A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Manyu Division

Travel from my village is done by hitchhiking. To go from my village to any of the surrounding villages or to town, I head out to the road and flag down any car or bike that passes.

There are bush taxis that go back and forth from the outlying villages to Mamfe and make drops from village to village. Bush taxis in my area are just everyday sedans. The extraordinary thing about them is just how many people, animals, and belongings they can fit. Imagine a Toyota Corolla; the trunk is packed with anything from petrol to bushels upon bushels of plantains. And obviously the contents are stacked to the point that the trunk lid is straining on its hinges. Now for the seating situation: Three places in the back? Pssh, no way! Four, even five passengers! What about the front seat? Place for one? What?! And waste all that space? Two passengers! Some drivers are kind enough to have a flat pillow that they’ll place on the center console for your “comfort.” Surely the driver gets his own seat, right? Don’t be ridiculous! What does he need all that space for? Some lucky passenger gets to sit half on the driver’s seat, half on the center console and in between the driver and the stick shift. I mean, I can’t think of anything more appealing that having a stick shift rammed into my thigh each time a gear change is needed. It's a cozy way to get your daily dose of adrenaline, all while meeting locals in semi-intimate scenarios. And you will figure out all kinds of new and interesting ways to fold your body as small as it can possibly go.

Not all passengers are human

One thing I’ve learned: never be in a hurry to get anywhere because things will never go as planned. Once in a blue moon you might get where you’re going no problems or unexpected stops, but the last time I checked, the moon is still white.

Here are a few scenarios that are bound to happen as you try to get from Point A to Point B:

A mama holding two babies will get in the car and hand you one. The best part of this scenario is the baby is just as shocked at the situation as you. It will stare at you with wide eyes and then start to cry. You will eventually calm him and he will put his sticky hand in your mouth.

As you’re waiting by the road, some well-intentioned (rather intoxicated) person will grab your belongings and drag you to a bar to take a drink while you wait. You will sit there missing all the cars that pass on the road as the people you’re sitting with half-heartedly yell your destination at them.

You get in the car clearly saying your destination. You will then get dropped at a location that was not your intended destination. The exciting part of this scenario is that you get to pay for two rides, your ride to said strange location and your ride to where you actually wanted to go. That is, if you can find a ride to where you actually wanted to go…

Sometimes after a trip to town, you’ll be waiting at the car park for hours. The drivers, most of whom are jovial and welcoming, will quiz you on what Cameroonian dishes you know. You may even get a free meal of whatever they’re having! This is a fantastic way to get to know the drivers and it certainly doesn’t hurt to be friendly with the people responsible for picking you up on the side of the road or making sure you get home.

Birds-eye view of the Mamfe carpark

Travel here is like trick or treating. Sometimes you get the king size candy and sometimes you get… raisins. Either way it’s already too hot here to sweat the small stuff so take it in stride.

All in all, Cameroonians are a hospitable, easygoing people who aren’t in a rush to get anywhere. Pull up a chair, grab an Export, and join in.

The Bible verse on the back will keep me safe, right?

Swinging Back Into Your Lives

Me swinging back into your life

This past Monday, February 8th, marked six months at post. Six months ago I arrived in Nchemba II, my new home for the next two years. If you're looking at a map of Cameroon, find Bamenda. Now look for Mamfe. There's a road connecting the two. Find where the Manyu River crosses that road and you've found me! Here's some little tidbits to catch you up with my hippyhaps. 

How is my life 6 months after moving to post? Well, my house is still mostly unfurnished but I do have a bird nest chair! My mattress is still on the floor. My clothes are still hung across my room using a piece of rope. I do have bowls and cups now so I’m no longer using measuring cups (sierra cup-style). I still not the nester I wish I was.

My rat problem is solved(ish). For six months, I battled rats. Nothing like a rat falling onto your head from the bathroom door in the middle of the night or waking to the sound of rats fighting next to your head (since your mattress is on the floor). What’s really upsetting is when you come home and find not one, not two, but three of your bananas with little rats holes in them! Why three? Why not just munch on the one?! But after duct taping the holes in my screens and waiting for the last of the rats to run out from under the six-inch gap under my front door, I am rat free for two weeks. Do they make chips for that?

School started in September. I teach Biology and Chemistry to Form 1, Form 2, and Form 3 students, roughly the equivalent of 7^th, 8^th, and 9^th grades in the US. I say roughly because my students' ages as well as their learning levels range widely. Some of my youngest students have difficulty reading and writing. I try to make my classes student-centered and hands-on, making learning fun rather than a chore but I never knew how hard that would be when you can’t just call up Carolina Biological for some nifty organisms. But we manage. My kids hold hands and act as an amoeba, developing pseudopodia and “ingesting” things like the flagpole or the Discipline Master’s motorcycle.

In my six months at post, I’ve traveled some. I've hiked here and there, catching fun as Cameroonians say. I’ve spent beautiful, cool evenings in Bamenda, the city closest to my post. I huffed and puffed up Mount Cameroon, the highest mountain in West Africa. I’ve relaxed on the beach in Limbe, eating fries for every meal. 

Hike through Mbingo in the Northwest

Waterfall in the Batibo area

Waterfall cave in Guzamg

I've spent some quality time with people in my village. I’ve experience the incredible kindness and generosity of those who don’t have much. I’m gifted food on a regular basis. People will ask me to grab a seat and take a beer with them just to chat. The village mamas teach me everything from cracking Njansa (a spice) to grinding pepe to plucking and dressing a chicken.

How am I emotionally? I’m actually starting to love my post. Don’t misunderstand that as everything is hunky dory. I have some really dark days where I’m sitting in the middle of the floor in a puddle of sweat and tears, but overall, I’m managing. So even though I find myself dreaming of biscuits and gravy, crunch wrap supremes, and Dr. Pepper, I know they’ll be there when I get back. Even though I find myself homesick and missing my family and friends, I know that will make our reunion that much sweeter. Even though transportation here is a nightmare, I know that will make my coach flight home that much more luxurious.

My Blog is Running on Cameroonian Time

I'm guessing you've figured it out by now, I'm not very good at keeping up with a blog... It doesn't help that to find internet in my house I have to twirl three times while saying the magic words and then do a headstand.

For now, here are some tasty morsels from training. Which ended in August... Better late than never!

Training in a nutshell: We "paid attention" to "interesting" and "informative" sessions. We broke into "collaborative" groups to "facilitate the exchange of ideas." Basically we did a lot of sitting and sighing. To be fair, I did learn a handful of things, one being that Peace Corps is so sure that we'll all contract schistosomiasis, a blood fluke found in freshwater they'll treat us all for it before we leave. So if I come home and find a tumor it's probably just a schisto cyst. Comforting, right? Oh, and I learned of the existence of mango flies. They lay eggs in clothing hung out to dry. The larvae then burrow into your skin where they'll grow until they eventually erupt Ridley Scott's, Alien-style.

A life lesson learned: If they mudfish tastes funny, stop eating it.

Spaghetti Omelet Sandwiches. Need I say more? Probably. You take spaghetti noodles, toss them in with eggs, tomato, onion, piment, fry it up in a omelet, then toss it in some french bread with some mayonnaise and voila! If you want to get a little creative (and I strongly suggest you do) add some avocado. Delicious.

Enjoying Spaghetti Omelet Sandwiches and cold(ish) beers

Swearing in Ceremony at the US Embassy

My Soul Sister

I’m sure every volunteer has hated on training. Seemingly pointless sessions, and repetition while you wait for your experience to “start.” Just wanting to be unleashed on the world so you can do what you came to do. Now a few months out of training, I find myself thinking back to those boring sessions with fond memories, not because of some content learned but because of the camaraderie that existed between 21 stagemates. The fellowship with those 20 other people is what I got out of training and I couldn’t wish for anything more. 

I'm just going to leave this here...

Je ne comprends pas...

When the power is out and you're staring at each other in the dimming light, ça va only goes so far.

My host family is wonderful. They are kind. Generous. Funny. Concerned. Patient. There’s one issue… we don’t share the same language. They speak French and their local dialect, Bulu. I speak English and something that would resemble French if my mouth obeyed my head.

At first, I felt alienated. The task of living with a family without sharing a language seemed, not only daunting, but impossible. How in the world would I get to know them, learn from them? I also felt like a failure. This family graciously took in a Peace Corps trainee and in turn they got the faulty trainee who speaks the broken French. Someone they would have to attend to like a child that you’re scared will stick their finger in a socket.

But, I have been studious, spending the majority of my spare time learning and practicing my French. I eat with my dictionary, which we tend to pass around in conversation. We use hand signals, and though there are occasionally blank stares on both sides, we’re making do. I’m also learning a little of the local dialect. A few of my new phrases: (the spelling below is phonetic for me so don't quote me on this)

English                                                            Bulu

Hello                                                                mBolo (and many other variations)

How are you                                                    Nye ene move

I am fine                                                           Me ene move

What is your name                                           One jona sa

My name is…                                                  Me ne jona…

Thank you very much                                      Akeva abui

You’re welcome                                              Te ke ajo

I’m hungry                                                       Ma wok zaeye

Enjoy your meal                                               mBama zam

I am tired                                                          Me teeya

Goodnight                                                         mBama alu

On a very happy note, my family likes cats! There are three little kittens running around. While they are work cats, meant to be mouse and cockroach catchers, they're still cute and cuddly.

My first Cameroonian friend

So far, I’ve learned to bathe out of a bucket, get water from a well to wash dishes (also using buckets), how to wash my clothes (again, buckets), and how to keep a clean house in a muddy area. They have yet to let me close to the cooking process, but soon maybe. Small small catch monkey. 

I’m learning. And I’ve yet to stick my finger in a socket.

Bienvenue au Cameroon!

So this is my welcome to Cameroon post. I realize it’s coming a little late since yesterday marked my second week in Cameroon…

Here’s the quick and dirty of what I’ve been up to:

After two 8 hour flights separated by a sprint through the Brussels airport, we arrived in the regional capital, Yaoundé. We stayed in a hotel called the Felydac (running water, air conditioning, Wi-Fi) for two days of orientation.  The other guests at the hotel – the Lions D’espoir – the under 23 team that feeds into the Cameroonian National Team, Les Lions Indomptables!

While in Yaoundé, we had dinner at the Peace Corps Country Director’s house with none other than the US Ambassador to Cameroon, Michael S. Hoza. He’s very personable and down to earth. We talked about barbecue and the mustard vs. vinegar debate when he learned I was from South Carolina. Then, while speaking on the importance of education, he drops this big women’s empowerment speech and leaves the table! Talk about a mic drop.

After our 2 days in the capital, we hopped on a bus and headed for Ebolowa, the regional capital of the South. This is where I will be training for my first 10 weeks in country (8 more weeks to go!). We’re living in home stays which I will expand on at a later date. They deserve their own post.

That’s all for now folks!

Enjoy your pizza, peaches, and Chick-fi-la nuggets!

The view from the training center

No, I'm not in prison. Yet.

Two Years, Three Bags

Time flies when you haven't packed.

But now, thanks to my wonderful dad (he did more in 30 minutes than I was able to do in a week), my loving friends and family, and some good old fashioned hyperventilating, I'm packed, boarded, and ready as I can be for my upcoming journey.

My family and friends have been instrumental in my getting ready for this trip. Running errands, incredibly useful gifts, just watching me whirlwind through the house. Thank you all so much. With a smile on my face and tears in my eyes, I leave you for a short time. I will miss you terribly.