UNICEF Women's Luncheon Series featuring guest speaker Cara Yar Khan

A Samurai Engagement

Just when I thought that our love story could not be anymore of a fairytale this happened...

On Friday afternoon, as we prepared to go to the Samurai Exhibit at the Denver Art Museum, John suggested I wear a Chinese silk cocktail dress with intricate stockings he bought earlier that day to wear that night (he knows I love fancy stockings). All dolled-up and ready to leave, having put in an extra effort to arrange my hair in a beautiful up-do (which I very rarely do these days) to show off the elegant style of the back of the dress, he looked at me strangely. Uncertain of his feeling, I asked if he liked my hair, showing him how it showed off the dress so nicely. To my total shock he somewhat nervously said he would prefer my hair down, after checking that it was not too much effort to do so. Surprised he did not like the elegant look, I took it down but honestly did not think twice about it afterwards as we were both so looking forward to this exotic exhibition that we had been talking about attending for months and had bought tickets to weeks in advance. Well, it was worth the wait. This private collection of Samurai armor, antiquities and artifacts were nothing less than exquisite. Roaming the halls as if floating in slow motion, listening to the eloquently described and sound effect filled recorded explanations, I was in my element taking in every ounce of the rich cultural experience.

Mid-way, John suggested we take a picture together but rather than looking at the camera, held by our friend Kevin, he turned to me and started to explain that I could not wear my hair up earlier because I was not yet engaged. I was so confused. All of a sudden John bent down on one knee and asked me to marry him! Speechless, it hit me what was happening. As he pulled out a little black box I began to quiver in joy. After placing the engraved engagement ring on my finger and giving me a matching one to place on his finger, John went back to speaking about my hair, and took out a Chinese gift box my mum had sent me from Shanghai which held a gift of a wooden Chinese hair pin which is only to be worn when a woman is betrothed. John had been "hiding it", ok. holding on to it, for the past two months! As per the Chinese tradition, now being betrothed to my beloved, I could wear the pin, so John, as he perfectly planned it, sweetly rolled my hair up in a bun, securing the pin ever so gently.

By now my heart was pounding, my eyes filled with happy tears and I was sniffling through uncontrollable giggles. All I wanted to do was rejoice in delight but being in a quiet, dignified exhibition, I had to contain my excitement. A security guard near by, who came over to congratulate us, must have told his colleagues through his radio because as we walked through the rest of the exhibit, me hopelessly trying so hard to be quiet and concentrate on the rest of the collection, the museum staff congratulated us on our engagement. You can imagine the shrills that came of me for the next 4 hours as we bought souvenirs for our family in the gift shop to commemorate the evening and then on to a Japanese dinner with our friend Kevin visiting from Arizona who helped make the surprise just perfect.

John Masters, the man I cherish, respect and adore with every fiber of my being who brings out the very best in me, planned and pulled off brilliantly the most thoughtful, unique, perfectly us and romantic evening of my life. Hopelessly in love and blissfully happy I am thrilled to say we are engaged!

Tennessee Love Story

It was as romantic as the lake scene in the The Notebook. At a picnic in rural Tennessee, where the local Church people - including Pastor Jerry and his wife - welcomed us “Denver folks” warmly, as only a charming Southern twang can do, John and I were happy for this idyllic getaway to a place where swaying trees hover over the country back roads and fields reach up high with dancing gold wheat, rich green corn stalks and thick blankets of soy bean shrubs.

Children, singing trills and squeals of excitement, playing enthusiastically in the creek, many covered in mud (best way to happy in a creek), others swinging off the raised shore line on a make-shift handle bar, like Tarzan charging through the jungle, jumping into the water splashing all the other children whose laughter and joy of innocent play was amplified by the thrill of being soaked once again on cue. The expected splash was just as deliriously amusing as if their little friend had jumped in by surprise.

A saint with children, “Uncle John” was eager to be down at the creek with all the munchkins, lifting them up in the air and on his back one handed (easy to do when his muscles are as big as melons), playing games of adventure. A true romantic through and through he proposed he take me in a canoe down the creek. Well, how can a girl resist such a sweet proposition, especially when that means I would be swept up in his arms, carried down the hill and placed ever so carefully into the canoe onto a towel so not to dirty the pretty white and green dress I had chosen for this unique occasion, a modern scene that might have easily been one in Gone With The Wind decades past. So, like Scarlett O’Hara, with flirty eyes and swooning heart (only missing a parasol, which I did say I should have had with me) I sat lady-like, prim and proper while John paddled us down the creek, passing the cheers of children teasing a crush in the playground at school.

Oh how beautiful it was, the calm quiet water glistening where the sun snuck through the overhanging trees that arched out from both sides of the shore. As only my beloved John does, he told me how beautiful I looked in my pretty dress and how grateful he was for our love. Cheeks flushed and sighs heavy, I took it all in. And then, just like in The Notebook, it started to rain. John removed his white shirt, bearing his muscular arms that look even more manly in a tank top, handing it to me so I could cover my hair and stay warm. Paddling now more mightily to rescue his damsel to safety, we snuck underneath a thick canopy of leaves where we would snuggle for a while, enjoying the love story scene of the rain drops dancing, lost far away from the rest of the world, blissfuly happy in our romantic adventure.

On the drive back, drenched but unbothered, in the middle of nowhere in rural Tennessee, a cute wooden arrow, pointing in the direction we had to turn, caught John’s eye and read “Wedding.” He softly said, “It’s an omen.” And so we drove on, madly in love, happily ever after.

I have a room in Africa, and BRIE cheese!

Written April 29, 2007

From my room in Luanda, absolutely exhausted, I cannot resist but to write you about how it came about that I have brie cheese. As a matter of fact in the little white bar fridge, that sits on the floor in my room in Africa, I have also have blue cheese and herb cream cheese. Are you confused? Yes I expect so but I can tell you that your sentiment does not come close to the bewilderment I experienced at the South African grocery store this evening. When Roshni and Vinci (another colleague) said we were going to buy an iron and some brown bread from a South African place I was thinking along the lines of a canteen. No way! In a bright lit medium sized grocery store I found firm, bright red peppers, an incredible selection of Italian oils, sauces, pastas and vinegars, pita bread (which of course I had to buy), more cheese than I have ever seen in Shanghai, cosmetics and toiletries, chocolates (even After Eights!) not to mention a wide variety of international frozen meals...hey I even saw wasabi and seaweed sheets to make sushi. Oh but forget the yogurt...$3 each for the little ones. Now let me remind all of you that I am in Angola, in Africa, the country that in the year 2000 UNICEF declared the worst place in the world for a child to be born. I saw the other side of the coin this evening.

As we drove through another neighbourhood with Portuguese style houses and a few modern apartment buildings, I came to realize that this place is wonderful and that although my hotel is 1000 meters from the beach it for sure a less developed area of the city. These days I have been perplexed as to who was owning all of the Nissan X-trails, Prados and Mercedes...now I know it is the people that live those nice houses, that shop at the South African grocery store. Oh did I tell you that the imported foods are cheaper here than in Shanghai - you can imagine my delight.

So why am I feeling so confused? Before coming to Angola I watched a few movies,staged in Africa, namely Blood Diamond and the Last King of Scotland, that honestly had me a little scared. Now it has been said, by more than one person, that Angola, especially the capital city of Luanda, is not the typical African experience...and although I was craving a rough and tough stint, this place is not that difficult and I am very happy here.

Why might you asked is so much emotion coming from brie cheese..well it is not the cheese. Rather it is the sun, the water, the stars that shine brilliantly, the special getaways and most of all my newest love....the children. My goodness, Angolan children are so beautiful. Their HUGE black eyes, smooth chocolate skin, the little girls florecent coloured beads that decorate their braids. And they are friendly. Actually everyone is friendly here. There is no honking in traffic. People are courteous and smile all the time; the men do not whistle or cat call. Service is great and one feels very welcome.

One of the most unforgettable beauties of this country, and others on the continent is the land. The land is red not black...actually more of a terracotta colour like the beautiful homes in Italy. I think the red is a symbol of warmth and passion. Maybe I can bring home a jar of the red soil.

Oh and great posture..yes I am referring to the straight backs, the way the women stand up straight...so they do not drop the enormous loads they carry on their heads, often in addition to the little angel they have strapped onto their backs. When I first arrived I saw a couple of women balancing carton crates of eggs...now that is talent! Today the head loads varied from buckets of fish to big bundles of unidentifiable goods.

This evening I was in Miami, or was it San Francisco; maybe the Caribbean. After shopping, which included the acquisition of an iron (regular Molly Maid now), my crew and I went to grab a bite to eat. Transformed to another world upon entering the place, I thought that this is a country I would like to spend more time in. The restaurant was right on the water, almost like a dock, with wood floors and lots of white umbrellas. Spectacular was a view over the water facing a brightly lit city including colonial buildings and boats. What a rush to be in such a place...too many times I say to myself "wow, Luanda is amazing".

Last night I was at another great restaurant with my newest friend, Alvaro, a native Angolan who moved to Portugal with his parents many years ago, to escape the political stuggles possessing the country. Alvaro is one of the most ambitious business people I have ever met. This assessment comes from learning about his various ventures and a most reliable reference, Katia's mother who works with him. Alvaro loves his homeland and is more than passionate about helping it grow.

Then here comes another motivation to do a good job in the office. Angolan diamond and oil industries are going to explode over the next five years...but what about all my new little angels, the 57% of the population that is under the age of 18?...yes the youngest population in the world. The profits earned are not going directly into the pockets of the poor...so hopefully UNICEF and other agencies doing similar work will generate enough funds from the private sector to provde a safety net or alternative.

The rooster has the 4am slot still booked. By 5am a cacophany of chirping birds has me with hope...luckily absolute exhuastion these days keeps my eyes shut until 6:30am. But then I have to get up because by 7:30am one of the five office drivers comes to pick me up. Now if any of you are going to come to Angola and drive in a UN vehicle, my advise to you is pretend it is after Labor Day and you cannot wear white anymore...how do the vehicles, the big white Prados get so dirty? You are probably thinking that now "Cara has lost her mind, what is she writing about?" these are just the small details of my life these days when I have a room in Africa.

It is getting to hard to keep my eyes focused. I am tired but before I go I want to make sure that the message of this email is saying what a beautiful place Angola is, first and foremost because of its people...and did I mention how beautiful the children are?  What angels!

good night, tomorrow I will write about what learnt today: diamonds and oil industries in Angola...and how the Chinese are taking over everywhere. Oh one more thing...even the manager of this hotel is Chinese...just unbelievable!

I have a room in Africa and the music of Ray Charles

Written: March 30, 2007

Last Sunday was grey, a little humid, and quiet except for the sweet voices of children playing outside. It must have rained the night before because when a car rumbled by I could hear the water from the puddles swooshing around. Oh and there was my hated friend the rooster...it just never shuts up, absolutely incredible.

Sorry for not having written for so long but I have been absolutely nackered in the evenings. The office hours are long but the work is fascinating, the intellectual challenge I was yearning for. Did you know that in 2006 the oil company Exxon Mobile made approximately $10,000 profit EVERY MINUTE in Angola? And that in the same year, they made a $5,600 profit for every child born in Angola? Unbelievable! I will be seeing them next week.

The women with the great posture, I mentioned before, I think have been taught by a mastermind, a small frail women that passed my office yesterday who, while balancing a bundled of brooms on her head, was breast feeding her small baby...she did not stop to rest, rather kept walking along, through the crowds as if she was on her own. That woman had places to go!

I have seen more variety lately in the bundles carried above the crowds: plums, grapes, bananas, plastic jugs in all the colors of the rainbow, and thick baguettes. I have to learn the prices before I start supporting the local vendors.

There is no local bus or taxi system in Luanda. There are pale blue mini-vans that act like taxis for the general public but I not dare jump on board. Other than the fact that our security team woudl havemy neck, I am not sure how I would squeeze in the crowded 8 seater which I once counted with 14 passangers inside. Reminded me of India's trains with people hanging off the sides.

To get back home from work in the evenings there are "shuttles" (UNICEF SUV or pickup trucks) that leave at 5pm, 6:30pm and if you request in advance, 8pm. These shuttles are our band of huge UN cars which I have affectionately named Rhino and Elephant for the six feet antennas they sport on the front of their hoods. Only once I caught the early one and I'm glad I did because it took me on a tour of another part of the city I had yet to see (honestly I have seen very very little of this city since having arrived three weeks ago).

One of my beloved aunts wrote to say I sound delirious in my emails. Maybe I am losing it a bit (or havealready lost it). I can't help loving all the small things that make Luanda a paradise despite colleagues not having water and electricity. Even last Friday night at Angela's house (Angela is my boss) in the middle of a party, we had a black out...but the beauty of that is that the candles come out and no one seemed bothered by the blaring generator that spits out a diesel.

Today is Friday and we only work half day until 1pm...but i stayed til 3pm. Not sure what to do with myself in the afternoons. Without a car there is no where to go but I should be grateful for the quiet time jsut to relax and of course write this email.

Every night is has been pouring rain and I only know because the street are wet in the mornings. I can now sleep through the storms and the earliest morning rooster calls. The rain unlike in other places, brings mud and floods to the city rather than washing everything away. There is no funcioning drainage system in the city and open man holes are a scary reality. One day after work we drove past three little boys, near the main road, hunched over a man hole trying to splash the water onto themselves. We all shuttered at the thought of the illnesses they could catch from that dirty, if they weren't already sick. There was one little girl maybe 3 years old, a little princess wearing only a bright red skirt, pouncing in the puddles and playing with a plastic bucket where the water trickled down. Again my heart gets stuck in my throat thinking about the contaminated water.

In the main downtown or business area of the city ruins can be seen all over. Some have a Portuguese facade. The pain has peeled, the main structure has worn away and grabage is sprawled all around but a tree grows out of the window, reaching out toward the sky, just to say "I am still alive".

This is a spirit I find true in the Angolan people. One of the drivers explained to me just yesterday the happiness "alegria" that Angolans have always felt even during the war. He said soilders lined both sides of the streets but in any empty pocket you would find the people having a party "en fiesta". Just today as I walked out of the office, at the corner six women were hanging out, two dancing around to their own singing as a play along to entertain their other friends. It was nice to see, a little party of their own on a hot Luanda afternoon. I felt out of place and dull, standing their in my suit jacket waiting for the shuttle to come...but I enjoyed the scene nevertheless.

There are signs of great properity in Luanda, like the Ministry of Finance building that stands proud in dark pink stone and clean green glass. And ofcourse the huge colonial bank building. Having gone on a couple of rounds in the shuttle, to drop off other colleagues, modern shops are few but in hidden pockets. In one window I saw shiny gold high heel shoes..but this is not Kansas.

One building that caught my eye, not only for its beautifully renovated European style facade, but for its name, was the National Museum of Anthropology...somehow such a place seemed out of place....I thought it great that such sciences were treasured but why don't the schools and hospitals look that nice?

Quite a few people in the streets are disable, on crutches or wheelchairs, some old fashioned ones that you ride with a hand churn and others like the ones you find in a hospital. At Sunday mass last Sunday, in the courtyard, I saw a man in a new sports wheelchair which I thought was great. These chairs are more durable and lighweight so its easier to get around. What sticks out in my mind most is a man enjoying the scenery at the beach. All alone he sat in his wheelchair, at the edge of the beach where it meets the sidewalk, staring out over the Bay, the same Bay I enjoyed so much other night at dinner. I guess we havesomething in common, he and I.

To reach my hotel the last strip of the drive is the ocean to the left and the Bay towards the city to my right. Along the ocean beach fishing boats sit overturned, children chase each other up and down mounds of sand and a few vendors carrying covered loads or stolen goods drag their feet along, hot and tired after a full day wandering. Usually the sun is starting to set on my way home and it's reflection makes the water sparkle like diamonds. I always seem to sigh and wish I could hang out at the beach. My colleague Marie-Claire told me that the ocean side is deliciously clean. Maybe this weekend I can find someone to go with, that of course depending on getting a lift too.

Oh and then there is the music of Ray Charles! His song "Georgia" I think should be re-written for Angola "in peaceful dreams I see, the road leads back to you".

I have a home in Africa, my own little piece of heaven...

It has been months since I last wrote an entry and so much has happened. Most significant, which some of you may or may not know, is a contract extension with UNICEF in Angola!

Hotel Marina was my refuge for three months and the day I left I attended a funeral without leaving my room; the Church across the street filled up early in the morning with hundreds of mourners dressed in black rather than the jovial crowds that usually sang their way into my room each Sunday. Was it a sign that my welcome there had expired or just a perfect pathetic fallacy.

So where have I been sleeping the past month you must be asking and all I can say is: in heaven. On the Marginal, officially named 4 de Fevereiro, the palm tree lined strip that runs along the water I now use as my home address, well at #52 that is, on the 6th floor, (physically the 8th floor if we are counting the number of flights of stairs you have to scale when the elevator is not working). The angels must be watching me because the apartment is amazing. I was simply in the right time at the right place when a colleague mentioned they were moving. Now I really have a home in Africa with a large high ceiling living room, raised dining room (mini-second floor), large bathroom, bedroom and kitchen where I have the absolute joy of creating delicious, scrumptious specialties...oh home cooked food beats restaurant grub any day!

Last week I had the fortune of traveling to South Africa for work. Although the professional networking was good the real jewel of the trip was the home decor shopping spree that I indulged in! WOW! SA is cheap...not just in relation to Angola which would be any country in the world, but significantly more affordable that Canada - or maybe I am totally out of the loop and was just on cloud nine choosing candles, pillows, tapestries and other delight-able details to decorate my palace.

What was not that enjoyable was the cold. Who ever thought that a place in AFRICA would have snow? Luckily I stayed in Pretoria, a suburb of Johannesburg where only the frost reached us. Nevertheless it was bitterly cold, a shock to my system after a mild winter season in tropical Angola where days can still be sunny and easily reach 25 degrees (Celsius that is for any Americans reading this). The highlight of the trip was watching the sun set on Sunday from a 4-seat er plane. My cousin Andras took up flying as a hobby years ago in Kenya and after lunch at the airfield he took us up for a spin!

It has been so long since I last wrote that I do not remember what I have and have not shared.  I don't think I talked about my sailing day with Luis, Takaho and the angels at the Luanda Boat Club. Every weekend a group of boys. one as young as 5, is sponsored by a local Church and a few caring foreigners to learn how to sail. These boys were recruited off the streets in the hopes of saving them from so not so nice situations in which they found themselves, whether it was drugs, violence or alcohol and of course poverty. At the boat club they are kings; they learn to sail, eat hearty meals, participate in team building and leadership exercises, receive tutoring for their school studies and get to escape for two days into a world that would never be accessible to them if not for the generosity and humility of the priest and people like my friend Luis, On that memorable Sunday we took out a Catamaran onto the bay. Our captains mate, Nuno, quickly became my little sweetheart. His big black eyes, tough little man demeanor and loud boasting to his friends that he was coming on our boat could not hide the innocent little angel who peeked out in moments when his guard was down. Nuno told me he was 9 years old but I never would have thought he was more than 6 looking at this tiny little body. That day there was a Regatta and the Bay was full of aspiring little sailors zipping around in what apparently was an organized race which we mistakenly sailed though more than once. From my new home I look out over that same bay and whenever I see the water dotted with sails I remember my sweet little angel who took good care to make sure owe did not topple over and gave me stern instructions on how to steer the boat!

Not having my own vehicle has been difficult in terms of getting on with things in Luanda. Whenever possible I have hitched a ride with friends to buy groceries or visit a new place. In the hotel I made two friends, Diogo and Rui, who ironically work for a company that is managed by my friend Alvaro...such a small world. Diogo was kind enough to take me to a place called Caicacuo where in the middle of no where, on top of a hill, is a huge Portuguese furniture store. Who would have thought that in such a place, far removed from the city, I would find beautiful furniture and decor bits...but the prices - AHHHH! Angola is ridiculously expensive.

Oh I had my first night out in Luanda just last Friday! At a bar/club on the water called Bay In, I danced until 2:30am with a view of the sparkling city and glittering bay! The music was just ok but the ambiance and my great friends made up for it. Actually just last night I had my second night out in Luanda. Dinner at Chill Out, a great ocean side restaurant with great House music and delicious fish carpaccio! The waves were so high last night that one jumped over the railing into the restaurant washing up two tables and flooding the floor around us...it was like being in a movie but no one seemed to mind and went back to their seats as the waiters mopped the puddles around them. I didn't know if the waves would reach us again and wash us up entirely but no one seemed to care. The music never stopped when the lights went out and people just kept dancing so I too decided not to worry about it.

Going to South Africa made me realize just how comfortable I am in Angola. Life is simple here and there is a lot to enjoy, this comment coming from someone who has never left the province of Luanda! I have been told that Lobita and Lubango are the most beautiful places in the country so when Jill comes from Canada to visit me (11 days and counting!) we will take a road trip. Oh something I noticed is that things like the presence of land mines, having my own security guard, the flooding in the streets and power cuts for example, don't faze me anymore...when I mentioned to a colleague that I want to drive to Lubango they reminded me to check with our Security team about which roads are blocked because of land mines...ok. Only when I talk to friends back home do I think...wow, this just wouldn't happen in Toronto or Shanghai (well the flooding in Shanghai during the Plum Rains yes).

My friend Charles has told me that I do not talk enough about my interaction with Angolans in these emails...but I am not sure what to say. Ines is a young mother of three who keeps my house tidy and clothes clean...we chat every day and she helps me with my Portuguese, which really needs formal classes. Honestly I do not find much difference between her and Irma who worked for me in Panama. She is eager to work, needs careful explanation, is inquisitive about me and my life, jovial, wears sexy outfits and cannot wait for me to get a TV connection so she can watch Brazilian soap operas all afternoon.

After seeing a snippet of the widely popular Brazilian soap operas it is no wonder that Angola has one of the highest fertility rates in the world: MADONNA! Talk about steamy action in the middle of day - my goodness! What happened to Parental Guidance and the Family Channel?

Work is busy and challenging. Unfortunately I am not spending as much time on Private Sector as I would like however I have been assigned to a special Malaria Task Force with 5 other colleagues for the next month. Our main job is to ensure that half a million insecticide malaria nets are distributed across all 18 provinces to the health centers...not an easy task considering the acute time line and logistical challenges that grace this country. Angola is receiving a lot of attention and money from donors around the world...sadly it has the second highest infant mortality rate in the world and malnutrition here is comparable to southern Sudan and Afghanistan.

Despite my environment I am still amazed by the contrasts here. Construction is everywhere, investments are pouring in and BP and Sonangol are soon to open their new shiny glass office towers that sport helicopter pads on their rooftops! And then the slums, the poverty, the alarming statistics...I am grateful to be here at this time of change and I look forward to seeing Angola evolve over the next few years.

Oh for any of you NBA fans...do you know the Spanish player Pau Gasol who I think plays for Memphis now? Well he is a UNICEF Goodwill Ambassador and is coming to Angola next week...talk about celebrity high maintenance!  

Angola is really coming out of its shell in a big way, with only five years of peace on its record since the civil war ended in 2002...actually quite amazingly. The country is hosting Afrobasket, the regional basketball championship, next month, then the Women's World Handball Tournament, followed by the World Summit of Diamonds in 2008 and the African Soccer Cup of Nations in 2010 to precede the FIFA World Cup in South Africa.

Many people are incredible dedicated to seeing Angola achieve great things. Like my friend Alvaro who has the most hectic schedule I have ever seen between his venture here and back in Portugal. Really it is nice to meet someone so passionate about their country and seeing it unfurl to its fullest potential.

Well my Sunday has started nicely, with two cups of Earl Grey tea, a view of a ship in the Bay waiting to dock at the port and the melodic tunes of my latest favorite African singer AYO..check her out!

I have a room in Africa from where I can see Venus

Written April 27, 2009 Luanda, Angola

Is it the planet Venus that shines as bright as the North star and lies to the east? Every night when the sun sets, usually a brilliant orange colour, you can see the moon and in between the two is a star that shines so bright I can only imagine it is Venus.

This morning at 7:30am the choir began singing "Hallelujah". Sunday mass was more lively than usual. The choir was accompanied by a drum band and by 10am there was lots of cheering. Most Sunday in the choir I count 28 women and 4 men when they march out into the courtyard, but today there were many more men, maybe an addition for the special celebration that I have yet to figure out.

How close have you ever seen a hummingbird? For me I can now say only one foot away. As I sat in the office truck waiting for my Japanese colleague and friend, Takaho, come out of her house, a black and electric bright green hummingbird came to say good morning. Its colours were incredible and its tiny little body seemed so perfect.

As you can see, Angola still has me in awe. Last weekend with friends from the office I went to Kissama National Park. The drive out of the city was unexpected...an hour ocean drive and then a 30 km turn into the bush. The red soil, the wide river, which according to the UN head of security is still ridden with mines and the African trees made for a scenic view.

Everyone keeps saying that Angola is a difficult post but I seem to be spared for now. However most of my colleagues come to work each day adding a check to the continued number of days with no water or electricity. Apparently once I move into my own place I too will get to have such experiences - yipee just like camping.

I have been here six weeks now and I am not phased at all anymore by blackouts, phone lines down or typhoon rain storms. However, I still cringe at the sight of children playing in dirty water pools and flooded alleys that are everywhere these days as the rainy season comes into full swing.

Over this time I have built a nice relationship with the cleaning staff and the waiters here in the hotel. Every morning i enjoy saying good morning (bon dia!) and ordering morning Angolan java. And on the weekends, the cleaning staff, chat a little when they bring clean towels. With one senora, in particular, I enjoy chatting - this of course helps my Portuguese! Together we change the bed sheets and she lends me a needle and thread when needed. She seems to like very much that I wash my own clothes in the bathtub. I perceive this from her huge smile when I am elbow deep wringing water out clothes or ironing clothes on my bed and she brings me more hangers.

'Disabled' Hurts

(Names have been omitted to protect the privacy of this family)   

Recently a mother wrote to me after her daughter came home crying because someone close to her, referred to her as "disabled". Distraught as to how to console her daughter but also confused as to why this word would hurt so much, the mother asked for my insight and this is what I wrote to her:

'Thank you for sharing this with me. I am so sorry that this happened to both you and [your daughter] . Sadly it won’t be the last time but hopefully together we can set the stones to pave the path so one day it doesn’t.

My heart breaks for [your daughter] because I do know exactly how she feels.  The reason it hurts is because the word “disabled” has such a negative connotation in its literal meaning and in terms of what society thinks about people and children living with a disability; we are often, in as many subtle as blatant ways, treated and thought of as inferior, useless, weak, incapable, charity case, unable, strange, deformed, embarrassing, not normal, shameful, etc. There mistruths are so difficult to break down and even though [your daughter] and I both know that this is not true about ourselves, it still hurts when people put us down - intentionally or unintentionally -, especially when it is someone close to us.

The other reason it hurts [her] feelings is because in her world, in her mind, in her heart she is just [herself]; so when someone calls her “disabled” is makes her feel that just being her, just being [herself], is not good enough and she even if just for a second she questions herself. Tell her that I too have moments when people make me sad or for a moment make me self-conscious about my physical limitations or the way I walk…but it just pricks for a moment, I don’t let it sting too long because I know that those people are hurting inside themselves for whatever reason so they cannot see that there is nothing disabled about me; deep down what they are thinking and feeling really has nothing to do with me.

I would like to share something to consider telling [your daughter]: the disability is not [her] cerebral palsy or the physical or cognitive impairments that she might have. The “disability” is the intersection between those impairments and the barriers that society and people put in front of her, that prevent her from or make it more challenging to engage fully in every aspect of her life not only physically but with a happy and confident disposition. The disability is the environmental barriers and the stigma and discrimination of others that make her feel bad, excluded, hurt and sad; it is not her cerebral palsy. Looking at disability this way, where it is not the person but rather our environments that are disabled is called the Human Rights approach. This is how UNICEF works in this field. We always put the child/ person first. So [your daughter] is not a disabled child. She is a child who lives with a disability. Does this make sense? And the fact that she does it with such prowess and sunshine makes her the champion that she is.

Tell [your daughter] that any person, her, me, you, really anyone that has the courage, confidence and maturity to ask others for help when they are in a moments need, makes them very powerful, someone who is going to bring a lot of good energy and love to their own life and to the lives of those around them.

Let me share with you that my beloved father, who blames himself for my condition, has taken years to learn how to talk about what is happening to me. Once, as we walked through a crowd, he said “Excuse us we have a problem here, please make some room”. I immediately sat him down and explained, “Daddy, I am not a problem, neither is my wobble. The day that I can no longer make you laugh is  when we have a problem”.  He felt ashamed because he did not realize himself what he was implying nor how it might make me feel. My father is my guiding grace, my everything; I revere and adore him. And because I love him so much and I know he loves me, I don’t get mad at him when he does not know the right words to use. I share with him what I too am learning day by day about this incredible journey.

So my last piece of advice, that I am so humbled that you would reach out to me to share, is to encourage [your daughter] to educate [the person who called her disabled], maybe in a letter or over the phone. Teach her the right words to use to describe cerebral palsy and what ‘disability’ really is. Let [your daughter] choose the words, words that make her feel proud to be as unique and sensational just as she is.

My speech at the US Fund for UNICEF Annual Meeting 2913, New York City

Featured on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I0513MO2RcA

A UNICEF staff member is motivated by work, colleagues - and stigma

Watch video here: http://www.unicef.org/infobycountry/haiti_66913.html

An opportunity of a lifetime: UNICEF Haiti

This story is dedicated in heartfelt gratitude to all of my colleagues at UNICEF Haiti

for their compassion, kindness and support.

And a very special “thank you” to

Francoise Gruloos-Ackermans, UNICEF Haiti Representative,

a mentor and friend who offered me a new sky

to fly to horizons I never dreamed of seeing.

 

Never would I have imagined, especially in the prime of my life, in my most dynamic years that I would develop a physical disability and have to ask for assistance or need accommodations in the workplace, as I do today.

In 2007 I was diagnosed with Hereditary Inclusion Body Myopathy, a degenerative, muscle wasting condition affecting my entire body, which typically leads to severe incapacity within 10 - 15 years of its onset. I had shown signs of weakness since 2002, and the doctors told me to stop my international career and prepare for what was to come - a life of serious physical inability. With no approved treatment or cure and less than 1,000 known patients worldwide, it might have made sense to some to take the doctor’s advice and stay home. But at the time the disease manifested itself only as a slight limp so when I had the opportunity to work with UNICEF Angola, just a couple of months after being diagnosed, I left immediately to continue gallivanting around the world as I had been doing since I joined the UN in 2001. Never did I imagine that in just five years my condition would progress as far as it has. I now wear braces on both legs, use two canes to walk and check that box on the P-11 UN Personal History Form to indicate that I have a disability.

Almost everyone discouraged me from coming to Haiti. How will you manage in a country recovering from such an enormous natural disaster where there is not even the most basic infrastructure for Haitians with disabilities?” said so many. I heard this from those who had come here during the Emergency surge or had a media-fed vision of what it might be like here, despite the new attention on people with disabilities, specifically the 4,000 new earthquake amputees. Even when I received indication that I was the preferred candidate, I was honestly afraid to breach the subject of needing assistance. But I felt compelled to ask if there were any security issues or restrictions about having a staff member with a physical disability working in a mission like Haiti. And the answer was, I don’t know - a fair and honest reply. Immediately my future supervisor, Stephanie Kleschinitzki, approached our Representative, Francoise Gruloos-Ackermans, whose response was nothing less than brilliant, "Of course she must come to Haiti". Within moments Francoise was on the phone with Rosangela Berman-Bieler UNICEF Senior Advisor on children with disabilities in NYHQ and then was programming Rosangela’s number to speed dial. Indiana Gonzalez, the Chief of Operations had her team scurrying around making accessibility adjustments and arrangements for my safety and comfort.  In preparation for my arrival, Stephanie, sent a list of potential accommodations, as the office is still situated on the UN MINUSTAH base. This was a gesture that one should expect of an organization like UNICEF, but one for which I was just the same, sincerely grateful. Here is the list:

·         Ensuring that MOVCON gets clearance for someone to greet me immediately at the embarking off the plane, so that they can help to manage clearance through customs and the pick-up and carry of baggage to the vehicle. ∙

·         Choosing a workstation in a container that does not have stairs ∙

·         Assigning me a navette driver that has the capacity and the right caring attitude to help with the movement to and from the office ∙

·         Making a vehicle available for me to travel to and from the Cafeteria here at Log Base on a daily basis at lunchtime (it’s a 10 minute walk in the sun) ∙

·         Ensuring that my workstation has a phone to eliminate unnecessary walks around the containers and base ∙

·         Giving an extra level of assistance to find a hotel/apartment that is ideal for the mobility impaired (no 2-floor walk-ups etc.)

What a relief it was to know that I would be offered help without having to feel as if I was imposing on the office and my team. These simple accommodations and the kind help my colleagues show me every day let me focus on my job and perform with dignity. Their positive attitude and open engagement makes all the difference in my workday. While my soon-to-be colleagues discussed their concerns as to how I would cope, Francoise had everyone mobilized anticipating my arrival.

Getting here was not without its delays (attaining UN Medical Clearance, was the most insensitive process) and had things gone sour - as I feared they might, on more than one occasion, I was not sure how I would respond. I had in hand, as if holding on to it for protection, the statement issued on October 4, 2011 by our Executive Director, Mr. Lake, outlining UNICEF’s support for the active promotion of hiring of persons with disabilities and dedication to their accommodation in the work place. Low and behold, I joined UNICEF Haiti in November 2011.

Now I mention all of these details to you because they deserve attention. I was raised in Canada where we are taught not to take notice of a disability, as if it is not an issue. But knowing what it is like to live the first 33 years of my life with no physical limitations and then all of a sudden to have to check that box on the P-11 form, I disagree. We should take notice, at least in regards to learning about different types of disabilities. We should ask without feeling awkward, if someone needs assistance and take advantage of the fact that they can offer a unique perspective that people without disabilities, will never have. It is this personal insight that is such a valuable asset to further develop UNICEF’s rich culture of diversity and inclusion not only among its staff and partners but also for its’ most vulnerable beneficiaries, namely children with disabilities. Recently my Section Chief, Chrystian Solofo-Dimby, who I share a container with, said something that touched my heart, "Cara, not until I met you have I been so aware of the many daily complexities and issues people with disabilities face." And he thanked me for showing him that I am equal to everyone else. This testimony only emphasizes the importance and impact of inclusion.

I still show some signs of once having had an athletic life, but the reality is that no longer can I lift heavy loads. I cannot carry a note book to a meeting or a glass of water to my desk. I cannot step up onto a curb without assistance or climb stairs and ramps unless there is something sturdy to hold on to. A gush of strong wind can easily topple me over, despite having my canes to keep balance and moving around alone in the rain is totally out of the question. Walking long distances, without having unlimited time, is simply not possible. And if the door to my office container swings open too fast, before I have a chance to stabilize my feet, I am most likely to fly with it. So how do I manage? This is where my wonderful colleagues have helped make my transition and daily function in this difficult terrain so seamless. I do not feel that having to ask for help for some of the most basic tasks is bothersome - like asking Junior or Johnny to bring me a jug of water in the mornings; or asking Dominique to let me lean on her arm to walk to the washroom when the wind outside is blowing strong; or asking Suzie to carry my papers to our section meeting; or asking Ricardo or Vladimir to help lift my dangling leg up into the tall field vehicles. These little things not only foster a sense of acceptance and understanding, they also help set the stage for the next professional with a disability, who might need some sort of assistance or accommodation.

However there is still stigma and discrimination to deal with, something I never experienced before having a disability. It is there every day, not necessarily from a desire to be cruel or exclusionary, rather arising from fear and ignorance. This motivates me to get out there so people can see a young woman with a disability engaging in society just like they do. Let people see me struggling, slowly but surely, to get up the stairs of the restaurant on the UN Log Base or have to ask for help to walk through the fancy stair-ridden Karibe Hotel. Let them stare with eyes wide open and wonder how is it that I might be at a public event on behalf of UNICEF, taking an active role in public life. Let them meet me and learn that UNICEF is an organization that not only supports its staff with disabilities but encourages them to strive and succeed. Let them realize that having a Disability Focal Point in the office, (a responsibility I am honored to have), is an opportunity to empower a staff member living with a disability and share their own life experience.

There is so much that we still need to do at UNICEF - in Headquarters, Country Offices, National Committees and in our programmes - to engage and empower women, men and children with disabilities. People with disabilities are a powerful and dynamic community, one I am so very proud to be a part of, just as proud as I am to be a part of UNICEF.

Hurts My Heart

From the 20 - feet container I moved into a sweet little bungalow house on a UN compound. Although it lacks character and much sign of life it has all the basic luxuries of water, electricity, safety and most uncommon in Port-au-Prince, peace and quiet. At first it took time to adjust to being alone again, after night upon night enjoying the communal company of my darling UN Police friends at the container lodge.   Last night a man knocked on the door, his thick physique and stern stare shouted " I am security". I welcomed him into the house, where he might state his business, instead he stood outside and began to reprimand me in a most serious tone for having parked my car in front of the house (oh this is not allowed, all vehicles must be in the parking lot at the edge of the compound, quite a walk from my little abode). Familiar with such circumstances, I calmly began to explain to the big security man that I indeed had permission from the management to park on the premises of my house because I have a physical disability. Well he was confused. Very confused. He looked me up and down, looking for I am not exactly sure what. Standing at the door, without my canes or leg braces, I guess I looked ...what? normal? Just a woman in a pretty short dress? So again, in a soft tone I began to explain that I have permission from the management to park my vehicle in front of my house because I have a disability. And then it sunk it, the regret and pain and pity in his face as he realized I was indeed telling the truth. And indicating the "disabled" laminated sign featured in my kitchen window, for all the outside world to see, that stick figure in a wheelchair....not exactly a good character or me but you get the point. What happened next is what got to me and might (or might not) rub you the wrong way too. The big security man began to apologize; he apologized for my situation, he apologized profusely for not having been informed and therefore for bothering me and then again said he was sorry that I was sick. And on his little pad the big security man took note of the house number and as he wrote he dictated out loud, "sick lady". This is when I realized it was happening again. "I am not sick", I interrupted, " I have a disability, it is ok you can write that". "Oh no" the big security man said, "you are sick". "Please", I explained, "there is nothing wrong with saying I that I have a disability, Please tell your security team 'j'ai un handicap'...".And the big security man insisted, now more uncomfortable and uneasy, just like I had seen in he face of one of my colleagues, one of the drivers, a few months before.

So"sick lady" is what was noted on the paper and I was reminded that in Haiti that to have a disability is shameful, a curse on you or your family for some wrongdoing. And I caught myself for a speed of light-second feeling upset about this interlude. To think that a person with a disability faces such stigma and discrimination. Sadly this is not uncommon or different in so many other countries in the world.

Going back to my first incident in Haiti where I was labeled "sick" rather than "living with a disability...arriving at a school inauguration event, my colleague Ricardo, a driver, was discussing with the security guard at the entrance of the school why he had to park the car so close..."the lady is sick" he stated, '"she needs help getting out of the car". "She is sick" he insisted, as the security guard looked puzzled staring at me, unsure what to do. I reached out to touch Ricardo, touching his arm to softly explain, "just tell him I have a disability, there is nothing wrong with having a disability Ricardo"...and his eyes swelled up with tears as he explained, "Cara, please don't make me say that, it hurts my heart". And I crumbled. How could I be upset with this heartfelt plea, this heartfelt sorrow that he felt for my limited mobility. Little did he know that such an attitude, although not having any spite or cruelty in it, is what creates barriers in society for people living with disabilities. 

And so my journey continues in Haiti and in my life, to try to set an example that breaks barriers and breaks stereotypes. Just because I now live with a disability does not mean that I cannot be just as much of a contributing member of society, or a successful UN professional, or a dignified, independent, graceful woman.  I have the same dreams, the same passions, the same desires and the same goals as I did just a few years ago when I danced so freely, with the ease of a floating feather.  I am the same woman, even if now I do walk slowly...my heart and soul are still the same. 

"Mad about Tana"...my first time in Madagascar (2009)

8th August 2009

I woke up at 10: 45 pm having missed Amal to go out for dinner with her friends at 8:00 pm. This is really unfortunate but I am sure my body will be better for it tomorrow.  From the suitcase and clothes on her bed, ready to pack for  her trip tomorrow, I can tell that she must have been home for a while and I had slept through it.  I wandered to the kitchen fully dressed, with a silk scarf, care of my dear ex-boss Ying, choking my neck in hopes that it might block some of the freezing cold drafts piercing my body.  I  don’t think anywhere in Africa should ever get this cold and if it does houses as big and modern as this one, should have heating!  But so be it that part of my adventure is to freeze my tush off and find small joys to warm it up.  Inside the kitchen cupboards I find a mess, a mix of open spice packets, stained and spoiled bottles of soya sauce and herbs that look like they have been there since the last century.  Some boxes are ripped, others smashed, and it all looks so old that the dry goods must be stale.  Ah but low and behold what do I find: instant noodle, hooray! And my heart is filled with nostalgia for my beloved Miss Choi.   So I make my soup and a peppermint tea (because I have not seen any bottled water in the house and I am sure to become dehydrated if I do not drink something) and make my way back to my bedroom where I think it will be so sad and pathetic to eat on my bed, in my freezing cold room huddled, beside the gas burning heater which can only be on for about 10 minutes for fear of gassing oneself.  Ah but I find another curious surprise in the living room: two burnt logs in the fireplace with red underbellies and a dry piece of wood on the floor ready to put my campfire skills (thanks dad!) to the test.  And to my most pleasant surprise and giddy excitement, all it took was a soft huff and puff to set it aflame - ta da! “Take that Meryll Streep” survival queen in Out of Africa.  So I wrote to you this evening at 11:00pm listening to Brazilian beauty, Vanessa de Mata, sitting right in front of my fire, bundled up in 3 shirts, 2 pairs of socks (including the pink fuzzy ones from Marks and Sparks) and Ying's silk scarf, enjoying every sip of my steaming instant noodle soup and hot peppermint tea.
   

Before I share my first observations of this strange and intriguing place, which takes some time to pronounce with it’s 6 syllable tongue twisting name, let me tell you about my first knight-in-shining-amour-from-the-Asian-African-island encounter.  The step was very high and steep; there is no handrail and the cold had cramped my body into such a state that I threw my bags up the 4 stairs to the patio and took a deep breathe, praying that Charlie would be able to hold my weight.  But before I could take the risk of falling over, a voice called to me in French “Arrete! Arrete!”. (Aside: Yes the official language here is French which yours truly has not spoken in more than 10 years so you can imagine some of the mutilated crap that comes out of my mouth as I make desperate attempts to converse with the overly smiling friendly locals. And too often I realize, oops that was Mandarin or I must have made it up) Back to my story...The man calling behind me was my newly acquainted (and Amal trusted) taxi driver who could see I was having much difficulty.  Typical me yelped (yes in retrospect I yelped like a pathetic dog wanting to be let into the house out of the rain), “Non non, c’est bom, pas de problem monsieur” but before I knew it this big bulky man, who had just driven me home in a dilapidating, rusting clunker of a car, which is to be my only mode of transport -a.k.a. my ‘chariot’ - for the next 6 weeks and he the driver of course, had jumped out of his car and leaped over to offer his chocolate leather skinned hand to help me up the stairs, across the entrance patio and to the second staircase (which I only put up with because of it has a handrail).  Safely inside the house, relieved to have made it in one piece with no unfortunate tale of a broken wrist or twisted ankle to have to write home about, I sighed heavily.  Do you think that this kind, friendly man has any idea how much I appreciate his act of compassion and kindness?  To him, and maybe even to you, this small deed is not worth thinking about twice, but to my wobbly-self it has given me an enormous sense of security and gratitude for the gesture of a not-so stranger in this very foreign place.

The fire is going down.  Another soft huff and puff and victory prevails as a small flame sneaks out from behind my masterpiece red-bellied log. Oh boy, it just popped loudly. “whoa, easy there”! Oh shit, the flame just died. So much for my Out of Africa moment. 

An-ta-na-na-rivo, is the six-syllable tongue twisting name of the city, the capital of Madagascar, where I will spend the next six weeks, mostly in the office desperately trying to fulfill the ridiculously ambitious to-do list assigned today by Mr. Bruno Maes, the badly dressed (today he donned a gino-style cream suit, black shirt and halloween coloured tie), gelled haired, rico-suave, strong French accented UNICEF Representative, a.k.a. dude who is going to review my outputs and decide whether or not to sign my paycheck - mental check to self ‘be nice, nod in agreement, (don’t roll your eyes, laugh or sigh), take notes, shut up and smile!  

Tana, as this place is also know is like no other I have ever seen before, not even in the moves. At first sight the poor and under-developed setting made my stroll in Paris the morning before seem quite self-indulgent. Main roads are paved and most are without any potholes but side streets are uneven broken stones. Streets are narrow and as you enter the city form the airport it becomes hilly. Sidewalks are narrow and broken. Stalls and bombed-out looking stops selling everything from raw meat to fried foods, soda and smokes to metal gadgets line both sides of the road. People here are small with dark leathered skin with varied features, some which resemble the Indigenous people of Ecuador and the Andean region, other Indonesian and some dark like from the African continent but not from one country in particular. In general people look sad and worried, which does not surprise me considering how damn cold it is but this exterior only stays on their face until you greet them "bonjour" and all of a sudden like a sunrise, they share a big bright smile. What incredibly friendly people the Malagasy are, soft-spoken, polite, sometimes timid and inquisitive. Not sure where to place my ethnic origins, dark hair and light eyes, they stare at me inquisitively. I have yet to see a local with light eyes so maybe I am just a novelty. Their clothes look worn and wolly but no heavy enough to block out the biting cold. Wool hates and colorful sweaters or spring jackets are work by most. It is poor here, very poor. Like in parts of Johannesburg, people huddle in groups on street corners maybe waiting for a small mini-van, which in Angola are called Kandunhueros but without the blaring tropical music, usually Kizomba or Kandungo. Groups of young men everywhere seem to be busy either fixing something, smoking, playing a game or just hanging out. It is strange how clean it is. There is no garbage on the streets, rather piles of swept up dust. Ah and what I love most is that the earth, the soil, is red. Ah yes, I am back in beloved Africa!  

10th August 2009

One would think that coming to one of the poorest countries in the world would be a dire experience but, on the contrary, this place is rich is more things than we would ever imagine. I am told that in the south there the mountains end in rising sand dunes and mark a desert as beautiful as Namibia, one of my first African adventures. Apparently the northeast coast is tickled with the Indian Ocean’s aqua blue sparkle and cloud white sand. Here in cold Tana, I am among rolling hills, high above sea level, hence the almost frost-bite, just-want-to curl-up-in-a-blanket, cold. The big cold house, aka “home” for the next 6 weeks, is cared for by a young Malagasy couple who live in their own little house across the garden, also within the high walls that keep us out of sight from the unpaved, rubble road. A green gate guarded by the husband at night along with a UN guard has such an unwelcoming feel to it. Outside the gate across the rubble road sit a group of men, huddled close, chatting and waiting, but for what I am not quite sure. They stare at me but I do not stare back. And it is not because I would not love to chit chat away in my pathetic Francais but I do not yet know what the local custom may deem appropriate. Anyways who says they would want to talk to me, some funny looking girl dressed like an Eskimo in weather, that although they also choose to bring out winter coats, too many bear in flip flops or even worse barefoot. It breaks my heart to see people here without shoes on, especially in this cold. In China, unlike India, I have never seen anyone go barefoot, no matter how poor they may be. I wish here we could cover all the bare feet with shoes. Tonight’s pray must give thanks for shoes, woolly socks, toasty warm toes in slippers...just a little perspective to make you grateful. When I am closed inside the house, far from the hustle and bustle of rusting clunker car traffic, choking fumes and chocolate and caramel, sharp to round featured, Asian-African faces, I could be anywhere. Inside my fortress ceilings seem to reach 12 feet high, the fireplace is quickly filled with dry wood and the kitchen full of fresh fruits and vegetables from the market awaits me to be prepared for dinner. For 8,000 of the local currency called Ariya (or $4 USD) a local market sold me a monstrous papaya, 10 ripe tomatoes, 4 avocados, 8 tangerine oranges and a pineapple that would kick Del Monte’s butt. While I try to get the francais into decent shape I am trying to pick up some of the first, of the three, official languages: Malagasy. “Salama” means hello. And yup that’s about it folks. Not bad for day 3 here, eh? Oh boy, now I really sound like a Canadian. Note to self, “never, ever let the 2-letter grunt out again!” (no offense meant to my maple leaf people). Oh on Saturday I went out to buy groceries in JUMBO, the big grocery store that sells quite an impressive variety of goods, even if I had never heard 99% of the brands. Lots of French stuff I could not recognize, much cleaner that the JUMBO in Angola (where I once stood in line for more than 2 hours to pay) and super bonus of all, takes credit cards. After Angola I have little expectations of what might available here but low and behold in this poor village like city, where houses are made of tin, brick and shack wood planks, fried foods are sold through clouds of black car fumes and most of the cars look like they have been pulled from the junker for one last round (including the tin, no power steering piece-of-junk taxi, aka my chariot, that somehow gets me without stalling around in which I should mention the driver was burning sandalwood incense this morning. It scares me to think how smelly the car must have been for him to have to do that...or maybe it is a religious thing...oh I hope not and better find out so I do not have such catty thoughts. Oh my taxi driver is monsieur Amidi but I prefer to call him (in my ludicrous mind only of course) my friendly giant. Yes this is the same knight-in-shining-amour who held his tanned leather hand out for me the other day. You see, he is HUGE! Big up and around, head, fingers, legs, arms and voice too...best of all he has the biggest smile I have ever seen. You can sell ALL of his teeth and then some. This guy could win a Book of World Records contest or in a toothpaste commercial and so it is that my friendly giant squeezes into his tin, crap junker which tilts to one side, almost touching the ground when he gets in and bounces up a little when he gets out. I am starting to like the junker, friendly giant et al!