Happy
Thanksgiving, everyone! As you may know,
Thanksgiving is an American holiday and not widely celebrated in Cameroon. I say “not widely” because it is celebrated narrowly – among PCVs. Oh it
may be a little different, but who’s to say what defines a true Thanksgiving?? Is it coming together with family and eating
Turkey in the cool, crisp days of autumn as the leaves turn orange and
red? OR, is it gathering with a bunch of
people you met two months ago, eating bush meat (crocodile? Lizard? Unidentified but probably endangered mammal? Hell, it’s meat!), and getting drunk during
an eternal equatorial summer? I think we
can agree the thanksgiving is in the eye of the beholder on this one.
A
short while before arriving at post I was informed that the West region Thanksgiving
celebration would be held in none other than Bafang! That is, at my house! We do have a pretty ideal set-up for hosting
something like this – three houses of PCVs right in a row, three kitchens
available for cooking many different courses, water that comes out of faucets,
electricity, and lots of spare mattresses, sleeping bags, yoga mats, and floor
for crashing on. The fact that my house
has two bathrooms became acutely relevant to many of our lives, as you will
hear. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Because
our stage is brand spanking new at post and everyone is already dying to see familiar
faces, we had perfect West-region attendance!
Plus, Anna and Liz, in the nearby Southwest and Littoral regions, came
as well. Some other folks (from Lee’s
stage or just somewhere in the West) were there too. Although our official celebration was
scheduled for Saturday (because it’s not like they get school off for it here),
guests trickled in starting Thursday night.
On Friday, five of my friends and stagemates were here, plus two of Lee’s,
and we all went out together for a nice, jolly dinner at a newly-discovered gem
of a restaurant. It was really great
seeing some of the old gang – gosh, it sure felt like more than one week since
we were separated. But seriously, it was
a great time. I ordered goat stew just
to be adventurous (my first time tasting goat!) and because I so trusted the
food to be delicious after eating one of my absolutely best Cameroonian meals
so far at the same place the night before.
When my food arrived, it took me a minute to identify exactly what was
on my plate next to the ribs before I realized that it was a hoof! How fun!
Of course, there was no actual meat, so I left it untouched until
eventually nibbling a little at some tender piece of hoof and a bit of ankle cartilage. Yum, right?
Well, not really, but the sauce was good and I didn’t think there was
any way I could possibly regret my actions.
Several
hours later as I knelt on the bathroom floor and revisited that dinner, I knew
how wrong I was. Thus commenced the
night of the worst food poisoning of my life.
Every hour I got up and returned to my porcelain palace where I made
myself at home, as unspeakable things emerged from both ends of my body. Even when I was able to go back to bed, my
stomach was in a lot of pain and I couldn’t get much sleep until the next time
I would need to rush to the bathroom.
Happy Thanksgiving, right? So
when my alarm went off an hour and a half after my final bout of heaving up
whatever could possibly still be inside my body, I told my guests to go have
fun at the market buying the ingredients for the day’s feast because there was
no way I was going to make it. Luckily,
they were all really nice and understanding and rose to the occasion. I got a little bit of actual sleep while they
were gone, and then (like a normal Thanksgiving) the morning was spent with
pots and pans being expertly coordinated to accommodate everyone’s dish at the
right time, as five busy ladies chopped, sautéed, pureed, “baked” (in quotes
because I don’t have an oven), and seasoned up a Thanksgiving meal, as I lay on
the floor complaining. They are angels.
More
people came throughout the day so by the time we were ready to eat we had 15
(give or take a few) guests and perhaps as many courses to be enjoyed. There was Turkey (yes, a real one!). There was stuffing. There were mashed potatoes, and cranberry
sauce, and squash, and coleslaw, and green bean casserole, and sautéed green
beans, and green bean salad (green beans are great!), and guacamole, and fried
plantains, and mac and cheese, and REAL CHEESE brought by Liz (!!!!), and
pumpkin pie, and pumpkin-inspired carrot pie, and key lime pie. It was just about as traditional Thanksgiving
as you can possibly get here in Cameroon – even more so, since I’m pretty sure
the macaroni’s cheese, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie filling all were care
package goodies from the US. It was a
little bittersweet because it was the first time for many of us having
Thanksgiving away from our families.
Still, it was so nice having friendly, familiar faces around, and it may
not have felt quite like home, but it sure felt like a break from
Cameroon. It was a wildly successful
meal, preceded and followed by sangria and beer and laughter and festivities.
Luckily,
by the time our meal came around, I was starting to be able to keep some food
down, so I put myself together a tiny plate with mini-samples of each
dish. I didn’t come close to finishing that
pathetic plate, but I did get to taste pretty much everything, and although I
couldn’t drink or dance and I still complained a lot and, from time to time,
lay down on the floor in a corner of the room, I still was very happy to be
there and would overall consider it a great time. Oh, and I wasn’t the only one having
digestive issues. We sent out for more
toilet paper as several of us negotiated bathroom time based on urgency. My toilets got a whole lot of love and attention
that weekend!
Before
everyone arrived, I thought to myself that I couldn’t believe how quickly my
one week at post had gone by. By the
time they all left and my house was again spotless, it already felt like I’d
been here forever. Now, can’t wait for
Peace Corps Christmas!
As
for the rest of my life: First, work stuff (if it can be called that). The day after I last wrote, I met up with my
counterpart to do protocol. We marched
around town delivering letters to the mayor, prefect, sous-prefect, commander
of the gendarmerie, and various ministers and delegates to announce my presence
in town. Unfortunately, many of those
people weren’t in their office so I think I am supposed to return some time
soon. The most priceless moment of our
trip came when Anne Marie and I walked into the office of the commander of the
gendarmerie (sort of like police?). He
shook our hands and told us to sit down.
I started talking, saying that I was a Peace Corps volunteer, I have
been stationed in Bafang, I’ll be here for the next two years working with
youths, etc etc, when he stops me and looks at my counterpart and says, okay,
that’s all very well, but who are you?? The one other guy in the room’s eyes widened
as he said the French equivalent of “oh shit, man! You don’t want to ask that!!” and the guy in
front of us returned, “What?? I don’t know
who she is! And if I don’t know, I’m going
to ask!” She was very gracious, saying
(translated roughly), “of course! It’s
no problem! If he doesn’t know, he
should ask. Don’t worry don’t
worry. Um, well, I’m the queen of
Bafang. And I’m also the director of the
Center for the Promotion of Women and Family.
So yeah.” The gendarmes’ eyes
also widened. He visibly slunk into his
chair as he stammered out a bashful apology, explaining that she really did
look so familiar and he’s so sorry, your highness. I hope this little encounter means he will be
extra careful to look out for my safety and not embarrass himself again!
The
next day, I went into the center again and we all went to a local high school
to do a presentation. I knew nothing
about the presentation before going, and was not expected to say anything. It turned out to be on the importance of
dressing decently. This is a hot issue
in Cameroon, with a law being discussed (or maybe already passed?) that
essentially will enact a national dress code to keep teen girls looking a
little more respectable. (*for my non-blog suitable thoughts on the issue and the
experience, feel free to shoot me an email.)
The assembly was something like a thousand students, and because they
had no room to fit them all, they gathered outside around the flagpole as I and
three people from the CPF (Centre de Promotion de la Femme et de la Famille)
stood in the center. Of course it was a
terrible setup for a presentation because they were surrounding us, so the
presenters had to alternate shouting at various segments of the circle. That being said, everything went fine and at
the end a few kids started insisting that I talk (oh, to be so sought after in
America!). So I introduced myself and
said hi in French, English, and Fe’fe, which is always good for a few
laughs. After the presentation, the
principal arranged for the four of us from the center to have spaghetti
omelets, bread, and tea! I was shocked
that this was part of the package, but not complaining! And then, crazily, after we finished, he told
us that actually the students have also prepared us some food and he hopes we
saved some room. So we went into a
classroom where the students had done a project preparing food from all the
regions of Cameroon, and the students served us even more. Not bad pay for just half an hour’s talk (and
for me personally, about thirty seconds of talk and preparation put together).
Yesterday
I called the center and asked if they wanted me to come in, and Anne Marie said
sure, that they were going to another workshop in a neighboring town and I
should come along. Getting to the
neighboring town turned out to be a little complicated – every gas station in
Bafang was out of gas, and Anne Marie didn’t want her car to run out somewhere
on the way there or on the way home. So
we got a taxi, Cameroonian-style: two in the passenger seat, four in the back
seat, and some guy hopped in the trunk at the last minute. During the drive I realized that this was
actually the first time I’ve been to any village. Between Bafia and Bafang (and Bafoussam,
Bamenda, and Yaoundé, the only other places I’ve been in Cameroon), everywhere
I’ve visited has been either a pretty large town or city. As we took a dirt road as wide as our two
tires, it became clear that my experiences have not been telling the whole
story. It was beautiful, the whole
drive, and when we arrived, it looked like we were in the middle of the jungle
with just a small building up the hill ahead.
It was really magical and made me realize the cost of all my city’s
amenities.
The
workshop turned out to be on making cocoa butter as an income generating
activity. It was given at the Babone
community center to about thirty adults representing economic interest groups
in their respective communities, plus us.
I think the day showcased several key elements of Cameroonian culture
that I had heard about but never really experienced (and some that I had). The invitation said we would start precisely
at ten; we started shortly after 11.
After the lecture section, we all went outside for a demonstration, and
they served us lunch! And palm
wine. And beer. And we all prayed before eating. Can you imagine, in America, mixing religion
and alcohol with work?? If you can, you’ve
been watching too much Mad Men. I
chatted with some nice Cameroonians (who asked, of course, “Two years?? But –
what about your husband??!”) in French, English, and Fe’fe, which again won me
some laughs. Plus, I learned how to make
cocoa butter! It seems really easy and
the best part is that from the leftover stuff, you can make chocolate! Not sure why it wasn’t “with your leftovers
from making chocolate you can make cocoa butter”, which seems far more logical
to me, but I guess that’s neither here nor there.
Other
stuff I’ve been up to: I have my first
Cameroonian friend in village! She’s
nine years old and her name is Alima.
She lives directly behind me. After meeting once in the neighborhood, I
bumped into her in town and she called my name and hugged me. After that we were fast friends, and she
accompanied me on my errands around the market and we walked home together. She invited me over where her super nice mom
fed me a huge and delicious meal. When I
casually asked her if there were any beignet mamas in our neighborhood, she
told me yes, and then knocked on my door later to tell me that the woman was
already frying if I wanted to go, and then knocked on my door again later to
say that she was going to that area if I wanted to come, so she could show me
who made the good ones and who’s weren’t really that good. She is sweet and respectful and doesn’t
invade my personal space or leave a mess or break crayons. She also came over today and we played cards
and looked at countries on my inflatable globe.
There’s also William. He is not
exactly a friend but he is the only other visitor I ever get, usually to ask me
for money or food or if he can do any of my chores for money or food. He’s around Alima’s age. One time he came to my door and told me how
hungry he was and how there was nothing to eat at the house, and don’t I have
anything? A little money? A little food? Just some bread? Just some.. flour? Feeling uncomfortable, I told him (honestly)
that I really didn’t have much food but I was sorry. After carrying on like this for a few
minutes, he finally broke into a smile and said, “Ha! I was just derangin’ ya. I already ate dinner at home. Bye!”
So that’s William.
The
exploration of my new house and belongings continues… I recently discovered
that one of the mysterious tools I inherited is a handheld blender! Needless to say I have made myself several
smoothies, consumed through pink bendy straws while lying in my porch hammock
in this tropical paradise. It’s a
serious quality of life booster. I also
finally explored one of the other mysterious instruments. You’re probably not familiar with it because
there’s no effing way this thing is legal in the US. It’s basically a metal coil that you stick in
a bucket of water to heat it, and, if you’re lucky, electrocute anyone or thing
nearby. I know I mentioned before how
cold my shower water is… I have been mostly taking hot bucket baths by heating
water on the stove. I also discovered
that on warmer mornings, the shower water can be kind of refreshing, so I’ve
done some of each. But today was my
first shot with the metal death stick!
Being very careful with the order in which I inserted or removed from
the water, plugged in, and turned on this crazy device, I figured everything
would be okay and I’d have a hot bucket bath with just a little bit less
effort. Well, after a while I started
smelling burned rubber and found that the wire for the power strip this thing
was plugged into was burning its own coating.
I think it might harness demonic powers to operate. Today was the first and last time I tried
that guy out. I am too scared to see
what more damage it can cause. Into the
give away pile it goes.
Lee
and I played scrabble at Leonard and Karine’s!
I am honored to be a part of this tradition that predates my presence in
Bafang. Also they are the closest I have
to Cameroonian friends (past the age of 10) in this town. I didn’t win because I wanted to, you know,
take it easy on them all, but next time I’m ready to dominate. The next day, we had our first TVP adventure. One of the strange things left for me when I
moved in was two untouched bags of TVP (that’s, textured vegetable protein) and
a TVP cookbook. The package boasted that
it is a meat substitute that is high in fiber and high in protein, probably the
two things our diet most lacks here. I
finally got up the guts and inspiration to give it a try, making a chili-like
concoction with beans (also my first time preparing beans but I guess that’s
less exciting), TVP, tomato paste, pasta, and seasoning from my extensive spice
cabinet. I thought it turned out well! The TVP turned very ground beef-like and
soaked up the flavor of the seasoning nicely.
Lee brought over leftover thanksgiving coleslaw plus some squash, so we
had a fine three course meal. Living
alone isn’t so bad! I can feed myself
after all!
Random
little notes and anecdotes:
-
The reason so
many places start with “Ba” is because that means “the people of”. So, this city is basically the land of “the
people of Fang”. I know a lot of people
have been confused between Bafia (where I was) and Bafang (where I am), so that’s
the explanation. Also one time someone
casually referred to Bafoussam in a text message as “Baf”, which I found funny
given that it clarified exactly nothing since Bafia, Bafang, and Bafoussam all
start the same way.
-
My water was out
for a day. And sometimes it goes out for
a few hours in the middle of the day. And
sometimes I lose electricity, for like, 10-30 seconds. So yeah it’s not all posh corps all the
time!!! Just wanted to be clear!!!!!!
-
When I applied
for my bank account, I needed to provide information about where I live. In America, you would write down your
address. Here, because no one has
addresses, I had to draw a map to my house.
It was absolutely ridiculous because I’d only been in town for three
days and did not really know what to draw.
My map literally looked like this:
… And
that’ll get you a bank account, ladies and gentlemen. I guess if they need to find you they follow
the map as best they can and then call out your name loudly until your head
pops out of some front door. Also if
anyone is planning to come visit plz print out that drawing so I don’t have to give
you directions.
-
Can’t remember
if I’ve ever said anything about the seasons here, but we just transitioned
from the rainy season to the dry season.
When I first was learning about them with my host family, I thought it
sounded silly how exact they were about dates.
It rains every day during rainy season and then BAM. November 10th or 15th
and it stops altogether. But weirdly it
kind of worked. In Bafia, it was
raining, hard, every single night until one day it wasn’t. And maybe it rained once a after a week or
so, but it basically stopped on a dime.
Here it was a little rougher, raining almost every day for the first
week I was here (effects of climate change, according to Rose Nichole), but now
it has stopped and it turns out dry season really is dry after all. That makes it hotter, which is eh, but I can leave
my clothes on the line for a couple days if necessary without worrying about
them getting wet again. But yeah we don’t
have winter or anything and I’ll only be dreaming of a white Christmas this
year.
-
Peace Corps
stressed in the application process that we will be “living in a fishbowl”,
where people notice us and observe us all the time. My first real “fishbowl” moment came last
week when Ricky introduced me to this Cameroonian guy he knows, Martin. Martin immediately, “Oh yeah! I saw you at express union, getting your
money out. I said hi, and you said hi
back, but you didn’t know me then. And
then I also saw you sitting over there the other day eating koki for lunch.” Those times when I felt totally alone and
independent? Just a fish swimming under
the watchful eyes of many. It was kind
of jarring to fully realize. Also,
several moto guys have dropped me exactly at my front door without me directing
them at all, so unless they somehow got their hands on my bank account map,
people in town just know where I live.
-
This one time
this cop asked me if I was single, told me he was single, and that he wanted me
to be his wife, but he wanted me to be his second wife. I think this is an insult because everyone
knows the first wife is the one a man really loves the most. Then he and the other guys around all laughed
because America doesn’t have polygamy and isn’t that silly?
-
Today I was
walking and exploring and trying not to feel creeped out by the guy walking
toward me with a bushy beard and winter hat.
As I passed him he stopped in his tracks, stared me dead in the eye, and
pointed to his tooth, and then his foot.
I have no idea. I kept walking.
Thanks for reading,
folks. Until next time.
