Many people have asked me why I appear so pasty in pictures, living as I do inches from the equator and spending 75% of my waking hours out of doors. Even I assumed when leaving for Cameroon that I'd come back Baywatched out, finally not looking pathetic and mole-like next to my lifeguard sister. The X factor here is traditional Muslim culture, and my obligation to cover the majority of my body, the majority of the time. Yeah, it's hot and itchy, and I sometimes feel like I'm hiding spousal abuse what with all the turtlenecks in the summer, but the options are go with it and sweat, or allow everyone to assume I spend my nights earning a few extra dollars in the local brothel. As if they're not already assuming that.
With my recent trip to the beach, however, I reaffirmed that ultraviolet rays do, in fact, exist and are alive and well here in Cameroon. After frolicking beachside feeling nearly naked (but actually sporting a fairly conservative bathing ensemble) and a minimal quantity of sunscreen for 4 days, I was awarded with bar-none the worst full-body sunburn I have ever experienced. Now, I've had my fair share of beach days in sweat pants and polos due to burns (raise your hand if you have NOT been embarrassed by my choices in beach gear), but this one made me question if I would ever be capable of a hot shower again (no problem in Cameroon, as it were). I lost feeling pretty much everywhere for about 48 hours, and continue to find new patches of skin pealing to this day. Like, seriously. I just pulled something scaly off my leg. And I've been back in my village for a month. Distressing.
Beyond this minor setback, the seminar went well and the weather was lovely. The South of Cameroon isn't nearly as blistering hot (though still blistering-ha…sorry), but much more rainy and humid. I hope to have convinced some of the newer volunteers to try soy initiation and water projects in their villages, that being the reasoning behind my paid vacation, but you know, whatever. It turns out, one of the 2008 Health volunteers is not only a 2006 graduate of ND, but one I knew fairly well, so the chaos theory of reality is basically disproven as of now, because that is a ridiculous coincidence. I'll be submitting my paper to Science and perhaps the National Inquirer later this month.
Since I've been back in the North (I differentiate the poles so much because culturally and climate-wise, they really are different countries), things have gotten, well, hotter. I'm still drilling away at officials trying to get financing and organizational details squared away for my Hygiene Training, and researching a whole host of new project topics. It's slow-going to be sure, but do I expect anything else from a country in which one is praised for arriving 'early' 45 minutes late to a meeting and my fricking cell phone tower still isn't turned on after 3 months? Not that I'm anxious or anything; I just like the idea of being able to contact emergency services in the event of an emergency and, you know, receive calls.
With Cameroon's National Holiday coming up May 20th, I have also recently been assigned another curious task. The evening of the holiday, the sous-prefet (highest-ranking official in the village) sponsors a huge party for all the functionaries and higher-ups at his residence, complete with all manner of food and drink, dancing and, inevitably, ethnic conflict and bottle-throwing. All the food is prepared the day before and day of by a committee of their wives, who despite this, do not eat until all the men have been served, and therefore don't get nearly as much. If I wasn't so desensitized to gender injustice, this might disturb me. Or if I wasn't thinking 'at least those women GET some of the food.' Anywho, somehow, the sous-prefet and his cronies are under the impression that I have the slightest interest or culinary ability to function on this committee, and have announced me as a member without my knowledge or consent. This means that for my last real holiday in Cameroon, I'm going to be prancing around someone's backyard, observing women cooking for hours and hours, as if I don't do this on a pretty daily basis already. It's not that I don't WANT to help them prepare, but things are done just so for parties here, meaning if I start peeling potatoes, inevitably someone will come over to inform me I'm peeling completely wrong, and why don't I go help the ladies making the goat, or better yet, here's some food, go sit in the corner and watch for a while. Here's a slinky if you get bored, and let me know if your diaper needs changing.
Needless to say, I'm going to do everything I mischievously can to get off this committee.
Thanks for all the birthday wishes; it was a sufficiently uneventful 24th, and I wouldn't have had it any other way. I amazed my health center staff with American-style brownies (they now know 'brownie' in English as opposed to any other word of this, their other national language) and caught up with some old friends over beers. I can't say I'm ecstatic to be nearing a quarter century so soon, especially here where women my age have about five kids, jaded world views and boobs to their waists. I guess two out of three ain't bad.
That about wraps me up; sorry it's been so long, but hope everyone's rocking out the spring. See ya when I see ya…SLAV
