I have been blessed to meet some extremely wonderful people as I have gone muraling around the world.  Somewhere very near the top of my list of memorable people is Alfredo.  I met him when I painted at an orphanage where he lived in Mexico.  Alfredo wasn't exactly an orphan.  This young man was the victim of gun violence that put him in a wheelchair.  He stayed at the orphanage because there were limited facilities in Piedras Negras that could care for his needs.  At 23, he was everyone's big brother at Casa de Misericordia, and they rightfully adored him.

I try to look at a glass as half full, and I think I do okay with that.  But, I'm just not sure how well I would handle a disability from gun violence that would keep me in a wheelchair for the rest of my life.  Alfredo was warm and gracious.  It didn't matter that he spoke no English and I spoke absolutely horrible español because Alfredo spoke perfect friendship.
 
Everyone who came to the orphanage loved Alfredo.
 
Of course, I came to the orphanage to paint a mural (mural and project).  When the young children were painting, there was just no way for Alfredo to participate.  It was simply impossible and impassable.  But, fortunately for me, there were quiet moments when the kids were at school and Alfredo could paint.  I was very pleasantly surprised to see that he could stand up and paint when he needed to do so.  This all took place during the calm before the storm.  When school was over, so was Alfredo's turn to paint.
 
He didn't seem to mind.
 
On this particular project, I came to Mexico with a small group of gringos.  Most of us at one point during the experience were lured into a chess game with Alfredo.  It was like swimming with a shark.  The shark always won and it was usually bloody.  Alfredo was a chess master, at least the best master at the orphanage. 
 
I avoided playing chess with him, very thankful to have a mural as my excuse.  I don't really care for chess.  I haven't really played it much since I was a kid and I don't remember winning very often.  Some people, like Alfredo, plan ahead.  They know eight to ten moves in advance and then move in for the kill.  That isn't me, but Alfredo is one of those schemers and plotters at the chessboard.  From the safety and security of my mural, I could hear Alfredo start to laugh when he knew that checkmate was imminent.  And, he laughed a lot.

Nobody defeated Alfredo.
 
Towards the end of the day, but before it was dark, I put away my brushes so I could go outside and play with the kids.  I didn't get that far.  That shark Alfredo was waiting for his opportunity to kill another gringo.  And there I was, just ripe for the picking . . . or massacring.  I didn't want to play, but I just couldn't say no to him.  So, I pulled up an already bloody seat.
 
Like I already told you, I have no long-term strategy in chess.  I just knew that if I were to have any chance at all, I would have to come out as aggressively as possible and just assault, assault and assault.  To my surprise, and probably much more to Alfredo's, it worked.  In no time at all, I had his queen and both rooks.  If you know anything about chess, you know you're pretty much done for when that happens.  There was no evil laughter with a Spanish accent ten moves before checkmate.  Believe me, I hooted and hollered a whole lot before Alfredo admitted defeat.  He didn't have to know any English to understand my celebration.
 
My mama didn't raise no fool.  I quit a winner.  I planned to go out on top and didn't play another match against this obvious master.  I simply basked in my victory for the rest of the time in Piedras Negras.

It was two years before I returned to Mexico.  Alfredo had two more years to hone his shark attack skills.  And, for some reason he never forgot about my victory. 
 
He wanted a rematch.

I put it off as long as possible.  At lunch I got him several extra pieces of pizza, hoping he might need a Sunday afternoon siesta instead of a bloodbath.  Well, he ate the pizza.  (Who wouldn't?)  And then, we sat down for the rematch.
 
Unbelievably, it happened again.  In one of my earliest moves, I slid across the board and captured his queen.  He was shocked; I continued laughing. At one point I blurted out, "How do you say loser in Spanish?"  Much to everyone's delight, Alfredo knew more English than anyone expected.  He instantly plopped a big "L" on his forehead.  Yes, he lost again.  Yes, he's the greatest loser.  And, yes, he's waiting for my next visit to Mexico.

One day in art class, a student said he had photos he wanted to share with me.  It was an ordinary day at school.  I didn't know it at the time, but this was the beginning of a lesson in gratefulness.  I have had many incredible experiences in muraling around the world but none have been as humbling as Romania.  As it turned out, my student shared photos from a trip where he worked with orphans.  I said, “You know I went to Namibia to paint a mural at an Aids day care.  I’d go to Romania if they wanted a mural at an orphanage.”  He only needed to check it out and get back to me on it.

He called Romania from class.

Valentijn’s father owned a company in Romania.  Val didn’t just call anyone.  He called the director of the operation in Bucharest.  There is nothing like having connections.  I was on my way to Romania.
 
In a very remote Roma (Gypsy) village in Moldavia, two brothers shared one pair of shoes.  They alternated which days they went to school.  They had no other options. They were orphans, living in a small hut with their two younger sisters.  Their “home” had no roof or windows, but it did have an icon of the Virgin Mary.  They all prayed to her for desperately needed help.
 
Their story made it to the newspaper in Bucharest. The same director whom Valentijn called read the story and was moved to change their lives.  He provided a new home, furnished it and continued to care for their medical needs, food and education. 

And, yes, he bought them shoes. 
 
When I arrived in the village and saw their home, I designed a map of the country (mural and project) that included some of the traditional architecture I discovered in my Romanian travels.  When the sketch was finished and the painting began, I wasn’t the only one to paint this mural.  There were volunteers from the company that sponsored the children, friends of the family, neighbors and my student Valentijn who lead me to Romania in the first place.  But, most important for me, the children helped paint their own mural.
 
This mural was another positive experience for me.  But, I was humbled by the words of one of my Romanian friends at the completion of the job well done.  My friend told me, "For you, this is just another one of your very successful projects around the world.  For these children, it is the best day of their lives."  I've never been anyone's best experience.  This truth never occurred to me while painting side by side with the orphans.   I hope I never forget this conversation during future murals.

Once was not enough for me in Romania. During my first mural, news of the project traveled fast.  Ten minutes after starting the mural, the principal of the local school came by.  After seeing what we were up to, he exclaimed, “I want a mural in my school.”  And, of course, I immediately liked that idea.  Another wall?  Yep, I’d come back for that!

Actually getting back to Romania wasn’t as easy as I’d hoped.  The village of Poiana Negostarului was isolated from the rest of the country and the world.  The dirt road leading to the village turned into a muddy mess, nearly impassable, when the rains came.  Summer was the best time to visit without mud.

I wanted to return in October.  My connections in Romania said it wasn’t a good time because of the rains.  Try coming back in the spring.  So, I arranged my schedule to come back in April . . . and there was still rain.  Again, my connections in Romania said it wasn’t a good time.  They suggested I try coming back in the summer.  Unfortunately, with my schedule, that wasn’t possible.  It appeared to me that the mural wouldn’t happen.

H O W E V E R, you may recall, my connections in Romania weren’t my only connections.  The student who originally invited me to Romania, Valentijn, was about as connected as you can get.  Remember, his father owned the company that sponsored the project.  This student wanted to paint a mural for a community service project during his spring break.  Need I say more?  We went to Romania in the spring.

We were warned.  The roads were muddy and our vehicle did get stuck once.  However, the rains in Romania and the muddy road to this village paled in comparison to what I knew so very well from my Peace Corps days in West Africa during the rainy season.  This trip was a walk in the park.  Yep, it was a soggy, muddy park, but I had no doubts about getting to the school to paint the mural (mural and project). 

Arrival in Poiana Negostarului was a bit of a homecoming.  It was so much fun to see everyone again from the previous mural (which remained in beautiful condition, by the way.)  This little boy in this drawing was one of the happy orphan children who welcomed me back to their village.

As our little plane settled in front of the airfield in Kamina, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, I was reminded why I love Africa so much.  The little gang of eleven people from Ohio was welcomed like royalty.  Our arrival felt like an awards ceremony at the Olympics.  We lined up in a row and directly opposite of us were eleven beautiful children holding eleven freshly picked bouquets of flowers for us.  That would have been enough, but it wasn’t the end.  Just outside the gate, a crowd awaited with dancers, musicians and children who were obviously threatened not to touch -- or in any way harass -- the visitors. 

The celebration grew louder and wilder once we joined the party.  And, I loved every moment.  A choir of women in matching African dresses sang and danced to the beat created by men with homemade instruments that resembled xylophones made from gourds.  Male singers chanted into megaphones.  As for the children, well, they strained to get as close to the visitors as possible without touching.  They were under the watchful eye of a village elder who glared at them, and threatened in a language that meant nothing to me, if they got any closer than accepted.

Now, in Africa, you can’t just safely observe.  The swaying choir women edged closer and closer.  Without any warning, two women grabbed each of us by the arms, pulling us (still with our luggage in hand) into the crowd, and we too swayed to the music.  Of course, I didn’t sway nearly as gracefully, but I still swayed.

  And, then it was over.  Way too soon!

We were supposed to file out of the crowd and get into our transportation.  Well, it isn’t out of character for me to not follow the crowd.  While everyone else headed left to the trucks, I went directly right to the percussion section still in full out concert mode.  One woman had a basket, kind of like a purse, that she rattled away to the rhythm of the beat.  I asked to borrow it and did my own rattling.  Then, another woman indicated that I should do my rattling with the basket above my head.  Now it is totally out of character for me to do that, but I rattled and shook things that rarely ever get rattled and shaken.  I was welcomed into Kamina with a grand African experience. When I finished my moment, I joined up with the line to the transportation.  Nobody in my group even saw what I had done.  But I knew, before I left Kamina, I had to get myself an African rattle as my souvenir from the Congo.

I don't usually travel in groups.  I was the only member of this gang from Ohio who had lived in Africa before.  (Six years!)  Most members had never visited the continent.  And, on top of that, I was the only person who could speak any French.  My French is absolutely horrible.  I should probably apologize to my high school teacher, but at least I could communicate some.  So, while most of the Americans depended on the group leader for their every move and every decision.  I didn't.  When I wasn't facing a mural wall, which was nearly every hour of daylight for ten days, I explored as much of the town of Kamina as I could.

As I remember, I rarely explored alone.  My mural experience was 99% Congolese.  (There was one other American, John, who helped me.)  Most of my painters were children and young people associated with the orphanage where we painted.  And, when I wandered the streets, market and area surrounding the orphanage, just like a pied piper, I had children following, guiding and watching over me.  There were many moments that needed to be captured on camera, none more charming than this little girl in my drawing who wore a yellow ribbon.

The one time I remember wandering alone was in the wee hours of the morning, just before sunrise.  There was no sleeping in while in Kamina.  Every morning, I heard drums.  As exotic and wonderful as it is to hear African drums, they really were not all that welcomed before sunrise.  While I knew what I wanted to do at that hour, the good people of Kamina had other plans.  They were at church, pounding the drums and preparing to start their day with some praise.

Nobody praised quietly.

On the morning that I gave in to the drums, I have no idea when the beat awoke me, but it was pitch black outside.  Still, I decided to follow the music.  I grabbed my flashlight as well as my basket rattle and prepared to feel the beat.  It was the first time I ever located a church by the sound.  And, I certainly located that church.  But, just as I neared the building, the music stopped. 

Undefeated, I listened and located a second church.  But as soon as I found them in the dark, they also stopped singing and started praying.  It was as loud as the music.  Okay, I didn't shake my rattle or other things in the dark before sunrise.  But, I did celebrate at church with my rattle before I left the Congo.  However, it was in broad daylight and everyone had their eyes on the crazy "muzungu".

My muraling project in Fissebu, Liberia, was at a teacher training institute outside of the village.  I wandered the community a little, but when I left the Zorzor Rural Teaching Training Institute, I really wanted to shop for things like batteries, a bathroom towel or cold soft drinks (which were non-existent when I was a Peace Corps volunteer). That required a trip to Zorzor.

I know I'm a spoiled person.  I never considered walking to Zorzor.  It was a fifteen minute motorcycle taxi ride to the second largest town in Lofa County.  Peace Corps volunteers were not allowed to ride on motorcycle taxis, neither were employees of the U.S. Embassy.  Before such rules, motorcycle wrecks were the number one cause of death for Peace Corps volunteers.  I had no such restrictions and I loved the short motorcycle ride (usually wearing a helmet).  Sometimes it was just me with the driver.  On occasion there was a third passenger.  I never rode with more people but I saw motorcycles with four or five riders. 

I stated that I was spoiled because many, many people walked to Zorzor because paying for a taxi just wasn't an economical option.  And, the statistic I read that really shocked me was how long it took to walk from Zorzor to Monrovia.  Someone had to do it to know the trip took seven days.

The most recent census of Zorzor declared the population just under five thousand.  It wasn't that big.  It was very easy to stroll, aside from the blistering African heat.  Zorzor really had one main intersection.  It was next to the marketplace, a mosque, the gas station (with those cold soft drinks) and several little diners with African deliciousness. 

Since there really wasn't a lot to see and do, it was good to have a destination.  As a general rule, I don't drink soft drinks.  That rule is completely and totally tossed aside when strolling in blistering heat.  But, after the gas station, I tended to go to Mama Gayflor's home.  She was usually on the front porch because the family had a business selling daily necessities in the community.  It was very common to purchase only what was needed for that particular day's cooking.  Instead of the entire jar of cooking oil, it was separated into smaller plastic bags.  Mama Gayflor made home-made peanut butter in bags of about two tablespoons for Liberian recipes.

I thoroughly enjoyed experiencing Zorzor from Mama Gayflor's porch.  Across the street, I saw Gayflor's silk-screened T-shirts drying in the breeze.  The daily hustle and bustle of town life passed by as I sat in the comfortable shade.  And, a whole host of family members kept me entertained.  I never knew if the relatives were cousins, sisters, aunties, uncles, nieces, nephews or family friends "adopted" into the clan.  There were just always lots of people sharing the porch.

Traveling with a digital camera is a luxury I always appreciate, since I well remember traveling with film and carefully budgeting how many photographs I could take in one day.  Now, I can take hundreds, thousands of photos, delete to my heart's content, and hopefully get that one great shot.

This adorable little girl in my drawing was one of the relatives at the porch.  When she and her friends realized I was willing to take their pictures, I had quite an entertaining photo shoot.  And, as hoped for, I took a lot of photos, deleted to my heart's content and captured that one great shot.