Taxi Church

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“I'm not sure we're going to make it to the church service after all,” I shrugged helplessly and gave Arnoldo a knowing nod as we surveyed the barely half-full minibus. Standing in the muddy car park on a Sunday morning, the two of us ignored the persistent pleas of the bus driver to climb into his minivan. The van would not leave until the seats were taken, aka. 'the bus don flop'. At the rate it was filling up, this could be a while. We were anxious to make it to Limbe to a Catholic mass by the seaside at one of the oldest missions in Cameroon, Bota Holy Trinity. 

Public transport is not always as speedy as one would hope.

“Douala?” a young man urgently shoved his inquiry toward us, anxious to take on another passenger. He pressed forward and tried to herd us like a pair of sheep toward his empty vehicle. 

“No, Limbe,” I refused his offer and scanned the car park again for any other vehicle that might be headed to the beach town sooner. 

The young scout slipped away, lost in the flesh of other anxious young drivers going to Limbe who'd suddenly heard their prompt. 

“Limbe, Limbe!” the man yelled excitedly. He ushered us toward his waiting 'clando' – a private taxi car that he will fill with four passengers in the back seat and two in the passenger seat up front before departing. These clando taxis can fill faster and are sometimes an expedited means of reaching one's desired destination. 

I looked dubiously at his vehicle. There was one elderly gentleman settled in the front seat. With Arnoldo and I, that would mean three more passengers before he'd go. 

I waited, not yet convinced at the drivers insistence, “We're going now, now, like this!” He was still searching for more customers as he proclaimed his imminent departure, waving his arms dramatically. 'Now' is a relative term.

The minutes ticked by and I looked at my watch. “Well, it might be that we are there just to see the church. The service might be over by the time we make it to Limbe,” I tried to look on the bright side. “It will still be an adventure.”

Suddenly the driver's tone ramped up a notch in urgency.  “Enter, enter,” he almost physically pushed us toward his clando. “See, ee de flop. We de go  now. Enter!”

Out of the periphery of my vision, I noted two well dressed women enter the car. The smaller woman was dressed in an cream-colored suit with matching hat – a very stylish hat trimmed with lace and angled jauntily on her head. It reminded me of photographs of certain  British royalty. The woman situated her purse in her lap and folded her hands over her small Bible. 

The other woman did some fast negotiations with the taxi driver and the elderly gentleman in the front seat. She was a much larger woman, actually. Amply cushioned as some might say. She was dressed in high-fashion too. She had on a tailored dress fashioned to accentuate her curves. The material was of the latest design and high-lighted with shiny gold accents. Her head wrapper added an additional six inches to her height. With the air of a queen, she situated herself unashamedly into the front seat while the small elderly gentleman happily stepped aside and moved himself to the back seat. She had that air of regal confidence. 

Recognizing that the taxi was indeed, now full, I gave a nod of agreement and climbed into the back seat of the car. Four in the back seat. We were cozy and ready for the drive to Limbe at last. As the elderly man squeezed his body and shifted toward the middle a bit more in an attempt to close his door, the elegant woman in front turned round to survey her company behind. 

“Ashia, Pa,” she gave the elderly farmer a gracious smile. 

“Thank you, mom,” he smiled up as he succeeded at least in getting the door to latch.

“I can't fit behind. Now I paid for two seats in front.” She smiled broadly. “I'm very comfortably situated now.”

Knees and elbows jabbing into each other in our cramped quarters in the rear of the car, all four of us nodded in agreement. Yes, she did seem comfortable in her front seat. 

Content that he now had a full vehicle, the driver kept quiet as he concentrated on the road. The incredibly green fields of the Tole tea bushes rushed past our window as he drove. A short quiet ensued as everyone sat ensconced in their own thoughts. Suddenly, the woman in the front seat turned slightly. “Today is Sunday. I want us to pray.”

“Amen,” her friend concurred. The elderly man nodded in agreement as well.

“Turn with me to the book of Numbers in the Holy Bible,” she began.

Of course, none of us could actually get out our Bibles and turn the pages given our incommodious quarters but this did not deter our front-seat preacher. 

 Confidently she dug into her purse and pulled out her small white, leather-bound Bible. She turned the pages and left them open on her lap. As she began to expound upon the story of the rebellious and ungrateful Israelites grumbling about wanting meat to eat, I wondered how she was going to turn this into a prayer.

“Now the people complained about their hardships in the hearing of the Lord,” she proclaimed, “Amen?!”

Her friend next to me murmured an agreeing “Amen.”

“...and when he heard them his anger was aroused...' “Praise the Lord?!” 

“Praise the Lord,” the elderly man reflected back. 

“'...Then fire from the Lord burned among them and consumed some of the outskirts of the camp...'” our taxi preacher was gaining steam, “Amen?!”

“Amen,” several passengers nodded.

Her exhortation continued at this enthusiastic fiery pace with loud exclamations soliciting the captive audience's participation. 

“'....Moses heard the people of every family wailing at the entrance to their tents.'”... Praise the Lord!” 

“Praise His Name,” we echoed.

“'... The Lord became exceedingly angry, and Moses was troubled.” Amen?!” 

“Amen,” even the taxi driver chimed in.

I still wondered where the spiritual lesson was going to be in her semonette. 

She continued on to verse 23 of Numbers chapter eleven, “The Lord answered Moses, “Is the Lord’s arm too short? Now you will see whether or not what I say will come true for you.”

“Amen?!” She breathed dramatically. 

“Amen,” the chorus echoed from her back-seat audience. 

Our eloquent taxi preacher tilted her head toward the driver. He kept his eyes on the road and gave her an affirming grunt of affirmation to continue. 

“Isn't God great?” she shouted in enthusiasm. 

“All the time,” we answered with a murmur of nodding heads.

“God is great. Amen?! From this passage we can see that whatever be the problem, God is able to deliver us. Praise the Lord! Amen! Here we see that God is telling Moses that He is not weak. He is mighty,” and her she paused for emphasis, “God is more than capable of delivering us from any problem that we might have – no matter the problem, whether it be financial problem, whether it be family problem, whether it be health problem, no matter  – whatever problem we might have, God is able to deliver us! Amen?!”

She paused to catch her breath, wiping a few beads of sweat that had formed on her forehead. 

“Amen?” She turned to partially face us seated behind her. “ No matter the problem; God is mighty and able to save us. Amen?”

“Amen,” we sighed in reply to her exuberance. 

“Isn't God good?”

“All the time,” everyone in the car answered.

“Amen,” she leaned back in her front seat and studied the words opened before her in her Bible. “We have nothing to fear. Just like God was able to deliver the Isrealites in the Bible, He is more than able to deliver us from whatever problem that we have.”

She folded her hands, satisfied. The verdant green vegetation of the tea plantation fields gradually transformed into the tumbledown wooden houses and dirt yards indicating that we were nearing Limbe.

“The Word of the Lord has spoken. Praise the Lord.”

“Amen,” we murmured in union. 

“Let us fold our hands and pray to our mighty Father in Heaven who is able to solve all our problems.” She raised her own right hand as she bowed her elegantly wrapped head. 

“Father in Heaven, we pray – we pray for your protection as we go to our various destinations. We pray, Father, we pray, that you watch over the driver and keep us safe as we travel. Keep us under your protection, we pray. We praise you that you remind us in the meditation today that you are our Deliverer. And, no matter the problem, you will deliver us.” 

She paused, head bowed, letting the words of her prayer sink in. “In your mighty Name we pray, Amen.”

“Amen,” the rest of the taxi raised their heads from joining her in prayer.

Arnoldo and I reached Limbe safely. We parted ways with our energetic taxi-pastor and her companion at the drop-off. The Catholic service was just beginning as we entered. I believe the sermon was about the Apostle Peter and the cornerstone of the church. It was a lovely picturesque setting for the church service. The waves rolled gently to and fro along the sandy shores. The salty sea breeze wafted through the rafters of the high vaulted ceiling. The choir's voices sang melodiously 

in the apse of the building. 

Two sermons in one Sunday morning. It was a blessed day.

“The Lord answered Moses, “Is the Lord’s arm too short? Now you will see whether or not what I say will come true for you.”  Numbers 11: 23

Butterflies

 “In chaos theory, the butterfly effect is the sensitive dependency on initial conditions in which a small change at one place in a deterministic nonlinear system can result in large differences in a later state. The name of the effect, coined by Edward Lorenz, is derived from the theoretical example of a hurricane's formation being contingent on whether or not a distant butterfly had flapped its wings several weeks earlier.” ~ wikipedia

I am surrounded by butterflies – all around me, every day. They flutter their wings, buoy my spirit, and reverberate hope through the hours and minutes. Who knows what the far-reaching effects might be, whatever they be, I know their whispers are already altering the tides of life in Buea.

My narrative today is dedicated to the volunteers from around the world who come to serve at Buea Seventh-day Adventist Health Centre, over fifty in the past four years. They come with a variety of talents and expertise from medical to accounting to mechanical. They stay from one week to several months. Whether they know it or not, they bring a blessing, equal and perhaps more valuable than their tangible helping hands. A hope, an enthusiasm, a newness to life that infuses a vibrancy into the atmosphere at our health centre, mixing cultures and languages in a patchwork of interwoven lives from around the world.

“Welcome,” I say hastily to Elaine and Christine as I dash between house and hospital this evening. It’s going on nine o’clock in the evening but things are still hopping in the hospital. Sick patients, labouring pregnant lady, consultations, injections, and dressing changes – it is unusually busy for a weeknight. I’ve just finished making my assessment of the situation and triaging which problems are more urgent and warrant more imminent attention.  I let Bill attend to our new nurse volunteers who appear amazingly awake in spite of their long travel.

I return back to the house after a few minutes to grab my “Mr. Mom” otoscope to check a patient’s painful ear.  Elaine and Christine are chatting with Bill, getting a crash course in African survival. “Good coffee?” I inquire as I notice the empty mugs on the side table. The nurses nod enthusiastically. I’m encouraged. “Want to see the hospital or are you too tired?”

Christine and Elaine exchange glances. “Um, we’re not too tired. We want to see the hospital.”

“OK. Come.” I start to head out the door. “Oh, um… maybe you should change into some scrubs.”

“Oh.” Elaine says quietly.

“They’re luggage didn’t make it,” my husband interjects.

No problem. “Let’s find some scrubs for you then.” I lead Christine and Elaine back and we search for size small scrubs. Humorously, even my small scrubs are still rather large for these petite RNs. “Oh well, you can roll up the bottom of the legs,” I offer somewhat unhelpfully, noting the swimming-in-your-clothes affect the scrubs produce.

Trouser legs rolled up in order to allow them to walk without tripping on their attire; I lead them off to the hospital. “Doctor, doctor…” several patients and relatives all vie for my attention when I enter. “Private ward, general wards,” I open and close a couple doors and briefly point out our hospital rooms. “Nursing station, lab, staff break room…” my whirlwind tour comes to an end when we return to the side room where dressings and injections are conducted.

“It’s nice,” the new volunteers comment, a bit overwhelmed by the newness, noise, and hustle and bustle.

“Want to help out tonight?” Typically I’d let the pair rest, settle-in, get some food and go to bed but tonight is a bit out of the ordinary. I shrug. “I understand if you’re tired. It’s ok either way.”

“No, doctor, we’d love to get involved!” Christine reassures me. “Let’s do it.” I am delighted with their willingness to help. Only a tiny twinge of guilt jabs my conscious at plunging them into the metaphorical circus ring within hours of a long and tiring cross-Atlantic flight. Well, nothing like learning on the job… jumping right in – isn’t there something about sink or swim - after all? Welcome to Africa!

“Come this way,” I invite an impatient gentleman who was just involved in a small motorcycle accident and has sustained a few abrasions back to the dressing alcove. “Here’s the plaster, the gauze,” I glance around, “Um, and somewhere there are scissors. You can clean the wound with this iodine.” I wave a hand over the small, untidy metal cart containing an assortment of instruments and antiseptics. I’m sure Elaine and Christine are used to a bit more materials for bandaging wounds but this is all we have. “Do what you can,” I beg, “ and, thanks again for helping out. I really appreciate it.”

I leave the two nurses to take care of the man. They finish an injection of pain killer just before a miniature entourage of police, some with rather intimidating guns, march into the hospital to take the patient’s statement concerning the motorcycle accident. At least he doesn’t have to spend the night.

Several consultations later, I have a chance to reassess the chaos. Things have quieted. The inpatient admissions are settled with their IV drips. The labouring woman is labouring but not urgently. Those who came for coughs, fevers, and rashes have consulted, received their medication, and gone home. I look around for the volunteers. I finally find them in the back, somewhat shell shocked perhaps, but otherwise smiling and happy. “Thank you so much for your help,” I apologise gratefully for getting them involved rather abruptly and directly right after they’d arrived. “You came at a busy time. It’s not always this crazy.” I give a tired smile.

“Oh, it’s ok. It was good,” Christine and Elaine report enthusiastically.  Must have been some super-potent coffee, I muse with a wry grin. They are awake and cheerful.

“Let me show you your room,” I offer. “You must be exhausted.” We walk back to the house where Bill and I show them their guest bedroom and provide whatever necessary linens and towels they might need. “Hopefully, your luggage will come tomorrow. I hope you sleep well,” I bid goodnight as I head to bed myself. It’s past eleven. Late, even for me, let alone for our new volunteers who’ve spent the last twenty-four hours travelling to a foreign continent.

Our other volunteers who arrive a few days later, assimilate into the everyday life of our health centre just as seamlessly. They meld with our permanent staff and “senior” volunteer who’s been here several months already. I have six new white “sisters” according to my local Cameroonian neighbours. “Where’s your sisters?” is the question I am asked every time I buy sweet peanuts from the woman on the corner.

Certainly, their skills and helpfulness in the clinic, the hospital, and the business office are appreciated. Without their help, we wouldn’t be able to keep up with the expanding patient numbers. October has seen the highest number of babies born in our labour and delivery unit since we opened it in June 2012. We see more and more outpatients. More inpatients. Their willingness to help where needed is truly a godsend. God knew when we’d need their help; He brought them here just in time.

Yet there are so many other little ways in which our volunteers enrich the quality at our health centre. Their cheerful manner makes certain Mondays much more manageable. At night, they socialise with our local Cameroonian nurses, providing friendship, exchanging intercultural knowledge, and assisting in the care of the sick inpatients and the mothers that put to birth in our delivery suite.

I could never recount all the ways our volunteers beat their butterfly wings and inspire those around them. Some reach out with their culinary skills (a particular Zucchini bread still makes my mouth water), others with their obsessions for cleanliness, some flutters lead to increased training in small procedures such as circumcisions and sterilising theatre instruments and folding drapes. Occasionally one flies to a remote village and shines as the first white person to visit. They sing in the church choir or share their musical talents in church. They help out in Sabbath school with the children. Their ripples of influence undulate to other foreign volunteers working in Buea. It is an endless circle of influence. Who can know where the circles will eventually reach? The soft beating of the multitude of their wings continues to stretch through Buea and beyond. Inspiring and encouraging, bringing hope and beauty to those around. I am thankful for these butterflies. Their influence extends further than any of us will ever imagine.  Like the theory says, ‘a butterfly flapped her wings in San Francisco and a hurricane formed in Tokyo’… influence is immeasurable.

 Volunteers sitting outside at the hospital

“Then those who are righteous will reply to him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you a drink? When did we see you as a stranger and welcome you, or naked and give you clothes to wear?  When did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?’

“Then the king will reply to them, ‘I assure you that when you have done it for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you have done it for me.’”

Matthew 25: 37-40

 Three of Buea's Seventh-day Adventist Health Centre nurses in the staff room

 “But can one be a blessing merely by being cheerful? Yes; moral beauty of any kind exerts a silent influence for good. It is like a sweet flower by the wayside, which has a benediction for everyone who passes by. A legend tells how one day in Galilee the useful corn spurned the lilies because they fed no one’s hunger. “One cannot earn a living just by being sweet,” said the proud cereal. The lilies said nothing in reply, only seemed the sweeter, then the Master came that way; and while his disciples rested at his feet, and the rustling corn invited them to eat, he said, “Children, the life is more than meat. Consider the lilies, how beautiful they grow.” It certainly seemed worth while then just to be sweet, for it pleased the Master.”

― J.R. Miller

Elaine and Christine with the twins born at our hospital