Small small, catch monkey: Amusing Illness Causation Theories and Almost Getting Stoned (no, not the kind with substances)

This week was a bittersweet rollercoaster ride of emotions, with one moment being wonderful, and the next being either terrifying, or just not enjoyable. Baby Abdel and Mireille left on Monday morning, and as much as I was not a fan of his screaming/testing his vocal chord range at high volumes, usually during the hours of 2-5 a.m., when he clung to me in a tight hug, not even wanting to go back to his mother or grandmother, I was forced to admit that damn, I’m really going to miss the little guy. After all, I saw his first steps, his family left him with me to take care of while they had gone to the farm (unbeknownst to me at the time that they had left), after I was done playing with him, I could gladly give him back to his mom to take care of, and (possibly best of all), was never scared of me, the la blanche (white person). Mireille and Abdel are moving back to Yaounde to live permanently. Another bittersweet happening was in my discussion with one of my best friends here, who is seriously considering ET-ing (early terminating, aka going back home). As much as I support her and am happy that she’s given this a lot of thought, realizing that this isn’t for her, the thought of her leaving really shook (and is still shaking me up). It also forces me to really reevaluate and think again of why am I here; what do I want out of the experience; what can I give to the people in my community; what can I learn; what have I learned about myself, others, the world so far – all questions that are not easily grappled with. Suffice it to say, I either know these answers, or am excited to discover/experience/figure them out, and if ever that changes and I don’t know the answers or think that being in Cameroon is not where I need to be, I’ll leave. I refuse to be one of the PCVs that stays out of stubbornness, or the fear of the scarier changes ahead of going home, or fear of the potential rejection/judgment of the other PCVs – staying when I’m not passionate/invested in the experience benefits noone, and actively hurts both my community and myself. Anyway, lots to think about. Also, fun fact: Peace Corps has an acceptance rate of under 20%.

            I think my introspective/retrospective mood was also such because I wasn’t feeling well. Being sick in a foreign country is easily one of the worst possible feelings/things to experience. Armed with one of the nurses, Julia and I went to the Bafia district hospital to determine what was wrong with our respective bodies. Julia has bronchitis, and I had stomach/abdominal cramps that were causing me flash fevers and waves of nausea – pleasant, huh? At the hospital, Julia was informed that her bronchitis was due to the fact that Cameroon is much colder than the US and that her not wearing scarves/parkas/sweaters. Riiiggghhht. I was informed that my ailments were due to the fact that Cameroon has lots of spices. When I politely told the two medical professionals who were telling me this horseshit explanation for my illness, I was told that it was the parsley and celery spices that were doing me in. Gaaaahhh! One blood draw later, I was informed that although I don’t have malaria or parasites (it’s the simple things in life, like no parasites, that really make you appreciate life), but have food poisoning…for two weeks. Also, when I told my family that I could only eat simple foods, my mom asked if oranges were okay, and when I responded yes, she proceeded to give me one of the heaviest meals ever: boiled manioc balls the size of your fist (gotta love that starch), and tomato fish sauce swimming in palm oil. No oranges were in sight. But on the bright side, I feel significantly better now, after dealing with real food poisoning and a cold last night, and I’m getting lots of firsthand experience with the Cameroonian healthcare system.

            On the flip side, we had our second community group meeting with the secondary school girls in the health club. The girls were no less interested that the last time we met, and this time, our curriculum focused on educating the girls on the different family planning mechanisms available to them, stating the advantages and disadvantages of both; showing them proper condom use with a wooden phallus borrowed from my host mama (this is something I never envisioned doing, let alone wanted to do; in fact, I told the people in charge of the health program that this is something I really wasn’t interested in doing in my community, but here I am, wooden phallus and condom in hand demonstrating proper use…; and going through different role play and case study scenarios that encourage the girls to be empowered and ideas to facilitate the conversation on sexual health with their parents and guardians. As before, the meeting lasted over two hours, and could easily have gone on for much more. Lots of the girls could’ve easily continued asking us questions, but there were several girls that were tired and potentially bored – working with a group of 30+ girls, talking about a potentially taboo topic, is hard work, but rewarding.

            Back to the bad experience: almost getting stoned – as in, small children throwing rocks at the white people, and not just to get our attention, these girls were throwing stones with the aim of hitting us. The same girls had bothered me another day when I was coming back home – they grabbed my arm, demanded food and money, and then pushed my backpack when I walked away. I suspect they might’ve done more if I hadn’t whirled around and demanded that they go away (without turning my back on them), watching them as they walked away. This time, I was with two other PCTs and a PCV trainer, and the girls had done the same routine to the other PCTs who were walking ahead of us. After their demands of food and money were not met and we walked away, the PCV yelped in pain and grabbed her shin – the seemingly 7-year-old girl had thrown a rock. We turned around, speaking to them in French and saying ‘no!’ fervently, and turned away to go on our way. The next moment, Hannah yelped in pain and grabbed her head – a little harder and a half an inch lower, and Hannah could’ve been in serious medical trouble. After discussing what we wanted to do, all of us marched back to get the girls, and attempt to teach them a lesson. The one who had thrown the rock ran away, while the other children dragged back the other culprit (the rock-thrower’s 10-year-old sister who had goaded her on and grabbed our arms, making demands). After speaking with a nearby neighbor, we made the girl march us to her house, where we questioned her about her actions, told her we didn’t believe her when she told us it was a little game and that she told her sister not to do it, and that we wanted to see her parents/guardians and explain what she had done. Her aunt and uncle weren’t home, so we let the incident go. We all knew that regardless of them being home, the girls would probably get beat (corporal punishment is alive, well, and highly accepted in schools, homes, hospitals, and even work). I’m certainly not a fan of this, but I don’t know how to reconcile that with also wanting the girls to know the wrongness of their actions/that they can’t do this again. It’s a definite moral dilemma.

             In another incident of children’s misguided actions, my family had a guest (a young mother with a 4-year-old daughter and a young son – I’d be shocked if these kids didn’t have serious health issues already, namely parasites and upper respiratory infections). After my sister and the mother went to the kitchen with the baby, the girl marched over to me, and started punching me in the leg. I immediately grabbed her wrists, demanded to know what she was doing and why, and told her to stop. She stopped, but the next moment we were alone in the living room, the girl did it again. I grabbed her wrists (hard), she tried to bit my hand, and I wrangled her hands behind her back, cop-style, as I marched her into the kitchen to tell her mother and my sister. Both verbally scolded her, and not 10 minutes later, she was sitting on a small bench with me helping me clean a recently killed chicken (I watched it being killed and prepared it from directly after to table – a great feeling to see from farm to table). She then snuggled up to me, asked to help me peel garlic, and clung tightly to me in a hug at one point. Needless to say, I am baffled by children’s behavior here.

            On a happier note, Bafia people visited Bokito on Sunday and we had a celebration, complete with lots of cold drinks, lots of dancing to African and American music, street meat and spaghetti omelets, and hanging out – a phenomenal day. After Bafia people left, Bokito people crashed the training center and made dinner (pasta with Laughing Cow cheese, garlic, basil, and tomatoes) and watched a movie (“The Birdcage” – a movie about a homosexual couple, which was incredibly ironic due to the fact that Cameroon is one of the most homophobic countries in the world, where homosexuality is illegal and punishable by vigilante death), and ate popcorn. Easily one of the best nights I’ve had here so far.

            Pidgin has also been going really well, and is lots of fun to learn. Instead of being ‘broken English’ as I had originally thought, Pidgin has its roots in both the English and Portuguese languages, and is actually a pretty ancient language, with several different dialects in Africa. I’m very close to Nigeria in Kembong, and apparently Nigerians have their own unique editions/phrases in Pidgin. The title of the blog, ‘small small, catch monkey’ means ‘slowly, slowly, we will arrive.’ It’s also amazing that during Pidgin classes, all of us are shifting easily (usually without even a second thought) between three different languages (English, French, Pidgin) in order to learn. Knowing that we can do that, let alone are doing it unconsciously, is a great feeling of accomplishment. All in all, despite another rollercoaster week, I’m very happy/satisfied here, and can’t believe that in less than 3 weeks, I’ll be en route to my site and another life transition!

Catch Booby: Starting Pidgin, Condoms Causing Cancer, and other Fun Facts about Cameroonian Village Life

Every morning when I walk to training, I feel like I am stepping into one of the opening scenes of “Beauty and the Beast,” the one where Belle walks into town and quite literally EVERY villager (man, woman, or child) pauses whatever they were doing to say a friendly ‘bonjour.’ Now imagine that African villageois style, and without the cutesy Disney music in the background, and you’ve got my typical morning. Although saying ‘bonjour’ to every single child in a large group that is, like me, on their morning commute to school, sounds a bit tiring, it’s actually kind of enjoyable, and even more so when the old ladies (who, by the way, I greet with a ‘bonjour, Mama’ and a wave with my right hand – to wave with my left would be taboo since the left hand is characteristically only used for unclean things) return my greeting with a ‘bonjour, ma fille’ or ‘bonjour, ma cherié’ (hello, my daughter/another term of endearment). Although these greetings may seem small, it’s a sign that I have shown them respect in my greeting, and they have accepted it – always a good sign that the white person, although ignorant in other customs, can observe the basic politeness needed for greetings in a country where they are so important.

            This week of training was probably the best yet, due in no small part to the fact that we finally started learning more applicable content in our tech training, instead of talking in broad terms. Monday started off with our first TDA assignment (as with any government entity, the Peace Corps is rife with acronyms, and while I know what most mean, I won’t bother to spell out those that aren’t really important). Our job was to translate a series of questions into French regarding malaria, including insecticide-treated bed net (ITN) usage, knowledge about prevention and transmission of the disease, and other related questions. We were then to ask our families these questions, which conceded some very interesting answers. I also (finally) received confirmation on one of the million dollar questions - that regarding what my host mother actually does: she’s some sort of nurse, or nurse aid at the Bokito integrated health center. This means that she, and the rest of my family, know a lot about malaria transmission and prevention, including the importance of ITN usage every night (and tucking in the net), IPTp (intermittent preventive treatment for pregnant women) and other perceptions in the community, including the fact that many members of the community do not use nets because they perceive them to be hot, stifling, seem unable to breathe, and/or associate ITNs with an element of the traditional funerary rights. As a side note, my friend Kimmie’s family experienced the loss of one of their sons in a traffic accident, and after having the funeral in the home (both funerals, rather – one preliminary, and one after he was embalmed – or so I gather), the family retained the liver of their son as a sort of charm for good luck in the future – thought this was interesting. Although my family had fantastic knowledge about malaria, other families in the community did not, some thinking that malaria was caused by bad air, eating green mangoes, or the result of some act of sorcery.

We also had the opportunity to practice our PACA (participatory assessment for community action) and CNA (community needs assessment) tools with a community group. Although much (okay, most) of my MPH education focusing on health policy and management will probably not be applicable to my life in Cameroon, it was nice to be able to finally apply some of the behavioral/social tools that I learned while at Emory. I’m with the group working with roughly 40 secondary school students (ages ranging from 11-28) from the school’s health club to put our PACA/CNA tools into action. We designed an initial assessment with the target topic of sexual health, specifically HIV/AIDS, and knowledge regarding contraceptives. After the initial icebreaker activity and dividing the group into males and females in separate rooms (we figured, correctly I might add, that the division of the sexes would make for an environment more conducive to discussing potentially sensitive topic areas). The leader of the club, the male biology professor at the school, thought we should not be doing sexual health, but instead wanted us to focus our efforts on WASH (water and sanitation health) – which he told us after we arrived and told him our pre-formulated program for the session… Our tech liaison, Theo, said that that would not be possible, as we had already prepared our session, but that we would attempt to incorporate WASH if at all possible. After we started with the group (after working with them to create a set of ground rules/expectations, including confidentiality), it was clear that WASH was not at all on their minds. While the girls had seemed seriously demure with the presence of the males in the room, when the guys headed out, it was as if someone flipped a switch on their personalities: they were animated, they were fighting to ask questions, and they wanted to hear and be heard on their own terms – if I had to describe it in a word, I’d say these ladies felt empowered. And aside from that being good for them, it’s also a damn good feeling to know that I could facilitate them feeling this way, if only for a few hours.

As a side note about gender relations, I had an incident with my host family the other night. I made popcorn with my three host sisters, my creepy host brother was nowhere to be find, not that I minded, since yes, this is the very same who expressed his undying love for me on various occasions, most of which occur when I am dripping in sweat and fairly positive that I stink. After making American-style popcorn with melted margarine (what I wouldn’t do for a real stick of cold butter) and salt (Cameroonians put sugar and salt on their popcorn), my host brother came into the kitchen as I was talking with my oldest host sister, Mireille. I didn’t notice he was there until he whispered ‘bon soir’ (good evening) in my ear in what I can only assume he meant to be a seductive voice – it had the exact opposite effect on me. He then announced to Mireille that he was hungry, when the huge cooking pots of dinner (my family makes enough food to feed a small army every evening) were sitting not two feet away. He then told her to get him dinner, to which Mireille replied something to the effect of ‘no, I’m tired, please get it yourself because I’m having a conversation with Valerie,’ and I respond with “Ha! The cooking pots of food are right there, so how about you get it yourself, Daniel.” He responded by looking at me, giving me an indulgent smile, and shaking his head no. Mireille looked at me helplessly, and then proceeded to get her brother (10 years her junior, and who, to my knowledge, doesn’t do a damn thing in the house except sweep occasionally and chop wood) his dinner. Needless to say, I’m still irked by the situation, and am nothing but curtly cordial to him since then. However, since then, I’ve had a couple awesome bonding moments with my sisters and mama, most notably, singing Celine Dion, Michael Jackson and Shakira at the top of our lungs with only the light of kerosene lamps while the power was out (sensing a pattern here from a previous post?). I also was roped into teaching them the dance steps to Thriller. All in all, I really enjoy these little moments with my family. 

 

Getting back to the community group, though. The ladies had lots of questions, each demonstrating a different set of knowledge and experiences regarding sexual health; many mentioned that they did not have a family member or guardian who they could consult about sexual health issues; one girl asked us if condoms cause cancer or any other diseases; another told us that she got birth control pills from the “pharmacy” stands that pop up on market day (untrained villagers selling potentially counterfeit drugs, or at the very least, drugs of highly-questionable validity and ingredients, some of which could have fatal consequences – my host mama has known women who have miscarried due to the effects of taking supposedly inane medicines from these pharmacy stands); after acquiring the birth control pills, the girl then proceeded to share them with her friends (thereby completing defeating the purpose); and just generally interesting tidbits and questions about whether or not they had the right to ask their partner to wear protection, or insist on using contraceptive methods in a relationship. All fascinating, really. We have two follow-up sessions with the health club in the upcoming weeks, and I can only hope that they will be as interesting/informative as this first one.

After the community group session, and reading more about the SW region, I’ve been seriously thinking about projects that I could do in my community. One that I’m particularly excited about builds on the knowledge that I acquired in my research in Tanzania, about the integration of medical systems: biomedicine and ethnomedicine (more commonly referred to as ‘traditional medicine’). The SW region has the highest degree of animism, shamanism, and ethnomedical use in Cameroon, and I’m told that many women still turn to traditional birth attendants (TBAs) instead of the staff at health centers when their time comes. So, my preliminary idea for a project (again, this is highly tentative and may not even feasible in Kembong) would be to promote a partnership and build capacity between natural healers/TBAs and health center staff, to foster a degree of cooperation, and ideally to hold dual training sessions for practitioners from each medical system; particularly for TBAs to have some sort of training in additional birthing methods to promote the safest birth possible, particularly if the woman cannot make it to the health center, or is hindered due to other barriers (distance, money, time, etc). Again, highly tentative idea, but I’m still excited about it, and what I can accomplish with my community. After my interview with the country director, Jackie, she seemed particularly excited about the idea, and from her preliminary knowledge about the region/Kembong, thought that project might in fact be feasible! We also learned about the importance of PACA/CNA and constructing programs with your community that are culturally relevant and actually needed when we heard about a huge Plumpynut program in the Adamoua, where an NGO came in and distributed mass amounts of the nutritious substance to malnourished children – unfortunately, the mothers of these children proceeded to keep their children malnourished, choosing instead to feast on the Plumpynut themselves or sell it and reap the benefits, since they realized that the NGO would continue to hand out mass quantities of the substance without any monitoring and evaluation measures and/or community contribution to the project. 

            On Saturday, we had our second LPI (language placement interview), and I was not about to have a repeat performance of my first LPI in Yaoundé. My language instructor, Jackie, and I practiced and did several mock interviews beforehand. All the practice and hard work paid off, as I went from novice low to intermediate mid in the language levels! I was very pleased, and even more so because intermediate mid is the target level for those going to Anglophone regions, meaning that I don’t ever have to take another LPI, and I can start learning Pidgin – hooray! ‘Catch booby’ is Pidgin for bra, by the way. The weekend continued on a high note when half the health stagiares went to Bafia for an evening of hanging out with the Bafia stagiares, drinking shade-temperature beer, and generally enjoying a night away from Bokito. I stayed with my friend, Kate (a youth development volunteer) and had the luxury of watching the first episodes of the new season of Downton Abbey (yay!) and making scrambled eggs (sans onions or tomatoes – another big yay!) on a gas-fueled stove – oh, the luxury. Sunday continued to be good with another dance party with my sisters and getting my hair braided again. Although I’ll miss my fellow stagiares dearly, I can’t say that I’ll be too disappointed if the next few weeks of PST pass quickly so that I can be at my post. But for now, I’m sitting pretty and wuna waka fine (you all have a good life/time)!

Chop Bushpussy: Finding Out My Site!

Yesterday I found out my post – yay! Weirdly enough, I had several dreams throughout last week that I would be placed in Kembong, my first choice apart from Pitoa. Over this past week, I had heard repeatedly from volunteers that the Northwest region was the best in all senses – climate, work, people, food, pretty much everything. The Southwest was a close second, only made so because of the weather – it’s more hot and humid in the Southwest. Additionally, I had heard that the post in Pitoa was not ideal due to the level of corruption and mismanagement present in the partner organizations, and that conducting work in Anglophone regions was significantly easier due to the fact that projects could often get off the ground faster without the language barrier for novice/intermediate speakers such as myself. All in all, I was super pleased when they announced that I would be in Kembong, in the Southwest, but very close (only a 2-hour drive) to the Northwest – yay!! Kembong has everything that I was looking for in a site: it’s a replacement site, but hasn’t had a health volunteer since the last one COS-ed (close of serviced) in 2011, so I have the advantage of being in a place where the community members are familiar with volunteers, but not expecting me to be exactly like the last volunteer, or continue with their projects (I hope…). Kembong is also a semi-urban site, meaning that the population is around 10,000, meaning that there will be a variety of stakeholders to work with (ideally). Kembong has also historically had a lot of NGO and other aid organization money being pumped into the community, due in part (I think) because the people are very willing to be invested in the projects, and are amenable to community input/ownership (at least according to the COS report that the previous volunteer wrote). It’s also closer to a large metropolitan area; 12 km away from the city of Mamfe, and only about two hours away from one of the quaintest cities in Cameroon, Bamenda. The SW region is also home to Mt. Cameroon, lots of waterfalls and forests, some of the best beaches in the country, lots of variety of food, and has a characteristically warm and open culture. Also, I have running water and electricity at my site, and reliable cell phone reception – huge win. Needless to say, I’m very pleased. I’m also very close to another health volunteer (Julia is 7 km away), and a CED (Community Economic Development) volunteer, who is actually in Kembong with me. The SW is interesting, too, in the fact that we have four seasons – two rainy and two dry. I’ll also be learning WAPE (West African Pidgin English) in addition to French, since the SW is Anglophone. The title ‘chop bushpussy’ is a nod to Pidgin, and means ‘I cook wild cats” - some people will occasionally cook wild cats (not like domesticated cats, like jungle wildcats cats) that they find – not often, I might add. Thought it was an interesting phrase, and made me excited to learn more Pidgin. For the most part, every health volunteer seems pleased with their site, and most got a post that was in their top three on the bidding sheet. Here’s hoping the next three ish weeks of training fly by so that I can finally head to Kembong and be a real PCV!

Also, I'm planning on posting lots of pictures from the waterfalls in Nkongsamba, my family's farm, and general life in Bokito, but will have to do it next week, since the power is out, and has been out since Tuesday, in Bokito and Bafia. Ashia (sorry), but they're coming! 

Malaria Tests, Waterfalls, and Cheese: Adventures from site visit and feeling like a real person

This has by far been one of the most exciting weeks of my time here in Cameroon thus far, due to the fact that I could finally start to feel like a real PCV, an actual competent, capable adult living in Africa. It’s not to say that I don’t enjoy and appreciate my time with my host family, but getting a glimpse of what life could be like at my post was a much-needed reprieve from the monotony of training. Although earlier this past week, something unexpected happened. Despite the best efforts of the men on market day to be ‘derangy’ (meaning disturbing, annoying, or bothersome), it was a little girl who actually coped a feel: the girl was no more than 8 (I think; it’s incredibly difficult for me to tell the age of Cameroonians), and after responding to her greeting on my walk home, I felt a slight touch on my butt – I’m assuming that the girl wanted to touch a white person for a comparison, but missy, next time, how about you choose someplace a little better than the butt, okay? When I looked back at her, she immediately averted her eyes like someone caught with her hands in the cookie jar. Actual butt touch aside, the interaction didn’t bother me, but rather amused me that she was so fascinated.

            The week started off with training sessions geared towards preparing us for our site visit, although we knew nothing of the actual logistics of our site visit until 4:30 pm the night before we were to depart for our respective host sites: ‘c’est le vie’ has become a common and increasingly appropriate phrase for life in the Peace Corps. On Wednesday morning, armed with our bags and moto helmets, we headed to the training center in Bafia to divide up into our respective buses/sections for the first leg of the journey. PC deliberately chose sites that were no more than an 8-hour journey from Bafia, so that we could all make the return trip in one day on Sunday. Although good, this also meant that no one got to go the Grand North (Adamoua and Far North regions, both of which have health posts up for grabs). Both my small group of Alexi, Karen, Spencer, Alec and I, and the bigger West/Northwest group headed to Bafoussam, the regional capital of the West region, where we were to meet our respective hosts. When we arrived, we reveled in the fact that it was actually kind of chilly, meaning we weren’t sweating like pigs all the time – hooray! After checking into the regional house, we divided up and went out for lunch and to a real supermarket (one with aisles and ). We all reveled in the fact that there are actually multiple different types of oil here (if you asked me, I could’ve sworn that the main ingredient in Cameroonian cuisine is palm oil), cookies and biscuits, tea, and chocolate, we made our purchases and headed to the bus station. Our main mode of transportation in Bafoussam was cab, think a small car that seats maybe five comfortably. Now imagine that with seven or eight people…yeah, comfort was nonexistent. Sometimes there’s also a ‘petit chauffeur,’ a passenger who sits in the driver’s seat with him. After getting ice cream (read: non-amoeba-filled, deliciously cold and frosty ice cream), we went to the bus station. After getting out of the taxi, we discovered that several of the men at the bus station had taken our bags, and they were nowhere to be found (insert internal heart-sinking feeling here). After repeatedly asking where our bags were, in increasingly louder and more insistent volume, we finally found our bags about to be loaded onto another bus headed for Doula (to be fair, Nkongsamba is on the Doula bus route, but we were not planning on taking that bus). Gaah, what a nightmare. Thankfully, nothing had been taken, and before too long, we were on our way. When we stopped at a gas station just outside the city (after cramming the bus to twice it’s recommended capacity, mind you), we had to fight with the driver and his assistant to pay the actual fare, and not the ‘la blanche’ fair…ooof. We then were on our way, and after dropping some PCTs off in Bafang, we arrived in Nkongsamba (pronounced just like it sounds, but without saying the ‘n’). Gillian and Bridget (our hosts; Gillian is a health volunteer, and Bridget a Youth Development, both just past their first year of service) arrived shortly after on motos and took us to their houses to drop our stuff off before heading to a bar for some much-deserved cold refreshments and food. Gillian and Bridget’s houses are definitely posh corps material (a play on ‘peace corps,’ meaning when a volunteer has a super nice set up): both have running water and electricity, indoor gas-powered stoves, two bathrooms, and multiple rooms. Needless to say, this really felt like a vacation. After getting spaghetti omelets (cooked spaghetti with onions, tomatoes, avocados, and peppers, all mixed with two eggs and fried) and avocado salads, we chilled out a nearby bar. We also had our first experience taking motos – an amazingly exhilarating experience and by far my favorite means of transportation thus far. There are only two PC countries where volunteers are allowed to ride motos: Cameroon and the Dominican Republic. If we get caught riding a moto without our helmets, it’s grounds for immediate administrative separation from the PC (aka, fancy talk for saying we get fired). The typical moto ride costs 100 CFA (this changes based on distance, obviously), and is by far the most common means of transportation in Cameroon – even women in tight skirts and dresses do it, although some doing it sidesaddle.

            After sleeping in, the next day we headed to meet one of Gillian’s unofficial counterparts, Bleshes. Bleshes runs a bi-lingual residential school for students ages 8-23, and charges fees on a sliding scale, which is practically unheard of in a nation where everything is paid out-of-pocket and credit cards are nonexistent. The school grounds were lovely – lots of green space, an infirmary, modified/advanced cooking area (meaning that the kitchen staff was not cooking in an unventilated enclosed space), and separate housing areas for the girls and boys. Bleshes, a native of the anglophone Northwest region, was happy to chat with us and after an assistant showed us the natural spring project that they’ve undertaken to provide a constant water supply source for the school, and nearby hospital and residents, Bleshes showed us the construction site for his dream hospital. After spending agonizing hours on a hospital layout for one of my capstone classes this summer, I could really appreciate the time and thoughtfulness that Bleshes had devoted to making his hospital ideal for both patients and providers: he thought of patient flow, patient and provider needs and comforts, services virtually unheard of in Cameroon, like physical therapy, massage therapy, exercise equipment, and several operating theatres - even thinking of airflow and private gardens for the patients and families to relax. Bleshes then dropped us off in town at the Parthenon, a bakery, supermarket, and restaurant owned by an immigrant Greek couple, which had amazing ham and cheese (read: real cheese!) croissants, amazing pastries, and cold drinks. Post-lounging and eating, we decided to spend the night at the pet project site of Bridget, an orphanage just outside of town. One packed car ride later (8 people crammed into one tiny car), and a bumpy Land Cruiser trip later, we arrived at the orphanage, just as the children were getting out of class. If ever there was a time that I’ve experienced fame, this was it. The children were really excited to see us, and bombarded us with questions and requests for pictures. Post-greetings, we headed to the guest house for the night where we munched on sugared, grilled peanuts and cochi (I think that’s how it’s spelled, but it’s a fried creation made by grinding up white beans and mixing them with palm oil, which gives it a look almost like a slice of pumpkin pie), followed by watching “Pitch Perfect” and crashing on couches and foam mattresses.

            The next day, after visiting the nursery school orphans, we said our goodbyes and headed back to Nkongsamba to check out the regional hospital. I hadn’t been feeling the greatest, so it was a perfect opportunity to do a rapid malaria test with some semblance of accuracy (I have my serious doubts about the validity of the rapid test kits they gave us to use in the field…). While waiting for the results of the test, we walked around and met the doctors, explored different wings of the hospital, met Gillian’s counterpart with whom she runs the cervical cancer screening and outreach program, and had cold sodas with the anglophone OB/GYN. The results of the test came back negative – both a good thing and a bad thing, because if I don’t have malaria, it begs the question of what has been making me feel so awful? This remains to be seen. From the hospital we found Gillian’s favorite sandwich guy, Claude, and had amazing sandwiches on the cheap (400 francs for half a baguette sandwich with a hard-boiled egg, avocado, salad, meatballs, and vinaigrette – very delicious). We then went shopping at another real supermarket for the ingredients to our American dinner that night: none other than spaghetti and meatballs with cheese (warm Laughing Cow, or ‘La Vache Qui Ris’ as it’s known here). We hung out with the PCVs and their host-country national friends while we ate dinner, played BS, and I taught them how to play euchre (for anyone not from the Midwest, it’s an amazing card game that I played all. the. time. when I was in Tanzania). Post-dinner, we celebrated our one-month anniversary of being in Cameroon with drinks and dancing to African music.

            The next day started off in one of the best possible ways: with hot-out-of-the-oven chocolate croissants at Parthenon. We grabbed these and other food before we took a one-hour moto ride to a national park with gigantic waterfalls, where, interestingly, the original Tarzan film was made. The view was absolutely breathtaking – both on the ride there, and at the lookout point. We also hiked down to near the bottom of the falls on a treacherous path (path is a loose term – we were hiking through feet of straight mud on the practically vertical hike down over slippery mud and rocks as we were sprayed by the waterfall). On the way back, one of the motos had a flat tire, meaning that four of us crammed on one moto for the bumpy, unpaved ride back – definitely a workout for thighs and abs as each of us attempted to stay in our respective spots on the moto. When we got back, we made popcorn and then tea (I’m really enjoying the simple pleasures/comforts that good food can bring), and then went fabric and food shopping for our Thai dinner later. Several hours later, we enjoyed an amazing meal of jasmine rice topped with veggies in a peanut sauce – amazingly delicious, probably because of its novelty.  

            The next day we headed back to reality on a five-hour bus ride. We only took off an hour and a half later than the scheduled time, due in part because two tires and brake pads needed to be changed on the bus. As we watched, we were half horrified that they were just doing this now, but also relieved that hopefully our bus wouldn’t break down on the way. On Monday, our health tech training really started in earnest, even though it was incredibly difficult to focus with post announcements on Wednesday looming over our heads. Overall, an amazing week that was very refreshing, and made me revitalized to head back to training, and really excited to find out my post!  

Taking the Good with the Bad

It was another busy week of training with lots of both exciting and not-so-pleasant experiences. On the subject of training, our days are structured as follows: on days when we are in Bokito, classes start at 8 am, and the day is divided into four sections: section one from 8-10:15 ish, a short break from 10:15 to 10:30, session two from 10:30-12:30, lunch break from 12:30-1:30, session 3 from 1:30-3, short break from 3-3:15, and then the final session from 3:15-4:30. On days when we go to Bafia to be with the other PCTs, we have to be at the training session in Bokito by 7 am to make the 25 minute drive from Bokito to Bafia, and the days are structured in the same way. As far as the training events/sessions go, it really depends on the day. Generally, days spent in Bafia are filled usually with sessions on any number of topics, including: safety and security; transportation and security; nutrition; food security; sexual awareness and assault; health; malaria, etc. Language sessions are often peppered in between the other sessions, although some days we have the whole day of language – all six hours in French. We also have ‘tech’ sessions thrown in, although the tech sessions are held in Bokito exclusively, meaning that these sessions deal with strictly health issues that pertain to health volunteers. Some examples of these tech sessions are: the history of public health; differences between international and global health; the role of health volunteers in Cameroon; malaria; HIV/AIDS, etc. Tech sessions are hands-down my favorites, as they directly relate to what I’ll encounter in my position at post. Not to say that the other sessions aren’t good – they’re actually very valuable – but tech is by far more interesting.

Last Saturday, we did a really cool group of sessions called “French Immersion – Open Door.” There were several different stands set up, and after choosing a scenario, the volunteer would act out the scenario at the stand: for example, there was a moto stand, and my scenario was that the moto driver did not know the way to my destination, and I had to give him directions in French. Other stands included: the police station, different aspects of the market, a restaurant, a conversation with host families regarding food preparation, the hospital, etc. All in all, a really cool way to practice French once I got over my initial nervousness. After we finished the sessions, several of us walked to the market (“it is hot” was the common sentiment of the day), about a 4-mile walk in the glaring heat, the entirety of which was spent dodging motos that seemed to make it their mission to hit the white people. We walked around for a bit at the market – a very different experience from the Monday Bokito market. We explored food stands (interesting finds: ginseng, gigantic avocados, Laughing Cow cheese, and several bakeries), clothing stands, and just looked around. Post-market visit, we headed to another PCT, Joe’s house where his host mother (who also owns a restaurant) made us “American” food – a delectable treat with sweet potato fries, fruit salad, avocado salad, chicken, bundt cake, and even ‘cheeseburgers,’ complete with Laughing Cow cheese and two meatball size pieces of meat – never had something tasted better. Afterwards, we headed back to Bokito to spend the rest of the weekend with family. My family decided to hold their Pentecostal church service in our living room (all three hours of the gloriously not-in-tune, clashing harmonies, and extended readings in French). Despite the experience not being a favorite of mine, I could still appreciate the music and everyone’s dedication to, and enthusiasm for their worship. On the subject of spirituality/religion, my last-surviving and dearest grandpa was admitted to the ER on Sunday, and I would ask everyone to keep him in their thoughts/prayers – he means a lot to me, and although I can’t really do anything to help the situation (either being here, or even if I was there), the experience of not knowing and helplessness is not fun in any sense.

            On Monday, we switched language instructors, and I’m still figuring Jacqueline out. She’s a 40-year-old, never-married woman from the North, and by god, she is a force to be reckoned with. I learned this firsthand in several ways. The first was a debacle with the Anglophone tailor in Bokito, Blessings (if you ask me, the name ‘Blessings’ is a complete juxtaposition to this horrid woman’s demeanor). I had gone to her after a fellow PCT had such good luck with her making various clothing items. After telling me my things would be done on Saturday, and after ensuring that she understood my wishes for the clothing (we were communicating in English, for goodness sakes), I returned Monday with high hopes. Not only were my things not anywhere near completion, but she had not lined things (she explicitly promised she would), admitted she had ‘forgotten’ to put a zipper on my dress (how the hell am I supposed to try on a dress that I can’t even nudge over my lower thigh?!), a dress that she decided should be in two pieces instead of one (because that makes perfect sense, right?), and genie pants that turned out looking like I had a dinosaur tail….ooof. Jacqueline fought with the lady, saying that I was not happy, and that I would not be paying the full amount for shoddy craftsmanship that was late and incomplete. To make her point, she even made up a story about how I had a dance party on Saturday that I was counting on wearing the dress to, and since I couldn’t, I had to purchase another dress. When Blessings started snidely talking in Pidgin to her colleague, Jacqueline calmly turned to her and said that she knows Pidgin, and didn’t appreciate the lady’s snide remarks. Blessings’ expression belied someone that wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. Score of the verbal sparring: Jacqueline: 2, Blessings: nil. After four separate visits, and a headache later, I picked up my stuff and paid her much less. Upon my return home, I related the story of the experience to my family, who was sympathetic, although not sympathetic enough to not point out that the workmanship was awful and that I still overpaid – greeeaaat. After promises to take me to their personal tailor next weekend, my hurt pride/headache had abated. Additionally, the experience was not helped by the fact that the harassment from men in the market reached a new high – I was called ‘my queen, my queen, queen of my heart,’ ‘mon cherie,’ ‘aaaayy, baybee,’ etc. When I told my family about it, we all were able to laugh about it together, and I practiced my death stare for future use.

            Another not-so-hot experience of the day was the placement interviews. I went in and asked Sylvie and Maureen where they thought that my skill set/experiences would be most useful (I had unfortunately done the thing that I had promised myself I wouldn’t: I’d become attached to the Pitoa site in the North). Sylvie said that she had been thinking about this site for me, and that with my experience, I was the perfect candidate for the position, an ideal post for me, except for a few key details: she said that it was a post for a second- or third-year PCV, they weren’t interested in posting a new stagiare there, and that in order to succeed, one would need to be of advanced fluency in French, be able to write reports to UNICEF HQ in French, and master Fulfulde, the most prevalent local language in the Grand North regions. Had it not been for that, she told me I would have been posted there. Huge bummer. But worse was the fact that the other stagiares who were interested in Pitoa were told something completely different, two of the same level in French (and public health experience) having totally different experiences: one being told that her French proficiency wasn’t good enough, while the other being told that UNICEF was anxious to have another volunteer soon. WHAT. Needless to say, I’m baffled and more than a little upset. Although I know they’ll place me in the site where I’ll be best, the bidding process has been a frustrating experience. Ah, well, no sense in getting upset over it now, and in a week, I’ll know my post – yay!

            Despite this week probably being the toughest yet, I’m still enjoying it, appreciating those things that are going well, and taking the good with the bad. I’m grateful for a great host family that’s made me feel like a true part of their family, reassuring/supportive conversations with family and friends, and the fact that there’s still much to do/experience. I’ll be in Nkongsamba, the regional capital of the Littoral region, in the next four days, and will be staying with a health volunteer – I’m very excited!

Bushmeat, Brownies, and Site Descriptions

While I still have internet, I thought I’d do another post highlighting a few more amusing and serious experiences. The first amusing incident happened today during our session on sexual harassment, where the language instructors/other Cameroonian staff, and the stagiares were divided into men and women, American and Cameroonian, to talk about gender expectations surrounding intimacy and sex. According to the Cameroonian women, the social cues that they look for to determine if Cameroonian men are interested are: gifts of bushmeat (in the villages) and chocolate (in the city) and phone credit, and palm scratching (this happened to me at a bar the other day – it gave me the willies – handshaking is a BIG deal here, with every human greeting punctuated by shaking the hand of everyone in the room, and when I was out for a soda (not a euphemism for beer, I was actually having a soda), a man was chatting with his friends and after commenting on the fact that I was clearly a Peace Corps volunteer, he shook my hand, and he used two fingers (while doing the handshake) to scratch my palm/wrist, which is the symbol for wanting to have sex with someone). According to the American men, they know a woman is interested when she bakes brownies and puts on romantic music, and a solo date movie night. Thought the cross-cultural translation was interesting.

            On a more serious note, the hardest part of my service (other than language) has been picking up on emotions, and it doesn’t help that I don’t have the French knowledge to pick up on context clues. I can easily decipher when my family is angry (thankfully never at me yet), because the voice volume raises exponentially, and they speak really rapidly. Likewise, happiness is also easy to determine because of our mutual smiling and laughing (thankfully I’ve been increasingly more able to share in the jokes/smiles instead of them laughing at me). However, joking and being upset is not easy to tell. I know this may sound strange, but so far, my experience with Cameroonians is that they are very passive. For example, when my host sisters and I went to the market to buy cloth, on the way home, my host sister asked to see my cloth and said “oh, it’s beautiful. I wanted this.” Gaah, what does this mean?! Did she mean she wanted to buy the fabric herself; wanted me to buy it for her; she was complimenting me on my good taste; or wanted me to split it with her? Who knows? Another instance was when I went to the bar after class with my fellow stagiares. I dropped off my books at home, greeted my family, and told them I was going to meet with some friends, but would be home before our curfew. My oldest host sister looked at me funny and then said, “ooohh, okay. But then when will you eat?” I responded “oh, when I get home, there is no need to wait for me if you all want to eat.” She seemed dissatisfied with this answer, and I still have yet to figure out if she minded that I was going, or what the deal was. When I got home, there was no mention of, or semblance of the awkwardness of our earlier conversation. Other little instances have happened, but it seems that until I acquire the French and cross-cultural skills necessary to understand context and cultural clues, I’ll have to be content with the fact that if they were truly upset about something, I would know. But on the plus side, this weekend, my family finally let me help them with house chores and cooking after my repeated attempts to help – yay! Apart from cleaning and cooking several fish, I made an omelet, shelled peanuts and cooked them, and made a fire.

Another amusing instance happened when I had a serious conversation in mostly French with my host brothers and his friends about American women and dating.

My host brother’s friend opened the discussion with the statement “all Cameroonian women are ugly; all the American Peace Corps volunteers that come here are beautiful” (keep in mind that he’s saying this on the veranda where I am sitting in a small puddle of my own sweat, hair frizzing out in all directions, zero makeup, and quite sure that the smell assailing my nose is not from the fermenting cocoa beans, but rather from me... also, he’s saying this in front of my 14 year-old host sister)

Me: “*audible snort* Are you joking? I think that Cameroonian women are beautiful. Also, I think it is one’s personality that makes them attractive (my thoughts: ha, let’s see how you respond to that one!)

Him: Oh no, American women are so beautiful.

My host sister: Every creature that God made is beautiful.

Me: (not wanting to turn this into a discussion about religion, I nod and smile)

Him: Do all American women have fiancés?

Me (huge inner sigh) No, they don’t.

Him: (grinning ear to ear) Oh really?? Can you call [all the female stagiares in the village] and ask if they have fiancés for me?

Me: HA (another audible snort). No, I will not do that for you.

Him: (a stricken look on his face) Why not?!

Me: Because if you are interested, you need to talk to them yourselves. And I’m not wasting my phone credit. And no, I will not give you their phone numbers. (winning smile to smooth over the blow)

Him: Okay, well I will talk to all of them, and we will date very, very soon (polygamy is highly accepted in Cameroonian culture – but not polygyny).

Me: thinking how to explain the meaning of ‘dream on’ in French, I simply smile and say ‘okay’

            We also have our site descriptions! As previously explained, we’re doing the bidding system, where we have a list of sites, and choose our top and bottom three. A little snippet from my top four are (in no particular order):

-       Integrated Health Clinic in Kembong, in the Southwest region: replacement site, semi-rural, Anglophone region, having other PCVs nearby, working closely with enthusiastic health center staff, semi-reliable running water and electricity, and variety of projects: nutrition, malaria, HIV/AIDS.

-       Integrated Health Center in Djalingo, in the Southwest (they said this is in the SW, but I’m pretty sure it’s actually in the North): replacement site, rural, but near to bigger city, variety of projects – capacity building, malaria, nutrition, HIV/AIDS, motivated partners.

-       Integrated Health Center in Bapi, in the West region: replacement site, availability of a variety of food, water and electricity, reliable counterpart, varied health activities, francophone region.

-       District Hospital in Pitoa, in the North: ability to work on the UNICEF SASDE project; basically an ideal fit for what I studied at Emory, but I’m a little leery that it’s in the North and advanced conversational skills in French are required, and otherwise it’d be perfect.

We chat with the health program directors next week before we head off to a site visit, where we stay with a current PCV. The Wednesday of the following week, I’ll know the direction of my next two years, and I couldn’t be more anxiously awaiting that day!

Hips Don't Lie, My Heart Will Go On, and the Emotional Rollercoaster

This week was yet another busy week of training. Monday started with lots of language and technical training for health, focusing on our roles as health volunteers, and knowledge of public health. I also had my first experience with Bokito’s Monday market. Cedric and I went as part of French class, and the experience was fun, albeit a bit overwhelming, due in no small part to the hoards of people that seem to have come from nowhere and everywhere, and the fact that the rains had made the muddy unpaved roads nearly impassable, even by foot. After bartering for fabric, Cedric went with me to the tailor where I was again surprised at how much I was able to communicate and understand of our French conversation. My tailor, Michele, is a smiling man with laughing eyes who was incredibly patient with me as I bumbled my way through explaining the billowing genie/MC Hammer pants that I wanted. The rest of the week passed in an enjoyable, albeit long routine.

            The next big event was our santé group’s visit to the integrated public health center in the neighboring village of Kiki. The health center was Spartan in the extreme, with no running water, and unreliable electricity, and was staffed by one male nurse and his nurse assistant. We were introduced to the smiling nurse while he explained that the 15 people waiting to be seen could wait while he gave us a tour of the facility. Before I start explaining some of the more poignant experiences of our time at the health center, I want to mention that I’m saying these things purely out of observation – I can’t claim to be objective, but I’d like to paint a picture of the place – not to evoke pity, but as a way of telling what I saw and felt. The sinks and drains were caked with the remnants of disuse over god knows how long; the in-operational morgue stood near the back of the property compound, a wasp’s nest and a used condom the only signs of life; the bags of old plastic wrappers from mosquito nets being held in a non-existent radiology room, waiting for the government officials to show up and collect them (they’d be waiting for over a year); no malaria medication (it’s supposed to be free) for over a year, leaving the nurse to resort to buying his supplies (with the small funds he has) for his patients from the medication vendors in the marketplace – I don’t need to mention that this is highly unreliable, and potentially dangerous; several different blood spatter patterns on the walls of the delivery room that was made private by the use of several cut up feed bags carefully fashioned to be blinds over the open windows; the fancy, inoperable latrine that sat nearly completed, but was abandoned shortly before completion by the French aid organization by which the project had been started; and the people, oh the people, with a look in their eyes that spoke of resignation, but an indomitable spirit. One would think that I would have felt pity, and while I can’t deny that there was a good deal of that in my emotional rollercoaster, my main emotion was shame – shame that white privilege was alive and well, and manifested in subtle, and not so subtle ways in a rural African village health center: the latrines were there, but non-operational, remnants of people in developed places and their misguided attempts to help the poor, defenseless Africans (note: I’m not saying that aid to Africa is futile, indeed, far from it, but if not done well and with the involvement of the people, no fruit will come of the efforts, like the locked latrines that lay vacant because the aid organization was in progress of transferring ownership of the project to the people (it had been over 2 years in progress). We had a tour while the patients, the children softly crying because of their pain, were waiting for care. If there were anyone to pity in this situation, it would be us, the stagiares, for happily contributing to these people’s problems while we went on our tour and merry way, and they waited in pain. Again, not saying that it wasn’t important for us to see/experience the health center, but I couldn’t shake the overwhelming feelings of guilt and shame that accompanied my newly broadened perspective. I’m still wrestling with the feelings, and other than let these feelings be reflected in my future actions at my post, I’m not sure there’s much else I can do. 

            On a happier note, on Friday, I went to my host sister’s secondary school (Charlene is 14) and spoke to her English class about life in the Peace Corps; American culture; the importance of studying English (as per the teacher’s request); my life in Tanzania; my favorite parts of Cameroon, etc and to test the students’ English comprehension. All in all, it was an awesome experience – it was very interesting for me to see the morning routine of the students and the classroom life, but also (happily) the students were engaged in my presentation, and had lots of insightful questions. I spoke with the teacher today, and he said that the students were still talking about it, and wanted to have me in again so they could ask more questions. This was the same day that we went to the health center, so I had both my highest high, and lowest low of the week all in one day – after one of our talks this week about the progression of emotions of the length of service, I get the feeling that the emotional rollercoaster is going to be pretty typical. 

            We were on ‘standby’ this weekend due to the elections on Monday, meaning that we were told to keep a low profile. So naturally, my family decided that this was the time for us to do everything! My host sisters took me to the market, helping me barter down fabric from 16,000 CFA to 6,000; showed me how to grind peanuts on a hand grinder for the peanut sauce (I left feeling like my arms would fall off and with a newfound respect for the strength of African women); shucked corn directly from the cob (also not nearly as easy as it sounds, particularly with the accompanying bruises on my fingers); prepared a fish from market to table (de-scaling it with a knife the size of my forearm; ripping out the inner gills, de-gutting it, washing it, and then frying it); being taken to a neighbor’s house and left to fend for myself in French (I helped a lady in Franglais to decifer the dosage for the anti-parasitic medicine she’d picked up at the market); helping dry the cacao beans (a huge cash crop here, but a smelly one at that – the fermenting bean smell permeates everything, but also covers up some body odor smells, too, so…); a dance party (think lots of Shakira, lots and lots of Shakira – they were disappointed that I did not have any Celine Dion – what kind of American am I that I don’t love and adore Celine Dion?!?); going to my family’s farm (when I ask the distance, my family always says ‘1 kilometer’….10 kilometers later and when we had walked past the election building and out of the Bokito county line (all while walking next to a huge highway where the moto drives make it a game to try and hit the white people, or at least get as close as possible - everything a huge no, no), we arrived at the farm, where we cut down plantains and fertilized my family’s maize crop; shelling peanuts on the veranda; and having a discussion with my host brother and his friends about how no, I won’t be marrying you, and no, I will not call my female friends to ask if they have fiancés, and no, you saying ‘it’s not a problems’ in English to me saying that we’re not allowed to date (a bold-faced lie to protect other female volunteers), doesn’t really do much to encourage me to introduce you to them. All in all, another eventful week!