Green Eyes in Africa

What It's Like to Have Malaria

2012-01-12T08:49:00.002-07:00

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

2011-10-07T00:44:00.004-06:00

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

2011-09-16T07:49:00.007-06:00

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?

2011-07-11T08:09:00.003-06:00

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

2011-05-18T16:20:00.003-06:00

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

2011-03-25T04:14:00.006-06:00

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

2011-02-18T00:06:00.004-07:00

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?

2011-02-13T14:40:00.005-07:00

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

2011-01-28T01:05:00.005-07:00

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

2011-01-06T14:55:00.004-07:00

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

2011-01-04T02:56:00.009-07:00

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

2010-12-30T02:02:00.002-07:00

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!

2010-12-15T14:52:00.002-07:00

by Ryan Oliver Hansen
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?

2010-12-07T18:30:00.002-07:00

by Ryan Oliver Hansen

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

2010-08-05T03:25:00.003-06:00

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!

2010-05-21T04:37:00.004-06:00

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

2010-03-24T08:50:00.005-06:00

Blog by Ryan Oliver Hansen

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.

2010-03-20T12:00:00.003-06:00

blog by Ryan Oliver Hansen

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.

Whew. I have to go exercise now. Gotta stay bootylicious.

From Calcutta to Cameroon--Lessons from a Nun

2009-12-28T03:05:00.001-07:00

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.

Nori: A Woman of Africa

2009-09-28T02:51:00.006-06:00

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.

Four Year Anniversary!

2009-07-31T11:58:00.004-06:00

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)

Photos to go with blogs...

2009-07-30T14:46:00.002-06:00

http://s864.photobucket.com/albums/ab203/GreenEyesinAfrica/?newest=1
We are now on photobucket...there are many images that go along with what Ryan has written about in the blogs...photos can be worth a thousand words.

--The Green Eyes in Africa gang

The Stories Behind the Story

2009-07-11T06:25:00.005-06:00

The Green Eyes in Africa of today is drastically different than what it was one, two, and even four years ago. As we learn more about the country of Cameroon—its culture, its people, and most importantly, its harsh realities, we have been pushed to adjust our vision, our approach, and even our philosophy many times.

This has been an incredible process. It’s been joyful, it’s been terribly painful. It’s been triumphant, it’s been bitter. The ups and downs of our work give us much to be proud of, but also, many sad regrets that we cannot do more, in most cases because our help is not appreciated or even welcomed (the most recent example being a young woman with AIDS who refused our help because she preferred to go to a witchdoctor, and refused to believe that she was infected).

We are proud to say that with the help of our American assistant, Heather Moore, based in Salt Lake City, Utah, we’ve achieved new levels of success thanks to her professionalism and willingness to step in and do that which must be done in the U.S. and cannot be done from Africa. We’ve maintained our dignity and honesty when it comes to fundraising and accountability, even if funds have been sparse at times.
Our most recent developments have come out of necessity. The economic crisis hit us with a vicious blow. We understand that Americans are in a hard place right now, and since we’re an American organization, we realize that we must also accept that things are no longer as they were.

When we had to move from our large, spacious New Hope Orphanage house to a much smaller one with no hot water, faulty electricity, no surrounding compound wall, and a dangerous surrounding neighborhood, it felt like we were losing our battle. We’ve been robbed three times, and had four attempts that followed the three successful robberies. The last attempt left us a souvenir—the robber left behind his machete under the window bars he had cut off.

We’ve since taken measures to increase security (two guards, two dogs, and fog horns in every room). Our new center, although small in size and lacking in most modern luxuries, is beautiful and cozy and is still an inspiration to its residents and visitors. The Green Eyes in Africa spirit of imagination, dreaming, and creativity is alive and well.

Another painful decision that we made came not only from economic necessity, but from a reality check that needed to happen. As Director of Green Eyes in Africa (in Cameroon), I fight the desire to make everything okay for the people we work with and to try and create a bubble for everyone that protects us from the brutal city of Yaounde all around us.

Driving in the mini-bus yesterday, we looked out our window at a man on the ground. He was crawling on all fours, his legs were deformed so severely that they looked like twisted pipe cleaners, he had a mass of matted hair on his head and face (beard), and he was stark naked. His private parts were exposed from behind and the scene was horrifying and heartbreaking.

This man was obviously mentally ill—and there’s nobody here who cares about him. The corrupt government will do nothing, and the citizens are jaded and not even remotely shocked at such things. Lat week I was walking downtown and two children were pestering me, begging me for money with bowls. I had no change on me, so I was just quietly saying, “sorry, not today.” A man walked by me, and with a swoosh of his hand, he said, “You just need to slap them.”

This is the world of Yaounde—anyone can see why I want to create a bubble of happiness, security, love and protection from it. But time has shown that integration into this society is inevitable for the children we care for, and we made the decision to make a tremendous shift in our efforts.
Family is everything to everyone, no matter what culture you come from. The children under our care were either orphaned or abandoned due to their family’s extreme circumstances. But they do have living family members out there—and we felt it was time to work more closely with these individuals.

We began by asking each child about their family. Where are your extended family members? Who do you trust? Who has been kind to you? If you had to live with a family member, who would you choose? They gave surprising answers, and I realized that even if the Green Eyes in Africa family was their source of security, the blood bonds of family are also important.

We then did home visits and interviews with the family members. We felt that by working with them hand in hand, we could not only help the children integrate into their society and establish important bonds with family members, we would call upon them to help fulfill the responsibility they have towards their own flesh and blood.
I’m going to tell a brief “updated” story about each person that’s currently being helped by Green Eyes in Africa (on a regular basis, this won’t be about outreach programs). Their situations aren’t what I’d call my personal dream, but that’s not what our organization is about. It’s about working within the reality we face and making lemonade out of lemons.
Let’s begin with…

DANIEL, 16.

Daniel came to our door one random day about two years ago, sweating profusely from having hobbled down our dirt road on crutches. A taxi driver had told him about our center. He’s severely deformed from a battle with cerebral malaria and a car accident that made his deformities worse. He had nowhere to go—he was living in a hole in the wall where he was being neglected and beaten.

Daniel lived in the New Hope Orphanage for over two years. He learned what it’s like to be loved and be part of a family. His birthday was celebrated for the first time. We pulled him out of public school where he was treated as a “witch,” and we put him in computer school. He’s since earned his first certificate in computer accounting and he knows the basic ins and outs of computer technology. He found his passion. He found where he can thrive in spite of his handicaps.

Daniel now lives with his Uncle and his Uncle’s family. Green Eyes provides transportation to and from school and gives weekly food deliveries. The food deliveries not only serve Daniel, but his uncle’s family who is also impoverished. He’s followed closely and enjoys reading books he “checks out” from the Green Eyes library.

FALONNE, 17

Falonne’s little sister, Alexis, was one of the original Green Eyes kids who was rescued from the abusive orphanage in which I volunteered upon arriving in Cameroon. Falonne would often visit our center, cleaning the house like a crazy girl. Her overzealous work sent me a message: “Please let me live here, too.” We did our homework and found out that she was living with an Aunt who was using her as a slave in the house, and her Aunt’s boyfriend was not being kind to her, to put it lightly.
Falonne lived with us for two and a half years and became a new person. She focused intensely on her studies and benefited from tutors who helped her along her way. She danced, she laughed, and she discovered what it means to be a carefree young teen.
But something was still missing for Falonne….an inner desire she couldn’t deny….which leads us to her sister…

ALEXIS, 14

Alexis has been with us since the last few months of her ninth year of life. She experienced severe neglect and beatings at her former orphanage. She became one of the original Green Eyes princesses and thrived in a safe haven for just less than four years. She’s a bright girl who questions everything. But she, too, had that inner desire that hurt her…this desire was to be a stable family with her father, who is blind. Which leads us to this man…

JEAN-BAPTISTE, 42

Jean-Baptiste is the blind father of Falonne and Alexis. After their mother’s death (from “witchcraft”) he was forced to place Alexis in a corrupt orphanage and Falonne with her Aunt. Their family was divided and each of them felt as if their world were crumbling. Jean-Baptiste moved into a closet in the front of his church. It was a space so small he could not even stand up. This is where we found him. He was like an orphan himself—so we took him in as our “father figure” and he lived in the New Hope Orphanage for over a year and a half, saving money he made from a “call box” (allowing people to use your cell phone for a quarter) until he moved out into his own apartment.

Green Eyes in Africa is proud to say that Falonne, Alexis, and Jean –Baptiste share an apartment together today that’s funded by Green Eyes in Africa. The girls go to school down the road from their apartment, and they watch out for their father. They’re all very religious, and they regularly sing church songs and read the Bible. Green Eyes sends them food each week and makes sure the girls are doing well.

JEANINE, 14

Jeanine’s cousin was one of the original Green Eyes kids rescued from his former exploitation and beatings. Jeanine would come to the orphanage with Joel’s grandmother and watch our lives and dreamed of being a part of it. She lived with her Grandmother in what would be a pig pen in the U.S. (no walls, no nothing) and with her epileptic mother, Pauline. She needed to get out of there—and she lived with Green Eyes for over three years. She became a new child who’s aware of the modern world.

But Jeanine longed to be close to her mother, Pauline. Even though Pauline has epilepsy and is mentally challenged, she’s still Jeanine’s mother. Green Eyes decided to build a house for Jeanine, her Grandmother Francoise, and Pauline. They live together today, Jeanine is continuing school, food is delivered, and Jeanine is happy to be close to her mother. She takes good care of Pauline, passing on what was given to her, in a way. Green Eyes is proud to be empowering these three women.

JOEL, 10

Joel was a tiny five year old when I first met him. He was regularly starved, confused, and lonely. He longed for a sense of family. His mother and his twin brother died when he was a toddler, and Joel was blamed for it. Some people here believe that twins are evil, and that one twin always seeks the demise of the other. He didn’t have a good start in life.

But four years later, Joel is the perfect example of what’s possible through Green Eyes in Africa. He’s fluent in English, excellent in school, trained in dance, and has a positive attitude that Pollyanna herself would envy. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have extended family who would provide a safe living situation for him. Family is great so long as they keep the best interests of the child in mind. But he knows essentially nobody in his family. He thus still lives in the Green Eyes center and is protected and secure knowing he has the Green Eyes in Africa family to call his own.

RAISSA, 12

When it comes to stories, I hate to say that Raissa has the worst one of all in my history in Africa. I won’t go into the details; let’s just say no human being should ever experience what this girl went through. She was an original Green Eyes princess four years ago.

It’s taken a lot of patience and a lot of work to get Raissa to blossom and become the incredible girl that she is. She still has lapses into her past traumatized mindset, but she’s also a bright, giggly, fun and talented young girl. She has good days and bad ones. She loves dance and speaks English fluently. She writes English better than many twelve year old American girls I know.

Raissa does not have extended family that she trusts. She trusted her father, who is dead, and her Grandmother, who is also dead. The rest of her family was not there for her when she needed them most (for protection), and the idea of being put back in their hands leaves her shaking and staring blankly. It’s not going to happen. Raissa still resides in the Green Eyes center where she’s safe and reaching her full potential.

LUCIEN “Dodo,” 11

Lucien is a quiet child who rarely shows his true personality, which is one of tenderness and innocence. Life has hardened him—his heart is about as locked up as the hope diamond. He experienced years of being beaten and essentially living on his own. But he learned what its like to be protected, loved, and safe in the Green Eyes New Hope Orphanage for almost four years. He became a different child. But the Green Eyes world was not for him.

He wanted to be out with his Uncle, Alain, where he could be “free.” The rules and regulations of Green Eyes were frustrating to him (we run a tight ship), and he, most of all the kids, longed to be out in the Cameroonian world. We respected his wish, and today he lives with his Uncle Alain. This is not the exact path I would have chosen for Dodo, but I know his Uncle Alain is a good man who is watching out for him. Dodo is a good example of a child, who, in spite of all the fun and excitement of the Green Eyes in Africa world and family, needed his blood relatives in order to feel secure.

His uncle Alain is caring for him, and his older sister Nadege, is there for him as a mother figure.

CYRIL, 9

Cyril is Dodo’s little brother. One would never know this. They hardly gave each other the time of day during their almost four years in the New Hope Orphanage. Cyril is our child who’s known for his “bleeding nightmare” in our first documentary. It was a horrible situation in which I found him. He was giving him self-inflicted nose hemorrhages. He was so desperate for attention that he went to that extreme.

But it’s been years since he’s done that. Cyril was always a favorite of volunteers—his miniature size and hilarious giggle won over the hearts of dozens of volunteers. But Cyril also had immense trouble adapting to the Green Eyes in Africa rules. It was a constant struggle to keep him on track—out of trouble, not stealing, not lying. He was acting out in negative ways, and that’s when it hit me—he needs blood family to fix these problems.

So Cyril is with Dodo with their Uncle Alain. With the assistance we provide them (school fees, food, etc.) Alain and Dodo and Cyril’s older sister Nadege have formed a new family unit. Alain has two other boys, on of which is an amazing artist, and they’re all doing their best.

GRANDMA ANASTASIE ABOMO, 50

Grandma Abomo is an inspiration to my own mother, Sharon, because she’s sacrificed her own well-being and happiness for her grandchildren. Grandma Abomo came to our door about two and a half years ago with three tiny children. They were stick-thin with dirty faces and soiled clothing. She pleaded with me to help them—so we took in all three—Adriana, Sylvain, and Modeste. Unfortunately, Sylvain and Modeste had a family situation that was different that the one Grandma Abomo described to me, so we returned them to her. But Grandma now had seven children living with her in one room the size of a 7-Eleven bathroom stall. This was to change.

--ADRIANA, 10 lived with us for over two years and learned the ropes of modern plumbing, nutrition, and inter-cultural dynamics. She thrived and did well (she’s very smart) but she would often cry. She cried for her two dead parents whom she remembers well, and for her loving Grandmother Anastasie. It was when I’d watch her cry that I realized, again, in spite of all the terrific things the New Hope Orphanage offered, some children truly do need the blood-family connection in order to be happy.

So we re-united everyone in a new, small house that Green Eyes pays for. They get weekly food deliveries, and with this new set-up, new “Green Eyes” kids were added to the family:

--JOSEPH, 11

Joseph is Adriana’s cousin. His mother is alive, but she’s young and has no means of income. She lives with Grandma Anastasie. Joseph is a bright, smiling child and between his time at Grandma Abomo’s and his time with Green Eyes, he’s learning a lot. He recently performed at a diplomatic party with the “Green Eyes Children Dancers” and felt like a shining star. He’s on his way!

--MODESTE, 8

Modeste is a hilarious little, tiny, teensy weensy child. I swear, after meeting him two years ago, he’s still the same size. I think he’s just naturally tiny. He has huge teeth—which makes him a little comical in my mind. He’s super quiet, gentle, and sweet. I’m glad he’s part of the extended family.

--OLGA, 3

Olga is a cantankerous little stinker who runs the show. She is curious without being naughty or destructive, which is amazing when I think of the American toddlers I know. She is cute to the point of getting out of trouble! When I first met her she was blank and empty. But today, she’s honestly one of my favorite people I’ve met in this country!

--MAJOIE, 2

Her name means “my joy” but she has yet to blossom. She’s still very blank and non-responsive. This is how many toddlers in Cameroon are because they don’t get enough attention. But Olga was the same way, and she is now Miss Sassy Superstar herself. So we’ll see with Majoie…
Grandma Abomo has three older daughters who now live with her in their house. It’s gotta be crazy in there, but Grandma has said to me that Green Eyes in Africa has transformed her life.

IDRISSOU, 30

Idrissou is a beggar from the street that I’ve watched over the past four years. His face has an extra appendage that dangles down to his chest. He looks like a “monster” to car drivers and he has spent his life behind his “mask,” not knowing what it means to be human just like the rest of us. Not too long ago, I decided that Idrissou needed to join our family. He’s now employed through us, he irons clothes, and we feed him each time he comes. Our kids are obligated to approach him, smile, and shake his hand with both hands.

He refused the job at first because we have so many people around, and he didn’t want to be the “monster.” I told him to stop his nonsense and get with the program. He’s human just like us.

Each time I see him, he smiles and I look into his one visible eye and let him know that he’s God’s work just like the rest of us. His beauty just happens to be interior.

SOLOMAN, 20

Soloman is a wanderer from the extreme north of Cameroon, where he grew up in what Americans only see in National Geographic magazines. His French is weak; his life has been one of poverty. Olivier, our African Director, befriended him a few years back, and decided he needed to be our night guard. He still doesn’t know how to read or use a cell phone, but he has a job, and that’s the most important. He can now nourish himself and those around him (nobody with a job is responsible just for themselves in Cameroon).

OLIVIER, 29

I hate to think of Olivier as someone we are “helping,” because he is intelligent, articulate, fluent in English and French, and a musician. He’s our African Director of one year. So far, he’s been the only truly reliable co-worker I’ve had in Cameroon so far. He’s honest and frank. He’s also a devout Mormon, and his strict religious values come through in his excellent work.

But before working with us, Olivier was watching his father dwindle away. His father’s very sick, and his mother has no job. Olivier now uses most of his salary to care for his dying father. Before Green Eyes, Olivier had no job, in spite of an impressive resume. The first question asked in his job interviews was, “What tribe are you from?” and from there it goes down hill. In a culture of lies, corruption, and tribalism, guys like Olivier don’t stand a chance. We’re glad to have him on our team.

NAMELESS PEOPLE—
By providing help and security to these families, something rather interesting happens. In Cameroon, whether or not it’s fair, as soon as someone has a bit of good fortune, others show up at the door expecting “their share.” I know that the families we assist—whose rent is paid, food is delivered; schooling is paid, etc.—are reaching out to their extended families (mostly in villages) with the extra income they make themselves.
There are dozens of others we have assisted over the years—from Mama P who was dying of a fatal disease to Baby Grace who knew what being loved means during her year and a half with us. We’ll continue going strong….I’m sure of it.

AND WHAT ABOUT ME, ABOUT VOLUNTEERS?

I'd like to think that Green Eyes in Africa has opened the hearts and minds of everyone who has worked with us. Many, many diplomats who would never have had an "in" with the culture came to love Cameroon through us...dozens of volunteers over the years have had their lives changed by working with us. Chinese, German, Dutch, British, Hatian, Russian, Japanese, and other people have learned and grown as people by being part of what we do.

I myself would not trade a minute of all I've been through. I've grown and I've been broken. But my soul has known greater joy and greater pain than the average person--and for that I'm grateful. It's going to make me or break me...I've come close to being totally broken, but I'm on my feet, and I'm determined to let it make me.

I always remind myself, "To the world you may be just one person. But to one person, you may be the world."

This has directly applied to me on so many levels, and with this knowledge comes a heavy burden of responsibility. I am not free--I am chained to the Dark Continent wherever I go on this earth. I've given my heart and soul to Green Eyes in Africa. I am proud to add myself to the list of people who have been helped:

RYAN, 28

Sick...sick...SICK!

2009-06-22T14:15:00.003-06:00

I am totally sick. Body aches, wheezing cough, the works. I've been getting sick gradually over the past few days, but today it is coming to a climactic ending (hopefully). I kept dancing really hard with the kids even though I was sick, pumping myself up with ibuprofen and caffeine. But now it's time to rest. I'm in bed.

I suppose I'm writing because I need sympathy...knowing someone will read this and feel sorry for me makes me feel better I suppose. I need a Mom and chicken soup!

I'm just praying that it's not malaria. The elbow, hand and knee aching is making me slightly nervous...those are the telltale symptoms when I get malaria. I should probably just go get the meds for malaria and see if that makes me better. If it does, it's malaria, if it doesn't, its not. Malaria has so many forms and variations you can never be sure. As long as it's not cerebral malaria I'm not worried (you either die or end up crazy for life with that fun strain of the disease).

So I'm in my little room slash library right now, breathing in the mildewy smell that's always here. I've lit a candle and I'm listening to the Out of Africa soundtrack for probably the five thousandth time. It always calms me and makes any situation seem more "epic" than horrible.

All day yesterday, last night until 12, and this morning I've been the cleaning dictator. Our house is so infested with mice. We unloaded the pantry last night...I held back gags from the smell of rodent urine. But I bought these little square bucket things to re-organize everything in there. It's the BEST feeling to know where everything is in this crazy house. We have collected SO much junk over the years.

We labeled, organized, stacked and packed and it was so therapeutic for me. Decorating and organizing are two ways I relieve stress (apart from dance). We filled box after box with clothing, pencils, toys, you name it. I decided to figure out what to do with all of it, and the best solution was to deliver it to all of our "outside" families and the children of our employees. We got rid of like ten huge boxes filled to the brim with stuff that will be put to good use. We also filled tons of large garbage bags with useless broken crap and stuff that was destroyed by the mice.

AHHHHHHHH that was the best feeling. Goodbye clutter!

Yesterday I found out something about Joel's abusive past at his former orphanage that still has me angry. The woman owner's grandson, Bebeto, was a bully to all of the other kids. He'd get school lunch money, none of them would. He'd regularly blame others for things he did and they would be beaten.

Raissa was laughing as she told this story--even after four years it is a process of teaching kids about what constitutes abuse. Joel also smirked as she told the story.

Well, one night Joel was sleeping very deeply as he always has, and his mouth was open. Bebeto proceeded to urinate into his mouth. Joel woke up and had been subjected to yet another child-to-child abusive incident.

Raissa and Joel thought this was funny. Undoubtedly, in their former world and the typical Cameroonian child's world, this is hilarious. But, of course, this is not funny and it is disgusting abuse.

I was just discouraged looking at Joel last night and knowing that the first six years of his life were spent as a helpless victim of whatever came his way. I was angry inside. I have been pretty good with the anger since I've been back. It's just driving and being outside of the house that get me steaming.

Yesterday I was in the center of a traffic jam too ridiculous to even begin to describe. I happen to be white and driving a blue bus that says Japan on the sides, so I became the focal point for the other drivers' anger. Racist shouts and shaking fists and the works were all going strong. The favorite phrase is, "Is that how they drive in Europe?"

Oh, hell, I could come up with SO many good replies to that one but I don't. I want to remain in one piece.

I try and smile and be obnoxious to these people instead of returning their anger or yelling back. But it takes all the self-control I can muster. I just get tired of not ever, ever, ever being able to just stroll or relax when I'm in public. Apparently in other African countries you can do this with ease, but not in Cameroon, or at least, not in Yaounde.

I just finished reading the book Fahrenheit 451. Great book, excellent reading for someone like me who lives under an African dictatorship (or anyone in the world of today, for that matter). I the palace yesterday and remembered, once more, that I'm not in Kansas anymore. What kills me is that this sort of thing (abhorrent palaces) is accepted as normal--just as the injustices inflicted upon the people in Farenheit 451 were accepted as normal.

"On va faire comment?" Is the phrase in Cameroon.

"What can we do?" Cameroon's equivalent to "Hakuna Matata."

I do NOT believe in Hakuna Matata. I belive in "DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!"

I'm done writing and I'm pretty much convinced that this is no longer a cold but Malaria. The bones between my hand knuckles and my finger knuckles hurt--that's not a good sign. Hakuna Matata! Errr, wait, I'm going to a pharmacy right now. Bye.

2009-06-14T08:13:00.006-06:00

The Neighbors: A Glimpse Into Typical Cameroonian Life

This blog is not intended to express my opinions. It's intended to provide an accurate glimpse of what I observe from my bedroom window--a Cameroonian family that lives behind us.

The city of Yaounde is enormous. Millions of people have fled the complications of village life for even more complications in a city that doesn't usually live up to their big city dreams. There are three classes of people in Yaounde. The super rich, usually connected to the government, the few priviliged people who enjoy the basics of modern life such as running water and a house with solid walls (our current life), and the masses of people who live like the people behind our house.

Let's look out my window.

We see that their house itself is made of bricks. That in itself is special--many people build their houses out of mud. There is no glass in the windows. There are scraps of material that serve as curtains. The gray brick walls, from the ground half-way up, are covered with red earth stains and dirt.

There's a goat tied to a tree that bleats constantly from hunger. It's feces and urine leave odors that are carried in the air directly to my bedroom.

There's a sickly dog that sleeps most of the day in front of the house. His head is constantly bobbing to one side to chase away flies that wish to feed on his festering, puss-oozing ear wounds.

The house is marked in numerous places with red spray paint. The paint writes out dates and large x letters--which means their house is "unfit" according to the government and will be destroyed. The spray paint says 2008, so maybe their house was overlooked. The Pope recently visited Cameroon, and the government found it necessary to get rid of "eye sores" such as this family's home.

The paint could also mean that they built their home without paying the bribes necessary to get a "building permit." They're lucky it's still there.

The father figure is a stout, round man with a booming voice. He comes out each morning in a soiled towel and enters their square-shaped scrap-wood structure that serves as a washing area in front of their house. He carries a bucket of water. His feet are bare on the red earth that serves as the floor to his bathing area.

The mother is a portly woman with large breasts, sagging from years of not being supported by a bra. Her head is always wrapped in a cloth.

There are a number of teen boys who come and go from the house. They're the best dressed of them all in athletic attire. There's what I'm assuming is another daughter, a teen girl, who is often not at the house.

Then there's a little boy of about seven or eight, and a toddler.

The family usually communicates in ways that sound like arguing to the Western ear, in tones that are fairly aggressive. The Mother screams at the children all the time. I hear the children scream back when she beats them with sticks.

On numerous occasions I've watched the little boy flinch and try to flee the mother who is chasing him with a long whip-like plant stem.

The father seems to be a pastor of some sort. He shouts and screams the word of God to visitors in his house, accompanied by a solo singing presentation that sounds monotone and plain compared to his hysterical "The Bible Says" sermons. When he finds it necessary to evangelize, I hear each word of his message no matter where I am in our house.

Aside from the religious singing, the majority of music played (using an extension cord from another house) is American rap music, laden with messages of violence and dripping with the words F*** and Bit**.

Today I observed one of the teen boys walking around their yard while the teen girl and the mother did laundry. The little boy was naked, as usual, standing there watching everyone else.

The teen boy amused himself by slapping the teen girl on the arms and face in a teasing way until she fled the scene and the Mother intervened. I'm still not sure if the girl is a daughter in the family. It seems more logical that she would be a girlfriend of one of the teen boys, there to do his laundry. His flirtatious slapping didn't seem very brother-sister like.

The people who live in the house do all of their work during the day as there is no electricity to light their world at night.

This is what I see and hear from my window on a daily basis.

Fear Factor

2009-06-09T18:10:00.000-06:00

Five days back on the dark continent. But it has not been dark at all, except for one very dark factor. But I'll get into that later. First, the good stuff!

I'm enchanted with the world of Green Eyes in Africa right now. I've not felt this good in quite a long time. Before I left, we were betrayed on a major scale by our three-year guard, Jean, by our cook Adrienne, and even by some of our own kids. It involved stealing, lying and deliberate sabotage of our organization once we called them on their actions.

After that, we moved into our much smaller new center with no surrounding cement wall, and we were robbed three times. The robberies were appear to have been orchestrated, by our former employees. The robbers took my laptop and other very specific items. They took all of the cash out of our German volunteer Tanja's wallet...but left all of her I.D. cards and credit cards. It was a message of, "we want you to know that we know you...this was not a random crime."

So that said, before I left, things had never been worse. I was emotionally broken, as were Tanja and Olivier, our African director. Tanja went back to Germany and faced serious depression in bed. I was just sort of numb and angry for a long while.

Now, a new page has turned and I can feel that our work is back in a strong place. The kids who now live with their families are doing fine on their own terms. They didn't necessarily like all of the rules of Green Eyes in Africa--hand washing, English lessons, limited T.V., no curse words, etc. So they're happy. They've all passed at school, and now that we support them and their families, it's working out quite well.

For those who are at the center all the time it's nothing but good times for the moment. Summertime vacation! Hooray! We're looking forward to fun times and they've already begun.

The dance shoes donated by Dance Unlimited Studios in Reno and Dancewear Unlimited in Utah have already been put to good use. We've been tap dancing up a storm as well as working on our overall technique.

It's so cute to see the little ones try so hard in dance. Modeste, who is ten but looks five, is a hoot. He puts his all into each step but never gets one step right. Joseph, 11, is a trooper and gives his all. Raissa is a natural and picks it up at an impressive pace. Joel gets it but has to work hard. And Adriana, does just fine as always.

We work up a sweat and it’s so fun to hear all of our tap sounds echo throughout our living room/dance studio in unison. For me dance is healing. Not to mention a great workout.

Grandma Abomo (our cook ) is her sweet self. Deb from Dance Unlimited donated some very beautiful new clothes and I gave them to Grandma Abomo. She was ecstatic and yesterday we had a photo shoot (see attached photo) in her new clothes. This is a woman who has never felt beautiful, who has never been anything special in life. She's lived a long, hard 50 years and it shows when you look at her worn hands that look like dinosaur claws and into her yellow eyes with scar tissue from who knows what. She's known nothing but death, "witchcraft," hard labor, and caring for her orphaned grandchildren.

So I dolled her up with the works: Make-up, hair, even false eyelashes. She saw the photos and was overcome. I could tell she was in shock that she could look so beautiful. That's the kind of feeling I love--knowing I gave someone a boost of confidence and self-esteem....maybe for the first time.

Her youngest grandchild, Olga, is my new best friend. She's three years old and is filled with smiles and giggles. She watches me constantly and when I look her way I get a grin to last a lifetime. I only speak English to her, she doesn't understand a word, but she definitely understands the language of love and she knows that Uncle Ryan adores her!

I'm excited to watch her personality develop. She's still very much in the "African zombie child" stage of life. This means that she's too complacent, too calm, and too numb to the world around her. This comes from being one of too many children, from being raised by people who don't have time to devote a lot of attention to her, and from being raised by people who have not been exposed to child psychology or the needs of a toddler when it comes to mental stimulation.

Olga is on her way to blossoming into a new child. But another baby under our care is not, I'm afraid. Jeanine now lives with her Grandmother and her epileptic mother five minutes away from our center. We've built rooms on what was essentially an animal stable before with now walls. It's nicer now, and Jeanine likes living close to her Mom. But there's a little baby that lives there, and she's just blank. It is so sad.

I remember the first time I met her. She was walking, so she's probably about two. I hunched down to say hello to her. I smiled, jokingly poked her bloated tummy, held her hands and talked baby talk, expecting her to at least giggle a little. Nothing. She stared at me with the African zombie child eyes as if she could see right through me. I hate seeing that look.

Our motto, "Every Child Deserves a Childhood" encompasses the idea that if a child, especially a toddler, is not filled with smiles and giggles, they're not being properly cared for. Maybe with time we can awaken this baby girl. But Jeanine's Grandma is a very difficult person so we don't spend much time at their house. We've learned that if you don't have the support of extended family members, it’s almost impossible to have a deep influence on a child.

Moving on to the shining star of Green Eyes in Africa. Joel. I may be biased because I've raised this little guy, but he's truly an exceptional spirit. Just watching him do what he does is a treat. He's curious, kind, funny and always seeking to do better and be the best he can be.

Joel and I don't even speak French anymore. I speak English at my normal pace, with an unsimplified vocabulary, and he understands everything.

Yesterday in the kitchen after we were done eating Joel was dancing in the doorway like a clown, imitating "white people" butts and then African ones. He came into the kitchen with a towel stuffed in the back of his pants and his lower back arched. He made all of us laugh and laugh...he's a constant source of joy to us all.

I was organizing things in my room later and I heard music playing in the dance room--he couldn't see me watching. He was doing some sort of superstar dance of his own making, throwing his "jazz hands" into the air, tossing his head back, and attempting his own version of break dance moves. The kid cracks me up.

At story time he came in and I was too tired to finish the book about eyesight with him. So he went to the stereo and listened to Pirates of the Caribbean 3 on book/cd. He's an endless fireball of energy and I know for a fact that if Joel is protected and guided through Green Eyes in Africa, this kid is going to make waves in his lifetime.

Our night guard arrives. First thing he does is find Joel and shout, "JOEL!" with a big smile. I'm so lucky to have this kid in my life. He is my inspiration.

Raissa is Joel's female equivalent, albeit much quieter and ever so much more skeptical about life. She cracks me up with her little 12 year old 'tude. She's always got her eyebrows raised and her lips pushed out, hiding her grin, as she looks at me as if I were crazy. Love that girl.

Those are the good things going on so, why is this blog called "Fear Factor" ? It's because the ghosts of past break-ins are constantly in my brain. Even as I write this blog on my laptop on our front porch, my eyes and ears are constantly adjusting to every noise, wondering if we're being robbed.

I wake up at night numerous times. Each noise is a masked man with a machete. Each crack is a board from the ceiling collapsing and a man dropping into the room.

This morning I was up at five, God knows why, and Olivier came into the living room in the darkness and I just about had a heart attack. We have a night guard and two dogs, but I'm simply not over the wounds of having been robbed before. The broken glass everywhere, the missing ceiling boards, the machete left behind after the last attempt....these things are always in my mind.

I'm nervous every time I leave my laptop in my room for fear that when I come back the window's metal bars will be cut and my stuff will be gone again. Losing my last laptop was like losing a person filled with memories and information I can never replace.

So I'm happier than I have been in years overall, but the fear factor lingers on. I'll never feel fully safe or secure in this country again. Maybe once we get a wall built I'll feel better. But the fact remains that if someone wants to get into our house to steal or hurt us, they can. They can climb any wall, cut any bars, kill any dog or guard...on and on.

I bought air horns for security. We have them hanging in each room. They scare the hell out of me each time we test them so hopefully they'd do the same to a robber. They certainly wouldn't be expecting that sort of awful sound blasted in their face.

We have used the air horns for two purposes thus far. One horn is in the car. There's something I cannot stand in Cameroon and it's that men urinate anywhere and everywhere in public, exposing their genitals to surrounding crowds and to my kids. One guy was doing this on the street and I just could not help myself--BEEEERRRPPPP! I blew the air horn at him as we drove by. He jumped and hopefully got pee all over himself. Damn, that felt good!

And this morning Raissa refused to get out of bed after Olivier woke her up to get ready to take her final school exam so I suggested a little air horn action. She got out of bed!

But we can't keep up these superfluous uses of the air horns or there won't be any air left in the cans to scare off robbers. Hopefully they'll remain full.

2009-06-09T17:54:00.001-06:00

June 5, 2009 - Morning After Arrival

I woke up super early this morning around 5 am. I went outside on the front porch and found fog so thick you couldn't see ten feet in front of you. If you've seen the movie Hotel Rwanda, it's like the fog in the part when he runs over dead bodies.

It's spooky, cool and beautiful. Rain-forest fog is mesmerizing. I needed a coffee fix so I set out to find a little street boutique that was open. It's the rainy season so everything is powerfully green and the earth is red as blood. I walked up a dirt road with green corn husks a mile high on each side. I was alone in the fog, slipping along the wet red road in the pink flip flops that Olivier and kids had saved for me.

I found a little boutique and bought a pastry for our new guard. He seems to be a very sweet fellow. But I need to remember to stay his boss and not be his friend. That always gets me into trouble because I lose people's respect. In Cameroon, the boss is the boss, not a friend. I hate that! I want to be friends with everyone but Olivier keeps me in check. "You're the boss, not their friend," he reminds me.

I also just hate being a boss in general. I'm uncomfortable giving orders and I'd rather eat dirt than correct employees....but I do it. And thank God, Olivier is good at it.

So on my way back from the boutique, enjoying the rain-forest fog that makes it seem like I'm not in a giant city of 4 million people, I found a little surprise that I almost stepped in.

Human feces, long and bright green, right there in the middle of the road. Wow. Welcome home, huh?

There were also two little stick-thin kids dressed in rags carrying buckets on their heads. They were out searching water. I wanted to take them back to the house and wash them and give them a childhood. But they have parents--they're unreachable. They were so beautiful. I think the little girl recognized me from boutique trips past. She was trying very hard not to smile at me with her eyes wide open. I always say hi to the little kids I see. They reply with sober faces and then squeal and giggle when I'm far away from them 'not to notice'...

I don't think there's anything more precious than little five or six year old Cameroonian kids walking along a dirt road. Their little coconut smiles steal your heart and its so hard not to just stop and pick them up and run away with them so they'll be treated as they deserve.

I'm back. God bless Cameroon and its people. It's such a tragic place in every way with SO much hidden beauty and squashed potential....I have to say I love it deep down...

NEXT DAY:

So yesterday we spent the whole day dancing in our little dance "studio." Raissa, Joel, Joseph, Modeste, Adriana and baby Olga were the main class participants. SO fun to teach these kids tap dancing! I love it. Then we worked on jazz and ballet until I was so exhausted that I thought I'd pass out. I pushed a little too hard after three days with no sleep!

We had a great day. It was so great to see Grandma Abomo (our cook). She is as sweet as apple pie, errr, coconut? She gave me the biggest and longest hug when I saw her... I love that lady! I have so much respect for her. She's not educated, but she has so much poise, pride and dignity that you can't help but to adore her.

Joel spent the entire day practicing his new tap dance moves and Raissa and I spent the entire evening getting ready for a visit from our amazing friend Jackie, a U.S. diplomat who is basically our Mom in Cameroon. She came over and we ate peanuts and had a great time catching up...

I'm in a cyber cafe right now....I went to the school this morning with the kids so the driver could drop me off here. His name is Romanus. He's the sweetest person ever. He's calm, patient, and is always pressing his lips as if he's going to laugh.

We rocked out in the car. We were supposed to be listening to English lessons, but since I just got home, we made an exception!

2009-06-09T17:46:00.000-06:00

June 3rd - SEATTLE AIRPORT, WA

The Machete Monsters have struck again. I got a call two nights ago at 2 am from Olivier, our African Director, and he said that the orphanage had been attacked. This will be the 5th time that people have tried to get in. My head is spinning right now. It's not a good time to blog, but they say blogs are supposed to be like streaming thoughts...so I'm not going to focus on structure this time I'm going to focus on whatever comes to mind...

Dance Unlimited Studio in Reno, NV. They did the most amazing fundraiser dance show with us. It was powerful, the 80 or so people who came were beautiful, generous, and talented. Gina Hernandez is an inspiration to me. She's the studio owner and she's been like a mother to hundreds of kids over the years, including me.

I did not sleep at all last night. I was up packing. Deb, also a friend from Dance Unlimited and perhaps the world's ultimate Dance Mom, donated close to $5,000 worth of beautiful dance costumes for our little orphanage dance studio. We've got tap, jazz and ballet shoes. We've got the nutcracker costumes. We've got international costumes to represent the world. I am still in shock over Deb's generosity. She even donated a suitcase for all the stuff and money to help cover the fees for the heavy luggage. By the way Deb--they didn't charge me, hooray!

So I'm facing a lot of anxiety about going back. I cannot say that there is much I like in Cameroon besides the nature. It's a rather morbid place filled with lies and misery at every turn. But, I can say that I'm excited to see the kids. I want to dress up Olga and Majoie (2 and 3, respectively) in the dance costumes and give Grandma Abomo a huge hug and play with Raissa and dance and dance with our little superstar, Joel. I'm excited to be there...I'm just not excited for the trip ahead. Reno to Seattle was okay, I slept. Now almost all day in the airport (right now) and then to Paris, wait more, then to Douala (wait more) then to Yaounde. YUCKY! Traveling is not always fun.

So I feel like I should mention all of the wonderful people who have helped us keep things going since I've been home. They know who they are, and they don't do it for the glory. The High Schools that we are working with blew me away with their enthusiasm, maturity, generosity, and poise. They gave me hope for America's future. Not like I'm that old...but I'm starting to feel a huge difference between teenagers and myself...I see them as "youngsters."

So now I'm in the Paris airport waiting to get on my flight to Cameroon. I witnessed something that perfectly demonstrates the corruption in Cameroon. A pastor of some sort (denomination unknown) was angry with the Air France attendants at security because they wouldn't let him take a long piece of plastic with holes in it. I thought they were being a little too strict since it was bendable and didn't seem to pose any problems, so I sympathized with him and told him so. Then he told me why he was so mad. "It's a part for my Mercedes," he said. I no longer sympathized.

Mercedes? A pastor? Doing "God's work" in the third world? Hmmmm....he was also holding the latest playstation 3 in its new packaging. Good to know that this pastor drives a Mercedes and his kids play with the latest playstation 3 in a country with lepers on every corner. That's just great. Here I go again--back into a world with mentalities that are so opposite to mine that I just have to let go and NOT try to understand.

I mentioned the machete robbers on my facebook page, and my friend Terina was like, "How could they rob an ORPHANAGE?" I replied that it is useless to try and understand why on an emotional, human level. The ideas we hold in the west of "women and children first," "respect for charities," etc. just don't exist in Cameroon. Of course, there are explicable reasons for this (poverty, desperation, etc.) but it seems to be extreme in Cameroon. I've met so many people who have traveled to Asia, such as in Vietnam, and they say that poverty does not turn people into liars and thieves....in Cameroon, it does.

I don't even want to get into this subject. I'll never understand the "Cameroonian life mentality" and I choose to focus on my wonderful Cameroonian friends who are the exceptions. I often describe myself as a horse with blinders on. If I focus too much on the big picture, I just go crazy. I have to focus on one person at a time, on our little Green Eyes in Africa world, and on what I can do on a daily basis....

I'm so excited to see the kids tonight! We are going to talk and talk and talk and open the huge suitcase filled with thousands of dollars worth of dance costumes, tap shoes, etc. We'll plan out our dance numbers, think of new friends to invite to dance class, and plan our big recital for the end of summer. It's going to be such a blast! Cameroon has no arts for kids without money...the schools, it seems to me, deliberately stifle creativity instead of encouraging it...so this focus on art and dance over the summer is very important to me. A childhood without creativity, imagination, and performances of some sort is not a childhood according to moi.

So I bought a coffee in the airport. I got the largest one available...the equivalent of an American small coffee!!!! I got out my money (they accept dollars in the airport) and LORD LOVE THE EURO my coffee was $7.00. OH MY GOODNESS I was just like, is this for real? What has happened to the dollar? Back when I lived in France circa 2000 the dollar was totally advantageous over the French francs. Times have changed.

I look at the crowd of people traveling to Cameroon....lots of Chinese, lots of Europeans...I don't think I've spotted any other Americans yet. The majority are Africans. Also in the crowd are Moroccan soccer players. I received an email from the US Embassy warning that on the day Cameroon plays Morocco it is not advised to be out and about or in crowds. Cameroonians have only one thing they're universally proud of in their country, and it’s soccer. They're obsessed and it spills over into politics. I think it’s like that in Europe, too? So this Sunday I will be staying in to avoid the possible mobs and violence if Cameroon loses.

Mobs are a problem in Yaounde, period. A lady hit our driver in the mini-bus, and when he wanted to get out, a mob formed around the bus to keep him inside and let the lady escape because he was driving a "foreigner's bus" (it says Japan on the side as it was donated to us by the Japanese Embassy). I'm just glad he did not get hurt. I bought air horns in the states and if a mob forms around the bus when I'm driving it I'm just going to start sounding the air horn. Or not. They'd probably just get worse at that point. Gotta love mobs.

NEW SUBJECT! I'm looking forward to having healthy skin again. In the states, every night, I go to sleep with pain in my nostrils from the dry air. I sneeze, my eyes itch, my head itches....you get the picture. In Cameroon the humidity keeps my skin moisturized. I'm looking forward to that. I'm also looking forward to crazy rain and thunderstorms. It's the rainy season. I like the storms. The only thing I don't like is the gray sky that dominates so much of the weather...I need sunshine and when we get the rain-forest gray covering in the sky I find it depressing.

There are two amazing girls with amazing parents in Battle Mountain that I shall never forget. I was in Battle Mountain, NV (middle of nowhere....) to meet with high school students for fundraising. I found the "Big Chief Hotel" and decided to stay there. Long story short, the Indian (India) owners are the sweetest people on the planet and their two phenomenally gorgeous daughters go to Battle Mountain High. These girls are like princesses--truly remarkable. And they have the hearts of princesses, too. They both wrote letters to the kids (they chose Joel and Raissa) and spilled their hearts to them, giving them advice and telling them that they now have two new older sisters. I totally cried when I read their letters. Not only that, their parents donated $200 and told me anytime I go through Battle Mountain I can stay with them for free. It was one of those experiences that changes you--I now feel such love for all things Indian! If you girls or your parents are reading this--I LOVE YOU GUYS!!!! And tonight I'll share your letters with Joel and Raissa. I can't wait.

I’m observing all the people on the plane. There is a lady 4 seats down from me. She's an interesting person to look at. She has scars all over her face going diagonally down from the top of her cheek toward her mouth. My kids all have scars here and there that they were given as "protection" of some sort. Falonne (16) had scars all across her chest, little bumps, and she said that when they sliced her with the razor she got so infected that she almost died. Adults inflicting scars on themselves is their business. But when it’s done to children, I believe it is wrong, cruel and abusive. Dodo once told me that he was held down against his will, screaming, so they could slice him up to protect him from some sort of evil. Doing that to a child is evil. Cultural relativism in this case has NO place as far as I'm concerned.

So whenever I'm in the States my family complains that I reek with b.o. It's true--I am now immune to my own body odor because I don't really bother to mess with deodorant on a daily basis in Cameroon. It's expensive there, and what's the point if you're sweating all day anyway? So I mention this about myself so that I don't sound too judgmental when I say: I FEEL LIKE I'M GOING TO THROW UP FROM THE SMELL OF BODY ODOR ON THIS PLANE. Apparently my Cameroonian friends have the same attitude as I do when I'm home. But when I'm going on a plane, a confined space crammed next to a stranger, I don't forego the deodorant.

If I sound cynical it’s because I am. People are often surprised that I'm not full of flowery compliments about my African existence. At times, I seem harsh, and I am. But anyone who has lived in Cameroon, AMONG THE PEOPLE...not in a secluded swimming-pool-SUV--expat world, know exactly why this defense must be built up. If you approach everything with the eyes you had when you first arrived, you'll get eaten up and you'll be the biggest fool out there.

I arrived at the airport and went down to the lines for showing vaccination cards, passports, etc. I waited patiently in a line while "important" people, such as a Cameroonian soccer star, walked right past the line and the guards. In the line to show passports and visas people kept cutting in front of me, exchanging brief words with the guards in charge, and walking RIGHT THROUGH without showing any identification. I asked out loud, "Does the law not apply to them?" A man next to me said, "Our country will never change." People just accept these things--and I suppose I'd be a lot more sane if I would, too.

So I waited over an hour while the luggage slowly came out on the mover thing. The crowd got thinner and thinner until I was the only one left. My second suitcase never came. Inside I panicked a bit, knowing that anyone could have taken my suitcase and walked out with it. Especially if they were one of the important people who is above the law.

I turned around and saw Olivier, our African director, behind me. I gave him a big hug. I was so happy to see a familiar face! I proceeded to ask airport employees what I should do. Each person had a different answer. Go over to that counter. Go to Air France. Go to the office over there. I walked around from place to place trying to find the right person to help me. I ended up at a counter with random Air Swiss signs behind it and people who were talking. I waited for them to stop their conversation and notice me--it didn't happen. "Hi. Are YOU the people who handle lost lugage? My bag is not here." They affirmed that they were the right people but that I had not filled out my paperwork. "Where do I get the paperwork?"

"In the office over there."

I went to this office. Inside the walls were decaying and people were having a conversation about an upcoming marriage party and how much it would cost to get in. "Is this where I need to go to resolve a problem regarding lost luggage?" "No, go over to that counter over there."
"But they told me to come here."
"Have you filled out your loss declaration papers?"
"NO."

I told them that I needed to see someone who had a computer with my travel records in it. I never received the luggage stickers they kept referring to from Alaska Airlines (the first airline I took to get from Reno to Seattle). I got a little louder and said, "You need to look in that computer right there. You will see that I checked two bags."

A very plump lady stopped talking, gave me a dirty look, and searched me in the computer. She found me. "Yep. His luggage will be here on Saturday."

I was tremendously relieved to know that my luggage was somewhere. I'm guessing it was retained because I had air horns in it. The air horns are to put in each room of our house to scare off bandits next time. They have compressed air so maybe people thought RYAN OLIVER HANSEN was a terrorist. Just the name makes one suspicious, huh?

So anyway we drove home. Oliver was so happy to have me back. "You're really here! It's like a dream," he said. I cried in the car because I was finally back--I had missed everyone so much. We listened to the song "We can" by Leann Rhimes in the car. I love that song--it fits our work. Olivier didn't tell the kids I was coming.

We pulled up and I walked inside our flimsy tin gate. Joel was there playing with our new horrid guard dog. He ran and squeezed me tight, then Miss Raissa came out in her pink pajamas...squealed in her 12 year old voice and hugged me.

We had a super fun evening playing with all of the costumes that were donated (that suitcase arrived). Raissa went from dress to dress feeling like royalty. Joel wore the sparkly soldier outfit until he went to bed. The kid can already do a double pirouette. He taught himself!

We hugged and laughed and talked and listened to all the new music I brought with me. Then we watched Singin' in the Rain in the Pirate-themed TV room. It was a blast. I'm so excited to teach tap to all the kids. I'll see the rest of the kids tomorrow--we have many fun times ahead!

I'm home. The main thing I forget about when I'm in the USA are the smells--the smells everywhere are so strong. Humidity, mildew, earth, rainforest trees...I can't really describe the smells. It stinks at first; I guess I could say the house smells bad. But, it's unavoidable when you live here, especially in the rainy season. But I love the smells even if they're not what I'm used to in the USA.

I went to sleep after saying goodnight to our new guard. Even though he was out there, I woke up at 3 am because I heard noises in the roof. I was scared imagining that the guard was slashed with a machete on the porch and a robber was going to come down through the roof. The electricity isn't working properly so I could not turn on lights...but I went back to sleep and nobody came. Olivier heard people outside in the night but they weren't robbers, apparently. Maybe they saw the guard.

It feels so good to be back. I am so happy right now. I hope this feeling lasts!

Our New and Improved Blog!

2009-06-09T17:23:00.002-06:00

We know how much you are clamoring for more blogs. Ryan is such a wonderful writer and he will be sending us all the news from Africa via this blog. Please feel free to comment. Have a great day!

Heather