Book Report:

A book of reflection, 'Crossing to Safety' by Wallace Stegner, is not usually my cup of tea. In this case, I was won over by the overwhelming attention to detail, not the boring kind, but the ones that matter, and that make a story 'real'. Not for the action-adventure fans, but great for someone looking to slow down and take a deeper look at life.

'Angels in America: Millenium Approaches and Peristroika' by Tony Kushner appeared on my bookshelf (as they often do when friends come visiting- they disappear as well). I remember about fifteen years ago when the plays made it to Broadway in succession, and caused an enormous stir. I pretty much ignored it at the time, but upon hearing that HBO had made it into a movie just recently, I decided to see what it was all about. The stir, even now, is justified. Rarely does a play bring one issue so close to even those who weren't there or previously had difficulty imagining being effected by AIDS. Believe it or not, I found a copy of the HBO movie here in Cameroon (strange coincidence) and was able to watch it shortly after reading it- excellent (special recognition to Mary Louise Parker, who nailed her part). If you're not into plays, at least rent the movie.

WARNING TO READER: there are several posts that will be out of order, but its been hectic these last few months. Eventually, they'll all make it. I promise.

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I'm just finishing up my movie (yes, I've put together a 30 minute video/photo montage of my experiences here in Cameroon), and as Vanessa Williams sings on the soundtrack, "Its a long way home". Indeed.

I suppose its never an easy thing to do- picking up and moving, and goodness knows I should be really good at it by now, but its still a painful, stress-inducing and anxiety-producing process. Packing, throwing away, closing up and saying goodbye while planning the next chapter brings on a wide range of emotions. I've been through them all. Unfortunately, this all has the negative side effect of preventing peaceful sleep. I'll do that on the way back.

Only a few days until I leave my house, my friends, my home for the last two years. Maybe forever. The people here like to ask me when I'm coming back. My standard response is, "in a few years, when I find the means". Rather vague, but I really can't say otherwise.

For now, a few more days of closing up, a few more evenings of eating and drinking with friends, and a few more mixed emotions. It is a long way home, but I'm on my way.

Just a couple weeks before my departure from Edéa, I realized that with all the time I've spent with my postmate, Will, that I had only been to his village of Ngonga to help him move in -over a year ago. I decided my last small trip from Edéa would be to visit him for a few days. The day after returning from Kellé-Bitchoka for the first mass, Will called to let me know he was in town and that I should meet him to go out to his village. We met at the bar across from my office (where I spend entirely too much time) and had a beer (which was bought by a friend from the market). This was quickly followed by another beer (bought by the woman who runs the bar, and wanted to thank me for a photo I took of her and her granddaughter).

Eventually, we made it to the "bus station" where we sat for a bit longer waiting for the van to leave - we lucked out and it left before it was full, so we were rather comfortable. Upon arrival, we were met and informed that the weekly football (um, soccer) game was about to start. During the cooler part of the year, there are leagues which pit the young men of small villages against neighboring villages. This was a friendly match- not one that counted towards the regional championship. EVERYONE from both villages was there, and we were greeted by the folks from Ngonga. It was kinda like a small-town T-ball game in the US with folks selling food, watching the game, and cheering on their sons and brothers. Either of these teams could whoop any high school team in the US without trying too hard (these guys were 15-19 years old), but it was the home team that prevailed by a score of 3-1.

We skipped the partying at the local night club (a guy built an empty shed-like structure onto the front of his house and bought some really loud speakers) so that we could get up early the next morning and go hunting in the jungle. Note: animal lovers may want to skip the next paragraph or two...

At 7:00am we met Will's friend and local bush meat hunter for a tour of the jungle next to the village, sliding down hills, crossing streams and visiting his traps. Machete in hand, and camera in bag, we were ready for anything. Coming upon the first of his traps, Ben showed us how to bend over a sapling tree, attach wire, dig a small hole, and set a trap for whatever small animal happened by. The "spring" trap, once stepped on, wrapped the (usually) hind foot with the wire circle and flung him up to hang until he died of exhaustion, maggots, or the hunter's machete, whichever came first.

Soon after starting, we came on a wide stream that was a bit too deep for my not-really-waterproof boots, so Will and I sat down to rest and wait for Ben to check the couple of traps on the other side and continue. He came back with a big smile on his face, and an african porcupine in his hands. He put it in his backpack (he had already killed it and let the blood) and we continued. Not too long afterwards, Ben pointed out the movement through the trees. It turned out to be a jungle rat (about five times larger than the New York variety, but clearly in the same family) caught in another of his traps. This time I took photos of the before, during and after. That too went into the backpack. A bit more hiking and appreciating the beauty of the spoiled forest followed (even here, the woods had been thoroughly harvested about fifty years ago, but were making a good comeback). Having hiked through a similar jungle in Korup with Cathy, I was weary of the biting ants, and they found all three of us too. We stopped to pick them out of our pants, underwear and just about everywhere else as they bit us. It was then that we noticed a third trap had done its deed, this time with the reclusive and scaled pangolin. Unfortunately, it had been there for a couple of days and was already rotting (we had smelled it long before). Ben salvaged the tail (which didn't have visible maggots and which is the best-tasting part) and put that too into his backpack. We headed out of the jungle, having done quite a day's work. It was 11am. That afternoon, we slept and that evening, we had porcupine for dinner. It was delicious.

I wanted to hike to a waterfall that was nearby the following morning, but the rainy season was in full gear and it hadn't stopped raining for almost 18 hours, so we cancelled. We bought our would-be guide breakfast of beignets and bouilée (hot, sweetened starch water). It didn't stop raining for another six hours. I said my goodbyes and headed back to Edéa.

By chance, the driver was the younger brother of my friend Sylvie, so he drove nice and slow on the muddy roads. When we were about halfway there, we came across a bridge under construction. They had made a temporary route down into and then back out of the ravine the bridge was being constructed to pass over. A logging truck, full of freshly cut wood, had slid down faster than the cab was driving, causing a jacknife and blocking the road. Considering myself lucky once again (and swearing that it was the last of my taking chances in this country), I got out with the driver, evaluated the situation, and we started filling in the side of the road with large rocks and then dirt to widen the road to allow us to pass. It worked. I went to sleep soon after getting back, with muddy clothes, large numbers of bug bites and a few photos as souvenirs of my trip.

'Underworld' by Don DeLillo

One of the largest books I inherited (and thus intimidating) was 'Underworld' by Don DeLillo. I had heard mixed reviews, but my friend Sean in Philly convinced me to read it. Although I enjoyed it, it is one of those 'good' books which could have been a 'great' book with a bit of editing. A couple too many major characters and a couple too many storylines made it more difficult than necessary to keep track of what was going on all the time. I ended up following in my head the storylines I enjoyed and more or less glossing over those I didn't. It all worked out in the end, but it could've been so much more...

'Doctor Zhivago' by Boris Pasternak

An epic classic in every sense of the word, 'Doctor Zhivago' by Boris Pasternak tells the untold tales from the struggle inside the Russian Revolution. The book is roughly divided into three parts: before the war, Zhivago in the war, and Zhivago after the war. I thought the first and third parts were excellent, but the wartime drama just didn't appeal. Overall, I can see why its considered a great work of literature, if only for the sense of pain and endurance that is conveyed -its no wonder this book is still banned in Russia.

'East of Eden' by John Steinbeck

If every book were as wonderfully written, solidly ground, and imaginatively constructed as John Steinbeck's, 'East of Eden', I don't know that I would ever own a television or go to the movies again. This is the yardstick against which other novels should be placed, since its difficult to imagine one reaching much higher. A must read. Special thanks to my good friend Frankie for shipping this large tome over here- it was worth it!

'Sacred Journey of a Peaceful Warrior' by Dan Millman

I figured a little breezy reading would be nice after a couple of classics, so I picked up the second book by Dan Millman, 'Sacred Journey of a Peaceful Warrior'. I didn't much care for the style of the first, and the second wasn't much better. Imagine Jimmy Buffet writing a 'zen' novel, and you've about got it. There was one quote that I was able to retain, '...you can't worry about crossing the street if you're still only halfway to the corner'.

'The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay' by Dan Chabon

A Pulitzer Prize winner, 'The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay' by Dan Chabon, was fantastic. At once both entertaining and informative, the book paints the picture of two young men in pre-war and wartime New York City mixing in themes such as comic books, jewish immigration and homosexuality. I heartily recommend it.

The following short essay was written by a good friend and fellow Peace Corps volunteer, Jeanah Lacey. I thought you might enjoy it.

Rectifying the White Man’s Burden

by Jeanah Lacey

RPCV Babadjou, Cameroon

Take up the White Man’s Burden

The savage wars of peace

Fill full the mouth of famine

And bid the sickness cease.

And when your goal is nearest

The end for other’s sought

Watch sloth and heathen folly

Bring all your hope to naught.

– Rudyard Kipling

Perhaps it seems offensive to begin a discussion on sustainability by invoking memories of past arrogance. However, I believe that history—particularly its darkest moments—should not be glazed over, but examined. Because when one truly weighs one’s motivations for joining the Peace Corps, somewhere in there lays Kipling’s idea that we have the capacity to assuage wars, heal the sick, and spawn change based on an antidote we call development.

The thoughts that I’m about to share with you are not all my own. They come from two years of discussions over shared beers with my fellow PCVs. Mostly we would end these conversations feeling unsatisfied because there seemed no clean answer to the issues we were encountering in our daily lives as volunteers. My aim here is not to discourage, but instead to help you avoid the undertow of helplessness that can sometimes envelope the volunteer. As one of my colleagues often says, “Development takes decades; we only have two years.”

When talking about sustainable development, I think that it is important to first view it at the macro level. One cannot determine what is sustainable without first having an understanding of development. There are scores of books about development and even more definitions. One that I like, comes from Joseph E. Stiglitz’s book, Globalization and its Discontents: “Development is the transforming of societies, improving the lives of the poor and enabling everyone access to success, health, and education.” I like this definition because it most correlates with the grass-roots approach that Peace Corps advances. Our job is to help others help themselves; this is a simple, yet daunting task. For the most part, we are posted in smaller villages so that we have the opportunity to really understand poverty – its mentality, its hang-ups, its challenges. This is the core of the Peace Corps experience and if you leave here with nothing more than that, you have succeeded because the process of acculturation catapults you – almost involuntarily—into the global community. Your worldview will never be the same.

So that is the good news. No matter what your experience, whether it is good, bad or ugly, you will get something out of the Peace Corps that no other experience can offer. But to most of us, myself included, this doesn’t seem enough. We want to leave legacies and herein lies the relevance of sustainability. During a training session my colleague and I came up with the following definition:

“Sustainable development involves activities that can be maintained long-term with available resources. Further, sustainable projects must: 1) fill a need express by the community, 2) involve the participation of host country nationals (HCNs) from the planning stage to the project’s completion, and 3) involve community leaders who are willing to contribute resources such as raw materials, labor, or money.”

Now this may sound like a simple undertaking, but it isn’t and most of the fault lies in our American drive for deliverables. Americans often make lists of daily activities and check them off as proof of our usefulness. We are an active people and because of this, it is difficult not to simply role-up-our-sleeves and do it ourselves. But when we do this, not only are we not doing our job (e.g. transferring technical skills to HCNs), but also we are causing damage to the communities we are trying to help.

At this juncture of your sojourn in Africa, you may be confused by my last point. How can building a well or paving a road hurt my community? They need that well. They need that road. And this may be true. When I first got here, the economist in me believed that the major obstacle in development was a lack of investment in public goods such as roads, education, and available health care. I still believe this, but I’ve also learned that governments, even in poor countries, are perfectly capable of building their own infrastructure. They don’t because we give them an incentive not to; we do it for them.

But let me take this phenomena one level down; let’s bring the discussion back to you and your legacy to your community. When you plan a project, providing all needed materials and money, you are teaching your community that they are inept. You are imparting to them a legacy of helplessness.

In the opening poem, Kipling ascribed failure in these “savage wars of peace” due to “sloth and heathen folly.” I’ve heard many volunteers make similar comments; I am as guilt as the rest. And it’s tempting because it is true. Africans can be lazy and their priorities seem strange to us. However, the answer to the riddle of the said “white man’s burden” lies in the last verse of Kipling’s poem. I wonder if he even grasped the significance of his own words. He states, almost sorrowfully, that in spite of all your efforts and goodwill, the savage will inevitably “bring all your hopes to naught.” What Kipling failed to see was that in the end, development cannot be successful unless their hopes become our priority. We, as development works, need to learn to lose our egotism and let community heads lead. Only then, will developing countries have a vested interest in their own development and this development will be sustainable.

Not technically a part of the south province (the closest border is about 40km away), Will and I had been annexed a while back, becoming members of the "Dirty South". There are many reasons we call ourselves that, and most of the connotations that come to mind are probably true, at least in part.

Every three months or so is a provincial meeting, and my (and several others') last meeting was to be held in Ambam, next to the Gabonese and Equatorial Guinea border. I left early Friday morning from Edéa and arrived without much difficulty late that afternoon. After arriving, we sat around catching up and drinking (the south province is REALLY good at the latter). I decided that with a long night ahead, I'd stick with Gold Bond and Pamplemousse (Gold Bond is really cheap whiskey sold in small plastic bags called sachets). I wasn't involved in dinner (it was well underway by the time I got there), but the folks who were did an amazing job, and we gorged ourselves on homemade burritos eaten by candlelight. It appeared for a while as though Jen's house (our lovely hostess) was the only one in town without electricity (even her neighbors had it), but soon everyone else's was out as well.

Well, what do you do when the electricity goes out at your house and there's lots of volunteers around??? The answer: find a bar that has a generator to provide you with music and cold drinks. Several drinks later, dancing broke out, and a good time was had by all. During this time, I got to know another ex-pat who lived across from Jen named Mathias, a nice Italian guy who also spoke good french and english. He's there working with some french NGO that I still don't know the name of... Anyway, he offered to take whoever wanted to go on an excursion to see a waterfall the next morning. I was interested until I heard that it was about two hours each way from Ambam. I politely declined, while several of the women showed interest. Somehow, we all made it back to Jen's house, found a place on the floor, and more or less fell asleep.

The next morning, Nicki's alarm went off early, waking most of us up. This was the call to go see the waterfall for those interested- except it was raining outside. Everyone who was interested decided it best not to go in the rain, so we more or less went back to sleep. A couple of hours later, the rain had stopped (it wasn't a heavy rain) and Mathias showed up at the front door with his pickup truck half full of Cameroonian friends of his looking for interested parties for a newer, closer excursion to hike up a small mountain. I thought it sounded like fun (potentially more fun than the drinking and butchering of pigs and ducks that would be roasted for dinner), so I climbed in.

The trip out turned out to be much further than advertised, including about 45 minutes on a dirt road of questionable quality. We arrived safely, however, found the local chief to ask permission, engaged the obligatory guide, and started up the mountain. It was quite a steep climb with many surfaces of almost sheer rock, but we all made up. For some reason (perhaps because I had neglected to shower that morning), the bugs (mut-muts) were quite heavy around my head, which was more than a little annoying. Nevertheless, it was a beautiful view, being the only rock to exceed the treeline for miles around. Nothing but rainforest. On the way back down, we even picked a couple of wild pineapples (much smaller and sweeter than their commercial cousins) for a snack. We made it back to the truck (a four-door pickup), thanked our guides, and headed back to Ambam. Everything was great for a while, and we were going back just as we had come. After a while though, a dark and ominous cloud began to come closer and closer, so we sped up to try and make it to the paved road before it came down hard. We didn't make it.

We stopped the truck to let in a couple of guys who were hanging out in the back inside and the dog who had been with us the whole time. Then, with the raining pouring down, we continued on, rather carefully, I thought. We came to a decline in the road, and for reasons I can't completely understand, we lost control, slid on the now muddy road, and the truck began to turn over. I think it turned over at least twice, but I'm also fairly sure I blacked out temporarily, so I don't really know. The next thing I know, I'm looking out the window on my left (I was sitting just behind the driver) and realize I'm upside-down and the window is broken. I see Mathias outside already brushing himself off and try to call him over to open the door. I guess he didn't hear me, and a terrible sense of claustrophobia was overcoming me, so I couldn't wait any longer. I grabbed the heel of my shoe and carried my foot out the window, which was luckily followed by my leg, then my head, shoulders and the rest of my body. The rain was still falling.

Once I was out, I turned around to help others out, but a woman I didn't notice before told me to go sit down. I figured I should take her advice, so I made my way to the side of the road. It was then that I started to take inventory of my situation. I was clearly bleeding, but not profusely) in several places, and I was having trouble breathing, with a sharp pain on my left side. After everyone else was out, it was clear that I and one of the women with us were the only ones obviously injured.

As luck would have it (good, in this case), there were two cars that had come down the road since our accident, one of them being a taxi. I carefully picked myself up and walked down to the taxi which (after a stop to let some mommies in the back seat out) arrived at a medical clinic not far away. I walked in, sat down and started discussing what happened and where it hurt. After a couple of minutes, they decided that they couldn't help me, and sent me on my way to the provincial hospital in Ebolowa. I was very lucky again, and the taxi was still there since one of the nurses was going to take it home and he was waiting. I convinced the nurse that I needed to leave immediately, and got back in the taxi, still bleeding. We arrived (still with the other woman) at the hospital emergency area. I walked in, the nurses looked at me strangely and asked me to sit down in the front room. I was told I needed to buy a carnet before they would look at me (a small notebook where they write all the nurses' and doctors' notes). Again, luckily I had a bunch of money with me (having already paid for our taxi) and got it out of my pocket.

The nurse then started writing down all my essentials, blood type, height, weight (which we guessed since she didn't want my muddy shoes on her scale, and I couldn't take off my own shoes) in the notebook. At that point, the doctor sat down and we did our little interview about what happened and where it hurt. He wrote a laundry list of things to buy at the hospital's pharmacy when I told him that I was not going to receive any injections or serious medicine before consulting Peace Corps doctors. After a little insistence, we called in a girl with a cell phone outside (at her call box) who came with her 2000 phone directory. We looked up the US Embassy number, and called (I didn't have my phone with me since I left it a Jen's house and hadn't memorized any of the numbers). I reached the marine on duty and told him the situation and that he should call the Peace Corps medical officer on duty. The woman who came in with me then took the list, went to the pharmacy and bought what I needed, which included gauze pads and iodine solution (yes, in Africa you have to buy your own gauze at the hospital).

After tending to the convict writhing on the floor supervised by two gendarmes with shotguns (apparently he ticked off some other prisoners and they beat him to within an inch of his life- he was in bad shape), the nurses finally came with their rusty bowl and started picking out pieces of glass, cleaning up and bandaging my surface wounds.

Just as that was finishing, Mathias came in. I don't know how he got from the truck to the hospital, but he was there with a Cameroonian friend who had his own car. Mathias was great and made sure I got something to eat and even went to buy a shirt and sweatshirt for me, since I was still wet from the rain and the shirt had already been half cut off of me. He had spoken to Peace Corps and Jen back in Ambam and I thought I might stay in Ebolowa that night since no one was coming to get me and folks were coming up from the meeting to make sure I was alright.

After an hour or so, we learned that there was a mixup in communication and that no one was coming up from Ambam. So, wanting to get to Yaoundé anyway, I took a taxi to the bus station where I got a bus to Yaoundé. Seeing I was in lots of pain, the folks kindly gave me "shotgun", which is by far the best seat in the bus.

Eventually, after a few more hours, I made it back to Peace Corps headquarters in Yaoundé, where the doctor was waiting for me. Since there was no one else around (including volunteers), she decided that it would be best if I stayed at her place for the weekend. I can't tell you how greatful I am to her for taking me in, feeding me and healing my wounds over the next couple of days.

Monday morning, we finally made it to the hospital for x-rays (there's only attending doctors on duty on the weekends, so tests and other things generally have to wait unless its a serious emergency). After a number of painful manipulations, its was discovered that I had two broken ribs, which nicely explained my pain, trouble breathing and all the rest...

There's nothing you can do for broken ribs but take pain medicine and wait it out. So, that's what I've been doing...

Several close friends of mine threatened to come visit me here in Cameroon at one time or another over my two-year visit. In the end, outside of my parents and brother (who will be arriving soon), only one did, Seema. This was not just the planets aligning just right, but the result of considerable effort on her part (with lots of coercing on mine). Since she's just finishing her medical residency, Seema wanted to work in a local hospital, and the Hôpital District d'Edéa was only too happy to agree.

I went Tuesday night to meet Seema at the airport. She was coming off a several week camping safari around southern africa, so she arrived via Nairobi on Kenya Airways. Her flight arrived on time, and after getting her bags, she came out to find me. It was really wonderful to see her, and the whole way back to Edéa, we did our best to catch up on the important stuff.

Wednesday morning, we headed over to the hospital, where we met the Medicin Chef (chief of staff) who was overjoyed to meet Seema. He personally took us on a tour of the entire hospital after his brief interview with Seema to find out where she was interested in helping out. I REALLY hate hospitals, so I hung out mostly in the hallways, while Seema went in to see the patients. Throughout the entire hospital, there were only two modern pieces of equipment: a blood spinner and an ultrasound machine. I'd been there before, but without the complete tour. Its not pretty, and even Seema, who's worked in hospitals in India, Bangladesh, and central america said that its as bad as she's seen anywhere. She started work on Thursday morning. Friday, I left for the weekend to go to the south province meeting while she went to pick up her sister at the airport followed by a relaxing weekend at the beach.

A couple of weeks after the funeral of the son of one bank member and friend was the wedding of the son of another. Mama Yem has long ago taken me in, hosting my welcoming dinner not long after my arrival, and giving me a big hug everytime she comes into the bank. She also happens to have two attractive daughters of marrying age, but I think Mama's been pretty good about not pressuring me to take one of the off her hands.

So it was that I was invited to the wedding. The week before the ceremony, Mama asked me if I'd like to be a ceremonial member of the family, by asking me to wear the fabric chosen for family members for the occasion. Its actually a great tradition where men and women of the family all wear the same pattern in whatever configuration they choose (blouse, dress, shirt or bou-bou). It certainly makes it easy to identify who's who in the photos. It was a nice honor, and I took it seriously, having a nice long-sleeved shirt made by my favorite tailor.

Weddings here are usually all-day affairs. This one started at 10am, and I finally made it home at 4am the following morning. The son opted (against his mother's wishes) for a civil ceremony (at city hall) rather than a religious one. Perhaps this was because he wanted this to be his first wife of many (there's a box on the marriage certificate here that you check for polygamists). The ceremony was brief and was followed by pictures. This was followed by two small receptions: one at Mama's home, and the other at her estranged husband's home- of course there was food and drink at each. Mama's house, with its cement floor and wood plank walls was dressed up with palm fronds built into a temporary covered porch and all the furniture was outside. The loveseat for the married couple was covered in a white sheet, and their path from the "road" was covered with tiny red flowers - it was really well done.

I returned home to take a nap at about 4pm. After a bit of a rest, I left for part two of the evening which was being held in the multifunction (gym, dance, auditorium, etc.) hall of the largest high school in town with my gift in tow. I decided on giving cutlery (including some nice steak knives), since no new family can have too much of that, packaged in a nice wicker tray. According to the schedule, I was a half-hour late. According to the way things panned out, I was two hours early.

Just as things were about to get started, virtually my entire table was promoted to one of the three tables on the stage- the other two being for the bride and groom and immediate family and the groom's employer. I suppose its one of those benefits of being in the family...

The standard speeches were followed by a massive buffet dinner (including goat, snake and monkey) which was followed by even more standard speeches. Afterwards was the giving of the gifts which consisted of a long line of guests with their gift in hand who gave their gift and received a couple of hugs and words of thanks in return. Gifts were followed by dancing, more specifically the first dance of the married couple. After that, the brothers and sisters of the bride and groom were called out to dance and partners assigned to them. Once again, I was included in this, and was assigned the wife of the groom's employer as my partner. So, there I was, dancing with a women I'd never met to Cameroonian music in front of an audience of about 300 people. I'm going to have a hard time being shy after returning from this country...

I danced quite a bit until the cake finally came out around 2:30am (yes, most people were still there). I finally threw in the towel and got a ride back home at almost 4am.

One of the fun things about living in a developing country is the loss of electricity that can happen at any moment for any length of time. When it happens at night, you normally stay where you are for a few minutes, and it usually comes back on. Sometimes, however, it lasts a lot longer than that (especially during the dry season, since virtually all power here is hydroelectrically generated).

Recently, the power went off for a whole day and night. It was an occasion which caused changes in habits, but not frustrations. An opportunity to do things differently and do different things. I'm assuming I wouldn't be so laid back about it back in New York.

After cooking my dinner in the waning light of day and eating by candlelight, I decided to go for a walk. I took a small flashlight, just in case, and headed out. The moment I stepped out of my house, I couldn't help but notice the stars. So many of them. I could see planets, galaxies, and every constellation on view this close to the equator. My walk, in a large circle, allowed me to keep looking up and see in all directions. As has been observed innumerable times, its very humbling- reflection on a universal scale.

May Day is a big deal in just about every country but the US. Here, its a day off work that has the added bonus of parading through town in your new t-shirt (provided by your employer for the occasion) followed by hours of drinking and eating (also sponsored by your employer). This year, for the first time ever, our bank decided to be a part of the festivities. We figured it would be good marketing and a good way to reward the employees and members of the various boards for their hard work.

Since everything in this country starts late, the 9am parade eventually got off the ground at 10:30am. We were something like 85th in line, so we enjoyed the first part of the parade before lining up ourselves. Since Edea's not all that huge, the parade route was less than a half-mile long, with the reviewing stand almost at the end. In the reviewing stand were all the important folks, such as the Prefet, Sous-prefet, mayor, police commissioner and others. Everyone likes to try and impress these folks, so we did our best to march in three straight lines in front of them, holding our signs and proudly displaying our shirts.

As soon as it was over, we high-tailed it over to the bar across from our bank (our traditional watering hole) for a few beers and sandwiches. A fun day bringing a good team even closer together.

Its always a sad day when someone you have met dies. Here in Cameroon, its a weekly experience. This time, the son of a woman who's been very kind to me (and who attended all of my business seminars to help start her own business) passed. I had met him a few times (a really nice guy, my age with a wife and two small children), and he was one of the best friends of my friend Sylvie.

Every friday at the hospital morgue, there is a line of all the relatives or all the people who have died in the past week. This is what we call the 'levee du corps'. Since most people are buried on Saturday to maximize attendance, the vigil the night before starts with the procession of the body from the hospital to the house.

In this case, the hospital is up the road, and his mother's house (where all the activities took place) is almost next door to the bank, it wasn't one that could be missed. A procession with women singers from his mother's church went right past our front door. His mother requested flowers in lieu of cash, so Sylvie helped pick out an appropriate arrangement from her and I which also went from the hospital to the house.

That night, I met the rest of the bank members at our "section" under the tents that had been set up in the front yard of the house for friends and family. It was raining a little, and we all stayed through the "midnight mass" held on the front porch. After giving my condolences to the mother and father (his wife was already asleep in her makeshift bed on the floor in the living room next to the coffin, as per custom) and went home.

The first "normal" novel I've read in a while, 'Bel Canto' by Ann Patchett has limited, defined characters, a real, or surreal in that it could never "really" happen, plot and a semi-sweet ending. As the title indicates, 'Bel Canto' has a lot to do with music, or rather , what would life be like as a hostage with a great opera diva. I enjoyed it, and recommend it for your summer "non-intellectual" reading list.

In progress: 'Underworld' by Don DeLillo

Probably my favorite book that I've read in the last two years is 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being' by Milan Kundera. I figured I would push my luck and read, 'Life is Elsewhere'. A bit more "esoteric" than its predecessor (although the disclaimer at the front says as much), the book was well written (thanks in part to the translator) and enjoyable, although if I had known anything about European poets, it would have been a lot better.

I've started to read Tom Wolfe's 'Bonfire of the Vanities' many times (I've had a hardcover copy for years), but couldn't complete the task- or even get more than 50 pages into it. After finding a tattered copy here, I decided that now is the time to make it happen, and I did. I can see now why it was perhaps the biggest novel of the 1980's. It screams all of the 80's themes of greed, hidden agendas, racism and social justice. Reading it some 20 years later, it was a bit dated (especially the descriptions of New York City), but still interesting. It may have been THE book in its time, but in my opinion, its time has passed.

Maybe its my impending return to the south, or I just have a taste for all things American now, but I really enjoyed Michael Shaara's, 'The Killer Angels'. The book, a factual, almost hourly account of the two sides of the battle of Gettysburg is by far the most readable book centered on combat I have every come across. I learned a lot, felt like I understood their thoughts and concerns, and came out with mixed feelings about the outcome, leading directly to the end of the Civil War. Even if you're only mildly curious about what actually happened, I would recommend it. For people like me who had history-fanatic parents and who were dragged (half-willingly) to battle sites all over the east coast (including Gettysburg), it fills a gap, and makes you appreciate those hours in the car and the used bullet you bought at the gift shop.

One of my best friends in this world, Frankie, has been through as much wondering about what to do in this world as anyone. When she sends me a book called 'What should I do with my life?' by Po Bronson, regardless of how cheesy the title might seem, I'm going to read it. It also coincided nicely with my own struggles of what direction to take upon my return to "the greatest country on earth" (as volunteers here call the US after about a year of service). The book is a lot more targeted than it claims to be- I would recommend it for those with at least several years out of college, but with a good 15 years or more before retirement. Since I happened to fall in that category, I found it helpful. More so because it asked the right questions than because it provided the right answers. Numerous times I felt compelled to put the book down and write out thoughts as they came to me. It was, in effect, exactly what I needed to force me to make decisions about what I should do, if not with my entire life, at least next.

My Cameroonian foster parents from Bandjoun decided they wanted to make one more visit to Edéa to see how I was doing. So, the morning after the Rallye, they arrived, baby Katie in tow, after taking the overnight bus from Baffoussam (left at 1am and changed buses in Douala) at 9am. After having been up a good portion of the night and the house not in its best shape, I was a little less than thrilled at the timing, but wanted to "receive" them as best I could.

I had given money to my friend Sylvie several days before to buy and prepare a meal for us. She arrived several hours after they did, and began to make ndolé and fish in spicy tomato sauce. One thing Cameroonians like to do is to prepare massive amounts of food, just in case extra guests arrive or someone is particularly hungry. Since neither of those things happened, we ended up with a LOT of leftovers. The food was quite tasty though (Mama gave Sylvie a hard time for making the sauce too spicy, since she knows I don't like my food too hot), and after cleaning up, we retired to rest for a bit.

Over the next two days, we played games, listened to music, ate (again and again), visited the office and the market, and even made a tour to the aluminum factory and power plant (they were sufficiently impressed). Edéa is MUCH more industrial and cosmopolitan than Bandjoun, so it was a bit like the country mouse going to visit the city mouse.

Sylvie was a tremendous help, since she stuck around for almost all of their visit, helping with the cooking and cleaning (culturally, it would look very bad for me, as an adult male, to be cooking for my parents), and with the conversation. I was happy she could be there. At last, Tuesday morning came, and they returned to Bandjoun with a large 22-liter container of fresh palm oil (made by George, my counterpart) as a gift from the visit.

Almost the antithesis of Guitarfest (tm) is the Ralley Club des Palmes, which takes place every April in Edéa. Its one of the most sponsored events in the country in which regular people (read: expats and rich folks with cars) can participate. I described the whole concept last year, which was the first time I participated. This time, I was resolved to do better than our 25th+ finish.

This year, one of the teachers in whose class I teach english was chairing the event (the downside of winning the whole thing the year before), so I asked if he could find a place for me. He mentioned a Cameroonian guy and his girlfriend were looking for others to fill up their car, and requested that I find a female to accompany us. I called up a friend of a friend who was staying in Kribi for a few weeks (and whom I had met on a brief trip down the week before). Jessica didn't really understand the whole concept, as its a bit difficult to describe, but was willing nonetheless. Unfortunately, this group fell through since the car broke down, but we were able to find another team to take us on- a Frenchman in Edéa on business.

We arrived the morning of the rally and figured out who we would be riding with- Pierre Yves. It turns out that two Cameroonian women were also going to join us, for a total of five. Being the other male in the group, I was given the job of navigator (the joke about women and directions seems to be universal). Throughout the day, we drove, and answered inane quizzes and showed a bit of mental and physical prowess. We did particularly well at the sand castle building, obstacle course driving in a 4x4, canoe race and swim-tug race (a kid had to stand on an innertube-based platform while we swam dragging them along). By 6pm (after starting just before 9am), we put the finishing touches on the last quiz (this one was about African country flags, among other things) and retired before dinner. I felt good about our truly international team effort, but was happy to rest for an hour or so before food and the awards ceremony.

The awards started at 30th place and worked up to first. Everyone was a bit on edge, hoping not to be one of the first teams to be called forward. When 10th place was called, and we had still not been called, we all looked at each other with a bit of disbelief. How could a young group just thrown together do so well against teams who have done this year after year for many years??? Finally, our team was called as the fifth place finisher! We were ecstatic!! We all went up as a team to claim our trophy (the top five got trophies) and other prizes! The MC for the evening made a comment that a team with two americans shouldn't have done so well, which I thought was hilarious, as did most everyone else. I personnally returned home with a gift basket of Cameroonian foods (coffee, tea, jams, etc), while Pierre-Yves took the trophy and Jessica (my friend) took a flashlight and some palm oil for the family she was staying with in Kribi. Mostly though, we returned with the knowledge that we had done well. We finished the evening with dancing - together.

Almost seven hours later, we arrived in Yaoundé to begin a week of talking about our experiences of the last two years, and preparing to return to the "Greatest Country on Earth", as its become known among most volunteers. We arrived at the Hotel Jouvence 2000, the exact hotel where we arrived two years before on a bus on a rainy night coming from the Yaoundé airport. The same people (minus some who had to go home for various reasons) all together again for one last time before going our separate ways. In some ways it was poetic, in others, just sad.

Since a good number of us were exhausted, we headed up to the room, showered off the dust and sweat from the road and rested for an hour or so before leaving for the Director's house for the big farewell dinner. Joe and I decided a while back we'd be roommates for the week, since we were good friends in training, lived almost across the street from each other, in fact, but haven't really seen much of each other in the last two years. It seemed like a good opportunity to catch up.

Dinner at the Director's was a good time, but it sorta made the rest of the week a bit anti-climatic, since everyone was there all dressed up and all together. With the exception of the sessions during the following days, it was the last time we were all together (the 'Last Supper', so to speak). Both the US Ambassador to Cameroon and the Assistant Secretary for Primary Education were there to lend a bit of importance to the evening.

The director read out our "Aspiration Statements", what we had written during the application process well over two years ago about what we expected and wanted to achieve during our time here. It was quite interesting to see whose were right on target and whose were proven to be a bit delusional. Regardless, we all made it to the end.

A rather abrupt end was brought to the evening by a deputy director who stood up and said that we all looked tired, but that protocol dictated we could not leave until the Ambassador left. A little shocked, the Ambassador stood up and took the not so subtle cue that he should leave (we were all embarrassed, but nothing really shocks us anymore). Moments after he left, we started piling in Peace Corps cars for the ride back to the hotel.

The sessions were a mix of the helpful, the administrative, and the downright boring. Overall, it was well done though, except for the food. Previous groups had ended their service at the Hilton hotel eating omlettes and bacon every morning. We were served bread and jam (with real butter though, which was the only "highlight").

After the sessions each day, we separated into the "cliques" that had been formed in training and throughout the past couple of years. As a result, some went to restaurants and bars afterwards and others went to the case de passage at Peace Corps headquarters to do laundry. I generally chose the former route, using the opportunity to celebrate with friends and eat good food (and drink entirely too much beer- a frequent occurence when two or more volunteers get together- which reminds me that I haven't told the joke about Peace Corps volunteers: The story is that volunteers in central/south america return as revolutionaries, the ones in Asia return married, and the one in Africa return as alcoholics- I don't think I've gone that far, but I'd be happy to challenge someone in a six-pack of any american beer when I get back).

The last night of the conference, before we were supposed to return the next day, about ten of us went to a night club in Yaoundé. The one that was chosen is the newest and best- perhaps the best in the country- and right up there with any club in the US outside of New York and LA. We didn't have to pay to get in, but quickly found out that the drinks were 10.000 fcfa each ($20), which is a week's salary for most folks. We were told that for 40.000 fcfa ($80), we could get a whole bottle of whiskey and bottles of soda for mixers- this was the "BIG DEAL". We didn't want to leave, so all of us pitched in for the bottle. It was at this point that I discovered I like J&B whiskey.

Since it was a Wednesday night, there weren't a whole lot of other folks there (a few heavy hitters and foreign nationals and their "girlfriends") so we took a good chunk of the dance floor and took turns going to the DJ to request music. Somewhere just before dawn, we returned to the hotel for a couple hours of sleep.

Several years ago, an annual Peace Corps Cameroon tradition was begun, in the spirit of what everyone thinks Peace Corps is- a bunch of tree-loving hippees sitting around playing guitars and singing Bob Dylan songs. We call it 'Guitarfest'.

This year, it was held chez Susan, in a village outside of Kumba. Since I was scheduled to perform, I arrived a day early so that I could recover from the long voyage (six hours crammed on a bus). I was also hoping for a little rehearsal time with my accompanist (the incomparable guitarist and all-around entertainer, Peter). Almost as soon as I arrived and took a much-needed shower (sweat and dusty, dirt roads don't mix that well), we headed off for drinks and food- once again to Classy Burger, the "american" restaurant in Kumba.

As it turned out, about thirty volunteers showed up for dinner (overwhelming the forewarned kitchen, thus taking three hours to receive our food). They ran out of beer, and that's when the well-prepared came out with their bottles of cheap whisky and gin. I won't go into details, but suffice it to say that the neighborhood was quite aware we were in town.

Playing the diva, I turned in early and went light on the drinking to ensure my voice would be ready for the next night's performance. I returned to Cathy's with a number of other volunteers where we watched 'Mean Girls' on a new volunteer's portable DVD player (a device that will forever change Peace Corps life in Africa). It was a surprisingly good movie, on par with 'Clueless' and almost up there with 'Cruel Intentions'.

After a massive team breakfast of eggs and bread, we pretty much "hung out" until late afternoon when we loaded up and went over to Susan's place. Susan lives in a tiny village just outside Kumba on the main (read: only) intersection in town inside a walled yard that we call a "concession". There's only one other family who lives inside the concession with her, and since they were engaged to prepare food for the masses, they were not only prepared, but were accepting of the invasion that descended upon them.

Imagine for a moment that you live in this village. You've probably seen a few white people in your life (outside of movies and TV) in and around Kumba. Then, two years ago, a white woman comes to live with you in one of the nicest houses in town (not the biggest, but it has internal plumbing). She becomes part of the community, teaching at the school and playing with the kids, and the novelty sorta wears off. Then, several months before her departure, about 40 other white folks (more than you've ever seen in one place, even on TV -except for the battle scenes in 'Braveheart') arrive in a series of taxis to take over your bars, drink all your beer (they paid for them, but the delivery truck only comes once every two weeks, so you're dry for another week), and cause quite a ruckus until 5am (when you're just about to get up again).

Needless to say, we caused quite a stir. To the village's credit, they handled it quite well, and the village chief came over early on to lend his support (he bought us a case of beer). Thus began the evening.

I did get a bit of rehearsing in with Peter where we nixed a couple of songs (one wasn't well arranged for accoustic guitar and one was a bit difficult to learn on such short notice), but went ahead with the rest.

After a bite to eat and a drink or two, darkness fell. A few guys got a bonfire going and everyone arranged themselves around it. The performances started (I neglected to mention a dazzling daytime performance of Matt juggling three machetes, something that had to be done in the light and sober) and the five or so performers began to rotate, doing one or two songs before stepping aside for someone else. In all, I did about five songs (including 'Love Me Tender', which wasn't planned). The crowd, already greased up, was supportive and approving of all the performers, and everyone had a great time. The singing lasted until the performers didn't have anything formal left and the event broke down into a sing-a-long until after midnight. In all, it lasted over four hours before some decided to go to sleep, others to hang out and talk while the rest went to the bar across the street to continue drinking and do a little dancing.

Regardless of the choice, no one got much or any sleep before the call to leave was sounded at 6:30am. We all had a to get into town and take a bus to Yaoundé so that we could make it to dinner at the country director's house on time that evening. We once again created a spectacle at the bus agency, but eventually we were on our way.

I've heard that 'Wicked' by Gregory Maguire has been made into a Broadway musical in the past couple of years. A close friend, and fellow Broadway nut, sent me the novel to read so I wouldn't completely miss out. I'm happy she did, since its original - the flip side of 'The Wizard of Oz', highly entertaining, and surprisingly "adult". I suppose I assumed an alternate take on what was the children's story of a generation (several, in fact), would also be childlike. Who'd have thought that the Wicked Witch of the East would have a long-term live-in boyfriend who was a rebel leader against the totalitarian regime of the Wizard?

Will, my postmate, has been begging me to read, 'One Hundred Years of Solitude' by Gabriel Garcia Marquez for a long time now. It had been built up as the greatest novel by a Nobel prize-winning author. I wasn't so sure, since I really disliked 'Love in the Time of Cholera', an earlier novel of his. But, I read it, or should I say, trudged through it. I don't know if its me or what the problem is, but while I can see the "intellectual appeal" of the book (it provides commentary on topics ranging from family relationships to Catholicism and third-world development), as a form of entertainment, insight or even philosophy, it falls short on all counts in my mind. It took me several weeks to read, and I had trouble reading more than 20 pages in one sitting- my definition of a book better read by someone else.

In process: 'What should I do with my life?' by Po Bronson

RETURN OF THE BUSINESS SEMINARS

Due to popular demand (the bank's board president pretty much demanded it), I decided to do an abbreviated series of four seminars during the month of March. Taking the four most popular from the first go-round, I began with an attendance of 35 for "How to start a business", and did my least favorite, but most important subject of "Accounting Basics" this week. This time around, we're going a little deeper, and are following a real-life example to help folks see the lessons "in practice".

To advertise the seminars, I designed a sign to put over the road that leads to the market. Since there's no local newspaper, that's how you get the word out about something. It was put up a couple of days before the first seminar, but unfortunately was torn down by a large truck passing a few days later. Luckily, I at least took a couple of pictures of it beforehand.

TRIP TO THE VILLAGE OF KELLY-BITCHOKA

Living in the rather large city of Edéa, I don't get a whole lot of opportunity to get out to the small villages. The treasurer of our bank has been begging me for quite a while to come out and see her village, which is a couple of hours away by slow train from Edéa. Finally our schedules allowed a trip out, and I was warned to bring drinking water and lots of bug repellent.

I met Jacqueline (the treasurer) at the train station early Saturday morning, and after many delays, arrived at the station where her brother met us with a pickup to continue on to the family house. Of course, we had to stop and have lunch with the local catholic priest (Jacqi has a brother who will be ordained in July and a sister who is, well, a sister). We finally arrived after an hour of poor muddy roads (we had to get out and push the truck out of the mud three times). As you might imagine, there's not a whole lot to do in a small village. After touring around and drinking a beer, there was lots of sitting and occasional talking while the rest of the family caught up in the local language. One of the highlights was hanging out with one of the small boys down by the creek where they get drinking water and bathe. Its quite pretty down there. I was also shown the palm oil press and the small family palm oil plantation near the house.

Grandma gave me a couple of bottles of peanuts to take back home, and we ate a whole lot of river fish while there. As we were leaving, I gave the boy who took me down to the creek my baseball hat, which we adjusted and he wore with a big smile on his face. On the road back to Edéa (we drove back rather than wait for the train), we stopped a number of times. Once a village elder stopped the truck to give us (and me) some bananas and papayas. Another time, we stopped to have a cup of palm wine with the aging local deaf-mute traditional dancer (he feels the vibrations). It was a lot more fun coming back than the weekend had been, but overall, a great experience.

OFF TO SEE THE WIZARD

It wasn't exactly the yellow brick road, but I headed out last week to meet the General Manager of CAMCCUL, the bank network with which I am affiliated. My good friend Cathy, whose bank is also in the same network, had set up the meeting for Saturday morning with Mr. Niba, the equivalent of the CEO, at the bank headquarters in Bamenda. As much as I like Bamenda (the weather is at least 15 degrees cooler at all times, and they speak english), its about a 10 hour trip each way from Edéa. So, I decided to make a real trip out of it and accomplish a few other things on the way. Immediately after my seminar on Wednesday afternoon, I headed out for Yaoundé two hours away. I arrived to find my friend Jen in the process of leaving the country after getting tired of being harrassed and deciding that teaching math to high schoolers was not her favorite thing in the world. The next day, I got up to meet with the director and the acting director of the business program to discuss the upcoming training, among other subjects.

I left in the early afternoon, following a nice farewell lunch with Jen, and arrived later than I had hoped for at my family's house in Bandjoun. I had called them on the way to let them know of my delay, so I arrived to find dinner almost on the table. Of course, momma had prepared one of my favorite of her dishes, spaghetti with fried fish. yum. I arrived at the house in the dark to find a lot of excited kids. They were so happy to see me, and I, them. I had brought them a dozen coconuts from Edéa, which they can't get up there, so they were pretty happy with that as well. Because of my late arrival, even the smallest kids stayed up way past their bedtime. Soon after, I went to sleep in my old room.

The next morning, I took a freezing-cold bucket bath, and went to the market (I had lucked out and it was market day) to see my old friend, the window and mirror seller, Jean-Guy. I hadn't called to let him know I was coming, since I didn't know if I'd have time to stop by. He was thrilled to see me, and we talked for a bit, before I had to take off for Baffoussam. On the way out of town, momma handed me a large market bag filled with oranges and pineapples. She said that I couldn't leave town empty-handed. Smiling, I got in a taxi, and headed off to meet my friends for lunch. When I arrived at the restaurant, there were six volunteers from all over having a beer and waiting for the food. I slipped in my order and proceeded to catch up on all the volunteer gossip- of which there is always quite a bit. Following lunch, we all went our separate ways. I promised to meet them for a St. Patty's Day party if I possibly could...

The bus to Bamenda was a good time since they were almost all anglophone and they knew Peace Corps. They even complimented me on my pidgin, which I don't get to speak that often. I got to the Mondial hotel, which has a good discount for Peace Corps and headed to the shower. Shortly afterwords, Cathy showed up after coming directly from Kumba. We headed out to see her friend, Geraldine and then to dinner. Geraldine wasn't around (and her mobile phone had been stolen), so we left word with the neighbors and had a chicken dinner while watching the brand-new MTV-Africa on a big-screen TV with sattellite hook-up. One of the shows we caught was 'Punk'd', which I had heard about but never seen. Ashton is a terrible actor! And not only that, the skits are completely ripped off from Alan Funt (may he rest in peace)!

The meeting with the General Manager started early the next morning (following beans and boiled potatoes for breakfast) at the headquarters building. The GM showed up pretty much on time, and we started out with introductions. Three hours later, we had finally made it through the agenda, and the GM asked us out to a tasty lunch.

After lunch, we left the GM and made it over to the handicrafts cooperative (started by Peace Corps volunteers some forty years ago). I bought a traditional hat and a nice carved stool while Cathy bought a number of small gift items. We then headed back to Baffoussam where we met up with a couple of volunteers and had a few drinks before heading off to sleep, preparing for the long return to Edéa.

IF YOU'RE HAPPY AND YOU KNOW IT...

Teaching continues to be a welcome break coming twice a week. I recently taught my younger kids how to do comparisons in english (as in, my father is older than my mother). Alexandre, a young kid with imagination to spare, read out the comparison that he had composed, "A dinosaur is taller than a coconut tree". I couldn't help but smile.

My older kids are in the process of learning "Do-Re-Mi". I'm hoping to do some kind of end-of-year concert with the four or five songs that I've been able to teach them. And yes, "If you're happy and you know it" is one of them. They particularly like the verse that ends "shout out loud!".

AND FINALLY...

Spring has sprung, even here in Cameroon, just three degrees off the equator. How do we know? Well, mangoes have arrived in the market, mating monkeys are easier to find and kill for food (there's been a marked increase available for sale), and the music man has come to town. Almost like the annual showing of 'The Sound of Music', the music man peddles his specially equipped three-wheeled bicycle (I suppose that would make it a tricycle, wouldn't it?) around town selling religious music on cassette, CD and Video CD (brilliantly, he always arrives just before Easter). This bicycle is equipped with a display case on each side, attached somehow to the frame, with a single megaphone-shaped loud-speaker at the top, announcing his arrival with African gospel music. Needless to say, his arrival is greatly anticipated, and he does quite a lot of business. After a week or so, he peddles on to the next town. The cycling music man of Cameroon is indeed a sign that ingenuity lives in people around the world.

BIRTHDAY PARTY

The 19th of February was my 29th (again?!?) birthday. In Cameroon, no one throws a party for your birthday. If you want to celebrate, its up to you. So, I decided to have a party at my house for the occassion. I spent all of two days cooking and preparing for the fête, and was helped the afternoon before by Sylvie, who came to cook the Cameroonian part of the meal. I decided to make some good 'ole american food, including chili, tuna casserole and cake with chocolate icing. About 12 friends and folks from the bank came and ate. We had such a great time that we got up and danced for a while after it was all over. People brought food and wine, and I ended up with lots of leftovers (I gave a bunch to Alain to take home to his family). I'm sure there are many more parties to come.

VISIT FROM A SMALL FRIEND

It was Saturday morning, and I decided to go out with my machété and trim the hedges a bit. I left the porch door ajar and went about my business. About an hour later, I came back in the same way I left. I was a bit startled to see a bright green snake slithering off to the corner away from me. As it turns out, the snake (although young) was a deadly green mamba snake, one of the most poisonous in the world. Of course, I wasn't thinking about that. I just wanted him out of my house. Luckily, he was only in the screened porch, and not in the house proper, so I sealed off the house and went inside, hoping that he'd find his way out.

A bit later, the guys who cut my lawn about once a month or so came by and did their job. When they came looking for payment, I mentioned that I had a snake in the porch. They became quite alarmed and one of them took the rake he was carrying and expertly tapped the snake on the head with the blunt end. About six taps later, he had crushed the snake's skull, and removed the body to the bushes.

GENERAL ASSEMBLY MEETING

March 5th was the biggest day of our bank's annual calendar- the general assembly meeting of all members. It happens every year after the annual audits and budgets are complete. The members are brought together to approve the budget, propose changes to operating procedures and vote on various board members. And, like any other gathering in this country, its an excuse to eat and drink together. The president wanted to give everyone a piece of the agenda, so I was given the task of not only making my own statement (comments about the past year, business seminars and a first goodbye and thank you), but also the task of presenting the 2005 budget. I had overseen the assembly of the budget, so I put together a budget rationalization sheet and presented all of the numbers and explanations. There were over 70 people there, and George told me that it was only the second time in the bank's history that they had been able to assemble a quorum for the meeting. The meeting was videotaped and photographed (I'll be bringing back a copy to watch over and over like wedding festivities- I can't wait to see the tears in people's eyes as they listen to hours of speeches in french). Afterwards, I went to the VIP reception (the regular members were served chicken, bread and beer) where we had a massive display of food and drink. The grilled fish had to have been at least 20lbs and had eyes as big as 50 cent pieces.

INTERNATIONAL WOMENS DAY

Once a year on the 8th of March, women around the world take the day off and parade and hold seminars promoting women. In Cameroon, its a HUGE deal, which takes weeks of preparation. Women all buy the same fabric for the parade, which all the important folks in town attend (along with a marching band which doesn't really march). Afterwords, everyone eats and drinks until they can't stand up anymore. Given that the bank's women's committee has been very successful in the past year, with a membership of greater than 40 women, they wanted to take part in the festivities.

I ended up as the official photographer for the group, and took numerous individual and group poses. I also took photos of them marching in the parade and them eating afterwards. My payment was a tasty meal and drinks at the end of the day.

PALM OIL PROJECT BEGINS

I made it out to George's village, where the work had already begun on the palm oil tree nursery. A bunch of us crammed into a car along with 1200 carefully packed seedlings and headed out on Friday for the 45 minute ride out. It was a lot shorter than I expected, and the dirt roads were in pretty good condition (certainly in comparison to the roads up to Korup park).

As we rolled into the village, there were several men already at work filling the polypots with dirt, which would later be seeded. We climbed out of the car and set up a few chairs under the coconut trees that were helping to shade the nursery-in-progress. I had a seat while the work continued around me. George ran off to his father's home to change into his work clothes, and soon began hauling water back and forth from the stream not too far away that would be used to water the seedlings. The others were finishing filling dirt and placing the pots in neat rows to make watering and other maintenance easier. In the meantime, one of the young guys climbed up one of the coconut trees and kicked down a bunch for us to eat and drink (coconut juice from a green coconut is pretty tasty).

Soon, there were bamboo posts in the ground around the pots, and fencing around the posts (more for small animals than for theives). Finally, we started putting seeds in the pots and watering them. The project had become real. Now, we just wait until the little buggers grow up a little...

SED IN-SERVICE TRAINING

Somehow, (believe me, I was not advocating it) it was decided that the annual in-service training for all first-year business volunteers would be held right here, in good 'ole Edéa. Admittedly, we do have the nicest hotel this side of Yaoundé, and it turned out great... I suppose in my head I was comparing the sometimes raucous behavior of our group last year with the much smaller and considerably more demure newer group.

We spent the week talking about how the second year volunteers could be more effective and happier at the same time. About five second-year volunteers came in to lead sessions in addition to myself. My solo session was on approving and recovering loans and how to change loan policy to make it all easier. Every three hours or so though, we broke to eat. I can't remember the last time I've eaten such consistenly good food for an entire week. The shrimp in butter sauce and the duck were both outstanding.

On the Thursday night, we all went out for a large dinner in town (the only night they even left the hotel!) to have grilled chicken and shrimp at Chez Louise. There were about 25 of us, and even though the table wasn't quite big enough, everyone found enough to eat and drink. Its so good to be with friends...

BEGINNING OF THE END

During the in-service training, my Close of Service packet was delivered to me. This is the first in a series of events that mark the end of service for Peace Corps volunteers. Needless to say, it was a happy occasion to open the envelope and to find a booklet entitled "You're on your way home". Yes, indeed!

Our 'close of service' conference is coming up in a week, with three days of editing resumes, doing mock interviews and trying to figure out what we want to be when we grow up. The 35+ of us who will be there are looking at it more as a giant party - the last time we will ever all be together. It promises to be a week to remember.

'The Partner' by John Grisham

When you need an interesting, reliable fast read, John's your man. 'The Partner' by John Grisham is unfortunately, also utterly forgettable.

'Downsize This' by Michael Moore

I've seen a couple of the movies (including Farenheit 911, which came out since I've been here-thanks to a volunteer going home for the holidays), but 'Downsize This' was the first of Michael Moore's books that I've read. Its a little dated at this point (having been written in the mid-nineties), but its still interesting, and at times appauling and shocking. In case you didn't pick it up from the films, Moore is quite the blue-collar socialist. Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course... The book lays out his

'For Whom the Bell Tolls' by Ernest Hemmingway

The classic novel, 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' by Ernest Hemmingway was sent to me by my friend Rob (thanks Rob!) since I clearly had some time to do some reading. For me, at least, the book was a 'real time' story of an american spanish teacher who decides to save Spain from the fascists by blowing up a bridge in the mountains. The 'translations' from spanish are a little annoying at first, as is the slow pace of introductions, but like all great books, it draws you in. Pretty soon, you can imagine being there with Robert and his band of rebels. Its a great book- one that means something after you put it down.

'Tishomingo Blues' by Elmore Leonard

A daredevil diver, the Detroit mob, and a few Mississippi hicks all converge across the river from Memphis for a little relaxation, a little southern fun (in the form of Civil War reenactments) and lots of surreal action. Its a bit on the fantastic side, but the author of 'Get Shorty', among others has created an interesting and sometimes funny look into what gets people up in the morning.