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.
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