First let me orientate you a bit more to this East region I call home. Of the ten regions in Cameroon the East is by far the biggest but the least populated. Of the two major roads, most people live on the main road heading up North. The only one that is paved, save for a few small stretches. This road was completely paved from the Adamawa region on upward (if I understand the story correctly) by the UN to help facilitate aid supplies into Chad. The rest of the East lives in small villages scattered around the second major road, which remains unpaved save for a (whohoo!) 1 km stretch through the main part of Batouri - this up and coming town en brousse (in the bush – more poetic in French).
With its bounty of natural resources the East is the richest yet, ironically, remains the most underdeveloped. In my view I would say this because of a blend of the local population’s mentality and their inability to seize on this opportunity and an ode to Cameroon being one of the most corrupt countries out there. Opinion is still forming on any role in logging/mining companies and corporate social responsibility. Gold is what I see here the most as it is mined in the surrounding area and passed through local hands to people who sell it on up to those who will melt and transform it. Logging is always present as I live on a logging route. Diamonds are also mined, though I do not know of their abundance and have yet to see some myself. Recently, the world’s biggest supply of cobalt was found in the southeast close to the Congo border.
Ok back on topic. Africa and sickness, some would put them as synonyms. Indeed I have seen enough to not refute that. It’s a lot more up close and personal and this month too close for comfort. I kind of admire the way they so easily accept death as a part of life when we in the west do so much to fight against it. It took me awhile to adjust to people so casually mentioning their family members who died, sometimes constantly seeing preparations for funerals in my neighborhood, and just in general the death I have seen. This month I have had my fill of this for a long time to come. It’s something else to now have lived here long enough to know close friends who have lost loved ones and know people who have died.
I’ve seen a fair amount of malnourished kids. It has become easy when I see those with a swollen belly too differentiate between worms and malnutrition – trick is to look at the size of their arms. It’s disheartening to see because although the east is not a breadbasket to Cameroon we have food. We don’t deal with the food security issues in the way that the north does with its more desert/arid environment. It angers me because of lot of malnutrition comes from negligence and lack of education. Now to know of a small young girl who has died of this first thing in August is sad, and definitely makes one think.
Also at the same time I was in town when Julia’s houseboy, a young boy 12 years of age, approached me. He had come into Batouri by himself from a local village to meet up with Julia who was passing through, but they missed each other. Only a glance necessary to know he was really sick. As soon as he showed me his village “herbal” remedies he was taking for Malaria/Yellow Fever I took him immediately to a pharmacist who referred him straight away to a doctor. They didn’t hesitate to hospitalize him for the night to undergo further testing. I’m still left with the image of leaving this sick, tiny young boy with very dark hauntingly yellow eyes by himself in the hospital overnight. Thankfully he recovered right away and blessed to have gotten him to the hospital before it got even worse. We went around getting him his medication before I sent him back to his village and back to his mother. The diagnosis was a severe case of typhoid. However, having him solely rely on me and being responsible for his health, food, and travel (even if for only a day and a half) stressed me out at bit and was a bit of heavy stuff I was not prepared for.
The owner of the boulangerie here in town never takes vacation. He is a self-admitted workaholic and a good friend of mine. As is the custom, when a woman gives birth a lot of times they go back to their village to do so. His wife who he married just over a year ago in May gave birth to their first child a baby boy. We had been discussing her and their son’s soon return to Batouri in a few days, needless to say he was excited. He had invited me to his house to meet his wife and son and told me his wife was informed of this. The next day when I went into the boulangerie was shocked to see it was not him working. His wife had died early that morning and he had taken the first available bus out. He is taking it very bravely and explains that this happens in life, though disconcerting to see him return without a wife and a baby that has been sent to be raised by his mom.
In my previous post about visiting the Northwest, do you see that man sitting to my left under that canopy and that same man standing to my right when I talk about that woman who showed me around Kumbo? That family took me under their wing for the week I was there, and if I lived there felt they would be like family. They opened up their house and took excellent care of me. Calling me their adopted daughter and promising to find me a young man so I would stay and come back to Kumbo. Only in his mid-40s, in the middle of August, he died of a heart attack. It is devastating to his family and to his legit organization, which sponsors local athletic youth to compete in international events.
Family and friends, I would love to tell you I took it all in stride. However, after I found out he died of a heart attack I did reach a breaking point. Just TOO much went down in the first part of August that I felt I could deal with all on my own. I was a bit overwhelmed, one day in particular, into the worst homesickness I feel I have had yet. Not what I had imagined, nor anticipated, a quiet time at post by myself to be.
Things starting taking a turn for the better with the arrival of visitors!!! Visitors are awesome because for a place that sees few outsiders they help validate my presence and for a brief amount of time make my life less of a spectacle, the things I do a bit less bizarre. There can be a constant running commentary and knowledge of when I leave and return to my house, what I buy in the market and who I buy it from, who I hang out with or am walking with, and what I wear etc. With visitors I can get away with a lot more. When they see me with them in town people actually are more likely to leave me alone since they see me otherwise occupied with my “soeurs et frères” (brother and sisters) and if they haven’t seen me for a bit not pester me about abandoning them. The most comments I hear are that they are happy I found another of my kind and especially if I am walking with a man if there would be harassment it becomes dialed down to a bare minimum.
Hanging out in my house.
For a region that no other volunteers have to pass through to reach Yaounde (there is a train that connects the city to the North), visitors are few and far between. If they do choose to take the road they usually spend the night in Bertoua and continue on. In one year we have had three visitors, two of which weren’t even PCVs! Two guys from England passed through on their around the coast tour of Africa. The other spent a night on a quick tour of the East. So it was a nice treat to receive the same amount I had in a year in one visit. The other 5 East PCVs not included. Ben, John, and Jenny were heading into the jungles in the deep East close to the Congo to check out a WWF wildlife reserve. A place few PCVs , even easties, have ever ventured. Of their courageous feat they said they were glad to have done it, but would never do it again. Days of prison bus travel on dusty roads is an achievement in itself.
Ben, Jenny, and I in Bertoua celebrating the first people from my training group to come visit me!
During this trip to Bertoua, I was able to welcome two new volunteers to the East! We spent a few days in Bertoua where I showed them around, introduced places to eat, and helped them buy materials for their houses. Justine took me up on my offer to help one of them move to post. It was the easiest one I have done yet. The two big rooms of her house were virtually empty and were a breeze to move into and set her up in Diang. Michelle had more the move to post to Dimako that I could empathize with. Her car got stuck in the rain, mattress soaked, no electricity, lots of cleaning, and she slept on a hard bench. Two years looked overwhelming right then. Seems just yesterday Julia was outside my house giving me a shoulder rub because I was overwhelmed with the cleaning I had to do even before moving in and we were trying not to freak out from losing a giant spider in my room before going to bed! Only advice I could give to Michelle was to give herself credit for what she had done thus far, not everybody could even make it even to that point.
Justine,me, and Michelle hanging out in Bertoua.
Things continued to pick up. Went out en brousse to see two villages and the work the World Food Program does with Cameroonians and Central African Republic (CAR) refugees and with whom I will work with. Next step is to meet the groups and discuss what I can teach them! I then celebrated the Fete du Ramadan with Muslim friends and made a trip to Kentzou (small village on the CAR border) to see Julia. Thankful the month ended on a good note, but, happy to say, goodbye and good riddance August 2011! No matter what,the show must go on, and I have been reminded this month how much of a blessing that is.
P.S. America thank you for the bon-bons! :D
They showed up on my porch with flowers for me.
I shall end with a quote I've especially identified with this month. "A man falls down a well and calls for help. A passing missionary hears his pleas and drops a Bible down the well. Next an aid worker stops and drops down some money. A Peace Corps Volunteer hears the man screaming, drops down a bag, then leaps into the well. “What are you doing?” asks the startled man at the bottom of the well. “I’ve come to live with you,” the PCV replies."
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