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.