Not a great quality picture, but you can see some of the soldiers.

February 17, 2014 I’ve noticed the formatting doesn’t come through when I post a blog. I am sorry – it is frustrating for me and I imagine for you as well. I will try to figure it out, but for now, know that I do have separate paragraphs you just can’t see them. Yesterday I hung out at the market for most of the day, except for the hottest hours of the day, which I spent sleeping and reading on my couch. I saw pictures and a video from a Cameroonian truck driver who had spent over a week in Central Africa. It was a train wreck; I wanted to close my eyes and pretend it wasn’t real but it was so horrifying I couldn’t look away. I haven’t had access to much news and I don’t know much about what is going on over there, but from the pictures I discovered it is a bloody mess with senseless killing (in my mind) and soldiers who can still find a smile among all of the bodies laying on the road. The photos were raw photos taken with a camera phone or maybe a poor quality camera. As my friends and I looked at the photos on his computer, I was trying to cover my eyes, but I also wanted to see what was going on in the neighboring country. As he talked about a friend and the situation over there, he was subtly wiping away tears. I may have mentioned already Cameroonians don’t cry, except young children. I have not seen a woman, teenager, or man cry since being here. It was a terrible hour of pictures, one painful video, and piecing together stories going on around me in French and Fulfulde. It is odd being so close to something so terrible. (It’s weird to think I am actually grateful to be close to Nigeria right now.) Don’t worry, mom, I’m not THAT close, but I don’t think I’ve ever been so close to something so serious in my life. Besides September 11, 2001, I’ve never been near mass killings, or a war, or anything like this that makes me physically ill to see. Even for 9/11 I was on the other side of the country and my family didn’t have a TV. February 11 was Youth Day in Cameroon. There was a big party, with a few days of events leading up to it. I was sick on the 11th and missed the big party. A couple days after that, the governor of the area came to Mayo-Darlé and there was another large event. It was a lot of formalities with speeches and presentations of gifts. While I didn’t understand everything in the French/Fulfulde speeches, I could catch the parts about Boko Haram. It was another example where I’ve never felt so close to something so terrifying. It is close enough that the leaders for the town/area talk about it in their local speeches. It is close enough that it affects parents’ views on school and sending their kids to school. As I listened to the governor encourage parents to send their children to school, despite the views of others who think westernized education is bad, I cautiously watched the guards who stood at attention in the blazing sun without flinching. There were probably less than 10 but certainly made an impression. They arrived in a military truck, all carrying automatic/semi-automatic rifles (I don’t know my weapons, but the type that scare you to be in the presence of). It didn’t seem to phase the locals, but I kept my eyes on them between watching the speakers. It is incredibly intimidating to watch them. I wasn’t sure if I felt safer, or not, with them watching the governor and the crowd with their guns strapped around their torsos. I don’t mean to scare my mom back home or make my family worry. It is just such a different situation for me here. Like I said early, I’ve never been so close to such dramatic events. While I know the photos affected my friends and the man who took them in Central Africa, I’m not sure if it was the same type of shock/fear/uncertainty in my body while I looked at the images we don’t even see on our news when there is a war happening. We are sheltered back home, we are spoiled, and we take so many things for granted. Maybe this is all just the viewpoint of a small town girl from Montana. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt physically nauseous from looking at photos, but I certainly understand that feeling now. Even though I am close to the Nigerian border, I feel fairly safe in Mayo-Darlé. My ears perk up every time someone mentions Boko Haram. I discovered there is a motorcycle with this name also, which makes me relax a little when I hear this in every day conversation. I certainly have learned to not take safety and security for granted here in Cameroon. I know I am lucky to be in a place that is stable, safe, and without conflicts. I have never felt more grateful for this. I can understand a little more why people dream of America; I understand we do have it pretty good back home even though I know we have our problems as well. I had a conversation with someone the other day about poor people in America. He couldn’t believe there were poor people in the U.S., let alone people who didn’t have a house and who lived on the streets. I could tell it was mind blowing for him to hear this, and he seemed to be hesitant to believe my words. It is interesting to think about how they see America in their minds. Just as we imagine Africa, at least for me, it is not accurate and there is so much we make up in our minds because of the images we see and the stories we hear.

February 2, 2014 I spent the day in a nearby village. They speak Fulfulde and English because they are so close to Nigeria. I am not sure how close, but I could probably walk to Nigeria from there. It takes about 30-45 minutes to walk there through the bush. I’ve done it twice but I met a lady who does the walk everyday to come into Mayo-Darlé. She is a strong woman, I should say young woman, who is the president of the new youth association there. Today I met more of the people who live in the village, without water and without electricity. They were extremely welcoming and they said a prayer for me and my counterpart (local young Cameroon man who shows me around the community and works with me). It was so sweet and it may be what everyone has been doing since I’ve arrived, it’s just that I could understand this time since it was in English. Afterwards, I felt a lot of pressure and wanted to explain I don’t have answers for everything and I can’t do everything. I’m just a young girl learning how to live again. I came back to town and hung out with my guy friend. I drank a kind of “apple juice” that is basically apple pop. It’s my new favorite. It’s got to be the most unhealthy “apple juice” I’ve ever drank. That, with my beignets (fried dough balls) for breakfast/lunch, made for a healthy diet today. After that I needed some alone time and gave my Internet key a try. It was working amazingly well and I sat and drank a Peppermint Mocha Starbuck’s Via and ate trail mix from the US. It was a good break from reality. I had Starbucks foo-foo coffee, peanuts, almonds, M&M’s, and Internet. I ate Top Ramen for dinner; it has never tasted so good. (Thanks family! All of you!) I spent the evening looking at my pictures with my neighbor and then helped my other neighbor with English homework. I feel like a parent when I help him and also understand why people say it is so hard to teach English. I try not to just give him the answers and explain in Franglish so he can grasp the concept and write the definitions/answers in his own words, but I’m afraid sometimes, after many tries of explaining, I give him the answer. I hope he is actually learning something. It is helpful for me also since I’m always needing to learn more French words and how to speak/explain in French. Now, after a few cups of Chai tea, I’m exhausted but resisting sleep because the Internet key is working so well. I see the Super Bowl is today. I’m not a big Super Bowl person, but I wouldn’t mind some Super Bowl party food and drinks. The other day, I couldn’t help but tell some fellow Volunteers the story about my sisters getting interviewed one year by a local reporter who asked them who they thought would win the Super Bowl and they responded with, “What’s the Super Bowl?” I don’t think I’m exaggerating, or making that story up, but Meg and Jess can correct me if I am.

January 30, 2014 I can’t believe it is almost a month into 2014. The past month flew by. Yesterday was a good day. I gave myself a haircut, or I guess a trim, and it actually doesn’t look terrible. I got 4 packages from home and lots of letters and cards. I spent the day unpacking goodies from the States. Afterwards, I brought out the soccer ball my parents sent me to play with the kids. I thought it was such a good idea, but when it ended in tears, I decided I might need to save the soccer ball for my older friends. Last weekend I helped a very inspiring woman set up a library here in Mayo-Darlé. She has written two books and is part of (possibly started) the group, Femmes du Sahel, which works on the development of women. She got 1,500 books in French, English, and Arabic for the library. We spent the day unpacking them and putting them on the shelves. I have already been talking about it to all my local friends and look forward to doing activities there. After a busy weekend, I went to Banyo (nearby town) to help a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer start a mural at the high school there. She had already painted a white square where the painting will be. We simply drew a grid so she can draw and paint the mural. It doesn’t sound like much, but it felt good to do actual work. It was hot and dusty over there, but they have electricity and I got to drink a cold beer afterwards. I’ve done more actual work in the past week than I’ve done since I’ve arrived in Cameroon. I know that’s hard to believe after reading about my “work” but it is unfortunately true.

January 23, 2014 Yesterday, I saw a kid pee on a cat after he chased me around trying to pee on me. I thought it was just for fun, but after seeing the cat soaked in pee I realized it could’ve been me. I did laugh a little, because it is funny to see a kid peeing on a cat sleeping on the ground. The cat simply woke up and stood up. He was probably confused, unless this isn’t the first time, which is a definite possibility. Today, I had a conversation with my guy friend about how one boy/man is equivalent to two girls/women. It’s difficult to express myself very well in French, but I did say I wanted to hit him a few times during the conversation. I don’t think he realized I wasn’t kidding. After I said girls/women are important for many things in life, he agreed that women are important for giving men children and for feeding them when they are hungry. It was all I could do to not become extremely angry with my friend and argue my point. Coming from a culture where women are seen as equivalent as men, this was very difficult. Granted there are people back in the States who think less of women than men, but not in my family. My family is full of girls who were raised to believe they can do what they want and women can be just as strong as men. Whatever men can do, women can do too. I realize there is a difference between men and women and physically men can be stronger than women. But, I have sisters and friends who could beat many men at a physical competition. I’ve always believed that I, a woman, can do “whatever my heart desires” (as my dad says). The conversation of the importance of men over women crushed me. I realized he was not embarrassed, ashamed, or anything of what he was telling me. I think it is just considered an assumed belief here. Everyone knows this. I knew this was part of the culture coming here but to have it right in my living room shoved in my face was a wake up call. How can I work here? How can I invoke anything of worth as a woman in a man’s society? I don’t know if I can. I don’t know how to grasp or empathize with this type of thinking. I want to scream at all the men how important women are and how much potential there is for society if they give women the chance to prove themselves. Women work all day long for their families. They take food from the fields, they prepare all the meals, they watch over the kids, they take care of the house, and they make sure there is warm water for their husbands and sons to wash their hands and feet before they go to prayer five times a day. It is so obvious to me how important women are to life here. How can the men not see it? I shouldn’t say just men, because if you are a woman living in this society, I imagine you would think this way too. It would probably be difficult not to. The other day I went to a small fête (party) for a marriage. I didn’t really know what to expect, but I brought my camera and wore my best pagne dress. It was a women only party where the family of the future husband brought the dowry to the family of the future wife. There were multiple suitcases filled full of things. There was pagne (fabric), clothing, shoes, purses, buckets, lotions, makeup, etc. I can only imagine how expensive it was for the future husband to buy all of these things. I’ve heard from my friends it is expensive to get married here, now I understand what they mean. The future husband is older, I think around 30 years old, and finally has enough money to get married. The girl, not woman, is about 15 years old (I asked multiple people to make sure I heard right) and will be married shortly, probably having kids within a couple years. I cringe at this information and try to control my facial expressions. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Is this normal? Yes. Does the girl want this? Yes. Is the family happy for them? Yes. I ask question after question to try and understand. This culture is so drastically different than what I’m used to. I think back to walking to the market with a male acquaintance when he said, “there’s my woman” to a young girl selling things from the tray on her head. I laughed and said “she is too young for you” without even thinking. Luckily, people give me a break since my French is terrible and maybe he either didn’t understand me or maybe he thought I didn’t understand. Either way, I guess I need to reserve some comments for myself when I get home to my journal. Now I know why people have asked me time after time, “do you have a husband and kids?” They are surprised at my “no”, although there’s more of a back-story to that “no” that may surprise them even more. I think back to when I first arrived at post and got this question every day. They were probably just as surprised or appalled at my answer as I was when I found out the age of the soon-to-be bride. I have to keep in mind this is life here. Just like we do things back home without thinking, sometimes without an apparent reason, they do things here out of tradition and because it’s life here in Cameroon and has been for years. I tried explaining, calmly, to my guy friend about how it’s not good for a 12 year old to have a child and how hard it is on her body. We talked for hours while I sewed a pillowcase and boiled eggs. Of course, I forgot I was hard boiling eggs and burned them, nearly starting a fire. There’s another good Maureen cooking story. Who knew you could screw up hard-boiled eggs?! We asked each other question after question, trying to explain why we believe what we believe. Sometimes having to tell the other to listen until I finish. Do they give me respect because I’m American, because I’m white, because I’m an outsider, or because I’m a visitor in their eyes? It certainly is not because I’m a woman. I shouldn’t say they definitely don’t respect me because I’m a woman. I’ve seen men give respect to the older women who have had children and who have been to Mecca. They are called “Hadja” and are given the utmost respect. But even so, women are half as important as men and I can only imagine what they think of me as a young girl here in Africa without kids and a husband, who can’t speak their language and lives alone. I can’t say I’m as upset as I would be if I had this conversation in the US with a guy friend back home. I’m not sure exactly why that is, maybe because this is what he knows for life. This is how he was raised. This is life here in Mayo-Darlé, in the conservative, mostly Muslim, area of Cameroon. I don’t think I’ll be able to tackle that belief in two years, although the Bjerke woman in me wants to fight hard against that thinking. I need to realize there is only so much one can do for a town, especially considering I’ve been here two months and done nothing of worth yet. I hope that changes, but I sure feel a bit defeated after that cultural exchange. On a happier note, I’ve discovered Bakooru (not sure of spelling but that’s what is sounds like). They are little sticks of fried peanut butter. Yeah, like heaven in a rolled up stick of fat. I love it. My guy friends make fun of me because I can never remember the name but I always want to buy it. I hope this blog entry doesn’t sound too culturally insensitive. Hopefully you can just take it with a grain of salt and realize I am just here and want to share my experiences and today was a big day of culture shock for me. I knew these facts when I was coming here, it is just different when you are living in the culture and listening to this conversation in your own house with the people you spend every day with. Another happy note for the day. There is a guy I met my first week here in the market. He sells beans and beignets, basically beans and doughnuts. (I know it sounds bizarre but it is actually delicious.) I haven’t seen him lately and saw him today for the first time in a while. The first time I met him, I wasn’t sure if he was going to be a creeper or not, so I tried not to be too friendly. I decided I don’t think he is creepy, but he does love Americans, foreigners, etc. and talking about the cultural differences. He was praising the culture of America and I was careful to say I don’t think ours is the best, it’s just different. Although, he did bring up some of the pluses of being American. Things we take for granted every day and maybe don’t think about often: freedom, equality, and the ability to become something from nothing if you work hard enough. Anyways, I was enjoying the brief greeting and told him I’d be back another day for beans and beignets. While I was leaving he told me, “thank you for sacrificing for me, for us, here in Cameroon.” I wanted to hug him. There hasn’t been anyone who has said this to me here. I don’t expect this type of attitude or even think I deserve this type of statement, but when he said it I felt so welcome and so appreciated. I haven’t done squat here for work and I hope that changes and I hope I can do something worthwhile in my two years here. It’s nice to know some people understand it’s difficult to leave your home, your loved ones and the comfort of your spoiled life in America to come to Africa and learn a new language, new culture, new way of life, and make new friends. I don’t know if there’s anything better than getting a comment like this. It was like he knew I had a morning of culture shock and needed a little boost.

January 16, 2014 Every morning I wake up to the sound of the rooster crowing. It is too early for me to get up. What will I fill my day with if I get up now? I suppose I could speak to locals in broken French/terrible Fulfulde, drink hot Chai tea in the 90-degree weather, or eat beignets with my new friends. I usually choose to fall back asleep while the rooster crows and the Mosque calls all the men to prayer. I wake up again around 8 and hear the mama’s sweeping and grinding mais (corn) for dinner. They’ve been up for hours, possibly before the rooster started crowing. Most of the kids are at school, which means a quiet(er) morning for me. There are some kids who don’t go to school and come knock on my door within minutes of me opening up my house. Sometimes I unlock the door and let them in to play with Legos, draw, or simply point to things and say the word in Fulfulde. Other mornings, I ignore them and enjoy my chai tea, with a spoonful of Nescafe in it, alone. When I finish my tea/coffee, I debate going to a neighbors, to the market, or staying home. It varies with my mood. If I go to a neighbor’s house, I am usually (almost always) given food. I sit and eat with my hand and talk to them as best I can. Sometimes they teach me how to prepare something; so far, couscous du ris (rice), les arachides (peanuts) with a yummy covering (dad, you will love them!), bon bons, and chai tea. I even had to re-learn how to make rice here. RICE! It’s like one of the simplest things to make. Last time I made it I was instantly nauseous and lied on the couch moaning (as you read about earlier). I learned the rice here can be very dirty and you need to wash it at least 3 times and pick out the small rocks before cooking it. I make the dusty, dry walk to the market, pass by the moto boys and say hi to my regular moto taxi driver. When I go to the market I usually need to buy telephone credit. The man I buy it from has already memorized my number. I cross the street and check my friend’s boutique to see if he’s there. I wander over to the bread man who speaks English and gives me beignets if I don’t buy them first. They are delicious. Nearly every time I visit him he asks if I want to be his third wife. I just laugh and tell him his wives are my friends and walk away thinking, “God, I hope he’s joking.” Sometimes I hang out in the market for hours, I think I’ve spent a whole day there perfectly content. You can eat, drink water/juice, listen to music and people-watch to your heart’s desire. I wave at random kids selling food they carry on a tray on their head. Sometimes they smile and giggle, sometimes they just stop and stare. Other times they start to cry and sometimes when their sibling or mom pushes the poor kid closer to me they scream bloody murder. Everyone thinks it’s hilarious; sometimes I want to cry right along with him. When I’m at home, I’m resting on my couch with my door closed (called a reposer here), reading, or cleaning. I read a lot and clean a decent amount. I read novels (at least 5 so far), study language books, and try to understand this job called Peace Corps here in Mayo-Darlé. My neighbors come and visit, but now that school is back in session, there is less traffic here during the day. There are days I’m grateful for this, and other times I go outside to find someone to talk to or watch while they cook and clean, sometimes helping, always learning. The other day I went to a compound to visit a family (English and Fulfulde speaking) and learned how to make the yummy peanuts. Before that, I sat on the ground with the wife while someone braided her hair and the kids petted mine. I felt like a doll/pet, but it was kind of nice. They played with my hair, inspected my face, pointed out all my zits, tried on my huge sunglasses, and showed me their dance moves. It was a great day; I felt so loved and welcomed. I keep telling myself, “Once I know the languages better I can do some actual work.” I have no idea what I’m doing for work right now. Is this my work? Maybe this is it for now. It is exhausting but I don’t feel like I’m successfully DOING anything here. I attend some meetings every week, trying to understand what the general topic of the week is by deciphering a few words. There are days I can talk and be understood, other times my friends make comments like “your French is lost today” and I couldn’t agree more. Sometimes when I get frustrated and can’t understand their fast Fulfulde/French conversations, I start speaking fast English. It doesn’t do anything but make me feel a little better. I got a lot of mail today, letters, cards and a CD (I feel so special to get an Erica CD in Africa!! It’s been on repeat since I opened it). Thank you everyone! It made my day and also made me miss you all and miss home dearly. It’s starting to feel more like home here, but still hard to adjust. I just have to make a little side note here. The other day I was talking to my neighbor and made a comment about Mayo-Darlé being “en brousse,” or “in the bush” in English. He had no time to think about how to react, he simply smacked me and said “Mayo-Darlé is NOT en brousse.” It was not a mean smack, it was more of a friend smacking your arm when you tease them and they want you to stop. I felt kind of bad; I was partly joking but mostly serious. Later that day we joked about it and I clarified, for me this life is “en brousse,” but it isn’t “en brousse” here in Cameroon. I just had to make sure you all know that I’m not living “en brousse” here in Mayo-Darlé! We have electricity 4 hours a day (4.5 if it is a holiday), we have many water wells and pumps, and there is a decent market area. Like my friend said, it’s basically Yaoundé (the capital city) here.

January 13, 2014 Happy Birthday Megs and Les! I’m looking forward to this weekend. I’m headed to the city for money, Internet, and goods unavailable in Mayo-Darlé. I just made a list like I’m going to Target back home. So exciting and so American. It’s kind of a pain getting there, and once I’m there, the place I stay at is quite disgusting, but I guess it’s all worth it for the money and the Internet. I don’t have a good sense about money here yet. I took out money about a month ago and it’s been a budget scrunching week and one pocket-pinching week to go. I lived off of the equivalent of $100 for a month. Not bad. I bought one scarf to cover my poor face and head during this hot dry weather, and of course to try and fit in with the modest clothing. Other than the $3 scarf (I was so proud – I talked him down from $4!) I haven’t bought clothing, shoes, or other unnecessary items. Aren’t you proud, dad?!? It’s been effective treatment for a girl with shopaholic tendencies, especially when you see how frugally the locals live. It makes me feel a little ashamed actually. I would often buy things I didn’t need back home. I wonder if I were to go back home now, would I spend my money differently, be a little more conservative? I hope so. Maybe after two years, my spending habits will have changed drastically. I just took a bucket bath for the first time in two days. It is sure difficult to get clean here. My latrine never smells good and the concrete floor is never spotless. My washrags and towels have been washed in a river that smells like cow poo. I’ve been savoring the new washrags from Grama and Grampa; they smell so good and clean! When I got out of the “shower” and combed my hair, there were still fuzzies from my blanket in my hair. Yeah, not super clean, not to mention every time I shower and comb my hair there’s a handful of hair that comes out. I didn’t have a lot of hair to begin with and after two years I’m afraid I will have several bald spots. Last night I wasn’t feeling well and I felt like I might puke. Actually, I was kind of hoping to puke to get whatever wasn’t good out of my tummy. I was lying on the couch and moaning, with the bucket by me when my neighbor came in to say hi. I said I wasn’t feeling well and might puke. He said if I needed to puke to tell him. I told him, “Okay, I’ll tell you so you can close your eyes.” He laughed and said, “No, I need to leave if you puke.” I told him, oh thanks; you’re going to leave me alone to puke. He told me it was better if I’m alone when I puke. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard a Cameroonian say it’s better if you’re alone for anything. I never did puke but I fell asleep on my couch, which I rarely do during the night. Between the insects and things falling from the ceiling, I actually prefer sleeping under my mosquito net. Right now I’m sitting next to my two cats drinking tea (I think I over did it on Nescafe) and water with rehydration salts, my solution for everything back home is to drink water, now I have a feeling water and rehydration salts will become a popular drink here. It doesn’t taste good, but it is so hot here, I am probably dehydrated 90% of the time. I was discouraged to hear it gets even hotter in February, March, and April. I wanted to cry when I heard this. I can barely walk around in the afternoons as it is. It does get chilly during the nights, but I guess that doesn’t last either. It’s going to take a lot more adjusting. Yesterday, I went to the market and hung out there for a while. It is usually with guys and younger girls and boys because married women don’t leave their compounds often. The guys sit in the market and talk with each other; they drink hot tea, wear long sleeves, pants, and sometimes hats and jackets and I don’t see a drip of sweat on them. Meanwhile, I’m hogging the shade, wearing sunglasses, a summer dress, with my scarf awkwardly draped over my head and shoulders. I’m downing water and sweating constantly. When I complain about the heat, they just say, it’s perfect now, just wait until February. I’m not cut out for this type of sunshine, heat, and dust. Let’s hope I can adjust. People seem to move slower the hotter it gets. It is acceptable to take a break in the afternoon; I think it’d be equivalent to a siesta. I take advantage of this almost every day, usually having to share the couch with my lazy cats. Last night, while I was moaning on the couch, with my neighbor telling me not to puke in front of him, I heard something in the gap between the ceiling and roof again. Something with wings for sure. I told him to listen to it, he was like, “huh, must be a butterfly.” I wanted to smack him but also couldn’t help but laugh. Also, he was sitting under the biggest gap in the ceiling material, so if the butterfly (or bat or whatever other crossbred monster lives up there) fell, it would fall on his head. Well, I have to fetch water for my house, wash my dishes and probably sweep my floors. I better get to it because after a certain time, and temperature, I don’t do too much physical labor.

January 8, 2014 I spent two days being a little sick moving between my bed and my couch, drinking bottled water and wishing I were home. My friends certainly made being sick here, away from home, bearable. (There were times I felt like they were being my parents.) They would go to the market for me, get me bottled water, buy me food if I wanted, and just sit with me while I moaned my aches and pains out. They told me multiple times I need to go to the hospital, but I told them I was fine and if it wasn’t better in a few days then I would. Truth be told, I am scared to go to the hospitals here. They sat with me, speaking French and Fulfulde, laughing with each other, asking me what I’ve eaten today and that they would leave once I ate something. The first morning I woke up not feeling well, I woke up kind of confused. I fell a few days ago, maybe a week ago, and my ankle/foot still hurts. I rolled over in bed and thought to myself, well I should probably go to the doctor, but I hate to spend money on it if it’s nothing. I kept thinking I was at my parent’s house and when I get out of bed I can call the doctor if I decide it’s worth going in. When I finally opened my eyes, it was dark but I could tell the window was not where it should be in my parent’s guest room. Also, there were bizarre birds outside that aren’t normal in Montana, even in the summer time. I realized I was not in my parent’s house, let alone near Montana, or the States. I was in Africa, in Cameroon, in a little village near Nigeria without my family and without the ability to call my doctor. I haven’t felt so far away since being here. My aching stomach and head distracted me long enough to avoid any sadness associated with my confusion. Now, I am feeling better, still eating plain things and avoiding Nescafe and homemade peanut butter since I think those things could have been a large contributor. I think I’m done putting the effort into homemade peanut butter. I want to gag just writing about it right now. After one full day in my house, and another half day inside, I am headed back out into the world of Mayo-Darlé. I have a meeting with all the big wigs here in the community and I’m extremely nervous. I go between feeling like a grown woman who is brave and independent to feeling like a silly little girl who doesn’t know what’s going on. I have a little tea and bread in my tummy and am headed to the Sous-Prefecture for this meeting. Sometimes, I don’t know what the heck I’m doing here. Let’s be real, lately, it’s most of the time I don’t know what I’m doing here. Just going through each day trying to find something to be proud of or find something new I can learn.

January 8, 2014 I spent two days being a little sick moving between my bed and my couch, drinking bottled water and wishing I were home. My friends certainly made being sick here, away from home, bearable. (There were times I felt like they were being my parents.) They would go to the market for me, get me bottled water, buy me food if I wanted, and just sit with me while I moaned my aches and pains out. They told me multiple times I need to go to the hospital, but I told them I was fine and if it wasn’t better in a few days then I would. Truth be told, I am scared to go to the hospitals here. They sat with me, speaking French and Fulfulde, laughing with each other, asking me what I’ve eaten today and that they would leave once I ate something. The first morning I woke up not feeling well, I woke up kind of confused. I fell a few days ago, maybe a week ago, and my ankle/foot still hurts. I rolled over in bed and thought to myself, well I should probably go to the doctor, but I hate to spend money on it if it’s nothing. I kept thinking I was at my parent’s house and when I get out of bed I can call the doctor if I decide it’s worth going in. When I finally opened my eyes, it was dark but I could tell the window was not where it should be in my parent’s guest room. Also, there were bizarre birds outside that aren’t normal in Montana, even in the summer time. I realized I was not in my parent’s house, let alone near Montana, or the States. I was in Africa, in Cameroon, in a little village near Nigeria without my family and without the ability to call my doctor. I haven’t felt so far away since being here. My aching stomach and head distracted me long enough to avoid any sadness associated with my confusion. Now, I am feeling better, still eating plain things and avoiding Nescafe and homemade peanut butter since I think those things could have been a large contributor. I think I’m done putting the effort into homemade peanut butter. I want to gag just writing about it right now. After one full day in my house, and another half day inside, I am headed back out into the world of Mayo-Darlé. I have a meeting with all the big wigs here in the community and I’m extremely nervous. I go between feeling like a grown woman who is brave and independent to feeling like a silly little girl who doesn’t know what’s going on. I have a little tea and bread in my tummy and am headed to the Sous-Prefecture for this meeting. Sometimes, I don’t know what the heck I’m doing here. Let’s be real, lately, it’s most of the time I don’t know what I’m doing here. Just going through each day trying to find something to be proud of or find something new I can learn.

January 3, 2014 On my 10-minute walk to the market I am greeted by nearly everyone, except the kids who simply just stare at me (they are either in shock are scared out of their mind). I am greeted in French, Fulfulde, and English. If I say hi first I never know which language to use. If they respond in a different language, then I usually say hello again in the language they use. I usually feel silly after I’ve said hi twice in two different languages but by the time I reach the market I forget. The kids who yell “Nasara” distract me and I can’t help but smile. Even though I know this should annoy me, it doesn’t. When the kids aren’t scared of me and say anything to me, even Nasara, I greet them back with a smile. When I reach the market, there are moto boys waiting on the road, there are people patiently sitting in cars and buses, and there are people of all ages watching life in Mayo-Darlé. I stop by my friend’s boutique. He sells telephones, batteries, and other electronics. Usually, he is either inside his shack watching TV, using his computer, or outside sitting with nearby shop owners. Every time I show up, I get offered a chair within seconds. It’s impossible to refuse because if I do, they ask me where I’m going, what I need to buy, and then offer to get it for me. Sometimes they go get it themselves, sometimes they find a kid to go get it, and sometimes, maybe when they are tired, they accept my objections and I go buy my own things. It is such a trusting community. If I give my money to someone to buy me something, there is no worry they will steal from me. I’m not sure if it is because they know their parents will discipline them, or if that is just because everyone is taking care of everyone here. Either way, I love it. There are days when I think I was meant for this place. I love when people smile and say hi to me even though we’ve never met. I respond with the same enthusiasm, like we’ve met a million times. So far, everyone I’ve talked to loves music, loves to dance (or at least watch), and loves to eat together. Naps are perfectly acceptable, and in fact a normal part of the day. My large scar on my chest is normal; no one asks me silly questions like, “were you shot?” In fact, there is a group of people here who do scarification on their faces when they are young. In addition, my post mate (the other Peace Corps Volunteer here) was sick, and I was nervous about telling my colleague I’d miss a meeting. But when I told him, there was not a stitch of anger or annoyance. He told me it is normal to take care of people when they are sick; health comes first, before work or anything else. I apologized multiple times and he simply said “bon voyage” and I hope your post mate gets better. My post mate still isn’t back and the town is very concerned for him. He’s been gone a while now and there is at least one person every day who asks about his health. Of course, there are also days when I think to myself (sometimes out loud) what am I doing here? I have nothing to offer, especially when I can’t even communicate with most of them. I am barely getting down French, there is no way I can have a conversation in Fulfulde. I catch one word and usually that word is a French word mixed in with the local language. I don’t even know how to survive here, and I’m supposed to help with development work. It seems impossible. I have a lot to learn before I’m in any place to open my mouth with any ideas worth sharing. I get overwhelmed often and when I think I’m on my way to being helpful or supportive, I get comments like “I haven’t seen you lately, do you just stay in your house,” “you need to speak up in the meetings,” and “why don’t you try to speak Fulfulde?” It bursts my bubble every time I hear this. It is usually exactly what I am thinking to myself, and when someone says it out loud to me, calling me out on everything I’m trying so hard to overcome, I find myself fighting off the tears. There was one time I couldn’t hold it back any more and broke down. Luckily it was in my own house with a guy friend who had sat in on a meeting with me and called me out on all the things I think about myself, but in my mind are impossible to overcome right now. Things like speaking up in a meeting held in Fulfulde, giving ideas on the things they talk about, and asking questions. Considering I catch a fourth of most meetings, I don’t think I’m anywhere near doing the things I so badly want to do. I want to show them I am here to work, I want to help, and I want to do something worthwhile. But instead, I sit quietly listening for that random French word thrown into a speech in Fulfulde. When I am feeling brave, I ask them to speak in French, but that usually works for about 5 minutes before everyone is back to Fulfulde. I have no idea what I can do to help, to empower, to develop, or even just support people. I got nothing. I hope that changes with time. I try to tell myself to relax every time someone gets upset with me for not speaking Fulfulde or not remembering their name or position in the community. I tell myself, they have one new name and person to remember and it’s near impossible to confuse me with someone else. Even if they don’t have patience with me, I try to force myself to be patient because otherwise I will start having pity-parties way too often. It is nighttime here, about midnight. Everything and everyone is asleep. The only noises I hear are the occasional mouse, dog barking, cricket, or my cats changing positions on my blanket. I have yet to adjust to the African schedule. I love my nights and hate mornings too much. I want to stay up til 2am and wake up at 10am. Instead I force myself to go to bed earlier and let myself sleep until 7:30 or 8 am. The whole town is awake and working by the time I am drinking my coffee and getting dressed. I am definitely not helping with the idea of lazy Americans. Sorry America. I’ll try to get better, but it’s hard. I love the quiet of the night. There are no children yelling at me to “open the door” or “I want a bonbon” or “I want to draw.” I take the quiet time to reflect on my day. I think about all my conversations and I often can’t remember if I spoke English or French with people, but somehow I got through another day mostly understanding, and being mostly understood (I think). It’s a small victory that is overshadowed by the people who ask why I don’t leave my house or tell me I am not trying. I tell myself it is okay, that they don’t understand what it’s like for me to be here. But also I think, “yeah buck up girl, let’s get this show on the road.” But how?!? I can barely have conversations about things outside of food, weather, and the day. On the other hand, I am quickly learning how to lie about my relationship status. I can’t count how many marriage proposals I’ve gotten. I am not sure they really count as proposals since it’s less of a question and more of a statement. Usually followed by “…and we can go back to America together.” I just laugh and say I’m here to work, but that hasn’t been very effective. Now, I have a boyfriend/fiancé/husband (depends on who I’m talking to) back home in the States who is waiting for me to come back. With what I’ve come up with so far, he is a stand up guy who I’d love to meet. The men/guys here are different and difficult. They think I am their woman no matter what I say or do. I made the mistake of going to a bar with a guy on New Year’s (although I invited all my friends) and he thought I was going to marry him. I finally had to tell him, I’m just your friend. My guy friends laughed pretty hard as I tried to explain to this guy, in French, over the phone, I just want to be friends and asking if he has understood my terrible French. He said he did but by the phone call and visit later in the day, I am thinking he didn’t. Thankfully I was at the river washing clothes without my phone, so for now, I’ve evaded his interrogation about why I don’t want to be his wife. I am trying to integrate/adjust/etc. Sometimes I want to crawl in a hole but it doesn’t last more than an hour (maybe 2 or 3 sometimes) and the kids are a good distraction. I think they enjoy coming to my house because there are no rules. It’s a MAD HOUSE here sometimes, but I love it (usually). They come in, they draw, they play with my musical cards, my fake spiders, and they take turns trying to build the Legos my nephew sent for a little boy. I followed Joseph’s request of “Please give to a little boy” loosely. I couldn’t pick just one kid to give it to, but I have lent them out a lot and the kids love them. None of them (including the older youth) are as fast as Joseph though. Maybe with practice they will be able to build those cars without a problem. Thank you, Joseph; I told them the Legos were from you! Happy New Year everyone! I miss America quite a bit. I miss the running water, the constant electricity, and the thick comfortable mattress. Overall, I can’t complain, life is good and I like the village life and the people here. (I had to change that from “love” to “like.” I’m not quite there yet.)