December 24, 2013 It’s officially Christmas Eve here. The time is 00:42, or 12:42 am. One of the neighbors hung out with me until midnight to wish me Merry Christmas, then he said, “It’s not the 25; it’s not Christmas.” I tried to explain it is basically Christmas because it is Christmas Eve. The majority of the people here are Muslim, and the big fête (party/holiday) day is in August. It doesn’t really feel like Christmas anyway but I did warn my neighbors I might cry a little on Christmas while I eat cookies and drink tea (I wish it was wine). They didn’t want me to cry. Cameroonians don’t really cry from what I’ve seen, except the young children. So, here I am on Christmas Eve eve eating homemade burnt peanut butter (the color is disturbingly dark) with a spoon, drinking tea, and trying to get the internet key to work. I’m listening to A Hometown Country Christmas on repeat, which is fairly standard since I’ve gotten here. I just came home from Banyo. It is a nearby town (city in comparison to Mayo-Darlé) with a good hospital and cold drinks. My post mate – the other Peace Corps Volunteer here – was sick and I went with him to make sure he was okay. He is okay, but he went to Yaoundé for a checkup, leaving me here with myself and my Christmas music. It is Christmas Eve day now. I treated myself by sleeping in until 9:30 this morning. For those of you who know me, you know I could sleep until noon but I don’t want to get the label of the lazy American. Nine thirty here is like noon to them. I know I slept too late when I walk outside and people say “bonsoir” instead of “bonjour.” The Internet key is still not working. I wish it were so I could call and wish people a Merry Christmas. My big plans for Christmas Eve include going to buy peanuts and give homemade peanut butter a second try. The first time was just such a typical Maureen cooking experience it was amusing. I shelled all the peanuts and then roasted them. This took a good hour or more and then I burnt the peanuts. I was bummed but didn’t think it would matter THAT much. I rubbed off the little paper-like shell on the peanuts and borrowed my neighbor’s hand grinder – actually my neighbor girl did the grinding work for me – and the paste came out black. Who knew a few burnt arachides (peanuts) would make the peanut butter so dark. I guess there were probably more than a few burnt ones in there. They were laughing pretty hard at this and my neighbors told me to come to them for help next time. I will definitely take them up on the offer. After the black pate d’arachide (literally the peanut paste) was done, I added butter and sugar and put it in the JIF jar like it was real peanut butter. The only difference was it was black instead of tan. Don’t worry I ate it all anyway. When I first arrived here there was a large jar of peanut butter from the last volunteer (best thing ever). I told my neighbors that I already ate the peanut butter in my house; they were like “merde, Maureen” (curse word, Maureen). Little did they know that jar was gone about 3 weeks ago in addition to a jar from my parents and the JIF to-go packets from Heather. Maybe this is why they keep telling me I am so “gros” (fat). I got to say, it’s hard to get used to a culture where this is a good thing. I just take the comments and store them away for when I decide whether to take a moto or walk. I’ve been walking a lot. Last night I tried to help my neighbor with English homework. Holy cow, I’ve heard it is hard to teach English, but it is REALLY HARD to teach English. I don’t know the correct grammatical phrases for English and even though I have learned them in French, it doesn’t always translate and my French is very elementary. There are words/phrases in the English workbook that are not correct and it makes me wonder about all those language books in the states. Well, in addition to making peanut butter (almost a full day event) I have to get water for the kitchen and latrine. It is a good work out. It takes about 4 buckets to fill up each storage container. Each bucket takes about 1.5 well buckets of water. The well is fairly deep and takes some good muscles to pull the water bucket up. I am usually sweating and have burning arms by the end of this chore. I can barely imagine a running hot water shower back home without worrying about running out of water. I think back to the days of fighting with my sisters about who took up all the hot water. I think there were times it even ended in tears. Goodness, we are spoiled. What I would give to have a shower, with running water (hot, cold, no matter), or even a tiled area to have a bucket bath, without the jumping cockroach/grasshopper/spider crossbred things that inhabit the latrine.