tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39905685806833383312024-03-21T18:02:54.509-07:00Life Uncaged"It was this feeling I had, that my life was waiting for me on the other side, that made me fearless." - Junot DiazAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-85217019852819198502015-09-19T13:20:00.000-07:002015-09-19T13:20:47.297-07:00Bulls and old stuff at Butrint, Albania<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We get up early to escape the heat. Though it's mid September; though the crowds of Kosovar, Polish, German and Russian tourists are gone; though all the locals tell us that the summer is gone and the season is over; the heat is evident even at seven am. By ten, we will be dripping sweat, white rivulets of the salty liquid and sunscreen running into our eyes and pooling on our upper lips. That makes for excellent beach weather but not excellent hiking around a hill weather, so early we went. By 8:30 we were on the 5 kilometer strip of road connecting Ksamil to Butrint, and before nine we had purchased entry tickets. I was excited to see a place that is featured in Virgil's Aenid and various other paintings, novels, and poems-it feels like walking right into art. There were few other adventurers around, and for the most part I felt like we had the place to ourselves.<br />
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Immediately upon entry, I see: two Roman columns to the left, a Venetian tower in front, and a Venetian triangular fort and an Ottoman palace to the right. This mish mash of ages, origins, and styles is indicative of the site - and of this whole egion, where empires and invaders have risen and fallen like the tides of the Ionian sea on its beaches.<br />
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The story recounts that, fleeing the fall of Troy, its founders sacrificed a wounded bull that washed ashore. This was taken to be a good omen and so the place was called Buthrotum meaning wounded ox, and this also became the symbol of the city. Like on the glorified door frame which shows a lion eating an ox head. Because it's not weird at all to have a foreign animal devouring the symbol of your city placed prominently on one of its gates. Besides which, where and home that bull floated in is a mystery-but not as much of a mystery as why it dying on the shore made someone think, "Yes! The gods want me to live here with a carcass that just floated in!" This becomes even more confusing hen the museum also tells that originally, this place was all land, then the seas rose and made it an island and caused general chaos and confusion...<br />
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Whatever its origins, Butram became a major trading post in the 8th century BC and was governed by the Romans, Ottomans, and Venetians in turn. As the brochure says, "What you see today is an amalgam of monuments representing a span of over 2000 years from the Hellenistic temple buildings of the 4th century BC to the Ottoman defenses created in the early 19th century." This little bubble of land has perhaps seen more human history than our American middle school textbooks cover.<br />
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It's a delightful place to wander, surrounded not only by the glories of the past but by the beauty of the present. Walking through some dead rich guy's dining room, I glance up to find a picturesque strait peeking between the low scrubby trees and grasses. The sun is bouncing off the water in all its golden morning radiance, an ugly bird as big as my forearm hops along the tree branch, a fish jumps in the water, a faded fishing boat floats on the far shore. A farm house stands more solidly than these flooded marble blocks, abandoned as the water table continued to rise and the Roman dude came home one too many times to a flooded foyer.<br />
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I could go back among the path and follow the prescribed tour route ("deviate at your own peril!" They warn). But instead I continue under the trees, along an old wall. I suppose it's just old and falling apart, but it is beautiful in its decay and more so against the steady water, with its glaring highlights and deep shadows, riven by massive it dead tree roots. I assume those trees were cut to prevent them from destroying these "precious" stones any further. In some places, the stone wall is being shored up by a wood plank wall. And I wonder, why do we work so hard to protect old stuff, to keep ruins in a permanent state of picturesque ruin but not too ruiny? Was it worth the death of that twisty, gnarly, beautiful old tree to keep some rocks stacked for another decade?<br />
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I round the end of the island, where the wall climbs up away from the shore and the castle tower juts brilliantly against the sky over deeply shadowed green leaves. From the other side of the inlet ringing sounds drift across, perhaps a flock of sheep wearing mismatched bells or a particularly cacophonous wind chime. With this backdrop, it's so easy to lapse into wonder at the world and the futility of our behaviors. At this archaeological sight, one of the most extensive and lovely I've seen, it seems that we are fighting against destruction by nature, combating the passage of time, prohibiting the replacement of old with new. Why? What is the purpose? Perhaps, by guaranteeing another century's immortality, we are seeking to assure our own. In the face of fleeting lives and certain death, do we seek assurance that we will not be forgotten? That our accomplishments will live on in stone, in spite of wind and sand and tide and time? In spite of humanity's wars and carelessness and ambition and destruction?<br />
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I duck under a low carved lintel (yes, the lion-eating-city-symbol one) and climb broad, lazy stairs up to the castle. Every few steps, I stop and look back to admire the water, the woods, the white stones, drinking in a view that seems only to get more beautiful with familiarity. I follow the sign to the Muze and walk back down more stairs into the oddly basement-like museum, still pondering ponderous things.<br />
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As you may or may not have experienced yourself, nothing puts an end to philosophical musings and brings you solidly back to earth quite as quickly as the smell of latrine. I think they took the old toilet pit of the castle and thought, "Ah yes, what a perfect place for a museum." Then they scattered bits of statues, old coins, and explanatory posters around and patted each other on the back for a job completed.<br />
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Needless to say, we didn't hang about too long. Nevertheless, it was still a delightful visit to Butrint. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-50111690570541979022015-09-16T01:22:00.001-07:002015-09-16T01:22:06.462-07:00Putting away the maps in Ohrid, Macedonia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
If you want to see Ohrid before the crowds of elderly tourists come shuffling through, get up when the housewives are still drinking their first cups of coffee and the fishermen are still sitting quietly in their chairs on the sturdy stone docks. Maybe you're imagining dawn, or the early rays of sunshine - but we're in the Balkans, so I'm talking about 8 am. The world is still sleeping, the tourists haven't left their guest houses yet, the children aren't even at school yet, and the world is peaceful.<br />
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And while you're at it, leave the guide books and the maps and the seven must see lists at home. Sometimes you need to just wander, or you'll only ever find the places that everyone else has found.<br />
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With no destination in mind, I set my course for up. Up narrow cobbled paths, with creamy three story buildings framed in dark painted wood leaning in from both sides. Up broad stone stairs, made to ease the hikes of the tottering, compression-socked crowds, to the level of balconies where yesterday's laundry and beautiful scarlet peppers hang in the low morning sun to dry. Past the red tiled roofs, up through a wooded park to the level of Gorna Porta, the old wooden door in the thick stone wall, solid defenses from a time forgotten everywhere but here, this region where our 200 year history is but the blink of an eye.<br />
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Up past the castle of Samuil, a man who was also a king, whether of accomplishments magnificent or despotic or unworthy of such a label, I couldn't tell you. I see him only in what he built, still standing 12 centuries later and evoking wonder and feelings of invincibility from those who climb up to its ramparts. That wonder is somewhat diminished by the souvenir tables the friendly hawkers are just setting up out front. I muse idly if the architecture students haven't figured something out that I haven't, striving to build and in this way to leave their mark on history.<br />
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I've reached the peak, and cannot climb any higher, so I enter the woods of Palosçik and start to wander. I don't follow the way to Kaneo, though I intend to end up there, because I have already taken that direct path. Instead I turn off the stone path to gravel, off the gravel to pine needles and dirt. I revel in the tranquility, shared only with birds and one black squirrel.<br />
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What do we search for when we travel? Do we look for others who are like us or different? Do we look for some magic escape or for a chance to be someone else that we don't find in our own homes? Do we look for a life that feels more "real"? Do we look for places where God still exists? Do we look for history, or for peace? I wish I knew the answer for myself, because if I knew what I was looking for then I might stand a chance of finding it. But as it is, I am just wandering and enjoying.<br />
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Descending through the deep green pines and dappled sunlight, I see something that might be mistaken for a path, dropping down uncomfortably steeply. Naturally, I take it. I think, it might be safer to run than to try to go slowly - but I don't indulge that illogical impulse. One foot in front of the other, breathing in the smell of Christmas trees, listening to the fledgling birds still screaming for breakfast. Startling a tortoise back into his grayish brownish shell, I pass through some ivy and back onto a real, gray gravel path - and in front of me, through some golden grasses hinting of approaching Autumn, the cliff drops to the azure and turquoise beauty of Lake Ohrid. No tourists, no sunbathers, just seagulls and loons and placid waters stretching away to the far distant shore. Nothing can capture the color of those waters, not a camera and not paints. The water is so clear that I can watch a sleek black bird dive right to the bottom on its fish chase then bob back up without losing sight of it once.<br />
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I climb all the way down to the rocky shore to wash my face in the water, and I have a vague impression that I am performing some type of ritual ablution, though I can't explain this feeling to myself any more than I can to you. Soon I will hike back up, admire the church and peer down into the waters at Kaneo with no one but the caretaker for distraction, climb back up past the cascading red tile roofs. Soon I will again pass through the Upper Gate, dodging my way through no fewer than three tour groups with eyes for nothing but their own feet. But for this moment, I will stand on the gray stone shores of this giant, deep lake and I will absorb as much of its tranquility as I can contain in this fragile and ephemeral skin. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-29709364907278448352015-08-15T07:06:00.000-07:002015-08-15T07:06:40.968-07:00Leaving - For Good<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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There’s this song that’s been stuck in my head lately. </div>
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“I’ve heard it said people come into our lives for a reason, bringing something we must learn and we are led to those who help us most to grow - if we let them. And we help them in return. Well I don’t know if I believe that’s true, but I know I’m who I am today because I knew you…”</div>
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(Can you name that song?)</div>
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My departure is looming, less than three months away - and some days, I simply cannot wait to get out. But other days, or even other moments in those same days, it really does feel as dark and dramatic as that. And it’s not because I’ll miss the food (no more macabo rapé or nkwi? oh darn.) and it’s not because I’ll miss parts of the culture (I’m less than you because I’m a woman? cool.). It’s because of the people who have adopted me as their own, loved me, appreciated me - and yes, even those who have taken me for granted. </div>
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It’s because of my awesome counterparts who commiserated about the parts of Cameroon I couldn’t stand, enjoyed the things I loved, and celebrated all our successes big and small. Anne and Delphine, two women without whom I wouldn’t have made it through these two years. </div>
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It’s because of all the other PCVs who went rode the same roller coaster. Though we may have screamed and covered our eyes or screamed and kept our hands up in the air, we all screamed together.</div>
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It’s because of this little boy - no, young man - Borel Faustin. This boy who came running to me, the definition of “grinning ear to ear” to show me his school report card when he passed at the end of the year. This boy who came running to me in tears when he had a splinter. I gave him one of my favorite t-shirts that I found in the market - a Zara boys t that says “Welcome to Hollywood!” - because I thought that was the best possible thing I could do with one of my favorite t-shirts. And he rewarded me with another one of those Hollywood grins. </div>
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It’s because of these two little girls, Samira Paschale and Lauren Fabienne. These kids who drove me absolutely nuts, throwing my shoes onto the roof and ripping my baby sunflowers out by the roots. These kids who perched one on each hip, baby heads resting on either shoulder, and slept. Who reached their arms up to me with faces screwed up in screams and let themselves be conforted. Who learned to say thank you (we’re still working on please) and learned to make fish lips from me. </div>
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It’s because of the 200 elementary school students who I watched transform from timid copy cats into creative and excited artists in art class.</div>
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It’s because of the 70 or so high school girls - and three boys - who I watched blossom into confident young adults during our after-school club. </div>
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It’s because of the 46 young women trained as peer educators during our summer camp who said, now I can talk to my parents, now I am not afraid to speak in front of my class, now I know so much more - who looked us in the eyes and told us, Because of you, I’ve been changed for good.</div>
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No one can tell me these two years were a waste of my time, even in my darkest and most miserable hours, because I have touched the lives of all these individuals - as they have touched mine.</div>
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At the end of two years, it’s these people and relationships more than anything else that I will carry with me as I move on to my next adventure. Most of what I’m feeling, I don’t know how to express in either English or French, and I’m forced to turn back to this song that plays on repeat in my head. “Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better? But because I knew you, I have been changed for good.” I hope that I can come back in a few years and see how my friends and family here have changed and grown. But even if we never meet again, I know I will carry all these people in my heart no matter where life takes me. Most mornings lately, I wake up and I open my door and walk out into the sunshine and my chest feels ready to burst with all the love I feel for Bansoa and by extension the world. </div>
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Fight on for love. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-36143508282644707242015-07-31T05:00:00.000-07:002015-07-31T05:00:07.746-07:00East of the Sun Trip Part 5 : in which I conclude that the world is in fact magical<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">East of the Sun Trip Part 5 : in which I conclude that the world is in fact magical and get new bruises on my butt</span></div>
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Our fourth sunrise in Lobéké. We rise, significantly less shinily than the sun, and start for the savanna. Valentin calls after us: “Today, you will see a gorilla!” </div>
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“Promise?” I grump back. </div>
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“You’ll see,” he responds, with his ever-present grin. </div>
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<a name='more'></a>We settle down, expecting to see nothing as we have for the other hours we spent in this electric blue tower. But I swear, not thirty minutes after our arrival, who wanders into the clearing but a gorilla! A big ol’ silverback gorilla. He’s huge and clearly old, with a pure white back and a coppery red head. Apparently, the older males get kicked out of their families by younger and stronger males, and then they are just solitary until they die, which seems pretty darn sad to me. But he’s beautiful, wandering around and munching some greens, in no hurry to leave. Neither are we. But once he’s gone, all three of us have a sense of MISSION ACCOMPLISHED, so we don’t hang around any longer.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ZEweXq2Mu5cZG_gZ2SqelbeluWPNr1dK6yUnhgeNlkAVKP61uiyixWcJMS9aoSDeqLRpCd3Sf9H7f-Hn7eeVufawaWHfg3qWB5sqnWrlx8yIQgEaX6AAyEAGvVoVC3bfhgfpY1HkElzq/s1600/DSCN0324.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ZEweXq2Mu5cZG_gZ2SqelbeluWPNr1dK6yUnhgeNlkAVKP61uiyixWcJMS9aoSDeqLRpCd3Sf9H7f-Hn7eeVufawaWHfg3qWB5sqnWrlx8yIQgEaX6AAyEAGvVoVC3bfhgfpY1HkElzq/s640/DSCN0324.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Barely back in camp, I’m already shouting to Valentin: “We saw a gorilla! We saw a gorilla!” </div>
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We’re all giddy with joy and relief, even Valentin and Frederick and Prospère, who knew how badly we wanted to see a gorilla and didn’t want us to leave without seeing one any more than we did. We pack our stuff and begin the hike back to Pont Cassé, where the WWF car will pick us up to drive us back to Mambélé, and head out. ONLY TO BE CHARGED BY A SECOND SILVERBACK ON THE TRAIL! Of course, our three companions drop their stuff and go charging off after him. Weirdos. I was happy to sit on the trail until Valentin came back to regale us with a tale about when a “bad guy” gorilla ripped his dad’s arm out of its socket. </div>
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So we leave Lobéké happy campers. </div>
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The WWF car is SO COMFY and AIR CONDITIONED! We all try not to but can’t help falling asleep, avoiding the next puzzle: how on earth to get back? I literally cannot stop thinking about a shower. We’re worried about the return trip and desperately don’t want to spend another night in Mambele, but have very little control over whether or not we find transport out of here. There’s no taxis, no more travel agencies coming through this late in the afternoon. So what do we do? We go to the bar! Celebratory beers with Valentin and Frederick are most definitely in order. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6A7FLKya6DxbmnJmk6Gx5ipZF7Q4deYMomZv-TodATLm6auI2RPpccRuUvKD9kcnGVm0o6kUR_OaP3Eg0rN-vZ3ja8R2orSm4OzFgnlERbs8zp19hJucD86PmWxGE3KlwB1T7zBmgeYt9/s1600/DSCN0347.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6A7FLKya6DxbmnJmk6Gx5ipZF7Q4deYMomZv-TodATLm6auI2RPpccRuUvKD9kcnGVm0o6kUR_OaP3Eg0rN-vZ3ja8R2orSm4OzFgnlERbs8zp19hJucD86PmWxGE3KlwB1T7zBmgeYt9/s640/DSCN0347.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Valentin, with his new sunglasses & American flag scarf, <br />courtesy of Kate & her generosity :)</td></tr>
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We’re seriously doubting that we’ll ever get out of Mambele. I am internally weeping at another night at the Doctor’s. Joe wanders off to ask Souley about finding a ride and whether or not anyone cooks beans. And Kate giddily starts a made up drinking game in which she picks a card, her victim has to guess what it is and then drinks the difference if they’re wrong. She has Valentin chugging his double-sized beer, but Frederick freakishly guesses three right in a row. What’s the chance of that? Like one in 140,608?! Do you believe in chance or in coincidence? As he gets his third right, Souley comes running in. “Grab your bags! You have a ride! A truck is leaving for Yoka right now!” </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaQc0Vc_NYAacjMEX6Qe-OmpaeGhxsJWNZ1hTd0IgXDCCN2Wvn_rYLUpU2iQN5vhpOfmqXjAEeEbK_ZsfJQtnSEKFX6hXZ5cYQN55BlCQX94iuJUIO4fmESqokLyi8IONYfTCLeB2e_tay/s1600/DSCN0344.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaQc0Vc_NYAacjMEX6Qe-OmpaeGhxsJWNZ1hTd0IgXDCCN2Wvn_rYLUpU2iQN5vhpOfmqXjAEeEbK_ZsfJQtnSEKFX6hXZ5cYQN55BlCQX94iuJUIO4fmESqokLyi8IONYfTCLeB2e_tay/s640/DSCN0344.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bye bye Mambélé!</td></tr>
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YES! WE - ARE - OUTTA HERE! </div>
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Outside, our chariot awaits (a big petrol transport truck. Which upon inquiry, is happily empty). Our two new favorite people, the driver and his helper, tightly pack our stuff and theirs behind their seats - then also tuck two of us behind their seats, on what is clearly the engine with cushions on top, and one of us into the passenger seat, along with the usual passenger.</div>
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We were in seventh heaven. High five-ing. Laughing uproariously at everything. Can’t-stop-grinning. </div>
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For like the first thirty minutes, anyway. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikMSPKIeVMZPRsSiBKe9ID7AA6DcoyhFec30RCYLsd5oIQkKxggnlaIMPM5o-r6OrOfzqRW5XYrmSpXxHIcAa6G6jTbBqYRLwKV6reN_tyJSFk4gsBktwYm6Eth_-BAxo_HP1hAa80w3gu/s1600/DSCN0348.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikMSPKIeVMZPRsSiBKe9ID7AA6DcoyhFec30RCYLsd5oIQkKxggnlaIMPM5o-r6OrOfzqRW5XYrmSpXxHIcAa6G6jTbBqYRLwKV6reN_tyJSFk4gsBktwYm6Eth_-BAxo_HP1hAa80w3gu/s640/DSCN0348.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Packed into the petrol truck.</td></tr>
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Then we realized how hot and uncomfortable and covered in filth we really are. Thomas and Divine, driver and helper, are anglophones who drive this route to deliver oil from Limbe (SW Cameroon) to Brazzaville (Congo). Each trip takes 7-10 days. It’s damn hard work and I do not envy them. </div>
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Nevertheless, with only a few added bumps and bruises, 6 hours later we arrive in Yokaduma.</div>
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It’s bumping, as night has just fallen and the fast is broken and the market is loud and thriving. We are none of these things, just trying to buy food before getting to Auberge Elephant as fast as possible. Which is basically heaven, since it has a mosquito net and running water. </div>
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We sleep the sleep of the dead. </div>
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<i>One more day. One more day. </i>A comforting mantra on this, the seventh day since we’ve left Kate’s house. We decide to spring for a private car, with dreams of faster and more comfy dancing in our heads. We get ripped off, but feel too helpless and tired to deal with it. The road is incredibly dusty and we drive it with the windows open. The car is in terrible condition and won’t start unless it’s rolling and we get one flat tire in the first hour and everything is terrible but <i>I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…</i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV7Ui0jpvrigUpD3xzTeKgCjdQsvpmM60hP-zXmI8xE3NERRnWZ9TfIBkHRUzQafJXTePCVrnpAT9w3U4MaJLVFN7i-xeA3XMAZSjdn98FwFBLFJuNX1gDT0JuYBYAeJnwHdBltdDbYZlS/s1600/DSCN0354.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV7Ui0jpvrigUpD3xzTeKgCjdQsvpmM60hP-zXmI8xE3NERRnWZ9TfIBkHRUzQafJXTePCVrnpAT9w3U4MaJLVFN7i-xeA3XMAZSjdn98FwFBLFJuNX1gDT0JuYBYAeJnwHdBltdDbYZlS/s400/DSCN0354.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's dirt roads, and then there's DIRT ROADS.<br />I washed the right side of my face<br />for maximum dramatic effect.<br />Also, check out my USC Trojans shirt.<br />#FIGHTON</td></tr>
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At one point, the chauffeur giggles crazily: “Bienvenue à l’extrème est! C’est l’enfer!” (Welcome to the “extreme” East! It’s Hell!) I couldn’t agree more, dude. </div>
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Except when we (unexpectedly but not unhappily) switch cars in Batouri and take advantage of the stop to buy<i> cold cokes</i>. This, too, is heaven.</div>
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It’s amazing how much one appreciates the little things in such trying moments. </div>
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After ten hours, 9am to 5pm, we’re in Bertoua. Bathing is the best. Our big chicken and plantains dinner is the best. We saw gorillas and it was the best. I’m with people I love, I’m clean, I’m full, I’m enjoying the prospect of good sleep in a bed. I am full of warm fuzzies. </div>
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With such terrible travel and often bad attitudes, you must be wondering: if I had to go back would I do it again? Perhaps it’s a stereotype, but “African” experiences are tied with wildlife in my head. As Jens Bjerre said in his adventures in <i>Kalahari</i>, “We frequently stopped to watch the animals, for they communicate a deep meaning to the African landscape and give one a sense of unity with the trees, the earth, the grass, and the sky.” And this is something that has been missing from my time in Cameroon. But now I have seen gorillas. So yes, I would absolutely do it, no regrets. Kate? Yup, it’s something she definitely wanted to do before leaving. Joe? Actually, I don’t know if he would haha.</div>
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Bring on the next adventure! </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-10366073173087373572015-07-30T05:00:00.000-07:002015-07-30T05:00:08.069-07:00East of the Sun Trip Part 4<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">East of the Sun Trip Part 4 : In which we continue to take for granted the natural beauty around us to wonder miserably if we will actually leave without seeing any gorillas</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi18-UMmMJ7WI0avQOvl8SMClgcl_WpSFxOkT_Gy4gD4Ux1-DAz92xFXbzU4feiQ_zx78vdYFKdqWq5JfcHEDsRCjrWbWcWVIL5NANU-o4uG_rsQB6Z_gXzbvURxJ-zBIiLztjy_06ZbCJ6/s1600/DSCN0235.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi18-UMmMJ7WI0avQOvl8SMClgcl_WpSFxOkT_Gy4gD4Ux1-DAz92xFXbzU4feiQ_zx78vdYFKdqWq5JfcHEDsRCjrWbWcWVIL5NANU-o4uG_rsQB6Z_gXzbvURxJ-zBIiLztjy_06ZbCJ6/s640/DSCN0235.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the "mirador" or observation towers we spend hours in</td></tr>
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After a disappointing morning at Petit Savanne, we start the 10k hike to Djangui. On the hike, we see several Colobus monkeys (the originator of moto-engine-revving-noise) and some elephant tracks (I don’t understand how such big animals can pass through the forest so quietly) but not too much else of interest. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMJi2sEyJOGrIs1l3MSh34Nb75eYy1p-YRz_tkEO9Tvk4jPZ9-X3NCL74EffRWAq4HW86N5iPDfndTbaPAZlV2RbOV155-mEF9cuqCVsSvZhV7Q8wrCdwVFDS-bdZ8T-2SVxeYk0VUqAQZ/s1600/DSCN0226.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMJi2sEyJOGrIs1l3MSh34Nb75eYy1p-YRz_tkEO9Tvk4jPZ9-X3NCL74EffRWAq4HW86N5iPDfndTbaPAZlV2RbOV155-mEF9cuqCVsSvZhV7Q8wrCdwVFDS-bdZ8T-2SVxeYk0VUqAQZ/s640/DSCN0226.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at his cute little bearded face! </td></tr>
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Despite the lack of animals, Valentin repeatedly brought wide grins to all of our faces. Valentin is Baka, but at six-foot-something he’s definitely not a pygmie, and he grew up in and out of the forest. He is so obviously at ease here, drinking crystal clear creek water from a folded leaf cup or lounging his large frame on handy vines, roots, or saplings. He makes me feel like a clomping clutz the way he moved with such ease and confidence. When we stop to rest, he drops our bags and goes gleefully traipsing off into the forest, returning with elephant poop or a half-eaten rabbit (he’d scared off the eagle) or a rotted turtle or a bird nest complete with three lil’ babies peeping inside (and yes, he hangs it back up afterwards where the momma bird could find it again). Once he leads us all through thick undergrowth the show us gorilla beds and gleefully—no other adverb does him justice—gleefully recount how a gorilla sleeps with its butt <i>here</i> and its head <i>here </i>and just sleeps like <i>this </i>and it SNORES (giggle) and he knows all this because one time he snuck up on a big male gorilla and scared it out of its nest. Casual, Valentin, messing with 500 pound animals strong enough to rip a man’s arm right off, probably with a ten year old boy’s exuberance and delight. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyJPbXy_27d2AW7BTYwAM36BLHCW0L6EnyZbmGSR5dE4jANFl_Api__0Wc3SQ3JdvjX9Cwymk1ph_FzSQAFchCBUdk-d0kX44z3WGMGMx3G6IOoQVvU3cf9jToD4XBdailkc6aWTxy3FNc/s1600/DSCN0232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyJPbXy_27d2AW7BTYwAM36BLHCW0L6EnyZbmGSR5dE4jANFl_Api__0Wc3SQ3JdvjX9Cwymk1ph_FzSQAFchCBUdk-d0kX44z3WGMGMx3G6IOoQVvU3cf9jToD4XBdailkc6aWTxy3FNc/s640/DSCN0232.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful bird's nest.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTvvC-Ivr06muemRsd8gYSkkNSICwmYeuk72feCCLluFF4MGZojkY6prf-VJv0sbqiiOrdbjJErubbTUR3S0gBG0MHzJ3RTV0dwSqUOxeP2lVyZEl4HuKjczev9-R5N6zUetSyonx5HIXl/s1600/DSCN0225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTvvC-Ivr06muemRsd8gYSkkNSICwmYeuk72feCCLluFF4MGZojkY6prf-VJv0sbqiiOrdbjJErubbTUR3S0gBG0MHzJ3RTV0dwSqUOxeP2lVyZEl4HuKjczev9-R5N6zUetSyonx5HIXl/s400/DSCN0225.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"And this is where he puts his butt..."</td></tr>
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During our hours in the observation tower at Djangui, we finally see some wildlife! Five water buffalo with their funny birdy friends, a bunch of birds including a teal sun catcher and a great blue Turaco. But, no gorillas. </div>
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We finally see some animals and yet—everything is sticky and itchy and gross, I can’t stop sweating and I’m tired. Tempers are short and the water buffalo are starting to look particularly brilliant with their heat-beating strategy of sleeping in the think mud. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">LES BOEUFFLES! </td></tr>
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That night, Joe and I learn to play the card game “fapfap” (meaning “five five” in who knows what language) and make new friends in the process. I manage to win a couple of hands and also shit-talk a lot more than my pretty pathetic skills entitle me to. </div>
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Day three begins magically—and for once, I am not being sarcastic. Upon waking with the sun, we walk the muddy, marshy mile back to the clearing and climb the mirador (observation tower). We sit down and settle in, each of us in our own way: me sitting on the ground and staring as if my will-power alone will call the animals; Joe passing time with his Kindle; and Kate alternately lounging on a bench and quietly pacing.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTe9AXj2FUdsiEqhIriokt-9rMyliM7ZHIuso6bvb3RQjt9HFnQEbln6Y5-9c9R8BrW56lYqy0YwX7R03tSZJerTs6jtRedTuIbqyPnGjdcwHFFUuOZRvl0yktEARgefbVkLRGEtTiwO4s/s1600/DSCN0210.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTe9AXj2FUdsiEqhIriokt-9rMyliM7ZHIuso6bvb3RQjt9HFnQEbln6Y5-9c9R8BrW56lYqy0YwX7R03tSZJerTs6jtRedTuIbqyPnGjdcwHFFUuOZRvl0yktEARgefbVkLRGEtTiwO4s/s640/DSCN0210.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These trees are full of birds - I wish I had a telephoto lens and DSLR. Oh well, next trip. </td></tr>
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The birds, too, are waking. Little groups of green “pigeons” fly out of one tree into another; they join with another group, who joins with another group, until thousands of girls are circling between the trees, gradually descending towards the marshy clearing where they eat. But when settle down to breakfast, angry skwawking “perroquets” (Gray Parrots, with bright red tails) come swooping in: get outta here! that’s my food! And wave upon wave of pigeons take to the sky, and flocks of parrots pass by, and they’re all circling again in a flashing green and grey dance. </div>
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It’s entrancing. I could watch for hours. And we do. </div>
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Eventually, we head back to the camp for breakfast. Cedric and Valentin make Gari and share it with us; this is our first shared meal, American and Cameroonian together. It feels right. </div>
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Afterwards, still praying for gorillas, we commence our quiet walk back to the savanna. No gorillas. Joe breaks out his special can of spam and treats us to a lovely lunch. We go to the mirador. No gorillas - though a big group colobus monkeys leaping through the trees, flying down to the ground, and hopping around the savanna like overgrown squirrels brings us joy for a while. We also see more birds, but not like the flocks of this morning. No gorillas. </div>
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I turn to my friends and the words come tumbling out. I whisper, “If I was writing this story, we wouldn’t see gorillas today but we would see them tomorrow on our way out of this park, and we would stop and watch them before they notice us and our hearts would stop too and light will break through the canopy and it would just be a magical moment. But I’m not writing this story, and I’m so scared we’re not going to see any and there’s nothing we can do about it.” I feel resigned and disappointed and sad. </div>
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And yet, very few experiences are entirely disappointing if you are determined to enjoy yourself, and we’d seen a lot of cool stuff already. When we get back to the camp Valentin mentions that he’s going to go “village fishing.” I imagine this involving a spear or a long sharpened branch being launched at fat, lazy fish swimming in the shallow creek near the house, and immediately invite myself along. So I’m a grown woman giggling and tagging along after this tall man like a four year old girl; he’s gleefully leading the way like a mischievous ten year old boy, teaching me how they dam the creek and then scoop out all the water with leaves until they catch all the fish, prawns, and crabs in the muddy bottom. “See this?” He carefully, concentratedly, holds up a crab and points at the claws. “These animals are mean and these hurt.” He snaps off the big claws and throws them in a pile with the other fish we’ve stranded. I tell him some Americans think claw meat is the best part of the crab. He picks up the dismembered claws and carefully adds them, too, to the pile—and later, after making a freshwater fish soup, picks out the claws and puts them in my bowl with a grin. </div>
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In the night, a panthère (leopard) passes in the trees above our camp. Our guardians hear her cry. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-49415312651203537522015-07-29T03:47:00.000-07:002015-07-29T03:47:00.080-07:00East of the Sun Trip Part 3 : In which we remember that excellent travel buddies make all the difference<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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After a few fleeting hours of sleep, we face a second day of travel much like the first. We were unlucky: we were at the travel agency before it even opened, we didn’t manage to get tickets on the first and only scheduled bus to Maloundoun. We were lucky: they ran a second bus and we were on it. Not that we were feeling particularly lucky to be back on a prison bus only a few hours after escaping the last one. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxy-f0t5zkgnEmseXVzLWS6PL3cjGb3TeNjVxyA2CgW0nP2c1-h7f8g6ybxFJ6sBQJRTu_-qk1O0Mq5mmYJwdxghwNyvheMAdxipdcgX56vmx4Ztbo87Vxq-pdjizDdxfH_M-rjlD7WoHi/s1600/DSCN0116.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxy-f0t5zkgnEmseXVzLWS6PL3cjGb3TeNjVxyA2CgW0nP2c1-h7f8g6ybxFJ6sBQJRTu_-qk1O0Mq5mmYJwdxghwNyvheMAdxipdcgX56vmx4Ztbo87Vxq-pdjizDdxfH_M-rjlD7WoHi/s640/DSCN0116.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kid selling hard boiled eggs at the travel agency - and rocking an Obama Change shirt.</td></tr>
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I won’t bore you with more of the same details about travel, except to note that it was clearly evident that our surroundings were becoming less “developed” and more jungly. We saw more Baka (pygmie tribe) houses, more children with sad distended bellies, and more logging trucks contributing to the stripping of this old-growth forest somewhere just out of sight. It put me in the mindset of Fern Gully, except the scary machines are winning. But for all the sad or heart wrenching views, there were others intriguing or lovely. We saw beautiful blue butterflies, we saw trees so big that Kate, Joe, and I couldn’t hug around the base of their trunks, and FINALLY around 4 pm we saw our destination: Mambele.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTsgjnlmv4XTnzguYW8jb8KggjDXLNT6mx4hJNbAnKAfm_xIJes8yLqlzvNav_i424T4hpquDAty-ZJpsy2x_8r-iSmJgb2wSHxIJggwdyMypnQ5PIHKz2135WxHZU1IO8jhMcDZbLC7ld/s1600/DSCN0124.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTsgjnlmv4XTnzguYW8jb8KggjDXLNT6mx4hJNbAnKAfm_xIJes8yLqlzvNav_i424T4hpquDAty-ZJpsy2x_8r-iSmJgb2wSHxIJggwdyMypnQ5PIHKz2135WxHZU1IO8jhMcDZbLC7ld/s400/DSCN0124.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In life, stuff goes wrong.<br />
But that only adds to the adventure. </td></tr>
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Beautiful, beautiful Mambele. A tourist attraction in its own right. Wide boulevards, interesting architecture, and welcoming inhabitants. </div>
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By which I mean dirt roads that fit four or five 18-wheelers across, little wooden shacks that I could have built myself, and Souleymanou the Burkino-Faso-an (yeah I have no idea what that nationality should be) immigrant. After we arranged and paid for our three-night jaunt into Lobéké Reserve at the WWF office—and thank goodness they were open at 4:30pm on a Saturday—we met Souley. He announced that he runs they only restaurant in town, could get us anything we need except alcohol (he’s Muslim), and makes a mean spaghetti omelette. We each ordered one and though it was definitely not the best spag-om I’ve had (like, burnt on the outside and undercooked on the inside, and I didn’t even get any tomatoes), the presentation more than made up for it. Souley is a caricaturist’s dream, too tall and thin with quite a nose jutting out of his face, and he kept up a rapid fire conversation, making pronouncements in the tones of a radio sports announcer. He’s a bundle of delightful surprises, like the fact that he came to this Wild Wild West town in the middle of freaking nowhere in Cameroon to make money. And is he? Oh yeah. I’m pretty sure he’s running the whole town and I have no doubts that he spoke the truth when he said he could get us anything. He could probably also tell us all the pregnant teenagers, who’s cheating on who, who’s shipping what at what prices, and all the rest of the town gossip. For only a small fee. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMdaPWZp7ODsbQL4qnYNWvzoGwPutWIciPrqTtLg00Vot0D8j-EaupfzXYgdL5IDKPkOxnhqtFStBMuHjHEtv2yJ1pw67ynGTA7HwOsyEm7WZ5D-EP-r5RfoexdLIgKxtSKOlXfrC7PzSI/s1600/DSCN0147.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMdaPWZp7ODsbQL4qnYNWvzoGwPutWIciPrqTtLg00Vot0D8j-EaupfzXYgdL5IDKPkOxnhqtFStBMuHjHEtv2yJ1pw67ynGTA7HwOsyEm7WZ5D-EP-r5RfoexdLIgKxtSKOlXfrC7PzSI/s640/DSCN0147.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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After dinner with the enchanting Souleymanou, we went out to the bar with our new friends from the WWF office including our porter, Valentin, the mother of his youngest child, Rose, and the bartender Natalie. (Yes, I again sang Natalie La Rose’s Somebody. I’m addicted, it’s embarrassing.)</div>
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After one beer, pleading exhaustion, we trudged off to sleep in our rented rooms at the Doctor’s auberge. </div>
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“Are you a doctor?”</div>
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“No.”</div>
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“Are you the doctor?”</div>
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“Yes.”</div>
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Alrighty then, glad we’re on the same page. For only $4 a night, we were treated to some of the best accommodations right in the center of town! These luxurious accommodations included: a room with a bed! What else could one possibly need? There is even a window, if that takes your fancy, and a door with a bent nail for a lock. Oh yes, latrine’s out back. There’s a water barrel around the side and a bucket here if you need it, yes, all included! A light? Well you can use of these solar-powered lamps. Yes yes, have a pleasant stay at the Doctor’s Auberge! </div>
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Too suspicious to touch the sheets, we slept on our sleeping bags and burned mosquito coils, falling asleep to the sound of cockroaches on the flimsy plank walls and the thumping night club down the street. </div>
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My last conscious thought before falling asleep was: are we in a prostitute hostel? </div>
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We woke up in spite of ourselves at 5am, when the night club’s music finished and the truck engines started. A new day, a new spag-om chez Souley! Miraculously, our driver was ready to take us into Lobéké not at eight, but at seven (What? A Cameroonian, early?). We were driven the last 44 kilometers along with Valentin, Frederick our guide, and Prospère our eco-guard; and man, were we comfortable with our own seats and four-wheel drive and effective shocks. Magical.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCYxwSkTeJ7BWXNe92Oy-6beXta-Z9KBge6US14JkjulgQnZMWYRluJDcLHIbyoGURagGY5ipH2Gud0EqPFzoslCyD0XEppI2Ur4w-ep1rBSfZhJb21DSqIiYV0iQuJCA_pST4Q-aXmkVE/s1600/DSCN0151.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCYxwSkTeJ7BWXNe92Oy-6beXta-Z9KBge6US14JkjulgQnZMWYRluJDcLHIbyoGURagGY5ipH2Gud0EqPFzoslCyD0XEppI2Ur4w-ep1rBSfZhJb21DSqIiYV0iQuJCA_pST4Q-aXmkVE/s400/DSCN0151.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joe, Kate, and I just before heading out.</td></tr>
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The car left us at “le Pont Cassé” (the Broken Bridge) camp, and we were finally stretching our legs in this unicorn of a place, Lobéké, wildlife preserve, old-growth forest, natural wonder and true wilderness. And I was going to see a gorilla if I had to tiptoe all 5k to the Petit Savanne (the next encampment). </div>
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On that first hike, we did not see a gorilla, but we did glimpse: two white-eyelid Mangabeys (Cercocebus albigena) and Crested Mangabeys (Cercocebus agilis), and one female antelope (Cephalophus callipygus) as well as more butterflies and birds. We also heard a frightening noise that sounded like a revving motorcycle engine but turned out to be Colobus monkeys. And yet, hours of sitting in the observation tower at Petit Savanne left us feeling disappointed. I suspect all of us were grumbling in our hearts, and feeling guilty about that grumbling.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2HJlALqo_E8JQc1BBD0uy2SS_UglE1j06aKa5ZNBEwzy4MAOORvYSyPlRRyEs0foZa6h0tBxONYSNbmYGggDVIWHRoZmPRMWtomXt6g7rtb_xibzNmalrhFm7vfHhyphenhyphen7F3eh8tX_1xoVO3/s1600/DSCN0166.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2HJlALqo_E8JQc1BBD0uy2SS_UglE1j06aKa5ZNBEwzy4MAOORvYSyPlRRyEs0foZa6h0tBxONYSNbmYGggDVIWHRoZmPRMWtomXt6g7rtb_xibzNmalrhFm7vfHhyphenhyphen7F3eh8tX_1xoVO3/s640/DSCN0166.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's a bridge.<br />
And it's not even the "broken" bridge!</td></tr>
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But upon returning to the camp, we skewered hot dogs (we splurged on them in Bertoua) on green branches over the cook fire. It was the best thing we ever tasted, and we were in good company. Joe put it best when he said, “This could be a lot more disappointing if I were with other people. I’m glad we’re together.” If you’ve ever traveled with someone wonderful or with someone terrible, you know that your travel buddies can make all the difference in an experience! </div>
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Still, especially after seeing nothing again the next morning at the observation tower, I couldn’t help but wonder. Are we even going to see anything? Where are our gorillas? Did we put ourselves through two days of hell on four wheels for nothing?</div>
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<i>To be continued...</i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-3146676814517069462015-07-28T05:00:00.000-07:002015-07-26T05:22:43.551-07:00East of the Sun Trip Part 2 : In which we find ourselves on a prison bus<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Now modern transportation is a wonderful thing. Wheels, awesome. Engines, even better. Jet plans, fantasy come true. However, of the 293 kilometers between Bertoua and Yokaduma, I’m guessing 20km are paved. So of all the modes of transportation for this trip, I’d rank them by preference in this order:</div>
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1. My own big 4x4 air conditioned SUV</div>
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2. Someone else’s big 4x4 air conditioned SUV</div>
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3. Horse</div>
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4. Sway backed donkey</div>
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5. Big horned african cow</div>
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6. My own two feet</div>
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7. Prison bus</div>
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So did we take our big SUV? Against Peace Corps regulations, and I wish I was that fancy. Perhaps we galloped along through the wilderness, just us and our horses, channelling John Grady? Against Peace Corps regulations, and I don’t know how to ride a horse. No, we were the lucky folks crammed like sardines in option number seven! </div>
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What, you might ask, is a prison bus? Good question! It is rather the size of a minivan, but instead of plush seats, it is filled with four rows of benches in the back. These benches may or may not be padded. To enable people to climb in and out of the front rows, the benches are broken up by one folding-backed seat in each row. This seat is probably not level with the bench to either side of it, and probably doesn’t leave enough room for a 5’6” individual to put their knees straight in front of them. (I would know, as that is my height and had the pleasure of a middle seat.) The driver is separated from his two (or three or four or…) front passengers by the hump of the engine which conveniently heats the whole bus and may need water poured in regularly to cool it; he’s separated from his back passengers by an intimidating metal grate. Thus the name prison bus. Not only does it feel like punishment, but passengers have the impression that they’re top-security-barred-in to protect the driver - and he probably needs the protection after a few hours in that contraption! It is made to seat twenty in the back, but as many as three more may stand in the back, and others might hang off the back on climb onto the roof with our copious quantities of luggage. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9SiP-vcZfAS9rKyDpdpyqQVbHVsil8raFtJ6_zmecVNZLBu_O7rDSVgSTO92YX4stSxLG8egQUrwvLH5YLe515RSOXqFGWP1n2Zlz8iDFIKuGI7iDxPgtTN2uBWKxizqu3YwzhMNE8LSr/s1600/DSCN0105.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9SiP-vcZfAS9rKyDpdpyqQVbHVsil8raFtJ6_zmecVNZLBu_O7rDSVgSTO92YX4stSxLG8egQUrwvLH5YLe515RSOXqFGWP1n2Zlz8iDFIKuGI7iDxPgtTN2uBWKxizqu3YwzhMNE8LSr/s640/DSCN0105.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">According to the writing, things that are forbidden include: speaking to the driver, throwing glass bottles<br />
out the windows, or vomiting.</td></tr>
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So there we were, fully loaded and finally trundling out at 7:10 am, wobbling a bit with a center of gravity far above the recommended height for rutted dirt roads. OFF ROADING! SO EXTREEEME! Having already been awake two hours, we were ready for whatever form of napping our uncomfortable seating permitted. People start to doze off, heads against windows or drooling on neighbors or repeatedly hitting their faces on the metal bars of the benches in front of them. Joe is dozing with his head drifting down, popping up, drifting down, popping up… until he faceplants on Kate’s back. (He left a dirty forehead mark and Joe and I subsequently giggled every time she turned and we caught a glimpse.) As we collectively drift off, someone’s phone rings. </div>
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It’s the omnipresent ringtone of MTN Cameroon. Everyone grabs their pockets or purses, checking if they’re the one disturbing all the other passengers. Finally, the man next the the window in row two answers. </div>
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ALLO! OUI, ALLO! </div>
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(Conversation is not possible at a normal volume. The bus is clanking and jostling down the rough road, all its parts seem loosely jointed and smack against each other, the front door doesn’t close and bangs with every bump. And besides, service sucks.) </div>
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NON, JE SUIS EN ROUTE! JE DIS QUE, JE SUIS EN ROUTE À YOKADUMA! He listens and then discusses his very personal life with either his wife or a mistress on the other side. She’s clearly pissed about something. NON IL N’Y A PAS DE PROBLEME! CA NE GENE PAS, ON RANGE CA MAINTENANT!</div>
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Now all the bus is getting involved. Oh, you’re going to fix the problem <i>right now</i>? Tell us all the problem, we’ll tell you how to fix it! Finally embarrassed, he hangs up. And promptly explains the story to all 25 strangers on board. The loud gossipy mamas all offer their own opinions on the matter, arguing with the men who dare to disagree, and now we are all best friends. Good thing, since we’ll be spending a solid block of time together. </div>
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Perhaps 20 km outside of Bertoua, we reach the first “contrôle de gendarme” - that is, a ruse in which police men check our ID cards and try to find any excuse to collect a bribe. Many drivers preemptively offer “motivation”, just to save time and trouble. We all scramble off the bus (climbing over seats, bags, chickens, and trying not to hit our heads on the low back door as I did three times before the day was over) and file past the gendarmes, brandishing our IDs one by one before crossing to the other side of the road block on foot and waiting for the others to join us. We’re waiting. And waiting. </div>
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Houston, we have a problem.</div>
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One young man doesn’t have his ID. Technically, you don’t need one if you’re under 17 and a student. Our young Romeo claimed to be a student, the equivalent of a sophomore in high school, and studying German. But when he couldn’t respond to a simple Guten tag, the gendarmes for some mysterious reason doubted his story. And then another young woman didn’t have an ID, and was traveling only with her mother without written permission from her father. They called her father and he was like WTF I DID NOT GIVE HER PERMISSION TO TRAVEL SEND HER HOME RIGHT THIS INSTANT. And they did. (I am refraining from loosing invective about how this law was created not to prevent kidnapping but to control women. Seriously infuriating.) </div>
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An hour later, we’re finally TRULY on our way, I’m sitting in the much-coveted middle folding seat, lucky lady that I am. My knees are crammed against the seat in front of me and rapidly turning a swollen reddish hue that I last saw when I tried to teach myself to snowboard on an icy mountain. In spite of the physical discomfort, I’m drinking in the lush green outside the window that is rapidly becoming more jungly. Massive heart-shaped leaves bigger than my head (and that’s pretty large) line the road. They’re mostly wrapped in coats of brown dust thrown up by the prolific traffic on this dry dirt road, and the few green leaves are so bright and new; I fought down the urge to shout at them, HIDE YOURSELF, BEFORE YOU TOO ARE SMOTHERED! But you know tomorrow they’ll be the same color as all the others. Occasional breaks in the trees offer glimpses of low, verdant hills stretching away into the sky. We pass one village after another, each tinier than the last and with poorer construction. Twenty buildings and a school give way to ten houses, seven… Concrete gives way to wood planks then to wood poles covered in red mud. Aluminum roofing gives way to dried leaves and grasses. Each one is a surprise: can a village get any smaller and still be called a village? Apparently so. Even the tiniest ones seem to have UNHR or other development agency signs posted prominently by the road.</div>
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After some kilometers in this state, the development signs fade away, the villages are even tinier, and we begin a new ritual. We pass a man standing on the side of the road, usually a Muslim Fulbe identifiable by his dress and paler skin and tall lanky build, and screech to a halt. He greets the “moto boy,” negotiates a destination and price, grumbles, and climbs on to stand in the back of the prison bus or even hang off the back. Then he sees these three foreigners and with a start exclaims, NASARA! (White person, in Fulfulde.) The moto boy explains our presence and we all settle in together. Until, a few kilometers later — NASARA! </div>
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By the time we reach Batouri, the former regional capital and 90km into our trip, we are still Nasara, but we are <i>their</i> Nasara and no one else is permitted to mess with us. </div>
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At this point, it is already noon, so everyone hopped off to eat (Christians) or wash and pray (Muslims). Two young men commence extensive mechanical work on the bus, including rotating all the tires and changing the heigh of the axel… Joe, Kate, and I exchange worried looks that ask, Did you know something was wrong with our bus? Are we even going to make it there? How long until we leave Batouri? </div>
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We have so much farther to go, and the road is only getting worse. </div>
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But we do finally leave Batouri, only to be immediately stopped at another control (the 2nd of many, I lost count), continue for less than an hour, and stop again for prayer. It’s still Ramadan, and our driver is Muslim, so he hasn’t eaten since daybreak, which is comforting. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sharing the road with logging trucks & Maersk shipping containers</td></tr>
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At this point, I have reached a stage of intense physical discomfort which I always think I should be able to transcend and enter my zen place. But either I don’t have transcendence in me or I’m too tied to my body, because I never quite manage to forget the pain of my knees knocking against the seat in front, the seat digging into my back, the sweat of myself and my neighbors… And yet I also revisit a theory I pondered at the beginning of my Peace Corps service, that physical discomfort intensifies the physical beauty surrounding me, or at least my appreciation of it. (Anyone else ever have this experience? Many people have added this to the list of evidence that I am indeed crazy.) </div>
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Hours after that point, it’s all a blur. Jungle. Green. Tiny Village. Dust and Green. Jungly green dusty village. On and on. Weird sights occasionally break through my reverie, like a sudden break in the trees to see a green field full of giant termite mounds shaped like mushrooms. Alice in wonderland-y. Kate, Joe, and I were all shocked out of our trances when we paced through a beautiful, large town named Ndelele with a large whitewashed Catholic hospital and a church with REAL STAINED GLASS! Huh? Who put that there? </div>
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Another town - Yola. (Insert #yolo jokes here.) </div>
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Around six hours later at 6pm, we stop in what is basically a truck stop pass-on-through town called Gari Gombo. This is a funny name because Gari is a corn or rice-based sugary drink popular during Ramadan, and Gombo is a soup or sauce made primarily from boiled down okra. It was time for breaking fast, so we stopped for thirty or forty minutes and everyone ate. We found Gari, but had no luck finding Gombo. None of the Cameroonians were as amused by the name as we were, but then we Americans find all sorts of “normal” things bizarre. When we finally leave again, night has fallen fully and we still have some distance to our destination. Only two hours, someone assures us! </div>
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Except that two hours later, our prison bus has slid on the slick muddy road - right into the ditch on the side. For one heart-stopping moment, we all feel the bus tilt - sharp - right… Until it settles at a stomach lurching angle. <i>We didn’t flip, we didn’t flip, we didn’t flip</i>: this is the mantra I repeat over and over again in my head (or was it out loud) as I try to slow my racing heart. The passengers collectively decide, SCREW THIS! You get us out of this ditch while we wait back there! </div>
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We were lucky. A kind 18-wheeler truck driver stopped and pulled us out with a handy chain someone has. Engines gunning, the bus lurches out of the ditch on the right side of the road, only to swerve hard left and almost fall in the left ditch. Finally, the driver regains control - and we all pile back in. What other choice do we have? Sleep on the road? </div>
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Many people sleep in the full dark. I can’t (<i>we didn’t flip, we didn’t flip</i>) and time passes as slowly as the bus is driving. At this point, I’m happy to have the driver advance at a crawl, if it keeps us out of trouble. <i>L’essentiel, c’est d’arriver.</i> Eventually… we do arrive. It’s 11:05, and we’re all exhausted. </div>
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We collect our bags from the roof of the bus and scramble drowsily onto waiting motorcycles, who are all fighting over who gets to carry the Nasara. At Hotel Elephant, we enjoy a last day of running water before tumbling into a bed and tucking the mosquito net around us… Happy Fourth of July, everyone! Alarm’s set for five! </div>
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Snores. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-74503196715750696762015-07-27T05:00:00.000-07:002015-07-27T05:00:11.852-07:00East of the Sun Trip Part 1 : In which we plan a trip before a Trip<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Before I start this story, I want to add a note... I had written this out as a five part story so that it wouldn't drag on and on and on in one blog post. But, T.I.A., internet and power are unreliable and when one's available the other isn't (yeah I don't understand either how there's enough power for the wifi box but not to charge my computer.) So I'm uploading what I can now, and the rest will have to wait! Fight on :) /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/>></div>
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As I approach the end of my two year Peace Corps service, it’s not all about wrapping up projects, selling/packing/gifting my impressive quantity of accumulated stuff, and saying tearful goodbyes. That’s the hard side.</div>
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The fun side is the Close Of Service or “COS” trip that Kate and I have been planning for months now. We’re constantly whatsapp-ing each other Lonely Planet articles and book suggestions, building our pinterest board, or day dreaming. </div>
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It’s a lovely pastime, trip planning - but it was still a ways off. Six months out, you can only discuss the winery options in Bulgaria and Macedonia so many times, or speculate about Hungarian baths and paprika-laden cuisine, or… </div>
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So we planned a trip before The Trip. </div>
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I wanted to visit the my last (open aka safe-isn) region of Cameroon, the East, and both of us wanted to see some exotic wildlife. To cross these items of our Peace Corps fuckit - ah, excuse me, bucket - lists, we planned a trip to Lobéké Wildlife Reserve. Lobeke is a nature preserve spanning three countries (Cameroon, Central African Republic, and Congo) and run by the WWF. It is also one of the last places where visitors have the opportunity to see wildlife like Western Lowland Gorillas, forest elephants, various monkeys, and a plethora of birds without the menace of Boko Haram. We can’t visit Rumsiki or Waza, so we decided to do whatever it took to get to Lobeke.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzFmonj9oksvEi7l2H7IXEaQp5WHbAurLF9KsUYPx54gUeT3YiKB9AK1AUTKI5p0YSBF1wNRAQd-vDyCd7ChRigVvDrmzIqtHAusIYRqTTAeuHawifmUJ2safoVFVMafWOi1auPnd8qyOH/s1600/DSCN0082.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzFmonj9oksvEi7l2H7IXEaQp5WHbAurLF9KsUYPx54gUeT3YiKB9AK1AUTKI5p0YSBF1wNRAQd-vDyCd7ChRigVvDrmzIqtHAusIYRqTTAeuHawifmUJ2safoVFVMafWOi1auPnd8qyOH/s640/DSCN0082.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kate's butcher friend, Abubacar, who just smashed a cow head to pieces and<br />
is now showing us the bits of teeth left.</td></tr>
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I don’t think any of us knew what we were getting ourselves into. </div>
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If all went according to plan: Joe (another PCV friend) and I would take two days to travel to Bertoua where we would meet Kate and stay with her for two days’ relaxation. Then we’d travel for two days: Bertoua to Yokaduma (293 km), Yoka to Mambélé (100-ish km) aka middle of NOWHERE where the WWF office is located. WWF staff would drive us the last 40k into the park on the third day, provide a guide and a guard to keep us out of trouble. We’d spend three nights camping in the rainforest OR AS MANY DAYS AND NIGHTS AS IT TOOK TO SEE GORILLAS (I was adamant but alone on this point) before hitching back the way we came. Of course, in Cameroon, nothing works according to plan. </div>
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It’s hard to explain how hard it is to travel in Cameroon unless you’ve already experienced it… For instance, it’s easy to travel to Yaoundé, the capital. All I have to do is catch a bush taxi (a four door, normal-sized car that is regularly filled with 7 passengers plus the driver) to Bafoussam, take a city taxi (just like a bush taxi except it’s painted yellow) to the opposite end of the city, select one of the many travel agencies, buy a ticket with your ID card, convince someone to stow your luggage on the bus or its roof, ride said bus (no on-board toilet or meal options) for five to six hours to reach the capital, and then take another taxi to your destination within the city. Joe and I did it together, and all the roads are paved, and it was nice and easy. Easy peasy lemon squeezey. </div>
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But the East is not like the West. Roads are not paved; infrastructure is spotty at best. Travel isn’t so easy peasy. We were about to discover just how easy that trip to Yaoundé really is. After a stop for burgers and ice cream at Kazoo (priorities) and a very similar six hour bus ride to Bertoua, the regional capital of the East, the real adventurous travel would begin… </div>
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But first, a breather in Bertoua. It’s a city, and I thought it would be no different from Bafoussam. Think again Rebecca! It might have the same amenities and same buildings, but the majority is Muslim and speaks Fulfulde. (Joe kept cracking up our moto drivers by having casual conversations in Fulfulde, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire Fulfulde-speaking benskinneur* population of Bertoua knows there’s a “white man” who speaks their language by now.) As it is currently Ramadan, very little was open during the day, but the markets and restaurants blossomed as the sun dipped below the horizon and the lights popped on. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We all got our hair did. Joe wasn't as pleased as this photo implies. Peer pressure!!</td></tr>
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No travel is without its crazy characters, bizarre experiences, and hilarities. This one would prove to be no exception. Our little group’s odd PCV characteristics didn’t help: some we can’t change, like our skin color, but some are habits we’ve picked up, like pretending we are 100% Cameroonian or making goofy faces at little kids. </div>
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Favorite bizarre moment? Kate and I were both on the back of a motorcycle going to the bar. Joe was on another moto ahead of us, and the lights were just starting to come on at the end of the day - almost time to break the Ramadan fast. We were singing Natalie La Rose’s Somebody which we had just watched on Trace Urban (which is everything that MTV should be, music videos 24/7). We were singing at the top of our lungs of course, to be heard over the windy motorcycle ride, and fist pumping for “shots shots shots shots!” (And no, we had not had anything other than water to drink at this point.) Our moto driver was very amused by this, and not speaking English, he asked what we were singing. This resulted in a half French, half miming explanation of a shot. Miraculously, since he was (hopefully) looking where he was driving and could not possibly have seen my acting out a shot, he understood and cracked up! He gave us the Fulfuldé word for a shot (which I promptly filed away in my brain somewhere safe, never to be found again). Then he started doing a wiggle-bounce-dance while giggling that shots make your head tuuuuuurn. But picture the little moto meant for one, but burdened with two American women in helmets behind a beanpole of a brown Fulbe man… he was basically sitting on my lap to drive the thing. And now he was dancing and giggling about shots. Free lap dance from a fasting benskinneur? Perfect start to any evening out on the town! </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeHKYdRsqaWNgzQkpCiRq4wAvhKYYX7KrSNfawhBpFwmVSbYDT9r2fNTV6_15gCxAcLB5e6fipP3qqhY3UyYqRK1_5vPgtW6RjIxY1IqUJU6LfRRlAW3Hp5Ist7WJNyTSJFzXIRJhJOGmU/s1600/DSCN0103.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeHKYdRsqaWNgzQkpCiRq4wAvhKYYX7KrSNfawhBpFwmVSbYDT9r2fNTV6_15gCxAcLB5e6fipP3qqhY3UyYqRK1_5vPgtW6RjIxY1IqUJU6LfRRlAW3Hp5Ist7WJNyTSJFzXIRJhJOGmU/s640/DSCN0103.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rise and shine!</td></tr>
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On July 3rd, our wolf pack of three (and yes, in addition to top 40s, I sang a lot of the Hangover soundtrack on this trip, because why not?) took a deep breath and dragged ourselves blearily out of the house in the 5am semi-darkness, laden with backpacking equipment and fingers crossed with hope that we would arrive in Yokaduma under 14 hours later. </div>
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Turns out, we should have crossed our toes too. </div>
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TO BE CONTINUED. </div>
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*slang for motorcycle driver</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-29388147067019183532015-06-30T08:54:00.001-07:002015-06-30T08:54:50.599-07:00Summertime Funness : Camp Fortes 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It was just March, and now May’s gone,
and June has almost run its course as well. I keep thinking, time to update my
blog! But I sit down at my computer and the words just don’t come. How to say
all these rushing thoughts, feelings, insights, and impressions - they are here
one moment, gone the next, like a movie you’ve never seen before playing on
fast forward. Nevertheless, here I am, again, writing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">In fewer than two months I will no longer
be in Cameroon, no longer be in Peace Corps. That’s good, and that’s bad. Happy
& sad. Salt & pepper. Bitter & sweet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">One last big accomplishment: Camp Fortes
2015 was a great success! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">(Excuse me for a moment while I go check
out what my neighbor, friend, and big sister Carine is cooking downstairs.
Smells tempting.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Okay back to the keyboard. (It was ripe
banana beignets, mmm.) Camp! Yay!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It was indeed a great success - not
without challenges popping up, not without the normal drama between a bunch of
pubescent girls - but a success nonetheless, and one that wouldn’t have been
possible without YOU, friends and family who donated to RIDEV and made it
happen. I cannot say thank you enough, RIDEV cannot say thank you enough, and
the girls cannot say thank you enough. Still - THANK YOU!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Twenty six young women participated this
year, including three formerly trained peer educators. They learned life skills
like communication and decision making. They learned about male and female
anatomy and how a baby is made and how to NOT make a baby if you don’t want to.
They learned about sexual violence and sexually transmitted infections and
HIV/AIDS and strategies to protect themselves from them (including abstinence).
They learned about stigma and the pain it causes others. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Listening attentively before starting an activity.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmYVRnKhjZXgWc62iMwbDemS0jrM-RziD2ciWcZlR35fDhIOv_OeUq_TaZJQuSuFVjAvNr-A04Kki4nigAHhzGkIgIQ9VXr_FYDkxw4QWWsphy-aCiPPGIEogbgZjiB6cNbi1Q-sSlXOmc/s1600/DSCN9940.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmYVRnKhjZXgWc62iMwbDemS0jrM-RziD2ciWcZlR35fDhIOv_OeUq_TaZJQuSuFVjAvNr-A04Kki4nigAHhzGkIgIQ9VXr_FYDkxw4QWWsphy-aCiPPGIEogbgZjiB6cNbi1Q-sSlXOmc/s400/DSCN9940.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">C'est Madame Rebecca!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Those are the things we taught in
lessons. But they also learned other, more subtle things - they met girls their
own age who have had totally different experiences from them, though they’re
separated by only a few kilometers. The city girls learned how different
village life and education are, and vice versa. They made new friends. They
learned how to take care of themselves without being under the watchful eye of
Mama or Tata (Aunty) or Grandma. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3kUvxY6fS6bBqcaZnhPBHqb59GSk1jak6uIDDbQOe7tii3p2Gfzcd9CRWywy9vBGdQq83sOmIslCmh6tb0j4ZYd2VQ0-mt4OxkGiMhhVYz3kYmmnZz7HAgdC7AEzQkkW6Uh6Wb8ujUYw4/s1600/DSCN9946.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3kUvxY6fS6bBqcaZnhPBHqb59GSk1jak6uIDDbQOe7tii3p2Gfzcd9CRWywy9vBGdQq83sOmIslCmh6tb0j4ZYd2VQ0-mt4OxkGiMhhVYz3kYmmnZz7HAgdC7AEzQkkW6Uh6Wb8ujUYw4/s400/DSCN9946.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What would slumber camp be without some hair styling? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRAgEiSTxiBMGBQDfc5x1eBb01b_lP4ILbpC1-l0odLiFJeFP4OkGgj_blC1fuo2LrNFISiwtFLmR3yF_WtZ9AIveQMmsSi0YNNR_ki3rg2PZHabCWWBh6tiIw33ZoDUmPL7RB-vWAE1ZF/s1600/DSCN9973.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRAgEiSTxiBMGBQDfc5x1eBb01b_lP4ILbpC1-l0odLiFJeFP4OkGgj_blC1fuo2LrNFISiwtFLmR3yF_WtZ9AIveQMmsSi0YNNR_ki3rg2PZHabCWWBh6tiIw33ZoDUmPL7RB-vWAE1ZF/s400/DSCN9973.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Playing musical chairs between classes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_g1Gciz1TNFGdolYhmO0kZd2WUN53IMnHMEjdL1hKUGivuS9tdEmLC0V7CbH3T0_mtrpypSUIvu4MQe4yrWWKwAfNFYKU4GaB0pyQiZF3ipz5KcyWdX-85gtNYF6M7RiqzR2zppVvn53M/s1600/IMG_0189.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_g1Gciz1TNFGdolYhmO0kZd2WUN53IMnHMEjdL1hKUGivuS9tdEmLC0V7CbH3T0_mtrpypSUIvu4MQe4yrWWKwAfNFYKU4GaB0pyQiZF3ipz5KcyWdX-85gtNYF6M7RiqzR2zppVvn53M/s400/IMG_0189.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friday night bonfire</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By the end of camp, they all learned
something from the lessons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.5in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;">•<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">100%
of the girls stated that they felt capable of protecting themselves from HIV.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.5in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;">•<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">100%
could correctly demonstrate and explain the steps of using a male condom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.5in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;">•<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">95%
stated that they were self-confident.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.5in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;">•<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">95%
felt capable of talking to others about methods of protection against HIV and
early pregnancy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.5in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;">•<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Over
50% improved in explaining effecting methods of Family Planning and its
advantages; defining “stigma”; and naming methods to prevent transmission of HIV.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK5wkmnBLC376oOJNg7yggR_RORJJ_hcDmnr7j3r8BVQytjXV-UwHjMu44IiY1mtVleNPu1ASgPj6OAT9JBd4Fgxb5vBKas-KNI-5yhPgOpd25O7DdMlvS7XTFGWbP7PjRbmS903SScPy5/s1600/DSCN9987.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK5wkmnBLC376oOJNg7yggR_RORJJ_hcDmnr7j3r8BVQytjXV-UwHjMu44IiY1mtVleNPu1ASgPj6OAT9JBd4Fgxb5vBKas-KNI-5yhPgOpd25O7DdMlvS7XTFGWbP7PjRbmS903SScPy5/s400/DSCN9987.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The girls get bored if we sit around lecturing them<br />too long - so we get them up and moving with<br />lots of activities!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Perhaps most stunningly (to everyone else
if not to me!), two students got perfect scores on the post-test — including
the 12 year old student from Bansoa who everyone said was too little to
understand or learn or be a peer educator. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By the end of camp, they all also learned
a bit of yoga, found new and lasting friendships, and made memories that will
stay with them for a lifetime. There were many tears upon parting — even for
their annoying, disciplinarian, self-declared dictator teacher (that would be
me). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Many of my students travel during the
long school break. They stay with family in Douala or Yaoundé, experiencing
city life and learning other family traditions or skills. Since I leave in
mid-August, before the “rentrée scolaire,” that means I have already seen most
of them for the last time. We say goodbyes, and there are tears, but I hold on
to a smile and tell them:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“There will always be people in our lives
that come in and then must go. That doesn’t mean the person forgets us or does
not love us. I have to leave, but I will think of you often and you will always
be in my heart.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I have this memory of a tall, skinny,
gray haired lady who arrived during some health class during middle school at
NCS, ostensibly to teach us about love. It turned out to be a lecture on
abstinence. First she opened a treasure chest and out popped snakes. I don’t
remember what that was supposed to represent. Then came a red paper heart,
which she ripped and handed away to each man she had sex with and then was hurt
by, ripping in half and in half again until she had only a tiny piece of her
heart left because she was a slut and all men are scheming heart breakers, or
some such logic. (I also distinctly remember feeling sorry for her children.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This experience of saying goodbye over
and over again to people who have touched me makes me think that rip our red
paper heart and give away bits to every person we love and then leave behind.
The difference is, that they give us bits of their own heart in return. In the guise
of girls’ club and Camp Fortes, I have loved these young women, taught them
what I know about life and love and looking to the future. Now I have to let
them try on their own, and go back to my own country; but I am leaving a piece
of myself with them, and I will carry them with me.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">“True love in this differs from gold and clay / That to divide is not to take away.” - Percy Blysshe Shelley</span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidDB7DTZpAV_4hSA_YL44wqRRA7uguxx4L4s2jkuNNOtbMI2lMXzfeT61PvDSLsm4WJkfejIn6I9V1InZu7CezDzostZjPXJsHYkQStvTO0G8n8f6EHKXn6sXKH7d0-7cGI-pKCjjoViQE/s1600/DSCN0017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidDB7DTZpAV_4hSA_YL44wqRRA7uguxx4L4s2jkuNNOtbMI2lMXzfeT61PvDSLsm4WJkfejIn6I9V1InZu7CezDzostZjPXJsHYkQStvTO0G8n8f6EHKXn6sXKH7d0-7cGI-pKCjjoViQE/s400/DSCN0017.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Family photo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqjxG0dZEPZYS-6iBBPRlb907i0m4d74TRw0_UWiDyCsLEQiW14xypg_nwgf0uVBTAgYVWpIdkOWRr32i_ALqBcu8JCBLZOsz40rDnaVPtrwZwIxc2fkxB1lPGplhJK2-DI2mByTjOjiCJ/s1600/DSCN0026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqjxG0dZEPZYS-6iBBPRlb907i0m4d74TRw0_UWiDyCsLEQiW14xypg_nwgf0uVBTAgYVWpIdkOWRr32i_ALqBcu8JCBLZOsz40rDnaVPtrwZwIxc2fkxB1lPGplhJK2-DI2mByTjOjiCJ/s400/DSCN0026.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strong teachers!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLb9_9gCPotb9WsjGK-X9HMJmNhdzsKlyuKPpVdVGnHOlAGCePHxE_rWAgf9CJxKCE4dHTI6IJsninNkP4wklo7wR8Avmbe3ys3-vt4s_8Gygh_HFlIH6fOIs7GApSHY5nb7FblbwSlN35/s1600/DSCN0039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLb9_9gCPotb9WsjGK-X9HMJmNhdzsKlyuKPpVdVGnHOlAGCePHxE_rWAgf9CJxKCE4dHTI6IJsninNkP4wklo7wR8Avmbe3ys3-vt4s_8Gygh_HFlIH6fOIs7GApSHY5nb7FblbwSlN35/s400/DSCN0039.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Audience at the final ceremony.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCxHyP6esCcecKPILvQkSyk6IaJYgv021vQMB3LxGxjmwVDk4Fmd87oacB0Aiuppa3NHUmfOkUK1wrwC1PG8cLFjB6cm34Q_chhfd44rWNFllH6AKHLKk_9WCmxDHkhH5YQctnnd089dWS/s1600/DSCN9967.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCxHyP6esCcecKPILvQkSyk6IaJYgv021vQMB3LxGxjmwVDk4Fmd87oacB0Aiuppa3NHUmfOkUK1wrwC1PG8cLFjB6cm34Q_chhfd44rWNFllH6AKHLKk_9WCmxDHkhH5YQctnnd089dWS/s400/DSCN9967.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our lovely cooks</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2-W5ygEaCSBmmOnLQhlI6z3DvcRdUkW7jRySNK0fjZn949DqorfbasXBz-R6j7-KoAIoJxZEtZ_TsKT8VHenG0qSmBr3GgyFKS0ZBf2jK8cSdMm4jwui36o5qTSrMaVWaGixz4kHgsEL/s1600/IMG_0206.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2-W5ygEaCSBmmOnLQhlI6z3DvcRdUkW7jRySNK0fjZn949DqorfbasXBz-R6j7-KoAIoJxZEtZ_TsKT8VHenG0qSmBr3GgyFKS0ZBf2jK8cSdMm4jwui36o5qTSrMaVWaGixz4kHgsEL/s640/IMG_0206.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The teachers at the bonfire: Alec, me, Leslie, Anne, Lara, and Danielle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-4718391229560890882015-06-11T06:58:00.002-07:002015-06-11T07:01:13.741-07:00Artsy Fartsy Time<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Peace Corps: The hardest job you’ll ever
love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">That’s what they say. Sometimes it just
feels like the hardest job ever. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But in moments when you’re least
expecting it, it feels so incredibly worthwhile and rewarding.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Tuesday is art day. Danielle and I teach
four art classes to elementary school students at Kinders House de Banock. The
classes can be as big as 54 students, and two of them are directly following
recess periods - so the kiddos can get a little crazy. It’s exhausting and
sometimes I don’t enjoy it very much especially when it feels like they’re
ungrateful little brats. Madame, give me this! Madame, I want that! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But other times… Today, working with the
oldest class, we just handed out water colors and paint brushes, scissors and
construction paper. And we let them go crazy - in the best way. In the ensuing
near-silent thirty minutes, they painted flowers and soccer fields and circles
and stripes, they cut out lions and birds and footballers, and they created
some beautiful things. This might not sound impressive, but considering that
they’ve never had an art class or touched watercolors before this school year,
it was pretty wonderful. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMe2U6GWa_L1rD7iRz0cuGblos0sw6zsxP0SaWxJ8TzlXTZCekuOOI7tl03V4uAmhP5__rv8sYKEYCqxfw8qP-qKjIECj_YpK9h0aeOShI-29kKM664O3fJL8sDDuPrEqM9eZ6__t70uJe/s1600/DSCN9422.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMe2U6GWa_L1rD7iRz0cuGblos0sw6zsxP0SaWxJ8TzlXTZCekuOOI7tl03V4uAmhP5__rv8sYKEYCqxfw8qP-qKjIECj_YpK9h0aeOShI-29kKM664O3fJL8sDDuPrEqM9eZ6__t70uJe/s400/DSCN9422.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So many colors! So much fun!</td></tr>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">These kids have come so far in terms of
behavior and creativity. They used to just stare at blank paper and ask, Madame
what should I do? Draw what? Where? How big? Or they just copied their
neighbors, who just copied us. Now they fill pages with their own colorful
ideas. Every class used to be a fight, a battle of wills. Now Danielle and I
are barely necessary - and I wouldn’t have it any other way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmeeQw-ni7oIqD9Dzo-T0xPzncu1iloQyIfmG5oSaop8YmeKRupWLl18pBsPpE2rPkLTKZMp4VEJCPMVPqEvYp5-buQKpey7IPpGckHXeA9m-ppAif-D4MGUXREzxDGx4F0OxHNRxtf_7N/s1600/DSCN8563.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmeeQw-ni7oIqD9Dzo-T0xPzncu1iloQyIfmG5oSaop8YmeKRupWLl18pBsPpE2rPkLTKZMp4VEJCPMVPqEvYp5-buQKpey7IPpGckHXeA9m-ppAif-D4MGUXREzxDGx4F0OxHNRxtf_7N/s320/DSCN8563.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at that smile.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The art classes have also brought us so
much laughter from the antics of children given freedom and safe spaces to
express themselves. Since day one, we have said over and over - “There are no
mistakes in art. We do not criticize in art class. There is no right or wrong.”
That has been the best decision. Late in the school year, we decided to
introduce them to poetry. With the younger classes, we hung up poems around the
room and told them to copy one and draw a picture about what the poem means to
them. One of them copied a poem about a stream and then drew a picture of a
lion colored in like the Cameroonian flag. If that poem says to them “Cameroon
flag lion,” who am I to say otherwise? With the older classes, we started them
off writing their own acrostic poems with their names to say something about
themselves Nino wrote my favorite: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">N</span></b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">igeria Nigeria<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I</span></b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">mmeuble Apartment
building <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">N</span></b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">ous We<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">O</span></b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">ignon Onion
(spelled wrong)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Their teacher came up to me after my last
class and told me: “<i>Du courage</i>. I want to thank you for what you’re
doing. The parents see what their kids are doing. These kids are great artists.
You might not have been able to give this school everything it needs, but you
are so willing. You give all of yourself. Thank you.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Between those kids, those laughs, and
those words - so worth it. </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN_6vvGjYkJtUf2Hv1vNPtUc2hsryxku9ri-jPKd-5TXcp_Mi_nz1IOWZ4OfZRiI3g88jWeN7s1PwiAqt8aj74FFZU3w5ll2ikjFAFHX_bVyLKY2xds-H5ulhJrQz7S3POAEwM2IZ3G5d2/s1600/DSCN9485.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN_6vvGjYkJtUf2Hv1vNPtUc2hsryxku9ri-jPKd-5TXcp_Mi_nz1IOWZ4OfZRiI3g88jWeN7s1PwiAqt8aj74FFZU3w5ll2ikjFAFHX_bVyLKY2xds-H5ulhJrQz7S3POAEwM2IZ3G5d2/s400/DSCN9485.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Showing off our beautiful watercolor collages at school.</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-54324745998802664022015-05-25T08:08:00.001-07:002015-05-29T08:46:51.326-07:00Help me and my community! <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Hi friends, family, readers, and strangers who happen to be stalking my blog! I'm writing today not to tell you about how I'm counting down until my COS date (12 weeks) or about my trip home (it was awesome), but to ask a favor.<br />
<br />
I'm planning a girl's summer camp with two other PCVs - Danielle and Lara - as well as our host organization RIDEV and an elementary school that D and I work at. This will be its third year in existence, and the last two have been great successes. During the camp, we train 20 to 25 high school girls in sexual reproductive health, general health, and life skills (decision making, goal setting, communication, etc.) and in how to be peer educators. The goal is for them to take what they learn and teach it to their high school and neighborhood friends, helping reduce HIV and STI transmission as well as the early pregnancy rate - which is way too high.<br />
<br />
The problem is that this year, we were told that PEPFAR would no longer fund the camp, as it was not intended to be an annual funding source. So we're still struggling to put together the money to make this camp happen.<br />
<br />
If you want to read more about last year's camp, check out <a href="http://beckyslifeuncaged.blogspot.com/2014/07/a-gaggle-of-giggling-girls.html" target="_blank">this blog post</a> that I wrote last July. It was a fantastic experience, definitely my favorite project that I have done in country. Not because its a big undertaking and thus was so satisfying, but because the participants loved it and thought they learned so much from it. Maybe all teachers will identify with this, but I live for the moment a class-clown student tells me that I have totally changed her outlook on learning and her ability to communicate with others. #girlsempowerment #whoruntheworld? #girls<br />
<br />
If you've got more than you know what to do with or just more than you need and would like to make a Cameroonian girl's day, we would love it if you helped us out by donating. The camp costs about $1500.00 and every bit helps! If you want to know more about the camp or where the money goes, feel free to leave a comment here to email me. And if, miracle of miracles, we raise more than we need, it will go into RIDEV's account for next year's event. To donate, you can scroll to the bottom of this blog post, where there is a widget into which you can input your information and donate directly from there. Thank you in advance :)<br />
<br />
<div id="ammadoGivingWidget"></div><script type="text/javascript">var s = document.createElement('script'); s.type='text/javascript'; s.async=true;s.src='https://www.ammado.com/nonprofit/122900/givingwidget/embed.js?renderTo=ammadoGivingWidget';var f = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; f.parentNode.insertBefore(s, f);</script><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-37535493158435320232015-03-16T11:21:00.001-07:002015-03-16T11:21:40.148-07:00The Highs and Lows of Travel in Cameroon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Or, To Kribi and Back Again</span></div>
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While in the second of two five-hour buses required to travel from Bansoa, West Cameroon to Kribi, South Cameroon (not counting the taxis to Bafoussam, across Bafoussam, or across Yaoundé), I was pondering the joys of traveling. In my mind, I attempted to grade the delightful qualities of these public transportation mini-buses, commonly called "coasters." But even three hours into the trip I had not decided on a ranking because that implies that some characteristics are better or worse than others, and yet they are all so excellent! Here are a few examples, in no particular order of course.</div>
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<b>1. Toasty Warmth</b></div>
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Though I have never participated in this "hot yoga" phenomenon, I'm willing to bet it has nothing on a 25-seat coaster packed with 40 steamy adults and their various offspring. Especially when all the windows are firmly shut lest a wool-wrapped and snugly-capped baby catch pneumonia from that light breeze stirring the sunny, mid-80s, and humid weather of the center region. Think of all the benefits of that sweating! All the toxins and free radicals we are releasing from our pores! All the weight we are losing! Cheaper than a one hour session of bikram yoga and five times as long! Most excellent. </div>
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<b>2. Intriguing Scent</b></div>
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With the image above firmly in mind, I'm sure you can imagine the delightful aroma filling this bus. I can't compare it with the gym room post-hot-yoga, but I can tell you that the YMCA group workout room smells a bit similarly after a Spin class and Bodypump class go back to back. Except that mixed into the smell exuding from forty sweating adults is smoked fish and <i>baton de manioc</i> (which itself smells something like sourdough starter mixed with two day old socks). Someone should bottle this scent, title it <i>Sous le Soleil Africain</i> and sell it as the next French <i>haute</i> <i>couture</i> (I believe that is pronouced "hot cul-toor") perfume. In addition to this brilliant business idea, we are all benefiting from inhaling each others' pheromones, probably falling in love left and right. Nothing is more romantic than a lightly perfumed coaster ride! </div>
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<b>3. Titillating Music</b></div>
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I don't know how much you know about Cameroonian music. As you are probably not Cameroonian, the answer is probably "not much." Now, there is a lot of crummy Cameroonian and Nigerian music that just makes you want to get up and dance - check out Coco Argentée or P-Square or X Maleya - but then there's a lot of truly inspirational and catchy music. Sometimes it's in local languages! Sometimes it's questionably downloaded with a DJ inserting unintelligible commentary and shout-outs with the mike on max echo. Sometimes it's an educational pop song whose sing-along chorus is "Roads don't kill people, people kill people when they make mistakes! Whether you're in a car, walking, or riding a moto, be prudent!" Everyone together now. Truly inspiring! The best is when it's a mix of all the above, played loud enough to vibrate the seats loose from where they are bolted into the floor. Eight a.m. party bus, at no extra charge! </div>
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<b>4. Cozy Comfort</b></div>
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Have you heard of African solidarity? It's so wonderful. Who needs personal space when you could serve as your neighbor's pillow, arm rest, ottoman, and/or elbow depository? Personally, I was seated with three other adults and one restless (and surprisingly ugly) one-year-old in a row comprised of two proper seats and a makeshift aisle seat. Oh, and there was that really really short guy curled up in a ball on floor under the window, so the police wouldn't stop us and fine the driver at any of the 9 checkpoints we stopped at en route. Honestly, it's a mystery to me why we travel the way we do in America when we could all enjoy the innumerable benefits of group travel. Not only does it teach patience and encourage physical flexibility, it also saves money and gas. Save the planet! Never feel alone! Yay! </div>
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The only things missing from this trip were a small child vomiting on the floor (or their mom or their neighbor) and everyone being shooed off the bus for a thirty minute long id check that only results in gendarmes getting some "beer money" (wink wink). </div>
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<b>The Part About Kribi</b></div>
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With all these high points, you're probably wondering how Kribi could live up to the joy of the trip to arrive there. Good question. I tried to keep my expectations reasonable. With our own private cove on the luxuriously warm Atlantic ocean, surrounded by palm trees and fun-to-climb rocks, a free mansion to stay in (complete with running water, fridge, and air conditioning), the best fish I've ever tasted, and so much sunshine… It was really pretty disappointing. I probably won't go back. In two weeks. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-73762742700572419112015-03-04T08:30:00.000-08:002015-03-04T08:30:01.298-08:00February is for Parties and Death<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It's one of those mid-February days, when the rainy season isn't supposed to start for another month but the afternoons are already starting to become gray and threatening and windy. When everyone is rushing to fit in their wedding or wake or burial or funeral or other big event. When I simply cannot get any work done over the weekends because I'm busy attending all said events (and don't think I'm complaining, because I'd definitely rather be out with my friends). Two things seem omnipresent by the end of dry season: parties and death. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAHBDn_qEN88Xotar-Tznv9Gsqqsh6Y12JhX8EQp8DN0QnTRPFFxeb-co9zfuW5BGziLfPKqi_BToqpnZf5szG-oVUyfsb-GSi3gEDrhHqyr6sqpNhXsRfbJa53X8ID9AsbRNNZeIBTXXo/s1600/DSCN8665.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAHBDn_qEN88Xotar-Tznv9Gsqqsh6Y12JhX8EQp8DN0QnTRPFFxeb-co9zfuW5BGziLfPKqi_BToqpnZf5szG-oVUyfsb-GSi3gEDrhHqyr6sqpNhXsRfbJa53X8ID9AsbRNNZeIBTXXo/s1600/DSCN8665.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiitmwLerNVZkA0msNwJuWwX7xcHlsvn1cNUnH6-tpHKKXGi7mVqBt2eSnoKujf_NVnwGYN7ZSoe53GRnCemClYMPOpk87fouL6C212Zqtuic_RJsuEA2oH38ZJjPArjStLz_beT97K9UB4/s1600/DSCN8657.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiitmwLerNVZkA0msNwJuWwX7xcHlsvn1cNUnH6-tpHKKXGi7mVqBt2eSnoKujf_NVnwGYN7ZSoe53GRnCemClYMPOpk87fouL6C212Zqtuic_RJsuEA2oH38ZJjPArjStLz_beT97K9UB4/s1600/DSCN8657.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friends, family, food, drank.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Before I came to Cameroon, one of my many worries was how I would deal with death. I had this idea that people die every day in Africa and that it would be really emotionally draining. And in some ways that is true, but in some ways it's an exaggeration, and death is merely a part of the circle of life. </div>
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So in these days when everyone holds their breath and watches the sky for rain, we also spend a lot of time mourning death and celebrating life. What better time than the end of dry season, when the majority of the plant life is dying of thirst but we know that the rain will soon come to make everything fertile again? </div>
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Death rites are so interesting here in the Bamileke area of Cameroon, and I suspect more healthy than our own American system. When someone dies - old or young - the family holds the wake immediately. For one or several days, all the bereaved person's friends come over to cry with them. Whenever someone new arrives, they immediately go to greet the bereaved, who melts into tears. Women begin to shuffle dance in a circle around the drums, if the family has drums, or just in a circle if they don't. Men stand in a line, shoulder to shoulder on the side; they sing along but do not dance. And the song almost defies description: it has words but I could not tell you what they are; it has a tune but it's easier to follow the less you think about it. It's almost a song composed of suppressed moans of pain, perfectly in tune with muffled sobs, somehow expressing both sorrow and solidarity. The bereaved puts her hand on each of her friends shoulders, one by one; they return the gesture, saying "We are together" without need for words. Women shave their heads and wear all black. Everyone cries. </div>
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Shortly thereafter is the burial. The dancing and crying is repeated, though the pain is clearly less raw, with the added component of a Christian service (in both French and Bansoa) for those who are religious. If it is a woman who died, all of her sons wear her clothes (yes, kaabas and dresses included); if it is a man who died, his widow and daughter wear his clothes. This is just another way of carrying the deceased with them, of remember him or her. The men dig a hole to bury the woman's body in front of her kitchen. There is more playing of drums, mournful singing, and dancing in circles. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnkQml2tLABfBInf5eQrfkhjhKRosKQjIN2gcl726wK8-ehFWuS1L4LKd5ObSVPONHqhPMM_b8Ykx13VdkiNrksqQIldvVeNvSQQdzRdhdzA1mV5tTszoS3iK4r4dOLa_cFgBw2Wt9I4WO/s1600/DSCN9349.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnkQml2tLABfBInf5eQrfkhjhKRosKQjIN2gcl726wK8-ehFWuS1L4LKd5ObSVPONHqhPMM_b8Ykx13VdkiNrksqQIldvVeNvSQQdzRdhdzA1mV5tTszoS3iK4r4dOLa_cFgBw2Wt9I4WO/s1600/DSCN9349.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The drums.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Up to several years later is the funeral, and this involves no mourning at all. It is a huge celebration with all the friends and extended families (and with the giant polygamous families so common here, that can mean an entire village or two). Everyone stuffs themselves with food, drinks all the beer they can hold (unless the entire village has already run out of beer), and dances in more circles. The songs are no longer sad; the polyrhythmic bursts issuing from the drums faster and louder. The closest family members all wear matching new <i>pagne</i> clothes. Dry season is also funeral season, and it draws people back to their home villages from Douala or Yaoundé or Germany or wherever else they have landed as they grew up, to complain of the dust and backwardness of their place of birth. Despite all the complaining, they are happy to be home for a party, to see all their friends and family in a joyful reunion. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD_aKnF9c4tdVsW5teGR8kWwn66V-1cRTuZPYG-N_YAMBLlmNb4xpdnMOiAq3orgbmkafUJUdQLrC-G9jy7cQ_lACjIhULd4KjHwy9wPWPjfTvHoUQoHPwEwtDzDsr1uxyFxnyLeBdZymS/s1600/DSCN8704.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD_aKnF9c4tdVsW5teGR8kWwn66V-1cRTuZPYG-N_YAMBLlmNb4xpdnMOiAq3orgbmkafUJUdQLrC-G9jy7cQ_lACjIhULd4KjHwy9wPWPjfTvHoUQoHPwEwtDzDsr1uxyFxnyLeBdZymS/s1600/DSCN8704.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dancing in a circle at a funeral - with beers.<br />Each of those red boxes is called a "casier"<br />Each has twelve Cameroonian-sized beers,<br />Which equals two American-sized beers.</td></tr>
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Then the money is finished and everyone goes home or waits, watching the sky, for rainy season to begin so they can start selling their fields' produce again. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXGQhNLAoFjX5lg2Naqn4W8jF4pliBNsuEbHRwH2lgbmDD6k7xZRIFBerex7fU1LF1QH0dejyaITGQBQRCUbOYwTZRe8Be-owic40D1OtHsiinT5CyUUnKmEILTGpbbw165NkJYxkNOq9J/s1600/DSCN8717.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXGQhNLAoFjX5lg2Naqn4W8jF4pliBNsuEbHRwH2lgbmDD6k7xZRIFBerex7fU1LF1QH0dejyaITGQBQRCUbOYwTZRe8Be-owic40D1OtHsiinT5CyUUnKmEILTGpbbw165NkJYxkNOq9J/s1600/DSCN8717.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I <3 crazy hats. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0chljjGeFkk007tRP6JE4G3dEuU5ZTDt79z7z_hGsiny6Pt-pMnVDeemcNet7XawMnOzogIjCWFmAHA5w54fvEAa24CdKYGajKDtv2fPdIdxMUggy8Zbd045cj_W3BpCGBO2E8Rw-ebFA/s1600/DSCN8680.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0chljjGeFkk007tRP6JE4G3dEuU5ZTDt79z7z_hGsiny6Pt-pMnVDeemcNet7XawMnOzogIjCWFmAHA5w54fvEAa24CdKYGajKDtv2fPdIdxMUggy8Zbd045cj_W3BpCGBO2E8Rw-ebFA/s1600/DSCN8680.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More crazy hats.<br />Also, that goat doesn't stand a chance...<br />#sacrifice</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-42430615777854020462015-02-26T23:18:00.001-08:002015-02-26T23:18:16.077-08:00Like a Busy Bee<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's that time of year again - where work comes and sits on your vocal cords and crushes your dreams. (Oh wait, that's nodes. #pitchperfect)<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The school year winding down faster and faster, continuously interrupted by national days of fête-ing that turn into weeks of no school (Bilingualism Day, Youth Day, Women's Day, National Day...) or by testing weeks. That means all my school-related projects - which are most of them - also have approaching ends. This is kind of exciting - the end of May will mean the end of most of my work, and I can spend the last few months frolicking and sitting at the café sipping sweetened condensed milk with a bit of coffee mixed in. (#wishfulthinking) But it's also kind of stressful, because there are still so many things that I still want to accomplish before the end of the year!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Here's a rundown of what I've been working on lately...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><u>1. Club FORTES : </u></b>An extracurricular program targeting female high school students (though there are now 3 regularly attending you men as well!) to teach life skills and puberty and sexual reproductive health, issues which are not normally discussed either at school or at home. I'm trying to find a counterpart to replace me when I leave at Lycée Bansoa-Mbri, the school just ten minutes down the road, but without much progress. I am having better luck at Lycée Bakassa, which is more like ten kilometers down the road, but as a new school is more engaged and open to change. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><u>2. Youth For Change :</u></b> Another extracurricular program, this one teaching civic engagement and active citizenship. It's in partnership with my host organisation RIDEV and targets 2nd year (16 year old) students at the Lycée Classique in Bafoussam. We teach motivated young adults about issues in their communities, like HIV and the environment, and then teach them skills (leadership, communication) to address those issues in their communities. We hope to take the participants on several excursions to see our theoretical knowledge at work in Bafoussam before the students plan and execute their own volunteer project! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><u>3. March 8th, International Women's Day :</u></b> My peer educators and some motivated young women from Club FORTES are putting together and educational skit about early pregnancy to present at Women's Day. They will parade in matching yellow t-shirts in *distant* Penka-Michel (the administrative center of my town) and are very excited!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><u>4. Camp FORTES :</u></b> Round 2 is planned for mid June, right at the beginning of their long break from school. We're hoping to train 25 more young women as peer educators in Baleng, Bansoa, and Bafoussam - as well as giving the girls a "sleepover summer camp" experience that many Americans take for granted as part of their summer breaks!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><u>5. Art Class :</u> </b>Postmate Danielle and I teach art class to four groups of 50 elementary school students at Kinder's House in Banock every Tuesday. The students range in age form 5 to 11, and as you can imagine, this makes for an exhausting day. But the kids love it, and their delight with using materials they've never been allowed to touch before makes it worth it - most of the time. We're currently playing with watercolors - all over their paper, their tables, their floors, their uniforms, their faces... </div>
<div>
(Special thanks to my grandma Kay Duffy and her artsy friends for donating so many art supplies to the school!)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
There's plenty of other little stuff going on as well, but these are the big ones. </div>
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<div>
Finally, during the first week of April, I'll be traveling to beautiful beachy <b>Kribi</b> for my Close of Service (COS) conference! I can't believe how fast time is passing; only six months left. </div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-22955333068230978802015-02-18T08:46:00.000-08:002015-02-18T08:46:00.036-08:00Don't Write Me Off<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="p1">
Meet Jonathan -</div>
<div class="p1">
Meet him today, and you see a teacher</div>
<div class="p1">
dressed in an ill-fitting button down and slacks</div>
<div class="p1">
with more children than he can handle</div>
<div class="p1">
and his five or six year old students can't even write their own names. </div>
<div class="p1">
It would be so easy to judge him.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
But meet Jonathan at six years old - </div>
<div class="p1">
If it was up to his parents, he would have stayed home not gone to school</div>
<div class="p1">
But in elementary school he was always first in his class and he wanted to continue.</div>
<div class="p1">
So he found ways to pay for his own books, notebooks, fees to go on to the next grade</div>
<div class="p1">
he tried working at the market, in the town center, </div>
<div class="p1">
but no one would pay him.</div>
<div class="p1">
They said: you are weak, I will not pay you, you cannot do this work. </div>
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He learned to weave baskets instead.</div>
<div class="p1">
They were so cheap, he made so little, and what he made had to feed him and buy all these things</div>
<div class="p1">
but what choice did he have?</div>
<div class="p1">
First year, he passed his class but couldn't pay fee to go to next level - by only 2 dollars.</div>
<div class="p1">
Second year, he passed but couldn't pay the fee - by only 2 dollars.</div>
<div class="p1">
During summer vacation, he bought two chicks;</div>
<div class="p1">
during the school year, the chicks grew into roosters;</div>
<div class="p1">
by the end of the year, he managed to sell one rooster </div>
<div class="p1">
for 2 dollars </div>
<div class="p1">
so he could go on to the next class.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Everything was like this, a struggle.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
He had a lamp so that at night he could see to do his homework and study,</div>
<div class="p1">
but no petrol for the lamp </div>
<div class="p1">
so it was useless.</div>
<div class="p1">
First thing after school, he studied - </div>
<div class="p1">
he studied fast so he could learn everything before darkness fell.</div>
<div class="p1">
Later, they put in some electric lamps in the center of town</div>
<div class="p1">
and he and his friend would go study in the street, under these new electric lights</div>
<div class="p1">
(mosquitos and all)</div>
<div class="p1">
until they got tired of being bitten.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
His mom died when he was sixteen</div>
<div class="p1">
and his dad died soon after</div>
<div class="p1">
and though they weren't very helpful in his education</div>
<div class="p1">
it only made his life harder.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
But he kept working.</div>
<div class="p1">
He managed,</div>
<div class="p1">
and he became an elementary school teacher.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Meet Christophe -<br />
He'll introduce himself as "Christopher, like Columbus<br />
The one who discovered America!"</div>
<div class="p1">
Meet him today and look at a map with him</div>
<div class="p1">
And he will ask,</div>
<div class="p1">
"So these things you call 'islands'</div>
<div class="p1">
They are surrounded by water?</div>
<div class="p1">
And these things you call volcanos,</div>
<div class="p1">
They spit fire?"</div>
<div class="p1">
It would be so easy to judge him.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
But meet Christophe-</div>
<div class="p1">
Six years old, the student of Monsieur Jonathan.</div>
<div class="p1">
If it was up to his parents, he would have stayed home not gone to school</div>
<div class="p1">
but in elementary school he was always first in his class and he wanted to continue</div>
<div class="p1">
he was discouraged</div>
<div class="p1">
but M. Jonathan saw his struggle and told his own story</div>
<div class="p1">
he said: if you work in the market, in the center of town, small jobs</div>
<div class="p1">
you can pay for what you need</div>
<div class="p1">
you can do it. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
So Christophe worked, even in the third grade,</div>
<div class="p1">
so that he could go to school</div>
<div class="p1">
satisfy his curiosity</div>
<div class="p1">
answer the questions he always had.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Eventually, his mom died</div>
<div class="p1">
his dad died</div>
<div class="p1">
his grandfather died</div>
<div class="p1">
his grandmother died.</div>
<div class="p1">
He could not continue the schooling he fought so hard for.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
But he still had those questions. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
So he worked - and he saved.</div>
<div class="p1">
When he had a little bit saved, he said:</div>
<div class="p1">
"I've heard of our capital, Yaounde.</div>
<div class="p1">
I want to go.</div>
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I don't know anyone there</div>
<div class="p1">
I don't know where it is</div>
<div class="p1">
But I want to go."</div>
<div class="p1">
And he did. </div>
<div class="p1">
He met new people and had them show him around the city</div>
<div class="p1">
He paid their transport and he bought them drinks and he said thank you</div>
<div class="p1">
And he learned.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
But he still had those questions. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
So he worked - and he saved.</div>
<div class="p1">
When he had a little bit saved, he said:</div>
<div class="p1">
"I've heard of pygmies, small people who live in the East.</div>
<div class="p1">
I want to meet them.</div>
<div class="p1">
I don't know anywhere there,</div>
<div class="p1">
I don't know where the 'east' is.</div>
<div class="p1">
But I want to go." </div>
<div class="p1">
And he did. </div>
<div class="p1">
He met new people and he lived with the pygmies for a year.</div>
<div class="p1">
He learned their language so he could ask his questions</div>
<div class="p1">
And he learned. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
But he still has those questions. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
He went to Douala, and Kribi, and Ideo. </div>
<div class="p1">
He would go to other countries too</div>
<div class="p1">
Except he can't afford a passport. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
He still has those questions. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
It's too easy to say:</div>
<div class="p1">
Africans are lazy.</div>
<div class="p1">
They don't know how to work or how to save.</div>
<div class="p1">
Africans are only waiting for handouts, </div>
<div class="p1">
from their governments or from USAID.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Meet Jonathan, meet Christophe -</div>
<div class="p1">
Men who have fought their whole lives</div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
For the things that are handed to us. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-53111019873602326322015-02-13T12:09:00.002-08:002015-02-13T12:17:26.818-08:00Living In Transition<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have been thinking about this a lot recently because the Peace Corps Volunteers (PCVs) of Cameroon put out another newsletter, this one titled "Transitions." Now I'm probably one of about 10 people who reads it (not counting the proud parents) because I am a weird nerd. (I have embraced this about myself.) But anyway, I did read it and it's been on my mind since...<br />
<br />
Transitions: the time in-between, neither the "then" nor the "now," the movement sandwiched by the beginning point and the end point, where you are temporarily while trying to get somewhere else.<br />
<br />
Peace Corps was a rough transition from school. No assignments, no one grading me or checking for completion, no set objectives to tell me if I'm on the right path or rubrics to tell me if I'm doing an A+ job. And Cameroon was a transition from America, where I needed to adjust to being the permanent minority and the gift-demanding culture and the slow pace and the descriptive Cam-fran-glais style of communication and a million other things. It wasn't an easy transition. I missed the comfort of home, the support of being surrounded by friends and family, the ease of moving through a culture you know inside and out because you grew up in it. I spent a lot of time feeling dazed, lost, and confused. I also wondered if I had made the right decision.<br />
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<br />
<br />
I shifted to Bafia, where I had a strict daily routine and lived with homestay family who I loved. Then I left that and all my new friends and moved on to Bansoa, where I knew almost no one and had no structure at all. Both places, everything felt so foreign.<br />
<br />
During that time, everything felt so different and exotic. Then, almost everything...<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Stuff your eyes with wonder, live as if you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories." - Ray Bradbury</blockquote>
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Then, a few days ago, I'm on my way home and it happened <i>again</i>. I realized: everything felt normal. For a time, I was not missing college, and I was not worrying about the future. Peace Corps did not feel like my life "put on hold" as I had often said in the beginning; it was simply today, another day in which I was simply coming home from work - on the back of a motorcycle with an engine like a sputtering lawn mower, looking at spectacular views of farmland and banana trees red with dust and hills rolling under the hazy red sun into the distance.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcYdS06nxo-svDAFqDtrpa4PERjmP4JP4KCI_TD2YVLDHjlgz8ZLSY3JwVUPFwrkvNmr_FAXSpKqaVMSlq_WdVqFf9Wg8umJtTBIgO0NNWz_FwcyshraXr1CCfOfClHaMXKh8zC6fwJ5ia/s1600/DSCN9154.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcYdS06nxo-svDAFqDtrpa4PERjmP4JP4KCI_TD2YVLDHjlgz8ZLSY3JwVUPFwrkvNmr_FAXSpKqaVMSlq_WdVqFf9Wg8umJtTBIgO0NNWz_FwcyshraXr1CCfOfClHaMXKh8zC6fwJ5ia/s1600/DSCN9154.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Girls coloring at my kitchen table: normal.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiWnlfIXoQMiLeVFaSXI6GURPLw7mH7ru0m-6wCWdsF4lE8QkPqTJARoSP41OUA7gdhVCXhadkQ-lysrJ00KUx3Rv1uselKk83HlkOr-d6OcN6j4H29H0fqnkxz0-V6lHtmib2-rRNrZBS/s1600/DSCN9271.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiWnlfIXoQMiLeVFaSXI6GURPLw7mH7ru0m-6wCWdsF4lE8QkPqTJARoSP41OUA7gdhVCXhadkQ-lysrJ00KUx3Rv1uselKk83HlkOr-d6OcN6j4H29H0fqnkxz0-V6lHtmib2-rRNrZBS/s1600/DSCN9271.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Students debating whether or not police should arrest people<br /> for indecent dressing, aka short skirts: normal.<br />(Actually, this one still makes me mad.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And my next thought is, "How did that even happen?!" Maybe everyone feels this way? Certainly a lot of PCVs do. As Beth Leuin said in her article, "I can't tell you the day my community first felt like home... And I certainly can't tell you how I will begin to transition back to life in America. But I can stop looking back and quit itching to jump ahead. I can accept the 'in-between' and just be."<br />
<br />
Of course, that feeling vanishes soon enough, and I start thinking about job applications and next moves and traveling again. But for a while, I am not in transition, I simply am. And it feels <i>légère</i> like freedom. Maybe the real transitions only happen when you are not looking...<br />
<br />
<br />
The contrarian in me argues that for everything to become normal is for everything to become passé, boring, uninteresting, uninspiring - and I never want to feel that way. This would be the moment to insert fluffy song lyrics about never losing your sense of wonder, always keeping that hunger, etc. Even after 17 months, I am still trying to remember: live in the moment, but never take that moment for granite (it's not an igneous rock).<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“To my mind, the greatest reward and luxury of travel is to be able to experience everyday things as if for the first time, to be in a position in which almost nothing is so familiar it is taken for granted.” – Bill Bryson</blockquote>
There are so many beautiful things to see, so many friends to be made! Why worry about tomorrow? </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-8912498972342912622014-12-23T03:04:00.000-08:002014-12-23T03:04:00.427-08:00The Unexpectedly Expected<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Or, Why Our Stereotypes Are Dumb and We
Should Open Our Minds</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It seems like everyone wants to write the
blog Ten Things You'd Never Do In the U.S. And there's nothing wrong with that
post, with admiring what is exotic. It's impossible not to notice what is so
different from what we're used to!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But I want us to remember, too, that not
everything is the "exotic," different, black to our white. Nothing is
that simple. So here's a list of seven stereotypes, many of which I held and
which are commonly held, but <o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">which are simply not true. </span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">1. Weather</span></b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Stereotype: Sub-Saharan Africa is hot and
dry. There are huge savannas with blowing golden grasses, parted by the long
legs of giraffes as they pass baobab tress on their route to the watering hole.
The sun beats relentlessly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Reality: In the West Region of Cameroon,
there's a rainy season and a dry season - and in rainy season (March to
October) it gets COLD. I mean, it's not winter. (To my students, I explain
winter in the U.S. as being like living in the freezer for three months. They
are mind-blown by this idea.) But I head to buy long sleeves and sweaters and
jeans because I didn't pack them! I have even been known to wear a *borrowed*
airplane blanket like a wrap skirt over leggings. And yes, I have gotten
compliments on that wrap skirt… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvevLYl4jF_P1gI0xGJYoDGVIQuzW9EJG95ckN1oYwj1AFnbDs3MoW0mCTx115DFHof4545eCkcx2aKk9gwO-UQKrjtueqCzjnxBxdkrIynvEDaxkRsm5lv9pfLC4VTjKv9JHYyt2N3r6u/s1600/DSCN7498.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvevLYl4jF_P1gI0xGJYoDGVIQuzW9EJG95ckN1oYwj1AFnbDs3MoW0mCTx115DFHof4545eCkcx2aKk9gwO-UQKrjtueqCzjnxBxdkrIynvEDaxkRsm5lv9pfLC4VTjKv9JHYyt2N3r6u/s1600/DSCN7498.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...turns to the red mud of rainy season.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbdxL535yQ5MdxdqpBwlyDEKIT-QqFjcFr9q2H49Ob28QRqet3hDoo9CmJ6w_lP4VvXuY-x8raw5Dak1I_bc0KLOMoSeehloBcDaTBbu4IqYA60XG6C8HdPIEoQIx6O3P7HmbbHelPM0k/s1600/DSCN7194.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbdxL535yQ5MdxdqpBwlyDEKIT-QqFjcFr9q2H49Ob28QRqet3hDoo9CmJ6w_lP4VvXuY-x8raw5Dak1I_bc0KLOMoSeehloBcDaTBbu4IqYA60XG6C8HdPIEoQIx6O3P7HmbbHelPM0k/s1600/DSCN7194.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The red dust of dry season...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a name='more'></a><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">2. Food (aka Noms)</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Stereotype: The African children are
staving, I've seen them on the T.V.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Reality: You should see some of the fat
mamas here, with their butts slouching over both sides of the motorcycle whose
engine strains to drag them up the dirt track to the top of the hill. In West
Cameroon, there is food and food a-plenty. And a lot of it is foods we would
recognize: pasta, rice, potatoes, chicken, beef, pork, fish, carrots, onions,
garlic, tomatoes, green beans, red beans, white beans, black beans… The staples
are here, they're just prepared differently. Peanuts are eaten roasted, boiled,
paste-d, and sauce-d -- just not butter-ed. In some cities, you can even get
Lindt chocolate, Oreos, and deli meats (if you're willing to pay a premium
price, anyway)! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqRylU97PvmkLu4d1VP1DKAOe6r_dev4HgPhn6h6okbn9B6IgjPULP3fALMThPdf-9S1lU3fRGMO8omLWNs81OsYlBLbDnRwla6UFN3SJ2V0yAVFXP86T41ijZxHOrcVUrR9wW38RJQ3Lv/s1600/DSCN8034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqRylU97PvmkLu4d1VP1DKAOe6r_dev4HgPhn6h6okbn9B6IgjPULP3fALMThPdf-9S1lU3fRGMO8omLWNs81OsYlBLbDnRwla6UFN3SJ2V0yAVFXP86T41ijZxHOrcVUrR9wW38RJQ3Lv/s1600/DSCN8034.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I believe "baaaa" translates to "Please don't eat me."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">3. Everyone Is Dying of AIDS</span></b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Stereotype: See above.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Reality: Some of the biggest killers here
include diabetes (see Food section), cancer, and traffic accidents. The big
money issues - HIV/AIDS, malaria, even polio - are definitely present and
definitely matter, but that's just not the whole story. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">4. Religion</span></b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Stereotype: People really only believe in
voodoo, animal worship, traditional healing, sacrifices to ancestors, and evil
"sorcellerie" magic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Reality: OK, there is a lot of that.
People definitely pour salt and Fanta as sacrifices to the skulls of their ancestors.
And people definitely believe that some guy turned himself into a snake and
killed two girls, or that someone turned a matchbox into an airplane and
transported a bunch of people around the world. (???) But people are also very
religious in terms of Christianity, Catholicism, and Islam. Some people believe
in one or the other, but a lot don't see the contradiction between their
traditional beliefs and Christianity, and I think it's worth walking a mile in
their shoes before judging. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv7ZBnkEB_0KUXVdMtKlx2MhmpRv4Fthop8trkgljLEoFVm9JbEns0nmwaG18hiDriOYLGAjvFfVfmtKpkWOvhnFGHvJ4AKFkKV-jphmqvNYgo8obKdbbtYJaVWGue0pmV5j7m7ww_ygym/s1600/DSCN7933.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv7ZBnkEB_0KUXVdMtKlx2MhmpRv4Fthop8trkgljLEoFVm9JbEns0nmwaG18hiDriOYLGAjvFfVfmtKpkWOvhnFGHvJ4AKFkKV-jphmqvNYgo8obKdbbtYJaVWGue0pmV5j7m7ww_ygym/s1600/DSCN7933.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So there's white Jesus, white Mary, white Joseph...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGMXGZk0UbafkkUZ-vRO6fBnnekm4HZcGQP6_BsZucOvHP20j3eGjZAQJRED2PWvJ-vLPS49Sfx2HJ1JPL81sKp_NLzvuC9v4SC0SmgF6yssUy2b3mz1uJa0lumX41haoIWhO_W1emvdQr/s1600/DSCN7972.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGMXGZk0UbafkkUZ-vRO6fBnnekm4HZcGQP6_BsZucOvHP20j3eGjZAQJRED2PWvJ-vLPS49Sfx2HJ1JPL81sKp_NLzvuC9v4SC0SmgF6yssUy2b3mz1uJa0lumX41haoIWhO_W1emvdQr/s1600/DSCN7972.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But there are also traditional practices and sacred places</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOLrJ9oRi_Wopb03XQ_nS-uXBaIYnIAKjaOmud7BKJWogCqYwz1fbARvyNJ3UFRU5OpXxw3Mkc5Y39HL2ThBV3j9mQB8Hv2Tneb3kXV1W-xM3q_txwcVEz63CQoVe2RztKfGAYdu5-umJM/s1600/DSCN7978.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOLrJ9oRi_Wopb03XQ_nS-uXBaIYnIAKjaOmud7BKJWogCqYwz1fbARvyNJ3UFRU5OpXxw3Mkc5Y39HL2ThBV3j9mQB8Hv2Tneb3kXV1W-xM3q_txwcVEz63CQoVe2RztKfGAYdu5-umJM/s1600/DSCN7978.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like these "sacrifices" of palm oil in calabashes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">5. Climate Change</span></b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Stereotype: If it exists, and that's a big if, climate change
is a First World issue. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Reality: I have been lectured about
climate change by many of my Cameroonian friends. They tell me how the rains
come later and last longer and they don't know anymore when to plan their crops
or when to stop planting because everything is changing. They tell me how more
people should use improved cook stoves to reduce deforestation and how awful
are the thirty year old cars spewing black gunk into the air. I see much more
clearly the impact of climate change on lives here than I ever did in the U.S.,
and Cameroonians care. <b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">6. Tribalism</span></b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Stereotype: It's an African thing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Reality: People identify themselves as
Cameroonian and they're proud of many things about their country, including how
much it has developed in the past half-century and its commitment to peace.
Just like people identify themselves as American and they're proud of many
things about their country, including its commitment to democracy and liberty.
But Cameroonians do still identify with a sub-group and have prejudices about
other groups. Just ask a Bamileke what they think about the northern Fulbe, or
a Southerner about a Bamileke… But then again - just ask a Delawarean about an
Iowan, a Californian about a Texan, a Republican about a Democrat… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMyZ6ZFHam-NwmufEc0__texhRg1uktXwdN28a6IjhRuPUSINygemeOcfBsoPj23EDZao18YRjYR7Poewd9eq-9_F_AA7pRrWX2rz1i6ljd3FH96mtT3A-CH5_SurPSvT1AmcXMcOF6ISU/s1600/DSCN7380.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMyZ6ZFHam-NwmufEc0__texhRg1uktXwdN28a6IjhRuPUSINygemeOcfBsoPj23EDZao18YRjYR7Poewd9eq-9_F_AA7pRrWX2rz1i6ljd3FH96mtT3A-CH5_SurPSvT1AmcXMcOF6ISU/s1600/DSCN7380.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Diversity in Cameroon might not look exactly like diversity in America, <br />
but it's still there.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">7. Humanity</span></b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Stereotype: There's us, then there's
them, and we just don't have much in common. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Reality: We're all human. I tell my students that our skin looks different, but our brains and our hearts are the same. This is something I understood rationally but somehow I know understand
it with my heart, too. Babies are babies and they cry all night in their
universal language. Teenage girls are teenage girls, and they giggle and gossip
all night at sleepovers and style each other's hair. Adolescent boys are
adolescent boys and they make dumb decisions and consider themselves invincible.
Professors like to lecture even those who haven't signed up for class, and
politicians like to lecture anyone who will listen about their achievements
while bashing their opponents. Presidents talk about security and the economy.
People are unique - some are greedy, some are giving, some just want to have
fun - but <b>we are all fundamentally human</b>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw_rnw7X7sNybnHprOlKRpYa-97L6BQtrcLxHNltPcPd_VUB3Mnq0pv3MjzGbyL93eUoGXvG34E8vYAkPvWNvF-fvUfLJa2mK3YCilD6-rU6zD9DDriz9nLjPLVi-Gu8Xh6cBCVSPt26r1/s1600/DSCN7043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw_rnw7X7sNybnHprOlKRpYa-97L6BQtrcLxHNltPcPd_VUB3Mnq0pv3MjzGbyL93eUoGXvG34E8vYAkPvWNvF-fvUfLJa2mK3YCilD6-rU6zD9DDriz9nLjPLVi-Gu8Xh6cBCVSPt26r1/s1600/DSCN7043.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Girls just wanna have fun.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi28MMNE66ESaDnn-r5j0YVcKiivs2xWwhnOuZkU85exEPm9yFtlB_cAt5WqFUyDpaRTg-iyIk9WuOAQ5SD3Y0jIqxk6Us09iXS0Xe4oQNKC0hZSRR2O9lJt8qqP_V4FaeAOUaGlHk8WC1o/s1600/P1050680.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi28MMNE66ESaDnn-r5j0YVcKiivs2xWwhnOuZkU85exEPm9yFtlB_cAt5WqFUyDpaRTg-iyIk9WuOAQ5SD3Y0jIqxk6Us09iXS0Xe4oQNKC0hZSRR2O9lJt8qqP_V4FaeAOUaGlHk8WC1o/s1600/P1050680.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stylin'.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBZfWJdpTqVxDTWeD6PxsNQRvk0NQ7s2FScOgknQTZhjqQBqowdeQSHSPL9ILGbmzBVcSJVNuVpa0FFhu9We8D090I4kxY3xuqMFvs8yz2r8MyMWv_i4DJsctRtAVXgCIptH1hm1uzMAh-/s1600/DSCN8308.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBZfWJdpTqVxDTWeD6PxsNQRvk0NQ7s2FScOgknQTZhjqQBqowdeQSHSPL9ILGbmzBVcSJVNuVpa0FFhu9We8D090I4kxY3xuqMFvs8yz2r8MyMWv_i4DJsctRtAVXgCIptH1hm1uzMAh-/s1600/DSCN8308.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">High-schoolers volunteering with orphans</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBZlR-OqNzvL9G7DhUMg6NigKkQzbh9pgVH5GpxreaU1XKpiNiTEdcsSL8WRXtmqnpanTiwEFAt3VHUVWjZ975H-JGgCuCGyOaEN33xdeZizjX26NnOxNoqaNJfarR1bBRhZVUHd6xFUFY/s1600/DSCN8563.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBZlR-OqNzvL9G7DhUMg6NigKkQzbh9pgVH5GpxreaU1XKpiNiTEdcsSL8WRXtmqnpanTiwEFAt3VHUVWjZ975H-JGgCuCGyOaEN33xdeZizjX26NnOxNoqaNJfarR1bBRhZVUHd6xFUFY/s1600/DSCN8563.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The kids love drawing rainbows and lions and houses.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A year in another country doesn't make me
an expert, but still. #noregrets !<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Dear PCVs, fellow </span>travelers, & readers<span style="font-size: 12pt;">: What would you add to
this list? What things have you discovered are the same, or what expectations
did you have that you discovered were unfounded?<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-79494751078453895392014-12-16T02:25:00.001-08:002014-12-16T03:19:15.781-08:00Life Lessons Learned, Year 1 <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwq1eg-yO-z2EYJBoRoFc5umBKhB9NWnsKqDC0UXqvl9jCt3bhvSbqIfw56a-ZW3AIxUpVlU9tF6tLo7ZZjhJerg0xBzrHGb5PgADuDr9j-NoW4XVvPcv437fprNmCIT-BgVE91OkzxLn_/s1600/DSCN8072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwq1eg-yO-z2EYJBoRoFc5umBKhB9NWnsKqDC0UXqvl9jCt3bhvSbqIfw56a-ZW3AIxUpVlU9tF6tLo7ZZjhJerg0xBzrHGb5PgADuDr9j-NoW4XVvPcv437fprNmCIT-BgVE91OkzxLn_/s1600/DSCN8072.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The road less traveled?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">As I'm
listening to Aya by Davido for possibly the hundredth time since 7am, I'm
contemplating this place where I find myself. In my house with no sound
proofing and all of the noises come in from the market: children's antics on
the way to school, moto engines revving (it sounds like a dirt bike competition
out there), horns honking, Market DJ's beats vibrating over everything. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">December
11th marks Month 15 of my Peace Corps service. While I'm online, I read about
adventures that I'm not having and people I admire and sometimes Melancholy
threatens. But then I remember: I am having an amazing adventure. The adventure
of a lifetime. (Though I hope to have many more adventures before I get fat
from making cookies for my grandchildren. That way my stories - which are of
course the price of eating the aforementioned cookies - don't always start with
"When I was in the Peace Corps…")<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">I suppose
it is inevitable that while on this escapade, I learn a thing or two. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdDBHHTfGZyt5UAdWpAiHra-H5FIQBaEDPXonxUTJGFxvfzB_PraQMMDXkCf778B3TDkFVd4fPCiWbuc9zUGA3E9HdaxhYl-jn0KU9zzWSjH0iAZPGswAZqMoKFatURrqJxjsOQd7JrANm/s1600/DSCN7739.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdDBHHTfGZyt5UAdWpAiHra-H5FIQBaEDPXonxUTJGFxvfzB_PraQMMDXkCf778B3TDkFVd4fPCiWbuc9zUGA3E9HdaxhYl-jn0KU9zzWSjH0iAZPGswAZqMoKFatURrqJxjsOQd7JrANm/s1600/DSCN7739.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cameroon is full of love and rainbows and unicorns. Or something.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Noteworthy-Light;">"Travel
changes you. As you move through this life and this world you change things
slightly, you leave marks behind, however small. And in return, life - and
travel - leaves marks on you. Most of the time, those marks - on your body or
on your heart - are beautiful. Often, though, they hurt." - Anthony
Bourdain</span></blockquote>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Some of
the things I've learned have been practical… Always check your pants for live
spiders before putting them on. Check the beans for rocks and the tomatoes for
worms. Don't respond "yes" to a question in the local language that
you don't understand, because you might be agreeing to a shotgun wedding. Greet
everyone, because that way no one can be insulted. Always carry clean water and
tissues or toilet paper with you, because you never know. These are the things
that get you through the days unscathed.</span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWgS6E1gNlkrzZeiGJQpGSzroAcw0xTuUbH7tgtKJm05hbXnmLadzO8l7Pb54TmeNez4rTxuWsFN3iCoMbb5nHQvC8x0vn6RBNobymkuwIZj0cj5jTPbSudAY_z4Yh5ZwJPI7_K1xAZt8a/s1600/DSCN8058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWgS6E1gNlkrzZeiGJQpGSzroAcw0xTuUbH7tgtKJm05hbXnmLadzO8l7Pb54TmeNez4rTxuWsFN3iCoMbb5nHQvC8x0vn6RBNobymkuwIZj0cj5jTPbSudAY_z4Yh5ZwJPI7_K1xAZt8a/s1600/DSCN8058.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Enjoying the scenery</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">But many
of the things I've learned have been more philosophical.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">I have spent
a year full of downtime (is that an oxymoron?), a lot of time hanging out with
me, myself, and I. In college, I spent all my time with friends or classmates
or boyfriend or books. Here, not so much. And that was really rough at first.
How to fill all that time? But somewhere along the way I became more
comfortable with solitude, and sometimes I even crave it. And I have become
intimately acquainted with me. When talking about Peace Corps, people almost
inevitable toss out clichés like "discovering oneself" blah blah
blah. But maybe there's some truth in that overused phrase. It's an unfinished
process, but learning how to deal with solitude and learning the necessity of
self-reflection has definitely been - healthy? fulfilling? At the very least, good.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUpeWl8-t_J4122Ky7pDVq4ZtNKzGqoz60JdbD-qwJF80-cf8kx2Ipc-mXHd0E6QGtr7OnZ1GwrIwFz2jo5k1WGQimtGOw8noZHmTSscQ3kRMJWLhzCqtRgQCMTEEfAHehyphenhyphenfLSqgePHYMA/s1600/DSCN8036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUpeWl8-t_J4122Ky7pDVq4ZtNKzGqoz60JdbD-qwJF80-cf8kx2Ipc-mXHd0E6QGtr7OnZ1GwrIwFz2jo5k1WGQimtGOw8noZHmTSscQ3kRMJWLhzCqtRgQCMTEEfAHehyphenhyphenfLSqgePHYMA/s1600/DSCN8036.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Admiring the tree I call "fire tree" for its bright orange flowers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Here's a
short list of "how to be happy life lessons" I've learned during my
Peace Corps service: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Physical
comforts (like running water or consistent electricity) are some of the <b>least
important requirements for being happy</b>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Time is
money, but sometimes<b> slowing down is worth it</b>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwa9HwitKTJw7Et1rw5zNeVRq6lNnFmZmkrIJZZixx9PsOf7eovvUllri0N3JJzDjBJ7dbk5QILBdN708UxNpdyJ5yPQCzchOcyanRg1onkNwrqNbuUZsaXYSCynqUG-dFagu6erotxcmm/s1600/DSCN7999.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwa9HwitKTJw7Et1rw5zNeVRq6lNnFmZmkrIJZZixx9PsOf7eovvUllri0N3JJzDjBJ7dbk5QILBdN708UxNpdyJ5yPQCzchOcyanRg1onkNwrqNbuUZsaXYSCynqUG-dFagu6erotxcmm/s1600/DSCN7999.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sometimes you have to stop and appreciate the little things...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEBHoojiVEv7R9cIlYPUFRh5wfXDI1VG6IiZavK4NMLb6Xf8TRlcc0leN62NlSaWzmND7gRTZ14_KkH6PWblfYAYrc1MNo1FZheVt2zqZNgM-5BLRjWI4ZQ4WKBZc8SzQxAlV2LknvoBk-/s1600/DSCN8549.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEBHoojiVEv7R9cIlYPUFRh5wfXDI1VG6IiZavK4NMLb6Xf8TRlcc0leN62NlSaWzmND7gRTZ14_KkH6PWblfYAYrc1MNo1FZheVt2zqZNgM-5BLRjWI4ZQ4WKBZc8SzQxAlV2LknvoBk-/s1600/DSCN8549.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...little things like preparing & eating <b>nkwi</b>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">So much is
possible with <b>a lot of stubborn persistence and a little creativity</b>. Set little
goals and work towards a big one, celebrating the little successes along the
way. But also never do yourself what you can get someone else to do. It's good
for development, it's good for you, and that's a win-win situation!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">"<b>Unplugging</b>"
- partially removing myself from Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and Youtube
- is great for one's mental health. It encourages me to pursue complexity rather
than simplicity, to seek out relationships with physical proximity rather than
Likes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">The <b>value
of human relationships is immeasurable</b>. Not only for work (why do we spend so
much time discussing this "networking" thing?) but also for the
simple reasons: friendship, solidarity, happiness in each other's company. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy7Z0DL5DN4O12ST5CquusrkLyfyJD23XU8FNI5fKDS1BVnnPfNN0MGWLluytCe5pvhFCSTqyXFSMIgBUOBFlu_SNf_BlcnNY9Ep3o3z6Pw66n1pgmCH35p-vPYyrh8quavl4Hf2iAc602/s1600/IMG_0092.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy7Z0DL5DN4O12ST5CquusrkLyfyJD23XU8FNI5fKDS1BVnnPfNN0MGWLluytCe5pvhFCSTqyXFSMIgBUOBFlu_SNf_BlcnNY9Ep3o3z6Pw66n1pgmCH35p-vPYyrh8quavl4Hf2iAc602/s1600/IMG_0092.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We're all connected.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">And last
but not least, when you're down and everything feels wrong, <b>a dance party with
P Square is always right</b>. #testimony #tastedamoney</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpfL61aSHCzDIwu4fgtpJOXhnxfqBJ3Qb-k5Qm0y7Z2b5jvTAIyKlONkU7cyl8TyDURttBi2NutatplL9KrKZZ6j_8tkFJbM1YKmsVXJ2LMgNcODzDu8SpbrBuZ3-ZJLhVF3ygX-ldv0DE/s1600/DSCN7704.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpfL61aSHCzDIwu4fgtpJOXhnxfqBJ3Qb-k5Qm0y7Z2b5jvTAIyKlONkU7cyl8TyDURttBi2NutatplL9KrKZZ6j_8tkFJbM1YKmsVXJ2LMgNcODzDu8SpbrBuZ3-ZJLhVF3ygX-ldv0DE/s1600/DSCN7704.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dance partayyyy</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidw-gW1iUKCQXqGcpIDZtvqMmeH6WoIGbO2vhVWk8vG3KHFPJ741EXzy0FoTFIu2K0_qAT4fJ9IBXI4hcjJfCUM_LrAc1BcLmf_Fna7_sfKPzZKsV7eEPIdusvIfRca0jyLBv9-7gSIkvM/s1600/DSCN7767.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidw-gW1iUKCQXqGcpIDZtvqMmeH6WoIGbO2vhVWk8vG3KHFPJ741EXzy0FoTFIu2K0_qAT4fJ9IBXI4hcjJfCUM_LrAc1BcLmf_Fna7_sfKPzZKsV7eEPIdusvIfRca0jyLBv9-7gSIkvM/s1600/DSCN7767.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All night looong</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEAR1RfYo6aDlzN9Qmx_0M-6e0UjDFtvP3PjHaUQZoDwZUXVC5UbE5OklEGvgnDnMi6VK1KulGpCugLxI6Sf3bjWMFjZW-SD95OAXrzYtxoJ065erYVHjlVwnO5t5OkjXVDpDO53ZFGtbm/s1600/DSCN8385.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEAR1RfYo6aDlzN9Qmx_0M-6e0UjDFtvP3PjHaUQZoDwZUXVC5UbE5OklEGvgnDnMi6VK1KulGpCugLxI6Sf3bjWMFjZW-SD95OAXrzYtxoJ065erYVHjlVwnO5t5OkjXVDpDO53ZFGtbm/s1600/DSCN8385.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And all day looong.</td></tr>
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<i>Dear friends: What "life lessons" have you learned from traveling or living abroad (or just living haha)?</i><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-60434019374388566272014-11-26T07:00:00.000-08:002014-11-26T07:00:04.050-08:00Fun-tivities in Foumban<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">In the West region of Cameroon, November and December are the months of cultural festivals. Cameroon is incredibly culturally diverse, and you only need to look at the local languages to see the extent: some sources (by which I mean Wikipedia) estimate that over 230 languages are spoken here. In my village of Bansoa, people speak a different language than Dschang (20 kilometers north) or Bafoussam (20 kilometers south) or any of the villages in between. Which is to say that in November and December there approximately a million parties. And I had the pleasure of attending Nguon, the Bamoun cultural festival in Foumban, at the beginning of November. Here are some highlights!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>1) The Sultan's Palace and museum</b>: This is without a doubt one of my two favorite museums in Cameroon (out of the two I've visited). It's full of treasures like the skulls of our enemies that were subsequently used as goblets and parts of animals killed a really long time ago. The excellent tour guides and/or his excellency Josh Shelton will happily tell you plenty of fun stories, like that of the tenth sultan Mbue-Mbue killing all his enemies to forge his borders in blood and black steal then comparing himself to a two-headed snake. It's a symbol that stuck, as you can see in this concrete structure that will eventually (and I stress evennnntually) house the new museum. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>2) The Mosque's Tower</b>: Along with these here lovely folks, I climbed a very rickety wooden ladder that gave me heart palpitations and emerged into the minaret. We were rewarded handsomely with handsome views - but it would take a handsome bribe for me to make that ascent again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">3) SHOPPING!</b><span style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">: As tourists and obvious foreigners, of course we are required to "encourage" the artisans and craftsmen. I'm sure someone makes their own wares... But I'm equally sure a lot of them buy it elsewhere and resell it as their own. The experience of extensive haggling is thrown in at no extra cost!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> <b>4) Day-time explorations</b>: You're never sure what you might stumble upon during your sun-lit meanderings.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">5) <b>Night-time festivities</b>: I doubt this needs any explaining. Some things are the same in many cultures and many countries...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif;">And my number one favorite...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>6) Défilé de desordre (parade of chaos)!!</b>: I have no idea what this parade is actually called, but it was awesome to see. Men and women cross dressing, children and adults covered in mud or ash or facepaint, crazy hats, traditional costumes, and everyone acting like a <i>fou</i> (crazy person). What's not to love? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now I can't wait for my own village's cultural festival in December! </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpLtNVmy73AL5mOvcSkJmhRbXhsSpYB06sDnowQ6AeuSpT3NlIk4UeIzXq5BdQ4R3kNA1RaIifHj_XcvUcGMB4aX6PMgSUdHBEcRnzCKjnWAM8HLtW2nUakmyOLVKeeiV63tXDmxfD2mKA/s1600/DSCN8521.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpLtNVmy73AL5mOvcSkJmhRbXhsSpYB06sDnowQ6AeuSpT3NlIk4UeIzXq5BdQ4R3kNA1RaIifHj_XcvUcGMB4aX6PMgSUdHBEcRnzCKjnWAM8HLtW2nUakmyOLVKeeiV63tXDmxfD2mKA/s640/DSCN8521.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crazy hats.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo57r_3ad60YBcYtjtDBwHvn9zlF1LQ5lg3Lf3fxncDSU4FlmCsppy5ghpk0XfIDHnU_cnQ2Qaaq3UzaZM4AE18nBAKM3utJjQyJwCSsfQ-RLS_lMldcL20ud4qKYPr5kvb3CqfNpzD__l/s1600/DSCN8524.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo57r_3ad60YBcYtjtDBwHvn9zlF1LQ5lg3Lf3fxncDSU4FlmCsppy5ghpk0XfIDHnU_cnQ2Qaaq3UzaZM4AE18nBAKM3utJjQyJwCSsfQ-RLS_lMldcL20ud4qKYPr5kvb3CqfNpzD__l/s640/DSCN8524.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Traditional costumes.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyrdOFi6MEsvc1ZHJEtWGAAGyozHFq_KjRyTMqA_qnDYVEm-094abim1Tfwbb6OtO-t5Vuoqx7G8Goz-iVaeF6hZn9cIIyofPjyc9bz16hppxIRg0_7ujXYTlA9m56vbszMIjUOm6VgM9P/s1600/DSCN8532.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyrdOFi6MEsvc1ZHJEtWGAAGyozHFq_KjRyTMqA_qnDYVEm-094abim1Tfwbb6OtO-t5Vuoqx7G8Goz-iVaeF6hZn9cIIyofPjyc9bz16hppxIRg0_7ujXYTlA9m56vbszMIjUOm6VgM9P/s640/DSCN8532.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crazy hats AND traditional costumes.</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-88787024474654773872014-11-19T07:00:00.000-08:002014-11-22T00:04:19.966-08:00Hiking in Beautiful Bangang<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">About 2 months ago now, Danielle and I
went to go visit Alec at his post. He lives in a health center, in a <i>quartier</i>
called Bamboue, in a village called Bangang. Bangang is somewhere way off <i>en
brousse</i>, at least by the standards of the West region. Located in the
Bamboutos mountains, it's full of waterfalls, a tea plantation, logging areas,
odd rocks, and terraced farmlands. Some (like Alec) argue that it is the most
beautiful post in Cameroon, and though I'm not sure I would go that far, I will
agree that it offers stunning scenery. As an advance apology for the really
long post about Foumban and its cultural festival - coming soon to an
internet-enabled device near you - I'm going to show you instead of telling you
how beautiful it is. Alec took us on a meandering five hour hike, and this is
what we saw… </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of the tea plantation and Bamboutos mountains (I think)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Danielle & Alec, taking a break and enjoying the view</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A big white sheep dog resting on a big grey rock</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View towards the South (?) - probably can see my post from here!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stumbling across the creek</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIH64wU6HyQHhArfQSXvu5JlRu-rr6cibvgXOzkvYw7IHDB2Qsd4nvrGbVGIebkU2lXafrv8Aold5SNQznsfilQ9yM8J9mwL3k7sacqsnKkcJy4cLclXICTs2tJlzsbijH_V0uSyz10MYu/s1600/DSCN8249.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIH64wU6HyQHhArfQSXvu5JlRu-rr6cibvgXOzkvYw7IHDB2Qsd4nvrGbVGIebkU2lXafrv8Aold5SNQznsfilQ9yM8J9mwL3k7sacqsnKkcJy4cLclXICTs2tJlzsbijH_V0uSyz10MYu/s400/DSCN8249.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of the waterfall</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Then we climbed above the waterfall, involving running<br />
away from very large cows with very large horns.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDb9W20VuBb3u8sKiPNNjh04M9sjbUTgrp_xs7s4AaR_ub06sD3MihdSXmZHnOQ6183eYxB2czb27zI2GhQFGH1E46IB0yxErFnns2eQrSQ75ruZNO7wvpasA7WAQEw7cWPFWY9yMKj71/s1600/DSCN8262.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDb9W20VuBb3u8sKiPNNjh04M9sjbUTgrp_xs7s4AaR_ub06sD3MihdSXmZHnOQ6183eYxB2czb27zI2GhQFGH1E46IB0yxErFnns2eQrSQ75ruZNO7wvpasA7WAQEw7cWPFWY9yMKj71/s400/DSCN8262.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Enjoyin the sunshine :)</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-67560720035309087282014-11-13T04:24:00.001-08:002014-11-21T02:50:01.138-08:00The Definitive Guide to Washing Socks (According to Me.)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Are you struggling to wash your socks? Do
you often find that even after washing, your socks appear dingy? If you do not
have a washing machine, this may be you! (Then again, if you are a Peace Corps
Volunteer, this may not be you, and all of your Cameroonian friends may be
clucking their tongues in judgement when you turn your back.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">After extensive observation of
Cameroonian women doing laundry followed by a
period of trial and error, after only 14 months of Peace Corps service,
I have discovered the perfect sock-washing-system! Simply follow these steps
for brilliantly clean socks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Pgi2Eq3-es_WBD0KauN6cEDdB2GN7jzhVjPFtMNj7_idtf1WhQd5FDK1KXFy825bm4nOR2ZmG3n6ZgMDSfjNi1i43USJKWbMqFIcHzIDRb4tnudn2Hh0fohN4EHeBBPwGGVy-fEEs8t0/s1600/DSCN7685.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Pgi2Eq3-es_WBD0KauN6cEDdB2GN7jzhVjPFtMNj7_idtf1WhQd5FDK1KXFy825bm4nOR2ZmG3n6ZgMDSfjNi1i43USJKWbMqFIcHzIDRb4tnudn2Hh0fohN4EHeBBPwGGVy-fEEs8t0/s400/DSCN7685.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">1. Un-ball your socks and turn
right-side-out. (Actually, this should be done immediately upon removal of said
socks. Otherwise they remain a sweaty putrid mass whose sent will only
increase, causing your visitors to wrinkle their noses and wonder, What on
earth is that scent?)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">2. Put socks into a bucket of water with
lots of detergent and soak for at least one hour or overnight. (Depending on
your water situation, you may have to haul water from the well; go to the water
pump; go to the river; catch some rain; or turn on your tap.) If your socks are
all white, you may want to add some bleach.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">3.
Swirl, pound, stomp, or otherwise create lots of bubbles in your bucket
full of socks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">4. Take one sock.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">5. Rub sock vigorously with a bar of
soap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">6. Scrub suck vigorously with a
medium-sized soft-bristled brush, focusing on areas that often get dirty,
especially: the toe area, the heel area, the sock bottom, or the entire sock
depending on your sock wearing habits.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">7. Turn sock inside out and repeat steps
5-6. (This is especially important if you almost never wash your feet, and then
you stick your dirty feet into clean socks. Americans in Cameroon are often
accused of negligence in this domain.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">8. Rinse well in soapy bucket and wring
out as much soap & water as possible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">9. Place in a second bucket of clean,
non-sudsy water and let rest for 5 or more minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">10. Wring again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">11. Hang in a dry, sunny, clean place
until dry. (Consider sudden rainstorms to be a second rinse cycle.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">12. Iron or let sit around for 3 days
after drying so that you do not get mango fly larva in your feet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And voila! With only these 12 easy steps
you can have socks as sparkly clean as a Cameroonian -- and hands as tough and
wrinkled as a Cameroonian! </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-22338817536613767822014-10-21T10:38:00.003-07:002014-12-16T03:11:54.692-08:00Karoling in Kumbo!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I feel I should apologize for my tardy blog posts. Sorry, friends and strangers, readers and skimmers! But I also wonder - does the lateness, the rarity of this blog post make it more valuable? Will it be more popular or less popular? Either way, dear followers, this should be a fun post because it is a post in which I take a trip to Kumbo!</div>
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Saturday, 6 September 2014, morning: the beginning, the day of travel, the start of a new adventure - and time to pack. I hate packing, so I have progressively put it off later and later, finally reaching my current point where the moment I finish packing is the moment I bumble out the front door, turning the key twice behind me in the wooden door and securing the heavy padlock on the metal, outer door. I maneuver myself and my bag and my cumbersome motorcycle helmet across the balcony, down the uneven concrete steps, and through the dark and narrow hallway until I emerge, blinking, into the sunlit marketplace in front of my bar.</div>
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I carefully tread and thread my way between unhurried shoppers of all ages, bamboo tables piled with produce, carts overflowing with plastic kitchen utensils or used clothing, plastic mats on the ground spread with okra and onions, giant 100-kilo bags of rice or peanuts or red or black or white beans, and rushing vehicles. It's market day, and I will be glad to escape the bustle of today and the work of a few days. I find a bush taxi which will take me out of Bansoa Chefferie and down to the main road, the paved route connecting Dschang and Bafoussam and Bamenda, connecting me to my adventure. The taxi is heading in to Bafoussam, but I get out earlier, at Carrefour Dschang, the three-way intersection between those three cities. Instead of going right towards Bafoussam, I cross the road and turn left, waiting for my opportunity to hitchhike up to Bamenda. It doesn't take too long before a man driving a big, spacious truck pulls over and offers me and three very tall men rides. The three men, being gentlemen, stuff themselves into the tiny bench of a backseat, long legs and arms held tight to their bodies, and enthusiastically begin conversing in three or four languages: French, English, pidgin, and a local language I don't recognize. I'm silent in the front seat, enjoying a rare moment (and by moment, I mean two hours or so) of traveling in physical comfort. As a light drizzle starts, I do nothing but breathe and let my eyes wander over the beautiful hills and valleys of the borderlands between the grasslands West and mountainous Northwest regions. </div>
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I never travel through Bamenda without stopping to enjoy a frankly luxurious meal - this time, lunch at PressCafé, namely a Greek salad complete with olives and feta cheese (cheese! cheese!) accompanied by a hot coffee and homemade bread. After my satisfying meal, which I shared with Hillary Clinton (by which I mean her book), I take the long taxi ride across the city and then wait for a bush taxi to fill then proceed along the Ring Road to Kumbo. I realize I'm paying for the comfort of my morning's drive with the discomfort of my afternoon's. With four adults and two young children in the backseat - one screaming six-month old, one calm five year old - I am tilted sideways, have nowhere to put my arms, and am sweating. In other words - a return to normal travel. We bump and thump along the rutted Ring Road, first climbing up out of Bamenda past waterfalls and waterfalls, then rapidly descending down the mountain into a valley. The woman to my left falls asleep; the woman to my right falls ill; my left leg falls asleep. Despite the discomfort - or perhaps because of the discomfort? I have a theory that physical discomfort causes one to appreciate beauty more - the view is stunning. Real mountains, forests and fields, waterfalls and lakes! I can't help but feel my spirits rise with the scenery. As we pass Ndop, the road improves. Jakiri wizzes by, and I know I am close. Then, two hours after leaving Bamenda, I arrive in Kumbo. One more motorcycle ride and there it is, my destination: Shannon Clawson's house! And it is a house with a view: the air is clear and the sun is setting behind majestic Mount Oku, the third highest mountain in Cameroon. Is it American or is it human that any mountain I see, I want to climb? </div>
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I have had enough sitting in cramped places for the day and just want to relax after my voyage, so (after much talking) Shannon and I head to an upstairs bar with a balcony to watch the sun set over the mountains. Unfortunately, we talked too much, so we mostly missed the sunset - but we found a few friends to make up for it. Cait (a new PCV) and Mark (a Cameroonian friend to all PCVs) joined us and we embarked on a wide-ranging conversation about the education system, the plight of the Cameroonian youth, and Mean Girls, the flowing words aided and abetted by flowing beer. So one thing leads to another, so one beer leads to another, so one bar leads to another - and before the night was through, I visited three bars and made many new friends.</div>
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We do not get up early the next morning. But when we do get up, we feast on pancakes and locally grown coffee. (I learned that Starbucks sometimes sells coffee grown in Cameroon, right next door to Kumbo - keep an eye out, readers!) Shannon has work to do, so I traipse off to find Lianna, another PCV from my staging group. Her house is also beautiful, with more stunning scenery. I know I keep using the word "stunning," and I will try to show you with the pictures, but really they do not do it justice! I stand on her balcony, and I breathe the almost-cold air (we're at pretty high altitude), and I feel like I cannot look enough. But it would be awkward if I just stood on Lianna's balcony for hours, so instead I walk inside and try to hold that feeling of seeing something unexpectedly beautiful inside, like a warm secret. For lunch, we make… more pancakes! And then we go meandering to find a waterfall. Our path leads us - down from her house to the road - up to the market - down to the creek - up the hill - down through a bamboo forest - until we arrive below the waterfall. Kumbo is not particularly flat. Is it American or is it human nature that any waterfall pool I see, I want to climb into? </div>
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After enjoying nature for a time, we meet Kat and Shannon at the cafe (where I cannot resist the temptation to order a hot chocolate) and then go out to dinner. When I say "go out to dinner," I don't mean that we go to a restaurant with menus, sit down and order, sip wine and water out of clean glasses… In fact, just erase all your ideas of going out to dinner. We go find their favorite mama who sells exactly three things out of three different plastic containers: beans, rice, and cabbage. We tell her we want cent franc of each, and go sit down. "Cabbage mama" slops them onto four battered metal plate, and then deposits said plates onto an uneven wooden table covered in a white-and-pink-flowered fabric, located in a dark and dingy hole in the wall. It is the second most delicious beans and cabbage I have ever tasted. Due to our late hours the night before, Shannon and I do not stay out late tonight.Instead, we retire at her home for some Anchorman giggles. </div>
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The sun rises on the my third day in Kumbo. I meet Lianna in the Café (which I manage to find all on my own, with the help of a painted concrete statue depicting some religious leader; I found it rather frightening the first time I saw it and so it stuck in my mind) and we relax. I sip ginger tea - it makes my tongue tingle! - and read some more Hillary book. I'm on the (very short) chapter about Africa, and the oversimplification makes me mildly angry. When we get bored, Lianna and I being wandering. We visit a library-slash-jewelry shop and become overly excited by ALL THE BOOKS!!! We visit the market and I buy absurd quantities of pagne. We buy foodstuffs for our dinner plans: vegetarian sushi and egg rolls. Shortly thereafter, we climb some stairs to a balcony restaurant. This experience is somewhere between "going out to eat" of the night before and "going out to eat" in America. Still no menu, but a nice table with beautiful pagne table cloths and a fairly friendly server - and the most delicious chicken I have eaten in country. Nom nom nom! </div>
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Am I sick of eating yet? Not even close! For dinner, Lianna teaches me to make egg rolls entirely from scratch at her house, while Shannon and Cait and Kat make vegetarian sushi and spring rolls at Kat's house. We join forces (Lianna and I walk over while singing Christmas carols at the top of our lungs, because, why not? We're weird already, might as well be really weird. Plus - we came bearing gifts!) for a feast of asian-inspired food. By the time we are ready to leave, everyone is full and happy - but then the rain starts. Rain, rain, go away… But no rain song-and-dance helps. Like an unwelcome guest, the rain is staying the night. But we still have to get home. So we wander out, the lucky ones (me) huddled under rain jackets. The roads - no, paths - are steep and slippery, and I'm not used to navigating them. Shannon can't help but crack up as she watches me trudge up the hill after her. </div>
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Picture this: I'm wearing light blue jeans, already marked by mud and rain, and green Chacos that don't give me any traction in the slick dirt. On top, a shiny greyish-purple rain jacket, with my purse and my purchases shoved underneath so I have a huge, fluffy belly. My hood is pulled up, and my red moto helmet is perched on top of that, so in the dim light I appear to have two heads. I'm walking up the hill, not on the track, but next to it in the knee high grasses, lifting my knees high and wide, placing my feet verrrry carefully. I'm muttering something along the lines of, "The grasses are less slip-y but significantly damper." Cue the belly-laughter from above. </div>
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We make it home without incident, my last night in Kumbo. The next morning, I re-pack (it's always easier to re-pack than it is to pack the first time; you don't have to make any decisions, just shove everything in!). Shannon has just two more sights to show me before I leave. First, the grocery store stocked with cocoa powder. I can't find it in Bafoussam, so I buy a full kilo and weigh my travel bag down a bit more. Second, the home and workshop of Cameroonian artist Jean Samuels. His paintings are so beautiful, i want to buy all of them, but I'm afraid to ask the price because I know I can't afford it. Cringing, I do anyway. Because how often do I have the opportunity to meet the artist, buy Cameroonian paintings that I love? I buy two and clutch them all the way home - down the mountain to Ndop, up the mountain to the outskirts of Bamenda, down the mountain into the city, back up the other side, down into the West, all the way home. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-38459335091640401752014-08-25T13:36:00.001-07:002014-08-25T13:36:44.921-07:00A Day in the PCVLife (Part II), in which we go on a scavenger hunt.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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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. </div>
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A new day begins. </div>
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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 <i>almost</i> there already! </div>
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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! </div>
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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 <i>grand</i> and all, and he insisted on it in more ways than one: "Let me be the last." Time to go.</div>
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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 <i>grand</i>-er <i>grand</i>), 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! </div>
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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 <i>bensikinneur</i>, which some have insisted to me is English) along the way, covering all of my top three conversation subjects: <i>La route est grave.</i> (The state of this road is grave.) <i>La boue est grave.</i> (The state of the mud is grave.) <i>Il va pleuvoir.</i> (It's going to rain.) I consider this particular <i>bensikinneur</i> my friend, although I don't know his name or if I would recognize him without his fuzzy ear-flap hat. </div>
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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.</div>
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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:</div>
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1. Welcome to sub-saharan Africa, folks.* </div>
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2. I guess that means I won't be eating couscous for a while…** </div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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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! </div>
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--Do you print?</div>
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-- No, sorry.</div>
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-- But it's on the sign.</div>
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-- What's on the sign?</div>
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-- Printing.</div>
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-- Oh! Printing! I thought you said painting! (And he demonstrates enthusiastically, imaginary paintbrush swiping broad strokes of transparent paint through the air.) </div>
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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.</div>
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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 <i>safou*** </i>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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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And so ends a normal day.</div>
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*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...</div>
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**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.</div>
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** 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? </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-8934987765776672672014-08-21T11:57:00.005-07:002014-08-22T01:14:28.296-07:00American Becky =/= Cameroonian Becky<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWAstcCNTbRB6SBwbeqNRHfRPsi_X4lSa6ygatfMAJeJfl32YpzO-Yx0GNLI4RJ1D2OHa5DwkI4PlbPFInZNpoTcitkz8EB9nbhpuHVtwKoUrf8fIDuWoMKkoW7auvMINE5hfnQ1vmeIhZ/s1600/DSCN7905.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWAstcCNTbRB6SBwbeqNRHfRPsi_X4lSa6ygatfMAJeJfl32YpzO-Yx0GNLI4RJ1D2OHa5DwkI4PlbPFInZNpoTcitkz8EB9nbhpuHVtwKoUrf8fIDuWoMKkoW7auvMINE5hfnQ1vmeIhZ/s1600/DSCN7905.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
When I was considering Peace Corps and talking to a lot of returned Peace Corps volunteers (RPCVs), I heard pretty often that Peace Corps was life-changing, that one would come back to the same place and find oneself indelibly different. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrd_dVSfuxDAZcSpgDQ7o24Jf97dtkUEiJ8iAVh1A9-FBQbIwRjoSCW9EDi9raxy2Q3C9avHwiowiJ0MYxNxGOpgfjFA-LcNS348DwyB2wxJquo9n7geiv2WmHDKeKk8la3n4Zs6u36VAY/s1600/DSCN7890.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrd_dVSfuxDAZcSpgDQ7o24Jf97dtkUEiJ8iAVh1A9-FBQbIwRjoSCW9EDi9raxy2Q3C9avHwiowiJ0MYxNxGOpgfjFA-LcNS348DwyB2wxJquo9n7geiv2WmHDKeKk8la3n4Zs6u36VAY/s1600/DSCN7890.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a>In the 11 (almost 12!) months I have been here, I have watched many changes occur in my PCV friends. Most people pick up Cameroonian habits - they begin to talk like Cameroonians ("<i>C'est quoi ça</i>?!" or "<i>On va faire comment</i>?"), or use gestures like Cameroonians (the clap followed by spread hands and raised eyebrows to indicate innocence or helplessness in a situation), or drink like Cameroonians ("<i>Vin de palm</i> at 9am? Well it is a Wednesday.")… </div>
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Watching these changes in others, I realized I must be changing too. So, in honor of self-reflection and my new hair cut, I decided to compile a list with the help of my lovely postmate Danielle, and with inspiration from Sarah Mae's <a href="http://princesssarahmaeincameroon.blogspot.com/2013/01/america-sarah.html" target="_blank">very entertaining blog post.</a> </div>
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The most obvious is my name: In America, I am Becky. And that means I have the same name as a lot of white girls in rapper songs. But in Cameroon, I am Rebecca. And that means I have the same name as a lot of people's grandmothers, aunts, cousins, sisters, etc, making me instantly part of the family. ("<i>Ma grandmère! Tu es là? C'est comment, non</i>?")</div>
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That is only the beginning... </div>
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Becky is irritated when she's forced to sit three to the backseat of a sedan. </div>
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Rebecca is thrilled by the spaciousness of the backseat with only three people in it. </div>
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Becky considers her 1996 Honda Civic to be quite old.</div>
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Rebecca is unfazed by cars of 20+ years of age, even those sporting no window cranks or mirrors, makeshift rope door handles, nearly shattered windshields, holes in the floor, or all of the above. </div>
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Becky knows that hitchhiking is dangerous and prefers to drive herself or take public transportation.</div>
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Rebecca knows that hitchhiking is practical, cheap, and usually the fastest and most comfortable means of transportation. </div>
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Becky doesn't discuss pooping or farting unless trying to fit in with the boys. </div>
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Rebecca regularly discusses the quality and quantity of bowel movements with her friends.</div>
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Becky poops in toilets and then pushes a button to flush them. </div>
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Rebecca poops in a hole. </div>
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Becky finds mushy foods to be rather gross and unappealing.</div>
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Rebecca eats primarily foods that don't require teeth, such as couscous de maïs, and isn't sure she would get out of bed in the morning without the promise of oatmeal. </div>
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Becky finds nothing more refreshing than a long, steamy shower after a rugby game.</div>
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Rebecca finds nothing more refreshing than a freezing bucket bath after a hike in the hills.</div>
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Becky washes her hair approximately every three days because she finds it annoying.</div>
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Rebecca washers her hair approximately every six days because she finds it annoying. </div>
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Becky wakes up to an alarm from her iPhone.</div>
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Rebecca wakes up to pigs, goats, roosters, motorcycles, and the market DJ. </div>
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Becky buys groceries in the grocery store, sometimes spending several dollars on a yogurt.</div>
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Rebecca buys grocers in the farmer's market, sometimes spending 20 cents on 5 cabbages.</div>
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Becky considers a $10 tshirt not a bad deal. </div>
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Rebecca is seriously insulted (it's because she's white!) when asked to pay more than $1 for a dress.</div>
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Becky sometimes flirts with men.</div>
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Rebecca receives at least three marriage proposals every time she leaves home and responds with scathing sarcasm. </div>
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Becky often had her day scheduled from 8am to midnight. </div>
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Rebecca often has to attend one three hour meeting OR teach for two hours, and feels proud of herself for working so much afterwards. </div>
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Becky would be insulted and consider starting a fight if called aunty, mother, or grandmother.</div>
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Rebecca's heart melts a little when called tata, mama, or grandmère.</div>
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Becky's day is made when - I'm not sure, actually.</div>
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Rebecca's day is made when she receives a package or letter from home, when a Cameroonian defends her from unwanted advances or racism, when given hugs by children, when fed by her neighbors, when the tailor has finally finished her dress, when the grocery store has Oreos or brown rice, when Danielle gifts her a Time magazine, when one of the village <i>fous </i>(crazies) gifts her a large bag of <i>safou</i>, when one of her students tells her she is peer educating, when… </div>
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Becky doesn't like to cry in front of others.</div>
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Rebecca is regularly reduced to tears by mean moto drivers, sad songs, sad movies, sad news articles (including Economist magazine articles about Middle East politics), and thoughts of cheese.</div>
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Becky considers beer, like scotch, to be a "manly" drink.</div>
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Rebecca considered beer, like palm wine and sachets (small plastic bags of nailpolish-quality alcohol), to be a "manly" drink.</div>
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However, Rebecca considers American-sized beers to be teeny-tiny and rather emasculating. </div>
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After all those beers, Becky's preferred hangover treatment is gym and bagels.</div>
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Rebecca's preferred hangover treatment is a spaghetti omelette smothered in mayonnaise and/or avocado plus several cups of instant Nescafé and sweetened-condensed milk. </div>
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Becky is impatient and hates having to wait 15 minutes in line at the post office. </div>
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Rebecca is impatient and hates having to wait 3 hours for a meeting to never start. </div>
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Becky is clueless about current TV shows and popular culture references.</div>
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Rebecca is clueless about current TV shows and popular culture references.</div>
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Okay, so maybe not everything transforms… But moving halfway around the world is bound to change anyone a bit, non?<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3990568580683338331.post-10327126645993051392014-07-28T02:33:00.002-07:002014-07-29T02:24:45.104-07:00Adamawan Adventures!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">After finishing my big camp project
(which was stressful and time-consuming for months), getting strep throat and a
cold and too much stress acne, I decided I needed a recovery adventure. So I
declared July to be "treat yo self!" month and off I trundled! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">First leg of the trip: Bansoa - Bafoussam
- Yaoundé. Normally this trip isn't too bad, but one never knows how traveling
will go here, and I got unlucky. There were extra checkpoints set up by the
central government along the entire route, making my normal taxi ride into
Bafoussam two hours instead of one. You see, these checkpoints charge 5000 CFA
(a lot) if cars are "surchargé" (over-filled, which is all taxis in
the West if not the country). So the taxi driver took the circuitous route
through 4 different villages and rough dirt roads, only crossing the
beautifully paved road we normally take, and slipping through mud as deep as
the axles. At one point, we are spinning our wheels in the thick sludge,
slipping sideways, and I am watching a large tree rapidly approach my window…
But all the men got out of the car and pushed, so we made it through that
tricky patch without incident. (This was one of the few times I was happy to be
a woman here; I didn't need to get out and muck up my shoes and work up a
sweat. #winning). It wasn't until I arrived in Bafoussam, irritated and
thoroughly thumped around, that I realized if <i>we</i> could get around all
the checkpoints, then I might draw the conclusion that unsavory individuals
*cough Boko Haram cough cough* are equally capable of avoiding them. Oh well…
The rest of the trip was uneventful, though prices were high because of the <i>grand</i>
<i>vacances</i> (no summer here!) and the government's decision to end gas
subsidies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Once in Yaounde, Colleen and I made the
long trip across town to pick up our train tickets. She had made the
reservation earlier; though the trains are new, the system to buy tickets is
painfully anachronistic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The next day, July 2, we hung out and
waited for 7pm Departure Time to roll around. An hour before departure,
Colleen, Liz, Travis and I climbed into our <i>wagon lit </i>- a train car with
2 bunk beds and not much space elsewise. We began our slumber party by rocking
out to Enya, which was being played over the loudspeakers by a mysterious
someone. It would be a long trip, so we'd stocked up on cookies and snacks (and
beer). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We finally arrived in Ngaoundéré around
10am on July 3, having traveled about half the length of Califonia(prompting my
mother to ask: "What?! Is it a train pulled by horses?!"). Ngaoundéré
is the capital of the Adamawa region, and is supposed to mean "belly
button" - so named for the bizarre rock perched precariously on top of a
mountain. These odd rocks stuck in weird places were all over town; I wish I
had pictures, but unfortunately my camera was misbehaving. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Culturally, the Grand North (Adamawa,
North, and Extreme North) is shockingly different from the Grand South
(everywhere else). It is primarily Fulbe and Muslim; people look different,
dress different, speak different. My first reaction to Ngaoundéré was: It's so
quiet here! It was probably even more quiet because of Ramadan. There were few if
any taxis, with motos being the main form of transportation. I even saw three
boys racing horses down the street! They have <i>lamidos</i> rather than <i>chefs</i>,
and rarely shout "les blancs!" at us. They eat tons of beef and sell
beautiful leather products in the marketplace. I felt like I was in an entirely
new country!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cameroonian-style henna, called "sifa", on my footsies</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Then - 4th of July - we PCVs carved our
own enclave of America out of the rest of Cameroon. Somehow, being out of the
U.S. and surrounded by <i>étrangers</i> magnetizes us to each other and turns
us (for a day, at least) into jingoistic, flag waving patriots. Burgers were
grilled, beers were imbibed, guacamole and salsa and homemade tortilla chips
were served, lawn games and drinking games were played. And, of course,
everyone dressed in red, white, & blue. It was a most excellent
celebration! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">After a day like that, a day of recovery
is generally necessary. But when you're on a sight-seeing mission, rest is not
an option! Instead of lying around all day, Colleen, Lara and I travelled east
to Dibi and Ngaoundaba Ranch. I am at a loss for words to describe the ranch.
You take a moto about 5k out of Dibi into lush green forests and pastures,
passing the funny hump-backed cows. When you arrive, you hear nothing but
birdsong. It was beautiful - peaceful - a real escape. Since it's rainy season,
we couldn't go hiking around the lake, but we could go rowing on it! An
employee took us, sitting in the front of the boat and rowing us backwards in a
big loop so we could admire the giant leaping fish and lily pads and birdies.
We followed up our non-exercise with a luxurious meal of the best steak I've
had in country, along with green beans in butter and fresh salad and fruit
salad for dessert. It was, quite simply, a heavenly day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The next stop on my trip was visiting
Colleen in her town, Meiganga. I say town, not village, for a reason! It had
lots of shopping, restaurants, noisy people and noisy motos. But walk about 10
minutes from her house and you are truly <i>en brousse</i> (in the bush), again
with the hump-back cows and noisy birds and grasses taller than your heads.
Visiting Colleen was great - she fed me so well and we even had spa night (I've
never smelled so good in country!) with white box wine (Pena Sol, don't worry,
it's classy) and the movie Out of Africa. To be fair, Colleen did a lot of work
while I was there, and I even managed to help a little with two days of her
camp. Talking about puberty and pregnancy, of course. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Veiw of Mount Ganga from Meiganga</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Made it to the top! </td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj267TKYZyKq_NLZ80g3M2czFfba96XYGIClUg-61nlmicAy_CwWHZoKpmbWUO3MtpR7r5iYRhMYuA19O7L0NLIxM0bSjO-2jMMmx0bOUq-n6NCaocd698yK-zO9385hLX7lxuQiXvYABvH/s1600/IMG_0014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj267TKYZyKq_NLZ80g3M2czFfba96XYGIClUg-61nlmicAy_CwWHZoKpmbWUO3MtpR7r5iYRhMYuA19O7L0NLIxM0bSjO-2jMMmx0bOUq-n6NCaocd698yK-zO9385hLX7lxuQiXvYABvH/s1600/IMG_0014.JPG" height="320" width="288" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6EGvtJbK-40fWRBH6qG59tTuR8j_NcCXwvoobEOpnB_QnsfYjoR_UnkPS-SSpNhP5oQNsvR6B9yjJmSxIxR0MJPTG2As2FEtL8x0estNE9enc-O1kW_DvDMJXMWaKab79CNkbaVVLHqKh/s1600/IMG_0097.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6EGvtJbK-40fWRBH6qG59tTuR8j_NcCXwvoobEOpnB_QnsfYjoR_UnkPS-SSpNhP5oQNsvR6B9yjJmSxIxR0MJPTG2As2FEtL8x0estNE9enc-O1kW_DvDMJXMWaKab79CNkbaVVLHqKh/s1600/IMG_0097.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A much more fun version of the original pin the tail on the donkey:<br />
Pin the name on the female reproductive anatomy!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The last place I visited was Mbarang,
Will's village. And here I saw village for a reason… To one who lives in the
West and is used to all habitable space being inhabited and/or farmed, it
seemed waaaaay out <i>en brousse</i>. While on the back of the motorcycle I was
taking to Will's house, about 30 minutes into the ride, I began to wonder if
I'd accidentally hopped on the back of a Boko Moto… But not so! We eventually
got to Mbarang, and I was enchanted. But then I had to find Will's house, which
I had never seen and had neglected to ask him how to get there. In typical
Cameroon fashion, I just had the driver stop and ask all villagers where the
American lived (which he translated to the <i>nassara</i>, or "white
person" in Fulfulde). Worked out great and in less than 5 minutes I was
there! I found Will, Anna, and Hannah sitting on his floor drinking coffee. Not
being one to like sit around, I got them to rally and we went off to explore.
We found what appeared to be the beautiful green hills of Ireland, a hidden gem
in the middle of nowhere, complete with 5 lakes (built by the Germans), half a
million sheep, and a million goats. I asked him: How could you ever leave this
place?! He told me: The only things I can buy in village are beef and tomatoes.
Me: Ah, I see. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But all good things must come to an end,
and I had to go home at some point. So Aly and I took the train back to
Yaoundé, a trip which started off auspiciously with Aly & I catching the
train less than 10 minutes before it left and barely missing a torrential
downpour thunderstorm. But it did not continue in the same vein, as we were
motionless form 3-6am and 7am-noon due to a derailed cargo train. Comforting?
We ended up spending 23 mind-numbing hours on the train, thankfully broken up
by good company and bad movies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Though I had intended on powering through
and getting home that same day, we got in to Yaounde too late for me to
continue on. So I ended up just hanging around Yaoundé, saying goodbye to
several friends who finished their Peace Corps service and headed home. We're
missing them already - but they were thrilled! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I can't imagine how it will feel when I
am in their shoes, over a year from now; but I also can't believe that I've
been in Cameroon over 10 months now! Time has dragged, time has flown, and I
only hope I fill the rest of my time with as many adventures as I've had
already.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Will, Hannah & Anna in Mbarang</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Will loves dem baby goats.</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03231141606179999396noreply@blogger.com0