Donne-moi un chat

In Cameroon, there are three ways of asking for things:

1. Donne-moi l'argent ('Give me' the money. Not terribly polite, but by far the most used)
2. Je peux avoir 100 de beignets ? ('I can have' 100CFA of beignets? The question mark is just barely there. It's definitely more of a statement and it's the one that I use the most.)
3. Il n'y a pas de piment?/Ce n'est pas... ('Isn't there' hot sauce? The most polite and a great opening to sending someone to find whatever it is you want. You give them the price you want to pay and if they're nice, they find it for you)

Yesterday on my way back to Dimako, I heard all of them. I had my giant LLBean backpack filled with books and clothes, my moto helmet and a basket full of cats. It's actually my worst nighrmare that it isn't a nightmare.

One of my friends is going to France for a vacation and I am taking care of her cat, Jupiter. George and Jupiter are best friends. They play and snuggle and are pretty freaking cute. If I was better with a camera, I would take a terrible/cute kitten video and set it to inappropriate music and post it on youtube and become a millionaire overnight. Luckily, my mad skills are definitely in other areas, so no one has to deal with that.

Anyway, I am poor right now, because I have bad spending habits and accidentally gifted someone with 10,000 of credit. As a result, I decided to take a car to Dimako instead of my own moto. The price difference is 1200CFA, which is almost a week's worth of groceries.

Unfortunately, I arrived to take the last seat in a car. Normally this would be a great thing - less time to wait in the sun, less time to sweat on strangers, getting home faster, etc. However, just after our car got a rolling start with the help of a few other drivers, another driver started yelling at our driver, so he reversed into a kid pushing a wheelbarrow/shop selling school supplies and then  back into his parking spot. He and the front seat passenger took off without an explanation, so it was just the mama, the cats and me.

This was seriously the most stubborn mama I have ever met. She was also sitting between me and the door and showed very little interest in opening said door and getting out. We waited in the car in the sun with the backseat windows rolled up for at least 5 minutes. She opened the door and we waited 10 more, until she finally decided to let me get out. She encouraged me to leave the cats inside the hot car. Horrifying, right?!

The cats were looking awful - panting, their eyes barely open. I was thinking that my friend would kill me, if I killed her cat on Day 2. I grabbed 50cfa of a sachet of water (a baggie of water) and poured some in the basket with them. I put them in the shade of the car and stood with them keeping a weather eye out for the driver, who was about to get an earful.

Meanwhile, the questions started. "Donne-moi un chat" - "Give me a cat. You have two! I'm hungry!" Yes, they were asking me to give them a kitten to prepare and eat. My host mother, Stephanie, told me that in the East people eat everything, but not to worry they stopped eating people. (That is the sort of statement that makes a person worry.) There's another volunteer in the East whose dog follows him everywhere. He rides to villages all around his town and the dog comes with. He said that at the end of every meeting he has, he asks if anyone has any questions. They ask their questions and then they say "and we want to eat your dog." He told the story with a twinkle in his eye and a smile in his heart.

So far, I haven't had anyone express an interest in eating George - just the occasional person trying to shock me by saying "you know we eat cat here." Easy enough to shrug off; I usually tell people I don't know that George hunts mice and that's why I have him.

It didn't work this time. It just sparked a discussion of what meat was the best. Apparently, cat is significantly more delicious than beef. Je peux avoir un chat? They'd accepted that they weren't going to get both cats, but there was still the possibility of getting one; I had a spare - Why not?

I was forced to explain that I was also taking care of my friend's cat. I didn't have a moment's peace, until I got home. It also didn't occur to me until just now that I was right next to the Ministry of Soya, where they prepare and cook all kinds of meat.

Un petit palu

I may have mentioned that the day I did my Peace Corps application was a rare sunny day in Metz and that I felt inspired by some friends' wonderful pictures of PC life and statuses about digestive issues. I actually looked forward to having the shits in exotic places.

I now feel like a legitimate volunteer. I had an explosive time in a latrine with no door at a bar. Afterwards I did crowd control for Kalene's HIV/AIDS mural project. The crowd control involved story time in French (made the blunder of telling Snow White...) and doing the spaghetti dance.

Because my explosively good times continued for a few days with little relief (from being sick and the guilt of not being useful with the mural project), I called PCMO and went to the hospital for some tests. 'Hospital' is a scary word, but it's just where they keep the doctors. I got a malaria test yesterday and took over a cup o' poop over this morning. The lab was closed, when I got there, so I dropped my "sample" in through the window (it was in a jar!). I immediately had to admit what I did, because just after I let go, the proprietor arrived. Oops.

I came back a few hours later thinking that I probably had giardia (the "joining the club" illness) and found out that I had malaria instead.

I'm taking Coartem to treat it and shouldn't have any long term effects. I've only really had one 'spell' so far of feeling really tired and sweating for no reason. I have what Cameroonians call "un petit palu" or just a little malaria.

They use "le palu" the same way we would talk about a bug or a cold. Because the symptoms of malaria are all-encompassing, you really could say that you have the palu every time you're sick.

You have a headache? It's palu. You have a fever? It's palu. You're feeling sore all over? Palu. Digestive problems? Probably the old palu-d.

Ca va aller.

Zombie

I do everything right to try to make sure that I sleep well.

No spicy food late.
No computer in bed.
Benadryl.
Ear plugs.
Exercise.
Active all day.
Cool bed room.
Routine.

But my neighbors are determined that I should never sleep. I already have all the bars playing their music to all hours, but luckily they're just far enough away that I can mostly block out their music with earplugs (even if I can still hear the bass a little).

This morning my loud neighbors turned on their music at 5:30 in the morning. FIVE THIRTY. IN THE MORNING.

I don't even want to sleep late. I just want to sleep until 6 without having music so loud that the stereo might as well be in my bedroom.

I cannot wait to move. Also, I never thought that I'd miss the nights at Thomas Hall at UF with drunk people shouting and leaving Midtown at 2am. At least they let you sleep in.

Teachers' Day and Amicale

I heard this statistic that says that it takes at least five months in a place for it to feel like home.*

I've now been in Cameroon just over 5 months and it really has seemed to be a turning point. The past couple of weeks I've been dealing with a lot of homesickness and my brain constantly asking me, "What are you doing here?!" in a high-pitched, panicked mental voice. I think part of my difficulties were due to the fact that I never actually answered the question and instead just thought of all the reasons that I can't go home (no job, shame, no job, no job, no plans, no job, no job, etc. Did I mention that if I went home I'd be unemployed?).

In a moment of astounding clarity, I actually thought about what I'd do if I went home. I would study for the GRE and probably do quite well. I would spend a year applying for grad schools and being a substitute teacher and live in my apartment. That is not actually a scary situation.

The fact that I was able to think that through and let myself think of going home as a viable option, which made staying here a decision and not something that I have to do. I've decided to stay and I've decided to do well here. I'm going to do more than get by, because doesn't two years of just getting by sound awful? That was definitely a contributing factor to the homesickness.

It certainly helps that this past weekend I had two (almost required attendance) social events for school. On Friday, we had our amicale, which is a monthly staff social. There's also a financial aspect to it. Everyone has the option to participate in "tontines;" everyone contributes a set amount of money (or soap or oil) each month and one person gets the pot. They rotate the honors, but it helps people who live far away to cover their travel expenses or for someone to build a house or whatever. Everyone also contributes 10,000CFA for the year that the staff votes on giving to people, if they have a baby, get married or there's a death in the family. You can also get loans and use it as a savings account. Anyway, it's a really cool system.

We had a practice amicale at training once a week and it was like pulling teeth to go. We had so much on our plates already that the fact that we were required to go during our 2.5 hours a day to socialize was just too much. Everyone was always a little pissed to be there and more than a little frustrated. Vastly unpleasant.

The reality of amicale (at least at my school) is sooooo much nicer. This week I got there two hours late and the meeting was just getting started. I sat down between Desiree, an English teacher, and Evaristus, an electricity teacher. We drank "white wine" and ate peanuts and listened and gossiped.

Let me tell you a little something about "white wine." Me, I like to drink some cool white wine, when it's hot outside - you get to cool off and unwind at the same time. White wine here, though, is not made from grapes. It's palm wine. It ferments inside the tree. How cool! The flavor almost defies description- it's earthy, a little bitter, a little sweet, kinda herby and it doesn't taste like alcohol....

which explains why my entire staff got really drunk on Friday night. Everyone was yelling and laughing and fighting and drinking and being hungry and the meeting still went on. When it was time for the tontines, the hosting group had to present the money to the winners. The first giver gave this long benediction before handing over the money. Then, I heard my name. I had to give the second tontine. Eloquence escapes me at moments of unexpected public speech. In lieu of the lovely benediction, I said, "I forgot everything he just said, but we wish you well!" I was really happy that the power was out and we had only one lantern, because no one could see me blush. For whatever reason, teaching 120 students doesn't faze me, but 20 adults....

We finally ate at 8 or 9. It was a quarter of chicken, legumes (sauted greens), batons de manioc, bread, more palm wine and red wine (called Casanova. tasted like Communion).

All that palm wine explains why the next day, Teachers' Day, we lost the soccer match against the Lycee Classique and had a very low turn-out for the parade. That's mostly speculation on my part; I was home in bed with a headache. I did make it out to the Teachers' Day party at the Cafeteriat bar. We all had two drinks each, more batons, another quarter of chicken and piment (hot sauce). After everyone digested a bit, we all started dancing and I got some dance lessons from the discipline master.

It was a lovely weekend and it went a long way to making me feel more at home in Dimako. It's going to be a good two years.

*I have no way of verifying that stat because of a combination of laziness and slow internet.

I may have mentioned something about photos....

And I did make an honest effort. I went to the market armed with my shopping list and my camera. I asked the tailor I've been going to, if I could take a picture of her in her shop. She said she wanted me to come back Tuesday (I guess she wanted to wear an even more beautiful pagne outfit). I left her shop and asked this little girl, if I could take a picture of her bean stand. She said sure, but she didn't want to be in the picture. Then, I walked up to the guy who has a shoe frip (like a thrift store). He has these shoes hanging down all tied together like a bead curtain or something. Really cool. I asked him if I could take a picture. When he asked why, I said that my mum was harassing me for pictures, because so far my pictures are just of ankle infections and cats. (Mentioning your mom here is almost a surefire way of getting market ladies to like you, sadly it doesn't seem to work as well with the menfolk...)

He said sure and I backed up to take my picture, preparing to take 50 million to get one clear picture (I am really not good at taking pictures), when all of a sudden, this guy comes yelling at the shoe guy. "What's she paying you? You're letting her take a picture? She needs to motivate you!" (motiver=bribe) "She's going to go back to Europe and sell that picture for a lot of money! She's going to be rich! What's she giving you?" At which point, I step in and start - yelling is the wrong word - speaking up for myself. "I'm not European! I'm American! I'm a volunteer; I'm here to teach, not to make money! It's forbidden for me to make money! Anyway, no one would ever buy one of my pictures! I'm taking these to show my family what my life is like here!"

But the damage was done. The shoe guy looks at me and says, "Yeah, what are you going to give me?" What I really wanted to do was give him two choice words in English and a hand gesture to match, but instead I said, "I'm giving you nothing!" and stalked off.

I'd like to say that I made a great exit, but when you promptly burst into tears, when the spice lady asks you what happened...it tends to ruin the effect. Don't you hate when people are nice to you, when you are just trying to be mad and keep yourself together? Well, we'll see how the shoe guy feels about a good old-fashioned American boycott. So there.



To continue in the vein of Beth expressing herself well in French despite high levels of stress...

The other morning after possibly the worst night of sleep that I've had in country (including the night of the mice and the night of the mystery thing falling from the sky), my neighbor woke me up. I had spent the night before tossing and turning and being wide awake every few hours despite the use of Benadryl. I woke up before 5 and read for a while and managed to fall asleep again around 7. It was my day off.

I was having this wonderful dream, rivaling even the infamous Candyland dream. I had taken a hot shower and was using a fluffy warm towel and walking on the beach (not sure why the beach was between the shower and my wardrobe, but whatever). It was sunny and breezy and the sun was hot. I wasn't wearing sunglasses or a hat and I wasn't squinting. It just continues in that vein, but basically paradise.

I wake up to my neighbor POUNDING on my gate. I get up, get decent, unlock my two front doors and open my gate. My neighbor isn't even there anymore! His cousin is standing there and says to me, "Alain wants to take out the car."

I ask him very politely, "Where is Alain?" I might add that I did nothing to minimize the crazy bloodshot eyes, wild bed head, rumpled clothes and grinding teeth.

Alain finally moseys over to greet me and ask me, if he can get out the car. In reply, to his "ca va? I say "Ca ne va pas. You woke me up. It was not the first time. You know I don't sleep well. This house is in the middle of three bars. This is exactly why I don't want the car in the compound in the first place and it's constantly messing me up. The last time he wanted to put the car away, he said that he would return at 11 and I waited until 2, so I left late for Bertoua. Eleven needs to mean eleven! And we need a new system, where he gives me at least a day's notice to take out the car."

The whole time that I am going on my grammatically correct tirade, he's standing there (bad word) SMILING AT ME. You know - the you're-so-cute-when-you're-mad smile. There is nothing in the world that makes an already angry person feel like steam is coming out of their ears like that look. I spent the entire rest of the day in a funk.


And now to end this thing on a positive note... Using some Legally Blonde logic ("Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people don't shoot their [neighbors]. They just don't!"), I decided that I would start working out. It makes you feel better, it takes up time and it relieves in Mambo guilt that you might be feeling.

I have honestly not been having the best of days, but do you know what? I am in a great mood. George farted in my face and I just laughed about it (and promptly put George down and left the immediate vicinity). I got a new schedule at school today and griped about our new crappy schedules with a coworker and I was sorta pumped to gripe with someone. I still have ringworm, but I also made some beautiful eggs over easy this morning and didn't break the yolks.

I'm having a good day and ain't nothing gonna spoil it.

...not even accidentally gifting a stranger 10,000CFA of phone credit.