‘Just Managing’ IST and Kicking Back at the Beach

After the introductory dinner and dancing the first night, we quickly got down to business the next day with our first sessions of our 8-5 days. The first day was characterized by everyone giving presentations, either in French or English, with their respective counterparts on the different health concerns of the places and various interesting aspects that came out during the community needs assessment period of the past 3 months. It was fascinating listening to my fellow health stagemates explain aspects of their lives in the community, and what they were most looking forward to tackling in the future. Overall, the health concerns are pretty standard across the board: malaria, HIV/AIDS, teen pregnancy, underutilization of the hospital, particularly by pregnant women for antenatal care and delivery, STIs, malnutrition, etc. However, the nature of the problems differs greatly between volunteers with posts in the ‘Grand South’ (every region south of Adamoua) and the ‘Grand North’ (Adamoua, North, Extreme North), meaning that although I want to work on the health issue of malnutrition in Kembong, it’s totally different in the fact that the malnutrition that I’ll be working with is more of a nutrient deficiency, vs. a total lack of food. Additionally, since the Grand North has a predominantly Muslim culture, the volunteers will face different challenges, e.g., working with women, since women predominantly stay in their family compounds, and are not allowed/inclined to work with male PCVs, even in a non-medical setting. In that sense, although my SW region has its own challenges (witchcraft and traditional medicine are widely used, despite the region being predominantly Christian) and although there is not so much of a taboo about talking about issues of sexual health (teen pregnancy, HIV/AIDS), that doesn’t mean that the people are any more likely to change their behaviors than  people in the Grand North. Although listening to the presentations was highly interesting for me, I’m unhappy to report that they were not for Pauline. In fact, Pauline was the very picture of a rude, disinterested counterpart who literally complained about everything: she whined about them ‘overfeeding’ us by providing us with a nice snacktime in between morning sessions, but was the first person in line stuffing her face with croissants and yogurt, she rued the fact that some of the presentations were in French (Anglophone regions are the minority) when she fell asleep during those that were in English. Her ridiculous, rude behavior knew no bounds, as she unabashedly answered phone calls from her obnoxiously ringing phone in the middle of different presentations. The snapping moment for me came when we had to put together a mock project implementation plan, from goals and objectives, to M and E indicators, etc. We were working in pairs with other volunteers and counterparts, and Julia decided to tag along with Pauline and I. Pauline sat there like a complete waste of space while Julia and I put together the whole action plan…she offered no feedback, even when I tried repeatedly to engage her in the work, and actually fell asleep. When Sylvie, the health program manager, came around to see how we were doing, we presented the information, Sylvie offered some minor critiques, and Pauline (who had suddenly become active and invigorated after her siesta) decided to chime in with harsh criticisms… I was done. It’s one thing if she actually contributed to the work, but to sit there sleeping and then make me look like an incompetent fool in front of my program manager was too much. She also feel asleep during the time that her and I were supposed to be creating our 3 month action plan, dictating the direction of my projects for the next three months. I called her out on it several times, and then finally told her that I would be very upset if she didn’t help me, or at least show some degree of effort/interest. The title of the blog refers to a common response in the Anglophone regions when you ask how someone is doing, their reply ‘just managing’ implies that they’ve been dealing with some rough stuff, but they’ve made it through. Dealing with Pauline was the rough patch of my IST, but I certainly made it through. 

            Another rough patch of IST was in our ‘Men as Partners’ joint session with the youth development volunteers. Genevieve, one of my friends from Emory and my MI class, told of an incident where she was sitting on her veranda one day reading a book, and a man came up and literally groped her boobs, thinking nothing was wrong with his behavior. After Genevieve told the story, one of the male counterparts responded with ‘I don’t see why she’s making such a big deal out of this, it was just a touch!’ Needless to say, al l the women, particularly the female volunteers, were livid. This man’s comments illustrate exactly why we are having the damn session. Gaaaahhh. Anyway, some good did come out of the session, as it facilitated a necessary conversation between Pauline and  I. In the session, Pauline was all fired up, talking loudly in favor of gender equity and cultural change related to how men perceive and treat women. But unfortunately, there is a discordance between her words and actions, meaning that she herself does not practice/promote gender equity in her own home and in the Kembong community. After my one on one conversation with Sylvie, I decided that one of my focus areas for health work in the community would be youth empowerment, and would be accomplished by me working with the health clubs at the government high and technical schools, with a special emphasis on women/girl’s empowerment by forming a girl’s club. This will also serve to promote sexual health education, particularly in reference to preventing teen pregnancy and transmission of STIs and HIV/AIDS. For those interested in the theoretical backing of the girl’s club, I’ll be using the care group model to form the group. Although Pauline will be an asset to the logistical planning of these activities, if she cannot ‘walk the walk’ with gender empowerment/equity issues, then I need to find another positive deviant model woman in the community who can work with me. Essentially, my point is that if I am working with a woman who refuses to put into practice what she preaches, my project/efforts to empower girls will not as successful. 

            On the positive side, in addition to focusing on youth empowerment, and doing a training of trainers with the health club members, with the eventual goal of having them go out and conduct health training sessions with different groups of people in the community. On a different note, my primary project will be combating malnutrition among children 0-5, the most susceptible age group of children to malnutrition issues. My efforts on this front will include: going from quarter to quarter in Kembong to determine how many children are malnourished, and doing informal surveys and interviews with their caregivers to ascertain food consumption trends, conducting nutrition education sessions at the antenatal clinics and vaccination days at the health center (gotta love captive audiences), conducting cooking demonstrations with proper food preparation techniques (no, in fact, you don’t need to take a perfectly good veggie/green and then cut it, pound it, boil it, and then fry it in order for it to be edible), working with the nursery and primary school teachers to incorporate nutrition education into their curriculums (using the ‘maison de nourriture’ model – the base of the house is the proteins, the walls are the starches/carbs, and the roof is the veggies/fruits, while the latrine is for palm oil/sugar), etc. I’m pretty excited about both my primary and secondary project ideas, and looking forward to getting started!   

            The rest of IST passed very pleasantly, as different members of my stage and I played euchre and drank wine after dinner nearly every night, we celebrated different birthdays, and got to watch copies of lots of new movies (the Oscars won by cast members of Dallas Buyer’s Club were well-deserved), found a thrift area of the market that had clothes from India, and bought a bunch of handicrafts to decorate our respective houses. On Sunday, I went with Kate, Cody, Ludi and Colleen to the Endarawa Tea Plantation , situated atop one of the mountains outside of Bamenda. The journey there was absolutely beautiful, and seeing the rows and rows of tea bushes stretching as far as the eye can see, was incredible. We saw the Nestle tea plantation holdings, along with those of several other companies. Although we didn’t get to see the factory, the security guard giving us an impromptu tour showed us the owner’s menagerie of sorts at the end of the tour. There, we got the opportunity to see peacocks, vervet monkies, pythons, ostriches, and finally, and most excitedly, chimps. Although I was not enthusiastic about the chimps’ living conditions, and in a way, by seeing them, condoning these conditions/the fact that these beautiful creatures are being kept as pets, I couldn’t help but be excited about the opportunity to hold one of them , named Uncle Billy. Uncle Billy was very gentle, and after walking a few paces, reached up to clasp my hand, and shortly after, hold out its outstretched arms for me to take it in mine. Regardless of the moral questionability of my actions, it was a cool experience. 

            The next few days of IST flew by, and before I knew it, I was traveling to the beach in Limbe with Sarah, Layne, Maria, Genevieve, Matt, and Edith (a Fulbright scholar living in Bamenda). Our hotel had its own private swatch of beach, and the hotel itself was situated a 20-minute drive from Limbe proper, meaning that it was the idea secluded location. We swam morning, noon, and night in the Atlantic Ocean, marveling at the beauty of our surroundings – ‘Baby Mt. Cameroon,’ Mt. Seme, loomed over us in the distance, and the scenery was picturesque. The first night that we swam, we were greeted with the unexpected pleasure of swimming with bioluminescents! It was absolutely amazing to move body parts in the water and see the tiny burst of light that followed. Apart from the beach, we also went into Limbe to eat at the fish market, munching on fresh-caught, grilled fish, and to check out Arne’s Café  (easily one of the best meals I’ve had in-country) and the Limbe Wildlife Reserve, a menagerie of sorts populated by rescued animals, ranging from crocodiles to gorillas. Overall, a much-needed, and very enjoyable vacation. I started the trip back to Kembong yesterday, and will head back today. Although IST and hanging out with everyone was awesome, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little relieved to head back to my post and settle back into my routine.

From Delivering a Baby, to Demanding Justice: Being A Woman of Strength

This week was probably one of the most trying weeks of my time here, not because anything happened to me personally, but because I empathized greatly with the plight/situations of those around me. On Monday, I assisted Teckla with doing wound care for a man who had gotten in an awful motorcycle accident. The next day, a young woman came in who was about the deliver her baby. Pauline calmly cleaned her office at the health center while I anxiously tried to read my Smithsonian magazine to the background of her guttural grunts and moans. After about ten minutes of hearing these groans increasing in succession and strength, I grabbed Pauline and asked her if we could please check the woman. An hour and a half later, the woman was in labor, with me as the assistant. I didn’t actually do anything as the assistant during the delivery itself, other than feeling a huge adrenaline rush and I implored the woman to ‘go, go, push, push’ whenever she had a particularly strong contraction. She delivered a healthy baby boy, and after the placenta was delivered and Pauline cut the umbilical cord, she handed me the baby to wash it off, soap and dry it, and then bundle it up. Despite knowing that children are pretty hardy beings, I was scared to death of harming the wriggling, wrinkly bundle of baby. I was also the first one to rock and hold the baby boy – eee! I brought the baby over to his mother, who didn’t seem pleased at all to see her son, and in fact, did not want to hold the baby at all (I understand that she is probably exhausted, but good lord, it’s your baby!). Although, to be fair, the mother’s lack of enthusiasm to have a baby could also be due to the fact that she’s 17 years old. The whole experience was absolutely amazing, and served to reaffirm, yet again, that I will not be having children anytime soon. I also proved my worth as a pseudo African woman by carrying a 10-liter bucket of water on my head for half a mile – woohoo!

           On Wednesday, Kate and Adrian came up to visit me in Mamfe and Kembong. I decided to meet them in Mamfe and from there, we all went to the hanging German bridge, taking pictures and tentatively crossing over the wobbly, timbered bride that’s suspended 400 feet over the now-shallow river. It was a cool experience, and it was great to experience it with friends. From there, we headed back to Kembong. Once there, all the children and some of my neighbors gathered to meet these strangers, before Kate, Adrian, Pauline and I headed for roast fish and beers at Chop My Money. Despite a minor fiasco where Pauline flipped out that I was having people pay for their own drinks, even though I had made it clear that if people wanted to join us, that it was an ‘American’ invitation (a Cameroonian invitation is one where the person inviting people is expected to pay for everyone else’s drinks and food – not happening with my PC budget), we had a wonderful time and went back to my home to chill out on my veranda. Although I enjoy living alone, it’s also great to have visitors – but on the flip side, although I was super happy to have them with me, it was nice to have my space back.

          Backtracking to Monday of this week, there was a most disheartening incident that occurred with my teenage neighbor girl, Precious. Precious’s father died when she was young, and she is the youngest daughter of five girls, several of whom still live in their uncle’s family’s compound with their mother. Precious has told me before how she has had problems paying for school fees, most notably because her mother gave her uncle the entirety of her school fees, and her uncle proceeded to ‘chop the money’ (take it and spend it for other purposes, also a euphemism for corruption). Consequently, Precious was ‘driven from school,’ meaning that the school staff goes through and if students haven’t paid the entirety of their fees, they don’t get to stay at school. Quite literally all of the students that gather at my house on a daily basis have been driven from school at one point or another. Anyway, the point is that Precious really wants to be in school – a great, and somewhat rare, thing. On Monday, I heard these heart-wrenching sobs coming from near Precious’s house. I immediately went over to investigate, finding Precious curled into the fetal position, sitting on her veranda. I immediately gave her a hug, started rubbing her back and making soothing noises as I waited for her crying to abate so that she could tell me what was wrong. Other children had gathered around, and wanting privacy, I asked her if we could go to my house. She acquiesced, and after we went into my house, I sat her down and asked her what was wrong. She proceeded to tell me that she had gotten angry with her mother and her uncle and had spoken harshly to them because both refused to pay her school fees, and provide for her. She said that the situation had come to a head during Youth Day, and that her mother had refused to feed her, even acknowledge her because her daughter was angry and had spoken harshly. She then told me that her uncle had beat her, and was a wicked man. She had gotten in another fight with both mother and uncle that day, and her mother refused to acknowledge her, while her uncle accused her of being a prostitute, and told her that if she wanted to pay her school fees, that she should earn them by being a prostitute (it’s worth mentioning here that her school fees were 3,000 CFA, the equivalent of $6…), and he proceeded break her spirit by telling her that he was going to call his father from the grave to deal with her/haunt her (resurrection is a big deal here, so for Precious, this was a very real, horrifying threat). He then proceeded to beat her again, telling her that he would not only not give her the money for the remaining school fees for this year, but also would not pay for her next year of school (my thoughts: pshaw, he didn’t even pay for this year’s school fees). When people asked why he was beating her/why she was sobbing uncontrollably, he proceeded to tell people that she was a wicked girl who did not want to go to school, and that he was beating her so that she should have the desire to go to school. Precious again expressed to me her ardent desire to go to school, particularly as all of her friends whose families weren’t able to pay their school fees are now pregnant. To make matters worse, the awful uncle is my landlord, David. Precious’s spirit was completely broken, and she could scarce tell me the story without her voice cracking/breaking down crying every other sentence. I was livid. How on earth does David get off thinking that it is in any way, shape, or form okay to completely break the spirit of a 16 year-old girl, just because she wants to go to school??! After making Precious dinner so that she could eat, I formed a plan of action with her. I asked her what were the absolute things that she needed for her school fees, books, etc (a total of 10,000 CFA, $20), and told her that I would pay for it under the condition that she must sweep the outside of my compound once per week (a 30-minute task, at most) and help my cleaning lady, Rita, every Tuesday morning from 6-6:45 before she went to school – all for two months. I also wrote the school staff a note saying that I would be coming the following day to pay the school fees, and under no circumstances should she be driven from school. It was incredible how much her demeanor changed – she offered me a tentative smile, and seemed, for the first time since I found her sobbing, actually hopeful. The next day, I went to the school and paid the remaining balance for Precious’s school fees, test books, and work books. From there, I negotiated a meeting with Felix Tanyi to chat about what to do, both of us deciding that the next course of action would be to mediate a discussion between Precious and her mother. At first, Precious was not at all open to the idea, but after chatting with her, she understood that things as they were could not continue. I orchestrated the time, and had the negotiation/intervention in my house. Felix mediated the discussion, which was ideal due to his status in the community, and his ability to converse in Ejagham. The meeting brought a the much-needed resolution to the issue: Precious would be getting fed and acknowledged at home, her mom would support her school efforts, and Felix gave her his business card with his personal line, so that she would have recourse if anything like this should happen in the future. At this time, nothing would be done to deal with the uncle, lest he take it out on Precious. After seeing how relieved Precious looked, I was happy. And after all was said and done, Precious chatted with me on my veranda saying how grateful she was that I intervened, and how good of a person I was – unnecessary praise for the actions that I knew to be right, especially if the end result is the restoration of spirit/happiness for this girl.

          The next few days passed uneventfully, and before I knew it, I was heading to IST with Layne, Julia, and Pauline. It was an absolutely incredible feeling to see everyone again (and very overwhelming, but in a good way). We celebrated the first night together with a delicious meal with our counterparts, followed by watching a traditional Northwest masked dance routine – a fabulous end to a somewhat trying week!

Adversity and Success: Youth Day, Race of Hope, and Chop My Money

This week started off on both a great/bummer note, as I was excited to celebrate Youth Day with all my children (they had been practicing their songs and traditional dances on my veranda for the past week), but in the midst of doing my Community Needs Assessment report and presentation in preparation for IST, the start button of my laptop stopped working (additionally, my shift key stopped working – appreciate the shift key, people – you have no idea how unnerving it is to write an entire report using caps lock for all capitalized words in a 20-page report, haha). The Youth Day festivities started off with the Cameroonian national anthem and a procession in of the various community dignitaries, followed by the marches of all the various schools in Kembong. The nursery school children were beyond cute as they stumbled over one another in their efforts to simultaneously march in the correct steps, and sing their appointed songs. My companion for watching the day’s activities (traditional dances, games, singing, and other exposition events) was a small child who sat ensconced on my lap and insisted on calling me ‘Aunty Bess,’ which was most charming as she has a small lisp and an under bite. After eating with the dignitaries, I moseyed back to my house where my laptop magically started working, and Pauline and I had a heart-to-heart. Despite her rough, bulldozer exterior, Pauline is actually pretty sensitive; apparently her good friend/maid of honor cancelled on her three days before the wedding, and had waited til a week after the event to see how it went, but didn’t have phone credit, so she told Pauline to call her back/waste her own credit so they could talk – needless to say, Pauline was understandably hurt. It was good to chat with her, especially as I saw a different, softer side of her.

          Several days later, Julia and I were on our way to collaborate on the Peace Corps-sponsored activities for the Race of Hope. The Race of Hope is a yearly event where people literally race up and down Mount Cameroon, the second tallest mountain in Africa, for a total distance of 24 miles. The day prior to the race, we stayed with Layne and other PCVs in Kumba, the biggest city in the SW region, with the biggest market in all of Cameroon. After living in a village setting for the last three months, the big city was a bit overwhelming, but very enjoyable. We visited the NGO that Layne’s been working with, called Needs for Children, run by an ambitious woman from Holland who truly cares about disadvantaged kids in Cameroon. We also experienced one of her more heartbreaking cases: a 10 year-old girl who had previously broken her neck and was now blind, now had terrible bedsores and a severely distended belly that was quite probably due to a form of cancer; she had had a surgery, and had waited an astounding 3 weeks for the biopsy results to be returned (the doctors ended up losing the sample, and the child ended up dying…) It was a sad reminder that while we, as international aid workers, can, and should do all in our power to help the people with whom, and communities in which we work, but at the end of the day, bad things will happen despite our best efforts, and you have to be satisfied that you did all you could. On a happier note, we got to hang out with different international volunteers and went out for delicious chicken from a restaurant where the owner honed his culinary skills in Louisiana. After Kumba, we all traveled to Buea to help out with the race and other preparation activities for the PCV-organized HIV/AIDS pre-counseling, testing, post-counseling activities. When we got there, the hotel had given away our pre-reserved room (we even had a receipt), and after much fighting and coaxing, the manager finally got us a room – complete with lime green mold snaking halfway up a wall, and a smaller than normal bed, with no running water, and sporadic electricity at best.

          After the hotel fiasco, we moseyed over to the nearby school, where the other PCVs were helping to set up the all the different stations for the next day: registration, pre-counseling, testing, and finally post-counseling. We also set up the tables and tents at the race site for the male and female condom distribution/demonstrations. The next day, we arrived at the school to assist with last-minute preparations. We quickly realized that the distance from the race site to the school was a clear detriment to having people actually come and get tested, so after walking through the streets and race grounds to try and garner interest in the free testing and counseling, we decided to move everything to the actual race site where everyone was gathered. I lost count after doing 25 pre-counseling sessions, and quickly realized that I was going to lose my voice if I continued doing pre-counseling. From there, I assisted people doing registration until I got drafted to go throughout the crowd and gather people to be tested. I decided to focus on the big groups of people that were representing different cultural entities, and came in contact with a familiar person, one of my carpenters from Kembong who installed my cabinets. At first, we didn’t really recognize one another, and as such, he was really rather hostile toward me, asking acidly ‘and why on earth would we want to get free HIV/AIDS??’ clearly missing the part where I had said over and over again that it was testing and counseling. I politely clarified, and then after asking ‘don’t I know you?’ and figuring out the connection, his demeanor totally changed, becoming super friendly and amenable not only to being tested himself, but to bring along his male friend, and encourage all the other females to do so as well. When he showed up with his friend, I personally did the pre-counseling and walked them through the other steps of the process. After they went through all the steps, this man specifically sought me out to thank me so much for encouraging him to get tested, and thanking the other PCVs for our activities here. I was truly humbled by the fact that he went from being skeptical and suspicious to thanking me profusely, and being appreciative of our efforts. Although the day was overall a huge success (we tested over 900 individuals for HIV/AIDS, and registered over 1,000), it was not without its tragic moments. One for me came when I had started to do a bit of post-counseling, aka, telling people whether their results were either positive or negative for HIV. I thought that with my public health and anthropology background that I could handle telling people their status (it’s worth mentioning here that we never used the word ‘positive,’ but rather told the people that their sample showed that their body was showing antibodies consistent with HIV, but then referred them to a local hospital for a second, conclusive test). It’s one thing to say that you can tell people their status, and another entirely with having to tell someone that they may be positive for HIV – I could’ve been the bringer of life-shattering news, and I couldn’t handle it for those that were positive. Therefore, I only post-counseling people whose samples were negative. The most heart-wrenching case was when a mother had herself and her four year-old son tested. Working as a runner who matched up test results with the registration numbers that people had, I was inadvertently able to see the test results as I delegated people to different post-counselors, the majority of whom were trained nurses working at hospitals in Buea. The woman’s test results were positive, but her child’s were not – both a hallelujah moment for the child, but crushing for the woman. I was happy that the child was beyond the age for breastfeeding (breastmilk transmits HIV), but incredibly sad for the mother. I can only hope/pray that we caught her in the early stages of the disease, or better yet, that it was merely a false positive. We stayed at the race grounds till 5:30, and discovered that Layne and Julia both had things stolen from a purse (the purse had been set down for a period of time, and people rifled through it, stealing money and a camera). The most frustrating part for Julia and Layne was that the crime was most likely committed by people that were there being tested, given where the bag was positioned; they were upset that the very people that we were trying to help would then turn around and do this. It was great to hang out and do work with other PCVs, and despite the different bumps in the road for the visit to Kumba and Buea, I was really happy with the whole experience.

           I headed back to Kembong the next day, and enjoyed a pretty uneventful next few days as I prepared for IST. I also forgot to mention that the previous week, I went with Teckla, Pauline, and the commandant of the gendarmes to the local ‘nightclub’ where we enjoyed roast fish, several beers and lots of dancing. I was also introduced to the very Cameroonian concept of ‘mirror dancing.’ Having gone to clubs in the U.S. with mirrors, I know the basic idea, but Cameroonians literally stand in front of the mirrors (in Chop My Money’s case, a pillar with small mirrors on all sides) and watching themselves dance. Personally, it makes me uncomfortable, I mean, why would I want to willingly watch myself make a fool of myself dancing? Although I don’t plan on going back anytime soon with any other community members, it was a great night. Despite a lot of interesting/challenging stuff happened this week, being involved with the Race of Hope and having shining moments of success reminded me that I have so much to be thankful for, and that despite living the majority of the time outside my comfort zone, I’m happy with where I’m at, and things could always be worse.

“Aunty, I Know What A Condom Is…You Wear It Around Your Waist, Like A Belt”

Firstly, apologies for the lack of posting – the start button on my laptop stopped working, thereby rendering both blog writing/posting and photo uploading impossible for the time being. The past month has easily been the busiest of my time spent in Cameroon, with lots of amazing experiences. In thinking about my last posts, I realized that they were relatively introspective, which could easily be interpreted as melancholy, which wasn’t meant to be the case. After getting over med hold for my two cases of malaria in a month-ish, I’m feeling significantly more comfortable with my place in Kembong, my role as a PCV, and just life in general, and have had some incredible experiences over the past month. Also, as a side note, when I’m in Kembong, or in the Anglophone regions in general, I speak Pidgin and a form of “special English,” meaning that if my expressions/writing in these posts seems strange/slightly off, it’s because English fails me at times, so as they say here, ‘ashia’ (sorry).

          The title of this blog post is from an experience awhile ago, and was said by one of the kids who comes to visit me on a daily basis, Junior. I think I may have mentioned that after giving the initial HIV/AIDS talks at GHS that the chief of the health center and I decided that, in order to promote family planning/combat teen pregnancy, that I would dispense condoms from my house, at the request of males and females, in an attempt to eliminate the discomfort/stigma that teens may feel in going to the health center to acquire condoms, even though they’re free. One day, several teenage boys came to my house in the late afternoon saying that they had heard that I had condoms, and asking if they could have some. After getting some, I discretely gave the boys the condoms, which happened to be in front of several young kids – wouldn’t necessarily have been my first choice of situations in which to promote sexual health/family planning, but I realized that these children will eventually be adults, and if I make it not a big deal to access condoms, maybe I can help alleviate the stigma. Anyway, the children, curious as they are, immediately asked me, “Aunty, what are those?!” to which I responded that they were condoms, and that I would explain what they are/their usage at a later date (aka, when it actually comes time for these kids to need condoms). I did, however, tell the kids that they were used when having sex, and that they helped prevent pregnancy, transmission of STIs and HIV/AIDS. The kids immediately started speculating the uses of condoms, and after several failed attempts to determine the exact usage, Junior spoke up in an authoritative tone and haughtily responded to his peers saying “No, no, Aunty, I know what a condom is…(dramatic pause) you wear it around your waist, like a belt!” Feeling very satisfied with himself, and with me making several snorts in an attempt to cover my highly amused state, I responded “not quite” and then promptly changed the subject.

          After convincing the PCMO nurse that I did not need to go to Yaoundé for further tests, instead feeling much better and wanting to return to my house/the familiar, I returned to Kembong for Pauline’s wedding. The ceremonies started on Thursday with the traditional wedding. After going bright and early to Pauline’s house, which resembled a beehive with all the flurry of activity and people running around, I went back to my house to wait for the actual wedding to start. Three hours after the proposed start time, and in the hottest part of the day, we all gathered at Pauline’s mother’s family’s house for the first half of the festivities. After one man served palm wine in a huge communal glass from a huge container to all gathered guests, the groom’s family left to convene with the bride’s family to pay the agreed-upon bride price. Pauline’s bride price was roughly 260,000 CFA for one side of her family, meaning that the total paid to both mother’s and father’s families was well over 500,000 CFA when it was all said and done. It’s also the groom’s responsibility to buy the additional alcohol consumed at these proceedings. After all had drank of the palm wine, people proceeded to engage in mock guessing to determine why we were all gathered at the proceedings; it’s more the ritual of the proceedings rather than an actual guessing. From there, Pauline processed in with several other women, and members of Rafael’s family had to fake guess who the bride was. After that, there was much celebrating, and the same procedure was replicated at Pauline’s father’s family’s compound, except with food and lots more palm wine and alcohol. After paying the other bride price, there was another ceremony (all in Ejagham, so I have absolutely no idea what was said) where Pauline and Rafael sat in front of their family and, from what I can guess from the proceedings, were traditionally married. Overall, it was a cool experience, and people seemed to enjoy that I was there, as they took every opportunity to tell me about what was happening.

          The wedding saga continued the next day with the court wedding by the Mayor/judge of Mamfe. My morning started out bright and early at the ‘saloon’ (the hair salon) where Stella, one of the nicest women in town, braided my hair in a cinnamon bun style (braids encircling my head, close to the scalp, in a circular pattern) with black mesh, and then taking curly weave and sewing it into my hair. Needless to say, the end result was not drastically different than if they had used my real hair, pulled it back with a bandeau/headband and curled it. However, with the bandeau and mesh look, I truly resembled a Cabbage Patch doll…much to my dismay. Being the type of person with the mentality of ‘if the bride wants me to do/wear something, I’ll do it, within reason of course, since it’s her special day and not mine.’ With that in mind, and my attitude to just go with this wedding flow, I decided to embrace what would no doubt be the first of many outlandish wedding looks. From there, the honored guests and close family members all caravanned to Mamfe, me sandwiched in between Pauline and Rafael in the back of a car, as they bickered about having their documents and I tried to wipe the magenta lipstick that Pauline favors from the areas all around her mouth (she enjoys putting on lipstick without a mirror, much to the detriment of the skin around her lips, since she often has lipstick in a 1-inch radius on the skin surrounding her lips…). Once at the council/court, we all filed into a room and waited for the judge. Once he arrived, he wasted no time in grilling Pauline and Rafael about their reasons for wanting to get married, their personal lives, what they liked about one another, etc. Needless to say, it was very interesting to witness, especially since it seemed like an interrogation of sorts. For instance, I learned that Rafael was previously engaged to be married to the mother of his two sons, but after having left to prepare his home in Kembong for a year or so, and returning to the town where his fiancé lived, discovered that she was pregnant with another man’s child. After the judge was satisfied with their answers, the marriage proceeded much like a court ceremony in the U.S. From the court ceremony, we stopped to pick up several things for the ‘coup de gras’ church wedding ceremony the next day. After taking a much-deserved rest, I went back to Pauline’s house to see what else she needed to do for the ceremony, and hope that we were going to, at some point before the wedding, rehearse what I, as chief bridesmaid was supposed to do. Since the electricity went out, Pauline’s daughter, Teckla, and I found ourselves decorating the hall for the wedding reception in the pitch black with only our measly cellphone flashlights for guide. The other bridesmaids, who I had quickly come to regard as lazy piles, after their unwillingness to lift a finger to help prepare anything for the wedding, let alone assist Pauline, decided that they would shirk wedding duties in order to get their hair done…blargh. But despite no electricity and apathetic bridesmaids, we got the hall decorated and prepared for the next day’s festivities.

          The day of the wedding dawned bright and hot, and at 7 am, I went to see how I could help Pauline on her big day. We spent the large part of the morning at Stella’s saloon where she busily pasted on the other bridesmaid’s fake eyelashes with acrylic nail glue (eek, and I’ve never been more thankful for mascara and my long eyelashes) and applied Pepto Bismal-colored hair oil to each of our hair weaves. Other members of my cluster arrived in time for the advertised start time of the wedding, and staked out spots in the Catholic church (Pauline’s Presbyterian, but Rafael’s Catholic, so they had a Catholic ceremony – as a side note, I feel like inter-faith marriages are made into much bigger of a deal than they are in Cameroon – it was interesting seeing the differences in priorities with marriages between the U.S. and here). In my bridesmaid attire, I felt like ‘80’s prom queen meets Africa, meets Michael Jackson (just a recap, my outfit was a one-shouldered, three quarter-length sleeved dress with electric blue lace over traditional African material, complete with an electric blue satin flower positioned directly over my left boob – the outfit was tied together with a single lacy, sparkly white glove on my right hand – never have I wanted to bust out my “Thriller” dance moves more…) While at Stella’s place, a bossy woman showed up (one of Pauline’s friends) and tried to completely change the way that the wedding was structure – how everyone processes in, the order of the wedding events, etc. I could tell Pauline was getting anxious with this, and after trying to more quietly subvert her efforts to change everything less than an hour before the ceremony, I decided to politely, but firmly tell her that we had everything well in hand and to not worry. Stella and the other Kembong women also stood up with me, which helped to ease Pauline’s stress, but therefore served to make myself an enemy of this pig-headed, know-it-all woman. Welp, as I’ve learned here time and again, can’t win ‘em all. After we were all ready, we proceeded to drive up and down the roads of Kembong, incessantly honking the horn of the car in which all five bridesmaids were squeezed, in order to tell the villagers that yes, in fact, there is a wedding going on – as if they could forget. Three hours after the intended start time, everyone was attired and waiting outside the church to process in. The other bridesmaids then decided to tell me that we would be singing a song, IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE DAMN CONGREGATION, and they wondered if I knew it. Since I’m obviously a mind-reader and incredibly familiar with little details of Cameroonian culture, like songs, why wouldn’t I know this song?! Not. After making it clear that my embarrassment/willingness to make a fool of myself had its limits, I told them that I would dance with them in front of the entire congregation, and smile while they sang the song. Thankfully, the song didn’t end up happening – yay! Additionally, one of the groomsmen didn’t show up, so the bridesmaids decided that since I was already putting the phrase ‘one of these things is not like the others’ into real-life practice simply by my different looks, I should dance alone down the aisle in front of the rest of the bridesmaids…oh joy of joys. But in reality, their plan actually backfired when everyone started clapping and cheering more loudly as I shook and shimmied my way down the aisle…in a church. The wedding itself took a full four hours, and by the time it was done, I decided that I was long overdue for a beer (conveniently, there was a bar not 50 feet from the door of the church), and very ready to be done with the whole wedding business. Two beers later, my clustermates and I headed over to the reception, just in time for the gift reception: the bride and groom stand up at the front of the hall and people, as called by the MC, process (rather, dance) up and give the gifts. From there, we got food from the buffet line and, of course, another beer to prepare us for the imminent dancing. The reception was by far my favorite part of the whole proceedings – not in the least of which due to the fact that the weddings were over. But it was genuinely a great time. We danced nearly every song, got super sweaty, and laughed with the absurdity of our dance moves and the fun that we were having. It was at the wedding reception that I felt an overwhelming sense of rightness, the feeling that ‘yeah, this is where I’m meant to be in this moment in time’ – that’s an amazing feeling. All in all, although the wedding was a fantastic, frustrating, stressful, and satisfying experience, it was something I wouldn’t have traded doing/being a part of for the world.

          To continue with the marriage themes, this week has been my record for marriage proposals, having received three in one day alone…oof. Apart from the marriage proposals, the rest of the week passed relatively uneventfully, as I participated in my third vaccination campaign for polio and visited Julia in Afab. During the vaccination campaign, I practically had to fight with an idiotic, ignorant man who, after at least five minutes of explaining why his baby needed to be vaccinated and how this vaccination was different than those normally received as a child, decided that he was going to ignore everything I just said, and insisted that he knew more than me about vaccinations. With steam practically coming out of my ears in frustration, I calmly explained, yet again, the need to vaccinate his child, and after which, he decided we could vaccinate his child. Needless to say, the whole experience reaffirmed the need for health education in Kembong. On the plus side of health activities, I had a great time visiting Julia’s post, where we helped at the health center, assisting in wound care and paperwork while bonding with her staff friends. I also gathered water for the second time since living in Cameroon (I am so, so happy that the water supply in Kembong is practically endless and always flowing). It was a cool experience, particularly I got a chance to bond with Julia’s children friends in the village. In sum, it was definitely a fun, event-filled week.

Blooper Reel: When ‘No’ Actually Does Mean ‘Yes’

I had the best laid plan to post this entry about a month ago - and the old adage about best laid plans certainly holds true here in Cameroon (gaaah to lack of reliable internet access). Although it's late and may not be totally relevant, I think it's still one of the more amusing posts I've come up with, so hope you enjoy! 

I decided to have this post to expound on several different ‘lost in translation’ or other interesting (both amusing and frustrating) cultural moments that have happened over my month or so in Kembong. The first, and by far most frequent moment occurs with my hair. In Cameroon, as is the custom in Africa in general, most of the women (if they don’t have their heads shaved), style their hair by plaiting it, or with what we refer to as ‘weave,’ but is called ‘mesh’ here in Cameroon. Because of my hair’s texture and style, many children and adults alike think that my hair is actually mesh. Frequently children have come to my house to greet me and chat, and after a lull in the conversation, they work up the nerve to ask me in a quiet voice ‘Aunty, your hair, is it mesh??’ and when I respond negatively, they look at me with wide eyes, to which I say that they are welcome to touch and feel my hair if they don’t believe me. They immediately shake their heads, but often, several minutes later, when they think I am not paying attention to them, their tentative hands reach out to grasp locks of hair, giving a little tug in the process to make sure. Younger children have even turned my hair into a game. When new children visit me, the regulars will ask their comrades whether or not they think that Aunty’s hair is mesh or not (pleased that they both know, and have tactilely confirmed the answer). They are highly amused when one of their friends guesses ‘mesh’ incorrectly, and then urge the children to touch Aunty’s hair. I find both instances very amusing.

            Another interesting lost in translation moment occurs at least once a day, often multiple times per day if I’m interacting with new people: incorrect responses to questions. For example, I will ask people upon greeting them “how are you” or “how’s the day?” and I will get the response of “yes.” But it’s always a very emphatic ‘yes’ and when I pause for a minute and wait for the correct response, they just stare back at me with the expression that seemingly says “why on earth are you looking at me like that?! I’ve just very nicely answered your question, you idiot!” Another favorite response is when I ask a question or make a statement, like ‘oh wow, it’s very hot today’ or ‘I’m going to Mamfe tomorrow to get some things’ and the response is ‘oh yes, thank you.’ One of the technical college teachers is notorious for doing this. When I told him what I was planning on doing for Christmas, his response was ‘ohh, tank you tank you’ (the ‘th’ sound really isn’t a thing, or very common here). Additionally, it’s VERY common to begin your response statement with the word ‘no.’ For example: “Are you going to the market today?” Response: “No, I’m just going there today to buy some small things.” Also, the response to a “how are you doing?” question has the abbreviated response of “no,” which would naturally mean that ‘yes, I’m doing fine, thanks for asking.’ Gaaaahhh. At this point in my time in Kembong, I’m pleased as pie that some people can actually understand me, make the correct responses to my question, and absolutely thrilled when I can carry on a more than five-minute conversation with someone. Really, it’s the little things in life. 

            On the subject of Christmas, it’s weird to observe the things that translate from American culture, like Celine Dion, and ‘Xmas.’ No one says ‘Christmas’ in my village, but instead ALL say ‘Xmas’ all the time. Additionally, Celine Dion is so incredibly popular here, it’s unreal. Case in point, at the wedding that I went to at the Apostolic Church, the groom and groomsmen processed/danced in while a churchwoman was screaming a Celine Dion song on repeat into the microphone. Additionally, after people open up to me, they often ask me questions about life in the United States, like: why do American women use so much oil on their skin (I can only assume that they mean sunscreen); is there a rule in the US that women can only have two children; do you have to shave your head as part of going to school (as it is in Cameroon); why are Americans so fat (the irony of this is that several people who have asked this are by no means trim and fit themselves); is it true that it’s only ten kilometers from Boston to heaven (whaat?! Talk about a question coming out of left field); why do you have a boy’s name (Valery is a boy’s name, particularly in the Anglophone region, as Valerie is a common girl’s name in the Francophone regions); why don’t US schoolchildren study African history like we have to study American history (a pretty valid question in my opinion), etc. It’s always interesting to hear what they want to know, or any preconceived notions that they have about American culture.  

            The final lost in translation moment occurred the other day when Njock, one of my friends here, and one of the many bushtaxi drivers in Kembong, took me out for a beer to celebrate Xmas. As a side note, I had originally come into my community with the notion that if I socially drank in my community that my community would get a bad impression of me. I quickly learned that this was exactly the opposite in a country like Cameroon with a huge alcoholism problem. In fact, me saying that I preferred to have ‘sweet drinks’ (soda) seemed to alienate me from people who wanted to enjoy a beer with me. With this in mind, I decided that if I was offered a beer, and in the mood, that I would accept it, and not actively try to never consume alcohol; this doesn’t mean that I’m going to practice alcoholic behaviors (I had to refuse palm wine offered to me by the Chief of the Health Center at 8 in the morning the other day…), but that I’ll be embracing the community custom of occasionally talking over a beer. Anyway, the following is the conversation that occurred between Njock and myself, with my thoughts being in parenthesis:

Him: Can I ask you a question?

Me: (thinking, uh oh, where is he going with this, because I’m really not in the mood to deal with a potential love confession, having had much practice in this respect with the horny, but harmless teenage boys in the community) Uhm, sure.

Him: Have you looked at yourself in the mirror today?

Me: (well this is definitely not what I was expecting, but not sure what he is trying to get at with this, so I’ll play along for now) Yes, I have. Why do you ask?

Him: No, I mean, have you really looked at yourself in the mirror today??

Me: (whaaatt??!) Uhm, yes, Njock, I have looked at myself in the mirror today.

Him: And what did you see in the mirror today?

Me: *unladylike snort emitted* Uhh, I saw myself. Just myself.

Him: Oh really? And nothing else?

Me: (no, you idiot, I’m done playing this game and have no clue what you expect or want me to say! Oh wait, yeah, I did in fact see the Boogymonster while putting in my contacts this morning!! Needless to say, I’m getting frustrated) Njock, where are you going with this? I saw myself in the mirror this morning, I don’t know what you want me to say…

Him: You didn’t notice anything different about yourself?!

Me: (did I suddenly develop a flesh eating bacterial infection on my face in the last five hours? I decide to feel my face, just in case, and attempt subtlety in doing it.) Well, I look pretty tan…(again, what does this guy want me to say?!)

Him: Well, that’s unusual, because you are looking really fat! You are looking like a real woman of the community now, being so fat. Yes, it’s true, you are fat! You are very fat.

Me: (baffled, since with the exercising and cooking for myself, I’ve actually lost weight being here…and more than a little annoyed that he would have the nerve to tell me this; or is this one of those weird things that translated, and he actually means ‘phat,’ as in ‘cool’?? gaaahh) Ehrm, is this supposed to be a compliment?! In the US, calling someone ‘fat’ is considered to be very rude.

Him: Oh no, you are looking good and fat!

Me: (internal facepalm)

I later learn in the conversation (after a few awkward moments) that calling someone ‘fat’ means that they are looking good, and that by telling me that, what he really meant was that I seemed like I was adjusting to the community and the community way of life (he had heard that I had tried some of their traditional dishes). Needless to say, if ‘fat’ is synonymous with ‘well-adjusted’ and ‘looking good,’ I can’t wait to find out the other interesting meanings of other seemingly inane words! Yahooo. 

“If You Shit, Then You Go For Chop, You Go Die”: Shining Moments in the Rough Patch

          Although this past month has arguably been the hardest of my service so far (even the beginning adjustment period of living with a host family that only spoke French doesn’t compare to the rollercoaster of the past month – due in no small part, I suspect, to the fact that although I’ve got some semblance of a routine, the routine doesn’t feel entirely natural just yet), there have been lots of shining moments where I’ve felt that there’s no place on earth that I’d rather be, or that I’m meant to be more. And that is what keeps me going, along with the prospect that despite the hard periods in the emotional rollercoaster, it will get better. Additionally, I’ve learned a tremendous amount about myself, life in general, conducting public health work at the very grassroots level, and being a globally minded citizen, and that knowledge is well worth the moments of hardship.
           Continuing with the theme of my last few posts on imparting little nuggets of cultural knowledge from Cameroon, and cross-cultural education/comparisons, the people in Kembong are not shy about talking about bodily functions – what I mean by this is the fact that Kembong people, regardless of age, most often use the words ‘piss’ and ‘shit’ to describe the obvious. More than once, little girls that come to visit me have whispered in my ear, “Aunty, I have to go piss,” as she waits for my approval – not sure why – to march off my veranda and squat in the trench across from my house. A similar situation happened when one of the girls brought her baby brother over, and after pooping in his pants, all the children loudly chorused ‘ewww, Baby Obeni just shit himself.’ Not exactly the type of language that I’m accustomed to hearing from children, and thought that it was interesting.
            Additionally, another amusing cross-cultural experience occurred when Thecla, Richard (another volunteer assisting with the national immunization days – a four-day event to vaccinate children from 0-10 against polio) and I went out to the villages to vaccinate children. One of the overseeing nurses, Paulette, not my favorite person in the entire world, as she’s kind of abrasive, insisted that we do health talks in addition to the following activities: trekking all over the towns included in the Kembong health district, going door-to-door in search of all these children, practically prying their mouths open with a crowbar (not literally, of course) to drop the two drops of sweet vaccine onto their tongues (I tried the vaccine, and got my finger marked to show solidarity with the kids, and to not lie when I told them that it was sweet) while many of them wail and scream bloody murder, while some just plain hide from us, then proceed to wrestle their pinky into our grasp so that we can mark that they’ve been vaccinated, all while keeping track of how many kids we’ve vaccinated, trying to determine their ages (many don’t know, or can’t remember their birthdays, so we had to guess based on their year in school), and then have to remember the number of houses that we’ve gone to, whether the houses are open, closed, need to be revisited, or unoccupied, and mark all of this information in a type of code on the door and on our sheets of paper – all this done while in the blistering heat of the dry season. Now I’m certainly dedicated to the promotion of public health throughout the world, but I ask, as a human being, would you and someone you know want to give a full out health talk (after not having received any guidance of what exactly they wanted you to give said health talks on, not to mention the audience, etc) when you were busy doing all of the aforementioned activities with an already skeleton crew in the blistering heat? If you answered ‘yes, of course,’ I would have to call you out on being a dirty liar. Anyway, Paulette breezes up on her moto as Thecla, Richard and I are quite literally sweating pounds off, and demands that we give health talks in addition to all our other activities – keep in mind that we only have four days to vaccinate the target child population in the four surrounding villages, all of which are nowhere near to be nicely arranged on any sort of logical grid or street formation. Additionally, I’d be willing to bet big bucks that the people have absolutely not clue one what on earth the nurse, being Paulette, wants them to say when she shows up, demanding to know of them whether or not they’ve received a ‘health talk’ – unless we physically uttered the words ‘health talk’ over and over again in our pursuits of talking to them about hygiene, or whichever topic on earth she has in her mind that we give a health talk on, I can almost guarantee that they wouldn’t associate our brief health recommendations with her asking the question of whether or not they’ve received a health talk. Furthermore, she decided to follow up with one mother whose child we had just vaccinated, demanding to know what we had told her – naturally, the woman didn’t associate our hygiene recommendations with Paulette’s question of whether or not we’d given the health talk, so she responded in the negative to her question. Paulette then reamed us out for not giving the health talk properly – keep in mind that we are standing in the blistering heat being lectured by someone who has been coolly breezing around on a moto the entire day and without even a sheen of sweat on her brow – we, on the other hand, are practically taking a shower in our own sweat at this point. So, being the snarky individuals that they are, Thecla and Richard decided that, by god, if Paulette wanted a proper health talk, that they were going to give her one. For every house that we went to next, Thecla decided to tell the children in Pidgin the equivalent of ‘if you shit, and then you go to eat, but don’t wash your hands, you’ll die.’ Apart from finding the hilarity in the situation as she’s uttering this lie stone-faced to the children, I called her out on the blatant lie that she was telling these impressionable children. She reasonably countered that the children already know it to be a lie since they shit every day, don’t wash their hands, and then eat, and they haven’t died yet. Touché. After giving a moderately successful hand-washing demonstration with soap to 15 children gathered, I had to concede that she did have a point, particularly since there really wasn’t the time or materials to prepare a proper health talk. All in all, Thecla and I vaccinated over 400 children ourselves in the four-day period, not included the other teams that were part of the vaccination team.
           Another event over the past week was Felix Tanyi’s visit. I had to cancel a trip to visit the nearby waterfalls near Dylan’s village due to the fact that I wasn’t entirely sure that during my absence Felix wouldn’t volunteer me for at least five more projects that I’d have not the time, nor inclination to do. Surprisingly, the visit went better than I expected – him conceding that I had valid points on his brainchild of a project (namely, there’s no possible way that I would be helping him move forward on a half-baked project idea that might very well have more negative unforeseen consequences than actually serving to help the people; although I suspect his hesitancy in moving forward was due more to the fact that Kathleen was more moved to think seriously about throwing money in support of a half-baked project venture), and not volunteering me for any projects on which I had no desire to participate due to the lack of public health relevance. However, although these interactions were infinitely more positive than our first meeting, I am still going to proceed with caution, especially as I again got the definite feeling that he still views me as his volunteer. Furthermore, I got a weird, slightly creepy vibe from him when he was telling me about how he was basically in love with one of my predecessor volunteers with whom he worked – not that he ‘loved,’ but was ‘in love’ with one of the volunteers. Now I know that this may just be me overanalyzing the semantics of the situation, but after he told me that his wife had been jealous of his ‘relationship’ with the volunteer, I’m not so sure. Needless to say, I’m probably reading too much into the situation, but regardless, I’m going to be a little guarded in our interactions, and not hesitate to politely, but firmly assert myself as the situation calls for it. However, we did have a very nice conversation about his travels in the United States, his work in Kembong, his feelings about international aid and development, etc, and I enjoyed these interactions, and respect that he has a great deal of knowledge and is a very dedicated, driven individual that genuinely cares about the community and doing things right with his NGO.
           On another note, I seriously started doing my community needs assessment this week (for those that may have forgotten, every PCV is required to complete a community needs assessment on their community – it’s actually pretty detailed – and we’ll be presenting our findings at our IST conference in February, in addition to giving the results to the necessary stakeholders in our communities). Unfortunately, my appointment with Etum Arricum (a men’s group in Kembong that’s comprised of farmers) landed the day after I was diagnosed with malaria (the second time in less than a month), so I wasn’t feeling the greatest as I queried the men on everything from which crops they plant (yams, cocoa yams, cocoa, plantains, banana, etc) and then, to their thoughts on environmentalism (basically nonexistent in that they weren’t really concerned with environmental sustainability – due in no small part, I suspect, to the fact that there really isn’t the concept of environmentalism/environmental protection here – apart from the government’s haphazard efforts in the past decade or so to preserve what’s left of the elephant and animal population, and I suspect that either the people don’t know, or really don’t care why the government would try and preserve the animals when its own people are malnourished and dealing with lots of other, more pressing problems). The meeting itself was very informative, and I’m looking forward to meeting with more groups of people.
           I’ve also learned a lot more information about Kembong through my chats with Besong, who, on a side note, told me that my persistent fever was due to the fact that I was thinking about Caleb, and he was thinking about me, making me hot, thereby giving me the fever…he then proceeded to tell me (he was half-joking, half-serious) that I should tell Caleb to stop thinking of me, thereby, voila, solving all my fever/health issues. Through our conversations, I’ve learned that the Kembong indigents used to have slaves that they would either acquire through slave traders passing through the area, or themselves capture from the Northwest region – the region in which the slaves all came from, apparently. Even after slavery was abolished, slavery continued in Kembong at least until as late as the 1950s. He told me that his father had slaves, and that in order to keep the slaves quarantined, as to not mix with the indigent Kembongians, they were relegated to live in certain quarters of town (remember that Kembong itself is divided into 17 quarters). When I asked him if he knew some descendents from former slaves, he replied ‘ of course, it’s all those same people living in those quarters – no native Kembong person is going to live in those quarters nowadays because they know and remember the slave legacy and don’t want to be associated with that’ – very interesting stuff. He also echoed a belief that I’ve heard from other Kembongians that witches and wizards that practice black magic in the community can transform themselves into animal forms, such as owls, bats, elephants, buffaloes, and even hippos. After seeing another type of juju dancer dressed in all palm fronds, complete with other people banging with wooden sticks on long bamboo logs – all part of a death ceremony, it’s clear that I have still a lot to learn about the traditions in the community. I’m looking forward to continuing to learn more about the local beliefs, traditions, and whatnot as I continue with my community needs assessment. I’ll hopefully post snippets of it here once I’m finished.
           On a different note, since I’ve been not feeling 100% for about a month, I’ve become very familiar with the common phrase of ‘Aunty Val, don’t be sick-o!’ As a side note, practically everything has an ‘o’ added onto the end, such as ‘have you seen my beautiful baby-o.’ Slightly off topic, but I’m feeling marginally better – probably due in small part to the knowledge that all the test results came back negative (meaning I don’t have malaria again, or typhoid, and my liver and kidney function is apparently normal, indicating the my two bouts of malaria haven’t caused permanent damage). Additionally, PC Cameroon just “won” first place for malarial infections among PC countries worldwide…womp womp. There’s a decent chance that if I do contract malaria again (I’m literally doing absolutely everything by the book with taking my prophlaxis, using my mosquito net, etc), that I may be sent home due to the fact that getting malaria multiple times for a person with no sort of immunity is dangerous. Welp, cross that bridge when we come to it! On the note of semantics/linguistics, calling someone a ‘tomato’ means that you think they look very fresh and nice. For example, the previous line about the baby is a lyric from a popular song, and the next is ‘have you seen my tomato baby-o.’ It makes me smile every time. According to Pauline, at her wedding reception this weekend (just to remind everyone, I will be the one resembling the human version of the popular “My Little Pony” toy, crossed with ‘80’s prom princess), she will be changing the lyrics to the song and instead singing ‘have you seen my beautiful Peace Corps-o’ – oh boy. It should definitely be a fun experience, and look forward to pictures!

Just How Much Have I Changed? – Reflections on Cameroonian Life Thus Far

Continuing with the reflective mood from my last post, and given that I’m looking back on a life well-lived in 2013, I wanted to share some of the small bits of how I’ve changed, or adapted to my life in Cameroon and Kembong. So here are some soundbytes to interest and amuse you: Regardless of what I’m doing, life here has a definitely different pace than what I was used to in the US – there isn’t really any sense of haste, naps are a daily part of professional life (the health center doesn’t really have any patients during the afternoons, due to the heat, so the Chief, nurses, etc all take a nap during the afternoon – to say nothing of the fact that the Chief indulges in palm wine and/or a beer many days, often before 10 am…), and people take the time to really enjoy human interactions – indeed, it’s considered very rude if you a) don’t take the time to greet someone, b) don’t take the requisite amount of time to be considerate and interact with them after greeting, or c) say ‘I’m coming’ (the Kembong equivalent of ‘I’ll see you later’) and don’t actually come back to spend an appreciable amount of time with them later. When I give the children balloons (like around the holidays), the children immediately blow them up and leave a bit for them to suck, like a little teet on the end – it’s super weird. Then they proceed to noisily suck on the end, pretending that they’re breastfeeding. And then they cheer when they pop each others. An additional revelation was that despite wanting two children within the next decade or so, having 20 children over in my house to watch a movie (as a side note, I started by showing them “Mulan” in a not-so-subtle attempt to break down gender stereotypes). Corralling and babysitting 20 children under the age of 10 is one hell of a job. After the second movie night of “Kung Fu Panda,” I think my movie showing days have a definite expiration date in the very near future. I love kids, don’t get me wrong, but not that many, and not all in my house for an extended period of time. A wonderful high on the rollercoaster of my life in Kembong has been my developing friendship with my Ejagham teacher and neighbor, Besong, an absolute dear of an older man, but with spunk – my favorite. Besong has made it his personal mission that I should learn Ejagham, and visits me every day so that we can have conversations in my stilted Ejagham. But I’m happy to report that I’m improving significantly, much to the delight of my village. Besong also took me to meet a friend of his, Harry Tabitha, the former chief of the Kembong health center. Harry was in this position for close to 19 years, and now in his retirement has decided to operate a clinic under the auspices of his NGO, which I’m not sure is exactly allowed in the provisions of his NGO licensure, but c’est le vie. It is clear that there’s a lot of bad blood between him and the rest of the current health center staff (they accuse him of stealing, he accuses them of incompetence – that he taught them everything they know). I am determined not to get in the middle of this feud. It’s clear that patients are still going to see Harry, regardless of the fact that his clinic is operating without any government/private oversight to the type of care that his patients are receiving (which is a little worrying). So I have determined that I will be Switzerland – a neutral party that is determined to work with both entities with the goal of improving the health of Kembong people. Additionally, Besong has become a very real friend to me; he asks me how life in Kembong is going and what barriers I’m encountering (I sincerely dislike being compared to all of the previous volunteers, particularly when it’s clear that they’re not even trying to get to know me in my own right), and helps me gain the local perspective in a very real way – something I really treasure, especially since I felt an overwhelming feeling of loneliness. Let me tell you, living by yourself, while fun at first, is incredibly lonely. I’ve noticed myself starting to talk to myself – aaahh! Nah, it’s really not terrible, but not ideal by any stretch of the imagination. But I’m working through it, and I’ll be a stronger person after for having done it. Another thing about Besong is that he respects my space, time, and is not creepy in the way that many other Cameroonian men are. Allow me to elaborate. The following is a conversation that I have had at least fifteen times throughout my tenure here: Cameroonian man: (upon seeing me) oooh, wow! which is invariably followed by a ‘hey, baby’ or some other comment on my looks or the fact that I’m white Me: (terse and with bitch face solidly in place) hello there C.M.: You are so beautiful, I love you. Me: (inner sigh to the effect of ‘here we go again’) thank you. but have you seen me before? do you even know my name?! C.M.: No, but I love you so much (then continuing to express his deep and abundant ardor for me that he has magically developed over the past two minutes that he’s seen me…) Me: you cannot love me when you do not even know me! (he still hasn’t even bothered to ask my name at this point) C.M.: You will be my wife Me: (seriously, buddy, you’re not even going to have the courtesy to phrase it as a question?!) well, then I think you will be a very nice second husband C.M. (smiling and nodding until he realizes what I’ve actually said) whaatt??! Me: Yes, my second husband. C.M. You already have a husband?! Me: (keeping up with the pretense that I already have a fiance; and polygamy is accepted here, but not polygyny – women having multiple husbands) Yes, you will be perfect as my second husband. C.M. (clearly horrified) uhm, well, aaahhh…I cannot be a second husband. Me: Well, I guess you don’t love me enough to be a second husband. Ashia (sorry) for you. (which effectively ends the conversation without me having to freak out and explain for the zillionth time that I will not be marrying a Cameroonian, let alone one that doesn’t even know my name) On a different note, after visiting all of the schools (I just had the government primary school and the Catholic school left), pretty much all the children are calling me ‘Aunty Val’ or ‘Aunty Valerie’ and no more ‘Aunty White Man’ or ‘White Man’ – hooray! They also follow me in droves around town – I’m not kidding when I say that I feel like I’m the Pied Piper… Furthermore, I’ve stopped being slightly concerned when I see them carrying around cutlasses and machetes with 1-foot plus blades. After giving an impromptu talk at the secondary school (didn’t know it was going to be a one-woman show until 10 minutes before the actual session where I was supposed to present on a health topic), I’m giving some serious thought to helping teach Biology there. As a side note, when I asked a student what she’d like me to give the health talk on, she answered ‘the menstrual cycle’…hoh boy, just what I wanted to talk about in front of 60+ teenage boys and girls – not. I ended up talking about HIV/AIDS, which was also relevant, but significantly more in my comfort zone. Another amusing lost in translation moment happened when I found out I had malaria for the second time in Cameroon, actually, the second time in less than a month – blargh. When asked what my tribe was on the intake form, I didn’t know what to respond, so I said American. The nurse (who already really wasn’t understanding much of what I was saying, even though I was speaking slowly and clearly), responded ‘no.’ Welp, I guess if I can’t be American, I guess I’ll just say Ejagham, the tribe of Kembong, which is what I did. To that she responded ‘really?! I don’t believe you.’ What am I supposed to respond to that? So I assured her that yes, in fact, if you’re demanding that I tell you a tribe, and you’ve already vetoed the most logical answer, I’m going to stand by Ejagham. After some quibbling, she accepted it. When I went in to see the doctor to discuss my “very positive” malaria test as the lab tech put it, he had his head down and was scanning my charts. I knew the exact moment that he spotted the Ejagham entry, because his brow furrowed and he looked up at me with a quizzical expression on his face. He then questioned me about it, and after both finding the humor in the situation, he wrote American over the Ejagham, so now I’m American Ejagham. There’s lots more to share about my second meeting with Felix Tanyi, trying new foods (including eating bushmeat for the very first time), helping out with the vaccination campaign, and continuing to prepare for Pauline’s wedding. All in all, apart from having lots of lows in the rollercoaster, I’ve also had a tremendous amount of highs, but regardless, I’m still happy that I’m here.