I woke up on Monday the 14th with my eyes dry and tight like I had cried in my sleep. I don’t remember any of my dreams. I know I slept deep from my travel fatigue and the last thing I remember was straining to hear Bilali’s cries from next door. That afternoon I passed by to see if he had gotten any better since I last saw him two days ago and he had not; his legs thinner, round belly shrunken and eyes vacant, unfocused. As I sat there with Hauwa, his mother and my best friend in village, I asked about his condition and she showed me the five medications he was taking, none of which he could keep down. I told her that it was a good sign he was crying, for although he is sick he still had enough energy to cry and that she should worry when he ceases to cry. As I lay asleep that night maybe I knew then and already mourned his death in my dreams or maybe I knew yesterday that this time he wasn’t going to get better. As a child he has suffered much. At 1 ½ he still wasn’t walking or talking because of previous illness. The next morning already in a melancholy state from work problems, five children showed up at my front door looking down at their feet avoiding my irritated attempts to get them to speak. They brought the news to my ears and it wasn’t shocking. When I entered Hauwa’s yard she was already surrounded by crying women, her own eyes half closed and puffy. I went directly and sat behind her on the mat spread out for all the women who were soon to come. I was sitting so close to her, wanting to reach out and hug her in my grief and hoping it would help her to grieve. We sat in silence with the occasional greetings tossed back in forth with lackluster. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything, French was eluding me and still worse Fulfulde wasn’t an option. What does one say here? What does one say to a mother who has lost her second child before the age of 20? What does one say to a mother who has lost her child to a preventable illness? I’m trying to be angry and at the same time I’m not. I could blame many people for his death, but I’m not the one to judge. I think of all the things that could have saved him and I just end up blaming everyone, because we are all to blame.
The flies buzzed not even giving us a moment’s peace. As I sat I thought about how I am going to miss holding him and how in these last weeks he would reach out for me when I went to pick him up. I cradled his feverish body against mine, his head leaning against my chest and my chin on his head. I’m going to miss his smile, it was so infectious. It made my anger dissipate and Mandama seem hospitable. I’m going to miss the joke Hauwa made at least ten times a month about how Bilali was going to return to America with me in my luggage or my pocket depending on the day. And I hope that when I think of how Hauwa always called me his second mother I won’t cry like I am right now. I know people die here more often than they do in the West, but that doesn’t mean the hurt is any less, it just means that people here are more adept at dealing with loss. I see nothing wrong with crying. I feel like we all have a certain amount of tears stored up for certain people and when it’s time to let them fall it’s good to get them out. One should cry, grieve and carry on and be happy knowing that the one you loved is no longer suffering and is in a better place.
May we count our blessings everyday...
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Sorry I'm back!
Wow how the time passes. I have to say right off that I had a blog written and a rather lengthy one at that about a traditional marriage I had attended, but when I tried to save it to a computer in the capitol something happened and I lost it. I was discouraged for a while and thought it best to just leave the blog alone until the pain and anger subsided, which took all of about a day. After that I just found myself busy and away from the internet. Then I found myself at home preparing for and attending my sister’s wedding and then the mad rush to make sure all the people in my village would get their American gifts. In all that rush and meticulous list making and crossing out I forgot the most important person in my village, my chief. With little rearrangement (he got my counterparts gift) my chief is now the proud owner of a tiny desk clock, not digital cause that isn’t classy. He even told me where he put it, right above is bed, on the wall, attached with some double-sided tape I gave him (also from America). I couldn’t help but prod over how I could have forgotten my Lamido, my chief. I was reminded of one of my favorite quotes from Middle March by George Eliot that states how this world could never really survive, even with all its problems without all the people who make the little differences and do it quietly and without the need for recognition. That is my chief to a T. He is a very quiet, unassuming man who doesn’t lord over you with his presence. He is always quick to give me his chair and is constantly busy with his own farm or the health centers vaccination campaigns. He is there when I need him, but otherwise he slips from my memory until I need him again. There exist others in my village I wouldn’t have dared to forget or else I would have never heard the end of it. So I want to take this time to thank all the nameless heroes, the ones who make my job bearable “…and rest in unvisited tombs.”
…but back to the gifts. I even heard that a policeman offered my moto driver, who I bought a watch for with his money, five times what I paid for the watch. I told the story to my neighbor Hauwa that I bought the watch for the equivalent of $10 and that it was made in China like nearly all the watches you find here. I have noticed a difference in American made China products and Cameroonian made China products though. I would say the difference is Chinese made for American sell is slightly bettered made crap that will last you maybe a year longer than it would in Cameroon. It wouldn’t have mattered what I got anyone. What matters is that I got it in America and that an American thought enough of them to lug a gift all the way from the other side of the world. I guess for me that’s what would mean the most too.
I guess I have to talk about my experience home and whether or not there was some great change or cultural shock I experienced. It was like I thought. You can’t erase 26 years of your life by spending one of them outside the country. I slipped back into a routine as easily as I slipped in between 400 count Egyptian cotton sheets and slept like a baby. Of course I remarked on all the new development in the area like the huge Sam’s club and Super Walmart that replaced the old Florin Mall I used to go to as a child. Walking in those stores didn’t seem overwhelming. I was excited about the choices I had rather than confused or overwhelmed like so many said I would be. I must confess there was a time when I did get overwhelmed by choice and it was in Big Lots while trying to pick out a hair brush for another volunteer. I stood there for 10 minutes testing brushes for firmness, durability, and handle grip until I thought myself ridiculous. I guess when it was a choice I made for myself it was an easy decision. I even had a list of things to eat, people to see and things to bring back, which I stuck to pretty well considering I am the queen of making lists I rarely stick to. Now enough of the States, I presume you are not reading this to hear about hairbrush firmness and cotton sheets.
Since I got back I have been running around, which I knew I would be. It seems like I couldn’t get any of my projects set until after I had been here a year. I think it was mostly due to my own mental block, but every time I would start I would hold back from some sense that I didn’t really know the community that well and I needed more time. As much as I didn’t want to be dragged into a large project I find myself smack dab in the middle of one and trying to remind the community that all I said was I will look into it, not “yes you are getting an ambulance and solar panels for the hospital.” I have to quote something to help you better understand my situation and my frustration. This is from East of Eden by John Steinbeck, “You are one of the rare people who can separate your observations from your preconception. You see what is, where most people see what they expect” (pg. 214). Now most people in village fall under the opposite category in that they only see what they expect. They see my light skin and my Americaness and immediately associate that with money. I can’t say that it is entirely their fault. So many people have come into their villages with huge projects like wells and pumps free of cost, and free of work. I keep trying to reinforce that if they want something they have to give something, monetarily and physically if they want to work with me. Some people are starting to get it, while others just nod in my direction that they understand, but then show up at the next meeting asking “so when are you getting the money from the States?” It all comes back to the old adage of “give a man a fish, let him eat for a day, but teach a man how to fish, let him eat for a lifetime.” I would also like to add that we also need to instill in that man the importance and value of fishing otherwise when you walk away he may just give it up and go back to his old habits.
From now on I am going to add a reading list to the end of each blog. I feel like the books I read are helping to shape my experience and if you feel like reading along let me know. I would be happy to send you a list of what I have already read and discuss any of the books with you.
Since I returned on October 28, 2009:
Slaughter House-Five Kurt Vonnegut
Siddhartha Hermann Hesse
The Bell Jar Sylvia Plath
East of Eden John Steinbeck
The Stranger Albert Camus
The Monkey House Kurt Vonnegut
…but back to the gifts. I even heard that a policeman offered my moto driver, who I bought a watch for with his money, five times what I paid for the watch. I told the story to my neighbor Hauwa that I bought the watch for the equivalent of $10 and that it was made in China like nearly all the watches you find here. I have noticed a difference in American made China products and Cameroonian made China products though. I would say the difference is Chinese made for American sell is slightly bettered made crap that will last you maybe a year longer than it would in Cameroon. It wouldn’t have mattered what I got anyone. What matters is that I got it in America and that an American thought enough of them to lug a gift all the way from the other side of the world. I guess for me that’s what would mean the most too.
I guess I have to talk about my experience home and whether or not there was some great change or cultural shock I experienced. It was like I thought. You can’t erase 26 years of your life by spending one of them outside the country. I slipped back into a routine as easily as I slipped in between 400 count Egyptian cotton sheets and slept like a baby. Of course I remarked on all the new development in the area like the huge Sam’s club and Super Walmart that replaced the old Florin Mall I used to go to as a child. Walking in those stores didn’t seem overwhelming. I was excited about the choices I had rather than confused or overwhelmed like so many said I would be. I must confess there was a time when I did get overwhelmed by choice and it was in Big Lots while trying to pick out a hair brush for another volunteer. I stood there for 10 minutes testing brushes for firmness, durability, and handle grip until I thought myself ridiculous. I guess when it was a choice I made for myself it was an easy decision. I even had a list of things to eat, people to see and things to bring back, which I stuck to pretty well considering I am the queen of making lists I rarely stick to. Now enough of the States, I presume you are not reading this to hear about hairbrush firmness and cotton sheets.
Since I got back I have been running around, which I knew I would be. It seems like I couldn’t get any of my projects set until after I had been here a year. I think it was mostly due to my own mental block, but every time I would start I would hold back from some sense that I didn’t really know the community that well and I needed more time. As much as I didn’t want to be dragged into a large project I find myself smack dab in the middle of one and trying to remind the community that all I said was I will look into it, not “yes you are getting an ambulance and solar panels for the hospital.” I have to quote something to help you better understand my situation and my frustration. This is from East of Eden by John Steinbeck, “You are one of the rare people who can separate your observations from your preconception. You see what is, where most people see what they expect” (pg. 214). Now most people in village fall under the opposite category in that they only see what they expect. They see my light skin and my Americaness and immediately associate that with money. I can’t say that it is entirely their fault. So many people have come into their villages with huge projects like wells and pumps free of cost, and free of work. I keep trying to reinforce that if they want something they have to give something, monetarily and physically if they want to work with me. Some people are starting to get it, while others just nod in my direction that they understand, but then show up at the next meeting asking “so when are you getting the money from the States?” It all comes back to the old adage of “give a man a fish, let him eat for a day, but teach a man how to fish, let him eat for a lifetime.” I would also like to add that we also need to instill in that man the importance and value of fishing otherwise when you walk away he may just give it up and go back to his old habits.
From now on I am going to add a reading list to the end of each blog. I feel like the books I read are helping to shape my experience and if you feel like reading along let me know. I would be happy to send you a list of what I have already read and discuss any of the books with you.
Since I returned on October 28, 2009:
Slaughter House-Five Kurt Vonnegut
Siddhartha Hermann Hesse
The Bell Jar Sylvia Plath
East of Eden John Steinbeck
The Stranger Albert Camus
The Monkey House Kurt Vonnegut
Friday, August 14, 2009
Rains down in Cameroon
Its been awhile I know. I have many excuses so let me get into them.
July I was traveling a lot. I spent the first week of July doing soy presentations in another village. I gave three presentations on how to use soy in dishes that the women already know how to make like beignets (donuts more or less) and bouille (thick liquid drink made of flour and water). I also taught them how to make soy milk, which by the way is better than all the thousands of varieties in the store. I partied it up for the fourth and then left back to my village. The next week I was in another village for a Peace Corps meeting and since all the people with birthdays in July were there (including me) we partied it up again at a local bar in the village. We rented out the whole space for 12 people and danced and drank to the wee hours. The next week I went to the city where I bank and get my mail to celebrate my actual birthday with my cluster mates (all the people with in 50km of my post). The next week we had to say goodbye to the first volunteer to leave. She had a traditional Cameroonian party with speeches by people saying goodbye, she gave a speech saying thanks for the gifts, there was the awkward opening dance with Americans and Cameroonians and some good food and many more awkward dances with Cameroonians.
Then August came and it came with the rains. Everyone in village assured me that August was the month of rains and that the road would become destroyed and I would have a hard time crossing the river to get out of village. Me being my skeptical American self thought that even if it rained every other day there was no way with the hot oppressive sun that the rain would stay on the ground and in the river. Why do I doubt the Cameroonians, why do I doubt the natives? Here is the story of my harrowing journey from Mandama, somewhere in the bush in North Cameroon to Guider, 51km away on a dirt road.
The day started cool and cloudy with the doubt that I would make it out of village. I had told my moto guy to come and pick me up at 10am, but he showed up at 9am with doubt in his eyes. He thought maybe 1pm we could try, but until then we would let the heat from the cloud covered sun dry the earth just enough for our passage. I should have known when he said 1pm he really meant 1:45pm, which was the time we set off for Guider. Maneuvering through my village seemed fairly normal with the occasional puddle, sandy patch and exposed rocky surfaces. It wasn’t until we reached the bridge or what was to be a bridge, but someone stole the rest of the cement and there now stands two cement pillars in a raging river, that the adventure started. We first came upon several young men with their jeans rolled up to their knees in the middle of the road just before the bridge. I heard from the nuns in my village that when the water gets to high to drive a moto across men will charge the moto drivers money to carry their moto. There were a few words exchanged between them and my moto driver all to a rather large audience of older village men who came to watch the day’s events at the river unfold. My moto guy, Moussa by the way, turned around to my surprise and confusion and entered a neighboring peanut field heading upstream. After descending a muddy vertical rocky cliff we came to a wider and hopefully shallow part of the river to cross without the aid of the bridge entrepreneurs. I was made to get off the moto and wade across with my jeans rolled up to my knees, backpack, purse, helmet and sandals in hand. I did this as gracefully as possible with a rather large audience of naked village boys bathing and playing in the river. Once safely on a moto we passed through a corn field being whipped in the face and legs by the stalks as we searched for the road. Once back on the road it was more of the same puddles, sandy spots and rocky areas until we reached the next bridge. I wondered what we would find there as it already resembled the bridge like the one in the Universal Studios ride that has broken down to the point of falling, but doesn’t quiet fall until just after the last car has passed. I swear every time I go over it I think that just as we touch on the other side it will go crumbling down into the river. It hadn’t crumbled completely, but it had gotten a significant chunk of it taken by the river and now cars can’t pass. Fortunately I was on a moto and only had to get off once again and make the trek on foot. After that we encountered many more obstacles like the road of a thousand lakes. As far as the eye could see there were mini lakes that made up the road and we careened and spun out while zig zagging the road to find the best route. We also came upon areas were during the rains the water had used the road as its path and hollowed out the route about a foot deep leaving motos to pass on a narrow strip inches away from the shelf of the once high road. All in all it was a slow trip, but an amazing trip. It reminds one of the power of nature and water and how no matter what man constructs it only takes God a little to put it right again.
That’s it for now. I should have more time to write next month and then pictures will be available in October. I’m excited about home and have already made a list of people I want to see, places to go and things I want to eat. Sadly the list of things I want to eat is the longest, but when your market in village only offers onions, corn and manioc you tend to daydream about food more often than you should.
July I was traveling a lot. I spent the first week of July doing soy presentations in another village. I gave three presentations on how to use soy in dishes that the women already know how to make like beignets (donuts more or less) and bouille (thick liquid drink made of flour and water). I also taught them how to make soy milk, which by the way is better than all the thousands of varieties in the store. I partied it up for the fourth and then left back to my village. The next week I was in another village for a Peace Corps meeting and since all the people with birthdays in July were there (including me) we partied it up again at a local bar in the village. We rented out the whole space for 12 people and danced and drank to the wee hours. The next week I went to the city where I bank and get my mail to celebrate my actual birthday with my cluster mates (all the people with in 50km of my post). The next week we had to say goodbye to the first volunteer to leave. She had a traditional Cameroonian party with speeches by people saying goodbye, she gave a speech saying thanks for the gifts, there was the awkward opening dance with Americans and Cameroonians and some good food and many more awkward dances with Cameroonians.
Then August came and it came with the rains. Everyone in village assured me that August was the month of rains and that the road would become destroyed and I would have a hard time crossing the river to get out of village. Me being my skeptical American self thought that even if it rained every other day there was no way with the hot oppressive sun that the rain would stay on the ground and in the river. Why do I doubt the Cameroonians, why do I doubt the natives? Here is the story of my harrowing journey from Mandama, somewhere in the bush in North Cameroon to Guider, 51km away on a dirt road.
The day started cool and cloudy with the doubt that I would make it out of village. I had told my moto guy to come and pick me up at 10am, but he showed up at 9am with doubt in his eyes. He thought maybe 1pm we could try, but until then we would let the heat from the cloud covered sun dry the earth just enough for our passage. I should have known when he said 1pm he really meant 1:45pm, which was the time we set off for Guider. Maneuvering through my village seemed fairly normal with the occasional puddle, sandy patch and exposed rocky surfaces. It wasn’t until we reached the bridge or what was to be a bridge, but someone stole the rest of the cement and there now stands two cement pillars in a raging river, that the adventure started. We first came upon several young men with their jeans rolled up to their knees in the middle of the road just before the bridge. I heard from the nuns in my village that when the water gets to high to drive a moto across men will charge the moto drivers money to carry their moto. There were a few words exchanged between them and my moto driver all to a rather large audience of older village men who came to watch the day’s events at the river unfold. My moto guy, Moussa by the way, turned around to my surprise and confusion and entered a neighboring peanut field heading upstream. After descending a muddy vertical rocky cliff we came to a wider and hopefully shallow part of the river to cross without the aid of the bridge entrepreneurs. I was made to get off the moto and wade across with my jeans rolled up to my knees, backpack, purse, helmet and sandals in hand. I did this as gracefully as possible with a rather large audience of naked village boys bathing and playing in the river. Once safely on a moto we passed through a corn field being whipped in the face and legs by the stalks as we searched for the road. Once back on the road it was more of the same puddles, sandy spots and rocky areas until we reached the next bridge. I wondered what we would find there as it already resembled the bridge like the one in the Universal Studios ride that has broken down to the point of falling, but doesn’t quiet fall until just after the last car has passed. I swear every time I go over it I think that just as we touch on the other side it will go crumbling down into the river. It hadn’t crumbled completely, but it had gotten a significant chunk of it taken by the river and now cars can’t pass. Fortunately I was on a moto and only had to get off once again and make the trek on foot. After that we encountered many more obstacles like the road of a thousand lakes. As far as the eye could see there were mini lakes that made up the road and we careened and spun out while zig zagging the road to find the best route. We also came upon areas were during the rains the water had used the road as its path and hollowed out the route about a foot deep leaving motos to pass on a narrow strip inches away from the shelf of the once high road. All in all it was a slow trip, but an amazing trip. It reminds one of the power of nature and water and how no matter what man constructs it only takes God a little to put it right again.
That’s it for now. I should have more time to write next month and then pictures will be available in October. I’m excited about home and have already made a list of people I want to see, places to go and things I want to eat. Sadly the list of things I want to eat is the longest, but when your market in village only offers onions, corn and manioc you tend to daydream about food more often than you should.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Will I say I lived in Africa or Cameroon?
I would like to apologize and defend for a minute all those people who think and talk about Africa as if it were a country (and not a continent, don’t worry if you didn’t know I won’t judge you). I know people say it out of ignorance or without really thinking, but lets examine why that happens. As an example I give Cameroon and its neighbors. In my region, the North, you are more likely to find similarities between Northern Cameroon and Northern Nigeria and Chad then any of the regions of the West and South of Cameroon. Similarities range from ethnic background, languages and cultures to agricultural techniques and crop variations. All we have to do is go back in history to see that country lines were drawn over people here without regards to ethnic or tribal relations. Secondly, I point to three books that I have read while serving here, which talk about life in Togo, Nigeria and Nambia. Throughout all three books I was blown away by how much I was reading my own reality. The first is the “The Village of Waiting” by George Packer, who was a Peace Corps volunteer in Togo in 1983, the second is Chinua Achebe’s “Things Fall Apart,” which is a work of fiction, but is based on the authors Nigerian culture and lastly “Silicon Valley to Southern Africa: Leaving High Tech for Low Tech,” by Robert Myers a one year volunteer teaching consultant in Nambia. Now these three books span a vast time difference from before colonization to only a few years ago, but the similarities in cultural practices, agriculture, landscape and attitudes have not changed much, or at least not in Northern Cameroon. Peoples’ lives are much more influenced by climate, terrain and availability of natural resources than government policy or former colonizer. Now compare this to the United States and North America. You rarely or never hear people talk in a general sense about North American culture or describing their trip to ‘Central Northern America’ as being well worth the money spent. No, we say the U.S. was well worth the trip or Mexico has such an amazing historical legacy and we will never confuse the two. Is it lack of education? I can’t remember discussing much of Africa as a whole in school let alone specific countries. Is it indifference? Do we just not care about what African countries have to offer or drool over their destinations like we would a trip to Fiji. Or deep down do we see the lines that colonizer drew over Africa as arbitrary?
So what's going on a post?
Sometimes when we pray for answers we forget that God doesn’t always answer you the same day. I was devastated recently when I came home from a weeklong trip to the capitol, Yaounde. Several weeks before I left I started to plant things in my backyard. My mother sent me seeds for cucumbers, zucchini, tomatoes (the big juice kind you can’t find here), four different types of sunflowers, etc. I cleared about 1/3 of my backyard and already started to see a few things growing. Every time I walked by my zucchini and my corn my mind reeled with all the edible possibilities. I was even more excited at the prospect of giving some of these foreign foods away to villagers as I have had a hard time explaining that the cucumbers I know are not round balls, but long, deep green things? There is just nothing to compare them to here. I even saw that my sunflowers were coming up and relished the change of my drab backyard over wrought with stalky flowers. Now before I left I had bought weed killer from our local market, which a organization that buys cotton from villagers was selling. I was a little apprehensive to use herbicides on the ankle high weeds that were taking up all available space in my backyard, but I bought it and the kid who brings me water was to kill the weeds while I was gone. I came through my house the first few minutes back dismayed that my cat and my post mate’s cat figured out they could climb through my open windows and use my bed as a litter box, but then was nearly brought to tears when I saw my entire backyard was now a wasteland. Not only did he kill my weeds, but every living thing, save three lonely corn stalks. This spray was so powerful it killed some of my nursery plants and made others droop beyond recovery. It killed neighboring leaves on trees helping one mark the path of its destruction as it floated on the wind. And then my life got worse. If you can’t guess by now what could be icing on my cake I’ll tell let you know it was the worse case of diarrhea I have ever had. So you can see why I was devastated and why for two days I barely left my house or talked to anyone. Then a few days later I decided to pick myself up and start over. I had a few seeds left for some plants and I would take a different approach this time using raised bed methods that I am familiar with and involving the guy who decimated my future food happiness more in the process of planting and maintaining my garden. On that same day as I passed my old garden I happened to glimpse a row of plants that couldn’t have been weeds. Unlike the other bare mounds of earth that produced nothing there was a row of what looked like peanut plants. It all hit me then as I remembered right before I left I planted two rows of corn and a row of peanuts flat on the ground instead of in individual mounds. A row of something actually survived the herbicide probably cause they hadn’t started to grow until after he sprayed the chemicals. I felt like dancing a jig after that discovery and now ever day I go and weed my two rows of corn and one row of peanuts, watching to see if anything else will all of a sudden decide its time to pop up. If nothing else decides to come up, I am okay with that. I still have another year of planting and lessons have been learned from this experience so what more can you ask for.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Rain, Sweet Rain
So there are many things to tell. The rains started early this year and definitely cooled down the earth to a bearable 100 degrees. The first day, rain came as I was walking back from my latrine and I thought I saw a bright flash of light behind me. I thought it had to be a camera because there is no way that in the hottest month of the year there was lightening. Then the winds came and surprisingly they were cool and as I sat out in my backyard writing in my journal about how weather is a most effective schoolyard bully and can taunt you from a far, the rain drops fell on my shoulders. For a few days we had on and off rain and its amazing how little the desert needs to turn green, but all the hills around me have turned from there drab browns and tans to a hundred shades of green. Interesting thing to note about the desert and vegetation here is that it is extremely resilient. Every time I am on a moto in or out of my village I just stare in wonder at the landscape. The thing that strikes me the most are the trees that grow out of the rocks. The earth here is already extremely sandy and rocky like any good desert, but where there is a large clump of boulders you are sure to see at least one huge tree that hugs, twists and is married to a group of smooth, massive boulders with roots snaking down to the ground for what little water exists. And the birds! Brilliant blueteals and pinkreds on the heads, necks and tails of these birds are startling against the backdrop of brown and green.
As I am typing this we are now in a week long drought and I look at the sky constantly for a sign of even the smallest white fluffy non-rain cloud so I can dream of the days when I don’t have heat rash and don’t soak through my pjs every night.
So last month I went to a “Development Party,” which is essentially a fundraiser. As a Peace Corps Volunteer, but I think mostly because I am white (which really just means I come from a foreign country that has money, because even the darkest Africans can be white if they have a lot of money and come from a big city) I got to sit with all the important people of the village and the invitees, like the mayor and other government functionaries. I had no idea what this party or “fete” was about, but I knew that if there was a bunch of high profile people there I had to sit with them. So I and my post mate sat for hours in 130 degree shade while traditional dancers and musicians played to us and functionaries gave speeches and until I thought my pagne dress would suck all the water out of me or at least dye me the same color, as pagne bleeds badly. Then we got to the most amazing part in the ceremony. A man got up on a microphone and started to ask for money. At first there was little reaction, but then my landlord, probably the richest person, not only in my village, but in all the surrounding areas pulls out a wad of 200,000 cfa which is around $400 US. For Cameroonians and especially people living in the bush who tell me they don’t have 100 cfa to get a medical consultation that is a ridiculous amount of money. A few other “grands” (important people in the village) gave money of around the same amount, but then afterwards everyday people came and gave 1000 cfa or 500 cfa and the man on the microphone would praise them, yelling out there name, “merci, merci beaucoup monsieur Buba pour l’argent….” I feel like people were attracted to the public recognition, being able to get praised for their contribution regardless of amount had a great effect. After a while even I was sitting there thinking “I feel like I should give money, everyone else gave money, I think they expect me to give money.” I did give money and when they shouted out my name I felt good about my decision and was excited to be part of the process. In the end the community raised $2.2 million cfa in 3 hours, which will be used to build a school in the village. So I have been thinking that if a development fete can drum up that much excitement and money among people who constantly tell me they have no money then why can’t the health center I work at host a similar event. So now I will impart on you two well known quotes that I have begun to live by, which I am seriously considering translating in French and painting on my outside wall for all visitors to see: “you give a man a fish, you feed him for a day, you teach a man to fish, you feed him for life” and “Alone you are poor, but together you are rich.” I think that if this community can come to understand that some white person or foreign country is not gonna come surfing into town on a pile of money like Scrooge McDuck and solve all their money problems and that they need to depend on their own resources and ingenuity as a community they can accomplish great things. And if that is all that I accomplish in two years I am at peace with that.
Now, some more randomness……
One day, while out on my village tour I finally approached this massive orange freight container that villagers have been bringing their cotton crops to get them weighed and shipped for money. As we all know cotton is fluffy and in order to fit a lot in to something you got to pack it in. In order to do that two lines of about seven or eight men would stand in the freighter slowly bounce-walk back in forth to pack in the cotton. As they were doing it they would sing call and response songs. This immediately put me into mind of slaves picking cotton in American South and church songs. Where did African Americans learn those types of songs, but there ancestors from Africa and its interesting to see how old traditions can be transformed into new circumstances.
My neighbors kid is so cute, but such a mommas boy. Like a lot of children in my village he has been racked with one sickness after another and its slowed is development and growth down a lot. He can’t really crawl at the age of one, but his mother and I keep trying to entice him by dangling my keys, which he loves cause I have a million of them, in front of him and them placing them just out of his reach. He rolls onto his knees, but then decides that its not worth the effort. The other day he fell asleep while holding onto his mom’s breast with both hands like he was cradling a teddy bear. By the way you can not live here without seeing practically ever women’s breast. You go to their houses in the heat and they’re all naked from the waste up (that is if they have already had children, because then its acceptable) cause its too hot, or they are feeding their infants. There are no blankets to cover, to hide their bodies from this natural act. As soon as they birth, those breasts are no longer sexual, but life sustaining, a source of nourishment. At first I felt I needed to avert my eyes, but now its become such a part of everyday life that I don’t even flinch when a mother whips out her breast to feed her child or just to get out of the constricting pagne.
As I am typing this we are now in a week long drought and I look at the sky constantly for a sign of even the smallest white fluffy non-rain cloud so I can dream of the days when I don’t have heat rash and don’t soak through my pjs every night.
So last month I went to a “Development Party,” which is essentially a fundraiser. As a Peace Corps Volunteer, but I think mostly because I am white (which really just means I come from a foreign country that has money, because even the darkest Africans can be white if they have a lot of money and come from a big city) I got to sit with all the important people of the village and the invitees, like the mayor and other government functionaries. I had no idea what this party or “fete” was about, but I knew that if there was a bunch of high profile people there I had to sit with them. So I and my post mate sat for hours in 130 degree shade while traditional dancers and musicians played to us and functionaries gave speeches and until I thought my pagne dress would suck all the water out of me or at least dye me the same color, as pagne bleeds badly. Then we got to the most amazing part in the ceremony. A man got up on a microphone and started to ask for money. At first there was little reaction, but then my landlord, probably the richest person, not only in my village, but in all the surrounding areas pulls out a wad of 200,000 cfa which is around $400 US. For Cameroonians and especially people living in the bush who tell me they don’t have 100 cfa to get a medical consultation that is a ridiculous amount of money. A few other “grands” (important people in the village) gave money of around the same amount, but then afterwards everyday people came and gave 1000 cfa or 500 cfa and the man on the microphone would praise them, yelling out there name, “merci, merci beaucoup monsieur Buba pour l’argent….” I feel like people were attracted to the public recognition, being able to get praised for their contribution regardless of amount had a great effect. After a while even I was sitting there thinking “I feel like I should give money, everyone else gave money, I think they expect me to give money.” I did give money and when they shouted out my name I felt good about my decision and was excited to be part of the process. In the end the community raised $2.2 million cfa in 3 hours, which will be used to build a school in the village. So I have been thinking that if a development fete can drum up that much excitement and money among people who constantly tell me they have no money then why can’t the health center I work at host a similar event. So now I will impart on you two well known quotes that I have begun to live by, which I am seriously considering translating in French and painting on my outside wall for all visitors to see: “you give a man a fish, you feed him for a day, you teach a man to fish, you feed him for life” and “Alone you are poor, but together you are rich.” I think that if this community can come to understand that some white person or foreign country is not gonna come surfing into town on a pile of money like Scrooge McDuck and solve all their money problems and that they need to depend on their own resources and ingenuity as a community they can accomplish great things. And if that is all that I accomplish in two years I am at peace with that.
Now, some more randomness……
One day, while out on my village tour I finally approached this massive orange freight container that villagers have been bringing their cotton crops to get them weighed and shipped for money. As we all know cotton is fluffy and in order to fit a lot in to something you got to pack it in. In order to do that two lines of about seven or eight men would stand in the freighter slowly bounce-walk back in forth to pack in the cotton. As they were doing it they would sing call and response songs. This immediately put me into mind of slaves picking cotton in American South and church songs. Where did African Americans learn those types of songs, but there ancestors from Africa and its interesting to see how old traditions can be transformed into new circumstances.
My neighbors kid is so cute, but such a mommas boy. Like a lot of children in my village he has been racked with one sickness after another and its slowed is development and growth down a lot. He can’t really crawl at the age of one, but his mother and I keep trying to entice him by dangling my keys, which he loves cause I have a million of them, in front of him and them placing them just out of his reach. He rolls onto his knees, but then decides that its not worth the effort. The other day he fell asleep while holding onto his mom’s breast with both hands like he was cradling a teddy bear. By the way you can not live here without seeing practically ever women’s breast. You go to their houses in the heat and they’re all naked from the waste up (that is if they have already had children, because then its acceptable) cause its too hot, or they are feeding their infants. There are no blankets to cover, to hide their bodies from this natural act. As soon as they birth, those breasts are no longer sexual, but life sustaining, a source of nourishment. At first I felt I needed to avert my eyes, but now its become such a part of everyday life that I don’t even flinch when a mother whips out her breast to feed her child or just to get out of the constricting pagne.
And now some random pictures......
Me and the women's group president's daughter during International Women's Day
Women carrying cotton on their heads to get it weighed for selling
My foot with Henna, something most women wear for any holiday, marriage or just general big event. This was done by my landlords kids and isn't quite like the henna you see on most women in the village, but its close.
These are Lamidos, or cheifs of the village (the ones in turbans). They usually come with an entourage of sword weilding bodyguards, attendants, someone holding an umbrella and musicians who play to the point you think its physcially impossible. This was taken during 20 May, which is like independence day/unification of the english, french speaking provinces into a unified Cameroon.
Friday, March 20, 2009
A women turning coucous on a foyer ameloire or improved cookstove at a cooking competition in Douroum
Me and a nurse at the health center posing in front of an alter during women's day.
A classroom at the public school in Mandama (they sometimes have up 60 students in a class)
Two girls pumping water at the pump near my house. Hard work, I tried it once.
Happenings
I decided that in this blog I would just recount some random happenings in Cameroon, enjoy......
Why did I watch Arachnophobia as a child? And why did my 3rd grade substitute teacher tell me a story about her getting bit by a spider and being rushed to the hospital unconscious and getting five shots in her stomach? It has only set me up for a life in fear of insects, but especially spiders. If I didn't have frosted glass for windows I am sure my neighbors probably would have thought I was crazy a few nights ago or at least possessed and practicing sorcery (which a few people in my village believe in). I was running around my room armed with a large stick and tennis shoe chasing a spider. In my defense the spiders here are mammoth and the cockroaches are human size. We all have the things we fear and loath and mine just happens to be insects, but especially spiders. Somehow I feel they have a personal vendetta against me, choosing to skulk around my room, tormenting me by running over anything that will make a loud noise and echo off my bare walls. Its all over when I see their long, protruding legs, hairy bodies and fangs. My mission, even if I have to stay up all night, is to see them dead and buried or at least tossed outside to be carried away by the ants. One might ask why I chose Africa, where if one was to open a book of the worlds most deadly insects Africa might rank number one, I would simply answer "to sink or swim" to get over my fear once and for all by being thrown into the lions din or more appropriately, the spiders web. In those moments when I am cowering in a corner, armed with bug powder and a shoe I am silently cursing myself while waiting for the spider to reappear from its hiding place so I can smash it to smithereens. Maybe its an issue of boundaries. My home, but especially my room is a safe haven for me and a creepy crawler has infinite ways of avoiding capture and tormenting me to the point where I end up like the crazy chef in the Little Mermaid, tearing up my sanctuary to kill something small and insignificant. Its like a spec of dust to a meticulous housewife, I can't rest comfortably until its gone. I would still feel this way if the intruder were an animal or person, but those are much easier to catch and release than an insect, which is capable of finding its way past my mosquito net and into any open orifice.
A few days ago I came face-to-face or rather face-to-hand with something I shouldn't have been that surprised about. A nurse at the health center I work at purchased at the wednesday meat market in my village the left arm and rib cage of a monkey. I have heard stories form volunteers in the south that many people in the southern provinces eat what is called "bush meat," which I hear is anything that you can find, kill, is edible and not someone's pet. I heard that it isn't common for people in the North to eat bush meat, but this worker comes from the south where it is completely acceptable. That still didn't hold back my nausea and disgust as the nurse picked up the severed hand and proceeded to advance towards me while waving the hand in my direction. I think she got the hint that I was disgusted when I yelled at her and ran out the door. Guess it goes to show that one women's dinner is another women's cause for vomiting.
I was coming back from visiting my post mate in the neighboring village when my moto passed a crowd of people standing on the side of the road. My moto proceeded to slow down as any good rubbernecker would and we passed a scene of an accident. A moto had struck and killed a goat. The driver looked in our direction as we passed with a severe look of distress on his face. He gripped his head with both hands in dismay and looked on the verge of crying. In Cameroon if you kill someone's goat you have to pay for it, but the way he looked you would have thought that he had struck a child. While this scene was playing out a few feet down the road there was another accident. This one attracted no crowd, but also involved a moto and this time it had hit a person. A moto had struck an old women who was bleeding profusely from the nose and mouth. Its amazing our list of priorities, us humans. The saying that Americans treat their pets better than strangers seems to ring true in Africa as well.
Lately I have been trying to visit all the villages that my health center serves. On a recent visit to one of the villages my translator and I came upon a large crowd of men standing around a well. It seems that a cow fell down a well and I just have to say that that happens when you dig a large hole in the ground and don't build a wall around it. It was amazing to see all the men pitch in to get the cow out though. It makes me think of a good ole fashion barn raising, although I have no idea what that really entails, but the analogy seems to fit. The sense of community and team work in the effort the men put in was amazing. No one asked for money afterwards or complained that the task was too hard, but worked to together to help out their neighbor. I think it was also a welcome break from the monotony of sitting under trees and shelling peanuts, a source of entertainment to reminisce on the next day when there back under the tree with nothing to do until raining season.
Why can't I talk about my diarrhea? And why can't I pick my nose in public (come on we all know we do it in private)? I feel the puritans really screwed us over with their manners and moral convictions. Why is it that while we have released ourself from the shackles of sexual oppression, I still feel I can't fart in public without being stared at like I have two heads. We could take a lesson from Cameroonians. After picking your jaw off the floor and relax your brow after watching them greet you with their left hand digging for gold while their right hand is extended or having asked practically your whole village about their bowel movements and watery stools, you come to do as they do. I openly tell people here that "I am sorry I couldn't stop by yesterday. I had diarrhea and I couldn't be far from my latrine." I have also found myself walking around village "sanuing" people while with my left hand (never my right, thats for clean activities like eating and shaking hands) clearing the Harmattan from my nostrils. My oppression in the states can be found in the fact that I didn't even know how to spell diarrhea in english and had to look it up, but I sure knew how to spell it in french: Diarrhee.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
The Mandama Workout
If anyone out there has ever searched for the ultimate exercise plan I think I have found the answer to your weight loss needs. You start by moving to Cameroon and not just anywhere in Cameroon. You need to pick a remote place, preferably on a mountainside or in the hills with lots of sand. This move will undoubtedly include much heavy lifting of baggage and moving it to various locations (think of olden day prison punishment when they used to have prisoners move rocks from one useless pile to another and then back again). Second, leave all conventional cleaning tools behind and do as the Africans do. Sweep your floors with a traditional broom made out of thin sticks, which requires you to sweep while bending over at a 90 degree angle. Pump your water at the local forage making sure to isolate those chest and arm muscles as you vigorously fill two containers (you are sure to repeat this exercise at least 3 to 4 times a week). For an added benefit you can then carry said containers on your head back to your house, although this is not for the weak necked and clumsy! Lastly, decide to do a community wide health survey, which promises to include every single household in your village. This last exercise is great cardio, especially if you choose a walking partner whose stride is much longer and faster than your own. You will walk over rocky mountainsides, cross dry, sandy riverbeds, do squats while trying to meet your butt to a stool that is a few inches off the ground, but most importantly you will lose those inches you’ve been dying to get rid of since you started to eat like a Camerooian and digested kilos of couscous and rice with sauce. I tell you people that I have tried this diet and so far it is agreeing with me.
So its been a month since I started walking house to house in my village doing a community survey. I have visited a total of 230 houses and that is about 90% of all the houses in Mandama and I plan on doing this again in the 12 other villages my health center serves. It was a very interesting experience, which opened my eyes to some health issues, but also allowed me to meet everyone face to face. Some of the “quartiers” or neighborhoods that I visited were a few minutes walk away, while others took me into places I didn’t think anybody would think to live. For example one quartier is over a hill and nestled in a valley near a river. In order to use the health center or buy things at the market the people have to walk fairly far on a road where a car can not pass and I have found that they often don’t use the health center for things such as giving birth or minor illness. It was at this very village that I hiked up a severely steep hill to visit one house of that particular quartier. I couldn’t imagine having to make that hike everyday, several times a day and with a bucket of water on my head. I am truly in awe of Camerooians sometimes.
On the 11th of February there was a big “fete”or holiday all over Cameroon called the “Fete de Juenesse,” which I guess is like international kids day. I had no idea what to expect from this day, but I heard it was a huge deal and I could hear the children at the elementary school practicing their march and songs for two weeks before hand while I was on my march doing the community surveys. Singing just has a different quality to it here. Kids in the states have their “Ring around the Rosy” and “Miss Mary Mack”, but they don’t hold a candle to the sound of the Camerooian children chanting in unison. It’s the same sound I hear during church service here. It’s a definite addition to the catholic services, where although I love my religion, the singing has always lacked a sense of liveliness. Squeezed into the benches amidst rows of colorful pagne dresses and babies strapped to backs it’s very enlivening and spiritual and always adds to any Cameroonian event.
On the day of the fete I struck out at 9am, already an hour late, but knowing that it would never start on time and ended standing for another 45 minutes while seating assignments were arranged. See, in village I am a “Grand”, someone important, and the important people always sit under shaded areas to watch such festivities and that morning I was second row to the parade of marching children. Schools came from neighboring villages to show off their marching abilities and chants with accompanied dances. It was truly interesting and not unlike small hometown parades, although minus floats and extravagant costumes. Later in the day a match of Football was held for the high school girls first, which drew a substantial crowd, but the real game was between the high school boys and the teachers. Although the teachers are young and fit themselves, they were no match for the Mandama boys who swept them 6 to 2. In most instances all this would have been enough for one day, but it wouldn’t be a Fete de Juenesse without a dance. If you have recently graduated from college and can reminisce on your old high school dances, you can probably gather a pretty accurate picture of what they are like. Although I didn’t attend this dance, I have attended a previous dance and don’t particularly wish to experience another. And if you can’t imagine, picture a tiny classroom packed with sweaty teenage boys and girls dancing non-stop until 6am to really loud music and you get the picture, although those are not the reasons why I do not wish to partake a second time. My reason centers around the villages need to make me front and center of all their attention, especially when it includes watching me dance to Cameroonian music. Although not bragging, I have picked up a few moves and can hold my own and have gotten compliments like “You dance like a Cameroonian,” I do not like being the center of attention in the middle of a high school dance full of adolescent boys.
I am now awaiting the next fete, “8 Mars” or International Women’s Day and have already bought my women’s day pagne, which I hope I can get cut into a dress before the day, but I am cutting it close. The day promises to be a lot like Fete de Juenesse and it brings another reason to eat lots of yummy gateau (cake) and a break from my village visits.
So its been a month since I started walking house to house in my village doing a community survey. I have visited a total of 230 houses and that is about 90% of all the houses in Mandama and I plan on doing this again in the 12 other villages my health center serves. It was a very interesting experience, which opened my eyes to some health issues, but also allowed me to meet everyone face to face. Some of the “quartiers” or neighborhoods that I visited were a few minutes walk away, while others took me into places I didn’t think anybody would think to live. For example one quartier is over a hill and nestled in a valley near a river. In order to use the health center or buy things at the market the people have to walk fairly far on a road where a car can not pass and I have found that they often don’t use the health center for things such as giving birth or minor illness. It was at this very village that I hiked up a severely steep hill to visit one house of that particular quartier. I couldn’t imagine having to make that hike everyday, several times a day and with a bucket of water on my head. I am truly in awe of Camerooians sometimes.
On the 11th of February there was a big “fete”or holiday all over Cameroon called the “Fete de Juenesse,” which I guess is like international kids day. I had no idea what to expect from this day, but I heard it was a huge deal and I could hear the children at the elementary school practicing their march and songs for two weeks before hand while I was on my march doing the community surveys. Singing just has a different quality to it here. Kids in the states have their “Ring around the Rosy” and “Miss Mary Mack”, but they don’t hold a candle to the sound of the Camerooian children chanting in unison. It’s the same sound I hear during church service here. It’s a definite addition to the catholic services, where although I love my religion, the singing has always lacked a sense of liveliness. Squeezed into the benches amidst rows of colorful pagne dresses and babies strapped to backs it’s very enlivening and spiritual and always adds to any Cameroonian event.
On the day of the fete I struck out at 9am, already an hour late, but knowing that it would never start on time and ended standing for another 45 minutes while seating assignments were arranged. See, in village I am a “Grand”, someone important, and the important people always sit under shaded areas to watch such festivities and that morning I was second row to the parade of marching children. Schools came from neighboring villages to show off their marching abilities and chants with accompanied dances. It was truly interesting and not unlike small hometown parades, although minus floats and extravagant costumes. Later in the day a match of Football was held for the high school girls first, which drew a substantial crowd, but the real game was between the high school boys and the teachers. Although the teachers are young and fit themselves, they were no match for the Mandama boys who swept them 6 to 2. In most instances all this would have been enough for one day, but it wouldn’t be a Fete de Juenesse without a dance. If you have recently graduated from college and can reminisce on your old high school dances, you can probably gather a pretty accurate picture of what they are like. Although I didn’t attend this dance, I have attended a previous dance and don’t particularly wish to experience another. And if you can’t imagine, picture a tiny classroom packed with sweaty teenage boys and girls dancing non-stop until 6am to really loud music and you get the picture, although those are not the reasons why I do not wish to partake a second time. My reason centers around the villages need to make me front and center of all their attention, especially when it includes watching me dance to Cameroonian music. Although not bragging, I have picked up a few moves and can hold my own and have gotten compliments like “You dance like a Cameroonian,” I do not like being the center of attention in the middle of a high school dance full of adolescent boys.
I am now awaiting the next fete, “8 Mars” or International Women’s Day and have already bought my women’s day pagne, which I hope I can get cut into a dress before the day, but I am cutting it close. The day promises to be a lot like Fete de Juenesse and it brings another reason to eat lots of yummy gateau (cake) and a break from my village visits.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
aka Fadimatou
So a lot has happened since my last Christmas/New Year blog. My landlord finally washed all the wasp nests off my walls and painted the inside a shade of yellow. I am now living in my house and have realized that there is still a lot for me to do. Although my bedroom is nearly finished I still have to result to preparing my meals on the floor of my kitchen and my stove stop is sitting atop two chairs (picture provided below).
My salon is bear and I am itching to fill it as I have no where, but a cement floor to offer anyone who visits and boy do people visit. Some volunteers here will not allow anyone, but other peace corps volunteers to enter, while others will let only certain people in village to enter or no one at all. Since my village is still getting to know me and do not have any concept of how private we Americans can be it is somewhat of a challenge to get them to knock on my door or not enter by backyard. Some girls will just open my door and walk right into my house without knocking or will knock and then walk in before I have a chance to say "come in." I have gotten used to locking my door when I am at home, especially when changing my clothes or using my latrine. I have been explaining to people that they need to knock on my door, which is also necessary as alot of people will clap instead of knock on doors. I believe that may be because people in village do not have doors like I do or have them don't ever close them unless they aren't in their house. Therefore people clap to announce that they are at your door. I am still getting used to that as I hear people clapping outside my concession walls all the time and can't distinguish between a visitor and some random person.
I think people in village also think its weird that I spend time in my house alone during the day. Mostly everybody eats lunch and takes a nap around noon till the prayer at 3pm cause its so hot. When they see me walking back from the health center at 10am or 4pm they will ask if I'm going to take a nap. I think its a weird concept for most of them that I work out of my house. For example one day I barely left my house because the following day I was attending a women's meeting and hosting my own village wide meeting. I stayed in most of the day writing out my speech to the village and preparing the materials for the activity that I wanted to do with them. While its not uncommon for women to stay in the house all day its weird I think for someone who works out of the health center to be at home and alone.
On another note my community meeting was very interesting. To start the process I met with the Lamido, which is the chief of my village to ask when would be a good day to have a community meeting with the entire village and if he could help me alert all the people, meaning all 4,000. He chose three days later and said that he would alert all the people to come to my meeting. I was sceptical, but I prepared and announced it to the people that I saw in the village, most who on the day of the meeting had no clue what I was talking about. At 4pm that day I sat on the bench next to the public square with my counterpart waiting. After about 45minutes the Lamido rides up and tells me that they need to pay respects to someones family because there had been a death and that they would return afterwards. I wait for another 30minutes and then the crowd starts to arrive little by little and I notice that only the men are coming and only the Muslim men at that. Apparently only the men who attend the Grand Mosque were given the notice, but you live and learn and then inform the priests of the catholic church next time. So i stood in front of about 100 men from my village and explained for probably the nth time, but definitely not the last that I am not a doctor, which they love to call me around village, nor a nurse, another popular choice and definitely not a nun, although I am Catholic. I also explained that I don't have any money to give them, but if they have ideas and are willing to work hard I will help them try to bring development to the village. After that I had the men and women (during my speech about 15 women showed up) split into groups and create a map of the community. It included all the place they felt were important in village as well as places they frequent the most, the least and things they feel are missing in village. The maps turned out to be a great resource for me as I discovered places I didn't even know existed in village like a technical school and a broken dam at the river. My village has some big needs, but they are a village that isn't shy of change and wants all the development they can get. My next project is to walk to each house in the village to do a community wide survey. All through out the month of February and a little of March I will be putting on my walking shoes and visiting everybody with the help of one villager from my town who is going to act as translator (keep me in your thoughts and prayers for this one).
On another note I know that I have talked to some of you about the crazy things that people can get on a moto taxi here. A brief list of my sightings include:
1) four grown men
2) Two grown men and a women with a baby on her back
3) About 20 live chickens strapped to the handles
4) About 20 large stacked 50 liter jugs
5) Man holding live goat across lap
6) The kicker.....the driver, and a bull in an upside down table and then another man on top of that
And its almost unbelievable, but I leave you with this picture of a man and his three tables on a moto. Oh yes, it happens.
Also I wish to announce that I will no longer answer to the name of Kauleen as no one here can pronounce it even after I explain that its just like "coline", which means "hill" in french. I have been told that you are really accepted when you are given a Muslim name and my counterpart picked Fadimatou, which people do call me. When I tell new people I meet my name they love it, its like instant street cred. The young man who helps me around the house even painted the name on my clay water pots and my concession wall.
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