Boyo Traditional Wedding!

Written mid-April and idk why it took me so long to post.

Last week I had a little cultural adventure.  Leonard and Carine graciously invited me to join them at a traditional wedding ceremony in a village near theirs, in the Northwest.  Given that classes were cancelled for spring break, I agreed to go, and they said we would leave around noon on Wednesday.

            Wednesday morning, Leonard knocked on my door.  “There’s a problem… I’m not sure you can come to the wedding.”  Explanations raced through my head.  Maybe the groom revealed that he actually hates me?  Or the bride insisted she wanted to be the only one in white?  Leonard continued.  “It’s just that we found out the ceremony will be a little ways out of town, and we are thinking of walking there.”  I scoffed.  He thinks because I’m a prissy American, used to the easy life, I can’t walk like the rest of them?  I assured him that I would be fully capable and still looked forward to joining them.  “Okay… because it turns out it’s about 26 kilometers away.”  I did some quick mental math.  26 kilometers??  Wait.  That can’t be right.  That’s like… OVER THIRTEEN MILES.  I told him I’d think about it and went into the house to discuss with Allison, who was visiting.

            We consulted a calculator which revealed the true conversion to be approximately 16 miles.  Each way.  On a road apparently too nasty and bumpy to support cars or motos.  Suddenly I was facing a choice: wimp out because I’m too posh and soft, or walk over 30 miles, perhaps for 10 hours, and probably die.  Fuck it, I said, I’ll take death and my pride over turning it down over something like this.  I decided that this walk would become the symbol representing my entire Peace Corps service: something incredibly long and hard and probably excruciating, but at the end of which, if I survive, I’ll have earned bragging rights for life.  (Is that okay to say out loud?)  I prepared myself mentally, strapped on my best walking shoes, and stuffed fistfuls of snacks into my backpack for sustenance.  Wow, I can feel your eager anticipation from here.  This story must have such a dramatic climax right???

            Leonard, Carine, and I had a reasonably smooth day of traveling from Bafang to Bafoussam, Bafoussam to Bamenda, and finally, Bamenda to Fundong.  By the time we got to Fundong, it was pretty late and so we grabbed a bite (of fu fu and njamma njamma, obviously), greeted some of Leonard’s family, and climbed into bed.  Carine told me that the wedding started at 9, so we should probably wake up at 5:30.  Yeah, I thought, if we want to be two hours late.  We woke up while it was still dark, and I breathed deeply and did some stretches to warm up for our physical challenge.  “I was thinking,” Carine started, “why don’t we get a moto to take us halfway and we can walk the rest?”  I almost felt disappointed, but agreed.  Anyway, long story short, she talked to a moto guy and told me that he could take us the whole way for less money than she expected.  So there’s anticlimax #1.  Suddenly the thought of walking the 16-mile return trip seemed like the worst of both worlds – less bragging rights (16 miles is long, but not really impressive) but still probably miserable.  Oh woe is me.  Third world problems.

            The moto ride was still kind of exciting, although it could have been a lot worse.  It took about half an hour and was very rocky, with steep uphills and downhills.  We passed really beautiful views on the way but I couldn’t look because my eyes were closed from wind and dust and trying not to die.  When we arrived, Carine remarked that the road wasn’t nearly as bad and the moto wasn’t nearly as expensive as she expected.  And we even got there early!

            This village is definitely the most “en brousse” (“in the bush” = remote/far from civilization) that I’ve ever been.  There were no telephone wires in the sky.  For some reason, the only comparison my brain made was that it looked like the setting of a video game – maybe Zelda or Rayman – where it’s unrealistically lush and gorgeous, and fairies could plausibly live there, doling out quests to passers-by.  (Colby just stepped on the keyboard to give his two cents, which was:  dfacccccc)  The houses didn’t have electricity.  They were all made from mud bricks, some with thatched roofs, and they all had indoor fire pits.  They were organized in compounds: clearings of three or four houses that shared a courtyard.  The compound functioned like a house and the houses functioned like rooms, so that they were all open and you would walk from one house to the other for different tasks.  It was still early and the light was beautiful and the weather was perfect.  In this part of the country, you don’t even need a water filter because the natural water from the tap is so clean.  Probably because of fairy magic. (Oh and in contrast, I used two of the most primitive latrines I’ve ever seen in my life.  Ask for more detail.)

            We spent an hour or so wandering from house to house and compound to compound greeting people, many of whom were somehow distantly related to Carine.  Although the Northwest is an Anglophone region, many of the older people I met didn’t speak any English, but only the local language.  Yes, we were truly en brousse.  What this meant for me is that I spent a lot of the day sitting in rooms where the conversation was carried out completely in the local language and I understood nothing.  But it also meant that it had much more of a feeling like the Africa in your head – one of tradition and culture and mud houses and living simply. 

            I met the bride and groom, Loveline and Emmanuel, for the first time, although they are actually Bafang residents.  They were both incredibly nice, as was everyone else, who greeted me warmly and welcomed me in.  At least six or seven people, when they saw me and reached out to shake my hand, said, “Aisha.”  This is a pidgin word that basically means “I’m sorry” or “my condolences.”  Maybe if you see someone carrying something heavy, you would say, “Aisha,” or if they bump their head, or if someone in their family died.  So I was a little confused as to why people kept saying it to me.  I asked Carine, and she said that they can see I’m a foreigner here and a long way from home, and they say “Aisha” because they think maybe that’s hard for me.  And I think that's kind of amazing.  What consideration it shows to see me for the first time and not just think, "she probably has money," or, "she can probably get me a visa to America."  I think most people never think about how hard it is being here, even if I've known them for a while.  I just hope Carine is right and they weren’t actually saying, “aisha, sorry about that haircut,” or something like that.

            Everyone bustled around getting ready for the wedding, by which I mean cooking.  But they were cooking in every room, making cous cous in giant pots and put it in big basins.  After a bit, we slipped out to greet Leonard (who spent the night in his brother’s house, not with us) and his nephew.  We all had a beer (because it was 10 am and we needed to “gather our strength”), talked about how beautiful the views were, and remarked on how that road was not nearly as bad as they expected.

            I can’t tell you exactly when the wedding started because all the discussion was in the local language and I was constantly a little confused about when the goings-on were official events versus just people doing stuff.  But I know there were many guests in their good pagne, and a man who was hired to be there as “jester,” with a painted face and stuffed fake stomach.  He sort of ran the show and would do silly things and make fun of people.  It was always good for a few laughs when he would speak to me in the local language and I would, right on cue, act confused.  Classic.

            At some point we all ceremoniously walked up to the bride’s compound and dropped off pieces of firewood one by one.  I don’t know what this means or symbolizes.  Then some of the women got in a circle and did a traditional song and dance (several seconds of which I captured on video).  Unfortunately, they didn’t get much farther than this when the defining feature of the day made itself known: the rain.  “Wait,” you ask, “I thought we were all marveling about the beautiful weather?  Since when is it raining?” Well, I was similarly taken by surprise.  So the wedding became a game of man vs rain – and the rain always won.  It would start to drizzle, people would point up and make sounds and decide to stick it out.  Then it would start to downpour and everyone would flock inside and wait it out for an hour or two.  Then, as things looked better, we would go back out and resume the ceremony, only to repeat the process twice more. 

Still, I did get to see some good traditional ceremony stuff: the bride took a giant vat of palm oil, which I believe was given to her family as part of her dowry, and scooped some out with her hands.  Then she went outside and women from her family washed it off very ceremoniously.  Then at some point, she and her bridesmaids all emerged from the house, bent over, in a line, and sat down with sad looks on their faces. (Someone once told me that the bride is supposed to look sad for her wedding because she won’t be a virgin anymore.  I guess they keep it in as tradition even when it doesn’t really apply, because Loveline and Emmanuel already have five children together.)  Then the groom and some dudes (groomsmen?) came out and raised their hands and said something and laughed, and then the women raised their hands and the jester was just talking to everyone and frankly I don’t really know what was going on.  I do know that I already felt awkward being the only white person there, and I wasn’t totally invited, so I tried to stay inconspicuous, only to be dragged to the front lines by well-meaning guests who wanted to make sure I got very good pictures.  The jester guy even brought me over a chair when I was standing in a big group of standing people.  Just one of the many moments of being inappropriately treated as a VIP when I’ve done nothing to deserve it.  I do have some good pictures to show for it.

We needed to get going on our ridiculously long walk before dark, so we left before they were finished with the wedding events.  All the returning Bafangers gathered and took exactly one step down the road when it started down pouring again and we had to take refuge inside for another half hour or so.  Needless to say, by the time we actually got going underneath a light drizzle, the entirely dirt road had become entirely mud.  All the rocks which had been dangerous and uncomfortable on the moto ride over became anchors of stability and safety.  I managed to find every possible sinkhole in the mud, plunging my leg in up to the calf repeatedly.  Even while I tried to stay positive, my brain started crafting a blog entry called something along the lines of “The Worst Thing Ever.”  Anyway, it was definitely an adventure: walking steeply uphill (and steeply downhill) in mud as it got dark and the rain sprinkled down on us.  Luckily, as it got darker, the road got less hilly and less muddy and I stopped searching for a contingency plan.  And now what you’ve been waiting for: Anticlimax #2 is that it definitely wasn’t 16 miles.  I didn’t have my pedometer on me, and it was still a good long walk, but maybe closer to 8 (I’ll take 10 if you’re feeling generous) miles, on mixed terrain – nothing to write home about (oops).  We walked for about 3 hours including a brief visit to the compound Leonard grew up in, where one of his father’s wives gave me a bag of cola nuts and the title “Mother of the Child” in their local language.  As we arrived in Fundong, well after dark, it started to rain again and we, again, challenged the rain and again, lost, repeatedly.

So maybe the story of the walk and the wedding wasn’t the one I expected to tell.  But that’s life, isn’t it?  And in a way, my Peace Corps experience, like the epic walk to the wedding, has been anticlimactic.  Because I don’t wake up every day surrounded by the cast of The Lion King, feeling freshly African and cultural and whatnot.  It’s just life.  There’s routine.  It couldn’t possibly be a two-year long climax.  So my metaphor stands. 

Huge thanks to Leonard and Carine for giving me this cultural exposure and my first adventure en brousse!

            

Cameroonian Tunes

If you're curious about Cameroonian music, here are some of my favorite songs.  Also a lot of what we listen to is actually from Cote d'Ivoire or elsewhere.  Enjoy!

Personal favorites:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zjgHyJP76MA - Mon bebe - this song is my freaking favorite
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G_5pzLWjQjY - Ma Meillure - I think it's Rihanna every time
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oiKj0Z_Xnjc - Papaoutai
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vIzeQ1Z6lK4 - This song is in Portuguese, I think, but it's really popular and really awesome.


Some other popular stuff:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rcc2dAkaOcY - Hein Pere - this shit is huge
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=17vC8qZILJE - "Chop" is Pidgin for eat, and the phrase "chopping money" means, like, wasting/overspending money.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O9hRRzHkf1E - Azonto - huge across Africa!

Bus Ride Confessions

I am writing this, by hand, in a notebook, on a bus on my way to Yaoundé.  We are currently passing through a cloud and all the surrounding hills are cloaked in an eerie and beautiful mist.  I swear, every drive I go on is more captivating that the last.  It even makes up for all the things wrong and awful about transportation here.  For my family (and anyone else who wants to come to Cameroon!), I will have one rule for your visit: you cannot sleep through any bus ride – these are the best views you’re going to get.

That being said, our current cloud has thickened and we’re now driving with a visibility of approximately 6 inches.  What began as a blog entry has transitioned to a goodbye letter, as these words I write may be my last…

But what better way to spend my final moments than recounting my last few weeks, for the enjoyment of my dear readers?

IST had its ups and its downs.  As expected, it was GREAT to see everyone together again (probably for the last time until our 10 year reunion in 2025!) (which will have perfect attendance).  Day 1 was indeed full of many hugs and exclamations of, “Oh my gosh, how are you??  DID YOU HEAR THIS HOTEL HAS HOT SHOWERS??”

When we first arrived in country, several more experienced volunteers made comments about how we’d never be that clean again.  I kind of resisted this generalization – after all, I have running water at post so I take a hot bucket bath every morning.  Sure, I get dirty – after traveling in dry season, several people have remarked on how tan I’ve gotten, until I wash off the layer of dirt covering my entire body.  Still, my daily personal hygiene regimen is comparable to that when I was in the US.  That’s why I was so surprised when, after Alizabeth and I each took long, luxurious, hot showers, we both managed to get dirt from god knows where on our bodies on the white bed sheets.  Don’t even ask how, I’m still trying to figure it out myself.

I was alarmed to find that, in addition to our socializing, we were expected to go to boring educational sessions all day every day.  Who saw that coming??

I also used IST and its abundance of friendly shoulders as a great opportunity to rinse out my tear ducts.  Its abundant friendly ears also served as receptacles for my rants on why life here is really, really hard.  But I’ll just leave it at that because the internet is no place for self-pity.

After a week and a half of sessions, friends, drinking, eating great food, buying pagne, dancing, and fripping*, it was time to head pack to post.  Lara and I traveled to Bafoussam together.  As we sat, squashed in the van that rattled and jostled us through clouds of dust, Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” came on the radio.  We both started quietly singing along to ourselves, gradually increasing our volume until the two of us plus the woman next to me were all singing our hearts out, passionately, eyes closed.  Lara and I looked at each other and smiled with the understanding that we would both keep this moment in our memories of our crazy lives in Cameroon.

Back to present day, momentarily:  On my bus ride we are now going through the Cameroonian equivalent of a drive through.  That is, our bus stops to pay a toll or pick up passengers and a swarm of merchants flock to the windows.  People shout and thrust bags in your face.  You can buy peanuts, croquettes, carrots, passion fruit, orange, bananas, plantain chips, baton de manioc, sometimes hard boiled eggs or soft bread.  At this moment someone is offering me unidentified meat that looks like it might be heart.  There are no McChickens or milkshakes, but it’s not bad!

Okay, back to the past: There is a kind of stereotype about Francophone (specifically Bamilike – the ethnicity of the West) that people are louder, sassier, more argumentative and more derangy than they are in Anglophone regions or in the Grand North.  Well, after our sojourn in Anglophone Bamenda, Lara and I were instantly jerked back to Franco culture about 5 minutes after getting off the bus.  We grabbed a taxi to a part of town with food and restaurants.  Lara assured me that it’d be 100 francs, as always.  When we got out, she handed the driver 100 and started to march away.  I offered a 100 coin as well, which he refused.  “This isn’t enough,” he said, “it should be 200.”  Lara smiled charmingly and told him, respectfully, no, that’s not the price.  I live here and I know it’s 100.  I again tried to hand him my coin and he again refused, so we left on our merry way.

For about 15 seconds.  Then the cab driver ran after us, screaming about how we wouldn’t pay.  I continued to try to give him my money which he still would not accept (mixed signals, dude.).  He grabbed my bag as if to take that (which contained some all-but priceless honey bunches of oats from Bamenda).  And he kept shouting and he was scary and mean and horrible.  Meanwhile, he’d been attracting some attention.  Eventually, there were about 4 or 5 Cameroonian men who stepped in to help cool this guy down, plus several spectators.  The men who came to our rescue were amazing – telling him not to overreact, offering to pay whatever we were disputing, and one helping us slip away unnoticed as everyone else sorted it out.

If Lara were writing this story, it would be much more satisfying to read.  The ending would be heartwarming, as she explained that for every bad person we encounter, there are four or five great ones.  She’d tell you how despite the initial nastiness, she left the experience feeling touched and bursting with a new love for Cameroon and Cameroonians.  I, however, left feeling shaken up, grossed out, and not very positive about anything in this country.  Our different responses definitely reflected what we were going through and how we were feeling at the time, but my point is just, I recommend you stop reading and check out Lara’s blog instead.

I got back to post in time to celebrate women’s day with my host organization before embarking on my post-IST beach vacation in Kribi.  I had gone to several of the meetings to help plan women’s day in Bafang.  Then I left post for the two weeks directly preceding it and planned exactly nothing.  The least I could do was show up and reap the benefits of everyone else’s hard work, right?  So I got my special women’s day outfit made from this year’s women’s day pagne (très Camerounaise, I specified) and showed up for the march.  What no one told me was that, because we are the center for women and family, it’s basically our day, and we all prepared a couple of songs to perform for all the important government officials, plus all of the spectators from Bafang and its surrounding villages.  Before I knew what was happening, I was placed in the front row and forced to stand there awkwardly as everyone around me performed songs I’d never heard (okay, I’d heard the national anthem.  But not enough to learn the words and sing along.).  So, that was embarrassing.  Anyway, we marched, and then we went to the prefecture where I again was unprepared for our organization’s obligation of serving food to the VIPs.  Next, I became a VIP myself and headed to the prefect’s house for some food and drink.  I was going over with a coworker who asked if I wanted to walk or moto.  “Is it far?” I asked.  “No!  It’s not far!” she assured me.  Well, and hour and a half and perhaps 3 miles (plus two stops under shelter to escape the rain) later, we showed up at the prefect’s house in time for most people to be leaving and all of the food gone (except cabbage and rice).  At least there was still some real red wine left** to wash down my frustrations.

The next activity on the agenda was the watch some Bafang women playing soccer at the local stadium.  I left pretty quickly to get my next social obligation: the expat women’s day barbeque!  Our Bafang expat community (Ricky, Lee, and me: The Americans; Luca, Gisella, and newly-arrived Michaela: The Italians; Aki: The Japanese girl; plus a French girl visiting from Yaoundé) gathered at Lee’s house to grill 4 kilos of beef and a freshly-slaughtered chicken.  It was a lot of fun and a nice way to end women’s day.

Back to now for a second: (It’s like a movie, right?  Of mostly flashbacks with intermittent cuts to present day?) Just drove past some people selling bush meat on the side of the road.  As in, holding up dead animals by their tails.  One looked like a big groundhog and the other like a giant weasel.  If I even actually know what a weasel looks like.

The last time we stopped, a man got on the bus and is now doing a life, in-person infomercial for miracle cures for all your medical concerns.  This also happened on the ride from Douala to Kribi – he just rides for 45 minutes or so, demonstrating how to apply this ointment and describing how to prepare these magical leaves to cure anything from impotence to boils to congestion and heartburn.  And then people buy his cures, and then he gets off.  Right now he’s showing a cream that does something or other but no one is interested in buying it.

The morning after women’s day I hopped on a bus to the beach: to Kribi!  Well, to be more specific, I hopped on a bus to Douala, which broke down halfway, so I hopped on another bus to Douala (which was a whole adventure in itself), hopped a moto, hopped around for a couple of hours at the agence, and then hopped on a bus to Kribi!  The journey took all day, into the night, and involved many good and bad people along the way, so I was relieved to finally arrive in the warm company of my friends at our lodging of choice: the summer mansion of the governor of the East.  And yes, it was as nice as it sounds.

Flash forward to my bus: we keep driving past mango trees with almost-ripe mangoes.  Did you know?  Mangoes grow dangling from strings maybe 6 inches long that connect them to the branches.  They look like Christmas ornaments decorating the tree.  They feel like them too because, like Christmas, I am so excited for mango season!  It’s approaching!

I was only in Kribi for about 4 days, but it was an absolute game changer.  It’s paradise and every hour spent there was spent in euphoria.  Every stress and negative emotion that had plagued me was washed away by the waves and replaced by joy and love.  We wiled away the hours on the beach, swimming, sunning, laughing, reading, skinny dipping, walking to the water falls, making a bonfire, having good talks about love and spirituality and development, playing jenga, making French toast and crepes and a Mexican feast, going out for shrimp, fresh baracua, pizza (twice!), and generally being in love with everyone and everything.  Our mansion was inhabited by me, John, Josh, Will, Travis, Alizabeth, Allison, Danielle, Lara, and Lauren, but we also hung out with some of our other stagemates populating various hotels, some super chill Cameroonians who supported gay marriage and turned out to be real Rastafarians, and some more expats including a group of Doctors Without Borders in CAR and a celebrity from an HBO TV series (what?).  Basically everything was wonderful, it marked my turning point, and plans are already being put into motion for me to live there for the rest of my life.  Our last night there we tried to hunt down a karaoke bar for John’s birthday.  Where we ended up (yes, karaoke, they assured us) there was a live keyboardist and a very amateurish singer.  It was absolutely not karaoke because apparently the closest you could get was requesting songs.  And actually after requesting them there was still a pretty low likelihood that they would be played.  Eventually, Travis commandeered the microphone and we took matters a little more into our own hands.  Weird, impromptu karaoke to an unconsenting audience?  Check it off the bucket list.  That plus dancing the night away was a great way to say goodbye to Kribi.

I’d like to tell you that after all that exciting travel, I really buckled down and didn’t leave my post for, oh, a month, at least.  However… a few days later was a St. Patrick’s day party in Dschang (present were Peace Corps volunteers from all sectors and stages, plus students and volunteers from Germany, Serbia, France, Belgium, Senegal, England, Korea, and Cameroon.  It was pretty neat and we talked, cultural-exchanged, made hamburgers, and danced, danced, danced.) and a few days after that I went to Batie to help Allison celebrate her birthday (we made bagels, which were BOMB, and ate them with smoked salmon and almost cream cheese.  It was divine.  We also spent hours stuffing our faces to the point of discomfort (and beyond) with her care package candy.  Hugely successful.) and now I’m on my way to Yaoundé for a meeting for the Diversity Committee.  Alas.  I’ve still spent some time at post – here are some developments:

I started a club at my host organization.  It’s called Femmes Fortes [strong women]: Club de la santé et du leadership.  Session one was pretty successful – I had it planned game -> art -> information.  The only problem was that the game and art were a little too successful, so that everyone wanted to continue their projects and no one paid any attention to the information section.  Might need to re-think the organization for the future.

I have also started computer lessons for the girls!  It might be tough given no internet at the center (and often no power at all).  Plus, turns out, I’ve never learned any computer vocabulary in French and some concepts like “software” or “website” are complicated to explain even when you do possess an adequate vocabulary.  So that will be a challenge.  Still, they seem excited to learn about computers, even though they all laughed at me when I described online shopping.

My final work-related development is that I will be taking part in the A2Empowerment scholarship program.  This is an organization that promotes girls’ education in Cameroon.  For girls who make good grades and can’t afford school, they will pay school fees and supplies up to a certain amount.  Once receiving the scholarship, the girls must all meet monthly with the PCV (me) to talk about school and learn life skills, plus they have to take part in some community engagement, like tutoring, and continue to make good grades.  I have been working with one local high school.  The Vice Principal has been amazing – he took it upon himself to find me girls who not only get good grades and have financial need, but are also orphans.  Above and beyond, my friend.  He is a really cool, friendly, responsible guy and has been really helpful and accommodating.  The principal, meanwhile, is a pretty serious asshole.  I probably shouldn’t be saying this on a blog.  Maybe I’ll take it down.  But I have interacted with him once in the past, where he made comments implying that scantily-clad girls are all but asking to be raped.  Now I ran into him while I was visiting the school and he told me that he thinks what I’m doing is sexist because it only focuses on the girls.  He then proceeded to go on a tirade about how much easier it is to be a woman here because you can just get married and you don’t even have to work.  And how everyone thinks women are all fragile and helpless but really they’ve got it so easy.  Part of me (the idealistic, optimistic side) hopes he was joking.  But when the conversation turned to him asking me how much money the Peace Corps gives me and how will I survive two years without a boyfriend, I knew for sure he was being a jerk.  Anyway, it is almost motivation to continue working with the school – I know that the students who go there deserve better than this guy.  So I will try to be that force, and, in the meantime, interact with him as little as possible.

The other night we had an expat dinner at the home of a new French woman in town, living with her Cameroonian husband and their absolutely adorable toddler.  We ate and drank very well – cured meat, curried tuna, guacamole, crêpes, quiche!  All this under the humble title “aparatif”!  Plus, we had some stimulating conversations, including what turned into a debate on gay marriage.  Ironically, the Cameroonian who was voicing the opposition argument was definitely one of the most forward-thinking Cameroonians on the topic – he said that he doesn’t believe people choose to be homosexual, and that he doesn’t care and they should be free to it.  It was only the institution of marriage that he took issue with.  The night was full of lively discussions like that one!  Anyway, maybe you’re already picking up on this, but one of the nicest things about doing the Peace Corps is not just the Peace Corps community and my Bafang community, but becoming a part of the expat community.  Maybe before coming here, people from Italy, France, and Japan would seem just as foreign as people from Cameroon, but when we are all so far from home and going through so many of the same things, we feel like one big family.  And it’s really cool to be part of that.

Update on the Colby front: he has lately taken to suckling my giant stuffed alligator.  It makes me worried that he has some kind of nutrient deficiency and is craving something in the cotton fibers.  When I hid the alligator in another room, he started suckling my comforter, even the fleece I was wearing.  And he does it ALL NIGHT.  He’s a wacky kitten but freaking adorable and amazing and I’m in love with him.

Well after a smooth 5-hour trip (which actually left, miraculously, within 15 minutes of the reported departure time), where I had an entire seat all to myself and full control over the window, we have arrived in Yaoundé.  Thanks for riding with me.  Until next time!       

* Fripping: clothes shopping at “the fripperie” (donated clothes from the US).  The Cameroon equivalent of thrift store shopping – you sift through lots of crap and hideous items to find a few incredibly cheap gems (and I mean $0.20 and $0.40 gems).  Shopping in Cameroon:  Are the clothes in a store?  Forget it.  Are they hanging in a booth outside?  Too expensive.  Are they in a big heap directly on the dirty-ass ground?  Bingo.  Now you’re talking!  Welcome to the frip.

** I specify real red wine because the majority of what people drink here (and call red wine) is actually ethyl alcohol added to something like grape juice.  It is not wine.  And it's not good.

You Know You're in Cameroon When...

Well, since my last entry I have passed the 6 month mark in country!  Although time has flown by and it doesn't feel nearly that long, time does bring a certain degree of familiarity and - dare I say? - comfort.  In fact, there have been several moments when I have almost forgotten where I am.  But don't worry - Cameroon has been kind enough to provide plenty of little reminders whenever I start to think I might be back in America.  If you're having a similar problem of disorientation, check the list below for a few ways to know you're definitely in Cameroon.

The following are all based on actual events.

·         You find a dead spider in your belly button.

·         A kid looks at you and gets so scared he immediately pees his pants.

·         Your neighbor offers you a snack… of roasted termites.  And you accept.

·         You use powdered milk and canned meat regularly and you appreciate them both for being a source of protein other than beans.

·         You ride motorcycle taxis everywhere and act (legitimately) outraged if they try to charge you more than $0.40.

·         During an important meeting with a government official, a chicken walks through the room, and no one flinches.

·         Your French teacher informs you, earnestly, that you can tell when someone has been visited by a vampire because they wake up feeling like they’ve had sex but in reality they didn’t.  So basically every sex dream you’ve ever had has been a vampire attack. (Worth it?)

·         Your casual waste disposal is throwing trash on the side of the road.  Your formal waste disposal is throwing trash on the side of the road and then burning it.

·         Instead of a fork, you’re given a bowl of water to wash your hands before your meal.  And the food is a ball of gooey starch with chopped vegetables and it’s not finger food at all and what are these people thinking.

·         Your neighbor tells you how fat you’ve gotten and you’re forced to say “thank you.”

·         Your water heater is your stove.  And your oven is your stove.  And your fireplace is your stove and/or the heap of trash burning in your yard.

·         You are no longer fazed by 6-year-olds playing with machetes, except that they shouldn’t be playing, they should get back to work.

·         You put mayonnaise on your omelets and on your salads.

·         You buy ingredients for a typical chicken dinner, and the title character is still alive and squawking.

·         Every time it rains, your laundry gets another rinse cycle.

·         You overhear a kid telling his friends that he said hi to you this one time.

·         When people talk to you about playing the lottery, they mean the visa lottery to go to the US.

·         Sometimes, it’s better not to ask what kind of meat that is.

·         (But at the butcher, you already know because the animal’s severed head is sitting on the counter.)

·         You know it’s dry season when your house and clothes are covered in dust, and you know it’s rainy season when your house and clothes are covered in mud.  You keep waiting for clean season but it’s just not coming.

·         You actually kind of prefer latrines because they don’t depend on unreliable plumbing.  Plus they’re the only safe place to dispose of batteries.  Or tampons.

The End of the Beginning!

            There is landmark in Peace Corps service after the first three months at post.  We have a conference called In-Service Training (IST).  It marks the boundary between the “don’t worry, take it easy, just work on integrating into your community” phase and the “get shit done” phase.  Before IST, you’re not really expected to do any work, so nothing you do can be disappointing.  After IST, you’re officially a lazy, useless, unproductive waste of space.  Unless you’re not.

            Our IST begins this weekend in Bamenda and will go for almost two weeks.  I am SO EXCITED for a few reasons:

1)      To get the gang back together again!  This is absolutely the #1 reason.  Some of my favorite people in this country I haven’t seen for the past three months and that is just unacceptable.  Plus, last night I was realizing how much I miss sarcastic American senses of humor.  I am picturing this conference as 20% hugging, 30% drinking, 50% gossiping, 100% laughing, and 0% boring educational sessions.  We’ll see how accurate that perception is. 

2)      I think for me mentally, once I get back from IST I will start to really buckle down, figure out what work and projects I want to undertake, and start making commitments.  I think I’ll feel much happier when I am getting out more, doing more work, and maybe even – if I’m lucky – being kind of productive.

3)      Bamenda is nice.  It’s kind of a bummer that this chance to travel the country happens to be held in one of the three cities I’ve already been to… twice… but that being said, it’s beautiful, and I know what delicious foods await me.  Plus I heard promises of Honey Bunches of Oats and/or Cocoa Puffs.  So, ya.

But also I’m absolutely dreading it for a few reasons:

1)       Getting the gang back together again.  And hearing about all the wonderful things everyone has already done at their post and why they’re the best volunteers ever and I’m a useless failure.

2)      As previously mentioned, after IST, I will officially transition from being “chill-ly integrating” to a useless failure.

3)      Boring sessions?  No.  Surely there won’t be any of those.  We will be too busy laughing and hugging.

Anyway, I am leaving for Bamenda today.  In fact, I meant to leave already but have been too busy procrastinating doing my post report that was due two weeks ago packing and thus have, in the meantime, read through every text message I’ve sent or received since getting an iPhone, given myself a haircut, uploaded photos from my iPhone, camera, and iPad, and looked through them all three or four times, thought of at least 15-20 hilarious Facebook statuses that I will never post, and written two blog entries.  And they said change was inevitable.  I haven’t changed a bit since high school!

Okay.  Here’s what happened in the past month:

            This guy I know (actually I mentioned him once before – he was the one who peed mid-conversation the first time we met as he walked me home.  I don’t really know his name because they’re hard to pronounce so I refer to him as “that guy… you know, that guy.”) invited me out to the farm with him to see what it’s like.  Although that sounds like about the sketchiest invitation that you’d be so stupid to accept (because yes, man I have spoken to four times, I would love to accompany you alone to an isolated area far from town), I also was kind of curious what the farms are like.  After all, according to my post report which I have almost finished, 80% of Bafang’s residents get their income from agriculture!  So I told him that I was going to bring Lee along too, and we made a plan to go the first weekend of February at 6:30 AM.  As the date approached, Lee and I started to realize that it sounded incredibly boring, laborious, and early.  But I couldn’t sacrifice my close friendship with that guy whose name I don’t know, so flaking out was not an option.  We blinked ourselves awake before the sun and got ready to farm.

            Anyway, long story short, the day turned out to be a lot more fun and interesting than either of us anticipated.  And a lot less laborious because we are clearly incompetent and didn’t even bring machetes, so we watched and did no work at all.  The farm was a 45 minute walk from our rendez-vous point at one of the local high schools.  And when I say “walk” I mean speed walk because that guy had us sprinting there.  (The way back, led by his 9-year-old daughter, was at a much more reasonable pace of a mile or two an hour.)  Oh, and the walk, by the way, was absolutely gorgeous.  Lee and I agreed that it was considerably nicer than then hike we’d gone on the week before, and that we should take visitors this way to show off our post’s beauty.  As we walked we got closer and closer to a river which we eventually got to admire.  By the time we arrived at the farm, there were no sounds of anything manmade and it felt like we were completely alone with nature.  That’s also when I realized that there were tons of ants, no quick routes to the hospital, and I had obviously neglected to bring my epi pen.  But other than foreseeing my imminent death, being isolated and alone with nature was basically a good thing.

First of all, the farm is not at all how you’re picturing a “farm” to be.  You’re picturing bales of hay and big wide flat areas with tidy rows of whatever-it-is, sprinkled with tractors and other heavy machinery.  And maybe a red barn.  This “farm” looked a lot more like a forest.  It was on a pretty steep hillside and there were no discernable paths or organizational systems.  Nothing about it looked deliberate, but the guy/my friend/you know seemed to know his way around pretty well.

            The most striking thing about the day was that it hit me how little I know about the food we eat.  For example, take chocolate.  I have eaten perhaps a thousand pounds of chocolate throughout my life.  Where does it come from?  Oh, I know this.  Cocoa beans!  Right?  But do you know about… cocoa fruit??  Maybe you all do and I’m just really ignorant.  But the beans don’t grow loosely on the tree.  They are the seeds within the cocoa fruit!  It’s yellow or orange and shaped kind of like a papaya.  When you open it, the beans are all covered in a white filmy flesh which you can eat, and it’s delicious!  The most similar thing I can compare it to is passionfruit, except you spit out the seeds in the center.  And the taste is tangy and sweet and absolutely delicious (also, probably most similar to passion fruit)!  I was shocked to discover this.  A wonder of the world and I’ve never known.

            I also got to see coffee growing for the first time in my life.  And that came with its own surprises.  It grows on these trees with white flowers, like berries.  But each coffee bean comes encased in its own shell!  Little jackets for every bean!  I also learned how they produce the red oil here.  Palm trees produce these hard, red… things (Fruit? Bean? Nut?) that you can kind of suck on to get just about no flavor from.  But when they heat a bunch of them, and press them, and boil them, and I kind of lost track of the process but then you get red oil!  And I saw the trees where we get black fruit, and kola nuts!  And all kinds of wonders.  At one point we came to a tree and the guy said the word for it in French, which neither of us knew.  He explained that having this tree there helps protect the rest of the crops.  To explain what it was, he scraped off a piece of bark with his machete and told me to taste it.  At that point I had already put any number of unwashed bacteria-laden morsels in my mouth so I risked it.  I was so surprised to find that the taste was immediately familiar – cinnamon!  And I realized I had never known where cinnamon actually came from and certainly not that it was tree bark.  Anyway, throughout the morning, my mind was blown time and time again and I left feeling more keenly aware of my own ignorance.  So I guess that was a success.

            For the past couple of weeks I was brainstorming a blog entry called “Why Colby is the Best Cat Ever.”  When I looked more closely at some of the reasons on my list, however, I realized it would be more aptly titled “Why Colby is A Cat.”  For example, he likes to bury his poop and was housetrained in just four days!  And, he purrs when I pet him!  He’s wacky and jumps around weirdly and hilariously!  He curls up and is fuzzy and freaking adorable!  But seriously, I was going to write about how wonderful and sweet he is, and how he sleeps with me all through the night, every night, and sits on my lap whenever I’m sitting down, and loves me and is an excellent little spoon.  Plus he resembles me better than anyone in my biological family and we could do the cutest mommy and me act.  But right now he has been driving me absolutely crazy by slashing my legs with 20 claws at once.  He’s playful and it’s cute, but he bites hard and attacks every part of me with all his might.  Plus, he finds it easier to climb up the ladders that are my thighs than to actually make the jump onto my lap.  If you saw my bare legs, you’d probably be more likely to think that I fell into a paper shredder than that I adopted a sweet kitten.  All this aggression and yet when it comes to anything but me, he’s an absolute pacifist.  Birds come every day and peck away at his food.  He crouches, ready to pounce, concentrating hard on the offenders.  “Do it, Colby,” I whisper, because I have a weird sick parental desire for him to become a fierce killer, “Protect what’s yours.”  And then he continues crouching.  And continues.  And acts surprised when the bird finishes its meal and flies away.  Come on, man.  You have NO hesitation when it comes to pouncing on my face in bed.  Luckily, he is still incredibly cute and I’m still incredibly shallow so there’s a pretty strong foundation to our loving relationship.

            Also I went to church for the first time in community as an integration attempt!  The mass was in English but I still didn’t catch any of it because it was early and I paid no attention whatsoever.  But it was kind of fun, in a getting-out-of-the-house-before-noon sort of way.

            February 11 was youth day.  We don’t have this holiday in America, because, as my grandfather put it, “every day is kids’ day!”  To celebrate, there was a march.  I was told to show up at 9 am.  Feeling guilty and embarrassed when I arrived at 9:10, I found that only one student had arrived.  Everyone else got there at ten and the march didn’t start until after 11.  Oh, right.  Cameroonian time.  Anyway, it was a lot of waiting around and looking at the hordes of children dressed in their different school uniforms.  Some people took pictures with me because I’m white, which my students found hilarious.  Local vendors took advantage of the crowds and people circulated selling yogurt, folere juice, frozen sugary treats, beignets, cookies, plantain chips, etc etc etc.  After standing for two hours, I sat down on the steps to gasps of horror that I would dare place my derrière on something so filthy.  Finally, the parade began.  Given that Bafang is essentially one road, I figured we would march down that road pretty much through the town.  Well, as it turned out, we marched about 50 yards, just far enough to pass in front of some video cameras and town officials who looked on.  Can you believe we had an hour of marching practice… for that?   After our strenuous trek, we all took pictures with my iPhone in two or three hundred different combinations of me and students, me and teachers, me and students and teachers, me and students and teachers and the sign, etc.  In general, the composition of the photos is dreadful, but cropping exists and I’m glad to be in them!  I got kind of tricked into abandoning my coworkers to go meet a student’s parents, which I thought would take five minutes but actually took an hour and a half.  However, they were nice, and they fed me, and although I never found my coworkers again, I joined up with Ricky and some of his colleagues to party into the night.  And then exactly 9 days later we celebrated unification day in the exact same way and it made both celebrations feel a lot less special.

            For Galentine’s day on Feb 13, Allison hosted a westies get together at her post in Batie.  Batie is perhaps the closest Peace Corps post to Bafang – it costs only 500 francs to get there and takes about 40 minutes.  The initial party featured such delicacies as breakfast pizza(/quiche), homemade bagels, hash browns, mimosas, and a bottle of tequila that can only have been sent from heaven.  Lots of fun was had by all.  The next day was spent in its entirety with the remaining five of us in a heap of cuddles on Allison’s spare mattress, chatting and passing around the remaining bottles of beer and champagne.  All in all, it was a wonderful time and always great to see those American friends.

            As for how teaching goes, it goes.  I gave a test this past week.  Making up tests is so much fun!  Feeling like I can see exactly what I’ve taught them, and coming up with examples and exercises that hopefully are clear and easy and showcase all the knowledge they’ve acquired.  Giving tests, however, is far less fun.  We learned in social psych class how when students do badly on tests, they say the test was written poorly, and when they do well on tests, they say, gee, how smart we are.  So basically it’s a no-win for the teacher; no teacher has ever been recognized for really writing a great test.  Oh also, all that knowledge I bestowed on them?  They forgot it.  No one studied.  People did terribly and the bad grades aren’t even as frustrating as the actual process of administering the exam, where everyone is mumbling under their breath, speaking in the local language, laughing at me or each other or whoever, looking at each other’s papers, refusing to read the directions or pay attention when I carefully go over each section and what they need to do and then asking me repeatedly during the exam how to complete one section or another.  Basically I hate students and teaching and am feeling repentant for every time directions were written on the top of the page and I didn’t give them a single look before asking what to do.  After several warnings, I did eventually confiscate one student’s paper and give her a zero.  It was a power rush and the rest of the class was much better behaved after that.  Perhaps I would be a very successful teacher if I gave them all zeroes.

            Well other than that, this month has been more of the same.  Good days, like when a couple of killer care packages arrived (Smoked salmon!  Cheese fondue!  “How can that be??” you ask.  “I know!!!!!” I exclaim).  Bad days, like when I accidentally don’t leave my house until after dark and then I can’t leave my house because it’s after dark.  IST will be a turning point for sure.  Let’s see which way it turns!

A Moment in the Market

Before I write anything else, I must share my experience in the market this afternoon.  It was unlike any previous time and I think it’s important to hang on to for whenever the deranging gets me down.

I finished teaching and went to grab something to eat from one of the mamas in town.  I was sitting at one of the bars eating koki from the woman who sells it out front.  This is the exact same place and the exact same koki I was eating one day in January when I first met Julio.  The quick back story:  I was trying to eat lunch and this guy, Julio, came up, sat next to me and refused to leave me alone for the entire duration of my meal.  It was again and again, can I have your number, can I accompany you (wherever), why not, I’m not a bad guy, rinse, repeat.  Before arriving at post I was pretty sure that my skin was thick enough to withstand two years of street harassment and attention.  After all… I like attention, right?  Anyway.  That one day with Julio was the first time that it really started getting to me.  I felt like women here get no respect from the men, and everyone acts like because I’m foreign I owe them something, whether it’s money, food, my phone number, or the time to come share a beer with them.  It put me in a terrible mood and was, after that point, a terrible day.

So today when I was back at that spot, with that koki, sitting at a table by myself, I was already feeling guarded against the potential derangers around me.  One guy offered to buy me a drink and I told him, look, I’m eating alone.  I’m sure you’re a nice guy but I just want to eat alone.  He left me without much further protest.  Then the man at the table next to me wished me bon appetit and I cautiously thanked him, afraid his next move would be to ask for my number.  Next, an older, very drunk man emerged from the bar and wished me bon appetit, several times.  He was kind of trying to talk to me but I couldn’t really understand what he was trying to say through the slur.  Then, the man at the next table pulled the drunk guy over and told him to leave me alone.  Completely unsolicited! 

Throughout my meal, the drunk guy tried to talk to me or approach me several times, and the man at the next table over always stepped in and tried to get the man to sit next to him.  He told the guy, let her eat.  After she eats you guys can talk, but for now just leave her to eat.  It was amazing!  At some point another man sat at the table on my other side and he, too, assumed the role of my protector.  He said to the drunk man, “Why are you bothering her?  People come here to relax, not to be bothered.”  He also complained to the bar’s owner that this man was causing trouble and she should do something about it.

When the drunk man reached out to touch me, the first man said, “What, you’re going to touch her?  If a man touched your wife like that you’d break his hand.”  He even lured the guy away from me by taking his beer and pretending to drink it.  It was all so, so, so wonderful.  I thanked them both and they both acted like it was absolutely no problem, just the normal way to act in that situation.  And neither of them ever asked for my number.

I have tears in my eyes as I’m writing this because I know those men can’t have any idea what it meant to me.  Lately all the street harassment has been the number one thing that puts me in an awful mood.  I know, it really doesn’t sound that bad.  People want to talk to me and they ask for my phone number.  But when it happens every single day, time after time after time, and when the attention lacks any semblance of respect, it wears you down.  It has worn me down.  Worn me down, brought me to tears, made me feel like I distrust all men, and like no matter how hard I work I will never fit in, never truly be respected, and never treated like a normal human being.  And I have noticed that people never seem to step in on my behalf.  A few times, scary crazy people have been talking to me, touching me, and everyone in the vicinity looks on and no one intervenes.  And that makes me hate every bystander who would rather watch the spectacle of the flustered white person than actually help.  But today those two men changed that.  They singlehandedly restored my faith in men, Cameroonians, and humanity in general.  And they did it without knowing how important their actions were to me.

I love those men.

I will remember this moment forever, and let it remind me how simple good deeds can mean so much.

New Addition to the Ginger Family

Well, my lonesome empty house is no more!  As of this past Thursday, I am the proud owner of a tiny, crazy, affectionate, high-maintenance, energy-filled orange kitten.  It truly feels like having a newborn in the house because he keeps me up all night, cries when I leave the room, and makes me worry that he’s not eating enough.  His name is Colby and he’s about as needy and energetic as a kitten can be, which, though exhausting, is really what I wanted.  Once I figure out what he likes to eat (canned sardines seem to be a hit), how to get him to poop outside, and what I need to do to get him to stop climbing my legs with claws at full extension, I think we’ll be very happy together!

I now realize that, for the sake of closure, it might not be the best idea to get a kitten from your next door neighbor’s cat.  It is absolutely heartbreaking that from inside my house I can hear the mama cat crying for her baby as Colby cries for his mama.  One time I came home and saw the mother outside my gate, meowing, as Colby pressed himself against the crack in my gate, trying to get out and back to his family.  I know, right?  Tears.

In Cameroon, pets, like children, are more like members of the household staff than adorable toys for us to play with and spoil.  People still have pets, but if they have a dog, it’s probably for protection, and if they have a cat, it’s probably to kill bugs and mice.  And in fact, most Cameroonians don’t particularly like cats and are afraid of dogs.  I have been taking care of David, Ricky’s dog, for the past few weeks while Ricky has been on vacation.  I let him out for a few hours each day so he can stretch his legs and “ease himself” (as Anglophone Cameroonians put it).  David is the sweetest dog ever and has never hurt a fly, but Cameroonian children still run screaming when they see him approach.  In fact, last week Amadou (the Youth Development program manager) came to make a routine visit to my post to make sure everything was alright.  I saw the Peace Corps car pull up outside my gate.  After a minute or so, my phone rang.  It was Amadou, standing outside, unwilling to enter because David was in my yard and he was afraid of him.  I body-guard escorted Amadou past the ferocious pup and into the house.

Another thing about Cameroonian pet culture is that there is a weird superstition (if anyone has evidence that this is actually true, please correct me) that a cat’s whiskers are poisonous.  They are said to contain something that causes illness in humans.  To protect themselves against it, people cut off the whiskers.  I was at Alima’s house one time when they were cutting all of the kittens’ whiskers.  I tried not to look; to me, this is a form of mutilation.  I have promised Colby that no one will ever clip his whiskers again (despite Alima’s urgings).

Utilities have been going crazy for the past week!  Before one week ago, the longest blackout I’d experienced since Bafia was about eight minutes, and that was the only time power was cut for longer than 30 seconds.  Now we have lost power almost every night for the past week for at least a couple of hours.  I have plenty of candles and there is something kind of fun about “roughing it” in the dark, but still.  I expect better from you, electricity of Bafang.  Plus, water has been erratic, too – for about five days I didn’t have any, but during that time, Ricky and Lee sometimes did have it and sometimes didn’t.  I kept meaning to go the landlord to figure out why I didn’t have it but then it would be cut for everyone and I’d have to wait again.  Finally I got it figured out last night and celebrated by washing my dishes and flushing my toilets, only to have water cut again this morning just before I planned to take a shower.  What is this!!  I feel like I’m living in the bush!

Like any city, Bafang has a small number of crazy people (“fous,” en français) who you always see around.  There’s one guy in my neighborhood who has very few teeth and likes saluting me.  He’s very friendly and harmless but still definitely a fou.  One day last week I was at work, waiting for class to start.  Prisca, the secretary, and I were the only two sitting in the office.  A guy walks in.  I quickly identified him as a fou based on his mis-matched clothes and floral hat.  He brought with him a wall of odor like you wouldn’t believe – as if his clothes had been carefully preserved to retain every particle of BO and cigarette smoke from the past five years and exude them all at once, in our office.  He greeted Prisca, and greeted me, and greeted each of us again a few times.  I wasn’t paying attention to what they were saying for most of the time, but at some point he asked me for money (which Prisca indicated I should refuse, and I did).  She was humoring him pretty well but at some point she started to ask him to leave and picked up the phone to pretend to call the police and have him kicked out.  Soon he started yelling and pointing angrily at Prisca, threatening to smack her or beat her.  I was getting freaked out but she seemed to be doing okay and staying calm.  He walked to the door like he was going to leave but instead grabbed the big wooden rod next to it (used as a portable flag pole) and went at her brandishing that like a weapon.  At this point, another of the teachers had come into the room and the two of them were still pretty calm, whereas I was ready to flip my shit and chase him out of town.  He threw the flag pole down and stormed out as Prisca and Madame Moukam chuckled and shook their heads.  If I had been alone and his rage had been directed at me, this story would have a very different ending (of tears).

A couple of days later, Lee and I were getting a beer at a bar on the main road.  Another of the Bafang fous came and greeted us and sat at the bar with us, one table over, not saying anything but sitting with us quietly.  At some point, a man passing by tried to shake Lee’s hand and our fou jumped up and angrily lunged at him, as if he was committing a terrible offense by trying to greet Lee.  Although that was a major overreaction, we thought of him as our protector after that incident.  After sitting there (fou having resumed his post as sentinel) for a while longer, someone else came by: the same crazy guy who threatened Prisca a few days before.  Then the two of them got into it together and were yelling at each other and one picked up a plastic chair as if prepared to beat the other with it.  This chapter in my memoir will be titled “Fightin’ Fous.”

One thing you may not have known about Cameroon: Recycling is taken to a whole new level.  And it’s not out of some environmentally-conscious desire to save the planet, just to save money.  Bottles have bottle deposits the same way they do in the US, but instead of just paying five cents and probably never turning in that bottle, most vendors will not allow you to leave with a glass bottle.  Or, if you do, you are expected to bring it back within a couple of days (or even bring some empty bottles with you to trade in when making the purchase).  Even plastic bottles are treasured and valued here.  If I’m ever throwing out any kind of bottle or container, I try to set it aside and not burn it because it’s certain to be snatched up by someone soon.  And on the street, people who are selling folere juice or red oil or honey will be selling from all those different containers that used to hold juice or soda or whiskey.  Even Kadji, one of the major brasseries that produces my favorite Cameroonian beer, uses recycled beer bottles from other companies, so you never know what color or shape of bottle your Kadji will come in.

My last random cultural note about Cameroon is that, without fail, every single time someone knocks on my gate and I ask “C’est qui?” (who is it?), they will always, always respond, “C’est moi.”  And to be fair, it’s always true.  But it is so frustrating because why would I be asking if I knew who “moi” was??

This last month or so has very well followed the “emotional rollercoaster” model.  I have had many good days, and unfortunately many bad days, sometimes alternating exactly one by one.  I will spare you details from the bad days for the sake of keeping this blog readable.  In short, I don’t have that much work to do and I have days where I feel bored, useless, unproductive, and like all I am to the people in this town is “la blanche” – someone who is interesting to stare at, great to solicit for money, and even better to harass for a phone number.  But all that aside, let me tell you about a few of the good days!

Last Friday was a feast day at Lee’s school and he invited me to come join in.  I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect from a “feast day,” so I was surprised to find it looked exactly like a middle school dance.  Kids, released from the confines of their obligatory uniforms just for the day, dressed in their finest night-clubby attire.  Each classroom played loud music and students danced beneath pink and white toilet paper streamers.  Eventually, all the kids piled into the gym for an all-day all-night dance party.  As Lee and I sat on a table with some of the other teachers, watching the students run excitedly from one group to another, whispering, gossiping, flirting, enjoying being at school in this unfamiliar setting, I became intensely nostalgic for my own middle school days.  I never thought I would end up on the other side of the party, as the teacher chaperone, looking on but not really partaking in the fun.  It was weird and one of the first times in my life I’ve felt so acutely like a grown up.  I will never have another school dance of my own.  When did this happen???

At some point the student:teacher ratio got a little too high, and the students got a little too friendly, so Lee and I left to find some place to have a drink.  Now, pretty much every single bar in Bafang – and perhaps Cameroon – looks exactly the same: it’s a room with shelves with beer on them, and there are some crappy looking tables, uncomfortable chairs and/or benches, and absolutely no ambiance whatsoever.  It can make it hard to choose between the hundred or two bars when they are all absolutely interchangeable.  We passed one with a group of people laughing at a table outside.  “Well, they look like they’re having fun,” Lee remarked.  Right on cue, the people waved to us and wished us a happy New Year.  We wished them a happy New Year back, and continued walking.  They beckoned us over to join them.  This happens pretty often when I pass people at bars, but I’m always going somewhere or else alone and therefore not about to intentionally spend time with drunk Cameroonian men.  But this time we figured, why not?  We’re looking for somewhere to take a beer, and here’s a friendly group of people we could share one with.  Anyway, they turned out to be a group of teachers from Bafang and a nearby village, and we all had a great time together!  They all struggled to speak English, we struggled to speak French, and they laughed a lot at all of their mistakes and generously at none of ours.  We talked about our respective cultures and teaching and all kinds of other stuff.  There was a ton of laughter and even when I didn’t really understand what it was about, I felt so happy being there that I joined in anyway.  They said that they go to that bar every Friday night, so Lee and I have vowed to go back.

Once the teachers started to leave, Lee and I went across the street to a sort of cabaret/night club.  It was pretty small and pretty empty, but there was at least nicer lighting and some kind of a mood.  We talked and shared more beers, and it was already a wonderful place to be, but then something happened that changed everything and launched me swiftly into a state of pure ecstasy: Total Recall started playing on their television!!!!!!  And not the remake, either – the actual Arnold Schwarzenegger classic!  For those of you who don’t know, this is honestly one of my favorite movies of all time and carries a lot of sentimental value from late nights growing up.  The sound was covered by loud Cameroonian music, but Lee kindly tolerated me narrating some of the best scenes.  As if sent from above to ensure that this would be the best night ever, someone came over from a nearby table and offered us birthday cake in honor of one of their friends’ birthdays.  And it was the most American-like cake I’ve had yet in this country, with actual frosting and everything.  It was great.  At some point, Lee and I got up to dance.  Practically everyone else had gone home and the only people on the dance floor were the two of us and the two Cameroonians working there, a man and a woman.  They were both super nice, good dancers, and Lee and I got to request all our favorite songs to be played.  The four of us danced for a good long time and by the time we headed home I really felt like it was the best day ever.

A couple of days later, Lee and I set out to climb one of the mountains(/hills) that we can see from our street.  Without really knowing how to get there, we scrambled down into the valley area, were stopped by a river that I never knew ran through our town, and re-navigated.  After fighting our way through the bush for a while, we did end up successfully at a summit, with a great view of Bafang and our own houses!  Afterwards, we went to visit the town waterfall, which I had never seen.  As you descend to the waterfall, there is a line in the dirt of red oil and salt, or something, which Lee says is for spiritual purposes.  The waterfall is huge and impressive!  I will definitely post pictures soon.  And then we wandered around that area of town for a while, which is in the opposite direction from our houses of most of town, so it’s pretty new and undiscovered.  We found an amazing boulangerie with ice cream and cake and so many delicious things and reasonable prices.  Then we found an amazing restaurant with a great view, fully stocked bar, comfortable chairs, actual menus… all kinds of things you never see in this country.  We didn’t eat there but plan to return with some frequency.  And then we got spaghetti omelets from a nice man who insisted on only speaking to us in Fefe and then making us repeat what he was saying to learn it.  It was another really fun day of getting to know a new part of Bafang.

Yesterday, John (an Anglophone friend of mine) invited Lee and me to join him on a full-day excursion.  I guess a group of about 30 teachers from a bilingual high school in the Adamoua region came to Bafang to do a sort of exchange with John’s bilingual high school.  Now Cameroonian invites are implicitly all expenses paid – and I mean ALL expenses, including activities, meals, and every leg of transportation even if you’re traveling in a separate taxi.  First John paid for a wonderful, extravagant, so-close-to-American breakfast for Lee and me at that very restaurant we had recently discovered on our own!  Then we met the chief of a village in the Littoral region, who happens to be John’s uncle, and went to John’s school in Foukwankem for food, speeches, introductions, mingle time, and a game of handball between schools.  Next we all headed to another nearby village called Kekem where we met the local sous-prefect (a big shot government official) and had refreshments and mingled.  John pulled Lee and me aside and took us into a room with the sous-prefect and left us there to chat with him.  Though mildly awkward (and I kind of hate being treated like a VIP when I know I’ve done nothing to deserve it), the sous-prefect was really nice and had very well-informed opinions on a lot of issues.  At one point, he started talking about how he loves that in America, although people come from all over the world and have all kinds of different backgrounds and histories, everyone feels united in their Americanism.  I almost got choked up as he talked about it.  It is a beautiful country. 

Later, Lee left the room for a minute, and I immediately went into defensive mode of being left alone in a room with a Cameroonian man.  The first thing he did was ask for my number (surprise surprise).  Then he started speaking slowly and carefully in English.  “You know, Antonia, there is a subject I would like to tackle…” I inhaled deeply.  Please don’t ask me about my husband.  “It’s about religion.  I don’t care whether you’re a believer or not, it doesn’t matter, it’s just… I’ve heard of something that America has… called… Mormonism.  And apparently… these Mormons think they’re Christians!  What’s that all about???”  J Cultural exchanges are so fun!

Anyway, I have been teaching English three times a week.  So far we’ve covered salutations, numbers to 100, writing the date, the weather, and family.  Overall, the girls are really good and fun to teach.  One of my classes is clearly the worst behaved, so that’s not usually a great time, but the other two have been engaged and helpful and cooperative.  Plus, I am so lucky for my class sizes – while most teachers in Cameroon are wrangling 50, 60, or 100 kids per class, my “big” class is 21 (although on a typical day it’s more like 15), and my smallest class is just 8.  It’s so nice, especially for language, because I can have each of them repeat individually and I can call on them by name (or call them out by name, as I have had to do with that rat Linda).  Although I wasn’t thrilled about teaching English initially, it’s great to have something to get me out of the house and keep me feeling productive.

Oh also I finally got to enjoy the fruits of my labor tonight by putting some basil from my garden in my tomato soup!  And, it was yummy!