Not so fun with motos

Sometimes I’m reminded of just how fragile and precarious our lives are. Only earlier this month, we were all reminded of that in Haiti. Today my example is more local. I’m not particularly morbid, but sometimes when I’m riding my bike around Makala or taking a bush taxi, I think of how easily it could all be over so quickly, with a wrong twitch of the steering wheel or a careless driver just not seeing me. And we hear so many stories of motorcycle, car, and bus accidents here, that you can’t be oblivious to the realities of the road—it’s dangerous.

I got really lucky today. Let me just say I’m not seriously hurt, but I had my first moto accident and it’s left me more shaken and angry than anything else. I was leaving the MC2 on my bike, and coming down one of the major central roads in Makala. It’s Wednesday, market day, so even more people were out than usual. In spite of being a central road, this road is terrible—unpaved, sandy and rocky—and in effect it’s only a narrow path, a small portion of it, that’s passable. For those who’ve been here, it’s right in front of several bars, including my favorite, chez Jérémie. (NB: I was coming from work, not the bar.)

A moto was approaching me on the narrow path, and it was obvious there wasn’t enough room for both of us, so I moved to the right edge of the path and stopped, waiting for him to pick his route around me. I had no way of knowing which way he’d go around me—sticking to the right side of the road means nothing here. Apparently, his path of choice was right over me. I couldn’t believe it. I saw him coming closer and closer, certain he would change course or STOP, and somehow—I have no idea how—he didn’t. It happened fast enough that I couldn’t move in any direction, which wouldn’t have helped anyway, since I didn’t know which way he’d go. But it happened just slowly enough for me to realize, “I am about to get run over, he is gonna cut my body in two.” As soon as he hit me, I just started screaming. While he somehow didn’t see me, he heard me, and thankfully was able to stop shortly.

He knocked my bike over and me with it. My shoulder is twisted and hurting, but otherwise I’m ok. There are too many ways it could have been worse—if he’d been going any faster, if I would have fallen on a nearby rock… When I did get up I just couldn’t believe it. As soon as I was up, I could feel my shoulder and another twinge of anger, as it flashed through my mind that Dad had his shoulder messed up in an accident years ago, and it still bothers him sometimes today. The driver got off his moto. He must have been 15 years old. I think I shouted once, “How did you not see me?!” and then somehow I kept my calm. That’s rare for me here. But the crowd was increasing and I didn’t want to turn into any more of a spectacle. I was so mad and shaken that my right hand was trembling ridiculously, like my Grandpa’s used to, back and forth by what must have been two inches—I couldn’t stop it, just stared at it, watched it go. My left arm hurt too much to raise. More and more people were gathering around, picking up my bike, asking if I was ok. When I kept asking the driver, “How did you not see me?” he refused to answer, just looked away. What made me the angriest was his refusal to answer me. You can’t just run over people with your moto and walk away. (Or can you…) My voice was calm, but I asked him, literally, did he have his eyes closed? Even, “Mon frère, I know my skin is the same color as the sand, but how did you not see me?” People around me urged, “Pardonnez-lui,” Forgive him.
“No,” I replied, “He was wrong. He could have hurt someone.” I pointed to one of the small wide-eyed children looking on, “If it had been one of them, a child, you would have killed him.” Such accidents happen too often.

Finally, when I realized that my bike and I were mostly ok, and that there was nothing else I could do—including getting an explanation—I got out of there, fighting back tears of frustration behind my sunglasses. I got hit by a car once while riding my bike in DC and was hurt worse then, but I was angrier today. There is no penalty or punishment for someone who’s reckless. The boy didn’t have a license, which could have been revoked. As Thea reminded me afterward, if I would have gone to the police, they wouldn’t have done anything. I’ve seen what looks like 12-year-olds driving motos. As much as I’ve hated tickets in the past, it makes me grateful that the U.S. has a system to protect us from such carelessness. (I got a ticket once for riding my bicycle on a sidewalk! Pedestrians of DC, rest easy.) It bothers me that many seemed to shrug their shoulders, accept this as normal, and do nothing. It’s true that there are bigger things to worry about here—getting food on the table, keeping your family out of the hospital, paying for school. My inconvenience is limited to a sore shoulder, but it becomes clearer to me all the time why the average life expectancy here is 52 years old. I’m reminded that every day in good health is a day to appreciate—that nothing should be taken for granted. A few extra miles per hour, and it could have been much worse.


PS— Now one week later from when I wrote the above…

…and so I don’t get frantic e-mails from the parental generation of America. The parental generation here in Cameroon has been taking good care of me. My co-worker Adèle, the cashier at our bank, took me to the hospital, and although they’d run out of ibuprofen, they gave me some other anti-inflammatory for 20 american cents. Not bad. In addition to that, Adèle has proclaimed that she has a talent for massage. She does! And she uses it on me! So we bought some weird Chinese menthol balm product off a kid on the street, and she now regularly massages my shoulder, while I’m sitting behind the counter at the bank. Makes for some funny stares from the clients… but I’m used to that!

My co-workers had some thoughts about how the accident probably happened. A lot of the young moto-taxi drivers here are often drunk, or sniffing glues and drugs. It was market day, and so the bilbil, or local millet wine, was out in force, making for a lot of drunk people wandering around. It doesn’t make me feel any better about riding with the motos, I’ve been pretty skittish since last week. But it makes sense… why the driver didn’t see me, didn’t stop, just seemed unperturbed. I’ll get in some good walking in the coming months…

How to Embarrass Your Sister in Africa:

An Empirically Tested Approach

Note: Below content is inappropriate for the prudish. I am showing my Peace Corps best here.

For as long as I can remember, my older sister Barrett has specialized in my embarrassment. Starting as children, she would careen through stop signs while steering the neighbors’ tandem bicycle, leaving me not only mortified as cars braked and honked, but also in fear of my life. As we’ve grown, she’s perfected the art of my embarrassment, and I must say, she can do it like no other. In December, it was time to import this unique talent to the African continent, and so I compiled a brief list of ways to embarrass your younger sister. Rest assured, all of these have been tested and proven effective:

1. Decide and proclaim to everyone within earshot that you’re going to marry the exuberant young European man you’ve just met on the beach who frolicks around wearing nothing but a speedo.
2. Join the singer of the evening at your hotel and throw in a little dance for good measure.
3. Go for a walk in the capital city. When you get harassed by horny young men and I attempt to tell them off, do not start laughing so hard that you are unable to walk, therefore only worsening the harassment. This only erodes my credibility, and encourages more horny harassment.
4. Break into loud song while riding in an overcrowded bush taxi. If your driver has already made you fear for your life multiple times “Keep Two Eyes on the Road," by the Rolling Stones, is an appropriate selection. Ask the other passengers in the vehicle, “Are you with me?!”
5. Engage in conversation with strangers in the fabric shop. Encourage the stranger-woman that it would be a terrific idea for me to marry her son, while stranger-woman approvingly sizes me up and down, grabs my butt a few times in casual conversation, and gives me her phone number so we can set up a time for me to meet her son.
6. Don your borrowed bike helmet, (for use in the absence of a full-fledged motorcycle helmet), before you leave the house. Exit the house, walk a block down the street, all the while wearing your helmet, and proceed to flag down a moto-taxi. Let there be no doubt to any passers-by that you are in fact seeking a moto and believe in protecting oneself against the imminent threat of head injuries and brain damage.

But I guess we truly haven’t evolved that much past ages 7 and 10, because the greatest sources of both embarrassment and humor on Barrett’s trip came from age-old bathroom humor. I hope potential future employers are not reading this. If you would like to one day give me a job, maybe you should just stop reading this now.

My favorite is the bus story. Now for any of you who have traveled aboard a Cameroonian vehicle, you know the rule. Open windows allow for the passage of air, deadly diseases, and all other sorts of misfortunes. So those windows get locked up tight, much to the distress of the sweating and awkward foreigners who happen to be in any such vehicle. When Shawn was visiting, a woman, traveling with her baby, literally asked us if she could trade places with us when her window was stuck in an open position. Her plea, “I don’t want to lose my baby.” Because gentle breezes from open windows are known as the number one baby-killer in Africa.

So Barrett and I had been traveling literally non-stop for a day. The overnight train had arrived late, from the train we’d jumped directly on a bus, and a solid 24 hours after beginning this trek, we are still some hours away from our destination of Maroua. So Sis, at that point, if you need to find a little humor at my expense, could I really deny you?? And as you can imagine, the windows to our bus, as it careens over pot-holed roads through the darkness, are sealed tight.

Well, Cameroon brings out the best my gastro-intestinal system has to offer the world. For the sake of my fellow travelers, I’d tried to keep my gastric distress to myself for the previous 24 hours. But sometimes enough is enough. We’re sitting quietly in the back row of the bus, when unwittingly, I come to realize I’ve violated the public air space with some terrible form of pollution. My sister catches a whiff of this violation and immediately looks at me, “You didn’t..?!!”

“Sorry!!”

Barrett starts chortling, in between trying to find some readily available object to use as a gas mask. Now my sister’s French is not bad and unfortunately for me in this instance, continually improving, but thank goodness she didn’t know the word for fart. (She learned.) So she decides to announce to all our friends on the bus, “Ma soeur! Ma soeur a passé le gaz! Pooooweeeeeee!!!!” I am hitting her to try to make her be quiet, but she takes much glee in persisting in this noisy announcement/exercise of her limited French vocabulary. A slight murmur spreads through the bus. Even though the night is pitch black, I wish I had somewhere to hide.

Apparently, my contribution to the atmosphere does not go unnoticed by our Cameroonian compatriots, and someone obligingly pulls out a bottle of perfume to give a spray, for the sake of humanity. The perfume, however, is so potent, that I feel ready to choke. Increased murmuring spreads throughout the bus, while I continue to try to silence Barrett’s gleeful exclamations.

And then lo and behold, a miracle occurs. Someone opens a window! Hallelujah! We are liberated. So that my friends, you can add to your list of coping strategies for those pained cross-country voyages. Albeit at some cost in the form of personal humiliation.

I could regal you further with stories of my sister’s own contributions to the Cameroonian ozone… but let’s just say that some things must run in the family, and eventually, she had a some defining moments herself. I’d like to think I handled it with slightly more grace than she did, but hey, I get plenty of chances to practice my French vocabulary in that realm.

Of course, :) for your viewing enjoyment, here’s a bit of photo-documentary from her time here.

Climbing on rocks when we went to the beach at Kribi. I am the Little Mermaid.

We had a really good visit with my old homestay family from training. Ma was so happy to see us, and as always, prepared amazing food.

Whatever is going on in this picture, I have no idea, but it so perfectly expresses the personalities of everyone in my homestay family. Throw in my random whitey sister just for good measure.

Playing in the elephant tracks at Waza National Park.

Sis looking poetic, with very small giraffes in the background.

We went out for bilbil, the local millet beer, with my co-workers from the MC2. Here’s Catherine:

Bava, our accountant, told me there was some tradition about drinking from the same calabash.

Scaring small children: always fun.

And some traditions will never die :)

Like with Mom, I was so grateful that she took the time and effort to come see me, and share a bit of Africa… even at the expense of a bit of my dignity. :) Love you, Sis!

Haiti

Haiti collapsed again yesterday. Ravaged, it seems. This time not by the Duvaliers, the Americans, the French, or their own street gangs, but by something even greater and more indiscriminate than all these. Nature. The same nature that ravished New Orleans in Katrina, Sri Linka in the tsunami, and the Philippines in recent monsoons again reared her ugly head to remind us that no one is immune.

I couldn’t sleep well last night after I got the news. Too many images invaded my head and wouldn’t let go. Images of the broken presidential palace, just blocks from my old house. Images of poverty and decrepitude, but that was there long before this earthquake hit. We think it is a terrible shame when these things happen, and it unites humanity in such an odd way. Maybe it’s because we genuinely feel it could have been one of us, and that no one is fully immune from such forces of nature, as wealthy as we might be.

It frustrates me because I know there will be an overwhelming outpouring of aid. People will come forward now to give money, but what about every other day of the year when Haitians are starving? This year, 24,000 more people will die of hunger throughout the world. Are we saddened and shaken by these sudden deaths in Haiti that hit too close to home, as though the dice of chance just missed me this time, but not my Haitian neighbors Gustav, Izetta, Catelyn and Lovelyn? Are we less saddened by the 24,000 deaths from hunger this year because they are expected?

What angers me most is realizing that just as no one chose to live ten miles from the epicenter of an earthquake, no one chose the country, America or Haiti, the race and color, white middle-class or black poverty-stricken, or the educational and work opportunities available in the country where you are born. It’s as much to chance that Gustav is Haitian that I am American, and that he will have to fight twice as hard for everything he has in his meager life than I’ve ever fought. I was born into so much, don’t I owe something to those who did not have such good fortune? We are sadly not all born equal, but we could start by making more efforts to recognize this reality, how relatively wealthy we are compared to the rest of the world. Ideally it shouldn’t have to take tsunamis, hurricanes, and now earthquakes to highlight the poverty and inequality that is becoming increasing accepted throughout the world.

I should take a moment to add, before I offend half my friends and family, that my anger is not as much directed at working-class America. It’s the ultra-rich upper crusts of society that infuriate me most. The insidious Kardashians, Hiltons, Enron executives or the other obliviously wealthy who don’t seem to have questioned how they got so rich, or what effect their consumerism has on those who are toiling away to make all that they buy, or those poor who have to live on the land exploited for the natural resources used to make such extravagant lifestyles possible. And I’m not worried about offending those people—they’re not reading my blog anyway.

I’m quietly stepping down from my soap box now. Thanks for letting me vent.

Operation Mom Comes to Africa: Success!!

At my request, and after healing from all the joys Africa had to offer, Mom graciously wrote a bit for my blog. :) So, la voilà and Thanks, Mom!

*************

I went to Africa for two reasons: to see my daughter, Fleurange, whom I had not seen since June 4, 2008, and to get a better idea of the challenges that she faces every day as a Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV).

Both goals were met, and then some! I had a great visit with Fleurange, but such travel is not for the faint-hearted! Life in her world, as far is creature comforts go, is a bit like what we Louisianians would call ‘hurricane mode’ (few creature comforts as the storm passes and in the aftermath when services are out).

The people were very welcoming. Being ‘the Mama who has come from the United States’ made me an instant celebrity! Of course, I know that was in large part because people there—her neighbors, her local professional associates, her bosses, her fellow PVCs—like and respect her. Now there is no bias here, of course, but I am very proud of Fleurange, and indeed, the six or seven other PVCs that I met and had occasion to visit with about their duties. They give up a lot, and put up with a lot, and I am sure, grow a lot in their jobs.

We were invited into numerous homes and dined with several families. It was obvious to me that they were intent on honoring us, and it was a humbling experience for me.

The climate in Cameroon is varied, and I am told that Cameroon is considered to be Africa in miniature, with the dry grasslands semi-desert in the north, high country in the middle, and the tropical area in the south. In the north, where Fleurange lives, it is dry most of the year, except for a several-months’-long rainy season. Dust is everywhere. And regardless of what people say about ‘dry heat’ being less uncomfortable, when it is 95 degrees, and you are walking in the sun, it is hot! The Cameroonians did not seem to be as bothered by heat as the white people I saw; perhaps they are more acclimated, much as we Southerners in the US can handle the heat better than folks from MN or NH. And the heat was not as much of a problem for me as a few other things…. The principal crops in the north are peanuts, soy, cotton, and millet. Many families have small patches of millet at the back door.

Transportation is one of the areas that shocks the average American. I grew up in the country on a gravel road in the late 50’s and early 60’s, before we got blacktop. I remember the dust. Most of the roads, in Mokolo, and even many in the bigger towns, are not gravel, but dirt and rocks or stones or boulders!! One has a jarring experience on most bus rides, and the moto (motorcycles for hire) drivers have my greatest respect for the way they avoid so many big rocks and potholes, while keeping passengers from landing on the street! You have not lived until you have survived a one-hour-plus ride on the back of a moto, to view the sights at the western border near Nigeria! I figured that if I had osteoporosis, the crumbling of my spinal column would have begun on this trip. I also got used to the crowded unairconditioned buses which are standard when traveling from one town to another. When one is lucky, a fellow passenger gets off early and one can spread out a bit. Fleurange and I have a great story to tell about the perils of trying to spend money and take the rich American route cross-country, via domestic airline, instead of the usual 3-day train-and-bus trip, but it is too long for here. Suffice it to say that money does not fix all problems, and bureaucracy and corruption in government are alive and well in Cameroon.

Sanitation (or lack thereof) was a significant area of concern for me. It is true that I grew up in the country in the days before AC, microwaves, internet, and cell phones, and if we lost power, we were also without water because the pump for the well was electric. But in Cameroon, indoor plumbing was somewhat rare, and I came to cherish those ceramic wonders in the places that had them. I did worry about what critters I might be ingesting in the food and drink offered to me by our many gracious hosts/hostesses, and I wondered how the whole eating process could possibly be safe when we shook many hands, and then washed hands in a communal washing bowl, before dining. When I was uncertain about the food, I ate little. When I felt more secure, I pigged out. I cannot say at this point whether I brought home any little friends with me, but found myself praying, ‘Lord, if I have an immune system, let it go into overdrive now!!’ There was also the matter of ‘street food’ some of which was very tasty, but again, the health department in any city or town in the US would have shut these folks down long ago. But what is one to do?

The food was interesting. A principal dish is the couscous, different from the Americanized version one buys here in a box. It is sort of like a firm mush (thick grits for Southerners), which can be made from rice, corn, or millet. This is served with flavorful sauces made from peanut oil, leaves, various seasonings. The procedure is to use your fingers, grab a chunk of couscous, dip in the sauce, and eat. Another popular dish is beans and beignets (street food), tasty, but then again, look at all the (clean?) hands that prepared it. The beignets (fried bread, sometimes yeast-raised) were somewhat familiar to me, reminiscent of the sweet beignet that is popular in New Orleans, and the beans were somewhat like our local red-beans-and-rice. This was food in the north of Cameroon. In the south, there appears to be more variety, with fried plantains, bananas, pineapples, citrus fruits, papaya. On the street, one could also find grilled (whole) fish; omelets made from eggs, spaghetti, and onions; roasted plantains.

There is much more I could tell, but we would be here all day. The sights, sounds, smells were of a different world. To be there was an amazing experience! (Yet I do not plan a repeat trip unless the Peace Corps calls me and says ‘Get over here; your daughter is in trouble’, in which case I would be on a plane within 24 hours!) For one considering such a trip to Africa as I had, one should think of it as a UN fact-finding trip, or something like that—not 100% as vacation or recreational travel! Cameroon—not for the faint-hearted!

*************

So, that’s it from my Mama… and a few last observations and pictures of my own…

Age wins: I can’t wait to have my birthday next month!! Why? Cause it is COOL to be OLD in Africa! As she mentioned, Mom was treated with such reverence and respect (yeah little nassara me doesn’t get all that!) The hospitality was monumental. I was certain I fattened up thanks to all the delicious sauces we were served by my friends, neighbors, and colleagues. In addition to the Age = Mucho Respect Phenomenon, I think people really appreciated seeing where I came from (literally.) As perceived by our communities, I think we PCVs seem to exist in a bubble—a little piece of whitey dropped from the sky—no family, no connections, just floating through Africa. For my friends to meet my Mom seems to somehow give me more credibility—I really do have a family and a history.

Mom makes an entrance: I can’t help but crack a smile every time I think of Mom’s first contact with Mokolo. We had survived the entire long trip North to my post unscathed (although not without snafus a plenty!!) We were taking motos to my house from the bus station, with all our luggage. Finally, in the instant it’s time to dismount the moto, I’m deciding between which to do first: pay my moto driver, pay Mom’s moto driver, greet the mass of my neighbors who are running up to greet us, pull luggage off the moto, or help Mom undo her moto helmet. Mom makes the decision easy for me as slowly she goes Ploppppp! descending not so gracefully onto her bottom on the dirt road next to her moto. We’d come so far! It was only the dismount that was left!! Balancing on two legs can be tricky! I don’t think my neighbors knew how to react—the reverence for Mama Fleurange! might have been cancelled out by seeing her sprawled on the dirt road! Mom’s a great sport, brushed herself off (with some help from her daughter to take off that moto helmet) and got up to promptly greet everyone. The neighbors loved her instantly!

Nursing home preview: As Mom likes to say, this is what it’ll be like when I’m old and infirm! It’s always a fun role reversal when you get to take care of your parents. I was constantly talking, translating French/English, generally instructing, clarifying… I think my favorite image is of “How to ride a moto 101.” (Obviously, not enough time was spent on the sub-lesson, “How to dismount a moto!”) The first time we got on motorcycles, I had to remember this is not a standard and all-encompassing form of transportation in the US, as it is here. I had to put Mom’s feet on the right pedals, show her where to hold on, and yes, lovingly attach her helmet on her head. I ended up attaching Mom’s helmet every time we took motos. Maybe it’s a small recompense for all those dirty diapers she changed.

Afro-Caribbean connections: A favorite last memory is Mom’s ever-keen observations as she soaks up all of Africa’s cultural wonders: the arts, the music, the people.... We’re out at a sidewalk bar one of her last nights here, sharing a local beer. (I never even liked beer before I came to Africa, and Mom also says that she thinks she has added one more to her short list of times she likes beer—after haggling in an African artisan market.) So the music is, as always, loud on the bar’s loudspeakers. Philosophically, Mom comments on what seems to be the local music,

“Now those drums are reminiscent of the Caribbean.”

“Mom. That’s Bob Marley.”

“Oh.”

(I told Mom she was allowed to make as much fun of me as she wanted in her write-up of Cameroon! Obviously, her tact and diplomacy are something I am still working on… :) “Not nice,” as she would say, or, referring to raising me, “I tried. I REALLY tried!!”

Lovely Yaoundé, capital of Cameroon, below us.

A cool roadside shot Mom got from the bus.

I’m telling my co-workers at the MC2 that when Americans take pictures, we smile, and could they please pleaaaase smile? (This is apparently funny.)

I’d asked Mom to bring over marshmallows—cultural exchange at its finest. I’m demonstrating how to roast the marshmallow that is speared on my spoon, while Bouba examines the marshmallow bag.

Mom practices being a grandmother with Bouba’s baby girl, Aïcha. N.B. It’s over 80 degrees at the time of that photo. Wrap that baby up tight!!

Chez my neighbors, American propaganda fest? Ouuiiiiiiiii, pourquoi pas?!

With Aissatou, my favorite neighbor, who fed us a lovely meal.

Mom was always good at making friends! (And yes, every one is wearing Mardi Gras beads that Mom brought over. What a hit. The neighbors are still wearing them!)

Friend Yves has us over for dinner and I plan to steal a baby :) His wives made us delicious chicken.

More food: here’s tasty couscous and sauce! Break it, dip it, love it! This couscous is made from red millet, with a sesame seed sauce. (Dad, just wait til I make you some of that!! Mmmmm :)

Mom communes with/is in awe of nature when I make her go hiking in Rumsiki. (She is seriously a good sport!!)

While in Rumsiki, we visited the Crab Sorcerer to learn about the future. He translates our questions to his crab, who then responds by moving little shards of clay in a pot to indicate certain answers. We learned that Paul Biya is going to “win” another Cameroonian presidential election in 2011 (quel surprise!) and that Cameroon will fight valiantly, but will not win the World Cup. I will also make three babies.

Here’s the omniscient Crabby himself. Photographable for 500 F. Clever boogar.

(Before tourists came, the Crab Sorcerer and his crab predicted the annual harvest, a tradition passed on from his father, and grandfather before him.)

Crab Sorcerer takes a liking to my Mother. Mom is sufficiently reverent.

I agree with the Crab Sorcerer that it sure was wonderful to have her here. I’ll attach her helmet any day. Hopefully this Mama-fix will last me until I get back to the states next August!

Lois

Occasionally, someone passes through our lives in a way that we hope not only we will never forget, but that we will one day be able to duplicate. Such is the case of my Great Aunt Lois, a woman of singular character and fortitude. She married into my family at a time when my great-grandfather told a story of some pitiable neighbor, “A man who had no children… poor Mr. Gerstrom, no children. Only five daughters,” and yet she stayed. She lived through the Great Depression, World War II, the Civil Rights movement and desegregation in the Deep South, and near the end… I was lucky enough to be one of her “practice grand-children.”

When I went to Haiti, not only did she seek out to read the classic Mountains Beyond Mountains, she told my mother she should read it, too. (and Mom listened!) When I came to Africa, Lois picked up the biggest book on the subject, and slogged through Fate of Africa with me. We compared notes via e-mail, she with the unique perspective of still thinking of the Democratic Republic of Congo as “Zaire.” She amazed me with her curiosity and her drive to always continue learning. She was in her eighties, but learned to become more computer savvy than many, even maintaining her own “virtual bookshelf” and keeping up with all the adventures of myself and my cousins.

She was deeply religious, as are many in my family. When she sent out an e-mail to say God was calling her back, I nearly lost it in the local cyber café, reduced to a snotty and teary ball. Such emotion is a concept hard for the average Cameroonian to grasp. Here, life comes and goes. Another in the ground, another in the womb, and we plod on. Cameroonians don’t seem to understand our grief and outrage at a loss that is only so natural.

But as I trudged into town, trying to hide my tears, I thought about the message Lois had sent us, and the impact it had on me. One woman had changed my perception, given me e-mails to look forward to, and made me feel understood and appreciated. She motivated me to always continue learning, to never say die on developing as an individual, until it’s that time that God calls you back, and then you go gracefully and thankfully for the good life you’ve led.

In the day to day here, I often get caught up in my own ego, wondering who is right in some senseless misunderstanding based on cultural differences, and too much of my own pride. When I read the note Lois left us, I felt a strong tug of desire that I, too, would be able to say such things, express such gratitude of the life and opportunities I have been given, on my way out. Her life leaves me with the desire to let go a little more. Let go of trying to control or have things my way, and instead to appreciate, to serve. If I could make a few small impacts, show kindness, and invest in others in the way she has so profoundly loved me, I will be happy.

For Lois, I think the words of Emerson say it best:

To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.

My Mama comes to Africa + fun in a market bag

My MOTHER is arriving on the African continent TOMORROW!! I am more than excited.
Our grand ambitions include looking at rocks (some cool formations near me), eating tasty millet and leaf sauce with our fingers, playing with some wildlife, and mostly just hanging out around my town, meeting friends and co-workers, getting a taste of life au village. That's about it! I've told everyone she's coming and she doesn't even know yet I've already had matching outfits tailored for us... :)

In other fine news I'd just like to report that I have found one of my most successful Halloween costumes EVER. The African market bag. Although originally designed to transport produce around town, it doubles as a roomy and comfortable costume (although of questionable aesthetic appeal...) I don't think I've ever danced so much in my life--no one can see what a bad dancer you are if it's all under an enormous SACK! Yeahhhh :)

And of course, here is a real African market mama in action. Don't stop her now.

(Not quite sure what the Cameroonians at this party had to make of all this... They don't exactly celebrate Halloween...)

Lots of love to everyone back home, and stay tuned for some more adventures with my favorite veille blanche!

I become an action word. Pretty cool.

My postmate Thea told me a story recently that really cracked me up. I’ll try to retell it as best I can. Keep in mind that Thea is a much nicer, calmer, and generally more patient person than I am, thus my amusement.

Alas…

Thea: Seriously, the other day I think I did a “Fleurange.”

(side note: that's what people call me here, my middle name...)

Me: Oh no, what’s that mean?!! I didn’t realize I’d turned into an verb!! I’m scared.

Thea: I was riding Mokolo Express (one of the local bus companies) the other day to Maroua. You know I hate those trips cause they always drive so fast. I was sitting all the way in the back of the van. We were flying!! Every time we would go around those curves, everyone would grab onto the seat in front of us and we’d all be leaning and swerving. Even the old Cameroonian men. And the car was so loaded down with stuff on top that we were really top-heavy, I mean, really unstable!!

We were just bombing along the road. And you know there’s always little kids just playing right alongside of the road. We’re going so fast, that there’s a group of goats crossing the road. And the driver can’t stop fast enough. So bam, we knock out about three goats. And they just go rolling away under the car. The driver doesn’t even stop or anything to see if they’re alright.

After a little while longer, I asked the old man next to me if it was bothering him—the speed. And he said, 'Yes, they are going fast!' So I said, 'Could you say something? You’re a man. They’ll listen to you. You’re Cameroonian.' And he said 'Say something?' Agggghhhhhh!! So of course the Cameroonians won’t say anything. I really wished you’d been there so you could have said something.

My interjection: Yeah, I've gotten a bit of a reputation here for telling people what I think when they make me cranky, or especially if they’re full of bullshit. (Which parent did I get that from? ;) The following must be doing a Fleurange. But I’d say Thea did pretty damn well herself. Back to Thea’s narration:

Thea: So finally I say, “Chauffeur! We’re going really fast, aren’t we? Can you slow down?” And he makes some bullshit response like, “We have to get to Maroua, non?” So by this time I’m so mad, I’m practically standing, and I’m yelling at him from the back of the van, “CHAUFFEUR, this isn’t safe!! We already hit the goats, what’s next, children?! Us?!” And the Chauffeur says, “Time is money!” I just screamed, “WHAT?!!!! SINCE WHEN ARE CAMEROONIANS IN A HURRY?!!”

At this point I, Fleurange, was dying laughing, picturing all this going down in the dilapidated and overcrowded van, flying and swerving down the road. Shouldn’t have been funny, but it’s just so outrageous, and I’ve never seen Thea lose her cool, (that role is usually reserved for me!) What a great—and unexpected—line from that chauffeur. Seriously, you can wait here ALL day for anything and NOBODY cares, and there's no consequences, but then you can’t slow down 5 MPH for the safety of human lives? Or even adopt a bit of customer-service?! It’s in the interest of your business not to kill your customers! Back to Thea:

So not only did the chauffeur not slow down, I think we went faster. I’ve never gotten to Maroua so fast. My knuckles were white the entire time. I’m going to bring a complaint to the local delegate of transport.

End of story. Thank you for taking your valuable time to read it.