Cameroon 2012: Cinderella In The Midst Of Cholera

Feb 21, 2012 -- Bechati, Cameroon

(See Blue Point)

Morning found me feeling better.  Weak and unable to hold breakfast down, but better.  Later today, the Hilux would pick us up in the village, and we would ride our way back to Lewoh.  After the previous day's hike, it was nice to have a less physically demanding day.

We made our way from the guest house to the center of the village where we would meet with the local Fon and representatives from adjoining villages.  There had been some major issues with the water project here.  The original proposal had been to provide clean water to Bechati village, but when it was realized how close they were to the two adjoining villages, Folepi and Banti, and how all three areas were in desperate need of clean water, engineers were hired to study and consider the feasibility of providing water to the 3 communities from that one water project.

The engineering report was now in the hands of ICA and Captain Smith, and Captain Smith assured the Fon an the representatives that there would be renewed life to this water project, that it would continue and that ICA knew that clean water was the lifeblood of this community.

Time was a delicate balance here...  as is everywhere in communities mired in extreme poverty.

Not enough time to study the possibility of bringing water to three villages meant that two villages went without clean water...

Time taken to study the possibility meant that the death toll would continue to rise.

There have been many deaths in this community from completely preventable diseases such as cholera, and the prevention is something we all too often take for granted -- access to clean water.  It's something I'm passionate about and consider to be one of the most effective ways to turn the tide against extreme poverty.  Access to clean water drastically changes a community.  Fetching water is a task often placed upon the backs of vulnerable women and children, who have to walk miles daily to the nearest water sources in order to provide water to their families.  Predators also wait by water sources, knowing that these vulnerable women and children will come along, unprotected.

Unless a well has been dug or an alternate water source has been provided, the water source is often nothing more than a questionable swamp, where animals also converge in their parallel quest for survival.  The water is often infested with parasites and animal feces, as well as bacteria that the human body can simply not handle.  Places without access to clean water often lack access to health care too.

Without the water, the people can not survive, and with it, most get sick or die.  It's poverty that robs them of access to clean water, and sadly, it's also what keeps them poor -- without access to clean water, all this time spent fetching water means the women and children find themselves unable to attend school or obtain profitable work.  Without education and jobs, the cycle of poverty continues.  It costs money for the medicine to combat the illnesses caused by dirty water, if medicines are available at all...

This perpetuates the cycle of poverty.

These people, in this room, in this village, were living the reality that I speak of in my advocacy.

These people have names, faces, families, children, parents, neighbors...  and above all, VALUE, and these very people are not dying from poverty, they are dying from a lack of compassion on our part.

Yes, us.

You, me, the rest of the so-called developed world.

We have too much, they have too little, and we're not doing enough so that they have enough.  Yes, enough -- that's all everyone needs.  The opposite of poverty is not wealth -- it's simply "enough".

Enough clean water.

Enough food.

Enough shelter.

Enough access to medical care and education.

Enough for one pair of shoes.

The truth hurts.

"Sometimes, I want to ask God why He allows poverty, famine and injustice in the world...  but I'm afraid He would ask me the same thing." -- Anonymous

Where is the church?  The real church?  The one that shares with one another in community, and makes sure no brother or sister falls through the cracks?  The one called to take care of His sheep, to feed them, and love them?  The one not concerned about "mine vs. yours"...



Walking back through the village after this meeting, I couldn't help but see the kids scurrying around with torn, dirtied clothes, extremely swollen bellies, and protruding belly buttons.  Often, their shirts too small to accommodate for their extended bellies.

Malnutrition, disease, and desperation seemed to be the atmosphere in this town.

As I sat across from a seemingly empty home, I noticed a small girl, barely one, toddling down the street dressed in what would seem to us like mere rags.  No underwear or footwear.  She was scrounging for food on her own, no adult in sight.

In the yard of the empty house across the street, she found an empty metal bowl and wandered off purposefully with it.  My eyes were drawn to her, following her steps as she made her way past the next few houses.

Back home, this would have been unthinkable.  A toddler on her own, wandering the streets without supervision, without shoes, picking up filthy things and scrounging for food.

She quickly joined three young children sitting nearby.  As I approached, I quickly learned why.  One of them had a bowl of what might have been cornmeal.  She intentionally reached into the bowl of mush, grabbed a handful, dropped it into the bowl she had found, and had herself a feast.

I noticed that the other children did not get their feathers ruffled by her actions...  there were no "That's mine, she stole from me!!  Mom, make her stop...  get your own food, that's not yours!"

The whining of privileged children can not be heard here.  It has been silenced by desperation, and by nothing getting in the way of their hearts...

I don't have much, neither do you, let's combine resources, share what we can, and scratch out an existence.

Isn't this what community should be?

Wasn't this the role model of the early church?

And a little child shall lead them...

The photo above remains to this day, my favorite photo from our time in Cameroon.  It sums it all up, and brings me back to that village, that morning, when the world seemed to stand still, baited in the breath of these expectant children...  "Now that you've seen, how will you respond?"

I turned around, and there were more like them.  Everywhere we went... children, bellies swollen, either filled with despair and disease, or...  hope?  When hope is all you have, you hold it close.

As I lowered my camera, walked over to the children, and showed them their photo, I couldn't help but notice the girl on the far right.  She was perhaps about 7 years old, had a dress that was torn at the waist, ends dragging low to the ground, threadbare underwear showing through the gaping hole.  As I interacted with the children sitting on the edge of the house, it wasn't her clothes that captured my attention, it was her countenance.

I had seen it before.

Unable to meet my gaze, she stared at the ground, the weight of the world on her frail, bony shoulders.

Richard.

She reminded me of Richard.

Richard in the day and life of a modern day Cinderella.  Dejected and empty, she had completely lost her spark waiting for the invitation to the ball, waiting for hope.

She also reminded me of Hello Kitty Girl in Efong, as she seemed to also be struggling with possible disabilities.

There was more...  I saw my Jillian in her too, with her autism spectrum and learning disabilities at times overwhelming her with challenges.

Last but not least, of the little girl I went to Kindergarten with, the one with the crusty nose, dirty face, always stricken with sickness, the one with clothes that didn't always smell as good as the ones my own mom washed... she wasn't popular, sometimes didn't fit in, but she had such a lovely heart and such beautiful eyes.  I loved sitting with her on the bus and never forgot her even long after I moved.  I close my eyes and I see her face.

My heart has always hurt for the least of these, the poor, the broken, because I see myself in them.  I am one too.


I went back to where the team was waiting.  A team member and I spoke about her as we watched her, and we expressed our desire to provide her with a dress.  It didn't seem like much, but we did not have any dresses with us and weren't sure if the village had a shop where one could be purchased.  We asked one of the guides, he told us there was a seamstress just up the street.

I tenderly took the little girl's hand in mine, and motioned to her to come with me.  We walked, slowly and carefully, following the others up to the small shop up the street.  I wondered as I walked with her what was going through Cinderella's mind.  Was she afraid?  Confused?

As we approached the shop, I remember being thankful that I could not explain to her where we were going and why.  If they did not have a dress for her or could not help her, she wouldn't be further disappointed.  I wondered how much a dress would cost here?  What if I didn't have enough Cameroonian francs?

Walking into the shop, hand in hand, we looked up to see other members of the team holding up a beautiful dress with turquoise blue and white fabric.  It seemed as though time stood still for a few moments as we held it up to her, much like the fitting of the prized glass slipper...

Perfect fit.

Perfect price too, at only 4000 Cameroonian Francs.  My friend and I pooled our funds together, and purchased the dress for the little girl.  Throwing in a little extra, we asked the seamstress to repair her original dress and have it delivered to her mother, so that she could have a change of clothing.

In a blur of movement, the old dress was swiftly removed, and the new dress took its place.  She looked down in amazement, the light reaching her eyes.

We thanked the seamstress, and slowly walked her back to where we had found her.  As we walked, all eyes were upon her, and this time, there was a difference... her eyes were not glued to the ground.  She was looking at the world through a new perspective.  The world was, in turn, seeing her through a new perspective.

We knew this didn't solve the world's problems, that at the end of the day, this community still lives in the harsh shadows of the ongoing threat of cholera until the water project is completed...  but for a moment, for a sweet, tender moment...

We helped a little girl see that dreams do come true.  That she is not invisible.  That her life matters.  And that there is always hope.


As were were preparing to leave, the girl's mother, having seen and heard about the dress, tracked us down.  Not too hard to spot the group of Canadians in a small jungle village in Cameroon, she walked right up to us, and explained that she was the girl's mother.  Singling me out, with tears in her eyes, she thanked me for what we had done for her daughter.  I told her that I had kids too, that as a mother, we share the responsibility for the world's children, and that although we wanted to be able to do this for every girl, for every child, today, it was her daughter that we were able to do this for, and that it was an honor to come alongside of her and bless her daughter.

I gave her a big hug, and then crouched down to Cinderella, and shared a few last special moments with her, encouraging her, and loving on her.

I watched them leave as we began to gather around the Hilux, getting ready to leave the village and head back to Lewoh.  As we were waiting for a few more team members, I saw the mom rush back to our group, with a fresh coconut in her hands.  She extended the large coconut to me.  Such a tremendous gift.

Tears stung my eyes as I struggled to express to her that no thanks was needed, and smiled as I cupped my hands around the coconut, and held her eyes in mine as I gently pushed the coconut back into her hands, holding it with her for a moment, and telling her that what I wanted most of all was for her and her family to enjoy the coconut together and to have it as a celebration of this day, together as a family.  I have a peace that the love in my eyes reflected my gratitude back to her, and that she understood my heart in that moment.

From mother to mother, we understood each other.

Cameroon 2012: Pregnancy Simulation Hike

Feb 19, 2012 -- somewhere in Cameroon

My eyes opened 2 minutes before 6am, and without moving my head or my body, I listened...  no rain.  I waited a few more moments for the temperature to register, and was thankful once again that my prayers had been answered...  it was once again mild.  Given that this would be our longest and last hike, mild was merciful.

The moment I turned my head to check on Hairy Beast's hangout spot up in the corner, I realized that Hairy Beast was the least of my worries.  Dizzyness hit me with a vengeance, the room spinning and making my stomach turn.  Cold sweats came next.  This had all started the night before, and I knew it would get worse before it got better, but I didn't anticipate it getting this bad at all.  Looking around the room at everyone sleeping, I wondered if anyone else would wake up to this?

I got up and stumbled my way to the latrines, thankful for the tiny bit of daylight available, and the lack of roofs in what would be the cleanest latrines and most well lit ones we had access to in Cameroon.  The rain washed them out daily and the daylight poured in.

I wish the rain could come and wash this sickness away too.


There was no relief to be found.  Concerned, I wondered how I'd manage the longest hike yet while feeling like this, but thought that perhaps I could somehow stay hydrated and get through it.  I let the Captain know that I wasn't feeling well, but that I was going to do my best to finish the day's hike just the same.   Given that I hadn't yet complained on this trip, it didn't take much for him to quietly read between the lines -- the fact that I had said anything at all could only mean one thing -- I really wasn't feeling well.

As we were all waiting for our bags to get packed on the guides' motorcycles, a torrential downpour began.  This cooled the air a bit more, and gave us some extra time to rest up before the hike.  I had hoped that this would be enough to gain some strength back, but as we started to walk around 7:35, I knew it was going to take everything I had.  Somehow, the previous hike now seemed like a lovely stroll through the park.  Funny how contrasts change everything.

These were actual roads, as opposed to the jungle trails from the days before, but each step up the steep climbs was tough as I battled weakness, dizziness, and nausea.

With several stops at each village's fon/fondom palaces along the way, the 5+ hours of hiking would stretch out to a minimum 7-10 hour day.  Stopping when hiking is bittersweet - while the rest is welcomed, it makes it even harder to get going once you stop.


At the first place we stopped (or was it the second?), they offered us palm wine and cola nut.  I don't know what was worse, the sip of wine, or the taste of cola nut.  They claim that cola nut is good for settling upset stomachs -- uh-not-so-much...  it only made it worse.  The rest of the team seemed entertained by my facial expressions.  I was just trying not to gag or be rude!  :)


When I was about 7, my family went out to a seafood takeout place one summer evening.  I had fried clams.

I also had the flu.

After eating fried clams and puking nonstop for a day or two, I always associated fried clams with being sick.  It's purely psychological.  I know that if I wanted to eat fried clams, I simply would and I'd be fine, but the memory is strong enough to ensure that I will likely have no cravings for fried clams for, oh, say, a lifetime or so.

Now that I've experienced cola nut while ill, let's just say there's more of a chance that I'll ever crave fried clams than there is of me craving cola nut anytime between now and, oh, say, the end of eternity?

*shudder*

 We got going once again, the weather still fairly mild as we reached closer to mid-day.

After crossing a river on foot, I was offered a ride on the porter's motorcycle, but decided to press on for the time being, accepting only help carrying my two extra water bottles.

After the next fon palace, I was once again offered a ride.  I gave it some serious consideration for the first time, and while still deciding against it for the time being, I knew that I probably didn't have much resistance left in me.

As we approached the next village under the mid-day sun, my legs began to feel wobbly and every time I turned my head, the sights around me spun in slow motion.  The Captain asked how I was holding up, and I hesitated a little.  I don't remember what I said, but it was probably simply the fact that I didn't say "awesome" that tipped him off.  He called for a timeout and made us all pull over for a rest at an empty market area.  He bought us a round of bananas from a nearby woman, and we drank some more water.  I managed to keep the banana down, which surprised me.  I might even have eaten two, since they were fairly small.

After a bit of rest, I was good to give it another try.  My head was feeling a bit better, but my stomach felt as though I had heavy, hot stones in it.  Lava bowling balls, to be exact. I had been drinking water, but it didn't seem to want to go down at all.  Too many bowling balls in the way.

As we approached a very long, steep hill, the top of which we couldn't even see, I approached Kristen and admitted that I was considering hitching a ride to the top of the hill on the motorcycle, "If I accept some assistance on the toughest of hills, perhaps I can conserve some strength to be able to finish."  I explained that I didn't want to feel as though I let the team down or feel as though I had failed somehow to finish all the hikes in full.  Her answer put me at ease, and helped me affirm my decision.

I tried to focus on the positive -- how far I had come -- and not on the negative -- not being able to finish the entire week on foot, even though we were but a few miles from our hiking destination.

As we climbed up the hill, I had to shake my head... never in a million years would I have ever guessed that I'd be riding on the back of a motorcycle through the hills of a remote valley jungle in Cameroon.  Who knew?

The porter dropped me off and went back for Wendy.  The break was enough rest to keep me trekking down the other side of the hill quite a ways.  At the bottom of the next hill, he gave me one more ride.  I don't know if it was motion sickness or what, but moments after the second bike ride, I found myself on the side of the road, projectile puking into the bushes.  Some poor local happened upon the graphic scene -- I'm not sure what went through his mind, but after the third time of being violently ill, all that went through my mind was "hey, now I remember feeling this awful before...  pregnancy!"  Unfortunately, that wasn't the case this time around.  Then again, given that I felt like this for 40 weeks non-stop while pregnant, I guess one could say it was a relief that pregnancy was an impossibility.  One day was challenging enough.  280 days?

As quickly as I stopped puking and wiped my face, I kept on hiking.  It was simple -- the sooner we get there, the sooner this is over, right?

I walked for a while longer until the rest of the group caught up, and then I hitched another short ride to the school construction we'd be visiting next.

The classroom behind where I had been seated was filled with young children learning French.  I stepped into the classroom was was greeted by a well rehearsed "Bonjour Madame!"  I spoke with them in French for a few minutes, and then asked if they had a song to sing.  They broke into a song about Jesus, which brought tears to my eyes.

As the ceremony began, the kids all piled outside even though it had begun to rain, and sang a prayer over our team for safe travels, asking God to protect us home and thanking Him for having brought us to do good work here.  What an emotional experience... it was obvious that the construction of the school was vital here.  It would be hard to erase the image of rain soaked children in outdoor classrooms, with insufficient shelter from the elements, thanking God for the provision of a cement block school building to bring ease to their schooling.

As we were preparing to leave, I stood up to test out my legs and see how much more hike I had left in me, if any. I so wanted to finish with the group, to get through this strongly, but as I stood, the whole slow motion spin thing was happening again.  I knew then, in that moment, that I had managed the last of my hiking for that day.  I could simply not keep going.  I had done my best, and then some.  Accepting help and defeat is not a sign of weakness, it's also a sign of strength.

The fact that we only had a short distance to go helped with the disappointment, along with the knowledge that I really had no choice.  Wendy and I ended up both getting a ride to the village.  As we waited for the rest of the team, the village chairman's grandson climbed into my lap, and snuggled comfortably against me, not moving, just basking in being held.  Maybe he didn't feel all that great either.

Once the whole team arrived, we walked to the guest house, getting there late in the afternoon.  In all, I estimated that I had managed roughly 80-85% of the day's distance on foot.  My body was paying for it, though.  I was running a fever, and was completely exhausted.

I laid down on the cold cement floor, and within seconds, I fell into a deep sleep.  I don't know how much time passed before I woke up, all I know was that my body likely hadn't even twitched or moved the whole time I was asleep.  I was still running a low-grade fever, so I cooled off in the river for a while, made sure to keep my water intake up, and kept praying for it to pass.  I rested on and off until supper, and had a great night's sleep.  By the next morning, I felt much better.

 

Cameroon 2012: Sundays Are For Seeing

This is one of the last few posts from our time in Cameroon, a continuation from where this post left off...

Feb 19th, 2012

The team had heard that since the women who had been hired to help with the cooking would have to miss church due to their workload, I would "do church" with them.  Some seemed baffled by this, but I can understand that.  I'm not a pastor, or anyone qualified in anyone's eyes to lead a service.

From my perspective, though, "church" is simply the gathering of Christians in His name, a place where sinners meet at His feet.  The only thing I didn't understand was what He said about "where two or more are gathered in My name, there I will be..." since, after all, He's there even when we're alone.

The "church" is also a community, the body of Christ, where everyone is equal in His eyes and we are there to serve one another in His name.  The body shares their resources, whatever is needed, God provides through a member of the body.  That is simply how I saw the gathering I had with these women on this Sunday morning.  As they prepared food for our bodies, I would simply share spiritual food for our souls.

Bible in hand, I wandered out to the courtyard kitchen in the back of the guest house, and joined the women gathered low to the ground, preparing the mid-day meal.  I presented Dominica my Bible, and asked if she was able to read it.  She looked at the small font of the small, travel sized Bible, and said that sometimes, her eyesight isn't great, but she could read it.  I asked her if she ever had a Bible, or read one, and she shook her head.  She leaned to me and asked me to show her where the ten commandments were.  We turned to Exodus, and spent the next half hour reading through the commandments together, discussing what they meant, and how, when followed, they each led to a peaceful, well-ordered society.  We also discussed the disciples asking Jesus which of these were the most important laws, and we talked about His answer, and why it was such.  I loved the purposeful yet simple conversation, the common ground we all shared, the opportunity to learn from one another.  A few children gathered around us to listen in, as did a few men who had stood nearby.

She asked which church or religion I belonged to, and I explained that in some ways, I don't know how to answer that.  Technically, I grew up in the Catholic church, and I now attend the Wesleyan church, but I don't consider myself either one of those, nor do I see church as a building, a place.  I only consider myself a member of the body of Christ, a Christian, plain and simple, a sinner in need of a savior.  I took the opportunity to share how I felt about religion itself, by turning to Micah 6:8 and sharing what the Lord says about religion, pure religion...  "Seek Justice, Love Mercy, Walk Humbly with your God".  I admitted to them that I am still working my way through that scripture, in search of pure religion lived out through me.  What does it mean for my life?

One of the women reached out and touched my necklace, asking about it, turning the cross pendant over and seeing the scripture on the back.

Reaching up to run my fingers on the deep groves where my life scripture had been permanently etched, tears came to my eyes.  Smiling through the tears, I turned to 2 Cor 4:7-18 in the Bible I had brought, and we read it out loud, together, stopping every few verses to explain, discuss, share.  The world disappeared as we gathered over these words, timeless as they were, relevant to us all...  and yet I couldn't help but wonder what went through these women's minds as I shared my heart on this scripture while watching their strong, calloused hands chop vegetables...

their weary, weighted shoulders...

their aching backs...

the depth of understanding in their eyes...

all too achingly familiar.

What went through their minds, while sharing His words on being hard pressed, perplexed, persecuted and struck down, death and life intertwined -- real life, real hardship, real suffering...  What went through the minds of these women who live it daily and had lived it their entire lives.  Did they see me, my smile, my white skin, my material wealth by contrast, as someone who can not relate or does not understand them?  Did they recognize me as one of their own, or do they see me as someone who has not earned the ability to preach about this scripture from experience?

Do they see beyond the surface, beyond the crimson bead of blood, the stain of sin, beyond the white pearl reminder that He hung His life against the cross to purify those stains?

Do they see beyond the small heart, curved and cupped like His hand, cradling us, reminding us to Whom we belong, to Whom we ALL belong... we are His?

Do they see far beyond the small pressed cross and see the invisible one, the one pressed against my life?  The one with scars that bend my knees low, my body tired, my heart wrung and wrecked, and my soul longing for Home?

Do they see that, like them, I've known little else but this, the brokenness He speaks of?   That I, too, sometimes wonder if anyone can relate?

Do they see beyond, beyond the surface, beyond who I really am, beyond me...  and see why I am, there, more at home among them than elsewhere?  Do they see Him somewhere in me?

(Re-Post) Walk Run By Faith

My beloved friend Karen, I'm re-posting this in your honor -- this is the answer to your question.

Walk  Run By Faith

Originally posted on April 19th, 2011.

Although I had planned to run early that morning, it was well past 1pm and I was beginning to lose my early morning steam.   Would I get to run before I ran out of energy?

So eager to start my run, restless and excited, yet I knew that stopping by the store to pick up headphones first would be worth it.  There's just something about having to hold headphones in your ears to keep them from falling out that just doesn't go well with running, you know?  On the bright side, the brisk walk back to the car after picking up the headphones could act as a mini warm-up, gearing me up for a great run.

I got to the running trail only to discover my mp3 battery was completely dead.  Nice!  So that's the kind of run it was going to be, with satan obviously also warming up for the challenge, but I refused to give in before the running began.  Undeterred, I drove to the nearest convenience store and after paying a king's ransom for 2 AA batteries, I returned to the beginning of the running trail and began to pray.

Minutes before 2pm, I locked the car, clipped my keys to my water bottle, and went to the starting point.

Right at 2pm, with Chris Tomlin's "Exhalted" pouring in through my new headphones, I began my first attempt at a 10K run.

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The most unnatural thing about running for me is how natural it feels.   Until early last fall, my body and my health were losing a battle that had lasted months and left me struggling day to day, barely able to walk without being wracked with pain and exhaustion.  Over 50lbs lost, and no answers to be found.

When all else failed and the tests still showed abnormal results without further answers, we considered the possibility of a spiritual attack.   I weighed the possibility and told myself that I had nothing left to lose by trying to counteract such an attack.  A plan began:  I would begin to walk around the neighborhood each night, an act of defiant faith that would send a clear message to satan that I wasn't going to let him win.

It might have not seemed like much, but given the condition my body was in, it would be an uphill battle.  I was determined to outrun these attacks with everything I had in me, figuring that whatever I didn't have, God would simply have to provide.


Armed with a photo of my best friend Tia running on our vacation last summer, I started walking late at night on September 14th, 2010.  At the end of the first stretch, when it was time to turn the corner and walk in the other direction, my feet began to jog.  It was an involuntary and unintentional decision on my body's part.  When I realized my feet were jogging, I kept looking down at them, and trying to understand what was happening.  All I could do was laugh incredulously... jogging?  How was that even possible? Talk about feeling like I was really losing my ever lovin' mind...

I walked the next block, and then considered jogging the next stretch.  It seemed daunting.  I wanted to, so badly, but it seemed so utterly impossible.  I could barely breathe, everything hurt.  What was I thinking trying this anyway?!

In the end, I envisioned Tia waiting for me at the corner, cheering me on, and somehow, God gave my body what it needed to do it.  I jogged that block and a half, and walked the rest of the way home.   I couldn't wait to call her to share what had just happened.


That first walk was not quite a mile.


Somehow, within a week, I began doing a 3.8 mile loop through the neighborhood.  It still felt surreal.  I considered the first 3.8 loop a huge success and celebrated when I finished at 1h 20 minutes.

Encouraged, I challenged myself to try to beat it.   Armed with some worship music and the darkness and coolness of night, I worked hard at it several times a week, increasing the jogging to walking ratio as much as I could as my body became stronger.

Not long after I had started, my health hit a brick wall again, and I came home from work one night barely able to make it up the front steps.  I crawled into bed, not even taking my shoes off, and I called Tia to let her know I didn't have it in me to run that night.  I told her how awful I felt and it was then that she said something that I'd never forget...  "Now that you're sick again, how will you respond, and what will you choose to believe?"

I got up, got ready to run, and bolted out the door.  I made it home from the 3.8 loop in record time.


Within another month or so, I had succeeded in doing the loop in under an hour.  Initially not imagining that I'd ever do this long term (I still struggled to understand that I was doing this at all!), I was running in the only pair of sneakers I had... a basic pair of Sketchers.    Tia tried to convince me to buy two pairs of "real running shoes".

I knew what she was saying made sense, but I struggled with the thought of paying so much for a pair of shoes, never mind two.  She insisted.  I balked.  She insisted some more.  I rolled my eyes at her.  When I found two pairs on eBay for less than half the price of one pair, I made her proud and gave her the satisfaction of saying "I told you so!"  She really was right, running with running shoes makes all the difference.

Looking at them was strange, though, yet another reminder that this was real, that God has given me the strength to do this.

Two years ago, I only owned one pair of shoes in total.  What a journey it's been!

________________________________________

Back on the running trail....  I'm still running, I don't know what time it is and I refuse to look.  I only know that I've just reached the 4K mark on my 10K run.

One more kilometer, and I will have matched the distance I ran in Michigan.  I was beginning to feel the physical challenge of the run, and satan knew it.  He wasted no time whispering lies in my ears:

"You don't really want to do this, do you?  Why are you doing this anyway?  What does it matter?  10K?  Have you looked at yourself?  You're being ridiculous!"

"You'll never be a runner, much less look like one."

"Four kilometers is enough, it's taken so much of your time already, why don't you just pack it up and go home?"

"If you really want to know how long it takes to run 10K, just quit now and use basic math.  It'll do."

"You'll get past 5K and you won't be able to finish, you really can't do this and you know it... you'll fail and feel worse in the end.  Give up now."

The more he spewed his lies, the harder it was to tune him out.    I defiantly cranked up the worship music and sprinted to the 5K mark, briefly weighing my options -- listen to him and quit, or believe in the God Who was breathing life in me?

As the 5K mark came into view, I increased my pace and grinned as I hit the granite marker with my hand in a "high 5" on the way by, Tia's words speaking louder and louder in my heart.

"How will you respond?  What will you choose to believe?"

Looking down at the time, I realized that I had just beat my time in Michigan by a full 5 minutes.

I kept running.

With the wind pushing hard against me and my ears beginning to ache from the cold, I kept running along the harbour to the 6K marker, refusing to give in and give up.  Even though it was increasingly harder with hills ahead that seemed to grow steeper and longer, every step defied his lies and spoke only of what He could do.


I kept running, at times hands raised in worship, passing by the 6K marker knowing how significant this next part would be... I had never ran more than 6km.

I. kept. running.

I ran on the slippery winter gravel covered sidewalk toward the steep hill leading up to the 7K marker.  I couldn't see the marker from where I was running, but I could feel the force pulling me to it and I couldn't help but keep putting one foot in front of the other.

I barely remember running up that hill.  It all seemed effortless.

Reaching the 7K marker not only meant that I got the fun of running DOWN that steep hill for a change (wheeeee!!), but also that I was on the home stretch with only 3K to go directly to the finish line.

As I reached the 8K marker and high 5'd it exuberantly on the way by, I realized something.   I could no longer hear satan's attacks and lies -- nothing stood in the way of my faith in God, and more beautiful than that, I could sense God's encouragement.

"You can do all things through Christ who strengthens you."

"Doubt is the absence of belief -- by not accepting satan's lies, you are outrunning disbelief."

"Your heart beat whispers 'I love... I love... I love...'  Your footsteps now have a song of their own too -- they sing 'I believe... I believe... I believe....!'"

"I can do immeasurably more than you could ever imagine or ask for.  Remember this, always."


Feeling the wind at my back as I high 5'd the 9K mark, I considered again His promises of doing more than we could ever imagine or ask for, and I immediately thought of His plans to provide resources to release children from slavery in the Lake Volta region of Ghana...

"If He could breathe in me what it takes to run 10K, imagine how much more He'd do for these kids?"

In my heart, I could see the Lake Volta kids, their faces filled with hope as I rounded the corner to the last marker.  I saw them with an understanding that the same God who made the unlikeliest of women run would use that same unlikely woman to provide for them.   After all, the only thing He asked Moses at the Red Sea was to take a step forward in faith, and that's really all He was requiring of me as well.    He would do the rest.

I kept running.

I reached the 10K marker and looked down at the time... and I immediately burst into joyous laughter -- "unlikely and impossible" was no match for God, indeed.

1 hour, 20 minutes.

In the same amount of time it took me to walk 3.8 miles last fall, I had run 6.2 miles.  He shows us He loves us in such beautiful ways.



There was also something significant missing from the laughter -- disbelief -- and the absence of disbelief was just what I needed to register for the half marathon in October.  It no longer seemed unlikely and impossible.

If I had walked away without finishing that run, I would have missed out on SO much. I truly believe that when we close our hand to what He asks of us, we also close our hand to what He wants to bless us with.

________________________________

Ghana Through His Eyes -- Guest Post

Meeting some of our Compassion children, encountering severe poverty for the first time, spending time with trafficked children and taking part in the negotiations to rescue child slaves...  not your everyday teenage boy's experience.  

Joshua and I were invited by Compassion International to share his perspective on his experiences in Ghana this past November, as well as how it felt as his mother to provide this experience to him.  

We shared in this post on their website today:  Changing One Teenager's Perspective

To read my other guest posts on their website, click here:  JD / Compassion 

Cameroon 2012: Worth More Than Peanuts

After the day’s 5 hour hike, we were in dire need of a good cleaning once we arrived in Menji, the village where we’d be staying for two days.   

I’ll be honest, it felt rather convicting to feel as though I had somehow earned that luxury by merely hiking from one village to another, given that these people exert that much effort on a regular basis, and it’s nothing out of the ordinary for them.  There are teachers that walk that far to work in the valley during the week.  Some walk further. 

Church alone is nearly a two hour walk from Menji, a walk that many faithfully make every Sunday morning, as well as for additional church services.  Regardless of the physical exertion we’d put out that day, cleanliness required water, and water was precious and scarce. 

Our best option was a local stream an easy 10 minute walk past Menji.  Captain Ed offered to walk the women to the stream so he could show us where to bathe, and while we bathed, he would hike back to Menji and get the boys. 

The best place to bathe was just below a shallow waterfall that flowed under an old footbridge.  The water was cool, clear, and refreshing to our tired, dirty and achy bodies. 

It felt so good to have an opportunity to wash up!  I had brought goat milk soap, and used a bit to wash off what seemed to be an inch of caked dirt and sweat off of me.  Once I washed up, I chose to sit down in an area of the river that enabled my body to be submerged up to my shoulders, that way I’d let most of my body soak, but not get my hair wet.  It was so good for our limbs to float, gently supported by the water. 

Wendy sat nearby as well, each of us allowing our tired muscles to soak, relax, and cool down, while watching a gorgeous array of butterflies converged on the opposite shore.  

It was mesmerizing to see so many varieties of butterflies in one place, especially the ones with unusual color combinations that we would not have the opportunity to see back home, such as black and aqua.   

As my eyes adjusted to the colors in the stream and the flow of the water, I began to easily track the movement of fish swimming nearby.  There were so many!  As I kept watching them, I realized that their movement was unusual but familiar...  It took me a moment to realize that these weren’t regular fish, but seemed more in line with a plecostamus or “algae eaters”.  They would hover above all the rocks, moving slowly as they fed off the algae on the rocks, but would bolt as soon as they sensed nearby movement.  Traditional plecostamus originate from South America, so these weren’t likely true plecostamus, I don’t know, but they were a very similar style of fish as far as swimming movement, behavior, and activity went.  I’m surprised that with as many of these fish as there were, that they’d be any algae left anywhere in the stream!

Glad that these weren’t piranhas!  As long as they stuck to algae and not flesh, all was cool!  :o)

Back at our guest house in Menji, we ate supper and prepared our sleep area for the night by claiming a spot on the ground where we’d prefer to sleep, and getting our sleeping bags set up while we still had the advantage of daylight.  As we were going about preparing our spots, someone noticed that we had unexpected company.  Maybe to this enormous brown hairy spider, we were the unexpected company. 

(One of the team members took a photo -- once the photo is available, I will share -- I know y'all want to see it!)

Isn't he lovely?  Those boards are 4 inches across, just for some basic size reference...

Hairy Beast, as I’ve chosen to name him, was resting on a wooden beam above us, and didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get anywhere.  I wasn’t alarmed, but I must admit I made a mental note to periodically check to ensure it was still there.  It seemed preferable to me for it stay in that spot, rather than to find him wandering through our sleeping bags in order to find a dark and cozy corner in which to sleep... especially given that I had chosen the corner spot to rest my head that night...  just sayin’!   

On a good note, no one had said that all spiders in Cameroon were venomous!  Still, something about this one didn’t seem overly innocuous.  Had any of us suffered from arachnophobia, he/she would have been able to add insomnia to their list of issues for the next lil’ while...  at least until the sight of this spider the size a human hand faded from memory.

The kids... oh my heart, the kids...  It was altogether different than what I had witnessed in Honduras and Ghana.  The kids here seemed subdued, reserved, and rarely approached us, choosing instead to observe us from a distance.  Most of the time, when they approached, an adult would "shoo" them away from us.  

At one point, we were served fresh roasted peanuts, and one of the children who had lined up against the wall with a dozen other kids approached one of the adults that lived there to ask for some, and he was harshly reprimanded.  

Dejected, the young boy returned to sit by the wall. 

I stopped my mid-afternoon journaling to wrap my mind around what I was witnessing, and began to think back to earlier interactions I had witnessed between local adults and children...  

Time and time again, I had seen what I can only describe as adults treating children as though they are stray dogs.  It’s a harsh description, but here, children come last, they are pushed away, and seem to be invisible.  

The more I watched, the more my heart broke.  

I got up, went to get a handful of peanuts from the tray, and went in search of the boy who had been pushed aside, his needs/wants dismissed.  I called him to me, looked into his eyes and smiled as I opened his hand, and quietly gave him the nuts.  I tenderly touched his face and communicated love to him without words.  

After all, are not a boy's heart and spirit worth so much more than a mere handful of peanuts? 

I was aware that doing so could cause trouble, as children learn quickly in this harsh environment that they can take advantage of our presence there and beg aggressively...  and we'd had such issues already in Cameroon.

Still...  there are times when we are called to be love against the grain, and this was one of those times.  

It had less to do with the food than it had to do with this boy’s crushed spirit.  

Children need to know they matter to someone, that someone notices them with love.

As much as it pained me to see their dirty faces, their torn clothes, their bellies swollen with parasites and malnutrition, their hunger... 

Perhaps it hurt more to see that these children are not suffering from such things as much as they're suffering from the world's lack of compassion.  I'm so thankful to the ones who do reach out to these children, to the broken, the hurt, the sick, the poor, the oppressed, the enslaved, the lost...  may it lead to a viral outbreak of compassion that touches the lives of each and every one of those in need.

I spent time with the kids who were on the outside, looking in.  I took their photos, and made them laugh, paying attention to each and every one of them individually. 

A young girl was carrying a precious baby on her back, and I asked her for permission to hold the baby.  I wandered up and down the courtyard, completely lost in this beautiful little girl’s eyes that I held in my arms.  The world could have stood still, and I’m not certain I would have noticed.  I eventually had to give her back, much to my chagrin, and doing so made my arms ache from the emptiness, but there were so many more kids who were hungry for attention.                                    

The activities for the following day were optional, so I asked Dominica, the woman who had been hired to cook for us, if she attended church in the area on Sundays.  She said that yes, she normally went to a Catholic church in the area.  I asked her where it was, and if I could accompany her.  She said that it was a little less than a 2 hour walk, but that since she was cooking for our team, she wouldn’t be able to attend church the following morning.  It deepened my appreciation even more for the hospitality she extended to us. 

I asked if she had a Bible, she said that she had never owned a Bible, and she did not have one available.  I shared that I had brought a Bible, and offered to join her in the morning as she did our meal preparation – if she couldn’t go to the church, we’d simply bring church to her!  She chuckled and agreed, and said “Ok, we will see you in the morning, then!” 

As I was sitting outside at the table that evening, journaling by flashlight while the team hung out and swapped stories, I began to think of Dominica not having a copy of the Bible, and how difficult it would be to get to know God intimately without His words, His love letter to us, His guidance in written texts. 

(One of my Bibles, March 2010)

All through this trip, I had taken advantage of any down time we had to study my Bible and journal, and I couldn’t imagine not having His Word at my fingertips.  It’s the first thing I pack, the only thing I really truly need.  I thought back to the other Bibles I had at home...  the Greek & Hebrew Study Bible, a Mom’s Devotional Bible, a NIV/Message Parallel Study Bible, as well as several others, along with the Bible app on my phone...  

How rich are we, to have more than enough, when the opposite of extreme poverty is simply “enough”?   

Even as much as I give, I still have too much.

I thought of the small sacrifice it would be to go without a Bible for the following 7 days, in order for someone seeking His word to have one for countless years...  I could give her the Bible I had brought with me.  Nothing less than that would ever make sense.  I just wished I could do more while I was there, with her.

As I was journaling, some of my team mates asked about my journal, what kind of things I write, and whether I'd be willing to share.  I said I'd be willing to read a few pages to them if they'd like, so they joked that we could have tomorrow night's round-of-beers non-campfire activity as "JD reading from her journal."  Although in the end it didn't happen, they're welcomed to read bits and pieces of it on these blog pages.  As for the paper version, the journal was quickly filling up.  My Bestie had prepared this journal and sent it to me just for this trip, so that I could write during my down time.  She had written a letter in the beginning pages, as well as tucked letters of encouragement in the back for me to open as I felt led to.  In the journal's pages, she randomly wrote secret little notes and messages to make me smile.  My favorite was "Still writing, eh?!"  She knows me well.

I still had so much to journal, but the light I had tucked into my bandana to light the pages was attracting an increasing number of bugs, which was in turn drawing the bats to me.  They were swooping around my head in search of a late night snack.  

It was well past time to go to bed anyway, my mind was doing the craziest things the longer I stayed up – like considering going for a run the following morning...  I had walked, hiked and climbed in Africa, but never run...  Someday, I will – but not this Sunday.  

Unless I end up having to chase a snake, or outrun Hairy Beast’s 8 long hairy legs?

Cameroon 2012: Aim Here, Hike There

Imagine yourself as having a finely tuned sense of direction, always knowing where you are geographically and being able to picture a location on a map very easily, kind of like the gift of an internal GPS.

That's me.

The area of Cameroon we were in was so isolated, so remote, so complex... the twists and turns of the trails so confusing and confounding that my internal GPS threw its hands in the air and completely cried uncle.

I'm still not sure I know where we really were...

...Or what it would have really taken for me to cry uncle too.

Feb 18, 2012 -- Hike from Njilap to Mengi, aka "This Is The Hike That Never Ends!!"
(and, subsequently, the pictureless post that never ends!)

As a photographer, I'm used to bringing my camera with me in spite of the added weight of the gear.  It's a small inconvenience for the ability to capture moments and experiences in photos.  Today, though, the decision wasn't a matter of inconvenience, it was a matter of being able to complete the hike.  The ten pounds of camera gear would slow me down, and given the pace we usually kept, there'd be little opportunity to use it anyway.  My priorities that day were the 2 bottles of water I'd have to carry, beef jerky, a sweat rag, and a strengthened spirit.

Captain Smith advised us to wear long pants for the hike, as we'd be trekking through the jungle and the low-lying vegetation and thorns would likely cut and scrape our legs as we hiked.  We did not need to offer an invitation for infection to set in.

Long pants...  I was dumbfounded.  Long pants, in Cameroon?  Yes, my prayers for rain had been answered once more, but the last thing I considered packing when preparing to travel to Africa was pants.

I am Canadian.  I can't imagine African weather being cold to me, in any season, under any condition.  Nor can I imagine wearing pants on a hike.  I'm known for jogging in capris in the dead of winter in Canada.

So capris it was.  It was the only option aside from sarongs, and the kind of hiking we were expecting today simply didn't call for a sarong, you know?  It would be the third day I would wear my capris without washing them, but Joshua had gone through worse in Ghana and he turned out just fine (we took longer to recover!).  There was probably no point to putting on clean clothes anyway.  We'd had no running water in Njilap, and hadn't showered since leaving Lewoh.

I had felt conflicted about adding the weight of my camera gear to my large hiking bag, since a porter would be responsible to carry that increased weight.  Peace came from envisioning a strong, fit man easily carrying this bag, used to carrying heavy weights in this kind of environment and terrain.

Walking outside to find a group of children awaiting to carry our large hiking bags made me stop dead in my tracks.

This backpack was made for an adult to carry, both in size and in weight, and here these kids were, willing to help because they knew we were helping provide schools to their communities, and because they'd earn a dollar or two...  for an hour or two of heavy duty hiking.

As we all stood outside nearly speechless, one child took someone's hockey bag, plopped it on his head, and started up the hill seemingly effortlessly.  Months of helping carry sand bags back and forth from the river to the school, perhaps?

The child with my back pack was struggling to balance the weight of it on his body.  I'm not sure he weighed more than the bag itself.  The waist belt, even fully tightened, slipped past his hips and rested loosely on his thighs.  The only saving grace was that the chest straps helped keep the shoulder straps in place.  He never complained, and quickly joined the other children, but it still wasn't well with my spirit.  The contrast between the hard work these children were willing to do, and the avoidance of hard work so many kids struggled with back home was tough to see.

In ways, as hard as it was to see children laboring so hard for every aspect of their lives, I felt just as much heartbreak over what our own kids are missing due to their sheltered and slothful lifestyles.  Our children all too often choose the path of least resistance.  At what cost?

Where is the balance in it all?


The last thing to do before beginning the hike was to embark upon another "NCA" -- Nature Call Adventure.  Joined by my trusty latrine partner in crime, Wendy, we set out to take care of business.  Before we had a chance to do that, however, we discovered, in graphic and gruesome fashion, that previous NCA participants had experienced some issues hitting their target in the sole latrine stall in the neighborhood.

I was familiar with the "Cook This, Not That" Kitchen Survival Guide books on making better lifestyle choices, but before I had a chance to stop the trainwreck of thoughts (brainwreck?), I began to wonder how well an "Aim Here, Not There" African Latrine Survival Guide would sell.  You never know, there may be a niche for such a thing -- wait, there was!  We could simply target the perfect candidate in our midst, for starters.  Uhm, speaking of targets...  I can only assume that this anonymous squatter knew to aim for the hole in the floor beneath him or her.  How, then, does it end up at least a foot high up on the wall behind them?  Does gravity do weird things in Cameroon, or...?

When it became our turn, all we could think of was "don't back up.... don't back up... don't lose your balance...  stay away from the wall..."  Not the easiest feat while enclosed in a 3 foot by 3 foot space with your pants around your ankles.  By this point, thankfully, we were well experienced and we succeeded without incident.

These are all the things no one warns you about when it comes to mission trips.  Consider yourself warned.  You're welcome. 


We started up the same trail we had hiked the day before.  This time, we would hike past the school and continue much further until we reached Menji.

To this day, I don't know how I ever got the impression that this hike would last roughly one and a half hours.  I was convinced that we'd hike the 45 minute to the school, continue another 45 minutes or so, and soon reach Menji.  I was mentally prepared for exactly that, even though really, each day, my mind was prepared for something incredibly intangible.  There were always so many conflicting opinions and reports on how long each hike would take, that we all took them with a grain of salt, following only Captain Smith's lead, and packing the exact amount of water he told us to.  I never truly had any idea what to expect in terms of challenge, hike, terrain, time, difficulty level, and my ability to push through the physical demands each day brought.

This day would be no different.

Once past the school, we kept hiking through the valley jungle, on well worn footpaths and tiny trails.  The path was tricky and very uneven, at times less a path and more a pile of treacherous rocks, usually at a downhill incline.  Some stretches of rock strewn paths were steep enough to warrant needing to brace ourselves with our hands as we squatted down to the next footing, and the next, and the next, being careful not to lose our footing on the slippery rocks, damp from the previous night's rain.

Through streams, heavy vegetation, steep descents and the humidity of the jungle, we hiked well past the school before stopping for bananas offered by a generous villager.  As much as the reprieve from the hike was welcomed, I knew from the previous hikes that it would make starting again all the harder.  There was little opportunity to stretch properly and really rest, but at the same time, it may have been easier for me to just keep hiking and keep up the momentum.

Once we had finished our bananas and drank some of our water, we continued our trek.  It was easier to lose track of time and get distracted from how hard the hike was when we engaged into a conversation with a fellow hiker, so for a while, Captain Smith and I chatted while hiking.  Wendy and I had a good laugh when he asked her if she was more comfortable with him going ahead of her on steep descents, or behind him.  She said she preferred for him to go in front in case she fell and needed a good place to land.  We laughed, and I told them that I'd rather he go behind me, so that should I fall, he'd not get injured and could help me get back up!  As incredibly muscular as he was, there would have been no soft landing either way! :D


The descent into the valley was probably beautiful, but I must admit that I did not see much of it.  Since we were in a heavily forested area, we couldn't see very far ahead or enjoy a panoramic view of the valley from where we hiked, but even if that hadn't been an issue, our eyes would have still been glued to the ground ahead of each of our steps.  One missed step, and our mission could have ended up being a medical rescue effort.

From time to time, we'd be blessed with brief flat trails winding through the jungle in a gentle descent; a sweet albeit short reprieve in between tougher stretches.


There was something missing on this hike -- fear.  I don't always notice its absence, since I simply know that I don't have fears.  I would notice its presence more as it would be a shock to me.  I think that had I been afraid to trek through the remote, wet jungles of Cameroon in difficult terrain, with bugs, and questionable plants and wildlife all around, including those infamous snakes, or simply harboring the fear of something "bad" happening, it would have caused constant hesitation and slowed me down considerably.  Over and over again, I witnessed the gift of a strong mind, and how it could counteract a weaker body by strengthening it through self-control.

I ended up with an extra portion of protein when I swallowed an unidentified flying insect.  At least I hope it was an insect.  Something about adding 6 legs sounds so much better than 8...  for the record, it wasn't very palatable and burned the whole way down.

Though I had managed to keep my balance the previous day on the muddy slopes leading into Njilap, I took my first real jungle tumble that morning when my foot slid on a wet rock and my knee ferociously kissed the ground without warning, sending me tumbling to the ground in the process.  Since we were hiking in close proximity to one another and in single file, I stood up nearly as quickly as I had fallen, and without hesitation, kept on trekking.  I quipped that provided I didn't hear a bone crack in two, I was good to go.

Even though I had fallen, all the core strength training had turned out to be such an advantage for these hikes, the balance and strength coming in handy in the uneven terrain.  Now, if only I had trained in holding my balance while crouched in a latrine with my pants around my ankles, trying to aim while avoiding topping over under the watchful eyes of spiders the size of dinner plates...



About half an hour later, I noticed my knee stinging a bit, and saw that I had scraped it in that fall. The sweat on my skin stung as the saltiness irritated the wound.  I poured a bit of my drinking water onto my knee to rinse off the sweat, and after a few minutes, couldn't feel the sting anymore.  When a torny branch scraped up my leg as I passed by, I did the same, soaking my sock a bit in the process.  Thankfully I had worn my running socks, which wicked away the moisture.

My hands kept slipping from my walking stick from the humidity, so I decided to wrap my sweat rag around the top of the walking stick to create a hand grip.  This was so much more comfortable, and probably spared me from getting a few blisters on my hands.


The pace I had kept since we had left Njilap was beginning to slow, and I looked at my watch to see how close we might be to reaching our destination.  Surely we had passed the school 45 minutes ago, if not more...

Imagine my shock to discover that we had been hiking for nearly 3 hours.  It was at this point that I realized that the "wakka wakka stroll" was really a "wakka wakka that never ends."  Wakka wakka was the Cameroon Pidgin English word for walk/hike/trek, and it was used in many a dry humored remark about the physical demands of our hikes.

Three hours...  time in Africa is so nebulous, so hard to grasp firmly.  I was amazed and baffled to learn that we hadn't reached Menji yet.  Where exactly was this place?

I knew I had plenty of steam to keep going, but with my legs getting tired, it would only get harder from this point forward.  I knew better than to push for an idea of how far from Menji we really were.  My intuition told me it'd be better not to know.  (Apparently, my intuition hadn't lost its touch...)


God provided another distraction in order to push through the exhaustion.  I struck up a conversation with Kristen, who was hiking behind me at the time.  I shared with her that as much as the mission and purpose of this trip for me was fully humanitarian in nature, it was also fully personal:  a celebration of all the hard work that made it possible to take part in this, as well as the affirmation of how far I'd come.  There'd be no finish line, no glamorous bling, no fanfare...  just a profound sense of gratitude and victory.  Last but not least, perhaps it was just what I needed to help me reach my next milestones on the road to health.

We talked about my weight loss journey, the gym, the personal training and coaching Tia had provided, how I started running, etc.  She's really into fitness, so it was fun to connect over common ground and point out which somewhat more obscure muscles were taking a beating in that hike.  I shared how it felt to be the only overweight member of this team in the midst of this physically demanding environment, how I felt like a marathon runner showing up for a world class event in sweat pants and Sketchers, but that I didn't want to let that slow me down from what I was capable of.  My body might be weak, but through God, my spirit knows no limit.

When talking to Kristen about my weight loss to date and my end goal, we realized that my end goal was to   have lost the equivalent of her current weight.  I told her that someday soon, I'd email her and say "There... I did it... I finally lost you!"  :D

The conversation with Kristen made a difference -- it not only helped distract me from the fatigue, but it also helped me refocus and remember how hard I had fought for this, and how determined I was to finish it well.


I wasn't the only one getting tired.  Even Michael, who I was convinced had Go Go Gadget Springs in his knees which made him bounce down the trail effortlessly, was easier to keep up with.  We were beginning to move along in the same tired pace.  Three hours and thirty minutes after leaving Njilap, Amanda asked how long before we stopped.  We were probably all wondering the same thing, each of us getting an ever growing case of "Are We There Yet".

The Cameroonian guide grimaced and said something like "wakka wakka an hour".  Thinking he was serious, she nearly broke down.  As he started to laugh, they rounded a corner only to have her discover that we had reached our first pit stop:  Lekeng.  He had known this stop was just up ahead.



The kids who were carrying our packs were waiting for us in Lekeng.  They claim they had been waiting for us in Lekeng for about two hours when we finally showed up, which meant that they had somehow managed to trek to Lekeng from Njilap in roughly an hour and a half.  In flip flops or bare feet, no less, carrying loads half the size of shopping carts and weighing nearly the equivalent of their body weight!

It brought forward memories of working with the child slaves in Ghana, but the only difference was that these children were free to do this if they chose, and they would be paid.

We walked over an incredible wooden bridge as we entered Lekeng.  The boards were built seemingly haphazardly over a stream and rock crevace, creating a walkway perched on and around huge boulders.  So beautiful, and so amazing to think the effort it took to bridge the gap between the jungle and this small village.  There ain't no Home Depot in this town -- in fact, we only saw 2-3 people in the entire village, aside from our team.

We rested at an empty local market for a bit before continuing.  I stretched out for a few minutes on a bamboo pole table that would normally display local wares and harvests, but the only thing that would be on display today was a sweaty, dirty, stinky and well worn Canadian mamma, with not so much "wakka wakka" left in her.  Wonder what price I would have fetched?


I tried to stretch, and managed as much as possible, but I would have needed at least a good twenty minutes of stretching as well as some help.  As much as I wasn't sure how much stamina I had left in me, I wanted to get going and finish this hike so that we could put it behind us.  Within moments, we were moving again.

Well, I was attempting to move, but my body had completely seized up -- this rusty nut just couldn't bolt anymore.

I broke a walking stick at some point, and Darren or Michael helped me find another one.  We checked on the progress of the school in Lekeng before turning on the trail that would lead us to Mengi.  The trail was wider than the one we had trekked on to this point, it was more like a small road, which eventually turned into a typical Cameroonian dirt road.  Most of the hike we had done to this point was downhill, but we were now paying for it.  The rest of the way to Mengi was uphill, and the hills were brutal.

At one point, I started looking around for hidden video cameras and film crews, convinced that we had somehow inadvertantly landed on the set of a new TV show pilot -- one where two shows battle it out for victory by pushing the contestants through a hybrid of Survivor Vs. Biggest Loser on speed -- I totally would not have been surprised to have seen Bob and Jillian jumping out of the jungle, screaming at us and chasing us to pick up the pace so we'd run up every vertical dirt surface in sight.  Perhaps we could market such a show, along with the Aim Here, Not There book, and outfit an entire community in Cameroon with school supplies from the proceeds.  Any takers?

Clearly, my mind was going on overdrive, and I needed to shut out everything around me and simply focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

By the time I reached Menji, it took a while to register that we had made it, and that this was the end of the hike.  I looked down at my watch and stared for a few minutes, trying to comprehend how I had just managed to hike 4 hours and 45 minutes through the jungles of Cameroon.

I didn't.  Not through my own doing, at least.  God had provided all that I needed.