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!