Mom and Mike Visit Cameroon: Part 4 -- Mike’s Favorite Day (From Limbe to Yaounde)

I might be the only Peace Corps volunteer in Cameroon who loves (not even just “likes”, or “doesn’t dislike”, but actually “enjoys”) public transportation in Cameroon.  There’s always so much to see outside the window and there’s always a chance to meet interesting people.  I never find it particularly uncomfortable, and I enjoy just listening to music and spacing out.

I pampered Mom and Mike for their first few days in Cameroon.  We started by "depo-ing" taxis (meaning to rent the whole taxi rather than squish in with x number of strangers picked up along the way).  We even took the train to Douala followed by a car to Buea, rather than the direct bus ride from Yaounde to Buea.  Talk about spoiled brats!  But honestly, it felt great to be luxurious and put us all at ease. (Plus the train gave us free chocolate croissants, so that was pretty awesome).

After Limbe however, the gloves came off.  It was time for the bus ride from Limbe to Yaounde – typically a 6 hour ride. There was really no other choice.  It was squish in this bus, or stay at this fabulous beach forever.

Sometimes, we get lucky – the bus is new, there’s air conditioning, the trip goes pretty fast.  This particular day was not one of those lucky ones: we got the oldest, slowest bus on the planet.  This bus was chugging along at a snails pace, as all the other cars and buses breezed past.  On top of that, the seats were particularly cramped.  This is never an issue for me – I am physically uncomfortable with too much legroom and would rather be squished and constricted to small places. (Call me weird, or whatever.  Ain't like I haven't heard it before!)  My brother – a rather tall dude whose legs were sore from hiking the tallest mountain in West Africa – was less than pleased with the seating arrangements.

He was also less than pleased with the extreme heat and humidity in the bus – actually, pretty much every Cameroonian passenger was also complaining about how much of a sweat-box it was.  Not only was there no air-conditioning, but none of the windows opened.  The only airflow in the bus came from the rooftop emergency exits and from the door, which kept slamming shut.  Luckily during our stop in Douala, the sweatiest city in the world, a man sitting next to me came back onto the bus with ice cream.  I asked him where he bought it, and instead of just showing me, he treated us each a refreshing cone.

Physical discomfort on the bus rides not only comes in the form of lack of legroom and ultra-sweatiness, but also from the lack of bathroom breaks.  I felt like a parent, warning Mom and Mike that they were not allowed to consume to many liquids, and they should be wary of things that might give them rumbly tummies – you never know how long the driver will go before stopping for a bathroom break, if he even stops at all.  Fortunately for me, I’ve had years of training for this.  Summer vacations with my Uncle Ron have trained me to endure 10 hours in a car without peeing.  (Thanks Uncle Ron!  I knew this would come in handy someday!)  It takes a delicate balance of hydrating yourself enough to make up for the liters of sweat pouring out of you, while staying dehydrated enough to not need a pit stop – a delicate balance, indeed.

All physical discomforts aside, Mom was quite enthralled by the on-bus live entertainment.  The ride started out with a pastor coming on to sing some prayers and pray for a safe journey.  Now, I’m kind of fuzzy on the details, and I’m sure if you talk to my mother, she’ll either set me straight or give you a completely different hyperbolized version of the story, but I think the pastor finished up the prayers and started selling cookies?  I’m not quite sure how the logistics were.  All I know is that he was selling multiple brands, and we got free samples.  Once he left, a few other salesmen popped in and out along the journey, selling everything from medications, toothbrushes, candies, and deals at a hotel in Yaounde.  Most of them advertised loudly and steadily for at least a solid half hour.  I, like my mother, usually find this quite entertaining.  Towards the end of the ride, most of the passengers around us were telling the salesmen to just shut their mouths. When I get tired of it, I just turn my iPod up at full blast to drown out their sales pitches, but for the most part, these live infomercials continue to be an amusing aspect of public transportation here in Cameroon.

We arrived in Yaounde around 6PM – two hours later than scheduled.  It was an 8-hour bus ride (and I have to admit, it was not the easiest trip), the sun was setting, and we still had another hour-long trip to get to Akono.

We lugged all seven bags (three of which were filled with candies and treats) down to the car park, and loaded ourselves into a crowded van.  We were the last passengers on the van, so we were unable to sit together – Mom and Mike near the back, and myself sharing the passenger seat with a woman named Rosalie (who later turned out to become a very wonderful friend and work partner and is actually on her way to visit as I type.)

By the time we arrived in Akono, we were the last passengers in the van, so the driver was kind enough to drive us directly to my house.  At long last, we were able to shower, pee, relax, and eat some delicious mac & cheese.

It was a tough day for my visitors, but I think it taught us all a valuable lesson: if Mike ever moves to Cameroon, he should definitely have his own car.

Mom and Mike Visit Cameroon: Part 3 -- Limbe fun times!

While hanging out in Limbe, we tried to split our time pretty equally between beach and town.  I was hesitant to book the hotel for three nights, rather than just two, knowing that Mom gets antsy and needs to have a jam-packed schedule (this turned out to be a very difficult obstacle for her to overcome during her two weeks in Cameroon, where things move at their own pace).  Nevertheless, once we got her in the water, she was quite at ease.  The three of us spent hours jumping over the waves, under the waves, through the waves.  Mike and I particularly enjoyed pretending to be sea-trash, floating wherever the water took us, log-rolling on the sand as the waves pushed us in and out.  I haven’t met any PCVs who I can comfortably have such stupid fun with, so being sea-trash was truly a special moment.

But the beach isn't the only highlight of Limbe, and neither is the Wildlife Center, despite my mother’s love for monkeys.

Each day when going into town, we would stand on the side of the road and wait for a car…essentially hitchhiking.  This is such a normal way for people to travel around here, that I’m sure I had never even mentioned it to anyone, even in a phone call.  Sure, sometimes we’d get picked up by a licensed cab and squish in alongside 3 large mamas in the backseat and another in the front (making for a total of 7 passengers), but occasionally we’d get picked up by a random man just willing to do us a favor.

Once we got to down, our main destination was typically Down Beach.  This is where Mom and Mike ate their first “poisson braissé" – grilled fish, eaten whole, and eaten with your hands. (Never a fan of fish, I sought out beans and rice nearby).  We ate at a table on the beach, sipping beers, and occasionally bargaining with the salesmen who came by offering CDs, souvenirs, and other snacks.

Mom particularly had fun at the market.  We were on a mission to buy pagne – traditional African printed fabric.  As we popped in from one boutique to another, I think my family was both shocked and amused by my ruthless bargaining.  No matter the price, I will always try to get it lower.  (Much to my dismay, we got no great deals, and no free gifts.  But at least we had some laughs).

Walking along in the market, Mom would say, “what’s that woman cooking?”  Kosai!  White bean beignets!  Basically ground-up white beans that are then deep-fried, they taste chicken nuggets.  Being high in calories, they are very popular in the Muslim community during Ramadan, and were a staple dinner for me last June (thank goodness for running and for skirts with stretch waistbands).  I excitedly bought three for us to share as we continued to roam the market.

And that was Limbe!  Lots of swimming, monkeys, fish, bargaining, beer, wine, and card playing.  Not a bad time at all!

Mom and Mike Visit Cameroon: Part 2 (finally!)

I haven’t blogged in a while, partly because I’m content and comfortable and at the end of the day I want nothing more than to settle down with my sketchbook or a good read, and partly because I feel that I cant write anything until I write the several episodes of “Mom and Mike Visit Cameroon”.  Yet I can’t seem to write about that either, because while it was incredibly special to have them here, they were just seeing what I see every day, experiencing “my normal” – and how does one write about “normal”?

Sure, we hiked Mount Cameroon.  That was a blast.  But mountains are mountains – you’ve all hiked them, or heard or read tales of people hiking them.  This was no different (aside from the fact that it started pouring rain halfway up, our clothes got soaked through, and at the summit we were stuck in a cloud so thick that my camera lens could hardly make out an object 4 feet away).  We did enjoy camping in tents, listening to our porters banter in Pidgin English and joking around with remixes of children’s songs (Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes – with a twist!).  I enjoyed waking up Mike in the morning first-day-of-school style, and our fellow hiker, Annelise, never complained about the racket in the tent next door.

But that’s a mountain.  And then after that, we went to a beach.  Typical tourism, typical life, ya know?

So what is there to write about?  While climbing to the highest point in West/Central Africa and playing in the waves in Limbe were no doubt exciting adventures, the best part of Mom and Mike’s visit to Cameroon (in my opinion), was having them experience what I experience on a daily basis: negotiating at the market, buying random street food just because it looks interesting, *super comfy* transportation, chitchat with complete strangers, constant marriage proposals, breakfast beers, hanging out with friends in village, etc.

These are the things that have become my “normal,” and consequently I probably don’t mention them very much in my blog.  But I guess now I’ll try to address them, so that the rest of you will have an idea of the experiences that I got to share with Mom and Mike.

And thus it continues – the adventures of Mom and Mike in Cameroon!

Iron Chef Akono

Last week I got a call from Madame Mekongo, director of the Center de Promotion de Femme et Famille (CPFF, or in English: Center for the Promotion of Women and Family).  She invited me to attend some sort of event at the center…whatever it was, I didn’t understand the word in French, but I accepted the invitation nonetheless.

CPFF offers classes to young women (most in their late teens) who have dropped out of school.  The two main subjects offered are cooking and couture (I like to think that this is not because “promoting women” means teaching them how to cook and sew, but rather because these are two marketable skills that are easily passed down from one woman to another), but occasionally there are “causerie educatif" sessions, in which other important issues are addressed such as domestic violence, HIV/AIDS, how to avoid early pregnancy.

When I arrived at CPFF on Tuesday afternoon, I entered the main conference hall and seated myself among the audience.  It was then that I realized, the event that I was invited to attend was actually the judging of final presentations for the students of the center.

A short minute nestling down in my comfy plastic seat, Madame Mekongo interrupted the students presentation to shout, “Maria!  Why are you hiding over there?  Come take your seat up here!"

Up here?  Up where?  Oh no... She gestured to the empty seat at the edge of the judges’ table.

My first task was to help judge makeovers.  Yep, that’s right.  As someone whose idea of an “up do” is a simple ponytail and who only wears mascara (at most) as a drunken afterthought before going out for the night, I tried to stay as silent as possible, and made a bunch of “mhmm” and “uh huh” noises whenever seemed appropriate.

Cameroonians tend to love a bit of flair in their hairstyles.  To be honest, I wasn’t a fan of the gazillion pearl bobby pins keeping the model’s weave in place.  I also thought she looked incredibly uncomfortable in those high heals.  However, I admire the passion these students had for this line of work; they spent several hours on these makeovers – something I clearly would have no patience for – and their clients/models (really they were just female family members willing to participate) seemed pleased and confident with their new looks. 

“Where would your client go in this outfit?”

“She could wear this look to a gala or another similar event.”

Right.  Because there are so many galas going on in Akono.

I tried to give the students high scores, but the other judges disagreed with me. 

“The color of her eye shadow didn’t match her outfit.  Minus two.” 

Hmm.  Looked pretty good to me, but you know, whatever.

After two makeovers, to my surprise, the subject changed: food!

While I am always thrilled to receive a free meal, I am no more qualified to be a judge in this subject matter than I was for makeovers.  Recently I’ve been known to have a diet consisting primarily of popcorn, oatmeal, and care package candy.  The most complex recipe that I’ve made since being in Cameroon was pancakes, or maybe chocolate cake.  On top of that, until very recently I was vegetarian, not for any sort of moral reasons but rather because generally I think meat is icky.  And fish?  Ew.  On top of that, I still occasionally refuse to eat my veggies.  (Spare me the lecture.  I'm stuck in my ways.  Can't teach an old Maria new tricks.  Especially if those tricks mean popcorn cant be my dinner.)

Anyways, here I was, sitting on the panel of judges for what I like to call “Iron Chef Akono”, presented with 5 three-course meals over the span of two days.  Though I’ll admit to swallowing my mushrooms whole and pushing the olives back on to the serving tray, every single course was absolutely scrumptious.

As with the makeovers, the other judges were far harsher than I was, leading many students to being on the verge of tears.  With inquisitions about why the Mexican salad was called “Mexican” and why the student referred to an apple as a “pomme de France” (that’s what apples are called here) when it really was grown in Cameroon, along with accusations of wasting the judges' time, not serving piment (hot pepper), and not knowing the proper culinary terminology – well, let’s just say there was a whole lot of eye-rolling amongst the student chefs.  

“The kitchen was dirty.  Minus two.” 

The kitchen was an outside fire.  Minus two for Mother Nature!  And also during college I kept a spoon in my backpack and used it everyday for a year without washing it, unless you count the "lick-it-clean" method, so…

“She served red wine instead of white.  Red wine is for red meat.  We’re eating chicken.”  

Hey man, free alcohol!  And it’s not even in a box!  Shut up and drink! 

“She’s not wearing a bow-tie and she didn’t iron her shirt.” 
I probably shouldn’t mention that I haven’t washed this skirt in two months... 

The outdoor kitchen.

I tried to sound like a foodie wherever I could, but let’s be honest, the best I could do was to sit back, sip my wine, smile, and occasionally state my honest opinion: “well, she cooked way better than I ever could, so 10 points from me!”  Every meal, which comprised of a salad, entree, and dessert, far exceeded my expectations for any food to come out of this village, let alone Cameroon.

Under-qualifications aside, I was honored to be selected as a judge.  In the course of two days, I probably ate more protein and vegetables than all my meals in Cameroon combined, and this is as close to being on Iron Chef that I will ever come.  I also appreciated the free wine, even if it wasn’t properly paired. 

Carrot and raisin salad

Maringo chicken with rice

 
Day Two’s Menu: (Day One I was ill-equipped as a judge and didn’t have my notebook!) 

Chef #1

·      Niçoise Salad

·      Maringo chicken with rice

·      Crepes

Chef #2

·      Mexican salad

·      Smoked chicken with mushroom sauce over rice

·      Yogurt and oranges

Chef #3

·      Carrot and raisin salad

·      Steak with peas and mushrooms, with fries

·      Fruit salad

Mom and Mike in Cameroon: An Introduction

Earlier this month I had the fantastic opportunity to show my mom and my brother Mike around Cameroon.  Considering half of my readers are either family or friends of my mother (um, what?  I mean, I have loads of friends.  I swear.), and we all know how my mom can get a wee bit….erm…. carried away while telling stories, I figured it’d be best if I tell my own account.

The trip took months of planning.  On their side, this involved loads of vaccinations, trips to the candy aisle, packing, unpacking, and packing again.  On my side, it was mostly day-dreaming, flipping through travel guides, and a few last-minute phone calls for hotel reservations.  They had bought their tickets long before I was evacuated from my post in the North, so I had been reworking our itinerary over and over again for several months.

Mom and Mike arrived late on Saturday, November 1^st, and I had planned to take the Hilton shuttle to meet them at the airport.  I took advantage of the 2PM check-in, allowing myself several hours of relaxation in the hotel.  To you, the Hilton may seem like any other hotel; to a Peace Corps Volunteer in Cameroon, the Hilton is paradise.  (PCVs can often be found at the rooftop bar during happy hour, always amazed by the elevator and automatic hand dryers, and shamelessly guzzling down the free peanuts). I spent the first two hours sitting on the floor of my room (the bed almost seemed too comfortable and clean) while watching what seemed to be a Nigerian version of Deadliest Catch.  I didn’t even care that there was no hot water in the shower – I was in heaven (later I realized that I was turning the temperature thingy the wrong way.) Eventually I decided enough was enough – I needed to get myself into the jacuzzi.  And then the steam room.  And the sauna.  And the pool.

Oh wait, this is supposed to be about Mom and Mike.  Right...

Well, I had my fun relaxing and giving myself a little afternoon spa vacation, but eventually it was time for me to board the shuttle to go meet my family.  Much to my dismay, there was a miscommunication about the time the shuttle was supposed to leave.  I had missed it by four hours (albeit they were four very enjoyable bubbly hours).  After much discussion with the kind folks at the front desk, I convinced them to find me another driver to get me to the airport pronto, because  “THE ONLY PHRASE MY MOTHER KNOWS IN FRENCH IS ‘JE VOUDRAIS LE VIN ROUGE.’  SHE’LL NEVER FIND HER WAY OUT OF THE AIRPORT!”  (Yes, I sad it with all-caps attitude).

Not allowed to actually enter the airport, I stood outside waiting.  Bennetts always seem to be the last ones off the plane.  Nonetheless, eventually they walked out the airport doors looking relieved to see a familiar face in the crowd, and not just any face, but the b-e-a-utiful face of their long-lost yet favorite family member: moi.

We arrived back at the Hilton just before 10PM, and decided that we wouldn’t be us if we didn’t kick off our journey with a few margaritas!  (After which, my oh-so-classy mother spat off of every side of the hotel roof.  True story.  Mike and I were in no way involved.)

After a long, peaceful sleep, we were off to start our adventures!  The next day, we took the train to Douala, and then a car to Buea, where we would prepare for our three-day hike on Mount Cameroon!

Mom was impressed by the many-spoked rotaries.  This picture has 100000x less traffic than usual, as it was taken on Sunday morning.

A view from the Hilton.  In the background is Omnisport -- where we would see the Lions play soccer at the end of the trip. (Lions playing soccer? Whaaaaaaa?)

 More stories to come throughout the next few posts, but our itinerary was as follows:

November 1– Mom and Mike arrive in Cameroon.

November 2 – Travel to Douala by train, then Buea by car

November 3-5 – Hike Mount Cameroon

November 5-7 – Limbe Beach

November 8 – Bus ride from Limbe to Yaounde, then to Akono (Mike’s favorite day)

November 9-13 – Akono, Mfida, Olama, Mbalmayo, Nyong River

November 14-15 – Yaounde adventures!

November 15 – Mom and Mike leave Cameroon 

Next time on Maria goes to Africa:  Our hike up Mount Cameroon!

A day at the oil mill

Palm oil.  There’s really no way of avoiding it while living in the Grand South of Cameroon.  In the North, the majority of the population used cotton oil, if they used oil at all, as it was a byproduct of their major cash crop.  Down south, it’s a different story.

Palm trees are everywhere here in the Center region, and consequently, so is palm oil. 

Palm oil is one of the few very highly saturated fats, semi-solid at room temperature (but what is room temperature, really, when you’re in Cameroon?), and reddish in color.  This reddish hue is apparently due to a high beta-carotene content, which makes me feel better about not eating carrots (or any vegetables, for that matter). 

I never really knew much about palm oil before coming to Cameroon, but now, I’m realizing I cannot escape it.  When I eat at my neighbors' house, I am often served dishes of corn or greens cooked in “jus de palme” (AKA, home-made unrefined palm oil).   While these dishes are often delicious, if I have too much, I swear I can feel the red oil moving slowly through my arteries.  When I’m at home, I tend to eat a lot of ramen (first ingredient: wheat flour.  Second ingredient: palm oil). 

Monsieur le Mayor

Anyways, last week I got the inside scoop.  I was invited by Monsieur le Mayor (not the real mayor but the Cameroonian who is the first adjunct to the actual mayor, who happens to be a white French woman, because that makes total sense for an African village *ahem ahem* NOT.)

To earn a secondary income, Monsieur le Mayor works with palm oil extraction, and then sells the oil. 

The way that the villages are set up in the region, he has no way of finding one single space large enough to satisfy his needs for his plantation.  Consequently, he has small parcels of land in villages spread all over the subdivision.  Unfortunately, this leads to a lot of extra costs, some of which include workers, land rental, and transportation. 

However, once the regimes of palm nuts are harvested and transported to the mini-factory behind his house, he has a efficient oil extraction system, which provides him with extra cash flow throughout the year. 

We sat around waiting for the nuts to finish heating, we sipped glasses of palm wine (I have to admit, as far as local brews go, I much prefer the bilbil, or millet beer, of the North).  Once our glasses were empty and the nuts were ready, the machines were fired up and the extraction began!

Here’s how it all goes down:

You probably wouldn't guess from looking at it, but inside this shed is a whole oil-extraction factory.

First, the palm regimes are put into this machine that spins and removes the nut from the bunch.

The nuts are then put over this sifter to remove all of the bugs, twigs, and other unwanted items.

The nuts are heated for seven and a half hours in a big drum above a fire.

The nuts slide down the ramp into a grinder.

The nuts are then ground into this scrumptious-looking substance, which is then poured into another large drum.

The nut-sludge is heated to separate the oil from water, and is then poured out through a filter to remove all of the unwanted materials. 

Finally, the oil is bottled up, in large and small quantities, and sent to buyers and distributors.

A liter of palm oil sells for 450CFA ($0.90).  Palms produce all throughout the year, though not consistently.  In the height of rainy season (AKA, now), he runs the machines three times per week.  Come dry season, they might extract oil only once per week.  

Though this is the first oil mill that I've seen, it is most definitely not the only one in the village.  My counterpart has one as well, and Michael (Carole's husband / my neighbor) is often employed to run the machines owned by the Church.  I guess that goes to show you just how important palm oil is to the local economy and local cuisine!

Later this week: Learn how to make "koki" -- A Cameroonian culinary delight which uses plenty of good ol' palm oil!

One hundred blog posts, countless memories.

I remember for the 100^th day of kindergarten, we were asked to bring in a bag full of 100 of the same objects.  I chose popsicle sticks: one hundred popsicle sticks, with one hundred jokes, each stained by delicious grape, cherry, or lime flavoring, and all fitting nicely inside of a ziplock sandwich bag.  Now I present you with my one hundredth blog post, in which I have tried to encapsulate my one gajillion memories – far more than can ever fit into any ziplock baggie.

This blog has seen me through five African countries over a cumulative 20+ months, over the span of three years.  How can I even begin to sum it all up?

The adventure began back in 2011, Eshibanze, Kenya, volunteering with Tumaini Community Development Center.  This two-month stint was a mini test to see if I was cut out for the full 27 months of a Peace Corps service (guess what – I'm pretty certain that I am!).

I've volunteered for two months with Tumaini, participated in a 3-month field studies semester across East Africa, spent a couple weeks living in Nairobi working in Kibera (one of Africa's largest slums), and volunteered with Mikunguni Youth Development Center for two months in Zanzibar.  Now here I am, just over a year into my 27 month Peace Corps service in Cameroon. 

I’ve spent a night sleeping on cowhide in a cramped Maasai menyatta in Kenya, countless nights camping in tents with classmates in villages and cities across East Africa, two months in the second-floor bed-bug ridden apartment of an artist in Zanzibar, and two months with a family in Bafia, Cameroon.  I’ve learned to live with strangers; I’ve learned to live on my own.

I’ve learned French.  I’ve dabbled with Swahili and Fulfulde.  Now I’m attempting to learn Ewondo.

I've been to weddings, I've been to funerals, I've been to ceremonies where I didn't really quite understand what the heck was going on.

I’ve drank plenty of Tuskers, Ndovus, Kilimanjaros, Serengetis, and “33” Exports.  I’ve drunk gin and whiskey out of plastic bags.  I’ve received a baggie of wine as a parting gift at a funeral.

I’ve searched the streets of Stone Town for the most delicious brownie (still torn between the dense richness at Zenji's, or the comforting almond topped brownie at Hot Spot).  I’ve discovered that no beans and beignets will ever come close to Adele’s in Garoua.

I’ve learned that chai is always delicious, be it the sweet chai in Northern Cameroon, the rich goat’s milk chai served by the Maasai, the spiced chai in Zanzibar, or my own homemade faux chai lattes made with Mbororo cow’s milk and spices from the Spice Islands.

I’ve eaten alligator, snake, antelope, chicken feet, cows ears, and a caterpillar.  Yes, a caterpillar.  I’ve also begun eating eggs and avocados (yes, this is noteworthy).

Ugali, fufu, couscous, nyiri.

Mandazi, beignets, puffpuff.

Sukuma wiki, ndole, kalin-kalin, hoola-haada, gumbo, folere.   

Chapati.  Chapati!!!   

Despite the consumption of street food and raw vegetables, I’ve managed to avoid amoebas, just as I narrowly escaped the Great Shitocalypse of 2013. (Shout out to my fellow CFSIA-ers!)

Despite the thousands of mosquito bites (Kisumu, you were not my friend the second time around) and despite what Cameroonian doctors may claim, I’ve avoided malaria.  I’ve hid in brief “quarantine” during a bout of scabies, giggling with my roommates in a cabin on the edge of the rainforest at the absurdity of our situation.  I've been "medically evacuated" to Morocco after a handful of sand to the eye.

I’ve done P90x at sunrise in Kampala, Insanity at 3AM in my house in Sanguéré-Paul, and ran on countless dirt paths in countless villages, often followed by unknown giggling children or mamas carrying firewood on their heads.

I’ve seen zebras along the side of the road, taken a side-of-the-road potty-break 10 yards from a family of giraffes, seen baby elephants being bottle-fed, gone searching in the forest at night for bush-babies, and watched giant tortoises mate.  I've gotten over my fear of the creepy-crawlies.  Maybe.

I've gone from kind of loving gardening to absolutely completely despising gardening, to kind of loving gardening again.  I succeeded in actually growing edible things and planted an entire field of soy.  I've learned how to make tofu; I've taught others how to make tofu.

I've had a bus break down in the middle of the Maasai Mara, a taxi break down at sunset in a totally unknown setting in Cameroon, and a van light on fire (slightly) yet keep on driving.  Despite this, I've learned to love African public transportation: it gives you a chance to meet interesting people and see so much as you stare out the window during an 8-hour bus ride. 

I’ve fallen in love time after time with the various landscapes that Africa has to offer, be it the mountains and waterfalls in the North West of Cameroon, the black sand beaches in Limbe, the eerily foggy jungle that leads to Ngorongoro Crater in Tanzania, or the contrast of Nairobi National Park against the city skyline.

I’ve swam on the east coast, I’ve swam on the west coast, I've swam in the Nile River.  I've been to the source of the Nile, twice.

I’ve climbed to the tallest point in the continent, tearing up and literally breathless as I watched the sunrise over Tanzania from the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro. 

I’ve made new friends in hostels, amongst fellow McGill students, amongst fellow volunteers, and of all places, while white water rafting down the Nile River.  I’ve gained family along the way: people that have treated me with such warmth and welcoming, people that I will never forget. 

All of these memories have accompanied my attempt to learn about development and my attempt to be an agent of development, but have I actually accomplished anything?  Have I made any impact?  That, I don’t know.  Are the youth of Mikunguni still earning income by selling paper bead necklaces?  Will my improved cook-stoves have a significant impact against deforestation in Northern Cameroon?  I hope so, but how can I be sure?

What I do know is that every village that I’ve visited, every person that I’ve met, and every story that I’ve heard has had an irreversible impact on me.  I’ve come a long way since my trip to Eshibanze in 2011.  I’ve learned a lot about development and a lot about Africa (from culture to environment).  I've learned that there is still so much more to learn, and that there are questions that will always remain unanswered, answers that will never be found.  Mostly, I've learned a lot about myself.  I've learned that I can make a home wherever I go, and that I am a whole lot stronger and more adaptable than I ever thought possible. (I've also learned that even though it's 100% possible to bathe with 1.5 liters of water per day, I will always enjoy a luxurious hot shower).

Before I left for Cameroon, my dad gave me a note with a quote from Christopher Robin to Winnie the Pooh:

“Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”  

Cheesy as it may seem, that is what this never-ending adventure is teaching me.  Plop me down in the middle of wherever, and I can take on the world!

But the adventure isn't over yet!  With still 14 months left in my Peace Corps service, there are many more lessons to be learned and many more stories to come.  Nevertheless, thank you, readers, for being with me over the past three years!  What’s the point of going on such a fantastic journey if you can’t share the experience with others?  You’ve let me know that even when I’m thousands of miles away, possibly in a place with no electricity or cellphone service, we’re still together.  On est ensemble!