I have never been so impressed with my legs! Aya and I got to the summit of Africa's second highest peak- Mount Cameroon. I think it is 4,099 meters and we made it with minimal altitude issues and no injuries! The way up was challenging and thrilling. Contrary to what the locals told us the weather was beautiful. In fact the sun you see here is the best sunshine we've gotten throughout our whole stay in Buea. Once you get above the permanent cloud cover the air is drier and the landscape surreal. The way down was probably the longest duration of pain I've ever experienced as I forgot to pack Advil. Overall the climb was the coolest thing I think I've ever done.

Interesting...

if anyone has time it's really interesting to read my friend Helen's blog. I met her in Buea and worked with her for a month. She is an amazing person and I definitely have referenced her in this blog. She is now in the United States where she'll be living permanently. She's never left Cameroon before and her impressions will be really interesting. She's an incredible writer and I loved what I just read of her blog!

her blog, "New Soul" is at outofbuea.blogspot.com

Also, how's it going with the hunt for Star Trek DVDs? I am not above pirating...

Work

I haven’t posted much about my experience at the Elyon Rock Foundation because every day I leave with a different feeling. In reflection I never really know what to make of it. I guess I can elaborate on the complexity that is the work situation here in Cameroon. And I mean work in the broadest sense because the problems facing this NGO are present in every single business in this country. Work, for people here goes like this:

Every morning I wake up and go to work and there’s really no problem if we are ten or twenty or thirty minutes late because I think everyone is. And if not, then somehow being temporary unpaid international interns in the foundation makes us impervious to rules which might apply to employees. We never knowingly take advantage of these relaxed rules, but I think we are late more frequently here than we would be at home becsue its so acceptable. I actually have a hard time accepting my own tardiness because I know I am on some level not contribution my very best here, but the climate of mediocrity (when it comes to productivity ad output) is so pervasive that the other two interns and I are just trying not to get completely swept away in it. I guess I can some it all up this way: it feels like I am 60% on vacation and 40% here to work productively. And I would add that that’s on a good day.

It’s tough because I’ve reserved making judgments about the African work ethic due to the economic situation here. What I see (or to be correct what I used to see- let me get to that later) in the office are two employees, Pam and Sammy, Bill in his office and two to four volunteers who after three months of “probation” have the potential to be paid. They are all idly pecking on computers or reading reports that have been re-written literally four times. Bill funds this very nice third-floor office and underlying two-story school facility with his family’s money. Bill’s parents are a chief and a princess, his brother is a neurologist in Italy, his sister a fashion designer in Washington state, and his other brother is somewhere else abroad making a ton of money. So he gets money from the fam; probably from his siblings as a thank-you for staying home to take care of their mom, as I think she’s pretty sick. Bill’s dream is to create movies, and as he is very religious and sensitive to the social inequities here he decided in college that he would create socially-relevant films and pioneer the Cameroonian film industry. I wish he could have just stayed with the one consolidated dream and go after it, but I think he began an NGO because that’s how someone with limited means can start a company here, call it an NGO, do some charitable things, get some foreign funding and you’re all set. The only money seems to come from outside Cameroon. Spoke with a recent graduate from the University of Buea last night (an AIESECer of course) and he said that the only way to get employment here is to start your own business. There are no jobs to be found for even the most qualified individuals. Either start your own here (somehow) or get out of the country.

I will try to get to the point here: the reason everyone is so non-productive is because there is only enough money for rent for this space. There’s no money to advertise the upcoming Shalom Academy enrollment period in which we need ten students to enroll in all of the following schools: Business and Management, Social Studies, Creative Arts, and Information Technology, in order to actually break even. There’s no money to pay the promised and to-be publicized scholarship in tuition for qualified staff members of community-based organizations and social rehabilitation groups, as well as current students. Thus we have empty promises and cannot fund execution of this project which has cost Bill so much money that he hasn’t paid Pam and Sammy for three months. But this is a viscous cycle, just keep reading.

So he’s sunk all this money into the first financially sustainable dream he’s dreamt (among MANY unexecuted, poorly-planned dreams) and he can’t get the return because we don’t have money. And he’s relying on his three interns to get donor funding before enrollment ends in October and theoretically classes begin. But no Foundation will ever give him money because it’s not viable.

Poor Bill has given assignments to his volunteers and Pam and Sammy in hopes that they can pull together a budget and prepare us with the logistics we need to write these proposals. Sometimes I write bullshit about what I think they should do, for instance to evaluate the success of Shalom Academy by holding board meetings and feedback session with faculty and handing out evaluation forms to students, and then he’ll read it and say, “that’s a great idea, we will definitely do that.” So that part has been fun. But as far as receiving any hard information on logistics, the most I have gotten is a problem tree (e.g. economic hardship leads to illiteracy leads to unemployment and Shalom Academy will solve that), addressing none of the budgeting or logistical concerns. I am not even convinced that we have teachers still on board to teach in October.

So today Laura, Aya, and I walked in and no one was here but Bill. My heart sunk because Bill is an awesome guy and although he lacks practical business skills he has a great heart and it’s sad that his unpaid team had no choice but to desert him. But no, Pam and Sammy did eventually come to work, but the rest of the volunteers have left. It’s funny because in all the proposals I have still been instructed to write that the staffing of Elyon Rock Foundation is “composed of the senate made up of eight staff members, the committee of joint heads made up of six staff members, and general members and volunteers”. I have no idea if they’ll actually make me write the names of former employees and volunteers, (as there have been many) or if they will eventually realize that that’s illegal. Maybe I’ll have to remind them…

In comparison to the output of the staff here the interns are this organization’s life force. We are teaching HIV/AIDS classes (completely funding transport and materials ourselves, but it’s so cheap and there’s no point to ask for money) every morning reaching 200 students overall. This month we’re going to try to reach 700 in conjunction with other AIESECers working in other NGOs. After the morning classes and lunch we come back to work and write inquiry letters and proposals. I hope to get them all sent before the end of next week so that if any reply positively I can show Pam what we’ve been doing so she can execute the full proposal and maybe get some money.

It’s just this dismal cycle that I could analyze for a long time… they have no money, they must spend time trying to find it but also show donors that they are viable and productive and already self-sustainable. Yeah right. And then they can’t do much without money in the first place and what they could maybe fund should rightfully be the employees’ salary… and when the employee’s aren’t paid of course they are going to lay their heads down on their desks and take naps and download pictures and songs and do NOTHING PRODUCTIVE AT ALL.

So to wrap this rant up, this experience overall has been very illustrative and leaves me realizing the importance of development from inside a country, the power of strategy and logistics, and how lucky I was to be born in a place where all this stuff had been streamlined a long time ago- above of the curve globally-speaking. Development is on the other side of that curve here in Africa and it’s personally enriching for me to have to deal with it.

Kumba

This weekend the girls and I went to Kumba at the request of our AIESEC friend Tbong Arnold Tbong. We call him Arnold. Aya and I went on Friday night and wanted to get there before dark, so we made it to Mile 17 (the van-loading transfer place- basically a muddy parking lot with vendors and chaos) by 6:30. Arnold told us that it would take an hour from Buea to Kumba at most, so we knew we were cutting it close but we should have been fine. That is if the van filled to capacity quickly, which it didn’t. I can see now why Africans are generally not the most punctual. Their transportation is the epitome of unreliable. We sat in the van for 3 hours waiting. There were no other vans to Kumba. We finally got there at 10:30 which was fine because Arnold’s sister from The States was visiting and she had set the trend in their family to stay up late. In fact, she didn’t serve the family the dinner she’d prepared until we got there at 10:30. Aya and I felt really bad but it’s the way of the amazing African host to suffer for their guests’ comfort.

Arnold’s family is pretty interesting, at least to a non-African. His now American sister moved to the US when she was 21 with her husband. She studied at night college and then got her masters and now is a K-3rd grade teacher in Newark, living in Easton, PA. She is the second girl of 8 kids total, Arnold being somewhere in the middle. Arnold’s mom is his father’s second wife. His dad is the chief of their tribe and the district magistrate or something, which means that he’s entitled to having many wives. He has three total. We met wife #1 and she seemed very demure and of course, welcoming. One of Arnold’s brothers lives in China, and the oldest sister lives in Yaoundé. We’re going to see her next weekend when I go visit Janet the ambassador. We’ll be able to stay with the sister Nelly, and that will be really nice. Also Vitalis, (the friend who is still very interested in Star Trek tapes ) has a sister there so that will be really nice to diffuse the Arnold family-ness.

And here’s why diffusion will be a good thing. I had never really given Asher, the American trainee from the US who’s been staying in an African home with her boss and boss’s family since we got here, always complained about the way the family treated her, until this weekend. In African household kids are seen as free labor, sort of like how my dad sees us. JK, it’s not even close. When we got to Arnold’s the kids (his sibling and half-siblings) snatched our shoes and went to clean them. I have literally never seen my sneakers that clean since the day I bought them, and they had layers and layers of red African mud plus Glens Falls Hospital grossness on them. They did this throughout our 3-night stay in Kumba. Also, the royal treatment extended to Arnold paying for EVERYTHING, which was his prerogative so ultimately I let him after much resistance, but it gave me a really weird feeling to let him pay for our food and drinks and transportation and everything. I don’t even want to think about how far back this weekend has set him. And finally there was this overarching feeling of overprotection and possessiveness. When we went to the market Arnold and his half brother Hilary wouldn’t let us look at whatever we wanted, we had to go to stands that were secluded because they were convinced we’d be stolen from them or mugged or something if we walked where everyone else was. Also, at the club we went to with Arnold and his weird uncles and Yvette, the now-American, there was a drunk guy who kept trying to dance with Laura and I, which is normal anywhere in the world, but the men in our party WAY overreacted. The guy followed our group out to the taxi and asked Laura for her number and she said no thanks and got in the cab and we thought that would be that but the men we were with actually ended up yelling and punching and beating the guy. I believe that was the turning point at which Laura and I decided their protection was unnecessary and creepy. Lastly, I plan on climbing Mount Cameroon this weekend, and Arnold kept saying “if I had my way you wouldn’t climb the mountain, it’s really cold and very slippery in the rainy season blah blah”. I am SO glad not to be an African woman, because I would have to put up with this crap from men all the time and it’s ridiculous. I could analyze this more objectively from an anthropological perspective but I’m tired of doing that all the time so I am just going to say that it sucks for African women. SUCKS.

Kumba overall was great, as was living with a family, though Laura and I both decided that we no longer envy Asher’s opportunity to live full-time with one. I drew several portraits of Arnold family members and one was really good. Tatiana and Cynthia, Arnold’s sisters braided my hair and Aya’s and I think we look pretty good. I have gotten many compliments from Cameroonians and trainees so it must be OK, although I don’t have a mirror (SO liberating by the way, everyone should go 8 weeks without a mirror at some point in their lives).

On the subject of hair, here goes some observations. Appearance is very important to Cameroonians. I don’t even know what the GDP of Cameroon is, but just think really really really low. And somehow people are dressed quite well, albeit mismatched at times or wearing what an American would try to sell at a yard sale. Overall though, they have great fashion sense and work with what is available to them in the way of clothes. But what really mystifies me is their hair styles. I always wondered how the got their hair to be so beautifully straight and glossy, and a few weeks ago co-workers revealed their secrets. They wear wigs. Their real hair is usually pretty short and braided in cornrows to their head. Then wigs are sewed to the corn rows. I cannot imagine how uncomfortable it would be to wear a wig like that for four months at a time. But that’s the norm here. The other thing is hair attachments. These are strips of hair (plastic Africa-textured hair in any color imaginable that are sold all over the place) that are glued to real hair or sewed in a mysterious way. Finally there are braids. Braids would be no good if there was nothing artificial to work into them, which is what Aya and I finally opted for this weekend. We bought what is called mesh, and that mesh was braided into cornrows of our real hair and then the ed were dipped in boiling water which makes them just grip togther enough to look real still but keep the braid from unwinding itself. Quite ingenios. Right now my head is itching so bad. Any African woman mustn’t get her hair wet (not sure why yet- to be answered later) so they walk around with plastic bags on their heads a lot because we are in the rainy season. Also shampooing a wig or attachments or braids is a no-go. I was advised to keep the braids in for one month but I don’t know if I will even be able to fall asleep tonight with the itching like it is now but I will really try to suffer through it 

Another observation about Cameroonian appearances: they all know how to walk in mud so that they don’t get a spec on them. I am only slightly clumsy and focus VERY hard on trying to keep on solid dry-ish clay rather than deep mud wherever we go, but I still find myself with must between my foot and flip flop every time I walk outside. Still, and I am till not used to the squishy feeling and the clean-up. But what people here lack in speed they make up for in treading carefully and cleanly. I never see dirty hemlines or shoes or sandals or toes. It’s amazing. And the clean-shoe obsession is African, not Western. We tend to sacrifice the appearance of our footwear because we can buy more shoes when the ones we own are old or dirty, but when you can’t you protect and constantly clean the ones you have. In fact, Westerners like the broken-in look to some extent, but that is not attractive to people here. They like brand-spanking new.

Cameroonians are just immaculate all around though. They have spotless taxis and hallways and porches and carpets (no vacuums though, so again, I have no idea how they achieve this). I think cleanliness is a HUGE value to them. They shower despite limited running water at least once every day.

One Cameroonian friend Helen, (going to live in the US on Thursday actually, it’s really a cool think to be here while she gets ready to join her sister in Baltimore) said that she loves the way white people smell. I think that it’s really funny that we have a smell. But I get what she means because I noticed a distinct African smell when I first got here. I don’t smell it anymore.

Random thoughts from the week of July 20th

I have a request to make to my readers. If you think you can help the grant-writing process at all by providing leads to foundations or tips on inquiry letters and/or proposals that would be awesome. But above all else I would really like to give my friend Vitalis as many Star Trek DVDs as I can get my hands on. If you think you can help in this area please email me! (cgm33@cornell.edu).

So I have been asked to cover more about the culture and I just thought maybe really quick examples would be good. Just a few hours ago I got back from watching a movie at Helen’s place. Helen is a trainee from Holland and she is staying at a girl’s hostel. I admit that I am a little jealous because living with 2 girls who are not African sort of removes you a bit from the immersion I was hoping for. At the same time it’s really really nice not to have mice in our house like Helen has in her hostel room which she shares with a Cameroonian girl named Dorcas. What this ultimately means for Helen is that she is one six ft.-tall blonde haired, blue eyed girl among 45 Cameroonian college-age girls who worship the ground she walks on. We were interrupted twice in the span of one movie with invites to come upstairs and meet inquisitive residents as well as plates of food. It was really nice but when we were done with the movie I think everyone was asleep.

We know because we flashed them and they didn’t flash back. Flashing is a way to contact someone without spending too much valuable credit on a phone call. People here use a system sort of like our trac-phones, where they buy a certain amount of credit and then just add more as they need to. I definitely think it ends up being more than what Americans pay for with a monthly calling plan, but it does create jobs. I would say (and this I wish was a joke but it’s not) that 40% of the gainfully employed people around here sit all day long at little wooden boxes with their cell phone and wait for people to come along so they can put more credit on their customers’ phones. What’s really sad is that since there are hardly any chances for young ambitious graduates to jump into the work force (even at the bottom wrung of the ladder with plans to work one’s way up) you see that most of the call-box people have degrees and dreams and this is just the best way to feed themselves for the time being. It’s really tough. Bill told us the other day that only 30% of the graduates will find employment in Cameroon within two years of graduating. That makes the temporary recession-induced hiring freeze in the US seem like no big deal. That 30% has been a reality for Cameroon since the beginning of higher education, but yet so many kids still go because the government does make it pretty affordable to attend university. And the public universities are (similar to what Laura has said of German universities) much better than private schools. This fact is probably the only positive thing I’ve heard of the Cameroonian government since I came here.

A random thought before I go to bed. The way Cameroonians pronounce “government” is SO cool to me for some reason. Watch Leonardo DiCaprio in Blood Diamond and he says it once or twice and that’s close enough to get the idea. It just makes you feel like you are in a Bob Marley song or something. Hard to explain. Good night!

Oh wait, one last thought. I promise. The other day in class we were playing an icebreaker and I had a kid in my group who told me his name was Leonardo DiCaprio. I don’t think he was kidding. But then again the last name DiCaprio is not Cameroonian at all, there are NO Italians here. I was and still am really confused because he signed the attendance sheet as Leonardo DiCaprio and his email is apparently ghettoleoking@yahoo.com . I am glad I only joked with him about being Kate Winslet for a little while before dropping it.

The Week of July 12th

Yesterday was a great day. For a while I was feeling my patience strain in interactions with Cameroonian co-workers, people on the street, and my housemates. I think I did a pretty good job of hiding it, and the impatient feelings have subsided at least for the time being. It’s frustrating to be late all the time (I know my readers are finding that statement hard to believe, coming from me) but when you’re late all the time just because people walk slow it kills me. I have had a very hard time parting from my usual walking speed- a very fast pace that emulates speed-walking, necessary for those who cut it really really close all the time. There is a different emphasis on punctuality depending on the culture of a place. Locals have told me that when they were young, on a few occasions they did show up on time, but after having to wait on the event or the other attendees for up to an hour, they realized that later is better. Here people leave at the time they said they would meet. If church starts at 10:00 then don’t get there until 10:20 because you would have ended up catching the last 20 minutes of the early service, then having to sit through the service you had intended to, which won’t end until quarter to 1.

On the subject of church: the service I went to this past Sunday bothered me. Laura and I went with our co-worker Pam to her church called the Mercenary Gospel Baptist Church. The music was great but it wasn’t enough to pull me out of the low mood the sermon put me in. The pastor who spoke was just visiting from Nigeria, and he had an agenda in Cameroon. He preached about how the Nigerians have prospered and capitalized on their natural resources because they have made Jesus their nation’s master. The word “master” was used a lot, and I found that really strange, considering Cameroon’s history with the slave trade. As the pastor went on to mix politics and religion I got more and more anxious to leave. I understand that people living in poverty under a dictatorship that stifles any attempt at private business ventures need to put their hope and faith more devotedly in God than those of us living in a capitalist world with more comforts and conveniences than we need. I get that. But until that church service I had really struggled with the causation for all the poverty here. Any Cameroonian will tell you that it isn’t lack of resources- it’s the government, it’s mismanagement. I was shocked at how comfortable everyone is with blaming the man and then resigning themselves to “there’s really nothing we can do, would you like some more cassava?” At church I saw why there is that resignation- and what a Westerner like me tries really hard not to say but can’t help but think- that complacency. Like the pastor advised, when people are studying for an exam, they put their faith in Christ and they will surely pass. When they are trying to open a business they pray for capitol and it will come. I think a certain amount of faith is healthy but in many cases here it is taken to the extreme and actually ends up in a non-productive dependency upon God. And at church that dependency was being perpetuated by a highly respected minister and I just didn’t like it. Maybe I overreacted but it was hard to shake off. I am realizing what exactly sets “The West” apart. One thing I’ve realized is that I am incredibly secular in thought, more so than I thought back at home.

This secular mentality leads me to the subject of an instance at work. I realize that first I need to sum up what I’m doing at work so here goes: Aya, Laura, and I go to work from 9 to 4 Monday through Friday. On Tuesday we go to a school called Zenith Evening School (which is really just a normal school, I don’t get the “evening” part of it) and teach about HIV/AIDS for an hour (that’s what we’re supposed to limit ourselves to, but last week we talked for an hour and 45 minutes). We try to get there by 11 because these are holiday classes and students are dismissed by noon. But again, we go over, and the kids don’t seem to care too much. On Mondays we spend a lot of time at the internet doing research about grants for NGO’s like ours, the Elyon Rock Foundation. I have had a lot of luck in finding loads of American Foundations (Coca-Cola, Carnegie, Mellon, etc.) but Laura has had a lot of trouble with German companies as is Aya with finding Japanese funding. I think Laura has actually given up on getting any money from her mother country and is now hitting up American foundations like me. Wednesdays we go to a school called Salvation Bilingual College (Cameroonians speak both French and English) and deliver the same lesson we did on Tuesday. Then we have Thursdays for donor research/proposal writing. Fridays are very busy because we have two schools, one at 9 and one at 11. The one at 9 is the tricky because it’s the St. Theresa Catholic Secondary School (we’ll talk more about that later) and the one at 11 is Summerset Bilingual College.

Always after teaching classes we head back to the office, then the internet to do more research and letter-writing. It seems mundane but classes and lunch are really exciting. Lunch probably more so because we have been hopping around from spot to spot- everyday we tried something new. That was until　we found Mr. Clean． Mr. Clean actually went on vacation so now we are eating mostly at Mr. Munch. The reason these places attract us is because they do not serve tremendously spicy food. And Mr.Clean was really cheap, you could get good tasting rice and beans or ndole and plantains (my fave) for 350 francs, which is far less than a dollar.

So back to the religion in this culture. Today we were playing a game at Zenith with a class of 17 kids from ages 11 to 16. We may have overestimated ages because the game ended up being a bit awkwardly received. We asked questions of the class and kids would go to one side of the room marked “agree” or another side marked “disagree” or a different area marked “unsure”. Questions were “If a woman says no to having sexual intercourse, she really means no” or “I would drink out of the same glass as a person who is HIV positive” or “A woman cannot be raped by her husband.” It was the last one that really gave us some trouble. A third of the kids stood firmly along the “agree” wall. Aya thought that they must have misunderstood, (and to be on the safe side we repeat messages to the class almost three times because we each pose them with accents that make us hard to understand). I had a bad feeling that this was not the case and that in actuality these students were of the firm opinion that wives are property. It is worth mentioning that some of these agreeing students were girls. We asked a representative or two from each wall to explain why they chose the side they did. The one from the “agree” side said bluntly “the Bible says that a woman gives herself to a man when she marries him. A wife gives a man her body.” Aya and I looked at each other and I could tell she was going to protest somehow, but I suggested loudly that we hear from the disagree side and then move on. One of the rules I made　for myself before beginning that game was that no matter how students felt I would try very hard not to make them feel wrong. It is their culture, I am an observer and by trying to impose my feminist values, (or what could be argued is just fundamental awareness of human rights), on them it would not change anything, but it might make us less wholeheartedly received. It was hardest though, to let the teacher sitting towards the back of the class applaud the kid for his statement and commend him on referencing the Bible. It was like what the kid was saying about rape was totally fine as long as it was from the Bible. The kid used the Bible to support rape. I know that he made that connection because Aya and I, after hearing his answer tried to ask in an objective way, if he would please define rape for us. He knew what it meant. Then we asked if there might be any occasion in which a woman would not consent to having intercourse with her husband. He said yes, maybe if she did not want to or did not want to have babies. So there is some sort of disconnect between the rightfulness or wrongfulness of rape in the circumstance of marriage- and that is imposed by the Bible, or this society’s interpretation of the Bible.

We are not allowed to educate students about condom use at St. Theresa’s Catholic School. We are to encourage abstinence although the priest/school master conceded that there are students at his school who may be sexually active. It’s funny that at the school where they tried to shelter the students most, I was asked twice for my number by boys in the class.

week of July 12th

Yesterday was a great day. For a while I was feeling my patience strain in interactions with Cameroonian co-workers, people on the street, and my housemates. I think I did a pretty good job of hiding it, and the impatient feelings have subsided at least for the time being. It’s frustrating to be late all the time (I know my readers are finding that statement hard to believe, coming from me) but when you’re late all the time just because people walk slow it kills me. I have had a very hard time parting from my usual walking speed- a very fast pace that emulates speed-walking, necessary for those who cut it really really close all the time. There is a different emphasis on punctuality depending on the culture of a place. Locals have told me that when they were young, on a few occasions they did show up on time, but after having to wait on the event or the other attendees for up to an hour, they realized that later is better. Here people leave at the time they said they would meet. If church starts at 10:00 then don’t get there until 10:20 because you would have ended up catching the last 20 minutes of the early service, then having to sit through the service you had intended to, which won’t end until quarter to 1.

On the subject of church: the service I went to this past Sunday bothered me. Laura and I went with our co-worker Pam to her church called the Mercenary Gospel Baptist Church. The music was great but it wasn’t enough to pull me out of the low mood the sermon put me in. The pastor who spoke was just visiting from Nigeria, and he had an agenda in Cameroon. He preached about how the Nigerians have prospered and capitalized on their natural resources because they have made Jesus their nation’s master. The word “master” was used a lot, and I found that really strange, considering Cameroon’s history with the slave trade. As the pastor went on to mix politics and religion I got more and more anxious to leave. I understand that people living in poverty under a dictatorship that stifles any attempt at private business ventures need to put their hope and faith more devotedly in God than those of us living in a capitalist world with more comforts and conveniences than we need. I get that. But until that church service I had really struggled with the causation for all the poverty here. Any Cameroonian will tell you that it isn’t lack of resources- it’s the government, it’s mismanagement. I was shocked at how comfortable everyone is with blaming the man and then resigning themselves to “there’s really nothing we can do, would you like some more cassava?” At church I saw why there is that resignation- and what a Westerner like me tries really hard not to say but can’t help but think- that complacency. Like the pastor advised, when people are studying for an exam, they put their faith in Christ and they will surely pass. When they are trying to open a business they pray for capitol and it will come. I think a certain amount of faith is healthy but in many cases here it is taken to the extreme and actually ends up in a non-productive dependency upon God. And at church that dependency was being perpetuated by a highly respected minister and I just didn’t like it. Maybe I overreacted but it was hard to shake off. I am realizing what exactly sets “The West” apart. One thing I’ve realized is that I am incredibly secular in thought, more so than I thought back at home.

This secular mentality leads me to the subject of an instance at work. I realize that first I need to sum up what I’m doing at work so here goes: Aya, Laura, and I go to work from 9 to 4 Monday through Friday. On Tuesday we go to a school called Zenith Evening School (which is really just a normal school, I don’t get the “evening” part of it) and teach about HIV/AIDS for an hour (that’s what we’re supposed to limit ourselves to, but last week we talked for an hour and 45 minutes). We try to get there by 11 because these are holiday classes and students are dismissed by noon. But again, we go over, and the kids don’t seem to care too much. On Mondays we spend a lot of time at the internet doing research about grants for NGO’s like ours, the Elyon Rock Foundation. I have had a lot of luck in finding loads of American Foundations (Coca-Cola, Carnegie, Mellon, etc.) but Laura has had a lot of trouble with German companies as is Aya with finding Japanese funding. I think Laura has actually given up on getting any money from her mother country and is now hitting up American foundations like me. Wednesdays we go to a school called Salvation Bilingual College (Cameroonians speak both French and English) and deliver the same lesson we did on Tuesday. Then we have Thursdays for donor research/proposal writing. Fridays are very busy because we have two schools, one at 9 and one at 11. The one at 9 is the tricky because it’s the St. Theresa Catholic Secondary School (we’ll talk more about that later) and the one at 11 is Summerset Bilingual College.

Always after teaching classes we head back to the office, then the internet to do more research and letter-writing. It seems mundane but classes and lunch are really exciting. Lunch probably more so because we have been hopping around from spot to spot- everyday we tried something new. That was until　we found Mr. Clean． Mr. Clean actually went on vacation so now we are eating mostly at Mr. Munch. The reason these places attract us is because they do not serve tremendously spicy food. And Mr.Clean was really cheap, you could get good tasting rice and beans or ndole and plantains (my fave) for 350 francs, which is far less than a dollar.

So back to the religion in this culture. Today we were playing a game at Zenith with a class of 17 kids from ages 11 to 16. We may have overestimated ages because the game ended up being a bit awkwardly received. We asked questions of the class and kids would go to one side of the room marked “agree” or another side marked “disagree” or a different area marked “unsure”. Questions were “If a woman says no to having sexual intercourse, she really means no” or “I would drink out of the same glass as a person who is HIV positive” or “A woman cannot be raped by her husband.” It was the last one that really gave us some trouble. A third of the kids stood firmly along the “agree” wall. Aya thought that they must have misunderstood, (and to be on the safe side we repeat messages to the class almost three times because we each pose them with accents that make us hard to understand). I had a bad feeling that this was not the case and that in actuality these students were of the firm opinion that wives are property. It is worth mentioning that some of these agreeing students were girls. We asked a representative or two from each wall to explain why they chose the side they did. The one from the “agree” side said bluntly “the Bible says that a woman gives herself to a man when she marries him. A wife gives a man her body.” Aya and I looked at each other and I could tell she was going to protest somehow, but I suggested loudly that we hear from the disagree side and then move on. One of the rules I made　for myself before beginning that game was that no matter how students felt I would try very hard not to make them feel wrong. It is their culture, I am an observer and by trying to impose my feminist values, (or what could be argued is just fundamental awareness of human rights), on them it would not change anything, but it might make us less wholeheartedly received. It was hardest though, to let the teacher sitting towards the back of the class applaud the kid for his statement and commend him on referencing the Bible. It was like what the kid was saying about rape was totally fine as long as it was from the Bible. The kid used the Bible to support rape. I know that he made that connection because Aya and I, after hearing his answer tried to ask in an objective way, if he would please define rape for us. He knew what it meant. Then we asked if there might be any occasion in which a woman would not consent to having intercourse with her husband. He said yes, maybe if she did not want to or did not want to have babies. So there is some sort of disconnect between the rightfulness or wrongfulness of rape in the circumstance of marriage- and that is imposed by the Bible, or this society’s interpretation of the Bible.

We are not allowed to educate students about condom use at St. Theresa’s Catholic School. We are to encourage abstinence although the priest/school master conceded that there are students at his school who may be sexually active. It’s funny that at the school where they tried to shelter the students most, I was asked twice for my number by boys in the class.

I would love to know who "mjkgvl" is! Right now I'm mystified, so if it's you please email me. cgm33@cornell.edu

To anybody checking in on this blog I'm sorry it's been a while, but my computer may have a deadly virus so I have to approach the blog-writing process a bit differently now. I had been writing them at home and then putting them on a USB stick and transferring them at internet cafes. More coming soon!

Limbe

Today Bryan, an eccentric and religious AIESECer decided that it was time to show us around Cameroon and orchestrated a trip to Limbe. Limbe is as tourist-y as Cameroon gets according to my guide book. I was expecting a ton of white people and tacky hotels etc, but I was really surprised. What I love about Limbe is what I love about Cameroon overall: it’s so untouched by tourism that the epicenter of tourism consisted of a beach with little huts for beach-goers to sit and have a complimentary drink and a wildlife center with a relatively steep admittance fee for non-nationals. There was a hotel near the beach, but I don’t even think there was a sign for it. Today I did see the third, fourth, and fifth white person so far in the last two weeks. Pamela and Helen (co-workers from Elyon Rock Foundation), Aya, Laura, Helen (trainee from the Netherlands), Bryan, and Bill (our boss) had a fantastic dinner at Down Beach after a beautiful day of swimming at Seme Beach. I have never been to a black sand beach nor had such amazing fish (eating fish with your hands makes it automatically taste better) . The water was so warm I could have stayed in all day.

I think the trainees and the lifeguard may have been the only ones comfortable with swimming because most people just waded, or maybe it was too cold for the natives of Cameroon because it is their rainy season after all. Most say that it’s so chilly while I’m standing next to them frizzy and sweating.
Laura, Aya, and I are all taking a little break right now and uploading pictures from the day and exchanging music. It’s really nice to be at home but we are hardly ever on break from the hectic socialite lifestyle.

Cameroonians are seemingly bred and raised to seek out foreigners and make them feel like celebrities and keep them under their wings by cooking for them and protecting them. After eating fish with Bill today he helped us get a cab back to Buea. He made us get out of the first one we entered because he had a bad feeling about the driver, then when we got in the second he had a stern talk with the driver to ensure that he’d be careful on the road. I know it might seem like perhaps it was necessary for Bill to be so cautious, but it wasn’t. He’s an overprotective African father. I feel bad for his future kids and am appreciative of his care of us.

I love being shown around by the people who live in this beautiful country because we live the way they do- we don’t do things that are too expensive because they themselves can’t afford it, we don’t get jipped at the market, they’ll braid our hair (I wish the connection would be fast enough to upload pictures of the braids I got) and they’ll go into the back of a restaurant’s kitchen to make sure “everything is clean enough back there”.

Around June 9th- Some weird things and Jupiter Night Club

In the mornings around 9:00 Aya, Laura, and I head to work. We walk to the end of our long muddy road, through a nice little middle-class neighborhood (which is uncommon- middle class is almost non-existent here in Cameroon) and by the Bee-yah-ka (not sure how it’s actually spelled) nursing school. Beeyahka junction is the place where the big main road meets ours. By big main road I mean a wide single lane road, median, and then another single lane road with traffic flow in the opposite direction. We just have to stand there and then a cab will pull over and you hop in, sometimes sitting on laps, sometimes sitting so close to the stick-shift that you get yelled at when the driver needs to up-shift. A couple mornings ago a cab pulled up to us and there was no way all three of us could fit in so we flagged another one. The second pulled up but the first didn’t move on like we encouraged. Instead the driver of the first started yelling “whites whites” and kicked a passenger out of his cab to make room for all three of us. We probably shouldn’t have gotten in but I think I may have been the only one of the three of us to hear his reason for kicking out the backseat passenger. I was so incredulous that I didn’t bring it up until much later that day. The special treatment and the extra attention is really getting to be too much and it’s actually fatiguing to try to diffuse and ignore it.

Here’s another case. We were leaving the NGO walking towards that same main road after work the same day and a group of guys were just finishing a soccer game. Since we are just on the boundary of campus I was intrigued as to whether it was intramurals or the University of Buea varsity team. Either way, they started yelling hellos at us as we walked by. A bunch of sweaty guys crowded around Aya and I and kept asking for a pen. They were holding plastic orange soccer cleats and trying to give them to us. I said “no thanks” but gave them the Sharpie I had in my bag. Then they gave it back to me and thrust the cleats towards me and kept saying that they wanted my autograph. I broke into laughter and couldn’t see a graceful way out so I slapped a big Kate McDermott on both. The guy told me, “don’t worry, I’m very good.” Phew, glad he’s good.

The last incident: while Bryan was taking my picture by the ocean I noticed there was a group of Cameroonian men crowding around him. They had a talk with him and then he came up to me relaying a message from them. They were wondering if one by one they could get a picture with me. Bryan stressed that it was OK to say no and I probably should have but I have been very worried about seeming snotty, thus misrepresenting Americans as a whole, so I said sure. It’s very hard to know what to do in situations that make you feel like a person in a Cinderella costume at Disney world.

Some of the friends Aya made early on invited us to go dancing with them. We met with them at 11pm and got to the club soon after. It wasn’t what I expected at all. It was a set up so that affordable drinks were served to an audience of live music in the cabaret, and then you could enter the night club. There was a coat check and a few security guards. So far I would say that Jupiter Night Club and Cabaret has been the most well-organized establishment I’ve visited in Cameroon thus far. The dancing was great. I was fully prepared for American hip hop and lots of MJ because that’s what has been blaring out of street-side shops and taxi radios, but I was pleasantly surprised with a majority of Macosa, a genre born in Cameroon similar to jazz but with more African upbeat. It was tricky to dance to though because I think I am usually very influenced by the dancers around me, and the dancing style here is way different than at home. I noticed that the movements are much freer but at the same time really repetitive. My AIESEC friend Eshwa stood in the same spot all night (for more than four hours) and sort of bounced and stepped from side to side the entire time. Very little variation. And that was typical. I had an epiphany though, because at one point in the night they played a really cool tribal song and people did the traditional dance that goes with the tribal song. That dance explained everything. If you’ve ever seen video footage of tribal dances the people were doing something similar, like a stutter step and quick head bobs. It’s really hard to put to words without being able to demonstrate- sorry. For anyone still reading this I salute you for hanging in there. Anyway, it just seemed so cool to me that all the young people in the club are embracing the hip hop of America (which actually was played periodically throughout the night) while loving their roots and dancing with the rhythms and movements ingrained in them by the traditions of their tribes.

The way tribes work, according to Bill (my boss), is as follows: Cameroon has ** provinces and each is divided into something around 13 tribes. Obviously the tribes came first and then had something to do with the way the provinces were divided up, but the German then British and French trumped the chiefs’ preferences. Bill’s dad was a chief in Limbe, and he married a princess from another tribe. Today policies are still made by tribal chiefs as well as city council members and national government people. It sounds as though the chiefs are losing more and more power in decision-making though. But as consolation the cities allow chiefs to keep their royal compounds even if it the city around the compounds wants to infringe. It’s really funny to walk by the chief’s compound in Molyko (the part of Buea where we work and the students’ College Town), because there’s this flag flying high above a little hut of thatch and bamboo, sandwiched between two pretty substantial concrete story buildings. The chief customarily has multiple wives. All the students at The University of Buea belong to tribes located throughout the English-speaking part of Cameroon (so either from the Northwest Province or this, the Southwest Province). Since every student knows English, French, and their tribal tongue, they are all tri-lingual. I take that back- they all know Pigeon English so that makes four languages total. It was really surprising to me that the tribal influences are still so strong even among young people; you’d never know by seeing them or getting to know them that they all so actively maintain traditional ways.

July 4-5

I had a lot of fun this weekend. Asher, Laura, Aya, and I were invited to Helen’s birthday party which took place yesterday on the fourth of July. I got the invite in an email before I even met Helen in person. I think as of yet that event has been the most emblematic of Cameroonian hospitality. Helen has been in the country for 7 weeks and has 7 more to go, she’s a Dutch 22 year-old working for Design Systems, an NGO which is focusing on bringing internet to Cameroon. I think basically the NGO is poised to become and internet café, and I am not sure if that’s a legit non-profit, but whatever, they threw a good party. That’s right, Heleen’s co-workers took it upon themselves to throw her a phenomenal Cameroonian-style birthday party. I think she ma y have given them money but they cooked all the food, organized music, games, bought her presents, and organized. They designated one of the biggest personalities in the business to MC. We were all in one main room, which has already been filled with desks and computers (donated from the US or Europe, and then purchased at Cameroonian prices), lined up against the walls, each of us seated in plastic lawn chairs. The first portion of the party was to have Helen stand outside and wait as we all counted to 21. On twenty-two she was told to enter the party and proclaim her age and everyone clapped. It was really sweet and she started crying as fifty people (her Cameroonian co-workers, Cameroonian AIESECers, and Cameroonian women’s basketball teammates) all sang happy birthday to her. We progressed through various speeches and introductions of new segments of the party. There was a very formal giving of gifts, in which we all lined up and gave them to her, then a game in which we asked Helen pre-written questions (I think the boss wrote them). One question was sort of awkward; it was “what do most Americans and Europeans think of Africans?” Then we ate fantastic food, I may or may not have taken pictures, I can’t remember. Finally the night ended with AIESEC dances (see above), only two of which I knew and 1 was Cotton-Eye Joe- the completely African version.

Today was also very nice because we went to our co-worker, Helen’s house to watch what I believe is her favorite movie- Twighlight. I had actually never seen it and it was good, especially because she filled in all the gaps at the end. She’s a remarkable person in that she reads everything that she can get her hands on, which I think (not to generalize, but just based on observations) is unusual in this culture. She wants to be a writer, and she majored in journalism at the University of Buea, right next to our NGO, but she is torn. She has a place to stay with her sister in the US and she wants to go, but if she goes she realizes that she may not be able to get a job in journalism because of her thick accent. Her sister has advised her to go into either pharmacy or nursing, but I hope she writes a novel or story someday because she told us the story of Twighlight: Part Two and she made it very captivating.

Before Sheila and Pamela, other co-workers picked us up on the way to Helen’s house, we had tried to prepare lunch. It went really badly. I am proud to say that I didn’t mess anything up. Laura (and this easily could have been me) tried to fry onion to add to an omelet, but the silver of the pan we were using somehow melted off into the hot oil that she was heating. I am not sure what that pan is made of, but its Bill’s, our boss, and I bet he doesn’t cook very often, so he couldn’t have warned us. Then Laura dropped about half of a container of palm oil on the kitchen tiled floor and we had to leave it to get to Helen’s. Forgetting that it was there, when I came home an hour ago I wiped out. Aya and I spent a lot of time on our knees just rubbing the floor with a bar of soap. Water is off right now, we have no towels, paper towels don’t exist, and so we have a very soapy floor now, but it is less slippery than the straight-up oil. We were challenged yet again with meal prep and because Bill’s water boiler thing also broke today, we can’t heat water and thus can’t eat. Well, I take that back, I just had my Malarone pill and a forkful of Nutella-like chocolate paste, (probably my favorite Cameroonian food product). Better planning tomorrow.

I have decided that overall I am a very happy person. There’s the self-discovery my readers were waiting for! Aren’t you glad you’re still reading this blog? No really though, I was thinking as I laid in bed with three other girls last night, with a rumbling gut and a mosquito buzzing in my ear, that this is a great place, I am surrounded by amazing people, and I am SO enjoying my time here. If it was any easier I would have been very disappointed.

July 1-2

Today Laura, the trainee from Germany is really sick and couldn’t come to work. I’ve been staying with Eshwa in her apartment. Here in Cameroon an apartment consists of one room with a low full-size bed and colorful walls. At Mary’s (where Laura and Aya, the Japanese intern stay) there are very nice large tiles that Mary keeps immaculate despite the mud we all track in. At Eshwa’s there are various linoleum scraps that cover her floor. Running water is a luxury that Cameroonian, even relatively privileged students, can’t afford 24/7. Every time I’ve tried to use the tap for flushing, showering, or washing my hands at Mary’s “the water has been turned off”. I’m not sure if it is ever on. But at Eshwa’s (who I have deduced may be a little more wealthy) I have been able to flush the toilet once. That’s always a relief, because its really weird to just leave whatever you left in the bowl just hanging out until the next time the water is turned on. I have come up with maneuvers to escape from the bathroom without being seen. Last night Eshwa had her little sister over (here it is more like her “kid sista”) and Yvonne spent the night. I am really surprised that I slept so well with three in a full size bed. I am grateful that I sleep like a dead person.

I’m sort of sad that I won’t be staying with Eshwa anymore because she made me breakfast and we had good talks every night. We seriously talked until 1 am last night which is a HUGE deal considering Cameroonians normally go to sleep around 10pm. We had a really long talk about he slave trade and I found it very interesting that when history is taught in Cameroonian primary schools, both the negatives and positives of slave trade are covered, whereas in the US there can be no positive spin on the slave trade. I am still really having a hard time with their 50:50 breakdown of what was good about the slave trade and what was bad. Eshwa cited roads, European goods and infrastructure including buildings they still use today, commerce with the rest of the world, and advancements of all sorts. I asked her if they spent much time going over the way chiefs sold their own strong men to the slave traders, and she said yes, and that it really hindered the advancement of African society. It’s interesting to me that there is less sympathy towards African Americans from Africans than I expected. I feel that African Americans really grasp for heritage and “brotherhood” in Africans, but Africans are fairly nonplussed.

I went to the market with Mary so she could get food for dinner (which she did demonstration style so Aya, Laura, Asher, and I could fend for ourselves when al the AIESECers are gone for holiday (July 11 ). It was a really eye-opening experience. We got out of the cab (which 95% of people use here to get around, seeing as how no one can afford to own cars) and were greeted by a field of little shanty-stands. People selling everything from Matchbox cars to fish to traditional African fabric to mothballs were there advertising and selling their wares. A really cute little boy came up to me and waned to sell me these things that looked like Mentos from the heap of wrapped Mentos piled on a plate, balanced on his head. I wanted to give him money so I asked Mary if it was a good idea to get them. She really enthusiastically encouraged me (and positive enthusiasm from Mary is a big deal because she’s kind of too cool for school) and so I bout one bundle. She told me they’d make my clothes smell really good. When I got home I unwrapped them and realized they were mothballs, and was subsequently pressured a bit by Mary to put them in my suitcase. I’m not sure if she’s trying to prank me but I bet she actually likes the smell of mothballs. Needless to say I stink right now and have been searching in my suitcase (which is harder than it sounds because the lights inside are every dim and I have a hard time seeing anything) to fin that one friggen mothball.

I’ve been doing a lot of bonding with the girls from the West because they are all (except Aya) getting homesick. I really want to hang out with the Cameroonians more though. We go to bars and have drinks (the beer is pretty weak so I have been under control) and all the men there stare because here women don’t drink very often, we glow in the dark, and Asher and Laura have decided to smoke publicly. Here’s why I think that’s a terrible idea: Western ideals are really respected here, and there’s a good chance that women ma follow suit- I would not want to cause an epidemic of smokers in Cameroon. Even worse, we could be judged, which is probably more likely.

I have surprisingly not gotten sick yet, and thoroughly enjoying the food. Mom- be ready to be impressed- it’s super spicy and I’ve been clearing my plate at every meal. It’s so hot that I need to have tissues nearby because my nose starts to run. One of the dishes I’ve had twice now is Ndole: a really spicy mashed up biter weed with salty gritty past holding all together. It’s actually WAY better than the description. Bill, the boss at my NGO takes all his staff and volunteers out to lunch and describes each option before we order, and he somehow manages to make them sound really delicious without lying. Sorry that I don’t have that down yet. I LOVE plantains the most. They just boil them and peel them and you eat them with forks and they are delicious. Another thing is Cassava prepared in all different ways. There’s one way in which its beaten and rolled into a loaf and you pinch off bits and eat this gluey-textured (honestly, gluey tasting) in addition to spicy soup or a dip of sorts. The best was when Bill artfully described the soup we had yesterday (the stuff we suspect made Laura sick) and it arrived. We all looked at it and then politely tried not to look at each other because it was basically a fish in a bowl with some spicy sloppy broth that was probably mostly fish inards. Laura was too polite for her own good and ate it all. I may have done the same if it hadn’t been unbearably spicy for me. The fish are all sevred here with scales still on, bones and eyeballs still in. When grilled they are really good though, probably second only to plantains. I hope I haven’t been to critical in my descriptions because overall I love the food here and am a bit worried that American food will be too safe and bland for me when I get home.

I am moving into the apartment today after work. Yes, right now I am at work. Bill is out picking something up and Aya and I really don’t know what to do or how to do any work in general without Internet access, which will hopefully be set up in a month at the latest. We do work though, I promise. Every day we walk to the campus IT centre and pay a mere 200Francs ($1 = 455 Francs) for an hour of wireless access. I have been searching for foundations or subsets of big US companies that have grant initiatives. So far the odds are good that Bill’s NGO, Elyon Rock Foundation, will get some money via my efforts. I’m not sure how much, but I’m pretty certain that grant writing may be the best skill I can offer.

The NGO is doing a lot of really broad things. I am looking at the chalk board which we used for a briefing session just a few hours ago. Elyon Rock organizes and carries out a youth initiative called Kidz and Teenz which is sort of like DARE but instead of Drug Abuse Resistance Education focuses on getting kids inspired about their future careers, as well as educating them on the dangers and modes of prevention of HIV/AIDS/STIs etc. The Foundation also has a holiday workshop (like a day-camp thing) with talent contests, debate contests, Creative Talent workshops etc. The first big successful effort of the NGO was “Break In”, a film that was featured on the Africa Magic network that runs throughout the continent. Apparently this and other efforts in short film and T.V. series such as “Survival” and “Risky” are meant to entertain and address social ills at the same time.

The craziest thing about Cameroon is how welcoming the people are. I think that if I had travelled to any village within the US and just plopped myself down that way I did here, that I would be really homesick by now. There’s a very communal mentality and I’ve heard it expressed by at least 5 people by now: one person’s problem is everyone’s problem. Even my problem is their problem. It’s amazing. I’ve been offered cooking lessons and trips to the beach and movie/girls’ nights and I think Mary, an AIESECer is going to cornrow my hair…

Settled in Buea, recounting yesterday

I don’t even know where to begin. Hopefully the pictures I take (in the future because I am waiting for a little while before I whip out the touristy camera). I was shell shocked yesterday so I wouldn't have known what to write even if I had a chance.

Yesterday was the scariest day of my life. I arrived in Douala at 5:30 am and was prepared for the worst, as my Cameroon book (and one German student studying ere in Buea named Dan) had warned me that Douala airport was FULL of men trying to make money by helping tourists with their bag- whether the tourists wanted help or not. So I identified myself as a very likely target and was right, because at baggage claim they kept asking me to tell them which bag was mine. I didn’t I grabbed them when they came by me and didn’t say anything to the men in advance. I tried to keep them with me but they picked them up when I had to set them down to pull out my passport (which I still have, by the way, so I’m doing better than I expected). I ended up having to give them some money right before I got in the cab.
The most amazing thing was when I walked into the baggage claim area, braced for the worst and then I heard my name being yelled from a balcony overlooking the area with passengers looking for their bags. I looked up and there was a SUPER happy tall Cameroonian man wearing a yellow AIESEC shirt and a floppy yellow fishing hat. He knew who I was immediately because I was one of the two white people in the arena. The other was a 50 year old man.

I was finally greeted beyond baggage claim by this AIESECer Fils, another AIESEC intern (still with me now, one day later) from Germany named Laura, and another Cameroonian AIESECer named Eric. Eric will be the president of AIESEC Cameroon on July 1st. They were very friendly, they gave me hugs, helped me exchange my money (just 100 euros for Cameroonian money and I don’t think it will run out any time soon.)
I will try to make this really concise so as not to waste my readers’ time, but especially so as to make it to the internet Café to send this before it gets too dark.

When I got into the cab we started driving towards the AIESEC MC office (Member Committee office, ours in an office in NYC) and unloaded my stuff. On the drive I realized how rough Cameroon really is. I think that I had imagined it would be only just a bit rougher than Costa Rica, which is the worst poverty I’ve ever seen. Third world is so much worse than you see in National Geographic, or that you see on the TV or in movies. Having it all around you, knowing that the very cab you are riding in is held together by duct tape and already has a flat tire, smelling the unfiltered air filled with black diesel smoke, and seeing kids and teens and adults all around you living in conditions Americans woudn’t deem fit to house chickens, its overwhelming.

Surprisingly, I am feeling very at home, and am as long as I’m with an AIESECer.
After showing pictures of AIESEC members in Douala, Yaoundé, and Buea, the guys took Laura and to the restaurant apparently they’d taken Laura the day before. It was called sixieme place, (we were in francophone Cameroon then). We had amazingly good food called “plat avocat” which was super oily pasta and vinegar, sugar, and avocado.

I ate it all and for the rest of the day my stomach was kind of in turmoil but I had a lot more pressing things to think about.

Like my impending death. Jk. But not really (Mary, I’ll tell you about her in a minute would say that joke just qualified me as a true Cameroonian.) So after chilling a bit and talking and sharing more laughs and pictures at the office Fils got us SIM cards so we could make local calls and then took us to the taxi. He went with us in the taxi o the pace where we were meeting a car to take us the hour to Buea. When we got there fast French-speaking Cameroonian men wouldn’t let us (Laura and I) go to Buea “unprotected” They kept trying to get into the car, but Fils didn’t like that idea and took us to a van instead, that would take us to Buea. Our bags were tied to the top (thanks God not the one with my lap top because it was raining steadily. Laura told me once we got in that she noticed the van’s flat tire.
If the van had been used in the US it would have been in fine shape, it wasn’t too old (probably from the 80’s) but it was the most beaten up piece of machinery I have ever seen “function”. But it did, because w got here and we’re alive, and all the Cameroonians on the rid I am about to describe when un-phased. Because it’s the rainy season the road (mud and clay with intermittent pavement and no attempt at lines) was wrought with deep puddles. Whenever the driver couldn’t avoid the holes we would be tilted to the point that I cannot believe the baggage on top didn’t slide off. Every time he slowed down and then tried to speed up, (which was often because the traffic operates like bumper cars in Douala- no stop signs, lines, sidewalks, or police),I was positive the van was going to die. On the trip I saw 3 broken down vans that looked like they were in better shape than ours. I honesty have no idea how I am still alive. There was a little man sitting next to me on the floor or the van and we may have easily been 3 over capacity. The trip that should have taken 1 hour and due to the condition of the van and the weather-induced ruts and mud, it took us 2-and-a-half hours. Somehow I did fall asleep because I was so exhausted.
When we got to the stop everybody piled out and Laura and I stayed under an umbrella with some nice Cameroonian women as they sold plantains and peanuts. A boy walked by us saying “white man, white man”. So when the AIESECers from Buea showed up (Mary, VP ICX and Theo, Outgoing LCP) we were elated but quickly realized that our wait was due to a miscommunication and they’d actually been waiting for us for more than an hour.

They were jokey, in fact Theo is sort of this quirky sarcastic… very emblematic of Cameroonian humor Cameroonian humor is more abundant than poverty. EVERYONE smiles even when you’re killing their hopes by refusing to buy a toothbrush or a pair of flip flops or a bag of peanuts from them.

As soon as we got settled in Buea I started feeling at home. I have to go now but I will add more because this just covers 4-5 hours of my time here and there are many more stories, probably ones my mom would like more than this.

Don’t worry mom I am completely safe and will explain in an email.

From New York to Casablanca

I woke up in Hebron yesterday, my immediate family and some Mass McDermotts- Aunt Cathy, Seamus, Aunt Laurie, Meg, James, and last but not least, Nana, had all arrived Friday for Lily's graduation and grad party preparations. The house was abuzz with cleaning and planning and people running errands. I had gone out the night before to say good-bye to all my friends and hadn't gone to sleep until 2:40am. I was pretty groggy and certainly would have liked to leisurely hang out/help out, but I had to finish packing my carry-on. To my knowledge, besides a toothbrush there is nothing I mistakenly forgot. Knock on wood (that was for you, my un-superstitious boyfriend).

Good-byes weren't bad but mom dad and I all got a bit emotional. Laurent (who had agreed to drive me to JFK and thus had come up Thursday night,) was a bastion of support and positivity. The entire ride down was really enjoyable and I didn't worry or get anxious at all. We made great time which turned out to be crucial because the plane boarded an hour and twenty minutes before I thought it would. I did have enough time to eat, but I only waited at the gate for twenty minutes if that.

Ok, now cutting to the chase. I think the people employed by Royal Air Morac are some of the nicest I've interacted with of all my travels. Here comes the first of many more heinous generalizations. I think that when you ask an American a question that you suspect is stupid, there’s a good chance you’ll be made to feel as if the answer is obvious, how didn’t you know? In my trip thus far I have not found a single of my ridiculous questions towards airport and airline staff to be received as such. They are all so accommodating and friendly.

Here's a great example. I was told in JFK that I would need another boarding pass for my flight to Douala from Casablanca. After what would have been considered in the US as an unacceptably long wait to get through a swine flu scan and security check, the passengers fresh off the tarmac were brought to another terminal if they were in transit. I was told that at this terminal I would be able to go to check-in for Royal Air Morac. So once here I followed signs to check-in (the first language here is Arabic, the second French, and the third English, all of which are on signs THANK GOD!) and ended up sort of mis-placed on the second floor. I was SO tired that I kind of fell asleep with my eyes open while waiting in line (sort-of) on a couch. Then I decided I was in the wrong place and got up and walked out. Sketchy American. I wandered to another Royal Air Maroc office that did not feel like a check in at all. I asked "Is this check-in?"

"No maam, where are you going?"

“Douala”

“So you are waiting for the 12:20am flight?”

“Yes”

“Please have a seat; I need to get you checked in to your hotel.”
I sat down because I didn’t want to make a scene/fool of myself when I told him that I hadn’t paid for a hotel room nor did I have any hopes or intentions of leaving the airport before my flight. When he had processed one really beautiful African mother and her two kids, it was my turn.

“I am going to get you your voucher maam, it’s a long wait and these accommodations are gratuite (that means free, or compliments of…) par Royal Air Morac”.
I looked at him incredulously. I don’t know if US airlines do this, but I think not. I guess that might be because there are very few instances of scheduled 20 hour lay-overs. Either way, I was really impressed with the service of Royal Air Morac (as well as the plane food) and will love them forever, for getting me out of that airport (although it was clean and very efficient with exception to security check-in). I am looking forward to my free dinner as I slept through the complimentary lunch.

As far as who I’m travelling with, there are several potentially French or Canadian or general expatriate white people going to Douala (I overheard them talking en francias  ) and the rest are very wealthy-looking Africans who have Americanized kids (SO cute) and may be going to stay with their families for the summer (just a guess though).

I really love what the women wear- I see bright goldenrod color in every fabric, but in addition to that it seems that the sky is the limit. Some dresses are sari-esque but some are just shifts that are sort of tied on. The most defining thing about their outfits is that they are so color-coordinating. Their pants are made of a full color taken from one present in the ornately patterned fabric of the over-dress. Then whatever fabric was used for the pants is also worn as a head wrap. Everything is edged with intricate stitch-work and sequins or beads that match the over-dress. They must have a different three-piece ensemble for every day of the week. Nothing about their ensemble is neatly buttoned or zipped but instead tied and wound and folded. Getting dressed is a cultural thing, I couldn’t just wear what they wear- it’s a skill, something you learn over time. But I am determined to at some point try that stuff on because it is beautiful, and probably really comfortable.

So far the coolest thing I’ve seen is this really voluptuous African lady with a tiny less-than-one-year-old tied to her back. The kid’s head hangs at a weird angle but he or she is definitely securely tied on there. It is flattened to her back with his or her legs and arms splayed out like a tree frog. The only reason I don’t think I’d do that with my own kids some day is that it might hurt your boobs, as the cloth supporting the weight of this kid under his or her butt is all anchored on the woman chest. Ouch!

This sadly may be the most verbose of all my blogs (and you’re thinking, why is that a bad thing?) because I am trying to kill time and thus I’ve gone really in-depth with descriptions of a pretty uneventful (yet exciting) day.
Right now I am chilling out on the bed in my hotel room. I took a nice shower, am getting ready to go eat some Moroccan food and then come back and watch TV in French. I love Africa so far!

Welcome to Kate's Blog!

Hey reader, thanks so much for checking this out, and even if you can't stand reading this all the way through I appreciate you swinging by! I probably wouldn't read a blog religiously either, so I understand. But for those of you who do want to see just how frizzy my hair can get in the wettest region of the world in its wet season, or if you for whatever reason are curious in the people, culture, and natural wonders of Cameroon, do keep an eye out for the upcoming photographic masterpieces posted in this blog. Depending on how busy I am during my stay from June 29th to August 24th I may even journal a bit. Peace.