A Camper in Cameroon

The End of a Regimen

2006-01-26T23:24:00.000-08:00

Dear all,

My long and beautiful (and heavy-as-hell) braids are out.
I wore a scarf and wool peacoat for most of this week.
And, to top it all off, I took my last Doxycycline pill today.

It was supposed to be a ritual moment rising above the daily and ordinary - something emotional, ceremonial, even memorable - but it was not. The end of a malaria prophylaxis regimen just slid and slumped into the day, more unnoticed than ever before. As is actually quite rare for me, I forgot the little blue capsule this morning... Even worse, I didn't agonize over that minor medical and major ceremonial infraction; in fact, by the time I arrived at my 9 a.m. econ recitation, I had forgotten that I had forgotten. When I finally made it home tonight for a brief bag-repacking, I popped that last Doxy into my mouth as a mere second-thought, even without water to wash it down, because there wasn't time. And, amazingly - disappointingly, it went down well. No sticking, no choking, no nausea, no dry mouth. ...Just another, final day of heightened immunity against dangers that I no longer face.

Isn't it strange, how quickly we move on...? I was slightly let-down, for a while, with my weak culture shock; the entire thing was lame, uneventful, and nothing special to write about. Since my return, I have yearned to write in the blog, with news and rants and revelations - but they did not crowd my head. I simply got off of the plane in Pittsburgh, found a familiar kind of commotion still happening all around, stepped onto that moving walkway (toward baggage claim, toward a different life) like it was nothing out of the ordinary, and became a part of it. Everything in Cameroon that should have been ordinary was extraordinary, and all the relatively extraordinary things here instantly seemed so...ordinary. I found that friends were still friends, family was still home, and home was still there. It was comforting and lovely; but at the same time, I wondered when the reality would finally come crashing down on me. It never did. Or maybe it already had - gently nudging, instead of crashing, its way back into me.

So why do I feel different and so good today, and what am I writing about? The change that strikes me is not in my surroundings - but rather, in me. Of course, having culture shock against oneself would be awkward and probably internally/psychologically disruptive, and I cannot imagine it; but cultural awe - THAT I can tell you about. Someone asked me a cruel and well-rehearsed question the other day: "Which is better, Cameroon or Penn?" Well, there's no good answer. The bliss that I'm floating through now is not because Penn is wonderful and Cameroon was horrible; but because they are perfect complements. ...If I have just spent a semester eating prickly and tangy, shockingly pink fruits, bought in a somewhat prickly and tangy, startlingly loud market - then now I'm sipping on rich, frothy creams while smooth vanilla odors waft by, sinking into a velvet chair so wide and inviting that I lose my curled legs between its fuzzy purple armrests. A life of tang and spice desensitizes the tongue, and living on vanilla and froth forever would give me a tummy ache - but one after the other, alternating these worlds and sensibilities and stimuli, is like taking a never-ending, sweet, sweet vacation.

I can see now, that I didn't appreciate Penn before Cameroon. I resented its froth - too airy and foamy; its cream - too soft and thick; its plush chairs - too damn plush. But when all of that went missing in Cameroon, I had no qualms with finding substitutes, and I revelled in a semester-long parade through excessive color and sound, smell and taste, friends and travel and adventure. In so doing, I have realized that there is nothing necessarily noble or selfless (perhaps only soul-less) about self-denial...particularly when those things offered can be better enjoyed and utilized by you, than by anyone else. Honestly - no Cameroonian in her right mind would deny herself the luxuries offered by Penn, if they were instead offered at her school, the University of Yaounde I. That would be stupid, self-injuring, and very short-sighted.

A huge part of being privileged, I believe, is accepting responsibility for all that one has. But how to do/be that? Well, for one: I have to be responsible to others, so that one day those with much less than I have, may have more. But also: I must be responsible to myself. ...Responsible and responsive, that is, to all that I have: loving family and great friends, inspiring role models in all of them, clean water, amazing classes, attentive and enthusiastic professors, internship opportunities, fast internet, warm shoes, bright lights, uni-ball pens, yoga classes, free time, a wide selection of good and fairly-priced diary products, etc. I will take advantage of these advantages - because I can do that, and ultimately translate that privilege into a power that creates advantages for someone else, more easily and efficiently than anyone else. The opportunities are, after all, knocking at MY door. It is time for me to answer to them.

...

Cameroon, once overwhelmingly foreign to me, is where I found countless homes. I found a home in the families that opened their doors and arms to host me - for I always had a room of my own, a warm and happy house to come back to, and, most importantly, a group of people who wanted to know me and grow close to me. I found a home at work - where I developed projects of my own, learned that an idle mind is the most insufferable work experience of all, and so struggled, and succeeded, in earning others' time and attention so that I could produce meaningfully. I found a home in distant lands, in Dschang and Yaounde, and in places even farther away than those - through travel that brought me to the doorsteps of strangers, passing nights as if old friends, and in the morning choosing plots of land for my future thatched hut in their village. But these homes I have left behind...to the extent that I can only visit them through phone and email contacts, until I return.

However, I also found a home in myself - a satisfaction, a sense of worth and guidance and purpose, that I did not before possess. That is the comfort and confidence that I carry with me, and that is the home in which I am now living. That is why I feel different and so happy; and that is why, every day, I remember and give thanks for the unforgettable experiences of last semester.

Love to everyone who I love, everywhere. Thank you for all your reading and supporting,

Mara/Chlodes

Recipe of the Week: Dakkere (yoghurt cous-cous)

2005-12-18T16:14:00.000-08:00

This is a rich, refreshing, and nicely textured yoghurt dish for a breakfast or late-night treat. You can prepare the parts separately far in advance, and just mix as you eat! It was served at the Bar Laitier (Dairy Bar) with a bowl of fine sugar to sweeten to taste; in Idool, it was the main breakfast dish, accompanied by tea, avocado slices, and sugar and honey. One other difference; the standard dakkere cous-cous is the kind we find in stores (and in tabouli and other middle eastern dishes); the dakkere cous-cous in Idool is the gold standard and somewhat gourmet, made from dried sweet potatoes and like a course, dark, and pungent flour. Thickest yoghurt is best. This is the recipe that we are all more likely to make...

cous-cous
plain yoghurt, preferably not non- or low-fat
fine white or brown sugar, as desired

1. prepare cous-cous, drain well and keep slightly warm
2. cool yoghurt
3. put sugar in a cute little bowl with an even cuter, even littler spoon
4. serve three parts unmixed

mix and eat. yum again!

A Final Semi-Solo Adventure

2005-12-18T15:31:00.000-08:00

Dear all,

A train ride to Ngaoundere (city) and Idool (village), in the arid Muslim North of Cameroun, was a totally sun-drenched, laid-back, dairy-loaded, hyphenated experience. Even the train ride, long and late as usual, was pleasant. Here are some reflections...

TRAIN TRUTHS
1. Train rides are hopelessly romantic...even if the toilet is a glorified hole to the ground whizzing below, the outside door won't stay shut, and you nearly fall from your unprotected upper bunk bed...it is so nice to weave through the country on a thread or two of metal. Even the regularly unsettling travel moments felt surreal and distant. ...At every screeching stop, children crowded the high windows to sell honey, bananas, papaya, and sticks of manioc; ordinarily this would make me feel bad, but now I could just reach out, buy honey and fruit at obscenely low prices, and lay back in my bed (out of sight, out of mind) to enjoy the purchases. The sleeper cabin was a refuge, a small and closed and comfortable world that permitted us to let in and out experiences, as we pleased. So it is more of a Train Trick than a Train Truth; if it's not a bush taxi you're traveling in in Cameroun, it feels like a different country entirely.

2. Over-specialization and poor communication make for inefficient work. I do like and support the division of labor in pin-making and other important industries, but for train security and customer service - not so much! ...The light switch in our cabin was particularly hard to find, so we asked the cabin security guard to help us. He did not know. We asked the passing stewardess, but she could not help. Finally, the train technician was summoned to demonstrate the very complicated switching "on/off" motion - a flick of the button - when all we needed was to be shown its location! ...When I noticed that the strap on my bed was missing, and that I might fall off and break my head, I again asked security and stewardess for a replacement. 'Twas to no avail. If only the train parts supplier was there, they explained, he might be able to help.

3. The snorer always falls asleep first. Just as true for sleeper cars, as it is in marriage and at slumber parties.

4. Don't check your watch. We covered 885 km in 19 hours - just about 47 km/hr. This is the same speed that I calculated, kilometer marker after kilometer marker, as I watched the land pass by from the window. 77 s/km, on average. Damn snorer, I couldn't sleep...

NGAOUNDERE
What a bright little paradise! The streets of Ngaoundere are sun-drenched and serene - all the buildings are low so that you can see the pink and blue sunset over the dusty market paths, and the clean and artful public squares with soft outdoor lights and burning wood stoves, are softly luminous in the night... For moments of rest from the blazing sun, I slipped into our neat little auberge for a nap or a shower. After hours, the most popular hang-out spot was a dairy bar - serving many times more yoghurt and warm milk than beer to its loyal customers.

Mornings were spent between the crowded and friendly corner breakfast joint (a true Pamela's equivalent, for you Pittsburghers) and the colorful and aromatic market, where piles of colorful spices and fruits wafted tempting scents throughout the stalls. Everything was good and cheap: hand-made jewelry, fuzzy horse-hair slippers, grapefruits and avocadoes, fresh yoghurt, cloth and sewing, and hole-in-the-wall restaurants. So my major activity was ducking - into our simple auberge for a nap, between tight-fitted and randomly-numbered market stalls in search of a lost tailor's store #634, and under the curtains of warm and worn concrete dwellings at the side of the road, which opened into food courtyards. Women in the corner of the courtyard worked and chatted in their cave-like kitchen - under a huge draped tarp, the uneven ground was covered with stools, knealing bodies, and steaming pots of food. At the other corner, men ordered and were served huge tin platters of cous-cous and sauce, and sat cross-legged on the ground to eat. Being neither meat-eater nor male excluded me from most of these establishments, but I enjoyed finding them and inquiring after a veggie meal nonetheless - if only to catch a glimpse of the scene!

In the afternoons and evenings, it was safe to explore the central part of town. The public squares hosted good restaurants, alongside prayer areas (concrete slab or sand pit floor) and street entertainers. One unforgettable night, the biggest spectacle was that of a white girl screaming hysterically and running for her life, away from a fast-slithering king cobra and his hungry venom... The snake catcher was demonstrating his craft, and, despite the comforting explanations of his potion-filled amulet and its taming (temporarily de-venomizing) powers, I was slightly disbelieving and very, VERY frightened! He snatched the snake from only a foot or so away from my sandaled toes, and I must admit that it was not just a good demonstration - but a great advertisement - for his work. I wish him great success, so that he never has to do that to another poor person.

IDOOL
Does Idool have its name because it looks like 'ideal', and this is the ideal place to be? Or could it be because it sounds like 'idol', and I nearly idolize the chief of the village? Perhaps, by some very thoughtful and correct person, it was named for both of these reasons...

If I ever become the chief of a village - or really, if I ever get to live in a village - I will do it just like in Idool. We will all live in gorgeous round huts (boukarous), with big backyards and flowered front walkways; we will take our cattle on meandering two-week-long treks following the greening of the pastures (at night, sleeping in makeshift huts in the fields - isn't it romantic!); our small community of 2 000 will be the largest producer of milk in all of Cameroun; all of our children, all of them well-behaving, will attend school; we will eat cool yoghurt for breakfast, drink warm sugared milk for dessert, and pluck avocadoes and mangoes off of the trees on the way to work; and we will watch Jackie Chan movies and Ethiopian love music videos until late at night, discussing their genius plots and profound messages in devout seriousness.

Only one change to make - I would let the women out of their kitchens.

Aside from that issue of female oppression, which is huge but somehow not disruptive to the societies I've seen here in the North...this culture just WORKS. I don't know if it's the geography and climate, the dairy industry, or the predominantly Muslim religion in the North that makes it what it is: simply, functional. A city like Ngaoundere, in its calm and comfortable serenity, is immediately different from jostled and conflicted Yaounde. Not everybody in Ngaoundere is well-off, but they seem at least at peace with their surroundings. People on the streets are hardly ever menacing or begging; public spaces are respected and valued, well-kept and inviting; and the leisure culture seems to be fairly relaxed and innocent - dairy bars preferred over alcohol bars, sociable morning breakfasts with strangers, and friendly evening gatherings of old men in the parks. The streets are clean. The motorcycle drivers go slowly if you ask them to. Everybody in town, even the competing art dealers, are helpful when I inquire after the home/gallery of "Issek the Artist". And the Internet connection is not bad.

But what is good in Ngaoundere, is stunning in Idool. Not only does this small village produce more milk that any other region in the country, but they also put the proceeds from their sales to really good projects. The local school is totally well-run, and every school-age child in the village - yes, even the girls! - attend daily classes. The boukarou huts are built in an ingenious fashion, to maintain constant temperature and to protect from fire. (The huts have peaked thatched roofs on the exterior and flat wooden ceilings inside. The in-between space is filled with charcoal and soot, so that if the top ever catches on fire, the flames will not be able to eat through the middle to reach the dwelling area. The thick roof and concrete also floors regulate temperature.) Most villages have a helter-skelter design, clawing to rocky hills as if the houses have tumbled down the side and simply latched onto their random resting spots. ...Not surprisingly, Idool is different. All of the homes are arranged in quads - each house has a square plot of land, and every four plots share a corner to make up one large square. These composite squares are then constructed in a grid pattern, with wide streets running along all of their sides. The streets, though carved from dirt, are swept clean every morning and lined with enormous eucalyptus trees - so it looks like a desert, but not dusty, paradise. This layout does not define neighborhoods or other socioeconomic divisions; families just request a particular plot of land from the chief and, when it is granted, build their house. All of the families' farms and grazing fields are located on the periphery, so that the inhabited area is concentrated and efficient, and the village feels much smaller than it is. A man-made lake just outside of Idool has an odd shape; at first I was confused, but soon realized that it was made in the exact shape of Cameroun! Very whimsical, I think. A little farther away, after a good 20 minutes' walk, one comes across a magnificent waterfall. Somewhere between the lake and the waterfall, the chief's brother showed me where they plan to build a low-key and integrated tourist hut and museum, which will hopefully bring some money and attention to their community. Inspired, and with their blessings, I too chose a spot for my hut one day.

BUSH TRAVEL
Unpredictable. Nail-biting. Leg-biting. ...What can I say? Never take a bush taxi when you're in a rush to get someplace.

Our train was to leave the Ngaoundere station promptly at 6:20 pm, and we were still stuck on the road near Idool, waiting for the promised bush taxi to come hurtling by, at 1:00 pm. We had already been waiting for two hours. (Cameroun runs on a slow clock until you are late, and then everything important becomes painfully on-time.) Finally the wretched vehicle came, and Tafor and I squeezed into seats that hadn't really been saved for us - my row for four was housing five or six people, and below me I felt a feathery warm thing brushing against my legs. Later, getting off the bus at one of the prayer breaks, I peered under the seats and into the dark underworld of the bush taxi: our van-size car, holding over 20 people, was also shuttling four live goats and six squawking chickens. Aaaah! Later on, after yet another prayer break, I was biting my nails and fretting about our train, when...something else bit me. A goat. A hungry goat was gnawing at my shin. I gave a little yelp, then consoled myself with the thought that it was certainly better than a king cobra bite. The optimism did not last long, however - because I looked out of the window and saw, to my horror, that we were being overtaken by a herd of cattle! (I acknowledge that the cattle herders have some remarkable efficiencies, but this was just not fair!!!) Three checkpoints followed, all run by different branches of the police and situated within 2 minutes of each other. We bumbled into Ngaoundere two hours after predicted, at a calculated and painful 9 km/hour... It was 3:29 pm, and the Western Union office with all of my train ticket money closed at 3:30.

Despite a Jackie Chan-inspired leap from the taxi that landed me right on a motorcycle seat, and the wild chase (pointing ahead, "Take me to the Western Union near the Mobil station, where the women sell doughnuts!") and windy hair-blowing that ensued, I arrived at 3:32 pm to find only locked doors. But an ATM (a blessed working one) saved the day, and after some final market pick-ups, I rolled up dusty-bitten-and-tired to meet Tafor at the train station. Nevermind that our reserved seats had been given to crash victims and that no spots were left on the train - that could stop not us now! I cleaned off my face a bit, solicited the help of a train conductor, strolled up to the ticket counter, gave my best story ever (plane leaving for the States tomorrow morning...desperately need to go home...kind and honorable sir, i know that you have the good heart and strong power to help us...), and bought two tickets for Yaounde. We boarded the train at 6:15 pm, and it actually left not more that five minutes later.

It was wonderful to come home to my sisters' smiling faces and a luxuriously clean-tiled shower, neither of which I had seen in a long time. I had done a lot of traveling lately... The next morning I got new braids put in and, in my great new do, spent the afternoon on the couch with a migraine and my first and only bout of stomach pains. By the next night, as I greeted my family from the airplane, I felt entirely better.

Love,

Mara/Chlodes

My Painting Purchase No. 2 - I am so happy!

2005-12-11T11:58:00.000-08:00

Artist Issek and My Painting Purchase No. 1

2005-12-11T11:49:00.000-08:00

Me and Tafor (work friend), Travel Buddies to the North

2005-12-11T11:37:00.000-08:00

Tired After the Market

2005-12-11T11:29:00.000-08:00

Muslim School and Tiny Shoes

2005-12-11T11:16:00.000-08:00

On the Train to Ngaoundéré

2005-12-11T11:06:00.000-08:00

Lovin' Lonely Limbé

2005-12-11T02:09:00.000-08:00

Dear all,

Limbé was such a gorgeous and innocent town, it reminds me of a young beauty who does not yet know the power of her looks. With the empty black-sand beaches and palm trees of an exclusive resort, backed by steaming rainforest, cloud-shrouded mountains, and the dark stoney statues left by lava flows - this place might appear a hot tourist attraction. But the beaches are empty not because of exclusivity, and the rainforests and mountains are not so stunning because they are protected by strong activist groups and environmental agencies; on the contrary, Limbé is so special because few people yet know that it is special. The tourism industry is so weak that there are only a handful of good, clean hotels in town, and taxis still carry tourists, along with locals, in twice the numbers acceptable by insurance standards. ...On the taxi ride back from the beach, where we sat 4 in the back and 4 in the front (the driver actuallly squished someone between himself and the window!), i heard a voice behind and realized that we were carrying a 9th passenger in the open trunk. !!! With that, it became clear how little Limbé's functioning has been impacted or shaped by tourists - for three months ago, still very new to Cameroon, that taxi ride would have scared the shit out of me...and I would not have wanted to come back for the same experience. Now - for better or for worse - I just laughed in shock and disbelief, and explained to the taximan that "No, fitting 9 people into a car is not the way to impress a white woman into marrying you. Sorry mate."

Anyway, we made the most of this pristine, virtually undiscovered beach paradise. The primate zoo was amazing and thrilling, with tempermental monkeys that throw rocks and jerk off at their female viewers (I received the rock, while Alla recieved the masturbating mandrill - I don't know which is worse!), and slippery bridges that would only be allowed in Cameroon. The animals were kept in secure cages, but there were sometimes no ropes keeping people from getting close - so a monkey with reach could have easily grabbed me at any time, I was standing so close. (I even snuck some leaves and a banana right into the hand of one monkey - but it was scary to be so close to a hungry thing like that, and I left the rest of the job to the trained workers!!! I also didn't want to have rocks thrown at me by the zoo employees, in addition to the inhabitants.) The beach was awesome, and the only problem I had was in trying to preserve my braided hair while splashing into as many ocean waves as possible...but I have decided that if this weave could survive the bus rides to and from Bertoua, and climb up the mountain, how could a little saltwater possibly hurt it now? I definitely was not made for high-maintenance hairstyles.

On the way back, we passed a solidified lava flow right near the road, famous for its location: only about 5 meters from the roadside, this imposing black wall stands at least 15 m high. As this stream of lava rumbled down the mountain 10 years ago, locals dreaded the day when it would cross the road - requiring serious reconstruction efforts to reopen the passageway. But, by the good graces of physics and/or the mountain gods, it stopped and hardened, unexpectedly, just before taking a giant mouthful of asphalt. Could this be proof that the mountain wants more visitors??? Of course, I forgot to ask the gods this pressing question when I was up there this past weekend...but next time I will tie a reminder string around my finger, trudge up to the summit on an empty day with no other tourists in sight, and ask the question. Or maybe, I will forget again. I would not mind if the mountain stays empty and mysterious, as it is, at least for a while longer...for as good as the money and attention might promise to be for the surrounding communities, I don't think that it will trickle down until Cameroon gets a better system of government and wealth/resource distribution. So until then - let's say that lava is just lava, okay?

Love,

Mara/Chlodes

A Message from the Mountain, Sealed with Lava? (haha, Love-a)

2005-12-11T02:04:00.000-08:00

Our Beach for a Day

2005-12-11T01:53:00.000-08:00

The Slip'n'Slide Bridge: Evidence of an Under-Developed Tourism Industry

2005-12-11T01:45:00.000-08:00

Florida Grandpa Monkey, with Sunscreen on His Nose

2005-12-11T01:38:00.000-08:00

Gorillas, and Chimps, and Mandrills - Oh My

2005-12-11T01:33:00.000-08:00

A Picture for Pai: Mmmmm, Vegetables!

2005-12-11T01:27:00.000-08:00

The Long Tumble

2005-12-11T01:21:00.000-08:00

Check It Out: A Sign that Says SUMMIT!!!

2005-12-11T00:56:00.000-08:00

Recipe of the Week: Sauce tomates

2005-12-10T15:30:00.000-08:00

A delicious and kind of spicy sauce, much more flavorful than the pasta and pizza sauces we're used to. It is eaten in relatively small quantities, usually with rice, but also can be used for cooking and frying plantains, potatoes, etc...

10 roma tomatoes
0.5 cp oil
1 onion
6 cloves garlic
ground/mashed condiments - some ginger, one stalk celery, handful of basil, handful of parsley
0.5 green pepper
salt, Maggi cubes (tomato and stock flavor) for taste
water (and optional: tomato paste)

1. cut tomatoes, onion, garlic, condiments, and grind them together
2. heat oil in the base of a thick pan
3. fry the ground mix in the oil for about 10 minutes
4. add salt and Maggi cubes
5. add water (and tomato paste, if desired), until the consistency of pizza sauce

eat with rice! yum.

Mt Cameroon: Day 2

2005-12-10T03:36:00.000-08:00

Dear all,

So back to the mountain madness... The second day started in the very early morning, when it still felt like night. We headed out at 5 and hiked by torchlight in bundles of fleece for about 2 hours, until the sun rose over the side of the mountain. The sight was gorgeous, but I appreciated it more at the time for its warmth than for its beauty. Well really, fair enough!

The hike was steep, but not quite the rocky 34° slope we had groped our way up the previous night... The sun's rays grew sharper and sharper as the air got cooler; it was pretty windy in the exposed patches, but we did manage to find some still-smoking grottos from the last volcanic eruption, which made warm and sheltered resting places. Upon reaching Hut 3, the approximate half-way point between Hut 2 and the summit, I found some nice soft moss and laid me down to sleep - but with the summit nearly in view (and if you didn't ask any questions of the guide, you could easily mistake the nearer visible crater ridge for the summit, and be deceptively motivated by that "destination"), I was too excited to stop just yet. I also knew that if I let myself rest for too long, I would lose all the momentum I needed to keep going... So we picked ourselves up, rather heavily, and trudged on.

The ground approaching the summit was not as steep as it was simply tricky; with sliding rocks and loose dusty ground, under shaky feet and wobbly muscles, our pace slowed considerably. The rocky world up there reminded me of a desert at night, or perhaps the lunar surface. The robust shrubby wildflowers that scattered the ground made me think of a desert at night, with its cold and wind-swept - but not lifeless - gray sands; and the giant crevices that cut parellel lines of rivers down the slope made me feel like the explorer of some harsh extra-terrestrial planet. I must have needed to go to the bathroom, because I remember thinking what a perfect natural toilet drainage system they formed... (But on second thought, I must have also been tired and not thinking clearly - because what kind of drainage system would that be for the poor people staying below at Huts 2 and 3? Not so nice, actually!)

We summitted at 9 in the morning, having made good time and passed a number of groups along the way. The summit was coooooold and windy, so we did not stay long - just enough to snap some triumphant pictures, look over the endless rocky mountains and valleys on all sides below, contemplate walking over to the nearby crater ridge before descent, decide against it because of the strong winds and cold temperatures, promise to do it next time, find a sheltered moss corner and fall asleep, get woken up by Alla and our guide (Hans), and head back down... We tumbled, tripped, and ran all the way to Hut 3, whose distance from the summit seemed to have grown longer since we ascended: a strange, seemingly impossible physical phenomenon that would repeat itself many, many times during our descent from the summit. We had thought that the hard work was over, but going down ended up the greatest challenge of all!

Tired, hot, and hungry - we arrived at Hut 2, rejoined our porter and packed our bags, and started to plan for the hardest part of the day: getting down the steepest slope on the mountain, preferably without losing any bodies. I spotted one other hiker chewing on TofuDogs...the only tofu product I have laid eyes on since coming to Cameroon...and I nearly asked for one, until I noticed the care and love with which she cradled their package. I suppose I'm not the only crazy, hungry vegetarian in Cameroon! Instead of tofu heaven, I contented myself with the much more ordinary, less exotic cold sandwich of egg and cheese, stole a tiny nap, and strapped on my backpack. We descended at about the same pace it took to get up, but with much more care - if the Up was difficult because we constantly ran the risk of tripping and finding our faces slammed into the rock face directly in front, the Down was difficult because we constantly ran the risk of tripping and finding ourselves slammed into the ground 1 000 m below. The sights that had made me breathless with their beauty the day before, now arrested me with their breath-taking danger. It was crazy; and with bodies as tired and feet as sore as ours were, it was not easy to be as cautious and level-headed as we needed to be. Alla and I slid a few times - at which the guide just looked back, shook his head (probably thinking, "Oh, wobbly Americans!"), offered some help, and kept on dancing down the hill.

By 5 pm, on feet that were now so sensitive that they felt every tiny pebble and rut underneath them, we made it down to the road. There we were, getting into the most comfortable taxi seat I have ever had the pleasure of sitting on - dirty, exhausted, triumphant, and with no scratches other than a twisted knee injury that Alla sustained in the last mile through the rainforest. (But she can still dance Assiko, so how bad can it be?!) We thanked the guide and travel agency, took an unflattering "after" picture, and headed to nearby Limbé...the best place to end a long mountain climb.

A comfortable hotel room, cold shower, quiet restaurant, good sleep-in, fantastic primate zoo (got a huge rock thrown at my head by a "playful" chimp, found a monkey whose white nose looks like a grandfather in Florida who has slathered SPF 45 on his nose), and isolated black sand beach treated us well! By the end of one restful day, you might have thought that our red faces were from lounging on the beach, not from the piercing rays of the summit of West Africa's tallest mountain. Only our giant smiles and severe limps and muscle groans gave us away...

Love,

Mara/Chlodes

Watch Your Step

2005-12-10T03:22:00.000-08:00

I'm Getting Up There!

2005-12-10T03:13:00.000-08:00

In the Savannah

2005-12-10T03:02:00.000-08:00

Mt Cameroon: Day 1

2005-12-07T08:40:00.000-08:00

Dear all,

Climbing Mt. Cameroon was one of the most intense, most awesome, and most painful things I have ever had the sense or madness to do. Two days after our final descent to strangely flat ground, my legs are still wincing every time I turn in my bed or hobble down two porch steps. There are three experiences that defined and framed this climb for me: long-distance running (and the marathon in particular, now that I'm just dealing with the painful aftermath), camp counseling (finding stores of energy and optimism that otherwise stay hidden), and the reading of the book Into Thin Air (getting into the psyche and decisions of risk-taking, irrational, and highly motivated people).

The runner's mentality kept me physically strong and persevering, and as usual I can't separate the mental from the physical – mind and matter are one, or at least mutually-regulated. I had to be convinced that I would make it up the mountain; else, at any moment during the pitch-black 34° rocky gradient hike, I could have sat down and refused to continue. The camp counselor in me kept popping songs into my head and pushing their words out of my breathless lips, so that the soundtrack of our climb would sound something like this: "Home, home on the range, where the dear and the antelope play! Where seldom is heard, a discouraging word… (Cough, Wheeeze) She'll be comin' 'round the moun'ain when she comes! She'll be… Ah – watch out, avalanche! How I love to go, a-wandering, along the mountain track; and as I go, I love to sing, with my knapsack on my back… Damn, how did this backpack get so heavy? Like a bridge over troubled waters, I WILL LAY ME DOWN…! Hey, only over the next ridge, and we get to rest!" But we made it.

The first day we started hiking at about 2 pm, whereas most groups (as strongly advised) leave in the early morning. We knew that we would have to do some of the climb in the dark, arriving at our sleeping hut by as late at 9 or 10 pm, but after running up Bamenda's biggest hill – we felt very capable. And we were. The hike was by no means easy, and the 34° gradient by no means an exaggeration, but we made good time and arrived by 7:30 pm. If one word could describe the climb that first day, it would be this: BREATHLESS. At first I was breathless because my asthma was acting up (possibly due to the high starting altitude), and I actually feared that I would not be able to summit. But the shallow breathing wore off after an hour or so, and by the time it started to get steeper, I was feeling fine. But the hike remained breathless – this time, because of the incredible beauty of the surroundings. We had passed from the farmland through the rainforest and into the savannah region, where massive sloping hills covered in tall grasses rose from the steamy jungle below. It started to feel cooler because of the time, altitude, and wind exposure; between shivers, I watched the grass carpet below dance like an ocean of yellow and green waves. It got rocky and even steeper, but not to worry – we had to lean forward so much as we ascended, that any fall just pushed us farther up the hill face and toward our hut. When darkness fell and we continued to climb by torchlight, I could no longer be breath-taken by the scenery. Instead, I was breathless from the adventure and excitement of it all; mostly, the absurd confidence and faith we had put in our guide, and our guide and porter likewise in us, to be climbing a difficult and foreign mountain in the dark.

After cozy cups of tea and cold cheese sandwiches in the kitchen hut, we turned in. That night was the WORST night of my life – many bright ideas (all on my part) landed me in the most uncomfortable and sleepless positions I could manage atop a cold mountain. First, I thought that a fleece liner would suffice as the "good, warm sleeping bag" recommended by the guidebook. It did not. Nor does a mosquito net tent, made entirely of mesh, protect much from the wind and cold of a 2 800 m high campsite – most of all, when you choose to sleep outside, unlike all the others, who take refuge from the cold by going inside the hut. (Imagine that!) So I was shivering and cold, in fetal positions on alternating right, stomach, and left sides, for just about the whole night. At one point, I had the sense to pick up my fleece sheet and go inside the emptiest hut, but by this time I was already chilled to the core, and the hut was not crowded or warm enough to put my to sleep. This is when Into Thin Air comes to life in my story... Looking back on that night, I cannot help thinking about the book's fateful 1996 Everest climb that resulted in so many deaths for so many tiny reasons - people too confident to question, too cold to think, too tired to act. For 8 long hours, I was in this strangely alert but immobilized state - feeling every biting cold and windy attack, yet unable to talk myself out of the useless sleeping bag to move to better quarters. There was the fire- and smoke-heated kitchen, with straw matting, where the guides and porters were sleeping; I knew it, but I could not convince myself that it was worth getting out the bag to move to 20 m to their hut. Then there was Alla's tent and warm sleeping bag; of course she would share, but I did not think it was worth the hassle of waking her up. So I suffered the whole night through, and at the end, I feel lucky that I did not do more stupid things. It is really incredible how exhaustion, determination, and altitude can create a potent and dangerous mix.

I emerged from the bag at 4 in the morning, tired and grumpy, but ready for the climb. As soon as camp counselor and cross-country runner took over, I knew I would be fine... And I was! There is the other half (or more) of the story to come, with plenty of summit successes and chimpanzees and salty ocean waves... It turned out to be a bright day atop that Mt. Cameroon!

Love,

Mara/Chlodes

Alla Above Misty Forest

2005-12-07T08:28:00.000-08:00

Bertoua Kids

2005-12-07T08:16:00.000-08:00

Fantasta Rasta

2005-12-02T03:36:00.000-08:00

International Nutrition & Me

2005-12-02T03:26:00.000-08:00

Dear all,

I know what I want to be when I grow up!

A long ride from Bertuoa to Yaoundé gives the traveller plenty of time for thought (not so much sleep, unless you can tolerate having your head pounded against the windows and ceiling as you slumber), and requires that you take advantage of that thinking time as a form of distraction from the road. Our driver was ultra-cautious, lumbering along at no greater than 25 km per hour for most of the trip (perhaps also to protect our interesting cargo: two goats standing on the roof), so I even had extra time to figure out my life…

I would like to be an international nutritionist. I don’t mean that I want to help Romanian celebrities stay thin, or plan protein-rich diets for Thai Olympic athletes; rather, I want to travel the world’s poor and hungry and malnourished places, examine people’s food preparation methods and eating habits, and try to integrate programs/tools/systems that address health problems through food. In Cameroon, I have seen so many crippling medical issues that are the direct results of single vitamin and mineral deficiencies: goiter from lack of iodine, rickets from lack of calcium, anemia from lack of iron, etc. The causes and effects are often easy to define (and their relationships have been proven many times over), but practical solutions to the problems do not come as simply in this part of the world.

I am interested in international nutrition for so many reasons! First, the thing that frustrates me about medicine – the field of work where I have always imagined myself, but which still does not satisfy me – is that most of the practice today is expected to be formulaic and unoriginal. Like I lamented before in this blog, I do not want to practice an art that must be done just the same by my colleague across the street, by a doctor on the other side of the continent, or by the next medical student who buys the same textbook and memorizes the same dosage chart. When doctors try to experiment and work with new methods, there is usually little room or understanding for deviance and error. However, working to find creative solutions that make agricultural, sociological, anthropological, political, and economic sense in different world settings – as well as serving the original health aim – is a kind of medical problem-solving that would be eternally interesting and intellectually challenging. Second, this work would introduce me not only to people’s ulcers and sore toes and skin rashes, but also to their lives and cultures. I love travelling and living with different people, learning about their lifestyles and practices, then taking time to document, discuss, and think about my experiences in a progressive and scientific manner. Finally, it could make a big difference. The successful and widespread introduction of iodine into the local diet (by salt, or some other carrier) would eliminate goiter, and probably boost the depressed hormone levels of many adolescent and post-adolescent Cameroonians. I honestly don’t know why it hasn’t already been done. The development of a drying method or surface that adds value to otherwise nutrient-void dried foods (like manioc and corn), which are eaten every day to no nutritional advantage, could potentially have great impact – could the distribution of iron metal drying sheets, or some process involving the iron-rich red earth, somehow work toward this goal? Good communication about breast-feeding and its benefits might be all it takes to effectively combat rickets and calcium deficiencies…but my experiences in the maternity ward of Hopital Central tell me that there is a long way to go, when even urban mothers seeking professional medical services at delivery, receive piss-poor information on how to nourish their newborns.

Of course, along the way I would get to eat lots of cool and interesting foods; still, I’m thinking that a few bottles of multivitamins might not be a bad idea… Love,

Mara/Chlodes

BONUS! Recipe for Bertoua: Guacamole

2005-12-01T08:00:00.000-08:00

Made this with the Bertoua kids, they loved it. Seems to be a tradition whenever Alla visits, and for every morning after we made it, the mothers in the household made a similar avocado salad for our breakfast. For about 10 people…

Ingredients: 5 ripe avocadoes, four plum tomatoes, ½ strong white onion, four garlic cloves, half tsp salt, some pepper, juice of one lime, chopped parsley

1. wash, peel, cut
2. mix
3. eat

Simple. Delicious.

Recipe of the Week: Njama-njama (greens)

2005-12-01T07:59:00.000-08:00

I am so fickle?? How can it be that every new dish I try, becomes my all-time favourite? This njama-njama recipe is the best I have tasted, or probably will ever taste (boasts Magne, agrees Alla). What separates this from the rest is the generous use of condiments – lots of tomatoes, onions, garlic, ginger, and spices make it taste soooo yummy. It is often cooked with beef or served with clubs of chicken and meaty cooking oil served on top, but I prefer it plain – surprise! Magne’s recipe from Bertoua…

1. wash and cut up green huckleberry leaves and juicy stem parts into small pieces – spinach will work just fine here
2. boil the leaves until soft, drain, rinse
3. in palm or other oil, fry sliced tomatoes, onions, garlic, ginger, salt, and Maggi cubes
4. turn into the fried condiments the greens, and serve hot

Served with fufu mais (corn cous-cous) or boiled patates (sweet potatoes). I like it best with sweet potatoes.

Getting Ahead (a Head) of My Thoughts

2005-12-01T07:46:00.000-08:00

Dear all,

Sitting in the hot afternoon sun with Maman Magne, picking and shelling the beans she had brought in from the fields, I passed several calming hours in a sundrenched Bertoua backyard. It was not hard work, but the job required a new kind of patience and attention to be done properly – the full bean pods were hidden like treasures among a tangled mass of dried leaves, vines, and empty pods, and each one had to be delicately but efficiently pulled out, detached, and shelled. I found the work, mind-numbing and sense-stimulating, to be extraordinarily centering and calming. I was learning to think and feel with my fingers, to respond to the pods and their positions by touch only, to know just how to grasp the long rattling stems without giving the misplaced tap that could send all my sought treasures tumbling to the ground…

As the red beans fell into the pot at my feet, the family’s bounty grew from one small pile to enough for a week of meals: a red mountain! Very occasionally, two or three black beans would jump from the cracked pod in my fingers, and tumble like misfits onto the sea of their maroon cousins. In these moments, I thought about ninth grade biology class - Mendel and his green or yellow, round or wrinkled, tall or short peas, and how he might have been shelling peas for lunch one day when the thought occurred to him, “My, aren’t these wrinkled yellow peas so rare! I wonder why…?” Now sitting on a little stool in the isolated East Province of Cameroon, far from my professors and textbooks but six years down the road from freshman high school biology and over a century after Mendel’s thought, I could provide my own answer.

To enjoy so many lives and opportunities at once – like learning to think with my hands so my fingers can communicate delicately with temperamental beans, while reliving and applying biology lessons to explain bean genetics and phenotypic differences – has been my greatest satisfaction. Although I haven’t yet a plan for “living” Cameroon next semester (will I join a French-speaking club? frequent the West African market? keep in touch with friends looking for scholarship money for study abroad? give presentations about my experiences, scientific and sociological?), I know that this life experience has already put an indelible mark on my mind. Along with the pagne cloths and kitchen recipes I bring home, will be a way of thinking and understanding that I did not before possess. …And one day, soon perhaps, I will be sitting in a reproductive biology class wondering exactly how sperm cells fight and push to get to the egg – when a vivid memory of Yaoundé traffic will descend upon me, bright yellow cars with obnoxious horns colliding and clogging around large, cumbersome roundabouts – and life will make sense!

To the sacred sperm, traffic jams, beans, biology lessons, and revelations of this life – with love,

Mara/Chlodes

Giving Thanks for Cultural Differences, and a Great Family in Bertoua

2005-11-29T10:30:00.000-08:00

Dear all,

My life = non-stop activity, during and since my trip to Dschang, Bamenda, and Bafoussam. In Dschang I stayed with Thomas and Therese and fell in love, all over again, with their family. In Bamenda we passed the day in the market, and in Bafoussam spent time with Raymond's very cool family and at the hairdresser's, getting rasta woven in for 6 hours. Everyone asked me afterwad if my head was paining from the braids, to which I replied - Certainly not, though my butt and back are really hurting! The woman who did my hair was definitely skilled, but I doubt that she ever attracted customers looking for a soft touch and relaxing experience; I felt that my hair was being pulled out, along with my head and neck, for the entire 6 hours. But pain is beauty, right? And since the rasta actually look quite good, I have a whole new respect for those people who endure so much to look nice every day. I want to get one more fresh set of rasta put in just before leaving, so that they will last some time in the States, but beyond that - I don't think that I possess the pain threshold, the patience, or the pockets for constant and well-kempt beauty!

Estelle, Raymond, and I got back from Bafoussam on Friday afternoon, and then we spent my darling Estelle's remaining few hours in Yaounde seeking out her last craved meal of spicy beans, buying gifts at the Maché Artisanale, saying the various obligatory "goodbye"s around town, and throwing a little intimate party in Alla's apartment. We bought fruit, cake, ice cream, and cheese for the occasion, and surely sent home all of Estelle's Cameroonian friends with dairy overload and indigestion. A convoy of cars and friends took her to the airport, and Zigoto - a successful actor and aspiring director/producer in Cameroon, and one of our friends - knew the police and managed to get four of us through security to see Estelle to the gate. It was fantastic to see Zigoto (picture wild grin, bright red shirt, box haircut, and long beaded rat-tail) finger-snapping the passport stamper through his bullet-proof plastic desk shield, assuming rigid "on guard" poses for the entrance security men, and sweet-talking the stoic elder guards with, "Papa, would you snap a photo of us? Thank you so much, you will do such a great job! Wow, that's sooooo good!!!" Zigoto is really good at this game. Seeing Estelle leave was really difficult, but I know that we made big enough fools of ourselves at the airport to keep us laughing (not crying), and that we will keep in touch. I would like to travel to Sweden in the Spring, and see Estelle and Raymond in their "other" milieu. Going from this place of disorder to one of the most ordered countries in the world...should be interesting!

The next day, we hosted a Thanksgiving dinner for friends and family at Josh's apartment. Josh, Alla, Sadatou, and I worked for several hours beforehand (Josh since the morning, the rest of us since the afternoon) to prepare a rather traditional meal of turkey and stuffing, stuffed tomatoes, gespacho, green beans, mashed potatoes, cabbage salad (salade de chou), sweet potato pie, plantain pie, and fruit salad. We knew that it was going to be a new meal for most, but we hoped that cultural bridges like ample servings of "33" beer, and Cameroon's carniverous nature combined with a giant turkey, would ease the differences. We were right, to some extent. People came together and seemed to have a good time talking - what was especially cool was the diversity of the group, which included my entire host family, Josh's coworkers from the UN office, a famous actor, the Prime Minister's son, international students, local university students, and one or two poor and unemployed friends. Food was served for several hours, and people seemed to have many different experiences eating: the familiar potatoes, sweet potatoes, and green beans were enjoyed by all; the gespacho was found to be strangely different from tomato sauce (why serve it cold? why does it taste like liquid salad?), and several bowls were sent back to be devoured by the American kitchen workers; the Cameroonian turkey, reportedly chewy and boney and very stressed, was not the satisfying meat we needed it to be (and I'm sure no Cameroonian guest can understand why Americans insist on gamey turkey, not plump chicken, every year); but my pies were found to be quite tasty and appreciated (dependable dessert); and the fruit salad was, as always, an easy hit. With the confusion and newness of it all, on a holiday that is built around family and home and familiarity, it did not feel like Thanksgiving for the longest time... It was not until the very end, as the last guests were leaving, that one man said everything that needed to be said: "Your meal was different...new, but nice. I could not eat it all, but it was interesting. Oh, and - Happy Thanksgiving!" At that moment, I felt a totally unexpected rush of joy. Josh had the same feeling - we laughed, clapped, and thanked him profusely. Finally, it was Thanksgiving; that was all the cultural bridging we needed.

Sunday morning, Alla and I departed for Bertoua. The road and ride were difficult, but not as bad as they could have been - it had rained the day before, so the dust was settled and did not cover us; our bus did not break down; and I was so tired from cooking and cleaning that I slept even through the most impossibly bumpy parts. Her family here, where she stayed for one month two years ago while completing her independent study project for the School for International Training, is fantastic. The 5 children are amazing, fun, friendly, gorgeous, smart, songful, ... The grandmother and mothers (it's a 3-generation household) are also beautiful people - strong and supportive and very hard-working. It seems that most of the men in the family have either died or run off, so the grnadmother now heads a household comprised of her daughters and all of their kids. Some of the daughters have died, but their orphan children are integrated into the family like all the others. Living quarters seem to be generally separated by family (each daughter sleeps with her offspring), but everyone eats and plays and studies together. Alla and I agree that this is the kind of house that could turn someone into a real, level-headed, ardent feminist.

I have a few new favorite activites since coming to Bertoua. At the market I negotiated cloth prices like a real Cameroonian (vendors, exasperated, tell me that I've really spent too much time here), and talked down the price of an item from 3 500 CFA to 1 000 CFA. At a restaurant, I revelled in the absurdity of menu-ordering in Cameroon. (Nothing that you ever want is on the menu: You ask what's available, they say everything; you ask for something, they say you can't have it. Yesterday I tried to order vegetable soup, made without the fish, and the waitress went to the back to run the idea by the cook. She came back grinning - Yes, we can make it for you. I was pleased - Okay, I'll have it. She cocked her head - But no, we can't make it. I was confused - But why not? She explained, obviously, as she twirled her hair - Um, we don't have the vegetables. Oh, right, of course.) In the hot sun of yesterday afternoon, I enjoyed a MOST refreshing bucket bath with water that had been warmed by the sun as it dripped from the leaky tap during the day; it was really awesome, and I think that it's unnatural how much I enjoy cold bucket baths! Then we made guacamole with the kids, and the littlest, pertually sick girl ate half the pot...finally, a food she can eat! If only she could move to Mexico, she'd be a lot healthier.

I find it interesting and nice, how many homes I have created here for myself. There is the original home with Thomas and Therese, whence I started and to which I will always return, in this Cameroon universe. Then there are the many homes of Yaounde - the first, from which I rebelled and ran away; the second, with Ousman and Habiba, where I have settled down but still like to move in and out freely; and the third, my home-away-from-home, at the apartments of Alla and Estelle, where I find independence and escape and so many slumber parties. Then there are the homes scattered throughout the country - in Bafoussam, I now have Raymond's family; in Bertoua, there is Alla's family; and maybe more to come? I don't know if this is a result of Cameroon's extended family structure, generous and welcoming culture, or the habitual "mother-sister-father-brother" name-giving - but I think that universally, the greatest gift of travel is that living a vagrant life actually lets you settle more easily. The farther you move away from home, the more you can feel at home.

But above all, travel has brought me closer to the original, ORIGINAL home - not the one that started my journey through the Cameroon universe, but the one that is at the center of my Whole universe. When I heard that "Happy Thanksgiving!" and felt that unexpected rush of joy, I realized one thing: No, I have not become a zealous patriot or fan of American history retellings; but I do miss and cherish my family, friends, and life at home. How can I even express this love??? Ah yes, of course... I would give up anything - even sacrifice cold morning bucket baths, and endure hot steamy showers for the rest of my life - to return one day to HOME. Really, I would!

But until that time comes (and very soon, actually), I will keep enjoying this life and feeling at home in my new homes-away-from-home. Love,

Mara/Chlodes

Picture-Sharing

2005-11-29T01:54:00.000-08:00

Dear all,

Look at Alla's blog - http://jaimemonpayscameroun.blogspot.com. I either never get enough time, can't find a USB port, or have a really crappy Internet connection, so pictures are taking a while to get loaded these days. Picture-sharing, then, must be the way of the present and immediate future!

Love,

Mara/Chlodes

BONUS! Recipe for an Equitorial Thanksgiving: Tarte de plantain/patate (plantain:sweet potato pie)

2005-11-29T01:52:00.000-08:00

This is the very successful dish we made for Thanksgiving dessert. It's actually just a recipe copied from the Internet (someone's modified Joy of Cooking recipe), with plantains substituted (if you like) for sweet potatoes. Still, it had some personal and Cameroonian touches...you can't buy pie crusts here, so I bought cookies and stomped on the bag to make crumbs for a crust; the oven has no temperature measure, so we gagued heat by color on the dial; and nothing was measured, so I'm sure everyone's products will taste different. Here goes, for one pie...

Crust
1. get ginger or graham or plain vanilla cookies, about .35 kg, and crush them
2. in the bottom of pan, mush cookie crumbs and two eggs and a slab of butter together...line the bottom of the pan with the mixture
3. bake for about 10 minutes at 425°F (very red), until mostly cooked - slightly moist and still soft

Filling
1. peel, cut, and boil sweet potatoes or plantains until soft and yellow
2. drain, mash
3. in a blender or with your well-washed hands, combine about 2 cups of boiled mash, .75 cps evaporated milk, .75 cps brown sugar, .25 cps baking flour, 1 tsp. vanilla, .5 tsp salt, 2 eggs, and a few pinces of spices (cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, etc).
4. pour mixture into pan with crust at bottom, top with cookie crumbs, and put in oven
5. bake at 425°F (very red) for 10 minutes, then at 350°F (rather red) for about another 50 minutes

Serve with ridiculously expensive whipped cream (the only thing I have let myself buy, which is more expensive here than in the States), some chestnut/vanilla topping that I found on sale at the Supermarket (and bought, because on sale, to counterbalance the many dollars I was wasting on the whipped cream), and fruit salad. SO good.

Recipe of the Week: Cornchof (corn and beans)

2005-11-28T11:16:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite dishes - very hard to find in Yaounde, so worthy of a mad (and generally fruitful) search whenever I'm in Bamenda or Bafoussam. When I'm in Dschang, no search is necessary; Therese already knows how I feel about cornchof, and she makes it even without special request. The corn is of a prep method that I have not seen outside of Cameroon, but maybe you can find it in speciality grocery stores...the kernels are dehydrated like space food - white, light, and crunchy. They are not popcorn kernels, but maybe sun-dried? Here is her recipe.

1. boil dried corn kernels, with cinders (or other kernel skin-separating agent) in the water, for about 1 hour.
2. drain and rinse the corn, remove the skins.
3. reboil the corn kernels, in plain water, for another hour.
4. add black beans to the water, and cook until beans are done.
5. drain the corn and bean mix, then fry with condiments: oil, fried tomatoes and onion and garlic, ginger, basil, salt, and Maggi cubes.

The final mix is chunky, with beans well-done but intact, and corn solid and a little chewy. The mix of textures makes this food fun to eat, and the many spices give it a delicious flavor!

Death, Defying and Denying

2005-11-28T10:07:00.000-08:00

Dear all,

Before we left, Alla told me that our bus ride to Bertoua, capital town of the East Province, would make me feel like I was really in AFRICA. For the 9 hours that we bumped along the red dirt path, the only accesss road to what should be a major destination, I began to understand. Looking past the sidelined buses whose fearless drivers had gotten themselves trapped in the mud, and the occasional overturned vehicle, I could appreciate the scenery that has been preserved by inaccessibility. I saw glistening pools of blue-blue water, set among lush marshland patches of banana trees, tall grasses, and (I'm sure) hidden rhinoceri and monkeys. In the more forested areas, we passed dark wet enclaves with black water creeks, and little naked boys setting off in their pirogues for a day of fishing and bathing. The houses we passed are beautifully constructed, with mesh-like walls built from a wooden pole criss-coss packed with mud. The houses look like baskets, and I'm sure they function like them, too: fill one with grains, and it will hold them; fill one with water, and it will all fall through. Luckily, it does not rain much during the dry season, and while travelers suffer from dust, the houses stand relatively sturdy. The rainy season must be difficult, though - with travelers being swallowed by thick, uneven mud in front of crumbling basket abodes.

I was especially intrigued by the fragile houses, in whose front yards sat gravestones that are, by comparison, very solid in their molded concrete hardness. The gravestones are chunky and unmoving, propped upright for all to see and notice. In their permanence they seem to have become central figures in the landscape, and so are used for all sorts of activities: sitting, drying clothes, and sunning vegetables for the market. I wondered if this contrast between temporary living quarters and the dependability of death could somehow represent an attitude of the people...not only an reminder, but really an embrace, of the inevitable passing of life. Given the reckless driving on city and country roads, the struggles of daily survival in a poor country, and the strength of religious belief throughout the population, the gravestones seemed a reasonable symbol of the acceptance and perceived comfort or "escape" of death in Cameroon.

I asked my newly-made friend on the bus - a struggling hairdresser from Douala with a newborn baby, a family in Yaounde, and a lover in Bertoua - if she was afraid of dying. Is death something you wait for, or something you avoid? I expected her answer, perhaps supported by religious justifications or economic explanations, to confirm my theory; but instead she looked at me, the mad social scientist, with a look of total confusion. "I'm terrified of death, like everyone else!" she said. Clutching her baby, she checked my sanity and asked, "Aren't you??"

As all my elegant and glorified ideas came crashing down, I realized that endings are always sad - whether you live in a basket and travel 9 hours on death-defying roads to sell the manioc dried over your late husband's grave, or whether you sleep-in on a waterbed and run a profitable business from your high-speed Internet connection at home. The poor but happy and generous family with whom I'm staying shows that survival is not always a resented struggle, and that people are not so selfish as to wait for the life escape that would separate them from dependent children and loving friends. The undiminished presence of death here, then, is not the result of a different attitude, but rather simply of a harder and more honest life. People don't have the luxury - the place, the time, or the money - of hiding that which causes fear.

To love and to life,

Mara/Chlodes

Saying Goodbye to Estelle at Airport!

2005-11-26T15:17:00.000-08:00

Recipe of the Week : Salade de chou (cabbage salad)

2005-11-26T06:22:00.000-08:00

This is a beautifully simple and refreshing meal - served to me on a silver platter, breakfast-lunch-dinner, in Bafoussam. Apparently, also a very vegetarian dish! Here is how it’s made for one cabbage:

1. Remove outer cabbage leaves and mince inner part
2. Rinse the leaves with boiling water, to flash-cook them a bit
3. Prepare a sauce: mix 8 or more tbsp lemon juice, 6 tbsp oil, 1 or 2 sugar cubes, and some salt
4. Slice onion thin, soak in sauce for a few minutes
5. Pour onions and sauce over cabbage, serve

Recipe of Last Week: Pimon (hot pepper)

2005-11-22T15:23:00.000-08:00

Pimon is the best spice ever; I am addicted. Recipes for pimon sauce vary from kitchen to kitchen, but this one (from Miranda, Estelle's neighbor) is particularly flavorful. Modify and multiply as you wish...

Ingredients: 3 chillies (pimon, or other small hot pepper); 5 plum tomatoes; 1/2 onion; 1/2 head garlic; a little grated ginger; sugar and salt; 1 or 2 Maggi tomate cubes

1) mix chopped chillies, tomatoes, onion, garlic, and ginger
2) blend it all in a processor
3) fry the mixture in a pan with oil
4) add sugar, salt, and crumbled Maggi cubes to taste, during frying
5) let cool, can store in fridge and serve in a bowl for self-serve at the table

The taste is sweet and fruity, with a delicious spicy kick at the end.

Catching Up in Cameroon

2005-11-22T11:07:00.000-08:00

Dear all,

The conference is over - and I feel as though I've completed the final sprint, smiling madly and not sleeping all along the way, to now lie collapsed but triumphant over the finish line. My work always ended around midnight or later, long after Habiba closes the gate with lock and key at ten o'clock (and I don't have a key), so I passed the week nights at Alla's or Estelle's. It was great fun to have slumber parties every night, and to truly create a second nest for myself here in Yaounde...but I didn't sleep so much. I was back at work, rearranging booths and chairs and registering presentations, by 7 in the morning every day.
Advantages of this set-up: both the night and day guards became my friends; I didn't use any phone credits because no stores were ever open when I was out, and I could not recharge my phone for a whole week; I picked up lots of cool discarded decorations from the booths, which my families here have loved; I learned that one can survive on coffee break leftovers (that is, the insides of chocolate croissants) for about five days, before getting a stomach ache; and coffee actually tastes pretty good, with enough milk and sugar.
Disadvantages: I schlepped at least 3 bags full of clothes and fruit and books everywhere I went; I did not sleep; and I don't know if I can enjoy my previous "leisurely" runs up the the Palais des Congres as much as I used to.
In any case, I left Palais des Congres on the final day feeling like I had really ocntributed to an important effort, and worked hard as HELL and effectively, and now I can relax! It is time to sleep, pack light, eat better food, enjoy the outdoors, smile without strain, and generally have the OTHER part of the Cameroon experience - the traveling, the resting, the hiking, the shopping, the talking, the resting, the sleeping, the resting, the sleeping, the blogging, etc.

So here is a quick catch-up plan for the rest of my time here:

Traveling - I'm now in Dschang with Thomas and Therese and kids, loving everything about this original "home" of mine. It feels so comfortable, and even in my tiredness, I smile at the cocks' early morning crows and the cool morning bucket baths. Being here in the mountains is so refreshing, and the family is equally lovely... The kids have been kept busy braiding my hair and playing with the sparkly conference decorations I brought, and I have stayed busy resting the shaded chairs outside, eating delicious tiny bananas, having a dress made at the tailor, strolling through the market, and planning the next few weeks. Tomorrow Alla (staying here with a Peace Corps friend) and I leave Dschang for Bafoussam, where we will meet Estelle and her friend Raymond, whose family will lodge us for a night. Then back to Yaounde...and Estelle leaves on Friday! A little party is being palnned for her last night, and we are busy collecting African clothes and priceless ABIBAS and NIKKE gear for her. Next week I will travel to Bertoua in the East Province (rainforest area) to meet Alla's homestay family, and possibly travel up north afterwards, if I can find a good travel companion. Somewhere between the start of December and when my family comes (yayyyyyyyyyy, i love you!!!), I will spend a weekend night in Douala with Ousman, Josh, and Alla, and then Alla and I will go on to Buea and Limbe to climb Mt. Cameroon.

Thanksgiving - Happy Thanksgiving to you all! We are planning a cross-cultural dinner for this Saturday - Josh, the main host and planner; Alla and myself, the cultural consultants and assistant cooks; and all of our Cameroonian friends and families, the guests of honor. We will have turkey and stuffing and green beans and mashed potatoes, as well as plantain pie, mango ginger smoothies, fufu mais,
and a kick-ass fruit salad.

Recipes of the Week - Cooks, hold your ladles and whisks ready, cause I'm coming back with more soon! I will perfect a cornchof recipe tonight with Therese, and post that soon. I will see what else is left in my little book...but give me a minute, unless you want to know how to excavate pain-au-chocolate (chocolate croissants) and mix a nice cup of cafe-au-lait (coffe and milk, very complicated).

Loving you very much,

Mara

Our Conference Team: The Ladies of the Secretariat

2005-11-19T15:12:00.000-08:00

Hallelujah, WORK!

2005-11-18T11:50:00.001-08:00

Dear all,

My, hasn’t it been a long time since we talked? About a week, in fact - a week since I have slept for 8 or more hours, woken up after sunrise, run or strolled leisurely, eaten a hot meal, played with my home-stay sisters, or been idle/bored/frustrated/underutilized (feelings I had strongly associated with work here). This malaria conference has been my LIFE! Although I’m learning very little about malaria nets or insecticide treatments, and I have no idea if the host or parasite genome is a better subject of vaccine research…there is no time to sit and listen to a scientific session…my education in conferences, event organization, and crowd behavior is really taking off.

Work before this week was, at the best, reasonably interesting. Lab research moved slowly and always seemed to face the most basic but disruptive impediments: when we enjoyed a blessed day of uninterrupted electrical power, the taps ran dry; when we successfully excavated ice-encrusted reagents from the bottoms of old freezers, there were no machines with which to analyze the products. It was very frustrating. I found it equally difficult to get involved, satisfyingly, in conference planning. With no file folders (not a single file cabinet in the whole center!) or computer networking, data was difficult to access unless you recorded it yourself. My assigned tasks were generally short-term and specific, which I completed without gaining any greater familiarity with the conference organization or laying claim to a future responsibility in the upcoming events. Sure - I discouraged my Swiss net company from exploding fireworks from the roof of the Palais des Congres (PdC) center, and I did a stellar job of responding to participant emails regarding Yaounde weather and proper conference attire - but somehow, despite all that fabulous work, I felt replaceable and unchallenged.

But hallelujah, things have changed! So my rejoicing does confirm that I am an incurable workaholic - but so be it. I am. I love that I am productive and effective here - and for the first time, it feels like my coworkers understand all that I’ve been trying to do. I used to plead for work, saying “Collins, what can I do? Lana, let me be at your service! Palmer, I am free fro the next 2 hours. If any of you has work for me to do, please say so - I would love to do something!!!” But I don’t plead for work anymore - for better of for worse, the involvement of crowds makes it clear what things need to get done and when systems need to be improved, and I can see that they get done on my own initiative. I may not have answers to every question, but I know where to find them - and showing that confidence with a smile, even when ministers are giving unexpected speeches that severely disrupt presentation programs, or there are no projectors in any presentation rooms 5 minutes before session beginnings, is as important and necessary as the eventual answer itself.

Besides all of the managing/organizational/bull-shitting skills that I’m honing, I have met some really cool people. Shuffling through the badges the night before the conference, putting 1 500 names into alphabetical order, I stayed interested by telling myself one thing: literally, I’m holding the world in my hands! It was really cool to see the names representing 64 countries that would be coming together here in Cameroon, and with whom I could get to interact. Not only did I enjoy the 5-part last names from Germany (van der Gees van Naters) and the creative combinations from Denmark (Edgewatt Dorcas), but I looked forward to meeting some of them in person. I did, and now have business cards from around the world, where people doing really interesting and varied work on malaria, in case I want to travel again for the sme kind of research...

Palais des Congres is a little wacky, as far as national convention centers go... Caterers serve (and people drink) beer with breakfast, lunch, and dinner; Guinness bottles but not tea/coffee cups are allowed into the scientific sessions; participants stroll the halls with cigarettes and leave smoke trails among posters and sponsor tents; the Ministry of Tourism displays ivory carvings at its booth; and we have one phone-one fax machine-one copier-two printers with which to run the entire conference. But our scientific program is riveting, our conference bags our high quality and sharp-looking, we all are still smiling at each impossible question, ...and I think that this conference will be something to be proud of.

Love,

Mara

You should all check out the press releases on the conference - I know that the BBC and NYT wrote articles recently, and there have been tons of reports and interviews on the news here...it's weird to think that I'm relaxing at home, after a long day's work, and then hear my boss's voice booming from the television set. Ahhh! But do some searches online, which I haven't had time to do, and see what there is. It will be under the Multilateral Initiative on Malaria Conference, or else mis-named the Roll Back Malaria Conference, 13-18 November.

No Selling Here!?

2005-11-17T14:59:00.000-08:00

A Horse!

2005-11-16T14:50:00.000-08:00

View of Horses from Women's Side of Sabga S'Allah Horse Jumping Show

2005-11-15T06:24:00.000-08:00

In the Sabga Field

2005-11-15T05:54:00.000-08:00

Finally, Found Some Cameroonian Cheese! Was a bit too enthusiastic, bought myself quite a hunka-chunka...

2005-11-15T05:33:00.000-08:00

Beautiful Dishes for Show in a Sabga House - I thought it was a store and tried to buy some from the grandmother!

2005-11-15T05:20:00.000-08:00

Totally Sabga-fied

2005-11-15T04:57:00.000-08:00

Strange Stranger - Accordian Man Came to Visit for S'Allah, Muslim Open-House Day

2005-11-14T04:33:00.000-08:00

Yaounde, Preparing S'Allah (End of Ramadan) Feast

2005-11-13T19:19:00.000-08:00

A Beautiful (though politically incorrect) View, Bamenda

2005-11-13T18:56:00.000-08:00

Me and Alla in Bamenda, the high point of our hike

2005-11-13T18:52:00.000-08:00

Some Funny Notes & Quotes...To Be Continued

2005-11-10T16:54:00.000-08:00

Dear all,

I tried to put chocolate sauce on my bananas and ice cream for dessert – but Habiba said “No! Chocolate is only for breakfast, Mara.” …Cameroon’s totally lovable, complete and wholesome breakfast.

Francis, Estelle’s NGO boss, took us to Assiko class one day. The traffic was thick and we were late; upon reaching the worst traffic jam of the night, Francis took one look and sighed: “Ah, I’m sorry girls. I simply cannot support this traffic.” He pulled out of the right and calmly weaved through the slow-moving (but less thick) opposing traffic, then pulled into the first position in front of the jam, and patiently waited for the light to change. …We made it to Assiko unbruised, on time, and with a new scale by which to measure NYC’s relatively lawful drivers.

Ousman says to Josh, concerning the fridge he plans to buy from him (Ousman’s first fridge purchase): “Your fridge is the one that makes me love fridges. Whenever I open your fridge, it is very nice to me.”

Loving and laughing, at least outside of work,

Mara/Chlodes

A Sabga Story

2005-11-10T16:47:00.000-08:00

Dear all,

***I'm running out of time and computer savvy, but currently the Sabga pictures are uploading onto Ofoto (link on the side), and the Bamenda pictures are uploading somewhere onto this blog site (???). I hope it works! The less time-sensitive pictures are coming soon, in some form, somewhere.***

A weekend in Sabga, even if rushed between early morning departures and late night buses home, is as refreshing and relaxing as possible. We began with a terrific road trip through the mountains and fresh air between Yaoundé and Bamenda – all along the road were little markets, grassy mountains, beautiful houses (could have sworn I was in suburban Iowa), and their well-constructed ditches. I realized that I had really adapted to Yaoundé's shabby roadsides when I started complimenting the clean rock-lined ditches… "Wow, that is a really nice ditch!" My friends might have laughed, but I could not have been more serious. The ride was made more interesting by Ousman's very quotable conversation, a discussion on international swearing terms, and my and Alla's whispered discussions of Habiba's failed struggle for permission to join the Sabga trip. Ousman complained out loud about his wife's last-minute (and therefore short-sighted) request to come; we gently explained her actions to the three men in the car, and silently lamented her absence and oppression.

The markets were ridiculously cheap, and I think it must be combination of Yaoundé's price inflation and the vendors' desperation. Josh had insisted that I insist upon having cabbage and fufu made for me – a veggie's dream dish, he said – so we bought cabbage along the way. Expecting a bucket of 4 large cabbage heads to be around 2 000 CFA (4 USD), as it would be in the city, we instantly took cabbage from the first vendor who offered her bucket for 300 CFA ( 0.60 USD). Later on, when a small ragged girl offered her bucketload for 150 CFA, we could not possibly feel buyer's remorse – passing up dirtier-cheap cabbages for dirt-cheap cabbages! In Bamenda, Alla and I had a delicious roadside lunch of corn chof (one of my favorite dishes – recipe forthcoming) for 100 CFA ( 0.20 USD) apiece. It is crazy that now I'm back in the city, I feel hurt having to give more than two small coins for a filling meal…

But what am I saying ? Let's get on to Sabga ! The village is situated in the hills, nestled between the grassy highlands (cattle grazing territory) and the cool, misty lowlands (Bamenda). The dominant natural colors are serene: soft green from the horizon-to-horizon grass carpet, light grayish blues in the valleys shadowed by encircling mountains, and yellow-red dirt paths carved deep into the hills. The homes in Sabga appear to all be well-kept and comfortable – the mornings find women and little children sweeping their dirt courtyards (it actually works to sweep the dirt from the dirt!) to maintain clean and open compounds, and the evenings find every house alight, with abundant food on the table and large groups (usually men, plus the occasional female American visitors) eating together. Alla and I took on Muslim names, given by Ousman's cousin - Alla became Suraiya by necessity, and I accepted (but forgot the use) the name Subado. Suraiya means "brave and open-minded woman"; Subado means "the choice" or "the chosen one" - I thought both were nice compliments! We donned Muslim dress and veils, played with the kids, chilled in the very relaxed (but exclusive) salons of the village royal families and holy men, and generally were treated like honored guests. The experience, for this reason, was both privileged and limited. I got to sit next to the lami-do (religious leader, the mayor-equivalent of Sabga) and dine with the royal family (Ousman and all his brothers)...but had to sneak out of bed early in the morning just to see the women in their kitchens and to learn about the cabbage-cooking process and the kids' schooling.

The end-of-Ramadan fete, S'allah, lasts several long days in Sabga. The town youth gather in a giant huddle from about 10 in the morning til midnight, with drums sending out a strong beat from the center and shoulders bobbing up and down in the crowd all around. The dance is simple and repetitive - just that, shoulder shrugs up and down and side to side - but tiring after a few minutes. I don't know how they last so long! But I suppose it all means something different to them - this is the Muslim village youth's social event of the year, the time to meet sweethearts and couple off in the darker hours of the festival. Some of the young men sneak alcohol into the center drumming circle, and the pairing off reminded me strangely, vividly, of the frat parties at school. So the venue and the event were a cultural excursion, but the results are the same the world around... Other activities included a very decorative horse show that lasted about 4 hours (see photos of the beautifully adorned horses, jumping and dancing to the drum and flute music - an official event), many hours of dining and wining (I caught several of the royal men drinking wine and Guinness beer at night - not so official or holy, ha!), and a hike up the mountain to see the resident missionary Pastor - his extremely low success rate, of a handful of Muslim-to-Christian converts in the past 15 years' work, suggests that he stays as much for the scenery as he does to spread G-d's word. I don't blame him.

I think that I have also fallen in love, somewhat, with Fulani (Muslim, Cameroonian Highlands, cattle herding) culture. The Fulani are a beautiful people - tall, lean, caramel color, with gorgeous features (prominent noses, deep lines around the elders' eyes, bright and large eyes) - dressed in the the flowingest, simplest, most elegant clothes. Their best posture is one of total comfort - slouched on a couch, knees bent under the chin or under the tush, feet tucked into the chair's armrest or placed on a low stool in front. They eat delicious and simple foods, all throughout the day, and have clean mountain water to drink. They ride horses everywhere, treat their cattle like babies, and have housepets that look better-fed and -groomed than the any I have seen in the city (even Yaoundé kittens are not cute, for the street life is not kind to their furry selves). Their exclusive gatherings find men perched upon knees and feet, curled up on their comfortable chaises - simply being chill and watching TV for hours, discussing local rumors and events, planning for the next day of celebration, and drinking sweet tea with honey. (Bamenda makes the best honey around - white as snow and thick as molasses, and Sabga produces fresh milk, creamy yogurt, and salty cheese through a Land'o'Lakes cooperative. Truly, this is the Land of Milk and Honey!!!)

Alla and I left Sabga early Monday morning to pass the day in Bamenda. We enjoyed the markets a little too much, for the cheap prices and non-aggressive vendors actually made us buy more than we ordinarily would. I got fabric, dresses made, painted dishes, posters, ... the only thing that did not tempt me were the live crickets, being sold for fried consumption. We then climbed a mountain, on a whim, to see the waterfall up on high - the shopping bags full of dresses and trays and posters were a little ridiculous, but we did it incredibly fast, and enjoyed a spectacular view and cool breeze on top. The night bus ride home was uneventful (though not terribly comfortable, I at least heard some good music by Grace Decca), and I made it to work on time two hours after arrival. A little disheveled, but well-rested and without regret. I'd go back to Sabga and Bamenda in five minutes, if you asked me to pack my bags! Love,

Mara/Chlodes

Cyber Escape

2005-11-10T09:34:00.000-08:00

Dear all,

Work is driving me NUTS!!!! - more on that this afternoon - so I'm cutting out early today to bury myself in the cyberworld...will finally get some pictures, and a few words about our incredible Sabga & Bamenda weekend, online.

So check back soon for more pictures - Sabga is really beautiful! Love,

Mara/Chlodes

Recipe of the Week: Fufu mais (corn cous-cous) et choux (cabbage)

2005-11-10T09:30:00.000-08:00

Fufu is the absolute staple food here – bland and therefore very compatible, quick to make, a little messy to eat, and filling. You will find fufu tasting pretty much the same from modest village kitchens to fancy metropolitan restaurants, though prep methods differ vastly. Chez Thérese, the process is day-long and laborious: corn grinding, flour sifting, and multiple stages of boiling. Chez Habiba, the process is quite simple and takes place nearly every night; we ate fufu mais with okra or other leaf (and meat) sauces nearly every night duing Ramadan, as a filling second dinner. The final product is smooth and dough-like, a little dry but slightly sticky still…diners scoop bit-size pieces of fufu from their fufu rolls between right hand thumb and fingers, then dip in sauce and consume. Here is Habiba's method:

1. sift corn flour, i'm guessing about 1 cup per person
2. gently boil corn flour while adding water, stirring constantly, to mushy but smooth (well-mixed) consistency
3. stop adding water, but keep on heat, while stirring becomes more vigorous…this will become difficult, but keep mixing the fufu until sticky (like cookie dough)
4. scoop out a large fist-size serving, and plop into flexible plastic bowl with wet interior (dip bowl in water immediately before putting fufu, to stop dough from sticking to sides)
5. with bowl cradled in both hands, shake the fufu around so the dough rolls along the edges of the bowl, and becomes a smooth roll
6. dump rolled fufu « boule » into container, cover, and repeat steps 4 through 6 for rest of fufu. one boule per person is usually enough. boules can be stored together; they will not stick too much.

Chou is the thickest of many sauces I have seen eaten with fufu. I prefer this to the liquid okra and other green leaf sauces, because it is solid and less messy. You can also get more chou than sauce in your hand with each scoop of fufu, which makes each bite more interesting in flavor. This dish was given to me in Sabga – delicious, and vegetarian! Two large green cabbages makes enough for about 10 people, I'm guessing again…

1. remove cabbage outer (dirty) leaves, then mince inside cabbage
2. boil in water til soft, then remove, drain, and rinse
3. in the bottom of a large round pot, sauté tomatoes, onions, garlic, and 1 or 2 Maggi vegetable stock cubes in about 2 or 3 cups of oil
4. dump in cooked cabbage, no added water, and stir. add salt to taste. should be delicious.

Serve one boule and scoop or two of cabbage to each diner. Most Cameroonians take about one scoop of cabbage to one boule, and are satisfied; I take three or four scoops of cabbage to half a boule, and I am full.

Picture This: Ronald McDonald's Mom

2005-11-05T09:27:00.000-08:00

Dear all,

It is a funny thing to be stuck between cultures - enjoying my ability to fully embrace the surrounding people and environment, and then silently judging every experience, measuring every cost, and processing every conversation within the cultural constructs I have imported from home. This conflict is presenting itself, with increasing frequency and volume (just to clarify: yes, we're speaking of the voices in my head...), around the questions of body and food. I am invited to eat dinner, on a house visit just after finishing a very large dinner at home, and the hosts bring out enormous plates of rice and sauce and cake - I cannot say NOOOO!. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner alike - any meal is likely to be repeated at least once a day, in heaping quantities, and with equally large expectations and cooking egos at stake. Food is at the center of all social activities in Cameroon, because (thankfully) it is one thing that they have in abundance, and their cuisine is really a spectacular representative for this country and culture. But despite the wonderful bounty, I am recently resenting the food pressures - not because anything has changed in the world, but because of how I see myself in the mirror.

Over dinner the other night, the family remarked pleasantly - proudly - that my face was quite shiny and wide. "Hey Mara, you look great!" "Oh shit," I thought, "what am I supposed to say to that? America wants to cry; Cameroon is celebrating; I am so totally confused." With a smile and a laugh, I explained that being fat in America is actually not such a compliment - it is a national crisis. But Ousman, being the sensitive new-age guy that he is, set me straight. He was even kind enough to put it in American cultural terms:
"Now you see, Mara, there are two kinds of fat. There is healthy good-looking fat, that's what you are; and there is bad fat. Even if you ate Mac-Donald's Mom, you would not fat like that! Do you know Mac-Donald's Mom?! Do you know what she look like??! You cannot fat like that - no, even if you eat Mac-Donald's Mom, you will not fat like that! Me too, I will not fat like that. In America, I eat Mac-Donald's SOOO much - whoo, I really get big! - but I never fat like that. You too. ... Now, have some more fried plantains..."

What makes it all the more difficult is that I have no particular loyalty to either culture's body ideal - Cameroon's curves or America's slender sticks - yet I feel pressure to live up to these conflicting standards now imposed from all over the globe... I know that if the ideals were of my own creation, I might feel some acceptance and understanding, and feel good about wanting to attain/maintain a certain body type; but since they are not, I only feel resentment...I am suffering from imposed forces that I cannot control or change. The solution is clear: We must decide for ourselves what we want, what is important, and how we will measure the enjoyment in our lives...and then keep those goals always close, unable to be touched by the many cultures and environments through which we move. I am clearly still forming the ideals to hold myself to, and looking for the right mirror to look into, but with time...I am sure that it will come. In my juggling act of cultures' compliments and criticisms, with heaping platters of fried plantains thrown in for an added challenge, I will soon have to find my own rhythm. If not, it will all tumble down...and I could not stand to waste so many plantains!

On a more troubling note, I still don't know what Mac-Donald's Mom looks like. (Ousman did not clarify, and I did not ask.) So yes, there's lots to think about, isn't there?! Puzzled, with love,

Mara/Chlodes

Puddles to Swallow a Car, and Friends to Fill a Heart

2005-11-01T08:45:00.000-08:00

Dear all,

Speaking of much-anticipated travel... The rainy season is coming to close - the passing giant thunderstorm only lasted 20 minutes, and there are even some days now when it doesn't rain at all. There are, of course, still roads with huge, sloppy, and wet impasses (through which we still pass), but their number is dwindling. **As soon as I find time and a good Internet connection, I will upload pictures of today's road-forging. It was crazy to look out of my 30°-from-the-vertical slanted door and find myself staring directly into, from 1 foot away, a deep watery hole. We were completely surrounded by UNCHARTED WATERS (do I dramatize??!), and I really don't know how we managed to pick the twisting, rolling, underwater route that kept the car dry inside.** I no longer have to fear wearing my khaki pants to work (it always rained on my way home, and I invariably arrived at the door with red mud-spotted slacks for the first two months), or will see the miserable and unfortunate sous-quartier in the valley behind the house, regularly drowned by daily torrents. As dry as we were in our house on high, it was impossible to be entirely comfortable, knowing that the hidden poor residents of Bastos - our neighbors - were busy keeping pillows and backpacks from floating out of their houses.

In any case, the dry season is a great time to travel, and we will go to Sabga on Friday for the Ramadan fete. Tomorrow is a mandatory mosque-and-feast day (we have to pray a little to eat a lot...makes G-d's bounty seem awfully large and responsive to piety!), so I will stay home from work and dutifully celebrate. I have lots more travel planned - and although there are new plans, likely to change in the coming weeks, I will refrain from sharing my travel itinerary for the umpteenth, and not the last, time.

The dancing experiences are, as usual, amazing - we went on the Assiko stage again on Friday, this time for an extended 5 minutes or so, and it was so much fun! I actually got nice recognition from the audience members (mostly male), but the only person to come up and give money was a woman (which makes me feel good, in that it was probably somewhat genuine). She gave me 500 CFA, about the equivalent of 1 USD, and actually a decent tip for a dancer here... I know that she was probably commending me more for my guts to don Asskio costume and dance my heart out on stage, than for my professional-quality moves, but I am not arguing or complaining. Alla, Estelle, and I are admittedly a bit of a spectacle - truly the "white girl act", with our bright matching skirts and the announcer's loud pre-performance introductions - but there is no shame in it! We get better every week, and our two dance instructors, Bao and Olivier, are totally committed to our progress. They make us practice at home (but never invite themselves over), call us if we are late (and not to see if we'll meet them for dinner), demand our time and attention (but no money at all), and avert their eyes when we take our pants out from under our voluminous skirts (for no other reason than to ease the movements, and they never suggest otherwise). Everything about our dance instruction could be sketchy - from the small back room with frequent light outages, to the bare feet and dirty potholed floor, to the sexy hip movements themselves - but it is not so. In a city whose nightlife is treacherous and forbidding at worst, unpredictable at best, we have found a haven of good intentions, pure professional interest and joy, and supportive friends! When your greatest concern about night-time safety is settled by wearing socks to protect your pretty little feet, you know that you have found a good place to spend your Friday nights.

I have to go, but I need to share a few notes: This week I saw my first machine gun (why does a machine gun and Guinness beer service, found together in the cybercafé [only Cameroon!], make me uneasy?), our malaria conference issues (my ridiculous Swiss company wants to set fireworks off of the President's Convention Palace, as part of their 4-minute private symposium presentation!!!), and a fantastic weekend with Estelle - swimming, watching an original Cameroonian film with her friend the producer, and really pleasant house visits with friends. I nearly petrified a baby who had never seen a white face before (the crying really makes you feel wretched, even though you know it's normal), but the rest of the house time was so nice and sweet and friendly - that I think it must really be the best way to visit a country. If I knew enough people, I would love to spend all my free time (except for a few hours reserved for the solo mountain climbs) in others' homes, looking at photo albums and playing with their adorable kids.

Love to you all. Please keep your feet clean, so I don't have to worry about you.

Mara/Chlodes

Suburban English

2005-11-01T08:39:00.000-08:00

Dear all,

My French is getting infintely better here, thanks to talkative taxis and relentless market vendors (I track my progress by the nationalities guessed...I've gone from American to Canadian or Belgian now, and will hopefully become French one day); and I realize now that I should not have worried so much abut overusing English in my overwhelmingly, unintentionally Anglophone environment. It's true that I am not speaking that much French at home or at work - but nor am I speaking English. I dey talk Pidgin with the worst possible accent ever, eh. My bush English is so bad that I don't think it even deserves that title - it's more of a freak hybrid vehicle of communication, totaled somewhere on the roadside between the French/English bilingual officialdom of the capital city, and the local village bush tongue - my own suburban English.

This morning, I caught myself having the following very intelligent and engrossing conversation with Augustine the taximan...
me: "Look, the clouds are dark! It is going to rain today, no?"
him: "Ah, yes. Rain. It is going to rain, yah."
me: "The air is cold and full of water, so you know it will rain soon."
him: "Yes, cold. The air is cold today."
(a little bit later, on a new stretch of evenly paved road)
me: "Ahhhh! The road here is niiiice."
him: "Yes, it is nice. Very nice."
me: seeing giant puddles, 3 feet deep, to be forged "Oh, I should not have talked! The road is bad."
him: "Yes, this is a terrible road. It is not nice. We do not like to come here, it is so bad."
I suppose Augustine is not the best conversationalist (he repeats whatever I say, slightly modified, and doesn't ever argue with me but constantly contradicts himself); but my home vocabulary is no better. With Habiba, my Fulani-fluent, English- and French-okay homestay mom, the grammar is just terrific...
"This cat I see here three times tonight already!"
"You will climb the mountain with me? We make sports together one day soon, okay!"
"Ahhh, I am TOO tired! Let me bath first, then we go to the market, eh."
"Ai-ya! I like Cameroon TOO much! This is my BEST country, you know."

Luckily for tongue-tied me, the most rewarding experiences are not spoken or listened to - but watched, smelled, explored, haggled, played, run, cooked, tasted, danced, and (soon to be) traveled.

Ahhh, ai-ya, I love you all TOO much! You are my BEST people in the world, eh!!!

Mara/Chlodes

Recipe of the Week: Riz sauté (sautéed rice)

2005-11-01T08:32:00.000-08:00

A good meal. I always like the crispy sheet of slightly-burned rice that you can peel from the bottom of the pot, so I would try making it in a thick pan - also, my personal preference is to load on the veggies, though I notice that people actually pick them out here. Oh, for shame!!! The following vague quantities were observed in the making of two dinners' worth of rice - so total, 10 or 12 servings.

1. heat peanut, palm, or soybean oil in the bottom of a thick pot, about 1 cup
2. when oil hot, add in finely sliced tomatoes, onions, garlis, and salt - cook til onions yellow and tender
3. now add finely diced carrots, celeri, green beans, and chopped parsley and/or coriander
4. sauté all flavor ingredients (condiments), then throw into the sizzle some rinsed (but otherwise dry, no additional water yet) rice
5. sauté the "dry" rice and condiments mixture for a few mintues, turning constantly so that the rice does not burn
6. add more spices - Maggi tomato stock cubes, a pimon pepper, and salt and pepper as desired
7. now pour in proper amount of water to boil rice (i still have no idea how to calculate this...), cover, and cook

A Glittering Weekend, featuring My First Glittery Dress

2005-10-24T15:24:00.000-07:00

Dear all,

This weekend was incredible! I went Assiko dancing on Friday night - a lesson that ended, without advance notice, in a stage performance by two very amateur dancers (that would be me and Alla). It was great to be on stage and not taken too seriously; I think that if I had stuck out my tongue and done jumping jacks, people would have found it just as entertaining, and would have cheered just as wildly, as they did for my wobbly hip rotations and unconvincing snake impressions. We were even invited to sit on stage with the other performers after our little number...and our professional dancer status was confirmed when we heard the announcer say that we'd be there every night, so the audience should come back and see the white ladies dance again! I suppose that this is the price of good, free lessons: we better make progress each week, or else we'll be more of an embarrassment to ourselves than to the instructors. **The most spectacular act of the night tops the bottle-dancing from last time - here was a man, dancing for at least 10 minutes with jumps and rolls and shakes, with TWO bottles stacked on top of his head!!! I checked the bottom of the bottle for gimmicks, but the perfectly flat glass surface only proved that he's superhuman.** We (Alla, Josh, and Estelle's Cameroonian friend from university in Sweden - Raymond, and his brother and friend) went from Assiko dancing to Parallele's cabaret club for popular modern African dancing, then to some other fancy night club for popular American music and dancing. It felt a little wrong to come so far for Cameroon, only to escape into an American hole...but I can't deny that the whole night was fun, and I am happy to say that at least Cameroonian beer tastes better than American whisky. The night ended at 5 am, again with a sleepover at Alla's and a late breakfast of mangoes, bananas, boiled eggs, and avocado sandwiches.

I got home in the afternoon; then went to the Marché Centrale for groceries and cloth, where I had an interesting time alternately dodging demands for a loan of my U.S. passport, requests for my hand in marriage (or else just the money in my hand, please), and roaming livestock. I accidentally wandered into the street selling goats and fresh poultry, and tip-toed for a treacherous 100 meters in an effort not to get completely covered in shit... Needless to say, it diminished my appetite - and I afterward had a very hard time remembering the vegetables and spices Habiba had asked me to fetch. The cloth store was closed (so I will buy my skirt for Assiko later this week), and so I thought I might check out the Score supermarket, celebrated for its American layout and international cheese selection. I entered enthusiastically, with high hopes of finding a nice strong cheddar and seaweed for sushi - but instead was immobilized in my own dazed state and puddle of drool, unable to navigate through the packaged cream-filled chocolate biscuits, instant cous-cous mixes, and canned escargots. It just didn't make sense to me anymore - the vast selection, in a country where shopping choices are only about quantity and never about quality (do I want one or two bags of okra? should I buy tomatoes from my neighbor on the right or on the left?) - was paralyzing. I have always been a bit indecisive when faced with such ridiculous things as Chinese takeout menus and wall paint swatches, and now the only decision I could handle was to LEAVE. I grabbed a package of whole wheat bread (safe choice), inquired after a copy of The New Yorker (fruitless, predictably), and ran outside to join the street vendors.

That night at home, I was obviously still a little wiped out and hoarse from the past 24 hours' activities - and Ousman, like any good parent, saw right through me. In less than 2 seconds of interrogation, he had the whole night figured out:
"Did you go dancing again last night?" (Yes...) "Ah, I can tell by your voice." He points to his throat.
"Did you drink whisky last night?" (What??! Well, yes...but really, only one sip.) "Uh huh, I can tell again by your voice."
More and more I am convinced that Ousman is a great judge of character (I always like the friends he brings over), and that I am terrible at hiding my excitement and exhaustion. In the end I was eager to share the night's stories, and the family's only concern is that I take good taxis and stay strictly in the right, reputable places. The Assiko, Parallele, and American night clubs are all safe and friendly...with hosts who now know us and can lightly look out for our well-being. I also never leave my things lying around (all my money and papers stay in a zippered pouch wrapped around my wrist and clutched in my hand), and we take our own taxis whenever traveling in the dark. Needless to say, I feel better about traveling in a big group, and it helps to have a smattering of males and Cameroonians among us...

Yesterday I again ran up Mt. Febe, and it was totally fantastic. The view was amazing, and I especially enjoyed taking a new and longer route of descent - a winding dirt road past luxurious country villas, through serene outdoor village mass services, and along colorful Sunday morning markets. On the way down I also made a nice running buddy, named Serge, who I think is nice and a good running buddy for several reasons: 1) he's faster than I am, 2) he didn't ask for my number, and 3) he didn't ask for my number. If I am in town for it, we will meet the Sunday after next so that he can push me up the mountain even faster than today, when I ascended by myself... After running-showering-relaxing, I took Sadatou to visit my friend Bosco (fiancé of host-sister Charlyn in Dschang) in one of Yaoundé's newest, most undeveloped neighborhoods. It was exactly like being au village - pigs among pedestrians, unpaved roads, long muddy walks from the nearest street and shops to the houses, unfinished homes of crumbling brick and mud and tin roofing, and tiny distended-bellied kids running around with just their sandals on. We walked a sweaty 30 minutes to reach Bosco's modest (but proud and hand-built, though unfinished) one-room house, back-tracked 10 minutes to buy sodas, returned for 30 minutes to sit in the shade and drink and recuperate from the hike, and walked again for 20 minutes to catch a taxi home. It was clear, even on this short visit, how much time one needs just to LIVE in the slow and spread-out, undeveloped village world. No wonder there is little time and money to finish the houses or expand businesses - just to get home and take a break is work enough!

Sunday ended with a trip to the Muslim market to buy end-of-Ramadan-feast dresses. I got a nice glittery-yet-tasteful purple pants/tunic set (reminds me of some nice Indian clothes I have been known to go gaga over), and a breezy blue African dress with widening sleeves and a pretty embroidered neckline. I was accosted by vendors right and left; prices were bargained to one-third their original scales; everything was beautiful, and I wanted to buy it all...in short, a typical and satisfying shopping trip! Because the glitters of the purple top originally repelled me, and I had resisted this as Ousman's choice for me, at home he made me model the purchase to Habiba to prove that he had had good taste all along. In the end, like in everything, I had to admit that he was right - it is a pretty cute oufit, is unlike anything I can find at home (and soooo Indian, yes!), and is, above all, purple. Once again, I am impressed and surprised by Ousman's choices; for a man who looks and dresses like P. Diddy, he is remarkably equipped with the knowing powers of a Jewish mother...and a good fashion sense.

When I gave presents to the family last night - PITT t-shirts, a Dr. Suess calendar, a world map, a frisbee, a set of UNO cards, and one bag of Jelly Belly candies - I felt that I had really shared the some of America's greatest highlights with them.

This weekend we will go to Sabga, Ousman and Habiba's beautiful mountain village in the NW, for the several days of Ramadan celebrations. Alla, Josh, and I will have to leave earlier than Ousman (who must stay for some family affairs), and I plan to stop in Bamenda, a bigger Anglophone town, for a day or two. Then the next weekend I will hopefully be off to Dschang for the funeraille (remember - a celebration, not a mourning) of Bosco's father, and will stay again with Thomas and Therese. After that is Charlyn and Bosco's wedding in Yaoundé...and I still have to find weekends to climb Mt. Cameroon in Buea, to swim at the black sand and white sand beaches of Kribi and Limbé, to at least pass through the big city of Douala, and to trek up North and see the desert lands of Cameroon. This trip is going too fast, and I think I might have to come back if I hope to finish everything I've started...

...That includes the PCR gels that are running right now, and which I have neglected in order to write this note. So - hi ho, hi ho, it's back to work I go! Love,

Mara/Chlodes

Recipe of the Week: Haricots (beans, simply)

2005-10-24T15:23:00.000-07:00

A nice, easy meal, to be eaten with rice or bread or hard-boiled eggs. This is the first Cameroonian meal I prepared and cooked all by myself! ...AND people ate it!!! This recipe will make dinner for 6.

1. wash and rinse beans in cold water, soak uncovered overnight
2. rinse beans again, fill pot with fresh water, add beans, and boil covered until beans are done and soft - about 2 hours
3. strain beans, set aside
4. in pot, heat about 4 cups of oil (here, used soybean oil) til boiling, then add finely chopped tomato, onion, and garlic, and mix and fry til soft (onion yellow in color)
5. mix in half a cube of maggi tomato stock (like dry, concentrated, slightly spiced and very salty tomato paste powder), some salt and pepper
6. add beans to oil, pour water to cover them, and let the whole pot "fry" uncovered for about 30 minutes...until water gone, and beans delicious!

should not be oily.

Tracing Disordered Minds in a Disordered Society

2005-10-24T15:19:00.000-07:00

Dear all,

There is a thought that popped into my head many weeks ago, and has since been bouncing around without ever developing into something I could reasonably express to other people, nor explain to myself. Finally, with the frustrations of last week, I think it has finally grown into something presentable - even if not entirely correct.

My untested observation is this: All crazy Cameroonians look and act exactly alike. A "fou" on the street is unmistakable in a crowd - he is sure to have ratty dreads in his hair, be shoeless, have torn and filthy brown and olive green clothes, and behave exactly as all other madmen do: wander the streets aimlessly, talk loudly to no one, yell passionately at cars and trees and road signs, and occasionally approach strangers to demand food and money. My experiences in the U.S. suggest that mental disorders can be manifested in innumerable ways, while Cameroon's fous follow a very strict code: crazy Americans might be withdrawn or outgoing, yet crazy Cameroonians are always loud and intrusive; crazy Americans might be obsessively clean or negligently dirty, yet crazy Cameroonians are always filthy; crazy Americans might be old or young, yet all noticeably crazy Cameroonians are adults. There is also a strikingly large number of fous, exactly fitting the crazy profile, all over Yaounde. I have been wondering - why and whence to they appear in this society?

My theory is as follows: People are not born "mad"; they are driven to an unstable state of mind, just as ideas are inspired and personalities are crafted, by surrounding events and people. Perhaps there is a certain type of person who is naturally vulnerable to instability...but when lives' pressures and individuals' experiences can be so variable, the combined effect of one's standard pre-disposition and one's individually-chosen factors yield diverse maladies. That is why in wealthy countries, where life can be comfortable and problems are created just as much as they are inflicted, mental illnesses are as unique as the sufferers' pestering in-laws, bad haircuts, unruly children, and tumbling marriages. In Cameroon, however, problems have a different nature; they come not from the individual and his/her choices, but from above. Instead of being driven to instability by their own created problems, I believe that the fous are responding to the country's maddeningly inaccessible money and jobs, its insanely corrupt systems of justice and order, and the infuriatingly self-destructive actions that people take against all this wrong. If there is some sort of universal "madness" in Cameroon, and madness is the result of a force in the direction of instability - then why not attribute it to a universal "force", a universal "life experience", that is specific to the country itself?

My last blog entry was met with a lot of worried emails and phone calls, and I know that people are wondering if I am capable of staying calm in this frustrating, frustratingly helpless, world. Interestingly - it took this wave of concern, originating in friend and family observers halfway around the world, to lend some self-awareness to my situation. All this "firey" anger that I had felt for the first time (and also for the first time, had not been able to control) was clearly my response to things that I couldn't change. There were the taximen, with their bricks and their riots - I could do nothing to stop them, and yet I put myself in danger with loud and foolish actions, because I didn't understand their fragile balance of political weakness and physical power. I also had a risky night out, with scheming little boys and a dark parking lot chase - my response to a minor physical violation was infinitely more aggressive than it needed to be (turning and walking away would have been just fine), but it felt so good, for one split second, to punish a 5-year-old who thinks he can take something for himself by taking something from others. (I believed that I could scare away an entire future of thievery and rape by chasing him once. After the deed was done, though, I regretted my impulse and thought it rather stupid - and way too optimistic - to think that I can fight crime by running wildly through the dark.) And as for the lack of running water at work - it's a challenge, but not an insurmountable one; we make do with borrowed water, and the lab directors will eventually get around the paying the bills. In the meantime I will work on making a still of the lab's own, and maybe run some tests with boiled bottled water, etc., to see if we can come up with another source of good water. But I have decided to NOT step on the big men's and women's toes by collecting money; for as simple as it sounds right now to me, they are hesitant to give me permission for it, and I must believe that they make these choices for a reason. Whether their reason is right or wrong, it is not my choice to make - and if I keep trying to make all the choices for lab bosses, rioting taxi drivers, and young thieves in my 4 months here, I will surely be overwhelmed...pressured...frustrated...destabilized...crazy. The "crazy" that I felt last week was the loud, foolish, reckless kind that all the fous display - and I think I have begun to understand how this society drives people to insanity.

The fact that there are so many fous indicates that the problem is rampant (more than in the U.S., at least), and that they are all adults suggests that the madness takes hold later in life - it is not innate, but developed. All signs point towrd a cultural specificity and etiology! I would like to track the madness through people's years, to talk to fous and find out where they come from, what they do, how and when their lives changed...but since I'm trying to avoid risks and insanity myself, perhaps interviews with the least understood, most feared members of society would not be a prudent independent research undertaking.

Well...I may not have the slightest hope of finding the order to this country; but it breeds a madness so simple, uniform, and accessible, that I might be beginning to understand at least how the disorder spreads.

Mara/Chlodes

A Night In, and A Night Out, In This Very Small World...and Bush Mangoes

2005-10-18T15:15:00.000-07:00

Dear all,

As mentioned earlier, I had a fantastic Saturday night out with Alla and Estelle. We started in Estelle's apartment (just two floorw below Alla's), impatiently waiting for her drunk boss, Francis, to stop drinking and get off the couch, so we could go... To my dismay, he insisted on driving us to our first stop, the restaurant - and we found ourselves in anout six recurring moments of mortal peril, as he drove forward and backward over the same 20 feet of road to get the perfect parking spot. It was scary to realize that his horrible driving did not any attract attention in the crowded street; and I wondered how often I've been stuck with a drunk driver at 9 in the morning, without even realizing it. When the first restaurant ended up not having food (as if to suggest that beer is sufficient sustenance), Francis offered to drive us another 20 feet to the next closest restaurant. We politely declined, and walked away with our lives.

We ended up eating at Le Globus, a nice patio restaurant situated on the top of hill and overlooking a major grass turn-around. It was fun to sit up there and look down (from a safe distance) at the dim car lights winding and circling, the old village ladies smoking fish and plantains in the dark, and well-dressed people heading out for their own soirées. As wonderful as the view was, the meal proved challenging. I have been longing for independence and exploration - to see the city on my own, unencumbered by the traditions of the family home, the comforts of the familiar Bastos neighborhood, etc. But now, trying to get a decent vegetarian dinner from someone other than a homestay mom who knows me very well, I realized the immeasurable advantages of having a home and family! After an involved conversation with the waitress about the definition of vegetarianism, and if fish do or do not count as meat, I requested a safe combination of boiled plantains and tomato sauce - giving little room for misunderstanding. The only problem was, while the words "no fish" seemed to have registered fine, she clearly misunderstood my constant "hungry" plea. An hour and half after ordering (service is leisurely, at best, here), my meal arrived: one boiled plantain cut up on a plate, and one tiny dipping bowl of tomato sauce. Sure, it tasted fine - but the fact that my dinner resembled three potato wedges and some red mush, while Alla's chicken-platain dish was served on a 2-foot-long silver platter, made me eternally grateful for mothers like Therese and Habiba. I finished off the meal with a few spoonfuls of ketchup and mustard from the condiments plate (I was so hungry!!!), and then someone intelligently suggested that we go to the boulangerie...where I got my fill of spinach pastry and little boys' shenanigans.

We then took a taxi to some rather sketchy part of town to watch Cameroon's famous Assiko dancers. Aseiko must be the sub-Saharan answer to the North and Middle East's belly dancing; the dancers, all male, move only from the waist-down, to the effect that their bodies appear divided at the hips. They did pelvic circles better than any music video dancer I've ever seen; they crouched low and shuffled along the floor, with millipied-like leg movements and unmoving tops - as if their bottom halves were scurrying ants, and their top halves the insects' inanimate food loads; they balanced full beer bottles on their heads, dancing for no less than 10 minutes with floor rolls, high jumps, and forced audience participation. Alla, Estelle, and I were all called up individually...predictably...to shake our hips, and no doubt make the dancers look even better than they already did. In any case, we got hooked - and now have dance lessons, starting tomorrow night, with the head Assiko dancer. I have a slight suspicion that our lesson time, 7 til 8 or 9 pm, is designed to end right around the performance start time, and we will soon find ourselves performing for more audiences! ...Moi? A professional dancer?? Well, I did always have a bit of a knack for it...

We left the Assiko club around midnight, and headed to Hotel Palace Djeuga for some more contemporary night club dancing. Unfortunately (or not), the entrance fee of 40 000 CFA (nearly $80) was rather prohibitive, and we essentially did an uninterrupted U-turn at the desk and headed back to the street. I did, however, use the opportunity to find a nice toilet that flushes, and was rewarded for my efforts - with well-fitted door locks and a real gurgley flush, it was the nicest piece of equipment I've seen since the Brussels airport! We then went to the Safari Club, where we were able to enter the door without selling the clothes off of our backs - but we might as well have, if we wanted to fit in. The entire crowd was composed of only two types of people, and us: old, rich, past-their-primes, white dudes; and young, gorgeous, under-dressed, Cameroonian women. People kept looking at but not approaching us when we walked in; at first I didn't understand this strange behavior, but it soon became clear that we had disupted some delicate, unspoken understanding between Safari Club-goers. Aside from the nasty atmosphere that we chose not to support, and quickly left, I did have an interesting time. I watched an older Isaeli man, who I had met at the Rosh Hashanah party, make a selective decision between several women who were all too young and beautiful for him... When his final choice was threatened by another gross old man's groping hand, he defended his "girl" not with words, but with a petty little swatting hand battle staged on her buttocks. Quite rightly, nothing at the Safari Club happened out loud; sexual partner choices, jealous battles, and territorial statements on others' bodies - all too shameful for the ears - were subtle, silent, well-orchestrated physical activities. To be as disruptive as possible, I wanted to go up and loudly ask the Israeli how he had observed Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement, after Rosh Hashanah - but since Estelle knew him and pleaded me not to, I settled for leaving instead. The road was littered with beautiful bodies in shiny dresses and skirts; a part of Cameroon I had never seen before, and suddenly couldn't escape.

The night ended at Parallele Club, where we saw a nice, tame, fully-clothed cabaret of singing and innocent hand-clapping (as opposed to highly offensive hand-swatting). Then I went back to Alla's apartment (too late and dark to go home alone), for a good talk and slumber party. Now I can't wait to go out again, dance again, and enjoy my new status as an informed discriminator of restaurants that serve ketchup and mustard as the better part of a vegetarian dinner, dance clubs whose bathrooms I can barely afford to use, and sleazy prostitute hot-spots.

The following night was equally nice, and much less surprising... We had a huge Ramadan break-fast with guests, Alla and Ousman's young American friend Josh, which was very tasty and fun. We discussed such varied topics as a book swap (all foreigners seem to become avid readers abroad, and I'm quickly running out of reading material), a visa application for Ousman's brother's wife (always a conversation point for Americans, though there's nothing I know or can do about the process!), and the events of the night before. Josh eager to come out with us next time, so it seems that my group of potential friends is growing...and, yikes...becoming alarmingly, unintentionally, WHITE! How did that happen? In any case, if it's not funny enough that a Pittsburgh and two NYC strangers found themselves eating Ramadan dinner in Yaounde, Cameroon - then I have further, indisputable proof that the world is shrinking:
NOTE: My Indisputable Evidence
1) My wonderful taxi coincidence - the one taximan who I met and asked to be my regular driver, ended up as the brother of the lab director, Vitalis...who wanted me to hire him, anyway.
2) Estelle's boyfriend sat next to me on the flight from Brussels to Yaounde (he was visiting for 2 weeks), and meant to give me her phone number but forgot. No matter, we found each other anyway!
3) On Friday, I went to the rehearsal for a malaria theatre piece being organized for the conference. The director of the play turns out to be the cousin of Dr. Fongjweng, an advisor at the College at Penn who tried to arrange her as my homestay.

I recently tasted my first bush mango, and I think that I am in love. Few Cameroonians recommend them, because they supposedly compare weakly to the "normal" (green) mangoes, but I don't care! They have this delicious, tangy, juicy, sweet mango flavor...and since the green mango season ended with the rains in July, I am quite happy to enjoy what is available to me. I am considering devoting the next Recipe of the Week to bush mango-peeling, because I do believe that I could eat about 10 of them for a meal, several times a day. If I can disguise these brown-spotted yellow fruits as kitchen sponges (heavy because they've soaked up water, of course), I might be able to sneak a few hundred home for all to try! Scheming desperately... Love,

Mara/Chlodes

A Rant from Ridiculous, Culturally-Insensitive (or Too Sensitive?) Me

2005-10-17T16:13:00.000-07:00

Dear all,

If Cameroon and I are in a relationship – two partners who have taken the risk of a four-month lease together, to explore each others' characters in intense cohabitation – then there is new evidence of closeness in our budding relationship. We had our first trusting run yesterday, me without glasses or mobile phone in hand; for I have finally become comfortable enough to run alone through the neighbourhood, fearing neither (lack of) safety nor my own (lack of) direction. It is liberating to have my hands free and my vision comfortably reduced to a blur; I can run faster, and I no longer have to endure slipping frames and foggy lenses. At the same time, though, I must be honest about this relationship – sometimes Cameroon and I argue, and I find myself getting quite easily worked up... Three times in the last two days, I have felt my temper flare like I didn't know was possible.

This weekend, I went out on the town (for the first time, at night) with two of my friends – Alla (former SIT student, returning Rotary Scholar) and Estelle (an Australian, interning with an HIV NGO). *More on this fantastic night later.* As a single white girl, I have been warned many, many times against going around by myself in the dark; but here, flanked by two other single white girls, it seemed that I had found a really great way to avoid trouble. Haha, yeah right. We attracted a decent amount of attention wherever we went (so thankfully taxis were never hard to find) – but most memorably from a group of young bandits outside the boulangerie. This group of 5- to 7-year-old boys had a very methodical approach to getting the best of people: they surround foreigners and plead for money or small purchases, then distract them with physical contact like shirt-pulling and (in our case) ass-grabbing, and finally run away with whatever money and goods they have earned or stolen. When Estelle's ass was grabbed by a tiny little boy, who subsequently celebrated his conquest with dance and song, she turned around and said, "Get off me, you little shit!" When the same boy got Alla a minute later, she ignored the assault, walked a little faster, and complained that the same thing had happened to her. So when I was touched, for the third time by the same boy, I could not help myself – I turned around, hiked up my skirt, raised my hand and my voice, and, like a madwoman, chased the bugger through the parking until he and all his gang scattered. I only hope that he feels a little bit ashamed, that he realizes that girls cannot be taken advantage of, and that being white does not mean a person is necessarily stupid or slow. I suppose that we all have different ways of dealing with life's little annoyances…and mine is apparently to turn on them, chase them wildly through a dark parking lot, and generally be a greater terror than they...even if they're just cute little kids.

This morning, most of the city taximen went on strike to protest police harassment and fines; and to make their protest more effective, those on strike took it upon themselves to stop all working taximen from taking passengers. My driver, Augustine, was one of the few who showed up for work this morning – he picked me up as usual, but within five mintues we had already twice changed our course to avoid violent crowds of protesters, and we finally ran into a small brick- and log-toting bunch that forced me and my neighbor Ton-ton, the taxi passengers, out of the car. While my full-grown Cameroonian male friend, Ton-ton, opened his door and stepped out without protest, my small white frame felt much braver (or stupider), and I decided to put up a fight. When some big guy with a giant brick forcefully opened my door, I (naturally) glared at him and slammed it shut again. Then when Ton-ton and Augustine calmly told me to just get out and start walking, I spun around as if they were crazy, asked what all the nonsense was about, and had to be very reluctantly escorted away from the scene by Ton-ton. All the while, I felt this fuming, pulsing, strong beat deep down in my heart and gut, and I was just so uncontrollably angry...only with the little kids, and once or twice before when people have tried to grab me, have I felt so firey. What bothers me is this: those taxi drivers, who hate the police for making their business an unprofitable danger and their lives an unpredictable hell - a minefield of bogus fines, charges, confiscations, bribes, and roadblocks, protest the "enemy" by being just as bad. All the charges, confiscations, violence, and road malfunctions today were due to the protestors themselves, who simply replaced the police on the streets. I couldn't stand that they would use a better-sounding purpose to assault fellow drivers, interfere with innocent passengers, and generally menace the whole city...and, to top it off, that there was no use hoping that the police might regulate. If I am ridiculous for chasing after little kids who might not know any better than to steal (though I doubt it), then I certainly won't be called ridiculous for standing up to these guys. They are the ones who make no sense! Uh, that is, if they hadn't been weilding 20-pound objects and and swinging them toward the windshield a foot in front of my face...

Then this afternoon, as the lab team sat down in our most efficiency-oriented meeting ever, we made a great plan for the rest of the week... Gather all the samples we've been working on for the last two weeks, make the final preparations for the tests, load the amplified malaria parasite DNA in agar gels, run all 256 sets, analyze results - something to show for all of our work was finally in sight! But the details of the procedure - even the simple task of mixing distilled water with agar powder to set the gel - quickly sobered my jubilant state. We don't have water. Wait, can I say that again? WE-DO-NOT-HAVE-A-DROP-OF-RUNNING-WATER-IN-THIS-WHOLE-DAMN-LAB. (And we need distilled water, exclusively - when, in a moment of sheer desperation, we almost used my relatively expensive bottled drinking water as a substitute, we had to admit that mineral-fortified spring water probably wouldn't benefit the "pure" gel that much. Only the plumbing system is hooked up to the distiller, so we can't even pour water into the stupid thing to get a few more drops.) I can hold my bladder all day long because toilets don't flush, and I'm now accustomed to washing my hands with 70% alcohol and tissue paper instead of soap and water before eating...but to not have 3.5 liters of water so that you can carry on with your experiments - my G-d, that's insane and unacceptable! The monthly bill is a mere 16 000 CFA (about $30 USD) for the entire lab complex - and with at least 25 people working here, not drinking and not peeing here, I think that we can manage to pay the university bill ourselves. So I'm going to do the unthinkable, first thing tomorrw morning (because first thing in the morning is always the best time to do the unthinkable...when you're not really thinking yet) - I'm going to talk to the big directors of the lab, Drs. Mbacham and Leke, to tell them that our situation is absurd, and that I'm going to go to each lab worker and collect 500 CFA a month for water. I might step on some toes, or suffer a concussion when the social structure that heavily crashes down on my head, but this is CRAZY!!! Some people will complain that they don't want to give money to the government, but I have a plan: if I tell them that it's actually going to go to flushing their shit down the toilet, maybe the symbolism of that act, with government in mind, will change their stance!

Now I am sitting safely at the lab computer, where the greatest danger is a power failure just before I submit my letter (not entirely unheard-of). With my fingers crossed and my breath held, I send you my love.

Mara/Chlodes

Trying to 'Get Real'

2005-10-17T13:09:00.000-07:00

Dear all,

Although I came to Cameroon to make an impact in malaria research, conference organization, public health policy, socioeconomic assessments and understandings - and possibly all of the above, why not! - I have come to realize that it's Cameroon that is making the impact on me, not the other way around. As difficult it is to get a clear result from any of my unproductive, seriously impeded projects here, my own reflective thoughts and ideas keep whacking me in the head, quite clearly, every day and night (to which this lengthy blog can attest). Alla, who is a returning scholar in Cameroon (having spent an SIT semester in Dschang two years ago), scoffs whenever I talk about "making differences"; she explains that although Cameroon has lots to show and teach the eager learner, it is not organized enough to take lessons or to build systems with eager instructors. This is not an overly cynical attitude: the reality is indeed sad. Every experience here is making differences in me, but the here and now are not ready for change, development, or even reflection. Really, how can the country stop and examine its reflection - as we like to picture it, pausing to gaze into a pool of water near a clearing in the woods - when there is no time to gaze, and no clear water??

If I want to feel changes and be made to think differently, then this is a fine place to be. If I want my thoughts and changes to be made into tangible differences, that spread and affect more than just their producer, then this is a difficult place to be. Now that my MCAT scores are in and the hospital work has begun (making med school feel so much closer on the horizon), I am giving serious thought to my future. It seems that the careers we choose might not have to be the most entertaining, fun, or comfortable professions - but rather, strategic positions from which we feel we can effect the most change. Cameroon or the US, for biomedical research? The US. (Medicine or research? Not a fair question right now...try again later.) Putting up with sore feet and gross hospital smells is a small price to pay, if I think that I can really impact a community and a system in my work. I think that I will really appreciate this opportunity and possibility - in the lab or the clinic, who knows - when I come back to a more organized, connected world.

Cameroon should not be abandoned - for it has incredible things to offer (even though it cannot yet accept what others offer) - but realities need to be checked, and expectations accordingly adjusted. I feel that I am going to leave with much more than I came with, though I wonder how much I can possibly leave behind...

Mara/Chlodes

Hospital Ills

2005-10-17T13:01:00.000-07:00

Dear all,

FACT: Hospitals should make you feel good - not sick at heart and nauseous.

I shadowed a fourth-year medical student and new friend, Eni, at the Hôpital Central on Thursday. She was doing rounds in the maternity ward, so I had the good luck of being able to hang around young women and cute babies all day long... Unfortunately, the below-the-surface experience was not so cuddley-wuddley. The maternity ward is set up just as I imagined a hot climate resort hospital: outdoor corridors, open windows, pink single-storey buildings, gardens and fountains, and peach tiled floors. The sparkle quickly wore off when I got close - and saw frothy globs (of soap? of toxic waste?) pulsing out of the fountains, mold ravaging the gardens, and inside the post-partum room, realizing that the windows stayed open to keep the women breathing something other than the stifling and sweaty miasma that filled their chamber. I do not describe all this to put down the hospital, but rather to give a picture of the conditions that sick and vulnerable people face when they come here for care. The public hospital does not have the means to provide its doctors with medical materials, so patients are constantly opening their thin wallets to pay for the next part of the exam - when gloves, cotton swabs, gauze, alcohol wipes, or tongue depressors might be needed. It almost goes without saying, then, that they also provide their own sheets, have family bring them food and good drinking water, and generally look after themselves and their kids, even from a hospital bed with IV tubes in their arms, whenever dcotors are not around.

Above all, I was impressed by the people I met. The women in the maternity ward, just 1 or 2 days post-partum, were already heating their water and heaving around full buckets so that they could wash themselves. The med students, too, are evidently quite a fit bunch. I arrived at 7:30 am to meet Eni for her first patient check-ups, and we stayed on our feet, seeing patients and then doing rounds to hear the other students' cases, until well past noon. We then filed into a classroom and learned all about the signs and symptoms and care procedures for pregnancy (in French, and I understood it all - yay!) - a really interesting lecture that nearly put me to sleep, I was so tired from the morning. It's beginning to look as though whatever I do - go to medical school or focus on benchtop research - I'm going to be running these physcial and mental "long-distance races" all day long...every day...for many years to come. But if school and work are indeed sports, and my ability to stay awake during (and therefore reap knowledge from, and pass) courses depends on my fitness, then at least I'm getting world-class training here. The lab is on the top of a pretty big hill, so I'm sure that my high-altitude vortexing will pay off in improved cardiovascular output!!!

Most of the maternity warders were in their mid-twenties (a very reasonable age for first pregnancy, I thought happily)...but petient histories soon burst my pleasant bubble, and revealed that they were already on their 4th or 5th kids. One woman, admitted for a troubling ovarian cyst and looking no older than 40, had already had 12 children! What's more, not many of the women are healthy enough to be taking care of all these little ones...the majority are HIV-positive, and probably bearing the loads of malaria, anemia, and a host of other ailments, as well. I asked about the hospital's HIV prevention and family planning programs, but all of the responses were unsatisfactory. Once again - this is not because the hospital is not trying, but because there nothing that it easy to change. Everybody knows the risks of sex, the usefulness of condoms, the strains of large families; but it is difficult to address these subjects with women who have little control over their lives. HIV is rarely discussed, because the resultant injury to morale/will-to-live on the mother's part is considered more immediately threatening to the family's well-being, than the long-term physical problems of the illness itself. Condoms are available but not so well accepted from the hospital, because parents complain (the world around, apparently) that contraceptives encourage sexual activity. (But tell me this...if they've already had 5 kids, is a condom really going to "push them over the edge" toward sexual activity???) Birth control by parents' mutual intention and agreement might be equally effective, but, as I saw not a single father in the ward today, I fear that these women do not enjoy the stable relationships required by such family planning. Finally, despite the doctors' pleas to breast-feed the newborns for at least 8 days (if the recommended minimum of 6 months is not possible), the women's nods were unconvincing, and I bet they already know they'll be working too hard to honor this request. If for a moment I thought "wow, quite a start to my day!" - I quickly adjusted the statement to "goodness, what a start to this kids' lives".

On the way out, when I shared my thoughts and observations with Eni, she and I agreed that there is not enough money, skill and education, or time for any long-term treatment of Cameroon's health problems. My initial suspicions are still unchallenged - Cameroon is lacking in all but two things: bananas and policemen. (And since the policemen appear only when you're not looking for them, and never when you are, I don't think that they count.) So unless a patient is suffering from severely low blood sugar, potassium deficiencies, or banana-split withdrawal...which says little for the masses of HIV and anemia and malaria and TB bases...there is very little hope for a cure.

I have finally bought a nice little ring for my all-important left ring-finger, and men's comments have markedly decreased since I started wearing it. For today, at least, with cures for problems put in a realistic perspective, I will call this a minor victory! Love,

Mara/Chlodes

Recipe of the Week: Condré ("country" in Pidgin/Bush English) or Plantaines tournés (mixed plantains)

2005-10-17T12:56:00.000-07:00

This is possibly the most delicious and unpredictable dish in all of Cameroon. Habiba made it once (as below) and, in so doing, changed my life; but if I ask for condré from anyone else, it is likely to change the dish more than my life. Basically, this is the nation-wide answer to left-overs: cook it with meat, potatoes, beans...anything goes. Cook one plantain per person.

1. peel and cut ripe plantains into 2 or 3 chunks apiece
2. fry a small pool of oil (here used soya oil, but anything will work) in the bottom of a thick pot, and add in a generous quantity of minced tomato, some minced onion, salt to taste, and a Maggi tomato cube (tomato powder and spices...tomato stock) for every 5 or 6 plantains
3. when flavorings thoroughly mixed, throw in plantains and enough water to just cover them
4. cover the pot, and let it all simmer for a good 30 minutes or so - plantains should emerge soft (but not mushy), sticky, and totally coated/infused with the fabulous salty and savory sauce
5. serve plantains in their tomato sauce

The Need for Football and Faith in Africa

2005-10-12T09:08:00.000-07:00

Dear all,

I had two seriously faith-based experiences this weekend. The first, the Cameroon-Egypt soccer match to qualify for the World Cup, I watched in bar on Saturday night. The second, an Evangelical church service, I attended on Sunday morning. One was depressing, the other uplifting; and the combined experience has helped me to understand how such an unreliable government, topped off with a national football team that disappoints, makes religion a necessary force among the people.

The entire city flocked to viewing points for the game on Saturday; by 2 pm, two hours before kick-off, traffic was down to a minimum, all home televisions were on, and bars were full of happy people with already-blurred vision. My friend Alla and I joined the scene, decked out in our Lions jerseys… The spirit was contagious, and we found ourselves gleefully being interviewed by amateur film-makers (and of course predicting a win), drinking Cameroon's famous "33" beer, and awaiting a match with only one conceivable outcome: victory, and entrance into the World Cup 2006. Everybody came together to await the same promised "coming", and it felt very nearly religious.

Football here is not a sport, but a hope and pride that grips the entire nation's sensibilities; winning is salvation, like the realization of a dream, that can unify the country and vault it, albeit for one glorious moment in a limited context, into the world's view as a powerful and respected force. When we failed to advance from a tied game with a weak penalty kick in the last minute, the whole city was absolutely CRUSHED. People just closed their eyes, turned their faces, and walked dazed out into the street. Instead of salvation we had been dealt a minor apocalypse, and the idea of returning to "life as usual", life before and without victory, was obviously disappointing and painful for the innumerable football fans who flooded the streets. I was fearful on the night-time taxi ride home that night, wondering if my mercilessly bright jersey would be seen as a mockery, and inflame some fanatic's misery into anger and violence... I found our usually cheerful neighbor, Ton-ton, crouched in a dark doorway, depressed and unable to talk about the game (which he had viewed at the stadium, brave soul) and not yet prepared to enter the bright cheer of the house. Wallowing was to be the evening's official activity.

The following morning, I was happy to see that one group of people had managed to pick up the broken pieces and find a new hope and joy. This was the Evangelical church congregation near my work, which is attended by nearly all the lab/conference employees. Once again, I saw people converging on a single point, clothed in their most spirited outfits, to celebrate and anticipate another great event: this time, the saving of mankind, not just Cameroon. As the service was warming up and congregation still filing in, I felt drawn to the spirit and music of the place. In front of me sat the young choir, leaning their heads together over the few rows they occupied, a mass of bobbing heads and clapping hands as they joyously whispered their practice hymns. To my left, in the other front corner, were Dr. Mbabcham, lab director; Akindeh, lab statistician; and Terence, lab driver. I chuckled to myself as Mbacham hoisted an electric guitar onto his lap and started to strum, Terence took to the drum set, and Akindeh snapped his fingers and crooed a happy tune. I'd never seen a research administrator and statistician break it down! The whole service was lively and joyous, and I, once again swept away by a contagious spirit, felt a tremendous upwelling of song and hope in their music. When I joined in the singing (altering some of the hymns' key words to suit my own spiritual philosophies, just to make it all the more personalized and satisfying), I felt totally uplifted - not so much by the words, which in the end mattered little, but by the strength of the voices and the hope.

This weekend, I have experienced the power of faith here, and seen the ways in which it crushes and uplifts people. Football is an unreliable deliverer, and those who rest their hopes upon it are subject to painful ups and downs that they can no more control than Pittsburghers can will the Steelers into the SuperBowl every year. Religion, on the other hand, is a breed of faith that can take its time in deliverance...and thus sustain believers for a long time. Who knows if what the Evangelical church says is really true - that "Soon, very soon, we will see the King (or as I said, Light)"? - but while they wait, they create a community that supports and believes, that educates and nourishes, that celebrates its members and welcomes newcomers! Religion here is strong because of its lastingness, its openness (at least in terms of doors and hearts, if not minds), and its dependability. And seeing the lab and conference workers in church together has helped me to understand (though I'm still infinitely impressed) their ability to persevere, and even excel, despite all odds and limited resources.

Meanwhile, as I start to see how people cope with the world, I’m losing my own grip on reality. Half an hour into a television show with helicopter views of Spain’s sparkling coastal towns and resorts, I voiced my confident opinion that it was all computerized – how could roads be so spotless and smooth, cars so bright and parked so nicely, buildings so clean??? Everyone else was apparently able to distinguish real Spanish resort boulevards from real Yaounde streets, but I could not accommodate the vast differences in realities… Holding fast to the red dirt and potholes, and accepting nothing less than triple-parked cars,

Mara/Chlodes

Recipe of the Week: Bouillie d'arrachides (peanut corn pudding/cereal)

2005-10-12T09:05:00.000-07:00

...as part of a typical Ramadan break-fast feast at sun-down

Menu: tea (with milk and sugar), bouillie (with or without arrachides), bananas, fresh papaya, avocado and tomato salads (cut up avocado and tomato, tossed with vinaigrette of mayonnaise, oil, vinegar, and salt), barbequed beef (served on plate in bite-size pieces), beignets (fried dough – large ring beignets from wheat flour, and little ball beignets from bean flour), and peeled oranges

Bouillie is a thick corn pudding often served with breakfast; the grand-daddy of oatmeal and grits, it is so thick and heavy that it can keep a person full all day long. Last night, we ate peanut brouillie – a delicious modification! – as the main part of our filling nightly Ramadan feast. It is pretty sweet, so you could pull off bouillie d'arrachides for dessert and breakfast, as well. Makes about 15 cups.

1. put about 3 handfuls of corn flour in large bowl, massage in just enough water so that the flour coheres into tiny balls (looks like a bowl of snow or small hail)
2. in a large pot, heat 20 cups water and mix in a serving spoon-ful of peanut butter (can mix in with hands, if water not too hot)
3. once water boils, lower heat and mix in corn flour
4. continue to heat and stir, and add more corn flour as needed, until consistency becomes thick and runny...tiny balls of corn flour should not entirely dissolve, so the texture is kind of bumpy
5. mix in sugar and milk (powdered milk used here) to taste, then remove from heat
6. serve in teacups, plain

A Novella with My Nouvelles

2005-10-04T16:14:00.000-07:00

Dear all,

This past week has been exhausting! I have realized that I approach every day of work as a long-distance run, daring myself to stay on my feet, alert and enthusiastic, for hours on end. Sometimes this is no small feat, and the challenges can be as much physical as mental. I have a blistered right thumb from vortexing samples straight out their 100°C heat bath, sore fingers and eyes from labeling 396 miniscule tubes, and a great distaste for the repetitive, mechanical tasks of the lab. (My only solace is that I will one day develop a computer program that labels tubes, and thus save the world from having to spend its time inhaling permanent marker and writing in size-9 font.) I also continually remind myself of two imortant things: first, the eventual work is much more interesting and rewarding; and second, if I can love cross country races, I can at least like this. The difficulties are compounded by the fact that the forever-hot climate and early-setting sun do a number on one's energy level, and I find myself crashing at about 8 at night...along with everyone else. We're in bed by 9, and up at 6, but it still never feels like enough sleep. However, everyone else gets just as tired from the heat as I do, so my case is not unusual.

Putting aside the long-distance analogy - which I'm sure painted a negative picture of work, since most people don't understand my love for running...but really, as I enjoy running, I enjoy the work day - work is good. Palmer and I are now finishing the most promising of our PCR tests so far, and we hope to have good results by tomorrow. (If all goes well, we will be running more samples under the same procedure, and get to label another few hundred tubes in the coming days. Fingers crossed?) The conference plans are plodding along, and I have launched into various PR activities...calling sponsor companies, securing contacts, and making reservations with the Swiss company. With each day I'm getting more familiar with the organization and history of the lab and conference; I no longer have to constantly ask questions, and I can work independently/productively for significant periods of time. I have also taken a more active role in some things - the AIDS Task Force, for example - and I love being able to finally give suggestions, make critical comments, and move things along. Actually, I am heading over to the US Embassy in an hour to help write the mission statement for the Task Force.

I got most interested in the Task Force when Mbacham and I went to their meeting last week, and I listened to their 2-years-in-perspective meeting to define the group's Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities, and Threats (SWOT). First, the pace of the meeting was anything but purposeful: it started at noon, we showed up at 12:30, people sat at 1:00, we ate from 1:00-2:00, talked from 2:00-2:30, and broke up half an hour before the scheduled 3:00 end time. When Weaknesses came up, somebody helpfully suggested that we change the category name to the kinder ¨Challenges¨ before proceeding, for that would feel so much nicer! (But then, reallllly, how would SCOT sound? Swot is productive - you can almost swot a fly or, better yet, a mosquito...but Scot's just a nice bloke, and I doubt aggressive enough for the critical review the Task Force so badly needs.) We made it past Opportunities without problems, but Threats was a real issue...indeed, a real threat. People voiced concern about the unpleasant experience of entering the Embassy, due to the unfriendly security guards, the need to surrender cell phones, and the group's lack of special ID badges. I wondered why the greatest threat was one to their comfort, and not a threat to progress/adventure/discovery/change, which really should be the AIDS Task Force's major objectives... As a newcomer, I felt comfortable expressing these views from my outside perspective, which probably enabled me to be the most honest and critical person there. It felt good to play an active role and to share disagreeing opinions - and I know I wasn't even too obnoxious, because I still got two phone numbers and a invitation to the go to beach at the end of the meeting. Ah, Cameroonian men!

What can I say? Home life is groovy. We have been having a nice time sharing lives in the Ousman/Habida household - I went running with the eldest girl, Saddathou; got braids (rastas) and returned the service with the younger girls, Alima and Adama; made Italian food (pasta, tomato sauce, pesto) and home-made ice cream with the whole family (gloriously introduced via the banana split); and helped push my friend's car out of a ditch with Ousman and neighbors at midnight last night. The incident followed the Rosh Hashanah party I attended at the Israeli ambassador's house, which attracted an astonishing 40 (forty!!!!) Jews from around the country for dinner. We met at 7:30 and dined for honestly four hours. ...It was intense. If there's any way to describe delicious 10-course feasts, it must be with a mix of total satisfaction and utter belly pain. (For as much as I adore and embrace Cameroonian cuisine, the hummus, chocolate, dates, apples, pomegranate, Algerian cous-cous, olives, cheese, pistachios, sun-dried tomatoes, orange juice, strudel, and buttered green beans, all of which are hard to acquire here, just made my heart melt.) Between the 7th and 8th courses, I looked down the table and saw people literally sweating as they ate... It was so good, and so overwhelming! The shofar blows were modest and the service quiet and frequently interrupted, but the whole experience made me feel very much at home - or at least, nostalgic for home. L'SHANAH TOVAH, everybody! (Afterwards, my new friend and her dad drove me home...and as he backed out of the driveway in the unfamiliar street, he accidentally ran into a shallow sewage ditch. Nobody was hurt, and the most difficult part was waking up the neighbors to come out and push.)

This weekend I played soccer with Palmer and his buddies. They are all in their semi-fit 30s and have high expectations for their soccer skills, so there's plenty of running, shoving, slipping, and more than anything else, debating. Nearly every 5 minutes, we found another player on the ground with an injury...but as they're all medical doctors or consultants, they took care of each other and managed to keep the game going. I so badly wanted to score a goal and show them that a girl - and not just that, but an American girl - can play soccer, but alas, my feet were not blessed with the magic touch, and I will have to wait until next week to stun them. They enjoyed my game anyway, and I have been invited to play every weekend. Following the match, we ceremoniously converged at a nearby bar, and drinks were served to all the players. An interesting conversation ensued, in which one man said that Cameroon should lose to Egypt in the coming World Cup qualifier (08 Oct), for football victories only distract the country from its real problems. He was surrounded, questioned, yelled at, checked for sanity, ...and the rest of the time was spent with people on their feet, hands waving and tongues wagging, discussing the match. I'm buying tickets with some friends tomorrow.

The run with Saddathou on Sunday morning was incredible. It seems that there is a voluntary city-wide push on weekend mornings, starting at 7 and going til about 10, to "make sports" (as people say here, literally translated from "faire du sport" in French). Thousands of people come out to climb Mount Febe, the highest of 7 hills that surround the city - old and young, skinny and fat, barefoot and shod, fast and slow, ... There are public calisthetics at the base of the mount, mild stretches and picnics at the top, and people huffing and puffing all along the winding 3- or 4-mile ascent. It was amazing! Any health-concerned U.S. city would do well to throw its Atkins books in the toilet, and get its people to run up and down a mountain once or twice a week. On the other hand, it all seems a little suspect... Like the soccer player said before, this shared activity and jovial sportmanship can distract people from real problems, and I wonder if the government plays some role in encouraging/sponsoring the Mount Febe runs and calisthetics.

This is, once again, a long-winded note. Happy New Year to you all! Thinking about you every day...love,

Mara/Chlodes

P.S. Ramadan starts tomorrow, and since it coincides with the Jewish day of fasting and atonement, Yom Kippur, I will use it as a spiritual equivalent and substitute. I look forward to sharing the experience with the family, but I am trying not to kid myself into thinking that it's going to be easy... To enjoy my last daylight meal of the next 30 days, I ate chocolate and haricots koki for lunch today. The afternoon is young, and the sun is still bright in the sky, so I will go now and see what else the streets hold for me to enjoy!

Recipe of the Week: Pommes pilees (pounded potatoes)

2005-10-04T12:01:00.000-07:00

A staple food that lasts a long time (good for the village), is not too messy (good for food-on-the-go), and fits the Cameroonian cuisine criterion for starch content (will fill 'er up, no problem), pommes pilees are ubiquitous here. Make them at home, buy them on the street for lunch...but keep in mind that they are much heavier than our familiar mashed potatoes, and would rather be a main meal than a side dish. This is one of the first things I ate, after arriving in Dschang. Good, again, for a family of 10 or more.

1. cook a few handfuls of black beans in just a little bit of water, so that they are thoroughly cooked but not too soft - remove when still firm
2. peel and clean enough potatoes for everyone, then put then in a large pot with no water
3. top the potato pile with the beans and crushed pimon, and cook covered over fire or stove until potatoes are soft
4. remove pot from stove, add palm oil til color changes, and pound the entire mixture until well-mixed...here, this is done with a wooden bowl and pestle

The final product should be drier than mashed potatoes; it is fairly solid and not oily, so that it can be eaten by the handful without mess or gloop.

Photos! Visual Stimulation!

2005-09-28T09:39:00.000-07:00

Go to www.ofoto.com, then register as ¨mara.horwitz@gmail.com¨ with password ¨cameroon¨. You will have access to all of my photos, including the Cameroonian ones. Only about half successfully uploaded, but that's enough to give you all an idea of the wonderful, beautiful peoples and places I've met.

First photos are from Dschang, with family Thomas and Therese, as well as a few photos from the village (note small girl with cous-cous that I tried to sneak). These photos end with Therese's portraits, in pink. Then there are photos of me and Noelle on the bus from Dschang to Yaounde; the river we passed; some pictures of the city; photos of Jonas and Aline's house and family; and finally photos from the lab this morning. I was especially drawn to the ¨Vedette Beaute¨ (¨Movie Star Beauty¨) sign on the kitchen door, because I thought it contrasted to poignantly with the neglected kitchen and molding dishes...so I took lots of pictures, trying to capture the dim message. Pictures of new family, Ousman and Habida and kids, to come.

Please note: hours spent in cuisine with Therese, cous-cous and koki's fantastic methods of preparation, my angst to get out of Jonas's house (me pointing to my bedroom window, the only viable exit because my door was always locked), and the ironic door sign in Jonas's kitchen. Doesn't the lab look nice?!

Love,

Mara/Chlodes

My International Life: Cameroonian Love, Norwegian Runs, Swiss Fundraising

2005-09-27T09:27:00.000-07:00

Dear all,

For the [white, female, self-proclaimed or otherwise] losers in love, I have figured out a way to always win! COME TO CAMEROON. Dears, here, I assure you that you will find a husband in no time at all. The other day, after walking around by myself and getting lots of cat calls and love proclamations, I was fed up with all the superficial attention. When a security guard showed me to a public bank toilet, then waited for me to come out, and upon my exit confessed that he found me quite pretty, I couldn't believe my ears! I spun around, looked at him with the most incredulous and questioning stare I could manage, and asked, ¨Really, you think it's cute when girls go to the bathroom?!?¨ I think he was a bit flustered, but he managed a ¨Well...uh, yes.¨ So there you have it - pee, shit, fart, burp, snore, and scratch as we might, ladies, there is always love in the world for us. Though I can't say I feel too happy about it.

I'm actually in the process of creating a fiance for myself, just to keep the men (even the ones at work, yes) off my back. So far, all I have developed is that he's my age and American...but I'm sure the rest will come to me in moments of inspiration and/or desperate need. (So far, the need hasn't been too great.) Any suggestions for character traits are more than welcome...though I think he should be pretty strong, just to keep the more fiesty and aggressive ones at bay. :) Oh geez.

I have moved homes, and now live with Ousman and Habida and their three daughters (names still unsure). The fourth daughter is away at school in Bamenda, which is good for me, because that's one less name to remember. They are a very traditional Muslim family - the wife stays at home - yet the parents have chosen to put a huge emphasis on the girls' educations, which is pretty cool. We already have discovered a lot in common, and have planned many awesome things for the coming weeks: a trip to Kribi's black sandy beaches, the climb of Mt. Cameroon, runs up the local mountain on Sundays, ice cream- and pasta dish-making activities (for me to lead), portrait-drawing sessions, and more. I am also looking forward to attending the mosque with them, and trying the Ramaddan fast, which begins on 05 October. The house is in a beautiful neighborhood called Bastos, and I already feel very safe, happy, and at home. Oh, and good news - the toilet paper is NEVER soggy!

Bastos houses a pretty affluent and international community, with internet cafes and phones, foreign restaurants, and overpriced grocery stores all over. My morning runs take me past the embassies of Equitorial Guineau, Norway, Italy, Spain, and Russia, the UN offices for agriculture and development, and a lot of other acronym'ed buildings that I can't yet identify. The houses along the roads tend to be high-fenced and well-groomed, and I think they resemble concrete sand castles of immense proportions - complete with turrets, spires, balconies, and weird gaudy carvings. It's strange, though...because between all the mansions are little red dirt paths leading the to their backyard slums, and people come crawling out from between the castles, with rucksacks on their backs, to join the road traffic on their way to work. Just another example of the image vs. reality conflicts of this city.

Work is moving along, though I find myself getting impatient with more than the sloooow Internet connection. Our PCR tests have shown nothing for the past few days, which might be an interesting scientific result if we knew we had good reagents. Unfortunately the chemicals date back to 1996, and with regular refrigerator storage equipment failures, it's as likely that they're inactive as it is that...let me see...the cabbage in the back of our fridge at home, from 2 summers ago, is gone bad. Outlook, not good. But we'll keep going, because I'm learning more and more that:
1) Cameroonians keep working, regardless of what they have;
2) Cameroonians often don't have everything they need; and
3) This is now true for me, too.
I have just been assigned the task of organizing a Swiss company's trip to Yaounde for the MIM conference - sponsorship/fundraising details, accomodations, etc. Basically, EVERYTHING, and all in French!!! I have a meeting with Dr. Mbacham this morning to discuss it, but I'm already looking forward to having a little project of my own. It will be nice to be able to (somewhat) control the pace of at least one thing I do.

Being immersed in a slow-paced culture really has interesting effects on a fast-paced busybody person; I feel at once calmed and relaxed, and also extremely agitated and antsy. Hopefully, I will eventually become a relaxed producer - you know, those people who keep their feet swung up on the desk, chair leaned way back, chatting for hours on end at the water cooler, and still get more done than anyone else? Yes, that would be the nicest result! Goal: Accept said Cameroonian guidelines. Relax. Be amazingly, impossibly productive.

Love,

Mara

Recipe of the Week: Haricots koki (bean pudding from NW Province) avec des bananes

2005-09-27T09:13:00.000-07:00

This is a delicious meal to be prepared by two or more people, consumed by about 10 (with leftovers), and eaten strictly with the hands. It is traditionally prepared in palm leaves, but we were out at the time of cooking, and so I present here the modified (more practical) approach. Wash well, and enjoy!

1. soak 1/2 or 1/3 bucket white beans in cold water, take out, remove skins
2. soak beans in water for 3 hours, just enough liquid to cover in bucket
3. crush beans to a paste (blender or food processor would work)
4. turn paste in large bowl for 10 minutes, gradually add cold water until buttermilk-like consistency, add salt and other spices as desired
5. in large pot of boiling water, place smalller bowl of palm oil to boil - need 3 or 4 heaping serving spoons of oil
6. mix oil into beans until bright orange, keep water on boil
7. scoop beans into small plastic bags, tie off, double bag, tie off, and puncture the double layers a few times with a needle. each filled bag should be about the size of a large eggplant or nerf football (what?!)
8. boil bags in water, covered, for 2 hours, then remove. should be solid mush - like congealed cous-cous or rice
9. peel lots of unripe bananas (as green as possible, about 3 per diner), steam with salt for 2 or more hours
10. eat by breaking pieces of banana and scooping up some koki, then stuff it all in your mouth ...yummmm!

*i'm trying to upload pictures of this...you will soon see me and maman therese mixing and bagging the orange haricot/oil mixture!

La Vie a Yaounde

2005-09-23T16:20:00.000-07:00

Dear all,

Here I am - again, still - in Yaounde! You would think that with my new research job and all the perks of the university system, I would have Internet access every day...but oh no, things are not like that here. The lab is wonderful, but I cannot say that it is everything I expected: in some ways it is much more, and in others it is pitifully lacking. For example, I will start with the bad news. They only got Internet and phone connections last week, and because the university didn't pay the water bill, we have no running water. At least this maked the end of the day easier, because I am so excited to go home where I can pee, that I'm rarely reluctant to leave by closing time. That said, there are many things here that would make me sad to leave, were it not for the regrettable plumbing situation... The people are all wonderfully nice and welcoming, and I really feel at home here. I also getpretty special treatment - at least, I have for the last three days - and get to attend all sorts of meetings with the big boss, Dr. Mbacham. Next week we will go the the US Embassy for the monthly AIDS Task Force meeting; I think it will be a pretty neat experience, even if Mbacham says they're a silly waste of time. In the rest of the time, I have been doing preliminary PCR tests on merozoite (malaria parasite) surface protein genes in the lab with a PhD student named Palmer, and helping draft documents and organize fundraising for the Multilateral Initiative on Malaria conference (here, November) with two nice ladies. (Very nice; they share their bananas with me every morning!)

If we forget about the bladder issues, it might be surprising that I am consistently ready to leave work by 4 pm. My work at the biomedical laboratory nearly already feels like a family; and, funnily enough, my house seems to function as more of a physics laboratory than a family.
The experiment: sustainability of entropy, as a sole ruling principle.
The result: total chaos.
The kids are still pretty crazy, but when I do take charge of the sitaution, they respond pretty well. They've taken a real liking to my limited yoga poses that challenge flexibility and balance (thankfully I've retained some from my young JCC dance stardom - ha!), and so each night they crowd around me on the salon floor, and I show them how to balance on their hands, or their elbows, or make up some ridiculous kung fu moves. Hey, whatever works! When they're not being entertained, though, all Hell breaks loose. Parents still do not come home early enough, if at all, so the two eldest girls discipline their younger brothers with yells, hits, and kicks. Subsequently, when the sisters are in the kitchen making dinner, the eldest boy disciplines his two juniors with a belt. The two juniors then self-regulate with full-body tackles. Perhaps chaos is not the right term - there is a full-fledged hierarchy, and it's MADNESS!!! Given this, it was not astonishing that the father really admired my supposedly apparent ¨responsible character¨; but when he came home the other night and told me how much he liked me, and would like to marry me, I thought; ¨It's time to leave!¨ ... I have had an interesting time, but I'll be moving on this weekend to another family.

There have been some real blessings as well, the first of which is the work. Here are some more... My work is really far from the house - about 3 taxi rdies, through some bandit-ridden areas, each way. I tried to organize a regular driver with Thomas's cousin, but I had the wrong number, and so set out the first morning to take my first-ever, most dangerous-ever, solo taxi rides. The first driver to pick me up was so responsible and honest, though, that I asked him to be my hired driver, and he agreed. Further proof of my good choice was the fact that he knew how to get to the remote lab, without any of my own pitiful direction. How did he do it?, you must be asking! Well, it turns out that he is the brother of the lab director, Vitalis, and the same man that Vitalis had tried to organize for me the day before! Call it blind luck, a blessing, or the simply due to the fact that there is only one responsible and honest taxi driver in all of Yaounde - I don't know, but it's pretty cool! Also, here's another great thing...beignets. They are these fried dough balls - lighter than doughnuts, coated in sweet sweet sugar, and so ridiculously delicious when still warm - that are sold everywhere in the mornings. I'm totally addicted!

My driver Augustine and I are on a hunt for the perfect beignet; every morning we stop at a different place along our amply long route, and try some. This morning the beignet was not so stellar, but I also plaintain chips and peanuts, which more than compensated for the biegnet's lack of ridiculous goodness. (My morning runs along the highway have been really emotionally steadying, invigorating as usual, surprisingly safe, and extremely appetite-inducing.) The only problem was, this indulgent early diet PLUS the sweltering heat made for a pretty heavy morning, and I was not feeling so great for a while... Just a moment ago, though, I sat down on the lab's stoop overlooking the valley and facing mountain, peeled a grapefruit, and watched the afternoon storm clouds roll in. The cool breeze on my face, the pungent citrus and its cool juice, the expansive deep green in front of me - it was the ultimate, most refreshing, detox. Ah, I breathed; and right then, decided that I love this place. I have never been so stimulated - so culturally and socially and physcially and emotionally and intellectually stimulated - and, despite the inevitable ups and downs, I am having a great time.

Tomorrow I am heading out to play soccer with Palmer and his biomedical consultant buddies - between their necessary professional caution and their African football wildness, I have no idea what to expect. And, I bet, neither do they - cause I'm a girl!!! It should be a great time, and I hope to not get too too badly beaten.

Love,

Mara/Chlodes

Linguistic Note: Sauce d'arrachides

2005-09-23T15:37:00.000-07:00

A very good question...why is it called ¨sauce d'arrachides¨ and not ¨sauce de cachuettes¨? In France, peanuts go by the latter name; in Cameroon, for agricultural reasons, their identity is different. Arracher means ¨to pick out of the ground,¨ so arrachides are those nuts that are harvested from the earth. In Cameroon. Voila!

Country Bumpkin Meets the Big City

2005-09-19T16:16:00.000-07:00

Dear all,

I succumbed today. I went into this really snobby, far-too-expensive, exclusive ex-pats' restaurant across from the US Embassy...and ordered a pizza. I couldn't help myself! A white bread and rice subsistence is not something I was prepared for, and now the big city is making me slightly homesick! The funny thing I realized, though, and I ate the deliciously mediocre pizza, was that I'm now stuck in a really awkward mid-transition phase: I ordered the pizza to make me feel at home; but by now I'm so accustomed to Cameroon's spicy pimon, that I had to cover the dish in black pepper just to give it some taste. But man, canned mushrooms and chewy dough have never been so glorious!

I have spent the day doing official things. First, homestay dad #2, Jonas, took me and some friends to the courthouse to try to get their brother/son out of jail; he was arrested 6 months ago for theft, and has been given an indefinite sentence. On the way to the courthouse, a rainy season downpour descended upon us, and we stopped in a cafe to rant about the government and poverty for about an hour, as the rain passed. This was all a really insightful introduction to the capital city's systems and sentiments... Now, for the past few hours, I have been on my own and visiting all the applicable embassies - Canadian (houses the Australians' welcome center), American, and soon Israeli, in an effort to feel a little more grounded in this crazy place. The streets are totally chaotic, both in urban design and in driving style, and I feel like I need to strap on a seat belt just to cross the street. Unfortunately, even the cars don't have working seat belts, and when they do, it's extremely rude to wear one. (This suggests that you don't trust the driver, and none of my homestay dads have wanted me to wear one in their cars.) The buildings are totally wild, too. Neighborhoods are composed of gaudy chateaux backed by slums and shacks, to the effect that no place really has a definite character. Everything is unpredictable, and what often appears from a distance or from the street is rarely a good representation of what lies beneath (ornate fences fences surround crumbling, ugly palaces; dirty restaurants serve delicious food; I think I know where I'm going, and I'm actually totally lost). The nice Jewish lady (only one around!) who was pulled out of the mail room at the US Embassy to help me touch base with the local Jewish community, told me that four months is just about enough time to get to appreciate this place. With the unpredictability of it all, I'd say that that's a fair prediction.

The bus ride to Yaounde was very pleasant and uneventful; rode on a big Greyhound-style bus, sat next to a nice university law student who I will probably meet up with in the coming weeks, and was just high enough from the ground to not be hustled by vendors at every stop. My homestay dad, Jonas, met me at the agence and took me home. ...It did not take long for me to start missing Thomas, Therese, & Co. Jonas and Aline have 5 kids, all of whom are adorable and totally undisciplined. Before I had unpacked, they unceremoniously went through my things, ate my stashed veggie/comfort food, jumped naked into my mosquito net tent, and generally came into the room at their leisure. The household is generally disordered: meal times are undefined and different for each person, we eat as if from a trough (food everywhere, too bad if you come late and none is left), Jonas loves spontaneity and thought it was cool that Aline was missing for a few hours last night, and the toilet paper has been left in the bathroom window and is now all soggy (and no one seems to mind). There also seems to be some real disdain for my vegetarianism (in part because they weren't prepared for it, despite the supposed love of spontaneity!), and so I am developing creative ways to ease the reality upon them. I will eat well for breakfast and lunch so I'm not too hungry at dinner, bring veggie foods home to plump up my part of the meal, help in the kitchen (Therese's recipes will be so handy), and hopefully make some of my own veggie meals for them. It will work out, I'm sure... The locks on my baggage and my bedroom door give me much confidence.

I don't want to make it all sound bad. Jonas is young and energetic and really fun; we already have plans to climb Mount Cameroon (W Africa's highest point) together in two weeks. Aline is also young and easy-going; she understands my veggie needs, luckily also has a hand in the kitchen, and is a hair-dresser who will put my hair in fantastic braids soon enough... My lab boss called me last night to make contact, and I am about to call him to organize a visit to the lab (tomorrow?) and my work program for the rest of the stay. Maybe I will start this week?? My bedroom is nice and big and private when locked, so I feel comfortable, space-wise. I have pictures of all this, and more, which I will upload as soon as possible; I hope the University computers will allow me to do this... Jonas and Aline do NOT have a DVD player (scoped that out early this morning), so I know of one present that will be well-received. Yaounde will grow on me.

I am off the buy some toilet paper and vegetables. Love,

Mara/Chlodes

P.S. Some additional notes:
*President Paul Biya's Motto - C'est dire NON a l'Aventure (Means NO to Adventure)
*Played early morning soccer with the men and boys of Dschang before leaving...had an amazing time getting totally dominated, and turned red from knees down by the red mud...they're African, so I'm not very upset about having been schooled, and was happy to show them that girls like to play, too
*The Nelly & Kelly song, "Crazy Over You" (title?), plays everywhere here...nobody really understands the words...when I explained to Thomas that it's about a girl who leaves her baby's daddy to be with Nelly, he was very disappointed
*the other day, I saw a priest walking around with a football...could anything else scream 'Cameroon!' quite as clearly?

Recipe of the Week: Sauce d*arrachides (peanut sauce) avec du riz

2005-09-17T15:45:00.000-07:00

A staple food item here...easy to make...best over a fire in a small mud hut, but a stove will do.
Enough to feed a family of 10 for about 2 meals.

1. roast 5 cups shelled peanuts, remove skins, grind into paste
2. also grind ¨condiments¨ - ginger, garlic, basil, pimon (really spicy peppers), and a little celery
2. heat two heaping big (serving) spoons of palm oil at bottom of big, thick-walled pot
3. to hot oil, add 3 diced plum tomatoes (or more) and one diced onion (or more)
4. fry veggies, then mix in 16 to 20 cups water and peanut/condiments paste
5. add salt and stock cubes to taste, let sauce simmer for about 20 minutes
6. add dehydrated shiitake mushrooms (veggie traveler*s substitute for 2 smoked fish), simmer for further 20 minutes
7. serve over rice, in heaping quantities, and insist the everyone eat the whole mountainous plateful

Raging Adolescence, Taxi Mayhem, and Romance (ha!)

2005-09-17T15:31:00.000-07:00

Dear all,

I think that homestays really are an interesting thing. In one week, one month, or however long it might be, a person has to grow up in and into a new family. It*s like an accelerated child development process - would it be too much if I referenced Piaget here? My first day or two was characterized by timidity and difficulty in expression; but rather than cry like babies do, I just spoke slowly and awkwardly (¨if it pleases you, would it be nice to go to on take a hike today, papa? please will you pass me the water that is in a bottle?¨) My last entry was a window into my three-day parent idolization and adoration phase, when everything was perfect; I was sure that Mother Theresa had been named after my own Maman Therese. Then the storm clouds rolled in...and yesterday (ironically, the first day without rain), my adolescent rebellion and doubt kicked in. Today, I*m a blossoming, fully developed, beautiful, perfectly self-understanding, happy young adult! ...Ahem, as you should well know.

We were spending the day au village - meaning, way out in the fields, where people have no electricity, farm all day and eat only in the night, walk two or three hours to town to sell their goods if they need cash, and basically live the hardest, poorest life I have ever experienced. I still had a good time, because Cameroonians are naturally good hosts, and wouldn*t have it any other way. So there I was, drinking beer with the chief of Fongo-Tongo village, sharing in the TWO excessive dinners that were served to him, and playing with all the kids of the compound. Nonetheless, it was impossible to not notice the regular way of life... In the morning, when I was given a heaping bowl of cous-cous and sauce for breakfast, the kids of the house cracked their teeth on burnt corn kernels, and carefully tucked away a handful for their school lunches. Not knowing if this was socially acceptable - but knowing in my heart that it was necessary, and in my stomach that the last night*s double helping was still filling me up - I snuck handfuls of cous-cous to a baby girl when her mom was out of the room. (I should have known that she wouldn*t be the neatest eater, and when her sticky hands exposed the scheme, and I had to confess. They just laughed.) Then the kids were off to school, and I went into the fields with the chief*s second wife and youngest baby to weed the onion field. Maman was to meet me there at 09.00 to begin the walk back to Dschang.

I had been feeling a bit strange about my relationship with Maman since earlier the previous day; I felt I had portrayed myself as giving a bit too readily (I handed out lots of presents, gave her TUMS and anti-acid meds for her heartburn, every day brought back food for the household, and finally made the mistake of showing her my present bag for the rest of the trip...from which she openly ASKED to take a DVD player, even though they already have one!), and she was taking advantage of me. So, when she didn*t show up until 15.30, I honestly thought that she was trying to abandon me! I was about to cry, I was so homesick... But thankfully the chief*s wife was wise beyond her years (3 kids and a hard life at 25 will do that), and she told me that a woman of means would not go walking with someone if she didn*t want to talk to them...Therese could easily afford a taxi. So we ended up having a wonderfully long walk back, during which she explained that she got stuck at a funeral and couldn*t leave, and, again, that Cameroonians are always late - so get used to it. She treats me with love and care like she does all the other kids, but also trusts that we can get along for ourselves. Good to finally know...I*m just another kid in the family.

I*m glad we didn*t take a taxi. Not only was the walk really nice, but the taxi ride to the village had been horrendous. First of all, picture the most beat-up car you*ve ever seen: doors don*t close, the front seats are tied in with rope, the back doesn*t shut, the sides are stripped of their coverings to reveal a decayed metal skeleton, and the floor is so low that you can feel every sizeable rock pass under your feet...this thing would be as good as smelted at home. Now, stuff 8 people into it: an XL driver, an XL man, and two unfortunate women in front; my curvy Maman, a regular-sized woman, another curvy (and ancient) woman, and myself in the back. I will add that my ancient companion was noshing on a fish from a plastic bag and talking angrily for the whole car ride - spewing fish pieces, bones, and contemptuous words all over me. Ahhhh. I gave up on enjoying the countryside, and slept.

Today I went for my first run (yes, amazing!), and will go soon to say goodbye to the SIT people. I leave for Yaounde tomorrow morning, but will see the SIT students when they come into the city, and will surely be back in Dschang - in November to go to a funeral (amazingly huge, elaborate, joyous affairs here, usually years after a person*s passing, to celebrate and honor a life), and in December with my family. I spoke to the Yaounde parents (Aline and Jonas) yesterday, and they seem really nice. But is this settled young adult going to shrink to a teary infant again? Wa wa wa, on va voir...

There is one other ¨necessary¨ homestay experience, which I forgot to mention. The eldest boy is seriously after me (single American girls are always warned of this) - no doubt because of the intense romantic experiences of washing lettuce, cutting pineapple, and doing origami. The other day he asked me if I would like to marry an African (and, not surprisingly, expressed great interest in marrying a foreigner). I think I am supposed to be impressed with his openness? Or the funky disco dances he keeps doing in front of me?? I dunno.

Lots more love,

Mara/Chlodes

P.S. Can*t find the damn apostrophe on the French keyboard. Oops, please pardon my French. :)

Giant Update: Week 1 in Dschang

2005-09-14T11:32:00.000-07:00

Dear all,

This is exhaustingly long (took two cybercafe visits to finish), so take your time and just browse...then write back, cause I love to hear from you. Merci, je vous adore!

I've now been in Cameroon for about 5 days, and things are absolutely amazing. It's a country of extreme sensations and emotions - much like any unfamiliar place for most people, I guess - and that has made my time here absolutely incredible. I'm right now in Dschang ("chong," rhymes with "song" but resonates a bit more at the end), a town northwest of Yaounde, separated by about 6 hours' reckless driving. My current living situation is great - I live up in the mountains (a 30 minute walk from the town center and market) with an incredible family. The most challenging part of living with Papa Thomas, Maman Therese, and kids Charlyn, Bordoin, Raoult, Ulrich, Robin, Melissa, and Lynn has been learning their names. (All the kids look like mom and dad, which is good because the parents are good-looking - but it's no easy task to distinguish between Good-Looking #1 and Good-Looking #5.) I kept a little worksheet in my journal, with sketches and descriptions of each one, and I filled in their names as I learned them...that worked.

My arrival in Cameroon was initally not so comfortable; the Nsimalen airport in Yaounde brought me into the country with an overwhelming sensation of fear/anxiety/distrust, and hauntingly suggested at a modern, concrete concentration camp - what with the processions in front of military personnel, the long lines of scrutinous inspection, the scowling guards, and me sweating (and regretting) under 180 pounds of baggage. However, I must not forget what a great learning experience it was - for it was at Nsimalen where I paid my first bribe, shook off my first aggressive male "quick friends", and relocated my first piece of lost luggage! About one hour later, I met my pre-arranged driver Gaston (quite conviently, Thomas owns a taxi company, and was able to send one of his drivers to fetch me), and we took off for the city.

In one of Yaounde's many sprawling markets, we stopped at an agence de voyages and bought bus tickets for Dschang. We were to leave on the next bus - so I thought it risky when we headed out into the market for a leisurely dinner - would we not surely miss the bus? But no, I was soon to learn that Cameroon runs on an even slower clock than the Horwitz household! Six hours later, after my first Cameroonian meal of bread, cheese (so dear here!), grapefruit, fried plantain and prune, and water brought over from Brussels, all 30 passengers boarded the bus. Two hours later, after getting gas, stopping for a smoke, readjusting the bags on top, returning to the agence, being entertained by the quarrel between a passenger and a military woman who tried to nosily regulate his choice of seat (she was finally sent away with his ever-so-clever "you're ugly! you don't know what you're talking about!!!" and the other passengers' cheers), we were off. I slept most of the way, waking a few times to look out of the window and see us hurtling along the slick road past crashed buses just like ours. At these moments, I was never sure if I should enjoy the exhilerating speed and sense of yes...PROGRESS!, scream because we were all going to die, or just go back to sleep and call it a dream. Most often, I opted for the latter.

We made a few more stops along the way, all in remote stretches of road in the pitch black of 2 or 4 in the morning. Still, within one second, there were little children's hands cramming themselves through the windows and door, clutching bags of peanuts, mandarins, oranges, and jewelry in front of the passengers. (I am an immediate and obvious target for all vendors, and I have gotten quite good at saying "no" to the construction boots, mattresses, and smoked fish that people try to sell to me...this also includes those men who ask to come home with me!) It just baffles me that there could be so many kids, working so late along any given part of the road, who are working so hard to sell no more than one bag a night. How could it be worth it? Mid-way at 3 am, we stopped at a candle-lit market to eat, smoke, piss, whatever... There were tiny wrinkled little ladies carrying huge baskets of manioc and yam on their heads; little kids running around to sell sacks of cold water; and men playing cards and selling/eating smoked meat in the dark corners of the boutiques. Clearly, judging by the 24/7 activity, Cameroon's poverty is not an issue of laziness, but rather a misdirection of effort. For example, nearly everyone in the markets here in Dschang sells just one or two things - dried manioc and tomatoes, use of a corn grinding machine, or little bags of peanuts. I know that expansion would be hard, but wouldn't the corn grinder get more customers if he bought another machine, and people could come to him for both corn grinding and peanut mashing?? Double the services...triple the customers...reduce the prices... This must be how big agricultural processing plants (and other equivalent things) arise, and yet everyone's stuck in their small-scale specializations here. They invest in one machine, rest their livelihoods upon it, and wait for customers to come for that one exact service...

Dschang is this gorgeous town in the mountains, where the temperature is constant year-round - about 75 degrees F at noon, and cooling to 50 or so at night. Gorgeous. We're just now approaching the end of the wet season, so the growth is verdant and lush everywhere, and the roads are a beautiful (and muddy and treacherous) deep red. I nearly fall at least once a day, and I always get back to the house with lower calves and sandals painted red... From the house, we have a view over the center of town, and I can peer through the clotheslines and past the goats' garden to see the villages and waterfalls on the facing mountainside. I like it when I don't sleep in, and then can participate in all the day's activities: wake up at 6, clean the dishes and wash clothes in the courtyard, avoid the nasty nasty dogs that they keep for security (and which I think have schemes to bite my head off), see the kids out the door on their way to school, eat breakfast in the salon (always eat reclining here) with Therese, Thomas, and Charlyn, and head into town. Everyone pitches in here (youngest child of 4 years can still weild a knife with the best of them...she carries buckets of water, peels potatoes, stokes the fire), and things run like clockwork. A word for all you time-sensitive people - it's a slow but robust clock, thank you very much.

Maman cooks vegetarian meals for me, and they are delicious! (All fears about getting along sans meat in this Cameroonian life have been put to rest...) The first few nights we all ate veggie-style, but I think they maxed out on the vegetable tolerance after that, and now Maman often adds fish to the meals, and keeps a separate pot on the side for me. Naturally, she always makes a bit too much - and just as naturally, at her urgings (like a good Jewish mother, she is!), I eat too much. But it's so yummy! I've been welcomed into the kitchen (they are fairly well-off and have a "normal" kitchen with stove and fridge and running water, but Maman prefers the cooking fire in the mud hut outside) as her tutee, and my journal is full of great recipes that you'll all be enjoying as soon as I get home. Fufu (sticky maize cous-cous that is the perfect finger food) with spicy peanut paste; corn kernels and black beans; white bean stew; mushroom peanut sauce over rice; ndole (ground leaves, yum!!!)...it's all amazing finger food...and even if I couldn't eat with my hands, I would still call it amazing! I have been taken very good care of here - they carefully clean the lettuce with permanganate so that it's safe to eat, and I enjoy avocado salads, the sweetest tomatoes I've ever tasted, and green (ripe) oranges, grapefruit, guava, little tiny bananas that we buy by the bunch, and plantains softened over the fire. My goodness, can you tell that I'm being spoiled?! To contribute, every day I try to bring something home for the family - some yogurt, fruit, or whole wheat bread, or extra spoons (a gesture of thanks for hosting my whole family in December). I can also help the kids with their English homework, and my strangely long and slippery hair provides hours of entertainment for the young girls, budding hair dressers. I have started drawing some portraits of the family, which pleases them just as much as my digital camera - and doesn't run out of batteries every 10 photos, damn thing!

There are still a few things here that I'm not adjusted to... Actually, quite a few. First of all, I don't know what it's going to be like to live in the big city of Yaounde, where I go on Sunday; although I will have another great homestay set up, I know that my increased independence (my own work, daily taxi commutes, etc) will further require me to fend myself in the unknown. Cameroonians are on the whole welcoming and generous - but to many, my whiteness means that I wipe my ass with $100 bills, and so schemes to get at the imagined cash are not uncommon... Also, there are other signs that I haven't totally made this dream a reality. The other day, while taking a cold drip shower in the mud-brick bathhouse, next to a squat toilet and with a tropical storm raging outside, I heard a mechanical tinkle - and thought it was an ice cream truck! On the top of the muddy mountain, mind you!!! Then, while getting out a hairband from my bag, I noticed that it had a metal closure and shook my head - "tut tut, Mara, don't you know that that will have to come out if you get a bone scan today!" (I'm part of a study at Children's that does yearly bone density scans, and requires that I take off all metal jewelry.) Yes, there's some adjusting to do...

But I have met the American School for International Training students here in Dschang, who all arrived just a few days before me, and they are great friends and confidantes...and they understand the transition. I went to their welcoming party, see them in the market all the time, and will meet them for lunch in an hour - it's great! Anyway, they have said that I seem to be really comfortable here; I don't know if that's because I am, or because they're not, or simply because I like this dream so much that I've settled down, and the reality still awaits... In any case, Yaounde awaits... More on that later.

Hope all is well. Sending my love,

Mara/Chlodes

a poem to last until departure

2005-09-05T02:09:00.000-07:00

i'm writing pre-departure,
for my bro has given me trouble,
about being a bad blogger
and not making comments double.

"for every question a response!"
he insists that i communicate,
and since we live together,
all my excuses go to waste.

so to gray's expectant question,
concerning blog post frequency,
i have but one sure answer:
dammit, NOTHING rhymes with frequency!

each week i'll try to share my life,
writing once and perhaps twice,
and depending on my inspiration,
there might appear postings thrice.

so check in every thursday, or
alternate sunday/tuesday if you please;
mondays, as well, look mighty fine,
for sending me some cheese.
(i mean, for reading the blog. but cheese is definitely appreciated, thanks.)

finally i have reached the end
with a long and winding style;
please remind me not to be a poet,
for my art would stretch a mile.

sincerely, me

Welcome to my humble blog-abode

2005-08-29T13:08:00.000-07:00

Salut, mes amis!

This is the journal I'll be using from September through to January, as I live/work/play in Cameroon and simultaneously try (really, I will) to keep in touch with all the lovely folks at home. I would love to hear your feedback and stories, so please keep me updated every now and then. (Don't forget that my school email works, too.)

Missing you all (almost) already,

Mara/Mar(mar)/Marrah...sigh/Marita
Chloe/Chlodes

P.S. The "almost" refers to the "already," not to the "all." I really WILL miss all of you...yes, even the ones who smell funny (Axis of Evil and Pah, you know who you are!), break my things (careful with the boomerangs, boys), and forget everything (boys, again).