Going Home

I'd like to break the biggest Peace Corps taboo- I’m going to talk about going home early.

Med sep, ET, interrupted service – what do those mean? From talking to admin and reading PC Washington documents, there's very little difference when it comes to benefits. Choosing either, you are still an RPCV. You are allowed to join RPCV clubs, use the career resources, get health benefits, collect the readjustment allowance you've accrued. If you've made it through one year of service and you resign (early terminate), it's at the discretion of the CD, whether or not you get the noncompetitive-one-year as a government employee. The only real difference is eligibility for Peace Corps Fellows programs; if you resign, you forfeit that right. With that exception, there are very little changes between all the different ways to go home. If you resign, you can do Peace Corps again. You can work in the Peace Corps Washington office. Deciding to end your service early does not mean that you are forever ostracized from the Peace Corps community.

You can do whatever you want and your decision shouldn't change that.

The reason I decided to share this is because going home should not be the big bad wolf. If you are here, because you’re afraid to go home, that is not healthy! Peace Corps is an enormous sacrifice, but it is not a prison sentence. It doesn't mean that you should be miserable or unsafe or unhealthy or unhappy. Be here, because you like your work. Be here, because you want to be.

And if you find that because of poor health, or just plain unhappiness, that you can't stay, forgive yourself. Go home. Be happy. Support your friends who stay. Support your friends who go home. Tell people about your experience here.

I'm not telling you to go or telling you to stay, but make a decision. Don't let life happen to you. Choose to be happy and choose to be where you are. Every experience is different here, even at the same post. We see everything through the filter of our own experiences and expectations. Just because something totally engages and fulfills one person doesn't mean that the next person will feel the same. And it doesn’t mean that you’re broken or wrong for not feeling the same.

I’m leaving a great post and postmate, a school administration that is supportive, professional and friendly. I’m leaving, because in the 15+ months I’ve been here, I’ve had maybe one consecutive week without sickness. I didn’t come into this thinking that I would go home early, but when it comes down to it, this is the right decision for me.

Benin!

The first thing I noticed about Benin was how clean and quiet it was. The airport was small, but it looked like an airport – uncomfortable chairs, overpriced gift shop, luggage carts. We called the hotel where we had intended to meet up, if I didn’t make it onto the plane and no one ever picked up (yet another reason we were insanely lucky). During our cab ride/tour of every hotel in Cotonou, we found out a few things about Beninese culture – the price is negotiable even after you’re in the car, their French is raspy, slurry and mumbly; and there just aren’t nearly as many people. When you’re in Cameroon, you always see people. They’re walking, selling, drinking; they’re on foot, on motos, in cars or even riding on mountains of plantains in the backs of trucks, but everywhere there are people.

We arrived at Hotel Nicolif (10,000/night). It was clean and had electricity, running water, a ceiling fan, a real shower, and even wifi.  It was already way nicer than any hotel we could afford in Cameroon and then there was this thing called customer service! The clerks at the front desk gave us advice on how to get various places and hotels to stay in when we arrived. They told us how much things should cost and areas we should avoid.

Beignets and bouilli - Notice how they're sterilizing the spoons?

Our first day in Cotonou, we laid in the hotel and recovered from the entirely avoidable stress of my ticket mishap. Now that I;m thinking about it, we spent most of our time in Cotonou relaxing. We went to grocery stores and ate ice cream and cashews galore. (Spending the better part of a year with the only choice being peanuts is enough to drive you nuts! Ba dum ch!)

We of course took in the sites, which we limited to Notre Dame des Apotres cathedral (handily located next to the grocery stores) and Vlisco pagne shop. Vlisco was incredible. It was the anthropologie of pagne shops. Most of the time a pagne shop consists of a shack with fabric draped on string, but Vlisco was a whole nother story. They had window displays with artfully draped pagnes on new mannequins. They had brushed nickel fixtures and a lighting scheme. The saleswomen wore black dresses with pagne accents. Sarah and I were dumbstruck. We weren’t sure how to act, so we ended up acting like we were in a library or an art museum – whispering and touching nothing. We did actually get our shit together enough to buy a few yards each. It is the most beautiful fabric you’ve ever seen in your life.

The best thing about Cotonou besides the ice cream, cashews and high class pagne is its proximity to everything – it’s within a few hours of Porto Novo, Ouidah, Abomey and Ganvié.

Ganvié is the “Venice of Africa.” It’s an entire village built on stilts in the middle of a lake. Brief history of southern Benin – There once was a kingdom called Dahomey populated by fierce warriors. They warred on all the neighboring tribes and would sell their prisoners to the Portugese in exchange for porcelain, liquour and cannons. (The going rate for one cannon was  41 very pretty young girls or 21 very strong young men.) Not surprisingly, the neighboring tribes did not like being killed or sold into slavery. Three men were looking for a way to escape the tribal wars, when they came upon a lake. One man, being particularly strong in Voudun, transformed himself into an egret to fly over the lake and look for land. He found an island, but the island already was the home for one man. The island man told the egret man that he had come to island to escape the wars. When the egret man said that he was trying to do the same, the island man invited him and all of his people to build in the lake and live in peace. The egret man then transformed into a crocodile and went to shore to ferry his people to safety. The crocodile is therefore sacred to the people of Ganvié, which means “safety together.”

Nowadays to get out to the city, you have two options – you can take a powerboat or a dugout canoe. Being tourists and not in a hurry, we opted for the canoe. On the way we learned how their fisheries work, where they get water and food, and how their market works. Everything except the houses is mobile. We saw a frip on a boat (thrift shop). We saw raw veggies on a boat. We saw braised fish on a boat.

We also got to see some terraforming. Like in our nation’s capitol, they built up the land by dumping their trash until it was tall enough to build on. Some people even had a little grass for their goats.

Weaving fabric on a loom

After our trip to Ganvié and after we picked up all our visas, we took a "petite voiture" (ride share) up to Abomey, the seat of the kings of Dahomey. We were able to see the homes for the spirits of the kings and some very cool reliefs. The spirit houses were built from bricks made of the blood of 41 enemy warriors, gold, liquor, pearls, cowry shells, coral and of course dirt. The reliefs on one of the palaces depicted the Dahomey warriors vanquishing their enemies and then torturing them. A few highlights include babies in the beaks of giant birds and someone being killed by dirt suppositories. Sadly, they did not allow photos. They had a wonderful artisan market with bronze jewelry and handmade cloth produced by the descendants of different kings.

Abomey had an interesting colonial history as well. As I said earlier, the Dahomey were slavers and they had a trade relationship with the Portuguese. It was apparently so friendly that the Portuguese had their own house within the kings' compound. The French had a decidedly less friendly relationship depicted in handmade quilts. The last king of Dahomey was deported to Martinique during the 20th century and some of his Amazon warriors were living into the 1970s.

On top of a tata somba in Natitingou

On our way north, we stopped at Savalou and stayed with a dozen Benin PCVs, who were putting on a camp. It was interesting to hear about their experiences. The coolest part of Savalou was that we went to a restaurant with multiple hand-washing stations! We just couldn't get over it.

Again on our way north, we stayed with 3 more PCVs in Natitingou. They treated us to a Mexican feast, banana cake with Nutella icing and gin and tonics. La vie de luxe! On our second night, we had guinea fowl with French fries on top of a 'tata somba' house. In the north of Benin and the east of Burkina Faso, they build two story houses. The bottom floor is to keep your animals at night and the top floor has individual bed rooms (see the little grass-roofed hut to the right) and graineries. It was so cool! And the fact that the traditional housing was two story went a long way to explain why there were a lot more multistory structures in Benin.

More on Burkina soon!

PS Thank you to "Father R. Cheek" for the wonderful care package! I look forward to meeting you in person in January!

The Luckiest Girl in the World; or how having a meltdown saved the day

My friend, Sarah, and I had planned a trip to Benin, Togo and Burkina Faso for two weeks as a little break from Cameroon and to take advantage of the low airfare within the continent. When I say we planned the trip, what I really mean is that we bought our plane tickets and our visas to Benin. Due to a lot of extenuating circumstances, we had little more than vague ideas on what we were actually going to do once we arrived. The most important thing though – the hotel in Cotonou (capitol of Benin) – was already picked out and we had their contact information and the prices.

Our flight was set to leave from Douala, the economic capitol of Cameroon, which is forbidden for volunteers, except in transit. To get to Douala, I had to hitchhike to Yaounde stay there for the night and get an early bus to make our 12:45 flight. Not terrible, but tiring and time consuming.

We get up the morning of our flight at 4:45am to get our stuff packed up, eat breakfast and meet our taxi that we had ordered the night before. He was due to arrive at 5:00. Five o’clock comes and goes – 5:15, 5:20. Our bus was set to leave at 6 and they said you absolutely must be there 30 minutes in advance or they will give away your seat. Our taxi driver never made it, so one of the case guards walked us the half mile down the hill to hail another taxi. Luckily, we got one right away and made great time to the bus.

The agence (bus station) was beautiful! They had pavers, instead of mud, rocks and goat poo. They had an air-conditioned waiting room and café, instead of a shaded muddy area with no seats and only prayer mats. They had baggage handlers. It was nicer than some airports I've been to. Then the bus itself – new, air-conditioned, seats big enough for a person, enough space where you only touch someone if you want to, stewardesses, bathroom, coffee and tea, croissants and pains au chocolat, music videos. It was so nice! (I have heard that if you take that bus during lunch or dinner time, that you get shawarma, a Coke, and a candy bar!)

We arrived in Douala on time with no checkpoints. As we were sitting in Douala traffic, Sarah and I decided to admire our plane tickets and visas (“We’re almost there!”), when Sarah comments on how we have enough time to get something to eat before we head to the airport, since we leave at 3:00pm.

Wait a minute. We leave at 12:45! We don’t have to hurry, but we should head straight there. That’s when I see it. I had made one of the most stupid mistakes ever. Instead of booking my flight Douala-Cotonou-Douala, I managed to do the opposite. I was set to leave Cotonou at 12:45pm.

I thought I was going to vomit right there on that fancy bus surrounded by grands in nice suits.

We head straight to the airport. My skin is a delicate shade of green. We go inside. We look for the office for Arik Air. There isn’t one. We ask for the check-in desk. There is no one there. We wait.

After a couple of hours, Arik Air employees start to arrive, but no one really wants to talk to a slightly hysterical looking girl as soon as they get to work. After a little while, all the passengers line up to check in. I’m maybe sixth in line and when I get to the front, I present my passport and flight reservation and say (with a minimum of voice cracking), “There’s a problem with my ticket. It’s from Cotonou to Douala, instead of Douala to Cotonou.” They sent me to the problem child counter and Sarah checked in.

One of the employees takes my reservation and copies down my passport number and says he will fix it in the back. He disappears for 30 minutes. When he comes back, he says that there’s a problem, so he has to go into town to the Arik Air office to fix it. I ask him, “Am I going to be on this flight?” He tells me that he is taking the same flight, so he promises that I will be on it. I tried to remain hopeful, but it is a very Cameroonian thing to tell you that everything will be fine and that there is no problem, when there clearly is a huge problem. He says he’ll be back in 30 minutes.

Thirty minutes comes and goes. One hour. An hour and a half. Sarah and I plan where we’ll meet in Cotonou, if I don’t make that day’s flight. Two hours. There are no more passengers and only two Arik Air employees. They call the flight. Sarah leaves.

I asked the remaining employees, if they had heard from the guy who left. They answer with a cheery “Nope!” They close up shop and turn off the lights. Two and a half hours. I ask a passing airport employee, if he knows what’s going on with the Arik Air flight, “It’s on the ground and the gate is closed.” Meltdown #1

I take some deep breaths and try to work out a plan. It’s going to be fine. It’ll all be alright. Ca va aller. I had such a bad feeling about this trip! It’s ok. I just need to call Peace Corps and get a hotel for tonight. In Douala, which is so dangerous that we’re not allowed to stay here. It’s okay. Deep breaths. Get your bags together and get to a quiet place to call the Duty Phone.

As I pass all the passengers heading to Senegal with their correct flight reservations, because they are not dumbasses, I have Meltdown #2. I am not the only one embarrassed. Cameroonians are avoiding looking at the crazy blanche crying in the airport. I find a dark place where I will embarrass everyone less to calm down, so I can call Peace Corps and not have them panic.

As I take some more deep breaths, I work out what I need to tell them. “There’s a problem with my flight, so I can’t leave until tomorrow. I need a place to stay.” I call Peace Corps and Ruth answers. She tells me where to stay and to call her when I get in the cab and once I get to the hotel. Just before she hangs up, she tells me that it’ll all be alright.

Cue – Meltdown #3. Luckily this time I’m in the dark, so no one’s embarrassed except me. I wait until I’m calm again before getting my stuff together to get a cab. No one would give me a good price, if I was crying. Literally as I am walking out the door, the Arik Air walks in and says, “I’ve been looking for you. You’re getting on that flight.” Being very cool under pressure, I start crying again from relief.

He gets someone to print my ticket, labels my backpack as a heavy carry-on, walks me to the exit visa place, walks me to emigration, hustles with me to the gate and as I am about to go through security, takes my toiletries, so they won’t be confiscated. I get into the gate with five minutes to spare. And just before they close the door, the guy comes in and hands me all my toiletries, which he had tucked into his vest.

He ended up fixing my flight home as well, free of charge.

I knew from that moment, that anything that our trip wanted to throw our way would be easy in comparison.

To be continued in Benin, Burkina Faso and Togo.

Irony and Isadore

When I got back from my trip to France, I found that instead of grass growing unevenly over my less uneven than before front yard and awkward crookedly planted plants flourishing, I had a newly evened out dirt front yard and fewer plants.

Monsieur Dato, the landscaper in Dimako, had been hired by my landlord to “arrange” the yard. There are very few places in town that are landscaped – the weird median and roundabout by the market, the hotel (which has A/C, when there’s electricity) and the ostrich house. Now we can apparently add my house to the list. My landlord has a vision – grass surrounded by stonework and two great big iron lights in the middle of all that grass. He also wants the side of the house totally herbicided, so should I decide to go totally against Peace Corps policy and paycheck and buy a car, I’ll have a very nice mud driveway to park it in.

Anyway, Isadore is the guy who does all the work. He’s probably 60, but might be older or younger. He is short and wiry and has the beginnings of a Fu Manchu mustache. He also, for some unknown reason, constantly wears a lambswool-lined hat, even when you sweat in the shade. (I say this as I am cowering under my down comforter, when it might be 80 degrees out.)

I generally wake up at about 6 in my new house, because I am now lucky enough not to live next to the main road with all its motos, logging trucks, buses and goats. Actually, now that I think about it, I have yet to be woken up by anything besides my desperate need to brush my teeth. How lucky am I!

Anyway, I wake up at about 6, brush, floss and make my dentist proud. Then I either get dressed and exercise or get dressed to exercise and lay on my floor, listen to music and get bit by ants. By the time Isadore arrives, I’ve finished and bathed and I’m making breakfast.

Every morning we greet each other  - “Good morning. How are you? Did you sleep well? Well, I’m standing up, so I must have!” This is generally followed by efforts to renegociate our bargain on my raised bed garden. After all that is said and done, Isadore generally shares a bit of wisdom with me:

“Madame, some one has shit in your kitchen.”
“What?! What the poop?! I am nice to people and I greet everyone! Why would someone shit in my kitchen? The latrine is right there!”
“Well, madame, they did it on purpose.”
“But why would some one do that?!”
“Well, madame, you see, African men they don’t think like you and me. They are different.” (Forgetting of course that he is a man and he is African. Therefore, he is an African man.)

“Yesterday I was doing my project (the quilt) and I poked a hole in my finger and I was bleeding and I felt sick. I was soooo white! I was as white as chalk. I felt sick and I had to put my head on my knees. It was bad.”
“Well, madame, you know you have different skin from me. African men – they have the skin of wild forest animals! It is strong and it doesn't bleed like yours.”

“You know Isadore, in the United States, it’s really taboo to talk about money, so it makes me very uncomfortable, when you don’t even greet me and you are asking me for money. We agreed on an amount and I’ve already paid you.”
“Well, madame, you know we Africans are different about money. We argue the price all the time.”

The wisdom I get from Cameroonian women tends to actually be helpful and wise.

A Year in Review

A year in review

Books read: 64

Maladies had: at least 24

Positive malaria tests: 2

Positive I had malaria: 583,712 (I may be a hypochondriac, but the symptoms of malaria are EVERYTHING.)

Movies watched: too many to count

English students taught: 221

Papers graded: 885

Cats owned: 2

Cats loved: 1

Squares quilted: 19 square feet

Moments when I said to myself, “You just made a difference.”: 3

It’s hard to believe that I’ve been here for a year now. What people told us when we first arrived was that the days are long, but the months are short. It’s true. It’s harder to fill the hours of the day, when you don’t have Netflix.

Time just doesn’t work the same way here. The other day my good friend, Solange, had her confirmation at church. In my head, I planned for that to take up the whole morning. Because of my recent vacation, I forgot that it should take up most of the afternoon as well. And apparently after I take a nap, I should come back over to continue partying.

I’ve had good days and bad days here and both of them come down to one thing: Here in Cameroon, everyone treats everyone like family and the trouble is that this family is much closer to My Big Fat Greek Wedding than my family. Yep, loud eating Cameroonian breeders. Everyone is always telling you that you need to eat more, you need to be married, you need to not put your helmet on the ground, etc. Like family, everyone has an opinion and because they care (and they’re always right), they want you to know that you’re doing it wrong.

That day was a lovely day, even if I was doing it wrong. I didn’t eat the fish. I used a fork. I refused alcohol and accepted almost half of the greens on the table. All of Solange’s children came to Dimako for her confirmation and we had a lovely meal and spent time talking about love, marriage, emigration, school, and family stories. I feel so lucky to finally have a family in Dimako, because it makes all the difference in the world. I’m happy to report that right now when I’m alone, I'm not lonely.

If I had any advice to the incoming PC Cameroon noobs, I’d say:

 - If you hate doing it, hire someone to do it. Your peace of mind is worth more than CFA.

 - If you feel like you can’t make it without a trip away from post, go, but know that the more time you spend away from post, the harder it is to stay.

 - If your gut tells you something’s not right, listen.

 - For long distance moto trips, look for the guy with mirrors and helmet. If he cares about his safety, he’s more likely to care about yours.

 - If you have mice, CLEAN YOUR HOUSE. Then get a cat.

 - Take your prophylaxis. Sleep under a net. Screen your windows. Avoid malaria.

 - Make a list of reasons to be happy. (1. I’m not malarial. 2. I’m digesting normally. 3. Plantains…)

 - When you feel like you have no control, clean and cook.

 - When you pack, don’t waste space on clothes. Bring snacks that won’t spoil, spices, and toiletries.

 - Everything is more manageable, when you can have a little taste of home – whether that’s food, a movie or a favorite book.

 - Take pictures.

 - Get a cat.

 - Get a hobby.

 - Do what you love. Fuck the rest.

I love Paris in the springtime.

I love Paris in the fall!

You know what I don't love about Paris? Chatelet.

Picture this - Beth, resplendent in pagne and flushed with dairy and good looks, arrives in Paris at Gare de Lyon at midnight. As a strong and independent woman, she declines the offer of help to carry her 50+ lbs of care package, prison bag and giant backpack.

Putting a brave face on things, she conquers her irrational distaste of escalators (caused by a terrifying story told by a cousin of a fictitious woman whose face was ripped off by one) and manages to get herself and her many bags on the escalator. Some beer-perfumed teenagers offer to help with the first flight of stairs; exercise be damned! She accepted.

Now that was just Gare de Lyon. It's a classy establishment, so there are escalators galore and very few short flights of stairs (maybe 2 or 3). I manage to get down the 14 train towards St. Lazare, which is equally classy and even wheelchair accessible (where was that elevator, when I was imagining tumbling down the escalator, wine bottles smashing on my head and having no face?!).

That's when it hits me. Chatelet is where I have to change to get the 4. For those of you who don't know Paris public transit well, Chatelet is a maze where five lines cross. When I remembered, I actually thought about going back up the many escalators to exit and maybe find a taxi and risking the metro fare I'd already paid. Lucky for me, I am particularly stubborn, when I know I haven't chosen the best option available.

The two lines that I used in Chatelet are possibly the furthest apart of all of them. I think that I took 10 flights of stairs. That was stairs, not escalators. I have the beginnings of blisters and my whole body is sore.

Do you know what Cameroon has that I am looking forward to? Almost no stairs! Also, less cold.

France again, France again, jiggity jig!

Maggi, you're everywhere!

Ever since I left Paris, I've been cold. Coupled with my newfound lactose intolerance (and swift reacquaintance with reliable modern plumbing), I was almost convinced that I had malaria. Luckily, I'm pretty sure that was just my hypochondria acting up.

In Paris, I spent most of my time walking around on my way to check out Sciences Po, where I'm thinking of going for grad school. I stayed up by the Gare du Nord and walked all the way down to St. Germain-des-Pres. On my way, I found the world's smallest bakery, had a delicious tiny cupcake and managed to confuse the employee into doing Cameroonian greetings (The 'soir' starts at 12 noon in Cameroon and 6pm in France.). I finally found Sciences Po and in true French fashion, it was a jour ferie, meaning it was closed. Sciences Po is in a really posh area of Paris, located not far from the Deux Magots (favorite cafe of Ernest Hemingway), Swarovski Crystal and Armani. I was getting a little worried that my Anglo-Cameroonian French accent and copious amounts of pagne wouldn't exactly fit in, but my accent is already changing again and everyone I talked to was so friendly.

Metz is clearly very ugly.

After I found Sciences Po, I treated myself to a movie, The Grand Budapest Hotel, and some Smurf gummies. I got to talking with the epicerie owner and I got my first ever "petit cadeau" in France and a standing invitation to go to Morocco. Ready for an it's-a-small-world-moment? His two sisters are both married to Marines stationed in Jacksonville.

Ready for an even more impressive it's-a-small-world-moment? The next morning in my covoiturage (ride-share) to Metz, there was a fellow Jacksonvillian. Not that impressed? He and I went to the same tiny elementary school in a city of 1,000,000 people. My first car ride in Europe was a bit of a change from the petites voitures of Cameroon... Instead of seven or eight people in a 90s Toyota, we were five people in a humongous Audi with leather interior and the new car smell.

Metz was incredible! It was wonderful to see the old crew again and though a lot of the colocs have moved on, we had a good reunion. I went to Bouche a l'Oreille (their slogan is "cuisine du fromage") and almost died from a cheese overload; I thought I was being so good! I ordered a salad on their menu, instead of oeuf cocotte or quiche Lorraine! For dessert, I had the coupe Lorraine - mirabelle sorbet with mirabelle eau de vie. So good!

I got to hang out with Morgane at la Migane and stayed at 32 RdPdM again. My last night a few of the Georgia Tech guys put on a great concert in the basement of the bar and I couldn't stop thinking things like "I knew them before they were famous!" They were wonderful! Afterwards, there was a going away party for Aaron, who's moving back to the States.

And now for the list all of you have been waiting for....

What I've Eaten So Far
-orange juice
-quiche lorraine (team effort from Elaine and me)
-pears
-strawberries
-blueberries
-blackberries
-raspberries
-fromage blanc
-goat cheese with raspberry-apricot jam

-baguette
-blueberry bagel with cream cheese TWICE
-tartiflette (potatoes and lardons smothered in cream and reblochon cheese)
-hot chevre on toast
-pancakes
-omelette sans spaghetti
-rosette
-orange oranges
-tuna (I like it now. Go figure)
-Indian buffet (curry veggies, jasmine rice, samossas, fried eggplant, naan, etc)
-coconut ice cream
-macarons (lime/basil, raspberry/rose)
-merveilleux (meringue, cream, shaved chocolate and wafer dessert)
-doner kebab
-Peeps and Reese's Pieces (Thanks, Glenna!)
-chocolate cake (Gracias, Heather)

Centre Pompidou-Metz

Somewhere during all that eating, I found some time for a little culture. I took an afternoon to go to Metz's Pompidou Center. Like Paris, it's a modern art museum. Unlike Paris, it's a good-looking art museum. They had a special exhibit on paparazzi and the relationship between them and their subjects. At the entrance, there was an installation of cameras, microphones and a red carpet to kind of give you the celebrity treatment. (I think I'll take my anonymity any day.)

Now I'm in Strasbourg staying with Heather and Ludo. This afternoon I'm going to brave the cold and walk to centreville and if everything goes according to plan, sit in a cafe and people watch.