and around...the little Toyota has no shocks, needless to say. And how the tires don't go flat I don't know. (Since writing this, we have had a flat tire which John expertly changed.)

The "street" is lined with gated compounds, all locked with a guard sitting in front of most of the homes. We pulled up to a maroon colored metal gate and John honked the horn. The gate swung open and we pulled in. There are no street names or house numbers here - it's very interesting telling someone where you live and how to get there. Access is just by doing that...you pull up and honk. Each home knows its own horn sound and I have now learned not to run to the gate every time I hear a honk. I even know the neighbor's horns now! People arriving by taxi or on foot ring a bell which is heard loudly thru the house. Someone then (usually John) goes to the gate and unlocks it.

The compound is about the size of a small city lot with 12 foot beige concrete walls surrounding it. It is a bit claustrophobic, to say the least. The front yard has some shrubs and a bit of grass, some sort of vine covering 2 of the high walls, a concrete driveway, a porch and a large veranda on the second floor where the psycho cat Sally lives (are all cats psycho???). Along the side of the house is a narrow concrete corridor with a deep divided concrete tub where a woman comes three times a week to wash clothes and where the larger pots and pans from the kitchen are also washed, a clothesline and the garbage tubs. Entry into the house is thru an outdoor room where the table sits for meals and homework...much of the house's activity takes place out here. Then into a primitive kitchen - more on this also later. On the first floor are a large living room, the children's study room, Hanna's room, a storage/guest room where I am staying and a bathroom. Up the stairs to Ryan's room, 3 more bedrooms for the children, 3 bathrooms and a large studio used for the children's dance lessons with the dancers from the Cameroon National Ballet Company each week. The veranda has chairs and the breeze is best here. And also the view of smoky Yaounde and the neighbors' rooftops and yards. Looking out over the expanse that is Yaounde is not what I thought...it is always grey and overcast and the smoky pall of pollution hovers constantly. Even the rain does not dissipate it...of course, there are no emission standards, every car belches smoke and trash is burning everywhere. My throat burns as we drive in town and my eyes sting after awhile, too.

The house is furnished sparingly - spartan is the correct term. Even basic "luxuries" we expect are missing. No shower curtains or towel racks, for example. No bedspreads or comforters, no shelves anywhere, no rugs on the floors, no decorations or pictures, (Ryan does have posters up everywhere) no lamps - all the house lighting is overhead flourescent, which is very hard on the eyes. The floors are all tile, the ceilings are high to keep the house cool, chairs are the plastic kind like we have in our back yards ( most with broken backs), the table in the "foyer" has unmatched benches... the walls are clean, the floors have many eroded areas, the kitchen floor in particular is atrocious and should be replaced, the windows are large with adjustable louvers to allow for air flow...it is an old house but very adequate for the number of people living here. Anything smaller would not do. But it is primitive, very clean by African standards and life flows comfortably within these walls. But it is not comfortable by American standards...for example, the couches in the living room are wooden frames with fabric stretched on them. I didn't know there was no "cushion" on the couch and I sat down with a plunk and hurt my tailbone. The plumbing is barely adequate...Ira, we need you here!!!!! (Note: Ryan's brother Ira is a plumbing contractor)

And yet, in all its simplicity, there is a joy here in the happy voices of these children, their laughter and singing. John is an unfailingly cheerful presence, busy constantly cleaning or picking up...it is evident he feels a sense of proprietorship for this home and its occupants. The new supervisor, Adrienne, fills the house with good cooking smells as she works in the kitchen, often singing, chastising the children as they do their chores and there is a feeling of peace. No noisy television, no jangling telephone ringing, no radio blaring...there are none of these "conveniences" here and much more talking, sharing, working together, and conversation than in our American homes. The biggest interruptions are when the doorbell rings and a visitor is announced...today it is Sandrine come back to visit. Last evening it was Nanette from the American military bringing a belated birthday cake and gift to Janine, yesterday afternoon it was Adrianna's grandmother and cousin. In America we don't "visit" home to home as they do here. This society is so much more interactive, so much more people focused, much less activity focused than in America. Here there is no soccer practice, no running to guitar lessons or "play groups" - the children leave for school at 6:45 AM and return around 3, the main meal of the day is served at 3:30 or 4, then chores (all the usual chores - dishes, floor sweeping, garbage emptying etc. plus the laundry is done by hand) and homework, free time, a smaller meal around 7:30, final chores and then bed at 9. It is a simple, well organized routine and the children are learning security and order, safety and love. They are truly a family, down to the squabbles between them at times. They are at last having a childhood...

The Power Bill

Tue 3 Jul 2007 12:00:00 AM GMT

Blog #6

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.

The Embassy Fashion Show

Wed 16 May 2007 12:00:00 AM GMT

Blog #5

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!

Yaounde. Sad. So Sad.

Wed 11 Apr 2007 12:00:00 AM GMT

Blog #4

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.

Cleaning off my plate

Tue 13 Mar 2007 12:00:00 AM GMT

Blog #3

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.

America the Beautiful

Wed 7 Feb 2007 12:00:00 AM GMT

Blog # 2

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!

Honesty and the Underwear Wanderer

Tue 16 Jan 2007 12:00:00 AM GMT

Blog #1

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.

When I'm in Africa I tend to glamorize the American world--the grass is always greener on the other side, so to speak. I consider Cameroon a truly insane country. But during this last trip home I had some shocks that made America seem a little less glamorous and a little more insane. Three nights ago, my car window was smashed and a thief stole two suitcases full of presents for the kids out of my trunk. I always worry about being robbed in Africa (with good reason). But then I get robbed in Salt Lake City, Utah, in front of my friend Alex's house in a beautiful neighborhood. Go figure! And I just saw someone walking down the hallway of the Holiday Inn in his underwear, acting like everyone does that all the time. Maybe Cameroon isn't so crazy after all. Wait, scratch that. Underwear man in the hall was weird...but he has nothing on the naked mentally disabled people wandering the streets of Yaounde shouting at nothing and hitting parked cars. Here we go. The blog has started. And it's been fun so far, huh? We've discussed the confusion of belonging to two worlds and underwear wanderers in the Holiday Inn. I told you I'd be honest!