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.

Burning at the stake, fleas in my bed, and Independence Day Celebrations

These past couple weeks have been a bizarre mix of abnormal anecdotes, sinister stories, and fantastical fairy-tales that some how amount to my daily life. I find myself constantly ill prepared, and generally overwhelmed to process what happens each day, and am constantly worried that I’m not savoring every moment of this strange and peculiar journey.As the transitions of daily life continue to wear on me, I have to remind myself to treat each moment as just that, a moment, and not look at it as a sequence of events leading to some grand scheme. Let me show you what I mean.

The first moment comes from just down the road in a subdivision of Bamendjou, called Toumi. Now, as I understand the story, which we can’t entirely rely on as it was told to me in a French-patois mix, there were two brothers who lived on a compound together with their two wives. Now, the younger brother had recently come into a small bit of wealth. The older brother, from what I understand, was a little pressed for cash. So the two brothers went out drinking, and as most good ideas are brewed over beers, this drinking tryst seemed to be no exception. For you see, the older brother decided that he would attack his brother that night, robbing him of both his money and life. So, the older brother left the bar, and waited for the younger brother in the bushes. Planning to ambush him, he kept quiet so that his brother would not know the identity of his killer. But fate is funny, and the younger brother, also carrying a knife, was not about to let a bandit attack him. So, unknowingly, he stabbed his killer—his brother—to death. He ran away, not processing what had happened, only to be woken up later that night with the news of his brother’s death. Walking past the village later that week, I was almost hit by a moto carrying, oh that’s right, his coffin. I guess that puts a whole new spin onto the village hearse concept.

not the brothers--but two other brothers

Later in the week, on the way to Batie, a town next to mine, to teach a group of women how to build an improved cookstove, I stumbled upon a crowd of people. Not wanting to miss out on the action, the moto I was on pulled up to the swarm of people to examine what was happening. And out of a morbid 13^th century scene, we stumbled upon four people tied to log about to be set on fire for stealing goats. I didn’t watch, but everyone else did. What is it about “justice” that makes perfectly sane people into sadistic voyeurs? And burned at the stake? Who still does that! The dichotomy that is Cameroonian society constantly baffles me—21^st century technology, cell phones, internet, coupled with this medieval mentality, burning at the stake, corporal punishment, abusing wives.

   

But it continues. I’ve been working with a primary school to help them become a bilingual school. I visited the school a couple weeks ago. The school was a tranquil oasis. But the lack of students was bizarre. On the way home the director pulled me aside. I have to tell you, Nura. Last year the unthinkable happened. I thought she was going to tell me that someone stole money. But no. Last year, she continued, one of our students, just four years old. She pauses, and pulls out a picture of the girl. Dropping her eyes, it was just terrible. He was so jealous. And sick. He killed her. And then buried her in front of the school. In the middle of the day. I need you, Nura, she pleaded. I need you to talk to the parents. They’ll listen to you. They’ll bring their students back. I knew she meant, they’ll listen to you because you’re white. But if my skin color meant bringing this school back together…I don’t know. The next week I came back to talk to the parents. I was idealistic and unpractical. I wanted to say, please, bring your kids back, they won’t die. But I couldn’t trivialize their pain. I paused, stuttered, and I’m sure said all the wrong things. I still don’t know what the right things were…

And without skipping a beat, we transition to the beautiful, hilarious, and light moments of life: the men’s veteran’s soccer game. Most Saturdays (read: whenever I can actually drag myself out of bed), I play soccer in the mornings and train with the veteran’s men’s soccer team. At first, they went easy on me, lightly tapping me the ball, and leaving the goal wide open. 

But I told them that I could take it, and they should treat me like every other player. Huge mistake. The next game I played in I wound up beat up, and I almost dislocated my knee. I came home that afternoon covered in mud, and my chief, upon seeing me, informed me that I was no longer allowed to play with the team. So now I’m more of a cheerleader (and I still occasionally play when I feel like I need a good ass-kicking). Now in our “travel season,” I accompanied my team to a town called Sanchou, just outside of Dschang, the infamous town that I walked to. We arrived on the outskirts of the town, greeted warmly by the opposing team. We paraded through town (literally paraded with music and honking horns and we waved, not necessarily at anyone, for about half an hour). 

They took us to visit the “tourist sites” in the town: an abandoned rice factory set up by the Chinese in the 70’s, the high school, and a coffee factory. The game seemed to be just a reason to travel, and no one seemed that bothered by the fact that we lost. At the end of the game, each player went home to freshen up and eat with a player from the other team. Sportsmanship at its very best. I ended up going home with a couple members from my team, and we went to, logically, the post office. Only it wasn’t a normal post office because this one was in a swamp. I’m not sure what they were thinking (look at this flooded space…thank god we’ve finally found a place for the post office!) but we crossed the bridge to the post office, where one of the members lived, and enjoyed a most delicious meal. We spent most of the night at the dance club in town sweating the night away. Though the men danced until the sun came up, exhausted I crawled back to the post office to take off my dancing shoes and rest. Driving back was gorgeous, the clouds still muffling the mountains, and the sun’s rays beginning to blanket the sky.

Oh, and did I tell you that I got a dog to keep my company, though ironically, the only time I have any time to myself is at home. But I guess the dog had company of his own. Fleas. So then I got fleas. And then I got rid of the dog. But I still have fleas. So I guess I’m still not entirely alone, then. It was a rash decision, and, no pun intended, one with rash effects.

But perhaps the most important, and exciting, story this month comes from Independence Day. There was a certain irony in the celebration of a country and a president that only last month its people tried to disassemble. Reminiscent of the Youth Day festivities, much of the morning was spent in the stands watching the parade. The karate club reminded us that they could still kick for 20 minutes, the adorable hula-hooping team wiggled their hips, and the boy scouts marched as slow as humanly possible. 

I sat next to my patois teacher for much of the ceremony. I asked him why he wasn’t marching. Pointedly, he replied, Nura, I’ve been marching since independence. I’m done now. As I spent the entire day at various parties around town, consuming eight entire meals, receiving 24 marriage proposals, and amazingly, fitting into a little five-seater car with 11 other people, I couldn’t but help be excited for next year’s festivities. Something to stick around for. I walked home late that night, the full moon lighting my way, a cool breeze cooling off my dancing heat, and thought: yup, this is the life.

So, as you can see, it’s been a, shall we say, interesting couple of weeks. Two of my friends called it quits, and headed back to the States. Though I respect their decisions, and wish them the best, I sometimes wish I too had the courage to leave. And it’s not as bad as I make it sound. I have to remind myself that for every bad day, there’s another good one around the corner. Somewhere. And that I have to make everyday here count—because everyday that I’m here is one when I’m not there. I can’t believe this time last year I was sitting on the floor of my doublewide trailer trying to fit the pieces of four years of my life into our mini van without so much as a clue to what lay ahead. I wonder what my life will be like this time next year. In short, I can’t even begin to imagine. Hopefully you can’t either. Cause that’s what life should be: full of surprises. Until the next one…

Chocolate, Medicine Men, and Gardening in my Underwear

One could see how being a tourist in Cameroon could be, shall we say, different. There aren’t really many roads per say, and though there are certainly sites to see, they aren’t really well marked. With anything. Not even a town name. (Then again, I remember touring a museum in Cairo and next to this incredible mummy there was a small placard that said mummy. Which I clearly wouldn’t have been able discern myself. Thank you, Egypt.) Anyway, when Mom signed up for Cameroon Spring Break 2008, I knew it would be an adventure. In general, I love everything that I do with my mother, save bowling, canoeing, and putt-putt golf, but that’s because I hate doing those things regardless of how wonderful the company is.

So after months of planning (read: weeks. read: days), the day came that she was due to arrive. Only at 4 o’clock in the morning, she rang telling me that she had missed her connection. In the meantime, the airline conveniently changed her flight from Douala to Dubai, which I can understand, cause they both begin with “d.” For days, it seemed—but really only one—that she would be never come. But finally that wonderful Air France flight arrived, and I tell you, it was bliss in movement. Reunited with my better half, we set out to conquer Cameroon—sans baggage, of course.

After a brief slumber (complete with a much needed dip in the pool—because even though my mother loves me very much, she still made it a point to tell me that my hygiene was “lacking”), we hit the road and headed for Bamendjou. It was so exciting to parade the “white woman” around town, and not actually be said white woman for once. We visited some schools that I had been working with, and the kids all made a point to touch her skin, as they did not really actually believe that it was real. Every person that she met also made it a point to tell her how young she looked and could not believe that she had a daughter who was 40-years-old. Thank you, Bamendjou. This does wonders for my self-esteem.

We spent much of the time in village gardening in our underwear, and walking around town (fret not, we put on pants before we left). Sadly, our stay in Bamendjou was interrupted with a visit to Douala to retrieve the missing luggage (which Mom claimed was filled with treasures, though they seemed too good to be true). Enter Piggy, our fearless driver who agreed to leave the big city of Douala and escort us to Bamendjou. However, there was one small glitch.

Not wanting to be caught by the police (and made to pay ridiculous bribes along the way), Piggy decided that if he painted the number on the side of his cab, the police would not know that it was a Douala only cab. Logically, Piggy thought that chocolate would make an excellent disguise. Unfortunately, this did not work. When stopped, the policeman bluntly asked, Did you paint chocolate on the side of your car? And he did. And so he paid. And so we moved on, though every time I put my hand out the window, I got melted chocolate on it. Thanks Piggy, thanks a lot.

But eventually we made it back to Bamendjou, for round two of fun. I unearthed the goodies that Mom had brought—and it was the best Christmas in March a girl could ever ask for. Though I felt kind of ridiculous for making so many requests, sometimes when you’re trapped in a village in the middle of nowhere Africa, you just really need some beef jerky to get you through the year.

We left the wild ways of the south and headed north to Maroua. The north felt like a different country—I exchanged the ways of the hard Bamileke for the soft-spoken Muslims, the verdant mountains, for the dry rolling hills, and left my life as a volunteer for that of a traveling vagabond. Though in style, of course. I think that in the time my mother was here, I spent close to what I had spent in the past eight months. But man, spending money ain’t never felt so good.

We arrived in Maroua late in the afternoon. The plane stairs unfolded and we descended into what I always thought Africa would look like—dry, and barren, with trees sparsely dotting the landscape reminders that life can spring even in the most surprising of places. As we roamed the markets, I felt like I was back in the Middle East wandering around the markets in Syria or Morocco. The leather, thanks to a prominent cow population, was beautiful, and the textiles even more incredible. Dinner was an amazing three-course meal complete with fresh (not cooked!) vegetables and more cheese than a girl could fantasize about (which I do, all the time).

The taste of fresh mozzarella still on my tongue, we left Maroua and headed to Rhumsiki, a small village nestled in the Mandara Mountains, just west of the Nigerian border. Rhumsiki Peak is perhaps one of the most photographed sites in Cameroon (…), and understandably so. As we drove into the village, Rhumsiki Peak exploded in the distance, not willing to covered by the impending dust. More than the Peak, travelers head to Rhumsiki in search of the crab fortune-teller. The fortune-teller sits patiently in his hut, conversing with his crabs, and giggling. As you ask your question, he pauses, lifts his crabs to his mouth, whispers to them, and then sets them in a bowl. You wait. And then he lifts the lid, ever so carefully, and examines the crabs’ movements. I asked the fortune-teller if my work in Cameroon would be successful. He smiled, and said the crabs had decidedly said yes! A new take on the eight ball.

Had the crab fortune-teller been able to see into the more present future, however, we might have avoided the next mishap. Whilst mounting horses to prepare for a trek, Mom slipped, and fell back onto her arm. In pain, though you would never be able to guess it, we went in search of a doctor. Who did not exist. Nor did a hospital/medical facility. Enter the not so healing healer. As Mom sat down, the not so healing healer examined her arm, and decided to rearrange the bones in her wrist. Meditated into a peaceful trance, if she was feeling any pain (which given the bone movement, I’m sure she was), you couldn’t see it. But that, children, is why women give birth, and not men. Bones sufficiently rearranged, potentially in the right places, potentially not, we stood up to leave. But no, the not so healing healer was not finished. So we sat down. He took Mom’s hand again. Spit on it. And then smiled. Thanks?

Confused, tired, and ready for a stiff drink, we headed back to the hotel where we finished the hotel’s dusty gin bottle and sat by the pool watching the stars blanket the crisp evening sky. In the morning we left Rhumsiki in search of our next village, Waza, famous for its game park situated between the docile dells of Nigeria, and the pleasant planes of Chad.

As we headed into the park we picked up our guide, who will herein be known as GuideMan since I have forgotten his name, is search of lions, tigers, and bears (oh my!—I had to). Our driver saw this time together in the car as a perfect opportunity to speak to me in Fulfude (which I don’t speak). Our guide soon discovered that I spoke Arabic (which I sadly have forgotten here), and used the trip as an opportunity to test out his Arabic. Mom decided that she would use her Swahili safari lingo, and we all passed a few French phrases around the car for good measure. From our olla podrida of languages, I was able to decipher that we saw animals and birds.

Being the fearless explorers that we are, we took our trusty Jeep into the brush in search of lion dens. I found it rather interesting that we would look for lions in their homes, but GuideMan assured us that we would be safe, so traipsing into their homes we went. Though we found no lions, I’m surprisingly comforted by this fact as I imagine an animal’s home is probably not a neutral meeting spot for a first encounter.

With the North sufficiently explored, (four days seemed to do a number on us), we headed back to the Grand South for our final adventure. Though I had booked a ticket from Maroua to Douala—because I guess you usually book tickets to the destinations that you want to end up in—I clearly meant to book a ticket to Yaounde. Luckily the airline had the foresight to preemptively interpret my thoughts, and they sent us to Yaounde, where I did not want to be, instead of Douala, where I wanted to be. Whilst waiting for the plane to land, we watched a man get taken from an ambulance, rolled into a rug, and then loaded onto the plane. This seemed like a very good beginning. And so we landed in Yaounde, and the airline company sent us on our way to Doula in a spiffy, air-conditioned VIP bus. It turns out that VIP is actually code for please let us abuse you (a rough translation from French), and we ventured onto one of the most hellish bus journeys known to man. Highlights included, but were not limited to, boarding the bus in a cattle like manner where not one but two women stepped on my head to get over me, crossing a bridge which had a dumpster strategically placed in the center because the other side of the bridge had fallen into the water, and air-conditioning that actually meant the window occasionally opened (again, maybe something was lost in translation) and resulted in me sitting for the majority of the ride in a pool of mine (read: everyone’s) sweat.

But as they say, all’s well that ends well. And so we finally arrived at our gorgeous hotel, the Birdwatchers Club, nestled into the Botanical Gardens of Limbe, home of Cameroon’s world famous (…) black beaches. In one of those are-you-fing-kidding-me kind of moments, we arrived at the hotel to find that the doors were locked and no one was there. Enter my fearless mother. She pried open a set of wood shutters, and then opened the glass into a room, which, incidentally, housed a sleeping set of vacationers. So she woke them up, and asked them to open the door. And graciously and groggily, they did. We raided the hotel’s peanut and beer collection, and sat on the deck recounting the day’s triumphs—mainly us still being alive. The rest of the beach journey was filled with sand, sun, and good fun (and lot’s of other really wonderful things which are not suitable for a blog of this level of sophistication).

So that’s it for travel tales. I’m finding it hard to settle back into my daily routine, which considering the fact that it did not exist has proven very, very difficult to find. Despite Africa’s best efforts, I’m still relatively healthy and debatably emotionally stable. Earlier in March, on a pleasant afternoon, I was doing my rounds on a moto and a bug flew into my eye. Normally this would not be problem, however, it just happened that I had another bug that lay dormant in said eye. Now I’m not a bug-mating expert, but something happened, and while I have no objection to facilitating amorous relations, I would prefer that they not take place in my eye. But apparently, I did not adequately communicate that to the bugs, and they had babies in my eye. An immediate, and you could say unfortunate, side effect of said babies was the constant twitch in my eye. Despite months of refusing marriage proposals and advances from my village men (there really weren’t that many…), I spent the good part of the week furiously winking at everyone. Rest assured, the babies are gone, and I’ve stopped winking.

If this entry hasn’t inspired you all to book a trip to Cameroon, then I don’t know what will! As the rains begin to fall, I’m starting lists of things I plan on learning when I’m confined to my house (e.g. US presidents, time-zones, general information concerning ocean currents, and tides, and continued country trivia). Email me if you have good ideas! Until the next time you hear from me, I hope you all are researching plane tickets and thinking about what to put in your next care package to send to me.

Youth Day, chicken passengers, and village children

A funny thing happened on the way to March...

February 11 (yes, I’m a little behind here) was National Youth Day, a chance for the country to honor their future with huge parades, banquets, and parties filling the social schedule for weeks before and after the actual day. In the morning we gathered at the town center, awaiting the festivities and parades. The chief arrived flanked by two chiefs of neighboring villages. His 7 ft tall stature was accentuated by a tent like white umbrella that his armed soldiers carried in front of him. I use “armed” in the loose sense—they were carrying spears of some sort and rifles from circa 19-whenever the first rifle was made. As Celine Dion’s latest (10 years ago) pop hit belted, I couldn’t help but pinch myself to see if this was just another mefloquin dream. The stands on the side of the road were a labyrinth of accolades: members of the nobility, chiefs, government officials, entrepreneurs whose wealth ranks them as some of the richest men in Cameroon, and then…me. We sat for what seemed like hours (read: it was actually hours. 4 of them.), and watched school group after school group parade by. It was a wonderful introduction to the myriad of talents that the students of Bamendjou possess. For example, I did not know that Bamendjou had such a large and active karate club. But now I know that they are well versed in the art of kicking because that’s what they did. For 20 minutes. Just kick.

The evening was filled with musical acts in the town center. The mayor brought in 20 or so amazing musicians, many of them born in Bamendjou, to celebrate. Most of the acts were really just karaoke, but one group, Takam 2 (apparently the all the members of Takam 1 died) was incredible. Dressed in traditional Bamileke garb, the men danced, and sang. The crowd was wild. And, amazingly enough, I had courtside seats…on the stage. It was incredible until my worst nightmare came true. One of the nearly naked men with a spear, who will herein be known as the love of my life, approached me. Shoved the spear in my face. And told me to dance. So I, logically, grabbed the spear and danced on the stage. At this point in time the entire crowd starts screaming, and I’m madly waving the spear in the air, shaking what my mama gave me. I’d like it to be known that I’m the world’s worst dancer, and when people make fun of white girls dancing…that’s actually how I dance. But it was incredible, and made me wish I was part of Takam 2. Maybe I’ll have a shot with Takam 3.

English classes continue to provide endless amusement. In my adult class this week we worked on the family tree. Producing a rather complicated family, complete with multiple wives (the Cameroonians love their polygamy), and divorces, I tried to cover all my bases so that no familial relations were left unexplained. But one of my students raised his hand and asked me, But Miss Nura, what do you call the woman of the husband…not the wife, not the second wife…the other woman? Mistress, I replied. Ah yes, mistress, how could I have forgotten her? He smiled. I continued, and what they’re having is called an affair. The class nodded. Another student raised her hand, but their children, what are they called? I paused, not wanting to call them illegitimate. They’re called the product of an affair. I think I’m going to need an advanced degree to keep teaching these classes.

Seemingly possessed by demons, and thrilled at the fact that I had a free day I, inexplicably, decided to walk with my friend Jessica to Dschang, a lovely quaint college town located not too far from me. And by not too far, I clearly mean that it took 10 hours and 30 minutes to walk somewhere between 50 and 60 km and unless I develop a severe case of amnesia in the immediate future, I intend to never walk there (or anywhere else) again. I give you a range, as I do not know the exact distance we walked. Additionally, no one in Cameroon knows the distance—even those that pass regularly between the two towns. About two and a half hours or so into the walk, we asked a man how far away Dschang was. Definitively he replied, 400 kilometers. Upon seeing the shocked and horrified looks on our faces, he paused. Reconsidered. And said, two kilometers. Thus began the game for our journey: how far are we. Asking mostly children and the elderly for directions (a game we played one Christmas break with my Dad, when he too did the same. Directions went something like go to Chris’ house and then turn…and restaurant recommendations were akin to Chucky Cheese), we received a resounding, surprisingly unanimous answer no matter where we were in the journey: 20 km. Even 1 km outside of Dschang—20 km. In truth, the last 30 minutes were some of the most painful steps ever walked, and I’m quite certain that I’ll never be able to walk properly again.

I have also spent a lot of time since my last entry sitting. Way too much. This was due to the, shall we call them, skirmishes? strife? strikes? that consumed much of the beginning of March. What initially began as a taxi strike against rising gas prices turned into a country wide protest of…I’m still not sure. French impositions? A collapsing government unwilling to listen to its people? Linguistic tensions? Buildings were burned, people took to the streets, and volunteers were confined to their houses. Stir crazy, I spent the week washing my floors, gardening, avoiding men in the streets with machetes, and walking around my compound in my underwear, which prompted my housemate, Jane, to ask me if my money had run out and I needed to borrow money to buy pants. Eventually we were “consolidated” to a hotel where we waited for five more days. As evacuation became a possibility, seconds felt like hours and time’s passage so palpable that it hung in the air, clouding my view of any foreseeable future. That is until I talked to my mother, and she quelled my hyperbolic pangs with her oh so sweet words, Nura, come on. It’s only been five f*cking days! And so that was it. We went home. People stopped rioting. And everything went back to normal. Whatever that is.

Political unrest has only one real solution: pizza. So we headed to the glorious capital of Yaounde for the weekend. There I consumed three pizzas in the course of 72 hours and am convinced that I am now lactose intolerant. Yaounde was a bastion of hot showers, good food, fast internet, and other wonderfulness that causes a surbanite like myself to wonder why exactly I’m living in the middle of nowhere Africa. But then I happen upon wonderful little jewels, like this next story, and it all just seems worth it.

Travel in Cameroon is wonderfully pleasant, and by that I mean that I would rather sit through my college graduation seven hundred times (for those of you that were there, you know what a sacrifice this is) than make my way around this country by bus. As we took our seats, the bus driver almost jumped out of his, looked at us and demanded in English, You have brought the rotten bush meat on the bus? Caught, shall we say, off guard, we stammered, No. Not us. We don’t have bush meat. And we didn’t. The man then smiled, switched to French and continued, Alright, who is the one farting then! This turned into something of a fourth grade all boys party and everyone started accusing their neighbor of producing the wondrous odor. A man in the back of the bus cleared the air, Leave the poor person alone. They are probably sick to their stomachs. I mean, they’re a machine, farting every minute like this! And so we left Yaounde, farting machine and all, in search of Bafoussam.

And it felt like I was finally coming home. Evacuation thoughts aside, I felt my first real pangs of homesickness and a desire to return stateside during the riots. But I’m hoping that that’s passed, and I can still stick this out for a bit longer. Speaking of longer, sorry that this was such a long entry—I’ll spare you all country updates, but don’t think that they’re going away permanently! In true form, I hope you all are well, preparing for the most glorious holiday—Easter—which is logically celebrated with the spreading of chemically colored eggs. Because that’s what Jesus would have wanted.

Bonne Annee

Smatterings of old men, and Big legs

My canvas of Bamendjou is filled with smatterings of old men—a smorgasbord of sagacious rebels, if you will. As my days turn into a gamut of meetings, classes, and demonstrations of agroforestry techniques, I find that these men are my portholes into a stagnant world of bliss. Prosper is my patois teacher. He claims to have been born in 1918, which would place him at 90 this year. My guess is that he’s 60, but maybe he just aged well. He regales me with stories of tribal wars, the times of the British and French, and, of course, village gossip. We meet once a week under the guise of language lessons, but our time together has become more like a bad episode of the View (and since I’ve never actually seen the View, I’m not exactly sure where I’m going with this analogy…).

Next is Charles. Charles clocks in at 72, an age that he looks. He jokes that though he is blind, he doesn’t need to see to know that I’m white. I’m never exactly sure what he means to imply. He too is a gateway to a world past, a wealth of knowledge tapped by no one. I find him most days “sunning” himself, as he says. He claims that old age has gotten the better of him, and he finds himself in constant need of warmth. I joke with him that all the time spent in the sun is going to give him skin cancer. His glazed over eyes respond, so? But I would call him anything but despondent despite his apathetic glances. Maybe he just likes the sun.

That brings me to my last erudite elder. I call him bonne année, Happy New Year, for lack of a better name. My first, shall we say, formal introduction to bonne année was just shortly after the 1st of January. He hit me with his stick and demanded that I give him his “bonne année,” or his new year’s gift. Slightly perturbed, I walked away from him, dismissing him as nothing more than a bitter old man, weather by one too many beers and even more broken hearts. I found him later that week just outside the entrance of one of the primary schools. He was sitting on a rock, waiting for children to pass so that he could throw sticks at them. Chuckling to himself, it was like he was at candy store. I couldn’t help by laugh, and decided that Bonne Année and I would become friends. Slowly, I gave in, and gave him his “bonne année”—a meat stick here, a banana there, and sometimes if I’m feeling especially generous I’ll buy him a beer (which I’m sure is the last thing that he needs, but hey…). Every time I see him, without fail, we shout at each other “Bonne Année” with an intonation fit for a birthday surprise. I wonder how long we’ll keep this up. It’s February, but bonne année and I are still going strong.

On Mondays, I teach English classes to a group of teachers working in the Catholic schools around town—some of them, I think, might even be English teachers which makes me a little fearful of their students’ English levels. This past Monday we worked on how to ask a question, and how to respond. As I went around the room, each group presented their question and answer. One group, however, took it upon themselves to break from the normal “what is your name” mold. This woman, a spunky, fiery one, turned to the man next to her, and asked, “Why is it that you love me so?” He paused, thought about it, and responded with all the appropriate gesticulations, “It is because your legs are soooo big.” I just about peed my pants laughing, which then prompted the woman to think that there was something wrong with the phrasing of her question. She then asked, “Miss Nura, what is the difference between like, love, and lust?” So I explained, “Well, I like my husband, but it would be okay if I found another. I loveee my husband, I cannot have anyone else. And I lust after my husband, I can’t wait to get home to him tonight.” They all snickered. She replied, “Ohh, I get it. I like my husband.”

I’m not exactly sure how it’s the middle of February. Time is, as always, flying by. I feel like I have a zillion projects going on—some successful (a proposed tree planting project at one school has somehow turned into a tree planting project at 42 schools), and some not so successful (turns out I actually hate teaching computer classes and am terrible at it).

But don’t worry; I still have time for country updates (read: skip this paragraph if you don’t think my country reports are interesting, but I happen to like them, thank you very much). I’ll give you the highlights, since it’s been a while: Argentina was, interestingly enough, one of the 10 wealthiest nations in the world (based on rapid expansion of agriculture and foreign investment infrastructure) from 1880-1930. This wonderful honor was unfortunately offset by a 7-year “Dirty War” that claimed the lives of tens of thousands of people, and general economic despair resulting in a total economic collapse in 2001. But things are looking up, thanks to the country’s newest president Christina Fernandez (whose husband was elected president in 2003…sound familiar?) whose plans for progress include reducing poverty and improving foreign policy (a novel idea, I tell you…). Armenia, the first nation in the world to formally adopt Christianity, is perhaps most renowned for the Armenia Genocide of WWI, which claimed the lives of upwards of 1 million Armenians, though the Turks still claim it never happened. Turns out that Armenia and Azerbaijan have been having a little scuffle since 1988 over the disputed territory of Nagorno-Karabakh, a territory I had objectively never heard of in my entire life. And lastly, Aruba—once Spanish, then Dutch, then British, then Dutch again. Made famous by the disappearance of Natalee Holloway in May of 2005, Aruba’s white sandy beaches attract nearly 1.3 million tourists yearly. Technically considered to be a separate autonomous member of the Kingdom of the Netherlands, Arubans surprisingly voted against full independence in 1994. For those of you who made it to the end, don’t you feel so enlightened?

I checked my email the other day, and was pleased to know that both the Gap and J.Crew are releasing their spring wardrobes. This is, clearly, a very pressing matter and I’m glad that I waited 20 minutes to open these emails. But that means that spring is around the corner. Maybe the snow is melting where you are, but more than likely Old Man Winter still has a couple more tricks up his sleeves, and you have many a snow day ahead of you. I hope your Martin Luther King/Australia/Ground hog/Waitangi/Ash Wednesday/Chinese New Year/Valentine’s days were wonderful (it’s rather impressive how many holidays are packed into the end of January/beginning of February. Bonne année!