December. Phew. My 2011 ended with a bang. It was a magical carpet ride that nose dove into a scary whirlwind and a consuming black hole. I spent most of December away from post for official Peace Corps’ trainings and for less work-related holiday-ing.
Starting in Yaoundé, I spent close to a week discovering Cameroon’s capitol. Not so bad: hot showers and wi-fi at the volunteer transit-house, a pizza restaurant, and even a little shoe shopping (city blocks are lined with shoes – used and new; you have to try at least a pair – just slip a plastic bag on your foot, search for your glass slipper, and then drive a hard bargain – it can be a fun pastime). Sound too fancy for a PCV? Well, that was just the start. The following week my forty-two original fellow training mates and I were reunited at an eight day mandatory in-service training in Limbé, a black sanded beach town where monkeys swing wildly in its surrounding forests (and in an Anglophone region where pidgin is spoken; ex.) ma belly done flop (I’m full)). We were forced to stay in hotel rooms which had hot water and then made to eat amazing food 4 times a day (all the while, the fattening up of pigs before a slaughter sadly kept running through my mind)! My 27th birthday was celebrated there – delicious, free-flowing whiskey was poured, (real) ice cream sandwiches were annihilated, and colorfully saddled horses were ridden along that volcanic stained beach. As my little sister and birthday twin, Estefania, told me – it all sounded like a fairytale. Agreed. (Oh yeah, besides getting plumpier in the Gulf of Guinea and reunion-ing, we did do about eight hours of training a day. I know, I know, real tough…)
As if that all wasn’t enough, five other PCVs and myself decided that we wanted to hike and summit West Africa’s tallest mountain that had been physically looming over us all week. So in the few days before Christmas and along with obligatory Cameroonian guides, we climbed and summited the active volcano, Mt. Cameroon, a.k.a. the Mountain of Thunder (13,500 feet). It was a bit more difficult than I thought (that might have had something to do with my general out of shapedness and drinking and eating like a starting high school linebacker the whole week before), but way more spectacular than I had imagined. The terrain changed from lush rainforest to savannah to barren lava rockland to sub-alpine meadows. Stunning -- more than worth the bruised and bloody feet.
On Christmas Eve and on my blistered heels, I hobbled my way up to the town of Bangangté in the western highlands’ region where I joined half my training-mates (a strangely “white” Christmas for being here). We celebrated Feliz Navidad style – I ate tacos out of a frying pan while staring into a fire and taking in the delicious aroma of a cedar tree which some resourceful volunteer had found and dragged to the party. Christmas day was spent lying around in pajamas, watching movies, and being blanketed in holiday laziness. I was missing home. But, we did ok.
As I’ve said before, I typically like traveling in Cameroon – it’s an adventure, an educational lesson, an Elizabeth-Cameroonian bonding time, a sweaty and typically scary heart-quickening ride. So finally, after some very concentrated goodness, it was time to make my way back to my village. After arriving at the bus station and immediately stepping out of the taxi, my good friend (also a female) and I were bombarded by eight grown men from rivaling travel agencies. Our bags were grabbed from us, I was physically picked up (no small feat) to go in one direction while my arms were pulled in two others - as if I were a Stretch Armstrong toy, and my friend barely evaded a fist to the face (the intended recipient was unclear). After miraculously breaking through this literal manhandling and getting onto a bus, mainly unharmed, we were ripped off by the ticket guy -- because we were white. But what really pissed me off was that our fellow passengers sat there and allowed it (before we gave the money, I had even asked them for the correct price and they too lied; at the time, it was only men present). Internally and outwardly, we were being laughed at. We were powerless and no one’s equal. And it didn’t feel good.
On a daily basis, I experience blatant sexism and racism. I’m constantly called la blanche or another local language equivalent, grabbed, and cheated. But, that’s our life. Most days, I can brush it off because that’s part of my job as a Peace Corps Volunteer – to show our host community that not all Westerners are exploitive, unkind people. I can normally put a positive spin on these less than fun interactions – like it’s a good experience to be part of the marginalized minority, etc. And of course, I am plenty familiar with racism from back home in the states. It’s not new, but on that day, I had had my fill. All of the grotesque and frustrating things about Cameroon came to the forefront of my brain and played like a broken record. I couldn’t even feign patience with the friendly gentleman who was sitting next to me and trying to make conversation. I put on my headphones and ignored – ignored it all. It was an ugly day – for me, for Cameroon.
But just as I have these negative thoughts about my sometimes unwelcoming host country and start questioning my presence here, something else happens. Cameroonians can do really kind things for their foreign “brothers and sisters” and for one another. On New Year’s Day, a more heavily celebrated holiday in this religiously diverse land than even Christmas, I was napping and nursing a cold at a volunteer’s apartment, a stop on my way back to post. My friend had gone to eat lunch at her community host’s home. Not even an hour after she had left, my phone rings – a child is headed to collect me, so put on some pants. My friend’s community host was upset that I hadn’t originally been brought along (even though I wasn’t “invited” or even in my town). Nous sommes ensembles (we are together) is a very common saying here and sometimes Cameroonians really do mean it (an agreement? disagreement? doesn’t matter – end it with this expression and all is good -- at least on the surface). So, although I didn’t get to eat my customary cabbage and black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day, my 2012 began with my belly being warmed by a scrumptious traditional Cameroonian meal and my icy heart being warmed by genuinely kind, opened-armed Cameroonians.
During the last few-hour stretch back to my post and still a little scarred and impatient from my most recent travel excursion, our bush-taxi driver pulls over. Come On! Another stop?! goddamnit. I just wanted to be back in my gross, dust-filled apartment. Our tiny car was maxed to the limit. (Cameroonian travel takes an unnecessarily long time.) A man in a wheelchair sat next to the road with a slip of paper in his hand. The driver talked to him for a minute – it didn’t sound as if they know each other. My driver then proceeded to take the slip of paper and some money from him. He Bonne Année’d (Happy New Year’d) the man and we continued on our way. I realized then that our driver had taken this stranger’s water bill to go pay it for him -- not a quick or a good time here. For nothing.
Anyway, Peace Corps Volunteers have to put with a lot of crap. It’s good, it’s bad, it’s ugly, but often it’s beautiful – making for quite the impressive balancing act. So, here’s to even more beautiful African adventures in 2012!
Bonne Année and lots of love from Cameroun!
