Grand Merci

Thanksgiving 2011

Back home, driving along the interstate over the Atchafalaya Basin could either be one of my favorite drives with its striking postcard-esque views of cypress trees and john boats against a beautiful South Louisiana sunset, or it could be one of the most painful drives -- where I could be trapped for hours and hours in a car with no way out. Once, I sat on the hood of my car for hours waiting for an ambulance to arrive - 20 feet from me in the opposite lane laid a man who was just killed in a motorcycle accident while at the same time and only a few hundred yards ahead a car had caught fire and was sending a black smoke geyser into the air. I was running out of gas. And I was pretty sure I was going to pee myself. Peace Corps life can sometimes – sometimes on a daily basis – bring on those same feelings of helplessness and complete frustration with things like the incredible amount of corruption that passes as an acceptable part of life, with the slow ‘development’, and with my own fickle motivation. But like those calming sunset drives across the Basin, without those other gross distractions and when I've looked around, life here is beautiful. And this past weekend, I celebrated Thanksgiving in Africa. I have had a lot to be thankful for during these past six months in Cameroon.

So like we do around the dinner table back home and like we did on Thanksgiving in Africa, I want to say a few things I’m thankful for… my little-big sister, Rebek, who’s become my personal secretary back home and doesn’t complain about it (too much), for having a Cameroonian prince host me for an American holiday and share a bonfire and fruits from his garden called ‘Love in a Cage,’ for climbing mountains a few hours from me that have volcanic Crater Lakes and small African tribes living atop them, for spending my next birthday at a black sanded beach and then climbing to the highest mountain peak in West Africa on Christmas, for whole grilled fish - eyes and all - and African prunes, for all of my super-duper talented and beautiful brothers and sisters, for text messages from some great Peace Corps friends that say things like ‘I’ll be waiting with a cold 33 and a flask of whiskey,’ let’s go midnite bowling,’ ‘you are my hero,’ and ‘thanksgiving at the prince’s treehouse,’ for pictures of my ridiculously cute nieces, for Cameroonians and their patience with me, for phone calls and letters from the fam and friends, for my Papi’s emails, for coffee and chicory, for big lizards and baby goats, and for the Peace Corps and for two out of its three principal "Goals" being about cultural exchange and learning. Grand merci.

(Having too much alone time makes me a little sentimental. Sorry.)

Three of my community host's children - Donnie, Grace, and Mona - at his home in Njombe. They're little cuties.

O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?

I’m one of those weird morning people -- it's typically my more productive time. Ask my siblings, it’s hard for me to function past 8 pm (yes, yes - one of my many old lady attributes; if you need to borrow a fanny pack, let me know). But being here in Cameroon and without having a super structured work schedule, I’ve come to cherish my mornings – actually, becoming slightly possessive of them. After ignoring the roosters and my neighbors' rumblings for a couple of hours (they start getting up around 4ish), I get up, put my imported coffee and chicory in my French press, make oatmeal with fresh plantains or papaya, do a little reading, and listen to my music way too loud – the latter being very Cameroonian and thus I feel it vital to my “integration.” I do everything slowly. And I like it that way.

Here, knocking on someone’s door before 7 am is totally acceptable. However, tiny rays of rage shoot throughout my entire body when I hear the door being pounded upon and someone yelling my name. (I didn't say I was a cheery morning person.) Usually, it’s just my community host coming to “greet” me or my landlady’s 13 year old son asking for water bill money. Today, it was my Romeo.

With sleep still in my eyes, greasy-faced, braless, and agitated that there was a stranger knocking at 6:40 am, I opened my door. His name really was Roméo (even his gold necklace verified it). He flipped out his ID card to identify himself -- like an FBI agent would. And he wanted me to be his Juliet. I was completely confused. I briefly meet a lot of people here – walking down the road, at the market, in the traveling vans – and it’s hard to remember everyone. Often times too, Cameroonians will act like as if we’ve met before – usually I'm pretty sure they’ve just confused me with another white person they previously and fleetingly encountered, but I just go with it (in case, we actually have met). I try to follow this guy’s French. Little luck. He tells me he’s from Yaoundé (the capitol) and is here for a few days – I can tell by his nice clothes and spiffy appearance that he’s not from Njombé. He saw me up by the main road yesterday, inquired my name from the governmental research office I was visiting (so nice of them to give it out), and then asked enough people in order to find my house. He tells me he has a problem with his heart. I tell him I have a fiancée -- I should know by now that this doesn’t stop a Cameroonian man in his wooing efforts. He tells me it’s God’s plan for us to be together. God never tells me anything. He needs my number and email address and he also wants to take me for a drink after my meetings (for a person who has painstakingly few meetings, I often have lots of “work” and “meetings” during these types of conversations). I tell him I don't currently have a phone number. He wants to buy me a phone. I tell him to give me his number. (Sidenote: If you give a Cameroonian guy your number, he will call. Constantly. Not important if you don’t answer. They’ll just keep trying for weeks and weeks and weeks.)

Cultural differences. That’s what I’m here to learn, right?

Roméo was a nice looking fella and probably more educated than most men I run into in my Cameroonian town. Why not go get a beer with him? I like good looking guys. I like beer. I like good looking guys who pay for beer. It really is tempting… but, at least today, I won't. Because I'm learning that the most important thing for the majority of Cameroonian men is to find themselves an okay/acceptable woman in order to achieve their most important goal – to make themselves immortal through whatever number of children they can possibly achieve...and, I'm just not ready for all that. Oh yeah, and also because many Cameroonian men think they have (and do) the final say in the relationship; the men are the "chiefs" by way of African tradition and modern religious understandings - Christian and Muslim. They are the naturally superior sex. (Yes, yes, I'm clearly generalizing Cameroonian men.)

I’m 26 and childless. That’s a bit of a Cameroonian faux pas, and it's a really difficult and strange notion for many here to swallow that I’m not trying to have children in the next year. I must not be quite right in the head. (umm, that follow-up commentary was unnecessary!) But then again, depending on what circles you run-in in the U.S. of America, the sentiments on marriage and children aren’t all that different. Pick-up lines, acceptable calling hours, acceptable number of times to call, and the more candid go-getter mentality might be a bit different here in Cameroon, but really, in this instance, American and Cameroonian cultures aren’t all that different. Everyone’s still searching for his or her Romeo or Juliet.

But, I just don’t think today was my day to be Juliet.

Maybe if he had waited for me to have coffee first...

(And for all of you who think I just blew my chance at ever getting married - don't worry. Fortunately for me, love at-first-sight is prevalent in Cameroon! I'll get plenty more professions of love and marriage proposals. In fact, I'm betting at least one more by day's end. )

Photo Above: A palm oil fabricating area that I came across the other morning on a leisurely walk in Njombe. It's a very manual and labor intensive process, but palm oil is a staple in Cameroon. This part of the country has beautiful dark volcanic soil.

Conversations from Home

The internet in Njombe doesn’t work well or often, but on rare, beautiful occasions, and after doing a certain tribal dance and putting my computer into an exact, random location du jour, I can get enough network to get my internet key to function. Today, not only did it work, but I was able to get a group chat going (an unknown possibility to me before today) with three of my siblings! Having four Harveys in one tiny instant interwebal exchange was just too good. And thus, my week was improved tenfold.

I was trying to fill Seth, Rebek, and Gabo in on the daily tedium of my African life – still no work to report. Within this last month, truly, very little has happened. (Well, except for the Cameroonian Presidential Election which is a big deal - predictable results are to be announced later this month; but, this has had no big effect on my daily living.) I’m sure they too were bored. Catching up on their lives was much more fun…twin baby nieces now smiling, Penn PhD classes with tweed jackets and Mid-Atlantic apple tosses, homemade blueberry cobblers baking, an improved “Lucky Dime” logo, LSU Tigers winning. News from home really warms the cockles of my tiny cold heart. Not that I need any more warming here – and speaking of which, I’m a little frightened of dry (hot(ter)) season that is soon approaching. No, being from Louisiana doesn't make me sweat less or decrease my body’s temperature.

Anyway, what the conversation also did was remind me of how good I have it right now. Despite my days of current restlessness and feelings of unproductiveness, despite the daily killing and removal of dozens of tiny millipedes from my house, despite the foot-long lizards and New Orleans-sized cockroaches that dictate when I use my outside latrine and shower, despite living in a small town in which everyone thinks I’m French and part of the unloved, underpaying big fruit exporter that employs most of them, despite the constant rooster cries outside my bedroom window, I know I’m lucky. How many jobs require that you live in a culture completely different from your own and do just that – live? Live within a community, become part of it, and then, in time, figure out how you can contribute in some sort of positive way to it. I’ll eventually be able to communicate semi-ok. I’ll eventually start “working.” Ca va allez. More things will start happening. And, that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself. For now at least.

So, I will continue to enjoy the little extraordinary things like learning about Cameroonian witchcraft/sorcery (a prevalent part of its belief system), eating “prunes” (a delightful fatty little purple vegetable, not found in the US, that tastes like a perfect blend of olives, eggplant, and artichoke hearts) and extremely fresh pineapple, having my Halloween costume custom-made by a tailor, shooing the neighbor’s adorable baby goat or obnoxious chickens out of my house, and taking “bucket baths” under the warm Njombe sun.

And like my ‘ole Papi (or Thomas Fuller and/or Francis Quarles), I’ll hope that there will be no “abused patience turning to fury.”

A few highlights of my day’s conversation:

• [after telling my siblings about some of my current movie/episode watching] Gabriel: Ask not what you can do for your country; ask how many different seasons of your favorite shows you can watch.

• [after telling them about some of the local foods eaten, which included a delicious peanut sauce and, separately, large rats; the following is, of course, to be read in a Cajun French accent] Seth: Oooooh cher, put some o'dat sauce piquant on de old farm rat...ooooeeeee!

• [talking about future plans] Rebekah: I watched a story about gangs today and i was thinking that we should start our own; you and Gabo could design all of the tattoos that we will have to get. Blood In, Blood Out.

• Me: this was lots of fun for me! Gabriel: You are a dork. Who likes talking to their siblings? [their lonely American-African sister, obviously]

(a love note which I received in a package from my siblings)

Little Things

**Warning: This post is long. And boring. And, like all of my posts, written for the sole benefit of my Papi.

Things are going slowly for me in Njombe. Very slowly. But, that’s what PC tells you that you’re supposed to expect when opening a new post (and unable to actually communicate much of anything with your new community). So currently, much of my time is spent walking around aimlessly (pretending it’s not aimless) in Njombe and hanging around in my house (in which the only furniture l possess is a bed - the carpenter is supposedly having difficulties buying wood) where I read, wash dishes and laundry outside under the sun, listen to music, and watch time disappear. I’m really good at the latter. It rains a lot, electricity goes in and out, and the internet key I bought for my home doesn’t get network. So, I have nothing to report in terms of actual work. I’m feeling mostly unproductive but definitely not without a few small victories – like finding a dish rack or getting a package from my siblings that has a flask of gin inside. It’s the little things. And they make life good.

A few unrequested little things from my life at the moment:

Traveling -

I think I’ve mentioned before how crazy Cameroonian travel is. It’s simply impressive. Almost all vehicles are Toyota made (with a decent number of Mercedes-Benz about). Most car taxis are Corollas – think though a Toyota Camry found in the U.S. from 1982. That’s been in 6 major accidents. Last week, I rode in one that had 9 grown adults and 2 children inside. Oh, and they are all stick shift. You don’t want to be the “petit chauffer.” The bigger bush taxis are mainly vans – not too much bigger than a standard American minivan. 22 people. Sure. To catch one of these vans, just stand by the side of the road and yell out the town you want to go to. If they happen to be headed that way, they’ll stop, and you’ll squeeze in. Somehow. Oh and there’s probably enough baggage/transportables to fill another van by themselves on top of your moving vehicle.

But so far – despite almost every time having to sit in another adult’s lap (practically), holding a child (not mine), or physically getting bruised because of how squished I am into a “seat” -- I haven’t gotten tired of traveling in Cameroon. Because it usually means I get to take in the Cameroonian countryside – which really is stunning and a good reminder of how lucky I was to end up here. It’s also another chance to really take in Cameroonians and life here. For instance, how do you go to the bathroom when traveling? Get out (possibly crawl out the window) and pop a squat. No, don’t go far. Convenient stores may not abound but who needs convenient stores when anytime you pass through a town dozens of children and “mamas” come to the van windows selling you their edibles. Grilled corn, peanuts, oranges, legumes, beignets, escargots on a stick…so many options. (It’s the kind of convenience that we Americans love.) If you’re by the window, help your neighbor who is stuck in the middle and make a purchase for them. It’s good karma. Traveling salesmen still exist, too. They’ll jump on your bus and loudly give their pitch for their goods. Nonstop – well, at least until the next town where they will descend in search of their next moving platform. It doesn't seem to bother anyone. (By the way, they’re not always unsuccessful in their peddling efforts.)

Last week, I was headed to the next town up. (Important side note –“Cameroonian time” is very different from “American time.” Starting something at 10 a.m. may actually mean starting at 12:00 p.m. A trip from Njombe to Bangante may take 3.5 hours or it might take 6 hours. It just depends. Although it can be extremely frustrating at times, you deal with it. What else can you do?) So there I am - pilled 20 people deep into a bush taxi van heading to Nkongsamba, and the “chauffer” is taking his time talking to a possible passenger on the side of the road. Another Cameroonian sitting in the back yells (yelling at one another is normal communication) at the driver to hurry up. He doesn’t have all day. Right after that, the possible passenger who the chauffer had been talking with gets in the van (and without seeing me) and says in French to the person in the back “What? Are you an American?!” Then he notices me. And we both smile. Who wouldn’t like traveling in Cameroon? It’s always an adventure.

And I didn’t even mention motos (motorcycles) – my favorite and most common mode of transportation.

Marbles and Tires -

Cameroonians like Shakira, Justin Beiber, and Chris Brown. They have billboards for the iPhone 4 along the highways. If a blaring TV isn’t on in a Cameroonian living room or bar, something’s wrong. And although they may not eat it (lack of cheese), most know what pizza is. The world is a tiny marketplace. And that’s why I can’t help smile when I (regularly) see, Cameroonian kids playing a fierce game of marbles or pushing (chasing) old tires down the middle of the road with sticks. Some things never get old.

Shopping -

Njombe is a small town so it’s difficult to find a lot of things here (including bananas – and I literally live next to what I think is the largest banana exporter/plantation in West Africa). I’ve been tired of waiting on the carpenter for chairs to be made and I’m tired of sitting on my bed. So two weeks ago, I head a couple hours north to a bigger town called Nknogsamba in search of plastic lawn chairs and other big city amenities – like metal scrubby brushes and foam pillows (and no, not like TempurPedic). I was successful in finding my chairs, but either the merchant was giving me “white man” prices or the plastic chairs really were that expensive (haggling prices is the norm), but either way, I didn’t want to pay that much for plastic lawn chairs. I was worn out. Shopping has that effect on me. So, I left Nkongsamba without buying anything I needed.

That is except for a bottle of whisky. I found that. Or it found me. And we haven’t minded sitting on the floor together…

Salt and Traps –

I’m a light sleeper and typically I hear what’s going on during the night. To put it simply, it sucks. But, I guess, on occasion, it comes in handy. The other night, around 4am, I heard my locks rattling on my backdoor (about 4 feet from my bedroom door). Shit. Someone was trying to break in. I laid there and willed this burglar to go away. But maybe after 10 minutes of that strategy proving ineffective and still hearing the locks being messed with, I got my phone out (which has a handy-dandy flashlight on it), put my house flops on, and stood up to go investigate (to do what exactly, not really sure). I turned the corner and pointed my phone’s light at the backdoor. I jumped a good 2 feet back (no screams, though). There my perpetrator stood. He ran at me. He was about 2.5 inches long and furry.

Mice are loud. And destructive. This one was chewing through my door. After a day of unsuccessfully chasing the invader out of my house with a broom, I’ve decided to take it to the next level – salt and traps – in that order. My friend Eriika, another PCV, told me that if you put salt around crevices and door entrances, mice will stay away. So I’ve done that – salt now lines the edges of everything. However, I’m not sure if she hasn’t confused mice with evil spirits and am wondering if the pentagram of salt in the middle of the kitchen was necessary. (Eriika also told me “Salt and Traps” could be the name of our girls’ R&B group…hmm.) I really want the salt to work. The realities of trap lying really don’t intrigue me. Not in this instance, anyway.

Cocoa beans drying in Njombe.

My community host, Daniel, in Njombe

Fermenting cocoa beans, goats, and Cameroonian kids in Njombe

My hallway - where I sit and do most everything.

My kitchen. Working on getting a table...

I Swear...

(The newest Small Enterprise Development Peace Corps Volunteers of Cameroon)

So, yesterday after nearly three months of training, my 42 fellow staige-mates and I, all in our matching pagne*, took our official oath and became real-life Peace Corps Volunteers. I’m pretty sure that was my first time ever raising my right hand and swearing an oath. It felt fairly strange -- mostly because of the little unexpected pangs of patriotism it brought with it. I said good-bye to my gracious host-family, and with our 7:00 curfew finally lifted, I celebrated with the other newest Cameroonian PCVs for our final night together in Good Times Bafia.

Today, I am in Bafoussam – a town in the West Region several hours north of my village of Njombe – staying in a PC Volunteer transit-house (my fellow volunteers who are also here are currently making “pizza sandwiches” which is a really big deal and I’m super stoked). Not sure how much (if any) internet access I will have once I get to village, so I wanted to go ahead and get one more post up – it might be a while until the next one. The next few months will definitely be pretty interesting (…and by interesting, I mostly mean challenging). We are encouraged not to do “work” when we first get to post, but rather we should just get to know our community and the people in it (and for me, continue French learning). It’s definitely going to be a lot of work.

My African life, then, really begins now. And with daunting realities like only knowing sub-par French, the lack of having any American friend close by, opening a new post, having an outdoor latrine, and the feeling that I don’t really know what I’m doing all lingering over me, I don’t feel like I’m ready. But, then again, I’m a little ready – at least ready for all the new things I will be learning and for those adventures that surely will be responsible for bringing that much needed education.

Maybe my next post, after being in my new home, will be more interesting and have a little more substance – maybe. Can’t make too many promises. But, one last thing (and actually most importantly) – I am now Tantie Elizabeth!! Mary and Louise came two weeks ago (good job Katie). I’m glad to be in Africa, but really, really wish I could be with these beautiful baby girls. But until I can, Seth and Katie are going to make up cool stories about Tantie Elizabeth to tell them, and Uncle Gabriel and Aunt Rebekah are going to send photos of the babies to me all the time. Right?? Right??

*Pagne is the fabric that many Africans use to make their traditional clothes – comes in all sorts of colors and patterns. And in Cameroon, it is customary for groups to wear matching pagne for special events or occasions. Yes, we are aware our 50th Anniversary pagne is not attractive. And another side note, even though you can have custom-made pagne clothes, the end product isn’t necessarily what you wanted. But, you just got to roll with it.

The Superlative Committee Chair(wo)men & "Real Good" People

Gathering before swearing-in

Some of my Bafian host-family -- Constantia, my host-sister on the far left, was especially good to me

Tidbits

Don’t have too much to report this week, but I thought I might just add some interesting little cultural differences/observations that I have become (quickly) accustomed:

- Hide & Go Seek – a universal children’s pastime, right? Right. However, in Cameroon sometimes the child “seeking” carries a knife and chases. Don’t worry though; all knives in Cameroon are extra dull.

- Don’t leave the house without your…machete. Don’t let them scare you. Everyone carries one. (Agriculture contributes to about 80% of Cameroonian’s workforce – and machetes are a must for the field.)

- Is that a 10 year old getting your beer (and running the entire establishment)? Yes. Kids in Cameroon are resilient, and they start early with hard work. Probably a lot of adult Americans would complain about the same workload these babes do (I would). I’m not sure of the exact percentage, but the majority of Cameroon’s population is under 25.

- Need to get somewhere quick, but a little out of walking distance? Grab a moto. Although, Cameroonian motorcycles aren’t typically made for more than two passengers…why not try five? More than doable here.

- “La blanche, la blanche” – that’s me. If I didn’t know any better, I might get offended by being called “la blanche” as if it was my given name, but it Cameroon, using physical attributes to describe a person (like white, skinny, fat, etc.) isn’t really seen as rude. Cameroonians don’t have that same American sensitivity.

- Don’t smell food before you eat it. That is rude.

- Saying “bon appetite” before/while someone is eating is the polite thing to do. Every time.

- When opening a bank account at your local bank, you may be asked to draw a map to your house. (There aren’t many addresses in Cameroon.)

- Mercie Moser wouldn’t survive the cockroaches here.

- Need to carry something, but your hands are full and you have no backpack? No problem. Put it on your head. Really – whatever it is: a giant log, a huge stack of wood, shoes, a large dish of eggs or peanuts, pineapples... Cameroonians have an amazing talent (and strong necks) for carrying whatever they need perfectly balanced atop their heads. It’s something I would like to learn, but I’m not sure if the time has passed for me or not (they start super early).

- Right hand only, please. If it’s dirty, extend your right arm.

- Cameroonians like to state or ask really obvious things, such as “you’ve arrived?” or “you’re eating?” Picking up on that while learning French makes things more fun.

- Peeing in a small hole is difficult, but I am pretty sure I will have super strong leg muscles after two years.

These awesome lizards are everywhere - don't know their scientific names, but we like to call them "the push-up lizards" -- that's exactly what they do.

A view from a village in the West Region - very beautiful there - only a few hours north of where I will be posted

Petit a Petit...

And the envelope please...

Njombe!

Njombe (pronounced something like Jombay) is where I will be posted for the next 24 months (after we finish training). Last week, all of the stagaires (trainees) visited their posts. Definitely, made living in Africa for the next two years much more real. Njombe is a small town located in the Littoral Region - closer to the coast. I'm a couple hours north of Douala (the largest city in Cameroon) and Limbe (a black sanded beach!). The Littoral Region/Njombe is a huge fruit farming area so lots of fresh pineapple, mangoes, bananas, and papaya for me (little meat and dairy though). The Littoral is home to a giant fruit exporter and I am learning somewhat controversial.

I'm opening a new post, meaning there are no current or previous volunteers in Njombe. It's going to be a fun little challenge, but I'm super excited about the potential work I will be doing. I will be helping small local farmers with basic business practices. Peace Corps has matched me with a GIC called Esperance which is working on creating an export market for a fair trade dried fruit company called Fair Fruit. Pretty neat stuff - there's a little information on it here. Njombe is extra hot and humid - just like home (without the A/C though). My 3 room house is empty but I'm going to get pretty handy pretty quick I think. Anyone know how to do tiling?? My toilet is an outdoor hole in the ground. But I do have electricity. I think. (Definitely not "Posh Corps")

My French is progressing slowly, but it progresses ("petit a petit" is my motto these days). I'm surrounded by some pretty good trainers and trainees right now so that's been a big plus with this little transition (we're still fairly sheltered here in Bafia, and I'm pretty sure when we actually get to our posts and are left there to our own devices - it will be more of a rude awakening).

Traveling is its own adventure in Cameroon. What we think of as a 12 person van actually means a 22 person van here (animals and children aren't included). I got laughed at by other Cameroonians last week when I jumped after the plastic bag right next to me started moving. It was an adult chicken. The lady next to me (and by next to me I actually mean I was in her lap) told me not to worry - "buttocks would shift" after the bush taxi left and then "we would all fit". Lies.

That's all I got for now. Will try come up with more exciting posts sooner than later...

Miss you all beaucoup!!

In Bafia, my grand-mere invited me to watch her women's church group dance.

View from Manjo - a town close to Njombe.

Close to the main market in Njombe.

"33" - my favorite Cameroonian beer. Twice the size, half the price.

In Njombe - love all the bright colors of Cameroon. Reminds of New Orleans.

“Laissez les bon temps rouler en Afrique…”

Bounjour du Cameroun! In case you didn’t know, I up and moved to Cameroon, the hinge of the great continent of Africa! Cameroon is often referred to as “Africa in miniature” due to the country’s vast geographical and cultural varieties which are found here. I am serving with the U.S. Peace Corps for the next 27 months (well, now 26) and am part of the Small Enterprise Development program.

**Disclaimer – I wish I could say I possessed the great art of writing and/or blogging like many of my talented family and friends, but I do not. (If only that gene had gotten passed down instead of my large nose…thanks Papi.) So this here “blog” is merely the most convenient way for me to post an occasional update to all three family members who are (slightly) interested.Thanks to my brother Gabriel and Lucky Dime Press for setting it up for me. Also, another quick disclaimer – the views and opinions stated on this page are solely my own and in no way express the views or policies of the U.S. Peace Corps or the U.S. government.

So an update, you ask?

So after nearly a month, I’ve come to the conclusion that I think I am just in some remote part of Louisiana. In fact, I’m pretty sure if I walk two hours in any direction I would probably find some small Louisiana town like St. Martinsville or maybe Houma. Ok, so I exaggerate, but it’s impressive some of the similarities that Cameroon (or at least the town of Bafia where I am training – again Cameroon is very diverse depending on where you are) shares with south Louisiana – red beans and rice, okra and filet gumbo, beignets, extra hot and humid with lots of rain, giant potholes in the roads, huge cockroaches, plentiful agriculture, and lots of well-tanned people. People even talk and walk more slowly like we do in the South. This unexpected but welcomed cultural heritage discovery has been pretty fun. Looking at all the many similar marks the French left on both Louisianians and Cameroonians is pretty neat too (beignets -- a small example). And you thought I was going somewhere exotic…

Every morning I take a twelve minute walk from my host family’s home through corn fields and mud (and occasionally passing a monkey on a leash, baby goats, small children, and/or a tarantula), to join 42 other Peace Corps Trainees (we don’t become PC Volunteers until the end of training when we are sworn-in (the same swearing in that all U.S. Ambassadors and Foreign Service officers receive – thought you might like that Papi) and it’s contingent on us passing tests, including a French proficiency exam). There are 18 of us SED trainees and the rest are Education trainees. Our days are filled with French training, micro-finance training, health training, cross-cultural integration, etc., and beers that are twice the size of those in the U.S. and half the cost. Doesn’t sound too terrible, right? It’s not. (But I will omit all gastro-intestinal stories. Sorry Greg.)

Ok, that’s all I will bore you with today. At the end of next week, we find out where we will each be posted for the next two years (after training)! And on the following week, we go visit those posts for a brief week. Crazy. Maybe I’ll be able to form a whole sentence in French by then! A plus tard!

Sorry these first few pictures aren't wonderful - will work on it. The top one is from my walk to school. The second is to-be-lunch which I helped prepare last Sunday - gutted and clean those fish. And the third is a quick picture of my host family's outdoor kitchen.