I
am a missionary. I will forever be grateful for the lessons of patience and
perseverance God has taught me the last few months. I was hired to teach. I had
mentally prepared to teach. When I got here, I didn’t know where I was going to
live. I didn’t know what subject I was teaching. Everything was new and a
little daunting. Joy (the outgoing missionary) got my keys, helped me move in,
and got me acquainted with the market. I used the rest of the rainy season to
find my way around and grow more confident in my surroundings.
When
school started, I realized that teaching anything was out of the question. Why,
though, I may never know. Every time I asked or spoke to the principal, I got a
different answer. When I tried to talk with the education secretary, he was
out. For the first few weeks, working in the library wasn’t so bad. I had
someone to talk to. I got to talk to students when they came in. I got to learn
a little more about Cameroonian culture through working with the librarian.
The
thing is, I began to grow frustrated. I wanted to work and get things done, but
my idea of how it should be done or the pace it should be done at differs just
enough to cause divide. I became angry. I started sleeping in later and later
and not giving myself time to get breakfast or enjoy a cup of coffee in the
mornings. I found myself using the dead time I had while I waited for the
librarian to catch up with me—out of respect for the principal’s request that I
work at the librarian’s pace—reading or daydreaming. I went home mentally
exhausted from keeping up a façade through the day. I stopped eating the way I
knew I should. It was bad.
I
finally opened up to the Auxiliary Bishop. I told him everything: lack of hot
water, frustrations with the work pace, the restrictions placed on library
books, the run-around I was getting… I’m glad I talked to him. Even though I
still had to go to the library every day, I had hot water. I had someone I
could talk to and get advice from. He is the one that called Sr. Imelda, and
asked if she’d like me to work with her. I met with Sr. Imelda once, and it was
decided. My job would be changing.
The
job I have moved into is vastly more taxing, but I would rather go home at the
end of the day having spent the day working, making an impact, than sitting
there angry at the world. As I sit here writing this, I am sitting in my new
apartment. Things are quiet. I don’t have 750 girls screaming and running past
my house. I don’t have a rooster crowing every fifteen seconds outside my
window. I have a place in a new building, and even though I only have running
water every few days, I am beginning to learn how to conserve water and fill
buckets and barrels when I do have it. The apartment doesn’t echo like my last
one. The floors are a neutral color rather than circa 1970 red and blue tiles
that caused your vision to throb. I have a place I can make my own rather than
living in what had been intended as a guesthouse.
With
my new job, I get to travel a little more. I wouldn’t necessarily say I have the
joy of going to our clinics, but I am grateful I get to go. The roads are
challenging. I made the comment to those I was with that all I needed was to
remember to put cream in a jar before coming so I could have fresh butter. My
shoulders, neck and back were “thanking” me for the journey for days.
The
village, Esaw, doesn’t show up on most maps. It’s a wide spot on the dirt path
through the mountains a few kilometers beyond Teze where the church and market
are. The clinic has a staff of three: a nurse, a nursing assistant, and a
grounds keeper. There hasn’t been a patient in a week, but I suspect that has
more to do with an inability to pay than having illness.
The
clinic is small. It has two wards with no more than ten or eleven beds, a lab
with a microscope and a few dusty bottles, a consultation room with a drug
cabinet and a canteen that sells dry goods like rice and flour. The equipment
is old. Things are wiped down but not clean and definitely not sanitized. There
are no bed nets. There’s no refrigerator for vaccines. The path leading to the
toilets was riddled with used needles, and there is no trained midwife. Women
in the village have to trek or take a motorbike to the regional hospital run by
the Ministry of Public Health to deliver, and many deliver on the side of the
road. Going out there is a slap in the face, a wake-up call.
You
can think of a million simple solutions, but implementing them is difficult and
challenging the culture is like walking on a high wire over the Grand Canyon in
the wind. You are confronted with the realities of poverty and begin to realize
that poverty in the United States and poverty here are two different beasts.
There is no government assistance. There are no health insurance or food
pantries. One in three children in Cameroon are malnourished and their growth
stunted. There’s one little girl in the village, who at three, is no longer
walking, doesn’t speak more than “baby babble”, and despite eating, she doesn’t
grow. Her diet consists of plantains, cocoyam and cassava. They fill her
stomach, but they don’t provide enough nutrients for her. It’s hard holding
that child in your arms and knowing there is very little that you can do
because the effects of poverty on her body and growth are already permanent.
Sitting
here, all I can think about is how blessed I am. I have a roof over my head and
food to eat. I have a bed to sleep in and one for my guests. My floors aren’t
dirt, and I have a door that locks. I have a job I’m excited about. I have
wonderful friends close by (by that I mean across town). I can call my family
when I want to. I have more than I need. I am truly blessed.
Life
in the mission field is challenging, but it’s also rewarding. The experiences,
friendships and everyday life change you, mold you into the best you that you
can be. Even though the last eight and almost a half months have been hard, I
wouldn’t trade them for the world. I get to impact lives while my own life
transforms. I get to have experiences that I will be able to relate to people
and look upon fondly years from now. My heart is more open to God’s love and
gentle influence, and in return, I can live the life He intends for me. I am
Ashley Hansen, and I am a missionary.
