From the Summit to the Waves

They said we couldn't do it, make the top of the mountain. We are women and just can't make a three day trek to the summit of Mount Cameroon at 4095 meters. It seems like my abilities are always being doubted and feats accomplished remarked by others with surprise. We made it, Anitha and me after losing Thea our third to Bronchitis the day before. For a moment at the beginning of our trip as we walked up past the prisoners cutting grass at the Beau minimum security prison and the coco yam farms I thought that they might be right, maybe I couldn't make it. All it took was a burning in my ass and lungs, that familiar feeling which accompanies the upward climb that reminds your body how to hike. The first day was all uphill starting in the forest and then ending on hillside grasslands. During that day we passed the Magic Tree which looked more like a magic twig, a plain old tree ravaged by the carvings of disrespectful hikers. I wondered at that moment if the whole trip was going to be made of lackluster finds and views; pictures making promises reality couldn't keep. With time the mountain did open up to us showing its bare grasslands, humid forests and harsh lava trails.

I spent most of the trip moving upward by myself, five or ten steps at a time. Every now and then one of the two porters would pass me floating up the mountain like a gazelle strapped down with my load. It is a policy of the official ecotourism group that all hikers have at least one porter to carry their pack. I of course thought that unnecessary, but put up no fight. I reflected later how glad I was that ecotourism didn't listen to all the stubborn-hadn't-workedout-in-at-least-six-month-26 year-old-with-50 year-old-knees hikers and made the decision on their behalf. Besides the porters we were required to have a guide and permit with everything else optional. We decided to take the bare minimum, forgoing the tent, mats and additional things more financially equipped travels opted to buy. At the end we headed up the mountain with our sleeping bags, extra layers of clothing, food, water and cooking utensils.

The first day proved to be somewhat of a challenge for Anitha and I both. We were prompted to take our time and go slowly; pacing ourselves to maintain a steady level of energy. We took brakes about every thirty minutes opting to remain standing for fear we would never get back up. It was during one of these brakes that our guide confronted Anitha and I with our first bout of discouragement. He told us that we needed to have a serious conversation about whether or not we were going to make it up the mountain. That first doubt from our guide and porters, our hired support system, was daunting to hear in the middle of the first day. Anitha and I both gave him the you've-got-to-be-kidding-me gaze, that went well with our burning muscles, burning lungs and determined hearts. That first bit of discouragement set the tone for most of our conversations with the guide and porters. As the day wore on my longer legs and sports lungs kicked-in leaving me about 5 to 15 minutes ahead of Anitha for the rest of the trip. This however didn't encourage our guide or porters that we could do it, but encouraged them that only I would make it. I spent most of my time with my porter fending off advances and defending Anitha's ability to finish the hike. At the end of the first day, which we finished an hour ahead of the time they said we would, we cooked our meal of spaghetti and canned green beans in the whistling metal shacks of Hut 2, listened to the Cameroonian-Egypt match on the guides portable radio and then passed out to the sounds of scurrying mice hunting for food in our packs.

The second day we woke to what felt like and Arctic wind to us desert villagers. We started out with socks on our hands and five layers of clothing, looking more like cold weather hobos than hikers. The second day was the summit. It's characterized by its freezing temperatures and wind gusts that could probably knock a medium-sized child off the top. The air was thinner at Hut 2 and in the morning my lungs were feeling it. After a while with the aid of Yoga breathing I was able to adjust to the thin air, but my layers of clothing were constricting. Several times I wanted to cut myself out of them convinced then I could take in a deep breath, but the wind and my numb fingertips had me in my right mind. I would hike with my head down, only looking up to pick my next point of rest. Every now and then I would remind myself to look up and enjoy the scenery, for what is a hike if all you remember is the top? There wasn't much to look at during that portion of the hike though, a cold desert created from an ancient lave flow.

The porters didn't follow us to the summit, which was a relief for Anitha and me. That is how I hiked to the summit, alone and breathless, with Anitha and the guide sometimes in view behind me. There was never any thought that we wouldn't make it. Anitha and I are both stubborn, but also silent powerhouses. When I saw the summit in my heart I was running up the last few meters, but my legs and lungs kept me in reality. I had to watch every movement my fingers did because I could not feel them searching for my camera or unzipping my pack. I stood for only a few moments, afraid the wind would send me off the edge. I found the visitors log and painfully scribbled out Anitha's and my name with a short blurb about never doubting the determination of women. I marked our time, which again was 30 minutes before the time we were supposed to reach the summit. We were told by the guide that he was African and therefore was not equipped to handle the cold so we were to take our pictures and have our moment and then descend tout suite. I didn't complain about the rush and quickly descended as a victor. Twenty minutes into the descent my knees were making me feel more like a loser. I had my left knee wrapped in an ace bandage, an old sports injury from high school, but then my right knee started to tweak for its overcompensation. I have always hated going downhill more than up. I will take gasping for air and sweating over strained knees and jammed toes on any hike.

The descent took us through the lava flows of the 2001 eruption, which was still an island of jagged lava rocks and pebbles. I was wearing the only hiking shoes I had, which were hard toed sandals. They had served me well on the uphill, but now that we were skidding down the hill on loose gravel lava I was stopping every five steps to shake the rocks out of my shoes. Eventually in my frustration I looked up to see Anitha almost skiing down the mountain and decided to give in and just fill my shoes with the fresh lava powder. It actually was fun sliding heal first down the mountain with large steps whipping up lava dust I'm sure our guide behind us didn't appreciate. I of course fell the obligatory 10 times, rolling my weak ankles and over extending my knees. I figure it's not a hike unless I have fallen and I was always lucky enough to do it out of sight of the porters and guides, luck Anitha didn't have. When I roll my ankle the best thing is to walk immediately or else I would just give it time to get stiff and if the porters saw me they would make me stop and ask if I was okay. I think being asked if I am okay annoys me more in life than if people just ignore me, but it's inevitable that people will ask, it's in our nature, even mine.
That day we also passed the 1999 eruption that presented us with rolling hills of black sand. This was the eruption that flowed to the beach at limbe some kilometers away and we were told was the reason of its black sand beaches. We hit grasslands, dense weed forests which overran the trail and led me to fall 6 of my total 10 times in the span of twenty minutes. I had trouble seeing the uneven trail until my foot touched down on it and then sometimes not even at all. That section of the hike reminded me of the 2nd or 3rd Jurassic Park where Jeff Goldblum is leading a bunch of people threw tall grass and the velacaraptors are hunting them. We never came close to any such thing, never seeing more than birds on the whole trip. We were told Gazelles lived in the grasslands, but not near where we were hiking. We did, however, encounter a hunter on our way down, which we were reminded was illegal, but then were offered the chance to watch him skin his kill as entertainment later on in the night. A few minutes after the hunter we reached our resting place for the night, a traditional two-room, grass hut, which we shared with our porters because we opted out of the tent. It was there at the natural spring, Manspring which the Germans covered and tamed that I was able to wash the lava's blackness from my hands, feet and face. I had been wearing the same clothes for three days, only changing my dirty day clothes for dirty night clothes in efforts to keep my funk to a minimum. The night came quicker than on the first day and we slept once again in the embrace of the sound of rats, wrapped up tight in our stuffy sleeping bags.

The next day we were told was once again all downhill, but through the forest. I love the scenery in the forest, but its thickness makes it difficult to gauge how far you have gone and how much, how very much you still have left to cover. We were told that we would come down into the village where we could catch a taxi at about one o'clock that day. We were in a hurry, trying to make it down in time to go directly to the bus and back to Yaounde, stinky, sweaty and sore so that we could spend the next day reminiscing and recovering on the beaches of Kribi. As the leader I passed many of the designated rest stops out of time constraints, but also because stopping made my legs think I was done and gave them a reason to cramp up. Every time we stopped we were given a new, later time of arrival and I gave up on Yaounde. I started to slow down, take pictures and enjoy the greenery and occasional floral color. My new method of silent, few words was finally giving the porter a hint, but he still decided to act as my personal guide and even picked me a rare flower, forgetting that he was supposed to "take nothing and leave only footprints."

Slowly the layers came off until I reached the village in a tank top and a layer of sweaty dirt. Once again with all their estimations we still reached the bottom ahead of schedule and decided to leave the porters and the guide on the road with handshakes and a small tip for our guide who was in the end very patient with us. The look on their faces made me think we might just be crazy, leaving without showers or our summit certificates. The only thing I had on my mind was white sand and the sun beating down on my skin while the waves sounded in my ears. After sitting on the bus for three hours before it took off and then sitting on it for another five hours in route we made it back to our starting place, the Yaoundé transit house and of all things no running water.

Needless to say we made it to our white sand, warm water and crashing waves. It wasn't a smooth journey, but when is traveling in Cameroon ever smooth? The beach for three days overshadowed the cramped five to a row, stuffy buses with fish juice pouring down the windows onto our heads experience and kept me from an angry place. When not on the beach I stuffed myself with tasty fat fish, pizza, ice cream and a daily Snickers bar. I finally got that infamous tan you are suppose to have when living under the African sun, but I had failed to get from living in a Muslim village where I am obliged to keep my knees and shoulders covered at all times. And I got to sit on the beach with a glass of wine, watching the nightlights reflect off the water's surface and laugh my way to an inner peace with good friends. My experiences here have been necessary. They have been tough and a welcome challenge, but every now and then letting go and giving into relaxation is what we all need to help us keep our sanity. Now I am back in village after two days of almost constant travel and I have hit the dirt road of Mandama running.

We left our mark on the hut next tow two other PCVs who hiked last year.

My Postmate Anitha resting on the first day at one of the huts.

Walking up the first day above the cloud cover.

Anitha and the guide during the first day in the forest.

One of the porters did not heed this message and I got a beautiful flower picked in my honor, but I was not so honored.

Bring the Color Back to Education

One of the most striking things about Cameroon is the desert. During the rains all the bare brown trees turn green making the northern half of the country feel like it belongs in a vegetative world. But during the months of February to June, when the earth has forgotten the taste of rain one can see miles through a tree graveyard. It's during this time that I see the most beautiful images of Cameroon. When everything is green and lush we can't pick out the individual beauty of each leaf and it all begins to blend together. Right now when we have no options, when our eyes yearn for a respite from the dreary they land on the most pink flowers or bright teal birds standing out against the brown and grey. Even women are a bright reprieve from the drab; pagne waving in motion with their legs as they walk home from the fields becomes a moving canvas in a dusty rock gallery. When you see that, you can be nothing but in awe.

In the same way I feel Northern Cameroon is in a perpetual state of arid dullness while everything south of the grand north is vibrant with color. Even within my own village the two extremes exist. Anyone who has passed the Catholic Mission is struck senseless by the color; red, orange, yellow, purple, red flowers; oranges, mangos, papayas; the beautifully illustrated walls of the kindergarten alive with giraffes, lions and elephants. Soon as you pass by those gates you are left with the disturbingly pink Camtel building and the rest of the faded and forgotten. The most depressing buildings for me to pass belong to the children of Mandama. The elementary school, which in comparison to other villages is faring well, still fades into the dirt which lies outside each classroom's door. Many times I have wondered how a child could go from the impossible western style kindergarten at the Mission with its toys and stimulating colors to the cracking and dirty walls of the elementary. It's like they are priming students for a great intellectual and exciting experience only to graduate them to the deepest part of the dungeon. Now this is only my perspective, but I have found that children tend to behave better, pay more attention and participate in a welcoming and cared for environment. Having a maintained school means you care about the school and those who use it. Having a colorful school means you wish to stimulate a child's brain. I have often imagined drenching that school in Pollock like paintings just to give it some color, but the answer ended up serving more than just my hope for color.
When I first came to Mandama I spent a lot of time doing needs assessments with different organizations and community structures. I had a chance during this time to talk with the director and teachers of the elementary in Mandama and the surrounding villages. When I asked what was missing at each school that would enable the staff to more effectively educate their students everyone said educative materials. This was evident the moment you stepped into any classroom, the bare walls adorned only with an aged chalkboard. I was aware of the lack of didactic materials early on in my service having visited schools while still in training. I thought the lack of materials was a problem, but did the teachers? During one conversation a school director gave me examples of what he wanted, posters of the human body, the different systems, muscular, nervous, etc. I started to think after that how I could obtain these in French. The few materials I have seen looked to be from the 1970's and the few materials people sent me from the states didn't seem to translate into the village context. Simple things like drawings of fruit don't translate. Although apples exist in Cameroon they are very rare in village and are never the red variety and oranges are never orange, but usually yellow or green colored. I started to think they needed personalized materials, ones that translated easily for the children. In Hawaii as an Outreach Counselor I led a group of kids in a mural project representing the diverse background of the people living on the islands. Art is always something I enjoy doing with and for others and decided to propose to the director in Mandama that we create our own materials in the form of movable murals.

Today there hangs 24 murals of various sizes at the elementary. Subjects include personal hygiene, the water cycle, slavery, human skeleton, parts of the body, plant life cycle, the transmission of malaria, etc. The project was supported by the community with contributions from various sources, but large in part to my landlord who donated a large sum. The project was also funded largely by the generous donation of pennies from one elementary school in Sacramento, CA. Five other Peace Corps volunteers came for two to three days to assist with the paint and drawing process while community members aided in the prep work.

The murals were painted on ply wood canvases reinforced with a wooden frame. They range in sizes from ¾m x ¾m to as large as 2 ¾m x 1m. We used oil paints and finished the canvases off with varnish to protect them from the Harmattan dust and children's dirty fingers. This project had several advantages over traditional store bought materials and wall murals: Village specific designs using village landscapes, dress and culture; movable so any teacher can use them in their lessons; durable and long lasting in a dusty and harsh environment and reversible (potential to add ply wood to other side and create 25 new murals).

A health mural highlighting the importance of brushing teeth for the 1st grade classroom. These pictures were taken before the writing was painted on.

This mural is for 1st grade as well. Later I wrote in the names for the parts of the body.

A Map of Africa for the 6th grade classroom, with Cameroon respresented in the colors of its flag. Names were written in later for all countries.

Some of the other Peace Corps Volunteers who came to my house to help me paint.

My house, mid-project.