Salaam Alaikum, blogsphere.
I am writing to you from the Xtreme North region of Cameroon, which I am proud to call my new home. My blog title is a tribute to my identity here: Nassara Sarah. Nassara, the Fulfulde word for white person, just so happens to rhyme with my given name, Sarah (the French pronunciation of Sarah, that is); thereby making my daily myriad introductions all the more animated (and/or wildly irritating, but who's counting?). So I guess I have a catchphrase. It goes a little something like this: "Je m'appelle Sarah- comme Nassara- c'est inoubliable, non?" ("My name is Sarah- like Nassara- it's unforgettable, right?") Cue nodding, smiles and laughter on the part of the Cameroonians, as I throw up in my mouth at how lame I am. Upsides to having a catchphrase: (1) it's memorable- everyone remembers my name and some are even using my name in lieu of just shouting NASSARA! NASSARA! whenever they see me, and (2) entertainment value- for the most part it seems to downright tickle the Cameroonians that have been on the receiving end of my little diddy. Downsides to having a catchphrase: (1) douchebag value- it is, by far and without a doubt, the douchiest thing I have ever said in my life, and (2) I say it at least twenty times a day- every day. It's like I can't turn it off now- I can't deny its utility nor can I deny the kick that Cameroonians get out of it, what with it still being a novel concept to them. So I'm stuck, trapped in my own hackneyed, vapid, and (worst of all) self-made hell: Nassara Sarah.
Among the series of Xtreme adventures I have been embarking upon since arriving to post, the most arduous challenge to date has been Fulfulde, the native tongue of the Fulbe people, and the most widely-spoken language in my new village, Meskine. Everyone in my village speaks Fulfulde, and most people speak it exclusively; as in, I am hard pressed to find French speakers to French it up with, despite my being in a Francophone region. I began Fulfulde lessons after site visit back in Bafia with my idol Jacky, the sassiest woman to walk the face of the earth. Quick Jacky story: One time, I told Jacky that she had broken my heart, and that I was going to cry myself to sleep that night because she was refusing to come to our swearing-in party. Her response? "Cry into a jar and bring the jar to me tomorrow so I can drink your tears. I look forward to it." Um what? My hero. I believe it was in the same conversation that she told me that she was going to send a snake to me while I was sleeping to blind me (Cultural note: Jacky is a twin, and it is believed that twins possess special powers- one of which, apparently, is a link to snakes- and they can use these powers for good or evil. Parseltongue? What?). So yes, this goddess of sass instructed me in Fulfulde over the course of our last couple of weeks in the Baf. Her style of teaching can pretty much be summed up in one word: intimidation. We would read through a passage of text all together, Jacky and her three young grasshoppers, and then she would rip down the poster that we had been reading from, and make us recite the passage from memory, one by one. She didn't even speak- just ripped the paper down and pointed at one of us, and her chosen victim would then begin. If you got tripped up along the way, Jacky would just stare at you, as if we had all the time in the world to wait for you to procure the lines that we had just gone over. It was the most intimidating teaching method I have ever experienced in my life. She could sit there all freaking day- completely unaffected by the pleading desperation in our eyes, not even tempted to feed us a single line- just patiently waiting in silence, expressionless. Once we had stammered out the passage, another few moments of painful silence would pass until Jacky passed her judgement. A woman of few words, her choice Fulfulde words were "boddum," meaning bien/good, for those elusive moments when she was pleased, and "kai," meaning no. She would accompany "kai" with a menacing finger wag and a downturned mouth, as if disgusted with our pathetic attempts at grasping the language. As you can imagine, we heard a lot more kais than we did boddums. Although initially intimiated almost to the point of shitting our pants in terror, we quickly warmed up to Jacky- and she to us. We had an enjoyable few weeks with her, and I picked up on a few key phrases to get me started in village:
Jabbama!: Welcome!
Jam na?/ Jam bandu na? : How are you?/ How is your health?
Inde am Sarah/ Noy inde ma?: My name is Sarah. What is your name?
Cede: Money/ Cost
Pukaraajo: Student
Janginoowo: Teacher
Adjabaajo: Prostitute
Pucci didi: Two horses
Fat Booty Jango: The day after tomorrow
Sey kiikide: See you tonight
Okay so perhaps in the way of a Fulfulde Survival List, it leaves something to be desired, but you can imagine how entertaining our classes were. Plus I got boo-coos of quality time with Jacky, and our bonding was much more important to me than language acquisition at the time. Now, however, I am singing a different tune, and that tune sounds a lot like me Frenching it up amidst a throng of non-French speakers. Ca va aller, as (French-speaking) Cameroonians like to say.
One of my first days in village, I was waiting outside of my concession for my community host to come pick me up on his moto. I sat myself down just outside of my concession door, and the dada (mama in Fulfulde) that lives across the way from me decided to join me while I waited. My neighbors, as it so happens, are among the aforementioned covey of the Meskine population that are exclusive Fulfulde speakers. So there we sat, for forty-five minutes, her speaking at me in Fulfulde, me speaking at her in French, both of us wildly gesticulating with our hands in an effort to communicate. Once you got past the ridiculousness of our exchange, it was kind of beautiful in its own rite. And that's how most of my conversing went for the first week or so in village- people talking at me in Fulfulde, me talking back at them in French, with lots of smiling and nodding and waving on my part. Now, however, I have mastered the phrase: "Mi anda fulfulde" (I do not know Fulfulde), among a few other key words and phrases. Seeda seeda (Little by little).
Beyond Fulfulde, there have been a string of other Xtreme adventures that have been filling my days since arriving to the Xtreme North. On Christmas Eve, for example, a group of us decided to spend the morning hiking Mount Maroua. Steph and I had only brought Rainbow flip flops for our Christmas weekend getaway, and were concerned about doing any sort of hiking in such casual footwear. We were told that this would be a leisurely hike, a pleasant hour and a half- tops- and that one could absolutely make it to the top and back in flip flops- no problem. So off we went, traversing the dried-up Domayo river bed and a few residential cartiers, before arriving at the foot of the mountain. We looked up at Mt. Maroua, sizing it up, and then set out on our quest. About three minutes into our epic crusade, Stephanie announced that her flip flop had broken. Buzz kill. I accompanied her back down to the road in search of some replacement footwear. Lucky for us, Cameroon loves its babooshes (flip flops), and we found a badass neon yellow pair in the first roadside boutique we stopped in- and for less than two dollars, at that. Crisis averted. We hurried back to where the rest of our motley crew was waiting for us, only to find that a gaggle of small children from the neighborhood at the base of the mountain had joined our ranks. So we set off again, this time with the additions of neon yellow flippy floppies and nine Cameroonian kiddies, our trail guides. Since none of us had ever climbed Mt. Maroua, and our only instructions were to "walk through the city towards the mountain, then go up," there was a whole lot of blind leading the blind going on. Tina took the lead, and followed the instructions by the letter: going up. Within the first thirty minutes, I was huffing and puffing and sweating like a pig, deeply regretting my choice of shoe and even more deeply resenting whoever had misled us into believing that this was going to be some leisurely stroll- for that it was not. But I kept on keepin on, just following the footsteps of my baboosh sister Steph, dodging any loose rocks sent tumbling down the mountain by a misstep from someone up ahead. And then before I knew it I was spidermanning the mountain- desperately clutching onto loose rockface with all four of my limbs, stopping every so often to internally scream WHAT THE FUCK, before scrambling on upwards. After ten or so minutes of internal screaming and tingling of spidey senses, our fearless leader Tina brought our caravan to a halt to take a vote. We had two choices: to slip our way back down the perilous vertical gravel that we had just crawled up, or to just keep going to the next summit- which from our angle did not look like it was all that far off. I was the first to say hell to the NO I am not about to go back down that slippery slide of doom, but everyone else seemed to be in agreement- albeit they were much more mild-mannered about their preference. So we continued upward, and as it turned out the next summit WAS all that far off, but after another humbling twenty minutes of hugging rockface and silently freaking the fuck out, we had made it to our summit, and could rest without the fear of losing our balance and tumbling into the abyss. And amazingly, not far off from our summit was a beaten path, which we eagerly hopped on and followed to the top, and then back down again, at a leisurely pace- a stroll, if you will. Fatigued as we were, some of the members of our wolf pack started to lag on the way back down, but our fearless trail guides herded us back down as a full pack. Literally- they were (gently) whipping the girl who kept falling the furthest behind. I am pleased to report that we all made it back down in one piece, a little worse for the wear, but in one piece nonetheless. So our Christmas Eve morning turned into quite the Xtreme adventure- but that's just a day in the life in the Xtreme North.
So, faithful readers, stay tuned- for I am sure that there are more Xtreme adventures to come.
peace love and neon yellow flippy floppies.
-Nassara Sarah
Monday, December 26, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Voyage to Site Visit
Faithful readers,
Please forgive me for neglecting the blogsphere for so long. Much has happened since we last spoke, so let's do this dance.
When we first arrived in Yaounde, we had an initial interview with our Youth Development Program Manager, Amadou, where he gauged how he was going to match us up with the twelve available posts he had already picked out for our program across the country. He asked what size village/city we wanted to be in, how much structure we wanted in our work, what sort of climate we were privy to, how important electricity/ running water/ internet access was to us, and other general questions along those lines. I told him no preference- that I would be happy whereever he put me. Weeks later, Amadou trekked out to our training site in Bafia to conduct a second interview with us, under the assumption that we had become more familiar with the country and now had more informed preferences that he could factor into our placements. In this second interview, I maintained that I had no preference and would go anywhere. Amadou told me that he had already matched up most of us with posts, myself included, but we wouldn't find out where he'd put us until our posts were announced two weeks later. Just knowing that I had already been matched with a post sent me into a straight-up TIZZY. Sitting across from my boss, who rarely- if ever- deviates from his stoic, straight-faced demeanor, I was literally squealing with delight and maniacally clapping my hands together. Even through my maniac haze, I was very much aware of Amadou's unwavering calmness and his rising discomfort, but I went on squealing and giggling and clapping my hands for a solid five minutes, until Amadou worked up the courage to dismiss me. Every day for the next two weeks, I tried to crack the bearers of knowledge- Amadou, James our tech trainer, various language instructors, Ruth the head of security, and various PCVs- to no avail. Try as I might, they were dead set on all of us waiting until November 2 to all find out our posts together, as a group. So after those two grueling weeks of impatiently waiting, the day finally came to find out where we would be living and working for the next two years. The dazzling dozen of YDs sat in a semicircle, and chanted A-MA-DOU! A-MA-DOU! until Amadou finally appeared, sporting a traditional chefferie hat and bearing gifts of chocolate Mambo bars to reward us for waiting- impatient though we were. He had put a map of Cameroon up on the wall, and had decorated envelopes with our names on them which contained the holy grail- small sheets of paper with the name of our posts that we were to pin onto the map. He removed his hat and filled it with the envelopes, then had the first person come up and draw a name, and announce the contents of the envelope to all of us. Molly drew my name out of the hat, and as I walked up with shaking hands she shouted "MESKINE! EXTREME NORTH!" I screamed and immediately started crying, embracing everyone I could get my paws on. I calmed down enough to pin my name next to Meskine up in the tippy top of the country map, and then read off Shanna's post and sat my zealous butt down. I couldn't stop smiling for days- I was so over the moon about my placement. Still am.
So the next week we left for site visit, to go check out where we were going to be living for the next two years. I was nervous about traversing the country, especially after the public transportation session we had had the day before, where the take away message was "When things happen, just deal with it." We were to expect poorly maintained roads, sardine-packed vehicles, and for nothing to go smoothly nor to be on time. We were also to be wary of bandits, cars breaking down, cars crashing, and cars flipping, among other things. My favorite piece of advice during the public transportation session was "when a confrontation arises, pretend to have a heart attack." So I had that little nugget of wisdom in my back pocket if all else failed. We boarded buses at the training center in Bafia early Saturday morning, and I lucked out with a wooden crate in lieu of a seat- wedged between Chris and Luke in the very back of our bush taxi. Luckily, the stretch of the voyage between Bafia and Yaounde is only two hours, so when I lost feeling in my badonkadonk halfway through the ride, and then in my upper legs shortly thereafter, I hardly even had time to complain before we arrived in Yaounde. Well, that's a lie, but whatevs. In Yaounde, we regrouped, and went to seek out the legendary hamburger-pizza joint right across the street from the case in Yaounde (CASE: travel houses for volunteers owned by the Peace Corps that are placed throughout the country where volunteers can sleep, shower and use the internet). We all ordered burgers, fries and coke, and had ourselves an American feast. Or a semblance of an American feast, at least. The hamburger patty was the size of a hockey puck... cut in half. The bun, however, was oversized and dense, and the ketchup was served in teaspoon-sized portions. When I asked for more ketchup, the waiter, who speaks both French and English mind you, pretended not to understand my request and brought out some spicy mustard instead. For those of you who know me and my undying love of condiments, you will understand how heartbroken I am living in a country that denies me what is an unalienable American right: the right to liberal condiment usage. Zack Farmer, can I get an AMEN? So anyways, despite the cruel and unusual punishment in the form of lack of ketchup and disproportionate patty to bun ratio, the hamburger-pizza restaurant was a huge crowd-pleaser. From the moment the waiter set down a plate (he brought out plates one at a time), the receiver of the meal would fall silent until the last fry was cleaned from his or her plate, and only then did he or she return to the conversation- to the world outside of that glorious plate of greasy American goodness. Well, at least that's how it went for the first six of us, but once the six of us had returned from our etheral place of food heaven, we all became conscious of the fact that Cynthia had still yet to receive her food. We had all ordered the same thing, and although delivery was staggered about 5-10 minutes between plates, Cynthia's seemed to be taking an exceptionally long time. Just as we were about to inquire, though, out came the waiter with a plate for Cynthia. To her surprise, her burger had been chopped up and sprinkled on a baguette in lieu of the giant buns that we had all had. It wasn't until she bit into her burger baguette that her surprise quickly turned to dismay- apparently her excessive wait time could be attributed to the chef running out of buns, and leaving to go buy a baguette elsewhere, while Cynthia's patty sat and cooled. Cynthia, being the trooper she is, laughed it off and ate every bite of her cold burger baguette and fries. C'est la vie, as we say in Cameroon.
In Yaounde, I got to skype with my boo Tommy, who is living in Vannes, France growing out his beard, teaching English and writing for National Geographic France!! This is just a shameless plug to get you to go check out his articles- here's his latest piece: http://www.nationalgeographic.fr/actualite/un-americain-a-vannes-episode-3-le-vin-ou-l%E2%80%99art-de-la-degustation/7912137/
So around 4, we headed over to the train station in Yaounde to catch the 6:00 train to Ngaoundere. We feasted on street fish and bought goodies to snack on for the 13-hour train ride to come. Street food, by the way, is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. It's greasy and succulent and flavorful, plus it's adventurous-street meat served with a heaping side of risk. Amoebas schmoebas. I like to live my life on the edge. So we riskily polished off our heaping plates of fish, and then made our way back to the train. Peace Corps hooked us up with the bomb diggity sleeper cars, which was awesome! Each car contains two sets of bunk beds, so the eight of us Agro and YD volunteers heading up to the grand north occupied two rooms. Inbetween Yaounde and Ngaoundere, there are about twenty or so stops in small villages. These stops have become of great importance to me in my life. Why, you ask? Because at each of these stops, as the noise of the train screeching to a halt fades out, the pitter patter of little feet can be heard, and with the pitter patter of little feet there are also shouts, lovely shouts that pull at my heartstrings, for the shouts sing of fresh fruit! and bottles of local honey! and freshly boiled ears of corn! This, my friends, is the retail therapy of Cameroon. In rousing myself out of my bunk and taking a couple of steps to reach the nearest window, I can shout whatever it is my little heart desires out into the world- bananas! baton de manioc! guavas! - and within seconds, there are three pairs of feet sprinting towards me to grant my three wishes, balancing platters on their head for me to select from. This experience, for me, is comparable to the highs I got from the magical world of Disney as a child. Riding that high on my last train ride up to the north, I bought a bag of mandarins, a bushel of bananas, an ear of freshly boiled corn, a baton de manioc, and a papaya- stopping only because I PTFO'd early on in the game. Rookie mistake, I know.
Sleeping on a train, as it turns out, has also proven to be quite the adventure. I ended up with a top bunk, entrusting my life to the two aging canvas luggage straps that hung from the ceiling to the edge of my bunk, functioning as a harness for those prone to fitful sleeping habits (Hm... Do we happen to know of anyone with such a tendency?). So around 10pm, I popped a couple of Melatonin, slipped into my sleeping bag liner, and let myself drift into a sweet sweet slumber. And oh what a sweet slumber it was! That is, until approximately 10:20, when we came to our next stop. To the tune of the wheels screeching like banshees, the train lerched to a halt- sending my slumbering body soaring into the air, making my eyes pop out of my head in terror and my hands frantically search for the nearest decaying luggage strap to grab onto for dear life. In those fleeting airborne moments that seemed to last a lifetime, my only thought was "OH MY DEAR GOD I AM FALLING TO MY DEATH," but just as quick as I'd been launched into the great unknown, my body was ramming itself into the two luggage straps and then crash landing back onto my bunk. It took until we were mobile again for me to revert my body and mind from IM DYING mode back to sleep mode. And so it went for the next eight hours, slumbering sweetly for an hour or so, only to be unceremoniously roused into a state-of-emergency consciousness, always the same OH MY DEAR GOD I AM FALLING TO MY DEATH first thought without fail. By the time 6am rolled around, I had gotten quite quick about getting myself back to sleep after being jolted awake, but alas we were in Ngaoundere by then, and so my newfound talent was rendered useless- until my next sleep adventure, that is.
We wasted no time in hopping off of our train and rushing over to the Danay bus station to catch the first bus out of Ngaoundere to Maroua. In retrospect, I am disgusted by the haste we made in deboarding a 13-hour train ride only to board a 9-hour bus ride, but alas that's exactly what we did. So we climbed aboard our next mode of public transportation, snagging the last available window seats as we had been instructed to do in our transporation session. Although we had been verbally briefed for the sardine-packing tendencies of motor vehicular public transportation in Cameroon, one can never truly be prepared for such a unique experience until having experienced it firsthand. And so began my initiation into the wondrous world of Cameroonian public transportation: they packed that bad boy until every passenger was in another passenger's lap. That's right- why don't you take a minute to visualize that mindbender of a mental image. Got it? Good. So I was next to/on top of/underneath Brian, a PCV who was accompanying us to the Xtreme North, who in turn was next to/on top of/but mostly underneath a seriously fatigued Cameroonian businessman. Since only one of us could sit back at a time, Brian and I politely alternated between sitting back and leaning forward onto the seatback infront of us. It was all very even up until the aforementioned fatigued businessman fell asleep on Brian's back, leaving him stuck in the leaning forward position for some stretch of time. Ewpz. Ah! I almost forgot the best part of the nine hour bus ride- the soundtrack! This glorious soundtrack consisted of three tracks- but not just any three tracks. The CD was Adamaoua-themed (Adamaoua is a region in the grand north of Cameroon, where Ngaoundere is located), and my personal favorite track consisted of a gaggle of children shouting/singing A-DA-MA-WA! for a solid five minutes, with the singer crooning some irrelevant lyrics inbetween their shouts. It was hilarious. By the end of the nine hours, Chris, Cynthia, Luke and I were all laughing and singing along with our new favorite CD. Sleep deprivation or the magic of Adamaoua inhabiting our souls? The world will never know.
And so we arrived in Maroua late Sunday night, delerious and smelling of 22 hours of public transportation. Luckily, a bonfire was roaring at the case, immediately masking our smell (or at least in my head it did- and don't correct me if I'm wrong in thinking so). We were greeted with smiles, spaghetti omlette sandwiches, and a case of trente trois. Yes, you read that right- spaghetti omlette sandwiches are just one of the many Cameroonian delicacies that have swept me off my feet. Other love affairs include bean sandwiches (for breakfast lunch or dinner!), bean and spaghetti sandwiches, and tartina chocolate spread (like nutella but without the hazlenut) sandwiches- with banana or mambo chocolate bar pieces depending on the kind of day you're having. I could go on, but I wouldn't want to drive you wild with jealousy.
So, my dear faithful readers, that was my voyage to site visit. This entry was originally entitled "Chadios Bafia," in the hopes that I would recap from before site visit all the way up to my arrival to post, and then was more realistically renamed "Site Visit," but I have just made the executive decision to leave it at "Voyage to Site Visit." You'll live, I'm sure.
Stay tuned, you filthy animals.
Peace love and spaghetti omlette sandwiches.
Please forgive me for neglecting the blogsphere for so long. Much has happened since we last spoke, so let's do this dance.
When we first arrived in Yaounde, we had an initial interview with our Youth Development Program Manager, Amadou, where he gauged how he was going to match us up with the twelve available posts he had already picked out for our program across the country. He asked what size village/city we wanted to be in, how much structure we wanted in our work, what sort of climate we were privy to, how important electricity/ running water/ internet access was to us, and other general questions along those lines. I told him no preference- that I would be happy whereever he put me. Weeks later, Amadou trekked out to our training site in Bafia to conduct a second interview with us, under the assumption that we had become more familiar with the country and now had more informed preferences that he could factor into our placements. In this second interview, I maintained that I had no preference and would go anywhere. Amadou told me that he had already matched up most of us with posts, myself included, but we wouldn't find out where he'd put us until our posts were announced two weeks later. Just knowing that I had already been matched with a post sent me into a straight-up TIZZY. Sitting across from my boss, who rarely- if ever- deviates from his stoic, straight-faced demeanor, I was literally squealing with delight and maniacally clapping my hands together. Even through my maniac haze, I was very much aware of Amadou's unwavering calmness and his rising discomfort, but I went on squealing and giggling and clapping my hands for a solid five minutes, until Amadou worked up the courage to dismiss me. Every day for the next two weeks, I tried to crack the bearers of knowledge- Amadou, James our tech trainer, various language instructors, Ruth the head of security, and various PCVs- to no avail. Try as I might, they were dead set on all of us waiting until November 2 to all find out our posts together, as a group. So after those two grueling weeks of impatiently waiting, the day finally came to find out where we would be living and working for the next two years. The dazzling dozen of YDs sat in a semicircle, and chanted A-MA-DOU! A-MA-DOU! until Amadou finally appeared, sporting a traditional chefferie hat and bearing gifts of chocolate Mambo bars to reward us for waiting- impatient though we were. He had put a map of Cameroon up on the wall, and had decorated envelopes with our names on them which contained the holy grail- small sheets of paper with the name of our posts that we were to pin onto the map. He removed his hat and filled it with the envelopes, then had the first person come up and draw a name, and announce the contents of the envelope to all of us. Molly drew my name out of the hat, and as I walked up with shaking hands she shouted "MESKINE! EXTREME NORTH!" I screamed and immediately started crying, embracing everyone I could get my paws on. I calmed down enough to pin my name next to Meskine up in the tippy top of the country map, and then read off Shanna's post and sat my zealous butt down. I couldn't stop smiling for days- I was so over the moon about my placement. Still am.
So the next week we left for site visit, to go check out where we were going to be living for the next two years. I was nervous about traversing the country, especially after the public transportation session we had had the day before, where the take away message was "When things happen, just deal with it." We were to expect poorly maintained roads, sardine-packed vehicles, and for nothing to go smoothly nor to be on time. We were also to be wary of bandits, cars breaking down, cars crashing, and cars flipping, among other things. My favorite piece of advice during the public transportation session was "when a confrontation arises, pretend to have a heart attack." So I had that little nugget of wisdom in my back pocket if all else failed. We boarded buses at the training center in Bafia early Saturday morning, and I lucked out with a wooden crate in lieu of a seat- wedged between Chris and Luke in the very back of our bush taxi. Luckily, the stretch of the voyage between Bafia and Yaounde is only two hours, so when I lost feeling in my badonkadonk halfway through the ride, and then in my upper legs shortly thereafter, I hardly even had time to complain before we arrived in Yaounde. Well, that's a lie, but whatevs. In Yaounde, we regrouped, and went to seek out the legendary hamburger-pizza joint right across the street from the case in Yaounde (CASE: travel houses for volunteers owned by the Peace Corps that are placed throughout the country where volunteers can sleep, shower and use the internet). We all ordered burgers, fries and coke, and had ourselves an American feast. Or a semblance of an American feast, at least. The hamburger patty was the size of a hockey puck... cut in half. The bun, however, was oversized and dense, and the ketchup was served in teaspoon-sized portions. When I asked for more ketchup, the waiter, who speaks both French and English mind you, pretended not to understand my request and brought out some spicy mustard instead. For those of you who know me and my undying love of condiments, you will understand how heartbroken I am living in a country that denies me what is an unalienable American right: the right to liberal condiment usage. Zack Farmer, can I get an AMEN? So anyways, despite the cruel and unusual punishment in the form of lack of ketchup and disproportionate patty to bun ratio, the hamburger-pizza restaurant was a huge crowd-pleaser. From the moment the waiter set down a plate (he brought out plates one at a time), the receiver of the meal would fall silent until the last fry was cleaned from his or her plate, and only then did he or she return to the conversation- to the world outside of that glorious plate of greasy American goodness. Well, at least that's how it went for the first six of us, but once the six of us had returned from our etheral place of food heaven, we all became conscious of the fact that Cynthia had still yet to receive her food. We had all ordered the same thing, and although delivery was staggered about 5-10 minutes between plates, Cynthia's seemed to be taking an exceptionally long time. Just as we were about to inquire, though, out came the waiter with a plate for Cynthia. To her surprise, her burger had been chopped up and sprinkled on a baguette in lieu of the giant buns that we had all had. It wasn't until she bit into her burger baguette that her surprise quickly turned to dismay- apparently her excessive wait time could be attributed to the chef running out of buns, and leaving to go buy a baguette elsewhere, while Cynthia's patty sat and cooled. Cynthia, being the trooper she is, laughed it off and ate every bite of her cold burger baguette and fries. C'est la vie, as we say in Cameroon.
In Yaounde, I got to skype with my boo Tommy, who is living in Vannes, France growing out his beard, teaching English and writing for National Geographic France!! This is just a shameless plug to get you to go check out his articles- here's his latest piece: http://www.nationalgeographic.fr/actualite/un-americain-a-vannes-episode-3-le-vin-ou-l%E2%80%99art-de-la-degustation/7912137/
So around 4, we headed over to the train station in Yaounde to catch the 6:00 train to Ngaoundere. We feasted on street fish and bought goodies to snack on for the 13-hour train ride to come. Street food, by the way, is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. It's greasy and succulent and flavorful, plus it's adventurous-street meat served with a heaping side of risk. Amoebas schmoebas. I like to live my life on the edge. So we riskily polished off our heaping plates of fish, and then made our way back to the train. Peace Corps hooked us up with the bomb diggity sleeper cars, which was awesome! Each car contains two sets of bunk beds, so the eight of us Agro and YD volunteers heading up to the grand north occupied two rooms. Inbetween Yaounde and Ngaoundere, there are about twenty or so stops in small villages. These stops have become of great importance to me in my life. Why, you ask? Because at each of these stops, as the noise of the train screeching to a halt fades out, the pitter patter of little feet can be heard, and with the pitter patter of little feet there are also shouts, lovely shouts that pull at my heartstrings, for the shouts sing of fresh fruit! and bottles of local honey! and freshly boiled ears of corn! This, my friends, is the retail therapy of Cameroon. In rousing myself out of my bunk and taking a couple of steps to reach the nearest window, I can shout whatever it is my little heart desires out into the world- bananas! baton de manioc! guavas! - and within seconds, there are three pairs of feet sprinting towards me to grant my three wishes, balancing platters on their head for me to select from. This experience, for me, is comparable to the highs I got from the magical world of Disney as a child. Riding that high on my last train ride up to the north, I bought a bag of mandarins, a bushel of bananas, an ear of freshly boiled corn, a baton de manioc, and a papaya- stopping only because I PTFO'd early on in the game. Rookie mistake, I know.
Sleeping on a train, as it turns out, has also proven to be quite the adventure. I ended up with a top bunk, entrusting my life to the two aging canvas luggage straps that hung from the ceiling to the edge of my bunk, functioning as a harness for those prone to fitful sleeping habits (Hm... Do we happen to know of anyone with such a tendency?). So around 10pm, I popped a couple of Melatonin, slipped into my sleeping bag liner, and let myself drift into a sweet sweet slumber. And oh what a sweet slumber it was! That is, until approximately 10:20, when we came to our next stop. To the tune of the wheels screeching like banshees, the train lerched to a halt- sending my slumbering body soaring into the air, making my eyes pop out of my head in terror and my hands frantically search for the nearest decaying luggage strap to grab onto for dear life. In those fleeting airborne moments that seemed to last a lifetime, my only thought was "OH MY DEAR GOD I AM FALLING TO MY DEATH," but just as quick as I'd been launched into the great unknown, my body was ramming itself into the two luggage straps and then crash landing back onto my bunk. It took until we were mobile again for me to revert my body and mind from IM DYING mode back to sleep mode. And so it went for the next eight hours, slumbering sweetly for an hour or so, only to be unceremoniously roused into a state-of-emergency consciousness, always the same OH MY DEAR GOD I AM FALLING TO MY DEATH first thought without fail. By the time 6am rolled around, I had gotten quite quick about getting myself back to sleep after being jolted awake, but alas we were in Ngaoundere by then, and so my newfound talent was rendered useless- until my next sleep adventure, that is.
We wasted no time in hopping off of our train and rushing over to the Danay bus station to catch the first bus out of Ngaoundere to Maroua. In retrospect, I am disgusted by the haste we made in deboarding a 13-hour train ride only to board a 9-hour bus ride, but alas that's exactly what we did. So we climbed aboard our next mode of public transportation, snagging the last available window seats as we had been instructed to do in our transporation session. Although we had been verbally briefed for the sardine-packing tendencies of motor vehicular public transportation in Cameroon, one can never truly be prepared for such a unique experience until having experienced it firsthand. And so began my initiation into the wondrous world of Cameroonian public transportation: they packed that bad boy until every passenger was in another passenger's lap. That's right- why don't you take a minute to visualize that mindbender of a mental image. Got it? Good. So I was next to/on top of/underneath Brian, a PCV who was accompanying us to the Xtreme North, who in turn was next to/on top of/but mostly underneath a seriously fatigued Cameroonian businessman. Since only one of us could sit back at a time, Brian and I politely alternated between sitting back and leaning forward onto the seatback infront of us. It was all very even up until the aforementioned fatigued businessman fell asleep on Brian's back, leaving him stuck in the leaning forward position for some stretch of time. Ewpz. Ah! I almost forgot the best part of the nine hour bus ride- the soundtrack! This glorious soundtrack consisted of three tracks- but not just any three tracks. The CD was Adamaoua-themed (Adamaoua is a region in the grand north of Cameroon, where Ngaoundere is located), and my personal favorite track consisted of a gaggle of children shouting/singing A-DA-MA-WA! for a solid five minutes, with the singer crooning some irrelevant lyrics inbetween their shouts. It was hilarious. By the end of the nine hours, Chris, Cynthia, Luke and I were all laughing and singing along with our new favorite CD. Sleep deprivation or the magic of Adamaoua inhabiting our souls? The world will never know.
And so we arrived in Maroua late Sunday night, delerious and smelling of 22 hours of public transportation. Luckily, a bonfire was roaring at the case, immediately masking our smell (or at least in my head it did- and don't correct me if I'm wrong in thinking so). We were greeted with smiles, spaghetti omlette sandwiches, and a case of trente trois. Yes, you read that right- spaghetti omlette sandwiches are just one of the many Cameroonian delicacies that have swept me off my feet. Other love affairs include bean sandwiches (for breakfast lunch or dinner!), bean and spaghetti sandwiches, and tartina chocolate spread (like nutella but without the hazlenut) sandwiches- with banana or mambo chocolate bar pieces depending on the kind of day you're having. I could go on, but I wouldn't want to drive you wild with jealousy.
So, my dear faithful readers, that was my voyage to site visit. This entry was originally entitled "Chadios Bafia," in the hopes that I would recap from before site visit all the way up to my arrival to post, and then was more realistically renamed "Site Visit," but I have just made the executive decision to leave it at "Voyage to Site Visit." You'll live, I'm sure.
Stay tuned, you filthy animals.
Peace love and spaghetti omlette sandwiches.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
A day in the life.
What's shakin America?
I have been in Cameroon for a little over a month now, and I know some inquiring minds out there are dying to know just what exactly I'm doing all day errday (besides sweating), so let me break it down for you: a day in the life of a PCT (Peace Corps Trainee) in Cameroon:
I wake up at 5:30am, which, as it turns out, is not a morning hour conducive to feeling anything remotely like P Diddy, but I prepare myself to hit the city of Bafia nonetheless. I huff and puff my way through a run, navigating the streets of the quartier residential, wowing all my neighbors with my profuse perspiration and my brilliantly white skin. Around 6:30, I make my way back home and indulge in a luxurious bucket bath (no but seriously that blue bucket of cold water paired with my John Frieda Brilliant Brunette shampoo is as close to luxurious as I'm going to get). After bathing, I dress myself- never with a mirror, sometimes without interior lighting- and come out looking fresh 2 death, obvi. I set the breakfast table while Diane and Mama MC (my mom's name is Marie Claire and her BFFs call her MC...ergo she is my Mama MC) rustle up some grub. Last week I got guacamole aka presse for breakfast every morning which was thebomb.com- especially on Tuesday and Wednesday when the guac was paired with leftover red beans and slathered on a baguette for a southwestern fiesta in my mouth. Normally on the non-fiesta mornings I am served a delicious tomato, garlic, onion and piment (hot pepper) omelet with baguette. However, this week I got thrown for a loop when Mama MC fixed us salad for breakfast two mornings in a row! That's right, people: lettuce, tomato, onion, and avocado in and around my mouth. There was an interesting twist to the salad, though: Cameroonian salad dressing, which is made with mayonnaise, sugar, vinegar and oil. Interessante... So the nutrient rich ingredients ended up being almost entirely masked by the dressing and by the baguette on which we consumed our "salad," but hey- a salad's a salad! I enjoyed it. I am ecstatic to report that I have been served Nescafé every morning with my breakfast ever since that wretched week of Ovaltine, so I have returned to stable caffeine levels and all is right in the world.
After petit dej (breakfast), Diane, Mama MC and I leave the house around 7:30 to walk to school, work, and the base, respectively. Mama MC rocks fierce heels every day- just like my momma back home, except Lisa T doesn't have to wade through muddy dirt roads in her fierce heels. It's amazing- Mama MC and I walk together on the same roads, and yet my chacos and rainbows are constantly caked in mud, while her white heels remain spotless.
Side note: My sister is always on my case about my shoes, but last Saturday she legitimately FREAKED out on me for trying to wear my chacos that were, admittedly, exceptionally muddy. She started going off about how she knows I have more pairs of shoes in my room, but for some reason I insist on wearing only sandals, and that it was absolutely unacceptable for me to go out in public with shoes looking like that. I ended up changing my shoes, leaving my chacos at home for Diane to wash to her standards, and walked to school with my tail between my legs and my rainbows on my feet.
So anyways, I walk to the base, greeting everyone I pass, Belle from Beauty and the Beast "Bonjour!" style. Classes start at 8:00 and go until 16:30 (military time is a STRUGGLE for me). We have four different classes every day: 8:00-10:00, then 10:20-12:20, then 13:30-15:00, and finally 15:15-16:30. Each of those four blocks may be a language class, a tech session, a medical session, a security session, a cross-culture session, or a general meeting. Language classes are small, with a maximum of four people in a class, and everyone in the class is in the same sector, so I am in class with three other YDs who tested into the same level as I did. Every two weeks we get a new language instructor, but thus far we are all still learning French, even though the four of us in my class tested out of French before starting classes. We will start learning new languages (Pidgin English, Fulfulde) if need be after we find out our posts on Wednesday. Tech sessions are our Youth Development technical skills training, and are led by our team of tech trainers, as well as PCVs (Peace Corps Volunteers) that come in for a week or two at a time. Because YD is a new program, there are no YD volunteers to lead sessions, so instead we have had volunteers from every sector (education, small enterprise development, health, and agroforestry) come in to work with us, which has been awesome. We learn about the youth of Cameroon, which groups we will be targeting, what each group's problems are, and how we will be going about addressing those problems. I will spare you the details for now. Medical sessions are always led by Nurse Ann, the Peace Corps Medical Officer (PCMO). Nurse Ann is hysterical. She's Cameroonian, but has been working with Peace Corps forever, and has formulated a series of opinions about PCVs based on her experience over the past two decades or so, most notably that all volunteers are sexually insatiable. She leads sessions about various medical issues, gives us all our vaccinations and medications, and replenishes our Medical Kit supplies when we run low on anything- especially condoms and dental dams. Medical sessions are a good time. YDs and Agros are usually together for Med, Security and Cross Culture sessions since we are the two groups that live in Bafia. Security sessions are led by Ruth, another Cameroonian with a long history with Peace Corps and probably a lot of preconceived notions about volunteers, but not nearly as obvious as Nurse Ann's. Ruth is sweet, albeit hard to understand at times, but she gets pretty loud when she's making an important point, which is helpful in following her lectures. Ruth talks to us about mitigating risk for robberies, sexual harassment, etc. Good stuff. Cross-culture sessions mostly pertained to homestays at first, but have evolved into discussing Cameroonian gender norms, Cameroonian history and geography, and other aspects of Cameroonian culture. General meetings are for all three groups, so we bus in the santés (health trainees) from Bokito on Thursdays for the weekly GM. GMs are basically a forum for training announcements, since it's the only time we are all together. So yeah those are our classes. Exhilarating, right?
Every day, lunch ladies come and set up a buffet at the base, and you can fill your plate for 500 CFA (a little over one American dollar), or 1000 CFA if you opt for the meat. You can pretty much count on the buffet consisting of rice, red beans and plantains every day. The other starches alternate between pasta, potatoes and couscous. They also usually have some sort of legume- either cabbage with carrots and green beans, or spinachy/ leafy somethin somethin, but sometimes potatoes are the closest we get to legumes. The meat option alternates daily as well, between chicken, ground beef, meatballs, fish or tripe. The meat is always dang good here, but since I get a lot of meat at home for dinner, I usually go for the vegetariation option and save my 500 CFA for a beer after school. They also usually have fruit that you can buy for an extra 50 CFA- yesterday it was papaya and it was amazeballs. So yeah, let me just reiterate- I am NOT going hungry in Africa.
After classes, we usually all go out for a beer and/or chocolate gateau at the bar/ boutique down the road. And when I say beer, I mean a forty. They only sell forties. So yeah, a forty for 500 CFA, which is a little more than one American dollar. Can you say party time? I am a trente trois girl myself, but for those in the group who aren't too keen on beer, there are the options of boxed wine, Smirnoff Ice, Booster Whisky-Cola, or the increasingly popular option sachets (small plastic baggies of shots of just barely potable alcohol) of whiskey or gin in Top soda. Chocolate gateau is a delicacy up there with grandmas nut balls- it's basically a giant dinner roll slathered with Tartina (Nutella with more cocoa and less hazelnut), and of late we have taken to adding a banana into the mix. Oh baby oh baby. When the sun starts to set, we all pack up and head to our homestays for the night.
At home, I sometimes help make dinner, but lately the fam has been having me wash dishes while they cook. Probably for the best. It's not that I can't cook- it's that I can't cook here. For starters, Cameroonians do not use cutting boards to cut food up- they just cut up everything in their hands. So when I tried to cut up onions last week, the waterworks were OOC- like Titanic caliber waterworks. Other highlights on my cooking adventures have included not having the strength/ stamina to stir the giant vat of cous cous with the monstrous wooden bat of a spoon, cutting myself trying to shave the skin off of manioc, burning an omelet, not being able to toast bread properly, getting a rash from insisting it was easier to peel garlic with my fingernails instead of a knife edge, and so on and so forth. Petit à petit as we say here in Cameroon.
So I bumble around the kitchen "helping" with what I can, trying to avoid injury to myself and others, until it's time for dinner. The one domestic task that is mine and mine alone at our house is setting the table, and let me tell you- I can set a MEAN table! Placemats? All over those bad boys! Plates? Done. Glasses? Forks? Check and check. It's just a gift I guess.
For dinner, we feast. Mama MC hails from the West, and is one hell of a chef. My favorite dishes are couscous de maiz with gumbo sauce (gumbo means okra in French, but it does kind of taste like gumbo from NOLA) and macabo with peanut fish sauce. Omnomnom. Last week Mama MC fixed me tripe because I said I was afraid of it when they served it for lunch one day at the base, and she insisted that I would love it if she made it for me. She was right- that shiz was de-freaking-licious. I've had it twice now. Good stuff. After dinner we watch Fille de Jardiner, and then I announce that I am going to sleep, and go into my room to read until I drop.
So there you have it, a day in the life.
Peace love and poop in a hole.
I have been in Cameroon for a little over a month now, and I know some inquiring minds out there are dying to know just what exactly I'm doing all day errday (besides sweating), so let me break it down for you: a day in the life of a PCT (Peace Corps Trainee) in Cameroon:
I wake up at 5:30am, which, as it turns out, is not a morning hour conducive to feeling anything remotely like P Diddy, but I prepare myself to hit the city of Bafia nonetheless. I huff and puff my way through a run, navigating the streets of the quartier residential, wowing all my neighbors with my profuse perspiration and my brilliantly white skin. Around 6:30, I make my way back home and indulge in a luxurious bucket bath (no but seriously that blue bucket of cold water paired with my John Frieda Brilliant Brunette shampoo is as close to luxurious as I'm going to get). After bathing, I dress myself- never with a mirror, sometimes without interior lighting- and come out looking fresh 2 death, obvi. I set the breakfast table while Diane and Mama MC (my mom's name is Marie Claire and her BFFs call her MC...ergo she is my Mama MC) rustle up some grub. Last week I got guacamole aka presse for breakfast every morning which was thebomb.com- especially on Tuesday and Wednesday when the guac was paired with leftover red beans and slathered on a baguette for a southwestern fiesta in my mouth. Normally on the non-fiesta mornings I am served a delicious tomato, garlic, onion and piment (hot pepper) omelet with baguette. However, this week I got thrown for a loop when Mama MC fixed us salad for breakfast two mornings in a row! That's right, people: lettuce, tomato, onion, and avocado in and around my mouth. There was an interesting twist to the salad, though: Cameroonian salad dressing, which is made with mayonnaise, sugar, vinegar and oil. Interessante... So the nutrient rich ingredients ended up being almost entirely masked by the dressing and by the baguette on which we consumed our "salad," but hey- a salad's a salad! I enjoyed it. I am ecstatic to report that I have been served Nescafé every morning with my breakfast ever since that wretched week of Ovaltine, so I have returned to stable caffeine levels and all is right in the world.
After petit dej (breakfast), Diane, Mama MC and I leave the house around 7:30 to walk to school, work, and the base, respectively. Mama MC rocks fierce heels every day- just like my momma back home, except Lisa T doesn't have to wade through muddy dirt roads in her fierce heels. It's amazing- Mama MC and I walk together on the same roads, and yet my chacos and rainbows are constantly caked in mud, while her white heels remain spotless.
Side note: My sister is always on my case about my shoes, but last Saturday she legitimately FREAKED out on me for trying to wear my chacos that were, admittedly, exceptionally muddy. She started going off about how she knows I have more pairs of shoes in my room, but for some reason I insist on wearing only sandals, and that it was absolutely unacceptable for me to go out in public with shoes looking like that. I ended up changing my shoes, leaving my chacos at home for Diane to wash to her standards, and walked to school with my tail between my legs and my rainbows on my feet.
So anyways, I walk to the base, greeting everyone I pass, Belle from Beauty and the Beast "Bonjour!" style. Classes start at 8:00 and go until 16:30 (military time is a STRUGGLE for me). We have four different classes every day: 8:00-10:00, then 10:20-12:20, then 13:30-15:00, and finally 15:15-16:30. Each of those four blocks may be a language class, a tech session, a medical session, a security session, a cross-culture session, or a general meeting. Language classes are small, with a maximum of four people in a class, and everyone in the class is in the same sector, so I am in class with three other YDs who tested into the same level as I did. Every two weeks we get a new language instructor, but thus far we are all still learning French, even though the four of us in my class tested out of French before starting classes. We will start learning new languages (Pidgin English, Fulfulde) if need be after we find out our posts on Wednesday. Tech sessions are our Youth Development technical skills training, and are led by our team of tech trainers, as well as PCVs (Peace Corps Volunteers) that come in for a week or two at a time. Because YD is a new program, there are no YD volunteers to lead sessions, so instead we have had volunteers from every sector (education, small enterprise development, health, and agroforestry) come in to work with us, which has been awesome. We learn about the youth of Cameroon, which groups we will be targeting, what each group's problems are, and how we will be going about addressing those problems. I will spare you the details for now. Medical sessions are always led by Nurse Ann, the Peace Corps Medical Officer (PCMO). Nurse Ann is hysterical. She's Cameroonian, but has been working with Peace Corps forever, and has formulated a series of opinions about PCVs based on her experience over the past two decades or so, most notably that all volunteers are sexually insatiable. She leads sessions about various medical issues, gives us all our vaccinations and medications, and replenishes our Medical Kit supplies when we run low on anything- especially condoms and dental dams. Medical sessions are a good time. YDs and Agros are usually together for Med, Security and Cross Culture sessions since we are the two groups that live in Bafia. Security sessions are led by Ruth, another Cameroonian with a long history with Peace Corps and probably a lot of preconceived notions about volunteers, but not nearly as obvious as Nurse Ann's. Ruth is sweet, albeit hard to understand at times, but she gets pretty loud when she's making an important point, which is helpful in following her lectures. Ruth talks to us about mitigating risk for robberies, sexual harassment, etc. Good stuff. Cross-culture sessions mostly pertained to homestays at first, but have evolved into discussing Cameroonian gender norms, Cameroonian history and geography, and other aspects of Cameroonian culture. General meetings are for all three groups, so we bus in the santés (health trainees) from Bokito on Thursdays for the weekly GM. GMs are basically a forum for training announcements, since it's the only time we are all together. So yeah those are our classes. Exhilarating, right?
Every day, lunch ladies come and set up a buffet at the base, and you can fill your plate for 500 CFA (a little over one American dollar), or 1000 CFA if you opt for the meat. You can pretty much count on the buffet consisting of rice, red beans and plantains every day. The other starches alternate between pasta, potatoes and couscous. They also usually have some sort of legume- either cabbage with carrots and green beans, or spinachy/ leafy somethin somethin, but sometimes potatoes are the closest we get to legumes. The meat option alternates daily as well, between chicken, ground beef, meatballs, fish or tripe. The meat is always dang good here, but since I get a lot of meat at home for dinner, I usually go for the vegetariation option and save my 500 CFA for a beer after school. They also usually have fruit that you can buy for an extra 50 CFA- yesterday it was papaya and it was amazeballs. So yeah, let me just reiterate- I am NOT going hungry in Africa.
After classes, we usually all go out for a beer and/or chocolate gateau at the bar/ boutique down the road. And when I say beer, I mean a forty. They only sell forties. So yeah, a forty for 500 CFA, which is a little more than one American dollar. Can you say party time? I am a trente trois girl myself, but for those in the group who aren't too keen on beer, there are the options of boxed wine, Smirnoff Ice, Booster Whisky-Cola, or the increasingly popular option sachets (small plastic baggies of shots of just barely potable alcohol) of whiskey or gin in Top soda. Chocolate gateau is a delicacy up there with grandmas nut balls- it's basically a giant dinner roll slathered with Tartina (Nutella with more cocoa and less hazelnut), and of late we have taken to adding a banana into the mix. Oh baby oh baby. When the sun starts to set, we all pack up and head to our homestays for the night.
At home, I sometimes help make dinner, but lately the fam has been having me wash dishes while they cook. Probably for the best. It's not that I can't cook- it's that I can't cook here. For starters, Cameroonians do not use cutting boards to cut food up- they just cut up everything in their hands. So when I tried to cut up onions last week, the waterworks were OOC- like Titanic caliber waterworks. Other highlights on my cooking adventures have included not having the strength/ stamina to stir the giant vat of cous cous with the monstrous wooden bat of a spoon, cutting myself trying to shave the skin off of manioc, burning an omelet, not being able to toast bread properly, getting a rash from insisting it was easier to peel garlic with my fingernails instead of a knife edge, and so on and so forth. Petit à petit as we say here in Cameroon.
So I bumble around the kitchen "helping" with what I can, trying to avoid injury to myself and others, until it's time for dinner. The one domestic task that is mine and mine alone at our house is setting the table, and let me tell you- I can set a MEAN table! Placemats? All over those bad boys! Plates? Done. Glasses? Forks? Check and check. It's just a gift I guess.
For dinner, we feast. Mama MC hails from the West, and is one hell of a chef. My favorite dishes are couscous de maiz with gumbo sauce (gumbo means okra in French, but it does kind of taste like gumbo from NOLA) and macabo with peanut fish sauce. Omnomnom. Last week Mama MC fixed me tripe because I said I was afraid of it when they served it for lunch one day at the base, and she insisted that I would love it if she made it for me. She was right- that shiz was de-freaking-licious. I've had it twice now. Good stuff. After dinner we watch Fille de Jardiner, and then I announce that I am going to sleep, and go into my room to read until I drop.
So there you have it, a day in the life.
Peace love and poop in a hole.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Best. Day. Ever.
Thursday morning I woke up 10 minutes before my alarm went off, got up and went to go meet Katie at the base (training center) for our 6am morning run. Katie is my super badass friend from Chicago who runs marathons... for fun. I'm more of a 1.5-miler myself, so long as those grueling 1.5 miles are run on a treadmill at 6.0 miles per hour and set to the tune of a bumpin GaGa/ GirlTalk/ Jay-Z playlist on my iPod. Soooo yeah me, the non-runner, and my running buddy, the marathoner, have been going on 20-30 minute morning runs this week. Needless to say, she's been toning down her intensity for my sake, but it's been really awesome for me! Ha. So as I am walking to the base, I run into Charla's grandma setting up her shop on the main road. Charla's grandma is probably the cutest and sweetest old woman ever, and she has a roadside stand where she sells food, namely nut balls. Nut balls are basically the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. Ever. Grandma calls them "caramels" but the more endearing title of "nut balls" has stuck with all of us whiteys. They are basically little balled up clusters of caramelized honey and crushed peanuts, and quite possibly where the phrase "little pieces of heaven" derives from. So all week I had been asking Gma when she was going to have more nut balls, since she's been out of stock. She hadn't had time to make them this week, but promised that she'd have them soon. So this morning, as I am on my way to meet up with Katie, I pass by gma's stand and wish her a good morning, and she gleefully informs me that she has nut balls for me today! That was all the motivation I needed to tough out that mornings run. After the run, I hurried home at 630, took an oh-so-refreshing bucket bath, dressed, and then sat down for breakfast. I unscrewed the ovaltine container, having accepted my caffeine-deprived fate many moons ago, and was ready to spoon out the earthy pseudo-chocolate-flavored granules, when I noticed that the ovaltine container was actually full of nescafé packets! 10 whole packets of caffeinated gloriousness! I squealed with delight, ecstatic to discover that my many mornings of ovaltine consumption had finally paid off in the best imaginable way. I relished each sip of my nescafé nectar-of-the-gods instant coffee, admiring the way it enhanced the flavor of my morning omlette and baguette. Once I was fully satiated, I packed up my bag and headed off to go see Charla's grandma about some nut balls. It took everything in me not to break out into a skip upon spotting the lime green-lidded container full to the rim with nut balls, but I managed to maintain a steady pace as I approached gma, albeit probably sporting a crazed smile and glassy eyes. Charla's gma put down the sandwich she was making for another client when she saw me and started filling a plastic bag with nut balls. I told her I wanted 200CFA's worth, so she gave me eight and then threw in an extra, therein solidifying our status as BFFs. I tucked away my treasures and continued on my way to la base. Nurse Ann was scheduled to give a Med talk first thing Thursday morning, and what a talk it was. Nurse Ann was wearing her sassy face, as per usual, and the PowerPoint slide behind her informed us of the days subject matter: STIs and HIV/AIDS. For the next two hours, we listened in horror as Nurse Ann described in great detail the perils of sex, flashing graphic image after graphic image before our eyes, and doling out solid advice such as "Semen in mouth. Dangerous. Just don't do it." and "Don't bite down when using your dental dams." Other highlights included a condom relay race, where teams raced to properly roll on and off condoms on generously proportioned rubber penises, and generating a list of non-STI-transmitting activities (i.e. hugging). What a way to start up training for the day! The rest of the day consisted of dubs language classes and then our weekly GM (general meeting). After GM, I went home and suited up for fútbol! By the time I had walked all the way home, changed, and then walked all the way back (in the midday heat mind you!), I had passed glistening (without collecting $200) and had moved right on into downright schvettayyy. I kid you not, FOUR people asked if I had just gone on a run, to which I replied "nope just a leisurely walk to my house and back..." I had no choice but to get in on the soccer game, if for no other reason than to justify my profuse perspiration. We were quite the melange of trainees/ trainers/ staff, Americans/ Cameroonians, skilled soccer players/ otherwise skilled athletes/ and me, a category of my own. I had such a blast playing though! Once I had sweat to the point of no return, I decided to call it a day and headed home. For dinner, we had boiled plantains and a delicious peanut fish sauce (don't knock it til you try it) followed by the BEST! PINEAPPLE! EVER! Oh my gosh it was so out of this world good. Better than Costa Rican piña if you can imagine. My mom informed me that Bafia is known to have the best pineapple in Cameroon. Omnomnom. We have been without power for most of this week, so that tragically means no Fille de la Jardiner soap opera. Last I saw, my sweet Alfredo had fallen out of his wheelchair. I am sick with worry not knowing if someone helped him up or not. I anxiously await the return of our power simply to get my soap back in my life. Other than that life without power at our house has gone swimmingly. I am well-versed in oil lantern use by now, plus I came prepared with my trusty head lamp, which I used this morning to apply my mascara. Skills. I have been literally getting dressed in the dark, but it's whatevs because so has everyone else- no shame in the game. I busted out a shirt that I hadn't yet worn this week, and got at least twenty compliments on it. We are all pretty much well-versed in one another's extremely limited wardrobes now that we are three weeks in, so a new piece of clothing is a show-stopper. Also, I have been living without access to a full-length mirror for three weeks now, and it is doing WONDERS for my self-confidence! All I have is a 6 inch round mirror that I brought with me, and the one mirror in the bathroom at the training center thats shoulder-height. Out of sight, out of mind. Holla. So yes that was my BEST! DAY! EVER! I'd like to thank Nescafé and nut balls and Nurse Ann for making it possible.
In other news, I had to throw in the towel on my laundry strike. My perspiration rate paired with my unparalleled ability to spill food on myself pretty much maxes me out at two weeks. However, when I finally did laundry yesterday I realized that two weeks worth of dirty clothing is a week too many. Even with the help of my sister, I spent hours slaving away over mud, spilled peanut fish sauce, and residual morning run sweat. By the time I finished, my inner left wrist seared in pain where I had used it as a washboard. You see, Cameroonians have this very methodical and precise way of washing their clothing, which consists mainly of this one movement which employs the inner left wrist as a washboard of sorts, creating copious amounts of friction which my fragile wrists are clearly incapable of supporting- ESPECIALLY when doing two weeks worth of laundry. My sister praised me for learning the method so quickly, thereby making me extra zealous as I proudly displayed my new skill to the world, and now I literally have battle wounds, which serve as vivid and painful reminders that laundry is a WEEKLY activity, if not bi-weekly. Lesson learned.
And on a final note, I am now obsessed with riding motos. They are my fam's only mode of transportation apart from walking, which suits me just fine. My mom is a pro at hailing a moto. We can be two city blocks off of the main road, and with a hiss and a flick of her wrist, she has magically summoned three different motos vying for her business. Relevant cultural note: to hail a moto, you either hiss, fold your fingers into your palm, or do both at once. Moto drivers have a supernatural sense of hearing, which allows them to hear a hiss over the roar of their moto engine. Another relevant cultural note: when riding a moto, you sit back and rest your hands on your knees, or if you must, grip the metal frame on the back of the seat; you do NOT wrap your arms around your moto driver and cling to his windbreaker-clad torso for dear life... Like I did the first time...
That's all for now. Stay tuned americanos.
xoxo
In other news, I had to throw in the towel on my laundry strike. My perspiration rate paired with my unparalleled ability to spill food on myself pretty much maxes me out at two weeks. However, when I finally did laundry yesterday I realized that two weeks worth of dirty clothing is a week too many. Even with the help of my sister, I spent hours slaving away over mud, spilled peanut fish sauce, and residual morning run sweat. By the time I finished, my inner left wrist seared in pain where I had used it as a washboard. You see, Cameroonians have this very methodical and precise way of washing their clothing, which consists mainly of this one movement which employs the inner left wrist as a washboard of sorts, creating copious amounts of friction which my fragile wrists are clearly incapable of supporting- ESPECIALLY when doing two weeks worth of laundry. My sister praised me for learning the method so quickly, thereby making me extra zealous as I proudly displayed my new skill to the world, and now I literally have battle wounds, which serve as vivid and painful reminders that laundry is a WEEKLY activity, if not bi-weekly. Lesson learned.
And on a final note, I am now obsessed with riding motos. They are my fam's only mode of transportation apart from walking, which suits me just fine. My mom is a pro at hailing a moto. We can be two city blocks off of the main road, and with a hiss and a flick of her wrist, she has magically summoned three different motos vying for her business. Relevant cultural note: to hail a moto, you either hiss, fold your fingers into your palm, or do both at once. Moto drivers have a supernatural sense of hearing, which allows them to hear a hiss over the roar of their moto engine. Another relevant cultural note: when riding a moto, you sit back and rest your hands on your knees, or if you must, grip the metal frame on the back of the seat; you do NOT wrap your arms around your moto driver and cling to his windbreaker-clad torso for dear life... Like I did the first time...
That's all for now. Stay tuned americanos.
xoxo
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
I am among my people.
What's crack-a-lackin America?
Since we last spoke, I have ventured from the dirty-dirty to Philly to NYC to Brussels to Yaounde and finally to Bafia. So we have quite a lot to catch up on...
My last 24 hours in the ATL was, in short, my own personal hell. In true form as a master in the art of procrastination, I left all my packing to the last minute. I spent the grand majority of those 24 hours sitting in the middle of a sea of clothes, kitchen supplies, electronics, etc. vacillating between being completely overwhelmed trying to figure out the logistics of bringing everything I would need for the next two years with me- worried that I wouldn't be able to bring enough, and disgust of how much of the first world I was even considering bringing along- wanting instead to take nothing at all. Luckily, I have a mother who is well-versed in the practicalities of packing, who was able to walk me through filling two checked bags with only the necessities, and then to quell all my first world/ third world anxieties. Thank the Lord Almighty for Lisa T.
So off to Philly I went. I met up with three other PCTs (Peace Corps Trainees) at the Atlanta airport for the flight to Philadelphia, which was clutch because when our flight was late and our shuttle from the airport to the hotel ended up being a complete fiasco, I didn't have to go it alone. The chaotic shuttle ride wasn't all bad, since I had the It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia theme song stuck in my head as we navigated the streets of PA. Once we finally arrived at the hotel, we waded through piles of paperwork, and then officially commenced staging. Staging is basically Peace Corps orientation, so while it had great potential to be super lame and hokey, what with all the ice breakers and group activities, it surprisingly wasn't all that bad. Everyone was there for the same reason, and so nobody was acting like they were too cool for school. I realized then that I am among my people. They told us at staging, "This is the first time since you applied for the Peace Corps that you don't have to explain to anyone why you're here." True dat. I am obsessed with all my new peeps. I'm finding more and more each day what an amazingly qualified group of people we are. I am so wildly impressed with my peers here, and am so proud to be a part of this badass group. But I digress.
For our final dinner stateside, we nommed on burgers at the Hard Rock Cafe. After dinner, Kelliandra Christine White graced me with her presence at my hotel, and gave me fancy Sephora undereye cream for the sleep depravity that was already marring my beautiful face by the end of staging. It was a wonderful final send-off. In the morning, the crew boarded our buses to get to NYC for our departure to Brussels, and then finally to CAMEROOOOOOOON.
International flights are what's up! It's all nap time and chow time when flying overseas, and what could be better than that? Nothing, that's what. So I read, and then I slept (harrrd), waking only to nosh. Waking up to a stewardess waving an ice cream cone in my face- FTW. Also, I feel like airplane food gets a bad rap, and I would just like to take a moment to express my deep and sincere appreciation of the food we were served between Brussels and Yaounde. President Brie and crackers? Cous cous and curried halibut? Ice cream? Um HOLLER. So I deboarded the plane in Yaounde and greeted Africa with creases and drool decorating my face, and sweating like the delicate little flower I am. Just for the record, the extreme perspiration has yet to cease. Seriously, though. Sweat-staches and pit stains are NOT THE LOOK, and I'm rockin em all day errday. Can't stop my shine (literally).
In Yaounde, we were confined to our hotel for three days, leaving only for Peace Corps sponsored field trips. That's not to say those three days weren't ridiculously epic, though. We dined at the country director's house with the US Ambassador to Cameroon and his lovely wife, and danced with an internationally-touring group of traditional Cameroonian dancers after they performed for us, among other awesomeness. NBD. Actually those were the most awesome things that happened. Other than that it was all paperwork and vaccines and interviews and lectures. Woo. So we didn't get to see much of the capital, but we did get our first taste of Cameroonian cuisine, which if I had to describe in one word, would be "starchy." We eat a lot of white baguettes, white rice, plantains, potatoes, couscous, pasta and manioc. Oftentimes these carbohydrates are served together, like white rice, beans, plantains and potatoes, with a side of pasta. So for all of you who were so convinced that I was going to drop some serious lbs during my two years in Africa, think again! And a special shout-out to all of you who encouraged my month-long binge eating before departure, constantly reminding me of how skinny I was going to become no matter what/ how much I consumed before leaving (I'm looking at you, Aunt Linda with your cheese party, and Charlie with your man-eating habits that I mirrored for two weeks).
And now here I am posted up in Bafia, a medium sized village in the southwest of Cameroon. I live with my maman, Marie Claire, my two sisters, Judith and Diane, and my little 8 month old nephew, Jeremy, Judith's son. I am beyond obsessed with my homestay fam. On the first day of training after spending our first night with our new families, we were asked to describe our first impressions in one word, and my word was "ya-ya" because I feel like I have joined this amazing sisterhood of smart and beautiful women. As a youth development volunteer, I feel so lucky to have such encouraging surroundings and to be able to have these three months of experience that I can go on to share with the girls I am working with at my post. I love practicing my French with them, and just spending time with them. My house is super nice- way nicer than I was expecting. We have electricity and a real toilet! I have found that I am rather fond of bucket bathing- it's super refreshing to dump a bucket of cold water on myself after a full day of can't-stop-won't-stop sweating. Cameroonian women tend to bathe twice a day, though, and I just cannot keep up with all that. I'm more of a once every two days kinda gal, and was hoping to become more of a once every three to four days kinda gal, but it looks like I'm going to have to postpone that project. Every night before dinner, my fam and I watch this awesome telenovela La Fille de Jardinier, then we watch the news after dinner. They feed me super well- but never fail to make fun of my "small" portion sizes. Cameroonians eat like food is going out of style. I fear that my portion sizes are slowly but surely going native (already). I just need to keep reminding myself to keep the carb intake at bay as much as possible. Every morning, they serve me a dank omlette with tomatoes, onions, garlic, and peppers. Omnomnom. At first I felt a little awkward, since they eat only bread for breakfast, but insisted that they were more than happy to serve me omlettes every morning. And you all know I didn't put up that much of a fight...
This bad boy is getting rather lengthy, so let me just give you a few other highlights:
-Best meal so far: guacamole, baguette, and hot chocolate for breakfast on Sunday. Say what? Yeah, that's right. SMART.
-Mom, you'll be happy to hear that by pure coincidence, I have had red beans and rice every Monday night since being here. (For those of you who don't know, we eat red beans and rice every Monday night at home, as per our New Orleans heritage.)
-I did laundry on Sunday for the first time, and freakin wore myself out! I couldn't even make it to our afternoon wiffle ball game. My sister helped me every step of the way, but all that pulling water out of the well business and scrubbing every inch of soiled clothing was WORK. Cleanliness is overrated anyways, right? Over it.
-A fellow YD (Youth Development) trainee, Charla, is a Zumba instructor! She conducted a couple of classes for us in Yaounde, and we had high hopes of continuing our workout regiment in Bafia, but thus far have yet to do so thanks to the equatorial sun/ heat. I love love love Zumba, though.
-Cameroonians are not big coffee drinkers, or at least not at my homestay. I told them I was a big fan of my cafe in the mornings, so the first morning they offered me a selection of Nescafe packets, which was cool. Then the next morning, there was just one original flavor Nescafe packet, which was totally cool too. However, I haven't seen a single Nescafe product since that morning. I don't understand what happened. One morning they were all "Oh Sarah, you take sugar with your coffee, right?" and then the next morning it was all, "Here's the Ovaltine and powdered milk, Sarah- drink up." This morning, actually, there wasn't even any powdered milk. Just straight Ovaltine. I don't understand what's going on, but my caffeine levels are at an all-time low. I'm dealing.
Okay that's all for now, comrades. Well except for one shameless plea for you all to send me emails and letters (please please pleaseeeee)!! Peace out girl scouts! Love you all to the moon and back xoxo
Since we last spoke, I have ventured from the dirty-dirty to Philly to NYC to Brussels to Yaounde and finally to Bafia. So we have quite a lot to catch up on...
My last 24 hours in the ATL was, in short, my own personal hell. In true form as a master in the art of procrastination, I left all my packing to the last minute. I spent the grand majority of those 24 hours sitting in the middle of a sea of clothes, kitchen supplies, electronics, etc. vacillating between being completely overwhelmed trying to figure out the logistics of bringing everything I would need for the next two years with me- worried that I wouldn't be able to bring enough, and disgust of how much of the first world I was even considering bringing along- wanting instead to take nothing at all. Luckily, I have a mother who is well-versed in the practicalities of packing, who was able to walk me through filling two checked bags with only the necessities, and then to quell all my first world/ third world anxieties. Thank the Lord Almighty for Lisa T.
So off to Philly I went. I met up with three other PCTs (Peace Corps Trainees) at the Atlanta airport for the flight to Philadelphia, which was clutch because when our flight was late and our shuttle from the airport to the hotel ended up being a complete fiasco, I didn't have to go it alone. The chaotic shuttle ride wasn't all bad, since I had the It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia theme song stuck in my head as we navigated the streets of PA. Once we finally arrived at the hotel, we waded through piles of paperwork, and then officially commenced staging. Staging is basically Peace Corps orientation, so while it had great potential to be super lame and hokey, what with all the ice breakers and group activities, it surprisingly wasn't all that bad. Everyone was there for the same reason, and so nobody was acting like they were too cool for school. I realized then that I am among my people. They told us at staging, "This is the first time since you applied for the Peace Corps that you don't have to explain to anyone why you're here." True dat. I am obsessed with all my new peeps. I'm finding more and more each day what an amazingly qualified group of people we are. I am so wildly impressed with my peers here, and am so proud to be a part of this badass group. But I digress.
For our final dinner stateside, we nommed on burgers at the Hard Rock Cafe. After dinner, Kelliandra Christine White graced me with her presence at my hotel, and gave me fancy Sephora undereye cream for the sleep depravity that was already marring my beautiful face by the end of staging. It was a wonderful final send-off. In the morning, the crew boarded our buses to get to NYC for our departure to Brussels, and then finally to CAMEROOOOOOOON.
International flights are what's up! It's all nap time and chow time when flying overseas, and what could be better than that? Nothing, that's what. So I read, and then I slept (harrrd), waking only to nosh. Waking up to a stewardess waving an ice cream cone in my face- FTW. Also, I feel like airplane food gets a bad rap, and I would just like to take a moment to express my deep and sincere appreciation of the food we were served between Brussels and Yaounde. President Brie and crackers? Cous cous and curried halibut? Ice cream? Um HOLLER. So I deboarded the plane in Yaounde and greeted Africa with creases and drool decorating my face, and sweating like the delicate little flower I am. Just for the record, the extreme perspiration has yet to cease. Seriously, though. Sweat-staches and pit stains are NOT THE LOOK, and I'm rockin em all day errday. Can't stop my shine (literally).
In Yaounde, we were confined to our hotel for three days, leaving only for Peace Corps sponsored field trips. That's not to say those three days weren't ridiculously epic, though. We dined at the country director's house with the US Ambassador to Cameroon and his lovely wife, and danced with an internationally-touring group of traditional Cameroonian dancers after they performed for us, among other awesomeness. NBD. Actually those were the most awesome things that happened. Other than that it was all paperwork and vaccines and interviews and lectures. Woo. So we didn't get to see much of the capital, but we did get our first taste of Cameroonian cuisine, which if I had to describe in one word, would be "starchy." We eat a lot of white baguettes, white rice, plantains, potatoes, couscous, pasta and manioc. Oftentimes these carbohydrates are served together, like white rice, beans, plantains and potatoes, with a side of pasta. So for all of you who were so convinced that I was going to drop some serious lbs during my two years in Africa, think again! And a special shout-out to all of you who encouraged my month-long binge eating before departure, constantly reminding me of how skinny I was going to become no matter what/ how much I consumed before leaving (I'm looking at you, Aunt Linda with your cheese party, and Charlie with your man-eating habits that I mirrored for two weeks).
And now here I am posted up in Bafia, a medium sized village in the southwest of Cameroon. I live with my maman, Marie Claire, my two sisters, Judith and Diane, and my little 8 month old nephew, Jeremy, Judith's son. I am beyond obsessed with my homestay fam. On the first day of training after spending our first night with our new families, we were asked to describe our first impressions in one word, and my word was "ya-ya" because I feel like I have joined this amazing sisterhood of smart and beautiful women. As a youth development volunteer, I feel so lucky to have such encouraging surroundings and to be able to have these three months of experience that I can go on to share with the girls I am working with at my post. I love practicing my French with them, and just spending time with them. My house is super nice- way nicer than I was expecting. We have electricity and a real toilet! I have found that I am rather fond of bucket bathing- it's super refreshing to dump a bucket of cold water on myself after a full day of can't-stop-won't-stop sweating. Cameroonian women tend to bathe twice a day, though, and I just cannot keep up with all that. I'm more of a once every two days kinda gal, and was hoping to become more of a once every three to four days kinda gal, but it looks like I'm going to have to postpone that project. Every night before dinner, my fam and I watch this awesome telenovela La Fille de Jardinier, then we watch the news after dinner. They feed me super well- but never fail to make fun of my "small" portion sizes. Cameroonians eat like food is going out of style. I fear that my portion sizes are slowly but surely going native (already). I just need to keep reminding myself to keep the carb intake at bay as much as possible. Every morning, they serve me a dank omlette with tomatoes, onions, garlic, and peppers. Omnomnom. At first I felt a little awkward, since they eat only bread for breakfast, but insisted that they were more than happy to serve me omlettes every morning. And you all know I didn't put up that much of a fight...
This bad boy is getting rather lengthy, so let me just give you a few other highlights:
-Best meal so far: guacamole, baguette, and hot chocolate for breakfast on Sunday. Say what? Yeah, that's right. SMART.
-Mom, you'll be happy to hear that by pure coincidence, I have had red beans and rice every Monday night since being here. (For those of you who don't know, we eat red beans and rice every Monday night at home, as per our New Orleans heritage.)
-I did laundry on Sunday for the first time, and freakin wore myself out! I couldn't even make it to our afternoon wiffle ball game. My sister helped me every step of the way, but all that pulling water out of the well business and scrubbing every inch of soiled clothing was WORK. Cleanliness is overrated anyways, right? Over it.
-A fellow YD (Youth Development) trainee, Charla, is a Zumba instructor! She conducted a couple of classes for us in Yaounde, and we had high hopes of continuing our workout regiment in Bafia, but thus far have yet to do so thanks to the equatorial sun/ heat. I love love love Zumba, though.
-Cameroonians are not big coffee drinkers, or at least not at my homestay. I told them I was a big fan of my cafe in the mornings, so the first morning they offered me a selection of Nescafe packets, which was cool. Then the next morning, there was just one original flavor Nescafe packet, which was totally cool too. However, I haven't seen a single Nescafe product since that morning. I don't understand what happened. One morning they were all "Oh Sarah, you take sugar with your coffee, right?" and then the next morning it was all, "Here's the Ovaltine and powdered milk, Sarah- drink up." This morning, actually, there wasn't even any powdered milk. Just straight Ovaltine. I don't understand what's going on, but my caffeine levels are at an all-time low. I'm dealing.
Okay that's all for now, comrades. Well except for one shameless plea for you all to send me emails and letters (please please pleaseeeee)!! Peace out girl scouts! Love you all to the moon and back xoxo
Monday, September 12, 2011
nine days
Shalom blogsphere!! It's been a while- but it feels good to be back (if you didn't keep up with my Costa Rica blog you have got some serious catching up to do http://www.princesssarahmae.blogspot.com )! In nine days I will be embarking upon my next great adventure: serving as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Cameroon on the west coast of Africa for 27 months. Yesterday my wonderful mother threw me a fabulous going-away party so that all of my friends and family could come, wish me well, and shower me with gifts (just kidding.. but really. that's wassup.). It was truly amazing to be physically surrounded by so much love and support. I needed those three hours of hugs, affirmations and votes of confidence. Thank you again to everyone who came out to send me off- I am so blessed to have all of you beautiful people in my life.
So nine days... that's not much time considering I still haven't packed and am scheduled to take the GRE on Thursday (and haven't studied for it in two weeks) AND have a hot date with the love of my life Athens, Georgia on Saturday night. Oh and I'm going to try to get an appointment to chop off all of my hair tomorrow... I'll just cut out the frivolities like exercising and sleeping for the time being, so I can squeeze in more qt with my peeps, more glasses of red wine and most importantly more cheese consumption.
Ciao for now.
xo princess
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