In my tiny village, the market (marché) happens every eight days and I try to make an appearance each time just to get my name and face out there, even though it’s pretty slim pickings in terms of actual food available. Usually though, I can at least get a few tomatoes, onions, and dry rice/beans. My other staples (eggs, bread, packet of tomato paste), I get at the one and only shop (boutique) in the center of the village. Meanwhile, I stock up on fruits/veggies when I visit larger towns. I’m trying new items when I see them, too, like passion fruit, “cherries” (fruit the size and shape of a strawberry that you cut the tip off of and then squeeze the red liquid in your mouth “comme le sang” [like blood]), and "ground cherries" (a tangy berry found inside what looks like a dried, papery squash blossom), though have passed on the other exotic finds like snake or giant rabbit.
My adventures in the kitchen have included various soups, a white bean salad, eggplant “chili”, faux alfredo, honey bread, roasted soybeans, and oatmeal fry pan “cookies” that ended up being more like sugary clusters of granola. I shared the Nutter Butters I had received in a care package with the nurse and pharmacist at my health center. It was a comical time to explain the name (they were pronouncing it “Neuter Beuter”), and they seemed appropriately appalled at the lengthy ingredient list. I also made chocolate-chip cookies which contributed to a minor breakthrough at the health center after endless days of sitting in silence. Perhaps it was low using food as bribery to initiate conversation, but it broke the ice and we were able to discuss not only medical issues but also review a rough translation of my job description. The nurse and lab technician complained that the cookies were somehow both too sugary and too salty, but they each ended up eating two, so I gave them the recipe nonetheless and tried not to take it personally.
In part for my mental health and in part to work off the excess carbs, I’ve been going for runs and opting to walk to neighboring villages whenever possible. This, combined with the dry season, managed to wreck havoc on my feet (mes pieds). I knew I had to do something about it when two village “mamas” finally pointed out my dry, dirty, and cracked soles. Needless to say I spent the better part of an hour scrubbing with a brush, filing away with a pumice stone, and treating myself to a bit of nail polish on the little piggies so as to appear more presentable to the public.
A few of us from the same training group (stage) were able to get together in Bafoussam while they visited to do their banking. I can’t complain about my travels (when compared to their 12-14 hour voyage!), though on that day my journey was particularly humorous. On my moto ride in the morning, I realized too late that the skirt I was wearing was a tad too scandalously short for such transportation. Essentially becoming a mini-skirt while straddling the seat, the matter was made worse when we stopped to pick up…wait for it…the village Protestant pastor. Shifting forward a bit more to accommodate the added passenger, my skirt hiked up further as I became sandwiched between my moto man and the holy man of God. Luckily, it was fairly early in the morning so only a few people witnessed the sight of my pasty white thighs flashing the village countryside. Oh, and on my return trip back to Bapa, I shared a taxi with an angry pig who became so anxious he decided to defecate…
Before I arrived, the Books for Cameroon committee had established libraries (bibliothèques) in my region, so I inherited four libraries in and around my village, which I’ve since visited. Only two are actually functional yet, but the progress is exciting nonetheless. Books are very rare in this country, and the larger issue of how one encourages a culture to READ for FUN remains, but there is promise. I’ve also taken to occasionally sitting on a rock near the center of the village to read. I get a lot of stares, and sometimes people come up to question exactly what I’m doing, but it’s not a bad reputation to have. The Chief’s brother and I even struck up a nice conversation after he asked if I was going “my usual spot” one afternoon. Speaking of making connections with the village leaders: During site visit I had met the Chief’s wife but was reintroduced to her again recently. As we sat at the health center and chatted, she informed me that she is one of the Chief’s five wives and that, since I’m single and living alone here in Bapa, I should become wife number six! As much fun as that sounds (hey, Hugh Heffner and the girls at the Playboy mansion have a reality show, right?), I declined and said that I’m married to my work.
