First few days on the other side of the planet

Prologue:  First I want to extend my sincerest gratitude and that of my very excited Cameroonian students to those who so generously donated to this project. To all who donated on Gofundme.com and my Mom for making that happen and to the countless Elk Creek Church family members who believe in sharing the love of Jesus in the far reaches of the globe. Your giving was sacrificial and IT WILL impact the lives of these people. The sincerity of the individual confessions of gratefulness we've heard from students and CBCHS employees would make your lip quiver. They and we are truly, truly grateful. You have literally saved lives. -Freddie


Thursday, April 2nd, 2015- Cameroon, Africa 

I'm in Cameroon near the West Coast of Central Africa. To be fair I explained what I had heard about Cameroon to friends, family and inquirers as a country that has more financial resources than those it is surrounded by. An exercise in making them and myself more comfortable about the trip. I expected to see poverty of course, as you do in developing countries. I learned, however, from a young woman named Penn from Bamenda, Cameroon who sat beside me on the six hour flight from Paris, that Cameroon is very poor. Nigeria to the west is second only in wealth to South Africa. Penn, one of nine children, moved to the U.S. to become a nurse. She told me she wants to start a clinic in Bamenda to teach people how to help each other. Her parents called one night frantically wanting Penn to tell them how to save her uncle who was bleeding badly. He died while she was on the phone with them. The nearest medical help was hours away. Road conditions, vehicle conditions and roadside housing that you can see through while driving by at 50 mph are evidence of the poverty. But in a way, life is simple in Cameroon. It has it's problems, disease and tragedy that swirl around these peoples' day-to-day existence like windswept garbage, but you wouldn't notice it on their faces. They are poor in material wealth and have little to spare for themselves, but they are rich in smiles and hand them out like beads and candy tossed at McCall's Winter Carnival.

Everyone blogs about how long it took to get here or there, flights, airports, etc. It's all the same except I'd like to point out an ironic juxtaposition. I had an eight hour layover in Minneapolis so I took the metro train to the Mall of America to kill some time. In the span of one day I walked for hours around all four floors of America's grandest tribute to consumerism then stepped off a plane into an airport that boasted a teenager with a heat gun and a handwritten "security" vest checking body temperatures of incomers as a first defense against Ebola. Outside the airport, men and boys tried to pull my luggage from my hands to carry them in hopes of making a few francs to take home. Those who have traveled from the States to the third world will recognize this stark contrast.


Mall of America, Bloomington, Minnesota

Frozen Great Lake



The Windswept Sahara Desert



The dangerous Far North of Cameroon inside the river border. 30,000ft is as close to the Boko Haram as I want to be.



The teenager in the yellow vest was shooting laser body temp readings at people as they walked through the makeshift plywood doorway. I don't know what happens if he spots someone with a temperature.

I met my new friend and kindred spirit, Denis, standing in the baggage carousel and the Douala International Airport (guffah, guffah) holding a rudely fashioned cardboard sign that just said CBCHS (Cameroon Baptist Convention Health Services). As I walked towards him he smiled his huge, white-toothed smile and said, "and you are Freddie? I am so happy to meet you! I am Denis!" He sported a yellow and blue soccer-style jersey like 50% of Cameroonians wear. We walked to the Toyota Hilux pickup and headed towards Mutengene where I am based for two weeks at the CBCHS Medical Training Center. We caught up on trivial Cameroon facts and sites and told each other about our families. He then told me “Sometimes in Cameroon, it is very easy for someone to snatch your phone from your hand through the window. So don’t video unless we are moving.” I tried to abide by his advice but then I saw a man with two par-boiled goats stuffed in a dog food bag, tied to his motorcycle handlebars while we were traffic-jammed on the railroad track next to the “Will Smith Salon of Hair.” Then Denis said, “yes, that is the train whistle coming.” I snapped a quick photo.

I will never complain about traffic in Boise again. Or road conditions in McCall. I’ve never seen such insanity on a roadway-ever. Clownishly overloaded, off brand, smoking motorcycles streamed by the thousands around trucks and cars like leaf-cutter ants swarming around lumbering spiders on a tree. Three people to a motorcycle seemed to be average. If they thought they could go faster they would swerve violently into oncoming traffic and try their chances. Motorcycles were introduced to Cameroon only about ten years ago so this is a new problem. I had to pull my side view mirror in too keep it from being scraped off several times. I came here to train 30 CBCHS to assist people injured in transportation accidents because, apparently, they happen often and EMS is literally non-existent. I was overwhelmed by the understatement of my task in the first three minutes on the road. In half a mile I saw scores of motorcyclist pull maneuvers in hellish traffic that would have them incarcerated in the States, and that’s with four grown men in flip flops sandwiched on the 125cc machine! I saw six men rebuilding the motor of a semi-truck in the middle lane of a three land through way that was supporting five columns of frantic motorist. That was followed by two compact cars in half a mile that fell, literally fell into holes in the road so the entire car was resting on it’s belly, hopelessly stuck. Cameroon, we have a problem.

 

It dawned on me that our project may be futile and a better use of our time is to teach seat belt and helmet use and maybe write down a few traffic rules for starters. If we save one person the training we provide will be worth the effort though. The drive to Mutenge should take one hour in flowing traffic. It took us three. The tumble down Doualan sprawl of makeshift discos, motorcycle repair stands and “vocational training centers” seemed to stretch for more than half that time. We stopped at an ATM on the edge of town in the dark so I could get some Cameroonian Francs, a devalued holdover French currency losing its butt against the dollar right now. I nervously stuffed 100,000 francs worth of colorful bills into my pocket having no clue how many US dollars I had withdrawn. Denis said “maybe about 140 dollars.”

I met Tom and Edie Welty and my co-instructor, Paul Christensen N.P. at the training center in Mutengene where they had a “country chop” meal (or traditional Cameroonian fare) waiting for me. Denis wouldn’t eat with me so I felt guilty. I suspect it was because there wasn’t enough though he said he already ate. Rice and “groundnut soup” which has the consistency of microwaved creamy peanut butter and tastes similar but less salty. “I hope you like rice,” someone told me. This was complemented by a whole “bah” fish tail with the scales scraped off and blackened. It was all delicious. We all were buoyed in our exhaustion by the meal and the comfort of our shared home in McCall, Idaho. We discussed class logistics and Paul and I poured over our presentations for the next morning. I climbed into my comfy pad bed just in time to catch three hours of sleep and test out my jet lag at 0600 the next morning.

They have devotions here at the training center every morning at 0700. Wednesdays are long devotions that include Bible study. We had to skip to get ready for class. We had instant coffee, eggs, bread and “buttah” with jam then walked to the training center. Students bristled with anticipation as they walked in to see PowerPoint projected onto the cracking concrete wall at the front of the sanctuary-sized room. They all wore their Sunday-best clothes for class to make the best impression on their instructors and the “big men” that were there for opening ceremonies. Suits, impeccably clean dresses with sweaters and fancy shoes, pressed shiny blue slacks, collared shirts with ties that were tied once with a knot that will never be removed for the life of the accessory. All wore smiles. They were armed with small notepads or a few sheets of scrap paper and a pen they brought for notes. Our program director, Dr. Henry Ndasi, a talented, Cameroonian born Orthopedic surgeon told me we should start class but when the “big men” get here we have to stop and do a proper opening ceremony.


 

The big men arrived one by one. The minister of transportation, another surgeon, the director of CBC logistics and several other people whose titles I missed sat at a cloth adorned table in the front of the classroom. They each stood in turn and gave their most inspirational welcome speeches. We applauded each while stealing glances at our watches wondering when we could get back to class. Two days to teach the bread and butter of life saving first aid is not enough time as it was. When we got back on track, Paul and I delivered alternating blows of overwhelming medical presentations that left the students reeling and massaging the cramps from their note-taking hand. They asked for some translation into “pigeon English” from a nurse sitting in on the class who is going to be a trainer in future sessions. His name is Promise. Translating from English to English- one more thing we don’t have time for. We gradually learned to communicate more clearly, more slowly and wore down their defenses towards day end. The students became more animated and asked more of the ubiquitous “what if?” questions. Their excitement at the idea of being able to finally help the people they see injured was palpable as they left class for the evening.