Friends, Family, and Neighbors,

First, an enormous note of thanks. Thanks to your donations these past couple of weeks, the Young Scholar Program is officially funded. Your donations are already hard at work—if you would like to stay updated on the scholar’s progress please check my blog (I promise to write a real update soon) or email me to get updates. Your quick response was a heartwarming reminder that there are still many, many people out there that care about me and the people currently in my life.

And so I, quite humbly, ask for your assistance one more time. If you didn’t get a chance to donate to the Young Scholar Program, but are still looking for ways to help, you’ve opened the right email.

15% of the population of Cameroon is HIV positive --we’re talking 350,000 people. And these are the people that are courageous enough to find out their status. Over the years, a myriad of NGOs and government-sponsored programs have promoted mass informational seminars teaching school-aged children the importance of abstinence and fidelity in order to prevent the disease. Despite substantial efforts and funds pored into these projects, the Cameroonian people have noticed little change in the behavior of the youth. In fact, the number of HIV positive Cameroonians grows each day.

Mass informational sessions at schools are not a tool for inciting actual behavior change. How can these informational seminars be effective when such a large percentage of Cameroonian youth cannot afford to stay in school? To make ends meet, many of these disenfranchised youth become moto taxi drivers. Moto taxi drivers drive small motor scooters and charge a fare to take people form place to place. There are at least a dozen moto men in each village and after walking, they are the main means of transportation. The moto drivers, generally between the ages of 14 and 30, usually have not finished high school and work long hours for little pay. They have a unique culture that involves outrageous clothing, high alcohol consumption, and of course, a large interest in any woman that passes their way. Once you get to know these men, of course, you learn that there is more to them than crazy hats and catcalls.

My moto driver gets up at 5am to make sure his younger brother gets to school. He had to drop out of school himself so his siblings could continue—his family didn't have enough money to pay for everyone's school fees. After that, he works all morning, taking a break at midday to tend to his family's pigs. He then continues to work until 7 or 8pm. The moto he drives does not belong to him, so he must pay the owner 2,000 CFA a day (approximately $4), and then can keep the rest of whatever he makes. Since each ride is usually 100 CFA (25 cents), what he keeps is barely enough to feed himself. And after all that work, most people think he’s a high school drop out who’s riding around all day chasing after girls.

These poor, uneducated men with their raucous culture inspired us to launch a project aimed to empower them as development agents promoting HIV prevention. Because they are always pursuing women and wildly gossiping while they wait for their next customers, we believe that they would be the perfect candidates to disseminate HIV prevention techniques amongst themselves and other youth in the villages.

11 villages in the West Region will participate in this project. Your donations will allow two moto drivers per village to attend a two-day seminar on HIV transmission and prevention. The training will prepare the participants to become peer educators. During the seminar, we will also offer free HIV testing, something most Cameroonians are too scared to do on their own. After the seminar is complete, the Peace Corps will work closely with the moto drivers from each village to help them schedule and facilitate informational seminars in their own communities and with their own peers. By doing this, we not only hope to diminish the spread of HIV in the West Region, but also empower the moto drivers as development agents.

If you would like to help us out, go to www.peacecorps.gov and click on donate/donors. Look under Cameroon and our project is listed under C. Cook, Beep Your Horn for HIV Prevention. Or just https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=694-134. Your contributions are tax deductible. As previously mentioned, we hoped to start this project as soon as possible, but seriously need your help in raising the funds to make it happen! This is crunch time. We need to raise $5,700 in two weeks.

I hope you can help even if it is just a few dollars. Through your donations, this project will come to fruition. Without your support, it won’t happen. If you know someone who might be interested in this project, please pass on the word!

Thank you for your support!

Nura

I forgot what it felt like to dance amongst the clouds. To place my finger over a mountain and swallow it whole. To spot villages no bigger than my pinky, hidden amongst a forest that fit in my palm. To have wings. To greet the moon. Oh, and the way my stomach flips as I become a play toy of the gods. That, too, I forgot.

I’m pretty sure that I have never spent a full year in a single country (though only my mother can verify this with any degree of accuracy). While I like to think that my passions lie in social justice, thinking globally, acting locally, fighting for the underdog, building bridges and not walls, I can think of no place in the world I would rather be than on an airplane. There’s just something about them; no, it’s everything about them. That funny way they smell when you walk on—thousands upon thousands of people forming this wonderfully bizarre eau d’aeroplane. The way that first flight attendant greets you with her perhaps overly saccharine smile, but you can’t blame her because in the past two days she’s probably been around the world and back. The hideously ugly décor reminiscent of an age of poor color schemes. Oh, and airplane blankets. I love those too. But mostly I could spend days on a plane just talking to people (I’m probably that person that you hate to sit next to). There’s something karmic about that gathering of people—that every single person on that plane has one thing in common: their presence. They were there together. And so, with the longest possible introduction lacking all the appropriate waxing and waning a plane deserves, I present my travels (just shy of a month later): the wonderful wide world of Ethiopia through the eyes of the Suleiman sibilings (well really just my eyes, but Ramzy was there too). (Also, this entry is long. Really long. Make a macchiato and get comfortable.) I was ready to leave Cameroon. Though I have not (hopefully…) overstayed my welcome, I think that Cameroon and I needed a break. My lack of communication during this long Indian summer can be summed up in one word: rain. It happened. There was a lot of it. Work was done, but I was just really wet a lot (as was much of the interior of my house, but that’s a story for another time). So, unapologetically, I boarded my vehicle of delight and headed for Ethiopia, embarking on, what I hoped would be a glorious reunion with my brother, and an added bonus of traveling to a country famous for their spicy cuisine, dreaded Rastafarians, and ancient churches. hand-woven baskets in Axum

I never thought, quite foolishly I’ll admit, I’d experience culture shock in another African country, but landing in Addis Abba was like walking around downtown Washington (granted, I have been trapped in Bamendjou for a while and might be developing a slight case of amnesia). Regardless, it was paradise: pavement, and I mean the real kind, without the plethora of potholes that your car gets lost in (read: Cameroon’s interpretation of pavement); people from more than one country; cuisine from more than one country (the Italians, during a brief, but failed, invasion, decided not to impose government, language, or religion on the Ethiopians, opting instead to teach them how to make a hell of a good macchiato and some very decent pasta); scarves for every occasion and emotion possible; oh, and hot water. There was that too. With a population of around five million (though I insisted to Ramzy for most of the trip that it was fifteen, and I remain firm in my numerical assessment), it was a city you could get lost in and still know right where you were. And while my amazement with this novel metropolis remains firm, it would be wrong to mislead you and romanticize a city, and for that matter, country, currently, and seemingly perpetually, plagued by famine and disease. For every chic businessman and effortlessly beautiful woman draped in the finest Ethiopian textiles, the streets were lined with row after row of plastic. Only it wasn’t just plastic. It was plastic covering children, protecting Ethiopia’s future from its chilling present. With Ramzy due to arrive the following day, I had an entire day free filled with excitement for our much-anticipated reunion. I spent much of the first day with this incredible doctor, who happens to be a fellow Middlebury alum, at the Mother Teresa Clinic in Addis. To premise, my beloved history teacher from high school had told me about this doctor praised by many as this demigod on a path to change the world. I somehow misunderstood the connection, and assumed that he was an alumnus from my high school and not from my college. Thus I wrote him what I presume to be a rather hilarious email about my search for Hoppers (as in grasshoppers, my high school mascot…don’t ask) abroad. He did not correct me in my email, probably presuming that I was some kind of science project freak of person that looked for grasshoppers abroad and didn’t want to set me off. Visiting the doctor at the center was one of the most humbling experiences I’ve had in, well, ever. There were hundreds of patients with diseases you only read about in medical books; tumors the size of heads literally blanketed the room. And while I put on my best smile, I was scared shitless. How do you even begin? The doctor seemed to read my thoughts: we’ll start here. And one by one, he greeted them, checked the charts, and moved on. Just like that. We spent much of the day bringing cancer patients from the center to a hospital to get MRIs and CT scans, drinking avocado, guava, and mango smoothies, and absorbing this palpable energy that Addis Abba gave off—it was a city where things just happened. breakfast companions

I spent the evening living a life that was, again, not my own. A life I so wish was my own: dining at the Sheraton, touted as Africa’s most glamorous hotel, with expats and host country nationals that…changed things. And while I realize that I could not have put that more ineloquently if I had tried, it’s kind of how I felt the entire meal: ineloquent, uneducated, and clueless. It was overwhelming and amazing—you know less than you think you do; yet, you can change more than you think you can. the Sheraton Hotel in downtown Addis

And as I was wining and dining, living my fantasy of a life I am yet to have, Ramzy was watching his airplane make a nice little u-turn on the screen in front of his seat. Technical difficulties, it seemed, were to make his transatlantic flight that much longer. I woke early the next morning to head to the airport to greet his flight. Seeing Ramzy was better than I imagined. He brought home to a place so foreign to both of us. Matured, and perhaps even taller, he seemed to have found a new peace with the world. Within minutes, we were laughing. I forgot what it was like to laugh with him. Organic and uncontrollable, when I laughed with Ramzy, it was with my everything. you never forget your first Fokker ride

We left early the next morning for Bahir Dar, the capital of Amharaland, home of Ethiopia’s largest lake, Lake Tana, and the famed (and perhaps fabled) source of the Blue Nile. The tiny Fokker (yes, I know) seemed to board with a general disregard for assigned seats, praising the fact that everyone had a seat at all. I was impressed and refreshingly stunned with Ethiopia’s airline (Cameroon’s airline company went under after someone, I believe, stole one of the airplanes, and the subsequent funds). And while the morning was crisp, conducive to long mornings in bed, nestled under covers and swimming in books, the morning mist demanded our presence. Though many a missionary had attempted the dissemination of their gospel, it fell on deaf ears. Ethiopian Orthodoxy dates back to the time of the apostles. The national language, Amharic, and its people, the Amharas, dominated the political and social atmosphere while Europe was just waking up from the Dark Ages. Indeed, Ethiopia never needed the West to help define who she was.

morning on Lake Tana

Much of the first day was spent on Lake Tana, aboard a feeble, though purportedly unsinkable “boat” in search of monasteries dating back to the 16th and 17th centuries. I naively expected the monasteries to be stale, anachronistic monstrosities, reflecting a stolid colonialist mentality. They were anything but; the thatched round huts blended effortlessly into their almost jungle-like surroundings. Indeed, it was almost eerily serene as nature’s vines smothered religion’s door. The monasteries perched themselves on 20 of Lake Tana’s 37 islands. Though many of the islands host a resident community, much of the congregation travels to mass from the peninsula (talk about an interesting commute).

frescos on the inside of a monastery

coffee hour: it's for the birds

The next morning, being the oh-so-intrepid adventurers that we are, we set out in search of the Nile. James Bruce, one of the first European explorers writes, “Half undressed as I was by the loss of my sash, and throwing my shoes off, I ran down the hill towards the little island of green sods…It is easier to describe the situation of my mind at that moment—standing in the spot which had baffled the genius, industry and enquiry of both ancients and moderns, for the course of nearly 3000 years.” And while I was, for the most part, fully dressed (I can’t say the same for others, but we’ll get to that later), I too felt the kinetic pull that had lured Bruce to Blue Nile some 200 years before.

young monk at monastery

sympathy for the devil

monastery--note the original sketches on the doors

We opted to hike the full circuit, traversing the Nile and all. We, rather humorously, decided that we could complete the route sans guide. Bruce did it, why couldn’t we? Accompanied by our fearless Spanish conquistador, a man named Pepe who happened to share a flight with us from Addis to Bahir Dar, we set out to traverse one of the Nile’s famous tributaries. Which one, however, had yet to be determined.

Staying on the trail seemed like a joke. Before we even got to the main lookout point, I was already covered in a layer of mud and had decided that Ramzy should hold my purse, as I needed all the stability I could get. Though we nearly slipped down half the mountain to get to the vista, the view was, to put in mildly, awesome.

The sheer force with which the falls crashed into the rocks was fitting of its Amharic name: Tis Isat, Water That Smokes. Though a hydroelectric project has supposedly harnessed the once uncontrollable source, the Blue Nile continues to throw herself some 120 feet down, crashing onto mafic volcanic rocks below uniformed of the project’s presence. high upon the hill, lived a lonely goat...

Eventually, a million mud pits later, we reached the crossing thanks to a group of wandering shepherds (sentences I never dreamed of writing). Though they stood firm in their offer to carry me, Ramzy, and Pepe across so that we could avoid getting wet, the fact that my arm weighed as much as their entire body seemed reason enough to refuse. So, fearlessly we threw ourselves to the Nile’s mercy. Only Pepe was a little fearless about his getting his pants wet, so he took them off.

the conquistador and the Suleimans forge the Nile

So a pantless Pepe, a purse carrying Ramzy (I was still unstable, and he looked really good carrying it), and myself crossed the Blue Nile. And like many before us, and many who will follow, we got royally wet. But there’s no water that some warm rocks, and the blazing African sun can’t dry up. The next morning we boarded a bus and headed for Gondar, appropriately dubbed Ethiopia’s Camelot. Traveling by land afforded us an entirely new view: fallen bridges. When we boarded the bus it was explained to us that we’d have to cross on foot for a while and meet a bus on the other side of the bridge. I, of course, just nodded and smiled when the man explained this, not really understanding what he was saying. The gigantic whole in the bridge, complete with a truck precariously perched inside, made his words instantly clear. So on foot we crossed. Inexplicably, some of the cars thought that since the bridge was broken, they should drive through the river. I’m not entirely sure why, but that left not only a broken bridge, but also cars stranded in the river. My dad used to say, it didn’t make anything worse, you’ve helped me. I guess they missed the memo. Gondar reminded me of a little Tibetan-Swiss Alps town trapped in mountains of Peru, i.e. a figment of my imagination. We set up shop at the lovely Lameyergeyer Hotel, named after a massive 8 foot bird that spends most of his days flying high, dropping bones on rocks to break up the marrow inside. Equally exciting was the hotel’s claim to fame: Most Promising Hotel of 2007. Ramzy assured me that this was because they were very good at making promises. We spent much of the day exploring Gondar’s castles and churches with our guide, Yohannes. The churches were filled with history and magic—of time where bees could stop an invading army and rain extinguish the fire of war. And as for the castles, well, the ruins whispered of a time of excess, a time where 65,000 inhabitants made their home amidst three major caravan routes, and most of all, a time of great splendor. Gondar also boasts the world’s first animal rights activist, let’s call him Emperor Fasiladas (but I’m not entirely sure which one it was). As the legend goes, the Emperor placed a bell outside the compound for any and all villagers to ring should they seek an audience with the Emperor. A man came, seeking such counsel, and left his loaded donkey at the gate. The donkey, impatient and burdened, began scratching himself against the bell’s chain. The incessant ringing forced the Emperor to send his page out, despite his already occupied audience. When the page saw that it was no more than a donkey, he returned without a subject. The Emperor asked what had happened, and the page replied, it was just a donkey. The Emperor, confused at why the donkey would ring a bell, went out to see for himself. It was there that he found the loaded donkey. Disgusted at the subject’s lack of regard for his beast of burden, the Emperor made an official decree, making it illegal to leave a donkey loaded, and furthermore a penalty to use an injured animal. New Year's flowers--Ethiopian New Year is September 11. It also happens to be the year 2001 there. No, really.

From the castle we headed to the Emperor’s personal bath, which thanks to the Norwegian government’s half a million dollar donation, still very much looks like a bath fit for a king. Royals, donning inflated goatskin lifejackets, used to come from all over the kingdom for their bubble baths (though I imagine a goatskin lifejacket might…well, I’m not sure. I can’t say that I can accurately describe how a goatskin lifejacket would change my otherwise peaceful bubble bath). Today, the bath is filled on Timkat, where after being blessed by a priest, the citizens of Gondar take the plunge into history’s bathtub. Since neither royals nor citizens were soaking up the sun, Ramzy and I filled the abeyance with a photo shoot of mock diving pictures. Though Yohannes indulged us, he was confused why we would want him to film us pretending to dive into an empty cement pool. Understandable. The next morning we left early for the Simien Mountains, where some 40 million years ago, layer upon layer of lava erupted to form the 10,000 ft base that breathes life into the Simiens. At base camp in Debark we met our trekking guide, Israel, and our bodyguard, complete with rifle and all. From Debark we hiked up to our “hotel” (read: a government lodge built in the 60s, in which I would spend the coldest night of my entire life). The trek left me breathless, and not necessarily in a good way. As Ramzy and I huffed and puffed up the mountain, our guide and marksman idly shot the shit. I guess that’s what happens when you live at 10,000 ft. and spend 20 days out of every month trekking. Or, rather, I guess that’s what happens when you don’t live at 10,000 ft. Though the rainy season offered us a verdant, luscious backdrop, we spent much of our time weeding through clouds to get to it. But it was worth it: amid the clouds lay villages of gelaba baboons. Ramzy took this time not only to observe the fauna, but also practice his cinematic narration skills, producing a short clip entitled: Nura baboon, the biggest baboon of them all. Hilarious. The gelabas, though quite popular with the trekking community, are enemies of the mountain-dwelling population. Local police reports site that the gelabas are responsible for local thefts, burlgaries, and even murders—an adult man was dragged almost a mile before he was shoved off a cliff. Talk about some monkey business (I had to). The next day we set out in search of the “waterfall.” By late morning, the rain had finally lifted the cloud cover. Israel paused, perhaps thanking the clouds for the brief respite of sunshine, and remarked, it is okay, it is their time.

When the clouds parted, I expected to see a normal waterfall. But this one happened to be a waterfall that fell over 5,000 ft into an infinite abyss some thousand feet further below. Teetering on the waterfall’s edge, clouds engulfing and then, again freeing us, lameyergeyers and buzzards circling for their prey, rainbows lasting only as long as my breath, yet with splendor enough for a lifetime, my presence was irrelevant. It was one of those places that reminded you of your beautiful insignificance; that unapologetically made you feel like nothing, noting neither your coming nor your going.giving power lunches a whole new meaning: lunch at the highest resort in Africa

From the mountains we flew to Axum, “the last great civilization of Antiquity to be revealed to the modern world,” according to Dr. Neville Chittick. Laying just a mere stone’s throw from the Eritrea (okay so it’s actually like 30 km away, but let’s just suppose that I’m an authority in stone throwing), Axum was the Queen of Sheba’s capital in the 10th century. Though most of the ruins are not well preserved, their awesome power transcends preservation. In front of a swimming pool dating back to the 4th century, tombs from the 3rd century weighing 360 tonnes (I don’t know what tonnes are, but you can bet that they weigh a lot), how can you claim importance? As I rubbed my fingers across Ethiopia’s version of the Rosetta stone (I know it’s wrong, but I wanted to touch history), it seems laughable the way Americans keep relics 50 years old behind glass and bars. Perhaps some things are just built to last.Our guide, Haile Selaisse, was on the archeological team that found Lucy (the 3.2 million year old skeleton, previously thought to be the oldest and most complete hominid). He was a walking encyclopedia of ancient history, much to Ramzy’s dismay.

priceless? thank me when you finish laughing

Together we explored the underworld of tombs, and Axum’s famous obelisks—one of which was returned by the Italians just a few weeks before our arrival.

The Great Stele, believed to be the largest block of stone that humans have ever attempted to erect, lies defeated amongst its upright siblings. Indeed, attempted is the operative word, as the obelisk has lied in pieces since its 4th century fall.

Our last stop is perhaps the most incredible of them all (if you’re getting bored, I’m not entirely sorry. Surely whatever you doing can be put aside for the fantastical world of epic history). So, if I have this right, the Queen of Sheba, left Axum to visit the sagacious King Solomon of Israel. Upon arrival, the two agreed that their visit would not be one of traditional acquisition—they were to take nothing from the other. After what I assume was a rather wonderful, spicy feast (I mean I wasn’t there…), the Queen awoke with an unquenchable thirst. Anticipating her thirst, the King had placed a glass of water next to her bed. However, in order for her to take this glass, the Queen had to give him something in return. So, in the spirit of symbiotic agreements, the Queen drank her water and the King gave her a child (yes, I know. The parallel that is drawn between drinking a glass of water and impregnating a woman was also lost on me. But, hey, it’s all Greek (or rather Ethiopian) to me). But the plot thickens, the Queen of Sheba gave birth to Menelik, who like every illegitimate child, went in search of his father. Menelik arrived in Jerusalem in search of his dear old daddy. Leaving, perhaps unsatisfied (again, I wasn’t there), Menelik pocketed the Ark of the Covenant, a wooden chest containing the tablets of the laws of the ancient Israelites, which they supposedly carried wandering the wilderness (I understand that it seems impossible to pocket a wooden chest). The Ark of the Covenant still rests in Axum’s Church of St. Mary of Zion (we’ll get to that soon). The one hang up in the story seems to be the timeline, the Queen of Sheba is thought to have lived a thousand years before the Ark came to Ethiopia, but in the scheme of things what’s a couple thousand years? So, we went to see the Ark of the Covenant, which you can’t actually see because you’ll burst into flames. That, of course, hasn’t stopped countless brigands from attempting the heist of, well, millenniums. Now, the only person in the world who’s allowed to see the Ark is its caretaker, a specially appointment monk who is rumored to eat and drink only on Sundays. We, however, got a glimpse of the monk (he’s on the left-hand side of the church), which is supposedly very, very lucky. If you can sense my skepticism with this whole affair, it is quite possible that you have successfully completed first grade. And yet, I find my skepticism, albeit it founded, utterly depressing. The ancient world knew a magic that we cannot even begin to contemplate. They had to. Pyramids, castles, hidden tombs, secret languages—there was a faith in the inconceivable that we have lost. A scientific impossibility rooted in reality. Believe. I spent much of the evening drinking tea on the side of the boulevard. The streets of downtown Axum were filled with life, color, chaos, and spirit. Girls frolicked, singing songs in hopes of a coin or two for a new dress or hairdo for the upcoming New Year. People were everywhere—some out of an evening stroll, some walking their animals’ home after an honest day’s work, and some just beginning the night. Juxtaposed against a city, which for the most part, has been dormant for the past 14 centuries, the irony was lost on no one.Our last stop on the historical route was Lalibela, where a most annoying pair of American tourists followed (though they consumed the better page of my journal, I’ll leave you with just that sentence). Our guide Fikru, who just so happened to be Bill and Chelsea Clinton (good tourists), and Donna Karen and Calvin Klein (bad tourists) guide, greeted us at the airport and took us to our hotel, the Tukul Village. Owned by an 80-year-old Dutch woman named Nora, and her thirty something Ethiopian husband (how scandalous!), the Tukul Village was one of the quaintest (and not in the creepy, kitschy kind of way), hotels I’ve stayed in. Heralded as the Petra of Ethiopia, Lalibela’s 11 rock-hewn churches, connected by dark passageways, hidden crypts, and grottoes, rank among the greatest religio-historical sites in the Christian world. If you don’t know what a rock-hewn church is, don’t worry, I didn’t either. Instead of piecing together layer after layer of bricks, rocks, and smoothing over the cracks, King Lalibela and his 12th century companions, decided to carve into (down, around, near, really everyway possible) the red volcanic, leaving a single entity: a church carved entirely out of one rock. “I weary of writing more about these buildings because it seems to me that I shall not be believed if I write more,” noted 16th-century Portuguese writer Francisco Alvares. Alvares’ fear that his Portuguese comrades would not believe him was entirely founded. Modern architects estimate that it would have taken a workforce of 40,000 to complete these churches. Some locals say that the King’s wife built Bet Abba Libanos, with the help of some very industrious angels, in a night. We set out early the next morning (I realize that this is a phrase I repeat several times throughout this entry, but explorers have to set out. Saying “left” would not properly set a tone of adventure), this time on horseback for our destination: Ashetan Maryam. Perched 11,000 ft above, Ashetan Maryam is one of Lalibela’s least impressive monasteries.

In truth, I was so winded by the time we reached the summit (though we had brought mules, when my horse started uncontrollably wheezing, and Ramzy’s ran him into a eucalyptus fence, we figured we better dismount); I had forgotten entirely what we were hiking to. But one rarely hikes to see what’s on top; it’s what’s below that they seek. And one, certainly, does not need a structure to appreciate God from a height like this. From Lalibela, we flew back to Addis and headed overland for the Crater Lakes. Though Ethiopia is a landlocked country, traveling around the South made me feel like we were on the coastal plains of West Africa (I know, I haven’t been to the coastal plains of West Africa, but I imagine they’d be like this). We spent the morning swimming in Lake Langango. Set against the 13,000 ft. blue Arsi Mountains, our guide book joked that this was dream of every Brit: swimming in the world’s largest cup of English tea (the water was murky). But since I’m not British and I don’t like swimming in water that looks like tea, I found this citation to be neither funny nor a fulfillment of my life long dream.

Nevertheless, the cool waters were refreshing. The rest of our Southern exploration was spent hot springing, taking in the gorgeous sunsets, playing with monkeys, and watching these gigantic birds dislocate their necks to swallow fish at the local fish market. You know, the usual. As we made our final trek back to Addis, the finality of our vacation set in. Being back has been good. Hard, but good. Summer break is over (I’ve decided, of course, that every job I ever have needs a summer break), and like many of you, I have high hopes for this year. To do more, to seize every fleeting moment. Crazy to think I was just starting this whole adventure this time last year. Year one done, one more to go. Here’s to making the most of what’s left: carpe diem, my friends.

The mouse and I were at war. Devious, and cunning, I mistook him for a fox. Though the simplicity of his schedule refused deviation, still I could not catch him. In the morning he would sun himself on the front porch, coming in for what my grandmother used to call a “lie down” in the afternoon. He stored up energy, as the night was his favorite hour. Whimsically swinging back and forth on the bamboo rods of my wind chimes, he was a peace with the world. Scuffling back and forth on my headboard, he asked himself, could I ask for a better life? But then I became smarter than the mouse. I bought glue—and I caught him. And I killed him. And his friends. For you see, seven sleepless nights merits the death of a mouse. And though I am sorry, I won the war. I had to. It’s amazing that I’m able to get any work done, considering the battles I wage at night. But I’m managing. I’ve recently started working on a project pioneered by two Peace Corps volunteers. The project brings five donated laptops to rural villages that might otherwise never have exposure to computers. Combining a health/life skills class with computer skills, this project has been so much fun to work on. I co-taught the computer section with the Cameroonian version of Adonis, Stephan. I’m not going to lie; beauty in motion is a wonderful piece of art to work next to. With a group of 20 women, only one of whom had ever seen a computer in her life, we delved into the wonderful wide world of computers. We began work with how to change fonts, which, ironically, in French is “la police.” I asked the women if they knew what “police” meant, and one woman raised her hand and disdainfully bellowed, yeah, it’s that jerk that’s trying to take my money. The class broke out in laughter, and I almost didn’t have the heart to tell her that “la police” was nothing more than a fancy name for how to change the size and color of the words. Though I knew that many of the women would never again touch a computer, the look of delight in their eyes as they typed their own names, and changed the font, and color, and size, would be a memory worth a lifetime of practice. Ma Regina, practically shouting to the class, said it best: whoever said I wasn’t someone. Look how big my name is! I am someone. Though the rains have begun to fall, stranding me for days at times, work is still going amazingly well. The water project planned for the village of Bakang was successfully completed at the end of June. Engineers Without Borders has forever earned my respect and praise—and they came with twinkies, which certainly sweetened the deal. Solar panels are now providing power to a water system that brings potable water to 3000 people. Though I played such a minor role in this project, when a woman at market day approached me and introduced me to her sister as Miss Nura who has brought us water, it was a pretty good feeling.

Of course, all work and no play make Jack a dull boy. Funeral season in Cameroon, lasting approximately the entire year, is quite the spectacle. The party, of course, fits the bill. You can have an all out bash soon after your death or if you’re of the less rich persuasion, you can expect a hell of a good party in twenty years when your family scrounges together enough money. Anyway you slice it, it’s a celebration of a life passed. The funeral of the chief of Batounta was no exception. Most funerals begin with a mourning song.

As the women wailed, knowing that their cathartic cleansing would soon finish and be forbidden once the mourning period was over, the crowds began to gather. The widows, with inexplicably placed cabbage leaves on their head, moaned for their husband’s passing. But as the steady drumbeat quickened, the women’s steps lightened. Indeed, the mourning was over. We were now to celebrate the passing of a great chief, and the coming of another. We waited for what seemed like hours for the King to arrive. With the King’s arrival would come the announcement of the new successor. Guns were fired, and a child appeared amongst the crowd, surrounded by five village elders. The new successor had been caught, tricked by the village elders to seek refuge at the home of a friend. The child was whisked away behind the chefferie, and the crowd waited in silence for the King to speak.

His speech was in patois, so I had no choice by to watch the villagers’ faces to try and understand a semblance of what was going on. As quickly as he had come, the King left. The crowd was silent, waiting for the women to begin their song. If the women decide that the successor is a rightful heir, they begin a joyful dance, hopefully expectant what the new chief will bring to them. However, if the women think that the successor has wrongly been named, I’m told they hum a somber song of pain. But the women let out the most fantastic cries, and as the villagers danced in a cacophonous mess of splendor, I too felt a cause for celebration, joining them in their steps and welcomed the new chief.

I went behind the chefferie to check on the heir to the throne. Just 14, he sat weeping in the middle of a circle of elders. As he cried about things he could not understand, he sobbed most for things that he would never understand. Though I tried to comfort him, I knew my words would mean nothing to him—a culture I was to new to, and traditions I too would never understand. In parting, I smiled and bowed my head to the once and future king of Batounta.

On the outskirts of the West province, in a village with a tribal system arguably far greater than that of the Bamilikes, lies the village of Foumbam, home to the Bamoun people. Considered by many art connoisseurs to have some of the best art in Central and West Africa, Foumbam was an oasis of tapestries, ancient masks, wood carvings, and beautiful figurines. I bought the most beautiful red tapestry that will someday adorn the walls of my future home—whenever and wherever has yet to be determined. In one art shop, my friend Danny had decided that shopping time was over. He informed the clerk that we were done, but would come back. Tongue-in-cheek, the man replied, Jesus said he would come back and he never did. Touché art salesman, touché.

With our artistic pallet sufficiently satiated, we headed for a tour of the palace. Though the grounds were impressive, it was the Sultan that was more so. On his throne, he sat waiting to hear the complaints of his people. Every Saturday, for two hours, the sultan sits among his disciples. They come from all over Foumbam, sometimes seeking advice, sometimes money, sometimes they seek consolation for the passing of their relatives, and sometimes they come offering thanks. I wanted to meet this man that I had heard so much about. I went to one of his servitors, and asked if I could speak with the Sultan. And then, inexplicably, I got to. We sat with the Sultan as a nearby village came to offer their thanks. A traditionally Muslim, they offer their thanks in through Quranic voice. As the words of the Quran wafted in a gorgeous melody through the air, I felt pangs of homesickness for the Middle East and my family, but felt comfort in the familiarity that lies in the novel passing of the unfamiliar. In parting, I have no choice but to stop, appreciate, and yes, forever question the frail irony that is life. For on June 23 I sent the greatest of birthday wishes to the most incredible woman I know, my mother, and I paused and remembered the passing of the most incredible man I have known, my father. And as I, in the same breath, remembered the life that is and the life that was, so grateful to have been a part of one, and eternally thankful to be still part of the one that is, I hope that you all breathe in that same breath--maybe not thinking of the same people that I am, but breathing both blissful life, and eternal peace in one sole sigh.

These past couple weeks have been a bizarre mix of abnormal anecdotes, sinister stories, and fantastical fairy-tales that some how amount to my daily life. I find myself constantly ill prepared, and generally overwhelmed to process what happens each day, and am constantly worried that I’m not savoring every moment of this strange and peculiar journey.As the transitions of daily life continue to wear on me, I have to remind myself to treat each moment as just that, a moment, and not look at it as a sequence of events leading to some grand scheme. Let me show you what I mean.

The first moment comes from just down the road in a subdivision of Bamendjou, called Toumi. Now, as I understand the story, which we can’t entirely rely on as it was told to me in a French-patois mix, there were two brothers who lived on a compound together with their two wives. Now, the younger brother had recently come into a small bit of wealth. The older brother, from what I understand, was a little pressed for cash. So the two brothers went out drinking, and as most good ideas are brewed over beers, this drinking tryst seemed to be no exception. For you see, the older brother decided that he would attack his brother that night, robbing him of both his money and life. So, the older brother left the bar, and waited for the younger brother in the bushes. Planning to ambush him, he kept quiet so that his brother would not know the identity of his killer. But fate is funny, and the younger brother, also carrying a knife, was not about to let a bandit attack him. So, unknowingly, he stabbed his killer—his brother—to death. He ran away, not processing what had happened, only to be woken up later that night with the news of his brother’s death. Walking past the village later that week, I was almost hit by a moto carrying, oh that’s right, his coffin. I guess that puts a whole new spin onto the village hearse concept.not the brothers--but two other brothersLater in the week, on the way to Batie, a town next to mine, to teach a group of women how to build an improved cookstove, I stumbled upon a crowd of people. Not wanting to miss out on the action, the moto I was on pulled up to the swarm of people to examine what was happening. And out of a morbid 13th century scene, we stumbled upon four people tied to log about to be set on fire for stealing goats. I didn’t watch, but everyone else did. What is it about “justice” that makes perfectly sane people into sadistic voyeurs? And burned at the stake? Who still does that! The dichotomy that is Cameroonian society constantly baffles me—21st century technology, cell phones, internet, coupled with this medieval mentality, burning at the stake, corporal punishment, abusing wives.   But it continues. I’ve been working with a primary school to help them become a bilingual school. I visited the school a couple weeks ago. The school was a tranquil oasis. But the lack of students was bizarre. On the way home the director pulled me aside. I have to tell you, Nura. Last year the unthinkable happened. I thought she was going to tell me that someone stole money. But no. Last year, she continued, one of our students, just four years old. She pauses, and pulls out a picture of the girl. Dropping her eyes, it was just terrible. He was so jealous. And sick. He killed her. And then buried her in front of the school. In the middle of the day. I need you, Nura, she pleaded. I need you to talk to the parents. They’ll listen to you. They’ll bring their students back. I knew she meant, they’ll listen to you because you’re white. But if my skin color meant bringing this school back together…I don’t know. The next week I came back to talk to the parents. I was idealistic and unpractical. I wanted to say, please, bring your kids back, they won’t die. But I couldn’t trivialize their pain. I paused, stuttered, and I’m sure said all the wrong things. I still don’t know what the right things were…

And without skipping a beat, we transition to the beautiful, hilarious, and light moments of life: the men’s veteran’s soccer game. Most Saturdays (read: whenever I can actually drag myself out of bed), I play soccer in the mornings and train with the veteran’s men’s soccer team. At first, they went easy on me, lightly tapping me the ball, and leaving the goal wide open. But I told them that I could take it, and they should treat me like every other player. Huge mistake. The next game I played in I wound up beat up, and I almost dislocated my knee. I came home that afternoon covered in mud, and my chief, upon seeing me, informed me that I was no longer allowed to play with the team. So now I’m more of a cheerleader (and I still occasionally play when I feel like I need a good ass-kicking). Now in our “travel season,” I accompanied my team to a town called Sanchou, just outside of Dschang, the infamous town that I walked to. We arrived on the outskirts of the town, greeted warmly by the opposing team. We paraded through town (literally paraded with music and honking horns and we waved, not necessarily at anyone, for about half an hour). 

They took us to visit the “tourist sites” in the town: an abandoned rice factory set up by the Chinese in the 70’s, the high school, and a coffee factory. The game seemed to be just a reason to travel, and no one seemed that bothered by the fact that we lost. At the end of the game, each player went home to freshen up and eat with a player from the other team. Sportsmanship at its very best. I ended up going home with a couple members from my team, and we went to, logically, the post office. Only it wasn’t a normal post office because this one was in a swamp. I’m not sure what they were thinking (look at this flooded space…thank god we’ve finally found a place for the post office!) but we crossed the bridge to the post office, where one of the members lived, and enjoyed a most delicious meal. We spent most of the night at the dance club in town sweating the night away. Though the men danced until the sun came up, exhausted I crawled back to the post office to take off my dancing shoes and rest. Driving back was gorgeous, the clouds still muffling the mountains, and the sun’s rays beginning to blanket the sky.

Oh, and did I tell you that I got a dog to keep my company, though ironically, the only time I have any time to myself is at home. But I guess the dog had company of his own. Fleas. So then I got fleas. And then I got rid of the dog. But I still have fleas. So I guess I’m still not entirely alone, then. It was a rash decision, and, no pun intended, one with rash effects.But perhaps the most important, and exciting, story this month comes from Independence Day. There was a certain irony in the celebration of a country and a president that only last month its people tried to disassemble. Reminiscent of the Youth Day festivities, much of the morning was spent in the stands watching the parade. The karate club reminded us that they could still kick for 20 minutes, the adorable hula-hooping team wiggled their hips, and the boy scouts marched as slow as humanly possible. 

I sat next to my patois teacher for much of the ceremony. I asked him why he wasn’t marching. Pointedly, he replied, Nura, I’ve been marching since independence. I’m done now. As I spent the entire day at various parties around town, consuming eight entire meals, receiving 24 marriage proposals, and amazingly, fitting into a little five-seater car with 11 other people, I couldn’t but help be excited for next year’s festivities. Something to stick around for. I walked home late that night, the full moon lighting my way, a cool breeze cooling off my dancing heat, and thought: yup, this is the life. So, as you can see, it’s been a, shall we say, interesting couple of weeks. Two of my friends called it quits, and headed back to the States. Though I respect their decisions, and wish them the best, I sometimes wish I too had the courage to leave. And it’s not as bad as I make it sound. I have to remind myself that for every bad day, there’s another good one around the corner. Somewhere. And that I have to make everyday here count—because everyday that I’m here is one when I’m not there. I can’t believe this time last year I was sitting on the floor of my doublewide trailer trying to fit the pieces of four years of my life into our mini van without so much as a clue to what lay ahead. I wonder what my life will be like this time next year. In short, I can’t even begin to imagine. Hopefully you can’t either. Cause that’s what life should be: full of surprises. Until the next one…

One could see how being a tourist in Cameroon could be, shall we say, different. There aren’t really many roads per say, and though there are certainly sites to see, they aren’t really well marked. With anything. Not even a town name. (Then again, I remember touring a museum in Cairo and next to this incredible mummy there was a small placard that said mummy. Which I clearly wouldn’t have been able discern myself. Thank you, Egypt.) Anyway, when Mom signed up for Cameroon Spring Break 2008, I knew it would be an adventure. In general, I love everything that I do with my mother, save bowling, canoeing, and putt-putt golf, but that’s because I hate doing those things regardless of how wonderful the company is. So after months of planning (read: weeks. read: days), the day came that she was due to arrive. Only at 4 o’clock in the morning, she rang telling me that she had missed her connection. In the meantime, the airline conveniently changed her flight from Douala to Dubai, which I can understand, cause they both begin with “d.” For days, it seemed—but really only one—that she would be never come. But finally that wonderful Air France flight arrived, and I tell you, it was bliss in movement. Reunited with my better half, we set out to conquer Cameroon—sans baggage, of course. After a brief slumber (complete with a much needed dip in the pool—because even though my mother loves me very much, she still made it a point to tell me that my hygiene was “lacking”), we hit the road and headed for Bamendjou. It was so exciting to parade the “white woman” around town, and not actually be said white woman for once. We visited some schools that I had been working with, and the kids all made a point to touch her skin, as they did not really actually believe that it was real. Every person that she met also made it a point to tell her how young she looked and could not believe that she had a daughter who was 40-years-old. Thank you, Bamendjou. This does wonders for my self-esteem.

We spent much of the time in village gardening in our underwear, and walking around town (fret not, we put on pants before we left). Sadly, our stay in Bamendjou was interrupted with a visit to Douala to retrieve the missing luggage (which Mom claimed was filled with treasures, though they seemed too good to be true). Enter Piggy, our fearless driver who agreed to leave the big city of Douala and escort us to Bamendjou. However, there was one small glitch. Not wanting to be caught by the police (and made to pay ridiculous bribes along the way), Piggy decided that if he painted the number on the side of his cab, the police would not know that it was a Douala only cab. Logically, Piggy thought that chocolate would make an excellent disguise. Unfortunately, this did not work. When stopped, the policeman bluntly asked, Did you paint chocolate on the side of your car? And he did. And so he paid. And so we moved on, though every time I put my hand out the window, I got melted chocolate on it. Thanks Piggy, thanks a lot. But eventually we made it back to Bamendjou, for round two of fun. I unearthed the goodies that Mom had brought—and it was the best Christmas in March a girl could ever ask for. Though I felt kind of ridiculous for making so many requests, sometimes when you’re trapped in a village in the middle of nowhere Africa, you just really need some beef jerky to get you through the year.

We left the wild ways of the south and headed north to Maroua. The north felt like a different country—I exchanged the ways of the hard Bamileke for the soft-spoken Muslims, the verdant mountains, for the dry rolling hills, and left my life as a volunteer for that of a traveling vagabond. Though in style, of course. I think that in the time my mother was here, I spent close to what I had spent in the past eight months. But man, spending money ain’t never felt so good. We arrived in Maroua late in the afternoon. The plane stairs unfolded and we descended into what I always thought Africa would look like—dry, and barren, with trees sparsely dotting the landscape reminders that life can spring even in the most surprising of places. As we roamed the markets, I felt like I was back in the Middle East wandering around the markets in Syria or Morocco. The leather, thanks to a prominent cow population, was beautiful, and the textiles even more incredible. Dinner was an amazing three-course meal complete with fresh (not cooked!) vegetables and more cheese than a girl could fantasize about (which I do, all the time).

The taste of fresh mozzarella still on my tongue, we left Maroua and headed to Rhumsiki, a small village nestled in the Mandara Mountains, just west of the Nigerian border. Rhumsiki Peak is perhaps one of the most photographed sites in Cameroon (…), and understandably so. As we drove into the village, Rhumsiki Peak exploded in the distance, not willing to covered by the impending dust. More than the Peak, travelers head to Rhumsiki in search of the crab fortune-teller. The fortune-teller sits patiently in his hut, conversing with his crabs, and giggling. As you ask your question, he pauses, lifts his crabs to his mouth, whispers to them, and then sets them in a bowl. You wait. And then he lifts the lid, ever so carefully, and examines the crabs’ movements. I asked the fortune-teller if my work in Cameroon would be successful. He smiled, and said the crabs had decidedly said yes! A new take on the eight ball. Had the crab fortune-teller been able to see into the more present future, however, we might have avoided the next mishap. Whilst mounting horses to prepare for a trek, Mom slipped, and fell back onto her arm. In pain, though you would never be able to guess it, we went in search of a doctor. Who did not exist. Nor did a hospital/medical facility. Enter the not so healing healer. As Mom sat down, the not so healing healer examined her arm, and decided to rearrange the bones in her wrist. Meditated into a peaceful trance, if she was feeling any pain (which given the bone movement, I’m sure she was), you couldn’t see it. But that, children, is why women give birth, and not men. Bones sufficiently rearranged, potentially in the right places, potentially not, we stood up to leave. But no, the not so healing healer was not finished. So we sat down. He took Mom’s hand again. Spit on it. And then smiled. Thanks? Confused, tired, and ready for a stiff drink, we headed back to the hotel where we finished the hotel’s dusty gin bottle and sat by the pool watching the stars blanket the crisp evening sky. In the morning we left Rhumsiki in search of our next village, Waza, famous for its game park situated between the docile dells of Nigeria, and the pleasant planes of Chad. As we headed into the park we picked up our guide, who will herein be known as GuideMan since I have forgotten his name, is search of lions, tigers, and bears (oh my!—I had to). Our driver saw this time together in the car as a perfect opportunity to speak to me in Fulfude (which I don’t speak). Our guide soon discovered that I spoke Arabic (which I sadly have forgotten here), and used the trip as an opportunity to test out his Arabic. Mom decided that she would use her Swahili safari lingo, and we all passed a few French phrases around the car for good measure. From our olla podrida of languages, I was able to decipher that we saw animals and birds.

Being the fearless explorers that we are, we took our trusty Jeep into the brush in search of lion dens. I found it rather interesting that we would look for lions in their homes, but GuideMan assured us that we would be safe, so traipsing into their homes we went. Though we found no lions, I’m surprisingly comforted by this fact as I imagine an animal’s home is probably not a neutral meeting spot for a first encounter. With the North sufficiently explored, (four days seemed to do a number on us), we headed back to the Grand South for our final adventure. Though I had booked a ticket from Maroua to Douala—because I guess you usually book tickets to the destinations that you want to end up in—I clearly meant to book a ticket to Yaounde. Luckily the airline had the foresight to preemptively interpret my thoughts, and they sent us to Yaounde, where I did not want to be, instead of Douala, where I wanted to be. Whilst waiting for the plane to land, we watched a man get taken from an ambulance, rolled into a rug, and then loaded onto the plane. This seemed like a very good beginning. And so we landed in Yaounde, and the airline company sent us on our way to Doula in a spiffy, air-conditioned VIP bus. It turns out that VIP is actually code for please let us abuse you (a rough translation from French), and we ventured onto one of the most hellish bus journeys known to man. Highlights included, but were not limited to, boarding the bus in a cattle like manner where not one but two women stepped on my head to get over me, crossing a bridge which had a dumpster strategically placed in the center because the other side of the bridge had fallen into the water, and air-conditioning that actually meant the window occasionally opened (again, maybe something was lost in translation) and resulted in me sitting for the majority of the ride in a pool of mine (read: everyone’s) sweat. But as they say, all’s well that ends well. And so we finally arrived at our gorgeous hotel, the Birdwatchers Club, nestled into the Botanical Gardens of Limbe, home of Cameroon’s world famous (…) black beaches. In one of those are-you-fing-kidding-me kind of moments, we arrived at the hotel to find that the doors were locked and no one was there. Enter my fearless mother. She pried open a set of wood shutters, and then opened the glass into a room, which, incidentally, housed a sleeping set of vacationers. So she woke them up, and asked them to open the door. And graciously and groggily, they did. We raided the hotel’s peanut and beer collection, and sat on the deck recounting the day’s triumphs—mainly us still being alive. The rest of the beach journey was filled with sand, sun, and good fun (and lot’s of other really wonderful things which are not suitable for a blog of this level of sophistication). So that’s it for travel tales. I’m finding it hard to settle back into my daily routine, which considering the fact that it did not exist has proven very, very difficult to find. Despite Africa’s best efforts, I’m still relatively healthy and debatably emotionally stable. Earlier in March, on a pleasant afternoon, I was doing my rounds on a moto and a bug flew into my eye. Normally this would not be problem, however, it just happened that I had another bug that lay dormant in said eye. Now I’m not a bug-mating expert, but something happened, and while I have no objection to facilitating amorous relations, I would prefer that they not take place in my eye. But apparently, I did not adequately communicate that to the bugs, and they had babies in my eye. An immediate, and you could say unfortunate, side effect of said babies was the constant twitch in my eye. Despite months of refusing marriage proposals and advances from my village men (there really weren’t that many…), I spent the good part of the week furiously winking at everyone. Rest assured, the babies are gone, and I’ve stopped winking. If this entry hasn’t inspired you all to book a trip to Cameroon, then I don’t know what will! As the rains begin to fall, I’m starting lists of things I plan on learning when I’m confined to my house (e.g. US presidents, time-zones, general information concerning ocean currents, and tides, and continued country trivia). Email me if you have good ideas! Until the next time you hear from me, I hope you all are researching plane tickets and thinking about what to put in your next care package to send to me.

February 11 (yes, I’m a little behind here) was National Youth Day, a chance for the country to honor their future with huge parades, banquets, and parties filling the social schedule for weeks before and after the actual day. In the morning we gathered at the town center, awaiting the festivities and parades. The chief arrived flanked by two chiefs of neighboring villages. His 7 ft tall stature was accentuated by a tent like white umbrella that his armed soldiers carried in front of him. I use “armed” in the loose sense—they were carrying spears of some sort and rifles from circa 19-whenever the first rifle was made. As Celine Dion’s latest (10 years ago) pop hit belted, I couldn’t help but pinch myself to see if this was just another mefloquin dream. The stands on the side of the road were a labyrinth of accolades: members of the nobility, chiefs, government officials, entrepreneurs whose wealth ranks them as some of the richest men in Cameroon, and then…me. We sat for what seemed like hours (read: it was actually hours. 4 of them.), and watched school group after school group parade by. It was a wonderful introduction to the myriad of talents that the students of Bamendjou possess. For example, I did not know that Bamendjou had such a large and active karate club. But now I know that they are well versed in the art of kicking because that’s what they did. For 20 minutes. Just kick.

The evening was filled with musical acts in the town center. The mayor brought in 20 or so amazing musicians, many of them born in Bamendjou, to celebrate. Most of the acts were really just karaoke, but one group, Takam 2 (apparently the all the members of Takam 1 died) was incredible. Dressed in traditional Bamileke garb, the men danced, and sang. The crowd was wild. And, amazingly enough, I had courtside seats…on the stage. It was incredible until my worst nightmare came true. One of the nearly naked men with a spear, who will herein be known as the love of my life, approached me. Shoved the spear in my face. And told me to dance. So I, logically, grabbed the spear and danced on the stage. At this point in time the entire crowd starts screaming, and I’m madly waving the spear in the air, shaking what my mama gave me. I’d like it to be known that I’m the world’s worst dancer, and when people make fun of white girls dancing…that’s actually how I dance. But it was incredible, and made me wish I was part of Takam 2. Maybe I’ll have a shot with Takam 3.

English classes continue to provide endless amusement. In my adult class this week we worked on the family tree. Producing a rather complicated family, complete with multiple wives (the Cameroonians love their polygamy), and divorces, I tried to cover all my bases so that no familial relations were left unexplained. But one of my students raised his hand and asked me, But Miss Nura, what do you call the woman of the husband…not the wife, not the second wife…the other woman? Mistress, I replied. Ah yes, mistress, how could I have forgotten her? He smiled. I continued, and what they’re having is called an affair. The class nodded. Another student raised her hand, but their children, what are they called? I paused, not wanting to call them illegitimate. They’re called the product of an affair. I think I’m going to need an advanced degree to keep teaching these classes.

Seemingly possessed by demons, and thrilled at the fact that I had a free day I, inexplicably, decided to walk with my friend Jessica to Dschang, a lovely quaint college town located not too far from me. And by not too far, I clearly mean that it took 10 hours and 30 minutes to walk somewhere between 50 and 60 km and unless I develop a severe case of amnesia in the immediate future, I intend to never walk there (or anywhere else) again. I give you a range, as I do not know the exact distance we walked. Additionally, no one in Cameroon knows the distance—even those that pass regularly between the two towns. About two and a half hours or so into the walk, we asked a man how far away Dschang was. Definitively he replied, 400 kilometers. Upon seeing the shocked and horrified looks on our faces, he paused. Reconsidered. And said, two kilometers. Thus began the game for our journey: how far are we. Asking mostly children and the elderly for directions (a game we played one Christmas break with my Dad, when he too did the same. Directions went something like go to Chris’ house and then turn…and restaurant recommendations were akin to Chucky Cheese), we received a resounding, surprisingly unanimous answer no matter where we were in the journey: 20 km. Even 1 km outside of Dschang—20 km. In truth, the last 30 minutes were some of the most painful steps ever walked, and I’m quite certain that I’ll never be able to walk properly again.

I have also spent a lot of time since my last entry sitting. Way too much. This was due to the, shall we call them, skirmishes? strife? strikes? that consumed much of the beginning of March. What initially began as a taxi strike against rising gas prices turned into a country wide protest of…I’m still not sure. French impositions? A collapsing government unwilling to listen to its people? Linguistic tensions? Buildings were burned, people took to the streets, and volunteers were confined to their houses. Stir crazy, I spent the week washing my floors, gardening, avoiding men in the streets with machetes, and walking around my compound in my underwear, which prompted my housemate, Jane, to ask me if my money had run out and I needed to borrow money to buy pants. Eventually we were “consolidated” to a hotel where we waited for five more days. As evacuation became a possibility, seconds felt like hours and time’s passage so palpable that it hung in the air, clouding my view of any foreseeable future. That is until I talked to my mother, and she quelled my hyperbolic pangs with her oh so sweet words, Nura, come on. It’s only been five f*cking days! And so that was it. We went home. People stopped rioting. And everything went back to normal. Whatever that is.

Political unrest has only one real solution: pizza. So we headed to the glorious capital of Yaounde for the weekend. There I consumed three pizzas in the course of 72 hours and am convinced that I am now lactose intolerant. Yaounde was a bastion of hot showers, good food, fast internet, and other wonderfulness that causes a surbanite like myself to wonder why exactly I’m living in the middle of nowhere Africa. But then I happen upon wonderful little jewels, like this next story, and it all just seems worth it.

Travel in Cameroon is wonderfully pleasant, and by that I mean that I would rather sit through my college graduation seven hundred times (for those of you that were there, you know what a sacrifice this is) than make my way around this country by bus. As we took our seats, the bus driver almost jumped out of his, looked at us and demanded in English, You have brought the rotten bush meat on the bus? Caught, shall we say, off guard, we stammered, No. Not us. We don’t have bush meat. And we didn’t. The man then smiled, switched to French and continued, Alright, who is the one farting then! This turned into something of a fourth grade all boys party and everyone started accusing their neighbor of producing the wondrous odor. A man in the back of the bus cleared the air, Leave the poor person alone. They are probably sick to their stomachs. I mean, they’re a machine, farting every minute like this! And so we left Yaounde, farting machine and all, in search of Bafoussam.

And it felt like I was finally coming home. Evacuation thoughts aside, I felt my first real pangs of homesickness and a desire to return stateside during the riots. But I’m hoping that that’s passed, and I can still stick this out for a bit longer. Speaking of longer, sorry that this was such a long entry—I’ll spare you all country updates, but don’t think that they’re going away permanently! In true form, I hope you all are well, preparing for the most glorious holiday—Easter—which is logically celebrated with the spreading of chemically colored eggs. Because that’s what Jesus would have wanted.

My canvas of Bamendjou is filled with smatterings of old men—a smorgasbord of sagacious rebels, if you will. As my days turn into a gamut of meetings, classes, and demonstrations of agroforestry techniques, I find that these men are my portholes into a stagnant world of bliss. Prosper is my patois teacher. He claims to have been born in 1918, which would place him at 90 this year. My guess is that he’s 60, but maybe he just aged well. He regales me with stories of tribal wars, the times of the British and French, and, of course, village gossip. We meet once a week under the guise of language lessons, but our time together has become more like a bad episode of the View (and since I’ve never actually seen the View, I’m not exactly sure where I’m going with this analogy…).

Next is Charles. Charles clocks in at 72, an age that he looks. He jokes that though he is blind, he doesn’t need to see to know that I’m white. I’m never exactly sure what he means to imply. He too is a gateway to a world past, a wealth of knowledge tapped by no one. I find him most days “sunning” himself, as he says. He claims that old age has gotten the better of him, and he finds himself in constant need of warmth. I joke with him that all the time spent in the sun is going to give him skin cancer. His glazed over eyes respond, so? But I would call him anything but despondent despite his apathetic glances. Maybe he just likes the sun.

That brings me to my last erudite elder. I call him bonne année, Happy New Year, for lack of a better name. My first, shall we say, formal introduction to bonne année was just shortly after the 1st of January. He hit me with his stick and demanded that I give him his “bonne année,” or his new year’s gift. Slightly perturbed, I walked away from him, dismissing him as nothing more than a bitter old man, weather by one too many beers and even more broken hearts. I found him later that week just outside the entrance of one of the primary schools. He was sitting on a rock, waiting for children to pass so that he could throw sticks at them. Chuckling to himself, it was like he was at candy store. I couldn’t help by laugh, and decided that Bonne Année and I would become friends. Slowly, I gave in, and gave him his “bonne année”—a meat stick here, a banana there, and sometimes if I’m feeling especially generous I’ll buy him a beer (which I’m sure is the last thing that he needs, but hey…). Every time I see him, without fail, we shout at each other “Bonne Année” with an intonation fit for a birthday surprise. I wonder how long we’ll keep this up. It’s February, but bonne année and I are still going strong.

On Mondays, I teach English classes to a group of teachers working in the Catholic schools around town—some of them, I think, might even be English teachers which makes me a little fearful of their students’ English levels. This past Monday we worked on how to ask a question, and how to respond. As I went around the room, each group presented their question and answer. One group, however, took it upon themselves to break from the normal “what is your name” mold. This woman, a spunky, fiery one, turned to the man next to her, and asked, “Why is it that you love me so?” He paused, thought about it, and responded with all the appropriate gesticulations, “It is because your legs are soooo big.” I just about peed my pants laughing, which then prompted the woman to think that there was something wrong with the phrasing of her question. She then asked, “Miss Nura, what is the difference between like, love, and lust?” So I explained, “Well, I like my husband, but it would be okay if I found another. I loveee my husband, I cannot have anyone else. And I lust after my husband, I can’t wait to get home to him tonight.” They all snickered. She replied, “Ohh, I get it. I like my husband.”

I’m not exactly sure how it’s the middle of February. Time is, as always, flying by. I feel like I have a zillion projects going on—some successful (a proposed tree planting project at one school has somehow turned into a tree planting project at 42 schools), and some not so successful (turns out I actually hate teaching computer classes and am terrible at it).

But don’t worry; I still have time for country updates (read: skip this paragraph if you don’t think my country reports are interesting, but I happen to like them, thank you very much). I’ll give you the highlights, since it’s been a while: Argentina was, interestingly enough, one of the 10 wealthiest nations in the world (based on rapid expansion of agriculture and foreign investment infrastructure) from 1880-1930. This wonderful honor was unfortunately offset by a 7-year “Dirty War” that claimed the lives of tens of thousands of people, and general economic despair resulting in a total economic collapse in 2001. But things are looking up, thanks to the country’s newest president Christina Fernandez (whose husband was elected president in 2003…sound familiar?) whose plans for progress include reducing poverty and improving foreign policy (a novel idea, I tell you…). Armenia, the first nation in the world to formally adopt Christianity, is perhaps most renowned for the Armenia Genocide of WWI, which claimed the lives of upwards of 1 million Armenians, though the Turks still claim it never happened. Turns out that Armenia and Azerbaijan have been having a little scuffle since 1988 over the disputed territory of Nagorno-Karabakh, a territory I had objectively never heard of in my entire life. And lastly, Aruba—once Spanish, then Dutch, then British, then Dutch again. Made famous by the disappearance of Natalee Holloway in May of 2005, Aruba’s white sandy beaches attract nearly 1.3 million tourists yearly. Technically considered to be a separate autonomous member of the Kingdom of the Netherlands, Arubans surprisingly voted against full independence in 1994. For those of you who made it to the end, don’t you feel so enlightened?

I checked my email the other day, and was pleased to know that both the Gap and J.Crew are releasing their spring wardrobes. This is, clearly, a very pressing matter and I’m glad that I waited 20 minutes to open these emails. But that means that spring is around the corner. Maybe the snow is melting where you are, but more than likely Old Man Winter still has a couple more tricks up his sleeves, and you have many a snow day ahead of you. I hope your Martin Luther King/Australia/Ground hog/Waitangi/Ash Wednesday/Chinese New Year/Valentine’s days were wonderful (it’s rather impressive how many holidays are packed into the end of January/beginning of February. Bonne année!

Etienne seemed to tower over me, but his doe like eyes and playful demeanor made him anything but threatening. As the chief’s storyteller and right-hand man, Etienne deftly straddled the world of ancient tribal chiefs and impending globalization. He came bearing peanuts in search of the Peace Corps Volunteer Nara (Naarra, he said, in his beautiful Cameroonian English that made me wonder if speaking French would have been easier). As he sat down on my veranda, he smiled and said, Let me tell you the story of those peanuts. In 1998… I bowed my head, not wanting him to see the smirk on my face, wondering exactly where this story was going. I worked at the hospital, the chief of finances there. He paused, so that I could appreciate the weight of his words. A woman came into the hospital sobbing with a dying baby in her arms. I was the only one there who could help this baby. He needed blood, but at that time there was a, what do you call it, stamina? Stigma, I replied. Yes, stigma with AIDS. I said, My God, I must help this baby. But what if I have AIDS and give it to the baby? So I waited for them to test my blood, and it was good. I have very good blood, you know. I smiled. So they gave it to the baby. I never knew what happened to him until today. A woman came by with a huge basket of peanuts and with her a young boy. No, a young man. She said, Do you remember? This is the child you saved. And Nara, it was him. It was the baby. So today I came by to bring you these peanuts because these are peanuts of goodwill. You are good will.

Wearing my watch scares me. I can watch the seconds, minutes, hours, and even days pass by. Sometimes it makes my heart stop so that all I hear is ticking. I’m worried that I’ll run out of time. That I’ll leave here, and all the projects I had planned, the people I wanted to help, everything…I won’t have finished it. Maybe I won’t have even started it. Maybe I won’t figure out what “it” is in time. And sometimes I’m just worried that I’ll be crushed under the weight of everyone’s expectations. I’m such a cliché. A split second later, I feel my heart stop again. Two years? Two whole years. It’s like an eternity. You can imagine how hard it is to start a day when you can’t decide if you want it to be over before it’s begun or you wish it would never end.

Sometimes it happens when I’m on a bike ride. The wind is blowing with me, the sun bright but not blazing, and the hills graciously buckling into flat escapes making the ride sheer bliss. Or sometimes it happens when I’m in the garden or on a farm. My hands in the soil, beads of sweat dripping off my forehead oozing their way into the earth. But sometimes it happens when I’m just sitting. Sometimes I’ll be talking to someone. Or sometimes I’m just doing nothing. It starts with my forehead. The wrinkles pushing their way down to my furrowing brow. It spreads to my eyes, and then my cheeks. Eventually it reaches the corners of my mouth. And I can’t stop it. Every part of my body, my mind, and yes, my soul is involved. It’s the most fantastic smile I have ever felt. I can’t believe I’m here.

I met with a group of women in a neighboring village. After hiking out for about two hours, I stumbled upon, well, a wall. It was beautiful brick red, and against it sat a line of proud women. Indeed they were the women’s group I was looking for. Though they had hoped to build a meeting house, they came up short on funds. So they built a wall. At first I thought it was foolish. Surely they could have used the money for something else. But I kind of like it now—one wall up, only three more to go. Right? I promised them things that I’m not sure I can deliver, (it seems as though I’m going to have to brush up on my soap making techniques), but hopefully we’ll figure it out. If not, start sending soap.

My computer classes got off to an interesting start. Turns out that by signing up for one class, I obviously meant to sign up for five. Silly me. So now I’m teaching five classes, and one of them has a little over 100 students in it (one of the student’s names is, and I kid you not, Fomopussi). It’s pretty great because there are only 5 computers to teach on. But we make things work—I made the students draw computers and now we practice on those. The high school’s a pretty incredible place. Overcrowded, understaffed, sometimes the kids don’t have teachers so they just come and sit in the classrooms for the whole day and talk to each other. There’s so much I want to do, but I don’t even know where to start.

I find that the days that had idly passed without work are now filled with meetings, appointments, and visits. And everyone wants something different. The handicap association of Bamendjou needs a business plan for how to sell their meat at the market because they can’t get there themselves. The women of Toumi need a medicinal plant garden (and the know how that goes with that) because they can’t afford to take their children to doctors. The men of Bameka need soil fertilization techniques because the soil is just “too tired” to produce anything. Oh and the reforestation project at the various tribal palaces requires some kind of complicated anointment process (or something like that…) that will allow me to be able to plant trees in the sacred forests. I’ve never been in so many places at once and felt so incredibly whole.

And in the midst of all the work, life happens. My neighbor pounds on my door at the crack of dawn to make me go running with him (he foolishly thinks that I’m going to run a marathon up Mount Cameroon with him despite my cardiac arrest like wheezing whilst “running” up a little hill). The children across the street have finally decided that I’m not a nun due to my lack of presence at any church service, and have taken it upon themselves to teach me how to tie a cricket on a string and play with it like a dog (which I guess is something that nuns don’t like to do…). The old women comment on my child-bearing hips and steadily increasing derriere (I know, Africa. So funny! You make me walk a billion miles everyday in the blazing sun, and then make me paler and fatter than when I moved here. You are hilarious, you old dog, you.) And, of course, country profiles’ are read: Angola, the proud owners of a 27-year civil war that counts among its accolades 1.5 million lost lives and an additional 4 million displaced citizens; Antarctica, the coldest, windiest, highest (on average), and driest continent that receives more solar radiation on the surface of the South Pole than the equator; and lastly, Antigua and Barbuda, one of the Caribbean’s most prosperous nations (thanks to tourism and “offshore” financial services) that in 2004 ended the longest-serving elected government in the Caribbean (which seems like being able to claim having the longest toenail on the 3rd Sunday of the 4th month of 2007 at 4:00…).

So that’s it. The prelude to the opus of my life in Bamendjou…month 5, week 18, day 122…but who’s counting? As always, missing you all and hoping that the powder dusting the slopes is plentiful, the hot chocolate in your mugs sweet, and the work piling up on your desks’ magically disappearing.

Joyeux Noël and Bonne Année! One Christmas down, one more to go. Christmas was surprisingly not depressing (except for when I talked to my Mom and Ramzy, and had to admit to myself that this was the first Christmas I’ve spent without them and I just really wish that they lived here with me). I returned to my old stomping grounds, and spent it at home with my family. I’ve come to realize that home is where you find a welcoming bed (and it doesn’t even have to be comfortable), and family are the people who love you even when you’re picking your nose—which I do all the time here, since the dust insists on taking up residence in my nostrils. I asked my family what we were going to do on Christmas Eve, and they looked at me like I was stupid, and replied, “dance—that’s what you do on Christmas.” So that’s what we did: we had the most wonderful dance party that spanned the globe and the ages in each step we took together. Christmas morning was spent a church where a beautiful version of Silent Night left me close to tears. Paquita, my youngest sister, took my hand and said, “Nura, don’t cry. It’s Jesus’ birthday.” While I wanted to inform her that it’s likely that Jesus was born in the spring, her gesture was the best Christmas gift I could ask for. Indeed, it was wonderful to celebrate in a country where the success of Christmas cannot be measured by Hallmark cards and the number of presents under the tree, but rather by the company and chicken. You’ll find pictures of said chicken carnage, and will be pleased to know that I’m an expert chicken killer. To think I used to be a vegetarian…

I have also discovered that all my years of singing in the Spring Show have rendered me utterly useless in Cameroon. On a visit to a health center in a neighboring village (which logically began with a visit to a gorgeous tea plantation in the mountains), the villagers, adorned in a beautiful tribal robes, sang and danced for us. A silence fell over the crowd (I’m beginning to learn that silences usually lead to me embarrassing myself), and the villagers turned to the supervisor of the center. He then motioned to us, implying that it was our turn to sing and dance. Unprepared and flustered, we turned to each other and sang…Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer. Singing is perhaps an overstatement, as the song consisted mostly of hysterical laughter/sobs. Ever the good audience members, the villagers clapped in encouragement. I’m not sure if Rudolph would have been proud or disgusted.

My acquisition of the complete history and happenings in Algeria and Andorra progressed nicely. I’m sure you’ll all be interested to know that not only can Andorrans pride themselves on a 100% literacy rate (which I think only the Vatican can also proudly claim), but they can also pride themselves on having the longest life expectancy in the world. Algeria, however, did not seem to fair as well in bragging rights, boasting the world’s 14th largest petroleum reserves, 9th largest natural gas supply (the revenue of which most citizens never see), and an estimated 100,000 deaths since violence began in 1992. While I’m hoping for good things from Angola and Antigua and Barbuda, I’ve come to expect the worst from countries that have letters in their names.

I think the fact that I spent the majority of my life not speaking the same language as my grandmother, and yet being able to perfectly communicate with her, has prepared me for the linguistic challenges of village life. While my French is coming along (and by that I mean there are a few people in village who understand my French and are able to translate it into French that the majority of people understand), my learning curve concerning ngemba does not seem to be as steep. Interactions go one of two ways: either I meet a woman in the street, greet her in the local language, and she ecstatically hugs me and thinks I’m the best thing to come here since paved roads (which I’m told were a hit, though they no longer exist) OR I meet a woman in the road, greet her in the local language, and then she hysterically laughs when I don’t know anything else besides hello. Oh that’s funny, I can’t believe I don’t speak a language that only 10 people in the world speak. I then reply to her in my special language (read: English), and laugh hysterically when she’s confused and doesn’t know what to say. This has evolved into one of my favorite games: who speaks English here? First, I guess who in the room speaks English and who doesn’t; then I talk about the person who doesn’t speak English in English (only because they’re usually in the process of talking about me in their special language). My villagers have retaliated with the game “where do you know me from.” I think that we’re a perfect match for each other.

Other highlights include my first farming experience where I successfully helped a farmer in the neighboring town plant cabbage, water his crops with the nifty irrigation system that he built (which actually just floods his crops, but that’s besides the point), and harvest acacia seeds which will hopefully fix the nitrogen in the soil when planted (I know, it’s painful how smart I sound). Though I spent the majority of the time eating sugar cane (which was incidentally when I got the dirtiest) and playing in the dirt (which didn’t help said situation), I feel like we really connected. Preparations for the rainy season are upon us, and I expect some good old fashioned farming tales, so stay tuned.

The students are on winter (whatever that is) break right now, but when they return I’m going to help out at the schools teaching English and computer skills (which is obviously very closely related to my expertise of agroforestry). On a side note, agroforestry comes up on my spell check as incorrectly spelled—silly Peace Corps, I told you that it wasn’t a real thing. Anyway, I can’t believe that it’s 2008 already! I hope you all are well, breaking your New Year’s resolutions, swearing off Christmas diets, and planning summer vacations to Cameroon!

Bamendjou is quite the hub for those that walk line of crazy. There’s the crazy lady whose general jovialness makes you wonder what all the talk is about being sane (that coupled with the fact that she follows me around the village singing and trying to kiss me make me love her even more), the crazy man who rocks a pair of sunglasses from the 80’s with only one lenses, and a single tooth to encourage the solidarity movement, the children who eat chalk across the street (and while they aren’t crazy right now, I think that chalk is going to have some lasting effects), and, well, me—perhaps the craziest of them all. I mean, honestly, what white girl from suburbia shows up in rural Africa to live for two years and be a farmer? Helllo, future psychopath.

My days are spent exploring uncharted territory with my crazy friends. I think in the past week I’ve walked well over 100 km in search of…something. I’ll let you know when I find it. I walked to my provincial capital, Bafoussam, to prove to myself that I live in walking distance. It took me a little over four hours, but now I can proudly proclaim…oh, Bafoussam? Yeah, I’m just a short walk away!

Continuing with the theme of exercise…the PC generously issued all volunteers brand new Trek mountain bikes before we left for village. The PC then generously placed me in the Humid Highland region where I have to summit a mountain to go anywhere. This translates into an uproarious biking experience that goes something along these lines—first, I fly down a hill and since it’s dirt, I inevitably lose control and crash. Then, because I’m too out of shape/shaken from my fall and I don’t actually know how to ride a bike, I carry myself and my bike up the other side of the mountain, only to repeat the whole process again. This goes on for a good couple hours and let me tell you, I’m becoming quite the hit around mountain five where little kids now wait for me to pass.

When I’m not training to become the next Lance Armstrong, I find myself bouncing from community meeting to community meeting. I attended my first woman’s meeting in village. It was a bright affair full of African robes and chatter. I introduced myself and gave my good ole Peace Corps introduction in what I concluded was rather good French. As I finished the room erupted in applause and everyone stood up dancing. It was incredible. Then an awkward silence fell over the room, and all eyes turned to the president of the association. She smiled, and said that she would now translate what I had said in French into patois because no one in the room understood me. Puzzled, I asked her why they were applauding profusely, and she said that they liked my dress. I guess that’s something to work with, right? The rest of the meeting was a blur and as it was conducted entirely in patois I amused myself feeding the ladies’ babies and playing in the dirt. I’m going to be a swell volunteer.

In a place where washing three shirts can take two hours, an afternoon stroll can turn into a sojourn of five, and a simple bike ride to the next town is like an expedition to a new country, I’m learning that you can’t measure the day’s accomplishments in check marks and completed to-do lists. It’s funny to think of American idiomatic expressions—time is money or this is a waste of time. Because in fact, my time here is completely free, and I can’t really envision an exchange or excursion that would be a waste of time: time is all I have. So, being the go-getter that I am, I’m really making these two years about improving myself, because isn’t that what PC is really about? Improving who you are as a person? I kid; I’m going to cure AIDS and combat famine too, but back to me…

I’ve rediscovered my love for reading, and hope that eight books I’ve read in the past couple months are not an indication for a future life of self-imposed isolation. I’ve also decided that since I unfortunately spent a little too much time in college studying Mr. Heineken’s lasting legacy of brews instead of Mr. Hegel’s dialectic, I will spend these two years making use of my $160,000 tuition by relearning everything I should have learned in college. I will have approximately 104 weeks to cram in the world’s history, which when you break it down by two countries a week seems completely manageable. I’ve cleverly decided that an alphabetical approach will be best, and while 104 weeks will leave me just short of reviewing all the countries, in two years I’m hoping that some political events will happen and there will be fewer countries, thus allowing me to complete my goal. This week’s lesson focused on the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan and the Republic of Albania (which was, interestingly enough, the world’s only official atheist state during its 40 year Communist rule). It was great to start on such a positive and hopeful note, but then again, what country’s history is positive and hopeful?

Please be my friend, I swear I used to be cool.

I think that’s it for this week’s update. I can’t believe that Christmas is around the corner. May your stocking be full, your family near, your mistletoe strategically placed, and your faith in Santa everlasting. Joyeux Noel!

The other day a crazy, homeless, naked (very well-endowed, I might add) man told me that I should really try harder to be cleaner because it wasn’t proper for a lady to go out in public looking as filthy as I was. Ah, the irony. As the rainy season comes to a close, and the gentle patter of rain is traded in for the thick blanket of dust, I find it simply impossible to stay clean. This situation is made worse by my inability to properly wash my clothes, and the fact that every time I take a moto (the only real mode of transportation in village), I look like I’ve just taken a bath in dust. I feel like that smelly kid from the Charlie Brown cartoons.

I must admit that I’ve been rather terrible about writing in this blog, but it’s amazing how difficult and overwhelming it is to write about a lot of nothing. I find that my days here are consumed by waiting, and idle conversation, and yet somehow the day’s work renders me blissfully exhausted. As more and more of seemingly nothingness accumulates, I don’t know where I left off, and where I should begin.

After a little over two months of arduous training (read: I’m an expert at looking like I’m busy when I’m really doing nothing), I’m finally a volunteer! The swearing in ceremony was a lovely affair complete with all the usual fanfare of an African parade. The U.S. ambassador read us our oaths, and apparently PC volunteers are incapable of remembering what is told to them. None of us were able to complete the oath, and as we giggled through our blunders, I just hope that the constitution was not offended by our laughter.

The night before I left, I gave my family parting gifts. To Paquita and Esperance, the littlest girls, I gave dyed boas in the stunning colors of neon pink and lime green. Not quite sure what to make of the mess of feathers, I assured them that they were all the rage amongst American celebrities. This fashion tip peaked the interest of my oldest sister and mother. As they chatted away about potential dresses and shoes they could get to match these stunning boas, I couldn’t help but laugh. Boris and Christian received bouncy balls and jump ropes. Boris, ever the scavenger, dug through my trash the last night. His eyes lit up as he pulled out a gorgeous blue Tampax box. He begged me for it. The next morning at breakfast Boris came running to me with his spoils in hand—the bouncy balls, and jump rope had finally found a home in his new Tampax box. He told me that he couldn’t wait to show it to his class.

The morning we left was indeed a somber one. As much as I whined and complained about my homestay family and the general insanity of stage, Bangangte was my first home in Cameroon. I cried for the second time in Africa (the other being my birthday, which was a little Sixteen Candle-ish) as I left my family. My mother made me meatballs and French fries for my first night alone—in truth, I cried most at the generous gesture of meatballs.

I’m writing now from my new bed (which is actually just a frame, but work with me here) in my new village. Right new everything is so novel and I’m just…I’m just really happy (stay tuned for next week when I plan on being sad). Though I’m constantly overwhelmed, and generally clueless, I feel like this place could become an excellent second home (and certainly a perfect resting place for the intrepid travelers amongst you!).

I start “work” tomorrow—though exactly what, where, and with whom that work is has yet to be determined. Until I install internet in my town (which I’ve promised them will come quite soon), I’m going to be a bit incognito, but I’ve made a pact with myself to write a blog entry and check internet every week. So until the next time, I hope everyone is well, nestled under down comforters, and enjoying the first snowfall of winter.

Drum roll please…

Since I expect that you’ve all been waiting with bated breath for the past two months for this announcement, I won’t make you wait any longer: I’m moving to Bamendjou! Wooohhhoooo. (I know you’re all running to your maps of Cameroon that you’ve had dutifully plastered to your walls’ since I left). After almost two grueling months of training the end is in sight—and it’s only 2 hours away. I spent last week in Bamendjou meeting the locals and getting my hands dirty in town politics. What follows is my oh-so scintillating report of the week:

My first night at post was spent under a makeshift mosquito net in some auberge in Bamendjou above a nightclub with no one in it blasting Rasta music. The scene is made only more hilarious by the fact that I’m sitting up in my “bed” with my Swiss army knife open, and my head lamp attached to my head because I’ve somehow, in a ridiculous delirium, convinced myself that the night watch man has been killed by some drunken funeral goers. Oh, and did I mention that there are bats in my room that periodically dive-bomb my mosquito net because I have failed to close the bathroom window? There was something about the night that was sleepless, but I can’t quite put my finger on it…

(note: I’m not actually crazy, but I think that my anti-malarial medications are taking their toll on my sanity).

The next morning, a bit groggy and perhaps clinically insane, I met my counterpart, Raymond, in the center of town. Raymond will be my trusted confident for the next two years and together we will scour the hills of Bamendjou in search of farmers who desperately need my expertise. I spent the morning at CADEP (Cameroonian Association for Development), my partner NGO, whom I was told specializes in organic planting and medicinal plants. In actuality, they would like to specialize in these two fields, and will rely on my prior knowledge to start production. Nothing but a barrel of laughs in the Peace Corps.

We spent the afternoon touring the village via a nice little 15km hike. It’s really quite a stunning place, and once I get over the fact that I’m living in the middle of nowhere Cameroon as a farmer and I have to hike at the very least 10km a day to do anything, I think I’ll really love it. The topography reminds me of Vermont, sans snow, of course. The mountains are gorgeous and I can see myself getting lost in them (both figuratively and actually) for years. Dry season is approaching, and that means that I will acquire an excellent farmer’s tan (ah, the irony cause I’m actually a farmer!) over the next couple months.

I’m living in a house that was once owned by a member of the Bamilike (the major ethnicity group in the West province) nobility. I have a gigantic front yard that will be perfect for all my planting endeavors. My two-bedroom house is quaint and with a good paint coat/building of walls will be perfect for entertaining my new friends. Across the street from my house is a mammoth church complete with an adorable 80-year-old Spanish priest and a not so adorable, but potentially entertaining Polish priest. There is also a Catholic mission in town, complete with three rather disgruntled Spanish nuns. Consequently, all the villagers think that since I’m white, and the proselytizing people of the God are white, I must be running with the ranks of the Lord. For now, I’m just you’re average nun-farmer…

When I’m not renewing (read: creating) my love for God, I intend to pass the time with the local village chiefs. Deftly straddling the line of modernity, most Cameroonian towns employ both tribal and government authorities. Bamendjou’s Jokondjou Cendjou II Rameau Jean Phillipe is the oldest, and perhaps most respected, chief in Cameroon—and he lives in my village! Hovering just under 7 feet, Jokondjou Cendjou II Rameau Jean Phillipe wears air Nikes, bling, and track suits with the best of them. The rest of the chiefs in surrounding villages are hilarious, and I foresee many a nights spent arguing the merits of polyandry with them (note: since most chiefs practice polygamy, and seem rather set in their ways, I am on a mission to introduce polyandry to the villages).

The rest of the week was a blur of meetings—I’m doing PTA moms everywhere proud—including, but not limited to: the Cyber Café committee, Combating African Swine Virus committee (important to note that we are not in favor of African Swine Virus), the Cane Rat committee (this is hilarious—I’m going to raise domesticated rats for the next two years!) and the Cabbage Farmers of Bangam committee. I spent my birthday in Baffoussam, the provincial capital of the West Province, gorging myself on ice cream, pasta and draft beer. To those of you who sent birthday vibes, thank you so much! For those of you who forgot my birthday, it’s been so wonderful being friends!

I think that’s it for now. I hope, as always, that this blog posting finds you well and gearing up for a delightfully delicious Thanksgiving meal. May your turkeys be tasty, may your squash scrumptious, and may you be thankful for the family and friends who surround you!

According to itunes, the episode of Gossip Girl, which I am currently trying to download, will be completed in roughly 1,095 minutes. Following my calculations, if I visit the internet café twice a week, for one hour each time, I will have one episode of this rather salacious teen drama in approximately 2 months. Suffice to say, times are tough in the revolutionary age of technology (read: I’m really sorry that I haven’t been putting up more blog entries, but if I can’t even download an episode of the latest teen drama, then is there really any sense in using the internet at all?).

These past couple of weeks have been a whirlwind tour of PC policies, digestive mishaps, and general shenanigans. But first, a recap of my day yesterday. So despite the fact that in two years of service I’ll be making roughly less than what a small Chinese sweatshop worker makes, there are some perks: a brand new bike. Yesterday, I received my very own Trek mountain bike. After a full day of bike maintenance, PC required that all trainees demonstrate their newly learned skills. This meant that all 22 agro volunteers and 2 PC cars toured through good ole Bangangté just to make sure that we were properly demonstrating our skills. Integration at its best.

I came home sweaty and tired to the usual bustle of the fam. My four younger siblings were out on the porch up to no good per usual. I glanced outside and found them giggling. They were, of course, standing up, stripping down their clothes and showing each other their private parts. Now they’re young enough for this to be hilarious and not at all incestual (which I’ll get to later…). As they delighted in their nudity, I couldn’t help but fondly remember my younger days of nakedness. Indeed, the naked body is universal. So my siblings (three of them, one of was injured so he could not take part in part B of their plan) decided to strip off all their clothes and do wind sprints around the compound. This, of course, is not culturally acceptable and caused my older siblings to chase after the naked siblings. Constant entertainment I tell you.

In the evening, I went out with my older siblings to my cousin’s house, a rather young, attractive doctor. The night was full of general merriment (read: they spoke in French and I was confused), and at one point in time my two older siblings left the room leaving my cousin and me alone. It was clear that they were trying to set me up. Not ready to partake in Host Country Nationals (the PC’s formal term for locals), I decided to see what they were up to outside. Indeed they were nuzzled against each other, and I’m pretty sure that they were kissing, which leads me to believe that my sister is not in fact my sister. I think. I hope.

So as the night progressed, we all walked home at which point my family announces to me that it’s moving time (it’s about 10 PM). Clearly a logical act to be carried out a night, I inquired who was moving and to where. One of my older sisters (the one who I presume is not actually my sister due to said necking) has decided to live on her own in town. Night, clearly, is a logical time to move your things so that others do not see what you have. This prompts a caravan of sorts—sibling after sibling carrying various furniture and clothing through town at night. As they were getting ready to move, I deemed it a perfect opportunity to go to bed.

If that’s one day, can you imagine the excitement that goes on in a couple of weeks? I bet you can’t because nothing really happens. A misunderstanding of sorts the previous weekend, involved the suspension of all PC privileges, so not a lot happens in the Bang. We are not actually allowed to leave our houses after 6 PM, and on the weekends only two trainees can leave Bangangté (out of the group of 42). It’s an excellent thing that they trust us as mature adults, and these regulations have helped us get a feel for Cameroon and its culture. You may now wipe the sarcasm that is oozing off your screen. I won’t say that I didn’t have a hand in these new restrictions (read: it’s pretty much my fault that the entire group is not allowed to do anything), but I still object!

We, of course, have still found ways to have fun and get together. Wednesday nights are family dinner nights, and all the trainees gather for some good old-fashioned American food and fun. This has somehow translated into me cooking dinner for 42 people (maybe something was lost in translation?). I am not a chef, but it’s been really wonderful learning how to cook at others’ expense. For example, last week I made chili and although it was delightful, Thursday mornin’ ain’t never been so smelly. I’m trying to stay away from beans this week. Wednesday is Halloween (and the birthday of Lindsey Jones and Mary Ting!), which will certainly be hilarious. My current plan is to be a plantain—I assure you that it’s the new slutty nurse costume. How I’m going to explain to my family why I’m dressed in leaves will be a blog entry in and of its, I’m sure.

Until the next time, I hope your fall leaves are changing, your lanterns glowing bright, and your cable knit sweaters ready for a crisp beautiful day.

There’s a goat whose sole purpose, I’ve decided, is to laugh at me. Occasionally she leaves her post—right outside my language classroom (read: tin roof that hovers every so carefully over a wood platform)—and goes to find guava leaves. It just so happens that I too love guavas, so she makes sure to come back with an occasional leaf or two in her mouth. What a taunting little minx...

Jokes on her, though, because ironically enough, I finish French classes in a week or so. Perhaps I should say jokes on me. The PC has decided that now I know enough French to teach my farmers the supposed skills that I have acquired. This has, so far, proven to be a fruitless task as I spent a painstaking fifteen minutes the other night trying to explain to my family what I did last summer—sadly we never made it past that word because despite mad gesticulations of sun, and a rather impressive display of swimming on our dirt floor, the word was lost on them.

French classes will soon be replaced by my Fulfulde lessons—a local dialect which the town (yet to be named) may or may not speak. My lessons, however, are progressing rather slowly. I saw my teacher today and thought I’d catch her off guard with a little “jabbama” (that’s hello) action, but she asked me why I was speaking to her in Spanish. Petit à petit…

Technical classes are, however, going rather well. When you start with nothing, it’s amazing how fast it becomes something. I’ve had sessions on apiculture, vegetative propagation, alley cropping, and proper dendrology identification. For those of you that don’t know what those things are….mwahaha, I do. Kind of…

Our one technical homework assignment is to build a nursery at home. This is a hilarious feat to achieve in a house that has 15 children (I got three new siblings last week…don’t ask). I came home one day, unlocked my door, and my kids, as usual, came rushing into my room behind me. This time, however, they left rather quickly. I knew that they were up to something as they did not hide under my bed and wait for me to kick them out (I’ve gone to bed multiple times with children under my bed). I found the little suckers outside by my nursery with my seed bags, but ironically no seeds. It turns out that they decided to hide the seeds, and eat the rest. Awesome. So I made them dig up the remaining seeds so that I could replant them. I later discovered that they’re smarter than I thought, as my seeds, which are just beginning to sprout, are ironically coming up all clustered together in the same corner of the nursery. Good times with the fam…

After several days of chasing my kids around the house with my machete, no really, I decided that I needed a break from the fam and just the PC in general. A couple friends and I went to Bafoussam, the provincial capital of the West. It was a fantastic trip that included, but was not limited to by any means: cheese, and general fun at the “white-man” grocery store, warm croissants, lots of olives, some touring around (read: drinking beer), and hot water. Essentially it was an orgasm of a city.

There’s so much more to tell, but it’s hard to really convey what’s happening here. I have these moments—like when I’m at my brother’s dance show which is just really his two friends and him dancing in a club where I have to pay a dollar to watch them move—when I’m like, wow, Africa. 2 years. Hmmm. And then there are these times, when I’m on a run (which has happened about two times, I’m becoming a master of the walking in running clothes), and I look at the rolling green hills, gorgeous mountains, and I’m like wow…Africa. Yeah, I can do this. A little bit of column A, a little bit of column B?

Church turned out to be a rather exciting experience, and by exciting I mean all four of the little kids fell asleep on me during the service. Just when I thought that all was dull, my friend Kate approached me and smiled. No…it couldn’t be, I thought to myself. But no, no, it was. She had bling on her teeth. She and her host mom had matching rhinestones on their teeth. The afternoon just kept getting better as I saw white girl after white girl with corn-rows. It seems like Sunday was Peace Corps Barbie Day.

The week was a blur of training sessions and language classes. Most of the time I have no clue what’s going on, and feel utterly useless and defeated. But I try and remind myself that this is the training period, and that eventually it will all just get better.

Friday was National Teachers’ Day, and since both of my parents are teachers…well, let’s just say there was a party all day. My brother picked me up from “school” (I got to miss language classes in the afternoon!), and I went and met my mother in town. The next six hours were a blur of palm wine, boxed wine, and bottles of huge beers. National Teachers’ Day was like national let’s drink a lot day. One of teachers whispered to me that Castel, my preferred beer, stands for “come and see teachers enjoy life.” Joking aside, Cameroon’s educational situation is fascinating to me. Prior to the economic crisis of the 80’s, Cameroon was one of two countries in the world (Costa Rica’s the other) that allocated more money for education than the military. That, sadly, is no longer true. But it doesn’t seem to stop the teachers from celebrating.

Drinks were followed, rather illogically, by a funeral. After lunch we all piled into a car to drive to the neighboring town of Bamena. I couldn’t understand why we were going there, but then as we were ushered out of the car into a barn, it became apparent that it was not for a joyous occasion. There were about thirty people in this old, airy barn. We sat in silence for a while, and then a man began to speak. He explained that his child, only two weeks old, died from lack of oxygen. It was his second child to die this year. A few whimpers passed through the crowd, and then my host father broke out in song. I couldn’t exactly understand what he was saying, but sadness and remorse are universal languages.

As the song took a more joyful note, my father paused and introduced me to the man. He told him that I was an extension agent for the Peace Corps. The man asked me what the importance of the Peace Corps was. I explained to him, in rather broken French, the lofty goals of the PC—and about the PC’s various sectors. His eyes light up when I told him about the Health sector. I explained that I didn’t know much because I was in agro-forestry. He paused, and asked me what if I could have saved his child if I was in the Health sector. In truth, I said nothing in return. I didn’t know what to say.

So much of this is a learning process—full of lots of mistakes along the way. I make cultural faux-pas all the time, but that happens to me in the U.S. too. I try and use what I’ve learned in other countries here, but it doesn’t always work out. I didn’t want to set a precedent for a lot of eating (I made this mistake at a home-stay in Fiji and had to eat a village’s worth of food every night), but now my family thinks that I don’t like food. I ate all the cough drops in my med kit for dinner tonight. Coupled with the fact that I no longer find boiled plantains appealing, I think that I might die of starvation soon.

Each week becomes a notch on my belt—week two done—and I’m hoping that I’ll still be in the game for a while. Now on to week three. Can’t wait to see what that brings…

Let's just say that I spent tonight having my hair picked out into a pseudo-white girl afro by my host sisters whilst I looked for the good kernels of corn amongst a sea of worms. Village life has been, shall we say, different? I'm writing right now from my new village, Bangante, located about three hours north of the capital, Yaounde. Bangante is unlike any place I've really been. I live at the top of town in what I think is a rather luxurious house by Bangante standards—in fact my bed here is bigger than my bed at home! My host family is absolutely hilarious—all 11ish of them. I have somewhere between 9 and 15 siblings, though that seems to change on a daily basis depending on which kid I ask.

It's weird to think that this will be my home for the next three months. It's the rainy season right now, which essentially means that in addition to the three hours or so that it rains everyday, the village is covered in a thick layer of mud that oozes EVERYWHERE, and there are power outages pretty much all day. Ironically, there was no water in the tap this morning…My five-year-old host brother, perfectly named Boris, told me that tomorrow the rainy season is supposed to stop, but then I asked my mom and she said that it should end some time around November.

We spend the majority of time in class—technical training for Agro-Forestry (AF) and French class. I somehow tested into the highest level of French, so I only have to take it for a couple more weeks and then I get to start a local language! AF classes are absolutely hilarious, namely because they are administered by Dr. Njiti—a man who has a most wonderful similarity to Rafiki from the Lion King (I swear they have the same laugh!). We get our machetes on Monday, so I'm pretty excited for the whacking on Tuesday to begin.

Food has been a rather interesting experience. Yesterday I ate monkey for the first, and last time. Apparently they "harvest" the monkeys by spraying a whole bunch of pesticides in the forest and then checking to see what's leftover about a week later. Needless to say, I was pretty excited to learn that info an hour or so AFTER eating. I'm currently on the, how do you say, diarrhea diet? But it seems that we all are right now—two people have already shat their pants. Fun times, my friends!

Last night at dinner we had guests over because I think that some man wanted to announce his engagement—though it never became clear to me who in fact this man was and if he was actually getting married. It was a lovely affair complete with beer, and the celebratory rum. A man at the table had been drinking beer for a while, and then decided to switch to rum. For some reason (which is still not apparent to me), I decided that this would be a good time to impart some good ole college wisdom: Beer before liquor, never been sicker; liquor before beer, you're in the clear. As I tried to translate this to French, I think I somehow implied that the man was going to fall ill that night. This, of course, caused a huge debacle, and I had to assure him that his stomach would be fine, and it was just a saying. I'm not sure he believed me because he left shortly after finishing his first and only glass of rum. Oops?

Tomorrow is Sunday, which means that we'll be heading to church. I'm pretty excited, and I'm sure I'll have some good stories. Though there's so much to tell, I must retire to my mosquito net—it's only 9:00, but this is equatorial time. This morning there was a loose goose in the house (no really…), and the chasing of the goose coupled with all 50ish children playing circa 6:15 means that I'm uber tired. Until the next time, hope you all are well, and that your gooses are well behaved (unlike mine).

24 hours of travel comprised of three flights (one of which was hit in a lightning storm!), 2 vaccines (coupled with the near dozen that we’ve already had), a crash course on what exactly business casual attire is (the Peace Corps is OBSESSED with business casual), and I’m here! Bienvenue au Cameroon—that’s welcome to Cameroon for those of you that don’t speak the French…

I can’t believe I’m in Africa! The past four days have been a total blur full of paperwork, another one of the PC’s obsessions, shots, and introductions. The PC headquarters are located in the capital, Yaounde, but I can’t exactly tell you what Yaounde looks like because we’re sort of caged animals right now. The beginning of my African adventure is a little more like a circus than the wild African safari I was hoping for. But a good circus, nonetheless. I’m just waiting for when they release the animals!

Wake ups are at 6:30, breakfast at 6:45, and at training by 7:15 (read: 8ish—African time…). Because we’re so close to the equator there’s daylight from 6 to 6, so I’m going to have to tame my wild party girl side (read: thank god I get to go to bed around eight!). The food has been fantastic so far—carbohydrates and I agree like Sonny and Cher prior to the whole tree incident. Who knew that rice, bread, and potatoes went together so well! I’ve discovered a deadly Cameroonian hot sauce, piment, so I’m looking forward to a new spice in my life.

My training group is 42 strong—20 health volunteers, and 22 agro-forestry volunteers. We’re 20%ish guys, and 80%ish girls. Two married guys, one lovely gent whose 63…so that’s makes us about 15% gents. I don’t think my chances of snagging the one are in my favor... I love the diversity of my group—not racial diversity we’re like 99% white. Everyone is coming from such different places and experiences. There’s a fair amount of people in agro-forestry who have masters in forestry, horticulture, botany, and the like, so I really feel like I’m going to bring a lot to the table (read: INTENSE sarcasm).

Those the days are intense (read: I played cards for five hours yesterday), the nights seem to be filled with mellowness. Beer is good, hard liquor comes in the packet variety, literally plastic baggies of shots, and the company the perfect complement to it all. Tonight they arranged for a rasta group to come and play music for us. The night ended with a spectacular lightning storm, and the pitter-patter of rain. As the musicians sang and danced, seemingly oblivious to the rain, I couldn’t help but think that this is the way a night is supposed to end. As I snuck out of the concert, hoping to catch a brief moment of alone time, the lights went out. Such is life in Cameroon, n’est pas?