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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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