Where’s my cane?

            Its true, I suck at blogging. I can’t seem to find the rhythm of this entity. You know what it is? I think I’m getting old. Sure, 28 is still very young. But I have encountered many circumstances during my time in Cameroon where I have seriously dated myself amongst my peers. The other day I was in a meeting, and someone suggested creating a “meme” to advertise our group. I very innocently inquired as to what this “meme” was, which resulted in abrupt laughter and more than a few “get with the times gramps” type remarks.  It’s a hard truth, realizing that you’re on the outs with claims on youthood, youthdom, and your youthesque understanding of life. But with new bitter, I believe comes new sweet.
            In the last couple of months I have been examining the ways in which my first experience living in Africa in 2007, differ from my current situation in Cameroon. Considering factors of longevity, accommodations, mission, and location, the two experiences are wholly different. Yet the experience of being a white man in Africa, experiencing true “otherness” will always be a parallel. Upon much rumination, I have concluded that the most substantial difference in my experience is myself.
            My first time in Africa, in Senegal, was my first time off the east coast. I was wide eyed at the prospect of flying over the ocean and dropping myself in this foreign land that I hoped held infinite mysteries. I was enthralled by the thought of experiencing a world I couldn’t imagine. I plopped into Senegal like a puppy you just took home for the first time. What’s that strange metal thing on the floor there, radiator you say! Looks like a good thing to lick. Hmm that coil of paper in the room with all the water looks like a great thing to chew on! Wait, did you say do, or don’t eat that bottle of stuff that makes the bubbles? Whether it was a good idea or bad, whether I found myself in situations of discomfort or danger, it was all new, all exciting, all good. The naiveté I embodied in Senegal seven years ago is both admirable and terrifying. It enabled me to experience my surroundings in a way that left me perplexed and exhilarated each day. But this time around has been interestingly different.
            I’m sad to say that I have lost my soft puppy coat. Not to say that I have lost my youthful attitude. For those of you that know me well you know that I will never lose this. But as a seasoned canine now, I’ll stay clear of that damn radiator, cause that really hurt last time, but I’m sure as hell going to jump and yip every time that steam comes shooting out. So I’ve grown, not just older, but more experienced, more discerning, more pragmatic. But fear not sports fans; I always keep a little wahoo in the tank.
            At present, acknowledging this change in myself has been difficult. Sometimes I feel jaded. Because I am no longer open to the rhetoric of every man on the street that sees me as an opportunity for riches. I still get pissed sometimes when people walk by me and just stare and laugh. I believe that this is a necessary evolution. To keep up with the bright eyed and bushy tailed perspective from my previous experience would be to deny that there are things in every part of the world that you just don’t like. I believe that if I am to have any future in the field of development work, it is important to be truthful with myself about my experience. I need to give myself the room to be discontented with some facet of an experience I wanted to be nothing but sunshine and rainbows. In the end I feel as though my first time in Africa, I played the part of a manically active observer. This time around I live in Africa. This is where I work, play, eat, struggle, succeed, and learn. I am an active participant in the culture here. Just as I had my misgivings with living in the fast paced rumble of NYC, I have my issues with Cameroon. Coming to this more realistic attitude about my experiences has been humbling, but I think very illuminating.
            So now I’m here! Coming up on a year since I’ve had McDonalds or a fine steak. And things are moving. To give you an idea of some of the work that I’m doing; I am working with a governmentally sponsored volunteer project in my community. 20 community members from Bali (my village) signed up for a volunteer project that would give them knowledge and skills at market gardening and poultry farming. Seizing an opportunity, I petitioned to implement a supplementary model of life skills training, and men as partners work (the latter being a program that promotes men to be advocates for women’s rights and gender norm transformation). I am also working with a number of other Peace Corps volunteers in coalition with epilepsy awareness NGO called CODEF, to create a comprehensive approach to mitigating the negative social and medical effects of epilepsy in Cameroon.  Another project that I am just beginning is with the president of the moto taxi association here. Moto’s are little 125cc bikes that everyone uses as public transport around the villages. These men (typically between 18-30) are one of the more at risk populations as far as the youth is concerned in Cameroon. Many of these men decided to drop out of school to make money instead of obtaining an education, which has its implicit negative social and economic effects.  They work very long hours, and have the reputation of “rough boys” because they are known for drinking and wily antics. So I have come into contact with for all intents and purposes, their union rep. We are beginning to go through the men as partners curriculum and ideology with hopes of creating sensitized young men that will advocate for the betterment of the lives of women in Cameroon. He and I will also be traveling into the bush to an orphanage where we will be working with orphans on the same material.
            As for general day-to-day life here, lets just say that the last couple of months have been a doozy. I have traveled to 6 of the 10 regions in Cameroon. Experienced the lives of other Peace Corps Volunteers that vary completely from my experience. And had a few moments of unrivaled fear and joy.  To manifest all of the stories in this medium is a task that I don’t feel burdened to complete. For a full account I expect each and every one of you to lock yourself in a room with me for a full day and just listen, and I swear I’ll try to let it go after that. I will leave you with one story though just to give you an idea.

            It was June 8^th and I was in Yaoundé (the capitol) for a committee meeting. The Indomitable Lions (Cameroon’s national football team) were playing their last match in Cameroon before shipping out to Brazil for the World Cup, and I got to go. So me, and about 10 other volunteers donned our freshly purchased Lions jerseys and headed out to the stadium. The game was incredible, Cameroon was playing magnificently. By 30 minutes in they had a 1-0 lead over Moldova and they showed no signs of faltering. The excitement and national pride felt by 50,000 people in one place was magnetic, palpable. Overcome by infectious joy, my friend decided to get up and start a movement. Following suit another volunteer and I got up and started shouting 1, 2, 3 and jumping into the air. Much to the chagrin of my stationary peers, we got nothing but looks of perplexity from the surrounding Cameroonians. Alas we persevered, until the three of us were sprinting up and down isles, to and fro from rows, shouting our numeric sequence, punctuated with the display of a manic jump in the air with arms extending to the clouds. After about 5 minutes of this it started to catch. Voice aquiver from over exuberance, it started in our section. And when it stopped at the next fenced off section, we hollered, we rangeled, we deranged until no one could ignore us. What happened next I could not ever forget. From the ashes of our shameless enthusiasm 50,000 people were mobilized at the same instant. For the short minute that it lasted, each an every person in the stadium worked together to make a perfect “wave”, I dare say the first time ever. How’s that for development work!

Roomate Troubles

            So one of the things I didn’t expect to encounter while in Cameroon was having roommates. Not something I was prepared for to say the least. But being the adaptable man that I am, I have persevered.
            There’s Jordan, he was my first roommate. He can really be a jerk. He likes to hang out in the kitchen late at night and touch all of my things. His place is typically by the water filter. I can’t tell you how many late nights I’ve stumbled out of bed to get water and he’s just there, hangin’ out.  He’s turned out alright though; he mostly keeps to himself and always makes himself scarce when I’m in the kitchen. Plus he rarely ever leaves the kitchen so at least I always know where he’s at. Then there’s Joyce. She didn’t come along until a couple of months ago. Something about the way she moves so quickly and stealthily really gives me the creeps. She was great in the beginning. There’d be days at a time that I wouldn’t see her. But as of late she’s been very bold. She feels free going from room to room at all hours, regardless of my presence, and… She’s been steeling my food. This I cannot abide. I’ve tried to have a conversation with her about this but she’s just too quick. At least Jordan listens when I speak. Lastly there’s Arthur. Arthur is a treat. He holds himself in such an honorable way. Something about his presence really calms me. It’s too bad what happened, he hasn’t been around lately. I think he’s still a little bitter about the fact that I chopped his arm off. I know, I know I should have been more careful. But it was clearly stated in our lease agreement that he was to reside on my porch and not enter the apartment. Upon his breaching of this clause I was forced to take action. It was not my intention to separate one of his limbs in the process but, c’est la vie. Cameroon has made me a brutal enforcer.
            Oh Arthur’s a Preying Mantis. I guess I should have mentioned that earlier. Jordan is my cockroach and Joyce is my mouse. I didn’t mention Richard because I don’t want to believe that he exists. He had similar features to Joyce but on a scale larger than I’m comfortable accepting in my home. I also didn’t mention the spiders; they receive no name because I have no intentions of becoming acquainted with their likes.
            You’ll notice that I am referring to singular life forms. Have no fear, I’ve not deluded myself into thinking that there exists only one cockroach and one mouse. This just makes it easier. The kicker is when I go in to my kitchen and four Jordan’s scurry away. When that happens I promptly turn around as if I did not see anything. He was having a party and didn’t need disturbing.
            This has become a very useful tactic in ensuring my comfort here in Bali Cameroon. I no longer fear my obligatory inhabitants. Give it a whirl!

            We can now acknowledge the fact that it’s been nearly six months since my last post. It has not been for lack of wanting that I have curtailed this publication’s progress. Many times I have sat to write, but became quickly overwhelmed at the task of representing my experiences in Cameroon in a succinct and coherent manner. So instead I decided to jump in to this story about my various pests. It is a fitting anecdote for the transitions I am going through. Every day here you are faced with something to fear. I realized early on that if I were to succumb to this inevitability I would fail. So I have been forced to adopt some new strategies. Break some of my more rigidly western attitudes and adopt some new ones.
            For example proximity or personal space. This should be all but forgotten in the developing world. On more than one occasion I have traveled in a Toyota corolla with up to eleven people. Once you’ve voluntarily boarded that vehicle and squeezed yourself into a position with no semblance of comfort, you realize how small your personal bubble can get. But all of us are now capable of getting to where we need to go so that is a win in Cameroon. I like to think of this as an economic benefit.
            It’s fascinating how much one can change their perspective in the matter of six months. In my first few posts my American standards of “normal” were still very much in tact. I think this was why writing came so easily then. I could look at the oddities of life here and verbalize them easily. But now I’ve become used to seeing a cow hanging out the back of a sedan. Or getting yelled at by the tens of people a day saying “white man” or just “white”. Some other names I’ve gotten are Sisqo, Indiana Jones, Mother F#@$&%, and my (n word). The latter is my least favorite, and is the only sure fire way to get me to blow up at you and cause a scene in the middle of the market. So life is very different here. And in many ways it’s the same. I guess in the end it’s difficult to paint a picture for you if your not standing by my side. But I vow to be better at this blog thing and perhaps it will become a more fluid process with more attention and practice.