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.

Cold

Cameroon is located just north of Equatorial Guinea. As you can probably deduce, the Earth's equator runs through Equatorial Guinea, which in turn implies that Cameroon itself is very close to this planetary dividing line. Before coming to Cameroon I mentally prepared myself for temperatures far exceeding those of an august vacation in Disney World. When I arrived in Yaoundé at night the weather was fortunately quite pleasant. And staying in a hotel with air conditioning was a dream come true. Even walking around during the day in this capital city was by no means scorching. Ebolowa on the other hand, the site where we trained for ten weeks, was a whole different story. The days were hot, but the nights felt even hotter. It was impossible to sleep, as I had to continually bail water from my bed as a result of how much I was sweating. But this was peace corps, this was what I had signed up for, so I wasn't complaining. Then site visit came, and I experienced the northwest's surprisingly mild climate. I was beyond ecstatic to know that I would be posted within this region. Learning I would be spending my peace corps service living in Enyoh was great but I did not know any specific details about this particular village. All I knew was that it was near Batibo, which I had seen briefly during my site visit. The first time I came to my village and new home I immediately fell in love with the place. Being able to see Batibo and countless other villages out in the distance from this high elevation was incredible. At this altitude, even the air felt crisper. And after my first night sleeping in my new house I discovered that the climate was not simply temperate, it was cold. I don't expect anyone in America to believe me when I say this, because sometimes it's even hard for me to believe it. When I was in training I was so worried about the heat I asked my blessed mother to ship my hammock to Cameroon in hopes that I'd be able to sleep in a pool of slightly less sweat every night. And I was beyond thrilled when that package arrived with my new sleeping quarters and many other thoughtful items sent from America. Setting up the hammock in my room with walls made from cinder blocks proved challenging, but my engineering degree was finally put to good use and in no time I was swaying back and forth, slowly drifting to sleep. And having this set up just over my bed proved ideal because surprisingly, many nights are so cold I need to sleep in my bed with multiple blankets and comforters in order to stay warm during the wee hours. So simply rolling out of my hammock into my bed has become routine at this point. And when a late night rainstorm comes it gets so cold I begin to wonder if I have been posted in Siberia, and I would have it no other way. Suddenly the beanies I brought out for purely sentimental value don't seem so foolish. And if I can't find a pair of warm slippers out here I may just need to ship some from home. As the holiday season is rapidly approaching I slightly smile while thinking to myself, it's beginning to feel a bit like Christmas.

Limbe!

What a weekend! The ocean has always held a special place in my heart. As a child I remember almost every family vacation was a trip to the beach, and I was always delighted by this. For me, the beach has always been a place where everything seems be ok, and everyone is enjoying themselves. I have countless memories of creating sandcastles with my Dad and brothers. I also fondly remember making sand traps that we would trick our younger sister, brother, and dog to fall into. As I grew older I only moved closer to the ocean, going from Maryland to San Diego. And with every trip I took abroad the beach was always a focal point of the experience, (except for maybe the trip to München, but that one had it's own merit, aye Cal?) So I had many reasons for choosing Cameroon, but a large one was knowing I would be posted in a village with reasonable coastal access. So with ten weeks of training arduously completed I was ready for a sea breeze and some tropical sunshine! What? Not so? I quickly learned that we were not allowed to request vacation or leave our post during our first three months of service as volunteers. Blasts! My plans were foiled again by Corps du la Paix! No matter, having time in village would be good for me, the last thing the community wants to see is a volunteer leaving before they even arrive.
But with integration coming along smoothly, and my three months penance paid, I was frothing (that one's for surfline) to get into some salt water. So after three hours of classes on Thursday and an afternoon spent at a staff social enjoying goat meat that had just been slaughtered less than 24 hours earlier, my mind was now on one thing, Limbe. I packed my bags and informed my neighbors I wouldn't be home for the weekend. I then headed to Bamenda, bought a roundtrip bus ticket, and sat for eight hours anxiously awaiting our arrival. As we neared our destination I saw Mount Cameroon for the first time, towering overhead, it's peak rising over 4000 meters. I think to myself how I have no interest in competing in the mountain race that takes place every year in February. I retired my running career after "Bay to Breakers." I'm sure Scott and Gabe remember how I gave one hundred and ten percent that day, but the race took quite a toll on me. So maybe I'll take a car to the top because I'm sure the views are spectacular. But struggling to breathe at high altitudes doesn't sound too enjoyable, especially while looking down at the ocean and seeing the alternative.
The bus stops and I get into a cab. After only a few minutes of driving, there it is. Beautiful Ambas bay, sparkling on the horizon. The rainforest covered mountains tumble down directly into the ocean. The edge of the bay is protected by many small offshore islands. We continue driving, pass many signs for local beach hotels, and then finally arrived at Tsaben Beach Hotel. Positioned right on the coast with it's own private beach, I couldn't ask for anything better.
Days start with an early morning swim, followed by a complimentary breakfast. Next is a late morning swimming, followed by a lunch of fresh shrimp, fish, or perhaps, barracuda. What next? Some more time in the ocean I guess. Exploring the coast, the volcanic black sand is quite a sight, and a single reminder of Mount Cameroon's volcanic nature. Cold streams empty continuously into the ocean up and down the beach. Just in front of the hotel is a rocky point. All indications suggest that this could make for a nice right hander when the swell picks up. The locals tell me that the season for waves is from February to May, so I'll be sure to be back for that, and likely even a few more times before. The water temperature is perfect, not too hot, while making swimming comfortable from early dawn to late evening. When the sun comes out, refuge can be taken under any of the coconut and other tropical trees that line the coast. Lying down under this canopy reminds me of Fiji and Bali. My evenings were spent enjoying a beer at the hotel restaurant while taking in the views. The setting sun, Mount Cameroon, Semme and Six Mile Beach, Ambas Bay. And oh yes, I can't forget the 3000 meter mountain just off the coast. Bioko island, owned by Equatorial Guinea, immediately sparked my interest. It sits as a massive rock in the Atlantic ocean. Apparently they take the same currency, and it would be nice to brush up on my Spanish, so a trip here is certainly in the works.
Unfortunately, as quickly as the weekend had come, it had gone. The three days spent were just what I needed, but they also left me wanting more. On the bus ride home I began allocating my vacation days and monthly spending allowance for future trips to this tropical paradise. I will also need to visit Kribi which is the other beach town in Cameroon. However, the bus ride is much longer and it's in a francophone region so I'll need to make sure my French is up to par. So while I'm sure I will certainly enjoy Kribi as well, Limbe will likely be the destination for many more weekend excursions to come while in Cameroon.

A Day in the Life

Wake up in the morning feeling like...... a Cameroonian. Although it's only three am, the rooster crow's are like clockwork. Only about three at this early hour. But at four there at now at least nine. And by five there must be 27, as even the late risers are singing their earlier morning song. Six o'clock comes and I hear the all too familiar screams of my young neighbor, which sound as if he is being strangled to death. And the way his wailing disturbs my slumber makes me want to strangle him to death. But apparently bucket baths are very painful when you are a child. Seven comes and I decide it is time for me to rise, or I guess roll out of my hammock. I turn on some dmb, ants marching, of course, and now I'm ready to begin the day.
As always, breakfast is very routine for me and is a meal I enjoy thoroughly. I wash  my plates and egg pan in buckets filled with soap and bleach. I then start the process of preparing a delectable spaghetti omelette. Eating this so often during training got me hooked. I was somewhat surprised to see that they weren't really available in the northwest. But after watching them being prepared countless times making them on my own was simple. Chopping up plenty of fresh pepe (Cameroonian jalapeños) and including heaps of onions gives it the flavors that I will remember Cameroon fondly by. After brekky I begin lesson planning for the little nuggets I'll be teaching later that day. After my physics notes are complete I sit on my porch in my bamboo chair for at least an hour, thinking, but not really thinking about anything. In these moments time almost stands still, but before I know it, time has flown by and it's time for me to walk to school. Along the way I greet my neighbors with a routine "good morning" and "how are you? " In the staff room I quickly converse with some of the other teachers, talking mostly about the weather and how the dry season is coming very soon. If we're lucky the electricity is working and we can watch the news to see the latest on Ebola and other engaging topics. I then march to the trenches, and attempt to teach physics to a bunch of uncontrollable teenagers for three hours. If I make it out alive I leave school and head to the village square to enjoy one of my favorite dishes, water foufou and erro. If I go for only a few days without having this I start to crave it insatiably. I should probably ask them to put slightly less black tar heroin in the fou fou. Once "my belly done flop" I begin the walk back to my house with a very full and satisfied stomach. I politely decline countless offers to join friends for a drink of palm wine and I explain I have classes to teach the next day. I return home and say hello to my landlord/neighbor. Our conversation, as always, establishes many redundancies. "You are coming back to the house?" "Yes, just coming home." "You are from school?" "Yes, I have taught for many hours today." "Good this is good, rain was threatening today but it did not come." "Yes, I think dry season is coming soon." "Yes, it will be here shortly, ok, I must collect the goats, next time." "Ok, see you." I enter my house, prepare for a French lesson I will going to shortly. As evening sets in I do some light cleaning around my house. To close out the day I return to my bamboo chair and play guitar. As the sun sets it paints the sky with a myriad of colors. Eventually Enyoh is covered in darkness. If we're lucky we have power, but the past four weeks were spent without it, so the village is used to getting along with "no light" as they say. Just before bed I'll read something or other, maybe grade some quizzes that I had given that day. As I go to sleep I think about how nice it is to have a day filled with such little stress. I then start to dream about a trip to Limbe which is soon to come.

Integration

With derivatives completed it was now time for integration, (Wooo, math humor!). My house was settled and I had established some basic daily routines. I finally felt like I could exhale, relax, and begin preparing for the next task at hand, gaining the acceptance and support of my community. I have talked with many former and current volunteers and have heard that integration is not something that comes easy. I saw this to be true as I arrived in my village, where I was initially only known as "white man." A few of my neighbors and my landlord were able to learn my name, but for many people in the village the name David was as foreign to them as Mbah, Teku, and Ashu are to me. I quickly discovered that many people in the village speak very little or no english. The local dialect is Mughamo, and after that pidgin is the next most common language. Pidgin is quite interesting, it is made up of many English words, however they often have different meanings. With Cameroon having been settled by the Portuguese, Germans, and French, as well as the English, words from all these languages can be found in pidgin. This language is very important in the Northwest and Southwest regions of Cameroon. Although these regions are classified as anglophone many people in the rural areas speak no english at all. And with there being so many different dialects, (for example, Bali is only a 15 minute drive from Batibo, but when you get there you will find the people speaking a new dialect), pidgin is used as the unifying and most commonly understood language for the Northwest and Southwest regions. So here I am, the only white man for miles, (side note, Cameroonians also refer to American women and African Americans as "white man") and I had spent most of training learning french, a language spoken by a select few in the village. How was I even supposed to begin integrating into this community? Well to start, I decided why not simply put one foot in front of the other. For the first month before school began I walked all over the village greeting everyone I passed, doing my best to communicate coherently. I quickly learned how friendly and welcoming everyone was. As more and more people learned who I was my title began to change from "white man" to "prof" or "sir" to show respect for my position as a teacher. I found that another great place to meet people was at the local catholic church. Those in attendance were very happy to see me join them for mass, although somewhat to the dismay of the parishioners of the local presbyterian church which is just a few steps from my house. Sunday is also the village market day which has proven to be another great venue to meet people while getting a few fresh vegetables and other necessities. All of these interactions have helped to improve my pidgin, although it still has a long way to go. Currently my sights are set on learning the local dialect. The villagers assure me that I will be able to pick it up quickly, but with it being a tonal language I think it might be a bit more difficult than they anticipate. With every word it's not just what you say, but it's how you say it. But after living here for two years I think I should at least be able to construct some basic phrases.

So just as I was beginning to get settled in and accustomed to the village, my name changed once again. One night as I was sharing a few drinks with some locals they explained that they were surprised to see me drinking the "white stuff", (palm wine). I enjoy it for a variety of reasons. It has a very unique, and I think good taste. It is much much cheaper than beer. And it's also much less alcoholic, so it prevents people from getting overly rowdy or drunk. However, it does somewhat "trouble the stomach" for those who are not used to drinking it. But I think my body has been adapting to it well. One other good reason to drink it which I did not think of until they mentioned it was that they said it " brought us together." Many whites they had met before would never drink it, likely because of the stomach troubling issue, or maybe simply because they preferred beer. But by choosing the mimbo over 33 I had let them know that I wanted to do everything I could to adapt to their culture and way of life. That night they informed me that my new title would be "Werabaneck", that I was now the head of the local quarter (subset of the village), and that I would soon be named a sub chief. Now I'm not entirely sure if they were kidding or actually being serious, but we'll see where this leads. However, if I receive a country hat with a red feather in it, well, I guess that means I'm integrating faster than I ever imagined possible.

Bamboo Bungalow

So with construction crews finally out, (for the most part), I began the task of moving in. I said my goodbyes to Kumbo and headed back to Enyoh, in a small two door car, with eight people packed into it. Fortunately the car was only going to Bamenda where I would then find another car going to Batibo. Without this intermission I think I would have lost circulation to every part of my body due to how tightly they pack everyone into cars here. During my brief stop in Bamenda I purchased a mattress, which the driver of the car heading to Batibo somehow shoved into the trunk along with everyone else's luggage. Of course it was not able to close at this point, but while living here you learn to just hope for the best while expecting the worst. So I expected that my mattress would likely end up on the side of the road along with everyone else's luggage. However when we got to Batibo everyone was pleasantly surprised to see that miraculously nothing had fallen out. I then found a bike that would take me up to Enyoh with my queen size mattress strapped on the back. Yes, it looks just as ridiculous as it sounds. It was also raining just to make the journey slightly more challenging. After everything was strapped in tight with bungee cords we were on our way.
Upon arriving to Enyoh in one piece my landlord gave me the tour of my new home and showed me that he had indeed acquired a bed frame for me along with a table and two chairs. After having my first nights sleep harassed by moths and other flying plagues I got to work early the next day. I purchased materials to make screens for all my windows, a broom, and essentially a large squeegee to wash my floors. Construction crews had been there just the day before and the mud they had tracked through the house was still everywhere. I began my mission to keep what's outside out! Within no time I had the tile floor in my parlor sparkling. Unfortunately the concrete floors in my bedroom, guestroom, and kitchen didn't glisten quite the same. I saved cleaning the bathroom for another day. Although it had been finished, it had to be redone due to leaking pipes so there would be a plumper working on it for the next few days, leaving muddy footprints in his wake. After the initial cleaning I was very hungry and realized I needed to get my kitchen set up. I walked into the room designated for food preparation. There was a floor, walls, a window, and a ceiling; I couldn't imagine anything better.
So my house was essentially a blank slate for me to do exactly what I wanted with. Many volunteers move into homes that previous volunteers have lived in. This makes the initial transition immensely easier and cheaper. However, in another life I fancy myself as an interior decorator so having the opportunity to make this home my own was something I embraced. At this point my bedroom has been completed. Most notably, the bamboo desk, and dresser are prized possessions of mine. Plastic flooring that looks like black and white tiles is definitely a step up from the constantly damp concrete floor. And with the majority of my clothes hanging freely on a wooden clothing rack the threat of mold growing on them, a result of the incredibly damp climate, is somewhat reduced. My parlor has come together very nicely as well. Coffee table and chairs made from bamboo in one corner and a wooden dining room table and chairs in the other. Now it may seem somewhat frivolous of me to be furnishing my home almost entirely of bamboo furniture. However, as it turns out, it's by far the cheapest option. After asking around one day at market I came across a man who was an expert in bamboo. So once a week I have been asking him to make one or two items for me. I have to say everything to a friend I met who runs a local shop at the weekly market who then translates my request into the local dialect. I am never sure if what I'm asking for has been understood, and everytime I pick up what has been made it is much different than what I was expecting. However, it always comes out great, so at this point I just give a general idea of what I want and leave the rest to the artistic vision of the bamboo artisan. And anything that ends up not being fit for the house will work perfect as patio furniture.
Now bringing all this from the market to my home is just as difficult as bringing the mattress was, if not more. The method of choice is me being sandwiched between whatever furniture I am transporting that day and the driver. The coffee table with chairs was quite a squeeze rivaled only by my last purchase, the dresser. During my last trip it started pouring rain on the ride back. We drove through two rivers that had flooded the road and we had to pull over halfway to let the rain somewhat subside. But at this point, my home has come quite a ways. The guest room might as well be a dungeon, but I don't anticipate having too many guests any time soon. After everything I've done to make this home my own it is good to know I'll be able to enjoy for the next two years.

Cloud City

Well  moving into my new home was certainly an interesting experience. My community host drove me from Bamenda to Enyoh and on the way let me know that my house had just been completed and that they had put in a bed, table, and a few chairs to help me begin the task of furnishing the place. We get there in the pouring rain and I finally see where I will be living for the next two years. It was a good thing I'd already been in Cameroon for a few months because at this point nothing surprises me. Whenever things went wrong during training we quickly reminded each other to never ask questions because there would never be a sensible answer. So when my host said the house was finished and ready to be moved into what he meant to say was that there were no doors, both the inside and outside needed to be painted, and the bathroom was mostly an idea at this point. Perfect! But all was well, my village is very close to Bessi Awum, where I had my site visit. I stayed with the volunteer there for a few days and then went to a village called Kumbo a few hours away to see some of my other friends. Kumbo turned out to be awesome and I plan on visiting again soon. So even though I had to wait over a week before moving into my home I was able to make the best of the situation and had a great time staying with friends of mine and seeing other villages.

But back to Enyoh. The village is very rural and is only accessible by car when the roads are in good condition, which is seldom. The main way to get to this village is by motorcycle taxi. This is the most common means of transportation in Cameroon and I had used it here and there during training in Ebolowa. However, in Ebolowa I used any other means of transportation first because riding on the back of a motorcycle in a busy city didn't seem like the most prudent thing to do. However, out here where an asphalt road is something only spoken of in myth and folklore I feel much more comfortable. The drivers know these dirt roads like the back of their hand and there are only ever a handful of vehicles along this route. So to get to my new home I negotiate a reasonable price with the moto drivers in Batibo. 500 francs for a 20 minute ride (1$), sounds reasonable enough. We bump along the dirt road which has been heavily eroded by daily rainfall. We cross over two large streams and go up and down a few very steep hills. Then we cross into Enyoh. We begin to climb higher and higher. Suddenly everything we have just traversed over is in plain sight. Batibo is now just a mere speck out in the distance. We cruise along this ridge and it is reminiscent of my commute in San Diego along La Jolla Scenic Drive. We climb over the final peak, where a small catholic church is located. We then descend slightly into a village square and just after this I arrive at my home. It's strange to think that I will know this home better than any other I have had since leaving my parents home for college. The longest I have lived in one place since then has been eleven months. So the thought of being settled in one place for two years is something very new to me, and something puts me at ease.

I spent my first few days in Enyoh walking around, eating food prepared by women who sold it at their doorsteps, and having a few drinks with the locals. The first bar I went to was interesting to say the least. It was a cold cloudy day. Much colder than I ever thought possible for Africa. Was I even close to the equator? However, the Northwest region has a climate very different from what one would expect for Cameroon. I ordered "export" the local brew also called "33" or "trente trois." Most of the people here were drinking palm wine. This is very common in the villages of Cameroon. The locals go into the bush and tap wine from palm trees that naturally ferments during the day. It is very inexpensive and is commonly referred to as "white stuff", aptly named for its color. People quickly began asking me the usual questions of who I was, what I was doing here, and if I would marry their daughter. I explained that I was from the US, that I would be a teacher at they local government high school, and that of course, I would marry all there daughters. Polygamy is a wonderful thing! Our conversation carried on for some time with much welcoming of me to the village and many other seemingly odd questions, but ones that I was very accustomed to by this point. As it became colder I began to see clouds rolling in through the windows straight into the small, one room, mud brick bar. Everything and everyone were quickly covered in a white mist. There is no way a picture could've captured this moment. I simply say back, listened to people speaking pidgin along with the local dialect, and did my best to take it all in. Like many places I have been in Cameroon, there often seems to be a lack of distinction between the natural world and that built by humans. The way these clouds rolled into this bar could not have exemplified this point any better. The people here live directly in and with their surroundings. It is truly a beautiful thing to observe. As I got up and began walking home it was not exactly clear when I had left the premises of the bar. Being engulfed by a cloud made it impossible to be aware of anything other than your immediate surroundings. I have never been to Scotland, but I imagine walking through the highland is something like this. It is an eerie feeling, to be so high up and to be able to see so much around you on a clear day, but then to have your entire line of sight obscured at a moments notice. The dry season will come soon and I will have a 360 degree view as far as the eye can see. But I know when it comes a part of me will be anxious for the rainy season to return. During these moments worries and cares disappear, shrouded by clouds, and the only thing left to focus on is the small reality around you which has not yet been covered by the overwhelming haze.