Danny Bob's African Safari

5.24.2009

New feature on the blog!

Before you start on the two new posts below, I have an announcement to make. While I'm very glad to hear that most feedback on my blog is positive, I was thinking that there may be many things about Cameroon you would like to know that I'm not addressing. So, I was sweating myself to sleep the other night, and the idea came to me. I think I'm going to call it the 'Bogo Mailbag.' What is the Bogo Mailbag you ask? Well, I'll tell you. You send me (in the form of a comment on my most recent posts) any burning questions you may have about anything at all. Preferably, those questions should be related in some way to Bogo, Cameroon or my experiences in general. And then every month or so when the stars align and I have internet connection for more than 10 minutes at a time, I will respond to your questions in an honest and insightful manner. As I see it, the Bogo Mailbag will give you the reader a more interactive role on this blog just as it will give me the author, something constructive to do with my free time other than throwing a tshirt over my puppys head and watching him run around in panic. You think I'm joking, but I think even the indefatigable Timshel was worn out the other day after 45 minutes of the tshirt game. And just recently while in Maroua I was choosing my future reading material from the bookshelf in the Peace Corps house and I ended up with an Unabridged History of Scotland in one hand, and War and Peace in the other. Please don't allow me to read the Unabridged History of Scotland or War and Peace, and don't let Timshel be a victim to my sad and twisted games any longer. Send lots of questions!

Bogo Virtual Tour, Part Un!

I feel as though I'm strumming the same chord with that last entry about the hot season, seeing as how complaining about the climate is a common theme in all my posts. So in an effort to change the pace I'd like to invite you to join me on a virtual tour of my town, Bogo. Today we are going to hit some of the high points of the community, but first one has to get there! Normally I would ride the bus from maroua to Bogo since it is 700 francs as opposed to 2500 francs for a motorcycle. However, seeing as I have you along for the voyage I'd hate for you to endure riding with 35 people and assorted animals in a bus made for about 20. Also these buses, which were quite possibly public transportation vehicles in France circa 1950, are decorated with elaborately painted names such as "bonne chance" (good luck) and "merci, Dieu" (thank you, god). In my mind those are names that don't instill confidence in arriving at one's destination fully intact. So without further delay, start the video below for a glimpse of your average moto ride to Bogo. And I warn anyone who gets carsick that it isn't the easiest video to watch.

**Unfortunately the videos wouldn't load this time around. Perhaps I'll have better luck next time.

And now we enter the town of Bogo...

And yes, I too was a bit dismayed when arriving at the 'Bogo Ville' sign for the first time. I began to think that the Peace Corps has just assigned me to someplace that looks like a mix between the Serengeti and a Mad max film for 2 years. Much to my relief about 2km down the road, and literally over the river and through the woods, we come to the true center of the Bogo. Not too far into town on the main road you will find my house...

That strange pastel painted building with the tin roof and gray door is home sweet home. Its a bit of a fixer upper, has electricity, but does not have running water. Despite the lack of indoor plunbing there is a cable TV hookup, which was enough to get me to sign the lease. Not having a modern toilet, sink or shower really isn't all that bad when you can still watch the game! Perhaps on your next tour you can see the inside of my humble abode, but I'd like to show you as much of Bogo as possible with the precious few photos I can get posted online. That, and I haven't had the opportunity to clean this week.

Moving on down the street we have the Lamido's house, the traditional leader of the community and a highly respected man amongst all the villagers. My apologies for the poor quality of the shot, but I wasn't sure how friendly his entourage (some equipped with horses and spears) would be with some crazy white man on a bike snapping photos.

Just one more block down the road we come to the Central Mosque, built sometime in the 1950s. While there are smaller one room mosques spread throughout the city's different neighborhoods to making the daily prayers a bit easier, the Grand Mosque is one of the centers of Bogo life.

Bogo is populated mostly by muslims, but farther afoot on the south side of town you will find the Catholic Mission. In the picture below the white building in the back and to the left is where mass is held. I attend Sunday mass here most weeks and it is a very interesting mix of Catholicism and traditional culture. The service is given in both French and Fufulde, and the normal trappings of a western Catholic service blend with traditional African song backed up by thumping drums and old ladies screaming at the top of their lungs. While everyone except me knows the words to the songs, most of the music seems highly improvised. It was a shock when I went to my first Sunday mass here. Attending a Catholic service that makes me want to dance is something I never thought possible.

There are many other sights to see around town, mainly the Thursday market. However I believe the market here deserves its own tour, and with every photo I post on this decrepit computer I feel as though I'm pushing my luck. Not to mention that pulling out a shiny digital camera in the middle of a busy marketplace could be the last thing I ever do, or atleast the last thing I ever do with that camera. I'll have to work on my hidden camera skills and get back to you with the market tour. In the meantime we will end this first tour with a few photos from around town, just to give you an idea of some of the average Bogo city streets. I believe these were taken during call to prayer, which would explain why the streets are deserted. And that big mud wall in the first photo is actually the backside of the Lamido's residence. It might not look like much in the photo but the residence is really quite massive and I feel as though the walls are extremely tall when walking by. Sort of like the Vatican of Bogo, I guess.

Thats all for the moment, and hopefully you enjoyed the first of possibly many tours around Northern Cameroon.

Work Update:

I know many of you may be wondering what it is I actually do here, or will do here in the future. That is a valid question. Unfortunately, I don't have a valid answer at this time. Due to a number of factors my work has yet to get moving at full speed. Firstly I was absent from Bogo most of March for a trip to the US of A (worth every second). The stifling heat of the past months hasn't help much and I understand more each day why people just sit under trees most of the time. Finally, going to the hospital in Maroua numerous times to figure out what's been residing in my tummy has shaved away some time as well, not to mention 30 pounds. Drinking well water and contracting amoebic dysentery isn't a diet plan I would recommend.

As for my work, I will say that it involves climbing trees, biking into the woods and getting to play in the dirt. It's like being ten years old again only now I have to report these activities to the powers that be at Peace Corps, and I have to wash my own clothes after I come home all dirty. In the not too distant future I plan to look back upon the first six months of my service in Cameroon in an effort to review my progress and form my expectations for the future. I do this mainly to justify my presence here to Peace Corps. Yet I'd also like to give you faithful blog readers a proper, in depth description of how me wandering aimlessly through the african bush and scaring villagers half to death stimulates small scale development in this corner of the world.

Heat & Mangoes

When arriving in Cameroon this past September I began hearing tales of the hot season in the north of the country that comes from March until sometime in May or June when the rains start again. Many volunteers would speak of temperatures in the 110-120 range, with night time temps cooling off to the mid 90s. In fact, as I right this post at about 7:30 in the morning I just noticed the thermometer topping 100 already. Should be a wonderful day!

I've been looking forward to this time of year with a mix of curiosity and dread, but surely the hot season couldn't be that unbearable, right? That was my logic until about 2 weeks ago when at about 2AM on a Thursday morning I found myself lying awake on my bed covered in a towel soaked with cool water and trying to ignore the heat rash that felt as if hundreds of tiny needles were pricking my skin. I suppose it was one of those moments in a PCV's life when the realization that you are indeed out of your element becomes painfully obvious. Even my poor dog is struggling. I don't let him in the house because he has a tendency to steal things within reach, so he spends most of his days in a shady spot of my concession digging holes in the sand in search of cooler earth to sleep on. While Timshel is busy destroying my yard in search of some cooler terrain, my favorite activity has been filling up a few buckets of water at noon everyday and slowly dumping them over my head. It's all about the simple pleasures in life, folks. Timshel doesn't trust me around water anymore, mainly because his bath time consists of me picking him up, dropping him in a bucket and then laughing maniacally as I scrub the little furball into a rage of puppy anger. He emerges looking like a drowned rat, thoroughly annoyed with me (I'm still laughing at this point), and proceeds to roll around in the sand in defiance. So as much as I'd like to help him out with the heat too, he wants nothing to do with me these days if water is involved. Yet in spite of the stifling heat day in and day out there are temporary moments of reprieve. When in Maroua a few weeks back a very rare rain and thunderstorm inundated the city for about an hour, bringing with it a heavenly breeze of cool air. It felt cooler than it had in months and I even contemplated throwing on long sleeves. Before doing so I checked the thermometer out of curiosity. This 'cool' temperature that almost prompted me to bundle up turned out to be 88. Obviously my body's definition of hot and cold has been altered, and the long sleeves will be staying tucked away for the time being. And while this may not interest anyone other than me, I have been wondering to myself "How do I know I have a fever when it is 115 degrees outside?" Certainly it must be impossible to tell, yes? Could this be my sick and demented way of finding positive things about the hot season here? Unfortunately I found out the other week that, yes, even when it is 115 degrees outside, a fever of 103 does not go unnoticed. Somebody get me Bill Nye the Science Guy's email. I want to know why, with a fever of 103, I don't just feel slightly cooler than my surrounding 115 degree environment.

If there is one redeeming quality of hot season here, it is that it also happens to be mango season. For a few months every year mango supply far outweighs demand, and a large mango goes for as little as 50cfa (less than 25 cents). I'm pretty sure I ate six to seven today alone, although I lost count in my mango-induced stupor. On average I'd say five mangoes a day is the norm, and I must tell you it is glorious. Mango juice, mango smoothies (I have a blender!), mango salsa, mango salad, mango preserves, mangoes in yogurt....and the list goes on. Hell, I would start taking my bucket baths with fresh squeezed mangoes if it weren't for all the flies. Once mango season comes to a close I certainly hope dried mangoes are still on the menu to help with the withdrawal.

3.31.2009

Dan's Excellent American Adventure (And other deep thoughts)

As many of you know I recently made a short trip to the United States for my sister’s wedding. For those of you whom I saw, it was a real pleasure and 10 days at home was not nearly enough to do it justice. And if at any point during the trip I was too entranced by whatever plate of food happened to be in front of me to visit and chat my sincere apologies. While I failed in my mission to gain 10 pounds in 10 days, I think the 5 that I gained in that short time is still a respectable showing. I am writing this entry in late March back in the north of Cameroon, but this entry actually covers events beginning back in early March when I began this most excellent of adventures back to my homeland.

So how does one go from a village in northern Cameroon to the United States? Well firstly, a little financial backing from the parents doesn’t hurt J I think I owe you guys some frequent flyer miles in the future. Or as my mother would say, “Just you remember this when picking my nursing home!” But to get to my flight in the capital, Yaounde, I had arguably the most interesting and exciting journey to date. As you’ll soon read that isn’t necessarily a good thing in this country. Leaving Bogo during the first week of March, I hopped on my friend’s motorcycle with a duffel bag and Timshel and made the 45 minute ride into Maroua. The ride from Bogo to Maroua is usually enjoyable and without incident, and that afternoon it was especially serene as I contemplated that in just a few days I’d be stuffing my face with just about any food or drink I could get my hands on. After a day or two staying in Maroua, handing Timshel off to a volunteer in town who offered to look after the little menace and doing some last minute business around town, I headed to the bush taxi agency for the 8 hour drive south to the city of Ngaoundere. I had a reserved ticket for the bus to Ngaoundere that morning, but all that really means is I am in the front of the line waiting to be trampled when the stampede of passengers towards the open bus door begins. The bush taxi fits about 25 people comfortably but about 35 people usually fill up the bus and the top is loaded down with a 4 to 5 foot pile of stuff on the roof. Not exactly the most nimble vehicle on the road, but the driver seemed convinced that he was driving a supercar on the autobahn. Despite the white knuckles I did my best to fall asleep. About halfway through the trip I was awoken by the driver laying on the horn and braking suddenly. Apparently a dog had wandered onto the road. Doing about 80 in an overloaded bush taxi is a bad idea, but trying to avoid a dog at that speed is an even worse one. Unfortunately for the dog, the driver was not quick enough to maneuver. But my sorrow for the dog quickly gave way to concern for our own safety when the bus began to rock and sway as the driver tried to get it back on the road. After a few tense seconds of swerving onto the sandy shoulder we came back onto the road in one piece. I didn’t sleep much the rest of the way.

When I finally arrived in Ngaoundere a group of about 40 porters and bag handlers crowded around our car of roughly 35 people looking for a customer. Since my time in Cameroon I’m still a believer that being polite is almost always the best policy for a foreigner, but situations such as this are no time for being polite. After a hellish 8 hours crammed in a bush taxi, I didn’t have any problem being brusque with the 5 or 6 people who ran up to me and grabbed my half empty duffel bag that I obviously didn’t need any help with. I escaped out of the mass of humanity gathered at the bus station and found the first moto taxi at the exit and high-tailed it to the Peace Corps house. Fortunately a few volunteers that I trained with and are now posted around the Ngaoundere area were in town. After a day like that I was in desperate need of either a nap or a beer. Luckily they talked some sense into me and we headed across the street to one of the neighborhood watering holes for a few ice cold bottles of 33’ Export.

I used a day in Ngaoundere to unwind a bit, and also got a chance to climb Mount Ngaoundere on the outskirts of town. The climb itself only takes about 45 minutes, but spending about 2 hours at the top enjoying the view was a great way to spend a day. That evening I hopped on a moto taxi and headed back to the bus/train station to catch the overnight train to Yaounde. En route to the station the moto driver started going increasingly faster and using the middle of a busy city street to pass and weave around other cars and motos. Normally I wouldn’t give it much concern, but this guy’s driving seemed to go beyond the average aggressiveness and crossed the line to just plain dangerous. I explained that I was in no hurry and suggested he go back onto the right side of the road. Something was lost in translation and he began going even faster down a hill. About 100 yards down the road the traffic came to an abrupt halt. Monsieur Eival Kneival saw it too late and slammed on the brakes, but then proceeded to slam into the back of a pick up truck, tossing me off a few feet into the busy street. Luckily I came out of it with only a scraped hand. My French has improved a great deal, but I was at a loss for words in this situation. After exhausting a number of English expletives that he couldn’t understand I believe conveyed my anger effectively enough. The driver tried to restart the stalled moto in the midst of oncoming traffic, and after a number of attempts and more close calls with angered motorists he willed the moto back to life. The rest of the journey was pretty quiet, but upon arriving at the train station the moto driver was very annoyed to learn that he wasn’t receiving the full fare. While I admittedly don’t know the unwritten rules of moto taxis very well, when the customer is tossed off the bike into the street I believe that warrants some kind of a discount if not a free ride.

Surely the train to Yaounde will be better than the journey so far? I had reserved a sleeping car which would give me a rare opportunity to sleep in transit. The train left Ngaoundere at 6PM that evening and was scheduled to arrive in Yaounde the next day at 6AM. My hopes of sleeping the entire way were dashed by the constant fear that hit me every time the train hit top speed and felt as though it wanted to jump the tracks. I had to position myself just so, in the event that a rougher than normal bump would eject me from my top bunk bed. And I admire the entrepreneurial spirit of Cameroonian villagers selling produce along the train’s many stops, but hearing them scream “bananes! ananas! batons!” (bananas, pineapple, sticks of manioc) at the top of their lungs during a stop at 3 in the morning doesn’t give one much chance to rest up. Other than a brief midnight breakdown in the Cameroonian bush, I arrived in the capital without incident and stumbled my way to a taxi and into Peace Corps HQ. And just in time for an 18 hour journey to Washington-Dulles!

Personally, I hate flying. It’s not a fear of flying per se, but rather a fear of the whole process involved. I love traveling, but a flight has always been best when I can sleep through the entire thing. Tiny seats, stale air, food of questionable origin, and no matter how clean I am when I get on the plane I feel as though I haven’t showered in a week when I get off. Yet after the voyage from Bogo to Yaounde, I arrived at Yaounde’s Nsimalem Airport and was immediately taken in by the grandeur and modernity of it all. I waited in a line at the baggage counter and it seemed like a portal into a completely different world. For one, no one was checking or carrying on any goats. After passing through security, where the customs agent looked at my pre-Peace Corps passport photo and commented that I should eat more, I went and sat at the gate and actually found myself becoming excited about flying in an airplane again. After a 20 minute flight from Yaounde to Douala we set off for Zurich and then on to Washington. I never thought I’d be excited to receive a plate of reheated airplane food, but when the flight attendant asked if I would be having chicken or beef I said I’d be having both. I ended up only receiving beef and a scowl from the flight attendant, but I will say that may have been the most anyone has ever enjoyed a meal on an airplane, hands down.

So touching down on American soil I felt a chill go through my body. Was it because I was so emotional to be returning? Was I being overwhelmed by nostalgia? Possibly, but I believe a more plausible cause was the fact that it was freezing! It was probably no colder than 35 degrees, but that was enough to do it for me as I waited for a taxi in the warmest clothing I now possess; a windbreaker.

Sidenote:
And just some words of advice to those of you looking to take a long journey like this: When you arrive on home soil, call your mother. Their minds wander as to what terrible fate you may have succumbed to while in transit. During the few hours I was sans cell phone in the DC area, a number of family members developed the compelling theory that I was attacked in a Zurich Airport bathroom by a roving gang of Swiss bandits. Look, I didn’t think to use a pay phone, OK? I didn’t even know those still existed!

Once on US soil I had an excellent time. Getting to see family and friends at the wedding was fantastic, and the food and beverage wasn’t too shabby either. I even took a picture of my plate of food at the wedding reception (For comfort during those dark times). It snowed a few inches during the weekend which was a huge bonus, although I think my body was more confused than ever. For the most part the weather was quite cold and dreary, but I was amazed to see clouds, rain, ice and snow again. As I mentioned before I unfortunately failed in my quest to gain 10 pounds and I also fell short in my list of restaurants and cuisines that I needed to eat. So much food, so little time. I’ve been thinking about all the meals that I consumed while there and while the food at the wedding was in a league of its own, there were many other special ones. I gorged myself at McDonalds, which was glorious, but probably not such a good idea. North Carolina BBQ was on hand the night before the wedding. The old man cooked up some serious rib eye steaks to finish off the weekend. Sadly I never got to my favorite greasy spoon diner in Arlington for a breakfast of biscuits & gravy and cheese grits washed down with some viscous coffee, but the St. Patty’s day brunch of bangers and mash with a few pints of Guinness at our neighborhood pub was a more than adequate replacement. And a large thanks to those fine gentlemen in Arlington (you know who you are) for welcoming me back to the states with some massive BBQ chicken legs and sending me on my way with an equally delicious lamb roast the night before leaving. And my kiwi cousins were excellent companions during the last few days in DC. “Should we have a doughnut at 3PM in the afternoon? I certainly don’t see why not! Should we have another Guinness? Brilliant!”

Besides the food, are there any thoughts on American culture or society after being away from it for over 6 months? Perhaps I was surprised about how little has changed, and admittedly 6 months is not that long in the grand scheme of things. However there were still things that caught me by surprise or perhaps had forgotten about altogether.

-While I’m sure the faltering economy has affected many, it was hard for me to see obvious signs of it. Perhaps spending most of my time in the DC bubble has something to do with that. Or possibly I was taken in by the organized, clean and seemingly prosperous way of life in the states as opposed to my current home.
-It was very nice being able to walk down the street and not get hassled every 20 feet. That feeling of anonymity and privacy we afford each other in the U.S. has become incredibly foreign to me. In many ways it’s very nice to be such an object of interest in Cameroon, but not at all hours of the day. The anonymity is something I will miss a great deal, but not as much as I’ll miss cold cuts (mmm, tuuurrrkeeey).
- The prescription drug commercials on television are a little bit ridiculous. I don’t know if there are more of them these days or not, but it seemed as though they ran constantly on television at all hours. I couldn’t get away from them. The state of healthcare or perhaps the lack of it in Cameroon makes them seem all the more crazy. People take these drugs and then are miraculously able to go mountain biking, fly kites and go have a wonderful time at an amusement park. The witch doctors in my area may be very interested to hear about these miracle drugs.
-The daily appliances we use are absolutely fascinating. I didn’t have much time to use them while home other than doing a bit of laundry and watching the TV, but seeing them again brought back memories of using them in the past. I can vaguely remember times when I would spend the majority of my day at my office computer, come home and put a load of laundry into the dryer and add another to the washer. Then immediately I might heat up some food in the microwave, grab a drink out of the fridge and take a seat at my own computer to check email. In the background there might be a CD in the stereo while Sportscenter flashed highlights across my TV screen. In many ways I’m remembering this in a positive light, so please don’t think I’m harping about American indulgence. Just the mention of instant sports results and highlights brings a tear to my eye. Then again, if I ever hooked myself up to the grid like that again I’d probably get epilepsy in a week or two. Just watching one 40inch plasma screen while home was an emotional experience.
-Which leads me to my next point. I made a trip to Best Buy in Arlington. Right after the heavens opened and angels sang on high (in full Dolby digital surround), I took a stroll among the aisles of flashing screens, shiny plastic gizmos and all the electronic media you could imagine. I didn’t want to embarrass my cousin who was with me at the time so I refrained from kissing the floor, but I still spent a number of glorious minutes roaming in awe. However, I give props to the DVD guys here in the Maroua market. I believe they’ve got Best Buy beat in the films section because in Cameroon I can buy 50 Arnold Schwarzenegger movies on one disc for 1500cfa ($3). What’s better than one Scwharzenegger movie? Fifty Schwarzenegger movies!!! Sure the quality is a little inferior and the legality of it all is a bit questionable, but that’s what I call the free market (or perhaps the black market) at its best.
-Transportation in the United States is comparatively timely, clean and efficient. They don’t let goats or sacks of dried fish on the subway, and taking a taxi is not generally a life threatening activity. Then I think back to sitting on I-95 bumper to bumper or every month pumping an insane amount of money into an automobile just to get around. Transportation in Cameroon is always an adventure, and as I said that is not always a good thing. Nothing ever leaves or arrives on time, the roads can be dangerous and the vehicles are in terrible condition, which actually sounds a bit like the Beltway.

To sum up my return experience, there are many things in the United States I’ve missed a great deal, mainly friends and family. Cold cuts are a close second (mmm, roast beeeef). Hot showers were amazing, but if I really want one in Bogo I just need to set a bucket of water in the sun for about 30 minutes. Fast and continuous internet was also great to have again. In ten days I probably got more work done on the internet than in 6 months here, but on numerous occasions I’ve been in Bogo for weeks and forgotten all about internet until stepping foot in the provincial capital. It was a rarity for me to go without email even for one day in the states, but the lack of it here really has not been a huge problem. And finally, its nice to come back to a country where you mix into the crowd and can be anonymous. Yes, we are all unique snowflakes but walking around and not getting called “Nasarra, nasarra!” for a whole 10 days is a nice surprise.

Other volunteers were eager to here of my voyage; the food, the luxuries, the news, the trends. Others were just amazed that my shirts smelled like Tide again. It would be a lie if I said 100% of me wanted to get on the plane at Dulles the other week and return to Cameroon. There was a little voice that kept saying just one more fast food joint, just one more NCAA Basketball game, just one more load of laundry, just one more…and the list goes on and on. But pretty much all those things that make American culture great will still be there in a few years, possibly even new and improved! And besides, if I didn’t go back some person(s) in Bogo would likely ask the question for years as to where that damn Nasarra ran off to.

2.18.2009

Its getting hotter/Football camerounais/The children have fire

It has been a few weeks since my last entry and plenty has transpired in that time. To begin on a slightly sad note the cold season, aka 70 degree weather, is coming to a close. I never thought it was all that cold of a season, but don’t tell that to the moto drivers in ski jackets and woolen caps or the little kids huddled around piles of burning leaves at 7AM. And true to my experiences with weather here thus far there really is no middle ground, as the coldest months of the year are now giving way to a heat that I’ve been dreading for some time now. I’m told that temperatures reach into the 120s w/ regularity in March and April up until the rains begin in mid to late May. I think I lucked out a bit this year since I am traveling back to the cooler climate of the U.S. during early March, which is immediately followed by a week of training in the provincial capital here in the Extreme North. They have hotels in Maroua and hotels have pools. Pools are filled with cold water, and by this point in the narrative I think you know where I can be found during training.

And with this recent “cold” weather that is soon to depart I’ve taken the opportunity to acclimatize myself on the soccer field. Bogo has a number of ‘stades’ or ‘terraines’ throughout the city, a fact I was very excited about when first arriving. Anyone familiar with soccer will most likely be aware of Cameroon’s national team, the Indomitable Lions, and their reputation as an incredibly talented squad. To classify the country as football crazy would be an understatement. Even in the tiniest village one can find an open, flat, dirt/sand ‘terraine’ with wooden goals at both ends. From my brief time here I’ve come to learn that if you fancy a game with the local lads you better be ready for some serious physical activity. And while most players have the latest Cameroon or Barcelona jersey, any other equipment is pretty much optional. So everyday at about 4:30PM until the 6PM evening prayers, anywhere from 15-20 guys gather at the nearest field to take part in what could best be described as a mix between soccer and hand to hand combat. Once everyone appears ready to do battle the participants split into shirts and skins and play commences. Within about 5 minutes visibility on the dusty pitch is reduced to about zero and the match has reached a frenetic pace in which the ball is moved from end to end in a matter of seconds. Now prior to my soccer experience here I considered myself to be a fairly fast individual. As it turns out, that is false. When a Cameroonian wearing jelly sandals blows by you like you weren’t even there it makes you reassess your athletic ability. Needless to say I’ve had to adjust my game a bit. Whereas in the U.S. I was typically an offensive player, I’ve been pushed back to defensive midfielder here. Perhaps their reasoning is this gives the other team less room to run past me, which they do with great regularity. But unrelenting speed is only one attribute of Cameroonian soccer. Physical play bordering on outright hostility would be another. Holding onto the ball for more than a few seconds is asking for trouble. High kicking (technically illegal) seems to be encouraged, out of bounds is often vague at best, and cleat marks, bruised toenails and head gashes are commonplace. But amongst the mayhem of the evening match you’ll see some of the most entertaining soccer around, played with a great deal of passion. And when the all important goal is scored just forget the fact that this is a game amongst regular guys in a village. They will celebrate that goal as if it just won Cameroon the World Cup. And half the fun (maybe more) of scoring a goal is their celebration afterwards. The standard celebrations such as the shirt over the head and also running to and dancing with corner flag are used frequently. However, there are two other celebrations here that I think are way cooler. The first involves the whole team; they form a circle around the goal scorer, who then leads them in some wild song and dance for about 30 seconds. The second is by far my favorite but I don’t think I’ll attempt it anytime soon. Besides, you have to score a goal first anyways. The goal scorer wheels away from the goal in celebration and then breaks into a string of 4 to 5 back flips. I think it takes more exertion than scoring the actual goal, and is impressive to say the least. At the end of training in November one of the Cameroonian staff members with whom we’d played soccer stressed to me how important the sport could be with integrating into the community. I think he was on point, as Cameroonians love the sport as much if not more (probably more) than I do. The guys I play with were some of the first people to replace my initial title of ‘Nasarra’ (foreigner in fufulde) with my actual name. And at least with some of those who still prefer to use Nasarra, many have upgraded me to ‘Nasarra qui joue le ballon,’ (foreigner who plays ball).

Finally this week, I’d like to tell a little about the recent Fete de Jeunesse that took place all across Cameroon. This is a week long holiday/event for all the youth of Cameroon and was celebrated with parades, soccer games, a cross country race and talent competitions in Bogo. I’ve heard from a few other volunteers how the weekly events went in their respective communities and while the activities were all a bit different, I think the general thought of “holy crap, there are a lot of children in this country” was a common conclusion. So how does one celebrate Youth Week? Well, some of the younger guys I play soccer with were involved in the parade and after every evening game that week they would practice their upcoming march past the authorities. They asked me to join them in their ranks and frankly I was honored and happy to do it at first. But I gradually realized that we would be marching in front of government officials, police, gendarmes and most of the community (and saluting the Sous-prefet). I then tried to explain that it was probably in the best interest of my work and the Peace Corps if I didn’t join them. They weren’t having any of it, so I then had to make sure I had some type of work that morning that conflicted with the parade. So unfortunately I missed the parade, but on the bright side I won’t be implicated in any inappropriate political activities on foreign soil.

Aside from the formal parade there was another procession that I was a witness to, and it was one of those things I don’t think I’ll ever forget. At about 7PM one evening as dusk was settling on Bogo my friend and I were at my house when we began to hear an approaching crowd. We came out of my concession door which opens up to the main road through town and in the distance I could see what initially I thought looked like an angry mob with flaming objects in hand. I looked to my friend for reassurance, and he coolly informed me that this was just the children’s march. To briefly describe this children’s march, hundreds upon hundreds of ‘petits,’ ranging in age from about five to fifteen, are given old metal cans attached to long sticks which are then filled with flammable liquids, trash, wood and pretty much anything else with the ability to burn out of control. Then, flaming sticks in hand the children proceed to run down the street for a few kilometers en route to the local government complex, spilling flammable liquid on the asphalt road and leaving the neighborhood looking like a small rebel force just swept through. Initially I probably had a look of horror on my face as hundreds of children ran down my street with incendiaries but then I began to question my friend about this spectacle, and his calm began to rub off on me. Who organized this? “The teachers.” And is anyone supervising? “The parents.” Sure enough, the parents were right there with them along the way. A few cars of adults escorted the parade of adolescent pyromaniacs as if it were the Tour de France. Well who on earth gave them petrol and kerosene? “The police.” At this point my questioning stopped. This was obviously an officially sanctioned event. Who was I to disagree with a seemingly highly dangerous activity if the community organized it? What could possibly go wrong? Anyone familiar with my juvenile record concerning flammable objects will beg to differ, but I honestly cannot think of a better way to celebrate future generations each year by giving them the capability to burn down the entire community. I never thought such a spectacle would leave me feeling serene and relaxed. Maybe it was all the burning chemicals, but more likely I think seeing young children joyfully playing with fire warmed my heart.

Ok, I got a little carried away there. Playing with fire is bad; especially during the dry season in Africa. Remember kids, only you can prevent forest fires!

1.21.2009

Guest Post with Pictures

Hi all, this is Bridget, Dan's sister. Since internet connections are unreliable for Dan to upload pics, I offered to post some of his great shots of his Cameroon adventure here. For those of you on Facebook, he is able to put them all there, but not all our family and friends have access to Facebook. That's where I come in. I put captions on the certain pics that Dan asked me to make sure to post.