*Nods knowingly* Oh, la Sorcellerie.

Le 10/06/06

(apologizes for using action brackets in the title. Couldn’t be helped).

Background note – Mus (or Musica, Musser, Mustifer, or Lazy Cat) is my cat. Clingy, neurotic African cat.

I had an argument with the chef. Too long of a story to explain…essentially, rather than seeing me and wanting money, he has seen me and wanted a Project. This is closer to a PCV’s job, yes, but the particular project has turned into a territorial/family dispute. And has lately made me Angry. (the project is not going to happen). After some harshly spoken loud words with him and with Mama Regine on the subject…I went home. End of story.

That night, lying in bed, I start to hear strange noises. I’ve gotten used to living alone in my house. Used to the noises chickens make beneath my windows, noises my neighbors in back make, noises of mangoes and birds falling on the roof. I’m even used to the (somewhat rare) noise of Mus devouring a mouse or a little gecko.

This was different than all those.

To convince myself that it was not, in fact, a human intruder in my house, I turned on my bedside lamp.

The fuse blew and the lamp exploded.

Ok, I know where my flashlight is at all times. It helps when electricity is uncertain.

I get out of bed, slightly shaken, and walk to the living room. It’s dark, but the light switch is on the other side of the room.

In the middle of the floor is Mus.

Wrestling with a long black snake.

I panic. Don’t scream. Somehow have the presence of mind to back away to the kitchen to get my butcher knife.

I stand there, shaking, knife in hand. Mus is fighting valiantly. I reason that – since she seems okay – the snake must not be poisonous. This doesn’t help so much. Standing there, shaking, with the knife. Had I my machete (on the other side of the room, next to the light switch, would entail stepping over the snake) I think I would have hacked at it. But the knife…handle too short, I have to get too close to the snake, if I don’t hit hard enough the first time and it reacts up at me…no.

The snake is tightly curled on the floor. There’s some snake blood on my cement…is it dead? Maybe. I wait. I go get my raclette (squeegee like broom for mopping the floor). I will just push it out the front door…it starts to uncurl. Slowly. As calmly as I possibly can, I push it toward the door. Forceful. Step around it to unlock the door, open, push it as far as I can out into the yard. Mus follows (but she can get back in through the window). Shut the door. Lock it again. Turn on all the lights in the house. Go back to my bedroom, shaking…as I realize there is enough room under my door for a snake to crawl, I push a suitcase against it. There. Fine.

Somehow, I manage to sleep.

In the morning, I get up, remove the obstruction at my door, go back into the living room.

There, lying stretched across my books, is a dead black snake.

The same one.

Mus didn’t eat it…it’s completely intact…but she killed it somehow. And she’s sitting on her usual chair, purring, now meowing at me for breakfast.

Shaking…again…I pick it up with the same raclette and fling it into the side yard. Truly, truly dead.

Then I look at my doors. Front door – no way in hell a snake could have gotten under. …same with the back door.

Window? How could a snake climb several feet up the cement wall? And why?

Mus is notorious for brining in the mice and geckos to eat inside. And leave the heads for me to find. But…the snake was bigger than her. And she didn’t want to eat it. She would have had to jump through the window, struggling with it…and why.

And it almost six months I have never seen a snake in Mvangan.

Snakes are traditionally connected with sorcery. They’re warnings, say, to make you pay attention or change your ways or whatever.

I don’t believe in sorcery.

But if I did….

I have no idea how the snake got inside.

Mus, my hero.

I think.

She got Friskies (dry, found now in Ebolowa, her new favorite) for her efforts, and the next day, an avocado.

Paging Dr. Jenny

le 8 mai 2006

Uhhh…what-now ?

Saturday afternoon, leaving my house to walk to Mvangan centre to try
to retrieve a letter for the 4th time, I was intercepted by one of the
nurses. Essola walks toward me. "Jenny!" (keep in mind that the
following dialogue took place in Cameroonian French). "Yes?" "There's
a mother here with a malnourished child. I just sent her to your
house. I'll call her back so you can consult with her."
*deep breath* *I can pretend that I'm competent enough to counsel a
mother worried about her 20-month old daughter who has stopped eating
and is currently presenting with malnutrition, while the other child
(they're twins) is fine....*
Thus went my first patient consult. Trying to ask thoughtful,
meaningful questions, and to give decent answers and advice. Yes.
Looking at my resource books later, I did a decent job. Considering.
This all came about because at our last staff meeting, we were
discussing the month's cases and came upon a child with kwashiorkor
(severe malnutrition). The Doc decided that I (an expert on
nutrition? I've mentioned to him that I'm very interested in the
subject, but...) would plan an in-service on nutrition for all the
nurses and come up with a meal plan to give to mothers of malnourished
children. With preparation and planning and research, fine. But
spur-of-the-moment is what PC Cam is all about. So there you have it.
First patient consult, check. (how many years till I start med
school?)
In the middle of said staff meeting, a high school girl I know pretty
well came in. "Jennifer, on a besoin de toi." Curious, I go outside,
and run into the first arrival for the Jazz Fete de Mvangan 2006,
fresh off several hours on a moto, from Sangmelima. (**free weekend
for volunteers of same province. Still, names of the Innocent
withheld**). I was expecting him to arrive with the bread truck the
next day, so this was a surprise. Few hours later, the next three
arrive (from a bush taxi (van) filled with 22 people. They counted.
And chickens. All par for the course) ... and the greatest spectacle
Mvangan has seen in awhile was walking around town. Five Ntangens.
Pretty amazing. (Though more amazing is that in the course of the
weekend, I got my table! Almost four months later and much smaller
than I was envisioning. More of a desk. Now for work on table number
2...). PCVs can be pretty creative. Meaning, in this instance, that
we can try our best to make Western food with Cameroonian ingredients
and a marmite oven. Over the weekend, there was pizza, falafel,
hummus, and pita. All made from scratch (except the falafel). What
else. Saturday afternoon we walked down to the Nlobo (river), watched
kids jumping in and did resist the urge to jump in after them and
quickly contract Schisto. Umm, for now. (what, it's treatable...and
besides which is a great word to say....SCHISTO!) We ran into a cocoa
(and L'Oreal) importer/exporter, neighbor of [another PCV]. Having
lived in NYC at 46th St and 8th Ave for 10 years, working for Grayline
as a tour guide, R.C. regaled us with tales of how he is a "f*cking
smart guy, man" and how not to pick up transvestites in Brooklyn and
take them to XXX clubs. (If I had our entire conversation on tape, it
would be a perfect SNL skit. Except. It was real. I'm not going to
try, won't come close enough).



Quick and lovely ride back up to Ebolowa in a hired car (as none of
the agence cars went, Sunday, because it had rained that morning).
The five of us and two drivers in the same size car in which I once
traveled to Ebolowa with 13 others. Pas mal. Lovely evening
culminating in drinks with a bunch of French volunteers who had
congregated for a similar Fete. DCC....D Catholic C something.
Anyway. Two differences between them and PCVs: they are professionals
(nurses, businesspeople, teachers, and the like) and they live in more
urban areas. Translated, they got mad skillz (that we don't got) but
they're not roughing it en brousse. (Though neither are all PCVs.
And some do have skillz, even mad onez.)
Their French was...difficile à suivre. Fast. French French. And I
realized exactly *how* Cameroonian I sound now, though compared to
Cameroonians I sound very French. Odd to have trouble understanding
your first language.
And dancing! West African drumming and dancing! (at the bar in
Ebolowa). Different than Cameroonian dance, which is more like placid
walking around in a circle. Cameroonian dance is a lot more about the
song. And West African dance...is about flying. African dancing, in
Africa. A good, rare moment to remember "Oh yeah, I live in Africa."
It's month 8 now.

As I said to Kim at IST, Mvangan is a curious mix of "there's nothing
to do" and "AHH!!! I'm overwhelmed!!!" This morning I was working on
3 rather large-scale projects, thinking of a 4th, and planning time to
go work with an infirmier en brousse (Amvom, about halfway between
here and Akam. He, Sylvain, was going to get a PCV (like a TV
gameshow gift!) if there were enough, but alas). He wants to do a
major program on malnutrition, regrouping villages and talking to
women's groups, etc, developing a treatment plan. He also wants to do
youth sensibilisations in the summer, when the kids of the area are
regrouped together for soccer tournaments and weeks of cultural
events. This is Brilliant. And something a PCV is *made* to do (if
that can be said about anything). And the practice we had doing
animations at soccer games in Bandjoun every week could actually come
in handy. And he's the counterpart of my dreams....as in, has ideas,
has time and energy to put toward them, and really wants to work with
me. And is 30 km away, at least 2 hours on a moto, and 3000. To plan
for a trip to Akam, or on the way back from Akam. The days pass very,
very slowly here...but the months are flying. *soudain* I'll be 23
and a half in a few weeks. That's halfway through a year spent
entirely in Cameroon. What is time like, state-side? I don't
remember.

Two years is short. To try to accomplish something? Anything?
Minuscule. When you add in banking trips, free weekends, having 3
posts, vacations, meetings....

Third post, Zoebefam. I don't live at that one, contrary to Mvangan
and Akam. ...yet. When we actually start work on the sources (*it's
going to happen! It's going to happen!* says Tinkerbell), I'll live
there for the two weeks, at least, the work takes. (And there's
another month gone, basically. Likely, August. IFF PC gets British
High Commission funding and the village gets materials together and I
get the grant done and it's accepted. ) I was there last Sunday and
I'll be there again in a week, to establish a work calendar and get
people moving to gather sand, rocks, wood, planks, etc, etc. And get
work groups established to actually défriche the sources and work on
them when the time comes. It feels homey, now...I know my way around
and I'm getting to know people there. The nurse, Paulette, is
wonderful. "We're going to go house to house to get contributions.
If people won't give money, they'll give materials. And if they won't
give materials, they'll work. And if they won't work I'll come into
their kitchen and take a marmite and sell it to get the money!"
And that's how you get sh*t done.
There might not be anything big. But if at the end of two years,
there are enough little-to-medium things that feel like they existed,
it'll be okay. Two years. So, so, short.

Off to try to get mosquito nets put on my windows. I haven't been so
motivated to do this (neither are the carpenters...) because there are
no mosquitoes around my house. As in, the only mosquito bites I get
are while traveling and in other villages. Worst? Yaoundé, PC
compound, the Case, computer room.

Over and out.

Oh, Cameroun

("Oh, Cameroun" is the greeting message on my cell phone, programmed around 6 am on a bush taxi. And what we say. A Lot.)

I took a machete to work the other day. Not only was that not strange or incarceration-worthy, I was expected to do it. The last Thursday of the month is "jeudi propre" at the hospital, and we défriche the surroundings – cut grass, weeds, trees, etc (trees can be weeds, here), rake, hoe, machete. Burn leaves. All the personnel do it, and that means me, no? And me wielding a machete – my own, mind you – is about the funniest thing any Cameroonian has ever seen. Repeatedly. I'm glad to provide the entertainment. And my technique is improving. (anyone who has ever felt that cutting grass with a lawnmower, in the sun, was hard work – try doing it with a machete).

Life in a small village in Africa also means my colleague (a nurse at the hospital) came over at 7 – and woke me up – to borrow my hoe. I've tried to explain that I am not a morning person, that people shouldn't come over that early for their own good. It hasn't worked, so far. But at least I'm comfortable enough here, now, to groan and yell at people that early (though they won't go away and stand there, talking, singing, until I come to the door). It helps. Work hours for the government (and hospital) here are 7:30 to 3:30 – but being a PCV 24/7, and not *actually* having a job, I feel justified in coming in by 8.

Kids take machetes to school, too, including primary school kids. Défrichage (translation? It's hard because it's not really something you can do, besides in the tropics. Rainforest) of school grounds – they have "manual labor" as part of PE (don't worry, they get to play soccer and handball, too). No fears of school violence, here.

I had a discussion about gun-carrying – especially in Texas – here, today. (Here = Akam, village of 100 people in the Mengame Gorilla reserve, 7 km from Gabon. See previous). They think such an adamant stance over – what? The right to bear arms? - is insane. I agree. Interesting what news permeates, and where.

Today – April first, incidentally, but the following is real – I started off the morning by tracking down the guy who's supposedly been making me a table and chairs for 2 months (he's hiding from me. I gave him an ultimatum last week), arguing with my moto chauffeur over money (to take me to Akam from Mvangan), and finding confirmation that he was way overcharging me from my erstwhile counterpart, Pascal, who is awesome (and Anglophone) but now lives in Yaoundé. Finally, we left.
14 km later, we stopped in Zoebefam, a village where I'm doing a water project. (We stop a lot so my chauffeur, Essono, can chat with people. Everybody knows everybody). But here – I felt Cameroonian – because I also had to stop and greet friends/acquaintances. Essono got annoyed. Ohwell. He just wanted to get back fast so he could make up what he'd thought I would pay.

We arrived in 3 hours, and I had the whole, huge project house to myself. For about 10 minutes. Then people started coming by (everyone knew within seconds that I was here). First the school director's wife, who I think is going to be a good friends but I still don't know her first name – that's embarrassing. Then Seraphim, who often translates in meetings for the Hopkins folks (and me) and serves as a guide. Then off to the corps de garde – sort of town square, open air building with bamboo beds, chairs, an elephant skull, songo (mancala) etc, where everyone (the men) generally hangs out. There I greeted the chef, who doesn't speak French (nkou'kouma a ndji kabo fulassi) but I managed to get a few things across in Bulu. He sent someone back to his house to get us lunch – a luscious avocado, plantain pilé (mashed plantain, sortof), and nfia ndo'o – mangue sauvage sauce. After a few more visits, a few hours of chatting in kitchens, I went home and picked a perfectly ripe papaya from my tree.

Idyllic? Could be.

Africa is poor. Yes.

But here, a poor man – any man – (and I specifically say man, not person) can get a bit of land (ask and ye shall receive, from the chef), build his own house at very little monetary cost, make his own fields – grow food, and sell the extra for money – or even just find food en brousse (in the bush/rainforest). He probably doesn't have potable water (depends on the village). His children are probably malnourished and probably have worms, and he probably can't afford to send them to school. Or to send them past primary school, if they're even so inclined. (This isn't even just a question of money/motivation. To take the exam at the end of primary school - which is necessary to enter 6eme, or the beginning of secondary school, the children of Akam have to walk about 30 km to the testing site).

But, what is poor?

(As to the women, Cameroonian women have few-to-no rights, in practice, at least. There are, of course, exceptions. Mayors (the mayor of Mvangan is a woman). Congressional reps (again, Mvangan). But at a dinner in her home, Honorable – the Rep – served men below her in political rank. Had to. But I digress. The farther out en brousse you go, the more true this is. In Akam, many women don't speak French (because they had little or no schooling). Last time I was here, a 14-yr-old gave birth. That's pretty average. Etc).

There is drumming from nearby, in the corps de garde. But for now I'm content to sit here – with my other half papaya – and write.

If there is anything I could most convey for goal 3 (this, and you, dear readers are goal 3 – see peacecorps.gov) it is the utter normalcy of my life here –and of people, everywhere. I make it sound exotic – by giving facts, yes, but it's all very matter-of-fact to me now. Today marks 6 months in Africa. Six months since I set foot on the continent I'd dreamed of for 16 years. Six months in Cameroon. (And 6 months ago today I was wondering – WTF is my luggage? I'M HUNGRY – and who are these people???).

Six months ago tonight I was worrying over forgetting to use bottled water to brush my teeth – I didn't, but almost, and my roommate did, panicked, and threw out her toothbrush.

Today I drank village water (from a clean source, good well. And only a little bit...) My new friend (the school director's wife... Marthe! Ha!) just came by with the porcupine she prepared ( I watched her scrape the quills off. I kept one). And I'm perfectly comfortable living au village, en super-brousse, with no electricity and water I carried in earlier today.

Six months. That's two trimesters of a baby. Neural development? Heart? I should know. (and on that note, just bit into some porcupine organ. Oh well.) To say everything has changed in both an understatement and an overstatement. I've gotten my head clearer about a lot of things, being here. Growing up? Not quite. It's like having a growth spurt – over the last 2 and a half years, say – and finally buying clothes to fit. And stopping hitting your head on things – knowing exactly when and where to duck.

I needed that.

And here's to another 20 months, or 21.

Dear gods, it's hard some days. But at the same time breathless and spellbinding and achingly beautiful and heart-to-overflowing. The truest thing about Peace Corps - pour moi - is that it's an emotional rollercoaster, from waiting to go to going to being here. And it doesn't stop. Not yet, anyway.

Six months. I've learned to not stress about things (it's true !), be boundlessly flexible, and never anticipate anything – because there are always, always surprises. (Meeting happening? Surprise! Meeting not happening? Surprise...)

I'm no longer afraid of lighting gas stoves. Or of motos. Or malaria or parasites or dysentery. Everything to do on a daily basis that seemed so overwhelming when the PCMOs first told us – even setting up a water filter ! – has become easy. Routine. I'm good at killing lots of time by staring into space (or sitting on a moto). Good at waiting patiently, let's say.

It's good to be home. I have so many. Anyplace I have attachment to people, things. Any place I have things that are mine to come back to. Any place familiar. I leave pieces of myself everywhere – were I Bulu, I'd leave babies. This is home is 2° 20' N, 11° E, thanks to my sat phone GPS. I just spoke to my parents, sitting on a log under my papaya tree. They worry. I forget there are reasons to. This is my very normal life. And it's Daylight Savings Time, again, in America. That's twice now, since leaving. We don't change. 2° above the equator, there's no reason to.

6 months ago – this morning –I began to realize what it would look like to be white in Africa. At the airport in Paris. A long line of Cameroonians, and all of us (then) PCTs. Now, in village, at least, it feels odd when (very rarely) I see another blanc. (There's an Italian priest and an Italian doctor at the Catholic mission 6 km from Mvangan. I go there on occasion – good food, company, and to remind myself that there are other white people in the world, I don't just look weird or have some sort of skin disease). I've been sunburned once in 6 months, and that was sitting for hours at a state funeral (in Mvangan). One minor jellyfish sting. Cumulative bug bites in the thousand range (no hyperbole).

I wish I could record the drumming right now. I'm leaving now, to join the village kids in dancing. It's Saturday night.

There are times when I'm perfectly zen.

This is one of them.