And the Winner is...America!

Yesterday, on the day of the U.S. national elections, the country of Cameroon, or more likely a minority of Cameroonians who benefit/profit from the current government, celebrated their president, Paul Biya, residing in power for now thirty years.  Thirty years.  Thirty years of unquestioned, dubious elections resulting in a continuously corrupt, painfully stifled, and suffering land.

Today, even knowing there was a chance that my picks weren’t going to win, I was giddy when I woke up, wanting to get to the internet early because I truly didn’t already know the results - this wasn't the Cameroonian presidential election.  Giddy, I tell ya - dancing around as if I were a middle-aged NPR enthusiast on the day she gets to see Ladysmith Black Mambazo live in concert (yes, me, previously, minus the middle-age part, add a fanny pack; with their sweet euphonious voices, and like with the miraculous weeping Marian statue of Medjugorje, tears were brought to these stoic eyes).  America, although nowhere near perfect, is controlled by its people and their votes – something many countries can’t claim.  I saw the reports -- although nail-bitingly close, a clear, undisputed win -- a hard fought triumph against some actual, worthy opposition.  And I felt a great sense of pride and fortune - not just because my candidate was victorious, but lucky to live in a place where its people constantly, often with great vigor and inanity and forgetting any afore-learned grammar or spelling, freely bicker over politics on Facebook, lucky to be able to participate in a real-life working democratic process, even being able to vote from far away lands - and vote for whomever I choose, simply lucky to be American.  Indeed, it's comforting to know that Americans can disagree, will continue to disagree, and that our offices will be perpetually governed by different ideologies - a swinging pendulum, all contributing to the good health of a great nation. (Of course, if we knew how to have real discussions, while speaking civilly/not be so sensitive, or how to work a bit better together...)

I had an early morning visitor.  It was my friend Prosper, a 19 year old trying to improve his English and with high hopes to make it to university.  He was all smiles and asked if I had heard the news.  I said I had and we simultaneously “Obama”d and he gave me a fist bump, a welcomed dap.  He said " Barack Hussein Obama."  That really happened.  He then asked me what a Mormon was. 

I know it’s not 2008, it’s 2012, but it really is pretty neat to be living in Africa and seeing the excitement here over our half-African president.  No matter what you think of our Commander-in-Chief, he is a symbol of hope and progress for a great many people in a place where those things have a serious dearth.  After living here, it is simply incredible to believe that a grandson of a Kenyan goat herder has now been elected twice to one of the greatest nations of all time.  Despite the fact that ole George W. did a fair amount for Africa, you don't see tons of boutiques, bars, cyber-cafes, barbershops, and anything else imaginable named after him.  Work in Cameroon is more than not discouraging, often making me consider packing up and getting the hell out of dodge, but that right there – having the knowledge that there are real viable possibilities for changing and bettering one’s quality or position in life, not just within the U.S. – gives me some greatly needed encouragement for sticking around.

(And just for the sake of helping release some of my giddiness, my day's mantra...Obama, gays, marijuana. Obama, gays, marijuana...)

Fair Trade

I once lived in the armpit, the dregs, the worst of the worst of this country.  It wasn’t.  It was.  It wasn’t.  Doesn’t matter the realities, it is affixed that way in my brain, especially now that I’ve left it, likely forever to remain in that manner, unfashionably so.  Yet for several months while living there, there was a bright spot, some goodness, a small buoy.  I was given a post-mate, another volunteer living about twenty minutes from me and my only connection to my now much smaller American world (besides a snail-paced internet connection and text messages from other volunteers), and I basked in the warmth of this godly gift.  Soon though and coming to some of the same realizations and conclusions that I had already procured, and our weekly shared dinners and my Daria-like charming personality just not being enough to satisfy, he slipped away into the night, a knobby stick over his left shoulder, a red handkerchief containing his most loved possessions hanging from its end, and jumped onto a train heading north.  I was left there, again, alone.  

I would soon follow.

These days, I live in a bustling city - bustling-ish/kind of sleepy - and, unlike before, I get visitors.  I like to think myself an attraction, the Mecca of Cameroon -- who knows, maybe it’s not me personally (though, most likely, it is).  Maroua is the capitol of the Extreme North Region and gateway to many of Cameroons’ treasures.  So passersby’s, being the polite people they are, call me up when they are indeed passing by.  Some days, it’s wonderful, some days, it’s exhausting.  Recently, my former post-mate, the one who had previously abandoned me in the pits of hell and who now resides five hours south of me, showed up at my doorstep bearing gifts of wine, good reads, and delightful company for our first visit since the days of old - my prodigal son!  We nestled back into my deep-seated couch (a stick frame with cotton stuffed into a casing) in my living room facing the coffee table (a metal trunk with some fabric atop) reminiscing of days past – which seemed now like a distant, too-long, bad dream – and of current, happier days.  The screen saver of my computer which sat across from us flickered on, and it began rotating my life in digital form – photos of family and friends from home, photos of a magical Italy trip my aunt took me on, sharply contrasting more photos of my time in Cameroon.  A picture popped up of me - back home and a few years before, hair down (possibly blown-dried), cleaner in appearance, with a slightly weird expression. 

“Your sister?” he asked.

“No, that’s me a couple years ago.”

“Wow.”  Pause.  Maybe a thought.   “Africa really does age us.”

Shoulder punch. 

Besides making me think of where in the world I was going to track down some anti-aging creamy elixir in Maroua (shit, I am in my late-twenties!), I thought about what he had said...Cameroon does age us. It has aged us -- concluding, however, it was like a good cheese or wine-type aging.  We might look a bit rougher, a little less clean, grayer, or balder, but we, as individuals, are probably better than when we left – and will return to the U.S. that way.  Cameroon gives us a little lagniappe for making the trip over.  She’s shared a great deal of knowledge with us - sometimes leaving me with a feeling that I shouldn't have been privy to it at all and rarely knowing what to do with or how to process all the gifted information, but I appreciate that it’s now mine and a part of my experience, a part of me.  No, it’s not like I’ve had to raise a child or be president, and I am definitely not infinitely sager than before, but living in Cameroon has bestowed on myself and other volunteers an amazing education – maybe tenfold from what we would have received if we were at home in this same amount of time.  So for me, a few extra lines, grossly calloused feet, and more alligatored-skin seem a pretty fair trade. 

The punch was still much deserved.

Convenience.  Selling fresh chickens right from the handlebars.  Customer weighs and discusses.  

Maroua, Extreme North Region, Cameroon

Mumble, mumble, boring thought, mumble:

As a Peace Corps Volunteer, especially a Community Economic Developer, "Monitor and Evaluating" is regularly heard in the vernacular - fairly obvious in definition, monitor and evaluate.  How do we know if the work we are doing is effective? How do the individuals, groups, and organizations who we work with know if their efforts are viable?  Data collection and analyzing.  So we look to implement or ameliorate systems to do this (often easier said than done).  Peace Corps life also affords a lot of minutes, many, to unofficially monitor and evaluate ourselves personally -- lots of reflection time.  A benevolent malevolence? causing PCVs (me) to allot far too much time for allowing discourse on oneself -- unflattering.  The quantity, not the quality, being the unflattering part.  (Well, no, the quality is pretentiously unflattering as well.) But, it is easier for me to talk about something I understand better or can at least take responsibility for versus making partial conclusions on the things around me - realizing that when I do speak of my host community, I am producing only small, incomplete photo-like observations. So, why talk/write at all? Vanity.

An Internal Memo: De-Diversifying

The following, what today’s email opening incited, is pretty unrelated to anyone outside of PC Cameroon meaning it won't be read by the proper audience and shouldn't actually be published, and could also accidentally be viewed as offensive.  For the record though, I'm not anti-diversity.  I love diverse - like how can one pick her favorite jelly bean? I can't.  Here's where as a defense I want to use one of those sentences that somehow makes a person not racist, sexist, or gayist: "I have a black friend," "I work with gay people," "I come from a multi-racial family," or "I have a black, Jewish, gay, handicappable friend." At least one of these statements is true and therefore exonerates me from being thought to be in any way an ist.

Every few months, a subject line with “This Camerican Life” appears in my inbox and for about three point seven seconds my eyes widen and my heart quickens.  This Camerican Life! and fresh off the press!  Yes, please!  Understand that as a big fan of Ira Glass’ This American Life and because I live in Cameroon, this title is simply genius and I feel an overwhelming desire to read this must-be masterpiece of a newsletter! It will be glorious, and I must hurry and click open!  But then, like a flash flood, I remember it is Peace Corps Cameroon’s Diversity Committee's bulletin and drowning disappointment engulfs. 

Yes, yes, of course as a governmental agency we naturally have committees and like to sit solemnly upon their boards straight faced and laced.  There’s the HIV/AIDS Committee, the Environmental Education and Food Security Committee, the ICT Committee (yes, I left that abbreviated because I don’t know what it stands for – Internal Communications and Technology?  Ironical Conversationalist Trainers?...), the Volunteer Advisory Committee, the Education, Agro-Forestry, Youth Development, and Community Economic Developing Steering Committees…committees galore, all which seem to have a solid, good purpose, but for the Diversity Committee – a committee committed to helping support and create a network of resources for diverse volunteers…what? Why?  Ok, I know you think I am being insensitive* but come on, really?? For some unknown and irrational reason, a certain super-strength grumpiness takes over me when I think about the Diversity Committee, and then I feel the need to spit out an unnecessary and vilely written tirade on it.  I can’t be blamed for Elizabeth the Curmudgeon!  I must exorcise this demon dwelling within me, and apologies must be sought from the Diversity Committee!

I’m diverse, you’re diverse, he’s diverse, the cat’s diverse,

and all living in an unmanned universe!

That was my first attempt ever at poetry.  I’m sorry, I will never do it again.

So, firstly (or third full paragraph-in) I need to make clear that I have nothing against the people on the PC Cameroon Diversity Committee and those who support it – they are all very lovely.  Well, the ones that I know and of those, the ones that are lovely.  Honestly, I have a lot of respect for these hardworking volunteers who contribute to this quarterly (?) and who most likely use it as extracurricular fun via an accessible outlet.  Unlike most of the other committees, this one is volunteer organized and run – kudos – a support group for volunteers dealing with hardships of being diverse.  It is hard being different.  Ignorance and bigotry are widespread throughout Cameroon (and the rest of the world).  Often, volunteers must lie or hide certain things about themselves in order to avoid particularly awkward or uncomfortable conversations with host country nationals in fear that they will not be open-minded or well-received.  Sadly, it is a safety issue too.  However and realizing that it’s mainly out of my own ignorance, I still cannot see the importance or necessity of this group.  There is already a 'Peer Support Network' in place - to clarify, a network for peer supporting.  Each one of us as a Peace Corps Volunteer is diverse as that’s one of the big reasons we’re all here in the first place – cultural exchange -- and all will go through major challenges.  We land in countries and become the foreigners, temporary immigrants – we really are aliens saying “we come in peace.”  (Substitute a Peace Corps Volunteer for any big headed green alien in any movie and the story line will likely still hold strong.)  We are all the sore thumbs here.  We are together on this, why try to be separatists? 

Ok, fine.  You argue it’s a committee for supporting volunteers who are diverse within the community of volunteers (not in correlation with our outside host communities) and need a place to feel connected to others.  It is definitely not easy living in a developing nation for 27 months – there’s a lot time of feeling isolated and alone.  I get that.  So Mr. or Ms. Diverse Volunteer, I follow.  Over and out.  You just want to find some common, shared bond with a similarly diverse volunteer.  White females dominate the Peace Corps ranks.  I am finally not at all in the minority. 

…But still, I’m just brought back to my earlier question of really?? (I don’t know if my whininess is properly being heard.  It’s very high pitched and awful on the ears.)   Who gets to belong to this Diversity Committee?  A diverse person? A member of a minority? “Non-whites”, gays (little lesson: “non-trad” is the safe word volunteers use in countries in which homosexuality is illegal, like in Cameroon), Christians, Jews, Atheists, Muslims, orphaned volunteers, Dyslexic or ADD volunteers, age-advanced volunteers, tattooed or non-tattooed, Republicans, vegetarians, Gingers!, or those from Louisiana (look at me and my diversity!)?  Blah, blah, blah and bored.  That pretty much incorporates everyone (there’re only around 200 of us in this country).  Maybe if you are a twenty-four year old female from California, Democrat, from a very white nuclear family, you should be excluded.  We might currently have one of those – and it seems to me that she’s the one who needs her own minority/diversity club.  If only there was a Peace Corps Supreme Court, so I could (of course be on it, appointed by the beautiful powers-that-be, and get to wear a flattering black robe with appropriate grandma-style white dress collar showing) write an opinion calling this whole thing purely superfluous and unconstitutional! And yes, there’s a slight chance I’m being a little ridiculous, but again, not really my fault (Diversity Committee’s).  

We’re all so similar in having at least one of this or one of that in uniqueness that I want us all just to be diverse together.  Peace Corps Volunteers, individuals who went through a long application process and selected to do two years of living and teaching in sub-par living conditions, seem to have a lot more in common than not – a unified strength, I’d say.  Maybe this is all just a matter of the Diversity Committee's identity crisis and its need to re-brand itself as the 'The All-Americans Living in Non-America & Are Therefore Diverse Committee' - existing for all volunteers as a resource in dealing with expressing American-ness in a non-American context, and through that, extending teaching strategies on the subject to our host country nationals, who too should accept and promote the acceptance of diversity.  A win-win.  This way I could more quickly, with little-to-no anger, get the point of it.   

Yet, on second thought, I actually take everything previously stated back.  I don’t really care.  I enjoy getting worked up over little things, and then to no point, argue about them.  Plus, there’s a good chance that this all stemmed from a deep-rooted desire to be a well-tanned feisty Chilean-American who is diverse/exotic looking and who has an easier 'in' onto committees such as this one.  Truly, I am all for people having lots of freedoms and rights, even ones that I might think are silly or don't personally understand, including having a Diversity Committee, which actually hurts no one and might even help someone.  

Diversity Committee, today, you win (unless you want to take my advice and reorganize.  Then, we can both win!).  My chapeau's off to you.

* Into PC, Out with the PC:  One reason for my increasing in-sensitivities... here, physical attributes are used as clarifying descriptions – the fat one, the dark one, the big-nosed one.  Sure, every time I’m called fat I still feel like I just received a swift gut-punch, but remembering meanness was not the intention, I slowly recover.  (Every. single. time.)  I sometimes use “La Blanche” to differentiate or in speaking of myself.  One of the first questions after meeting a Cameroonian might be what religion you are.  In this other “world” in which we find ourselves living, things are not preciously politically correct anymore (never have been), and clearly I’m not being very “PC” or sensitive like a proper American should be, but after you join Peace Corps, a lot of that goes out the window with the daily showers, so apologies in advance (unless you read this last, then apologies now).  

A Long, Winding (Winded) Road to Diplomacy

Part 1: The Path to Peace Corps

For most of our in-house years, my parents dragged my siblings and I all over the city doing community service work.  Saturday morning deliveries for Meals on Wheels, after-school pantry organizing at St. Vincent de Paul, embarrassingly dressing up as the Easter Bunny for egg-hunts for disadvantaged kids, singing poorly or playing Bingo at nursing homes and getting harmless but unwanted caresses by strange smelling old people, weeding at the church, giving our own blood away on drive days, fixing and painting houses for Habitat for Humanity, raising money for March of Dimes – we did it all.  To be clear, this isn’t a toot-my-own-horn admission.  Most of these “kindnesses” were forced – we had to do them.  I would have preferred to be doing so many other things - like being dropped off at Skate Town with its Skittle-smelling bathrooms, giant pickles, tasty packets of loose dyed sugar with enclosed sugar scoop, and Hokey-Pokey interludes, but no, there was no choice.  Throwing tantrums or trying to stage hunger strikes would have been simply useless.  We knew what we faced if we tried to refuse -- guilt -- good old-fashioned guilt with accompanying psychological pains administered by our seriously Dorothy-Day-Catholic parents.  It would be waiting for us if we made the slightest protest or under-breath mumblings about our day's already scheduled activities.  I am fairly positive that within my parents’ 1960s-1970s Catholic school curriculum there was a class called Guilt which gave a plenitude on the subject, such as “Guilt: A Way of Life,” “Understanding the Importance of Guilt,” and “Indoctrinating Guilt.”  Homework for this orthopraxic class never altered: practice, practice, practice.  Most students at the time passed the courses, yet few became such experts in the field as my parents.  (The class was omitted before I entered school, realizing it was superfluous as it would be something eternally used in the Catholic home.)  Small example:  For many years as a child, my sweet, always-old father often had to travel for court appearances (a nerdy Atticus-Finch-solicitor type not a deadbeat-alcoholic-petty criminal) to the towns of Shreveport or Alexandria – several hours away.  After receiving a “no” to his request for one of his many children to be his traveling buddy on the short trip, he would reply using his never-fail tactic, “Oh, ok. That's alright.  [insert thoughtful pause] I hope I don’t fall asleep and die in a fiery wreck.”  Someone would shortly thereafter volunteer and fortunately up to this point, no fiery fate has fallen upon him. 

Maybe by plan and after what surely seemed for them a painfully, too-long development, my parents had done something for me.  Community service finally went from being a chore to a part of life to something I enjoyed.  At some point in high school, I decided that aid work was something I wanted to do as a part of my life -- international aid work, in particular.  Yet, I didn’t know how to do that.  During college, I was able to go on two separate church mission trips – one to Mexico and one to a Navajo Reservation at the Four Corners.  Having always disliked the idea of religious proselytization (which must have been a parental unit influence stemming from their tendency to follow the reported St. Francis of Assisi approach: “Preach the gospel at all times; if necessary, use words.”  Words never seemed necessary) and being a non-believing (but still culturally-complete) Catholic, I didn’t really like the work of building a chapel or repairing a church community center.  For my own rationalizing though, we weren’t evangelizing --- that stage had long passed for our host communities, and in retrospect, we were just helping give those individuals what they decidedly wanted.  My relationship with the notion of religious campaigning goes frustratingly back-and-forth.  In theory, I’m very against it.  In reality, I see the positive byproducts of its missionaries, often coming in the form of hospitals, health, food, education, and adoption services – dire needs often lacking enough support from secular institutions.  Societies' religions are always changing anyway.  Getting treated for cholera seems like a good trade-off for having to hear about Jesus or Joe Smith - at least, in a non-speculating way, they have very good stories, but flip the coin and then I see how it physically hurts people when they condemn birth-control in AIDS-ridden countries or teach moral-superiority over others.  Although I decided a religious organization wasn’t going to be my vehicle to humanitarian work, it did reaffirm my desire to work in foreign lands – the trips had been culturally eye-opening and huge educations.

So where did that leave me?  Peace Corps?  No.  For much of college, I believed the Peace Corps was a well-intentioned but somewhat misguided organization.  It was filled with lackluster hippies (Side-note: I appreciate and see the importance of the historical Hippie Movement, believing it to have helped society progress but that doesn't soften my views on its individual level.  Unjustified or not, I have always (after maybe the age of 15) seen old and new-age hippies as mainly self-centered, lazy citizens.  Rude, I know.)  It seemed to me that Peace Corps was actually just a front for its own version of American neocolonialism.  Who was I to tell people that America(ns) are superior and everyone should do as we do?  And using hippies?! – well, that just seemed completely inefficient.  Again, another organization that I didn’t want to be a part.  

Fast forward.  I joined the Peace Corps.

After long fruitless searching, Peace Corps seemed the only real and affordable way for me to actually make my way into the world of international aid.  It would simply be a stepping stone.  Fast forward.  To my pleasant surprise, I didn’t find a rat pack of dread-lock wearing, patchouli smelling freeloaders.  I didn’t find American extremists preaching democracy and McDonald’s at every corner.  I found middle-of-the road, good-natured Americans who maybe selfishly, like me, wanted the free exotic ticket to unknown lands, but who also came prepared to get their hands dirty and extend some help in a place that has asked for it.  Nixon was wrong on this one – the Peace Corps didn’t become a sanctuary for a "cult of escapism" or "a haven for draft dodgers” like he had predicted.

Part 2: Slipping into Diplomacy

Recently, Earth has been in the wake of the dubbed “Arab Spring” and has also unfortunately seen a series of anti-American attacks.  Not remembering our own bloody, not-so-cut-and-dry revolution and civil war, many Americans seem too quick to judge the current transitional, rocky state of things for many foreign nations, forgetting that these things take time.  With that being said though, and despite it being a small minority that holds anti-American views, we live in an ever-shrinking world (marketplace), and no one seems to be left untouched.  Therefore, our national security must concern itself with a minority’s threats.   The U.S. government must address current and future issues in this arena, but how we do that, through its many forms, is of utmost importance.  One of those ways...

Outside of the U.S., for many people most of what is known about Americans comes from media - the news, YouTube, movies, radio - perpetually being filtered in some way for the benefit or the agenda of some one or some group (a universal predicament and not unique to the U.S.).  Perceptions don't come from actual interactions with Americans, thus very limited and biased illustrations take root.  Although a fairly small body, this is where the Peace Corps comes into play as an overlooked but crucial player.  President Kennedy pushed for the creation of the Peace Corps so as to help combat the idea of the "Ugly American," and I believe, along with doing many other things, that the organization is still doing it.

Before I left America for my little 27 month stint in Cameroon, I read Peace Corps’ mission and its three main objectives:  to provide technical assistance; help people outside the United States to understand American culture; and help Americans to understand the cultures of other countries, but not until I started serving did I better understand our purpose and one of our core strengths – the personal interactions.  We might do a bit of development work while we are here and we might spark some sort of American-based aspirations in a few individuals, but a whole lot of what we’re doing is just being American.  We try to be respectful and integrate as much as possible.  We wear traditional clothes, we eat the traditional food, we eat what we are given even when we aren’t hungry, we only use our right hands, and we yell at drivers like the other passengers.  These are welcomed actions in our communities and consequently, “integrating” also helps keep us safe.  Yet, we’re still obviously outsiders (and as outsiders, are new and fascinating objects, constantly being watched and evaluated).  We can’t hide it; we don’t completely want to – so we allow parts of our American culture to show.  We run, ride bikes, and throw the Frisbee, we don’t always or ever fully cover up our legs and arms, we keep pets, we drink publicly in bars, we ask for hamburgers, we cook and bake food that is offered (but not often enjoyed) to our neighbors, we leave meetings after waiting twenty minutes for people to show up - which we think is too long, and we celebrate our own holidays.  We might purposefully try and make eye contact or shake the hand of an older Muslim man, knowing that he might possibly be uncomfortable with it.  Volunteers don't sit around outdoor cook-fires, matronizing our hosts, and claiming that the U.S. is the best place in the world – we try to build  up our host nations, not make them feel more insecure.  Most of our non-work conversations cover all sorts of things - from our families, sports, national and international politics, Rhianna or Celine Dion, the weather, religion, or prices of tomatoes.  Everyday conversations.  Volunteers live and interact daily with the average citizen, and from that new opinions or views are constantly being created.  It is quite possible that I may be the only American that many Cameroonians ever meet.  My impressions certainly mean something. 

Peace Corps, therefore, takes a very unique position in American diplomacy.  U.S. Foreign Service Officers, such as our Ambassadors, the American military and American tourists all play significant and necessary roles in foreign affairs, however, none of them operate on the same plane as volunteers.  We're not living behind guarded walls in American-amenity homes with chauffeurs driving us everywhere we go.  There is a certain freedom that no other American government organization gets to enjoy quite like we do. No, we are not always on some constant positive-high, running around making major impacts in our communities (although it does happen), yet we are making constant, big and little, impressions.  After leaving a meeting or a run-in on the street, or after two years or ten years of having consecutive volunteers, most host country nationals don’t form anti-American thoughts.  They may no longer just see America as a far, far away land and place upon it a simple, single opinion.  They encounter us on basic human levels and come to understand that our nation is compiled of real, living people – something that I think many Americans aren’t always great about doing when regarding non-Western countries (which is understandable – it is hard to know or feel anything for something that you have never experienced).  A host country national who meets a volunteer may have zero desire to be an American or may not think anything different of democracy, or may not think Americans are without imperfection, but what he or she will have is new knowledge found in an absence -- that not all Americans are like George Bush or Bill Gates or Britney Spears, or that not all Americans are evil, or that probably most Americans aren't anti-Muslim.  In fact, most will come away with the understanding that many Americans, like themselves, are agreeable folk.  They may not love us, although many do, but rarely, are we hated.  Evading or defeating hatred -- as far as American Diplomacy goes, that’s pretty darn important.

With less than 500 million dollars for an annual budget and armed with a whole lot of liberal arts’ graduates for an infantry, Peace Corps does a surprising amount -- not just for its host countries but for the American community.  In this particular instance, volunteers, without necessarily meaning to, become very important foot soldiers for acquiring goodwill for U.S. foreign relations.  This may not be the help I originally thought I would be doing or it may not be the type of aid work I still would like to do but it does seem to make some sort of positive contribution to that hopeful, futuristic land where the mythical "world peace" resides.  Maybe it's because I grew up in the South where Peace Corps recruits less heavily, or maybe because of my own previous biases, or maybe because many Americans actually do see the Peace Corps as a bunch of peace-loving, stinky useless bums, I sometimes don’t think volunteers get the credit they deserve.  They should.  (Now, I do sound like I’m tooting my own horn.)  I may not have always been the most outspoken advocate for my employer, but like President Obama who today said "this violence and intolerance has no place among our United Nations" and believing that unfounded hate can be combated through education, I have come to realize that Peace Corps is a weapon, however small, in that battle.  Plus, my work doesn’t stop when I leave Cameroon – maybe I’ll help teach some of my fellow country(wo)men that Africa isn’t just one super country or "Dark Continent" simply containing a whole lot of generalized, primitive “Africans.” 

Part 3:  The Long Awaited Conclusion  

Finally and what I am really trying to get across -- American companies who like to be all patriotic and give military discounts should also extend them to Peace Corps Volunteers.  

From Dorothy Day-loving parents to U.S. foreign policy?...it made sense.  Well, maybe at some point it quasi did. I won't pretend I'm proud.

Camouflaged Outsiders, Grand Mosque, Maroua, Extreme North Region

C'est pas normal

After being in this country for more than a year, most things have become all too normal.  My eyes are opened less wide and the hand sanitizer doesn't make as many appearances as it once did. I don’t notice the many little things that were once bizarre or new – like on the occasions where there is a toilet, not having a toilet seat, using a napkin only at fancy meals, chewing a bone completely clean, casually and acceptably correcting other people’s children, watching tiny little ones do work that grown Americans would complain about, or feeling like a celebrity any time I go anywhere because I’m constantly being noticed and audibly having indirect and direct comments and/or inquiries made about me (occasionally catching the random secret photographer trying to capture this amazing face and figure combo on their phones.  But really, can they be blamed?).  C’est normal.  Eventually, being home in the U.S. is going to hold some similarly parallel (re)integration period that my earlier days in Cameroon possessed.  However, the other day, I had one of my now less-frequent, “hey ass-bag! you live in Cameroon!” moments.

At the center in which I work, we have a small school which teaches skills and trades to young women.  School started two weeks ago, but in good Cameroonian fashion, we are still hiring teachers for the year.  One of my colleagues brings her daughter into work every day -- she’s about one and a half and most days she just wanders the hall aimlessly, running into un-moving towering obstacles, and pops in for a visit or ten with her un-proportionally large but adorable head (at the end of that open hallway is the outdoor scary, steep cement staircase that goes down three floors; it makes me incredibly nervous so I am constantly looking up to see where she is…I get a lot of work done).  Anyway, I was sitting in my shared office space, observing a teacher interview.  My two colleagues sat on the same side of the room with the interviewee opposite us.  Baby also wanted to be present for the interview.  Shortly thereafter though, without trying to hide any of her newly arisen feelings of boredom, or maybe it was her insatiable interest in the mechanics of a swinging door, she began door-slamming.  I was bored too but had to sit there quietly, in envy of her freedoms.  The loud banging was ignored but not as some sort of new-age American over-the-top teaching technique.  Noise just doesn’t seem to faze Cameroonians.  They have some super magical tuning-out power that I never received.  (Thanks parents.)  Questioning continued.  Then, it was running in circles until dizzy.  Questioning continued.  But then...we saw a look in her big brown doe eyes – that one that a parent knows instinctively and precisely of its meaning (for me, there were several options).  Her mother walked out of the room without saying anything and quickly returned with a small plastic blue bowl.  She placed it on the floor and helped with Baby’s pants’ removal (disposable diapers are not a thing here).  Baby backed into hover position and relieved herself.  All the while, the interview never ceased.  No apologies were needed or offered.  The entire thing was quite impressive actually – a very fluid process, if you will.

My pointless point being, to my still occurring American sensibilities, this was a little odd for me - definitely not a major weirdness in my life here but odd and amusing enough to burn a small, temporary spot in my overlooking, forgetful brain-space.  About twenty minutes later, I saw Baby stumbling, seemingly under an influence, down the hall chewing on that same still-damp bowl.  No, Baby, no!

I never said I had a map...

                                                               (plow-donkeys)

From some point in my herstory (last fall):

“Want to go for a quick morning hike with Charmayne and me?  It'll just be for a couple hours.  There’s a trail that leads right up the mountains and straight to the Menagouba Crater Lakes.” 

“Heck yeah,” I said excitedly to the volunteer veteran.  Julia had this calming confidence that came with being a two-year volunteer.  I trusted her.
                                                                      ...

The five hour mark was rapidly approaching and having yet reached the twin lakes, I started to get really nervous.  Julia was booking it determinately to our destination despite being un-admittedly but knowingly lost.  Charmayne was somewhere behind me.  I was trying to keep up with Julia's super speed while still keeping Charmayne in sight -- a tricky game.  There wasn’t a path to these lakes.  There were many, and I was pretty sure we hadn’t chosen the right one.   I was wearing my dorky outdoor sandals that only New Englanders, Peace Corps Volunteers, Whole Food shoppers, and whitewater rafting instructors wear (and probably incorrectly think are acceptably fashionable).  Not long-distance hiking gear.  The worsening blisters were starting to make things a lot less enjoyable.  I was rationing the tiny bit of water that I had left – maybe I should have brought more than a half of a bottle.  I only had my small multi-tool (a last minute grab), my Cameroonian ID, a phone with no reception, and a few thousand franc CFA on my person.  No pack.

“Didn’t Nuru say take a left between the houses and just follow that path?” Julia asked. 

I hadn’t done much listening.  Plus, we had found the path she was talking about.  That wasn’t the problem.  It was the billions of shoot-offs.  We should have stopped making bad decisions at the one hour mark and turned back; we should have stopped saying things like “that looks like a good way.”  Why didn’t we ask someone who had done the hike?

It was getting a little late in the day, and this was several hours after a so-called quick hike.  There were no markings, blazes, signs, or even a clear trail to show the way.  This wasn't like some U.S. national park with its helpful and jolly park rangers, shelters, and Smokey the Bear.  This was a huge mountain range in which villagers lived quite dispersedly throughout its seemingly never-ending vastness. What if we couldn’t find our way back?  We hadn’t found the lakes, hadn’t passed a Cameroonian in two hours, and hadn't dropped any crumbs!  Oh shit.  I was going to be in one of those stories, “…and in other small-potato news: three female Peace Corps Volunteers [none of whose names are worth remembering] who were out for morning exercise disappear into the untamed Cameroonian wild and are never seen or heard from again.”  I saw some goats.  If things got desperate…

I started to internally freak out.  We had screwed ourselves.  

Julia yelled “Bonjour!” 

Two young teenagers were herding cattle across a stream.   Oh, sweet baby Jesus! They didn’t speak much French, but they guided us to the “correct” path and pointed the direction they thought we should be heading.   Twenty minutes later we came by an old gentleman and asked him too for directions.  An hour and a half later, he delivered us personally to Woman Lake.  We sat there fairly quietly in a mesmerized state.  It was stunning.  In fact, as my feet were resting, I realized the whole hike had been gorgeous -- the mountain range itself, the lake, the Cameroonian saviors.  All of the actual and psychological ups and downs had been completely worth it.  The three of us sat on some rocks and listened to the old man speak a bit in his thick Pigeon.  I didn’t understand much -- he was telling us about the mountain village on the other side of Man Lake in which he lived and of the spirits who inhabited the volcano-made lakes.

By then, it was late afternoon.  He put us on a path down the mountain.  We passed more horses, cattle, and mountain villages – tiny little settlements without any kind of modern conveniences, separated greatly from the rest of the world (the type of community I originally envisioned myself living in when I pictured Peace Corps life).  We were finally down.  And alive!  I found a mama selling grilled corn and my favorite Cameroonian prunes in the valley town.  Rarely do things taste as good as they did in that moment.  Sweet victory.  The day had been a success -- a beautiful and unexpected little (long) gallivant.  

For Peace Corps Volunteers, seldom is there an easy or any already paved route.  Things in our work and daily personal lives often don’t go "right" or at all as planned, yet, somehow, things always seem to have a way of working themselves out.  Despite our "path" being sometimes amazingly frustrating, being able to venture down it is something for which I am truly grateful.  Sometimes, quite regrettably, I forget or don't know how to properly express how fortunate I feel for my Peace Corps adventure and getting to live in Cameroon, but I need to do better.  Not every day in Cameroon is quite so memorable or at all enjoyable as that one proved to be, but often enough, the days here do hold  some sort of fascinating newness or needed education for me – sought and unsought.  This is my life for now, and it's pretty a-ok.  

...

“For a minute there, I was thinking about how in the world we were going to catch and prepare that goat,” I mentioned later.

“I was trying to decide which one of you I was going to eat,” Charmayne replied, disturbingly emotionless.

"

"Let's eat and drink for tomorrow we die."

Melt Pot, Melt!

Random oddities like the beautiful black and gold colors, a fleur de lys, Hurricane Katrina, hunting and fishing, and crawfish boils unite my state.  The red, white, and blue colors, hot dogs and potato salad, American football, Pearl Harbor, and the Kardashians bring together my country.  We don’t apologize if we’re audibly louder than the rest of all other patrons put together in a foreign country's bar, and we don’t mind putting our politics in centers of conversations.  We think we’re the best damn country in all of Little Earth -- and have at least a couple very sound reasons to back up our audacious declarations.   And, not to gloss over nativism or racism, which undoubtedly and sadly still exists, or to forget our sometimes very divided views on politics, our country - not just in name - is definitely a united one.  Whether it be from some shared notions of “Manifest Destiny” or the “American Dream", having the physical space for our country to more organically develop (after of course, moving peoples out of the way), or because our population is continuously being diversified, our very young pup of a nation has quite a sense of itself -- "The Great Melting Pot" as the history books preach (although "The Tasty Pot of Gumbo" would make more sense).  Being quite removed from any former motherland and as a thoroughbred Heinz-57 mutt, I had nothing to do with getting to be an American, but I am definitely not sad to have been born there.  Like most Americans, I am proud of it and proud to be a part.  Pride, or if you'd rather call it arrogance, can cause great separations, but it also can double as a great power and driving force.  

Too often am I in a little restaurant, boutique, or a store here and there is only bare minimum “customer service" -- making it an actual foreign concept.  I like to think myself a fairly laid-back, polite customer (you give me plantains instead of fried potatoes– fine with me, the gods probably thought it better for me), but somehow when I leave establishments here, I feel like a snotty, demanding, and simply awful person.  Obviously, after waiting for 15 minutes in an empty dining room, I was being the rude one by taking precious time out of that very busy owner’s day to order a coke, grilled fish, and sticks of fermented manioc.  I am really sorry.  This “hot chicken” is cold?  Stink-eye waitress, you scare me too much to ask for it to be reheated.  Another beer?  I know, I know, how dare I!  Recently at a Camtel store, a big national telecommunications provider and retailer, and after talking to several employees, I watched a friend have to threaten to go to the competition to buy her internet key before they even bothered to try to help her find a key that they sell and advertise.  (On the rarer occasions that I do find really good customer service, I grow almost instantly suspicious and momentarily think whether or not it’s in my best interest to sprint for the exit.)  I know it may not seem like a big deal, but a lack of pride expressed through its customer service is just one small example of a much larger and very problematic national shortage.

To be fair, Cameroonians do take pride in things – like being a peaceful and not completely starving nation, keeping the grounds around their homes clean and swept, their soccer team - The Indomitable Lions, and always having on clean shoes.  When one looks around at surrounding countries, those are things for to be proud, but it’s really not enough to fuse this country.  The geographical area that is now Cameroon has had some tough luck in its recent 200 year history that plagues it today as a non-ethnically unified nation – like the slave trade, Colonialism, AIDS, poverty, major corruption, an inept education system, and silly laws on rights pertaining to personal property (when a greedy government with foreigners sitting in its deep pockets mixes traditional, colonial, and modern laws together, the outcome is not pretty; if you don’t really own the land you’re working on, why really concern yourself with its longer term future?)  This country has the abundant natural resources and the potential to be a great state, but the major apathy and engrained low expectations are not going to allow for it.  It is exasperating.  Maybe it’s because I’m American -- I’m always wearing a watch and thinking time is money -- but I can’t help but see the giant clock in the sky quickly tickin’ away.  Cameroon, you are at a pivotal place in your history.  Things could fairly quickly improve – or they could just as easily go the other way.  Let some pride be the fuel for some forward motion.  Find your battle cry.  Like New Orleanians chanted after Katrina (however cheesy it may have sounded),“Rise Up” and demand better.

...Yet, where does their rallying flagpole lie?  How do you bring communion and pride to a broken nation who started in the same state?  This is a country that just had seven Olympic athletes 'abscond' into Foggy London-town during the Games and no one could really fault them.  If an individual or a body of people is going to have pride in anything, they must be able to find something to take hold of, love, and own.  Cameroon would not only need one of my imagined pride-bringing events to take shape -- a victory, a tragedy, a change in property laws or a shift in government, a Marian apparition, or a mixture of many tomorrow-land occurrences -- but it would also need to simultaneously spread the sentiments from bottom-up and top-down (from the "paysans" to the "grands" and vice versa) in order for it to be at all a success.  Something to connect.  

Stirring the pot and causing real change is not as simple as I would like to have it sound, but neither is it impossible (and to its credit, there is a minority who do strive for more).  My pointless tirades offer zero solutions*.  However, what I do know is that Cameroonians are always telling me on est ensemble -- we are together.  For Cameroon's sake, I want to see it.

  (Above: During Pre-Service Training, our Cameroonian language trainers, who come from different ethnic groups and parts of the country, show us their own "on est ensembe.")

*Last June, in the beginning of this little exercise of public journaling, I had naively thought that I would eventually be able write some unnecessarily wordy narratives or insights into the Cameroonian life that contained real substance – such as pinpointing reasons for hardships, explaining traditions through a culturally anthropological lens, giving solutions to the many problems, talking about the hope that’s just around the corner for Cameroonians, etc, but I realized I was being silly so my apologies and to your non-disappointments, those “enlightening” posts aren’t coming.  At least, I’m still being unnecessarily wordy – you’re welcome!

Today

Despite living twenty-one million and thirty-three miles away from home (Google Maps wouldn’t divulge the actual number so I might be off by a couple of scores), I don’t always feel like I’m that far from the folks and the motherland.  This isn’t 1962, 1992, or even 2002.  Peace Corps Volunteers are no longer dropped off in the middle of villages, given motorbikes, told essentially “good luck and see you in two years” by administrators, and hope that their letters reach home within a year’s time.  Times have a changed – at least in some aspects.   In the last few years and even in the year since I have been in country, the spread of the internet has been pretty astonishing – cyber cafes, wireless keys, undersea fiber-optic cables!  Widespread availability, opportunity, and speed aren't exactly there yet, but just give it a little more time.  (Some days, I feel like training people to use Google with its endless supply of solutions right there for the fingertips’ reaping should be a volunteer’s real priority).  I live in a small city so as long as there is power, I could pay for the internet everyday if I wanted.  And, I would wager to say at least sixty percent of volunteers in Cameroon have weekly access as well.  Sure, there are still plenty of volunteers who live daily without power, water, phone, or internet (or some fun combination of those) in Cameroon and in many other countries, but thanks to the technology nerds, there isn’t quite the same disconnect between work and home as there once was.  Nowadays, volunteers, like the rest of the world, get to better keep up with family and friends through the magic of email, Facebook, blogs, and all those other necessary social network tools (while also helping to add to that never-ending, keyboard-created poopy-pile of unneeded shared thoughts that ends up in the interweb's non-coverable burial grounds - wherever they may lie). 

As soon as I left the U.S., all of my family decided to hurry and have babies while I was gone.  I think they feared I might drop one.  I wouldn’t have. Well, I don’t think I would have.  My best friends from college decided to become adults and do things like buy homes, get married, and become doctors and deliver hundreds of babies.  One of my little sisters moved on to high school, and the dog got a new best friend.  Why didn’t anyone tell me that life back home wasn’t going to pause for me??  (Maybe they did and I forgot to listen.)  All to say, I know I am lucky to have use of the modern communication tools -- it helps with the homesickness.  It's the one who lets me know that I am missing out and then helps me deal with those consequential feelings of missing out (making for an unhealthy and twisted relationship). 

But for the moment, as I sit here listening to Raffi and finger squishing the cotton weevils that are living in my mattress, and on the day that Katrina hit New Orleans seven years ago and as Isaac takes his time evilly calculating and circulating over my family, I feel the disconnect -- antsy and useless.  And, like after a week at summer camp, I miss home.  I know that today, especially, I am the fortunate one to be out of a hurricane’s reach, but I can’t say that right now I wouldn't rather be sitting without electricity in a forced and stressful holiday among family and friends playing cards, drinking beer, porch watching the wind and rain, and soon cleaning up the damage.

Tu es là? Oui, je suis là?

 (crater lake in Foumbot, West Region)

To only my father’s disappointment, I disappeared from posting since early June.  (Apologies, Papi.)  I’ve simply been nomad-ing, and like the earliest of Americans was having too many encounters with whitemen (PCVs) - desired and undesired.  Even now after being in Maroua for a couple of weeks, I have to give myself a daily reminder that I am here for good.  Oui, je suis là!*  That Cameroonian Limboland that I was living in is now just a not-so-distant memory.    

So much has happened -- so little has happened. And, I guess before I write another boring, opinionated, and judgy post on Cameroonian life and being caught in the middle of it (which there are a few brewing and coming soon to a blog near you), I’ll just give an ugly-formatted and equally dull update.

A few notable happenings as of late: a large used syringe was thrown at me through a bus window by a “crazy” – a leg stabbing with god knows what consequences evading me by mere centimeters (let me be dramatic!), was recalled to Yaounde for my training group’s Mid-Service Conference (our 1 year mark) and where we celebrated our own country’s Independence Day together in the most appropriate of ways – over a hot grill where greasy meat drippings coated the coals, a government official said “she’s Cameroonian” and begrudgingly gave me the fair price after I wore him down with my stubbornness in refusing to pay a “white man” price, was in a moto accident leaving the right side of my body with surface wounds and more sadly torn jeans – at least at the last moment, I remembered not to pay my at-fault driver, had the un-fun malaria, was given electro-shock tests on my arms during which the Cameroonian neurologist smiled a bit too much for my liking as my face flickered between normal and grimace, saw a freshly-caught five-footer river fish, helped train the new group of volunteers in the arts of such things as “Mountain Biking” and “Transitioning to Life at Post” (things I’m well-known for being an expert), took an overnight train where my top bunk-mates were 7.5 and 12 year-old sisters sharing a bed and traveling alone who strangely found me funny or more likely funny-looking, learned to use the train bathroom only while it was in motion unless I liked the idea of the onlookers, saw crater lakes and mountainous volcanic-plugs, met with a crab sorcerer who granted me one question and answer to help satisfy my cravings for the knowledge of my future self, saw Chad and walked to Nigeria, and celebrated my first End of Ramadan fete with Cameroonians.

First observances from my new home in the Extreme North Region: they have lots of donkeys! and horses, cow and goat husbandry is common so there’s way more beef for me to down and leather products to buy, there are way less greens and few fruits but fresh cheese and yogurt can be found - as well as tasty sesame seed delicacies, dates, and guinea fowl eggs, we’re currently in the three months of rainy season so I’m still inexperienced to the forewarned fear-bringing hot/ dry season, bus travel in the North is much more comfortable because Cameroonians are skinnier here – a mix of genetics and malnutrition, buses also stop during Muslim prayer time, there are about 50 ethnic groups in my region, the encompassing sand is cruelly deceiving as there is no water at any of its edges, most of my neighbors don’t speak French but rather Fulfulde, Muslims probably only account for maybe fifty percent of the population but their culture is dominant here, there are traditional chiefs called “Lamidos” who whenever traveling about have an entourage of men constantly announcing their arrival with long, loud horns, traditional stringed instruments are played to help move cattle, I have a growing obsession with the beautiful, shady and evergreen Neem Trees that grace Maroua and I want to do projects related to them, it’s a much calmer place, I feel uglier here because men are less frequently yelling “Ma Cherie” at me and asking if I want them to accompany me, even “La Blanche” or the local-tongue equivalent “Nassara” feels less nasty when yelled at me, and already, I am beginning to love my new home.

* « Tu es là? Oui, je suis là? »: a good n’ typical Cameroonian exchange/in-person greeting;  Are you here? Yes, (obviously) I’m here.

Thousands of Muslims dressed in their finest gathered at the Grand Mosque in Maroua to celebrate the end of Ramadan and the breaking of the fast, Eid-ul-Fitr

 Traditional Crab Sorcerer of Rhumsiki (Extreme North)

Friday the Thirteenth

My non-superstitious brain was being traitorous.  Somewhere around twenty-five hours north of the capitol city and staring out the bush-taxi window, I started noticing all the paranormal-seeming parallels between arriving at my first and second posts with their strangely similar stormy and cold evenings and their lack of any Cameroonian counterpart to welcome me to their alien homelands.  Plus, it was Friday the 13^th.  Not good.  A dark lightness was appearing, and in an instant, Brainhurt* was spreading throughout my egg-shaped extremity and starting to ring in my ears.  I had been kidding myself.  It wasn’t the last post that was the failure.  It was me.  Changing posts wasn’t going to make it better.  This was no good - forever to be known, at least in my own unread herstory book, as The Great Njombe-Maroua Repeat.

“Oui, à la maison rose.” 

My luckily-short nineteen point two seconds of Brainhurt vanished when a welcomed disturbance came via my friend’s voice.  With the motivation given by an unreasonably hostile and open sky, pelting its unforgiving wet daggers down upon us, and with my two Peace Corps friends darting out of the car like well-tipped porters carrying my unnecessary amount of luggage past the gate to my new home, the unloading went quickly. 

I had arrived, and I arrived to a better place.

*Brainhurt: a lifelong annoying condition arising when my underdeveloped brain becomes (over)worked with having to hold and/or process thought; a chubby kid forced to play basketball in P.E. is an external embodiment of this malady; side-effects are unflattering.

 A view of Maroua, my new home, from Mt. Maroua - a short hike outside of the town

 Rhumsiki - Rainy Season - volcanic plugs - about 3 hours west of Maroua

Kapsiki Peak and donkey at Rhumsiki - Rainy Season