Colours

As the season transitions from the rainy to the dry the day's are inevitably filled with more sunshine. The unrestricted rays of the sun allow the world around me to be exhibited in its best light. A day walking through the market displays all the colors that compose a painters palette. With the favorite Cameroonian meal enhanced in season, buckets of plump red, yellow and orange peppers overflow into the narrow walkways. They seem to be beaming with pride and induce you to buy two large handfuls at the price of one hundred francs. Next, pyramids of purple onions come into view, piled with the skill of an ancient Egyptian. A necessary staple of every meal, two if not three hundred francs worth is bought and put in a country bag. Lines of grey blue scaly fish dully stare as they are passed, apparently unconcerned if they are bought or not. The pace is quickened as the smell of blackened smoked fish overpowers all other senses. Momentary relief comes at the sight of the luminescent red of a cow freshly butchered into it's respective cuts off beef. Nothing is wasted, not organs, eyes or horns. The horns in particular are sold and made into country cups. The country man keeps his country cup in his country bag, to be used at weddings and other traditional ceremonies as the vessel of choice for palmwine. And although the smell is an improvement from the alley of aged fish, lingering for too long around this carcass is not advised. Exiting the aisles of food means entering the maze of fabrics. Within a labyrinth of cloth every color in the known spectrum is present woven into designs that suggest minds not of this world. Looking around, women can be seen wearing dresses promoting Teachers Day and the International Day of the Woman, among other holidays best celebrated by being worn. With new prints made every year these annual festivals are chronicled and their evolution charted. On the back of a motorcycle going home, blue skies hang high above, spotted with white puffed up clouds. The mud orange-brown of the road stands out in striking contrast with the massive green leaves from the banana trees. On rainy days these are readily cut down and used as bush umbrellas, inspiring the local proverb, 'cut your leaf before the rain.' The individual motorcycles decoration are examined as the two wheeled taxis drive by. In a effort to attract potential customers, or perhaps to simply make each ocada man feel unique, the exteriors are meticulously covered with the most ornate designs. A breeze blows a laundry line with bed sheets, freshly whitened by the brightly shining sun. As the village nears the glittering tin roofs can be seen and the occasional house with tiled walls is a beacon in the distance. A last look at the distant mountains seen clearly from a ridge is a reminder of the necessity of the rain which has kept away the dust for these last six months and has allowed everything to be viewed in its best light.

Normal

It's been a while since the last post, and for those wondering, no, I'm not dead. The thing is, the longer I'm here the harder it becomes to find material interesting enough that I consider it "blog worthy." I remember my first few months in country, taking everything in all at once. Everything I saw was either odd, fascinating, disturbing, or often, simply unbelievable. Everyday was sure to offer another experience entirely new to me. But somewhere within that first year, things started to change. Routines were formed, events became predictable, and life began to move (somewhat) smoothly. At first, the sight of spiders in my house put me on the warpath, exterminating the eight legged insects left and right. I remember once watching over 100 baby spiders crawling up my kitchen wall and futiley attempted to squash them all. But after some time the task seemed somewhat tedious. And after a conference of war, terms of peace were formed. They promised to do their best to catch any and all flying insects while remaining mostly out of the way in corners and nooks. This has been accepted, although there have been times these terms have been breached. I saw a large huntsman spider as big as my hand waiting conspicuously by my shoes so I grabbed my lacrosse stick and gave it a good slap and then watched it curl into a small ball as it died. Another day as if in retaliation, while walking out of my door another huge huntsman spider landed on my head. I quickly knocked him off and went to grab my lacrosse. When I came back I delivered the death blow with one swing, hoping this would be a lesson to all other spiders watching. However, my huntsman battles were far from over. One day while eating at a small restaurant I went to put on my jackets but couldn't get my left arm through the sleeve. When I pulled it out there was another huge huntsman perched on my hand. I quickly flung it off and the whole place went into an uproar. One of the workers came and quickly killed it with a stick. So now along with knocking spiders out of my shoes I'm sure to check through my jackets sleeves as well. It seems that the spiders have been somewhat angry about the deaths of their comrades and have been staging guerrilla attacks on me as I sleep, but after leaving me with a handful of bites they seemed to have been appeased, and peace has been restored, for the moment. So as I walk from room to room I nod to one spider or another and remind them to respect the established boundaries. At this point, not seeing them would be strange, as their presence has simply become normal. Like the spiders, almost everything now seems absolutely normal to me, (with the exception that is of a cobra that surprised me one morning by slithering up onto my porch while I was doing laundry). But most other things now, like someone transporting a couch on the end of a motorcycle seems like the most practical thing to do. Eating meals with my hands make the most sense at this point and cutlery just seems excessive. Watching kids run behind some sort of wheel, keeping it moving by pushing it with a stick looks like tons of fun. What I once considered strange and foreign now at times seems to be all I know. Even in my brief vacation to Europe I remember craving the local food I find in my village. The life I once knew and longed for is now only a distant memory. Integration was without a doubt quite a challenge, but as I look at what lies ahead, I can see that disintegration (word choice?) may prove to be even more challenging.

Post to Post

It's 4 am. Clothes are quickly thrown into a backpack without thought, a few odd items are picked from a medical kit, a handful of kuli kuli is safely wrapped up, and everything is finalized with the addition of one large water bottle and a roll of toilet paper. The other four make their own final inventories. The door is locked by 5, and we're on our way.
After many conversations with friends in my village I'd begun to learn more and more about Enyoh as well as the surrounding villages. During dry season I made a point to walk to each neighboring village, and was soon well known in Ashong, Enwen, Ewai, Bessom, Ambo, and Bessi Awum. After this I began to learn of villages a bit further off. One village, not far from my own, marks the beginning of the southwest region. I heard one new name after another. Ninaba, Njen, Banteng, Bamubu, Wabane, Bichati, Dschang. Wait, Dschang? This name was far from new, and it is definitely not considered a village. I had been here in February to visit a friend's post and watch the superbowl. I'd also met many students from the university of Dschang that are originally from Enyoh and who come back to the village regularly. To get from Enyoh to Dschang takes at least 6 hours assuming everything goes smoothly with the local transportation, which rarely happens. But now it suddenly sounded so close, just a few villages away. I studied my Cameroon travel map and decided that maybe it wasn't that far after all. One main reason it takes awhile to get places in Cameroon is because there are only a few paved roads, so getting to any destination usually involves taking a less than direct route. But if traveling in a more or less straight line, towns suddenly become much closer to one another.  A volunteer in a neighboring village discussed the possibility with his local friends as well and we agreed that walking to Dschang seemed very doable. We were given various time estimates, from two days to as low as a day, so we decided that we would go at some point. But with it already being May and rainy season upon us, waiting until November seemed like the most prudent option.
All that changed however because of a little thing called Independence Day. Another friend convinced us that we should plan a trip that would have us arriving in Dschang just in time for the July 4th celebrations with many other volunteers. Personally, I've always thought impulse decisions are the best kind of decisions, so heck, why not? I had already talked with a friend in Enyoh who told us he would show us the way. We met again a day before the trip and locked down the final details. The night before, everyone came to my house and excitedly discussed the plan for the trek. I then went to the guides house to give him one final reminder. One problem, he wasn't there. I called him and learned his mother had fallen ill and that he was with her at the hospital. I told the rest of the group the situation, and we decided we should still go for it. I had already trekked part of the route last autumn, and with last minute instructions from our guide, I felt confident that I could lead us to where we would need to spend the night.
So in the cold, dark morning, with headlamps and cell phone lights, we made our way. There was a low hanging  mist, and the rain from the night before had saturated the mud road. After a few false steps we had all sunk ankle deep in mud. We continued on, watching as the days first light cautiously exposed itself. About an hour after dawn we met people on the road and confirmed we were indeed taking the correct route. We ascended above the clouds and looked out across an eerie white expanse. The road ran along the edge of a cliff, but we couldn't see how far down it went due to the thick fog, and we were not too eager to find out. We started descending back down and passed at least a dozen waterfalls along the way. The further we went, the more surprised we were to see villages still lining the road. These people were a days trek from any substantial market, but they seemed to be getting along just fine. And not long ago this must have simply been the norm, before any paved roads were built. We crossed into the southwest region and celebrated, now anxiously awaiting the moment when we would cross into the West. We continued down, and down, and down, being greeted and welcomed the entire way.  Then we came to the gorge. This had been clearly visible from google maps and gave me somewhat of an idea of where we were. The gorge funneled water from all over the region into one sizeable river at its center. We saw a construction crew building a bridge, but unfortunately it was only in the beginning stages. Upstream from this, a few metal rebar lengths had been stretched across the river with some planks of wood thrown on top, also known as a 'flying bridge.' Crossing was easy enough, as long as you didn't think about one of the old wooden planks giving way and then splashing into the rushing current below. We then crossed a few streams, drenching everything up to our knees in the process. This was followed by a slope so steep and slick, that with every one step forward we would slide half a step back. We finally made it to the top, and the center of a village called Wabane. We stopped to buy bottles of water, asked for directions to Bichati, and were on our way. After leaving Wabane we seemed to leave civilization all together. We now had a much more meaningful idea of what people meant when they referred to 'the interior.' We were surrounded by dense forest and the road only seemed to get smaller and less travelled with every step. When we occasionally passed someone on the road we would ask how far Bichati was, and the only response we seemed to get was, "Too far." That wasn't encouraging, but we had no option but to press on. It seemed that the road was only uphill or downhill, and we couldn't decide what was worse, burning calves and quads, or knees threatening to give out. We'd stop and rest occasionally, but we needed to find signs of development before dark. Thankfully, at the crest of one hill, we saw the familiar glimmer of zinc roofs off in the distance. Knowing we couldn't be more than an hour away we made the final push and arrived in Bichati in the late afternoon. However, celebrations were cut short when we learned we were still no where near Dschang. We were tired, sore, and our feet were covered with blisters. We discussed other options, but quickly learned there weren't many. Motorcycles were not common here and it was doubtful that we would be able to find enough to transport all of us. So we all ate dinner, stretched our aching muscles and joints, and slept in the most impeccable accommodations Bichati had to offer.
July 3rd, 5am, we were on the road again. Within 200 yards of walking we crossed a stream which left all of our shoes soaked. After an hour we came to a fork in the road, and took our best guess, right. We crossed two large rivers, one with a well built bridge, another with two slippery logs stretched across. Then we came to a river that looked too deep and definitely to wide to cross. We began second guessing our decision at the earlier fork in the road. Luckily it was light at this point and we quickly saw someone coming our way and asked directions. He said, "Follow me," and walked straight into the river. He went winding through it, making sure to stay on the shallowest sections which were only waist deep. After about 75 yards and a few swift currents we reached the other side. He told us there was another way to go, but it sounded like we may have potentially taken a short cut, and since the river was still passable it may have been the best choice. Although, the other way likely had a bridge, and may have been just as quick. But as our companions forded the river we decided we shouldn't let the rest of the group know we might have made an error, thinking it would be bad for morale. We continued on level ground for a few more hours but saw mountainous peaks looming ominously in the distance. We began the ascent up a few steep hills and continued asking directions along the way. Most people said we wouldn't be able to make it to our next destination, Alou. Then after a quick discussion the villagers consensus was that our only chance would be to take a 'cut short' through thick, seldom travelled bush. We decided to take their advice, and after another 30 minutes of walking we saw what appeared to be the narrow path into the forest they had suggested. Not long after entering we remembered the signs stating that poaching gorillas was illegal. We continued, keeping our voices much lower, not wanting to disturb the forest's inhabitants. After crossing a few more streams we arrived at another fork. One path looked wider so we considered taking it. But on the narrower path we saw a fresh footprint and decided it would be best to go that way. We were hoping we would be able to find the owner of the footprint and ask for directions. Not long after, in the midst of this forest we found a mud hut with a grass roof. A man came out and led us to the road that would take us to the village we would need to stay in. We then began the climb. Every time we thought we'd reached the peak, we'd see another even further off in the distance. At times all hope seemed lost, no villages or people had been seen for hours. Then a drizzling mist lowered unto us. We realized we were clearly at a much higher altitude, as a deep chill began to set in. Then we heard the thunder cracks. We suddenly starting climbing like our lives depended on it. We'd been lucky that we'd had no rain the first day, but were in no mood to press our luck. If it started storming we'd have no option but to set up tents and camp on the cold mountainside. After what seemed longer than an eternity, we finally reach the top, the village, and a bar. We could barely believe we had made it, and named the climb we had just finished the stairway to heaven. We then met a local missionary, father Anthony from Italy. He led us to his catholic mission and invited us to stay in the compound. We graciously accepted and quickly fell asleep, tucked under thick wool blankets.
July 4th, Independence Day, 4am. Everything hurts. But at this point pain is meaningless, just some strange signal sent to the brain in an attempt to communicate something. We marched on, and being back on a main road now felt like being on a six lane highway. Shortly after dawn we came across an old pa and asked for directions. He told us that if we followed the main road we would arrive in Dschang and pointed for us to continue across a small stream 20 years ahead. He then wished us safe travels and went into the bush to tap palm wine. Immediately after crossing the steam we saw another old pa who greeted us, "Bonjour!" We then turned and saw a small signboard written in French. We had finally entered the West! Thinking back to trekking through the Northwest now seemed like a lifetime ago. We rallied for the final push and were encouraged to see much more modern towns after every kilometer. And not long after midday, we all arrived in Dschang and had a celebratory beer. We then made our way to the July 4th celebration and came in like conquering heroes. We could barely believe what we had accomplished, making it all the way from my post in Enyoh to my friend's post in Dschang, over 30 hours and more than 50 miles of walking. Fueled with adrenaline from success we happily told the story of our three day trek to friends of ours who didn't seem to think what we had done was possible. And although it was a quite strenuous journey, the more we thought about it, we realized that, with enough willpower, there are actually very few things which are truly impossible.

Wild Wild East

With my final report card filled out, the school year was officially over, and summer break had begun. I quickly packed up my things, traveled to Yaoundé and bought one ticket for the night train to Adamawa. As soon as I got on I was startled to see how modern everything was. It suddenly seemed as if I was riding along the Eurorail through the French countryside. The next morning I awoke in my plush compartment and made my way to the dining car for breakfast. When we pulled into Ngaoundaré I was nervous to get off. The modern amenities on the train had almost made me forget that I was in Africa. But this place was like nothing I had experienced yet in Cameroon. I quickly forgot that I was white due to the absence of people shouting, "Le Blanc!" at me. The three northern regions of Cameroon, (Adamawa, North, Extreme North), have the highest population of Muslims and the culture is vastly different, everything seemed oddly calm. The people are very respectful to each other and even more so towards foreigners. I also enjoyed the food immensely. There are many Fulani here who are most known for owning and herding large numbers of cattle. In my village I usually eat cow skin, and cow foot on the lucky days. But here we were having steak dinners every evening. The land itself reminded me somewhat of the Midwest, due to how flat it was. The views stretched for miles in all directions, and the stormy skies often looked as if they were ready to drop a funnel down at any moment. As my stay here was coming to an end my friend and I discussed what our plans were for the East region. He suggested we visit Lobeke, a jungle reserve deep in the Congo basin. We had initially decided to wait for a time when another friend of ours would be able to come along, but impulse decisions are difficult to say no to.
So, without having anything packed for this excursion, I agreed  that we should go. Unfortunately there is no train going into the East so we took the usual bus transportation. At this point we were the closest I'd been to the Central African Republic, which is in the midst of civil war. Traveling down this road had a sobering effect on me. We passed multiple large UN refugee camps, housing thousands who are trying to escape the violence next door. We eventually made it into Bertoua, the capital of the East, and were once again in an entirely different world. Everyone and everything seemed to be moving a mile a minute. People were shouting at us from all directions, and in general, chaos ruled the scene. We quickly left Bertoua and made our way to Batouri, to stay at a friend's post. We spent one day visiting a goldmine which was an interesting experience. We then went back to my friend's house and discussed our plans for Lobeke,  also reviewing how to get there. He graciously offered us a few packs of beef jerky which we quickly accepted. We packed light for the trip, which was easy for me, as I didn't know we were doing this trip until I reached Adamawa. But being slightly unprepared at least meant my bag was light.
Early the next morning we went to the bus station and saw our newest means of transportation, prison bus. Five rows of seats, with two seats on each side and a flip down seat which occupies the aisle. To say we were packed in tighter than sardines would be an understatement. Within five minutes of the bus rocking back and forth all the passengers knew each other intimately. Luckily, this bus trip was only for eight hours, and there were some beautiful views along the way. This ride made me feel like I was truly in Africa. The trees were the tallest I'd seen in Cameroon. And with every mile we seemed to go back another ten years in development. Mud brick houses were a thing no longer seen, instead, sticks were staked into the ground to create walls with mud, grass, and leaves used to fill in the cracks. The stares we received from people lasted much longer, often never ending, while their eyes and mouths were opened equally as wide. The gendarmes were just as curious, interrogating us heavily at each check point. We miraculously made it to Yokaduma, and after spending the night there, we boarded another eight hour prison bus. Now the houses we passed were made from sticks bent into the shape of an igloo covered with large banana leaves. We had entered Baka territory. The people here are pygmies who are nomadic and live in the forest, so they don't have much use for overly complicated housing structures. Just as twilight set in we reached Mambele, now only twenty miles from the Congo, and watched the day fade away in a fiery red sky. The next morning we drove into the reserve and after 45 minutes we were dropped off and were in the middle of Lobeke with our eco guard Tito and our guide Petite Jean.
After one hour of trekking through dense jungle we heard a loud, low hooting. Petite Jean motioned for us to stop, began sniffing, and whispered, "Gorille." After the gorilla seemed to have left we were told that if a gorilla charged we needed to huddle together in order to look like one large animal. There were also some throat noises we were shown which would help to calm down a gorilla. But if we peed our pants it would apparently maul is. Great, and I'd just finished my 1.5 litre water bottle. We made it to an observation tower and had a great view of a savanna surrounded by forest. We then set up camp for the night. Tito began telling us of past experiences in the park as he was burning our used sardine cans which would attract panthers if left with fishy remains. As he was speaking in French I thought I heard him say he'd shot someone in the forest a few years back. And then he pulled out a revolver. Indeed, apparently a poacher was hunting elephants and then began firing at Tito with an AK-47, so he returned fire and killed him. Well at least we now knew our eco guard was a good shot in case an animal charged us. Although if an elephant came at us, the only thing that would be able to bring it down is an AK. As night set in the forest came alive, and for some strange reason we decided this would be the perfect time to go looking for animals. We walked nervously for thirty minutes breathing heavily, and then Petite Jean told us we needed to turn back. He had caught the scent of an elephant and didn't want to get too close. We then made it back to the camp site, crawled into our tent and were lulled to sleep by the sounds of the rainforest.
The next day we trekked further to another viewing tower finding evidence of gorillas all along the way. We spent the entire afternoon sitting, watching a herd of grazing buffalo. Then as sunset came flocks of birds put on a show, flying from tree to tree until dark. The next day we woke up to heavy rain which fortunately stopped by late morning. But as we began our walk back we found that the entire forest was flooded. We slowly, wetly, plodded along. At one stretch we had to put anything we wanted to keep dry high in our packs and then proceeded to walk over 200 yards through waist deep water. We then had to cross a portion where a river was. We had to feel for a stick well below the surface and hope the rushing current wouldn't pull us away. Thankfully, we made it out alive. Arriving back in Mambele felt like returning to the first world. And although I quickly fell sick with a case of amoebic dysentery due to foolishly drinking river water, I knew it would have been much worse had it happened while we were still inside Lobeke.

Year One

Wait, WHAT have I been eating!?

A lot can change in a year, and a lot has. Today officially marks one year in country. Time has truly been flying by, it seems like only yesterday that I was sitting down with my host family, trying to figure out what exactly was being served to me. In hindsight I now recognize that I was eating like a king, well, a Cameroonian king. Every night we either seemed to have chicken, fish or beef, which are all extremely costly. Beef mixed with spaghetti or rice was right up my alley and I never had a problem cleaning my plate. Chicken was also a meal that I could eat without even realizing I was in another country. Although, unwittingly picking up the neck and head one evening proved interesting. I did some slight dissecting of the spine and skull but my appetite didn't last for two long after the operation started. And being served chicken feet for breakfast one morning was one of the few things I refused to even try at all. Now fish, although always smelling amazing, also was quite a challenge. You wouldn't realize how many bones a fish has until you eat a fish with all of the bones still there. I ended many meals with a fishbone lodged in my tongue or gum and had let the remaining meal on my plate go to waste as my mouth was too wounded to continue battle. With time I became more proficient at avoiding the bones and eating most of the fish, although it was always a tedious process. Then one dinner we had something completely new to me, le porc-épic. I was told that porcupine was trés cher and considered a delicacy. I took a few bites and quickly agreed, it was indeed delicious. As I ate further down the leg it became slightly more difficult to separate the meat from the bones and tendons. And then for the finale, there was a small paw with little toes and everything. I bypassed that section, not fully having the stomach for it. Then I looked across the table and saw my host brother gnawing on the porcupine's face. So it was safe to say I had one of the more desirable sections. Towards the end of training I was accustomed to all this food and thought I was well adapted. Some of my friends had eaten a few more exotic options. I was told snake was delicious, tasting somewhat like a combination of chicken and fish put together. I've been wanting to try this but haven't had an opportunity yet. Apparently hunters will not even go out looking for snake and will only kill it if it happens to cross their path. The mindset seems to be, if you go out looking for snake to kill it, snake will ultimately look for you and kill you. Another friend of mine was served antelope, which he didn't recommend trying and claimed that he had the smell lingering on him for the next three days. And even though I thought I had tried a lot of new things, there was still plenty more that I would soon be introduced to.
Coming to Enyoh, I was quickly exposed to a whole new culinary variety. One thing I quickly learned was how expensive  the food was that I had been eating with my host family. And even if my monthly allowance could cover the costs, only a select few items are available in most places. Although I had initially thought Ebolowa was small in my opinion, it was technically the regional capital of the South. And with the paved roads, it allowed those who lived there to have access to food that those of us living in the bush simply do not. So it was now time for me to branch out even further and explore more exotic dishes. I quickly began to enjoy water fou fou and erro, which is basically a sticky white lump of finely ground manioc root which is eaten with somewhat spinach like vegetables. A close relative of this meal is corn fou fou and njamanjama. Corn fou fou is similar to grits, maybe if it were left in the pot for awhile and started drying out. In both of these dishes, you pinch away a piece of fou fou and then add vegetables to it and pop it in your mouth. This is a common trend with many Cameroonian dishes. Like with Achu, you grab a somewhat mash potatoey like substance and dip it into a spicy yellow soup. It's surprising how easy it is to eat soup with your fingers, and it this point, I know of no other method. Achu is arranged so it is on the perimeter of the plate and the soup is put in a large crater in the middle. Marinating in the soup, a thick chunk of cow skin can be found, canda. At first I wasn't overly fond of this, probably because I never thought eating my belt would be particularly appetizing either. But now, canda is something I'm hoping to have added to anything I'm eating. And on a particularly fortunate day it is even served with cow foot or cow tail.
So the staple meals of the village are things that I now truly like eating. Then there is the bush meat. Mole rat is probably the most common item. I've had it once or twice and not thought too highly of it. Although, it goes with spicy peppe soup, which I can never pass up. I've also been informed that when eating fish, the bones are where all of the vitamins are. I haven't bothered to learn if this is true or not, and most things I hear in village often turn out to be false. Nonetheless, now when I buy fish, the only remaining items are the eyeballs. These are oddly hard to eat, they're almost like small marbles. But the spine, the tail, the fins, and all of the bones are eaten indiscriminately. I figure I might as well get the most out of what I've paid for.
For awhile, this was as far as my palette had gone. And then my friend told me of a meal that trumped all other meals he had eaten in Cameroon. So we went deep into Guzang market to find the mamma that would prepare this for us. We made our way into a dark bar, and then further into another back room. In there the woman lifted up a bag with something moving around inside of it. She told us to come to her chop house in three days. We arrived there and sat down to a plate of bitter leaf and two chunks of meat for each of us. I quickly observed how tender this meat was. The flavors combined with it were phenomenal. The meat slid right off of the small ribs. After one bite everything seemed to just melt in your mouth. We both finished quickly and were very satisfied. We paid the bill, which was notably steep. In all of the villages near me this was probably the most expensive thing I had eaten. So unfortunately with the price being somewhat prohibitive I won't be able to make it a staple of my diet, but whenever there is an occasion which calls for a luxurious celebration I'll be sure to go back and order another plate of cat.

Mount Cameron

We were warned prior to climbing that weather conditions could make reaching the summit impossible. The group decision, however, was to disregard that, and we climbed up into the clouds above, leaving our camp, hut 2, and the porters behind. My friend and I had accepted the possibility of the situation we were facing days before, and our guide was well aware that the mountain was prone to volatile mood swings this late in the season...
The day we arrived in Buea, the day before our scheduled climb, we saw what we were hoping to somehow avoid. Rain. As soon as we checked into our hotel, at about 7 am, the rain started. The power went out for a few hours, indicating that this wasn't a mere drizzle. By the afternoon it had somewhat ceased and we went to the office to finalize the details of our excursion. We were informed that rain was highly probable for our climb, and that there was a group that had left that morning, but had to stop in the middle of their hike and wait for the storm to subside before they could continue. We were shown the outline of the main plan for our hike, as well as the contingency plan. Both plans included reaching the summit, which was the main goal for my friend and for myself. We left the office, planning to get up early the next morning to begin the ascent. As we spent the remainder of the afternoon in town we were both hoping that the heavy rain from earlier that day would leave us with the two dry days we needed to complete the full three day hike. But even though the town around us was now almost dry, we looked up at the misty mountain and did not want to guess the weather conditions that lay beyond the clouds.
We awoke the next morning nervously, but were excited to see a clear day, with nearly all of the mountain in view. We were both eager to begin climbing as soon as we could, wanting to take advantage of the favorable weather. We met our guide and porters, and then we were off. We trekked through the humid jungle at the base of the mountain and made it to hut 1, the first of three huts designated for camping, with relative ease. The weather was still on our side so after a brief rest we continued on. This next leg of the journey made it clear that favorable weather was essential for continuing. The steepness of the slopes covered with small, loose, lava rocks was difficult enough to climb during a dry day. I can't imagine what it would have been like with streams of water coming down from all sides, but then again, I can't imagine what climbing up a waterfall would be like either. Not long after midday, we had arrived at hut 2. We were told we had finished the most difficult part of the climb and the journey to hut 3 would not be nearly as steep. For now, we needed to prepare our camp, eat, and rest for the next day's journey. We had a delicious meal prepared by one of our porters and then took some time to explore the area around our campsite. Large clouds blanketed everything below us in a powdery sea of white. But as the sun began to set the clouds slowly parted, exposing Buea, Limbe, and other towns to our view. Next, the ocean came into view, and we took it all in slowly, admiring the scene. It felt like being in an airplane while looking down at the world below, except that we were still firmly connected to the world and standing still. As night fell, the towns below lit up in an orange yellow glow. And looking up before entering our tent we saw the luminous streak of the milk way suspended light years above us.
The next morning we woke up early, it was well before dawn, it couldn't have been much past three am. It was the sound of rain that had interrupted our sleep. I tried to go back to sleep, hoping I could force the rain drops into a dream that I could then awaken from. This cycle repeated itself again and again for the next few hours. By six we were up, eating breakfast, and taking note of the situation. The rain had stopped and we were hopeful that the weather would improve as the sun continued to rise. But the porters talked about previous climbs with similar weather, mentioning nights that they nearly froze on the mountain. After a brief discussion the group decided that the full trip would not be possible because the next campsite was too far and we might not be able make it if the weather suddenly changed. There was hut 3, which wasn't too far, but we learned that it's often too cold there to even start a fire, so camping there was not an option. But our guide still wanted us to be able to make the most of our experience and said we would at least attempt to reach the summit and then return to hut 2. We double layered our socks, put on pants, sweaters, and our rain jackets. When our guide looked at our jackets he laughed and threw us two long trench coat style jackets. Now ready, we left the safety of our campsite and disappeared into the misty layer of clouds that hung directly above us. It was an eery feeling, and it gave the impression that we were leaving our known reality for the unknown. Within five minutes it started raining. Within ten minutes it was pouring. And within 15 minutes heavy rain drops were being blown at us sideways. The small path we were walking on quickly became a river. The rain coats kept what they were covering dry. But from our thighs to our toes, we were drenched. The temperature continued to drop as we climbed higher and higher. Everything that was drenched in rain suddenly felt like it was beginning to slowly freeze. The running shoes I was wearing offered about the same amount of insulation as an extra pair of socks. We finally made it to hut 3 after two hours of walking, where we were briefly sheltered from the wind and sleet. My feet felt like they would after a long winter surf session without booties. Bending my toes at this point was impossible, and my ankles were quickly stiffening. Breathing was difficult at this altitude, and talking was achieved through short gasps. At this point we were told that the summit was only 30 to 45 minutes away, but that the temperature would be well below freezing. We had to get up and down as quickly as possible due to the cold. I contemplated staying and waiting, worried that I might not be able to make it back down without help. Walking along the rugged slopes in my condition held the high possibility of twisting an ankle and immobilizing myself. But I got a second wind and decided to give it a try. As we hiked on I realized my pace had slowed considerably. I felt at the mercy of the mountain, and noted that, if the mountain wanted to, it could kill me. The only other time I've had that feeling in nature is in the ocean. Mountains and oceans, forces that are so far beyond that of humans. As I reflected on this, and noticed my pace continue to slow, I decided I should turn back. I had come so far, and wanted to reach the summit more than anything, but I felt I had reached my limit. The last thing I wanted to do was to put our group at unnecessary risk because of me. I called ahead and motioned with my hands indicating that I would go back to wait at hut 3. While in the hut I paced back and force in hopes of regaining feeling in my feet. Eventually my friend and the guide returned from the summit, where they had stayed for less than a minute because of the freezing cold and high winds, and we all started running down from hut 3. After and 15 minutes the temperature became incredibly warmer. The clouds parted, and the views we had from that height were unbelievable. We made it back to hut 2, had lunch, and then all journeyed back to Buea that same afternoon. When we got to town I looked back up at the mountain. The top was still hidden in dark, ominous clouds. It seemed like I was in a different world now, relative to what I had experienced a few short hours earlier at hut 3. The air was hot and humid and the streets were bustling with traffic. Walking down the road, I thought how there have only been a few times I've attempted something, been so close to the finish line, but had to stop because my body couldn't go another step further. However, knowing that I had given everything I could was almost a better feeling than reaching a goal that didn't truly test my limits. That day, the mountain showed me my limit and it helped me recognize, that even though at times my volunteer experience here has felt like climbing a mountain, I know that I'm far from reaching my limit, and I'll keep going until, until I cannot take another step.

Dry Season

Being a country located in the tropics, Cameroon's climate consists of two seasons; rainy season, and dry season. In the northwest region of the country the rainy season begins around March and lasts until about November. I have yet to experience a full rainy season in Enyoh, but the months of August and September alone gave me more rain than I'd seen in my seven years combined in San Diego. So I was beyond happy when October arrived. Not only is this the month of my birthday, it is also the beginning of the transition from rainy season to dry season. During this month rain only falls a few times a week as opposed to three times a day, or three days straight without stopping. As a result of the changing weather I now had much more freedom in regards to how I spent my days. I could travel on almost any particular day if I needed to. This was in stark contrast to the previous two months. I remember one particular storm where I had to wait for three days before I could find a motorcycle that would go down to Batibo. But during this transitional period the roads become far less treacherous. By November the rains were even less frequent, happening only once or twice a week, with hardly any heavy storms. And in late November villagers would comment every time it rained, saying that this was highly unusual and that the rain should not be falling this late in November. They blame the new weather patterns on climate change, maybe so.
With the arrival of December I left Enyoh for Bamenda for over a week of in-service training with everyone else that I had initially trained with in Ebolowa. It was great to see everyone, but also sad to note those that were no longer with us. Our training group started with 37, but now we were only 28. For one reason or another friends of ours made their way back to America. And for as much as I've talked about how much I enjoy life here, this should be an indication that it's also not always easy. The training in Bamenda was drearily boring at times, but much of what we learned was immensely valuable as well. Also, seeing friends that we had been separated from for over three months was quite enjoyable, and we all made the most of our time together. On a few nights we even did our best to paint the town and promote America's already impeccable international reputation. But before long we all headed back to our respective villages. Lucky for me I was only an hour away so the journey back was familiar and simple. But after being around so many Americans it seemed like I had been away from Enyoh for much longer than a week, and fitting back into community life would once again be an adjustment. As the motorcycle rolled down the hill into Enyoh I took in my surroundings. Everything seemed more or less the same, although there appeared to be a slight haze lingering. The mountain peaks that surrounded me were now somewhat obscured. Then I noticed that all the plants along the road were no longer green, but instead reddish orange. Were plants already beginning to die due to lack of water? As I stopped next to my house and was paying the bike driver, I saw my young neighbor coming to welcome me back. Just as he began to greet me the bike sped away leaving a billowing cloud of dust in his wake. We both began coughing, and just as the dust subsided the young boy looked up at me somewhat in despair and said, "This dust is too much." Then a large pickup truck passed kicking up even more dust. And as I looked at the houses by the road I saw that they too now had the same reddish hue. So this was dry season, and this is what I had to deal with for the next two months.
As it turned out, the dust wasn't too much of a problem for me. With my house being far enough from the road it was something I didn't have to deal with while at home. But in places like Batibo and particularly Bamenda the air quality was noticeably effected. The smog that lies over Bamenda is somewhat reminiscent of Los Angeles. However, with Enyoh being at a higher altitude, and with their being very little vehicle traffic, dust is something hardly dealt with on a day to day basis. Although, when traveling I had to always bring an extra pair of clothes due to the fact that by the end of a bike ride I would be completely covered in dust. All things considered, dry season still seemed to be more desirable than rainy season, that is of course, until you run out of water.
My home has a bathroom with working indoor plumbing, which not very many volunteers outside of the Northwest can boast. But Enyoh is still in the process of installing its' water supply throughout the village. So for the time being my water supply is located in a large container behind my house, specifically a plastic cube about four feet by four feet, which is essentially a small water tower. As January approached I noticed that my water supplies were running low. I would soon need to start carrying water from one of the local sources. Our school has a tap which is about ten minutes away from my house. So I bought two twenty liter jugs and began the daily task of bringing water into my home. When you are carrying the water you use daily you become a lot more conservative with how you use it. I made sure to wash dishes and clothes with the minimum amount of water necessary. And when flushing my toilet I subscribed to the age old adage, "If it's yellow let it mellow and if it's brown... well... let it mellow for a bit as well and eventually flush it down." Yes, times were tough, and to add insult to injury, it didn't seem as if I had gotten any stronger from carrying all that water. But as is often said here, we were managing. Then, one February afternoon, a few drops of rain fell. I knew now that dry season was finally coming to an end. I inspected my house and saw that I needed to fix a section of the gutters that led to my rain water tank. I promptly resolved the issue, balanced precariously on a bamboo ladder, while banging the plastic gutters back into place with my fist. I was now ready for the rain to fall, and that day, as my aged knee had predicted, the rains came. I smiled, listening to the sound of raindrops on my metal roof, which quickly became a torrential downpour. I opened my backdoor to see how much water has been collected. To my dismay, the water level hadn't risen at all! I inspected the gutters, they weren't leaking. Then I realized the cap on the top of the container must have still been screwed on. So I climbed to the top of the container with the aid of a small rickety wooden ladder that had been left in my backyard from the construction crew that was working on my house back in August. Trying my best not to slip and fall into the muddy river below I saw that the cap was indeed still screwed on. I hastily removed it and saw I had to reposition the end of the gutter leading into the container. By the time I had everything in place I was drenched, and the thunder from the storm was growing louder with every boom. But I had to be sure that there were no more problems so I waited to see the water successfully enter the container without obstruction. And after only a few moments I was delighted to see water rushing into my small plastic water tower. This meant the days of me carrying water, along with having to make compromises in regards to flushing my toilet were through! Dry season was over! I now had running water once again! The realization hit me all at once, and with lightning flashing overhead I started maniacally yelling out, "Wata! Wata!" My neighbors were sitting on their porch watching the rain and when they saw this scene they all burst into uncontrollable laughter while saying to each other, "White man done gone mad!" Of course, they were in some ways right. Dry season had taken a toll on me, and made me slightly insane. But now that was in the past, and I would have my sanity again, well, at least until next dry season.

There will be blood

So with school  back in session and the holidays over it was back to business. Fortunately, the teachers and administration at my school believe in a healthy balance between work and play. So once a month we all get together for staff socials. We pool our money together, buy two goats along with other essentials from market and of course a healthy amount of beverages. Wednesday night is when the goats are killed and prepared. Many of us come to watch this, have a few drinks, and keep those who are doing the work company. Some of the scrap meat, ie hooves, face, tail, etc, is prepared with pepe soup that evening to give us a sneak peak of what is to come the following afternoon. This evening is very enjoyable and not as formal. Other volunteers have visited me to see how the goats are prepared and thought it was very interesting. The conversations also tend to be quite simulating as well. Perhaps the recent death causes people to be more sociable. But when Thursday does arrive, we feast. I am generally the last person to leave, as meat is quite expensive to buy, so I take full advantage of the large quantity we have for these occasions.

For our most recent goat killing I asked if I could be the one to end the life of the furry four legged creature. I would finally have my revenge for having to put up with their incessant bleating at all hours of the day and night. My fellow teachers happily obliged. When I got to the house that Wednesday afternoon one goat had already been killed and was being prepared. Just after it is killed it is hung by it's jaw on a large stick that has been staked into the ground. It is then covered in kerosene and lit up like the eyes of Allah. This is the simplest way to remove all the hair. So with one goat sufficiently charred I turned to the one with it's heart still beating. A student held down it's body while I stepped on it's head to make sure the throat was well exposed. I had a dull machete in one hand and some leaves and grass in the other. I said goodbye to my new friend and then swung down hard on its neck. Nothing. Not even a drop off blood. Apparently goat skin is very thick. I took about three more hacks before I was able to even produce a slight wound. But when it did finally open up it was a red geyser. The leaves and grass I had to shield me from all the spraying blood were doing a mediocre job at best. Amidst all the bloody chaos a teacher was yelling, "Keep going!" Then I realized the goat was still alive. Apparently the jugular was still intact and I needed to saw through it to finish the job. I could see the spine at this point but the little billy goat was still frantically wagging it's tail. Perhaps it even thought it would somehow make it out of this situation alive.  Ha, not a chance! The blood of this goat was already on my hands so my fate had been sealed. But at times my arm needed a rest so I would take a brief break from sawing at the neck until the annoying baying from the goat urged me back to my work. It seemed like it would never shut up until, after about five minutes of pathetic sawing, the animal finally stopped breathing. I'm sure it wasn't the best way to die, perhaps I should've watched someone else do it first, but hey, when you have the urge to kill all rational thought is left behind. Billy was burned as well and then opened up and dissected like a 7th grade biology experiment. I can now readily identify the lungs, stomach, small and large intestines along with many other goat organs. After that point it seemed as if I was at any America butchers. Watching the meat divided into the separate cuts was familiar. The next day was very satisfying, as I was able to eat what I'd helped to prepare the day before. It was nice, and in a sense reminded me of the thought that this world is in some ways like a game of poker. For someone to have many chips, someone else must have few if any. For me to enjoy some of the finest meat in Cameroon, there must be a goat or pig to pay the price. On this hand I went all in, I wasn't bluffing, and I won the pot, which was full of goat meat and plantains, covered in a spicy pepe soup.

Happy Happy Christmas!

In the weeks leading up to Christmas I began to grow increasingly concerned. For sometime, as I would sit ruminating in the bamboo chair on my porch, my attention had been captured by the arrival of a very large pig. Day after day I watched it with hungry eyes while it wandered as far as it could go, tied to a tree in my landlord's front yard. But as Christmas drew closer I noticed the pigs absence. Then one day it ran right in front of my porch back to my landlord's compound. I guessed this pig was like the dogs and even chickens that PaEdang owns, all of which roam freely during the day but loyally return to his compound every evening. As it turned out, this assumption was completely wrong. PaEdang arrived at my doorstep a few days later, clearly distressed. He told me his pig has gotten free from it's rope and had gone missing. He explained that he had seen it a day earlier, but did not have the strength at the time to attempt to catch it. He would need the help of one of his children or me, as this pig must have weighed well over 200 pounds. However, if the pig did not turn up soon it would be good to assume that it had been stolen and quickly sold for up to 100,000cfa. So we both began to accept that this Christmas would likely be one without pork. But as tends to happen around this time of year, we were witness to a Christmas miracle. Only two days before Christmas, as I was sitting on my porch, I heard a familiar grunting and snorting. The swine has been found.

So Christmas morning I awoke with no apprehensions. Having gone to mass the night before, I was free for the entire day. I went strolling that morning, exploring different paths by my house, curious to see where they would lead. A palm wine tapper saw me and wished me, "Happy Christmas!" I cordially responded "Happy happy!" He then invited me to his house to enjoy a glass of morning wine. I sat with him and his family, outside of their mud brick home. The orange of the bricks and the bright green palms above them with the blue sky behind made a picturesque scene. I ate rice and cow meat, along with fish. The man explained that today was a day for eating. He talked about how many families would be in debt after Christmas, because providing this holiday food and buying new clothes for children was quite costly. But it was the holidays and no one complained about it, they were happy to be able to live one day completely care free. After a few glasses of the sweet morning mimbo and a few plates of fine chop, I thanked them for everything and told them I had to go prepare to eat another Christmas meal with my landlord. So with my stomach nearly bursting I trekked back to my house and rested off the first meal of Christmas while swaying back and forth in my hammock.

A few hours later I was awoken by a soft knocking at my door. PaEdang's daughter had come to invite me to enjoy their Christmas meal together. Ready for round two I quickly made my way over. There was food everywhere, and I began with a large plate of Achu, a mashed potatoe like dish made from cocoa yams. Oddly enough as we were eating, American Christmas movies were playing on the TV. For a few moments I completely forgot I was in Enyoh. Over the next few hours many guests came and left. I realized that Christmas in Cameroon is a bit like Halloween in some ways. People go from one house to another, briefly visiting friends and sampling some of the food. Everyone feels obligated to visit all of their friends and relatives so no one could stay at one home for too long. But for me, I was content staying in my landlord's luxurious home while eating my fill.

I later went back to my house for another brief intermission. As evening approached I made my way to my friend Jean's compound. We enjoyed a beer together and sat in his front yard staring into the road which turned out to being oddly entertaining. Children were parading up and down the streets in their brand new Christmas outfits. Every little girl seemed to be wearing a princess dress with sunglasses while the boys all had brand new jeans and hats to show off. This youth fashion show went well into the evening and was a good cap to the day. All the parents sitting with us looked truly happy, watching their children enjoy their newly acquired garments. No one was concerned with tomorrow, or the next day, or the next week. Everyone was simply happy to see each other and see all their children enjoying the day as children everywhere should. It was getting late and just as I was about to head home I saw Jean firing up his outdoor stove. I had nearly forgotten about the pig, which Jean had bought from PaEdang. I had two plates of pork with plantains all covered in delicious pepe soup. At this point I could barely move, after eating so many delicious Christmas meals. I somehow waddled home and went to sleep, thankful to everyone in Enyoh who made this Christmas one I will never forget.