Flashback…my touchdown into Africa two months ago today!

Our arrival into Cameroon’s biggest city Douala, on a Saturday evening after that frantically missed connection and changed itinerary out of Brussels, made for a thrilling and unforgettable entrance into Africa.  Volunteers are discouraged from going to this city because of the crime  - I’ve since heard about how market thieves get brutally beaten to death by the surrounding crowd after they snatch  - apparently no worse a fate however than being sentenced to a Cameroonian prison. The humidity felt as if we’d walked into a bathroom after someone’s stolen the whole household’s hot water for their shower. Having had no way to call ahead and find out next steps, we wondered if we would need to continue managing group logistics and get ourselves across the country.

Immediately we learned the answer….ladies and gentleman, we weren’t in Brussels anymore.  We were met by Peace Corps’ assistant director right off the breezeway (how had she gotten access back there?!), and then quickly led to the baggage claim by national police, skirting entirely the immigration station we’d fretted about having our yellow fever vaccination cards in order for. The baggage claim area was mobbed with police supervising our relieved reunion with our backpacks and duffels – by this point shirts were soaked through with the sweat of nerves and heat both.  We got individually escorted outside, with severe instructions to hold tight to luggage, keep eyes down, wear backpacks on our fronts, and get into vehicles directly as instructed.

Many onlookers were gathered and watching intently (though I more wide-eyed than they), and the air was full of intimidation. I was near simultaneous hyperventilation and tears at the descending reality that we were here. We got led to buses, our massive bags hurled seemingly effortlessly on top, and squished in six to a row – just like that, the notion of sticking only as many people in a vehicle as there are seats was tossed aside like a dirty napkin.

The drive to the hotel was gloriously chaotic and I could not tear my virgin eyes away from the urban jungle coming at us from all sides. The streets were the most hectic, mesmerizing, noisy, confusing, hysterical, and topsy turvy scene I’ve ever been thrown into. Moto bikes had SUV loads worth of everything imaginable strapped on their backs, people carried half their weight in fruit, newspapers, clothing, shoes, and all other wares on their head , and all the activity of a Saturday night was taking place out by, if not in the middle of, the street. Without a single stoplight, stop sign, or driver guidance of any sort, it was a free-for-all traffic frenzy we were swooping through the middle of. Buildings and cars and people were condensed and jumbled together, piles of garbage and all sorts of refuse lined the streets, markets selling vegetables, shoes and hair accessories alike were taking place right on muddy sunken roadsides and without any tables, many wooden stands for selling phone credit, bike parts and Coca Cola were both up and running and/or in total disarray.

The classic image is of Africans carrying well water on their heads, but that’s just the start. In fact they carry everything that way with ease, and its mesmerizing to watch. When I eventually arrived at my village home and was greeted by a bevy  of children (if you think I’d been waiting years for this moment, you are right, and it was magical) I could not figure out where my luggage was or who had it. Was it on the roof, on the accompanying truck? – everyone was fussing and shouting! After a flustered moment I saw out of the corner of my eye that a ten-year old boy already had the 50-pound pack balanced on his head and was striding toward my new room, no matter that the rolling duffle would have slid smoothly up the packed dirt driveway. Those wheels were suddenly irrelevant.

When we made it through the downtown scene of yelling, honking and oogling in awe, there were lots of frighteningly armed guards all around our hotel, and more onlookers, especially young people. We were crowded and sweaty, but after hoisting all our bags up several flights, we enjoyed a delicious buffet in a beautiful tropical courtyard. And yet, though we were being treated to the city’s finest for our first night (they ease you in slowly), no sooner had I taken my first forkful of plantains and fish than the power went out. I grinned…how was I nervous that maybe I wouldn't really see Africa? I could have gone home already happy right then and there.



My first bus ride to my new town...after smelling burning rubber for an hour the wheel actually caught on fire, so we stopped.



Around the corner from my new house, and the school is just off to the side...could I be happier?

The car that would eventually take us home from the plantain market...I was squished too deep within to capture how much it eventually held. Suffice it to say I doubt the center of gravity was even within the actual car by the time we drove off. 



My second host mother preparing sauce to be cooked over the fire...turned into the best stewed potatoes I've ever tasted! She is crushing tomatoes with a rock, yet using a modern cheese grater (though for what I'm not sure, certainly not cheese) 



50: Number of ants found drowned in my peanut butter jar this morning

0: Number of seconds I considered throwing it away. Are you kidding?

I have to laugh that before I left I urged people to keep me up to date on the little things. I want to know about the cute barista and the hilarious boss! Yet, I have done nothing of the sort for you. The pace at which I’ve been bombarded with noterthy, eye-popping, confusing, upsetting, exciting and unforgettable African moments has so wholly overwhelmed the available technology and communication options that everything has piled up and it’s been hard to know where to even start! Processing, let alone articulating, what it is that is making this such a roller coaster experience has been nearly beyond me, despite my love of putting things into words.

But enough  - it’s going to continue to be a roller coaster ride that I can never fully relate but that I might as well chop into some fun bits and pieces, as my head and journal are bursting with impressions that would love an audience.  So if you've been wondering what's actually going on over here, pick a few anecdotes to get a glimpse:

*Cameroonians eat bananas like we eat crackers. Instead of “Here Tess, have a banana” it’s “Here Tess, have eight bananas.” And you eat them all, because they are straight from the tree and taste like heaven. And because that’s lunch. But don’t worry, variety will come at dinner – so many carbolicious options! A pot of rice, a pot of potatoes, and a pot of corn couscous! Breakfast is white baguette. If this was ever a trendy weight loss diet plan I guess it would not have been the most absurd one, but close? 

*I opened a bank account this week in the city closest to the site where I’ll spend my two years (I KNOW! More coming!) and since street addresses don’t exist and none of the streets nearby have names, I had to draw  a map of my area for the bank to show them where I lived...I busted out the markers and included schools, the Catholic mission, the health center, the house of the chief, and the office of the power company that students reportedly storm annually and sometimes set in flames during finals when all the power outages make studying near impossible.

*Our rockstar group of 50 new health and agriculture volunteers has sprung into action and planned all kinds of cool stuff, from Sunday morning soccer matches against our language trainers (and then mixed teams when the skill reality set in) to an upcoming Christmas card-making party, to tomorrow’s much needed girls’ spa day, to yoga classes and bodypump classes where we use mud-encursted shovels from the nearbye construction site as weights ("grab your weights everyone!" says our certified teacher as we pump it to Rihanna) and lie on butcher paper on a cement floor. Our kickass Halloween party (someone even had candy corn sent from home) may be put to shame only by our upcoming Thanksgiving bash, where we plan to kill and roast turkeys and take over our families’ hut kitchens to try and recreate stuffing and cranberry sauce with local ingredients…there may be far more plantains than normal, but a pineapple ham would be very doable. And heaps of guacamole.  

*Did I ever tell you about the first avocado I had here? My village host mom made it for me as a treat with a little oil, sliced onion and salt, with bread…the first bite made my eyes roll to the back of my head and the room spin. That avocado changed my life.

*I just went to get my shoes fixed by the roadside stand a stone’s throw from my new homestay, and when the repairman wanted way too much (the rule of thumb we’ve learned is that whatever people charge you – nothing is fixed price – divide it by four and you have the local price…I’ve found this same ratio appropriate to figure out how much you can accomplish in an hour, a day) I explained that Peace Corps volunteers are paid like Cameroonians, not like Americans, so I can’t pay more than other people. He asked if I was saving for my future children; when I said not yet, for now I’m just worrying about myself, he exclaimed, "but what about when God gives you children! You won't be ready!" I gently suggested that it would not be God who would decide that I have children, but me myself. This seemed too much to bear. God would give me a man and then children – however many and whenever God wanted. This backs up what we’ve been learning, that talking to men and women about something like family planning options involves far more than discussing how birth control works, how to find and pay for it, and what the benefits can be – it necessitates that they consider that perhaps their number of offspring is in their hands, that they could have that kind of control over their bodies,  their lives and their health – for many, this is a monumental difference in how they conceive of their fate being determined.

*Culture shock is such a misnomer, implying that we are truly “shocked” and in disbelief that people might eat lizard or bury their ancestors in the front yard or think that infant diarrhea is caused by starting to have sex again too soon after giving birth. With a bit of respect and awareness of cultural differences, we can accept that traditions vary hugely, and as educated people, we are expected to embrace and uphold this fact. Really, what is shocking are the smaller, disallusioning things...like when my host sister left to go stay with another sister in the capital for three months, the motorcycle came to pick her up, and NO ONE said a thing, no hugs, no goodbye, no see you at Christmas, no have a good trip...she just left like she was going to the market. Sadly my birthday was treated similarly...these are the times you want to yell, "What??"

*My well-educated, urban, professional host mother’s daughter has been sick for weeks with a cough and weakness, and has apparently always suffered from nagging illness. When hospital medicine was not helping she took her to a traditional healer, who convinced my host mother that someone had put a curse on her when she was pregnant so that she would die when she gave birth. Because she is strong she did not die, but instead the curse got passed to the baby, and now this little girl will suffer all her life unless they find a counter curse, which is what they are working on now. I’ve heard and seen people claiming to heal AIDS, cancer, diabetes, malaria etc with herbs and rubs, and some of the traditional practices that are widespread in the village, such as ironing girls’ breasts so that they won’t grow too fast, have alarmed me (a guy got on the bus trying to sell a book with all these recipes, and it was no less wild than the informercials we have on TV about vacuums and kitchen gadgets that prepare meals in 3 seconds). But this was particularly interesting as this woman seems like she would not buy into sorcery as an explanation – she is educated and and very modern professional  in the capital - but I tried to listen understandingly and nonjudgmentally.

*My first Sunday, I took a hike into the jungle behind our house with my host mother and sister…both were in long dresses and flip flops and carrying machetes, and went on a hunt for fruit! Within no time my sister had cut down a giant palm tree branch, sheared off the leaves with her machete so that just the firm stalk remained, and bent the tip and bound it with some strawlike dried leaves, so that it became a hook, a naturally made version of the apple picking baskets we’d get at orchards back home. Except now it was clementines we were plucking down from above and running to catch in the basket. I was never good at actually keeping any blueberries in my tin in Maine, and here too I could not resist. The juicest, tangiest fresh clementines imaginable…heaven for this fruit fiend.  They may not have pizza or sushi, but the fruit I can used to.

*It’s November, and I still have a watch and flip flop tan! Well, the watch tan is verified, but since once I wash my hair and body there is no more water in the bucket to wash my feet, I can’t be sure whether that line is a tan or the deeply ingrained reddish dust that has stained my toenails and most of my clothes. Maybe tomorrow’s spa day will reveal.

Coming next, Pidgin...get ready to laugh out loud at the language I'll soon be using!
Hint: Wha kin chop you chop = What kind of food do you like?

So, what's it LIKE?

Loved the village life! Now I've moved up the road to the city, and feel like I've time travelled 50 years. Hellooo modern Africa!

Aside from being eaten alive by mosquitos (we look like our own breed of lepers) you get some straaange bites in strange places at night, even under your mosquito net fortress!

New roommates.

First braids! My new host mom is a beautician : )

Health vs. Agro Sunday morning soccer match in the mud, including Cameroonian staff...they don't mess around

My awesome neighbors during our last night photo shoot

Two takes on Chantel Biya, Cameroon's big-haired first lady. Our Halloween party felt like Christmas in July it was so seemingly out of context! But people mobilize and get it together....we even had a DJ come with speakers from the local bar!

My favorite creative costume! We've talked a LOT about how to make water potable, including through the solar method.

Peace Corpse!

Not the only trainee who loves pink : )

When it rains it pours

Carrying water from the well on my head for the first time - TRY this! They balance everything - school books, bags of laundry, stacks of shoes to sell. I've seen a guy with a full lunch tray on his head bend down to pick something up without missing a beat. 

Some trainees at the hotel veranda, wearing our newly-received rape awareness t-shirts, which caused quite a stir at the local market

The charming house two down from mine

My host father in the elementary school classroom where he used to be a teacher

Local kids hanging out at our training site

The giant baobab tree I pass each day on my walk to training

Host children peering out the window when we held language class on the porch of a fellow trainee. They wanted to watch everything we did and joined in to teach us songs to remember grammar rules!

       My first experience in an African taxi was nothing short of hysterical. After gleefully rejoicing over the discovery of a bar with cold bottled water and beer in nearbye Bafia after Saturday classes, a few of us trudged into the town center in search of an internet café – I was thinking of you, dear reader! The streets are a riot – chaotic traffic, road conditions in shambles, people selling everything imaginable on the roadsides and off their heads in the middle of the streets,  and shouts of “The whites!”. We finally got set up in a little cyber hut and got online – oh, gmail! Bliss was ours, but it was all a tease. Did I mention we are in the middle of the rainy season? I’ve never seen such ferocious rain in my life – later I would see that at least 14 inches had been collected at home in buckets in what, two hours?! In the northeast I've grown up with whiteout snowstorms - here they have their own blizzards of rain  The torrential downpour put the already chaotic street outside into total mayhem, but on roared the motos, on splashed the children with several days worth of firewood bundled and balanced on their heads.

      Our  power and internet were blown to pieces before I'd pressed "send" even once – I keep getting burned and must learn to prioritize and write short emails. There was nothing we could do – cramped in this little roadside hut, watching the whole world get washed away outside, and with the approaching dark and our village curfew impending. Walking home was out of the question – the road to our village was already a network of pothole trenches that threaten to send you over your bike handle bars if you look up for a moment. Luckily we had our newly minted helmets – Peace Corps policy – which no one but us wears, and which make us look like teenage mutant ninja turtles! We donned them and with the assistance of the kind cyber café guy tried to hail a moto to take us back to our vilages – fruitless!! They all said their motos would be ruined - I couldn't blame them. After a totally senseless wild goose chase for a solution along the quickly disintegrating road, a car across the street was summoned  and we were ushered toward it by the now large crew of men who had taken up the hunt for a willing vehicle to escort our white helpless butts back to camp. After a wildly confusing price negotiation in which everyone but us had a say, we crammed in.

     I was naiively of the mind that three of us would go in back, and one in front, which with our large backpacks and helmets the size and colors of ready-to-burst party balloons would have already been a squeeze. Our first hint at the insanity that was about to ensue was that all four of us, backpacks and helmets included, were made to fit in the back of this tiny beat up European compact car. We were on each others laps at that point, and playing a giant game of twister – who’s arm was even who’s? Four people then proceeded to squeeze into the front seat, into which our appendages were already intruding extensively. Just when I thought we would never make it, the trunk hatch door was opened, and a large woman and her teenage son attempted to cram into the trunk. Except, there was no trunk. Only about six inches between the back seats and this hatch door, which meant that they bent forward onto us, storing their feet behind.

       By now the worst smell of a crowd you can imagine cannot compare to the wet, sweaty mess of this car – oil was leaking out of goodness knows where, rain was pouring in through the holes in the roof and doors, and the whole operation seemed held together by floss and bubble gum. I had the sweat from the boy's temple dripping onto my face – not even dripping, which would imply that there was any space between his face and mine. You hear about chickens riding on people's heads in these situations - I had a full grown person flung over my shoulders! Rain and mud were flying in, but how much better than walking! The roads were absolute lakes with fickle bottoms - the ride reminded me of the computer game "Oregon Trail" where it was always a grave risk to "ford the river". I was holding my breath the whole time (or just could not breathe for lack of space) but we made it - when we arrived I could not even open the door as I was smooshed too closely into it - the driver had to get out, then I just rolled out into the mud. To fathom that a trip to the US for the people who experience this every day might be equally insane is hard to imagine : )