"'Cause we shared the laughter and the pain / We even shared the tears / You're the only one, who really knew me at all"

     The last few weeks have been full of many personally-relevant experiences, but I'll start with lighthearted observations on food for an easy introduction.
     I had the opportunity to help prepare a lot of food when the chief of my village returned for the weekend and decided to throw a party (fete) for the Americans.  Because of the familial connection, my host mother, grand-mothers, and sisters were in charge of these meals.  In addition to cutting plantains to be deep-fried, I also helped remove the papery coverings from warm peanuts (arrachides) before grinding them for a sauce.  I've also been allowed to help make my own food a few times, too.  This was limited to basic tasks like cutting and grating vegetables, but I appreciated the gesture.  At times, my fingers moved quickly and the women seemed impressed.  Other times, I fumbled to do the seemingly familiar task because it was different in its actual execution.  Imagine, for example, cutting a tomato, in mid-air, with a dull knife.  These minor differences make routine processes a bit more challenging when you're used to the speed and convenience of chopping on a cutting board.    
     Food prep is such a process for this homestay family, but a labor of love.  Many times I knew shortcuts could have been made (for example, the additional time to cut and grate both onions and tomatoes for a dish when one way would have been sufficient), but weren't.  Food is taste-tested numerous times throughout and various ingredients added accordingly (another clove of garlic, a bit more basil, etc.) - a practice that I naively assumed wouldn't be done here.  My host family always seemed very concerned that what was being served met a certain standard.
     With all the talk of food, it's easy to forget the real problems facing this country, especially in regards to health, but it was quickly made apparent when I learned that my 4-month-old host sister was at the hospital for malaria (le paludisme).  Malaria is a parasitic disease that uses the mosquito as part of it's life cycle as well as the transport vehicle to infect humans.  Luckily, the baby and my host mother returned in a few days and everything was better, but the facts are staggering:

• 90% of malaria deaths occur in sub-Saharan Africa
• Every 30 seconds a child dies due to malaria
• 300-500 million people are infected every year

     There is much work to be done to combat this issue, and I'm eager to see what my role will be in the general education about this disease.
     I myself got to experience a Cameroonian hospital first-hand, when the bug bites on my legs became infected (not malaria, just a general skin infection).  Not only had my legs become human braille, but my feet and ankles were quite swollen, to the point that I had pitting edema that lasted more than 2 seconds.  Basically, I could poke my ankle (er..."cankles," at that point) and the indentation would stay.  Lovely, right?  When it got to the point where I could hear the fluid in my feet move when I walked and my calves were red and warm, I knew something needed done.
     The trip to the health center was definitely an adventure.  It was decided that each of the infected areas needed lanced open, drained, and cleaned.  That's right...each of them.  I'll spare you the exact details of the process, but I'll admit that I chose to chew my last stick of American gum during the procedure so I'd have something to bite down on.  But hey, I got a marriage proposal out of it!  Conversation as follows, translated from French:
        
         Man/Nurse?/Doctor?/Technician?/Random guy deemed qualified enough to operate the scissors?: (ripping layers of skin from my legs and adding a burning astringent) Easy, easy, don't move.
         Me (squirming): Easy for you to say!
         Man:  Where is your husband?
         Me:  I don't have a husband...but I have a very strong father.
         Man: I don't know what that has to do with anything.
         Me:  You don't want a woman with ugly mosquito-bite-infected wounds on her very white legs.
         Man:  If I were your husband, I'd help you take care of your wounds every night.
         Me:  ...
         Man: ... (some time passes as he begins to apply gauze and bandage my legs).  So, you're an American.  Do you know President Obama?

       It reads a little creepy, but he really was pretty good-natured and we were both able to get a laugh out of it - especially when I told him about having omelets the morning of the 2008 elections and calling them "Obama-lets."  I'm so glad this translates the same in French...  I'm hoping all awkward conversations like this in the future are alleviated by discussing American politics.  All in all, it wasn't nearly as traumatic as it sounds, and I'm doing better now that I'm on antibiotics and anti-inflammatories.
     In exciting news, I have also received my post assignment.  Beginning in December, I'll be spending the next two years working in...drum roll please...: Bapa!  It's a small village in the Western province of Cameroon and I'll be assigned to the Health Center there.  From everything I'm learning, it seems a perfect fit for me. I'm actually on site visit right now but will save those observations for the next post after I've had a chance to take it all in this week....