The VIP treatment

This entry will be an ode to the VIP. That is right. Arc-en-ciel VIP bus service from Ebolowa to Yaounde, conveniently avoiding the outskirts of Mvon bus gare, the worst place on earth with almost guaranteed pick-pocketing and/or deranging. Although the fare is 2000 FCFA more expensive, with a round trip ticket coming in at 5,000 FCFA (a costly 10 bucks) as opposed to the killer deal of 1,500 FCFA one way (6 bucks round trip), if I am carrying large sums of cash and feel that today is the day I don't want to squeeze 5 asses into a space meant for 4 (thank God we do not live in Bamileke country, but the world of much tinier Bulu people), I will splurge. So far, I have taken the VIP just once leaving Yaounde, and once leaving Ebolowa. Apparently I am convinced that every day I will find the end of my bank account (too late, by all accounts) and usually prefer to take the commoner's bus. Although the VIP bus service comes complete with it's own special salon for avoiding the laymen, and the buses all have televisions, proper individual seats (like a chartered bus in the states), and curtains for blocking out the sun, I prefer to squeeze my bottom in to an overpacked bus, of the not-VIP kind. Benefits to fitting about 40 people in a mini-bus include hours of entertainment that does not include staring at a dry-humping dance sequence Cameroonian music video. Usually this entertainment is at my expense, and involves the speaking of Bulu, a language in which I can agree to everything that I don't understand. Sometimes it involves the laughter of seeing the white girl squeezed in with the masses. Oh, so hilarious, especially when my left butt cheek goes numb. But as long as you pick a row with lots of tiny-behinded people, usually you can at least sit all the way back in the seat.

5 months in and way too deep.

As of today, I have been gone from the US for 5 months. This marks the first full five months that I have ever spent away from American's Next Top Model, an abundance of street lights and real sidewalks, and, sad to say, really good dairy products. And in reflecting on these past 5 months, I realize that I have learned a lot. Believe it or not. In an attempt to escape the serious stuff, I will, instead present a rather superficial list of my reflections on life differences.

So here is a list of things that I have learned to love about Cameroon:
-The beauty of ripe avacados and ripening mangoes hanging on drupes from trees, and falling cass mangoes with eager children running to be the lucky one to get the delicious prize.
-I secretly love it when people derange me, as long as it is playful and ends when I want it to.
-Omlettes with spaghetti. Watch out, USA, I have a new carb overload coming your way.
-Cameroonian sense of humor. Not at all dry, usually too obvious. But I can be funny in Cameroon, and when I am being American funny, I am taken seriously. So there may or may not be rumors of my thirst for blood.
-Old Mamans and Papas.
-Pretending to not understand Bulu, or French for that matter, so I can leave an uncomfortable situation.
-My counterpart, Serges, because he finally admitted to me that his uncle is a thief of wine and money, which explains why this crazy man never stops asking me for money or booze.
-People who wear winter coats, even though, to me, it has finally reached a reasonable temperature.
-Palm wine, aka morning coffee. It makes work a lot easier and makes afternoon siesta happen.
-Plantains. Fried, boiled, mashed. Delicious.
-People with really beautiful, hard, sculpted bodies everywhere you look. It's better than Dixon Rec Center.
-Pretending to be a celebrity with giant sunglasses. Everyone looks at me, and sometimes my picture gets taken. Only I never get mad and throw phones at the paparazzi.
-If I speak American Enlgish with another American, no one else can understand and I can gossip about anyone I want.

And here is a list of things I REALLY miss about the States:
-Good costumer service. Talk about going postal with the obese mail woman who pretends to not understand me so she can stay in her chair, forcing me to deal with the anglophone man who hits on me without fail. Or the 3 months and counting is has taken to get my bank card (come back next week).
-Dairy products. A nice hard parm, or a sharp cheddar, and creamy ice cream, or cold, fresh milk.
-Maximums in public spaces. And large people having to buy 2 tickets for transportation. This mostly deals with Mamans with large derriers who take up the butt space of 2 men. And when 5 are seated in a space comfortable for 4, a large fes really makes a difference.
-Urination being a private activity. Nuff said.
-Public libraries.
-Invisibility.
-Alone time. Oh, time to myself!!!
-Weekends. And newspapers read while ingesting endless cups of coffee.

That is about all I have for my superficial list. I am sure that these will shift as I spend more and more time here, gain perspective, and get used to the spending of time here, or at least what my job as an agro-forestry volunteer means.

The trouble with pygmies, stray puppies, wild jungle cats, and elephants

There is a story about a pygmy man who has great powers over love, and I heard it from 2 different people so it must be true. There is a pygmy man who lives somewhere on the coast between Kribi and Campo. He is well-known for his potions and other supernatural powers. One day, a European couple, on vacation, are at the beach. They are both out for a swim, and she gets tired. She leaves the water to rest on the beach, while her partner still swims. This pygmy man sees her lying there and violates her. By the time the woman's partner sees the commotion on shore, it is too late and she has been victimized and he escapes. But the real interesting story is that a woman from Douala hears about the pygmy's ability to make love potions. She wants to capture a man's heart, so she seeks out this pygmy. She tells him she wants to learn how to make the potion, so he teaches her. But instead of letting her go, he uses this magic potion on her. They wind up having children together and she lives in the middle of nowhere with him and their children, never to be seen again by her family or friends.

I saw this man on my way to Campo for work. He was sitting outside his tent on the road, perhaps for work, perhaps to capture hearts of other women.

The distance from Ebolowa to Campo is not very long, but it takes about 13 hours of driving to get there because there are just a few miles of good road. On our way out, at 4 in the morning in the middle of nowhere, we saw 3 different jungle cats! These were all very strange looking and I managed to catch a picture of one of them. As we all know, bad roads aid greatly in the ability to do wildlife viewing.

Campo is a small rural town, sort of a mini-city if you will, with running water, cell service, electricity, but no radio or public television. It is situated just north of Equitorial Guinea, a country that made it's riches on petrol export. Within the area, there are many conflicting interests, and here is where the story lies (Perhaps a PhD dissertation if anyone is looking for something really interesting). Just outside of Campo is a national park, Campo Mann, run by the Minestry of Flora and Fauna (or something like that) and partly overseen by WWF. The main economy is not touristic, however, because it is isolated by a few bad roads and no one has thought about going into the public ferry business yet. There is very little agriculture, and mostly people fish for about half the year when it is the season and live in food dearth the rest of the year. There is a lot of logging interest in the region, and although the locals think they have a lot of land (like all of the South, 'Il y a la terrain!') much of their land is on it's way out as iron export builds trains running through Campo, logging industry increases, and a dam is expected to be built soon. Climate change is happening here, with visible differences in rain patterns, and there is sometimes devestation of agricultural land by elephants (for those who do farm), as elephants get hunted by Guineans and search out new land. Furthermore, what food production that does happen here is often exported to Guinea because they do not farm across the river, making food in village very expensive. Food costs are expected to increase as more people move in with the train/dam industry. To make matters worse, there is a very structured power pyramid that is aimed to help, but may actually diminish local voices. Talk about a complex problem! I will learn more, I am certain, each time I go.

The return home was also eventful. At 2 am, I got out of the truck to pee. As I am squatted, a little puppy comes out from the middle of nowhere and rolls onto its back, expecting a belly rub. There was not a village or house in sight, and I was briefly enamoured and unsure of what to do. Instead of thinking with my brain (puppy was female, and female puppies usually die when you try to spay them), I decide to do something, so I take the puppy in the truck with me. It is sitting on my lap, probably frightened or maybe excited that the belly rub trick actually worked, and it just keeps farting. The dog is seriously stinking up the truck. At this point, I am realizing that I made the wrong choice. I mean, I hadn't even seen the dog, really, and was delerious with sleep deprivation. Finally, we see some houses, and decide to drop the dog off outside. I am sad, still, at this point. It is only when the smell still lingers that I realize I made the right choice. After a few minutes, I realize the smell is not leaving, and I shortly thereafter touch the cadeaux, the present, she left for me. So, not only did the dog crap on me and the inside the truck, but later, as I can not stop scratching all over my body, I realize I got some sort of long-lasting rash from her.

The lesson is to never decide, at 2 am, to bring home a dog. And be wary of pygmy powers.

You know you are an American when...

your Cameroonian friend calls you in the morning after the Super Bowl to tell you who won and you don't even know who played. Or that there was a Super Bowl.

Never joke about water

In what I thought was a pretty lame, somewhat funny joke about how visitors get free floor space, but have to pay for their water, I recognized it really is not funny to joke about this. I realized this when I returned to my house after 5 days away, with 2 other PC volunteers for the weekend, and there was no power or water. How exciting. It really keeps you on your toes when you have to limit toilet flushes with 3 people, one of whom was sick. Power was even cut in town for a day. Everywhere except the fancy Greek owned bakery/store had no power (they have a generator). It was chaos, at least for me. But really life was quieter and I was able to sleep through the night without listening to non-stop television.

Finally, I ran out of stored water. This meant I had to walk really far with 2 empty bidons, 2 because I was feeling over ambitious, apparently. I had walked this way many times before, but I never realized how far it was as when I had to walk back with a bidon, mostly full, on my head. I fortunately had the luck of running into my neighbors, who helped me carry one bidon. I am certain my head flattened a little bit. But I could not even succesfully carry water all the way home. It was a 10 year old with a wheelbarrow who helped me get the water home. All the while, I walked home in shame because everyone thought I was crazy for thinking I could carry 2 bidons with my hands.