"We, we lost it all again, / till everything came back again. / Floating in, floating in, floating in, floating in"

It’s been a bit of a rough month.  At the end of July, I was heading from my regional capital to the town where the newest group of Peace Corps Volunteers was training.   Like typical travel goes, I was squished into a van/bus with about 30 other people.  When you travel in this country, at any point you slow or stop, there are usually vendors by the side of the road trying to sell something - so people run alongside the vehicle with pineapples/passion fruit/bags of peanuts/etc.  We were on a flat stretch of road and came up on a stopped van where just that scene was happening.  A boy about 10 years old ran out in front of the stopped van into the path of our vehicle which hit and ran over him, killing him instantly.  It was truly a complete accident but that didn't make it any less tragic.  Everyone got out of our vehicle, including a handful of children who also unfortunately bore witness to the incident. 

My background as a paramedic only reinforced the truth that, although I knew the protocol of what steps to take, I was utterly helpless to actually do anything.  While the scene wasn’t completely unfamiliar in a clinical sense, my training was absolutely futile since there weren’t any resources, supplies, trained team members, or even the infrastructure to delay  the inevitable of cleaning him up and pronouncing him dead in a hospital somewhere after.  

Instead, what appeared to be the entire village turned out and amid the pained wailing, the body was moved to his nearby mud house.  Plans were immediately made for the wake as well as the construction of a speed bump (a bag of cement and containers of water suddenly appeared for the latter).  It was as if I was in a horrible dream sequence and everything was somewhat blurry - like my surroundings had somehow sped up while I remained stationery.  To their credit though, I was impressed by the level of professionalism of the gendarmes (essentially police officers) and the company operating the vehicle we were traveling in.  I eventually made it to my destination shaky and emotionally raw, left with the irony that I was there to teach First Aid to the newest trainees (stagiaires). 

It was just another senseless occurrence in Cameroon that left me jarred to my core as my mind continues to reflect on the whole thing.  Growing up on a farm, I had an intellectual knowledge of death from an early age and could balance my emotional grief with the factual circle of life.  As an occupational byproduct of working in the EMS field, my exposure to death and dying was more frequent than the average person’s, and I came to even further diminish a need to mourn loss.  Even when I was personally affected by the end of someone’s life, I struggled to have the same outward reaction as others.

But this incident has been different.  I think about the countless “what ifs” of that day.  I get a bit anxious with every swerve, sway, and bump while riding in a taxi or van now.  And, perhaps most lingering, I can picture each instant of the moments before and after the accident with such clarity that it causes a lump to form in my throat if I allow my mind to settle on it.  My senses surrounding it were unnaturally heightened, making it painful from every angle – sound, sight, smell, and touch. 

With each day I’m getting better and more able to distance myself, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget…and, as odd as it is to say, perhaps that’s a good thing.  I had become a bit complacent in my attitude towards Cameroon – unsure what the point of development was, frustrated by the obstacles, and wondering where I fit into the whole picture.  Although I still feel like the work I do here is so small compared to the needs, I can fight towards the goal of an improved health system overall.

 
In the meantime, I’m grateful for the support of my friends both here and back home, and have appreciated the ability to deal with it on my own while reaching out to someone willing to lend an ear when I needed it.  Thanks again.            

"I don't mean to seem like I care about material things / Like our social stats / I just want four walls and adobe slats"

To celebrate America’s Independence Day, a few of us took a quick vacation to the Southwest region, an English-speaking (anglophone) province.  Getting there ended up being more interesting than even the normally amusing travel.  I was making the journey with a friend, but we struggled to reach a consensus even among Cameroonians on the best way to get to Buea, the regional capital.  I had been informed by a few people that there was a bus service that went directly from Bafoussam to Buea.  However, no such place existed when we arrived at the general area we were told.  After a few confusing conversations, we arranged to be picked up by a bus that happened to be passing through.  After waiting a few hours, we were suddenly whisked away in a taxi to go to the intersection (carrefour) where this exchange was to take place.  When it started raining our “handlers” proposed an impromptu solution – they recognized a man who was driving by in a private car.  As luck would have it, he was driving right to Buea and would be glad to take us.  I’ll admit, climbing into a stranger’s car could be dangerous, but in retrospect, it was a fantastic decision.  As it turns out, he is originally from the Southwest region but is currently working on his PhD in Biochemistry in Finland!  Not only did we not have to be crammed in a van with dozens of other people, but we were able to whiz right through official check-points and enjoyed a fascinating conversation the whole time!                   

After seeing a bit of Buea, we made our way to Limbe, a tourist town primarily because of the water-front geography.  There, we ate delicious food at a restaurant within a gorilla preserve. 

Nothing like eating crepes while watching primates!

Because it isn’t really peak season, we basically had the beaches (les plages) to ourselves.  I can’t imagine a more perfect way to spend the 4^th in a foreign country than alternating between swimming in the Atlantic Ocean and relaxing on the isolated black sand beach.  It was simple, yet gorgeous, and the day ended with dinner under the stars among friends followed by an American dance party.     

 

 

Food update:  The rainy season is well under way which makes Bapa even colder.  In a bizarre comparison to those of you stateside who are suffering an unbearable heat wave, I’m making a nightly cup of tea or homemade hot chocolate before snuggling under the bed covers.  The weather is also lending itself to various “comfort foods” lately: quiche à la cookstove, honey bread, and an endless mélange of beans with vegetables for a sort of vegetarian chili.

On the “work” front, I’ve been attending various neighborhood (quartier) meetings in the hopes of identifying the needs (les besoins) of my village.  Unfortunately, we’ve hit a wall with distinguishing between needs and wants, and I’m now faced trying to explain why establishing electrical lines is not a priority of mine…and I certainly don’t have 12,000,000CFA (approximately $24,000USD) to start that discussion. 

I did compile a rather comprehensive survey for the members of my Health Committee to complete, though.  At a hefty 10 pages single-spaced, it covered everything from the Health Center, Mother-Child Health, education, HIV/AIDS, economic improvements, and general community development.  For their time, I promised a party at my house (une fête chez-moi).  Actually, I was sure not to use the word party, calling it a gathering (rassemblement) instead so the expectations wouldn’t be too high.  Hosting an event for a dozen or so adult Cameroonians was a bit more stressful than I originally thought, but it turned out okay in the end.  Of course, there were some minor hitches: the awkwardness while sitting around my living room at first, the onslaught of a rain storm so intense I had water coming in under my door, the power being knocked out and the room being even darker when we closed the window to keep the rain out.  After the storm had let up a bit and people were on their way making trudge back to their respective homes, I was exhausted and had slick muddy floors, but felt good about the day.

Celebrations are a big deal here though, and mine paled in comparison to the shin-dig my landlord threw for friends and family.  During the school break (congé), it’s customary for students who live in the larger cities to visit and experience village life for a bit – and vice versa.  My normally quiet and empty concession soon became home to 25+ children for two weeks.  Then, overnight, the courtyard transformed into an array of tables, plastic chairs, buffet tables, and tent awnings so accommodate a hundred or so guests.  Sometimes it’s hard to believe I’m in Africa when these Western scenes happen…  The mother in my compound was responsible for feeding everyone during this time, so was busy morning, noon, and night preparing, serving, and cleaning up after each meal.  It was an incredible amount of work for which she got very little sleep and not enough thanks, so I made her a zucchini cake once the last guest had left.      

“It's alright to be little bitty/A little hometown or a big old city/Might as well share, might as well smile/Life goes on for a little bitty while”

As always, a quick shout-out on food:  Having acquired some almond extract in this country, I successfully made (and ate far too many) almond cookies.  I’ve also tried an interesting treat they only sell in the anglophone regions - Scotch eggs.  I have no idea how the name originated and, while they’re alcohol-free, I think they could be marketed as an ideal hangover food.   Step 1: Peel the shells off of boiled eggs.  Step 2:  Dip the whole, intact egg into thick beignet batter.  Step 3:  Deep-fry.  These can be served as is, hot or cold…though I prefer warm with a bit of spicy piment pepper sauce.  They’re fattening, filling, and oh-so-good.    

I’ve been exploring my region a bit more and greatly enjoyed a hike with friends to the rock formations in Baham.  The town also boasts a fantastic museum and it was very interesting to learn a bit more about the history, culture, and traditions of the Bamilike people.

At the end of June, I went to Yaounde for a workshop on Sexual Harassment in a Cross-Cultural Context.  As always, travel was a blend of amusing and annoying as the other passengers refused to open the windows on the bus.  There are usually two trains of thought for this strange habit:  some are certain that they’ll get the flu (la grippe) if they breathe too much outside air, others are afraid of evil spirits entering the vehicle.  So instead, we sit squished together breathing warm stagnant air and ironically, sharing our germs.  Nevermind the fact that whatever “spirits” managed to enter are also now trapped with us – but I digress…

The workshop was informative, as were the conversations I was able to have beforehand with Cameroonians regarding the topic.  While I’m thankful I haven’t had too many overt instances of sexual harassment, it’s unfortunately a problem many volunteers face.  It was enlightening getting the opinions and insight from host country nationals about perceptions and interactions between males and females, and the associated bystander intervention training was also useful.

Because I was in the country capital, I managed to get myself invited to the “event of the year” at the US Embassy.  This party was highlighting the Peace Corps since we’re celebrating 50 years of service worldwide, so many staff members and other volunteers were in attendance.  Being within the perimeter of the Embassy is like entering a wormhole that dumps you into another world though.  The culture shock began at the security check-point body scanner.  Even more jarring than the mechanical innovation was the basic concept of standing in a line – something unfamiliar to most of us at this point.  After all, at the bank, the post office, or the neighborhood boutique, it’s usually just a push and shove system of elbowing your way to the front and crowding around with the others who have done the same.  Needless to say, I think we surprised the guard a bit as we rushed the contraption as a mass crowd and all threw our possessions into the same gray plastic container instead of following the one-at-a-time procedure.  Eventually, we were deemed safe to enter (despite our uncivilized approach) – though opening the glass door to the compound only made me feel even more villageoise.  With perfectly manicured lawns, a pool, and a gently sloping golf course in the distance, I suddenly felt very aware of just how far-removed I was from my normal day-to-day life in village.  Nevertheless, it was nice to escape into the fantasy for the night and mingle with people while nibbling on appetizers that were being carried on trays by Cameroonian waiters wearing red-white-and-blue Uncle Sam hats.  After the Ambassador gave a speech, the music started and we PCVs “earned out keep” by performing a hastily practiced “flash mob” dance routine.  It was a great evening, but I was ready for a more informal get-together.  Good thing the 4^th of July was just around the corner…        

How many acres, how much light / Tucked in the woods and out of sight / Talk to the neighbours and tip my cap / On a little road barely on the map

Recently, a few of us were tasked with cleaning the home of a fellow volunteer in the West who had decided at the beginning of the year to terminate her service early.  It was a strange feeling to go through someone else’s place item by item, but there certainly was a lot to find…including an extensive family of mice.  In the end, I walked away with quite a few items for my house.  I was lucky to receive a second mattress, a table, and a living room set of bamboo furniture.  These were delivered in two trips – the first on the roof and trunk of a car and the second with miscellaneous items (including a large loveseat) strapped to the back of motos.   After a little elbow grease and some bleach water, they are like new.    

I may change the fabric, but it already makes the place more homey.

    

I was especially glad to have the furniture (meubles) when three other PCVs spent the night chez-moi a few weeks ago.  To think that I had been making due with a tiny table and a floor mat seems ridiculous now, as the new set-up is much more conducive to having visitors.  It was great showing off a little bit of Bapa, and we commented on just how varied the West is as a region.  Plus, as is the custom with PCV get-togethers, we ate well (guacamole for an appetizer, rice cakes and curried lentils for dinner, and mango cake for dessert) and had fun laughing, listening to music, and playing games.

Cameroonians have a few basic “sauces” that they serve with various dishes – among them, peanut (sauce d'arachides) and tomato (sauce tomate).  The youngest child in my concession told me that he was going to make me dinner (be still my heart - a man who cooks!), so together we attempted to create a rice dish with a mixture of tomatoes, tomato paste, onions, garlic, and a few spices.  In the end, I’m not sure it was either riz américain  (if such a thing even exists) or riz camerounais, but it was enjoyed nonetheless.  My culinary adventures with the kids continued one day as not all of them were into coloring with the crayons I had given.  Thus, the youngest ones helped me make banana bread…which we call banana cake (gâteau des bananes)  because it really isn’t like bread that they’re used to.  We had fun mashing bananas and watching the masterpiece come together – eventually culminating in the chance for them to present their family with the creation.      

As the school year came to an end, we had our last English class at the primary school.  After the final lesson, I was truly touched as each kid came forward and presented me with a gift.  In total, this meant 40+ avocados, a bunch of plantains, literally a limb of bananas, a dozen or so passion fruits, and even a pen.   I tried reciprocating with the American gum I had brought (even tearing pieces in half so they would go further), but as more and more kids came forth, I was forced to re-gift produce I had received. 

"Class photo" - I swear, they were happy 5 seconds before I took this picture; Cameroonians just don't smile for photographs.

There was also a final ceremony for the end of the academic year.  Kids sang songs, presented skits, and ate rice and cookies.  In the midst of this came the bizarre practice of publically announcing who had passed (the top performers in each class received a pair of pants or a skirt/dress) and who had failed.  You would think this would cause angst amongst the students - I as a bystander was holding my breath and nervous for them - but they received their news in the same casual attitude whether they were moving on next year or were going to repeat.       

This skit was about a women who buys and prepares rice.  Seriously, Academy award worthy stuff...

 

Every two years in my village, there is a ceremony featuring the local traditional dances.  This kicked off a few weeks ago and will continue once a week for the next month or so as different quartiers display their customs.

Only women who have had twins (a sign of good luck) can participate in the dances.

"So You Think You Can Dance" has nothing on this kid.

In funny transportation stories, a recent trip to the regional capital turned deadly.  Two elderly village “mamas” had said they wanted to be dropped off in one of the towns along the way, but hadn’t specified where.  When they finally clarified with the driver (chauffer), a bickering match ensued as he realized he would have to take a bit of a detour.  Apparently, this detour meant we had no alternative but to take a path down a steep hill that was cut up with several ruts and slick with mud thanks to the morning rainstorm.  Sliding down the path resulted in a flat tire so our car wasn’t moving from the 30-degree incline in a hurry.  While attempting to fix it, another passenger decided to remove his cargo from the trunk while we waited.  His cargo turned out to be 30 chickens on their way to become dinner at a funeral celebration.  Time marched on under the sun though, and it became an odd game of “Chicken Survivor” as they started dying off one by one.  Body count by the time we arrived in Bafoussam?  3 perished poultry.   

Last week, I submitted my first summary report for the Peace Corps.  At first, this left me feeling a bit frustrated by my seeming lack of work, but it took a long walk through my village to renew my dedication to this experience.  I realized that I’ve been in-country for 9 months, meaning I’m 1/3 done with my time.  While time seems to be ticking, I have to be patient with myself and my community.  In other news, a new group of Peace Corps Trainees have arrived in country.  I haven’t met them yet, but I’m excited that I’m no longer considered a “freshman.”