Christina

I first met Christina as I began hiking behind her mother Teresa, on the way to the millet fields. Our whole team spent a day with Teresa, and got to share in her delightful family of children - all of who seemed to like us. All except Christina, that is.

For some reason, every time Christina looked at any of us, she would start to cry. Not just any cry. She screamed like we were demon warlords sent to conquer the earth. Although we managed to snap a few shots of her looking grumpy, the fact remained that around everybody but us, she was a happy child.

I asked her big brother why she cried when she saw us, and he shyly told me she was scared. Of what? Well, they wouldn't tell us, but apparently some people in rural areas believed that white people were cannibals. Now I'm pretty sure Christina didn't know what a cannibal was, but all she knew was that we were different and that was scary. I wish I could say that by the end of our time in Tchincombe we were less scream-evoking, but that would be a lie.

At least we knew she had healthy lungs, no chance of pneumonia in that child. She's lucky in a lot of ways. First of all, she's alive and so is her mother. Angola's maternal mortality ratio (maternal deaths per 100, 000 live births) is 1400 compared to Canada's 7. Their infant mortality rate (per 1000 live births) is 130, compared to Canada's 6. Christina was fortunate to have been born in Tchincombe, where Donna Foster puts her veterinary skills to work manning the human clinic and driving people to the hospital in Lubango when necessary.

Christina, other than being a screamer, appears to be a healthy baby girl, and she's fortunate. She spends her days with her legs splayed across her mother's back, sleeping under the sun while Teresa harvests millet. She also has a whole bunch of brothers, sisters, and cousins to keep her company and care for her. It really does take a village to raise a child, and Christina is fortunate enough to have one.