In what may be a sign that life in Cameroon has become something resembling “normal,” and having been inspired by a visit from two PCVs, stagemates who I haven’t seen in a long time, I am dedicating this blog entry to a cleft-lipped baby and wooden demonstration penises.
On my way home from a short, mid-day, obscenely hot walk with the dog, I return to my family compound. I cross over a cement bridge traversing the open sewer that has just been put in, and hop onto a 4x8 wood plank that serves as an extension bridge over the awkward walkway that has yet to be touched. Having added another mark to the score of Lauren vs Bridge in what has become an ongoing battle, I hop down safely on the stolen cement walkway that lasts about 20 ft. About 3 months ago my compound members stole cement from the road building crew, the cement that falls to waste when the hot tar is already laid, and made a nice little walkway. This walkway was helpful during its first few months in existence, but then during the rainy season just became another part of the mudpit walk to and from the road. Anyway, on our return to my house, we pass first a monkey, a drill, in his cage, chowing down on boiled manioc. His name is something obscurely amusing, like Pappy or Pepe, and he is always doing something strangely human. Last week, for example, he was sitting up with his legs sprawled over and through the bars of his cage, like a man reposed on the couch watching television. Today he was too distracted to do anything mean to my dog who tried to touch him through the cage. As Owondo unsuccessfully tries to play with the monkey, 2 year old Stephen walks up, seeing only monkey. As soon and Stephen catches Owondo’s attention, Stephen flees, terrified of a pursuit by a now attentive dog. Stephen flees, however, with an empty gin sachet in hand, and a cigarette butt dangling from his lips. I proceed to remove the butt from his mouth, and smack him a little, enough to bring attention to his family of these vices learned too young. I, on the other hand, leave the gin sachet in the small child’s hand, figuring that you have to pick your battles.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
BRAINS!!!
I have now officially been to the saddest place in Ebolowa. The morgue. What can I say about it? Well, for starters, it is conveniently located next to the regional hospital. This means that no matter how sick you think you are, you just look out your window and think, “Well, at least I’m not there.” It was also incredibly poorly designed, specifically because there is no “bright side.” The very same place where dead bodies are dropped off, the mourning come to the body viewing 2 weeks after their beloved has passed away. Combining the mourning with the grieving is just not a good idea. I will say that the reason I have somehow managed to avoid the morgue for so long (1 year, half of my service) is that I have no been personally affected by someone’s death thus far. I made my way over there this morning not in mourning of a friend, but in support of a friend who finally lost her long-sick husband. I showed up with Serges a little bit early, which gave me plenty of time to see that the morgue is, in contrast to what I said before, also a good place to socialize. This I can say safely because I knew quite a few people there, including my tomato momma. Her story was that someone’s husband from her village was hit by a car in Ebolowa, a tragedy marked by the fact that his young wife has a 6 month old and herself is widowed at the age of 20.
In the midst of all the mourning, the crying, the moaning, the fainting, the socializing, there also arrives grief. Today, grief arrived in the form of a transport bus that usually holds around 40 people that was empty, save for a passenger, the driver, and a limp body covered by a bloody sheet. Trying to imagine that it wasn’t in fact a dead body, I briefly convinced myself that this bus was a transport bus for people to return with the casket to their village for the burial. As two men who evidently worked at the morgue carried out a gurney to the bus, I realized that this was, in fact, a dead body. As the driver directed the two employees to the body, detailing the story, the bus started to roll forward towards one crowd. He clumsily ran back to put the E-brake on, and I stared, wide-eyed, as these two employees pulled out the corpse, also clumsily because there is evidently not a smooth way to relocated a limp corpse. Soon enough the corpse, a woman, started to spill out brain as she was lifted up and onto the gurney. I saw brain emptying out from this woman’s skull! It was, at once, disturbing and depressing. Making this vision even more depressing is the story of her arrival at the morgue.
Although I am not sure of how this story can be recounted, being as there were no witnesses, apparently this woman was on her way home from the field, on foot, and was walking on the good paved road between Ambam and Ebolowa where cars have been known to go too fast. A moto, probably also going much too fast for the hilly curves, hit this woman, throwing her to the pavement, and then ran off. The results were equivalent to as if she, herself, had been on the moto and flown off upon collision, smashing her head on the pavement. A bus filled with passengers returning from Ambam saw this woman’s body, and amongst them, made the space on the seat, and collected money to send her body to the morgue. So, by the time she arrived, her brains were a pale yellow soup. After removing her body, the young female passenger who remained with the body throughout the process also handed over her 3 machetes and sharpener, probably an important identification (as who carried their ID when going to the field?) for her family. I did I all could to not break down right at that moment, though I could not help but imagine her family at home wondering where mom is, not knowing that mom didn’t return from the field because she is dead at the morgue.
To make matters worse, I had to sit through a church service for my friend’s husband. My friend, although her husband had already been dead for 2 weeks, proceeded to faint/pass out, delaying the service, and eventually returned with an IV drip because… well… because Cameroonians LOVE IV drips. So, I basically marginalized her loss because I was so focused on this way more tragic death that had just happened. After the service was over, I skipped out on every other activity to go the bar. 2 beers in at noon, I was at last able to return to my house where I lost it. It turns out that if there is in fact such a thing as the death season, it really makes me sad.
In the midst of all the mourning, the crying, the moaning, the fainting, the socializing, there also arrives grief. Today, grief arrived in the form of a transport bus that usually holds around 40 people that was empty, save for a passenger, the driver, and a limp body covered by a bloody sheet. Trying to imagine that it wasn’t in fact a dead body, I briefly convinced myself that this bus was a transport bus for people to return with the casket to their village for the burial. As two men who evidently worked at the morgue carried out a gurney to the bus, I realized that this was, in fact, a dead body. As the driver directed the two employees to the body, detailing the story, the bus started to roll forward towards one crowd. He clumsily ran back to put the E-brake on, and I stared, wide-eyed, as these two employees pulled out the corpse, also clumsily because there is evidently not a smooth way to relocated a limp corpse. Soon enough the corpse, a woman, started to spill out brain as she was lifted up and onto the gurney. I saw brain emptying out from this woman’s skull! It was, at once, disturbing and depressing. Making this vision even more depressing is the story of her arrival at the morgue.
Although I am not sure of how this story can be recounted, being as there were no witnesses, apparently this woman was on her way home from the field, on foot, and was walking on the good paved road between Ambam and Ebolowa where cars have been known to go too fast. A moto, probably also going much too fast for the hilly curves, hit this woman, throwing her to the pavement, and then ran off. The results were equivalent to as if she, herself, had been on the moto and flown off upon collision, smashing her head on the pavement. A bus filled with passengers returning from Ambam saw this woman’s body, and amongst them, made the space on the seat, and collected money to send her body to the morgue. So, by the time she arrived, her brains were a pale yellow soup. After removing her body, the young female passenger who remained with the body throughout the process also handed over her 3 machetes and sharpener, probably an important identification (as who carried their ID when going to the field?) for her family. I did I all could to not break down right at that moment, though I could not help but imagine her family at home wondering where mom is, not knowing that mom didn’t return from the field because she is dead at the morgue.
To make matters worse, I had to sit through a church service for my friend’s husband. My friend, although her husband had already been dead for 2 weeks, proceeded to faint/pass out, delaying the service, and eventually returned with an IV drip because… well… because Cameroonians LOVE IV drips. So, I basically marginalized her loss because I was so focused on this way more tragic death that had just happened. After the service was over, I skipped out on every other activity to go the bar. 2 beers in at noon, I was at last able to return to my house where I lost it. It turns out that if there is in fact such a thing as the death season, it really makes me sad.
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