Welcome to my morning

So you’ve figured out I’m not living in a mud hut, but otherwise, what the heck is my day-to- day life like here? Here’s a peak – and if you wonder why I’m not getting any further than describing my living situation, it’s frankly because that’s about all I’ve got my head wrapped around so far. Being the only white person and the first Peace Corps volunteer in this area, not to mention daily culture clash and the lack of anything familiar, has me wrapped in a disorienting tangle of challenges that I’m still too turned around to relate, but down the road we’ll unravel it funny and painful bit by bit : )

My first thought when I wake up with a jolt is usually “How the hell did that rooster get into my bedroom??!”  Once I sit up I remember that my windows are barred and my doors are locked, so the abrasive, intrusive noise-maker is only right outside on my porch. Ok, breathe, deal. I’m up.

Next:  fingers crossed that water “flowed” last night. My house is set up for running water, but the community’s catchment system is plagued with leaks and is insufficient for the neighborhood’s population, especially in the current dry season, so the showerhead and sink are purely decorative. As for most Cameroonians then, my home life revolves around the logistics of water – getting it, and using it sparingly. There is a tap on the outside of my house that often runs for a couple hours in the middle of the night (or else the lizards are turning into little water-porting gnomes) and when I wake up to a full bucket, my day is off to a great start. I immediately put a big pot on my gas plate, get some oatmeal cooking alongside it, and cut up a small pineapple – at 25 cents apiece I’ll eat the whole thing right there. I split the hot water and use a couple bowls to do the dishes with one half, then add the other half to a bucket of water outside and take my sponge bath under the banana trees  – warm water turns it from an unpleasant drudgery into the most luxurious moment of my day. Well, my every few days – in between, the water is put toward my drinking filter, washing clothes, cooking, flushing the toilet, and giving the new house a serious scrub down, which takes place in small bits as I can get my hands on extra reserves of liquid and motivation. If by 9 AM I have made breakfast, cleaned up the kitchen, bathed,  and made small talk with my neighbor ladies who are busy cooking and washing as well, I feel productive…and ready for a nap.

When no water has come in the night it’s like getting up on the wrong side of the bed.  I get easily overwhelmed by the highways of ants that the heat has driven into my kitchen and the family of chirping mice that are living in the base of my living room comforter chair. My scores of bug bites itch more and my face and feet feel dustier knowing I won’t be bathing, and being set back another day to wash my dirty floors and clothes makes me feel irkingly out of control. Most of all, intimidation consumes me at the overwhelming project of transforming my fixer-upper house into a much needed oasis without Google, Home Depot, or the yellow pages.  The place has not been lived in for years – aside from looking like a haunted house with cobwebs and spiders, the electricity and plumbing need major attention, gaps under the outside doors let mice in, the locks need to be changed, the roof leaks...and the bathroom sink literally fell off the wall when I put my toothpaste down on it. Did I mention that my elderly landlord died three days after I moved in? So where do I start?  It’s all about who knows some guy who is good with wires or built his own house and could help me out, and that includes a major learning curve around doing informal business. For example, the next time I give a guy money to go and buy the needed materials for a job, I’ll think to hold on to his right arm first so he actually comes back. Guess you gotta pay the price for becoming savvy. 

But when all this seems like a 10,000 piece puzzle and all I’ve connected so far is three edge pieces, I smile with relief, remembering I have a secret weapon. Perseverance, optimism, and unshakable faith that I can handle this? Well, I’m working on those, but what I know I can count on now is the shiny bicycle the Peace Corps gave me – though the roads are so rough, dusty and ridden with speeding motorcycles that riding it is not feasible, the kids in my courtyard will do anything to sit on it and have me push them around. Including – aha- helping me fetch buckets of water from the nearest public tap. These kids grow up with physical labor the way I grew up with bedtime stories- it’s just tradition. Nine year old girls are putting jugs on their heads that I can’t even pick up once they leave them on my porch, and who knew six year old boys could already have defined arm muscles?!  Once they’ve helped me and I keep up my end of the bargain (I guess  I should not be surprised that they think 3 people can sit on the bicycle seat at once) I go inside and revel at being able to brush my teeth, wash my face, and put  on some water for tea. That’s better, I can handle this. And the pieces are coming together – I’ve now got new locks, I’ve figured out where to buy eggs and peanuts for protein, and I hired the car-wash guys to wash my rug with their serious hose. I’ve set up shelves in my kitchen, gotten mosquito screens put on all my windows, and learned how to use the same water for at least three tasks.

In English we say slow and steady; in French they say petite a petite; in Pidgin, don’t ask me why, they say small small catch monkey.  And so it is – I’ve realized this whole experience is just as much about figuring out how to be on my own, outside my comfort level, as it is about connecting with others.

It’s a lot like camping actually, and to be honest, I sort of love it. Because with every little thing that comes together that was 25 times harder to get accomplished than it would have been at home, the satisfaction is equally out of proportion. It's the little victories.

It's harder to be homesick when it doesn't look like Christmas

Our campsite at Limbe beach in Southwest Cameroon where I went for a few days of Christmas rest and relaxation. Our tent was next to that Jeep until torrential rains flooded it in the middle of the night. It must have been 30 years old and far from waterproof. Goodbyye phone.

I was in the water each morning before I had even rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. And it was warmer than my daily bucket bath...in fact the sheer amount of water was astounding to my senses after conserving on one bucket a day.

Awesome bird watching here

Anywhere and everywhere!

Interesting to see the priviledged side of Cameroonian society that was spending Christmas at the beach

For many the beach was still all about working...pulling in fishing nets

My reception by my partner nonprofit organization!

Boys will be boys! Toy guns made out of sugarcane stalks stabbed through with a stick.

Lizards are better than mice!

My front porch was turned into a dancefloor when my neighbor saw my doormat hanging over my railing waiting to get washed and decided it would make a stunning and luxurious ball gown.

Wuna wan for len for talk pidgin?

I was thrilled when I got recommended for and then given a Peace Corps placement in “French-speaking West Africa” (can you tell where this is going?). Finally, years of slaving over French grammar and pushing through choppy, frustrating conversations had gotten me to the point where I love conversing in French, picking up new phrases, and practicing what I’ve at long last gotten a grasp on. My weeks in training this fall confirmed how much fun it is to greet school children in sing-songy French, and how much more intriguing even mundane conversations are when you’re practicing your new skills. I feel friendlier in French too – it’s sort of like it’s all a fun game, you are not really yourself, just playing along in a shinier, light-hearted universe where everything is stimulating and a bit more chic because, voila, it’s French!

And then, life decided to play a little joke on me, and though I was one of the few volunteers who came in with decent French under my belt, I got paired to work with an NGO in the small Anglophone region of Cameroon (crash history course, both England and France colonized here, though it’s dominated now by the French influence at every level). After a complete breakdown (I wish I was kidding) that I was not going to get to speak French after all, (and, while I was at it: why am I here? why this random town in this random country?? for two years???? why did you have to send ME to the Anglophone region when I told you at every point how much I was looking forward to working in French and becoming fluent!) Well, they tell you when you join the Peace Corps that it’s all about flexibility – coming back from my disappointment at being one of the few going to this marginalized Anglophone region was the biggest personal challenge I’ve faced here so far, and it’s one I keep working at every day.

So, life must be a breeze then, without the language barrier that is an infamous part of cross-cultural relations? Ha. HA. Enter: Pidgin. Instead of the English you and I are used to, they speak this mix of English, French, German and Portuguese vocab – most words are English, but it’s still a whole different ball game. Pidgin is thought to have originated when coastal Cameroonians from dozens of different tribes were brought together on the slave plantations of colonizing Europeans. Without a communal language, they listened to the Europeans and picked up some of their words, giving it their own flavor and keeping it simple and practical so that it could be easily learned and adapted in this impromptu situation of necessity. The dialect stuck, though today it is looked down on by many as a “rotten” uneducated English that is a broken, lowly version of a sophisticated language. Some groups in Cameroon are trying to get it abolished, and at schools and universities you see signs such as “Pidgin is like AIDS, avoid it!” and” English, your passport to the world; Pidgin, a ticket to nowhere” To most it remains an important part of their culture, though their love/hate relationship with it is apparent – I’m often told I should not spend time learning this “incorrect” English speak, and yet it’s what they are speaking every day, so if I want to communicate, especially with older adults who did not go to school, Pidgin is my key.

Educated adults and students also speak what they call “Grammar”, which is closer to our English and what I end up speaking most for now, but there is still a gaping disconnect. I’m actually relieved whenever someone can speak French – my French is far from polished, but for simple conversations it’s ironically so much easier to get by in French than in Pidgin/English. I emphasize every word and use phrases such as “you people” instead of “you” and “your own, his own” instead of “yours, his”, yet still I normally have to repeat myself twice even just for something like “do you have powdered milk?” It’s exhausting, bizarre, and yet a new layer in my ongoing fascination with the evolution of language. The joke in this region is that instead of learning a new language, volunteers here must un-learn every correct grammar rule of their own language and patch things back together to get by. Seeing this language as it’s own and not judging it as a crude, incorrect version of English takes a bit of time, but it’s fun to get into it, and just think of the awesome phrases I’ll be able to whip out at cocktail parties! I’ve even started speaking what I call Pinglais, a combination of all three…

ex. (I don’t find it) + (I no find y) + (Je ne le trouve pas) = I no le find pas.

…Now I’m really in trouble.

Below, the first bit of the speech I gave in Pidgin at our swearing - in ceremony, a few phrases that give you a taste, and an interesting quick read on the politics of Pidgin in Cameroon: http://www.dibussi.com/files/politics_of_pidgin_in_cameroon.pdf

Excerpt:

A dis salaute wuna!

Dis be BIG day for we, for sika say, today we be big volunteer-dem for Peace Corps! We don work plenty for dis day for plenty week-dem, an we don dream for dis day for many year-dem. An we go eva memba dis day, no?.... Nasso, we Peace Corps life like volunteer-dem don start today! We be people for Amerika, an we be glad an proud for shidon for Cameroon – so we di tank all people-dem wey dem don helep we for reach for dis level today. Wuna ashia!!


Ha for skin? How are you?

Skin dey fine. Ma name na Tess. Weti be ya name? I’m doing well. My name is Tess, what is your name?

A be skul pikin for Peace Corps. We go be volunteer-dem for small time. I’m a student for Peace Corps. Soon we’ll be volunteers.

A be woman for Amerika. A komot for Maine. I’m American. I come from Maine.

Waka fine, we see small time. Have a good day, see you soon.

A be glad for sabe you. Cam good for Cameroon. Nice to meet you. Welcome to Cameroon.

Wha kin chop you chop? What kind of food do you like?

A be chop plenty puff puff-dem. I ate lots of begnets.

For market for Amerika dey no di nack price. At American markets you can’t haggle prices.

A de len for like njama njama. I’ll learn to like vegetables.

A tell you say. Yeah, I’ll say.

Poto poto road. Muddy road.

Chuck pipol-dem inside moto like sadin. Shove people in the car like sardines.

Han bilong for tree. Branch.

Mami wey I get big belly. Pregnant woman.

Chop chair. Successor.

David na big man for training. David is the head of training.

Woman hand side. Left. (I take issue with this one!)

You be correct man. You’re a good guy.

Weti a fit do if tiff man broke ma house? What can I do if a robber breaks in to my house?

Woman pikin-dem di wash pan an klos-dem. The female kids help wash pans and clothes.

Wash nite. Guard.

Rest in Peace, Little One

Two weeks before I was awoken by a Sunday morning phone call that my former homestay sister “Princesse” had died in the night, I had been living with the family and it was her little sister Poupette’s birthday. I had found some beaded bracelets at the corner store and bought each girl three to keep things even – I knew better  than to leave this feisty eleven-year old out. Both girls were tickled, but even though they were elastic banded, the bracelets slipped right off of Princesse’s bony little wrists. That night we spent an hour by a lantern taking them apart and trying to restring and tie them, me spilling beads on the floor several times, and still having enough surplus beads left over to make another. Most of the bracelets were yanked and broken within a few days, but I still love that memory.

I also love thinking about the girl’s night we had the week before - after grandma was particularly harsh to my host sisters at dinner, I decided they needed some time to be little girls. I locked us inside my bedroom, much to the boy’s jealousy, and we played their favorites, Beyonce and Lady Gaga, dressed up in my clothes, sprayed perfume, and looked through my normally forbidden collection of mundane-yet-exotically-foreign bureau items – colored pens, a camera, scented deodorant. I got it in my head to paint their fingernails, then remembered something about such things being forbidden at school and told them I would just go and ask grandma first. When they pleaded me not to I smiled, knowing now for sure it was not allowed, and asked them if they could keep a secret.  In a dash of mischievous sisterhood I painted just one pinky fingernail on each of them purple as their faces beamed with that smitten glee of sneaking into your mom’s bathroom and using her powder. At the breakfast table the next morning they both flashed me their little fingers as they sat eating in their school uniforms, excited to keep up their side of the bargain.

We had done little writing lessons – Princesse’s long-time illness had made her miss a lot of school and I was dismayed to realize that at age 11 she could not read or sound out words to write. So we started with “chat” (cat) which is when I realized that French words do not lend themselves to being sounded out – way too many silent letters.  I’d read their palms for fortunes, telling Princesse she would learn to swim and marry a handsome man, which she told everyone she knew as if my word were gold. Even though she’d been sick with fever and weakness throughout my stay, we had many rambunctious dinners together, and she was getting quick at coming back at her witty older brother’s teasing with zingers of her own.  I told them about our myth of the stork delivering babies and what we say sometimes if a kid’s a little slow;  soon after, her brother got one of my trivia questions wrong (pretty cute – he thought Uruguay and Paraguay were the two non-continental US states) and she didn’t skip a beat: “Yeeah, the stork definitely dropped this one”. God bless her.

The experience of having Princesse die unexpectedly from an unknown illness that almost surely would have been identified and treated in the US has been an intense and valuable eye-opener for me as I start my work here. The low level of awareness around health conditions and preventative measures; the central role of religion and sorcery as the deciders of death; the lack of resources, infrastructure, and doctors; the resulting staggering health care inequities; and the statistics about how many millions of children die in Africa from preventable illnesses – having this little girl die made it all pop to life for me in numbing clarity. It certainly gives me new meaning, motivation and urgency in my role as a community health development worker.

And thank goodness for the circle of life – the very night I learned of Princesse’s death, I attended a traditional birth ceremony for a neighbor’s newborn. All the singing and dancing and general exaggerated joyfulness took on new meaning for me – the gift of life is a particularly fragile one here.