Another week closer to post...

            When I sat down to write this entry, I felt that nothing noteworthy had happened since the last and that I didn’t have anything to write about.  And then I remembered that between some intense conversations with my family members, traumatic first teaching experiences, disciplinary action taken against me, and the normal day-to-day of life in Cameroon, I could probably think of something.

            Last Thursday, Mama told me to come home straight from school so we could tour Bafia together.  It was really nice!  We drove around town in the family car (yeeeee) and saw noteworthy buildings and the market and the area that my family used to live.  I felt like I could finally ask her questions that I had been holding back and we could finally talk a little more personally.  Finally, the tour concluded at a bar, where she ordered a juice for herself and a beer for me. 

Now, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned before, but all the beers here are, like, 40s.  They’re all light lagers that lack, you know, flavor, but sometimes they’re served cold and it’s only $1 USD for a big bottle containing the equivalent of about two regular beers.  (For those who are curious, the most common brands we have been drinking are 33 Export (“trente-trois”) and Castel, but Guinness, Heineken, and Smirnoff Ice are readily available too.  There’s also a pre-mixed whisky coke that we stagiaires frequent called Booster.)  Then these guys at our table bought me another one, which I politely refused until my mom told me she’d help me finish it. 

To cut a long story short, the night reached its climax when we had a spirited debate about homosexuality in the bar as I drunkenly shouted French retorts to her arguments for why it’s bad and wrong.  I woke up in the middle of the night as memories flooded back from our conversation and I realized, with dread, what a really stupid idea that was.  For anyone who may not know, Cameroon is one of the most homophobic countries in the world.  Committing any acts of gay-ness is punishable by something like ten years in prison, and this past summer an LGBT activist was brutally beaten to death.  I believe the protests that arose in response to that incident also ended violently.  And while I think it’s important to talk about the issue and try to change some opinions while I’m here, the best medium for that is probably not loudly, publicly, drunkenly shouting about it in a bar with my host mom who needs to house me and cook me dinner for the next three weeks.  Fortunately, everything is fine; I don’t think she is going to disown me even after I shouted that “I HOPE ONE DAY GAY MARRIAGE IS LEGAL IN CAMEROON, TOO!!”  In fact, everything is totally normal and it was overall a lot of fun to hang out with her in a different setting.  And who knows – maybe some of my super well-articulated drunk French arguments planted seeds of thoughts in her mind.

Oh yeah, the disciplinary action thing.  While we’re already all thinking how stupid I am, let me briefly add that I’m officially getting the reputation for being the badass of Bafia.  By which I mean, I got a couple of “talking to”s in the past week for a few minor, miniscule offenses like, you know, speaking English in a language immersion zone, hanging out at the bar (which is, might I add, the only place to go and hang out other than my house or the training center) when we were technically forbidden, and breaking my 7 pm curfew.  Watch out everyone.  I’m a loose cannon over here.  Hide your kids, hide your wife.

Earlier this week we had to conduct a life skills lesson entirely in French in front of a group of about 20 Cameroonian students!  It was terrifying.  Maureen and I worked together and we picked a very simple lesson on setting goals.  When we did the practice round for the other American trainees, it seemed far too easy and self-explanatory to take up an entire half hour lesson.  In front of the Cameroonian students, however, things were a little different.  I would be exaggerating if I said it went as badly as it could possibly have gone, because, you know, we all technically survived, but it was much, much harder than I had anticipated.  Our problem was just that the students did not understand us.  It wasn't even the language thing – they could comprehend the words we were saying, but not the concepts.  Our first activity is for each student to draw a picture of him/herself in ten years.  I think we spell it out very clearly, saying “For example, will you have a family?  Where will you live?  What kind of job will you have?  Draw yourself as you want to be.  What will you have accomplished?” Meanwhile, on the board, it says as a title “VOS OBJECTIFS” (your goals).  For some reason this was the most challenging assignment these kids had ever seen and it took a full three and a half minutes of trying to rephrase what we had already instructed before anyone actually started drawing.  And that was just the beginning.  Every single sentence we uttered – all designed to be clear and succinct – had to be rephrased, and rephrased, and rephrased, and explained, and explained, and explained.  And with limited French, that is no easy task.  Anyway.  Eventually we got through the lesson and everyone did it correctly and we ended on time, so it was kind of a success.  Tomorrow, we get to do the same thing over again but in front of 100 students.  Goodie.

Now what you’ve all been waiting for – a success story!  We have spent the last two weeks of YD training focusing on sexual and reproductive health education.  Magically, I got to put all my new knowledge into practice immediately as a Cameroonian youth shyly asked me all of his most hidden, embarrassing sex questions!  It was amazing!  We talked about everything from pornography and masturbation to oral sex to why condoms have that “oil” on them.  And we talked about the risks and consequences of sex and why he should wait, and why when he does choose to become sexually active he should use a condom instead of the rhythm method or cervical mucus method of birth control (both of which he was weirdly aware of).  Anyway, it was a huge success in two areas: 1) that he apparently trusts me enough to come to me about this stuff and 2) I am actually capable of being a useful youth development volunteer!  Although we don’t technically start any of our projects until three months after we get to post (mid Februrary), after our conversation I felt like I’ve already done part of my job.  So, that was really great.

This afternoon I went to the market with Ericka!  It was great – I got to see a little more of Bafia and Ericka was great for helping bargain and call the moto drivers over.  Plus, I bought apples (!!!), a much-needed new notebook, and some – wait for it – MOUSE POISON!  Bwahahhaa!  Victory will be mine!  Also, Ericka is awesome and the best sister ever (sry Madeleine).

Earlier this week my mom also taught me how to make foo foo, also called cous cous de manioc.  Basically there are two types of  “cous cous”, neither of which are at all like what Americans call cous cous.  They are both blobs of starch that you serve with some kind of saucy dish.  The difference is that the blob can be made of either corn or cassava.  We have cous cous de mais (corn) all the time, but this was my first time trying the cassava variety, and I loved it!  It’s a lot like a lump of glue, and for some senseless reason you’re supposed to only eat it with your hands, even though it’s physically impossible to capture any sauce on the gluey mass before shoving it down your throat.  Wait, now that I’m describing it, I’m forgetting why I liked it so much.  Huh.  Well anyway.  Come visit and I’ll make it for you so you can see for yourself!