tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87975107236983933872024-03-13T20:30:32.700-07:00Dada NomiThe contents of this website are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the U.S. government or the Peace Corps.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797510723698393387.post-24392243679580747462012-02-01T15:49:00.001-08:002012-02-01T15:49:33.655-08:00An offering to the childrenYouth day approaches. The students will prepare skits and poems and (really good) dances, and then march through the town. Nomi is also a youth, and I feel his tremendous fame within Mayo Darle could be put to good use. This week or next week, I will offer to loan him completely over to my students for youth day. LeCoq, one of my Terminale students and Nomi’s babysitter, could be in charge of him. If they choose to parade with him, I’ll have a handsome pagne boubou tailored up. I’m sure he’d be the first dressed dog ever to walk the streets of Mayo Darle. He’d make the students feel cool, and therefore, proud, it might encourage some village children to think about school, and it would be a true symbol of better human-dog relations for the next generation.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797510723698393387.post-61995371158728527002012-02-01T15:47:00.000-08:002012-02-01T15:48:08.625-08:00Grammar Question:I am an English teacher, so this is serious: <br />In the sentence, “I find it amusing, but I also find I don’t like thinking about diarrhea while having it,” is “having” a gerund?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797510723698393387.post-31905825704177273132012-02-01T15:35:00.000-08:002012-02-01T15:47:18.974-08:00Petit Chauffeur, “Little driver”Most strips of roads (maybe 90%) traveling through the Adamawa are dirt. In dry season, dust flies up from the road with passing vehicles. (Or, as I saw today, even with extremely fast dogs.) if a truck drives by, most people cover their mouths and noses. if I find myself without a cloth for covering, I usually try to breathe only through my nose to filter it. before coming to Cameroon I had never really appreciated our little nose hairs. <br />Travelling in dry season, you often hear conversations like this : someone from the back says, “role down the window.” the person in the front replies, “no there is dust.” person in back says, “yes, but there is also heat.” person in the front, “we’ve got to just deal.” and this response*, so common it’s almost a mantra, settles the argument. sometimes I want to ask them, deal with which, the heat or the dust? personally, I prefer the dust. we white people come out of the car looking like we just got spray-tanned, but it’s better than being sealed in with over-heated bodies. usually, they end up rolling the windows down on paved or calm sections, and crank them back just in time to lock out the approaching dust clouds when other vehicles pass.<br />This weekend, on the way back from Nyamboya, Hunter’s post, I had a new personal record : 12 people in a car. it was a two-door, five-seat manual Toyota. Two of these people were children, sitting on lap. Two men shared the front passenger seat (with a little girl), Six men and women shared the back (with one little boy). Luckily there were no big mamas, only Fulbe women who are still very traditional. They usually marry cousins, so they all look similar. They often have sort of triangular shaped noses, are always wrapped in colorful pagne, and sometimes their front teeth jut forward. Fortunately for us in the car that day, the Fulbe also tend to be slim. <br />I was riding petit-chauffeur, which means sharing the driver’s seat. car-loading is both a packing and a balancing act, so seats are often dictated. Because of my size, the drivers often put me petit-chauffeur. most people complain about petit-chauffeur, especially other volunteers. But most people aren’t quite as small as me and I secretly love it. As petit-chauffeur, if one is relatively petit, you can get pretty much all of your butt on the seat. Sometimes, the drivers put down funny cushions or towels to pad the buckles in the middle. As petit chauffeur you are only crushed by someone on one side, and you can lean back because the driver will always keep his right side in front of your left, so he can reach over you to shift. you can watch the road and see how he decides to handle the onslaught of bumps and pits. it’s easy to ask him to stop if you need to get out. and once in a while you get to help with the emergency brake, etc. Most importantly, you can see. your view is as un-obscured as the driver’s.<br />Traveling in Cameroon is slow, squished and jostling, but the music is always good, (almost every driver has a usb key hook up for the radio) and the view of the forests, passing through the small villages, making faces at the pant-less children who always pause to watch the car go by, and driving up the mountain of the Nigerian plateau to get into Mayo-Darle, feels like meditation, especially sitting petit-chauffeur. <br />*in French, “il faut supporter.”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797510723698393387.post-33454349789053572142012-01-28T10:46:00.000-08:002012-01-28T10:47:48.773-08:00A Cameroonian TouchOne reason Nomi is worth all the trouble he causes: he provides a good cuddle outlet. Physical affection is so comforting. My anxiety would be much higher if I had to go through 90% of every day without some form of it. <br />This is not to say that Cameroonians aren’t touchy. I have had my face pinched (an unsuccessful attempt by my large and loud boutique friend, Madame Ladi, to remove a blemish), been picked up by (also Madame Ladi), had hair braided, clothes adjusted, grass picked off of, dust brushed off of, had measurements taken, danced with (sometimes this is disgusting, like the old man who put his hands right on my butt with such entitlement – found out the next day that he’s infamous for that -, or the bulbous-bellied goofy man, recognizable for by half-black slanted front teeth and toddle-like behavior who burped beer and oily feast food in my face. This is was absolutely disgusting; I’m embarrassed to write it.), patted affectionately, been petted by little girls, held hands in singing or exercise circles, been hugged around the knees by children, been squished, sat on, leaned against and slept on during transport – a man’s sleepy head on my knee once -, had my hand shaken by nearly every person in this country I’ve met, and kissed on the cheek by one. All of these have happened in public, except perhaps the last one, which was in public but also inside a car after dark. Cameroonians talk a lot about how the white man – a category with includes all Americans and Europeans – has all the good things and a lot more knowledge and resources (which in many ways is true). Sometimes I pipe in – usually to explain, “it’s much better to be poor here then to be poor in America,” and sometimes I just listen (or, if I’m grading papers or preparing a lesson, tune it out). But it’s good to see that their opinion of our country as a golden paradise doesn’t inhibit them from getting personal. Integration, crossing boundaries.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797510723698393387.post-65507187101759699162012-01-22T12:55:00.001-08:002012-01-22T12:55:47.811-08:00Don’t feed him from the table.*I am going to make Nomi a beggar. This is especially for Mom. I’m going to make Nomi a beggar, but I have a good reason. I want to see how many Cameroonians give into him. Their reactions to Nomi are so strange but often funny and – overall – pleasant.** But he will be a very good beggar, so cute and calm you can’t even be annoyed. Cameroonians will be impressed with how much he acts like a person. <br /><br />*I don’t actually have a table. Plan on getting one.<br />**A note about these reactions: <br />At first they were always commenting on how I talked about Nomi as if he was a person. Now they are always talking about Nomi as if he’s a person. They say, “Nomi! A warrdi naa? Jap bamma,” or “Nomi, noy?,” or “C’est comment Nomi?” (Nomi, I see you have come? Welcome…” “Nomi, how?”, “what’s up Nomi?”) <br />People saying they want to eat him.<br />When they say they want to eat him, they are usually joking. And I usually laugh. It is mostly old men, skinny, saggy-faced, missing teeth, always in the pale, waxy solid colored drapey robe style boubou fabric. They always wave at you with 1) both hands, 2) at about the level of their cheeks, 3) palms up. If you want to try it 4) fingers in a natural curve, 5) wrists facing each other. 6) About a quarter of a turn with the hands, as comfortable. 7) Nod head vigorously up and down with a big smile.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797510723698393387.post-85345184022795152922012-01-22T12:52:00.000-08:002012-01-22T12:54:55.837-08:00tchow jujuToday, Miahcano, 4 and 8 months, and Dewa, 3 and 8 months, stood in front of me, butt naked, post-bath, as Mounira braided my hair in my landlord’s compound. Koulu, Dewa’s mom, the first wife who seems like the second wife, sat across from me, breatfeeding Nura, 1 yr. The boys were dancing, swinging everything around. Turned sideways. Miachano grabbed Dewa’s hips and thrusted. Later, Dewa swung it out right in front of my face (I couldn’t move my head because of the hair-braiding) and Koulu said, “tchow juju.” She made a slicing motion with her hand. “Chop the weiner off!” she was saying. <br />Later that night, Denis, my terminale student, came over. I let go of Nomi’s collar to see if he’d stay calm and he ran like a wild man. Denis said I should have castrated him when he was very small. (Cameroonian dogs seem to stay fairly small, so Nomi looks full-grown to many Cameroonians. If he does, we’ll know Cam dogs’ smallness is a nutritional). I said I wanted to neuter him but he had an infection and his testicles retracted, so it was impossible. At night it’s cold; I couldn’t stop shivering. Denis said an uncastrated dog loose at night will go long and wide searching for women. I said, yes, that’s what I’m worried about – he’s already started making love. But he doesn’t know the difference..” <br />“Between woman and man?” Denis finished. “So it means he’s still a child.” I thought about this. I thought about Miahcano and Dewa. Kids must do that often. Of course. Children imitate. The kids are imitating the goat, sheep, dog, cow, and chicken sex they see everywhere, and they don’t discriminate.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797510723698393387.post-44807823883247718762012-01-21T01:49:00.001-08:002012-01-21T01:49:55.741-08:00Nomi’s contribution to equal rights.Pretty sure Nomi is gay. He does wild things with his male dog friend. The dog’s good looking, tan and white, relatively well-cared for since he’s a pastor’s dog. He’s quite a bit older than Nomi. But now Nomi’s got about the same height and the two have no shame. Yesterday, Nomi talked for a while with another dog by my post-mate Sarah’s house. When we went into the compound and met the pretty young, enthusiastic, female pup, Nomi was totally disinterested. Proof that gay is natural in everyone. And currently in Mayo Darle, Nomi’s probably the only member of society who could get away with this.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797510723698393387.post-22412020480721287732012-01-21T01:48:00.000-08:002012-01-21T01:49:18.628-08:00A thought on timeIt makes sense that Africans are often late. Africa is poor. They haven’t had many clocks in their societies for very long –and even fewer that are constantly working. People say this is a bad quality for development. I think it’s ok. Being late doesn’t really hurt anyone, they just get things done on their own time schedules, they organize their priorities differently, and since almost everyone does it, it usually works out. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a people who takes its time, stops to interact with things along her path, or lives by the rhythm of the sun.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797510723698393387.post-64088626487076169262012-01-21T01:47:00.000-08:002012-01-21T01:48:39.664-08:00RestartingI was feeling very down here in Mayo Darle. One of my friends here, whose post is in a cool university town, always tells me how he wishes he was in Mayo Darle. I asked him recently, for like the fifth time, why. And he said because it’s small, you have so much opportunity to do something, you just have to find a need and fill it. I thought, ok, but how do I find a need I can fill? And then, one popped up right in front of my eyes. (Of course, it had been there all along.) <br />I did some calculations, and determined that in my four classes combined, I teach 80% boys, 20% girls. The school operates by the French system. Classes start at the equivalent of 6th grade, which is called 6eme, and then count down instead of up. 5eme is 7th grade, 4eme is 8th, 3eme, is like freshman year, then there is Seconde, Premiere, and Terminale. I teach 6eme – 64% boys, 4eme – 94%, 3eme – 75%, Terminale, science section – 100% cute boys. <br />Last year, we had 3 pregnancies within the female student population. This year, we have had two. It’s an open secret that the paternity for a few of these can be attributed to certain teachers and administrators. So in a conservative society, with a sizeable Muslim population, of course parents aren’t going to send their daughters to school. Especially since most of the parents have gotten along fine without formal government education. <br />Then I thought, ok it’s not fair by my standards, but is it really a problem for Cameroon? If it works for them, I have no right trying to change it. But unwanted pregnancy is not good, nor are STDs. Additionally, their current mode of life is not sustainable. No one can stop the spread of communication technology. I believe this is one of the most domineering characteristics of humanity. Mayo-Darle is inevitably more and more exposed to the outside world. As that increases, as people see more different things, their desires change, they’re motivations and priorities start to change, and gradually everything starts to shift. Five years ago Mayo Darle had no electricity, no reliable cellphone coverage, and no internet. People charged their cellphones using generators at the call boxes. (Little stands that sell phone credit, where you can also make and receive calls. Like a payphone stand, operated by a real person, using cellphones.) Now we have a town generator that runs 5 hours a day, full cellphone coverage (only for one company, MTN, of South Africa) and USB key internet through that same provider. <br />People say here that development is not happening and never will. If they keep having so many children and not educating people, they may be right. They might find themselves with cellphones and Internet, but little food on their plates and no clean water. They might never escape the poverty bubble before their population becomes too big and resources too scarce, and something scary happens. <br />Educating both genders lowers birthrates, reduces infant mortality, boosts economies, increases nutrition and literacy levels, and ensures higher levels of education in future generations. <br />Two weeks ago, Gwendoline, the other English teacher and my best friend in village, approached me with a similar inspiration. We decided the first step was to organize a group for girls at the school, to address their problems and questions, build their self-confidence, make them role models and ambassadors between the school and the community. (Sneakily promote condoms). <br />So we talked to the other female teachers, we talked to the Proviseur (Principle), I talked to the Sous-Prefet (the head political guy of MD). We got all the big men’s hearty approval. We laid it on thick. On Thursday, then (the 19th), we, the 5 female teachers, called all the girls together after school, to get the final and most important approval. <br />As educated women, some of them will be leaders, probably all of them in some way or another. I saw that a little in this meeting. Their faces looked different. The expressions weren’t the same as they are in class with all the boys. They were attentive. They stood up, spoke and asked questions. Personalities peeked out. They made each other laugh and murmured in agreement to some of the things we said. There were about 70 of them. The whole classroom was filled. I felt like something really good was happening. And it wasn’t even hard to do. Just a bunch of people in the same room communicating.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797510723698393387.post-76353761455855748192011-10-21T12:49:00.000-07:002011-10-21T12:50:46.119-07:00FIrst TripThe bush taxi bus that takes us between Bafoussam and Mayo Darle is run by an agency called Alliance. We were told to use caution around the perimeters of any agence, because that is where men like to lurk, ready to pull you into their own – fake – “taxis” and subsequently steal all your stuff or at least pickpocket you. The agence, however, is like base in a game of tag. They’re liable – sort of – they’re official, and you can walk away from your luggage as it waits next to the van to be loaded without worry, as long as you keep your most valuable valuables on you. <br />So in the hours we waited for the bush taxi to depart, Dada-Nomi and I cautiously, probingly, explored the perimeter of Alliance’s lot and eventually made it to a fruit stand where I was given absolutely non of the most delicious looking pineapple I’d ever seen.. I watched the man peel it, cut three big juicy long slices, package them in a small clear plastic bag, and sell them to Dada Nomi for 100cfa – about 20 cents. We encountered no ruffians or pickpockets.<br />The bush taxi is like an extremely large van, with cushioned metal benches, designed to hold probably 18 passengers. One of the seats in each row has a small, foldable back so people can climb through to the rows behind, though this seat is in a different position in each row. After 25 people had piled in, we took off.<br />I started feeling woozy after about five minutes on the road. I started drooling after about 10. Foaming after about 15. And puking at 20. Dada-nomi’s scarf, my drool rag, was the first thing to go.. soaked through and useless after about an hour.. followed by five plastic puke bags, three Peace Corps Newsletters, Dada-Nomi’s body and clothes, and an entire small packet of tissues. I was really annoyed too because every time I tried to get comfortable by resting my head on the person next to me, Dada-Nomi would block my way. It got worse after the first hour, when we started bumping around, driving slow, skirting road-wide pot-holes, bouncing to and fro. The road was no longer paved. After about two-thirds of the way through the trip – ie, six and a half hours in – I sort of just emptied out and gave in. I thought if I just sort of passed out, I’d wake up and it’d be over. The man next to us was insisting that he wanted to go to America. When Dada-Nomi was trying to shove water down my throat.. trying to pry open my unwilling jaw, soaking herself and me. She lifted my paw; I let it fall. I was miserable.. couldn’t she tell?? She lifted my tail; I let it fall. Then, interrupting the man, she panicked to no one in particular, “I think my dog is dead. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.” I was not dead. <br />Well we finally arrived in Mayo Darle around 11:30 pm. The town was sleeping. Sandrine helped us get all the bags on motos, and we ourselves moto-ed to Aislynn’s house, our postmate, who was not home. I was feeling immediately better, though Dada-Nomi still seemed damp and anxious. Kaitlyn, a volunteer from Banyo, came out from the house with a lantern. We paid the moto-boys, were ushered inside and I, went promptly to sleep. We had finally arrived in our new home.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797510723698393387.post-62959643894619630482011-10-12T02:20:00.001-07:002011-10-12T02:40:00.835-07:00Moving to PostNomi and I first met in the market place, marché B in a big city called Bafoussam. I was en route from training and was travelling with literally all my stuff. All the trainees were moving to their posts I spent the weekend with friends. Natalie is a tall blonde girl from Austin, Texas who used to model and spent a year waitressing in Vegas. Eric is a tall moppy-haired boy who said that until coming to Cameroon for whom it would have been strange to be called white-man before coming to Cameroon, but here it feels totally normal. And Dan, a calm-spirited gentle boy who plays and loves screaming-rock music and has a pirate tattooed on his chest, a birthday on his lip, h-e-a-d-b-a-n-g on his toes. But anyway, back to the market. <br />I was there with Natalie and Eric, having just left Dan’s post in Dshang (pronounced Chang). Feeling apprehensive about the imminent isolation of Mayo Darle, I decided to get a puppy. <br /><br />This is his story.<br />NOMI :<br />The man who had been carting me around for a while, he called me Bobby – stress on the second syllable. He crushed me into a wicker basket and tied me in. I was a small puppy, maybe three months. I smelled something a bit different when Dada Nomi, Natalie and Eric came into the market. They’re scents slowly but steadily got stronger, as I imagine they trekked conspicuously through the market, asking someone every five stands, and being directed somewhere at almost every stand, until they made it past the humungous dirt pit and herbal/spiritual remedies, and arrived in the animal section. What does a little puppy know of goats, ducks, rabbits, cats, chickens and the occasional monkey? They were all my market neighbors. <br />The big man untied me and jumped back. I sprung out of the basket and ran as fast as I could for about ten seconds, then as fast as I could back. People were calling me Bobby. Then the man scooped me up. He held me still while he negotiated with the girl. In the end, I was worth 8000 cfa (about 15 dollars), with a slightly bigger wicker panier for me to be carried in. This was 10,000 down from the man’s original price of 18,000cfa. <br />So I left the market in my new basket, and at this point I was feeling weird. We walked down the road, me floating along next to these foreign smelling people, in a basket, with two kittens, Bam and MoonTiger, who were travelling with Eric and Natalie. Only the kittens and I seemed to know that Bam and Moontiger did not have long to live. Their litter was born ill. (Later we wondered if the humans had known there wasn’t much time, because they provided such wonderful meals and attention!)<br />I threw up along the side of the road. I also threw up in the taxi cab. It was unfortunate because I had eaten almost the whole skeleton of a small chicken that day at the market. Also because Natalie was not so nice to me after that since most of it landed on her long fuscia skirt. <br />We slept that night in the case (caz), a peace corps apartment/office on the third floor of probably the only 5 story building in sight, dirt and caramel brown, in contrast with the crumbly red mud of the streets, with a special code lock to get in, and fast internet. <br />As a small puppy, I mostly just liked to run around wildly and bite on anything, just to play. And of course eat. I peed and pooed anywhere. I didn’t care. That day I was forced to have a bucket bath. Nicely, they heated some water on the stove, like they do for their own, because it’s chilly here during rainy season. <br />The case reeked because they had run out of water a long time ago. When the trainees arrived they didn’t really understand or believe the sign on the bathroom door that said “Plz do not poo when there is no water!!” I discovered that the left bathroom – the one where the light works if you release the switch very gently – was much more fragrant that the right. This night, the people tried calling me Duke Jason. <br />The next day was the worst day of my life. We woke up around 5 am to be at Alliance, the bush taxi agence, by 5:30. After getting crushed into that box, I was promptly released. The people had found the building’s front door locked, with no accessible key, and failed to escape. But from that moment on, the stress built. Dada Nomi and I missed our ride. Bam and MoonTiger disappeared. The people searched frantically, they kept shouting at me, “Dog, find cats!” but I don’t know what that meant. <br />They looked everywhere in that little apartment, for about two hours – with a break for breakfast at the bakery that smells amazing but always tastes bad. Then they looked again, in a place they had each looked once. Bam and MoonTiger were finally discovered tucked deep between the bottom of the mattress and black fabric lining the underside of the bedframe.<br />Dada Nomi and I got to the agence around 8am, and waited for the car to fill. It left around 2pm. During the time waiting, I got to eat scraps of bone and dead meat things off the ground. I met a woman named Sandrine who held me outside of the 50cfa squat latrines. I’m still not sure what they do exactly with the tie-die plastic teapots they take in with them. I saw a man with a small face growing out of his face. Sandrine had a baby with warts all over her feet tied on her back. She said it was because she made the baby wear socks in hot Douala. <br />Here at the agence, people tried calling me James. I slept for a while, and woke up just in time to be smushed into the front seat beside four men, on Dada Nomi’s lap, and prepared myself for the longest journey of my puppy life.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0