Return to Ebolowa

On the bus back to Ebolowa after five hours in Yaoundé and 12 hours on the train from Ngaoundere. It's been an enlightening experience spending these last few days with some PCVs in Adamaoua, and I think that over the course of our short vacation from training we saw a few important aspects of service: Brian, a health volunteer, tried to build a maternity hospital in Meidougou, but the project has stalled since few people in the community are willing to contribute. Colleen was frustrated and disappointed to discover that her girls' group is being discontinued. Meanwhile, Emily is full of hope and optimism as she prepares for her first secondary project, and her unbridled joy is evident whenever she plays with the children in her neighborhood. And, of course, over the course of our long weekend, there were plenty of adult beverages.

Once our train from Ngaoundal arrived in Yaoundé, we met up with a few other PCTs at a pizza place, which ended up taking two hours. I have to admit, spending time with some of them just makes me think that "stage" (training) is like High School 2.0, with people trying to one-up each other amend bragging about their small acts of rebellion.

"I had six beers and four shots last night," says one.
"I had red wine with breakfast this morning," says another.

With the exception of the Adamawa group (because of the increased travel time), all of the trainees were expected to return by six last night. Only two people did.

I understand that these are adults who are tired of others scheduling their lives, but frankly, I'm tired of their complaints, especially when people whine about having to make their own travel arrangements. Isn't that what you wanted--a bit of independence? It seems that the answer is only "yes" when the situation involves little or no responsibility.

The good news is, experiences like this make me all the more eager to leave training and begin establishing myself at post. I'm ready to sacrifice some of my American-ness in exchange for becoming a part of my village, rather than clinging to every vestige of the States, whether that be food, music, or individuals. I hope some of my fellow trainees come to feel the same way.

Site Visit

We're on the bus from Ngaoundere to Meiganga, and once we get there, Meidougou, Emily's village is a 20-minute moto ride away. And I celebrated another milestone: first time peeing en brousse (in the bush)! Over the course of the three-hour bus ride, our only stop was at a mosque to pray, and of course, it had no bathrooms. (Even if it did, women aren't allowed in mosques here.) So we had to improvise.

It was actually quite picturesque, surrounded by green hills, grazing goats, and a few thatched-roof huts in the distance, as Emily's girlfriend Halima sang the theme from The Sound of Music.

Our first 24 hours in Adamawa have been a blast, between lunching on beer and burgers, bartering for pagne at the petit marche, and watching the World Cup at a pinball bar, where one of the regulars bought us a round. The latter was a bigger deal than it sounds like: the stereotype of Americans here is that we're all fabulously wealthy, so it's a pleasant surprise when a Cameroonian offers to pay for something rather than asking for something.

While in Ngaoundere, we all got to take hot showers at the case (the regional Peace Corps house), which was freaking glorious. We slept in until about eight, and had some delicious spaghetti omelettes for breakfast. Seriously, America, get on it.

At the bus station earlier, I was dealing with some nausea and vertigo, probably due to some questionable soy fruit juice, but I'm feeling much better since Carl gave me some of the off-brand anti-nausea meds in our PC medical kits.

There are 32 of us in this 20-passenger van, but I can't complain. The windows are open, the wind is in my face, and the landscape is lush and untamed, save the occasional cell phone tower. At this moment, I feel so lucky to have the chance to call this place home, even for a little while.

En route to Adamaoua

Currently on the train from Yaounde to Ngaoundere, the regional capital of Adamaoua. Nathalie, Carl, and I are on our way to visit Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV) Emily for a few days in her village, Meidougou. The rest of the trainees will depart for their respective site visits tomorrow morning.
It's been an interesting journey thus far. We departed from Ebolowa at about 3 PM. En route I saw a child defecating in his front yard and Mishna (a PCMO) bought questionable bananas and pungent manioc batons through her back seat window. (Shopping in Cameroon is probably one of my favorite things right now: You don't go to the store; vendors come to you.) We arrived at the train station by about 5:30 PM, though the person who delivered our tickets didn't arrive until about 15 minutes later, which caused some anxiety, as we were hoping to board by six and depart at 6:10 PM.
Boarding the train was uneventful, though we were giddy to be travelling in first class with air conditioning. It wasn't until we found our four-person "wagon lit" (sleeping cabin) that things got interesting.
To start, the fourth person in the wagon was a Muslim man who spoke no French or English and had a pronounced speech impediment. He would intermittently gesture at us from his prayer rug, seemingly trying to get us to clear the room, but Nathalie and I pretended not to understand, as we weren't comfortable leaving our luggage with a complete stranger. Meanhile, Carl tracked down another PCV, Spencer, and we briefly exchanged hometowns and alma maters. Just as the train was about to depart at 7:10 PM (Yay, Cameroonian time!), a dapper gentleman in an immaculate navy-blue suit appeared in front of our cabin with a briefcase and a distinct air of self-importance. Surely, he said, there must be some mistake: He was to be the fourth occupant of this wagon. The train staff eventually discovered that yes, the praying man's reservation was for another car.
Now that the suited man had successfully found his bed, he wanted a different one--specifically, in a room with no women. "I cannot pray in this room," he told a (female) staff member. "The women cannot hear my prayers. They will prevent my prayers from being heard by God."
As Nathalie's French is not advanced, and Carl was still with Spencer, I was the only one in our group to bear the brunt of this man's misogynist comment. And I was fuming.
Luckily, Carl returned and offered that the suited man exchange places with our friend, who was in a cabin with three other men. The man readily accepted, and Spencer got a free upgrade to first class. Upon his return, I recounted to both he and Carl the man's comments. Both shrugged it off, and Spencer, currently in his second year of service, offered only, "You hear things like that a lot here."
I don't know what I expected. Rage on behalf of their female compatriots? No, but at least some measure of sympathy. I have heard Carl say to a Cameroonian that women are equal to men, that we deserve to make our own decisions and should have access to the same opportunities, and yet confronted with this situation, he only shrugs. This, for me, is where feminism breaks down: We praise men for their advanced ideas regarding equality, but when it's time to back up their thoughts with practice--to actively contradict patriarchal beliefs--the majority fail.

Vignettes of Ebolowa (Part Two)

I can't help bit wonder sometimes if a person resents me for what I have or what my life was like before coming here. The other day while doing laundry, Brice's girlfriend made a comment about ,me along the lines of, "She's doing it wrong. She's not used to washing clothes by hand because they have machines in the U.S." I admitted that she was right--I was in middle school the last time I washed an article of clothing by hand. But I still wonder if she was simply making an observation (Cameroonians are known to be fond of a grammatical tense known as the "present obvious"), or if there was a shade of jealousy to her tone. And how could I blame her? I our roles were reversed, and I were a nineteen-year-old Cameroonian with one child, another on the way, and endless days of toil ahead, I'm sure I would resent an American with an education, opportunities, and more clothes in her closet than in a house of nine Cameroonians.

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Tonight I had my first hot bath since arriving in Ebolowa. Perhaps I imagined it, but I could have sworn the water smelled of wood smoke after being heated over an open fire.
It was absolutely luxurious scrubbing off mud stains and salty sweat residue with the almost-too-hot water, and it was all the more satisfying knowing that I had carried it myself from the well back to the house, a ten-liter jug balanced precariously atop my head. Almost like an African.

Thoughts on Age

I had heard anecdotally of the age-based hierarchy in Africa, but seeing it first-hand is still somehow fascinating and mysterious. When I was about 11 years old, I babysat my cousin, who was about three at the time. When I told her to pick up her toys or to chew with her mouth closed, she began to pout, and shouted, “You can’t tell me what to do! You’re not my mom!”

That would never happen here. Or rather, if it did, an authority figure would promptly “tapper” (swat) the child in question. In Cameroon, a child’s “authority figures” are basically any family members who are superior in age.

This was clearly illustrated last night. We were (again) all in the living room watching the World Cup (Chile versus Spain) when Brice (the 19-year-old brother) told Audrey (the 13-year-old sister) to go to the store to buy him some cookies. I expected a questioning of authority, a complaint, at the very least a rolling of eyes, but Audrey’s only reaction was to stand up and walk to her room to put on her shoes.

I accompanied her to the store, where she purchased the aforementioned cookies and I bought airtime (credit for my pay-as-you-go phone). By the time we returned to the house, I thought I had figured out the siblings’ system: Surely Audrey was willing to buy Brice’s cookies because in return, he would share. But she handed over the package and sat back down on the couch without any exchange of words or edibles.

And that’s more or less how the system works. It’s great for the parents, who can command any of their children to bring their bathwater or go buy bread for breakfast. Meanwhile, the youngest sibling (seven-year-old Luther) has no one to order around but his 18-month old nephews, and they aren’t likely to listen anyway.

A Day in the Life of a PCT

I suppose I should give an idea of what a typical day is like for Peace Corps trainees (PCTs).

I usually get up between 6h30 and 7 and take a cold bath to wake myself up (it’s even more effective than coffee!) and clean off the previous day’s accumulation of sweat. Compared to my life in the States, this seems early, but given that some other trainees live 45 minutes from the training center and sometimes rise before the sun, I certainly can’t complain.

Every morning, the family has prayer, including singing of hymns, a scripture reading, and a short lesson. It was a pleasant, almost dream-like surprise the first morning I awoke here, drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness on the soft sounds of hymns in Bulu and the cooing of babies. I’ve grown accustomed to it now, so it doesn’t seem quite so otherworldly, but it’s lost none of its charm.

Breakfast is usually 10 to 30 minutes after prayer ends, and always includes baguette with margarine. Sometimes Mama Isabelle or one of my sisters will make an onion omelet, which we put in the baguette like a sandwich (which is absolutely delicious). In addition, there’s always a pitcher of hot water on the table, so that each person can mix their hot chocolate or coffee to their taste. (Mama takes her coffee with two sugars, and Crystal takes hot milk since she doesn’t like coffee or hot chocolate.)

The Abate residence is only a 10-minute walk from the Peace Corps training center, so I usually leave the house at about 7:45, or earlier if the roads are especially muddy and I need more time to navigate all of the puddles and slippery spots. Another trainee, Mireille, is staying with the family next door, so lately we’ve been walking to training together. While I appreciate having a companion when navigating a foreign environment, I savor my solitary walks back to the house at the end of the day, when I can look around at the cornfields, the wildlife, and even the distinctive burnt orange earth.

en route to the training center

Our days begin at 8h00 (American time) and consist of four sessions; two in the morning and two in the afternoon. The order and subject matter change from day to day, but can be roughly divided into technical, cultural, medical, security, “Global Core” (learning more about Peace Corps practices and ideology), and principally, language. Each of us will have more than 100 hours of language lessons over the course of training, so I have no doubt that by the end of it, the trainees who arrived with little or no proficiency in French will be able to survive in a francophone country.

During our first week here in Ebolowa, there was a clear lack of motivation among the trainees, as we had all become accustomed to our mid-morning coffee breaks at the hotel in Yaoundé. Thankfully, one brave volunteer took it upon herself to organize a “pause café,” so now, every morning between our first and second sessions, I can indulge in a hot cup of coffee with sweetened condensed milk and a beignet for 400 francs (about 80 cents).

Lunch is also served at the training center, usually consisting of rice and beans, a vegetable, and a meat, usually chicken or meatballs. Today I splurged on some fresh pineapple for dessert, so my vegetarian lunch cost 600 CFA (“say-fah”), or about $1.20.

The training center itself is a beautiful and impressive structure, which may have served as a church at some point. At the center is a round atrium with two-story ceilings, and windows near the top that let in the brilliant sunshine. The classrooms and hallways are sort of arms that extend from the atrium, and the exterior walls feature large windows and grand arches, allowing the elements and the birds to come and go as they please. In a somewhat shocking juxtaposition, there are about half a dozen language classrooms outside of the main building, which are constructed of cement and corrugated tin and are each perhaps six feet squared, so that if there are more than three students in a given class, it gets a bit crowded.

the training center and language classrooms

After stuffing our brains with endless acronyms and slowly roasting in oversized tin boxes, at 4:30 in the afternoon we scatter in the directions of our families’ homes, thankful to have completed another day of training.

Two weeks down, eight to go.

Milestone: First Pagne!

I'm starting to dress like a real Camerounaise! "Pagne" is the name of the gorgeous patterned fabric here, which comes in all different designs and colors which you can then take to a tailor to make customized articles of clothing. But Mama Isabelle and my sisters surprised me this evening with a pagne dress! I can't wait to wear it!

Vignettes of Ebolowa

Wednesday night I was awoken by a storm, but the word “storm” doesn’t seem to do it justice. Think more along the lines of “deluvian downpour.” In my half-conscious state, I imagined two possible explanations for the aquatic roar: Either a team of strapping youths were pouring buckets of gravel on the roof, or the Abate residence had been magically transported across the Atlantic and directly underneath Niagara Falls.

Turns out, the house has a tin roof, and it’s the rainy season here in Cameroon.

chez la famille Abate

view of the chicken coop, fire pit, and wash area from the veranda

The whole family was watching the World Cup last night (Costa Rica versus Uruguay) when I had a startling revelation: My 28-year-old host sister is middle-aged. The average life expectancy in Cameroon is about 55 years, so if her life is to be average, it's already half-over.

The Revival

Since arriving in Ebolowa, I’ve gotten into the habit of going to bed and getting up absurdly early: It’s one benefit of not having constant access to electricity and having only the sun as a reliable source of light. So I felt as though I had slept in when I woke up this morning at seven. I was told last night that we would leave for church at about 8:30, so I wasted no time in waking myself thoroughly with a cold bucket bath and dressing appropriately—in a skirt and with my head covered, as their Presbyterian faith commands.

A confession: when I was in the States and would see a Christian woman with her head covered for religious reasons, I would think about how terribly oppressive their religion must be, and that I would never submit to such a practice. Yet here I am, doing just that. Maybe it’s because I’m in a foreign environment (in more than one sense), or maybe it’s because of the positions I’ve seen the women in this family occupy: Mama Isabelle is the matriarch and takes pride in her role in the church; Crystal studied sociology at university; and Audrey wants to be a doctor someday. They don’t seem to be restricted by their religion, but grounded by it. But I’m a stranger, and I’ve been here for less than a week, so what do I know?

Host-mom Isabelle bought a couple of croissants yesterday, thinking they would be easier for me to digest after my recent illness, so I had a croissant and a bit of omelet for breakfast, (Even in terms of food, one can see the impact of French colonization.)

Anyway, I was ready to go, but had forgotten that we are now on “Cameroonian time,” which means that when I’m told we’ll leave at 8:30, it’s probably going to be about an hour after that. Regardless, we got there in time for the 10 o’clock service thanks to my third Cameroonian moto ride (the first two were to and from the bakery yesterday). I was rocking my X Games-reminiscent Peace Corps-provided helmet, and while I’ve only used it thrice so far, I’ve used it to design a game for myself, wherein I try to decode people’s puzzled expressions as I whiz by. If I’m guessing right, they’re usually thinking, “What is that white girl doing here?” or, “What is that ridiculous thing on her head?” or, most likely, “What is that white girl doing here, and what is that ridiculous thing on her head?”

But back to church. For the first couple of hours, the service was quite beautiful, with voices in harmony reverberating off of the corrugated tin roof and women draped in fabulous pagnes. I can’t claim to have had a religious experience, but I was profoundly moved by the jubilant hymns in both French and Bulu (one of the 200 local languages spoken in Cameroon). It was humbling to be able to experience such a beautiful and joyous moment, and to be welcomed into this family and this country.

Normally, this particular church has two two-hour services on Sunday mornings—the first in French and the second in Bulu—but as this was Pentecost, the two were consolidated into one epic four-hour service with in a cement building with hard wooden pews no air conditioning.

I never fully appreciated the expression “like sardines in a can” until seven of us sat in a pew that was probably intended for four individuals, my shoulders and thighs slick with sweat due to the direct contact with the people next to me. I tried to make it through the entire service, honestly. I wanted to make a good impression on my host family and their friends, but there’s only so much a person can sweat before they have to extricate themselves from a situation for fear of becoming nothing but a puddle of perspiration. Initially, it was interesting to see the sort of tennis match between two languages, the preacher bouncing easily between French and Bulu, but as the hours wore on, interest turned to impatience and I was beginning to worry about dehydration. By two o’clock Crystal’s little boy, Jordan, was becoming increasingly squirmy and fussy (as was I), so the three of us walked back to the house, where I took another cold bath.

Milestone: First Illness!

In the last 24 hours, I’ve dealt with vomiting, diarrhea, second-degree burns, vermin, and public embarrassment. I figure, if I can survive that, I just might be strong enough to survive the next two years.

That isn’t to say that I’ve dealt with everything alone. My host family has been absolutely wonderful, giving me advice on what foods to avoid and making special trips to the store for me. Junior, the second youngest, went to buy me cell phone credit when I was crying and retching and just wanted to talk to my mommy. Isabelle, my host mom, took me to the bakery yesterday morning to make sure I had enough bland, safe things to eat. (Yogurt. Lots of it.) a few family members have even taken to calling me “daughter” and “little sister.”

And I must say, the Peace Corps staff here in Cameroon has exceeded my expectations. Nurse Glory came to the house last night to make sure I was all right. When I thanked her for coming so late in the evening, she replied, “It’s nothing. I’m helping you so that you can help my country.” I still felt terrible physically, but it was reassuring emotionally. I’m proud to say that during the last 24 hours, I only considered going home for about 10 minutes before I remembered all of the hurdles I had to jump to get here, and how proud everyone is of me back home. Finding a mouse in my bedroom, burning myself on a motorcycle exhaust pipe, or falling on my ass in a puddle of mud in front of my host family can’t change that.

Laundry Day!

We've only been in Yaoundé for a few days, but it's already clear that the majority of us are not used to this kind of heat and humidity, so Lauren, one of our Volunteer Trainers, showed us how to do laundry.

I was used to a two-step process in the States. Step 1: Wash. Step 2: Dry. Sometimes, it was a one-step process: Ask Mom. (Sorry, Mom.)

Laundry in Cameroon has a multitude of steps, and can be considered a workout, if you're out of shape like me. First, you fill two buckets with water (one for washing, one for rinsing). Add some soap to the washing bucket and slosh it around until you have some suds. Next, soak the clothes in the washing bucket. (Generally, people throw all the clothes in at once, but I went article by article in a hopeless attempt to keep my whites pristine in a country full of red dust.)

Then, you scrub. You scrub like your life depends on it. You scrub until your fingers burn from the friction. And then, when you look upon that particularly stubborn armpit stain and despair, you scrub some more. Here we are in the midst of our toil:

I'd like to take a moment to describe Cameroonian cleanliness. Having graduated from college two years ago, I quite clearly remember students arriving to class in sweatpants or pyjamas, and while some of us scoffed or rolled our eyes, it was actually quite common. This would never happen in Cameroon. Men and women board 7-hour flights in high heels or three-piece suits. Children walk down the street in ironed button-down shirts. Here and there you catch a waft of body odor (because--come on--it's 90 degrees) but damnit, they look good. This seems to be contrary to American cleanliness, where no one minds if I wear pyjama pants to the grocery store, as long as I smell like flowers or baby powder. Yet another thing to take into consideration as we begin the process of integration.

The fruits of our labor: