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.