Snippets of life lately

Meet Njiptcha Ngoko Romaric, a young man who it’s no exaggeration to say has already changed my life - this is our first picture attempt, and he's giddy and embarrassed at being told to smile!  18, without ID, homeless, jobless and an orphan, he’s been a street boy much of his life and spent “catastrophic, rude” years in the ghetto of Douala, the biggest city in Cameroon and an utterly rough and gritty place even if you are doing well. He doesn’t know of a single member of his family as he lost multiple siblings in addition to being “abandoned by my father without a care”. As he says, “I’m living like an isolated star in the sky”. I’ve been encouraging him to write his story and he’s bringing it to me page by page.

I’m working with the public administration of my town to get him under the wing of social services, a process that is moving forward mostly because of my status as an American. Romaric tells me “I’ve never had a soft moment in my life”, so I think the sudden support and affirmation that he's worth helping is a bit disorienting, though definitely making an impression.  Despite his loneliness, confusion about God's plan for him, and shame at being marginalized and stigmatized all his life, Romaric’s spirit is incredible – he loves talking in English with me on my veranda, adores music and everything American, and is really excited to turn his life around and have a positive future. When he tells me stories about violence, prostitution, crime and “jungle justice” (how criminals are dealt with by a crowd since law enforcement is rare/undependable) he shakes his head and says “Cameroon a les DENTS, eh” (Cameroon has TEETH). 

I'm proceeding with caution as I get involved in his life, but I feel compelled not to stand on the sidelines with this guy. If all goes well I'll be going with him to a social center this week that I really like, where they can feed and house him while we look for job training and a longer-term place to live. Fingers crossed he adjusts well - plenty of other tough, cool boys for him to befriend, anyway : )

After several somber pictures I was exclaiming that everyone needed to SMILE - success for all but me!  This is a group of women I love teaching - we've done reproductive health/HIV/AIDS together and I'm now teaching an English class for them at their professional training center. This was International Women's Day (the class does have a bunch of guys too), and they invited me to celebrate with them and prepared my favorite, grilled fish. The day was fun as a party, but a joke as a promotion of women's equality or empowerment: "big men" gave speeches as women's groups marched through town in high heels and matching dresses, looking tired and anything but in charge. A neighbor described the day as "women's one day to think they are equal" and the celebration disgruntles many men who say that women get too flippant and saucy, think of themselves as more than they are, and go out with friends instead of sitting in the house shelling seeds and crushing leaves for the evening meal. Clearly, progress to be made in how we can get everyone behind a positive image of male/female power sharing.

I took advantage of the holiday to snap a photo of my town- usually I feel self conscious and inappropriate about snapping photos especially of poverty or grittier scenes, and I've been advised not to photograph people I don't know, as beliefs about what you can do with someone's photo (sorcery spells toward them) are widespread and would cause fear and suspicion of me.                                                                                                                                                                                  
Notice all the motos - those are what I ride every day,  the billboard for the MSG flavoring cube that is used in every dish, the sparkly jewelry and hair extensions of the woman on the moto (this is where money goes, appearance), and the toddler squished between her and her driver. This is extremely typical transport -- babies a few hours old go home from the hospital like this. The guy with the tray on his head is selling baggies of precut
papaya, but I go to the stand behind the woman's head to get my papayas, mangoes, and pineapples.

Michelle comes by my house every day -- kids have very little to do and almost no structure or supervision in their free time, so there's a lot of wondering around. Sadly their environment and education system does not foster much creativity in imagining games and stories, and since books and other education tools are rare at best, they don't get much encouragement at letting their mind create. So when my vine started producing fruit (still not sure what), we started making up stories about who was who - mama, papa, teacher, students...and Michelle has totally run with it, coming over every day to tell me "who" she found and what they are doing - "Tata Alicia (I go by my middle name here), this is the big sister who is showing all the baby students how to walk to school along this branch."  Music to my ears! I always think kids and most people look well-dressed here, but the difference is that Michelle has been wearing this outfit all week.

My gift from the field next to my favorite orphanage, where the youth were cutting weeds with machetes. I've found my new favorite kind of baby, replacing baby donkeys: egg-sized baby pineapples.

And continuing with my fruit obsession, I made smoothies for some visiting volunteers this week, which were too good to believe. Cold fresh mango, pineapple, papaya, banana, yogurt...yum! Jess and Megan were coming from the Extreme North region, which is severe desert and sparse for fruit and veggies (but no pity, they get awesome tofu and yogurt, less oily traditional food and great beef!), so it was fun showing off the bounty of my region's fruit production and green scenery.

Hosting volunteers has become a regular part of many weeks, which since there aren't lots of social distractions to be found (movie theaters, parks, cafes, bookstores, museums, we miss you!), is a nice way to spice things up. And the two things volunteers find to do together, and do quite well, are eat and drink. Without pre-made meals or take-out, and with lots of time on our hands, we make elaborate meals (many volunteers, thank goodness, are awesome cooks), chopping endless garlic, onions and tomatoes and experimenting with sauces for pizza and lasagna, or here, french toast with fruit, locally made honey and sweetened toasted shaved coconut - pretty great replacements for maple syrup. My standard "welcome" snack is a bowl of fresh guacamole and homemade tortillas, and banana pancakes are another classic, thanks to my dad, the head chef of Easter Pancake Breakfast must be 20 years running.

Regional meeting was held at my house a few weekends ago - 6 of the seven of us from the Littoral - what a good crew : ) We discuss lots of security issues like how to contact each other in case of emergency and if the phone network goes down - namely sending notes to each other through motorcycle drivers in lieu of carrier pigeons. This time we talked about the summer camp we want to do as a regional project - more news about that coming soon.

Typical scene in my house - cockroach gets stuck by its own inability to right itself when it falls on its back, ants swarm in from all the cracks in the walls and consume it alive or cart it away with incredible synchonized tugging. This is the lip up to my front door, they were trying to get it out a little hole in the corner; within a few hours its completely devoured. The heat has driven cockroaches into my house in unfortunate hoards -- I've become MUCH less squeamish about quickly whacking them with shoes, better than letting them flail and spasm for three days when I spray insecticide. The alternative is letting them crawl around me as I sleep, and YES, they do crawl into bed with me sometimes! But the hands-off method of letting the ants deal with them is by far the most natural and diverting.

Ants are my tiniest daily reminder of how incredible nature is, these falls are my favorite grander reminder. This is back at my favorite falls, 45 minutes from my house, though not very easy to get to. The last time I was here, exactly where this photo is looking, I saw an absolutely shocking sight: a "Goliath frog" which at the time I had no idea even existed but are apparently extremely rare and valued; some varieties exist only in Cameroon. The frog was MASSIVE - bigger than my motorcycle helmet, the size of a big bucket really. I was thigh deep in the water for the first time ever here, when my friend Phil started shouting, which got me screaming from fear as I didn't know what had provoked him and felt extremely vulnerable. I had disturbed the sitting spot of the frog, who was now hopping with massive leaps and splashes  through the very same pool. I was gasping from surprise and adrenaline even once I figured out what animal it was. We were  lucky to have spotted one of these frogs, other volunteers are quite jealous...  Every Cameroonian I told I'd seen one asked with dismay "But, why didn't you catch it?!" "With what?!" "With your hands, of course, so we could eat it!"
Next time.

Baby, I'm Back! Scenes from the last leg of my return trip from the US

How embarrassing that I was trying to convince anyone that airplane
food had “definitely gone gourmet”! The cushy seat to myself, hot water in the
bathroom and friendly drink service on the flights back to Cameroon were
noticeably less thrilling, and I mostly had to laugh at how even the
Cameroonian 1% wanted to defy order  – not buckling in children,
letting their mini dogs run around the airplane floor, and giving the
stewardess all kinds of sass when reprimanded.

It’s hard to get over that an advanced airline brought me to this
place that is so far from what we left. As the NYC flight was arriving
in Brussels, they showed a whole video about the Brussels Airport –
how to navigate all the services, how to appreciate the fine shopping
and dining, all your transport options to get around once you left. I
really wish they had shown one as we were approaching Douala Airport
too that just said “HA, good luck pal, you're on your own now!” Their
polite advice in their in-flight magazine on the Douala page was that
“passengers are urged to arrange for a pick-up in advance”.

This was the first time it was light and non-cloudy enough for me to
see the landscape from above – and see that it took us 13 minutes to
cross from the capital Yaounde to Douala, a trip that takes four hours
in a bus! No blocked off patterns of fields, roads, or residential
areas – just windy red dirt roads weaving between thick green vegetation and
the tin roofs of houses, polka-dotted with rocks to hold them down in the wind.

The wall of heat and humidity was actually rather welcome after the
airplane air – but I definitely should have used the plane bathroom
one more time. Since western airports have mega bathrooms every fifty
meters, I was so eager to know if Cameroon's main airport had even one – when I
asked a guard, he scoffed and said “We don’t even have any water!” The
feel was immediately so different – an airport worker trying to get
some rusty, unruly luggage carts through the crowded carrousel area
kept ramming into people’s luggage and yelling at them to get out of
the way. Softness and gentle manners, see you in ten months! Instead of a line at the customs desk, it was a mob of pushing and shoving, no smiles, no "welcome", not a single sign.

I asked a couple of Cameroonian women how to pronounce the name of the
market where my acquaintance had texted me to meet her, and they were
shocked that I was going to try and take a taxi by myself (not that its
unsafe before dark, just a rough experience). I told them that’s why I wanted to
know what I was saying, that I’ve been here before and I “know about
Cameroon” – this reassured them, though they still told me I should
find a police escort.

Instead I left the building wearing a face that tried to say “I just
broke out of prison after serving 10, and yeah, I’ve messed up a few
guys in my time”. Even so, a skinny teenage boy immediately yanked my 50
pound rolling duffle from me and flung it up on his head, as I tried
to wrestle it down and tell him I had no change to give him for
carrying it.

He led me to the taxi area, where I pulled out all the
stops describing my (faux) Cameroonian husband, how I needed to go to church
to meet him for Ash Wednesday services, responding to their agressive quizzing by giving details about where he
was from (a totally remote but somehow known village), showing that I
knew the greeting in that local dialect, and reporting that he was
from the tribe that many people in Douala are from, thinking that
would make me at least one friend, as tribal ties rule. After much
back and forth I found a sympathizer and a ride for $8 instead of $30.

When we got to the huge Catholic church where I was to meet my host,
it was so crowded the taxi had to let me off several hundred meters
off. I dragged my duffle through the dirt, backpack on frontwards, to the
church grounds, where hundreds of onlookers who could not fit inside
were hanging around outside. I thought she was going to come right
out, but the service had just started and I waited an hour and a half
for her! I felt and looked like HELL, was beyond exhausted and so
hungry I broke into my stored goldfish (not discreetly enough, the
beggars noticed)....and I really had to pee!!

Finally the daughter came out, and as she watched my belongings a
church lady in white and purple robes led/paraded me through the
middle of the PACKED church and out the side door, where I was
horrified to see another seating area had been set up, and I was led
down the middle of hundreds more Cameroonians, all in their Sunday
best. Everyone was staring at me, surely thinking “What’s going on?!
Is this white lady a special part of the service? Is she here to give us
gifts? Why does she look so awful? Shameful!” I tried to keep my head
down. Eventually I was presented an outhouse in the pitch dark…

Skip to Thursday morning’s bus ride home, which included getting into
the most impossibly gutted and run down vehicle I have seen to date
(the motor was so hot under the floor that it melted part of my
backpack through the metal), and a pit-stop stop early on into a thatched shack
on the side of the road to get foamy, milky colored cups of strong,
acidic palm wine...the driver downed a whole liter bottle.

An hour in, a bunch of the luggage goes flying off the roof (luckily
not mine), and the driver jumps out – neglecting to mechanically
detach the broken door with the wrench so that anyone else can exit as well.
Everyone is yelling that their goods are probably destroyed, and
jumping out of the windows to go see the damage – I climb up and exit
the driver’s door to do the same.

When we got to the intersection where I used to take a motorcycle to
my first village, we stop to let off passengers. Out of the corner of my eye
I see my violet duffle being thrown off the roof, some unknown person
catching it, and him whisking it off out of sight.

I jump out of the car
(I know that this is my driver transferring me to another bus cuz he
was never actually planning on going as far as he told me he was), and meanwhile all the extremely
aggressive motorcycle drivers who still recognize me and thought I was
going back to Tombel start yanking at me and yelling “Tess, you know me! I
took you last time!” “I know where you live!” “ I know your favorite
moto driver Gideon, he told me I should take you today!” as they try
to wrestle my bag away from wherever its being taken, and lunge for the
backpack I'm wearing so that I’ll have to go with them.

As this intersection also
serves as a massive papaya market, women are simultaneously bombarding me with
wheelbarrows and buckets of the fruit, yelling "200 francs! (40 cents
for a whole bucket) - take them!! TAKE THEM, WHITE!"

I thrash my way out of the ring of chaos and follow my duffle,
watching vigilantly as it’s tied to the bus roof, right on top of a
coffin. Seeing me eye it, the driver told me it was empty, but then
for half the next ride the driver was in an all out yelling match with a bunch
of family member passengers over what had/needed to be paid for the
transport of the corpse. I finally did some yelling of my own and told him to let me off if he would not turn around and look at the narrow road he was barrelling down.

When I finally arrived at my overgrown front door and dust-coated
house, two volunteers were there to welcome me, with a bottle of wine,
chocolate cake, and a welcome back card!!! It’s nice to be home : )

Racial diversity, attentive parents...and health insurance for dogs? Seeing the US through new eyes

I used this analogy when I'd been studying in Paris and went to visit my brother in London: Arriving in an English-speaking place felt like stepping onto a moving walkway at the airport; you've been getting by just fine, but suddenly you are simply gliding, sashaying along with so much less effort. Signs, announcements, and interactions are so relatively smooth - compared to having to constantly translate and expand energy to figure life out, everything now just flows.

Coming back to the US a couple weeks ago gave me an overwhelming sense of the same kind, but much more dramatic. It felt as if I'd been trying to walk up a downward moving escalator, and suddenly changed to the right direction and was whisked away with forward movement. Instantly everything was on my side and trying to help me succeed in making progress, not pushing back at every turn and making everything more difficult. Even in the airport the SIGNS telling me where to go and how to do things, empowering me and letting me be independent and productive, seemed impossibly organized and advanced. I could not believe my eyes when I saw a public water fountain - Free? Potable? WATER just given to us, that we can trust and just dip down and drink? When I walked into that first HUGE airport bathroom with its jets of soap, hot water, hot air and more working toilets than I've used in 16 months, I just gasped.

And when the PA system clearly announced that the next Airtrain into the city would be arriving in 3 minutes, then one minute, then had arrived, and then what the next stop would be, I think a very audible "Oh My GOD, are you KIDDING?!" escaped my lips. After waiting for three hours for the bus that was supposed to take me ( though you are never sure ) to Douala where the airport is (and while no one else seems the least bit phased and everyone is just sitting, doing nothing - no newspapers, no books, no crosswords, no knitting - as we pass the day away, again), I finally gently asked the ticket seller if he had any idea where the bus was or how close they were, and his exact very annoyed response was: "NO. YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN AND STOP ASKING SO MANY QUESTIONS, MISS." One of my next blog posts will be dedicated entirely to transportation : )

Still, it took me a couple days of being back to realize that I could expect water to come out when I turned on a faucet and to remember that cars were going to stop at red lights, that I did not have to dart in front of oncoming traffic to cross the street. Not only were there trash cans (in bathrooms! in hotel rooms! at gas stations! so lovely and helpful ), but differentiated recycling options -- this seemed to mock that there is not even a basic system in the vast majority of Cameroon for removing trash, so all of it is littered, dumped behind houses, and covering the sides of streets where people just drop whatever trash they have on the ground or throw it out vehicle windows - so jarring, but what should they do?

And the beautiful wide sidewalks along the streets of Manhattan meant I could just WALK, and walk FAST to where I was going, with everyone else next to me clipping right along so PURPOSEFULLY to their destination, like they wanted to be going there, or at least felt they had a purpose in their task. So energizing to be around people who move and live like they mean it. I often end up walking behind individuals or groups in Cameroon where it’s as if someone has put a gun to their neck and said "when you get to where you're going, I'll shoot you". And sadly that's often about the vibe they are giving off too.

I stared in awe as city busses in Seattle picked up and buckled in handicapped passengers along the way - to think of how many ways in which this would be impossible in Cameroon was overwhelming. Who here would even have access to medical care that would get them a wheelchair? And what good would it do - the streets are a ragged mess of rubble, rocks, broken pavement if there is any, and people selling and leaving stuff all along the edge of the street - definitely no sidewalk for pedestrians of any kind. And if you had a smooth road to wheel down, how would you do anything else? The only handicapped ramp I've seen, at the hospital in my city, brings you right down to a three foot deep, two foot wide trench - the gutter - with no way to cross it except to jump.

The realization that in many parts of the US people can live independent, functional, successful lives being handicapped - that we are set up to fully accommodate people of so many different abilities and needs, was suddenly staggering. To say nothing of the fact that its socially acceptable!! In Cameroon most people with handicaps -especially mental ones - are stored away in back rooms of their houses by their families, who are so ashamed of them that they don't even want company to the house to know they are there. This is largely because people believe it is sorcery and witchcraft spells that lead to handicaps, so if your family is associated with that, others may stigmatize you or be afraid of you.

There were a handful of other white people on my flight from Douala to Brussels (and I was very taken aback to see them, as I rarely see non-Peace Corps whites). And then to my astonishment and delight, there seemed to be about the same number on my flight from Brussels to NYC, but of course this time there was no majority, just a mish mosh of every kind of person from every kind of place possible, a scenario so unlike any I've been in here that I was swept away with relief and appreciation.

To not be stared at and closely observed, or yelled at and called to because of your being a white woman, or sized up and regarded with a sense of tension/jealousy/amazement/ resentment/interest/intimidation/uncertainty - wow, how simple it was so go outside here and just BE! NYC was the most incredible point to enter the modern world in for the sheer contrast it provided on the levels of infrastructure and insane levels of human accomplishment, the BUZZ that keeps that place zooming with efficiency (people behind counters! and they have change when you buy something? and they've been trained to ask how they can help you?! and the ATM is not broken?!) and the diversity that I would just LOVE any of my Cameroonian friends to be able to witness as its pretty extraordinary coming from a place where if you are not black, you are clearly not from here.

I watched so many mothers and fathers attentively holding the hands of their children as they crossed the street, and hugging them or talking to them or playing with them in little ways like as they picked out food at the grocery store. This level of caring for individual children actually made me sad as I thought about how little individual or affectionate attention I see children receiving in Cameroon. Instead, children are already selling fruit or peanuts or bottles of gasoline along the side of the road by the time they are six, sprinting up to moving vehicles to beat their friends to the sale of some cola nuts, safety a very far thought, and guardians nowhere near. Because they are probably hand-washing the clothes or hand-peeling the seeds for a dinner soup to provide for the other six children - where is the time to give to the thoughtful development of each child? Family management and child discipline are done mostly through rough reprimands, and the system leaves so many cracks for small children to be left unattended, to eat things they should not, to hurt themselves. When I ask people when a child can be left at home alone, I usually hear "three years old"! So, babysitting is not a big student money-maker here like it was for me growing up...

Last night my nurse friend, who had stayed three hours late at the hospital to take care of some badly injured accident victims, even though the government has not paid the nurses in 29 months, came over to visit. She told me about the cases she had had that day, including two toddlers who had died, one because he drank bleach, another because he ingested toxic pesticide chemicals that had been left on the floor when a parent returned from the field. Tragic consequences of a society that does not allow for, or does not value, the type of coddling that help many US youngsters develop healthy bodies and bright minds because of the nurturing of their parents and caretakers.

By the way, my first meal (you know I'd been thinking about it for weeks!) was Thai, a blissful reunion with my cousin, brother, and now sister-in-law near Union Square. I had landed a few hours earlier, and they were all "How are you holding up?! That trip was so long!" In fact, I could not have felt any more gleeful or well-rested! "That whole trip was like a cruise! Hot water, three kinds of paper products and lotion in the working bathroom! MY OWN WHOLE SEAT! A personal TV with endless movie options? No yelling about the price, no babies on my lap, no window crank jabbing into my side? Drinks other than beer or fruit soda! And wow, airplane food has definitely gone gourmet. That.Was.So luxurious."

Marrakech, Morocco with Mimi - Marvelous!

Majorelle Gardens - the former private gardens of designer Yves Saint Laurent

Leaving sub-Saharan Africa for the first time in over 15 months was at first overwhelming and disorienting, and then magical and reassuring. My sister and I decided to have our African adventure in a place that would be a little cushier and more accustomed to hosting foreigners than Cameroon, where it would be a vacation for both of us, but still off our beaten path. Marrakech was the perfect solution - I'd always wanted to go to Morocco (in fact the first returned Peace Corps volunteer I ever met as a girl served in Morocco, and I remember being so intrigued), and wanted to experience more of the Arab influence on architecture, food and culture I had loved when I visited the Alhambra in Granada, Spain. And since despite being able to use Facebook  and a cell phone, I feel like I live on a different planet here, or at least in a different century, knowing we would still be on this continent I have gotten used to was actually a relief.

But upon arriving at the massive Casablanca airport (or maybe just massive to me?) I was totally blown away...at how clean and shiny everything was, at seeing trash cans and escalators and public bathrooms and helpful signs. And at all the fair skin. I am used to being the only white person wherever I am and standing out unmistablably, and even when I am with other volunteers we are always the odd men out. But here were thousands of Europeans milling around me, and along with the lighter local complexion, suddenly I was one in a million faces that did not stand out from the next. While unfamiliar, this racial diversity that freed me from getting stared at by everyone was extremely welcome.

Coming from the tropics, I knew Morocco in December would be colder, but it's hard to properly imagine the cold when you are so hot - I packed a few scarves and a little fleece and thought I would be golden, plus it was all I had. Now everyone was in stylish winter coats, boots, scarves...women had highlighted hair, nice handbags and rolling luggage. With my battered backpack, Birkenstocks and African dress over leggings, I felt so out of place and turned around that for a few minutes my head was spinning. Hadn't these people also just travelled?? Why did everyone look so damn good? And why did I look like...

"...A Peace Corps Volunteer. I look like a Peace Corps volunteer. Ok, calm down, you are fine. Yes, these people look like they belong on a runway, meanwhile your feet have permanent dirt lines, your exposed ankles are covered in bug bite scars, and the most stylish thing you are wearing is an REI stretch headband. But most of them surely could not handle what you face in Cameroon everday, so just chill and be proud of yourself and where you are coming from."

If I was already feeling like I'd come through a Harry Potter-like portal into a strange world where things functioned inexplicably smoothly and there was a bizarre lack of shouting, the next hour made me question if Cameroon actually existed. Since nothing but security was open at the Cameroon airport at 4AM when I went through, I was not able to exchange any money before flying out. And since my debit/ATM card had been hacked into two days before (and my phone had been completely destroyed by someone trying to fix a broken button on it) I arrived in country with nothing but a pile of Central African francs and a naiive expectation that that would get me somewhere.

The airport exchange desk turned these away, and at first I thought the guy was teasing me when he said NO ONE in the airport would accept or change that currency. Come ON, we are still in Africa after all, and its not even just Cameroon that uses CFA....but he was right. 25 exchange booths and at least 8 bank branches did not even legitimize that the money I had was real - they waved me away as a nuissance, like a small child getting in the way, trying to exchange monopoly money. When I asked them for help finding a solution, they just gave me smiles of pity like I was pretty darn dumb to think anyone would want anything to do with my money.

Having exhausted all my options, and after other central Africans (several Senegalese) said they did not recognize the francs I had (what was going ON?), I started to wonder...had my whole time in Cameroon been a dream? Was I dreaming right now? I did not know anyone in Casablanca, my sister was flying into Marrakech three hours away, I had to buy a train ticket in order to get to her, I had no credit card, no travellers checks, no local phone...hmm. And once I arrived I was supposed to pay the balance on the hotel and finance a week of vacation...but I wasn't even thinking about that yet.

I asked several guards what they would recommend, but they said the only solution was illegal and they could not discuss it while on duty, so I'd better talk to the taxi men. I did just that (living in Africa has made me a lot bolder), and after an hour of strange huddled conferences in corners and men whispering and motioning and telling me to "show them the money", they had figured out who should take me into town, where we needed to go, and how much of the payoff they each would get from the abysmal deal I was about to have to make.

With a driver who spoke no French, me not knowing the city in the least, and a sister who by now was surely wondering why I was not at the B&B as planned, I was just a little nervous as we drove into Casablanca. An hour through customs and I was already participating in the black market? In order to spare my mother a panic attack, I'll skip to the part where I got some money, had a train ticket, and was on the way to Marrakech having paid the driver and thanked God for my safety. I swear I have a guardian angel - I call her Olivia after my grandfather Oliver who died before I was born - and she was definitely working overtime to get me out of that pickle in one piece.

36 hours later I had my developped world  feet (whenever I referred to Morocco as developped my sister's look reminded me were were coming from different worlds!) and was ready to fully indulge and enjoy. We started off the new year right with body scrubs/masks and massages at this traditional Hammam spa....so luscious and rejuvenating! Big white bath robes, mint tea between each element, and a trio of jovial older French gentleman enjoying it all alonside us topped off the experience perfectly. After months of being squished and jabbed and poked in tight cars, riding on bumpy motorcycles and sleeping on a lousy piece of foam, that massage and all the pampering had me feeling I'd died and gone to Heaven.

Speaking of Heaven...oh, the dried fruit and nuts!! These are things I miss in Cameroon where you can only get peanuts easily and never see apricots or the like..so we stocked up on dates and pistachios etc and had daily picnics along with bread and cheese and hard boiled egs and apples and oranges. Being able to enjoy things like parks, public squares, gardens, fountains, even a single bench...any space that is meant for enjoyment and relaxation and taking in life, was such a treat - that's another aspect of the developped world that I miss dearly.  

The "riad" (traditional Moroccan B&B) we stayed at had a charming communal living and dining room (with this real fireplace I never wanted to leave) where we met lots of interesting visitors - a gay couple from Paris where one man used the common space to practice his classical singing, and the other pretended not to speak English the first day, seeing if he wanted anything to do with us...he did; an American diplomat to Sweden and his bubbly wife; a man from Guatamala working in Africa for the UN, and his German wife. I was touched to get asked lots of questions about my work in Cameroon. One woman asked "Did you cry the first week?" I instinctively and sincerely responded, "I cry every week."

The main square Djemaa El-Fna that was a five minute walk from our riad, and where we liked to watch things come alive from above. All those smog particles hanging above the city made for beautiful sunsets!


I had a serious "OMG, I've become Cameroonian" moment when I boarded the train from Casablanca to Marrakech, which I was in shock to see come and leave exactly on time...what WAS this place?! It was Friday evening and the train was full of people who worked in Casablanca going home for the weekend or for the new years celebration. No one was finding a seat, so I kept moving down the track to further cars...finally as I climbed into one I was relieved to look over the other passengers and see how few people were in the car - places for all of us, surely. But still no one took their seats, and we were all instead crammed, standing, into the loading space at the end of the car.
Wait a minute, what on earth was going ON? All I could see were long, comfy, cushioned bench seats, where four people could have easily fit on each side of the isle. Instead, only two were seated, lounging out each with more leg room than 10 people share in a Cameroonian taxi. Finally it dawned on me, there were only two actual spots, and so the first two got to enjoy their space while the rest of us crammed in the corner.
My first thought: "We would NEVER go for this in Cameroon!!!" My second thought: "I just 'we'd me in with Cameroonians!" That was my first true culture shock - seeing that instead of all cramming in on the seats, luggage and children on our laps, people respected that it was one person to a (huge) seat. I wondered what Africans leaving their country for the first time think about scenarios like these in which people go about things so insanely differently...if it was strange for me, I can't even imagine!

Mint tea, postcards, great view, and Mimi (debuting her new scarf!)...yes, life is good.

As we visited palaces and museums and just walked around the old city, beautiful, intricate doors were one of our favorite aspects.

Thank goodness it was sunny and warm during the day.

Our fantastic chauffeur for two days - Abdul! A returned Peace Corps volunteer friend, Kristy, told us we had to use him, and I'm so glad we did. He and his assistant showed us the authentic places to buy scarves and pottery, told us all about Morocco history and current events, connected by a long line of kings named Mohammed, and humored all our requests for photos together. There is nothing like having a local by your side in a new city. Behind us, the beautiful Koutoubia Mosque.

Day trip out of the city into the surrounding villages and mountains. I had to laugh a bit when this was deemed as an authentic way to see "the real Morocco" and sit side by side with the local people in their true habitat. The whole thing, while charming and beautiful, was extremely touristy - when tour busses are carting outsiders by the hundreds into the village to snap photos and "get a taste of the village life", where the whole town has figured out how to cater to  and make money off this crowd, it doesn't quite feel authentic. The kicker for me was that the bathroom of the restaurant we ate at up in these hills...had a working automatic hand dryer!!! Maybe living and working in a part of Africa that hardly sees foreigners let alone tourists, where the village I visit are WAY out in the bush and have no running water let alone restaurants, has made me a "authentic Africa" snob. But it did make me appreciate that as a Peace Corps volunteer I get the chance to experience places that have not shaped themselves around white visitors. Even if that means its not as smooth a ride, and you get shouted at "WHITEMAN!!" and instead of a hand dryer in the bathroom you get a latrine with no door and no toilet paper, I realize it's a unique experience I should not take for granted.

They were dying the fabric in huge pots right behind us. It was a lot of fun putting my newly aquired bargaining skills to use in the markets - I know how to play the game now. Mimi seemed in half-horrified, half-admiring awe of the "bargaining beast" I've become...I got a beautiful stone necklace down to less than 30% of the quoted price in about 90 seconds. Earlier that day I had told Mimi she was being ripped off buying avacados, and she said she didn't mind. Her first words after we walked away with the necklace, when I had budged 50 MAD, and the salesman 800, were "Tessie, you can buy ALL the avacados from now on!"

Day trip to Essouria on the coast

Having grown up by the water in Maine, we are always happy campers to see the ocean, especially from a new country or continent!

Getting grilled fish from a stand is one of my favorite local things in Cameroon, so I was thrilled they had it here too - though much fancier with nice plates and table cloths and bread. Once again, Mimi validated that I have toughened up a lot - when you walk through all these stalls the men really harrass you to come eat at theirs, and surround you and try and push you to a table. This treatment is old hat to me now, and I can hold my own like the best of 'em. In order to get through it though, I feel like I have to be pretty aggressive - but Mimi said it came off to her that I was legitimizing these vendors by talking and joking with them and giving them a hard time, that treating them back like they were treating me was actually respectful, whereas many others simply ignored and ran away from them. That was a completely new way of looking at the scenario that I would never have come to but found eye-opening.

Saying goodbye to Mimi at the bus station before heading back to Casablanca. My carry on is a Cameroonian market bag - many Cameroonians on my flight used these as their actual luggage, wrapped in layers of tape.
After a year+ in the developing world, I feel like I look the part - rather run down mentally and physically. But I'm renewed and a happy camper after a week of blue skies and crisp dry air (unlike the humid, cloudy heaviness of the air in Cameroon), precious alone time with my beloved sister, and the reminder that there are (many) places in the world where things do work well...and the places where they don't, like Cameroon, are getting there slowly.


 When we were planning logistics for our arrival to the country over email, I shared with Mimi that the riad was happy to send a car to pick us up, me at the train station and her at the airport. I laughed out loud at the fact that I jumped at the offer (wow, private car, just for ME? yes PLEASE!) while she declined saying she was ready to dive in to the challenge with both feet and wanted to figure out public transport. One of us was ready for a break from Africa, the other ready for the rough edges of Africa. Luckily, Marrakech let us meet in the middle and both get what we needed.

Even better than a white Christmas


Nothing like a little African Christmas adventure to keep you from feeling nostalgic for Marstaller family sing-a-longs around the piano and Toblerone bars in your stocking. Especially when you are visiting the coldest region of the country where we actually did need to huddle around the fire in wool socks at night to stay warm! I was in the NW for the weekend visiting my friend and fellow New Englander, Laura (red bandana), and we hooked up with two other Peace Corps volunteers, five European volunteers and one awesome Cameroonian friend for a Christmas to remember in the hills. What a group!  You know you are lucky when even spending Christmas abroad there is nowhere you would rather be. 

We got a couple neighbor kids who had never held cameras to take these shots of us before we took off on our hike. The "1-2-3 go" was lost in translation, but they captured our enthusiasm. We've got tents and sleeping bags and loads of blankets, hammocks, a stove, pots, food and drinks and utensils, a Christmas tree, a camera tripod, firewood, hats and scarves, even marshmallows and real Cameroonian cocoa...everything but a chimney for Santa to come down.  

"Last one to the top digs the latrine!"
We look better than we feel! I thought the boys were joking when they pointed to the peak we were heading to the top of, then thought I was going to die when the trail basically blazed straight up! The elevation in this region is already much higher, and my bag quickly felt like I could have built us a chimney myself. We came up with games to keep us distracted, and one of the volunteers even got his iPod and speakers going and tied it to his pack to keep us motivated and prevent us from jumping ship on the whole thing. Much more slowly and steadily than most of the others, we made it!

Hardcore Laura on the other hand blazed up the trail without so much as a heavy breath, casually on the phone to her mother much of the way, and spent the last half hour cheering me on from the top! She's from Vermont and does intense winter camping trips, one of her many admirable adventurous hobbies. I stayed at her house before we left, and we had real maple syrup on our cinnomon oatmeal pancakes - definitely got me in the spirit : )

The trail that had brought us up is used by farmers, who charge up it just to reach and tend to their crops - I can't even imagine. So no actual camping, we just made our own site on an abandoned plot. We spent the last hour of daylight scouring for firewood, hanging up hammocks and the tent, making a firepit and setting out dinner. It got chilly up there really quickly and the layers and blankets were piled on.

Ahh, that'll do. The Cameroonian man who trecked up with us hung a hammock too, by nailing a sheet into two trees, at least 15 feet up...and slept there soundly all night!

We didn't let anything keep us from enjoying what's important: Christmas spirit...

...complete with music...

and good food!

Staying cozy by the fire, but as soon as you turned your face away, the air was nippy - climates in Cameroon are surprising! One of our 25 tries to spell the town name, Belo - that E was not easy to capture!! We had a talented and patient amateur photographer amongst us, several of these pictures are his work.

Christmas morning - hiked a nearbye hill to watch the sunrise after prying ourselves out of the pigpile of limbs and blankets we had formed in the one, one-person tent to keep warm!

With some creastivity and an able photographer, we turned this setting...

...into shots like this! No phtoshop, just settings and a great angle (and great leap!)

"I can see into the future, and 2012 is gonna be a big one!"  

"Last one to the top digs the latrine!"