What It's Like to Have Malaria

Just an hour ago, I found our Cameroonian caregiver, Nadine, sitting on a stool in the corner of the kitchen, hunched over.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry,” she said. “I am not well. I am hurting and I think I need to go home.”

Instinctively, I knew she had malaria. Her stiff body movements, glazed facial expression, sluggish steps, and lightly folded arms (holding her elbows) indicated malaria. I asked her a series of questions to make sure:

1. How did you sleep last night…were you in feverish pain, alternating from sweating to freezing? (Yes)
2. Did these symptoms appear suddenly, after the sun went down? (Yes)
3. Do you have an appetite? (No)

I went upstairs to get emergency malaria drugs and fever-reducers. She took the pills and laid down on a couch, so weak she could hardly move. This is a very typical scenario for malaria, one that I’ve witnessed too many times to count while living in Cameroon.

Malaria has been a regular part of my life in Cameroon. I first suffered the sickness in 2005. That first time, I had malaria that caused horrific stomach problems. It was misery. Feel free to skip the next few sentences, as this may be a little too much information. At the time when I first had malaria, I was in a place with no indoor toilet facilities. At night, it was unsafe to go outside of my locked room to the latrine. I was so sick, and so desperate, that I had to turn a used coffee can into a toilet multiple times throughout the night.

That’s what it’s like to have malaria.

Since then, I’ve had malaria about once a year. There are a few explanations for this. Because malaria is caused only and only by malaria-infected mosquitoes (I emphasize the word only because when I travel to the states people are always afraid that I am going to infect them with malaria!), I may have been bitten by the “bad” mosquitoes about once a year. Or I may have been bitten only a few times, and the sickness (parasite) has remained in my liver and flares up when I am ill or my immune system is compromised.

I see a French doctor in Cameroon who told me that it’s best to treat malaria even if symptoms are weak, and if the medication for malaria doesn’t make things better, it’s not malaria (it could be the flu or something simpler). He also said that although getting tested for malaria can be helpful, all too often the malaria test shows up negative when in fact the person has the illness. Malaria can also be difficult to diagnose due to the variety of symptoms it can cause. Everything from diarrhea to coughing to vomiting can be attributed to malaria. It really is a beast of a sickness that takes many forms.

Treating malaria, when it’s caught as soon as it begins, is usually very simple and within a day or two it starts to dissipate. It’s all about recognizing the symptoms and taking immediate action.

In the fall of 2010, in spite of my understanding of malaria’s symptoms and treatment, I was foolish to have believed that I had a bad case of the flu. I didn’t immediately treat malaria and stayed in bed in agony for about four days. The pain became more and more intense, especially at night. I developed a cough (a symptom of malaria at times).

Because I neglected to go to a doctor, the malaria began to attack my body in a severe way and soon I was coughing up brown chunks of infected blood. I let a few more days pass, because during the day I felt as if I were getting slightly better. But, unknown to me, I had pneumonia and malaria-pneumonia is a recipe for physical misery. The oxygen in my body was not being properly distributed due to the constant coughing spasms, and my legs carried almost all of my pain.

My knees hurt so bad one night that I actually started screaming for help. Our night guard helped me heat enough water on the stove so that I could immerse my legs. It helped momentarily, but for the next day I rolled back in forth in terrible pain. I don’t know why I didn’t go to a doctor sooner (I’ve a terrible aversion to going to see the doctor, primarily for financial reasons). One Sunday morning, my Taiwanese friend, Yiewen, called me. She heard through the phone that I was in a critical condition and immediately drove me around town, looking for a doctor. In her passenger seat, I hunched over, holding onto my legs, trying to soften the sensation of knives being driven into my flesh.

We found a Belgian doctor who took one look at me and said, “You’ve got advanced pneumonia.” He took out three white horse pills, gave them to me, and examined me. I was given a treatment for malaria and pneumonia. He said that due to the fevers and sweating, and lying on my back in a bed for too long, I developed pneumonia. I followed his course of treatment and two weeks later, I was okay.

Malaria, like AIDS, can kill you because of its tendency to open doors to other illnesses, like pneumonia.

A few months before this episode, I had witnessed first-hand the devastation malaria can cause. A little boy named David was brought to me, dead. His malarial fevers cooked him to death. I held his cold little body, listened to his father as he cried out in agony, and realized that malaria wasn’t just an inconvenience to me anymore. It was a mortal enemy.

I now keep a good stock of malaria medications on hand at all times. I’ve had many encounters with malaria over the past year, and I’ve been able to stop the illness in its tracks. It’s really quite simple. Mosquito nets can prevent mosquito bites during the night (but only when very carefully, correctly, and regularly used), but I feel that having the emergency medication on hand is the best solution to preventing death from malaria.

Of all the deaths due to malaria that I’ve heard of over the years, most people died from waiting too long to get the malaria medication. In many cases, they could not afford it. Other times, sickness was attributed to witchcraft and “traditional” healing methods were used to save the sick person (where malaria is concerned, those do not work).

You would think that I would have had the good sense to take some malaria meds with me when I left for a visit to the U.S. this past November. But the idea didn’t even cross my mind. How in the world could I get malaria when I’m in the U.S.?

I was exercising one afternoon, and after I finished I felt extremely achy and weak. I had spent the past two days in the California sun, so I figured I was dehydrated and worn out from too much activity. I went home and crawled into bed (dealing with the exact symptoms I saw in Nadine this morning).

I stayed in bed for a couple of days, and as always, I felt a little better during the day. But the nights—OUCH—the pain was bad. The third day my Mother, who is a nurse, forced me to go to the ER. My sister drove me into the ER, and by this time, I was crumbling with pain, shivers, and malaria agony. But I still just could not believe that I had malaria in Sparks, Nevada.

I was put into a room, stuck with an I.V., and put on oxygen. As is predictable, I once again had pneumonia developing in my lungs from being in bed for too long and from malaria’s attack on my immune system. Perhaps I was bitten by a mosquito just before leaving Cameroon, or perhaps the malarial parasites flared up out of my liver, where they keep a nice little year-round condo.

I was in deep trouble. The second day, I am told that I was talking nonsense and appearing delirious—then before I knew it I was being wheeled to the intensive care unit. My oxygen levels were down to 51 percent. Malaria and pneumonia are perfect partners in crime.

What’s crazy is that some of the medications they wanted to use to fight malaria were not readily available in the U.S.! They would have had to special order them. I cursed myself for not bringing a box of my meds (Coartem) from Cameroon!

I had blood test after blood test, sleepless night after sleepless night. I slowly got better and was able to leave the hospital. This is where your typical “what it’s like to have malaria” story would end.

But the day I returned home, my left arm was hurting very badly, so we returned to find out what was causing the pain. I had a blood clot in my subclavian artery by my left collar bone. I was re-hospitalized for this and faced the fear that the blood clot could travel at any time to my brain, heart, or lungs. We theorize that my oxygen levels dropped so drastically because a piece of this clot entered my lungs.
I’ve since been on Coumadin. My arm is slowly healing. I may have permanent damage in my left arm/veins. Time will tell.

But I can’t help but wonder—if I had taken my malaria meds that night after I exercised, would any of this have happened? I believe the answer is no. I could have caught it early and saved myself the most awful experience I’ve ever been through.
Catching malaria as soon as it starts is the key!

This is why, over the course of 2012, Green Eyes in Africa has set the goal of getting emergency malaria medications into the hands of 500 families. We’re looking to distribute these medications in remote areas of the country where access to a pharmacy is limited. I’m excited for us to aggressively take on one of our worst enemies—malaria—with a brilliant and preventative battle plan.

In honor of the five year old little boy who was killed by this beast, we’re calling this The David Project.

Cameroon Elections Hell...oween Party

When one thinks of Africa, or perhaps Cameroon in particular, what would one imagine seeing the most? Trees? People? Colorful clothing? Amazing animals? Markets with fresh fruits? Red earth?

Think again. If you come to Yaoundé, Cameroon right now, you will see one thing more than all. One billboard all over the city with the exact same photo and message— the campaign ad of this country’s current ruler. I understand that during elections, billboards are a part of the game. But without exaggeration, whilst driving along in Yaoundé at the present time, this large campaign ad can be seen about every 30 seconds, often with one identical billboard next to the other. The boasting of power is overwhelming.

To avoid controversy or problems, I can’t go into a frank discussion of politics in Cameroon. Let’s just say the book Animal Farm by George Orwell might as well be turned into a movie (cheaply and quickly) by filming what’s going on right now in Cameroon with a camcorder.

The Presidential elections are on Sunday. Because of places like the Ivory Coast and recent incidences of unrest in Africa, everyone is on alert in Cameroon and the rumors and predictions are all people talk about. Most of us who live here aren’t extremely worried. Without doubt, there will be deaths. There will be cruelty. There will be people who vanish and never return like they did during a short “rebellion” in 2008. But overall, I’m not worried. I hope that I don’t look back on this last sentence I wrote and think, if only I had known.

Nah.

Much to my shock, I’ve learned that they don’t announce the results of a Cameroonian Presidential election immediately after the elections take place. “Sometime around October 24th” is when we can expect to hear the news (as if we’re in for a surprise, uh, again, no frank discussion here). I’m so sickened with the entire filthy and manipulative game that it’s no wonder I was at the hospital yesterday for stomach ailments and insomnia.

Not all parasites are insects.

Soon, very soon, the city (and country) will be bathed in “free” clothing material with the country’s current ruler’s face all over it, sewed into frothy and exciting African outfits. T-shirts will be distributed displaying His Excellency’s benevolent face. During the last elections in 2004, people were bombarded with these fantastical gifts. To this day, the #1 t-shirt you see in the city of Yaoundé is the free t-shirt they received with everyone’s favorite guy on the front of it over seven years ago. But as Miranda Presley undoubtedly knows, not everyone can pull off t-shirt-chique. I don’t think the four “rebels” that have been killed so far were into that look.

My blood doesn’t bleed red because I’m human; I think it bleeds red because I believe so strongly in freedom. For real, “Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death” is the idea that keeps my heart a-beating. I even have a brother named Patrick Henry Hansen. Living in a country with these conditions surrounding me is, to say the least, frustrating. Other f-words could intensify my description of this feeling, but going there would not be Patrick Henry-worthy, now would it?

As Green Eyes in Africa’s Overseas Director, I’ve done my best to make sure that all of the children and families with whom we work will be safe and sound if things go awry. Extra food is stored. Families have been told not to go to any sort of public demonstrations, however fun and peaceful they may seem (and however tempting the free meal after chanting their ruler’s name may seem).

I’ve cancelled my travel plans to the U.S. due to these elections. I thought all of this folly would be over on the day of the elections. But the real storm may hit days or even weeks later. I need to be in Cameroon. I won’t take stupid risks; it would be ludicrous to put my own life in danger for Green Eyes in Africa, because I’d be, well, a little less of help if I were dead. But I couldn’t travel to the U.S. and enjoy conversations with my loved ones and think about fund-raising if the shezam were to hit the fan during my travels. I’d be a nervous wreck, feeling powerless to do anything.

I’ve been there before.

During the “uprising” in 2008, I was in the U.S., and knowing that the Green Eyes in Africa children ran home while ravenous men shot machine guns into the air and had nothing to eat but one bunch of plantains (banana-like staple food) for three days, I was a mess (some may say a hot mess, but that’s beside the point.)

This time, that ain’t gonna happen. As Scar (how very appropriate to mention him in this blog, right?) wisely sang, “Be prepared!”

It is difficult for me to miss Halloween at my Mom’s house. It’s perhaps the most magical Halloween party that exists in this world, with the world’s greatest Mom/Grandma as host. We’re talking worms-in-dirt cupcakes, decorations galore, a fog machine, and the old record of “The Disneyland Haunted Mansion Scary Sounds” playing as trick-or-treaters ring the doorbell. It’s legendary, really. Dang,dang,dong, I’ll miss it.

I have missed my family Christmases for the past six years. I’m okay with that, as Christmas with my Green Eyes in Africa family is where I need to be. But missing Halloween hurts like Hell…oween.

Being as prepared as one can be is a good feeling. Knowing that the probability of the people I love in this country or myself being hurt is very low is also a good feeling. But in the moments of sitting and fretting in my mind with all of the “what ifs” is not a good feeling. I think for now, I’d prefer to remove the word “don’t” from that Ice Castles theme song. “Please….LET this feeling end.” I should watch that movie to help my mind cool off.

But I’ll probably watch something else instead (once my broken laptop is fixed). As horrid as the film may be, Aliens is a heck of a movie to watch if you need to feel tough. If things get rough, and if I have to let go of my fear and face things I’ve never seen ( …and the alien’s head lowers, smaller alien head comes out of fang-filled mouth… well, no, not that bad), I’ll visualize Sigourney Weaver, clench my jaw, and be tough.

In Alien 1, they say, “In Space, No One Can Hear You Scream.” That’s not the case in Cameroon. There are plenty of good people to hear me scream. Whew.

It’s Aliens that I worry about. They say, “This Time, It’s War.”

Let’s hope that all goes smoothly, and we forget Aliens end up comparing all of this to something more like…perhaps…Harry Potter? Electionious—nodangerousus—harmonious—safe--people-US!

Carrying the Weight

It’s not that I don’t have things to write about, it’s just that I care too much what people will think. I don’t want to sound negative, I don’t want to sound pessimistic, and, God forbid, I don’t want to sound fake. Blogging, for me, is totally love-hate.

This blog is going to be factual. I’m going to describe the events of the past few weeks or so, and let any readers (bless your hearts for actually reading this) draw their own conclusions as to what sort of blog this is. I’ll present the sections of this blog as 5-pound weights that I’m attempting to carry on my back.

1st 5-pound weight:

Two weeks ago, a young European woman contacted me in a panic. She had been attacked by an aggressive Cameroonian man while she was alone in her dwelling. She was not hysterical; she was numb. The details are too sordid to mention here. She needed a place to escape and a place to hide until she got on a plane and left Cameroon. We provided refuge to this young lady.

(Note: I don’t consider Cameroon a particularly dangerous place for young women, as long as certain very strict rules are followed. Quite frankly, walking around in Washington D.C. scares me more than walking around Cameroon. I don’t want this to be a “don’t come here!” blog. But NGOs --non-profit organizations-- have a responsibility to treat volunteers, especially females, with safety and only safety in mind.)

This young woman left the country feeling better, and we at Green Eyes in Africa did our best to fill her last days in Cameroon with happy memories. Junk food abounded. The Green Eyes in Africa children were overjoyed to have a new friend, whose beautiful hair was braided over and over in quite stunning hairdos (well, that is, according to the little girls doing the braiding. There may be differing opinions).

2nd 5-pound weight:

This young woman’s attacker was a “big man” in his village (drives a Mercedes and all in a village where people are dying of malnutrition), and she was afraid to press charges against him. We tried to encourage her to find a way to prosecute him, as we know of other women who have been repeatedly raped by him (I cannot go into detail concerning this matter in this blog). Nothing has happened police wise. Such is the case with almost every rape victim in Cameroon. I’m glad that our friend is safe and back at home with her family, at least.

3rd 5-pound weight:

We have been dealing with the unexpected departure of Olivier Batangle Wendjel, our former African Director. This was over seven months ago, and his departure was a shock. As is the case with every organization in Cameroon, a high turnover rate is a difficult reality. This is due to illness, theft, family tragedies, lack of training, and more. But where one door closes, one opens.

It’s as if Bridget, our current live-in caregiver, flew in out of the sky right when we needed her to take over Mr. Wendjel’s responsibilities. We’ve even joked that she’s like our very own African Mary Poppins! She’s a kind woman, an excellent cook, and gives the children with whom we work a mother’s touch. Our overall situation has drastically improved. And Bridget was formerly in an abusive situation and finds life with Green Eyes in Africa to be God-sent. She’s safe, she does not live in fear, and she’s no longer hungry. She speaks English and helps the children learn English each day. If there’s one tool that will serve a Cameroonian child well into the future, it’s the English language.

It must be known that Mr. Wendjel is in no longer associated with Green Eyes in Africa in any way, shape, or form. Anyone wishing to contact Green Eyes in Africa must do so through the website (www.GreenEyesinAfrica.org), and we ask that any outside solicitations or communication concerning Green Eyes in Africa coming from anyone other than Patrick Hansen, Heather Moore, or Ryan Oliver Hansen be reported immediately.

4th 5-pound weight:

Our mini-bus has been having troubles, mainly, the problem of oil leaking out of the bottom, smoke shooting out of the tail pipe, and the horn not working. We’ve had the car “fixed.” Now, it seems there are four times as many problems than before, mainly a screeching steering wheel and a problem with interior overheating that cooks passengers like an oven. They said the “smoke shooting problem” out of our back pipe was fixed. It’s still shooting smoke in clouds. It’s often said that mechanics in Cameroon break more than they fix so that customers will return. This happens in the states, too, of course. But it’s easier to catch them in the USA. Mechanics are not my favorite group of people.

5th 5-pound weight:

Over a year ago, the water heater in my room exploded at 4 a.m. It was a terrifying explosion that melted plastic bottles, the shower curtain, and shattered the bathroom mirror. Rent was due this month, and I was sure our landlord would replace the faulty water heater. No luck. She blamed me for “abnormal usage” (what?). And our electricity does not work properly; about 8 lights in our small center do not work. I hoped she’d get them fixed before we paid rent. No luck again, even with police present to defend my rights as a renter. Rights, such as renters' rights, simply don't exist in reality in Cameroon, only on paper (to please international donors).

6th 5-pound weight:

We all still wash with cold water, which feels ice cold on chilly days (yes, it gets cold, even in Cameroon). Speaking of weather, the sun has not shone brightly for weeks and weeks. Each day I wake up to clouds that make it feel as though it’s late evening. I’m a sun person (I was born in always-sunny Nevada; Mom's a California girl) and the lack of sun is taking its toll on me emotionally. The stereotypical images of Africa always include sun. Well, we live in a rainforest-dominated region. They don’t call it the RAIN-forest for kicks. Clouds, clouds, clouds, always clouds.

7th 5-pound weight:

School has started. All of the Green Eyes in Africa kids (resident and non-resident) are back in school. Ornela, 10, is our phenomenally intelligent young darling who happens to be severely physically handicapped. We’ve put all of the kids in a school that’s closer to our center, thus eliminating the need for a driver (money saved).

The day of registration, Ornela was sent away and called a “retard” that needs to go to “retard” school (their wording). They wanted to send her to a school for physically and mentally disabled children, many of them incapable of speaking. This school for the disabled is the sort of place that breaks one’s heart as child after child demonstrates severe physical conditions that lead to drooling, out-of-control yelling, and worse. Ornela does not belong there. She did fine in “normal” school last year.

Ornela was heartbroken. I went to the school and did my best to prove that Ornela is outstandingly smart in front of the director. The director was disrespectful to Ornela and also to me. He made us wait outside his office for one hour. He scoffed, but somehow the next day, Ornela was allowed to attend classes. She never looked happier.

8th 5-pound weight:

The frenzy of buying school books is in full-force. There’s no one central location where books are sold, and each “boutique” has different prices for the same books (“boutique” in Cameroon usually means “shack”). “Text books” resemble pamphlets that could be found in a doctor’s office in the USA about smoking. Yet they cost up to ten dollars each, often more.

Joel,12, a 6th grader, has half of his books so far. The price? 64 dollars. This is for a non-prestigious school and enrollment and tuition have already been paid. All of the “text books” are crookedly photocopied, and contain page after page of serious grammatical and mathematical errors. I’ve begun correcting some of the books with an average of 8 to 11 errors per page (in order to make sure Green Eyes in Africa Kids aren’t misled). Some are quite alarming,for example: “Multiplying Fractions” is followed by an example of dividing fractions below it. Honey, this subject is for a whole other blog.

9th 5-pound weight:

We care for a five-year-old little boy named Aloha. Aloha is his nick-name; his real name is David. But one year ago we lost a little boy name David to malaria, and hearing the name “David” within the walls of our center brought back many painful memories for all of us at Green Eyes in Africa. Aloha means a lot of things such as love, peace, and good will. We feel that his nick-name suits him well.

Last Saturday, we arranged a trip for Aloha to go and visit his parents at his former orphanage (four hours away through dense rainforest). Without going into detail, his former orphanage is perhaps the most shockingly abusive place I have ever seen. Dozens and dozens of children are left all day in their own excrement, sticks of wood are used to beat children as young as one or two years old, and scabies (an itching skin condition caused by insects that lay their eggs under the skin) is endemic. When the children defecate, worms come out.

Child-on-child abuse (many of them mentally disabled) is rampant. Many children have open wounds all over their bodies. Of course, the explanation for these intensely mentally disabled children is that they’re possessed by demons. Exorcisms, organized by Catholic nuns, are regularly performed.

Aloha’s father is around 65 or 70 years old, his mother seems to be around 25. They had placed Aloha and his sister in this orphanage because his six-year-old sister was raped by an adult and they couldn’t feed Aloha, who suffers from epilepsy. I have no idea how many other children this man and woman have, or if they all come from the same father. I have recently learned that Aloha’s sister left the orphanage for “home” because “she didn’t want to go to school.” This news was unsettling, to say the least. This little girl is essentially mute. Her face expressions are constantly blank. Even our bubbly American volunteer, Natalie Lannan, holding candy, could not make her smile when she met her last year.

Aloha met with his parents, whom he hardly knows due to the fact that they placed him in this orphanage as a toddler. They interacted on what I hope was a positive level, and said their goodbyes. Aloha was more excited about the sucker he received than seeing his own father and mother.

All of this is heavy, but then came the 9th 5-pound weight:

Aloha’s mother, covered in crippling and unbearable scabies, has had another baby since we began caring for Aloha. The baby in her arms was also covered in agonizing scabies. Scabies can kill a baby. Did the fact that we "liberated" them of Aloha justify her decision to have another baby?

Aloha’s mother has yet another child for whom chances of longevity are slim. How old will the baby be when the father dies? What then? Was he even the father? Did she have a choice in the matter?

10th 5-pound weight:

The Cameroonian Presidential elections are coming up on October 9th. I don’t know what will happen. I’ve heard from most people (foreign and Cameroonian) that there’s nothing to worry about. But African elections have a reputation for being, well, a little heated. The Ivory Coast, Libya…need I go on? I’m sure things will be fine, but what puts a knot in my stomach is that people like me who were in those places prior to elections (Ivory Coast, Rwanda) were probably saying that there was nothing to worry about. There are those in Cameroon who expect bloodshed. Fortunately (?), they’re not the majority.

11th 5-pound weight:

Better safe than sorry.

I’ve been stocking up on non-perishable food supplies, in case things turn sour (and by sour I mean looting with machetes and inexperienced people shooting guns everywhere. It happened during a “taxi strike” here in 2008, the Green Eyes in Africa kids remember bullets flying over their heads). We also purchased a water tank (about the size of one of those green power boxes you see in the states on the side of the street). It’s plastic and comes inside of a metal cage to protect it.

Negotiating the price of the tank was an ordeal due to my foreign appearance (6’1 and blonde somehow stands out in these parts). As a foreigner, haggling prices is always a challenge, but especially so when I have no idea how much something should cost. We paid $160.00. I went to five different sellers, and all of them gave about the same price, so I assumed this was reasonable.

And if worst comes to worst, you can’t put a price on water storage in an emergency. Not to mention the convenience the tank will bring when our water is cut off (elections or not) for four days at a time, which occurs on a regular basis (as I write, the water is cut off). The day of purchase, I installed the heavy water tank on top of two wooden benches and filled it up with our hose. I had peace of mind knowing it was finally full. SNAP! Two hours later, the benches collapsed. But the tank was okay (the cage around it is very useful).

Yesterday I put the caged tank on top of cement stones, carefully balancing it just high enough so that water buckets could be put underneath the spout. Voila! It was time to get the hose and fill the tank. I was clearing away some of the broken pieces of the benches and one slipped out of my hands and landed in the trench behind the house (sink and bath water run into open trenches around homes in Cameroon, only toilet water goes to a sewer). The piece of wood landed on a black, plastic piece of pipe, and water was shooting out because I broke the pipe.

Just when the work was finished with the tank, just when my sweat-drenched body was to be rewarded by watching the tank fill with water, I had randomly broke a pipe and had to cut off our water. The water was off for the rest of the day.

12th 5-pound weight:

Now, how to find a plumber? There are no official, licensed plumbers in Cameroon. I could call a diplomat. They’d have connections. But the plumbers they know would charge “white man” prices (at least 4 to 6 times what Green Eyes in Africa could afford or would pay). So I turned to my cell phone contacts. I contacted five different acquaintances. The woman who guaranteed that her plumber would come “right away” never showed up. The next day, she said, “I forgot. I was busy.”

Next day came, I call her again. She says he’s coming over. He does not show up.
Today I call her once more, and the plumber finally arrives. He’s a chipper fellow, ready to work. He gives me the prices to buy the materials, which seem reasonable, and gets right to work. Within an hour, the pipe is fixed and we’re ready to see if his work is a success. We open the water supply nozzle on the other side of the house, ready to fill the tank, turn on the hose, and…and…

Our water supply has been cut off (not by us, by the government-operated water company). It will most likely be cut off for the next three to four days.

So, 12 X 5 = 60. I am perfectly capably of carrying 60 pounds of weight on my back.

It would be interesting to find out exactly what my weight limit is…

What is Honesty?

by Ryan Oliver Hansen, Overseas Director, Green Eyes in Africa

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

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

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

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.