After leaving Bogo this morning at around 5AM on my trusty bicycle (which I fear may actually be a complete piece of junk) for a 38km ride into Maroua, I thought I'd sneak one more blog entry into the year that was 2008. The ride from Bogo this morning could best be described as delightful seeing as December and January here is considered the cold season. At about 5AM the temperature is hovering around 60 degrees. After the past few months of non stop sweating, 60 degrees is pretty damn cold and I was sporting a long sleeve shirt for the first time since leaving the States. And to make the ride a little more enjoyable I brought along my new friend, which happens to be a 3 week old puppy. I got him about a week ago, and while I didn't feel comfortable taking a two week old puppy under my wing, mostly for his sake, I then saw the emaciated mother of the 5-6 pups and figured I'd be doing everyone involved a favor. As far as naming him, I'm leaning towards 'Timshel.' Yes, bizarre I know, but its from my favorite book (East of Eden), and if I have to bottle feed this rambunctious little ball of fur for another 3-4 weeks then I'm going to name him whatever I damn well please :) While the bottle feeding for meals and waking up at 3AM to take him outside to do his business is getting a little old, overall he's been pretty entertaining.
So naturally I have to take him on any trips longer than a few hours (this one being overnight), so he got to ride along in his box strapped to the back of my bike. I'm actually quite envious considering he's got a hot water bottle and a blanket back there. Of course once he gets old enough to guard my house I doubt I'll be lugging him anywhere, so he better enjoy it while he's got it. Luckily I don't share my father's aversion to making rest stops on long voyages, so he was able to relieve himself of his breakfast right down the road from a group of elderly ladies selling beignets (small pastries). Seeing a white man going down the road on a bicycle in rural Cameroon is in itself quite a shock for most people. So I imagine I either made their day or reinforced the idea that westerners are completely insane (maybe both) when I took what looks to be more like a hamster at this point than a puppy out of the box and patiently waited as he marked his territory.
As for my business here in Maroua today aside from updating the blog and checking the ESPN website to see how terribly the Browns did this year (surprise, surprise), I also hope to meet up with my counterpqrt, a local farmer/high school teacher to discuss our plans for the next few months. Thus far he's been integral in helping me settle in and feel welcome in the greater Bogo area, except of course for the goat-heart dinner the other week. He's already implemented some very simple strategies on his farm to improve soil fertility and reduce his costs on fertilizers drastically, and his enthusiasm to diversify his income with things such as a small-scale orchard and beekeeping should keep us busy (only suggestions at this point). Often times people that don't have the financial luxury to think about long term strategies need to see something already in practice and the benefits being reaped before getting on board. So with the Peace Corps mantra of sustainable development in mind, the goal here for my first few months in Bogo is to help my counterpart set up a demo farm of sorts among his existing farming activities. In the long run one hopes that this gentleman can pass along these agricultural practices to neighbors, family, or any other interested party. He's proved to be very intelligent, level-headed and altruistic thus far and seems more than capable. Its a very small start, but if 20 people are invited to learn about what we are promoting and only one or two of them actually start to do it correctly and wholeheartedly then I'd say we've made some progress. It's only a matter of time until they too pass along the know-how.
And while in town I also need to track down my friendly shoe salesman at the Grand Marché from whom I bought a pair of soccer cleats a few weeks ago. I grabbed the wrong size and as a result I've got massive blisters on my heels and two bruised big toenails. We seemed to have a pretty good rapport despite intense price negotiations, so hopefully we can work something out. And even if not some of the guys I play with in Bogo do so barefoot, and regularly make me look silly when they have the ball. So if my friend at the market won't cut me a break I suppose its time to really find out what its like to play soccer northern Cameroonian style: Barefoot on scorching sand, gravel and jagged refuse (batteries, glass, metal, you name it). Woohoo, cant wait for the next match!
12.31.2008
12.10.2008
Ahhh, where to start. Well, how about the fact that I am now officially a PCV! Thats right, training has finished and last Thursday we swore in as volunteers. As much as I loved my family in Nassarao and all the training staff that whipped us into shape incredibly quickly, I will not miss the endless scheduling of activities mixed in with a complete lack of privacy at home. And don't worry, I'm not planning on becoming a hermit in my new home in Bogo. But being able to sit in a room with complete silence and no small children staring, while reading a chapter of a book nearly brought tears of joy to my eyes. And exploring Bogo on my own time with no set agenda just yet has given me a much needed repose.
I'll get back to Bogo in a moment, but right now let me give you a little taste of how life as a PCV began for me. The swearing in ceremony in Pitoa was attended by none other than the US ambassador herself, a whole motorcade of Cameroonian 'fonctionnaires,' and also members of our Cameroonian host families. While the entire ceremony was great, the part I found the most interesting was the 5 or 6 guys sitting to the side of the ceremony with drums and traditional instruments. At every applause they would enthusiastically start jamming out for about 5 or 10 seconds. But my favorite member of the group was without a doubt the 'lead singer.' At the slightest mention of any person of importance present at the ceremony this guy would, a cappella, start yelling in Fufulde about what a greay guy or gal they happened to be. My fufulde knowledge is still in its infancy, but he seemed to be damn good at building up the esteem of these movers and shakers. Best of all, I think you can rent them out for weddings and bar mitzvahs, so I may have some guests with me at the Archibald-Berney wedding in March. Entering the wedding reception to an elderly man screaming my praises in fufulde would be pretty sweet. "Hey everybody, here comes the bride's brother, he is the greatest man alive!! Sing his praises!"
But lets move on. As for the trip to Bogo, a few of us made our way from Garoua to Maroua last Friday and proceeded to take care of all the nuts and bolts of moving. Groceries, bank accounts, furniture, cooking equipment, etc. I didn't really have as much to do in that department as some of the others, so my first order of business was finding a car, bus, or something with 4 wheels to take me and all my things to Bogo that Sunday. After speaking with one of the Bogo bus drivers for a while I was instructed to return Sunday morning and all would be taken care of. 'Well that was very nice of him' I thought to myself. I left feeling very pleased that things had been arranged relatively trouble free. So Sunday rolls around and I return to the depot, and by depot I mean a large sand lot where there isn't a single motor vehicle younger than me. Upon getting off the moto and paying the driver a hear a man yell 'Bogo!!' which must be directed at me. It was a different man than the one I talked to the previous day, but he came up to me and without even asking my destination said very confidently, 'I'll be taking you to Bogo today!' His price was fair (15000cfa, 30 dollars) and I liked his attitude right off the bat. But then unfortunately I saw the car we would be taking. I think carbon dating would place this particular automobile in the 1960s, but it looked as if it had endured any number of accidents, breakdowns, war zones, etc. At one point I think it was a Mercedes, but good luck getting them to claim it. I immediately thought of those cars that the completely incompetent henchmen in the old James Bond movies used to chase 007 with. And everytime without fail one of those knuckleheads managed to careen over a hill, flipping the car over several times, and then Bond rides off unscathed, etc. I now think that these cars had been sent to Cameroun after filming under some certified pre-owned arrangement, and my chauffeur that day was lucky enough to have one of these classic beauties. I knew at that moment I should just turn and walk away, but that little voice inside my head said that this was just to damn interesting to pass up. I hopped in the car, as my trusty chauffeur popped the e-brake and began pushing. Which explains why he had it parked on a hill. He proceeded to hop into the moving car, did a whole array of pulls and pushes of levers and pedals that probably only he knows, and the ancient beast awakened and rolled out of the depot.
Luckily the road to Bogo, while unpaved, is relatively straight and flat. Although this poor vehicle made the most awful noises over the slightest pothole. From time to time smoke would rise up from where the gear shift goes into the floor. This, the driver assured me, was completely normal. About 1km outside of Bogo I began to feel immense joy, for we had reached our destination. Unfortunately, gas was no longer making it to the engine. This, the driver assured me, was completely normal. 'And don't worry', he said. 'I'm a mechanic too!' as he jumped out of the car, proceeded to disconnect the gas line and suck vigorously to remove the blockage. This, I assumed, was completely normal. Nevertheless, we made the last kilometer and I now have an interesting snippet for the blog. I'd love to continue writing about my experiences in Bogo, especially Monday's Fete de Mouton, which I spent at my Cameroonian counterparts home. Its an amazing Islamic holiday of eating, eating, eating, and eating. And the hospitality shown by traditional families is nothing short of amazing. Unfortunately my internet time is running low. Long story short, I ate goat stomach, liver, intestine and heart...so I'm really not in a place to talk about it yet anyway.
I'll get back to Bogo in a moment, but right now let me give you a little taste of how life as a PCV began for me. The swearing in ceremony in Pitoa was attended by none other than the US ambassador herself, a whole motorcade of Cameroonian 'fonctionnaires,' and also members of our Cameroonian host families. While the entire ceremony was great, the part I found the most interesting was the 5 or 6 guys sitting to the side of the ceremony with drums and traditional instruments. At every applause they would enthusiastically start jamming out for about 5 or 10 seconds. But my favorite member of the group was without a doubt the 'lead singer.' At the slightest mention of any person of importance present at the ceremony this guy would, a cappella, start yelling in Fufulde about what a greay guy or gal they happened to be. My fufulde knowledge is still in its infancy, but he seemed to be damn good at building up the esteem of these movers and shakers. Best of all, I think you can rent them out for weddings and bar mitzvahs, so I may have some guests with me at the Archibald-Berney wedding in March. Entering the wedding reception to an elderly man screaming my praises in fufulde would be pretty sweet. "Hey everybody, here comes the bride's brother, he is the greatest man alive!! Sing his praises!"
But lets move on. As for the trip to Bogo, a few of us made our way from Garoua to Maroua last Friday and proceeded to take care of all the nuts and bolts of moving. Groceries, bank accounts, furniture, cooking equipment, etc. I didn't really have as much to do in that department as some of the others, so my first order of business was finding a car, bus, or something with 4 wheels to take me and all my things to Bogo that Sunday. After speaking with one of the Bogo bus drivers for a while I was instructed to return Sunday morning and all would be taken care of. 'Well that was very nice of him' I thought to myself. I left feeling very pleased that things had been arranged relatively trouble free. So Sunday rolls around and I return to the depot, and by depot I mean a large sand lot where there isn't a single motor vehicle younger than me. Upon getting off the moto and paying the driver a hear a man yell 'Bogo!!' which must be directed at me. It was a different man than the one I talked to the previous day, but he came up to me and without even asking my destination said very confidently, 'I'll be taking you to Bogo today!' His price was fair (15000cfa, 30 dollars) and I liked his attitude right off the bat. But then unfortunately I saw the car we would be taking. I think carbon dating would place this particular automobile in the 1960s, but it looked as if it had endured any number of accidents, breakdowns, war zones, etc. At one point I think it was a Mercedes, but good luck getting them to claim it. I immediately thought of those cars that the completely incompetent henchmen in the old James Bond movies used to chase 007 with. And everytime without fail one of those knuckleheads managed to careen over a hill, flipping the car over several times, and then Bond rides off unscathed, etc. I now think that these cars had been sent to Cameroun after filming under some certified pre-owned arrangement, and my chauffeur that day was lucky enough to have one of these classic beauties. I knew at that moment I should just turn and walk away, but that little voice inside my head said that this was just to damn interesting to pass up. I hopped in the car, as my trusty chauffeur popped the e-brake and began pushing. Which explains why he had it parked on a hill. He proceeded to hop into the moving car, did a whole array of pulls and pushes of levers and pedals that probably only he knows, and the ancient beast awakened and rolled out of the depot.
Luckily the road to Bogo, while unpaved, is relatively straight and flat. Although this poor vehicle made the most awful noises over the slightest pothole. From time to time smoke would rise up from where the gear shift goes into the floor. This, the driver assured me, was completely normal. About 1km outside of Bogo I began to feel immense joy, for we had reached our destination. Unfortunately, gas was no longer making it to the engine. This, the driver assured me, was completely normal. 'And don't worry', he said. 'I'm a mechanic too!' as he jumped out of the car, proceeded to disconnect the gas line and suck vigorously to remove the blockage. This, I assumed, was completely normal. Nevertheless, we made the last kilometer and I now have an interesting snippet for the blog. I'd love to continue writing about my experiences in Bogo, especially Monday's Fete de Mouton, which I spent at my Cameroonian counterparts home. Its an amazing Islamic holiday of eating, eating, eating, and eating. And the hospitality shown by traditional families is nothing short of amazing. Unfortunately my internet time is running low. Long story short, I ate goat stomach, liver, intestine and heart...so I'm really not in a place to talk about it yet anyway.
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