a request

Friends, Family, and Neighbors,

First, an enormous note of thanks. Thanks to your donations these past couple of weeks, the Young Scholar Program is officially funded. Your donations are already hard at work—if you would like to stay updated on the scholar’s progress please check my blog (I promise to write a real update soon) or email me to get updates. Your quick response was a heartwarming reminder that there are still many, many people out there that care about me and the people currently in my life.

And so I, quite humbly, ask for your assistance one more time. If you didn’t get a chance to donate to the Young Scholar Program, but are still looking for ways to help, you’ve opened the right email.

15% of the population of Cameroon is HIV positive --we’re talking 350,000 people. And these are the people that are courageous enough to find out their status. Over the years, a myriad of NGOs and government-sponsored programs have promoted mass informational seminars teaching school-aged children the importance of abstinence and fidelity in order to prevent the disease. Despite substantial efforts and funds pored into these projects, the Cameroonian people have noticed little change in the behavior of the youth. In fact, the number of HIV positive Cameroonians grows each day.

Mass informational sessions at schools are not a tool for inciting actual behavior change. How can these informational seminars be effective when such a large percentage of Cameroonian youth cannot afford to stay in school? To make ends meet, many of these disenfranchised youth become moto taxi drivers. Moto taxi drivers drive small motor scooters and charge a fare to take people form place to place. There are at least a dozen moto men in each village and after walking, they are the main means of transportation. The moto drivers, generally between the ages of 14 and 30, usually have not finished high school and work long hours for little pay. They have a unique culture that involves outrageous clothing, high alcohol consumption, and of course, a large interest in any woman that passes their way. Once you get to know these men, of course, you learn that there is more to them than crazy hats and catcalls.

My moto driver gets up at 5am to make sure his younger brother gets to school. He had to drop out of school himself so his siblings could continue—his family didn't have enough money to pay for everyone's school fees. After that, he works all morning, taking a break at midday to tend to his family's pigs. He then continues to work until 7 or 8pm. The moto he drives does not belong to him, so he must pay the owner 2,000 CFA a day (approximately $4), and then can keep the rest of whatever he makes. Since each ride is usually 100 CFA (25 cents), what he keeps is barely enough to feed himself. And after all that work, most people think he’s a high school drop out who’s riding around all day chasing after girls.

These poor, uneducated men with their raucous culture inspired us to launch a project aimed to empower them as development agents promoting HIV prevention. Because they are always pursuing women and wildly gossiping while they wait for their next customers, we believe that they would be the perfect candidates to disseminate HIV prevention techniques amongst themselves and other youth in the villages.

11 villages in the West Region will participate in this project. Your donations will allow two moto drivers per village to attend a two-day seminar on HIV transmission and prevention. The training will prepare the participants to become peer educators. During the seminar, we will also offer free HIV testing, something most Cameroonians are too scared to do on their own. After the seminar is complete, the Peace Corps will work closely with the moto drivers from each village to help them schedule and facilitate informational seminars in their own communities and with their own peers. By doing this, we not only hope to diminish the spread of HIV in the West Region, but also empower the moto drivers as development agents.

If you would like to help us out, go to www.peacecorps.gov and click on donate/donors. Look under Cameroon and our project is listed under C. Cook, Beep Your Horn for HIV Prevention. Or just https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=694-134. Your contributions are tax deductible. As previously mentioned, we hoped to start this project as soon as possible, but seriously need your help in raising the funds to make it happen! This is crunch time. We need to raise $5,700 in two weeks.

I hope you can help even if it is just a few dollars. Through your donations, this project will come to fruition. Without your support, it won’t happen. If you know someone who might be interested in this project, please pass on the word!

Thank you for your support!

Nura

A Photo Essay: Mali (a work in progress)

Ethiopia: some ruins, some mountains, some craters, and a whole lot of Suleimans

I forgot what it felt like to dance amongst the clouds. To place my finger over a mountain and swallow it whole. To spot villages no bigger than my pinky, hidden amongst a forest that fit in my palm. To have wings. To greet the moon. Oh, and the way my stomach flips as I become a play toy of the gods. That, too, I forgot.

I’m pretty sure that I have never spent a full year in a single country (though only my mother can verify this with any degree of accuracy). While I like to think that my passions lie in social justice, thinking globally, acting locally, fighting for the underdog, building bridges and not walls, I can think of no place in the world I would rather be than on an airplane. There’s just something about them; no, it’s everything about them. That funny way they smell when you walk on—thousands upon thousands of people forming this wonderfully bizarre eau d’aeroplane. The way that first flight attendant greets you with her perhaps overly saccharine smile, but you can’t blame her because in the past two days she’s probably been around the world and back. The hideously ugly décor reminiscent of an age of poor color schemes. Oh, and airplane blankets. I love those too. But mostly I could spend days on a plane just talking to people (I’m probably that person that you hate to sit next to). There’s something karmic about that gathering of people—that every single person on that plane has one thing in common: their presence. They were there together. And so, with the longest possible introduction lacking all the appropriate waxing and waning a plane deserves, I present my travels (just shy of a month later): the wonderful wide world of Ethiopia through the eyes of the Suleiman sibilings (well really just my eyes, but Ramzy was there too). (Also, this entry is long. Really long. Make a macchiato and get comfortable.)

I was ready to leave Cameroon. Though I have not (hopefully…) overstayed my welcome, I think that Cameroon and I needed a break. My lack of communication during this long Indian summer can be summed up in one word: rain. It happened. There was a lot of it. Work was done, but I was just really wet a lot (as was much of the interior of my house, but that’s a story for another time). So, unapologetically, I boarded my vehicle of delight and headed for Ethiopia, embarking on, what I hoped would be a glorious reunion with my brother, and an added bonus of traveling to a country famous for their spicy cuisine, dreaded Rastafarians, and ancient churches.

hand-woven baskets in Axum

I never thought, quite foolishly I’ll admit, I’d experience culture shock in another African country, but landing in Addis Abba was like walking around downtown Washington (granted, I have been trapped in Bamendjou for a while and might be developing a slight case of amnesia). Regardless, it was paradise: pavement, and I mean the real kind, without the plethora of potholes that your car gets lost in (read: Cameroon’s interpretation of pavement); people from more than one country; cuisine from more than one country (the Italians, during a brief, but failed, invasion, decided not to impose government, language, or religion on the Ethiopians, opting instead to teach them how to make a hell of a good macchiato and some very decent pasta); scarves for every occasion and emotion possible; oh, and hot water. There was that too. With a population of around five million (though I insisted to Ramzy for most of the trip that it was fifteen, and I remain firm in my numerical assessment), it was a city you could get lost in and still know right where you were. And while my amazement with this novel metropolis remains firm, it would be wrong to mislead you and romanticize a city, and for that matter, country, currently, and seemingly perpetually, plagued by famine and disease. For every chic businessman and effortlessly beautiful woman draped in the finest Ethiopian textiles, the streets were lined with row after row of plastic. Only it wasn’t just plastic. It was plastic covering children, protecting Ethiopia’s future from its chilling present.

With Ramzy due to arrive the following day, I had an entire day free filled with excitement for our much-anticipated reunion. I spent much of the first day with this incredible doctor, who happens to be a fellow Middlebury alum, at the Mother Teresa Clinic in Addis. To premise, my beloved history teacher from high school had told me about this doctor praised by many as this demigod on a path to change the world. I somehow misunderstood the connection, and assumed that he was an alumnus from my high school and not from my college. Thus I wrote him what I presume to be a rather hilarious email about my search for Hoppers (as in grasshoppers, my high school mascot…don’t ask) abroad. He did not correct me in my email, probably presuming that I was some kind of science project freak of person that looked for grasshoppers abroad and didn’t want to set me off. Visiting the doctor at the center was one of the most humbling experiences I’ve had in, well, ever. There were hundreds of patients with diseases you only read about in medical books; tumors the size of heads literally blanketed the room. And while I put on my best smile, I was scared shitless. How do you even begin? The doctor seemed to read my thoughts: we’ll start here. And one by one, he greeted them, checked the charts, and moved on. Just like that. We spent much of the day bringing cancer patients from the center to a hospital to get MRIs and CT scans, drinking avocado, guava, and mango smoothies, and absorbing this palpable energy that Addis Abba gave off—it was a city where things just happened.

breakfast companions

I spent the evening living a life that was, again, not my own. A life I so wish was my own: dining at the Sheraton, touted as Africa’s most glamorous hotel, with expats and host country nationals that…changed things. And while I realize that I could not have put that more ineloquently if I had tried, it’s kind of how I felt the entire meal: ineloquent, uneducated, and clueless. It was overwhelming and amazing—you know less than you think you do; yet, you can change more than you think you can.

the Sheraton Hotel in downtown Addis

And as I was wining and dining, living my fantasy of a life I am yet to have, Ramzy was watching his airplane make a nice little u-turn on the screen in front of his seat. Technical difficulties, it seemed, were to make his transatlantic flight that much longer. I woke early the next morning to head to the airport to greet his flight. Seeing Ramzy was better than I imagined. He brought home to a place so foreign to both of us. Matured, and perhaps even taller, he seemed to have found a new peace with the world. Within minutes, we were laughing. I forgot what it was like to laugh with him. Organic and uncontrollable, when I laughed with Ramzy, it was with my everything.

you never forget your first Fokker ride

We left early the next morning for Bahir Dar, the capital of Amharaland, home of Ethiopia’s largest lake, Lake Tana, and the famed (and perhaps fabled) source of the Blue Nile. The tiny Fokker (yes, I know) seemed to board with a general disregard for assigned seats, praising the fact that everyone had a seat at all. I was impressed and refreshingly stunned with Ethiopia’s airline (Cameroon’s airline company went under after someone, I believe, stole one of the airplanes, and the subsequent funds). And while the morning was crisp, conducive to long mornings in bed, nestled under covers and swimming in books, the morning mist demanded our presence. Though many a missionary had attempted the dissemination of their gospel, it fell on deaf ears. Ethiopian Orthodoxy dates back to the time of the apostles. The national language, Amharic, and its people, the Amharas, dominated the political and social atmosphere while Europe was just waking up from the Dark Ages. Indeed, Ethiopia never needed the West to help define who she was.

morning on Lake Tana

Much of the first day was spent on Lake Tana, aboard a feeble, though purportedly unsinkable “boat” in search of monasteries dating back to the 16^th and 17^th centuries. I naively expected the monasteries to be stale, anachronistic monstrosities, reflecting a stolid colonialist mentality. They were anything but; the thatched round huts blended effortlessly into their almost jungle-like surroundings. Indeed, it was almost eerily serene as nature’s vines smothered religion’s door. The monasteries perched themselves on 20 of Lake Tana’s 37 islands. Though many of the islands host a resident community, much of the congregation travels to mass from the peninsula (talk about an interesting commute).

frescos on the inside of a monastery

coffee hour: it's for the birds

The next morning, being the oh-so-intrepid adventurers that we are, we set out in search of the Nile. James Bruce, one of the first European explorers writes, “Half undressed as I was by the loss of my sash, and throwing my shoes off, I ran down the hill towards the little island of green sods…It is easier to describe the situation of my mind at that moment—standing in the spot which had baffled the genius, industry and enquiry of both ancients and moderns, for the course of nearly 3000 years.” And while I was, for the most part, fully dressed (I can’t say the same for others, but we’ll get to that later), I too felt the kinetic pull that had lured Bruce to Blue Nile some 200 years before.

young monk at monastery

sympathy for the devil

monastery--note the original sketches on the doors

We opted to hike the full circuit, traversing the Nile and all. We, rather humorously, decided that we could complete the route sans guide. Bruce did it, why couldn’t we? Accompanied by our fearless Spanish conquistador, a man named Pepe who happened to share a flight with us from Addis to Bahir Dar, we set out to traverse one of the Nile’s famous tributaries. Which one, however, had yet to be determined.

Staying on the trail seemed like a joke. Before we even got to the main lookout point, I was already covered in a layer of mud and had decided that Ramzy should hold my purse, as I needed all the stability I could get. Though we nearly slipped down half the mountain to get to the vista, the view was, to put in mildly, awesome.

The sheer force with which the falls crashed into the rocks was fitting of its Amharic name: Tis Isat, Water That Smokes. Though a hydroelectric project has supposedly harnessed the once uncontrollable source, the Blue Nile continues to throw herself some 120 feet down, crashing onto mafic volcanic rocks below uniformed of the project’s presence.

high upon the hill, lived a lonely goat...

Eventually, a million mud pits later, we reached the crossing thanks to a group of wandering shepherds (sentences I never dreamed of writing). Though they stood firm in their offer to carry me, Ramzy, and Pepe across so that we could avoid getting wet, the fact that my arm weighed as much as their entire body seemed reason enough to refuse. So, fearlessly we threw ourselves to the Nile’s mercy. Only Pepe was a little fearless about his getting his pants wet, so he took them off.

the conquistador and the Suleimans forge the Nile

So a pantless Pepe, a purse carrying Ramzy (I was still unstable, and he looked really good carrying it), and myself crossed the Blue Nile. And like many before us, and many who will follow, we got royally wet. But there’s no water that some warm rocks, and the blazing African sun can’t dry up.

The next morning we boarded a bus and headed for Gondar, appropriately dubbed Ethiopia’s Camelot. Traveling by land afforded us an entirely new view: fallen bridges. When we boarded the bus it was explained to us that we’d have to cross on foot for a while and meet a bus on the other side of the bridge. I, of course, just nodded and smiled when the man explained this, not really understanding what he was saying. The gigantic whole in the bridge, complete with a truck precariously perched inside, made his words instantly clear. So on foot we crossed. Inexplicably, some of the cars thought that since the bridge was broken, they should drive through the river. I’m not entirely sure why, but that left not only a broken bridge, but also cars stranded in the river. My dad used to say, it didn’t make anything worse, you’ve helped me. I guess they missed the memo.

Gondar reminded me of a little Tibetan-Swiss Alps town trapped in mountains of Peru, i.e. a figment of my imagination. We set up shop at the lovely Lameyergeyer Hotel, named after a massive 8 foot bird that spends most of his days flying high, dropping bones on rocks to break up the marrow inside. Equally exciting was the hotel’s claim to fame: Most Promising Hotel of 2007. Ramzy assured me that this was because they were very good at making promises.

We spent much of the day exploring Gondar’s castles and churches with our guide, Yohannes. The churches were filled with history and magic—of time where bees could stop an invading army and rain extinguish the fire of war. And as for the castles, well, the ruins whispered of a time of excess, a time where 65,000 inhabitants made their home amidst three major caravan routes, and most of all, a time of great splendor. Gondar also boasts the world’s first animal rights activist, let’s call him Emperor Fasiladas (but I’m not entirely sure which one it was). As the legend goes, the Emperor placed a bell outside the compound for any and all villagers to ring should they seek an audience with the Emperor. A man came, seeking such counsel, and left his loaded donkey at the gate. The donkey, impatient and burdened, began scratching himself against the bell’s chain. The incessant ringing forced the Emperor to send his page out, despite his already occupied audience. When the page saw that it was no more than a donkey, he returned without a subject. The Emperor asked what had happened, and the page replied, it was just a donkey. The Emperor, confused at why the donkey would ring a bell, went out to see for himself. It was there that he found the loaded donkey. Disgusted at the subject’s lack of regard for his beast of burden, the Emperor made an official decree, making it illegal to leave a donkey loaded, and furthermore a penalty to use an injured animal.

New Year's flowers--Ethiopian New Year is September 11. It also happens to be the year 2001 there. No, really.

From the castle we headed to the Emperor’s personal bath, which thanks to the Norwegian government’s half a million dollar donation, still very much looks like a bath fit for a king. Royals, donning inflated goatskin lifejackets, used to come from all over the kingdom for their bubble baths (though I imagine a goatskin lifejacket might…well, I’m not sure. I can’t say that I can accurately describe how a goatskin lifejacket would change my otherwise peaceful bubble bath). Today, the bath is filled on Timkat, where after being blessed by a priest, the citizens of Gondar take the plunge into history’s bathtub. Since neither royals nor citizens were soaking up the sun, Ramzy and I filled the abeyance with a photo shoot of mock diving pictures. Though Yohannes indulged us, he was confused why we would want him to film us pretending to dive into an empty cement pool. Understandable.

The next morning we left early for the Simien Mountains, where some 40 million years ago, layer upon layer of lava erupted to form the 10,000 ft base that breathes life into the Simiens. At base camp in Debark we met our trekking guide, Israel, and our bodyguard, complete with rifle and all. From Debark we hiked up to our “hotel” (read: a government lodge built in the 60s, in which I would spend the coldest night of my entire life). The trek left me breathless, and not necessarily in a good way. As Ramzy and I huffed and puffed up the mountain, our guide and marksman idly shot the shit. I guess that’s what happens when you live at 10,000 ft. and spend 20 days out of every month trekking. Or, rather, I guess that’s what happens when you don’t live at 10,000 ft.

Though the rainy season offered us a verdant, luscious backdrop, we spent much of our time weeding through clouds to get to it. But it was worth it: amid the clouds lay villages of gelaba baboons. Ramzy took this time not only to observe the fauna, but also practice his cinematic narration skills, producing a short clip entitled: Nura baboon, the biggest baboon of them all. Hilarious. The gelabas, though quite popular with the trekking community, are enemies of the mountain-dwelling population. Local police reports site that the gelabas are responsible for local thefts, burlgaries, and even murders—an adult man was dragged almost a mile before he was shoved off a cliff. Talk about some monkey business (I had to).

The next day we set out in search of the “waterfall.” By late morning, the rain had finally lifted the cloud cover. Israel paused, perhaps thanking the clouds for the brief respite of sunshine, and remarked, it is okay, it is their time.

When the clouds parted, I expected to see a normal waterfall. But this one happened to be a waterfall that fell over 5,000 ft into an infinite abyss some thousand feet further below. Teetering on the waterfall’s edge, clouds engulfing and then, again freeing us, lameyergeyers and buzzards circling for their prey, rainbows lasting only as long as my breath, yet with splendor enough for a lifetime, my presence was irrelevant. It was one of those places that reminded you of your beautiful insignificance; that unapologetically made you feel like nothing, noting neither your coming nor your going.

giving power lunches a whole new meaning: lunch at the highest resort in Africa

From the mountains we flew to Axum, “the last great civilization of Antiquity to be revealed to the modern world,” according to Dr. Neville Chittick. Laying just a mere stone’s throw from the Eritrea (okay so it’s actually like 30 km away, but let’s just suppose that I’m an authority in stone throwing), Axum was the Queen of Sheba’s capital in the 10^th century. Though most of the ruins are not well preserved, their awesome power transcends preservation. In front of a swimming pool dating back to the 4^th century, tombs from the 3^rd century weighing 360 tonnes (I don’t know what tonnes are, but you can bet that they weigh a lot), how can you claim importance? As I rubbed my fingers across Ethiopia’s version of the Rosetta stone (I know it’s wrong, but I wanted to touch history), it seems laughable the way Americans keep relics 50 years old behind glass and bars. Perhaps some things are just built to last.

Our guide, Haile Selaisse, was on the archeological team that found Lucy (the 3.2 million year old skeleton, previously thought to be the oldest and most complete hominid). He was a walking encyclopedia of ancient history, much to Ramzy’s dismay.

priceless? thank me when you finish laughing

Together we explored the underworld of tombs, and Axum’s famous obelisks—one of which was returned by the Italians just a few weeks before our arrival.

The Great Stele, believed to be the largest block of stone that humans have ever attempted to erect, lies defeated amongst its upright siblings. Indeed, attempted is the operative word, as the obelisk has lied in pieces since its 4^th century fall.

Our last stop is perhaps the most incredible of them all (if you’re getting bored, I’m not entirely sorry. Surely whatever you doing can be put aside for the fantastical world of epic history). So, if I have this right, the Queen of Sheba, left Axum to visit the sagacious King Solomon of Israel. Upon arrival, the two agreed that their visit would not be one of traditional acquisition—they were to take nothing from the other. After what I assume was a rather wonderful, spicy feast (I mean I wasn’t there…), the Queen awoke with an unquenchable thirst. Anticipating her thirst, the King had placed a glass of water next to her bed. However, in order for her to take this glass, the Queen had to give him something in return. So, in the spirit of symbiotic agreements, the Queen drank her water and the King gave her a child (yes, I know. The parallel that is drawn between drinking a glass of water and impregnating a woman was also lost on me. But, hey, it’s all Greek (or rather Ethiopian) to me). But the plot thickens, the Queen of Sheba gave birth to Menelik, who like every illegitimate child, went in search of his father. Menelik arrived in Jerusalem in search of his dear old daddy. Leaving, perhaps unsatisfied (again, I wasn’t there), Menelik pocketed the Ark of the Covenant, a wooden chest containing the tablets of the laws of the ancient Israelites, which they supposedly carried wandering the wilderness (I understand that it seems impossible to pocket a wooden chest). The Ark of the Covenant still rests in Axum’s Church of St. Mary of Zion (we’ll get to that soon). The one hang up in the story seems to be the timeline, the Queen of Sheba is thought to have lived a thousand years before the Ark came to Ethiopia, but in the scheme of things what’s a couple thousand years?

So, we went to see the Ark of the Covenant, which you can’t actually see because you’ll burst into flames. That, of course, hasn’t stopped countless brigands from attempting the heist of, well, millenniums. Now, the only person in the world who’s allowed to see the Ark is its caretaker, a specially appointment monk who is rumored to eat and drink only on Sundays. We, however, got a glimpse of the monk (he’s on the left-hand side of the church), which is supposedly very, very lucky. If you can sense my skepticism with this whole affair, it is quite possible that you have successfully completed first grade. And yet, I find my skepticism, albeit it founded, utterly depressing. The ancient world knew a magic that we cannot even begin to contemplate. They had to. Pyramids, castles, hidden tombs, secret languages—there was a faith in the inconceivable that we have lost. A scientific impossibility rooted in reality. Believe.

I spent much of the evening drinking tea on the side of the boulevard. The streets of downtown Axum were filled with life, color, chaos, and spirit. Girls frolicked, singing songs in hopes of a coin or two for a new dress or hairdo for the upcoming New Year. People were everywhere—some out of an evening stroll, some walking their animals’ home after an honest day’s work, and some just beginning the night. Juxtaposed against a city, which for the most part, has been dormant for the past 14 centuries, the irony was lost on no one.

Our last stop on the historical route was Lalibela, where a most annoying pair of American tourists followed (though they consumed the better page of my journal, I’ll leave you with just that sentence). Our guide Fikru, who just so happened to be Bill and Chelsea Clinton (good tourists), and Donna Karen and Calvin Klein (bad tourists) guide, greeted us at the airport and took us to our hotel, the Tukul Village. Owned by an 80-year-old Dutch woman named Nora, and her thirty something Ethiopian husband (how scandalous!), the Tukul Village was one of the quaintest (and not in the creepy, kitschy kind of way), hotels I’ve stayed in.

Heralded as the Petra of Ethiopia, Lalibela’s 11 rock-hewn churches, connected by dark passageways, hidden crypts, and grottoes, rank among the greatest religio-historical sites in the Christian world. If you don’t know what a rock-hewn church is, don’t worry, I didn’t either. Instead of piecing together layer after layer of bricks, rocks, and smoothing over the cracks, King Lalibela and his 12^th century companions, decided to carve into (down, around, near, really everyway possible) the red volcanic, leaving a single entity: a church carved entirely out of one rock. “I weary of writing more about these buildings because it seems to me that I shall not be believed if I write more,” noted 16^th-century Portuguese writer Francisco Alvares. Alvares’ fear that his Portuguese comrades would not believe him was entirely founded. Modern architects estimate that it would have taken a workforce of 40,000 to complete these churches. Some locals say that the King’s wife built Bet Abba Libanos, with the help of some very industrious angels, in a night.

We set out early the next morning (I realize that this is a phrase I repeat several times throughout this entry, but explorers have to set out. Saying “left” would not properly set a tone of adventure), this time on horseback for our destination: Ashetan Maryam. Perched 11,000 ft above, Ashetan Maryam is one of Lalibela’s least impressive monasteries.

In truth, I was so winded by the time we reached the summit (though we had brought mules, when my horse started uncontrollably wheezing, and Ramzy’s ran him into a eucalyptus fence, we figured we better dismount); I had forgotten entirely what we were hiking to. But one rarely hikes to see what’s on top; it’s what’s below that they seek. And one, certainly, does not need a structure to appreciate God from a height like this.

From Lalibela, we flew back to Addis and headed overland for the Crater Lakes. Though Ethiopia is a landlocked country, traveling around the South made me feel like we were on the coastal plains of West Africa (I know, I haven’t been to the coastal plains of West Africa, but I imagine they’d be like this).

We spent the morning swimming in Lake Langango. Set against the 13,000 ft. blue Arsi Mountains, our guide book joked that this was dream of every Brit: swimming in the world’s largest cup of English tea (the water was murky). But since I’m not British and I don’t like swimming in water that looks like tea, I found this citation to be neither funny nor a fulfillment of my life long dream.

Nevertheless, the cool waters were refreshing. The rest of our Southern exploration was spent hot springing, taking in the gorgeous sunsets, playing with monkeys, and watching these gigantic birds dislocate their necks to swallow fish at the local fish market. You know, the usual.

As we made our final trek back to Addis, the finality of our vacation set in. Being back has been good. Hard, but good. Summer break is over (I’ve decided, of course, that every job I ever have needs a summer break), and like many of you, I have high hopes for this year. To do more, to seize every fleeting moment. Crazy to think I was just starting this whole adventure this time last year. Year one done, one more to go. Here’s to making the most of what’s left: carpe diem, my friends.

The police, a once and future king, and birthday wishes from afar.

The mouse and I were at war. Devious, and cunning, I mistook him for a fox. Though the simplicity of his schedule refused deviation, still I could not catch him. In the morning he would sun himself on the front porch, coming in for what my grandmother used to call a “lie down” in the afternoon. He stored up energy, as the night was his favorite hour. Whimsically swinging back and forth on the bamboo rods of my wind chimes, he was a peace with the world. Scuffling back and forth on my headboard, he asked himself, could I ask for a better life? But then I became smarter than the mouse. I bought glue—and I caught him. And I killed him. And his friends. For you see, seven sleepless nights merits the death of a mouse. And though I am sorry, I won the war. I had to.

It’s amazing that I’m able to get any work done, considering the battles I wage at night. But I’m managing. I’ve recently started working on a project pioneered by two Peace Corps volunteers. The project brings five donated laptops to rural villages that might otherwise never have exposure to computers. Combining a health/life skills class with computer skills, this project has been so much fun to work on. I co-taught the computer section with the Cameroonian version of Adonis, Stephan. I’m not going to lie; beauty in motion is a wonderful piece of art to work next to. With a group of 20 women, only one of whom had ever seen a computer in her life, we delved into the wonderful wide world of computers. We began work with how to change fonts, which, ironically, in French is “la police.” I asked the women if they knew what “police” meant, and one woman raised her hand and disdainfully bellowed, yeah, it’s that jerk that’s trying to take my money. The class broke out in laughter, and I almost didn’t have the heart to tell her that “la police” was nothing more than a fancy name for how to change the size and color of the words. Though I knew that many of the women would never again touch a computer, the look of delight in their eyes as they typed their own names, and changed the font, and color, and size, would be a memory worth a lifetime of practice. Ma Regina, practically shouting to the class, said it best: whoever said I wasn’t someone. Look how big my name is! I am someone.

Though the rains have begun to fall, stranding me for days at times, work is still going amazingly well. The water project planned for the village of Bakang was successfully completed at the end of June. Engineers Without Borders has forever earned my respect and praise—and they came with twinkies, which certainly sweetened the deal. Solar panels are now providing power to a water system that brings potable water to 3000 people. Though I played such a minor role in this project, when a woman at market day approached me and introduced me to her sister as Miss Nura who has brought us water, it was a pretty good feeling.

Of course, all work and no play make Jack a dull boy. Funeral season in Cameroon, lasting approximately the entire year, is quite the spectacle. The party, of course, fits the bill. You can have an all out bash soon after your death or if you’re of the less rich persuasion, you can expect a hell of a good party in twenty years when your family scrounges together enough money. Anyway you slice it, it’s a celebration of a life passed. The funeral of the chief of Batounta was no exception. Most funerals begin with a mourning song.

As the women wailed, knowing that their cathartic cleansing would soon finish and be forbidden once the mourning period was over, the crowds began to gather. The widows, with inexplicably placed cabbage leaves on their head, moaned for their husband’s passing. But as the steady drumbeat quickened, the women’s steps lightened. Indeed, the mourning was over. We were now to celebrate the passing of a great chief, and the coming of another.

We waited for what seemed like hours for the King to arrive. With the King’s arrival would come the announcement of the new successor. Guns were fired, and a child appeared amongst the crowd, surrounded by five village elders. The new successor had been caught, tricked by the village elders to seek refuge at the home of a friend. The child was whisked away behind the chefferie, and the crowd waited in silence for the King to speak.

His speech was in patois, so I had no choice by to watch the villagers’ faces to try and understand a semblance of what was going on. As quickly as he had come, the King left. The crowd was silent, waiting for the women to begin their song. If the women decide that the successor is a rightful heir, they begin a joyful dance, hopefully expectant what the new chief will bring to them. However, if the women think that the successor has wrongly been named, I’m told they hum a somber song of pain. But the women let out the most fantastic cries, and as the villagers danced in a cacophonous mess of splendor, I too felt a cause for celebration, joining them in their steps and welcomed the new chief.

I went behind the chefferie to check on the heir to the throne. Just 14, he sat weeping in the middle of a circle of elders. As he cried about things he could not understand, he sobbed most for things that he would never understand. Though I tried to comfort him, I knew my words would mean nothing to him—a culture I was to new to, and traditions I too would never understand. In parting, I smiled and bowed my head to the once and future king of Batounta.

On the outskirts of the West province, in a village with a tribal system arguably far greater than that of the Bamilikes, lies the village of Foumbam, home to the Bamoun people. Considered by many art connoisseurs to have some of the best art in Central and West Africa, Foumbam was an oasis of tapestries, ancient masks, wood carvings, and beautiful figurines. I bought the most beautiful red tapestry that will someday adorn the walls of my future home—whenever and wherever has yet to be determined. In one art shop, my friend Danny had decided that shopping time was over. He informed the clerk that we were done, but would come back. Tongue-in-cheek, the man replied, Jesus said he would come back and he never did. Touché art salesman, touché.

With our artistic pallet sufficiently satiated, we headed for a tour of the palace. Though the grounds were impressive, it was the Sultan that was more so. On his throne, he sat waiting to hear the complaints of his people. Every Saturday, for two hours, the sultan sits among his disciples. They come from all over Foumbam, sometimes seeking advice, sometimes money, sometimes they seek consolation for the passing of their relatives, and sometimes they come offering thanks. I wanted to meet this man that I had heard so much about. I went to one of his servitors, and asked if I could speak with the Sultan. And then, inexplicably, I got to. We sat with the Sultan as a nearby village came to offer their thanks. A traditionally Muslim, they offer their thanks in through Quranic voice. As the words of the Quran wafted in a gorgeous melody through the air, I felt pangs of homesickness for the Middle East and my family, but felt comfort in the familiarity that lies in the novel passing of the unfamiliar.

In parting, I have no choice but to stop, appreciate, and yes, forever question the frail irony that is life. For on June 23 I sent the greatest of birthday wishes to the most incredible woman I know, my mother, and I paused and remembered the passing of the most incredible man I have known, my father. And as I, in the same breath, remembered the life that is and the life that was, so grateful to have been a part of one, and eternally thankful to be still part of the one that is, I hope that you all breathe in that same breath--maybe not thinking of the same people that I am, but breathing both blissful life, and eternal peace in one sole sigh.

Burning at the stake, fleas in my bed, and Independence Day Celebrations

These past couple weeks have been a bizarre mix of abnormal anecdotes, sinister stories, and fantastical fairy-tales that some how amount to my daily life. I find myself constantly ill prepared, and generally overwhelmed to process what happens each day, and am constantly worried that I’m not savoring every moment of this strange and peculiar journey.As the transitions of daily life continue to wear on me, I have to remind myself to treat each moment as just that, a moment, and not look at it as a sequence of events leading to some grand scheme. Let me show you what I mean.

The first moment comes from just down the road in a subdivision of Bamendjou, called Toumi. Now, as I understand the story, which we can’t entirely rely on as it was told to me in a French-patois mix, there were two brothers who lived on a compound together with their two wives. Now, the younger brother had recently come into a small bit of wealth. The older brother, from what I understand, was a little pressed for cash. So the two brothers went out drinking, and as most good ideas are brewed over beers, this drinking tryst seemed to be no exception. For you see, the older brother decided that he would attack his brother that night, robbing him of both his money and life. So, the older brother left the bar, and waited for the younger brother in the bushes. Planning to ambush him, he kept quiet so that his brother would not know the identity of his killer. But fate is funny, and the younger brother, also carrying a knife, was not about to let a bandit attack him. So, unknowingly, he stabbed his killer—his brother—to death. He ran away, not processing what had happened, only to be woken up later that night with the news of his brother’s death. Walking past the village later that week, I was almost hit by a moto carrying, oh that’s right, his coffin. I guess that puts a whole new spin onto the village hearse concept.

not the brothers--but two other brothers

Later in the week, on the way to Batie, a town next to mine, to teach a group of women how to build an improved cookstove, I stumbled upon a crowd of people. Not wanting to miss out on the action, the moto I was on pulled up to the swarm of people to examine what was happening. And out of a morbid 13^th century scene, we stumbled upon four people tied to log about to be set on fire for stealing goats. I didn’t watch, but everyone else did. What is it about “justice” that makes perfectly sane people into sadistic voyeurs? And burned at the stake? Who still does that! The dichotomy that is Cameroonian society constantly baffles me—21^st century technology, cell phones, internet, coupled with this medieval mentality, burning at the stake, corporal punishment, abusing wives.

   

But it continues. I’ve been working with a primary school to help them become a bilingual school. I visited the school a couple weeks ago. The school was a tranquil oasis. But the lack of students was bizarre. On the way home the director pulled me aside. I have to tell you, Nura. Last year the unthinkable happened. I thought she was going to tell me that someone stole money. But no. Last year, she continued, one of our students, just four years old. She pauses, and pulls out a picture of the girl. Dropping her eyes, it was just terrible. He was so jealous. And sick. He killed her. And then buried her in front of the school. In the middle of the day. I need you, Nura, she pleaded. I need you to talk to the parents. They’ll listen to you. They’ll bring their students back. I knew she meant, they’ll listen to you because you’re white. But if my skin color meant bringing this school back together…I don’t know. The next week I came back to talk to the parents. I was idealistic and unpractical. I wanted to say, please, bring your kids back, they won’t die. But I couldn’t trivialize their pain. I paused, stuttered, and I’m sure said all the wrong things. I still don’t know what the right things were…

And without skipping a beat, we transition to the beautiful, hilarious, and light moments of life: the men’s veteran’s soccer game. Most Saturdays (read: whenever I can actually drag myself out of bed), I play soccer in the mornings and train with the veteran’s men’s soccer team. At first, they went easy on me, lightly tapping me the ball, and leaving the goal wide open. 

But I told them that I could take it, and they should treat me like every other player. Huge mistake. The next game I played in I wound up beat up, and I almost dislocated my knee. I came home that afternoon covered in mud, and my chief, upon seeing me, informed me that I was no longer allowed to play with the team. So now I’m more of a cheerleader (and I still occasionally play when I feel like I need a good ass-kicking). Now in our “travel season,” I accompanied my team to a town called Sanchou, just outside of Dschang, the infamous town that I walked to. We arrived on the outskirts of the town, greeted warmly by the opposing team. We paraded through town (literally paraded with music and honking horns and we waved, not necessarily at anyone, for about half an hour). 

They took us to visit the “tourist sites” in the town: an abandoned rice factory set up by the Chinese in the 70’s, the high school, and a coffee factory. The game seemed to be just a reason to travel, and no one seemed that bothered by the fact that we lost. At the end of the game, each player went home to freshen up and eat with a player from the other team. Sportsmanship at its very best. I ended up going home with a couple members from my team, and we went to, logically, the post office. Only it wasn’t a normal post office because this one was in a swamp. I’m not sure what they were thinking (look at this flooded space…thank god we’ve finally found a place for the post office!) but we crossed the bridge to the post office, where one of the members lived, and enjoyed a most delicious meal. We spent most of the night at the dance club in town sweating the night away. Though the men danced until the sun came up, exhausted I crawled back to the post office to take off my dancing shoes and rest. Driving back was gorgeous, the clouds still muffling the mountains, and the sun’s rays beginning to blanket the sky.

Oh, and did I tell you that I got a dog to keep my company, though ironically, the only time I have any time to myself is at home. But I guess the dog had company of his own. Fleas. So then I got fleas. And then I got rid of the dog. But I still have fleas. So I guess I’m still not entirely alone, then. It was a rash decision, and, no pun intended, one with rash effects.

But perhaps the most important, and exciting, story this month comes from Independence Day. There was a certain irony in the celebration of a country and a president that only last month its people tried to disassemble. Reminiscent of the Youth Day festivities, much of the morning was spent in the stands watching the parade. The karate club reminded us that they could still kick for 20 minutes, the adorable hula-hooping team wiggled their hips, and the boy scouts marched as slow as humanly possible. 

I sat next to my patois teacher for much of the ceremony. I asked him why he wasn’t marching. Pointedly, he replied, Nura, I’ve been marching since independence. I’m done now. As I spent the entire day at various parties around town, consuming eight entire meals, receiving 24 marriage proposals, and amazingly, fitting into a little five-seater car with 11 other people, I couldn’t but help be excited for next year’s festivities. Something to stick around for. I walked home late that night, the full moon lighting my way, a cool breeze cooling off my dancing heat, and thought: yup, this is the life.

So, as you can see, it’s been a, shall we say, interesting couple of weeks. Two of my friends called it quits, and headed back to the States. Though I respect their decisions, and wish them the best, I sometimes wish I too had the courage to leave. And it’s not as bad as I make it sound. I have to remind myself that for every bad day, there’s another good one around the corner. Somewhere. And that I have to make everyday here count—because everyday that I’m here is one when I’m not there. I can’t believe this time last year I was sitting on the floor of my doublewide trailer trying to fit the pieces of four years of my life into our mini van without so much as a clue to what lay ahead. I wonder what my life will be like this time next year. In short, I can’t even begin to imagine. Hopefully you can’t either. Cause that’s what life should be: full of surprises. Until the next one…

Chocolate, Medicine Men, and Gardening in my Underwear

One could see how being a tourist in Cameroon could be, shall we say, different. There aren’t really many roads per say, and though there are certainly sites to see, they aren’t really well marked. With anything. Not even a town name. (Then again, I remember touring a museum in Cairo and next to this incredible mummy there was a small placard that said mummy. Which I clearly wouldn’t have been able discern myself. Thank you, Egypt.) Anyway, when Mom signed up for Cameroon Spring Break 2008, I knew it would be an adventure. In general, I love everything that I do with my mother, save bowling, canoeing, and putt-putt golf, but that’s because I hate doing those things regardless of how wonderful the company is.

So after months of planning (read: weeks. read: days), the day came that she was due to arrive. Only at 4 o’clock in the morning, she rang telling me that she had missed her connection. In the meantime, the airline conveniently changed her flight from Douala to Dubai, which I can understand, cause they both begin with “d.” For days, it seemed—but really only one—that she would be never come. But finally that wonderful Air France flight arrived, and I tell you, it was bliss in movement. Reunited with my better half, we set out to conquer Cameroon—sans baggage, of course.

After a brief slumber (complete with a much needed dip in the pool—because even though my mother loves me very much, she still made it a point to tell me that my hygiene was “lacking”), we hit the road and headed for Bamendjou. It was so exciting to parade the “white woman” around town, and not actually be said white woman for once. We visited some schools that I had been working with, and the kids all made a point to touch her skin, as they did not really actually believe that it was real. Every person that she met also made it a point to tell her how young she looked and could not believe that she had a daughter who was 40-years-old. Thank you, Bamendjou. This does wonders for my self-esteem.

We spent much of the time in village gardening in our underwear, and walking around town (fret not, we put on pants before we left). Sadly, our stay in Bamendjou was interrupted with a visit to Douala to retrieve the missing luggage (which Mom claimed was filled with treasures, though they seemed too good to be true). Enter Piggy, our fearless driver who agreed to leave the big city of Douala and escort us to Bamendjou. However, there was one small glitch.

Not wanting to be caught by the police (and made to pay ridiculous bribes along the way), Piggy decided that if he painted the number on the side of his cab, the police would not know that it was a Douala only cab. Logically, Piggy thought that chocolate would make an excellent disguise. Unfortunately, this did not work. When stopped, the policeman bluntly asked, Did you paint chocolate on the side of your car? And he did. And so he paid. And so we moved on, though every time I put my hand out the window, I got melted chocolate on it. Thanks Piggy, thanks a lot.

But eventually we made it back to Bamendjou, for round two of fun. I unearthed the goodies that Mom had brought—and it was the best Christmas in March a girl could ever ask for. Though I felt kind of ridiculous for making so many requests, sometimes when you’re trapped in a village in the middle of nowhere Africa, you just really need some beef jerky to get you through the year.

We left the wild ways of the south and headed north to Maroua. The north felt like a different country—I exchanged the ways of the hard Bamileke for the soft-spoken Muslims, the verdant mountains, for the dry rolling hills, and left my life as a volunteer for that of a traveling vagabond. Though in style, of course. I think that in the time my mother was here, I spent close to what I had spent in the past eight months. But man, spending money ain’t never felt so good.

We arrived in Maroua late in the afternoon. The plane stairs unfolded and we descended into what I always thought Africa would look like—dry, and barren, with trees sparsely dotting the landscape reminders that life can spring even in the most surprising of places. As we roamed the markets, I felt like I was back in the Middle East wandering around the markets in Syria or Morocco. The leather, thanks to a prominent cow population, was beautiful, and the textiles even more incredible. Dinner was an amazing three-course meal complete with fresh (not cooked!) vegetables and more cheese than a girl could fantasize about (which I do, all the time).

The taste of fresh mozzarella still on my tongue, we left Maroua and headed to Rhumsiki, a small village nestled in the Mandara Mountains, just west of the Nigerian border. Rhumsiki Peak is perhaps one of the most photographed sites in Cameroon (…), and understandably so. As we drove into the village, Rhumsiki Peak exploded in the distance, not willing to covered by the impending dust. More than the Peak, travelers head to Rhumsiki in search of the crab fortune-teller. The fortune-teller sits patiently in his hut, conversing with his crabs, and giggling. As you ask your question, he pauses, lifts his crabs to his mouth, whispers to them, and then sets them in a bowl. You wait. And then he lifts the lid, ever so carefully, and examines the crabs’ movements. I asked the fortune-teller if my work in Cameroon would be successful. He smiled, and said the crabs had decidedly said yes! A new take on the eight ball.

Had the crab fortune-teller been able to see into the more present future, however, we might have avoided the next mishap. Whilst mounting horses to prepare for a trek, Mom slipped, and fell back onto her arm. In pain, though you would never be able to guess it, we went in search of a doctor. Who did not exist. Nor did a hospital/medical facility. Enter the not so healing healer. As Mom sat down, the not so healing healer examined her arm, and decided to rearrange the bones in her wrist. Meditated into a peaceful trance, if she was feeling any pain (which given the bone movement, I’m sure she was), you couldn’t see it. But that, children, is why women give birth, and not men. Bones sufficiently rearranged, potentially in the right places, potentially not, we stood up to leave. But no, the not so healing healer was not finished. So we sat down. He took Mom’s hand again. Spit on it. And then smiled. Thanks?

Confused, tired, and ready for a stiff drink, we headed back to the hotel where we finished the hotel’s dusty gin bottle and sat by the pool watching the stars blanket the crisp evening sky. In the morning we left Rhumsiki in search of our next village, Waza, famous for its game park situated between the docile dells of Nigeria, and the pleasant planes of Chad.

As we headed into the park we picked up our guide, who will herein be known as GuideMan since I have forgotten his name, is search of lions, tigers, and bears (oh my!—I had to). Our driver saw this time together in the car as a perfect opportunity to speak to me in Fulfude (which I don’t speak). Our guide soon discovered that I spoke Arabic (which I sadly have forgotten here), and used the trip as an opportunity to test out his Arabic. Mom decided that she would use her Swahili safari lingo, and we all passed a few French phrases around the car for good measure. From our olla podrida of languages, I was able to decipher that we saw animals and birds.

Being the fearless explorers that we are, we took our trusty Jeep into the brush in search of lion dens. I found it rather interesting that we would look for lions in their homes, but GuideMan assured us that we would be safe, so traipsing into their homes we went. Though we found no lions, I’m surprisingly comforted by this fact as I imagine an animal’s home is probably not a neutral meeting spot for a first encounter.

With the North sufficiently explored, (four days seemed to do a number on us), we headed back to the Grand South for our final adventure. Though I had booked a ticket from Maroua to Douala—because I guess you usually book tickets to the destinations that you want to end up in—I clearly meant to book a ticket to Yaounde. Luckily the airline had the foresight to preemptively interpret my thoughts, and they sent us to Yaounde, where I did not want to be, instead of Douala, where I wanted to be. Whilst waiting for the plane to land, we watched a man get taken from an ambulance, rolled into a rug, and then loaded onto the plane. This seemed like a very good beginning. And so we landed in Yaounde, and the airline company sent us on our way to Doula in a spiffy, air-conditioned VIP bus. It turns out that VIP is actually code for please let us abuse you (a rough translation from French), and we ventured onto one of the most hellish bus journeys known to man. Highlights included, but were not limited to, boarding the bus in a cattle like manner where not one but two women stepped on my head to get over me, crossing a bridge which had a dumpster strategically placed in the center because the other side of the bridge had fallen into the water, and air-conditioning that actually meant the window occasionally opened (again, maybe something was lost in translation) and resulted in me sitting for the majority of the ride in a pool of mine (read: everyone’s) sweat.

But as they say, all’s well that ends well. And so we finally arrived at our gorgeous hotel, the Birdwatchers Club, nestled into the Botanical Gardens of Limbe, home of Cameroon’s world famous (…) black beaches. In one of those are-you-fing-kidding-me kind of moments, we arrived at the hotel to find that the doors were locked and no one was there. Enter my fearless mother. She pried open a set of wood shutters, and then opened the glass into a room, which, incidentally, housed a sleeping set of vacationers. So she woke them up, and asked them to open the door. And graciously and groggily, they did. We raided the hotel’s peanut and beer collection, and sat on the deck recounting the day’s triumphs—mainly us still being alive. The rest of the beach journey was filled with sand, sun, and good fun (and lot’s of other really wonderful things which are not suitable for a blog of this level of sophistication).

So that’s it for travel tales. I’m finding it hard to settle back into my daily routine, which considering the fact that it did not exist has proven very, very difficult to find. Despite Africa’s best efforts, I’m still relatively healthy and debatably emotionally stable. Earlier in March, on a pleasant afternoon, I was doing my rounds on a moto and a bug flew into my eye. Normally this would not be problem, however, it just happened that I had another bug that lay dormant in said eye. Now I’m not a bug-mating expert, but something happened, and while I have no objection to facilitating amorous relations, I would prefer that they not take place in my eye. But apparently, I did not adequately communicate that to the bugs, and they had babies in my eye. An immediate, and you could say unfortunate, side effect of said babies was the constant twitch in my eye. Despite months of refusing marriage proposals and advances from my village men (there really weren’t that many…), I spent the good part of the week furiously winking at everyone. Rest assured, the babies are gone, and I’ve stopped winking.

If this entry hasn’t inspired you all to book a trip to Cameroon, then I don’t know what will! As the rains begin to fall, I’m starting lists of things I plan on learning when I’m confined to my house (e.g. US presidents, time-zones, general information concerning ocean currents, and tides, and continued country trivia). Email me if you have good ideas! Until the next time you hear from me, I hope you all are researching plane tickets and thinking about what to put in your next care package to send to me.

Youth Day, chicken passengers, and village children