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.