“I’m going to a town /Making my own way home / Ain’t gonna’ be alone / I’ve got a life to lead / …I’m so tired of America”

I’m not really tired of America, but I am getting more and more used to Africa.  After 5 weeks of living in the village, I switched home stay families and am now in a slightly more urban setting for the remaining weeks of training.  My new family is nice, and has a few more “luxuries” in terms of living conditions, but I was sad to leave my first family.  My final night in the village we were, fittingly, without electricity.  I gave a few gifts to the family: the highly popular Uno game, a vegetable peeler for my “mom,” erasers in the shape of cows (vaches) to the kids, nail polish for my host sisters, and a small American flag.  In addition, one of my host sisters is pregnant so I gave her baby clothes and a list of the top 10 American boy and girl names (originally I was asked to help with the naming of the child so I thought this was an alternative with less pressure).  In exchange, she gave me a bracelet and, I’ll admit, I nearly started crying by the touching gesture.

I spent last week on site-visit and am now eagerly anticipating my return in December as I think I’ve received an assignment that suits me very well.  I’m located in the West (l’ouest) region of Cameroon, a francophone province that’s quite mountainous.  The views are stunningly beautiful and I hope that I never get so used to them that they cease to amaze me during my two years.  We’re currently at the tail end of the rainy season so the climate was cool (who knew I’d be wearing fleece during the day and sleeping under a blanket in Africa?) and agriculturally, it’s a vegetarian’s dream. 

I stayed with a current PCV in the neighboring town, and she was a wonderful host.  We ate couscous (the kind I’m used to, not the Cameroonian version), humus, popcorn, lentil burgers, and *salad* (that’s right, arugula grows there!), made chocolate chip cookies over a cook stove, and drank fresh ginger and/or hibiscus tea.  It was delightful and I can’t wait to start living on my own and experimenting with the local produce.  

My village, Bapa, has about 4,000 inhabitants, but it’s a bit spread out so it will take a bit of time to get a real sense of the layout.  The health center is small, and only has four employees, but they seem like an enthusiastic group.

I suppose now is a great time to comment on some of the various transportation I’ve experienced recently.  To get to my site, we first took a van.  This was already an adventure in and of itself as we had only gotten a few kilometers from the training site when the driver decided to increase the price since we didn’t have enough people.  This outraged enough people that we turned around and waited while the details were negotiated.  Because the van wasn’t full, we accepted more passengers along the way.  In the end, there were 24 people in the van, and four goats tied to the roof of the van.  It’s a comical experience to be driving down the road while it rains in a crowded van that leaks, while baby goats (chevres) bleat overhead.  I recommend it…

From the regional capital, I take a taxi to get to a nearby town.  Taxis typically don’t leave until they’re full, and full is at a minimum 7 people, though often more.   You’re guaranteed to be cramped, and I’ve now had my legs fall asleep on more than one occasion.  Upon squeezing out of the taxi (made even more interesting when your feet are numbly asleep), it’s just a short motorcycle ride - or an hour and a half walk - to my house.  Riding a moto is a bit dangerous (a few trainees have already been burned by the exhaust pipe or been involved in minor accidents – our helmets are mandatory and I’m happy to comply having seen motorcycle accidents from my days on the fire department), but I love this form of travel.  I’m becoming very comfortable seeing my surroundings while bouncing along dirt roads…

"'Cause we shared the laughter and the pain / We even shared the tears / You're the only one, who really knew me at all"

     The last few weeks have been full of many personally-relevant experiences, but I'll start with lighthearted observations on food for an easy introduction.
     I had the opportunity to help prepare a lot of food when the chief of my village returned for the weekend and decided to throw a party (fete) for the Americans.  Because of the familial connection, my host mother, grand-mothers, and sisters were in charge of these meals.  In addition to cutting plantains to be deep-fried, I also helped remove the papery coverings from warm peanuts (arrachides) before grinding them for a sauce.  I've also been allowed to help make my own food a few times, too.  This was limited to basic tasks like cutting and grating vegetables, but I appreciated the gesture.  At times, my fingers moved quickly and the women seemed impressed.  Other times, I fumbled to do the seemingly familiar task because it was different in its actual execution.  Imagine, for example, cutting a tomato, in mid-air, with a dull knife.  These minor differences make routine processes a bit more challenging when you're used to the speed and convenience of chopping on a cutting board.    
     Food prep is such a process for this homestay family, but a labor of love.  Many times I knew shortcuts could have been made (for example, the additional time to cut and grate both onions and tomatoes for a dish when one way would have been sufficient), but weren't.  Food is taste-tested numerous times throughout and various ingredients added accordingly (another clove of garlic, a bit more basil, etc.) - a practice that I naively assumed wouldn't be done here.  My host family always seemed very concerned that what was being served met a certain standard.
     With all the talk of food, it's easy to forget the real problems facing this country, especially in regards to health, but it was quickly made apparent when I learned that my 4-month-old host sister was at the hospital for malaria (le paludisme).  Malaria is a parasitic disease that uses the mosquito as part of it's life cycle as well as the transport vehicle to infect humans.  Luckily, the baby and my host mother returned in a few days and everything was better, but the facts are staggering:

• 90% of malaria deaths occur in sub-Saharan Africa
• Every 30 seconds a child dies due to malaria
• 300-500 million people are infected every year

     There is much work to be done to combat this issue, and I'm eager to see what my role will be in the general education about this disease.
     I myself got to experience a Cameroonian hospital first-hand, when the bug bites on my legs became infected (not malaria, just a general skin infection).  Not only had my legs become human braille, but my feet and ankles were quite swollen, to the point that I had pitting edema that lasted more than 2 seconds.  Basically, I could poke my ankle (er..."cankles," at that point) and the indentation would stay.  Lovely, right?  When it got to the point where I could hear the fluid in my feet move when I walked and my calves were red and warm, I knew something needed done.
     The trip to the health center was definitely an adventure.  It was decided that each of the infected areas needed lanced open, drained, and cleaned.  That's right...each of them.  I'll spare you the exact details of the process, but I'll admit that I chose to chew my last stick of American gum during the procedure so I'd have something to bite down on.  But hey, I got a marriage proposal out of it!  Conversation as follows, translated from French:
        
         Man/Nurse?/Doctor?/Technician?/Random guy deemed qualified enough to operate the scissors?: (ripping layers of skin from my legs and adding a burning astringent) Easy, easy, don't move.
         Me (squirming): Easy for you to say!
         Man:  Where is your husband?
         Me:  I don't have a husband...but I have a very strong father.
         Man: I don't know what that has to do with anything.
         Me:  You don't want a woman with ugly mosquito-bite-infected wounds on her very white legs.
         Man:  If I were your husband, I'd help you take care of your wounds every night.
         Me:  ...
         Man: ... (some time passes as he begins to apply gauze and bandage my legs).  So, you're an American.  Do you know President Obama?

       It reads a little creepy, but he really was pretty good-natured and we were both able to get a laugh out of it - especially when I told him about having omelets the morning of the 2008 elections and calling them "Obama-lets."  I'm so glad this translates the same in French...  I'm hoping all awkward conversations like this in the future are alleviated by discussing American politics.  All in all, it wasn't nearly as traumatic as it sounds, and I'm doing better now that I'm on antibiotics and anti-inflammatories.
     In exciting news, I have also received my post assignment.  Beginning in December, I'll be spending the next two years working in...drum roll please...: Bapa!  It's a small village in the Western province of Cameroon and I'll be assigned to the Health Center there.  From everything I'm learning, it seems a perfect fit for me. I'm actually on site visit right now but will save those observations for the next post after I've had a chance to take it all in this week....

"I rode my bicycle past your window last night / ... /Don't go too fast but I go pretty far/.../Some say I done alright for a girl"

I'm now able to cruise in style thanks to my new mountain bike!  I'll admit that I haven't had much opportunity to use it (I need to purchase a backpack as opposed to a shoulder bag), but I'm looking forward to putting a good number of miles on it in the coming months.  I stupidly rode into the neighboring town during a rainstorm for Internet access this weekend.  The clay road - already treacherous and bumpy under ordinary conditions - became a slick, muddy mess.  It was mildly dangerous, but I'd do it again for the excitement of it all and the chance to get some much-needed Skype time in with a friend. 

It's amazing how many small things we take for granted in the States become such processes here, from obtaining water to doing laundry and making meals.  I'm lucky that my water situation isn't too bad all things considered...it just takes time.  I get my bathing and drinking water from a local well with a wheel that I turn by hand every morning.  I'm lucky that the Peace Corps supplies us with a 5-gallon filter so I'm able to treat a lot at once.  The water drips through this and is then ready to drink, though I'm encouraged to add 2 drops of bleach to every liter. 

Water for laundering, however, comes from a well that is several hundred yards away.  For now, I've chosen Sunday as laundry day as it allows me the opportunity to "sleep in" until 6:00am.  After trekking to the well and hand-dipping water out, I carry my water jug (bidon) back to the house and commence the time-intensive process of doing laundry.  Doing laundry was actually one of the chores I most enjoyed in America.  Here, I'm not so much a fan...  Everything gets washed by hand, rubbed together in a particular fashion and scrubbed with a brush when needed.  Then, it is rinsed similarly, rung out, and hung up on cables around the homestead (I hang my unmentionables around my room rather than having every village member have the opportunity to see my bras and undies.)  Despite it being quite hot here, things take a long time to dry because of the humidity.  It's important to either iron everything or wait 3 days after the clothes are dry to wear them.  This is because the mango fly apparently likes to lay her eggs in wet clothes, and the larva can unknowingly burrow into your skin if you wear them.  Fun, right?

The cooking adventures continue, albeit with more carbohydrates and oil than I plan on having when I'm on my own. There must have been a memo that went out to all the host families that Americans like rice, omelettes, and spaghetti, as we seem to all be getting a lot of these dinners.  Neither are quite like I'm used to in the States, but they're still pretty tasty.  Occasionally, my host mom will combine the ideas and scramble an egg with the spaghetti.  It's sort of like fried rice, and I can't complain.

We've been to a few health centers (centre de sante), of varying size, type, and condition.  All have been enough to convince us that it's in our best interest to avoid getting sick, though.  (And especially to avoid getting pregnant after seeing one Delivery Room...yikes.)

The scenery is still amazingly jaw-dropping.  I literally stood in awe of the stars one night while the power was out and we were making dinner around the fire.  My host family thought I was strange, but it was an impressively clear night and it nearly took my breath away.  Without getting too over-the-top, I tried to explain that these were the same stars my family and friends see and it was a way to feel connected.  Enough philosophical mother-earth hippie observations for now...(But I would encourage you to look at the stars this week...I'll be doing the same.)  

"Putting all the vegetables away / That you bought at the [grocery store] today / It goes fast / You think of the past"

Training is going okay, though the entire experience is intense and can be overwhelming at times.  On top of everything else, there's the fishbowl effect that we're new, different, and unlike anything many Cameroonians have seen in person.  Whenever we go somewhere, it's not uncommon to hear either shouts or murmurs of "Les blanches" (the whites)!  It's a little crazy to be watched all the time, but so far people have been friendly and welcoming. 
My comrades and I all comment on how out of control our moods seem on a day-to-day basis.  It's hard to feel like you're bipolar, going from one emotional extreme to another, but at the same time, nice to know that others are feeling the exact same way.  You start to learn your own coping mechanisms for the bad days.  For me, this means retreating to my room, listening to music, reading a bit (in English!), and occasionally eating the peanut butter sandwich crackers I brought and am carefully rationing.  It's amazing what that 180-calorie snack can do for my mental health!
In other food news, I'm pretty content.  Most days, for breakfast I either have coffee (I wasn't a coffee drinker in the U.S. but don't think it's worth causing a fuss over for 5 weeks) and a piece of bread, or my new favorite: beans and beignets.  Those who are familiar with New Orleans know that a beignet is essentially a doughnut.  These beignets are fried dough, sans the powdered sugar you'd get at Cafe du Monde in NOLA.  Add one of these greasy balls of goodness to a few kidney beans in the morning, and it sounds like a digestive nightmare...but I'm doing okay.  With this, I usually have bouille (pronounced "bwee") that I help make. It's essentially a bit of corn meal soaking in water that you add to more boiling water and keep stirring while adding several cubes of sugar.  The result is a papier-mache looking paste.  Appetizing, right?  While I don't think it will catch on at Starbucks any time soon, I'm coming to find some  comfort in it, and in my role as official "stirrer."
Lunch is usually rice and beans with pimante (an extremely spicy pepper mashed up with oil in a paste).  I LOVE spicy food, but I'll tell you right now that 1/8 teaspoon is all you need for a serving.  Along with this, there are miscellaneous cooked vegetables, (legumes). fried plantains, and occasionally I splurge and get an amazingly delicious piece of fresh pineapple (anana).
Dinner varies, so I'll try in some more posts to describe other dishes, but I'll start with a Cameroonian staple: cous cous de maize.  First off, it's nothing like the cous cous you're used to.  It's prepared by sifting handfuls of cornmeal into piles of dark yellow grits and light yellow powder.  This is then added to a large pot of boiling water and stirred with a giant stick in a particular way before it is scooped out in large gelatenous  portions.   Not the most flavorful thing in the world, but I tell myself it's like cornmeal mush as I dip it into the green side dish that accompanies it.
My integration into my host family has been fine, but very clearly aided by the game Uno.  Seriously Mattel, thank you.  Uno is a genious idea for foreigners as it allows you to play with a limited knowledge of the nuances of more complicated language.  If you can count to 9 and know the four basic colors, you're pretty much set.  Plus, I get to make exaggerate facial expressions, show off my awesome ability to shuffle a deck, and precariously build card houses.  The kids are pretty good about respecting my privacy, but they have started hanging outside my door not-so-subtly saying "Uno, Uno" when they want to play - and I usually oblige.
The other way I hang out with my family is to sit outside the cooking area (la cuisine) helping shell pistaches (not pistachios, but a flat white seed), cut vegetables, and just take in the experience and try to learn rustic cooking techniques for when I live on my own.  My host mom is a pretty good cook, despite preparation practices that would make most people shudder.  No modern conveniences here, folks.  Just two meals where all the meals are prepared over two fires.  It also serves as a storage space for the cooking pots/water/firewood and doubles as a home to the goat and her baby kid as well as several chickens.  I made the mistake of trying to shoo the chickens out one evening before someone told me, "The chicken sleeps here."  Obviously...
There is just so much to learn, it seems.  Language aside (1-4 hours of French class every day), there are development work practices, Cameroonian culture, the health system infrastructure, common diseases and prevention techniques, and the list goes on and on...
Okay, slowly but surely getting you up to speed on my first month in Africa.  More to come...

“Come on, Come on / Put your hands into the Fire / … / Pull up, Pull up / From one extreme to another”

(Again, sorry for the delay in posting – electricity was out for a few days which knocks out the Internet.  This should get you caught up to the first week of my life in Cameroon.)

          Anyone who knows me is aware that there are three things in this world that strike absolute fear in my heart – getting my picture taken, personal contact (i.e. hugging), and children.  I’m convinced that my homestay experience is an opportunity for me to confront these fears head on as there is no such thing as a “comfort zone” in Cameroon.  For the first 5 weeks, the health volunteers are in a rural setting and then we’ll switch with the agro volunteers for a semi-urban town.  I knew going in to my first homestay experience of PST that I had been placed with a large family – “14 members” the paper said.  During that first greeting to my village, however, it felt like 140 came to welcome me.    

          The first night, the electricity was out in the village (a common occurrence), so our fragmented introductions took place by lamplight on the front step.  As a side note, I completely bombed an attempt at shadow puppet entertainment for the kids.  Everyone seemed curious, from the dozens of questions about my family and my marital status (“Je suis celibetaire” to indicate that I’m not married), to the children touching my back, legs, and bare arms.

         I’ve tried to figure out a family tree (l’arbre genealogique) structure for the dozens of people at my house.  From what I can gather, I believe the grandfather - now deceased - was polygamous and the two “grandmas” of the house were his two wives.   I’ve shown pictures of my friends, family, home, and college, which they loved (they thought my female friends were beautiful and that the fire department guys were all married to me…so there was a lot of explaining to do).

          All things considered, my room is small but nice.  It has a separate door from the house so I solely control access and can come and go without disturbing others.  I’m getting used to taking a bucket bath, though.  Bath is somewhat  a misnomer as you never completely submerge yourself.  Rather, I fetch 2-3 gallons of water from the well (une forage) and carry it to the latrine where I douse myself cupful by cupful, attempting to lather in between.  At some moments, the utter silence and oneness I feel with nature is refreshing and exhilarating.  Other times, I long for the water pressure of a shower and the ability to actually feel clean.  The latrine in general is something that still takes a bit of mental fortitude to use every day – especially since there are at least 10 giant cockroaches and crickets that like to hang out there after dark. 

         I actually love sleeping under my mosquito net (les mousquitaire) at night.  There’s something comforting about feeling semi-protected as the buzzing goes on around you.    Plus, it doubles as a place to dry clothes so I sleep beneath my outstretched scarves.  Despite my affinity for normally sleeping in the fetal position, it’s quite hot at night so I find myself stretched out, reaching all four corners of the bed.

         Morning comes early since, even though I’d prefer to get up at 5:00, the roosters actually tend to start crowing a little after 4:30am.  Peace Corps Training takes up the bulk of the day, from 7:30am-4:30pm.  Our days are full of primarily lecture after lecture after lecture.  Everything is scheduled and well thought out though, with trainings ranging from intensive language study, safety, medical, cross-cultural, and specific technical knowledge.  We’ve also met various government officials, each interaction with its own set of cultural norms, traditions, and rules/regulations.  During an official meeting with the village chiefs, we presented gifts and were treated to a traditional dance.  My family is related to the chief of the village (le chef), though again, the general concept of family is different here and not always based on shared DNA.  After the formal event though, the celebration continued at my house, though it was striking to witness  the Westernization as the music changed from traditional drumming to Katy Perry. 

          Although life in the village (we call ourselves village people) has its quirks, you can definitely tell that we’re protected by a very caring community. 

Vaccinations received during the first week: Hepatitis A, Typhoid, Hepatitis B, Meningitis, and Rabies

Bug bite count:  Well beyond 50 on my legs

My next post will hopefully explain some of the food I’m eating (and making!) and general integration into my new family.

“For every daughter, every son / Of the last great American”

(Sorry for the delay in posting.  Our Internet access is limited at best - and spotty when available.  I'll try to get caught up soon.)

          Everyone in the Peace Corps tells you that the key to surviving service is patience and flexibility and our group got to experience that within 48 hours of coming together.  Due to an impromptu storm in New York, our flight was delayed enough that we missed our connection in Brussels and would not be able to fly into Yaounde (the capital of Cameroon) as expected.  Plans developed to have us stay overnight in Belgium, and fly out the next day to Douala (the largest city in Cameroon), instead. 

          The view from our descent was beautiful, but there wasn’t even a moment to process it as we were immediately welcomed upon stepping off the plane.  Even in the late afternoon, the African heat presses down on you and quickly turns your clothes into a moist second-skin of sorts.  Our first encounter with transportation here came in the form of a van/bus in which we managed to cram 30 people.  Doula is a fairly dangerous city in terms of crime and tourists are advised to stay away.  Luckily, the Peace Corps has the support of Cameroonian constituents and a police escort was arranged to block traffic and secure the premises of our hotel during our stay.  While I can appreciate the safety it provided, it brought even more attention on us as les americains were on display. 

          Loading and unloading luggage for 50 people is no small feat, but we eventually made it to our rooms.  (I’ll admit I felt guilty when my roommate and I were upgraded to a large suite after realizing that our initial room assignment had a broken air conditioner and toilet.)  Dinner and breakfast literally gave us a taste of the cuisine to come (fresh avocados, mango, watermelon, pineapple, and plantains to name a few). 

          In retrospect, the travel problems allowed us to better see the country, since we got to take the 4-hour bus-ride to Yaounde the next day.  From the urban areas to the minute villages and road-side stands between, it seems everyone is trying to sell something.  At our hotel, we were greeted with more machine-gun carrying security officers before venturing to the Peace Corps Office and transit house to meet staff and a few current volunteers.  At her invitation, we dined on a feast of local foods at the house of the PC Country Director (CD), amidst top staff and American officials.  I definitely won’t starve in Cameroon, and am trying to be conscious of my meals as this is a very carbohydrate-heavy diet (rice, potatoes, plantains, etc.) – especially for us vegetarians.  My “after-dinner” snack was Mefloquin, the anti-malarial medication I’ll be taking weekly for the next 27 months.  It’s known to have some interesting side-effects like vivid dreams and hallucinations, but the alternative is likely death from a preventable disease…so I’ll take my chances. 

          Although our group had spent a lot of time together by this point, we hadn’t really had a chance to do extensive introductions, but we did this on Monday and I’m so glad we did.  I feel honored to be surrounded by such interesting, passionate people.  Our education, work history, and life experiences are extremely varied, but we’re all joining together on this service adventure and will soon be not only a social network, but a temporary family.

          Traveling into downtown Yaounde to obtain our national identification cards at the police station was yet another reminder why I’m glad PCVs (Peace Corps Volunteers) aren’t allowed to drive.  There aren’t very many traffic signs to be found, let alone a stoplight.  Instead, cars, buses, trucks, motorbikes, and even pedestrians,  proceed at breakneck speeds, yelling and honking to signal turns/merging/frustration.  We also received a brief description of our host family for the next 5 ½ weeks before we set off for our 2-hour bus-ride to the training center where we’ll complete our Pre-Service Training (PST).  Our host families were waiting for us and it was yet another chaotic event matching trainees, families, luggage, and available bus seats.  It was a cramped, yet joyful, song-filled ride to our individual sites, and I couldn’t stop smiling by the emotion of it all.  Next time, a description of my host family (ma famille d’accueil) and my room (ma chambre).

“All my bags are packed I’m ready to go /… / ‘Cause I’m leaving on a jet plane”

My personal belongings from home for the next two years

Whew!  What a whirlwind these past two weeks have been.   When I found out in mid-June that I would be leaving in September, I envisioned having every detail taken care of weeks in advance and spending my last few days in the states leisurely enjoying time with family and friends.  As it turns out though, my pace ended up being a bit more frenetic than the ideal.  From taking care of financial matters, to selling my car, to shopping for and purchasing last minute items, my life seems to have been an endless amount of To Do lists.  All in all though, I’m feeling confident that whatever I forgot to pack or do will be minor.   Unfortunately, amid this chaos came the news that my aunt (my mother’s sister) passed away suddenly and unexpectedly.  As you can imagine, this really shook our family and I’m praying that all who knew her are given peace during this loss.

After an ‘all-nighter’ packing experience in which I considered and reconsidered every item that went into my  suddenly-much-too-small bags, I was off to Philadelphia.  Yesterday was full of paperwork and other administrative details, including various requisite icebreakers and sessions on goals/missions/expectations.  There sure are a lot of us in this group – 50 PCTs (Peace Corps Trainees) at this point, split pretty evenly between Agro-Forestry and Health initiatives.  This morning we were all up early to trudge to the health clinic for the first of many vaccinations (today: Yellow Fever), then we boarded our charter buses to New York.  Two hours later, I had made it through check-in (total checked baggage = 66 lbs…potentially a record low?!).  I’m currently at JFK awaiting our departure to Cameroon, via Brussels.  We’re all a little physically and emotionally drained at this point so I envision a low-key red-eye flight for the first leg of our trip. 

My next post will be from Africa!...though it may be a few weeks.  Wish me luck!