Claude's Surgery

I'm busy working on a video patient story about a man named Claude. Five-years-ago, a tumour began developing on Claude's jawbone. Today I watched as a surgeon skillfully removed it. Because the tumour was growing in the bone, the entire jaw had to be removed. Fortunately, Claude recieved a shiny, new titanium plate which will function as his jaw until he recieves a bone graft next field-service in Togo.

Having interviewed Claude in his home last week, and visited his carpentry workplace, I've developed a notable concern for his future and well-being. He's more than just a story. Watching him waking up from his anaesthetic, gagging on the breathing tube in his throat, was unsettling. So too, having his jaw placed in front of me to examine. I stared at the bone, the straight teeth, and the growth that had desecrated all of it, wondering how and why.

I thought I was going to be squeamish due to the blood and the severity of it all, but I managed to hold strong. In fact, one of the nurses next to me had to sit down because she felt queazy. Ha!

I pray Claude has a swift recovery. It will take getting used to, I'm sure. But in the long run, he's going to feel healthier, stronger, and ultimately, happier. And I shall hopefully be able to document his entire recovery process, in HD!

Benin vs. Mali

This past weekend we attended a World Cup Qualifier between Benin and Mali. After paying $10 for the most expensive tickets available, we thought we would have comfortable seats and a great view of the game. However, once we finally found our gate, the doors were blocked by security guards who were keeping protesting fans at bay. I immediately assumed that they had overbooked the venue and there was no more space. Things got ugly and a few opinionated fans received a beating from the guards.

Soon the same thing was happening at one of the cheaper gates. I thought it best for us to get inside as soon as possible, else we'd probably miss the match. We swiftly moved to the other side of the stadium and slipped into a $2 ticket gate. It was a bit frustrating to not get what we paid for, but the seats we found were fine. In fact, I think we ended up having a better experience because we seemed to be surrounded by the 'real' fans. And now we know that $2 tickets will be just fine for the next game against Ghana in October.


The match itself was spectacular. All kitted out in our newly acquired Benin shirts, we cheered for 'The Squirrels' (as they're known) with as much vigour as the locals. Mali went ahead in the 2nd half. The stadium dropped a few decibels in volume. Water bottles and other objects began to descend upon the Mali fans. But then Benin came back with a cracker in the dying minutes. In an instant the entire mood changed. Leaving fans came rushing back in. Everyone was ecstatic.

Having missed out on the Confederations Cup back home, it was great to attend a live match here. It kinda completes my West African experience. Benin will have to win the next match against Ghana to stand any chance of qualifying for 2010. It should be a cracking game.

Belinda and Her Family

This is Belinda, her husband Kitiso, and three of their four children. They were one of the many families that fled from Togo to Benin to escape military assault. I spent a lot of time walking and talking with Belinda. She used to be an English teacher, thus we had no problems communicating.

Belinda told me how they ran from their house in the dead of night when they heard soldiers approaching, how it was difficult because her husband has a crippled leg and her baby was screaming. She told me how they are always hungry in the camp and how the Benin locals have no respect for them. "We are all willing to work, but there is no work," she said.

She kept politely asking whether I could sponsor her family and help them relocate to another country. She had heard wondrous stories about refugees that were flown to Australia, Canada, and the USA, and given a house, food, clothing, and jobs. Some of what she had heard is true, but only in extreme cases. If she only knew of the cultural differences and the subsequent hardships thereof, she would have probably avoided the topic.

After visiting her house and examining the shoes her husband makes but struggles to sell, we exchanged emails. Before I left, she took my hand, looked me in the eyes, and said, "Please don't forget us."

So now I write, remembering them all, wondering how I can help them. I truly wish I could. But my means are so limited; myself being one that needs help and support from others. And I think, if anyone met this kind, polite, suffering family they would want to help them, surely? But they are one of thousands of families in that camp, all with similar stories of struggle. Where, when and how does it end?

Oh, Africa, my Africa.
Your hands are so rough, your belly grumbles so loudly.
You suffer so greatly, you rage so violently, and weep so deeply.
But your beauty remains burning brightly.
So too, my hope for your future grows daily.

Belinda and Kitiso

Kitiso makes shoes. The people in the camp have no money to buy shoes. The people outside the camp refuse to buy from him because he is a refugee.

Togolese Refugees

Mercy Ships recently ran a dental clinic at a refugee camp in Benin. I went along to find out more.


On February 5, 2005, President of Togo Gnassinbe Eyadema died following a supposed heart attack, finally bringing his 38-year rule to an end. An election followed in April of that year. Reports of corruption, a change in constitution, and an oppresive military presence all suggested that the win of Eyadema's long-serving party, the RPT, was far from democratic. Violence followed and thousands fled to neighbouring countries.

More than 25000 Togolese escaped to Benin where two refugee camps were established to accommodate them. Now, four years later, only one camp called Agame remains, with a population of only 3000. Many have returned to Togo and dispersed into Benin. Those that remain are fiercely proud of their homeland and refuse to live in a state governed by the RPT. Their prayers may finally be answered in next year's election.

I have read so many stories and articles about refugee camps. It was rather surreal to walk in one and was not at all what I had expected. The people were friendly and healthy, the camp itself was safe, there was clean drinking water, organised farming, and each house, though made from sticks and plastic, was neat and organised, each with its own tiny garden.

I guess it was not always this way, though. The camp has had years to settle and its population has decreased drastically since its opening. I spent much of my time there speaking to refugees, hearing their traumatic stories of how they fled in the night from military attacks and lost all their possessions. I was saddened. At the same time, I feel more inspired to pursue a career in freelance journalism.

I asked one of the people I interviewed whether many journalists still come to the camp. "Not since 2006," she said. Agame is obviously old news. If there's no tragedy, I guess there's no story, right? Let's pray there's no need for journalists to return to Agame next year.

Togo

I'm a bit behind with my updates. Recently, I traveled to Togo with 16 other people, climbed the highest peak in that land, swim/stood in/under two waterfalls, played football on a misty hillside with some local kids, rode up and down a mountain pass on a motorbike three times, and, on our return trip to Benin, squashed into an even smaller van which had to be push-started on several occasions because the battery was dead. It was a great trip in a beautiful country with inspiring friends. Good times.

Broken Hearts

This week, seven Liberian children, all with congenital heart defects, came to the Africa Mercy for echocardiograms.


This photo was taken by my friend and fellow writer Meg. The baby at my fingertips is not well. He has fluid on the brain, a hernia, and a hole in his heart. His flaring nostrils, the rapid rise and fall of his swollen chest, and the lugubrious roll of his eyes from side to side all indicated he was in distress. Every few seconds he would clench my finger with his tiny hand, causing me to feel the feverish heat of his frailty.

And there I stood, staring at his quiet, fading existence, thinking, "All I can do for you, little one, is pray. Even if all the operations modern medicine has to offer were available to you, would your weak, damaged frame ever be able to endure them all? Only our Heavenly Father can allow the healing to take place."

Why does man have a tendency to resort to prayer only after everything else has been tried? If we doubt what we pray, how can it happen? Do we underestimate the power of He who dwells within us?

The only thing I had to offer that child was indeed the greatest thing anyone could have done for him. I prayed, faithfully.

The following day, he was flown back to Liberia with his mother and the other children. There they will await the news of whether they will receive heart surgery in Israel. I knew not his condition when he departed.

Shipyard Shenanigans

On Sunday, some friends and I rode upon bicycles into the shipyard near from where our floating home is docked. Making sure to ask for authorization before entering, we found the guards and workers to be remarkably welcoming and friendly. So much so, that we even managed to get a guided tour of a massive crane used for lifting containers. The view at the top was impressive, and the photos we took, even more so. Always requesting permission, we managed to climb onto a host of heavy machinery and trucks, and got notably dusty and greasy in the process. Good times.

Tractor.

Bulldozer.

The crane.

The view from the control box. You can see the ship in the distance.

At the controls. Oh boy!