"Don't eat the seeds"

I was out farming yesterday, which is technically what Peace Corps assumes I do everyday as an agroforesty volunteer, but my actual job has turned out to be a bit different as most of you know. Back to the farming, the women's group I work with decided to create a community farm and as a quasi member, I too committed to working the land with them. Most of the women walked three miles just to get to the farm, but to the delight of the local kids I cheated and rode my bike. As an aside, being a "woman" and knowing how to ride a bike gives me a certain notoriety and people literally cheer for me when I ride by.

Once at the farm, I was put to work under the supervision of a more experienced lady farmer to plant plantain stalks. I started out as a ho wielder; sweating profusely I began digging holes in the red dirt. Apparently my skills were lacking as a digger, so I was demoted to planter, at which point I was secretly relieved because my back and arms were already sore after like four holes. I might be exaggerating, but I am pretty sure my two-woman team planted at least fifty plantain stalks. By the end my fingers were cut up, there were dead flies (squished by yours truly) on my arms, and I had a hint of acid in my throat.

As a late riser by nature, I had left the house minutes after the work at the farm was scheduled to begin without breakfast. Generally Cameroon time runs 30 minutes to 2 hours behind the hour, so I figured I was fine and could grab some food upon my return, but by ten o'clock at the farm, I was famished. Luckily my friend/supervisor showed me some wild rainforest fruit that's "edible". The fruit was shaped like a pepper with a bright vermilion peal, the exact color children are warned about in the States. "If you see some bright red berries in the forest or some orange mushrooms, don't eat them because they're probably poisonous", said my mother, teachers, and other knowing adults. My friend first ate one herself, carefully pealing back the outer layer to reveal some seeds in a milky white substance not unlike passion fruit. When she didn't drop dead on the spot or begin frothing at the mouth, I decided to eat one too.

The preliminary taste was sour, but not unpleasantly so and the texture was only slightly off-putting. Then I crunched down on the seeds. My mouth was filled with a sharp bitter taste compounded by increasing sourness, it was like eating a Jagermeister soaked lime. I tried not to make a face, I even managed to say "mmmm, good". Finally, when all my taste buds began firing at once screaming this is not good, get this sh*t out of your mouth, I succumbed and spit it out. I experienced acid reflux and was expecting one of two things to occur at any moment: either my mouth to go completely numb or to start vomiting. The thought that perhaps I would die, also briefly flashed into my mind. My friend looked at the chewed up seeds lying on the ground, then looked at my embarrassed face and said matter-a-factly "you're not supposed to eat the seeds".

So I didn't end up vomiting after all and Matt was never told that his wife "ate poisonous fruit in the forest which caused her untimely death". I even briefly thought of offering Matt the fruit to see his reaction, but then again, I'm not quite that mean.

Three Tales of Woe

Tale 1.
Late Friday night my sleep was interrupted; I was deep in a REM cycle when I felt a pull on my hair and claws on my shoulder. I let loose a piercing scream and jumped onto Matt. A pack rat was in the bed, he had navigated under our mosquito net, jumped up and finished the last leg by climbing my hair, me an unknowing Rapunzel. After I landed on his legs, Matt risked "cardiac arrest" as a result of the scream. His heart was still racing as we searched for the intruder, who was finally located taunting us from the top of our bookshelf. Matt was not sure which was worse, having a rat in the bed or my reaction to the rat in the bed.

Tale 2.
Cockroaches continue to be my nemeses of the insect world, although I have developed a reluctant tolerance to their presence. My rule is that if I don't see them hanging around I can pretend they don't exist. Except that sometimes I do see them and this is where we run into problems. While cooking dinner the other night a trio of those who don't exist ran out from under our flour container. Two were nothing worth writing about, but the third was a giant, his antennas waved at me in an arrogant and infuriating manner. He refused to disappear and I called for reinforcement (ie Matt), who arrived, saw the bastard, grabbed a fork and bam squished him dead right there on the counter top. Shocking, yes. But also incredibly gratifying in a weird, twisted Peace Corps kind of way.

Tale 3.
Matt was in the kitchen supposedly cooking, when I heard a loud clanging and some choice swear words. "Hon" I called "what's going on in there?". "The rat knocked over the beans" Matt yells back. The reply was somewhat suspicious as I had seen the rat the night before, and while he may have been a gladiator among jungle rats I doubted he had the force to knock a cast iron pot full of beans off the stove. I walked into the kitchen to find Matt, who was slightly out of breath and holding our broom stick like a weapon. He stood over the pot and a dark mess of spilled dinner. "The rat knocked the beans over?" I asked. "Well, I knocked them over" he said "but it was his fault". Just then the rat racing out from under the stove straight towards the doorway where I happened to be standing. I yelped and we (the rat and I) both ran into the living room, Matt came rushing behind us with the broom.

I called out a play by play on the rats movements while Matt worked up a sweat racing around the room attempting to whack the rat, but whacking the tiles instead. Now this was no ordinary rat, this rat had skills. My calls went something like this: "he's on the back chair leg, he's on the chair, HE's on the table, HE IS RUNNING STRAIGHT TOWARDS YOU". At one point I jumped on the couch to get of the rat's path, guess who also jumped on the couch. "MATTTTT, he's on the couch, he's after me, Matt get him, GET HIM". Alas, the rat proved too capable an opponent, too agile and cunning. Matt claims he hit him once or twice, but this is also the man who said the rat knocked over the beans.

A Year Later

After receiving subtle hints from friends and some less subtle hints from family, I thought I would make an effort to get this blog thing rolling again. Although my friend Nura did inform me that "second year volunteers don't blog". We swore in as volunteers a year ago yesterday and as we celebrated the landmark last night, we reminisced about the excitement of heading out to start our adventure, in a tiny village tucked into the rainforest that has since become our home. Our celebration consisted of a typical meal, beans and rice, improved by valentina's sauce (a luxury item from home) and fresh lime juice margaritas which pretty much make any meal a "special" occasion.

Part of the reason for the lapse in writing is, while our life continues to be interesting and at times exciting, the wow factor has been replaced by a feeling of comfort in our surroundings. For instance, the first time we drove to post I was in a panic at all the domestic animals lying in the road that the car barreled towards at what I considered unsafe speeds. Now when we hit a chicken or two on our way to the capital, no big deal, someone is going to have a good dinner. Getting stuck in a mud pit for two hours is barely worth noting in my journal, let alone a blog entry, and having our neighbors suddenly appear on the road from somewhere deep in the forest is just life as usual.

In other everyday news, Matt has taught some friends the expression "beer-thirty", which they have morphed to serve their own purposes and it now means anytime a person is drinking. I saw our friend this morning who told me last night they had "beer-thirty" at the junction and today was "beer thirty" at his friend's house. In fact as I write this, Matt is having his own "beer-thirty" at the school director's place, they're having a little moonshine and while I hesitate to say that it tastes good, it is quite potent. The moonshine was actually a thank you gift that came along with some fresh peanuts from his farm. My mom's first and second grade class at the Aspen Community School raised money for the school in our village and we just bought the second round of supplies; school books, grading notebooks, and chalk for the teachers. They lacked all these items before and were thrilled to have them, thus today is the second time Matt has had local whiskey this week.

We will be celebrating our second Christmas in the bush and while last year it was kind of tough, this year we are having difficulty conjuring up images of cold weather and holiday shopping. After a year in a hot humid climate, we now consider the weather quite pleasant. Our clothes do mold regularly while sitting on the shelf but my lips have yet to be chapped and my hands never get cold reading at night. We are both happy and healthy; life here continues to be challenging and rewarding, and we still think often of all of you loved ones at home.

-Sarah

How Americans Pass the Time

The other day while waiting for some visitors to arrive at the base Matt and I had the opportunity for some “cross-cultural” sharing, a major theme for Peace Corps service. We were hanging out with the guardians (guards) and one of them had a stick that looked to us strikingly like a baseball bat. Well, it took all of a minute for Matt and me to become overly animated about the great sport of baseball and with growing enthusiasm we set out to explain the game.

Because of our French limitations we were unable to translate the following words:

Base

Field

Hotdogs

Pitcher

Catcher

Bat

Out

Strike

Baseball diamond; and

Inning

What we lacked in vocabulary, we made up for with precise exaggerated pantomimes. Yes, we pretty much acted out an entire baseball game. It went something like this:

Matt like a true sports fan starts his commentary by talking about the people watching from the stadium. He gets a big smile and says “They are all eating sausage and bread with tomato sauce, AND drinking beer.” The Cameroonians seem to be taking to the sport already. He follows up with the object of the game: “There are two teams, one team hits the ball and runs, and other team entraps the ball so that it is not possible for the first team to win.”

At this point, Matt pretends to be the “man standing on the hill” and to add to general confusion, I am in turns the batter and the catcher standing out the “house piece”. Pretending to hit the ball with the stick, I take off jogging towards the “first piece” while Matt tries to erase me with his glove. Suddenly, as singing is very important to Cameroonians, we remember the National Anthem, stop the game and give a brief impression of the tune, hands pressed over our hearts. One song leads to another and next thing you know Matt and I are singing “Take Me out to the Ball Game” with reckless abandon.

“After the teams go and come back nine times, the team with the most points wins” I conclude. I receive amused looks and the general lack of understanding is obvious. Matt pitches in with “This is an American pastime” he thinks a minute then adds “this is how Americans pass the time”. I want to add something else American like democracy or apple pie, but I can only think of the French word for the latter, which is tart de pomme, clearly not the best example. Triumphantly, Matt finishes with “baseball is to Americans what football is to Cameroonians”, there were nods of appreciation all around.

Will they be playing baseball anytime in the near future? I think not.

A Word on Travel

Travel in Southeat Cameroon takes on a whole new meaning, and frankly, you (our friends and family) would be shocked at the laissez faire attitude Matt and I have adopted here for the purpose of getting from one point to another.

Departure times are incredibly flexible, but generally run a minimum of two hours behind schedule. All roads out here are one lane, mud or dirt packed (season dependent), and somewhat treacherous. The traffic consists of logging and supply semi trucks, buses – stacked an extra 5+ feet high with luggage, private vehicles, and motos (motorcycles if you’re not from around here). Motos accommodate three people frequently but often a family of five can be seen packed tight careening cautiously down the road. Bridges, are well, just giant logs strewn haphazardly across streams and rivers of various widths and are prone to fall apart. There are no speed limits or traffic laws of any sort to be had.

Traveling and grocery shopping are not mutually exclusive activities. Villagers set out all kinds of fruit (bananas, mangos, pineapples, and avocados), plantains, manioc, escargot, chickens, and bushmeat on rickety wood stands outside of their homes. One simply stops the vehicle, beeps once, and then vendor comes running to sell their goods. The prices are incredibly cheap; bananas, for example, usually go for five cents a piece and avocados can be bought four for a quarter.

Delays are frequent and pretty much unavoidable. Matt and I experienced a record of four flat tires on a single trip that normally takes us three hours. That meant first one tire went down, then the spare failed as well, both tires were repaired en brusse (with natural latex collected from a local tree) only to go flat one after another ten miles from our destination. Giant trees are blown over in storms and then must be cleared by men and women wielding machetes only. No kidding, I got stranded Monday night after a rainstorm blew down a series of trees in between Moloundou, where I was for a meeting and our village.

Wednesday evening takes the cake however. I was traveling back to the base with Jonathan the driver, and a small team that has been helping me do a water quality survey. It was just after six, almost dusk, and a rainstorm was fast approaching. We could feel the air getting heavy and electrically charged, the wind had been blowing but then paused for emphasis. Twelve miles from town the rain struck down, pouring as it can only pour in the rainforest. Only slightly deterred, we kept on pushing for home, ten minutes later (or two miles) we came across a semi truck with its load tipped off kilter and balanced precariously on half a dozen thick sticks of wood. I sunk into my seat in utter frustration, the road was completely blocked, no chance of maneuvering around which meant spending the night in the car with Jonathan, who’s notorious for snoring. Our luck changed for the better when we realized the truck in distress happened to be transporting beer. The boys stripped down to their shorts and struck out into the elements to reap booty from the fallen load.

Ten minutes later, we're all sipping beer and feeling in better spirits (pun intended). There is an unofficial rule in Cameroon on beer-truck crashes, go figure, one can drink what one will on the scene just don’t start carrying crates away from the truck. Even more incredible than the luck of beer, was a moto that drove by shortly there after in the midst of the storm, which is almost unheard of. We flagged him down; I scribbled a quick note to Matt, wrapped it in a plastic bag, and sent it via this sea worthy courier to Mambélé. Afterwards, small groups of men start showing up to scout the scene for beer, yes its still raining, but their excitement is almost tangible. The moto driver had sent the word and everyone within 10 miles was celebrating over the tipped beer-truck, with the exception of the defeated semi-truck drivers.

An hour and a half later, headlights in the fog indicated an approaching vehicle on the other side. A tall, familiar figure walked in front the light beam, clad in a raincoat and carrying snacks. Matt offered to take all the stranded folks back to town, only myself and one other person took him up on the offer. As we left, we heard the delighted shouts of the new arrivals on the scene discovering their first few bottles of beer.

Vacation --- Cameroon Style

Since I have been a total slacker on the whole blog effort here are the highlights from our vacation in April, a little late (I apologize)

Mount Cameroon

We were told that everyone underestimates this climb, but we figured that bit of information would not apply to us. As Colorado natives we figured the 4,000 meter was in the bag before we even paid our fees. Peace Corps has certainly toughened us, but not in the whole sports endurance way, thus we crammed many months worth of exercise into a two day feat.

At one point, about 5,000 vertical feet into the climb we had to stop and do a dance for the mountain gods so that they would "know us". There were ferns waved in the air and our guide chanted the appropriate lyrics as we mumbled along. After the ceremony he asked us if we brought the gods whiskey, obviously the preferred drink of mountain men and mountain gods alike. We assured him that unfortunately there was no whiskey stashed in our backpacks. No problem he replied, the gods would certainly understand if we drank some in their stead once we got back to town.

Our first and only night on the mountain consisted of spaghetti and sardine dinner cooked (by Matt) over a fire in a small, very smokey shack and going to bed early. Mice scuttled by our heads at all hours of the night and we had to put on every piece of clothing we own to guard against the cold. Yes, seven months at sea-level two degrees north will make you soft. We were thrilled to reach the summit, but sadly no spectacular vista of the Atlantic greeted us as the peak was surrounded by a cold fog. Finally, we had to descend 10,000 vertical feet, which quite frankly kicked both of our *sses and our legs, but the cold beer and chicken dinner made it all worth while.

Limbe

Black volcanic sand beaches, warm (very) warm water, and some good meals. I don’t think I need to say more.

Yaounde (the capital)

Washing machines, hot showers, ice-cream, and internet (we’re fairly easy to please these days).

The Secret of Marriage

Last week Matt and I had the opportunity to attend our first Cameroonian wedding. The plus side to having gained proficiency in French is that we were actually able to understand what was being said during the ceremony, which was priceless. There are three types of marriages in Cameroon: 1) traditional; 2) official; and 3) religious. The wedding Matt and I attended was an official marriage, presided over by the mayor of our district, and for a couple who have been traditionally married for over a year.

The mayor began the ceremony without the bride and groom, and it was only after great protest from family and friends that they decided to wait for the couple to arrive before proceeding again. As it turned out, the mayor was very long winded and after each little speech the wedding guests (some invited, some not) went wild cheering. There were ladies standing by to throw confetti on the couple after each announcement, but ninety percent of the confetti landed on the head of an ancient old man sitting next to Matt. The air was thick with the sweet smell of cheap alcohol and gave numerous attendees courage to ask questions and give comments during the ceremony in a sort of open mic format. At one point, the self proclaimed Baka chief, ran up to the front table where the bride, groom, and mayor sat, and threw down three 100cfa coins (about 75 cents), needless to say the audience went nuts. The same man had to be escorted off the premises three separate times.

Towards the end of the ceremony, the mayor raised his hands into the air with emphasis and demanded of the attendees "Do you want to know the secret of a good marriage?" I leaned forward with interest waiting to hear something sentimental or familiar like "love" or "respect", but no; the mayor continued with "Sometimes men go out drinking with their friends. When they come home and fall into bed, when they wake up they realize that they have pissed the bed." Then he practically yelled the next bit, "WOMEN, DO NOT TELL YOUR FRIENDS THAT YOUR HUSBAND WET THE BED, DO NOT TELL YOUR FRIENDS THAT HE WAS SO DRUNK HE DID NOT KNOW THE FISH HAD ALREADY GONE BAD. THIS IS THE SECRET OF MARRIAGE." Matt and I barely held it together and only did so by biting our lips and avoiding eye contact. The speech later ended with the mayor telling the couple "to never overseason the sauce", we are pretty sure that it was a metaphor, but we are still not sure for what.

All great parties in Cameroon have dancing and the wedding was no exception. Here everyone dances and dances well, from the smallest children who can barely walk to the village elders. The best part about the dance is that it starts with the DJ announcing partners, none of whom are actually couples. This is always slightly embarrassing for Matt and me, as we are picked for the first round and have to dance in front of everyone with enthusiastic local partners.

Finally, to end the evening there was a wedding cake auction. I baked the cake as a gift to the newly weds and to my surprise the dj announced that anyone who wanted a slice had to buy one. Since no one had money and it was getting awkward, Matt and I ended up buying the entire cake and then giving a little bit to everyone.