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.
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