la pluie menace

WAZZUP WAZZAHHHHH*

So I can now officially confirm that it is rainy season- not because my breasts have ESPN and can tell when it's already raining, but because of THE INCESSANT ASSAILMENT OF ALL OF THE EFFING FLIES. The situation is out. of. control. These miniature poo-loving hellions with wings land on me while I'm STILL IN MOTION, and that just ain't right. They're fearless! Swat them away and they just come right on back, pollenating whatever it is you are eating and drinking with oodles and oodles of feces, and do not even bother trying to huff and puff them away- no dice. These dastardly demons will not budge unless their life is in immediate danger. Yesterday, I was sipping on some bilbil with my peeps in village and found myself chugging my calabash (that was roughly the size of my head, mind you) of "wine" because the alternative was slowly sipping on it as fifty or so flies make it rain with fecal matter all along the rim of the calabash, while another few flies swan dive straight into the libations, forcing you to ladle them out with your unwashed hand. Omnomnom. Unfortunately, my chugging was misinterpreted and I was given another calabash of bilbil, which I also chugged, out of politeness of course, and that was then followed by a third calabash in which bilbil had been mixed with peanut butter, and that one I chugged moreso because I had my bilbil buzz going and also because that shiz was DELICIOUS. Cynthia, resident bilbil expert, later informed me that peanut butter bilbil is reserved solely for the lushes of the community. Nice. But yeah so when I finally put my calabash down on the bench next to me, it took about .3 seconds for the entire surface area of the calabash to be completely covered in flies. NOT OKAY. And apparently it's only going to get worse. Also not okay. Shit's furrealz. Shit's XTREME.

Earlier this month, some of my stagemates and a couple of visitors from the states came up to experience the xtreme and faire un peu de tourisme. They arrived just in time to celebrate the gloriousness that was the 4th of July, which dearest George was kind enough to host in Kaele. I managed to mooch a ride the day before with another volunteer, Luke, who was getting a lift from his counterpart so that they could go check out a tree nursery near Kaele together for work purposes. I biked into Maroua early the morning of the 3rd to catch a ride on the mooch train, but when I got there Luke informed me that we would be motoing out to go meet the car that we were riding in. Um DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? jk. So we doubled up on a moto and told the driver to take us out to the intersection that forks off to Mokolo, since that was where our chaffeur was coming from. We just barely managed to get out of Maroua unscathed- our moto driver decided to spice up our lives that morning with one too many close calls with bikes, motos and seemingly any and all moving vehicles we passed along the way. Meanwhile, I held my breath between veritable yelps of panic and swatted at his back from time to time in case he had missed the IMMEDIATE DANGER [he had] posed before us. You know how I like to keep my cool. Swag. Once out of Maroua, we had made it about 2k before our moto driver started cursing and slowed to a stop. Confused, I insisted that we press on, informing our driver that we had not yet reached our destination, and really starting to worry about his vision and overall aptitude as a moto driver. Luke informed me that his back tire had blown out, and that we had been fishtailing quite a bit before stopping. Oh. Right. I totally got that too. Convinced that we weren't too far off from our destination, Luke convinced me that we should proceed on foot, and then calls his counterpart to tell him we will be another couple of minutes because our moto broke down. So proceed we did, two whities with duffel bags and a pillow trekking along the main road out of Maroua, looking eight kinds of crazy to all the Cameroonian rubberneckers passing us by. Another kilometer or so into the "it's just up ahead" hike, my gladiator sandals were starting to blister my feet and I was using my pillow to towel off my sweatstache with growing frequence; I looked at Luke in desperation and suggested that maybe it was time he called his counterpart. Within moments of making the call, an Audi rolls up and two Cameroonians pop out of the car to take our bags for us, asking us why we are so sweaty and why we hadn't called before. Face. Palm. We settle into the back of the air conditioned luxury vehicle and chat it up with my new peeps (our peep bond was made official when they bought me snacks- peeps fo lyfe), stopping along the road from time to time when Luke's counterpart noticed a photo op. It was fancy- fancy enough to make me very aware of my appearance... and how busted I look ALL. THE. TIME. in this country. My only saving grace is the nationwide lack of reflective surfaces- not a lot of mirrors in good ol CamCam, and I thank my lucky stars every day for that. But anyways, we roll up to Kaele like ballers in our sweet ride, and the rest of the crew carries on to Piwa, leaving me in the capable and saxophone-loving hands of George Michail. George and I cruised around for a few hours, stopping for beers and some bomb ass brochettes at the Hotel Palmier, and making arrangements to ensure all party-goers would have dinner, drunk munchies and hangover beans and beignets at their disposition. Luke and his counterpart came back into Kaele after a few hours with their driver friend, and we all went to Mama Flo's Bamenda Club for dranks and delicious southern cuisine- most notably njamma njamma omnomnom, then bar hopped a bit before calling it a night. Cut to the next morning, Luke and I evaluating the trainwreck that is George Michail's bachelor pad and forming a plan of attack for making it party-ready presentable. We decided our best bet was to only focus on the living room, and to just write the rest of the house off as a lost cause. We started by throwing things away- unearthing things left by the previous volunteer 9 months ago, tossing the things George could not identify as his own and throwing the rest of it into a back room to rot there for the rest of eternity, most likely. Then we thought we'd brave the dirt situation, starting with a broom, or as George likes to call it "a brush." Not kidding. He kept going on about how he hasn't "brushed" his house since he moved in, and "hand me that brush again" and "I have too much pride to have someone come and brush my house for me." No, George. Just no. So after "brushing" heap after heap after heap of dust out of the living room, I took it upon myself to beat the rugs. As I was lifting my first victim off the ground, a small doormat, George warned me to "be careful." He was genuinely concerned- I should have proceeded with more caution than I did. It took about three swats for me to be completely engulfed in an impenetrable cloud of dust, and then another three for me to break the tree that was holding up the laundry line where I was beating the rug. Ewpz. Distaster strikes. We did eventually manage to make the living room presentable, and toasted our great success with shots of Johnnie Walker in the name of Independence and all things AMERICUH (fuck yeah!). Guests began to arrive a few shots later, and all you need to know about the rest of the evening is that there were A LOT of stars and stripes and beer and mirror dancing and sweating and falling down/ off of things and icing of bros and commandeering of the dj booth and reading of the declaration of independence and things getting weird and way too many pictures of it all and GOD. BLESS. AMERICA. Boom. It was an all-around win for America fo sho fo sho.

Later that week, I took three of the girls who were here on vacay out to Meskine. We biked over, stopping to visit with the ostriches that reside at the Hotel Saare on the way. We took a few group shots, but then I (obviously) asked if one of the girls would take some solo shots of me and the ostriches. HOOTIE HOO! We parted ways with the magnificient beasts, and continued on our bike ride to Meskeet-skeet. We went straight over to my BFF Lucie's house. I had called Lucie earlier on to see if she would mind making us some Fulere sauce, my personal fave and an xtreme north staple. She said pas de probleme so when we got there we nommed on some couscous and fulere sauce, and then we bought a couple of buckets of bilbil (traditional wine made from millet) and sipped on that. The girls loved the fulere (who wouldn't?!) and they were all very impressed with my bilbil drinking abilities- mom and dad, be proud. I think it was a pretty good gout of village life in the xtreme. Also, bringing visitors to my post made me so appreciate Meskine and my life there and all of my wonderful friends that I have made there. So come one come all, bitches! After we had had our fill of village eats and boozing, we hopped back on our bikes and biked back to Maroua. In the morning a big group of us headed out to go see Rhumsiki. In Maroua, we hopped on the Mokolo Express, where they crammed us all into the back of a coaster van and then informed us that we were not to touch the windows because entire panes have been known to fall out and shatter. Alright that's cool I like my busrides sauna-style and full of noxious fumes, especially when packed in like sardines! But the ride was only an hour and a half, so we were of the school of thought that you can survive anything for an hour and a half. Right? Right. So we set off, slowly lumbering out of Maroua, already sweaty and a little high off of the fumes by the time we hit the city limits. As we chugged along, the bus started making some cray cray noises, and then finally it rumbled to a stop and started smoking. The driver kept on trying to rev the engine back to life, as the engine choked and drowned and started spewing more and more smoke. We panickedly tried to tell the driver to at least let us all get out before he kept on with his madness- and those of us in the back row with no window exits were most emphatic with our requests- as the rest of the car scrambled to evacuate the smoking vehicle. We did make it out, but only just in time for the driver to instruct us all to climb back in because his boo-ghetto van was apparently back up to Mokolo Express working conditions. So hop back in the death box on wheels we did. At that point, the fumes were so strong that all of our eyes were watering, and we sat in that lovely aroma for another hour before stumbling out of the car in Mokolo gasping for fresh air, only to embark on the second half of our voyage: the two and a half hour moto ride to Rhumsiki. Suzie rustled up a fleet of motos for our crew, and then we were off- a parade of bobbleheaded whities zipping through the roads of Mokolo and beyond. The rain was menacing, and shortly after leaving Mokolo our moto drivers all stopped to discuss the clouds and how soon the rain was going to fall. We urged them on, and despite their better judgment they pressed forward. Sure enough, the skies opened up about thirty minutes into our journey, and my moto driver started bomping his horn and cursing under his breath and leading the others to a shack on the side of the road in search of shelter. They herded us all into this teensy mud room that was already being occupied by the family who lived there, but we squeezed in right alongside them, making ourselves at home and cozying up with the family that did not invite us into their home. There we sat in silence, 8 nassaras sitting across from 15+ Cameroonians- everyone just staring at each other. The rain did eventually let up, after an uncomfortably long time of an uncomfortable situation, and we got back on our motos and continued our trek. It wasn't long before we had to stop again at the hand of the rain, this time at what seemed to be an abandoned shack so it was significantly less uncomfortable. When we got back on after that second rain, though, the roads had become a situation. It was like the dirt road was just a dry river bed that had been waiting thirstily for the first rain to fill it up- at one point we came across a legit river with a fairly strong current that we had to cross. I watched as Katie's moto man shot across, tire-deep in the river as the water shot up over their heads, and was like fuck. this. I dismounted my moto and waded into the water. It took until I was halfway across and knee-deep, with my jeans soaked completely through, and my own moto passing me by unscathed, for me to realize I had made a very poor life decision. I did manage to make it across, and despite what I perceived to be many close calls on the muddy roads, my moto did not fall once. HOLLA. We made it to Rhumsiki just before it started pouring again, and oh. my. goodness. gracious. it was SO unbelievably beautiful there! We had a bomb ass weekend- slumming it on some grungy mattresses on the cement floors of the back rooms of a nice restaurant to save a few fcfas, getting up to watch the sun rise over the mountains and then enjoying homemade fresh baked bread and coffee for breakfast, lunches and dinners made almost entirely from ingredients grown at the restaurant we were staying at, late night chats under more stars than you can imagine (we could literally see the milky way) and breathtakingly beautiful scenery everywhere you looked. I am already dying to go back- it was the most beautiful part of Cameroon I've seen thus far and it's in the home sweet xtreme home! But it looks like a totally different place from where I am posted- and it was COLD! I was wrapped up in my flannel and scarf and a blanket and still chilly; whereas I am still getting heat rash from time to time here in the Maroua/ Meskine area. WTF. But so anyways, on our first morning we had decided to do the horseback ride tour through the valley. When asked how long of a tour we would like, we shrugged our shoulders and suggested two hours, thinking that was reasonable. We would discover later that that was a MISTAKE. So after our morning sunrise walk and some delicious breakfast, our horses arrive, and those shits were SKINTYYYY. I guess all horses in this country are skinny, but you don't think too much about it if you aren't trying to mount it for a two hour horseback ride. Also, in the place of saddles they were all sporting plastic sacks. This all should have been a red flag. With our horses, our trail guides also arrived: little boys ranging in ages 5-14 who spoke little to no French. This should also have been a red flag. We questioned nothing. Instead, we hopped on our horses enthusiastically and set off, and I found myself leading the pack. The first few minutes were exhilirating! Riding bareback on a horse through a beautiful part of Cameroon- how wonderful! How exciting! How adventurous! Take lots of pictures of meeee!!!! It took about 30 minutes for the novelty of our morning excursion to wear off and for the significantly less glamorous reality of having malnourished horse spine shoved further up your asscrack than you would have ever imagined possible to sink in. At around the hour mark, we were a chorus of crass complaints: "I CAN'T FEEL MY VAGINA!" "YOUR VAGINA?! AM I SITTING WRONG?? MY ASS CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!" "OH MY GOD YOU GUYS I THINK MY ASS IS BROKEN!" and so on and so forth. Thankfully, we soon thereafter came to a resting point, where we dismounted and let the horses graze while we chugged what little water we had with us and took pictures. We were optimistic at this point- excited to be at our halfway point, reinvigorated for the secong leg of the trip, ready to take on the world! Riding our wave of optimism, we went out to find our horses, who were all very happily grazing and had no interest in our nonsense. My horse was the sassiest about it though- that bitch tried to kick me twice. My catlike reflexes allowed me to dodge his sassy kicks and to mount him despite his protests. Suck it. My sassy horse and I took up the rear for the second leg because he found stopping for snacks to be more important than leading his pack of brothers, and as a fellow snack lover I understood. So from my vantage point, I saw when, two minutes down the trail, Katie was headed straight for a tree of thorns. Trying to hail her horse guide, Olivier, she began to scream "OLIVIA! OLIVIA! O! LI! VI! AAAA!! VIEN ICI! VITE! VITE! [come here quickly quickly]" as she went crashing into the thorn tree. Olivier arrived to the scene shortly after the crash and pulled her out, but the damage had been done, and Katie was on "Olivia's" ass for the remainder of the ride. "OLIVIA! VIEN [come]!" "OLIVIA! QU'EST-CE QUE TU FAIS?[what are you doing?]" Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned (thorned). It wasn't long after the thorn incident that out of the corner of my eye I saw Jon somersaulting across the grass and popping up into a perfect gymnastic dismount, throwing his arms up like he had just won the gold medal. Apparently his horse's front legs had given out (!!), sending him tumbling over the top of his horse's head and off of the path. After we assured that he was fine, we laughed until we cried, and that's probably about when the delerium set in. We realized then that we were nowhere near where we had started and that there was no fucking way we would be done in two hours. We tried to inquire about the remaining length of our excursion, but our little boy guides couldn't understand French. Womp womp. One by one our group began to dismount and walk with their horses, Jon of course setting this trend and others following for the sake of their chapped asses and numbed vaginas. Alyssa, Laura and I stuck it out, though, despite the total loss of feeling of my bottom half as hour two stretched on. A little after hour 3, we realized we weren't far off from the hotel, and I guess it was in that burst of excitement that Katie in all her sunburnt glory thought it would be a good idea to give Olivier a piggyback ride uphill for the very last leg? Still not sure about that one, Nibs. But in any case we made it, if not a little more worn for the wear. I managed to bowleggedly hobble to our lunch table and wolf down some grub before going to pass out for the rest of the afternoon. At dusk, Katie, Megan and I went to go see the crab sorcerer. The crab sorcerer is this little old man whom you ask a question about your life/ future. He then asks his crab your question and spits on him a little bit and then throws the crab into this carefully arranged bowl of sand, water and woodchips then covers him and you wait. He then unveils the bowl to reveal the crab's answer to your question and translates it for you. I asked him about my career- if there would be a lot of changes and if I would travel with it. The crab responded that yes there would be a lot of changes in my work and that each change would be an improvement of my work. Thanks crab. You da you da best. I also bought some Rhumsiki charms for my friends in village and one for myself. Mine actually means "fidelity" but I have taken the liberty to interpret that as fidelity to myself and who I am. We left the next morning after our sunrise walk and delicious breakfast to head back to Maroua. The owner of the restaurant's sweet little girls asked me for my number- we're going to keep in touch. Their names are Sakina, Sadia and Samira- ergo I, Sarah, am their sister. I told them I'd be back asap. Catch you on the flip side, Rhumsiki. Thanks for the good times- but next time I'd appreciate it if we skipped the part where you make my ass bleed. Kthanksbye.

More updates to come, faithful followers. Stay classy.

peace love and flies

*The traditional greeting used by our new grand north logistician, Bouba, who worked as a French professor at a university in the states for a few years. Upon first being greeted with this American nineties pop culture throwback, I reacted in what I believed to be a natural and congruous response, enthusiastically thrusting my arms out to the sides, echoing the WAZZUP WAZZAHHHH with gusto, and letting my tongue loll out of my mouth for a few moments for added emphasis. To this, Bouba responded "I'm fine, thank you." Face palm.