Fish outta water
…Or at least Jess out of the ocean. Since I’m sitting here wearing my bathing suit, after wearing it to a ceremony at a school (under my thin, short beach dress). That’s how hard up I am to go to the beach.
Moving on to mermaids, I wanted to relate a story that Robert told me. I do this cute annoying thing, where I’ll ask someone to “tell me a story” if I get bored or sleepy. So he likes to tell me about “his mermaid” …which he was with when he was 2 years old. He has 2 kids with his mermaid. When he came back from being with her, they sliced his hands and pulled out 2 shining coins. Now, Americans might delight in the lyrical qualities of this tale. But he’s VERY SERIOUS about the truth of this story. The other night he asked if I did magic, and he was again very serious. I said “no” laughing. (Robert believes all Peace Corps are spies) But then he gestured to the painting that I’d done on my bedroom wall… of the woman hanging upside down melding into the form of a tree. And I realized how cult-ish the painting could be taken. Way to go – Jess tries to show the artistic side of Americans… she achieves convincing Cameroonians that she’s a satan worshiping spy.
I just went to the post office. In the taxi on the way, I was praised in pidgin for knowing how much the taxi should cost but then lost brownie points for not telling the driver that I had a 500fs bill. (This is the equivalent to a little more than a dollar… I just get stubborn sometimes and want to believe that of course they have change for this bill). When I got there, I was AGAIN frustrated by the process when I wanted to buy stamps and the woman at the window… had to call someone… to buy stamps from her… But I was at the stamp window? I don’t understand. Then getting change was horrendous. Ay, Cameroon!
Furthering my crazy image in Buea, I traveled with my cat. Yep. Took my “small pussy” and jumped in a bus. She behaved fantastically. I learned that my mothering approach is to shove food in anything’s mouth that’s crying. (I’ll be a great mommy…) I was able to learn a TON of myths that people have here about cats.
- Cats whiskers are poisonous.
- Cats whiskers, when put inside a cigarette, cause tuberculosis.
- Cats do magic - as in it hisses and spits on you and you die.
Alright, time for me to go see what other magic I can dabble in here. Buea: provisional capital and a magical place!
Redheaded Picathartes
This is a mysterious bird found only in the South West province of Cameroon… Which could be referring to my spirit animal.
She works hard for the money
…so hard for the money. (When it’s 160,000fcfa, how hard is “hard for the money”?)
I’ve been puttin’ in some hours (I haven’t been to the beach in 2 weeks, my hair says thank you, I say dammit) at the office and running around between schools. I’ve been organizing this International AIDS Candlelight Memorial stuff – poetry and essay competition in schools. This shouldn’t be that hard. “Kids, write an essay. Here’s a certificate.” NOPE.
So here’s an example with one of the four schools: The principal looks like that sketch we had to do in art class with the old guy in shaky lines that you have to draw upside down – his face sags and his suits are wrinkly. I wrote a poem one day:
8:15am I walk into
The principal’s office
There’s blood on the floor
And he walks in carrying
An electric yellow motorcycle helmet
with a dragon on it
It all seems too bad ass to me.
He made everything impossible and by the time we gave the ceremony for the 5 kids who came out to write, I was so angry I could barely make a speech. But on the contrary, one of the other schools had the whole school participate. Here’s an example of the product (uncorrected):
Ceremonies are REALLY important in Cameroon. I had a kid stop me on a walk back down to my neighborhood to ask me if the health club was going to have the chance to perform. Certificates are such a big deal – after all, this US Peace Corps certificate could get you a job at an embassy someday, you never know.
Bus scraps
Again, I’m in Yaounde. On the way here, I journaled a bit. (I firmly believe that inspiration must be found with your head out a window and Cameroonian jungle whizzing by). So here’s a glimpse into my scribblings (you should feel voyeuristic if you enjoy this):
Today the crazy peddler stepped onto the bus, in front of me since I was at the front of the bus. I always just cross my fingers that the medical lecture of the day doesn’t concern vaginas. It does. Inevitably. Today he was advising women not to use full latrines, since there’s this “wonderful vapor” (Anglophones say ‘wonderful’ for anything, it’s all about the inflection) that comes up and when a woman puts herself over it… it enters her VAGINE…AH (Anglophones also LOVE to pause right before the last syllable of their sentence when they’re lecturing… keeps it interesting?). The cure for this terribly gross affliction? You take some garlics, onion, and ginger, grind them together and then put a drop of that on your tongue and your ANE..US (At this point I’m fascinated but yet trying to bury myself in a book and my MP3 player… and I manage to slap a hand over my mouth before screaming out “OW!?!?” – that sounds like a TERRIBLE idea.)
Random spotting: Horse at the Total gas station in Douala. Just a big brown horse, grazing on the grass in some concrete planter. Goats: common. Horses: what the hell?
I always seem to have emotional moments and revelations on buses. I contemplate my first goodbye and figure out why I’m so terrible at them now. Sarah and I had omelets together and I thought we’d take a taxi together when suddenly she was hugging me and I heard my self hollowly say, “Travel safe.” – not admitting that I might never see her again, at least for another year and a half. I’ve been removed – strange and jittery with Bill. Cold toward my innocent yet damn irritating kitten. Inside I feel colorful and normal. This sounds so sad and maladjusted but things aren’t always sparkling here. As I write this, they are. It’s one of the clearest skies I’ve seen and the jungle is gleaming. Robert said I seemed “disturbed” and this doesn’t mesh with the culture here. That’s true – you smile here. But I’m still me and this is real and although I love it here, I have down days.
When did we pick up a gendarme? Is there not something alarming about looking up to the passenger seat to see the red beret of authority? Dammit they’re stopping us and we get out and walk for the 4th time… Stupid “control”.
Lumberyards used to remind me of my granddad, working at the local hard ware store. Small towns. Workshirts. My dad’s pick-up truck. But here they look like a setting out of the Holocaust – these huge, ancient giants laying quiet and severred.
Finally: the inevitable. Our packed bus hit a taxi. Everyone seemed to suck their teeth at once. There was the 2 minute grace period, where no one said anything, just craning their necks. Then everyone spilled out onto the highway (not by the collision but by their own volition). When packed back in, the Dane Cook syndrome (where everyone rushes out of their houses to see a car accident, standing around saying the same thing: Where were you? I was in the kitchen, washing a dish, I heard it, so I came out.) started – everyone tittering about it.
