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.