The ideas expressed below are not endorsed by or representative of the U.S. Peace Corps.

Also, I'm aware that "obviousment" is technically not an officially accepted French word.

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Texts from Last Night: Peace Corps Cameroon

I’m not so far removed from American culture that I think that Texts From Last Night is still a popular website, but I’ve been reminded of it by a few of the more ridiculous text messages that I’ve received (and sent) over the past few months. Unfortunately, my phone makes me delete most of them (remember when cell phones had a limit to stored messages?) but here are some of the ones I’ve saved in my inbox. They seemed too good to delete. Even if you don’t agree, hopefully some of these messages will give a different kind of insight than I usually put in this blog.

“To my darling French friends…actually life friends. Wishing you love, happiness, and solid poop in the new year”.

“Being the biggest Peace Corps hippie right now:  candles, incense, and Taylor Swift. Thought you’d appreciate it. Much ag love”.

“I’ve had dia[rrea] for a week and a half and just had to shit on someone’s roadside farm cause it was that urgent…watching “Poop in a Hole” [PCV Youtube clip] cause they are the only ones who get me right now”.

“filled a bag with cow shit for my garden and chose to moto[rcycle]  home. Didn’t have a cord to tie the top, lost my grip, arrived covered in poopy sweat. fml agro problems”.

“Weird day. On the way to the market dude yelled ‘sweet pretty rihanna’ at me in English. Boutique man wanted me to buy some cleaning spray… for vaginas. His wife uses it. There are 10 women and 5000 children doing laundry in my concession, idk why. Think I best go eat my liquidy street yogurt and call it a day”.

[During the world cup]
“Watching obscenely attractive soccer players is my favorite coping strategy at the moment in case you’re wondering”.

“It’s officially been four weeks since I kissed a boy and I washed my hair. The only American I’ve seen in that time is [***]. I think I need [my postmate] to come back to post…”

“PEACE CORPS DIRTY HIPPIES ALL DAY EVERY DAY”

“I’m currently slingshotting birds in my friend’s field so obviousment [it’s catching on!!] I’m disponible whenevs”.

“ROOSTER IN MY COMPOUND WAS KILLED THIS MORNING! Feeling a probably unhealthy level of joy over the demise of another creature but no guilt-gonna sleep so well”. –I wish I didn’t identify so strongly with this one…

[Same sender as above]
“THERE IS A GOAT IN MY HOUSE. What is this life”

[Referencing the surprising popularity of transition glasses in Cameroon]
“We can’t make cheese happen but inconveniently tinted glasses take off…this world is balls”.

“watching BBC Life with my neighbor friend. Loves the monkeys, not impressed by the aquatic animals. ‘I eat fish. This film is stupid’. Six years old, already a critic”.

“My neighbor who I haven’t seen in two weeks told me I’ve doubled in size and that I should lose weight for my health. Somedays people suck”. Needless to say, Cameroonians and Americans have entirely different rules about what is and isn’t acceptable to say between friends.

“I just went past [my favorite moto-boy] on his moto and he held out his hand and we high-fived. Whatta freaking keeper”.

“New milestone of development achieved in [my post]: Twix now available!”

I guess it’s time to clean out my phone’s inbox now.


Thursday, July 24, 2014

"Please, can we wash your floor??"

I’m pretty sure that no Cameroonian has ever uttered the phrase “none of your business”. The idea just doesn’t make sense here. Why would you ever want to keep an issue to yourself when it could be discussed, disputed, and argued about with everyone in the relative proximity? This facet of Cameroonian society has driven me crazy on more than one occasion (bus travel, anyone?), but it extends past minor disputes into the idea of personal space and living styles. To put it another way, most Cameroonians are fairly set on what constitutes an acceptable way to live, and by extension, what doesn’t.
            Partially because of this, I’m generally hesitant to invite Cameroonians into my home. It’s not that I’m a slob, but I generally prioritize comfort and practicality over compulsive cleanliness. I keep my dishes washed, my clothes clean, and (on good days) my bed made, but I just can’t see the need to have my floor spotless at all times. This is incomprehensible to all of the Cameroonians that have come to my house. In their opinion, floors should be swept compulsively and mopped (“dry-cleaned”) daily, if not more often. It’s quite inexpensive to hire someone to come clean, but I haven’t yet come to terms with this. It seems unnecessary to pay someone to do something that I’m perfectly capable of but have no interest in primarily for the sake of the few visitors that come by.
            One of the parts of Peace Corps service that I didn’t think to prepare for was all of the time Volunteers typically spend alone. Most of us (particularly female Volunteers) tend to be home before dark, and find ourselves with unprecedented amounts of time to pursue personal interests. Some people refer to these interests (and the way we occupy our time) as “coping strategies”, but I prefer to think about it as time to spend exactly how I choose. I generally spend my evenings in some combination of reading/learning guitar (this one’s new!)/binge-watching TV shows, but I’ve also spent quite a bit of time figuring out how to adapt my love of baking to Cameroon. Ingredients tend to be tougher to come by, recipes are borderline nonexistent, and I’ve only seen three working ovens since arriving in country (two in the homes of Embassy workers). It’s a fun challenge. A few friends and I even managed an apple pie a few weeks ago in honor of the 4th of July.
            I don’t bake that regularly, but I almost always find myself giving my neighbors the majority of whatever I make. We’re all better off that way. The children in my neighborhood apparently feel comfortable enough with me that they’ve started requesting certain items, and my closest friends have taken it a step further and ask to help me in the creation. I usually let them, and it’s always been a lot of fun. So I didn’t think much of it when the kids next door asked if we could make cookies together sometime this week…until they followed it with “and then we can wash your floor!” Wait a minute. What’s this? I guess we have officially reached the point where my neighbors and friends feel comfortable telling me how they feel about my lifestyle and stepping in to help me as they see fit.
The next day my doorbell rang right on schedule and I looked down to see my neighbors standing outside looking eagerly back up at me. I had forgotten the floor-washing component of our plans (how could they possibly have been serious?) and asked them what kind of cookies they wanted to make. One of the girls, Louise, responded that they would start with the floors, and only after they were acceptably clean would there be time with cookies. After I picked my jaw up from the floor, we got to work. Another neighbor girl, Asmahan, came in to join the fun and asked me if she could wash my shoes while the others worked on the floor. I swear that I am not making any of this up. So the two of us scrubbed my shoes and made my bed (the “Cameroonian way”, which is strikingly similar to the American way). Before I knew it, my floor was gleaming, my shoes were no longer caked in mud (rainy season is rough!) and it was time to begin making cookies.

We decided on toffee bars, and got to work. As I think I’ve mentioned in earlier posts, there isn’t really a baking culture in Cameroon, so every new recipe we try is an adventure. This attempt was more successful than some, and we finished our afternoon with two pans of chocolate-coated toffee bars and a clean apartment. Not a bad way to spend a rainy afternoon. 

Monday, July 14, 2014

...but it was 500 francs!

To put it bluntly, Cameroon is taking a toll on my wardrobe. I packed my suitcases up with all of the clothes that I thought I would need for two years, and in America, it probably would have sufficed. But life here is hard on clothing, and my wardrobe is actively transitioning from things I brought with me to things that I bought or had made here. The most common reason for clothing retirement is excessive staining; between the dusty dry season and the muddy wet season, there doesn’t seem to be any clean season. This wouldn’t be too much of a problemif my hand-washing skills were up to par. I’m constantly impressed by the skill displayed by Cameroonian mamas (and their children!), but my former dependency on a washing machine means that I’ve still got a ways to go. Luckily, it’s quite easy (and cheap) to get new clothing here. There are two main ways to go about it-hitting the fripperie, and having clothes custom-made.
My preferred method is to abandon Western clothing and go the custom-made route. This is a two-step process: first you must go to the market and purchase your desired fabric (usually African-made pagne) and then you take it to the tailor and give instructions about what form it should take. This sounds simple and in theory, it is. But a trip to the fabric section of Main Market is one of the more overwhelming experiences that I’ve had so far in Cameroon. There are easily thousands of patterns to choose from, and over two dozen stalls selling them. Pagne comes in pieces measuring six yards, but I often try to convince the merchant to sell me a two yard piece, which is all that most clothing articles require. Two yards will run you about 2,500 francs, or about $5.
I’m lucky in that Titus, my tailor, has worked with Peace Corps Volunteers for many years. He’s used to dealing with Americans and other foreigners and is well versed in the types of clothing that we tend to request. I had never had a piece of clothing custom-made before I came to Cameroon, and I’m still not over the novelty of it.  It always fits, and you get to decide exactly how you want it to turn out! What could be better? Tailoring for a given article of clothing usually costs between 2,000-5,000 francs, depending on the complexity of the pattern. Added to the cost of the fabric, you’re looking at about $9-15 for a custom-made item of clothing. That’s a lot more money here than it is back home, but I usually think that the end result is more than worth the cost. An unexpected bonus aspect of having custom clothing made is the potential to get matching outfits with friends or for special occasions. It’s quite common to see groups of people heading to a particular event all dressed in the same fabric. As my brother can attest to, I’m always down to get matching outfits. It hasn’t gotten old yet, that’s for sure. 
But as fun as it is to wear pagne, this blog post was supposed to be primarily about the joys of “fripping”-shopping at the fripperie.  I haven’t been to the frip in a while, but I was inspired to write this post after seeing a video that a group of Cameroon PCVs made entitled “Frip Shop” and set to Macklemore’s Thrift Shop. You’ll have to excuse the semi-dated reference, as most of us haven’t been in America for a while. But the parody works quite well, as the frip is a general term for an outdoor used clothes market here. Every city and town has one, although the size varies with the population of the area. Bamenda’s frip is huge and completely overwhelming, as it is (in keeping with the general theme of the country) fairly chaotic and full of possibilities. Potential buyers paw their way through the giant piles of clothing that sit on the floor, and prices vary widely. Most items found in piles can be purchased for less than 500 francs ($1), and some of the nicer things that are hung up on display can go for anywhere between 1,000-3,000 francs. Of course it’s important to remember that these are prices that I’ve been faced with; it’s anyone’s guess how much I would pay as a Cameroonian. Price negotiation is alive and well at the frip; I’m lucky that bargaining was one of the few topics that I remember from my Pidgin classes back in training.
The Bamenda frip is large enough that I haven’t gotten to know any of the sellers that well. In a smaller village though, it’s a different story. One of my friends is such a regular at her local frip that the mamas selling there pick out things that they think she’ll like. More often than not, they’re right. If you ever want to try out being a celebrity, go join the Peace Corps. Although I don’t have any personal shoppers in Bamenda, the quantity and variety of clothing that I’ve seen here is completely staggering. If a type of clothing was ever in style anywhere in the world, it’s currently being sold on the streets of Bamenda (and likely the rest of Africa). It’s a lot to take in.

And if you’re interested in what Cameroon PCVs do when stuck in the Yaoundé case, check out the video here. I found it amusing, but my new postmate Lexi thinks that you have to be here (or have been here) to appreciate it.  I guess you can be the judge of that.but it  

Saturday, July 5, 2014

NIDO No More??

I’m currently in the process of introducing liquid milk back into my life. I was never a huge milk-drinker back in America, but I think it falls into the category of “you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.” I’ve been managing for the last seven months with NIDO, a brand of powdered milk, and I had even been able to trick myself into believing that it was an acceptable substitute, but I’ve been realizing recently that it’s just not the same. I work with dairy farmers, so finding fresh milk here is easier than it is almost anywhere else in Cameroon but I didn’t have a way to store it until few weeks ago, when Cynthia and Eric gave me a fridge. What a game-changer. Leftovers. Yogurt. Jam. ICE. Life is so wonderful these days. Just after I got the fridge, my next-door neighbor told me that she has fresh milk delivered each evening, and that I could just add onto her order. Sounded simple enough.
            The first day that I was scheduled to receive milk, my neighbor called me to inform me that her brother had passed away and that she had to return to her home village for the burial. After properly expressing my condolences (and offering to come to the village to pay my respects) I asked about what to do about our milk. She told me to take her family’s bottle and cancel the delivery for the rest of the week. Easy. But then I heard tapping on the door and looked down to see a small child holding a plastic water bottle of what looked suspiciously like milk. I went down to take the bottle and try to explain the situation. It quickly became clear that the kid didn’t understand a single word that came out of my mouth. I tried French. Even less comprehension. At this point I’m fairly used to adjusting my speech patterns to make myself understood (I’m getting worried that I’ll be one of those rare Peace Corps Volunteers who comes home knowing fewer languages than I left with…) but people always understand part of what I’m trying to say. Not this kid. I tried to ask if the milk had been pasteurized and we went back and forth with a series of head nods and shakes. Eventually I took the milk and dumped it out in a pot before returning the bottle to the girl waiting outside. I wasn’t even allowed to keep one bottle and start my own exchange system. This country takes reusing quite seriously.

            After successfully obtaining the milk, I was left with the issue of what to do with it. I decided that in this case, “better safe than sorry” definitely applied. After calling my friend Anna, a hippie-camp graduate, for advice, I heated the milk until almost boiling and then left it to cool. In the meantime, I treated myself to the best cup of hot chocolate I’ve had in the last year. NIDO works in a pinch, but it’s nowhere near the real thing. The milk cooled and I was left with a thick film on top. Pretty gross. I also found some rather suspicious chunks the next day, but I’m not sure of those were bits of frozen milk (still haven’t figured out the temperature setting completely in the new fridge) or something else that I’d rather not contemplate. I’ve been straining the milk before drinking it, and I’m going to call the process a success, at least for now. I generally try to avoid discussing digestive issues on this blog (they’re one of PCVs’ favorite topics of discussion), so I’ll just say that the reintroduction of milk left my stomach (and my friends’ stomachs) confused but not upset. We’re working on refining the pasteurization process (a cooking thermometer and an ice bath are about to work their way in) and I’m optimistic moving forward. Back in America I somehow convinced my family a few years ago to sign up for a milk-delivery system. This seems kind of like taking it to the next level. Here’s to hoping for consistent delivery, a strong stomach, and delicious breakfasts.