Homeward bound

I’m gonna stop writing this blog for a little while, although there may a couple other entries as I or Dana think of stuff we’d like to add. Also, I’d like to add photos to the blog, so check in a couple weeks or a month or so if you are interested, but if you don’t see any photos up within a month from now, it’s probably not gonna happen.

We are back in Tucson. Home. Home is where the heat is. It’s hot. Not too hot, but still hot at around 102. Our cats are happy and healthy and the house looks great. The woman who lived here while we were gone took really good care of the place, which we both feel really lucky about. Cameroon already seems a million miles away. When you’re in Cameroon, the US too seems kind of unimaginable. But I know we were there, since there’s kola, some njassang, and a machete all in our room.

Writing this blog has been fun for me. Hopefully it’s been fun for you too. Everything except this last entry has been written without the benefit of any time for editing or secondary reflection. Write and send, quick, hopefully before the electricity goes out or your neighboring e-mailer at the cyber-café kicks out the power cord, repeatedly. So I hope it’s made sense and that I didn’t embarrass myself or Dana too much. This last entry has been written over the course of a couple weeks now, writing a bit, then e-mailing it to myself so I can continue. It just was never quite ready to put on the blog. And now that we’re in Tucson, it has left me a bit of time to go over it and organize. I need to send it today, though, cuz once work starts up again tomorrow, I know teaching, prep, and farming will take up all my time. This blog is kind of a mash of thoughts and impressions. Also, if it seems like I haven’t written anything since the first couple entries, try refreshing the page. Not that this will help anybody since if nothing new has showed up in one and a half months, you ain’t gonna see this either. But tell others so maybe it’ll work.

Starting below, we're back in Cameroon.

This cyber café in Limbé is the first one I’ve seen that has a sign saying that looking at pornography is not allowed and is reason for ending your internet session. It probably has something to do with the fact that it is connected with a youth center.

In Limbé, there is a “white-man” store across from the Botanic Gardens. Any store that has a lot of Western goods here is called a white-man store. In this one, there were lots of of cheap plastic toys, games, and dolls. One in particular caught my eye because it had a big orange sticker on it that said, “Originally $9.99. Now, $1.99”. It was a plastic Hasbro house with a couple people and animal figures. Probably overstock that somehow ended up in this store. The price attached to it here was CFA 12,500, or almost $25.00. $1.99 is about CFA 1,000, but many people here may not know what the exchange rate is. There is such a prevalent belief here that anything that comes from a Western country is better than a Cameroonian or other African product that it just makes you want to scream. That markup seemed particularly bad. I don’t know if an ex-pat or a Cameroonian owns the store. Most of the white-man stores are owned by ex-pats, in which case the owner would know what a cheap product it is and how much he or she is making off the thing. Maybe the same thing happens in the States too, though. I’ve seen African art and products selling for obscene prices in the States that you know would be sold for a fraction of the price in Africa.

If you’ve been reading this, you know that cell phones have in a way changed the landscape of Cameroon. Communities, Mbongo included, now have phone access to the rest of Cameroon and the world that probably would never have happened if they had to wait for the government to install land lines. Before arriving in Cameroon, I wondered how people could afford phones since a phone and annual plan here in the States can easily cost one or three year’s annual salary for many Cameroonians. We found out that phones here are a lot cheaper than what we can get in the states. In the Douala airport, we met a PCV who was leaving early because of her grandpa’s illness, and she said that within the first day of training in Cameroon, PC gave them the option to buy a phone. Every single one of them took the opportunity, and bought their phones for CFA 20,000 + 20,000 in credits - so about 40 bucks for the phone and the equivalent amount of call credits. And I’m sure for more budget conscious Cameroonians, people can find phones for much cheaper than that, and people seem to rarely buy more than 2,000 CFA worth of credits at a time. Most of the phones come from China, Korea, and maybe even Nigeria. All the name brands we are familiar with are represented, like Nokkia, Seemans, Motorula, Soniy, Samsing, Hitachu, Auddiovox etc. One afternoon, I went out for beer and soya with a couple friends in Bamenda, and we ran into a teacher who was in Mbonge when I lived in Mbongo. He remembered me riding my bike through town, but I didn’t know him. He was a really nice guy and had recently returned from a 6 month trip to China visiting a brother who was studying there. Many Cameroonians are now apparently trying to study in China since it is extremely easy to get temporary visas. Anyway, he said that everybody in China has cell phones and that they are extremely cheap, even selling phones in the market by the kilo, which he says came out to about a dollar a piece. “Yes, I’d like a kilo of cell phones please”. Who knows? If a fish told me there was a fire burning on the ocean floor, I would not be able to dispute, since I have never been there.

People also use their cell phones differently here. Unlike in the states, where people can talk for hours on their phones each day, Cameroonians use them for text messaging and short conversations. You can buy a phone and a certain amount of credits and you’re good to go. There are no annual contracts, plans, unlimited weekend, or 300 daytime minutes like we are used to in the States. In Cameroon you pay for every minute you talk, and one company even charges by the second, which is great because you can tell somebody what you need to in 23 seconds and only pay a few cents. Received calls also don’t count as minutes. Many people have cell phones, but most people don’t. There are now “call boxes” everywhere you look it seems. A call box is a plywood box set out on the street, usually with an umbrella for sun and rain, and a person sitting there all day with a cell phone. Invest in a cell phone and youre personal business is up and running. Most places that have an MTN (South African company) or Orange (French?) sign hanging outside have a cell phone that you pay by the minute to use. Most places charge 150 CFA per minute ($.30), but can be up to CFA 200 or as low as CFA 100. Some boxes also charge by 15 second increments. Their sign boards read “0-15 seconds, CFA50. 16-30, CFA75. 31-59, CFA100. 1 minute, CFA150. People don’t fool around with the seconds either. I had many calls that went for 2 minutes, 1 or 2 seconds – 300 francs please. For old PCV used to teleboutiques, they hardly exist anymore. Now, to make phone calls in larger towns, you rarely need to search more than 5 minutes before you find somebody that has a phone.

Our last morning in Cameroon, we were in Limbe and it had been pouring rain since 4 in the morning. We wanted to get a last good Cameroonian breakfast – either puff puff and beans or a spaghetti omelette. We found a place making omelettes, next to an auto repair shop, axles, engines, spare parts scattered all over the place. Because of the rain, there were maybe a dozen men and boys seeking shelter under the omelette guy’s corrugated roof. We and a couple other people were the only ones eating. One guy's comments about the previous night’s match between France and Portugal, and everybody was up and running with a fine argument and discussion about the game long after we finished our omelettes. I got into a discussion with the guy sitting next to me about betting on the horse races in Paris. Incredibly, people all over Cameroon can bet on the day’s races at the Vincennes and other racetracks scattered throughout France. It’s all legit and one remnant of Cameroon’s colonial past. We talked about whether Double Trouble or Incredible Sensation had a better chance of winning the day's race, each horse having a three or four sentence description provided by the PMUC, the French betting agency. A great last breakfast. The omelette was good too.

There were a couple times I particularly missed volunteers that were in Cameroon at the same time as me. The first was on the flight over from France. Dana and I were in the same plane terminal in Paris that we waited in in 1995, then the flight itself felt empty without the excitement, anticipation, and general happiness (and celebration of Martin’s birthday) that went on as we were flying to Cameroon, and Africa, for the first time. We had our first positive experience of Cameroonian camaraderie and lax regulations as all the passengers gathered in the back of the plane and helped themselves to all the food and drink they wanted from the food caddies as the CamAir stewardesses looked on and joined in. The other time was in Bamenda, and thinking about fun we had in that town and at the Peace Corps house. By the way, there are no longer any Peace Corps provincial houses because they said there was too much partying going on. I’m sure nobody in our training group contributed to that reputation in any way, shape, or form. Pretty much every place we went brought some memory or other of Peace Corps and hanging out with other volunteers, which was fun.

The Cameroonian president, Paul Biya, has been in power for 26 years now. I think he is currently the longest serving African head-of-state after Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe. Biya has recently actually begun a crackdown on corruption, and several ministers have apparently been put in prison or shamed due to corruption. These efforts seem to also have tricled down to the gendarmes who were ubiquitous along every single road in Cameroon 10 years ago. It was a rare trip that your car or bus wasn’t stopped, and everybody’s IDs were checked, with a select few, always including the driver, being asked to step off the bus for a “discussion” with the gendarme. The discussion usually ending in a quick money-filled handshake. This stuff still happens all the time, but only for commercial vehicles, and only for the drivers. In the 6 ½ weeks we were in Cameroon, and we did a lot of travelling, we and our fellow passengers were only asked to show our identity cards once. Corruption is still deeply embedded in the Cameroonian power-structure, Biya is no angel, and few people are persuaded by this recent show of corruption intolerance, but it is a definite change from how things were 10 years ago. I also don’t know if the taxi driver’s union would have been able to get away with their show of force against forced “taxes” I mentioned a few blogs back without the current air of semi-official support for anti-corruption measures.

A couple more words about our stay in Mbongo, which for me and I think for Dana was really the central and most important part of the trip. There are a lot of good memories and funny moments, but one highlight was an afternoon when the Bonjaré women’s farming group officially welcomed us. The occasion began at 3 or 4 in the afternoon, a beautiful time of day when the sun is getting lower, the place begins to cool off, and colors become more sharp and change. The group joined together to offer Dana a kabbah, a traditional Cameroonian style of dress, and a sanjah, the traditional Southwestern men's skirt, to me. We danced, sang, drank, gave speeches, discussed and enjoyed the afternoon and evening. Other people from Bonjare, Mbongo, and Boa came and sat with us for as long as they felt like. It was so nice to sit, relax, and enjoy with people I worked and lived with for the two years I was in Mbongo (we sat and I had similar feelings many times with different groups of people over the two week stay). The women in the farming group were always kind and welcoming to me when I lived in Mbongo, and it was great to be with the entire group again. Several women also gave Dana and me plenty of marriage advice and put more pressure on us to have babies ASAP than either of our 3 sets of parents combined. Basically, we can't come back until we have kids in tow for everybody to meet and see. We went to have some dinner at a friend’s house, but were told that the women’s group wanted to escort us back to Mbongo. After eating, we went back to where people were and the 5 or 6 women who stuck it out till the end escorted us back to Mbongo. It was one of those times that you want to last forever. The night was cool, clear, and so beautiful like it can be in the rainforest - quiet but filled with insect night sounds and occasional fireflies. It’s about a 10 minute walk to Mbongo from Bonjare, but this night took longer because we sang as we did a slow dance the entire way back. Life doesn’t get much better than singing and dancing at night with a group of strong women farmers after an afternoon and evening of festivities. We finally made it to our host’s house in Mbongo, danced into and around the parlor a couple times, sat down, and had a last shot of communal afofo before the women’s group called it a night and went back to their homes and families in Bonjaré.

When we left Phoenix, parents hadn’t dropped us off more than 5 minutes before I was on the side of the security area, all my shit out on the table. When my bag first went through, the security dude said “Hey Jim, come here. Do you see what I see?” Shit. What I forget to take out? Not a good way to start the trip. Turned out they thought my camp stove and gas cannister was a bomb, so they made me get rid of it. Bag went through a 2nd time, they got real short with me and tore my bag apart again. Asked me again what I had in my bag. I had no idea. They took off all the straps, looked inside a few times, then one of the guys finally dug his hand into a tight space I didn’t even know existed and he pulled out a paring knife that dropped down in there years ago. I applauded them for their persistence, packed all my things back in and we were on our way. The last thing I bought in Cameroon was a machete (well, a beer technically). We went searching markets in Limbe for the brand my friend thinks is the best one while Dana really really wanted us to get going so we wouldn’t miss our flight. I’ve never seen a wooden handled machete in the States, and I lost the one I originally brought from Cameroon. We finally found one, bought it, got it wrapped up in butcher paper, and stuck it in the outside of my backpack. In the Douala airport we went through the security scan before check in, and this huge machete as long as my bag showed up on the X-ray screen. Luckily I wasn’t a security threat to the guy checking out the X-ray screen, picked up my bag and checked in. Later, while waiting for our flight to come, we noticed that flights leaving for both Swiss and Kenya airlines did thorough bag checks for every single piece of carry-on luggage. SN Brussels, our airline, did the same thing.

We’re in Amsterdam right now, after getting here on Friday afternoon. Our first stop before showering or anything was the hospital. Our hosts here luckily live within walking distance of one of the main hospitals in A’dam. Dana was feeling awful and discouraged because the infections on her ankles, arm and face were just not going away, so that was our first priority to get some information and action about that. Turns out it was a staph infection, and she was able to take her first antibiotics Friday evening. I was in A’dam in 1990 with a couple college friends at X-mas time when everything here was closed except a couple tourist attractions and Jewish stuff. So that’s what we did. Amsterdam has a really interesting Jewish history stretching back to when all the Jews were expelled from Spain and Portugal as part of the Spanish Inquisition. Amsterdam was one of the only places in Europe that accepted Jews, so there's a long history here. It’s a very different city in the summer, and is quaint, beautiful, and also a huge major city. Our friends have bikes so we’ve been able to ride around everywhere which is a lot of fun. The canals lined with trees and centuries old apartment buildings and houses are especially fun to walk and bike along. Since we arrived, my mind has really been here, and not so much in Cameroon. It’s kind of a strange thing that I’m in Cameroon and am totally comfortable there, then I’m here, and Cameroon seems a world away. I haven’t yet gone through any of the culture shock I experienced coming back to the States after PC service. Well, that’s not totally true. I kind of trip out on the touristy street cafes here, mostly filled with white people, with plates full of food, or coffee or beer in front of them. The cafes also seem deathly quiet compared to Cameroonian bars. Off-licenses (bars) in Cameroon are always filled with noise even if there’s only a couple people in them. This is because the music is turned up to 10, or people are discussing, which to our ears often sounds like arguing. Taxis in A’dam are often empty or just one person in them, and they’re friggin’ Mercedes. They are not Toyota Corollas jammed with 8 people. I also missed watching the World Cup finals in Cameroon, since we watched over a dozen matches there, from day 1 until the semi-finals. We watched the finals last night at a friend of our friend’s apartment, and my Pigin commentary just didn’t hold up to the original one people would be having in Cameroon.

The world cup finals last night were really amazing, with constant back and forthing, amazing shots, great saves, and heaped with excitement. Probably the most exciting match of the tournament for me. Everybody watched with disbelief when Zidane pulled his head-butting stunt. It seemed to put a pall over everybody’s enthusiasm for the match. Watching the French coach and one of the players put their silver medals straight in their pockets was sad, as well as knowing Zidane was not up on the podium with his team at a time that should have been the culmination of his career. Oh well. We watched the match in Amsterdam, and it was fun to hear the Italian fans yelling and singing through the streets after the match.

Our friends live on a pedestrian street with a playground taking up most of the street, and the Yo-Yo Gallery/Coffeeshop on the corner. Families enjoy the playground while others sit in the outside patio of the Yo-Yo enjoying a coffee and a joint. There are over 200 coffeeshops of all sizes, shapes, colors, and clientele throughout Amsterdam where you can buy hash, weed, non-alcoholic drinks (a minority of them have liquor licenses), and food. There are hundreds more scattered throughout the Netherlands. The Yo-Yo is painted bright yellow, with art exhibits, huge windows letting in light and looking out on the playground, newspapers and games scattered around on the tables. It looks like a nice, well-used coffee shop near any college campus in the States. It’s funny and a trip to see the Dutch sensibility with a place openly selling and consuming something so controlled and illegal in the States right next to a playground! I’m sure there are zoning laws here, but coffeeshops are in the city center, main streets, side streets, and residential areas. There is also probably a temperance community in Holland, but they don’t seem to keep the coffeeshops away from at least one playground.

On the train from Brussels to Amsterdam (our flight from Cameroon was to Brussels), I saw this American dude, all buffed out wearing a tank top. After Cameroon, where people are naturally buff due to all the farm work and other manual labor, this guy looked weird and out of proportion. I looked at his hands and you could tell they were soft. When I was in Cameroon as a PCV, farmers were always grabbing my hands to feel for calluses. They would not be impressed by this guy’s muscles.

Like I said at the start of this blog, we’re in Tucson. It’s Sunday morning here and I’ll be off to work at 7am tomorrow morning. The summer rains have started and I look forward to planting at the College garden, as well as in our backyard. It’s kind of weird being home. Like we never left in a way, but also knowing that we just had this great trip back to Cameroon. I think I’m having a little bit of post-trip depression - withdrawal from palm oil, palm wine, deep fried foods, crowds of people, markets, talking pidgin, uncomfortable taxis, warm beer, mangos and other fresh amazing fruit, makossa music, grilled corn, plums, and yams, rain forest, colorful cloth, and in general the daily interactions with people everywhere all the time that can drive you crazy or make life a joy to live.

Overall, a really positive trip, mostly visiting with people I knew as a volunteer, reacquainting, picking up where things left off. I think for all of us it felt like a bonus since when I left, we didn’t think we’d ever see each other again. The first time I left Mbongo, I was a wreck. It is emotional and sad leaving people you care about and that you’ve spent two years of your life with. This time, I just felt happy that things went so well, and a little sad, but I had a pretty strong feeling that I will have the chance to go back to Cameroon and Mbongo again. It might not happen for another 20 years, but it will happen. I felt similar things when we left Cameroon last week. On the one hand, I was ready to leave and get on with our lives in Tucson. I was satisfied and happy with what we’d done and people we’d seen. We’d been able to spend good chunks of time with several friends in different places throughout Cameroon. I was also sad to be leaving a place that I really enjoy being, like the withdrawal I mentioned above. It's also starting to hit home that people are so far away, and that even now with e-mail and phone, our lives will be separate and it will be a long long time before we get a chance to see again. Anyway, it does feel nice to be home, and I look forward to whatever comes up in this next period of life. It’ll be a good one.

I never did re-learn how to play James Bond. I hope my nieces can teach me next time I see them. Rachel, Amy, Allison???

Dana's Malaria Part II

We’re in amsterdam now and I’m mostly recovered from my staph infection (started on my ankle with some infected mosquito bites and spread to my chin, nose, and hairline). Lets just say, Cameroon has been very generous to me. Antibiotics rock – never thought I would say that – yet another reason to love cheese. Amsterdam is great, it’s been fantastic being here, eating salad and having a comfortable place to rest, heal and recoup. I’m looking forward to coming home.

So, here’s the rest of my malaria story:
I went into the doctors office, sat down at his desk, said hello and then waited for what seemed like five minutes for him to take a ruler and make straight collums in his patient log book. He made a column for the Date, Name, Place, Ailment, Diagonis . . . He didn’t say anything to me the entire time and I think I was kind of stunned because it seemed so silly to me that this doctor was painstakingly taking time to use a ruler to make lines in a book it was, like, So 7th grade. But then again, he didn’t have an administratitve staff and nurses to make the lines for him so I guess it makes sense. Once he had his columns made to his satisfaction (he erased twice), he asked me what my trouble was. I told him about my fever and other symptoms, showed him my fever log. He said, “well, the diagnosis is clear, simple malaria, but to be certain, lets take a test.” He asked me if I had allergies and then wrote everything in my 100 CFA book, my diagnosis, what test i needed, and the treatment should the test prove positive. He showed me a doctors sample of the drug he proscribed, and told me I could get it at a pharmacy or I could by the “not for sale” sample for 4,000 CFA. Hey, even doctors gotta make a little extra cash – at least it’s direct.

He sent me to get my blood test and then come back to show him the results. So I walked to the lab – big open room, crowded with people, various lab equiptment and two cashiers with floresent bill readers to detect counterfits. I paid 7,000 CFA for the malaria test, then was directed to sit on the bench with a bunch of other people to wait for my turn. I have to admit, this is really the only part that freaked me out. Anything with blood and needles, especilly around a bunch of other sick people with who knows what illnesses was my one “african nightmare”. I had clean needles with me just incase, but it turned out that when they called me and I went to sit in the “draw your blood chair” they had a canister of packaged clean needles. I paid 100 CFA for my needle and watched the nurse like a hawk. I was so focused on making sure nothing contaminated touched me that it was kind of like an out of body experience, I’m not sure if I’ve ever concentrated so hard. The nurse took out a clean packaged needle, washed her hands with an anticeptic, washed my arm with anticeptic, put a tournocate around my arm and jamed the needle into my vein. Not surprising, not much blood came out because if felt and looked like she had stuck th needle straight into my arm at a 90 degree angle. Plus I was probably dehydrated. This however was no deterint. She asked her assistant for a clean vile (like the old fashioned kind that’s just like a small test tube with no fancy rubber top) – I watched him open the clean vile, give it to the nurse. She pulled out the needle, and held the vile a half a inch from my newly poked hole and just let the blood squirt in. It was like some cool horror movie special effect. Now that’s efficency. But, it wasn’t enough and she unfortunately had to poke me again. The second time proved more sucessful and I was on my way to wait for the results. For two weeks I had the most amazing brusies on my arm, they kinda looked like Ghana and South Africa.

I waited outside on the veranda across from a guy who was crashed out sleeping on the bench. Paul showed up with extended visas, I filled him in, he filled me in and we both fell asleep on the bench. When my results were ready, about 45 minutes later, we went back to the doctors office. Having learned my lesson I didn’t even bother sitting down with then 15 other patients who were waiting to see the doctor. I stood up by the door so I could quickly go in, show him my results and be on my way. When in Rome. But as time went on the young boy in a suit (maybe 10 years old) that was with his mom who was “next” caught on to my tactics and he stood up too. When the door opened and the patient came out, both of us darted for the door. He was a little quicker and got in front of me and tried to close the door behind him, but I was bigger and I kept the door open, and walked in behind him. Here I was edging a 10 year old kid out of line. It was worth it because the doctor told us to come in and asked the kid to wait. He stood in the middle of the room and waited like a statue, never moved. The doctor looked at my results, said, yep I had malaria, to start to medication and come back thursday for a check up. When we came back thursday we had a nice conversation with him about becoming a doctor in Cameroon. He said he was hoping to go to the US or Euroupe to study surgery. He asked us if blacks can do surgery in the US.

So, that was my cameronian health care adventure – three days of malaria, drugs, resting and cabbage and I was mostly better but had some pretty intense fatigue and dizziness for about 5 days after from the medication. Overall not so bad as malaria goes.

Dana's thought dem Part one

Well, Paul seems to be having so much fun that I’m going to try my hands at this blogging business. I’ve been storing up some thoughts to share now that my
head has stopped it’s “ton ton” action from large quantities of melfequine.

So, yeah! I’m feeling much better mostly normal though still a bit low energy after my bout with malaria. It was an interesting experience and interesting glimpse into
health care here in Cameroon. Today we went to Limbe primate sanctuary, all animals that were rescued from one awful situation or another – mother killed hunting, kept as pets in a ridiciously small cage, sold for bush meat. It is simultaneously devestating to see these amazing animals out of the wild, hopeful that they get to live a decent life with others of their kind and in a pretty nice facility and facinating to watch them. It is completely different watching gorillas or chimps in large groups (15 gorillas and about 28 chimps of different ages) than the one or two that we tend to have in american zoos. To watch them interact with each other as a group, run across their large enclosure on two legs, climb trees was completely amazing. Wow.

It is our last day here, before we head to Europe, I’m ready to go, but I surely will miss somethings and it has been a fantastic adventure – pretty much everything I could have hoped for (minus elephants – but the gorrillas today more than made up for that!). The people have been so warm and welcoming its overwhelming.

Here’s a short list of things that I will miss:
Pidgen
Really good ripe bananas (and a dozen other fruit)
Open time to hangout
Public urination (handy when you really gotta go)
People singing and dancing spontanously
Sellers walking on the street with peanuts, bananans and anything else you could want (or not want)
Visible life on the streets
Open markets
Lovely colorful cloth
People carring things on thier heads

Hears a short list of thing that I will be happy to leave:
Crazy, crazy, crazy drivers on bad, bad, bad roads
Paul’s obsession with puff puff and beans
Throwing trash on the ground
Malarial mosquitos
Humidity and cuts that don’t heal
Kids selling anything to eat and pay for school - including cigarettes

So thought I’d share a little of my malaria experience to give you a little glimpse into Cameroonian health care system. So, here’s Part One of what happened – I’ll write Part two from Amsterdam.

The fever couldn’t have come at a better time, 1:00am on a Monday morning. This ment that we could chart my temperature all morning until the general hospital
opened. After taking a taxi to the state run hospital, I went to the consulation room to meet with nurse who then refers you where ever you need to go. It actually
appeared to be a relatively efficenent system. I waited in line with everyone else, but I’m also pretty sure I was given quicker service as the sickly white woman. I had a little bit of a nervous breakdown while waiting to consult because I felt like shit and in order to consult I had to have a “book” for the nurse to write in. The nurse sells these little school notebooks for 100 CFA if you forgot yours or you don’t
have one but because the hospital just opened, no one had any change for my 1000 or 5000 or 10,000 CFA notes (my only money since Paul was at the emigration office
trying to get our visa extended). The notebook is your health record that the doctors write everything down in. You keep it rather than the doctor. They write
down everything – your ailment, their diagnosis, the prescprition if any, and any follow up you must do. This I thought was very smart and made me wish that I
had my own personal “health record book” in the states – where it frustrates me that I never know exactly what they are writing down and man what a pain when you need to change doctors or move to a different state. I think this may be my start.

So, the nurse wouldn’t see me until I could buy the book which would mean I would have to wander around to all the other sick people trying to find someone with
change. Which if you’ve been here you know is difficult because no one except gas stations seems to ever have change, I secretly suspect people hord their small change because they don’t want to be stuck in the same situation. I really wanted to say “Damn it can’t you see I’m sick with malaria and you want to argue with me
over a f**cking 20 cent notebook!” But I couldn’t think of how to say this in Pidgen so I more calmly suggested that we consult and I then I will come back
and give him the 100 CFA when my husband arrives or I pay other fees that would give me change. This, and some tears, jerked his heart strings and I consulted (violins please).

The consultation took about 3 minutes. I showed him the fever chart, I
told him I thought I had malaria, I suggested I take a test and see a doctor. He wrote all of this down in my 100 CFA notebook, weighed me, then sent me down the
hall to pay my 600 CFA (about $1.20 doctor fee) and to another building to see the doctor. Turned out the “fee payment office” also had no change. This woman, unlike the nurse was not sympathic to my plight and I quickly realized I couldn’t see the doctor until I paid the fee. Having been up all night feverish, I was not at my sharpest problem solving so I did the only reasonable thing I could think to do, I sat down on the bench and choked back tears until I could think of the next step. A kind woman next to me took pity on me, gave me change for my 1000 and I was on my way to wait for the doctor (violins again).

I went to the concrete building with the doctors offices – only the cleaning lady. I showed her the doctors name in my 100 CFA book and she said he'd been on call all night and would be in late, I should just sit and wait. So, that’s what I did for about an hour and a half. More patients came to sit next to me, and then eventually the young doctor came in his street clothes, opened his office and shut the door. Mmmm, now what? I was clearly the first person there, but a teenage kid jumped up opened the office door and quickly shut it behind him. I’m a quick learner and so I stood up and waited by the door for the kid to come out so that I could be next – que order is not nessisarily culturally universal. When the door opened I entered, sat down, gave the Dr. my 100 CFA book and told him my problem.

The present obvious

I am writing a blog entry.

There is a pidgin tense that is used all the time here that is really great. I don’t know if it has a name, but I like to call it the present obvious. I don’t really know anything about tenses. I can use them but don’t know what they’re called or anything. I failed my French class and never wrote well because tenses suck. But I love the present obvious. When you walk into a room, you say “I dey”, or for emphasis “I dey-oh!” (I am here). If somebody is eating in the room you just walked into, you can ask them “you di chop?” and they’ll answer, “yes”. Or if they beat you to the punch, they’ll tell you, “I di chop”. They aren’t hiding the big plate of food in front of them. It’s pretty obvious. Hence the name present obvious. When you arrive somewhere, you can also say “I don come” (a different way to say “I am here”). If you come up to people drinking palm wine or beer, they often will tell you, “We di enjoy” or “We dey for enjoyment”. Or you can ask them “Wuna dey for enjoyment?”, to which they will reply “Yes, we di enjoy”. You can ask a question about anything you see somebody doing, or people will tell you they are doing something right in front of you. I dunno. At first it seems kind of silly or redundant. After a while, it starts to make sense and I wish we had an equivalent in English. It’s the acknowledgement thing. Having something to say to somebody, even if there isn’t really much to say (read the bit about ashia below.) In English (in the US at least), it seems we are caught a lot of times without anything to say even though we want to say something. I mean, when I was a wilderness counselor at Camp Tawonga, it would’ve been great to say to some kid, “you di puke?” (in pidgin it’s vomit).

We are in Limbe, a nice seaside town that I was lucky enough to spend a good chunk of time during my Peace Corps service. We will leave Cameroon on Thursday the 7th - a week earlier than planned - and go visit with a friend from grad school who lives in Amsterdam. But we'll still be coming back to the States as originally planned, on Bastille Day, July 14th. Why the early departure? In part, because Dana got malaria last week, and we're a bit tired of traveling and Dana really really really wants some fresh vegetables. Fresh veggies were easy to get and prepare as a PCV. There is tons of great fresh produce here. But as a tourist without a kitchen to prepare veggies in ways that turn veggies into good comfort food, cooked Cameroon style, they end up being very different. Lots of palm or peanut oil and frying pretty much sums it up. Good stuff, but not if you're hankering for a fresh salad. I remember during Peace Corps training being over at a friend’s house for dinner and they prepared us spaghetti as a special treat. We watched them cook the tomato sauce for our spaghetti – a couple cups of palm oil heated till smoking, put in two cans of tomato paste, spices, sliced onion, and voila, spaghetti marinara.

Malaria. Yikes. I should say quickly that Dana recovered very quickly after starting her treatment less than 24 hours after the first fever spike. Now, she is feeling much better, although still a bit weak and dealing with some dizzying side-effects of the anti-malaria drugs. I won't say anything more about it and let her tell what she wants about the experience. But I want to emphasize she is doing OK. If you’re gonna get Malaria, Bamenda is as good a place as any to get it. It has relatively good medical facilities, and for the non-malarial, lots of food to eat, markets to browse, and internet cafes to pass the time in. In a way, it’s much better to get malaria here than in the States, where even seasoned professional doctors have probably never seen the disease. It’s old hat here, hospitals have the latest anti-malarials and can diagnose the 4 main strains in a malarial minute. I remember my Mbongo predecessor telling us about getting malaria while he was in his grad program in Ohio, and insisting he had malaria but the doctors not believing it. Once you’ve had it, you know when you have it again. It’s a familiar feeling and cycle you go through.

It's kind of funny telling people here that you have malaria. People usually reply with a simple "Ashia". Ashia is a wonderful pigin word that covers almost every aspect of sympathy, pity, empathy, and comfort. You see an old man or woman carrying a huge load of firewood on their head while you're drinking palm wine, and you can say "ashia", and they’ll respond “Oh”. You can say it to just about anybody who is doing any kind of work or having something unpleasant happen, from something as simple as a little kid learning to walk who falls on his butt, to somebody who cut off their finger with a machete . . . to somebody who has malaria. It's a great word because it acknowledges somebody else's hard work, suffering, or discomfort in a non-condescending, empathetic way. In the US, we don't have any equivalent. Just saying "I'm sorry" sounds kind of lame. “Sucks to be you” would probably be the best translation, but that usually isn’t appreciated very much by the suck-ee, as is way off of the meaning and intent of ashia. In the US, if you see somebody who has had something happen to them, we often feel uncomfortable because there is no good empathetic word to say, so we don't say anything. If I am uncomfortable, sick, bleeding, puking, potching, weeding etc. and people say ashia to me, even if they are drinking palm wine and I’m not, I do appreciate it. It’s the acknowledgement thing mentioned above. Back to malaria. People here are vastly unimpressed by malaria because pretty much everybody has it at some time or another in their lives, and in many cases, several times. It is unfortunately a part of life here for most people.

During our stay in Bamenda, we stayed at the Skyline Hotel, a venerable, slightly run down, European-feeling hotel built somewhere in the 70s, with a million dollar view on the cliff’s edge looking out over Bamenda and the surrounding mountains. I stayed there a couple times as a volunteer and always enjoyed it. This time, we got a discount because of a dispute with Sonel, the Cameroonian utility company, caused Sonel to turn off their lights. Shitty during the world cup when you can do a booming business if you have good reception and cold beer. They told us the lights have been out for a couple weeks, but should be back on in the next couple days. When we got there, it seemed a lot more run-down than I remembered it. Dana was underwhelmed, which disappointed me because I remembered it being really nice. I had the Douala thing going on I mentioned in one of the first blogs. Is it really more run down than I remember, or am I still too fresh from the US? One night when a taxi was taking me home, people were discussing the legal problems of the Skyline, to which I replied, “I guess the lights have been off for a couple weeks but they should be on soon”. One of the passengers basically said, “Are you kidding? They haven’t had electricity for years!”. Not very good for business over the long haul, and confirmed my run-down impression. We had to pay promptly every day so they could buy petrol for the generator so we could have 3 hours of electricity each evening. In the 6 nights of staying there, they were maybe 2 other people that spent a night, and a small handful of “quickies” during the day, when you could see. Other than that, we had the place to ourselves.

Happy 4th of July. We found pizza and a hamburger to eat tonight. Not so good, but it was a bit of comfort food. We remembered about the national holiday after we ate.

Pigin is cool

I went out for beer and soya (grilled meat) yesterday with a friend here in Bamenda. We know each other when he was a teacher in Mbongo and I was a volunteer. We haven’t seen each other for 9 years, and he orders the first round of beer. He gets 33 Export for him, a Castel for his wife, and a Mutzig for me without asking me what I wanted. He just remembered from when we were together what beer I drank. People in Mbongo remembered too. It’s pretty funny. Cameroon beer drinkers are a marketers wet dream since people are so particular about which beer they drink. People will only very grudgingly drink a beer that is not “theirs”. This one gives headaches, that one makes the belly run, the other tastes bad, and one isn’t strong enough or is too strong. It seems one of the most important qualities of a beer is that you can drink the most of it with the least amount of side effects. I just like the taste of Mutzig.

Pigin is a great language. You can’t really describe it without hearing it, and when I get back, no matter how much you ask me to talk, it doesn’t come close to how Cameroonians talk it. It’s filled with so many words and expressions that are unique and often hard to understand. These are some good pigin words that I’ve heard that I’d forgotten about, spelled like I hear them.
Wyoh – like a con artist or scam. Dat man di make wiyo.
Langah – to want or be jealous. I di langah dat man ee njumbah.
Njumbah – girlfriend
Coni – fake or façade, not on the up and up, to fool. Mommy whey di sell okrikah di alays make coni.
Okrikah – you know all the used clothing you donate to Salvation Army? Much of it ends up in bales that are opened up in Bamenda, Kumba, Mokolo etc. markets that are then sold.
Congossa – gossip
And there are so many more. Anybody have any favorites? Add them to the comments.

I used a good Pigin expression a lot toward the end of my stay in Mbongo (thanks Babanki Tungoh man) when people asked me if we would ever see each other again. The obvious answer was “we dey like njangah and pepe, and go meetup fo pot soup.” Everybody understands this right away. Which means we’re like shrimp and hot pepper. Make sense? Shrimp and hot pepper always are eventually cooked together in the same pot to make hot pepper soup. So, it basically means, yes, we’ll meet again. I have no idea when, but it’ll happen. And generally, people just have a great turn of phrase to express things. I was drinking palm wine one morning and conversation in local drinking places usually ranges from here to there and everywhere else. This one morning we all went to look at a small plantain garden and all learned about the different varieties, how to plant, diseases and everything. Perfect conversation for an ag teacher. Anyway, the conversation turned to bowel movements (I didn’t start it), and this one guy said that when he ate this one kind of “chop (food) made me so my shit was very lively”. I thought that there wasn’t really a better way of expressing it. It conjured up all kinds of active and familiar thoughts that we’ve all experienced at some time. Accurate and discreet. I know we’ve made several bowel references. It really hardly comes up in conversation here, but when it does, it’s just really funny, so I write about it. It’s not something you hear strangers talk about in the states.

I’m not sure what I think about having internet here. It’s great, and I’m sure it would’ve been a welcome form of communication during my Peace Corps service, but I’m glad we didn’t have it while we were here. It is a wonderful thing for Cameroonians, though. Internet and phone have really made accurate and timely communication possible. Before them, phones were only in the larger towns, and very expensive. Now, cell service has reached pretty much every corner of Cameroon, and while it’s still relatively expensive for people, you can at least call to make visiting arrangements, or if there is a family emergency. Also, for people in towns, e-mail is also a cheaper and more effective way to communicate, as well as access information outside of Cameroon, land of libraries with 50 books from 30 years ago. For me, as a PCV, before leaving for Cameroon, I didn’t know what the internet was. I don’t think it even really had a name. I used it once to look at the CIA website to learn about Cameroon. While we were here, it seemed like every other Newsweek cover was talking about the Information Superhighway. I was like, “what the fuck is that?” It didn’t make any sense to me but it seemed like it was important to somebody over there in America. Then, I noticed that the Sunday funnies my parents faithfully sent to me started to have what I later learned was an e-mail address. Doonsbury was the first one to have it. By the time I left, all of them had their little e-mail address on the strip. When I got back to the States, everybody was like “what’s your e-mail address?” I was like “I don’t know. What’s an e-mail address?” “It’s the Internet, man, get with it.” OK. So I got my hotmail account and there was no looking back. Everybody said it (e-mail and internet) was easy which kind of made me mad, because it wasn’t. And it isn’t. I’ve worked with people who have never used a computer, or only on a very basic level, and the amount of computer and keyboard knowledge and visual interpretation you need to know is kind of overwhelming and difficult. We just take it for granted, like the telephone and ice cubes. Once you get the hang of it, like anything else, it is easy. But till you get the hang of it . . . Anyway, the internet cafes here are always packed, and many offer intro to internet and computer classes. It’s good to see so many people learning and using it to their advantage. The one I’m at now costs CFA 300 for an hour, or about 60 cents. So it’s relatively affordable. It’s hard to imagine life now without internet and e-mail, and it’s something that we’ll be using until the day we die. And it was kind of neat to be in Cameroon during that brief moment in history when we left it was Before Internet, and when we came back, it was all sides.

Being in Mbongo, as I’ve already talked about, was a lot of fun. Before we went, I had not idea what people’s expectations would be of us, if there would be hard-selling to bring new development projects or leave money, or just in general how people would react. I also felt not really guilty, but very conscious of how much we spent to be in Cameroon to visit compared to how much money people make in a year. Pretty much across the board, people just seemed appreciative and happy that we thought it was important enough to visit. The chief’s counsel of Bonjare summed it up the best of what several other people also expressed, was that people thought it showed love in our hearts that we would spend so much money to visit rather than spend it on other things. And it was left at that. It was I thought a very generous, kind - and true - interpretation of our visit. That and palm wine (puff puff and beans, plums, fufu corn and cabbage, pineapples etc).

Food and stuff

Well, no more African teams in the World Cup. The people we were watching with figured out that the Ghanian team lost because they eat too much rich and not enough fufu corn, and achu, a NW Province specialty. It’s this kind of match-side philosophizing that makes watching here so much fun, and in general, sitting around listening and talking with people.

I was thinking about the Mback in Mbongo entry, and the heightened sense of awareness I was talking about was due to hunger and beer. Where was I? The road to the weekly market still is in really bad shape pretty much the whole rainy season. In the dry season it’s pretty good. The farm I had when I was in Mbongo has now been planted in oil palms that are 15 feet tall. A lot of people still called me John, who was my predecessor in Mbongo. When I first arrived there in 1996, pretty much everybody called me John for the first six months. I hated it, but eventually came to accept it. You have to because some people called me John for the entire two years. It’s much better than “white man” or just “White”. John. Paul. We’re both apostles. It doesn’t matter at all anymore.

When you walk around, especially it seems like in crowded market situations, people just yell at you “White! Helooo! White! Look here!” etc. There’s also this syrupy high sing-song voice that some people use that just makes your skin crawl. It’s really annoying. Some are more obnoxious than others, not stopping, while others just yell “white man” or the equivalent in the local language and leave it at that. It is fun, however, yelling “Black” right back at people. People usually think that’s pretty hilarious, and leave you alone afterwards. I realized that living here for two years you just learn to accept the harassment. You can’t get too angry about it or else your time here will just be one big anger-fest. Since we got here, though, Dana has been pondering exactly why people feel the need to yell our skin color at us. It’s a good question, and one I just kind of took for granted. Because we’re different and stand out? Because we’re perceived as rich? (which in Cameroon is true comparatively. One thing I did sometimes as a PCV but stopped doing, and didn’t have much patience for other PCVs who did this was “cry poor” when people asked for money. Even with our monthly salaries of CFA 135,000 as single people with nobody to support, we were still rich. On the other hand, we aren't the endless money pots people may think we are.) But still, it’s just bad fashion, but one that is completely acceptable here. I know Asian-American PCV’s had to put up with people karate chopping and yelling “ching-chang” and other obnoxious stuff. There’s not much you can do about it because it’s mostly so anonymous from somebody far away and you’re moving – walking somewhere, in a taxi, a bus. A couple times I’ve gone up to a food seller or other vendor this trip ready to buy something from them and as I walk up I can hear them say “White” to me. They just lost my business. It’s just 20 cents or a dollar, but still. It just seems like a passive thing, not filled with hate or aggression like if somebody in the US yells at a black or Hispanic or gay or Asian person. But it still doesn’t really make it any more pleasant.

Carl, I’ve been chopping plums left and right. I had some really good ones yesterday at Sam Soya.

When we first arrived in Douala, and also traveled on the train between Ngaoundere and Yaounde, people mostly carry their luggage on their heads. I didn’t even notice it. Dana thought it was funny because suitcases with wheels and pull handles are on heads just the same as bags of produce or other goods in bags without handles. If you have that skill, it makes it easier and more sense to maneuver through crowds. But it’s not a very common way to carry things in, say, Fiesta Mall or the Phoenix airport.

One of the coolest things we’ve seen here in Cameroon was in the Extreme North after a heavy rain. It had only rained a tiny bit apparently before we arrived, and on the road between Maroua and Mokolo, it had rained heavily the night before. We were going to the Mokolo market that day and as we passed villages and people’s fields, everybody was out planting. A digging stick to make a small hole, drop in seeds. Make a hole, drop in seeds. Everybody planting millet mostly, which is needed for people’s survival. I talked with a man who has a salaried job at a health center, and Dana asked if he had a farm. He replied, “What will my family eat? Of course we have a farm.” I also had forgotten how close to no food the majority of people here live. It’s easy to forget looking at the markets here that are so overflowing with food for sale. But it’s expensive, and most people can’t afford to have much variety in their diet. Even passing at high speed, just seeing the number of people out and knowing what they were doing felt very grounding to me, a farmer wanna be. Without romanticizing it, it is just such a human activity that is mostly lost from the American landscape. Seeing individuals and whole extended families actually farming, and the complex pattern of hundreds of people’s fields.

Even though there can be a lot of food available in the markets, if you compare it to the varieties of different foods we have in the States, it is still pretty limited. Well, the food products we have in the States is overwhelming, since I’ve heard a statistic somewhere that 80% of our processed foods is corn, soy, or wheat (or something like that. Anybody know that statistic?). We have 80 different sodas all with different flavors, colors, and brands, but they all have the same shit. Artificial flavorings, colorings, carbonated water, and corn syrup. Here, there is a huge diversity of food and ways to prepare it (if you take Cameroon as a whole), but on a daily basis, people seem to mostly be able to afford a fairly limited diet. In different places, food choices can be completely different. Some places in the country have more varieties of fruits, veggies, grain, and meat, while others have much less. Every part has it’s specialty, though. Onions, millet, sorghum, rice, in the Xtreme North, pineapples, cassava, egussi, plantains in the Southwest, corn, beans, market vegetables in the Northwest. Of course there are tons of other foods I didn’t mention and lots of crossover between different regions. There are also lots of wild harvested seasonal and regional foods that you can only see at certain times of the year. It’s fascinating to see what kinds of foods and how food is transported around the country, as well as how the price changes. Avocado for CFA 500 in the Xtreme North sells for CFA 50 in the NW.

So much of American life is so much inside, in gated communities. Private. Individual. Even during public events and activities – parades, sporting events, grocery shopping, bars – people apologize if you barely touch the outside of another person’s thick leather shoe. Personal space is sacrosanct. Here, a woman won’t hesitate to give you her baby when she needs a free hand to buy something outside of the taxi window. People are used to being in each other’s space. You have to be to be stuffed inside the taxis and other public transport. It can drive you crazy coming from the US, and it did when I was here. But I also grew to really appreciate it. So there are just some really human moments here that just kind of blow your mind coming from the States. Like sitting on the top of a small mountain and suddenly becoming aware of the sound of people, hundreds if not thousands of people, for kilometers around you all pounding millet in mortar and pestles preparing the evening meal. Seeing all the people outside planting was a similar moment for me. In Tucson or Davis or Tempe, I’ve never gotten goosebumps sitting in a park listing to hundreds of people cooking spaghetti or making scramble eggs all at the same time. Although, I do get good feelings on beautiful spring or summer evenings when you see and smell BBQ fires coming up from everybody’s backyards.

People sometimes come onto big greyhound style busses you take between some of the bigger cities to sell stuff. Asian medicine and other health products are especially popular. This one guy was selling the latest de-worming medicine (vermiquin or something like that) with particularly graphic descriptions. I learned however, all six types of worm his produce helps get rid of. Hook worm, tape worm, round worm, filaria worm, flat worm, and one other I can’t remember. One worm in particular makes you “scratch scratch scratch your anus until blood di kommot”. Then he pulled out pictures to back up his claims. One poor guy had excema (his medicine was a cure-all) all over his butt that we were told made a map of Africa. The salesman pointed out Malawi, Cameroon, Senegal, Egypt, and Central African Republic. Thanks, dude.

Later the same trip, a guy climbed on the bus to sell “Super-Clean”. He rubbed it on the bus ceiling, which was that tight pile carpeting, and it became much lighter and cleaner. Dana pointed out that the ceiling was covered with these clean spots, so it wasn’t this guy’s first time on the bus selling his product. Then, he said Super-Clean was good for cleaning jewelry. He went around the bus collecting people’s chains and bracelets and put it in a cup of Super-Clean. He shook it around and said, “I am shake-ing, and the duh-tee is kommot-ing”. The whole bus just cracked up. Sorry, that’ll mostly be funny to pigin speakers. The mixture of grammar and pigin and just the way it sounds was just hilarious. He had the entire bus in the palm of his hand, asking who had or had not used Super-Clean, with people finishing his sentences in a way that many people make speeches here. When he finally got to selling the stuff “for CFA 2,000, but at the special promotional price of CFA 500”, they were gone before you could say “scratch scratch scratch your anus”.

When we left Mbongo, we stopped in Mbonge to visit with a farmer I worked with a lot as a volunteer. We went to the bar with him and some friends to have a beer while waiting for transport the rest of the way to Kumba. There was one small old man sitting in the bar sipping on a small Guiness, and the 7 of us sat down at the same table. He just kept on doing his thing and didn’t really participate in our conversation, although he did share some interesting history about Mbonge since he’d lived there almost his entire life. When he finished his beer, he felt moved enough to stand up and give a speech, thanked us for the unexpected and honored company we’d given him, that he enjoyed his beer, and that is was time for him to go home, and he left. He had such kind and appreciative words, just expressing what he was thinking. It’s something that can be really great here, the speeches. I paid for his beer. It was the least I could do. A tiny small way to repay for all the beer, soda, palm wine, and afofo that was offered me and Dana during our stay in Mbongo.

Well, France and Spain are playing. Gotta go.

Football

My apologies to all you die-hard soccer fans out there. Yesterday’s match I left to watch was England/Ecuador. I just looked over and saw yellow jersies and thought “Brazil”. I don’t think I’ve ever watched as much soccer as I have here, and it’s been great. Especially to watch it surrounded by soccer loving fans. CRTV, Cameroon’s national TV station, is televising every single match – live. Pretty amazing for a competition that doesn’t even include Cameroon’s beloved Indomitable Lions, who were in the end domitabled by Egypt in the qualifying rounds this year. Try to imagine any type of athletic competition that doesn’t include US athletes actually shown on US networks. It wouldn’t happen, and if it did, people wouldn’t watch, so it won’t happen. How many of the World Cup games are televised on US network TV? Only the US matches except maybe the finals. Kind of annoying.

The World Cup is an amazing event and a lot of fun to watch and listen to. Countries get to show all their national color and pride out on the football field and stadium, with thousands and thousands of people in the stands yelling out songs in unison. Some of the matches are kind of boring, and some are incredible exciting, which is true for any game I guess. Mexico/Argentina, Cote d’Ivoire/Holland, Portugal/Holland, and Ghana/USA four good games I watched. Being in Africa, it’s especially fun to watch games with African teams.

People, including myself, are of course bummed and disappointed that their Lions aren’t in the competition, but it’s taken in stride. Although everybody seems to agree that Africa would’ve been much better represented in the Cup if Cameroon and Nigeria were in the competition. Both teams were eliminated due to incredible slim margins – this team beat the other team, that team drew to this team, and each country lost one critical match, even thought they both beat all the African sides that eventually ended up qualifying for the Cup. Since Cameroon isn’t representing, people root for all the other African teams like their own. There is an amazing amount of Pan-African pride that comes out during the World Cup, so people are generally disappointed that African teams didn’t do well this year. Only Ghana advanced to the 2nd round, and Brazil just scored their first goal within the first two minutes, so it doesn’t look good for them. It’s fun to watch here because people here generally love to argue, people know a lot about football, so the bars (off-license) are great places to watch games with everybody arguing and discussing every play, goal, penalty, strategy, and how Cameroon could’ve done better.

The guys next to me are communicating with Anna in Las Vegas right now, using all the internet lingo “I’m waiting to hear from u ok?” Kind of funny sitting here in an internet café in Bamenda, watching two Cameroonian boys talk with some single chick in Las Vegas. She’s cute. I wonder what she’d think if she knew where the people were she’s talking to. I’m sure this happens all the time, all around the world. Dana and I have also seen young guys, all bored-looking, looking at porn. You can’t get too excited when there are 30 other people in the same room all doing their respective thing on the internet. The computers in cafes here are packed together shoulder to shoulder, so it’s easy to see what your neighbor is doing.

I have to go to watch this match. Ghana is looking better. Even the porn boys have their heads turned to watch.

Mback in Mbongo

Sorry about the cheesy title. It just came to me so I decided to edit it.

People have sent e-mails that they have tried to add comments but haven’t been able to. I think I changed it so that anybody can comment. I left a word verification setting thing for people who want to comment on the blog. This is I guess to help prevent random computers adding comments. It is like when you buy concert or event tickets on-line through ticketmaster if you’ve ever done that.

My oldest sister Lori wrote to tell me that she also remembers Phoebe’s toes and was equally impressed by them. She also told me that her kids also play James Bond. I still haven’t learned how to play, even though it was one of my goals upon coming here. I’ll learn it in the next few days so I can compare the two games with what my nieces know.

Maybe you’re wondering why I left out all names. I guess it’s something I learned when writing my master’s thesis, and respecting the identity of people who I didn’t ask if it was OK for me to write about them. I’m not going through the backbending I did for my thesis – the people who have met the people will know who I’m talking about and anybody who lives in the community could figure it out, but since the blog is a public forum, I didn’t want to write as freely about people as if I were writing letters individually to people.

We arrived in Bamenda on Friday afternoon, which was a welcome change from the Southwest. As much as I love it in Mbongo – it’s where I feel most at home in Cameroon – the weather is an acquired taste. Luckily I acquired it or else I would’ve been miserable. It’s a similar thing to loving May in June in the Arizona desert before the rains start. I love that hot hot hot dry heat and cooler evenings during that time of year. But going to Flagstaff or the top of Mt. Lemmon is still a nice relief from the heat. Mbongo is hot and humid pretty much year round. It’s lowland rainforest a few meters above sea level. It was pretty comfortable during our stay because it was cloudy most of the day and rained every day for at least an hour. This helps to cool things down. Still, it was nice to pull into the Skyline Hotel overlooking Bamenda and be in the middle of a cool fog. Almost cool enough for a sweater. Bamenda is the capital of the Northwest Province, and is a green, mountainous part of the country. It looks kind of like the Northern CA coastal range, except with bananas, palm trees, and mangoes. When I first came here, I thought “this reminds me of Mt. Tam or Santa Cruz.” When Erik S., an agro volunteer in the NWP when I was here came to visit me in Berkeley, we drove over to the ocean, and he said, “wow, this really reminds me of Cameroon.” Part of this are the eucalyptus tree forests covering parts of the mountains. Australia’s donation to globalisation.

The trip here was mercifully short at only 7 hours. We took Mondial instead of Ton Ton, and are glad for it. We heard a couple other people on our bus mention that Ton Ton service has gone way down, and even though it’s a bit cheaper, they will never use them again. We obviously have left Mbongo, on Wednesday morning this last week. On our way out, we stopped in Mbonge to visit Mr. A., one of the main farmers John and I worked with. We didn’t know it at the time, but he had moved with his family to Kumba almost a year before, but still makes the 2 or 3 hour trip to Mbonge to maintain his food and cocoa farms.

Going to Mbongo was great. Pretty much everything I hoped it would be. V. met us in Kumba and whisked us away in a nice 4x4 borrowed from a friend, a far cry from the Corollas I took when I was a volunteer. When I was here, the way to make the 3 – 6 hour from Kumba to Mbongo or vice-versa was in Toyota Corollas with 4 passengers in back and 3 in front. Cars wouldn’t leave the taxi parks until the thing was full. Taxi drivers thought this was inefficient, since they won’t leave unless there are 4 in front and 4 in back. This is to make up from lost income they have to pay gendarmes at the many checkpoints between Kumba nad Mbongo, sometimes as many as 8 when I was living here. Luckily, there was only 1 on the day we traveled to Mbongo from Kumba since the taxi drivers union got fed up with it all and burned down all the checkpoints the day before our travel. There’s always something interesting happening here.

But I was talking about going to Mbongo. When we arrived in Mbonge, a town I never really liked as a volunteer but where I spent lots and lots of time, we immediately ran into a couple people that recognized me. We said our hellos and transferred into the local parish priest’s 4x4. Since leaving, my best friend has since become the Catholic Catechist of Mbongo, and when he told the priest in Mbonge of our coming, he offered his help so we could easily make it to Mbongo. A very nice and appreciated gestrure. The drive to Mbongo was fun because everybody knew the priest and was saying hello. We made a short stop in Illoani for a beer, then kept on moving. When we got to Dikome, the last village before Mbongo, I started to feel kind of high, kind of a heightened awareness of the road, bridges and farms I passed so many dozens of times on endless bike rides to and from Mbongo as a volunteer. We passed where we started a native tree nursery, the defunct oil mill, and then turned onto the back road that passes around the CDC camp and football field. Normally, the road you take to get to Mbongo starts at one end of town and passes everybody’s house. I was looking forward to that and seeing all the houses and people, but the spur road to get to town this way has been closed for many years I later found out. It was fine as it was.

We were dropped off at V’s house and whisked inside to chairs and family and an incredible 2 or 3 hours of my life. Permasmile. There was rice, chicken, stew, beer, and afofo in front of us within minutes which we gulped down since we hadn’t eaten anything all day. I dunno. Those first few hours in V’s house I was on an adreniline high and were some of the happiest most intense moments of my life. Seeing all these faces of people that I didn’t think I’d ever see again when I left, coming up to welcome me and Dana. I didn’t really know what Dana was experiencing at the time I was so caught up in seeing everybody. It was kind of overwhelming and amazing. The best were the old women, many of whom I knew the names of, many I just recognized. But they have a great way of coming up to you and giving you a full body hug that just warms your heart. “Ma mami-ehhh! Mr. Paul! Weh! You’re welcome!” The woman in Mbongo are an important and amazing presence in town, but because of age difference, gender, and sometimes language, I didn’t get to know most of them as well people my own age. But I still had lots of good memories of dancing, drinking, and working alongside them. It was especially great to see the retired catechist, who in a letter to V. telling him we were coming, I asked about him specifically hoping he was still alive so we could see again. He is not only still alive, but amazingly strong and vibrant. He was running all over the place wearing a colorful blue hausa gown and matching cap, carrying chairs for people, helping out. I don’t know if it’s respectful, but the best way I can think to describe it is inpiring and cute. I don’t know what old people think about being called cute, it could be kind of condescending, but with Mr. E., seeing him, you just know you want to sit down with him and hang out. His first words to me with a huge smile on his face were “Mr. Paul, I still dey alive-ohh!!!” I could go on and on, but you get the idea. That night we relaxed with people continuing to visit the rest of the day and evening.

The teachers of the local sedondary and high school were preparing for their end of the semester social event which was supposed to start at 6pm. I went over to the bar at around 10:30 hoping to hang out for a while but only 3 people had showed up yet. The principle offered me a beer, which I accepted and hung out there until after midnight, but the gathering still hadn’t started so I went to bed. I heard the music start when I went to sleep, and when I got up at 6 the next morning to the group cheers of “TEA-CHERS, TEA-CHERS, TEA-CHERS”. I got up and joined the drunken event, was offered a beer, but only took a soda. I knew much more beer and afofo were still coming later that day. Made my first speech of the trip after the princple officially introduced me to the group. Only the principle and two other teachers are still in Mbongo from when I was there. Danced some more till 8 or so, then went back to our host family for breakfast.

Welcome to Mbongo.

Carl, the palm wine was sweet-oh!!

One nice thing about being back in Mbongo is seeing the changes, and that in general, the lives of my friends have moved forward and people seemed to be doing all right. Life is still very difficult and people struggle, but things hadn’t seemed to slide backwards for people. 4 or 5 of my better friends were all living with their parents when I left, often their entire family in a single room of their parent’s home. Now, they have built their own houses with zinc roofs, and various stages of completion. But all had moved into better places than they were 9 years ago.

After being there for a few days, I got a grasp on how things had changed since I left. Some of them were obvious, like my friends’ new houses, some were not.

The obvious. Mount Cameroon Project built a big new house at the entrance of town to house visiting MCP people in Mbongo. Currently, the resident nurse is living there. MCP used the house I lived in for a few years after I left, added two rooms to the back, and built a concrete latrine. Once MCP built their new block house, Manyemen Annex Hospital moved an extension to Mbongo, so my old house is now a health center, open every day! Coming from the states, it is still woefully undersupplied, but is still an improvement over before. It has been there for a couple years now. A doctor visits once a month to do minor surgeries. There is also a lab in the new room, (a microscope and hand-cranked centrifuge with places for 2 test tubes), a consultation room (my storage room), office (my room), and infirmary with 6 beds (my living room and kitchen). Mbongo and Bonjare have joined, and if you just arrived, you wouldn’t know they were two separate villages. There is a two story, 5 apartment structure next to the Catholic church that people can rent and where the Father stays on his visits. The Secondary School has added a High School, although the HS is hardly functioning. The forest is also much further away from the village, as a lot more has been cleared for oil palm, cocoa, and people’s subsistence farms. The Scanwater generator and water pump no longer works, but probably half the people have small generators. There were only 2 when I was there. Several people also have TVs. Most local transportation is on motorcycle, which I never saw when I was in Mbongo. The motorcycles and generators I learned are from Korea and China, and are much more affordable than anything that existed and was available 10 years ago. A motorcycle (machine in pigin) costs around $600 and a generator from $100 to $150. There are also cell phones. Only 1 person uses it like a business, where you pay him to make phone calls, but several others have personal phones. Most places in Mbongo receive cell service, with some spots that don’t get good reception. But in all the villages – Boa, Diongo, Bonjare, Bamusso, Dikome, Illoani – you can get cell phone service. No electricity, but you can call America no problem. There is also a new oil mill to replace the defunct one. The old mill was shut down when the local evil man, Mr. L. stole over 1 million CFA of money that was supposed to go to mill upkeep. After this event, Mr. L. has not set foot in Mbongo again.

Less obvious. The Mbongo population is smaller than it was when I was there. Maybe as much of half the population was Nigerian, since wages were actually higer in Cameroon than in Nigeria, and land more available. Mbongo is maybe 60 km from the Nigerian border, so people were flocking across the border for work and other opportunities. These people have mostly left due to tighter Cameroonian immigration policies, and maybe life was harder here than people thought. Nigerians in the SW province, not just in Mbongo, were mostly treated as second class citizens so life could be particularly hard for Nigerians. The ones in Mbongo were mostly Ibibio. Most of the fishermen in the mangrove swamps that stretch from Mbongo far into Nigeria are still Nigerian though. The only Cameroonians you’d see here are government employees. The local market also still only uses Naira, the Nigerian currency. People have started to plant cocoa again. People planted cocoa about 20 years ago, but ripped out their trees when the world cocoa market fell. Now, for several reasons, people see it as a good investment and are planting a lot of cocoa again. Oil palms are also being planted at a faster pace. People struggled to plant these trees 10 years ago, but people’s young palms of 10 years ago have now matured and are producing much more, and everybody seems to be making every effort to plant more. So there is even more palm oil leaving Mbongo than 10 years ago. The mangroves are being cut down at a furious pace by Ibibio fisherman who use the wood to dry fish in massive mat and bamboo smokehouses reminiscent of pictures I’ve seen of smokehouses used by Northwest Native Americans. The mangrove wood is the only wood available to them since hardly any other plant can survive there, except this palm tree that somehow made it to the West Coast of Cameroon from I think Malaysia. Wherever the mangroves are cleared, the soil becomes unstable, and palms are the only plant that can survive. As a result, the mangrove swamps which support a pretty amazing ecosystem and filtration/buffer zone similar to the swamps that are being eroded along the gulf coast, are disappearing. An Mbongo man is now working with the MCP to help deal with the problem.

Well, if you didn’t get bored and tired reading this, I’m gonna try to write more later but have had enough by now, and need to watch the Brazil England match and drink beer.

Ton Ton Express sucks

Dana and I are writing this post together. First off, that Mutengene Kumba road don bad-ohh, soteh ee don spoil all. Basically, the road is even much worse than it was 10 years ago, and that is for sure, unlike my unsure memories of Douala. I traveled this road all the time as a volunteer. So, a 200 mile trip took us 13 and a half hours filled with sweat, sore butts, some hard make you cry laughter, and distressed sighs of can't believe things work like this (on Dana's part) and can't believe things still work this on my part. Man. So far our travel has been very easy, and this wasn't difficult per se, it was just . . . looooooooong. Seeing Mount Cameroon, the highest mountain in west africa (13,600' or something) was a highlight and made me know i was "coming home". I'm really glad Dana got to see it because it is a mysterious mountain and I didn't even see it for the first 3 or 4 months at post even though Mbongo is only 40 or 50 km from it.

The journey started in Younde. It was supposed to be a direct bus from younde to kumba on TonTon Express ( in pidgen TonTon means traveling around) but it seemed TonTon had an agreement with another bus company so actually we were sort of using a different line. This should have been our first warning sign. After 2 hours waiting for the bus to get full before we could leave - we left two hours late - which I (Dana) have been told is common and actually makes sense. Full is a relative term I have learned. When there are four seats in a row, it actually means 5 adults and how ever many little kids you can fit in between the cracks and on peoples laps. This means that on a bus that maybe "should" seat 30 you end up with 40+ people (not nessisarily including those that are standing). Once full we drove to Douala stopping every 30 minutes or so to let people off a long the way and pick up new passangers. The divers pocket this extra money for the passangers not on the official books. We get to Douala and sigh a bit of relief, but then realize we have to transfer to a bigger bus which means they must take off all the luggage from the tarp on top, move it and then tie it again, and wait again for new passengers to fill this bigger bus. This endevor took another 2 hours. At first you can get out of the bus and walk around, but once new passangers start coming it gets full fast so you have to sit in the heat. My pants were so wet (from sweat thank god as I/Dana was blessed with having the "i have to fart but instead I shit the pants" expeience on the train - sorry for the graffic description its just a part of it) that when we finally got to kumba my pants were soaked through. The funniest situation was after 1 and a half hours of waiting on the hot bus, the bus almost full (again relative) the company insisted on sticking to the the 5 adults per row rule (five five man fo chair! Five five man fo chair!). A big fat mommi woman tumbles on the bus and everyone starts laughing. The people in the row infront of us start squeezing to the sides to make room for her fat butt. The old man next to paul was laughing a good one, everyone was expressing loud in pidgen and the whole scene was just so priceless. Big Mommy could care less. Just shift small and ee go correct.

The other funny moment, was 10 or 122 hours into the trip, one of the little kids had to shit. "Ah say, pikin mus shit-oh!" So of course everyone on the bus has to be involved in the discussion about where to stop, where he should shit, how he should shit etc. etc. Here in town, out of town, in the bush, behind the mango tree, send ee fo window (pass him through the window) so ee no go shit for bus etc. etc.

It is morning in Kumba after getting in at 9:30 last night. All the food we could find was nyamangoro (snails) and kanda cow (cow skin). Not our idea of good late night food. The power in all of Kumba (a city of 200,000) was out until this morning - no surprise to those of us that know Kumba. But this internet cafe has by far the best connection of any one we've been in so far, even than in Yaounde and Douala. So, Cameroon is filled with little surprises. We saw V this morning, and what can I say, it was so good to look at his face, unbelieving that we were seeing each other again. It was so nice.

On the road again

I'm not sure when this next blog will be posted, since this computer will not let me access the site, so I'm e-mailing it to myself instead. But it is being written on June 8th at 4:23 or so.

We are in Yaounde right now visiting with a friend who was a teacher in Mbongo when I was there. He is still teaching at a high school while attending the university of Yaounde to get his master's degree. It has been really fun to see him, wander the city in a way that i never did as a PCV, and hear about the trials and tribulations of achieving a higher education in Cameroon. That part is not fun, but is interesting and discouraging. He has, however, an indomitable spirit and continues to struggle to do research and continue his studies within the extremely difficult and limited resource atmosphere of the modern Cameroonian university. His friend has helped make sure we do not go hungry and have eaten all kinds of traditional Cameroonian chop (food) like wata fufu and eru, fufu corn and njama njama, and achu. Last night we went out dancing to the latest Makossa music, and the new thing from Ivory Coast called coupé callé.

Manohmanohman. I'm falling behind.

Note to Carl - mmm those puff puff and beans sure taste good.

First, some Peace Corps stuff that may or may not be interesting to other people. This trip on the one hand would not be possible without the experiences I had as a Peace Corps Volunteer, but on the other hand, has very few connections to PC itself. It is really to connect with friends I made so many years ago and to be in Cameroon again to see how it is. That said, I am still interested to know how Peace Corps programs are, especially with agroforestry. I thought I would seek out Peace Corps more, but it just has not been a priority. But in Maroua, we wanted to find volunteers to see about going to Waza park, and for me to learn about the current agroforestry program. We thought we'd try the old haunts and lo and behold, we hit 5 volunteer gold in the first place we tried. 2 agros, 2 health, and 1 education voluteers. The bottom line is that there are no agro volunteers in the SW province, and the program has been split into two with different trainings for volunteers in the 3 northern provinces and those in the NW and Western provinces. For those of us that did the feasibility study of the 3 northern provinces, PC listened to us since there are now over 20 agro volunteers in this area. George Yebit is still APCD, but I will not see him during our stay here. Almost all the volunteers have cell phones now, but it is their choice and is an out of pocket expense. Apparently a few chose not to get a phone, but after a couple months, virtually all have them. It's a trip to sitting drinking a beer and one fo them gets a call from the US or another volunteer to coordinate the rest of the night out. When they heard when I was here and our lack of internet and cell phone, they exclaimed "woah, you're old school". That made me feel very cool. When I was here, I considered old school those volunteers that had 8-tracks.

The volunteers were all very friendly and interested, and we went out for grilled fish with a group of them. It was fun to hear stories but it was not very nostalgic like "ahh i wish i was a volunteer again" even though I value so completely the experiences that I had as a volunteer. It's because of my experiences that i can now teach and be in the position I am in at TOCC. The volunteers were also very helpful for us to change money. The Euro is really the only accepted foreign currency in Cameroon anymore and it can be very hard to change dollars or dollar travelers' checks. For Americans on the other hand, the dollar never goes out of style. There do seem to be ATMs in all the major cities, although they seem to be a bit unpredictable, but have still been a very quick and easy way for us to get CFA.

Beer is between 450 and 500 CFA and the new beer on the block is Castel Milk Stout which I have not had the chance to try yet. Petrol is between CFA 400 a liter (almost 4 dollars a gallon) up to 550 for diesel. Very expensive if you only make CFA 1 or 2000 a day. It kind of puts things in perspective with how much we agonize when fuel is almost 3 a gallon. moto taxis are still 100 and closed taxis are 150 and I had forgotten how complicated it can be to get a taxi in Yaounde.

Tomorrow we will take the venerable Ton Ton Express from Yaounde to Kumba where we will meet up with my neighbor and best friend from Mbongo. Needless to say, I am very excited to see him. Like I wrote before, since leaving Cameroon I have had so many fantasies and dreams about returning to Mbongo, seeing friends again, trying to imagine what it will be like. Fantasies range from tears, all night dancing and celebration to not letting me back into Mbongo. Dreams usually involve lots of tourists (read white people), or lots of Peace Corps Volunteers, or nobody left that I know. Some of the more extreme dreams even have carnival attractions', and one had a direct hoverboat line connecting Mbongo to some unkown Western country. Ton Ton took me to and from Mbongo so many times that it will be good to take it again. I wouldn't be surprised if one of the employees recognizes me.

In the States, I sometimes would get emotional thinking about going back to Mbongo, although I haven't felt any of those feelings yet. When we went back to Aissa Harde, I got choked up thinking about seeing P and family a couple of times knowing how important they were (are) to Kristie, as well as how good they were to me. But when I finally saw him, it wasn't anticlimactic really, it was still so good to see his face and hear his voice, it was just . . . normal. As if no time had passed. (besides the small life changes such as 3 more children and a second wife for him and a 1st wife for me). We talked and played scrabble all afternoon with A, P, and a doctor posted up north from the northwest province while people came to visit. The scrabble board was a fun mix of french and english. It just felt comfortable, friendly and good. So I suspect it might be a similar scene when I see V, although actually getting to Mbongo I suspect will be quite a commotion. Overwhelming. It's gonna be fuckin' awesome (I hope). Pardon the Pigin

In the Northern part of Cameroon, Islam is the predominate religion. Mosques are everywhere, you hear the call to prayer several times a day, and life temporarily stops while people ritually wash in preparation to pray, and then face Mecca to pray. It is somehow comforting to be in the environment, especially with all the insanity and sterotypes about Muslims in most of the Western media. Islam is not a state religion here, and wherever there are Muslims, there are Christians and believers in traditional religions that carry on their lives around the prayers. The bustle continues or you just take a break while you wait for people to finish their prayers. It does not feel opressive or obligatory, although I cannot honestly speak for people who live in the culture. They may have a different opinion. But in general, I get the genuine feeling that there is a remarkable tolerance for people of different religions here and ability to live side by side. More about this later as my computer time is almost up.

Cameroon Dana

In response to a well recieved comment on this blog, here are e-mails Dana has sent to a group of family since we've been in Cameroon. As editor, I have deleted all expletives and heavily censured the text. Other than that, I have left everything as is.

Cameroonian Ministry of Information


MAROUA DANA

Hi Everyone;
just a super quick note to friends to say we,re
happy and well in Northern cameroon; it,s lovely: so many
things to say -the second day here we were walking
through the market and a guy that lived in
pauls friends village (from 9 years ago!) recognized him
and said 'mr. paul?' it was great! totally unexpected
out of the hundreds probqbly thousands of people in the
market - granted we kinda stick out being the only
white people weve seen but still. No one up in this
part of the country knew we were coming so in a day
or so we,ll go to the viilage to visit kristies other
friends. We,re trying to figure out how to go to the
game park in the next few days then we,ll start
heading south again: its lovely up here dry and
sandy feels kinda like home: people stop for daily prayer
where ever they are since many folks are muslim.
there are sandy resting places all over the city for
people to sit in rest or pray - every city should have
spirit places like that. we took a plane than a bus to get
here _ through georgeous country side with rock
formations like cochise stronghold: and little
vilages zith mud brick houses and thatched roofs: lots of
goats and supper yum food - I just had my first real
cameroonian meal - foofoo made from rice, gumbo with
meat and greens with fish. the markets are nuts and
super fun - I could wander for hours just looking at
food: but so what else is new. kids yell out to us
'hey white§' but Its in french or the local language
so I,m pretty able to block it out: generally I,m
having a blast: so gotta go do some figuring for Waza (the park)
more in a while:love dana (ps pardon the french keyboard°

NGAOUNDERE DANA
Hi everyone

thanks for your messages fun to hear updates and kelly
thanks for the haiku: I only have time to write one
message so sorry I cant reply individually. a few
business things. Peter or Alice could you forward my
emails to the buseck;bolton;levine;lerner clan since i
dont see to have everyones emails; peter thank you
again for the baggage work; the claim ticket we will
continue to hold on to and it has both huston the
first stop; and then cdg as the final destination:
thanks!

things are good with us both we have left the north
and are on our way by overnight train to younde to
meet pauls friend then off to mbongo! we had a
great time at waza park saw lots of giraffe and many
other cool things too many to list now. no elephants
which was a bummer as they left the park more or less
when the rains started but oh well giraffes are pretty
damn cool. more on animal adventures later.

we visited haissa harde which was the village that
kristie lived in that was fun. everyone was surprised
to see paul and we spent most of the day lounging on a
mat in pierres compound playing french and english
mixed scrabble with the doctor cant think of his name,
and two friends. we took pictures of their family to send, it is
expensive to get your familys picture taken here: then
we went to meet others families and take their picture
but on the way we met an old man who wanted his
picture taken with his best bull cow, then we went to
meet kristies friends daughters and second wife who were wt a
wedding in another part of the village; it was neat to
see people getting ready for the celebration; women
singing and dancing in a circle: it felt kinda
disruptive cuz everyone was stairing at us so we left
pretty quickly, gave a gift to the family and went
back to mora. so many interesting sights and sounds:
its sometimes hard to put it into word so I;ve been
keeping lists of things to remind me heres a few of
the things on my list

woman at the market carying live chickens in a basket
on her head.

a village where to chief has 50 wifes; kinda
nutty if you ask me but it was beautiful country side
with thes crazy rock terraces up entire mountains for
planting millet: and I thought we had rocks!

people out in the fields planting the first millet of
the season with hand hoes and planting sticks there
are farms and millet planted everywhere right up to
peoples compunds. we learned a lot about food stuff
from the driver that took us to waza. he said most
people in the north that live in cities still have
fields out side of the city where they grow millet.

waking up each morning by the call to prayer.

we took a bus here all day yesterday and have
definately left the desert. the soil is red red red
here and the mountains are green and thick with trees.
people here plant yams and beans and corn and chiles
and cassava. we got here just as a rain storm came and
while waiting under a tin roof off the street I asked
paul, if the desert smells like rain what does the
rainforest smell like? i laughed till i cryed when he
suggested plainly the rainforest