Why did children's books romanticize being an orphan?

When I closed an e-mail by saying that I was off to play with orphans, my friend Jon replied, "You say 'play,' I think happy; you say 'orphans,' I think sad."

I guess it was unfair to drop a word like that without any explanation, so I thought I should update you all on my good Christian efforts to tame the savage tribes of Africa.

(That was sarcastic, in case you couldn't tell.)

A component of this study abroad program is an optional internship. You don't get any money for it or even academic credit, but since our only time commitment here is eight hours per week of class--that's it!--why not volunteer away some time? At Macalester, I often wish I could volunteer, but at Macalester, I don't have time to sleep, much less to give away.

So, Sara and I are volunteering at an orphanage called The Fact Foundation.

There are at least 50 kids there (I'm not sure how many precisely), ranging in age from toddlers to near adults. Generally, the foundation's policy is that the kids are on their own as of age 16, but one 25-year-old is allowed to stay because he suffered from spinal meningitis and has been mentally handicapped ever since. (They call him autistic, but I think that may just be their general word for mental handicaps, as opposed to referring specifically to autism.)

The younger kids sleep three to a bed, the older kids two. The beds aren't even twin beds--they're the size of summer camp bunks.

Their diet consists of two bowls of rice per day and bananas. Other sources of nutrition are sporadic: a social worker brings dates from time to time, and there are trees on the property that provide the occassional avocado or papaya. Generally, though, it's just white rice. Not enough protein for a growing kid, and I don't even want to know how constipated they must be...

Some of the kids attend school; others don't. I'm not sure why. The foundation pays for their tuition and uniforms (it's not a private school; that's just how it works here), so it's probably just that they can't afford to send them all to school. The kids brought home their report cards while I was there last week. Their grades were abysmal. I don't think anyone helps them with their homework.

Generally, the orphanage is a happier place than it is sad. Of course it's sad that these kids were abandoned, abused or just plain orphaned, but what's great about their atmosphere is that they have lots of brothers and sisters. I think it would be neat to grow up around that many kids. And no matter what, they're better off there than abused or on the street.

When we walk in, the younger kids run up to give us hugs. They call us both "Tantine" (Auntie). Some of them just want to hold our hands, others have lots of questions about the United States, and the older girls like to play with our hair.

(Women stroke my head here all the time. They admire white people's hair. If only they could see me when I'm not there's-no-running-water-to-shower greasy, holy-hell-this-humidity frizzy, and no-one-here-knows-how-to-cut-white-people's-hair split ends. And of course, it breaks my heart that the global standard of beauty has never embraced these girls, who tell me they wish they had hair like mine. I tell them that they're beautiful, but I'm no match for the global media industry.)

Here I am getting cornrows, which of course looked ridiculous. Today they gave me hanging braids, which also look ridiculous. (But thanks to Sara for the photo!)


So, generally, it's fun to visit the kids. It gets a little depressing when I notice how tattered the kids' clothes are, how thin they are and how beat up their (very few) toys are.

What's really depressing, though, is how much I hate the administrators. There are four men who run the orphanage, but a handful of women are there every day to wash the kids' clothes and prepare the daily rice. I think the women are volunteers from a local church, but no one's really explained that situation to me.

Since it's all Cameroonian men are capable and willing to do, the men sit around all day. If, hypothetically, children had no needs, it would be acceptable for these men to sit around all day. Oh but wait...there's something wrong with that picture. And speaking of pictures, here's evidence of what we're up against:


An administrator, sleeping soundly enough in his office that I was able to go retrieve my bag from a cabinet that doesn't open without a loud scraping noise.

The children's behavior is deplorable. They hit each other constantly.

Granted, Cameroonian people are more physical than Americans--they touch each other a lot more than we do, in general, and corporal punishment, specifically, is not frowned upon here as it is in the states. But seriously, I am the first person who has ever given these kids the use your words, not your hands lecture. (It's a Christian foundation, so I asked them if they thought Jesus would hit others. Things I never thought I would say...)

They run around with knives, and there's an ax lying around. Little boys pick it up and hack at pieces of 2 x 4's, and no one tells them not to.

When I tried to give an English lesson, as I'm supposed to do to make my time there productive, the kids did not shut up the whole time and the administrator guy who stood and watched didn't help me quiet them. He just watched me struggle to get their attention. What, then, was the point of his standing there?

Oh! And, two weeks in a row I've witnessed animal abuse. Well, actually, they don't care about animals in this country, so that term would fall upon deaf ears. Suffice it to say, things that would make a vegetarian flip out.

One time, a boy (nine? ten years old?) caught a little duck. Not a duckling, but not an adult either. He tied its leg to a string with which he then carried it around, swinging it in circles and poking it. He then put it out of its misery by hacking off its head with a dull knife.

(Why is he allowed to play with knives? Granted, my parents dealt with 48 fewer children, but knives, like dangerous chemical and matches, were stored out of our reach. That is common sense--something, I have discovered, Cameroonians lack.)

Yesterday, a little boy caught a baby bird, and, I think, squished it to death. However it died, it bled on his hands. And of course he thought it was hilarious to try to touch Sara and me with said hands.


I'm pretty confident that you can get bird flu that way, so I may start foaming at the mouth or something any second now. I would WebMD it if I thought the internet would cooperate.

In other words, playing with the orphans might kill me, and like any good colonizer, I am frustrated and wringing my hands at the futility of my efforts.

But, oh, for the good moments:

On the planet, and soap.

One of the great things about this semester is that I am so much better for the planet--rather, less horrid for it--here in Cameroon than I am in the United States.

You can't open a paper these days without reading something about carbon emissions and global warming and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad consequences that our lifestyle has for Mother Earth. The article often includes a token list of ways to reduce your eco footprint, many of which miss the point. Sure, you should buy a hybrid car if you're replacing your current one anyway, but hello? Consumerism is no solution for carbon emissions. But, that's the United States for you.

Here's a novel idea for reducing your carbon emissions: move to an undeveloped country!

Living in Cameroon has made me realize how much superfluous stuff we have in the U.S., and that all of it harms the planet (and me) to at least a small extent.

Here is a list of the electrical appliances that I use daily, or at least regularly, in my real life in the U.S. Bold denotes the appliances that I know to be particularly coal-consuming.

• Alarm clock + radio
• Hair dryer
• Straight iron/curling iron
• Coffee maker
• Toaster
• Microwave
• Electric stove/oven
• TV + DVD player
• Laptop
• Printers
  
• Speakers
• Cell phone charger
• Camera charger
• iPod charger
• Overhead lights
  
• Lamps
• Iron
• Space heaters
• Water heater
• Washer
• Dryer
• Central heat/air conditioning
• Elevators/escalators
• Automatic doors
• Stop lights
• Street lights
  

I could probably go on, and I could probably also make a list of all the plastics, non-recyclables and styrofoam I use.

In Cameroon, I use:

• Flourescent overhead lights (no lamps, no incandescent bulbs)
• TV
• Electric kettle
• Cell phone charger
• Camera charger
• iPod charger
• Iron
• Fans

And I don't really miss the others. My happiness would benefit from air conditioning and a washing machine, and I prefer lamp light to overhead lights, and I do wish that Yaoundé had street lights to prevent disasters such as falling in ditches...But the point is, I can totally live without all the electric stuff we think we need in America.

In Cameroon, I never drive, and to get anywhere, I use a share taxi. Granted, the air quality in Yaoundé sucks because the cars have no Clean Air Act emission standards, but at least there are wayyy fewer cars on the road. Rather than driving myself alone, I share a ride with strangers. This is less efficient than buses, I suppose, but far less heinous than the American phenomenon of sitting in traffic by yourself.

In Cameroon, nearly everything I eat is locally grown. I buy a few packaged foods (corn flakes, oatmeal, Nescafé) that are shipped to Cameroon, but eggs, fruits and vegetables, and meats are all grown here in Cameroon. (Cameroon is supposedly about the size of California, to give you an idea of scale. That's not very far for food to travel.)

The one thing I do regularly in the U.S. that I can't do in Cameroon is to recycle. Yaoundé's municipal trash system is worthless, so recycling is clearly not a priority. It really bothers me to throw away paper, and it bothers me how wasteful it is that I have to drink bottled water.

Also, Cameroonians are all about superfluous bagging. At the bakery, for example, each item receives a small baggie, all of which are put into one big plastic bag. Not necessary. And they always tie the tops so tight that you have to tear the bag open and can't reuse it, as we do for trash and dog poop in the U.S.

But, plastic bottles are recycled on a micro-level: people refill them with palm oil to sell in the markets, among other things. And, most beverages come only in glass bottles, almost all of which get returned to the brasserie, washed out and refilled. The United States really needs this system, which is even more efficient than recycling.

Since the water is ice-cold, my showers rarely last more than about four minutes. I use multiple buckets full of water to hand-wash all of my laundry, but I could use much less if I could get over being so obsessive compulsive about a clean rinse.

Living in Cameroon has also made me think the superfluous substances we use.

By "substances," I mean food--I'm going to freak out about the proponderance of salad dressings, cereals and teas the first time I go to an American supermarket--but mainly to the feats of chemical engineering that we take for granted.

In the U.S., I use different soaps for my hair, body, hands, dishes, clothes, and household. In Cameroon, these soaps are availible, but people generally use a basic bar of soap (that's an icky color and kind of smells like a urinal cake...) for their bodies, dishes and housecleaning.

Now, I wouldn't want to use color-safe bleach on my body, nor moisturizing soap on my dishes, but it makes me wonder: how many potentially cancerous, water supply-damaging substances do I use every single day? And how many of them do I really need? Zero.

Don't even get me started on artificial flavorings.

Finally, the photos you have all been waiting for.

Me at the waterfall on the coast. After this some African guys rowed us around it in tradtional canoes.











































The view from my balcony, top to bottom being left to right.















Me with the neighborhood kids. They love having their pictures taken, so I got to play with them all afternoon!















We took this picture on Women's Day, when we were bossed around by men at a creepy militaristic march.

A reminder to take any news story about Africa with a grain of salt

According to several news sources and to the U.S. Embasy here in Yaoundé, dear readers, you should be worried about me. According to me, however, you should not.

This week has been both interesting and intensely boring. I'll explain.

Taxi drivers went on strike Monday, ostensibly over rising fuel and food prices, but it quickly became obvious that it's a more general protest against President Paul Biya's recent announcement that he intends to amend the constitution to remain in office when his current term ends in 2011. (He's already been president since before I was born.)

"Riots" erupted in Douala (Cameroon's economic capital, west of Yaoundé, close to the coast) and in smaller towns in the West. News reports about Africa often take a tone of "Here we go again--lawless Africans are out of control." What the reports don't necessarily mention is that the "demonstrations" only become violent "riots" when government forces (police, gendarmes) intervene with tear gas and guns.

There have been some demonstrations in Yaoundé, too, some of which may have been fairly serious--fires, rocks thrown--but since it's the capital, it's harder to get away with anything here. (Remember, they don't have a constitutional right to freedom of assembly as we do. Or, they do have that right on paper, as long as they don't disturb the peace of the ruling party. You do the math.)

Meanwhile, the strike has made for one helluva boring week. For fear of violence, the city has shut down. My classes have been cancelled since Tuesday, but since Wednesday, everything has been closed. So, even if I could have taken a taxi, there was no place to go.

I've been sitting in the house, twiddling my thumbs and watching the South African channels on TV incessantly, since they're the only ones in English. Sadly, they only play really trashy American shows and movies, so in the last few days, I have sunk to the depths of Failure to Launch, The Devil Wears Prada, Gladiator, The Black Dahlia (which made me lose a lot of respect for Hilary Swank, whom I previously thought snotted gold), "Desperate Housewives," and--the real low point--Tyra Banks and Rachel Ray.

I washed all of my clothes by hand--which is, by the way, the worst chore in the world. I resent Little House on the Prairie for having romanticized it. I wrote a few letters, read a little, and made french fries when I wasn't even hungry, just to pass the time.

When I finally got to check my e-mail, I had about a dozen messages from the Embassy warning me to stay at home and to consider leaving Cameroon as soon as possible. Thanks a lot, Embassy--I have to leave the house to read the e-mail that says to stay put. Also, it would have been really stupid to up and leave Wednesday, considering that the situation's already blown over for the most part.

Also meanwhile, it's been an interesting exercise in critically questioning my news sources.

On BBC World, the headline scroll at the bottom of the screen proclaimed that gendarmes had used children as human shields to disperse riots, leaving one boy shot dead. They didn't follow up with a story on the issue, which is annoying, because it's misleading. The story is on their website here, and it could be accurate, but if that's the case, why doesnt anyone else have that story? I think they might be spreading rumors.

Reuters said here yesterday that three had died, but today BBC and Jeune Afrique are naming 17 as the toll. Jeune Afrique also names here, though, the Cité Universitaire neighborhood as a center of the "indicents." I live right by there, and I'm confident that that area was calm. Also, none of the other reports I read named that area.

I don't trust the Cameroonian news sources because they don't have freedom of the press, and the government just closed one of the opposition papers, so I'm pretty sure anything written and published here in Cameroon is too censored to be trustworthy.

Granted, I could be wrong about all of this. But it's a good reminder nonetheless to read multiple news sources, and to note where they conflict.

Stepping off the soap box now. No classes again today, but I'm determined to get out of the house, so my friends and I may gather to at least watch TV together, for the sake of having company.

A Brief Return to the United States (Sort Of)

Don’t get me wrong—I’m thrilled to be in Cameroon and wouldn’t trade this experience for anything—but it’s not exactly fun in the way that it would have been fun to study abroad in, say, Amsterdam.

A number of small frustrations plague me daily--cold showers, slow internet, bad smells, bad tastes, litter, sleeping poorly, miscommunication, sweating—but there are Three Big Problems.

One, it’s difficult to be friends with Cameroonians. We want to be friends with them, and they certainly want to be friends with us. I heed the advice of former study abroad participants who warned me that I wouldn’t learn anything if I hung out solely with Americans, and (no offense to the Americans I’m with—they’re great, but) I could use a change in company.

It’s difficult, though, because there’s so much cultural misunderstanding and so many expectations in the way. Our French is far from perfect, but it’s even difficult to communicate with Anglophone Cameroonians. An Anglophone girl in my neighborhood has been stopping by to chat, and I often realize that she has no clue what I’m saying. I’ve asked her several times how old she is, and I still don’t know.

Moreover, though, every aspect of communication other than language is completely different. Last night, for example, I learned that if you rest your chin on your hand, with your hand pointing upward, it means that someone close to you has died recently. How the hell was I supposed to know that?

Significantly, Cameroonians are very different about phones. If you give someone your number, they will call, and if you don’t answer, they’ll call again and again, and if you don’t respond, they take it very personally and send text messages to express their hurt feelings.

A number of things that Cameroonians do are completely unacceptable by American standards, such as requesting gifts moments after meeting you, or taking your things without asking, or—as the Anglophone girl in my neighborhood did when I didn’t answer my phone—knocking on my door. (I had no idea that she knew where I lived. In America, one could issue a restraining order for an action such as that.)

Two, Cameroonian men make it impossible for me to feel at home here. No matter how long I live here, I will remain an outsider. It deeply, deeply bothers me that I categorically distrust them, and that I roll my eyes—Here we go again!—every time a man approaches my friends and me in public. I feel safe walking around during the day, but there’s no way in hell I’d go out alone at night, and no matter when I’m out, or how hideous I look, the men leer.

Three—though I hate to say it—I miss a Starbuck’s on every corner. I hate sitting around the house, and in Yaoundé, there’s nowhere for me to sit and read and write without someone bothering me. There are no coffee shops, and if I went to a bar alone, a different man would bother me every five minutes. I’ve been watching more television here in Cameroon than I’ve every watched in my life, because for the first time, I honestly have nothing better to do. My classes don’t have much homework and I can’t go out, so why not watch two hours of The O.C. dubbed into French, and a trashy American movie on the South African channel? (I sunk to the depths of Under the Tuscan Sun the other day, so desperate was I to watch something in English.)

Now, servicemen are not my usual company, but given the Three Big Problems, I felt justified—thrilled, even—to hang out with U.S. Marines on Friday night.

My friend Natalie had met a Marine named Bryan at the pool, and he invited her to bring a few friends to a small party at the U.S. Embassy. Natalie, Cassie and I went. We weren’t sure what we were getting into, but thought, good time or bad, it would at least be nice to spend time with, I’ll just say it: males—there’s one guy in our group of 15 Americans—but better yet, males with whom we could communicate.

I felt more culture shock at the U.S. Embassy than I have felt in two months in Cameroon.

Bryan ushered us through security—“They’re with me.” I was uncomfortable with the privilege, because I have no doubt that the guards would have demanded to see my passport if I were black.

The party consisted of about 30 people, almost all white. In Africa, it’s terrifying to be in a room full of white people.

Some Embassy brat-types were running around playing Tag, some diplomat-types were seated around patio tables, and Marines were hanging out around the bar and the pool table of the house they live in on the Embassy quarters.

Natalie, Cassie, and I were like little kids in a toy store. “They have Tostitos!” “Ohmigod, you guys, look—salsa!” “You guys, you guys, look: there’s a washing machine in that room, and a dryer!” (I’ll spare you a description of the ecstasy of washing my hands in hot water with Moisturizing Aloe Vera Softsoap.)

In short, we couldn’t believe we were still in Africa. And technically, I suppose, we were on American soil, but, I mean, seriously.

Even in America-in-Africa, though, we were the center of attention.

Bryan introduced us as “College Girls,” and I cringed.

The Navy Band members were fascinated with us, and if she hadn’t already, Cassie won my admiration forever. When the bassist told her she was beautiful, she said, “Sorry, but that’s just getting really old here.”

But seriously—seriously—I was eating Tostitos the whole time, and I drank a Heineken, and I ate a chocolate chip cookie.

The highlight of the night, though, was that we couldn’t get a cab home, so Bryan had to give us a ride in an official armored vehicle: a gigantic white SUV with air conditioning.

As we struggled to climb in—this thing was at least a meter off the ground—I said, “Ladies, this is our tax dollars at work.”

We were embarrassed to be seen in such an opulent, gas-guzzling monster, but considering that over the course of my lifetime, far more of my parents’ and my tax dollars have gone to support the Armed Forces than my public education or—God forbid—healthcare, and considering that the Marines (in Cameroon, at least) literally just stand around all day, and drink American booze all night, I felt justified—thrilled, even—in getting a ride home from the U.S. Military.

It was difficult to go back to Cameroon, but not because I had to take an ice cold shower that night, but because yet again, I had to chew the cud of American privilege. It doesn’t taste good, folks.

In the midst of a country where electricity and running water work only intermittently, I had stood in air-conditioned comfort and washed my hands in hot water. In the midst of a country whose drinking water makes me sick, I drank a European beer and envied the Ocean Spray Cran-Apple juice and Gatorade that I saw behind the bar. In the midst of mothers burdened with hand washing their entire family’s clothing, I daydreamed of washing my clothes in the Marines’ machine. All courtesy of tax dollars that would far better serve Americans in their public schools, libraries, hospitals, public parks, and fire departments.

But I cannot tell a lie. The Tostitos tasted better than anything else I’ve eaten in my life.

In case you were wondering: Yes, I'm having fun.

Upon reading back over my previous posts, I realized that I hardly mentioned any of the fun I'm having, so I thought I'd write a quick list of the highlights (so far).

The program includes several 'academic excursions' around Cameroon, so the first weekend of our stay, we went to Kribi, a small town on the coast. It was a fun and relaxing change of pace: Yaoundé is quite hectic, but Kribi was quiet and beautiful. We relaxed on the beach, took a canoe ride at a beautiful waterfall, and watched people fish--as in, traditional rowboats and nets. We went to a nightclub, where the locals made fun of our dancing and took it upon themselves to teach us some Cameroonian moves.

Last week, the National Museum here in Yaoundé hosted a huge fair for artists all around Cameroon to sell their work. We all felt very lucky to be here during the exhibition because we got to see artwork from regions that we won't be able to visit...and because it was a great opportunity to (gift) shop! I spent what is, in Cameroonian terms, a small fortune (in American terms, well under $100) on clothing and jewelry for myself and gifts for family and friends.

I've never been one to follow any sports closely, but in Cameroon, you can't help but live and breathe football (or as Americans call it, soccer). Cameroonians are crazy about it--even Athens, GA, on a game day can't compare! So it's lucky that our team is really good. When we score, you can hear the whole city screaming.


ergh, so the internet just cut out and deleted everything else, and now I have to go, so I'll write more soon, I promise. This weekend I am headed to the beach!!

No one ever thinks to get a scar for a souvenir!

I wasn't a very accident-prone kid--never broke anything or needed so much as a stitch--so how perfectly appropriate is it that in Africa, of all places, I needed medical attetion for the first time in my life?

Two nights ago, I fell in a ditch.

All pain aside, falling in a ditch in Yaoundé is just about the most vile thing that could ever happen to someone. Cement ditches are the only infrastucture that's consistent in this town--electricty and running water come and go, but there's a trench on each side of each street. They contain not only trash, but rotting food, and--I wish I were exaggerating--raw sewage.

Street lights are sporadic at best, but it never occurred to me that, security aside, if you walk around at night, you may fall into a ditch full of raw sewage.

So, ladies and gentlemen, I fell head-first into a cement ditch about three feet deep and two feet wide. My head hit the opposite side, but my shoulder caught most of my weight, and my legs were splayed over the top. I'm glad no one saw me; they would have been laughing too hard to help.

I picked myself up quickly, appalled at how utterly disgusting the situation was. I lost a flip-flop and couldn't be bothered to look for it, so I walked home, half of me covered in sludge and one shoe missing.

Of course I had to pass by a bar full of men who no doubt wondered what the hell was wrong with me.

When I reached my house, I immediately jumped in the shower with my clothes on. Only then did I realize that I was bleeding profusely from my left knee.

After using nearly an entire bar of Dial soap on myself, I santized my knee and realized that the cut was deep. And wide. My host mother had left town that morning, so I called Teku, the progam director, who immediately came over with his wife to take me to the hospial.

A Cameroonian hospital, I should mention, would have been long condemned in the U.S. Supplies are few, the rooms simple and not very clean.

It was particulary unsettling to hear the nurse yell at her assitant that the tools weren't sanitary. (And uncomfortable, because they went out of their way to sanitze them for me, because I had to wonder if they bother to do so for Cameroonian patients.)

The nurse gave me a shot that was supposedly anaesthetic, but apparently African anaesthetics don't work, because the stitches hurt like bananas and I wimpered like a little baby. She asked why I was crying, and I don't know how to sass back in French well enough to say, You're jabbing at my knee with a needle; I'll cry if I want to.

Today I looked at them, and I've watched enough Grey's Anatomy to think that I wasn't sutured correctly...

Also, everything hurts, especially the bump on my head. And my back. And my shoulders.

But whatever, I'll have a sweet scar and not a bad story to go with it.

Inaugural post! Sorry it took so long.

The short version of the story: I am safe and in good health. Life is great, Africa's good, Cameroonians are wonderful.

The long version of the story: Every day is a physical, linguistic
and moral challenge.

I love Cameroon and wouldn't trade this experience for anything, but it's not exactly "fun" in the way that, for example, summer camp was fun despite mosquito bites and yucky food in the mess hall. In Central Africa, a mere mosquito bite may have some dire consequences, and I write myself a one-way ticket to Hell for calling the food "yucky" when children my own neighborhood have distended bellies. Six years of French class are no insurance policy against misunderstanding. Moreover, I will forever feel even less comfortable with America's sheer privilege than I did before.

We arrived three weeks ago today. "We" means four other girls from Macalester, 9 girls from Dickinson College, and—gulp—just one boy. I can't say yet whether my classmates will be the best friends I ever make, but I genuinely like all of them and have enjoyed their company
so far.

Our first day, we had a bus tour around Yaoundé, and as one girl said, "I feel like the animals they pull around in a cage at the zoo." We're not the only white people in this city of 2 million—I've seen a whopping 26 others—but we are the only young white women, so needless
to say, we are quite the spectacle. As our bus pulled through a crowded market, literally dozens of people shouted, "Les blanches! Les blanches!" ("White girls! White girls!")

I will be here for five months, so I'm not a tourist, and I would like to feel more like a local, but the truth is, no matter how long I'm here, I will always be an outsider. The Cameroonians—especially the men—will not let me forget that I'm different.

The men stare, make kissy noises, and shout "Ah! La jolie blanche!" ("Hey pretty white girl, pay attention to me!") Whenever the other blanches and I are stationary, such as at a restaurant, they sit down next to us, ask if we're married, and ask for our telephone numbers even though we (lie) that we are. (And they don't take a hint: I told one man that he should be careful, because my husband was a very jealous-natured professional boxer. He proceeded to ask if I would join him and his friends at a bar.)

They are not aggressive, and they don't *mean* any harm. To them, it's just flirtation, but my patience for it is slim. I would love to wear a shirt that says, "Quit f**king staring." I know that I can't change anyone, and that a lecture on feminism would fall upon deaf ears; nonetheless, it would be very satisfying to say, "Sir, while a small part of me would love to take it as a compliment that you find me desirable as I trudge around, sweating through the frumpiest
clothing I have ever worn in my life, I actually find it very degrading when you objectify me." Unfortunately, I just don't have the vocabulary to say that in French.

The children, at least, are adorable about it. They stare, puzzled as to what a white lady's doing in their part of the world. Some get very shy, but others immediately begin to show off, dropping their school bags to dance. To be honest, I can't blame the littlest ones for staring: I may very well be the first white person they've ever seen in real life.

(Television is a different story. Every trashy, godawful show that America dreams up gets dubbed into French on African TV. It's totally culturally insensitive, so I don't know why they like any of it, but Cameroonians watch more TV than any Americans I know.)

So far, we've had more free time than I've had since I wore diapers. Three hours of French class in the morning, and the rest of the day to ourselves, so we have certainly done our part to boost the local economy. In terms of, say, afternoon opera, Yaoundé doesn't have much culture to offer, so we have been visiting different neighborhoods to eat out.

Which brings me back to the topic of food. Preface: I'm not a picky eater. I'm really not. I think picky eating is childish.

I'm not a huge fan of onions (I blame this on my mother, because she ate a case of Vidalia onions--raw--while she was pregnant with me), but I'll eat them, and muscadine grapes make me gag, but how often is that an issue??

So my first week in Cameroon, I was eager to try everything. By the end of the second week, I wanted anything American.

From what I can tell, they only eat three dishes in Cameroon:

--"Sauce tomate" has a good flavor, but is oily and somehow always contains shards of cow bone, and is served with white rice, which is as boring as, well, white rice
--"Ndole" is made of some sort of green, and tastes spinachy at first, but has a nasty bitter after taste, and is served with plantains, which are fine, except that I am so sick of them after two weeks that I don't understand how people eat so many of them

but the worst of all is...

"Eru," which I believe translates to "vile." As my friend Cassie said, "It tastes like grass fried in oil." And it is served with "Fufu," with is made from casava flour. It has the consistency of Play-Doh, and tastes something like papier-maché paste.

The cuts of meat are sketchy, and if you order a whole chicken, you get the whole chicken: gizzard, liver, feet, and ribcage.

My host mother has been very gracious, and has encouraged me to tell her if I don't like something she makes, but I don't have the heart to tell her that I don't like any of it. Also, I made the mistake of telling her that I like African fruit. I do like African fruit, but because I told her so, she won't stop buying it for me. Over the course of about about a week, she has given me five pineapples and TEN papayas.

I really wish I could like papaya, because in Cameroon, they're fresh from the trees and supposedly delicious, but they have the texture of melon, but less flavor, and for some reason, I always think they'll give me diarrhea. I have no rational reason to think so--they have never given me diarrhea. (Forgive me, but when you travel in Africa, you have to pay very close attention to your health, in case of freak tropical illness, or you know, plain old diarrhea.) Someone told me to think of papaya as "eating a very flagrant flower," which helps, but it still bothers me that the seeds look like fish eggs.

Also, when I scramble eggs, they came out light pink instead of yellow...

Generally, I've been eating lots of white bread, avocados, and a chocolate spread that they eat lots of here. And lots and lots of french fries. One morning my host mom woke me up at 6:30 to give me a plate heaping with fries.

But in addition to taste, all of my senses are constantly stimulated here.

Everything in Yaoundé smells like (sweating) human bodies, or trash, or trash burning, or food cooking.

It is also very noisy here. A few nights ago I woke up because the neighbors were playing music really loud at 4:30 a.m. In America, I would have called the cops, but my impression is that the cops here, frankly, my dear, don't give a damn.

Also, I am planning to blow up all the garbage trucks, because they drive around all day honking an incredibly obnoxious honk extremely loudly. You see, rather than collecting trash twice weekly at specified places, they drive around daily, and honk at the top of every street to inform you of their presence, so that you can run up with your bag of trash. But as far as I can tell, they're useless because the streets are full of trash. Seriously, litter everywhere.

My host family is very nice. I feel very spoiled—I have a very nice room with an amazing view of Yaoundé, a brother a bit older, a sister my age, and a 12-year-old brother with whom I play catch.

My host father is a colonel in the Cameroonian military, so I have to be on my best behavior and bite my tongue when tempted to question the Cameroonian government's legitimacy. It's quite a challenge: if you know my mother, you know that I'm genetically prone to outbursts, and
that I was bred for civil disobedience.

The other day, I showed my host family my very sunburned shoulder—the first sunburn they'd ever seen!

Well, my time's about up in this "café" (the cyber cafés are really just cramped, hot, sweaty rooms with painfully slow internet). My other classes begin this week, so I will be slightly busier from here on out, but will attempt to write a bit more frequently so that I don't always talk your ear (eye?) off as I have here.

I had planned to post pictures, but I'm afraid it's just not possible. The internet is too, too slow.