I was going to write a short post filled with quips and tales of being called out for falling asleep in English by the regional head of the Adventist Church of Cameroon during a five-hour-long, francophone church service and inadvertently offending a future coworker by shaking hands the wrong way....but instead I'll walk you through what I do during my day.
(Keep in mind that work starts Monday)
I wake up a little before 6am, because it's light outside and gather up all the tissues that litter the other twin mattress. (I'm on my third or fourth head cold, since arriving in country.) I head to the bathroom and check if I have a bucket of water, before I do my business. I have a toilet, but it doesn't flush, because I don't have running water. I expertly pour the bucket into the toilet maintaining the delicate balance of the right amount of force and the right amount of water splashed all over the floor.
I brush my teeth using filtered water and wash my face with well water. I do my grooming using my sink and a cut-up water bottle, but I know a lot of people prefer to do it outside.
I then get dressed, lock up and head to the market to get breakfast. I eat bouilli and beignets almost every morning. Bouilli is very fine powder that gets removed, when you rinse couscous de mais (basically grits). It then ferments and you make this paste stuff just right, add it to boiling water, wait till it's all creamy and delicious, add sugar and lime juice, and enjoy! Since making the paste just right seems to be beyond my limited abilities, when I'm ravenous, I generally just buy breakfast (10cents worth of bouilli, 20cents of beignets and 2ish cents per key lime) and call it a day!
Until recently, I've been splitting my eating time between the floor of my front porch or the toilet that I didn't use in the master bath. Now that I bought a bench, I sit at my table to eat. What luxury!
After I eat breakfast, I scrub one of the bathrooms, until I'm blue in the face. (Pictures to follow - it looked kind of like a gas station bathroom. You know the kind that the door doesn't shut well, there's no toilet paper and the ladies' is constantly out of order? That kind. To further my point, yesterday my neighbor asked me not to use the only toilet I've been using because it's deranging my neighbors. Evidently, everything that's been so efficiently flushed down my toilet has been sitting in the foot-wide space between my house and my neighbors'. Yuck.)
Once a week, I do my laundry, using buckets and a bar of laundry soap. I found out through a system of error and error that the powdered laundry soap makes all colors bleed. As a result, the only white shirt I brought now has yellow, blue and reddish stains all over it and I no longer have to worry about the fact that I managed to forget all tshirts and exercise shirts in the US.
Bouilli keeps you pretty full, so I generally eat lunch around 2 and make myself increasingly beautiful omelettes with fresh veggies (onions, tomatoes, peppers, green beans, etc), French bread and some fruit. Now that I have this feline of mine, I share the eggs.
In the afternoon, I sometimes take a nap or read for a little while or scrub more or go to the market and talk to the market ladies.
Talking to the market ladies is actually part of my job description. I am supposed to be integrating into my community, which seems to entail talking to nice ladies, politely refusing marriage proposals, and being fed by people whose goal is always to send you home nice and fat.
The power goes out around 6:30 just as it's getting dark. By candlelight (or headlamplight), I make my dinner, eat aforementioned dinner and take a bucket bath. Remember that cut-up bottle? It makes its second cameo here.
I climb into bed after locking up and tucking in my mosquito net and call it a late night, if I fall asleep after 8:30.
(This may seem a little dry after yesterday's post, but I always want to know the weird details of how people live, when I read stories (how people go to the bathroom, how they bathe and how often, what their underwear would look like, would it relate to how they go to the bathroom? periods, where the food comes from, etc) and thought yall might have similar questions, but be too polite to ask)
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Friday, August 30, 2013
Curious George
I've revised my best purchase ever from my Hawaiian print reusable bag to George, the cat.
This evening as I was getting ready for bed, I noticed a terrible gnawing sound followed by an impressively ferocious growl, considering George is so small that he fits in one hand. He and I noticed the mouse crawling down the wall at about the same time, but his reflexes are a bit better. He may have killed one mouse and eaten it and played with another for a while until its escape under my bed. Sweet dreams to me?
Also, (Sarah, this is a shout-out to you, Pekoe, and Chai) those mouse toys are amazingly accurate. George batted the unconscious/dead mouse around for about 20 minutes before he:
a) ate the mouse
b) hid the mouse
c) raised the mouse from the dead, or
d) found a new mouse.
I registered for the GRE recently, so I feel like I should start framing things in the form of multiple choice questions and/or using ridiculously long vocabulary words and/or thinking in syllogisms (what's the grammar rule for lists of three or more things linked by and/or?!). If anyone has any idea what I should do with my life, let me know the school codes for February. Ideas should include, but not be limited to, avoiding malaria, homelessness and prison.
George found a mouse (#3?) a few moments ago and now there is a silence so thick you could cut it with a knife (hopefully not the one that cut my hand and a chicken's throat). I am growing increasingly concerned that the mouse killed George and that I am overusing modifiers.
Will George successfully disembowel a mouse? Will its entrails end up in Beth's bed? Will she ever find a mason to close up all the holes in the walls?
Next Time....on George vs. The Mice!
This evening as I was getting ready for bed, I noticed a terrible gnawing sound followed by an impressively ferocious growl, considering George is so small that he fits in one hand. He and I noticed the mouse crawling down the wall at about the same time, but his reflexes are a bit better. He may have killed one mouse and eaten it and played with another for a while until its escape under my bed. Sweet dreams to me?
Also, (Sarah, this is a shout-out to you, Pekoe, and Chai) those mouse toys are amazingly accurate. George batted the unconscious/dead mouse around for about 20 minutes before he:
a) ate the mouse
b) hid the mouse
c) raised the mouse from the dead, or
d) found a new mouse.
I registered for the GRE recently, so I feel like I should start framing things in the form of multiple choice questions and/or using ridiculously long vocabulary words and/or thinking in syllogisms (what's the grammar rule for lists of three or more things linked by and/or?!). If anyone has any idea what I should do with my life, let me know the school codes for February. Ideas should include, but not be limited to, avoiding malaria, homelessness and prison.
George found a mouse (#3?) a few moments ago and now there is a silence so thick you could cut it with a knife (hopefully not the one that cut my hand and a chicken's throat). I am growing increasingly concerned that the mouse killed George and that I am overusing modifiers.
Will George successfully disembowel a mouse? Will its entrails end up in Beth's bed? Will she ever find a mason to close up all the holes in the walls?
Next Time....on George vs. The Mice!
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Ma Propre Maison Propre
Time travels weirdly here and I need to get a calendar. Right now I have no idea, when I moved into my house.
You know how I've mentioned 'Posh Corps'? My house is totally a Posh Corps house. It may actually be nicer than where I lived in the US. It's definitely bigger and has newer appliances.
My house here has two spring mattresses - twin-sized and by their powers combined form a three person bed (that's what they say in French, lit à trois places). Someone recently suggested sharing it with my two Cameroonian boyfriends and I experienced a weird sense of déjà vu. When I was in France, I talked about wanting two French boyfriends to save on heating costs. I don't foresee needing two Cameroonian boyfriends to keep me warm so close to the equator, even though I have actually used my sleeping bag almost every night.
My kitchen is a "modern kitchen." I have two sinks, a stove with electric and gas burners, an oven, a chest freezer, and a MICROWAVE. The microwave doubles as a mouse safe house - not in the sense that it's a home for mice, who are in the witness protection program; it is a place to store all my valuables like peanut butter, almonds and Nutella that covetous mouse burglars can sell for many francs CFA in the black mouse market.
To continue describing my home and provide one of many inadequate excuses for not updating my blog, I will share a story:
One of my first nights in my house, the electricity was out and I had not yet purchased my gas tank, so I ate a partially spoiled and leaking watermelon for dinner. Later that same evening, my favorite sister was talking to me on the phone and I was mentally preparing myself to brag about my dinner (ambrosia of the gods) and getting some bleach from the kitchen, when all of a sudden a terribly fast, dark streak sped from the counter to the stove toward me! My answer to my rhetorical remark, "Guess what I had for dinner?," was a bloodcurdling scream. That may have frightened my lady neighbors, who evidently sleep with their ears pointed toward my house. The reaction of my loving sister? "I'm guessing that's not what you had for dinner." No concern for my well-being. No worries about rabid monkeys climbing in my windows.
Since that fateful night, the mouse and I have become friends. As I ate the most beautiful omelette this world has ever seen, my little friend twitched its nose at me and then hid behind my microwave. It was a bonding experience that will last a lifetime.
Of course, the lifetime of the mouse (mice?) will be over fairly soon, because I intend to get a cat.
All good things must come to an end.
You know how I've mentioned 'Posh Corps'? My house is totally a Posh Corps house. It may actually be nicer than where I lived in the US. It's definitely bigger and has newer appliances.
My house here has two spring mattresses - twin-sized and by their powers combined form a three person bed (that's what they say in French, lit à trois places). Someone recently suggested sharing it with my two Cameroonian boyfriends and I experienced a weird sense of déjà vu. When I was in France, I talked about wanting two French boyfriends to save on heating costs. I don't foresee needing two Cameroonian boyfriends to keep me warm so close to the equator, even though I have actually used my sleeping bag almost every night.
My kitchen is a "modern kitchen." I have two sinks, a stove with electric and gas burners, an oven, a chest freezer, and a MICROWAVE. The microwave doubles as a mouse safe house - not in the sense that it's a home for mice, who are in the witness protection program; it is a place to store all my valuables like peanut butter, almonds and Nutella that covetous mouse burglars can sell for many francs CFA in the black mouse market.
To continue describing my home and provide one of many inadequate excuses for not updating my blog, I will share a story:
One of my first nights in my house, the electricity was out and I had not yet purchased my gas tank, so I ate a partially spoiled and leaking watermelon for dinner. Later that same evening, my favorite sister was talking to me on the phone and I was mentally preparing myself to brag about my dinner (ambrosia of the gods) and getting some bleach from the kitchen, when all of a sudden a terribly fast, dark streak sped from the counter to the stove toward me! My answer to my rhetorical remark, "Guess what I had for dinner?," was a bloodcurdling scream. That may have frightened my lady neighbors, who evidently sleep with their ears pointed toward my house. The reaction of my loving sister? "I'm guessing that's not what you had for dinner." No concern for my well-being. No worries about rabid monkeys climbing in my windows.
Since that fateful night, the mouse and I have become friends. As I ate the most beautiful omelette this world has ever seen, my little friend twitched its nose at me and then hid behind my microwave. It was a bonding experience that will last a lifetime.
Of course, the lifetime of the mouse (mice?) will be over fairly soon, because I intend to get a cat.
All good things must come to an end.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Recipes from the Great Beyond: Part 1
Saturday night, I was all set to kill my first chicken. I had my phone on me, so when my host mom called me on her way back from the market, I could head home. I also had some liquid courage in the form of one of the huge beers here. I was set, but she never called.
I got home promptly at 7 and saw the chicken in the wash basin in the kitchen, quietly clucking to itself. Apparently, Stephanie didn't want to bother me, so I had the beer for nothing!
The next morning I got up bright and ugly to just get it done. I was mostly mentally prepared, but then my cousin said I had to go get a sharp knife. (I had heard from other chicken killers that you have to saw the neck forever to kill the chicken and that was the worst part ever).
I went into my bags looking for my knives. I was told to look for one that was really sharp (or "tranchant," which literally means slicing), so I got the one that I know is really sharp and will never forget exactly how good it is at cutting things (for further information look at The Most Dangerous Game).
I walked around the house and out the door. The sunlight glinted demonically off the razor sharp edge. My host uncle grabbed the chicken out of the bucket. He started to demonstrate how to hold down the chicken - one foot on its wings, the other on its feet. The chicken was clucking sadly and molting constantly.
I took a deep breath and noticed the lump in my throat, as I bent down to kill the chicken, I couldn't help thinking about how much damage that yellow knife can do and how much pain it can cause.
I couldn't help it. I chickened out. (Pardon the pun)
My host uncle cut the chicken's head off and after it finished bleeding out, we put it in hot water, so I could pluck it and take the skin off the feet. Afterwards, I cut the claws off the feet and helped to butcher it. You have to be careful, when you open it up, because if you puncture the intestines, you literally get poop everywhere and if you puncture the stomach, the meat gets very bitter.
Cultural note: The gizzard must always be prepared and served with the chicken or your husband will reject the meal and demand, "What the poop?!"* Also, ladies are not allowed to eat the gizzard (not sure why).
Then you take the chicken and put it on the flames to burn off the "hairs." We prepared the chicken with tomatoes, peppers, onions and of course, Maggi cubes and palm oil. Then the chicken cooked on the stove for a few hours and became the delicious meal we enjoyed for lunch, dinner and breakfast.
*Cameroonian men would not actually say, "What the poop?!" but they might come up with another colorful oath.
I got home promptly at 7 and saw the chicken in the wash basin in the kitchen, quietly clucking to itself. Apparently, Stephanie didn't want to bother me, so I had the beer for nothing!
The next morning I got up bright and ugly to just get it done. I was mostly mentally prepared, but then my cousin said I had to go get a sharp knife. (I had heard from other chicken killers that you have to saw the neck forever to kill the chicken and that was the worst part ever).
I went into my bags looking for my knives. I was told to look for one that was really sharp (or "tranchant," which literally means slicing), so I got the one that I know is really sharp and will never forget exactly how good it is at cutting things (for further information look at The Most Dangerous Game).
I walked around the house and out the door. The sunlight glinted demonically off the razor sharp edge. My host uncle grabbed the chicken out of the bucket. He started to demonstrate how to hold down the chicken - one foot on its wings, the other on its feet. The chicken was clucking sadly and molting constantly.
I took a deep breath and noticed the lump in my throat, as I bent down to kill the chicken, I couldn't help thinking about how much damage that yellow knife can do and how much pain it can cause.
I couldn't help it. I chickened out. (Pardon the pun)
My host uncle cut the chicken's head off and after it finished bleeding out, we put it in hot water, so I could pluck it and take the skin off the feet. Afterwards, I cut the claws off the feet and helped to butcher it. You have to be careful, when you open it up, because if you puncture the intestines, you literally get poop everywhere and if you puncture the stomach, the meat gets very bitter.
Cultural note: The gizzard must always be prepared and served with the chicken or your husband will reject the meal and demand, "What the poop?!"* Also, ladies are not allowed to eat the gizzard (not sure why).
Then you take the chicken and put it on the flames to burn off the "hairs." We prepared the chicken with tomatoes, peppers, onions and of course, Maggi cubes and palm oil. Then the chicken cooked on the stove for a few hours and became the delicious meal we enjoyed for lunch, dinner and breakfast.
*Cameroonian men would not actually say, "What the poop?!" but they might come up with another colorful oath.
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