I've been away now...

I realize I don’t update this thing all that often but this time I have an excuse. I was traveling! I would love to go into great detail about the way each bus ride felt (bumpy and cramped), and the way the air smelled (like body odor) and all of that but I think the best thing to do would be to regress back to undergrad and go with APA Style:

Wednesday July 2nd

Me and the other three Americans (Hannah, Karen, and Dave) head off to Yaoundé, the capital of Cameroon. Douala having been the only big city we have all had the unfortunate opportunity to visit, our hopes for Yaoundé were not high. I would describe Douala as the Baltimore of Cameroon. If you don’t understand the impact of that statement get your pop-culture phobic ass to a television and watch an episode of The Wire. It’s angry, filthy and loud and those are its best qualities.

But if Douala is Baltimore than Yaoundé is San Francisco (sans the homosexuals, because as you know, that is illegal here. Sounds like Biya is in cahoots with that guy with the long name from Iran). The place was a wonderland, which isn’t a surprise I suppose given that it's presidents main drag. High-rise buildings, sculptures, and roundabouts with grassy parks in the middle instead of rocks painted with stripes. And…PAVED ROADS WITH STREET LAMPS! I had forgotten how it felt to be able to walk around at night without fear (legitimate fear that is) of robbery and rape. I miss the city. I miss DC. And it goes without saying that I miss you.

Our hotel, which we got for around $17 per night, was right in the thick of it and around the corner from the most magical place in Yaoundé: The 24-hour bakery. It had doughnuts, it had chocolate croissants, it had cake and by god it had tiramisu gelato. There was also an amazing little craftsman area where I picked up the perfect tapestry. Our hotel was so cheap due in part to the room sharing arrangement: 1 double bed per room with two people. The only catch, we have only one dude on our trip. So as Hannah and I each claimed a key, Dave and Karen skulked around in the hallway until I granted Dave permission to be my roommate. Both Karen and Hannah have boyfriends. He brushes his teeth like a jackrabbit, tracks in mud when he is drunk and farts…loudly. But my friends, his farts don’t smell! In all honesty, he was a great roommate. Our showering schedules never overlapped and he didn’t steal the covers. In fact, we had some kind of silent agreement worked out whereas we rarely slept face to face, which came in handy on those nights when he didn’t brush his teeth at all.

Thursday July 3rd

Off to the embassy for the Independence Day party. Yes I know Independence Day is on the 4th. But, as our ambassador Mrs. Soandsowhogivesashit pointed out, the declaration of independence was actually signed on the 2nd and simply announced on the 4th. So, lady, the question remains: Why the 3rd? And the very simple answer to that was: They wanted the day off.

The place itself was unreal. You step off the road and thru the doors of the compound and everywhere you look they’ve placed an American flag. Any surface that would support one was adorned with the 13 stripes and 50 stars. It was sprawling, with a PGA tour worthy golf course in the backyard. A swimming pool, eight barbecue grills (of which the only needed and used one) patio furniture and live (butchered) renditions of old American classics and random Cameroonian crowd favorites such as ‘The Children are our Future.’

Although I hate to admit it, and I know some of you will be disappointed, I was in heaven. I had two and a half burgers, three hotdogs, and one helping of each side which included all kinds of salad (potato etc.), beans, corn (nom nom nom) Doritos (yes this is a side dish) Cheetos…the list goes on and on and on.

Then came the desert. A schmorgesboard of homemade heart-attack as I have never seen. It should be noted that thanks to my quick thinking and the others good humor we brought a cake from the 24-hour bakery that had FREEDOM! written on it. People were vaguely amused. But that’s probably because they were ALL inbred missionaries. Swear to you, every last one of them (save for four peace corps folks). It was all very strange, and wonderful and just odd…

No fireworks though.

Friday July 4th

Happy Independence Day! Karen and I sing the national anthem to Dave the hotel lobby as Hannah uses her French skills to get us checked out.

Hop on another four hour bus ride to Kribi after a long and hot wait at yet another overcrowded bus station.

But all that fades when we see that our hotel, which we got for even less per night than the one in Yaoundé, isn’t just on the beach, it’s practically IN THE OCEAN. Absolutely gorgeous, the rooms, the beach, the patio, the ocean.

Saturday July 5th

I drink a cup of tea and stare out at the ocean. I lay on the beach all day, enjoying the sounds of the waves and the children (yes, enjoying sounds of children).

It’s a perfect day at the beach.

Sunday July 6th

Wake up early, cup of tea and me and Karen and Hannah are off to the falls. We take a bike there to save time and find our way to the falls with the help of some friendly and non-threatening locals.

Kribi is one of the rare places on this earth where a waterfall empties directly into the ocean. And it doesn’t disappoint.

We climb up and just look at it. Gaping like fools at something that these villagers have become accustomed to. They get their fresh water from it, bath in it, and wash just about everything else here as well.

After having gotten our fill, not to mention a good deal of photos (this is another story, one that is not yet finished), we head back to our hotel on foot which turned out to be much more difficult than we anticipated. Due to high tide we were forced to scale large, slippery rocks on more than four occasions. We only had one elbow causality though, and surprisingly enough, it wasn’t me!

We got back, packed our things in a hurry (no time nor available water for a shower) and we begin our long trek back to Kumba.


Conclusion

And, even with all the excitement of the past week, it felt great to get ‘home.’ Cameroon is, geographically, an astonishing country and Kumba is certainly not the most beautiful of places. But it’s familiar. I know the streets, some of the people, and my room has become a bit a haven away from the noise of our work and the buzzing of so much to think about and so much to do while we’re all still here, a little crock pot full of simmering intelligence and intensity. I don’t miss Kumba when I’m gone but I do love the feeling of coming back to it. If that makes sense.

Into the Wild

Friday the 26th of June. Laura, Alexa and I were scheduled to visit our very last village. In the past month and a half we have visited over thirty and on Friday we capped off the initial stage of our project with Mbo Barombi.

This particular village was special not only because it would be the last one we traveled to but because it was just beyond the forest across the crater lake Barombi (which is the name of a tribe). The lake itself is beautiful beyond words (at least any words I can think of) and we all try and make it down there to swim once a week.

On our journey to the village our group (Alexa, Laura, myself, and the rest of the interns who tagged along for the adventure) hiked a trail around the lake to get to Mbo Barombi. At first I was disappointed by this development because we had planned to take the hallowed out tree trunk canoes across. Turns out, the hike was incredible. The forest was out of this world and the sounds made it seem like we had stepped into one of those soothing sleep sound machines. Over fallen trees and through thick brush we made our way to Mbo and along the way we were offered what they claimed to be cocoa plant. At first I was skeptical, the thing when solid looks like a miniature pod from Invasion of the Body Snatchers and when cracked open the inside looks and feels like a gigantic lougey. Nevertheless, we each popped a piece into our mouths and by god if it didn’t taste like watermelon jolly rancher. After writing that, I have to ask, why in the hell are those candies called jolly ranchers? Do ranchers eat them? And do the candies really make them jolly? I digress…

After an hour we arrived at the village, probably the sparsest of any we have visited, with an incredibly small population, the majority of which were out of the village that day due to the construction of a water piping system. In Kumba we have clean potable water from the tap that is pumped in from lake Barombi. In Mbo Barombi however, they do not…go figure. Anyhow, we met with the council and most everything went as it should. That is to say, it went slowly with a few unforeseen hiccups. There was a long delay in administering the council member surveys but with the other interns along we made fast work of it all. We were then treated to drinks and conversation, which inevitably led to an outpouring of docu-marriage proposals. That’s when we knew it was time to go.

We were then led down a path that we hadn’t taken to get into the village and off in the distance I could see the shore of lake Barombi, with five tree trunk canoes sitting on the shore. I should really find out if there is some kind of awesome local word for these things because tree trunk canoe really doesn’t do them justice. Each was a different size and filled with varying amounts of water. All nine of us were instructed to get into one boat (the longest of those available) and we did as we were told. In the process the boat began to sink lower and lower into the lake until the side was no more than thee inches above water level. No sooner had we all settled in we were pushed from the shore and on our way home.

This is when I made the biggest mistake of the day. I had a paddle, I had it in my hands and I willingly handed it over to Dave. No questions asked, not a second thought. And with that paddle went all of my power. Dave used it as leverage to torment me, splash me and threaten me for the entire trip across the lake. Even at one point using it to apply a mud drawing to the back of my shirt. I am a foolish, foolish girl (not to mention far too trusting).

The trip back took forty-five minutes all told and is something I will never forget. The water in the lake was crystal clear, the weather was perfect, and we sang every song with a reference to water that we could think of (Smoke on the Water, River of Dreams, Row Row Row Your Boat…the list goes on). There was laughter, and singing and silence. A wonderful day all things considered.

Flash forward to early (6:30am) Saturday morning and Laura and I are on the road to Beau to climb as much of Mt. Cameroon as we could in a one day trip. As it is almost July we prepared for the worst in terms of weather, each packing a rain jacket and extra socks, underwear and shirts. We arrived at the Mondial bus station (a short walk from where we live) and there was hardly a soul to be found. Not a single bus, not a single van or car or ocada. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

When we asked a man when the Mondial bus was scheduled to come he responded in typical Cameroonian fashion: “Some time” So Laura and I stepped back onto the road and begin to think of alternatives to the Mondial system when, wouldn’t you know it, a half empty bus came barreling down the road. The driver stopped, agreed immediately to our offered price, we hopped on and spent the majority of the trip with the entire back seat to ourselves. An abundance of personal space on public transport is a luxury in this country and we savored every moment. Then, the mountain appeared in the distance and I got giddy like a kid on Christmas.

We arrived in town and hooked up with our guide Ferdinand who is about 40 or so years old give or take I have no clue because everyone in this country looks so young. All in all the cost for the guide, access to the mountain plus food and water was about $25.

The hike began hard and did not let up. Laura and I had each worn a pair of old sneakers that had lost their tread. This made the trip all the more challenging. The majority of our hike took us through the rain forest. Again, I am at a loss for words. The mountain put Mbo Barombi to shame. The best part was the air, though. In Kumba there is constant humidity, dust, exhaust, animal and human waste creating a constant salty sour smell that one gets used to only after a while. On the mountain (the peak of which is 3000km above sea level) however, the air was fresh, clean and sweet. I took long selfish breaths and each one felt like I was taking my lungs through a drive-thru car wash.

After hiking for about four hours (and passing two tired and beaten young men with their guide and porter coming down after having reached the peak the day before) we came to hut one which was covered with the names of hikers who had gone before us (carved, burnt and written on paper taped to the wall). Laura, Ferdinand and I enjoyed some water and bananas and decided we would hike about an hour more to get to what Ferdinand referred to as the Savannah. The trail between hut one and hut two (there are three huts) is said to be the worst. Having been there I’ll tell you, that shit was no joke. But we persevered and before I knew it we had reached a clearing.

We were above the clouds, above the rain forest. We were standing on Mt. Cameroon staring into the mist at its peak. We stayed that way for a while. Just sitting, silent and looking. No big moment of clarity, no realizations of the meaning of life. I simply sat and enjoyed my alone time with Mt. Cameroon. She was marvelous.

So there's that...

Some strange happenings these days in Kumba. I suppose it started when we went out for burgers, specially made by a man we know only as ‘Mr. Burger’ who owns a restaurant called ‘Classy Burger’ in Fiango (just a 15 minute ocada ride from Kumba).

I have come to be known as the garbage disposal of the group, given that I eat constantly (I can’t seem to get full here) and I am always more than happy to finish everyone’s leftovers. I’m turning into my father. I ate two burgers and two plates of fries.

The burgers, although obviously different than the kind we get in the States, were splendid and the group left Classy Burger fat and happy. Well fat at least. Dave got sick shortly after and had to go home to make love to the toilet and Hannah followed soon after (turns out she actually has malaria). Thankful that we hadn’t fallen ill, the rest of us headed out to a bar (plastic chairs and tables on top of gravel next to a hotel) where we sat with our friend Kingsley and a creepo who latched onto our group somewhere along the way. By the end of the night he had offered to give up the G-Man (apparently he was/is in seminary school) for Laura.

Each of us (the girls anyway) has found our own way of dealing with the constant barrage of inappropriate propositions from the men and mothers of this country. Often times I feel like a manikin in a store window where the lot of them are window-shopping for wives. On any given day, depending on my mood, I can go one of two ways. I can smile politely and insist that whoever it is deserves a wonderful wife but that I am not interested or, if it’s been a particularly rough day, I launch into a stern lecture at which point their eyes glaze over. This second tactic might seem like the way to go; to the contrary-though I may have lost them in my lengthy reprimand they are often jumping at the bit to begin their case from the beginning once the sound of my voice has tapered off. Its as if I’ve said nothing at all. As in most situations it’s best just to keep a sense of humor. Though I do sort of wonder what the going rate for a police bribe is when you severe a mans testicles…

Flash forward to Tuesday morning. Hannah is still indisposed while the rest of us head off to work. Laura, Alexa and I take a detour for noon-time lunch and try to find a place we have only ever been taken to with Ebony. I was craving rice and ndole (sort of like spicy creamed spinach) and we are trying not to wear out our favorite place (Bakassi). Turns out the silly place (after we finally find it) wasn’t open. Discouraged, we decided to walk in the direction of a grouping of plastic chairs for this usually indicates ‘restaurant’. On our way, however, we were distracted by the opening of two enormous doors.

To be clear, these doors looked like they might conceal a medieval castle or a small nuclear arsenal. Obviously we have to push our luck. Feeling brave I walk right up to the man standing nearest to the doors (obviously the closer one stands to something the more in-charge they are) and ask if we might see what was behind the damn things. We’ve seen a complex being constructed from the road leading out of Kumba, but as far as I could tell it was simply a swimming pool and tons of topiary. I can’t be sure why exactly this man let us in (the place isn’t officially open yet) but nevertheless we made our way past him. And by god if there isn’t a God-damn small scale amusement park in Kumba complete with bumper cars, a ferris wheel and another small carnival ride of the spinning persuasion (for kids), tennis courts, basketball courts, and topiary. I swear the bushes in this place are immaculate. So for about five seconds or so (give or take five minutes) we were pretty convinced this was awesome.

Then we got our heads out of our asses and realized that in a country where so many go without clean water, without adequate roads to get from the farm to the market, without proper nutrition and basic education we were standing in the middle of a fucking amusement park. Is there some international development theory that I’m not aware of which shows a relationship between the presence of overpriced amusement parks and physical and economic well being? All I can think to say is WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? Although I suppose the bumper cars will be a good way for drivers to release their rampant road rage in a safe and accepting environment.

So there’s that…

More strange happenings include Kingsley getting dumped by his girlfriend and coming to Laura, Alexa, and I for advice. And wouldn’t you know, I quoted a Christina Aguilera song and I swear it was totally appropriate. In the middle of this advice-a-thon, however, I felt a wave of nausea (my first since I’ve been here) and excused myself to my room. I spent the rest of the night dividing my time between the toilet and Memoirs of a Geisha (a movie I convinced myself would help settle my stomach, something about all the flutes and wind).

Then today Hannah (still left incapacitated at home) called to tell us that Elvis, one of the young men who work at our residence and someone we’ve become fairly close to, is frantic, crying and screaming. Turns out his 22 year old brother died, exactly how we aren’t sure yet. I haven’t seen Elvis today and I’m not sure if he’ll be coming back. If he does, I don’t know what I’ll say or how to act. Cursed awkward nature.

Next week we head to Yaoundé for the 4th of July Embassy party (should be fantastically lame without any fireworks) and from there we are off to Kribi (one of the only places on earth you can see a waterfall that flows directly into the ocean).

We also visit our last village (learn more about my work at http://directfromktown.blogspot.com) on Friday. We get to take a hollowed out tree canoe across lake Barombi to get there. Not to mention the monkeys in the forest. Should be the most interesting yet and a great way to draw the first part of our project to a close.

Also, I wish that there were pictures here too. I really do…I’m working on it. Promise.

Damn it feels good to be a gangster

To be very honest, when I was told by Laura and the rest of the group* that we had been personally invited to the CD release party of a local rap artist named Tyson Da-Bullet I was less than excited. It had been a really long week and all my nerdy ass wanted to do was crawl in bed with my depressing book and read myself to sleep. But something in me knew that this wasn’t to be missed. I mean, would I ever get the chance to go to a Cameroonian CD release party again?

So at 7pm off we went to The Shacking House (to ‘shack’ means to drink). And we waited, and we waited. The event was supposed to start at seven so we thought we had arranged to be right on time (30 minutes late) but apparently we still don’t have the concept of ‘Black Man Time’ (their term, not mine) down yet.

Finally we heard music coming from the back room and we made our way round to see what all the hullabaloo was about and that’s when we saw it…

Not only was this a CD release party but, given the nature of the decorations (which consisted of pink and white toilet paper), it was also an 8th grade dance.

The stage had been adorned with an enormous pink and white heart with the words “Da-Bullet” in large, crooked letters written inside. Funny how handwriting translates into toilet paper art. Under his name was the word “Seniorita”, which at this point was inexplicable though we hardly thought to question it. Additionally, inside the heart was the aids/breast cancer ribbon, also made of pink and white toilet paper, just for good measure. Because nothing says ‘I care about curing disease’ like selling a six track CD and keeping 100% of the profits.

As the night went on we were introduced to Da-Bullets extensive posse who kept telling us to “keep it real”. In fact, they chanted this slogan on more than one occasion while waving their arms Nazi style (accept with their hands in the form of rock not paper). Many of the rap acts were less than impressive, often times with five-plus men on stage all trying to milk their time in the lime light for all it was worth.

That being said, however, the dance acts were OUT OF THIS WORLD! It was like I had stumbled across the set of Step Up 3-Electric Bugaloo Cameroon Style. If you’ve spoken to me at all since I’ve been here you know that I have found the majority of the male population to be intolerable. But these men, with their jiving, kicking, stomping and gliding, all in unison, began to grow on me. The last group even had several break-dancers! I was in heaven and it was all I could do not to jump on stage with them, and had Abby been there I’m fairly sure we both would have ended up there.

When Da-Bullet finally did take the stage we realized that the “Senorita-Cinderella” song that had been playing all night during the dance acts was the title track to his CD. The other tracks were as follows (all spelling errors are intentional as I am copying this verbatim from the back of the CD): (1) Intro (3) If I noh see u (4) I Short (5) Shake like Shakira (6) Givers never lack. He didn’t rap so much as run around on stage like a kid on Christmas morning with all his friends, producers, and collaborators, patting him on the back and at one point hoisting him above their shoulders. Da-Bullet is a man of surprisingly small stature and this makes his on stage antics all the more adorable (although I’m sure that’s not how he would like to be described). He apparently spent some time in Detroit and as a result has adopted one of the most essential ingredients in American Hip-Hip: the N-word (something we hadn’t heard yet).

By this time it was past eleven so I gathered up the female troops and headed home, leaving Dave to savor the rest of the night alone with the locals.

I have yet to actually listen to the CD but I assure you when I bring it back to the United States there WILL be a dance party and you are all invited.

*If I haven’t mentioned them before here they are:

Alexa-She is a law student from Vancouver. She dances goofy like me.

Laura-She is a recent graduate (degree in international development) from Ottawa. We have the same sense of humor.

Karan-A law student from Seaton Hall University. Just a stones throw away from my old stomping ground in Philly. Also, I almost went there for my graduate studies.

Hannah-She is an undergrad from Boston. She has gotten blueberry beer from the same place on Commonwealth Ave. where Becky and I go to when I visit.

Dave-A law student from NYU. He was also an undergrad from NYU but originally hails from Illinois. A character like none other and self proclaimed laziest man in the world (too lazy even for sex…says it makes him too sweaty)

Stephanie-She is from Switzerland (the French speaking part) and recently quit a job working with Nestle. Don’t let her sweet voice fool you though, she is just as feisty as the rest of us.

And the baby goes to...

On the morning of Monday the 16th of June, Alexa and I were thrown into the middle of an emotional custody dispute.

As someone with only one year of a two year masters degree under her belt I am probably about as qualified to mediate this dispute as I am capable of defying the laws of gravity or licking my own eyeball.

Nonetheless, our colleague Tawe requested our assistance in the matter and as these people had taken the time to come to the office of a human rights NGO they were clearly invested in solving their problem amicably. We all took a seat around one of the small wooden tables within earshot of everyone else in the office. This fact didn’t seem to phase Tawe or the disputants so we proceeded. Privacy and confidentiality are often non-issues in Cameroon.

Much to my astonishment I found myself taking the lead, this was certainly due more to the fact that my other two colleagues were looking to me as the resident expert in mediation than any actual desire to do so on my part. So I put on as good a show as I could and hoped to be able to get to a point where we could ensure a high quality of life for the child.

Turns out the child was more like an infant and had been taken by the father to live in his mothers house. Whether or not this was by force was one of the main points of contention. Both the man and the women told their side of the story and several things became clear:

Their relationship was absolutely void of trust.

The mother had a tendency to turn on the water works when she felt she wasn’t going to get her way. Whether or not this was out of fear and frustration or aimed at manipulating our emotions I can’t be sure.

The man was angry, stubborn and found listening difficult.

They needed to reach an agreement soon as the baby was only four months old and while it needed breast milk it also needed a healthy living environment which it may or may not be able to get at the mothers home.

The mother may or may not be a prostitute and she has a contested number of other children from previous relationships.

After a long and emotionally charged debate filled with exclamations of “over my dead body” and “I’ll kill myself” not to mention the classic “you’ll have to kill me first” I got them to agree to put past grievances aside (including the breaking and entering which took place at the mothers home) for the sake of the child. They then agreed to the following short term arrangement:

The mother would go with the father to the mother in laws home to breast feed the child. She would then spend the night in the mother in laws home. From there we advised them to use the skills they had learned in our office to settle the dispute out of court. Court being something they can’t afford anyways.

We told them we hoped they would be able to work together to ensure a peaceful and healthy environment for the newborn and that if they ever needed our assistance again they shouldn’t hesitate to stop by.

Who knew Craig’s class would actually come in handy? I was reframing my butt off out there and it really did work (kinda). To be completely honest though, I wouldn’t be surprised if they showed up again…

I can't write my way out of a cardboard box (that being said...could someone come let me outta this box)

Lake Barombi; without a doubt one of the most perfect places I have ever seen. I have a picture (which, it goes without saying but let me say it anyway, doesn’t do it any justice). The forest is overgrown and unrestricted. The water is clear and fresh and ripples in the wind. Most of all, the place is quiet. The most silent place in all of Kumba.

On the other side of the lake there is a village. We know this only because of the men who use canoes made out of large tree trunks to carry goods from their bank to ours. One of these days we get to take a canoe across and speak with their village council.

Cameroon is a beautiful place. Recently though, what I feel is that Cameroon is a frustrating place. Be it the arbitrary checkpoints along the road, the endless heckling or the complete disrespect for time. Efficiency is of no importance. Well that’s what it feels like much of the time. Then I realize that in three months I get to leave. Back to the U.S. where, although often times it may not seem this way, there is logic and there is order and there is efficiency and there is respect for people and for time and for the law. Cameroonians do not have that privilege. They have to stay here and live here. I shouldn’t give the wrong impression though. The majority of Cameroonians I’ve met love their country while at the same time hate their lot in life and despise the government. But for them the endless frustrations, roadblocks, and hypocrisy won’t end in August, and I am finding this is incredibly hard to reconcile.

So blah blah blah, boo hoo hoo. Woe is me tales from a field worker with a heart of gold. That’s so old hat.

Banana’s are in season. And anyone who knows me should know that I do NOT like bananas. Nevertheless, a chief offered up an entire platter to us (Laura, Alexa and I) last week and, not wanting to offend, I tried one.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have seen the light. That was the best damn piece of fruit I have ever had in my life and I dove right back in for seconds. There just aren’t words to describe how ridiculously good they were. We’ve gotten some from the roadside stands everyday since and these bananas combined with a huge tub of chocolate dipping sauce (much like nutella but, in my humble nutella hating opinion, tastes much better) a friend of ours recently bought us…my god. I have nothing to say except (yes, you can slap me for this when I get home) that shit is bananas!

There are twenty missionaries in town this week. I haven’t met them yet but I’m not in too big a hurry to do so. Maybe they will slip in and out of town without crossing my path. Thank the lord it only takes seven days to do Gods work.

Also, there are a TON of ‘albino’ Cameroonians living in Kumba. At least, that’s what the locals call them. They are very light skinned and their hair has little to no pigment. However, we are all skeptical of their true ‘albino’ status given that it is often hot enough to melt your underpants and albinos have incredibly sensitive skin. Perhaps they are a special breed of albino, perhaps we don’t know what the fuck we are talking about and should stop pretending we know about everything when we can’t even wikipedia it to make sure we’re right, or maybe some chicks messed around with a white dude and just didn’t wanna tell anyone so they claim their children are albinos. It’s a mystery.

Life here is complicated and knowing who is really your friend and who simply wants something out of you is a difficult distinction to make. This makes me sad and pisses me off quite a bit. I expected it, but being on guard all the time gets tiring.


They still call me white man when I walk down the street. And sometimes they yell ‘Sarah!’. We like to think that a white girl named Sarah once came to Kumba and was immensely popular and that we are the first white girls to live here since. Oh Sarah, how will we live up to the standards you have set? I can only hope that ten years from now they will be yelling ‘Casey!’ at the next generation of white girl who comes to work in Kumba. Something tells me not to get my hopes up though.

The rainy season looms. Are ya ready boots? Start walkin’

Some words

June 13th, 2008

I realize I haven’t mentioned this yet, but I am in Cameroon. Kumba to be more precise.

So here we are. I have decided to use this thing for words after all.

Here I am. A month and a half in (give or take a few days) and this place continues to baffle me every single day. I have never been in a place where logic seemed so absent. For better or for worse, you can’t find logic here.

At work (a local grassroots organization called The Global Conscience Initiative) I am on a team with two other girls, Laura and Alexa. They are both from Canada but I don’t hold this against them. They are wonderful and we laugh almost 90% of the time we are together. Wait…

I should back track. I got here on the 6th of May. A week before any of the other interns were scheduled to arrive. The airport in Douala was dark and smelled like my grandmothers attic. In my haste I had forgotten to pack my immunization card, which for some reason I didn’t stick in my passport as almost everyone else in the entire world knew to do. So the very first thing I did in this country, a country whose claim to fame is the fact that it has topped Transparency Internationals list of most corrupt countries in the world, was to bribe a woman (who only spoke French) to let me into the country without it. I suppose I kissed logic goodbye at that moment, only I didn’t know it yet.

I hadn’t intended to bribe her. I was going to explain and make a series of phone calls, but before any of this could transpire she simply asked me for ten euros. I only had $20’s so I slipped one under the window and proceeded on with my immunization “receipt.” Before you say anything, I know, the very first thing I do in this place is bribe someone. It hurts me more to admit it than does for you to hear.

Luggage retrieval was fairly uneventful. Susanna warned me to only allow green vested men to help and for that I am truly thankful. There are young boys swarming any and all foreigners looking for money in exchange for dragging your bags away from you.

My ride appeared and before we could begin our trek home, a young girl from the Netherlands approached me and asked if I have ever been to this country before. I answer no but I can see the panic in her face and so I explain who I am with and that they have a car. Then, from behind her, appears a meek looking young man. They were in Cameroon to work for the World Wildlife Federation and their ride had failed to pick them up. The girl was a powerhouse of problem solving and the young man turned out to be a totally useless, whiney little thing.

Turns out the car that had come to pick me up was already quite full with passengers and cargo (1 driver and 2 men from GCI) and we hardly had room for me and my luggage let alone two stranded WWF workers. But we made it work…somehow, and we drove them to a hotel where Ebeny set them up in a room for one night for a reasonable price. That is Ebony. The man we spend the majority of our time with at work. He cares for us like a father and you can just see in his eyes that he would go out of his way for anyone and expect absolutely nothing in return. I can only imagine how comforting it might be for a child to simply curl up on his lap.

The ride home after that was a piece of cake. Stop at a friends house, stop for meat at the side of the road (broken rule number two) and stop for gas in the middle of nowhere and then a stop for bubble gum and then three hours later HOME. Or what would be home for that night; the Mbuetchwa Hotel (picture the seediest motel in the Midwest and multiply that by about 1,000). Only it was too dark for me to know that at the time. All things considered I could have been anywhere. I could hardly see my hand in front of my face. I got my things, followed a woman to my room and was told not to answer the door if anyone knocked.

Five minutes later someone did, claiming they wanted to help me turn on my fan. I won’t say I reacted quickly but I did react well. At first I pretended I wasn’t there, but given the window and the light from within I’m fairly sure that jig was up before it started. So on the second knock I simply told them I knew how to do it myself. Thankfully they left and as they did I tore threw my suitcase for the rubber door stopper I had been told to bring by the man whose impact on my life reaches farther perhaps than any other, save for my father.

With the thing well lodged under the door I settled into bed after trying unsuccessfully to hang my mosquito net. The moment my head hit the lumpy pillow I could feel my heart beating in my chest and my breathing became difficult. At that I whipped out my laptop and this is what came out:

May 6, 2008

1:10am

First Day in Kumba

FFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCKKKKK!! Long flight. Not bad though. Too many babies. Once again, NEVER having one of those.

Douala airport. The adventure begins! I forgot my immunization record card. EFF. Moron, stupid, fuck fuck. So. I start off exactly how I DID NOT want to. I bribed the woman with a $20. Sheesh. That is like 8,000 CFA. Mother fucker.

Forgot to fill out the entry card on the plane because I was effing sleeping and no one was there to help me. So had to fill it out at the counter. The guy wasn’t too pleased.

Finally found my luggage (thanks SUZ for the advice about the green vests). No thank you Solomon. Then Mr. Ebeneezer finally showed up and we had to rescue a girl from the Netherlands and a guy from Greece because the WWF never picked them up. They are in a hotel in Douala now. Nice…but the dude was a pansy. WWF…silly.

Then oh my. The ride home. We stopped for food at a bakery where I got ice cream and almost hit by a car. Traffic is INSANE! It smells of dirt and petrol EVERYWHERE! No rules just taking your life in your hands. Then a motorcycle hit us from behind. Nothing doing, moving right along.

Must get SIM card. Oh wait IT DIDN’T WORK in my phone so I used Mr. Ebeneezer’s phone to call home. Eased their minds. Although mine certainly needs help right about now.

Didn’t take Tyrone’s advice and I did eat the meat from the side road place. It was delicious! And so far my stomach is okay. Then we needed fuel. Another stop. Then another stop for, of all things, chewing gum.

I had to pee so so so so badly and was so so so so hungry after the 3 hour car ride I thought I might cry. No mosquito’s yet…I think. Although that might be them biting me now. HAH! What have I gotten myself into.

I need to call Tyrone. I need to do my essay. I can’t wait for the other interns to get here. Just remember though. If it’s too much and you’re out of your element there is no shame in admitting it and packing up and heading home. This is going to be amazing. Breath.

-Goodnight.

So there it is and here we are. A month and a half later. The project I am working on gets me out to villages in the Meme division (in and around Kumba where I live and work). Each one is different but somehow they all smell the same (this is probably because they all grow and sell cocoa beans and maize). We take bikes (not quite motorcycles) everywhere and it’s amazing. I am tan by the way. Very tan.

We visit councils (local, traditional and senior) in every community we visit and speak to councilors and community members about how their local justice mechanisms function. Most disputes in most communities are settled with either a crate of beer or jug of palm wine. And everyone, including the guilty party who had to buy the stuff shares in a drink together to make peace. It’s at once fascinating and effing hilarious. Plus, many of the councils have taken to wearing snow caps with puff balls on top and huge rock star sunglasses a la Kanye West or Bono.

Me and the other girls get at least one marriage proposal a day from council members, chiefs, bike men, and people on the street. I have never in all my life felt so eye raped and so taken advantage of. Often times we will finish a professional conversation and the man, who just moments before was speaking to me with respect, is asking me for my phone number. Not to mention he is about three times my age usually. This issue with the men is the most frustrating I am facing here. They are incredibly aggressive, to the point of physical grabbing and often show up to our residence at night and demand to speak with us. I’ve been called rude more than once for needing to sleep and not being interested in their company. Cultural differences whatever, I need my privacy, I need some respect. End of story.

Cameroon is wonderful though. The people we work with, Ebony especially, are fantastic and for the first time (cheese alert) I really feel like I am doing something that NEEDS to be done. I question it everyday though. Don’t get me wrong. Am I making any real impact? Probably not. Could anyone else be doing what I am doing? Absolutely. But fact is, I am here. Not anyone else. So I’ll do what I can and I have no delusions about it. All I want to do is not contribute to the crap, I won’t save the world, and I can’t save Cameroon, but I can make sure not to shit on either one.

This is the best I could do for now. I am going to try to upload more pictures and write more regularly.

If you want a good recap you can go to another interns blog (wheredaveis.blogspot.com) and read about the past month. We also have a website for our project entitled globalconscienceinitiative.blogspot.com if you're interested.

Sorry if this was scattered and useless. If you’re reading this I miss you but know that I am having the time of my life. And, when there is time, my mind does wander and chances are it’s wandered to you more than once.