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.
Monday, May 5, 2008
The world is fucked up, Exhibit #349:
There are no black dolls in Africa.
Cameroonian children don't have many toys to begin with, but I've seen a number of dolls either for sale or in little girls' hands, and I have yet to see one with dark skin or even dark hair. They are all cheap, plastic, made in China dolls with blonde curls and painted-on blue eyes.
(The made-in-China part raises the question of whether there are Asian dolls in Asia. Do Asian girls play with white dolls, too?)
I noticed one that one of the little girls in my neighborhood had replaced her doll's clothing with a swatch of African fabric, and had braided black yarn into its hair. It broke my heart, and if I could have, I would have handed her my Addy doll right then and there.
Counterpoint: at least they're not playing with Barbies, which are hyper-sexualized and idealize an unrealistic body type.
But the point remains. No one is safe from the global standard of whiteness-as-beauty; The push for multiculturalism that has taken root over the past two or three decades has yet to benefit African girls, whose dolls don't look like them or reflect their cultures. And before they even outgrow their dolls, they're subject to ads for skin-whitening creams.
The really scary part is that the ideology of whiteness is so effective: Africans--or at least Cameroonians--totally buy it.
Yesterday, I had a really enlightening/infuriating conversation with the man who owns the bar on my street.
We got to talking because he said that he sees me pass every day, but that I'm always looking straight forward and walking quickly. I explained to him that I don't mean to be unfriendly, but that when I pass by a bar full of men, they call out to me--"Come sit with us, white girl! You so fine!"
He said (and he's not the first person to say so) that they're just being friendly and trying to honor me, so I explained that, no, "Welcome to Cameroon" would be an honor; "Hey pretty white girl," however, is sexual harassment.
He seemed to understand, which was really satisfying, because it's very difficult to explain to Cameroonians why it is so difficult to be a white woman here.
Then the conversation got really interesting. "I've never been to the United States, so I don't know what it feels like to be the only black person."
I told him that it's completely different in the U.S., because in the U.S., he wouldn't be the only black person, and that if he were, no one would shout, "Hey black man!," and if they did, he could sue them.
To that, he said something about the legacy of slavery, but, he said, "Your next president will be black. Doesn't that mean that there's no more racism in the United States?"
My entire soul cringed. No, no, no, I told him. I tried to explain that while legal segregation ended decades ago, discrimination is still rampant; that racism may not take the specific, overt form of calling someone Black Man on the street, but the U.S. is still an extremely racist society.
I named the example of prisons, which are overwhelmingly black.
"But black people do more bad things," he said. "Like drugs."
My entire soul cringed even harder. No, no, no, I told him. That's a stereotype. A stereotype that's so engrained and so prevalent in American thought that black people are just more likely to be caught--or worse, more likely to be jailed unfairly.
He was perplexed. His idea of the United States and its streets paved with gold had just come crashing down, but he also seemed sort of pleasantly surprised to know better.
I walked away, head in hands, aghast that he, and so much more of the world, believe what they're told about the United States.
I see it as a mission here to dispell all the rumors, but I'm one woman against a global ideological machine.
Cameroonian children don't have many toys to begin with, but I've seen a number of dolls either for sale or in little girls' hands, and I have yet to see one with dark skin or even dark hair. They are all cheap, plastic, made in China dolls with blonde curls and painted-on blue eyes.
(The made-in-China part raises the question of whether there are Asian dolls in Asia. Do Asian girls play with white dolls, too?)
I noticed one that one of the little girls in my neighborhood had replaced her doll's clothing with a swatch of African fabric, and had braided black yarn into its hair. It broke my heart, and if I could have, I would have handed her my Addy doll right then and there.
Counterpoint: at least they're not playing with Barbies, which are hyper-sexualized and idealize an unrealistic body type.
But the point remains. No one is safe from the global standard of whiteness-as-beauty; The push for multiculturalism that has taken root over the past two or three decades has yet to benefit African girls, whose dolls don't look like them or reflect their cultures. And before they even outgrow their dolls, they're subject to ads for skin-whitening creams.
The really scary part is that the ideology of whiteness is so effective: Africans--or at least Cameroonians--totally buy it.
Yesterday, I had a really enlightening/infuriating conversation with the man who owns the bar on my street.
We got to talking because he said that he sees me pass every day, but that I'm always looking straight forward and walking quickly. I explained to him that I don't mean to be unfriendly, but that when I pass by a bar full of men, they call out to me--"Come sit with us, white girl! You so fine!"
He said (and he's not the first person to say so) that they're just being friendly and trying to honor me, so I explained that, no, "Welcome to Cameroon" would be an honor; "Hey pretty white girl," however, is sexual harassment.
He seemed to understand, which was really satisfying, because it's very difficult to explain to Cameroonians why it is so difficult to be a white woman here.
Then the conversation got really interesting. "I've never been to the United States, so I don't know what it feels like to be the only black person."
I told him that it's completely different in the U.S., because in the U.S., he wouldn't be the only black person, and that if he were, no one would shout, "Hey black man!," and if they did, he could sue them.
To that, he said something about the legacy of slavery, but, he said, "Your next president will be black. Doesn't that mean that there's no more racism in the United States?"
My entire soul cringed. No, no, no, I told him. I tried to explain that while legal segregation ended decades ago, discrimination is still rampant; that racism may not take the specific, overt form of calling someone Black Man on the street, but the U.S. is still an extremely racist society.
I named the example of prisons, which are overwhelmingly black.
"But black people do more bad things," he said. "Like drugs."
My entire soul cringed even harder. No, no, no, I told him. That's a stereotype. A stereotype that's so engrained and so prevalent in American thought that black people are just more likely to be caught--or worse, more likely to be jailed unfairly.
He was perplexed. His idea of the United States and its streets paved with gold had just come crashing down, but he also seemed sort of pleasantly surprised to know better.
I walked away, head in hands, aghast that he, and so much more of the world, believe what they're told about the United States.
I see it as a mission here to dispell all the rumors, but I'm one woman against a global ideological machine.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Oh, God.
The guy at the computer next to me is looking at porn. White women sucking black dicks.
I don't even know where to start, except to say that if that's the standard of sex appeal, no wonder we get harassed so badly in the street.
I don't even know where to start, except to say that if that's the standard of sex appeal, no wonder we get harassed so badly in the street.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Africa, Made in China
You know how they make "Best Of" DVDs for famous people? Best of Seinfeld, Best of Bob Dylan, that sort of thing?
I'm no celebrity, but I think my life will deserve a commemorative Best Of DVD nonetheless, so my current project is to compile moments for the Best Of EJ.
Two such moments occurred today.
Natalie, the other Emily and I went to Marché Mokolo in search of jeans. This is no easy task, because African markets are extremely stressful--people hollering at you, sweat pouring down your face and back, disorganized piles of items that would make an American shopping mall employee shit a motherfuckin' brick.
Moment #1: I found a pair of jeans that I liked and began to haggle with the vendor. (This is a standard part of the shopping process here in Cameroon.) He asked for 25,000F (about $50)--yeah, right!--so I offered 3,000. He said, "Look at the quality! Look at all the work that went into these jeans!"
So I pulled out the tag that says "MADE IN CHINA," shoved it in his face and said, "A little girl in China made these jeans! Don't you tell me about the work that into them!"
I talked him down to 5,000F.
Moment #2: We had a field trip to the Cameroon breweries today, which meant getting all 15 of us into a little bus, which we have taken to calling "Whitey Bus." It's incredibly uncomfortable, because it demands so much attention. To quote Claire, it's like being the lion being pulled around in a cage at the circus.
We got stuck in traffic in a crowded market area, and a number of men approached the bus to stick their hands in the window. We slammed the windows shut, but they contined to sexually harass us, making lewd gestures, offering money--ew ew ew! Needless to say, I was filled with rage.
So I played Whack-A-Mole. Every time a guy kissed the window--which at least four of them did--I punched the window in front of their face.
It wasn't as satisfying as smacking the fuck out of a sexist pig, but it was pretty fun to startle them. You catch them off guard, because clearly, as a woman, God intended me to sit and endure harassment.
Other moments that will go on the Best of EJ DVD include (for those of you who remember them) falling in front of Mr. Burgess's class, the infamous Crotch Nips ride through Yellowstone, and throwing Pop-Its out of my apartment window.
I'm no celebrity, but I think my life will deserve a commemorative Best Of DVD nonetheless, so my current project is to compile moments for the Best Of EJ.
Two such moments occurred today.
Natalie, the other Emily and I went to Marché Mokolo in search of jeans. This is no easy task, because African markets are extremely stressful--people hollering at you, sweat pouring down your face and back, disorganized piles of items that would make an American shopping mall employee shit a motherfuckin' brick.
Moment #1: I found a pair of jeans that I liked and began to haggle with the vendor. (This is a standard part of the shopping process here in Cameroon.) He asked for 25,000F (about $50)--yeah, right!--so I offered 3,000. He said, "Look at the quality! Look at all the work that went into these jeans!"
So I pulled out the tag that says "MADE IN CHINA," shoved it in his face and said, "A little girl in China made these jeans! Don't you tell me about the work that into them!"
I talked him down to 5,000F.
Moment #2: We had a field trip to the Cameroon breweries today, which meant getting all 15 of us into a little bus, which we have taken to calling "Whitey Bus." It's incredibly uncomfortable, because it demands so much attention. To quote Claire, it's like being the lion being pulled around in a cage at the circus.
We got stuck in traffic in a crowded market area, and a number of men approached the bus to stick their hands in the window. We slammed the windows shut, but they contined to sexually harass us, making lewd gestures, offering money--ew ew ew! Needless to say, I was filled with rage.
So I played Whack-A-Mole. Every time a guy kissed the window--which at least four of them did--I punched the window in front of their face.
It wasn't as satisfying as smacking the fuck out of a sexist pig, but it was pretty fun to startle them. You catch them off guard, because clearly, as a woman, God intended me to sit and endure harassment.
Other moments that will go on the Best of EJ DVD include (for those of you who remember them) falling in front of Mr. Burgess's class, the infamous Crotch Nips ride through Yellowstone, and throwing Pop-Its out of my apartment window.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Africa: not an apartheid party, unless you're talking about men and women
Yesterday, Natalie went to the village of Womkoa for our internship with African Action on AIDS.
We were supposed to help install sanitary toilets, but clearly we are unfit for manual labor and, silly me, how could I ever have thought that women could wield a paint brush? So instead, we stood around all day. We watched some villagers make palm oil, ate lots and lots of mangoes, fresh from the tree, and had lunch in the village chief's house.
The highlight of the day may have been when a little girl saw us and immediately burst into tears. She had never seen a white person before, and she was terrified of us. Natalie tried bribing her to be our friend by giving her a cookie, which she took and then ran away screaming. It was sad...but mostly hilarious, I'm not gonna lie.
When we got back last night, we went to Steve's house. His host parents were having a party in honor of the members of our program.
We Americans were sitting in one corner, and the Cameroonian guests were sitting on the other side of the room. I was thinking of a junior high dance--boys on one side of the gym, girls on the other--but Steve's dad had something else in mind.
"But this is not an apartheid party!" he said in his welcoming speech.
Dinner was delicious and was followed by really fun dancing. Unfortunately, the night ended very poorly.
You've heard me mention my arrogant, self-aggrandizing, inconsiderate asshole of a host brother, Giovanni. Yes, the one who claims to be in love with me.
Giovanni comes over every night to make his mother feed him dinner, and this week, we fought every single night.
On Monday, he said that he wanted some of my bottled water. He always wants to drink my bottled water, even though he can drink the tap water. The tap water gives me diarrhea; he just thinks he's too good for it.
Not, "May I please have some of your bottled water?" or even, "Emily, would you mind sharing your bottled water?" No, just, "Give me some water." Then he stared at me until I realized what he was asking.
I gave him a Look and said, "Do you really think I'm going to get up out of my seat to walk across the room to give you my bottled water?"
He said, in all earnesty, Yes, that's what women do.
You see, Cameroonian men come home from work, sit down in front of the television, and don't get up again until they go to bed. They yell at their wives and children to bring them dinner, turn on the light, convert their oxygen into carbon dioxide, scratch their dandruff.
So I told Giovanni that maybe Cameroonian women fall for that shit, but that I am no one's servant and will never do anything he asks me to do.
The next night, in the kitchen, he told me to wash his plate, so I picked up a carving knife, held it up to his face, and asked, "What did you ask me to do?"
Last night, he was supposed to pick up Natalie and me at 10:45. I had told him 10:45 because we planned to leave at 11:00, and Giovanni makes even African time look speedy. True to form, he didn't even get there until 11:40.
And of course he expected us to wait on him. He wanted to dance and have a beer. I told him that we had already been waiting almost an hour, and that if he wanted to dance, he should take Natalie and me home and then go back to the party.
Oh but wait! If he did that, he would have been doing what a woman told him to do! And what sort of man would ever be considerate of a woman's feelings?
So he told us to give him fifteen minutes to have a beer.
Thirty minutes later... "I haven't finished my beer! Give me fifteen more minutes."
I screamed at him that we had already been waiting for well over an hour, that we were tired, and that he had to take us home.
Giovanni laughed.
If there is one single male behavior that I can't stand, it's when men belittle women's feelings. So, I got up in his face and screamed a long chain of nasty words at him, none of which he understands because he doesn't speak English.
Steve's dad had to intervene. He told me not to be angry. I don't give a fuck that he hosted me and fed me (and that, incidentally, he's my host uncle), he has no right to tell me not to be angry. And I told him so.
All in all, Giovanni refused to take us home until I started crying at 12:15.
I don't remember the last time I was so angry, and the gender politics of it all were disgusting. Giovanni couldn't care less that he was being inconsiderate--oh but when I finally cried, he really had to deal with emotions, so he had to shut me up by taking me home.
You're not supposed to make generalizations like I hate Cameroonian men, but, I hate Cameroonian men.
We were supposed to help install sanitary toilets, but clearly we are unfit for manual labor and, silly me, how could I ever have thought that women could wield a paint brush? So instead, we stood around all day. We watched some villagers make palm oil, ate lots and lots of mangoes, fresh from the tree, and had lunch in the village chief's house.
The highlight of the day may have been when a little girl saw us and immediately burst into tears. She had never seen a white person before, and she was terrified of us. Natalie tried bribing her to be our friend by giving her a cookie, which she took and then ran away screaming. It was sad...but mostly hilarious, I'm not gonna lie.
When we got back last night, we went to Steve's house. His host parents were having a party in honor of the members of our program.
We Americans were sitting in one corner, and the Cameroonian guests were sitting on the other side of the room. I was thinking of a junior high dance--boys on one side of the gym, girls on the other--but Steve's dad had something else in mind.
"But this is not an apartheid party!" he said in his welcoming speech.
Dinner was delicious and was followed by really fun dancing. Unfortunately, the night ended very poorly.
You've heard me mention my arrogant, self-aggrandizing, inconsiderate asshole of a host brother, Giovanni. Yes, the one who claims to be in love with me.
Giovanni comes over every night to make his mother feed him dinner, and this week, we fought every single night.
On Monday, he said that he wanted some of my bottled water. He always wants to drink my bottled water, even though he can drink the tap water. The tap water gives me diarrhea; he just thinks he's too good for it.
Not, "May I please have some of your bottled water?" or even, "Emily, would you mind sharing your bottled water?" No, just, "Give me some water." Then he stared at me until I realized what he was asking.
I gave him a Look and said, "Do you really think I'm going to get up out of my seat to walk across the room to give you my bottled water?"
He said, in all earnesty, Yes, that's what women do.
You see, Cameroonian men come home from work, sit down in front of the television, and don't get up again until they go to bed. They yell at their wives and children to bring them dinner, turn on the light, convert their oxygen into carbon dioxide, scratch their dandruff.
So I told Giovanni that maybe Cameroonian women fall for that shit, but that I am no one's servant and will never do anything he asks me to do.
The next night, in the kitchen, he told me to wash his plate, so I picked up a carving knife, held it up to his face, and asked, "What did you ask me to do?"
Last night, he was supposed to pick up Natalie and me at 10:45. I had told him 10:45 because we planned to leave at 11:00, and Giovanni makes even African time look speedy. True to form, he didn't even get there until 11:40.
And of course he expected us to wait on him. He wanted to dance and have a beer. I told him that we had already been waiting almost an hour, and that if he wanted to dance, he should take Natalie and me home and then go back to the party.
Oh but wait! If he did that, he would have been doing what a woman told him to do! And what sort of man would ever be considerate of a woman's feelings?
So he told us to give him fifteen minutes to have a beer.
Thirty minutes later... "I haven't finished my beer! Give me fifteen more minutes."
I screamed at him that we had already been waiting for well over an hour, that we were tired, and that he had to take us home.
Giovanni laughed.
If there is one single male behavior that I can't stand, it's when men belittle women's feelings. So, I got up in his face and screamed a long chain of nasty words at him, none of which he understands because he doesn't speak English.
Steve's dad had to intervene. He told me not to be angry. I don't give a fuck that he hosted me and fed me (and that, incidentally, he's my host uncle), he has no right to tell me not to be angry. And I told him so.
All in all, Giovanni refused to take us home until I started crying at 12:15.
I don't remember the last time I was so angry, and the gender politics of it all were disgusting. Giovanni couldn't care less that he was being inconsiderate--oh but when I finally cried, he really had to deal with emotions, so he had to shut me up by taking me home.
You're not supposed to make generalizations like I hate Cameroonian men, but, I hate Cameroonian men.
Friday, April 11, 2008
You say "play," I think happy; you say "orphans," I think sad.
The title of this post is a reference to my dear Jonny G.'s comment on
a recent post, in which I said I was going to go play with orphans. I guess it was unfair to drop a word like that without any explanation, so I thought I should update you all on my good Christian efforts to tame the savage tribes of Africa.
(That was sarcastic, in case you couldn't tell.)
A component of this study abroad program is an optional internship. You don't get any money for it or even academic credit, but since our only time commitment here is eight hours per week of class--that's it!--why not volunteer away some time? At Macalester, I often wish I could volunteer, but at Macalester, I don't have time to sleep, much less to give away. (I often consider The Mac Weekly my civic contribution.)
So, Sara and I are volunteering at an orphanage called The Fact Foundation.
There are at least 50 kids there (I'm not sure how many precisely), ranging in age from toddlers to near adults. Generally, the foundation's policy is that the kids are on their own as of age 16, but one 25-year-old is allowed to stay because he suffered from spinal meningitis and has been mentally handicapped ever since. (They call him autistic, but I think that may just be their general word for mental handicaps, as opposed to referring specifically to autism.)
The younger kids sleep three to a bed, the older kids two. The beds aren't even twin beds--they're the size of summer camp bunks.
Their diet consists of two bowls of rice per day and bananas. Other sources of nutrition are sporadic: a social worker brings dates from time to time, and there are trees on the property that provide the occassional avocado or papaya. Generally, though, it's just white rice. Not enough protein for a growing kid, and I don't even want to know how constipated they must be...
Some of the kids attend school; others don't. I'm not sure why. The foundation pays for their tuition and uniforms (it's not a private school; that's just how it works here), so it's probably just that they can't afford to send them all to school. The kids brought home their report cards while I was there last week. Their grades were abysmal. I don't think anyone helps them with their homework.
Generally, the orphanage is a happier place than it is sad. Of course it's sad that these kids were abandoned, abused or just plain orphaned, but what's great about their atmosphere is that they have lots of brothers and sisters. I think it would be neat to grow up around that many kids. And no matter what, they're better off there than abused or on the street.
When we walk in, the younger kids run up to give us hugs. They call us both "Tantine" (Auntie). Some of them just want to hold our hands, others have lots of questions about the United States, and the older girls like to play with our hair.
(Women stroke my head here all the time. They admire white people's hair. If only they could see me when I'm not there's-no-running-water-to-shower greasy, holy-hell-this-humidity frizzy, and no-one-here-knows-how-to-cut-white-people's-hair split ends. And of course, it breaks my heart that the global standard of beauty has never embraced these girls, who tell me they wish they had hair like mine. I tell them that they're beautiful, but I'm no match for the global media industry.)
Here I am getting cornrows, which of course looked ridiculous. Today they gave me hanging braids, which also look ridiculous. (But thanks to Sara for the photo!)
So, generally, it's fun to visit the kids. It gets a little depressing when I notice how tattered the kids' clothes are, how thin they are and how beat up their (very few) toys are.
What's really depressing, though, is how much I hate the administrators. There are four men who run the orphanage, but a handful of women are there every day to wash the kids' clothes and prepare the daily rice. I think the women are volunteers from a local church, but no one's really explained that situation to me.
Since it's all Cameroonian men are capable and willing to do, the men sit around all day. If, hypothetically, children had no needs, it would be acceptable for these men to sit around all day. Oh but wait...there's something wrong with that picture. And speaking of pictures, here's evidence of what we're up against:
An administrator, sleeping soundly enough in his office that I was able to go retrieve my bag from a cabinet that doesn't open without a loud scraping noise.
The children's behavior is deplorable. They hit each other constantly.
Granted, Cameroonian people are more physical than Americans--they touch each other a lot more than we do, in general, and corporal punishment, specifically, is not frowned upon here as it is in the states. But seriously, I am the first person who has ever given these kids the use your words, not your hands lecture. (It's a Christian foundation, so I asked them if they thought Jesus would hit others. How preposterous is it that I, of all Bible Belt residents, would say that?)
They run around with knives, and there's an ax lying around. Little boys pick it up and hack at pieces of 2 x 4's, and no one tells them not to.
When I tried to give an English lesson, as I'm supposed to do to make my time there productive, the kids did not shut up the whole time and the administrator guy who stood and watched didn't help me quiet them. He just watched me struggle to get their attention. What, then, was the point of his standing there?
Oh! And, two weeks in a row I've witnessed animal abuse. Well, actually, they don't care about animals in this country, so that term would fall upon deaf ears. Suffice it to say, things that would make a vegetarian flip a shit. Good thing I'm a recovered vegetarian.
One time, a boy (nine? ten years old?) caught a little duck. Not a duckling, but not an adult either. He tied its leg to a string with which he then carried it around, swinging it in circles and poking it. He then put it out of its misery by hacking off its head with a dull knife.
(Why is he allowed to play with knives? Granted, my mother dealt with 48 fewer children, but knives, like dangerous chemical and matches, were stored out of children's reach. That is common sense--something, I have discovered, Cameroonians lack.)
Yesterday, a little boy caught a baby bird, and, I think, squished it to death. However it died, its bled on his hands. And of course he thought it was hilarious to try to touch Sara and me with said hands.
I'm pretty confident that you can get bird flu that way, so I may start foaming at the mouth or something any second now. I would WebMD it if I thought the internet would cooperate.
In other words, playing with the orphans might kill me, and like any good colonizer, I am frustrated and throwing up my hands at the futility of my efforts.
But, oh, for the good moments:
a recent post, in which I said I was going to go play with orphans. I guess it was unfair to drop a word like that without any explanation, so I thought I should update you all on my good Christian efforts to tame the savage tribes of Africa.
(That was sarcastic, in case you couldn't tell.)
A component of this study abroad program is an optional internship. You don't get any money for it or even academic credit, but since our only time commitment here is eight hours per week of class--that's it!--why not volunteer away some time? At Macalester, I often wish I could volunteer, but at Macalester, I don't have time to sleep, much less to give away. (I often consider The Mac Weekly my civic contribution.)
So, Sara and I are volunteering at an orphanage called The Fact Foundation.
There are at least 50 kids there (I'm not sure how many precisely), ranging in age from toddlers to near adults. Generally, the foundation's policy is that the kids are on their own as of age 16, but one 25-year-old is allowed to stay because he suffered from spinal meningitis and has been mentally handicapped ever since. (They call him autistic, but I think that may just be their general word for mental handicaps, as opposed to referring specifically to autism.)
The younger kids sleep three to a bed, the older kids two. The beds aren't even twin beds--they're the size of summer camp bunks.
Their diet consists of two bowls of rice per day and bananas. Other sources of nutrition are sporadic: a social worker brings dates from time to time, and there are trees on the property that provide the occassional avocado or papaya. Generally, though, it's just white rice. Not enough protein for a growing kid, and I don't even want to know how constipated they must be...
Some of the kids attend school; others don't. I'm not sure why. The foundation pays for their tuition and uniforms (it's not a private school; that's just how it works here), so it's probably just that they can't afford to send them all to school. The kids brought home their report cards while I was there last week. Their grades were abysmal. I don't think anyone helps them with their homework.
Generally, the orphanage is a happier place than it is sad. Of course it's sad that these kids were abandoned, abused or just plain orphaned, but what's great about their atmosphere is that they have lots of brothers and sisters. I think it would be neat to grow up around that many kids. And no matter what, they're better off there than abused or on the street.
When we walk in, the younger kids run up to give us hugs. They call us both "Tantine" (Auntie). Some of them just want to hold our hands, others have lots of questions about the United States, and the older girls like to play with our hair.
(Women stroke my head here all the time. They admire white people's hair. If only they could see me when I'm not there's-no-running-water-to-shower greasy, holy-hell-this-humidity frizzy, and no-one-here-knows-how-to-cut-white-people's-hair split ends. And of course, it breaks my heart that the global standard of beauty has never embraced these girls, who tell me they wish they had hair like mine. I tell them that they're beautiful, but I'm no match for the global media industry.)
Here I am getting cornrows, which of course looked ridiculous. Today they gave me hanging braids, which also look ridiculous. (But thanks to Sara for the photo!)
So, generally, it's fun to visit the kids. It gets a little depressing when I notice how tattered the kids' clothes are, how thin they are and how beat up their (very few) toys are.
What's really depressing, though, is how much I hate the administrators. There are four men who run the orphanage, but a handful of women are there every day to wash the kids' clothes and prepare the daily rice. I think the women are volunteers from a local church, but no one's really explained that situation to me.
Since it's all Cameroonian men are capable and willing to do, the men sit around all day. If, hypothetically, children had no needs, it would be acceptable for these men to sit around all day. Oh but wait...there's something wrong with that picture. And speaking of pictures, here's evidence of what we're up against:
An administrator, sleeping soundly enough in his office that I was able to go retrieve my bag from a cabinet that doesn't open without a loud scraping noise.
The children's behavior is deplorable. They hit each other constantly.
Granted, Cameroonian people are more physical than Americans--they touch each other a lot more than we do, in general, and corporal punishment, specifically, is not frowned upon here as it is in the states. But seriously, I am the first person who has ever given these kids the use your words, not your hands lecture. (It's a Christian foundation, so I asked them if they thought Jesus would hit others. How preposterous is it that I, of all Bible Belt residents, would say that?)
They run around with knives, and there's an ax lying around. Little boys pick it up and hack at pieces of 2 x 4's, and no one tells them not to.
When I tried to give an English lesson, as I'm supposed to do to make my time there productive, the kids did not shut up the whole time and the administrator guy who stood and watched didn't help me quiet them. He just watched me struggle to get their attention. What, then, was the point of his standing there?
Oh! And, two weeks in a row I've witnessed animal abuse. Well, actually, they don't care about animals in this country, so that term would fall upon deaf ears. Suffice it to say, things that would make a vegetarian flip a shit. Good thing I'm a recovered vegetarian.
One time, a boy (nine? ten years old?) caught a little duck. Not a duckling, but not an adult either. He tied its leg to a string with which he then carried it around, swinging it in circles and poking it. He then put it out of its misery by hacking off its head with a dull knife.
(Why is he allowed to play with knives? Granted, my mother dealt with 48 fewer children, but knives, like dangerous chemical and matches, were stored out of children's reach. That is common sense--something, I have discovered, Cameroonians lack.)
Yesterday, a little boy caught a baby bird, and, I think, squished it to death. However it died, its bled on his hands. And of course he thought it was hilarious to try to touch Sara and me with said hands.
I'm pretty confident that you can get bird flu that way, so I may start foaming at the mouth or something any second now. I would WebMD it if I thought the internet would cooperate.
In other words, playing with the orphans might kill me, and like any good colonizer, I am frustrated and throwing up my hands at the futility of my efforts.
But, oh, for the good moments:
On the planet, and soap.
One of the great things about this semester is that I am so much better for the planet--rather, less horrid for it--here in Cameroon than I am in the United States.
You can't open a paper these days without reading something about carbon emissions and global warming and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad consequences that our lifestyle has for Mother Earth. The article often includes a token list of ways to reduce your eco footprint, many of which miss the point. Sure, you should buy a hybrid car if you're replacing your current one anyway, but hello? Consumerism is no solution for carbon emissions. But, that's the United States for you.
Here's a novel idea for reducing your carbon emissions: move to an undeveloped country!
Living in Cameroon has made me realize how much superfluous stuff we have in the U.S., and that all of it harms the planet (and me) to at least a small extent.
Here is a list of the electrical appliances that I use daily, or at least regularly, in my real life in the U.S. Bold denotes the appliances that I know to be particularly coal-consuming.
In Cameroon, I use:
In Cameroon, I never drive, and to get anywhere, I use a share taxi. Granted, the air quality in Yaoundé sucks because the cars have no Clean Air Act emission standards, but at least there are wayyy fewer cars on the road. Rather than driving myself alone, I share a ride with strangers. This is less efficient than buses, I suppose, but far less heinous than the American phenomenon of sitting in traffic by yourself.
In Cameroon, nearly everything I eat is locally grown. I buy a few packaged foods (corn flakes, oatmeal, Nescafé) that are shipped to Cameroon, but eggs, fruits and vegetables, and meats are all grown here in Cameroon. (Cameroon is supposedly about the size of California, to give you an idea of scale. That's not very far for food to travel.)
The one thing I do regularly in the U.S. that I can't do in Cameroon is to recycle. Yaoundé's municipal trash system is worthless, so recycling is clearly not a priority. It really bothers me to throw away paper, and it bothers me how wasteful it is that I have to drink bottled water.
Also, Cameroonians are all about superfluous bagging. At the bakery, for example, each item receives a small baggie, all of which are put into one big plastic bag. Not necessary. And they always tie the tops so tight that you have to tear the bag open and can't reuse it, as we do for trash and dog poop in the U.S.
But, plastic bottles are recycled on a micro-level: people refill them with palm oil to sell in the markets, among other things. And, most beverages come only in glass bottles, almost all of which get returned to the brasserie, washed out and refilled. The United States really needs this system, which is even more efficient than recycling.
Since the water is ice-cold, my showers rarely last more than about four minutes. I use multiple buckets full of water to hand-wash all of my laundry, but I could use much less if I could get over being so obsessive compulsive about a clean rinse.
Living in Cameroon has also made me think the superfluous substances we use.
By "substances," I mean food--I'm going to freak out about the proponderance of salad dressings, cereals and teas the first time I go to an American supermarket--but mainly to the feats of chemical engineering that we take for granted.
In the U.S., I use different soaps for my hair, body, hands, dishes, clothes, and household. In Cameroon, these soaps are availible, but people generally use a basic bar of soap (that's an icky color and kind of smells like a urinal cake...) for their bodies, dishes and housecleaning.
Now, I wouldn't want to use color-safe bleach on my body, nor moisturizing soap on my dishes, but it makes me wonder: how many potentially cancerous, water supply-damaging substances do I use every single day? And how many of them do I really need? Zero.
Don't even get me started on artificial flavorings.
You can't open a paper these days without reading something about carbon emissions and global warming and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad consequences that our lifestyle has for Mother Earth. The article often includes a token list of ways to reduce your eco footprint, many of which miss the point. Sure, you should buy a hybrid car if you're replacing your current one anyway, but hello? Consumerism is no solution for carbon emissions. But, that's the United States for you.
Here's a novel idea for reducing your carbon emissions: move to an undeveloped country!
Living in Cameroon has made me realize how much superfluous stuff we have in the U.S., and that all of it harms the planet (and me) to at least a small extent.
Here is a list of the electrical appliances that I use daily, or at least regularly, in my real life in the U.S. Bold denotes the appliances that I know to be particularly coal-consuming.
- Alarm clock + radio
- Hair dryer
- Straight iron/curling iron
- Coffee maker
- Toaster
- Microwave
- Electric stove/oven
- TV + DVD player
- Laptop
- Printers
- Speakers
- Cell phone charger
- Camera charger
- iPod charger
- Overhead lights
- Lamps
- Iron
- Space heaters
- Water heater
- Washer
- Dryer
- Central heat/air conditioning
- Elevators/escalators
- Automatic doors
- Stop lights
- Street lights
In Cameroon, I use:
- Flourescent overhead lights (no lamps, no incandescent bulbs)
- TV
- Electric kettle
- Cell phone charger
- Camera charger
- iPod charger
- Iron
- Fans
In Cameroon, I never drive, and to get anywhere, I use a share taxi. Granted, the air quality in Yaoundé sucks because the cars have no Clean Air Act emission standards, but at least there are wayyy fewer cars on the road. Rather than driving myself alone, I share a ride with strangers. This is less efficient than buses, I suppose, but far less heinous than the American phenomenon of sitting in traffic by yourself.
In Cameroon, nearly everything I eat is locally grown. I buy a few packaged foods (corn flakes, oatmeal, Nescafé) that are shipped to Cameroon, but eggs, fruits and vegetables, and meats are all grown here in Cameroon. (Cameroon is supposedly about the size of California, to give you an idea of scale. That's not very far for food to travel.)
The one thing I do regularly in the U.S. that I can't do in Cameroon is to recycle. Yaoundé's municipal trash system is worthless, so recycling is clearly not a priority. It really bothers me to throw away paper, and it bothers me how wasteful it is that I have to drink bottled water.
Also, Cameroonians are all about superfluous bagging. At the bakery, for example, each item receives a small baggie, all of which are put into one big plastic bag. Not necessary. And they always tie the tops so tight that you have to tear the bag open and can't reuse it, as we do for trash and dog poop in the U.S.
But, plastic bottles are recycled on a micro-level: people refill them with palm oil to sell in the markets, among other things. And, most beverages come only in glass bottles, almost all of which get returned to the brasserie, washed out and refilled. The United States really needs this system, which is even more efficient than recycling.
Since the water is ice-cold, my showers rarely last more than about four minutes. I use multiple buckets full of water to hand-wash all of my laundry, but I could use much less if I could get over being so obsessive compulsive about a clean rinse.
Living in Cameroon has also made me think the superfluous substances we use.
By "substances," I mean food--I'm going to freak out about the proponderance of salad dressings, cereals and teas the first time I go to an American supermarket--but mainly to the feats of chemical engineering that we take for granted.
In the U.S., I use different soaps for my hair, body, hands, dishes, clothes, and household. In Cameroon, these soaps are availible, but people generally use a basic bar of soap (that's an icky color and kind of smells like a urinal cake...) for their bodies, dishes and housecleaning.
Now, I wouldn't want to use color-safe bleach on my body, nor moisturizing soap on my dishes, but it makes me wonder: how many potentially cancerous, water supply-damaging substances do I use every single day? And how many of them do I really need? Zero.
Don't even get me started on artificial flavorings.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Today I woke up sucking on lemon.
As I walked down the street this morning, I realized that I was scowling so hard that my face hurt.
I couldn't walk a single block without hearing "Eh! La blanche!" (Hey white girl!) or "Ma chérie! Que tu es belle!" (Baby, you're so fine!).
Here in Yaoundé, I have to be on edge every time I leave the house. I am (necessarily) very defensive, which is tiring for someone who is generally good-natured (I hope...) and who attempts to be non-judgmental.
I couldn't help but look forward to going home, where I can walk down the street without being harassed.
Whence commenced the following internal dialogue:
Macalester lobe: You mean, you can't wait to go the United States where white privilege is just that? Where you don't have to be aware of your race every minute of every day? That's fucked up, Emily, and you should be ashamed of yourself.
Cameroon lobe: Well, yeah! Yeah! Shut up, Macalester! You've never been a white woman in Africa. You have no idea what I'm going through.
Macalester lobe: That shows a fucking lot of character, Emily. For the first time in your life, you're a minority, and it's rough, so you're just going to hide in the comfort of American white privilege.
Cameroon lobe: No. No. You don't get it. I'm not even a minority here--I'm an anomaly! I still don't know what it's like to be a minority--I know what it's like to be a celebrity! You can't alk about race in the African context in the same terms of the American context. But while we're on the topic, let's talk about the comfort of a country where feminism has accomplished something! In the U.S. I can walk a few blocks without being sexually harassed. That's what I miss! Not being in the privileged majority, but living in a country whose LAWS prohibit people from talking to me the way they talk to me every single day in Cameroon.
So anyway, I had a big think stink this morning and no satisfyingly unproblematic conclusion. Am I wretched?
On a completely different note, I'm planning to exploit the brother who said that he's falling in love with me. He's going to wash my clothes soon, and on Saturday he's taking me to a bougie restaurant frequented by the few white people in this town. I don't feel bad about exploiting him; he's a jerk.
Oh, and the orphans cornrowed my hair this morning. It's good that I was wearing Western clothes and not a kabbah, or I would have looked like a total tool. As it was, I just looked ridiculous. I'll post a picture sometime if the 'net will cooperate.
I couldn't walk a single block without hearing "Eh! La blanche!" (Hey white girl!) or "Ma chérie! Que tu es belle!" (Baby, you're so fine!).
Here in Yaoundé, I have to be on edge every time I leave the house. I am (necessarily) very defensive, which is tiring for someone who is generally good-natured (I hope...) and who attempts to be non-judgmental.
I couldn't help but look forward to going home, where I can walk down the street without being harassed.
Whence commenced the following internal dialogue:
Macalester lobe: You mean, you can't wait to go the United States where white privilege is just that? Where you don't have to be aware of your race every minute of every day? That's fucked up, Emily, and you should be ashamed of yourself.
Cameroon lobe: Well, yeah! Yeah! Shut up, Macalester! You've never been a white woman in Africa. You have no idea what I'm going through.
Macalester lobe: That shows a fucking lot of character, Emily. For the first time in your life, you're a minority, and it's rough, so you're just going to hide in the comfort of American white privilege.
Cameroon lobe: No. No. You don't get it. I'm not even a minority here--I'm an anomaly! I still don't know what it's like to be a minority--I know what it's like to be a celebrity! You can't alk about race in the African context in the same terms of the American context. But while we're on the topic, let's talk about the comfort of a country where feminism has accomplished something! In the U.S. I can walk a few blocks without being sexually harassed. That's what I miss! Not being in the privileged majority, but living in a country whose LAWS prohibit people from talking to me the way they talk to me every single day in Cameroon.
So anyway, I had a big think stink this morning and no satisfyingly unproblematic conclusion. Am I wretched?
On a completely different note, I'm planning to exploit the brother who said that he's falling in love with me. He's going to wash my clothes soon, and on Saturday he's taking me to a bougie restaurant frequented by the few white people in this town. I don't feel bad about exploiting him; he's a jerk.
Oh, and the orphans cornrowed my hair this morning. It's good that I was wearing Western clothes and not a kabbah, or I would have looked like a total tool. As it was, I just looked ridiculous. I'll post a picture sometime if the 'net will cooperate.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Incest?
Cameroonian men have often declared their love for us, but it's usually been in the context of a taxi or a bar, so their oh-so-sincere advances are easily escaped.
I would normally ignore the text message I received last week--I just to tell you that i alway think about you and to let you know that i want something serious between us i mean more than a simple relationship because i am falling in love--except that this particular admirer is my host brother.
This is problematic because, a, duh, and b, I despise him. This is the guy who was a jerk the whole weekend we went to the beach (see "A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Weekend at the Beach").
Luckily he doesn't live with us, but he comes over all the time to make his mother feed him and to vex me. Normally I can't blame anyone for falling in love with me--who doesn't love hystrionics, sarcasm and a penchant for the absurd?--but I have never been such a bitch to anyone in my life.
(For example, last night he knocked on my door to ask me for batteries for the remote control, which is annoying to begin with, but when he saw that I was drinking a mug of tea, he asked, You're not going to invite me to join you? I said no and closed the door in his face.)
The only reason I can fathom that he would want anything to do with me is that in Cameroon, it's a status symbol to walk around with a white person. I feel used.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Lesson # 6548: Don't believe guide books.
Yesterday, I read through a Cameroon travel book. It was immediate obvious that the author has not been to Cameroon.
In the "Do & Don't" section, it said that it's obscene and dangerous to pee in public. People here pee on the street all the freakin' time. I've seen more penises here than a prostate cancer specialist sees in the course of a career. (As an aside, one of my biggest accomplishments here yet was to pee in public, standing up. I straddled the gutter and peed like a man! Retribution for the gutter cutting open my knee. It's the small things for me--some people get Nobel prizes; I celebrate peeing standing up.)
In regards to one specific bar, the book said, "Interestingly, the beer is served from behind a wire cage." The beer is always served from behind a cage here. It's the Cameroonian take on the bulletproof glass around the counter in liquor stores in bad neighborhoods in the U.S., because all the neighborhoods here are bad.
The moral of the story is that you shouldn't believe travel guides.
Last night I dreamed about pizza for the second night in a row. I dreamed that my family and I had about six pizzas on the balcony of our old house, and that after eating pizza, I was toasting a sandwich and all the cheese melted off of the sandwich and onto the tray of the toaster oven. I cried in frustration, and shouted something along the lines of, "Fucking fuck ass motherfucker! FUCK! I haven't had a sandwich with cheese in six months!" It was very sad. And I woke up craving pizza, which is hopeless in this city.
The radio in this cyber café is now playing "My Heart Will Go On," which is my cue to leave, so I'm off to play with orphans!
In the "Do & Don't" section, it said that it's obscene and dangerous to pee in public. People here pee on the street all the freakin' time. I've seen more penises here than a prostate cancer specialist sees in the course of a career. (As an aside, one of my biggest accomplishments here yet was to pee in public, standing up. I straddled the gutter and peed like a man! Retribution for the gutter cutting open my knee. It's the small things for me--some people get Nobel prizes; I celebrate peeing standing up.)
In regards to one specific bar, the book said, "Interestingly, the beer is served from behind a wire cage." The beer is always served from behind a cage here. It's the Cameroonian take on the bulletproof glass around the counter in liquor stores in bad neighborhoods in the U.S., because all the neighborhoods here are bad.
The moral of the story is that you shouldn't believe travel guides.
Last night I dreamed about pizza for the second night in a row. I dreamed that my family and I had about six pizzas on the balcony of our old house, and that after eating pizza, I was toasting a sandwich and all the cheese melted off of the sandwich and onto the tray of the toaster oven. I cried in frustration, and shouted something along the lines of, "Fucking fuck ass motherfucker! FUCK! I haven't had a sandwich with cheese in six months!" It was very sad. And I woke up craving pizza, which is hopeless in this city.
The radio in this cyber café is now playing "My Heart Will Go On," which is my cue to leave, so I'm off to play with orphans!
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Finally, the photos you have all been waiting for!
Me at the waterfall on the coast. After this some African guys rowed us around it in tradtional canoes. It was problematic and fun.
The view from my balcony, top to bottom being left to right. I feel like God would feel with the whole world in his hands, if he existed.
Me with the neighborhood kids. They love having their pictures taken, so I got to play with them all afternoon!
Here are the Wom-MYN, dedicated to David K. Seitz, Mothahfuckah. We took this picture on Women's Day, when we were bossed around by men at a creepy militaristic march.
Reasons that Cameroon doesn't make any sense
1. Yesterday the other blanches and I went to Yaoundé's only movie theater. The movies are, with rare African exception, bad American movies dubbed into French, and they are always shown in double feature.
Yesterday morning's double feature started at 10 a.m., which does not make sense, but the pairing made sense: a Samuel L. Jackson marathon, "The Boss" followed by "Snakes on a Plane." The afternoon pairing, though, was "The Exorcist" followed by "As Good As It Gets." That does not make sense.
(Unfortunately, I missed the "Motherfuckin' snakes on this motherfuckin' plane" line, but knowing French, I'm sure it was something along the lines of "Merde alors! Il y a des serpents sur cet avion-ci!")
2. Cameroonians are compulsive about cleaning certain things but ignore other aspects of hygiene.
My host family, for example, gets on their hands and knees to scrub the front porch three or four times a week, but leaves food (corn kernels, for example) uncovered, outside, for weeks at a time. Everyone scrubs the hell out of their shoes and washes their cars all the time. Bathrooms, however, when they exist, are always revoltingly disgusting, and no one seems to mind that everyone throws their trash everywhere. The city is an extended dump.
3. Cameroonian men ask us for our phone numbers all the time. Literally, before they ask our names. I usually say that I don't have a phone (a total lie), to which a number of people have asked if they can give me their numbers. You can give me your number, I say, but I'm not going to call it. They insist on giving me their numbers anyway.
4. Coffee is grown in Cameroon, but there are no coffee shops in this entire city and the only coffee available is instant Nescafé.
Yesterday morning's double feature started at 10 a.m., which does not make sense, but the pairing made sense: a Samuel L. Jackson marathon, "The Boss" followed by "Snakes on a Plane." The afternoon pairing, though, was "The Exorcist" followed by "As Good As It Gets." That does not make sense.
(Unfortunately, I missed the "Motherfuckin' snakes on this motherfuckin' plane" line, but knowing French, I'm sure it was something along the lines of "Merde alors! Il y a des serpents sur cet avion-ci!")
2. Cameroonians are compulsive about cleaning certain things but ignore other aspects of hygiene.
My host family, for example, gets on their hands and knees to scrub the front porch three or four times a week, but leaves food (corn kernels, for example) uncovered, outside, for weeks at a time. Everyone scrubs the hell out of their shoes and washes their cars all the time. Bathrooms, however, when they exist, are always revoltingly disgusting, and no one seems to mind that everyone throws their trash everywhere. The city is an extended dump.
3. Cameroonian men ask us for our phone numbers all the time. Literally, before they ask our names. I usually say that I don't have a phone (a total lie), to which a number of people have asked if they can give me their numbers. You can give me your number, I say, but I'm not going to call it. They insist on giving me their numbers anyway.
4. Coffee is grown in Cameroon, but there are no coffee shops in this entire city and the only coffee available is instant Nescafé.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Whenever I want fo-oo-oood, all I can do is dreee-eeam.
I'm sorry, dear readers, if you're sick of fielding my complaints about Cameroonian food. Really, it's not the Cameroonian food that's a problem so much as the lack of American food.
I thought I had adjusted because I stopped craving American food every waking minute, but since then, I've just been dreaming about American food every single night. I'm not kidding--every single night my dreams involve food. Last night it was Halloween candy and a meatloaf sandwich, but I also dreamed about Doritos, and my brain concocted an an all-you-care-to-eat chocolate buffet, which I may just have to patent someday.
So, I'm making a list of all the things I want my parents to stock before my return. For their shopping convenience, I've organized it by supermarket section.
Produce:
Baby spinach
Strawberries
Fuji apples
Granny Smith apples
Almonds
Dairy:
Organic 2% milk
Extra sharp cheddar
Provolone slices
Kozy Shak tapioca pudding
Shredded parmesan
Butter
Low fat cottage cheese
Moose tracks ice cream
Cookie dough ice cream
The Edy's ice cream that's part raspberry sorbet (I forget what it's called)
Deli:
Sliced sam'mich turkey and lots of it
Bakery:
Bagels, preferably from Einstein Bros., but Thomas's Everything bagels would suffice
Snacks:
Nacho cheese Doritos
Crunchy Cheetos
Bite size Tostitos
Newman's Own Peach salsa
White cheddar Cheez-Its
Snyder's Sourdough pretzel bites
Velveeta Shells n' Cheese
Annie's Naturals white cheddar macaroni
Drinks:
Newman's Own lemonade
Lime Diet Coke (or Diet Coke and fresh limes)
And, friends, I am completely goddam broke, so if you want me to love you forever--or, I'll be honest, I might even give sexual favors for this--take me on dates to the following restaurants:
Steak n' Shake
Waffle House
Crescent Moon...mmm
Chik-fil A
McDonald's (I don't normally like McDonald's, but in Cameroon, the burgers are the size of sausage patties, so they don't fill the bun. Most of the bites are bread and mayo. I just want a burger that fills the bun, so a processed fast food burger sounds SO good to me right now.)
Pizza (Mellow Mushroom? Hell, even Domino's sounds good right now.)
Mexican (I like El Toro and Taqueria Del Sol, Atlantans, and Minnesotans, my favorite place on Lake Street is Taqueria La Que Buena)
...and if you feel like springing for a more expensive date, brunch at Watershed
Shit. I thought that list would be therapeutic, and instead, I just feel really hungry right now.
EDIT: I forgot to include the two most important things: a jar of crunchy peanut butter and a big bag of bite-sized Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.
I thought I had adjusted because I stopped craving American food every waking minute, but since then, I've just been dreaming about American food every single night. I'm not kidding--every single night my dreams involve food. Last night it was Halloween candy and a meatloaf sandwich, but I also dreamed about Doritos, and my brain concocted an an all-you-care-to-eat chocolate buffet, which I may just have to patent someday.
So, I'm making a list of all the things I want my parents to stock before my return. For their shopping convenience, I've organized it by supermarket section.
Produce:
Baby spinach
Strawberries
Fuji apples
Granny Smith apples
Almonds
Dairy:
Organic 2% milk
Extra sharp cheddar
Provolone slices
Kozy Shak tapioca pudding
Shredded parmesan
Butter
Low fat cottage cheese
Moose tracks ice cream
Cookie dough ice cream
The Edy's ice cream that's part raspberry sorbet (I forget what it's called)
Deli:
Sliced sam'mich turkey and lots of it
Bakery:
Bagels, preferably from Einstein Bros., but Thomas's Everything bagels would suffice
Snacks:
Nacho cheese Doritos
Crunchy Cheetos
Bite size Tostitos
Newman's Own Peach salsa
White cheddar Cheez-Its
Snyder's Sourdough pretzel bites
Velveeta Shells n' Cheese
Annie's Naturals white cheddar macaroni
Drinks:
Newman's Own lemonade
Lime Diet Coke (or Diet Coke and fresh limes)
And, friends, I am completely goddam broke, so if you want me to love you forever--or, I'll be honest, I might even give sexual favors for this--take me on dates to the following restaurants:
Steak n' Shake
Waffle House
Crescent Moon...mmm
Chik-fil A
McDonald's (I don't normally like McDonald's, but in Cameroon, the burgers are the size of sausage patties, so they don't fill the bun. Most of the bites are bread and mayo. I just want a burger that fills the bun, so a processed fast food burger sounds SO good to me right now.)
Pizza (Mellow Mushroom? Hell, even Domino's sounds good right now.)
Mexican (I like El Toro and Taqueria Del Sol, Atlantans, and Minnesotans, my favorite place on Lake Street is Taqueria La Que Buena)
...and if you feel like springing for a more expensive date, brunch at Watershed
Shit. I thought that list would be therapeutic, and instead, I just feel really hungry right now.
EDIT: I forgot to include the two most important things: a jar of crunchy peanut butter and a big bag of bite-sized Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Emalaria Jones: Fighting Infectious Disease, One Mosquito at a Time
For those of you who read the WebMD page on malaria and were convinced that I would be sent home in a wooden box, I thought I'd give you a run down of what malaria is like.
Monday I felt fine. Great, even. Until nighttime. I spent the night at my program's center rather than with my host family, and around 10:30, I felt sleepy and began to get ready for bed.
Literally, in the time it took me to brush my teeth, I felt like I was dying. Worst body ache of my life, particularly in my hips and knees; headache; fever. I was exhausted, but I hardly slept because given the body ache, I couldn't get comfortable.
At about 4:45 in the morning, I felt like I had to poop. That's strange, I thought--I wake up to pee but never to poop. So I stagger to the bathroom only to diarrhea the most vile diarrhea of my life. It kept coming and coming and coming. I thought I would look down and see my organs in the toilet.
(Sorry if that crosses the TMI line. Living in Africa gives you a very frank relationship with your bowel movements.)
Went back to bed, pulled the trash can over because I thought I was going to puke up my remaining organs, and lay there thinking, "This is it. I'm dying. I'm never going to get out of this bed."
The next morning, I had to go to the American Embassy, which made me incredibly angry, but that's another story entirely. The whole time I was extremely exhausted and headachey.
Got my malaria test at a lab that afternoon, and then the program doctor text messaged me a prescription. I can't decide if that is more or less 21st century medical care than I would receive in the U.S.
Went home, lay in bed crying and writhing around in pain, diarrhead some more.
But, I took the meds and my worst symptoms were over within about 36 hours. Since Wednesday morning, I have been lying in bed, alternating between fever and chills and sleeping a lot, but not feeling like I'm dying anymore. I caught up on The Young & the Restless, courtesy of South African tv.
In Africa, malaria is like the flu. You get it all the time, you're sick for a few days, and then you're okay. Unless you're a baby, or geriatric, or an AIDS patient, it's not the crisis everyone imagines.
Monday I felt fine. Great, even. Until nighttime. I spent the night at my program's center rather than with my host family, and around 10:30, I felt sleepy and began to get ready for bed.
Literally, in the time it took me to brush my teeth, I felt like I was dying. Worst body ache of my life, particularly in my hips and knees; headache; fever. I was exhausted, but I hardly slept because given the body ache, I couldn't get comfortable.
At about 4:45 in the morning, I felt like I had to poop. That's strange, I thought--I wake up to pee but never to poop. So I stagger to the bathroom only to diarrhea the most vile diarrhea of my life. It kept coming and coming and coming. I thought I would look down and see my organs in the toilet.
(Sorry if that crosses the TMI line. Living in Africa gives you a very frank relationship with your bowel movements.)
Went back to bed, pulled the trash can over because I thought I was going to puke up my remaining organs, and lay there thinking, "This is it. I'm dying. I'm never going to get out of this bed."
The next morning, I had to go to the American Embassy, which made me incredibly angry, but that's another story entirely. The whole time I was extremely exhausted and headachey.
Got my malaria test at a lab that afternoon, and then the program doctor text messaged me a prescription. I can't decide if that is more or less 21st century medical care than I would receive in the U.S.
Went home, lay in bed crying and writhing around in pain, diarrhead some more.
But, I took the meds and my worst symptoms were over within about 36 hours. Since Wednesday morning, I have been lying in bed, alternating between fever and chills and sleeping a lot, but not feeling like I'm dying anymore. I caught up on The Young & the Restless, courtesy of South African tv.
In Africa, malaria is like the flu. You get it all the time, you're sick for a few days, and then you're okay. Unless you're a baby, or geriatric, or an AIDS patient, it's not the crisis everyone imagines.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Ditches were one thing, but parasites?! Thanks a lot, Africa.
So my 21st birthday was already going to be anticlimactic since I've spent the last two months in a country that has no drinking age, but now it looks as though I'll be spending the day in bed.
Not hungover from my first night of legal drunken revelry, but flat on my ass with malaria.
Yup. I've got malaria.
Not hungover from my first night of legal drunken revelry, but flat on my ass with malaria.
Yup. I've got malaria.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Never have I been so thankful for Cameroon's painfully slow internet.
Given that the tension has blown over for the most part, that the Embassy oh-so-kindly permits us to leave our houses, and that moving us would have been an academic nightmare, my program decided to let us stay here in Cameroon...for now, at least.
There's still a chance that the revolution will start right here in Yaoundé, in which case, I'm sure we helpless little white girls would be whisked to Embassy property in armored vehicles before we even had time to pack our bags, but that's unlikely. See, Cameroonians prefer stability in the short term to good governance in the long term, which is why the president gets away with whatever he wants. (Not to worry, though: they would have to drag me--kicking balls and screaming murder--if it were the Revolution.)
And of course, as I type this, the woman in the next stall is Googling information on how to get a green card in the United States. Oh, the irony. If only I could explain in French--without being a total asshole--that the U.S. isn't all it's cracked up to be. I'd give her my American citizenship if I could--I don't want to go home, and God knows I want an excuse not to vote in November. (Fuck Hilary, fuck Obama. I'm sick of it, and I'm watching the international news. I feel terribly sorry for all of you who are in the States right now.)
Throughout the four days of torturous limbo, I attempted to cheer myself up by making a list of the things of which I would thrilled, frankly, to have three fewer months. They include:
--Sweating
--Ice cold showers, which are painful no matter how hot it is outside
--An extremely uncomfortable mattress and even worse pillow
--Constant noise
--Humans smelling like humans and not deodorants like "Mystic Sunset"
--Shards of bone in every beef dish; bones and skin in every fish stew
--Jerky taxi drivers
--Jerky moto drivers who think it's funny to pretend to swerve into me
--Being ripped off because I'm white
--Men staring at me, shouting at me, and--all too often--touching me
--The smell of plastic burning
--Little variety of food, and total deprivation of a few of my staples, such as Cheerios, turkey sandwiches with cheddar, Diet Dr. Pepper, and PopTarts
--Emily pronounced the French way ("Amy-LEE")
--Dirt
--Living in a giant trash dump
--The only dark beer here is too hoppy for my taste, and the only hard liquor is rank-ass whiskey
--Bad service in restaurants (I could write a whole post on this one, and may just do so...)
--Rude shop owners
--European keyboards
--A whole slew of Cameroonian behaviors that are unacceptable by American standards, including but not limited to:
--calling before 9:00 a.m.
--calling 8-10 times in a row if the person doesn't pick up the first time
--finding someone at home if they still don't pick up
--stalking in general
--using chain saws before 8:00 a.m.
--asking for presents
--calling people by their race ("White girl! White girl!" Can you imagine the NAACP versus ACLU battle that would ensue if you shouted out "Black person! Black person!" in America? Throwdown!)
But of course, this list was nothing compared to the list of reasons I would have been devastated to leave. The tomatoes alone are worth dealing with the bad foods, and constant bad smells make the occassional good one sheer ecstasy. I am supposed to work in an orphanage and haven't even been there yet, and I may also be working with a woman who runs an AIDS organization. Plus, my parents are supposed to visit at the end of my program, and I can't wait to show them around--they won't believe how tough I've gotten!
So anyway, I'm thrilled that we don't have to leave.
There's still a chance that the revolution will start right here in Yaoundé, in which case, I'm sure we helpless little white girls would be whisked to Embassy property in armored vehicles before we even had time to pack our bags, but that's unlikely. See, Cameroonians prefer stability in the short term to good governance in the long term, which is why the president gets away with whatever he wants. (Not to worry, though: they would have to drag me--kicking balls and screaming murder--if it were the Revolution.)
And of course, as I type this, the woman in the next stall is Googling information on how to get a green card in the United States. Oh, the irony. If only I could explain in French--without being a total asshole--that the U.S. isn't all it's cracked up to be. I'd give her my American citizenship if I could--I don't want to go home, and God knows I want an excuse not to vote in November. (Fuck Hilary, fuck Obama. I'm sick of it, and I'm watching the international news. I feel terribly sorry for all of you who are in the States right now.)
Throughout the four days of torturous limbo, I attempted to cheer myself up by making a list of the things of which I would thrilled, frankly, to have three fewer months. They include:
--Sweating
--Ice cold showers, which are painful no matter how hot it is outside
--An extremely uncomfortable mattress and even worse pillow
--Constant noise
--Humans smelling like humans and not deodorants like "Mystic Sunset"
--Shards of bone in every beef dish; bones and skin in every fish stew
--Jerky taxi drivers
--Jerky moto drivers who think it's funny to pretend to swerve into me
--Being ripped off because I'm white
--Men staring at me, shouting at me, and--all too often--touching me
--The smell of plastic burning
--Little variety of food, and total deprivation of a few of my staples, such as Cheerios, turkey sandwiches with cheddar, Diet Dr. Pepper, and PopTarts
--Emily pronounced the French way ("Amy-LEE")
--Dirt
--Living in a giant trash dump
--The only dark beer here is too hoppy for my taste, and the only hard liquor is rank-ass whiskey
--Bad service in restaurants (I could write a whole post on this one, and may just do so...)
--Rude shop owners
--European keyboards
--A whole slew of Cameroonian behaviors that are unacceptable by American standards, including but not limited to:
--calling before 9:00 a.m.
--calling 8-10 times in a row if the person doesn't pick up the first time
--finding someone at home if they still don't pick up
--stalking in general
--using chain saws before 8:00 a.m.
--asking for presents
--calling people by their race ("White girl! White girl!" Can you imagine the NAACP versus ACLU battle that would ensue if you shouted out "Black person! Black person!" in America? Throwdown!)
But of course, this list was nothing compared to the list of reasons I would have been devastated to leave. The tomatoes alone are worth dealing with the bad foods, and constant bad smells make the occassional good one sheer ecstasy. I am supposed to work in an orphanage and haven't even been there yet, and I may also be working with a woman who runs an AIDS organization. Plus, my parents are supposed to visit at the end of my program, and I can't wait to show them around--they won't believe how tough I've gotten!
So anyway, I'm thrilled that we don't have to leave.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Thanks a fucking lot, Department of State.
Well, ladies and gentlemen, purse your lips in anticipation of kissing your favorite blog good bye.
Last night I received the most devastating news of my life: I may be coming home on Thursday.
Last week, taxi drivers went on strike, ostensibly over rising fuel prices, but really as a general protest against the president's intention to amend the constitution so that he can run again in 2011. (He's already been president 26 years.) The city shut down, and demonstrations turned to riots when the police intervened. (See emilyenafrique.blogspot.com for a longer explanation of the situation.)
The U.S. Embassy issued dire warnings that Americans should try to leave Cameroon as soon as possible, and the Department of State has since issued a travel warning. Dickinson College, which runs our program, booked tickets for us to return home on Thursday. They say it's merely a precaution, and that we will only leave if things get worse before then.
Meanwhile, the tension has blown over and life has returned to normal. But, shit could really hit the fan in mid-March, when the amendment will inevitably pass, since that's how the government works here.
The program has advised us to pack our bags; to be ready to leave if necessary. They won't say for sure until Wednesday night or Thursday morning, but I'm pretty sure they're going to make us leave.
Needless to say, I'm devastated, but honestly, I would rather know for sure that I'm leaving on Thurday than wonder until I go to sleep Wednesday night. This limbo is torture, and I'm an emotional wreck.
Last night I received the most devastating news of my life: I may be coming home on Thursday.
Last week, taxi drivers went on strike, ostensibly over rising fuel prices, but really as a general protest against the president's intention to amend the constitution so that he can run again in 2011. (He's already been president 26 years.) The city shut down, and demonstrations turned to riots when the police intervened. (See emilyenafrique.blogspot.com for a longer explanation of the situation.)
The U.S. Embassy issued dire warnings that Americans should try to leave Cameroon as soon as possible, and the Department of State has since issued a travel warning. Dickinson College, which runs our program, booked tickets for us to return home on Thursday. They say it's merely a precaution, and that we will only leave if things get worse before then.
Meanwhile, the tension has blown over and life has returned to normal. But, shit could really hit the fan in mid-March, when the amendment will inevitably pass, since that's how the government works here.
The program has advised us to pack our bags; to be ready to leave if necessary. They won't say for sure until Wednesday night or Thursday morning, but I'm pretty sure they're going to make us leave.
Needless to say, I'm devastated, but honestly, I would rather know for sure that I'm leaving on Thurday than wonder until I go to sleep Wednesday night. This limbo is torture, and I'm an emotional wreck.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
I look especially white (and fat) on a black sand beach on the Dark Continent.
Here is the only picture of me on the internet so far, courtesy of Sara. It was taken in Limbé, on a volcanic beach. The boy is Steve, the token male in our group.
Notice that my shoulders and face are several shades browner than the rest of me. The equatorial sun is intense, so the bits of me that are exposed regularly are looking slightly more African.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
A Brief Return to the United States (Sort Of)
Now, servicemen are not my usual company, but given the frustrations I have had in befriending and communicating with Cameroonians, I felt justified—thrilled, even—to hang out with U.S. Marines on Friday night.
My friend Natalie had met a Marine named
I felt more culture shock at the U.S. Embassy than I have felt in two months in
The party consisted of about 30 people, almost all white. In
Some Embassy brat-types were running around playing Tag, some diplomat-types were seated around patio tables, and Marines were hanging out around the bar and the pool table of the house they live in on the Embassy quarters.
Natalie, Cassie, and I were like little kids in a toy store. “They have Tostitos!” “Ohmigod, you guys, look—salsa!” “You guys, you guys, look: there’s a washing machine in that room, and a dryer!” (I’ll spare you a description of the ecstasy of washing my hands in hot water with Moisturizing Aloe Vera Softsoap.)
In short, we couldn’t believe we were still in
Even in
The Navy Band members were fascinated with us, and if she hadn’t already, Cassie won my admiration forever. When the bassist told her she was beautiful, she said, “Sorry, but that’s just getting really old here.”
But seriously—seriously—I was eating Tostitos the whole time, and I drank a Heineken, and I ate a chocolate chip cookie.
The highlight of the night, though, was that we couldn’t get a cab home, so
As we struggled to climb in—this thing was at least a meter off the ground—I said, “Ladies, this is our tax dollars at work.”
We were embarrassed to be seen in such an opulent, gas-guzzling monster, but considering that over the course of my lifetime, far more of my parents’ and my tax dollars have gone to support the Armed Forces than my public education or—God forbid—healthcare, and considering that the Marines (in Cameroon, at least) literally just stand around all day, and drink American booze all night, I felt justified—thrilled, even—in getting a ride home from the U.S. Military.
It was difficult to go back to
In the midst of a country where electricity and running water work only intermittently, I had stood in air-conditioned comfort and washed my hands in hot water. In the midst of a country whose drinking water makes me sick, I drank a European beer. In the midst of mothers burdened with hand washing their entire family’s clothing, I daydreamed of washing my clothes in the Marines’ machine. All courtesy of tax dollars that would far better serve Americans in their public schools, libraries, hospitals, public parks, and fire departments.
But the Tostitos were delightful.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Text messages I have received from Cameroonians
The day after I fell in a ditch, my French teacher sent me the following message:
GOOD AFTERNOON EMILY. I GOT YOU HAD AN ACCIDENT YESTERDAY. PLEASE ACCEPT MY SINCERE SYMPATHY. IT SHALL BE WELL WITH YOU. ABRAHAM (FRENCH CLASSES).
I responded with somthing along the lines of, 'Thank you. I'm sore, but it could have been worse,' to which he said:
YOU DON'T MEAN THAT! IT WAS THAT SERIOUS! I UNDERSTAND. BUT PROMISE NOT TO LET THE PAINS OVERCOME. JUST BE STRONG. IT'L B OVER SOON. OK?
And from some guy who asked for my nuber as I bought bananas on the street:
DEAR EMILY. SEEING YOU THE OTHER DAYWAS LIKE A DREAM THAT WILL NEVER COME TRUE I THOUGHT. MEETING YOU WAS LIKE A HEALING THAT TOOK PLACE IN MY HEART. PLEASE I AM BEGGING YOU TO SET UP A TIME FOR US TO HAVE A FACE TO FACE TALK. THANK YOU AND TAKE A GOOD CARE OF YOURSELF. BY JULIUS.
I have of course ignored all of his subsequent calls, and today got the following message:
Emilie my dear. It has been quite some-time without me hearing the fervent voice of yours that keeps me stray when thinking of you. Dear please help me 2 meet u.
GOOD AFTERNOON EMILY. I GOT YOU HAD AN ACCIDENT YESTERDAY. PLEASE ACCEPT MY SINCERE SYMPATHY. IT SHALL BE WELL WITH YOU. ABRAHAM (FRENCH CLASSES).
I responded with somthing along the lines of, 'Thank you. I'm sore, but it could have been worse,' to which he said:
YOU DON'T MEAN THAT! IT WAS THAT SERIOUS! I UNDERSTAND. BUT PROMISE NOT TO LET THE PAINS OVERCOME. JUST BE STRONG. IT'L B OVER SOON. OK?
And from some guy who asked for my nuber as I bought bananas on the street:
DEAR EMILY. SEEING YOU THE OTHER DAYWAS LIKE A DREAM THAT WILL NEVER COME TRUE I THOUGHT. MEETING YOU WAS LIKE A HEALING THAT TOOK PLACE IN MY HEART. PLEASE I AM BEGGING YOU TO SET UP A TIME FOR US TO HAVE A FACE TO FACE TALK. THANK YOU AND TAKE A GOOD CARE OF YOURSELF. BY JULIUS.
I have of course ignored all of his subsequent calls, and today got the following message:
Emilie my dear. It has been quite some-time without me hearing the fervent voice of yours that keeps me stray when thinking of you. Dear please help me 2 meet u.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
I 'spose a SCAR is a pretty decent souvenir.
Last night, I fell in a ditch.
All pain aside, falling in a ditch in Yaoundé is just about the most vile thing that could ever happen to someone. Cement ditches are the only infrastucture that's consistent in this town: there's one on each side of every street. They contain not only trash, but rotting food, and--I wish I were exaggerating--raw sewage.
Street lights are sporadic at best, but it never occurred to me that, security aside, there's a very practical reason not to go out at night, which is that you can't see the ditches you may fall into.
So, ladies and gentlemen, I fell head-first into a cement ditch about three feet deep and two feet wide. My head hit the opposite side, but my shoulder caught most of my weight, and my legs were splayed over the top. Thank G-d no one saw me--a white girl in a ditch would have been instant laughingstock of the nation.
I picked myself up quickly, appalled at how utterly disgusting the situation was. I lost a flip-flop and couldn't be bothered to look for it, so I walked home, one half of me covered in mud/sewage and one shoe missing.
Of course I had to pass by a bar full of men who no doubt wondered what the hell was wrong with me.
When I reached my house, I immediately jumped in the shower with my clothes on. Only then did I realize that Iwas bleeding profusely from my left knee.
After using nearly an entire bar of Dial soap on myself, I santized my knee and realized that the cut was deep. And wide. My host mother had left town that morning, so I called Teku, the progam director, who immediately came over with his wife to take me to the hospial.
A Cameroonian hospital, suffice it to say, would be condemned in the U.S. Supplies are few, the rooms simple and not very clean.
It was particulary unsettling to hear the nurse yell at her assitant that the tools weren't sanitary. (And uncomfortable, because I wonder if they bother to sanitize them for Cameroonian patients.)
The nurse gave me a shot that was supposedly anaesthetic, but apparently African anaesthetics don't work, because the stitches hurt like bananas and I wimpered like a little baby. She asked why I was crying, and I don't know how to sass well-enough in French to say, Fuck you. I'm getting stitches; I'll cry if I want to.
Today I looked at them, and I've watched enough Grey's Anatomy to think that I wasn't sutured correctly...
Also, everything hurts, especially the bump on my head.
But whatever, I'll have a sweet scar and not a bad story to go with it. I wasn't a very accident-prone kid--never broke anything or needed so much as a stitch--so how perfectly appropriate is it that last night, in Africa, of all places, I needed medical attetion for the first time in my life?
All pain aside, falling in a ditch in Yaoundé is just about the most vile thing that could ever happen to someone. Cement ditches are the only infrastucture that's consistent in this town: there's one on each side of every street. They contain not only trash, but rotting food, and--I wish I were exaggerating--raw sewage.
Street lights are sporadic at best, but it never occurred to me that, security aside, there's a very practical reason not to go out at night, which is that you can't see the ditches you may fall into.
So, ladies and gentlemen, I fell head-first into a cement ditch about three feet deep and two feet wide. My head hit the opposite side, but my shoulder caught most of my weight, and my legs were splayed over the top. Thank G-d no one saw me--a white girl in a ditch would have been instant laughingstock of the nation.
I picked myself up quickly, appalled at how utterly disgusting the situation was. I lost a flip-flop and couldn't be bothered to look for it, so I walked home, one half of me covered in mud/sewage and one shoe missing.
Of course I had to pass by a bar full of men who no doubt wondered what the hell was wrong with me.
When I reached my house, I immediately jumped in the shower with my clothes on. Only then did I realize that Iwas bleeding profusely from my left knee.
After using nearly an entire bar of Dial soap on myself, I santized my knee and realized that the cut was deep. And wide. My host mother had left town that morning, so I called Teku, the progam director, who immediately came over with his wife to take me to the hospial.
A Cameroonian hospital, suffice it to say, would be condemned in the U.S. Supplies are few, the rooms simple and not very clean.
It was particulary unsettling to hear the nurse yell at her assitant that the tools weren't sanitary. (And uncomfortable, because I wonder if they bother to sanitize them for Cameroonian patients.)
The nurse gave me a shot that was supposedly anaesthetic, but apparently African anaesthetics don't work, because the stitches hurt like bananas and I wimpered like a little baby. She asked why I was crying, and I don't know how to sass well-enough in French to say, Fuck you. I'm getting stitches; I'll cry if I want to.
Today I looked at them, and I've watched enough Grey's Anatomy to think that I wasn't sutured correctly...
Also, everything hurts, especially the bump on my head.
But whatever, I'll have a sweet scar and not a bad story to go with it. I wasn't a very accident-prone kid--never broke anything or needed so much as a stitch--so how perfectly appropriate is it that last night, in Africa, of all places, I needed medical attetion for the first time in my life?
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Come and get me, PETA! Bring it on, ALF!!
Preface: I've been living with my host family for about three weeks now, and I haven't slept through the night yet.
I'm horribly allergic to something in my room, so until I discovered a stockpile of generic Claritin in my suitcase, I woke up wheezing and snotting and blew my nose 'til it bled. That, or the neighbors watched TV so loud that I could hear the characters breathing, or people played drums all night long because Cameroon won the soccer game--c'est l'Afrique! The noise issue is now under control with a variety of loud fan/iPod/ear plugs.
Just when I finally got those issues under control, a mouse moved in under my bed.
Incidentally, it lives in a crocodile skin that my family stores under my bed. (Yes, this freaks me the hell out.)
Mice are small, but when they live under one's bed, one realizes that they make a shit ton of noise. So this freakin' mouse woke me up many nights in a row.
My host brother tried to kill it, but apparently this particular mouse is immune to poison.
Yesterday, I killed that motherfuckin' mouse with my own hands.
I stepped out onto my balcony and discovered the mouse just chillin' on the railing, not a care in the world, least of all my fatigue.
So I picked it up, held it in my fist and shouted at it, Thanks a lot for keeping me up all night, you fucking motherfucker!
Out of sheer spite, swinging it by the tail, I bashed it against the wall.
Well, no, not quite. I very seriously considered doing so, but it occurred to me that the mouse could have rabies or the plague, either of which would be fairly bad news.
I did, however, whack the fucker off the railing and watch gleefully as it fell two stories to its death.
Tonight--unless the crocodile springs to life, I suppose--I may just sleep through the night.
I'm horribly allergic to something in my room, so until I discovered a stockpile of generic Claritin in my suitcase, I woke up wheezing and snotting and blew my nose 'til it bled. That, or the neighbors watched TV so loud that I could hear the characters breathing, or people played drums all night long because Cameroon won the soccer game--c'est l'Afrique! The noise issue is now under control with a variety of loud fan/iPod/ear plugs.
Just when I finally got those issues under control, a mouse moved in under my bed.
Incidentally, it lives in a crocodile skin that my family stores under my bed. (Yes, this freaks me the hell out.)
Mice are small, but when they live under one's bed, one realizes that they make a shit ton of noise. So this freakin' mouse woke me up many nights in a row.
My host brother tried to kill it, but apparently this particular mouse is immune to poison.
Yesterday, I killed that motherfuckin' mouse with my own hands.
I stepped out onto my balcony and discovered the mouse just chillin' on the railing, not a care in the world, least of all my fatigue.
So I picked it up, held it in my fist and shouted at it, Thanks a lot for keeping me up all night, you fucking motherfucker!
Out of sheer spite, swinging it by the tail, I bashed it against the wall.
Well, no, not quite. I very seriously considered doing so, but it occurred to me that the mouse could have rabies or the plague, either of which would be fairly bad news.
I did, however, whack the fucker off the railing and watch gleefully as it fell two stories to its death.
Tonight--unless the crocodile springs to life, I suppose--I may just sleep through the night.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Sex Tourism is Vile, or: Women's Studies Classes Only Make Life More Difficult, but You Should Take Them Anyway
Saturday night, we went clubbing.
We went to "Club Safari." I could write an entire semiotic analysis of that name, but I'll spare you.
There were a number sex workers lined up outside. I could write an academic defense of sex workers, neatly integrating feminist/queer and Marxist theory, but I'll spare you.
The music was almost all American, and mostly Snoop Dogg at that. I could write a feminist attack on Snoop Dogg, and a Marxist rant about global capitalism and the music industry, but I'll spare you.
The clientele consisted of:
-Sex workers
-Sex tourists
-A terrorist
-The best-dressed Cameroonians I've seen yet
-Us
I could say that the sex tourists were the ickiest, nastiest white men I've ever seen and that their comb-overs, white button-downs, expensive whiskey, and thin gold necklaces brushing against exposed chest hair just screamed Midlife Crisis, but I know better than to make such a sweeping generalization, so I'll reserve judgment.
Now, I wish that life in the United States had equipped me with any other way to describe a brown man with a dark moustache, wearing a white tunic and pants and a kaffiyeh wrapped turban-style around his head--perhaps, an "ethnically distinct person of ostensible Middle Eastern origin"--but, frankly, his behavior discouraged all such efforts. Terrorist, terrorist, terrorist.
Subversive little rebel that I am, when he approached me to dance, I thought, "Fuck you, George W. Bush, and your bullshit War on Terror! I am dancing with the enemy!"
But by "dancing," I mean, being totally objectified as he rubbed his penis up and down my leg. Ew, ew, ew. He asked me to leave with him. Yeah, right, sure, Mr. Terrorist, like they haven't warned little white girls like me about men like you.
Despite all that, clubbing was really, really fun.
Cameroonians love to dance and are freakin' good at it. Everyone dances with everyone--guys on girls, girls on girls, girls on guys, multiple people on each other--just not guys on guys, because homosexuality is illegal here. (Women are safe because, you know, we're not sexual creatures in the first place, so we can't be homos.)
When Cameroonians go clubbing, they deem it unsafe to leave after a certain hour and stay at the club until sunrise. I can't keep it up that long, so I made my host brother and his friend take my host sister and me home around 2:00. I was so tired I could hardly stand up, but they drove around, pointing out all the sex workers, and dragged me into a strip club.
I think they thought it was funny and were trying to shock me. Unfortunately for them, I am not easily shocked. I told them, "We have prostitutes in America, too, you know..."
The moral of the story is: I've taken several women's studies classes, which were wonderful and rewarding, but that night, they made my life a lot more difficult, because I don't know how to explain them in French.
We went to "Club Safari." I could write an entire semiotic analysis of that name, but I'll spare you.
There were a number sex workers lined up outside. I could write an academic defense of sex workers, neatly integrating feminist/queer and Marxist theory, but I'll spare you.
The music was almost all American, and mostly Snoop Dogg at that. I could write a feminist attack on Snoop Dogg, and a Marxist rant about global capitalism and the music industry, but I'll spare you.
The clientele consisted of:
-Sex workers
-Sex tourists
-A terrorist
-The best-dressed Cameroonians I've seen yet
-Us
I could say that the sex tourists were the ickiest, nastiest white men I've ever seen and that their comb-overs, white button-downs, expensive whiskey, and thin gold necklaces brushing against exposed chest hair just screamed Midlife Crisis, but I know better than to make such a sweeping generalization, so I'll reserve judgment.
Now, I wish that life in the United States had equipped me with any other way to describe a brown man with a dark moustache, wearing a white tunic and pants and a kaffiyeh wrapped turban-style around his head--perhaps, an "ethnically distinct person of ostensible Middle Eastern origin"--but, frankly, his behavior discouraged all such efforts. Terrorist, terrorist, terrorist.
Subversive little rebel that I am, when he approached me to dance, I thought, "Fuck you, George W. Bush, and your bullshit War on Terror! I am dancing with the enemy!"
But by "dancing," I mean, being totally objectified as he rubbed his penis up and down my leg. Ew, ew, ew. He asked me to leave with him. Yeah, right, sure, Mr. Terrorist, like they haven't warned little white girls like me about men like you.
Despite all that, clubbing was really, really fun.
Cameroonians love to dance and are freakin' good at it. Everyone dances with everyone--guys on girls, girls on girls, girls on guys, multiple people on each other--just not guys on guys, because homosexuality is illegal here. (Women are safe because, you know, we're not sexual creatures in the first place, so we can't be homos.)
When Cameroonians go clubbing, they deem it unsafe to leave after a certain hour and stay at the club until sunrise. I can't keep it up that long, so I made my host brother and his friend take my host sister and me home around 2:00. I was so tired I could hardly stand up, but they drove around, pointing out all the sex workers, and dragged me into a strip club.
I think they thought it was funny and were trying to shock me. Unfortunately for them, I am not easily shocked. I told them, "We have prostitutes in America, too, you know..."
The moral of the story is: I've taken several women's studies classes, which were wonderful and rewarding, but that night, they made my life a lot more difficult, because I don't know how to explain them in French.
Les rues de Yaoundé: No Man's Land
On Friday, I took a motorcycle taxi to class.
This may not strike the reader as a particularly blog-worthy event, so allow to me explain:
The streets here are terrifying. Terrifying.
Each street is roughly 3.5 SUV-friendly lanes wide, but the lanes aren't marked. You drive on the right, supposedly, but the middle lane is for passing, and if the driver wants to pass the person in the middle lane, he goes over to the left lane. At any given time, 100 or so motorcycle taxis ("motos") zipping in between cars. So essentially, the lane system is null.
There are no speed limits.
In the entire city, there is one intersection with a traffic light. Intersections, therefore, operate on a "No lifeguard on duty--Cross at your own risk" sort of system.
Sidewalks are rare, so you walk on the side of the street and pray not to lose your toes to a moto.
Taxis operate differently. You don't hire one to take only your party to a specfic destination; rather, you name a landmark, they take you if they're headed that direction, and they pick people up as they go along. I think this system is brilliant, and that we should do it in the U.S. to make taxis cheaper for everyone and to reduce carbon emissions...
...however, Americans would flip a shit if they were expected to sit that close to strangers. It's totally standard to have six passengers in a taxi--four in the back, two in the shotgun. It's uncomfortable, but considering that I can anywhere in the city for about 40 cents, I can deal with it.
Oh, and everyone honks, all the time. To say "Hello," or "Yes, you can get in the taxi," or, "No, you may not get in the taxi," or "Fuck you," or, "Hey look--a white girl!," or just if it's been more than 12 seconds since you last honked.
It usually takes around 76 seconds to find a taxi--there are thousands of them--but Friday morning, I waited an entire six minutes and was about to be late for class, so when a moto pulled over, I didn't wave him past as I usually do.
I was wearing a skirt, and several people were watching--a little white girl boarding a moto is quite a sight in this town--so I knew that straddling the seat would end badly. I sat side-saddle, held onto my books with one hand, and put the other arm around the driver's waist.
Luckily, traffic was light and I didn't have to go far, because I definitely could have slid right off the back of the thing.
But the moral of the story is: I'm a freakin' badass!
This may not strike the reader as a particularly blog-worthy event, so allow to me explain:
The streets here are terrifying. Terrifying.
Each street is roughly 3.5 SUV-friendly lanes wide, but the lanes aren't marked. You drive on the right, supposedly, but the middle lane is for passing, and if the driver wants to pass the person in the middle lane, he goes over to the left lane. At any given time, 100 or so motorcycle taxis ("motos") zipping in between cars. So essentially, the lane system is null.
There are no speed limits.
In the entire city, there is one intersection with a traffic light. Intersections, therefore, operate on a "No lifeguard on duty--Cross at your own risk" sort of system.
Sidewalks are rare, so you walk on the side of the street and pray not to lose your toes to a moto.
Taxis operate differently. You don't hire one to take only your party to a specfic destination; rather, you name a landmark, they take you if they're headed that direction, and they pick people up as they go along. I think this system is brilliant, and that we should do it in the U.S. to make taxis cheaper for everyone and to reduce carbon emissions...
...however, Americans would flip a shit if they were expected to sit that close to strangers. It's totally standard to have six passengers in a taxi--four in the back, two in the shotgun. It's uncomfortable, but considering that I can anywhere in the city for about 40 cents, I can deal with it.
Oh, and everyone honks, all the time. To say "Hello," or "Yes, you can get in the taxi," or, "No, you may not get in the taxi," or "Fuck you," or, "Hey look--a white girl!," or just if it's been more than 12 seconds since you last honked.
It usually takes around 76 seconds to find a taxi--there are thousands of them--but Friday morning, I waited an entire six minutes and was about to be late for class, so when a moto pulled over, I didn't wave him past as I usually do.
I was wearing a skirt, and several people were watching--a little white girl boarding a moto is quite a sight in this town--so I knew that straddling the seat would end badly. I sat side-saddle, held onto my books with one hand, and put the other arm around the driver's waist.
Luckily, traffic was light and I didn't have to go far, because I definitely could have slid right off the back of the thing.
But the moral of the story is: I'm a freakin' badass!
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
This particular animal is not at all camouflauged in her African habitat.
Funny things happen when you're a white girl in Africa.
Exhibit A: At the beach, a vendor offered to trade his artwork for my sunglasses. I considered it, but I couldn't part with the sunglasses, not even for an "authentic" mask made of the fallen rainforest. It was difficult to explain to the vendor that, just as the masks he sells are symbolic of his ethnic identity, my ridiculously oversized sunglasses are a symbol of my ethnic identity, and I didn't want to go the next five months without any souvenirs of my fellow pretentious hipster tribespeople.
Exhibit B: I showed my very sunburned shoulder to my host family. They had never seen a sunburn before!
Exhibit C: A nasty little man offered me 5000 CFA (about $10 US) to touch my skin. If he'd only wanted to touch my skin, he would have just reached out and touched it. So basically, I was prostituted. Great.
Another girl on the program can totally beat that story, though: a man asked to buy her from her (white male) companion....for the equivalent of about $3. Maybe I'm hotter than she is? I mean, I am worth a whopping $10...
In an effort to blend into my new surroundings, I went to an art fair and bought a very cool African dress. I'm like a chameleon, except, you know, a clothed chameleon.
Also at the art fair, I spent a very long time negotiating the purchase of a fairly large wooden elephant. The sculptor asked for nearly $500, and in all my best batting-my-blue-eyes charm, I couldn't talk him into selling it for $25.
Well, my little monkeys, I'm off to watch the Lions demolish Sudan in the Africa Cup. (What the fuck is Sudan doing playing soccer these days, anyway?! Soccer...genocide...seriously, folks. Prioritize.)
Exhibit A: At the beach, a vendor offered to trade his artwork for my sunglasses. I considered it, but I couldn't part with the sunglasses, not even for an "authentic" mask made of the fallen rainforest. It was difficult to explain to the vendor that, just as the masks he sells are symbolic of his ethnic identity, my ridiculously oversized sunglasses are a symbol of my ethnic identity, and I didn't want to go the next five months without any souvenirs of my fellow pretentious hipster tribespeople.
Exhibit B: I showed my very sunburned shoulder to my host family. They had never seen a sunburn before!
Exhibit C: A nasty little man offered me 5000 CFA (about $10 US) to touch my skin. If he'd only wanted to touch my skin, he would have just reached out and touched it. So basically, I was prostituted. Great.
Another girl on the program can totally beat that story, though: a man asked to buy her from her (white male) companion....for the equivalent of about $3. Maybe I'm hotter than she is? I mean, I am worth a whopping $10...
In an effort to blend into my new surroundings, I went to an art fair and bought a very cool African dress. I'm like a chameleon, except, you know, a clothed chameleon.
Also at the art fair, I spent a very long time negotiating the purchase of a fairly large wooden elephant. The sculptor asked for nearly $500, and in all my best batting-my-blue-eyes charm, I couldn't talk him into selling it for $25.
Well, my little monkeys, I'm off to watch the Lions demolish Sudan in the Africa Cup. (What the fuck is Sudan doing playing soccer these days, anyway?! Soccer...genocide...seriously, folks. Prioritize.)
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
How ironic would it be to GAIN weight in Africa?
Preface: I'm not a picky eater. I'm really not. I think picky eating is childish.
I'm not a huge fan of onions (I blame this on my mother, because she ate a case of Vidalia onions--raw--while she was pregnant with me), but I'll eat them, and bananas have to be a very particular shade of yellow, but that's about it.
So my first week in Cameroon, I was eager to try everything. By the end of the second week, I was jonesing for anything American.
From what I can tell, they only eat three dishes in Cameroon:
"Sauce tomate" has a good flavor, but is oily and somehow always contains shards of cow bone, and is served with white rice, which is as boring as, well, white rice
"Ndole" is made of some sort of green, and tastes spinachy at first, but has a nasty bitter after taste, and is served with plaintains, which are fine, except that I am so sick of them after two weeks that I don't understand how people eat so many of them
but the worst of all is...
"Eru." As Cassie said, "It tastes like grass fried in oil." And it is served with "Fufu," with is made from casava flour. It is disgusting. It has the consistency of Play-Doh, and tastes something like papier-maché paste.
My host mother has been very gracious, and has encouraged me to tell her if I don't like something she makes, but I don't have the heart to tell her that I don't like any of it. Also, I made the mistake of telling her that I like African fruit. I do like African fruit, but because I told her so, she won't stop buying it for me. Over the course of a week, she has given me:
3 oranges (which were so hard to peel and so full of seeds that they weren't worth the effort)
2 loaves of white bread (there is no whole grain bread on this continent, as far as I can tell)
12 eggs (how am I supposed to finish a whole dozen eggs by myself?)
5 pineapples (that is so much damn pineapple...)
and 5 papayas. I really wish I could like papaya, because in Cameroon, they're fresh from the trees and delicious, but they have the texture of melon, but less flavor, and for some reason, I always think they'll give me diarrhea. I have no rational reason to think so--they have never given me diarrhea. Someone told me to think of it as "eating a very flagrant flower," which helps, but it still bothers me that the seeds look like fish eggs.
Also, when I scrambled two eggs this morning, they came out light pink instead of yellow...
I bought stuff to make chili, in the hopes that my host mom will realize that I'm capable of feeding myself and stop buying me army loads of food. Chili is cheap in America, and expensive here--the ingredients came out to well over $10. Go figure.
So I have already gone to the bougie ass café that caters to white tourists twice--mmm, pizza and chocolate milkshakes. I think it's going to be a weekly ritual, because the only other things I can find here that I like are sweet yogurts, pastries, and chocolate bars.
Yes, ladies & gentlemen, as people starve all around me, I'm going to get FAT in Africa.
I'm not a huge fan of onions (I blame this on my mother, because she ate a case of Vidalia onions--raw--while she was pregnant with me), but I'll eat them, and bananas have to be a very particular shade of yellow, but that's about it.
So my first week in Cameroon, I was eager to try everything. By the end of the second week, I was jonesing for anything American.
From what I can tell, they only eat three dishes in Cameroon:
"Sauce tomate" has a good flavor, but is oily and somehow always contains shards of cow bone, and is served with white rice, which is as boring as, well, white rice
"Ndole" is made of some sort of green, and tastes spinachy at first, but has a nasty bitter after taste, and is served with plaintains, which are fine, except that I am so sick of them after two weeks that I don't understand how people eat so many of them
but the worst of all is...
"Eru." As Cassie said, "It tastes like grass fried in oil." And it is served with "Fufu," with is made from casava flour. It is disgusting. It has the consistency of Play-Doh, and tastes something like papier-maché paste.
My host mother has been very gracious, and has encouraged me to tell her if I don't like something she makes, but I don't have the heart to tell her that I don't like any of it. Also, I made the mistake of telling her that I like African fruit. I do like African fruit, but because I told her so, she won't stop buying it for me. Over the course of a week, she has given me:
3 oranges (which were so hard to peel and so full of seeds that they weren't worth the effort)
2 loaves of white bread (there is no whole grain bread on this continent, as far as I can tell)
12 eggs (how am I supposed to finish a whole dozen eggs by myself?)
5 pineapples (that is so much damn pineapple...)
and 5 papayas. I really wish I could like papaya, because in Cameroon, they're fresh from the trees and delicious, but they have the texture of melon, but less flavor, and for some reason, I always think they'll give me diarrhea. I have no rational reason to think so--they have never given me diarrhea. Someone told me to think of it as "eating a very flagrant flower," which helps, but it still bothers me that the seeds look like fish eggs.
Also, when I scrambled two eggs this morning, they came out light pink instead of yellow...
I bought stuff to make chili, in the hopes that my host mom will realize that I'm capable of feeding myself and stop buying me army loads of food. Chili is cheap in America, and expensive here--the ingredients came out to well over $10. Go figure.
So I have already gone to the bougie ass café that caters to white tourists twice--mmm, pizza and chocolate milkshakes. I think it's going to be a weekly ritual, because the only other things I can find here that I like are sweet yogurts, pastries, and chocolate bars.
Yes, ladies & gentlemen, as people starve all around me, I'm going to get FAT in Africa.
Monday, January 21, 2008
In the beginning, there was misunderstanding.
I hope no one has been stalking this blog too closely, and if you have, I apologize for being such a delinquent correspondant! I have yet to find fast internet in Cameroon, and although the slow internet only costs about 50 cents per hour, it demands sitting in a hot, crowded room that smells like human bodies.
In fact, everything in Africa smells like (sweating) human bodies, or trash, or trash burning, or food cooking.
It is also very noisy here. A few nights ago I woke up because the neighbors were playing music really loud at 4:30 a.m. In America, I would have called the cops, but my impression is that the cops here don't give a shit.
Also, I am planning to blow up all the garbage trucks, because they drive around all day honking an incredibly obnoxious honk extremely loudly. You see, rather than collecting trash twice weekly at specified places, they drive around daily, and honk at the top of every street to inform you of their presence, so that you can run up with your bag of trash. But as far as I can tell, they're useless because the streets are full of trash.
I was surprised to discover that Cameroonians behave more stereotypically American than I do. They eat french fries with nearly every meal, and they eat many of their meals in front of the television, which is almost always on.
An anecdote: On Friday, my host mother woke me up at 6:30 to give me a huge plate of french fries for breakfast.
The other food is sketchy. I find tiny shards of bone in meat dishes.
Another anecdote: Last weekend we had an excursion to the beach. We arrived at night, and our driver told us that the lights we saw offshore were Equitorial Guinea. Imagine our disappointment when we woke up to discover that "Equitorial Guinea" was in fact an oil barge.
But, that all sounds very negative! Generally, I feel like one million dollars. (Or Central African Francs, for that matter.)
I will be here for five months, and I would like to stop feeling like an outsider, but unfortunately, I would be an outsider even if I lived here forever. It is quite a spectacle when the other white girls and I walk around. People shout "Les blanches!" and blow us kisses, and grab our hands. Unfortunately, the words sexual harassment mean nothing here.
Another anecdote: some white girls and I were walking around a park downtown, and one of the white girls was snapping pictures. Apparently that's not allowed, and a park policeman approached, carrying the biggest gun I have seen in my life--including on television-- to tell us so.
Well, my loves, the internet only costs 50 cents an hour, but it's in a hot, crowded room, so I'm done for the afternoon. Many more adventures to come!
xo,
White Girl
In fact, everything in Africa smells like (sweating) human bodies, or trash, or trash burning, or food cooking.
It is also very noisy here. A few nights ago I woke up because the neighbors were playing music really loud at 4:30 a.m. In America, I would have called the cops, but my impression is that the cops here don't give a shit.
Also, I am planning to blow up all the garbage trucks, because they drive around all day honking an incredibly obnoxious honk extremely loudly. You see, rather than collecting trash twice weekly at specified places, they drive around daily, and honk at the top of every street to inform you of their presence, so that you can run up with your bag of trash. But as far as I can tell, they're useless because the streets are full of trash.
I was surprised to discover that Cameroonians behave more stereotypically American than I do. They eat french fries with nearly every meal, and they eat many of their meals in front of the television, which is almost always on.
An anecdote: On Friday, my host mother woke me up at 6:30 to give me a huge plate of french fries for breakfast.
The other food is sketchy. I find tiny shards of bone in meat dishes.
Another anecdote: Last weekend we had an excursion to the beach. We arrived at night, and our driver told us that the lights we saw offshore were Equitorial Guinea. Imagine our disappointment when we woke up to discover that "Equitorial Guinea" was in fact an oil barge.
But, that all sounds very negative! Generally, I feel like one million dollars. (Or Central African Francs, for that matter.)
I will be here for five months, and I would like to stop feeling like an outsider, but unfortunately, I would be an outsider even if I lived here forever. It is quite a spectacle when the other white girls and I walk around. People shout "Les blanches!" and blow us kisses, and grab our hands. Unfortunately, the words sexual harassment mean nothing here.
Another anecdote: some white girls and I were walking around a park downtown, and one of the white girls was snapping pictures. Apparently that's not allowed, and a park policeman approached, carrying the biggest gun I have seen in my life--including on television-- to tell us so.
Well, my loves, the internet only costs 50 cents an hour, but it's in a hot, crowded room, so I'm done for the afternoon. Many more adventures to come!
xo,
White Girl
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