News: Both Good and Bad

To my friends, family and readers;

This post is hard to write. What does one say at the beginning of the end? At the beginning there’s “once upon a time” or “a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away”. At the end there’s always “and they lived happily ever after” or “Fin”. What about the beginning of the end? What does one say?

I’ll back up. The end of my last blog post mentioned that I was sick. I spent a few weeks in Yaoundé on Medical Hold waiting for first one test and then another. The general consensus was “a mono-like virus”. One that will affect me for a few months but should be fine. I might feel tired or get sick sometimes, but it would take care of itself.

So that’s what happened. I was tired, and sick, spiking a few fevers here and there, picking up strep throat; again, nothing big. I came down to Yaounde for some follow up tests that basically said things were going well. I was still sick, but that was fine. After spiking a fever at the Medical Office though, they sent me in for a few more tests and found that my spleen was enlarged. Now this is not a big deal. This happens pretty often in the states. Most mono cases are accompanied by splenomagaly, as well as some infections. Mine was probably caused by my virus. The only difference in circumstance is, well, that: circumstance. I live in a village, way out in the bush far away from emergency medical services. I take a two hour moto ride to get to my village. If something were to happen, for example me falling off a moto, or getting elbowed in the side, my spleen could rupture. In the states, while that’s a pretty big deal, you’re never really that far from a hospital. Here, I would bleed out before I even made it to a facility that would think it was anything but sorcery. The chances of my spleen rupturing are minimal, but they do exist.

For this reason, a team of doctors, me, and my family have decided that it’s best if I finish my service early and go back to the good old US of A.

This decision is surrounded by so many conflicting emotions. I am so deeply sad that I will be leaving Cameroon before I was even able to get running. I felt like I was just getting my bearings, just getting ready to take off when the rug was pulled out from beneath me. I’m heartbroken about leaving my friends, both American and Cameroonian, before I was expecting to. My training mates will continue in their service, travelling together, working together, sharing adventures, stories, and beers, and I won’t be there. My house, my dog, my puppies and the new kitten I was getting, those will all be abandoned by me. I am joining the ranks of the worst training class in Cameroonian history, with more volunteers leaving than any other training class, I think ever! I’m becoming a statistic

On the other hand, this is ok. I’m taking care of myself and allowing myself to be taken care of. I GET TO SEE MY FAMILY! I get to see my friends! I’ll have warm showers everyday, electricity, washing machines, real mattresses, good food. And my family! I can’t say that I’m not ecstatic about all that.

I’ve had a few days to mull this information over. My first instinct was to run into my room and cry, which I did. But I’ve had time now and am in a much better place.

Cameroon has given me so many gifts. One of them is flexibility. Expectations are never met here. People either always exceed them or always fall short. You learn not to rely on expectations at all. Because of this newfound… skill (can we call it a skill? That’s what it feels like) I’m able to pick myself up and move on. I’m excited about going home and anxious about my prospects. While I may not have achieved what I’d hoped to here in Cameroon, I wouldn’t trade this time in for anything. I’ve learned so much, grown so much, and had my mind and attitudes expanded. I met amazing people and learned so many new things that will change my life! And so, I’m grateful for Cameroon, my time here, and all the many lessons (good, bad, hard and easy) that I’ve had the opportunity to learn and teach here.

But leaving isn’t easy. Peace Corps was amazing enough to grant me time to go back to village and close up my post; get some closure. My sister had plans to come visit me, so we’re going through with that. She’ll be here to help me close up, meet my friends as I say goodbye and witness my life and work in Mogode and Cameroon.

I’ve had tearful conversations with friends here, telling them I’m leaving, saying goodbye. Those have been the hardest. I am leaving, abandoning my friends here. We all support one another so much. I have friends that I call when I’m feeling sick, sad, lonely, or just pissed to find another dead lizard in my house. And they call me. Our web of support is weakening as our friends leave. This is melodramatic. It’s hard to find the words to describe the tangled emotional blanket I’ve got inside me right now.

So now I have a few weeks. I’ll be leaving the country before Christmas, maybe with my sister. We’ll get to say goodbye to my village, friends, home, and animals together. We get to travel together. I’m really looking forward to this.

So my mantra right now is “one day at a time”. I could be freaking out about where I’m going to live; what I’m going to do since I’ll be jobless, broke, and kinda homeless (shout out to everyone who has offered a bed or a couch to me). I could be freaking out about how many time I need to poop in a cup before they’ll let me leave country (it’s at least three times, by the way). I could be worrying about who’s going to be thinking what? Or where I’m going to be for Christmas? Or any number of things, but instead, I’m going to do this in African time and take it slow. Things will come together. I’m sure of it.

So thank you readership, for your support and kind words these last 16 months. I would never have made it this far without you. You’ve been an outlet and a constant source of upbeat energy in my life.

This is not my last post. Not by far… stay tuned for my last adventures with my trusty sidekick, Kelley. 

Work and other things

So I haven’t really talk about work recently. I’ve been focusing more on life here in Cameroon as opposed to what I’ve been doing. But I’ve been working hard on a project in Mogode that takes up most of my time in village.

A few months ago, I started designing my “big project”: my legacy, the project that will take up most of my time. The proposals are in the work section of my blog but I’ll sum it up here for you. My idea is that all the groups that I work with start working together for the common cause of preventing malnutrition. The program I designed is being implemented in two small villages close to Mogode and Mogode itself, with hopes that if it proves effective, the next volunteer will expand it to the entire County. Basically though, Diedonne comes in once a month and does vaccination while introducing the “Health Topic of the Month” to the mother’s who get their kids vaccinated. Then, trained women in the community take over and hold two information sessions after Church on Sundays on the same topic. They will be giving more information and practical uses for that information such as how to make tofu or filter and treat your water. These women are also being trained to identify signs of malnutrition and encourage mothers to go to the hospital, where they can then be treated for free.

So basically, these Sundays will be a little information fest, with posters and activities in all these villages. Every month, the topic will change and new women will be in charge of the information fest in each village. To make sure it will stay alive and that it’s a sustainable project, these women are going to be working closely with the hospital. Once a month, the “experts” of the month will meet with Diedonne, and some staff from the hospital. There, everyone will go over the topic of the month, refresh their memories, catch up on new information, ect. So, hopefully, after everyone is trained, it will become a self-sustaining system with women teaching women and the hospital making sure that all the information is up to date and correct.

Some cool by products of this project is that some women will also be presenting at the hospital during Prenatal visit days to pregnant women. The women will have a small but steady cash flow with the soap and lotion sales that they are doing. Also, we will be working with Traditional Birth Attendants to try to encourage women who need to go to the hospital, to go and to hopefully make home birthing a safer endeavour.

In order to make this happen though, I have a lot of people to train. All the women need to be trained in their selective topics to become the “experts” of the month. In addition, Dieudonne will need to be trained as well. 

So that’s the plan! PC is going to help us fund the project, paying for transportation, food, materials, ect. We’re waiting for the funding cycle to kick in and to get approved, but I have high hopes that it will be fine.

The only other little hiccup that we’ve encountered is my lack of presence. Last month, I came back to post from the capital with so many plans. I made meeting after meeting for the next month. We scheduled our first training module and had plans for the women to start doing presentations in Nov. I was so excited. And two days later I got sick.

This is the reason for my long silence. Turns out I had malaria. But underneath the malaria, I have also contracted a virus of some sort. On the plus side though, I’ve seen how PC handles stuff like this and I’m super impressed. On the third day of my fever, PC sent a car to come and get me and bring me to a hospital. The guys had to travel over 11 hours to come get me. After a few days of non-successful visits to the Maroua hospital, our medical officer had me come to Yaounde to check it out. They were extremely thorough, kind, and attentive. So, you guys can rest easy. Bottom line, while we don’t know the exact kind of virus, we know in general the type of virus. So I’ll be sick for a bit, but they’re on top of it. Unfortunately, that means that I have to go to Yaounde regularly and get checked out. Meaning that I won’t be at post for long periods of time for an unknown amount of time. Which sucks. This puts my project a little behind schedule.  And this leads for an uneventful month full of travel and hospital visits. But all is well, work is progressing, and I’ll keep you all updated. 

Some Pics

Diedonne as we walk to our Vaccination Site for the day

The inundated river we had to ford.

Women's group making Neem soap and Lotion

Finished products

Floods galore

Flooding in Northern Cameroon!

The seasons of Cameroon have been a frequent topic of this blog. But today we’re going to revisit it from a different perspective. This rainy season has seen the most rain in 60 years. All around northern Cameroon, towns and fields are flooding, people are being displaced and some are dying.

And I had absolutely no idea. So much for local news!

As the end of rainy season drew nigh, I did see some signs. It’s been raining almost everyday. The roads are terrible, and the electricity is off about 90% of the time. I might get a few hours a week.

A few weeks ago, when going out on a vaccination campaign, we came across a river that had swollen too much to be able to cross it by moto. So we hiked up our pants, walked across this river, and continued our way on foot. I didn’t think a whole lot of it. Just another adventure.

Then, Luke, my postmate, stopped coming in to town. A few weeks ago, I rode my bike out to his post. It was extremely challenging and I had to ford a few rivers with my bike. Apparently though, those rivers are so large now, that you can’t get across. Luke is literally stuck in his little village after heavy rains. He can’t leave unless he drives almost an hour out of the way. To get to Mogode which is south west of Vite, he has to go north for 20 minutes then all the way another large village before hitting the main road and going in the opposite direction for 30 minutes to get to Mogode. I also didn’t think a whole lot of this. I figured this was something that happened every rainy season.

Then we started hearing crazy stories. Last week 3 people died as they tried to cross different streams-turned-rivers on their motos and drowned. Sometimes they find the bodies, sometimes they don’t. There’s a weekly count of the people who drowned trying to cross the different rivers. Most of those are “en brusse” and relatively far away, so I never know the people who drown, but still, it’s a little crazy.

Last Friday, while chilling at the hospital for vaccination day, some guys came over from Rhumsiki, telling us about a house that collapsed during the rainfall the night before. The huts are made out of simple mud bricks. If they get too wet, they turn back to mud. This particular house slept 10 people. It collapsed in the middle of the night, killing 3 people, including a very old man.

And still, I thought this was normal. Very sad, of course. But the normal, rainy season, tragedies, right along with Cholera, Malaria, and Typhoid. And actually, I’m not sure that it isn’t normal. Maybe this kind of stuff happens every year. That would be sad, but it’s possible.

Then I came into Maroua, into the big city, where one gets news of the rest of the country, the world, and of course, has access to internet. Apparently, the country was flooding. The bridge to go south had washed out. Garoua was awash. Hundreds of villages had been completely covered by water and washed out. Volunteers were chilling in Maroua, waiting for rivers to go down so they could go back to post.

I took a bus down to Garoua yesterday and witnessed it for myself. Garoua is a pretty big city situated down in the bottom of a basin. Typically it’s surrounded by flat farmland, with mountains in the distance. It is the hottest city in Cameroon. For a while, we didn’t see anything, except maybe some washed out trees and puddles. Then, all of the sudden, we took a turn and to our left was a lake that wasn’t there before. You could see the tops of trees and the remains of some crops and what might have been homes sticking out through the water. But the water went on for miles it seemed. It was absolutely crazy. Except for the random plants sticking up, you couldn’t be certain that the lake hadn’t always been there. As we got closer, it got worse. Rivers were swollen to easily 20 times their normal size. We saw people poling boats, looking at the new banks, looking for things, probably lost belongings. Entire fields of dead corn poked up beside the road. It was ghostly. And completely insane.

How could a country be drowned like this and we hadn’t heard a word of it in village? Absolutely insane. Just goes to show the importance of news, I guess.

So, what is being done for these people whose homes have been destroyed, family members drowned and livelihoods ruined? I’m not entirely sure. We saw  two semi trucks heading up towards Garoua with Red Cross flags hanging from their grills. That was promising. O yeah and Paul Biya, the President came to visit the families. Although I’m pretty sure he did more harm than good. As he drove up the main road, he shut it down to all traffic for fear of assassination (apparently we recently removed two Garoua council members from office). So for at least four hours, the one and only road coming into Garoua from the South was blocked. Trucks, buses and cars were lined up for miles; food spoiling in the hot sun; tourists and residents alike stalled in their travels. What normally took 9 hours to do by bus took us 15 hours. How could stopping all traffic possibly help these people?! And what possible support or help did he bring or offer? I don’t know, but I have a feeling it wasn’t a lot.

But people here are resilient and community based. As the rains die away, people will come back by the thousands with family members to help them rebuild. In a few months, you’ll hardly be able to tell entire towns had been washed away. Hopefully aide will come in the form of money or goods so these people won’t starve until their next harvest, but even if there isn’t, families stick together here. Kids will be send to uncles and aunts. Money will be sent to the families and they’ll make it through. It will be hard, but they are a strong people. 

Funeral

My life has been surprisingly blessed. In this particular blogpost, I’m referring to the fact that death has never been a major character in my life. There have been very few people that I have loved and lost. Before this summer, that number was 2, my paternal grandmother, who died right after teaching me how to read, and my great aunt, who passed away a few winters ago. There have been other people to come and go in my life, but these are the two that I really associated with my idea of death.

Then I worked as EMT, and my idea changed a little bit. The first time you perform CPR on someone who is pronounced dead as soon as you arrive at the hospital, you feel like you’re wearing death on your gloves. Or when you arrive on scene to a patient that had no pulse when you arrived but a little bit of nar-can had him up and running. But after every call, at the end of every day, you throw out those gloves, take off your uniform and go back to your relatively death-less life.

This past month though, I’ve felt like I’ve had a grim reaper riding on my shoulder. Friends (both in America and in Cameroonian) have passed away and really close friends of mine have been touched by loss. I watched a man get hit by a bus and there was nothing I could do for him. For a few weeks there, I was convinced I was cursed. Scratch that, I’m still not totally convinced I’m not. But the point is, I was experiencing it from all sides.

This Sunday, my landlord passed away. He had been sick for a long time and I had grown really close to his wife. I was literally on my way over to his house when my neighbor caught me and told me that he had passed away while she was in church. I was caught completely off guard and went silently with her to go pay my respects.

Although I’ve had two other Cameroonian friends pass away while I was here, I was not physically there when they passed and wasn’t able to be a part of their funerals. So this was my first Cameroonian funeral.

I was scared. I had no idea what the traditions were. Was I supposed to bring something or say something? I was clueless. So I walked into that room blind. I found my friend, on the floor, crying silently. She was surrounded by three other women that I didn’t know who were also crying.  I sat down close to her, with a whispered condolence as the three other women started wailing. And I mean, they were wailing. Not like crying. Wailing. It sounded worse than a three-year old having a tantrum. They screamed and sobbed and screamed some more. I was scared shitless. Personally, I was tearless. I was way more frightened than sad. I looked over at my friend who had come with me and she had silently buried her face in her shawl.

We sat there in that room for hours, watching as the room filled up with mourners. I began to realize that instead of speaking condolences, the women would try to just out-do each other by crying. One women ran into the room, her top completely undone screaming at the top of her lungs. She grabbed Raissa (the wife) and just started throwing her around the room in a bear hug while screaming, sobbing, and yelling. It was absolutely terrifying. And as soon as one person started crying, the rest of the room would start up again with sniffles and wails. I don’t know how close these women were with my landlord, but after about the 30^th time this sobbing wailing happened, I began to realize that it’s not necessarily the strength of their pain that they’re sobbing, but their condolence. I don’t feel like I’m explaining this well. In a way, it was a drama-queen thing. Crying and screaming louder than that other people in the room was “winning”. But in another way, it was your way of showing that you were supporting Raissa and there for her and feeling her pain.

But Raissa wasn’t into it. She would avoid the sobs and wails as much as politely possible, stuck a veil over her face and didn’t say a word. I stayed in that room for hours, watching this spectacle and feeling their pain, listening to their cries. It was absolutely horrifying.

Today though, I went back. In their Muslim tradition, for the first three days, the house is open to everyone to come, eat, sleep, reminisce and grieve. Easily 50 women spent those days with Raissa. Then everyone but the family leaves and they mourn for 7 days. Then everyone but the immediate family leaves and they mourn on their own, except for the 40^th day, in which you celebrate the 40^th day of mourning.

So I went there this morning, still completely clueless. A friend had told me to bring some food, so I arrived with a bagful of beignets, expecting the horrible scene that I had left. But it was so different. 30 different women were sitting outside Raissa’s bedroom, talking laughing and sleeping on mats. There are 10 women who were making buckets of food. And when I say buckets, I mean buckets. There were huge washing basins filled with dough for “gateau” (it means cake, but it’s not really cake). Women were sitting around drinking bouille (kind of like a porridge). Raissa I found sitting in a corner in a hot stuffy room alone, not partaking, just mourning. I sat with her for a bit and then joined the women outside.

They welcomed me with smile and plied me with bouille. They tested my Fuldulde and my Kapsiki vocabularly. Some women were explaining funeral traditions to me (take down pictures and cover all mirrors). All of the sudden, all the women on the mats got up. Where they went, I can’t be sure. But suddenly, this hall of laughing women turned into a bustling fast food kitchen. Rocks were brought over to balance trays on. Fires were started and “gateau” was prepared. It was amazing. Every fire had 2-3 women tending it. There were all laughing and working together. Women of all ages. Some were speaking Fulfulde and some were speaking Kapsiki, but they were definitely all on the same page. It was a completely different feeling, almost like a party: a family BBQ with no one fighting.

I had never seen so many women working together like this. Women, young and old, tended fires, flipped cakes and broke wood with their bare feet. It was amazing to just be a part of it. Granted I couldn’t understand most of what was said, and I wasn’t helping a whole lot. It was still pleasant to be a part of.

I’ve only ever been to one funeral in my life. But that funeral was morose and tragic. I liked this a lot better. Women coming together and just being and working together for days at a time, remembering and honoring. I think they’re doing something right here. Who says less developed is worse off?

I don’t know where I’m going with this, but I did feel a need to just put some of this into words and share this experience with you. It’s not a happy or a funny one. But life isn’t just the happy and funny moments. And that’s what I’m here to do: live. Live life as these women live. And I got a view of the worst part of their lives this week. 

Pooping in a Rain Jacket

I pooped in a rain jacket this morning. And by that I mean that I wore a rain jacket while pooping, not that I actually pooped into a rain jacket. That would just be weird.

There are some things in America that are nice, comfortable. Like indoor toilets. But sometimes, the alternatives can be fun.

I even have a song I made up for the occasion. Not to rip off “Sitting on a toilet”, I sing “Pooping in a rain jacket.”

It’s probably not something you’ve ever done before. Unless of course you raced home after a long coffee break on a rainy day just so you wouldn’t have to use a public Starbucks restroom. But it was probably more along the lines of

“I’m pooping and I just happen to still be wearing my rain jacket.”

As opposed to

“I put my rain jacket on solely for the purpose of the pooping.”

Please note the difference.

In fact, your thoughts about bathroom activities and weather probably don’t often intersect. Unless, of course, you’re one of those people who are scared shitless of the thunder (literally). Or maybe there’s a window by your toilet that you opt to stare out of instead of reading the paper, and, in the process, you mentally note the weather.

I, on the other hand, and my bowels, bladder, and showering habits (not to be forgotten) do think of the weather quite often.

When the weather is cold, as it is right now, and raining, as it is right now, it makes trip outside….unpleasant sometimes. And then add in that you’ve got to expose a large part of your body to the elements. Well, it just a horse ride in the snow (seemingly fun, but a little uncomfortable for the backside, wet and cold.)

So, let’s make it a game! A puzzle! Can you anticipate how much TP you’ll need? Or should you just bring the whole roll? How do you transport it, keeping it easily accessible without getting it too wet? (Personally, I tuck it under my chin with my hood up)Then, how can you minimize time and things that will get wet? For that, I sometimes (and don’t think me strange, all the African kids are doing it) strip my bottom half and run bare-ass naked all the way to my latrine.

And at this point you’re just having fun. How often have you wanted to run and jump and dance in the rain half-naked? It’s a personal daily goal for me. And I get to do it twice! Before and after pooping!

Also, pooping while water is running down your back and inevitably into your nether regions makes it feel a whole lot cleaner. A free beday, if you will. So fresh and so clean, clean, clean.

So that’s my African moment for the day:

Me: hopping, skipping, and jumping through my garden to my latrine, wearing only my oversized blue rain jacket singing “pooping in a rain jacket”.

P.S. My lyrics to that song is a bit limited. Any suggestions? Feel free to let me know. I’d love to add more stanzas to keep me busy longer. I can’t really bring the Time there with me now can I. 

Rules of Motodriving

     1)   Always wear the most amount of clothes possible. Protect yourself from the elements as much as your wardrobe allows. If the biggest jacket you have is a neon green ski jacket from 1976, wear that. It don’t matter if it’s the middle of hot season and 100 degrees out; put that sucker on.            

  

  2)   If you happen to come across a puddle in the road, don’t worry, if you go through it fast enough, you’ll probably make it through to the other side. Don’t worry about how deep it is, it’s all about speed. If you or your passenger happens to get wet, well, at least you made it through, right? Or wait, you didn’t? You’re moto got stuck in the mud in the unseen 3 foot depth of a puddle? Don’t worry, just scooter it on out of there, and by that I mean using your two feet to walk the moto out while still sitting on it; much like a two year old on a pedal-less tricycle.

   

  3)   If you see a bend coming up and you can’t see what at the end of the bend, don’t worry about slowing down, just beep to let anyone coming towards you know that you’re around the bend. They’ll probably hear and make room for you, even if you do insist on taking the bend in the middle of the road.

   

   4)   Be polite, wave at your friends that you pass by with both hands! 

   

   5)   If you’re listening to Cameroonian music playing from your cell phone while driving, make sure you’ve got the speaker up all the way so your passenger and everyone you pass can hear that you’ve got major (distorted) sound. Everyone wants to hear it. Share the wealth dude.

    

   6)   When taking a road that is partially washed out, make sure to drive as close to the washed out gully as possible. That is, by far, the most secure part of the road.

    

    7)   If your back tire starts fishtailing, it’s not because you’re going too fast or the road is a bit wet; it’s because you’re passenger is too heavy. Be sure to remark how fat they are before continuing on your journey.

    

    8)   The object of the game is to get there as fast as possible. Therefore, for any stretch of road that you can accelerate, do so. It doesn’t matter if it’s only for 5 feet and then you have to slow down, resulting in a stop and go, vomit-worthy ride. It’s all about getting there in the least amount of time possible.

    

    9)   A long moto ride is a great time to convert your passenger. They can’t escape and they run out of excuses pretty quickly. So have your Koran or bible ready!

     

    10)                  Sunglasses are for pussies! In fact, all eye protection is! I don’t care if you’re going an average of 30 mph with flies getting into your eyes or raindrops skewering your face, don’t be a pussy!

    

    11)                  Play chicken with the rocks in the road. Chances are, they’ll get up and move before you hit them. But don’t worry if they don’t. Just make sure to tie your cargo down really well before you go. Oh, you have a passenger? Well, either they go flying or they don’t: Darwinian selection, non? 

Seasons

Growing up in the Florida Keys, seasons meant very little to me. In fact, there were barely seasons at all, at least not the ones they taught in schools: Winter, spring, summer, fall. There was soccer season and softball season. There was hurricane season. There was summer and there was the school year. Other than that, except for the few cold fronts that blew in every once in a while, “season” was a useless term.

I experienced the changing of seasons for the first time when I lived in Germany. I watched leaves change and fall, get covered up by snow and give way to green sprouts. But still, what was a season to me? Most importantly, it was a change in wardrobe. In Boston, I started wearing a second pair of pants in October and wouldn’t go back to a single pair until March or April. I got out my huge, calf-length black coat and my massive, waterproof boots. The sandals went away until the weather was warm enough again. But other than that, what really changed? I went to school if there was school, worked if I had work. My diet was almost completely unaffected. Sure the landscape would change from colorful to brown to white to green, but it was still the same old landscape, same old city.

Here, seasons have a whole new meaning. When I arrived in Mogode, I thought I lived in the desert. Everything was brown. What little that was green was surely dead by May. In the distance, I could see sparse trees and rolling brown hills covered in what felt like cat-litter. Not exactly the sands of the Sahara, but still lifeless. People spent their time sitting underneath trees on piles of peanut shells, trying to escape the sun, cracking peanuts for hours. The only breaks in their day were changing from one chore of cooking to another of sweeping.

But with the rain, all that changed. Overnight, my town changed. I went for a bike ride the other day and got completely lost because everything looks so different. Plants and crops have sprouted up everywhere. There is hardly a space that isn’t covered in green. I don’t live in a desert anymore. Up until last week, when I walked into my latrine, I walked into a rainforest! There was grass higher than my waist and random plants growing up everywhere. (I cleaned it all out, afraid of snakes, but it was cool while it lasted).

People are so busy. They go to their fields at 6 am and stay until 6 pm. They work hard and eat well for the first time that I’ve ever seen. Walking through town in the middle of the day is like walking through a ghost town. The restaurants are all abandoned, the stores all closed up. Even the hospital is slow. They operate with a skeleton staff and take turns going out and caring for their fields. There are hardly any patients.

Our diet has changed. I’ve been able to find fresh vegetables like spinach, cucumbers, eggplant! It’s amazing. It’s a completely different country with the arrival of just a little rain.

Also, there’s less electricity. Hard rains wash away the power lines, leaving us in darkness for days or weeks at a time. As I write this, I’m using a battery powered by a solar panel and sitting in a room filled with candlelight.

There’s water again. Months ago, people went weeks without bathing or washing their clothes, simply because they didn’t have water. Now all they have to do is stick a bucket out in the afternoon and they’re set for a day or two. People are cleaner and mostly healthier. Dry canyons became overflowing rivers, ripping through the trees and plants that dared to grow in the dry river beds.

But with the rain come mosquitoes and health misconceptions that threaten these people’s health. Children wake up having scratched mosquito bites to infection in the night. Malaria is starting to affect this region. Women, who believe you can’t drink water and work, suffer from dehydration headaches. The colder weather brought colds and flues.

As for me, my work is different. Everyone that I normally work with is out “au champs” working their butts off to put food on the table. So, I’ve changed up my routine too. When I’m not preparing things for the school year, I work my own little field. My neighbors planted corn, okra, and peanuts there, which I tend. I also planted my own huge garden. I’ve got squash and pumpkins, cucumbers, lettuce, tomatoes, potatoes, peppers, leeks, beans, lima beans, carrots, and herbs all peaking up out of the ground. My hands are covered in little blisters, but it’s amazingly satisfying. I’m growing food that will feed me and maybe my neighbors in the next few months. I’ve never done that before. When I was little, I remember growing tomatoes once, and lima beans for a science project in first grade. Once in college I had a parsley plant; but I ate it too quickly and it died because it didn’t have enough leaves to keep growing: whoops. I never knew if I had a green thumb or not. I guess I still don’t, we’ll see. But this is such an amazing experience. Fun and satisfying.

But bottom line is, this rainy season didn’t just bring on a rain jacket. It brought on a whole new terrain, new work, new sickness, new people, new food. This is the power of the rain! How crazy is that. It gives me a new appreciation for old mythology. The elements proscribe so much of their world. A bad harvest could mean dead children. I can understand praying to an unknown rain god to make sure that doesn’t happen. While on the other side of the world, our cushy grocery stores import food from all over the world. You can get peaches in the dead of winter. Seasons don’t mean a thing. It’s eye-opening; I understand how much of our world can be dictated by nature, and how far western culture has come from that.

A Day in the Life

One of the questions I get asked most often is: What is your day-to-day life like? In short, it’s different every day. But, more often than not, there are 2 different kinds of days, frameworks if you will. Keep in mind, this is for right now, when there’s no school and everyone is in their fields all day.

Option 1: Vaccination Day

5:15 am: first alarm goes off, snooze for 10 mins
5:25: actually get out of bed, try, fail, and close my eyes again
5:30: stand up, and actually leave my bedroom,
    Breakfast/Morning Routine/Large glass of Caffeine of the day
6:00: Dieudonne bangs at my gate
Down as much caffeine as possible, stumble to the door, putting on shoes, grabbing my helmet and locking the door on the way
6:30: arrive at village and ride around on the moto playing Jingle bells, letting all the     mothers know we’ve arrived and it’s vaccination day.
7:00: after we set up, we wait around for mothers to show up. Then it’s baby-weighing time for me. Dieudonne takes care of the vaccinations
10:00: head back to the hospital
11:00: chat with the nurses and subject myself to the mind-numbing, presumptive and derogatory narrative of the doctor for the day.
12:00: go home for lunch, where I either whip something up or heat up leftovers
1:00 pm: chores that I didn’t do before I left: sweeping, washing dishes
2:00: free-time to either work or play at home, probably on my computer. Maybe prepare for a presentation coming up or just watch a TV show.
3:00 work out
4:00 bucket bath
5:00 visit neighbors time! I stroll around town, talking to my favorite people, hearing about their lives and their days, maybe help them cook dinner, maybe just sit around. It’s my integration time.
7:00 head back home, lock my gates, turn on some music and make some dinner
8:00 entertainment time! If there’s no power, I’ll often go and sit in my hammock and read. If there is, I’ll watch a movie or TV show.
10:30: bed-time!

Option 2: No Vaccination Day

8:30: stir from my coma and Frankenstein into the kitchen for coffee.
9:30: morning chores and/or prep for the day
10:30: go to the hospital, talk to the staff and or patients. Maybe do some work there. Mostly just talk about differences between America and Cameroon
12:00: Lunch time
1:00 work or me-time.
3:00 work out
4:00 bucket back
5:00 visit neighbors
and so on and so forth. I guess the only thing that really changes are my mornings.

I spend a lot of time not doing a whole lot right now. It’s Ramadan, so if people aren’t in their fields, they’re sleeping underneath trees, waiting to eat. It rains almost every day, so I spend more time inside than in dry season. But I have also planted my own little field too. I’ve got potatoes and tomatoes sprouting and this weekend, I planted squash, pumpkins, cucumbers, mesculin, leeks, more tomatoes, peas, beans, lima beans, basil, parley, oregano, chives, and some other things. We’ll see how green my thumb is. I’m pretty excited though. Although, I did make a rookie mistake and forgot sunscreen on the lower part of my back while spending all day leaning over, planting and hoeing. So I am currently nursing a very sunburned back. That’ll teach me! So yeah, my life in Africa!

The Lion King

So when I was home, I had the awesome opportunity to see “The Lion King” on stage. It was a beautiful production, so well done; the costumes were out-landishly good. While I was watching it though, I had a eureka moment when I realized that for most Americans, their idea of Africa is probably Lion King-esque. Giraffes and monkeys everywhere, savannas and rainforests, people eating grubs and staring up at stars in colorful clothing. That and lots of super poor people.

Let me paint a different picture of what I’ve seen in Cameroon. Women in brightly colored garb, walking around, backs straight as boards, carrying buckets of water on their heads while their cute babies hang from their back, laughing and sleeping. Rainforests filled with flies, snakes, beautiful flowers, monkeys, and brightly colored birds flashing between sun beams streaming through leaves. Men, in long, bright bubus, sitting around underneath a huge tree, the afternoon sun high, glinting off the moutain peaks around them, as they share talk and kola nuts. Smells of frying dough and smoke from breakfast wafting around a dirt path in the early morning sun. The pounding of rain on tin roofs or leaking through the thatch. Giraffes and elephants grazing the day away, staying out of the heat by hiding in bushes. Monkeys running alongside the road, searching for watering holes. Cities: brown bustling trash holes. Rarely a building with more than one story. Women in front of shops selling fish, meat, and beignets. The smell of bodies smushed against each other, sweating, in a crowded bus, windows closed. Babies and children running down the street in tattered clothes, laughing delightedly as they push a tire in front of them with a stick. Grubby hands wanting to shake yours with a shy smile, and then they run away laughing and screaming giddily. Men drinking large bottles of beer at 8 am as they watch their women work away in the fields. Hitting, screaming, polygamy. Men walking down the street holding pinkies. Women walking, dresses streaming behind them, laughing and singing. Muddy, holey, disturbed roads. Dust. Illness. Mosquitos. Prayer, religion. Music blaring from every stereo in town. Crowded classrooms. Hundreds of cows crossing dry river beds, kicking up dust in the setting sun; driven by families on camels, carrying their possessions on their backs. Giant families eating together, outside, underneath a giant arching tree. Tv’s blaring in dark houses. Singing on Sundays heard throughout the entire town as churchgo-ers raise their voices. Prayer mats and chanting, streets closed as men stop to pray together. Guns, and lances, and knives. Pretty pots and clay canneries. Farmlands plowed and seeds sprouting in perfect rows.

Life here is different, but it’s not exactly the Lion King.

Amerrrica- Oh yeah!

The title of this update is a little misleading. This is not going to be a blogpost about America. This blog is not about America. This blog is about living outside America. So I’m not going to take this post to give a blow-by-blow of what I did while I was visiting the states. Rather, it’s going to be more of an emotional and mental journey of reverse culture shock.

Sitting in Yaounde, waiting for my flight, I was excited. But there was also a lot of trepidation buried underneath by bouncing happiness. Being in Cameroon is tough sometimes. Right before I left post, I had many projects face some setbacks. Meetings were cancelled; presentations that I did didn’t have the result I was looking for, ect. Nothing big, just the normal setbacks that I experience on a regular basis. But with those being my most recent work experiences at post, I was really worried about going home. Home means my huge, loving family, my amazing friends, and some pretty stellar former colleagues. 

When I left, I was worried. I was afraid that the love on one side of the ocean was going to conquer my resolve to finish what I started here in Mogode, especially considering the setbacks I was leaving behind. I was worried about going home and eating delicious food. What if I didn’t want to go back to living in the desert with no water, little electricity, and food that doesn’t exactly tickle my taste buds. Basically, America is such a great country. How was it going to feel to go back and throw myself into my world of comfort and love and then pick myself right back up to come back to Cameroon?

With these thoughts in the back of my mind, I reentered civilization. When I stepped off the gangway, I had an urge to kiss the clean, cold ground of an American Airport. My first stop: coffee! I had Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts within minutes of each other. Then, Wendy’s for a Spicy Chicken Sandwich. I was in heaven.

I made it to Boston, despite some travel setbacks, in time for Katie’s graduation. There I was welcomed by my parents, grandparents, sisters, cousins, aunts, and uncles: so many people! And friends! It was awesome. I felt so loved and except for having so much to catch up on, I felt like almost like I hadn’t left the states at all.

Except for some little things. Like being able to plug my computer straight into the wall. Being able to sing in the shower because I didn’t have to worry about keeping my mouth closed. Being able to shower! (No bucket baths for weeks). It was gloriously cold and sunny. The food was an adventure. I lived meal to meal, hitting up every cuisine imaginable with different company for every meal. It was great.

But in the midst of all this positive marvelousness, there was something that just wasn’t sitting right. I couldn’t just slide right back in to where I had left off. It may have been the parasites I brought back with me, but it may have been my altered worldview too.

When I was home in the keys, I was out on a snorkeling boat with some friends. There were a bunch of tourists with us; it was Memorial Day weekend. I was just chilling in the water, enjoying my life, and thinking. These people have lives that allow them to just pick up and travel to the keys for the day, go out on a gorgeous boat, just to swim in some beautiful water and watch some fish and coral. It is an ultimate luxury; to have the time, the resources, to simply make that trip. A luxury that these people that I work with can’t even imagine. A day off for them means staying home and cracking peanuts instead of backbreaking work in the fields. I was frustrated by a huge warring incompatibility going on in my head. I was upset that this didn’t exist in other parts of the world, grateful that it did exist in mine and that I was lucky enough to be able to partake, judging tourists, upset at myself for enjoying myself while children in other countries are digging through garbage just to feed themselves, happy at such a glorious day, so upset that people in our country waste so much, when those in others want so much, and so forth and so on. I was so confuddled! There were too many emotions and thoughts going through my head.

So I made a decision. I could either dwell on the inequality and feel guilty for my fortunate life, or I could accept that I was doing everything in my power to change that disparity and be gracious and grateful that the lot I was given was so full of blessings and ease. So I did; I chose the latter. And I enjoyed myself. I still marveled at clean tap water one could drink, and the variety of fruits and vegetables at the grocery store, at the ease of finding just about anything you could ever hope to buy at a single shopping mall. I went shopping and to movies. I hung out with friends and family. I revisited some of my favorite places and went to places I’d never been before. I had an amazing time. I could not have wished for a better trip home.

Leaving was tough. I got on the plane, talking on my phone with family up until the last second. The planes rides were uneventful; I just checked out and enjoyed my last few hours of western civilization. I was not excited about coming back, but I wasn’t dreading it either. So imagine my surprise, when, as we landed, I felt a tinge of relief and an “I’m glad to be home” feeling. It was a pleasant surprise because I didn’t realize that I felt that way about Cameroon. I was happy to finally get back to post, unpack and say hello to my villagers and friends.

The greatest part about this trip home, though, was the feeling that I now have. Before I left, I was harboring so much anxiety about being away from home and family and friends, and things and places that I love. But making that trip has helped me to feel way more connected. I think, before, I felt like I couldn’t come home, it was just too far, and therefore those things were out of my reach. Now, I understand that everything and everyone is still back there, going about their daily lives, and if I want to, or need to, I can go back and reenter life there, no problem. I feel so much more at ease now. So far, and this might simply be a product of having just seen my family, I haven’t woken up yearning for home or America since I’ve been back. It’s nice to feel at home here, to wake up in the mornings and not wish I were somewhere else. I’m ready to start the day, get to work and make a difference. Whoo hoo!

A Little to the East

As I sit down to write, my first thought is “Wow, it’s been a long time.” I’ve been slacking. Journaling my experience is so important to me, but sometimes I get so caught up in those experiences I forget to take the time to write them down. As I’ve so recently found out, so many more people read this blog than I thought. Thanks for busting my chops about being a more consistent writer. I’ll do my best.

The last time I wrote, I was just getting ready to head south before coming to America for my sister’s Graduation. A lot has happened since then. I’m going to break this up and write it chronologically, but this post is going to focus on what I did before I left Cameroon.

Up until May, I had visited 9 of Cameroon’s 10 regions (Central, South, Southwest, West, Northwest, Littoral, Adamoua, North, and Extreme North). And by “visited” I mean that I’ve passed through. To say I’ve stayed at least at night, that would have brought it down to 7. I’ve only passed through the North and the Littoral Regions. I was anxious to get to America and felt like I was twiddling my thumbs, jumping to get going, so I left post early and headed down to Yaounde (where the airport is) the long way.

“The long way” is a relative term. Normally, I go by train. That journey looks like this:

·      2 hour motobike ride to Mokolo

·      1.5 hour bus ride to Maroua (spend the night in Maroua)

·      8-12 hour bus ride to Ngoundere (leave at 3 am)

·      14-24 hour overnight train ride to Yaounde.

It’s a three day trek, but it’s not a bad ride. Since I had time to kill, I decided to visit some friends and the last region on my list: the East. The East is the largest but least densely populated of all the regions. Peace Corps has the least amount of volunteers in the East, although that is currently changing. It is known for its animal reserves (there’s a few reserves that are home to many different primates including gorillas), its amazingly luscious jungles, and the pygmies. It is one of the less-developed regions, if not the least, with very few villages host to electricity and/or running water. The people in the East are considered to be very poor.

Also in the East are some of my best Peace Corps friends. So I headed on down to visit them. I took my time going down there, visiting friends and posts along the way. I spent a few nights in Ngaoundere and explored the city for the first time. Ngaoundere is considered to be the gateway to the Grand North, probably because that’s where the train stops. There’s a lot of trade, a lot of trucking routes and therefore a lot of prostitution and a higher percentage of HIV/AIDS affected individuals than the rest of the country. There I explored their huge market, full of things I’ve never seen in the Grand North and met a PCV friend, a Lebanese working in Ngaoundere for his family’s oil company. It was very interesting to meet Whalid and see how some people from more developed countries choose to live in a country like Cameroon. Going into house was like being transported to another country. It was a nice little vacation. He had all the amenities that we as PCV’s sometimes like and also luxuries like crystal wine classes, his own water tower (he will probably never not have running water), air conditioning, ect. It made me realize the simplicity that many of us volunteers choose to live with.

From there, I went to Meiganga, also in Adamoua, where I met up with some other volunteers.

I realize as I’m writing this that my readers might not really be interested in trivial social events. I’m choosing to document them to try to extend the view of a PCV past me. Other people have different experiences and problems in-country. Different regions and posts end up with a completely different service experience.

Anyways, Meiganga. There I met with a few volunteers where we had a great evening, drinking and chatting. I learned from them that Unicef was a big part of their service. One girl was working in a small village that was host to 5 different aide organizations in addition to Peace Corps. She said in some ways, people were stepping on people’s toes, everyone trying to do the same thing, but at the same time, accomplishing very little. She went on to describe the problem with some of the aide organizations here in Africa, which can probably be applied to most third world countries. NGO’s come into her town. Maybe they’ll send one person to come and meet the mayor or the principal. He or she will stay a day or two. While they are there, they give out money and or goods, and then leave. Sometimes they’ll continue sending money or goods, and every once in a while come back to check things out, but other than that, they don’t spend their time on the ground. Sometimes the things that they give are useless without other equipment or training. For example, in the Southwest, a volunteer went to post and found a solar-oven that had been given to a community that no-one knew how to use and there it was just sitting there, wasting away. She made that one of her projects. But that isn’t always the case. A lot of time, communities are given what end up being useless, either because they can’t or don’t know how to use it, or because it wasn’t what they needed in the first place. The organization gave it to them without doing a community assessment first.

The organizations that give money, though, they are the ones that cause problems for us. In a corrupt country like Cameroon, there is very little accountability. Send a check that supposed to help build a new wing in a school to a principal, and more than likely, the principal will end up with a new smart phone or motobike before that school sees new benches to replace the ones that rotted away years ago.

This kind of attitude causes problems for people on the ground, like us. We aren’t there to give money, or candy, or goods. But these villagers see the color of our skin, think we’re all the same and expect that from Peace Corps Volunteers. We are there to give them information and help them to achieve sustainable projects. That does not include giving them money or goods. Then the community is disappointed with what we do have to offer, and oftentimes less receptive to working with us. It’s a vicious cycle.

“If you give a man a fish, you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime.”

This is a good analogy between the differences in how our organizations view “aide”. This brings up the question of ethics of “aide” work and who’s best interest is really at heart, and whether or not it helps the people we’re “trying” to help. This opens up a whole new line of thought of what “help” is. Are we trying to “help” them become more like a western civilization? Is that help? What are our goals? Whose best interest is at heart? If we left these people alone, letting them operate as they have for thousands of years, would they be better off?

I don’t have an answer to answer of these questions. I’ve contemplated them, argued them, and finally decided that my job here is to learn as much as possible and raise the general level of health in my community. But others grapple with these questions daily. It’s certainly something to think about.

Enough deep questions and back to my little trip. From Meiganga, I headed out to Bertoua (in the East, Yay ,I made it!) and finally Messamena. Messamena is a small village, close to the Dja Reserve and many pygmy encampments, and home to my close friend Eddie. Messamena has no power and no running water. It is more “en brusse” than my small town of Mogode, or even my post-mate Luke, who is 30 minutes away from me, en brusse. Messamena is an interesting post, though, because up until the 40’s or 50’s a hoard of German’s lived there. They built the roads and lined them all with palm trees. Now it’s like walking down the avenues of Miami or Los Angeles. They built a beautiful hospital that still stands. Buildings in various stages of disrepair dot the village as it sprang up around this German post. It’s a gorgeous little town, very reminiscent of our little training-town: Bokito.

I stayed with Eddie for a few days and explored his life. He and his friend have built a little American Mecca in the middle of the rainforest. With bamboo they harvested themselves. They built most of their own furniture, and decorated the place with bamboo planters, a bamboo porch, ect. It was absolutely gorgeous. At night, it was all lit up with candlelight, making it eerily seem like we were vacationing in Bali or something like that.

While in Messamena, we went out on adventures! I myself helped harvest bamboo. I wielded a machete like a mad woman! I chopped and pulled that bamboo down and then dragged it almost a mile back to Eddie’s house. As Cameroonian woman like to say: “Je suis forte!”. Another day, we bike rode down to the river. We took Eddie’s puppy, Jackie Chien, with us too. There, we grabbed some pirogues (similar to canoes) and headed out onto the black river, into the jungle. For oars, we used giant river reeds, or palm stems. While not quite as efficient as our paddles, they worked pretty well. It was a gorgeous day and very soon, we were surrounded by only the sounds of jungle as trees towered over us, sheltering us from the sun. Every once in a while, the tranquility was punctured by Jackie Chien freaking out and jumping overboard, hoping to make it back to shore. It was extremely entertaining; that poor dog. But she definitely learned how to swim that day.

Another day, we went out by motobike, way out “en brusse” to a little village where Eddie was hosting Unicef a few days later. We explored the school, the water source and the surrounding areas. Apparently, mostly pygmy children attend the school. Our interest piqued, we went out for a hike, into the jungle, in search of the pygmies themselves. After about an hour of hiking, we stumbled right into the middle of a pygmy encampment. Their huts were made out of sticks and palm fronds and spread throughout a cleared area of the jungle. In the middle of the clearing was an old woman in front of a fire. As we sat there, chatting, more women returned from their days’ work. As expected, the pygmy women were short, all less than five feet. They were all wearing ragged clothes and didn’t speak French. Our guide was also our interpreter. The women who had just returned were carrying bundles. We opened the bundles to find huge, wriggles masses of grubs! This was their dinner and breakfast. It was disgusting. Eddie says he’s tried fried ones before, and they taste just like bacon. I was glad we were arrived just as the live grubs did, because if they had been cooking when we arrived, politeness would have dictated that we try them if we were offered them, and I’m not sure that I could have stomached it. Although, as I write this, I’m shaking my head, because I would have tried it. Of course, I would have, but I don’t regret that I didn’t have the chance to try.

Anyways, it was interesting to visit this little culture within a culture. The pygmies live separate from town and have their own existence, mostly separate from the currency, language, and education of Cameroon. They trade mostly, often food such as gorilla meat. They live off the land and hunt what they can find, regardless of how endangered they are (I don’t think that concept really exists for them). As a rule, in the East, you always have to be careful when you eat “bush meat”. It could be a primate, a snake, a giant rodent, or some other animal I’ve never heard about. I did not eat any “meat” while I was there, thank you very much.

It was a great little vacation, Messamena. I left there with a new appreciation for Cameroon but also ready to head back to civilization. And so, I headed to Yaounde to catch my flight for the states. 

Rainy Season Has Arrived

It’s been a while since I last had an opportunity to write. Things here in Mogode have been pretty busy. I’ve been preparing to go to the states for a month while at the same time, working on enlarging some projects and beginning others.

Work wise:

·     Women’s Peer Education Group: They elected a board and started collecting money for a group project (yet unknown). They also came to me yesterday and asked if we could take the group to the next level and start learning an Income-Generating Activity to help the women in the group.

·      Water projects: I started asking around about getting a water committee started

·      Health Education: I started working with the primary school health club. Tomorrow we are meeting to talk about water borne diseases and how you can prevent them.

·      Hospital: I’m still taking part in the vaccinations “en brusse”. I’ve taken over weighing babies to track their nutrition and try to prevent malnutrition. We are also still doing small educational sessions before vaccinated women’s children.

·      Women’s Literacy Group: A group of women in a nearby town contacted me to ask me help them start a class to learn French and how to write. I’m helping them with their lessons plans and materials to get started.

So basically, I’ve been keeping busy. Since being back, I’ve really made an effort to learn how to prepare Cameroonian food. I’ve spent many an evening at a friends’ house “turning” couscous. It’s a lot harder than it sounds, trust me. My biceps are rapidly developing to handle the new demands.

Also, the rainy season has arrived! The rainy season is partly to blame for why I haven’t been able to write. The rains wash out the electricity poles, leaving me without power about 50% of the time since I’ve been back. The first time it rained was just a few days after I got back to post at the beginning of April. The whole day looked gray and I thought it looked like rain. I asked locals:

            “Hey, do you think it’s going to rain?”

            “No, it couldn’t possibly rain. It’s hot. And it’s not June yet.”

Even after it rained that first time, and then the second time, and then the third time, I would ask:

            “Hey has rainy season started yet? It looks like it’s going to rain again today!”

and they would respond with

“No, it couldn’t possibly rain. It’s hot. And it’s not June yet.”

           

That’s what I love about Cameroonians. They can predict weather down to a day.  They know that every year on February 15^th, the cold weather breaks and it gets hot. The first rains of the rainy season always arrive the first of June. And the heat will break exactly 6 days after the first rain of rainy season.

Well, considering it has rained numerous times in the past few weeks (and before that, I had never seen it rain up here), I’m officially declaring it rainy season; I am disregarding the Cameroonian Farmer’s Almanac for actual weather patterns. Call me crazy, but it just makes sense to crazy ole’ me.

The first rain was crazy. I was sitting out in my hammock, after dinner, reading by flashlight. The power was out. I was enjoying Mansfield Park (I’ve been on a classics kick-electricity-less nights find me reading Jane Austin right now) when I took a break to check out the sky. It was incredible. I mean, I’m from Florida. Despite it’s name as the Sunshine State, Florida has the most lightning out of any state. I’ve seen my fair share of lightning: hurricane lightning, heat lightning, streaky lightning, behind-clouds lightning. But I have never seen anything like this. This was like someone had taken a strobe light and was waving it around the sky. Every second the sky light up. I probably didn’t even need a flashlight to read it was so bright. I’ve never seen anything like it. Soon after that, the rain started. It absolutely poured. The thunder was so loud it scared the dog. The rain came in under the door and started flooding my living room. The best part about the rain: washed the chicken poop from my porch!

The next day I woke, my room was at least 10 degrees cooler. I walked outside and immediately noticed a difference. Where the day before, everything was just brown, kitty-littery and dead, little shoots of grass started coming up out of the ground! The trees were looking less pathetic and the dust in the air had settled. Since then, it’s rained a couple of times and my yard, while looking a little untidy, finally has some color in it! My neighbors are appalled that I’m letting my grass grow (the typical yard here is swept everyday to keep the kitty litter looking nice and fresh and brown.

Things are starting to look up here in dry Mogode. Although water is still expensive and a bit hard to find, I’m sure the wells will start filling up soon and the hardships will ease.

In preparation for my departure to America, I eased another “hardship” of mine. A few months ago, Luke and I got two chickens, a hen and a rooster, to try and get some eggs out of them. When I got back to Mogode, I was so disappointed to not be finding eggs left and right. I figured maybe she just didn’t lay any. I searched my whole yard, even crawling behind my kitchen (which is a tight crawl space and a little dangerous because I threw a bottle back there that wouldn’t open that I’m just waiting for it to blow up. It could blow at any time! There’s fermented juice in there that’s just creating pressure.) One day, Luke came over with his friend and they found an egg in the middle of my yard! Turns out, my dog had been eating them before I found them! I was so excited. The next day, I had two fried eggs for breakfast. It was glorious. My free range, organic chicken laid the most delicious tasting egg.

So you can imagine my horror when, a few days later, I woke to find the chicken dead. I don’t know what happened. I didn’t get close enough to inspect the body (Luke was coming over, so I just asked him to take care of it). It could have been sick, or maybe the rooster had been hogging all the food, or maybe an animal mauled it, or maybe it overheated and cooked from the inside. Regardless, the chicken was dead. No more eggs!

All I was left with was the rooster from satan-ville (trying to keep this PG). This guy was evil! A couple of times I slept with my door open, sometimes in the living room, to try to escape the heat. At four in the morning, he would sneak in and cockle-doodle-doo in my face! I finally figured out how to block the door while keeping it open. So then, he would just stand there, cockling for hours, right in the door. During the day, he would sneak into the house, get into my kitchen and peck at everything. I would come into the room 20 times an hour and find him there, pooping on my floor and eating whatever he could. I would chase him out with a broom only to have him come back in two seconds later. On mornings when I did sleep in my room, he would sleep right beneath my bedroom window, cockling of course.

The rooster had to go. Now, fyi, rooster in French is cock. Le cock. In my frainglais (mix of French and English) state of mind, that is how I think of him. The evil cock, minion of the devil. I decided long ago that this cock would grace our table some fine evening, and with the chicken dead, it was only just a matter of time. So the date was set. Last Saturday, my cock crowed his last cockle. We had a cock-party. At noon, my neighbor came over and helped me catch the rascal.

Then we took him next door and she handed me the knife. I killed that cock. I slit its throat and watched it die. Then we plucked it, cut it up and then I cooked it. We ate that rooster that night. Let me tell you, it was delicious. Whether that can be attributed to the fact it’s the first chicken I’ve eaten in months, or the psychological taste of happiness is an unsolvable mystery.  But he was delicious! And big and fat. I had fed him well. Since then, I have slept like a baby in my quiet little house.

So that’s what’s been going on here in Mogode. Saturday, I leave town for a month. I’m headed to the states to celebrate my little sister graduating from Tufts University (Go KATIE!!!!!! I’m so proud of you). So this might be the last post for a while. But I’ll see you all soon!