Week #1

Day 1 – Thursday, May 31^st

For those of you in my family and group of friends that I have either seen, called, texted, etc. over the last several weeks in advance of my departure to serve in the Peace Corps, there is very little else I can say to all of you other than to tell you how much I appreciate all of the love and support that everyone has shown over that time.  Amongst the scrambling I have had to do to get everything ready for my departure, there have been farewell happy hours, grill-outs, MLB games, and many other get-togethers that have only made the reality of being away from everyone for 27 months even more difficult of a proposition than I had previously anticipated.  Whether it was in Charlotte, Dayton, Wheaton, Chicago, or Cincinnati, the time spend with everyone made me feel that much more guilty that I hadn’t done it even more in the past few years. 

 Along with 35 other volunteers, I will be boarding a plane at JFK airport this evening to travel to Cameroon where I will live and work as a community enterprise development volunteer for the next 27 months.  While I would like to sit back and appreciate the irony of departing the country from an airport that is named after the President that created the Peace Corps, there will be little time to do anything other than make a few final phone calls and to thumb out a couple texts from my [not so smart] phone to ensure that my affairs are in order.

As I write, I am sitting in the front seat of a coach bus overlooking New York City, arguably the center of the known universe, the sight of which sets a nice contrast to what I expect to see in the coming days in Yaoundé, Cameroon.  Admittedly, I haven’t put forth an exhaustive research process about the history, culture, or geography of Cameroon in advance of my departure, but there is little doubt that it will be drastically different than any place in which I have lived before.  However, at the moment, my mind drifts back and forth about whether having two cheesesteaks (with wiz --- thanks, Jim) from opposing vendors in Philly was either one of the greatest or one of the worst ideas I’ve had on record.  

As we know how quickly our memory fades in time, my goal in sharing these experiences via my blog is to have a record of my journey from which I can re-live thirty or forty years down the line, in addition to allowing my family and friends the opportunity to play along. 

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Day 2 – Friday, June 1^st

After a bus ride from Philly to NYC (two hours), two plane flights of 6,000+ miles (18 hours), and a final hour and a half long ride from the [probably] international airport to Hotel Felydac, there was little else we could do at 6pm in the hotel other than sleep off the exhaustion of international travel.  So naturally, a few of us ignored the obvious signs of physical incapacitation by enjoying the local flavors afforded to us by the hotel bar.  Understandably, there weren’t many others up to the task, but it was good to find out right away that we were dealing with a country that serves 22oz bottled beer.  A solid start in a new country, going back to 12oz bottles will be difficult. 

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Day 3 – Saturday, June 2^nd

 If you’ve never had the opportunity to talk with a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer (RPCV) to hear them talk about their experience living and working in another country, you are the worse for it.  Whether you happen upon someone who is forty days or forty years removed from their close of service date, even the most mundane details of their experience are worthy of an audience to those who have spent all of their lives in the developed world.  Sure, it is always great to hear about the number of wells that were built in a region of country X to provide the surrounding communities with drinking water, as that is a great accomplishment, but learning a new language (if not two) to bargain at the market is no small feat either!  

One conversation I had with a couple RPCV’s who served in Cameroon many years ago was no different, as I brought over some great advice with me that I hope will be interesting to follow in the weeks and months to follow.  That advice was to pay attention to the little things in these first few days that may seem very strange, and to write them down to see how normal they become after just a short stay in-country.  Great advice, obviously, so here are a few winners from my first impressions in Yaounde:

-          Fitting five people on a motorcycle (two kids in the lap of the driver)

-          No stoplights, and the apparent lack of traffic laws

-          Having only bread, jelly, and coffee/tea for breakfast

-          Not understanding more than one word of French spoken to me

There will be more to come, but the overarching theme for anyone that happens upon a RPCV is that you should probably take a two hour coffee/beer break and just sit back and listen to some pretty incredible stories.  They would love to share them, all you have to do is ask. 

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On a less serious note, the Cameroonian national team was randomly playing an Africa Cup game against the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) on the day after we arrived in-country.  Given what we heard about a similar game from the previous year when Cameroon lost after its star missed a shot in a shootout and riots ensued, we made no plans to stay for the entire 90+ minutes after buying a ticket for 1.000 CFA (“SAY-fuh”), or about $2.  Fortunately the Omniplex, which is the name for the national soccer stadium in Yaoundé, was only a 10 minute walk uphill from our hotel, and we arrived in plenty of time to score a couple of sweet “seats,” which were [fortunately] drowned in the shadows of the second deck by the time the first whistle was blown. 

While there were no goals (but plenty of fake injuries, naturally) during the first half, the spectacle of the world’s most popular sport within a developing country’s largest stadium offered people-watching opportunities that supersedes all others.  To add a few things to the list above, here’s what I saw during the first half:

-          Instead of yelling “hey beer/hot dogs HERE!,” stadium vendors purse their lips and make a kissing sound to get your attention.  It sounds dumb, but it makes you look every time.

-          Little children can urinate anywhere guilt-free.

-          Velodromes can be part of a comprehensive, multi-use facility.

-          Looking around in the stands, to say that I am in the minority in this country would not be accurate. Given how few other white people I could find sitting in and around our section (only one), I started to realize that “…we’re not in Kansas anymore…” and we are going to stand out quite remarkably whether we like it or not.   

Naturally, the Cameroonians scored on a penalty kick after we left the game at half to avoid any unnecessary trouble, but it was certainly a blast to see the team in action behind their green-clad followers.  As a side note, I may now be ready to watch the royal blue and white jerseys of the Salvadoran national team run all over opponents within the (no-so friendly confines) of “Vietnam” in San Salvador.  But probably not…

Later that night we attended a traditional African dance show at a venue in Bastos, one of the more affluent neighborhoods of Yaoundé.  I don’t think I took any good pictures, in fact I’m sure of it, but it was certainly a fun time.  One guy rhythmically pounded his three foot high drum with each hand, two others beat hollowed out logs with sticks, and three dancers (one female, two male) sang native jams while doing everything they could to cave in the floor with their jumps and stomps.  Quite the spectacle for a bunch of folks fresh of the plane, but the locals in the crowd seemed to show their approval by walking right up on the stage to dance with one of the three while happily busting a few moves alongside, all of which culminate in the placement of a bill on the forehead of the person dancing (the bills stick with the sweat until they are removed by hand).  But don’t think you’re getting a dance with someone of the opposite sex for only 1.000 CFA , it appears as though it is only appropriate for women to approach the woman dancer (and vice versa).  And yes, we saw vice versa.  

The show culminated in a couple funny events the both of which resulted in the affirmation of the long-since proven stereotype that white men can’t dance.  All of us from the PC group were brought on stage to “bring down the house” in the finale (but shockingly didn’t bring down the stage, as it didn’t look as though it were spec’d to code) and some traded solo dances with the lead female dancer.  Please note that Columbians are not included in the stereotype – they can certainly dance.  I’m sure this was a pretty funny thing to witness to other paying customers, so funny in fact, that eight or nine members of the DRC soccer team stood up from their table with the sole intent of showing this group of Peace Corps trainees that they ought to “stay in your own lane” by focusing on teaching English, HIV/AIDS education, business development, etc.  Their moves were to the beat of the music playing, not surprisingly, but that did not change the fact that they were probably getting onto a plane back to the DRC the next morning having suffered a 1-0 defeat in Yaoundé.  Quite simply, crushing a bunch of Peace Corps trainees in a dance off does not ease the pain of losing a match in the Africa Cup. 

Day 7 – Wednesday, June 6th

After several days of presentations, interviews, and general waiting around the hotel and the Peace Corps office, we departed Yaoundé this afternoon for Bafia, the site of our language, culture, and technical training for the next three months.  The trip took less than two hours by bus, which was surprisingly efficient without the chaos of taxis and motos of Yaoundé.  Gone are the days of staying in a hotel with a roommate with running water, wifi, and meals with fellow trainees.  This has been replaced by three months of living with a local family, all of which have been instructed to provide certain accommodations to trainees (i.e. room with lock, bed (with net), French-language only). 

Thanks to a handful of nights spent sampling the various Cameroonian Brasseries at the hotel restaurant/bar, we received specific insight from current Peace Corps Volunteers (PCV’s) that the mechanics of meeting your host family would likely register an 11 out of 10 on the awkwardness scale.  In short, the bus rolls into the Peace Corps compound, bags are unloaded and piled up for each Peace Corps Trainee (PCT), and host families are lined up on the other side.  The only thing that kept a game of “Red Rover, Come Over” from breaking out (other than the language barrier) was probably the afternoon heat and humidity.  As expected, there were some historically awkward moments, none of which were captured on my camera --- however, I will seek some out for public consumption.  As for me, only moderate awkwardness ensued despite my best efforts to make it so.  Although we weren’t briefed on it beforehand (note to future Cameroon PCT’s), decorum says that we shake the Dad’s hand and give a hug and fake kiss the host Mom (oddly it’s goes from one side to the other, back to the original).  Three times. 

In approaching all of the homestay and site preference surveys that the PC put in front of me, there has been one consistent trend: it doesn’t matter, I’ll go where they think I’m best suited.  With that in mind, I was placed in a family that has between 3-6 people living in the home on a road in which the PC suggests I not walk on after dark.  Fear not, family and friends, as all PCT’s will have a 7pm daily curfew for the next few months!  

For not knowing more than a few directional phrases in French (i.e. where is the bathroom, what is that, etc.), the afternoon and evening was surprisingly less awkward than I had previously anticipated.  We moved everything into my bedroom and then sat down in the living room for a few moments to meet my host Mom, Mayanga Tsanto Patricia, along with the rest of the team.  I can’t remember all of the names, as there were at least six kids in there, but my favorite one is Jerry (duh!).  Once it was obvious to them that I ‘parle francés seulement un petit peu,’ I made an early dash for the baseball equipment in my Cincy duffle.  In the first thirty seconds, I’m pretty sure the kids were wondering why anyone would want to catch miniature soccer balls with a glove, but they were able to gather enough from my flailing hand gestures and the easy translation of baseball from English to French … “baseball” … that we needed to head outside. 

Four or five of us played catch outside for about 15 minutes before I headed back to the duffle for another trick: the 32.5” x 30 oz Baum bat that also made the trip abroad (all equipment will be one-way).  Since the front yard is only about 15x30 feet, five of us walked over to the PC model school and put their soccer field to good use with what I’m calling its first game of long-toss and batting practice.  Awesome.  Just can’t wait to get those obtrusive goal posts down and out of the way by the end of the week, however, no one has offered to help yet. 

Although the rest of the evening took a step back to awkwardness over dinner, it was quite a memorable experience.  I sat at the head of the table with children to my left of 16 (girl), 9 (girl), and 8 years (boy), 14 years (girl) at the opposite, and 11 (boy) and 4 years (girl) at my right.  My host Mom, Patricia, was at my immediate right.  I managed to entertain myself and the four year old by trying to learn how to say fork, spoon, and plate in French.  At least four times through my quiz with her and more than three hours later, she still knows how to say them and I don’t.  Damnit. 

As the host families have been prepared in advance as to what we’ve been eating thus far in-country, dinner was very similar to what we were served at the hotel.  There was bread, an avocado/tomato/onion salad, spaghetti noodles, a beef stew mix, potatoes, beans, and (my favorite) fried plantains.  Starches and carbs are standard fare and I’m on board with that.  Rumor has it that guys typically cut weight and girls typically pack it on with this diet.  For the most part I was trying to come up with my best one-liners for making conversation such as “C’est ou” and “C’est qoui” … where is and what’s that.   It will take awhile before I understand any of the responses, but that’s the life of a novice-low speaker, which is the PC’s term for someone who can barely find the bathroom in another language.  Not surprisingly, all of my mistakes are in Spanish, a language in which I am currently second most comfortable asking directions to the bathroom.  I almost made it through this activity without any props, but I was forced to explain my name to them using a copy of my passport (John) and my baseball card (Jack) --- all of the PC materials say John.  They were confused at first, as many people are, and perhaps they would have changed their mind about hosting a volunteer if they knew they were getting a Jack and not a John.  Things may get pretty weird for them later on if they overhear some of the trainees calling me “Dash,” short for Dashiell (my middle name).  There are two Jacobs in our training class, one of which will be known by his host family as Jacques, which is a little too close to Jack and hence, I volunteered to be known as Dash. 

First name confusion aside, I stole another PST’s idea of showing family pictures to everyone after dinner while the latest soap opera was on tv (apparently they’re very popular here).  All of the pictures were passed around amongst my host Mom and the children, and many laughs were had at my expense, especially the three year old in diapers and a sombrero.  Simply timeless, that shot.  That covered another 20-30 minutes of time, after which I retired to my room via the standard novice-low “Je suis fatigue, bonne nuit.”  A quick snooze in mid-80’s humid temps under a bednet will only reveal one other item to throw onto the “weird now, but maybe not later” list will be living in a home without running water.  While this means that not only will I be dumping a bucket full of water into the toilet hoping to get everything down the hole in advance of the next visitor, but it also means that I can get started pretty early on taking a shower from a bucket by lathering up and rinsing off from a pitcher full of water that was filled from a tub that we hauled in from out back behind the house.    

The clock is just a few minutes past midnight and thus, today is my 28^th birthday.  This reminds me of my very first homestay.  On the first day after arriving in Alaska to live with the Prince family while playing for the Anchorage Bucs in the Alaska Baseball League, we went to a great restaurant and sat on the rooftop in downtown Anchorage.  On that day I drank my first (legal) beer, an Alaskan Amber, as that was my 21^st birthday.  After taking some time to organize my room and get all of my bags unpacked here in Bafia, its pretty funny to think that in exactly seven years from then, I would go from living with the Princes and playing college baseball in Alaska to living with a French-speaking family while working in Cameroon.  Outstanding.