My mom came here for 2 weeks and I feel “awkward” (a word that I had no idea how much I used until she came, or I should say how many instances in my life call for the use of the word) writing about her visit since she’s really the only one who reads my electronic journal (again, still resisting “blog”) on a regular basis. [I’m trying to get her to write a guest entry on here, so if you can, push her to write it!]

I would like to send out a blanket “Happy happy!” to everyone, which is how Anglophones (English speakers) here say “Happy New Year” (maybe combining “happy x-mas” and “happy New Year” together?). I spent this Christmas listening to holiday tunes that did not seem to fit with the palm trees and sunlight streaming in through the lace curtains and doing some crafts (I would like to show amazement at the ingenuity of my mom for picking up corn husks off the ground and whisking them into delicate, curled angel ornaments… although now my boss wants me to teach the female population of Buea how to do it and I’m feeling a bit over my head for that…). We made delicious foods and thoroughly enjoyed playing “Things” (a game of fun randomness that can be played with anyone as was demonstrated at New Year’s…) For New Year’s we had quite a mix of different cultures celebrating with some guacamole, homemade bread (which, horrors of horrors, was made with flour that was stored near mothballs and had a most awful chemical flavor: welcome to Cameroon!), rice pudding, among others. We played “Things” again, which is fascinating classifying Cameroonian vs. German vs. American responses.

We traveled to Bamenda and I remembered my anxious fretting when I first came to this country, my extreme frustration at travel in Cameroon. The waiting was so unnecessary and without an end in sight. But now I expect the endlessness and sort of just zone out. I also realized that I sort of remove myself, and that isn’t a problem because I think the Peace Corps kids I travel with don’t notice/do the same thing.

But upon reaching Bamenda (which I hold in my mind as sort of this expansive little Anglophone paradise with crafts nestled in the valley), it was made clear that perhaps I knew of less activities than I thought. So after harvesting all the crafts made for white people possible (I feel pretty confident that I’ve never seen a Cameroonian blowing on a whistle carved to look like a bird or using trivets woven of raffia), we looked around and said, “And?” Luckily my mom shares my passion for pagne (and why is it that after more than a year I never noticed that Anglophones don’t really understand me when I say this word??) or African fabric. We found the section of the market with row after row of patterned goodness (complete with missionary’s wife buying her stock) and have officially purchased enough to clothe an entire stylish army. Although I think I may have heard growing up, “Eat your broccoli, there are people starving in Africa,” I somehow doubt I’ve heard, “Put your clothes on! There are naked people in Africa without any clothes to wear!” And that is because there is an abundance of fantastic options.

People meeting my mom kept looking over to me and saying, “Wow! Your mom is so young and healthy!” I’m not sure what they expected, but I think I might like to be greeted in such a fashion throughout my life everywhere I go – so take note, all those who may be involved in greeting me in the future, Jess should be remarked upon her youth and healthiness.

We took the night bus back from Bamenda, which was my first time. I was a bit afraid of bandits, but who isn’t? Ya just gotta get out there and brave ‘em. And boy was it sweet! We waited around the bus station for awhile, with not much in the way of seating options since the entire place has been thoroughly dusted during the day with swirling red dust (don’t ya know the Harmattan is upon us?). I had to pee, which is a good time in the bathroom there. Most places in Cameroon charge extra for… #2 in public bathrooms. (see Things That Would Not Happen in America) But Bamenda labels the bathrooms, “Urinate” and “Toilet 1, 2, 3…” so you know who’s doing what in this little reeking dim hut. Why don’t they charge you to pee? Because all you get is a shower drain. That’s by far some minimal facilities if I’ve ever seen any.

Anyway, the night bus. What’s great about it is that it’s cooler since it’s nighttime (and Cameroonians can’t really be relied on to open windows due to beliefs about getting sick from too much air, being really cold-natured, etc.) and they don’t pack the bus as full of bodies (I’m not sure why…). We got some sort of crappy seats (one of us had to sit in the shorter folding seat), but in the beginning I let dear old mom sit in the cushy seat. She’d brought her neck pillow, so she was dozing pronto. Meanwhile, I was dodging the leaning of the guy on the other side of me who woke up and asked where we were and what music I was listening to. Grrreat. At this point I had about another 4-7 hours (one never knows) left and I was nowhere near sleeping. We stopped for a bathroom break and mom urged me to take the better seat. Being the spoiled brat I am, I hopped in. And she nudged the pillow under my head just in time for me to be out like a light until we reached Buea. Unfortunately she’d been counting down the hours while I was living it up in my private Hilton hotel (are there nicer hotels than the Hilton? Not in the capital of Cameroon there ain’t!).

I try to be aware of every time I write “Cameroonians” since I don’t want to seem like I group the entire nation into a category of window-closing non-whistle-blowers, etc. Although I do see general trends, I don’t want to set up the dichotomy between “white people” (who aren’t even all white, I do recognize how racist I’ve become after hearing “whiteman” refer to all Westerners for over a year) and Cameroonians. That being said, I was really impressed with the reception of most people to my mom. Everyone was really welcoming and happy to have her. They made great food (while I didn’t get a chance to make her try okra soup, which in its sticky, soupy glory is by far the most revolting of consistencies to Americans… but it’s  tasty!).

I’m still sitting in my rut of “half-way” point (although I’m peering over the top of the roller coaster to the soaring free fall of my last year) and it’s still not pretty. Today I read an article about a Buddhist marriage and realized that I’m essentially living the example of the unexamined life. I was excited enough about joining Peace Corps to take me through the first year; I remember saying things like, “How can one ever really know if you’re helping? But my time isn’t so valuable that I feel like it’s a waste to do what I’m doing.” While I still find that to be true, I don’t have the energy to go out and do something that doesn’t seem to be doing anything for anyone. I even left compassion in my suitcase, graciously assuming that I even brought it with me to Cameroon. I certainly haven’t been using it very often. The Buddhist article talked about trying to pull a cow of the mud and in order to do it, you’ve got to find a perch or you’ll be in the mud too. But even if you don’t pull the cow out, it’s still valid that you sit with the cow through the suffering and that you show compassion. So, Jess, if you can’t pull Cameroonians out of the mud, at LEAST show compassion (not to liken Cameroonians to cows, which would offend a great number of Americans). So this is my goal for January: until I find a perch, at least being with people through their experiences is something accomplished.

This morning I finally went “for sport” after a long lazy time. I started walking briskly up the hill when I caught up to an older man walking (in a vertical striped shirt and bright shorts with red and white striped socks, he was like a cartoon). As a general rule, I wear headphones to ignore people talking to me. I don’t need to talk to the car washing guy who calls me baby, or the welder who says, “Hello! Hi! Hello?” I don’t want to wish everyone I walk past “good morning,” I just want to do my sport. But as I passed this guy, he said “You’re fast! You’re so strong!” I laughed saying, “Thanks!” and he soon jogged past me saying, “I can’t let you beat me.” Usually I don’t see anyone jogging/running on my walks, since Cameroonians like to do their sport on the soccer field. And the few people I do see are running, since they’re training for the mountain race. So this guy was an unusual amusement. Each time I got close to passing him, he’d start jogging again. Eventually he tuckered out of the game and as I walked in front of him, he justified his failure by telling me that he’d started out at Mile 17 (at the VERY bottom of the HUGE hill, whereas I’d started up about ¾ of where he began) and I called out, “Oh! Well, that’s it then! I’ve only just started!” as I power-walked my way up. Glad to know I’m inspiring people in small ways.

Since my mom was here, I got lazy (hence the lack of exercise) and didn’t want to wash laundry. That’s kicking me in the rear end now that the clothes are spilling into my room. So my clever tactic? Wash only the “innerwears” which makes me feel like I’ve done something and I’ve got enough other clothes that I can handle it. I hung them in the “laundry room”, since I don’t like my neighbors staring at pair after pair of my undies, but there aren’t any curtains on that room so it’s basically a vacant, glaring room, filled with my unmentionables. For those of you with access to a washing machine: live it up! What an AMAZING invention that was. (Curtains are also pretty cool too though…)

I just finished reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Kingsolver. Now, I’m relatively on the hippier end of life at this point with the baby dreads, Peace Corps, tea tree oil products, non-red meat eating, etc. But this book was really inspiring. I doubt I’ll ever really live on a farm but the idea of trying to eat locally and support yourself as much as possible for a year is challenging but Kingsolver does a great job of not making it boring or snooty-sounding – even when she goes to Italy (see my review of Gilbert’s Eat Love Pray). I would like to be more food-conscious, as in where everything comes from and the energy it’s taken to get it to my plate. Which pushes me to take more advantage of all the locally-grown produce I have access to now. So while lamenting the lack of washing machine, I do have local pineapples, bananas, avocados, tomatoes (allll the time), and papayas. More than that, I often know the growers. So, eat that, you hot-water having, movie-theater going, internet-in-the-house using Americans!

I just walked into the internet joint and next door they’re playing fantastic hits such as “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas” and “I saw mommy kissing santa claus”. I’m shocked. Lately my neighbor’s been playing this famous Nigerian gospel singer and talking back to this CD she’s heard a gazillion times. The singer talks on the track, ranting about how people are “enemies of progress” and are jealous, and there’s some long spiel about her getting a pregnancy test… I don’t know. But anyway, my neighbor is sitting there sewing on her foot-pedal machine, just preaching back at the CD, “Hmm-mmm that’s right. Jealous fools. That jealousy will hold you down! Amen!” I’m glad that peaceful Christmas music might be replacing it soon…

I’ve had the opportunity recently to host visitors in Buea, some of which hadn’t been to Cameroon before or hadn’t seen much of the southern part of the country. This means that I got to see Buea for the first time, again. I hope that everyone gets to have their home refreshed like this; I forgot how exciting it is to see the mountain when it’s been cloudy for days, I forgot how crazy it is to buy meet off the side of the highway from a guy with scars on his face and chat with him in French, I forgot the beauty of the technique of bucket bathing. It’s amazing and sometimes I take it for granted. I remember earlier in 2008, I was walking with a Cameroonian friend when I saw one of the huge lizards here. Now, I love lizards, and that’s just me. But they’re cool, in spite of that. They’re big and brightly colored. When I commented on it, my friend said, “We’re used to them here.” And I answered with determination, “Yes but just because you’ve got something beautiful around you all the time doesn’t mean you shouldn’t notice it!” How easy it is to do though.

I’m trying to figure out how I’ve changed since I’ve come to Cameroon. Partly because I’m at the halfway point (I’ll quit saying that really soon, I promise) and also because my mom’s coming and hasn’t seen me in over a year. I think in a lot more of my pictures I look “severe”  … but this is also because a lot of times I’m taking pictures to convey my sense of displeasure at walking in monsoon rains or breaking glass vials on my hands. I’m not sure if my body’s changed, thanks to the relief of body image pressure here. I’m certainly not any tanner, thank the high heavens. But am I more skeptical? Mean? I think so. I react like a Cameroonian when children are playing with the gate to my porch. I holler out, “Weh! Na who di play wit dat gate?” with a deep and angry voice – picture me doing it in my crazy PJ pants with my mussed up dreads and it’s really frightening. I’m more guarded, especially with men. But my laugh is more “me” now – I laugh loud and full.

My supervisor just got back from the States. Now, she’s a quick lady. She’s very perceptive and sort of handles a room like a bull in a china cabinet. I think the States floored her a bit. Her first reaction to DC was, “White people are crazy!” – I think because everyone was running around and moving so fast all the time. She seems to understand why Americans don’t ever appear respectful in Cameroon – since it’s respectful at times for us to just call people by their first names to create equality between people. She said San Fran was beautiful, and I’m hoping to go someday. The point of her tour was to share policy ideas on the US Embassy’s approach to HIV/AIDS in Africa. I’m glad she’s back, but I’m waiting for her to come back to the office for the storm of work to rain down. The office doesn’t function very well without her, much to her disappointment. While the cat’s away…

While in Yaounde, I’ve been lucky enough to have 2 chances to confront what it might be like when I go back to a Western culture.

Boy Scoots (apparently “scouts” is more like “scoots” in French… adorable)

Five of us health volunteers piled into the Peace Corps SUV to talk to a troop of boy scouts here in Yaounde: mostly kids whose parents are in the Marines, diplomats or other work here in the Embassy. Our director asked us if we would do it, since he’s sort of the den dad or whatever you call it. We were supposed to teach them about nutrition.

We had been with each other for a few days, acting as we do whenever the white people congregate: like apes. We’re rude, we’re loud, we’re silly. For a lot of volunteers, it’s their chance to bust a move after sitting in their houses in the bush reading by lamplight. (I don’t have an excuse) So we had to try and tighten it up. Then the kids marched in and we were stunned, swallowing and throwing looks at each other. Blonde kids! Little boys! Wearing jeans! We had no idea how to greet them – most of the volunteers speak French at post. And I’m used to shaking hands with Cameroonian kids, but for some of the boys… that just makes you look like the creepy aunt who always pinches cheeks or something.

We hung around for their “official” meeting opening things: they pledged allegiance, we stood like we were at a Cameroonian official ceremony with all of us in a line with our hands together in front or behind us. It might’ve just been that we didn’t know how to behave, but that’s typical for Cameroonian ceremonies. I introduced myself as “Jessie from NC”… forgetting that these kids could probably just call me “Jess” and it wouldn’t sound like “Yes”.

We played games with the kids to teach them about nutrition, which is par for the course of what we do at post. But these kids were so different! I laughed embarassingly loud when the quirky little boys would make wonderfully witty remarks. Their diets floored us (note how much I’ll talk about food in this: it’s because volunteers are obsessed with food) – these kids had “shrimps” and “waffles” during the day… and how do you spell “enchiladas”?

But more than that, these kids were ready for what we were doing. When asked to throw out the names of some sicknesses, their first answer was “Leukemia!” 8 year old Cameroonians don’t quite have that same level. Then when we asked them to draw foods on pieces of paper, they immediately went to it and we were able to fly through the activity that takes 2 or 3 session with Cameroonians.

Lest I make it seem as if American kids are sooo much smarter than any other kids, I’m sure it was because they’re used to the type of activities we did. But regardless, it was pleasantly familiar to work with. I was not ready for the familiarity apparently, and kept talking in “special English” to these sharp little boys, who must’ve been patient with me because they thought “Jessie’s a little slow” – which is what I used to think of the volunteers that gave presentations and slipped in and out of this slower, deep voice English.

Thanksgiving

Last night all of the Peace Corps volunteers in Yaounde were invited by the DCM of the Embassy (he’s second in command after the Ambassador) for Thanksgiving dinner. Again we piled into the vehicle to be ferried over to the “foreigner” quarter of the city. [Yaounde is set up so that foreigners are only allowed to live in one quarter... in order to protect them... but it sure does make 'em an easy target]

First of all, I hadn’t brought any nice shoes. If you can remember back to when I first came to this country, I was shocked at the amount of importance placed on shoes. If your shoes are dirty, you’re not clean. Well, luckily the Chacos (shameless product advert) don’t show much dirt. But honestly, I do have fun sandals and I like to wear them when I can. I forgot ‘em and brought the sheer floral dress… but what’s a volunteer if not flexible? Throw those Chacos on! I was a bit insecure, especially as I could NOT stop staring at the floor and therefore my feet.

Why was I staring at the floor, like a social malfunction? Because it was marble and shiny and I love shiny things. This house was unbelievable. I won’t waste too much time describing it because it’s only relevant in contrast to Cameroonian houses. But I will say that the second floor is outfitted with beautiful metal caging in case the situation gets too intense, they can lock themselves up there. All of the crystal and silver is government property and the house comes furnished when they move in.

I’m getting ahead of myself. The reason the DCM invited us is mainly because he was a volunteer in Thailand. So he was very patient with us while we were in awe of the soft couch. I should mention at this point that we are not ready to re-enter the atmosphere of a normal American social situation. Especially not me. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve gotten comfortable here. Now I fully enjoy being with Americans and letting go, but I’m also blunter with Cameroonians so I’m just ME all the time. I do have to put on some social graces if I meet the chief or some important Cameroonians, but I sort of just tuck myself up rather than with Americans where I would have to re-align myself in order to interact in a socially-acceptable manner.

Before we arrived, we had a signal in order to communicate to each other that whatever we were talking about was NOT appropriate. We know that we’re used to being able to say things that would not fit with the sterling silver flatware we were using. So an ear tug and we were supposed to hush up. The ear tug sort of just made it worse since then it was funny and had already been said anyway.  We were tugging ears all night.

The food was profound and we ate until we were uncomfortable.. which is like, “Well, that’s Thanksgiving right?” But I’d forgotten what that feeling felt like. My god, why do we do that to ourselves? The answer is: because the food is heaven. The DCM’s wife is an aspiring gourmet chef (”I’m not the Iron Chef but I want to be the Iron Chef”) and she’d headed up a crew that made fantastic appetizers (smoked salmon, cream cheese with jam, BROCOLI) and then the main course (two types of turkey, mashed potatoes, CRANBERRY SAUCE!!, stuffing, corn souffle, etc) and dessert (with 7 pies… and whipped cream).

We had fantastic conversations with diplomats who had traveled the world with their families and were so warm and welcoming. We watched a bit of the Tennessee/Detroit game… but I’d just wanted to hear what the rhythm of a football game sounds like. It’s strange what you miss.

As we left, his wife gave us little goody bags of homemade cookies. We were all charmed to pieces.

I remembered why we have this holiday; it’s magical. I think Americans overseas/Americans living in poor, isolated situations overseas have a much better appreciation of Thanksgiving. (In fact, I think that’s probably proven) We don’t count on eating turkey and are fully surprised and delighted if we have anything that resembles meat. We are thrilled to be with people who know us and care about us. I’d forgotten for the night that I was in Cameroon, that in the morning the next day I’ll pack myself into a bus with a gazillion Cameroonians and go back to Buea where I’ll take a bucket bath upon arriving home and sleep under a mosquito net. I felt like Cinderella. How nice to have that reminded to me.

Anyway, I’m halfway (still?) through service and Peace Corps’s been poking and prodding me to no end in order to make sure that the worms don’t have a full 2 years to shack up in my intestines.

We’re all hoping for some sort of parasite to make the effort worth it/have something “African” to write home about. I’ve got my money on typhoid.

However, one of the women I trained with was graciously hanging out in the hospital and got TB (tuberculosis). It’s latent, but she’s got 9 months of medications ahead of her. She’s handling it quite well, in spite of her trepidation in going through dry season with all those heavy meds. We threw her a “Surprise! You’ve got TB!”-party, who doesn’t love those?
In honor of her: Ways to NOT Get TB-

* Wear a mask all the time
* Don’t hang out in the TB ward of the hospital
* Dart for the other side of the room if anyone coughs
* Secretly test all the people you are usually around.

One of the things I’ve been desperately missing here is art. I’ve been trying to do some pieces in the house, and that keeps me satiated for the most part. But today when I logged onto wordpress, this blog posting was highlighted and I found it charming: Chalk Shadows. I don’t think I can run around Cameroon in the night drawing silhouettes on things – people would arrest me for insanity or run in fear of the “whiteman sorcery”. But it’s beautiful!

I realized that I haven’t given you all the full taste of what it’s like to live in Cameroon with the shining glory of Obama on the horizon coming from the West. If it had a sound, it’d be BAM!

We stayed up all night here in Yaounde to watch the election, eagerly crowded around the TV and 30 of us shouting at 6am when it was announced. Then the streets were filllllled with Cameroonians burbling Obama praise. [Another American experienced severe anti-white sentiments the day after with the feeling of "Uh-huh! Look at how the Africans are going to be on top now!"] Everywhere I went, I’d hear “Obama!” or “Barack!” hissed, shouted, whispered, congratulated, and sang to me. It’s one of the first times in a long time that I feel that rush of pride to be an American [of course, I love being able to wear the clothes that I want, go to art galleries and concerts for free, rent skip-free DVDs, express all my views, etc. But it isn't that same RUSH]

Now, people like to ask me if I voted for Obama. They like to tell me their views on what it means that he’s black or he’s African. In bars, men come selling 5×7 photos of him (they sell out by the time they reach inside the bar). I see great T-shirts, usually sent from America, being proudly sported all over.

It’s profound to me the impact that American politics have on the world. When was the last time that you set your alarm to wake up and watch the election results of ANY country other than your own? When was the last time you were genuinely excited for any country’s politics other than your own? I see this pointing toward the U.S.’s effect on everyone else, but also the permeating American attitude of ethnocentricity. …Moving out of politics, quickly now, before someone (likely a Cameroonian) starts in on a “conversation”/lecture on it.

Kim and I traveled to the North of Cameroon. On a bus we shoved ourselves into a back seat [side note: we were less tight because the people up north are skinny not like the "fat mommies" down south where 5 people on a bus bench is no easy feat] with our knees digging into the seat where we noticed grafitti. Grafitti is rare here mostly because people don’t have Sharpi markers and aren’t going to pay for spray paint. But they can carve into fake leather! Yeehaw! So I took the name placard of “Leki” and Kim was “Cozai” for the rest of the trip.

One of my favorite things about the north is the music. Down south we get TONS of pelvic-thrusting Macossa but the north has more… mousy-sounding music. And I love it. I can’t really tell the difference between Fulfulde (a language) music and Hausa (a tribe) music but I like them both.

We stumbled upon (this is how most of my encounters happen) a voodoo market. Perhaps volunteers in the north would actually call this more of a traditional supply area… but for my purposes, it will be a locality of sorcery. It was a few stands by the road where I COULD have purchased:

1. Variety of crazy seeds
2. Piles of dried herbs
3. Porcupine needles
4. Goat/sheep horns
5. Metal needles
6. Dried bird feet (about a foot and a half long)
7. Dried small animal skins
8. Dried mouse
9. Dried chameleon head

Although not as intense as Mexico City’s black magic market, it was a nice little trip into the fantastic.

General Observations about Northern Cameroon (if you know the north, this isn’t exciting)

* As my first trip into a desert climate, I was shocked as we took motos in and out of the shade – like furnaces being turned on and off. And the sweat just evaporating off your body, which leads me to…
* The lack of smells. I’m a smell-oriented person and the south is full of distinct smells: the night blossoms that waft throughout the university at night, sweaty men in taxis, and palm oil. But the north is so dry that even the piles of dried flesh (either meat or leather) don’t really have an odor… but bring that leather back down south and the humidity sets right in.
* The change in landscape. (Really, Jess?) But really, as Kim and I took the train up, we kept anxiously looking out the window (pretty much from the moment we got on – “Shouldn’t it be different and magical already? Why is it still jungle?”) to see the mountains appear and the land go dry. Eventually scrubby brush started to appear and things went brown.
* The language differences. I forgot what it was like to constantly be surrounded by a language that you can’t understand a bit of. I met a lot of people that couldn’t speak French, English, or Pidgin to me beyond maybe basic bargaining. It’s all Fulfulde or dialects.
* Lack of bargaining! What!!? Cameroon is MADE for discussing prices. But northerns make fun of me, calling me Chinese (who are apparently solid business folks) or Bamileke, a tribe from the West province who understand the need to bargain. Frustrating. Simply frustrating.

Global Voices Online quotes me (Global Voices) and apparently my global voice is ALL about taxi drivers… Why can’t I be like Siobhan who reminds people how much she likes living in Cameroon?

I’d like to take this inspired-moment to have a bit of top 10 (actually not a bit, i’ll give you the full bite) of why I like Cameroon.

1. They understand the importance/deliciousity of carbs
2. The weather usually in Buea is ideal. T-shirt weather with a view to the sea.
3. I can do strange things and claim that’s what we do where I come from.
4. People dance how they want, and it’s all good.
5. Clothing and fabric is exciting – from fabric printed with showerheads to Chinese shirts with “Say WHAT!???” printed on them
6. I get to hear songs that I like as I walk down the street (such as 2 Face… which I was going to sing in our little Peace Corps band here.. probably good that I didn’t)
7. There’s a gazillion (literally, I did an anthropologic study) different cultures. This includes language, stereotypes, ways of tyeing sarongs, foods, physical look, etc.
8. Life slows down and I sometimes like not rushing around like a maniac.
9. The people are gorgeous and there’s more of a sense of body-appreciation. I’ve learned to stop analyzing MY body since there’s not always American women to compare myself to, nor is some company trying to shove me into a tinier, tanner, unhappier version of myself. (Love Your Body Campaign)
10. The beach is …spectacular. As are the mountains. It’s BEAUTIFUL here. (I’d like it if we could stop trashin’ it up… but it’s still managing)

Actually he said it a little less like Dopey the cartoon dog and more like “I go marry you” caveman-ish.

I flagged down a taxi, and being cheap as I always am refused him when he tried to make me pay 50f more (again, like a dime) and he accepted to carry me home at my thrifty rate. When I got in, he said “I go marry you.” I replied, “You no go ask me? You just tell me?” He said “I get confidence.” I laughed. A minute later he said, “You know economics well, eh? I mean, you manage money fine.” Apparently my stinginess is a desired trait for Cameroonian men, this is new. Just as I was about to get dropped, he said “I should start getting money for your bride price?” I answered, “Yes, but it better be much, eh?”

Taxi drivers: love ‘em or hate ‘em.

Jess ducked beneath the gauzy white curtain to Kobi’s room. He was sleeping the sunny afternoon away in the slow heat of his dim room. She felt lucky to have a buddy, someone she could hang out with easily. She’d been bouncing around the neighborhood for the better part of an hour, chasing dead ends since all the appointments she’d made in her head weren’t being met by the other party. When Kobi suggested they stroll up to the stadium, she was excited about another adventure.

Just the day before, she’d badgered him into taking her on a “nature walk” that he’d been proposing since they met. Kobi is the only Cameroonian Jess knows who ever suggested any type of physical activity and enjoyment of the outdoors. So she finally took him up on it since the day was sunny and nothing was too pressing. As they walked a common street, it suddenly ended. The hostels and expensive restaurants stopped and they were surrounded by high grasses.

Before civilization choked off, a last looming Catholic church sat unassuming in a small cleared area. Jess skipped up, dragging Kobi’s arm. When he asked what she planned on doing, she replied, “I want to see inside. Come, bask in the light of the lord with me!” Kobi laughed but skidded to a halt when she peeped around the door, to see the choir practicing in warm light thrown by stained glass windows. Jess, growing up in a Southern town with quiet churches everywhere (although they were not always elegant or anything remarkable), missed the chance to see inside churches without paying for taxi fares to take her there or people thrusting Christian conversion at her.

As they continued down the small path crowded with weeds, a few farmers lumbered past with heavy loads on their heads. The small farms began to appear, with peanuts or cassava being grown in neat rows. Kobi was reminiscing on school days when he would walk down the path to the river with his friends. He tried to teach Jess how to shoot pieces of long, stiff grass into the air. She made a lame attempt before giving up.

They walked for some time, with the sun lazily stretching below the ridge of the mountain and the clouds flaring up golden. When they reached the bridge over the river, Kobi told Jess about how people bathe in the river but he’s afraid of water after almost drowning in a deep river near his village. Jess absorbed the lushness of the river, with its thick leaves growing into the shallow banks. But, like many natural things in Cameroon, people’s waste had started to collect in the grooves. There were pieces of trash that the river gently tried to sweep along, but which seemed to catch in grasses and rocks.

As they turned to walk back up, the light was only beginning to fade and the mosquitoes had not come out. Jess, wearing a short dress, tried to convince Kobi to trade her for his jeans and t-shirt to provide some relief from the oncoming insect assault. They re-emerged onto the night streets just as yellow bulbs started to wink on and Jess counted only three bites.

Kobi and Jess slowly strutted into the stadium, sucking on oranges that dripped down Jess’s wrists while Kobi expertly finished his off. Jess quickly saw that there was only one other girl in the stadium and felt a bit of pride at being escorted into this male arena. Kobi explained that a lot of younger guys come to the stadium to smoke weed and pointed them out. They were perched and silhouetted at the top of a set of bleachers. The field was swarming with players, referees, and onlookers. The soccer players maneuvered in the dust quickly and efficiently, throwing themselves to touch the ball. What a strange mix of recreational activities, thought Jess.

As they walked out of the stadium, Jess hoped for more places to discover in Buea. She was thankful to have found someone easy-going to show her around.