I'm sorry, y'all. I didn't mean to leave you with that cliffhanger for weeks. My mom's visit to Cameroon was fun and eventful, and since I got home, I haven't felt inspired to sit down at the computer for more than ten minutes at a time.
To end the suspense:
1. The single most depressing thing that I have ever witnessed: one of the fucking useless men who runs the orphanage hit one of the kids (hard) on the head. I screamed at him for it, and asked why the hell he works at an orphanage if he doesn't like children. It sort of ruined my experience there, because now I worry about those kids instead of feeling at all hopeful for them. From when that happened (about two weeks before I left Cameroon), I was constantly on edge, expecting violence at every turn.
2. My plan for taking over Cameroon with good ol' New Deal Democratic values: Cameroon needs a WPA like nobody's business. The roads to remote villages are a joke, which is terrible--how do women in labor get to the hospital?! Oh wait...they don't. A WPA would create employment and install the infrastructure that Cameroon needs for public health and safety, and would generate further income by making the country more accessible to tourists.
3. The most bizarro night my mother and I have ever passed together: My mother and I traveled to the west of Cameroon with my host mother, which was a mistake for many reasons, one of which is that my host mother thought it was funny to take us to her family's house in a remote area without warning us that there would be no electricity or running water, no toilet, and that the house isn't even completely built. My mom kept talking about Deliverance. There were kids in the village who had never seen a white person up close, so they stared at us but wouldn't talk to us.
4. A man with 681 wives: In the town of Foumban we visited the royal palace of the Bamoun people. My favorite artifact was the skull of an enemy which the kings use as a cup. There was also a calabash decorated with enemies' jaws. But, the most impressive(/infuriating?) thing was a picture of the 17th of 19 kings, taken in 1915. One dude and his 681 wives. And we think polygamist ranches are evil...pssshaw--they ain't got nothin' on the Bamoun.
***
My trip home was a freakin' odyssey. Our flight from Yaoundé to Paris was canceled (Big Problem #1), so Air France put us up in a nice hotel for the night, but I was devastated because it meant that I couldn't go to Paris for two days as planned (Big Problem #2).
On the flight to Paris, my ears popped incredibly painfully (Big Problem #3), and then my period started about two hours before landing in Paris (BIG Problem #1). There were no supplies in any of the four plane potties, and I didn't bother to ask a stranger because I figured there'd be a dispenser in the Paris airport (Big Problem #4).
Oh but wait. Apparently the French don't menstruate or something, because IN THE PARIS AIRPORT, YOU CAN BUY HERMES SCARVES, CARTIER DIAMONDS, AND YVES SAINT LAURENT SHOES, BUT NOT A FREAKING TAMPON (BIG Problem #2). This was made particularly foul by the fact that I didn't have a change of clothes in my carry on and, all in all, had to wear blood-stained underwear and pants for at least 14 hours. Gross.
I had a long layover in Paris, then flew to Newark, only to find out that all flights to Atlanta for the night were canceled due to weather (BIG Problem #3). Delta refused to pay for a hotel room because the weather isn't their fault, and the airport hotels cost upwards of $150/night. I called customer service who told me, in slightly more polite words, tough shit. Finally, I burst into tears (for at least the fifth time of the day) in front of a sympathetic woman who gave me hotel and meal vouchers (Score 1, EJ, but a free hotel hardly makes up for the fact that you're stuck in Newark for the night. I guess it was at least a little better than sleeping in blood-stained pants on the airport floor...)
I waited over an hour for the hotel shuttle (Big Problem #5) and when I finally got to the hotel, they told me that they were out of rooms. I bitched them out, so they magically had a cancellation that I was able to nab (Score 2, EJ).
The icing on a shit sandwich of a 30+ hour day was that I started to feel sick as soon as I got into the hotel room. My good friend Rhea came to visit, and when I woke up the next morning, I vomited almost immediately. I vomited again when I got to the airport, and a third time when I got on the plane. I had chills the entire two-hour flight, and a deep ache settled into my bones. By the time I staggered into my dad's arms in Atlanta, I had diagnosed myself with Malaria III: The Malaringing.
(When I told Jon this story, he said, "The only thing worse than having malaria is having malaria in Jersey.")
I slept on the couch all day, wishing that I could enjoy being home, and my mom dragged me into the ER that evening. (The ER was actually really sweet. Compared to the African hospitals I became a little too familiar with, an American hospital was like a fancy hotel!) They gave me two liters of IV fluid and told me that they thought I had typhoid, but I saw an infectious disease specialist the next day (I wondered how many vectors of infection there were in the waiting room) who told me that it was in fact malaria.
But whatever. I felt fine by Wednesday afternoon and went out dancing Wednesday night. Infectious Disease: 3, Emalaria Jones: 0--but at least I kicked the third case's ass fast.
***
Being home has been easier than I expected it to be. I thought I would burst into tears a lot, overwhelmed at consumerism. Instead I vacillate between thinking it's awesome and thinking it's just totally frivolous. For example, I went into the grocery store, and my jaw audibly dropped at the variety of Jellos. I also had a special moment when I saw english muffins. I had forgotten that they exist.
Unfortunately, many of the foods I dreamed of have disappointed me. Pizza, burgers...not as good as I conjured them to be in my state of deprivation. The two things that have blown me away are White Cheddar Cheez Its and sweet corn. Mmmm.
***
Tomorrow, I depart for the next big chapter of my life: six weeks in Portland at a sort of journalism summer camp. I may update this blog again, as I reflect back on my time in Cameroon, I may not. If you haven't had enough of my irrational rants, though, dear readers, I will be writing a blog on Portland. Tune in at hipsterbildungsroman.blogspot.com.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
Attends, attends, attends!
Adored readers,
I'm sorry to have been so uncommunicative of late! My mother is here in Cameroon now so I have been busy entertaining her. I promise to update, though, on:
1. The single most depressing thing that I have ever witnessed, but about which I hope to have hopeful news before I inform you all
2. My plan for taking over Cameroon with good ol' New Deal Democratic values
3. The most bizarro night my mother and I have ever passed together
4. A man with 681 wives!
Is that a cliffhanger or what?
xo, EJ
I'm sorry to have been so uncommunicative of late! My mother is here in Cameroon now so I have been busy entertaining her. I promise to update, though, on:
1. The single most depressing thing that I have ever witnessed, but about which I hope to have hopeful news before I inform you all
2. My plan for taking over Cameroon with good ol' New Deal Democratic values
3. The most bizarro night my mother and I have ever passed together
4. A man with 681 wives!
Is that a cliffhanger or what?
xo, EJ
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
"Look at de Chinese woman!"
It's blatantly racist for white people say things like, "All black people look alike," but I'm not gonna lie, I find the same problem in reverse--black people thinking that all white people look alike--hilarious. If it would save their lives, Cameroonians cannot distinguish among white people.
My French teacher called me blonde. I corrected him, and he said, "But you have blue eyes!" I had to explain that that's not how blonde works.
Every time we go anywhere, people refer to the group of us as sisters. Yes, I say and roll my eyes, our mother had all 14 of us within two years.
Cameroonians also assume that I know every other white person in Yaoundé. My host brothers feel the need to inform me any time they see another white person in this city. I have told them more than once that, believe or not, there are more than 15 white people in this city and I don't know them all personally.
When we walk around in public, most people assume that we are French and shout "Sarko!" It's an insult (Sarkozy has given francophone Africans no reason to like him...nor anyone else in the world, for that matter) but still, I would rather them assume that I'm French than American. At least the French aren't going around blowing shit up and ruining lives for no good reason.
I've also been called English, German, Belgian, and Australian. One group of kids in my neighborhood consistently shouted "Bon giourno!" until I explained to them that I am not Italian.
The most amusing of all, however, is when people think I'm Chinese.
The Cameroonian stereotype of the Chinese is to make a hand gesture kind of like you would make for a shadow puppet mouth--a simple open and shut of the fingers and opposing thumb--and to say "Hee ho, hee ho." This is, of course, racist. It's along the lines of when, after watching Disney's Peter Pan but before knowing better, we ran around flapping our hands over our mouths and whooping to play "Indians."
Perhaps it's because whiteness is so associated with blonde hair. Someone with pale skin and dark hair must be Asian, according to that logic, and the only sorts of Asian they consider are Chinese and Japanese. (When she showed a picture of a Korean friend to her host mom, Lacy had a very difficult time explaining that the friend was neither Chinese nor Japanese.)
When adult men shout "La blanche!" at me, I scowl or ignore them. On one occasion, I took a page from Cassie's book and started barking at them. Little kids, however, are totally forgiven, because they're just genuinely curious about what the hell a white person is doing in their part of town.
A few days ago, my favorite of all such interactions occurred. I was walking home through my neighborhood, which is kind of an anglophone ghetto. It's not unusual for me to hear English (though it's often Pidgin, which is utterly incomprehensible to my untrained ear).
I came upon some little kids playing in the street, and one stopped, right at my feet, looked up at me and said to her friend, "Look at the Chinese woman!" (Pronounced: Look at de Shy-nese woman.)
Her friend looked me up and down, and said in a breathy voice that suggested genuine surprise, "Wow."
They clearly assumed that I couldn't speak English because they said this literally inches from me and didn't whisper.
My French teacher called me blonde. I corrected him, and he said, "But you have blue eyes!" I had to explain that that's not how blonde works.
Every time we go anywhere, people refer to the group of us as sisters. Yes, I say and roll my eyes, our mother had all 14 of us within two years.
Cameroonians also assume that I know every other white person in Yaoundé. My host brothers feel the need to inform me any time they see another white person in this city. I have told them more than once that, believe or not, there are more than 15 white people in this city and I don't know them all personally.
When we walk around in public, most people assume that we are French and shout "Sarko!" It's an insult (Sarkozy has given francophone Africans no reason to like him...nor anyone else in the world, for that matter) but still, I would rather them assume that I'm French than American. At least the French aren't going around blowing shit up and ruining lives for no good reason.
I've also been called English, German, Belgian, and Australian. One group of kids in my neighborhood consistently shouted "Bon giourno!" until I explained to them that I am not Italian.
The most amusing of all, however, is when people think I'm Chinese.
The Cameroonian stereotype of the Chinese is to make a hand gesture kind of like you would make for a shadow puppet mouth--a simple open and shut of the fingers and opposing thumb--and to say "Hee ho, hee ho." This is, of course, racist. It's along the lines of when, after watching Disney's Peter Pan but before knowing better, we ran around flapping our hands over our mouths and whooping to play "Indians."
Perhaps it's because whiteness is so associated with blonde hair. Someone with pale skin and dark hair must be Asian, according to that logic, and the only sorts of Asian they consider are Chinese and Japanese. (When she showed a picture of a Korean friend to her host mom, Lacy had a very difficult time explaining that the friend was neither Chinese nor Japanese.)
When adult men shout "La blanche!" at me, I scowl or ignore them. On one occasion, I took a page from Cassie's book and started barking at them. Little kids, however, are totally forgiven, because they're just genuinely curious about what the hell a white person is doing in their part of town.
A few days ago, my favorite of all such interactions occurred. I was walking home through my neighborhood, which is kind of an anglophone ghetto. It's not unusual for me to hear English (though it's often Pidgin, which is utterly incomprehensible to my untrained ear).
I came upon some little kids playing in the street, and one stopped, right at my feet, looked up at me and said to her friend, "Look at the Chinese woman!" (Pronounced: Look at de Shy-nese woman.)
Her friend looked me up and down, and said in a breathy voice that suggested genuine surprise, "Wow."
They clearly assumed that I couldn't speak English because they said this literally inches from me and didn't whisper.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Fuck-a-doodle youuuu, roosters!
The first time I had malaria, I recovered by sleeping an inordinate amount of time over the course the next week. This time, I recovered from malaria only to suffer from an unprecedented bout of insomnia.
In my real life, I am chronically fatigued, but this semester, 10 hours per night has been pretty standard. For the first time, I have nothing better to do; I don't have homework and I usually can't go out at night.
Wah, wah, one little week of poor sleep--I know, you're probably all thinking I shouldn't complain. But there's an inertia to sleep. If you're in the habit of undersleeping, your body adjusts; if you're in the habit of sleeping a lot, a bad night makes the following day miserable. I really needed to work on a paper last week, but instead, I spent the whole week feeling like baggy-eyed shit, wondering how I've survived so many semesters at Macalester.
The most important conclusion I reached is that roosters should be made extinct. Seriously. I think it would make the quality of life better all over the world. So I'm advocating that scientists devote more time figuring out how to make chickens capable of reproducing asexually so that the world no longer needs roosters.
I had always believed that roosters crow at dawn; the alarm that predates clocks. If that's not total urban myth, then it's at least only true of North American roosters.
African roosters start crowing at precisely 1:30 a.m. and don't shut up all day. It's fucking obnoxious.
Oh, and the whole cock-a-doodle doo thing? Bullshit. Roosters sound like broken car horns crying for help.
***
On the bright side, because I knew that I wouldn't sleep anyway, I stayed out later on Saturday night than I've stayed up since leaving the United States.
A few of us went to a party at the Marines' house. My friends thought it was awkward, but I had fun because I looked hotter than I've looked in months (I never make an effort here, and had to borrow a hot little dress from Natalie to pull myself together for one special occasion), met some guys with southern accents, (I have been so homesick for southern accents that I watched NASCAR on ESPN recently. NASCAR!) and a gay guy with whom I geeked out about journalism, ate Doritos, and drank (a lot) for free.
Men have paid more attention to me in the past five months they had in 20 years, but it's been an unwelcome sort of attention. The sort that United States law calls sexual harassment. In the same five-month span, I have missed male company like fat kids miss Ephedra. So I'm not gonna lie, going out and getting "your dress is pretty, so let me tell you about my motorcycle while you drink something I pay for" sort of attention felt like Christmas and a birthday and chocolate ice cream combined.
My friends were ready to go around 11, but rather than inevitably lie in bed growling curses at roosters for several hours, I went with the Marines to Club Safari.
Yes, the same club where I was dance-raped by a terrorist in the midst of icky old white male sex tourists. (See post titled "Sex Tourism is Vile.") But this time, I had a blast.
The fact that my program consists of 14 girls and just one boy has profoundly (read: miserably) affected my experience in Cameroon, so it was a treat to go out with guys for a change--and nice boys who are good dancers at that! I was in public, at night, dancing, and having fun--all at the same time--without fending off harassment.
In real life, the Marines and I wouldn't have enough in common to be friends--for starters, they use the word "fag" and I read queer theory for fun--but in this life, they're a very welcome change in company for me. And for them, Natalie and I are girls who they can get in their hot tub. I'd say it's a fair trade.
In my real life, I am chronically fatigued, but this semester, 10 hours per night has been pretty standard. For the first time, I have nothing better to do; I don't have homework and I usually can't go out at night.
Wah, wah, one little week of poor sleep--I know, you're probably all thinking I shouldn't complain. But there's an inertia to sleep. If you're in the habit of undersleeping, your body adjusts; if you're in the habit of sleeping a lot, a bad night makes the following day miserable. I really needed to work on a paper last week, but instead, I spent the whole week feeling like baggy-eyed shit, wondering how I've survived so many semesters at Macalester.
The most important conclusion I reached is that roosters should be made extinct. Seriously. I think it would make the quality of life better all over the world. So I'm advocating that scientists devote more time figuring out how to make chickens capable of reproducing asexually so that the world no longer needs roosters.
I had always believed that roosters crow at dawn; the alarm that predates clocks. If that's not total urban myth, then it's at least only true of North American roosters.
African roosters start crowing at precisely 1:30 a.m. and don't shut up all day. It's fucking obnoxious.
Oh, and the whole cock-a-doodle doo thing? Bullshit. Roosters sound like broken car horns crying for help.
***
On the bright side, because I knew that I wouldn't sleep anyway, I stayed out later on Saturday night than I've stayed up since leaving the United States.
A few of us went to a party at the Marines' house. My friends thought it was awkward, but I had fun because I looked hotter than I've looked in months (I never make an effort here, and had to borrow a hot little dress from Natalie to pull myself together for one special occasion), met some guys with southern accents, (I have been so homesick for southern accents that I watched NASCAR on ESPN recently. NASCAR!) and a gay guy with whom I geeked out about journalism, ate Doritos, and drank (a lot) for free.
Men have paid more attention to me in the past five months they had in 20 years, but it's been an unwelcome sort of attention. The sort that United States law calls sexual harassment. In the same five-month span, I have missed male company like fat kids miss Ephedra. So I'm not gonna lie, going out and getting "your dress is pretty, so let me tell you about my motorcycle while you drink something I pay for" sort of attention felt like Christmas and a birthday and chocolate ice cream combined.
My friends were ready to go around 11, but rather than inevitably lie in bed growling curses at roosters for several hours, I went with the Marines to Club Safari.
Yes, the same club where I was dance-raped by a terrorist in the midst of icky old white male sex tourists. (See post titled "Sex Tourism is Vile.") But this time, I had a blast.
The fact that my program consists of 14 girls and just one boy has profoundly (read: miserably) affected my experience in Cameroon, so it was a treat to go out with guys for a change--and nice boys who are good dancers at that! I was in public, at night, dancing, and having fun--all at the same time--without fending off harassment.
In real life, the Marines and I wouldn't have enough in common to be friends--for starters, they use the word "fag" and I read queer theory for fun--but in this life, they're a very welcome change in company for me. And for them, Natalie and I are girls who they can get in their hot tub. I'd say it's a fair trade.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Infectious Disease: 2, Emalaria Jones: 0
I have malaria again.
Yesterday I lay on the couch, thinking I would die of body ache and fever/chills. I watched two reruns of Oprah, which made me feel even more like dying.
I feel a little better today, but still have a fever. I lay on the couch, sweating and watching the 2006 World's Strongest Man competition, then Titanic in French, then yesterday's Twins game.
Luckily I had comfort food. The birthday package my parents sent included packets of cheese sauce mix, so I made four cheese pasta yesterday and parma rosa pasta today. I promptly 'rhea-ed them out, but at least they tasted dee-lish.
Dude, fuck malaria.
Yesterday I lay on the couch, thinking I would die of body ache and fever/chills. I watched two reruns of Oprah, which made me feel even more like dying.
I feel a little better today, but still have a fever. I lay on the couch, sweating and watching the 2006 World's Strongest Man competition, then Titanic in French, then yesterday's Twins game.
Luckily I had comfort food. The birthday package my parents sent included packets of cheese sauce mix, so I made four cheese pasta yesterday and parma rosa pasta today. I promptly 'rhea-ed them out, but at least they tasted dee-lish.
Dude, fuck malaria.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Africa taking its toll on my digestive system
A few nights ago, I ate porcupine. It made my stomach hurt.
The next night, a Marine took Natalie and me to a very posh restaurant where I was ecstatic to find Four Cheese Penne on the menu. (I have missed cheese so, so much.) Unfortunately, after four months of cheese deprivation, four at once was more than my poor stomach could handle, and I had to call it a night after just a few bites. It made me worry about what I had in mind for my triumphant first dinner back in the United States: sausage, pepperoni and extra cheese pizza.
Yesterday, I learned that they in red light districts are called hot districts here in Cameroon.
The next night, a Marine took Natalie and me to a very posh restaurant where I was ecstatic to find Four Cheese Penne on the menu. (I have missed cheese so, so much.) Unfortunately, after four months of cheese deprivation, four at once was more than my poor stomach could handle, and I had to call it a night after just a few bites. It made me worry about what I had in mind for my triumphant first dinner back in the United States: sausage, pepperoni and extra cheese pizza.
Yesterday, I learned that they in red light districts are called hot districts here in Cameroon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
