La Vache Qui Rit: A Cultural Exchange

Here in Bafia, we have a nice little event called “Family Tuesday”.  Every Tuesday, all of the stagiaires are required to go home immediately after training to participate in a cultural exchange with our families.  In reality, it’s just a way for the Peace Corps to ensure that we don’t spend too much time with other Americans at the bar and that we do in fact integrate a wee bit and learn the ways of Cameroon.  Nevertheless, it is an opportunity for us to engage in all sorts of fun activities, like learning how to cook certain Cameroonian dishes, going to the market together, and learning how to kill a chicken (which my host mom insists I must do eventually even though I am vegetarian… We’ll see about that, Mama!)

Each Tuesday, I arrive home after school like the good little girl that I am.  However, we have not necessarily been following the list of activities provided by the Peace Corps because I am typically very present in my household and eager to learn and help out regardless of the day of the week.  So Monday night before I went to bed, it came as a bit of a surprise to me when my host mom asked, “what meal will you be preparing tomorrow for Family Tuesday?” 

I knew this day was coming; I just didn’t think it would spring up on me with less than 24 hours notice.  I had originally planned on making pancakes as a nice Sunday morning feast, or maybe even as a Family Tuesday brinner.  Pancakes with tartina chocolat (the Cameroonian equivalent of Nutella)…mmm.  That would be delicious! But no can do on such short notice!  It would require heading to the market to scope out the proper ingredients, and there is definitely not enough time for such a long journey with such and early curfew.  What quick and easy American meal could I make for my family in an unfamiliar kitchen on such short notice with limited ingredients?  Fettuccine alfredo!  (Okay, yes, technically Italian, but equally loved in the States, right?)

Actually, I was aiming for a mac & cheese / fettucine alfredo combo, or really just any sort of cheesy pasta... Let's not get too technical with this.

After classes, I went to all of the stagiaire’s favorite one-stop-shop, “The Yellow Bar.”  This is typically where we go for a nice sometimes-cold beer or soda after school sometimes, but it’s also where we go to satisfy all of our chocolate needs, and even to buy toilet paper.  On this particular day, I was searching for spaghetti and cheese.

The spaghetti was easy to find.  The ladies at the bar had a nice selection of pastas for me to choose from, and we all had a good laugh about my plan to cook for my host family.  However, they were all out of “La Vache Qui Rit”, or better known to my folks back home as “Laughing Cow”.

Cheese is a rare commodity in this neck of the woods.  There is one boulangerie downtown that has something that resembles Kraft Singles, but aside from that, Laughing Cow appears to be our only option. While it was a major disappointment in the so-called “pizza sandwich” (read: a baguette, tomato paste, and L.C.), I was willing to give it a second chance.

So the Yellow Bar was out of Laughing Cow, and so was the place where I bought the Pizza Sandwich Restaurant.  I was then directed to the Little Blue Shack (we are unbelievable creative in the names that we give the local hot spots, am I right?)  At this point, I was convinced that I would have to make the trek to Centre-Ville, but luckily for me, the Blue Shack was in stock!  I purchased an entire wheel and a packet of powdered milk.

I returned home and began cooking, with Patricia as my sous-chef.  I had no recipe to work with, but I had already decided that if it turned out horribly, I would just declare that Americans love things that taste really awful.

So here’s how it went down:

• Cook some spaghetti.
• Sauté a handful of garlic and an onion.
• Mix the powdered milk with some water to make a cup-ish of milk-ish stuff.  Add this to the garlic and onion. 
• Mix in all of the Laughing Cow cheese wedges.
• Add basil and salt.  Stir.  Combine spaghetti and sauce, and VOILA!  We have “fettucine alfredo”! 

We sat down at the table together and began eating.  Personally, I thought it was fantastic, but since cheese isn’t all that popular here and because I didn’t add any MSG, I was expecting that it wouldn’t go over very well with the famjam.  I told everyone they could be totally honest if they didn’t like it. 

The results?  Mama and Papa didn’t eat as much as they usually do, and I was not surprised (nor was I offended) when I caught Mama eating a plate full of meat that she had cooked earlier.  However, leave it to ten-year-old Patricia to make me feel great!  Not only did she help herself to seconds and thirds, she also asked to save the leftovers to put inside a sandwich for breakfast the next day!  And even more importantly, I thought it was delicious. 

Everyone seemed incredibly appreciative of me cooking dinner.  Mama told me that it's important for her family to experience foods from other parts of the world just as I am experiencing all sorts of Cameroonian food, and Patricia is excited to see what I will cook for her next time (though I can’t promise that there will be a next time).  All in all, I’d give myself a gold star!

The Grand North!

Big news!  Last Wednesday, we received our posts!  In about a month from now, I’ll be heading to Sanguere Paul in the North region.

To be honest, the news came as a huge surprise to me.  After my placement interview, I was nearly certain that I would be heading to the West or the Littoral region.  In fact, the Grand North was not even an option in my mind.  I was determined to end up in a region with mountains and waterfalls and lots of tasty fruits.  So when my post was announced, I had to do a bit of mental readjusting.  One of Peace Corps’ core expectations is to serve wherever they ask you to serve, under conditions of hardship if necessary, and so gosh darn it, I’m goin’ to the North and I’m gonna rock it!

Obviously I’ll be able to tell you all much more about my post once I get there, but here’s what I know so far:

• Sanguere Paul is a tiny village of about 3000 people, but it’s only about 10km away from Garoua, which is the regional capital.  This is where I’ll be able to do my banking and buy important things like chocolate.  Also, there’s an international airport in Garoua for those of you who love me enough to maybe visit!
• I’ll have to take a 16 hour train ride followed by a 6 to 9 hour bumpy bus ride to get to Garoua.  Seems a bit much considering Cameroon is only about the size of California… I hope my fellow travellers are up for a good game of I Spy!
• A health volunteer from my stage will be living about 5km down the road from me, so hopefully she'll be able to help me out if I have any more machete mishaps.
• It’s basically the desert.  Well okay, technically it’s savannah, but it’ll still be freakin’ hot.  Supposedly the temperature is usually between 90 and 100 degrees, though in March and April it is regularly above 110 and sometimes even over 120.  Apparently it cools down in August when it finally rains.  It also cools down a bit in December and January when it becomes so darn dusty that the dust blocks out the sun.  On the bright side, every day will be like a day spent in a sauna!  I will sweat out every bad thing that has ever entered my body, and when I return to the U.S., I’ll probably never sweat another day in my life! 
• Because of the climate, there are not many mosquitoes.  This is great news considering my right foot/ankle is currently swollen like a balloon because of so many bug bites.
• It’s a francophone region, but Fulfulde is the most common language.  If all goes according to plan, I will be trilingual in the near future.
• There are a number of different ethnic groups in the area, one of which is called “Banana.”
• My village is 65% Christian, 30% Muslim, and 5% traditional.  However, the North is known for being predominantly Muslim.  I’ve been told that as a consequence of this, the North is full of incredibly respectful people and has the happiest Peace Corps volunteers.
• People in the North tend to drink a lot of chai, because what better way to cool down than a cup of hot tea?!  But really, I love chai, so this is fantastic.
• There are giant mangoes and lots of cows.
• My house is supposedly pretty nice.  It has two bedrooms and is already mostly furnished.  I will have electricity, but no running water. 
• There might be hippos?  I google-imaged “Garoua” and found a bunch of pictures with hippos…so that’s a good sign.  I think I’ll be living near a river too, so I’ll have ample opportunity to make some hippo friends if they do in fact exist. 
• There are a lot of great hikes in the area, if you’re a fan of heat stroke. 

That’s all I know for now!  Every day I’m trying to learn at least one more positive fact about the North.  We swear in as volunteers on November 20th, so in exactly a month from today, I'll beginning that long train ride to post!   

Machetes, Hoes, and Gardening Woes [Part 3]

This story is never over. But I want it to be... So, let me tell you what happened on days 4 and 5 of my gardening adventure.

Day 4

Before leaving for school, I told my host-dad that I would return after school to make a fence for my garden, in order to keep the pesky chickens from eating all of my seeds.

Because of my recent gardening troubles, I was dreading this supposedly simple task. Thus, I was ecstatic when we got out of school about an hour early. This meant that I could go to the bar and catch a mild buzz before hacking down some palm fronds for my fence.

BAD IDEA.

I got home (at the usual time that I would return home from school), and my father was already in the garden with his hammer and nails, building a REAL FENCE!

“Ce n’est pas necessaire!”

I explained that the task was to construct a simple enclosure, out of palm fronds, branches, or whatever other objects we could find. No need for something so fancypants. The task was also for ME to construct the fence…not for daddy dearest to swoop in and save the day. I thanked my father for his hard work and generous help, but told him that it’s my job, and I must learn how to do it.

He pulled up a chair, and said, “Alright, then do it. I’ll watch.”

Armed with my machete, I began chopping down branches. Unfortunately, the other trainees that live near me had already taken all of the low branches, so I had to adopt some sort of “jump and chop” method. In the process of doing, I sliced my finger open on a palm frond. Right on the stinkin’ knuckle.

So now, I was hopping around the yard trying to cut down trees with a bunch of bright red blood dripping all over the place. It was not a pretty sight. Meanwhile, my father and little sister were sitting back, watching with amusement, as I pretended that I wasn’t completely terrified of losing my finger. At least I’ll still have nine others, right?

As soon as my father was no longer looking, I ran inside and grabbed a band-aid (probably should have taken out my sewing kit as well, but there was no time for that sort of intense surgery).

I returned to my garden, and began assembling my fence. My father was not pleased with my methods, and kindly pointed out all the different places that chickens could enter.

So we worked together to complete the job, and ended up with what I thought was a perfectly adequate fence (though I think my father still thought it was less than satisfactory).

After planting my seeds (green beans), I called it a night and went to my room to attend to what was left of my finger.

Moral of the story: Don’t drink and machete.

Day 5

Chickens ate all of my stinkin’ green beans.

The wheels on the bus go round and round... If we're lucky.

Let’s take a break from gardening for a bit, shall we?

Instead, let me tell you about my first adventures with Cameroonian transport!

As part of training, we all go on site visits to visit current volunteers and to learn a little bit about life at post (and heck, to get a break from the sweaty ol’ training center!)

I was assigned to travel with two other trainees to Kumbo in the North West region to visit a Community Economic Development (CED) volunteer, Bridget.  There were 24 of us going to the North West, so Peace Corps was kind enough to arrange a bus to Bamenda for us. 

Sitting five to a row, you could say that we were quite…um…cozy.  Let’s just say that there was not a lot of wiggle room.  Luckily, we had the sweet sounds of Enrique Inglesias’s voice singing “Hero” on repeat almost the entire ride!  Thank goodness for the driver’s “USA Love Songs” mix!

The bus ride took nearly six hours, including a couple stops for lunch and bathroom breaks.  (Someone decided it was necessary to take a nice little bathroom break in front of the 2^nd-richest-man-in-Cameroon’s house, solely for the nice view of paved surfaces).  When we finally arrived in Bamenda, all the other trainees were greeted by their hosts and whisked off to into the city in search of tasty food (apparently there is amazing chocolate cake somewhere in Bamenda).   Meanwhile, I was left at the case (case = Peace Corps transit house) with five other volunteers (my two fellow travel buddies and three other girls going to a village near Kumbo).

Bridget had arranged for her favorite taxi driver, Augustine, to come pick us up and deliver us to her doorstep in Kumbo.  However, Augustine was running a bit behind schedule.  We decided to venture down the road for some delicious rice and beans while we waited.

After some delicious noms, we returned back to the case and only waited a little bit longer before Augustine arrived.

The six of us piled into the car, and bought out the extra seat in order to have a bit more space.  When I say “extra seat”, I don’t mean to say that this car had what most Americans would define as eight actual seats.  No, this was a tiny little two-door car, with your average three seats in the back, two in the front.  Yet in Cameroon, we take “high occupancy” seriously.  A typical Cameroonian taxi will squeeze four in the back, four in the front.  Yep, that means two in the passenger seat and two in the driver seat (one being the “petite chauffeur”).  Children do not count as people, so it would not be strange to be in a tiny little car with 8 adults plus some little kiddies sitting on laps.

Once again, it was quite a cozy ride.

Around 6:00PM, only minutes away from sunset, Augustine pulled over to the side of the road and got out of the car.  Flat tire. 

The six of us piled out of the car, thankful to be able to stretch our legs, but not so pleased to be standing on the side of the road in the middle of who-knows-where while darkness was fast approaching. 

Augustine jacked up the car and took off the tire, and then rolled the tire down the street and completely disappeared into the distance.

Umm…. Okay.

So we waited. 

And waited.

It was now dark. 

I called Augustine’s cell phone.  It rang from inside the car.

I called Bridget for advice, but she couldn’t really do anything other than reassure us that we would make it to Kumbo alive, eventually.  We decided to arm ourselves by clutching to whatever tools were used to take off the tire.  Just incase.

Eventually the driver came back and informed us that he had to travel back to Bamenda (nearly a two hour trip each way) to get a tire, but hey look!  We broke down right in front of a bar, and could chill there until he returns!  At this point, it looked like we wouldn’t make it to Kumbo until nearly midnight.

Before we were able to make any rash decisions about drinking the night away on the side of the road or hopping on random motorcycles on the way to Kumbo, magic happened.  A car pulled over in front of ours.  It was a friend of the Augustine’s, and he happened to have a spare tire!

We were back on the road within minutes.

When we finally arrived at Bridget’s apartment, we were greeted with spaghetti, homemade tomato sauce, and garlic bread, along with the wonderful company of four current volunteers who live in the Kumbo area!  It may have taken us 12 whole hours, but we finally reached our destination!

 

Kumbo was an absolute blast.  To sum it up:

• We rode around on motorcycles all the time.  This is the most common form of transportation that I’ll be using over the next two years, I would say.
• We visited a dairy factory where we got free yogurt and bought cheese that claimed to be gouda but really wasn’t.
• We went to the market and bought awesome fabric to be made into clothing later on.
• We attended a youth camp about making good life decisions, led by a PCV.
• I tried to learn how to dance like a Cameroonian (A.K.A. “shake your bombom”).  I failed.
• We took a hike to a waterfall!  There are so many waterfalls here!!!
• We ate really well:  spaghetti omelettes (have I talked about these yet? You should make these.  Seriously.  Details later), delicious cabbage, stir fry, chocolate, and french toast… french toast!!! 
• Oh yeah, and HOT SHOWERS!  

All good things must come to an end, and all stagiaires (A.K.A. Peace Corps Trainees) must return to Bafia. 

Peace Corps had intended for us to all find our own way back, I suppose as some sort of test.  We outsmarted the system, and decided to rent out another bus for the 24 of us again.  So Saturday, we had yet another squishy car ride back to Bamenda, and the 24 of us spent the night in a hotel. 

Can’t forget to mention the pizza.  There was pizza.  It was great.

Sunday morning, we packed up our bags once again, stopped by the bakery for some chocolate-filled beignets with sprinkles on top (I’m beginning to think this post is more about food than about transportation…), and then walked to the case where the bus was to pick us up.

Immediately I heard someone say, “There's no way this bus is going to make it all the way to Bafia.”

And whatdya know?!  About half way through the journey, the bus broke down!  None of us have any clue what happened, but luckily we broke down less than 50 meters from an auto repair shop.

Everyone got out of the bus and began pushing, Little Miss Sunshine style.  In the meantime, I took pictures.  (Come on people…do you really think little ol’ spaghetti arms could have been any help?)

Anyways, this has been enough rambling.  The bus was fixed pretty quickly, though while leaving the auto repair shop, the driver backed into a giant pole… Minor details.  Soon enough, we were back on the road, and here I am again, back in Bafia-land!

Machetes, Hoes, and Gardening Woes [Part 2]

Day 2.

My second gardening day was a Sunday.  I woke up around 6:30AM, but attempted to read in bed for a while until what seemed to be a reasonable hour for productivity.   At exactly 6:42AM, there was a knock on my door.

Pretend to be sleeping.

Another knock.

Pretend to be sleeping.

5 minutes later, another knock.

Patricia:  “What are you doing?” (In French, of course)

Me:  “Um…I’m, umm…sleeping?”

  

Apparently the rest of the family had left to go work in their garden (a real, successful, blossoming garden).  Patricia was bored and ready for me to get out of bed and do something interesting, and well, you guys all know how much I just looove mornings! (har har har)

I got up, made tea, and then we attempted to make omelets together (because apparently I eat eggs now, too).  We both failed at our omelet attempts and ended up making semi-scrambled eggs instead.

After we finished eating, we decided to wait five minutes before going out to work in my garden.  Then we decided to wait another five.  And another.

Eventually Patricia decided that we had procrastinated enough.

I went out and hoed away.  Six hours of hacking away at weeds and roots and accidentally cutting squirmy-wormies in half with my hoe and then shrieking and confusing the entire neighborhood.  I took a couple breaks in between to sit with Lianna as she washed her laundry and did other chores.

By the afternoon, I was plum tuckered out.  The weeds and roots just would not, could not disappear.  How am I supposed to make a raised bed for my nursery if I can’t even get rid of the stinkin’ mauvaises herbes?

I called Lianna and Clare over for advice, and that’s when the floodgates broke.   Yep, that’s the moment that I cried in front of about twenty little Cameroonian children.  It was just Lianna and Clare at first, but at the first hint of moisture in my eyes, children started flocking towards me.  Where did they all come from?!  How did they know?!

I wasn’t sad; I was tired, I was sore, and I was so darn happy to be expressing my thoughts and emotions to people en ANGLAIS.  The tears just started comin’ and I had no control over the matter.

The girls agreed that I should probably just call it a day and start again tomorrow. 

Day 3.

When I left for school on Monday, Mama was in my garden “just rearranging some things”.  (Sound familiar, real mom?)  I thanked her and said I’d return after school to finish the work. 

During school, I learned that I cannot be sent home during the next 27 months due to incompetence in the garden.  Good to know! 

I returned home, not at all excited to get back to work.  But voila!  My little plot of dirt had magically transformed itself into a beautifully raised bed, exactly the correct dimensions, with palm fronds on top for shade.  Mama had done my homework!  After an initial tinge of guilt, I was just so incredibly relieved.  Thank goodness for Mamas all over the world!

[Continue to Part 3… because yep, there will never be an end to my gardening woes.]

Machetes, Hoes, and Gardening Woes [Part 1]

Mommy dearest informed me the other day that many of you folks back home are a wee bit confused and concerned that I am not quite qualified for a job in agroforestry.

        

    “Does she even know how to garden?”

        

    “What is she going to do with that machete?”

    

        “Isn’t she afraid of all things creepy-crawly?”

If you are among those who are asking these questions, well, I’m right there beside you!

Peace Corps Cameroon has five sectors:  Education, Community Economic Development, Health, Youth Development, and Agroforestry/Environment. 

When I applied, I knew that I wanted to do some environmental work.  It was definitely my preferred choice, though I didn’t actually think I’d be accepted into this sector because they say you need at least 3+ years of working on a farm or something like that.  What experience do I have?  My major in college focused on agriculture and environment and I minored in environment, but in a practical sense?  Hmm… Well, there was that one time that I helped my mom pick some raspberries that one summer… Does that count for anything?

So yes, when the Peace Corps handed me a machete, a hoe, five pounds of chicken poop, and said “go and till the land,” I was a wee bit overwhelmed.  Nevertheless, I happily accepted this job and gosh darn it, I’m going to be the best darn farmer that Cameroon has ever seen!  (Eventually!)  What qualified me for this job?  I’m a quick learner, a hard worker, and I love to smile.  That’s all I need!

All that being said, I’d like to tell you the tale of beginning my home garden, in which I am supposed to plant green beans, moringa, nightshade, and something else that I should probably know the name of but can’t remember.

I was debating whether or not I should post this story, because at first it is not a happy story.  It’s a story of struggle – the first true struggle that I experienced during my Peace Corps career.  However, my tale wouldn’t be true if I only included the ups.  What’s important is to remember that everything will work out one way or another.  If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.  

And thus it begins.

Day 1.

As I am still having difficulties with the language barrier, I was somehow under the impression that my host-dad had taken two days off from work this week to clear some giant field for me miles away.  Okay…probably not miles, but everyone kept gesturing “over there, over there,” so I just assumed it was FAR.

I would have felt pretty bad if he actually did take the time to clear a field for me, but fortunately (or unfortunately, as I would soon realize), this was not the case.

When I asked where I could put my garden, Epiphany pointed to this tiny little plot of dirt by the laundry line – an area that was totally littered with trash.  No good.  Mama pointed to a plot where a beautiful blossoming garden already existed and said they would clear it for me.  No good.  Papa showed me a hugely overgrown plot by the side of the road.  It’s like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, but I keep burning my mouth on the darn porridge!  (or soup?  Maybe it’s soup.)

I chose option C.  Papa and I put on our work clothes and got to work with our matching machetes.  It didn’t take long before I realized I am not cut out for this gardening stuff!  Papa managed to clear most of the area in the time that I uprooted one single weed.   After 15 whacks with the machete, my arms were sore and my hands were blistered.  Everyone that passed gave me words of wisdom (“Du courage, ma fille! Du courage!”), but there was also a lot of laughing at the weak little American girl (rightfully so).  We agreed that I should just watch and learn for a while.  Stand back and look pretty – that I can do.

While standing around keeping Papa company, I had the opportunity to observe all the creepy crawlies.  I saw a grasshopper get eaten by a baby chick, and felt sad for the grasshopper.  Then I saw the baby chick nearly get hacked up by papa (accidentally), and felt sad for the baby chick.  

Eventually we called it a night.  I drowned my sorrows in a Luna bar before bed, and the only thought in my head was “je déteste le jardin!”

I felt a bit defeated but I won’t give up just yet.  

[Continue to Part 2]