These past couple of weeks have flown by. I’ve been very busy with my independent study project (hence the lack of postings). And now, it is coming to a close. I’ve loved my daily life here...especially the mornings. I thought I'd write about them a little bit here.

My official alarm goes off at six, and after getting dressed, I go to the kitchen to help my host Mom with her cooking. She usually prepares coffee and tea, and either an omlette or red beans with tomato. I still am quite clumsy at her electric burner, so she usually gives me the work of buying the nessesary ingrediants at the boutique right outside the walls. She never sends me with a list, but will give me exact change and send me multiple times for individual ingrediants as she needs them. 50 CFA of cooking oil. 2 tomatoes. 100 CFA of sugar. This makes sense, considering the kitchen is so small-- there really isn't room to store a weeks worth of groceries, as I do at my home in the states.

My host Mom watches TV while we eat breakfast (she likes to eat later). It still blows my mind that even though she is my Mom, she is only a month older than me. The fact that she is responsible for two children makes her seem so much more older, so much more mature than I will be anytime soon. Sometimes I wonder who I would be if I had been born into her family. And, sometimes, I think about who she would be if she were American, or a student at Pomona with me. Would we be friends? Who would she hang out with? I think about this almost every morning as I watch her watch TV. Sometimes she likes to sit sort of upside down in her easy chair, throwing her legs over the top or over the side. I like to sit like that at home.

Sometimes other people in the compound drop by to say good morning. I still can't get over the greeting rituals in Fulfulde. The two people greeting one another speak in a consistently low, monotone pitch. Jam na? Jam. Jam ban du ma? Jam ko du me. A fini jam na? Oho mi fini jam. How are you? Fine. Are you doing well? I'm doing greatm. Did you sleep well? I slept well. Much of the same small talk that people make in the states. At first, I didn't get it . From my perspective, it didn't seem like either of the parties really cared about the answers to the questions. The tone seems so bored, and much of the time, the two people don't maintain eye contact. But then again, the greeting ritual in the states would probably seem just as bizarre to an outsider. Why do Americans pretend to care so much about the answers to petty questions like "how are you?" when the answers are always the same?

After breakfast I head into town to work. I usually start out at the cyper cafe, either to write, type up notes, or look up background information online. It is essential to get to the cyper cafe in the morning, because it fills up fast in the afternoon (but you can usually get a computer if you slip in during hours of prayer). The cyper cafe is pretty open air, and its easy to see everyone's business. A guy from Jordan, here almost everyday, cruises Cameroonian dating sites for hours on end. The couple a few computers down is on the state department site, looking for visa information.

Right now, my morning is over and I must run to lunch. Thanks for reading! I can't wait to see everyone again soon.

A Goat and Global Feminisms

Yesterday I was walking home down a dusty road around 5:30. I was hot and tired from a long day of research, reading and writing. I was hoping that my host mom had made that yummy yogurht drink, and that tonight, we would be able to catch up on our favorite soap opera and finally find out if Miranda would take back Leonardo.

I turned a corner and noticed a girl about my age running towards me. She was wearing beautiful purple and green fabric, and was moving as fast as she could with her long and narrow skirt. Then I noticed what she was running after: a large black goat, who seemed to be gallopping just slightly faster than she was. She called out loudly to the delinquent goat in Fulfulde but he ignored her.

My first instinct: I want to help this girl. The goat was running about four feet to my left. I stepped a little in that direction, thinking I would block it or convince it to turn around. The goat immediately understood my action and veered off even more to the left. Crap.

It was then that I realized that I had no idea how to catch a goat. Even if I could get it to run into me, what would I do? Grab it by the tail? In its middle? By its stubby horns? It wasn't my dog, it didn't have a collar. I'd seen those goats wadding around in trash piles, and I believe that they will eat pretty much anything. Would it try to eat my arm?

I decided that the best thing I could do in this situation was step aside and let this girl solve her own problems. She had infinately more experience in the goat world than me. As she ran by me, and smiled and wished her "bonne chance" and she nodded back at me. The entire exchange took about seven seconds, but it kind of sums up the way I feel about "helping" Cameroonians. They know a lot more about what they need than I ever will. My attempts to "help" could cause more problems than they would solve. If the girl had stopped and asked me for help, and explained to me just what to do, I would have been happy to support her in her efforts.

On another note: In contrary to a blog entry a few weeks back, there are a remarkable variety of words that people shout at me as I walk down the street, not just "Nassara". I decided to keep track this morning as I walked into town:

Madame Le Blanc
Ma Blanche
Ma soeur (my sister)
Ma chérie
White man
White woman
Ma fiancée

It can get a little exhausting, but overall, it seems to just be a way of being friendly and saying hello.

what I've learned

So, I've been in Ngaoundéré for a little more than two weeks. I'm still just getting to know the city, and I still feel like I learn something new every single day. I don't have time to share everything now, but here are a few of my favorite lessons:

Lesson One: I am Overstimulated
My first few days in the house, I couldn't help but feel sorry for my host mother, Fadi. She practically never leaves the house, and spends most of her day cleaning, taking care of the kids, or just hanging out. When I spent more than a few hours at the house, I became very ansy and bored. As I left the high walls to explore the city every day, sometimes, I couldn't help but thinking, "thank god I can get out!"

As usual, my feelings regarding Fadi's life say much more about me than they do about her. Somehow, I overlooked that Fadi seems to be one of the happiest people that I've ever met. I'm the one with the problem here. At home, I check my e-mail about five times a day; I follow the complicated lives of the characters in my favorite HBO series; I usually have a novel going; if I want to listen to music, I choose from the thousands of songs on my Ipod. Am I really so addicted to being busy that I can't sit and chill out for a few hours without going crazy?

Lesson Two: How to Bargin
Still working on this one, and honestly, don't know if I will ever excel. I usually regard paying the extra francs as a small fee for avoiding confrontation with a stranger. But little by little, I'm learning, because you really can't get through a day here without knowing how to name your price. The other day, I tried to find a taxi home in the rain. After spending a few minutes looking in vain, I finally found an empty one and hopped in. Then the negociations began.

The driver wanted 1000 CFA (about two dollars), about five times the normal Cameroonian price. No way, I said. I suggested 350, which was very high for the distance I wanted to drive. He told me to be nice because he was an old man, I told him to be nice because I was a student. After about five minutes, I busted out my cellphone and told him that if he wouldn't take me, I would call my good friend Gaston who drives a nice moto. The driver stepped on the gas.

Lesson Three: I will marry a lawyer
I learned this lesson from a traditional fortune teller. After placing my hand on a bed of sand, he drew several geometric shapes and lines. After he analyzed them, I learned that my future partner will be an attorney at law. Sweet.

Lesson Four: A little more Fulbe
I try to learn a bit more of the language as I go along. My favorite expression: "waddatako" which means "impossible!". I remember as "what-a-taco."

Thats all for now, hope all is well!

Ngaoundéré, where everyone knows my name

After taking a nightime train ride through fields and forests, I arrived in Nagauondere, a dusty city in Northern Cameroon, on Friday morning. The suburban area where I'm living is beautiful. The red streets are filled with women in long, beautiful clothing, playing children and baby goats.
I began to explore the downtown area in the afternoon. As I walked further
into the center of the city, it seemed like every other person was shouting my name at me and waving. Hmm, I thought. Maybe this is a sign that I should stay here for my independent study project? Turns out they don't know my name (yet), but were shouting "nassara" which means "white person!" in Fulani, the local language. That first syllable can be hard to hear.

So far, I like this town. My host family is very kind. The father sells plates and pots,
and his wife is a stay at home mom. She's only one month older than me. They have two young children, but they also live in a kind of gated compound that seems to have about twenty members of the extended family. At the moment, it looks like I will in fact be here for my study project at the end of the term, where I will have four weeks to research a subject that interests me. I think I'm going to study the different ways that young Muslim women here find empowerment and liberation in their religion. I've already begun to talk to my host mother a little about this, but hopefully I'll get more information as I become closer to the family.

Before coming up here, I spent a few days in Kribi, a beach town in Southern Cameroon.
Quite possibly the most beautiful place that I've stayed in my entire life. The water was warm
and graceful palm trees extended over the sand. However, Kribi is also the place where the Chad-Cameroon oil pipeline meets the ocean. It was quite strange to take walks on the beach in the morning and look out onto the ocean. There were several fishermen in wooden canoes close to shore, and then on the horizon a string e of oil tankers lined up to fill their tanks. A great blazing flame marked the place where the pipeline came to the surface.

I've been thinking a lot about my Grandfather lately, who passed away last week. I was sorry I couldn't be there with my family for the memorial, but I think he would have been happy that I'm doing so well here. He loved living in other countries and did work to empower marginalized Americans and people abroad. Little things have been coming up that reminded me of him all week long. This morning, my host mother suggested to me that I go running, as the students they have had before have apparently been very athletic. I hadn't been considering it, but then decided that it would feel good. I donned the most conservative athletic clothing that I had and
took to the streets. Nevertheless, it felt like every single person I passed was staring or shouting
"Nassara" at me. I remembered that my father told me that my grandpa started to go running in the states in the 1940s, where he probably received similar reactions from people on the street. I kept taking deep breaths, and I thought that maybe he would be proud if he was here.

a few more photos

So I just arrived in Yaounde, the capital city of Cameroon, and it seems like the lap of luxury. I've already delighted in icecream and a hot shower, and hopefully this week I will find sushi and some american medical products. Right now I'm sitting in the library at the World Bank. Although I don't agree with many of their politics, I'm not about to complain about their high-speed connection, which will allow me to post a few photos today. Above, there is one of my youngest host sister, who could totally school any other three year old in a child modeling conest. Also, one of some roof tops in Dschang, one of my french class (which was usually outside at the University of Dschang, and made me feel like a young, aristocratic girl in a Henry James novel.) In my French class are my professor Andre, my friends Chloe (in the red shirt) and my two friends Julia.

oh, technology

Okay, as you may notice, I'm new to the blogophere and often experience issues. The last post, for some reason, published in 1 point font. Uploading photos here can be really difficult. On my camera, and on another computer, this one of me with my host family looked great, but is coming up really dark on the screen here in this cafe. What does it look like on your screen??

While I'm waiting for this to load, I have a confession to make. While staying with my host family, I've become addicted to Venezualan

Soap Operas. The family favorite, Saborati, is translated in French as Destins Croisés, or Crossed Destinies. Attempted murders, love triangles, adoption disputes: this show has got it all. Nearly every Cameroonian woman I meet seems to be really into it as well.

On a more serious note, I continue to be shocked by the amount of corruption in this country. Students regularly pay their teachers off for grades; in fact, sometimes the only students who pass are the ones who pay. When my host mother went to the hospital to give birth to her son, the nurse told her she needed to pay extra under the table to get the proper service. I've heard that 40% of Cameroon's wealth goes into paying people off in corrupt interactions. Several Cameroonians I've talked to don't think that the country can go on like this; many seem to think that some sort of monumental change is on the horizon. I hope to gain some sort of understanding about what this change could be by the time I leave.

a weekend with the chief

I just spent this past weekend at the house of the chief. This chief's village was a fw miles outsideDschang, and has a population of about 300,000 people. A chief from a village this size can have up to fifty wives, but this cheif explained to methat he prefers to keep his family small so he can provide healthcare and education for everyone.

I was able to hang out with four of the five wives. For the fourth wife, polygamy seemed to be the ultimate feminist lifestyle. Thanks to the other wives, she told me,she is able to take time off housework when she is sick. She also can pursue a career in nursing without worrying about who is taking care of her children. Other wives also seemed pretty happy with their lives, though all of them told me that, naturally, conflicts arise when everyone is splitting housework and time in the fields. Of course, my stay at the chief's was only long enough to get a superficial feel for family dynamics. I'm sure there would b much more to discover.

Two of the wives took me with them to two funerals on Saturday. Both events took place in courtyards of large houses, each of them packed with people and decorated with bright colors. At first, each time, I felt supprised that someone had died. I guess I'm probably used to the sevices in the states that are so somber from the beginning. But then then ceremonies started. All the women gathered in the middle of the courtyard and began to wail, chant, and hold eachother. It was really quite moving. I stayed on the periphery at the first ceremony, but the second time someone took my hand and led me in. I did my best to do as the others were doing, and hopefully, didn't look like too much of an idiotic foreigner.

Alright, I've got to run to lunch. Thanks for leaving comments! If you have any questions, please post, and I'll do my best to answer! I apologize for the grammer errors-- this keyboard is quite temperamental!!