I've been in Kumba such a short time I am hardly in a position to present a true picture of life in Cameroon. Future articles will attempt to capture the essence of life, both physical and spiritual, of those who live here and offer a glimpse of the working of the Holy Spirit as seen through my eyes. First impressions, however, are not meant to be exhaustive studies but just that, first impressions. These I gladly share. . . .

Our plane touched down on African soil at about 9:30 p.m. on Oct. 3, 1996. At that hour we couldn't see much of Cameroon, but spent the night in a clean, adequate, and fairly modern hotel. So far, things were not much different than they were back home.

But then came the light of morning. It didn't take us long to see that we had been transported to a different place and time. Shortly after lunch we began the 85-mile trip to Kumba and our new home. I could not believe the hundreds of unpainted, tin-roofed hovels that we were passing. I had seen nothing in America that could even begin to compare. I wanted to take pictures, but our driver, Missionary Norb Meier, a two-year veteran of Cameroon, advised against it. First, he said, many people do not want their pictures taken; and second, "You haven't seen anything yet."

He was right. As we passed through more villages, the road became even rougher, the jungle more dense, and the shanties more primitive. My wife and I were at a loss for words as we bounced along this red-clay road that would have been declared impassable in the States, and as we viewed the living conditions of the people. Somehow I had in my mind that African towns and villages were little romantic settings of neatly arranged thatched homes--the kind I'd seen on TV. Well, the ones we've seen do not fit that enchanting, picturesque, postcard scene I'd envisioned.

Conditions did not improve as we entered Kumba, a city of over 100,000 people. We saw dirt-floored sheds with doors made of torn cloth, roofs covered with rusted tin, and garbage everywhere along the deeply rutted roads. We were soon learning that words like city, downtown, store, restaurant, bank, and market would take on a whole new meaning for us.

Amazingly, though, in just a matter of days, we began to grow accustomed to the sights and sounds and smells of life in our new city. I suppose this is what they call "culture shock," and time and familiarity tend to soften the blows to one's senses.