Saturday, August 30, 2008

Pictures from Africa: Summer 2008

After I left Cameroon, I traveled to Kenya on my own, then met up with my parents and brother in South Africa for two weeks of family adventures.  Here are pictures of my time in each of those countries.

Cameroon (Climbing Mt. Cameroon): http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2096465&id=1012910&l=4aa839992c

Cameroon (Buea): http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2096765&id=1012910&l=f99c01e2d4

Cameroon (Mamfe): http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2098884&id=1012910&l=ed286ac74c

Cameroon (Etoko & the health centers): http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2098868&id=1012910&l=b82e0b97b0

Kenya: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2100001&id=1012910&l=d7c988449a

South Africa (Safari & Joburg): 
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2100185&id=1012910&l=62463a4f41

South Africa (Cape Town & around): http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2100196&id=1012910&l=50a46f6543

South Africa (The Garden Route): http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2100206&id=1012910&l=016785c1e7

Enjoy!

Saturday, August 23, 2008

Miscellaneous Observations: Part 2

After 3 months in Cameroon, I've got some more observations to share with you all.

-To do any job, the ratio of workers working to workers watching is 1:5.

-For a male between the ages of 8 and 68 a machete is a necessary accessory.

-Almost no one smokes cigarettes and it is considered uncouth to do so.

-Beer is an appropriate beverage at any time and at any occassion.

-There is a hierachy in the materials used to make houses, which reflects wealth. Mud is at the bottom, then tin/corrugated metal, then wood (which becomes gray in urban areas and orange in rural areas), and concrete is at the top.

-Pidgin (the most common language in the SW Province) = Jive + English + French + Jibberish - Helping verbs + Saying 'dey' a lot + Jamaican accent.

-There are no wild dogs, just wild goats, chickens, large rainbow colored lizards, vicious cats, giant ants, cocks that crow at all hours, and bugs and birds that make video game-like sound effects.

-The only setting on a TV or stereo is 'Max Vol'.

-Cameroonian men have zero game when it comes to women because they get all their moves from watching bad U.S. dating shows.

-Barbershops have strange names like: Decent Uncle, Dr. Paolo, Anty Unique, and Snoop.

-More women have facial hair (especially neck beards) than men do.

-Every time you drive down an unpaved road (which is 85% of the time) you have a 50% chance of getting a concussion or spinal cord injury.

-The smaller and more run down the exterior of a house (i.e. the poorer the family) the cleaner the inside of the home and the people.

-Children are given unfortunate names such as Gift (a girl), Precious (a boy), Bright (a girl), Prudencial (girl). We even had Elvis and Stella ran the inn in Mamfe.

-Slang terms: dash=to give or a bribe, chop= to eat or food, snap= take a picture, spoiled=broken.

-Eating a lot of peanuts is considered bad because they will make you break out but all food is cooked with a least a pint of palm oil, which is fine.

-The only time there is relative quiet is when the power is out.

-The standard outfit for women is a big, poofy maternity-like dress because they spend so much of their lives pregnant it doesn't make sense to have two sets of clothes.

-If you need to pee you say "I want to piss myself".

-It is possible to ride on the hood of car, as well as on the trunk.

-Every man and child owns a Cameroon national soccer team jersey, ideally one with the name Eto'o on the back.

-It takes 25 ununiformed men and 50 beers to man a road checkpoint (i.e. a bamboo pole on a string).

The Arrival of Zara Egbe

Warning: The following post is graphic and kind of depressing.

Right now, somewhere in Cameroon, there is a baby named after me who I saw delivered. It's really weird. But for the whole story lets go back to the beginning, to Etoko.

Etoko is a small village 20 miles from Mamfe, but 2 hours away because the road there is in such horrendous condition. (See below.) I went to Etoko (pop. 1,200) to evaluate and redesign its small, barely-functioning health center, which was currently being kept afloat by the NGOs I was consulting for. I was accompanied by Sharlotte, my wonderful, amazing, cheerful assistant, who is also an excellent (but currently unemployed) nurse. Etoko is a village of farmers, most of whom never went to school because the nearest one is four miles away. We spent four days living in the health center, which consists of four bare, concrete rooms, with the incompetent nurse, Rebecca. We hung out with local women, played with children, toured the lush countryside, fetched water from the nearby stream, and cooked some delicious porcupine. Overall it was an enjoyable but uneventful trip. Until the last day.

On the morning of June 17th, a Tuesday, Alice came into the health center. We had spent a few evenings chatting with Alice (or at least Sharlotte had done most of the chatting in the local dialect and I nodded politely) and she was quite funny and cheerful. always laughing about something. She was also 9 months pregnant and pretty uncomfortable given the extreme heat and humidity. Although rather articulate, Alice had stopped school after 6th grade because her parents wanted to marry her off, which they did, to a local farmer about 15 years her senior. Since then, she had spent most of her time helping with the farming and child-bearing. According to her health record, Alice is 20 years old, but she already has three children- a boy and two girls. This was her fifth pregnancy- one was a miscarriage.

When I woke up Tuesday morning at 7am Alice was already there, having come in as soon as her water broke. She was pacing, wincing, and chewing a stick which people use as a toothbrush. Her good friend, also named Alice, was with her. Alice2, age 22, was also pregnant, with her fifth child. While Alice2 swabbed the floor (being pregnant doesn't excuse women from physical labor in Cameroon), Sharlotte, Rebecca and I ran around the health center, preparing supplies for the delivery. This was only Rebecca's second birth and she was clearly nervous but luckily Sharlotte, all of 25 years old, is extremely competent and was helping her out.

At 7:30 Alice and Alice2 went outside to the outhouse to give Alice an enema, which Cameroonian women believe speeds up delivery. After they came back in I got trapped talking to a crazy old woman who wanted to take a picture with me while Alice was delivering in the next room. I go there just as the baby was coming out. It was incredibly messy because the enema clearly wasn't complete and the plastic mattress, scrap of sheet, and Alice herself were covered in shit, blood and various delivery-related fluids. The baby was out by 8am, a girl with a fair amount of hair and seemingly healthy, except for her eyes, which were red, puffy and swollen. It is recommended, especially in Cameroon where the prevalence of STIs is high, for babies to be given antibiotic or silver nitrate eye drops immediately after delivery to prevent blindness caused by chlamydia or gonorrhea infecting their eyes. But because this was a rural health center with such a lack of supplies that only two sets of gloves are allocated per delivery, there were no such medications.

In fact, the health center was so short on supplies that in order to clean off the amniotic fluid, Rebecca rubbed peanut oil all over the baby. She was then wrapped in a set of hand knitted clothes- shirt, pants, booties, sweater, hat, blanket. While all this was going on, no one asked Alice how she was doing, if she needed anything. She was simply left to soak in the mess on the bed. When she was given any help by Rebecca she was manhandled, and yelled for wincing when she was roughly given an injection of ergometrine (to stop post-partum bleeding). Alice asked no questions about the baby nor bothered to turn and look at her, check how she was doing.
Because there is no scale at the clinic, the baby was not weighed and measured, just given a once over to make sure she was alright. She barely cried, just giving a plaintive wail every now and again. Once she was wrapped up, I suggested that we give Alice a chance to see and hold her. Sharlotte tried to give Alice the baby but Alice just turned her head away, refusing to look at her. It was clear then that Alice was not happy about the baby being a girl. After all, Cameroon is still a place where girls are considered unecessary and expensive, since they must be married off and are less useful on the farm. Boys are highly valued and mothers are judged on the number of sons they produce. Alice now had 3 girls and just one boy, and she clearly upset about that. Women in Cameroon believe that the sex of their baby is determined by them, rather than their husband, and thus blame themselves if they have a girl.
Watching Alice refuse to hold, or even acknowledge her child, I had to conceed that this was definitely not the happy occassion that we, in the West, romanticize childbirth to be. This was a baby who was quite literally born into shit, was likely going to be blind, and had a mother who didnt want her. This was not a cause for celebration for Alice, but rather an extra burden for her to carry. Looking at the disappointment and resignation on Alice's face, I was both frustrated and heartbroken. I was frustrated with her for not loving her baby the way I expected her to and frustrated with the culture of girlchild hating that exists in so many developing countries. But my heart went out to Alice, who while three years younger than me, had more responsibilities and fewer opportunities than I could ever imagine. Her attitude towards her child was a product of history, culture, sexism, economics, and politics, and she was only responding as she was conditioned to. All she and millions of other women have to define themselves is their identity as a mother and they want to fulfill the ideal their society creates for them.
Eventually Alice got up and changed and went into the next room, which been decorated and prepped by other women to serve as a maternity room. It appeared that every woman in the village had come to the health center as soon as she heard Alice was giving birth and had brought some supplies for her. They were extremely efficient and everything was brought in and set up in a highly systematic way, which should not be surprising given how often they probably do it, as Cameroon as a birth rate of 4.5 children/woman. Everyone fawned over the baby while Alice sat, ignored, in a corner. No one congratulated her or asked her how she was doing- it was all about the baby. The mothers and their children all sang and danced around, clearly enjoying themselves. Alice's 35 year old, toothless, raggedly husband came in, smiling. He hugged Alice proudly, but got no response from her. Oddly enough, he wasn't dissapointed about having another daughter- he actually seemed extremely happy about it, but he may have been putting on a front for me.
While we cleaned and packed up, a friend of Alice's came in and told me that it had been decided that the baby would be named Zara Egbe, in honor of the 'white man' in town and the two nurses who delivered her, Sharlotte and Rebecca, both of whom have the Cameroonian name Egbe in addition to their Christian names. Alice herself clearly had had no say in the matter but didn't seem to care either way. She was in slightly better spirits as we departed and had agreed to hold the baby, which we considered great progress.
A few weeks later Rebecca came to Mamfe and I ran into her. I asked about Alice and baby Zara and found out that they had stayed in the maternity room for 5 days but left without paying a single franc. Why? Because the baby was a girl and not worth paying for.

Friday, August 22, 2008

Transportation: 4-Wheel Drive Anyone?

Q: How many adults can fit in a Toyota Corolla?
A: At least nine.

Yep, nine. Also, 7 in the cab of a small pickup truck, 26 men in a 12 seater van, 63 in a 25 seater minibus, three people in the driver's seat of any car, as many children as it takes in a school bus until one of them falls out. This is possible in Cameroon, where if both your butt cheeks are on the seat, you've got too much room.

Shared taxis, which are the primary form of transportation in towns like Buea, are usually Corollas and are supposed to hold no more than 7 people. They drive around town, picking up and dropping off at random locations but at least they only cost 100CFA, or 25 cents. After taking a lot of shared taxi rides, I noticed that they all seem to have the same accessories: an American flag air freshener, a sticker on the side window of an Asian woman, fake Hawaiian flowers across the dashboard, Jesus-related paraphenalia, green or blue lights inside, a furry cover for the driver's seat and an HIV-testing promotional sticker. This must be the Cameroonian cabbie starter-kit. Most cars have only 1 handle to roll down windows which gets passed around. And you know which cabs to avoid because the windshield will be cracked on the passenger side, where someone got thrown forward in an accident. (Seatbelts exist only for drivers.) But what really differentiates the taxis are the names or sayings painted on the side of the car. Below is a selection of my favorites from Buea.

-Bush Doctor
-The Spanish Lover
-Osama Billion
-Talk 2 My Lawyer
-Playboy
-Vatican Express
-Nice guy again
-James Bond
-Cockman
-Asshole
-I am covered in the blood of Jesus
-No food for lazy men
-Don Pedro
-No Satan
-Jesus for Life
-Maitre Julio
-Simple Chief
-Barcelona
-Nellyville
-One Mama
-Rabbi
-Red Bull
-Nazi Group
-Daddyroo
-Patience Express
-Loverboy
-Mitterand (like the former French President)

When not riding in strangely named taxis, I rode on 'Chinese mosquitos', known to the rest of the world as motorcycles. I have yet to convince the Cameroonians that most motorcycles they get are in fact Japanese, not Chinese. They are called mosquitos because they are small, fast, and deadly. They wouldn't be death on wheels if people consistently drove on one side of the road, there weren't potholes the size of swimming pools on the 15% of roads in Cameroon which are paved (and the rest weren't mud pits), people wore helmets, and there were such things as stop signs and traffic lights. I never saw an odometer or speedometer that worked, doors would jam so often window egress was a common sight, and to be a driver was to be a mechanic. As George, the head of UAC in Mamfe, said 'In Cameroon all drivers drink gasoline.' George himself drank gas many times during the summer in order to unclog the engine of his ancient, odometer-stuck-at-999,999, white station wagon. Even the driving school's car was in bad shape. It had no side mirrors, broken tail lights and deflated tires, and looked like it had survived a war. I guess if you can manage to drive that thing without killing yourself (or the driving instructor) you can drive anything in Cameroon. However, I still prefer my Chinese mosquitos.

Friday, August 1, 2008

Touring the Health Centers: Part 2

Malaria, malaria, malaria.

Thats what I heard from every doctor and nurse I met with in Cameroon. I visited 17 health care sites, ranging from large government hospitals to rural clinics staffed by a single nurse, but at each the most common ailment seen was malaria. Some providers estimate that nearly 60% of the patients they see suffer from malaria. (Other common problems were typhoid, respiratory infections, gastrointestinal issues, HIV and STDs, and accidents.) Malaria is a problem all over sub-Saharan Africa, but Cameroon is plagued by particularly virulent strains, which can turn into cerebral malaria and kill within 24 hours of the first symptoms. Despite the prevalence and severity of malaria in Cameroon, people quite blase about it. Whereas the thought of getting malaria strikes panic in the heart of an American, a Cameroonian thinks of it as an annual ritual, like Christmas. Most people have lost track of the number of times they've had malaria and view it as a minor nuisance. However, malaria is the number two killer of children in Cameroon, after neonatal causes, accounting for 23% of all deaths for children under 5. Only 13% of children sleep under treated mosquito nets. (http://www.unicef.org/infobycountry/cameroon_statistics.html). Among adults, malaria is the number three killer, which partially explains why life expectancy in Cameroon is 50 years, for both men and women.

The reason that so many die from malaria is not that treatment is expensive. In fact, it could hardly be cheaper. To treat a simple case of childhood malaria costs 140CFA, or the equivalent of 33 cents. A simple adolescent case costs 230CFA and an adult case 600CFA. In comparison, a 600ml bottle of domestic beer costs 550CFA. The Global Fund, the WHO, and UNICEF pour an enormous amount of money into subsidizing malaria treatment and are constantly researching, re-evaluating and recombining the medicines to make them more effective, as strains of malaria become drug-resistant.

So if cost is not the reason for lack of treament, what is? The first, of course, is poverty. While the drugs themselves may not be expensive, getting to a clinic may be. Most Cameroonians live in rural areas, where health centers are not conveniently located. To reach one people often have to walk through muddy fields for hours, or pay 550CFA for a liter of watered down petrol to fuel their motorbike, if they are so lucky to have one. In addition, people must also pay the 200CFA (or more) consultation fee just to see a nurse and for any lab tests that must be done.

The government, under extreme international pressure, has developed programs to subsidize all health costs. Highly supported by GTZ, the German aid agency, the Southwest Special Fund for Health (SWSFH) is designed to keep costs down and encourage people to use health services but this program has mixed success. Why? Well this bring us to the second reason malaria kills: skepticism.

This skepticism includes skepticism of Western medicines, skepticism of the health system, skepticism of any government related project, and even skepticism of malaria itself. Cameroonians, on the whole, believe strongly in traditional medicines, and employ natural remedies and the services of a traditional doctor (a.k.a. a witchdoctor) as their first line of defense against illness. While herbal medicines may well work sometimes, the usually just serve to delay people seeking treatment in the Western health system, as they wait to see if their symptoms abate. Other people are reluctant to see a doctor or nurse, but believe in the power of Western medicines, and so they self-treat by buying drugs from street vendors. These drugs are usually expired, mislabeled, and sold at exhorbitant prices. Whereas a paracetamol (Tylenol) is sold under SWSFH prices at 2CFA, a street vendor often charges 100CFA a tablet, claiming it is a fancy, powerful, cure-all drug. While self-treatment can sometimes be harmless, most of the time it does a great deal of harm because, again, it serves to delay real treatment. And in the case of fast-acting cerebral malaria, such a delay can be deadly.

As for the health system and the government, Cameroonians have legitimate grounds for their lack of trust. Cameroon is rountinely rated one of the most corrupt countries in the world. In 2006 they came in 138th in the world, right behind Zimbabwe in Transparency International's annual report. As Postwatch, another anti-corruption organization wrote "Corruption in Cameroon is a living thing, a monstrous slimy hydra: vicious in outreach, cancerous in spread and disgusting in reach." I'm not sure the hyperbole is necessary, but it is fairly accurate. There are anti-corruption drives going on in the government, but when your president has been in power for 22 years and is the hand-picked successor of your first president, there isn't must motivation to clean things up. Earlier in the year the Minister of Public Health was brought down in one of these drives as evidence that the government is taking action. He allegedly pocketed about $12-$13 million dollars of international donations intended for HIV/AIDS treatment. Most likely this was a drop in the bucket of funds he embezzled during his tenure, but it still represents enough money to treat 36 million cases of childhood malaria (in a country of 17 million). For another example, look to the post office system. According to my friend Mr. Oben, a retired professor, years ago the post offices in Cameroon used to serve as credit unions, where people could save their money. Then, suddenly, all the money was gone- embezzled by various post office officials. And the people had no recourse to get their money back. So of course they are wary of doing anything that involves them, their families, their health or their money with the government, even if that means potentially endangering their health.

The widespread corruption in Cameroon has severely inhibited the development of the health care system, as well as people's willingness to use it. Government health centers have sprung up around the country but these centers are little more than concrete rooms and lack running water, electricity or sanitation, or even basic supplies such as needles, gauze, foreceps and kidney dishes. The roads to these health centers may be impassable, or may even not exist. Usually staffed by nurses, they receive little supervision, which allows for mistreatment of patients, and corruption by the staff. Because typically only 1 nurse (the Chief of Post) gets paid a meager wage, the rest are volunteers. However, they may receive a small stipend to cover their transportation costs out of whatever profit the health center makes that month. In order to make a profit, these centers often charge for unnecessary lab tests and services. Nurses sell drugs to patients out of their own purses, charging them exhorbitant prices and with-holding the drugs if the patient refuses to pay. While this behavior seems despicable, it is hard to criticize a nurse who, because of encouragement from her government, went to nursing school, only to find a dearth of paying jobs when she graduated and still has to feed her family. (By the way, that $13 million the Minister embezzled could have paid the salaries for 1 year for 14,000 nurses.)

Despite all this, during my tours of the health centers I met many dedicated, hard-working, caring and competent nurses. The story of one nurse in particular sticks with me. She was a well-trained nurse who had been placed two years ago in a new rural health center, by herself. The center had several rooms, was bright, airy and clean but lacked water or electricity. When she was placed there she was given just a desk, a chair, and a lamp. (The lamp strikes me as particularly useless, given the lack of electricity.) No beds, no supplies, no medications. (The large pharmacy room remains unstocked to this day.) For the first year she delivered babies on her desk, in the light of a bushlamp she purchased herself, with drugs and supplies she begged from other health centers, and having to run to the latrine 30 yards away to dispose of the waste, leaving the woman alone. Eventually she was given one rusty bed frame with a torn plastic mattress to use as her delivery bed. Now she goes door to door to check on the villagers since no one wants to come in to the clinic, and why would they? No one wants to deliver on a desk when they can deliver in the comfort of their bed at home, and no one wants to go to a nurse for a diagnosis when they have to go somewhere else to buy drugs. Frustratingly for this nurse, the clinic down the road, in the same health district, is overflowing with beds, supplies, and staff.

Here's another example of the misallocation of resources for you. A nurse at a small rural health center was seeing a lot of women who were experiencing complications during delivery and who needed to go to the district hospital for more advanced care. She applied for funds from an international aid agency to help alleviate the problem. They gave her a motorcycle, intending it to carry a full-term woman in labor and a nurse. And the nurse cant drive a motorcycle. Isn't development work hilarious?

On a less humorous and more frightening note, I must tell you about Dr. E, the single most insane person I met in Cameroon. Dr. E is in his late 30s and considered quite successful. He owns his own clinic, which has inpatient wards for men and women, a pharmacy, a lab, a delivery room, and a surgery theater, and employs ten nurses. But, like many incompetent and lazy doctors, he is scalpel-happy. He loves to do surgeries because they rake in money and he doesn't have to spend a great deal of time figuring out what's wrong with a patient. And Cameroonians believe in surgeries (if they believe in Western medicine) and are willing to pay for them so Dr. E markets himself as an efficient, inexpensive surgeon. He claims that while, yes, malaria is the most common illness he sees, appendicitis is the second most common. And herniated disks the third. Not a single other provider put either of those in their top ten most frequently seen illnesses. He charges 40,000CFA for each of those surgeries ($95), including post-op treatment and inpatient stay. Since the clinic opened in 2005, he has done 1,200 surgeries, sometimes as many as 10 a day, and seen 20,000 patients. (For those of you doing the math, that's surgery on 6% of his patients.) Dr. E is very proud of his surgeries, so proud in fact that he stores the organs/tumors/entrails of every surgical patient he's ever had. And he stores them in his surgery room (which has just one bed with a plastic mattress and a table of unsterilized equipment) in plastic buckets. They are crammed in together with just enough formaldehyde to keep them from reeking. And he will gladly, proudly pull them out to show you and explain the origin of each piece. So note, if you ever go to Mamfe, Cameroon do not under any circumstances, even if you actually have appendicitis, go to Dr. E. Your organs will end up in his buckets and you will contract a post-op infection, like most of his patients do.

But besides that complete psychopath, most of the providers I met were trying hard to provide the best care they could for their patients, while at the same time struggling to get by themselves. The system is highly inefficient and corrupt and the health problems Cameroon faces are enormous. But slowly progress is being made, and hopefully a new goverment will be able to improve the system, increasing access and quality of care for all its citizens.

For those of you who are interested (and apparently you are since you've read this far), I wrote rather long, detailed but interesting report on all of this. If you would like, I can email you a copy and you can subject yourselves to an even longer commentary on the Cameroonian health system as well as 17 health facilities. Just send me your email address and I will send it out when I finish it, which will be in the next week or so.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

The Top 10 Reasons Not to Shower

10. Sooner rather than later you will step ankle-deep into a pile of manure.

9. Your smell deters muggers, if not mosquitos.

8. You're cold for the rest of the day if you do, even if its 90 degrees outside.

7. You're lazy.

6. Instead of water, cockroaches or worms might fall from the showerhead.

5. Mud is therapeutic for the skin.

4. So you fit right in with the locals.

3. No matter how hard you try, your feet will never, ever even be close to clean.

2. Even if you don't smell your clothes do.

1. The water is not on anyway.

Monday, July 21, 2008

You Know You've Been in Cameroon Too Long When....

You know you've been in Cameroon too long when....

*you take having the electricity, water, and Internet working at the same time as a sign of the apocalypse
*you find the idea of being able to walk down the street WITHOUT being stared at, whistled at, or harrassed very strange
*you've stopped using helping verbs when you speak
*you no longer notice the rooster crowing outside your room at all hours of the night (or the evangelist proselytizing)
*fufu and eru is your favorite food
*you no longer fear the prospect of malaria
*you think the flashlight accessory on your cell phone is a godsend
*you start saying "I want to piss myself" when you need to pee
*your water bottle serves at least five daily functions (drinking, showering, filling the toilet, storage, doorstop, etc)
*most of your daydreams revolve around eating a piece of meat bigger than your thumb
*your circadian rhythms have adopted 'African Time'
*you can justify your refusal to shower at least ten different ways
*you don't believe that bread comes in more than one type (white)
*you've killed a (named) mouse in your house with a broom and rubber cement
*you point and stare more than the locals when you see a white man
*you start inviting yourself to funerals for the free booze
*there is no longer such a thing as 'matching' or 'clashing'
*you've seen a dead body in the road and walked by it, unfazed
*you've forgotten that a liquid form of milk exists, as does a non-liquid form of peanut butter


You might be a Cameroonian if.....

You might be a Cameroonian if.....

*you've ever uttered the phrase "please for container"

*you can carry a bucket of water on your head and carry one in each hand without spilling a drop

*you can give a play-by-play analysis of the 1990 World Cup quarterfinal match between Cameroon and Argentina from memory

*you have used prize-winning promotional beer bottle caps as a form of currency

*you own at least one piece of clothing with President Paul Biya's face on it (and at least three pieces with Eto'o's name on it)

*you work for or with three or more relatives

*you have lost count of the number of times you've had malaria

*the concept of 'silence' is entirely foreign to you

*your father has at least ten children by two different women

*you've never eaten pork and consider chicken a delicacy

*the country you consider most similar to your own is Canada because they are also French-English bilingual

*you suffer withdrawl symptoms if you go four days without eating snails

*you know at least eight ways to cook plantains

*you see no irony in trying to get visiting white men to come to church with you

*you believe that sometimes after people die their ghost goes to Europe, makes money and send its back home

*you have no sense of time or distance

*your definition of 'parenting' is saying "I will beat you" or "I will kill you" at least ten times a day to you kids

*your preferred method of resolving disagreements is screaming at someone in a public area

*you fall in love with people (particularly white women) after meeting them once

*you are running at least one palm oil or parrot egg exporting scam

*you flash. A lot.

*you prepare all of your food the same way: dry the ingredients, ground them to a powder, turn them into a paste, wrap the paste in banana leaves, steam them, and consume it as a bland, starchy ball

*you believe meeting a white man equals getting a visa

*you take justice into your own hands and punish thieves by pouring vats of acid on them, throwing them onto a pile of burning tires, or beating them to death in the street

*you love Spanish telenovelas dubbed in French, but speak neither language

*you consider breastfeeding an appropriate public, social activity

*you think the ability to type with more than two fingers is a sign of genius

*you're 5 years old and, disturbingly, can dance like a stripper

*your home contains no written material other than a Bible

*you believe in witchcraft, but not washing machines

*you listen to the same three songs over and over, everywhere

*you consider Maggi, salt and palm oil to be the three essential ingredients in any dish

(Sorry if these make no sense to you, but take my word for it, all of these hold true in Cameroon, as bizarre as they may be.)



Saturday, June 28, 2008

Brown Girl, White Man, Black Country

In Brazil people were convinced I was from Ecuador. In Cambodia people admired my big nose and told me that I'd be pretty if only I wasnt so dark-skinned. In India people considered me too American to be truly Indian and too Indian to be truly American. In the U.S. people (especially in Maine) have asked if I'm Mexican, Chinese, Arab, or African. In every country people are preplexed as to how/why a non-white person is carrying an American passport that says she was born in Scotland. But for all this racial confusion, no one has ever mistaken me for a "white man". Yet that's what I'm known as here. Of course, people dont literally think I'm a Caucasian male, but rather that I'm a foreigner. However, I can't walk down the street without a dozencalls of "white man, white man", mostly from kids under the age of eight. Even toddlers barely old enough to speak can squeak out 'wha-maa' and point at me.


Usually we (the other interns and I) can satisfy the kids by returning their calls with a 'hello' or 'good morning', which the kids, who are too dumbfounded by our ability or willingness to speak to them, can't reply to. Some bolder or more curious kids have insisted on rubbing my (above all the others') skin to see if the color rubs off. A few have even put mud on themselves and let it dry to try to match me.


But the biggest attraction has been my hair, especially among grown women. No adult woman here has just her own hair- everyone wears a wig or weave, or braids in fake hair. So the fact that I, a dark-skinned person have straight, relatively shiny, fast-growing, black hair is almost unbelievable, and definitely an eviable trait. More than a few women have offered to pay me to cut off my hair and give it to them to make a wig out of, especially after I described donating to Locks of Love. The rest of the women insist that I should braid it like they do, but I think I'll end up looking like a sorority girl just back from Spring Break in Cancun, and I dont really want that.


All of these behaviors and suggestions are regularly occuring and have become expected. But what I did not expect was the welcome I got in the village of Bakwele. I had gone to Bakwele, a small isolated village about 45 minutes drive away from Mamfe on a crappy dirt/mud road, to visit their health center as part of my research. With me were Sharlotte, a young nurse who is my assistant/translator, and Antoine, our driver. Because Bakwele is a rather unremarkable village, there is no reason for a 'white man' to pass through it, and we knew that I would be the only non-African many people had ever seen, or at least seen recently. Even driving the truck down the main path caused a sensation, as there are no cars and only a few motorbikes in Bakwele. This was all expected. But what the three of us were not ready for were the screams of 'AL-BE-NO! AL-BE-NO!' which erupted as I got out of the truck. Within a few moments what seemed like every kid in the village had gathered around me and taken up the chant, including a girl so young she couldnt walk without falling down every few steps, but who chanted with unparalleled enthusiasm.


Because there are a lot of misconceptions about albinos (who are relatively common here), the kids were quite scared of me. Most people believe that albinos are sub-human/ghosts/immortal/soul-less beigns who are cursed because of the sins of their parents. Several kids would run up to me to get a closer look, and then run away screaming in terror. None of the parents or grandparents sitting around made any move to quell the chaos and in fact seemed to agree with their kids' assessment of me.


Eventually we made our way into the health center, where we had a much more sensible welcome. All three of us were still startled and neither Sharlotte nor Antoine had a good explanation for that reception. (In other places we went a few kids might should 'white man' but most people kept going about the business and greeted me normally.) Even inside the health center we could hear the kids shoulding. During my survey of the clinic and interviews with the providers the kids would hang on the bars of the windows to stare at me (perhaps to determine if I was coming because of some problem derived from lacking a soul) and periodically shout 'Al-be-no' as a reminder to me of my classification.


Our walk back to the truck and departure created similar chaos to our arrival but the kids felt bolder now and would come up and touch me before running away shreiking. They ran after our car for almost a kilometer. Its hard to say if they were driving us out of town or were calling me back so they could examine me. Given that my skin is only slightly lighter than theirs, I wonder what they would have done if one of the real white interns (some of whom are imposingly large) had been with me; perhaps they would be a super-albino or even a phantom. I want to take a trip back to Bakwele just to conduct that experiment.


Outside that village no one has mistaken me for an albino but they have made other inaccurate guesses regarding my background. The chief doctor at the district hospital guessed Puerto Rican, which was unexpected since I doubt anyone else in Cameroon has ever heard of Puerto Rico, much less seen a Puerto Rican. Several people have thought that I was from the Middle East, saying that I look like 'those people America keeps fighting'. The most common guess is that I'm biracial. One guy even told me as part a marriage proposal (each foreign girl here gets at least 3 a day) that he "always wanted to marry a half black, half white", to which I replied I too shared that dream, and thus couldnt accept his offer. Yesterday a kid pointed me out to another one and said "Look, a 'black man' inside a 'white man'.


A couple days ago I had a difficult time convincing the Mayor's secretary that I was not in fact a Native American. Our conversation, which occured while I waited to take a trip to a village health center with the mayor, went as follows:

Him: So you are American?
Me: Yes.
Him: And you are an Indian?
Me: Yes
Him: So you are a red Indian.
Me: No, I'm a brown Indian, from India.
Him: (Silence)...Indians are custodians.
Me: (Shocked and perplexed face)
Him: ...of the land.
Me: Yes, I suppose that's true.
Him: Indians used to fight the cowboys.
Me: Yes, they did.
Him: As a red Indian, how do you feel about having Bush the cowboy as your President?
Me: Umm...(Considering the ways that question is ridiculous)


Luckily I was saved from answering by the mayor's arrival.


Eventually once people realize that my family is from India, they all have the same reaction: "You people make good movies and music." (I never thought there could be music and movies worse than those from Bollywood, but the comically bad products from 'Nollywood'- Nigeria- have proven me wrong.) Then they talk about how Indians are all beautiful and good singers. I have yet to disuade anyone of this notion, even after explaining that in a country of 1.3 billion people its not hard to find enough good-looking, talented people to fill up a movie set. Naturally this love of all things Indian leads the men to ask if I am married (and I always say that yes, I am, for two years to an American soldier- i.e. not someone to mess with) or if I have any available sisters, cousins or friends for them. (At this point I become an unfortunate, friendless orphan.)

So all you Indian women reading, know that there are lots of underemployed Cameroonian men who would love to marry you. And if you are a young biracial woman, there's someone here dying to have your baby. I'd take up these offers if only I wasn't an AL-BE-NO with no soul...:)

Thursday, June 26, 2008

How to Win Friends & Influence People

A Lost Lesson from Dale Carniege: Eating

They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Well, the way to a country's heart is through your stomach.

Therefore real secret to making friends & influencing people is this: eat everything, eat a lot of it, and eat it spicy. After you've eaten, praise the cook, praise the country that invented the dish, and praise your fellow diners for introducing you to this delicious cuisine. If you follow these simple steps, you will be the most popular and well-liked person in any place you visit. Picky eaters are unwelcome everywhere.

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So I dont want to brag, but I've become famous here. Actually, that's not accurate; my stomach has become famous here. While the other 'white men' (see previous blog for an explanation of this term) prefer white bread with lumpy peanut butter, my stomach craves fufu and eru, snails, bushmeat, coki, egusi pudding, plantains in any form, gari and obono soup, etc, etc- all the classic Cameroonian dishes (see below for descriptions of these dishes). And of course, absurd amounts of pepe. Yet, while the other white men seem to have contracted every gastrointestinal illness known to mankind, my stomach chugs along quite happily, my stock of Pepto-Bismol untouched. This really the source of my stomach's popularity- its freakish fortitude. My stomach is so famous that I've been called "a true African" for possessing it. My entire "farewell and thank you" speech from UAC was about my appetite and love of African cuisine, which made me wonder if they think the only thing I did here was eat.

Naturally, the other white men are slightly jealous of my stomach, especially since they are constantly asked why they dont eat like me. (Their response is usually "I cant eat anything with oil/rice/starches/meat/anything green, anything yellow, anything not pre-packaged, anything cooked in Africa, etc.") I tell them that I can't take credit/responsibility for my eating habits- that honor belongs to my mother. She is the one who used to take us to eat weird things like goat kidney in back alleys in Bombay, feed us pani puri from street vendors whose hands were black with grime, and force us to consume anything set in front of us. So thanks mom, you've broken my stomach in well for this trip. You should do the same for these other white men. They're really missing out on some great, albeit carb-heavy, palm-oil loaded, food.

So what's the lesson in all this, you ask? An iron stomach is the traveler's greatest assest.

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Fufu and eru: Perhaps the most Cameroonian dish of all, it consists of a giant ball of bland cassava dough served with green leaves soaked in palm oil, often with snails or meat mixed in. Eaten with hands.

Snails: Very popular in the Southwest Province. In the Mamfe area they are the main source of protein. Tastes and feels like rubber. Sometimes eaten on a stick, othertimes with vegetables.

Bushmeat: Collective term for any unusual (and often illegally-hunted) game meat: antelope, monkey, porcupine, various large burrowing animals.

Coki: Either made from corn or beans which are ground (by hand) into a powder and then a paste, wrapped in banana leaves and steamed. Served in a big lump. One of my favorites.

Egusi pudding: Exactly like coki except made from ground melon seeds and often with meat inside.

Plantains: Like bananas, but stickier. Can be eaten unripe or ripe, fried, boiled, steamed, baked, etc. Either totally bland or extremely tasty.

Gari and Obono soup: Gari is basically a yellow version of fufu (big bland starch ball). Obono soup is flavored with the dried pits of bush mangoes. (Gari is sometimes served with okra or egusi soup.)

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

I am alive!

Sorry for not writing for so long, but Internet access (along with electricity and running water) is a rare indulgence in Mamfe. There are only three computers with Internet access in town and service is incredibly slow on the few days there is power. However, know that I am still writing entries which will be posted when I'm back in Buea and will catch you up on my adventures. For now, here's a few highlights:

*I helped delivery a baby at a rural health center (no water, no lights, no paved roads) and now the baby is named Zara Egbe (Egbe after the two nurses who really did the delivery.)

*I took a two-hour, 3-person-on-a-bike motorcycle ride through a road (i.e. muddy roller coaster) that most Cameroonians won't dare travel on in the rainy season. Upon my arrival back in Mamfe the other volunteers commented that I was so muddy that my clothes and skin were the same color.

*I've become an expert on the quality of bushmeats, i.e. game that is killed in the area forests, such as porcupine, antelope, monkey and giant rat. My love of local food, willingness to eat anything, and my freakish tolerance for spiciness has won me a lot of fans.

*I've visited about 20 health centers and the crazinest clinician I've met was a doctor who was so scapel-happy that he did surgeries on 6% of his patients and averaged 10 a day. He claimed appendicitis was the 2nd most common illness he saw- no other provider put that in their top 10. Even worse, he kept all the organs and tumors he removed stuffed in buckets of formaldahyde under the bed in his little surgery room, and proudly showed them off to me.

*Two days ago I conducted amatuer dentistry on myself to removed my metal retainer on my lower teeth, which had come loose and was poking me. My mini- Swiss Army knife's knife and nail file have never been so handy.

*I caused sheer pandamonium in one village where, inexplicably, people became convinced that I was an albino. Children ran away from me or ran after me screaming "Al-be-no! Al-be-no!" all afternoon, even while I conducted interviews. The village elders seemed to agree with the children's assessment.

That's a bit for now, but I promise to write more soon. I'm leaving Mamfe in about 3 weeks, so I'll be coming back to the modern world then. So til that time, know that I'm alive and well (and getting fat on the copious amounts of white bread people make me eat) and enjoying Cameroon.

Thursday, May 22, 2008

They Call Me Ms. Pepe

So its time to talk/write about everyone's favorite topic: Food.

The first thing you should know about Cameroonian food is that it consists primarily of starches. And main dishes can be summed up as starches wrapped in/on top of/mixed with starches. As someone with a serious 'meat tooth', I'm having major protein withdrawl. My solution to this problem: soya. Not 'soya' as in tofu, but 'soya' as in Zara's ideal food item. Soya is meat seasoned with spicy pepe (the Pidgin word for pepper'), grilled over coals on the roadside and served on a stick. And it costs $0.25 each. What could be better?? Although a chronic addiction is developing, I'm trying to limit myself to 5 a day, to be eaten in the long afternoon period between lunch and dinner.

In terms of regular meals, we (the interns) eat three, carb-loaded times a day at the Orock's house. Breakfast, at 7:30am is usually some combination of eggs and lots of white bread. On occasion we have that famous Cameroonian specialty (seriously), the spagetti omlet. Lunch, the major meal of the day at 2pm is either lots french fries, rice or pasta served with a red sauce that tastes like Minestrone, some fruit and a minimal amount of grilled fish or chicken. Given that there are now seven of us, we must strategically situate ourselves at the table to give us the best access to the non-carb items. In fairness I should say that there is always enough food at the table and that they do go out of the way to give us Western food and more protein than the average Cameroonian gets. Dinner at the Orock's (and other Cameroonian households) is a light, starchy meal. We usually eat pancakes/crepes, muffins, or on special days, white bread with avocado, cucumber and tomatoes with mayonaise- strangely tasty.

As someone who's already had her fill of french fries and pancakes, I've been asking for some of the leftovers from the Orock family's meals, i.e. traditional West African food. These dishes include 'pap' (mushed up cornmeal), various types of 'fufu' (a boiled and mashed glob of yam, cassava, or manioc served in a banana leaf and which tastes similar to what one would expect from melted rubber), fried plantains (delicious), and grilled meats covered in pepe. My love of pepe, and high tolerance for spiciness (which is at freak levels, according to everyone here) has led to the nickname Ms. Pepe. My regular server of soya, Bobe, claims that I eat spicier food than any Cameroonian, although he watches me carefully everytime I eat his spicy soya to make sure that my head doesn't explode or my tongue fall off. Pepe is so good that I am seriously contemplating leaving all my possessions here and bringing home a giant backpack full of it, not for resale, just personal consumption.

Second to my love of spicy food is my love of street food. Some local specialities include 'poof poof', which is basically extremely greasy, fried dough and another example of the emphasis on carbs here. (Poof-poofs may also be the single cheapest item here, costing only 5F, which is a couple of pennies.) There is also grilled corn on the cob, although it is very much in need of butter, chili pepper and salt, which is how it is served in India to perfection. We also go for roasted bar fish (a local type of fish) on the weekends. Served with a pepe sauce and fried plantains, a whole fish about the size of a forearm costs only 700F, or $1.75. Amazing.

In terms of drinks, there is no better deal than Cameroonian beer. For .65L (about the quantity of two cans in the U.S.) it costs $1.25. There are numerous brands, with the most popular local ones being Mitzig and Export 33, both dark lagers. Guiness is also ubiquitous, and is the corporate sponsor for just about every event, including the Race for Hope up Mt. Cameroon. The beers are way to heavy and dark for me (I've obviously got the American preference for light, girly beers) so I stick with Fanta and Pomplemousse (grapefruit soda), which are $1 for .65L, still a good deal. All the drinks are served in old-school glass bottles so you can only have beer or soda in restaurants or roadside bars- I havent seen any drink in cans or plastic bottles.

Oh, I forgot to mention fruit. Mangos, green oranges (mosumbi in India), and pineapple are all in season and cheaper than dirt. Four mangos costs $0.25 total and a whole cut pineapple the same. I end up eating a lot of these, along with roasted nuts, between meals, because six hours is just too long for me to go without eating. Ironically, its now time for me to go get my regular 6pm soya fix. Today I think I'll have six, five for me and one in your honor. :)

Sunday, May 18, 2008

Climbing Mt. Cameroon: Day 3

We woke up impossibly sore. Our hobbling to the latrine was truly comical. However, after putting up with Peter's impatience the day before, I was determined that we were going to complete the last leg of the trip (another 12-13km mostly through rain forest) in half the time (9 hours) he predicted. (As you all well know, I am rather competitive and there was no way a man was going to tell me again that at our 'girl pace' we were slower than other groups.) Given this, at 7:30am we set out from our campsite, doing 10 minutes in the woods around the spring and going into the savana, just as yellow/brown and barren as the day before but blessedly not as windy. Once my legs became more limber than the concrete blocks they started the day as, I was practically jogging through, although the trail was still difficult. Over the rolling hills, the soil of the savana was like gravel and the path so narrow that my foot barely fit on it, so it was like walking a rocky tightrope and trying not to fall off a mountain at the same time. (I forgot to mention that a couple hours into day 1 a strap on my backpack broke so I had it slung across my body and the heaviness of the water severely affected my balance, which made me even more wobbly during this part.)

After 45 minutes of this (Peter predicted almost 2 hours) we hit the rainforest. Serious dense, jungle-y rainforest. It was almost primordial, with huge ferns and a canopy so dense that it was hard to see through the darkness. Just our luck, it had rained the night before, making the steep descent even harder, with us slipping all over the place thanks to the wet leaves which made up the path and the dense underbrush hiding loose branches for us to trip over. During our 2.5 hours in the forest we met our first non-trekker, a crazy local hunter on his way to the spring. Once he found out that we were Danish and American he started shouting 'You are rich! You are rich! Your father is a rich man!', which reflects the mentality of many people here.

Sweating bullets from the heat and humidy, we were so happy to come into the 'farmlands', a less dense green forest with scattered areas for growing yams, cassava and manioc, none of which is done in the style we think of for growing crops- neat rows of plants. Instead this was just free growing plants that a family, or group of families, would harvest when the need arose.

By this time we were salivating at the though of paved roads, showers, and being in our own beds. (And I was mentally preparing a list of complaints about Peter.) And so we were again jogging to the finish line, which was pretty admirable given not only our exhaustion and soreness but Sophie's sprained ankle. We three, along with the Cameroonian girl, we all jumping for joy (and then cringing as our knees hurt upon coming back down) when we finally got to paved roads, and even the porters seemed overjoyed to be home. Getting in the taxi to go back to the office was like riding in a car for the first time- the idea of moving while not walking was earth-shattering. Oh, and we did the supposed 9 hour trek in less than 5 hours, which even Peter had to conceed was a record, not just for girls but for all his climbers.

Back in the office we logged an official complaint about Peter and then tipped the porters and other guide. (The Danish girls had a hard time w/ the tipping- apparently its just not done in Scandinavia.) We then took a cab back down the hill to our place in Molyko (our neighborhood in Buea). Apparently everyone in town noticed our arrival, probably due to our truly disgusting (and smelly) appearance and loud groaning as we stood up again. Walking the 250 meters back to our house was probably the most painful walk of my life, especially when I realized how badly my left shoulder hurt from carrying 20lbs on it all day for three days. The water was still not running when we got home, but our roommates agreed that a shower was extremely necessary and that was probably the best bucket shower of my entire life.

As we hobbled like old/pregnant women over to the Orock's for lunch, the three of us took a moment to look up at the mountain. Most of the time you hardly notice its there, as its often covered by the clouds, but today the sun was shining and you could see the top ridge. It was only then that the sense of achievement we had expected to feel at the summit finally hit us, and we felt proud of what we had accomplished. Even now, a week later, I look at the mountain and am mystified as to just how we managed to get all the way up there. So even though it was one of the most physically demanding experiences of my life (and I dont think I've cursed more in three days before), climbing Mt. Cameroon was also one of the most rewarding and fulfilling things I've ever done.

However, you can be damn sure I'm not doing it again any time soon.

Saturday, May 17, 2008

Climbing Mt. Cameroon: Day 2

Woke up at 6am very sore but to good weather- not too cold or windy. Our guide, Useless Peter, as we had dubbed him, promised to tell us more about the ecology and history of the mountain, and therefore began our climb by telling us about how there was the dead body of a teenager on the next ridge and that a plane had crashed in the mountain last year. Charming.

After a short, extremely steep and rocky portion, the ground became slightly more level, and the climbing easier, but the weather became cold, windy, and misty. Two hours later we arrived at a huge cave, where we took shelter from the wind for a bit and chatted with Francis, the other guide, who told us about the god of the mountain and how his mood determines the weather at the summit. That day it seemed like the god was feeling blustery.

From there it was another hour to Hut 3 in the wind and cold, and the hike seemed never-ending. By this point we were all cursing ourselves for choosing to do this god-forsaken climb and were angry, frozen, wet popsicles. After resting, exhausted, in the hut for a while with the porters, who were also beat, we set out to brave the storm and climb the last 45 minutes to the summit. The path, although not very steep, was extremely difficult because the land was sandy/gravely and the wind was so bad that it was hard to stand up, let along walk in a straight line. In a determined haze I dragged myself, practically crawling, to the summit where it was so windy that it was difficult to breathe and we had to cling to the big rock there just to keep from blowing away. (If this had been a mountain in the U.S. there is no way the mountain would have been open to climbers. The guides said they had never seen it so bad and estimated the wind was blowing at about 80mph.) It was also so misty that we could barely see the hand in front of our faces, let alone any view of Cameroon. Because of the miserable conditions it was hard to enjoy the achievement of reaching the peak, and we just wanted to get the hell out of there.

After taking the obligatory pictures (which are too misty to really make out anything) we crawled back down over a different route. Useless Peter went ahead and didnt look back while the three of us struggled to navigate between the two huge craters on the other side. I was kneeling farther down the slope trying to direct Sophie so she didnt fall into one of them while Berit yelled at Peter to slow down, which he didnt do. For about 20 minutes more we struggled through these conditions as we slipped and fell down the very rocky, very windy steep slope. It was like trying to stand still during a rock slide. Eventually the weather got slightly better, the visibility improved and we moved into an area of fine black sand/gravel surrounded by brown tundra. Rather than try and walk down it, I realized that it was easier to 'ski' it and had a great time slalom-ing down the huge hill.

At the end of the hill we started to walk through the endless lava flows which seem to reach the furtherest point of the horizon. These particular flows were from the last erruption in 2002 and were just starting to bud with plant life; I'm sure after the rainy season the whole land looks lush with vegetation. We had to go quite slowly through this portion as Berit wasnt feeling well and the ground was really uneven and unsteady. (However, Useless Peter wasnt too thrilled about this and kept going ahead until I told him to stop and slow down.) After a couple hours we finally, finally made it through to the savana. The line between the savana and the flows is very distinct, as are all the transitions from one environment to the next. The contrast between each of them is extreme.

We thought we only had 40 minutes to go until we reached Mann's Spring, our camping point for the evening, but it turned out that it was 40 minutes until the 12 craters and then another 1 hour to the site. The savana was barren, stark and very windy and we were pretty tired, having already done 12km, including a lot of uphill. Unfortunately we needed a lot of energy to navigate between the craters (which we think were caused during the volcanic eruptions- it was hard to get an answer out of Peter) as they were very unstable, and the trail was just loose pebbles in along a narrow ridge. Beyond the craters we could see green rolling hills, which was quite the contrast to the black 40 foot deep craters we were trying not to fall into. After the craters we emerged into a huge, vast black desert made of very fine volcanic rock. It was truly beautiful and the scope of it was amazing- it just kept going and going. (For those of you have have been to White Sands in New Mexico, think that but with pitch black sand.) I ran and skied through this part, going quickly so I wouldnt notice how badly my legs hurt. Finally out of the desert and into the greenery (although the soil was still made of volcanic rock), I ran down the hill towards a mountain, and eventually to our campsite on the far side. Peter and the girls eventually arrived in one piece as well, although we were all, including the porters who met us there, exhausted and barely able to walk to the latrine around the corner.

After resting and chatting with the Cameroonian girl who also made it to the Spring, we made some more spagetti and then talked with the porters about the local history and culture of the SW Province. After eating the porters did a traditional blessing of the ground, and performed a native song and dance with palm fronds that they asked us to join them in. It was a great experience, although we were so sore that it was hard to dance at all. At long last, at 8:15pm and after 22km that day, we crawled into our tiny tent and went to bed.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Climbing Mt.Cameroon: Day 1

I'm not really sure what possessed us to do it, but Valerie (the Canadian volunteer who arrived the same time as I did), Sophie and Berit (the two Danish girls who've been with UAC 1.5 months) decided that we wanted to climb Mt.Cameroon. Mt. Fako, as its known locally, is 13,500 ft high and known for its diverse terrain, largely due to the fact that the mountain is also a semi-active volcano. The mountain is also the site of the annual Mt. Cameroon Guiness Race for Hope, a 40km (i.e. marathon length) run up and down the mountain, which, unbelievably, the world's top runners can complete in 4 hours. (There is a woman from Cameroon who has won it seven times, largely because she can make it down in less than an hour.) We booked our trek through the Mt.Cameroon Ecotourism Office, the only licensed agency to lead climbs, and choose to do the 'classic' 3 day, 2 night route, along with a guide and 4 porters. (In what should of acted as a warning to us about the difficulty of the hike, the MCEO has a poilcy of one porter per person because a porter must be availble to carry a hiker down in the case of injury or sickness.) Only about 1,200 tourists choose to climb the mountain last year, and even though it isn't as technically-demanding as Mt.Kenya or Kilamanjaro, its very steep and rather arduous.

Because we choose to cook for ourselves, we bought LOTS of bread, pasta and sauce, non-refridgerated cheese, Spam, and fruit for the trip, along with 6 1.5 liter bottles of water each (the water constitutes the majority of the weight the porters have to carry). We got to the MCEO office early Saturday morning and met our guide Peter, a 35-year old local man who has competed in the Race for Hope (he came in 31st) and has been leading treks for about 10 years. Our four porters were fairly young men, and all, suprisingly, wearing green, taped-together Jellies, like the shoes little girls wore on the beach in the 1980s. Somehow they got all of our food, water, clothes, tent, four sleeping bags and sleeping mats, and their stuff into five old-fashioned army backpacks, and by 8:30am we were off to the base of the mountain, only a couple minutes drive away.

We started climbing through open farmland, and past a run-down but still functioning prison, and only made it 15 minutes before we had to stop because Valerie was feeling sick. Although she had been sick since arriving and taking Immodium without success, she had really wanted to climb the mountain. However, it was obvious that there was no way she was going to make it, even in the best of health. She decided to turn around and headed home and straight for the doctor. Then it was three (plus guides and porters).

After she left we continued on and the rolling hills of farmland morphed into dense forest. We had been warned about rains (its the start of the wet season) and cold (due to the altitude) and prepared for that, so we weren't ready for the extreme heat of the forest and by 30 mins in were soaked with sweat. Two hours later, we arrived at Hut 1, the first rest point, where we had lunch (strangely delicious Laughing Cow cheese and Spam sandwiches) and tried to swat off the swarms of bees which live in the hut. There we also met a Cameroonian girl (whose name I think was Maka) who was climbing with her mother, an extremely determined woman who wanted to make it to the top, despite having to walk with two canes.

At 11:30 we got back to the hike and took on the walk from Hut 1 to Hut 2, which is considered the most challenging part of the trail. We came out of the forest and into the vast, green, lush hills of the mountain, overlooking the city. I was ahead of the pack and had a few minutes to enjoy the sheer scope and beauty of the landscape- not another soul in sight, no signs of anything man-made, just unblemished nature. This setting could have been from anywhere: the hills of Scotland, the mountains in northeast Cambodia, the greenery of New England, and thus produced a feeling in all of us of wonderful displacement and isolation.

This beauty temporarily distracted us from the unbelievable steepness of the climb. Once we moved into the more barren savana, with its rocky soil and scattered plant life, the difficulty increased and we were breathing hard, trying to cope with the altitude and thinness of the air. Finally, across the huge savana I saw a hut, and jumped for joy. We arrived ecstatically, praising each other for finishing the most challening section in about half the time the guidebooks had quoted. Unfortunately our happiness was short-lived once Peter told us this was the Middle Hut, not Hut 2, our destination for the day. Grudingly we set out again.

The three of us began walking along but were quickly forced to climb on hands and knees as the steepness increased and the fertile soil turned into ground of loose rocks and pebbles, making it very unstable. We were above the clouds and wanted to enjoy the views of Buea, the beaches of Limbe, the huge sprawl of Douala, and the rest of the landscape, but we were so exhausted that we just wanted to get to the elusive Hut 3 and ignored the views behind us. The trail never seemed to end, for just as we would arrive at the top of a hill or crest, a whole other mountain would appear before us and we would curse and curse. One of the porters was by then climbing with us, encouraging us to keep going (probably because he didnt want to have to carry us to Hut 2), and telling us about landmarks, such as the Magic Tree, named because even as you walk towards it it doesnt seem to get any bigger. When we saw the flag indicating that Hut 2 was nearby, we did a short dance of joy and dragged ourselves the last 200meters. At over 2800m high, Hut 2 consists of a corrugated metal shack with three rooms with raised platforms inside for sleeping, a seperate wooden kitchen and two outhouses. It also has spectacular views of the coast and cities, and we watched the sunset change the sky below us brilliant colors.

By then it was only 4pm, but we were starving, so with our severely swollen hands (due to the altitude) we prepared a dinner of spagetti, tomato paste and Spam. As we ate we talked to the other hikers: a middle-aged Swedish business man, a German student doing a semester at the University of Buea, a French couple who were serious climbers, and the Cameroonian girl, who had been living in France for the past 9 years. At 5:30 it was getting dark and we crawled into our sleeping bags because not only because we were exhausted, but because it was extremely cold and we had nothing else to do. We spent a restless night listening to the wind howling and the mice crawling around our room, and when Francis, the guide of the Cameroonian girl who was sharing the room with us, came in he killed one with his bare hand, scaring us all awake.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Miscellaneous Observations

So now that I've been here for a week, some patterns of Cameroonian behavior and culture have begun to emerge. These are listed below, and I'm sure more will be added in the months to come.

-If you are not Cameroonian, you are a 'white man'. (This is a particularly odd experience for me, as I am neither white nor a man, but that doesnt seem to matter to the people here.) And everywhere you go everyone, both young and old, feels the need to shout 'white man white man!!!'

-Once people see a 'white man' and get their attention, they say 'You're welcome', which comes off as rude, as if you forgot to thank them for something, like allowing them into their country. What they really mean however is 'You ARE welcome', a much nicer greeting.

-They are obessed with America. Europe is good, but America is great, which is why every cab has an American flag air freshener in it.

-The word 'please' is completely unheard of, which makes many people come off as rude in the eyes of foreigners, until you realize that they arent as demanding as they seem.

-There are relatively few wild dogs, especially as compared to India or SE Asia. Instead there are lots of wild goats and chickens.

-'Asha' is the Pidgin English answer to every statement. It means 'sorry', 'thanks', 'thats good', 'fine', 'tomorrow', etc, etc.

-'African Magic' is a Nigerian program which is on 24-7 and may be both the worst and most hilarious TV show ever. The stories are always relatively scandalous (someone takes advantage of drunk woman, someone beats their girlfriend, someone steals from the church, etc) but the acting is so horrible and the plots make no sense that they become farces. I'm going to try and tape some to bring home.

-The men here are fairly skinny, but they all seem to prefer women who are much bigger than them, so it looks like many wives could crush they husbands.

-There is never enough change. Giving someone 2000CFA for a purchase worth 500CFA is like giving someone $100 for a $5 purchase- it incurs the same glare and frustrated sigh.

-All transactions can be done while in a moving car. Taxi drivers love to slow down, make a kissing noise (how you get people's attention here) and then shout something at a vendor down the road, and by the time the cab rolls by, the newspaper/food/candy/cigarettes/change is ready for them and the car doesnt even have to stop.

-Ever wonder where the clothes you donate to the Red Cross or Salvation Army end up? Well its here, but strangely not the T-shirts or shorts, but the wool sweaters and parkas you gave away in the 1980s.

-There are a few Albinos in town (due to a genetic defect) and there are a lot of myths about them. Some people believe they dont die (because they've never been to the funeral of an Albino person), that they aren't whole souls, or they are only ghosts.

Touring the Health Centers

So not all of my time here has been about beer, food and beaches. In fact, I've been able to meet a lot of people in the health sector and tour a good part of the province. UAC put me in contact with Mr.Oben, an Oxford-educated former professor and social worker who acts as an advisor to UAC now that he is retired. Oben is also on the board of the local health council and seems to know just about everyone in town. Together we have met with the Director of the Southwest Province Health Delegation, the coordinator of the Mutual Health Organization (a new government-sponsored health insurance program), the head of the Buea Health Office, the surgeon and eye doctor at the government Provincial Hospital, the doctor at a small private hospital, and nurses/'Chief-of-Posts' at two small health outposts in local villages. All of these people have been very welcoming, honest and helpful, talking to me about the challenges they face in trying to provide quality health care with limited resources. Sadly, most of the diseases they see are easily preventable or treatable: malaria, diarrhea, dermatitis, intestinal parasites, TB, typhoid. However, most people fail to recognize the problem (especially in children), or try to self-medicate by buying drugs from street vendors, so they only make it to the hospital or clinic when they are very sick and often beyond help.

Now a shameless plug: If you work in the health sector, or know someone who does (and that means a lot of you), please see if your health facility has any spare resources. What they need here isnt complicated medical equiptment, just things like:
-Gauze
-Foreceps
-Syringes
-Tylenol
-Basic antibiotics

The nurses here work extremely hard, and are often owed salaries from months ago. They don't ask for a lot, but they really appreciate everything they receive. A new Dutch volunteer just arrived and brought glasses with her, and I will deliver them in Mamfe when I head north next week and already the town is excited about them. So please, if you can, start stealing from your hospital or clinic for the good of the Cameroonian people. Actually, I'm kidding about the stealing, but consider if you or your health center could spare any resources. I will publish pictures of the clinics and their very, very basic facilities as soon as the Internet allows to give you all a sense of the challenges they face here. Its pretty daunting.

Djino and Limbe!

Djino is a local soda brand, which promised to be 'Full of Fruit, Full of Flavor' (its really just pink sugar water). It also happens to be the sponsor of an annual kid's art competition. On Saturday, my first full day in Buea, the other interns and I went to the awards presentation for the competition because one of the kids who goes to the UAC school and hangs around our houses, Sam, had won a prize. The ceremony, in typical fashion, lasted four hours, comprised mostly of speeches by various local dignataries, poems about how wonderful Djino is read by students but clearly written by Djino marketing agents, and endless award-giving: to students, to the teachers, to the principals of participating schools. And of course, everyone got two Djino t-shirts and a 6 pack of 1.5 liter bottles of Djino. There was also a band which played the Djino theme-song about 70 or 80 times, a ditty which sounded like the theme to a 1970s police sitcom. Also performed were 'Hotel California', 'I Will Always Love You', and 'Killing Me Softly', although I cant see how any of them related to a children's art show. Although fairly mind- and butt- numbing (due to the child-size plastic chairs), the ceremony was entertaining and we did come away with pink Djino paper visors.

More enjoyably, on Sunday, Valerie, Berit, Sophie, Victor (a Nigerian former UAC-volunteer) and I went to Limbe, a beach about 30 mins away from Buea. What makes Limbe unique is that the sand is black because of the lava flows from Mt. Cameroon. To get there we took a cab down to Mile 17, the major transit area. We got in a van bound for Limbe, along with 11 others, although it was only a 9 seater. No public cab, bus or van will leave until jam-packed, which can be rather inconvenient. The ride was fairly painless, and we didnt get stopped at the two police checkpoints along the way, quite the achievement. In Limbe we caught another cab to a beach, which was full of white ex-pats taking a weekend getaway from Douala. Because the sand is so black, the water also appears black, and the tides can be quite strong (apparently 6 foreigners drowned at a different beach in Limbe a few months ago), giving the ocean a menacing appearance. But the water really warm, the sun and sand perfect and the Fanta refreshingly cold, so the afternoon was extremely relaxing.

The main reason for going to Limbe is to enjoy the fresh, grilled fish which can be bought at Down Beach, just down the road from us. Unfortunately, because it was Sunday, there was no fresh fish to be found right off the boat (usually you just pick one from the fisherman and carry it to a woman to grill it, and she brings it to your restaurant, where you should be found enjoying a $1.25 giant beer). So we went back to Buea, ate some fresh donuts to sustain us until a favorite local joint started serving its whole, grilled fish, about the lenght of a forearm. Served with grilled plantains and pepe (spicy pepper in Pidgin), it was delicious, and incredibly satisfying, especially with some Djino.

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

Welcome to Cameroon

May 1-May 2
After some last-minute packing (is there any other kind in my life?), Tanya, Maggie and I dashed to the airport. Of course, Delta managed to lose my luggage IN the airport, which set me back 45 mins, and I barely made my flight to Paris. Charles de Gaulle airport is still horrible but the copious amounts of wine served by Air France makes it worth traveling through. From there I flew to Douala, the economic (but not political) capitol of Cameroon. Although we got in on time, it took 30 minutes to get through the numerous health and security checks and screenings, which really serve as opportunities for government workers to extort bribes from tourists. (Cameroon is rated one of the most corrupt countries in the world, and a little money to civil servants is required to get anything done.) I made it through without trouble, and while my bag arrived, my ride did not. Douala airport is a crowded, hot chaotic mess, which smells like sweat, dirt, spices and urine (i.e. the same as any Indian airport), and full of pushy taxi drivers who try to take you to a hotel where they will get a commission. Although it was pouring, I waited outside, hoping to see someone holding a sign with my name- no luck. After a minor freak-out/foot-stamping, I went back inside, made friends with the Air France luggage representative, convinced him to let me use his phone for free, and called a couple of my local contacts, finally get in touch with the man, Mr.Orock, who was supposed to pick me up. He told me that he was just entering Douala and would be there 'soon'. Turns out 'soon' was in African Time, so that meant 1.5 hours later, making him 2.5 hours late. Tired, sweaty, and frustrated, I finally met him and Tako, another United Action for Children (UAC) worker at 6:30pm, after suffering the harrassment of many obnoxious drivers and girls trying to sell things/soliciting for hours.

Mr. Orock, the Project Coordinator for UAC is a man in his 40s and seems to know just about everyone in Cameroon. Apart from his job with UAC, he is also the head of vocational education for the county, and 'second deputy mayor' for the city of Buea. Turns out these are valuable titles. After driving out of Douala, a sprawling, polluted city comprised of slums and French quarters, we encountered 3 police checkpoints. (In Cameroon, its is required that everyone carry an official form of ID with them at all times; these checkpoints are really another chance for the government to extort money from those people who forget their IDs. ) Although there were two "White Men" in the car, (myself and a Canadian volunteer named Valerie), we did not have to show our passports, thanks to some name/title dropping by Mr.Orock.

It took 1.5 hours to drive to our new home of Buea (pronounced 'Boy-ah'), located at the base of Mt.Cameroon, the highest point in West Africa. The scenery changed from urban overcrowding, to palm trees to dense forest in the matter of a few miles, an example of Cameroon's varied environment. Buea is the seat of the Southwest Province, but is just a small town which centers along one main road. Valerie and I, along with two Danish girls and a Scottish guy who were already there, would be living just off the main road, next to Mr.Orock's house. The complex, a set of three, one-story, white-washed buildings sits on a dirt road near the UAC school. Our rooms are pretty austere- concrete floor, just a bed and small desk for furniture, and our electricity and water are intermittent (and thus we dont have a flush toilet). On the plus side, in our large common room there is a pretty good library, thanks to other interns who left their books behind. This will be priceless, since we dont have TV, a radio, or regular access to a computer/the Internet.

After dropping off our stuff, we walked next door to the Orock's, which is where we eat all of our meals, and met his family. His wife Amelia is nice, although a bit scary, and he has one son and three daughters who live at home: Dan (16), Kelly (10), Evelyn (6) and Clara (2), who has quickly become my little sidekick. There are also a number of nieces, nephews and miscellaneous people around, and its amazing how many of them fit in the rather small house. Even though the Orocks are rick compared to their neighbors, their kitchen is so small that no more than 3 people can fit in it, its rather dirty, and there is usually no running water or electricity. However, great food still emerges from it.

After such a long, crazy day, I crashed at 9:45pm, exhausted but happy to be in Cameroon.