What happened in Cameroun when I was eleven…
It was a long school vacation time. Our next-door-neighbor family was going away to the seashore for two weeks of yearly holiday. The mom came up to me and asked me if I would like to earn a little pocket money daily feeding and also daily walking, on the end of his chain, their pet “baby” gorilla.
I happily said “yes” and received my instructions for my new responsibilities with conscientious attention. The particular “baby” gorilla in question was much loved by all the kids and teenagers, lived in a large chicken-wire cage/home in the neighbor family’s back yard, and had a general reputation for being tame. I was a fanatical animal lover, had several pets of my own, though none as exotic as a gorilla, and I thought I already had a great relationship with this tame gorilla.
Well! From the very first morning, the gorilla, who had been quietly growing from babyhood, and now was eight months old, (I wonder how old that would equal in people years?) demonstrated a HUGE mind of his own and, instead of walking pleasantly around the grassy yards on the end of his long metal chain, would PLANT himself in the grass and start getting mad at me, working himself up into a rage, then CHARGING me down the length of the chain, wrapping himself around my bony bare shins, and biting on my legs!
Maybe he was missing his family? Probably. Not that used to me, I guess. A few mornings of that and, I’m afraid poor Baby Gorilla didn’t get taken out each day for the rest of the two weeks! He got fed super well though, and petted through the chicken wire, and talked to a lot each day.
Happily mixed up, at age 6. A memory of a transition from my world to a new world.
We’d stepped off the airplane in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and been driven home to Grandma’s house, where we would live for a few weeks . Got out of the car, Grandma walks down the porch steps and out over the grass, past the hollyhocks (hock dollies to my blonde baby sister, later) approaches and gives me a hug! Her long, thin, shiny, pure bluish-white hair is pulled up on top of her head in a puffed-out tiny knot, 20’s suffragette-style. She has a crisp, ironed cotton button-down dress in white and pastel checks, very soft colors. She smells like fresh laundry.
There’s a pretty mama cat on the broken porch step with two half-grown kittens nearby, strolling and watching ; my sister and I rush up to them and start talking to and petting; Dad cautions us to be careful, they might bite, they’re barn cats, he says.
We all move slowly up to the porch, little by little, Mom and Dad and Grandma talking the whole way and us three little kids darting excitedly around, touching things, but staying close. In through the creaky old screen door, the small country kitchen with even smaller scullery, from almost a hundred years ago even at that time, beckons. Mom is lingering a minute on the porch, exclaiming over the fragrance and looks of the blossom-laden lilac bushes; Dad is wrestling our suitcases in to the house. Grandma is giving me another hug, and exclaiming over what she is calling my “‘shiny penney” HAIR. I am feeling so loved, so content, and so excited about my new home, my new world, with my GRANDMA.
Mixed up, and Happily, at age 6. A memory of a transition from my world, to a new world.
We’d stepped off the airplane in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and been driven home to Grandma’s house, where we would live for a few weeks . Got out of the car, Grandma walks down the porch steps and out over the grass, past the hollyhocks (hock dollies to my blonde baby sister, later) approaches and gives me a hug! Her long, thin, shiny, pure bluish-white hair is pulled up on top of her head in a puffed-out tiny knot, 20’s suffragette-style. She has a crisp, ironed cotton button-down dress in white and pastel checks, very soft colors. She smells like fresh laundry.
There’s a pretty mama cat on the broken porch step with two half-grown kittens nearby, strolling and watching ; my sister and I rush up to them and start talking to and petting; Dad cautions us to be careful, they might bite, he says.
We all move slowly up to the porch, little by little, Mom and Dad and Grandma talking the whole way and us three little kids darting excitedly around, touching things, but staying close. In through the creaky old screen door, the small country kitchen with even smaller scullery, from almost a hundred years ago even at that time, beckons. Mom is lingering a minute on the porch, exclaiming over the fragrance and looks of the blossom-laden lilac bushes; Dad is wrestling our suitcases in to the house. Grandma is giving me another hug, and exclaiming over what she is calling my “beautiful ‘shiny copper penney’ HAIR.” I am feeling so loved, so content, and so excited about our new home with my GRANDMA.
What happened in Cameroun when I was eleven…
It was a long school vacation time. Our next-door-neighbor family was going away to the seashore for two weeks of yearly holiday. The mom came up to me and asked me if I would like to earn a little pocket money daily feeding and also daily walking, on the end of his chain, their pet “baby” gorilla.
I happily said “yes” and received my instructions for my new responsibilities with conscientious attention. The particular “baby” gorilla in question was much loved by all the kids and teenagers, lived in a large chicken-wire cage/home in the neighbor family’s back yard, and had a general reputation for being tame. I was a fanatical animal lover, had several pets of my own, though none as exotic as a gorilla, and I thought I already had a great relationship with this tame gorilla.
Well! From the very first morning, the gorilla, who had been quietly growing from babyhood, and now was eight months old, (I wonder how old that would equivocate in people years?) demonstrated a HUGE mind of his own and, instead of walking pleasantly around the grassy yards on the end of his long metal chain, would PLANT himself in the grass and start getting mad at me, working himself up into a rage, then CHARGING me down the length of the chain, wrapping himself around my bony bare shins, and biting on my legs!
Maybe he was missing his family? Probably. Not that used to me, I guess. A few mornings of that and, I’m afraid poor Baby Gorilla didn’t get taken out each day for the rest of the two weeks! He got fed super well though.
Continuation of 1973 journal entry – the trip from Congo to Cameroun becomes more eventful yet!
June 10, 1973 by NinadeSusOjos
“We will get to Douala in about 30 minutes or less – already I can feel my ears popping as we lose altitude. It seems incredible how fast and far we get to travel now. Our worlds, which we get so tied up and involved in – are so trivial, so inconsequent – compared to what God must be. And we limit Him in our lives so much, thereby missing out on peace and joy. God is so huge and beautiful – I guess we can’t even imagine Him and that’s why it’s so hard to believe in Him for me. I feel like I can never be really SURE of something I can’t see or feel; touch, I mean. Yet, if I COULD, then He wouldn’t be God anymore.
About 3:15 p.m. Douala, Cameroun airport.
Well. Here we sit, the three of us, waiting, waiting, waiting. For 8 p.m. to arrive. I HATE this sitting. If there was just something to do, it wouldn’t be half as bad! There is nothing, so, I am writing this even though I don’t especially feel like it right now.
We went to find the Williams family, in downtown Douala, as our parents had suggested we do, to help while away the time of our waiting for our connecting flight tonight to Yaounde. But the Williams were not home so we just came back to the airport. We have been taking taxis.
Just now after a drop of sweat literally FELL off my forehead on to the notebook paper on which I’m writing this, puddling the ink from my pen, I glanced up and over to the next chipped and faded formica-topped restaurant table where the boys are sitting with cokes in front of them, and saw that J.’s face is fluorescent RED and streaming with far more sweat than mine is. Uh Oh. What’s wrong?
His eyes catch mine.
I say, “What’s wrong, J.?”
Mumbling softly, and lowering his tow-headed long locks with that strong cow-lick in the middle-top of his forehead to table level, he closes his eyes and moans, “I’m SICK! I’m going to DIE!” His heavy black glasses with the thick lenses tumble sideways on his face, then off, onto the faded and greasy dark red formica of the table.
Feeling a hard knot of fear start to clench in my stomach, I rise from my chair and walk a few steps over to him. I hesitantly place my hand on his forehead -it feels as hot as an oven pre-heated to 400 degrees for the past 60 minutes! I look over to G., the eleventh grader. “What do you think we should do? He’s burning up with fever!”
Continuation of 1973 journal entry – the trip from Congo to Cameroun becomes almost unbelievably hairy!
June 10, 1973 by NinadeSusOjos
“We will get to Douala in about 30 minutes or less – already I can feel my ears popping as we lose altitude. It seems incredible how fast and far we get to travel now. Our worlds, which we get so tied up and involved in – are so trivial, so inconsequent – compared to what God must be. And we limit Him in our lives so much, thereby missing out on peace and joy. God is so huge and beautiful – I guess we can’t even imagine Him and that’s why it’s so hard to believe in Him for me. I feel like I can never be really SURE of something I can’t see or feel; touch, I mean. Yet, if I COULD, then He wouldn’t be God anymore.
About 3:15 p.m. Douala, Cameroun airport.
Well. Here we sit, the three of us, waiting, waiting, waiting. For 8 p.m. to arrive. I HATE this sitting. If there was just something to do, it wouldn’t be half as bad! There is nothing, so, I am writing this even though I don’t especially feel like it right now.
We went to find the Williams family, in downtown Douala, as our parents had suggested we do, to help while away the time of our waiting for our connecting flight tonight to Yaounde. But the Williams were not home so we just came back to the airport. We have been taking taxis.
Just now after a drop of sweat literally FELL off my forehead on to the notebook paper on which I’m writing this, puddling the ink from my pen, I glanced up and over to the next chipped and faded formica-topped restaurant table where the boys are sitting with cokes in front of them, and saw that J.’s face is fluorescent RED and streaming with far more sweat than mine is. Uh Oh. What’s wrong?
His eyes catch mine.
I say, “What’s wrong, J.?”
Mumbling softly, and lowering his tow-headed long locks with that strong cow-lick in the middle-top of his forehead to table level, he closes his eyes and moans, “I’m SICK! I’m going to DIE!” His heavy black glasses with the thick lenses tumble sideways on his face, then off, onto the faded and greasy dark red formica of the table.
Feeling a hard knot of fear start to clench in my stomach, I rise from my chair and walk a few steps over to him. I hesitantly place my hand on his forehead -it feels as hot as an oven pre-heated to 400 degrees for the past 60 minutes! I look over to G., the eleventh grader. “What do you think we should do? He’s burning up with fever!”
What happened in Cameroun when I was eleven…
It was a long school vacation time. Our next-door-neighbor family was going away to the seashore for two weeks of yearly holiday. The mom came up to me and asked me if I would like to earn a little pocket money daily feeding and also daily walking, on the end of his chain, their pet “baby” gorilla.
I happily said “yes” and received my instructions for my new responsibilities with conscientious attention. The particular “baby” gorilla in question was much loved by all the kids and teenagers, lived in a large chicken-wire cage/home in the neighbor family’s back yard, and had a general reputation for being tame. I was a fanatical animal lover, had several pets of my own, though none as exotic as a gorilla, and I thought I already had a great relationship with this tame gorilla.
Well! From the very first morning, the gorilla, who had been quietly growing from babyhood, and now was eight months old, (I wonder how old that would equivocate in people years?) demonstrated a HUGE mind of his own and, instead of walking pleasantly around the grassy yards on the end of his long metal chain, would PLANT himself in the grass and start getting mad at me, working himself up into a rage, then CHARGING me down the length of the chain, wrapping himself around my bony bare shins, and biting on my legs!
Maybe he was missing his family? Probably. Not that used to me, I guess. A few mornings of that and, I’m afraid poor Baby Gorilla didn’t get taken out each day for the rest of the two weeks! He got fed super well though, and petted through the chicken wire, and talked to a lot each day.
Saturday, February 20, 2016 Post
A journal notebook excerpt from my diary in the Congo when I was sixteen:
Yesterday started horrible and ended beautiful. As soon as I talked to somebody about my feelings, the tension just went away. I realized I’d been totally absorbed in myself, also, feeling sorry for myself. I guess because I was(sic) reaching out to anybody else, of course nobody reached out to me. Also, it was probably just natural, that depressed homesick time just after coming back from a whole long school vacation at home.
Finally I have gotten a chance to write – for the past week I have been almost unbelievably busy with homework. When I left here, for Christmas vacation, my work was pretty well up to date but since we stayed a week late there at home, I came back, and suddenly everything just piled up like mud. My two biggest things have been a World History book report, and a five-page typed Biology report. I did it on ABORTION and now it is all ready to be typed by A.P. She offered to help me! I sure hope I get it in on time. Also, I had an ART project – making things out of clay. We went and dug the clay ourselves, from the riverbank! I have a tippled-toppledy vase, a horse, and a head!
Januray 17, 1974, afternoon. I’ve finished my semester work and, as far as I know, all of it is alright. This afternoon and tonight, I want to do some of the things I need to, since there is finally some time like (sic) washing my hair, shaving my legs and spiffing up the room (sic) writing letters definitely! I got a letter today from Aunt Leta – it’s the first time I’ve heard from her in AGES! I also want to write to some people in the States – Jim if I can possibly find him. I’m really desperate to get some contact with somebody. I feel so obscure. The church here is terribly duddy in my opinion.
What happened in Cameroun when I was eleven…
It was a long school vacation time. Our next-door-neighbor family was going away to the seashore for two weeks of yearly holiday. The mom came up to me and asked me if I would like to earn a little pocket money daily feeding and also daily walking, on the end of his chain, their pet “baby” gorilla.
I happily said “yes” and received my instructions for my new responsibilities with conscientious attention. The particular “baby” gorilla in question was much loved by all the kids and teenagers, lived in a large chicken-wire cage/home in the neighbor family’s back yard, and had a general reputation for being tame. I was a fanatical animal lover, had several pets of my own, though none as exotic as a gorilla, and I thought I already had a great relationship with this tame gorilla.
Well! From the very first morning, the gorilla, who had been quietly growing from babyhood, and now was eight months old, (I wonder how old that would equivocate in people years?) demonstrated a HUGE mind of his own and, instead of walking pleasantly around the grassy yards on the end of his long metal chain, would PLANT himself in the grass and start getting mad at me, working himself up into a rage, then CHARGING me down the length of the chain, wrapping himself around my bony bare shins, and biting on my legs!
Maybe he was missing his family? Probably. Not that used to me, I guess. A few mornings of that and, I’m afraid poor Baby Gorilla didn’t get taken out each day for the rest of the two weeks! He got fed super well though.
Journal entry from when I was fifteen. This one is hilarious. I’m glad, this morning, that I’m doing this blog under a light pseudonym.
“Jan. 17, afternoon.
I’ve finished my semester work and as far as I know all of it is alright. This afternoon and tonight I want to do some of the things I need to since there is finally some time like washing my hair, shaving my legs and spiffing up the room, writing letters definitely! I got a letter today from Aunt Leta. It’s the first time I’ve heard from her in ages. I also want to write to some people in the States – Jim if I can possibly find him. I’m really desperate to get some contact with somebody. I feel so obscure, unwanted and unneeded here. I don’t know anybody in Zaire. The church here is terribly duddy in my opinion, and I can’t stand Mr. E. Nobody is interested in knowing me and I, being so shy, find it really hard to make new friends (on adult level) without previous contact. I guess I’m lucky I’ve even been invited for Easter vacation, someplace. ” 
Some of us, Sakbayeme, Cameroun.
Writing and Editing
I think that, when you decide to pursue a career as a writer, you’re deciding on a career as a writer and an editor. A SELF editor, for sure, if nothing else.
-Niña de Sus Ojos
“Redo” of one of the three pages. Purpose of the blog…
It’s a transparent, homey and personal blog that’s a mix of multicultural lifelong learning experiences, childhood and teenage memories from Africa and other places, thoughts on marriage, child raising and family, sharings of heart struggles, many of them having to do with being, and NEVER getting over being a Third Culture Kid/Adult Third Culture Kid, and quoted Scriptures with, hopefully, applicable firsthand ideas for applying them to our lives.
The second part of the blog’s title is because, like so many of us, I believe, I am always running away from the love of God, in my heart of hearts! Because it’s extremely difficult for me to deeply internalize how beloved I am, of God! And yet, I do believe in the personal love of God for me, with all my heart. I just need to keep “preaching” it to myself, over and over again.
An Amy Carmichael Poem
Hast thou no scar?
no hidden scar, on foot or side or hand?
I hear thee sung as mighty in the land,
I hear them hail thy bright, ascendant star,
hast thou no scar?
Hast thou no wound?
Yet I was wounded by the archers, spent,
leaned me against a tree to die, and rent
by ravening beasts that compassed me, I swooned,
Hast thou no wound?
No wound? No scar?
Yet as the Master shall the servant be,
and pierced are the feet that follow Me,
but thine are whole. Can he have followed far
who has nor wound nor scar? -Amy Carmichael
Haiku
Palimpsest
-by NinadesusOjos
Childhood happenings,
Youth and middle age took place,
Layers upon page.
Happy Bolivia Day of Girls and Women!
“Jesus said, ‘Let all the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them! The Kingdom of Heaven is made up of such as these.”
GlobeRoamer 