a few pictures, or my most stimulating post ever

Here are some neighbors off on an afternoon stroll.

Here is a rooftop view of Yaounde, taken from the balcony at Willy and Anne's home.

Here is a bright yellow tree that I look at every day.

Look, my Living room. Can you spot the John Deer Tractor?

And here is my kitchen. The pictures of my room didn't turn out, but I'll try that again.

So I am still getting used to this picture thing and find it inconvenient to post them into an already written blog; so I will try various things. Also, I don't know how to make labels to put under the pictures, so if anyone can help do so.

If you would like any specific information, let me know and I will write about it. In other news I am on Malaria prophylaxis and it only costs 17,500 Franks per 12 days (the exchange rate is about 450 Franks). So that's expensive, yo.

Bury the Foot

My address: BP 111, Ngaoundere, Cameroon. It can only accept letters, not boxes for such are seen as prize booty by mysterious Post Office looters.

And here I sit after a safe and timely arrival in Ngaoundere, Cameroon, my home for the next academic year. I sit upon the solitary hillocks of the compound, smack dab in the center, unit number 39 in the aptly named Chateau.

Look, here is my own little moat; during the intense rains (two or three a day and several throughout the night) it floods and fills with crocodiles which scare off those who would come and seek to share my bed. Thank Goodness!

But perhaps I ought to back track a

moment or two in order to make sure that everyone is on the correct train-namely the one leaving Yaounde at seven o clock.

When last we parted ways, dear reader, I had not yet met many of the people who would become my daily interlocutors, nor have I met those who will become my most oft seen friends, my students. Well to dinner I did go with Willy, David, and Debra. What an important meal and the restaurant had not the slightest idea the service it was performing. For David is on the board of Global Health Ministries, Debra is a key asset in CAR (central African republic) while Willy is the Regional Representative of all--along with his wife whom we shall soon meet. And as we sat around ordering our food, a variety of local cameroonian special Ndole avec viande et poisson-a dish of bitter greens mixed with meat or fish-and the fly-paper consistency Manioc (also goes by the name Cassaba and Tapioca) and some coca-which really tastes nothing like coke despite being in the bottle saying it is such. I wonder if this is on account of the lack of high fructose corn syrup or some other phenomenon and there was fried fish and rice and spicy sauce, suddenly in strides a man resplendent in his purple outfit. It was the principal of the school again, Pastor Jean Marcell Hamadiko, my new boss. We proceeded through a lovely dinner conducted in various forms of pidgin English and French tout ensemble nous avons un vocabulaire complet. After dinner Willy, David, and I moseyed our way in the ELCA mobile back to his home and small siestas were taken before Willy fetched me to head to the train station.

Interesting fact about the train that departs from yaounde to go north, it usually goes at six, but during Ramadan it waits to leave until seven in order to give the muslims time to eat. Principal Hamadiko met me and together we journeyed forth. When it came time to wait in the lounge before boarding the train, he remarked how clever it was or me to have carried a book along for just such waits. Well it was now time to bring forth the powers of amazement that are at my fingertips and I proceed to blast new synaptic understanding of kindness and wowzeration his way for I brought from forth my shoulder bag a copy of Le Soir, the Belgian newspaper that I had selected on the plane in order to bury my nose behind something while trying to distract myself form the spaniard's beauty. Shortly thereafter we boarded the train which was remarkable only for the fact that the rooms were terribly small. I quickly monkeyed my way to the top bunk and shoved my sac a dos to the foot of the bed and threw my feet upon it. Then I began to read. All went well until the train began to move. Suddenly the most raucous of raucousness boomed through the loudspeaker attached to the ceiling. Discombobulated, I meandered in my mind until settling down on the wise decision to try to sleep. I closed my book, Cloud Atlas, popped in my earplugs and drew down my sleeping mask. Ahh, I had forgotten about the fluorescent light. Arrghh indeed for it was not going out. I naturally assumed that I was powerless against these invasions of my senses since my traveling companion did nothing to turn either off but simply began to snooze, and since it did not look like I was going to develop synesthetic responses I knew it would be a frustrating night. Well out of a midnight slumber I arose and saw a white light to my corner I reached out and whacked it. I felt a jostle; I had discovered a dial and clasping it like Tennyson's eagle, despite the fact that said eagle fell like a thunderbolt, I twisted. The radio vanished. Relief. And I slept. Soon Morpheus lifted his sandbag from off my eyes again and Iris brought another vision to me. This was of a white square. Having had luck thus far with thwacking things, I let loose like Casey at the bat. But unlike he, I did not strike out--an obvious advantage to not being mighty--for I struck the light. Relief. And then came morning at which point I discovered that neither control was white but neither were they labeled. I slid from out the top bunk and roamed the narrow corridor looking out the window as the green savanah whisked by like Sam-I-Am whisking his favorite breakfast.

We were met at the airport by one who will doubtless be a daily interlocuter if not lifesaver, Phil Nelson. The son of missionaries, he began living in Cameroon at the age of five and has served in the CAR and Cameroon for most of his life. He whips between English and French and at least two native languages, Biya and Fulfulde, all while grinning his way merrily between jokes and steering yet another ELCA mobile. Seriously these things come in fleets. He brought us back to the compound and I moved into my Chateau. Then a rapid visit to the market wherein I purchased eggs, rice, noodles, lentils, and tinned tomatoes. I am discouraged from eating fresh vegetables for a little while until my belly adjusts. Fascinating aspect of life here on the compound are the number of people rushing around with huge baskets of fruit and vegetables stuck atop their heads.the carrots, ahh so orange; the bananas; ahh so small. They are all quite a sight. The markets were chaotic but make sense in the way that chaos often seems to. What is more there is great conservation of energy. When we walked into the supermarche, the woman turned on the lights and when we left she switched them off. Upon returning, I ate a bloody lunch at Phil's where we were joined by the endlessly kind Ann, Willy is her husband. She dashes hither and yon with opinions about everything and an encyclopedic knowledge of who's who in Cameroon, America, and probably Antarctica--though I have yet to ask about that. I say bloody with respect to the meal because it was ribs cut from the side of a wild pig that Phil had shot and was cooked in tomato broth. We also had a stewed millet dish and lovely pineapple for dessert. After a few hours of palaver concerning the history of the mission (begun in 1923) and some housekeeping issues, in which another young volunteer Mia joined us, we parted ways. Mia hails from the great state of Minnesota and she attended Grinnell, that most exciting of Iowan schools. Further she is volunteering as a palliative care-giver and when she returns will get her masters in Public Health. Quite a foursome we made; it made me wish I'd brought my whisk deck. But before we parted ways, Phil taught me the mighty fine aphorism "be sure to bury the foot." It has to do with doing a job right and thoroughly and goodness it can be generally applied out here in Cameroon. Of course the aphorism has a morbid twist to it; but one thing that I quickly realized is that humor here needs a good dose of the macabre; so I am pulling out all of my best Beetlejuice material. That night we all went out for a dinner; the last before Anne leaves this evening (the 26th) on the night train. That is she will leave if the tracks are cleared. For you see, the freight train frequently derails and as a result the passenger train is often delayed. Of course this does not happen to me; for as those of you who have followed my blogs in the past know, St. Christopher often looks over this particularly curly haired traveler. Speaking of curly hair, I have far and away the longest hair of any male in Cameroon. Now if only I can work on my beard.

One neat thing that happened on the 26th is that Anne took me up and allowed me to follow her far and wide to meet everyone that is important. And a great many hands were shaken. Strange thing about hand shaking; no one does it the same. Some offer a hand limply and I feel it crushing beneath my Paul Bunyon like ability; others pull out their best Pippi Longstocking and I find myself bending beneath their will; still others offer a forearm if the hand is particularly dirty. And there is a whole lot of hand shaking. Here is a standard introduction in translation:

-I'm Christian

-Nice to meet you

(shake hands)

-I'm the new English teacher at the College Protestante

-Very Very pleased to meet you

(shake hands again with added sincerity)

--conversation--

-so long

-until next time

(shake hands)

I'll be sorry to see Anne leave as she has been a super swell help. And somehow Phil, Mia, and I must find enough tissues to staunch the flow of tears we will let forth at her departure; but at least if I aim mine into the moat, I can feed the crocodiles.

Sleeping with Miss Havisham

After bidding farewell to my sister and mother beneath the austere gaze of Joe Foss in the sacred apse of FSD, I strode quickly through the security checkpoint and waited for my flight to Chicago. There I quickly worked my way around to catch my flight to Brussels. Unfortunately for me on this flight I sat next to an astonishingly beautiful Spaniard. She had these dainty hands which while she slept she kept folded over her lap belt as though terrified one might release her during free fall. And when she was awake the two of us would read beside one another and soon entered into a common agreement that we would turn our pages at the same time and eat our meals at the same time and fall asleep at the same time and never once speak. and suddenly we were sharing our last meal and disembarking in Belgium. A lovely airport they have in Brussels and it makes for a most enjoyable run to try to get to terminal T-that terminal specializing in flights to Africa. But the flight was delayed by two hours on account of a lighting storm. What, you remark wishing to pun in French, I had un coupe de foudre on the plane only to be delayed by literal foudre in the airport. What a way I live my life, what with literalizing metaphors at every turn. Of note on this flight were, strangely, the number of Asians traveling along, the number of celebrity look alikes, and the predominance of mixed race couples...of which the husband was white and the woman black.

Entrance was easy, very easy in fact. I never even showed anyone that I had a passport until such time as I rolled out of the plane and even then my first step was to prove that I had a yellow fever vaccine. My actual visa was simply glanced at and the checkpoint never even checked to see if I had a picture. I suppose this is a good thing as my picture makes me look like a radical troublemaker.

And then the baggage claim. Here is where I realized I was in a new country. The clothes were stunning in their agonizing agon against the rainbows and the air was redolent of unwashed flesh, not in a bad way at all simply in a dominating manner. It is very humid and the sky darkens liketylsplit. One moment the flight was descending in the day, the next I left the airport in the dark. The marvelously kind Willy picked me up and we boarded the elca mobile which is much like the Pope mobile with respect to the amount of attention we received, although it lacks a domed throne, it does have a child seat in the back. The drive through the darkness was phenomenal on account the the aural nature of Cameroon. At this point I could see nothing but once my ears tuned out the sounds of the engine and the occasional buzz of electricity through the wires looping wildly from lamp post to lamp post I was able to eavesdrop on the oldest battle in nature: the bugs versus the bats. Great whooshings and snippings cut through the air around us rose noises of the audience booing for one gladiator and cheering for the next. At the end the emperor frog croaked one long croak and the victory was announced on the side of the bats, but up in protest arose the bugs and the battle began once again. Soon we neared the city limits and s whole new experience invaded my senses; this was the way in which the young live their lives outside on show for the masses who travel pass. It is like a reverse diorama. The gestures are universal of a man flirting; a woman scolding; a man breaking a heart; a woman breaking a head; a fellow begging his friend to spot him a bit of cash because said friend is feeling lucky tonight, too many people drinking to fast, dozens begging for rides. This all happens against the backdrop of shanty bars and is accompanied by the sounds of Rihanna's dance hit of the umbrella-Ella-Ella warding off the wet season as it pumps statically through the night. Soon Willy and I arrived at his beautiful home and he introduced me to his lovely family including the rambunctiously disobedient Micah aged 3. A short meal of beef bits in tomato sauce, rice, and super spicy burning the mouth straight to hades sauce and then a lovely green tangerine for dessert . This concluded my first night in Yaounde Cameroon. Except for the fact that I slept with Miss. Havisham. Some of you may already have figured out what I mean by this, for in Africa one sleeps under a mosquito net and that net is a perfect gauze that is reminscent of the opening description of Pip's first encounter with the matriarch of Satis house. And what with tucking it into the sides of the bed and watching it billow in the breeze, I decided for the aged erotic metaphor rather than the nautical--after all everyone has seen a sail billow but no one has slept with Miss. H.

This morning I awoke easily but with a blazing headache on account of dehydration and quickly worked to rectify the situation. However it did take a while. In the interim I helped take Micah to school, an adventure that meant driving through the streets of Yaounde during rush hour, an hour when streets barely large enough for one car suddenly gain three and three quarters lanes it is quite a surreal stretch. I kept glancing at the trees to see if watches were melting off of them. Speaking of trees. I was finally able to see the garden behind which I am sleeping since it was light this morning. There are lofty mango trees and stunty banana. Quite a fecund jardin.