Peace Corps: An African Adventure

A Peace Corps Peace Corpse

2012-12-04T12:00:00.002-08:00

By a true and marvelous understanding of one's self, or an incredible deception, one can quite miraculously write their own obituary. In my case, I feel like I have achieved both of these as I have left Cameroon with a far better understanding of exactly who I am, as well as disappearing from those around me with a swiftness that could be magic (or just standard Peace Corps Medical Evacuation protocols). This post is my final post as a volunteer.

Customary to Cameroon, I will not dwell on the event that has rendered me somewhat of a Peace Corpse, but I will celebrate the experience in all of the ways that it changed me and my life for the better. Uncustomary to Cameroon, this celebration will be short, and it will be sober. I am not one for long goodbyes.

From the beginning of my service, I appeared to everyone as I indeed felt myself; cold, methodic, pragmatic, and critical. Indeed, my first attributed words were "I am not here to make friends." There are a few of you who got past the chinks in my armor, and I will forever appreciate the times that we had together, the memories that we share, and what I learned from each and every one of you. You all changed me for the better, for the best.

To those I never got to know, I hope that you do not believe that my stoic exterior means I think or thought any less of you. I know everyday that you make amazing sacrifices in your endeavors to explore and do good work. From the beginning, I knew that one day we would all end up saying goodbye, and for my own sake (and I would like to think for yours as well), I did what I could to save everyone from such an unpleasant experience by remaining detached. Fear not though, your simple, hardy, and selfless service is something that will never be forgotten.

If photos say a thousand words, then this is where I should like to see one placed. Yet, from all of my searchings, I fail to find one that plainly says the things that I, myself, could never say.

Thank you to those who continue the good fight. You, Cameroon, and the life which you lead will be missed.

Sincerely,

Sean Mc Caffrey

Getting Famous!

2012-10-10T14:58:00.001-07:00

Okay, I'm not really getting famous. My blog has only topped 20,000 views, and as I've just discovered my popularity is really only rising in Asia.

Unfortunately, this trend started with my post about the tragically deformed child. While I don't want my blog to be discovered just because of one post that is shocking in nature, I am happy that people are reading what I write. One Vietnamese girl found me on Facebook and sent me a message. It said "Hi. I want volunteer like you." Somethings tells me that I'm doing a good job.

Below are some stories and links that I've found my blog attributed to. I even have talked with the writer of the first article listed, and he's informed me a little bit more about how my blog is spreading by word of mouth, and I find that fascinating.

1st Article

Copy of 1st Article, Different Webpage

Vietnamese Article

Forum Thread - WARNING: EXPLICIT STUPID IGNORANT ARROGANT CONTENT

The last link (Forum Thread) is full of some pretty awful stuff. However, if you sift through the stupid, ignorant, arrogant, and ______ (insert another vile adjective here) comments, there are some people who seem to be actually reading the article and asking questions. To me, even though there are plenty of people that think the post that started this popularity trend was wrong to begin with, that I should have respected the privacy of the child, now people are seeing a part of the truth and the reality that is life here, and that child did not die in vain.

Roadside Robbery

2012-10-10T14:06:00.001-07:00

Three nights ago, as I was walking home from dinner with another volunteer, three men with machetes rode up and two dismounted from their motorcycle. They immediately stepped in front and behind of my friend, who acted passively, giving them his backpack and emptying his pockets. Once they had taken those things, and realized he had nothing more to offer, they turned their attention on me.

When they dismounted from the motorcycle, I moved away from my friend by a couple of feet. I pulled out my knife from my sheath and held it closed within the palm of my hand. While they were pulling off his backpack and taking his wallet, I continued to increase the distance between us to about twenty feet. When one of them came for me, I assumed an aggressive fight stance, opened the blade of my knife with a loud snap, and stood my ground. After he hesitated with the machete outside of his striking distance, I took a step forward, still aggressively postured, and held my ground for another second or two.

I'm not sure what prompted it, but he turned, ran, and jumped on the back of the motorcycle. When his accomplice joined him, they sped off, leaving my friend and I.

During this entire event, I had shouted "thief" in French to some close bystanders, but they failed to act. As we gathered our wits, I gave them a glare, and remembered to pick up a few slices of pizza wrapped in tinfoil that I dropped when the attackers arrived.

In the end, we both survived without a scratch, minus the small cut my friend received from the blade of one of the attackers.

At first, obviously in shock, I was upset, and still greatly am, by my actions. My fellow volunteer and good friend acted with perfect calm and passivity. While I've been told that I did the right thing by many, I'm not so sure. I know that my trained and possibly instinctual actions could have caused a lot more harm than good. My conscience weighs heavy with that.

You can take self defense classes, martial arts training, and even some military training, and still not know how you're going to react to a life threatening situation until you're in it. Mine was over before I really knew it had begun, and I'm incredibly thankful that no one was hurt.

What did I learn from this situation? What can other volunteers do to avoid this type of event? Here are some thoughts that have grown from my short but intense reflections.

1.) Be prepared. Carry your money in different places. Get in the habit of carrying a "fall wallet" or a "dummy wallet" with a few small bills inside.

2.) Be alert. STRATFOR names and defines four stages of alertness in their Practical Guide to Situational Awareness. In any country with a reputation for high levels of crime, especially against foreigners, you need to maintain a focused awareness or a high alert level depending upon your situation.

3.) Avoid dangerous places. This one should be pretty obvious, but foreigners are often unfamiliar with the environment. Use common sense. In the STRATFOR Practical Guide to Situational Awareness, they mention feelings and instincts, and how important it is to trust these. If you can't avoid dangerous places, stay in the best place you can find. Often this place is well lit, with multiple escape routes. Humans are attracted to movement, and there's no reason to catch the eye of predators if you don't have to. Also, when you're moving, you're constantly changing the variables of your environment. Since aggressors are often only concerned with you as the variable in a dangerous place, you're making things harder on yourself.

3.) Maintain your space. Being alert isn't a guarantee that bad guys won't come in your direction. If you can, maintain a buffer between them and you, but don't run. running will embolden and encourage their aggressiveness, and empower their sense of control. Running won't do you any good in a situation like mine either, because you have nowhere to hide, no one to run to, and the guy with the motorcycle isn't going to let you get far.

4.) Stand your ground. This doesn't mean be aggressive, it means being confident. Even though it might seem like the attackers have all the control, they don't. You are capable of choosing which course of action to take. If the buffer of space between you and the aggressors shrinks and is lost, you can choose to be passive or aggressive. The best course is always to be passive. No money, bag, wallet, watch, phone, laptop, or iPod is worth the loss of life or limb.

5.) Know how to disengage physically and mentally. If you've taken a passive role, which I hope you do, the aggressors will likely choose when to disengage for you. However, you can help them along. Help them only as much as they demand. Time is against them. If you've chosen a more aggressive role, know when to back down or find your escape. Mentally, you'll likely be in shock. I know I was. My friend and I handled it completely differently. I know that for me, the best was to talk to people about it. For him, he's fine to accept it as part of the life where we are. Whatever your mental or emotional requirements, your body is going to be filled with adrenaline for awhile, and you're going to be jumpy. Get to a comfortable place and try to relax.

Notice, nowhere in there did I say get trained in self defense, carry a weapon, or use a weapon. While these things are marketed very well, you must never forget that each of them have costs beyond our comprehension. Even if you get away from a conflict with a scratch, which you likely won't, you'll be wounded mentally. Remember that a scary and frightening moment may be unpredictable, but it's normally very short. Hurting someone, or yourself, can have long lasting consequences.

I'm glad my friend and I are both safe. It could have gone much, much, much worse.

Bicycle Training For New Peace Corps Volunteers

2012-10-08T05:53:00.002-07:00

Time has been flying by. At the end of August I was informed that I had been selected to be one of two bicycle safety and maintenance trainers for the new group of volunteers, or Peace Corps Trainees (PCTs). In the beginning of September I came down to Yaoundé to participate in a Training Of Trainers (TOT) training (a little ridiculous, I know). Finally, this last weekend, I went to Bafia for three days, met all of the new PCTs, and helped teach all of them how to ride safely in Cameroon, as well as how to deal with some of the common maintenance issues that pop up in Africa.

Joe and myself starting of the session for the PCTs

In TOT, I certainly wasn't overwhelmed by the information being presented. In fact, quite the opposite. I soon realized that while bicycle trainers are held to the same standards of training as the other technical trainers, we have virtually no supervision and can operate very independently. Truthfully, that's a great thing. Joe Cooper (my co-bicycle safety and maintenance trainer) and I were pretty creative about our training design, but still used some of the same ideas that were presented to us during our out training as PCTs. Both of us, however, came in knowing how to do TOT from lots of previous experience at home and in the field.

Talking bike safety

When the actual bicycle maintenance and safety training rolled around, Joe and I were both really excited. We spent about an hour in the classroom assessing the level of bicycle familiarity in the group of PCTs, as well as informing them about many aspects of bicycle safety that are necessary to understand when cycling in Cameroon. After that, we broke up into groups for maintenance demos and practice on things like how to change a tire, and how to fix a broken chain. Joe and I are capable of teaching a lot more, but in the time allowed, we couldn't be too technical. Finally, some of the PCTs chose to go on a bike ride with Joe and myself, and during that excursion we watched to make sure volunteers used some of our guidance, and that there were no mechanical issues with the

Joe is a natural teacher, and the PCTs love him

I'm pretty sure our enthusiasm and our energy rubbed off on the first group of PCTs, and the training went extremely well. They're a great group of "kids," and will make excellent PCVs in the future I'm sure. The second training went a little less well, probably due to their late night activities the evening before, and the simple fact that I think Joe and I were tired of talking. See, being around PCTs as a PCV is fun, but extremely tiring. I used the term "kids" before because it adequately describes them in this situation. We all know that kids grow up, and naturally, they'll change just like I, and many others in my stag, did.

Showing PCTs how to fix a broken chain

I have to put a word in about Peace Corps logistics when doing this. First of all, I didn't really appreciate how hard it is for Peace Corps to successfully plan for, and execute, a training of this magnitude. There are 55 PCTs in this new group. Peace Corps had to find, orient, and place each volunteer with a separate family in two villages, and each family and their house had to meet certain criteria for safety and security. Peace Corps also has to provide transportation for these volunteers so that the groups are able to participate in some sessions simultaneously, and for one group to use the internet once a week. They also have to make sure that all of the instructors are housed, and that their transport is provided for. Finally, they have to set up events like swearing in, which are logistical nightmares! They do all of this while still trying to provide the same level of support for existing volunteers. You might not hear me say it often, but serious, props to Peace Corps for doing such a good job under such adverse circumstances.

When The French Come To Town

2012-08-30T08:14:00.001-07:00

The UNICEF SASDE program I’ve been working for had a jump in activity earlier this month. The program leadership decided to plan a three week excursion to SASDE community relief volunteers’ villages to assess their progress and activities. Considering Alice and I had been reporting on this for quite some time, I was pretty curious as to their sudden motivation and interest. When they arrived, we met at the health delegation’s office in Garoua, and I was given the itinerary for the two weeks of their program in my area. As I scanned the document, I realized some small changes had been made from the one I received in my email. Down near the bottom, inserted in small print, was a notice that for an entire day, instead of doing actual work, we’d be escorting around a French delegation of UNICEF donors checking on the UNICEF work in Cameroon. Nice. Now I understand why everyone is suddenly taking work seriously.

Let the Community Relief Volunteer interviews, or interrogations, begin

As we toured the UNICEF community relief volunteer villages, we asked them about their activities, progress, and future plans. Of course, due to protocol, our party of four (the SASDE assistant director an my boss Suzanne, her assistant, and the head liaison from the Ministry of Health) grew to eight as the assistant to the regional delegate of health, the head of the regional nutrition program, the head of the district hospital, and the district liaison between the Ministry of Health and UNICEF accompanied us to due to ridiculous “protocol.”

It takes 5 people to brief the chief of the health center on our activities...

One of the few female community relief volunteers

Community relief agent's family watching the interview

Community chief, with some curious youngsters tagging along

The old and the new; community chief trying to stay awake during one of our community relief agent interviews with a curious little one in the background

Actually, before I continue with the story, I’m going to spend a minute discussing “protocol.” Protocol is the Cameroonian name for a culturally propagated system of ass covering. In our case, during our interviews with these SASDE community relief volunteers, those in charge of the volunteer are present to quash any negative feedback that the volunteer may provide, and to take credit for any success the volunteer may have had. They provide no additional help during progress evaluations, and as may be inferred, actually deduct from the value of any attempt to understand the program’s progress.

This is the universal face of the corrupt bureaucrats in Cameroon when they're in charge and the center of attention

More interviews

When the French arrived, our progress had been so hindered by protocol that our findings were reported with little accuracy, and a few blatant lies were sprinkled in just for fun.

I hope I'm not that guy when I grow up... but I'd take his camera

The universal face of a bureaucrat when they're no longer the center of attention, or the most powerful person in the room

See what I mean?

Reporting to the French

The most important part of the day, the group photo

Of course, a Tour De Boula Ibbi is a totally French thing to do

The thing that really ticked me off was that after the French were briefed on the community relief volunteers' activities, UNICEF made a health center delay its emergency food distribution and child malnutrition assessments just so the French could see how busy and active this health center was. That resulted in dozens of mothers and children waiting in the hot sun for hours just so the French delegation could see them receive their aid and the health center at work. Want to know the most ridiculous part? We don't even work with that health center.

Arriving at the health center

Waiting in the sun...

Getting some shade, any way they can

Hours of waiting is exhausting

That bitter taste in my mouth didn’t leave, and when the opportunity arose for me to speak to the UNICEF representative from the New York headquarters, I chose to make the most of the opportunity. Considering this was a pretty big meeting for me, I’ll admit, I was pretty nervous, and I wasn’t quite as relaxed as I could or should have been. However, I'll admit it, I was very angry, and was trying to keep that in check so that my critiques of the entire UNICEF Cameroon operation would be taken seriously. Eventually, I calmed, and our conversation went well. I'll be staying in touch with the new UNICEF Rep from New York, and hopefully our relationship from the beginning of his service will have a positive impact on UNICEF's programs in the field, and my experience in general.

The Flood - When The UN Comes To Town

2012-08-29T08:04:00.000-07:00

When I got the call that a UN delegation was in Pitoa, I was pretty surprised, and I didn’t hurry to get to the hospital to meet them as I was already working on some UN matters for another program. However, when they showed up to my front door, I figured something was serious. I laced up my boots, and walked out to meet them.

The UN cadre was a damage assessment detail sent to understand the effects of the flood upon the population of Pitoa. When they started asking me questions, I’ll admit, I was caught a little off-guard. I wasn’t expecting any kind of NGO response. However, when I saw their disaster assessment form, we started speaking the same language.

Back in the day, I had trained and volunteered for the American Red Cross’ Oregon Trail Chapter based out of Portland, Oregon. My supervisor, Rodney Rodgers, did an excellent job of incorporating me into their program and getting me as much information as I could handle. I took classes on damage assessment, housing, feeding, communications, and many others. Without really thinking about it, I had catalogued pertinent information on the flood and its effects and was able to essentially fill out the UN’s damage assessment form for them. Because of my knowledge on the issue, and my familiarity with the community, I once again found myself in a place of leadership during a disaster completely by chance.

Improvised shelter from when their dwellings collapsed, before the water rose even more

Ankle to knee deep water

The foundation of this house is so soft that the residents probably will have to demolish it and start over

We started surveying the town, starting on the south side of Pitoa, and working from that quarter to the east quarter, my quarter. We interviewed those effected, took photos of property damage, and prioritized community problems. Eventually, the UN group was satisfied that they had everything that they needed to start a response, and would send all the information up the UN chain.

Food warehouse, where much of the community's food was drawn from during the dry season

One of many completely demolished houses

Ruined walls and courtyard

Neighbor's house in ankle to knee deep water

His living room

His bedroom

What was his children's bedroom

Home school chalk board

Neighbor's house critically damaged

Yesterday, the mayor handed out soap to effected families to combat a potential cholera epidemic as flooded latrines spread fecal matter into the community with the flood waters, and displaced people defecate in the open due to a lack of facilities. Hopefully, the community of Pitoa will continue with these small aid efforts as the UN bureaucracy takes on a FEMA like resemblance in their response. While the Katrina comparison may not be warranted as I actually have only heard of one death directly linked to the flood (a boy playing in a canal in Garoua was swept away by the floodwaters and the body hasn’t been recovered), the potential for a disease outbreak is great. The hospital staff are on edge as they wait for the health effects of the flood to reach their wards.

The Flood - When Waters Rise in an African Town

2012-08-29T07:12:00.000-07:00

As I write this blog at 6:26pm, under a thunderous dark grey sky that flashes blue and violet with lightning, I’m hoping that the water doesn't rise again.

Lightning flashes...

The flood struck while I was away. My bus ride back into Garoua was normal enough until I reached the bridge over the Benoé river. Looking east, out over the flood plain, all I could see was water.

This is normally a cracked and dry plain

At first, this was beautiful and absorbing, but I found myself edgy and worried, and soon I figured out why. Somewhere, out there, on the edge of the flood plain, my village was probably already under water. My neighbors, my house, my community. After staying for a night in Garoua, and hearing rumors that indeed, Pitoa was flooded, I hopped a taxi expecting the worst.

Outskirts of Garoua

When I reached Pitoa, the town seemed fine. No water was present in the central quarters of town, and commerce seemed to be continuing as usual. As I hurried down my street, watching kids play, I noticed water on the side streets heading towards the edge of town. In my haste to get to my house, I didn't give this a second thought, as puddles during the rainy season are all too common. I thought the exact same thing of the large puddle that had formed a few meters from my front door. I had no idea how wrong I was.

This is taken from my front gate

These puddles in the street turned out to be just the edges of the vast flood. The Benoé, the river normally 10 kilometers away, had overflown its banks and ended up in my village, in my quarter. As the evening and night set in, my neighbors and I watched the water creep steadily forward. The lines I drew in the sand were consumed one after another, and finally, at one in the morning, my neighbors and I took up shovels and wheelbarrows. We dumped earth in front of their concession gates as best we could. When I awoke in the morning, water had risen more, but thankfully, not high enough to enter the homes of my neighbors in any significant amounts. My concession gate was just two meters from the water.

1 AM

1:15 AM

8AM

Taken from in front of my front gate

Sitting on a pirogue in the middle of what was once a fertile plain, I watched fisherman string nets between stocks of now ruined millet, rice, and corn. I laughed at the strange humor I found in this, but the truth was, and still is, that my community responds to this flood with a flexibility not commonly seen in the United States. The community has taken in those who have been displaced. Large families are now crammed into single rooms, and are eating borrowed rice, corn, and meat. For the most part, they accept this simply as the will of God or Allah.

In the middle of a field of ruined corn and cotton

Rowing down a street

Doing some fishing in a millet field, with a flooded Pitoa in the background

Maybe it’s the fact that their devout religious views pacify their anger, or their lack of reliance on aid organizations and government services. Either way, I can’t help but be amazed, as everyday people go about their lives as normal. Having seen the results of a disastrous flood in my Oregon hometown, and helping managing the relief efforts for the Red Cross, the contrast between the “undeveloped” and “developed” world is striking in many ways. Yet, at the core of each situation, we all act as humans do, with compassion and a renewed respect for nature, a force far beyond our control.

Making the best of it

A Peek Into Cameroonian Romance

2012-07-28T10:40:00.001-07:00

I hear that the French are a pretty romantic people. Personally, I wouldn't know. However, after cleaning out my desk at work, I found this letter and picture. I wouldn't be surprised if the French have some catching up to do.

Now, my mastery of the French language is far from complete, but I'll try to give you the gist of it. The letter, roughly translates to...

You who spend hours in my thoughts and my heart, [who] was the epicenter [it] saddens me I can not refrain from you despite your practice [to] torture [me]. Even being your prey I promise you [difficulty] all the same because you're always a target I will face [with difficulty], especially dexterity(?) [melancholy] joy. I remain convinced of one thing, in the future I will conquer, you are the author of my moral disorder, the cause of my impulsive behavior, the cause of my actions committed without reflection, the consequence of my moments of joy and suffering. You burn me strongly inside, how do I contain this flame that springs to my sensitive heart??? How to channel those flames towards a better goal??? Do not ever forget that I love you very much.

The caption in the picture below translates to...

My Heart,

Never forget that I love you and that only you can reach happiness in the world.

And I thought I was a sap.

When Nine Months Of Hope Dies In One Second GRAPHIC CONTENT

2012-07-25T08:31:00.000-07:00

Last week, after saying goodbye to some visitors, I headed to the Hospital to check in with everyone for a few minutes. Unfortunately, it was about to be the hardest “few minutes” of the last couple of months.

I walked into the waiting area, just outside the nurses exam rooms, to see a nurse holding a medical pan. He saw me, and beckoned me closer. In the pan, I saw a towel wrapped around something that I presumed was a brand new baby. As he started explaining, I found I was right, but as he pulled off the towel, it was as if the entire reality of Africa came crashing down upon my shoulders.

The baby had no mouth, no nose, and one severely deformed eye with two pupils. The nurse continued to pull away the towel, and at first, I was relieved. The torso, arms, and little hands seemed completely normal. But the nurse continued, and then pointed to the genital area of the baby, where I saw the child had both sets of genitalia and, according to the nurse, no anus.

It lay there, still, and as I was about to finish processing what I had just seen, it moved. It was alive! I have no idea how that was possible, but it twitched its arms and kicked its legs. The nurse shrugged his shoulders at that, and stood there, waiting for the little one to lie lifeless, as there was nothing he could do.

I asked the nurse about the mother, he said that she was fine, and that she lived in the bush, many kilometers away from the hospital. By the size of the baby, I guessed it was fully developed and had been born after a full nine months. The nurse confirmed my theory, and then it hit me like a sledgehammer.

The mother, carried and expected and hoped, for this child for nine months. Nine months. American’s can't wait nine months for anything. We can’t even wait a few months to see the baby when it’s still in the womb. We criticize Africans for having no sense of delayed gratification, but we are absolutely the biggest hypocrites when we do that. Yet, our desire to see the baby isn’t all that selfish. If the equipment, such as an sonogram, had been available in the hospital, it is likely that the child’s deformities would have been seen early on, and that the mother never would have had to carry it to term. Her and her family would have been spared the tremendous emotional shock, disappointment, and shame.

While I’m not a fan of simply giving things to Africa, it makes me sick to think that we can digitally map the face of our American babies and ensure their health, while mothers in Africa only hope, for nine months, that their child will be as beautiful and healthy as they dream.

UNICEF Program Review Meeting

2012-07-15T01:25:00.001-07:00

So this article is from the second day, of three, of my UNICEF meetings in Kribi. I think it accurately states my mood, and foreshadows many accomplishments that the meeting itself may have achieved.

----

Blog Post:

The Meeting.

When I heard about the meeting, I thought it would be pretty cool. UNICEF official stuff. Over a hundred important people attending. Three days in a beach town. Plus, I get flown down and back from Garoua. Couldn’t sound better right?

Wrong.

It’s my second day. I’m going insane. Yesterday, we were in this meeting for 12 hours, and achieved nothing other than speculating at the true nature of why people ask silly questions. Today, Christina and I figured out how to make our computers share a screen, and we played chess... productive right? Awesome. Hopefully lunch comes soon, otherwise, I’m going to have to develop a new list of coping mechanisms. Currently, here’s a list of what i’ve been doing to stay sane.

1.) Writing - Exactly like this blog post, I’ve been writing. I’ve currently got two essays in the works that I may publish in my blog, or send them to Peace Corps for newsletters. Either way, I write until I get bored.

2.) Bejewled Blitz on my iPod - Yes, I’m 24 years old, and this game is addicting... but like anything, it also gets boring after 2 straight hours of repetitive motion.

3.) Chess - I haven’t played this since I was ten years old. I’m awful at it now. Getting better, but lets face it, unless this gets all Harry Potter real quick, it’s also getting old.

4.) Drinking water - Probably the most effective form of boredom control. When I get bored, I drink until my stomach hurts, then, like ten minutes later, I have to pee, and that that takes another ten minutes (fifteen if I really milk it). Problem is, water here is scarce sometimes, so it’s pretty much an option of last resort.

5.) Doodling - This is probably my least favorite time-killing technique. First of all, I’m out of practice, so I’m always dissatisfied with my little creations. Second, my notes are already tough enough to read sometimes. I don’t need help in making them any more illegible.

And now that’s it. I’m bored with this list. I’m not actually sure there’s more I could contribute to it, but really, it’s just not fun anymore. I think it’s time to drink some water.

----

Thirty-six hours of powerpoint. Thirty-six hours of boredom. Three days wasted.

So the meetings were a bust. I will probably not be volunteering myself to go to anymore, no matter the swanky location (because we didn't have time to enjoy it) or the flight (which was cool, but was a little strange).

Now that I'm back at post, I have a lot of work to do, and I'll be pretty busy for the next couple weeks. Hopefully not heading anywhere until at least next month.

Oh, notice how I didn't foreshadow anything that the meeting accomplished? If you haven't figured it out by now, I'm not going to spoil the fun.

We All Wear Dirty Sunglasses

2012-06-17T04:14:00.002-07:00

Sunglasses are an essential part of a Peace Corps volunteers packing list. They provide protection from the intense sun, anonymity in times of questionable activity, and some sense of privacy when walking amongst places crowded with people vying to make eye-contact and start up a conversation with a foreigner.

In fact, I wear these sunglasses so often, that I forget they're on sometimes. I have to remember to take them off in situations where letting people see my eyes is important. Yet, just taking off my sunglasses doesn't change how I see Africa too much. The lenses that do that, I can't remove.

We tend to forget though that we view our experiences through lenses that are shaped from our history. Like sunglasses, the dirtier and messier our past, the more smudged and smeared our perspective is. Even trying to get a new look at something, like cleaning your sunglasses with a corner of your T-shirt, only generally creates a film over your lens that is only visible only when light hits it at just the right angle. The same can be said of any volunteer viewing something particularly intense.

True image

What I saw

This phenomena doesn't generally present problems. In fact, it protects volunteers from the sharp edges of African life like polarized sunglasses protect from glare and harsh reflection. These internal lenses make our lives easier. The colors we see are still full and vibrant, the sun still shines clearly on the horizon, but all of the things up close, good and bad, are a little bit softer and muted. It helps keeps the extremes from being too extreme, because in a life where extremes often manically play off each other, stability is good. However, what protection we gain from this, we lose in objectivity. It's becoming harder and harder for me to remember what's important to relate to family and friends back home, and how to tell my story in general.

True image

What I saw

Recently, a little reminding would have helped me relate my experiences better. I'm still struggling to clean my lenses and get a fresh and perspective. How can you help? Write your PCV. Send us your perspectives and thoughts about African life. Remind us of your opinions and expectations for PCV life. Ask us questions. Help us remember what's important for you to understand about life in our foreign and our adversity filled lives.

The Process of Desensitization

2012-06-17T03:22:00.000-07:00

I realize that my blog posting frequency has gone done significantly in the last two months. Honestly, I think less about writing now than I ever have while in country. That might be a sign of the fact that I'm much busier, but I think it's also a sign of a general disconnect that I'm feeling with all of the people that I've been writing this blog for. What it amounts to, is that everything that would be interesting to everyone at home is becoming normal and less than notable for me. It's harder and harder to remind myself of what would be interesting to read. I'm becoming desensitized.

For example? I was getting my garden started and my neighbor came over to help. While digging he cut the waterline with a shovel. Of course, I shut of shut off the water main, and then yanked out my Leatherman to cut PVC line and a link to fix it. Am I surprised that we used a Leatherman to fix my plumbing? Not really. Am I also surprised that putting the PVC link in consisted of heating the link up with a fire and then cooling it in place so that it constricted around the broken section? Other than being surprised at the ultimate simplicity of it all, no. Cameroonian construction is pretty minimalist. There are no metal pipes, rarely sheathed wiring, and very little wood. Everything is cinderblock and cement, and even those are often used sparingly.

Something else? Well, for example, I'm learning that my UNICEF program is more corrupt by the day. More surprising? I'm not surprised. Upset? Yes. Surprised? No. Everyone gets a slice of the program money, from the top to the bottom it seems. Even if that isn't the case, people don't seem to care, or don't think they have the power to change it. Unfortunately, this change may end up hurting the people on the ground who the program is supposed to help, and that's why UNICEF continues doing what it's corruptly doing. However, if they just put a little effort, and a little time into fixing these fundamental problems, their aid programs could do so much better, be so much more efficient, and be that much more viable to receive continued funding for the long term.

Other things? Medically, I'm starting to get used to not having a hospital to rely on. It's not so bad as to say that I don't have a hospital, but it's not one that I'd willingly go to for things less than threatening to life or limb. For example? I've been having these skin infections, and the last one started on my shoulder. Rather than go to the hospital, I made the incision myself using a mirror, and used tweezers to pull out the infected material. Now I've got a cavity in my back the size of a dime, and about a quarter inch deep. The scary part is, it doesn't hurt. Oh well. Not surprised. It'll heal, I just have to wash it, and keep it clean.

There's probably tons more, and I'll make an effort to note these things in the future, but for now, that's about all I have. Maybe it's a sign. Maybe I've stepped through the threshold. Maybe I'm going native... ish.

The Beautiful North West

2012-06-08T23:05:00.000-07:00

During the last month, after recovering from a a medical issue covered in a previous post, I was invited to go visit the post of another volunteer. Crystal, who lives in Nkor, in the North West of Cameroon, may possibly have the most beautiful post in all of Cameroon. Possibly all of Africa. There are some experiences you have here that are not relatable in any medium. This is one of them. My pictures can't do it justice, and after failing to write about it for the last couple of days, my words just won't do either.

Hitting Heavy At The Hilton

2012-05-11T02:04:00.002-07:00

By complete chance, a number of volunteers from the East region of Cameroon were in Yaoundé when I got in for medical. One of these volunteers had their mother visiting, and she was staying her last couple of nights in the Hilton. Apparently, she was pretty curious as to who I was when my name was frequently brought up in the East, but I was never there to actually present myself. When the group invited me to come join them at the Hilton, I figured why not? I hadn't visited this volunteer hot spot yet considering it's ridiculously expensive drinks and what I assumed was a stuffy atmosphere.

From the street, the Hilton isn't exactly jaw-dropping. It looks like another concrete and stone high-rise in Yaoundé. Nothing particularly striking about it. However, upon entering the lobby, with one step, it seemed I had crossed a thousand miles. It was air-conditioned, well lit, sparkling clean, with art everywhere. I found the elevator bank and headed to the top-floor bar. Pretty drinks with expensive colorful liqueurs came in modern ice-cold glasses that dripped with condensation.

After a couple drinks, we headed down to the restaurant. The volunteers at the table absolutely were blown away by the menu. It was nothing like what we were used to, even in the states. The volunteer's mom told us to pick out anything we wanted. We started with a round of soft, hard, and fried cheeses. My main plate was a seafood penne pasta that was true to its name as it was covered in scallops, bits of delicious fish, and small shrimp. Finally, for desert, one of the volunteers ordered some of the best ice cream I've ever tasted. Other volunteers shared a plate of Crème Brûlée. I, along with one other volunteer, had the best chocolate mouse that I've ever tasted.

The next day, a couple volunteers enjoyed the Hilton pool, and when I arrived late in the afternoon, I found them lounging poolside on European style beach chairs. After brief greetings, we once again headed up to the bar. After another couple of drinks, we said goodbye to the volunteer's amazingly generous and sweet mom. We transitioned down into their room and ordered delicious pizzas. What started out pretty energetically soon fizzled, and all of us ended up sitting in front of the huge TV. Eventually another volunteer and myself excused ourselves for the evening and headed back into the real world.

Riding the elevator down, my fellow volunteer became somber, almost grim. He noted the absolute excess of wealth emphasized by everything that was the Hilton, and contrasting that with everything that was the streets of Yaoundé. Rich versus poor. Clean versus dirty. The decadence weighed down on us as we took each step away from the glaring lights of the lobby, and stepped onto the cracked and dirty sidewalk. I think we both felt a little guilty from enjoying that environment so much, and it was nice to settle back into the comfortable reality that was the taxi we caught, smelling of body odor, gasoline, motor oil, and various other unidentifiable organic smells.

The Peace Corps is an organization full of opinionated and intelligent individuals who, mostly, joined together in an effort to make the world a better place. Everyday, I have the opportunity to listen to the opinions of others, and hear their critiques of mine, as we discuss ways to change the world.

Regardless of the amazing ideas we come up with, realistically, we're pretty powerless in the grand scale of things. We're restrained and constrained by the worlds' geopolitical and social construction. We're lowly little Peace Corps volunteers. What if, for a single day, we could take the reigns from the armchair generals, the office power brokers, the selfish and deceptive politicians? Many volunteers think they could make a really significant impact. But, why stop there? Why not give someone like a volunteer the throne for a day? Give them the freedom from consequence after the day is over, regardless of their choices.

I finally asked my colleague what he would do, if he were king for a day, to solve all of this, without the fear of repercussions afterwards. He could take all of the criminally rich, criminally negligent, criminally corrupt, and shoot them to the moon. He could redistribute the gross wealth of where it was least needed to where it would be most appreciated. He could feed the hungry, clothe the poor, and help heal the sick. He could solve the problems with the disparity, the poverty, the absolute ridiculousness of it all. He looked at me, and without hesitating, stated "I'd figure out how to be king forever."

This volunteer is one of the volunteers I most respect and admire. While he might have said this with an air of social commentary, his eyes conveyed a most fundamental truth, that absolute power corrupts absolutely anyone. Only the naive would forget that.

Rolling The Dice With Darwin

2012-05-10T12:30:00.003-07:00

Africa may be the birthplace of man, and therefore, may be the place where nature has had the longest to figure out ways to kill you. Even though I was far from death from the last week, some of the photos I put up on Facebook may be a peek into how the smallest prick of a thorn can lead to an infection that could be a serious handicap or a life threatening injury depending upon the situation.

In many ways, I take my health for granted. I've never broken a bone. I've never had more than a couple dozen stitches. I've never been hospitalized or even in a hospital bed, just one of those ones you sit in for doctors' exams or minor operations. I've been lucky that's for sure.

When I was four or so, I was playing hide-and-go-seek in my babysitters' house. I don't remember much except chasing after someone and rounding a corner really fast. My parents had to explain the rest to me. I rounded that corner, and at full speed, inserted the corner of a glass coffee table just to the right of my right eye. Girls generally say they like the scar, which means it was worth it right?

In middle school I tried a double front-flip off a stage into double thick high jump pads. I stuck the landing so well that I shot my face into my knee, knocked myself out, and moved my left Maxilla (upper jaw bone, where your buck teeth are) about half-an-inch backwards into my mouth. Someone dragged me to the nurse's office where some distraught lady simultaneously made the mistakes of crazily begging me not to fall asleep (which sounded really similar to "don't go towards the light") and calling my mother and opening the conversation with the words "I'm sorry, but your son's had an accident." Genius. The pain wasn't so bad until the doctor made me reset it by clenching my teeth and pushing it back into place using my lower jaw and teeth. Bet that made you cringe.

In college I was riding mountain bikes with one of my closest friends. While I wasn't quite the daredevil he was (this guy would hit 10+ foot drops, and pull backflips and 360's on a full-size heavy downhill bike), I tried not to shy away from some of the more moderate stuff. We were cruising pretty quick, pumping over rollers and lips, pressing through steeply bermed turns, and soaking up the flex from our forks as the greenery blurred by. We stopped at a fork in the trail, and he mentioned that my leg was bleeding. I looked down and saw blood soaking my sock and dripping down my shoe. Six miles of riding, 45 minutes of speedy driving, and an illegal parking job later (if you know OSU meter maids, you know how awful this is), I was getting 26 stitches and a courtesy bottle of Vicodin.

My last injury, as many of you have seen, was sustained on the left side of my face. This happened when I decided to take a bike ride from Pitoa (my post) to Garoua (regional capital) about 20k away. The terrain was mostly flat, with shrubs strewn sparsely about, and the soil was cracked and hard. About half way into the trip, I accidentally ran over a stalk of one of these bushes and my tires blew out almost instantly. The now flat wheel wedged itself into a crack in the baked desert soil and I rolled off the bike as gracefully as possible. It wasn't pretty, but I avoided all but a few scratches and a thorn that struck me in the left cheek. I didn't think it was a big deal, it came out without much of a fight, and I made the best of the rest of the day. It wasn't until two days later until it started to swell, and it swelled quickly. I noticed some pain, but nothing indicating the type of infection that was starting to take place. The next morning, I woke up and could hardly see. Being Sunday, our normal medical advisers aren't available, so the on-call Peace Corps doctor told me to start taking some basic meds and send the normal Peace Corps medical staff a picture. The next morning, I was awaken just before 7am by both of the PC medical staff, and they informed me that I needed to be in Yaoundé the very next morning as they were very worried. So I packed a bag and took off.

It wasn't truly until Africa until I realized how lucky I am, how lucky so many of us are. There are reasons that extreme sports never become popular in extreme places with extremely limited medical care. Risks, even the smallest ones, cannot be afforded. Life is hard enough, and the benefits of fun never outweigh the costs of potential medical expenses and lost time earning a living that often just takes the edge off of hunger. In these places, Darwin still reigns supreme. Only the strong and smart survive, and doing even the smallest of reckless of activities can put you at risk of not seeing your golden years. Our grandparents knew this, and we are a young and new era of humanity. An age where many of us have been blessed by being born in such an affluent generation where we have the comfort and flexibility to take our health for granted, no matter what liberties we take with it.

Three mornings after getting stuck by a thorn.

Two mornings after getting stuck by a thorn.

Five mornings and one minor surgery later.

First Strides In An African Desert

2012-05-05T15:54:00.000-07:00

The two weeks of training are finally over. UNICEF and myself have just released 40 newly trained Community Relief Agents in 40 rural communities in the near Sahel Desert of Northern Cameroon. Even with the workload, I still found time to go enjoy myself as best I could. Because training started at 7:30am and ended at 5:00pm, I didn't really have time to do anything during the day. This schedule forced me to get up at before dawn for my daily workouts, and I haven't been at all dissapointed.

After leaving my house I can head out onto the plains outside Pitoa. I can literally choose an objective on the horizon and head towards it. The Benoe River is about 5k from my house. A couple of steep and rocky hills are about 4k away. Garoua, is about 16 kilometers away, and certainly not out of reach with time. I never really thought of myself as a morning person until here. Dawn is gorgeous, and the freedom to go anywhere, it's nearly intoxicating.

Below are some pictures I took of what I've been running around in.

At the edge of the Benoe River, 5k out.

About 2k out on the flats.

The Benoe River

The vertical face of these rocky hills is 20 to 30 feet.

Evelation gain: 300 feet. Lateral distance, around 75 feet.

View from the top of the butte, looking ESE.

Looking towards Garoua.

Operations in an African Hospital

2012-04-21T16:43:00.001-07:00

Of those who visit foreign countries, very few people have to visit foreign hospitals. Of those unfortunate enough to have stumbled upon some ailment severe enough to send them to the hospital, only the most unlucky have to lie upon an operating table and go under the knife.

I am now one of those people.

My hospital room was better than it could have been. My first walk through a hospital was during training. Fifty of us volunteers were paraded through a hospital grounds like we were going through a museum. If it had been the United States, we would have been violating just about every privacy issue on the books. For all of us, it was a big reality check.

The conditions of hospitals in Cameroon, and I would imagine in all of Africa, range from westernized hospitals in the main cities to darkly lit brick health centers in rural communities. My work has brought me to see the latter of these two.

These rural facilities all look fairly the same from the outside. Cinderblock buildings with faded paint. Tin roofs. Stenciled signs. Inside there's cobwebs near the ceiling. Cracked concrete floors. Chipped paint. No running water. No electricity. The smells aren't exactly refined. If you spend enough time in these places, you'll notice they have complex odors. Body odor, subtle in the mornings, but overwhelming in the afternoon, is accompanied by whiffs of alcoholic disinfectants and the copperish smell of blood. These types of atmospheres certainly contribute to why some health institutions are underutilized in many places. However the picture wouldn't be complete without taking a look at the health staff.

While there are exceptions to the rule, doctors and nurses go through patients like Ford builds cars. They do it quick, methodically, and as efficiently as possible. That doesn't leave much room for gentleness or comfort. I've seen emergency births, broken bones, amputations, machete slices, road rash to the bone, and even death. Not once have I seen any of the medical staff comfort those affected, or treat them in any way that suggested they cared for anything other than the patient's physical health. I guess I shouldn't be complaining. At least they're doing that. Mental health will come, but it wasn't there in time for my string of operations.

Luckily, the Pitoa hospital is great. Running water and electricity most of the time, fresh paint, no cobwebs. All in all, it's a five-star resort of an African hospital. It helps to know the staff too. I got the employee discount; I didn't have to pay for the operation, but I did end up having to pay for the medications, and surgical supplies.

When it was my turn to go under the knife, I was lucky, for the scalpel came just out of a sterile package in a room that was decently well lit, and well ventilated after they realized that I was sweating profusely and turned on the fan. Many people do not have the same experience. While my cuts were just enough to cut through the skin, that doesn't mean they weren't painful. I squirmed. I nearly broke a precious necklace that was made from hammered metal by squeezing it. This happened once a day, for three days.

Hopefully it's all over now.

After last day, being dramatic, it wasn't that bad.

Heaven On A Hotplate Pt. 2

2012-04-15T08:01:00.003-07:00

If I didn't say it before, I'm going to say it now. This place reminds me a lot of home. Too much almost. There are fir trees here that remind me of Ponderosa, and bushes that remind me of sagebrush. Oh and the heat. The heat and the dryness. It's enough to make me miss the crumbly and dusty soil of Central Oregon. Hey wait, even the soil is similar. It's baked, red in places, and when broken very sandy.

Even Pitoa reminds me at home, or I just feel at home. I'm not really sure. I thought I felt comfortable in Tongo-Gandima but I'm starting realize how Stephen Cormier felt when he said he might be the luckiest volunteer in Africa because of his living situation. I bet you he doesn't have a pool a half-an-hour from his house. It's pretty plush as far as Peace Corps goes.

I went to Pitoa again today to check up on my house (I'll be moving in tomorrow) and to spend some time with my landlord. This guy is the exact opposite of my last landlord. He's friendly, outgoing, and generous. We walked around what might be the largest market I've been in, including Bertoua. While they don't have a lot of variety, they have thousands of onions which every little village seems to grow.

I visited quite a few (around six) of these little villages yesterday with UNICEF. It was a mission to monitor and evaluate the ongoing projects and end results of some efforts UNICEF had started in the North to help stop Cholera outbreaks. In the Pitoa area, UNICEF specifically targetted smaller villages and helped them understand the importance of latrines and how to make them using local materials. I was impressed by seeing that all of the houses we went to, in every single village, had a latrine that was recently created. These were random houses as well, not just ones that the community host knew had latrines. Some residences even had soap and water nearby to wash their hands after using the latrine. Blows my mind how much of a difference there is between the East and North regions. What also blows my mind is that UNICEF is actually doing something significant using very little resources.

Here are some pictures from the trip.

Pretty routine sight here.

Christina riding copilot.

Checking out the scenery.

Cameroonians living in a small village near Chad.

Young Cameroonian villager.

Inside one of the straw roof huts.

Christina at work.

More young Cameroonian villagers.

Sending home for my rock shoes.

Heaven On A Hotplate Pt. 1

2012-04-15T02:52:00.001-07:00

After 24 hours of solid travel that included a 19 hour train ride, an hour shuttling gear, and a 4 hour bus ride, I finally made it to the Garoua office (soon to be Case) in the North. Those who were at the office welcomed me by taking me to eat some local street-grilled fresh fish and salad. We ended up splitting what must have been the largest freshwater fish I've seen. When we finally made it back to the office, I slept like a rock.

Two days ago I was really busy. Sylvie insisted I find a tutor for my French (apparently excellent french is required to work with UNICEF), so I met with Francois who happens to be living in Garoua. He was the best language instructor during training and I'll be hiring him for French tutoring in the next few months. Also went and checked out my house which is only about 30 minutes away from the Garoua office. The drive there reminded me of home, almost too much. The landscape gives me flashbacks to the time I've spent in Central Oregon.

Here's my house in Pitoa and a couple pictures of the landscape between there and Garoua.

Font gate

Yard and detatched kitchen on the left, house on right

Living room

Bed room

One of the mountains I'm going to climb soon

Goat and cow herds are very common on the plains

If you didn't see from the photos, my house has electricity, and may actually have water. I didn't realize how rough the East was until I ended up with the luxuries of this place.

My first impression of the North region has two important aspects. The first, is that it's hot. While I thought it would be hotter considering the warnings of other volunteers, it's actually not that bad. Heat as high as 110, 120, and 130 aren't unheard of. Today it's a cool 95 degrees, with humidity it feels right around 100. The second is that everything in the North is bigger. Houses are bigger. Yards are huge. Farms are bigger. It's pretty impressive really. I'd have to say that this is due to the land being so much easier to clear and resources being transported far more easily. Even off road, the soil is compact and hard from being baked in the sun, and often times it's smoother than the pot-holed pavement that makethe highways of Cameroon.

Yesterday, UNICEF and I had quite an adventure that led us to within 30km of Chad and into six small villages. More on that later.

Triple Decker Hammocks

2012-04-06T02:23:00.001-07:00

I know I already posted about Kribi, but Joe Cooper and I rigged a triple decker hammock setup that was just beyond cool. They tried sleeping in it one night, but someone was burning piles of leaves that night so it was too smokey. Anyways, the hammocks are from Trek Light, and they're great. I ripped mine a little dropping into it from the branch on top of everything, but nothing too serious. Here's some more photos of the project.

Kribi Vacation!

2012-04-05T15:02:00.000-07:00

After IST, about 13 volunteers, mostly from the Health sector, headed down to Kribi for a couple days of rest and relaxation.

I could write about exactly what went down on these four nights of bliss, but I think I'll let pictures do the talking.

View from the hammock, which I spent all of fifteen minutes in.

Ryan and Eddie enjoying the surf.

After jumping off a 25 foot waterfall into the ocean, we waited for an amazing shrimp meal.

Kristin and Eddie

Look down the beach from the hammocks.

Suzie and Geoff relaxing beachside.

Crystal and Cynthia.

Even with malaria, Geoff is still a hit with the ladies.

Eddie and Ryan

Alissa taking a break from the sun.

Kristin drying off.

Laura and Suzie

Ananya

Joe, Ananya, and Crystal on the triple decker.

Me, Ananya, and Crystal on the triple decker.

Bonfire!

The smaller of the waterfalls into the Atlantic.

Inter-Service Training (IST) or Prom, Without A Date

2012-04-05T13:10:00.000-07:00

A few weeks after moving to their new posts after swearing in, many volunteers start looking forward to an event known within the Peace Corps community as IST.

Inter-Service Training is a way for Peace Corps to help volunteers and community members find direction and funding when starting projects together. It also is a time for volunteers to come together after three long months of isolation, share experiences, and reconnect.

The first couple days of the week-long event are attended by both volunteers and their hand-picked community counterparts. Together, the counterparts and volunteers participate in a few long days of pretty dry lecture sessions based on understanding community problems and program funding. A couple of cheesy ice-breaking activities are thrown in just for kicks. The last days of IST are attended only by volunteers, and the emphasis during this time is on reporting.

Unfortunately, Peace Corps seems to have taken most of its inspiration in IST's design from timeshare salesman that give you great deals on a vacations, and then plant you in some stuffy banquet room for hours trying to convince you to buy into whatever they're selling.

Throughout the week, volunteers (and counterparts) took advantage of the free time after sessions by drinking, catching up, and generally having a good time. It ends up being less restful than you'd imagine. Nights often go long, and morning's sessions come all too early.

Our Stag's IST was in Bamenda. Although the last Stag's IST was in Limbé, (which I hear is a beach paradise) Bamenda was a neat city to see. Watching some of the other volunteers demonstrate their Pidgin speaking skills was incredible. Many are almost fluent. Pidgin is a language you have to hear to appreciate. You can't help but smile when hearing people speak it.

Our venue in Bamenda was a pretty swanky hotel. Certainly would be rated Five Stars by any Cameroonian standard. Hot water and electricity (sometimes), TV's, and an overpriced bar. We even got them to open up the night club just for us, and then it was shut right back down. Actually when the club finally did open up on its scheduled nights, it was pretty fun. They did have pretty awesome food, and breakfast, lunch, and dinner were all catered.

All-in-all it was a pretty amusing experience. I felt like I had gone to prom without a date for the first couple of days considering my lack of counterpart. Finding meaning in the sessions was also a bit difficult as well, as I'm just starting at my new post, and what they were covering doesn't mean anything to me for another three months or so.

Before heading to Bamenda, some people mentioned they'd be making plans on heading to Kribi after IST. I held off on making a commitment one way or the other. As things developed during our free time at the hotel, I found myself enjoying the idea of spending some more time with some really amazing people. A couple days after leaving Bamenda, I was jumping into the warm waters of the Atlantic.

The Trick Is Not Going Crazy

2012-03-14T09:34:00.000-07:00

"I used to get a big kick out of saving people's lives. Now I wonder what the hell's the point, since they all have to die anyway."

"Oh, there's a point, all right."

"Is there? What is the point?"

"The point is to keep them from dying for as long as you can."

"Yeah, but what's the point, since they all have to die anyway?"

"The trick is to not think about that."

The trick is not going crazy. Somewhere along the lines of aid work, one probably stumbles into this general question, and to most people's disappointment, there isn't an answer. The only answer is not going crazy thinking about the question. That and just doing your job.

However, my job for the last week has been confined to a Peace Corps office trying to arrange for my move, get my police report from the Gendarme, and collect a few items that I left in Tongo when they finally make their way in, and scouting a couple villages for future volunteers. This has left considerable amounts of time unaccounted for, and therefore a considerable amount of time for me to think.

"The trick is to not think about that."

I woke up this morning to a ceiling fan spinning around much the same way Martin Sheen's character did in Apocalypse Now.

"When I was here, I wanted to be there. When I was there, all I could think of was getting back into the jungle. I've been here a week now. Waiting for a mission, getting softer. Every minute I stay in this room I get weaker. And every minute Charlie squats in the bush he gets stronger."

"Each time I look around, the walls move in a little tighter."

It's true. While I'm not as strung out as Mr. Sheen was, I've been thinking about being in village a lot, about what I'm doing there, and about how every minute I'm cooped up here, trying to save money for the move up to my new post, some kid out there is losing the fight to some disease.

Fighting disease. That's what I'm here to do, right? That's what I signed up for?

"The trick is to not think about that."

"The important thing is to keep them pledging."

"It doesn't matter whether they mean it or not. That's why they make little kids pledge allegiance even before they know what 'pledge' and 'allegiance' mean."

Now I realize that I was a little kid, and my pledge means more than I ever could have imagined. It costs, more than I ever could have imagine. It also rewards more than I ever could have imagined. So does my allegiance.

My allegiance, or being faithful to this mission requires something pretty strong. Life's speed bumps at home are entire mountain ranges here. It requires you dig down everyday, and on some days do a lot more digging. It requires mental discipline, and that's something I've been seeking since I signed up for my brief stint in the military. Sometimes it comes and finds me, but as soon as it leaves, I realize how temporary discipline isn't true discipline. Discipline is constant by definition. Discipline is also constricting. Like the walls of this place, I feel my mental walls closing in with the weight of emotion behind them. The emotion I tried to leave behind, classify as non-important, or regulated to being dealt with later.

"The trick is to not think about that."

From the beginning, I said that emotions would be the hardest thing for me to deal with. So often being the antagonist to logic, emotion is in many ways a crazy element of us all. We all go a little crazy. We all learn to live with a little crazy. Trouble starts when you stop finding logical reasons to continue, and you rely upon something crazy like hope.

Hope is what we often classify as a wish that defies all odds of ever coming true. Faith is then the emotional weight you put behind hope. Things start falling apart at the seams when you realize that reality never really had a place for your hope, and that you really shouldn't have invested so heavily in that faith. Things get twisted in ever stranger ways when, for reasons unknown to you, you cannot give up your hope or faith because you start believing in the impossible.

"The trick is to not think about that."

No. The trick is to not go crazy while thinking about everything that you do while you're here.

Heading out to check on some villages for future volunteers.

PCGR's First Success!

2012-03-14T09:15:00.001-07:00

Peace Corps Gear Reviews was started as a way for volunteers to talk about the stuff they brought along with them and show how it's all holding up. It also works to find companies that are willing to help volunteers get great products at prices that volunteers can afford.

Well, PCGR has had its first success!

Vertx, a newer clothing company, produces great clothes made to look good and take a beating. The Vertx review on PCGR was picked up by Vertx and placed on their Facebook page. Vertx now offers Peace Corps Volunteers a 40% discount on all of their products!

New Post: Pitoa!

2012-03-07T03:52:00.000-08:00

Official word finally came down the pipeline yesterday. I am heading to Pitoa for sure. Peace Corps was hoping to send me as part of the UNICEF program, but they're taking a little bit too long to respond. My program manager just placed me and hoped that between now and my arrival, UNICEF will get to figuring me into their program.

From the picture above, you can see that Pitoa is of large enough size to be on Google maps. If you search it, and look around, you'll see that it's 17 kilometers away from Garoua, the regional capital. From what I've been told about the people of the Grand North (the regions Adamoua, North, and Extreme North), they are "real Africa," if there was such a thing. I'm actually not even sure what volunteers were referring to when they said "real Africa," other than maybe it's closer to what they saw on National Geographic. Regardless, if Africa had a heart at its center, Pitoua wouldn't be too far away from it.

Explore Pitoa!

Logistically, things are difficult. Peace Corps is not giving me any additional money to purchase new things for my house. Which means really, I'm going to be living in a very basic place for quite some time. Not that things weren't basic before, but this is going to be extremely minimalistic. Hopefully I'll be able to replace the generator and gas stove with replacement funds from Peace Corps after mine were stolen, but still, it's going to be quite an adventure.

The actually move will not happen until after IST, which makes timing a little difficult. I didn't have any big travel plans like most volunteers, except for maybe going to ACREST to work, which isn't' really travel at all. Most of the other volunteers will be taking a few days off and exploring Cameroon. I'll be slogging my way through train stations and crowded busses trying to move my gear. Not exactly something I'm really looking forward too, but oh well, it'll build character right?

I have some work in Bertoua that I'll be jumping on in the meantime. ACREST wants me to scout for a market and supplies to manufacture and sell charcoal briquettes in the East, with possible growth and expanding to markets in the Adamoua and CAR. I also have an assignment from Peace Corps, and that is do some preliminary scouting of possible new posts for next years' volunteers. Hey, it gives me something to do and I get to see new places.

That's all for now.

Children's Day in Tongo-Gandima