I'll have a 'Roon Christmas without you.

Christmas caught me off guard this year. With no television to broadcast incessant advertisements and no radio to bombard me with nonstop Christmas music, it wasn’t until mid-December that I was reminded: ‘Twas the season. In the Anglophone city of Bamenda, sitting down to dinner in a brightly colored restaurant that specialized in fufu corn and jama-jama (cooked huckleberry leaves), I noticed a small imitation evergreen in the corner of the restaurant and realized that the cheesy muzak playing overhead was an ‘80s-tastic rendition of “Angels We Have Heard On High.” Maybe because I’ve never spent Christmas in the tropics before, I was slightly baffled.

I met a third-year volunteer a few months ago who told me that a PCV has three options when it comes to Christmas: spend it in village; spend it with other volunteers; or fly home to spend it with family. Since my friends in Nyambaka are Muslim and I thought it dangerous to return to the comforting, climate-controlled United States so early in my service, I was left with one option, and I have no regrets regarding my decision.

I constantly tell people that one thing Peace Corps teaches an individual is how to improvise, and Christmas Day is a perfect example. In a country that has probably never heard of mistletoe or eggnog, both of these things magically materialized thanks to volunteers’ knack for invention. Christmas morning was spent eating gargantuan homemade cinnamon rolls and watching the classic claymation version of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” As for my own improvisations, in an attempt to look somewhat presentable, I wore a dress from “up for grabs,” which is basically a metal trunk that serves as a sort of Peace Corps thrift shop.

Not too shabby, right?

While the other volunteers feasted on macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, and other American staples, I took a motorcycle taxi to the home of my counterpart, the censeur (vice principal) of the Nyambaka high school. It was the first time I met his wife and three adorable children, and as we got to know one another in a lovely mix of French and English conversation, we dined on papaya salad, fried plantains, and ndolé (bitter leaves cooked with fish). In a good show of African hospitality I was presented with far too much food, and as a good guest, I ate as much as physically possible, which wasn’t that much, considering I’d been to the hospital the previous day complaining of stomach pains, diarrhea, and loss of appetite. (I can say with some certainty that the Ngaoundere hospital will not live on in my memory as a favorite Christmas Eve.) I would have loved to stay in Roger and Aurelie’s salon talking about our families and listening to hymns on the radio, but I had to be back at the Peace Corps house for my shift.

Yes, after much discussion and innumerable complaints about video quality when a dozen people are using the same internet connection, someone had the bright idea to assign shifts for when people could talk to their families. Initially, I hemmed and hawed about not having an ideal time, but it was certainly worth it to see my dad and his husband, and my entire maternal family. Although I don’t ascribe to a particular faith, Christmas is probably my favorite holiday, since it gives me an excuse to shower the people I love with gifts, and I savored my two hours Skype since I could watch their reactions to opening presents.

Of course, Christmas is a time for traditions, and my first Volunteer Christmas was no exception, bringing with it traditions old and new. The tried and true volunteer favorite of the bean bag toss (called “corn hole” by some) led to a number of heated exchanges as the number of empty beer bottles increased and the number of shirts worn diminished. But as the sun set on the playing field and the sounds of Marvin Gaye’s “Mercy Mercy Me” wafted over us, someone said, “What about karaoke?”

Alex and Drew represent Team Shirtless.

And thus was born Yowaoke. In Fulfulde, “yowah” is something of a catchall term which can express anything from agreement to surprise, and has become a favorite exclamation of a number of volunteers. Since there are no karaoke bars in Ngaoundere (that we know of, anyway), we set up our own, loading YouTube lyric videos on a laptop. We had no microphones, so we depended on our own larynxes as our sound system. (As a result, most participants were a bit hoarse the next morning.) And since we had no charismatic karaoke host, I ran around with a sheet of printer paper and a ballpoint pen and scribbled people’s requests. So it was that karaoke took on a distinctly improvised Cameroonian flavor and became Yowaoke. A great deal of fun was had, and subsequent Yowaoke soirees are in the works.

I had worried for a brief moment that Christmas in Cameroon would be something of a disappointment. It doesn’t feel like the holidays without snow, I heard one person say. It just isn’t the same without my family, said another.

And that person was right. It wasn’t the same. But it was just as good.

Lydia joins the Peace Corps Club

An older, wiser volunteer once told me, "in Cameroon, every fart is a gamble."

Well, I gambled.

Today, I lost.

World AIDS Day

posters put up at the high school

December 1 is World AIDS Day, or, if you’re a wordy francophone, Journée mondiale de lutte contre le Sida (Global day of the fight against AIDS). I had previously organized some small events for the day back in the States when I was a student organizer for the ONE Campaign at the University of Iowa, but it’s far easier to organize an event when you have access to things like photocopiers, movie projectors, and Facebook. Regardless, another teacher and I decided in late November that we would have a small informational session for the students. Then she called me Monday morning (about six hours before the session) to let me know that she was on a bus to the capital, so it would just be the students and me. Oh, dear.

I should have been more excited than nervous about the students taking charge. After all, one of the most lauded goals of Peace Corps is sustainability, or what some in development have called “working yourself out of a job.” Essentially, we should strive to make sure that in our absence, the education and improvement we have begun will continue without us. And although many people told me when I came to the Adamawa that the majority of people were too conservative to discuss HIV/AIDS, the younger generation is more open to discussion, and there is already a small but self-motivated group here in Nyambaka, the high school health club.

I can’t take any credit for the success of our “formation,” or session. It was towards the end of the school day, and I expected the students to head home as early as possible, as they usually do, but something prompted between 60 and 70 of them to stay. Maybe it was the charismatic Terminale (Senior) student Crépin, maybe the discipline master intimidated them into attending, or maybe they were just curious what the white teacher would say about a disease that some people here believe was created by whites to kill blacks.

Either way, the classroom was full when I walked in, and I was impressed with the amount of knowledge they already possessed about HIV. Sure, in theory they have a unit on HIV/AIDS every year in school, but the majority of teachers don’t complete their syllabi, partly because of absenteeism among both faculty and students. If I’m to be perfectly honest, I was envious of Crépin’s ability to maintain both attention and order in the room, since this is something I still struggle with, but I consoled myself with the thought that all of the students there had made an active choice to attend, unlike in English classes.

The ages of the students in the room varied from early teens to early twenties (many students are held back multiple times as they continue their high school education, including one 25-year-old Junior) so reactions to the material presented differed accordingly, even before the presentation began. When informational posters were dispersed among the classrooms, the students of sixième (sixth grade) refused to have one posted to their door because it mentioned condoms. Then there was a group of three young girls who sat in the front row but made disgusted faces whenever male genitalia were mentioned. The older students handled it with a little more decorum, and some young men were able to ask specific questions on the application of condoms.

Since the students were clearly already well acquainted with the facts around HIV—methods of transmission, methods of avoidance, etc.—I thought it might be useful to do a condom demonstration, but the discipline master immediately vetoed the idea. “If we give the students condoms, they’re going to use them,” he warned, and I thought to myself, Isn’t that the point?, but said nothing. Certain mentalities know no nationality: I remember hearing the same rhetoric from my middle school nurse.

I wish I were proud of my involvement in the day’s activities, but honestly, I played an almost negligible role: I just provided prizes (pens, not candy) during a sort of Jeopardy at the end of the session and corrected a few bits of misinformation. (Hopefully at least a few of the young women in attendance will remember the nassara frantically running to the front of the classroom to interrupt Crépin, shouting “IUDs do not protect against HIV! They prevent pregnancy, not STIs!”) I will say, however, that I think it was largely successful, and certainly informative for me, as I was able to see the students’ reactions and their preexisting knowledge of the disease. Here’s hoping that some of them will take the information to heart, and that next year’s event will be even more successful.

Trash is in the eye of the beholder.

Yesterday was trash day, which means that yesterday, I piled all of my trash and lawn clippings into a corner of my yard and lit it on fire. It looked something like this:

True, it's not the most environmentally conscious method of waste disposal, but I like to think that the burned grasses act as a kind of fertilizer. Plus, sometimes it's just really cathartic to watch shit burn.

The system here (or lack thereof, as is the case in most villages) is that everyone is responsible for their own trash. In some cities, there are public sanitation workers who empty trashcans, clean streets, etc. But even in Ebolowa, a regional capital, I never saw a "garbage man" or any kind of service that came to people's homes. Instead, in my host family's neighborhood was a sort of designated trash corner where people would throw plastic sacks, vegetable peels, and juice boxes, and one of the neighbors would burn it about once a week.

Since the beginning of dry season in October, I've learned to differentiate between the smells of burning grass and burning trash, and the crackles and pops of a grassy ditch on fire have become a familiar, even comforting, sound. 

But aside from the tall grasses that have died of thirst, there's not even much trash to burn, as most things are repurposed rather than thrown away. Old clothes become pot holders or rags to clean the floor. Empty sardine cans become toy race cars. A few weeks ago, I saw a girl, maybe six years old, playing with her baby doll, an ear of corn, and she was braiding its hair, strands of silk.

Being here has forced me to adopt this mentality of repurposing to a certain extent: after all, I can't hop in my car and go to Target whenever I need something. Sometimes, especially when planning activities for my students, I have to improvise using what few things I have around the house. By American standards, my games look extremely low-budget and thrown together (because they are), but I've impressed some of my fellow teachers with my ingenuity, and the kids usually have a lot of fun. And that's good enough for me.

Milestone: First Village Haircut!

I gotta say, it turned out a lot better than I anticipated. My only objective was to get rid of my baby mullet and the layer of insulation that my hair had become, but I think the village barber did a lovely job.

As far as I know, there are only two “coiffeurs” in Nyambaka, and they both cut hair exclusively for men—women grow their hair out and have it braided—but I was getting desperate, as the volunteer who would cut my hair is currently out of the country for a minor medical procedure. (Get well soon, Taylor!)

The “barbershop” isn’t a shop so much as a kiosk, with one swiveling office chair for the individual being coiffed and three small stools for waiting customers. When I arrived early in the evening, all of the stools were occupied, and two teenage boys (one of which is a student of mine in seconde) were leaning on the rectangular cutout of the kiosk that served as a window.

“Bonsoir,” I said to the barber, after greeting all of his customers. “Have you ever cut a nasara’s [a white person’s] hair before?”

“Yes!” he quickly replied, defensive but good-natured. “You’re not my first nasara customer. But I’ve never cut a white woman’s hair before.”

“That’s not a problem.” I had already decided that if this haircut turned out horribly or far too masculine, I could just wear a headscarf until I found someone to fix it.

Once it was my turn in the swivel chair, I was much more of a spectacle than I had anticipated. Yes, being one of two white people in Nyambaka means that I’m always a spectacle, but I had underestimated the impact the neighborhood’s token white woman being in a men’s barber shop would make. A small crowd gathered outside the cutout window until the barber closed the makeshift curtain.

Another one of my students in seconde passed by, and said to his classmate, “Nasara debbo na?” which means something like, “Is that white person a woman?”

I hadn’t said anything about the crowd outside the window, but I lost my temper for a moment hearing my student disrespect me. “I’m not stupid,” I spat in French. “I know that you’re talking about me, and you know that I’m a woman. Women can have short hair too, you know.”

He started to backtrack, but I cut him off. Normally, if I misunderstand something in Fulfulde, people will tell me or translate for me. By the silence that fell in and around the kiosk, I could tell that I was right, that he had been talking about me.

One thing I found curious was that before I even left the barbershop, I received reactions of both extremes, and from people I didn’t expect. A middle-aged gentleman who was waiting for his turn smiled at me and said in English, “It is very beautiful.” Meanwhile, a young woman, who was there with her boyfriend, told me “women are prettier with long hair.” I wasn’t offended or surprised by this last comment: when I lived with the Abate family in Ebolowa, they would often tell me that I would be prettier if I had long hair. This kind of frankness seems to be innate in Cameroonians, and I’ve come to appreciate their honesty, even if it’s not couched in politeness like that of Midwesterners.

Once the barber had finished, I removed the bed sheet that had been draped around me and handed the barber a 500-franc coin. It was one of the cheapest haircuts I’ve ever had, and one of the most informative.

Baby Animals!

The seasons are changing here in Nyambaka: Where we once had torrential rainfall every day, we now have intermittent and unthreatening sprinkles. The dry season--six months of heat and dust--is on its way. And with this change of seasons the circle of life moves again. Plants are beginning to dry out and die, but a number of new lives are beginning, many of which are freaking adorable.

 Baby ducks! (at the neighbors')

Baby goats! (at city hall)

Baby chickens! (also at the neighbors')

Baby cows! (grazing in my yard)

Baby sheep! (in my neighbor's yard)

Outfit of the Day

I normally don't treat this as a fashion blog, but I wanted to share my new ensemble, courtesy of my favorite tailor in village, who also happens to be my neighbor. I bought the pagne here on market day a few weeks ago for 6000 francs (about 12 dollars), and Pepito charged me 4000 (about $8) to sew the dress, which was based on a sketch I drew. Most of the women in the Adamawa cover their heads for religious reasons, and while I don't share their faith, part of being in the Peace Corps is integrating into the host culture, so this is one of my minor attempts to do so. This is also the reason for the longer hemline: While it's not rare to see women's knees in cities like Ngaoundere, women dress more conservatively in villages, so I've done likewise.

Un bon voyage

It’s not uncommon for me to look out the window when traveling between Nyambaka and Ngaoundere and think to myself, “God, what a beautiful country.” Luckily, during my last trip, I remembered to bring my camera, so I can share the beauty of the Adamawa with y’all, including the red earth (the novelty of it hasn’t worn off yet), countless cattle herds, and, signaling your arrival in the capital, Mount Ngaoundere, which is more like a sizeable hill with a boulder on top than an actual mountain.

Vignettes of Nyambaka

I’ve heard a number of volunteers describe their strange relationship with age here, and as I’ve mentioned before, age is an important component of gaining respect here, but I experienced one moment that I think perfectly captured my tenuous balance between respected elder and young whippersnapper posing as a grown-up.

I was walking back to my house from the market when I passed an old woman. Her head was covered in pagne, as most women’s are here, though I haven’t yet adopted this habit.

“Sannu,” (“Hello”) I said with a nod and a smile.

“Sannu, bingel,” (“Hello, child”) she replied.

I’ve never been called a child in Nyambaka, before or since, so this greeting, though well intentioned, caught me off guard. I was even more perplexed when only a few seconds later, and young man greeted me with a cordial “Bonjour, Madame,” a title generally reserved for married women or women of authority. I’m certainly not the former, but apparently, I may belong to the latter group, depending on whom you ask.

------------------------------------

I entertained for a moment the possibility that I was having a stroke. Surely that was the only explanation for smelling cigarette smoke for no apparent reason?

Luckily, I rounded a corner and passed various overgrown plants to find an older gentleman with gray stubble and a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

It was only after I’d greeted him and continued on my way that I realized I had never seen someone smoking in Nyambaka before. No wonder the scent of smoke had caught me off guard—I’d gone nearly a month without encountering it. Since Islam forbids drinking and smoking, and the Christian-majority neighborhood is on the other side of the village, I must have subconsciously accepted an existence where I would see (or smell) neither alcohol nor cigarettes.

It’s strange how quickly one becomes accustomed to such things. I wore a skirt in Ngaoundere recently that showed my knees, and though I owned (and wore shamelessly) at least one mini-skirt back in the States, exposing a part of my body that hadn’t seen sunlight in weeks made me feel unnecessarily self-conscious, even a little scandalous.

I guess my saving grace is that when people were staring at me, it probably wasn’t because of the length of my skirt.

Milestone: First Feline Friend!

Everyone, meet Minou (pronounced mee-new; French for "kitty")! She belongs to my neighbors, and she loves to sit on my lap and have conversations with me (meaning she meows whenever I say her name). Before coming to post, I assumed that I'd adopt an animal, but after watching other volunteers go through the heartbreak of leaving a pet behind or the hassle and expense of taking them back to the States, I've decided that hanging out with Minou is good enough for me.

Chez moi!

Ta-da!

The salon, the first room when you walk into the house.

The hallway off the right side of the salon.

The kitchen!

My bedroom!

Milestone: First Interaction Entirely in Fulfulde!

Me: Sannu! Hello!

Vendor: Sannu! Hello!

Me: Jam na? How are you?

Vendor: Jam. I’m fine.

Me: Useko. [points to an ear of roasted corn] Dalla noy? How much is it?

Vendor: Dalla noogas. One hundred francs.

Me: OK. [gives money, takes corn] Useko! Thank you!

Vendor: Useko! Thank you!

True, it doesn’t seem like much, but after a few weeks of awkwardly smiling and nodding whenever people talk to me in Fulfulde, this moment honestly felt like a step forward for me. Yes, there is a long way to go: the other Volunteer here in Nyambaka can have a full conversation in Fulfulde, but then again, she’s been here for two years and arrived less than a month ago. Luckily, I’ve found some wonderful people in the village who are willing to help me learn, “seta seta” (little by little).

Grocery Shopping

Foodstuffs can generally be divided into three categories here: available daily, available on market day, or things one can only find in Ngaoundéré.

As far as things you can get every day, there are a few small, cramped boutiques in the market, which sell everything from eggs (75 francs apiece) and bread (100 francs for a small baguette) to flip flops and hair relaxer. There’s also usually a line of women in front of these boutiques selling things like tomatoes, grilled corn, bananas, or peanuts, though it seems like their wares change every day.

Saturday is our market day, when vendors come in from the smaller surrounding villages, so there’s much more variety in available produce, not to mention clothes and shoes. I usually pick up some peanut butter (200 francs for about a cup) and tomatoes (100 francs a kilo), and bananas (100 francs for a small bunch), since I can be more selective.

Practically everything else is available in Ngaoundere at what volunteers affectionately call “white man stores.” For reasons that I still haven’t discerned, there was an influx of Norwegian missionaries and medical professionals into Cameroon in the 1980s, and to this day there’s a Norwegian hospital in Ngaoundere, so a number of grocery stores in the area stock European items. The last time I was in the regional capital, I splurged on a jar of Nutella, which set me back about 3000 francs, or six dollars. 

Ngaoundere also has the largest market in the region, where you can find peppers (50 francs apiece) and carrots (200 francs for five), which are unheard of here. Avocado season isn’t yet in full swing here in Nyambaka, so I take advantage whenever I’m in the capital to pick up a few, especially since my favorite breakfast as of late is avocado and egg sandwiches. I also make a point of consuming as much dairy as possible when I’m there, since without dependable refrigeration, the only dairy we get in village is powdered milk. Which is a shame, since the Grand North is known for khossam (Fulfulde for “milk”), delicious drinkable sweetened yogurt.

All in all, I think I’ve been mostly successful so far in my attempt to maintain a balanced diet when I cook for myself. When I eat at the neighbors’, the food is usually full of carbohydrates and salt—not that I’m complaining. We’ll see how I fare when I stop going to Ngaoundere so often and don’t have access to as much variety.

A Very Special Episode

When we arrive at Ngaoundere Regional Hospital, it’s dark outside, but I’m not sure of the exact time. The Peace Corps driver who brought me here, Bouba, asks me if he should wait in the car or come inside with me.

“If you don’t mind,” I say in French, “I’d like you to come with me. I don’t really know how this process works.”

He nods and gets out of the car, so I do as well, gingerly, and using only my right arm to hoist myself out of the white SUV.

“Can you walk?” Bouba asks.

“Yes,” I say, though the entire left side of my body aches and a flinch a little with every other step I take.

So Bouba walks and I hobble into the Urgences, and to my great relief, there are only a handful of people waiting.

Perhaps because my case is more urgent, or perhaps because of the color of my skin, a male nurse and his female assistant identically dressed in white lab coats speak to me almost immediately, asking me about what happened.

I speak French rather well, but between fatigue and shock, words refuse to align themselves into sentences, so Bouba speaks for me. “A road accident. She was in a taxi when the driver lost control and hit a semi.”

I was in a Toyota Corolla going from Ngaoundere back to Nyambaka. There were eight people in the car—three in the front seat, and four adults and an infant in the back. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon, and I was only minutes away from my destination when it began to rain. The driver continued on, clearly exceeding the speed limit despite the curves in the road. Just as an oncoming semi approached, he lost control.

To my surprise (and, I’ll admit, disappointment), the nurse nods, but seems unphased. Working in the emergency room in a country where car accidents are one of the leading causes of death, he probably sees cases much worse than mine on a regular basis. Regardless, he ushers us into the adjacent examination room that looks like it hasn’t been updated since the ‘70s. Between the offensive fluorescent lighting, the bloody tissues visible in the wastepaper basket, and the slightly rusted tray of surgical tools on the counter, it feels somewhat like the setting of a low-budget horror film.

“Where do you hurt?” asks the male nurse.

“My left arm, the left side of my face… actually, most of the left side of my body,” I say. “But it’s mostly my arm I’m worried about.”

“Can you lift it?”

I lift my arm to about the level of my chest. He gently lifts my arm, despite the pitiful squeak of pain I let slip.

“It’s not broken,” he says. “If anything were broken, you wouldn’t be able to lift your arm.” He then lifts my left sleeve to reveal a smear of dried blood. “You said you had no injuries, just bruises,” he says, and I sense annoyance in his tone. I apologize, saying, “I didn’t even know.”

The nurse gives Bouba a list of supplies to buy at the pharmacy down the hall: cotton, rubbing alcohol, two syringes, and two kinds of painkillers. Unlike in the States, here one has to pay for treatments and medications beforehand.

The rest of the visit is without incident: I receive my injections and a week’s worth of painkillers, pay my bill, and am on my way.

“When’s the last time you ate?” asks Bouba as I watch a sizeable cockroach scuttle across our path.

“About eight hours ago,” I say. “Where do you want to go? After all that, I owe you dinner.”

Becoming a Domestic Goddess

Not my words, mind you. This is how my father described me after I recounted a few of my projects around the house. I never thought of myself as homemaker material, let alone a "domestic goddess," but I'll certainly take it as a compliment.

First off: Arts and crafts. I've been knitting for years now, so that's not news, but I've recently started making paper beads, and with some level of success, I think.

I'll go ahead and apologize in advance to every female member of my family. This is probably what you'll get for Christmas. Sorry.

Also: Pagne potholders! Because unlike badass Cameroonian women, I need more than a couple of leaves between me and a scalding hot pot.

Next up: Household improvisations. Unfortunately, it's quite rare to find shower caddies or built-in utensil holders in Cameroon, so I made due with what a could find, that is, a pasta strainer and a metal coffee cup.

Since installing this (a work of genius, I admit), I can't but think to myself just how spoiled Americans are. We look at a perfectly acceptable place to wash ourselves, and think, "Yes, this is nice, but I'd rather not have to bend down to reach the soap." In any case, the caddy didn't last long, since the house is constructed out of mud and straw bricks covered with plaster, so the wall where the nail held the strainer in place started crumbling almost immediately. Alas, I'm again forced to bend down to pick up my soap. They tell you about "conditions of hardship" when joining the Peace Corps, but I never thought of this.

This one has been much more successful. Since moving into my house, which was also used by a former volunteer, I've been trying to make small changes to make it feel more like my own, and this was a part of that effort. It's a work in progress--my bedroom, for example, is far from satisfactory--but I'll be sure to post a virtual tour of chez moi when I'm satisfied with it.

I’ve also tried my hand at cooking: This has probably been the most frightening of my domestic endeavors, since in the States, my culinary repertoire was limited to things like scrambled eggs, pasta, and grilled cheese sandwiches. But it’s turned out surprisingly well so far! I still make a lot of pasta (like I mentioned previously, the diet here is very starch-heavy), and a lot of eggs, in an attempt to eat enough protein, but I’ve made my own marinara sauce, panini, and even an (albeit homely) chocolate cake.

Grilled panini caprese with Laughing Cow, sliced tomato, and fresh basil, which grows in abundance outside my front door.

Banana bread pancakes!

Arrival in Nyambaka

We all had a fun, relaxing weekend in Ngaoundere, going to restaurants and bars and getting acquainted with some other volunteers. But once Monday rolled around, I was back to work. Like the Elvis Costello song says, “Welcome to the working week.” Luckily, the school year doesn’t start for another month, so I still got to sleep in.

My counterpart, Roger, came to pick me up at the Peace Corps house at about 10:30 AM. He’s the vice-principal of the high school where I’ll be working, and it was he who requested the presence of an Education volunteer. We met over the course of two days during training in Ebolowa, and I feel exceptionally lucky to have him as my community liaison: Not only is he kind and generous, but he’s also well read and fluent in English. (We had a fascinating discussion about neocolonialism over coffee in Ebolowa, but that’s another story.)

We took a 15-minute motorcycle ride to the home of the proviseur, or the principal of the high school. He lives past the paved roads in a more rural setting, but has a lovely large home, surrounded by a security gate—and with satellite TV! His children were clearly more interested in watching DVDs, but the proviseur himself is very charming, if not a little intimidating, since he clearly has high expectations for me. Not only does he want me to teach English to three grade levels, but he also wants me to “improve English proficiency among the staff,” in addition to my secondary projects. At this point, I’m just hoping to do this job as well as I can, and hopefully make some small impact on the community outside of work, but I didn’t want to disappoint him, especially since he had his wife cook my favorite Cameroonian dish, sauce d’arachide (peanut sauce), for me.

In all, the meeting with the proviseur involved a lot of exchange of pleasantries and filling out paperwork, so I didn’t need to be as nervous as I was, though I suppose most people are nervous meeting their boss for the first time.

After returning to the case (the regional office) early in the afternoon, Kara and I made a quick trip to the market to buy vegetables. It’s possible to get them in Nyambaka, but the market is only once a week (Saturdays), whereas the one in Ngaoundere is open every day and has a larger variety. While at the market, I saw a boy (perhaps 13 years old) being beat with a shoe outside a store’s doorstep, which shocked me somewhat, but apparently this is a fairly standard punishment for stealing. Sometimes I don’t think I’ll ever entirely get used to this country.

Thanks to Kara’s connections, we were able to take a private car to Nyambaka rather than a bus, which was quite a bit more expensive, but required a lot less stress. Since I was traveling with all of my belongings in two suitcases and a large metal footlocker, I felt safer with everything in the trunk of the car, rather than strapped to the top of a bus or in the luggage compartment where everyone might have access to my things. I ended up paying 9,000 (about $18) francs for this piece of mind, which was totally worth it—I even took a nap in the back seat during the 90-minute trip.

It wasn’t until we arrived in Nyambaka that I began to feel anxious about my new situation. As soon as we stepped out of the car, Kara began speaking to her neighbor in Fulfulde, and I was only able to understand a minuscule part of their conversation. To make things even more discombobulating, a young woman appeared, stood behind the man Kara was talking to, and began surreptitiously filming me on her cellphone while pretending to read a text message. I waved at the camera with a displeased expression, as if to say, “Yes, hello, I see what you’re doing, please stop,” but she only giggled and continued.

I normally don’t mind being photographed, but something about this encounter made me feel like an object of amusement, like some kind of novelty, which I found somewhat disturbing. And so, in a moment of weakness (and rudeness), I abandoned the conversation and retreated to Kara’s house. I looked around at my luggage, which was now scattered on Kara’s living room floor, and thought to myself, “What the hell am I doing?”

Traveling to the Adamawa

As always, Peace Corps was running on “Cameroonian time”, so I left the house at 6:45 during the family’s morning prayers in order to be at the training center by seven, but the bus to Yaoundé didn’t leave until 8:30. Luckily, this gave Crystal and Audrey enough time to come to the center to say their goodbyes.

Truthfully, I was caught off guard at how emotional they both were, their eyes red and puffy with tears, and the only thing I could think to do was to hug them over and over, and say “It’s OK, I’ll be back in December.” Before seeing them like this, I hadn’t really reacted to this drastic change: I knew that I was moving to a new place, that I would be by myself, and that I wouldn’t see many of the people I was accustomed to for a long time, but I hadn’t really reacted until I saw my sisters cry. It’s as though I’ve been cut off from sadness. Most times, the only thing that makes me cry is seeing someone I care about cry. It’s as though I’ve forgotten when I’m supposed to express my emotions, and I need someone to remind me. But at least I still have some capacity for such expressions. I’m hoping that once things have settled into more of a routine that I can start behaving like a “normal” person again. But then again, my life won’t really be “normal” for the next two years.

Those of us posted in the Central, East, and Adamawa regions shared a Peace Corps van to Yaoundé, dropped off our luggage at the case (the brand-new travel house), and headed off in search of Chinese food, which was freaking delicious and slightly mind-boggling, as our Cameroonian waiter wrote out our check in Chinese. Unfortunately, we didn’t have much time to reap the benefits of being in the capital, as those of us going to the Adamawa were scheduled to be delivered to the train station at four. Our goodbyes to our stage-mates (fellow trainees) were brief and lighthearted, as though we would see them in class on Monday morning. Goodbyes are easier that way.

We were hurrying to leave the case by 4:30, but our train wasn’t scheduled to begin boarding until six, so we spent some time wandering around the makeshift market in front of the train station. Carl and I got some ice-cold smoothies, which was a pleasant surprise. (Another pleasant surprise: Carl came up to me the next morning and happily informed me, “That smoothie didn’t give me the shits!”) Cameroon certainly makes you appreciate the little things.

Just before the train began boarding, one woman started complaining (loudly) in French about us taking up too much space, clearly assuming that none of us could understand her. I rushed to her side and adopted the sweetest, most helpful demeanor I could, and explained to her (also in French), “I’m so sorry, Madame. I know we have too many bags—let me move some for you. I apologize for inconveniencing you.” She was clearly embarrassed, and mumbled something like, “No, it’s not a problem.” Just doing my part to suggest that not all “blancs” are inconsiderate and self-important—at least, not all the time.

Once we boarded, we all tried to shove our various bags into every possible nook and cranny, and the people who had never traveled via train took a moment to marvel at how compact and practical our cabins were. It wasn’t long, however, until the wine came out. Since Joyce’s birthday was coming up, and we wouldn’t be together for it, we decided to celebrate on the train by passing around some Peñasol and drinking it straight out of the box—that’s right, I said box—because we’re classy. At more than one point during the evening, a train worker opened the door and looked at us confusedly, since all seven of us had huddled into a four-person cabin for this impromptu “fête.” It was a great deal of fun, and I’m glad we took a moment, however small, to celebrate Joyce. She’s a wonderful person, and she’ll be a fantastic volunteer. And I’m not just saying that because she’s a fellow Midwesterner.

The train ride was gloriously uneventful, and we arrived only an hour or so behind schedule (unlike the last time I took the train from Yaoundé to Ngaoundéré, when we were about four hours late). We were all nervous but ready to negotiate the large crowds and taxis when two gentlemen in immaculate boubous (traditional clothing) approached us and said “Welcome, PCVs!” It was the first time we’d heard a Cameroonian speak English in at least 24 hours, and I’m sure we were all relieved that we didn’t have to worry about transportation or speaking to strangers in French for the time being.

The drivers took us to the Ngaoundéré case, which is older and not quite as clean, but feels very much like a home, mostly because of the Volunteers there, who are all wonderful and welcoming. I was finally able to meet Erin, the Agriculture Volunteer I’ll be replacing, and Kara, the Health Volunteer who will be my post-mate. Kara was kind enough to escort all of the “newbies” to the bank so that we could open up accounts, and she was an excellent resource during the entire weekend. After the bank (and an afternoon of torrential rain), we were all able to shower and use the Internet (joy of joys) before dinner, which was a delicious Mexican meal prepared by a few Volunteers in honor of our arrival. Without exception, every Volunteer from the Adamawa that I’ve met so far has been so genuine and kind, and I can’t wait to get to know them in the coming years.

Swearing In

So, we’re officially Peace Corps Volunteers. All 37 of us made it through training and swore in, which was a pleasant surprise to some.

I don’t want to say that the ceremony was a let-down, but maybe it was blown out of proportion by the way people described it beforehand. The U.S. diplomat to Cameroon and various representatives of Cameroonian ministries were in attendance, which was an honor, but our role seemed to be that of fifth-graders graduating from elementary school: We all wore matching outfits, did a cute little presentation, and shuffled around awkwardly, since nothing was rehearsed.

I will admit, there was one solemn, profound moment (for me) when we all stood with our right hands raised and said the oath of service in unison. At that moment, I felt connected to the 36 other Volunteers that I’d spent the previous two months of my life with, as well as the thousands of people who have taken the oath before us. Call me cliché, or sentimental. I know that for some it was rather anti-climactic after two months of intense instruction, cultural shocks, illnesses, and hardships, but for me it was enough to celebrate with my fellow Volunteers and my Cameroonian family.

Following the ceremony, I was interviewed by a couple of media outlets, including CRTV, the national TV channel, so I’m sure I’m a national celebrity by now.

Lunch was at Le Cercle Municipal, probably the nicest restaurant in Ebolowa, and all of our host families were invited, as the meal also served as an appreciation ceremony for the families. I was slightly disappointed, since the soap opera playing on the big screen TVs drowned out most conversation, and the buffet ran out of fried plantains before I got through the line, but I was glad that Mama Isabelle and Crystal got a small token of appreciation in the form of a nice meal and a certificate from Peace Corps.

I spent the next few hours packing the remainder of my belongings (most had already been sent on to Ngaoundere), and at about 6:30, Mireille (the volunteer next door) and I headed to the training center for a celebratory bonfire. I had a warm whiskey Coke and watched part of Team America, which was great fun, but by 9 it was becoming clear to me that this was one of those times when you remember that alcohol is a depressant. Maybe it was due to fatigue, or nervousness about traveling the next day, but it was time for me to go home. Upon further reflection, I think what forced me to return home was the sad realization that many of these people had built significant bonds with one another during training, and while I’m certainly friendly with most of them, I don’t think any of them would consider me a friend.

When I returned home, I distributed a few things among the family members—articles of clothing I couldn’t shove into my suitcase and a travel-sized toothpaste that Audrey found fascinating for no discernible reason (you can buy the same ones here)—before heading off to bed for the last time. It was strange, not sleeping under a mosquito net for the first time in two months, and in a more or less empty room, but I suspect I left something more than toothpaste with the Abate family—a new perspective, perhaps, or at the very least, a few happy memories.

The End of Model School

Our month of model school has come to an end. The exams are over, grades have been submitted, and report cards have been distributed. And with the end of our training comes a variety of feelings.

First, I have to admit that I was so lucky. In a country here classes of a hundred or more are the norm, the Terminale (senior) class I taught only had a dozen. They were all engaged and attentive, and incredibly respectful. Of course, these were supplementary summer courses, not part of the academic year, but a few of the other trainees had ongoing disciplinary issues, so I still count myself as lucky.

One thing that I hadn't anticipated was how attached the students became... or perhaps they're just very convincing sycophants. After the first week of class, one of the most gifted students (and one of my favorites--that is, if I had favorites), a girl named Ariette, approached me after class to ask me when I was coming back. About a week later, we were learning about comparatives and superlatives. To demonstrate an irregular comparative, I said, "Beyonce is more beautiful than Miss F." Half of the class shouted out in response, "No, Miss F. is more beautiful than Beyonce!" Of course, I melted into a puddle of warm fuzzy feelings.

It's true that model school only lasted a month, but I'm glad that we had this opportunity, and I'm so grateful to the students for being patient with us: We undoubtedly learned more during this last month than they did. Before arriving here, I had only taught adults one-on-one, and one of my greatest apprehensions was not having experience teaching groups or adolescents. Some of those fears have calmed. I wrote previously about feeling somewhat bipolar at times, but I think I was able finally to strike a good balance between encouraging and authoritative. We shall see when I'm confronted with seventy 12-year-olds in a few weeks.