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.

Home Improvement and Witchcraft

I FINALLY MOVED!!!

After three months of waiting and quilting and bothering my postmate, I finally moved into my very own home. I put down my plastic rugs and slapped down my mattress and swept and mopped and mopped and swept!

Then, my friend, Solange, came over with her children and extended family to see if I needed any help. That's when the trouble really began. She told me the power was on, so I got really excited, because guess who has a fridge?! Posh Corps! ....but....the lights were on, but no current was passing (as we volunteers say in our weird translated from French English). None of the outlets worked. NONE OF THEM!!! I did the grown-up thing and laid on my floor and pouted and then did some more mopping and sweeping.

Jon came over later that day to help me connect my stove to my gas bottle via the too-small tube. We royally failed after more than an hour of clamping and wiggling and rolling of eyes and gnashing of teeth. My friend, Pamela,  tried to comfort me by telling me that I had the worst luck of anyone she knew, but that it would get better.

I put my sorrow and despair into a constructive project - I regrouted my whole house, because while I was cleaning paint off my floor (and getting high off the fumes), I managed to get eaten alive by microscopic tiny ants called Canadians.

I later found out the reason that I have an ant problem is because of a woman, who used to live in the neighborhood. She went into the underworld and brought back a bag of ants. Yep, the reason that I have a pest problem is sorcelry. There are a few ways to combat sorcelery in the East - be really religious, keep one particular breed of chicken or eat a cat or a dog. Apparently, you eat cat or dog as a remedy; if you are having nightmares, it's possible that someone is trying to make you their zombie, but if you had dog or cat for dinner, they can only call the cat's or dog's soul and you'll be fine.

After a night spent wishing I had the neck-feather-less chickens, I spent a day unpacking and attempting to get a hold of Major, the guy who doesn't direct the construction of my house. Then, Solange came through again and after her neighbors put my guest bed together, they came to look at my electricity. After 4 days in my house, many trips to Jon's  house to charge things and much weeping and wailing, my electricity works!

And a few days later, the only thing left to finish my bed room is to make curtains and I am a boss at making curtains. I sleep in a bed. When I remember that a fridge is for keeping food good for longer, I have food in my fridge, which is cold. I can change locks, I can put in screens (kinda), I can put together beds and screw in light bulbs. I can attach gas bottles to stoves, I can make the best banana bread ever and really delicious black-eyed peas and I can even sometimes flush my toilet.

Side note: Guess who has amoebas? One more thing to cross off my Cameroon bucket list!

April is World Malaria Month

Malaria has an almost mystical status here in Cameroon. Not many people are aware of what causes malaria or "le palu" as it's normally called. I've heard people complain about bus windows being open, because it lets in malaria more than once. My neighbor has malaria and she told me that it's because her well water isn't good or because she drank bad palm wine. Every cold or head ache can be explained away as a "petit palu."

Recently Malaria No More produced a bilingual song that played all over the radio here in Cameroon. It helps educate people on how to avoid contracting malaria, mostly by the proper use of bed nets. Because there is no vaccine for malaria, so avoiding infection is the only real option. Bed nets are the most effective tool in reducing infection rates, because mosquitoes are most active between dusk and dawn.

The first time that I saw malaria in action, my host brother in Bafia was sick. Darrel is 8 years old and insanely energetic. I woke up one night, because he was crying for his mother. She was out of town proctoring national exams, so her nephew, John, was there to take care of the house, the fields, Darrel and me. Because John had to take care of Darrel, he wasn't able to go to the fields for several days, which can lead to decreased production. (Darrel took the proper medication and was back to normal after a week or so.)

For subsistence farmers or other people who depend on working every day, the money for medication is hard to come by. They often turn to "pharmacy" stalls in the market for a less expensive and often expired solutions. The cost of lost work productivity and hospital tests and medications can mean the difference between money saved for school fees or to buy more nutritious food at the market. The cost of a malaria blood test is 2000 CFA and the cost of Coartem (the most effective malaria treatment for the strain, P. falciparum, which is most prevalent here in Cameroon) is around 4000CFA.

Jupiter sleeps under a mosquito net every night.

While $12 might not seem like a lot to Americans, 6000CFA is 360 limes, 480 bananas, 60 cups of beans, 10 kilos of sugar, 20 blocks of soap, 6 large bottles of bleach, half a water filter, one-fifth of a year's school fees, 60 moto rides, 12 trips to Bertoua, 30 market bags, 12 meters of fabric, 5 large bottles of oil, 90 eggs, 3 cats, 2 handmade dresses, electricity for 6 months, one month's rent for a room or 240 beignets.




We're all trying to do our part here to help bring the infection rate lower. I'm currently working on developing a year's worth of English lesson plans with a health focus, including malaria infection and prevention.

How will you Stomp Out Malaria in 2014?

Kongossa Korner - Dimako Edition

So during stage, most of us thought our amicale was boring and very, very long. I think that our opinions may have been heavily influenced by the fact that amicale was during what little free time we had (3 hours a day) outside of training sessions, model school and spending time with our host families. I was lucky enough to already have French, so my host family time was more hangout and less French immersion.

Anyway, amicale….

I arrived to my first amicale here in Dimako in December prepared to be bored and not follow what was going on for several hours and then to eat food and drink a drink that I’d paid too much for. This was luckily not the case! (Ok, so maybe the meeting part was a little over my head with all the new names and new rules and I will admit that it’s significantly easier for me to zone out of French than English. My eyes may have been vacant and I may have even drooled unintentially. Who knows?)

In September, I learned the first rule of amicale: NEVER SHOW UP ON TIME!!! (Unless you’re an officer) I also learned that one of the teachers had a problem with another teacher. It was never really clear to me. I kinda just assumed that the pissy teacher was just an ass. He was transferred to East Jesus Nowhere halfway through the year and that was that.

So I learned the ropes of amicale. You talk to whoever you sit next to and hope the questions and conversation don’t go anywhere strange (So what do you think about incest? Is it legal where you’re from?). You drink your palm wine and smile at people. You get help on people’s names from the few people whose names you do know. Thank you, Nathalie! (It doesn’t help that some people live in Yaounde and still belong to this amicale. At least they’re still teachers at LT Dimako, unlike that one dude from Lomie…but I digress.) You eat your food and try everything, except taro (bleagh), because it all tastes good.

I’ve recently gotten so good at being late to amicale that I’ve missed the last two. Once because I was out of town, being proactive about my future (GRE) and once because it looked like it might rain and I didn’t want to get dressed. I am an adult.

To continue on my adult responsibility streak I’ve been on lately, I finally picked up my amicale pagne (we all wear outfits made of the same fabric or you pay a fine) and tried it on. There was definitely some gymnastics involved, but I managed to both take it on and put it off  (I had some terrible visions of having to wait till Sunday to ask my post mate to help me change my clothes…). I left really late and missed the whole meeting part (go me!) and arrived just in time for the food.

This group* went all out. There was enough seating for everyone and even though I forgot to order a drink, there was one for me. We didn’t just have the ever-important chicken,** we also had goat! It was soooooooo good. It reminded me a bit of brisket. Yum. And we of course had fried plantains and batons.

Back to the real reason for me to write this entry…I finally found out what happened between those teachers eons ago!

Tomorrow we give the students their 2^nd trimester report cards, so every teacher has been signing their names on report cards next to official comments (Perfect, Feeble, Null, Mediocre, Good Enough, etc.), until their right arms fell off. Because of some computer problems, we’ve been unable to update who teaches which class on the report cards, so Mr. Pissy Teacher is still on there and one of my colleagues was still on there as my students’ French teacher despite numerous changes in that position. Several teachers have been taking advantage of the glitch to say that because their names aren't on their report cards, they don’t have to sign. A few administrators were asking (commanding) that people come in early to sign the report cards, so we’ll give them out completed tomorrow. A few teachers were saying (shouting from the rooftops) that if they were doing all the work, they wanted their names on the report card.

Everyone was pissed and was taking it out on the principal’s secretary, because she’s the person who inputs all the information, despite the fact that it’s not her job. A lot of people took exception to that (and then I got wrapped up in the incest conversation…) and something happened and suddenly the yelling people were different yelling people  and the teacher from the beginning (the not pissy one) was shouting and slamming his fist on the tables.

I thought that he and another ‘nother teacher were going to come to blows. I admit that I was mesmerized and may have tried to eat my cell phone thinking it was pineapple. As soon as the two angry dudes got away from the door, I scooted.

After another 15 minutes of shouting that culminated with the now very pissed teacher shouting, I SHIT ON IT!!! (not sure what), while swinging around a beer bottle, he was finally coaxed onto a moto by his friend (with whom he almost came to blows).

…only to return 5 minutes later, just as pissed. At which point, I thanked the hosts and took my leave.

But anyway, real kongossa (gossip) time! The first pissed-off teacher had very good reason to be pissed with tonight’s contestant for Miss Congeniality. They had actually had a fist fight during an amicale last year! Whoa! And now they're talking about banning Miss Congeniality from all future amicales, which would be really awkward, because he’s in a leadership position at school.

Lessons Learned Tonight:
1. Try to get a seat by the door. You’ll get a breeze along with your mosquito bites and if a fight breaks out, you can make a fast exit.

2. Know intricate details of the American legal system, especially concerning incest.

3. Know how to better describe distant cousins.

4. Always carry a plastique for your doggy bag for cat.

*group - Depending on the amicale, you have at least two people who host together. They generally pay for the food, while the guests might pay for a drink
**If you have a party and you don't serve chicken, you have done a very bad thing manners-wise. Everyone will be talking, until the next millenium about how cheap you were.

Open House

So in America when you go to an Open House at school, you see art projects and you eat cookies and punch. In Cameroon, it is a two-day event.

No English! Hooray!

The official start time is 10am, so people start arriving at about 10:30 and the person who opens the ceremonies arrives after 11. There are speeches galore with long-winded introductions before each one and songs as transitions.

The favorite part of Portes-Ouvertes for many people, especially teachers and students, is that there is no class! (As in school, not a lack of classiness)

After all the speeches, we went through each class and they did presentations for the academic classes. For technical classes, the kids applied their skills and built walls, made lightbulb demonstrations, tatted lace, made foods, made beds, tables, etc.

Health Club giving out free rapid HIV tests

The clubs also did demonstrations on what they had learned. The Health Club did some HIV/AIDS education and sponsored an AIDS monument. They even did some free rapid tests on teachers, students and guests.

My Girls' Club did condom demonstrations and explained the reasons to use one. I was really proud of my girls for working on their public speaking and doing a great demo.

"Campus sans SIDA" (Campus without AIDS)

After the grand tour, everyone enjoyed food and drinks in the teachers' lounge. The important people all drank "petit Guinness."

And that's how you attract new students to your school!

The Tipping Point

The week before last, the fourth sequence finished, so I had to evaluate my students. Due to recent changes to my luck, I now only teach one level and on two days a week! I was looking forward to some downtime and more days to recover from teaching.

Everybody knows the phrase "the straw that broke the camel's back."

I had evaluated my students on Tuesday and spent all evening Tuesday and all day and all night Wednesday (and even into Thursday morning) grading my exams. It was not quite the depressing experience that it generally is, because this time there was one perfect score and more than 10 (out of 140+) students passed!

I had decided during my last sequence that I would do something to "motivate" my students. "Motivation" is top secret code (or Cameroonian slang) for bribery. In this case, the bribe was one pen each for the top 10 scoring students.

I had all 140+ students at one time, which is unusual and hasn't happened for ages (besides exam days). I got them all settled down by talking nonsense to them (English) and proceeded to announce the top grades and present them with their pens. Everyone applauded and was really happy for them...until I ran out of pens.

Then it was all DONNE-MOI MON PART!!! OU EST MON BIC?! JE N'AI PAS DE BIC, MADAME!!!! (Give me mine! Where's my pen? I don't have a pen, ma'am!)

I calmed down the riot and got everyone back to their seats and then called the heads of the classes up (Carpentry, Home Ec, Electricity, Masonry) to collect the exams for their sections.

...and it was back to the riot. OU EST MON EVALUATION?! ELLE A VOLE MON EVALUATION!!! ELLE EST EN TRAIN DE DECHIRER MON EVALUATION!!! MADAME, VOUS AVEZ ECRIT UN 8 ICI; POURQUOI J'AI UN ZERO?! (Where's my exam? She stole my exam and now she's tearing it up! Ma'am, you wrote an 8 here - why do I have a 0?)

I did the mature, adult thing and I put my arms out and said if I could touch them, they were too close. I felt weird doing it, but they really were breathing my air.

I got the students back in their desks and proceeded with a very angry lecture:

   Do you like getting zeros on your exams? Do you like having mediocre grades? If so, leave. Do you like to waste your time and mine? Leave. Do you like to waste your parents money and keep your classmates from learning? Leave, because I've had enough. Why am I here, if you learn nothing?

I had two students leave class. I did not miss them. After I let them sit in stunned and shamed silence for maybe 30 seconds, I turned around to write the correct answers to the exam on the board. I got all the way until 'second person plural,' before it happened.

The board fell on the floor and tried to take out my left foot. The students immeadiately started screaming and shouting and carrying on about how it was sorcery that made it fall. I turned around, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. It was one of those moments where you either have to laugh or to cry. Ever the pragmatist, I chose laughter, because if I cried, my students would just be worse for the rest of the year.

I left my classroom at the end of class and was happy that I had my sunglasses with me, because I had that moment, the tipping point moment, where that last thing just pushes you over the edge. Mine was having that board fall, I looked at it and thought, "This is one of those moments that would send someone home."

Luckily, I am very stubborn and a weekend in Bertoua fixed me up just right.

Hobbies - or the Fight against Free Time

Some people complain that their job keeps them too busy - "I don't have any time to myself! I don't remember the last time I watched a movie! I never get to spend quality time with my cat!"

In Peace Corps, sometimes people have the opposite problem and you know what they say about too much of a good thing....

As I've mentioned before, sometimes I get so bored that I exercise twice a day. Sometimes I watch all of 30 Rock with my postmate in a week.


The trick to avoiding going swiftly insane is to develop hobbies - you get exceptionally good at cleaning, to the point where your house would be impressive even by American standards. You go to the market more often than is necessary just to have something to do. You think about ordering a harmonica and Harmonica for Dummies from Amazon and you thank your lucky stars that your debit card was stolen, so you don't. You might even make a very cute toy for your cat, with whom you definitely do not enjoy a codependent relationship (photos to follow). You attempt quilting and discover that while you might be great at cutting out squares, you are total crap at sewing in a straight line. You study phrenology a bit and learn that you have a very bumpy head.

And then the desperation and boredom take a turn for the productive. And instead of practicing staring into space for an hour at a time, you streamline your schedule, so you have time for other things to do. You talk to your co-workers. You join a women's group. You make lists. You seriously think about actually finding the Catholic mission to see if you can work in their clinic and avoid any mention of needles at the same time.

Basically though, things are starting to take a turn for the (happily) busy for me! I've joined that women's group (village savings and loan, gossip, and dinner every two weeks). I've started a girls' club with my counterpart and we have our promo meeting Monday and our first meeting Wednesday. I changed my work schedule, so I don't work Monday and have 4 hours Tuesday and as a consequence will be forced to stay at school all day to socialize with my coworkers and lesson plan (woot!). I'm working on getting scholarships for some of the students at my school and at the Lycee Classique in Dimako. I joined the Ed steering committee. I'm applying to attend the National Girls' Forum in April. I have also been practicing making simple sentences!

Shit is going down! And last, but not least, I'm planning a vacation to France to see my family and my friends from Metz!

And I'm still mostly healthy!

Now accepting visitors!

I would love to have some visitors! Here are a few articles to pump you up!

A recent terrible CNN article - Don't read this wildly inaccurate article that only talks about two cities. Go down to the comments section and read the comment by Jack for a better picture of the country.

A flowery Washington Post article - Read this one, especially if you are studying for the SAT or the GRE and need to brush up on vocab. Perhaps the writer had a stack of flash cards next to the computer? The comments are also a bit more intelligent.

But really, come for a visit!

I promise this face and home-made key lime pie on arrival.

The food is great and plentiful. If you love mayonnaise, you will love this country! Mayonnaise sandwiches, mayo on your avocado salad, mayo on your spaghetti omelette! That brings me to another local delicacy - the spaghetti omelette. This dish will tempt even the most delicate palate with the crunch of spaghetti, the heat of the piment, the spiciness of the red onion.

A trip to Bertoua guarantees you the best poisson braise in country with gingery condiment vert. Ndole (a type of greens) is available all over and is generally served with plantains or manioc (a.k.a. cassava or yucca). The traditional dish of the anglophone regions is fufu-corn and djama-djama (more greens with something that always reminds me of more solid grits). The goal of every Cameroonian 'mama' is to get you 'bien gros' or nicely fat.

The people are generally friendly and very welcoming to tourists. One of the most common questions I get here is whether or not I like it. The next one is how do I like the food, followed by a quiz of what kind of Cameroonian food I've tried. You could even say that the people here are so welcoming that they don't want you to leave, hence all the marriage proposals.

Travel is getting easier within the country with new roads connecting the capital cities; I'm told that two years ago, it took more than 12 hours to get from Yaounde to Bertoua. Now it takes six. Despite how expensive flights are, once you arrive, the living is inexpensive. It costs me $8 to get from the capital to my town and $1.25 to get from Dimako to Bertoua. An average breakfast of beans, beignets and bouilli costs about $0.50. You would be hard-pressed to put away a breakfast that costs more than a dollar.

In spite of the dearth of pictures, it's also beautiful here. Every road is lined by eight-foot-tall "daisies," giant trees, tiny villages and goats galore.

The wildlife is supposed to be unparalleled. Just in the East, we have the Lobeke Preserve and the Dja Preserve, a UNESCO World Heritage site. Another wildlife possibility here is goat watching, as many a Peace Corps Volunteer will tell you. I recently had an integration success that just warmed the cockles of my heart; while many people can't pronounce my first name, the goats have clearly  been practicing their English pronunciaton every night. When I leave the house, I get greeted by name, "Beeeeeeeeeeeeeethh!! Beeeeeeeettthhhhh!!!!"

As a former French colony, Cameroonians enjoy exceptional vacation policies. I will have my summer break from the end of May to the beginning of September and get special time off to take around visitors, who can spread the word of Cameroon back home.

What I've been up to

Nothing much. The end.

Sadly, this is not too far from the truth. I finally got back to Dimako the first full week of January just in time to teach. I delayed my return till the last minute not because I didn't want to go to post, but because my house isn't ready.

I've been looking for a house almost since I got to post in August. I finally found one in late November and got it approved. Peace Corps paid 6 months rent in advance, so that they had the money to finish up the house. It needed the bathroom to be finished up, a couple light fixtures installed, a wall around the compound and a roof for the latrine. The money should have been a gracious plenty for all of that to get done and only the wall would take a long time, but today is January 26th and I still am not in my house. 

I've been living in my postmate's house for the past two weeks. It's been very relaxing to be in a house with a fridge/freezer, a stove and furniture. It's really made me want to get my house done even more, but in the two weeks plus that I've been back, the only progress that's been made is a really big pit to drain my shower room, glass being added to one window and finding out that the house needs to be rewired.

My postmate, Jon, and I have a pretty good relationship, but I'm worried that when he gets back from his travels (he's been gone almost this whole time), I'm going to wear out my welcome. I would just really like to move and be done with it.

In the meantime, I've been teaching my 2 classes (having recently dropped one, because we got yet another English teacher at my school), watching a lot of movies, reading, and being so bored that I exercise twice a day. It's getting unhealthy. No one should be that bored, but when your laundry is all clean and so is the house and everything is organized and your papers are graded and your letters all answered, what else can you do?!

I think that I'm getting deeper into crazy-cat-ladydom. I spend a good amount of my time just watching George. He found a mouse outside and brought it in to play with and I thought it was really cute that he was batting around the tiny mouse corpse and then swallowed it whole. Do you see what I mean?!

Hopefully, I'll be moving soon, so I can get back into gardening and less into cat-watching. If anyone has any small entertainment ideas, send them my way! I've got stuff for quilting (Thanks, Jackie!), so maybe when I come back, I'll have a bad-ass pagne quilt and my sanity! I've rediscovered that I'm very good at solitaire and napping.

Kribi - Part 2 or... Shiny Shiny All the Time Most Handsome Boy Demonkiller

This is the part where my vacation takes a turn for the fancy.

A few months ago in Bertoua, we had a few security problems (no permanent damage to anyone), but our Safety and Security Coordinator decided that it might be good if the volunteers in the East met the Governor. I missed out on it, but they had dinner a few times and apparently made a very favorable impression - such a good impression that he offered us the use of his beach house in Kribi.

"Beach house" might be a bit misleading..."Governor's mansion" might be more appropriate. There were 5 or 6 bedrooms all with their own a/c units and their own bathrooms. There were leather sofas, a balcony, a tower with an art museum, two kitchens and what amounted to a private beach.

It was paradise. We were a two-minute walk from the beach and the only other people who used it were fishermen. The water was clear and the beach was clean. I feel relaxed just thinking about it.

One night we even got to enjoy poisson braise caught at our own beach! I split a weird flounder-y looking fish with another girl. Delicious!

We went to the Lobe falls on our last afternoon. It's one of the few places in the world where freshwater falls go into saltwater. It was pretty tourist-y (and by that I mean the beers were expensive and there were people there selling jewelry, etc. The roads were still bad and poorly marked and there was no information anywhere).

The Beasts from the East

We left Kribi after a few days and headed to Limbe via Douala. Douala is easily my least favorite place in Cameroon. This includes Bafia, where I was constantly devoured by moumoutes. Douala is like every negative stereotype of New York plus 100% humidity and temperatures in the 90s all the time. It's noisy and dirty and smelly and the people are also noisy and dirty and smelly. I would be happy to never go back to Douala ever.

We hired a private car to take the five of us to Limbe, where we met up with a few more people at Arne's Cafe in the Limbe Wildlife Centre. I had a chocolate banana MILKSHAKE for lunch! It was magical. There was real ice and real dairy in it! Almost as good as Powell's.

We went to the botanical gardens our next day there and managed to get so lost tramping around next to a river that we apparently left the botanical gardens and may have climbed a fence to get back in... I felt very lucky to be wearing a caba, instead of something limiting my movements (I also felt very lucky to not get stuck on top and then have friends take pictures of me before offering to help. coughMattandQuinncough). The botanical gardens were lovely and we finished that trek off with drinks at a hotel bar overlooking the ocean - black sand beaches, volcanic rock, mist-covered mountains...and an oil rig. If you closed your left eye, the view was perfect.

Limbe Botanical Gardens - photo courtesy of Sarah Keene

The next day was my birthday - the big 25! We decided to take it easy on ourselves and went out to a resort called Seme Beach outside of town. Seme Beach is the Zephyrhills of Cameroon. It also boasts untouched black sand beaches, really nice lounge chairs, life guards, a saltwater pool, ice, and showers.

We spent a lot of time floating, exfoliating and being adults. We definitely didn't get into mud fights or paint our faces with mud and pretend it was war paint or make mud facial hair to have people guess who it was...

Now onto the epic bus ride! We arrived at the bus depot a bit before 8, waited in line for some time to get tickets. We got our tickets, hugged everyone goodbye, and loaded our stuff onto the bus. The bus was already almost full, but the driver wasn't there and the bus wasn't on, so we knew that departure wasn't imminent. Cameroonians were still getting on and off all the time, so we knew we weren't in a hurry...BUT the ticket guy had said it was leaving now.*

We hadn't eaten breakfast and we were planning on the good old-fashioned spaghetti omelette with mayo, but the bus was leaving! We raced to a boutique, bought some Creamz4Fun! (they taste like those elf cookies), some roasted peanuts and some plantain chips off a kid's head and got our seats...and proceeded to wait for an hour and a half.

This is a pretty normal travel experience here, but the thing is that you have to remember Murphy's Law. The first time you decide that you have plenty of time and you need to head to the latrine for a while - that will be the time that the bus leaves. The woman sitting next to Sarah had to run to catch the bus for the very same reason.

We had our refreshments - now for the entertainment! Back to Douala! On our way, we stopped and picked up 10ish people. They were standing in the aisles or sitting on little stools they'd brought with them. This got a lot of people's panties in a twist. We were on a VIP bus, which is supposed to mean A/C, tv and no stopping. You pay about 1000CFA more, but you get there hours before the other options and here we were stopping! There was an angry buzz in the air and it reached a dull roar, when we stopped before a checkpoint to kick off all the aisle people, passed through the checkpoint and then waited for those people to find motos to bring them back to the bus. A lady called the agence.

We stopped in Douala at their bus yard to refuel and then had to head to the agence itself to talk to the bossman. Our driver stopped at the agence for a millisecond and then we were off! ...or stuck in Douala's notorious traffic. We ended up having to circle back to the agence and drive around town with the boss for a while. Our driver was publicly fired right there in Douala, but drove us all the way to Yaounde.

At the last checkpoint before Yaounde, we stopped and picked up one person - a salesman by the name of Shiny Shiny All the Time Most Handsome Boy Demonkiller. He sold various products - toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap, bath oils and mentholatum (I think it's like tiger balm). which he started pushing as a muscle cream and ended up pushing as a cream that would make you cry a lot for cry-die's (funerals).

Shiny Shiny, etc. found out we were American and told us all about his plans to get an American visa and find an American wife to cook for him all the time. He (of course) asked us if we were married. She and I are both married, but our husbands live in the US. When we explained that we were living apart, he exclaimed, "But who is cooking for him?!" We explained that sometimes men cook and that if he wants to marry an American he had better learn. He did not believe us, but he took notes for the book he's writing on love and relationships.

Sarah and I also spent a good amount of time being suspected of being spies. A woman sitting behind us shushed someone who was complaining about the aisle people, because "there are ears everywhere....like the FBI." We had someone who was very subtly turned around in his seat to listen to our conversation. He was anglophone, so to have a private conversation, we had to pretend to be auctioneers. It was vastly entertaining, but I think I might have to introduce some people to the "ob" language to pass the time.



*Cultural note: Time does not flow the same way here as it does in the U.S. of A. When someone says "J'arrive!" (I'm arriving!), they could be at your door, but the more likely scenario is that they are making their lunch, have to eat it, clean the dishes, clean their house and their shoes, find a moto and come over. "J'arrive!" usually means "You will wait for half an hour!" It's to the point that I usually tell someone that I am already at the meeting place, when I haven't left my house yet, so I only wait for 10 minutes instead of 30.

Kribi - Part 1

Two weeks ago Wednesday I got to Yaounde to get some blood tests done to see if there was anything wrong with me that could make me sick all the time.

I'm healthy! There's nothing wrong with me, except anemia, but I imagine the week of shrimp in Kribi plus beans galore here have cured me off all my ills!

After a few days spent in Yaounde going to labs and eating American food at Route 66 and drinking really delicious mojitos (with real ice!) at Hilton Happy Hour, I headed off to IST (inter-service training) at Kribi.

Kribi is one of two big beach resort towns in Cameroon. It's known for its seafood, white sand beaches and derangey people. I may be immune to a lot of deranging coming from the East, but I didn't find Kribi too bad in that respect. It's like anywhere where there are a lot of tourists - There are especially nice people, because they know a lot of their income depends on tourists and there are people who resent tourists and as a consequence, behave like turds.

The beaches are beautiful - white sand and big black rocks jutting out of the water. It was ripe for a Little Mermaid reenactment. The waves were big and the water was warm enough for swimming and cool enough to be refreshing. I am definitely a Kribi kid.

We spent the days doing sessions and the afternoons swimming and the rest of our time eating and freezing to death under the air conditioning. It was great!

The seafood was incredible! A few of us went to the fish market and I had delicious poisson braise. It was so good that I actually had a dream about it. The dream goes as follows: A fish mama walks up with a platter of fish flopping all around. I look up and say, "Now that's a fresh fish!"

I ended the week on a high note with some food poisoning and a quick trip to Yaounde to make sure that there was still not anything seriously wrong with me (Nothing a Bastos smoothie couldn't fix).

To be continued....

MY WORST NIGHTMARE

So during IST, while I was busy choosing which end to put over the toilet, I made a vow to myself:

I will go at least a month without getting sick.

I am determined.

After my first ever brush with food poisoning, I went for almost 3 weeks of perfect blissful health. I went out, I slept, I ate - life went on and I began to take my good health for granted again. What a privilege!

Then it happened. This morning I was getting up to brush my teeth and I had this weird awful cramp just under my rib cage and at my lower back. It was telling me something and that something was "Get thee to a toilet! On the double!"

I went and I felt better and I ascribed the incident to mystery shits and moved on with my life. I moved on to a very fancy breakfast of blue cheese and croissants (Thank you, Walid! You spoil us rotten!) and enjoyed it immensely.

I was ready to go out and take on the police station to make my report and then it happened again. Terrible cramps that made me go pale and race for the toilet.

Nothing happened.

I swear I spend more of my life thinking about my bowel movements than anything else. I don't think about my work or anything else nearly as much. I can tell you down to the half hour when I had my last movement.

To cut an already long story short, I made it through the day and my meeting with the police commissioner without "joining the club" and was feeling very proud of myself for not heading to the toilet for the past 5.5 hours, until I found out a potential cause for my torment...

Cheese. The greatest love of my life.

Have you seen the movie French Kiss with Meg Ryan and Kevin Kline? She's eating all these gorgeous cheeses and talking about how there are more than 300 national cheeses. Then it hits her.

LACTOSE INTOLERANCE!!!!!!

And apparently it doesn't always go away. Ice cream and milk are fine, but I might have to say goodbye to cheeses for all time. I'm not ready for it to end. I need more time!

I'm hoping that with time we'll get back together. It'll be a joyful reunion.

And no one will shit.