Five months. Five months at the most. All that is left of what has sometimes felt like being stuck in a desert prison, a self-induced exile, and at other times felt like winning the lottery and living in some tropical paradise, a perfect little arrangement, is five months. As the kids would say, “that shit cray.” Like the gifts of that fast swinging pendulum of a ship ride at the state fair, which is well targeted at us crazy stay-close-to-the-earth thrill seeking types, I am left with some majorly strong and mixed feelings about my remaining time – excitement, fear, and vomit-producing nausea – although the latter is less heavy on the fried pickle and funnel cake aftertaste. The angst that accompanies the much too accelerated and deafening tick-tocking with its impolite hot-breath "Winter is Coming" whispers is not all that cool. I am actually a little frightened that if I blink too long, summer will already be upon us. Minus a few days/weeks here and there, my last twenty-two months in Cameroon so quickly slipped away and abandoned me without even the tiniest of goodbyes. Rude.
Thus, that annoying look-back process has slowly begun, and I am left realizing how little I have accomplished of what I wanted to do. Bucket loads of coulda, shoulda, woulda’s. I am not ready for this little chapter of my life to end – so much more to do! I am still having plenty of those moments when I find myself with a surprise unprompted grin and am telling myself “Hey, you get to live here, for free, and it’s awesome.” (Yes, I say that silently. Well, sometimes. Ok, fine, sometimes, I accidentally say it aloud, but to myself -- which those occasions then, after I (or a child) catch myself, serve as little memory triggers to a past life when I would witness my mom having similar under-the-breath senile self-conversations as she would drive through town in The Battle Wagon (our faux wood paneled station wagon with back lookout seat) or The Gladiator (our awesome TV equipped, backseat-to bed converter full-sized van which would sadly later be made into a vancake) and I would think, “Hmm, my mother might be a crazy.”) Then again, I will probably be ready for this little part of my life to end – so many things waiting for my American re-incarnation. Four of my four new and only nieces and nephew, who have yet to meet who will undoubtedly be their favorite aunt, are in great need of my presence. Siblings speak of new design, writing, and furniture projects! And ponies! There will surely be lots and lots of ponies and rainbows and butterflies and Mexican food! I say hallelujah. (As a mental-safety exercise, I must think of all these magical things that await me in the homeland in order to help outweigh the bad thoughts about the income-less, vehicle-less, homeless, healthcare-less life that also waits for me.)
Remembering as well that my Peace Corps departure is mostly inevitable and also because too much heavy contemplation takes its toll -- typically keeping that type of thinking limited to several minutes a day, I try to think and focus on other simpler things, like what am I going to eat next or the silliness of "reintegrating" into American society. "Peace Corps Goggles" – that is what “they” say we get here. We start seeing things through a different lens, at times making things a little hazy and bestowing us with new, non-back-home standards. To give a few small examples, combining Laughing Cow cheese, tomato paste, and baguette together really does not taste like pizza. It is actually kind of unappetizing. Or leaving a load of dirty clothes in soapy water for hours and then dunking that into non-soapy water does not constitute washing. After looking into the small, shallow pot of PCVs, and to be perfectly shallow, a volunteer who might have been a 5 on the good-looks scale previously can get promoted fairly easily to an 8. Like most volunteers, in addition to having some blurred sensibilities (for the record, I scrub my laundry and consider all volunteers to be around a 7.3), I have picked up some different habits, which would be fine if I could remember if they were acceptable back home or not. I know there are plenty of things that must be left behind, including the less than endearing behaviors such as hissing for a person’s attention, yelling for service at a bar or restaurant, doing the finger wag in someone’s face (I really like that one), “beeping” someone to call you back when you don’t want to use your own phone credit, or having a small child go do pretty much any errand. (Truth be told, I am going to continue doing that last one.) But then there are other things, the things that I have been racking my little brain to remember if they are America-acceptable. After it becoming so normal to be piled on top of one another in a car or bus while exchanging sweat, phone numbers, and human shoulder pillows, can I touch another human when riding next to them in a car or subway? Like not major touching, but if our arms graze or I rest my leg gingerly next to someone else’s, will they do that uncomfortable but polite removal? I can’t remember! And how often am I supposed to shower? Toothpick teeth-picking? Wearing moomoo’s in public? Haggling at farmers’ markets? How much can I eat with my hands? How much is too much mayonnaise? Are napkins really that necessary?
Thus, that annoying look-back process has slowly begun, and I am left realizing how little I have accomplished of what I wanted to do. Bucket loads of coulda, shoulda, woulda’s. I am not ready for this little chapter of my life to end – so much more to do! I am still having plenty of those moments when I find myself with a surprise unprompted grin and am telling myself “Hey, you get to live here, for free, and it’s awesome.” (Yes, I say that silently. Well, sometimes. Ok, fine, sometimes, I accidentally say it aloud, but to myself -- which those occasions then, after I (or a child) catch myself, serve as little memory triggers to a past life when I would witness my mom having similar under-the-breath senile self-conversations as she would drive through town in The Battle Wagon (our faux wood paneled station wagon with back lookout seat) or The Gladiator (our awesome TV equipped, backseat-to bed converter full-sized van which would sadly later be made into a vancake) and I would think, “Hmm, my mother might be a crazy.”) Then again, I will probably be ready for this little part of my life to end – so many things waiting for my American re-incarnation. Four of my four new and only nieces and nephew, who have yet to meet who will undoubtedly be their favorite aunt, are in great need of my presence. Siblings speak of new design, writing, and furniture projects! And ponies! There will surely be lots and lots of ponies and rainbows and butterflies and Mexican food! I say hallelujah. (As a mental-safety exercise, I must think of all these magical things that await me in the homeland in order to help outweigh the bad thoughts about the income-less, vehicle-less, homeless, healthcare-less life that also waits for me.)
Remembering as well that my Peace Corps departure is mostly inevitable and also because too much heavy contemplation takes its toll -- typically keeping that type of thinking limited to several minutes a day, I try to think and focus on other simpler things, like what am I going to eat next or the silliness of "reintegrating" into American society. "Peace Corps Goggles" – that is what “they” say we get here. We start seeing things through a different lens, at times making things a little hazy and bestowing us with new, non-back-home standards. To give a few small examples, combining Laughing Cow cheese, tomato paste, and baguette together really does not taste like pizza. It is actually kind of unappetizing. Or leaving a load of dirty clothes in soapy water for hours and then dunking that into non-soapy water does not constitute washing. After looking into the small, shallow pot of PCVs, and to be perfectly shallow, a volunteer who might have been a 5 on the good-looks scale previously can get promoted fairly easily to an 8. Like most volunteers, in addition to having some blurred sensibilities (for the record, I scrub my laundry and consider all volunteers to be around a 7.3), I have picked up some different habits, which would be fine if I could remember if they were acceptable back home or not. I know there are plenty of things that must be left behind, including the less than endearing behaviors such as hissing for a person’s attention, yelling for service at a bar or restaurant, doing the finger wag in someone’s face (I really like that one), “beeping” someone to call you back when you don’t want to use your own phone credit, or having a small child go do pretty much any errand. (Truth be told, I am going to continue doing that last one.) But then there are other things, the things that I have been racking my little brain to remember if they are America-acceptable. After it becoming so normal to be piled on top of one another in a car or bus while exchanging sweat, phone numbers, and human shoulder pillows, can I touch another human when riding next to them in a car or subway? Like not major touching, but if our arms graze or I rest my leg gingerly next to someone else’s, will they do that uncomfortable but polite removal? I can’t remember! And how often am I supposed to shower? Toothpick teeth-picking? Wearing moomoo’s in public? Haggling at farmers’ markets? How much can I eat with my hands? How much is too much mayonnaise? Are napkins really that necessary?
I actually suspect rejoining won’t be all that hard for the most part. I guess if anything, I have learned pretty well to be and to be comfortable with being the odd-(wo)man out. Plus, when I commence my new life as an itinerant couch monger, I feel confident that all my flaws will be called out pretty quickly – maybe slightly more tactfully than how Cameroonians like to do - and I will chameleon right back. But I will offer a warning, if I was thought to have been slightly hippie-esque or too much like my penny-pinching Great Depression grandma before this…it might have gotten worse. Also, I know now that I want to own a small farm-type place with lots of animals, plots of fresh grown food, have a barn workshop where I can do lots of money making do-it-yourself projects, and live happily ever after. Or I shall own a tiny adorable camper that sets up in a different driveway every month. Either option seems pretty plausible for my re-American life, right? Agreed. Until then though, I'll be busy carpe diem'ing in Cameroon.
Maroua, Extreme-North, Cameroon
Spiced Mangoes, Maroua, Extreme-North, Cameroon
