Arriving in the country on a rainy night, I soon found that my $500 worth of sleeping bag and bivy sack was somewhere between Brussels and Nigeria, and I never saw them again. On our way to our new home, the other teachers and I were stopped multiple times at police checkpoints with guards that shined their flashlights on us and seemed less than cordial. I tried to smile and look like the happy person on my passport, but it just didn't seem to be working. We finally got through these roadblocks and made our way towards Buea, our new home away from home. Our African professor put the tiny French car in high gear and we careened down the curving road, pushing our luck, it seemed, a little too far.

I saw something on the road ahead and we barreled head-on into it, slamming hard on the brakes and stopping a little too late. Someone had decided that the middle of the road was as good a place as any for a hay bale, so why not just leave it there. Thankfully the car seemed undamaged and we drove on, a bit slower, and a bit shaken.

For the next three months I was a "teacha," and instructed English students in four classes, 60-70 kids at a time. Life was good, except for the minor details. Like books. In the U.S. we usually have too many books. In my class, for the first two months the books didn't come. I prayed for them to come. And they didn't come. I had the rare privilege of creating every lesson I taught for two months out of my aching head and a college grammar book. It was probably good for me.

Thankfully, life was more than teaching. My fellow teachers and I took our side trips to check out this corner of the world. We heard about Korup National Rain Forest, a massive botanical paradise. On one of our vacations we headed that way, expecting a trip of around eight hours. That was without calculating in the reality of African Time. The first mini-van transport we rode left an hour late and had part of the door break along the way. This seemed like the perfect opportunity to replace the brake shoes, so that little detail was taken care of as well.

Finally we arrived at the next stop and switched to a car. This sub-compact with nine people in it promptly broke down as soon as we were a long way from a mechanic. So we all sat around in a little village called Bai Manya with no electricity, while the driver trekked back to town for the parts. For five hours we sat and drank warm soft drinks and made friends with the locals, including the owner of a local store and her beautiful, tiny baby that she held and fed while she talked to us.

The part finally arrived and the car was soon running again. We drove for a while longer, then switched cars one last time as the sun receded behind the palm trees. This time we traveled in a convoy of three cars towards our final goal. The reason for the convoy soon became apparent as we hit the first patch of mud, a bog of thick mud about 300 yards long.

Our group got out and walked, and we watched these truly expert drivers slowly ease through the slop as they burned out what little clutch their transmissions had left. The skill required to actually keep these tiny, two-wheel drive cars moving through ankle-deep, African mud is considerable. Sometimes the poor engine had no more to give, and we were soon on the pushing end of a mud-spraying car. We repeated this scenario a half-dozen times. Finally, with our eight-hour trip extended to 15, and probably 120 miles covered, we fell exhausted into our beds at a local hotel."

The next morning we headed for the rain forest. Of course we needed a guide first, and as I stepped outside our hotel I met the guide who would guide us to the place where we could get a guide. Word travels fast in a small African town.

We soon entered the forest and were surrounded by its beauty. As I took in the dense foliage and hundreds of species around me, I became a little over-awed at God's creation. Rather incredible.

The highlights included a 100-foot waterfall, with a nearby sign that said "Small Waterfall," and a boulder bigger than a house, with a sign that said "Big Boulder." We camped that night in the forest and headed back to school the next day. This time, the trip was faster and we got home before midnight.

One of the last experiences I had in Africa was standing in dense fog on the top of Mt. Cameroon, the tallest mountain in West Africa. As my lungs burned and my legs threatened to turn into jelly, I silently thanked God for allowing me to experience the beauty of Africa. As I walked down the mountain, I knew that it would soon be time to return to America. Stepping onto the plane a few days later, I also knew that I would be back.