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.
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