Seis

I visit a village and have to deliver bad news.

We're driving on this two-track, middle-of-absolutely-nowhere road because we missed our turn. Rather than pulling a U-turn and sending our Land Cruiser backtracking for six kilometers, we opt for the bush. I look at my phone's GPS again and think to myself, it's a total crap-shoot if we make it to the connecting road but I feel confident - sometimes feeling confident is a choice. 

We're on our way to Mbouroukou to meet up with Debo, the father of two Mercy Ships patients, Salamatou and Mariama. We all thought they were twins at first but in actuality Salamatou is the elder by two years, she's eight. The reason we're meeting Debo is to catch a ride with his and his brother's horses up the mountain, which is actually a volcano, to visit the family and get footage and photos of our sisters post surgery. It just so happens that this volcano happens to be one of Cameroon's premiere hiking destinations, but it's also fairly remote, rugged, and not the kind of place that is easy to film in, especially with the kind of budget we've got to work with. 

After a few missed calls and some concern as to how we're actually going to connect with Monsieur Debo, we spot some horses tied to a telephone pole right off the main road in town. The road dead ends on the side of the mountain so it's a pretty obvious meeting point. Sure enough, we spot Debo and the usual greetings commence, "Bonjour! Comment ca va? How are you? How are the children?" 

Two hours later I'm being led straight up Mont Manengouba on horseback. Because I'm loaded down with at minimum three production-assistants-worth of film gear my pelvis feels like it's being sanded to marble by the horse saddle, but on we tread. Christiane, our long-term Cameroonian interpreter and fixture of the communications team, had never ridden a horse until now but she's singing and causing laughter, and generally, our group is drinking the sweet nectar of adventure. 

Finally, after cresting 'the last hill' in my mind at least five times, Debo announces we've arrived at his village. I see white goats, brown horses, and black children dotting the hillside. There are these lovely log dug-outs with smoke rising from simple chimneys cut out of the middle of the thatch roof. We see Mymoona, Debo's wife and as soon as she dismounts her horse, George, our writer, is bombarded with hugs from the sisters. It's a picturesque, volcanic reunion, filled with smiles, hugs, and warm/sentimental feelings. Which I think is kind of odd considering the whole time I've known the family, the sisters were thoroughly reserved and occasionally a bit sour - just goes to show the impact of home turf I suppose. 

Once the dust settles from the raucous arrival of les blanches, it's time to chat with the village elders assembled outside one of the huts. We've got a bit of a crowd as the entire village is now listening to the proceedings. There's a formality to it all that I kind of appreciate but it's juxtaposed against the disjointedness of the fact that most of the villagers speak Fufuldi or Pidgeon rather than French, which is what our English is being translated to with the help of Christiane. Actually, it's no small wonder we're able to communicate at all. The village elders introduce us to Dr. Nguem Guillaume Viviero Romuald and we find out after a number of clarifying questions that he's the physician who registered Salamatou and Mariama with Mercy Ships. We also learn that he registered the other twelve children in the area who have the exact same condition - the exact same condition - twelve of them - my mind reels as I'm absorbing what he's saying. I don't think I'd ever heard of 'bowed legs' or 'windswept legs' prior to joining the crew of a hospital ship, we just don't deal with it in the western world, but here in this village so small that all of its children can attend school in a little hut - here there are twelve kids who have been malnourished to the point that their legs look like noodles. Then it gets worse; the elders all look at us, les blanches, with pleading eyes as the doctor asks who gets to go to the mercy ship next. No one told them. Our Orthopedic surgeon left months ago. We've closed up that specialty for good and yet, the entire village was still waiting to find out who else might receive surgery. They thought by our visit, we might be offering another round of golden tickets to some of the twelve other children. I wondered how one says in Fufuldi: 'I'm sorry, we're not Doctors. We're a media team who have come to use the children who were healed as a marketing tool. Also, Mercy Ships is finished offering that kind of surgery, so the rest of the children will have to look to some other beacon of hope and healing.' 

After trying our best to deliver the news with some kind of grace, every face in the village drops with disappointment. There is a brief silence, the kind of silence that follows stunningly bad news. Then the doctor lifts his head and addresses us again, 

"Well, we're sorry to hear that but we're grateful for what you have done for Salamatou and Mariama." 

I see the sincerity in the doctor's eyes, in the agreeing eyes of the rest of the elders and the rest of the village. I see one of the older girls with noodle legs, she's got the same grateful look in her eyes. And I just want to cry. I want to cry because the world is broken, it's full of broken people and broken systems. Yet, these poor, noodle-legged, malnourished village kids have the capacity to love outside themselves more than I'll ever comprehend. 

We take our photos. I do an interview with Mr. Debo and Mymoona, looking for the typical soundbites. I even fly my drone in the picturesque mountain village, everyone gets a real kick out of that. Then it starts to get dark and we begin the trek down the mountain, led by Debo of course. 

"Mr. Debo, since it'll be dark by the time we get down, will you stay in Mbouroukou tonight?" 

"No." 

"So you'll hike back in the dark?" 

"Yes."

I lend him my headlamp. Christiane nearly falls off her horse on a steep part of the trail, it's nearly pitch black now and the horses are starting to falter. She begins to sing, "Oh the Lord has brought us up, the Lord will bring us down!" We get off the horses and walk the steep parts. 

After a brief coma of a night's rest in a quaint villa down the mountain, we journey back up to the village early the next morning, this time without the horses. Debo tells us they're just too tired. We spend another day with the family; hiking all over the hills, shooting the sisters running with their newly straightened legs, enjoying the serenity of life in the shadow of Mont Manengouba, a life distinctly different from anything I've ever known. 

*Update*

I've written a letter to the Cameroonian Minister of Health, André Mama Fouda, with the help of some great people here at Mercy Ships, and he's responded. He tells us his office is already aware of the issue in Camp Bororos and they're setting up a research team to learn more in an effort to treat the children and solve the problem. So please, take a moment and pray that the Minister sticks to his word and these kids get some surgical help from the Cameroonian government. Also, pray that the government would spread the word about the importance of calcium in children's diets. 

 We were given the honor of naming this little guy! Two weeks into the world, we gave him Pierre, 'the rock.'