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.