Etienne seemed to tower over me, but his doe like eyes and playful demeanor made him anything but threatening. As the chief’s storyteller and right-hand man, Etienne deftly straddled the world of ancient tribal chiefs and impending globalization. He came bearing peanuts in search of the Peace Corps Volunteer Nara (Naarra, he said, in his beautiful Cameroonian English that made me wonder if speaking French would have been easier). As he sat down on my veranda, he smiled and said, Let me tell you the story of those peanuts. In 1998… I bowed my head, not wanting him to see the smirk on my face, wondering exactly where this story was going. I worked at the hospital, the chief of finances there. He paused, so that I could appreciate the weight of his words. A woman came into the hospital sobbing with a dying baby in her arms. I was the only one there who could help this baby. He needed blood, but at that time there was a, what do you call it, stamina? Stigma, I replied. Yes, stigma with AIDS. I said, My God, I must help this baby. But what if I have AIDS and give it to the baby? So I waited for them to test my blood, and it was good. I have very good blood, you know. I smiled. So they gave it to the baby. I never knew what happened to him until today. A woman came by with a huge basket of peanuts and with her a young boy. No, a young man. She said, Do you remember? This is the child you saved. And Nara, it was him. It was the baby. So today I came by to bring you these peanuts because these are peanuts of goodwill. You are good will.
Wearing my watch scares me. I can watch the seconds, minutes, hours, and even days pass by. Sometimes it makes my heart stop so that all I hear is ticking. I’m worried that I’ll run out of time. That I’ll leave here, and all the projects I had planned, the people I wanted to help, everything…I won’t have finished it. Maybe I won’t have even started it. Maybe I won’t figure out what “it” is in time. And sometimes I’m just worried that I’ll be crushed under the weight of everyone’s expectations. I’m such a cliché. A split second later, I feel my heart stop again. Two years? Two whole years. It’s like an eternity. You can imagine how hard it is to start a day when you can’t decide if you want it to be over before it’s begun or you wish it would never end.
Sometimes it happens when I’m on a bike ride. The wind is blowing with me, the sun bright but not blazing, and the hills graciously buckling into flat escapes making the ride sheer bliss. Or sometimes it happens when I’m in the garden or on a farm. My hands in the soil, beads of sweat dripping off my forehead oozing their way into the earth. But sometimes it happens when I’m just sitting. Sometimes I’ll be talking to someone. Or sometimes I’m just doing nothing. It starts with my forehead. The wrinkles pushing their way down to my furrowing brow. It spreads to my eyes, and then my cheeks. Eventually it reaches the corners of my mouth. And I can’t stop it. Every part of my body, my mind, and yes, my soul is involved. It’s the most fantastic smile I have ever felt. I can’t believe I’m here.
I met with a group of women in a neighboring village. After hiking out for about two hours, I stumbled upon, well, a wall. It was beautiful brick red, and against it sat a line of proud women. Indeed they were the women’s group I was looking for. Though they had hoped to build a meeting house, they came up short on funds. So they built a wall. At first I thought it was foolish. Surely they could have used the money for something else. But I kind of like it now—one wall up, only three more to go. Right? I promised them things that I’m not sure I can deliver, (it seems as though I’m going to have to brush up on my soap making techniques), but hopefully we’ll figure it out. If not, start sending soap.
My computer classes got off to an interesting start. Turns out that by signing up for one class, I obviously meant to sign up for five. Silly me. So now I’m teaching five classes, and one of them has a little over 100 students in it (one of the student’s names is, and I kid you not, Fomopussi). It’s pretty great because there are only 5 computers to teach on. But we make things work—I made the students draw computers and now we practice on those. The high school’s a pretty incredible place. Overcrowded, understaffed, sometimes the kids don’t have teachers so they just come and sit in the classrooms for the whole day and talk to each other. There’s so much I want to do, but I don’t even know where to start.
I find that the days that had idly passed without work are now filled with meetings, appointments, and visits. And everyone wants something different. The handicap association of Bamendjou needs a business plan for how to sell their meat at the market because they can’t get there themselves. The women of Toumi need a medicinal plant garden (and the know how that goes with that) because they can’t afford to take their children to doctors. The men of Bameka need soil fertilization techniques because the soil is just “too tired” to produce anything. Oh and the reforestation project at the various tribal palaces requires some kind of complicated anointment process (or something like that…) that will allow me to be able to plant trees in the sacred forests. I’ve never been in so many places at once and felt so incredibly whole.
And in the midst of all the work, life happens. My neighbor pounds on my door at the crack of dawn to make me go running with him (he foolishly thinks that I’m going to run a marathon up Mount Cameroon with him despite my cardiac arrest like wheezing whilst “running” up a little hill). The children across the street have finally decided that I’m not a nun due to my lack of presence at any church service, and have taken it upon themselves to teach me how to tie a cricket on a string and play with it like a dog (which I guess is something that nuns don’t like to do…). The old women comment on my child-bearing hips and steadily increasing derriere (I know, Africa. So funny! You make me walk a billion miles everyday in the blazing sun, and then make me paler and fatter than when I moved here. You are hilarious, you old dog, you.) And, of course, country profiles’ are read: Angola, the proud owners of a 27-year civil war that counts among its accolades 1.5 million lost lives and an additional 4 million displaced citizens; Antarctica, the coldest, windiest, highest (on average), and driest continent that receives more solar radiation on the surface of the South Pole than the equator; and lastly, Antigua and Barbuda, one of the Caribbean’s most prosperous nations (thanks to tourism and “offshore” financial services) that in 2004 ended the longest-serving elected government in the Caribbean (which seems like being able to claim having the longest toenail on the 3rd Sunday of the 4th month of 2007 at 4:00…).
So that’s it. The prelude to the opus of my life in Bamendjou…month 5, week 18, day 122…but who’s counting? As always, missing you all and hoping that the powder dusting the slopes is plentiful, the hot chocolate in your mugs sweet, and the work piling up on your desks’ magically disappearing.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Rudolph, my Secret Language, and Andorran History
Joyeux Noël and Bonne Année! One Christmas down, one more to go. Christmas was surprisingly not depressing (except for when I talked to my Mom and Ramzy, and had to admit to myself that this was the first Christmas I’ve spent without them and I just really wish that they lived here with me). I returned to my old stomping grounds, and spent it at home with my family. I’ve come to realize that home is where you find a welcoming bed (and it doesn’t even have to be comfortable), and family are the people who love you even when you’re picking your nose—which I do all the time here, since the dust insists on taking up residence in my nostrils. I asked my family what we were going to do on Christmas Eve, and they looked at me like I was stupid, and replied, “dance—that’s what you do on Christmas.” So that’s what we did: we had the most wonderful dance party that spanned the globe and the ages in each step we took together. Christmas morning was spent a church where a beautiful version of Silent Night left me close to tears. Paquita, my youngest sister, took my hand and said, “Nura, don’t cry. It’s Jesus’ birthday.” While I wanted to inform her that it’s likely that Jesus was born in the spring, her gesture was the best Christmas gift I could ask for. Indeed, it was wonderful to celebrate in a country where the success of Christmas cannot be measured by Hallmark cards and the number of presents under the tree, but rather by the company and chicken. You’ll find pictures of said chicken carnage, and will be pleased to know that I’m an expert chicken killer. To think I used to be a vegetarian…
I have also discovered that all my years of singing in the Spring Show have rendered me utterly useless in Cameroon. On a visit to a health center in a neighboring village (which logically began with a visit to a gorgeous tea plantation in the mountains), the villagers, adorned in a beautiful tribal robes, sang and danced for us. A silence fell over the crowd (I’m beginning to learn that silences usually lead to me embarrassing myself), and the villagers turned to the supervisor of the center. He then motioned to us, implying that it was our turn to sing and dance. Unprepared and flustered, we turned to each other and sang…Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer. Singing is perhaps an overstatement, as the song consisted mostly of hysterical laughter/sobs. Ever the good audience members, the villagers clapped in encouragement. I’m not sure if Rudolph would have been proud or disgusted.
My acquisition of the complete history and happenings in Algeria and Andorra progressed nicely. I’m sure you’ll all be interested to know that not only can Andorrans pride themselves on a 100% literacy rate (which I think only the Vatican can also proudly claim), but they can also pride themselves on having the longest life expectancy in the world. Algeria, however, did not seem to fair as well in bragging rights, boasting the world’s 14th largest petroleum reserves, 9th largest natural gas supply (the revenue of which most citizens never see), and an estimated 100,000 deaths since violence began in 1992. While I’m hoping for good things from Angola and Antigua and Barbuda, I’ve come to expect the worst from countries that have letters in their names.
I think the fact that I spent the majority of my life not speaking the same language as my grandmother, and yet being able to perfectly communicate with her, has prepared me for the linguistic challenges of village life. While my French is coming along (and by that I mean there are a few people in village who understand my French and are able to translate it into French that the majority of people understand), my learning curve concerning ngemba does not seem to be as steep. Interactions go one of two ways: either I meet a woman in the street, greet her in the local language, and she ecstatically hugs me and thinks I’m the best thing to come here since paved roads (which I’m told were a hit, though they no longer exist) OR I meet a woman in the road, greet her in the local language, and then she hysterically laughs when I don’t know anything else besides hello. Oh that’s funny, I can’t believe I don’t speak a language that only 10 people in the world speak. I then reply to her in my special language (read: English), and laugh hysterically when she’s confused and doesn’t know what to say. This has evolved into one of my favorite games: who speaks English here? First, I guess who in the room speaks English and who doesn’t; then I talk about the person who doesn’t speak English in English (only because they’re usually in the process of talking about me in their special language). My villagers have retaliated with the game “where do you know me from.” I think that we’re a perfect match for each other.
Other highlights include my first farming experience where I successfully helped a farmer in the neighboring town plant cabbage, water his crops with the nifty irrigation system that he built (which actually just floods his crops, but that’s besides the point), and harvest acacia seeds which will hopefully fix the nitrogen in the soil when planted (I know, it’s painful how smart I sound). Though I spent the majority of the time eating sugar cane (which was incidentally when I got the dirtiest) and playing in the dirt (which didn’t help said situation), I feel like we really connected. Preparations for the rainy season are upon us, and I expect some good old fashioned farming tales, so stay tuned.
The students are on winter (whatever that is) break right now, but when they return I’m going to help out at the schools teaching English and computer skills (which is obviously very closely related to my expertise of agroforestry). On a side note, agroforestry comes up on my spell check as incorrectly spelled—silly Peace Corps, I told you that it wasn’t a real thing. Anyway, I can’t believe that it’s 2008 already! I hope you all are well, breaking your New Year’s resolutions, swearing off Christmas diets, and planning summer vacations to Cameroon!
I have also discovered that all my years of singing in the Spring Show have rendered me utterly useless in Cameroon. On a visit to a health center in a neighboring village (which logically began with a visit to a gorgeous tea plantation in the mountains), the villagers, adorned in a beautiful tribal robes, sang and danced for us. A silence fell over the crowd (I’m beginning to learn that silences usually lead to me embarrassing myself), and the villagers turned to the supervisor of the center. He then motioned to us, implying that it was our turn to sing and dance. Unprepared and flustered, we turned to each other and sang…Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer. Singing is perhaps an overstatement, as the song consisted mostly of hysterical laughter/sobs. Ever the good audience members, the villagers clapped in encouragement. I’m not sure if Rudolph would have been proud or disgusted.
My acquisition of the complete history and happenings in Algeria and Andorra progressed nicely. I’m sure you’ll all be interested to know that not only can Andorrans pride themselves on a 100% literacy rate (which I think only the Vatican can also proudly claim), but they can also pride themselves on having the longest life expectancy in the world. Algeria, however, did not seem to fair as well in bragging rights, boasting the world’s 14th largest petroleum reserves, 9th largest natural gas supply (the revenue of which most citizens never see), and an estimated 100,000 deaths since violence began in 1992. While I’m hoping for good things from Angola and Antigua and Barbuda, I’ve come to expect the worst from countries that have letters in their names.
I think the fact that I spent the majority of my life not speaking the same language as my grandmother, and yet being able to perfectly communicate with her, has prepared me for the linguistic challenges of village life. While my French is coming along (and by that I mean there are a few people in village who understand my French and are able to translate it into French that the majority of people understand), my learning curve concerning ngemba does not seem to be as steep. Interactions go one of two ways: either I meet a woman in the street, greet her in the local language, and she ecstatically hugs me and thinks I’m the best thing to come here since paved roads (which I’m told were a hit, though they no longer exist) OR I meet a woman in the road, greet her in the local language, and then she hysterically laughs when I don’t know anything else besides hello. Oh that’s funny, I can’t believe I don’t speak a language that only 10 people in the world speak. I then reply to her in my special language (read: English), and laugh hysterically when she’s confused and doesn’t know what to say. This has evolved into one of my favorite games: who speaks English here? First, I guess who in the room speaks English and who doesn’t; then I talk about the person who doesn’t speak English in English (only because they’re usually in the process of talking about me in their special language). My villagers have retaliated with the game “where do you know me from.” I think that we’re a perfect match for each other.
Other highlights include my first farming experience where I successfully helped a farmer in the neighboring town plant cabbage, water his crops with the nifty irrigation system that he built (which actually just floods his crops, but that’s besides the point), and harvest acacia seeds which will hopefully fix the nitrogen in the soil when planted (I know, it’s painful how smart I sound). Though I spent the majority of the time eating sugar cane (which was incidentally when I got the dirtiest) and playing in the dirt (which didn’t help said situation), I feel like we really connected. Preparations for the rainy season are upon us, and I expect some good old fashioned farming tales, so stay tuned.
The students are on winter (whatever that is) break right now, but when they return I’m going to help out at the schools teaching English and computer skills (which is obviously very closely related to my expertise of agroforestry). On a side note, agroforestry comes up on my spell check as incorrectly spelled—silly Peace Corps, I told you that it wasn’t a real thing. Anyway, I can’t believe that it’s 2008 already! I hope you all are well, breaking your New Year’s resolutions, swearing off Christmas diets, and planning summer vacations to Cameroon!
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