When Friends Head Home...

 Later this evening one of my friends from stage will board a plane with a one-way ticket to America in hand. She has decided to “early terminate” (ET) her service and head back home a bit sooner than initially planned. I think I can speak for my stage (and hopefully the rest of PC Cameroon) when I say that this is almost certainly the right decision for her-I think she’ll be much happier back in America. My friend isn’t alone in her decision; she’ll be the fourth member of my stage to voluntarily return home since the year began.

            The Peace Corps has a great policy for Volunteers wishing to end their service early. Simply put, we can leave at any time with minimal repercussions. Peace Corps will give us our final medical exams, a flight home, and even a ride to the airport. Sure, there are a few lost bureaucratic benefits, but most of them are fairly negligible. I’m a big fan of the culture that this policy promotes-complete your service because you want to, not because you have to.

            So why do some Volunteers choose to head stateside earlier than planned? I’m sure the reasons are as varied as PCVs themselves, but a common one is lack of work-related satisfaction. Life as a PCV is extremely self-motivated, and a dearth of enthusiastic or competent Cameroonian counterparts and/or host organizations can trip up even the most dedicated Volunteer.

            A fellow PCV pointed out to me that all four of our stagemates that have decided to ET this year have been posted in cities. This realization came shortly after the memo from our Program Manager that Volunteers will no longer be posted in urban areas. This decision will mean that my (“peri-urban”) post will be closed upon my departure; there will not be a Volunteer coming to continue my projects, take advantage of my contacts, or move into my house.

            I wasn’t thrilled when I first heard this announcement. It’s comforting to think that your work will be built upon by a future PCV. But the realization about my fellow urban-dwelling PCVs’ frustrations got me thinking a bit about our roles in our respective communities.

            Like anywhere else, there is a significant difference between urban and village life here in Cameroon. And in terms of both creature comforts and standards of living, posts in urban areas often win out. Volunteers in urban areas typically have both electricity and (fairly consistent) running water. We aren’t forced to learn an obscure dialect to be understood, can find educated work partners, and typically have access to more familiar and desirable foods.

            So why is it that so many of the Volunteers placed in cities have chosen to end their time in Cameroon early? I can’t try to speak for them, but I can imagine easily enough some factors that would lead to frustration. Urban areas can be seen both as a glimpse into the future of development and as prime examples of blatant inequality.

            But more than that, life in the big city can be isolating. Neighbors go off to their jobs all day, and the sense of community that many of us expected to find in Cameroon can be lacking. One of my friends lived in a third floor apartment in a building where she knew very few of her neighbors. That’s a pretty far cry from a PCV’s experience in the village, where entire days can be spent passing the time with friendly neighbors and other members of the community. One of the best parts of life here is the ease with which we are welcomed into our respective communities and the extent to which they begin to feel like home. If that’s missing…life can be tough.

            So as my stagemates and I begin the process of planning our lives back in America, I’ve been thinking a lot about the things that make a place feel like home. And as much as I crave Chipotle runs and smooth roads to drive on, what I’m really looking forward to is rebuilding my American mini-community in whatever place I end up.

Why Mosquitoes Buzz...

            As I write this, I can hear the long-awaited sound of raindrops hitting my zinc roof. As I’ve written about before, the unpredictable weather pattern this year is something that has impacted my life rather significantly. The yearly rains seem to have taken their time in arriving this year and the past few weeks have been an unpleasant return to the dustiness of dry season.

            But the past few days have brought daily rainstorms and I’m optimistic that we may have finally reached the beginning of rainy season. This means the hillside beyond my house no longer obscured by a dusty haze (giving me a renewed sense of how beautiful this place is), an increase in umbrella salesboys, and an renewed hope that running water will return to my house in the near future. But the advent of rainy season will also have a major negative impact; the rates of malaria transmission will almost certainly increase dramatically.  

            Cameroon lies just north of the equator and is solidly in the endemic malaria zone. Although the geography of the country is varied, residents of all 10 regions experience high rates of malaria transmission. And although mosquitoes directly spread malaria, these mosquitoes just serve as vectors in the transmission between humans. This means that in order for a mosquito to become infected with the parasite that causes malaria, she must first bite an infected individual. In the fight against malaria, Paul Wellstone said it best: “We all do better when we all do better”. In order to best protect vulnerable members of the population (primarily young children, pregnant women, and people with compromised immune systems), everyone needs to protect themselves to the best of their ability. This protection is widely available and simple enough; sleeping under a bed net every night greatly reduces risk of transmission.

Amadou demonstrates proper bed-net etiquette with
his younger brothers.

            This past weekend marked World Malaria Day (April 25^th), and many Peace Corps Cameroon Volunteers have spent much of the past two months focusing our efforts on malaria prevention activities. Collectively we hung nets, conducted sensitizations, and painted malaria-based murals (PCVs just love those murals!). I’m in the process of trying to organize a bed-net hanging campaign in my health district, piggybacking off an existing door-to-door yellow fever vaccination campaign. All expecting mothers are given free mosquito nets when they go to their local health center for prenatal visits, but I’ve learned that many of these nets never get hung. Over here, getting malaria is a common enough occurrence that it doesn’t inspire the same level of fear that it does back home. But there are nearly 2 million infections and over 3,000 deaths each year in Cameroon alone. But many of my neighbors and friends still openly admit to sleeping without a mosquito net, despite their awareness of the way malaria is transmitted.

            There’s no doubt that the road to a malaria-free Cameroon will be a long and bumpy one. As I’ve been reminded over the course of my service, enacting behavior change is a difficult process. But here’s to the existing efforts of health care professionals and community health workers that have stepped up to fight this widespread disease. 

Farm to Fork...and then some.

            Although my grocery options are more varied than the average PCV in Cameroon, they’re still quite limited by American standards. So when I randomly find a box of lasagna noodles in one of the “Western supermarkets”, I buy it without much deliberation. Lasagna night can be in my future! The unavailability of most other necessary ingredients is far from being a deal-breaker. Like they always say, Peace Corps is all about being flexible.

            Working in my favor is the missionary-run meat and cheese shop in downtown Bamenda. Meat-eaters find it a sanitary respite from the standard meat vendors that hawk their cuts on wooden tables alongside the road. It resembles an American deli counter, sells slices of meat and cheese by weight, and has become a popular shopping destination for the expatriate population of the greater Bamenda area. As in much of Cameroon the stock is never entirely dependable, but mozzarella cheese has been a fairly consistent offering over the past few months so I’m not too worried.

            The larger issue is going to be the ricotta cheese, which I’ve never seen for sale in the entire country. My friend Clare, who has launched this project with me, steps up to tackle this first challenge. We decide to attempt to make our own from fresh milk, an uncommon item itself. One of the dairy farmers that I have worked with procures a 1.5 liter bottle of milk for me, and I head up to his farm by motorcycle to pick it up. It turns out that I have arrived a bit too early, so I have to wait for a few minutes for the cow to be milked. You can’t get much fresher than that!

            It turns out that making fresh ricotta is much easier than I ever would have expected. Using a large pot and slotted spoon borrowed from a neighbor, (when asked what they would be used for, my answer of “making cheese” raised more questions than it solved) Clare slowly heated a mixture of milk, vinegar, and salt. The milk begins to thicken and then form clumps quite quickly, which she then spoons out and deposits in a bowl of cold water. After straining out the water, we are surprised by how much the outcome closely resembles our desired product. Cameroon is a land where anything is possible!

            Jarred tomato sauce isn’t available here, but that’s not an issue at all. Tomatoes are the cheapest thing around, and all the other ingredients are widely available and typically quite fresh. It’s easy enough to whip up a giant batch of tomato sauce, and then we’re ready to start putting it all together.

            Once we have all the ingredients, making the lasagna itself isn’t difficult at all. We layer the noodles, sauce, ricotta, and Edam cheese (of course the mozzarella was “finished” at the missionary cheese shop) and stick it in my “Dutch oven” giant pot over the burner. Add in a giant green salad, some sautéed green beans, and a good group of friends, and it feels like any other family meal back home.  

Rainy Ruminations

            After more than a month-long hiatus, running water has returned to my house here in Upstation. We’re far from completely out of the woods; the rains have just started to come over the past few days and I fully expect my water supply to be spotty for the next few weeks until the rainy season is fully established. I was better prepared for the end of rainy season this year than I was the last time; I knew which neighbors had wells and the importance of water rationing and storage. But despite my preparation and the generosity of my neighbors, the last month was extremely stressful. My cleanliness standards and remaining wardrobe fell to unprecedented levels. Even my sleeping schedule was affected-I awoke on more than one occasion convinced I heard a neighbor using an outdoor tap only to be disappointed when my sink refused to flow.

            Rationally, I can accept that the stress that I feel towards my water situation is completely unreasonable. I have never completely run out of my reserves, and there always places to fill jugs (or send motorcycle boys to fill jugs, an option that I have never yet had to resort to). Some of my neighbors don’t have any plumbing system installed in their homes and send their children daily to haul water from nearby wells or streams. Some of my fellow Volunteers live in villages with no formal water delivery system and rely on neighborhood children for their daily water deliveries. One Volunteer is so well integrated that she walks all the way across her village to the one clean tap (that only works two days each week) and hauls her own water home on her head. Now that I’m over 18 months into my service, I think I can accept that I will never be that well integrated. I allowed a high-school boy to push a wheelbarrow containing my water jugs back to my house this week, and didn’t even feel guilty about it.

            I was talking about my water anxiety with my friend Anna, and she offered me her theory of “Control and Peace Corps Volunteers”. Essentially, the theory is that PCVs come from America, the land of independence and personal freedom. Built into our society is the idea that we have an implicit amount of control over our lives, within reason. We thrive on the belief that we have control over our own destinies and can create our own opportunities.

            On the other hand, much of the Cameroonian culture and way of doing things is based on ceding control to a higher power. For children this power often comes in the form of their parents (much more than in American society), and adults and children alike are quick to defer to a higher spiritual being. When you add in the daily inconsistencies and delays that are a part of life here, the cultural willingness to relinquish absolute control is all but a necessity.

            So I’ve been thinking a lot about the extent to which American PCVs are able to integrate into our respective communities, and why something like inconsistent running water continues to be such a stressor for me. After all, there are so many aspects of my life back home that I was able to give up with much less frustration. I can handle crowded and delayed bus rides, slow or nonexistent Internet connections, and even (to a certain extent) my permanent status as a visible outsider. But for some reason the water situation continues to eat at me, and the only conclusion that I’ve come to is that it relate back to the control idea. My issue isn’t that I think I’ll never have water again. It’s that I have no idea when that water will come back and I’m completely at the mercy of the municipal water system, a less than reliable operation. If my water-a basic human need-isn’t guaranteed, I have trouble focusing on much else. My friends and neighbors have played this game much longer than I have, but they also have been subject to similar systems their whole lives. If anything is a guarantee, it is that nothing ever is.  

            

Are All Americans as Impressed by Bamenda as PCVs...?

For those of you just tuning now, this post is the second of a two-part series detailing my parents’ adventure in Cameroon. For all you dedicated readers, welcome back!

            In the end of my last post, our fearless team was set to brave the Bamenda-Yaoundé road to visit my post. In order to maximize convenience and minimize travel time we opted to hire a private car instead of dealing with the somewhat unpredictable public transportation system. So it was in comfort and style that we hit the road after a brief but wildly successful last trip to the bakery. And a casual tire change. And a pit stop to pick up some of our driver’s personal belongings. But such is life here in Cameroon, and my parents handled the delays quite well. The ride was fairly uneventful, other than a 10-minute delay at a checkpoint over an expired fire extinguisher. Also, it was on this drive that my parents got their first introduction to the frequency of Cameroonian ID checks. On this six-hour drive we were stopped and asked for ID no fewer that three separate times. At no point in this drive did we cross any sort of international border.

            The drive to Bamenda is both physically and emotionally taxing. For one, it is about two hours longer than it has any right to be. But more serious is the quality of the road, which deteriorates significantly about an hour and a half from Bamenda. The last stretch is an endurance trial and has certainly pushed me very close to my limit on multiple occasions. But if you push through, the journey is certainly worth it. Reaching Bamenda means all sorts of wonderful things: English speakers, a cool, mountainous climate, a (relatively) clean city, and stunning scenery. But all of these benefits feel a bit more pronounced if you’re accustomed to life in Cameroon. I wasn’t quite sure how it would stack up to a fresh pair of Americans.

            The following morning we headed into town for the first time. I was excited to show my parents Main Market and have them pick out pagne (patterned fabric) to bring to the tailor later that afternoon. Entering the fabric line of the market is a continually overwhelming experience and isn’t for the faint of heart. But my parents were able to successfully navigate the multitude of stalls and they both chose pretty decent prints. After a lingering lunch at the most foreigner-friendly restaurant in the region, we headed to the tailor so they could get measured. Luckily, both of my parents were fairly decisive in choosing patterns for their new clothing and Titus the tailor promised to expedite his work for them.

            The next day I decided to bring my parents to the primary school in my neighborhood where we just completed a waste management project. The teachers couldn’t have been more welcoming to them and I was glad that they were able to see a classroom in action-they’re a bit different from the classrooms my brother and I spent so much time in. My mom worked at a nursery school for many years when I was younger, so I think she enjoyed seeing the circus that passes for Nursery I around here.  

Later that day, we ventured a bit onto the Ring Road and headed to Ndawara Tea Estate. The hour-long drive is potentially even more stunning than that into Bamenda, and winds through tree-lined mountains before heading up into them. The area around the estate is entirely covered in waist-tall tea plants, all of which look immaculately trimmed. We were treated to a private tour of the tea nursery, which is already quite impressive. Picture thousands of baby tea plants at various stages of development and intensity of care. Ndawara Tea is distributed throughout Cameroon (and potentially abroad?), so the level of distribution is quite staggering. We were told that the estate includes 12,000 hectares of tea plants, most of which grows on the mountainsides.

            We spent a significant amount of our time in Bamenda greeting my friends and neighbors, many of whom had been looking forward to their visit for quite a while. Some of this greeting was informal and took place in passing, but many of my closer friends wanted to pay a formal visit or invite us to their homes for a meal. I’m not saying this to brag about the number of close friends I have here; I’m just trying to communicate the importance of “greeting” as a concept here. Just today, over two weeks after my parents left Cameroon, a neighbor chastised me for not allowing him to meet my parents. Today’s interaction included, I think I have spoken to this man fewer than 10 times.

            That being said, I was still touched by the number of people that wanted to stop by and meet my parents. We had more visitors in four days than I typically get in the course of a month. In the end, it was a much-appreciated reminder of the number of people that have become important to me over the past year and a half, and I’m glad that my parents were able to meet them. And even more glad that they played it cool when presented with an entirely unfamiliar (and slightly terrifying) glob of carbohydrates at my landlady’s house one evening. For all of you West African food lovers out there, it was pounded macabo. For everyone else, imagine a squishy grey mass served with a spicy black sauce.

            Before we knew it, my parents’ time in Bamenda had drawn to a close. They were able to fit in an impressive array of activities during their four days here and hopefully gain a bit insight into my life as a PCV. At the very least, they returned home with enough Cameroonian pottery and custom-made clothing to remind them of me for the next few months.

            Their last day in Cameroon was one likely of the more accurate Cameroonian experiences they could have had. It was a travel day, and we had to make it all the way back to Yaoundé. As my dad pointed out, we were able to get the difficult section of the road out of the way early, but that didn’t make the ride any shorter. The bus showed up nearly two hours late and wasn’t up to the “VIP quality” for which we had purchased tickets. This kind of thing happens enough that I wasn’t overly bothered, but our fellow passengers were not having it. They demanded a refund of the difference between VIP and non-VIP tickets. And miraculously, we all got it.  That’s 1,400 CFA (about $3) per person to justify the additional half-hour delay…maybe not quite worth it.

            After a much-deserved drink at the Yaoundé Hilton and a miraculous dinner of Chinese food (it was almost too wonderful to handle), it was time to say good-bye. Cameroon isn’t the easiest place to visit, and while my parents were sad to leave me, they were less sad to leave Cameroon. I’m beyond grateful that they were able to come get a glimpse of my life here. They handled all the curveballs that Cameroon threw at us with more grace than I would have in their place, and hopefully returned home with a better understanding of the country I live in and my place in it.

Trains, Planes, Automobiles...but actually.

The last few weeks were quite busy, and I spent the last few days digesting all of the activity and movement that they brought. As many of you are probably aware, my parents came out for a visit at the end of February. It was an incredible trip for all of us and I’m beyond grateful that they were able to come and get a glimpse of my life here. They deserve some serious props for making the trip-Cameroon can hardly be called “tourist-friendly”. My friend Anna’s mom (a journalist) coined the phrase “do-it-yourself-tourism” to describe her trip, which seems as accurate description as any.

            I spent much of the week before their arrival trying to make as many reservations as possible. The lack of a widespread credit card system lends itself to a more informal attitude, with a verbal commitment taking the place of a more binding deposit. Factor in the language barriers and questionable phone service, and it’s a wonder that anyone ever knew we were coming. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

            The obvious exception to the lack of credit card policy is the Yaoundé Hilton, where we booked a room for my parents’ night of arrival. I took advantage of the pool in the afternoon before they arrived and reveled in what may be the closest that Cameroon comes to American-style accommodations.

            Their flight arrived in customary Cameroonian style-in the middle of the night-so I hired a taxi to take me from the hotel to meet them. We arrived at the airport just before their flight was scheduled to land, and I was able to walk into the baggage claim area to greet them after they cleared customs. Soon enough I spotted a telltale bald head from across the room-they had arrived!

            Given the nearly 24-hour duration of their flight, both of my parents were in great spirits and we were quickly ready to head back to the hotel. I distinctly remember the drive from the airport to the rest of the city as being quite harrowing the first time I arrived, (18 months ago today!) but they took it in stride and remarked on the number of people still out and about so late in the evening. I think the comfort and appeal of Hilton came as a surprise to both my parents; I had spent so much time warning them to anticipate something of a challenge that the Hilton was completely unexpected.

            The next day we hit Yaoundé hard. After breakfast at the best bakery in Yaoundé (or maybe the country-I know what is important to my mom…) we reserved our train reservations for that night, ate Lebanese food, shopped at the artisanal market, and even found the South African wine store. I try to spend as little time in Yaoundé as possible, so we effectively maxed out my list of known activities. It’s an exhausting sprawling city filled with street vendors, too many taxis, and an often-oppressive heat.

             Luckily, we were off to Yaoundé’s Cameroonian opposite: N’Gaoundaba Ranch in the Adamawa region. In order to get there we had to take an overnight train to N’Gaoundere, the capital of the region. I had never taken the train before and was glad to be able to take my parents to part of the country that I had not yet explored. The train was pleasant enough: we had our own little stateroom with two sets of bunk beds and an attendant who came around to take our meal orders. It felt a little bit like how I’ve always imagined the cross-country train in America to be, although with more men praying outside before we took off.

            The Adamawa region is one of the three regions that make up the “Grand North” of Cameroon, and they apparently have a distinctly different feel than the rest of the country. This is only fitting, as the climate, culture, and primary religion are all different from those of “Grand South”, where I live. I would recommend against trying to apply logic to the fact that the Northwest Region (where I live) is distinctly in the Grand South-that will get you nowhere here.

            For all of you out there planning a trip to Cameroon in the coming months, I would highly recommend a few days at N’Gaoundaba Ranch. It is set a few kilometers off the main road, and is the ideal location for a relaxing few days. We went kayaking in the lake, rode horses (one of the more amusing hours of their entire stay), and played with the “guard dogs”. Our room was in a traditional “boukarou”, a thatched house.  There were few other guests-apparently business has dropped off with growing fear over Boko Haram. But we felt perfectly safe and enjoyed our time at the ranch immensely. One highlight came when we trekked over to the nearby village that used to host a PCV. We heard nothing but wonderful stories about this girl, and were even able to visit the “soy restaurant” that she had started with a few local women.

            My dad took our stay at the ranch as an opportunity to practice his French, and struck up a conversation with another guest during our first day there. His new friend was a resident of N’Gaoundere (the regional capital-the names can be a bit confusing) and invited us to come for a tour of the city as his guests. At this point I want to reiterate that I have been the recipient of incredible generosity during my time in Cameroon. People have shared their time, their homes, and their meals with me. But this man and his family took their role as hosts to an unbelievable level, starting with the car he sent for us in the morning, to the tour they gave us of their city, the meal they shared with us, but most significantly, the attitude they had to our presence. We could not have felt more welcome or made to feel more comfortable, and to that I am extremely grateful. There we were, in a city that none of us had ever been to, and we were lucky enough to find a family that wanted nothing but to show it off to us and make us feel at home. It was truly incredible. One of the stops on our tour was the “Laminou’s Palace”, the home of the traditional religious ruler. That too was a complex of thatched buildings and we were permitted inside for an informative tour.     

            After another overnight train ride, we were back in Yaoundé and set to head up to Bamenda to see my post. Despite the relative proximity between the two, there is no shortcut between N’Gaoundere and Bamenda-traveling between them requires going all the way back to Yaoundé.

In the style of apparently all major movies these days, I’m breaking our adventures into two parts. But you won’t have to wait until the next holiday season for Part II-I’ll try to have it up next week!

Just Horsing Around...

Early last week one of my neighbors asked if I wanted to join her and her family to watch the Northwest Regional Horse Race over the weekend. I’ve never been much of an equestrian enthusiast, but this sounded like the kind of event that I didn’t want to miss out on. As has become my custom, I tried to limit my expectations going in; the truth is that I just had no idea if I was headed to a Kentucky Derby knockoff or a casual few loops around a racetrack.

             Prior to the race I had seen very few horses during my time in Cameroon. There used to be one that was often tethered in my quarter, but after a neighbor told me that eating horsemeat is fairly common I stopped asking after its whereabouts.

            The race is being held in the main Bamenda stadium behind the Commercial Avenue, Bamenda’s main drag. My neighbors and I head down just after the 11AM start (the invitation says 11:00 prompt) and I’m nervous that we’ll miss the whole thing. After all, I can’t imagine that the horses run for more than a few minutes. Apparently I’m still a sucker for official Cameroonian scheduling.

            As we walk to the main gate, Asmahan, one of my neighbors, asks me if I’m more excited about the horse racing or the horse dancing. I look at her in confusion, and assure her that horses don’t dance. Just wait, she tells me. Just wait.

            After paying our 200CFA entrance fee (about $0.35) we enter the stadium and I’m amazed to see that the stands are filled and the racetrack is empty. Of course we haven’t missed it, but are instead waiting for the Prime Minister to arrive so the race can begin. It’s going to be a long wait. Luckily, the promised horse dancing is available to entertain us in the meantime. And it’s incredible. The horses are in costumes, the riders are incredibly skilled, and I’m happy to wait and watch all day long.

After three hours of horse dancing, incomprehensible conversations in Fulfulde (a local dialect), and lending my camera to my neighbors, I’m no longer happy to wait and watch all day long. My PCV friend Tommy, who had come to join my neighbors and me, suggests a lunch break and I’m happy to oblige. We head to one of the restaurants in town and enjoy a leisurely meal. As we’re settling the bill, I call to check in with one of my neighbors as to the status of the race. She tells me that the Prime Minister had already arrived, so the race should be starting soon. I head back to the stadium and although I adamantly refuse to pay the recently increased 500CFA entrance fee, I’m granted admittance. One of the benefits to never blending in is that you’re rarely forgotten, and one of the girls selling tickets reluctantly acknowledges that I’ve already paid my fee. In case you’re wondering, ticket stubs and hand stamping haven’t made it over here yet.

I arrive just in time to hear the introductions of each horse and rider. Incredibly, all of the jockeys are under the age of 18. I’m not sure if there’s a correlation, but (spoiler alert!) the winning horse is rode by the youngest jockey in the group, a small 13 year-old. This isn’t the place to get into this, but it is worth noting that all of the jockeys are male. I learned earlier in the day that one of the daughters of a missionary couple hadn’t been allowed to compete in the qualifiers the day before on the basis of her gender.

Suddenly, everything happens quickly. All of the horses line up and before I know it, the race has begun. It isn’t even close for a minute. I’m not aware of any betting that went on (surprising, given the popularity of betting for soccer games), but it wouldn’t have been an exciting race to bet on. The leader of the pack remains in the lead for all four laps and the race is over as quickly as it began. The winning time is just under 3:00, which would probably mean a bit more if I knew how long the track is.  

With the horse dancers looking on in the background, awards are given out to the three winning jockeys. Prizes range from 100,000CFA (just under $200) to 200,000 for the winner. Given that the latter is more than my monthly living allowance (a generous sum itself), that’s quite the prize for a boy of 13. I’m not sure how horse-related expenses work in Cameroon, or if they’re anywhere near their American counterparts. But rest assured, I’m yet to see any kind of official horse stable.

The horse race now officially over, it’s time to celebrate. A small group forms in the middle of the track and starts up one of the traditional dances. And on the other side of the track I learn that there’s an entire set of stands and booths advertising various products and services. More interesting are the jujus that congregate on one platform off to the side-a terrifying group of dancers clad in masks and noisemakers that are collectively some of the most impressive dancers I’ve ever seen. Many children fear these jujus, as is custom. My neighbors are caught between their desire to witness the dancing and their fear about getting too close. After a few minutes I think we’ve all had enough. We head home, exhausted and satisfied. I don’t get many opportunities to witness traditional Cameroonian cultural shows, and this one more than made up for it.

In other news, I’m actively preparing for my parents’ impending visit to Cameroon! They arrive in a few days, and I’m beginning to wonder who is more excited: them or my neighbors and friends here. Family is exceedingly important here, and my family is often a source of concern. I’m looking forward to the opportunity to show Cameroon off to them, and finish the job I started last May, when my brother made the trip out. Here’s to wishing them a wonderful, rewarding, and memorable trip!