Welcome to the club

It’s strange to think about the past ten and a half weeks of Peace Corps training now that we are all living on our own in a foreign land.  In retrospect, our time in Bafia passed rather quickly, but I know it didn’t feel as such when we were living with a new family and sitting through many language and technical training classes.  It was a group of people that couldn’t wait to leave, but also took a long time to say goodbye before getting on the buses to leave for post. 

If there’s one thing the Peace Corps does for all volunteers worldwide, its that we have an opportunity to spend a lot of time reflecting.  For me, some of the most vivid memories relate to the sounds of Cameroon, mostly punctuated by what I hear laying in bed.  More often than not, each morning in Bafia would begin with a mixture of activities both inside and out that produced an alarm clock unlike any other.  There was a rooster sounding off at the top of every hour, the Muslim call to prayer would echo from the town’s center well before sunrise (it went off at 4:25 this morning here in Guider), and my host Mom would invariably scream for the attention of one of the sleeping children.  The latter didn’t bother me much, however, as it was typically her warning that someone ought to get out of bed ASAP to fetch their American brother’s breakfast --- almost always ½ of a baguette smeared with milk chocolate.  Almost every morning’s wake-up call was promptly answered by my brother’s “…oui, Ma?!”  At this point, everyone is awake. 

Its fun to think about the contrasting styles in which my host parents spoke around the house during my two and a half months as their adopted son.  One moment my Mom would be smiling while speaking slowly and softly to accommodate my novice language skills only to turn to someone standing next to me a split second later using a louder and more demanding tone of French that was completely incomprehensible to me --- most of the time it was a reaction to something the children were (or were not) doing.  I would stand there awkwardly hoping that I wasn’t the cause of her frustration and wait for her to turn back to me and continue what she started before.  My Dad, however, always carried the same monotone voice that had a slow and steady rhythm regardless of whether he was talking to me or his family and friends.  His was also a voice I could hear morning and night from my bedroom, as the depth of his tone could penetrate the cement and cinder-block walls that separated each room.  

Host family with the US Ambassador to Cameroon

Minor observations aside, it would be difficult for another volunteer to convince me that their homestay was better than mine.  While many took issue with less than appetizing meals, the constant onslaught of telenovelas with the tv volume at max, or having to eat meals alone,  I cannot find much to complain about.  Without fail, I was always presented with the best piece of fish/chicken/beef, there was a tremendous variety of delicious Cameroonian cuisine, and it was always prepared to suit what is certainly a much weaker stomach (i.e. I managed to get all the way through training without any ‘stomach issues’). 

All of my Mom’s hard work in the kitchen culminated on our last night together with the preparation of the meal that was to follow our swearing-in ceremony.  It was truly an exercise where ‘all hands on deck’ wouldn’t begin to describe the effort put forth to feed a group of new volunteers, a couple members of each host family, and the PC staffers --- maybe a hundred people in all.  It turns out that she didn’t sleep at all that night while preparing the meal, something that probably also rang true for at least one or two of the other women who helped prepare the meal. 

My host Mom, the expert chef

And before I found myself sitting beside a giant bucket filled with fifteen freshly killed chickens while watching everyone do their part in preparing a dozen different recipes, we shared one last meal that was highlighted with a bottle of red wine that my Dad brought out to celebrate the occasion.  Although I seriously doubt the most educated of palates would pair this treat with fried plantains, a vegetable and beef sauce, and whole fried fish, I enjoyed this meal more than any other during my time in Bafia.  My host Dad and my best PC friend Erin carried the conversation (she speaks a beautiful sort of French not typically found here), my host Mom came and went based on the demands of the meal preparation, and my siblings ran circles around the living room while also taking the occasional sip of wine.  Its hard not to laugh at how much different this night was compared to my first, when the four year old was teaching me the French word for each of the utensils and I had not yet eaten my first baton de manioc.   

My host Dad and I with my (informal) French teacher

 Starting with our last spaghetti omelet in Bafia, the next day marked the end of our training with the swearing-in ceremony – where we officially become volunteers – which was attended by many, including the local government officials, the US Ambassador to Cameroon, and almost anyone else who felt like watching.  It was a diverse crowd, I’m sure the casual observers were probably confused as to what was happening, but we were certainly excited to see the beignet cart strategically positioned behind our seats.  There were a lot of speeches and protocol during the ceremony, all of which were highlighted by a fellow volunteer’s speech in pidgin English, which can draw smiles and laughter even from folks [like me] who don’t know the language.  As you can tell from the pictures, our matching pagne outfits were outstanding.  

Newest PCV's

As expected, I thought the meal prepared by my Mom was delicious even though I still struggled to understand the contents and the names for each offering.  I spent the remainder of the day with my family exchanging gifts and sharing another bottle of wine, which was then followed by our last evening together as a group of volunteers in Bafia.  Collectively, our group is incredibly smart, diverse, and is already quite accomplished, and I’m looking forward to going places and doing things over the next two years that we will remember long after we’ve left Cameroon.  And now that its official, I’m also proud to be the second in the family to serve in the Peace Corps after my Dad taught English in Liberia in the late 1960’s … along with joining my Air Force-ing twin sister as the latest Nelson currently employed by Uncle Sam!  

GLN, Liberia 1967-1969