‘Cameroon is really great, it’s nórmal,’ said Yves in one of his text messages as soon as he was into the country bordering Nigeria. My thought ‘nice, another great country’ turned out to be slightly different.

clouds and river II

Perhaps it’s the time of the month for me, perhaps slightly too little sleep. Perhaps the moon has to do with is: today during the day there’s a real danger of needless disputes, irritability, emotionalism, rash action and hastiness, which may result in harm or inconvenience later. You will find it difficult to handle other people for a while. One of the challenges now is to successfully let off steam without making an unnecessary shambles. You may see everything that comes your way as a threat and react much too defensively. If you have a bolder and more self-confident temperament, you may be inclined to act too quickly, to be hasty and over critical of other. Or you may be accident prone…

Perhaps the comment the fat garbage collector made fueled me. But I notice my mood is quite off when the garbage collector sees me coming out of the Miramare Resort (not knowing I slept in a tent and eat outside for about a fifth of the price) and immediately comes my way with a line which possibly can’t be true: ‘I am hungry madam, please give me something.’ My reply sound harsh, but is more an accumulation of his and other people’s bullshit, beg your pardon, ‘I am also hungry,’ I reply. The fat garbage collector repeat his ‘I am hungry’ and I can’t help but say: ‘Common man, you’re fat! How can you be hungry!’



On my way to Douala I start thinking about Africa again, and it’s position. At first I think very negative, that these people just don’t know anything and can’t do anything. That they are actually worthless. But as my peddles moving more and more around I know that this is false. These people could know as much as every one else and they could do everything what others can, except that their life is being more difficult. Because of the situation they’re in, because the politics they’re living with. Cameroon, like all the countries after the Mauritanian Sahara, except deep troubled Liberia, are working hard and are doing what they can. That they don’t know how to fix my bicycle can hardly be a surprise, that they don’t know how to handle their own vehicles is lack of a proper truck mechanic course. Cycling past the broken trucks and the hundreds of bolts, nuts and screws spread out on a piece of cloth is seeing discarded trucks from the Netherlands, cycling past heaps of clothing, jeans and stuff the West doesn’t need anymore, is sold here. They want what we throw away.



My ever struggle with intimidation

I am called ‘baby’ and ‘mon cherie’ by the men who scream for my attention. Beer seems to be the biggest selling product and all at once I miss the culture of tea and modesty. I don’t belong here, where beer and sex is so openly available. Sure, nothing against sex and all that comes with it, but I prefer it hidden, mysterious romantic and dressed up. These thoughts move me over a broad river and I am in doubt; shall I stop for a photo, I have seen so many rivers already… it’s beautiful though, let’s stop. I make a photo of the sky beautifully dotted with clouds carrying rain. I hear men screaming but that’s nothing new and besides, I don’t make a photo of them, the river is where I am aiming at. ‘This man is not happy with you taking a photo,’ is what a passerby tell me. ‘That’s his problem, not mine,’ is my rough reply. Jeee, why am I so rough and harsh, I think to myself. Quickly I add, a bit more tender: ‘I make a photo of the river, not of him.’ Then a very large man comes, far from looking sensitive himself, dripping in sweat, towering over me, holding my leather saddle with his wet hands while trying to manipulate me and my bicycle. He’s angry, that much I can see. He’s probably Muslim, to judge his style of beard, so he could be very offended. A tempered Muslim, not good. More so, he’s big, tall, broad and seems to be really furious. He’s trying to intimidate me. I am small, in no way able to fight him, but very angry too: ‘You, get your hands of my bicycle,’ is what I loudly reply. A group gathered around us, all men, some dripping with sweat and water of the river where they scooped sand into their wooden boats, some passerby’s. The angry broad-shouldered man is grabbing onto my handlebars and lifting the bicycle. I push him away and press my shoulder into him, ‘don’t touch me’, is what I say to him, while I am actually the one who’s touching him. I sense things might intensify and while we’re squirreling with each other, I can see the ridicule in it: I can never ever win from this angry broad-shouldered man, I am behaving like a fury towards an impressive man who is almost twice my length. When the word police sound I agree: ‘Let’s go to the police!’ At the same time a military man is brought in by a motorbike and I turn to him: ‘So you’re the one to talk to, what’s the problem here?’


‘Let’s go to my office,’ he says and we all flock to the other side of the bridge, while I keep pointing to the angry broad-shouldered man ‘you back off, don’t touch me.’ He doesn’t do so anymore but when we arrive at the police office they’ll place themselves in front of the office where I am regarded as a wrongdoer. They want me to show my passport and the photo’s I took. I want to know what is the actual problem before I show them anything. It dawns on me the bridge might be the problem, but my biggest annoyance is their intimidating behavior. I might be in Africa and I might do wrong in their eyes but two things which trigger me is intimidation and injustice and no way I am going to be an easy target.

So I move into their office which is not an office really but more their messy household. I hide behind the wall, into a small cabinet. Several military men shout at me to come back and stay outside but I refuse, telling them that I am not a monkey which they can look at. The angry broad-shouldered man and his comrades are lined up in front of the office as if they are stand in’s for an Indian Bollywood.



One military man is cool, understanding and friendly, so I hand him my passport and show him the photo’s I took. Yeah, I give in. He seems to be okay with it, probably willing to let me continue the journey if not his colleague, a police in formal clothes, demand to see my passport too. He’s asking what my profession is and when the military man and I reply that I am a tourist, he says smartly: ‘Tourist is not a profession,’ so I quickly add ‘coiffeur’ and a fiche dating from the Mauritanian desert which implies I am. While I try to get out of his office, the place where I was not welcome earlier, he now refuse to let me exit it. The police demands my passport. Oh, I hate this showing off, being a police and demanding to have a curious look into my belongings. He probably hates me as much for thinking my belongings are too precious. ‘Show me your passport and the photo’s you took,’ he commands. ‘No,’ I reply, ‘I showed it to your colleague and he’s fine with it, so let me go!’

The redemptive rattle of the dead Cobra

What then unfolds is rather funny. Of course I have to hand the informal police my passport but since he is having a look at each and every page, I object. One of my weaknesses is that when a police is wanting to know whether I have a valid visa in my passport, that in itself is ridiculous; how else would I come into this country? I think he has no business in all the other pages but the one where the Cameroonian stamp is. So I ask him to hand me over my passport in order to show him the accurate page, and while asking I try to get a hold on my document. He pulls it back. He doesn’t know it yet but he’s dealing with the wrong person if it comes to intimidating me, especially when I am in the full swing of cycling and being held up by something so silly. So I snatch my passport out of his hands before he knows it. The look on his face is very funny to me, although the man is soon in a rage! I did it so quickly and so unexpected that I read his mind ‘you bitch, you will pay for this.’ Maybe I insulted the police in front of his fellow workers, so he jumps to my bicycle and try to lift it up to confiscate it, or what ever his plan is. But the bicycle is so heavy that he doesn’t succeed. I too jump, towards the police shoving with my bicycle and I push him away while in my other hand is the handlebar bag with my precious passport buried in deeply. With one hand left I push the police away from my bicycle while he tries the same on me.

Throughout the show the Bollywood spectators are watching us, with the angry broad-shouldered man moved from angry to defensive. Towards me. So here we are, the police and me pushing and pressing into each other. He is outraged and so am I. People are shouting us to stop. But I won’t unless the police stops hauling my bicycle. The police somehow stops, position himself back to his messy office and stands above me, towering over me, trying to impress me. He start watching me deeply into my eyes, like an Indian snake-man does to his  Cobra. I stare back into his eyes, blink a few times but keep watching him, like I want to hypnotize him. I start smiling and ask if he thinks he can impress me. He keeps quietly watching me in the eye. Then the friendly military man takes me apart: ‘Calm down madam, just show him your passport again.’ I reply that I am calm, but hear myself say it and know that I am not calm. I give in but on one condition, I keep holding my passport so he won’t snatch it like he tried with my bicycle. With him having my passport, with him holding on to it, I would be really in trouble. They all agree but not surprisingly, as soon as I hold on to it very, very tightly, he manage to grab it anyway, as fast and as unexpected as I did. Dutch passports are strong.

‘Look, look, you can snap if you want. A snake,’ I turn around and what I see leave me in awe. All of a sudden the whole circus around my passport doesn’t matter anymore. The entire Bollywood assembly soon moves back to work now the cheap entertainment is finished. The police is not interested in my photo’s any longer, neither in my passport, which is soon going around from hand to hand. Here I am, with a two meter long cobra. Almost cut in two, a little behind his head, his heart being some distance from the head, still making convulsive movements. I can see his life slowly moved towards an end because of a trap, then abruptly ended when a cowardly hunter let his machete fall down on to his head before killing this slender, beautiful and perfectly being. The cobra is not more.


In every new country I come, I see new kind of animals for sale. Always fresh, because Africans know how to prepare good, natural food, that’s for sure. And my first day on the road in Cameroon let me meet an animal I have never seen before. Cameroon attracted me because I wanted to see wild animals pondering in nature. Not being able to cross the untouched forest at the border crossing in Ekok, I can hardly praise myself with a freshly murdered cobra. Then, entering Douala over a very long bridge -I don’t even consider making a photo- let me ride into the heart of the town along side kilometers of trains carrying enormous trees, ready to ship out of Africa. And there I am, in another uncharacteristic city with nothing to keep anyone interest for very long.

Praise to the Catholic Missions in francophone countries!

That’s where I am heading to, a Catholic mission, the cheaper options to stay the night. From Limbe I cycle out of the lowlands, climb a bit and be stunned by the pretty mountains surrounding me, heading to Douala. I am pressed in by rubber plantations, banana plantations and a lot of palm-oil sales points along the route. Little food though. When I do find food, it’s a delicious groundnut soup with four fresh fried fish. I see people around me watching me, their expression blank. I notice Cameroonian, not uncommon, support closeness, seem to be glumly, I sense fearfulness even.

The Evangelist mission don’t host guests anymore so I am off to Centre d’Accueil Missionaire. It’s a luxurious place to stay, for 12 euro a night I am well taken care off: a pool, hot showers and air conditioning. There’s a big clean towel, a wifi flow and a Patrick. He asks me if I want to get married, not with him, but with someone ‘who fit me’, I answer that these things are not in my power, but to God. Being in a Catholic Mission that’s the least I can offer. He always watch me, an unmarried forty one years old, with dismiss while his eyes slide over my body. And when I leave on a Sunday he asks me whether I have been to mass. My answer is ‘no’ and his looks are disapprovingly cast toward me, while his friend watch me in admiration: ‘Cycling all the way from Nigeria? And you are only fourteen?’ My reply that I am forty, not fourteen, is answered with: ‘Not possible, you can not be forty! You cán nót be forty!’ Well, I can’t definitely be fourteen either, and I cycle off with a smile…

Before heading off, I wonder through the streets of Douala, trying to like it as much as when I walk through big cities in, let’s say, Yemen. Here it’s much more difficult to be as attracted or surprised as there. Every big African city, however small, is just not blessed with beautiful architecture. In Douala I feel like I’m walking under a constant tin roof, if only for the stifling heat. In my trying to like it, I start like it and suddenly I see myself smiling, walking over pavement where parts of coverings above the gutter have disappeared. Sometimes a terrible odor arise from the gutter, right in front of the best patisserie in town. Stores seem to be hidden from immediate view but brands are here as much as anywhere else, not to speak of how much wealthy Cameroonians can spend in this city. Motorbike men are funny and charming, people can be genuinely hearty. I am greeted by complete strangers in such a way that I melt. I have to laugh when a grown up hen watch the world in front of him, where Indian traders count what’s being unloaded by Africans. I see the wind catch up under a blue djellabah, billowing up against a red faded building. Suddenly I see Africa in a new frame: neat and organized in its own way. I let myself wander and try every street of the easy grid of this city. People who I’ve never seen before and who don’t know what’s going on in my mind point me the way to where I can find fish, because on Saturday the women who prepare fish on the street don’t work. Fish was what I was looking for indeed, and so I end up in a surprisingly lovely little cheap eatery. I am, however, a bit amazed when suddenly a man grabs a hold of my wallet, which I kept under my arm. I saw him glancing at me, moving suspiciously around me a bit. I am actually so much amazed, after all these years of traveling, that I watch him. He’s having my wallet in his hands. We both stand opposite of each other, for a moment I glance some more at him. Then he run, so I run behind him. I catch him and grab his blouse tightly. He tries to open my wallet while I smile dismissive at him. Nothing much in it, his expression blank. I rip the wallet out of his hands and beat him a few times. I am sure it’s his turn to smile dismissive now, but I got my wallet back. People around me do nothing. And I continue my search for washing powder.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.



On the broad veranda above the swimming pool of the Catholic Mission is where people come together. Sit, walk around and make their business phone calls. A Lebanese wood contractor is heated up, while Joshua is the calming self. He ask me why I am here, since every one is either a missionary or a NGO worker, except for the Lebanese. And so it happens that Joshua ask all his Facebook friends to vote for me, as our race to win votes for ‘Cycling Scores‘ is in full swing. Joshua is a local and helping his own people, something worth mentioning. I promised to do something in return, you can check his website at

I am spoiled a bit by the Lebanese wood trader, he sits down next to me and hand me over fresh almonds, from his country. I never had them before and like them. He peels them for me, then he brings me a fresh cake from the best patisserie in town. When all is eaten he slowly let his fingers linger, on to my knee. Quasi casual. The man just told me he’s married and he showed me his two children on his mobile and now he tries it on with me. When I notice he does it again, ánd ágain I decide to retire to my room with the excuse that I am afraid of malaria. Not that I have seen one mosquito though…


At this stage I already booked a flight to Paris. Not because my bicycle is going to break down, but as it is, that will happen. Because all the mechanics says ‘no problem, it will take you where you need to go’, I’ll leave it as it is. I have been to a mechanic in Limbe and he knocked so hard against the bracket with a massive iron hammer that it, somehow, brought damage to my back wheel. I asked him to stop. It took me two midday’s truing the wheel. In a meantime a very charming Islamic platform-worker tries it on with me, while his veiled wife watch us from a distance.  I managed to get a hold on both; keep at bay the man and fix the wheel, but am cycling without a back break since then. If only I checked the internet to see how you tighten the cranks! Instead I was busy gaining votes for our ‘Cycling Scores’ competition. Later I found out that tightening the cranks can’t be done without the proper tools. Tools not available here…


So I cycle on to Douala. In Douala I decide to take a long detour to avoid the main road to Yaoundé. When I will reach the capital I am in for a side tour to the coastal town Kribi. But alas… my bicycle brakes down to the stage where it does not make the cycle move anymore. Luckily I decided just before I left the Catholic Mission to take the main road, just in case.

I cycle from Douala to Edéa in a day with continuously rain. The following morning I am rewarded with a real breakfast of omelet and tea with sugared milk. I cycle on, for 35 kilometer before things decide for themselves…

And there I stand, on the non existing shoulder of the main road some 40 kilometers after Edéa and some 25 kilometers before Poema, where I received an invitation from a French missionary couple who runs a hospital. Always when I passed a truck or motorcycle with problems I thanked my bicycle for being so strong. Now, here I am. The nature is amazing, so dense and tropical, an overgrowing jungle. Even if I would try to set up camp I couldn’t, it just impenetrable, tick and lush. I have stopped often to make photo’s, to watch in wonder, to look behind me and see the road cutting neatly through this beautiful forest. People are poor, living in wooden houses and mud-between-bamboo structures which I started to see in Sierra Leone. There’s hardly any food along the roadside, but lot’s of palm oil. I am starting to feel hungry.

It’s a sunny day and funnily I don’t mind my bicycle is broken. I mean, I dó mind but the fact that I am now walking is one to be dealt with. Fine as it is. At least the bicycle is still rolling. And so I walk on. Soon I pass a shack. The men are all drinking out of little plastic sachets, some people call this ‘medicine’, and they help me. Put me on a Toyota pick-up truck, tell me the fare in advance and off I am. Once in Poema, the driver of the pick-up truck brings me to bicycle repair man. Once again, all these men say they are professional, but with the lack of tools they act as if they aren’t. First I need to buy my own wrench because they don’t have it. The young guy manages to get the bearing out of the bracket. With a lot of massive hammering again, but what choice I have? Only to find out there’s no replacement to be found. I have to go to Yaoundé by minibus. The mechanic brings me to the road and arrange a seat for me. In no time my bicycle is up on the roof again, I packed as a sardine underneath it…


Two days of cycling reduced to three hours in a minibus, jammed between a fat mamma and a muscled young man, a child is draped half over me. It’s a very unpleasant way of traveling. I can’t imagine I did this for so many years?! I can’t see a thing of the nature we are in, where passengers trow their bottles out of the window. Everything must be done fast. Fast. Fast. Fast. The route seems boring but that’s because of the speed. And there I am in, in the capital, I feel amputated with a broken bicycle and so many bags, far from where I need to be, and no bearing in sight. A young, very stylish student, Louis, helps me out with a taxi, tells the driver where he needs to be and off I am, to another mission, the Presbyterian.

The days in Yaounde are drifting fast. I am unwinding. The city has a pleasant atmosphere, slow and relaxed and lively, modern and authentic. When walking through the city, a taxi driver hiss for my attention and for once I do look up, to see his tongue move in a way I can respond with one movement only. My middle finger. Am I dressed too revealing with a Reebok sports legging? Is it? I don’t think so, my ass is half as firm and half as exciting as the African women who are dressed way more revealing. Even if their dresses are printed with text such as ‘Climate change is real. Protect your environment’.

The Cameroonian men can be very annoying, or it is just that I am a long time in a capital and walking around a lot. Maybe I attract it because I don’t like it? Maybe I act hard to get because I am impossible to get? Maybe my eyes are cast too much downwards, but that’s only to watch where I am walking and avoid vanishing in the open sewer. What ever it is, some days I just get fed up with it: men who watch me like I am some extraordinary creature, guys who grab my arm while walking past, who ask me to accompany me, who ask me to be friends with them, who wants to meet me, who wants to marry me, in reality just want to get laid. It’s a game here and I am aware that I am not playing it as how the African women are playing it. I prefer genuine smiles and friendly gestures.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.



Ain’t I Cinderella, after all

The place I am staying at is as in a fairy tale. It’s little red bricks are making a magical house, enclosed with pine trees and tropical red flowers. It’s on top of a small hill and the open grassy field harbors no biting insects. It’s cool, quiet and refreshing but for the woman of the house. I am staying here 11 nights and the first couple of days she could deal with me. But soon I feel like walking on glass. Before I switch on the light I check if it really is pitch dark otherwise she will knock on my door and let me know that electricity is expensive. While the hallway light is burning all night long. She suspect me from using my stove in my room while I told her I wouldn’t. When I burn incense I place it in such a way that she can’t complain about it. I know she will come to say something about it anyway. And so she does. With a face like a dog who’s sure he smelled truffle, she moves towards the burning stick. Moving left to right, unstable, sure she smelled it correct and yes! There it is! The smelling smoking stick of this lady on her bicycle. ‘What’s this?’ she asks me and she also replies for me: ‘It is for mosquitoes, isn’t it?’ No, it isn’t. It is precious Laxmi dhoop, pure and all natural. But I am not going to say that because she will dislike me even more for that. So I agree with her, ‘Yes, this is against mosquitoes.’


This is not where she came for, because she changed her moves quickly, now like a witch who’s in search for her broom. Indeed, she approaching the window and even opens it. Am I truly in a fairy tale, I ask myself. I pinch my arm and I can feel I am pinching myself. We’re not in a fairy tale. ‘What did you do there in that house?’ she asks me and almost press my face to the window covered with screen against the mosquitoes. Before I can answer she starts a whirlwind of words where very few are in understandable English. She’s angry with me. She can’t be having her periods or something, she passed that age. Maddened she goes on and out the door but being a believer in justice I ask her: ‘Can you now listen to me please, you are all angry but don’t even let me speak. Can I say why I was there? Will you listen to me?’

And for the third time that evening I have to make that funny movement again. A movement where I am holding a girl firmly by her hips and I trust myself onto her, rhythmically, like I am fucking her. Damn! Again such a little boy who had made that movement to me. Maybe because my periods are breaking through with some difficulty, or something, but I won’t have it! So I marched to the house and asked the father to teach that boy a lesson! The boy has no parents and the people who live in that house are thieves and murderers, I am explained.

Well, anyway. This is Presbyterian Mission and I think such movements doesn’t fit here.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Every morning a man sits on the porch of this Mission house, which is just a private house. This man is the cousin of the woman who rules here. ‘What’s wrong then?’ I ask the cousin, who replied he’s a little sick after I asked him how he was. ‘I am sick because I have no woman in my bed. I want to talk with you.’ I get sick too, of this constant sex filled brains.


It’s amazing how many people, young people too, have aids. Five percent of the population, says Belgium Sofie, she’s a student, working as a doctor here. It doesn’t surprise me. To be honest, it’s not much, 5 people out of 100, I suspected it to be a lot more. In an environment where sex and beer is so prominent. And this being the capital where less people are bored, sex is a popular form of leisure.

‘One of your kind is coming to sleep in the dorm,’ a broad smile appears on her face, ‘a white one. Don’t worry, it’s a woman. Not a man!’ says the lady of the house, the one who spreads her bad energy throughout the whole place. She’s behaving badly towards everyone who can be a threat to her. She also tries it on me: when I go off to arrange a taxi for the airport she tags along. I immediately suspect her of trying to make money through me. And she does, flag a young boy down who drives a yellow car, tells him ’10.000’. ‘What?’ is what I think? Is she mad? So I shove my head into the open window of the boy’s car and get the price down to 7000. Has she never heard of negotiation? Of course, she has, but she choose to be corrupt. Angrily she watch me and furiously she walks away from me.



I am the mango high up in the tree

‘Yes, he is married. In church and for the law, but his wife left him, she had another man. Now he wants a white woman,’ says the woman of the house about her cousin. And so it happen that the man who’s sick because he’s got no wife in his bed eventually manage to talk to me. I joked to him that I would be his therapist but tried to avoid him. The very good thing about being a therapist is that you can end the conversation easily ‘the session is over now, go home.’ Akóo, that’s his name, wants to marry me. He ask me several times, soft and quiet but firmer and louder towards the end of his session. Although I state I am married (with French co-cycler Yves) and love my husband, he keeps having hope that one day I will judge correct, leave my husband and choose him. I ask him why he wants me, besides the fact that I am white and his answer makes me look more peculiar towards all the women around me. It happens I move like an African lady. Yes indeed, my skin is white but my being is black. Do you know why everyone is looking at you, meanwhile being filmed on a mobile phone by youth who’s passing by, Akoó asks me. ‘Yes, because I am white,’ I reply. ‘No,’ he says, ‘because you look very,’ and his eyes wander slowly over my body, ‘very… good. Different than most whites.’ I ask him to propose Sofie, the other white woman in the hostel. ‘No, I want you.’

‘Imagine,’ I explain him ‘this tree carries a mango high up in her branches. Can you reach?’ He laughs. Explains he will do everything to get the mango. ‘Or you can wait till the mango is ripe and fall down by itself,’ and Akoó beams in delight, adding: ‘You are my therapist indeed!’

‘Now go home!’ and off he goes…

Akoó goes on: ‘My wife deceived me. With whom I discuss problems and issues? Well, with my wife, of course, but only limited as we, African men, have to keep our woman in control. Once we are married, I shall buy everything you need. For you there’s no need to do yourself, that’s my task.’

Akoó gives me advise: ‘Reading is not good for you. Your eyes will become old quickly.’

Akoó continues his advise: ‘You like to be alone too much, that’s not good for you. You are in Africa, you have to sit with us.’

Akoó asks: ‘When can I talk to you?’ Not, Akoó, I don’t want to talk to you because what you want is not what I am interested in. I don’t want what you want!’

I am happy when I can leave this house with its negative stream of energy, in a car with a young driver, to be afraid of police who might flag him down because of my heavy load: ‘Don’t worry, I will handle the police here, go on,’ and off we are…

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

By Cindy

Years of traveling brought me many different insights, philosophies and countries I needed to be (over 90 in total). I lived in Pakistan, went over 15 times to India and when I stopped cycling the world, that was after 50.000 kilometer through 45 countries, I met Geo. Together we now try to be more self-sustainable, grow our own food and live off-grid. I now juggle with the logistics of being an old-fashioned housewife, cook and creative artist loving the outdoors. The pouches I create are for sale on

2 replies on “Cameroon”

Nou Gerry, zeg dat wel! Het is een struggle op sommige dagen, net als het leven van de Afrikaan zelf. Ik had ergens graag verder gegaan, als de fiets niet kapot was gegaan, maar ergens had ik ook zoiets van: even genoeg Afrika hoor!

Toch zou ik graag naar Namibië en Angola gaan. Eigenlijk wil ik alles wel zien. Elk land op aarde. Weg van die eeuwige regen en kou : )

Liefs Cin


Don't just stop here, I appreciate your thoughts too : )

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.