"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.

Only if you'll be my third husband!

Within my first two weeks at my new post, I would estimate that about 75% of my initial encounters with men left me either incredibly uncomfortable or incredibly frustrated.

For the first few days, anytime I walked through the carrefour (to go to the boutique, to buy some food, to buy phone credit, to go to my office -- A.K.A. anytime that I left my house ever), I’d be hissed at, kissed at, and basically catcalled hardcore Cameroonian style.   

There was one incident when I went to buy phone credit last week.  I was immediately encircled by four or five young men, all telling me I’m beautiful, asking if I’m married, asking if I’d like to marry one of them.  Upon gentle rejection and explanation that I'm here for work, not marriage, that they should treat me like a sister, not a girlfriend, the men only began to shout at me.  "How can you say you're not going to fall in love with me?!"  Um, hello mister.  I just met you like, 20 seconds ago.  And now you're shouting at me trying to get me to come home with you.  Definitely don't think you're marriage material, ashia.

I went to a funeral.  As I was leaving the feast, the host asked me if I’d be his second wife.  I tried to laugh it off, saying “I’ll be your second wife if you’ll be my third husband,” but the instant I left the room, a different man approached me and put his arm around me, calling me “ma cherie” and asking if he could come with me.  I was able to laugh off the first incident, but this second one that immediately followed was just too much too soon.  I smacked his arm away and told him that I am not his cherie and sped ahead more in an attempt to hide my upcoming tears than simply to escape.  Luckily I was with my counterpart and community host.  My counterpart essentially told the guy to shut up and leave me alone.  My community host hugged me the entire taxi ride home (which I think was mostly because there were five of us squished tightly in the back seat, but I’ll take it as an act of love and comfort).

I know that this is an issue that will fade as I spend more time here.  Once people become familiar with me, they will stop harassing me so much.  But that doesn’t make it any easier for the time being.  Though I never feel as if my security is in danger, being sexually harassed every time I leave my apartment is tiring; it’s as if there’s a whole swarm of mosquitoes following me right beside my ear.  It’s definitely not something that I want to live with for the next year.

This never happened in the North.  I mean, it happened occasionally – I can count three specific incidences over the course of nine months.  It was so rare that I could laugh it off -- "Jeremie", the mason that left love notes on my veranda, became a longstanding inside joke between me and my neighbors.  The man who would send me uncomfortable text messages immediately stopped when I threatened to tell his boss.  And I've got to say -- at least these men were putting in some effort at romanticism rather than making kissy noises at me from afar!  Being tricked into an accidental date featuring a home cooked vegetarian meal, Celine Dion, and mood lighting -- well, while he did not succeed in winning my heart, at least it wasn't someone shouting at me to be his wife! 

In the North, there was the whole “Nassara, Nassara!  La Blanche, La Blanche!” issue, but that was more an issue of skin color.  Now we’re bringing the fact that I’m a young woman into the issue.  And the fact of the matter is not just that I’m a young woman, but I’m a young white woman – look at the potential!

I’ve begun to develop a deep mistrust for all men that I meet, which is definitely not how I want to live my life.  That being said, most men I encounter approach me with the sleaziest of smiles, and handshakes often linger far too long.  Even handshakes at church are a problem; last Sunday, a man was shaking my hand to offer the sign of peace, then upon realizing he’s shaking the hand of la blanche, he grabbed my hand with both of his and would not let go for a solid 10 seconds as he stared at me.

It’s gross.  It’s creepy.  It’s sickening.  It’s frustrating.  It needs to stop immediately.

I talked to my counterpart about the issue, and how I have this problem anytime I cross town alone.  We explained the issue to the Sous-Prefet when we met him for protocol, and he was outraged; he said he’d try to put a stop to it immediately.  The Commandant of the Gendarmes, however, thought much less of the issue, basically saying “well, she’s a big girl.  She can decide which men she wants and which men she doesn’t."

Finally, the problem began to fade.  People started to recognize my face and the marriage proposals decreased from dozens per day to just a few.  I was starting to become comfortable in my new town.

Just when I thought it was no longer an issue, my counterpart’s husband called me into the room to chat.  He told me that I shouldn’t be afraid, that the men are not trying to insult me.  He explained that I should just let them compliment me and stop fighting the issue.  His “kind advice” quickly led to a full out screaming match after he told me that I am the minority here; I must adapt to Cameroonian culture, and I cannot force my American ideals on others.  Oh, I’m sorry sir; I didn’t realize that defending myself against sexual harassment was considered a form of imperialism!  Next time I’ll be sure to keep my mouth shut and let the men grope me as much as they would like. (As a sidenote, this was my first legitimate heated debate that I’ve had in French, and I think I held my own!  Though I did “shush” him at one point, which was a definite breach in protocol.)  

He told me that I should be stronger.  I told him that by defending myself and putting a stop to this, I am being strong.

I am not usually one to pick fights; I try my best to avoid arguments and debates.  Nevertheless, this is one debate that I will never give up on.  Yes, maybe it's a cultural thing.  Maybe these men truly believe if they shout "my baby, you're so beautiful!  I love you!" from ten yards away, that I will indeed marry them.  And yes, I do want to adapt to Cameroonian culture as much as I possibly can.  But I'll tell you this:  I will wear a head to toe pagne ensemble, I will sit on the ground and eat couscous with my hand, I will attempt to learn your patois, but I will not put up with your catcalls and sleazy smiles, pretending that they are compliments!  That is one aspect of Cameroonian culture that I can do without, and I believe I am completely justified in thinking this.  I have every right to feel comfortable in this village.  I have every right to feel safe.

*Sigh*

This has been my main struggle here at my new post.  In fact, I’d say it’s been my only major struggle so far.  It’s already begun to fade significantly after only two weeks, and I know that it can only continue to improve.  Part of me feels that I shouldn't even post this because it does not fall within the realm of sunshine and rainbows, but I think it's important.  I think as PCVs, we need to remember to stand up for ourselves.  While we're supposed to adapt as much as we can to our host country's culture, we cannot let the rest of our ideals totally fade to dust.  And whatever battles we win or obstacles we overcome today will only help other volunteers/foreigners/women in the future.

My life in the nursing home.

View of the Church from my apartment.

When I first stepped foot in my new apartment, I was shocked.  It was like being back in America.  In fact, this apartment is far nicer than either of my apartments in Montreal were (though my former roommate Becca so aptly stated, “it isn't difficult to find a place nicer than the Unicorn Brothel”).  With high ceilings, clean tiled floors, broom closets and cabinets galore, real spring mattresses (as opposed to the flimsy foam that sinks down in the middle), hot running water and flushing toilets – I feel spoiled.  I'm living the high live in the Peace Corps.

My dining room.  (Severely lacking decorations)

It’s definitely a big change from my cozy little house in Sanguéré-Paul, where I had a bucket-flush toilet with barely enough water to flush, rationed myself to 1.5 liters per bucket-bath, and could not find a way to keep everything from being covered in dust.  I loved that house and I had actually gotten quite used to that lifestyle; I began to enjoy going about my evenings by candlelight during our frequent week-long power outages.  I was eager for more of the same: I was fully prepared to be sent to a village with no water or electricity.   But now as I’m sitting here at my polished-wood dining room table, fresh and clean after a scalding hot shower, I’ll admit that I’m quite comfortable… I certainly wont complain!

But enough about my super awesome new amenities... 

When I leave my apartment, I’m surrounded by nicely manicured lawns and vibrant blossoming flower beds, and there is nobody else to thank but God himself.  No, but really... I live within a Catholic congregation.  My landlord is a nun:  Sister Albertine.

The central feature of Akono is its enormous Catholic Church, built in 1933 by Alsatian missionaries.  The church is central both in the fact that it significantly shapes the economy and culture of the village, and also in the fact that it literally is in the center of town, towering high above the treetops, visible from nearly everywhere within the village.

A cutesy little grotto honoring "Fada Stoll", the founder of College Stoll.

On the church grounds, other than the elegant gothic-style church (fully equipped with stained-glass windows and church bells that are rung on the hour), one can find the College Stoll – a prestigious (and outrageously priced at 124,000-215,000CFA for non-boarding students, and 354,000-455,000CFA/year for boarding students, while public school is 27,500CFA/year) private school created by a Canadian missionary, none other than Father Stoll himself – lodging for various priests and nuns, a dispensary/small clinic (directly opposite my apartment), and my new home: la Maison Sara.

Maison Sara (AKA chez moi)

The first time I visited Maison Sara, about a week before officially arriving in Akono, my impression was “Florida retirement community meets Cameroon.”  Maison Sara is essentially a nursing home – a concept that I didn’t know existed in Cameroon.  The dozens of bedrooms are filled with elderly Cameroonians, doted on by attentive nurses.  These elderly men and women, who have apparently been abandoned by their families, are found by the Minister of Social Affairs, though I’m unclear as to how they are found or selected to be sent to Maison Sara.

Between living at Maison Sara and living across from the clinic, I’m surrounded by incredibly kind and caring people.  Everyday, I am greeted by octogenarians in wheelchairs and by nurses with smiling faces.

The old folks are great, as old folks always are.  There’s Jean-Baptiste, still quite able to care for himself and always proud to tell me that he has just come from his job of ringing the church bells: 6AM, 12PM, 6PM.  Then there are the two squabbling men who fight for my attention: one eager to teach me Ewondo, the other eager to relive his Maroua glory days by practicing Fulfulde with me.  Whenever I throw a “usoko sobajo!” or a “sey yeeso” into the conversation, the Ewondo man pretends to beat the Fulfulde man with his cane.  I like to think of it as our fun little bit (though I also am taking note that I really ought to learn some more Ewondo phrases before I actually cause a riot!)

The second floor of Maison Sara is not for old folks, however.  This is where my apartment can be found, along with a few other studio apartments rented out to the public.  I only know one of my neighbors on this floor: a friendly male nurse who will be moving out next Monday.

I’m really enjoying life in the nursing home.  I think it suits me well.  Sure, when you leave church grounds, it feels just like Cameroon again, just like any other village.  But once I am back within my little congregation, I am back at home: back in my comfort zone, where everybody knows my name, where old folks will be waiting on the veranda to greet me with smiles and firm handshakes, where the nurses and nuns will be sure to look out for me.  “Vous etes chez vous, chez nous!”  I’m thinking sometime in the future, we can have weekly bingo nights and wheelchair races (is there a category on my VRF for that?); I’m sure I’ll be able to find at least a couple of willing participants!

I’m also fairly certain that there’s a “help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” button next to my bed, so that definitely can’t hurt...

Welcome to Akono!

Today officially marks one full week at my new post in Akono!  

A brief introduction:  Akono is a small village about an hour out of Yaounde.  As opposed to the Sahel/Sudanian-savannah environment in the North region, the Center region is very well forested.  I am surrounded by oceans of green in every direction.  The climate is cool and humid, which has been difficult to adjust to.  While I had become quite used to working in my garden during 125º sunshine, I now find myself bundling up in leggings and a winter fleece on 70º rainy days, drinking lots of hot cocoa and bringing an umbrella everywhere I go.  

The culture of Akono is quite different Northern culture as well.  While I have been able to find a decent mix of people here (a few friendly anglophone women from the North West, a fellow Fulfulde speaker from Pitoa in the North, a Malian man, and some Congolese women), the majority of the village are Ewondo, and speak Ewondo (everyone knows French, but most people prefer their patoa).  While in the North it was not uncommon to see people just passing the day lounging in the shade of a tree, life in Akono is full of constant movement.  While kids in the North would often be to shy to even tell me their name, little girls here run up to me, grab my hand and beg me to pick them up.  The North had taught me to chill out, to take it easy, seda-seda, pole-pole (to bring it back to my Swahili days).  Now I'm seeing that I really need to learn how to pick up the pace again, loosen up a bit, never fear the unknown mama running toward me to embrace me in a gigantic bear hug.

Truth be told, there really is no way to compare Sanguéré-Paul and Akono.  They are total opposites, or at least seem to be at the moment (note to self: start making a Venn diagram to discover any overlaps).  In a way, I think this is a good thing.  I can consider it a totally fresh start, rather than dwelling on how it could be this way or that way instead.  

My priority in these first few weeks is integration; getting to know the community, building relationships, and making Akono my home - my comfort zone.  Despite my attempts at trying to trick myself into thinking integration would be smooth sailing the second time around, this week has definitely not been without struggles.

Remember when I talked about how Peace Corps is a constant emotional roller coaster, where my happiness can be at a 6 (“meh”) at one moment, drop to a 2 within seconds (“don’t you dare call me ‘Nasarra!’”), and then shoot up to a 10 later that day (“ooh!  Shiny!!)?  Well, my first week in Akono was definitely no different.

I would actually say that I’ve been riding a pretty constant high all week, just with some pretty sudden drops – but hey, roller coasters would be pretty lame it weren’t for the sudden, intense drops, right?

I started typing out a whole bunch of key memories (highlights and lowlights) from this week, but there is really just so much to talk about!  Maybe it’s better for me to break it up over a couple of posts, rather than force you to read a 2000 word essay.  For now, I’ll just give you a glimpse of what has kept the coaster chugging along at a smooth and steady pace:  my new work partners / welcoming committee.

The past volunteer, Alex Clamor, set me up very well with a wonderful women’s group as a host organization, along with two community hosts and a counterpart.  These women have truly taken it upon themselves to show me around and make me feel at home.  Madame Manga has taken me on several tours around town to introduce me to local authorities, potential work partners, or simply some good friends. Madame Obama woke me up bright and early on market day and told me where to meet her so that she could help my buy some produce.  Madame Nguini called me twenty minutes before church to remind me not to show up late.

Thanks to these women, I have not spent a single day at home twiddling my thumbs.  I have not yet had a single moment of feeling lost, or idle, or hopeless (as sometimes PCVs tend to feel).  These women are incredibly motivated, dynamic, and above all, kind.  They have done nothing but welcome me with open arms, and continue to help me discover Akono.  They have kept me in the loop about meetings that I may be interested in, and already have so many ideas of projects that I can help them or other community members with.  Thanks to them, my transition into this new post has been going far smoother than I could have ever hoped for.

It is definitely not the same as Sanguéré-Paul, but think things will work out just fine!

Later this week: 

• My life in the nursing home  [Happiness rating: 10.  Thank God this is home base! (Literally, thank God – my landlord is a nun!)]
• A funeral with boxed wine goody-bags  [Happiness rating: err…7.5?]
• Slimy, yet satisfying?  [Happiness rating: 4]
• "I’ll be your second wife if you’ll be my third husband!"  [Happiness rating: 1.  Panic mode!]
• Cookies!  [Happiness rating: 9]