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.