“Let me clear my throat, ah huh ah huh / … / Every step tango’d / Your beat don’t concern me / I’m eatin’ mangoes in Trinidad wit’ attorneys”

Having been in our communities for nearly 4 months, it was time for In-Service Training at the end of March.  For this, each of us was to invite a counterpart (homologue) – someone we anticipate working with on future projects – to the 4-day seminar.  Due to personnel issues within the Health Center, there was a fair amount of deliberation but I eventually decided to ask the nurse.  However, like most things in Cameroon, there was a bureaucratic process to make this happen.  After privately explaining to her why she was my choice, I was informed that I would have to discuss it with the president of some of the area health centers.  After arranging a meeting with him, he agreed with my selection, but said that I would need to clear it with the Chief of the Health Center.  This man cautiously agreed, but told me that, because she is a government employee, he would have to seek approval from the Sous-Prefet.  And, after all these hoops were cleared, there was still the fact that she needed to have permission from her husband!  Despite the obstacles, I'm happy with my selection and think we both benefited from attending the seminar together.      

The training was in the north so I decided to use the opportunity to explore a bit of the country afterwards.  First stop?  Yaounde, the capital of Cameroon.  Having only spent a frenzied day here upon my arrival in-country back in September, it was nice to explore a bit more.  The chaos I initially experienced is still there, but I find I’m almost non-plussed by it now.        

The overnight train from Yaounde to Ngaoundere was nicer than I expected, and having sleeper car (wagon-lit) accommodations for our group made for a relaxing evening.  Thankfully, the route only took the normal 14-15 hours (derailments are common and can leave you stranded in the middle of nowhere waiting for the other half of the train to return and reconnect). 

It was great seeing everyone again, catching up, and learning about one another’s respective posts.  In the back of my mind, it was strange to think that this would be the last time the group would be together before our Close of Service conference in late 2012.  Nevertheless, now was the time for living in the moment – and there were plenty of moments to be had.    

Cameroon is known to be incredibly diverse, but the Grand North felt like a completely different world.  From geography and climate to food and music, you can travel 10 kilometers in this country and see something new.  Although considerably hotter, I generally found the north to be calmer and more efficient.  (Though, when it’s 120 degrees, who has the energy to argue?)  Even bargaining at the outdoor markets was a pleasant experience.   (I still got ripped off, but at least I was able to joke around with the vendors.)  At first, I was unaccustomed to the heat – likening it to the feeling of someone constantly breathing on you – but I quickly adjusted and came to enjoy the opportunity to sleep outside at night.

Located in Ngaoundere - Karaoke bar...owned by Muslims...complete with laser lights and bubble machine.  (Which begs the question: Can it still be called a karaoke bar if they don't sell alcohol?)

  

Maroua is the northern most regional capital, and was a perfect vacation destination.  The city is beautiful, clean, and Cameroonian-cosmopolitan with tree-lined streets.  

Mangoes at the market.  Sooooo good...

  

A group of us arranged to see Waza, Cameroon’s national park.  While it didn’t turn out to be a full-blown safari experience (no elephants, hippos, or lions on this particular day), it was fun spotting giraffes, monkeys, warthogs, antelopes, and various birds.    

A few of us also decided to take in Rhumsiki, a traditional village that commercially caters to visitors.  Part of the journey to get there included doubling up on motos for an hour-and-a-half ride.  The combination of a far-too-bold driver, uncomfortable seat, and a rugged road left us sore and shaky on dismounting the bike, but the sunset views I witnessed along the way were jaw-dropping.  Our travel woes were soon forgotten as we indulged in a MAGNIFICENT dinner (who knew 6-course meals existed in Cameroon?) under the stars. 

Rhumsiki

All in all, my vacation was full of touristy attractions, but also gave me downtime to relax with friends. I’m so glad I had the opportunity to explore this country and better know my fellow volunteers.  We laughed harder than we have in months, consoled each other on personal and professional frustrations, and said goodbye to new acquaintances.   I immensely enjoyed the time off, and have an even greater appreciation for this country…but I’ll admit that it’s good to be back in village, too.     

“Readymade, readymade / Baby oughta celebrate / Readymade, readymade / And now it’s time to deviate”

I finally felt that I was starting to make progress in my community in terms of work during the month of March, though it was slow-going.  I conducted a lengthy facility survey at my health center, attempting to make it as comprehensive as possible, covering equipment, supplies, medications available, services offered, etc.  I also tried to attend a meeting with a community group, but in typical Cameroonian fashion, people didn’t show up.   Instead of just sitting and reading to bide time like I normally do, I whipped out my Leatherman tool and delved into the task at hand with the nearby group of women who were cleaning onions (les oignons) to get them ready for planting.  By the end of two hours, I reeked of onions, and my hands were filthy and bleeding a bit from the thin cuts of my sharp knife, but I think the village mamas were impressed by my skills.

International Women’s Day (Journée internationale de la femme) came and went and, although I had purchased a kaba (think muumuu meets circus tent) with the traditional print for the day, I didn’t end up going to any festivities as I needed to work on a lecture for the mothers who brought their children to the Health Center for the monthly vaccination day.  I presented on cholera (as well as the fecal-oral route of disease transmission and the general problems of a common water source) given that there was a minor “epidemic” reported in my region.   

A fairly typical scene here.  I'm hoping they got the point despite my abysmal attempt at drawing.

UNICEF estimates that 1 child every 30 seconds dies due to diarrheal disease.  Overall, I don't know if I've permanently changed any behavior, but at least a few people seemed intrigued by my "magic show" handwashing demo.  Try it at home if you'd like:  Sprinkle a bit of spice - cinnamon works really well - on a plate of water and say that it represents germs/bacteria/viruses/microbes/pathogens/feces.  Rinse your hands with water and then dip your finger in.  Nothing happens.  Now wash your hands with soap and dip your finger in.  The soap "CHASES" the germs away.  Fun for everybody!!!!

I’ve also started teaching English at a local elementary school once a week.  Despite not being a bilingual school, many already know the basics so we’re starting slow but I’m impressed thus far.  Lesson one was getting my name down, and that, while there are many variations, La Blanche (“the white”) is not one of them.  This has been quite successful as I now sometimes hear a teenager refer to me by that name and immediately hear a younger child correct them (“That’s not her name!  It’s Madame Charmayne!”)  The school is literally mud bricks, a chalkboard, and a few benches with the 25-or-so kids usually sharing a few individual slates and occasionally some paper and pens.  Even still, at the end of my first day teaching, they presented me with a tiny pineapple.  I nearly started crying…   

There are a few other projects in the planning stages but I don’t know if the funding will come through.

In news on the homefront, I now am the proud owner of a kitten (chaton).  I didn't really think I'd get one but decided the company was worth it.  (I somehow seem *more* crazy talking to myself than talking to a cat, right?)  Cardamom was the name the other PCV had given her and I decided to keep it as such since I’m missing chai tea these days.  She has already been pulling her weight by eating the large insects that invade the house.  I swear these wasps have exoskeletons made of titanium from the sounds they make as they hit my ceiling.  She'll eat them as long as I bat them down to the ground for her.  Gooooooo teamwork.  It's a good thing my life isn't being filmed.  Lamest.  Reality show.  Ever.  

Working on presentations is tiring

I'm enjoying having her though.  She's got such a big personality she cracks me up.  My first day as a "new parent" involved a long moto ride with her flipping out in the box I was clutching.  We arrived home to find the power was out in the village and she managed to burn her whiskers on my candle.  Nevertheless, she insisted on sleeping on me that night - as she has ever since - so I knew we'd be okay.  She goes a little nuts running laps around my bed within the confines of my protective mosquito net, but we're making do.     

My kitchen concoctions continue as I experiment making everything from lentil burgers and pancakes to chocolate cake and roasted soybeans.  Okay, and not to make everything about the cat but I've also learned she enjoys eating avocados and roasted soybeans so I'm officially raising a hippie.

I had the opportunity to go to a fellow PCVs village for a cultural festival.  Every two years, the chief of the village purifies the fields and the people to prepare for a good corn crop (apparently when done correctly, you don’t need to celebrate annually).  The day was complete with dancing, chicken plucking, goat beheading, palm wine sprinkling, and forehead henna benedictions.  It was a fantastic event and I’m so glad I got to participate.  In a strange Western Africa meets Western “development” moment, the chief also unveiled the village’s incredible new media center with multiple computers and high speed Internet access. 

 

In other strange moments, the St. Patty’s Day holiday was passed over without notice here.  Surprising, right?  Instead, I spent the 17^th discussing my general health with the Peace Corps Nurse who came to my post for routine site inspection, talking about the American tax system with the nurse at my health center, and playing soccer with the kids in my compound while I blared music by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.  All in all, I’m tackling sharing culture.   

"Boys will be strong / Boys soldier on / ... / So fathers, be good to your daughters"

In honor of the Youth Day (Journée de la Jeunesse) celebration that was held February 11^th, I’m devoting this entry to all things children (les enfants).

Many will find this to be shocking given my usual fear of kids.  To their credit though, it has been my instances with them that have helped me feel like I at least have a purpose here.  Kids tolerate my imperfect French, are eager to answer my questions, are unabashed with their curiosity, and are still impressionable.   

Planning for Youth Day required multiple, painfully long meetings at the chefferie and a lot of formality.  Each time, we couldn’t begin until everyone was in place, but that simple task took more time than I thought would ever be possible because people were very particular about where they sat.  The whole process was like musical chairs, and just when you got comfortable it was time to move to the left two seats or back one row.  Of course, not without first inspecting to make sure the chair isn’t dusty - despite the fact that someone has just moved from that spot.  I think many are appalled by my lack of care that my backside might get a little dirty.  I lost count of the number of committees formed but, as is the custom worldwide it seems, it was like pulling teeth to get volunteers for each committee (it’s nice to see this is universally frustrating).  Once this was figured out came a long discussion about what materials would actually be needed for the event, and a heated debate about exactly how much each constituent would pay.

The day of the festivities, I donned the new dress (une robe) I had had made for the occasion.  It’s a beautiful blue color with interesting white print and I had taken the tailor a picture of a flowy Louis Vitton dress as inspiration.  It didn’t quite turn out like the photo, but it’s an adequate representation.  I was invited to sit up front with the elites of the district (the Chief of Bapa, the Sous-Prefet, the Gendarme who served as the Sous-Prefet’s security detail for the day, various other dignitaries, etc.).  This was quite an honor, though I didn’t realize the responsibility that came with the seat.  As the various school groups performed songs/dances/skits, the notables were to occasionally get up and shower them with money.  My nearly empty wallet showed that I clearly was not prepared to “make it rain.” 

Okay, my heart isn't completely made of stone.  I can admit that this demonstration was adorable.

And then, there was the marching.  And more marching.  And even more marching.  Imagine hundreds of kids (already scary), marching together (militaristic), while chanting (anyone else sense a possible uprising?).   

The parade begins.  Multiply this photo several times with various colored uniforms and youth of increasing ages.

After the parade came the culminating soccer (football) match in a week-long playoff series.  It seemed like the entire village climbed the steep hill just to crowd along the edge of the rugged terrain and cheer for a side. 

And I thought I needed a cushion for "normal" stadium seats...  On Youth Day, this field was packed.

The equivalent of box seats.

Afterwards, there was a reception for the elites, those on the planning committee, and the local teachers.  Despite my mild frustration for the opportunities missed to actually encourage education, teach life skills/health principles, or discuss the advantages to investing in the youth, a bright spot was that I learned that a my chief has a pet(?) crocodile.

The Chief of Bapa (also known as, "His Majesty")

One very minor way I’ve contributed to my community was helping to weigh babies and record the results on individual growth charts during the monthly vaccination campaign at my health center.  No high tech equipment here – just plopping naked babies into the basket of a scale.  It’s reminiscent of grocery shopping in my former life, though I never had to try to get a reading as my produce cried and flailed about. 

In general, the kids in my village are usually either terrified of me or attempting to goad me with chants of La Blanche (the White), but luckily most of the children who live closest to me are polite enough to refer to me by name.  Although, “Charmayne” – despite being French in origin - is apparently very difficult for all to pronounce so if you come to my village, ask instead for “She-men”.

I’ve had the most interaction with the children who live in or around my concession.  I’ve given them a Slinky, made a toy out of a toilet paper tube, and provided the materials and supervision for the construction of a cardboard car (voiture).  Despite all this, they seem most content just to be invited into my house.  Whether watching me prepare dinner, looking at my photo album for the hundredth time, or examining my old magazines, they don’t seem bored by the repetitive monotony.  Critical thinking and general mental stimulation isn’t a top priority for parents or educators in Cameroon, so I try to make my time with them both fun and, occasionally, informative.  

Toilet paper tube toy.  Aren't I crafty?

The making of the cardboard car that put my toilet paper tube to shame.  Future engineer?

They are especially taken with a “talking” Hoops & Yoyo Hallmark card I received and love to open and close it over and over again, causing the endless background noise of the recorded “Hiiiiiiiiiii….HI HI HI HI….Helloooooo…How are youuuuuu???”  This never ceases to crack them up.  Of course, they’re also intrigued by the corner where I have my exercise mat.  I’ve ripped a few work-out techniques out of magazines, and they love emulating the various crunches, planks, punches, and sit-ups.  Sometimes though, they’ll up the ante and challenge each other to push-up contests on my tile floor.  It’s times like that that I’m glad I live within a compound and no outsiders can see the strange goings-on within my apartment. 

I was recently feeling generous so, against my better judgment, invited a group in not 30 minutes after I had washed my floors.  Sitting around munching roasted soybeans while looking at the National Geographics and a world map I had spread out on the floor, the toddler looks up at me and just starts peeing on the floor.  I can’t make this stuff up…

“It's bitter baby / And it's very sweet. / I'm on a rollercoaster / but I'm on my feet.”

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.