Alright, well, it's been a while since I've posted something and I've definitely not been standing still so I figure I'll write about a little travelling I've just done.
I just got back from a nine-day vacation in Denmark where I visited with my family that lives there as well as my parents and three of their friends who were taking a little vacation of their own in Scandinavia. Even though I love my post, my friends, and many things about this country, it was really nice to take a break from Cameroon and my Peace Corps duties. The first thing I did after my red eye flight to Brussels where I was changing planes was run to the Starbuck's in the main terminal (after passport control, that is). I got a tall latte, and boy was it amazing. I haven't had anything other than Nescafe or the occassional cup that I brew myself in 9 months so I was thrilled to be able to gulp down a shot of espresso mixed with delicious, frothy milk. I usually avoid Starbuck's in the states but, hey, beggars can't be choosers. They even let me pay with some US dollars I'd brought with me! I figured I didn't want to push my luck and see if they'd take some of the Central African Francs (cfa) I also had in my wallet.
After that, I was hungry so I started wandering around, wondering what to get. I saw a Pizza Hut express which wasn't open, a little food court with some traditional Belgian dishes, as well as a few cafes and bars that were quite full at 9 in the morning. I wandered around from place to place, wondering what to get to satisfy my desire for Western food. Do I wait around for that deep dish with pepperonis at the Pizza Hut? Should I just get a burger or some pasta at the food court? Is it too early for a Stella or Hoegarden? Then I started looking at the prices. Seven euros for a personal pan pizza, 5.50 for a small beer, 12 for a burger with fries and a coke. I started going through this in my head, changing these euros back to CFA, and realizing that a meal here would likely cost about as much (if not more) than what I normally spend in a week on food. I felt incredibly conflicted about what to do. Could I justify to myself spending this much money on a meal when I haggle over pennies in the market? As my hunger increased and my flight to Copenhagen approached, I frantically wandered the airport trying to figure out what to do. I ended up just getting a bag of chips and some gummies from a vending machine. I also searched for a Dr. Pepper or Mountain Dew but came up empty handed.
My other little cultural touble--I don't want to say shock as that's a little extreme--came the following morning when I woke up at my cousin Tess's house and it came time to brush my teeth. Normally I just brush my teeth without water as it's a bit of a hassle to bring a water bottle outside with me at home, and I definitely don't use the tap water when I'm in bigger cities. I stood in front of the sink for probably a minute telling myself I would be fine to use the sink water. I drank some of that water the day before, but for some reason there was almost a mental barrier for me with using this tap water that I knew was safe. I ended up using it but it took some mustering up of courage to do so. Throughout the rest of my trip I still had a bit of trepidation every time I filled up my glass or water bottle at a sink.
I'm not terribly sure the rest of my trip would be that interesting to anyone so I'll just throw in a few more highlights. Yes, I had some McDonald's. Twice. It wasn't Taco Bell, but it did the trick. I had so much amazing Danish food, mostly centered around their cheese and what I consider one of the least appreciated cheese-cultures in the world. I believe I put on about 9 pounds in the 9 days I was there which is pretty good considering I'd lost quite a bit of weight since arriving in Cameroon. There's also a microbrew on the island my uncle and aunt live on that makes some really delicious beers, including one of the best American Pale Ales I can remember drinking. I didn't have too many, but I cherished each one. My last night in Copenhagen, I went to the big town center with my cousin Ben to watch the Denmark-Japan match. Well, after Japan got off to a quick 2-0 lead, we decided to go meet up with Tess at an Irish pub where we watched the game and then danced to this Irish guy playing a guitar and singing mid-90's classics such as "Breakfast at Tiffany's" and "Wonderwall." I convinced Tess to ask him how he felt about playing "Sunday Bloody Sunday" though he tactfully responded with "As an Irishman, I'm over it."
At the beginning of the trip when I was in the Yaounde airport, I initially feared not wanting to get back on the plane at the end of the trip. As the trip went on, though, I started to get more and more comfortable with the idea of coming home to Cameroon. Throughout my whole time there, I was not-too-secretly hoping the second volcano in Iceland would go off, thus "stranding" me there for a while longer. When I got on the plane at 6:15 am, though, I was glad to be starting my journey back. In the last couple months, Ngong has really become home for me and I really enjoy my time there, even with some of the problems I've been having. My step-mom said something to me at one point that was like "I can tell you're not 100% here." I hadn't really thought of it but once she said it, I had to agree. It was great to see my family and relax but quite often I was wondering how my friends were doing in town, what other volunteers were up to, if anyone had eaten my cat and, if not, how little Chavez was doing. And now that I'm here I am not sure that my mind's 100% back. It's a weird feeling to not know where your mind really is, caught between two worlds.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
Le vingt mai (May 20th): une petite histoire
The 20th of May is Unification Day in Cameroon, the day that the Anglophone and Francophone regions were reunited under one government, the year after independence. It is a huge national holiday and I’d equate it to the 4th of July in the U.S. Here is my story.
I woke up on this bright, sunny, hot Thursday morning to yet another day without electricity. The power had been out since Sunday, (it ended staying out for more than another week) and many people were pretty pissed because they expected this to effect the festivities. Well, you be the judge as I continue the story. Anyway, I got up and put on one of my boubous and then started wandering through town, grabbing some beans and beignets along the way, until I arrived at the stadium where the parade was supposed to start at 9. Naturally, I’d forgotten my camera at my house so I snagged a moto back and forth, getting back to the stadium around 10ish, before anything had even started. Our lamido cruised up in his nice Land Rover, surrounded by his guard of men in colorful outfits, equipped with swords, and giant umbrellas, all seated on Arabian horses. If it wasn’t for the Land Rover I would have said it seemed like something out of Aladdin. I walked around a little bit until I heard a familiar voice call out “Nassara! Nasarra! Alhadji!” I turned around and saw Baudouin, the French NGO worker in town, with a friend of his from France who was (and still is) visiting named Marie. We wandered around for a while and made our way over to where the school children were lined up and talked to some of the teachers Baudouin used to work with. The parade finally started sometime after 11 and was, for the most part, exactly the same as every other parade I’ve seen here. The schools march in order, each group carrying a Cameroonian flag, occasionally singing and praising Paul Biya, occasionally clapping or doing a little choreographed stutter-step. We saw Linda, the Anglophone owner of the bar which is the general hangout for us and our friends, and she said she had cold beers at her place. I didn’t catch some of what they said then because they were rattling off in some pretty rapid French but I did here her say something like “Oh, I know my clients. They’ll drink the beer even when it’s hot.”
After a few hours under the hot sun, the three of us were quite thirsty so naturally we decided to leave the parade and go to Chez Linda, where Linda’s husband Ekambi was keeping an eye over everything. We had a couple beers and we knew that this was going to be the place to be as Ekambi had gone to Garoua that morning and bought a bunch of ice. Anyway, we hung out for a while, and watched as the parade ended and everyone streamed back into town and then realized this place had cold drinks. The mayor even showed up, fully decked out in his boubou made of Paul Biya panye(fabric), and had a Fanta. Somewhere around mid afternoon I went home to change out of my boubou and then got back only to see that several of our friends we’d been hanging out with were back at the stadium for the over-50 soccer match that was going to happen. My friends Kais and Limbo pulled up on their motos and said “Harley! Baudouin! Go get your soccer shoes, we need more players, now!” Now, Baudouin is 25 and I am 24 so between the two of us we almost have 50 years. Naturally, I caught another moto home, grabbed my shoes and got back to the stadium. Somebody tossed me a yellow jersey. I figured it’d just be a bunch of old guys kicking a ball around with a few casual onlookers. There may have been 10 guys there who were over 50, and that’s probably a generous estimate. Also, the lamido, the marabou (my neighbor who is like a cross between a witch doctor, a fortune teller, and a wizard), and most of the grands in town were sitting in the stands along with countless people looking on. We had a pretty fun game, I played a little over half of it and we ended in a 2-2 tie.
Baudouin and I wandered back to Chez Linda, joking around about how while we might not have 50 years between us, we sure played like we were 50. When we got back there, the music was going full blast (generators!) and people were up and dancing at their tables, in their seats, and basically any place open. That’s one thing I love about this country, you can start dancing whenever and wherever you please, so long as there is a little music. And the best part is that nobody is self-conscious at all, you just groove how you want to and nobody really pays attention or judges unless they are also dancing. I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen somebody dancing by themselves at a table while everyone else was still seated and talking. Anyway, the ice from the morning had all melted and the beers were only mildly cooler than the air (maybe only about 90 as the sun had gone down a little while before), though that was still a plus. Linda was definitely right when she said she knew her clientele. Marie had been at the bar during the whole match and when Baudouin and I got back he had to finish her beer and then take her home so she could go to sleep. I hung out for a little bit more with some of my friends and then walked home, grabbing what might have been the best spaghetti omelet of my life, the guy put some avocado-salad-mix on top which was simply awesome.
Best fête day yet.
I woke up on this bright, sunny, hot Thursday morning to yet another day without electricity. The power had been out since Sunday, (it ended staying out for more than another week) and many people were pretty pissed because they expected this to effect the festivities. Well, you be the judge as I continue the story. Anyway, I got up and put on one of my boubous and then started wandering through town, grabbing some beans and beignets along the way, until I arrived at the stadium where the parade was supposed to start at 9. Naturally, I’d forgotten my camera at my house so I snagged a moto back and forth, getting back to the stadium around 10ish, before anything had even started. Our lamido cruised up in his nice Land Rover, surrounded by his guard of men in colorful outfits, equipped with swords, and giant umbrellas, all seated on Arabian horses. If it wasn’t for the Land Rover I would have said it seemed like something out of Aladdin. I walked around a little bit until I heard a familiar voice call out “Nassara! Nasarra! Alhadji!” I turned around and saw Baudouin, the French NGO worker in town, with a friend of his from France who was (and still is) visiting named Marie. We wandered around for a while and made our way over to where the school children were lined up and talked to some of the teachers Baudouin used to work with. The parade finally started sometime after 11 and was, for the most part, exactly the same as every other parade I’ve seen here. The schools march in order, each group carrying a Cameroonian flag, occasionally singing and praising Paul Biya, occasionally clapping or doing a little choreographed stutter-step. We saw Linda, the Anglophone owner of the bar which is the general hangout for us and our friends, and she said she had cold beers at her place. I didn’t catch some of what they said then because they were rattling off in some pretty rapid French but I did here her say something like “Oh, I know my clients. They’ll drink the beer even when it’s hot.”
After a few hours under the hot sun, the three of us were quite thirsty so naturally we decided to leave the parade and go to Chez Linda, where Linda’s husband Ekambi was keeping an eye over everything. We had a couple beers and we knew that this was going to be the place to be as Ekambi had gone to Garoua that morning and bought a bunch of ice. Anyway, we hung out for a while, and watched as the parade ended and everyone streamed back into town and then realized this place had cold drinks. The mayor even showed up, fully decked out in his boubou made of Paul Biya panye(fabric), and had a Fanta. Somewhere around mid afternoon I went home to change out of my boubou and then got back only to see that several of our friends we’d been hanging out with were back at the stadium for the over-50 soccer match that was going to happen. My friends Kais and Limbo pulled up on their motos and said “Harley! Baudouin! Go get your soccer shoes, we need more players, now!” Now, Baudouin is 25 and I am 24 so between the two of us we almost have 50 years. Naturally, I caught another moto home, grabbed my shoes and got back to the stadium. Somebody tossed me a yellow jersey. I figured it’d just be a bunch of old guys kicking a ball around with a few casual onlookers. There may have been 10 guys there who were over 50, and that’s probably a generous estimate. Also, the lamido, the marabou (my neighbor who is like a cross between a witch doctor, a fortune teller, and a wizard), and most of the grands in town were sitting in the stands along with countless people looking on. We had a pretty fun game, I played a little over half of it and we ended in a 2-2 tie.
Baudouin and I wandered back to Chez Linda, joking around about how while we might not have 50 years between us, we sure played like we were 50. When we got back there, the music was going full blast (generators!) and people were up and dancing at their tables, in their seats, and basically any place open. That’s one thing I love about this country, you can start dancing whenever and wherever you please, so long as there is a little music. And the best part is that nobody is self-conscious at all, you just groove how you want to and nobody really pays attention or judges unless they are also dancing. I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen somebody dancing by themselves at a table while everyone else was still seated and talking. Anyway, the ice from the morning had all melted and the beers were only mildly cooler than the air (maybe only about 90 as the sun had gone down a little while before), though that was still a plus. Linda was definitely right when she said she knew her clientele. Marie had been at the bar during the whole match and when Baudouin and I got back he had to finish her beer and then take her home so she could go to sleep. I hung out for a little bit more with some of my friends and then walked home, grabbing what might have been the best spaghetti omelet of my life, the guy put some avocado-salad-mix on top which was simply awesome.
Best fête day yet.
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