tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31407372813983078422024-03-04T23:46:57.401-08:00Changing, Hoping the World Changes With MeHeaded in the right direction, destination: CAMEROON
"The contents of this website are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the U.S. government or the Peace Corps."Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-69634814506772239962010-06-25T03:06:00.001-07:002010-06-25T03:06:16.064-07:00Purple Rain, Candy Coated Raindrops<span xmlns=''><p>The clouds that appeared out of a blue sunny sky in under an hour's time looked as if they would open up and give my village relief, but I knew better than to trust dark grey clouds. The day before the winds picked up, tossing pagne skirts and spraying dust into our eyes. Lightening lit up the sky Las Vegas style while thunder grumbled in the bellies of the clouds. This theater started up around noon time, a very convincing act that fooled me two other times that day into thinking we were finally getting some relief from the two week long draught we are still suffering from. I am concerned and at times I think I might be more concerned than the villagers. I wake hoping the sky is already filled with clouds, make periodic checks during the day and am developing a cramp in my neck from looking up too often. I use to get excited at the sight of clouds, but now the numerous false alarms have turned me rather pessimistic and cynical. I use to be the one telling my neighbors that it looks like rain, but now when they tell me rain is on the way I just laugh and say "I'll believe it when I see it." Villagers are remaining calm even though some of them are in danger of losing their crops and may have to replant if they have the ability and resources. Even though I am a health volunteer the lack of rain also affects my work. Fewer water sources means more water contamination, more people sick with diarrhea and worms, but it also means I have to hold off on my nutrition project where I will be planting a variety of tree who's leaves have the capability to end malnutrition in my village. <br /></p><p>The first time I brought up the subject of rain it was with my counterpart's wife. Fadimatou is a fairly young girl probably in her late teens or early twenties (most people don't know their exact ages) who I have often talked to about many cultural aspects of Cameroonian village life and American culture. She, like many Mandamans, believes in sorcery and sorcerers who according to her are now at work preventing the rain from falling on Mandama. My first reactions to sorcery after settling in Mandama was to nod and change the subject, later when my French got better I started to explain that I didn't believe it to be real, but now after my almost two years here I am starting to understand its importance in village life. I must confess that when I came to Mandama I was chalk full of ideas and a vision of how this volunteer thing should be carried out and started out on a path that I laid down without even knowing the terrain. You have already heard of some of my failures and frustrations and it was these that have led me to be more cautious and speculative. I have found that after my deflation I was able to see my village more clearly; I became more content to sit around and ask questions, observe and learn. When the conversation of sorcery came up this time I set in on Fadimatou who is a person whom always tries to find answers to my questions and whom I love to push to think critically and objectively during our conversations. I asked every question I could think to ask: Where do they live? Why do they withhold the rain? How does one become a sorcerer of rain? How does he stop and start the rain? How often does this happen? From her husband, my counterpart, I also asked about the rain and was surprised when I got much of the same answers.<br /></p><p>Abdou, besides being my counterpart, is a staff member at the high school. I asked Abdou to be my counterpart because he has on many occasions demonstrated the most forward thinking I have encountered in village. He is always one-step ahead of me in agricultural practices, is the president of the HIV/AIDS village committee, he has borrowed books from me concerning female and male contraception he wants to introduce at the high school and has an incredible tact for business. When I asked him about the whereabouts of the rain he responded in much the same way as Fadimatou, launching into an explanation about the man who is preventing the rain from falling. In addition to my counterpart I have also had similar discussions with the Director of the CETIC (a technical training high school) and a nurse. The first observation that is always made is about the man in Mandama who refuses to let it rain. From children to the wealthiest man to the university educated woman, the belief in sorcery is held among all villagers. From these conversations I have gathered some stories about these men who stop the rain. They are everyday men with farms and wives, their only special power is the ability to induce and stop rain. They stop the rain by retracting some type of stick from their yard when clouds start to form; without the stick the rain cannot fall. Villagers will sometimes collect money, 120,000 cfa ($250) according to one source, or sacks of grain and animals, and offer this to the man in hopes that he will allow the rain to start. Supposedly these men withhold rain because they believe someone is sleeping with their wife or that someone has stolen something from them. Last year our village chief asked the man not to withhold rain and if he did he would ask the local police to arrest him on the village's behalf. The matter of sorcery extends beyond the man who can stop rain; it is also the reason for deaths, illnesses, injuries, crop failure and other malevolence at the village level. Sorcery is an engrained belief that has affected village life since before Islam and Christianity converted many of these villagers' ancestors. The belief, despite the contradicting practices of Islam and Christianity, of sorcery has successfully created a religious syncretism that is not uncommon in other parts of the world where tribal beliefs are dominated and almost destroyed by fundamental religions.<br /></p><p>Throughout my conversations I have been trying to push away my skepticism, science and ethnocentrism. For me sorcery conjures up images of Disney movie villans, red apples and sleeping beauties. I try to pick apart all these stories and ask so many questions, to which only a hand full can be answered. My analytical and logical brain is having a hard time processing and believing in sorcery. I guess one needs to look beyond the science, the 'facts.' We might look into our own beliefs and see seemingly unbelievable occurrences. Catholics believe in the rising of Jesus from the dead and the drinking of his blood and eating of his flesh every Sunday. There are even those who believe that after you die you will come back to this earth as another living creature, that coffee is sinful or that we are all descendants of an alien race. There are a lot of different beliefs out there and a man having the ability to stop rain isn't one of the more outrageous ones. According to villagers there are other ways to bring the rain.<br /></p><p>During the first weeks of the draught, while laying in my bed reading around 8pm I heard villagers singing in the familiar call and response style. This is not out of the ordinary; I have heard the children running up and down my street and around the neighborhood many times at night singing. This time however, I was able to pick up a little of what they were singing with my limited Fulfulde. I lay in my bed listening to the girls asking Allah to bring rain, "Allah wartan iyeende" for about an hour. The next morning my neighbor Haoua told me she pumped four buckets of water for them, soaking them as a sacrifice to Allah. Other sessions like this will take place in other villages usually after two weeks of no rain. In the event of a month without rain an all day prayer session will take place at the main mosque in Mandama culminating in the killing of a goat or sheep, with the meat being distributed to the villagers. Everyone seems to taking the lack of rain calmly and with an air of familiarity I can't muster. I am trying to settle down and take on a Zen like demeanor, but I decided to offer up my own form of aid.<br /></p><p>Yesterday I made my own effort to bring the rain, American style. I figured if the young girls, the elites and the men and women were all doing their part to make it rain then I had to offer up something as well. My ideas of rain dances are wholly informed by what little I have seen and heard about Native American cultural practices. I felt music should be involved, songs that invoke rain would be a start since I am at a loss of what types of body movements might entice the clouds the give up their water. I took my mini speakers and IPod out to my back steps deciding that a search for 'rain' in my IPod's search feature might yield some cloud pleasing melodies. I started my entreaty with a song that I often sang last rainy season when the humidity became unbearable and drudged up the lyrics from my memory. I started off with the Temptations' "I Wish it would Rain", not to in order to hide my tear drops, but the sweat that continues to trickle down my face and body. I followed them with Jill Scotts "Love Rain", Prince's "Purple Rain" and Soul For Real's "Candy Rain." I will take the rain anyway I can get it, purple, black, gum drops or skittles. I rounded out my rain chant with the theme song from "Singing in the Rain" and the Hawaiian singer IZ's rendition of "Somewhere over the Rainbow." As I sat on the steps singing to the clouds and myself, a few drops did fall. The clouds ended up passing Mandama by however and left me debating whether next time I should go all out with choreographed dance steps and a better sound system. I guess the real question is whether I believe in all our entreaties, bribes to the local sorcerers, late night call and response sessions and all day prayer sessions. As of now I am still undecided, but I am becoming more of a believer every draught filled day.</p></span>Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-38742206670083434382010-05-22T09:33:00.000-07:002010-05-23T07:07:31.355-07:00One thing I have always lamented, after arriving at my post, was the lack of Daba cultural identity I encountered in my village. The village does maintain a since of the pre-colonial feel in the mud huts and farming practices, but that is out of poverty, not a sense of cultural meaning. It seems like most places I turn here I encounter home. U.S. rappers decorate the shirts of the youth, Elhaji’s are wearing knockoff Prada sunglasses and Obama seems to be tattooed on my forehead for the amount of times people call me his name. I’m not saying I wanted to see naked women dancing in grass skirts and bones through noses. I wanted to see what makes the Daba people Daba. How are they distinguishable from the hundreds of ethnic groups that exist within the borders of Cameroon? <br /><br />I got my first glimpse in December. Sometimes at night I will hear drums, a distant beat that lets me know history is still living. Most of the time the drums are from the children at the church getting in a late night dance and drum session or from a marriage. One night, hearing the drums were close, I was asked by my neighbor if I had ever seen a Daba funeral. I immediately perked up as a photograph in my memory resurfaced. I was shown by one of the Grands in my village a picture of a Daba burial. A photo of a figure, human-like shaped, but much simpler and malleable. The figure reminded me of a life-sized rag doll made from someone’s entire wardrobe, tied up by its extremities by some gruel older brother at the torment of his younger sister. The rag doll, I was explained, was once a man, a very prominent and rich man of the Daba people and the clothes, his coffin. <br /><br />I have begun to believe I am on a cusp. I have been placed in my village in a crucial period where a shift from the traditional to the modern can be felt in the fading frequency of funeral drums. I have seen many elders in village, mostly women, walking around with what I assume to be remnants of their culture; ropes tied around their half-naked bodies, wooden cylinders protruding from their bottom lips and their minimalist dancing style often brought out for fetes. I often ask what it all means. In response I have gotten little to help me understand the Daba; the responses from the women and their families are typically a variation of “It’s what the older people do” with no explanation close to why they do it? <br /><br />I can’t say I came any closer to understanding this particular Daba practice even though I tried to ask as many questions as I could about the one Daba funeral I attended in December. Following the sound of the drums and flames of the bonfires, several neighbors escorted me to the 3 all day, all night vigil. I shy away from village gatherings as a rule because my skin seems to attract the attention away from those for whom it’s meant. I felt that the cover of darkness might allow me to fade into the crowd. I felt somewhat anonymous sitting in the large semi-circle of women and men watching the elderly women dance in their tight moving circle. The Daba dancing is a shuffle, a fast dragging of one stiff leg accompanied with a constant shrugging of shoulders that I am convinced done anywhere outside the context and confines of village life would look a lot like a cripple with a tic. Keeping watching over the night’s festivities, obscured by the mud hut on whose side she rested, was the former women, the rag doll. I could see rag doll legs and arms filling the darkness, stretching out towards the dancing women, but nothing more. My neighbors refused to approach her, what they called the ‘cadaver,’ out of fear. My curiosity wasn’t enough to break down the wall of anonymity that I enjoyed as a result of the darkness. I knew from questioning that I had three days in which to see her and each day she would become fatter and heavier under the weight of clothing.<br /><br />Dabas are buried. Before they enter the earth they are wrapped or dressed in multiple layers of used clothing bought at local markets. These are the clothes that Cameroonians buy and that once graced the interiors of American and European closets and then were donated to charities under the assumption that they would be given to the people of other nations for free. Why do they wrap them in clothing? No one could tell me. On the end of the third day they are then buried, sometimes in a concrete slab if they are rich, or just in the dirt. They are to be buried with all their possessions. I was told to use a ‘cadavers’’ possessions is to invite haunting and bad luck. When asked whether the graves get robbed, the answer was yes, all the time. If your thinking this sounds a lot like Egyptian burials I would agree with you. <br /><br />But now to the picture. Most of the time I am concerned that attending village fetes with my camera I will be crossing some line, invading the sacred and private with my foreign inquiries. It seems that when I worry like that it’s usually the Cameroonians who turn the events into a public spectacle. The next day I exited my house with the intention of capturing Daba life and sharing it digitally. I wanted to make sure people were consulted and asked permission before I went into photographer mode. Every inquiry was met with “of course” and “why are you asking.” As soon as the camera emerged from its case people were jumping in line to take a picture with the ‘cadaver.’ Children crowded around, nudged their way into the adult’s pictures and gave those famous unsmiling faces they like to give to all awaiting photographers. Then it was my turn. Not scared, but maybe slightly uncomfortable, I slowly lowered myself down onto the edge of the bed and assumed the non-smiling position. In the untrained hands of my neighbor my camera captured what is probably one of my most interesting pictures, which I now share with you…..enjoy!<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvKX6VN64oD8H3-QHmOPHTbN2TujEFJvt3yXUKF8S6HI_Bt9GZMygkau2HLa7pp6cU_tQ7FRGa4iqW2DV62bOYIU39qAXhwC7iZw_i9-OPKvzr4vzC7RXqFYKWt46k_tpyFnc8bEKJAHvr/s1600/IMG_0760.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474465723977487314" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvKX6VN64oD8H3-QHmOPHTbN2TujEFJvt3yXUKF8S6HI_Bt9GZMygkau2HLa7pp6cU_tQ7FRGa4iqW2DV62bOYIU39qAXhwC7iZw_i9-OPKvzr4vzC7RXqFYKWt46k_tpyFnc8bEKJAHvr/s200/IMG_0760.JPG" /></a><br /><div><br /><br /> </div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqAOPXGGeSdnawJalKgYmIqIwBNe41qVMibU1Q6WPHk3ou-ZxOx9Dcm2mCIBK1dkdZQZtjP4alJpIsnx2x0J4l4KImbDv5_3gGprm4oqORLLi7hCQpclqTKZ-fzq2mpD6NHfnsrTx3zxRZ/s1600/IMG_0755.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 260px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 195px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474134402144177938" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqAOPXGGeSdnawJalKgYmIqIwBNe41qVMibU1Q6WPHk3ou-ZxOx9Dcm2mCIBK1dkdZQZtjP4alJpIsnx2x0J4l4KImbDv5_3gGprm4oqORLLi7hCQpclqTKZ-fzq2mpD6NHfnsrTx3zxRZ/s200/IMG_0755.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div>Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-27179867886930387552010-04-18T06:47:00.001-07:002010-04-18T06:47:56.547-07:00Global Citizen on the Verge<span xmlns=''><p>I'm going to admit it. I am thoroughly unfocused and lacking in ambition to continue my work. I am right on schedule it seems with most of the volunteers before me. And like them, I am certain; I thought this fate wouldn't befall me. There are many factors that have contributed to the hesitation to step outside my door in the mornings and my procrastination to complete simple tasks. Recently I visited my sister in London and what a vacation it was. I actually spent the time being a tourist and seeing the sights, eating until my belly hurt on the diverse food selections and falling in love with a multi-cultural city. I've been out before, but that was to home, to the familiar, to my sister's wedding and gift shopping. The first time wasn't really a vacation, but a brief sojourn into who I use to be. This time I felt the possibilities, saw what my life could be like after Peace Corps and I am deflated at the prospect of 8 more months. Another factor in my lack of ambition, lack of action, lack of caring is that I have returned to another failure. Yes there have been many. I have failed more times than I have succeeded and I knew at least that when I chose to come to Cameroon. Us Peace Corps Volunteers are of the kind that sees failures as necessary, as invaluable learning experiences that will make us informed global citizens ready to give our two cents on how to really make development sustainable. This new failure has maybe been the one to push me close enough to the edge, close enough make out the depressions and insanity below.<br /></p><p>Before leaving I helped a mixed group of women plan events for the International Women's Day on the 8<sup>th</sup> of March. I tried to bring together different groups, a different village, young and old, Muslims and Christians. With the busy schedules of women, the cooking, the cleaning, the trips to the river, the pump and then more meals and an endless supply of infantile energy swarming around you at all times, its hard to get women to come and sit down for an hour meeting. I did manage to get quiet a few women's groups to come to the meeting where I laid out my plan for the 8<sup>th</sup> of March. I wanted them to work together, think of new activities they could create to get away from the usual soccer games, marches and dances. I made my suggestions, we approved the activities and then mistakenly fell into a haphazard election where I ended up as the treasurer and the typical president. I say the typical president because this women is the president of the first women's association in Mandama that has been functioning, but with a serious lack of transparency and is made up of members from wives of all the "grands" or bigwigs in my village. People have been telling me stories, enough to put me on alert, but I refuse to make judgments about people until I see evidence firsthand. The 8<sup>th</sup> of March gave me the evidence I needed. Before I said farewell to the ladies on the 6<sup>th</sup> of March I handed over my treasurer duties to the secretary and president, outlining how they were to keep track of all expenses and donations. They both nodded in agreement, with me asking several times if they understood. I left with confidence, but my impending vacation was looming too large obscuring my view of what now seems the obvious. I returned not to stories of success, but of many women pointing a finger to several events failures at the actions of the president. Gifts I had donated to competition winners were mixed up and given suspiciously to women of her group, leaving other winners hastily bought packaged cookies, money that was donated wasn't logged and expenses were not accounted for as discussed. <br /></p><p>Even more recently Mandama was the beneficiary of over a 1000 free mosquito nets by a number of international donors. The campaign seemed well put together, although maybe lacking in the pre-education campaign part. To make a long story short about a 1/8 have been reported as sold to Nigerian traders for about the equivalent of a $1, when I know they cost a lot more than that to manufacture and transport. I find consolation in the fact that at least Nigerian's will be protected from Malaria this season. I also like that several people I talked to were visibly upset that some of their fellow villagers were selling bed nets that could have been theirs. At least some of them care. <br /></p><p>I don't think I am becoming pessimistic. I think that I am becoming more pensive and maybe leaning towards the idea that money and things need to stop being thrown at the problems here. We need more education and information, that is all.<br /></p><p><br /> </p></span>Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-77701257388117266432010-02-17T02:41:00.001-08:002010-02-17T03:18:41.364-08:00From the Summit to the Waves<div><div><div><div> <div>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. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />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. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />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. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />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. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />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. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />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.<br />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. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />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." </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />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. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />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. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyvWAzVDJx3qSGaGQYgDvczdJbXtQTAEOszuli6nP2KKAH6VWai4_NbAiMKq8nvw2aoUM2ni4XdEbYJC9SHP1E2Wamj8kLBGwv35LruentC7LMn3an76hYD4Ve0S6eg9ob6wilpmYBQ5XZ/s1600-h/IMG_1013.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439162580780863490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyvWAzVDJx3qSGaGQYgDvczdJbXtQTAEOszuli6nP2KKAH6VWai4_NbAiMKq8nvw2aoUM2ni4XdEbYJC9SHP1E2Wamj8kLBGwv35LruentC7LMn3an76hYD4Ve0S6eg9ob6wilpmYBQ5XZ/s200/IMG_1013.JPG" /></a> We left our mark on the hut next tow two other PCVs who hiked last year.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNNU5pMEHPzaDaGsVu5IKgdJPT8BA0HJMwj8zubWvFXdueiLnMZLH5lw-oCeLUQNhHfRukNsokcizvMbJcjhBGLaYnXeyrFJ38NOVC9DTOuclVJ2vEwxJ-xCVvjOZWityae2DLDctdVsoY/s1600-h/IMG_0996.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439162571651961394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNNU5pMEHPzaDaGsVu5IKgdJPT8BA0HJMwj8zubWvFXdueiLnMZLH5lw-oCeLUQNhHfRukNsokcizvMbJcjhBGLaYnXeyrFJ38NOVC9DTOuclVJ2vEwxJ-xCVvjOZWityae2DLDctdVsoY/s200/IMG_0996.JPG" /></a><br />My Postmate Anitha resting on the first day at one of the huts.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixVbcT4kACyYGAXkTrwoSPuo9-3dRXiJbm4L2casYIHXo0jwy2-KJug2SLnnZlTeWq98hsDCzRtoJGjbaIEBY8geTjoslKGJsfHnvvLvAhc1cZmayfcP5SaWx8jdnPBsk_M9PsyN_elCgj/s1600-h/IMG_0990.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439162566603917138" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixVbcT4kACyYGAXkTrwoSPuo9-3dRXiJbm4L2casYIHXo0jwy2-KJug2SLnnZlTeWq98hsDCzRtoJGjbaIEBY8geTjoslKGJsfHnvvLvAhc1cZmayfcP5SaWx8jdnPBsk_M9PsyN_elCgj/s200/IMG_0990.JPG" /></a> Walking up the first day above the cloud cover.<br /><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyNZ__ttQzDVmHcSP4-vStEQvpsxsp2DvkGdbX5M6QzmeEZuI_XZTs0kpybNHabaua9BstT8J47rpV1hXuQo1vaAmYk0mwx-49vc_Exdz7AZHmjrD2mSJjzzg5jJBfQMexDyR7PpHmD2bQ/s1600-h/IMG_0978.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439162564431101890" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyNZ__ttQzDVmHcSP4-vStEQvpsxsp2DvkGdbX5M6QzmeEZuI_XZTs0kpybNHabaua9BstT8J47rpV1hXuQo1vaAmYk0mwx-49vc_Exdz7AZHmjrD2mSJjzzg5jJBfQMexDyR7PpHmD2bQ/s200/IMG_0978.JPG" /></a> Anitha and the guide during the first day in the forest.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhzEdud2jlrJnTYpx6VTVPUgITaK423Tnd7tuItfZBUwcVgSW7FJQsvSZfhI-L7OuDKTq0-FTq54_zk47clMiPajXX1p-qnmLoF5c1_A5oqTZ5xYej0QLKGBvcViz11jum8V1GQP3u7x7f/s1600-h/IMG_0973.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439162559845646578" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhzEdud2jlrJnTYpx6VTVPUgITaK423Tnd7tuItfZBUwcVgSW7FJQsvSZfhI-L7OuDKTq0-FTq54_zk47clMiPajXX1p-qnmLoF5c1_A5oqTZ5xYej0QLKGBvcViz11jum8V1GQP3u7x7f/s200/IMG_0973.JPG" /></a> 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.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHYbwr25CfSJudCVFuR0fbXTNbghyphenhyphenE-FIBcCSG38qam7MoQ7ld7SQSxQdGQOQytdBwK1i-QKESAToQespymoul2kh8kU6mr4uj34CI0-WGRQfQwr5aH7uTjuBOtDlSgnPCRa9ZCDa5brRr/s1600-h/IMG_1088.JPG"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7umKyxY9gL237JBsgrCfb-Vf08OrLUWMIbGg-KdFEo84Pc5v04FUvmmkZZVrTpxVT5QMNg3ZOqAreo0N3iNcNYABqxz4uks_7Htzwe4IJCcx8raw8pr75zdleeXH3uPqsVe3DyNCsO5Dg/s1600-h/IMG_1049.JPG"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7osgPiKWfNSo5-gf6e5s3XgykCt1tNRp_T-RlNjvu29768vEb7y7Hs1YaYd6tDHjPeKHthVZ0d0eSidQ_1icxvCE5LAFH9y9N35d-KmZlfMkRQyQ4iRKey9GG3hwfeEzsWg_jKfmZtHp1/s1600-h/IMG_1041.JPG"></a><br /><a 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xmlns=""><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-80316513965323375952010-02-17T02:17:00.001-08:002010-02-17T02:33:57.117-08:00Bring the Color Back to EducationOne 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.<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf64T_pfkImUvrGAhAvLa12eWEfMydrl-SDzUn41gncuABajpG5nM5Sp4V-bb0RKJuMQZ-KjT57rFfs-YlCb3dRE_PxwHkf9WOgCKpvxgGJOgJg4z2WTAmpcz4Q8LlG86GcYMUqCq6SijG/s1600-h/IMG_0904.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439156544660513938" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf64T_pfkImUvrGAhAvLa12eWEfMydrl-SDzUn41gncuABajpG5nM5Sp4V-bb0RKJuMQZ-KjT57rFfs-YlCb3dRE_PxwHkf9WOgCKpvxgGJOgJg4z2WTAmpcz4Q8LlG86GcYMUqCq6SijG/s200/IMG_0904.JPG" /></a> A health mural highlighting the importance of brushing teeth for the 1st grade classroom. These pictures were taken before the writing was painted on.<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWzYlTDUdtytEB72uTV5Hv0NMEVIx5JWwSD3tG6FnRzwZDjaEGOZcDEK6ETyiBb3SlyC-YdoooWeOGv3WvJdQy8Hn6qKSwUoh1txPSKvNig-YLqMtr5090I72p-wHBHpyH6K2kZS7Yq4Uv/s1600-h/IMG_0894.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439156543101941794" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWzYlTDUdtytEB72uTV5Hv0NMEVIx5JWwSD3tG6FnRzwZDjaEGOZcDEK6ETyiBb3SlyC-YdoooWeOGv3WvJdQy8Hn6qKSwUoh1txPSKvNig-YLqMtr5090I72p-wHBHpyH6K2kZS7Yq4Uv/s200/IMG_0894.JPG" /></a> This mural is for 1st grade as well. Later I wrote in the names for the parts of the body.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPC8HmQISXydyjKrW-b6qchd9LY-EYfNk4j1R55ez6BUZCwOPI_BDLQW0PFKEM_iEHRY_xOWCDgDiC9NmZvf5DtEiAHDDhFtdYfz8iU9Tis-T2EIFdBHR9iWsdwwZ3CEwd4q8hIHr0TU24/s1600-h/IMG_0889.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 156px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439156537465385346" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPC8HmQISXydyjKrW-b6qchd9LY-EYfNk4j1R55ez6BUZCwOPI_BDLQW0PFKEM_iEHRY_xOWCDgDiC9NmZvf5DtEiAHDDhFtdYfz8iU9Tis-T2EIFdBHR9iWsdwwZ3CEwd4q8hIHr0TU24/s200/IMG_0889.JPG" /></a> 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.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ekfT94SixbZJyxNF-QmherO4HsMpGnzbm7RVxtNt32aZiJ2r9dSFO_aYDjFQvxV_n_o3H5MJ5qSXIhzZRtPe4EgJe8Ki4eVHhiRu7G2gvS_bRcKrX8Pe0dqdDbtBZ0bTp9r1WuTyZXtG/s1600-h/IMG_0862.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439156533192808050" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ekfT94SixbZJyxNF-QmherO4HsMpGnzbm7RVxtNt32aZiJ2r9dSFO_aYDjFQvxV_n_o3H5MJ5qSXIhzZRtPe4EgJe8Ki4eVHhiRu7G2gvS_bRcKrX8Pe0dqdDbtBZ0bTp9r1WuTyZXtG/s200/IMG_0862.JPG" /></a> Some of the other Peace Corps Volunteers who came to my house to help me paint.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439156525464231410" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiziDh4723YfTRdlrNFV5sB-TOqVjnTOB1LiCIlucbeuMP2qNPbJbRcuMckGuvvRqFHW86qi0TSly1qL6nQPCuPSYSeGgqonEiy_5Ol1CrYPD2agkdcgEzX5btBlzbMUev0C58EgYZandn6/s200/IMG_6582.JPG" />My house, mid-project.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span xmlns=""><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></div></div></div></div></div>Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-79285599096463207362009-12-23T09:03:00.000-08:002009-12-23T09:10:34.265-08:00Some things are never meant to get easierI 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />May we count our blessings everyday...Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-15192027090697034502009-12-05T00:52:00.000-08:002009-12-05T00:54:18.482-08:00Sorry 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.”<br />…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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />Since I returned on October 28, 2009:<br /><br />Slaughter House-Five Kurt Vonnegut<br />Siddhartha Hermann Hesse<br />The Bell Jar Sylvia Plath<br />East of Eden John Steinbeck<br />The Stranger Albert Camus<br />The Monkey House Kurt VonnegutKauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-18256997439710781602009-08-14T02:21:00.000-07:002009-08-14T03:31:49.524-07:00Rains down in CameroonIts been awhile I know. I have many excuses so let me get into them.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-27013749066248675802009-06-15T04:41:00.000-07:002009-06-15T04:43:14.347-07:00Will I say I lived in Africa or Cameroon?<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">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).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I know people say it out of ignorance or without really thinking, but lets examine why that happens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As an example I give Cameroon and its neighbors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Similarities range from ethnic background, languages and cultures to agricultural techniques and crop variations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Secondly, I point to three books that I have read while serving here, which talk about life in Togo, Nigeria and Nambia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Is it lack of education?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I can’t remember discussing much of Africa as a whole in school let alone specific countries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Or deep down do we see the lines that colonizer drew over Africa as arbitrary?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So what's going on a post?<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes when we pray for answers we forget that God doesn’t always answer you the same day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was devastated recently when I came home from a weeklong trip to the capitol, Yaounde.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Several weeks before I left I started to plant things in my backyard.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My mother sent me seeds for cucumbers, zucchini, tomatoes (the big juice kind you can’t find here), four different types of sunflowers, etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I cleared about 1/3 of my backyard and already started to see a few things growing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Every time I walked by my zucchini and my corn my mind reeled with all the edible possibilities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There is just nothing to compare them to here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I even saw that my sunflowers were coming up and relished the change of my drab backyard over wrought with stalky flowers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Now before I left I had bought weed killer from our local market, which a organization that buys cotton from villagers was selling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Not only did he kill my weeds, but every living thing, save three lonely corn stalks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This spray was so powerful it killed some of my nursery plants and made others droop beyond recovery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It killed neighboring leaves on trees helping one mark the path of its destruction as it floated on the wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And then my life got worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So you can see why I was devastated and why for two days I barely left my house or talked to anyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Then a few days later I decided to pick myself up and start over.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>On that same day as I passed my old garden I happened to glimpse a row of plants that couldn’t have been weeds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Unlike the other bare mounds of earth that produced nothing there was a row of what looked like peanut plants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A row of something actually survived the herbicide probably cause they hadn’t started to grow until after he sprayed the chemicals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If nothing else decides to come up, I am okay with that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I still have another year of planting and lessons have been learned from this experience so what more can you ask for.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-1412331736478813922009-05-27T00:50:00.000-07:002009-05-27T01:18:08.214-07:00Rain, Sweet Rain<div><div><div><div>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.<br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />Now, some more randomness……<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.</div><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><div>And now some random pictures......</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340409754018361810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeJ-asAKawPCyo8_MJsn1SYSxfL4gr7anI9sRHPWozV5PyNZSddMA-5nzu4YG6l_WrZ6Nz0kIOMfbGUWU_Bf3Z8E5s7ZQ3rM_rIMB1_dFh0p-TYy6a4dqJ5dgYWkEAD_pvUOnL5iQhIylB/s200/k's+pics+2+089.jpg" border="0" /></div><br /><br /><br /><p>Me and the women's group president's daughter during International Women's Day</p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340410277980727202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw7Ti97gFd1dVD4X3_iS23oE16Kn18noNOYzL_AT3vPn3VxpiTtG8Z7hw9SVPmhroAALVb_6hrQtnIqo_jU-ootMICWqQ9vxeJ4qh3eR7GwzI5vVOQmbNb7Ag2ZtXMRd9_xJwUye1XsLAw/s200/k's+pics+2+096.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><p>Women carrying cotton on their heads to get it weighed for selling</p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340411655761360210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN2W7jbDFdmTKMTfPVK2X3PZZwR8T3GJugg8-r4IUEIeyvEBL-AwSyBUIljp1Bq9WfLLHV1kDRm6OvvLLh3ZuJ0Ao-lMDiXQOneONfFEA5fFUIS2ZJyGUrLqDzsW0VIg1MkRjxzmgJH_nx/s200/cameroon+080.jpg" border="0" />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.<br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340412666737849874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 134px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyvfnonvO61Y-Q8QyAjwlr6yhXGISOvr9E1IqfmhaLfLFsW71vi5Qm_5UiTUjUO9iWZr9rY9Yn7mhrqsQ89DfVTCduWkjyodYMN4qxWwdF6XKcNiOOk4ZtiU6YftTjBHViEDD6jYakSF5F/s200/20090520_Lamidos.x2.jpg" border="0" /></p></div></div><br />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.Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-2181821739945789522009-03-20T06:41:00.001-07:002009-03-20T06:48:59.733-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW58tajNIRVSdc-oZJ4U9As5go9QCniV3TZo_9HMSUYu5Kk1UVje5wVXD6cDE0gW9R__xfTR_Dg25t7bkO3M_rtWNTTfPoWCoIhfPQfHmbk_fiVf9Qdn_AKcsy8oAzRfEC1NU-GfAaWCp4/s1600-h/k's+pics+2+043.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW58tajNIRVSdc-oZJ4U9As5go9QCniV3TZo_9HMSUYu5Kk1UVje5wVXD6cDE0gW9R__xfTR_Dg25t7bkO3M_rtWNTTfPoWCoIhfPQfHmbk_fiVf9Qdn_AKcsy8oAzRfEC1NU-GfAaWCp4/s200/k's+pics+2+043.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315265594049692386" /></a>A women turning coucous on a foyer ameloire or improved cookstove at a cooking competition in Douroum<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3hdG5pGuHDmgNRIraK3nt4hRGtOjk39128ZsyB-SrYPcnD5GWMasQQo_wvZEh0uRloc6LZ8mLUGY7gA_2rewru69zQPNDx6tRzfTVyo0GZgXyPJ4JNw75JcuvLDhm5DEHg1HIdR849XsQ/s1600-h/k's+pics+2+035.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3hdG5pGuHDmgNRIraK3nt4hRGtOjk39128ZsyB-SrYPcnD5GWMasQQo_wvZEh0uRloc6LZ8mLUGY7gA_2rewru69zQPNDx6tRzfTVyo0GZgXyPJ4JNw75JcuvLDhm5DEHg1HIdR849XsQ/s200/k's+pics+2+035.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315265585307079346" /></a>Me and a nurse at the health center posing in front of an alter during women's day.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2d1BkO6qaVqgs8zIK61MdKke04n3Pi42Y8icuvHo6cWb2U8k01IrxncObcf6d3C1Hn1pXeNDJkdjop4g66QSb5igkfqxPtR5ZVki4pECs8CK-Rl0-CBFd3w5zY0cQOiccA2yjvCTm9CWZ/s1600-h/k's+pics+2+031.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2d1BkO6qaVqgs8zIK61MdKke04n3Pi42Y8icuvHo6cWb2U8k01IrxncObcf6d3C1Hn1pXeNDJkdjop4g66QSb5igkfqxPtR5ZVki4pECs8CK-Rl0-CBFd3w5zY0cQOiccA2yjvCTm9CWZ/s200/k's+pics+2+031.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315265579924244610" /></a>A classroom at the public school in Mandama (they sometimes have up 60 students in a class)<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5zqBZceN_uxE0S2fvXPo_05ZQgoIaS2tuUWFzleMFx8ApXzmZeyuN5XSPaJbbMuL0S_xLFlEdOP465XWn-QeEpnzMS9YNv7OJA1FkdRSfGK9AwZAlfQHLLtF4gNpZHTeLmedFz0tRfG5w/s1600-h/k's+pics+2+014.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5zqBZceN_uxE0S2fvXPo_05ZQgoIaS2tuUWFzleMFx8ApXzmZeyuN5XSPaJbbMuL0S_xLFlEdOP465XWn-QeEpnzMS9YNv7OJA1FkdRSfGK9AwZAlfQHLLtF4gNpZHTeLmedFz0tRfG5w/s200/k's+pics+2+014.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315265573908891826" /></a>Two girls pumping water at the pump near my house. Hard work, I tried it once.Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-11063905654456875572009-03-20T05:10:00.000-07:002009-03-20T06:40:20.410-07:00HappeningsI decided that in this blog I would just recount some random happenings in Cameroon, enjoy......<div><br /></div><div>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.<div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div></div>Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-88460560160574438522009-02-28T00:32:00.000-08:002009-02-28T00:33:37.655-08:00The Mandama WorkoutIf 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. <br /> 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. <br /> 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. <br /> 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. <br /> 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.Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-8731602777115985032009-01-21T13:18:00.000-08:002009-01-21T14:33:46.798-08:00aka Fadimatou<div><div><div>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).<br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293862694325593570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFyB4AJsmmBFSFEnHNk-ERDxssR8BDQFgBkaYEiGwTdKjB4qH76HayZ9_WE4MTs__ungB1qzqEY5UiQUPs7vcEutBu7AUqFiS11KY8_gjlra372QKeZw-FJ8fkTGoWV_mguAJFYkLlfyHb/s200/kauleen+007.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><div>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.<br /><br /></div><div>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. </div><div> </div><div>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).<br /></div><div>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:<br /></div><div>1) four grown men</div><br /><div>2) Two grown men and a women with a baby on her back<br /></div><div>3) About 20 live chickens strapped to the handles<br /></div><div>4) About 20 large stacked 50 liter jugs</div><br /><div>5) Man holding live goat across lap</div><br /><div>6) The kicker.....the driver, and a bull in an upside down table and then another man on top of that</div><br /><br /><div>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.</div><br /><br /><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293872917146591378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAo-oVAdALqLns5OJ-wH4vi7GkxiUA-Q2JQ3MduSo6wbHRZORLbXHzks5LejbDgEu1G_dmgr2xi2P53bAhHg0jMkuMY-cCX9cNhYKO481h10w39zV2_QruGemTzQ7SYEOrLMFK06vcYsSq/s200/kauleen+005.jpg" border="0" />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.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293874440484810210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXN8ITobs8VInafpH2V0NDBaG5ly6UR-fg5hOxdC9vGkIV3OHetY9ioG64Pd10GaUNz8BT9VbMrqK0cK2VNsMVy3NbuFjU7z5V4LvByx3tKIoFcyOXXZGfSJnrfraHvLPbL2avButMPHsN/s200/kauleen+011.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293875434769175122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVoxOydyvkYbIUSftszfRmWCVzctIGMaTEbV9jSvdiSZax4E1zNFGleUiTnj0auxxVIHY9wJ1CoULlDptW75kMVHbAhYNOuvYChEMu-11Pq08oiH7VSPDP732_niXjG8AqWpLiErhKkJh9/s200/kauleen+014.jpg" border="0" /></div></div></div>Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-32728759014965539882008-12-30T07:11:00.000-08:002008-12-30T07:17:16.407-08:00Mail MESo I have an address and instead of putting it out on my blog for everyone, email me and let me know if you want it <a href="mailto:kauleen@gmail.com">kauleen@gmail.com</a>. I would appreciate anything, letters, newspaper clippings, things I can give away to Cameroonians (which is like anything with Obama on it) or things I can eat or hang in my house. I miss all your faces so photos are always good too! Happy New Years to everyone, I will be celebrating here nine hours before all you California folks.Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-60020345127587808452008-12-25T23:01:00.000-08:002008-12-25T23:02:29.463-08:00ChristmasMerry Christmas everyone! And a Happy New Year! So these last few days have been kinda up and down for me. I am in my village, but have yet to settle into my house. My landlord is being real slow about getting things done and even with my counterpart’s pressure and me bugging him every chance I get, he still is moving at a slow pace to get my walls painted and mosquito netting on my windows. Right now all my stuff is spread out in three places. I have been staying with the Catholic nuns in village and they have been amazing. They give me chocolate, which can seem like such a trivial thing, but when you’re out in the bush even a saltine cracker can seem like something special. I can’t wait to get into my house cause I have been getting furniture made and what an experience that has been. I have drawn some stuff out, but unless you explain to a T there is no guarantee on what things will look like in the end. And then there is the transport; trying to find someone to go out in the bush to deliver furniture is expensive and time consuming. <br /> All last week I got to accompany my counterpart, who works in the lab at the health center in village, out into the surrounding smaller villages for a week long vaccination campaign. People say that I live in the Bush, but I don’t think people have seen some of my surrounding villages. For one, you can only reach some of them by moto or walking and at one point I had to get off the moto and walk up a hill cause it was too steep for two people to ride up. Most of these villages only have one well at best or they search for water in the dry river beds by digging holes. A lot of the children I noticed are mal-nourished and suffering from water related illnesses like stomach worms. I see a lot of potential projects in these small villages and can’t wait to start work. I am looking forward to collaborating with my post mate who is in agro forestry on some soy and moringa projects (check out this wonder plant that grows all over Cameroon!).<br /> So Christmas here is interesting cause for the past three days there has been this overcast of fog or smoke I can’t really tell, but it blocks out the sun and actually makes it slightly chilly. In the morning I have had to wear a sweater and the moto rides are quiet brisk. It really felt like Christmas for me when I was on a moto and I had this real strong smell of food cooking and I thought that food is what makes my holiday, second to family of course. I’m not homesick at all and the volunteers that are here now are awesome to hang out with. We are making the best Christmas possible in a Cameroonian situation.<br /> I hope all is well with you and yours and hopefully next time the internet won’t be so slow and I can upload some more pictures!Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-18947833484020980222008-12-11T04:35:00.000-08:002008-12-11T04:46:44.618-08:00Finally done with StageYes I am still alive! This last few weeks have been crazy for me as I have been finishing Stage (sounds like Sta-ag) and then swearing-in, going to post and now back in the big city for a day. <br /><br />So the last week of Stage was really hectic as I didn’t pass my language exam and ended up doing 20 hours of language to catch up and take another test a day before I swore in. It happened, I passed and swore-in with my fellow, now I can say it, volunteers and I am officially on my own, kinda. So I left the day after I swore-in for my post with four other volunteers in a bush taxi with all of our stuff piled high on top. We were to make a big loop of the north province dropping everybody off with their stuff and I was to be second to last on that trip. The first few hours weren’t bad, dirt road, bumpy and scenic as much as the North can be scenic. We dropped off one and two and then the dirt just seemed to settle on everything, even my mood. The taxi broke down for a few minutes, trying to make it up a sand embankment after crossing a river and then decided to break down a few more times after that. I made it to my house in the afternoon, ran and got a key from my landlord’s son, kicked some random squatter out of my house, locked everything up got back in the taxi because my house has yet to be finished. I have been staying a few days with the Catholic nuns who hosted me during site visit and now I am in the big city to buy a bed so that at least I have something to sleep on. Village thus far isn’t bad. Everybody is glad to see that I came back and thought I abandoned the village, but translations can be deceiving. <br /><br />I have my first official meeting with the health center staff next week to talk about my role in village. Right now I see two major challenges when it comes to that; 1) Everyone thinks I am a doctor or nurse of some sort (or possible a nun since I am around the mission a lot and got called sister yesterday), 2) People think I am there to bring money and answers to all their problems, when I am really just a facilitator/community development worker there to help them see the resources they already have or to help them locate resources outside the community. I have a lot of work ahead of me in terms of trying to furnish and empty cement block in the bush as well as opening up a new post and introducing the idea of Peace Corps to the village. Keep me in your thoughts, the next three months will be a challenge, but one that I am looking forward to facing.Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-17234480649082444212008-11-14T01:49:00.000-08:002008-11-14T02:06:17.893-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqd0xvwx4S5C2hcXxr8la1mxUHSK_Si96G44NR2EqbiWrhg52_fjUQwuDOfJKccUdONpbXzfF7IxvUCSCRHJf1h63XxdtDWihCvG-_OgbMPQQXGDucNNYSSkJ7a7MJe-xwBTdq4Tx0xxyD/s1600-h/Kauleen+photo+086.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268452114828995426" style="WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqd0xvwx4S5C2hcXxr8la1mxUHSK_Si96G44NR2EqbiWrhg52_fjUQwuDOfJKccUdONpbXzfF7IxvUCSCRHJf1h63XxdtDWihCvG-_OgbMPQQXGDucNNYSSkJ7a7MJe-xwBTdq4Tx0xxyD/s200/Kauleen+photo+086.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>My village! This is the mayo (fulfulde for river) that runs next top my village. It is fairly rocky here and you can see giant rounded boulders on all the hillsides, which are a mix of green and yellow vegetation right now.</div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSikou2F0HZ7Yyl7eq1o3WEIVrryJxPr_oayQwsG-aCsiWss0VXwhKNywFoQtnn2RTZCEvSXyUVKfyiyUV8wsqXKfLFvlrYvU1_G-PjyOr0ATyteauh5TGTBKJCFJGS4U-B4BDJzhsXZPJ/s1600-h/Kauleen+photo+050.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268451105821910594" style="WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSikou2F0HZ7Yyl7eq1o3WEIVrryJxPr_oayQwsG-aCsiWss0VXwhKNywFoQtnn2RTZCEvSXyUVKfyiyUV8wsqXKfLFvlrYvU1_G-PjyOr0ATyteauh5TGTBKJCFJGS4U-B4BDJzhsXZPJ/s200/Kauleen+photo+050.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>The fans got excited, but it wasn't like a game in Brasil. There were no chants except for the "Ole" and only a few people had their body painted or were wearing the team colors. There was however if you can see in this photo a man walking around with and areasol can that he was using as a flame thrower. That was pretty intense and my thoughts were shared by the gendarme (like local police) who made him leave.</div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTMYcUFfv76O-pafRL9mvn1lXMwMMNwDhFtEKKgYYzBemhGTLeBKuhIx_KdJPAI8rHXk1UPHFnSjgPsLqADdBfQfNi_enctm4nkEeHSdmd5Qe1mb82Go50YzIAOAbQ10LkAoHulYAqg8LV/s1600-h/Kauleen+photo+043.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268449826025141938" style="WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTMYcUFfv76O-pafRL9mvn1lXMwMMNwDhFtEKKgYYzBemhGTLeBKuhIx_KdJPAI8rHXk1UPHFnSjgPsLqADdBfQfNi_enctm4nkEeHSdmd5Qe1mb82Go50YzIAOAbQ10LkAoHulYAqg8LV/s200/Kauleen+photo+043.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>At the soccer game. We watched the best team in Cameroon, which happens to be Garoua the big city in my province, play the best team in Zimbabwe. Twas exciting, but severly hot. We attracted a lot of attention from fans, but so did the game as Garoua won.</div><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8InSWG5ABpAf5SPW591Sj_ng3vX06wAZ-fQ5YfQsqCnAQJ05szvrMcxza4kIj-nKz5Smg3SI47XINDV2v6oR7UGuzwiTPSpA-nBfvqwEi_HSUvVTn32k5YL3-nFNPFsh2Of9j4Fr5lEq/s1600-h/Kauleen+photo+032.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268449294307912706" style="WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8InSWG5ABpAf5SPW591Sj_ng3vX06wAZ-fQ5YfQsqCnAQJ05szvrMcxza4kIj-nKz5Smg3SI47XINDV2v6oR7UGuzwiTPSpA-nBfvqwEi_HSUvVTn32k5YL3-nFNPFsh2Of9j4Fr5lEq/s200/Kauleen+photo+032.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>This is on a bike ride I took with two other volunteers....excuse me trainees cause we are not actual volunteers yet. Yes I know the helmet doesn't fit on my head well, but I still have to wear it! I am not the only one suffering through helmet issues, another volunteer is still waiting for PC to send him a helmet that will fit his head.</div></div></div></div>Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-77103494984700983582008-11-14T01:35:00.000-08:002008-11-14T01:47:54.394-08:00photosThere are only two pictures right now cause the internet always freezes, but I will try to get more on later.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyeydGaxQf8LZ_bj4d6q4Ij8E2wSzU341qdq8-swig-X9MggZicIuJ0U_DQ93vDxaVeWZnH45DFzBTVPskmAhLzB5hqtDFagixmVl_RMHEPbwIArErfUOg3IQ5DrHOa5LL5D7Jr6iA5ylv/s1600-h/Kauleen+photo+035.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268446274851159778" style="WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyeydGaxQf8LZ_bj4d6q4Ij8E2wSzU341qdq8-swig-X9MggZicIuJ0U_DQ93vDxaVeWZnH45DFzBTVPskmAhLzB5hqtDFagixmVl_RMHEPbwIArErfUOg3IQ5DrHOa5LL5D7Jr6iA5ylv/s200/Kauleen+photo+035.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />this is a sunset from the soccer field where we have weekly games on thursdays and sometimes we play ultimate frisbee, but we have yet to convince a cameroonian to join us.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3K6Y28C4x24sk6DFur5apBe82Nkbo0Nmiff7O7_DRRQCEDOD8R2AWk4_PrPurE80ur0y5HMCq30WIpJhpSJRTTfwNQOqlESP-1Hm8XHYyn96JJHb8XiCTIuFvrlDm3aR3tBZm9wk8S8RM/s1600-h/Kauleen+photo+033.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268445434491393218" style="WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3K6Y28C4x24sk6DFur5apBe82Nkbo0Nmiff7O7_DRRQCEDOD8R2AWk4_PrPurE80ur0y5HMCq30WIpJhpSJRTTfwNQOqlESP-1Hm8XHYyn96JJHb8XiCTIuFvrlDm3aR3tBZm9wk8S8RM/s200/Kauleen+photo+033.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />This is the countryside on the road from Garoua to Pitoa. Its fairly green right now cause its the end of raining season, but this will gradually become more desert like each day. They are really only two seasons here the dry season and the wet season.Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-23758922363556676952008-11-08T02:21:00.000-08:002008-11-08T03:03:29.892-08:00Obama in MandamaSo this week I visited my future village. It can't be found on any map that I have seen, but it is close to the city of Guider in the North province halfway between the border of Nigiera. Its a small town of about 2000 people, but it has a high school, elementary school, health center and catholic mission. There is no running water or electricity yet, but there are wells and pumps around the village. There are electric poles erected, but the wires aren't connected yet, but there is talk that it should coming in the future (that could mean in a few months or in several years). When I stayed there this week I stayed at the catholic mission where there are three nuns, two polish nuns and one young cameroonian nun. The mission is like a little oasis in the village because it has electricity (generator) and running water with cement buildings. I actually took a shower last week for the first time in a month and it was a little strange. The nuns are great they run a pre-school, something like a boarding school for girls who attend the high school and a pharmacy for those who can't afford to buy medications. Two nights that I was there I heard some strange growls at night. There are three dogs that roam around the mission at night, but I could tell that they were not dog growls. I asked the nuns in the morning and they said it was a hyena. Not only are there hyenas, but apparently by the river there are crocodiles. The nuns then preceded to kid me that if I didn't lock my door at night the crocodile would open it up and eat me. I am told that there are also baboons around that like to come down from the hills and eat the farmers peanuts. <br /><br />My job for the next two years is to work with the health center in town, which is run by a head nurse and has a total of 8 staff members. I think I will be working alot with the schools and with the surrounding smaller villages as well. This week I got to watch an animation (demostration) put on by a two year agro volunteer about soy. It was like nothing I have ever encountered in the demonstrations in the states. It was a group of 20 women sitting outside under a tree teaching each other how to use soy to make milk, beignets (which are like doughnut holes) and carmelized soy nuts. It was great cause the volunteer didn't really do much in terms of teaching, she organized the event, but the women taught each other and it gave them sometime to get out of their houses and congregate with other women. I also got to see my future house, which is rather big for one person, but has nothing in it. I think my first two weeks at post will be used on trips to Guider trying to get stuff to fill all the space. My house is wired for electricity so if I get a generator or wait for electricty I at least have the option in the future. Even though I am what you would call in The Bush I am only a hour and 15 minute moto taxi ride from Guider where there is internet and a big market. I am excited to start my work and am a little tired of school right now. Just got to get through one more month, learn some more french and then start to learn Fulfulde cause most of the people in my village speak that local dialect as well as Daba. I was told by my future landlords three wives that I had to learn Daba cause that is what they speak. <br /><br />OBAMA!!!!!!!<br /><br />Interesting side note about Obama and his influence in Cameroon. Even though my village doesn't have electricty and is in the bush they all knew before I did that he had won. Obama is popular everywhere in Cameroon. In the big cities there are clubs devoted to him and in cities people have put up pictures of him in there stores and boutiques. As soon as I mention that I am american the next thing out of a cameroonians mouth is his name. The general impression that I get from people is that he is not only the future president of the US, but that he is the future president of the world and all those looking for hope that change will come to their country and lives. I too have hope that when I return in two years things will have changed, if even for a little bit, for the better.Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-79764752862560680572008-10-11T05:25:00.000-07:002008-10-25T04:49:37.942-07:00The internet is working!10/25/08<br /><br /><br /><p>So I have officially ended my first month with PC and my fifth week of training. It has been a struggle with the language, but also with the classes. My motivation is dropping almost everyday and sometimes I feel the only thing that is keeping me going is my homestay family. I come home from 8 hours at school where I spoke french for usually 4 of those hours and I am a little sick of it. Maybe this is because I am still getting used to a structured environment where for two years I was used to running my own life. I hear what I am going through is normal in what we call <em>stage (</em>sounds like staag in french). My homestay family is great cause they are patient with me but also make me laugh everyday. The other day my oldest sister who is visting from a town in the extreme north asked why I didn't braid my hair like an African women. I tried to explain that I had a tender head, but that definitly got lost in translation. She asked again the two days later and then my other sister told me that one of these days she was going to trap me, sit me down and braid my hair. I finally relented last week and she gave me corn rows. I noticed a change in how the women that I pass on the street greeted me. More people smiled, more guys hissed and people told me I was tres jolie (very pretty). Next time my sister says that she is going to make me wear traditional dress, but I told her not to push it. </p><p></p><p>I have gotten into a routine here. During the week I have class and when we can after school we go to a bar and have a beer. There are a few bars that we have claimed as our own here. One where we are hidden in the back room so people don't stare and call us Nasaras. And here I am a Nasara (which I believe I explained before as a white person or foriegner) or I have also been getting something like Mista, which I have interpreted as mixed. The other bar is a restuarnt too and has these cool little tiki huts. Two weeks ago some singers from the Chad refugee camp that is down the road from our village held a fundraiser there, which some of the trainees attended. This is also where we have chosen to hold our Halloween party, which I am super excited for cause we are getting it catered and going to put together some cds to play. Saturdays we have class until noon, but then after that we have free time, which I usually spend in Garoua trying to use internet. I say try because the power may or may not be on and I might spend my entire time moto-taxing the city trying to find a place that is open and isn't slow. Sundays are either church, market day, clothes washing or another attempt at the internet in Garoua. The church services are pretty much the same here as they are in the states. Although I can't unerstand a majority of what they are saying I can pinpoint where we are in the service cause it is the same as my church back home. The first sunday I went to church I had four children in tow who all naturally wanted to sit next to me. It was hard paying attention cause they were bored out of their minds and wanted to play with my watch and my purse and any lose strings that were hanging off my dress. But I did take communion, which I hear impressed some other families cause not everyone at the church is baptised. The market day here is amazing. I still yet to travel the entire market, which is literally held a 5 minute walk from my house. You can get anything there, foods, clothing, household items, but so far I have only bought two pairs of scoccer shorts and some pagne (traditional African fabric, which sunny can sometimes be made in China). I still have not negotiated well with the vendors. My sister got me a good price for my pagne, but I got tooken for my soccer shorts. Before I left to buy them I asked my sister how much they were. She told me 2000 franc so when I got there thats exactly what the merchant said so I thought he was giving me the correct price. Turns out they are really around 500 franc each. I think I should have asked my sister how much would she pay for shorts. You just have to assume with some items like clothing that you are going to get qouted the Nasara price and you have to do some good natured arguing to get the right price. I have heard some other trainees say its tough, but it can be fun. I remember bargaining with taxi drivers in brasil and I didn't like it at first cause my portuguese was bad, but after a while it becomes fun. Clothes washing has become a weekly tradition as well. At first I was sweating so much that I had to wash my clothes after two wears, but I feel my body is adjusting and the weather is getting a little cooler. My bucket is my everything here. WheneverI need to take a bath, wash my hair (which is done seperately sitting on a chair next to my bucket and pouring water over my head because I don't really want to stand naked for an hour next to my latrine hole) or wash my clothes I use my bucket. You can only wash about ten or less pairs of clothes at a time and when you got whites and colors on the same day you could be sitting out there for two hours. So bucket washing is like this, let the clothes soak for an hour in detergent and then take your big block of soap and lather up one piece of clothing at a time. then you have to commence rubbing every inch of said clothing together to really get it clean. Then I have to ring out my clothes and place them in clean water and I do that about five times dumping out soapy water each time until all the soap is out of my clothes. Its a workout, if nothing else. Then I hang them on the line to dry, which can happen in a matter of hours, but I have to leave them hanging up in the sun for a few days because there is a fly here that likes to lay eggs in the wet clothing. If you don't give your clothes time to dry and kill the eggs they can burrow into your skin and incuabte there until its time to come out. I am extra extra careful to let my clothes dry for four days before I wear any of them however so please no one freak out.<br /></p>Next week I get to find out where I will be post for the next two years and I am excited. Well until next time blog family. Please leave comments or messages so I can have something to read when I get to the internet.Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-57906072989765288442008-10-05T04:34:00.000-07:002008-10-05T04:46:39.518-07:00So its been a while blog family. I haven't had access to the internet until just now and I had to take a taxi and a moto taxi to get to a town with internet. Its been about two weeks in my homestay family and things are going realitvely well. I live in a compound style housing situation where you walk in through a huge metal door into a courtyard and off the courtyard are several houses. I live with about six adults and three children, but I have my own room. There is a couple with two small children who are my homestay parents. They are a fairly young couple, the dad is a plumber and the mother a housewife, which is the norm. I also have two sisters, the older one is the one is basically takes care of me. She was a teacher, but now works as a seamstress. She even made me a dress when I brought her some cloth, which they call Pagne. Its an american style dress cause I will have many opportunities to get cameroonian style dresses made in the future. I have a younger sister who is great she is engaged I think or is dating someone, but I am not sure what that entails here. Basically my days are full with school even on saturdays. We are just now getting into the nitty gritty of our learning. Last week we learn water and food contamination and ways to prevent it and how to teach cameroonians with different non-verbal communication techniques. Interesting things to note thus far are that they call all white people or foreigners Nasara, even me cause I am white and they can tell I'm not from around here. THe landscape is beautiful outside the town when you are traveling from little city to city. The moto taxis are a bit scarry, but they gave us helmets which makes us stand out even more. The people are very patient with me and my french skills which are seriously lacking and I will be learning Fulfulde which is the local language here. Got to run my internet is going to run out. PEACEKauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-42570458454930813892008-09-23T12:06:00.000-07:002008-09-23T12:26:25.633-07:00The Eagle has landedI'm here. So we flew into Douala on Saturday which is suppose to be the econmic capital of Cameroon. We spent q night there before we headed to Yaounde where we are currently staying until tomorrow before we head up north for our homestays and 3 month training. So far we have been in classes all day learning about safety and security; cleaning water to drink and for food prep and a little about our programs; which for me is a community health volunteer. We have many more all day sessions coming up for the next 3 months. I am here with 29 other Peace Corps volunteers; which are split between agroforestry and health. Everyone comes from very diverse backgrounds and from all over the US and even two internationals from Canada and Germany. So far our trainers have been very helpful and friendly especiqlly our drivers who take us from our hotel to the Peace Corps office. Let me tell you; you thought that traffic is bad at home; but here there are no trqffic lights and its some what of a free for all; get in where you fit in kind of roadway. Despite that though they make it work; I have yet to see an accident and they are generally cautious drivers. The landscape is beautiful. On the way from Douala to Yaounde we passed through many green areas with beautiful tall trees and sprawling ivy. Right now we are in the rqining season and I can see why its so lush. This is not to be the case up north where it is dry and but I hear even more beautiful then where I am now. more to come later when I can use an American key board and type faster. PEACEKauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-39379291465098340392008-09-18T14:18:00.000-07:002008-09-18T14:21:53.536-07:00Hello friends and family! Some of you have tried to comment on my posts, but could not. I recently had that feature disabled because my blog is public and anyone on the internet has access to it. I opened it up to anyone, but will be monitoring all comments before they appear on my blog to weed out any bad eggs. On another note tomorrow is the day! I am starting to get nervous, but I know thats part of the process. My next blog will be from Cameroon (yes very exciting). I love you all for being so supportive, keep me in your prayers and thoughts.Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140737281398307842.post-44185296725041215772008-09-15T22:05:00.000-07:002008-09-15T22:23:51.042-07:00Last day in SacSo just want to thank all of you for your words of wisdom and encouragement. I will take them with me and hold them in my heart all through my days in Cameroon. Hopefully I will be sending my next message from the continent of Africa. Love and Peace to all of you and keep me in your prayers.Kauleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09716499135450718565noreply@blogger.com0