Jess does da ‘Roon

Let’s get this out of the way first, since I’m a bit riled up about it. I just started/completed my reading of Nine Hills to Nambonkaha by Sara Erdman (I read 50 pages). I want to recommend it to anyone who isn’t in Peace Corps West Africa… since it accurately describes my every breath pretty much so far. I got angry as she stole any description of things away from my future book that I suddenly decided I wanted to write (she can’t write about pagne! that’s MY life!) Although she’s in Burkina Fasso, there’s a lot of similarities. Of course I’m a redhead and therefore experience life in a much richer sense… I’ll still write my book, don’t fret.

I traveled to Kumba to see Lake Barumbi/Crater Lake (for the white folks who can’t remember Barumbi). It’s beautiful, and I got to ride in a canoe (pronounced here CA-noo rather than can-OO) carved out of a huge log, which was awesome until the guy had to furiously dip water out to keep us from sinking. On the way back, we saw about 10 monkeys flitting about in a tree high up. When I asked what kind they were, the answer was “They’re monkeys.” as if I’d thought they were televisions.

Reach Out, my NGO, hosted a training for women’s organizations (there were 8 present – nearly half of which I’m working with) for income-generating activities. We trained them on budgeting, soap-making, and tie-dye and batik. I nearly jumped out of my skin at all the batik possibilities. Pillow cases and table cloths for my house! Elephant and giraffe stamps! Oh the fun that shall ensue. The women seemed to get a lot out of it. We all chose “Cho Cho names” or workshop fun names, like “Madame Nyanga” which means flashy/someone who likes nice things. I chose… “Joyous”???? What!? Am I suddenly a nun?! As a child, I chose names like Cleopatra and Francesca as play names. Next time, I’ll do better.

I got into a crazy mood this rainy Saturday. Grabbed a pencil and started drawing on my wall, before I knew it, I’d painted a tree with a woman doing a handstand as the trunk of the tree. I like it. But in a place where I frantically search the walls for creepy crawleys… I have to adjust to this in my bedroom.

Last week I had a meeting with the Mbororos again. Update: they prioritized their health problems and we’re going to do an educative session on malaria first. After we finished, I went back to the president of the south west province of the organization’s house. In the warm, afternoon glow of the back door, were 3 teeny kitties. Upon the bolstering of Mel (researcher from the UK), I decided it was actually possible for me to keep a cat here. So I’m picking her up in an hour, after readying my house. I haven’t come up with a name yet. Since she’s coming from a Mbororo house, I’m thinking perhaps a Fulfulde name would be appropriate. I went to get her last night. Ramakata, the madame of the house, did some “awaszy lili” (this is a pidgin word? jesus. why not henna?) on my hand. Put my little fingertips in plastic bags after covering them in the tea-smelling mud. I brought her brownies. I took home a cat. Last night she slept on top of me all night, getting so close to my face with her HUGE eyes that I swear she’s farsighted. I’m straddling names at the moment: Mambala (“cat” in Bakweri, “Bala” or “mamba” for short), Kadidja (a wife of Muhammed, a pretty name), Bakala (the type of cornrows against the head braids – she has stripes down her head), Cleopatra/Maybeline (she has fantastic wings coming out from the sides of her eyes)…. clearly I have a naming obsession and way too much time.

So yet another rainy morning. I can’t help but think that if I’d gone into some other type of Corps besides the Peace Corps, I’d be learning self-discipline. This Corps = not making me hard core. I stayed in bed until 9 reading and journaling.  I read a magazine where someone had submitted a piece from their journal and it makes me wonder about my own.  I don’t write stuff that’s intellectual or really even musing (amusing perhaps), and I don’t write literary descriptions – I just sorta rant or blab on about what goes on in my life and head. Suddenly I’m fascinated by the way different people journal (but ya can’t just go peeping at everyone’s books now can ya?)

I’m in a cafe sitting next to some large collar-popped guy who signed a message as “Puppy20″. I took a second glance. Now I realize he’s selling dogs on the internet, and not sending stupidly cute messages to girlfriends online.  Apparently dog sales are really common here… but no one seems to really keep them as pets.

Except Lillian.  Lillian’s my new haven/best buddy. They have a dog named Rambo that the kids were washing in the driveway as I walked into their compound. Kids doing work – no surprise. Dog named Rambo – odd but not a shock. Kids washing dog named Rambo – wow. In a driveway? Holy hell. Lillian is Sarah’s friend (Sarah’s my crazy hippie friend who has been helping me in the dread process). She’s probably in her 30s or so. She lives in this gorgeous house, has a car, and her kids are some of the most normal kids (shows you what you get used to here) I’ve seen in Cameroon – they jump into my arms to greet me and show me their artwork while watching cartoons.  Lillian’s really close with Sarah but I’m hoping to slide in after she leaves. Sarah’s got malaria and typhoid at the same time.. for the second time since she came here. Lillian’s been taking care of her, mostly by supplying her with a healthy dose of the Young and the Restless. She makes fantastic food like cakes and hot chocolate for me. Last night we watched Girl, Interrupted. Ready for a cliche? I found myself feeling a little interrupted while watching this movie that seemed… so distant from my own life. Violent hospital scenes were jarring as were the commercials for “DNAge” and other anti-aging creams from South Africa.  Here, women are concerned about their bodies (hence the soaps to make your tummy smaller and your boobs bigger) but it’s different. You’re still appreciated if you aren’t 105lbs (what’s that in kilos?)

Pidgin vocab word for ya: “Chakara” (say it like Shakira but with a “ch” sound and without the “i”). It means “scattered” but you use it like the kids in the States say “ghetto” – anything broke down, messed up, weird, cheap. I like it a lot.

So here’s a work update. I’ve lowered my expectations (who the hell hasn’t in Cameroon??) about the International AIDS Candlelight Memorial that I was organizing. First I dropped the march I wanted to do, then the art gallery, now it’s almost the skits. We’re basically just doing a poetry/essay contest. It’s been …difficult. Then I met with my counterpart yesterday and she said the reason that some of my work’s been hard is because I haven’t collaborated enough with the staff – fair enough. But she understands, and let them know, that I’m an “introvert” and I just “don’t talk a lot”. Oh please God. I almost cried in the office at the sheer misunderstanding of ME. I haven’t been getting along with my coworkers but not because I don’t talk (although I don’t get dramatic like they do or talk about the same things they do). I’m going to work on it…

What happens when I decide to go to the capital and clear out my schedule for the week? It’s damn hard to reverse that decision looking at a wiped out week… So I find myself in Yaounde, against better reasoning.

I traveled here tucked safe and sound with 9 people in the back seat of a bush taxi/combi/bus-ish van. Most of them were children. Most of those children were squirmy. One of them had sticky mango hands that she wanted to touch me with. One had ringworm doing scabby, bloody hula hoops on her head. (I long for the days when a kid will hug me and I won’t look down to make sure they don’t have ringworm) I spent most of the 6 hour ride trying to Buddha-down my hatred of hot sweaty children and the women who close the god-forsaken windows on the dusty heat. One of the reasons for coming was to get a little check up by the medical officer. There are 2 such officers; one is Chad (/man of our little Peace Corps feminine fantasies – he’s immaculately caring, cute, and funny) and the other is Ann (she’s Cameroonian, we’ve adopted the phrase “Ann-Handled” because of her although some people like her no-bullshit approach). Ann was the only one around and quickly dismissed any need that I might have had for being checked out. In my passive aggressive reaction, I got some really sweet lip balm out of the brisk deal.

So what have I accomplished while in Yaounde? I’ll tell ya, my main achievement’s been deleting over 100 of my pictures (nope, not the ones you’ve seen that I uploaded already). Bill, you’ve helped to configure these stupid computers I’m sure so the blame’s going to you (and the other small part to my stupidity).  I did do a mini-happy dance to find people here that I haven’t seen in months. 

Random Cameroon moment: When you come to visit me, I might invite you to the saloon. Are we out west? Nope. But that’s what they call hair salons here – a saloon. And they’re spelled that way on signs. Sometimes they’re named after Eminem or 50 Cent. But my favorite mysterious establishment is: “Mama G Spot” (I’d name my bar that if I had one.)

Yesterday I went to the tailor instead of work in the morning (that’s one of the many advantages of Africa). When I got there, I’d talked to her about needing fabric scraps. She points to a 4′ tall bag in the corner and tells me “Aunty Jessie, feel free.” And feeling free, I romped in the shreds of glorious sequins, colorful patterns, and lace (and promptly started into a sneezing fit – quickly responded to by “Ashia” and “Its not easy-o” by Aunty Jacky, who owns the establishment small closet of a store). I got a huge bag of scraps, hopefully to do an art project with orphans and maybe to send to Mom’s art classes (I loved imagining Mom explaining that this was African fabric – sometimes I forget that it’s weird to have fabric with shower heads, toaster ovens, or even the Women’s Day fabric with women driving buses on it) So I justified my absence with the high and mighty purpose of art.

Not a question for Cameroon. It’s plastic is the only answer. Plastic sachets of things is a trend that’s out of control here. When I first came, getting whiskey in a plastic bag seemed… tacky. Now it’s damn convenient (and cheap). But then traveling and water was in a little pouch, I was again amazed at how my thirst could be quenched for about 10 cents. Last week I saw a sachet of oil and I drew the line. You’re cooking and you only need a little touch of oil? I doubt it! Here in da Roon we do oil with a heavy hand; buy a bottle.

It’s Monday and a rainy one at that. I called in late to work after feeling completely drained from the weekend. However, when I finally did saunter into the office there were only 3 people in. My voice hoarse and low, I wasn’t up for drama. And ah-ha! The solution was found. Often I have little conflicts with my coworkers, where we can’t communicate with each other and I get really frustrated. Meetings last too long or questions seem mundane (I’m a terrible Peace Corps volunteer). But when I don’t have the energy to do anything but go along with the flow, it… flows. Perhaps I’ll try to go to work half-dead more often (is it depressing that I think life is better when I’m closer to the grave? holy crap.) I haven’t had gas to cook with lately (for a week and a half) since Buea’s out of gas. I may be pleasantly swimming along in a pretty modern city, but things like this remind me of the 3rd world aspect. Develop, dammit, so I can make banana bread! Anyway, this morning I went to my local omelet shack in the rain. It’s nasty outside and I wasn’t sure I was at the right place (I don’t go there often and you just know it by the thin sheet hanging in the doorway) until I heard the clinking of dishes. Omelet shacks are probably my favorite restaurants in all of Cameroon. They’re tight and cozy, especially if it’s rainy out. This one is literally a shack, with plank boards that are half-way painted and you sit diner-style to watch the guys make you a spaghetti omelet (why don’t we do this in America? Take some leftover spaghetti and cook it with your eggs. It’s hearty and heart-warming!).

Last night I went to a bar, where a patient gentleman at the university tried to chat/pick me up while I was eating. Nothing sexier than a white girl with onion breath spitting out fish bones. I gave him half an ear until he mentioned that he had a puppy. Remember back at college where guys would bring their dogs to campus just to boost their sex appeal for the passing ladies? Multiply it by 100 for me, who never gets to pet any sort of animal here for fear of rabies or disturbing its trash rootings. I instantly warmed up to him.

Today the medical officer is coming to visit me. Imagine your doctor coming to visit your house and drop a few hints about how you could live healthier in your home. Awesome. So I tried to tidy up. Let’s just hope he doesn’t tell me I should be bathing more. It ain’t happenin’.

I met some guys over the weekend. They’re doing a trip around the world by road, sponsored by Toyota. So they go tripping around in these pick-up trucks, starting in Australia. As you can guess, their experiences are varied and pretty amazing. It’s pretty cool to be able to ask someone questions with all that experience compacted in such a short time (they’ve been on the road for 14 months now). Their website is theworldbyroad.com . Of course there are advantages and things that would positively suck… but they seemed like really awesome guys.

Question: How is my new tiger couch? Well I don’t actually have it yet.. But Hans and I went to arrange all the details today. In one week, I’ll be the proud owner of a tiger-striped velvet couch. My time in Cameroon is bringing so many of my dreams to fruition… and possibly bringing out the parts of me that should be suppressed. (Now’s when you say, “Now Jess, that’s not true. We love your stupid fake snake skin pants and zebra rug!”)

Onto my other weird tendencies.. I’ve started an art project. This is good because it’s taken me awhile to get going on it. I bought a bamboo poster in the market, got it home, decided it was hideous. But voila! I’ve got a starter for a collage. So currently I’ve drawn in permanent marker on top of the poster. “What’d ya draw on that bamboo poster, Jess?” (I talk to myself freely these days) Um… I drew bamboo … ‘cuz my creativity is out of control apparently. And I’m working on doing a weaving into the poster on at least part of it. I’ll put some pictures up eventually.

Update on my hair, because let’s be honest, you didn’t want to hear about Africa. You wanted to read all about my couch and my hair. Well I’ll tell you, my hair is not nearly… ornery enough for dreads. We all knew it was stringy and straight.. but apparently that isn’t conducive to quick knotting (who knew?). Combined with my newly discovered aptitude for getting tossed in the waves, my hair came completely out of all its precious knots. Grrr said the baby tiger and then started again.

Alright, some real Africa commentary. So this week I went to the Mbororo Women’s group. It’s the main Muslim tribe in the southern part of Cameroon (www.survival-international.org/tribes/mbororo) . You can usually pick them out on the street since they look completely different from most people in the south. They have lighter skin and longer faces. The women are gorgeous! I walk into the meeting and there are 17 women all draped in beautiful fabrics sitting barefoot on the floor (compare this to the Bassa women, 2 days before, where 15 women sat in mostly Western clothes and all in chairs). The Mbororos are a little more.. cautious to work with NGOs now that a few have come, taken pictures, and never returned (they can then use the pictures to get funds and say they are working with this marginalized population… aye! Cameroon!) . But after Esther explained a lot about Reach Out to them, they seemed a bit more open. I’m really excited about working with them; they already have a lot of skills (tailoring, handicrafts, making milk – I love milk! ) but if we can just give them seed funds to start up projects.. voila!

So let’s continue the series of me telling you my favorite Cameroonian names: “Organ Urgen” (oh no. That’s a real one.) and.. my all-time favorite “Jolly Toh” (as in happy appendage of the foot… that’s freakin’ fantastic!)

I don’t think I told you about being in the conference in Kribi and having a matching dress with Esther. That’s right. Her and I had matching kabas (traditional dress) made out of this wonderful bumblebee/bubble fabric. I’ll get photos to prove the glory. When was the last time you WANTED to be wearing the same outfit as your boss? (Sort of goes along with her smelling my bra that I bought… all non-traditional work relationship stuff)