I have traveled for the last time ever the intensely long voyage from my small little village of Lara to the big city capital of Yaounde for one more week of closing. My last few days (even weeks) at village were a whirlwind of activity; finishing up all the grading of exams, recording grades by hand at the high school, selling some of my furniture to friends, making sure to say goodbye to everyone. I even threw a tiny party where I asked a neighbor to make a great amount of local wine and gave it out to my neighbors to say thank you for protecting me for the two years. I never had a problem with theives or anyone entering my yard at night because I know they watched out for me. And they always appreciate another calabash (wooden bowl) full of bil-bil (fermented wine). Saying goodbye was tough especially to a few close friends who always treated me like a friend and not another "rich white person."

But I am ready to leave the country of Cameroon after such an amazing experience that I couldn't have asked for more (maybe some ranch dressing and less malaria? oh I digress). I am finishing this week of all the awesome paperwork and even more awesome medical exams; we have to give three stool samples, three I say! Then I leave for a 10 day trip in Morocco to travel with another fellow volunteer! I'm super excited to see another part of Africa where the culture just keeps changing. Then I arrive home in Ohio to see you all. :)

We all have time to theorize and philosophize and other -izes but maybe more so when you live in an African village. My fellow volunteer and good friend, Melanie, and I have discussed the debate of dirtiness in Cameroon, particulary in the Extreme North where the climate is hot and dry a good eight months of the year. Now that the winter season came and went and the hot months are quickly approaching, the amount of wind and dust has surrmounted that of last year. But we decided that our clothes are not dirty if we wear them and only dust has blown through them. They only become dirty when a liquid is involved, for example, sweat. But this theory is also proven by the men and women who was their clothes in the riverbed by digging holes to find hidden water then laying their freshly-washed clothes out on the sand. Of course this does not make them dirty again because once the scorching sun dries them (which I'm sure the intensity of sun rays kills any remaining bacteria) all you have to do is shake off the remaining sand and voila! clean clothes. So although your skin color becames a bit darker and your clothes seem a bit dusty after a day's work, you're not really dirty. Just shake it off and you're good as new.

It is a classic love-sick story. One of my lovely chickens, Frida (the red-feathered) died recently. Cause: unrequited love. Poor girl.

So as I previously mentioned, I degorged my male chicken for the Christmas feast, leaving only my female chickens behind. But Zita got lucky and had two eggs hatch, although one baby died. But Zita and her only child were inseparable. I mean, literally every moment (waking and sleeping) was spent basically side-by-side. And it meant chasing Frida away every time she challenged the food supply.

Frida was left all alone. She kept jumping the fence "to search for a man" or at least thats what my neighbors said. Then for a couple days she would sit by herself for an unusual amount of time and wander aimlessly. The next morning I found her laying ouside, heart stopped, eyes still open. Such a loss around the homestead.

Yes, she could have died from one of the chicken diseases that was spreading around village. But if you look at the rest of the evidence, it is more likely that she died of a broken heart. Maybe she will find love in chicken heaven. Rest in peace, Frida.

Yes, my impulse buys here in Cameroon tend to be a little different from the states. For example, I splurge on a wheel of Vache Qui Rit (fake cheese!) or the more expensive box of wine or even an apple but this was the first time that the thought of buying chickens came up. I had recently read the book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver and became inspired to live even more locally than I already do (all food products that I buy are local and other goods usually come from Chad or Nigeria). But I wanted something in my own backyard, so why not the presence of squawking chickens?

I explained my desire for some egg-making birds to one of my closest friends, Miramou and by the next market day I had three chickens hanging upside-down in my hand. She recommended that I buy one male and two females for faster reproduction. I told her that I just wanted fresh eggs to eat but I believe she thought that I wanted to raise and sell chickens. Now, other sources have told me that you don’t need a male to have edible eggs but at the time that is what I got. So I quickly named them Henry, Frida and Zita with the hope that I would not get too attached. I brought them home to my outdoor kitchen where they would sleep and could run around my compound all day long. I give them water and some millet grain every day and they forage for the rest.

Now my compound fence is pretty large but apparently it was not spacious enough for Henry. In a couple of weeks he learned he could fly out by jumping onto a pile of bricks, then over my fence. Then I would send my neighbor girl on a good chase for him, sometimes not winning until nightfall when he would cozy into bed in a random place. And he convinced Frida to fly the coop as well while Zita was at home sitting on her eggs.

Another impulse decision was made on Christmas Eve. I had grown tired of Henry’s little games and decided he would be sacrificed for a Christmas meal to share with the neighborhood. Two neighbor girls, Eugenie and Madjile, took control of the situation, cut his throat, plucked feathers and cleaned him as I filmed the event. I was surprised at my lack of remorse or disgust; apparently living here toughens ya up. But still don’t think I, myself, could be the one beheading a live chicken.

For Christmas, I prepared him in a tomato-y, oily Cameroonian sauce served with rice to share with the neighbors. Even my vegetarian friend Ashley decided she must try my local poultry and admitted it was good! And more good news, Zita had two chicks hatch! I’m a mom!? Oh, family.

So Technology has won yet again. If it was not enough that my computer died, my camera card ran full and I seem to have constant internet connection problems, now my flash drive became fully infected with super-strength viruses (thanks to my high school computer) that infected a couple other computers as well (oops! sorry) and lost all documents. Now as much as I love communicating with you, the forces seem to be preventing it. So once again I will recap a few of the experiences that have happened over the past couple of months. But sorry, no accompanying photographs for awhile.

And as much as Technology keeps beating me I will not let it get the best of me. In fact, being here in Cameroon and living so differently has made me recognize how much I enjoy telling (more so writing) stories and communicating that maybe I have realized what I want to do in life. A career, perhaps? Fancy that.

After a year into service, I was the fortunate recipient of a visitor from the great states of America, my sister Nicole! Thanks to govt school loans, she could afford the trip here. It was absolutely amazing to show my sister, someone from my family and from the states, my life here in Cameroon firsthand. And after more than a year of not seeing each other, we had a lot of catching up to do. The trip was filled with adventures of public transport, new eating experiences and the frustrations of getting hassled by the police. Oh Cameroon, you know just how to outdo yourself.

It was great to show everyone one in village my Twin sister. To which they exclaimed,"Same mother, same father?!" Yes, that was a question. And "Oh you look the same!" And except for Nico's new haircut, we pretty much did. The airline lost her baggage for a while (Eff AirFrance) so Nicole had to wear my clothes and we really did confuse people in village.

Here are a few photos:

We hung out with neighbor kids.

We drank delicious fermented millet. Thou, nicole wasn't too fond of it.

All in all, we had Fun! I wanted to add more photos but Nicole only sent me a few so I blame her. But she has a full facebook album if the curiosity strikes.

Shout out to my sister: Love and Miss.

I am a little behind on blog posts due to the death of my mac, lack of internet service and just a plain ole shortage of computers but don’t fret; I’m still here! And hoping you are too. So I am rewinding to the rainy month of July. As I was returning to my village with all my baggage and myself atop a moto, we took the turn entering my village a bit too fast and slid out in the sandy gravel. Fortunately I was wearing my helmet and there were no serious injuries, just a moment of shock and a couple bad scrapes. After picking myself up I turned to see a herd of villagers running my way to see if the moto driver and I were hurt. I realized my leg and palms were bleeding so another man offered to bring me to the hospital to be cleaned and sterilized. By the end of the day, the rest of the village knew what happened and received many visitors that week as I hobbled around my house. (Disclaimer: Photo following, don’t look below if you get queasy at that stuff. And yes, I took a picture of the fresh wound at the health center. That was right after I stopped tearing up because the antiseptic stung so bad. The doctor was amused and told me I was interesting. I'm sure he meant it as a positive compliment.)

Because of how often I have to take motos as transport and the lack of safety here I figured the probability of an accident happening was just a matter of time. Once (hopefully) out of two years can’t be that bad, right? The worst part of it was the fear instilled in me for a month after every time I had to take a moto. My body would freeze up on the inside and nausea would take control. I have to admit I enjoyed a beer or two beforehand to stay relaxed. But that feeling has passed and now I feel comfortable traveling again. I am just much more conscious of who is driving the moto and his condition (drunk?) and the speed. It healed up fairly quickly but left a pretty big scar. I'm sure my daily treatments of vitamin E oil will get it lookin new in no time.

Everytime I return to my village after a couple weeks of traveling or gone for just the weekend, it is customary for the villagers to comment on how much weight I have gained (even if I have not gained an ounce):

"Oh tu as pris le poid! beaucoup!"

Translated to: "Oh you have taken the weight! A lot of it!"

Most of the time I believe it is meant to be a compliment. Some villagers will follow the statement with "very good! Cameroon is good to you!" Those are the people who enjoy seeing me plumper. And when you tend to be a little heavier, it means that you have the money to feed yourself well. And often. And yes, perhaps I have gained a few more pounds. I mean it is hard not too when the only food to eat is couscous, rice, pasta and more heavy, full-of-carbs food. And when I travel I can find more tasty food such as salads, omelettes, grilled fish, cheeseburgers (yes, cheeseburgers!) that it is too hard not to pass up. And with the climate usually hovering around 90 degrees, it gets too hot to exercise.

So it's acceptable in the Cameroonian culture to make blunt statements about physical appearance such as weight, skin color, clothes, etc. but we are taught in the states to hardly ever comment on that, let alone a negative aspect. It is hard to get used to this at first, thinking that my friends in village were just being rude and mean. But they don't mean it like that and it is just part of the culture. It is easier to just accept it and not get frustrated over it. And so now I just joke back with them saying "oh yes, I have eaten so much good food!" So soon I will return home again and expect the comments (compliments?) of my weight once again. All this talk about food... I think it's time to fill my belly up with a chicken sandwhich and fries! And just maybe they will have ketchup too!

Being back in village during rainy season (which is also my summer vacation) has given me a lot more time to relax during the spurts of rain that come every other day or so. Rainy season means the villagers are out at their farms planting and cultivating in the morning. It means the pitter-patter of sprinkles on my aluminum roof. It means occasional great big thunderstorms that seem so much more intense than in the states. They seem to shake the ground up to my insides, scaring me but also giving the feeling that I am so close to something dangerous. It gives the feeling of being alive. Rainy season means cooler weather (about 80 degrees) and steam floating off of the mountain and intermingling with the dark clouds above. It means green grass, green fields and green plants; it doesn’t look so much like desert anymore. It means more bugs, mosquitoes and creepy crawlers creeping into my house and me being thankful for mosquito nets. It means more flies, flies that stick to your skin, flies that after a while you just stop bothering to wave away. It means the electricity is cut more often, gone for days at a time. It means more time to read, write, watch movies (when there is electricity) and reflect. And it means more time to write blogs such as this.

Let’s back up to the month of May, when this occurred.

The chief of the village is whom we call the Lamido. He is the big man, a grand, the head honcho of my village and a couple surrounding villages. I met him a couple times when I first arrived but it was easy to see he was very old and feeling it. His scrawny limbs rested on a mattress inside while I greeted him from the outside steps. At every fete, there was a chair dedicated to his place but it always remained empty. He was soon sent to Douala for medical reasons, after several months he returned to Lara in May to die within a week. I missed the funeral but knew it was customary to stop by the chief’s palace to give my condolences.

The palace of the Lamido.

I went one evening to find several large rugs placed outside in various spots filled with sitting Muslim men. It is how they show their respect for the dead, by sitting outside of the house for days and nights included. I can actually tell when there has been a death in the village by this act alone. Once I arrived, I realized my nervousness of not knowing what I was doing or what was protocol. I knew I should give my condolences but I didn’t want to insult the Muslim religion. Luckily I saw a man that I knew sitting down, the president of the parents’ association, so I walked toward him. He waved me over, refused to let me take my shoes off (another custom), exchanged greetings with me and offered up his son to lead me throughout the palace compound. I entered into a main room where several more men were sitting talking; I presume by the tone it was a serious discussion within family members. After greetings I was lead to the back of the compound and through a maze of walls and mud huts. Everywhere I looked there were groups of people, mostly women and children, doing various activities. I gave my condolences to the three wives of the deceased chief, who sat mourning quietly on mats, reminiscing in their heads. I made the mistake of offering my hand to the first wife, who refused and I immediately realized I offended her. The boy leading me around could see my embarrassment and told me not to worry about it but needless to say, I did not do it again with the next two wives. I greeted other groups of female family members who also sat on mats but chatted and gossiped and thanked me for coming. I saw other people walking around but was not sure of their purpose. As we came to the end of the tour, a large group of women were in the various stages of mixing and kneading dough to bake. Upon inquiry, my guide told me that on the 8th day after the death, the Muslim tradition is to make a special kind of gateau (cake) for all of the family to eat. I just happen to be there on that day. Ya know, once you took away all the bright-colored pagne, sitting mats and mud huts, it wasn’t much too different from our own way of funerals in America. Just family all meeting together to mourn and commemorate the death.

Two weeks after the death of the old chief, a board of important community members elected a new chief for the canton of Lara. He is only 27 and still a student at the university. I went to the election and it seemed like the majority of people were very pleased with this decision. It was only afterwards when I started hearing that he was too young and people must have bribed for the vote. I never know what to believe with the rumors here so we’ll see what decisions he makes for the village in the upcoming year.

Although the official two languages of Cameroon are French and English, it is really quite different in the field. From my experience I would say majority of Cameroonians speak French (some speak French well, some speak a simplified version of French) and the majority of Cameroonians do not speak English. They might know a couple of words here and there and have the greetings memorized but actual conversations are not possible.

My village is pretty small and what we call “en brusse” so there is even less formal language and more of a mélange of tribal languages. The tribe in my village is the Moundong so they have their own langugage but the language of the Extreme North, Fulfolde, is from another tribe. The villagers have told me that by the end of two years I will speak fluent Moundong but I am finding it pretty difficult just to pick up this gibberish. Luckily, I have several students who find it very amusing to teach me the local langue. I have a couple of pages of translated phrases and the students will force me to practice with them. And I can always get a kick out of the older ladies of the village if I throw out some Moundong words.

But all these languages are getting hard to keep track of and sometimes speaking English has even become more difficult. In class, I speak a slower, simplified version of English. A couple of my colleagues practice their English with me but once again, I have to think of simplified phrases before I respond. It is an interesting blend of teaching English but speaking another language to communicate. So there’s a reason if you start noticing my blogs becoming more dull and simplified. Maybe I can just add some French and Moundong to spice it up.

And to those of you stateside, happy thanksgiving! Eat a cold turkey and mashed potato on wheat bread sandwich for me. Mmmm mmmm.

For one, I am a terrible cook. At least in these conditions. I still have not been able to find a gas tank for my stove. I don’t understand how there are just not any bottles and an explanation has yet to be given so it remains a mystery why I cannot find one. So I cook over charbon (charcoal) and it is Difficult! There is a technique to lighting the charcoal that I cannot seem to master so that takes about an hour. Then actual cooking time takes about another one to two hours depending on how long it takes for the charcoal to really heat up. I have to plan my meals far in advance so usually I try to make as much food as possible that will keep without a fridge. So far I have made goopy pasta, runny oily eggs and metallic-tasting rice (that’s a whole other story that I will not get into here). None of it has actually tasted good but I guess it is edible because I haven’t gotten sick. I managed to eat most of the meals mostly because I was hungry but I had to throw some of it to the dogs. My lack of skill is embarrassing. It gets better every time so hopefully soon the food will be decent! Good thing for Maggie seasoning (MSG in a cube).

And second, I often surprise people when they ask me if I am married and have kids and I respond no to both questions. Sometimes for shock value I like to add that I don’t want this. I mean I am a lady of child-bearing age (if not too old), what else could I possible want? Then they start inquiring about if I would marry an African, specifically a Cameroonian. I have had some people, usually men, tell me as-a-matter-of-fact that I will get married and spend the rest of my life here. (They obviously don’t know me. Not that I am necessarily opposed to the idea but I am not really the type to sit in one spot.) Guys will ask to be my petit ami (boyfriend) the second time they see me. I feel as though they see me as a ticket out of here. The ‘unwanted attention’ does get tiring but it quickly makes you realize an aspect of life here: relationships of the genders.

Although I have only been a teacher for a couple short months, I have gained a tremendous fold of respect for other teachers. This is a hard job, no doubts about it. I teach in concrete classrooms with completely open windows (the weather is mostly just hot so it works okay), so bugs, bees and lizards have free range. Parts of the roof are even missing in one of the classrooms. There are about 60 students in each of my classes sitting two to three at wooden desks.

Not only are the conditions rough, but actual teaching is tough. It is different everyday how the students will react. One day they could listen, take notes and participate in everything and the next day they couldn’t care less what I am doing in the front of the classroom. It is quite a feeling to be standing in front of 60 students with blank faces or not concentrating at all. I could make a lesson plan that I think will totally rock but becomes a total flop. It can definitely be frustrating but they are just kids and actually teaching me something. What’s that? Patience. And the job is more tiring than I ever imagined. It is like you are performing in front of the students and you constantly have to keep their minds attentive. Five hours in and I’m done. Props to those teachers who have to teach for longer.

Teaching has its perks too. Sometimes a class can go so well it puts me in a state of amazement. (Usually the next class breaks it pretty fast). But I will have to say that it is quite another feeling when you see a child’s face light up because he understands. You are getting through to someone. And the kids are quirky too. They can usually make me smile or laugh at their antics. I will catch them misbehaving and I all have to do is give them a look and they get all squeamish and scared. And sometimes they are just straight out funny. And every once in awhile they will yell at each other if the class starts to become too loud. A true miracle: when I don’t have to punish the students because they do it themselves.

Teachers everywhere deserve more than just a round of applause but that is all I got now.

After about a week of travel and banking, I finally moved in to my house at my post. My completely empty house except for my luggage and me. But on the upside, I live right next to a couple of mountains! I’ve climbed up them a bit to see the whole view and it is wondrous to see so far. Especially now since the landscape is still green, but in a month everything will be a dusty brown. My counterpart that I met with during training was affected to another school district but he was nice enough to come back for a day to introduce me to other school officials. So far everyone has been very friendly to me (maybe even too friendly sometimes). But I am slowly making friends and getting to know the community. As the only white girl in the village, people already know who I am and that I am teaching English at the lycee. It’s a little awkward when they come up to me like we’ve have known each other forever and I have no idea who they are. I spoke with a Catholic Mission here about getting some furniture built and I finally received that a week ago! I have had trouble finding a gas tank for a stovetop so I lived off street food for two weeks. Since my village is pretty small there is only benins (fried dough) and cooked beans. It was like the Fourth of July fireworks in my intestines for a good week. And my bathroom is an outside pit latrine (basically just a hole in the ground) so that has been interesting. I made friends with these two sisters who cooked for me and showed me how to cook meals over a fire. So I can eat real food finally! I’ve already seen some of the difficulties I will face as a female and how my experience will be different from a male volunteer. There are two other volunteers about 10 kilometers away in a bigger town where I can escape to if I need support. Petit a petit.

So tomorrow I will swear-in as a Peace Corps Volunteer. This means I am officially employed by the U.S. government! Yay for a permanent job! It also means that training is over! And that our whole group made it to the end without anybody leaving yet! Sorry for all the exclamations, it’s just all a very exciting time.

So I also leave for post on thursday and am on my own once I get there. It has been a crazy two months of emotions. It’s been stressful, exciting, nerve-wracking, touching and more. The group spends every day during training together and we’re family now.

I am thrilled to leave for post and settle in where I will live for the next two years but it will be hard to leave everyone. I have heard numerous times that the first three months at post are the hardest because it is a whole another set of adjustments we have to acclimate to. And we are on our own to figure it out. Wish me luck! And let the ride continue…

Last Saturday we received our mountain bikes and a full four hours of how to make them work. Okay, so it was more like how to fix and maintain them which I guess is pretty useful information. Anyways, I was still pumped to get a bike even though it is a heavy mountain bike…road bikes just can’t handle the Cameroonian terrain. I finally took it for a spin the other day with a couple of friends around the village. Let me tell you, there is nothing more breathtaking then riding my bike through the hills of this gorgeous town. I mean the views are amazing (I wish my camera could capture the beauty in the same way I see it) and after pedaling up some of those hills, I literally couldn’t breathe. But the downhills are intense! I’m a little afraid not to brake a little on them but they are so exhilarating. But about halfway through the ride, my bike decided to break and a part just fell off. I was going slow enough that it didn’t matter but I couldn’t ride without it so we ended up having to walk an hour back home. Still made the 7 pm curfew though!

Another story I would like to share is about tomatoes. A lot of the Cameroonian dishes are made with a tomato type sauce, therefore a lot of tomatoes are diced up. But there are no cutting boards here. So what do ya do? Oh, just cut it in your hand! But don't you worry, the knife is too blunt to cut yourself. My mother definitely laughed at me when she had to show me how to cut the tomato. I tried to explain that I know how to cut a tomato, just in a different way but I could clearly see on her face what she was thinking – ‘stupid Americans’. After cutting a whole bowl of tomatoes, I would have to say I’m not bad at it. Not good per say...but not bad.

Last week I had to make a trip to the provincial capital in the west with a couple other volunteers to fix some banking issues we had. Our training director, David who is an awesome Cameroonian, took us in a Peace Corps vehicle. He has been very helpful and accommodating and even plays soccer with us every Thursday. Anyways, to get to the point, we were conversing in the car and somehow we came up on the topic of our host families and what they get in return for allowing us to stay there. Most of us assuming that Peace Corps pays them plenty, without saying any type of amount David informed us that they receive just a little. Not even enough for all our food and utilities (water, electricity) that we use! Then he mentioned that some of the families do not even accept the payment. They just want to do it because they want to help. He explained, “Africans do not have money, but they always have space for foreigners. And food to go around." Just made me think. And it think it made more of an impact when were driving by poor neighborhoods and slums.

And speaking of food, I ate cow stomach the other night by accident. It was kinda dark when my sister gave me my plate of food but I could tell it was meat and boiled plantains in some sauce. So I asked her if the meat was beef and she said yes. So I took a bite and it didn't taste like any beef I've ever tasted before. Very rubbery and not much flavor. So I asked her again what type of meat and she explained that it was the stomach of the cow. She must have saw my face because she laughed and asked me if I didn't like it. I managed to swallow the piece of meat but she happily proceeded to eat the rest of the meat off of my plate. I lost my appetite. Needless to say, I am very excited to start cooking for myself.

By looking at the map, it is quite a bit a ways away from the center region. In fact it takes about 2 ½ days of continuous travel time to get there from where I am at right now. And traveling in Cameroon is an experience in itself that I would like to share with you all.

First I take a five hour bus ride to Yaoundé, the capital, to catch an overnight train. Imagine the first time riding on a train was in Africa! The train has different cars for different ticket prices. Since I was traveling with three other trainees who are posted in the north we got a ‘couchette’ which is a very small room with four beds and a window. It can get really shaky but for the majority of the time it is pleasant to lay down, watch the scenery fly by and feel the breeze. The train can take anywhere from 14 to 24 hours depending on what type of problems it runs in to, including derailment. It seems as though the train derailing is a common occurrence and nothing to worry about, but I have hard time wrapping my head around that idea.

Then there is another eight-hour bus trip to my post. The easiest way to describe the buses is they are like large vans with rows of benches across and no seat belts. What would normally fit five people comfortably across, Cameroon squeezes in at least eight. If you are not touching the person next to you then the driver can fit in more passengers. I’ve actually become used to it pretty quickly and it makes me feels safer when the driver is hurtling down bumpy dirt roads. I feel like I have less of chance of popping out if there was an accident.

And motos are used around the village. They are cheaper and can get to more places than a car could fit. Peace Corps requires us to wear helmets so we have to lug around a clunky helmet when we travel. And we are the only people who wear them; I’m not even sure if Cameroonians understand why. A little bit scary at first, but then motos turn out to be fun once you get used to them.

I will always have lots more traveling stories to tell but that is all for now. The most important part of traveling here is to not pay attention to the actual driving. It will just make you sick and scared for the whole trip.

I went on my site visit last week! I am not supposed to tell you of my exact whereabouts on here but I can say it is in the Extreme North Province of Cameroon. This is where I secretly wanted to go so I am really excited to get a post there! So I will tell you a little bit about it from what I know so far.

The village is small and located next to a couple of huge mountains; a view that I will enjoy waking up to every morning. The mountains even have hiking trails that I will have to check out! The high school has about 1,000 students and eight male teachers. I will be the only female and only English teacher in the school – a bit intimidating. The students come from my village and the surrounding villages. I don’t have a house yet but most likely I will have electricity (sporadically) but no running water. Yay for bucket baths and paying children to bring me water from mysterious sources!(No worries, that is totally normal) And the closest internet is about 1 ½ hours away so my updates will be less frequent.

From what I’ve heard from other volunteers, the extreme north is extremely different from what I’ve been experiencing right now. For one thing, it is about ten times hotter. In the hot season, temps reach 115 degrees in the shade. It has a huge Muslim population, so it is more conservative in dress and mannerisms. The area is also more laid back and chill. In the words of another volunteer, “its just too damn hot to get angry.”

So this entry will be about the food. Why, you ask? Because I love food and I know you would like to read about the food I eat in Cameroon.

So I stay at host family, who feeds me breakfast and dinner. For lunch, I and the other volunteers are on our own but there are a couple shops/homes nearby.

For breakfast, I usually have hot chocolate and baguette bread with butter and a chocolate spread on top (think nutella). They don’t have milk here so the hot chocolate is made with condensed milk powder, chocolate powder, sugar and hot water. Tastes just like Swiss Miss. If only I could find some marshmallows.

For lunch, I usually have one of three options. Either a sandwich made up of an omelet with spaghetti, tomato, onion and pimont (a spicy spread) mixed in. Sounds a bit weird but I actually start craving them already. Or I cut up an avocado with my swiss army knife and make an avocado and Laughing Cow cheese sandwich. Or I buy a bowl full of Cameroonian food from a local mother who cooks up huge pots of delish food. She usually makes a mashed potato/black bean mixture, spaghetti mixture, some type of vegetable mixture that looks like sauerkraut but tastes a million times better and fried plantains.

For dinner, it varies. I’ve had a rice mixture with cut green beans and carrots. Or small potatoes with fish and peppers. Or fried plantains. Or boiled plaintains with a cooked bean mixture. Or rice with a peanut sauce and fish on top. It doesn’t sound too unusual but the spices they use are different but common to every dish so everything has a Cameroonian taste to it. Oh! Just the other night I had fried potatoes which tasted exactly like some hot french fries! They were unbelievable amazing! And I think the more I eat, the more my host mother likes me. It’s a good trade-off.

The ground here is a bold, brick red. It is a very beautiful landscape with the lush green trees and fairly blue sky. Only thing is that it gets everywhere! Inside my shoes, on the desks we sit at, inside the house and more. Although Cameroon is a developing country, it has a very up-kept appearance. The Cameroonian culture is to keep your shoes clean at all times. It is said that a Cameroonian will look at your face to meet you, then look at your shoes to judge you. So I try to stay as clean as possible, although this is hard when there is a rain burst every afternoon or so and the red dirt turns into a slippery, red mud slide. I have yet to fall but I am almost expecting it to happen at one point. But the mud gets caked to my shoes by the time I get anywhere. So it is common to wash your shoes about everyday to every couple of days to keep them clean.

Speaking about up-kept appearances…yesterday after class, a group of us went to play futball (soccer) with some of the Cameroonian trainers and locals. It was awesome just to have some fun and de-stress from all the class! It was also great exercise with the Cameroonians practically running circles around us. So this red dirt would collect on the ball and then deposit itself on us as it hit our legs, thighs and possibly arms and clothes. By the end, we were all basically covered in a sweaty, red dust with our shins a dark maroon. In Cameroon, women do not really play sports or wear shorts. Both of which I was doing. On my way home I just happen to run into my host mother and her friend. My mother knew I was playing futball but they both couldn’t stop staring at my dirty legs. I tried to explain/joke about it in my basic French but I can’t imagine what was actually going through their heads. Very uncomfortable so I rushed off to shower. And clean my shoes, of course.

I have been in Cameroon for a little less than two weeks and already I know that Cameroonians (and most of Africa, for that matter) LOVES President Barack Obama. And all caps on love is not an exaggeration. They believe that since Obama is black, his family has originated from Africa, which it has. But since they don’t know exactly where, they believe he came from Cameroon. And Cameroon is extremely proud to have a Cameroonian United States of America President. I’ve seen Obama’s face on billboard advertisements for a cell phone service. His face is painted on the fronts of barbershops so you can get the Obama haircut. Today, I even saw a sign saying Club Obama but I am not sure what it was…maybe a restaurant?

Most of all, I just find it interesting that they are so interested in America and know so much about us but we know very little of them. I couldn’t even tell you where Cameroon was in Africa before I received my Peace Corps invitation. America is just known to the rest of the world, developed or not. It just amazes me that this place with unreliable electricity, poor Internet access and such a different way of life, knows America. But the majority of America does not even realize that.

More observations: I saw a bee for the first time yesterday. Not really a big deal except that it was the SIZE OF A HUMMINGBIRD! Cant imagine the sting on that. And the keyboqrds are wierd and mqke me type like this.

So this is my newly formed blog. I want to share my Peace Corps/Cameroon/Africa adventures with everybody so I am going to try out this whole blogging thing. But to be honest, I don't really know how my internet connection will be. As backup I might end up just sending out a group email out whenever I can...if you want to be added to that list, just message/email your address to me!

I am a lil overwhelmed with everything that I have to do before I go (the 'to-do' list seems never ending)...but super stoked that I just booked my ticket today to my staging event in Philadelphia! I leave June 3rd at 7:08am. DYT > PHL > AFRICA!