Jess does da ‘Roon

In high school, the majority of my friends had tattoos. I think the majority of the people I dated had them.  It’s fascinating to be in a place where that trend is at a different stage.  Here, some people are interested in them but most of the tattooing technology is so primitive that it hasn’t hit full force like it (did? is?) in the States.  Usually the images are dotted, although I couldn’t really describe exactly what it looks like when they do one – so tattoo artists of Cameroon, invite me! The foreigners who have tattoos are always subjected to intense scrutiny and mostly admiration.  It’s also a status symbol when someone has something that is CLEARLY not from here.  I have a strange interest in looking at them – I found this fun video about an exhibition in South Africa that doesn’t seem to have enough to do with tattoos… but more to do with skull art… which is also great. Picture me leaning toward the screen, biting my lip, at all the fun colors and textures in it.

http://vimeo.com/2913662

Fontem

Each province (which is now called a “region”, in the government’s efforts to complete the world’s most absurd decisions made by a country ever/usurp the independence of the Anglophone provinces by eventually molding them into their nearby Francophone neighbors) has a meeting every 4 months of all the PC volunteers.  So I took the bus to Fontem, which is still within my tiny region (imagine California divided into 10) and it took me 10 hours to get there.  Yeehaw Cameroon!

Le Palu

I signed up/fought for an invite to come to a conference on a “Policy Briefing on ACT” which is big words for the combo drug treatment for malaria and how to make politicians listen to the research.  Why would one fight to do that? Because I’d heard that the conference might be at the Hilton, and that’s the only place I know in this country with a jacuzzi.  [While extremely skeezy, Jess's honesty redeems her in some strange fashion]
So I leave the volunteer’s house at 6am in order to be in Yaounde by somewhere between 2-5pm.  I had all kinds of fun plans upon arrival.  I take a moto down this unbelievably dusty road (I finally looked in a mirror and thought, “I’m somehow tanner and I have eyebrows… dust is a brilliant idea!”), basically spurring the driver on so I could rush and catch the bus.  But what for?  I arrive and ask this old pa how much it is to go to the park where I need to be, and he proceeds to help me out in finding a bus. Helpful of him, but I ended up climbing into an empty bus against my better judgement (you don’t get in empty buses here, you’ll be waiting forEVER!).  When I asked how many people they were going to wait for, since I didn’t want to be waiting long, the explanation that I heard in French was something about the back seats being reserved so it wouldn’t take long. <guffaw> Hilarious.  I sat, cringing away from imminent sunburn as the sun burned through the windows, for 3 hours.  Then, just as we left the city, the gendarmes stopped us to bribe someone on the bus for the goat tied to the top of the bus. There were 2 problems with this: a.) the soliciter of such bribe was wearing a lab coat on the side of the road. b.) goats on top of buses are NORMAL. Who can take bribes for that? It’s absurd. It took an hour to get out of that.  Then, we’re all good for awhile until the bus makes a crazy high-pitch squealing noise. Another 45 minutes as he whips out his piece of cardboard to go crawling under. I got to Yaounde at 8pm.  Forget all my fun activities, now I’m just worried about finding this hotel for the conference in the dark.  The name of the neighborhood? Mvolye. Not the easiest thing to say when you’re not used to it. So it takes me forever, and 2 locals helping me, to find a taxi that will take me out there (at nearly double the fare).  Furthermore, it’s pitch black in this neighborhood. He drops me off, I can’t see any signs from inside the taxi, and when I get out, I’m in front of a massive house.  There’s no little stores or anything. I start strolling, with my big backpack, until I reach “Club France”.  There’s a security guard, so I ask him if he can help me find it. He’s the nicest guy ever (are you taking note of how many locals have helped me during this day so far?) and tells me he doesn’t know where  it is, but there’s a guy playing tennis and he has a car.. he’s almost done… he’s a good guy.. he’ll drive me wherever… etc. So the next thing I know, I find myself sitting on a bench with a gorgeous view of the city by night, watching a guy playing tennis and trying to figure out how to say all I need to say in French.  45 minutes later I realize it’s ridiculous and decide to take a taxi.  Everything worked out OK, I just went back to the Peace Corps house to avoid anymore issues.

The Conference

So although I walked in completely unprepared, I think the subject is really interesting.  The other participants are journalists, pharmacists, researchers, or extremely educated Cameroonians doing work in malaria.
Most of what we’re doing is evaluating this document that researchers have put together in order to make policy makers do something to fix the problem.  The problem is huge.  They cite the rate of malaria as 11%… which means that at any moment, about 11% of the country has malaria. I think it’s higher than that.  But then people are so used to it, that they just buy medicines often in the market.  These are medicines from God knows where, often China, which could be baking powder/expired/completely different medication.  Then, they might start taking a medication and not finish it since they feel better. So it just keeps going.  Anyway, we’ve got this 19 page document to look over and discuss issues with statistics, wording, relevancy, etc.  I haven’t done something like this in a long time.  It’s just exhausting, but still interesting. What else I find fascinating is that the conference is bilingual in the sense that nothing is translated.  People just talk in English or French and everyone responds in whatever language they feel most comfortable. Where in America can you hear that? It’s fun.

Countin’ Down
A gift from my godmother, Molly, was an advent calendar (I understand there’s all sorts of Martha Stewart TYPES of advent calendars, but I think we all know what I’m talking about: the American tradition of a cardboard box covered in a Santa cartoon with chocolate inside) that my mom brought with her when she came. So I’ve been counting down the days to the 24th… of January. Which, I must say, is a brilliant idea. Besides the fact that I’m in Africa and eating chocolate (no matter how waxy) everyday is a wonderful thing, I think I’ve discovered a great secret. Why do kids/adults need to countdown to X-mas!? You don’t need motivation for that; it’s exciting enough already (and if you don’t think it is, a piece of chocolate every day isn’t going to help you). But what you DO need is like a countdown to September 24 or January 24, where there’s not a lot of good times happening. There’s no really great holiday coming up. But at least you can be excited that there’s a guilt-free tiny piece of chocolate waiting for you. Peace Corps should issue these as part of the medical supply kit. Thanks, Molly!

Mouse update: I’ve been grinning like a 5 year old recently. Let me throw this into context, I’m trying to be more Buddhist. I’m trying not to eat things I wouldn’t kill myself, etc. But apparently I’m flawlessly hypocritical when it comes to “pests”. These poor bitty mice. Bill gave me some industrial rat glue, since everyone knows that the entire mouse species has traps figured out and poison is just a nasty affair all around. And although I read a book about how to “naturally cure your house of critters” with all sorts of hippy remedies, most of the stuff I can’t acquire here. Cameroonians apparently don’t use glue, and were shocked by what we were doing (they also don’t say “glue” but “gum” so that might have been part of the misunderstanding…) So I smeared some glue on a piece of paper, put a little peanut butter in the middle for good measure, and giddily sprinkled them in a few places around the house. I made a bet with a friend that I’d find mice by the morning. In the morning, we checked the “traps” and couldn’t find any! But… the one near the couch had been moved under the couch. I didn’t want to even see the mice stuck to it, that’s how hypocritical I am. So Smith peered under and found 4 mice doing the centrifugal-force-thing up against this piece of paper. Anyway, I’ll skip the rest of the unbearably horrible details to say that I’m well on my way to being varmint-free.

Lady Day
So one of the volunteers in my province came up with the idea of P-Parties. I should flesh that out a bit more with “Pleasant Parties” or “Pretty Party” etc. This is a little get-together with a few girls where you do everything that starts with “p” (paint nails, eat porridge plantain, have princess notebooks, wear pink and purple, etc) and you talk about puberty and periods. It sounded like a great way to talk to girls on a low-ratio basis and make periods fun. Ideally I would’ve done this down the road, once I’d worked with a group of girls for awhile. But when I heard that a friend’s daughter was caught taking her pads because she’d started her period but didn’t know how to talk to her about it, the “P-Party” was on.
I invited the girl to bring a few friends. She came on the wrong day, and I had to go back to work so we set a date for her and the 5 girls she was with to come back to my house. I use a “I’m Proud to be a Girl” manual thing that was developed in Peace Corps Mali that’s like a mini-journal all about who the girl/author is and then a little about reproductive health and periods. I made 10 photocopies.
On the set day, the doorbell rings. I’ve got some cookies arranged on the table, I’ve bought some plantains that I want them to help me fry, and I’m ready for an easy girl-to-girl time. This is Cameroon. 16 girls were standing on my veranda, from 13-15 years old. So we tried to make do. Now I think the designer of this activity imagined a wholesome empowerment time. What I turn this into is a booty-shaking party, with everyone dancing to Brick and Lace (“And your love is wicked…. it’s wicked!”) cranked up. The girls commandeered the plantain operation. I didn’t anticipate them having to go back so soon, since they all had to go back and work in the house. So we only had time for a crash-course on periods. A little like: “Ok, there’s all this stuff in here about who you are… go home and do that. Now. Let’s look at the uterus.”
We arranged to do it again in a month, where hopefully we’ll go back over some of their questions and go more in-depth with some of the reproductive health since I’m not sure they know understand “egg being fertilized” is connected to this thing called “sex”. I desperately want to teach them about sex and let them see and touch condoms just so they’re prepared. I might offer some sort of optional thing where their parents would be informed and can choose to let their daughters come (pun…). All in all, it was a learning experience. The aftermath scene was this: puddles of kool-aid on the floor with pieces of popcorn drowning in it, about 10 of my pens/colored pencils missing, one girl’s jacket left behind. Sign of a Perfect-Party? Not quite, but close.

Mouse battle

Like my grandmother, I am apparently not immune to the fearsomeness of mice. Why is it that such an irrational fear takes over so many people in the face of such a tiny, helpless creature? Is it the quick darting of a shadow along the baseboards of a room? Or the threat of chewing holes into food? The small grinding sounds of teeth on wood in the night?

Whatever the reason, my house has become home base to a number of black rodents. Whether they find me in the living room, forcing my feet into the air, or in my bedroom, reducing me to a crazy hissing monster, these mice are running my house. Granted, I’m in Africa and I’m only lucky that I didn’t have a problem with mice before and that it’s nothing more serious.

I’m also lucky to be surrounded by friends who have not left their passion for hunting too far behind them. A 14 year old little girl smashed one poor critter behind my door. Kobi carried on quite a caper through several rooms of my house chasing a mouse until the final battle where he stared the mouse down face-to-long nose on the floor while gripping him through a piece of clothing. Another American concentrates for long minutes waiting for a mouse to surface from underneath shelves only to beat it with a machete. It’s a graphic scene, I’ll tell you. I still don’t have the heart to do anything about the tiny lives that make their home inside my home.

Arnie (Ar-nay… not “Arnee” like dorky squeaking)

Arnie is the new sweet spot of Limbe, which was only recently announced to me. It’s run by a South African woman who’s married to a Cameroonian, and it’s an art gallery/craft store/bar/café. It reminds me of a mix of 2 Mexican spots: La Chiva (a little quaint bar with an outside area that served crazy flavors of tea while inside candlelight flickers over art on the walls and checkers players) and the little café in the ally of Xalapa (where loud modern beats float through the air, mingling with scents of delicious original sandwhich combinations while customers read eclectic mixes of books).

The menu has hot and cold sandwiches (usually unheard of anywhere in this country), as well as cocktails. Cocktails! With fun names like “Whiteman Woman” and “Golden JuJu”. I ordered a pina colada… oh sweet heavens. Yes, there’s a blender with ICE! I was beside myself with all the luxury. It’s been so long since I could order a drink that wasn’t beer or pour whisky from a plastic packet into kool-aid. The owners are so attentive and really want to make sure that you’re enjoying yourself, apologizing for more than a 30 second wait… all of this is profoundly amazing. Why weren’t we sitting for 10 minutes waiting for some type of service? Where’s the downtrodden waitress who stands by the table wearing a grimace without even grunting to acknowledge you, who then sucks her teeth at any request for a cold drink, then telling you that nearly all the varieties of drinks are finished?

While we were there, some genuwine Spaniards (hick accent) brought out their guitars to play and sing songs dripping with sappy romantic sentiment. And they made delicious sangria. We relaxed on the cane furniture under palm fronds to world music.

Funniest Thing I Evah Heard

Last Friday, as the club got going to a fever pitch, I tried to go to sleep.  How I cope with the thumping beats when I’m not dancing to them, is I use earplugs.  Unfortunately I was rushing and quickly found one of the tidbits of foam that my mom had widdled the earplugs into while she was here. I shoved it in my ear, not thinking of any consequences and it was… immeeediately stuck. I had a little panic breath for a moment, then I grabbed my tweezers and tried yanking it out. It wasn’t going anywhere and I could picture my brain inside my skull watching the impending blockage coming closer and closer while squeaking out, “No.. Please no…”

So I gave up, said to myself, “At least it’s doing it’s job.” In the morning I went down to the clinic (but only after calling Peace Corps to confirm that they would reimburse me… as if their response had been “Nope. Not important enough.” I would have let the thing stay in my ear??).  It was my first time visiting a clinic in my time of need.  Otherwise, I’ve been for other people.  Funny how it always seems like other people got in after a somewhat reasonable wait.  After waiting 2 hours, the doctor finally let me in.

This doctor just happened to be someone I’d met at a late-night doctor’s meeting, where I danced and slid across the floor until 2am.  So he squints at me, in my PJ pants (I figure you get a free pass, even in Cameroon of professionalism, when you’ve got a blocked orifice), and he says “I believe we’ve danced together.” Hmm.. yes, doctor. Now can you yank this thing out for me? He whips out some pointy tool (you know, the o…scope thing, with the light that look at your ears?).  Unfortunately, the foam was RIGHT there and the tool was WAY too pointy so he slips it in …under the earplug. <dramatic pause> What he says is, “I’m not seeing anything… But you feel like something’s in there?” It’s a HUGE HUNK OF FOAM! So he calls in some dude with a scrub top thrown over a snazzy outfit who apparently “gets it” and he sees the thing.

I’m told to wait again in the lobby while they get the “pick up”. This is apparently not a vehicle but another phrase for tweezers.  They take me in the back, where I sit on some uncomfortable bed. This is the surgery room? Please God, it’s just an earplug! But he manages to squinch it out. Then someone writes me a prescription. I’m assuming to prevent an infection, but none of that is explained to me. (Idiot white girl gets earplugs stuck, she probably doesn’t need instructions on these pills or their purpose) I was quite furious while waiting for the prescription to be written.  Some nice, beautifully done-up woman greets me and says “You don’t look happy. Are you sick?” I start to explain, “No.. I just… It’s better now. I’m fine.” Grr-ratch-a-frachit… Anyway. I’m hearing just fine now.

“I think you should try and change for 2009.” – words of a guy I dated here. I didn’t give him a chance to make suggestions.  I like forced New Year’s resolutions.  I think he means that I should be less confrontational (one of the problems in our relationship was my inability to be submissive).  Meanwhile, I’m working on being more confrontational.  I’ve really been missing the atmosphere of the university, where I could be involved in more slightly radical social justice movements alongside women with hairy legs and great tattoos or men who ruled the room with their offhand witty comments.

I’ve been complaining a lot to friends about how my work is less-than-desirable right now (that’s a step down from what I wanted to say).  My little nymph of a friend, Jennie, has been giving me great ideas for ways to brighten my days here (such as screaming out the back door to let all of 2008 out and then running to open the front door for 2009 to come sauntering in).  She reminded me of “guerilla art” and at first I started to cry, since it sounded like so much fun and yet so impossible here.  For those of you wondering how violent I’m about to get, guerilla art involves making fast, cheap art and then going out and posting it all over the town.  It could also be interpreted as painting/graffiti, but since I’m broke and not down for a night in Cameroonian prison, I’ll stick with magazine collages and such.  I mentioned it casually to a few people, and everyone seems to be down for the idea.  I’m scheduling it for February.  So if you’re in Buea, and you wake up one morning to random pieces of “stuff” (I’m not sure that Cameroonians will think of it as art), just know that it’s me trying to liven up my life and a few others’.  I encourage people everywhere to do this, and why not around Valentine’s Day? Spread some love!

Still on art, Jennie asked me what I was going to do this week that would make me smile, and I randomly said I was going to finish my big canvas.  This is a painting/collage that I’ve been dreaming about/planning/meddling with for about a year now.  So I’ve set a goal that by Sunday I’ll have it finished.  Jennie: you didn’t know it, but that was a huge motivating factor for helping me get through this week. Thanks!

Let’s do a work update, since I’ve been complaining about it and I haven’t really gotten nitty gritty about it in awhile. 

The loan program, through Drombaya, has been going relatively well.  The women are coming to pay back their loans pretty much in a timely fashion.  I’ve got some doubts on whether the small loans really do much to improve their lives, which is the goal of the program.  But I think maybe it frees up some money occasionally to do other things, such as hopefully pay school fees or buy food (more likely hospital fees or pay for death ceremonies since the holidays have been raining corpses, with nearly everyone I know having one or multiple deaths).

I’m in planning phases right now.  I’m working on the International Candlelight Memorial for this year, trying to make it better than last year. I’ve cut out a school where the admin wasn’t doing anything to help (oddly enough, I’ve kept the school where the crazy old principal who drives a motorcycle and that one day I came in to find blood on his floor and I sat on his saggy velvet couch… we’ll see how that goes).  We’ll do the HIV/AIDS Poetry and Essay Contest again, although I’m going to try to have a short creative writing workshop beforehand to help students avoid telling me how wicked HIV is and what the acronym stands for.

I’m also planning what might be the biggest thing I do in my service here, the Women’s Jamboree (I can’t take credit for that word, which is really too bad – my supervisor really came through on that one).  In November I want to have sort of a culmination event of all the work I’ve done with women’s groups.  A mix of a cultural festival (although the word “festival” should be used in a loose, less fun and more event sense) and health workshop.  We want to have a few malaria/reproductive health workshops and women’s empowerment activities.  Right now I’m searching for funders that can help pay for food, transport (we want to bring women from different parts of the province), prizes, etc. Please let me know if you have any ideas for organizations that might fund this sort of thing, especially since there’s a wide variety of subjects (gender empowerment, health, cultural exchange).  I laugh to think how organizing this type of thing in America would take me about ¼ of the amount of time it’s going to take here; when I can’t really call anyone to get anything done, when I can’t get donations of food, hall, tables, anything, when I will have to hype it up by myself.  Whoo… here we go! I think it could be magnificent if we can put the “jam” in this Jamboree.

Under Things That Don’t Happen in America: today my coworker came back from maternity leave.  I walked into the small secretariat office to find her at the computer, with her breast out and her beautiful baby girl attached.  Now, don’t get me wrong, breastfeeding in public is commonplace in Cameroon.  But I haven’t been fully desensitized to be a bit surprised by it in an office with someone I know.  Perhaps it’s a practice that should be more accepted in the States, if you gotta do somethin’ and you’ve got a baby on your boob, it’s still gotta be done.

And I just want to say that having a laptop in Africa is an amazing thing.  I’m still fully realizing it’s potential.  Although the poor machine is immediately sick upon walking into this nation of viruses, it strangely makes my life so much more modern than just using other people’s computers.  I watch more movies (lately I’ve seen Studio 54, Ice Age 2, and Yellow – about a Puerto Rican stripper who goes ballerina, Cameroon has really impressed me with what I can find here) and I can type long, rambling blog entries at any time of the day! While the pressure is higher for me to be witty (“Ok, Jess, you’re not confined by a sticky hot, maddeningly slow internet joint to inspire your entries… get funny!”), I do enjoy being able to write at 10pm.