Friday, December 28, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
Mountain Bikes and African Robes
Bamendjou is quite the hub for those that walk line of crazy. There’s the crazy lady whose general jovialness makes you wonder what all the talk is about being sane (that coupled with the fact that she follows me around the village singing and trying to kiss me make me love her even more), the crazy man who rocks a pair of sunglasses from the 80’s with only one lenses, and a single tooth to encourage the solidarity movement, the children who eat chalk across the street (and while they aren’t crazy right now, I think that chalk is going to have some lasting effects), and, well, me—perhaps the craziest of them all. I mean, honestly, what white girl from suburbia shows up in rural Africa to live for two years and be a farmer? Helllo, future psychopath.
My days are spent exploring uncharted territory with my crazy friends. I think in the past week I’ve walked well over 100 km in search of…something. I’ll let you know when I find it. I walked to my provincial capital, Bafoussam, to prove to myself that I live in walking distance. It took me a little over four hours, but now I can proudly proclaim…oh, Bafoussam? Yeah, I’m just a short walk away!
Continuing with the theme of exercise…the PC generously issued all volunteers brand new Trek mountain bikes before we left for village. The PC then generously placed me in the Humid Highland region where I have to summit a mountain to go anywhere. This translates into an uproarious biking experience that goes something along these lines—first, I fly down a hill and since it’s dirt, I inevitably lose control and crash. Then, because I’m too out of shape/shaken from my fall and I don’t actually know how to ride a bike, I carry myself and my bike up the other side of the mountain, only to repeat the whole process again. This goes on for a good couple hours and let me tell you, I’m becoming quite the hit around mountain five where little kids now wait for me to pass.
When I’m not training to become the next Lance Armstrong, I find myself bouncing from community meeting to community meeting. I attended my first woman’s meeting in village. It was a bright affair full of African robes and chatter. I introduced myself and gave my good ole Peace Corps introduction in what I concluded was rather good French. As I finished the room erupted in applause and everyone stood up dancing. It was incredible. Then an awkward silence fell over the room, and all eyes turned to the president of the association. She smiled, and said that she would now translate what I had said in French into patois because no one in the room understood me. Puzzled, I asked her why they were applauding profusely, and she said that they liked my dress. I guess that’s something to work with, right? The rest of the meeting was a blur and as it was conducted entirely in patois I amused myself feeding the ladies’ babies and playing in the dirt. I’m going to be a swell volunteer.
In a place where washing three shirts can take two hours, an afternoon stroll can turn into a sojourn of five, and a simple bike ride to the next town is like an expedition to a new country, I’m learning that you can’t measure the day’s accomplishments in check marks and completed to-do lists. It’s funny to think of American idiomatic expressions—time is money or this is a waste of time. Because in fact, my time here is completely free, and I can’t really envision an exchange or excursion that would be a waste of time: time is all I have. So, being the go-getter that I am, I’m really making these two years about improving myself, because isn’t that what PC is really about? Improving who you are as a person? I kid; I’m going to cure AIDS and combat famine too, but back to me…
I’ve rediscovered my love for reading, and hope that eight books I’ve read in the past couple months are not an indication for a future life of self-imposed isolation. I’ve also decided that since I unfortunately spent a little too much time in college studying Mr. Heineken’s lasting legacy of brews instead of Mr. Hegel’s dialectic, I will spend these two years making use of my $160,000 tuition by relearning everything I should have learned in college. I will have approximately 104 weeks to cram in the world’s history, which when you break it down by two countries a week seems completely manageable. I’ve cleverly decided that an alphabetical approach will be best, and while 104 weeks will leave me just short of reviewing all the countries, in two years I’m hoping that some political events will happen and there will be fewer countries, thus allowing me to complete my goal. This week’s lesson focused on the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan and the Republic of Albania (which was, interestingly enough, the world’s only official atheist state during its 40 year Communist rule). It was great to start on such a positive and hopeful note, but then again, what country’s history is positive and hopeful?
Please be my friend, I swear I used to be cool.
I think that’s it for this week’s update. I can’t believe that Christmas is around the corner. May your stocking be full, your family near, your mistletoe strategically placed, and your faith in Santa everlasting. Joyeux Noel!
My days are spent exploring uncharted territory with my crazy friends. I think in the past week I’ve walked well over 100 km in search of…something. I’ll let you know when I find it. I walked to my provincial capital, Bafoussam, to prove to myself that I live in walking distance. It took me a little over four hours, but now I can proudly proclaim…oh, Bafoussam? Yeah, I’m just a short walk away!
Continuing with the theme of exercise…the PC generously issued all volunteers brand new Trek mountain bikes before we left for village. The PC then generously placed me in the Humid Highland region where I have to summit a mountain to go anywhere. This translates into an uproarious biking experience that goes something along these lines—first, I fly down a hill and since it’s dirt, I inevitably lose control and crash. Then, because I’m too out of shape/shaken from my fall and I don’t actually know how to ride a bike, I carry myself and my bike up the other side of the mountain, only to repeat the whole process again. This goes on for a good couple hours and let me tell you, I’m becoming quite the hit around mountain five where little kids now wait for me to pass.
When I’m not training to become the next Lance Armstrong, I find myself bouncing from community meeting to community meeting. I attended my first woman’s meeting in village. It was a bright affair full of African robes and chatter. I introduced myself and gave my good ole Peace Corps introduction in what I concluded was rather good French. As I finished the room erupted in applause and everyone stood up dancing. It was incredible. Then an awkward silence fell over the room, and all eyes turned to the president of the association. She smiled, and said that she would now translate what I had said in French into patois because no one in the room understood me. Puzzled, I asked her why they were applauding profusely, and she said that they liked my dress. I guess that’s something to work with, right? The rest of the meeting was a blur and as it was conducted entirely in patois I amused myself feeding the ladies’ babies and playing in the dirt. I’m going to be a swell volunteer.
In a place where washing three shirts can take two hours, an afternoon stroll can turn into a sojourn of five, and a simple bike ride to the next town is like an expedition to a new country, I’m learning that you can’t measure the day’s accomplishments in check marks and completed to-do lists. It’s funny to think of American idiomatic expressions—time is money or this is a waste of time. Because in fact, my time here is completely free, and I can’t really envision an exchange or excursion that would be a waste of time: time is all I have. So, being the go-getter that I am, I’m really making these two years about improving myself, because isn’t that what PC is really about? Improving who you are as a person? I kid; I’m going to cure AIDS and combat famine too, but back to me…
I’ve rediscovered my love for reading, and hope that eight books I’ve read in the past couple months are not an indication for a future life of self-imposed isolation. I’ve also decided that since I unfortunately spent a little too much time in college studying Mr. Heineken’s lasting legacy of brews instead of Mr. Hegel’s dialectic, I will spend these two years making use of my $160,000 tuition by relearning everything I should have learned in college. I will have approximately 104 weeks to cram in the world’s history, which when you break it down by two countries a week seems completely manageable. I’ve cleverly decided that an alphabetical approach will be best, and while 104 weeks will leave me just short of reviewing all the countries, in two years I’m hoping that some political events will happen and there will be fewer countries, thus allowing me to complete my goal. This week’s lesson focused on the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan and the Republic of Albania (which was, interestingly enough, the world’s only official atheist state during its 40 year Communist rule). It was great to start on such a positive and hopeful note, but then again, what country’s history is positive and hopeful?
Please be my friend, I swear I used to be cool.
I think that’s it for this week’s update. I can’t believe that Christmas is around the corner. May your stocking be full, your family near, your mistletoe strategically placed, and your faith in Santa everlasting. Joyeux Noel!
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
The Naked Crazy, the Tampax Box, and a new Home
The other day a crazy, homeless, naked (very well-endowed, I might add) man told me that I should really try harder to be cleaner because it wasn’t proper for a lady to go out in public looking as filthy as I was. Ah, the irony. As the rainy season comes to a close, and the gentle patter of rain is traded in for the thick blanket of dust, I find it simply impossible to stay clean. This situation is made worse by my inability to properly wash my clothes, and the fact that every time I take a moto (the only real mode of transportation in village), I look like I’ve just taken a bath in dust. I feel like that smelly kid from the Charlie Brown cartoons.
I must admit that I’ve been rather terrible about writing in this blog, but it’s amazing how difficult and overwhelming it is to write about a lot of nothing. I find that my days here are consumed by waiting, and idle conversation, and yet somehow the day’s work renders me blissfully exhausted. As more and more of seemingly nothingness accumulates, I don’t know where I left off, and where I should begin.
After a little over two months of arduous training (read: I’m an expert at looking like I’m busy when I’m really doing nothing), I’m finally a volunteer! The swearing in ceremony was a lovely affair complete with all the usual fanfare of an African parade. The U.S. ambassador read us our oaths, and apparently PC volunteers are incapable of remembering what is told to them. None of us were able to complete the oath, and as we giggled through our blunders, I just hope that the constitution was not offended by our laughter.
The night before I left, I gave my family parting gifts. To Paquita and Esperance, the littlest girls, I gave dyed boas in the stunning colors of neon pink and lime green. Not quite sure what to make of the mess of feathers, I assured them that they were all the rage amongst American celebrities. This fashion tip peaked the interest of my oldest sister and mother. As they chatted away about potential dresses and shoes they could get to match these stunning boas, I couldn’t help but laugh. Boris and Christian received bouncy balls and jump ropes. Boris, ever the scavenger, dug through my trash the last night. His eyes lit up as he pulled out a gorgeous blue Tampax box. He begged me for it. The next morning at breakfast Boris came running to me with his spoils in hand—the bouncy balls, and jump rope had finally found a home in his new Tampax box. He told me that he couldn’t wait to show it to his class.
The morning we left was indeed a somber one. As much as I whined and complained about my homestay family and the general insanity of stage, Bangangte was my first home in Cameroon. I cried for the second time in Africa (the other being my birthday, which was a little Sixteen Candle-ish) as I left my family. My mother made me meatballs and French fries for my first night alone—in truth, I cried most at the generous gesture of meatballs.
I’m writing now from my new bed (which is actually just a frame, but work with me here) in my new village. Right new everything is so novel and I’m just…I’m just really happy (stay tuned for next week when I plan on being sad). Though I’m constantly overwhelmed, and generally clueless, I feel like this place could become an excellent second home (and certainly a perfect resting place for the intrepid travelers amongst you!).
I start “work” tomorrow—though exactly what, where, and with whom that work is has yet to be determined. Until I install internet in my town (which I’ve promised them will come quite soon), I’m going to be a bit incognito, but I’ve made a pact with myself to write a blog entry and check internet every week. So until the next time, I hope everyone is well, nestled under down comforters, and enjoying the first snowfall of winter.
I must admit that I’ve been rather terrible about writing in this blog, but it’s amazing how difficult and overwhelming it is to write about a lot of nothing. I find that my days here are consumed by waiting, and idle conversation, and yet somehow the day’s work renders me blissfully exhausted. As more and more of seemingly nothingness accumulates, I don’t know where I left off, and where I should begin.
After a little over two months of arduous training (read: I’m an expert at looking like I’m busy when I’m really doing nothing), I’m finally a volunteer! The swearing in ceremony was a lovely affair complete with all the usual fanfare of an African parade. The U.S. ambassador read us our oaths, and apparently PC volunteers are incapable of remembering what is told to them. None of us were able to complete the oath, and as we giggled through our blunders, I just hope that the constitution was not offended by our laughter.
The night before I left, I gave my family parting gifts. To Paquita and Esperance, the littlest girls, I gave dyed boas in the stunning colors of neon pink and lime green. Not quite sure what to make of the mess of feathers, I assured them that they were all the rage amongst American celebrities. This fashion tip peaked the interest of my oldest sister and mother. As they chatted away about potential dresses and shoes they could get to match these stunning boas, I couldn’t help but laugh. Boris and Christian received bouncy balls and jump ropes. Boris, ever the scavenger, dug through my trash the last night. His eyes lit up as he pulled out a gorgeous blue Tampax box. He begged me for it. The next morning at breakfast Boris came running to me with his spoils in hand—the bouncy balls, and jump rope had finally found a home in his new Tampax box. He told me that he couldn’t wait to show it to his class.
The morning we left was indeed a somber one. As much as I whined and complained about my homestay family and the general insanity of stage, Bangangte was my first home in Cameroon. I cried for the second time in Africa (the other being my birthday, which was a little Sixteen Candle-ish) as I left my family. My mother made me meatballs and French fries for my first night alone—in truth, I cried most at the generous gesture of meatballs.
I’m writing now from my new bed (which is actually just a frame, but work with me here) in my new village. Right new everything is so novel and I’m just…I’m just really happy (stay tuned for next week when I plan on being sad). Though I’m constantly overwhelmed, and generally clueless, I feel like this place could become an excellent second home (and certainly a perfect resting place for the intrepid travelers amongst you!).
I start “work” tomorrow—though exactly what, where, and with whom that work is has yet to be determined. Until I install internet in my town (which I’ve promised them will come quite soon), I’m going to be a bit incognito, but I’ve made a pact with myself to write a blog entry and check internet every week. So until the next time, I hope everyone is well, nestled under down comforters, and enjoying the first snowfall of winter.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Bonjour ma soeur
Drum roll please…
Since I expect that you’ve all been waiting with bated breath for the past two months for this announcement, I won’t make you wait any longer: I’m moving to Bamendjou! Wooohhhoooo. (I know you’re all running to your maps of Cameroon that you’ve had dutifully plastered to your walls’ since I left). After almost two grueling months of training the end is in sight—and it’s only 2 hours away. I spent last week in Bamendjou meeting the locals and getting my hands dirty in town politics. What follows is my oh-so scintillating report of the week:
My first night at post was spent under a makeshift mosquito net in some auberge in Bamendjou above a nightclub with no one in it blasting Rasta music. The scene is made only more hilarious by the fact that I’m sitting up in my “bed” with my Swiss army knife open, and my head lamp attached to my head because I’ve somehow, in a ridiculous delirium, convinced myself that the night watch man has been killed by some drunken funeral goers. Oh, and did I mention that there are bats in my room that periodically dive-bomb my mosquito net because I have failed to close the bathroom window? There was something about the night that was sleepless, but I can’t quite put my finger on it…
(note: I’m not actually crazy, but I think that my anti-malarial medications are taking their toll on my sanity).
The next morning, a bit groggy and perhaps clinically insane, I met my counterpart, Raymond, in the center of town. Raymond will be my trusted confident for the next two years and together we will scour the hills of Bamendjou in search of farmers who desperately need my expertise. I spent the morning at CADEP (Cameroonian Association for Development), my partner NGO, whom I was told specializes in organic planting and medicinal plants. In actuality, they would like to specialize in these two fields, and will rely on my prior knowledge to start production. Nothing but a barrel of laughs in the Peace Corps.
We spent the afternoon touring the village via a nice little 15km hike. It’s really quite a stunning place, and once I get over the fact that I’m living in the middle of nowhere Cameroon as a farmer and I have to hike at the very least 10km a day to do anything, I think I’ll really love it. The topography reminds me of Vermont, sans snow, of course. The mountains are gorgeous and I can see myself getting lost in them (both figuratively and actually) for years. Dry season is approaching, and that means that I will acquire an excellent farmer’s tan (ah, the irony cause I’m actually a farmer!) over the next couple months.
I’m living in a house that was once owned by a member of the Bamilike (the major ethnicity group in the West province) nobility. I have a gigantic front yard that will be perfect for all my planting endeavors. My two-bedroom house is quaint and with a good paint coat/building of walls will be perfect for entertaining my new friends. Across the street from my house is a mammoth church complete with an adorable 80-year-old Spanish priest and a not so adorable, but potentially entertaining Polish priest. There is also a Catholic mission in town, complete with three rather disgruntled Spanish nuns. Consequently, all the villagers think that since I’m white, and the proselytizing people of the God are white, I must be running with the ranks of the Lord. For now, I’m just you’re average nun-farmer…
When I’m not renewing (read: creating) my love for God, I intend to pass the time with the local village chiefs. Deftly straddling the line of modernity, most Cameroonian towns employ both tribal and government authorities. Bamendjou’s Jokondjou Cendjou II Rameau Jean Phillipe is the oldest, and perhaps most respected, chief in Cameroon—and he lives in my village! Hovering just under 7 feet, Jokondjou Cendjou II Rameau Jean Phillipe wears air Nikes, bling, and track suits with the best of them. The rest of the chiefs in surrounding villages are hilarious, and I foresee many a nights spent arguing the merits of polyandry with them (note: since most chiefs practice polygamy, and seem rather set in their ways, I am on a mission to introduce polyandry to the villages).
The rest of the week was a blur of meetings—I’m doing PTA moms everywhere proud—including, but not limited to: the Cyber Café committee, Combating African Swine Virus committee (important to note that we are not in favor of African Swine Virus), the Cane Rat committee (this is hilarious—I’m going to raise domesticated rats for the next two years!) and the Cabbage Farmers of Bangam committee. I spent my birthday in Baffoussam, the provincial capital of the West Province, gorging myself on ice cream, pasta and draft beer. To those of you who sent birthday vibes, thank you so much! For those of you who forgot my birthday, it’s been so wonderful being friends!
I think that’s it for now. I hope, as always, that this blog posting finds you well and gearing up for a delightfully delicious Thanksgiving meal. May your turkeys be tasty, may your squash scrumptious, and may you be thankful for the family and friends who surround you!
Since I expect that you’ve all been waiting with bated breath for the past two months for this announcement, I won’t make you wait any longer: I’m moving to Bamendjou! Wooohhhoooo. (I know you’re all running to your maps of Cameroon that you’ve had dutifully plastered to your walls’ since I left). After almost two grueling months of training the end is in sight—and it’s only 2 hours away. I spent last week in Bamendjou meeting the locals and getting my hands dirty in town politics. What follows is my oh-so scintillating report of the week:
My first night at post was spent under a makeshift mosquito net in some auberge in Bamendjou above a nightclub with no one in it blasting Rasta music. The scene is made only more hilarious by the fact that I’m sitting up in my “bed” with my Swiss army knife open, and my head lamp attached to my head because I’ve somehow, in a ridiculous delirium, convinced myself that the night watch man has been killed by some drunken funeral goers. Oh, and did I mention that there are bats in my room that periodically dive-bomb my mosquito net because I have failed to close the bathroom window? There was something about the night that was sleepless, but I can’t quite put my finger on it…
(note: I’m not actually crazy, but I think that my anti-malarial medications are taking their toll on my sanity).
The next morning, a bit groggy and perhaps clinically insane, I met my counterpart, Raymond, in the center of town. Raymond will be my trusted confident for the next two years and together we will scour the hills of Bamendjou in search of farmers who desperately need my expertise. I spent the morning at CADEP (Cameroonian Association for Development), my partner NGO, whom I was told specializes in organic planting and medicinal plants. In actuality, they would like to specialize in these two fields, and will rely on my prior knowledge to start production. Nothing but a barrel of laughs in the Peace Corps.
We spent the afternoon touring the village via a nice little 15km hike. It’s really quite a stunning place, and once I get over the fact that I’m living in the middle of nowhere Cameroon as a farmer and I have to hike at the very least 10km a day to do anything, I think I’ll really love it. The topography reminds me of Vermont, sans snow, of course. The mountains are gorgeous and I can see myself getting lost in them (both figuratively and actually) for years. Dry season is approaching, and that means that I will acquire an excellent farmer’s tan (ah, the irony cause I’m actually a farmer!) over the next couple months.
I’m living in a house that was once owned by a member of the Bamilike (the major ethnicity group in the West province) nobility. I have a gigantic front yard that will be perfect for all my planting endeavors. My two-bedroom house is quaint and with a good paint coat/building of walls will be perfect for entertaining my new friends. Across the street from my house is a mammoth church complete with an adorable 80-year-old Spanish priest and a not so adorable, but potentially entertaining Polish priest. There is also a Catholic mission in town, complete with three rather disgruntled Spanish nuns. Consequently, all the villagers think that since I’m white, and the proselytizing people of the God are white, I must be running with the ranks of the Lord. For now, I’m just you’re average nun-farmer…
When I’m not renewing (read: creating) my love for God, I intend to pass the time with the local village chiefs. Deftly straddling the line of modernity, most Cameroonian towns employ both tribal and government authorities. Bamendjou’s Jokondjou Cendjou II Rameau Jean Phillipe is the oldest, and perhaps most respected, chief in Cameroon—and he lives in my village! Hovering just under 7 feet, Jokondjou Cendjou II Rameau Jean Phillipe wears air Nikes, bling, and track suits with the best of them. The rest of the chiefs in surrounding villages are hilarious, and I foresee many a nights spent arguing the merits of polyandry with them (note: since most chiefs practice polygamy, and seem rather set in their ways, I am on a mission to introduce polyandry to the villages).
The rest of the week was a blur of meetings—I’m doing PTA moms everywhere proud—including, but not limited to: the Cyber Café committee, Combating African Swine Virus committee (important to note that we are not in favor of African Swine Virus), the Cane Rat committee (this is hilarious—I’m going to raise domesticated rats for the next two years!) and the Cabbage Farmers of Bangam committee. I spent my birthday in Baffoussam, the provincial capital of the West Province, gorging myself on ice cream, pasta and draft beer. To those of you who sent birthday vibes, thank you so much! For those of you who forgot my birthday, it’s been so wonderful being friends!
I think that’s it for now. I hope, as always, that this blog posting finds you well and gearing up for a delightfully delicious Thanksgiving meal. May your turkeys be tasty, may your squash scrumptious, and may you be thankful for the family and friends who surround you!
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Star-crossed lovers and family shenanigans
According to itunes, the episode of Gossip Girl, which I am currently trying to download, will be completed in roughly 1,095 minutes. Following my calculations, if I visit the internet café twice a week, for one hour each time, I will have one episode of this rather salacious teen drama in approximately 2 months. Suffice to say, times are tough in the revolutionary age of technology (read: I’m really sorry that I haven’t been putting up more blog entries, but if I can’t even download an episode of the latest teen drama, then is there really any sense in using the internet at all?).
These past couple of weeks have been a whirlwind tour of PC policies, digestive mishaps, and general shenanigans. But first, a recap of my day yesterday. So despite the fact that in two years of service I’ll be making roughly less than what a small Chinese sweatshop worker makes, there are some perks: a brand new bike. Yesterday, I received my very own Trek mountain bike. After a full day of bike maintenance, PC required that all trainees demonstrate their newly learned skills. This meant that all 22 agro volunteers and 2 PC cars toured through good ole Bangangté just to make sure that we were properly demonstrating our skills. Integration at its best.
I came home sweaty and tired to the usual bustle of the fam. My four younger siblings were out on the porch up to no good per usual. I glanced outside and found them giggling. They were, of course, standing up, stripping down their clothes and showing each other their private parts. Now they’re young enough for this to be hilarious and not at all incestual (which I’ll get to later…). As they delighted in their nudity, I couldn’t help but fondly remember my younger days of nakedness. Indeed, the naked body is universal. So my siblings (three of them, one of was injured so he could not take part in part B of their plan) decided to strip off all their clothes and do wind sprints around the compound. This, of course, is not culturally acceptable and caused my older siblings to chase after the naked siblings. Constant entertainment I tell you.
In the evening, I went out with my older siblings to my cousin’s house, a rather young, attractive doctor. The night was full of general merriment (read: they spoke in French and I was confused), and at one point in time my two older siblings left the room leaving my cousin and me alone. It was clear that they were trying to set me up. Not ready to partake in Host Country Nationals (the PC’s formal term for locals), I decided to see what they were up to outside. Indeed they were nuzzled against each other, and I’m pretty sure that they were kissing, which leads me to believe that my sister is not in fact my sister. I think. I hope.
So as the night progressed, we all walked home at which point my family announces to me that it’s moving time (it’s about 10 PM). Clearly a logical act to be carried out a night, I inquired who was moving and to where. One of my older sisters (the one who I presume is not actually my sister due to said necking) has decided to live on her own in town. Night, clearly, is a logical time to move your things so that others do not see what you have. This prompts a caravan of sorts—sibling after sibling carrying various furniture and clothing through town at night. As they were getting ready to move, I deemed it a perfect opportunity to go to bed.
If that’s one day, can you imagine the excitement that goes on in a couple of weeks? I bet you can’t because nothing really happens. A misunderstanding of sorts the previous weekend, involved the suspension of all PC privileges, so not a lot happens in the Bang. We are not actually allowed to leave our houses after 6 PM, and on the weekends only two trainees can leave Bangangté (out of the group of 42). It’s an excellent thing that they trust us as mature adults, and these regulations have helped us get a feel for Cameroon and its culture. You may now wipe the sarcasm that is oozing off your screen. I won’t say that I didn’t have a hand in these new restrictions (read: it’s pretty much my fault that the entire group is not allowed to do anything), but I still object!
We, of course, have still found ways to have fun and get together. Wednesday nights are family dinner nights, and all the trainees gather for some good old-fashioned American food and fun. This has somehow translated into me cooking dinner for 42 people (maybe something was lost in translation?). I am not a chef, but it’s been really wonderful learning how to cook at others’ expense. For example, last week I made chili and although it was delightful, Thursday mornin’ ain’t never been so smelly. I’m trying to stay away from beans this week. Wednesday is Halloween (and the birthday of Lindsey Jones and Mary Ting!), which will certainly be hilarious. My current plan is to be a plantain—I assure you that it’s the new slutty nurse costume. How I’m going to explain to my family why I’m dressed in leaves will be a blog entry in and of its, I’m sure.
Until the next time, I hope your fall leaves are changing, your lanterns glowing bright, and your cable knit sweaters ready for a crisp beautiful day.
These past couple of weeks have been a whirlwind tour of PC policies, digestive mishaps, and general shenanigans. But first, a recap of my day yesterday. So despite the fact that in two years of service I’ll be making roughly less than what a small Chinese sweatshop worker makes, there are some perks: a brand new bike. Yesterday, I received my very own Trek mountain bike. After a full day of bike maintenance, PC required that all trainees demonstrate their newly learned skills. This meant that all 22 agro volunteers and 2 PC cars toured through good ole Bangangté just to make sure that we were properly demonstrating our skills. Integration at its best.
I came home sweaty and tired to the usual bustle of the fam. My four younger siblings were out on the porch up to no good per usual. I glanced outside and found them giggling. They were, of course, standing up, stripping down their clothes and showing each other their private parts. Now they’re young enough for this to be hilarious and not at all incestual (which I’ll get to later…). As they delighted in their nudity, I couldn’t help but fondly remember my younger days of nakedness. Indeed, the naked body is universal. So my siblings (three of them, one of was injured so he could not take part in part B of their plan) decided to strip off all their clothes and do wind sprints around the compound. This, of course, is not culturally acceptable and caused my older siblings to chase after the naked siblings. Constant entertainment I tell you.
In the evening, I went out with my older siblings to my cousin’s house, a rather young, attractive doctor. The night was full of general merriment (read: they spoke in French and I was confused), and at one point in time my two older siblings left the room leaving my cousin and me alone. It was clear that they were trying to set me up. Not ready to partake in Host Country Nationals (the PC’s formal term for locals), I decided to see what they were up to outside. Indeed they were nuzzled against each other, and I’m pretty sure that they were kissing, which leads me to believe that my sister is not in fact my sister. I think. I hope.
So as the night progressed, we all walked home at which point my family announces to me that it’s moving time (it’s about 10 PM). Clearly a logical act to be carried out a night, I inquired who was moving and to where. One of my older sisters (the one who I presume is not actually my sister due to said necking) has decided to live on her own in town. Night, clearly, is a logical time to move your things so that others do not see what you have. This prompts a caravan of sorts—sibling after sibling carrying various furniture and clothing through town at night. As they were getting ready to move, I deemed it a perfect opportunity to go to bed.
If that’s one day, can you imagine the excitement that goes on in a couple of weeks? I bet you can’t because nothing really happens. A misunderstanding of sorts the previous weekend, involved the suspension of all PC privileges, so not a lot happens in the Bang. We are not actually allowed to leave our houses after 6 PM, and on the weekends only two trainees can leave Bangangté (out of the group of 42). It’s an excellent thing that they trust us as mature adults, and these regulations have helped us get a feel for Cameroon and its culture. You may now wipe the sarcasm that is oozing off your screen. I won’t say that I didn’t have a hand in these new restrictions (read: it’s pretty much my fault that the entire group is not allowed to do anything), but I still object!
We, of course, have still found ways to have fun and get together. Wednesday nights are family dinner nights, and all the trainees gather for some good old-fashioned American food and fun. This has somehow translated into me cooking dinner for 42 people (maybe something was lost in translation?). I am not a chef, but it’s been really wonderful learning how to cook at others’ expense. For example, last week I made chili and although it was delightful, Thursday mornin’ ain’t never been so smelly. I’m trying to stay away from beans this week. Wednesday is Halloween (and the birthday of Lindsey Jones and Mary Ting!), which will certainly be hilarious. My current plan is to be a plantain—I assure you that it’s the new slutty nurse costume. How I’m going to explain to my family why I’m dressed in leaves will be a blog entry in and of its, I’m sure.
Until the next time, I hope your fall leaves are changing, your lanterns glowing bright, and your cable knit sweaters ready for a crisp beautiful day.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
The Goat Who Laughs
There’s a goat whose sole purpose, I’ve decided, is to laugh at me. Occasionally she leaves her post—right outside my language classroom (read: tin roof that hovers every so carefully over a wood platform)—and goes to find guava leaves. It just so happens that I too love guavas, so she makes sure to come back with an occasional leaf or two in her mouth. What a taunting little minx...
Jokes on her, though, because ironically enough, I finish French classes in a week or so. Perhaps I should say jokes on me. The PC has decided that now I know enough French to teach my farmers the supposed skills that I have acquired. This has, so far, proven to be a fruitless task as I spent a painstaking fifteen minutes the other night trying to explain to my family what I did last summer—sadly we never made it past that word because despite mad gesticulations of sun, and a rather impressive display of swimming on our dirt floor, the word was lost on them.
French classes will soon be replaced by my Fulfulde lessons—a local dialect which the town (yet to be named) may or may not speak. My lessons, however, are progressing rather slowly. I saw my teacher today and thought I’d catch her off guard with a little “jabbama” (that’s hello) action, but she asked me why I was speaking to her in Spanish. Petit à petit…
Technical classes are, however, going rather well. When you start with nothing, it’s amazing how fast it becomes something. I’ve had sessions on apiculture, vegetative propagation, alley cropping, and proper dendrology identification. For those of you that don’t know what those things are….mwahaha, I do. Kind of…
Our one technical homework assignment is to build a nursery at home. This is a hilarious feat to achieve in a house that has 15 children (I got three new siblings last week…don’t ask). I came home one day, unlocked my door, and my kids, as usual, came rushing into my room behind me. This time, however, they left rather quickly. I knew that they were up to something as they did not hide under my bed and wait for me to kick them out (I’ve gone to bed multiple times with children under my bed). I found the little suckers outside by my nursery with my seed bags, but ironically no seeds. It turns out that they decided to hide the seeds, and eat the rest. Awesome. So I made them dig up the remaining seeds so that I could replant them. I later discovered that they’re smarter than I thought, as my seeds, which are just beginning to sprout, are ironically coming up all clustered together in the same corner of the nursery. Good times with the fam…
After several days of chasing my kids around the house with my machete, no really, I decided that I needed a break from the fam and just the PC in general. A couple friends and I went to Bafoussam, the provincial capital of the West. It was a fantastic trip that included, but was not limited to by any means: cheese, and general fun at the “white-man” grocery store, warm croissants, lots of olives, some touring around (read: drinking beer), and hot water. Essentially it was an orgasm of a city.
There’s so much more to tell, but it’s hard to really convey what’s happening here. I have these moments—like when I’m at my brother’s dance show which is just really his two friends and him dancing in a club where I have to pay a dollar to watch them move—when I’m like, wow, Africa. 2 years. Hmmm. And then there are these times, when I’m on a run (which has happened about two times, I’m becoming a master of the walking in running clothes), and I look at the rolling green hills, gorgeous mountains, and I’m like wow…Africa. Yeah, I can do this. A little bit of column A, a little bit of column B?
Jokes on her, though, because ironically enough, I finish French classes in a week or so. Perhaps I should say jokes on me. The PC has decided that now I know enough French to teach my farmers the supposed skills that I have acquired. This has, so far, proven to be a fruitless task as I spent a painstaking fifteen minutes the other night trying to explain to my family what I did last summer—sadly we never made it past that word because despite mad gesticulations of sun, and a rather impressive display of swimming on our dirt floor, the word was lost on them.
French classes will soon be replaced by my Fulfulde lessons—a local dialect which the town (yet to be named) may or may not speak. My lessons, however, are progressing rather slowly. I saw my teacher today and thought I’d catch her off guard with a little “jabbama” (that’s hello) action, but she asked me why I was speaking to her in Spanish. Petit à petit…
Technical classes are, however, going rather well. When you start with nothing, it’s amazing how fast it becomes something. I’ve had sessions on apiculture, vegetative propagation, alley cropping, and proper dendrology identification. For those of you that don’t know what those things are….mwahaha, I do. Kind of…
Our one technical homework assignment is to build a nursery at home. This is a hilarious feat to achieve in a house that has 15 children (I got three new siblings last week…don’t ask). I came home one day, unlocked my door, and my kids, as usual, came rushing into my room behind me. This time, however, they left rather quickly. I knew that they were up to something as they did not hide under my bed and wait for me to kick them out (I’ve gone to bed multiple times with children under my bed). I found the little suckers outside by my nursery with my seed bags, but ironically no seeds. It turns out that they decided to hide the seeds, and eat the rest. Awesome. So I made them dig up the remaining seeds so that I could replant them. I later discovered that they’re smarter than I thought, as my seeds, which are just beginning to sprout, are ironically coming up all clustered together in the same corner of the nursery. Good times with the fam…
After several days of chasing my kids around the house with my machete, no really, I decided that I needed a break from the fam and just the PC in general. A couple friends and I went to Bafoussam, the provincial capital of the West. It was a fantastic trip that included, but was not limited to by any means: cheese, and general fun at the “white-man” grocery store, warm croissants, lots of olives, some touring around (read: drinking beer), and hot water. Essentially it was an orgasm of a city.
There’s so much more to tell, but it’s hard to really convey what’s happening here. I have these moments—like when I’m at my brother’s dance show which is just really his two friends and him dancing in a club where I have to pay a dollar to watch them move—when I’m like, wow, Africa. 2 years. Hmmm. And then there are these times, when I’m on a run (which has happened about two times, I’m becoming a master of the walking in running clothes), and I look at the rolling green hills, gorgeous mountains, and I’m like wow…Africa. Yeah, I can do this. A little bit of column A, a little bit of column B?
Monday, October 8, 2007
Festivities and Funerals
Church turned out to be a rather exciting experience, and by exciting I mean all four of the little kids fell asleep on me during the service. Just when I thought that all was dull, my friend Kate approached me and smiled. No…it couldn’t be, I thought to myself. But no, no, it was. She had bling on her teeth. She and her host mom had matching rhinestones on their teeth. The afternoon just kept getting better as I saw white girl after white girl with corn-rows. It seems like Sunday was Peace Corps Barbie Day.
The week was a blur of training sessions and language classes. Most of the time I have no clue what’s going on, and feel utterly useless and defeated. But I try and remind myself that this is the training period, and that eventually it will all just get better.
Friday was National Teachers’ Day, and since both of my parents are teachers…well, let’s just say there was a party all day. My brother picked me up from “school” (I got to miss language classes in the afternoon!), and I went and met my mother in town. The next six hours were a blur of palm wine, boxed wine, and bottles of huge beers. National Teachers’ Day was like national let’s drink a lot day. One of teachers whispered to me that Castel, my preferred beer, stands for “come and see teachers enjoy life.” Joking aside, Cameroon’s educational situation is fascinating to me. Prior to the economic crisis of the 80’s, Cameroon was one of two countries in the world (Costa Rica’s the other) that allocated more money for education than the military. That, sadly, is no longer true. But it doesn’t seem to stop the teachers from celebrating.
Drinks were followed, rather illogically, by a funeral. After lunch we all piled into a car to drive to the neighboring town of Bamena. I couldn’t understand why we were going there, but then as we were ushered out of the car into a barn, it became apparent that it was not for a joyous occasion. There were about thirty people in this old, airy barn. We sat in silence for a while, and then a man began to speak. He explained that his child, only two weeks old, died from lack of oxygen. It was his second child to die this year. A few whimpers passed through the crowd, and then my host father broke out in song. I couldn’t exactly understand what he was saying, but sadness and remorse are universal languages.
As the song took a more joyful note, my father paused and introduced me to the man. He told him that I was an extension agent for the Peace Corps. The man asked me what the importance of the Peace Corps was. I explained to him, in rather broken French, the lofty goals of the PC—and about the PC’s various sectors. His eyes light up when I told him about the Health sector. I explained that I didn’t know much because I was in agro-forestry. He paused, and asked me what if I could have saved his child if I was in the Health sector. In truth, I said nothing in return. I didn’t know what to say.
So much of this is a learning process—full of lots of mistakes along the way. I make cultural faux-pas all the time, but that happens to me in the U.S. too. I try and use what I’ve learned in other countries here, but it doesn’t always work out. I didn’t want to set a precedent for a lot of eating (I made this mistake at a home-stay in Fiji and had to eat a village’s worth of food every night), but now my family thinks that I don’t like food. I ate all the cough drops in my med kit for dinner tonight. Coupled with the fact that I no longer find boiled plantains appealing, I think that I might die of starvation soon.
Each week becomes a notch on my belt—week two done—and I’m hoping that I’ll still be in the game for a while. Now on to week three. Can’t wait to see what that brings…
The week was a blur of training sessions and language classes. Most of the time I have no clue what’s going on, and feel utterly useless and defeated. But I try and remind myself that this is the training period, and that eventually it will all just get better.
Friday was National Teachers’ Day, and since both of my parents are teachers…well, let’s just say there was a party all day. My brother picked me up from “school” (I got to miss language classes in the afternoon!), and I went and met my mother in town. The next six hours were a blur of palm wine, boxed wine, and bottles of huge beers. National Teachers’ Day was like national let’s drink a lot day. One of teachers whispered to me that Castel, my preferred beer, stands for “come and see teachers enjoy life.” Joking aside, Cameroon’s educational situation is fascinating to me. Prior to the economic crisis of the 80’s, Cameroon was one of two countries in the world (Costa Rica’s the other) that allocated more money for education than the military. That, sadly, is no longer true. But it doesn’t seem to stop the teachers from celebrating.
Drinks were followed, rather illogically, by a funeral. After lunch we all piled into a car to drive to the neighboring town of Bamena. I couldn’t understand why we were going there, but then as we were ushered out of the car into a barn, it became apparent that it was not for a joyous occasion. There were about thirty people in this old, airy barn. We sat in silence for a while, and then a man began to speak. He explained that his child, only two weeks old, died from lack of oxygen. It was his second child to die this year. A few whimpers passed through the crowd, and then my host father broke out in song. I couldn’t exactly understand what he was saying, but sadness and remorse are universal languages.
As the song took a more joyful note, my father paused and introduced me to the man. He told him that I was an extension agent for the Peace Corps. The man asked me what the importance of the Peace Corps was. I explained to him, in rather broken French, the lofty goals of the PC—and about the PC’s various sectors. His eyes light up when I told him about the Health sector. I explained that I didn’t know much because I was in agro-forestry. He paused, and asked me what if I could have saved his child if I was in the Health sector. In truth, I said nothing in return. I didn’t know what to say.
So much of this is a learning process—full of lots of mistakes along the way. I make cultural faux-pas all the time, but that happens to me in the U.S. too. I try and use what I’ve learned in other countries here, but it doesn’t always work out. I didn’t want to set a precedent for a lot of eating (I made this mistake at a home-stay in Fiji and had to eat a village’s worth of food every night), but now my family thinks that I don’t like food. I ate all the cough drops in my med kit for dinner tonight. Coupled with the fact that I no longer find boiled plantains appealing, I think that I might die of starvation soon.
Each week becomes a notch on my belt—week two done—and I’m hoping that I’ll still be in the game for a while. Now on to week three. Can’t wait to see what that brings…
Monday, October 1, 2007
Roman Coke
Let's just say that I spent tonight having my hair picked out into a pseudo-white girl afro by my host sisters whilst I looked for the good kernels of corn amongst a sea of worms. Village life has been, shall we say, different? I'm writing right now from my new village, Bangante, located about three hours north of the capital, Yaounde. Bangante is unlike any place I've really been. I live at the top of town in what I think is a rather luxurious house by Bangante standards—in fact my bed here is bigger than my bed at home! My host family is absolutely hilarious—all 11ish of them. I have somewhere between 9 and 15 siblings, though that seems to change on a daily basis depending on which kid I ask.
It's weird to think that this will be my home for the next three months. It's the rainy season right now, which essentially means that in addition to the three hours or so that it rains everyday, the village is covered in a thick layer of mud that oozes EVERYWHERE, and there are power outages pretty much all day. Ironically, there was no water in the tap this morning…My five-year-old host brother, perfectly named Boris, told me that tomorrow the rainy season is supposed to stop, but then I asked my mom and she said that it should end some time around November.
We spend the majority of time in class—technical training for Agro-Forestry (AF) and French class. I somehow tested into the highest level of French, so I only have to take it for a couple more weeks and then I get to start a local language! AF classes are absolutely hilarious, namely because they are administered by Dr. Njiti—a man who has a most wonderful similarity to Rafiki from the Lion King (I swear they have the same laugh!). We get our machetes on Monday, so I'm pretty excited for the whacking on Tuesday to begin.
Food has been a rather interesting experience. Yesterday I ate monkey for the first, and last time. Apparently they "harvest" the monkeys by spraying a whole bunch of pesticides in the forest and then checking to see what's leftover about a week later. Needless to say, I was pretty excited to learn that info an hour or so AFTER eating. I'm currently on the, how do you say, diarrhea diet? But it seems that we all are right now—two people have already shat their pants. Fun times, my friends!
Last night at dinner we had guests over because I think that some man wanted to announce his engagement—though it never became clear to me who in fact this man was and if he was actually getting married. It was a lovely affair complete with beer, and the celebratory rum. A man at the table had been drinking beer for a while, and then decided to switch to rum. For some reason (which is still not apparent to me), I decided that this would be a good time to impart some good ole college wisdom: Beer before liquor, never been sicker; liquor before beer, you're in the clear. As I tried to translate this to French, I think I somehow implied that the man was going to fall ill that night. This, of course, caused a huge debacle, and I had to assure him that his stomach would be fine, and it was just a saying. I'm not sure he believed me because he left shortly after finishing his first and only glass of rum. Oops?
Tomorrow is Sunday, which means that we'll be heading to church. I'm pretty excited, and I'm sure I'll have some good stories. Though there's so much to tell, I must retire to my mosquito net—it's only 9:00, but this is equatorial time. This morning there was a loose goose in the house (no really…), and the chasing of the goose coupled with all 50ish children playing circa 6:15 means that I'm uber tired. Until the next time, hope you all are well, and that your gooses are well behaved (unlike mine).
It's weird to think that this will be my home for the next three months. It's the rainy season right now, which essentially means that in addition to the three hours or so that it rains everyday, the village is covered in a thick layer of mud that oozes EVERYWHERE, and there are power outages pretty much all day. Ironically, there was no water in the tap this morning…My five-year-old host brother, perfectly named Boris, told me that tomorrow the rainy season is supposed to stop, but then I asked my mom and she said that it should end some time around November.
We spend the majority of time in class—technical training for Agro-Forestry (AF) and French class. I somehow tested into the highest level of French, so I only have to take it for a couple more weeks and then I get to start a local language! AF classes are absolutely hilarious, namely because they are administered by Dr. Njiti—a man who has a most wonderful similarity to Rafiki from the Lion King (I swear they have the same laugh!). We get our machetes on Monday, so I'm pretty excited for the whacking on Tuesday to begin.
Food has been a rather interesting experience. Yesterday I ate monkey for the first, and last time. Apparently they "harvest" the monkeys by spraying a whole bunch of pesticides in the forest and then checking to see what's leftover about a week later. Needless to say, I was pretty excited to learn that info an hour or so AFTER eating. I'm currently on the, how do you say, diarrhea diet? But it seems that we all are right now—two people have already shat their pants. Fun times, my friends!
Last night at dinner we had guests over because I think that some man wanted to announce his engagement—though it never became clear to me who in fact this man was and if he was actually getting married. It was a lovely affair complete with beer, and the celebratory rum. A man at the table had been drinking beer for a while, and then decided to switch to rum. For some reason (which is still not apparent to me), I decided that this would be a good time to impart some good ole college wisdom: Beer before liquor, never been sicker; liquor before beer, you're in the clear. As I tried to translate this to French, I think I somehow implied that the man was going to fall ill that night. This, of course, caused a huge debacle, and I had to assure him that his stomach would be fine, and it was just a saying. I'm not sure he believed me because he left shortly after finishing his first and only glass of rum. Oops?
Tomorrow is Sunday, which means that we'll be heading to church. I'm pretty excited, and I'm sure I'll have some good stories. Though there's so much to tell, I must retire to my mosquito net—it's only 9:00, but this is equatorial time. This morning there was a loose goose in the house (no really…), and the chasing of the goose coupled with all 50ish children playing circa 6:15 means that I'm uber tired. Until the next time, hope you all are well, and that your gooses are well behaved (unlike mine).
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
The PC comes to town
24 hours of travel comprised of three flights (one of which was hit in a lightning storm!), 2 vaccines (coupled with the near dozen that we’ve already had), a crash course on what exactly business casual attire is (the Peace Corps is OBSESSED with business casual), and I’m here! Bienvenue au Cameroon—that’s welcome to Cameroon for those of you that don’t speak the French…
I can’t believe I’m in Africa! The past four days have been a total blur full of paperwork, another one of the PC’s obsessions, shots, and introductions. The PC headquarters are located in the capital, Yaounde, but I can’t exactly tell you what Yaounde looks like because we’re sort of caged animals right now. The beginning of my African adventure is a little more like a circus than the wild African safari I was hoping for. But a good circus, nonetheless. I’m just waiting for when they release the animals!
Wake ups are at 6:30, breakfast at 6:45, and at training by 7:15 (read: 8ish—African time…). Because we’re so close to the equator there’s daylight from 6 to 6, so I’m going to have to tame my wild party girl side (read: thank god I get to go to bed around eight!). The food has been fantastic so far—carbohydrates and I agree like Sonny and Cher prior to the whole tree incident. Who knew that rice, bread, and potatoes went together so well! I’ve discovered a deadly Cameroonian hot sauce, piment, so I’m looking forward to a new spice in my life.
My training group is 42 strong—20 health volunteers, and 22 agro-forestry volunteers. We’re 20%ish guys, and 80%ish girls. Two married guys, one lovely gent whose 63…so that’s makes us about 15% gents. I don’t think my chances of snagging the one are in my favor... I love the diversity of my group—not racial diversity we’re like 99% white. Everyone is coming from such different places and experiences. There’s a fair amount of people in agro-forestry who have masters in forestry, horticulture, botany, and the like, so I really feel like I’m going to bring a lot to the table (read: INTENSE sarcasm).
Those the days are intense (read: I played cards for five hours yesterday), the nights seem to be filled with mellowness. Beer is good, hard liquor comes in the packet variety, literally plastic baggies of shots, and the company the perfect complement to it all. Tonight they arranged for a rasta group to come and play music for us. The night ended with a spectacular lightning storm, and the pitter-patter of rain. As the musicians sang and danced, seemingly oblivious to the rain, I couldn’t help but think that this is the way a night is supposed to end. As I snuck out of the concert, hoping to catch a brief moment of alone time, the lights went out. Such is life in Cameroon, n’est pas?
I can’t believe I’m in Africa! The past four days have been a total blur full of paperwork, another one of the PC’s obsessions, shots, and introductions. The PC headquarters are located in the capital, Yaounde, but I can’t exactly tell you what Yaounde looks like because we’re sort of caged animals right now. The beginning of my African adventure is a little more like a circus than the wild African safari I was hoping for. But a good circus, nonetheless. I’m just waiting for when they release the animals!
Wake ups are at 6:30, breakfast at 6:45, and at training by 7:15 (read: 8ish—African time…). Because we’re so close to the equator there’s daylight from 6 to 6, so I’m going to have to tame my wild party girl side (read: thank god I get to go to bed around eight!). The food has been fantastic so far—carbohydrates and I agree like Sonny and Cher prior to the whole tree incident. Who knew that rice, bread, and potatoes went together so well! I’ve discovered a deadly Cameroonian hot sauce, piment, so I’m looking forward to a new spice in my life.
My training group is 42 strong—20 health volunteers, and 22 agro-forestry volunteers. We’re 20%ish guys, and 80%ish girls. Two married guys, one lovely gent whose 63…so that’s makes us about 15% gents. I don’t think my chances of snagging the one are in my favor... I love the diversity of my group—not racial diversity we’re like 99% white. Everyone is coming from such different places and experiences. There’s a fair amount of people in agro-forestry who have masters in forestry, horticulture, botany, and the like, so I really feel like I’m going to bring a lot to the table (read: INTENSE sarcasm).
Those the days are intense (read: I played cards for five hours yesterday), the nights seem to be filled with mellowness. Beer is good, hard liquor comes in the packet variety, literally plastic baggies of shots, and the company the perfect complement to it all. Tonight they arranged for a rasta group to come and play music for us. The night ended with a spectacular lightning storm, and the pitter-patter of rain. As the musicians sang and danced, seemingly oblivious to the rain, I couldn’t help but think that this is the way a night is supposed to end. As I snuck out of the concert, hoping to catch a brief moment of alone time, the lights went out. Such is life in Cameroon, n’est pas?
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
The Beginning
To clarify, this scene hasn’t actually happened. Well, yet at least. Picture me on a bus somewhere in the African countryside. The bus, perhaps the country’s pride in the early 80’s, is remarkably still a convenient way to traverse the country. Convenient in that same way that when you reach for a stick of gum in your purse, it’s actually just an empty pack. As we crawl through the terrain, I wonder if it would be faster to get out and walk. But then I’d miss the show. As everyone piles on the bus, a woman looks at me with those longing eyes beckoning for my help. I exchange a knowing glance with her, and respond, “Sure I’ll hold your goat.” Instantly we are bonded—all because I held her goat. Or something like that.
Anyway, that’s the premise for this blog: “sure I’ll hold your goat.” It’s my new mantra. Why not—I’ve never held a goat before, but it seems like something I should probably try. The next 27 months should be filled with new goats. This is true not only due to the circumstance of stranding myself in Cameroon (marooning myself if you will), but also because the good ole Corps of Peace doesn’t seem to be so keen on providing information. But that’s okay because the little bit of information that they have sent, I’ve lost prior to reading. We’re a perfect match.
I’m an agro-forestry volunteer—meaning that I’m working with agriculture and forestry. I know that you might think that self-explanatory, but I myself was confused by the term. This is because I know nothing about agriculture or really forestry. My endeavors into both fields should be hilarious. I’m not sure what’s in store for the next 27 months, but I promise to keep you all updated with the trials and tribulations of life in the ‘roon!
Anyway, that’s the premise for this blog: “sure I’ll hold your goat.” It’s my new mantra. Why not—I’ve never held a goat before, but it seems like something I should probably try. The next 27 months should be filled with new goats. This is true not only due to the circumstance of stranding myself in Cameroon (marooning myself if you will), but also because the good ole Corps of Peace doesn’t seem to be so keen on providing information. But that’s okay because the little bit of information that they have sent, I’ve lost prior to reading. We’re a perfect match.
I’m an agro-forestry volunteer—meaning that I’m working with agriculture and forestry. I know that you might think that self-explanatory, but I myself was confused by the term. This is because I know nothing about agriculture or really forestry. My endeavors into both fields should be hilarious. I’m not sure what’s in store for the next 27 months, but I promise to keep you all updated with the trials and tribulations of life in the ‘roon!
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