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!