Thanksgiving...

My latrines
Where I hope to live in six months in Mundum.

Road near my house in Ako, a nice view of the mountains, but shows how bad the road is.


Greetings!

Nothing much new to say. Thanksgiving was a blast. A good number of us crammed into the kitchen on Thursday afternoon after our daily training was finished. Peace Corps was kind enough to give us two hours of the afternoon to cook. I went to the open-air market and haggled for cheaper fruit with some of the agroforestry trainees. They mostly stood behind me and laughed while I demanded outrageously low prices for watermelons. I wanted 4 small melons for 800cfa (about $1.50). I ended up getting three medium melons for the price, though it took me walking away from the salesman after a few minutes of haggling. He lowered his price as I turned to walk away, but I stayed firm, saying, “Non. Huit cent pour le trios.” He angrily uttered the sweet words “donne-moi l’argent” and I got my three pasteques.

I bought 15 expensive, small apples (pomme de France) in the market, brought them back and found some space in the large kitchen at our training site. Every marmite (pot), knife, burner, corner of counter, pat of butter—was in use. Blair was scalding himself over a pan of hot vegetable oil, frying battered zucchini, onions and plantains. Kate was slaving over green beans and carrots. Ingrid fried garlic and smeared it on crusty baguettes. I drank wine from a metal cup and cut apples with Yune, then cut papaya. We shaved down the scraggly ginger I bought from a man in the market who had piles laid out on the ground… 100cfa (20 cents) for two cups or so. I bought real butter at the super marche, and mixed it in with some oatmeal and lots of sugar… Yune and I took turns standing in the corner next to the right back stove burner, stirring the ginger and apples. The kitchen was packed, cases of drinks were brought in, everyone laughing and making paper Indian headdresses. There was Journey on the radio, lots of photos taken. The Cameroonian language teachers and logisticians who live at the centre moved in and out, eyes a little buggy at our fanaticism for the grand American fete. When the gas ran out, we decided we should just eat… after a few words, the line commenced around the table. I had guacamole and fried plantains on the plate next to my mashed potatoes and stuffing. There was more food than the 40-or-so could eat.

We went around the room to say what we were thankful for. Jenny noted that we hadn’t gone around in a circle all together, saying a few words about how we were feeling, since we left Philadelphia. It’s amazing.. really amazing… to see how far people have come. To see who isn’t with us anymore. To look around the room and think… two months ago these people were just illusions in my romantic Peace Corps idea. As I sat on the arm of a chair, eating my ginger-apple-papaya crisp with a tiny plastic fork, listening to the distinct, recognizable voices of other Americans, I couldn’t help but think… I am so thankful that Peace Corps is nothing like I had imagined. It’s the daily revelations that come from the Cameroonian culture, the organization’s differing strategies and (at times) bombshell-esque regulation and the hourly unearthing of the character of my fellow stagiares and current volunteers—that are making the experience so exciting and worthwhile. Who would have thought I would/could make an apple-crisp like that?

Anyway, all this is to say that Thanksgiving was really something special… even though there were no yams with marshmallows or layered jell-o. Looking forward to celebrating a villagois Christmas.