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!

“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 26^th at the mall or department stores redeeming gift cards or exchanging presents are jealous, right?

My 27^th 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.

“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

Pictures

Health PCTs on a field-trip to a local clinic.

                                                     

The regional capital of the West, Bafoussam.  Also where I do my banking...

...just a "quick" half-hour walk, 10-minute moto ride, and 45 minutes in a taxi with 7+ people and a chicken/baby/branch of plantains to get there!

Herd of cattle that passed through the center of town on swearing-in day.

Some newly official Health PCVs!!!

Moving to post

"Two weeks and I'm here in the same place / The same rhythm for most of my life"

The transition from health care provider to health care educator has been a somewhat difficult one for my antsy gotta’-do-something personality.  In the States, I was certified to start IVs, administer cardiac medications, intubate, etc.; here, I’m qualified to give a lecture on malaria or the importance of hand washing.  Such is the work of international development, but the hands-off methodology and the fact that for three months I’ve been in the classroom setting felt somewhat passive.  I was glad, then, that my first week in village included an end of the year Vaccination Campaign with the Health Center.  Day one was at the center, and it was encouraging to see dozens of mothers bring their babies.  The next few days the campaign continued en brousse (literally, “in the bush”/in the middle of nowhere).  There are 6 quartiers (areas/neighborhoods) in Bapa, and within a month I will have hopefully figured out their exact locations in relation to one another.  For now, we split into teams and took motos to different destinations.  Occasionally, for example at schools, we saw groups of children.  Mostly though, we just walked and walked along ruggedly hilly terrain, searching for kids whom we could administer Vitamin A (good for eye health) and/or Mebendazole (for worms).  Needless to say, there were quite a few children, which meant a lot of hiking in a skirt for yours truly.  

There are approximately 250 languages in Cameroon, as many people speak a particular patois.  I’ve had a few informal language lessons to learn some Bapa phrases (yup, the name of the village is the same as the maternal tongue), though it’s difficult as it resembles neither English nor French, yet similarly has its own set of rules.

I feel like I’m getting into a groove at home.  It’s starting to feel – dare I say – normal?  I’m loving having control over my meals.  I finally got the opportunity to prepare Cameroonian couscous the way I believe it is intended – lightly seared in a bit of oil with spicy piment pepper – like polenta.  As good as it was, I fear I may not be able to go back to eating it in its original mushy form.

I eat a banana or two for breakfast, pack my lunch (never has spreadable cheese, lettuce, tomato, and onion between crusty bread tasted so good!), and usually spend more time making dinner than it takes to consume it.  Nevertheless, it’s comforting to sit on my steps and snip green beans, or listen to music while cutting up vegetables for spaghetti sauce (the radio blaring within the compound seems to alternate between Cameroonian political talk radio and American classics like Whitney Houston, Brittney Spears, and Boys II Men).  For now, the children in my compound are content to hang off the bars of my windows, peering in at my every move while repeatedly attempting to say my name.  I often feel like a zoo animal, but I’m hoping the fascination wears off…          

I’m currently cat-sitting for a neighboring PCV (neighboring in the sense that my door to hers is a two-hour walk!).  It’s nice to have this built into my weekly To Do list since there’s a lot of downtime.  I also had to return to the regional capital, Bafoussam, to take care of protocol (meeting with officials…or at least dropping off the formal letter of introduction) and run errands.  I got some much-needed supplies for my place and it was great to catch up with another new volunteer in the West.  Not even the chicken in the taxi pooping on my market bag on the return trip could dampen my mood!

"I left all my friends at the morning bus stop / Shaking their heads"

On December 1st, before the US Ambassador to Cameroon, the Peace Corps Country Director, and various other dignitaries, I swore-in as a Peace Corps Volunteer!  It was so great to be surrounded by the 47 other newly-official volunteers, everyone able to be there despite sickness.  We all wore the same fabric and had new outfits made for the occasion, and it was fun to see what each person ended up wearing: shirts, pants, skirts, dresses, kabas (think flowing muumuu), boubous (the male version of the flowing muumuu), vests, hoodies, and even overalls!  The event coincided with World AIDS Day, and it was a nice touch to be able to raise a bit of awareness at the same time.  After the ceremony, we each dined with our two sets of host families, and the party continued into the night for the volunteers.
The logistics of moving set in the next day, though I certainly can't complain given how relatively close my site is from where we trained (less than four hours).  A few of us spent the night at a hotel in the regional capital city, which was just what we needed to recharge from the chaos of traveling, banking, and bargaining for household basics at the large outdoor market.  The next day, I hired a private taxi to take me and my stuff directly to my house.  This was necessary considering my belongings now include: the two bags I brought with me from the States, a large footlocker (dozens of books care of the Peace Corps, miscellaneous paperwork, mosquito net), a water filter, bicycle, 2 helmets, tank of gas, small cook-stove (plaque a gaz), household items (buckets, cookpots, etc.)...  We bounced along at a pretty quick clip on the paved road - sadly hitting a stray dog along the way - and the dust clouds rolled as we turned onto the route for Bapa.  The driver sat while I unloaded everything myself, but the neighbor children quickly arrived to help carry it into my house.
Ah...my house.  When I first saw the place a few weeks ago during site visit, I'll admit that I was a bit worried.  However, a few people in the community have really worked together to transform it in a way that I think makes it a rival contender for Extreme Makeover: Home Edition should that show ever make its way to Africa.  Improvements continued this past week when the painter arrived and I contributed a fair amount of elbow grease myself, scrubbing all tile and wood surfaces.  No fancy cleansers or Swiffer sweepers here, just me on my hands and knees with a bucket of bleach water and a cut-up T-shirt.  People keep asking if everything is okay with the house, so I feel like the village has a real interest in my happiness and well-being.  If only they knew that I survived living in the Wilson Apartments for two years (Kenyonites, you know what I'm talking about...)!
My house is really more like an apartment, with two rooms and an attached bathroom.  I have electricity (fairly consistently, I'm led to believe), a toilet with running water (what?!), and an overhead shower (I had forgotten those even existed) and I'm very conscious and appreciative of these luxuries.  Thanks to the new paint job, I'm surrounded by pale blue walls, with gray-blue doors and windows.  The outside is white with purple trim (shout out to Kenyon College!) and faces a courtyard area.  I live in a compound, which adds extra security, though it does mean I have to knock every time I want in the gate.  There are A LOT of children, but they've at least been friendly.  Many of the children are Monique's, a woman who lives in the same compound and has been invaluable already.  From lending me a table and chairs for the first week to brining me impromptu meals or things from her garden, I already feel so blessed.
My body wasn't used to the cool temperatures at night, made even more apparent while sleeping on a thin inflatable pad on the cold tile floor.  I must have been quite the sight wearing three layers of clothing, a jacket, socks on my feet (& hands!), clutching my thin fleece blanket while shivering the first few nights.  I have a bed now, though, so all is better.  Plus, I put my stove together and can always cut up some ginger and enjoy a warm cup of tea or make some pseudo-hot chocolate when it gets a bit nippy.  Sometimes I have to stop and remind myself that I'm in Africa.  Luckily, the reality sinks in as I trudge up and down my mini-mountain to and from the health center and take in the stunning view.

Who am I to think I can go it alone? / We've been through some changes / Always seem to hold on / Forever my friend

Thanksgiving seems so long ago, but it's worth mentioning because of how fabulous the day turned out to be.  A week before, I took fabric (pagne/tissue) to the tailor in anticipation of being able to wear a new dress for the celebration.  This was an experience in and of itself because I had spent time writing up exactly what I wanted.  My inspiration was the Zac Posen dress Lauren Conrad is wearing on the cover of the October 2010 cover of Cosmpolitan magazine - only less risque (not as low-cut and definitely not as short)!  Hilarity was trying to explain these wishes, in French, to a male tailor who took my measurements in between eating a sandwich.  Despite this, the dress turned out pretty nice, and it happened to perfectly match the bracelet my first host sister had given me so I was able to accessorize - who would have guessed I could occasionally be more put together here than on an average day in the States?
A few of the trainees had been raising a turkey (dindon) behind the Peace Corps training center.  The morning of Thanksgiving, they killed/feathered/prepared/cooked it - a pretty impressive feat even if I didn't plan on eating any.  My host family also raises a turkey and I'm convinced that he knew what had happened to his comrade in feathers because when I returned home to make my dessert, he tried to attack me!  The large classroom was converted into a dining area complete with long tables so we could all eat together.  And what a FEAST we had despite limited supplies: mashed potatoes, bread, macaroni and cheese, corn bread, tamale pie, squash casserole, green beans with carrots, pasta salad, cranberry sauce, Skittles, sugary peanuts, corn on the cob, clementines, and my faux Key Lime pie.  Everyone was really generous with the care packages they had received from home.  It was wonderful to relax and enjoy everyone's company and, even though we're all away from our families, realize that we've become a new family.
The last few days of training were pretty low-key with a lot of downtime and final cultural celebrations.  I imagine very soon we'll look back to those days fondly for the time we were able to spend with friends before we embark on our individual assignments.