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

Northern Exposure (Part II)

While the first part of my site visit was overly positive and provided several opportunities to meet many great people, the back half was a mix of highs and lows.  Of the many headlines, my re-introduction to a long lost love, street food, would certainly be placed above the fold.  Although we have had an on and off relationship in developing countries thanks to the post-meal reaction of a close friend last year in Peru, street food won me back in the form of poisson braise (grilled fish).  After finding a bar near a busy fish momma, we didn’t have to wait long until we had a giant silver platter of food to share, with nary a utensil in sight.  The picture of an entire foot-long grilled fish and leafy green vegetables had their way of blinding me from the onslaught of street vendors walking into the bar patio to sling tissues, peanuts, candy, and shoes.  All for about $6.  Outstanding. 

Also highlighting my return trip was a quick visit to the local zoo in Garoua, which was surprisingly entertaining given the modest appearance of everything in sight.  Leading the charge into the zoo was my soon-to-be cluster mate, Rachel, who lives only 7km away from Guider.  After seeing the advertised price of 2.000 CFA for us to enter, she swiftly bargained the price down to 1.000 CFA per person by cracking a few jokes and shoving exact change into the palms of the guy working the booth.  I’m not sure whether it was her ability to charm the admissions guy or the likelihood that we may dole out some tips, but Garoua’s version of Jack Hannah took us on a guided tour of the highlights.  Amongst the many sights, there was a sleeping gazelle, a massive male lion, a screaming bald eagle, three wandering camels, and an uncaged and wandering monkey that was rumored to be quite adept at annoying the captive baboons with his ability to explore any and all parts of the zoo.  It wasn’t more than an hour later when Rachel pressed a 500 CFA piece into the manager’s hand for his time --- bringing the grand total a paltry $4.50 to see some African wildlife (which is actually more expensive than the National Zoo in DC!). 

The next morning I was awake and on the road at 5:15am, or about an hour before sunrise.  Although this wouldn’t typically be a dangerous time to get moving, as much of the riff-raff is sleeping, there is always something quite ominous about setting off by yourself before dawn in a place devoid of streetlights.  However, as is usual for that time of day, the brightest lights leading me down the road emanated from the open doors of the mosque that had just let the men out of their morning prayers (women are not allowed inside).  And while the steady stream of early-goers leaving the mosque were probably not expecting a big white guy to be crossing their path before sunrise, and neither was the momma preparing her stand for the morning’s sale of beans and beignets, it was rather enjoyable hearing a variety of cordial greetings in French and Fulfulde. 

A quick five minute moto ride and I was at the bus station, which was surprisingly busy for that time of day.  It turns out that most of the early buses leave close to their scheduled departure time mostly because they fill up quickly with the day’s early travelers.  And for the established bus companies like this one, the process for handing off luggage and boarding the bus is more organized than one would expect from what would otherwise seem to be a chaotic situation.  After enough tickets have been sold, the ringleader grabs a microphone and calls everyone up one-by-one to drop off their luggage, which is then heaved upwards to the two men charged with organizing everything on top of the bus.  If there was ever a practical application of everything we learned from playing Tetris back in the day, these guys are living that dream by making quick work of everyone’s baggage.  Although the sound system was less than concert-quality, its not hard to pick my name out of the rest, and it is similarly easy for the ringleader to make eye contact with me and make an inviting gesture to board (he correctly assumed that I struggle with French).  Fifteen minutes later and we were on the road, me with my window seat, and 29 other Cameroonians looking like they were not particularly comfortable being jammed into a bus that would normally seat only 21 people in the developed world. 

Although it was an uncomfortable ride that would have been worse if the guy to my immediate right had not been trading positions with me (him leaning forward against the seat ahead while I leaned back, and vice versa) to avoid an even more jam-packed row of people, the six-hour ride was relatively hassle-free.  In what was quite a surprise and would be considered atypical of a PCV’s transport experience, I was not carded by the Gendarmes (the Cameroonian army) at any of the mandatory stopping points --- it is not unusual for them to solicit bribes from foreigners, although I haven’t had that experience quite yet.  After arriving in Ngaoundere and making my way to the regional Peace Corps house to rest and relax for a few hours, I was back on the move with two other trainees aboard the train for what turned out to be a swift 14 hour ride – six hours less than the trip going the other way. 

Much like almost every bus ride, there are many vendors along the way at every train stop throughout the day and night.  While it never fails to see that the vendors are overwhelmingly women and children, the goods available change throughout the journey.  As honey production is popular further north, many of these stations are swarming with people trying to unload their product for 1.000 per bottle.  And as you continue heading further south where more fruits and vegetables are produced and sold, your chances of getting bananas, plums, or baton de manioc increase exponentially.  As it would have been rude to come back from my trip empty-handed, I bought a couple bottles of honey and figured that would make for something everyone in the family would enjoy. 

As for the rest of our ride, the low point of the trip came around 1:00am when I felt a slight pull on the strap of my backpack that I had looped around my leg to keep from someone making away with it while I was drifting in and out of consciousness.  Much to my surprise, I woke up to find a mysterious third hand in my backpack, which I immediately smacked out of the way and leaned into the aisle to find that the guy who appeared to be sleeping on the floor was actually waiting for the right time to reach under the seat and open my bag.  Given my state of not-so-heightened awareness after only a little while of terribly uncomfortable sleep, the only reaction I could muster was to say (in English), “What the f*&K are you doing,” which was follow up by a shove, a “get the f*%k out of here,” and a toss of a nearby bottle of sprite in his direction (as this was the nearest thing I could find to throw that wasn’t my backpack).  And since I was using my inside voice, the sound of which was drowned out by the train itself, no one sitting nearby woke up to see both my puzzled look and the thief as he casually walked away. 

After taking a moment to survey, I realized that my ipod was missing and I quickly made my way in the direction of the thief’s exit.  Three cars later I found myself in the coach class, which was slightly darker, had a definitively worse smell due to more bodies and little ventilation, and a less than inviting populace that hurled “la blanc” (hey, white guy) from all directions.  In the past I have been accused of not being very observant, or not reading much into context, but this was certainly a time when common sense needed to take precedent.  So with that, I [symbolically] bid farewell to my ipod and turned to head back in the other direction.  It wasn’t until about five hours later that I realized that the thief also made off with my camera, the only other valuable item in the pocket he managed to explore. 

Although I figured that my ipod and camera were gone and not coming back, I brought word of this thievery to the attention of the Camrail security towards the end of our voyage.  And with the knowledge I now have about what they do to thieves here in Cameroon, I wish I could have taken a picture of the security guy’s face using my old camera to show how disappointed he was that we didn’t catch him.  The impression he gave me from what I could gather from both his body language and his French (another PC trainee was helping me translate) was that he was slightly less pissed at me for not yelling out “VOLER” (thief) when I had the chance than he was at the thief’s actions.  My seatmates seemed to share the same sentiment, as they ended up waiting (without me asking them to do so) for about five to ten minutes on the other side of the concourse at the station in Yaoundé while I stood and watched the people exit the train to see if I could recognize the thief amongst the massive crowd. 

It ended up being a very lucky thing for the thief that I couldn’t pick him out of the crowd, because it looked and sounded like he was going to get some serious Cameroonian civil justice.  After another two hour jam-packed bus ride I was back in Bafia giving my obligatory description of the story for them to include in a police report, the three Peace Corps staffers mentioned that it was probably in my best interest to have not witnessed what is called “jungle justice.”  As thieves are sometimes able to bribe themselves out of trouble when they get to the police station, civilians are not shy about playing judge and jury here in Cameroon.  An example I heard from one staffer, who is a native Cameroonian, was that she had once seen a thief caught in public, only to be stacked up and immobilized with tires and then set ablaze.  Given this description, “jungle justice” seems to be a fairly appropriate term.  And while that would have certainly not happened on the train or on the station concourse, I tend to agree with the PC staff that I would not have wanted to get caught in the middle, or even on the fringes, of a severe beatdown that would have probably left that guy maimed and disfigured.  And in the end, I didn’t lose much sleep over losing a barely functioning ipod and a severely outdated, ten year old camera … although it would be nice to have all the pictures that I took up North.