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.