Out of the City, Into the Village - Out of the Village, Into the City

The Road to Post... this is the bus Kate R and I took... the couch is mine! Come sit on it!


Swearing in and other related things...

A gathering after the swearing in. We danced at a little motel porch that had cold beer and yogurt. I fell off a 10 foot wall. It was a great night.



Africa somehow gives you the right to dress strangely or from another era. Chopping after swearing in.



Megan and me take photos with the fam after swearing in.


Mr. Ambassador at the swearing-in ceremony.


Typical glance between Charles and myself.



Agroforestry in their last moments of traineeism.



Dr. Njiti and I right before swearing in. Like my hair? Matthew Richmond cut it... he's the stylist for our stage.



Final family photo. From left to right, Meesh (Aunt), Host Mom (Natalie), Joelle, Me, Host Dad (Jean), Patricia, Flora (Aunt).


Photos from a small gathering in Baf a few nights before swearing-in.


Matt and I enjoy our last evenings as stagiares on a nice porch.



Princess Megan and her pretty red Princess shoes. Gathering in Bafoussam.



I won. Gathering in Bafoussam before swearing in.



Half of the agro boys... they might start a band and use this as their album cover. Thats a big might.



Back porch at gathering in Bafoussam before swearing in.




African-Indian Leg Wrestling... why does this always seem to happen at parties where I am? And why do I always beat EVERYONE?



Alex, PCV Megan and I at the gathering.


My host mom and I at the Host Family appreciation dinner... Papa couldn't make it, and boy was she livid.


These are some older photos of Thanksgiving and the Riba center that I hadn't been able to post before...


Our crew at the Riba center.



The Good Dr. and I at Riba.


Reese and some sheep in... Scotland? Riba center.


Dr. Njiti taking a nap at the Riba Center.


Matt and Reese in a hole. I missed this day... I was sick. They had to comfort each other... root structure is just so scary!



Thanksgiving...



Yune and I making Ginger-Apple-Papaya cobbler at Thanksgiving.



Another photo from Thanksgiving!



The cool back porch of the old doctors house - where we had awesome dinner.



Dinner at the Doctors house... he brought out a bottle of wine he has had behind his bed for three years and double cream french cheese. I was in heaven.


Holy achu with cow skin! So much has happened in the last week! So is my new life in village… fast and slow at the same time. I have seen and learned so much, but much of my days in village are spent just sitting at a local store, attempting to turn down liter after liter of palm wine (sometime palm wine mixed with orange Fanta, sometimes mixed with Guiness) from my friendly neighbors. “Miss Rose! You are strong! You drink and drink but never get drunk!”… ahaaa, my friend! It is because you have had the whole liter and I have only had a glass. I’m just so smart that way. There are always taxi drivers (before they drive to town, of course) and village men sitting in the shade at the hottest time of the day… laughing and bumbling in the Bafut language, drinking and dunking hard balls of fried dough in their wine. I know a few phrases… these are purely grammatical.. i'm sure the actual written language is strange.

A-bell-ah – How is it
A-bone-ah – Its fine (response)
Heen-shee-wah – Good morning.
Ing-guh – yea, thanks
Ah-she-ah – aloha

Then there is the pidgin language, which isn’t so hard to pick up. The old Ma that lives next to me (I cant WAIT to have show a picture of her… she is Mundumian, with markings on her face and one big round tooth that juts out of her mouth) speaks quick pidgin with me always… Sometimes I just nod. “Rows, ROWS..!” She calls me from the my kitchen door. “Yes mommie??!” “Rows, I go go fo brouse.” “Ahhh… okay. Have fun!” Then she hobbles out of the compound with her yellow rubber flip flops and a big basket strapped to her back. The woman is probably 70. She’ll come back with 30 or 40 pounds of yams and then cook them well after dark. In the morning, she calls me again… “Rows! ROWS!” “Yes, mommie??” “Rows, I go go cook fo pig dem. Chop fo pig.” “Oooookay…! Thanks for letting me know! I’ll see you!” She likes to inform me of all of the obvious activities that she undertakes. I really enjoy it.

My house is coming along. I showed up to find the furniture I had contracted was mostly made… unfinished, but built out of local white mahogany. I have a huge table… probably the hugest table in the whole town. My counterpart, Beatrice, says, “This table is TOO big, EH?” every time she comes to my house. They put on new, bright orange steel doors, and put windows on the windows, which really thrilled me. Other than the furniture, the house was empty when I arrived. I had to rent a bus to bring all of my junk with me… shared it with another volunteer going to post who lives nearby… at a hospital with running hot water, an oven, a fridge… it was great that we stopped at her place first before I headed for my dark three-room palace in the hills. The bus stalled on the last big hill before Ako, sort of sideways. The Fulani driver got out and thought we should take everything off the top (regarde- photo of stuff in/on bus) and then he could drive up the hill. My counterpart was angrily adamant that we could push it. The other guy looked to me for consultation… I just looked down at my dirty feet and wanted to curl up in the grass somewhere. They put rocks behind the wheels, and me and the other two stood behind the car (I stood sort of at the side so that I could just run away). After two goes, the engine and our brute force got the thing rolling up the last hill… the driver didn’t stop until he reached the top, and so the three of us marched up in the dust. I had red dust in my teeth from smiling to myself.

The first few days at post were difficult. Its hard to find a rhythm when you have no plan (agroforestry volunteers do not have any work structure – very self-designed), you have few resources, your toilet is outside and hasn’t been cleaned since you were there 3 weeks ago, and you have just parted with your very tight stage group… not knowing when you will see everyone again. Essentially, life at my post is very similar to camping… camping in that Wheatland-camper sort of way. I get up around 5 and light a bush lamp to go outside and pee in the bushes somewhere, then start boiling water… sometimes I don’t even have anything I need boiled water for, but it can always be put for something. I have to light my gas stove with a match… open my big steel back door to let some more light in. It’s COLD in the mornings in the northwest… I wear fleece and put my flip-flops on in the house. The compound starts to wake up… Mommie is usually getting up and going to the bush, the sons of my counterparts grab my water container and head down the hill to fetch me water from the stream. I have french toast with honey or oatmeal, sit down on the couch to read a little while I wake up, and then suddenly the air blowing in the window is warm… its 7 or 8 and the heat has begun.

For the first week, home improvements have filled my schedule. I have washed most of the walls, checked up on furniture, reorganized my clothes on hangers and my spices on shelves, made lists of things that I might want or might need – paint, fabric for window treatments, a rug, a rocking chair. I am going to be living like a real frontier woman. But, I did manage to get out and hike. I walked towards Mundum one afternoon to meet with a woman in my village, Helen. She’s a single mom (not uncommon here… the men just seem to vanish sometimes) who has 6 or so plots of land where she grows cassava… a tuber similar to a yam. She wants money to pay for labor and wants to by a grinder so she can preserve her cassava and sell it in the big market. She wants me to see her farms, and then asks what I can do. She very forwardly, but politely, asks for money. I met with Helen three times, and saw three of her farms… they are all planted steep slopes… and it is obvious that her land has some erosion problems. I can’t give her money, but as I talk to her, I plot the timeline for agroforestry in the area. There is a lot to be done—but I hope that it will not be too disappointing to the village, as very little will have to do with money.

I took another hike down into the valley south of my house, and headed on the bush path towards Mbengwi. Lindsay, another volunteer, has been posted in Mbengwi. She has a fridge. So, I thought I would just walk there. Everyone I met on the road, however, said that if I should be going, I should plan to stay a week. It will take me four hours, they said. It is a long trek. Some women told me I should be accompanied. I walked on, just followed a path that meandered over the hills and through big tall grasses. I got down to a stream with two bridge options. The larger of the two was like a railroad track, with planks running across in two lines, and then other, smaller planks crisscrossing. I stood at the beginning of one of the worn boards, looking fifteen feet down into the rocky, rushing streambed… hmm… The other bridge was nothing more than a bundle of bamboo thrown across the steam with two other pieces lashed to trees for a stable (not really) handrail. This spot was only 10 feet off the ground, though… and despite its shabbiness, I crossed here. The bamboo cracked a lot as I crossed, and I hit a few spider webs—leading me to believe it doesn’t get used as often. At the middle of the bridge, I thought the open planks would have been a better option, and took some large steps to get to the other side. I made it alive, but when I came back I took the other route. All in all, it was a very nice hike… probably 6-8 miles roundtrip.

My village lies on the road between other villages and the biggest market, so there is a lot of traffic of meat and other goods. There was a cow slaughtered right next to my house the other day.. her jawbone is still laying on the path from my house to village. Another vache was being led down the hill the other day, presumably for the market, and went bizerk. He semi-mauled the guy leading it, and then ran towards the audience of Ako villagers sitting at a local store (and me). Everyone freaked and ran for cover in the store. It was hilarious.

Right now I am in Yaoundé at the Peace Corps transit house. So, for my final tale of the first week at post (this one is the prize winner) I will explain why I am here on Christmas instead of dancing it up with my village peoples. On Thursday, the Fon of Bafut (arguably one of the biggest kings in the country… he has 48 wives) had his annual Abit festival, where many Bafutians are initiated into the culture. I was given a “special invitation” when I went to visit the Fon during my site visit. The festival was host to more than 1000 people. A smaller group is allowed deeper in the palace to watch the initiation ceremony. I arrived late, only to find a sole chair waiting for me at the right side of the Fon. The youngest queen (who remembered my name from last time) showed me to my special place and brought me an Amstel and a wine glass (same beer as the Fon, except he drank his from a Mary Englebrite “Believe” Christmas mug.. ha). The Fon sat and rubbed a ground red stone over the naked shoulders of 50 or so people, calling out there names. Then he pours palm wine from a gourd into their hands and they drink. Afterward, they are allowed to address the Fon in the traditional way by clapping and bowing. And I had the best seat in the house! I think it was a real honor… I couldn’t help but laugh as I sat there, feeling like a royal, sipping an Amstel with the Fon.

After the initiation, everyone heads out to the main palace courtyard to watch the dance. The Fon starts by giving people honors, literally feathers in their caps. After this, the gun show commences --- the Cameroonian version of fireworks. They shoot a bunch of rounds, and then go in a circle… when they reach halfway around the circle, they begin to dance back towards the Fon. There are a lot of juju people running around, saying crazy things with crazy eyes, trying to get you to eat the crap they have hanging off their hands, wanting you to give money. People are dressed depicting different ranks in village, they depict different village life scenes in the dance.

Unfortunately, during one of the dances, a man standing near my group and I decided to take a cigarette. He happened to be the man carrying most of the gunpowder for the firing squad. There was a large, deafening explosion to my left, and we ran forward from our seats. When I turned around, the old man was staggering from the smoke, skin hanging from his face and arms. He was still on fire. I ran to try and get him to roll on the ground, but the language and shock of the situation made it difficult to gain control. I kicked dirt on the guy and others began to rip off his clothing. We pulled off his cindering robes, I untied his pants and tore them away, yelling for water. Cameroonians came saying he was fine, grabbing at his arms, where the skin had all been burned away. It happened very fast, but finally two men came and grabbed him and pulled him off to the hospital. Wow. Shell shocked. I turn around to see the other two volunteers with me staring in disbelief. They start up the dance again. Cameroonians are laughing. We look at the ground, wondering if the mans skin is lying there or if its pieces of his burnt robe. Thank God no one was hurt. Then I look at my arms…. There is burnt skin, but it’s not mine. There is also blood, but it’s the old mans. Well, damn. I purell myself, but a few scratches on my hands gives me enough concern to call the med officer, who consults with Washington. As a precaution, I should come to Yaoundé for HIV prophylaxis. So, now I am here in the big city, taking big pills. I’m sad that I can’t be in village, as they have a local ho-down at the meeting hall and everyone was going to bring me food. But this isn’t such a bad set-up… they have Chinese food in town!

Oh, and I think I have giardia too. Ha! Anyway, everyone have a very Merry Christmas! Life is good! Living here is mostly slow and easy, I laugh a lot… mostly by myself, but then later with my friends. And then we laugh about laughing alone.