In Which My Ability to Make a Point is Shown to Have Weakened Exponentially in the Past Two Years

Following the presidential campaigns from a decidedly not-American context, I've never been so grateful for our democratic process, the choices it affords (however slightly the choices vary), and the civic activity it inspires. I mean, I'm living in a place where politicians literally show up in a village with wads of dollar bills to pay for votes (apparently they haven't yet discovered the efficiency of tax breaks and defense contracts) and where supporting the opposition party is a little like trying to keep a cougar as a domestic pet, nearly always a lost cause, and sometimes dangerous. I'm also a little embarrassed at how detailed the campaign trail is reported here in Cameroon (how does a piece on Obama's relationship with his pastor honestly trump an update on the continued unrest in Chad? It's like 50 miles east! And why should the dude that sells me fruit care about Obama anyway?). The plotline of the soap opera that interests me the most however, is the plight of Hilary Clinton, equal parts impressive and maddening, but never less than fascinating. For anyone afraid I've decided to go political, don't worry, this all ties into my thoughts on African development and my experiences thereof. I have nothing to say about the campaign; I probably won't even vote. And don't you think if I was going to go Jane Fonda (too dated a reference?), I would have done it in college as a political science major like all those other Young Republican assholes?

Anywho, what interests me about Hilary is the masculine/feminine tap dance she is forced to perform in order to appeal to American voters. She obviously can't be a weepy, impulsive girl who hesitates to bomb an Iraqi textile mill for fear of 'ruining all the pretty fabric,' but the days of Margaret Thatcher are over, and neither can she don her trusty strap-on (we all know she has one) and storm around the white house, ordering the bombing of daycares and halfway houses, in between picking fights with the bodyguards. She must be convincingly pragmatic and holistic, understanding and decisive, sensitive but not sentimental. She must be identifiably feminine, but masculine enough to lead in the traditional sense of the Presidency. (The way I see it, we're simply not yet ready for a feminine Chief of State without that last qualification.) For my money, she did and is doing an ok job, though she still comes off too butch for many people's taste, and for a while I just accepted that it had to be that way. But then I took a look at my locality in Cameroon.

The situation of women in Africa (and Cameroon as my choice microcosm) varies a lot, but nowhere is it close to the progress western women enjoy. I occasionally grumbled in the States about vague discriminations I read or heard about, though only for solidarity's sake, because the truth is, I'd never experienced real, overt sexism. This isn't to say I'm not aware of the entrenched, insidious sexual assumptions that hinder women in the workplace and social situations without them even realizing it; I'm saying that stuff looks so incredibly minor compared to what I witness here daily. It's like me whining that my soup is cold while the chick next to me is being eaten alive by a shark that just jumped out of her bowl. I still have the right to complain, but understanding her plight (and indeed how the crap a shark can survive or even fit in a bowl of soup) will render me all the more informed in my quest.

I'm not going to go into just how thoroughly women's rights are eroded, or how bleak many of their lives are, because quite frankly it's a downer, and nothing that hasn't been written about numerous times. If you really want the skinny, I'll be happy to oblige you in the form of a personal email, decorated with clip art flowers and balloons to make you feel better. What applies here is the fact that for women with the luck to be raised with money, resources and education, things are decidedly better. There are even some ministers who are female, as well as school directors, doctors, and other elected officials. Such was not the case 20 years ago, so no one can argue that things aren't moving right along. What these women have in common with Clinton is that theoretically, they should be doing the same tap dance. They're women in positions of unprecedented power, in a country that in general still views women as worthless when childless and across-the-board capricious to a fault. But these women aren't tapping. They're not even line-dancing. They're doing their jobs, unabashedly female and making no apologies for it. They still take care of the household (though normally with help), dress delicately (in Muslim garb if applicable), and tend to bring a decidedly female perspective to the proceedings, regardless of the milieu. They can somehow be all those seemingly contradictory adjectives I listed above, without being inconsistent. Long story short, female Cameroonian leaders have their shit together, despite all indications that this should be impossible. For a while, this didn't make a whole lot of sense, and I admit I'm still not sure exactly how the dynamics work, but a piece of the puzzle came to me when my cell phone reception was activated.

Cameroon has gone from a land of the occasional land line to almost completely cell-compatible in about 5 years. This means people used to sending written messages to family with strangers on motorcycles (or cows, as it were) or not communicating at all suddenly have immediate access across the country. This jolt in technology has led many new customers to use their phones less-than-efficiently, simply because they're not used to the idea of phones period, let alone portable, anywhere and everywhere phones equipped with cameras and mp3 players. Some are too habituated with communicating rarely that they hardly use the phone (racking up neglect charges they're not even aware of). Others call someone a neighborhood over and talk for half an hour, costing them 30 American dollars when they could have just walked the few blocks. Some people's knowledge of manipulation ends with turning on the phone and playing Snake. Globalization dictates that these people have a right to new technology (at that they're a new market for it), but no effort is made to adopt the technology to African society, or to inform the population on how to best utilize it.

The same is true, to a different end, with women's rights and the structure of the state. Cameroon began campaigning for more women in positions of power mainly because the international community advised it that it should. People began advocating for Western-inspired rights and regulations, even at a time when the percentage of girls completing grade school was below 50%. The ideological jump, much like a technological one, forced the concerned players to improvise and make sense of the developed world ideas and Cameroonian realities. Traditionally, men and women were (and still are in a lot of places) considered fundamentally different creatures. While America's long and gradual struggle for equality included a distinct element of sameness, that 'women can perform just like men,' no one would argue so in Cameroon because men and women can't be equal; they are simply different and incomparable. Therefore, when women were originally thrust into positions of responsibility, there was never the expectation that they would act like their male counterparts. I'm sure they were originally assumed to be too sentimental and maybe not as smart, but they proved themselves without losing their gender identity, because it was never expected of them to change. In this case, the Cameroonian adjustment actually aided the proceedings.

I'm not arguing that it's bad that Cameroon has cell phone service, or that promoting western democracy and values is wrong or misguided; I'm simply noting that often, very little attention is paid to the context of the new environment, so can we really be surprised that 'democratic' Cameroon has been ruled by the same man for nearly 30 years? I find it terribly interesting that a makeshift women's lib movement actually produced dynamic leaders, but I'm well aware that wasn't an intended outcome, nor is it true across-the-board. It's simply a happy accident that the female elite in Cameroon don't have to battle the expectations of masculinity Hilary Clinton faces, and I'm not sure how much that fact helps the pesky other 95% of the population still trying to get through high school healthy and unmarried.

Yay Cameroon! There are monkeys and giraffes and elephants too! Everyone is smiling and happy!

…Ok, I can't figure out how to load balloon images. Hopefully the exclamation points sufficed to mask all the, you know, social evils.

Until next time, SLAV

Rainy? Season

Ok, in all honesty, I started writing this blog over a month ago, and its original inspiration was the dark irony that the U.S., particularly my region, was experiencing devastating floods at the same time that Cameroon was in the middle of a pretty serious drought. You get what I was going for? Opposites. Anyway, I went on to talk about the nature of the drought, its implications for my village and so forth, in what I consider a delightful little commentary on rural populations' utter reliance on consistent climate patterns, and how scary this is in the face of current global trends. I was pretty happy with myself, until I forgot to upload it when I was internet-accessed, and realized by the time it would see the light of your computer screen, the floods would be extremely old news, and the drought talk completely obsolete. So, instead of providing further proof that I am quite severely behind the times, I scrapped all the weather talk and wrote an update of my projects. Out of sheer laziness (and the desire to thematically tie-in this introduction), the original title remains. Note: For insight into just how out of the American cultural loop I am, you need simply play me a hits station on the radio and watch my eyes dart around as I tentatively as who aldskf is.

Right now, our health team in the midst of two preventative campaigns, 'Polio Eradication' (government-mandated) and 'Breast Milk Promotion' (me-mandated). You can guess which has better funding. Polio is still crippling people here, despite its disappearance in the developed world circa 1940. I would estimate I know about ten people personally who've been wheelchair-bound since childhood (if they can afford the wheelchair-most can't) and though rates have slowed dramatically in the past ten years, (particularly) rural kids are still contracting polio through dirty water and ending up with malformed limbs and an almost complete inability to make a living. In urban areas, the majority of street beggars are polio victims, who literally crawl or slide around on their hands and knees with a plastic bowl for donations. Babies that come in for weighings and vaccinations receive the polio vaccine automatically via two drops of pink liquid in the mouth, paid for by the state (which means paid for by the WHO or other aid organizations). Normally I give it while a nurse gives the kid a tetanus shot; we've found its bitter taste to be a good distraction from the shock of the shot.

The campaign goes far above and beyond these measures. It's not called an 'eradication' for nothing. During the drives, generally 3-day weekends, nurses and community health workers and random volunteers literally go door to door ('saare be saare' in their language), giving any and every kid under 5 a few drops of the vaccine. Every neighborhood, outskirt village and rural site is accounted for, and every house mapped out. The goal is obviously to hit every kid, though the majority are already vaccinated. Incredibly, the main difficulty achieving this isn't a lack of organization or motivation from the volunteers (an issue common in most community health projects), but the refusal of parents to vaccinate their children. In central Bibemi, where I live and work, this isn't much of an issue, because the parents are educated enough, or the Good Word has spread enough that everyone understands the concept and utility of vaccinations. In the true country, however, villagers exhibit strong distrust of hospital staff and particularly their 'white medicine' ('lekki jey nassara'). Some believe the drops will harm the kids; others refuse to believe it's free; many just assume it's not necessary. The nature of these villages and their people make such reactions easier to understand, but I find describing such isolation and simplicity of lifestyle hard to articulate adequately for Americans. I'm gonna give it a college try.

There are places in Cameroon where a few extended families (a few hundred people) will live and farm miles from the next village. This is an issue because they have no method of transportation other than walking, and no hospital, school, or place to buy…well, anything at all. During the rainy season, they plant food to survive on the rest of the year, sometimes the same exact meal for weeks at a time. They sell their cash crops to buy clothes (like, one outfit per person per year) and other extremely basic amenities, which someone will walk maybe a day to purchase and bring back. If they're from the same tribe, they will speak mainly their tribal language, with some of the men learning Fulfulde to be able to communicate in outside markets. The women will never learn it, nor will they have use since most never leave the little village. Maybe someone knows a spot of French. These are places where tribal traditions from 100 years ago are alive and well, and with them the misinformation and ignorance progress has eradicated from 'civilized' Africa. Girls are married at 12, boys sent to the fields instead of school, and infant mortality is shameful.

I don't want to give the impression that the majority of Cameroonians live like this, or that such societies are completely devoid of societal value. This is the rural extreme, and most people live at least a little more in contact, with a few more amenities. I describe the bare minimum because I've seen communities like it, however few. The people are generally content, and their rewards are many within the family, but they must constantly give their absolute all merely to survive another month healthily.

Ok, so that was a bit of a sidetrack from the polio thing, but let's move on to talk about…BOOBS! I spend a lot of time researching maternal and child health topics for my health center, and the day I came upon 'exclusive breastfeeding,' it was rather like a key fitting nicely into a lock, or in this context, a baby's mouth fitting snugly onto a nipple. Illness among babies in their first 6 months are extremely dangerous and damaging, and the main reason for the high mortality rate. The kids get sick so much because they often lack basic natural immunizations, are poorly fed, and drink dirty water. Exclusive breastfeeding, which means giving only breast milk (and a lot of it) for the first 6 months, guards against all these risk factors, and it's free! The first days' milk ('colostrum' for those of you not in medical school) provides natural immunities tailor-made for the baby. Many babies go without because the mother believes the milk is bad, since it's generally yellow and stringy. All of the kid's essential vitamins, as well as complete hydration, are provided by breastmilk, so the baby doesn't need other food, like porridge, formula or even water until around 6 months. If the mother doesn't give water, it drastically lessens the chance of contamination, and if she gives it often, the baby ends up fat and extremely well-nourished.

Sounds simple, right? Just milk. But misconceptions about breastfeeding abound here, and it turns out almost 0 women actually practice exclusive breastfeeding. Since it's been found so tremendously effective in preventing infant death, our health center decided to launch a promotional campaign. This means we present and explain it at every consultation, talk it up in the neighborhoods, and visit women's group meetings to reinforce the drive. Pregnant women are particularly targeted. So far, women have been open to listen, and ask a lot of questions. It's clear many don't believe it really will keep their child healthy, because it's so deceptively simple. But more than any topic I've spoke on or promoted, I feel this one has the potential to save lives and leave results my coworkers will be able to see. It requires nothing but information and the confidence to try.

On a much more frivolous note, I finally have cell phone reception, a dream that's been eluding me for months. This means anyone feeling like hearing my voice is completely free to call; I make no promises on what it will cost you, but I will certainly answer, day or night. This luxury would of course kick in when I only have 5 months to go…

Anyway, nice chatting with you (I guess 'at you' is more accurate); hope everyone 'supportent bien' (is doing well). I'll write soon, when my lapse again becomes embarrassing. SLAV

 

Random, Diary-like Entry with Talk of Sunburns

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 20^th, 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 24^th, 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

Noy Jangol?

When I unpacked my bags upon arrival in Cameroon back in 2006, I found many laughably ill-conceived items, notably a raincoat (as if I do anything when it rains but stand under it with open arms clad as scantily as possible), red pepper (available at the local market for about half a cent a pound) and, most ridiculously, a fleece blanket. When I can barely handle a sheet over my feet at night, in what case would I ever have need for an insulating blanket? I contemplated making it into curtains and a tablecloth, but the hot pink doesn't really go with my Asian jungle/dirty cement motif. But friends, Armageddon has arrived; I've been using the fleece blanket. Like, religiously. I've never been so happy.

January was brutal in the Grand North of Cameroon, and by 'brutal,' I mean sometimes I need a long-sleeved shirt at night and, because I'm a wussy, I need to heat up my bath water in a pot. People ask me daily how I'm dealing with the cold (noy jangol?), and for once I can't flippantly answer "What cold? Where is it? You guys are crazy" because I'm wearing a parka and stocking cap just like they are. The question now is how much of my discomfort is actual chill and how much is my 16-month integration. I'll think about that as I gobble a fish head and sharpen my spear for my tribal dance date later tonight.

Bibemi is developing faster than the American dollar is devaluing; a dozen water pumps have been fixed or replaced AND a new cell phone tower is so close to working I can hear the inordinately expensive drunk dials already. Basically, when I got here, the village was a rusted-out Pinto and it's quickly morphing into a 2008 Lexus. Well, maybe a '98 Lexus. Let's not be silly. I've started water hygiene presentations in neighborhoods in tandem with the repairs, where we discuss carrying and storing water without contaminating it and how to make it safe for drinking (bleach is the key word). These take place AT the pump, with one meeting for heads of households and another for their wives (the ones actually fetching water). Without the pumps, the only water option is digging for it in the dry river and apparently things get precarious in March, so getting the pumps working is both tremendously gratifying and startlingly necessary.

In other news, I was selected to present on my projects at the next batch of Health volunteers' in-service training (at the beach!), so I'm getting ready for a vaca in the middle of March. With Women's Day right before on March 8^th and an as-yet-unscheduled Hygiene Animator Training sometime before that, it'll be about time for one. I'll try to get on here with an update on the pumps before I go. Until then, hope everyone had a great start to 2008 and I resent the winter you're probably getting sick of by now.

Joyeux Noel

Happy Holidays all! I hope your Christmases were merry and as white as applicable; I'll go ahead and say mine was very merry, but more earth-toned and sandy. After hanging my fake snowflakes on the windows with an ironic smile and endlessly explaining that they weren't stars, doilies or hair ties, I commenced my holiday activities Christmas Eve by having a quasi-American-style Christmas meal with my postmate, comprised of grilled chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans and subpar American boxed cake. It was actually pretty delicious, and I ate enough to effectively put me out of commission for the rest of the night, though many of my neighbors sent pots of popcorn, sweet beignets and random meat (pictured above), which is the traditional party food. I accepted it with a tense smile and achingly false sense of gratitude, then proceeded to feed everything to my cat.

Christmas day, I left early to play Santa and give out all the American presents I brought back, like nice bar soap, watches, eyeglasses, etc. They were all terribly practical, but went over very well. The concept of the Christmas gift is pretty nonexistent here, but the concept of the 'back from a long voyage' present is quite real, so my gifts weren't surprises, but attributed to my trip to America, not Christmas. I was sent some gifts and candy for kids, so my favorite part of the holiday was finding a way to distribute everything without being ground into a fine paste by a children-stampede. I didn't always succeed, and the day I tried to walk around the Muslim neighborhood handing out smarties was the day I realized just how uncomfortable and distressingly intimate a mosh pit is. Bad decision Lamb Feast.

I found that my neighbors celebrate Christmas much like they do the other Christian/Muslim/national holidays, with lots of food, new clothes for the whole family and big parties. Since Bibemi is predominantly Christian, and the Muslim Lamb Feast also happened this week, this is probably the biggest holiday I've seen, and the one guaranteed to last the longest (generally until February-no joke). We're in the middle of the harvest here, so everyone is busy in the fields, but also collecting lots of money, so spirits are high. It makes work a little hard, as the temptation to make merry all day is omnipresent, but we're slated to start fixing water pumps the 5th, so I have tons of logistical nonsense to take care of. I suppose my next blog will update everyone on how that went, so until next time, keep your friends close and your enemies incarcerated, SLAV

Boyma Jahangal Mango (after the big trip)

Hey everyone, as promised, I’m actually using the page I set up to update you about my life to update you about my life! No one is as surprised as me.
Well, after a month of shameless gluttony, high heels and cross cultural sharing (aka “this is how we take a shot in Cameroon,”) I arrived successfully in Yaoundé, our capitol. Thanks are in order again for everyone who fed me, housed me, entertained me, or tolerated me falling asleep at like 4pm for the night on Thanksgiving. Jet lag plus turkey plus multiple microbrews equals what you saw there. In all seriousness, I appreciate the hospitality, so much so that I am tempted to play the “I live in rural poverty in Africa” card long after I’m back and working for Exxon/Mobil.
I had a bag left off my plane from Brussels, meaning I hung out in Yaoundé for a week to claim it, since they’re not exactly going to deliver it to my current address (‘the house to the left of the garbage pile with the kids trying to break in the window to get the American candy, Bibemi, Cameroon’). I was bored out of my mind down there, but took the opportunity to complete most of my obligatory mid-service medical exams…which I passed with flying colors you’ll all be happy to know. It’s actually something of an aberration to have completely clear blood and stool samples, so of course I attempted to pat myself on the back, realized I’m not nearly as flexible as I used to be, tried to disprove this by doing a spontaneous backbend, and ended up more in pain than if I had actually had one of the diseases I was cleared for. You win some; you lose some.
Once I actually got to my village (after a 20 hour train ride and combine 10 hour bush car rides, ish), it was like I was Robin Williams circa Hook, returning to the lost boys in Neverland after 20 years and them freaking out and dancing around about my return. Ok, it wasn’t really so much like that, but I’m having trouble thinking of a good homecoming pop culture analogy today, and Hook’s always a safe bet. Basically, everyone was really happy and dare I say relieved, as it’s hard for them to understand why, after being pampered and reintroduced to modern conveniences, I would CHOOSE to come back and wash my clothes in the river…Ok, pay children to wash my clothes in the river. Handing out pictures I developed was a huge deal; I plan to take way more this year now that I see the furor they cause.
It will be hard to get much work done before the new year; like the States, Christmastime is pretty much an all-bets-off few weeks. I’ll be sure to write again in January detailing how we celebrate Baby J’s birthday east of the Atlantic; I hope frankincense and myrrh are involved.
I’ve once again restructured my method for picture sharing. Pictures of other volunteers or anyone that’s on facebook will be posted there in the Tag Photos folder. Everything else (as in the interesting pictures) is to be found in my Google albums. I’ve attached a link. Almost my entire first year should be there (it’s pitifully few; I think I took more in two weeks in Australia). If there are problems getting to the page, let me know so I can inform you personally that there’s really nothing I can do about it. I’m trying to maintain a certain level of quick-response customer service here.
I wish everyone the happiest of holidays; I look forward to next year when we can go wassailing together, but until then, merry Christmas and watch the expiration dates on your eggnog, SLAV

Typical Clothing

Part Un: Traditional Pagne
The most common fashion, particularly for the older generations and pretty much everyone in rural areas, is the sometimes absurd/sometimes beautiful/occasionally incomprehensible and ALWAYS loud variety of African fabric, called 'pagne' here in the francophone Grand North. One buys it in a 6 meter sheet at the market or in stores in larger towns. In provincial capitols, there are usually young dudes walking around on the streets and in bars with 5-20 sheets displayed on their arms, apparently keen to take advantage of the drunken impulse buy...of a crapload of neon orange fabric with ducks fighting roosters on it. In my defense, the blue accents on the roosters' talons really bring out my eyes.
Pagne is something a bit hard to explain well, because it varies SO much. The fabric itself might be made of a million different materials, and the designs vary from a monochrome black silk with sporadic gold stars to a rainbow-colored affair covered in multilingual slogans and cartoons urging the populace to 'support their local post office,' 'honor their mothers and fathers,' or ' wipe from front to back...EVERY time.' Basically, your institution, national holiday, ethnic group or social initiative doesn't exist unless you've created a pagne pattern to announce it.
For the buyers, once you've chosen the pattern that defines your innermost soul (or you wake up wrapped in one you apparently couldn't live without the night before), the next step is to turn it from a sheet into a sundress or cute flowy skirt...or pajama pants in my case. Most villages are teeming with tailers, and once you've found your dude and he's taken your measurements, all you need to do is walk in, give him the newest fabric purchase and a rudimentary sketch of what you'd like made, and haggle down the price for the job. Since most women in my village prefer 80s-style huge sleeves and extra room in the stomach (for the inevitable next pregnancy), I've had a few disasters attempting to recreate American fashions, but Lucien (my man behind the sewing machine) is finally coming to understand that 'basic' and 'understated' never mean adding plastic beads and ruffles.
Part Deux: When Your Pagne is Dirty
Though pagne is infinitely more comfortable than jeans and a T-shirt (it's really more like wrapping yourself in a sheet than anything else), the impracticality of wearing it to work in the field and the ever-present and ever-growing influence of Western habits has led many in the country, particularly youth and those living in urban areas, to abandon the rainbow patterns in favor of tube tops, thrift store t-shirts and tight jeans...with rainbow patterned patches of course.
Where does one find these leopard-print vests and Thompson Family Reunion 1983 commemorative sweatshirts, you ask? At the Frippe, that glorious section of the market that's really just a huge, open air Salvation Army, specializing in everything from old-school Adidas track suits to boutique-quality hand-made beaded tops and accessories. The best frippes are in big cities or close to the border of Nigeria (aka Land of Wonders and Quality Electronics), but items as diverse as tapered jeans, knock-off LaCoste polos and Nascar jerseys occasionally wind up at local rural markets, for at most $2 a piece. Jackpot.