Tourou part TWO

Tourou is one of my favorite Cameroonian towns, like a little Swiss mountain spa resort (but minus the running water, electricity, cell phone network…) It’s peaceful and beautifully tucked in the mountains, and one of the closest towns to me. The two PCVs posted there are also, fortunately for me, really cool. Matthieu works in Agroforestry and Cara in Community Health. (That’s a link to Cara’s blog over there on the right, “The Cameroonian Caper.”) I really enjoy collaborating with both of them. I went to Tourou earlier this week supposedly to work with some women’s business groups, but also to watch a meteor shower, and eat sushi. :)

(That’s millet, the grain of choice here, growing around the huts.)

The road up to Tourou snakes along the Nigerian border. In case you weren’t sure which country you’re in:

I also got this text (in English!!) from MTN, the major cell phone provider, “MTN wishes you a safe and productive stay in Nigeria.” I love illicit international border crossings! :)

Kids, as always, are plentiful and cute. Upon arriving, I was first greeted by these little guys, Matt’s neighbors.

The kiddie on the right is sporting the jersey of Cameroon’s national soccer team, the Indomitable Lions. He is an adorable little bugar that loves to dance and sing more so than play soccer.

Being in Tourou reminded me of visiting my grandparents’ houses in the country. There is lots of space for frolicking, and Matt was working in his garden. He’s getting hard-core with some kind of grain press here, crushing soybeans to feed the livestock.

Cara supervises. (She’s good at that.)

Animals (and animal’s noise) abound.

Matt keeps bunnies. It's very manly.

And Cara keeps goats. She named them Bean and Beignet.

Since Tourou is the country/America circa 1884, we decided to make our own guava juice. The process is actually really simple. First, Cara picks guavas from the tree in her back yard. Then, we slice them up, throw them in water and boil them for half an hour. Finally, we mush it through a strainer to gets out the really crunchy seeds.

Cara au travail:

Add water and sugar and tadaaaaaaa! Your finished product:

Tip: guava juice: good with whiskey sachets! It was so tasty I want to try this with other fruits.

In case you weren’t sure you are in the country, here’s a little reminder/reality check. The first time I ever went to Cara’s latrine, I couldn’t find it. The whole in the ground that serves as your Tourou toilet is covered with that pot lid. At least the lid keeps you from falling in. You also get the added bonus of having Cara’s pervy goats stare you down as you try to do your business. Thanks, goats. Hope you liked that.

Just in case you were wondering, this is my toilet. I ♥ ceramic!

(I’m one of the slim minority of volunteers in the Extreme North who has running water in my house, so it’s like my birthday, every day!)

Cara’s mom is notorious (in a good way… as long as Cara shares) for sending overwhelming care packages. I can’t complain, cause living not far from Cara, I often get to reap a few benefits. This time around, her mom had shipped the makings for sushi and tempura. It was FABULOUS. But since we’re only so skilled at performing the Japanese culinary arts by candlelight, the sushi rolls turned out more like burritos. Sushitos, we christened them. Here’s our gang enjoying the Japacan/Mexanese feast. (And that’s my postmate Thea, making her trademark I-lived-in-Japan peace sign!)

The next day was Thursday, Tourou’s market day. Tourou is unique in that it’s remained cut-off enough that some folks still practice local animist ways. For years, the road to Tourou was so bad that a moto up from Mokolo (my town) took almost 3 hours. The population is equally cut-off linguistically. The language in Tourou is Hdi, spoken by only about 40,000 people along the Cameroonian-Nigerian border. In all of Tourou, there are about three women who speak French, and a few more guys who speak it—mainly the elite of businessmen, teachers, and government employees. The road to Tourou is smoother now, only about an hour on a moto from Mokolo, and a truck makes the trip up once a week, on market day. But traditional ways remain intact. For the women, this means that your little calabash hat (not proper anthropological term) indicates your marital status. A metal spike through your lip or nose indicates which number wife you are in a polygamous family. On market day, the calabash ladies are out in force, sporting their shiny red helmets. If you look closely at the photo below, you can see the metal spike through this lady's nose.

Everyone here is gathered around a calabash of milk. Milk is new to the Tourou market.

Over to the left of the photo below, you can see the lady dressed in yellow and pink fabric. She’s go the baby on the back, calabash on head, and a package on top of the calabash!

One clever woman we’ve worked with isn’t animist, but she knows how to make a profit selling these calabashes to the trickle of tourists that comes through Tourou. She shines them up with oil so they gleam in the sun, ensnaring the innocent tourist.

Yes, Cara, that’s a good look for you.

You too, Abdu. (Matt’s counterpart.)

Once upon a time, I used to wear this outfit to work in DC. (Neck down. minus the chacos.)

Elsewhere in the market, you’ll find piles of millet.

Piles of beans.

And more cute/dirty kids.

Cara negotiates for her favorite leaves. She makes a mean leaf sauce, which I am always happy to eat.

Thea thought this was neat—you get to pick your haircut like you’d pick your dish in a Korean restaurant. To the untrained eye, I recognize that these styles all look, well, wildly similar. Don’t you worry though, that is exactly why Peace Corps gave us three months of training.

Thea has a degree in Fine Arts and also likes to photograph chickens.

So, can you tell I just replaced my old dead camera and got a little snap-happy? Hope you’ve enjoyed this little tour of another of the Extreme North’s finest! Remember, for your next spa resort vacation… And thanks to Matt and Cara, my generous hosts and Leaf Sauce Delight chefs!

Vapo-Fabulous

I was taking the train back from Yaoundé the other night when I learned about some new usages for VapoRub, popular American remedy for chest colds. But in Cameroon, it’s oh so much more!

I was taking the train all by myself, and so was particularly susceptible to the distraction of the wandering salesmen who peddle their wares up and down the aisles. I was also exhausted and desperately trying to sleep. Side note: in Cameroon, for the most part, any individual who has anything to do with medicine is referred to as “Docteur.” (This includes PCVs who work in health, and Cameroonian counterparts don’t understand why being called “Doctor” makes us incredibly uncomfortable!)

Well the particular Doctor/Salesman wandering the aisle of train car 683 while I was trying to sleep was selling VapoRub. He parked himself almost right in front of me as he started to give his spiel for the benefit of all in the train car who were willing to listen. “I have a product here,” he proclaims, “that will help you work in your fields. Grandmothers rub this on themselves, and they are able to walk tens of kilometers in just a couple hours! Your feet hurt? Rub them with VapoRub! Your back aches from being in the field? Rub it with VapoRub!” I don’t think the actual usage of VapoRub, was in fact, once sited. Ah well, sorry, Vicks.

At this point I was no longer trying to sleep, but eyes open and eagerly awaiting to learn what else I could do with a dollar’s worth of VapoRub! The salesman made a point to note that the product comes from America, and can be attributed as a cause for some of the successes of the great American people. VapoRub = efficiency! (apparently.) Doctor/Salesman continued, “Barack Obama, President of the United States of America, uses VapoRub. It’s me who massages the great Barack Obama (with VapoRub.) It’s me who massages lions. It’s me who massages Americans.” (Lions? Americans? I’ve always thought the two were like peas in a pod.) But it was at this point that I started to laugh out loud. Poor guy, I don’t that that helped his sales.

Fortunately, I’d say my fellow passengers didn’t seem to be falling for the Vapo-Magic spiel. I figure if you’ve got enough money to be taking the train, you’re probably well- informed enough to know that VapoRub will not turn you into Barack Obama (sadly.) I think the Docteur had better luck with the herbal tea he began selling next; his voice singing its virtues lulled me to sleep. Just another night on the Trans-Cameroon Pharmaceutical Express.

Tropical Disease BINGO!

And other illnesses, maladies, and afflictions that befall a Cameroon PCV.

This little game was made by one of my fellow volunteers Thryn, to help wile away those long lonely nights. I think she’s a computer/design genius!! And yes, if you are creative enough, you figure out how to play bingo all by yourself!

As far as a Bingo player, I am a loser. I’ve only had three! I’ll let you guess which ones. :) On the health spectrum though, I’m one pretty lucky volunteer, relatively. I think the winning volunteer has had SEVENTEEN of these. Wow. You can have that gold medal, friend.

Thryn's Disclaimer: Your medical information is confidential! Share it if you wish, but the designer of this card holds no responsibility for any consequences from your individual decision to share information about your medical history. Remember, BINGO is all fun and games, but tropical diseases are no laughing matter.

Be nicer.

The mid-service resolution.

My mid-service conference felt a little like New Years—time to get philosophical and take a look at what I want out of Peace Corps. Am I getting it? And what should I do differently in the second half of my time here? (note: “philosophical” means this is going to be an exciting blog entry. Promise. :)

Returned PCVs had said to me, yeah you don’t even really hit your stride until after your first year. I’ve been busy in year one (except whenever the power goes out) with a nearly constant hodge-podge of activities. On the work front, I like the way things are going. One thing that I would like to do differently, though, is completely outside of work, on a personal level. Here, I think the voice of that RPCV rings true—you hit your stride one year in.

Dealing with people here sometimes really tires me. Your typical example: my friend Michelle and I got out the train the other night to walk around when we were stuck, broke down in some lost part of the jungle in the middle of the night. Three different guys came up to us in 10 minutes, each equally intent on having a conversation with us. Why? Only cause we’re different. Sometimes I just don’t want to deal with it. I want to talk to Michelle, not some rando. Finding a way to nicely get out of it every time requires creativity and patience (which I don’t always have enough of, especially in the middle of the night.)

In general here, I like to operate on my time, my schedule, and am not Miss Spontaneous or loving of surprises.

Yet, somewhere in June’s travels all around the country, and through talking with other PCVs at my mid-service conference, I was reminded of something I said before I ever set foot in Cameroon. If I can have a couple of close Cameroonian friendships, I would feel successful. I did come here to learn about Cameroonian people.

But being friendly, up to the African standard, requires DAILY Conscious Effort, and I normally even consider myself a pretty nice, sociable person. It’s the endless amount of shaking hands with strangers and friends alike, and the string of greetings you’re supposed to say everytime you see someone. (I have to ask “Noy saaré,” “How is your house?” again?? We haven’t had any hurricanes to knock it down since I asked you at this time yesterday!!) If an unsuspecting Cameroonian landed in New York City, he would be floored by our relative unfriendliness. The American pace, our lack of greetings and idle chit-chat, or our lack of that African generosity—it’s all so different. (The generosity thing: like sharing one’s food with anyone in the vicinity, strangers included! I’ve eaten a lot of random people’s food here, when offered on those long bus rides! If only the New York subway worked like that…) I don’t think even friendly South Louisiana could keep up the Cameroonian standard of greeting the **** out of everyone!

I’ve got my handful of good Cameroonian friends, but it’s true that the conversations we have sometimes are so wildly different from my American-friend conversations, that it can require some patience on my part. For example, one day I’d spent nearly the entire day stewing about and researching grad schools. That night, I was out with some Cameroonian friends. We spent hours over drinks, just shooting the shit. I mentioned at one point that I was considering continuing my studies. “It’s good to continue your studies. It’s good to go to school,” one girl responded. That was all, end of discussion. Next topic. I could have talked about that for HOURS! So no, I don’t get to talk about everything I want to here, but I did come to Africa for something different, didn’t I?

So my mid-service resolution is to ratchet it up a notch. Be nicer. Greet people more. Be more available, and not need to have everything on my terms. I was speaking with a volunteer who told me he couldn’t go to the market in his village in less than an hour. Not because of distance, but because he has to greet everyone. But as he said, “I like to put myself in the place of opportunity.” Being constantly friendly and available is exhausting, but it’s those volunteers who learn the most while they are here. I only have one year left. And I get to sleep as much as I want to in this country. So I might as well get what I came for and exhaust myself.

Today was an example of what I’m looking for. When I arrived home at my compound, my neighbor is standing outside under a tree. Instead of getting off my bike and hauling it in for the day, I take a minute to park the bike and greet him. As we’re chatting, (he’s telling me how many kids I should have) one of his wives, Aïssatou, calls to me from inside her house that she needs me. She sits me down, feeds me a cup of bouie, a soupy beverage made out of millet, and goes back to pounding something. Being the twitchy, ADD 27-yr. old that I am, I leave my assigned seat to wander over and see what she’s up to.

She’s pounding away with a pestle that is up to her shoulders, into a mortar the size of which could hold a small child. I tell her I want to pound the leaves. I am not nearly as good as she is, although her arms have about half the muscle on them as mine. She takes back the pestle to show me how it’s done while I lean back against the wall of the narrow entryway where we are. She gets her rhythm going, as I watch. It’s entrancing. Then she starts a combination of click noises coming from somewhere in her throat, accompanying the rhythm of her pounding. In between pounds and clicks she tosses the pestle, claps her hands, keeps pounding, never missing a beat. She keeps the rhythm, adding additional taps to the side of the mortar into the routine. It’s downright musical. Click, tap, POUND, clap, click, POUND. A green dust rises up from the crushed leaves, giving a swirly surreal effect to the whole scene. “C’est comme ça que les Fulbé le font,” she tells me with a smile. This is how the Fulbé do it. I try to make the click noises and she only laughs at me—the one grown woman making mouth noises laughs at the other grown woman unsuccessfully trying to make mouth noises. The neighbor kids are watching too. Honestly, it’s for silly little moments like this that I joined the Peace Corps—all of which happen when I take the extra minute to be nicer.

Dermatological dysfunctions, travels, and lots of projects

My face

I’d like to first take a moment to describe the interesting artwork/dermatological dysfunction currently decorating my upper right cheek. I think a blister beetle shat on my face while I was sleeping the other night. It was at another PCVs house, stuff like this doesn’t happen chez moi, I swear! The freaky little blisters it left are oddly arranged in a shape that resembles none other than a paw print. I think it’s the ghost of Thomas Clemson, or whatever his name was that founded my university, exacting revenge for my distinct lack of school spirit by branding my face with my school’s logo while I live in Africa and nobody here even gives a shit about school spirit anyway. (I did once skip a college football game to watch a Chinese movie with subtitles instead, all by myself.) Hopefully I won’t have a scar for life. But if I do, it would at least be a good conversation starter. And then I’d never give money to Clemson! Maybe more unnerving though, is that since this swollen red mass is directly under my right eye, I can see it out the corner of my eye. I’ll be talking to someone, then get distracted by it, and end up staring at my own cheek in a mildly stupid cross-eyed manner. As if they don’t think nassaras are odd enough already!

Note: I’ve just been informed (since there is no lack of commentary on the explosion on my face) that the French word for the blister beetle is the bombardier, the bomber. Now isn’t that poetic?

Travel

Other than nefarious bomber beetles stamping pawprints on me, I’ve been having lots of fun. I’ve been on the move, all over Cameroon, and returned only yesterday from weeks on the road.

Congratulations to me, almost a month ago now, was the Camerooniversary—one year in country! I went down to Yaoundé for our mid-service conference, which basically consists of lots of poop-in-a-cup activities. The guys in my group really got a kick out of this, lining up their little fecal samples on a prominently displayed shelf in the Peace Corps house in Yaoundé. There are some things about my friends that I just did not want to know. Since apparently, fecal matter seems to quickly be coming a theme of this blog entry, I should also mention that these samples had to be transported by share taxi to the lab across town in Yaoundé. Cameroonians, if you see a heard of young white folks carrying mysterious and oddly-smelling little brown paper bags around your capital city and desperately trying to get a taxi, just keep on driving.

It was great to see old friends one year in. I can’t believe I’ve got only one year left and I’m very optimistic about it. Right before leaving Mokolo, I was up to my ears teaching the business classes, and stuck in a mini-funk of my first bout of homesickness (and finding no comfort from the added threat of a stolen vagina.) But basically, the hot season here was kicking my ass. Fortunately, seeing my fellow volunteers in Yaoundé recharged my batteries, gave me some good ideas for projects, and forced me to remember the reality that I only get to do this for one more year before whatever form of Americana and reality hits. Plus, the heat is pretty much gone now (yippee!) so I have no more excuses.

Projects

After mid-service, I went to the gorgeous Northwest province of the country to do some research at another branch of MC2, my host microfinance institution. When I told my mom that I was doing research, she said, “Ohhh! Are you looking at bugs?!!” No. Since when do I know anything about Science, Mom? “Research” just sounds a lot better and is more concise than saying, “I’m going to ask a lot of questions and follow some bank employees around for a few days to see if the donor-financed programs they have at their branch are profitable and can be replicated at my MC2, minus the outside donor funding.” So, my “research” was very informative and hopefully can be useful to my branch. It can be hard to break through the bureaucracy of my MC2 to implement a new idea. The President of our Board of Directors is shameful, has never even set foot inside our office because he’s a high-level government employee who lives in Yaoundé. (So much for grass-roots level development!) I hope to work more closely with my counterpart Bouba, the bank’s Secretary-Treasurer. (This is typical: people love to assign a big-wig or a family member to run a project, even if he doesn’t have the qualifications or motivation required. It’s a main reason why many volunteers have left their MC2s to work independently in the community, outside of the formal institutions, and are doing excellent work there.) I haven’t given up on the MC2 though, so we’ll see where this project goes—wish me luck!

After the research and before heading back to Mokolo, was the Extreme North’s provincial meeting, auspiciously placed on the 4^th of July. :) The meeting attracted nearly all the PCVs from the EN and North provinces alike, with satisfactorily inebriated results. I was very happy to have a fête organized for the 4^th because at this time of year my family engages in the noble triumvirate of croquet, card-playing, and feasting, all to excess. Simple pleasures that I miss sorely when I am not there to partake. But apparently, I lead our team in the national anthem, tackled a fellow volunteer, and practically got in a fight with a plant, all of which I minimally remember, to commemorate our great nation’s birth. And I played volleyball for so many hours that my wrist is all bruised greenish blue now, four days later. God bless America.

As fun as the travels were, it’s good to be back home in Mokolo. Thea and I are organizing a girls’ camp next week where we’ll do lots of fun kumbaya activities around leadership, peer pressure, sexual health, and I’ll throw in a budgeting activity or two cause I am a SED volunteer (Small Enterprise Development.) It’s very different from most of the work I do here, but truly, these issues are so rarely addressed or discussed in schools or any other venue that I hope it can be eye-opening for the participants. I had the idea for the camp during the week that the power was out, in between cutting my hair out of boredom and maniacally pacing around my house in the dark. Wish us luck as spend some quality time with Cameroon’s youth!

Me, a teacher? hehehe.

Yes, friends, it’s true. But first…

Updates on the Penis Snatcher

Well, they are still snatching away up here in the Extreme North Province. Be glad, all you folks who are sittin pretty in the US of A, your treasures intact. Locals have still been getting stopped, detained, and beaten for these accusations. The scary development, especially for me, is that vagina snatching is now a reality! I do not make this stuff up. I’m not that creative. “Young-woman” parts are stolen away, then apparently re-sold for some 10,000 Nigerian naira! Yep, my hoohaw is worth $67. 71. And the young woman is supposedly given the parts of an old lady instead!!!!!

On to a less exciting (and less disgusting) subject: my work

Recently I started teaching business classes, and my final class of the session is tomorrow. (Note: I wrote this entry way back in June, just now getting to posting it.) My star student is actually a pastor at the local church, named Something-African-I-can’t-Pronounce Fidèle Castro. He said he tried to go to the United States once. They wouldn’t let him in.

Teaching has been fun and challenging. We talk about planning, marketing, costumer service, some basic book-keeping …gripping stuff like that. The educational system in Cameroon is so different, that I have to recognize that or I think I would be floored by all the blank stares I get sometimes. Both books and teachers are in short supply here. My PCV friends who are teachers here have told me it’s not uncommon for five or more kids to gather around the desk of the one kid who can afford the textbook. A typical classroom can have 50 – 120 students in it. Teachers write on the board, students copy it into their notebooks, (which constitutes the closest thing they’ll have to a textbook), and then they memorize it. With such large class sizes, there is no further discussion, no analysis. Just the back-and-forth process of regurgitating memorized information. So my arm-waving, question-asking, participatory style of teaching is pretty different to them, and earns me some funny looks (or blank stares). At least it keeps them awake... for the most part. The class recently gave presentations, a re-cap of some of the subjects we’d covered. Some of the students, although in their thirties and forties, said it was the first time they’d ever made a presentation in front of a group in their life.

It’s been fun to have such personal contact with folks. Some of them are really endearing, especially the old men. One is a real character who seems to forget his glasses every time, then has to run home to get them! So I have to check at the beginning of every class, “Vous avez les lunettes cette fois?” I do hate prepping for the classes, though; it’s quite time-consuming. I think I have a new-found respect for teachers. You’re always asking yourself, “Is this useful? Is this relevant in this context and is anyone actually going to apply what I am suggesting?” All my examples are geared to small-scale entrepreneurs, which make up the bulk of the economy here. Some guys in the class are interested in opening a second internet café in town, others a fertilizer store. Another woman sells koki (a food made with bean paste and spices) from a bucket on her head, while she walks around town. Talking with her about how much profit she makes is interesting because she’s never before even calculated her expenses. Star-student Pastor Fidèle says he’s taking the class because he wants to learn “to better manage the enterprise of my Father.” So round one has been promising, and I hope to do some more teaching in future months.

In other news: I’ve been in Cameroon for over a year!! If success can be measured by the holey-ness of your underwear, or the depth of your farmer’s tan, then I am bound for glory.

Til next time folks, take care, and try not to miss me too much! ;)

Dancing with myself… in front of the mirror.

What else is that mirror there for?

One of the things I always wanted to enjoy in Africa was the dancing. Note: I have extremely limited dancing skills. Not a lot has changed in that domain since I got to Africa, but the difference here is that it just doesn’t matter.

I went out tonight with all my co-workers from the Youth Center. Makala has one club in town. And that’s all you need. The club has the required mirror. In the US, only ballerinas get the advantage of checking themselves out while dancing. Otherwise, you look like a tool. Here, not only is it acceptable to watch yourself dance in the full-length mirror, it’s expected. Don’t have any friends, or a partner to dance with? Head towards the mirror. It can also be useful if you don’t want to dance with persistent men. Point to the mirror, as though indicating that you’re already taken. I have done this.

Here it seems kids start dancing a little after the time they start walking. Brooke told me a story once of watching a friend go wild on the dance floor, and thinking he must have been drunk. Nope, he’s a Muslim non-drinker. People here just enjoy moving in whatever way they feel. No one passes a judgment on how you look, contrary to the US. Even one of my co-workers, who is a mother of five, was out on the floor with us. (True, she left the eight-month-old at home.)

So when we went out tonight, not only did I embrace the mirror, but the club had just washed down the dance floor with some slippery substance. It made for some out-of-control (literally) moves. The icing on the cake is that I’m doing all this in the same outfit I’ve been wearing for three days. Not entirely my choice, and I won’t get into the turn of logistical events that led to this level of high fashion, but, again, people here just don’t care. Lots of people wear the same thing for days in row! And at the club, they’re glad to see you—performing your dirty-clothed, uncoordinated moves, with or without the benefit of the mirror.