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!

"Chauffeur, arrête! Arrête" -- Transportation in Cameroon

Transportation in Cameroon is far from what we are used to back in America.   It's one of those things that I've just become so used to that everything seems normal.  Or if not normal, at least nothing phases me anymore.  Nevertheless, every trip I take, I find myself in situations that most Americans would find absolutely absurd.  Transportation in Cameroon can be bumpy, sweaty, cramped, seemingly endless, or a game of bumper cars.  Above all, transportation in Cameroon is always full of surprises, and once you no longer have to hold your breath or close your eyes, a trip will almost always provide you with a decent story or a couple of laughs. 

While living in the North, my main method of transportation was to take motorcycle taxis, or "motos".  This was the most common form of daily public transportation -- you just flag down a moto taxi driver, tell him your destination, and then hop on the back.  It's not uncommon to see four people squished together on a moto, or even a few goats, furniture, maybe another moto -- pretty much anything.  Passing other vehicles occurs frequently and driving on the "correct" side of the road is not enforced, so consequently at the beginning there were some rides where I would just close my eyes.  The nervousness wore off eventually, and I knew I had officially gotten comfortable with Cameroonian transportation when I no longer had to hold on to the back handle on a moto. Moto rides quickly shifted from terrifying to exhilarating to a breath of fresh air: pure contentment.

But motos definitely aren't the only form of transportation, and they are not nearly as common in the Grand South.  This past weekend, I went on a mini beach vacation in Limbe to celebrate being in Cameroon for an entire year.  Let me tell you a few transportation anecdotes from this 3-day trip. 

1.  The first leg of my journey was a 50(ish) kilometer bus ride from Akono to Yaounde.  I easily found a car (about the size of a 16 passenger van, but with benches instead of seats) that was ready to depart, and took the last available window seat at the back of the vehicle.  The ride was pretty smooth and surprisingly the driver did not pack us in like sardines, as is the typical manner.  About 15km before reaching Yaounde, the man on sitting next to me started screaming, "Chauffeur, arrête! Arrête!" ("Driver, stop!  Stop!")  It took about thirty seconds before the driver noticed the thick black smoke and pulled over.  "L'eau!  L'eau!  Donne moi l'eau!"  ("Water!  Water!  Give me water!").  Someone passed him a 1.5L bottle of water, which he used to extinguish the small fire that had ignited.  We waited outside the car for maybe two minutes, and once the smoke lessened, everyone deemed it safe to continue.  After all, the fire wasn't too close to the gas tank.  The van probably wasn't going to explode.

2.  Upon arrival in Yaounde, I had to switch from the van and find a taxi to take me to the Peace Corps office.  I flagged a driver down almost immediately, and we spent the next twenty minutes weaving in and out of traffic, driving on the wrong side of the road to escape traffic jams, and essentially playing either a game of chicken or bumper cars.  All the while he swerved frequently to the sidewalk to pick up other customers going in the same direction, as is custom practice for taxis in Cameroon.

3.  The next day, I took a bus from Yaounde to Douala.  This was a coach bus, fairly comfortable if you don't mind having your legs locked in one position for several hours (which oddly enough doesn't bother me) and if you don't mind windows that can't open.  I could have taken a bus directly to Limbe, but it would have left at least two hours later. So instead, I made a new friend at the bus station, Evans, who promised to help me get situated in Douala and see that I safely found a car to Limbe.  Once in Douala, Evans said that since he was traveling in the same direction as Limbe, we could go together after he had finished his errand.  He had been a decent travel buddy up until this point, engaging in many conversations about development, agriculture, national security, motivation of Cameroonian youth, and his job as a police officer, so I figured, why not?!  Turns out his errand was to sign and submit a document at the Danish embassy to prove that his sister (currently in Denmark) was not married and therefore could marry a Danish man and not be repatriated.  This meant driving around from consulate to consulate and embassy to embassy, trying to locate some Danish soil.  The first place we stopped was the consulate for the C.A.R. (in order to get directions to the correct location).  Evans had gone inside, and the driver had briefly walked away to stretch his legs, leaving me alone in the unlocked taxi.  Soon enough, a pants-less infant climbed into the driver's seat and started playing with all of the buttons.  Just another day in the 'roon.  Eventually we learned that there was no Danish Embassy, and settled to let the Norwegians figure it out -- close enough, I guess.  Three sweaty hours later, Evans and I were finally on the road to Limbe.

4.  One day in Limbe, a group of us decided to go down town for dinner.  The eight of us were standing by the side of the road, waiting for a taxi, into which we were fully prepared to squish the entire group.  Anything is possible when it comes to fitting more people in (or on) vehicles.  After waiting maybe only five minutes without a vehicle passing, a gigantic bus pulled into sight.  A nice, spacious, clean bus with leather (most likely pleather?) seats, which took us directly to where we were going.  It was magical.  I napped the entire ride.

5.  That same night, it started pouring rain as we were hoping to head home.  We had split up throughout the course of the night, and thus I was in the last group to head home.  Our group of five only had to wait a few minutes in the torrential downpour before a taxi picked us up, three in the back, while I shared the passenger seat with another PCV.  The entire drive home, despite the windshield wipers, we could not see the outlines of anything outside the window, and could only know our proximity to other vehicles (or which side of the street we were on, for that matter) based on the shine of red or white lights.  In the meantime, the passenger seat window would not roll up.  After 10 minutes of being rained on, the driver handed us a towel, which my friend and I held up as a makeshift curtain to shield us from the rain for the remaining half hour of the ride.  

None of these incidences struck me as abnormal (aside from the unexpected glorious bus), and it was only upon further reflection that I realized: much of this would be completely acceptable in the U.S.  Yet somehow, stories like these have become my normal; they have become my everyday life.  And while some may be bothered by a 40-minute rain soaked taxi ride or maybe they'd be concerned about a small car fire, to me, transportation in Cameroon remains nothing more than an amusing adventure, never failing to provide new friends and an abundance of stories to chuckle about at the end of the day.

No use crying over busted marmites!

Thank goodness for having friends with a sense of humor!

My neighbor Carole and I had big plans for today – we were going to bake a cake.

The idea came about when I was at a nun-crowning ceremony the other day (that’s a story for another time, I guess) and there was a delicious, fluffy cake, presumably Pillsbury.  My diving in for seconds (after ever so kindly passing on the fish and chicken and pork and green mush) sparked a conversation about my love for all things sweet.  Upon hearing that I know how to bake cakes as delicious as our favorite little Doughboy, Carole became eager to learn.

Baking was one of my favorite pastimes in Sanguéré-Paul.  Madame Tizi frequently requested chocolate cakes, chocolate chip muffins were a hit with everyone, and of course we can’t forget about cookie day.  Only once, however, had I baked a cake over a fire, and even then, it was Madame Tizi who controlled the flames.

Nevertheless, I approached the task with full confidence.  I've baked hundreds of cakes in my life (that may be exaggerating a bit, unless we include individual cupcakes), and there was only that one time that I accidentally mistook Bisquik for powdered sugar (but I was, like, 10 years old, so give me a break).  As long as Carole handled the fire, there was not a doubt in my mind that this would work out (or shall we say, that it would be a piece of cake!)

Things were going well – we bought two eggs in town for 75CFA each and were able to scrounge up the rest of the ingredients in our own kitchens.  After sifting out the worms and weevils from the flour, our ingredients were good to go and our batter was better than ever!

Carole had started up the fire, and we created a dutch oven exactly as I had done several times before: a bit of sand to fill the bottom of a big pot, with three little rocks to prop up the cake pan.  Easy peasy.

We let the dutch oven preheat, and then carefully plopped our cake pan in, heading back inside to clean up (I'm not the tidiest chef in the world, as my parents know very well.  I tend to take Emeril's "BAM!" technique a wee bit too far, unintentionally "bam"ming flour and chocolate all over every surface, which I suppose is typically unwelcome in other people's kitchens.)

Carole’s daughter, Oceanne, was our timekeeper.  We had put the cake over the fire at 1:30PM.  Usually, when preparing over a gas stove, a cake will take 30-40 minutes.  The time we baked over a fire at Madame Tizi’s, it was closer to 40 minutes.  Nevertheless, Oceanne and I were curious to see how it was progressing.  At 1:42PM, a mere 12 minutes over the fire, we just had to check it out.

Oceanne, ready to check the cake!

Guess what we found?

The bottom of the pot had burnt straight through, leaving a gaping hole, with the half-blackened cake resting directly on the flaming logs.  We had burnt a hole through solid metal! 

Feeling guilty and embarrassed (Maria Bennett, Cake-baker Extraordinaire should really not make such mistakes), I apologized profusely.  Neither Carole nor I had ever heard of such a thing happening!  Thankfully she has a fantastic sense of humor, and we spent the rest of the afternoon making jokes about our broken marmite while eating smoky cake.  Just like there’s no use crying over spilt milk, there’s no use crying over a busted marmite!  

“If it were one of us who got burned that would be a different issue.  But this?  It’s just a marmite.  We can buy another."

Next time, we promised each other, we will succeed.  However, we are now aware that we can only bake as many cakes as however many large pots we own!

Whoops!

Far from selling Thin Mints...

“Community Entry Needs Assessment.”  This is a crucial step in every Peace Corps service (and really should be taken into consideration for every development project).  Typically during a volunteer’s first three months at post, he/she is supposed to refrain from starting actual projects and instead conduct a needs assessment.  This can be done using a variety of tools, all of which include communication with community members:  household surveys, community mapping, feasibility studies, SWOT analyses, etc.

The ultimate objective is to help the PCV get the lay of the land and begin to understand his/her community, thus being better able to implement appropriate and effective development projects.

When I began my service in Sanguéré-Paul, the process was sort of free-flow.  Volunteers were free to integrate and perform their needs assessment however suited them or their community best, and were expected to present their findings in a report after those first three months.  I created my report mostly through informal conversations with friends, neighbors, and counterparts.

Recently, however, PC Cameroon has developed a standard “Community Needs Assessment” outline.  Whether it’s because this tool helps me streamline the process in an organized manner or because this is my second time around, this time around I have very little hesitation with my community entry and my needs assessment is flowing at a steady pace!  I'm incredibly thankful for this, seeing as I've already lost nine months of crucial time.

Every evening for the past couple weeks, I’ve been going door-to-door conducting household surveys.  These surveys include general questions about family structure, education, work, food security, malaria, and HIV.  At first I was a bit hesitant.  I was procrastinating conducting the surveys because, well, I dreaded inviting myself into a stranger’s front home and asking them, “so…do you use condoms when you have sex?"

Yeah.  I wasn’t looking forward to it.

Luckily for me, I decided to start at my neighbor Carole’s house (I had only met her once before this), and I was completely honest about being nervous.  I told her that since I was new and didn't know anybody, I was afraid to go door-to-door invading people's privacy with awkward questions.  She told me to wait 5 minutes so she could change her clothes and lock up the house, then she’d come invade people's privacy with me.

So nearly everyday since then, I meet Carole at her house around 4PM, she chooses a new route, and we conduct our surveys together until sunset.

Carole turns out to be both a great friend and a valuable asset when it comes to the surveys.  One evening, I was expressing how I felt the surveys were not comprehensive enough (particularly in terms of assessing agricultural/environmental needs) and that some of the questions could be improved upon.  The next day when I showed up at her house, she handed me a piece of paper on which she had created a list of additional questions, and reworded some of the questions that had been giving us difficulties.  On top all that, at the end of the day it’s nice to have someone to discuss the results with and to laugh with about all the interesting or crazy things we hear!

So what have I learned from these surveys so far?

Population: As of today, we’ve surveyed a total of 30 households, comprising of a total of 250 people (which means we’ve already hit our target sample of 5%, as Akono’s population is somewhere in the 3000-4000 range).  This averages out to 8.3 people per household.  While we did meet one woman who lives alone (which is very uncommon here), the largest number of residents in a single household was 19.

Education:  Except for one household, all children of age currently go to school.  Many families are hosts to other children who come from out of town to attend school in Akono. However, very few adults have finished high school.  All but two households agreed that both men and women should receive the same level of education. (The two interviewees that disagreed were both female).

Work:  The majority of the people surveyed are farmers.  They work in their farms, which mostly serve their own families unless there is enough to sell as well.  Many also engage in petite commerce, (e.g., selling beans and beignets). The second main employment is with the church.  This does not just mean being a nun or a priest, but perhaps a guardian, a grounds man, or like Carole’s husband: the agricultural supervisor.  Very few households had a bank account, though the majority saved money through tontines or by saving money with various associations.

Nutrition:  The majority of the population obtains their food by a combination of cultivating it themselves and by buying it.  While everyone said that they never go a day without eating, the majority admitted that there are periods when there is not enough food.  It does not come weekly or monthly, but rather in waves.  While sometimes there is plenty of food, other times are less fortunate.  This often depends on the season, or for those with a regular salary, on the time of the month.  In terms of stating the components of a healthy diet, the majority correctly included sources of protein and vitamins, but left out starch.  This being said, every household admitted that foods in the starch category are eaten everyday, while fruits, vegetables, and protein sources are more difficult to obtain.

HIV:  While Carole and I agree that it’s very unlikely anyone would openly admit to being HIV positive, I was surprised to find that the majority of responders have been tested within the past year.  The specific question asks if they’ve been tested in the past three months (as this will allow them to know their current HIV status), and nearly everybody responded “no” to this.  However, nearly everyone has been tested somewhat recently – or at least more so than I had expected.

Malaria:  Nearly everyone correctly stated that malaria is transmitted by mosquitoes, and at least half were even specific to the point of "female Anopheles" (which to be honest, I didn't even know until this survey).  Though I haven’t crunched the numbers yet, I’d say about half sleep under mosquito nets.  Nobody had screens on their windows, except for the nuns.

While I still think there are many ways to improve this survey, it had definitely helped me ease into Akono.  By going door-to-door each day, I am able to introduce myself to more community members.  Even if the survey does not thoroughly help me assess the priority needs of Akono, it is helping people in the village to understand why I am here, rather than them just seeing a random white face around town.  Better yet, the surveys are leading to further discussion, and it is through these discussions that I am truly getting to know Akono.

Oh, and to answer that question?  Nearly nobody uses condoms.