Southern Skin

I had no idea how aggressive and volatile I had become until I saw the look of fear and horror on Shanna’s face at the Foumban artisan market. We had just come from our tours of the Grand Mosque and the Palace museum, and were excited to wrap up our touristy morning shopping at the local crafts market. I was as happy as a clam, excited at the prospect of some Cameroonian retail therapy. Upon entry into a shop, I inquired the price of a small pendant that had caught my eye. When the salesman replied that it was 5000 FCFA (10 USD), I flipped. my. shit. I threw down the pendant in disgust, spat at the salesperson that his price was insulting, and spun on my heel to exit the shop. The salesman and his colleagues called after me that I did not understand the ways of African bargaining, only further incensing my rage. I stormed off, to the tune of Shanna trying to placate me with the prices she had hurriedly negotiated out of her deep embarrassment on my behalf. I screamed back at Shanna about the PRINCIPLE OF THE MATTER! and whipped around to muff (MUFF! roughly translates to fuck off) the salesman blathering on about African bargaining, flicking my fingers into the open-palm position to show him that he should shove that noise up his mother’s vagina. Shanna followed, her head hung in shame, apologizing profusely to the victims I had left in my wake. Minutes later, we arrived at a shop just down the road, where I found a similar pendant for 500 FCFA (1 USD), and bought it, returning to my clam state of happiness just as quickly as I had violently torn away from it.

I recall blanching at the way southern Francophone Cameroonians interact in a not-so-distant past; doing my best to ignore the obscene cat calls from strangers, flinching when casual discussions escalated into screaming matches, and all but collapsing into the fetal position at the hand of bus station cacophony, where at least four separate screaming matches happen simultaneously whilst Cameroonian music blares over the loudspeakers and mobile salespeople come and aggressively shake their goods in your face. I cannot pinpoint when my internal transformation occurred, but I can definitively say that the change did not begin or end at the Foumban artisan market.

Growing up, my mother was constantly reminding me to smile because that was her PC way of alerting me that I had reverted to my natural state of “bitch face,” and to turn it off immediately. Now, I find myself actively utilizing this all-powerful bitch face gift passed on to me from my Grandma Bunny. I have developed a visceral jerk reflex when I hear someone call out “tu me plait (you please me),” “ma cherie (my darling),” “petite fille (little girl),” or any other condescending phrase along those lines: upon hearing the phrase articulated, my head whips around in the direction of the speaker with full-blown bitch face turnt all the way up; menacing scowl, narrowed “imma kill you” eyes- the works. I’m starting to get whiplash from all the bitch face I’m slangin these days. Lately, however, I’ve noticed that my head is whipping around to throw bitch face in the direction of a lot of men who are not cat calling to me, but to other girls, and have fleetingly considered this trend to reflect a hyperaggression in mine self. Fleetingly.

I have also found myself readily raising my voice in casual interactions with Cameroonians, doing the most for the least: last night I tried to stiff a cabbie 50 FCFA (10 cents) because I thought he was bullying Shanna and I into paying too much for a very short cab ride. I chewed him out extensively and walked away from him, but the man could not be deterred. Shanna, mortified as usual, forked over 100 FCFA for the two of us. I’ve been doing an awful lot of haggling over amounts totaling less than 2 USD of late, resulting in many more embarrassing moments for Shanna in the past week [and, I’m sure, the three weeks to come]. Like I said: the most for the least. And that bus station cacophony I described earlier? A symphony to the ears that decorate my now full-time bitch face. I have bought watches, sweaters and shoes from the traveling salespeople. I dance along to the music playing from the speakers, and ask my neighbor what the name of the new P Square song is when it comes on. I have multiple porter (bus station workers who load and unload luggage from the buses) friends who know me by name and want to know when I’m coming through next so that they can bring me gifts from their villages, and who often bump me up to an earlier bus. And how did I get these friends, you ask? By being a full-blown southern Cameroonian bitch. They love that shit.

Now I just have to figure out how to shed this southern skin before getting back to the states… Can I get a Lannister lackey up in this bitch for a partial flaying?

peace love and bitch face

My Life in Bafang: A Constant State of Swamp Ass

Due to security concerns in the Far North region, I was promptly and unceremoniously uprooted from my home and family in Meskine. My final days in my village are a blur of storms: a storm of heaving sobs, the storm that was attempting to consolidate my pack rat collection of possessions into a few suitcases, and a hailstorm. No seriously. When the car came to get my bags and me on my final morning, golf ball-sized chunks of ice came pelting from the normally cloudless sky. Lucie said that it was the Far North region forbidding its Peace Corps Volunteers to leave. And yet leave we did.

We left by Danay Express coaster bus, with all of our worldly possessions piled high and strapped to the roof, and crammed into the empty back seats. The Maroua cluster left our case (travel house) in Maroua teary-eyed and somber, after having just said our goodbyes to our dear guardian and his family. We arrived in Kaele soon thereafter, where we found a band of monsters in sombreros letting the wild rumpus begin at nine o’clock in the effing morning. Once it had been established that there was no way in hell that we were going to be able to fit Ricky’s four suitcases, three footlockers, two mattresses, refrigerator, water filter, bike, gas tank, stove, television, satellite dish AND HIS DOG (oh and the rest of Kaele cluster’s belongings) all onto our one coaster bus, we made arrangements for another bus to follow us to Ngaoundere with their things, and the whole Xtreme gang piled in and hit the road.

I can only describe the eight hours that followed from my perspective in the second row window seat, where my personal space was more often than not being assailed with hostile sing-along/ dance combinations from Josh, of the Kaele wildling clan. The Maroua cluster, in their sorrowful and unsociable state, had all chosen window seats, leaving only a column down the center for the Kaele wild things, which led to a lot of sloshing of their shared boxed wine grape juice-flavored ethyl alcohol down the line, and completely-unreasonable-and-not-at-all-sensible-or-acceptable acoustics of their Disney Classic sing-alongs, which lasted the entirety of the eight hour bus ride. Around hour four, Earl could [not not] be heard from the back row singing-screaming along to “Under the Sea,” interjecting with a running commentary on his clearly irrepressible love for The Little Mermaid, with shouts of “THIS IS THE PART WHERE THE TURTLES DRUM!” then erupting in his own display of air drumming on his own imagined turtle shell, and “GOD THIS MOVIE IS THE BEST! ISN’T THE LITTLE MERMAID THE BEST??” and so on and so forth. When it would grow quiet in the back row, I would turn around from my seat out of curiosity to find Earl, a pair of gas tanks affixed just behind his obtrusive ginger head, leaning across Joanna, smoking a cigarette, and I’d just turn right back around because surely this was not real life. Meanwhile, Aloyicious kept nervously glancing my way from two seats over and mouthing to me that “We shouldn’t be on this road. We are not safe,” as he broke out into his distinctive Gigi sweats, only further contributing to my unwavering conclusion that this was, indeed, not real life. We were all functioning at hazardously high levels of absurdity, as I suppose one must do to survive an ad hoc exodus, and I maintain that none of it was real life.

However, here I am, in my manse upon a mountain in Bafang in the wild wild West region, with only excessive viewings of Pitch Perfect as a coping mechanism for my sudden and unexpected loss. My life here is entirely different from what it was in the Xtreme:

Meskine, Xtreme : Bafang, West ::

Heat and heat rash : coldness and a constant state of swamp ass ::

Bathing…on the odd occasion : VERY noticeable if I skip a day of bathing, as I did today (see “Constant State of Swamp Ass”) ::

50-yard dash to my outdoor latrine : Two (COUNT EM!) flushing toilets in my house ::

Sleeping naked over [very temporarily] soaking wet sheets : Sleeping under wool blankets in a long-sleeve robe, leggings and socks ::

Waking up in the middle of the night to chug water and/ or dump water over my head : Cannot get up in the mornings because I do not want to get out from under the covers ::

Full pagne ensembles, complete with head wraps so that villagers don't call me "gorko" (dude) : Wearing whatever the hell I want to (read: lots and lots of leggings as pants) ::

Dry, dry, arid, dry, dry, dry, dry, dry, dry, dry : Wet, damp, dripping, moist, rainy, sodden, soggy, sopping, oily, moldy- oh so very, very moldy ::

Sand : Mud ::

Flipping my shit over the month of carrot season : Carrots every. freaking. day. (along with all other imaginable produce) in the cobblestone-paved market ::

Keeping bottles of water in the refrigerator in an effort to consume tepid water instead of nearly boiling water : Keeping my tomatoes out of the refrigerator because they keep freezing ::

“Speaking” broken Fulfulde- sometimes French : Speaking English- sometimes French ::

Nights at the bilbil cabaret with intermittent electricity fueling the obnoxiously loud music : Nights at Leonard and Carine’s watching the news, playing scrabble and splitting a bottle of wine ::

Working in the shade of Lucie’s overhang on a plastic mat on the sand, occasionally dozing off or stopping to eat : Working in a fully furnished library (!!), cataloguing books (!!) using electricity (!!)- working 6 hour shifts with no naps and no lunch breaks ::

My village fam, my hearts : New friends ::

Getting weird in Maroua with the Xtremies : ??

I am still happy- just a different sort of happy. Pouring one out for the Xtreme. Sey yesso, wuro am. Mi yidi ma.

peace love and THIS IS THE PART WHERE THE TURTLES DRUM

Cameroonian Medical Advice (le palu derange)

When it comes to sicknesses, Cameroonians seem to always have a prepared, well-rehearsed script of explanations of what brought upon your illness. All you need to do is offhandedly mention one symptom and someone will start spouting off their unprofessional, unsolicited medical advice, no follow-up circumstantial/ backup questions necessary. In my experience, this medical advice flows especially freely from strangers on buses, but that's generally because they are screaming at you for putting their health or their children's health in danger, i.e. on a 110 degree hot season bus ride when you open your window for a little airflow for some small relief from your own personal uncontrollable sweating and the unbelievably hideous collective stench filling the small enclosed space packed full of ripening human bodies, baton de manioc and dried, rotting fish, and the woman behind you starts screaming at you that "CAN'T YOU SEE MY CHILD? CAN'T YOU SEE HOW COLD HE IS?! CAN'T YOU SEE HOW THE DUST IS MAKING HIM SUFFER?!" as she clutches her sweating child, clad A Christmas Story-style with immovable limbs in layers and layers of thick wool crochet, and as another man clambers across three people to shut YOUR WINDOW without bothering to solicit your opinions on the matter. REWD. But I digress. Even when the medical misinformation is not being forced upon you in such an aggressive manner, you better believe that it is still being forced upon you. Feeling sniffly? Must be the poussiere (dust). La poussiere derange (the dust bothers), especially during dry season, but not exclusively. Or perhaps it's le palu (malaria) qui derange. Because le palu is pretty much always deranging. Caught yourself a cold? You've probably been drinking water that's too "fresh"/ cold, or maybe it's just been too windy for your organism to support. Your white man organism is just not up to the grueling demands of the African climate. Or did you recently take a bus ride and leave your window open? God knows that'll do it. Or perhaps it's the poussiere still deranging. Or the palu. Feeling feverish? Your organism is not yet accustomed to the heat "chez nous" in Africa because heat like this doesn't exist where you come from. Or you know what? It's probably the palu. Sweating profusely? You've been drinking too much water- if you would just cut back on your weird, excessive white person water consumption you could stop sweating so much (and look slightly less gross). Or maybe- just maybe- it's the palu. Have a headache? It's probably that damn poussiere again. Or the palu. Probably the palu. Definitely the palu. Might I recommend that you find a traveling medicine peddler, those very trustworthy-looking men with mass amounts of illegible Chinese "medicines" strapped to the front of their one-gear bikes, and get you some palu compriments. TREAT YO SELF! The only loophole to this mass onslaught of medical misinformation is to catch a Cameroonian off-guard with maladies that they have never heard of: hit em with an "allergy." Crickets.

peace love and palu, y'all.

Cameroonian Compliments

There are compliments, and there are backhanded compliments, but living in Cameroon has introduced me to a whole new breed of compliments; compliments that, depending on the day, either make me want to crawl into my bed and cry myself to sleep or unleash my hyena laugh because of the ridiculousness spouting from my friends' mouths. These are, in no particular order, my top five favorite Cameroonian compliments:

5. "You have gotten so fat!" The fat compliment is the most tried and true of all Cameroonian compliments, its popularity stretching to all corners of this vaguely chicken-shaped country. During PreService Training in Bafia (it is worth noting here that PST is debatably the most vulnerable and insecure period of a PCV's service), when our homestay families and language trainers first lavished us with aggressive commentary on the shapes of our bodies and their ever-increasing sizes, we were beyond mortified. Our French may have been a bit on the shoddy side, but we could deciper select words, like "weight" and "fat" and "body," especially when paired with gesticulations directed at our problem areas, and my personal favorite, the puffer fish face to mirror our own jowly visages. The onslaught was constant- my homestay sisters took every opportunity to express their envy of my rotund figure, my homestay mother bragged endlessly to friends and family about my giant, insatiable appetite, the lunch ladies at the training center took notice of my clean-plate club membership and [loudly and publicly] complimented me on it daily, my language trainers gushed over how I filled my new caba (muumuu) so nicely, my tailor could not say enough about my "basin (butt)," and how I had the shape of a Cameroonian woman, and how my host family must be feeding me very well and so on and so forth. I started running and doing Zumba classes with other trainees, but my resistance was futile. A year into my service, I am still fielding the same assailment of fat comments. Upon returning to village from any length of time away, without fail, I am always greeted with some variation of the fat compliment: "Ooh Sarah, tu as pris le poids/ le corps!" ("Ooh Sarah you have put on weight!"), "Wow Sarah tu es devenue grasse jusqu'a!" ("Wow Sarah you got so fat!"), "Tu as bien mange la-bas! Ca se voit!" ("You ate well there! We can see that!"), etc. After my trip to the states for Christmas, I was regaled for weeks with new and creative ways of expressing how fat I had gotten while away, which was fair considering my month-long indulgence in all of the things, but a couple of weeks back, after having gone on a running/ P90X binge since returning to post in February, I was in Maroua for a week- still running daily, mind you- and met up with my best friends Habiba, Lucie and Temwa at the end of the week for a drink, and Temwa started going on about how fat I had gotten in the seven days that I had spent in Maroua. WHAT! I stopped him mid-fat compliment, and went on a full-blown psycho, insecure girl tirade: it must be the shirt I'm wearing! There is no fucking way that I have pris'd any poids- I have been working out like a madwoman! You take it back! and YOU CAN'T SIT WITH US! He rescinded, but my outburst sparked some questions from Lucie, who cannot for the life of her understand why I wouldn't want to get fatter and is now concerned that she would receive no love in America because it seems like we are really against getting fat. I thought about explaining "chubby chasers," but instead went with how I think black women hold their weight much better than white women do, and reassuring her that I do think that she is beautiful. My b, gurl. My b.

4. "Your hair would make a great weave." I have been asked multiple times by friends in village to cut off my hair so that they can use my locks as a weave. When approached with this proposition, I always want to ask a few questions of clarification, starting with "you do realize that my hair is a completely different color and texture than yours, correct?" and "can't you see how hideously dry, brittle and ridden with split-ends my hair has become in your extremely arid desert climate?", and finally "you can buy a weave for 500 fcfa (equivalent to 1 USD. ONE. U.S. DOLLAR.)... is my natural hair only worth 500 fcfa to you?" to which the answers are always a resolute "yes, yes and yes." This past week, Lucie told me that she is in the market for a wig of my exact length and color of hair so that we can be "vrai jumelles" (fo real twins). Get ready for those pics, y'all.

3. "You got so pale!" In the same vein as the fat compliment, I often get the pale compliment upon returning from a trip in cooler climates, i.e. Yaounde, the states. Normally, there are only so many variations on telling a white person how white they are: "Ooh Sarah tu es devenue blanche jusqu'a!" ("Ooh Sarah you have become so white!") and "Wow Sarah ton peau est devenue blanche blanche!" ("Wow Sarah your skin has become white-white!") are about as creative as it gets. Despite there not being many different ways to comment on my whiteness, my friends find ways to emphatically deliver the pale compliment, generally by repeating the same compliment again and again (and again) in one sitting. The other night, I was at Lucie's house after having just gotten back from spending one night in Maroua, and Lucie would not stop talking about how white I had become overnight; she kept repeating "ton peau est devenue blanche jusqu'a" over and over again, unable to focus on anything else I had to say, and eventually her absolute conviction inspired other ways to express her sentiments: how I was whiter than she had ever seen me before, how my entire body had become the color of my non-pigmented skin on the palms of my hands, how I was glowing, and then she began theorizing as to why I had become so pale overnight: I must not have spent any time in the sun in Maroua, my blood was thinned because of the heat, I had applied a new bleaching cream... After literally hours of discussing my pallid complexion, I excused myself and headed home, beelining to a mirror, trying to reassure myself that I was no whiter than I had been the day before. Satisfied that I was just as white as ever, I retired to my hotbox of a bedroom and cozied up on my mattress and pillows that, in true hot season fashion, perpetually feel as if they were just microwaved and drifted off into a sweet (sweaty), sweet (sweaty) slumber. In the morning, with the lengthy discussions of my colorlessness just a vague, distant memory, I arrived to Lucie's house, only for her to continue her rant about how white I was the night before, peppering our conversations throughout the day with further reflections on how pale I was yesterday and theories as to why. Equatorial Africa, man, you'd think it'd be doing me a couple of favors in the tanning department... apparently not. The ginger gene may be stronger than I'd feared.

2. "You are so simple." On a recent trip to the East region, I had a long chat with a man who I shared a cab with. We talked about differences between American and Cameroonian cultures, specifically pertaining to marrying and child-birthing ages, because that is generally where conversations with Cameroonian men end up, and then at the end of our ride, he asked for my contact information, so I gave him my email address, hoping to evade the inevitable onslaught of ceaseless phone calls that come from giving a Cameroonian your phone number. He sent me a short note the next day, ending it with: "You are a very wonderful and simple person. Hope to hearing from you very soon." I've been called simple and uncomplicated a few other times in this country and I hate it. As a person who thinks very (some might even say exceptionally) highly of herself, I resent being described as "simple." I'm interesting! I have depth! You don't know my life!! Knock-knock jokes are simple. Addition is simple. One dimensional shapes are simple. Do I look like a circle to you? [Insert fat compliment here.]

1. "Your leg hair is so beautiful!" This was a first for me. The other night, I was sitting at what I was told was a wedding ceremony (ended up being a political party event... easy mistake.) and Habiba was talking to me about her day at school, when all of a sudden she stopped mid-sentence and started caressing my calves, exclaiming, "Sarah! Your leg hair is so beautiful!" She went on to explain that her own leg hair is always getting burnt off because she cooks over an open fire, but my leg hair can grow out to its full beautiful potential because I cook using a gas stove. She also recounted to me that one summer she worked for a woman in Maroua who owned a gas stove, she was able to grow her own leg hair out like mine and she would rock mini-skirts on the reg and everyone would compliment her saying how her leg hair looked like a "gorko," a man's leg hair, and how awesome that was. By this point in the conversation, all of the small children present were also caressing my calves and gushing about how beautiful my leg hair was. Habiba encouraged me to start rocking mini skirts to show off my luxurious leg hair, and made me promise that I would never shave it off after I explained to her that in the states we usually shave off all of our leg hair with a razor. I promised. Then, two days later, I arrived in Ngaoundere and shaved off all of my leg hair because I wanted to get henna done and the last time I tried to get henna with fully-grown leg hair, the hair got in the way and messed with the drawings. Sorry, Habibz. Give me another couple of months and I'll be back to full-blown gorko leg status.

peace love and nice gorilla legs, girlfran.

America Sarah

America Sarah likes to start her mornings with a nonfat no whip double shot latte from Starbucks.
Cameroon Sarah likes to start her mornings with a spaghetti omelette sandwich dunked in ketchup.

America Sarah pampers herself with brazilian waxes, massages and mani-pedis.
Cameroon Sarah pampers herself by letting small children rip her hair out of her head under the facade of cornrows and by letting teenage girls doodle on her legs and feet with black hair dye.

America Sarah is a firm believer in the power of retail therapy and an avid chaser of shopping highs.
Cameroon Sarah is a firm believer in Up-for-Grabs* and an avid bar shopper**.

America Sarah loves texting, tweeting, instagramming and checking in on foursquare on her iPhone, which is an extension of her right hand.
Cameroon Sarah wishes her drug phone had T9.

America Sarah can put away a sashimi appetizer and two sushi rolls no problem.
Cameroon Sarah can put away a giant plate of intestines in oil sauce no problem.

America Sarah dranks vodka sodas with a splash of cran and a twist of lime.
Cameroon Sarah dranks plastic baggies of debatably potable alcohol. SACHETS TO THE FACE!

America Sarah loves her DVR and Charlie's Netflix account.
Cameroon Sarah has seen a lot of weird DVDs because that's all she can get her paws on in the travel houses to play on her janky old school portable DVD player.

America Sarah wallows in her hangover with chinese delivery and Law and Order: SVU.
Cameroon Sarah wallows in her hangover with oily red beans with mayonnaise and fried beignets and Trace (ballinous French music video channel).

America Sarah wears Vera Wang Princess perfume and lotion.
Cameroon Sarah masks her stench in prescription strength deodorant and the anonymity of being in a country full of B.O.

America Sarah sweats it out in spin class and on the treadmill with a personal TV and her iPod blasting jams.
Cameroon Sarah sweats it out to Jillian Michaels in her living room and goes on long runs in village, hoping to God that this time she won't be chased by dogs or small children.

America Sarah rocks skinny jeans, boots and little black dresses with stilettos.
Cameroon Sarah rocks full pagne ensembles (wrap skirt, top, headwrap all in matching printed fabric), cabas and [bomb ass] pagne overalls.

America Sarah showers with a socially acceptable frequency, and enjoys a nice long soak in her clawfoot bathtub with jasmine scented bath salts and exfoliating scrubs from time to time.
Cameroon Sarah bucket bathes*** as infrequently as she sees possible and has no white people around to tell her otherwise.

America Sarah likes a sultry smoky eye or a bright red lip on her face.
Cameroon Sarah likes it when her sunscreen doesn't melt off of her face in slimy streaks.

America Sarah pees in toilets.
Cameroon Sarah pees in latrines, holes, sinks, egg-shaped porcelain fixtures, behind houses, behind trees, in thickly weeded areas, on the side of the road in open fields, down shower drains, in bucket-flush toilets and from time to time in an actual flushing toilet.

peace love and AMERICUHHHH FUCK YEAH

*Up-for-Grabs is "one man's trash is another man's treasure" personified. We have boxes in all of our regional travel houses filled with clothes that volunteers no longer want for other volunteers to take.
**Bar shopping is my favorite Cameroonian pastime; whilst sitting at a bar, a series of vendors walk past you with various items for sale. If you think you may be interested in a vendor's products, you get his attention by hissing at him, and then he will come and show you his goods. It's like shopping, but you don't have to move and you get to drink forties of beer while you do it. Swag.
***A bucket bath is when I hoist my 25-gallon water container (with the strength of a thousand raging hulks) and pour myself a nice cold bucket o water, and then use a cup as a vehicle to get the water from the bucket onto my filthy body. #sofreshandsocleanclean

white girls don't dance; they explode.

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

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

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

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

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

peace love and explosions

la pluie menace

WAZZUP WAZZAHHHHH*

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

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

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

More updates to come, faithful followers. Stay classy.

peace love and flies

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