white girls don't dance; they explode.

How (yes this is an actual Anglophone greeting in Cameroon).

For any of you who have had the great pleasure of seeing me break it down on the dancefloor, you can fully grasp the concept of "white girls don't dance; they explode." Perhaps you have even given life to this phrase right alongside me- shout out to my aggressively-enthusiastic-about-pop-music partners in crime who are still raging stateside in my absence. But for those of you who are unclear of the ramifications of this heavily-loaded phrase that more or less sums up my 23 years of existence on this planet, let me break it down for you. Allow me to paint a picture for you: a beautiful tableau of our current favorite boite (nightclub) in Maroua: Hotel Mizao.

It's Saturday night and the strobe lights are threatening to induce seizures, the smoke machine is pumping lungs full of God-knows-what and the mirror-mirrors on the wall are beckoning the fairest of them all to come shake what their momma gave 'em. The dance floor harbors a throng of immaculately-dressed Cameroonians, all calmly swaying in sync to the slow beats of Amina Poulou, shuffling their feet ever-so-lightly back and forth whilst making vague, restrained juggling motions with their hands just below their breasts. Heads are bowed, shoulders are hunched and these Cameroonians are in. their. zone. Discretion is the name of the game in the world of Cameroonian dancing: movements are small and reserved to match the repetitive rhythm that characterizes Cameroonian music. Not a drop of sweat falls to the floor from this crowd of minimal-energy-exerting club-goers.

Enter a group of Peace Corps Volunteers, squealing in excitement that we got past the bouncers in our ripped jeans and flip-flops, stumbling over each other in a drunken scramble to the mirrors. We are thrilled that we recognize the Cameroonian song that's blasting out of the speakers, and fall into step with the Cameroonians, albeit in a less contained manner. We are visibly fighting to keep our excitement on lock as we move our hips back and forth to what we perceive to be the rhythm and mimic the fondling of the imaginary giant breasts with our hands. Some of the PCVs are bolder in their Cameroonian moves, busting out an around-the-world spin or a drop-it-low variation on the juggling-swaying move. Out of the corner of my eye I spy a PCV in the DJ booth, assuring the DJ that some American tunes will REALLY get this party started, shouting over the blaring music key words: "SEAN PAUL!" "RIHANNA!" "NICKI MINAJ!" "STARSHIPS!!!!" Sure enough, as Amina Poulou's ballad slows to a stop, the opening notes of Starships come blasting out of the speakers, and the explosions begin. All bets are off- we no longer feel the need to contain ourselves; we let the music take over. We are screaming and jumping around in pure ecstasy, our extremities are whipping around in a series of karate chops, fist pumps and pop lock and drop its, and when the chorus comes on, you better believe we are hitting those notes and singing those lyrics like our lives depend on it. Take a step too close and you may fall victim to an airplane arm to the face as we belt out Nicki Minaj's lyrical poetry with fervor, and we are not about to stop to tend to your injury. And don't you bring that shuffling of your feet over this way because we are likely to come stomping down on you in a fit of jumping zeal. We are not just a force to be reckoned with, we are downright hazardous. We are ruddy, dripping sweat to the point that it is spraying everyone within a 10 foot radius (maybe that's just me...), and KILLING! IT! We. Are. Exploding.

Cut back to the Cameroonians surrounding us on the dancefloor, still swaying, shuffling and juggling- unchanged less the slightly quicker tempo in their movements, trying to keep their distance/ shield themselves from the explosive brouhaha that is us. Slow jam, dance beats, Starships- Cameroonians pretty much stick to the same dancing style, keeping their cool and maintaining their coiffed, immaculate appearance. I can say none of these things about our crew- we leave the club at 4am winded, redfaced, drenched in sweat, and at no point in the evening did we "keep our cool." We are hot messes in every sense of the expression, but that's just how we do.

peace love and explosions