Do you ever have those days where you think of so many witty Facebook statuses but then remember that you are a Peace Corps volunteer in Africa and you don't have an iPhone or a tablet or wifi or internet at all for that matter? Of course you don't. But that's why I'm here - to tell you what it's like and regale you with tales of the absurdity that is my life on the daily.
A new day begins.
It had only stopped raining two hours ago, but at 7am the world was already noisy. The market DJ was out and so were the piggies and my window was open to let in the light. So I got up. The first two hours of my day, as usual, were spent diddling about: doing little work-related tasks, eating oatmeal, drinking Nescafé laden with sweetened condensed milk (Is there any other way to drink it?), washing and dressing and brushing for the day, NOT forgetting my malaria prophylaxis and my daily vitamin. Around 8:30am I called the Censeur at the nearest high school to verify that we were in fact meeting at 9 as we planned the week before. Miracle of miracles, not only had he not forgotten but he was almost there already!
I felt dubious about this "almost" - because that can mean, "I'm getting dressed now and almost ready to leave so I'll be there in an hour," or it can mean, "I'll show up when I'm done this beer or maybe the one after," or it can mean, "I see you from where I am standing and will be there in thirty seconds." So 15 minutes later I began wandering over. On the 15 minute walk I saw: innumerable chickens, 3 goats, 2 turkeys, and a man skinning a cane rat. So, a typical 15 minute walk to school. I happily observed that I am much more comfortable greeting every. single. person. on the way than I used to be when I began making this walk ten months ago. Progress!
True to his word, Monsieur le Censeur was there when I arrived! I had to wait only 5 minutes before being allowed into his office and beginning our meeting with a discussion of summer break, vacations, families, life in general. Once we got all that out of the way, we could get down to business, and we spent about 40 minutes discussing A2Empowerment, Club FORTES, rising pregnancy rates, and orphans. It was all in all a very productive and satisfying meeting. Until it ended with: "One more thing. Has anyone told you how beautiful you are?" (Keep in mind that, while I thought I would wash my hair more with the new cut, that has turned out to be false.) I chucked good-naturedly and said "Yes" with a tone I have perfected, indicating that the conversation is closed. But he had to have the last word, him being a grand and all, and he insisted on it in more ways than one: "Let me be the last." Time to go.
Once home, I wrote documents on my computer that we had discussed in our meeting: posters advertising the first A2Empowerment meeting and the first Club FORTES meeting, as well as a formal request to use a classroom addressed the the Proviseur (an even grand-er grand), and contracts for school scholarships. Then I called Delphine to see if she had remembered our plans to meet and travel to Bafoussam that afternoon to pick up said scholarships from Western Union. And she had remembered too!
So I took a moto (imagine a motorcycle which might or might not lose a race to an American lawn mower) to Kinder's House of Banock. Of course I chatted with the moto driver (aka bensikinneur, which some have insisted to me is English) along the way, covering all of my top three conversation subjects: La route est grave. (The state of this road is grave.) La boue est grave. (The state of the mud is grave.) Il va pleuvoir. (It's going to rain.) I consider this particular bensikinneur my friend, although I don't know his name or if I would recognize him without his fuzzy ear-flap hat.
When we arrived, I begin counting out money to hand him, willing my change purse to have just one more 50 CFA piece (about 10 cents). He laughs at me and asks, "It is a lot of money?" managing to call me poor and stingy at once (since I'm white, I must be rich). I commence an explanation that has been given so many times it has become a mini-rant, about how I am a volunteer, not on a salary, and how I travel all over the neighborhood, and I spend a lot on transport, I spend too much on transport. He just laughs and proceeds to make fun of me again, this time about how I didn't want to take the moto up the hill because I was afraid of falling, but I'm not afraid of slipping myself and breaking my foot. Time to go.
So I met up with Delphine at the elementary school. We eyed the threatening gray sky nervously and hurried. Except the world doesn't always cooperate - we walked about 2 kilometers down the road before finding a car that would take us to Bafoussam. We admired the scenery along the way, and Delphine pointed out that the hail from yesterday's thunderstorm had shredded all of the leaves of the banana trees. Those banana trees looked so sad, with their leaf fragments waving half-heartedly like pom-pom streamers still attached to the stems. Two instantaneous thoughts popped into my head:
1. Welcome to sub-saharan Africa, folks.*
2. I guess that means I won't be eating couscous for a while…**
When we were almost into town, I turned to Delphine and asked her: Do you know where Western Union is? She looks at me: No, I always use Express Union. Do you? Me: Nope. Then we both shrug unconcernedly. We have no idea where we're going, but we have the name and we have trust that things will simply work out though we do not know in advance how.
And then we see - WESTERN UNION - written in faded black on a faded yellow sign, sticking out from the second story of a concrete building. "There!" We shout at the taxi driver to let us out, and he does with a lurch. Except it turns out that this Western Union outpost had been closed, possibly for years. An the new shopkeeper had no idea where it was now. Our solution? To walk slowly down the street. Again, we have no idea where we're going, but we do have faith.
And Look! We see a second bright yellow and black sign. Four, actually. Plastered all over the clean glass door that swings open with a light push. So we walk in, tracking mud onto the clean tile floor while congratulating ourselves, and hand the front desk lady our information. She sighs from a place deep in her soul, as if to express the extent to which we have inconvenienced her, and tells us that they have a problem with "the connection" and they do not handle Western Union transfers. Another dud - but at least this lady knows where we can go.
So we follow her directions and cross into Marché B, looking for this Western Union. Or at least Delphine is looking for it, while I'm busy taking in the sweaters on sale for 60 cents, along with every other item you might consider wearing, and most of the things you would eat or cook with as well. Motos squeezing past with engines snarling, children selling timidly, women with sacks and buckets on their heads and children tied onto their backs and pagne-d hips swinging, young men shouting aggressively the prices of their wares, glass-windowed carts of beignets pushed past uncovered carts of sponges and plastic sieves, shiny tomatoes and filthy tomatoes and onions and cabbages piled next children's clothes and tights and dresses swinging in the wind, the wind which is singing that the rain is coming, coming, coming… Ogling and being ogled (and occasionally stroked by several giggling girls who would go tell all their friends that they touched la blanche today), I had very little attention left over for Western Union. Luckily, Delphine is not so easily distracted. We must have missed it. Backtrack, backtrack.
There! That's not the bumblebee-colored sign we'd been led to expect, but there it was. We wander in to find 7 employees shuffling papers and staring at us blankly in an otherwise empty and silent two-story building. "Western Union?" We say the words, daring to hope. Yes! Finally! Give us this info. Give us your ID. Give us your ID again. FIll out this form. Sit over there. Go get a photocopy of your ID.
Being American, I am trying to figure out how not to waste this time - so I'm having Delphine edit my French documents and then I run off to get them printed. There's a place right across the street, and the guy is Anglophone!
--Do you print?
-- No, sorry.
-- But it's on the sign.
-- What's on the sign?
-- Printing.
-- Oh! Printing! I thought you said painting! (And he demonstrates enthusiastically, imaginary paintbrush swiping broad strokes of transparent paint through the air.)
It took like an hour plus a fake money incident and one phone number exchange with my new friend Bob ("No, I'm not asking for your number for romance! It's not for love! I don't even like you!" And yes, his name really was Bob.) to receive 10 pages in my hands. But it was an amusing hour, at least.
I cross the street again to find Delphine finally had the money in her hands as well. Anxiously eyeing the sky (still), we decided to hurry home - with only the necessary stops of buying safou*** and raffia shelves from a man who probably doubled the regular price to give me the white price. I negotiated some and then simply hoped that some of that money would find its way to his wife and kids.
In the car on the way home, a couple of gendarmes waved their arms over their heads and whistled frantically to get the taxi to pull over. When asked why we were stopped, they responded, "It's already 3 o'clock." (It wasn't.) And then added, "And you have whites in the car!" (Just me. Though the driver responded, "Where?!" So it was a very confusing exchange.) They let us continue.
It then started pouring. The driver, who I didn't recognize in the slightest, dropped me off right in front of my door without a word from me, and then grinned at me as if to say, "Is this close enough?" I dragged my self and my shelf through the rain and up the stairs to my front door, and locked it behind me.
Now it might only be 3pm. But it's raining. So, listening to my market DJ play a Cameroonian rock version of Let It Be, I decide that like everyone else in town, I'm done working.
And so ends a normal day.
*You expected steam and got hail. You expected to wear tank tops and you're wearing fuzzy socks and leggings and sweaters and scarves and...
**Couscous is texturally grits-like, a substance made from ground-up dried corn kernels and wrapped in banana leaves after preparation. Many volunteers detest it, but I really enjoy it, and I plan on subjecting my family to it when they come visit me.
** Also called prunes, an oblong fruit which grows on trees, starting off bright pink then turning white then a shiny purplish-black before it is picked. You char it until the skin pops, and then you stick half in your mouth and slash the tough skin with your teeth to get to the creamy center while avoiding the large pit. I think it tastes like a cross between olives and potatoes, though many people disagree with me. I hated its sourness when I first tasted it, but now I'm addicted. My family will most likely also be subject to this, though that depends on its availability in dry season. Doesn't this make you want to visit me?
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