My first children's book, Once Upon West Africa, was published about a week or so ago.  It's a collection of fifty Liberian folk tales.  So, it's official.  I'm a published author and illustrator.  I've even signed a few copies of my book.

I'm not one to sit around on my laurels and count the number of books that have been sold. (So far, only two hands are needed, and not all fingers required.)  Instead, I've decided it is time to illustrate the stories for my next collection of tales, Once Upon Southern Africa.  I've been sitting on that collection of tales almost twenty years.  It's time I get those illustrations drawn, wouldn't you agree?

Africa holds a special place in my heart.  I lived there for six years and some of my best (and/or most horrifying) travel tales took place there.  I remembered them as I wrote the dedication to this book of tales from countries around the tip of Africa. 

I thought it was a good time to share one of my best stories.

One of the reasons I accepted my teaching job in Zambia was because of the 1980s movie, "The God's Must Be Crazy".  It's really not all that great of a movie.  It's humorous and entertaining in its own unique way, but probably not a good reason to move to that part of the world.  I did it anyway.

I really didn't know it at the time, but the movie was filmed in South Africa.  I thought it had to be filmed in Namibia since there is a part of the country called Bushmanland.  Isn't that where everyone would go if they wanted to find the Bushmen (San people)?  It's what I did.  When my first vacation rolled around, Namibia was my destination.  I mean, after all, isn't that where everyone would go?

There was a slight problem when I walked into a travel agency and said I wanted to go to Bushmanland.  They'd never sent anyone to that part of Namibia before.  There was no guarantee that I'd see what I was looking for.  You see, the Bushmen no longer live as they once did or dress in what they once wore.  Ignorance was bliss as far as I was concerned.  I was still going to see what I could discover among the San people.

I rented a four-wheel-drive vehicle with Chris, my Namibian driver and guide.  It didn't take Chris long to know what could please me.  I was in search of unique portraits to photograph and Namibian folk tales.  He did his best to help me, and I was so pleased.

Namibia has a lot of wide open spaces with a large dose of barren looking landscape.  We were in the absolute middle of nowhere, about 100 kilometers from Tsumkwe, in the Kalahari Basin (which surrounds the desert), when Chris spotted a Herrero woman hitchhiking.  It was a little unusual to see anyone this far out in the middle of nowhere.  My guide said, "Get your camera out.  She’ll let you take her picture in exchange for a ride."  I told you, he knew how to take care of me.  Herrero women wore these voluminous dresses that Victorian missionary women used to wear in the early 1900s.  But, their style had a unique African twist to it.  Their hats looked very similar to cattle horns.  Since cattle were a sign of wealth, it kind of gives you an idea where women ranked in Herrero culture.

Of course, Chris was right about this woman.  I got my photo and it was a stroke of luck to pick up this hitchhiker.  She said she would take us to meet some San whom she knew held to their traditions.  Plans were all set – in Herero – but Chris promised a great day.  We really hadn’t planned to go to Tsumkwe, but under the circumstances, flexibility sounded like a great idea. 
 
I had been so impressed with all the towns we passed through as we crossed Namibia.  They were so modern and clean.  And then, we entered Tsumkwe.  It looked big on the map but it was barely an intersection.  There was a shop or two, a disco, a gas station, a clinic, police headquarters and (shockingly) a lodge.  We went to the lodge and - even more amazingly - they were filled up.  They wouldn’t even let us pitch a tent!
 
More Herero conversation.
 
The hitchhiker said we could stay at her place.  It was a cluster of about a dozen thatched huts with women all wearing those wonderful, traditional Herero dresses.  It couldn’t have been a more perfect location!  However, neither Chris nor the hitchhiker really thought I would want to stay there.  He dropped the woman off and started to leave.  I quickly let him know - in no uncertain terms - that this was exactly where I wanted to spend the night.  He would never find a better spot.
 
The Herero women laughed when they learned I really wanted to stay with them, and we were shown a place where we could set up our camp.  Our evening was spent in traditional African fashion, under the stars and around the fire.  It was truly one of the most magical nights I ever had in Africa.  After a meal shared with our new neighbors, and a great deal of discussion in Herero, the women shared a few Namibian folk tales.

Eventually, I was asked to share a story, and I chose "Spider and the Honey Tree"'  It's my best African story to share aloud.  When I talk about delicious mangoes, they are deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelicious.  And the bananas aren't sweet.  They are the sahweeeeeeeeeeetest bananas.  I would never recognize any word in Herrero.  It has a lot of mysterious clicking sounds.  But, Chris matched me with every expression and everyone loved the story.
 
The following day, Chris took me to this little man in Tsumkwe whom we’d seen earlier.  He was friendly, warm and willing to pose for me.   I thought he looked very similar to the man in the movie "The Gods Must Be Crazy".  But, then again, most of the San people had a similar look to me.  But, as Chris translated, I realized he really was Glao Goma, otherwise known as N!xau, the actual star of the movie that inspired the whole trip.

And, he was delightful!

Glao talked of how he was selected and his travels.  Originally there was a San from Botswana chosen for the part.  But, after two days of filming, he disappeared back to the bush.  So, a search was made in Tsumkwe.  I read that when he was discovered, Glao had only seen three white people in his whole life.  Well, life changed for him.  First, he was flown to South Africa (where he couldn’t escape) for filming, and the rest was history.  The producers built Glao a house, a humble little home but certainly one of the nicest in Tsumkwe, and took him on a world premiere tour which included Hong Kong, Beijing and Japan. 
 
He was such a positive, charming man.  When he brought out a few trinkets for sale, I knew I had to buy something from him.  I selected a necklace made from ostrich eggshells.

Sadly, my timing was pretty amazing for this trip.  Glao died three years after my experience.  In 2003, I received an email from someone who had seen my write-up about the experience.  I was informed that Glao went out into the bush to collect firewood and never returned home.  Reportedly, he is survived by three wives and twelve children.

On our way northeast, my guide took me to see two hundred thousand seals, real lions on safari, pre-historic cave paintings and a cheetah farm.  But, at one point in our journey, Chris seriously tried to talk me out of going all the way north into Bushmanland.  It was such a long journey and he really didn't think we'd have any kind of success.  I'm so pleased to say this time that I was right, even if he did think I was crazy.

It's time to pound on your homemade drum, climb a tree to harvest some palm wine or, at the very least, dance around your computer.  Yep, it's time to celebrate.  It's completely official and the paperwork is done.  Patrick Gono has come to America.

He was invited by the Dayton Society of Artists as well as their Sister City Association for an artist residency in Ohio, of all places!  Dayton is about an hour and a half from my home.  (If you need further clarification, that is a public transportation ride from Monrovia to Kakata.)  As far as I'm concerned, it's right around the corner and in my neighborhood.

The big question all along was if he could get a visa.  Dayton (unbelievably, foolishly) picked another artist before Patrick.  That person was denied a visa.  So, it became Patrick's turn.  He was scheduled for an interview on July 26 and he needed to depart that week.  Nobody wanted to purchase an airline ticket for someone without a visa.

Somehow, somebody pulled strings.

Patrick got an early interview.  When he sat down with the woman from the embassy, he had the best visa interview in the history of visa interviews.  The woman said, "I've seen your art and I am blown away.  You don't just draw with realism.  You capture their souls in your drawings.  You deserve this art residency."  Of course, there were the usual kind of questions that you have to have when applying for a visa, but it was one incredibly positive interview.  And, Patrick received a visa for one year!!!  Like I said, the easiest visa in history.  Yep, join me - at the very least - in dancing around your computer.

It's been three years since I first met Patrick painting a community mural in Zwedru, Liberia.  Thank goodness for email and Facebook.  We stay in close touch.  And, throughout the three years, I've mentored him, supported him and sent art supplies that he just could not get in Liberia.  Patrick is an amazingly talented young man with a true gift from God, but he wouldn't have arrived in Dayton if he hadn't met me.  It's a humbling responsibility.

And, last night, Patrick had his first art exhibition in the United States.  I was so proud to be at his side.  He gave a brief statement before the crowd of art-lovers, and it was delightful to see how far he's come in three years.  When I first met him, it was several days before I could get him to look me in the eyes.  I never learned if it was due to African respect or shyness.  But, it was an entirely different young man standing before the audience.  He delivered his speech perfectly.  I could not have written a better expression of heart-felt gratitude.  That's just the kind of person Patrick is. 

Patrick had six pieces of art displayed in a small room of the gallery.  It was a part of a larger exhibition with other artists also displaying in other rooms.   But, it was a very personal moment for the guests as they viewed Patrick's work.  The room was too small not to see and talk to Patrick while his work was admired. 

When Patrick told one woman that a painting was created from one of my photographs, she asked, "Who are you and what is your connection here?"  I spent the next twenty minutes telling her about my visit to Tugbaken in the painting, my murals in Liberia where I met Patrick, and why the warmth in the eyes of Koko (in one of Patrick's portraits) was directed at me.    Then, together we marveled over Patrick's amazing talent and how graciously he mingled with the people in the room.

My other long conversation was with a City Commissioner.  I told him a tale of Tugbaken that included five welcoming ceremonies, four chickens, a three-piece country cloth African gowning ceremony, two rural villages and my best friend from my Peace Corps days.  And from there, we moved on to the Patrick story with murals, mentoring and a bond over the past three years.  The only question I couldn't answer was, "Are you a part of this art residency experience for Patrick in Dayton?  Why not?"

I know I am the last person that I personally know to do this.  Who knows?  I may be the last person in the United States.  It feels like, due to all my travels, that I could even be the last person in the whole world.  Kicking and screaming, I finally bought a smartphone.

I'm not a fan.  I see the damage they cause everywhere I go.  Nobody talks to anyone else in public, in the car, or even in the privacy of the dinner table.  And, it may be against the culture today, but I am thoroughly convinced that a smartphone has no place near anyone who is eating.  I'm a firm believer, and I know I'm right, that when you sit down to eat with friends or family for twenty or thirty minutes, they should be the most important people in your life for that brief period.  Listen to what they have to say.  Communicate.  That's who you should speak to at that moment in time.  But, when I go to a restaurant, it appears nobody believes me. 

I'm still right.

When I first heard that texting and driving was a problem, I thought that couldn't possibly be true.  Who could be that stupid?  Well, there are a lot of teenagers - as you might suppose - who fit the adjective, but I see so many adults on their phones as I drive around Columbus.  And, the heart of Buckeye Nation can't be that much different than any other place.

Of course, I have taken my antique flip phone with me as I paint my murals.  It has been mocked, even in one inner city school that I visited.  As I said, everybody else has smartphones.  And, at that particular school, the phones were used by students in their classrooms as they ignored anything and everything they were supposed to learn.  Don't get me started on that conversation.

My antique flip phone didn't work when I traveled overseas with my murals.  My biggest problems with that happened on a very bad day in Fiji.  And, how is it be possible to have a bad day in paradise?  Let me tell you.  The previous day, I was told to be at the airport at 4:30.  Nobody bothered to tell me A.M. or P.M. and I assumed the afternoon.  I was wrong and missed my flight because nobody could contact me.

Plane tickets were changed and I headed to the airport for an afternoon flight.  I was there in plenty of time.  But, I missed the flight.  Without my phone, I couldn't call for help in time of need.  I waited in lines, three of them, for help that never came as the clock ticked away.  I can tell you, with complete certainty, the embassy staff was not impressed with me.  Ever since that disaster I knew what I needed to buy.

I still resisted.

At home I relied on a computer phone service.  I probably shouldn't name it, but there was nothing magic about the service.  It had been giving me problems for months.  Sometimes it worked perfectly, but then you can guess about the other times.  I often didn't receive calls, about as often as I couldn't place them. 

It was maddening.

This past week, I waited two hours for on-line help from their lack-of-service department.  The person I chatted with actually got the dang phone to work for one telephone call.  When I tried the second time, no go.  No dice.  No call.  No luck.  And, certainly, no patience.  So, the following day, I was online with a representative for FOUR, count 'em, FOUR hours.  Of course, the phone worked when we were done.  And, of course, it didn't work the next day.  It hasn't worked since. 

I had to give up.  There was no other choice.  It was time for that dreaded smartphone.

The actual purchasing process was awful.  I should have been nurtured and soothed into the device.  That didn't happen.  I waited over a half hour for a surly sales clerk to return from lunch.  I am always happy after eating.  He wasn't.  He showed no interest in helping me.  He mumbled questions and really didn't like it when I needed him to repeat himself.  And at one point in the transaction, one of his co-workers stopped by.  I didn't need to hear the vulgar conversation that transpired.  I did my research.  There was only one place locally to get the service I wanted.  I was there.  Otherwise, I would have left immediately.

Another one of my reasons for hesitation with the modern world is the lack of privacy.  I've watched enough television shows to know your movements can be traced on a smartphone.  Why else would they require my driver's license and social security number during the transaction?  On top of that, ads pop up when you near certain restaurants and shops.  No, I can't say I'm happy about this.  But, it was a necessary trade-off.

I must have communication.  That's obvious.  I knew it was something I needed, especially for international mural projects.  So, come on, Universe.  I'm now prepared and ready to go.  And, once I figure it out, there is a handy dandy app that translates words - both written and oral - into English.  That'll rock my traveling world like no other convenience I know.  Yep, I can't wait to find that app.  In the meantime, I guess I better learn how to actually place a phone call on my new smartphone. 

I haven't done that yet.

Sometimes there is a lot of "same old, same old" going on in my life in central Ohio.  But, there are times when life is a-maze-ing.  I prefer my truly amazing experiences to be overseas in distant locations where none of my friends really ever want to visit.  I'm not sure why I thrive there, but that is the way life is for me.  Give me a paintbrush and a ticket and I'll gladly paint in the least visited country in Europe, the smallest island nation on the planet, deep in the rain forest of West Africa, or anywhere in Asia or Australia (I'm still waiting for those murals to happen).

Part of my "same-old, same-old" was my most recent mural in the Buckeye State.  But, even it wasn't really a same-old kind of experience.  Let me tell you how things happen in my life.

When I last painted overseas, in Mexico, I traded services with a dentist.  I painted a mural for a deserving grandson while she took care of a root canal and crown.  Who won in that exchange?  It's my feeling that everyone did, especially the very lucky grandson.  But, I knew it was one of those wonderful experiences that only happen outside of the borders of the good old US of A and never inside those borders.

Or so I thought.

My pastor connected me with a chiropractor in need of an artist.  The name of his practice had "Back Pain" mentioned in it.  In passing conversation, I said, "I wish you took care of feet."  Sometimes, it's not good to get what you wish for.  Other times, things just fall into place.  This  was one of those "fall into place moments".

The chiropractor was willing to exchange services.  I received treatment that helped my feet and a local church received a community mural for a newly finished Sunday School classroom.  Everyone won, especially a collection of children around six to nine years old.  You can read the full story here.  If you want the rest of my a-maze-ing tale, you'll have to read on.

Networking is not high on my skills list.  I have lots of talent.  Networking just isn't one of them.  It doesn't stop me from trying.  I have contacted every United States Embassy to tell them about my community murals.  Closer to home, I have written to nearly every school in the neighboring five or so counties.  And, in Columbus, I've contacted all of the neighborhood area commissions to introduce what I do.  It's my conclusion that most people simply delete anonymous, unsolicited emails like mine. Most of this networking has done nothing for me.  Like I said, it's not one of my skills.

Now, if I can get my foot in the door and share what I do, that is a completely different experience.  And, I got my foot into Netcare, a 24/7 organization that provides mental health and substance abuse crisis and assessment services where I live.  My connection was Allan, who heard me present my murals at an area commission a few years ago.  He kept my business card and remembered me.

Netcare didn't exactly want a mural.  They wanted an a-maze-ing labyrinth where people who strolled their courtyard could peacefully wander.  And, when they finally reached the drainage grill in the center, they could throw their worries down the drain.  So, I met with a few people at Netcare.  I told them I had absolutely no experience with what they wanted.  (Sometimes, you just have to be honest.)  However, I wasn't afraid of paint.  And, I assured them that everything would be touched up before I said it was finished.  When they saw the quality of my murals and heard some of my travel stories from Africa, the deal was sealed.

A-maze-ingly, I was going to paint a maze.

It is much, much easier said than done.  The maze came with a diagram and around 80 numbered rectangles of a stencil pattern that needed to be adhered perfectly on the cement surface.  It would have been easier if four two-person teams assembled the stencils.  There were just two of us.  Now, if there were four working teams, of course, something could have gone wrong.  The stencil patterns might not have aligned perfectly.  Nobody would really know who made the mistake.  However, everyone could sit back and blame problems on another group.  When there's only one team working, it better be perfect.

It took an entire day to get the 80 stencils applied with a-maze-ing perfection to the concrete surface.  It was, unfortunately, the sunniest and warmest day we've had in Ohio all year.  I'm not usually one to complain about glorious weather, but it was hard to line up the pattern in the glaring sunlight.  And, when the day was done, I was a mazed artist.  In case you aren't sure, that's not really a good thing.  The job required crawling all over concrete.  I used gloves to protect and cushion my hands.  It helped.  Allan had knee pads, but said they hurt as much as they helped.  I crawled around with a pillow to cushion my knees.  It barely helped at all.  By the end of the day, I ached everywhere.  It was a-maze-ing how many new places could hurt.  And, it was equally a-maze-ing how long everything hurt.  Allan and I both agreed that the stencil should have been applied by a bunch of twenty-something artists from the Columbus College of Art and Design.  They probably wouldn't have ached at all.

I certainly hurt the following day when we applied the paint.  And, I hurt the next day as I started touching up the edges.

I'm used to touching up projects.  All murals require touching up and that's when I shine as the invaluable artist to finish off the work.  I knew all along that I would need to touch up this a-maze-ing maze  I just didn't realize how a-maze-ing I would have to be.  The seal for the adhesive stencil patterns probably would have worked just fine on a gym floor.  We didn't paint one of those.  It was concrete and just as bumpy as you would expect it to be.  The adhesive wasn't meant for that kind of surface.  Paint seeped under the stencil.  I had to go back and touch up the entire border of the maze.  So very fortunately for me, we had several days of rain in the Buckeye State.  I stayed home until the following week and it gave me time for my muscles to recover.

I felt wonderful.  And, as you may expect, a mazed artist completed the task and it simply looks a-maze-ing.