Jess does da ‘Roon

“Tree-coz”

If one more person comes up to me and politely begs me for a T-shirt (French persists here in the sense that people call them “tricots”) I might just rip mine into shreds and create violence with it.

Peace Corps created these “Educate a Woman, Educate a Nation” T-shirts that we used for the HIV awareness event at the mountain race. So like 15 people walking around in them. Including some, but not all of my coworkers.  Today we put them back on to go back down to the stadium and talk to youths about HIV.  I’ve been AMBUSHED by people around town asking me where their own tricot is.  Welcome to Cameroon. But my patience level is really low right now for some reason so I snapped at my boss when she made mere mention of them.  Her response was, “You woke up well today, eh?”  I just walked into the internet joint and the guy asked me where his own was. GRRR!!!

This whole HIV awareness thing’s been going well. It wouldn’t work the same in the States. Here, I basically can stand in the middle of the field and people will come closer to me since I’m white and therefore must be giving out free stuff. Then I can get them to answer questions and talk to me about HIV for the next 15 minutes while they stay fully attentive. They’re motivated with a piece of candy.  We had free condoms but you know how you have those little “Free” bins of them sometimes at events or clinics? Here, that’s a rampage waiting to happen. Whether they just want anything free or if they want to sell them, I’m not sure. Or if they, god forbid, actually need them.  I NEVER imagined that I would stand next to a youth (the highest growing group for infection) in Africa and tell them no I wouldn’t give them a condom. But it’s just too crazy.
We did a demonstration with a huge crowd of youths, mostly boys.  The female condom incited MUCH laughter – but of course. Compared to a male condom, the thing’s a clown condom.  But we asked one of the boys to demonstrate first and he shook the condom out first.  I couldn’t restrain my laughter. So I tried to do the demonstration in pidgin the best I could.  My coworkers were out talking to groups of kids, with 12 year olds knowing a LOT about HIV. This is the first time I’ve been impressed in that regard.

I was looking over old posts and how I used to refer to my house as hut zero. I laughed, since it’s been nearly a year since I felt that way. But it was back in effect for the past few weeks as people rolled through on their way up the mountain; my floor was littered with gear, smelly socks, and huge backpacks. It was fun to be around all the volunteers again and meet new people.
The weather’s been getting back into rainy-ness again and frankly, I’m just shaking my head. I got about 2 and a half months of good sun. Already it’s coming back? That’s absurd, Cameroon, really.

Speaking of absurd, I don’t know that people back home are ready for the outfits I’m bringing back. I just had an African sexy dress made yesterday that is by far the most ridiculous thing I’ve put on in a long time.  I had to be taught how to put it on, it’s so tight. I can’t move my legs above the knee.  It’s the epitomy of sexy styles here. I do indeed love some female body oppression.  Pictures to come.

February 16

I’m sitting on my porch in a plastic chair with my laptop on a quiet, sunny afternoon. A year ago I used to sit out here all the time, with a book and a cup of tea. I stopped after awhile because I created other morning routines (pretend “yoga” which is really just awkward stretching, going to work on time, making breakfast, etc.), but also because I wanted more time away from Cameroonians. Already a francophone, who I don’t know, has walked by and given me the ol’ “Du courage!” – which I haven’t heard in a VERY long time. Two adorable little kids clutching a shabby looking doll, who I don’t know, came by “just to greet”. I’ve only been out here like 20 minutes. This is both what I love about Cameroon and the thing that wears me down.

Now is the season of travelers. Last night some volunteers were in town so we went to the Buea Trade Fair. Actually I forced them to drag their tired bodies off the bus and to a random event that I knew nothing about. I’d been hearing everyone I knew raving about how they just had to get to the Trade Fair, the Trade Fair, the Trade Fair! (usually they promptly broke into song) The name calls into mind several different ideas – I guarantee none of them are correct. Perhaps like the 4H exhibit of state fairs back home, with livestock and displays? Perhaps like a presentation of different cultural crafts? A display of the different trades people still practice as part of a cultural heritage? If you’ve been in Cameroon long enough, you know none of this is going to happen. It’s about what you might imagine for a festival here: beer (higher priced), fish (higher priced), gambling (including RIDICULOUS games such as toss this ring around a beer bottle from like a gajillion feet away, old casino-type machines with steel cages installed, etc), live music (the same Makossa songs you know and love with a full-packed crowd of people NOT dancing), a skeezy night club made from woven grass sheets – which sounds fun and tikki-huttish but is actually just scary in the middle of a parking lot, and people in their sexiest clothes (sometimes done well). I enjoyed myself, but felt the strong desire for an old-fashioned American state fair, even a very rinky dink one. What I can’t understand is the appeal for a younger girl who has no money to go to such an event… perhaps to be seen and to see others?

Speaking of younger girls, I’ve been hanging out with Lucy still quite a bit. I rushed up to the grandstand to see her dance in the Youth Day parade – she was great, with sparkles and fishnet gloves and hose. I laughed because she almost got kicked as the girl behind her tried to rush her out of her fantastic stomping/booty shaking moves; sure enough, afterwards she was upset because the teachers were rushing everyone to march faster and she couldn’t dance everything they’d practiced. She spent the night with me afterwards, doing lots of art. The following day she stayed in the house, since she didn’t have school, and watched Disney movies and did more drawing. While I was at work, some of the other girls that I hang out with (same age as Lucy) came over. Lucy gave me the full report when I got home.

L: Some girls came by.
J: Oh? Do you know from what school?
L: GSS Great Soppo
J: Oh ok.
L: I found a half pack of Foster’s Clark [kool-aid] and gave it to them.
J: Wow. They stayed?
L: Yes, and they kept wanting to wander around. I told them they shouldn’t go in your room because you weren’t here.
J: <laughs> I’m sure they were very curious, they haven’t been here before when I wasn’t here. How long were they here? Awhile?
L: Yeah. They were interested in the film.

The idea of Lucy hosting people in the house is very charming. I’ve been working on her being more open and comfortable in the house. I’m working on ways to make my support of her more sustainable once I’m gone – I can only hope that the volunteer that replaces me will carry on some of these friendships.

I’ve started studying for the GRE… much to my chagrin. Never did I imagine that I would want to go back to grad school nor that I would choose to jump through more stupid hoops like this test. I’ve been focusing on vocabulary, which is funny since I can’t really use most of the words that I learn. I did teach Kobi “aerie” (a nest of a large bird of prey) when I found it in a book I was reading and he’s used it a few times since then. I’m looking into grad programs while not having much of a sense of direction about what I might want to do, or since Americans are so often identified by their career, who I want to be. I’m drawn to art therapy programs… which is too bad since they’re so expensive and I’m unsure of the practicality. I get excited reading program descriptions that rave about all the studio time you get for each class or the focus on meditation within the program – and then I laugh when I realize how hippie it all is.

I am interested in how Cameroonians view their futures. I get so excited about planning and possibilities. It’s painful to remember that some of those options are EXTREMELY difficult (Americans never want to believe anything is impossible) for them to access. Of course this isn’t unique to Cameroon; I had a dream last night where I met a group of Mexicans in Cameroon who had been living in Douala for 20+ years and wanted me to come eat Ndole with them. It was as if my brain was saying, “Hey, remember how these 2 countries have some similarities?” My mom sent me a copy of the farmworker documentary project that I’d worked on 3 summers ago that is just now being published. The project focused on the stories of immigrants and migrant workers in NC, all fighting for a future. Add in the aspect that not only are there systematic difficulties, financial difficulties, gender oppression, etc, but people’s life spans are shorter. I can’t explain what it’s like to live with death like it is here – and I’ll remind you here that Cameroon is in a comparatively excellent position compared to many other African countries.

Yesterday my boss woke me up at 7am to say that one of my coworker’s parents died. I tried to make an appointment yesterday with the director of the orphanage only to find out that not only did his brother die recently, but so did one of the little boys at the orphanage (he had heart problems). Many of my friends are facing financial difficulties because of all the deaths in their families. People don’t always really get sad when a death is announced, since it’s so everyday. Statistically, I don’t know that people are dying a whole lot younger or that it’s just that people are more connected to a bigger family so they’re more affected (especially financially) when an uncle or whatever dies.

Regardless, it’s a fact of life that can’t be avoided here.

On a happier note, my friend is pregnant and since her family’s her priority, it’s a joyous thing for her. She’s just getting her belly and is making lots of jokes about her already energetic and curious kids and a new addition to that. Since she wants maternity dresses, she introduced me to her Douala tailor. She does her work well and sexy. I was so excited to finally meet an Anglophone (English speaking) who I could trust with little dresses, that I gave her about 10 things to sew. I’ve been saving all these beautiful fabrics that I find on my travels for someone to do fun things with it. Yeehaw! We pored over magazine pictures that I’d cut out of skinny, apathetic-looking white girls in dresses that my friend thought would be great maternity-type dresses. If only Seventeen, Cosmo, Redbook knew that my beautiful, dark, dreadlocked, mother-to-be was taking their carefully manicured photos to make her own and make oh-so-much better!

Lucy’s thin with big, expressive eyes and a full mouth that peels into a shy smile before she covers it with her long fingers. She’s 14. She lives with her grandmother in a compound with 3 of her “aunts” (women from 20-30 years old) and 8 small children. She goes to a technical school to learn accounting and she just got accepted onto the dance team and is elated about that.

When I saw her on Monday, she was sick with a fever and cough and a mysterious lump on her arm. She was so upset and had a lot to be negative about. Finally I said, “Tell me one thing in the past week that’s made you happy.” She didn’t have anything. Yesterday I went to check on her. She seems better but hadn’t eaten at all during the day since when the family was sharing the food, they didn’t give her any.

Her and I hang out a lot since I like hearing her opinions and I can’t stand to see her in that house. I’m trying to get her to be more vocal about what she does and doesn’t want since girls here are often passive in decisions, especially with people they see as more powerful than them (which is everyone except their friends and younger children).  I worry about her health since she’s a teenage girl with people that aren’t paying attention to her health and she doesn’t have a huge amount of knowledge about her own body.  Lucy’s very observant and curious and loves to paint.  This Saturday her and her friends are coming over to talk about puberty/periods, paint, and watch princess movies – it’s a “P party” indeed.  On Sunday we’re going to the market to buy her the leggings that are part of her dance uniform (everything else is provided free but her grandmother doesn’t have money to buy her the leggings).

I’ve committed the cardinal sin of volunteers. I got too attached.  For the most part, I want to help people here but I have some sort of little air bubble of distance: if what I do doesn’t vastly improve their lives, then I’m not completely torn up about it.  But I stayed up last night for hours, realizing that I want to help Lucy and I want her life to be better.  And in spite of all my training, I have no idea how to do that.  I want a scholarship program for her so that she never has to worry about whether there will be enough money to send her to school.  But who’s going to manage the money?  I don’t trust any organization enough here to manage it for another 5-6 years.  I want her caretakers to feed her properly but it’s not even about money; I simply don’t think they care.  I could train them to feed everyone properly with local foods, so they babies wouldn’t have swollen bellies, rickets, and Lucy wouldn’t go all day without food. But they don’t really care. (Why would I say that when it sounds so cruel? They’re busy trying to make money to survive. And the kids are rough and tumbling their way through life, but surviving).

In the middle of the night last night I tried to resist the idea that I want to take Lucy to America with me. I do NOT want to be the volunteer that goes to Africa and comes back with a child – and not some tiny small child with flies in his/her eyes who wouldn’t survive otherwise. No, Lucy will be OK. Her house is close enough to a volunteer organization that makes the family a magnet for foreigner assistance. But I’m attached to her and want her to be more than OK. I don’t want to hear about her getting beaten because she was studying instead of carrying water.  I get giddy thinking about Lucy seeing America – taking hot baths, going yard saling and getting tons of pretty clothes cheap, going to a clean air conditioned school with teachers that CARE whether she’s learning or not.  But then I think about her turning 16 in America and being left behind all her peers driving cars since she’s neither ready to drive nor could I get her a means of transportation.  I think about her being lonely away from people who understand why she’s timid or naive about certain things.  I think about me going to grad school for 2 years before I could bring her to the States.  And I realize there’s not really a way. And that maybe I’m being selfish in wanting her to be helped my way. But this is an experience that I think is common for a lot of volunteers, and I’m in a place where a lot of youths have TONS of opportunities – most youths in Buea go to school while in villages it’s the opposite.  My heart breaks to think of all the things that could happen if her grandmother dies and there’s no money for school.  I’m desperately trying to come up with a solution for her to be assisted while living here….