Il Faut Innover: On Agriculture, Education, Work and Being a PCV

14-7-12
Sometimes I’m wrong about things. Occasionally. Stubborn though I am, I’m willing to say that I was wrong about the idea I had about how I’d never find work in the East.

Batouri treated me to a few months of meetings that ended with marriage proposals and me coming home to complain to anyone who’d listen. I stressed about how I didn’t have enough to do, how to make friendships that went beyond just surface conversation, and spent a lot of time wondering if I’d ever sound older than a two year old in French. I set my house up, learned the lay-out of Batouri, learned a lot about the problems youth were facing, made a few new friends, got much better at laughing at myself, and, without realizing it, kicked my French up a million notches. I got clothes made, learned how to make good food out of what I could find at the market, and read a lot of the classic literature I always wanted to read in college. Somewhere right around there, though, I realized I had a million ideas for projects and had the luxury of choosing between them. Talk about unexpected surprises.  

A few months ago, I couldn’t have talked about what it was like going au village to do work or what it was like watching projects coming to fruition; now, I’ve had experience with both. I’ve realized more than once that I had three separate things scheduled during the same time slot, which is so opposite of the beginning where I spent a lot of time walking around town trying to make connections with anyone who’d talk to me. I’ve found some fantastic friends who actually care about me as a person, and that most of the time, I’m not relying on volunteers anymore to be social. In short, it’s been a lot of big changes quickly…this may be one of the few times in Cameroon that something has happened so quickly.  I’ve proved myself not only wrong about that whole working in the East thing, but I’ve probably also proved myself to be the biggest perfectionist in Peace Corps Cameroon. Moral of the story: perfectionism pays off.

Seeing the trainees come through on their site visits has helped me to see my service through the lens I saw my post-mates through during my own site-visit, and it’s been a reassuring reality check of just how far I’ve come. Cameroonians asked me to translate their French into English, I explained different potential business projects both in Batouri and outside of it, talked about adjustment and the challenges that are inevitable as a woman in a male-dominated culture, and listened to friends talk about how they’ve seen me grow so much in the past seven months while I blushed awkwardly. Friends are finishing their service, and mine is really only now getting geared up: I’m really NOT the new volunteer anymore, and it’s a fantastic feeling.

I’ve been working with Soy and Moringa through the plantation that Janelle and I started at Esperance. The plantation is a story in and of itself—brought into being in memory of Janelle’s father, expanded in honor of my Grandaddy, and grown dramatically through the generosity of the Women of Faith Bible Study at Immaculate Heart of Mary Church. It’s not exactly that that I want to talk about, but an opportunity that this project has given me. Through these donations, I’ve been able to start plans to expand the project into Mbounou, Mbone, Garoua Sambé, Kentzou, Kpangandi, and Djouth through the organization Coordination Nationale des Ecoles Familiales Agricoles du Cameroun (National Coordination of Family Agriculture Schools of Cameroon.)

I’m biased for sure, but these schools are the best hidden secret in my department and I’m totally confident that they’re going to be able to do great things for their students and their communities with the Soy. Ecoles Familiales Agricoles, EFAs, are Family Agriculture Schools, an alternative source of education for youth that have been somehow already been hurt by the system (jailing, inability to pay school fees, huge class sizes in traditional schools, lack of a nearby secondary school, etc.) EFAs don’t discriminate based on gender, and in an area where only 15% of girls who start pre-school eventually make it to secondary school, this is a big deal. The schools fight for food security in the region, as well as to educate communities about nutrition and sustainable development practices, including fighting against corruption, meaning that they’re passionate about the same factors that drove us to start this project in the first place. And, in the Youth Development aspect of the project, EFAs have a huge focus on life skills and preparing their students for a future in which they responsibly support themselves and their families. Pretty remarkable, no?

Instead of a traditional secondary school, students only complete three years of training but all of the training is directly applicable to their future—English, French, Agriculture, Business, and Life Skills (ie: goal setting, morality, budgeting, etc.) By the end of the three years, students complete an internship, learn the basic techniques of growing and cultivating plants that work for their specific area as well as how to raise and slaughter animals, specialize in a topic of their choice, learn financial management, and complete an original thesis on their topic.

Teachers for these schools are specially trained by the organization rather than the government; each community chooses their teachers out of farmers they trust with their children and who they believe can pass along valuable knowledge. They are held to high standards from the organization, and unlike conventional Cameroonian secondary schools, teachers come from the communities they work with, so they can actually speak the local languages and relate to their students on a cultural level.

I’ve been able to attend a couple training sessions for the school leaders and teachers, and I’ve also had the opportunity to go to a small, isolated village in the rainforest, Djouth, to see the process behind opening these schools and to see the passion that drives instructors. It’s inspiring work, and I’m thrilled to have the opportunity to continue learning more, even if it does mean many more carsick hours of travel.

Every year, about 90% of the thesis proposals submitted by the students of the EFAs in my department revolve around 4 topics: manioc, piment, maize, and peanuts—things that everyone grows and that don’t fetch as much money as other things. To convince us to think outside the box, the coordinator of the schools in the Center, South, and East (Adrien,) cited some interesting statistics: the oranges that fetch the most money in the Yaounde market are grown in the East but aren’t available in our own markets, cucumbers and pistache would grow well in our soil but instead we ship them in from everywhere else, and no one in the past five years has written a thesis on commercializing a product (ie: drying and selling moringa leaves or processing manioc into couscous) although that adds great selling value. Worked up into a lecturing passion that I’ve never seen outside of Cameroon, Adrien dropped a line that’s caused me to do some thinking: il faut innover!

Il faut innover; it’s a simple phrase that means “it’s necessary to innovate,” not exactly a riveting statement in normal conversation, but in a region where people are scared of change, a sentence like that is a big deal. Business-wise, the implications are clear—when you do something different, the chances for a big profit are huge…so are the opportunities for failure. These schools are doing more than that, though, they’re coming up with innovative solutions for the under-education of youth and food insecurity, for example. Community members are held accountable for their community’s development and well-being, and think critically about how to include marginalized groups (Baka-Pygmies, illiterates, young girls.) Where the norm is to produce students that aren’t prepared to handle the real world as anything more than moto-men, these schools are taking the “un-formable” and making them responsible citizens.

Innovation is something drastic, something with the possibility of changing lives: rejecting the conventional solutions knowing of the risk of failure but believing beyond measure in the hope of success. It’s helping those that society has given up on to pull themselves up and prove everyone wrong. Creativity, hope, passion, and risk: to me, these are the aspects that I see as at the core of innovation. That’s asking a lot of anyone of any race, culture, age, or ethnic group, but in places where individuality isn’t valued and where creative thinking isn’t taught, it’s harder to encourage. It’s easy to stay stagnant because it’s what you know, it’s much harder to take risks and take chances because you don’t know what will happen.

We ask our communities to innovate on a daily basis, and it’s frustrating to not see changes quickly, but it’s harder to remember that we need to come up with innovative solutions ourselves and make our own changes. We’d never have been effective if we kept trying to work in the same way we’d work in America. It’s not just the French, it’s the way you address sensitive topics or learning to respect authority in places you never would have thought it necessary or realizing the way you’re perceived in different outfits in different communities. It happens unconsciously through our actions with people, but sometimes (and painfully,) it’s pointed out to you.

That’s where I am right now—aware of the changes I’ve made, knowing that many more are still in store, and taking risks that’ll hopefully pay off big in the long-term for myself, Batouri, and the surrounding communities. And that, my friends, is innovation at work.

Happy Birthday, America!

4-7-2012

Happy Birthday, America! You’re growing into your age with grace, and, I’ve gotta say, I appreciate you more and more every year. Sweet land of liberty and all that jazz, sure, but you’re a land where corruption is not tolerated, where courts uphold the principles of our founders for the betterment of all peoples, a land supportive of creativity and innovation, and a place where being an individual is respected and encouraged. America, you’ve got a place for farmers, business executives, stay-at-home fathers, and young women putting themselves through medical school; we crazy, complicated Americans are united by a desire to push towards being our best in keeping with our own individual principles. We’re a group of many colors, opinions, faith backgrounds, livelihoods, and ethnicities, but you’ve brought us together and given us a common identity to uphold: American. This is one girl who is proud of that identity; keep up the good work, America.

How exactly does one celebrate Independence Day abroad? In true American style: with hamburgers and French fries. If you ever read any food-related literature in the US (the locavore movement in particular, but most eloquent cookbooks tend to romanticize this, too,) you hear a lot about how every meal deserves to have a story behind it, a story more complex than opening a box from the freezer and throwing it in the microwave. In general, I think reality is a more complicated than that, but, hey, it’s a good thinking point. Quite frankly, this Fourth of July meal DID have an adventure attached to it, and I was struggling to think of a blog topic, so this entry pretty much decided itself.

Background: sitting at an office in Alliance with Idrissou chatting about life in Batouri, corruption, development, and bushmeat, when all of a sudden he asks if he can ask me an important question. About 99% of the time when people ask me if they can ask a question, the question is if they can marry me. Luckily, I have more faith in Idrissou than that, and even more luckily, his question has nothing to do with marriage, but with hamburgers.

“Stephanie, do you know how to make hamburgers? Can we make them together sometime?”

Do my ears deceive me? Somebody WANTS to eat American food? Mind you, this is a man with a photo album and many cell phone photos of himself and various former Peace Corps volunteers eating hamburgers together, but, the fact remains: a Cameroonian asked to eat American food. Have I ever actually made a hamburger before? No, but there’s no better time than the present, right?

Day Of: I wake up at 7 and the sun is so blazingly bright that I am positive that it’s going to be the greatest day and these hamburgers that I’m going to construct are God’s gifts to all other hamburgers. I’m definitely going to be able to return to the US and open a diner with hamburgers that are so famous that people will travel across the country to eat them and food spies will constantly be there trying to divine my secrets à la Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I drink my tea, get dressed in a kaaba (big like a muumuu but far uglier) since the market will only be like 40 minutes max, and hustle out my door to catch a moto to the market.

I’m lucky enough to have an everyday market, but normally our produce isn’t too great since very few people actually grow food out East; by the time the majority of our vegetables make it out to us, they’re on their last legs. But, hey, I’m a hamburger goddess, and the world seems to be cooperating: all these veggies look fresh and beautiful today! Forty minutes later, my market bag is totally full and I’m still missing a number of the most important items on my list, most importantly: the meat.

Since I live in a Muslim area, it’s easy to buy cow meat, as a few cows are slaughtered every day. I visit the usual meat guy of the volunteers, and he cuts me my kilo of fillet, surprising me by being nice enough to get some of the fat off. Upon asking him to get the meat ground, his face falls…the grinder isn’t there today, it’s not going to be arriving at all today, and, no, he doesn’t know where else I can go get it ground. Panic sets in. I visit the peanut paste Mommas to see if I can use their grinders at their houses—these Mommas know everything, of course, and inform me that the grinder has to be there and I just haven’t looked. Panic sets in harder, and I trek over to another volunteer’s house to drop off the veggies so that I can lighten my load and continue my epic search for a meat grinder. On the way, a moto driver finds it necessary to point out the color of my skin and to almost hit me in the process, but to my surprise, random Cameroonian woman comes to my defense. What is this ridiculous world in which grinders don’t exist but feisty women defending my honor (okay, fine, my skin color) do?

Trekking back to the market, I get a phone call from another volunteer, the new Kentzou volunteer is in town on his layover, can I come hang out? I’m unshowered, wearing a muumuu, carrying around raw meat, and this endeavor is already far longer than the forty minutes I expected: hamburger goddess is frazzled. New volunteer leaves an hour later, so I check with two friends to see about using grinders at their houses. Nope. I check the market again to see if the grinder has returned. Nope. Full blown panic ensues. Favorite market Momma sees hamburger goddess on her third tour of market of the day:

“You’ve been doing the market a long time today.”

“Well, yes. I need to get this meat ground and the grinder is nowhere and no one will help me.”

“It’s not here?”

“No. I’ve checked already. Many times. I need this meat by tonight.”

Momma takes charge and explains the sitch to the meat-men, earning my business probably for forever, as she saves my hamburgers from certain doom. Meat-man whips out his machete and proceeds to “grind” my meat by chopping it over and over and over and over; a little less beautiful than the pre-packaged hamburger meat you get in your local grocery store, but, hey, I’m not picky. Besides, by now, I had almost resigned myself to making “Steak Burgers” for dinner. Hamburgers > Steak Burgers.  Total time of the adventure: three and a half hours. Total damage to the pocket book: 8,000CFA.

Hamburger goddess stocks up on candles just in case, drinks a Diet Coke at friends’ boutique (nothing quite like the splurge of a Diet Coke on a stressful day,) and returns home to prepare for what is shaping up to be a truly interesting dinner party with volunteers and #1 Hamburger Enthusiast.

Dinner-Making Commences: All is going well in the magical land of hamburger creation; lady liberty is clearly smiling from abroad on my fantastic efforts to honor her birthday. I may have accidentally bought cabbage instead of lettuce, but who eats those weird green leaves anyways? The French fries are cooking, all the vegetables are cut, I’ve prepped the meat, and just as I get ready to light the oven, the power goes out, and stays out for the next three hours. Luckily I had bought those “just in case” candles, right? This is an inevitable part of every dinner party I host; thanks, Janelle, for passing down this tradition ;) There is nothing quite so fun as inspecting a hamburger by candlelight to see if you’ve managed to get it cooked all the way through or if you’re going to be at dire risk of Salmonella.

More fortunately, it was a lovely dinner in the company of friends and food. You can’t put a price on a good dinner party, and it turns out that may be the one big skill I’ve picked up in Peace Corps. Cheesily enough, maybe it’s true that good food nourishes the soul. We had great conversation about politics and religion (aren’t those supposed to be two things you never talk about with people if you want to retain their friendship?) And, perhaps most importantly, it turns out that maybe I DO know how to make a pretty solid burger. As for the future of hamburger goddess, she’s soon going to teach the boys how to make hamburgers with the important caveat that they cook burgers for her: making feminism happen one burger at a time. End of story.

Happy belated America Day, everyone!

June Already?

Well, best way to say it: it's been an interesting month, guys. I feel like May was clear across the board and difficult in a million different ways. Two separate Medical Holds in Yaounde, one set of Program Advisory Committee Meetings, a World Map started and finished in a week, final arrangements made for the Soy/Moringa plantation at Esperance Vie in honor of Warren Walikonis, a potential unexpected donation to said Soy/Moringa project (thanks, Immaculate Heart of Mary!,) two exceptionally awkward marriage proposals from friends, the end of the Handicapped Youth Group for the school year, the 40th Year Celebration of the Reunification of Cameroon, a visit from volunteer-friends from the Extreme North, and one very messy house waiting for me at the end of all that. There's been lots of little things in between that all--lunches with friends, evenings spent watching soccer games, days with absolutely nothing to do but watch another movie--but May has tested me on a lot of different levels. I'm still standing, and, most of the time, remembering to breath. Altogether, I call that a success, and it feels good.

The newest Stage has officially arrived in country, and they're actually getting ready to move in to Bafia to start training: I'm no longer part of the newest, most inexperienced group. Crazy. Somewhere out there in Yaounde is my new post-mate, and they had better be the best Stagaire this country has ever seen. Batouri deserves the best :) With that said, it's crazy to look back at how much has changed over the almost six months I've been at post. Electricity has been in and out, mango and avocado seasons have come and went, I've been living without paved roads,  I've made friends, found Cameroonian dishes I really like, figured out how to locate (some) of the Western foods I miss the most, and discovered lots and lots of things about Cameroon that continue to puzzle me. I've picked up a lot of French (there's still a long way to go,) and I've lost a lot of English. Every day is an adventure, an adventure that goes someplace unpredictable and always ends with some kind of unexpected lesson. Six months in Batouri, eight months in Cameroon; Peace Corps--the hardest job you'll ever love.

With all that said, know that I think of you all often, and miss you all! I don't post enough photos on this blog, so right now with the "fast" Bertoua internet, I'm going to take this opportunity to share and explain some photos of what I've been up to recently.

With Love,
Steph

This is the field where we're planting the Soy and Moringa at Esperance Vie! These plants help combat malnutrition and will help ease some of the instability of the food supply at certain parts of the year. The first harvest will be ready in late August or early September, just in time for workshops for the families at Esperance on how to grow these plants, why to grow these plants, and how to cook with them. Exciting stuff!

This is the photo of the students and Janelle working on the World Map at Lycee Bilingue. We put in about four hours of work a day, sometimes more, for a week. In the brown is a Geography teacher who stopped by and helped us correct all of the little details in Europe and the Middle East--turns out, all those little countries are WAY more difficult than either us or the students anticipated. We're hoping that teachers will be able to use this map as a resource for their classes for the upcoming school year.

After one long week of early mornings, coffee, and celebratory biftec, we finished the map! This is a photo of Janelle and I with a group of the staff and students that helped us out. Look at that beauty of a map! This is a very stereotypically Cameroonian photo, by the way, Cameroonians do NOT believe in smiling for cameras!

My two homes: Ohio and the East region of Cameroon. The kids couldn't believe just how far I traveled to come live out here with them, and when Janelle showed them where she lived (California,) and we told stories about what it's like where we come from, it blew their minds.

Janelle and I at the site of the "Sacred Rocks" in Batouri, an absolutely beautiful site, especially when you luck out with beautiful whether like this! It's the little moments like this one where it suddenly hits you that you do, in fact, live in Africa and it is a pretty fantastic life :)



Cameroonian Potpourri

9-5-2012

I’ve had the realization that all of my recent posts have been very topic-driven, I haven’t given an update as to the work I’ve been doing, the life I’ve been living, or the random endeavors I’ve been finding myself on. This post’ll be that, or, more likely, a random assortment of things that just pop into my head. That’s pretty true to form, right?

I’ve now been at post for just over five months, and I can tell you that I’m feeling a lot more comfortable here and a lot more in control than I did even two months ago. Not every day is like that, but more and more, they’re becoming common—it’s a pretty good feeling. Things in Batouri are altogether going pretty well. Still, there are days that I wake up and can’t bring myself to face the world outside my door until about 5pm. Those are days usually coincide with power and water being out for the third day straight, French just not escaping my mouth correctly, illness, or work just not going the way I believe it should. But, luckily, there are plenty of other days in which I can’t believe the incredible luck I have. I’m blessed to have the post I do: I’m challenged in ways I never believed I could be, but more than that, I’m rewarded by my community in ways that I definitely don’t deserve. Free meals, gifts of free fabric, free moto rides, tips of places to find work, neighborhood kids I’ve never seen calling me by name: Batouri continually reminds me that I was foolish to think that I didn’t belong in the East and that I’d be miserable here. I’m glad I was wrong about that. Maybe every volunteer just hits a point where they realize that they can’t imagine being placed anywhere else and maybe everyone thinks that their post is the best of the bunch, but maybe we just kind of learn to make do with what we have. Either way, I’m not complaining: Batouri is home and the generosity and honesty of the people I’ve met here has been refreshing. Where else would someone call me to tell me that they have tea waiting for me at their shop or call to ask about the health of my parents that they’ve never met? Life is a roller coaster here, and trying to keep it all in perspective is part of the fun. It’s all about taking the bad with the good and remembering that although today’s been a rough one, the likelihood is that tomorrow could very well be the best day of your life.

I’m finding little ways that I’ve unconsciously been making an impact, although it’s funny seeing exactly which of the things catch on. I have a habit of calling every kid I see my friend because there are just too many names to learn and it seems more personal/meaningful that just saying hello. My post-mate recently told me that the kids on her street recently followed her down the street yelling “Hello, my friend! Hello, my friend! Hello, my friend!”—no better feeling than knowing you’re breaking the Blanche/Bui/Nassara cycle with a more positive word: friend. I love the significance of it; it’s the little things that make a huge difference. That same post-mate brought the fist-bump to Batouri, and I’m improving that and turning it to the bump-and-explode. The first person to pick it was a girl in my youth group, Rita, pretty soon it’ll spread like wildfire—the finer points of cultural exchange, clearly. And, my personal favorite: bean, avocado, tomato, and onion salads. The first time I saw a Cameroonian order one after me I was stunned, Cameroonians aren’t believers in “chunky” vegetables—if it’s not liquidized in a sauce, it’s not meant to be eaten. Take that, nutrition!

On a less cheesy note, health-wise, things have been interesting these past couple of weeks. After two and a half weeks of an unbearably itchy, burning rash and two misdiagnoses, the Peace Corps Medical Office finally came up with the answer: an allergic reaction to Mango Sap spent from the many mornings I’ve spent picking mangos from the tree in my front yard. Turns out Mango Sap is like the Poison Ivy of Cameroon, and I’m luckily enough to be ultra-allergic, either that or just not intelligent to connect the mango-picking to the rash in time to prevent it from getting unbearable. Anyhow, Prednisone is a miracle drug, and I’m beginning to feel a million times better and no longer look like a leper—kaaaaaaaching! Feeling healthy means that I’m been able to return to early morning work-outs, cooking, visiting friends, and recommencing work, all of which have been HUGE mood brighteners for me. Cat-sitting probably also helps, as do the many, many movies that I picked up while I was stuck in Yaounde for medical.

Work-wise I’m finding myself fantastically busy. I’m working on a project for my host institution planting soy and moringa (thanks again to the volunteers who are donating and transporting the seeds down from the Grand North!) Eventually I’ll be organizing the kids in managing the plantation; I want them to be as responsible for it as possible because I believe it teaches invaluable lessons in leadership, teamwork, and causality. Once things grow, I’m going to lead the kids in an income-generating activity (read: opportunity to teach about financial planning) and teach families in the communities how to cook with soy and moringa. Ideally I’ll be extending this project throughout the Catholic Diocese (my host organization is Catholic and my counter-part is a priest) and teaching nuns how to lead similar projects in their communities. That in and of itself is pretty much a two year project that gives me the opportunity to touch on so many things that I’m passionate about, especially the battle against malnutrition. Outside of this, I’m helping out with the painting of a World Map at Lycee Bilingue, continuing with the handicapped youth group, helping lead French literacy sessions (in today’s I taught the Heimlech Manuever to the women—BAM!,) helping out at malnutrition clinics when I have the time, and trying to arrange a Life Skills Seminar for the girls at Lycee Bilingue to encourage confidence and positive decision-making. Read: biting off more than I can chew and thrilled about it.

I’ve found a favorite Cameroonian food (Folere with Rice Couscous) that I’m pretty sure I could eat every day for the rest of my life, which is impressive considering that the majority of food out here is definitely not up the American palate. Folere is a delicious green, tangy sauce made out of some kind of leaves, usually with chunks of beef. The obsession has grown so much that the one restaurant in town knows to always have it on Tuesdays and Wednesdays because I’m always there at least one of those days for lunch. My next step is to find a Cameroonian woman to teach me how to make it myself, which is a little more difficult than it sounds because although I’m female, I definitely have way more in common with the men in the community and therefore don’t really know any women to teach me—I’m way more educated than your average woman in Batouri, have neither a husband or children, and hold a job. These differences definitely limit conversation topics a lot. I invade the bro-sphere on a daily basis…what exactly DO women here talk about, anyways? What I can, say, however, is that I’ve spent more time over the past few months debating polygamy and polyandry with men than I ever thought was possible—turns out I have that French vocabulary memorized so well that I could probably debate this in my sleep now. Professional feminism: doing it right.

Looking into the next couple of months, I’ve FINALLY got a month which might potentially have no travel (June)—I haven’t had a single travel-free month since February. This possibility is looking fantastic! I’m feeling tired from this back-and-forth-and-back-and-forth thing that keeps happening. It’ll be nice to be fixed at post and not get harassed by everyone who thinks I’m leaving too much. Two of my post-mates are finishing their service as well as three other region-mates, and the new batch of Community Economic Development and Education Volunteers will be arriving in August, I’m excited to see what the new CED will bring to Batouri!  And, going along with the theme of Close of Service, my cousin will hopefully be coming to visit me in August. My friends in town have already started talking about organizing a big party to celebrate his arrival, the hospitality in this town is ridiculous.

That’s about it for right now. I’ve got a date with the fantastically non-Cameroonian salad and tea waiting for me in the kitchen, a movie, and a cuddle sess with Mike’s cat. Life is good. Take care!

With Love,

Steph

Travel

I’ve been doing a lot of travel and haven’t been consistently at post since February (not my fault as there was In-Service Training, Steering Committee, and now Regional Meeting,) so it seems logical that, with my “Travel” playlist playing in the background, I write a blog entry just on what travel here entails for me. I can’t claim that my travel experiences are typical of what any other Cameroon volunteer experiences, mostly just because there is no typical experience, and I definitely haven’t encountered it all yet. Travel is something that I didn’t think about before coming, because it’s nothing I’ve ever really needed to consider since getting a driver’s license and a car. Turns out, travel is a whole lot more difficult and interesting once you can’t just hop into your car and drive wherever you wanted/needed to be. I don’t know that I ever actually did public transportation in the States outside of taking metros and the occasional taxi in DC; learning to rely and adapt to public transportation is a huge part of life here, one that’s giving me a whole stockpile of ridiculous anecdotes that y’all are going to be hearing for a long, long time in the future. So, with all that said, I’ve done my best to give an accurate summary of just what kinds of travel are available in country and the very basic idea of what it looks like.

In Batouri/Bertoua:

Motorcycles. Yep. That’s right, yours truly rides many, many motorcycles a day. They’re a pretty common form of transportation throughout Africa from what I understand, and as a result, every PCV has a super-stylish helmet to wear (and I accentuate super-stylish, there’s nothing like sticking out with a shiny blue and silver helmet in a community where no one wears helmets.) Some volunteers in remote villages take hour or more long motorcycle rides to reach post—that’s not an option for where I live, but I’m looking forward to visiting friends at their posts and having my first long moto ride. I’ve seen as many as six people crammed onto one moto, and I’ve also seen Moms carrying their babies on motos so that they’re hanging off the moto—terrifying. Within Batouri, all of the moto-drivers are men and most of them are pretty young. Some drivers wear heavy down coats and woolen caps for protection, which is mostly just comical because it’s so hot here; I recently saw a motorman wearing a tee-shirt from Great Lakes Elementary which is not terrifically far from where I grew up, which was cool. 
There are a few private cars in town, most of which are owned by either officials within the government or international aid organizations—the aid cars are always giant white SUVs with huge decals on the side proclaiming Red Cross, UNFPA, WFP, UNDP, UNHCR, GIZ…we’ve got many, many development organizations in Batouri, clearly. I’ve ridden in a couple of cars in Batouri and it’s always a surreal experience—comfort, radio, windows, and a seatbelt. Most of the time I’m in the car with my host organization, Esperance, doing site visits with the families they work with in the community, but I’ve been in a couple of government-owned cars and a few privately-owned cars as well. It’s great and fantastic being in cars, even the crappiest amongst them. Still, I would never want to drive in Cameroon: the roads are terrible and Cameroonians are ridiculously aggressive drivers—even when street signs or traffic signs exist, they don’t mean anything, nor do Cameroonian drivers like to stay in the correct lane most of the time.

Leaving Post:

For me to get to either Bertoua or Kentzou (the two cities closest to me with other volunteers,) I take a bus called the Saviom…all the volunteers call them Prison Buses because that’s what they look like, as there’s a metal grate that separates the driver from the rest of the passengers. These exist in my little section of the East (“Extreme East,” as we’ve taken to describing ourselves,) as well as parts of the Adamaoua. They’re supposed to fit 28 people (Five people a row, five rows, plus three passengers in the cabin sitting next to the driver,) but oftentimes there are people standing up in the back, holding on to the ladder that leads to the top of the bus where luggage is stored, or sitting on top of the luggage. Each row is composed of two benches with a fold-down seat in the middle, the fold-down seat in front of the door being the most uncomfortable spot to ride in. The spots in the cabin are reserved for the Grands (the important people in the community)—male PCVs are almost always guaranteed a spot in the cabin, but it’s a lot more difficult to secure a seat there as a woman. The potential benefits of a cabin seat are huge, though: more leg room, more space on the bench, less dust, etc.

The prison bus into Batouri is an adventure that’s not for the weak-stomached, lovers of personal space, or impatient. There are usually various animals being transported either inside the bus or on top of the bus, which makes the ride really fun: nothing quite like combining the sound of crying babies, bleating goats, and hens in a small vehicle. The sides of the bus have a reminder not to vomit, spit, or talk to driver, which is clearly very confidence-inducing. Luckily, I’ve yet to see anyone vomit on a ride (knock on wood, inshallah, and on espère.) The bus has no radio, is overcrowded, feels like it’s a million degrees most of the time, dusty, and often makes a million stops either for prayer, to pick up more passengers even though the bus is already full, or to buy various food products (plantains, manioc, grilled beef, milk, etc.) The roads are unpaved and in need of serious reparation, I often get off the bus with some pretty impressive bruises. Breakdowns are not uncommon, and neither are accidents. I’ve had three flat tires and one broken belt in my four months at post, but another friend who visited had the treat of her bus needing to get towed in by a logging truck because it broke down so badly 10km from the bus stop. Normally Cameroonians have an amazing talent to MacGyver solutions to automotive problems out of the most ridiculous items they find on the side of the road—they could definitely teach a few tricks to American auto mechanics.

Basically, traveling to leave Batouri makes me feel like I’m an en brousse BAMF. As much as I complain about the prison buses (which is, admittedly, a lot) it’s a fantastic bragging point :) I’ve made the 90km trip in anywhere from 2.75 hours to 4.5 hours, but with rainy season picking up, I’m expecting the travel to get worse. I’ve also been informed to prepare myself to do have to get out and push in the mud or to trudge through the mud so that the bus can more easily navigate.

Other Forms of Transport:

In bigger cities, motorcycles are substituted for taxis. There isn’t anything terrifically exciting or fantastic about these, although drivers do sometimes decorate them with flashing lights, weird paint jobs, furry seats, fake flowers, and weird sayings. We don’t have any in Batouri, but they’re all that you can take in Yaounde (the country capital) because Moto-Taxis are illegal. Given a choice between taking a moto or a taxi, I usually prefer the moto-it’s faster, less crowded, and the likelihood is that it’ll smell less like BO since there’s the wind. Oh the things that inform our preferences….

To get up to the Grand North (Adamaoua, North, Extreme North,) volunteers take a night train that has beds in it. I haven’t taken it yet, although there is a stop in the East at 2am that I could technically use to get to Yaounde, but it’s more expensive. I do plan to take the train at some point, but there’s an alternate route through the East by bus that I want to try out someday, too.

There are US-style Mega-Buses for most trips from a big city to another big city. I took a great one from Yaounde to Bertoua recently that had padded seats, radio, and a tv that played music videos. Most of the time on these big buses there’s some guy (or guys if you’re really unlucky) that stand up and try to sell you some weird kind of medical products. The speech is almost exactly the same every time, and the products are always the same: toothbrushes, toothpaste, ginseng rub to get rid of headaches, some weird pill that’s supposed to clean any liquid and turn it into water, various products to increase male and female potency, something to erase STIs including HIV, etc. Someday I should write down the things they say—I’ve heard weird statements about the Chinese reproducing like rabbits because they’ve unlocked the magic of a special herb, for instance, as well as more anti-feminist comments than I care to remember. I’ve listened to these speeches for as long as two and a half hours, and then had some other idiot get up and give the exact same one; the speeches are basically the Cameroonian version of a bad, late-night infomercial. Plus side: mega-buses usually make some really excellent stops for food—bananas, pineapple, peanuts, mangoes, grilled meat, beignets, etc. These stops are way, way better than American fast-food, and one of those little things that I know I’ll miss when I return.

I think that’s about it transportation-wise. I’m sure there’ll be many, many stories to come in the future, although hopefully soon it’ll be coupled with stories about fantastic new places. In August, I’ll be heading to the beaches of Kribi to help run the National Girl’s Forum—a conference that my program is running for professionals involved in fields that promote women’s empowerment. Kribi is about three days worth of travel from where I live. But, before that, I have at least two more trips back to Yaounde for the Program Advisory Committee and Steering Committee. Needless to say, travel in specific and life in general is always an adventure out here. And, as for all of you, as school is about to let out for the summer and the weather’s getting warm and sunny again, have a happy vacation season, everyone! Miss you all and wishing you my best!

With Love,

Steph

Culture Shock

I'm sitting in the Bertoua transit house ("Case" in Peace Corps lingo) by myself and trying to will my computer to download virus protection faster, so I suppose this is an opportune time to sit down and write a blog post since it's been awhile. I've spent the past couple of weeks traveling for my In-Service Training in Bamenda--the capital of one of Cameroon's Anglophone Northwest. There are a ton of different ways that I could potentially describe that whole experience, but there's really only one that covers it all: culture shock.

My city, Batouri, is in the least developed, least populated region of the country. We're well known throughout the country as having "difficult" mentalities out here. I'd heard this over and over and over, and that was part of the reason that I had originally been so dead-set on not being posted out here. But, hearing all of this is totally different than actually having something to compare it to. It's easy to get used to not having paved roads and having only the same couple of options of things to buy at the markets, one because you know there are other volunteers with less, but also because you don't really realize that other people have more. And, you know what? People don't just have more, some people have a lot more. That doesn't make Peace Corps easy, it just makes the entire experience different--my experience in the East might as well be that of a volunteer in a completely different country when you compare it to some of the other regions. That's the beauty of Peace Corps Cameroon: no region, no city can be exactly like yours. This country is too diverse for anything to really be comparable. We have two official languages, but there's at least 250 other languages spoken in country. Our predominant religions are Christianity and Islam, but not only can you break those into a million sub-sets, but they all have a local flavor. My Cameroon is not the Cameroon that a volunteer in a village in the Littoral knows or a city volunteer in the Adamaoua: we all have a separate reality that just doesn't translate over, making every trip seem like an exotic vacation.

On my way to In-Service Training, I not only rode in a comfortable, luxurious bus on paved roads, but I saw street signs and construction. What about those parking spaces and parking meters in Bamenda? Downright trippy. Coming back East after Bamenda, I stopped at one of Yaounde's largest grocery stores, Casino. I didn't have to argue to get a better price, they automatically had change for a 10.000 bill, and I was able to buy pudding. PUDDING. It's amazing the little things that become so fantastically stunning here: buying ice cream, riding in a taxi with automatic windows, speaking English and being understood. At some point, having access to all these things and seeing all these things I hadn't seen in months kind of made my head start to spin. Going back to Batouri is going to be a detox, I suppose. I've been in country now for just over six months. While it doesn't necessarily feel like it's been that long, situations definitely arise that prove to me just how much control I've been gaining over everything. After all, you can only get culture shock in comparison to another culture, right? And if I'm being shocked at pudding and parking spaces, God knows we're not comparing on an American standard.

In Yaounde, I ran into some volunteers whom I know from training that finish their service within the next couple of months. They were returning from a trip through the East. Their complaints about our uncomfortable "Prison Buses" and the accompanying bruises was validating: I'm gaining control over the life I'm living. Things that used to suck are becoming normal. the fact that sitting in a comfortable bus actually made me uncomfortable, is testament to just how acclimated I'm becoming to everything. Go me. But, more than that, way to go training group--we're tougher than we were three months ago. We've done something we've all doubted that we'd be able to do: we've made it through three months alone and thrived!

All in all, Bamenda was fantastic. The hotel had an American-style mattress with soft pillows instead of the awful, stiff foam sold everywhere else in country. We had hot water and consistent electricity. Our food was provided for us, and all of the workers spoke to us in English. There was a coffee shop downtown with chocolate cake, pasta salad, macchiatos, and espressos. Books are valued there. And, perhaps most of all, a million other Americans because of training.

Crazy.

Coloring Outside the Lines

13-2-12

Bui! Nassara! Nassara! Nassara! LA BLAAAAAAAAAAAANCHE! Three different words, three different languages, pronounced a million different ways with or without the ubiquitous Cameroonian “tssssssssssst” and kissing sounds, all in the same city. I hear each of these words about thirty times a day minimum, and each of them means the same thing: white person. Sometimes it’s a hoard of small children trying to catch my attention to say hello, words that depend on familiarity and time of day, with full salutations being long strings of about 5 questions in both French and Fulfulde. But, more often than not, it’s not small children—if it was, I’d probably be more patient and more forgiving because children can be taught to behave differently. Nope, it’s the motodrivers, the market men, the boutique owners, the tailors… practically everyone everywhere. Living here is a social experiment in finding out exactly what it’s like to live in a society where racial profiling is not only alive and well, but directed totally at you.

 

Example One:

By country law, everyone is required to carry identity cards all the time whether you’re walking around town or travelling clear across the country. The police officers (Gendarmes, as they’re called here,) have the right to ask you whenever they want to see the card, although the only random time I’ve been asked to see it is in government buildings when visiting the Prefect and Commandant. Travelling, however, is a totally different story.

You are sitting in a small, crowded bus (five people per row, not including babies, chickens, packages, or the unlucky people who either stand in the back out the door or sit on top of the bus with the luggage.) You weren’t lucky enough to secure a spot next to the driver in the cabin where it’s more spacious/less hot/less dusty, you are missing that all-important Y-chromosome, after all. You’ve hit the first checkpoint of two on your three and a half hour voyage, the gendarme beelines straight towards you: “Carte d’identité, madame.” You pass it over, he gives it back after inspecting it and glaring at how dirty it is, and then he waves off the bus and lets it go on its merry way. Nobody else’s card is checked: you are the only one, again. How convenient, because you are also the only white person on the bus.

Example Two:

You’re marching in the Youth Day Parade with your host organization, and they asked you to come in to get sized up by the tailor for your super awesome, matching parade garb that, eventually, comes out looking a little like a bad prom dress. After the tailor finishes measuring you up, you glance at the paper of measurements. Everybody’s measurements have a name corresponding to them, but not yours. Yours only says “Blanche.” She’s never even bothered to ask you for your name.

Example Three:

You’re at a “meeting” with your counterpart at bar, because what better possible location could there be? You’ve been stuck there about three and a half hours, and you need to run because you have another meeting to go to. You let your group know, and receive the following response: “You white people, you always have meetings. You white people always have to run on some kind of a schedule. Why can’t you all act more like us?”

Turns out, Cameroonians think white people all look the same. I’ve also been asked if I’m Italian. I’ve had children taunt me because they thought I was Asian—bowing and elongating their R’s the same way you see kids doing it in the US. And, just like I am the worst at estimating Cameroonian ages, they struggle to guess our ages, too.

We don’t talk race or color or really even about physical differences in America, nobody wants to come off as being on the wrong side of politically correct, and for good reason: being “othered” sucks. But, I can imagine that being in a situation where everybody refuses to talk about the elephant in the room sucks even more. We’ve been raised to believe that these conversations are impolite, and therefore anytime we get near talking about them, everyone gets uncomfortable. This situation isn’t working for us in the States whether we want to admit it or not: race remains a problem. Schools largely remain segregated. Poverty, unemployment, early pregnancy, and under-education continue to unduly hit the black community hard.

 

We were told during training that Cameroonians don’t do direct conversation, and in some aspects that’s true. Everyone talks around conflict and money here, which, as Americans, are two things we’re good at: get that awkwardness over, and as soon as possible. At the same time, however, Cameroonians don’t hesitate to tell you how you’re looking that day (to use specific terms I’ve received: fat, sexy, thick, like a child,) to talk about health problems like HIV/AIDS, or to address race. The constant comments about my skin color drive me nuts. Cameroonians are masters of something I hear volunteers frequently call the present obvious form of language, used in questions like “White girl, you’re walking?” “White girl, you’re there?” “White girl, you eat piment?” These questions always seem to state my skin color, thus accentuating the obvious nature of whatever I happen to be doing at that moment that they’re finding so fascinating. Anyway, despite the fact that I find this irritating, it’s given me the opportunity to have the kind of conversations about race and color that are physically impossible in the States.

Race doesn’t need to be so taboo, and until we start addressing it, we’re never going to be the best we can be as a society. Cameroon, of course, doesn’t have an ideal system either. The ideal is bound to be somewhere between the two of us. I don’t claim to have any amazing, innovative solution to racial profiling or teen pregnancy or segregation or even to know the least uncomfortable way to talk about race. That’s all well beyond my knowledge. But, what I do know is that if there’s one thing I’ve learned about being an outsider from all the harassment I receive, it’s that if we take the opportunity to talk about our differences and ask questions, the discomfort of the situation tends to dissipate.

So, this has been what’s been on my mind recently. It’s been interesting to think about Cameroonian versus American culture under this lens, and I’m sure it’s going to be something that I continue to grapple with over the next two years of my service and beyond. It’s not been easy to be in the situation of being the one that so clearly stands out. My new, thick skin is coming in nicely, clearly.

With Love,

Steph