Le palu

I read Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's fabulous novel Americanah shortly before leaving the States. In one scene, the male lead Obinze casually tells a concerned friend, "I'm just tired. I think I'm coming down with malaria.

I have to apologize now to Ms. Adichie, and my parents, as I used the words of the former to quell the fears of the latter. When they asked me about malaria, I didn't tell them, "Well, it's the number-one killer of children under five in Cameroon," or, "The most lethal form of malaria, falciparum, is the most common in Cameroon." What I said was, "It's like getting a cold. People get it all the time and recover a few days later. See? This Nigerian guy isn't even concerned."

I'm sorry, Mom and Dad. I thought I was doing the right thing by trying to downplay the seriousness of it. Honestly, I don't regret it. My friends and family were concerned enough about my departure, as the vast majority of news that makes it from Africa to the States isn't terribly lighthearted.

One of the first things we received upon our arrival in Yaounde as trainees was tablets of doxycycline, a malaria prophylaxis, and training included hours of discussion about malaria, from prevention to treatment to how the disease incubates in the body, specifically the liver. Then people started falling sick. First two fellow trainees were admitted to the hospital, then others. At a certain point, I accepted that at some point during my service, I would get the disease.

Which isn't to say that I haven't been vigilant. While some people shun prophylaxes for their side effects, or due to fear of potential side effects, taking doxy has long since become a part of my breakfast routine. There is no standing water around my house where mosquitoes might breed. I tuck in my mosquito net, a sort of fine mesh canopy that hangs over my bed, every night before falling asleep. If I go out at night, I usually wear leggings or pants.

Of course, I'll never know exactly when or where some generous mosquito shared her parasites with me--the incubation period generally varies from one to two weeks--but I can't help but wonder if an all-night Halloween party in short shorts was my downfall. (Even if it was, it was totally worth it.)

 It started in the wee hours of the morning of November 9th, a little over a week ago. I awoke at about 3 AM wracked with nausea. Thinking it was merely indigestion, I took some Pepto Bismol and tried to go back to sleep. Instead the nausea worsened and led to vomiting. Of course, I stayed home from school that day, but at that point, I thought I'd come down with food poisoning or some sort of stomach bug, and assumed that everything would resolve itself within 24 hours.

Which, of course, it didn't. I traveled to the regional capital, Ngaoundere, on Thursday to purchase medication that would calm my nausea, but by Saturday, I was wrapped up in a blanket with only my face peeking out, fevered and shivering and aching all over. "Do you  need anything?" asked Candice (the Volunteer featured in my Teachers' Day post). "I'm fine," I said. "Wanna watch The X-Files?" And so I spent the next three to four hours trying to distract myself from my fever dreams of death with the adventures of Mulder and Scully. But to no avail. I finally called the Peace Corps nurse, who told me to get a malaria test as soon as possible. Candice and I (still wrapped in my blanket) went to the nearest pharmacy, but there were no rapid malaria tests to be had, so I bought paracetamol (ibuprofen) to try to treat the fever and aches.

Normally mornings are the bane of my existence, but after hours of fitfully tossing and turning, I got up at 6:30 Sunday morning. Candice, my unofficial motivational coach, accompanied me to the regional hospital, where after describing my symptoms to a doctor, I was told to take a malaria test.

The nurse who took my blood was a gorgeous woman wearing expertly applied eyeliner and an Afro. The test came back in only minutes, and she looked at me and said emphatically, "Tu as le PALU!" or, "You have MALARIA!" (It should say something that malaria is so common here that it has its own little nickname. In French, malaria is "paludisme," but everyone, even health workers, uses the diminutive "palu.") I'm still not sure why she said it that way--maybe my parasite load was high, maybe she was just really enthusiastic about her job. She didn't offer any explanation, just asked for the cost of the test (200 francs, about 40 cents), and told me to return to the doctor to get a prescription. In typical Cameroonian fashion, the doctor--a man in this thirties--asked me if I was single and why I wasn't married yet before handing over the prescription.

The treatment I was prescribed lasts for three days, but the first day showed little improvement. The first night, after taking my second dose of Coartem in addition to more ibuprofen, I lay in bed with my feet frozen but my forehead on fire and my entire body pulsing with aches and pains. In a fever-induced delirium, I thought to myself, "This is how I die." I summoned up a meditation technique I'd learned a few months before and eventually drifted off to sleep, only to awaken four hours later drenched in sweat and still in pain.

I allowed myself to sleep as much as my body deemed necessary that night, and astonishingly, awoke the next morning feeling not normal, but markedly improved. The improvement was dampened by the discovery that even a short shower could exhaust me, but I was happy to be free of the fever and ever-present aches.

Malaria is the most fluctuational sickness I've ever experienced personally. In a matter of hours, sometimes minutes, I could go from feeling almost normal to being unable to think about anything other than the symptoms I was experiencing. Day one was at times terrifying; day two was a reprieve; day three the pendulum has swung backward, but not nearly as severely. Today I'm merely contending with a headache, temperature fluctuations, and an overall sense of weakness. Insh'Allah, this will be over tomorrow, as I've taken my last dose of Coartem this evening, but I shudder for every child who has suffered or died of this illness, many of whom are too young to understand what is happening to them, and for the parents who have had to watch their children suffer, including some of my closest friends in Nyambaka. This is one of the many situations where I can't help but be recognizant of my own privilege, specifically when it comes to health, and while I am of course grateful for it, I am also ashamed that I should have this privilege when so many don't.

World Health Organization: Malaria

Against Malaria Foundation

Malaria No More

World Teachers' Day

Cameroonians can't resist a holiday. Before arriving here, I wasn't even aware that there was a World Teachers' Day, but here, it's serious business. School is cancelled, LaKing releases a special Teachers' Day pagne, and preparations for the parade and the feast begin days, sometimes weeks, in advance. For example, my dashing Teachers' Day shirtdress, designed and sewn by the incomparable Pepito, was commissioned months before the fête to ensure it would be ready well before the big day arrived.

Candice and me

The night before the holiday, I went to the home of the sub-prefect and his wife, who happens to teach French at the high school, to help them prepare a meal for our colleagues. Maybe they didn’t think I was capable of anything more complicated, or perhaps there was nothing else to do, but I ended up sitting in their backyard and peeling garlic for over an hour, so by the time I left for home, my fingers were sore and reeked of garlic.

For the weekend leading up to Teachers’ Day, Nyambaka was without electricity, and without various forms of electronic entertainment, it suddenly became a lot easier for me to go to bed at a reasonable hour, so I planned to return to the sub-prefect’s house early in the morning to finish preparations.

What I hadn’t taken into account was that while the rainy season is tapering off in October, its last vestiges can be particularly powerful. So when I woke up (the first time) at 7 AM, it was raining. I put my kitchen sink (a plastic bucket) outside to collect water, and promptly went back to sleep.

Two hours later, after a cup of coffee and a scrambled egg sandwich, I started thinking about leaving the house. My house is within view of the sub-prefecture, so I knew I would hear if the festivities started. By 10 AM, I’d had another cup of coffee and dressed in my finery, so I was ready to face the world. Candice (a recently arrived volunteer in a nearby village), the proviseur (principal) of my high school, and a few others were seated in front of the sub-prefecture, and the rest of the teachers were gathered around the flagpole. At approximately 10:30, the flag was raised, the national anthem sung, and the agenda read aloud, which proclaimed that the celebration was to begin at 8:30 AM. The scourge of Cameroonian time strikes again.

Speeches were read by a local minister and Mr. Simion, a teacher at the high school who acts as our unofficial librarian. The sub-prefect then spoke at length, chastising teachers for allowing absenteeism in schools and not planning adequately for the holiday. He also warned us to be vigilant in our classrooms so that our students don’t become members of Boko Haram. (While the Adamawa region has largely escaped the influence of the now infamous organization, fear and rumors still abound, and I suspect that the small turnout at the celebration this year was partially due to anxiety that now crops up whenever there is a large group in public.)

Then there was the “défilé” (parade), which consisted of all of the teachers in attendance walking in a circle between the sub-prefecture and the market. The whole thing took about 15 minutes and there was virtually no fanfare, but I assure you, we were majestic.

And that was the end of the official festivities. The teachers from Nyambaka retired to the sub-prefect’s house for lunch, which was, as always, delicious, thanks in no small part to my superb garlic peeling abilities.

It wasn’t until after the two prayers (one Christian, one Muslim) and the meal that Candice remarked that none of her colleagues had made it to the house, and upon exiting, we found them at the bar next door. And so, 14 months after arriving in Nyambaka, I set foot for the first time in one of the village’s two bars. For the record, I had a soda.

After saying goodbye to Candice and her fellow teachers at about 4 in the afternoon, I walked toward the market, hoping to buy eggs before going home to rest. While waiting in line, a middle-aged man tried to convince me that since it was Teachers’ Day, and I was I teacher, I should give him a gift; namely, money. “My brother,” I said to him, “Today is my holiday, so where is your gift to me?” He laughed, shook my hand, and walked away. I bought my eggs and tomatoes and turned homeward, but I was stopped by Ismael, a primary school teacher that I met at the Women’s Day dinner at the mayor’s office. He insisted that one of the delegates wanted to buy me a drink and, knowing Cameroonian protocol, I wasn’t going to let my fatigue overrule politeness.

And so, in one day, I visited both of Nyambaka’s bars for the first time. At least, the second establishment is called a bar, perhaps because “a shed and some plastic chairs laid out under a mango tree” isn’t quite succinct enough. There were maybe ten people—mostly men, and mostly men of prominent position—drinking, and it took a while to persuade them to let me drink a Vimto (a kind of berry soda that tastes sort of like a diabetic coma) instead of a beer.

A quick note here: Each volunteer chooses how they “integrate” into their community, and we each prioritize certain behaviors. For example, when I’m in Nyambaka, I cover my knees and shoulders whenever I leave my house, in an effort to integrate. Certain other things I wasn’t willing to give up, like having short hair. Not drinking is simply one of the behaviors that I’ve adopted while living in a place where most people (and most of my friends) are Muslim. Which isn’t to suggest that all Muslims don’t drink, but that’s another discussion entirely. The point is, I’m not a teetotaler; I just know how a single woman drinking alcohol is perceived here (hint: not well), so I don’t partake.

After finishing my giant bottle of “juice” (0.65 liters) and witnessing a drunken French/Fulfulde argument that very nearly ended in blows, I pleaded a prior engagement (a student was coming over for help with homework) and excused myself from the group, who intended to carry on drinking throughout the night.

Ismael insisted on escorting me home, and informed me not far from my house that I am the “princess of Nyambaka” because everyone knows me.

“Of course everyone knows me, “ I replied. “I’m the only nassara [white woman] here.”


He insisted that it had nothing to do with my appearance, but with the quality of my actions; that I had willingly left my life in America to teach the children of this village. I suspect that his flattery was at least partially motivated by liquid courage, but I’ll take it. After all, it is my holiday.

Outfit of the Day: First Day of School

After three months, eight daylong train rides, two parental sightings, and one international holiday, “les longues vacances” (the long vacation) has ended, and the new school year has begun.

A brief sartorial note: Sure, sometimes it’s fun to go all out and wear a full Cameroonian ensemble (and my friends and neighbors love it), but most of the time I try to find a balance between the U.S. and Cameroon—call it practicing for the workplace back home. This outfit is a good example.

I bought this pagne on sale in Ngaoundere last October. In addition to the fabric for International Teachers’ Day (October 5), LaKing (the largest chain of pagne stores in Cameroon) was offering the 2013 Teachers’ Day pagne for only 4000 francs (about eight dollars), as opposed to 6500 francs for six yards. As I consider purple a sort of signature color—Lydia, one of the first European converts to Christianity, sold purple cloth to the wealthy—I snatched up a bolt. My friend and go-to tailor in village, Pepito, made this adorable pleated skirt with pockets based on a skirt I brought with me to Cameroon. And, as always, my knees are covered.

Ironically, the simple gray tee was left behind by the volunteer who preceded me. In addition to some furniture and kitchen supplies, she also left a few articles of clothing, all of which happen to fit me. Perhaps this is why, during my first few months at post, people would call me “Yasmine” even though I don’t have long brown hair and don’t speak fluent Fulfulde. Or maybe all white people look the same. Whatever.

I’m ashamed to admit that while planning my recent vacation in Barcelona, seeing my beloved father was only my third priority. The first was the abundance and variety of delicious food and drink that would be available, and the second was that I would have access to H&M for the first time in a year and a half. (Has it really already been that long?) I’m proud to say that I exercised some restraint during my little shopping spree, mostly because my only luggage was a backpack, but this cardigan was among my purchases. I’ve fallen prey to the equatorial climate, and am now of the belief that anything below 60 degrees Fahrenheit is frigid, so this cardigan has become indispensable to me.

And last but certainly not least, the Crocs. I will admit, back in the States, I was a hater, but since joining the Peace Corps, I have been converted. In a village that is alternately covered in mud and swept with dust, shoes that look somewhat professional and are easy to clean are a godsend. Highly recommended to anyone who is considering becoming a volunteer.

Thus, dressed for success, I walked into a classroom for the first time in almost four months. I introduced myself to my Terminale students (the equivalent of high school seniors), they introduced themselves, and together we wrote out our expectations for the year.

Cinnamon Oatmeal Pancakes

And now, for something entirely different. Don't worry, this isn't turning into a food blog... unless that's what y'all want.

When my mom came to visit Cameroon for two weeks, I was beyond anxious, for a number of reasons. I fretted, Will she find travel stressful? How will she cope with not being able to communicate? How long will she survive without the use of a flushing toilet? More than anything, I wanted to prove that not only was I comfortable in my surroundings, but that I was a fully-functioning adult who knew how to clean and cook. The former was a lost cause from the get-go: The walls of my house have already started crumbling even though it was built less than three years ago, and bats have found their way into holes in the ceiling, but I was determined to make sure my mama was well fed.

I am not a particularly adventurous cook, especially here, where exotic ingredients are virtually nonexistent. But over the last year or so, I've had plenty of time to get my pancake game tight, and I think I delivered. Even after returning to the States, Mom bemoans the lack of pumpkin spice pancakes (which I find endlessly ironic, since she's in a country where you can find literally any kind of food.)

The following recipe is vague to the extreme, as I have neither measuring utensils nor a scale, but y'all know what the consistency of pancake batter should be, so just keep adding flour or water until you hit on the right consistency.

Lydia's World-Famous Cinnamon Oatmeal Pancakes

equal parts flour and whole dry oats
small cup of sugar
spoonful of baking powder
teaspoon cinnamon or pumpkin pie spice
pinch of salt
one egg
small cup of oil
cup of water

Mix dry ingredients. Add egg, oil, and water, and mix until consistent.

Cook in a dry frying pan over low heat.

Enjoy!

(photo courtesy of Mom)

Insh'Allah

From my salon, I saw Dadda Abbo and her daughter Radjao picking mangoes at about four in the afternoon. Dadda Abbo had a bamboo pole that she was using to dislodge the mangoes that were out of her reach, and Radjao was collecting them in a plastic bowl atop her head. I walked out to greet them.

"Bendi na?" I asked in Fulfulde, since Dadda Abbo speaks no French. Are they ripe?

For reasons that have never been explained to me, Radjao, who is perhaps ten years old, is already proficient in basic English, and since my ability to speak Fulfulde is still limited, I speak to her far more than I do to her mother. "Yes," she said. "Take them." I took one, then another, but she wasn't satisfied until I had four plump yellow-red mangoes arranged in a pyramid in my hand. I thanked her profusely, exchanged the typical greetings with her mother, and returned to my house, where I sat at the dining table and read, savoring my newly found freedom after the end of classes.

Radjao passed by the house again about two hours later, just as the sun was beginning to set. Her little sister, Nenne, was loaded on her back. Her eyes were red and her faced had fallen. "My big brother has just died," she said.

My mouth dropped open. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry."

For a moment, we stood looking at each other, not sure what to say. "Goodbye," she said forcefully, and began walking toward Diddi's house.

Diddi arrived at my door a few minutes later covered in a veil and, still unsure of what had happened, we went together to Dadda Abbo's house, which is just behind mine. Her husband and children were crying outside and I could hear cries coming from within. I peer inside the house, unsure if it would be impolite to enter. "Nastu," her husband said. Enter.

Inside the main room that also served as the bedroom, Dadda Abbo and another woman were holding each other and crying. Another woman was seating on the floor, emitting a small "eee" has she rocked back and forth. Because there was no light, it took me a moment to realize that it was Diddi.

Other women arrived, some alone, some in pairs or small groups. Each went to Dadda Abbo, took her hands, and immediately starting crying, some trembling, some falling to the floor, some crying out. Each time, I could see another wave of grief come over Dadda Abbo, and her tears would begin anew as she repeated, "Kai, Allah am." No, my God. For a moment, I was angry at the other women, convinced that they were insincere and overdramatizing, but Dadda Abbo's grief was real, and if these women allowed her to express it more openly, I couldn't fault them.

At one point there were about a dozen of us in the room, only illuminated by a flashlight. The ritual repeated, the crying recommenced, and I finally gave in. I pulled my knees up to my chin, covered my face with my veil, and silently wept at my own inefficacy. I came here with the idealistic and naive hope that I could help the people of one village, but the mothers of this village still have to bury their children. I have accomplished nothing.

We had been there for perhaps an hour when Diddi returned home to pray, but I stayed on the floor, unsure of protocol or how long was appropriate for me to stay. Those in the room discussed the young man's death in Fulfulde, but I was able to catch the words and "chauffeur" and "accident."

A small old man sitting in the corner responded only with "Insh'Allah." If it is God's will.

Following another woman, I said goodbye to Dadda Abbo and returned home long after the sun had set. I met Diddi at the fence that separates our houses.

"So it was a car accident?" I asked quietly, not wanting my voice to carry to the mourners.

"He was in a car and was in an accident with a semi," she said.

For the second time that day, I didn't know what to say. Diddi made her way back to Dadda Abbo's.

"Please," I said, and she turned back to face me. "Tell her that I'm sorry. I don't know how."

Mango Season

my house and mango trees

All of the expats in a given area have a way of finding each other here. At the risk of stating the obvious, it’s easier to pick out someone who probably wasn’t born in Cameroon. This means that in addition to my volunteer friends, I’ve also become acquaintances with scholars, entrepreneurs, and missionaries. And so, an American agnostic became friends with a German Christian missionary.

Jessica and the other missionaries in her group work as primary school teachers in a small village just outside of Ngaoundéré, the regional capital of the Adamawa. They live in sort of dormitory near the school, with a common room, a small kitchen, and a bedroom with a few bunk beds. I don’t speak any German, but Jessica speaks fluent English, and when I saw a handwritten sign in German in her dormitory, I asked her to translate.

“It says, ‘Mango season starts in March.’”

We laughed. She knew no French when she arrived in Cameroon, but at least she knew when mango season was.

At least, in theory. The chill of January and February led into a hot, dusty March. Everything was covered in a fine orange dust, but there was still no sign of rain, and no sign of mangoes. It’s normal, people told me. We had an exceptional crop last year, so there won’t be very many this year. Having arrived at post just after the end of last year’s mango season, I was slightly bitter.

Then, slowly, they began to appear. During the preparations for Women’s Day in early March I would see the occasional youth selling bundles of mangoes for exorbitant prices, up to 100 francs (about 20 cents) for a single fruit. Not surprisingly, there weren’t many buyers; for that amount of money, you could buy an entire baguette.

As the weeks passed, I looked mournfully out my front door at the two ancient mango trees in my yard. Nothing.

Finally, one day while walking home from the market, I looked up at the mango trees, and it seemed like the yellow fruits were glowing in the light of the sunset. There weren’t many, and they weren’t yet bright red and ripe, but finally, there was the promise of mangoes.

Since then, Nyambaka has been inundated with large juicy mangoes, and as a result, prices have plummeted. (The best price I’ve paid thus far was 50 francs, or about ten cents, for half a dozen of them.) Of course, the locals mocked me for paying for them at all: Why not just climb a tree and get them yourself? I told myself that I wanted to help the children make a little money, but mostly I wanted to spare myself the embarrassment of falling from a tree with my skirt up over my head.


Now that the season is in full swing, the mango trees just outside my yard are beginning to bear fruit at a level that I can actually reach. The first time I picked one myself, I ran home, rinsed it off, peeled off the thick green-yellow-red skin, and greedily gobbled it up, even sucking on the pit to get every last drop of juice. At the end of it, I looked like one of the small children I sometimes see eating mangoes in village: face covered in juice, hands sticky stained somewhat orange, pieces of fruit debris on their clothes. I was an absolute mess, but a satisfied mess.

"At last, my mangoes have come along...."

Pâques / Easter

It’s Saturday afternoon. Renee and I are the only two people in the case (the regional Peace Corps office/house). Everyone else has either gone back to their respective villages or has already started drinking. We, productive volunteers that we are, are checking Facebook.

Renee gets up to leave—her village is only a 15-minute motorcycle ride away. “I’m going to church in the Norwegian quarter tomorrow morning,” she says. “Do you want to come?”

The word rings in my mind for a moment: Norwegian.

“Sure,” I say. “Come over at nine, I’ll have coffee ready by then.”

Renee walks out, and I realize how much I’ve changed since coming to Cameroon. Passing up the opportunity to sleep in until noon? Voluntarily going to church? It’s like I’m becoming a grown-up or something.

I should explain my enthusiasm for the Norwegian quarter. It got its name in the 1980s when a number of Norwegian missionaries and aid workers came to the area, and it’s now known to house the best hospital in the city and some beautiful churches. I’d never been to the neighborhood, but I was aware of its existence before I ever came to the Adamawa, thanks to a text from my half-Norwegian mother I received during training: “There’s a neighborhood in Ngaoundere called Norvege!”

And so, after eight months of living within two hours of the famed quarter, I was finally going to see it for myself… and go to a Lutheran Easter service.

I had expected places Norwegian quarter to be like, well, Norway, but upon arriving at church I am quickly cured of this disillusion. Rows of wooden benches sit in the open courtyard of a small health center, bunched together to allow the maximum number of service-goers a seat away from the sun. In front, two preachers alternate giving their message, one in French, the other in Fulfulde. Two choirs are to their right, one for each language. Everyone in attendance is in their Easter finery, even a baby girl whose hair was braided with glittery yarn.

Baptisms and confirmations are performed. I give Renee—who studied Spanish before coming to Cameroon—a play-by-play of the service. Bible verses are read in two languages, and both choirs raise their voices to the heavens in turn. Having only started learning Fulfulde last summer, I understand only the simplest lyrics, but I discover that they have kept the Arabic word for God, Allah.

By about 10:30, it’s no longer possible to take refuge from the sun, and Renee suggests that we visit another church nearby. Still scarred by the last bilingual church service I attended, which lasted four hours, I hastily agree. “While everyone else is bar-crawling,” she says gleefully, “we’re church-crawling!”

This is what I had expected: A large modern building with balconies and stained glass windows. Something you might see in America. The only real difference is the men in boubous (long traditional tunics). We take our places on a pew in the back. More confirmations, more songs, this time entirely in French. Once more, babies are brought forward, parents glowing with pride, and are baptized.

In the afternoon, it rains. Soon the rainy season will arrive. Crops will be sown, the landscape will turn from burnt orange to vibrant green, and the rebirth will begin.

Outfit of the Day: Represent

I knew before coming to Cameroon that people from the coasts made up the majority of Peace Corps volunteers, but I was still a little taken aback by their sheer numbers upon arriving at training last May. We went around the room like the first day of school introducing ourselves with name, education, where we're from. New York. San Diego. New Jersey. Los Angeles. As the introductions went on I felt a bit like a personification of the Midwest--surrounded, bordered on both sides by coasts, cultures I recognized as American but not entirely like my own.

Out of 37 of us, four were representing the heartland: Lucas, from Green Bay; Alex and Joyce, a married couple from Illinois; and myself. Of course, I immediately accepted them as my people.

Not to suggest that I have a regional prejudice--I loved hearing stories about growing up in L.A., and one of my best friends from training is from South Carolina--but there's something strangely comforting talking about Hy Vee or Kum & Go when both of those things are half a world away. So although I had never been particularly proud of my origins, and had even occasionally referred to my hometown as "Dead Moines," it was in Cameroon that I began to proudly fly the flag of the Midwest.

Which is where Raygun enters the scene. Founded as Smash during my high school years, the Des Moinesian clothier and screenprinter had played a role in my sartorial life ever since, with t-shirts emblazoned with fiercely Midwestern slogans like "Des Moines: Hell yes" or "Iowa City: all of our creativity went into the name."

In the last few years, they've extended their inventory to include books, prints, and city-themed sweatshirts inspired by ugly Christmas sweaters. Seeing as I was living a continent away and next door to the Equator, I clearly needed this sweater in my life, so I asked my lovely Midwestern mother to keep me in mind should said article go on sale.

That was in December, and I thought little of it afterwards. Then, unexpectedly, a small white package arrived in Ngaoundere bearing my name and, in all caps, the word "RAYGUN." Inside, I found this:

Why wear your heart on your sleeve when you can wear it across your chest?

As if this delightful gift didn't warm my heart enough (literally--this thing is super cozy and comfy), I was then informed that my days of haunting the store back in high school had been rewarded. Having heard my request from the aforementioned mother, the kind folks (yes, the Midwestern stereotype of unfailing politeness is true) at Raygun sent one my way. At their own expense.

It baffles me sometimes when I think of the people I've never met or barely know who are supporting me from so far away. I can't begin to say how much I appreciate it, especially on days when I feel like I'm not accomplishing anything or not progressing quickly enough. I see all the people who are cheering on some girl from Iowa who decided to try to teach people on the other side of the world, and it warms my heart. Sometimes, literally.

The Gecko Incident

At this point, I'm used to my house serving as a sort of accidental menagerie. There are spiders in the corners, which I leave alone since they eat flies and mosquitos. Upon my return from a week in Bamenda, a bat swooped down from the ceiling and narrowly missed my head. And every once in a while a gecko manages sneak in (presumably through the holes in the roof), says hello, and tries to get a piece of that tasty insect action. They're not like the svelte green geckos I remember seeing in my father's Florida home; they look kind of chubby, with short thick tails like the little guy in the picture, who I found hanging out in my living room one evening.

Honestly, the various creatures don't bother me. A number of my volunteer friends have encountered mice or scorpions in their houses, so I don't complain about my harmless uninvited guests. (I'm still looking for a solution for the termites that are in the process of destroying my kitchen counter, however.)

That's not to say that it isn't startling sometimes. After waking up one day, I zombie-walked to my latrine, and as soon as I opened the door I heard the slap of something falling against the concrete floor. I looked down, now fully awake.

Not one, but two geckos had fallen from the ceiling, and now they weren't moving. Great, I thought. A gecko lovers' suicide pact in my bathroom first thing in the morning.

I sighed, and retrieved my broom from the kitchen. But immediately upon being touched, the two lizards sprang to life and wiggled off in different directions. One scurried up the wall and, I assume, back to its original hiding place. The other dashed across the floor... and into the latrine hole, followed by a small "plop."

RIP Gecko. I'm sorry I scared you to your death--one of the worst deaths I can imagine.

But that's not the incident to which the title of this post refers. Geckos that appear and quickly disappear I can handle. It's when they leave pieces of themselves behind as mementos when I get freaked out.

Shortly after the incident in the latrine, maybe two days later, I was sitting at the table eating scrambled eggs before the school day began. I heard another slap against the concrete floor. Ugh, this again, I thought. But this time I knew what to do. I grabbed the broom from the kitchen and tried to coax the gecko out the front door. Unfortunately, there's a sort of ledge in the doorjamb, and my reptilian visitor was apparently too frightened to climb up rather than across the floor. It was so frightened, in fact, that it dropped its tail.

I'll admit, I spent an inordinate amount of time watching Animal Planet as a child, so I was aware that certain species of lizards are capable of shedding their tails when they feel threatened. What they failed to mention on Animal Planet was that even when the tail is detached from the rest of the body, it continues to move. Quite vigorously.

It was one of those moments when I'm glad my neighbors don't speak English, as I involuntarily shouted a profuse string of swear words.

Once I had gathered my wits, I had the presence of mind to scoop the tail-less gecko up with a dustpan and throw it out the front door, followed by the tail itself. Even in the red dusty dirt of my front yard, I could see the tail continue to twitch and wriggle.

Since then, on the few occasions when I've found a gecko in my house, I just tell myself, "live and let live," and walk away.

Call to action: Help the Nyambaka library!

This humble single-room building is the public library of Nyambaka. The fruits of a former volunteer's labor, it's conveniently located a stone's throw from the high school, and has become a place where students study, teachers grade tests, and members of the community flip through magazines and books. For a village library that didn't exist five years ago, it's made great strides, but the individuals in charge of its upkeep wish they had more to offer.

This is where I'm asking for your help. I know I was something of a book-hoarder back home and had to occasionally clean out my bookshelves, and I'm hoping that some among you do the same. Language and level are no issue: The library accepts books for all ages in French, English, Spanish, and German (the languages taught at the high school), and all contributions are greatly appreciated, as books are quite expensive.

As the library has no budget and is run by people who volunteer their time, they don't have a post office box--delivery to one's address or place of business like we have in the States doesn't exist in Cameroon--so if you have a book you'd like to donate to the Nyambaka library, please send it to my P.O. box in the regional capital (BP 567, Ngaoundere, Cameroon) and I'll pass it on to one of the volunteers.

Thank you so much to everyone who has read the blog, sent letters or packages, and encouraged me during the first months of my service. My hope now is that I can give the community of Nyambaka as much support as you have given me.

Meet Fakira

Everyone, meet Fakira. Or, as her big brother calls her, “Lydia.”

Fakira is the granddaughter of my neighbor / adopted village mother, Diddi, and I’ve learned so much about the traditions surrounding babies because of her.

It started when Aissatou (nicknamed Ai), Diddi’s daughter, arrived in Nyambaka in November. Ai lives in Douala, Cameroon’s largest city, with her husband and their two-year-old son Ahmed, but traditionally, women return to their mother’s village to give birth so that she can assist with the delivery. Ai’s pregnancy was without incident, and like most women here, she chose not to learn the sex of her baby. I talked to her about the baby quite often during the last weeks of her pregnancy: She confided that she wanted a daughter, and we talked about possible names. I suggested Yasmine, the village name of the volunteer who preceded me, and with whom Diddi’s family had been very close, but Ai rejected this idea, saying she had a cousin named Yasmine that she didn’t get along with.

Unfortunately, I was in Bamenda for In-Service Training (IST) when Fakira was born in early December, but I can imagine what the delivery was like. I’ll offer a short anecdote by way of explanation: The first time I went to the small health center in Nyambaka, I was waiting in the doctor’s office and heard soft noises, somewhere between a labored sigh and a small grunt.

“What’s going on in the other room?” I asked Kara, who was working then as a health volunteer.

“Oh, she’s giving birth,” she replied matter-of-factly. “She’s actually making more noise than most Fulani women, but this is her first child. She’s fifteen. Do you want to go in and watch?”

No, I didn’t. This was perhaps a month after I’d arrived in Nyambaka, and my presence was still a subject of discussion, so I thought it’d be best to not be the weird nassara who randomly showed up to watch someone give birth. But all this is to say that when a Fulani woman gives birth, she’s surrounded by female family members and is encouraged not to cry out.

When I met Fakira upon my return from Bamenda, she didn’t yet have a name, though Ahmed would point at her and say “Li-dah” (his attempt at saying “Lydia”). Apparently, she was so pale when she was born that Ahmed started calling her by the name of the only white person he knew.

And so she was Lydia for the days leading up to her “baptism”—although Diddi’s family is Muslim, this is the term everyone used for the day she was named. Babies here receive their names a week after they’re born. Ai told me that it was to bring good luck, but I assume the custom started when infant mortality was more prevalent.

The baptism itself was like the other fêtes (celebrations) I’ve seen here: The women prepare copious amounts of food, everyone dresses in their finest clothes, and the house is opened up to everyone. Women sit in the salon and talk about their families, and men sit outside on the veranda and talk about… well, actually, I’m not sure, since I was in the salon. In any case, it was a great deal of fun, with lots of gifts, too much food, and Fakira being constantly passed around from woman to woman so everyone could fawn over her.

Since then, Fakira has started to gain weight. Her eyes have cleared and started to focus. And she’s peed on me. I’d never been urinated on by a human before, but there’s a first time for everything, and it’s almost inevitable when a newborn doesn’t wear diapers. Her brother doesn’t call her “Lydia” anymore, just “bébé” (baby), which I admit is a little disappointing, but it’s for the best. I imagine Fakira is going to grow up to be a strong personality—a forceful, independent woman like her mother and grandmother—and she shouldn’t have to stand in the shadow of someone else’s name.