My friend bought this pagne expressly for my father... so we got a matching ensemble made and wore it to a wedding that night.

Mom and dad drinking bilbil (millet beer) out of traditional kalabashes.

How its really done.

Hiking out to Mariam's village, the damn and the sorcerer.

Group visit to Waza National Park in our matching outfits. We saw lots of giraffes, warthogs, antelopes, ostriches, monkeys etc.

Lost in translation is a common phenomenon here between PCVs and our Cameroonian counterparts. Here is the beginnings of a reference for words/phrases/expressions that just don’t translate into French or English. CF is the Cameroonian saying, in parentheses is the … Continue reading →

Some of the women who will benefit from the health clinic. 12 JANUARY 2012 Washington — A U.S. Peace Corps volunteer is helping to build a new health center in northern Cameroon that will eventually serve more than 14,000 people. Volunteer Cheryl Finell is working with her local community to build the center, which will [...]

So the long and short of my trip to Yaounde was that the test results showed nothing… A good and a bad thing, I suppose, because although it does make me feel a little better that I do not have … Continue reading →

I spent the last week in Kumbo, a city in the North West Region of Cameroon, providing a seminar for teachers. Computer Science teachers from all over the division were present. The course took place at the Government Bilingual High School Kumbo (GBHS Kumbo), which had better than average facilities for the seminar. Over the week we covered many [...]

Here I am, having completed almost two months of living in my village, Fonfuka. Since I last wrote, I've been trying to integrate a bit more into the community, which basically involves hanging out with kids and getting fat. Is it weird that none of my friends here are over the age of 16? Whatever. The men are usually creepy and the women are usually busy, so that leaves the kids. And they're pretty entertaining and helpful. They help me do dishes, clean my floors, and look for decomposing rats that are hiding somewhere in my house and making me unable to breath through my nose at certain times of the day.

Sometimes I come home and find this on my porch

Playing seven stones

Me and my peeps

One of my favorite kids here is an 11 year old boy named Prosper, whose father is one of the nurses at the health center. He actually reminds me a bit of my cousin Noah. They both have so much energy, and I'm sure they would have a great time running around Fonfuka together and exploring all the birds and bugs this place has to offer. After school, Prosper sets up traps for birds that he then sells to medicine men. He made a guitar out of bamboo. He brought a baby monkey back to his house after its mother was killed by dogs. But best of all, he climbs into the ceiling of the health center, kills bats, cooks them, and brings them to my house for a late night snack. Not even joking.

Prosper

Prosper's sister Christabelle

So what is an average day for me here in Cameroon? I usually wake up around 6:30 because some child is knocking on my door. I normally ignore it and stay in bed until about 7:30, unless they're particularly persistent (if they knock for more than 30 minutes, I will consider getting up and opening the door). I then proceed to do nothing/eat/read/play sudoku until about 9 or 10, when I go to the health center. Mondays are pre-natal consultation days, and Fridays are for infant vaccination, so I try to go hang out there, observe, help out, and maybe give a little talk in Pidgin about breast-feeding (“ya bobby get all kine fine chop for ya pikkin. Yi go chop flop if yi chop only bobby”). Since the area that my health center covers is so big, we are also required to go to surrounding villages for infant vaccination. I've gone to a few of these so far, but the most exciting was surely the village of Kichowi – 30km away and only accessible by foot. Oh, did I mentioned you need to cross a hanging bridge? Yeah. It's pretty remote.

Crossing the hanging bridge on the way to Kichowi

Can you believe I live here?

I've also started working with the Health Club at one of the local high schools, so I'll be doing that once a week. Working there has been a bit eye-opening with regards to some Cameroonian cultural concepts. After a student asked why girls shouldn't wear tight clothing, the Cameroonian teacher explained that if you wear tight clothes it will stop the blood from flowing freely in your veins and you'll develop high blood pressure... I felt a little silly in my tight t-shirt.

Time here is strange – the days are long but the weeks are short. Everything moves at such a slow pace, that sometimes I look at my calendar and think to myself “Really? It's STILL Monday?”. But at the same time, I can't believe it's already February! No cell phone coverage means that if you want to see someone or tell someone something, you have to find them, wherever they may be in the village. If you want to go to the bank or get something special (like curtains or a radio), you need to plan to spend about $40 and 2 days round-trip going to and from Bamenda. I've become used to procrastinating in a way I never have before – instead of saying “oh, I'll do it tomorrow”, now I can just say “oh, I'll do it next month.”

My living room

My kitchen

My bed

My president

Care packages!

So here I am. 5 months into this Peace Corps adventure and 2 months into village life. So far so good. I'm enjoying the slow pace of life and am constantly surprised by people who continuously open their homes and hearts to me. I've only been here two months, but I feel at home when I'm in Fonfuka. Just the other day, when I was preparing njamma-njamma with my neighbor, she looked up and said to me “Sister Alissa, we are really going to miss you when you leave.” I told her not to worry, that we've got two more years. “Two years is nothing, it will go by very quickly.” I know she's right. I just need to remind myself everyday of how lucky I am to be here, to be surrounded by my loving neighbors and 10 year old friends, and to enjoy every moment of this life in Cameroon.

River Kimbi that I cross everyday to go to town

Me voilà à Fonfuka depuis deux mois. Depuis ma dernière mise à jour, j'essaie de m'intégrer de plus en plus dans ma communauté, ce qui veux dire que je passe mon temps à jouer avec des gosses et à grossir. Est-ce que c'est bizarre que tous mes potes ici ont moins de 16 ans? Les mecs sont pour la plupart louches, et les femmes bosses constamment, alors il ne reste que les enfants. Ils sont cools et serviables, alors ça va. Ils m'aident à faire la vaisselle, à laver mon sol en ciment, et à chercher les rat en décomposition qui se cachent quelque part dans ma maison et qui dégagent une odeur insupportable à certaines heures de la journée. Un de mes gosses preferés ici est un garçon de 11 ans qui s'apelle Prosper, et qui est le fils d'un des infirmiers du centre de santé dans lequel je travail. Il me rapelle un peu mon cousin Noah. Ils ont les deux tellement d'énergie, et je suis sûre qu'ils s'amuseraient comme des fous à découvrir tous les oiseaux et insectes que cette région peut leur offrir. Après l'école, Prosper chasse des oiseaux qu'il peut ensuite revendre aux médecins traditionels. Il a fabriqué une guitar en bamboo. Il a ramené un bébé singe à la maison après que la mère-singe s'était fait tuée par des chiens. Mais ce qu'il y a de mieux c'est quand il rentre dans le plafond du centre de santé, tue des chauves-souris, les fait cuire, et me les amène comme goûter. Non, je ne blague pas.

Sinon, c'est quoi une journée typique pour moi ici au Cameroun? Je me réveille d'habitude vers 6h30 parce qu'un enfant tape à la porte. D'habitude j'ignore et je reste au lit jusqu'à environ 7h30, sauf si l'enfant est particulièrement persistant (s'il toc pendant plus de 30 minutes, je fais quand même l'effort de me lever et de lui ouvrir). Après je ne fais rien/je mange/je lis/je fais des sudoku jusqu'à 9 ou 10 heures. C'est là que je me bouge au centre de santé. Je suis surtout là les lundi et vendredi, quand il y a les consultations pré-natales et les vaccination des bébés. J'essaie d'aider comme je peux, d'observer, et parfois j'essaie de donner un petit speech éducationel sur l'importance de l'allaitement maternel. En Pidgin bien sûr (“ya bobby get all kine fine chop for ya pikkin. Yi go chop flop if yi chop only bobby”). Puisque mon aire de santé est tellement grande, il faut qu'on aille dans les villages éloigner pour vacciner les enfant une fois par mois. Je suis allée à ces vaccination mobiles plusieurs fois, mais le meilleur c'était le village de Kichowi – à 30km de Fonfuka, seulement accessible à pied. Et il faut traverser un pont pendant. Ouais, c'est assez éloigné.

J'ai récemment commencé à travailler avec le Club de Santé d'un des lycées, alors je vais faire ça une fois par semaine. C'est assez fou d'entendre certains conceptes culturels Camerounais concernant la santé. Après qu'une élève aie demandé pourquoi les fille ne peuvent pas porter des habits serrés, le professeur camerounais a expliqué que c'était parce que si elles portent des habits serrés, le sang ne passera pas bien dans le veines et cela causera de l'hypertension... Je me sentais tout de suite un peu conne dans mon t-shirt serré.

Le temps ici passe bizarrement – les journées sont longues mais les semaines sont courtes. Tout avance tellement lentement, que parfois je regarde mon calendrier et je me dis “Quoi? C'est ENCORE Lundi?!” Mais en même temps, je n'arrive pas à croire que c'est déjà Février. Pas de réseau signifie que si tu veux parler à quelqu'un, tu dois aller le trouver dans le village. Si tu veux aller à la banque ou acheter quelque chose comme une radio ou des rideaux, il faut planifier au moin $40 et 2 jours pour faire l'allez-retour à Bamenda, la capitale régionale du Nord-Ouest. La procrastination est alors un truc de fou ici – plutôt que de dire “oh, je vais le faire demain,” je peux maintenant dire “oh, je vais le faire le mois prochain.”

Alors me voilà. Ca fait 5 mois que j'ai commencé cette aventure avec le Corps de la Paix, et 2 mois que je vis au village. Pour l'instant, tout baigne. Je profite de la lenteur de la vie, et je suis constamment surprise par la façon dont les gens dans mon village m'ouvrent leur maisons et leurs coeurs. Ca fait seulement deux mois que je suis à Fonfuka, mais je me sens vraiment comme chez moi. L'autre jour j'étais chez ma voisine entrain de préprarer le njamma-njamma, un plat traditionnel du Nord-Ouest, lorsqu'elle lève la tête et me dit “Soeur Alissa, tu vas vraiment nous manquer quand tu pars.” Je lui ai dit qu'elle n'avais pas de souçi à se faire parce que j'avais encore 2 ans à passer ici. “Deux ans c'est rien. Ca va passer très vite.” Je sais qu'elle a raison. Il faut juste que je me rapelle tous les jours de la chance que j'ai d'être entourrée de mes voisins aimables et de mes amis de 10 ans, et de profiter à fond de ma vie au Cameroun.

Hello Everyone! It’s been a long time since I’ve posted and tons of stuff has happened. Let me ‘splain…no let me sum up.  In December I spent one fun week in Bamenda with the Grossman Sisters, Sadie and Liza.  They … Continue reading →

Learning to make tofu from scratch on a Saturday afternoon.

In the U.S. I double checked everything. I had the gym hours memorized well enough to recite to someone who asked, yet I still pulled up the website to check them at least once a week. If I was driving to a place for the tenth time, I'd still take a look at Google maps before leaving the house. I asked questions I already knew the answer to, like “When is that meeting?” just to make sure what I had written down in my planner was correct. I was busy and didn't want to make mistakes that would waste time. Moreover, I didn't want to make mistakes that could be avoided. The information was available so I saw no reason to be wrong. Only laziness, not taking the time to look something up ahead of time, would cause frequent mistakes. There are merits to these habits, but too often I took them too far. I couldn't start writing a paper in college until I had researched and outlined it to death, to the point of knowing the order of the supporting details and their citations in each paragraph. I insisted on being fully ready before writing any complete sentences so that I could do it once and do it right. I pulled many all-nighters. I also wouldn't speak up much in Spanish class unless I had time to craft a response with decent grammar and vocabulary. Although the consequences of showing up to the gym after hours and writing a bad paper are different, the fear motivating me to avoid both was the same: I was afraid of being wrong or of not doing a good job. It's one of my big character flaws, I suppose. So why am I boring you with my personal failings instead of sharing cool cultural stories or the tale of my latest adventure? Because this is what I've been learning here – to learn as I go, to make mistakes, and to make a fool of myself without being too embarrassed. I realized this a few weeks ago as I was walking back from the secondary school that's on the other side of my neighborhood. I had just finished teaching my first class there, a lesson introducing the ideas of renewable and nonrenewable resources and how they can be over-exploited. This work is the continuation of a school reforestation and environmental education project that the volunteer before me created. I was terrified to begin because I'd heard how difficult the students can be and I wasn't sure how well I knew the topics. More importantly, I didn't think my French was good enough. All of that was, and still is, true, but it doesn't matter that much. With the help of a staff member, I've successfully taught three classes. I'm excited for how much better I'll be at it in several months or a year, but it's still happening in the meantime. By jumping into it instead of being afraid I wasn't ready, I've opened up new opportunities for my own learning. I can explain the basics of the greenhouse effect in French. I see firsthand how students have to cram onto wooden benches to fit everyone inside the concrete block classroom, which has no doors or windows to close on distractions. During the thirty minute walk back to the main road, I get to listen to the teachers talk about how school ends at noon because the government provided less than half of the teachers they needed. They can hire temporary teachers but the parents have to pay for it with the parent-teacher association fees. Public schools are never truly free here. So the benefits of “learning as you go” are becoming more apparent to me. None of the little shops in my neighborhood have predictable hours or supplies, which means I often venture out to get something and come back empty-handed. However, it gives me a reason to interact with people in the community. Earlier this week I went out to buy phone credit (it's a pay-as-you-go system here) and found none but did notice all of the middle school-aged students practicing a dance and learned about the upcoming youth day celebration. Similarly, I tried to go to my favorite little shop in Bangangte, the small city nearby, a few times last week and it was closed. I saw the owner, who is always kind and patient as I stammer through my list of what I need, and asked him about it. He told me his seventeen-year-old son had just been killed in an accident at the nearest intersection. I expressed the best condolences I could in French and stood in silence with him for a few minutes. I walked away with a heavy heart but was also thinking about how relationships form. You have more of those encounters when you can't always look up the hours ahead of time. My progress with learning as I go occurred to me again the other day when I wanted to make lemonade but didn't have a recipe. I laughed at myself for even looking in my cookbooks – I think almost every American kid knows the ingredients and you figure out the proportions by taste. If I had internet, however, I probably would have Googled it, just to see if my proportions were on target or if there were any yummy additions I hadn't thought of. And because there's no excuse for disproportionate lemonade if the information is readily available. That's how ridiculous I can be. Being in Cameroon has made me let that go sometimes, and I've learned more as a result. I've made delicious dishes despite missing ingredients and I've met more people because I've been lost or looking for something they're out of. So as I enjoy living here but worry about what kind of work I'll end up doing, I have to remind myself to learn as I go. “Trust the process,” one of my friends here tells me, but not in a lazy way. I'm not throwing up my hands and letting work find me but I'm emphasizing a proactive way to learn as I go. This is how I've been learning French, by giving it my best shot during conversations and studying grammar at home. This is also how I'll help with compost experiments, rabbit-raising projects, and other potential work activities that I feel under-qualified for in some ways. With some basic background knowledge, an open mind, and the flexibility required to learn alongside the people I work with, I'll jump in and good things will happen.

Well...life. Sometimes its never what we think its going to or should be. No news in this case is not good news. For purposes of this blog, the news I can share is that the grad school search is over. The grad school search is over, but the international world tour continues(your 0% shocked i'm sure). Batouri, Cameroon to Oxford, England! In a few months I will be a resident there pursuing a masters degree in disaster relief.

So there might not be much to write about, but here are some other photos from my second year and most recently.

Mama Wali breaking it down!

Showing off my Michael Jackson moves.

The luxurious hotel accommodations of Batouri, Cameroon.

Parental picture with my Cameroonian host family :)

Outside my bank.

Thanksgiving with the parents, peace corps volunteers, and Ed was able to join for a bit as well. Here we are dining on the veranda of his house in Batouri. Also, this is where I usually sit when I go for internet.

Eastern Cameroon is definitely the adventure of a lifetime.

Termites are included on the list of good protein sources here. They eat everything. Jessica, the more adventurous eater between us, had a go at venturing into the insect group. She bought some caterpillars at the market and fried some up to try. Who knew they were kind of hollow inside?

Ah, you know me and meat. It's only a tease.

Muslim holidays = eating, eating, eating. Probably our sixth meal that day. Jessica and I by the end of the day were so full that if any of our hosts left the room we started stuffing food into plastic bags we had hidden in our purses to make it look like we had been eating!

Peace Corps Volunteers: one for all and all for one. Living as a volunteer can be a crazy experience, but proud to be one nonetheless.

The hazards of having to travel on an unpaved road. Here I arriving home and sporting my after-travel look.

Celebrating my birthday with Julia!

The Canadian within me.

My sweet Grandma, who came down from Canada to be with us.

Fun night at Karaoke.

I am blessed with great friends :D

When seeing this photo, can't help thinking of all the fond memories of summers spent growing up on grandpa's farm in Northeastern Montana. Always believing there is a song for everything in life, found the perfect ones to describe this in the songs of John Denver - "Take Me Home Country Roads" and "Wild Montana Skies." Very fitting indeed. Part of my ♥ will always be here.

January was a great month for me personally, which unfortunately meant that the work-side of the Peace Corps experience took a bit of a hit.

The primary reason was Mid-Service Conference, a mandatory trip to the country capital to commemorate our half-way point at post. Normally, I prefer village life to the hustle and bustle of Yaounde, but this was one of the first times that I actually explored – and thus enjoyed - the city. And yes, I say this despite getting harassed on the street, pick-pocketed (no worries, they only got my phone), and spending more CFA than I intended! Yaounde has cold beverages [Milkshakes? Yes please!], a washing machine, reliable transportation options, pizza… And don’t even get me started on the Black Forest ice cream and strawberry tart I ate. Bapa has – well, let’s just say I’ve struggled on more than one occasion to find someone selling bread or eggs.Mid-Service isn’t like the other training conferences. Sure, there is a day of Best Practices (ahem, they’re now calling it “Promising Practices”….perhaps to put less pressure on us?!) where everyone shares what they’re doing in their respective villages and towns. It makes for a long day, but it’s interesting hearing new ideas for projects and beginning to think about ways to implement them chez-nous. Basically though, Mid-Service amounts to a lot of running around for administrative and medical appointments (a physical from a Nigerian nurse, blood work, pooping in a few cups …you know, the usual). The cleaning we received at our dental appointment was a bit rough, but I’m proud to report I’m still cavity-free. I met with the Program Manager for the Health sector who called me a model volunteer because of my resiliency in the face of a challenging post. I think she is overstepping the truth a bit… It was nice to see many of the other Health volunteers I trained with, to catch up and just let my hair down (metaphorically as well referring to the 3-day process of taking out all those braids)! A lot of us Santés got dressed up to enjoy Hilton Happy Hour and I got to wear a beautiful blue wrap dress made from a tailor who is a GENIUS with fabric. (Currently estimating just how many things I can afford to have made in the coming months.) Of course, it wouldn’t be a Peace Corps gathering if we weren’t a little villageois, demonstrated by pulling up to the swanky Hilton with 7 of us crammed in a taxi while a funny driver kept us entertained. Stumbling out of the car with the spider-webbed windshield and into the palatial foyer was like entering another world. It’s a nice hotel by American standards, let alone the mind trip of comparing it to my day-to-day life. The gorgeous views and plush furniture were great, but I still felt out of place. It was nice to go back to another little bar/shack afterwards and enjoy the casual dining that is street food.

Back in the West, I think I found my new favorite holiday to celebrate, courtesy of a party in the neighboring village. Kim is the closest volunteer to me and she wasn’t about to let being in Cameroon stop her from throwing her fourth annual MLK Jr Day party. Although it’s technically within walking distance (I’ve done it several times in a little less than an hour), I was grateful for a kind moto driver who passed by on the normally barren path. The bash was a perfect blend of good food and low-key relaxing. We listened to Motown music while enjoying a Southern food FEAST: garlic green beans, mashed potatoes, tofu, fried okra and eggplant, raw veggies, watermelon, cheesy biscuits, etc. I contributed two chocolate cakes (courtesy of a mix mom had sent for my birthday) with chocolate frosting - and one sprinkled with toasted flaked coconut. For the meat-eaters, chickens were killed and fried.

In keeping with the theme, we talked about “dreams” (les rêves) - not only those for the future but also crazy dreams we’ve had. And given that many of us take Mefloquin as our malaria prophylaxis (which is known to have hallucinatory side effects), it made for an interesting conversation. The next morning, instead of leaving early like most of us do after Peace Corps gatherings in order to return to our respective homes, many of us just hung out on her front porch, talking and playing Scrabble while making cinnamon rolls.

Perhaps you can see, then, why returning to village was a bit of a challenge. After such nice breaks, I became frustrated by minor setbacks. It was just easier to stay at home and feel somewhat productive than deal with people. Or I went to Bafoussam – the regional capital –to hang out with friends. Finding any reason to get out of village, I chose to escape rather than risk being disappointed. Sadly, I’ll admit that I was disengaged. Fortunately, what has helped pull me out of it was booking tickets to Kenya and Ethiopia for March. Perhaps it was all mental, but I feel more motivated to put in a solid effort in the next few weeks before I indulge in vacation time. I made a real push this past week and a half and I have been rewarded with community members who also seem rejuvenated and excited to work together. I’m looking forward to seeing what February brings…

PS: Kitchen creations continue with a creamy soup made from a pumpkin-like gourd/squash they call melon, hash-browns, and roasted potats (basically a white sweet potato) and onions with chili-lime vinaigrette. So good!

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Youth day approaches. The students will prepare skits and poems and (really good) dances, and then march through the town. Nomi is also a youth, and I feel his tremendous fame within Mayo Darle could be put to good use. This week or next week, I will offer to loan him completely over to my students for youth day. LeCoq, one of my Terminale students and Nomi’s babysitter, could be in charge of him. If they choose to parade with him, I’ll have a handsome pagne boubou tailored up. I’m sure he’d be the first dressed dog ever to walk the streets of Mayo Darle. He’d make the students feel cool, and therefore, proud, it might encourage some village children to think about school, and it would be a true symbol of better human-dog relations for the next generation.

I am an English teacher, so this is serious:

In the sentence, “I find it amusing, but I also find I don’t like thinking about diarrhea while having it,” is “having” a gerund?

Most strips of roads (maybe 90%) traveling through the Adamawa are dirt. In dry season, dust flies up from the road with passing vehicles. (Or, as I saw today, even with extremely fast dogs.) if a truck drives by, most people cover their mouths and noses. if I find myself without a cloth for covering, I usually try to breathe only through my nose to filter it. before coming to Cameroon I had never really appreciated our little nose hairs.

Travelling in dry season, you often hear conversations like this : someone from the back says, “role down the window.” the person in the front replies, “no there is dust.” person in back says, “yes, but there is also heat.” person in the front, “we’ve got to just deal.” and this response*, so common it’s almost a mantra, settles the argument. sometimes I want to ask them, deal with which, the heat or the dust? personally, I prefer the dust. we white people come out of the car looking like we just got spray-tanned, but it’s better than being sealed in with over-heated bodies. usually, they end up rolling the windows down on paved or calm sections, and crank them back just in time to lock out the approaching dust clouds when other vehicles pass.

This weekend, on the way back from Nyamboya, Hunter’s post, I had a new personal record : 12 people in a car. it was a two-door, five-seat manual Toyota. Two of these people were children, sitting on lap. Two men shared the front passenger seat (with a little girl), Six men and women shared the back (with one little boy). Luckily there were no big mamas, only Fulbe women who are still very traditional. They usually marry cousins, so they all look similar. They often have sort of triangular shaped noses, are always wrapped in colorful pagne, and sometimes their front teeth jut forward. Fortunately for us in the car that day, the Fulbe also tend to be slim.

I was riding petit-chauffeur, which means sharing the driver’s seat. car-loading is both a packing and a balancing act, so seats are often dictated. Because of my size, the drivers often put me petit-chauffeur. most people complain about petit-chauffeur, especially other volunteers. But most people aren’t quite as small as me and I secretly love it. As petit-chauffeur, if one is relatively petit, you can get pretty much all of your butt on the seat. Sometimes, the drivers put down funny cushions or towels to pad the buckles in the middle. As petit chauffeur you are only crushed by someone on one side, and you can lean back because the driver will always keep his right side in front of your left, so he can reach over you to shift. you can watch the road and see how he decides to handle the onslaught of bumps and pits. it’s easy to ask him to stop if you need to get out. and once in a while you get to help with the emergency brake, etc. Most importantly, you can see. your view is as un-obscured as the driver’s.

Traveling in Cameroon is slow, squished and jostling, but the music is always good, (almost every driver has a usb key hook up for the radio) and the view of the forests, passing through the small villages, making faces at the pant-less children who always pause to watch the car go by, and driving up the mountain of the Nigerian plateau to get into Mayo-Darle, feels like meditation, especially sitting petit-chauffeur.

*in French, “il faut supporter.”

I’m going to depart from my usual lovely prose, because frankly, I’m still kind of in shock. Today, I was determined as heck to have a productive day. This meant visiting the tailor, health center, and vet. Luckily for me, I literally ran into the local vet today, giving me a chance to be like, [...]

Hey all, first of all, let me just express my thanks openly.When I got to Maroua, I found our PO Box there full of letters, notes, andpackages for me. I feel so downright loved. Thank you family and friends foryour well wishes, your thoughts, and the action of putting that love in mylittle mailbox. You’ll be hearing from me!

Unfortunately, now, more than ever, my internet use is superlimited. Internet in Maroua was down, and my internet key that I have at postuses a carrier that has been out of service for three weeks at the time of mywriting. As a result. I have these updates piling up, as well as emails tocheck and responses to send. So, please forgive me my delay in answering anyemail, facebook (although, please I prefer email), or any other type ofmessaging (although in that case, you’ll probably never get an answer, with mylimited internet time, I tend to focus on my email).

Enough for excuses: my update! Today was really extremelysuccessful day, in more ways than one. I woke up at 5:30 to get ready to go “enbrusse”, meaning that we went out to a small isolated village where people havea hard time coming in to the hospital. I do this one of my counterparts a fewtimes a week. We end up hitting each of the little villages in our area aboutonce a month. There we do our vaccination campaigns. Meaning, that mycounterpart actually sticks them, while I try to communicate with the mothers(very hard considering none of these women in the villages speak French;depending on the village, they speak either Fulfulde or Kapsiki), and when thatfails, just make funny faces at kids and sometimes hold one or two. Today, Ihad the lucky chance to meet a mom and her 3-hour-old daughter. While I stillhaven’t witnessed any births yet, this isn’t the first newborn that I’ve metand I’ve been able to watch and even help with the Prenatal consultations atthe hospital. This village, Ploumtom, is one that I’ve written of before; thisis the village with the little girl with suspected polio. It’s a cute little villageon top of a hill above a small stream. You can see the mountainous landscapefor miles.

When we got to Ploumtom, my counterpart (hereto afterreferred to as Dieudonne) did the rounds with his loudspeaker that plays jinglebells, letting mothers know we’ve arrived. While we waited for them to show up,we visited some of Dieudonne’s friends. The first house we visited was dark andsmoky. We went in and sat on the matt they rolled out for us. Welcoming us intoher home was the oldest, skinniest, most lively little old lady I’ve ever seen.You could see every muscle and sinew in her arms and legs. She was so cute.Through Dieudonne, she joked with me about finding me a husband and coming backto the states with me.

From there, we visited the house of Dieudonne’s cousin. Shemarried the village medicine man. When we got there he and his grandson werebusy preparing some natural remedies against Typhoid. This consisted ofsmashing sticks and pulverizing some bark. On the bowl at his feet he alreadyhad shredded leaves and what looked like mulch. Dieudonne, who works for thehospital, said his medicine was effective and took a swig of another medicinein front of me. It looked like apple cider gone very bad with cloudy moldfloating in it. I politely declined.

From there, we continued with the vaccines. There weren’tmany mother’s today, but there was a mother with the first set of twins I’dseen here. They were telling me how here, after twins are born, its required tothrough a huge party, or else both will die before they reach three months old.On their necks, they had strings with little leather pouches sewed on.Apparently these are to guard the kids against the spirits that come and killlittle kids. (bandits maybe? Or a supernatural explanation for naturalsickness?)

From there, we left to head back to town, but we took alittle detour. Dieudonne took me to see the dam/lake that apparently theCatholic mission is building. I have my doubts about the source of the funding,but I’ll explore. The scene was something out of the Prince of Egypt crossedwith Bob the builder. Topless men with hard hats on were wielding jackhammers,pickaxes, shovels, wheelbarrows, and survey equipment. They had, in the lastyear and half, constructed a huge hole, at least 100 feet deep in some parts.Men with pickaxes broke up the ground as they expanded the hole. Men withshovels worked behind them, throwing dirt into the wheelbarrows which wereefficiently carted up by a assembly line of wheelbarrows. On the other side ofthe hole were men tackling the large stones, breaking them apart little bylittle with huge hammers. I felt transported back in time to the railroad days.It was something to see. Apparently it will be done in two years time (after Ileave of course). But this dam is designed to be the solution to the waterproblems of Mogode.

Water is a huge problem in Mogode. Wells are abundant,however, wells are not nearly deep enough to get into deep groundwater sources,and therefore, dry up in March. There are two forages in town. One is theCatholic Missions and the other you have to pay 5000 a year to use, eliminatedthe ability to most of the people of Mogode to use it. A forage is a well sodeep that instead of pulling water up, you pump it up, using one of many footmechanisms. These tend not to dry up, but if they’re not dug deep enough, theycan. Starting in March, there’s a huge water shortage here in Mogode. There arelocal villages that have small streams that you can dig in to find water, orsome towns have forages. Mogode, though, is notorious for its water problem.I’ve been thinking about working on trying to get a forage for public usestarted while I’m here, but it looks like they might already have a solution tothe water problem in the works. I’m going to investigate though. I plan onheading over to the Catholic Mission sometime this week.

The rest of my day at the hospital was devoted to teach thehead of the Health Center (he’s in charge of day to day issues like inventory,ect) how to use excel. I may have stated this before, but the hospital hasnumerous computers that aren’t being used. I brought it to the doctorsattention in order to try to get one of them made available to the staff andthe pharmacy. Stupidly, I volunteered to help teach people how to use thecomputers and programs. The doctor and one of the other coordinators took thisout of context and have officially made me their “IT guy”. They’ve asked me tomake wedding invitations, reproduce excel spreadsheets (that already existed)and other stupid things. Being as “nice” or “passive aggressive” (choose theword choice you prefer), I haven’t objected, but I’ve started avoiding thedoctor and coordinator. It’s something I’m going to have to deal with at somepoint. I’m certainly not here to be a computer expert and that’s not how I wantto make a difference. I’m happy to teach them how to use computers andreallocate resources to improve their efficiency, but at some point, I’m goingto have to say no to wedding invitations. A happy balance will have to bestruck.

Life at home is good. A package full of spices and lovearrived from my family (sent around thanksgiving) so my food situation hasimproved significantly. The puppies are so cute, but such a pain in my butt!I’ve started weaning them, which Nousnous caught onto with excitement. In themeantime, I’m dealing with pee-puddles and little turds all over the housewhenever I let them in. They’ve started stealing things like paper (picturesthat have fallen off the wall), shoes, socks, ect and bringing them into theirlittle doghouse. They’ve dug up one of my tomato plants 5 times. They are troublemakers. But it’s so nice to come home and watch their three cute little facespeek out of the doghouse right before they come running up, jumping and lickingme all over. I’ll be happy when they’re gone (3 is too much) but I do lovehaving them here. I’ll try to post some photos. This is particularly longupdate, rambling and stream of consciousness, but hopefully you followed. Allmy love!

I was on the bus, driving into Maroua (the capital city) theother day, when I looked out the window and saw an “Africa moment”. You knowwhat I mean; a moment when you are most certainly in Africa and couldn’tpossibly be anywhere else in the world. A moment when you’re witnessing thingsthat people at home can barely imagine. So I’m going to paint you this picture.Give you a chance to share in this “Africa moment” with me.

I’m in a bus manufactured to fit 25 people at most. We’recrammed in, at least 35 of us. In front of me is a little girl, perhaps a yearold. She’s been staring at me the whole hour and half long bus ride. For thefirst leg, she was crying out of fear; but about halfway through the ride, shelooked at me calmly, put out her little hand with her pointer finger pointedup, as if to say “wait”. Then she starts wagging it at me. “One of these thingsis not like the others.” My white skin sticks out more than if I was ridingnaked. Which, by the way, would have made the ride more enjoyable. Camerooniansthink that the dust kicked up by the road gives people Malaria. Needless tosay, every window was closed and locked while the sun beat down, causing agreen house effect inside the bus. Next to me is a young man, looking me up anddown (granted, as far as Cameroonians go, he was really nice about it. Hedidn’t propose at all, just asked for my number before I left the bus station).

As we reach Maroua, we drive over a bridge. During the rainyseason, there’s a river underneath the bridge. But now, below us is just a hugesandy trench. The sun is setting, a giant red orb obscured by the dust. Noclouds anywhere. In the riverbed, there’s so much activity. Little children aredigging holes in the center of the bed, trying to find water. Mothers and wivesare all on one side of the river, with the holes they’ve already dug visiblenext to the sheets and laundry laid out on the sand to dry in the sun. Thewomen are busy beating the last of their laundry against the rocks that markthe bank of the river. On the other side of the river, a huge group of boys inripped clothes, no shoes, and shaved heads are dustily playing a game ofsoccer. They’ve grabbed huge branches and set up goals that stick up where in afew months time they’ll be swimming. A small cloud of dust surrounds themakeshift field as the boys run furiously after a ball. Weaving in and out of everyoneare young shepherds, steering their huge herds of goats in between women andchildren. A few stray goats run onto the soccer field, where the littlest boys wavetheir hands and yell to scare them out of the way.

I wish I had had my camera ready for that. This little sliceof life felt very declarative to me. “This is what we are. This is what welive.” Just wanted to share this moment with you. Hope you feel like you werethere with me.

Sorry to all of you that have been waiting for the next installment of my magical mystery tour. The laptop I brought with me died in November. I'd had it for 5 years and didn't expect it to make my whole journey, but I was hoping to get more than six months out of it. My cousin Chris was generous enough to loan me his laptop, same model, so I could hopefully swap hard drives and it would be like having my old laptop again. Unfortunately, that laptop only lasted about a week. IDK if it is the climate, humidity, or what that is taking my laptops down with a vengeance. My parents are amazing and are bringing me another laptop when they come to visit in March so that will probably be when my next extended post will be. I am happy and loving life these days, I hope the same for you.

During training, which ended in August, I decided that I wanted to join the choir at whatever church I ended up at. I told a friend this and asked him to hold me accountable at our training to be held in December. I nearly completely forgot about this until he called me in November and [...]

When people plan for a vacation, they may look for lot of fun. But once if they visit Texas, without a doubt they will expect to get drench in lots and lots of fun. Texas in USA is offering many recreational things. Texas being a huge city for business, there is so much to offer for the visitors. It is not only meant for business but also for many attractions.

It is named as the best city in USA. It is wrapped with fun and enjoyment. Like all other places it might have not get exposed, but it’s too appealing to visit

Highland Park, Texas:

This particular park is located in North Dallas. So it is rich in the history of Dallas .It is a collection of beautiful homes that gives a fancy look to the park. Almost all the houses look exquisite and add more fun to the luxurious houses.

The Bottom Line (Schlitterbahn Beach Waterpark):

It is the top most water park in the country and positioned right on the beach offering a huge variety of water sports and slider games, pools etc.It also features many restaurants with a wide range of sea foods.Therefore there are really many more to see and much more to enjoy.

There is no scarcity of Vacation Rentals in Texas, so no need to worry for that.

Related Link : http://world-travels-guides.blogspot.in/2012/01/texas-vacation-to-get-wrapped-in-fun.html

Renault brand Dacia has claimed its first title in motorsport thanks to Alain Prost and son Nicolas. After a dramatic last-lap ice racing clash, the former World Champion Frenchman achievement in the Trochee Andros in a Lodgy Glace model.

The Prost blend, teamed up with Evens Stievenart, was implicated in a highly interesting late-race tussle after the car had been repaired following contact. With Alain driving to his third and Dacia's fourth conquest of the 2011/12 season, this brought home the marque's first motor racing crown of any kind.

Prost claimed his first Formula 1 titles for McLaren in 1985 and 1986 before beating Ayrton Senna when the two team-mates notoriously collided at Suzuka in 1989. Following a year’s sabbatical, he made a return with Williams ahead of retiring from the sport at the end of a dominant 1993 season.

Here is the story of the first half of our trip through Southeast Asia. My camera was acting up during the first parts of the trip so many photos are from Paul's collection. Enjoy!

Bangkok, Photo by Paul

Henry and I sleeping on the train to Surat Thani, Photo by Paul

The view from our hotel in Ko Phagnan, Photo by Paul

Angkor Wat

More Angkor Wat

Patrick and Henry in Sukhothai, Thailand

Chiang Mai, photo by Paul

Crystal Temple, Chiang Rai, photo by Paul

Paul, Henry and I at the Crystal Temple, Chiang Rai, photo from Paul's camera

We left Chiang Mai the morning of the 27th. It proved a bit difficult to get out of town, though, as it was the holiday season and so many people were travelling. We ended up having to wait for about four hours at the bus station but it all worked out because we talked for a while with the Canadian guy who had some great advice for Laos. He was a bit older than us and was travelling with his wife. We expressed some of our dissatisfaction with Thailand being so touristy and whatnot and he told us about a few good places to get off the beaten path once we crossed the border.

We arrived in Chiang Rai late afternoon and found a hostel which was much nicer than we were expecting or wanting. We stayed there, though, as it was a bit far from anything else, we were tired, and didn’t want to go looking for anything else. We relaxed for a bit, played some cards, and then went searching for the night market. At the night market we ate some really good food. We had a big clay bowl of soup that we cooked and prepared ourselves right at our table as well as a wide assortment of fried vegetables and seafood and a few spring rolls. I was looking for mango sticky rice again but came up empty handed. Ah well. There was also some traditional Thai dancing going on at this big stage at one end of the eating area. There were two women and two men dancing in slow, rhythmic motions. To be honest, it was a bit odd and a bit boring. I can only assume it was done solely for tourists because we made up about 80 % of the audience.

On the way back we stopped at a few little shops and decided to pick up a couple things. I got a long sleeve T-shirt, Henry got a snap-button up blue shirt (I called it his cowboy shirt), and Paul got a new pair of shorts. It was a bit chilly and only going to get colder in Laos so we decide that Paul’s shorts were special and would actually keep him warm, so we dubbed them his “warm shorts.” The verdict is still out on whether or not they worked.

That night, Paul and I went to a restaurant near our hostel and to watch the Arsenal-Wolves game. The restaurant seemed pretty nice and I just nursed on a sprite during the game while Paul had a coffee. There was also some music going on. I don’t believe it was karaoke but nonetheless this older man got up and took the microphone at one point and sang along for about 4 or 5 songs. Paul and I found it amusing and I think everyone else from the guy’s table were pretty drunk; they loved it and applauded after each song.

The next morning, Paul, Henry and I went out to Wat Rong Khun, more commonly known as the White Temple (or sometimes as the White Pagoda or Crystal Wat or any combination of the terms—it all just depends on how you translate it). It’s this amazing temple that’s being financed by some super rich Thai businessman who gave this artist free reign to do whatever he liked in creating it. When you first get there you have to go over a bridge where below you are tons of hands reaching up towards you and towards the sky, representing Hell. As you walk over the bridge you come up to first (and thus far only completed) temple building which is completely white with decorations shooting up everywhere like colorless flames. Once you enter the temple, on the back wall, are a bunch of paintings of pop culture icons such as Darth Vader, Neo from the Matrix, Dragonball Z characters, the Twin Towers on fire, Lara Croft, and the Terminator, just to name a few. Then as you move forward in the building, the art gets more fluid and positive until you arrive at a large portrait of the Buddha on the opposite side. Outside of this building there were 6 or 7 more temples in various stages of construction; the White Temple is a quite ambitious project and the main artist thinks it will take something like 70 or 80 years to complete.

We hopped on a bus that afternoon to make the trip to the border town of Chiang Khong. We’d heard it was an interesting little town which, while not necessarily off of the tourist path was at least not as worn down by it. We found a cool hostel overlooking the Mekong River and over into Laos. It was run by a really nice and funny middle-aged Thai woman named Maleewon (probably in her 50’s) and her older American expat boyfriend Don. Maleewon definitely wore the pants in the relationship and while Don portrayed that he did a lot at the hostel, it was clear after a bit of looking that she was the owner and ran nearly everything. He was a nice enough man though a lot of what he said seemed to be a bit over dramatic and maybe even sensationalistic.

We went to the weekly market which happened to be that day and got a bit of food there. The most interesting thing I had was a hotdog wrapped in a waffle. Weird, right? Henry also got something that we thought looked like chopped shrimp mixed with some vegetables and sauce. We went down to a field by the river to eat it and Henry pretty quickly realized something was wrong with his shrimp. For starters, there wasn’t any skin/shell on it but it was a bit crunchy. The smell also didn’t resemble seafood in the slightest. Once he was about 1/3 finished with it we came to the conclusion that it was chicken feet—and we weren’t entirely sure they were even cooked. Luckily he didn’t get sick from them.

That night we went to a restaurant down near the main road and ordered a few different dishes which we all split. Man, they were delicious. The only one I remember was mine: a cashew chicken and rice dish. Stupendous.

The next day we weren’t really sure what to do. We had contemplated renting motos or bikes and going to a nearby cave or waterfall. Well, Don and Maleewon left around 9:30ish to go to a wedding and told us we’d be in charge of the hostel for about an hour until they got back. They were mostly kidding but as we didn’t really have any plans and they took the bikes we were thinking of renting, we just relaxed and played some cards until Maleewon came back. The wedding she’d been to was one of her friends from elementary school who was getting married to a 75-year-old guy from Luxembourg. They told us to go check it out if we wanted to. Well, we decided to walk around town for a bit and sure enough, we ran across the wedding. It definitely wasn’t our scene, though, so we walked by with little more than some curious stares and polite refusals when one guy offered us some rice whiskey.

The town of Chiang Khong was small but interesting. It definitely functioned as a stop for people either on their way in our out of Thailand. Contrary to most border towns, though, there wasn’t anything sinister or sleazy about it and instead was pretty calm and even slightly charming. That afternoon we met up with the Peace Corps Volunteer in Chiang Khong, Josh. He took us on a nice walk through the southern part of town past a driving range (yes, a driving range, even he thinks it’s weird) and through loads of corn fields and along the river. That night we went to an awesome little Thai restaurant. Josh ordered all of the food for us and it was definitely my best meal in Thailand. I have no idea what any of the dishes were called but we were all eternally grateful to Josh for ordering everything for us and showing us tons of dishes we never would have tasted or even known about otherwise. We tried to go to a bike museum/bar later that night but the British guy who runs it had apparently gotten too drunk the previous night and wasn’t opening. Josh said it was a pretty bizarre place but interesting. We wandered around for a while that night and eventually said goodbye to Josh, as it was our last night in Thailand. Next in store was the much talked of, but little known, country of Laos….

So I have been told some pretty funny things by Cameroonians. I want to write them down and share them before I start to forget.

After getting off the phone with Emma, my post mate.: "Was that English? It did not sound like it. You don't know English. You really need to learn it."My neighbor Amanda holding my cat: "You would make such a good dinner! We need to fatten you up!"At the bar with Amanda and this crazy man asks me: "Are there people like you in America? Big, huge, fat people like you?"Creepy guy comes over to my house as I was preparing to leave for the weekend...I no longer talk to this person or allow him to come inside my concession: "You travel too much. I need to put a collar around your neck and lock you to your couch so you can't leave."On the back of a motorcycle and the driver tells me in Fufulde: "I want you. I want to have your white babies."After leaving a restaurant while wearing my traditional outfit a man approaches Emma: "How much can I buy your friend for?"My friend grabs my stomach after not seeing me because I was on vacation: "Danielle, you got fat." At someone's house: "Greet my friend on the phone...(once I hand the phone back over she tells her friend) I am with a white right now. Ya! She is sitting on my couch."People like to tell you that you have gotten fatter when you have been away, even if it isn't true whatsoever! You just have to laugh. These are just a few things that I have been told that I can actually remember.

Well it has been way too long since I’ve updated my blog (sorry Mom!) so here is a rather brief update.

My parents and brother came for a three week long visit over the holidays- it was SO great to see them! We first went down to the beach at Kribi for a couple of days. There we stayed in this funky cottage along a stream and a couple minutes from the beach. We took a canoe ride to visit a pygmy village; the river was so beautiful. After that we had a memorable feast of fresh shrimp right along the sea and rode out to the Chutes des Lobes, one of the few waterfalls that go straight into the sea. We made our way up to my village and got to enjoy the experience of travelling in Africa (complete with 6 hour road blocks and stops by the police). We spent about 10 days in Bandrefam so had plenty of time to see my daily life there; laundry and getting water at the source, traditional foods, greeting the Chief and having a billion people come by my house to greet us. We visited the town of Foumban which is a hub of crafts and had a long but fun day of visiting workshops and bargaining for masks, copper bracelets and wooden bottle openers. We also visited a great museum in Baham- the docent there was so knowledgable and seemed thrilled to share her culture with us. Our final day trip in the West was to the waterfalls in Bafang; it was so beautiful there and we got to hike down to the bottom of the falls (of course I fell attempting to cross the stream and get closer to the falls!). After leaving village we went to the beach at Limbe for a couple of days. There we were able to relax and get the red dust from village off while soaking in the ocean. We again had fresh grilled fish right by the sea and also visited a great restaurant by the gorilla sanctuary (where we saw gorillas, drills, baboons etc). I had an amazing time with my family; it was great to see them again! I really loved sharing parts of my Cameroonian life with them, plus it was fun to play tourist here!

Right after my family left I went down to Yaounde for my Midservice, where we shared best practices and had medical check ups (I’m still healthy!). More importantly Midservice was a chance for me to catch up with friends, many of whom I haven’t seen since IST in April. It was great to see everyone and helped me to get over the inevitable home sickness after my family left. Plus it was fun to explore the big city of Yaounde.

To be honest it was a bit difficult for me to get back into the groove at post after all my travels and being with family and friends. But now I’m back into all of my daily tasks and work too. I’m still doing some work with tofu, my womens group and a high school health club. But right now my main focus is my library projects; a community library in Bandrefam and one at the Lycee de Batoufam. (Visit booksforcameroon.com, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EsFviXAfqt0, or check it out on facebook). We are having French books donated and I am working to build up the capacities of our libraies; ensure that the spaces are secure, build shelves and train librarians on library management.

So basically its been a great couple of months and even with a little bump in the road (my ‘midservice crisis’) things are going really well here. I am loving my life in village and am trying to enjoy every moment of it!

Having a long journey with a baby is too difficult for every parent. They feel difficult to enjoy all adventures and various places in their journey. Due to this problem many parents avoiding the long time journey. For making a journey with young babies the only best transport with no doubt deluxe bus services. Deluxe bus services like BUS DC TO NY provides special facilities for their passenger.

There are no restrictions if passenger wants to have booster or baby seat inside luxuries deluxe buses. In these tricky financial times, more and more people are ruling themselves taking transport service in turn to keep money in gas; time exhausted driving in crowded public road travel or both. With this raise in numbers also comes a transfer in the kinds of people who are appropriate to travel the bus each day rather than driving their own car. Traveling the bus with a baby be supposed to be embraced rather than frighten.

Sorry for my absence! My laptop still hasnt arrived due to a few minor snaffus. So until most likely next week, I will be blogless. I have no desire to wres

One reason Nomi is worth all the trouble he causes: he provides a good cuddle outlet. Physical affection is so comforting. My anxiety would be much higher if I had to go through 90% of every day without some form of it.

This is not to say that Cameroonians aren’t touchy. I have had my face pinched (an unsuccessful attempt by my large and loud boutique friend, Madame Ladi, to remove a blemish), been picked up by (also Madame Ladi), had hair braided, clothes adjusted, grass picked off of, dust brushed off of, had measurements taken, danced with (sometimes this is disgusting, like the old man who put his hands right on my butt with such entitlement – found out the next day that he’s infamous for that -, or the bulbous-bellied goofy man, recognizable for by half-black slanted front teeth and toddle-like behavior who burped beer and oily feast food in my face. This is was absolutely disgusting; I’m embarrassed to write it.), patted affectionately, been petted by little girls, held hands in singing or exercise circles, been hugged around the knees by children, been squished, sat on, leaned against and slept on during transport – a man’s sleepy head on my knee once -, had my hand shaken by nearly every person in this country I’ve met, and kissed on the cheek by one. All of these have happened in public, except perhaps the last one, which was in public but also inside a car after dark. Cameroonians talk a lot about how the white man – a category with includes all Americans and Europeans – has all the good things and a lot more knowledge and resources (which in many ways is true). Sometimes I pipe in – usually to explain, “it’s much better to be poor here then to be poor in America,” and sometimes I just listen (or, if I’m grading papers or preparing a lesson, tune it out). But it’s good to see that their opinion of our country as a golden paradise doesn’t inhibit them from getting personal. Integration, crossing boundaries.

I've had a lot of exciting things happen in the past few months that I would really like to write about, but time is short and internet is far, so i promise to work on a few posts while I am in village. Expect some stories and pictures at the end of the month!

After the excitement of the “fete” in early November, I just bout a month to wind down any work I had going on but at the same times, plan out what I would like to do this upcoming year. I met with a couple of my women’s groups (GICs) a few times to see how their harvest was going, and to plan out any work and formations we would like to do once they are done. I have continued meeting with the village high school's (somewhat functioning) Health and Environmental Club. I sat in on their discussions on personal hygiene, malaria, HIV/AIDS, and would like to use my role in their group to promote more environmental education. I helped a few students with a presentation on tree nurseries, hoping that this new knowledge will better prepare them when planting all the young trees we just received from MINFOF. On my own time, I finished harvesting my soy and corn, storing everything neatly in my house to await my return from the U.S.Waaaaaaaait a second. USA? As in the land of supermarkets, hot water, pavement, customer service, and all those other great things that make a PCV warm and happy inside? As much as I thought all this (and more) would turn my world upside-down, it was actually just a really nice visit home, and a great chance to see friends and family that I've missed so much this past year (and eat pizza, duh). As "normal" as it was to be back in the States, it did give me a pretty interesting opportunity to reflect on my life here in Cameroon. So many things that at first I considered crazy, alarming, exciting, and different are mostly regularly expected these days. I've allowed myself to become pretty jaded, both cynical about my work and perhaps oblivious to problems that I noticed earlier. After almost a year and a half in Cameroon, and over year living as a bone fide PCV, it hasn’t been easy—actually at times it has been pretty damn hard, but it has been enjoyable.I'm going back to post today—pushing through my second year— with a fresh outlook and some refreshed motivation. I learned a lot this past year and I’m hoping to use that to make a better experience for myself in Cameroon, strengthen my work with my community, and of course bring it all back here, to all tell about it.

Sorry for the long delay, internet has been spottier than usual around these parts. Yesterday my postmate and I had the privilege of sitting on a typical Cameroonian government meeting. We were discussing Youth Day, a big celebration that falls on February the 11th and is meant to showcase all the wonderful Cameroonian youth. We [...]

Hi! Life has gotten in the way and I haven’t been very good about updating my blog lately – aside from some sporadic drawings of life in Cameroon. Some day I will update it again! I promise. Buuuut in the mean time, I have a favor to ask of my dear friends and family whom [...]

The Peace Corps has three primary goals: To help the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women. To help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served. To help … Continue reading →

For New York, it’s an intimate-but-not-in-an-unpleasant-way venue. Bar, a few tables, a stage, good but not overly-imposing-or-meaning-to-impress atmosphere. The amps weren’t too loud. I was as close as possible – close – and the sound was right, and I could hear all the words.

After a day shuttling between medicine, public health, and poetry contexts, with many, many subways and miles of walking in-between, I re-learned what it means to be an artist.

Rachael Sage.

If I have a favorite musician – a singular one, one who is alive and performing and now, and who is not so very well-known or widely-played to be obvious – it’s her.

And it’s been her for the past decade – little more than. A friend gave me Smashing the Serene in the fall of 2001. It’s technically Rachael’s second CD, but it was my first. As I told her tonight (crazy, idolizing fan like I’m the crazy, idolizing fan with some of my poets): “I realized that I’ve had a relationship with your music for over a decade, now. That’s longer than with most of the people I know.”

It’s true. That’s formative years (aren’t they all?) Music, good music, can be both background and foreground. One of the four options (she gave) for her last/encore song was the first Rachael Sage song I ever heard. (“Sistersong,” Smashing the Serene). I know the words to that one and to many others. And the ones she sang that I’ve heard – but not memorized – brought the same knowing smile of familiarity, triggering memory and attachment.

That’s what it means to be an artist.

That’s what you want it to mean, to be an artist… to mean something. To get to be part of someone else’s story, in a way, to have given and shared that gift.

It’s the same with poets. Cyrus Console read a section from a book I love. I hadn’t memorized, not by a long-shot, but I was familiar enough with the words that they were little triggers. Anytime I go to a reading and someone reads a piece I love. Poets publish CDs, sometimes, of themselves reading. (see: Li-Young Lee, Behind My Eyes). There’s an art to that, to reading – and learning how to read (out-loud) poetry was an important part of my poetic education. Digressing.

For any show, musicians have to include songs that are “known” with the new ones. Would we be…disgruntled otherwise? Maybe. But you can best, I suppose, develop a relationship with the new pieces through segue with the old ones. The nostalgia (and the triumph!) for older ones, knowing-the-words-ones, isn’t just for the piece itself but for whatever particularity it evokes. Whatever life it has taken on, now, for the listener. Everyone owns a little piece, and each piece is now different. Poets often read from both published books and new, unpublished poems. (fiction writers – same. etc, etc). For the artist, it’s part of trying out the piece – does it work with an audience, what does it sound like in that context, etc, etc.

One of the best things about poets is that when you tell them you’re skipping out on a social event to go write – they not only understand but are excited for you. If it’s urgent, too, that means the Martians/muses/whatever are visiting, now, and something might be happening or about to happen. This happens to all of us, planned or unplanned. Poet-in-tandem, poet-interlocutor days. And poets-need-to-be-alone days. After a friend’s reading, one night, I told her she’d inspired me to write, and that I had to go home and do so. It was true – and I knew, too, that it was a gift to tell her that. The best response to a reading you can have, she said.

More recently, I sent a poem(s) to my workshop, for them to read before we met. One poet/friend replied to my email, saying the poems made her want to write again. That’s an incredible thing to say to a writer, and from a writer who knows what it means.

I had written most of a piece about art school versus grad school, and what it’s like to be in art school, and … I’ll finish that soon. Later. Also. I’d been thinking about the process – and all of it is a process. More like a continuum. Like a day of medicine-public health-poetry.

***

At a health policy colloquium at a medical school, today, a Distinguished Professor introduced the speaker with the biography she’d given him and a little ad-libbing. “...where she majored in English. . .which is extremely related to medicine…” I would have been annoyed, had the colloquium coordinator not already told me that the D.P. supported and was very interested in people doing medicine and humanities. (He was less eloquent, later, “My son-in-law is a poet!”)

*

At Poets House, later today. As the library was closing, and I was leaving, one of the staff (whom I’ve met before) came over to chat. He’s also a poet. I had the Collected of Wallace Stevens on the table, as well as Nerve Squall, by Sylvia Legris. He asked about the latter. “Oh…she writes using a lot of science, often botany, here fish and birds…a friend recommended her because I write a lot using medicine.” He nodded. Picking up the Stevens, he commented on how part of what he really likes about Stevens is that. . . poetry is one of the things he does, he’s not an academic poet, not trying to participate in the academic discourse of what poetry is, who, etc…(It’s funny to note that people often refer to Stevens as “an insurance salesman.” He was a lawyer who worked for an insurance company. Odd). I don’t know a lot about Stevens, but he did write about poetics, as well, some critical essays – but not much compared to his contemporaries. He went on to talk about poets who aren’t also English PhDs and who just. . .write…and do something else, too. How he likes/appreciates them. We talked about a few other writers. Then – “what’s your background? undergrad? did you major in…medicine?” And thus I reveal myself as aspiring to be, perhaps, a poet like one he admires – not-academic-but-that’s-okay.

***

Another poet/friend, today. We were discussing (“interlocuting”) what it’s like to write, for each of us, where poems come from, how they do, what we’re doing with them, what we’re reading and how that influences things…etc. He said, “Being a poet sometimes feels like being a homeless person, when you never know where you’re going to sleep next/next meal is going to come from…” It’s a curious analogy, but I think it’s okay because it’s not actually referencing or alluding to starving artists. Also not comparing the difficulty of either situation; more, I think, speaking to the unpredictability/ seeming lack of agency. I think. You don’t know where the next poem (or other artistic inspiration) is coming from, or when, or if. (With time, the anxiety of the “if” has lessened. A lot).

The “if,” though, has little remedies. Read poetry. Go to readings. It will come. For the ones giving the readings, then, it’s a gift they’re offering. Hoping, in fact, that will take, that anyone will take. If it’s a good reading, an amazing reading, I’m either writing lines down, madly scribbling ideas for my own new pieces, completely stunned and entranced by the reading, or I can’t find my pen and notebook. Any of the four are possible. (also – it’s not just the good readings that give ideas. In truth).

With another poet-friend of mine, after a reading we attended last week: he said he’d liked the second-to-last poet best. “The ones about high school.” (that writer is a high school teacher). “Oh...I don’t remember those very well…then again, that’s when I was writing the most, so I guess that means they were good?”

To a writer.

If someone is writing, they are thanking you. If someone will remember your words next week and not be quite sure where they came from, they are thanking you. If someone will put your line in a poem in a year and have no idea they didn’t write the line, they are thanking you. If someone will need to read your book, they are thanking you. If someone will pass that book on to another person, they are thanking you.

If someone will write now, tonight, tomorrow, next week, next month, in a year or in ten, they are thanking you.

Being an artist isn’t all about the art. The art comes from somewhere. It goes to somewhere. And you get to be the tenuous hands that have a part in that connection.

Why do you care about publishing, I’ve been asked. (“Why have a blog” is a similar/same question – or, actually, these days, I suppose we could debate the relative differences with other forms of publishing…) It’s sure as hell not altruistic to be an artist and to want to exhibit/publish your work. But even paintings should live off museum walls, and there’s a difference between printed impressions and the physical object. It’s what you see, how it makes you feel then and later.

If one person reads and wants to write, if one person uses a line of mine, if one person uses a line of mine, many years from now, because it’s been stuck inside them that long and they have no idea where it came from. If one person thinks I must have written about exactly what happened to them, because it is what it means. If one person connects to a poem, thinks about it later, keeps it, somehow, is reminded about it by an experience that happens later. If one person remembers reading my book and what happened at that time. If they reread the book (!!) and different things are more and less poignant, more and less meaningful.

(it’s poetry, it was never going to be about the money. Though the publications and the prizes and the fame and the money and the bookstores and the…would be nice…)

Enough.

~j

…red’s the only honest color, after all, we’re flesh and blood…”

- Rachael Sage, “Crack of Dawn” Smashing the Serene

I have been lucky enough to begin teaching two international ICT credentials: Cisco Certified Network Associate (CCNA) and CompTIA A+. A+ teaches “competence in areas such as installation, preventative maintenance, networking, security and troubleshooting.” This is a very new field in Cameroon and thus a very lucrative profession. There is a real lack of skilled [...]

23/1/12

As of today, I’ve spent four full months in Cameroon,which is really exciting. So much has changed over the past four months, but Idon’t really want to spend this entry being nostalgic about all of that—I thinkI’ve covered all that pretty well over the past couple of blog posts. Instead,I wanted to give you a better update as to what I’m up to work-wise here inBatouri now that I’ve actually started some semblance of work.

As a Youth Development Volunteer, I have a lot of freedomto decide what I want to do, with who, and when. Part of that is because theprogram is totally new (being in the founding class has its privileges forsure,) but a lot of that is that the program was designed to combine thesuccessful aspects of each of the four pre-existing programs and tailor it to aspecific demographic: youth and families. So, over the course of my service, Icould choose to work with young mothers on childhood nutrition, secondary studentson financial management and goal-setting, teachers on how to approach sexualhealth in classes, etc. The possibilities are endless, and that’s what I reallyenjoy about my program: I’m not constricted to any one subject. I also have anawesome opportunity to collaborate with the other sectors, which is greatbecause in Batouri there are volunteers from the Education, Small EnterpriseDevelopment, and Agroforestry sectors. The only sector not represented here isHealth, and that was a good chunk of my training, and there’s a Healthvolunteer posted only about three hours away.

Now that I’ve gotten more settled into my house (key wordhere being “more,” as I’ve still got a long way to go before beingestablished,) I’ve been checking out a lot of the institutions and schools thatare active here in the community. Historically, Peace Corps has been reallyactive here in Batouri, but there are a number of other local, regional, andinternational organizations active here as well. My host institution,Centre Pour la Promotion de la Femme et la Famille, works with women and youngmothers giving technical training and general education. It’s a smallorganization that lacks funding, so while they have a lot of big ideas of whatthey would like to do in the future, all ideas constantly need to be scaleddown because there’s just no money for them to work with. I’ve had two meetingsthere so far to get to know the staff and become more familiar with their workthere, I’m headed back tomorrow with my post-mate to talk more concretely aboutsome possibilities regarding running a soy and nutrition formation there withinthe next few months.

I’vealso started running some needs assessment-type work at one of the local,public secondary schools. I’ve found a really dynamic Vice-Principal to workwith there, and that’s been a huge gift because he’s passionate about many ofthe same issues I am and he’s not afraid to address these issues head-on. Thispast week, I had a meeting with about 40 girls to talk about their lives athome, in the community, and at the school. In a lot of ways, their complaintswere the same as the ones I would have said at their age: cliques, superioritycomplexes, and gossip, but there were plenty of other things that they saidthat were really jarring for me (being scared to walk around campus because ofthe harassment of boys, teachers blackmailing girls for money and sex, beingforced into prostitution to pay for school fees, and being scared of beingmarried off before finishing education.) I hope to be able to talk to the boyswithin the next week, and with teachers if that’s possible. The next time thatthe PTA meets, I plan to attend so that I can get a better sense of parentalinvolvement and what parents’ reactions to my plans are.

Lastweek, I went to visit an organization that’s associated with the CatholicMission here, Esperance Sare Jeunes. Esperance is one of the mostinspirational, well-organized places I’ve found in town. They work with youthwhose families can’t afford to keep them at home or send them to school givingthem a place to stay, technical training in agriculture, and paying for theirschool fees. Be on the look-out for photos on facebook from Esperance—they tellthe story of that place much better than I do. I’m headed back tomorrowafternoon with my post-mate to meet with the kids there and hear their storiesand get a better idea of what the kids think that the two of us can do toimprove their situations.

Ihave a friend who teaches the local language, Kako, to students at a privateprimary school in town, and he took me to his class last week, which was ablast. Benjamen also teaches illiterate parents to read and write in a villageabout 10 kilometers from here, so I’m hoping to go to one of those sessionssoon, mostly just because I think he’s such a powerful teacher and I want tosee what a village out here looks like.

So,work-wise, as you can see, things are going really well! I’m definitely findinga lot of interesting potential projects out here but, more importantly, I’mfinding people who genuinely care about the work I want to do and who arerealistic about the things we can accomplish together. If this first month anda half of post is indicative of what I’m in for during the rest of my timehere, I’m going to be busy but there’s a definite possibility of making alasting difference in the community, which is encouraging and exciting. As forthe being busy part, let’s be honest, you and I both know that I’m thrilled tofinally have things to do here (besides just cook delicious things and fiddlearound with house set-up, anyways.)

Hey Baby! Are you married? I like your looks! Hey White! I love you! Marry me! Whiteman! I want to be your second wife! You are beautiful! Take me to your country! If asked what country that might be, guesses will follow, usually starting with Sweeden... People also don’t seem to understand, or believe, that the US government doesn’t just hand out entry visas to traveling Americans to distribute to random strangers. These and other such phrases are the greetings one may be met with on any given day while shopping for tomatoes, or a broom, or hunting down lightbulbs. A favorite exchange was when Kiyomi replied, “No, you don’t,” to a profession of love from a random okada (motorcycle taxi driver), and without missing a beat the guy next to him called out, “I love your money!” They don’t understand, or don’t believe, that Peace Corps Volunteers don’t make a lot. So what to do about such harassment, you may wonder. Well, the answer is, wear something weird. You may think we stand out enough being white and American, but oh, no, my friend, the answer is to look stranger still. We are indebted to Buff and Vibram Five-Fingers. The Buffs, first of all, help enormously with the air pollution during dry season. Secondly, importantly, though, with face half-covered and strange toe-shoes, suddenly we look a lot less marriageable. Cameroonians tend to look at shoes as a sign of status – if you’re wearing flipflops, you’re probably not anything too special, and dress shoes indicate you’ve probably got money, and being white while wearing anything makes you fair game. But wearing toe-shoes… what kind of strange person covers their face and wears such strange shoes, and what does it mean? Is this someone worth paying respect to or not? Some people just laugh. Some stare in wonderment. Others are brave enough to ask, “Are those your feet?” In any event, no one professes love, or asks for marriage, or to be brought to our country. Instead of the above, we hear, “Hey, madam – my brother – I love your shoes!” Mutually pleasant cross-cultural exchange accomplished.

We left Sukhothai on the morning of Christmas Eve and got into Chiang Mai sometime mid-afternoon. As we normally did, we went to a restaurant a little ways away and chilled for a while, eating and having a beer. Once the crowd from our bus had cleared away we went and found a tuk-tuk (a three wheeled, open-aired vehicle, kind of like a rickshaw) that took us to a hostel we’d heard of, Julie’s. We got there and luckily there was a couple rooms for us. This was a typical backpacker joint filled with pillowed, raised-floors, a pool table, an extensive menu of mostly pseudo-Western food (Pizza Baguettes were my favorite), and loads of mostly Europeans. Julie’s turned out to be the first real backpacker place we stayed at and we all liked it a lot. Consequently, though, I think we all got a bit caught up in the backpacker circle and didn’t get out and explore the city too much. It was also here that Paul’s foot started acting up. I guess it was getting a bit swollen in Sukhothai but in Chiang Mai he almost couldn’t walk on it. Remember that cut he got from the coral on Ko Phagnan? Well, I guess it never completely healed and now erupted so Paul was in considerable pain. We had been telling him for a while to take good care of it and when he finally did go to the pharmacy in Chiang Mai, the woman scolded him for a) letting it get that bad and b) for using soap and water (among other things) to clean it out: “You know our water is dirty here!” She gave him some antibiotics and alcohol and iodine to clean it out and about 5 days later it was pretty close to being completely healed.

That first night we wandered around for quite a while through the old city and then outside of the city walls through the newer, fancier parts. We found a good night market and then wandered around for quite a while trying to find a bar. Unfortunately, most of the ones that looked nice from the outside were filled with old, chain-smoking expats (mostly Australian) who were sitting there and getting hammered with their Thai “girlfriends,” so we opted against them. At one point we found some amazing Pad Thai from some small restaurant which I doubt we would have been able to find again if we’d tried. There was only one thing on the menu, it was filled with Thai people, and I don’t think the cook spoke one word of English. It was a true gem and an awesome find. We eventually walked back to the hostel where we spent some time playing cards with some British guys who I’m guessing were around 20 and all left at around 11 to run off to some club and find some Thai “girlfriends” for the night. After they left, however, we started talking with these three guys (from France, Holland, and Bulgaria) who were all studying in Guangzhou , China. They were on Christmas vacation from school and were very cool guys. I got into a discussion with the French guy that I probably shouldn’t have about France’s roll in Africa today and development in general. I think he started getting kinda pissed at me so I ended up saying something like “to be honest, if you haven’t been to Africa you really can’t know what I’m talking about.” A bit pretentious and snoody, I know, but I think most French people who have been to sub-Saharan Africa would agree with me.

The next day was Christmas and Paul, Henry, and I went wandering in the morning to try to find presents for our Secret Santa, of which our limit was 200 baht (or about 7 bucks). Unfortunately, the market we went to was a bit dismal and we ended up returning to the hostel empty handed. We all half-joked about just getting 200 baht worth of beer for each other. When we got back I went for a run through the streets of Chiang Mai and saw some really cool wats (temples). Chiang Mai is renowned for being one of the religious and cultural centers of the Thai people and all of the intricate artwork and architecture on the wats certainly shows this. As I was running, I came across a used bookstore and picked up a couple books: Mother Night by Kurt Vonnegut for Paul’s Secret Santa gift, and Riding the Iron Rooster by Paul Theroux for myself. I had about 20 baht left afterwards so I cooled off and walked back towards the hostel and found a good Noodle Soup place where I had probably my best noodle soup in Thailand. I also talked to a Chilean guy named Nico there who had arrived the day before and was in Thailand to get certified in Thai massage. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that we struck up a conversation because he turned around and looked at me after I let out a huge burp when I was finishing my soup. He didn’t seem too fazed by it.

That evening we went to the Christmas (or maybe just Sunday?) Market which was only a few blocks away. The street was blocked off for a few blocks and it was filled with souvenirs, trinkets and loads of food. I think I ate about 4 or 5 different plates here, and I had my first plate of Mango Sticky Rice. A volunteer from Cameroon swore by it and, while I’d been keeping my eyes open, I hadn’t been able to find it. Mango sticky rice consists of sticky rice topped with chopped up mangoes and lightly drizzled with sweet coconut milk. It was so good I contemplated getting a second, even though I was really stuffed.

We spent the rest of the night hanging out at the hostel. For our Secret Santa (which became not-so-secret once gifts were disbursed) I got a Cameroonian Muslim prayer scarf from Patrick—which I really wanted having forgotten mine in Yaounde—Henry got a Panda hat from Paul, Patrick got a pair of head phones from Henry and I gave Paul the book I’d bought earlier. We started talking to a couple of French girls at a table next to us and then after a little while this American came up to us and said, “I’m sorry I overheard you guys a bit, did you say you were in Peace Corps?” Well, it turns out he’s an RPCV from Kenya from about 10 years ago. His name was Adam and he now had a job working with a student study abroad program and had just finished a tour in Vietnam so he and his wife were travelling a little bit before heading back to Portland. He was a very nice guy and gave us loads of good advice about travelling around SE Asia and, more importantly, about readjusting to the US once we do finally get back.

The next day we didn’t really do much of substance. I’d wanted to go bungee jumping or kayaking or something but nobody else wanted to shell out the cash for it, which was a bit frustrating for me because the day before a couple of the guys had been at least interested. Anyway, I guess it’s my fault and I should have gone anyway. We still had a decent day and walked around and saw a bunch of different wats, some that were really quite old.

That night, Patrick and I also went to see some Thai boxing matches. It was definitely set up for tourists as I don’t think I saw another Thai person in the audience, but it was still very cool nonetheless. We saw two knockouts, which was also pretty interesting as a few of the fights seemed more just a test of who can land the most blows and knock the other down, not who can actually take the other person out. At one point, we moved seats to a bar closer to the ring and this Thai guy next to me kept trying to get us to make bets (which we’d been doing with a few other foreigners we’d met). He was being pretty ridiculous, though, as he kept saying “200 baht! Red or blue! You want red? Blue? I take bet!” We all refused because gambling is illegal in Thailand and we also thought maybe he knew something about the fights, like if they were arranged before or something. Eventually, he left us alone and went somewhere else at which point Patrick noticed that on the back of his jacket said POLICE. I don’t think he would have arrested us, or probably even fined us if he’d caught us, he probably would have just taken our money and said something like “what are you going to do about it?” Interesting night, to say the least.

I am going to make Nomi a beggar. This is especially for Mom. I’m going to make Nomi a beggar, but I have a good reason. I want to see how many Cameroonians give into him. Their reactions to Nomi are so strange but often funny and – overall – pleasant.** But he will be a very good beggar, so cute and calm you can’t even be annoyed. Cameroonians will be impressed with how much he acts like a person.

*I don’t actually have a table. Plan on getting one.

**A note about these reactions:

At first they were always commenting on how I talked about Nomi as if he was a person. Now they are always talking about Nomi as if he’s a person. They say, “Nomi! A warrdi naa? Jap bamma,” or “Nomi, noy?,” or “C’est comment Nomi?” (Nomi, I see you have come? Welcome…” “Nomi, how?”, “what’s up Nomi?”)

People saying they want to eat him.

When they say they want to eat him, they are usually joking. And I usually laugh. It is mostly old men, skinny, saggy-faced, missing teeth, always in the pale, waxy solid colored drapey robe style boubou fabric. They always wave at you with 1) both hands, 2) at about the level of their cheeks, 3) palms up. If you want to try it 4) fingers in a natural curve, 5) wrists facing each other. 6) About a quarter of a turn with the hands, as comfortable. 7) Nod head vigorously up and down with a big smile.

Today, Miahcano, 4 and 8 months, and Dewa, 3 and 8 months, stood in front of me, butt naked, post-bath, as Mounira braided my hair in my landlord’s compound. Koulu, Dewa’s mom, the first wife who seems like the second wife, sat across from me, breatfeeding Nura, 1 yr. The boys were dancing, swinging everything around. Turned sideways. Miachano grabbed Dewa’s hips and thrusted. Later, Dewa swung it out right in front of my face (I couldn’t move my head because of the hair-braiding) and Koulu said, “tchow juju.” She made a slicing motion with her hand. “Chop the weiner off!” she was saying.

Later that night, Denis, my terminale student, came over. I let go of Nomi’s collar to see if he’d stay calm and he ran like a wild man. Denis said I should have castrated him when he was very small. (Cameroonian dogs seem to stay fairly small, so Nomi looks full-grown to many Cameroonians. If he does, we’ll know Cam dogs’ smallness is a nutritional). I said I wanted to neuter him but he had an infection and his testicles retracted, so it was impossible. At night it’s cold; I couldn’t stop shivering. Denis said an uncastrated dog loose at night will go long and wide searching for women. I said, yes, that’s what I’m worried about – he’s already started making love. But he doesn’t know the difference..”

“Between woman and man?” Denis finished. “So it means he’s still a child.” I thought about this. I thought about Miahcano and Dewa. Kids must do that often. Of course. Children imitate. The kids are imitating the goat, sheep, dog, cow, and chicken sex they see everywhere, and they don’t discriminate.

Pretty sure Nomi is gay. He does wild things with his male dog friend. The dog’s good looking, tan and white, relatively well-cared for since he’s a pastor’s dog. He’s quite a bit older than Nomi. But now Nomi’s got about the same height and the two have no shame. Yesterday, Nomi talked for a while with another dog by my post-mate Sarah’s house. When we went into the compound and met the pretty young, enthusiastic, female pup, Nomi was totally disinterested. Proof that gay is natural in everyone. And currently in Mayo Darle, Nomi’s probably the only member of society who could get away with this.

It makes sense that Africans are often late. Africa is poor. They haven’t had many clocks in their societies for very long –and even fewer that are constantly working. People say this is a bad quality for development. I think it’s ok. Being late doesn’t really hurt anyone, they just get things done on their own time schedules, they organize their priorities differently, and since almost everyone does it, it usually works out. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a people who takes its time, stops to interact with things along her path, or lives by the rhythm of the sun.

I was feeling very down here in Mayo Darle. One of my friends here, whose post is in a cool university town, always tells me how he wishes he was in Mayo Darle. I asked him recently, for like the fifth time, why. And he said because it’s small, you have so much opportunity to do something, you just have to find a need and fill it. I thought, ok, but how do I find a need I can fill? And then, one popped up right in front of my eyes. (Of course, it had been there all along.)

I did some calculations, and determined that in my four classes combined, I teach 80% boys, 20% girls. The school operates by the French system. Classes start at the equivalent of 6th grade, which is called 6eme, and then count down instead of up. 5eme is 7th grade, 4eme is 8th, 3eme, is like freshman year, then there is Seconde, Premiere, and Terminale. I teach 6eme – 64% boys, 4eme – 94%, 3eme – 75%, Terminale, science section – 100% cute boys.

Last year, we had 3 pregnancies within the female student population. This year, we have had two. It’s an open secret that the paternity for a few of these can be attributed to certain teachers and administrators. So in a conservative society, with a sizeable Muslim population, of course parents aren’t going to send their daughters to school. Especially since most of the parents have gotten along fine without formal government education.

Then I thought, ok it’s not fair by my standards, but is it really a problem for Cameroon? If it works for them, I have no right trying to change it. But unwanted pregnancy is not good, nor are STDs. Additionally, their current mode of life is not sustainable. No one can stop the spread of communication technology. I believe this is one of the most domineering characteristics of humanity. Mayo-Darle is inevitably more and more exposed to the outside world. As that increases, as people see more different things, their desires change, they’re motivations and priorities start to change, and gradually everything starts to shift. Five years ago Mayo Darle had no electricity, no reliable cellphone coverage, and no internet. People charged their cellphones using generators at the call boxes. (Little stands that sell phone credit, where you can also make and receive calls. Like a payphone stand, operated by a real person, using cellphones.) Now we have a town generator that runs 5 hours a day, full cellphone coverage (only for one company, MTN, of South Africa) and USB key internet through that same provider.

People say here that development is not happening and never will. If they keep having so many children and not educating people, they may be right. They might find themselves with cellphones and Internet, but little food on their plates and no clean water. They might never escape the poverty bubble before their population becomes too big and resources too scarce, and something scary happens.

Educating both genders lowers birthrates, reduces infant mortality, boosts economies, increases nutrition and literacy levels, and ensures higher levels of education in future generations.

Two weeks ago, Gwendoline, the other English teacher and my best friend in village, approached me with a similar inspiration. We decided the first step was to organize a group for girls at the school, to address their problems and questions, build their self-confidence, make them role models and ambassadors between the school and the community. (Sneakily promote condoms).

So we talked to the other female teachers, we talked to the Proviseur (Principle), I talked to the Sous-Prefet (the head political guy of MD). We got all the big men’s hearty approval. We laid it on thick. On Thursday, then (the 19th), we, the 5 female teachers, called all the girls together after school, to get the final and most important approval.

As educated women, some of them will be leaders, probably all of them in some way or another. I saw that a little in this meeting. Their faces looked different. The expressions weren’t the same as they are in class with all the boys. They were attentive. They stood up, spoke and asked questions. Personalities peeked out. They made each other laugh and murmured in agreement to some of the things we said. There were about 70 of them. The whole classroom was filled. I felt like something really good was happening. And it wasn’t even hard to do. Just a bunch of people in the same room communicating.

Here are some links onto some photo albums on my facebook page. They are from when I went down to training in Limbe and then travelled in Yaounde, Beau and Bangante.

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.738140553741.2167602.49000441&type=3&l=8003f79e78

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.746516498281.2168722.49000441&type=3&l=43f899a4cf

The next day we woke up around 5:30 to be ready for our taxi at 6. We wanted to get to the Thai border as close to 8 as possible because we wanted to make it back to Bangkok that day, if possible. Well, on the Thai side of the border we found a van, not a bus, which shaved a couple hours off the trip and we got back to Bangkok before 2. We relaxed most of that afternoon at the White Lodge, the hotel from our first few days in Bangkok, and then had a very American night.

We had McDonald’s for dinner and then went and saw Mission: Impossible 4 at one of the huge mega-malls near our hotel. That movie was terrible, but then again I wasn’t exactly hoping for anything special. I’m not entirely proud of having such an American night while in an awesome foreign city such as Bangkok but I feel like we could justify ourselves easier than most people: we’d spent the last two years out of the US and (I at least) had been craving some fast food and a movie theatre for a while.

The next day Henry and I went to the Laos embassy to try to get our visas and man did that turn out to be a pain in the ass. The BTS didn’t go all the way there, so instead of doing that and then getting a cab we decided to just take a cab the whole way. Well, it took us about an hour to get there in the cab because the traffic was so terrible. The total we spent in transportation that day was more than we’d normally been spending on hotels. Well, we got the visas but to add another kink in our plans, the cell phone network was down so we couldn’t call Patrick to tell him and Paul to go get bus tickets the next day.

That night we met up with a married couple named Susan and Adam. Susan had worked with Kim Peven, a fellow PCV from our training group in Cameroon who extended for another year, in New Orleans when Kim was getting her MPH. Now, Susan and Adam live in Bangkok where Adam teaches English at an American school and Susan does Public Health consulting. Susan was also a PCV in Cote D’Ivoire and was one of the last volunteers there to finish her service before the evacuation before the civil war. They were two awesome people and let us stay at their house that night. Not only that, but they ordered a couple pizzas (almost entirely for us) and left us to our own devices for the most part as they were somewhat overwhelmed with work. They also had a new baby, Meryl, who was adorable, and a big dog, Chester, who was a lot of fun to play with.

The next day was Susan’s birthday so we gave her a small present that Kim had sent with us: a little dress made out of traditional African fabric. Susan seemed to like it while Adam may have been a bit confused as to why it also came with a little head wrap made from the same fabric. I guess you have to have lived in Africa to get that part. Anyway, like I said earlier they were two standup people and we were very thankful that they opened up their house to us so eagerly—without even knowing us. This was our first lesson about RPCVs (Returned Peace Corps Volunteers): we stick together. (I guess I should say “we and our significant others” to not exclude Adam, who was equally awesome.)

Anyway, we soon headed out and made our way to the bus station north of town where we soon caught a bus to Sukhothai. Sukhothai was an ancient Thai capital from like the 1400’s and is also a UNESCO world heritage site. There was a little contention in coming here as I really wanted to, Henry and Paul hadn’t really heard of it, and Patrick didn’t think we’d be able to due to time and travelling around Christmas which we were told was a bit difficult (or maybe he didn’t want to at first, I don’t know). Anyway, I coaxed them into agreeing to go and we followed our normal protocol and immediately walked away from the bus station and found a beer before figuring out where to stay.

We found a really cool hostel called “No. 4 Guesthouse”. It was possibly the guesthouse that was the least “advanced” but the most charming. We still had wifi here but the little bungalows were made of wood and bamboo and seemed like they could fall over with a strong push. It was also built in the middle of a swamp so the mosquitoes were everywhere. Inspite of this, I loved the place. The woman who ran it was eclectic and funny and the place just had an awesome charm to it that I haven’t seen since.

We spent two nights in Sukhohthai and on our one full day we rented motos and rode out to the “Old City” where we saw some more ruins that were really quite awesome. They were on a much smaller scale than Angkor Wat, though I think I enjoyed Sukkothai more. For one, there were a lot less people and commotion. For another, it was a lot cheaper and low key. We got in for around 3 bucks and were able to ride our motos just about everywhere except on the actual ruins. We spent a good number of hours exploring the temples and trying not to compare Sukhothai to Angkor Wat, but doing it nonetheless. Also, the degree to which the Thai government kept the ruins shows a big difference between the two governments—and societies. I got the feeling that Cambodia preserved Angkor Wat to a large extent because it was a good money maker for the state. My impression with Sukhothai was that it was preserved and promoted more out of a respect for the past and the history of Thai culture. I might be very uninformed but that’s what I drew from the differences between the two places.

I need to start a tally. I’ve lost count of the moments where it hits me:

I live in Africa.

You’d think I’d have figured it out by now. I’m four months into my time in Cameroon, I bathe from a bucket, I’ve eaten animals I didn’t know existed, (or had only seen in cartoon form… sorry Toucan Sam) and my house has no electricity. Yet I get the mental catch-ups once every few days. My favorite was last week when my friend Flora, known to the general population as Mamiyanga, dropped by and informed me to grab my dirty laundry – we were going to “the source.”

I should take a moment first to brag, both for myself and for Mamiyanga. I am no wuss. I can hand-wash clothes, no problem. I got pretty good at it the six months I lived in La Reunion. Or so I thought. Homegirl taught me different. This sassy 25-year-old mother of three dropped out of school in quatrieme (8th grade) and has been with a guy who’s married to someone else, her baby-daddy, for three years, and still manages to show up all the other girls in town with the restaurant she owns and runs single-handedly, 9-month-old child on her back. And it’s not some dinky little bean stand, either. We’re talking rice, beans, bread, fish, meat (of various qualities, most of which would make my friends at the World Wildlife Fund faint to think of eating) couscous, and whatever else comes along. Today I spent three hours with Mamiyanga going to market, negotiating the price of “erison,” which looks like a giant tailless beaver, carrying said erison from the hunter’s house to the restaurant, cooking beans, washing pots, and making sure the dogs didn’t run away with the uncooked monkey meat. And her boyfriend/babydaddy added to the day’s stock the rat he somehow killed with his motorcycle. Yum.

Anyway, the point is that Mamiyanga is a veritable force to be reckoned with. And she’s my best friend in village. She loves to chat, to tease, to dance, and to do anything and everything it takes to make me one of the community. (Unfortunately this involves trying to convince me to marry every unmarried guy in town.) So when she showed up to recruit me as company to do laundry, I was more than happy. Until this point I’d been doing laundry on my veranda with water stored in large plastic containers, hauled from a forage a kilometer away. You can imagine my pleasure when we headed off down a random path into the tall grasses, wash basins on our heads, rolling hills and trees all around, toward this mysterious “source.”

Remember when you were a kid and you watched Fern Gulley for the first time? That’s what it felt like at the source. After a few minutes, the path to the source descends onto a stone staircase that leads directly to the little concrete enclave through which the stream is directed, ankle-deep and cool in the afternoon shade. Four hours we were there. I finished my small pile of laundry in half an hour, but my dear friend had three times as many clothes, four times as dirty (restaurant work and a baby tend to do that), and twice as thorough. Clothes here get USED, like tools rather than decoration, so Mamiyanga was straight-up scrubbing, hard-bristled brush and concrete. And that’s how I learned to wash clothes properly. By late afternoon, when I saw her rinsing the last of the clothing, I was mentally preparing myself to leave, when all the women, one by one, discretely disrobed and began bathing. Yup. For once it wasn’t my skin that made me stick out from the rest; it was the fact that I was still clothed. That was the moment it hit me - I was at the river with half the neighborhood’s worth of mothers and children bathing, shameless, in front of each other, buckets full of clean, wet, heavy laundry ready to be placed on the heads of the women and carried home to be laid out on clotheslines and roofs and bushes to dry in the sun.

Waka waka. Welcome to Africa.

I returned this week from an awesome vacation with my brother – we traveled all over the country, spent a night in Africa's oldest undisturbed rainforest, climbed multiple mountains, saw dozens of frogs (including the world's biggest – the Goliath frog), and ate a ton of awesome food. I had missed the village and was particularly looking forward to seeing my students and teaching again, but unfortunately, at our weekly student assembly on Monday, something happened that made school a difficult and unpleasant place to be.

Before I go any farther, I'd like to say that I normally try to avoid telling negative stories about my time here. Like anywhere, there's always something to complain about, but after a year and a half, I really believe that the good far outweighs the bad. A lot of people have this idea of Africa as a scary place, somewhere anything can happen (this second part is true – anything can happen, but that's one of my favorite parts about living here; most of the time the “anything” that happens is wonderful, like my girls club organizing itself this fall to play the high school's first ever girls' sports game, or hilarious, like all of my sixth graders last year shouting “Yes We Can!” every time I walked into the room), and that's part of the reason I avoid negative stories that might affirm these kinds of stereotypes. Also, I just think my parents and other loved ones at home probably worry enough on their own, without any extra help from me.

There's a lot, too, that just doesn't translate between cultures. This is the main reason I decided to write about my experience this week, because it is just such a tangle of conflicting ideas and beliefs. There are things that you know you can never talk about with Cameroonians – not even your closest friends. Things about American culture, like homosexuality, or abortion, or even many political topics, that are dangerous to bring up, and that just will not compute. I've been noticing too, though, the longer I'm here, that there are more and more topics like that that I just don't know how to talk about with other Americans anymore, that people who haven't lived here won't read in the same way. Corporal punishment, the subject of this entry, is one of those big ones.

Earlier this fall, I had had a frustrating week at school, and was talking to my parents on the phone about the fight I got into with a colleague about how I didn't want him hitting my kids. In Cameroon, it is technically illegal to hit kids with sticks as a form of punishment, but it is still the most common form of discipline, and most people have no problem with it at all. I talked about how I had confronted my colleague, explained to him that I really disliked it when he hit my kids, that there were far more effective strategies for discipline (lowering grades, detentions, cleaning the school, or maybe even – gasp – rewarding students for good behavior, thereby discouraging them from misbehaving in the first place (this was a particularly ridiculous suggestion)). His response:

“Well, who is supposed to do those things?”

My response: “Uhm...you are. You are responsible for discipline, right?”

He burst out laughing, and said I must not understand, then switched to English (which he doesn't really speak), as if clearly the problem here must be with my ability to comprehend French, rather than with me disagreeing with his actions. We entered into a lengthy, circular argument where I explained how hitting kids was illegal, not to mention lazy and ineffective, and how when I took points off my sixth graders' exams last year when they were late, they all came on time, etc. etc. and he responded that I didn't understand how things worked in Africa and laughed at me. I finally ended things by announcing that I didn't want to work at a school where things like this happened, and left. This seemed reasonably effective, and while this colleague still walked around with a switch, I didn't see him hit kids again.

After this frustrating week, my parents called, and I told them this story, and about how pissed I was. At the end of my story, there was absolute silence. I had forgotten how much more shocking beating kids is to Americans – how do you even respond?

Flash forward to this week, and our 7a.m. weekly assembly. Another colleague of mine called a student forward and ridiculed him in front of the entire school, forcing him to kneel in front of all his classmates and be called out for being absent and for not wearing his uniform. It was painful to watch, but I was thinking, “Okay, shaming students. That is a form of punishment I find acceptable.” But then this student's class president was called forward, handed a switch, and told to whip the truant student ten times so he would learn his lesson. The class president was clearly extremely uncomfortable, but unable to say no to an authority figure. I watched in shock as he hit his classmate the first time and the rest of the students laughed, then walked away as the beating continued, and waited behind the teacher's lounge for it to be over.

After I heard the students disperse, I went into my colleague's office. He shook my hand and said, “Sorry you had to see that, but it was necessary.” “No,” I replied, “It was not.” He rolled his eyes and said, “What do you expect me to do? He disrespected me. If I didn't discipline him, he would become a bandit.” I angrily repeated some of the discipline alternatives I had offered my other colleague, but this just made him laugh. Then he proceeded to tell me that in America, we don't beat our kids, and so they come to school with guns and shoot everybody, so what was he supposed to do? I think my jaw literally dropped. I was so furious, and so confused. It had ever occurred to me before that I would have to explain to someone why it was bad to hit children – it was like explaining to someone why they shouldn't set a house on fire, or run someone down with their car. In my anger, my ability to speak French was rapidly leaving me, and so I finished quickly by telling him that beating students was the opposite of development, and as long as it was happening, he wouldn't have a development worker at his school. I then stormed across the yard and away from school, ignoring the alarmed vice principal as he chased after me. “Why are you leaving?” He asked. “Ask my colleague,” I responded, and went home.

My best friend at school came to my house that afternoon to check on me and ask what had happened. I explained the situation to him, and he nodded thoughtfully but didn't seem to understand why I had reacted so extremely. “But what about your students?” He asked. “They didn't have English class today.” “I know,” I replied guiltily. “But I can't work someplace where those things are happening.” To the same degree that this situation was so shocking it was difficult to explain to Americans, it was so commonplace here that it was next to impossible to explain to Cameroonians. First, that someone would care about students getting hit; second, that someone would stand up to someone in a position of authority; and third, that an abstract principle (the importance of not hitting students) could outweigh the importance of doing one's daily work (teaching). I think these are the three main factors that have made my reaction on Monday so difficult for even my open-minded colleagues to understand.

Not wanting to punish my students for my colleague's inappropriate actions, I did return to school the next day and taught the rest of this week. I decided for the time being that my policy would be one of avoidance, and I was successful in avoiding this particular person for the rest of the week. I also decided that every time I saw a student being hit, I would go home, and if something as extreme as Monday happened again, I would think about leaving permanently. The next day when I returned to school, my premieres (Juniors) asked me where I was yesterday and why I had left. I explained to them that I didn't agree with my colleague's decision, that hitting students is illegal and if I had stayed at school, it would have been the same thing as supporting it, which I couldn't do. They seemed to understand, and I reflected that even if everyone doesn't understand now why this practice is so offensive and inappropriate, they at least understand that it makes me really upset, and that might cause some of them to start questioning it themselves.

As a Peace Corps volunteer, I often feel way out of my element, totally under-prepared to deal with some very serious situations. There's an episode of the Office that I think about a lot, where Michael Scott has organized a race to raise awareness about rabies, but has a breakdown towards the end. He says something like “There are so many people out there, and they have all these problems, and there's nothing I can do about it.” Pam's response is, “Yeah, but you shouldn't worry too much about it. There are other, better people trying to solve these problems.” I regularly feel like Michael Scott at the end of the Fun Run, except that I am supposed to be the other, better people fixing the problems, and I often wonder who decided I was qualified enough to be given that much responsibility.

Traveling back up from vacation, I met a French woman on the bus from Ngaoundere to Maroua. I asked her how long she had been here, and she said just a couple weeks – she was here to visit a friend and do some tourism. Then she said to me (in English), “You've been here awhile, haven't you?” I said yes, a year and a half, and she said, “I can tell. You look used.” I realized later that she might have meant “used to living here”, but I thought that “used” was an excellent adjective to describe me right now. Sometimes I feel like the last year and a half has led me to be adjusted, comfortable, and happy. Cameroon feels like home, to the point where I have trouble explaining certain things about my life to Americans, and can't always turn the French off in my brain, or filter it out of my English, even when speaking to other anglophones. But other times, I feel the year and a half like a weight on my shoulders that has gotten heavier with each case of amoebas, argument at school, bout of homesickness, culture clash, and miscommunication.

But I don't feel like that most days, and this is what I have been trying to take away from this week. It was so easy to go home on Monday and say “I hate school,” which quickly became “I hate the village,” which quickly became “I hate Peace Corps.” But then I took a step back and realized that wasn't true – I was frustrated with one person at school, but there were literally at least a hundred other people there (mostly my students) that I adored. And that is why I am here – for those people that give me shit for missing class, that come to my house to make sure I'm okay, that hand me worksheets they found on their own to be corrected. I'm here for my terminales, who today shouted “He lies, he lies!” (with 's'!) when another student made an outlandish claim, and for my troisiemes, who independently elected a representative today to stand up and apologize on behalf of the entire class for the students who were late...these are the people I will be trying to focus on for my last few months.

It has been a good while since my last post, and for that I apologize! Life has been all kinds of madness since New Years. It also did not help terribly that we lost Internet for the last two weeks. … Continue reading →

From Day 1 of service, a Peace Corps Volunteer will be told that "cultural integration" is a large part of your job as it increases one's safety and understanding. Thus, as I am organizing calabash design classes for women as an income-generating activity (see 'My Peace Corps Projects'), I decided to take classes myself!

Note: The calabash is a fruit that is not eaten, but rather utilized in many traditional ways, such as a drinking bowl. In this case, the calabashes are carved, painted, and sold/given as traditional wedding presents!

Calabash design artist, Haowao, teaching me how to cut my calabash

The finished products! Don't ask me why this blog/internet published this photo side-ways

So by day, I take calabash design classes and by night? Well, I go dancing with the members of my micro-credit cooperatives of course!

Breaking it down with 4o-year-old Cameroonian moms!

Yes, this is a baby in a bar. C'est la vie!

Came back from vacation to water that looked like this...

And a sunset that looked like this...

Peace Corps life. Can't help but love it.