The Journey

Well, first of all I'm glad I finally get the chance to post on the blog.  It took a couple days for us to get our Internet access setup, so I was a little stalled in getting to post.  The journey here was long but fairly enjoyable...except, of course when I lost my passport in Paris.  Yeah!  You read that right--I LOST MY PASSPORT IN PARIS!  Can I just tell you how dumb it makes a man feel to lose his only means of internation travel and identification when doing said international travel?  Well...pretty dumb.  But the Lord is gracious, and he used some fellow traveler, whom I did not get the chance to encounter, in the Parisian airport to help clean up my blunder by turning my wayward ID into the airport police. 

So I had just arrived to the airport in Paris and walked up to the self check-in kiosk to look up the departure gate for my connecting flight.  It couldn't read the barcode on my boarding pass, so I pulled out my passport and scanned it in.  That's the last remembrance I have of my passport at that time.  The screen told me to proceed to gate C87 in the 2C terminal, which was a short shuttle ride away.  When I got there, I second-guessed my memory on the gate number, so I decided to scan my passport again and verify where I was supposed to be.  However, when I put my hand on my passport pouch, I at once could sense that my passport was not where it was supposed to be.  My heart sank.  I checked all six pockets on the cargo khakis I was wearing.  I frantically looked through both the bags I was carrying.  I couldn't imaging I had left it at the previous check-in counter.  At least I knew I hadn't left on the plane.  I decided to go back to the previous terminal, but when I got there, they knew nothing on the whereabouts of my passport.  I returned to 2C, just to retrace my steps and make sure I didn't find it lying on the ground in some corner off to the side.  When I didn't find it on my second journey to that terminal, I decided it was time to get some help.  I went to the police counter and told the gentleman my dilemma.  He took me back to an office around the corner, made a couple phone calls, and told me to wait for a moment while he checked around.  But before leaving he informed me there was no way I was getting on my plane without a passport.  Great!  Even though I woulnd't have minded hanging out in Paris for a day or two in some other circumstance, this was not the time.  About 10 minutes later, however, while he was still gone, the policewoman working in that office hollered and asked me, "What was your name?"  I told her and she said something back across the phone in French.  When she hung up, she looked at me and smiled, "You are so lucky.  They have your passport back in 2E."  Hallelujah!  I was uber-relieved.  Some gracious soul had found it apparently (where exactly, I still am not sure) and turned it into the police over there!  What a gift!  I've always wondered what it feels like to not exist...ok, I haven't ALWAYS wondered...or well, I don't know if I've every wondered that, but regardless, that's kind of how I felt for the 30 minutes I was without my passport.  Needless to say, I've decided that if I have to take passport out, once through, I don't do anything else until it's back in the pouch, safe and sound.

One more story about my travel in, and then maybe this weekend I can tell you a little about my first couple days at the hospital.  I was warned my WMM reps and the hospital volunteer coordinator that the porters and people outside the airport can be a little aggressive but that we should just ignore them and keep with the "No, thank you" policy. Waiting around the conveyor belt to pickup my baggage I had several porters ask if they could help me.  I politely declined, and they politely moved on.  I thought that was going to be the worst of it until I moved to the customs line...or customs mob, I should say.  A tall Cameroonian gentleman caught my eye and asked if he could help me. 

"No, thank you," I replied. 

"You have camera?" he asked

"I'm sorry?" I asked, politely trying to skirt the question, not sure where he was leading.

"You have camera, you have to pay.  They inspect and find camera, you have to pay least 50 dollars."

"That's OK, I'll let them search like I'm supposed to."  I said, wanting to take my chances with the official-looking customs agents rather than this questionable-looking individual.

"Fine, go 'head."  About then, his even shadier-acting cohort sidled up beside me and said, "No, you have camera, you have to pay.  You give us $20 and we make them go away.  They won't even look."

I continued my inching up the customs line, repeating my refusal nicely but not really sure how long they were going to persist.  As I got close, I noted the customs agents weren't even looking in every bag...and some people were just going right through without inspection.  Just then the second gentleman, the more seedy-appearing of the two, motioned from right in front of one of the customs agents.  "Come, put your bag here.  He will search." 

I looked at the customs agent, probably about my age, and asked, "Do you need to search my bags?"

He turned his gaze away and didn't respond.  I took that as a no and tried to continue inching toward the exit.  I saw my "friend" move in on the customs agent and say something unintelligible to him under his breath.  It was interesting--the customs agent looked more awkward and intimidated than I felt at that point.  Finally, the young agent indicated toward me, "I need to see that bag."

"You need to search my bag?" I verified.  He motioned for me to come near, and I placed two of my bags on the counter.  The first contained some snacks, my electrical converter and outlet adapters, and the gifts for little kids Na Neltner had sent with me.  Nothing interesting for him apparently, as he brushed right over it and went to the second bag.  Therein was mainly dress clothes and some medical books.  He muttered something as he started to zip the bag closed.  "I'm sorry..." I questioned.

My "friend" chimed in again, "Where is your camera?"  I obviously hadn't shown the valuables he was expecting. 

"I don't...what do you mean?"  I played dumb.

The customs agent halfway whispered to me, "Just pay him something..."

What?!  This customs agent was advising me to pay the guy just to get him off my back...and likely off his back as well.  No, thank you.  "Do I need to pay something?" I asked him directly.  His gaze turned off to the side, and he didn't answer.  "Ok, thank you."  I kinda pushed my way through the rest of the crowd, feeling a small sense of victory as I walked out into the hot humid air outside.  About ten steps ahead I met George, the volunteer coordinator for the Cameroonian Baptist Convention, and we were quickly to the car.  We spent the night in a guest house (hostel of sorts), had a delicious breakfast the next morning of omelets, fresh-baked bread, and fresh pineapple (Mmmm...), and then made the 7-hour drive up to Bamenda and Mbingo Hospital.  I'll save the details of the first couple days at the hospital for next time.  Hope everyone is doing well.  Talk to you soon.

Danny