Jess does da ‘Roon

Global Voices Online quotes me (Global Voices) and apparently my global voice is ALL about taxi drivers… Why can’t I be like Siobhan who reminds people how much she likes living in Cameroon? 

I’d like to take this inspired-moment to have a bit of top 10 (actually not a bit, i’ll give you the full bite) of why I like Cameroon.

1. They understand the importance/deliciousity of carbs
2. The weather usually in Buea is ideal. T-shirt weather with a view to the sea.
3. I can do strange things and claim that’s what we do where I come from.
4. People dance how they want, and it’s all good.
5. Clothing and fabric is exciting – from fabric printed with showerheads to Chinese shirts with “Say WHAT!???” printed on them
6. I get to hear songs that I like as I walk down the street (such as 2 Face…  which I was going to sing in our little Peace Corps band here.. probably good that I didn’t
7. There’s a gazillion (literally, I did an anthropologic study) different cultures. This includes language, stereotypes, ways of tyeing sarongs, foods, physical look, etc.
8. Life slows down and I sometimes like not rushing around like a maniac.
9. The people are gorgeous and there’s more of a sense of body-appreciation.  I’ve learned to stop analyzing MY body since there’s not always American women to compare myself to, nor is some company trying to shove me into a tinier, tanner, unhappier version of myself. (Love Your Body Campaign)
10. The beach is …spectacular. As are the mountains. It’s BEAUTIFUL here. (I’d like it if we could stop trashin’ it up… but it’s still managing)

Actually he said it a little less like Dopey the cartoon dog and more like “I go marry you” caveman-ish.

I flagged down a taxi, and being cheap as I always am refused him when he tried to make me pay 50f more (again, like a dime) and he accepted to carry me home at my thrifty rate. When I got in, he said “I go marry you.” I replied, “You no go ask me? You just tell me?” He said “I get confidence.” I laughed. A minute later he said, “You know economics well, eh? I mean, you manage money fine.” Apparently my stinginess is a desired trait for Cameroonian men, this is new. Just as I was about to get dropped, he said “I should start getting money for your bride price?” I answered, “Yes, but it better be much, eh?”

Taxi drivers: love ‘em or hate ‘em.

Jess ducked beneath the gauzy white curtain to Kobi’s room. He was sleeping the sunny afternoon away in the slow heat of his dim room. She felt lucky to have a buddy, someone she could hang out with easily. She’d been bouncing around the neighborhood for the better part of an hour, chasing dead ends since all the appointments she’d made in her head weren’t being met by the other party. When Kobi suggested they stroll up to the stadium, she was excited about another adventure.

Just the day before, she’d badgered him into taking her on a “nature walk” that he’d been proposing since they met. Kobi is the only Cameroonian Jess knows who ever suggested any type of physical activity and enjoyment of the outdoors. So she finally took him up on it since the day was sunny and nothing was too pressing. As they walked a common street, it suddenly ended. The hostels and expensive restaurants stopped and they were surrounded by high grasses.

Before civilization choked off, a last looming Catholic church sat unassuming in a small cleared area. Jess skipped up, dragging Kobi’s arm. When he asked what she planned on doing, she replied, “I want to see inside. Come, bask in the light of the lord with me!” Kobi laughed but skidded to a halt when she peeped around the door, to see the choir practicing in warm light thrown by stained glass windows. Jess, growing up in a Southern town with quiet churches everywhere (although they were not always elegant or anything remarkable), missed the chance to see inside churches without paying for taxi fares to take her there or people thrusting Christian conversion at her.

As they continued down the small path crowded with weeds, a few farmers lumbered past with heavy loads on their heads. The small farms began to appear, with peanuts or cassava being grown in neat rows. Kobi was reminiscing on school days when he would walk down the path to the river with his friends. He tried to teach Jess how to shoot pieces of long, stiff grass into the air. She made a lame attempt before giving up.

They walked for some time, with the sun lazily stretching below the ridge of the mountain and the clouds flaring up golden. When they reached the bridge over the river, Kobi told Jess about how people bathe in the river but he’s afraid of water after almost drowning in a deep river near his village. Jess absorbed the lushness of the river, with its thick leaves growing into the shallow banks. But, like many natural things in Cameroon, people’s waste had started to collect in the grooves. There were pieces of trash that the river gently tried to sweep along, but which seemed to catch in grasses and rocks.

As they turned to walk back up, the light was only beginning to fade and the mosquitoes had not come out. Jess, wearing a short dress, tried to convince Kobi to trade her for his jeans and t-shirt to provide some relief from the oncoming insect assault. They re-emerged onto the night streets just as yellow bulbs started to wink on and Jess counted only three bites.

Kobi and Jess slowly strutted into the stadium, sucking on oranges that dripped down Jess’s wrists while Kobi expertly finished his off. Jess quickly saw that there was only one other girl in the stadium and felt a bit of pride at being escorted into this male arena. Kobi explained that a lot of younger guys come to the stadium to smoke weed and pointed them out. They were perched and silhouetted at the top of a set of bleachers. The field was swarming with players, referees, and onlookers. The soccer players maneuvered in the dust quickly and efficiently, throwing themselves to touch the ball. What a strange mix of recreational activities, thought Jess.

As they walked out of the stadium, Jess hoped for more places to discover in Buea. She was thankful to have found someone easy-going to show her around.

You thought “oyal” was some African word that was going to lead to a wonderful tale, huh? As I stepped into the internet just now, a guy trooped behind me selling some kind of oil and was repeatedly reading the label to someone “O-y-a-l, see? Oil.” This should happen more in NC I think, since people definitely pronounce it that way. I can see it happening with other commonly used things, like “Flaer” (this is how “flour” is said both in Pittsburgh and in Buea… linguistics professors, how’d that happen?)

Speaking of oil, I aint eatin’ any of it.  I’m on the “Nature Cure” diet right now to try and clear up my face (although people haven’t touched my face and pitied my attack of “mosquitoes” in a long time).  This means that for one week I eat only fruit, sort of a detox deal.  I’m on day 2. It feels like all my life. My hardest struggle is stopping my mind from searching for food since in a normal day I wait until I’m hungry and then I start to look around for what looks good (I consider it the ape-style of eating). But now I’m usually hungry, so I reflexively am always poking myself in the brain going, “Meat pies sound good to you?” and I answer “Is a meat pie a fruit!?” Lately I’m thinking that avacadoes and tomatoes will be on the menu toward the end of the week since my sense of reason will get stronger the more I want variety.  I’ve effectively warned everyone in my daily life that I may become… less than pleasant as the desire blazes like an all-consuming wildfire deep in my soul… oops. <clears throat> I have already moaned out loud on the street as I walked by a girl selling snails.  Gotta learn to appreciate delicious foods, folks.

The rains are doing crazy things before the dry season comes.  Now it doesn’t rain all day anymore, which is pleasant. But the rain is FEROCIOUS.  Poundingly loud on the tin roof, where you can’t have a conversation with a person next to you. You may wonder, “Why would Jess tell me about the weather? Doesn’t she have something more interesting to talk about?” No, the answer is no. Weather is what we talk about here, it’s always all up in your grill (I tried to think of another way to say that), and it’s changing.

Yesterday I walked with Bomba (Bakweri for “grandma”) to the roadside.  She’s my neighbor who always watches out for my laundry being caught in the rain and lends me her grinding stone when I need to grind egusi (melon seeds) [side note: in order to freely pass over the grinding stone, she washed it laboriously, bending over with her old 83 year old body. When I protested that I would wash it in the house, she said "No, yu no fit chop pepe" as in since it had pepper on it and I don't eat it, I couldn't touch the stone. I found this ridiculously sweet of her... until 1 hour after grinding on the stone, I found my hand burning from the small residue that remained on the board... how do you people eat that stuff?] While we walked, everyone in the neighborhood greeted her.  I felt like I was walking with a celebrity, granted a stooping with a cane-celebrity… but nonetheless.  She tries to teach me Bakweri by saying different phrases everyday, which apparently are the same ones every day.. but they’re always new to me.

The end of Ramadan has come, which reminds me of Lord of the Rings (that reference makes me both dorky and offensive).  [Ramadan: holy month for Muslims, time of fasting... it's not that common in Fuquay-Varina, I know] I went to celebrate with some friends (let’s face it, they’re Mbororos, but I feel like I always talk about them).  I dropped by for what was essentially an open house at Mairamou’s house.  I ate some delicious fufu and jama jama (collards and grits) with some fantastic meat in it (lately I’ve been trying to be mostly vegetarian: if I wouldn’t kill it, I shouldn’t be eating it. So that excludes pork and beef). I didn’t ask which kind of meat it was, since it was… tasty. But today my coworkers were all about “Did you eat some mutton?” (Who says mutton?)  After I ate, I walked out into the parlor to a music video, “Lollipop” by Lil Wayne (including the genius lyrics “She lick my body like a lollipop”)… now I’ve tried to be as respectful as possible to the time of fasting and the holy time and all that… but apparently the boundaries are looser than I thought or scandalous music is welcome as soon as Ramadan ends.

I’ve been trying to work on my anger management since taxi drivers in a certain neighborhood HATE me.  Hate being defined as: charging 50f (the equivalent of about a dime) extra.  Today I yelled at a driver and people on the street all turned to watch “Oooo whiteman done vex!” My local friends tell me that apparently I’m more stingy than a Cameroonian… I take this as a badge of pride, and let’s be honest, I’ve been gripping nickles since I was 5 at the flea market wearing a fanny pack.  I fight with my tailor about paying for dresses since I’m dead set on not paying more than locals do… but maybe I take it too far?  I honestly think maybe I lived in an economic depression in some past life.  Which might prepare me for my life when I get back to the States?