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.