Monday June 27th, 2011

Mr. Djame and I were back at it again on Monday. He told me he’d be there at 9 AM, so stupidly I was showered and dressed by that time. I forgot about the whole African time thing. At 10 AM, he called and informed me that he hadn’t slept well and to wait for him that he would be there soon. Wait for you? Well Duh, I don’t know where the hell I am, what else am I gonna do!?

In the meantime, I decided to see what all worked in my new residence. I found another fan in one of the extra bedrooms. It wasn’t plugged in, but was right next to an outlet. Two birds, one stone. Except that this bird was on Death Row. When I plugged the fan in, I heard a loud pop and sparks shot out of the fan. It’s always good to keep the close calls to a minimum in a developing country. Needless to say, that fan got put outside with the rest of the garbage, which magically disappeared within a day or two of being set out. I guess they think this American is throwing away perfectly good trash, ala Frank and Charlie.

I also discovered, after plugging my fridge in, that it was quite the opposite. An oven fridge seems to be an oxymoron, but that is exactly what my fridge appears to do. It actually makes things hotter. I left it plugged in all night to try and cool it off before I put some bottled water in there. Not happening. It was a little mini-sauna in there. I decided to leave it plugged in to see if maybe it just needed to cool down for a longer period of time.

While waiting for Mr. Djame, my neighbor Becky came over to introduce herself. For those of you going, Becky doesn’t sound like a very Cameroonian name. Well Becky is an Anglophone! I have someone I can actually speak English with at post! Do the exclamations convey my excitement enough? Becky was very kind and told me if I ever needed anything at all don’t hesitate to come over. She also offered her daughter to help me clean up if I needed any extra help. She was very welcoming and said she told Greg, the PCV before me, that she promised to help the next volunteer up because of all that he did for her and her family. I hope after two years, she will feel the same way towards me.

Mr. Djame finally arrived sometime after 11 AM. I was pretty hungry by this point and asked Mr. Djame if we could get some food or water soon, since I was lacking both at the moment. He responded with something like, “I’m not sure. It depends on how our program (schedule) goes today.” If he wasn’t so old, I might have taken a swing at him. 

I grabbed a bandanna, since I was already sweating profusely, and went to wipe my face off before leaving. Just before wiping my face I looked down to see a small spider on it. It was dead and I brushed it off. I watched in amazement as it floated gracefully back in through my front door on a small breeze. If you’ve ever seen the plastic bag scene from American Beauty, this is EXACTLY what it was like. I can’t say it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, but it did seem kind of elegant the way it danced in the wind. Could also be a sign that I’m losing my mind over here? 

Our first order of business was to head to the bank at my post, Bicec, and try to set up my bank account. Before entering the bank, however, Mr. Djame seemed to know each and every person that was also going to the bank that day. I was introduced to one woman that was a head of one of the local primary schools in Edea. She had some serious beard action going on around and under her chin. She also had leg hair that rivaled the thickness of my own. I’m not judging this is part of the cultural exchange people. I just found it interesting because she had on makeup, her hair done, a nice pink skirt and blouse. She seemed to be very concerned about the rest of her appearance, except the hair protruding from places other than her head. Again I’m not judging, it just made the cut of things I thought I needed to share with those reading.

We finally made it inside the bank after the 20 minute greeting session. There appeared to be a line, but Mr. Djame went to one of the smaller offices and we were sitting down within minutes. This guy must pull some serious strings in Edea. The paper that Peace Corps had given us to set up our account told us what we would need to have to get our account started. As you probably saw coming, this was not all I needed. I also needed a copy of my passport, which was not with me in Edea, and more pictures than the two it said were required. Guess we’ll be headed back to the land of handshakes and bearded ladies the following day.

After that I finally saw the place where I’d be teaching the next two years. It’s called ENIEG d’Edea and it is a teacher training college. I think I’ll be training primary school teachers (elementary school), but your guess is as good as mine at this point. I met the director of my school and he seemed happy to be getting another Peace Corps Volunteer to teach at his school. I tried asking some questions like how many hours I’d be teaching, class sizes, number of computers etc. They kept telling me I had to talk to the boss of services, who didn’t happen to be around of course. The only figures I could confirm were that I would have “2 or 3” computers at my disposal and that I would be teaching around 12 hours a week. Never did see a classroom or “computer lab”. Guess I’ll get the grand tour in August.

Finally, I was told we would be going to lunch. Again, we went to the small restaurant from the first night. I’m pretty sure we both ordered poulet (chicken). The only note I have about lunch is the comment that Mr. Djame made. As we are eating, he starts going to town on the chicken bones. I have witnessed this in my own homestay family as well. The bones are fair game. Just as I notice the sounds of the crunching from the seat next to me Mr. Djame goes, “This chicken was old.” I don’t know if this strikes you as weird as it did me, but I had a hard time stifling laughter. I’m not sure if it was the crunch factor or the calcium level, but somehow Mr. Djame could tell how old that chicken was from the bones. I haven’t started devouring the bones as well if you’re wondering. I made another note that Mr. Djame had not paid attention during the time management session during the community host workshop, but I will dwell on that later.

We went back to Mr. Djame’s office after brunch. On the way there we passed an older woman and younger girl on the path to the school. Mr. Djame asked, “Tu faires es caca?” Now, my French isn’t good by any means, but I am fairly certain he just asked this girl if she was going to take a dump. I grimaced and swore to myself I would always watch where I was walking on that path in the future. In Mr. Djame’s office we did a whole lot of nothing. It was basically a two hour long map drawing session complete with a straight edge. I was twiddling my thumbs for most of said journey. At one point, he was on the phone with his daughter, whom I hadn’t met. He decided that I should say hello and introduce myself. I went with my basic introductory phrases and was pretty soon left to dwell in awkward silence with this unknown daughter. Did I mention I start teaching in French next week?

After the office, we grabbed some soya and headed to a bar to meet Emmanuel. I was also introduced to one of Mr. Djame’s brothers, whose name escapes me considering the fact I met like 30 people on this trip. I should have just started writing their name down when we were introduced. Mr. Djame’s bro was an interesting cat. We had some political talks about Africa and America. He said Africa has one problem, management/leadership. I will say that they have way more than one problem, but that is a discussion for another day. He also made an interesting point, after we talked about how much of a moron Bush was, that Bush had given way more money to Africa than Obama has. I haven’t seen any figures so I don’t know how valid it is, but I just thought it was interesting food for thought considering the amount of Obama paraphernalia I have seen already.

After said bar we decided to trek to another bar for the nightcap. Before going to the bar, we stopped at a little shack and got omelets. Now, not only did they deliver the omelets across the street when they were complete, but this thing was like an omelet sub! I’d put it up against Subway anyday, fresh veggies be damned. It had some onions, salt, and pepper and I devoured it. I also realized at this late point in the night that Mr. Djame kind of resembled an old, skinny Denzel Washington. I will get a pic with him at some point and you guys can be the judge. The last notes I have for the night are that Emmanuel and Mr. Djame kept passing out sitting at the table so I had to wake them up and tell them it was time to go. On the drive home, we hit so many potholes their heads looked like bobbleheads in the front seat. They are very protective, and therefore walked me to my front door to make sure I was safe. I also wrote that Mr. Djame kept apologizing for speaking in the “mother tongue” and “you will discover” this, that, etc. Well, I can’t discover if you won’t take the training wheels off, but I appreciated the hospitality nonetheless. Another day in the books…

June 26th, 2011

Sunday June 26^th, 2011

Before leaving my bachelor pad, Mr. Djame informed me that we would be going to church the next morning. It wasn’t really a question, more of a statement. I hadn’t been to any Cameroonian churches yet so why not?

I put on my Sunday best (i.e. the wrinkled clothes from my hiking bag) and we moto’d our way to the Pentecostal church. At least I think that’s what type of church he said it was. Again, my comprehension skills are still a work in progress. Usually I just go with the flow and see where I end up. Hasn’t got me in trouble yet, but keep your fingers crossed.

To say church was interesting wouldn’t do it justice. It was INTENSE. We got there and they ushered me to a seat in the very front row. Not my first choice for seating location, but I appreciated the honor. I also wondered whose regular seat I was taking and whether he/she would be visiting the witch doctor after church to strike me down so they could resume their normal seat the following week. The church seats were plastic lawn chairs (very nice and clean lawn chairs I will add) and the dirt rows descended from the highest point in the back of the church to the front. The church appeared to be made out of concrete blocks (which I have later discovered are just mud cinderblocks that they form and cook in the sun. You guys can’t call the mortar mud anymore Joe, Tizz, and Gord. They’re actually USING mud here!) with wood pillars running throughout for extra support. 

Everyone was clapping, singing, and dancing from the moment I walked in. It was kind of like a call and response type deal with rhythmic clapping in a series of three claps and a pause. I actually got this pattern down quick after a few white boy attempts and some stolen glances from the audience. Then, they switched up the pattern and I was back to square one. Also, at one point I thought the audience was chanting Jay-Z, but then I realized they were saying Jesus. Thought I was in the Church of Hard Knocks for a sec. This continued for about a half hour with various people from the audience coming out of the audience to lead the singing. At one point churchgoers were instructed to march in place, I obliged. This was followed by running in circles at one’s seat. I kind of upped my marching pace and just kind of looked around at everyone looking back at me. This wasn’t your typical Holy Trinity Mass folks.

Finally around 10:30 or so we were told to sit down and I guess this meant it was actually starting? What I had been doing the last hour I’m not really sure. The first part of church, people came down and appeared to be giving testimonials about struggles they had been going through or all the things they were blessed with. At least, I think that’s what was going on. Mr. Djame, who had been placed to the right of the preacher were there were two rows of chairs seemingly “reserved” for the higher ups, got up and explained that I would be working in Edea and to make me feel a part of the community and look after my safety and security. Got some smiles from the patrons and no hisses or throat slashing motions so I guess they were okay with it. This lasted another half hour or so I believe. Then the preacher took over.

The preacher was a younger looking man with a shaved head, maybe late 20’s early 30’s. He had on dark, embroidered denim jeans and a white short sleeve button down. It started off like most church services I’ve been to with him reading from the Bible and acknowledging me as his guest and telling me, “Welcome friend” in English. Then, it got kind of weird. Another man started reading a line at a time from the Bible. The preacher would repeat it, except that he would yell it. There was also another man that got up and was translating the French into Basso, one of the local dialects in Edea. This was interesting to hear as well. Back to the preacher. This guy was getting into it. He’s yelling/screaming out Bible verses, sweating profusely and giving his sermon for at least an hour, maybe longer. There was also a woman behind me yelling out Amen Papa! practically every other phrase, which got old rather quick. I really can’t do it justice through words, you just had to be there. Also, once he was done someone from the crowd came and gave him a cold Top Pamplemousse, a type of Cameroonian soda. Not the usual water and wine of HTS. The service lasted roughly three and a half hours not including the half hour or so of singing and dancing. Probably three hours longer than I think it needed to be, but I’ll take all the good karma I can get in Africa. It was also very intriguing for me to see the Cameroonian church dynamic so I’m glad I was invited.

After church, Mr. Djame and I went to grab some food and a beer. I also made a note at this point, that instead of waiting for an intersection to pull a U-turn and pull up at the restaurant, both of our moto drivers decided to get all the way over to the left and drive down the wrong side of the road to arrive at our destination. At the time, I was sure my demise was imminent, but later saw that this was a common practice and moto drivers coming at us would always get out of the way. I’m actually happy that we are prohibited from driving anything besides a bike in this madness.

Upon our arrival, Mr. Djame chatted up the man grilling large chunks of meat which appeared to be wrapped in paper bags. I was later informed that this is called soya. I don’t know if the meat is called that or just the cooking, seasoning process, which looked king of like cajon seasoning or cumin. We went into the bar to the right of the grilling station, was informed that a beer would be 600 CEFA (roughly $1.20), and quickly left because Mr. Djame said this was too much. He would pay 500 or even 550 but not 600. He drives a hard bargain. We told the meat man where we were headed next and went to the bar on the left. Mr. Djame ordered a warm beer, I chose a cold one (which the first drink was and not much else) and we talked while waiting on the food. I hadn’t ate breakfast so was pretty eager to munch on whatever meat was inside that charred paper bag. The meat didn’t arrive after 10 minutes so Mr. Djame went to get it. A man came up to the bar and tried to sell me what he proclaimed was anti-venom for poisonous snake bites, but really just looked like black tar in a little plastic bag. I eyed his Cameroon map, but with my stomach growling, I decided I wasn’t in the haggling mood. Mr. Djame soon returned with our soya. The meat was very tender and came with little pieces of grilled onion and a toothpick to make little soya-onion samiches. I’m pretty sure it was beef, but who knows in this frickin’ country. It was delicious regardless.

After our soya, Mr. Djame showed me maison du parti (house of leaving or leaving house in anglais), which was basically where people gathered while cars and buses going to Yaounde stopped to squeeze in more passengers and make some more money. This was also when I took my first public urination. We walked down a path a little bit, from the main road and Mr. Djame informed me that he was going to piss. By this point, I had seen over 20 different people just taking a leak along the side of the road already. Mr. Djame informed me that it was natural to piss and therefore people just take a leak wherever they see the need. Could also be why you get overpowered by the smell of piss at times when you walk by a creek, but hey, for someone who has had to drain the main vein in public before, this was one cultural fun fact I could get used to. So long as Mr. Djame stopped talking to me while I was trying to go.

We walked for a bit, Mr. Djame showed me some more of Edea, and we stopped at another bar. This is where I made the mistake of asking Mr. Djame if he was married. I figured he was mid 60’s maybe even early 70’s, he had to be so I wanted to ask what his wife thought about him coming to Bafia for a night for the community host workshop. He informed me that after always yelling and being loud, she left him. Yeah, insert foot in mouth at that point. This also explained all the weird comments he had been making like, oh that volunteer speaks good French she would make a great wife for somebody. I think I quickly tried to change the topic to soccer. 

After that awkward exchange and slugging down another beer, we headed to Mr. Djame’s father’s house. The kids of the neighborhood were pretty eyed to see a white man walking through. We walked in Mr. Djame told me to have a seat. I thought he just wanted to show me the place and we’d dip out. All of a sudden a girl comes out from the kitchen and scares the hell out of me. I find out that this is Mr. Djame’s daughter Marcel. I introduced myself as best I could after Mr. Djame took pretty much all my basic go-to-sentences upon introduction. I won’t go into detail too much about it, but it was interesting to see the dynamic between them. Pretty much right after we walked in, Mr. Djame seemed to tell her to make us dinner. I guess this is the norm here, but it still just seemed kind of rude. Guess that’s the American culture still in me. We ate a dinner of fish and vegetables, I met Mr. Djame’s creepy brother, whose name I forget but we’ll call CB from now on, and Mr. Djame’s uncle, Emmanuel, stopped by. Emmanuel seemed younger than Mr. Djame, but this happens in the states as well so no big culture shock here. 

They talked for awhile in French and Bakoko (their village language that I probably misspelled) while I sat there awkwardly trying to appear like I was paying attention. Apparently, they had also been discussing some problems they had with some pastors and homosexuality because pretty soon Mr. Djame was asking me what the U.S. and my opinion were on homosexuality. I will preface this by informing you all that homosexuality is constitutionally illegal in Cameroon. You can be beaten in the streets if believed to be homosexual and put to death if found guilty in Cameroonian court. I have a very big problem with this. I am a heterosexual male (for those of you possibly questioning my sexuality after that comment),but I believe strongly in equal rights for all regardless of sexual preference, gender, race, hair color, whatever. There are a few other qualms I have with Cameroonian law, but I will save that conversation for another day, as I still have much to type up.

Back to the narrative. I informed Mr. Djame that in some states in America homosexual couples could be married, but in most they could not. As for my personal opinion, I told him the truth. The gender of who someone else wants to be with is no concern of mine. Love who you want to love. He took it better than I thought he would. Then, he went on saying about how it isn’t natural and it’s in the Bible and some other common responses you hear when someone is against gay marriage. I let him say his two cents, but did not nod in agreement to make him think that I was agreeing with him. We shall agree to disagree. Which is what more people should do instead of trying to impose their beliefs on others, but again, I’m getting away from the real purpose of writing this.

We took off from Mr. Djame’s with Uncle Emmanuel and said goodbye to CB outside. I thought he was going with us, but found out as we walked to Emmanuel’s car that I don’t think they cared for him too much and that “all he wants to do is sit around and do nothing.” 

On the way to the bar I’m pretty sure I discovered that the shocks in the back of Emmanuel’s car were shot because I thought we were gonna lose the bumper on about every pothole we hit. We arrived and Emmanuel went for the reverse pull in and didn’t stop until we had driven up on the sidewalk and practically over the concrete barrier. Flashbacks of driving over the concrete barrier in the parking lot at OSU Marion on a snowy day in ’07 came to me. I found out this was a private bar, where Emmanuel worked security at, when we entered and they took our names down. Since Emmanuel worked there, I think we got our beers for free. Not really sure, I just know I didn’t pay for any. After having a few with the guys it was time to go home. We climbed in Emmanuel’s little maroon shockless death trap and headed for casa de Max. Along the way it was determined that we needed to stop to pee. We pulled over right on the side of the road, over the little divider for motos, and got out. They both headed left, I went right. Right as I was about to unzip I looked up the giant concrete wall I was about to desecrate and saw about five or six Cameroonians sitting in lawn chairs. You can’t make this stuff up people. Now, I can pee in public, but not with an aerial audience. I let out a gasp, they started laughing and yelling. I moved about 10 paces to the right and felt a little more comfortable relieving myself on the side of the main road. We did our business, piled back in, and made it to my place. Uncle E came in and fixed my toilet that hadn’t been flushing that morning. Didn’t even bother to wash his hands after, he’s a trooper. They left and I crawled into bed. Right before I drifted off, I heard a rustling in my air conditioner. It sounds like my little cockroach buddy had left some friends behind. I rolled to the other side of the bed and was out like the electricity of Bafia.

More to come...

June 25th, 2011

I've decided to put the two days of my Edea trip that I have typed up today. Will try and get the rest of the week typed out this next week and upload them next weekend when we have Internet. So here they are:

Peace Corps? Try Posh Corps. My pad in Edea is pretty slick ya’ll. That was for my Memphis fam. I don’t actually use that phrase.

First, old business. Somehow I advanced to Intermediate Mid after my Language Proficiency Interview. Not really sure how I pulled that one off considering I just wanted to move up a level at the least. I think they really don’t want to have to pay for the extra two weeks of housing for any trainees that don’t make their language level. I don’t think I’m anywhere near that level since some things were going over my head in my Novice Low class, but I guess I’ll see how this next week goes when language classes resume. At the least, I think my host brother is willing to work with me at night on my French and I’m going to try and have my first French teacher (they switch you every few weeks to get used to different accents apparently) tutor me if she has the extra time. My French still sucks as evidenced by my week in Edea.

Speaking of Edea, starting the second day I tried to take down bullet points of things I thought I needed to blog about when I could finally return to my laptop. This is the tale of Max’s site visit to Edea. Enjoy.

Saturday June 25^th, 2011

The day had finally arrived when the Education PCT’s would leave the village of Bafia, the place we had been getting used to living in, to travel with our community hosts to the place we would be calling home for the next two years. My host’s name was DJAME Emile( pronounced Jahm like “We be Jahm-in”), or Emile Djame as we would call him in America. I still can’t get used to the whole last name thing first. I tell everyone my name is Max Miller not Miller Max. I will return to Monsieur Djame.

I digress, two Super Amigos (at least I know our bus was a Super Amigo. Not sure about the other one. Not sure why I wasted my time typing this. You don’t care what my bus was called you want to know about my post) were loaded with our hiking packs, backpacks, moto helmets, and most importantly US! 

At first, Robert Rob Robby Bob (Yes, that is only one person and yes we actually call him that. No, a nickname does not have to be shorter than his first name. We’ll call him RRBB from now on. He’s a Michigan grad, so of course he’s an elitist, but he’s actually quite entertaining to converse with. We do get our digs in at each other from time to time all in good fun. The cross cultural experience has already begun) and I thought we had it made for the first leg of our trip to Yaounde. While Nate and Barrett were wedged in four to their seat we only had three of us in the very back and ample room to spread our legs. That changed very quickly when we pulled into what I can only describe as the Super Amigo launching station. 

When we started backing into this place I knew we were in trouble. People were flocking to the windows, as they do every time a bus moves at a pace that they might be able to make a transaction. RRBB got charged the white man price on some peanuts, but still forked over the 100 CEFA. We declined pretty much everything else and RRBB even shut the window to prevent being hassled by the food peddlers. We both decided the bread loaves were looking pretty tasty considering we weren’t going to be eating our usual Saturday lunch with our host family and decided to each get a half loaf. When the girl asked us if we wanted mayonnaise on them we declined vehemently. She found this very funny. Things were still looking good for us. It appeared we were just gassing up for our trip to Yaounde. If you haven’t noticed, my assumptions tend to be wrong in Africa. I’m not sure if I was usually off in America too, could be. 

This is when the people started piling on. First, an old woman to the back between Mr. Djame and I and then another man got in taking our seat total to 5. Three was comfortable. Five was not. For some reason, Cameroonians and possibly Africans in general, don’t like to ride with the windows open. It’s hot as hell here, why they want to increase the temperature is beyond me. Still haven’t got a good answer for this when asking Cameroonians. Luckily, we were behind another PCT and both of us had our windows open to at least get some air flow to our section in the back. Not very easy to find a comfortable seat when wedged in like sardines (also a bread loaf condiment if you so choose. I choose no). I finally decided to use the old-yawn-and-reach-at-the-movies on RRBB. He gave me a look, but allowed it because it removed our shoulders from impaling each other. The problem was my other arm. It was still stuck in the side of our new seat companion. I said screw it and put my arm behind him as well, figuring he was already sweating on me so might as well get comfortable. This was okay for a few miles. Until, he too, decided to put his arm behind the old woman next to him. Which meant his arm went directly on top of mine, particularly the armpit region. If I haven’t already mentioned, deodorant is scarce, bad quality, and expensive here so not many Cameroonians wear it. I cringed, but went with it. Integration at its finest peeps.

We finally made it to Yaounde after a rather uncomfortable ride, a common theme in this narrative you will see, and let off some passengers before heading to the train station so the people heading to the Extreme North would be in place for their night train. At this point Mr. Djame and I headed for Mvan (pronounced like the name Vaughn) to catch a Bucavoyage bus for Edea. Once we had purchased our tickets we had to sit around and wait a bit until our bus was ready to go. While we waited people came around peddling various things in her post. As my Aunt Kathi eluded to in her letter, Cameroonians are hustlers. They will hustle anything. Obama flashlights, fake jewelry, sleeves of cookies it doesn’t matter. I don’t think they necessarily do it to hustle you on money, unless you are le blanc in which case they will make as much money off of you as possible, but rather to make some extra cash to feed themselves or their family. Anyways, one guy came around with some soap. Sounds harmless. Except that the soap was called MAN SEX and featured both a naked man and naked woman. Marketing in Cameroon can be quite pornographic apparently.

We finally had our bus called over the loudspeaker, which I understood none of, of course. We made our way to the bus and I saw a girl selling shrimp skewers and my stomach overpowered my mind. I bought one for both of us since Mr. Djame had paid for our taxi ride to the bus station. Slightly cold, but nothing like the “worst chilli dog ever” that Dad, Ben, Tizzle, Lauren, Jared, and I all suffered through at the Browns game. Didn’t vomit on the bus either so I’d say win.

Getting back to my point about the windows. A fight actually broke out on the bus because a lady was mad at the man in front of him for not shutting his window and was proceeding to shut it for him. He was rather unhappy about this fact and kept opening it back up. It was like two little kids on the school bus, except I think I saw the female passenger take a couple of swings at the man. Mr. Djame explained that it was because the woman had a child and that was her reason for wanting the window shut? Why she couldn’t just switch seats so that the child was away from the window I’m not sure. I decided to keep my non-existent parenting tips to myself.

While on the road at another random bus stop with people selling food, a man come on board selling skewers of meat. They looked tasty, but I thought I had already tempted fate with the shrimp skewers and would pass this time. Mr. Djame bought one for each of us. I didn’t want to be rude so I accepted of course. This would be mystery meat #1 (and that my friends is known as foreshadowing). It was pretty tasty, but incredibly spicy and I soon couldn’t tell if I was sweating from the heat or from my mystery meat skewer.. I asked Mr. Djame what the meat was, but he wasn’t sure. As of July 2^nd, I haven’t started howling at the moon or anything so I’ll count that as another win.

We finally hit the city limits after the lights had gone down. It seemed to be pretty alive with lots of people walking around. Much different than Bafia at the same time, but could also be because of the streetlights and consistent electricity. Mr. Djame explained that he wanted to get some food before heading to my new residence and quickly flagged down some motos for us. Now, all the Bafia moto rides have been pretty smooth so far, but once we got off the main road this was like taking an ATV path on a moto. We were slaloming pot holes, gunning it over hills, and banking around corners. Never thought I’d be so happy to wear a moto helmet in my life.

We got to the restaurant, which looked like a little mom and pop shop, and I soon discovered pretty much was. It was an outdoor patio which was pretty much connected to a house. The owner, Chantel, was very welcoming and let me speak my broken French at her without laughing hysterically in my face. She put us at a table and went and got us some beers. Mr. Djame ordered ndole (enn-doh-lay), macaba (mah-kah-ba), and rice (I don’t think you need me to pronounce that one). Ndole is kind of like a cream of spinach type dish, with fish. And I should mention that they throw the whole sha-bang-a-bang in there. So each bite was kind of like a cracker jack box, you really didn’t know what your bite was going to contain. It was dangerous, though, because you could go for a big bite and almost end up with a lip piercing you didn’t sign the waiver form for. Macaba is kind of like potatoes, nothing too special there. All in all it was a good meal and definitely needed after about 5 hours of crammed bus rides. After downing two tall beers and filling my stomach we finally headed to my new residence.

Once I unlocked the door I was pretty impressed. The PCV before me had left me a ton of stuff. In the living room, I have a couch, two chairs, four foot stools, a coffee table dealio, a mini-fridge (more on that later), a fan, iron and ironing board, ps2, two more tables, tons of kitchen stuff, various kitchen supplies and tools, two black-and-milds, and probably more I am leaving out. I have three bedrooms, but I think I am converting the smallest into my kitchen because he had his kitchen, and by kitchen I mean bottle of gas and stove top and a kitchen table, in the living room. The other bedroom has a bed frame I just need to buy another mattress. In my room, there’s a loveseat and an air conditioner! Okay, it doesn’t actually cool the room down, but it does oscillate and it blows directly on my bed so I’m not bitching. I also have running water, which I do not take for granted after this last month in Bafia. He also left his lockbox so I don’t have to buy the one I was given in Bafia and lug it to Edea. There was also a sleeping bag and just a lot of random ass stuff that he left behind. It kind of looked like when we moved into our place on Hunter and it looked like the guys had just realized the night before they had to be out, grabbed the essentials, and jetted. But, like I said I’m not complaining because it’s a lot less I have to buy, so thank you very much Greg. 

I took a cold shower, which felt amazing after cleaning up some stuff, and was ready for bed. Saw a giant cockroach in my kitchen cabinet and decided to lay down the law early. I don’t think I’ve killed many cockroaches in the states so my knowledge of American cockroach speed is limited, but this thing was like Usain Bolt. Seriously, sign him up for London 2012. I had to chase him for a couple minutes until I cornered him in the corner (I was going to edit this sentence but I think I like the redundancy better). Sorry little guy, but I had to set a precedent so the other bugs know not to come around le blanc’s house. Plus, I mean you guys live through nukes so I don’t think your fam is going on the endangered species list anytime soon.

June 23, 2011

June 23, 2011

Greetings family, friends, and those of you that didn’t fit into the first two categories from my mosquito net fortress. It is kind of like a chair fort but way more malaria resistant.

So I think my French language proficiency test went pretty well. Could be that the guy was just nice and smiled and nodded a lot as he laughed in his head at my horrible attempt at French. I’m sure I used the wrong tense at times and conjugated some verbs incorrectly, but I just tried to keep talking so I will find out tomorrow whether I advanced to another level or not. As long as I advance from Novice Low, it is an improvement and that’s all you can ask for really. I still don’t see how I will be ready to teach teachers in French in two months, let alone the students I will be teaching in French in model school in two works. Burn that bridge when I come to it I guess.

Sorry if my blog posts have become rather mundane. I realize this is the third consecutive day I’ve written a blog post, but it is therapeutic to put the thoughts from my head to paper (or digital files. I mean it is 2011) and most of the family seems to enjoy hearing about my travels so I will try and update as much as possible, if electricity and Internet connectivity will allow of course. 

So today, after a few of us went to the training house to collect our bi-weekly paycheck (which translates to about $81 in case you were wondering. Before you cringe, realize that that is a pretty substantial amount of money over here and if you think I’m in it for the money you don’t know me too well and you don’t know how PC operates) we headed to the bar to join our colleagues for a round. As we were leaving the training house, we came across some cute little girls named Laticia and Patricia, presumably around the age of 6 or 7. We had seen them at the bar (1. This is an outdoor bar so kids walk up and chat with us all the time. 2. It is perfectly normal here to be walked to the bar by any host brother or sister over the age of 3) talking to other volunteers earlier so I thought they were probably another trainee’s host sisters. They instantly grabbed my hands and started walking along with us. Now, being the kind soul that I am, I couldn’t just shake them off and tell them to get lost. We kept walking along, sang some ABC’s (in French with the help of my fellow trainee Samantha), let them touch my hair (kids are amazed by the difference in textures I guess) and eventually made it to the bar. Of course, my buddy Matt had to take a picture of us approaching. I realize how creepy this would be in America, but if you haven’t discovered folks, this ain’t Amurrica. They finally released their kung-fu grip on my hands when we got to the bar and I started laughing and joking with the other trainees. To my surprise Danielle, another trainee that was walking with us, comes up to me and declares that Patricia (or maybe Laticia, hell if I know they both ended in –icia) just requested that we give her money for our walk to the bar.  This le blanc (white person) ain’t fallin for it sister! Granted, yes, she probably does need the money from my paycheck more than I do, but once you start giving out money word spreads and pretty soon all the Bafian children are asking you for money. It is heartbreaking to decline to kids that probably do need the money, but I also need to survive in this African country and I am sorry but I have to refuse. Luckily, they never came up and asked me, just Danielle. Besides, they would probably just run home with my money, show their parent(s), and the father would take it and go drink on my dime at the bar. Sad but true. Before you tell me how much of a monster I am, I did give a boy 50 CEFA the other day for carrying my giant bag of rice from the supermarche even though I didn’t ask him to carry it on the path to my house. 

Gonna try and get some reading done and crash so I can get up early and get a run in tomorrow. I am currently reading Messenger: The Legacy of Mattie J. T. Stepanek and Heartsongs and Andy Christofferson’s The Peace Corpse: Misadventures in Africa (and some other things in the title I can’t remember).The first is a highly inspiring story about a little boy that struggled with medical problems practically his entire life but still strived to make the world a better place in his short time spent on Earth. The second is about a PCV in Tanzania, Africa and is hilarious so far. Highly recommended from the Cameroonian book club that I am the founder of and only current member so far. KENNY ALERT! (Only TCN will get that reference) It has some pretty raunchy language in it so Grandma Ellie is not allowed to read.

Speaking of which, shout out to Grandma Ellie. Glad Dad printed out my first two blogs so you could read a bit about my adventures. I miss you tremendously every day, but I am trying to do good every day like you instilled in me. I am making a lot of friends over here and can’t wait to make it back to the states and share my stories with you. Shout out to the rest of the fam as well, you guys are in my thoughts daily.

Music keeps me sane over here. With almost 18 GB of music, I can usually find something for me regardless of my mood.

I am going to start making a list of things I could use for those of you that have been asking about care packages. Good news too, I believe I will have a post office at my post, but I will know more about that after this week.

I challenge you all to try and do one good deed tomorrow. You may or may not have the opportunity, but if you do I encourage you to seize the moment. It doesn’t have to be a monumental deed. Just do what you can when you can for a fellow human being. We’re all in this crazy thing called life together people. Okay, I’ll get off my soapbox.

Bonne nuit.

MMM

EDIT: Gonna try and get the Edea site visit blog typed up tonight if possible and post tomorrow. It's gonna be a long one so may not be possible since I have a 30 min presentation due Monday too but gonna try my best. If not look for it next weekend. Editor out.