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.