This One Time in Cameroon edition 2: Bus Business

So this one time in Cameroon I was on a bus, right? I was crowded in, four to a three-person bench, feeling my spine twist in ways it never should, when the guy next to me jerked his leg and looked down. Oh god, I thought. Something had clearly skittered across his foot. He continued looking agitated, adjusting his legs and trying unsuccessfully to peer in between the mass of legs and luggage to see the floor. My mind quickly tried to come up with worst- and most likely- case scenarios. Most likely, I determined: cockroach. Worst: mouse. That doesn’t leave a whole lot of middle ground which became somehow comforting. I tried not to think about it.

Some minutes later, a guy a few rows up similarly flinched, and remarked aloud. That’s when the man at the end of my row spoke up. “Oh! Arrangez ma chèvre! S’il vous plait!” (Please, position my goat.)

Because in Cameroon, when you think it’s a cockroach, it really might be a goat.

This One Time in Cameroon edition 1: Hey good lookin', whatchu got cooking?

So one hot afternoon in the beautiful city of Bafang, I stopped by my favorite palm wine bar to greet the palm wine mama and sip on some of the good stuff. This lady is super nice – really amazingly so. So I’m sitting there and drinking this palm wine and I look over to my left and see a big pot on the fire. “What’s cooking?” I asked, half-hoping she would offer us some (as she is known to do). “Oh that?” she replied, “that’s just a sacrifice for the ancestors.” She went on to explain that she was cooking goat meat as an offering to her dead ancestors. You have to do this from time to time.  How often? I asked. Maybe around once a year, but it depends on when they ask.  I expressed my confusion. Now how, exactly, do they ask? Apparently by causing trouble in your life. Maybe you have money trouble or maybe you get sick, and this can be the ancestors’ way of letting you know that it’s time to pour them out another goat stew sacrifice.

Ancestor worship: it’s what’s for dinner.

I Had a Good Day

                It wasn’t an extraordinary day.  It was simply a perfect day.

                From the moment I woke up to find my cat on my lap in exactly the spot he went to sleep, nothing could go wrong.  It was one of those days where I threw the door open, filled my lungs with the fresh air, felt the sun on my face, and was overcome by a surge of gratitude for my life and the opportunity to live in this beautiful and strange place.  It was one of those days where I finally started to tackle the reorganization of my disastrous kitchen.  One of those days where the birds and chickens were singing for me.

                For lunch, I got koki at the Carrefour.  Man, I love koki.  It costs thirty cents for a filling and delicious meal.  It’s hot!  It’s spicy!  It’s so cheap that I feel richer when I eat it.  So I was sitting there with my post mate, Becca, eating this delicious koki and thinking about how I wish we had it in America, when the guys sitting near us start talking to us.  It’s the same conversation I’ve had hundreds of times already.  Am I going to find a Cameroonian husband?  Will I stay here forever?  Do I like it here?  But this time the tone of the conversation was somehow different.  Like they weren’t asking just to be obnoxious, but like they actually wanted me to stay.  And we started talking about all the things I like better about Cameroon than America.  How natural it is here, and how welcoming people are.  How life is simple.  I have grown to feel deeply appreciative of this country, and with only seven months to go in my service, I’m starting to really feel how much I’m going to miss it after I leave.

                In the afternoon I went to the office to talk to my counterpart, the beautiful, hardworking, forward-thinking, truly special Essoh.  I’ve only seen him once since getting back form America, and it was very brief.  He is an amazing man and would be in any country, but he’s especially a stand-out here.  Throughout the course of our conversation, I felt ridiculously happy and/or touched several times.

Essoh and me

                First, I love him for how seriously he takes his work.  Because you don’t really need to in this country.  But he sat me down and told me how we should start planning for this summer’s camp if we want to get sponsors and ensure it’s the best it can be.  Then he told me his idea for youth day.  We’ve been working in the muslim neighborhood of (my Christian-majority) town for the past few months.  He told me that for the youth day parade, he wants to get them a banner to carry that says, “The youth of Quartier Hausa say NO to Boko Haram.”  It put a lump in my throat.

                Essoh may be remarkable, but he’s still Cameroonian, so I wasn’t surprised when he made a comment about how I hadn’t brought him back anything from the US.  I told him I had a gift, but it’s at home, and it’s very small.  “No, Antonia.  No gift is small.  Especially not when it comes from the heart.  But the greatest gift of all is the time we get to spend together.”  Couldn’t you just die?  Meanwhile, some random fucking lady I’ve met one time complained that the candy I gave her from the US wasn’t enough, and don’t we have like laptops and cameras over there?

                So you’re already all thinking how great Essoh is and how nice our discussion has been.  But it’s just warming up!  He then proceeds to tell me that some of his colleagues from Bangwa, a neighboring village, have asked for our help running a camp like the one we did in Bafang!  MY camp!  My biggest, greatest project!  Essoh explains that we should invite them to come to Bafang so that we can train them on how to run a camp of their own, and maybe soon all of the sub-divisions can have their own Discovery Camp!  And my legacy will spread throughout the West region, if not the entire country!

                For those of you who don’t know that much about Peace Corps and development and the kind of projects we do, this right here is the dream.  This is the definition of success – to have a project that is community-supported, community-operated, sustainable, and expanding.  It’s struggle enough just to get people to accept your project, sometimes.  I think I can honestly say that that was my proudest moment of my Peace Corps experience.  Like I can just drop the mic and COS in peace.  I tried to hide from Essoh that I had tears in my eyes.

                So that was remarkable.  But the rest of the day was unremarkable!  I walked through town and greeted a bunch of people that I hadn’t since my trip to America in December.  My tailor told me how much she’d missed me and I believed her.  I felt like such a part of the community.  I felt loved, and liked.  When I walked home, school had just gotten out.  I slipped against the tide of blue-uniformed students of Lycée de Bafang Rurale.  “Good morning,” “Bonsoir,” “Yamelah?”  They greeted me in three different languages.  And although I’ve only worked with a few students from that school, many of them knew me, and greeted me by name.  “Good evening, Madame Antonia!”  (God, I’m going to miss being called that.)

                When I arrived at the carrefour to enter my neighborhood, I saw a few of my friends hanging out at the carrefour bar (John, Patrick, and the Anglophone delegate of water or education or something).  They all lit up to see me, and I lit up to see them, and I sat and joined them for a drink.  I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I love these guys.  They’re smart, and thoughtful, and funny and carefree.  The delegate shared some of his opinions on American politics.  John told me that when I leave, he’s going to cry for at least two days.  We were all laughing, and, in the words of one of the other Anglophones who showed up, “sipping, and enjoying, and discussing freely.”  We had one of these conversations that I absolutely love because it becomes seamlessly bilingual, switching between French and English based on who is addressed or any other linguistic trigger.  And this might seem like a weird thing to feel happy about, but I was the only woman in a group of about five male friends, but they never hit on me or make me feel uncomfortable or unsafe.  And that’s worth a lot.

                So I just sat there thinking about how comfortable and at home I feel here.  How lucky I am to have kind and caring friends who will miss me, and to live in a beautiful place in a little-known country.  And I felt the looming pressure of my August COS date.  Why I would I want to leave all this behind?  I am already prematurely feeling the loss of my friends and life in Cameroon.  Life my never be this simple again.  But I know that even if I were to extend my service for a year, a year would pass and I’d still leave everything and everyone behind eventually.  What kind of masochistic impulse drove me to spend two years falling in love with something I will inevitably lose?

                After a couple of drinks, we went to the delegate’s house to watch the Cameroon vs. Mali soccer game.  Although we were highly favored, Mali scored first and it wasn’t until four minutes to go that Cameroon scored to tie the game at 1-1.  So it wasn’t a win, but we all celebrated not losing.  I rode a motorcycle home, between two friends, and went to sleep to end my simply perfect day in Cameroon.

Hope you all don’t find it too early to start pre-nostalgic entries about how soon I’m leaving.  Because I am already anxious about making the most of every remaining moment here.

In the words of Winnie the Pooh, “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”