Jess does da ‘Roon

I’ve been somehow a bit (just a wee bit) resentful of my healthiness here in Cameroon. I chalk most of it up to being on Doxycycline, an antibiotic, daily for malaria. I call it my superdrug. But I’m amazed at how the least little bit of weakness and I’m ready to be laid up all day. Last night I had a bit of stomach issues (one of those where you’re not sure which end of your body to aim at the toilet… pretty, huh?) and I was ‘bout ready to die. Then my drugs kicked in and I was OK by the morning. I hopped on a bus to Yaounde and arrived with really sore joints. I honestly don’t know how most Cameroonians function when quite a bit of the time they have some sort of illness. (Although I’ve seen plenty of examples where my office is nearly empty because everyone has some sort of something and can’t work)
I haven’t had nearly enough exotic parasites to brag about when I’m back home. But I can say I’m experienced with them. In the last 2 weeks I have diagnosed, extracted, supported, or warned about 5 different people about mango flies. A friend in Buea got real intimate real fast when I had to check her backside for whether the 10 (!) welts were mango flies or not. Another volunteer (who will remain nameless) had one in her back and I wasn’t sure if it was a mango fly or not (one never is… it could just be a nasty zit). Mango flies are flies that lay eggs on clothes drying outside then if you don’t iron clothes or wait 4 days for the larvae to die, they enter your skin and a small worm starts growing. You gotta squeeze it out. The tricky thing with it is that you can control YOUR clothes but you can’t really guarantee at a hotel. So I extracted the tiny larvae while being very calm (it’s a gross thought). Then later on, I watched the extraction process for chiggers. I’m proud of being a true NC girl and knowing all ‘bout chiggers but Cameroonian chiggers are a different game. They live in dust/mud often with animal feces and they lay eggs in your feet, often near your nails. You gotta dig the egg sack out. I’ve seen it done 3 times now and …it’s still gross.
And speaking of things that inspire me (I thought that was a reasonable transition…), I did paper mache this week. At the slight mention that I should make a pinata for July 4th, suddenly I was up and tearing strips of newspaper. I do believe that paper mache might just be miraculous. It’s profound. I’d started a mask project with Lucy earlier but she wasn’t really motivated since she’d never seen the glory. Once she saw mine with a layer of the hardened paper on it, she got really enthusiastic. So there we were, squatting on my concrete floor late into the night as I gently tried to steer her away from drowning her mask in paste.
And then! Oh sweet miracles! How would we ever get these artful affairs dry in Buea, the land of damp? A DEHUMIDIFIER! On loan from Bill’s office (Bill I promise I’ll bring it back at the end of rainy season), it’s exactly what every citizen of Buea needs. My clothes aren’t growing as moldy and my paper mache dries over night. It’s pure joy. Things you don’t think you’ll need in Africa…
The way the rainy season works is that meetings are sort of inconsistent because the rain holds people up, kids are in flux because some kids go on vacation to bigger cities while village kids come to Buea since it IS the bigger city, and it RAINS. So my work’s been a bit slower. But I’m finding motivation in an art therapy workshop I want to hold with secondary school girls in October. After nearly 2 years, this is what I’ve learned about my work style: I’m not great when there’s little structure but I need to set goals for myself that are fun. Sounds a bit like common sense, huh?

What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?”

Annie Dilliard asks, “What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?”

I’ve been thinking about this question for over 2 weeks.  Something with gravity usually comes to me in fleeting moments of shocking beauty but what is really worth writing to someone who is dying? Or if you were taking your last breaths, what would you feel the need to say?

If I had one story from this week that the moment was worth retelling, it’s taking Junior and Masu (8 and 6 years old respectively) bike riding.

Lillian’s kids are lucky enough to have bikes but they’re kept protected and not allowed to ride them outside of their driveway.  On Friday it was sunny and I asked Lillian if I could take them to the university and let them ride on the many smooth roads with very little traffic.

They ran to strap on their helmets and find their cleanest tennis shoes.  Masu had a fancy hair-do and her helmet sat cocked on the back of her head at a weird angle.  I forced them to walk their bikes down the rocky path and past the university gates.  Junior kept trying to sneak on and ride for just a few seconds before I’d make him hop off.

At the gates, a security guard stopped us and said “We can’t just be letting anyone enter here.” and I quickly answered, “I’m a student.” “In which department?”, he countered. “Economics,” I said, which was the only department I could think of at the moment. He asked, “What level?” “200.” I kept waiting for the kids to pipe up and sweetly say, “Aunty Jessie, when did you start being a student here?” but Junior said later he didn’t know I was lying.  I don’t blame the security guard for trying to do something to stop the madness; after all, I don’t think kids have ever ridden bikes inside the campus before.  The students seemed shocked as the bikes darted around them.

When they could finally ride, they were so elated.  Masu kept yelling at Junior that he was going to fast and he kept giving her directions to turn left or move away for a car to pass.  Masu gently asked me if I could move a little faster so that they could ride faster without losing me.

Masu collected unripe guavas and put them in her little bike pouch.  I came around the corner and Junior was standing by as a grown man tried to ride on his little bike.  They patiently sat down near the tennis courts and watched a match while Junior chatted up a man beside him.

When Masu got a bit tired, we sat on a bench while her brother kept riding.  She smartly said, “Now if only we had a snack!” and I laughed. Of course! Who goes on a bike ride without refreshments?

As they whizzed around, Masu’s pom poms fluttering and Junior dripping sweat, they occasionally yelled back through the breeze “Thank you so much Aunty Jess!”

When I finally made them go back as the sun started to fade, they were so excited about the “best time they’d ever had!” and begged to go on their school playground for just a minute.  So we stopped so they could brag about their day to a few neighborhood kids as they excitedly crawled over a small iron set of monkey bars and desperately tried to swing on seatless swings.

Seeing kids do something for the first time and recognize the thrill of the moment is a special thing to be a part of.

We’re going back again and this time, their mom’s packing a picnic.

This morning I was doing a bit of sport and as I “power walked” /really slowly jogged by a little boy, he started running past me. He was wearing beige shorts and a light yellow sweatshirt. He was holding a beautiful yellow flower and spinning it in front of him as he ran through the wind. The colors were so …sweet… in the essence of the word. Like the feel of “buttercup” on your tongue.

I’m trying to start a routine of dancing everyday. I play some random song, from bouncing Indian beats to sensuous R&B, and let loose. Lately I’ve been lamenting not going to occasions where I get to dance more. Then I realized that I didn’t need an occsaion to move my body. I consider it therapy and it makes me feel sexy to just shake and rattle it all out.

Watermelon is in season here and this afternoon was hot and sunny. I bought a big slice and smeared my face with red juices on my veranda, dripping puddles all over.

In response to the back lash from my last post (where I got drunk and tortured a chicken) I think I need to offer… some sort of apology/clarification/refocus. I should have been more blatant about how unfair it was to the chicken, perhaps. I admit to having no experience. I wanted the knife sharp, I tried really. It wasn’t as if I really think I did it wrong. And it didn’t go on eternally. But it wasn’t exactly the most pleasant time for that chicken (it was hell. the chicken was terribly in pain. let me not minimize it).
I also agree that I have no moral high ground to condemn people for eating meat. Fact. I don’t really think anyone does, and I hated it when vegans would scold me for something in the States. So sorry for coming off in that regard. I just feel glad that I was able to know more about what it takes for me to eat meat. (I’m a Women Studies major, I can rip that particular statement apart just as well as anyone else. I know that me being “glad to know” comes at the death of another creature. Nonetheless, I do feel lucky. Many don’t have the experience or think about it twice)
I don’t think the chicken cared that I tried to reassure it and that we offered a prayer. I also don’t really think it excuses the brutality of the death. I was trying to describe more of my coping process there. No the chicken did not offer itself up, we did not have some Native American communion experience of souls meeting or anything magical.
I’m slightly amused at the high number of responses I’ve gotten to this post as opposed to any other post I’ve done. Apparently I was insanely mistaken for thinking I might’ve come across as a bleeding heart when I must’ve looked much more like a drunken chicken sadist. I felt the need to respond to some of the comments mainly because I think people take animal cruelty seriously, which is justified. And I wanted to climb off my high chicken and say that this is just my experience. This is what I did. This is how I experienced it. These are my impressions. You don’t have to agree. I appreciate the criticism.

Disclaimer: the following can be slightly graphic and/or boring if you’ve done many animal killings.

I realize I’ve never watched anything bigger than a spider die.  Even a mouse, I usually look away. But I’m willing to eat anything, in the sense of even animals I have no imagination of what it’s like to witness their death.

With that in mind, Kim and I decided to kill a chicken.  Here there are easy ways to have someone else kill and clean it for you if you’ll pay them less than a dollar.  But I just wanted to know the process, being the suburban little princess I was, I didn’t grow up on a farm killing my food.  I know many Americans have this same experience of disassociating the pink piece of meat kept tightly packed in glistening plastic and squeaky styrofoam from the bloody feather and biology class organs of the real chicken.

We went to the market and went to the chicken section.  Smelly and dim, I stumbled my way down the tight aisle of fowls.  On both sides, white chickens of different sizes were lifted and held to reveal vulnerable flesh – wounded and pecked at.  We chose a fluffy medium size one and put it in a bag to carry home.

For 3 days we kept it, avoiding naming it (Although Kim kept calling it “Sir Chicken” which I discouraged). We made up a story about it having a terrible life and us mercy killing it in order to make us feel better.

On the day of slaughter, Kim and I divided tasks.  We chose to do the deed behind my house next to a small corn farm, where the fewest Cameroonians would happen by to watch.  Emboldened by a bit of alcohol, I stepped forward to kill it.  Since I’m not skilled at whipping the neck to break it, we dug a hole to let the blood flow out of its throat.  I stepped on its feet and wings wearing my flip flops and held its neck back.  The knife wasn’t sharp enough, even though I’d taken it to the shoe repair guy to grind it sharp.  It took awhile.  I held it in my hands for what seemed like too long.  As I floundered with the dying bird, my older neighbor woman sang out, “Let me go softly…” at the perfect moment.  She was watching and I suppose they sing this song at funerals.  I purred, “It’s OK, It’s OK” after the chicken lay motionless on the ground.  Kim and I remembered we wanted to say a little prayer/ceremony.  We thanked the chicken for its life.

We dipped it in boiling water to loosen the feathers and then plucked it.  Not nearly as gruesome as I thought it’d be.  Quickly it went from a slain creature to meat.  Kim, with guidance from another more experienced PCV, cleaned it.  I think biology classes helped make this less shocking.

Then we cut it up into normal-looking pieces and washed it.  It was here that the flesh/guts/blood smell kicked in and my resolve broke down.  I had to go and sit down.

After cooking with veggies in some broth, the meal was amazing.  I didn’t feel the guilt I often feel as a quasi-vegetarian who sometimes eats meat.  I’d known this chicken and gone through its death.

I’d do it again if I had to.  But holding a creature as the life escapes is a powerful experience that gets forgotten in the word “slaughter”.  If I sound like a bleeding heart hippie, maybe it’s not untrue but the first encounter with killing something is rare and a special confrontation with self, morality, and life.  It’s a shame more Americans aren’t responsible for what it takes to satisfy their immense cravings for meat.