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!

Campaigning for Compost

            Like most of my Peace Corps peers, I’m not old enough to have school-age children. Because of this, I had never attended a Parent-Teacher Association (PTA) meeting back in America. My hometown has an active PTA, and when I was in school it felt like they were always putting on a pasta dinner, starting a greenhouse, or meeting to discuss a proposed new school building. Naively, I assumed that this was the kind of organization that wouldn’t really transfer to Cameroon. Like many of my assumptions about Cameroon, this one proved entirely incorrect. All of the schools that I’ve known anything about have PTAs, at least in name. And like their American counterparts, these associations require parents to contribute financially each year. In a country where many people don’t have many liquid assets and are already required to pay fees at every school, these PTA fees often add an additional burden to an already-stressful time of year. But they also give parents a degree of influence over their children’s educations that they might not otherwise receive.

            A few weeks ago I first became involved with the primary school in my quarter through a local organization working towards improving waste management in our subdivision. The organization was in the process of distributing pamphlets on the subject, and one of the members had the idea that schools would be filled with a captive and easily influenced audience. Together we expanded upon the idea of pamphlet distribution and decided to introduce a few practical components. With the support of the headmistress we set upon creating a compost heap and encouraging waste separation. As it stands, Cameroon has no formal recycling program, although reusing bottles and such is quite common.

            Part of the waste management plan included installing permanent waste bins in each of the classrooms. As it stands, the only waste receptacle in any of the classrooms in an occasional cardboard bin that is intermittently discarded with the waste. All of the waste was going to a “burn pile” just a few yards behind the school, a common practice. The headmistress agrees that the classrooms needed real trash cans, but she isn’t in a position to allocate any money for them-that can only be done by the PTA. She then tells me when the next meeting is and recommends that I arrive an hour late, advice I always appreciate and am no longer surprised by.

            So just over an hour after the designated start time, I arrive at the school expecting to find a meeting just getting started and still awaiting most of the attendees. Imagine my surprise to instead find a packed set of classrooms filled with both parents and teachers that were already halfway through their agenda. I try not to attract too much attention to my late arrival (I’ve accepted by now that nearly everything I do attracts attention, deservedly or not) and just sheepishly take a seat. The women on either side of me both give me a small smile, which is reassuring upon finding myself at a PTA meeting where I am neither a parent nor a teacher.  Luckily, I arrive just before the “Requests/Projects” item closed, and after a quick introduction by the headmistress, I stand up to give my brief presentation.

            My public speaking teacher in high school prepared me for many potential speaking venues, but he somehow forgot to include “request for funding in a foreign country to a group of people that barely understand your English” in the syllabus. After over a year in one of the Anglophone regions of the country, I’ve learned to speak slowly and alter the order of words in order to better match the local speaking patterns (You are doing what this afternoon, anyone?) So I stand up and give it my best effort. I touch on the idea of beautifying the school, remind the crowd about the new municipal trashcans that was recently installed, and give my pitch. A few people nod along, but the main response is silence. Oh no, I think; they’re not interested. And then it begins: the laughter, echoing around the concrete-walled room. If this isn’t every public-speaking student’s worst nightmare, I honestly don’t know what is. I know the cause of the laughter; most of the audience simply didn’t understand most of what I just said. But that conscious knowledge doesn’t do much to assuage the gut feeling that my proposal, my presence, have just been solidly rejected.

            As my cheeks flush, I turn to the headmistress in the front of the room and silently motion for her to present again on my behalf. Generously she stands up and gives her own take on our plan, presenting the wastebaskets as a necessity for classroom hygiene and the mural as a step towards school beautification. She speaks in Pidgin English, a stepbrother of my Grammar English and a language that I’ve come to understand but not quite speak. Prior to the meeting I had been nervous that the PTA would approve of the project but simply lack the funds or be unwilling to disburse them for what could be perceived as an unnecessary expense. To my relief, it’s just the opposite. The proposal is met with wide approval, and is easily passed. Some parents look at me approvingly and offer small words of support as the meeting returns to order.

            I leave soon after the headmistress’ presentation; I don’t have much business at this (or any) PTA meeting beyond our small proposal.  But walking down the dusty hill back to my house, I’m aware of the distinct feeling of pride: pride over the PTA’s acceptance of the project, and also pride that my community values their children's educations and takes their PTA meetings more seriously than nearly any meeting I’ve observed in my time here thus far.

Friendship and Mango Flies

            I’ve heard rumors of the creation of a Peace Corps medical bingo. You know, every kind of typical malady gets its own box and Volunteers mark them down as they go through their respective services. The winner is the one that successfully finishes her service while racking up a series of impressive tales to be told upon return.

            In reality, getting sick or hurt while serving in Cameroon can be a fairly terrifying endeavor. The medical facilities are quite unlike those back home, we’re far from our natural support systems, and the ailments somehow just feel more intense here. There’s a whole world of sicknesses that just don’t exist back home, and the unfamiliar is often much scarier than it has any right to be.

            Luckily, I’ve been quite healthy for my time here thus far. My only medical concern was limited to a couple of stitches back in March of last year, and I’m quite grateful for my medical luck since then. Here’s to a healthy 2015!

            Some of my stagemates haven’t been as lucky. All of them have recovered nicely, but we’ve had multiple cases of malaria, a case of typhoid, and numerous intestinal worms and other parasites. Du courage, my friends.

            I’m not here to make light of most medical issues, but there are a few that are fairly amusing, at least after all involved parties are fully recovered. One of my good friends had one of these cases a few weeks ago, and it feels worth sharing.

 A bunch of us got together for a small holiday gathering, and my friend pulled me aside at one point to tell me about these intense mosquito bites she had gotten that morning. She had been helping a farmer in her community in his cocoa field, prime real estate for the mosquitoes of Cameroon. As we were going to leave, she asked me to look at the bites, which she claimed were beginning to get painful. This being Peace Corps Cameroon (“never a dull moment!”) the bites were, of course, on her butt cheek and upper thigh. The things I’ll do for a friend in this country.

            As it turned out, these were no ordinary mosquito bites. They looked like little white dots raised from her skin, so we consulted our trusty Peace Corps medical manual (which I believe is based off of the appropriately titled Where There is No Doctor). Could it be? Was it possible? I thought that was just a myth…

            It was no myth. “Mango flies” had attacked my friend, which are mysterious insects present throughout all of Cameroon. This little bug likes to lay its eggs in damp soft material left outside, and drying laundry is a perfect target. We were all warned of this ridiculous critter during Pre-Service Training, and I had seen this as just another sign of Cameroon’s inhospitable climate. Not only could we not drink the water, eat non-boiled anything, or sleep without a trusty mosquito net, we couldn’t even wear our own clothing after it was washed?! Luckily, there are two easy ways to avoid the mango flies. Ironing after the clothes would dry will kill the eggs, as will waiting three days before wearing. That gives the eggs enough time to hatch and leave the clothing safe to wear. Otherwise, the eggs can implant themselves into our bodies and leave white painful marks that contained, wait for it-larvae.

I had never seen these telltale white painful marks until a few weeks ago, on that fateful night with my friend. But as soon as we realized what they were, a combination of relief and terror set in. We wouldn’t have to seek outside medical attention, or even call the Peace Corps Medical Office (it was after business hours). But we would have to pop these little worms out ourselves.

I wish I could say that I was a good enough friend that I helped my friend pop these worms out of her butt cheek. And if it came down to it, I would have stepped up. Luckily, there was another willing candidate to take the reins, so my services were not required. We put antibiotic cream over each white mark, waited 15 minutes for the suffocating worms to come to the surface, and then our friend (apologies for the graphic nature here), popped each little larvae out one by one. And out they came, each one looking more like a miniature worm than the one before it. Both of the friends directly involved in this process were troopers-one for handling the pain involved in having something forcibly removed from her body, and the other for being able to derive such satisfaction from doing so. I was just happy to cheer them both on and offer as much moral support as possible.

And rest assured, any potential visitor to Cameroon (or anywhere where these little flies happen to live) mango flies quite easily avoidable. Just keep track of when you brought your laundry in and pack enough underwear that it’s never a stretch to make it those three additional days!

A Year Unlike Any Other

            January may not bring snow or tundra-appropriate temperatures to Cameroon, but it does allow for the same kinds of self-reflection and hopes for change that it does back home. It’s quite hard to believe that the holiday (and in Cameroon, I just mean Christmas) season is already behind us and that we’ve flipped the page to a new calendar year.

            Crossing into 2015 led to a different set of emotions than I (and likely many of my stagemates) felt last year. 2014 was the only full calendar year that we’ll all spend in Cameroon, as well as a year of many firsts. I spent this New Year’s with some of my American friends, and one of the highlights of the evening (other than the low quality fireworks that seemed to go off all night long) was sitting around sharing our favorite moments of the past year. Maybe it was just the mood of the moment, but no one shared any major accomplishments or major vacations (at least not in the first round…). The overriding trend were those smaller moments, the ones that solidified our feeling of belonging in our respective communities.

            I had to think for a bit about my best moment of 2014. It was certainly a year unlike any other, and was filled with a wide range of both experiences and emotions. I thought about the beach trip I took when my brother visited, and when I learned that my next-door neighbor and good friend had finally “put to birth”. It was tempting to offer up one of the moments from my trip home and the time spent with much-missed friends and family. But in the end I decided on a short walk I took with my neighbor, Mohammed.

            When I moved to Bamenda, Mohammed was not shy about expressing his dislike for me. At the age of one and half, this was still socially acceptable. But given that I moved in next-door to his family, our paths crossed more often than he might have liked. His sisters were quick to welcome me to the neighborhood and I quickly began stopping by on a daily basis. If I timed it right, I was welcomed in for a bowl of whatever was for dinner. Aisha, his mom, became the one I came to when I had any questions about life in Cameroon or logistical issues regarding Bamenda. We even shared an electricity bill and landlady, which could have been a divisive issue but somehow(!) drew us closer.

            I knew that I had to take things slowly with Mohammed. He had no obvious reason to like me, and every reason to distrust me. After all, I was a complete stranger who had entered his life all of the sudden and looked unlike everyone else he knew. After a few weeks (or was it months?) I started to gain some ground. No longer would he begin running from the room upon my entry, and sometimes not even after I greeted him. The day that he called out good-bye to me as I left their apartment was one I should have marked on the calendar.

            As the months passed, I slowly made some headway with Mohammed and he became my friend in the way that only a three year-old can. He stole my keys, ate my cake, and willingly participated in a game of hide-and-seek with me. But the moment that sticks out and the moment that I shared with my friends on NYE came only a few weeks ago, when I ran into him and his brother at the little store around the corner from my house.

Getting a Cameroonian to smile can be a tough endeavor.
Some habits start young.

            I’m still not entirely sure what happened, but one day Mohammed’s brother asked me to walk him back to the house while he took care of some things at the store. The minutes that followed were anything but exemplary-Mohammed took my hand in his much smaller one and the two of us walked the three minutes back to his house. I don’t even remember if we talked about anything, and if we did it certainly wasn’t of any significance. All I remember is feeling that I had finally earned his trust and was seen as a regular figure in his life.

            I guess what I’m driving at here is that this moment more than maybe any other made me aware of the extent to which this place felt like home, and these neighbors felt like my neighbors. In the past year I’ve often received more attention or welcome than I probably deserved, most likely because of my visible status as an outsider. But Mohammed is too young to register any kinds of societal expectations with respect to race. He just walked home with me because I was someone that he knew and felt comfortable with. And more than any of the other acceptances, that one made me feel at home.