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.

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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.