Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Pictures

A few of you have been asking to see my place.  Voila! 
View from the veranda next door.  This picture doesn't even do it justice...Absolutely beautiful...

Exterior of my apartment
Courtyard of the compound.  The bars covering the window openings are for my security as well as giving the children something to hold onto as they climb the wall to peer in and watch me.



Entry room (before)

Entry room (after): Library/pantry/kitchen/dining room/living room
Entry room (before): The kid isn't a permanent fixture.
Entry room (after)

Bedroom (before)


Bedroom (after) - Very appreciative of the door to the bathroom 






Speaking of the bathroom...indoor flush toilet + running water = POSH CORPS!!!
Bedroom (before)

Bedroom (after) - I did away with the "loveseat" in favor of an "office"
I told you it was an impressive renovation!

Thursday, January 13, 2011

“Beautiful boys on a beautiful dance floor”


Between Christmas and New Years - and general Welcome to the Village gifts - I’ve received the following: bananas, green beans, carrots, beets, piment peppers, a pineapple, a macabo and a potat (roots/tubers similar to a potato), traditional Cameroonian meals, and the occasional free moto ride.
As a way of sharing culture, I’ve given the following: Jolly Ranchers, chewing gum, homemade banana bread, fresh out of the cookstove zucchini bread…and candy canes to the moto drivers.  If the general impression is that Americans have a sweet tooth, I’m not doing my part to dissuade anybody! 

The holidays in general were such a culturally different, yet fantastic, celebration.

The morning of Christmas Eve started with me inviting the kids who live in my compound over to my house.  We chatted about the differences between seasons in Cameroon and in the United States, and then made paper snowflakes.  They seemed somewhat terrified at the description of winter/snow (l’hiver/la neige), but happily cut up paper while eating freshly popped popcorn from the kettle.  After giving gifts to a few people in my village (cookies purchased from the supermarket in the capital city or giant pineapples) in the afternoon, I had the evening to myself.  I snipped and steamed green beans and made tomato soup from scratch (Christmas colors!).  Soon after enjoying my meal, the power went out – fittingly.  This meant that I began opening my gift from my former colleagues in the Office of Admissions by the warm glow of candlelight and the soft sounds of Christmas carols played over my battery-powered speakers.  While I know I was missed from my family’s festivities back in the States (and I had my own feelings of nostalgia, of course), can I admit that there was something quite wonderful about my peaceful evening of solitude and reflection?  Instead of feeling lonely – and you certainly run that risk when you spend a Holiday alone – I was filled with a sense of gratitude for all the people in my life who love and support me.  It was an emotional moment and I found myself alternating between laughing at humorous items included in my care package and crying at the general thoughtfulness of the gesture and by how blessed I am in general.  I nearly blew out my candle…

Christmas morning, I finished opening my box of goodies while eating cookies, drinking hot chocolate, and reflecting on how truly bizarre my life in Africa is.  In the afternoon, a few volunteers in the West region came together for a delightful meal of onion dip and crackers, gnocchi with pesto, lentil stew, zucchini bread, and bread pudding.  Our stomachs full, we proceeded to watch a movie (Santa Clause 2…not quite a classic holiday film, but fitting for the day) and didn’t even mind when the power went out just before bed.  Upon returning to my village full of Christmas cheer the next day, a boy headed to the weekly market pulled a giant dead rat out of the bag he was carrying and offered to sell it to me.  Those of you who spent the 26th at the mall or department stores redeeming gift cards or exchanging presents are jealous, right?

My 27th birthday came and went in anonymity, primarily because I didn’t tell anyone here.  Cameroonians don’t really celebrate birthdays, and I’ve never been one to really want to acknowledge the day in a big way, so it was mutually agreeable.  Instead, I put some bananas, trail mix (from my American gift), and a bottle of water in a backpack, lathered on sunscreen, and went for a bike ride to explore the area surrounding my village.  Because it’s the dry season, the paths are even more slick due to the dust (la poussière).  This, combined with my generally being out of shape for rugged bike riding on hills (les collines) and my potentially faulty brakes, made for an interesting spectacle as I huffed and puffed up each hill, and careened at a break-neck pace down the other side.  Needless to say, the people in the neighboring village were amused by the sight and I just prayed my introduction to the town wouldn’t be me flying over my handlebars and smearing my face on the path.  I survived the day’s trip though, and had a thin layer of red dirt covering me to show for it.  Perhaps in a display of a birthday miracle, the water coming out of my shower head that night was “almost” lukewarm.

What Cameroonians DO like to celebrate, is the new year.  For New Years Eve (le trente et un de decembre), the other new health volunteer in my region came over and we had a Mexican feast.  Chipotle has nothing on the creatively tasty burritos we made: flour tortillas (courtesy of my care package); rice flavored with spicy pepper and lime; beans seasoned with garlic, onions, and chili powder; and guacamole complete with fresh avocado, tomatoes, onions, lemon and lime.  After 8pm, we went into the center of my village for the celebration.  I had been told there would be skits and dancing by the children, but it turned out to be more like a fraternity party – male dominated, drinking, dancing, and a blacklight.  Of course, it became an “only in Cameroon” moment when I noticed that there was a live chicken sitting in front of the pulsating strobe light in the corner.  I can only imagine what trauma this did to the chicken.  After hanging at this establishment for a bit, Marcelle and I moved to the “VIP room” of a boutique for a respite from the deafening noise.  Because I had been told that it could get somewhat raucous as the hours wore on, we shared a chilly moto ride back to my house, returning just before midnight.  Warm popcorn and hot chocolate were definitely in order to ring in 2011.

On New Years Day (le premier de janvier), we enjoyed pancakes for breakfast before my friend departed and I went to the nurse’s house.  She had invited me over for a traditional meal of taro and yellow sauce (sauce jaune).  Taro, as it turns out, is like a cousin to cous cous de manioc: a paste-looking, snot-tasting, sticky cousin that you eat with your hands.  You dip this in the sauce (which had pieces of pork floating in it – one of the rare occasions people eat meat) and shove it in your mouth in large handfuls, licking your fingers delightfully.  At least, this is what you’re supposed to do.  I took tiny chunks, and faked a smile as best as I could during the ordeal in which my formerly vegetarian ways went out the window in the name of integration and desperation.  The children then treated us to a dance off (I was glad I had brought the Jolly Ranchers for prizes).  As a reward to myself for “surviving” the meal, I returned to my house and ate an entire small pineapple for dinner…and it was glorious.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

“I am 32 flavors and then some / And I’m beyond your peripheral vision / So you might want to turn your head / ‘Cause someday you are gonna’ get hungry / And eat most of the words that you said”

           I’ve been doing a lot of sitting at the Health Center (Centre de Santé).  This is what I’m supposed to do.  Just sit, be present, integrate, and observe.  Still, it feels foreign to me and I’m realizing that I’m more impatient - especially with myself - than I originally thought.  I usually bring a book to read, or French exercises to practice, but also find myself writing detailed To Do lists (describing exactly what I’m going to make for dinner or reminding myself to wash my dishes and my laundry…as if I’m going to walk through my door and suddenly forget these things).  It’s a very American concept of needing to have every hour accounted for to feel productive…if only to yourself.  The Health Center isn’t exactly a busy place, but I try to talk every now and then to the occasional patient or visitor who arrives.  This is how I received a prediction that my life may be in danger.
If it is deemed necessary for someone to be put in one of the health center’s rooms (the equivalent to being ‘admitted’ to a room in the States - without all that paperwork getting in the way), they get an uncomfortable cot, but no sense of round-the-clock care.  In fact, the patient’s family/friends are responsible for bathing them, washing their clothes, and even providing meals.  One boy, no more than 8 years old, accompanied his grandmother who was “visiting” a relative, and had spent several hours there.  He noticed that I was chewing gum and became very adamant that I give him the gum that was in my mouth so he could throw it out.  I thought there might be a language misunderstanding so kept asking him to repeat it.  He proceeded to tell me that if I accidentally swallowed my chewing gum, I would in fact, die.  I’ve heard of a few health myths in Cameroon (dirty mangoes cause malaria, condom use doesn’t protect against AIDS, etc.), but this was a first.  I explained that I wasn’t going to spit my gum in his hand, and that I wasn’t planning on swallowing my gum - but if I did, I would indeed live.  So perhaps I’m doing some health education after all… 
I attended a medicinal plants presentation organized by an Agro-forestry volunteer in the West.  Even though I contributed minimally (briefly talking on typhoid), it was quite interesting.  Despite being only a few hours away, it was even drier there, and walking on the dirt paths produced a poof of red dust with each step.  The dry season means that everything is covered with a thin layer of red-orange dirt, including my skin.  Each night when I remove my sandals and scrub my feet I play the exciting game of “Dirty or Tan-line?”  [As an aside, I passed through the regional capital on my return to my village and discovered a great bakery/pastry shop (boulangerie/pâtisserie) with a soft serve ice cream machine in front.  This could be a downfall for my monthly banking trip there…]
Sadly, I also learned of the death of the 16-year-old niece of Monique, the woman in my compound.  The details surrounding her mysterious illness and subsequent death are a little confusing, so I’m not exactly sure of the cause.  Either way, she was brought here to Bapa for burial and I was invited to attend the funeral.  While the ceremony was a bit different than in the States, much was the same…and I can attest that grief is a powerfully universal emotion. 
On a more positive note, my place is starting to feel more “home-y.”  Keeping everything clean helps, and I somewhat look forward to my weekly routine of washing the floors.  I went to bed with a big smile the day I scrubbed the bedframe, covered the mattress in fabric, and finally threw on a blanket.  Snuggling under the covers has a way of making everything cozy.  For meals, some days I get ambitious and create flavorful dishes like rice with fresh ginger and peanut sauce.  Other nights, I fry up some zucchini, pop some popcorn in my kettle, and call it a night.

Next post: Christmas/Birthday/New Years celebrations