On the Road Again…

A great deal goes into creating a successful post on both the Peace Corps’ administrative and volunteer sides, including hard work, determination, patience, and a bit of necessary luck.  And like in many aspects of life, but especially in the quantifying ways of Peace Corps, success can be measured from a wide array of things (making it one of the many attractive attributes and kindnesses of volunteer-life).  Yet, on paper and in reality, the post that I opened just north of Douala was not a success.

Along with my anti-malarial, I took a daily dosing of defeat.  I knew that that was all too common and just plain normal when opening a new post, so I kept telling myself things were soon going to change -- keep trying different ways, something has to pan out.  Things, however, did not really seem to be changing and time was too quickly disappearing.  My remaining hope began to feel simply naïve, and I realized I did not want keep doing the same thing for another year.  My battle of trying to integrate and work with my community was lost.  I was embarrassingly beaten and had no desire to confess it.  Perhaps, it was due to the timing in which I was placed with my host organization, or it was because of the feeling of continuously being lumped in with an unloved nearby foreign company and the accompanying large helping of indifference that was served with it, or maybe it was a lack of that little bit of luck, or more feasibly and simply, it was me and my improvement-needing personality.  For whatever collection of reasons, I called it quits on my post and am moving on. 

Well, moving up.

Peace Corps Cameroon granted me a post transfer.  So in July, I’m headed some 35 hours from where I currently am to Maroua, the regional capital of the Extreme North (pop: 200,000 – big city livin’!) and close to both the Nigerian and Chadian borders.  I’m trading in my small tropical rolling hill town of 20,000 with its heat and humidity, amazing rainfall, fruit-producing dark soils, big spiders and mosquitos, and nearby beach for a Sahel border town of extremely hot and dry heat, scorpions, meat-a-plenty, leather and carved wood artisanal markets, and nearby mountain ranges that boast moon-like formations.  I’m getting the super special Cameroonian 2 for 1 deal.  This predominately Muslim region has been said to conjure up the same images from Star Wars’ Mos Eisley (the desert spaceport) with its red and brown streets and beige buildings yet bustling with a cast of colorful characters (that include the Fulani and Chadians).  Supposedly as a shoulder-and-knee covered female, I will get harassed less in the North, but only because in this more conservative area women aren’t worth as much time.  As a fellow vagina-bearing volunteer in the area put it, it’s more like “ah, look, isn’t that just too cute” complemented with a patronizing head pat.  Getting respect might be a little harder to come by – but everywhere has its challenges.

I’ll be working with a Community Initiative Group called L’Association Avenir des Femmes which works in a variety of areas to help improve the lives of women and children living with HIV/AIDS and also helps girls, who for whatever reason (often familial constraints/obligations or lack of money) were unable to finish school, learn some sort of trade.  Although I’m definitely going to miss some of the great perks of my current post – not to mention some friends who I wish I could just roll up and put in my fanny pack, I’m super excited for this little second year fresh start.  My first year was definitely not a waste, and I will surely be forever grateful for all the things I learned and experienced with Njombe, but it’s time to hit the road again.  So, stay tuned for Part 2 of my Cameroonian adventures…

Bonne Fête des Mères

Happy Mother's Day to all the Mamas.

Flatlined

Once upon a time in a far away land, I had a heart.  I wanted and thought it possible to be a Jesus, Mother Theresa, Gandhi, or JoAnne Crone – my town’s own local saint.  I wanted to help the poor and care for the sick.  I wanted to go off to some tropical island and nurse disease-ridden babies back to health.  Seinfeld seemed mean to me, and I would tear up at emotion-demanding commercials. I'd put a dollar in the plastic cup of the guy at the intersection if I had it – not important if it was for booze or not.  And, if a person cut me off in traffic, I would think up scenarios about that driver’s awfully bad day or his rushing home to a sick child so that I could refrain from shooting him the bird.  Treat others how you would want to be treated…

but I was never very good at actually doing that.

I realized, behind everyone else, that my personality aligned more with Grungetta's.  Plus, new lessons were learned and I started seeing a whole assortment of things in a new light.  That regular unwashed homeless man transformed through clearer lens into a rude, lazy, lying bum who I was sick and tired of him hitting me up daily for money when I was barely getting by myself – trying to figure out how to pay rent or keep the electricity on that month – and knowing he probably made more than me that day by begging.  I started to understand an individual’s and humanity’s need to keep the family fed and to have the basics (and also realizing that the definition for that was different for everyone).  Their motivation and the necessity of their actions became clearer to me - even if the way to get to those things maybe wasn't  the best for the “common good."  Things like the death penalty, abortion, war, big corporations and pharmaceutical companies became messy in my mind.  Nothing wanted to remain clean cut for me, and empathy stretched me too thin.  Life outside of the pre-college, parental haven of happiness introduced me to a much grayer world.  And with that, for better or worse, many of my kinder sensitivities found themselves dulled and left me with an irregular, muffled beat.

A few days ago, I noticed that I had added another silencing layer to what was left of my good-natured organ.

When I came to Cameroon, it was hard to see past the poverty.   I saw flies, filth, concrete and wooden houses unfit for living, few toilets, unaccompanied naked toddlers with running noses wobbling around places where no one should be walking shoeless, and lots of hungry people.  The need was overwhelming.  Poverty can be scary and bring feelings of uneasiness and make things uncomfortable - at least for me.  But slowly, I got past that.  A lot of what I thought before as unacceptable, bizarre, or simply new started becoming normal to me.  Not a bad thing, not a good thing – reserving a spot in that gray place.  I saw beautiful people, some particularly good food and neat traditions, and that life wasn’t so bad for a lot of people here.  And, I started thinking about all the not-so-great and wasteful habits of Americans and some of the possible personal changes I could make upon my return.  But, I also got used to some of the other more obnoxious constants - to the men at all the bars/places to buy alcohol (which greatly outnumber the Starbucks in Seattle) asking me to buy their beers or whiskey sachets, to the men I'd meet for two minutes in a car and want my contact for work collaborations but really only so they could later ask me to marry them, to the random passersbys asking me what I’m going to do for them, to people asking me if I can bring them to America or Europe, to the crazies and poorer Cameroonians asking for money or telling me they were hungry, to the culturally common but to me, annoying question of “what have you brought me?”  I created my automated responses – nope, nothing, or some simple (or a less-than-simple) fabrication.  Maybe a necessary numbing -- as there’s a certain fine-tuned Peace Corps Volunteer balancing act that must come into play when deciding where and with whom one can (and wants) to put their limited time and energy into doing our own self-assigned development work.  As a PCV, I can try and help teach something to serious knowledge-desiring individuals or groups and maybe help find resources, but otherwise this white lady’s got those annoying false pockets.  I’m not Jesus.  I don’t have all the answers (I have very few in fact - even if I like to pretend differently), there’s only a little that I can do to actually help, and there's a big possibility that I won't have a second coming -- disappointments and frustrations for both parties.

I just can’t help everyone.

The other morning as I was sitting on the stoops of a church reading Franny and Zooey and waiting for my class to start at the next-door school, a lady who was cleanly dressed and toting a small carry-on type bag came up to me and started mumbling something about a bigger town three hours north of us.  Not even because she was speaking French, I was having a difficult time understanding her.  She was talking about something medical and something about going to that town.  She never asked me for money but clearly she was in need of something.  Too absorbed in my book, knowing I only had about ten minutes before class started, and not wanting to give her my 2,500 CFA (around 5 USD and about a week’s worth of food) for travel money, I brushed her off and told her she should go and talk to the priest.  She headed that way and I soon left - making sure I was gone before she could return.  That night and several miles away from the church, I was walking back from my post-mate’s house where I had been eating some delicious homemade stomach-filling stew and drinking tasty(ish) boxed-wine.  On the steps of a closed office building, I spotted the same lady.   Her back was to me and she was sitting with her bag in her lap and her head was resting upon it - obviously with nowhere to go.  And… decidedly, I quietly tip-toed by so that she wouldn't hear or bother me.  A success.

But and rightfully so, I felt like a real nasty heartless p.o.s. after that.  Cameroonians don’t have the many accessible soup kitchens, shelters, unemployment, or disability that most Americans can at least rely on when times are really tough.  They must rely on family and friends when they need help – what happens if that doesn’t exist or it’s been exhausted?  I went back later to see if she was still around – for a meal or money for a ride.  She wasn’t. 

I had forgotten that not everyone’s out to take advantage of me.  I didn’t know her situation and it really shouldn't have mattered.  I can and should let my thick metal-plated guard down on occasion.  Sometimes people really could just use a break.  I've received plenty of them.  And, I need to try to keep that in mind a little more often.

I can’t help everyone, but I guess I could have helped that someone.

Bonne Fêtes de Pâques

Happy Easter from Njombe!

Yesterday, my day was spent at a nearby orphanage planning a summer camp with a few other Peace Corps Volunteers posted in the Littoral Region.  And, some of the older girls were painting Easter eggs in preparation for today -- made me smile as it's not really a thing Cameroonians do.

Missing crawfish boils, springtime, heavenly hash and family today.  

XOXO to all my sweet peeps.

Outside the Looking Glass

 The only mirror in my house is a 4x6 inch one that my older brother gave to me before leaving to come to Cameroon – it hangs from a tiny nail on an army-green shoelace and day after day it welcomes me into my kitchen.  It’s a sweet little sentimental pearl that he was given back in his war days by someone serving in Her Majesty’s Australian military.  He told me not to lose it and bring it back to him.  Given my clumsy nature, the pressure is felt.  It has mirror signaling instructions on the back of it -- in case I ever find myself in a hard spot and need to mirror signal my way out.  Sometimes I find myself imagining all the fun, crazy places that that might be and how I ended up there and of my heroic, probably handsome, rescuer.  Like a thick-armed Doctors Without Border type who likes puppies and going on outdoor adventures.  But, I’m digressing.   All to say, unlike in the United States, I’m not surrounded by mirrors.  Sure, there are some around and I could buy a bigger one, but on my huge Peace Corps Volunteer salary, I have to prioritize and choose where I want to spend all my extra thousands of cash CFA.  Whiskey and an occasional trip to the not-so-far-off shore.

Not having mirrors surround me…I’ve slowly come to realize that it’s quite nice.  It dawned on me that I don’t think ever in my post six-year old life have I been less self-conscious of my physical appearance – my body or what I’m clothing it with.  And no, it’s not because I’ve become cute and thin here or started dressing better than those around me.  Still the same – plumpy (or ‘short-round’, as an unfairly skinny brother may have lovingly termed it) and like back home, I’m still the worst dressed in a room.  Most Cameroonians may not have plush pockets, but dressing nicely - clean and pressed - and appearances are quite important.  (And their shoes! Always super clean – I’m in complete ignorance of how in both of our two seasons – muddy or dust-caked – their shoes can still be shining.  And you think you wear heels well?  Ha.  Some of the younger crew can gracefully sport their four inchers day or night down rocky roads.)  Maybe I can’t completely credit the lack of mirrors -- maybe it’s because I’m just getting more comfortable in my old-lady ways or maybe it’s because I live in a small Cameroonian town without a constant influx of media or model-stamped magazines staring at me everywhere I go, but I don’t feel my own or the industry-desired constant comparisons or that battle of whom I outwardly need to be.  And, that’s not so terrible – one less thing for my small brain to have to regularly consider.  (Don’t worry world, I just mean less regularly, I’m still very humanly self-conscious.)  Plus, when you have honest Cameroonians, without our American sensibilities, who will quickly point out all your blemishes, ask why you’re wearing house flops outside of your abode, or tell you in French that you are a good fat woman, who needs mirrors?  People’s reactions and what they say, tactfully or not so much, work fairly well.

And, it’s not all good that I don’t have more looking glasses around me.  Now, I’ve become an even weirder person who when finding myself in bigger towns and where they have full length mirrors in their bakeries or specialty shops will look at them (and me) for what are probably awkwardly long stretches and think, oh yeah, that’s what I look like.

Only somewhat unrelated, I might one day have to tell you about Cameroonian Mirror Dancing…

Enjoy Martyrdom

By way of a few recent conversations, and unsurprisingly, I've come to understand that some of my fellow Peace Corps Volunteers have concluded or have always known that the United States is literally the best place on Earth – and more pertinently that this place is not.  I’ve only made it to six countries at this point in my life, so it’s kind of hard for me to say.  But as a sworn member and one of the current 9,000 worldwide serving under the same governmental agency -- which happens to provide the cheapest form of American diplomacy out there (well, maybe after Facebook and YouTube), and as a happy citizen, I naturally want to agree.

Many of us know that the Peace Corps’ number one objective is to help with economic and social development in the many by-invitation-only countries throughout our small world by exporting knowledge and technical skill transfer through us individual volunteers.  But its other two main goals are about cultural exchange – for volunteers to introduce American culture to our assigned host countries and for us to later bring back what we’ve learned from our posts and teach our fellow country(wo)men and share our experiences.  The three goals really can’t be separated.  It’s not in the toolkit handbook, but to put it in a boiled-down tactless way, we’re kind of here to say “Hey, I’m American.  You know America??  Yep, of course you do. (Well, maybe not geographically on a map – I’ll show you that later.)  You’re right though, it is great. Yep, we’re rich and your country should be more like us.  Teach me to dance, and I’ll teach you how to ‘network,’ manage time, and maybe help you to start a library.  Oh and no, I can’t bring you to the U.S..”   I know, I know - when I put it that way, it sort of sounds terrible and like neo-red, white, and blue- colonial proselytizing, but when looking at the amount of corruption, lack of major infrastructure, poor education, AIDS epidemic, gender inequality, and the level of poverty and hunger found here, I can get behind our mission.  The world progresses in a naturally, unbalanced way.  Cell phones and mp3's are pretty much universally accessible and cheap, but clean drinking water…not so much.  So, ok, despite my slowness, I do get it.  America is great!  And others might like its conveniences - let's provide some good ole fashioned service-learning where it's desired.*  PCVs, let's roll up our sleeves, do our jobs as 'change agents', let 'em know what's out there, and help where we can.

But golly gee, sometimes Peace Corps Volunteers just need to get slapped.  Ok, ok, hold your horses - not actually slapped.  That was aggressive - only meant it in a wake-up call sort of way.   It’s just that PCVs can from time to time really complain.  A fair amount.  We all do it – myself certainly included – especially when we all get around each other.  It’s a necessary part of our coping strategy – we have to talk about our frustrations and hardships, as we undoubtedly, and often do experience and live with some major difficulties. (It's human nature and definitely not unique to PCVs, i.e., read any Facebook newsfeed.) It’s important.  I’ll continue to do it.  Like Cameroonians often say, “on suffre.”  We suffer.  Affirmation is important.  But it gets to a point sometimes - when it becomes insufferable - and I want to yell obscenities and throw things. (Don't worry, I haven't...yet.)  Yep, life in the U.S. of America is definitely easier for us.  Flushing toilets, lattes to-go, green and well-trimmed parks, Whole Foods, hot-and-ready pizzas, and movie theaters – how we dearly miss them!

However and JC, what the heck did we, individually, do to make it so great??!  I know what.  We got super lucky and/or some g(G)od(s) blessed us and we got born…in America.  Well done us.  [appropriate clapping time]

Yeah, I vote. I vote in an already existing electoral system, I've helped campaign in my free time for what I've happened to be passionate about at that time, I've done volunteer work to help less lucky people in my community, I went to college and had my tuition paid for by a great state-funded program, worked hard and long hours in jobs – the majority being already created by others, and most recently joined a government-funded volunteer program that has allowed me to travel thousands of miles away from home and experience a culture really cool and different from my own.  Yep, I love being from middle-class America -- just like the majority of my fellow PCVs.  And, I have an in-place guarantee, sans unexpected death, that I can go back there again.  I came into a well-greased running American machine – yeah, it’s one that sometimes gets slow and lazy and who knows of its future success, but it’s one that I didn't engineer.  Sure, I participate in it, which I think is important - we should keep it running.  My generation has this luxury that allows us to either be replacement parts or be possible new &  improved parts.  I’m comfortable with either option, and it's refreshing that I have it. (I’m still young – jury’s still out on my doing nothing or something.) I completely and happily accept my spoiledness!  As it pretty much comes with the social security number.

It's not the reminiscing about the good life back home that peeves me - I'm a total joiner when it comes to those conversations.  It's the damned comparisons.  That's when my furrowed brow and squinty-eyed death stare come out (although, beware - that's easily confused with my tired look, can't hear look, trying to concentrate look,  I have a headache look, or even sometimes my happy look).  I get frustrated and sometimes sick of hearing some of my colleagues quickly judge the poor state of the place which we are living and are so quick to parallel it to home.  There are so many different factors that have gone into creating both Cameroon’s and the United States’ now histories and present states, that they just can’t be straight-up compared.  (I'll spare giving a hole-filled boring history lesson.)  We can't just blame all Cameroonians for their way less than perfect 50 year old nation.  Unfair as it might be, we should know that some countries get to prosper from the help of other countries not doing the same.  Come on - aren't we the educated ones?

Yeah, our instilled American values and our way of life are fan-friggin-tastic! ...but our airs of superiority can simply be tiring.  We may eat from silver spoons, but I had nothing to do with buying them.  Life here can be tough, but we're all more than capable of living with the-less-than-fun and daily non-first-world inconveniences.  Because that’s what we signed up for.  Plus, it ain’t all that bad...don't make me make a list. You know how I like writing lists.  Stop playing the martyr...or at least enjoy it more or do it more quietly.   

Ok, I’m done, and I know I have just been projecting my own snootiness.  Complaining about complaining – that wasn’t lost on me.  And most likely, a great number of my fellow PCVs have probably done (and will do) way more to contribute to our great nation than I ever will.  In all actuality and overall, I'm surrounded by a great team of volunteers and supporting staff – there are almost 190 of us here in Cameroon - something I can truly say that I’m proud to be a part.  With the majority having wonderful, giving attitudes (much better than mine) and strong work ethics, they really are inspiring folk who I'm grateful to know. They are my support system here and many my friends.  In fact, I even think there are a few who are going to continue to put up with me and my obnoxious, self-righteous pontificating (it’s hard for me to give it up as clearly exemplified through my posts), and be friends with me for many years to come.  See, even more undeserved goodness - luck actually - which is always undeserved.

-- elizabeth "high horse" harvey
(as so lovingly referred to by my younger sister, Rebek)

*So far, I've learned a ridiculous amount more than I've taught, and I have a feeling the scales will continue to be weighted in that same imbalanced way throughout my time here.

That's so fruit...

You know what really makes up for living in a place where there’s no air conditioning, indoor plumbing, constant electricity, supermarkets, Popeye's, or paved roads; what makes up for living in an eternal sweltering summerland with mice and an interminable number of cockroaches as roommates-- well, that is besides giant cold cheap beers??  I'll tell you...it's an endless supply of fresh tropical fruit. 

It’s grown all around me. I can’t escape it.  Everywhere I go - pineapples, papaya, plantains, bananas, passion fruit, oranges, and mangos! Mangos! With the shortest fruit-producing season of them all, mango trees become an exorbitant source of sweet succulent droppings.  Five for twenty cents.  They grow so many and so quickly that many will rot before they can all be consumed.  Mango bread, mango smoothies, mango jelly, mango wine - I'm going to make it all! The same anticipation that Louisianians feel about Mardi Gras season goes here for mango season.   And, the season just started in Njombé about two weeks ago. Finally, my first mangoes in country!  The community-initiative group that I work with started drying their first batch of mangoes for the year.  It smelled amazing!  That day, I must have eaten five of those juicy little monsters in an embarrassingly short (and unwilling to disclose) amount of time.  A happy glutton...

...to be punished.

The inner monologue for the last thirteen days: Gross – why are the corners of my mouth blistering? What is this rash on my arm? It itches. Real bad.  Why is it spreading to my neck, ear, gut, and legs? It itches. Stop.  I’m overreacting – just look in the Peace Corps Medical Book. Nope, nope, nope – not that.  Don't open that book again.  It's freaking me out -- I’m going to die of so many things here! It feels like poison ivy – there’s no poison ivy in Africa.  You know. You looked before you came - your one known torturous allergy isn't creeping here.  Being in Cameroon gets you one completely free get-out-of-jail card for that - no fun annual summer steroid shot, oatmeal baths, or full-body pink cream slatherin's this year.  Maybe it’s because I switched my type of malaria prophylaxis last week.  I’m sleeping better though.  It’s worth the rash.  No, no it's not.  Cameroonians are definitely going to comment about this to you - and not exactly tactfully.  Be cool.  Stop scratching. There’s no hiding it. Is it scabies? I’m going to infect everyone.  Damn school kids – they must have done this to me.  Stop being a baby – it’s really not worth an un-desirous adventure in navigating your way through a Cameroonian hospital, which may or may not actually help you.  It itches. Just wait until you go to Yaoundé next week and see the Peace Corps Medical Officer.  They’ll fix you.  Just keep dopin’ on that Benadryl...it can't last forever. I hates it!

Mangoes.  Their sap contains the same pain-to-elizabeth-bringing oil (urushiol) that poison ivy boasts.  And, I’m surrounded by them.

It’s cool though.  I’ve been given multiple prescriptions that entail taking multiple pills, multiple times a day for the next 30 days.  PCMO said it should help.

Ahh, well.  I guess I'll just have to go back to the beach in a few months where I can swim all day and eat that day's fresh caught lobster and squid, for cheap, to make up for it.  Damn you Cameroon!  You still win.

Women: Always a Rantin’ and a Ravin’

I don’t know if it’s because I was brought up in Louisiana (lucky), if it was the media that surrounded me, if it's my particular generation, or what, but the term “feminist” always brought with it some significant negative connotations for me. I never liked the term. To me, it always and immediately brought up thoughts of angry short-haired scary lesbians. And while there’s nothing wrong with being an angry short-haired scary lesbian, growing up as a hetero self-conscious “tom-boy” (another term I hate - yes, I like wearing "functional" clothing), I never wanted this particular word to be brought to the top of everyone else’s mental “Elizabeth Résumé.” I didn’t want to be in that feminist category, even if I was in strong opinion that a woman’s place wasn’t necessarily in the kitchen or if I thought it was malarkey that women couldn’t be Catholic priests. Silly, I know -- but who doesn’t have their insecurities? However, on occasion, I do feel somewhat obliged to pull out my what-I-like-to-call “equalist” insignia from my back pocket and wave its pink and blue banner around a bit.

(appropriate time for first yawn)

But first, a(nother) preface: When Cameroonians give us a hard time or are just messing with us for shits and giggles, PCVs sometimes like to say things like, “Hey, I’m Cameroonian. I’m Bamileké! [or whatever tribe you happen to think of at the time] I live here and this is my town." And usually, the agitators cut us a little slack and might warmly laugh because although we’re foreigners, they realize that we actually are familiar enough with their culture to warrant a little respect. Peace Corps Volunteers do a great deal of “integrating” into their host communities compared to most any other ex-pats living abroad temporarily, but we’re still somewhat outsiders during our relatively short 27 month stint. We get to see and experience an amazing amount, but culture goes pretty deep, and often we only see what’s on the surface – just a little glimpse. (I know, I’m good at stating the obvious.) All to say, it’s sometimes hard to be completely objective about commenting on certain “cultural norms” because we simply don't understand everything. So, I won’t be.

A little rantin'…

Cameroonian women’s lives suck. Ok, fine, that’s definitely a gross overstatement. I’m sure if I was to ask a hundred Cameroonian women if they were happy, I bet way more than half would sincerely answer yes (a subjective thing, but I’d argue fairly important) . So to restate, I would not want the life that the majority of Cameroonian women bear. Generalizations: Cameroonian women work incredibly hard – harder than the men. Most – including young girls (if they’re not at school,) mothers, and grandmothers - will spend all day doing manual labor at the family farm, carry home giant loads of food and firewood atop their heads, prepare all of the meals for the large extended family (and often their dishes need ingredients that must be first “puréed” by hand between two rocks and then cooked for a long time over an outdoor fire), eat after the men, wash all the laundry by hand, often in a stream, sweep with handle-less brooms and mop floors on their knees, they will sell their fresh produce or grilled and fried foods at the market or out by the road all day, keep track of the money, check in on the neighbors, and at the end of the day if their husbands (just to mention, who might also have other wives and who might have been out spending their money on beer that day) want sex, they get it. For those Cameroonian women, who go onto have what might be labeled as “more professional” jobs like teaching or working as a civil servant or who might go onto university, they often don’t get the same respect that their male colleagues garner. Prostitution is a fairly common calling. For many young women, it’s a simple survival solution (not really lucrative – especially if you add-in the major possibility for contracting AIDS). Male counterparts, male teachers, male Cameroonians – they’re used to getting their way. That’s how things work. They’re the chiefs.*

Uncool.

Recently, I started working with a high school in Njombé doing an English Club (I don’t know what I’m doing, but I can speak a little English so there’s that…), but soonish I would also like to start a Girls’ Club there. You know… teach “lifeskills” and “empowerment” – whatever all that means – just some extracurricular fun that could maybe usher in a little adolescent confidence. I’ve been trying to think of some good Cameroonian women role models to focus on, but probably because I’m an outsider and still very ignorant, I’ve been having some troubles. There’re no obvious Eleanor Roosevelt’s or Susan B. Anthony’s, no Amelia Earhart's or Ella Fitzgerald's, no Mia Hamm’s or Sheryl Swoopes’, no Tina Fey’s or Ellen DeGenerous’ here (unrelated side note: both of the latter two would be friends with me if they knew me…and...they would think I was sort of funny). There’s already enough major foreign influence here that I’d like to try to talk more local (yeah, I realize I’m a foreign influence). For Pete's sake, can’t we just do a little Cameroonian woman idolizing?? A lot of Cameroonian “mamas” are genuinely amazing, strong women. They are the epitome of that nurturing life-giving archetype. They are women to be admired. But, they just aren’t famous or venerated – because what they do is what womenfolk do here. They are beautifully standard. (I don’t think First Lady Chantal Biya and her hair really count.)

How do you strike that balance between preservation and progress? It’s going to be a challenge (and maybe presumptuous) to try and explain to these young girls that with these great qualities which have continually been passed down through their generations, they can use them to do something else – if they want. If current life isn't cutting it for them or if they aren't happy with making a living by cooking over a hot flame all day or prostituting themselves, it would be nice for them to know that things could be different. They could be like…umm, I don’t know…someone cool. Just because they have ovaries, doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have choices!

Yet, my bigger preoccupation is that I’ll be just fibbing to them. What’s the real likelihood of them not ending up subservient to their husbands? Why fill their brains with such ideas? Sounds defeatist - I know. But hey, who said I’m against telling “uncertainties”? Plus, it’s technology that’s already spreading this epidemic notion that women don’t have to stay in the kitchen. I can’t be held responsible at this point. Who knows, maybe one of them will have other opportunities and just think of who or what she might influence. Girl power. Or something.

Now for some ravin'…

For more than one reason, I’ve been pretty lucky in where I landed on the spectrum of life. It wasn’t all that long ago when women weren’t treated very fairly in the ole’ U.S. of America. I was born at the end of a century in a country where great women had already paved the road to make my life way easier. Well, maybe not “easier” but maybe more enjoyable - by allowing me to have more different and chosen experiences and by giving me automatic respect, just by being an American woman - which wasn’t always there – no matter the non-traditional choices I might make.

I have never had to think twice about who a good female role model could be for me. I have always been surrounded by good women. Some are just memories while others still endure but all still exist in some weird paradigm of who I would like to be. If I could just pick and choose little elements from all of them, I would be one badass super-woman (my superhuman costume would not consist of tights though). Of course, no one’s perfect -- we’re human. But, I have never had to look far or look to some foreign celebrity for inspiration, and that’s been a nice feeling.

No-thought-needed examples: my mom, Mary Todd - one of the greatest woman I have known (yeah, I’m biased) - a definite mix of conventional and non-conventional. I still hope to one day have a fraction her unabated warmness. The women she chose to be friends with and who were my surrogate aunts growing up and who would later be her pallbearers - like Ellen, Peggy, JoAnne or Stephanie – all incredible, eccentric women I could look up to. I’m kind of scared of getting older, but if I have half the energy, smarts, or sense of humor that both my Granny (whose age I’ll omit in fear of being voodoo-dolled) or my Grandma (who turns 95 this month) have later in life - or at any point in my life, I’ll be doing ok. If I can just take a lesson or two, such as patience or hope, from some of my elementary school teachers like Sister Elizabeth (the scariest) or Mrs. Moore (the kindest), I might be able to teach at least one thing to some little snot-faced kid. Or some of the generosity that comes from my step-mother, Mercedes, or just a pinch of the tremendous talent and determination that my sisters and girl friends possess… so many muses! And all with different lives: married, single, professionals, stay-at-homes, activists, apathetics, sports playing, spa-daying, believers, agnostics, mothers, childless, gay, straight, cooks, take-outers, republicans, democrats, homebodies, bar hoppers - with so much overlap, it’s dizzying.

I don’t want to be a man. By that, I mean I don’t think being a man would make my life easier or any better. I am pretty happy being me - who happens to be a woman. I don’t have to think, “If only I were a man…” And, I don’t think that’s a luxury that many women on this planet get to enjoy. Options -- I have them and I like them. We still have some considerable work to do in the United States in regards to giving people their freedoms (if individuals' choices aren't hurting anyone, why give two shits what they do?), but I do think we’ve made some pretty big waves on the ole’ Equalist Front. So, here’s a thanks to my long line of strong, stubborn female predecessors and counterparts …you’ve done me a real service. And for my little sisters and brothers and for my young Cameroonian students, I’ll try to keep waving the flag and leveling the playing field – even if that just means me having to be brave enough or comfortable enough with doing whatever it is that I want to be doing – in whatever unspectacular form that that may take.

*(While talking about a woman’s life here, I’ve painted a pretty ugly picture of Cameroonian men which is pretty unfair – maybe one day I’ll talk about their generalized good attributes – there really are many great, hard-working Cameroonian men about, but it just seams that it's the women who never get a break, and like I said, I was a rantin’ and a ravin’ about women today.)

Postscript: This post was very "I" filled. Gross. Sorry about that.

high school-aged girls marching for Cameroonian Youth Day

I Just Can't Wait to Be King

When most of us well-read Westerners think Africa, our brains immediately go to picturesque scenes of roaming giraffes, zebras, and elephants, and well, The Lion King (ok, or starving fly-bothered Ethiopian babies with bloated bellies -- but that’s less fun to think about). Don’t pretend it’s not. Before I left home for the Peace Corps, my little sister told me when the elephants make their way into my backyard here, I should make myself as tall as possible and stand my ground (don’t listen to your little sisters – they just make things up – things that could get you killed). I’ve been living in Africa almost 7 months now, and I haven’t seen any of those cool animals. An elephant has yet to come over to my place for some midday palm wine and peanuts; there’s an open invitation on Craigslist and CouchSurfer. Did I just strike out and not get posted to the right African country?? Nope, not it. Cameroon is home to all these cute cuddly types – forest and savanna elephants, lions, cheetahs, giraffes, hyenas, aardvarks, hippos, crocodiles, rhinoceroses, buffalo, mongoose, chimpanzees, gorillas, drills (one of the rarest primates in all of Africa), huge millipedes and a whole lot of other wild, splendid creatures. The oldest rainforest on this entire giantess of a continent is even in Cameroon!

Grr, I want to see them! Where are they hiding? Getting to East or South Africa from here is too darn expensive. I just want to be able to wear my U.S. postal service/explorer hat that I packed and jump into a Land Rover and see a crocodile and a lion fighting over a warthog right here in Cameroon. Is that so much to ask? I mean, really. Throw me a bone.

Well, major deforestation in recent times, especially logging by foreign companies in the last 20 plus years with little regulation by the Cameroonian government (great for the both parties’ present billfolds) and poaching rare “bushmeat” has kind of put a major damper on being able to see wildlife ‘round these parts. 800 year old trees? Sure, cut ‘em down - Europe and Asia need them. Nah, don’t worry about replanting. Exploitation? No, it’s development! Kill the wildlife, fill the pockets! In the last 100 years, somewhere around 90% of West Africa’s rainforests have been destroyed. Thirty-ish years ago there were more than 200,000 lions frolicking across Africa. About ten years ago, the number stood somewhere around 20,000. Impressive. Horrifying.

Ok, enough. Off the pedestal and back to me and my important tragic misfortunes of not being able to see exotic flora and fauna. Was no one thinking of Elizabeth’s future desire to hang out with Babar?! Oh, how my exaggerated suffering cuts me deep!

Actually…I have gotten to see some pretty neat rarities already – and I’m not even talking about the giant cockroaches, cane rats, and lizards with whom I cohabitate (those aren’t rarities). In just this past week, I’ve seen what I think was a goliath frog – its face was at least as wide as mine – and a pangolin, a rare scaly anteater/porcupine thingy, being held up by its tail. So weird! Now grant it, both things were being sold from along the roadside by young Cameroonian hunters, but still really amazing to see. And both were still living – for the time being, at least. That giant frog was only going for around 10USD, and that was the starting price. Again, traveling in Cameroon proves to be fun. I’ve seen monkeys on leashes, snakes in baskets, and three-headed dragons. Fine, I lied about that last one. But really, who needs a safari when Cameroonians will hold up breathtaking wonders to your passing van? Way less expensive. It’s like taking the train ride at the zoo or Disney World (you should still keep your arms inside the car). Pretty much the same thing with minor differences – you know, like the up-for-view animals might not be breathing anymore. Or they might be cut in half for easier transport – just throw that gazelle’s lovely backside atop the van (though, if you could, try not to let it soil the freshly-made empty coffin or the bags of plantains and legumes that’re already up there). Sunday dinner party!

And, another reason you don’t have to feel sorry for me (I know how much you were) -- I haven’t given up on seeing the other oh-so-typical African guardians. In half a year, I hope to be going up to the Extreme-North Region of Cameroon (up near Chad and Nigeria where it’s completely geographically and culturally different from where I live) and check out a national park where I might have a better chance of seeing some of those grandiose feral monsters. Most likely, I won’t see much, but one never knows…

Hopefully too, by the time I get up there, someone else will have given me some slightly better advice about what to do when I come face to face with my first wild elephant. Stand tall or offer it peanuts? Or both? Ahh, what to do, what to do?!

giant snail outside my house - escargot on a stick is common here.

my English Club in Njombe