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

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly, The Beautiful: December, a Not-So-Short Recap

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 27^th 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!

Grand Merci

Thanksgiving 2011

Back home, driving along the interstate over the Atchafalaya Basin could either be one of my favorite drives with its striking postcard-esque views of cypress trees and john boats against a beautiful South Louisiana sunset, or it could be one of the most painful drives -- where I could be trapped for hours and hours in a car with no way out. Once, I sat on the hood of my car for hours waiting for an ambulance to arrive - 20 feet from me in the opposite lane laid a man who was just killed in a motorcycle accident while at the same time and only a few hundred yards ahead a car had caught fire and was sending a black smoke geyser into the air. I was running out of gas. And I was pretty sure I was going to pee myself. Peace Corps life can sometimes – sometimes on a daily basis – bring on those same feelings of helplessness and complete frustration with things like the incredible amount of corruption that passes as an acceptable part of life, with the slow ‘development’, and with my own fickle motivation. But like those calming sunset drives across the Basin, without those other gross distractions and when I've looked around, life here is beautiful. And this past weekend, I celebrated Thanksgiving in Africa. I have had a lot to be thankful for during these past six months in Cameroon.

So like we do around the dinner table back home and like we did on Thanksgiving in Africa, I want to say a few things I’m thankful for… my little-big sister, Rebek, who’s become my personal secretary back home and doesn’t complain about it (too much), for having a Cameroonian prince host me for an American holiday and share a bonfire and fruits from his garden called ‘Love in a Cage,’ for climbing mountains a few hours from me that have volcanic Crater Lakes and small African tribes living atop them, for spending my next birthday at a black sanded beach and then climbing to the highest mountain peak in West Africa on Christmas, for whole grilled fish - eyes and all - and African prunes, for all of my super-duper talented and beautiful brothers and sisters, for text messages from some great Peace Corps friends that say things like ‘I’ll be waiting with a cold 33 and a flask of whiskey,’ let’s go midnite bowling,’ ‘you are my hero,’ and ‘thanksgiving at the prince’s treehouse,’ for pictures of my ridiculously cute nieces, for Cameroonians and their patience with me, for phone calls and letters from the fam and friends, for my Papi’s emails, for coffee and chicory, for big lizards and baby goats, and for the Peace Corps and for two out of its three principal "Goals" being about cultural exchange and learning. Grand merci.

(Having too much alone time makes me a little sentimental. Sorry.)

Three of my community host's children - Donnie, Grace, and Mona - at his home in Njombe. They're little cuties.

O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?

I’m one of those weird morning people -- it's typically my more productive time. Ask my siblings, it’s hard for me to function past 8 pm (yes, yes - one of my many old lady attributes; if you need to borrow a fanny pack, let me know). But being here in Cameroon and without having a super structured work schedule, I’ve come to cherish my mornings – actually, becoming slightly possessive of them. After ignoring the roosters and my neighbors' rumblings for a couple of hours (they start getting up around 4ish), I get up, put my imported coffee and chicory in my French press, make oatmeal with fresh plantains or papaya, do a little reading, and listen to my music way too loud – the latter being very Cameroonian and thus I feel it vital to my “integration.” I do everything slowly. And I like it that way.

Here, knocking on someone’s door before 7 am is totally acceptable. However, tiny rays of rage shoot throughout my entire body when I hear the door being pounded upon and someone yelling my name. (I didn't say I was a cheery morning person.) Usually, it’s just my community host coming to “greet” me or my landlady’s 13 year old son asking for water bill money. Today, it was my Romeo.

With sleep still in my eyes, greasy-faced, braless, and agitated that there was a stranger knocking at 6:40 am, I opened my door. His name really was Roméo (even his gold necklace verified it). He flipped out his ID card to identify himself -- like an FBI agent would. And he wanted me to be his Juliet. I was completely confused. I briefly meet a lot of people here – walking down the road, at the market, in the traveling vans – and it’s hard to remember everyone. Often times too, Cameroonians will act like as if we’ve met before – usually I'm pretty sure they’ve just confused me with another white person they previously and fleetingly encountered, but I just go with it (in case, we actually have met). I try to follow this guy’s French. Little luck. He tells me he’s from Yaoundé (the capitol) and is here for a few days – I can tell by his nice clothes and spiffy appearance that he’s not from Njombé. He saw me up by the main road yesterday, inquired my name from the governmental research office I was visiting (so nice of them to give it out), and then asked enough people in order to find my house. He tells me he has a problem with his heart. I tell him I have a fiancée -- I should know by now that this doesn’t stop a Cameroonian man in his wooing efforts. He tells me it’s God’s plan for us to be together. God never tells me anything. He needs my number and email address and he also wants to take me for a drink after my meetings (for a person who has painstakingly few meetings, I often have lots of “work” and “meetings” during these types of conversations). I tell him I don't currently have a phone number. He wants to buy me a phone. I tell him to give me his number. (Sidenote: If you give a Cameroonian guy your number, he will call. Constantly. Not important if you don’t answer. They’ll just keep trying for weeks and weeks and weeks.)

Cultural differences. That’s what I’m here to learn, right?

Roméo was a nice looking fella and probably more educated than most men I run into in my Cameroonian town. Why not go get a beer with him? I like good looking guys. I like beer. I like good looking guys who pay for beer. It really is tempting… but, at least today, I won't. Because I'm learning that the most important thing for the majority of Cameroonian men is to find themselves an okay/acceptable woman in order to achieve their most important goal – to make themselves immortal through whatever number of children they can possibly achieve...and, I'm just not ready for all that. Oh yeah, and also because many Cameroonian men think they have (and do) the final say in the relationship; the men are the "chiefs" by way of African tradition and modern religious understandings - Christian and Muslim. They are the naturally superior sex. (Yes, yes, I'm clearly generalizing Cameroonian men.)

I’m 26 and childless. That’s a bit of a Cameroonian faux pas, and it's a really difficult and strange notion for many here to swallow that I’m not trying to have children in the next year. I must not be quite right in the head. (umm, that follow-up commentary was unnecessary!) But then again, depending on what circles you run-in in the U.S. of America, the sentiments on marriage and children aren’t all that different. Pick-up lines, acceptable calling hours, acceptable number of times to call, and the more candid go-getter mentality might be a bit different here in Cameroon, but really, in this instance, American and Cameroonian cultures aren’t all that different. Everyone’s still searching for his or her Romeo or Juliet.

But, I just don’t think today was my day to be Juliet.

Maybe if he had waited for me to have coffee first...

(And for all of you who think I just blew my chance at ever getting married - don't worry. Fortunately for me, love at-first-sight is prevalent in Cameroon! I'll get plenty more professions of love and marriage proposals. In fact, I'm betting at least one more by day's end. )

Photo Above: A palm oil fabricating area that I came across the other morning on a leisurely walk in Njombe. It's a very manual and labor intensive process, but palm oil is a staple in Cameroon. This part of the country has beautiful dark volcanic soil.

Conversations from Home

The internet in Njombe doesn’t work well or often, but on rare, beautiful occasions, and after doing a certain tribal dance and putting my computer into an exact, random location du jour, I can get enough network to get my internet key to function. Today, not only did it work, but I was able to get a group chat going (an unknown possibility to me before today) with three of my siblings! Having four Harveys in one tiny instant interwebal exchange was just too good. And thus, my week was improved tenfold.

I was trying to fill Seth, Rebek, and Gabo in on the daily tedium of my African life – still no work to report. Within this last month, truly, very little has happened. (Well, except for the Cameroonian Presidential Election which is a big deal - predictable results are to be announced later this month; but, this has had no big effect on my daily living.) I’m sure they too were bored. Catching up on their lives was much more fun…twin baby nieces now smiling, Penn PhD classes with tweed jackets and Mid-Atlantic apple tosses, homemade blueberry cobblers baking, an improved “Lucky Dime” logo, LSU Tigers winning. News from home really warms the cockles of my tiny cold heart. Not that I need any more warming here – and speaking of which, I’m a little frightened of dry (hot(ter)) season that is soon approaching. No, being from Louisiana doesn't make me sweat less or decrease my body’s temperature.

Anyway, what the conversation also did was remind me of how good I have it right now. Despite my days of current restlessness and feelings of unproductiveness, despite the daily killing and removal of dozens of tiny millipedes from my house, despite the foot-long lizards and New Orleans-sized cockroaches that dictate when I use my outside latrine and shower, despite living in a small town in which everyone thinks I’m French and part of the unloved, underpaying big fruit exporter that employs most of them, despite the constant rooster cries outside my bedroom window, I know I’m lucky. How many jobs require that you live in a culture completely different from your own and do just that – live? Live within a community, become part of it, and then, in time, figure out how you can contribute in some sort of positive way to it. I’ll eventually be able to communicate semi-ok. I’ll eventually start “working.” Ca va allez. More things will start happening. And, that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself. For now at least.

So, I will continue to enjoy the little extraordinary things like learning about Cameroonian witchcraft/sorcery (a prevalent part of its belief system), eating “prunes” (a delightful fatty little purple vegetable, not found in the US, that tastes like a perfect blend of olives, eggplant, and artichoke hearts) and extremely fresh pineapple, having my Halloween costume custom-made by a tailor, shooing the neighbor’s adorable baby goat or obnoxious chickens out of my house, and taking “bucket baths” under the warm Njombe sun.

And like my ‘ole Papi (or Thomas Fuller and/or Francis Quarles), I’ll hope that there will be no “abused patience turning to fury.”

A few highlights of my day’s conversation:

• [after telling my siblings about some of my current movie/episode watching] Gabriel: Ask not what you can do for your country; ask how many different seasons of your favorite shows you can watch.

• [after telling them about some of the local foods eaten, which included a delicious peanut sauce and, separately, large rats; the following is, of course, to be read in a Cajun French accent] Seth: Oooooh cher, put some o'dat sauce piquant on de old farm rat...ooooeeeee!

• [talking about future plans] Rebekah: I watched a story about gangs today and i was thinking that we should start our own; you and Gabo could design all of the tattoos that we will have to get. Blood In, Blood Out.

• Me: this was lots of fun for me! Gabriel: You are a dork. Who likes talking to their siblings? [their lonely American-African sister, obviously]

(a love note which I received in a package from my siblings)

Little Things

**Warning: This post is long. And boring. And, like all of my posts, written for the sole benefit of my Papi.

Things are going slowly for me in Njombe. Very slowly. But, that’s what PC tells you that you’re supposed to expect when opening a new post (and unable to actually communicate much of anything with your new community). So currently, much of my time is spent walking around aimlessly (pretending it’s not aimless) in Njombe and hanging around in my house (in which the only furniture l possess is a bed - the carpenter is supposedly having difficulties buying wood) where I read, wash dishes and laundry outside under the sun, listen to music, and watch time disappear. I’m really good at the latter. It rains a lot, electricity goes in and out, and the internet key I bought for my home doesn’t get network. So, I have nothing to report in terms of actual work. I’m feeling mostly unproductive but definitely not without a few small victories – like finding a dish rack or getting a package from my siblings that has a flask of gin inside. It’s the little things. And they make life good.

A few unrequested little things from my life at the moment:

Traveling -

I think I’ve mentioned before how crazy Cameroonian travel is. It’s simply impressive. Almost all vehicles are Toyota made (with a decent number of Mercedes-Benz about). Most car taxis are Corollas – think though a Toyota Camry found in the U.S. from 1982. That’s been in 6 major accidents. Last week, I rode in one that had 9 grown adults and 2 children inside. Oh, and they are all stick shift. You don’t want to be the “petit chauffer.” The bigger bush taxis are mainly vans – not too much bigger than a standard American minivan. 22 people. Sure. To catch one of these vans, just stand by the side of the road and yell out the town you want to go to. If they happen to be headed that way, they’ll stop, and you’ll squeeze in. Somehow. Oh and there’s probably enough baggage/transportables to fill another van by themselves on top of your moving vehicle.

But so far – despite almost every time having to sit in another adult’s lap (practically), holding a child (not mine), or physically getting bruised because of how squished I am into a “seat” -- I haven’t gotten tired of traveling in Cameroon. Because it usually means I get to take in the Cameroonian countryside – which really is stunning and a good reminder of how lucky I was to end up here. It’s also another chance to really take in Cameroonians and life here. For instance, how do you go to the bathroom when traveling? Get out (possibly crawl out the window) and pop a squat. No, don’t go far. Convenient stores may not abound but who needs convenient stores when anytime you pass through a town dozens of children and “mamas” come to the van windows selling you their edibles. Grilled corn, peanuts, oranges, legumes, beignets, escargots on a stick…so many options. (It’s the kind of convenience that we Americans love.) If you’re by the window, help your neighbor who is stuck in the middle and make a purchase for them. It’s good karma. Traveling salesmen still exist, too. They’ll jump on your bus and loudly give their pitch for their goods. Nonstop – well, at least until the next town where they will descend in search of their next moving platform. It doesn't seem to bother anyone. (By the way, they’re not always unsuccessful in their peddling efforts.)

Last week, I was headed to the next town up. (Important side note –“Cameroonian time” is very different from “American time.” Starting something at 10 a.m. may actually mean starting at 12:00 p.m. A trip from Njombe to Bangante may take 3.5 hours or it might take 6 hours. It just depends. Although it can be extremely frustrating at times, you deal with it. What else can you do?) So there I am - pilled 20 people deep into a bush taxi van heading to Nkongsamba, and the “chauffer” is taking his time talking to a possible passenger on the side of the road. Another Cameroonian sitting in the back yells (yelling at one another is normal communication) at the driver to hurry up. He doesn’t have all day. Right after that, the possible passenger who the chauffer had been talking with gets in the van (and without seeing me) and says in French to the person in the back “What? Are you an American?!” Then he notices me. And we both smile. Who wouldn’t like traveling in Cameroon? It’s always an adventure.

And I didn’t even mention motos (motorcycles) – my favorite and most common mode of transportation.

Marbles and Tires -

Cameroonians like Shakira, Justin Beiber, and Chris Brown. They have billboards for the iPhone 4 along the highways. If a blaring TV isn’t on in a Cameroonian living room or bar, something’s wrong. And although they may not eat it (lack of cheese), most know what pizza is. The world is a tiny marketplace. And that’s why I can’t help smile when I (regularly) see, Cameroonian kids playing a fierce game of marbles or pushing (chasing) old tires down the middle of the road with sticks. Some things never get old.

Shopping -

Njombe is a small town so it’s difficult to find a lot of things here (including bananas – and I literally live next to what I think is the largest banana exporter/plantation in West Africa). I’ve been tired of waiting on the carpenter for chairs to be made and I’m tired of sitting on my bed. So two weeks ago, I head a couple hours north to a bigger town called Nknogsamba in search of plastic lawn chairs and other big city amenities – like metal scrubby brushes and foam pillows (and no, not like TempurPedic). I was successful in finding my chairs, but either the merchant was giving me “white man” prices or the plastic chairs really were that expensive (haggling prices is the norm), but either way, I didn’t want to pay that much for plastic lawn chairs. I was worn out. Shopping has that effect on me. So, I left Nkongsamba without buying anything I needed.

That is except for a bottle of whisky. I found that. Or it found me. And we haven’t minded sitting on the floor together…

Salt and Traps –

I’m a light sleeper and typically I hear what’s going on during the night. To put it simply, it sucks. But, I guess, on occasion, it comes in handy. The other night, around 4am, I heard my locks rattling on my backdoor (about 4 feet from my bedroom door). Shit. Someone was trying to break in. I laid there and willed this burglar to go away. But maybe after 10 minutes of that strategy proving ineffective and still hearing the locks being messed with, I got my phone out (which has a handy-dandy flashlight on it), put my house flops on, and stood up to go investigate (to do what exactly, not really sure). I turned the corner and pointed my phone’s light at the backdoor. I jumped a good 2 feet back (no screams, though). There my perpetrator stood. He ran at me. He was about 2.5 inches long and furry.

Mice are loud. And destructive. This one was chewing through my door. After a day of unsuccessfully chasing the invader out of my house with a broom, I’ve decided to take it to the next level – salt and traps – in that order. My friend Eriika, another PCV, told me that if you put salt around crevices and door entrances, mice will stay away. So I’ve done that – salt now lines the edges of everything. However, I’m not sure if she hasn’t confused mice with evil spirits and am wondering if the pentagram of salt in the middle of the kitchen was necessary. (Eriika also told me “Salt and Traps” could be the name of our girls’ R&B group…hmm.) I really want the salt to work. The realities of trap lying really don’t intrigue me. Not in this instance, anyway.

Cocoa beans drying in Njombe.

My community host, Daniel, in Njombe

Fermenting cocoa beans, goats, and Cameroonian kids in Njombe

My hallway - where I sit and do most everything.

My kitchen. Working on getting a table...

I Swear...

(The newest Small Enterprise Development Peace Corps Volunteers of Cameroon)

So, yesterday after nearly three months of training, my 42 fellow staige-mates and I, all in our matching pagne*, took our official oath and became real-life Peace Corps Volunteers. I’m pretty sure that was my first time ever raising my right hand and swearing an oath. It felt fairly strange -- mostly because of the little unexpected pangs of patriotism it brought with it. I said good-bye to my gracious host-family, and with our 7:00 curfew finally lifted, I celebrated with the other newest Cameroonian PCVs for our final night together in Good Times Bafia.

Today, I am in Bafoussam – a town in the West Region several hours north of my village of Njombe – staying in a PC Volunteer transit-house (my fellow volunteers who are also here are currently making “pizza sandwiches” which is a really big deal and I’m super stoked). Not sure how much (if any) internet access I will have once I get to village, so I wanted to go ahead and get one more post up – it might be a while until the next one. The next few months will definitely be pretty interesting (…and by interesting, I mostly mean challenging). We are encouraged not to do “work” when we first get to post, but rather we should just get to know our community and the people in it (and for me, continue French learning). It’s definitely going to be a lot of work.

My African life, then, really begins now. And with daunting realities like only knowing sub-par French, the lack of having any American friend close by, opening a new post, having an outdoor latrine, and the feeling that I don’t really know what I’m doing all lingering over me, I don’t feel like I’m ready. But, then again, I’m a little ready – at least ready for all the new things I will be learning and for those adventures that surely will be responsible for bringing that much needed education.

Maybe my next post, after being in my new home, will be more interesting and have a little more substance – maybe. Can’t make too many promises. But, one last thing (and actually most importantly) – I am now Tantie Elizabeth!! Mary and Louise came two weeks ago (good job Katie). I’m glad to be in Africa, but really, really wish I could be with these beautiful baby girls. But until I can, Seth and Katie are going to make up cool stories about Tantie Elizabeth to tell them, and Uncle Gabriel and Aunt Rebekah are going to send photos of the babies to me all the time. Right?? Right??

*Pagne is the fabric that many Africans use to make their traditional clothes – comes in all sorts of colors and patterns. And in Cameroon, it is customary for groups to wear matching pagne for special events or occasions. Yes, we are aware our 50th Anniversary pagne is not attractive. And another side note, even though you can have custom-made pagne clothes, the end product isn’t necessarily what you wanted. But, you just got to roll with it.

The Superlative Committee Chair(wo)men & "Real Good" People

Gathering before swearing-in

Some of my Bafian host-family -- Constantia, my host-sister on the far left, was especially good to me

Tidbits

Don’t have too much to report this week, but I thought I might just add some interesting little cultural differences/observations that I have become (quickly) accustomed:

- Hide & Go Seek – a universal children’s pastime, right? Right. However, in Cameroon sometimes the child “seeking” carries a knife and chases. Don’t worry though; all knives in Cameroon are extra dull.

- Don’t leave the house without your…machete. Don’t let them scare you. Everyone carries one. (Agriculture contributes to about 80% of Cameroonian’s workforce – and machetes are a must for the field.)

- Is that a 10 year old getting your beer (and running the entire establishment)? Yes. Kids in Cameroon are resilient, and they start early with hard work. Probably a lot of adult Americans would complain about the same workload these babes do (I would). I’m not sure of the exact percentage, but the majority of Cameroon’s population is under 25.

- Need to get somewhere quick, but a little out of walking distance? Grab a moto. Although, Cameroonian motorcycles aren’t typically made for more than two passengers…why not try five? More than doable here.

- “La blanche, la blanche” – that’s me. If I didn’t know any better, I might get offended by being called “la blanche” as if it was my given name, but it Cameroon, using physical attributes to describe a person (like white, skinny, fat, etc.) isn’t really seen as rude. Cameroonians don’t have that same American sensitivity.

- Don’t smell food before you eat it. That is rude.

- Saying “bon appetite” before/while someone is eating is the polite thing to do. Every time.

- When opening a bank account at your local bank, you may be asked to draw a map to your house. (There aren’t many addresses in Cameroon.)

- Mercie Moser wouldn’t survive the cockroaches here.

- Need to carry something, but your hands are full and you have no backpack? No problem. Put it on your head. Really – whatever it is: a giant log, a huge stack of wood, shoes, a large dish of eggs or peanuts, pineapples... Cameroonians have an amazing talent (and strong necks) for carrying whatever they need perfectly balanced atop their heads. It’s something I would like to learn, but I’m not sure if the time has passed for me or not (they start super early).

- Right hand only, please. If it’s dirty, extend your right arm.

- Cameroonians like to state or ask really obvious things, such as “you’ve arrived?” or “you’re eating?” Picking up on that while learning French makes things more fun.

- Peeing in a small hole is difficult, but I am pretty sure I will have super strong leg muscles after two years.

These awesome lizards are everywhere - don't know their scientific names, but we like to call them "the push-up lizards" -- that's exactly what they do.

A view from a village in the West Region - very beautiful there - only a few hours north of where I will be posted