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
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Saturday, July 21, 2012
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 itparty-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.
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
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.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Un peu de tous
Sannu, blogsphere. I've missed you.
I have now officially been in country for 9 months. What the tits. That is crazy. 9 months in Africa and this is where I'm at. It's fine.
Since we last spoke, we have been deep in the throes of hot season here in the xtreme. And just listen to hear this: this place is NOT fucking around with its hot season. I believe that "hot season" has been sold short with its wildly modest misnomer, and would be better off going by "fire of a thousand suns season," "seventh circle of hell season," "heat-induced agony as you've never felt before season" or something of the like. In honor of surviving my first xtreme north hot season and to give you, faithful readers, a better idea of the gravity of the situation, I composed this ode to hot season. Enjoy.
Ode to hot season
To thee hot season!
Thou peerless, insufferable, remorseless temperatures,
Thou oppressive, obdurate, onerous heats,
Dictating the quotidian
We are enslaved to thee
Lulling thine subjects into listlessness and languor
Swindling even the prospect of productivity
As my daily siesta stretches into a full REM cycle
These verses for thee, eternal tyranny of thee, hot season.
Thou fitful nights of sleep!
Awaking hourly to my tongue plastered to the roof of my mouth
Desperately gulping water, wondering if my thirst will ever again be quenched
In a vain attempt to regulate temperature,
my body secretes a veritable pool of sweat
My mattress is defenseless against the inferno of thine nights
and surrenders to being soaked through once again
Only to desiccate within moments after my rising in the early morn'
These chants for thee, the eternal aridity of thee, hot season.
Thou dog days of dog days!
Thou torrid sands blistering my feet
Thou cumbersome sun reddening my skin
Deep jagged crevices unfurl across my heels
Patches of scales appear on my elbows and knees
A heat rash snakes across the entirety of my upper body
I seek to palliate the prickly heat with liberal amounts of Gold Bond
It mixes with the indomitable layer of sweat that coats my body
And turns to paste.
These recitations for thee, o hot season!
These recitations and all my blood, sweat and paste for thee.
Alas, hot season is finally coming to a close and we are segueing into rainy season seamlessly. Seamlessly as in you can't quite tell where hot season ends and rainy season begins- I'm still relentlessly sweating, but from time to time there are raging sandstorms followed by a darkening of the sky and a bout of rainfall, but then this past week my heat rash came back, but then again the flies have arrived en masse... I don't know. It's all very confusing. I'll keep you posted on the excitement that is xtreme north weather patterns.
In work-related news, we are still in the process of defining our goals and objectives and all that jazz for the Youth Development program in Cameroon. So, what that means is that I was trained for three months in a set of goals and objectives that, for the most part, are no longer entirely applicable to our program. Also that the work I started back in December when I first got to post may no longer be relevant to my job description. Coolio. The four goals we originally began with (Working with In-School Girls, Working with Out-of-School Girls, Boys' Engagement and Community Engagement) were apparently too broad, and we were asked by DC to narrow the scope of our work. So we hacked away at our giant umbrella of YD ambitions, and sent DC the fruits of our labor back in March, only to have them inform us shortly thereafter that all Peace Corps programs are undergoing a mass overhaul that goes by the name of "FITU: Focus In Train Up." Ergo, we had to revamp the entirety of our program framework once again in May during our Steering Committee meeting, and are waiting to hear back from DC to see if what we did will fly. I can only hope that we will get all of this figured out before the new group of YD trainees arrive in country at the end of September. Ca va aller. I mean, they did tell us in our invitations that we were going to be the guinea pigs, what with us being the first group of Youth Development volunteers in Cameroon. Plus it's pretty badass that I am getting to help develop the Youth Development program in Cameroon. My name will probably go down in history, and my birthday will probably go from a nationally-celebrated occasion to an international holiday, but hey I'm not in it for the fame and glory. In the great words of J.Lo, I'm still I'm still Jenny from the Block.
It's working out, though, because as we are having this giant upheaval of program modifications, the school year has come to a close and so all the projects I was doing at schools, with girls clubs etc. are on hold until school starts back up in September and I'm having to start different activities for the break, anyways. I am hoping to do most of my work during the break with out-of-school girls- starting to meet with them weekly in an informal girls club format and hopefully working with them on an income-generating activity. I am also trying to organize a door-to-door campaign to sensitize the parents of Meskine on the importance of sending their children to school and keeping them in school, especially girls. I am also on the planning committee for the first National Girls Forum, which is going to be a big country-wide girls' empowerment networking event in August. We are hoping to have 30 Peace Corps Volunteers from all 10 regions of Cameroon participate, and for each participating volunteer to bring two community members to the forum so that they can bring back the information they gleaned at the event back to their communities and regions. The fact that I don't think I have ever actually attended a networking event much less planned anything of this scale is completely irrelevant. #Qualified No but seriously it's going to be awesome. Anyone who is anyone will be there. Try not to be too jealous my little jelly beans.
This past week I trekked up to Mora for my friend Liz's Girl's Camp. It was awesome! Peace Corps and VSO (Volunteer Services International) combined their powers to create the ultimate girl's empowerment experience. More importantly, I got to hang out with Liz's British BFF Louise all week and giggle whenever she said things like "biatch" in her British accent and "Oh Mah Gahd" in an American accent. Most importantly, there is a gelato guy in Mora. He set up shop at the end of a dark alleyway near town center- apparently all good things in Mora are at the end of dark alleyways (Adamo wisdom of nugget #4343). But yeah this was legit gelato. Chocolate and strawberry and coconut gelato. We may or may not have noshed on that shiz every night we were there... and we may or may not have gotten seconds every time we went... Judge away haters. All I have to say to you is OM NOM NOM. No but seriously MOST importantly the camp was such a blast. The girls had such an amazing week, and it was a great experience for me as a YD volunteer to experience a project that I can repeat because it is so applicable to my work. There was a different theme for the first four days of the camp: Leadership, Health, Career and Communication, and then on the last day we invited all the parents and the girls all put on skits showing what they had learned over the course of the week. We did a lot of skits during the week as a monitoring and evaluation tool- to keep track of what the girls were and were not learning from the sessions. I was a team leader for the week, so basically just a camp counselor making sure my small group of girls were actively participating in all the activities, and that was nice because I got to be there all week and to observe all the sessions and activities and the flow of it all. I can't wait to do my own girl's camp! It was a really fun week filled with sweet girls, dance parties, giggles and arts and crafts. Um hi I was made for this job.
Also in Mora I had the ULTIMATE. CAMEROONIAN. CUISINE. EXPERIENCE. and it was called "Un peu de tous" (A little of everything). It was also located at the end of a dark alleyway. Appropriate. Picture this, people: a layer of rice, covered in a layer of oily pasta, covered in a layer of tomato sauce with chunks of beef, covered in a layer of fulere sauce (leafy green sauce made with lots of peanut butter and oil and Maggi- and it is effing delicious). YEAH. THAT HAPPENED. And it was magical. I got the sweats towards the end there though... Rewr. Call me maybe?
Okay all you party people that's all for now. Until next time.
peace love and un peu de tous sweats
xo princess
I have now officially been in country for 9 months. What the tits. That is crazy. 9 months in Africa and this is where I'm at. It's fine.
Since we last spoke, we have been deep in the throes of hot season here in the xtreme. And just listen to hear this: this place is NOT fucking around with its hot season. I believe that "hot season" has been sold short with its wildly modest misnomer, and would be better off going by "fire of a thousand suns season," "seventh circle of hell season," "heat-induced agony as you've never felt before season" or something of the like. In honor of surviving my first xtreme north hot season and to give you, faithful readers, a better idea of the gravity of the situation, I composed this ode to hot season. Enjoy.
Ode to hot season
To thee hot season!
Thou peerless, insufferable, remorseless temperatures,
Thou oppressive, obdurate, onerous heats,
Dictating the quotidian
We are enslaved to thee
Lulling thine subjects into listlessness and languor
Swindling even the prospect of productivity
As my daily siesta stretches into a full REM cycle
These verses for thee, eternal tyranny of thee, hot season.
Thou fitful nights of sleep!
Awaking hourly to my tongue plastered to the roof of my mouth
Desperately gulping water, wondering if my thirst will ever again be quenched
In a vain attempt to regulate temperature,
my body secretes a veritable pool of sweat
My mattress is defenseless against the inferno of thine nights
and surrenders to being soaked through once again
Only to desiccate within moments after my rising in the early morn'
These chants for thee, the eternal aridity of thee, hot season.
Thou dog days of dog days!
Thou torrid sands blistering my feet
Thou cumbersome sun reddening my skin
Deep jagged crevices unfurl across my heels
Patches of scales appear on my elbows and knees
A heat rash snakes across the entirety of my upper body
I seek to palliate the prickly heat with liberal amounts of Gold Bond
It mixes with the indomitable layer of sweat that coats my body
And turns to paste.
These recitations for thee, o hot season!
These recitations and all my blood, sweat and paste for thee.
Alas, hot season is finally coming to a close and we are segueing into rainy season seamlessly. Seamlessly as in you can't quite tell where hot season ends and rainy season begins- I'm still relentlessly sweating, but from time to time there are raging sandstorms followed by a darkening of the sky and a bout of rainfall, but then this past week my heat rash came back, but then again the flies have arrived en masse... I don't know. It's all very confusing. I'll keep you posted on the excitement that is xtreme north weather patterns.
In work-related news, we are still in the process of defining our goals and objectives and all that jazz for the Youth Development program in Cameroon. So, what that means is that I was trained for three months in a set of goals and objectives that, for the most part, are no longer entirely applicable to our program. Also that the work I started back in December when I first got to post may no longer be relevant to my job description. Coolio. The four goals we originally began with (Working with In-School Girls, Working with Out-of-School Girls, Boys' Engagement and Community Engagement) were apparently too broad, and we were asked by DC to narrow the scope of our work. So we hacked away at our giant umbrella of YD ambitions, and sent DC the fruits of our labor back in March, only to have them inform us shortly thereafter that all Peace Corps programs are undergoing a mass overhaul that goes by the name of "FITU: Focus In Train Up." Ergo, we had to revamp the entirety of our program framework once again in May during our Steering Committee meeting, and are waiting to hear back from DC to see if what we did will fly. I can only hope that we will get all of this figured out before the new group of YD trainees arrive in country at the end of September. Ca va aller. I mean, they did tell us in our invitations that we were going to be the guinea pigs, what with us being the first group of Youth Development volunteers in Cameroon. Plus it's pretty badass that I am getting to help develop the Youth Development program in Cameroon. My name will probably go down in history, and my birthday will probably go from a nationally-celebrated occasion to an international holiday, but hey I'm not in it for the fame and glory. In the great words of J.Lo, I'm still I'm still Jenny from the Block.
It's working out, though, because as we are having this giant upheaval of program modifications, the school year has come to a close and so all the projects I was doing at schools, with girls clubs etc. are on hold until school starts back up in September and I'm having to start different activities for the break, anyways. I am hoping to do most of my work during the break with out-of-school girls- starting to meet with them weekly in an informal girls club format and hopefully working with them on an income-generating activity. I am also trying to organize a door-to-door campaign to sensitize the parents of Meskine on the importance of sending their children to school and keeping them in school, especially girls. I am also on the planning committee for the first National Girls Forum, which is going to be a big country-wide girls' empowerment networking event in August. We are hoping to have 30 Peace Corps Volunteers from all 10 regions of Cameroon participate, and for each participating volunteer to bring two community members to the forum so that they can bring back the information they gleaned at the event back to their communities and regions. The fact that I don't think I have ever actually attended a networking event much less planned anything of this scale is completely irrelevant. #Qualified No but seriously it's going to be awesome. Anyone who is anyone will be there. Try not to be too jealous my little jelly beans.
This past week I trekked up to Mora for my friend Liz's Girl's Camp. It was awesome! Peace Corps and VSO (Volunteer Services International) combined their powers to create the ultimate girl's empowerment experience. More importantly, I got to hang out with Liz's British BFF Louise all week and giggle whenever she said things like "biatch" in her British accent and "Oh Mah Gahd" in an American accent. Most importantly, there is a gelato guy in Mora. He set up shop at the end of a dark alleyway near town center- apparently all good things in Mora are at the end of dark alleyways (Adamo wisdom of nugget #4343). But yeah this was legit gelato. Chocolate and strawberry and coconut gelato. We may or may not have noshed on that shiz every night we were there... and we may or may not have gotten seconds every time we went... Judge away haters. All I have to say to you is OM NOM NOM. No but seriously MOST importantly the camp was such a blast. The girls had such an amazing week, and it was a great experience for me as a YD volunteer to experience a project that I can repeat because it is so applicable to my work. There was a different theme for the first four days of the camp: Leadership, Health, Career and Communication, and then on the last day we invited all the parents and the girls all put on skits showing what they had learned over the course of the week. We did a lot of skits during the week as a monitoring and evaluation tool- to keep track of what the girls were and were not learning from the sessions. I was a team leader for the week, so basically just a camp counselor making sure my small group of girls were actively participating in all the activities, and that was nice because I got to be there all week and to observe all the sessions and activities and the flow of it all. I can't wait to do my own girl's camp! It was a really fun week filled with sweet girls, dance parties, giggles and arts and crafts. Um hi I was made for this job.
Also in Mora I had the ULTIMATE. CAMEROONIAN. CUISINE. EXPERIENCE. and it was called "Un peu de tous" (A little of everything). It was also located at the end of a dark alleyway. Appropriate. Picture this, people: a layer of rice, covered in a layer of oily pasta, covered in a layer of tomato sauce with chunks of beef, covered in a layer of fulere sauce (leafy green sauce made with lots of peanut butter and oil and Maggi- and it is effing delicious). YEAH. THAT HAPPENED. And it was magical. I got the sweats towards the end there though... Rewr. Call me maybe?
Okay all you party people that's all for now. Until next time.
peace love and un peu de tous sweats
xo princess
Friday, March 9, 2012
Mullet, Part Two: Party in the Back
Hello Hola and Bonjour faithful readers,
And welcome to part two of the mullet series. That's right, party people- mullet part two: party in the back, detailing all of the gloriousness that was Birthday Month 2012. Everyone knows that a bangin playlist is the most important detail of any partay, so we are gonna get this party started with a playlist compiled of Cameroon's finest:
1. Chop My Money - P Square
2. Pinguis - Daniel Barka
3. Donner moi les mathematiques - Les 2 qui tue
4. On vous connait - Patience Dabany
5. Tchokolo - X-Maleya
6. Je te promets- Zaho
7. Gagner, gagner -Petit Pays
8. Memenan - Amina Poulloh
9. Waka Waka (This Time for Africa) - Shakira
Aw yeeeeah. Try and act like those tunes don't make you want to hop out of your seat to find the nearest mirror and break it down. I dare you. Despite the undeniable awesomeness of African music, club DJs tend to be equal opportunists in their musical selections, and usually play just as much American music as they do African music, namely my current JAM "Got 2 Luv U" by Sean Paul and Alexis Jordan. I freaking LOSE IT whenever that song comes on in the clurb. Lose. It. But I digress. Let's boogie.
All of the best nights of Birthday Month were spent at the clurb, mirror dancing and fist pumping like champs. As my Birthday Month gift to you, faithful readers, I will now detail the top two nights of Birthday Month 2012 for your reading pleasure:
2. Hotel Mizao, BCC Conference Wrap Party: Thursday, February 16, 2012. In February, the Xtreme North region lucked out by being chosen to host Peace Corps Cameroon's first Behavior Change Communication Workshop at Hotel Mizao in Maroua. The workshop was awesome, so it follows that our wrap party on the last night was off the chizain. Hotel Mizao is a swagged-out hotel in Maroua, fully equipped with air conditioned rooms, a swimming pool, and most importantly- a boite, AKA clurb, right in the parking lot. Holla! Apparently Mizao didn't get the memo that Thursday night is the new Friday night because they don't normally open the club on Thursdays, but we assured them we'd make it worth their while if they made an exception for us, and so they acquiesced. And so it was set- all PCV participants and their Cameroonian counterparts were invited to come celebrate a successful workshop at Club Mizao, in the hopes that things were gonna get weird. Our hopes for a weird night were realized beyond our wildest dreams. Everyone was on their A Game. I don't know if this is true for Peace Corps Volunteers worldwide, but we volunteers in the Xtreme of CamCam like to GET DOWN on the dancefloor. Seriously- all 29 of us- dancing fools. Give one of us a mirror and bump the P Square, and watch us go. So as you can imagine, we are a force to be reckoned with when we appear on a dance floor as a group. Now factor into the equation a couple of bottles of whiskey and a covey of Cameroonians who share our passion for getting down, and we've got ourselves a PARTY. As per usual, I was dripping sweat (and awesomeness) within 3 minutes of hitting the dance floor. I made my way over to the floor-to-ceiling mirrors to get my mirror dance on slash take in my own dancing prowess, where I met a few Cameroonian girls who hadn't been part of our workshop. We totally hit it off- they taught me some of their sweet dance moves, and I taught them some of mine, then when I ran into them the next morning we exchanged numbers. Turns out they were prostitutes. Prostitute BFFs... Casual. But back to our party- at some point in the evening the bumpin jams were interrupted by a particularly loquacious Cameroonian counterpart who had managed to finagle a microphone from the DJ booth and took it upon himself to MC the party. We all immediately knew who it was- he had [uninvitedly, out of turn] talked our ears off all week, but we also knew it was not going to be an easy task to wrench the mic out of his hands- once he got going on some rant, he was not so hot on taking social cues or even outright pleas to desist. I volunteered to handle the situation, making a beeline for the DJ booth then spotting and locking in on my target. I approached him amicably, smiling and gently suggesting he come join the rest of us in the dance floor, which he immediately shot down of course. I had no choice but to switch tactics, and lunged for the mic guerilla warfare style. I was quick, but he was quicker, and dodged my attack. I turned to the DJ, and begged him to intervene and reclaim his mic, but he was a useless dillweed who could not serve me beyond spinning awesome tunes. I turned back around, and my loquacious arch enemy was distracted, so I nabbed the mic in his moment of weakness- I know it was dirty warfare, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all is fair in love and war and he was ANNOYING! I deposited the mic in the DJ booth, and pulled the enemy onto the dance floor, immediately pushing him into a conga line. I returned to my mirror dancing posse ready to regale them with my victorious war stories and get back to enjoying my evening, when my relentless arch nemesis made his reappearance as the world’s worst MC ever. In a fit of rage, I navigated through the pulsating throng of the dance floor, then clotheslined the bastard. JK. I just switched tactics again, grabbing both his hands and pulling him onto the dance floor, thereby forcing him to deposit the mic in the DJ booth himself. The plan was foolproof... except that I was stuck dancing with the chump until I passed him off to someone else a few songs later. Nassara Sarah saves the day!! There were some other international volunteers who came and joined our party at some point, thereby doubling the white male population of the evening (from 2 to 4). One of them was particularly limber on the dance floor. I chose to use the word limber there because at one point in the evening, he and I were reenacting the dance scene in Grease where John Travolta bends all the way back onto the floor and hand jives in-between Olivia Newton John's legs. Yeah. That happened. At another point in the evening, I was minding my own business getting down on the dance floor, when all of a sudden I am LIFTED off the ground and thrown into the air- over and over again. My John Travolta and his Cameroonian friend had apparently selected me as a potential projectile object in their evening, and went ahead and acted on that impulse despite all pertinent laws of gravity and normal social decorum. When my feet were safely planted back on planet earth, I thought I might take a breather in our VIP booth and sip on one of the bottles we'd popped, but I wasn't three steps deep when I got sucked back into the dance floor by the music. Club music has a gravitational pull on my soul that keeps my body moving like a cyclone and prevents me from entertaining any whim of taking a breather as well as my friends invitations to come have a drank. It's a problem. Fo realz. However, when my counterpart approached me on the dance floor to inform me that he had bought us a coke to split, I was forced to accept his invitation. Upon sitting down, I asked my very traditional Muslim counterpart if he would mind if I spiked the coke he bought for me with whiskey. He said that's fine- we're tight; so he was bound to find out that I'm a hot mess at some point, right? I downed my drank as fast as I could so that I could get myself back on the dance floor, which is where I stayed until 2am when I sketchily dipped out in a desperate search for bottled water that wouldn't cost me an arm and a leg. There was a brief after party in mine and Cynthia's hotel room, which mostly just consisted of us guzzling water and cookies and watching Trace- a channel that plays nonstop music videos thereby making it nonstop awesome. And that, my friends, was how I rang in Birthday Month 2012- fighting the good fight against obnoxious MC wannabes, defying laws of gravity and befriending prostitutes. Boom.
1. Club UV, Birthday Night: Saturday, February 25, 2012. All of the Xtreme North was in Maroua for birthday weekend, so I made everyone go out to Club UV with me to ring in my 23rd year of life. I was wearing an eighties madonna-inspired short poofy hot pink number with black sequin phallic accents, AKA “the birthday dress of the Xtreme North region,” so you KNOW I was lookin fly. I rolled up to the clurb loving life, breezing by the bouncer, when all of a sudden the bouncer threw his arm out and asked me to pay an entry fee. QUOI? I scoffed, and informed him that it was my BIRTHDAY! SHALOM! Can’t you see my sweet birthday dress?! He pressed for the money, so I repeated to him that it was my birthday, sure that he just hadn’t understood me the first time. He wouldn’t relent, but I was over his beating a dead horse act, and just bolted past him through the doors, easily blending in with all the other white PCVs. HA! My peeps who were behind me eventually followed suit, and once we were all in (FO FREE), we got the partay started!! The tunes were starting out kind of slow, so I let myself into the DJ booth and introduced myself to the DJ, then pointed out to him all the songs that I would like to hear that night in celebration of my birthday. He went with it, so I excused myself from his booth to go shake what my momma gave me all over the dance floor. You know the drill- sweating, mirror dancing and fist pumping the night away, befriending shady characters, etc. etc. I lost my shit every time Rihanna or Sean Paul came on- especially my jam Got 2 Luv U!!! Ooh ooh!!! I kept popping in and out of the DJ booth, helping him to acquire a taste for the higher musical arts- like Rihanna and Sean Paul. Then, right before midnight, I went into the booth and had him do a countdown on the speakers for my birthday. At midnight, I busted out of the DJ booth as he was shouting “HAPPY BIRTHDAY SARAH!!!!” over the speakers, and ran onto the dance floor to my screaming fans (screaming fans, non-screaming friends… potato, potato). At some point, Cynthia iced me, and I guzzled it down like water- I am getting way too good at the Icing your Bros game. There was also a puke and rally involved at some point in the evening, but I will spare you the details. Just know that I still got it! The princess rages on! The Xtreme likes to party. So who’s coming to visit me next year for my birthday?! Birthday Month 2012 was good, but Birthday Month 2013 will be better. Promise.
So, there you have it, folks. Mullet, Part Two: Party in the Back. Boom.
Peace love and Part A.
And welcome to part two of the mullet series. That's right, party people- mullet part two: party in the back, detailing all of the gloriousness that was Birthday Month 2012. Everyone knows that a bangin playlist is the most important detail of any partay, so we are gonna get this party started with a playlist compiled of Cameroon's finest:
1. Chop My Money - P Square
2. Pinguis - Daniel Barka
3. Donner moi les mathematiques - Les 2 qui tue
4. On vous connait - Patience Dabany
5. Tchokolo - X-Maleya
6. Je te promets- Zaho
7. Gagner, gagner -Petit Pays
8. Memenan - Amina Poulloh
9. Waka Waka (This Time for Africa) - Shakira
Aw yeeeeah. Try and act like those tunes don't make you want to hop out of your seat to find the nearest mirror and break it down. I dare you. Despite the undeniable awesomeness of African music, club DJs tend to be equal opportunists in their musical selections, and usually play just as much American music as they do African music, namely my current JAM "Got 2 Luv U" by Sean Paul and Alexis Jordan. I freaking LOSE IT whenever that song comes on in the clurb. Lose. It. But I digress. Let's boogie.
All of the best nights of Birthday Month were spent at the clurb, mirror dancing and fist pumping like champs. As my Birthday Month gift to you, faithful readers, I will now detail the top two nights of Birthday Month 2012 for your reading pleasure:
2. Hotel Mizao, BCC Conference Wrap Party: Thursday, February 16, 2012. In February, the Xtreme North region lucked out by being chosen to host Peace Corps Cameroon's first Behavior Change Communication Workshop at Hotel Mizao in Maroua. The workshop was awesome, so it follows that our wrap party on the last night was off the chizain. Hotel Mizao is a swagged-out hotel in Maroua, fully equipped with air conditioned rooms, a swimming pool, and most importantly- a boite, AKA clurb, right in the parking lot. Holla! Apparently Mizao didn't get the memo that Thursday night is the new Friday night because they don't normally open the club on Thursdays, but we assured them we'd make it worth their while if they made an exception for us, and so they acquiesced. And so it was set- all PCV participants and their Cameroonian counterparts were invited to come celebrate a successful workshop at Club Mizao, in the hopes that things were gonna get weird. Our hopes for a weird night were realized beyond our wildest dreams. Everyone was on their A Game. I don't know if this is true for Peace Corps Volunteers worldwide, but we volunteers in the Xtreme of CamCam like to GET DOWN on the dancefloor. Seriously- all 29 of us- dancing fools. Give one of us a mirror and bump the P Square, and watch us go. So as you can imagine, we are a force to be reckoned with when we appear on a dance floor as a group. Now factor into the equation a couple of bottles of whiskey and a covey of Cameroonians who share our passion for getting down, and we've got ourselves a PARTY. As per usual, I was dripping sweat (and awesomeness) within 3 minutes of hitting the dance floor. I made my way over to the floor-to-ceiling mirrors to get my mirror dance on slash take in my own dancing prowess, where I met a few Cameroonian girls who hadn't been part of our workshop. We totally hit it off- they taught me some of their sweet dance moves, and I taught them some of mine, then when I ran into them the next morning we exchanged numbers. Turns out they were prostitutes. Prostitute BFFs... Casual. But back to our party- at some point in the evening the bumpin jams were interrupted by a particularly loquacious Cameroonian counterpart who had managed to finagle a microphone from the DJ booth and took it upon himself to MC the party. We all immediately knew who it was- he had [uninvitedly, out of turn] talked our ears off all week, but we also knew it was not going to be an easy task to wrench the mic out of his hands- once he got going on some rant, he was not so hot on taking social cues or even outright pleas to desist. I volunteered to handle the situation, making a beeline for the DJ booth then spotting and locking in on my target. I approached him amicably, smiling and gently suggesting he come join the rest of us in the dance floor, which he immediately shot down of course. I had no choice but to switch tactics, and lunged for the mic guerilla warfare style. I was quick, but he was quicker, and dodged my attack. I turned to the DJ, and begged him to intervene and reclaim his mic, but he was a useless dillweed who could not serve me beyond spinning awesome tunes. I turned back around, and my loquacious arch enemy was distracted, so I nabbed the mic in his moment of weakness- I know it was dirty warfare, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all is fair in love and war and he was ANNOYING! I deposited the mic in the DJ booth, and pulled the enemy onto the dance floor, immediately pushing him into a conga line. I returned to my mirror dancing posse ready to regale them with my victorious war stories and get back to enjoying my evening, when my relentless arch nemesis made his reappearance as the world’s worst MC ever. In a fit of rage, I navigated through the pulsating throng of the dance floor, then clotheslined the bastard. JK. I just switched tactics again, grabbing both his hands and pulling him onto the dance floor, thereby forcing him to deposit the mic in the DJ booth himself. The plan was foolproof... except that I was stuck dancing with the chump until I passed him off to someone else a few songs later. Nassara Sarah saves the day!! There were some other international volunteers who came and joined our party at some point, thereby doubling the white male population of the evening (from 2 to 4). One of them was particularly limber on the dance floor. I chose to use the word limber there because at one point in the evening, he and I were reenacting the dance scene in Grease where John Travolta bends all the way back onto the floor and hand jives in-between Olivia Newton John's legs. Yeah. That happened. At another point in the evening, I was minding my own business getting down on the dance floor, when all of a sudden I am LIFTED off the ground and thrown into the air- over and over again. My John Travolta and his Cameroonian friend had apparently selected me as a potential projectile object in their evening, and went ahead and acted on that impulse despite all pertinent laws of gravity and normal social decorum. When my feet were safely planted back on planet earth, I thought I might take a breather in our VIP booth and sip on one of the bottles we'd popped, but I wasn't three steps deep when I got sucked back into the dance floor by the music. Club music has a gravitational pull on my soul that keeps my body moving like a cyclone and prevents me from entertaining any whim of taking a breather as well as my friends invitations to come have a drank. It's a problem. Fo realz. However, when my counterpart approached me on the dance floor to inform me that he had bought us a coke to split, I was forced to accept his invitation. Upon sitting down, I asked my very traditional Muslim counterpart if he would mind if I spiked the coke he bought for me with whiskey. He said that's fine- we're tight; so he was bound to find out that I'm a hot mess at some point, right? I downed my drank as fast as I could so that I could get myself back on the dance floor, which is where I stayed until 2am when I sketchily dipped out in a desperate search for bottled water that wouldn't cost me an arm and a leg. There was a brief after party in mine and Cynthia's hotel room, which mostly just consisted of us guzzling water and cookies and watching Trace- a channel that plays nonstop music videos thereby making it nonstop awesome. And that, my friends, was how I rang in Birthday Month 2012- fighting the good fight against obnoxious MC wannabes, defying laws of gravity and befriending prostitutes. Boom.
1. Club UV, Birthday Night: Saturday, February 25, 2012. All of the Xtreme North was in Maroua for birthday weekend, so I made everyone go out to Club UV with me to ring in my 23rd year of life. I was wearing an eighties madonna-inspired short poofy hot pink number with black sequin phallic accents, AKA “the birthday dress of the Xtreme North region,” so you KNOW I was lookin fly. I rolled up to the clurb loving life, breezing by the bouncer, when all of a sudden the bouncer threw his arm out and asked me to pay an entry fee. QUOI? I scoffed, and informed him that it was my BIRTHDAY! SHALOM! Can’t you see my sweet birthday dress?! He pressed for the money, so I repeated to him that it was my birthday, sure that he just hadn’t understood me the first time. He wouldn’t relent, but I was over his beating a dead horse act, and just bolted past him through the doors, easily blending in with all the other white PCVs. HA! My peeps who were behind me eventually followed suit, and once we were all in (FO FREE), we got the partay started!! The tunes were starting out kind of slow, so I let myself into the DJ booth and introduced myself to the DJ, then pointed out to him all the songs that I would like to hear that night in celebration of my birthday. He went with it, so I excused myself from his booth to go shake what my momma gave me all over the dance floor. You know the drill- sweating, mirror dancing and fist pumping the night away, befriending shady characters, etc. etc. I lost my shit every time Rihanna or Sean Paul came on- especially my jam Got 2 Luv U!!! Ooh ooh!!! I kept popping in and out of the DJ booth, helping him to acquire a taste for the higher musical arts- like Rihanna and Sean Paul. Then, right before midnight, I went into the booth and had him do a countdown on the speakers for my birthday. At midnight, I busted out of the DJ booth as he was shouting “HAPPY BIRTHDAY SARAH!!!!” over the speakers, and ran onto the dance floor to my screaming fans (screaming fans, non-screaming friends… potato, potato). At some point, Cynthia iced me, and I guzzled it down like water- I am getting way too good at the Icing your Bros game. There was also a puke and rally involved at some point in the evening, but I will spare you the details. Just know that I still got it! The princess rages on! The Xtreme likes to party. So who’s coming to visit me next year for my birthday?! Birthday Month 2012 was good, but Birthday Month 2013 will be better. Promise.
So, there you have it, folks. Mullet, Part Two: Party in the Back. Boom.
Peace love and Part A.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Mullet, Part One: Business in the Front
Well hey there, blogsphere. Did ya miss me? Who are we kidding? Of course you did. Now enough with the formalities- let’s get down to business.
I’ve now been living in Meskine for about two and a half months, and my house is just about as empty as I found it, give or take a few niceties. Upon first seeing the photos my start-up mansion, Charlie suggested that MTV Cribs should come and do a Cameroonian special, highlighting my new abode. So in the spirit of MTV and in the name of Snooki’s unborn child, let me give you a sneak peak of the status of my living arrangement as it would be featured on Cribs:
Me: Yo yo yo waddup y’all!! Welcome to my dope ass crib, MTV! Come on into my concession but watch yoself- I’ve seen snakes all up in this highly polluted and sparsely vegetated desert area that I hope to one day call a garden.
Cut to shot of my bike sparkling in the berating sunlight with that shwing! sound effect.
Me: Awww yeeah you know y’all jealous of my sweet ass ride. Peace Corps hooked it up yo!
Cut to panoramic shot of my sprawling living room- completely empty less one XL plastic mat in the middle of it, and a lone dormroom-sized refrigerator angled in one corner.
Me: Holla at a balla! Y’all KNOW I dropped mad dollaz on that frigo right thurrr- actually I pretty much dropped all my dollaz on that fridge. It’s coo doe- ain’t no thang. Let me show y’all how a true playa stocks the fridge- uh huh we got MAD bottles (of water) up in here. We could pop bottles (of water) all night if we wanted to! Woop woop! PARTAYYY! You know a true playa don’t need to cook her own food- she can just hop on over to the neighbor’s crib and they’ll hook it up. So just bottles on bottles on bottles (of water).
Cut to me opening the door of my bedroom, revealing a sunken-in mattress in the middle of the floor covered by a mosquito net hanging from the ceiling. Next to the bed, a Jane Austen novel. Pan to the corner, zooming in on my fan, which also sparkles and has that shwing! sound effect.
Me: Chicka chicka yeeeah this is where all the magic happens. As you can see, no expense has been spared in the making of this love lair. We hooked it up with the fan over here in the corner for those 130 degree hot season nights, and of course we gotta show Nurse Ann some love for hookin it up with the bomb ass mosquito net that brings the whole room together. Holla atchya boo!
Cue “I Just Had Sex” by the Lonely Island as the camera crew follows me out back to the latrine.
Me: Alright, y’all I saved the best for last- this right hurrr is wazzup! Check it- we got our cement slab with not one but two holes for doin ya business! Don’t ask me why- but try and tell me that ain’t fancy! We got four cement walls- like a boss! Don’t mind the lizards and flies- just keepin it real! Holla!
Alright alright MTV it’s been real- thanks for stoppin by and checkin out my crib. This is Nassara Sarah signing off- a special shout out to all the fellas out there- holla at me! Fo real! There is a serious lack of men interested in casually dating out here in Meskine! PLEASE!! HOLLA AT ME!!!!! Uh sorry. Play on playaz. Peace.
So that’s what’s up. It’s pretty bad- I’ve had about fifteen people over to my house at this point, and every one of them, without fail, has made a comment along the lines of “Wow it’s so big… but so empty. It’s kind of sad.” Cameroonians included. But between a fridge, gas tank, stove and mattress, I pretty much blew my entire settling-in allowance. After I get back from In-Service Training late this month, I’ll start buying some new swag-tastic additions. But until then, I’m doing the zen thing. Don’t hate!
Work has been progressing at an alarming rate. I don’t really understand what happened- I tried to be noncommittal in all of my meeting attendances, and in all of my tete-a-tetes with various people within the community, but pretty much every single structure that I tried to noncommittally observe and every single person that I tried to noncommittally have a casual conversation with has turned into a commitment. So, a quick rundown of the organizations that have lassoed me by the neck and mercilessly roped me in:
Cercle des Jeunes Soucieux pour le Developpement de Meskine (CJSDM) (Roughly translated to: The Circle of Youth who Care about the Development of Meskine): When I rolled up to Meskine for my site visit in November, I went to pay my respects to the Lamido, the traditional leader of Meskine. I told him about the youth development program and what I was coming to Meskine to do, and he told me that there was a youth center in town, which was run by CJSDM, so I should start there. So start there I did. I met with the president of the group, Haman Wabi, within my first couple weeks at post, who promptly informed me that the group had been inactive for the past six months. Awesome. Good start. So we conceived an action plan to relaunch the group- we went back and forth, with Haman Wabi wanting to screen a film to promote awareness about the harmful effects of drug usage (What film? With what projector? Who are we showing this film to? Apparently all of these trivial details had fallen by the wayside in his planning.), and me gently suggesting that perhaps we devote January to recruiting new members, in a way that appeals to the general public, but most importantly by doing something FO FREE since we had approximately zero funds in da bank. He eventually came around, and it was decided that we would put on a big soccer game in January to let the youth of Meskine know that we were starting the group back up and to announce that we were going to have a General Assembly the weekend following the soccer game. We had a couple of meetings to plan everything out beforehand, and depending on the meeting, attendance rates were between three and five members, the president, myself and my community host Souiabou included. Of these five members, I was the only female, and also the youngest person in attendance (Cultural Note: Cameroon perceives “youth” as being those citizens between the ages of 15 and 35. Different strokes for different folks, y’all.). Despite all of these discouraging moments leading up to the soccer game, the game itself was a great success. Bouba, one of our members, managed to rassle us up some speakers and an MC, so we had some tunes bumpin before the game started, and a running commentary throughout. At halftime, the president and I both made speeches, and you better believe I dropped that Nassara Sarah line- it gets a laugh every. freaking. time. Seriously. Then, after the game was over, they had me present a trophy to the winning team, and that’s when the paparazzi came out. It was crazy! They nearly papped me to death. There were camera phones everywhere, and sweaty Cameroonians lining up to get a picture with the white girl. I stuck around until I thought I could dip out without being impolite, then promptly hopped on the back of Souiabou’s moto and peaced. While some celebs would have taken a bat to the overwhelming pap attack and shaved their head in frustration (cough Britney), I kept my cool, and paid my respects to my fans, without whom I’d be nothing. I would make a bomb ass celebrity- just sayin. So the next weekend, we had our General Assembly, as promised. The speakers came out again, and we grooved to some sweet Cameroonian jams until we had enough people assembled to justify starting the meeting. We announced that the meeting was to start at 3:30, but of course when you say 3:30 to Cameroonians they hear “5ish,” so we started at 5ish. Sure enough, people started trickling in, and at its peak, there were 100 people present. Insanity. Of these 100 youth, there were three girls present: me, my neighbor Habiba, and her friend Janette, both of whom I went and got from their homes to drag them along to this meeting. The meeting started innocently enough, with the president, myself, and a few select members sitting in the front leading the meeting, going through our pre-arranged meeting agenda. They had me give another speech, so I threw the Nassara Sarah line their way- winning! That shit is not getting old. After my speech, the president gave a speech about the purpose of the organization and our dream of a brotherhood amongst the youth of Meskine- beautiful, inspirational stuff. What better time, then, for a fight to break out 100 yards away. Seriously- bows were being thrown, cheap shots were being taken- I know, because I, along with every other person attending our General Meeting, was completely fixated on the fight as our president gave his inspirational speech. Ewpz. The fight petered out eventually, and we got back to our agenda as if nothing had happened. But then, we announced that we were keeping the old officers and not electing a new set of officers, and shit. hit. the. fan. Everyone just LOST it. Everyone started screaming, and another couple of fights broke out, but I couldn’t understand a damn word of all the ruckus because it was all in Fulfulde! It went on like this for at least thirty minutes. When Souiabou finally translated the gist of the brouhaha into French for me, I stood up and the crowd fell silent. Not kidding. They listened as I gave my simple explanation for keeping the officers in place, and assured them that we could have elections six months down the road, once they were all actual, dues-paying members. They all nodded their heads in agreement, and that was that. Then, to end the meeting, they presented me with a gift: a picture frame that says SARAH BONNE ANNEE 2012 in string. It was sweet. So after three hours of General Assembly fun, we finally adjourned the meeting. Since then, CJSDM has been ballin out on every level. We did a needs assessment to identify what they perceived the needs of the youth of Meskine to be; we invited a speaker to come and give a speech about the violences committed against young girls, specifically about early marriage, at the local high school for one of the high school’s cultural days; we also had Souiabou and one of his colleagues come in and give a presentation on STIs and HIV/AIDS, and we all bought matching t-shirts and paraded together for Youth Day. Like I said, ballin out on every level. And now we have like 30 members that regularly attend meetings, and even though our meetings are always sausage-fests (all twenty-something males), they’re a good group who are motivated to do good things for their community, so I’m looking forward to continuing to work with them over the course of the next two years.
Primary School Girls Club: There’s a primary school right in front of my house, so that was one of the first places I started frequenting in hopes of finding some youth to develop when I first got to post. The school was on Christmas break when I first got there, but I still managed to get a solid tete-a-tete in with the principal of the school and his right hand man one day when I just happened to be creeping the grounds when they showed up to do some paperwork. It was a good talk- they briefed me on what they perceived to be the problems with the school system of Cameroon, and told me that yes, they did indeed already have a girls club in place that I could work with. Eggcellent. They also said that the group normally meets once a semester, but that I could call a meeting whenever I wanted to. So when school started back up, I got to meet the two girls club sponsors: Clarisse and Esther, and I instantly fell in love with both of them. They are bad bitches, and got the ball rolling immediately. We had a meeting with all the girls from CM1 and CM2, the two last years of primary school, and in that first meeting we had elections and drafted an action plan and some ground rules. The girls said they wanted to learn to play handball, to learn to do embroidery, to learn to cook, and to sing and dance. So, I went over to the high school and found the handball instructor (bonus points- it’s a woman!), and now she is giving the girls handball lessons every Saturday, and let me tell you from firsthand experience- those lessons are INTENSE! I was huffing and puffing and sweating all over that handball court. Also, I don’t quite understand all the rules yet, sooo yeah. One of my finer moments. For youth day, I taught the girls “Waving Flag” by K’naan, in English and in French, and they choreographed a little dance to it, then performed it for the Youth Day parade. It was freaking adorable. I’m trying to get the video up, but the internet is a biatch. This past Saturday, we started embroidery lessons, another skill that I lack. It went well- I say that because the napkin I was embroidering looked legit, and if I was getting it, then I know the girls were doing it better than I was. I also just printed off these cute booklets for the girls to fill in that are like Why I’m Proud to be a Girl books. I’m excited to work on them together. So yes things are going awesome with the girls club at the primary school. On the other hand…
High School Girls Club: There’s only one high school in Meskine, so I started hanging around it creepily in the hopes of finding some youth to develop. In the process, I’ve befriended the principal and some of the teachers, and have ended up sitting front row center for Bilingualism Day and every subsequent Journee Culturelle I’ve attended. I won’t give you all the details of these glorious days filled with lip syncing and interpretive dance that I’ve witnessed because words wouldn’t do them justice, but I will tell you that they pulled me on stage to dance, then stuck money to my sweaty chest in appreciation of my dancing skills, and told all of Meskine about how the white girl danced at the high school. Seriously. My neighbors who can’t afford to go to school told me they heard about how I danced to Pinguis at the high school. But I digress. So I asked about the girls club at the high school, and again there was one but it only met once a year, so I found the sponsor and told her I was interested in meeting with the girls. She promptly brought me around to every classroom at the school, showing the students that a white person wanted to have a meeting with them (she literally told me that they would only come if they knew I’d be there) during their break. So, at 11:30, there were about 40 girls assembled in a classroom waiting to hear what the white person had to say. I spoke, and they laughed. All of them. Through fits of giggles, they told me that they couldn’t understand my crazy French, and so the teacher sponsor had to translate for me. Awesome. Then none of them would respond when I asked what kind of activities they had done in the past as a group and what kind of activities they would like to do in the future. So, this past week, I approached the sponsor with an idea- I suggested that we do an application, where we ask the girls what sort of activities they would like to do and why they want to be in the club and stuff like that. She said that just wouldn’t do, and I left the school trying to come up with a better idea. Apparently, after I left, the teachers started gossiping that the white girl was here to profit off of the Cameroonians- that I was conducting some sort of research and exploiting the students. GREAT! After hearing this, I went ahead and drafted the application so I could show the sponsor that I had nothing but innocent intentions. She couldn’t be bothered- she was too busy, so I’m going to go back tomorrow and try, try again. Then, on Saturday I had organized a field trip to the hospital for us, but who knows if that’s going to happen. We’ll see. So to review, primary schools girls club goooood- high school girls club not so much.
Okay my fingers are fatigued from typing so that probably means I’ve said too much. If you’ve made it to here, you must really love me. Well, I love you too. Stay tuned for more updates, lovelies. Let’s just call this update part one in a series of two. The series is called Mullet, Part One: Business in the Front; Part Two: Party in the Back, which will detail birthday month in all its glory. Promise.
You know you love me.
Xoxo gossip girl.
I’ve now been living in Meskine for about two and a half months, and my house is just about as empty as I found it, give or take a few niceties. Upon first seeing the photos my start-up mansion, Charlie suggested that MTV Cribs should come and do a Cameroonian special, highlighting my new abode. So in the spirit of MTV and in the name of Snooki’s unborn child, let me give you a sneak peak of the status of my living arrangement as it would be featured on Cribs:
Me: Yo yo yo waddup y’all!! Welcome to my dope ass crib, MTV! Come on into my concession but watch yoself- I’ve seen snakes all up in this highly polluted and sparsely vegetated desert area that I hope to one day call a garden.
Cut to shot of my bike sparkling in the berating sunlight with that shwing! sound effect.
Me: Awww yeeah you know y’all jealous of my sweet ass ride. Peace Corps hooked it up yo!
Cut to panoramic shot of my sprawling living room- completely empty less one XL plastic mat in the middle of it, and a lone dormroom-sized refrigerator angled in one corner.
Me: Holla at a balla! Y’all KNOW I dropped mad dollaz on that frigo right thurrr- actually I pretty much dropped all my dollaz on that fridge. It’s coo doe- ain’t no thang. Let me show y’all how a true playa stocks the fridge- uh huh we got MAD bottles (of water) up in here. We could pop bottles (of water) all night if we wanted to! Woop woop! PARTAYYY! You know a true playa don’t need to cook her own food- she can just hop on over to the neighbor’s crib and they’ll hook it up. So just bottles on bottles on bottles (of water).
Cut to me opening the door of my bedroom, revealing a sunken-in mattress in the middle of the floor covered by a mosquito net hanging from the ceiling. Next to the bed, a Jane Austen novel. Pan to the corner, zooming in on my fan, which also sparkles and has that shwing! sound effect.
Me: Chicka chicka yeeeah this is where all the magic happens. As you can see, no expense has been spared in the making of this love lair. We hooked it up with the fan over here in the corner for those 130 degree hot season nights, and of course we gotta show Nurse Ann some love for hookin it up with the bomb ass mosquito net that brings the whole room together. Holla atchya boo!
Cue “I Just Had Sex” by the Lonely Island as the camera crew follows me out back to the latrine.
Me: Alright, y’all I saved the best for last- this right hurrr is wazzup! Check it- we got our cement slab with not one but two holes for doin ya business! Don’t ask me why- but try and tell me that ain’t fancy! We got four cement walls- like a boss! Don’t mind the lizards and flies- just keepin it real! Holla!
Alright alright MTV it’s been real- thanks for stoppin by and checkin out my crib. This is Nassara Sarah signing off- a special shout out to all the fellas out there- holla at me! Fo real! There is a serious lack of men interested in casually dating out here in Meskine! PLEASE!! HOLLA AT ME!!!!! Uh sorry. Play on playaz. Peace.
So that’s what’s up. It’s pretty bad- I’ve had about fifteen people over to my house at this point, and every one of them, without fail, has made a comment along the lines of “Wow it’s so big… but so empty. It’s kind of sad.” Cameroonians included. But between a fridge, gas tank, stove and mattress, I pretty much blew my entire settling-in allowance. After I get back from In-Service Training late this month, I’ll start buying some new swag-tastic additions. But until then, I’m doing the zen thing. Don’t hate!
Work has been progressing at an alarming rate. I don’t really understand what happened- I tried to be noncommittal in all of my meeting attendances, and in all of my tete-a-tetes with various people within the community, but pretty much every single structure that I tried to noncommittally observe and every single person that I tried to noncommittally have a casual conversation with has turned into a commitment. So, a quick rundown of the organizations that have lassoed me by the neck and mercilessly roped me in:
Cercle des Jeunes Soucieux pour le Developpement de Meskine (CJSDM) (Roughly translated to: The Circle of Youth who Care about the Development of Meskine): When I rolled up to Meskine for my site visit in November, I went to pay my respects to the Lamido, the traditional leader of Meskine. I told him about the youth development program and what I was coming to Meskine to do, and he told me that there was a youth center in town, which was run by CJSDM, so I should start there. So start there I did. I met with the president of the group, Haman Wabi, within my first couple weeks at post, who promptly informed me that the group had been inactive for the past six months. Awesome. Good start. So we conceived an action plan to relaunch the group- we went back and forth, with Haman Wabi wanting to screen a film to promote awareness about the harmful effects of drug usage (What film? With what projector? Who are we showing this film to? Apparently all of these trivial details had fallen by the wayside in his planning.), and me gently suggesting that perhaps we devote January to recruiting new members, in a way that appeals to the general public, but most importantly by doing something FO FREE since we had approximately zero funds in da bank. He eventually came around, and it was decided that we would put on a big soccer game in January to let the youth of Meskine know that we were starting the group back up and to announce that we were going to have a General Assembly the weekend following the soccer game. We had a couple of meetings to plan everything out beforehand, and depending on the meeting, attendance rates were between three and five members, the president, myself and my community host Souiabou included. Of these five members, I was the only female, and also the youngest person in attendance (Cultural Note: Cameroon perceives “youth” as being those citizens between the ages of 15 and 35. Different strokes for different folks, y’all.). Despite all of these discouraging moments leading up to the soccer game, the game itself was a great success. Bouba, one of our members, managed to rassle us up some speakers and an MC, so we had some tunes bumpin before the game started, and a running commentary throughout. At halftime, the president and I both made speeches, and you better believe I dropped that Nassara Sarah line- it gets a laugh every. freaking. time. Seriously. Then, after the game was over, they had me present a trophy to the winning team, and that’s when the paparazzi came out. It was crazy! They nearly papped me to death. There were camera phones everywhere, and sweaty Cameroonians lining up to get a picture with the white girl. I stuck around until I thought I could dip out without being impolite, then promptly hopped on the back of Souiabou’s moto and peaced. While some celebs would have taken a bat to the overwhelming pap attack and shaved their head in frustration (cough Britney), I kept my cool, and paid my respects to my fans, without whom I’d be nothing. I would make a bomb ass celebrity- just sayin. So the next weekend, we had our General Assembly, as promised. The speakers came out again, and we grooved to some sweet Cameroonian jams until we had enough people assembled to justify starting the meeting. We announced that the meeting was to start at 3:30, but of course when you say 3:30 to Cameroonians they hear “5ish,” so we started at 5ish. Sure enough, people started trickling in, and at its peak, there were 100 people present. Insanity. Of these 100 youth, there were three girls present: me, my neighbor Habiba, and her friend Janette, both of whom I went and got from their homes to drag them along to this meeting. The meeting started innocently enough, with the president, myself, and a few select members sitting in the front leading the meeting, going through our pre-arranged meeting agenda. They had me give another speech, so I threw the Nassara Sarah line their way- winning! That shit is not getting old. After my speech, the president gave a speech about the purpose of the organization and our dream of a brotherhood amongst the youth of Meskine- beautiful, inspirational stuff. What better time, then, for a fight to break out 100 yards away. Seriously- bows were being thrown, cheap shots were being taken- I know, because I, along with every other person attending our General Meeting, was completely fixated on the fight as our president gave his inspirational speech. Ewpz. The fight petered out eventually, and we got back to our agenda as if nothing had happened. But then, we announced that we were keeping the old officers and not electing a new set of officers, and shit. hit. the. fan. Everyone just LOST it. Everyone started screaming, and another couple of fights broke out, but I couldn’t understand a damn word of all the ruckus because it was all in Fulfulde! It went on like this for at least thirty minutes. When Souiabou finally translated the gist of the brouhaha into French for me, I stood up and the crowd fell silent. Not kidding. They listened as I gave my simple explanation for keeping the officers in place, and assured them that we could have elections six months down the road, once they were all actual, dues-paying members. They all nodded their heads in agreement, and that was that. Then, to end the meeting, they presented me with a gift: a picture frame that says SARAH BONNE ANNEE 2012 in string. It was sweet. So after three hours of General Assembly fun, we finally adjourned the meeting. Since then, CJSDM has been ballin out on every level. We did a needs assessment to identify what they perceived the needs of the youth of Meskine to be; we invited a speaker to come and give a speech about the violences committed against young girls, specifically about early marriage, at the local high school for one of the high school’s cultural days; we also had Souiabou and one of his colleagues come in and give a presentation on STIs and HIV/AIDS, and we all bought matching t-shirts and paraded together for Youth Day. Like I said, ballin out on every level. And now we have like 30 members that regularly attend meetings, and even though our meetings are always sausage-fests (all twenty-something males), they’re a good group who are motivated to do good things for their community, so I’m looking forward to continuing to work with them over the course of the next two years.
Primary School Girls Club: There’s a primary school right in front of my house, so that was one of the first places I started frequenting in hopes of finding some youth to develop when I first got to post. The school was on Christmas break when I first got there, but I still managed to get a solid tete-a-tete in with the principal of the school and his right hand man one day when I just happened to be creeping the grounds when they showed up to do some paperwork. It was a good talk- they briefed me on what they perceived to be the problems with the school system of Cameroon, and told me that yes, they did indeed already have a girls club in place that I could work with. Eggcellent. They also said that the group normally meets once a semester, but that I could call a meeting whenever I wanted to. So when school started back up, I got to meet the two girls club sponsors: Clarisse and Esther, and I instantly fell in love with both of them. They are bad bitches, and got the ball rolling immediately. We had a meeting with all the girls from CM1 and CM2, the two last years of primary school, and in that first meeting we had elections and drafted an action plan and some ground rules. The girls said they wanted to learn to play handball, to learn to do embroidery, to learn to cook, and to sing and dance. So, I went over to the high school and found the handball instructor (bonus points- it’s a woman!), and now she is giving the girls handball lessons every Saturday, and let me tell you from firsthand experience- those lessons are INTENSE! I was huffing and puffing and sweating all over that handball court. Also, I don’t quite understand all the rules yet, sooo yeah. One of my finer moments. For youth day, I taught the girls “Waving Flag” by K’naan, in English and in French, and they choreographed a little dance to it, then performed it for the Youth Day parade. It was freaking adorable. I’m trying to get the video up, but the internet is a biatch. This past Saturday, we started embroidery lessons, another skill that I lack. It went well- I say that because the napkin I was embroidering looked legit, and if I was getting it, then I know the girls were doing it better than I was. I also just printed off these cute booklets for the girls to fill in that are like Why I’m Proud to be a Girl books. I’m excited to work on them together. So yes things are going awesome with the girls club at the primary school. On the other hand…
High School Girls Club: There’s only one high school in Meskine, so I started hanging around it creepily in the hopes of finding some youth to develop. In the process, I’ve befriended the principal and some of the teachers, and have ended up sitting front row center for Bilingualism Day and every subsequent Journee Culturelle I’ve attended. I won’t give you all the details of these glorious days filled with lip syncing and interpretive dance that I’ve witnessed because words wouldn’t do them justice, but I will tell you that they pulled me on stage to dance, then stuck money to my sweaty chest in appreciation of my dancing skills, and told all of Meskine about how the white girl danced at the high school. Seriously. My neighbors who can’t afford to go to school told me they heard about how I danced to Pinguis at the high school. But I digress. So I asked about the girls club at the high school, and again there was one but it only met once a year, so I found the sponsor and told her I was interested in meeting with the girls. She promptly brought me around to every classroom at the school, showing the students that a white person wanted to have a meeting with them (she literally told me that they would only come if they knew I’d be there) during their break. So, at 11:30, there were about 40 girls assembled in a classroom waiting to hear what the white person had to say. I spoke, and they laughed. All of them. Through fits of giggles, they told me that they couldn’t understand my crazy French, and so the teacher sponsor had to translate for me. Awesome. Then none of them would respond when I asked what kind of activities they had done in the past as a group and what kind of activities they would like to do in the future. So, this past week, I approached the sponsor with an idea- I suggested that we do an application, where we ask the girls what sort of activities they would like to do and why they want to be in the club and stuff like that. She said that just wouldn’t do, and I left the school trying to come up with a better idea. Apparently, after I left, the teachers started gossiping that the white girl was here to profit off of the Cameroonians- that I was conducting some sort of research and exploiting the students. GREAT! After hearing this, I went ahead and drafted the application so I could show the sponsor that I had nothing but innocent intentions. She couldn’t be bothered- she was too busy, so I’m going to go back tomorrow and try, try again. Then, on Saturday I had organized a field trip to the hospital for us, but who knows if that’s going to happen. We’ll see. So to review, primary schools girls club goooood- high school girls club not so much.
Okay my fingers are fatigued from typing so that probably means I’ve said too much. If you’ve made it to here, you must really love me. Well, I love you too. Stay tuned for more updates, lovelies. Let’s just call this update part one in a series of two. The series is called Mullet, Part One: Business in the Front; Part Two: Party in the Back, which will detail birthday month in all its glory. Promise.
You know you love me.
Xoxo gossip girl.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Nassara Sarah
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
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
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)