Future Volunteers of Mbakaou, Cameroon or Bogo, Cameroon

My work in Cameroon is done, but I wanted to leave something for those that follow.

Bogo, Cameroon was closed off to Peace Corps Volunteers and many other foreigners because of the actions of Boko Haram.  I have a few documents relating to my time there that may be of use to any service worker venturing there..  I also wanted to post a few documents from my time in Mbakaou.  I know one thing that was frustrating for me was finding any resources on work done prior to my arrival.  It's not much, but perhaps someone will find it useful.

Mbakaou, Cameroon:

Mbakaou, Cameroon - Post Book - Oct 2014
This is a document that I wrote for my successor in Mbakaou.  It was meant to be casual and humorous while hopefully conveying some information about living and working in the village.  If you are looking for any interesting bits about life in Mbakaou, you'll find it here.

Mbakaou, Cameroon - Malaria Survey - Mar 2014
This is an Excel document for a survey on malaria in Mbakaou that I conducted.  I went to a number of households and asked the head of household (or usually the oldest woman) these questions.  There is a summary page that I threw together of some interesting stats based on information other volunteers were gathering.

Bogo, Cameroon:

Bogo, Cameroon - Community Needs Assessment - 2013-01-09
This is a document I wrote up after a few months in Bogo.  I gathered information from a variety of sources and compiled it look for areas where I believed I could work during the rest of my service.

Bogo, Cameroon - Post Book - Nov 2012
I take no credit for the creation of this document.  It was given to me when I first arrived in Bogo and compiled by volunteers before me.  The date is that which I received it.  It was of course the basis for my own Post Book that I wrote about Mbakaou.

Other Materials Created by Me:

Manuel de Reference des Pairs Educateurs - Nov 2013

This document was created by myself and Caitlin Howe, the greatest partner in crime ever.  It's in French and supposed to be used by Cameroonians to assist them in outreach for HIV/AIDS prevention.

Wahl, Dale - Peace Corps Description of Service - Oct 2014

Finally, if you made it this far, you might be interested in knowing more about what I actually did during my time in Cameroon.  This is the official report of my service.

If anyone has more information or documents that you think would be beneficial for future service workers in Mbakaou or Bogo, please feel free to send me a message or comment below and I'd be happy to host them.  Good luck.

Oh and my future blog is located here: Welcome to the Daleverse

Peace Corps Cribs: Cameroon

I remember visiting Tony in Nicaragua.  He had a room in a house he shared with a family.  His room did not even have walls that went all the way to the ceiling.  Meaning you could a) hear everything at all times and b) anyone could easily have gotten in by hoping over this divider.  Technically, Peace Corps wouldn't have approved had they ever bothered to go check it out.  If I recall, the door only locked from the inside, meaning it was never locked when he was away.  Security via the family that was constantly there though.  To my knowledge, nothing bad ever came of it.

I bring this up to point out that I've only lived in the equivalent of mansions.  Technically, I've never had more space and rooms to myself than in Africa.  I've obviously lived in way nicer homes, but I shared them with people.  In Bogo, I had a whole compound to myself.  A walled enclosure, that while small, was all mine.  Here in Mbakaou, I share my compound with my servants--I MEAN FAMILY--but have a large two bedroom house for myself.  There are downsides of course.  Walls made of painted mud.  Holes to shit in.  Pretty open to the elements.  A variety of insects and animals for flatmates.  Tin roofs.  No running water.  Located in Africa.  Ya know, stuff like that.  But for the most part, I have some pretty good digs.

Here, see for yourselves.

This video of my place in Bogo was taken the very first day I moved in.  It was entirely furnished by prior volunteers which was a major boon many other volunteers did not receive.

Here is a video of my place in Mbakaou taken the last day before heading back to America.  Sort of put that one off till the last minute.  You'll notice I drug down a ton of the free stuff I got in Bogo.  Or maybe not, since the lighting is kinda shit.  Well it's all your like to get for the next year so deal.

The Extreme North Weeps at our Departure

Foiled again.  Quite possibly I'm just bad luck.  I have been less than forthcoming with information regarding the security situation in the Extreme North of Cameroon.  We are supposed to keep tight lipped about what we are doing and with good reason.  There are terrorists afoot.

Back in February a perfectly nice French family was kidnapped in the Extreme North of Cameroon by a terrorist organization called Boko Haram.  C'est l'Afrique.  The Peace Corps responded immediately and everyone consolidated into what were not bunkers but that sounds cool so let's just say that's what happened.  Complete with armed guards to wait out the storm (that part is true).  I was down south for training so I had it easy compared to the close quarters of those left behind.  You'll remember when I went to the beach and played in waterfalls.  Like ya do.  They did a security evaluation of the situation--the terrorists are based in Nigeria and the kidnapping took place right at the boarder--and decided that every volunteer near Nigeria, on the way to Nigeria, or with bad reception in the area was shut down.  That was it and I went home.

Fast forward to a week ago and all is happy go lucky.  It was sad to see about half the volunteers up here leave and so many people displaced, but things were moving on.  Quite a few of my friends ended up staying in Maroua, our regional capital, so I still got to see them, maybe even more often.  Some of my projects started up and I was really feeling integrated in Bogo.  All the little things that bothered me had pretty much turned into quaint quirks I was pleased enough with.  Then somebody decided to pay the terrorists off and release a few prisoners so the family could go home.  Good for them, bad for the rest of us.  Foreigners now have a going rate (four kids and three adults go for around 3 million USD).  That coupled with some rumors of other devious activity (well funded activity) and the whole Extreme North is shut down.

We're all gone now which is why I feel I can post this.  I only had two days to say my goodbyes.  It was emotional.  I think most people understood why we had to go for the most part, but no one was happy about it.  Bogo itself is really as safe as can be though and a lot of people felt cheated.  It's a good community and everyone always looked out for me.  My Lamido felt prudence was best and even gave me a beautiful parting gift.  I've been hearing a plenty of hate toward Boko Haram as causing all the foreigners to leave is going to shut down a lot of development programs here and leave tourism basically non existent (Waza, Rhumsiki, and Maga are all hot spots in the Extreme).  Hell a restaurant owner was almost in tears when we told him the news on the way out of Maroua.  There were far too many tears already in Bogo and Tchabawol.

Usually a laid back and in the moment person, I still find myself presented with an idea or thought for something I'd like to do in Bogo and have a flash of sadness or anger that I can't follow through. One of my first thoughts when hearing the news was that I'd never see the rainy season.  Well it rained the night I told everyone I was leaving.  And it stormed all day the next when all the volunteers came together to leave our home in mass.  The Extreme North wept.

Dale versus Rat

Cleanliness is next to godliness or so the saying goes.  If there is any truth to that, I've fallen quite a ways from the heights I was perched on back in the good ole US.  The sand is untamable.  I just can't keep it out.  The dust is literally in the air so it is a question of sand or locking myself into a hot box.  Breeze is life.  There are bugs too.  You get used to them.  You've got to clean up any trace of food or you'll be dealing with flies and cockroaches within the hour.  And obviously keeping yourself clean is a must.  I've been dreaming up a whole post describing shit I didn't expect in regards to simple skin care.  Sand, sweat, and swarms of insects.  These things can be dealt with and adapted to.

But rats?  No.

Just going to my kitchen to grab a late night handful of peanuts (basically my only snackable food) and I turned the lights on.  There is a scurry.  That's not odd; bugs scurry when you cut on the lights.  You learn to light the latrine up for a few seconds before entering.  Took me a couple seconds before it trickled in that cockroaches don't knock over glass bottles.

I look behind my little fridge and think I'm dealing with a snake.  But no, that's just a tail curving around to the far side.  I sneak to get a better look in the dark and honestly thought it must be some sort of possum-like creature.  I open the backdoor and prepare to throw things and scare it out.  A moment of clarity reminds me this is Africa and I don't actually know what I'm dealing with.  I grab a large heavy stick that is normally used to mash millet into mush (well by people who have time for such things; I've just sorta used it as a large mortal and pedestal for garlic).

The first few things I threw didn't seem to disturb him and just bounced off.  So I snuck up behind and smashed his tail with my stick.  Instead of running away toward freedom, the bastard came right at me.  It was a rat.  Eight to ten inches long not including it's equally long tail.  And I smashed him in the head and sent him sprawling.  Ha, didn't even see it coming.  Yea, man using tools; suck it other species.

I thought he might be dead as he was all unmoving and such.  And what do we do with dead things?  We poke them.  He was not dead, but still nicely dazed and just rolled around.  I thought about ending it for him there, but then I'd have to figure out what to do with a dead rat.  Beyond the poking.  So I just kept smacking him along the floor till he was out the door.  Close and lock.

Think I might get a dog.

Training down south

It was called IST which is an acronym I should probably know.  Pretty sure the "t" stands for training though.  My whole training class got together for the first time since we first departed to posts.  It was, as one might imagine, a bit of a shit show.  Extreme isolation ending suddenly with being surrounded by a language and culture you actually understand can lead to… certain excesses.  A couple weeks of that can take it out of you.

The training itself was relatively useful.  We brought our counterparts from all over Cameroon.  It was incredibly interesting to just watch how different people from all over interacted with one and other.  Cameroon is bilingual too; everything had to be in both English and French.  This kind of draws everything out, but can be pretty useful to someone still learning French.  Actually, it got really interesting when we broke into groups and I found myself in the middle of anglophones and francophone translating.  The classes or subjects were a bit simplistic and I found that incredibly boring and frustrating till it was pointed out how much our counterparts were learning.  Honestly the main things we taught were different methods for critical thinking.  I did learn a lot by listening to other volunteers both in my group and who have been here longer.  We shared best practices and strategies and I think I gained some useful ideas to try out in Bogo.  I look forward to what might hopefully be some fruitful projects.

The rest of the training was fantastic.  It was lots of catching up with old friends and sharing Peace Corps stories.  We looked a lot at how people had changed.  What does Peace Corps really do to a person's personality?  I will say… well, it makes sense to feel alone at an isolated post, but it is a strange thing to feel alone amongst a group of people all who are supposed to be your friends.  Even amongst people you know, love, and will always call friends, you still find yourself alone, thinking of all the people at home who know you best.

Training was an interesting transition.  It was a goal we were striving for.  "Stay at post, tough it out, and wait till you are reunited" was the mantra for the first months at post.  Now it is over.  We have no short term, easy goals.  It is "return to post and make a difference."  We have to find our own way.  Wish me luck.

Rain!

Water fell from the sky yesterday.  Hadn't seen that one in awhile.  Per usual, the Americans drew strange looks from Cameroonians as anyone from the Grand North ran outside to stand in it.  I should have snagged a few photos of us arms spread staring straight up like kids in a winter's first snow.

Two and a half months is really not a long period of time, but... it is just the strangest thing to never see rain.  Weather has always been unpredictable for me and everywhere I've ever lived has had rain pretty regularly.  I'm not the sort of person to check the weather; I just go outside and look at the sky.  And I get rained on a lot because of it.  The Extreme North (and the two other regions making up the Grand North) are completely dry for months at a time.  I can just leave things outside and it doesn't matter.  Because I know, with a hundred percent confidence (take that weathermen of the world), that it will not rain.

I think I miss rain.  I don't think about it often and sort of just got used to it.  The climate in Bogo is awesome.  It's like I'm living in the wild west and expect to run into Clint Eastwood around any corner.  Yea it is hot and going to get much hotter, but I'm vaguely getting used to that.  Plus you just hide inside of under the shade.  If you are rich, you sit in front of a fan.  I do miss bodies of water.  Also, having a river of sand is just weird.  I'd happily take a creak.  A bit of rain is a requirement for that from what I'm told.

Has it been awhile?

It probably doesn't feel like long to you.  I think it's been, what, three weeks?  Which really isn't that long.  But damn if it doesn't feel like forever to me.  Internet/information isolation is... a foreign concept and one that I haven't really gotten a grasp of just yet.  Sometimes I find myself wondering how the hell people did this back in the day of snail mail.  I'd have to write a letter every damn day to ensure enough people responded to keep me from losing my mind.  Just need that good ole fashion American English on the occasion.

Things are running smoothly at post.  I've been busy.  Projects are starting to form and roll out.  I just helped open a boutique.  Doesn't really sound health related and I'll admit it's a stretch, BUT it's a boutique that specializes in selling products produced by women's groups in the Bogo arrondissement (region?  district?).  We'll have to see if anyone shops there, but the cool thing is it is a great way to introduce new (hopefully better and nutritious)  food products.  So that's women advancement (which is basically health as women with dollars tend to spend 'em on family) and tasty food variety!  HEALTH.

I've also finished my needs assessment report.  Well the rough draft at least.  I'm currently on my way down south to have a couple weeks of training with Peace Corps.  My lovely counterpart will be going with.  We'll be combining all the info from the needs assessment with training to hopefully make me a more effective and productive volunteer.  Poor bastards don't stand a chance.  That can be taken so many ways...

Anyway, I should be relatively connected for the next bit.  That means you beautiful people can expect more of what you know and love.  Me.

Cows

Cows.  There are just so many of them.  All the damn time.



Crossing the road.  (That is a road, promise.)

As far as the eye can see.  (Goats too.  I like them less.)

Even when you go visit your buddy.  There to great you.  Fucking cows.

Soy Time

People gots ta eat.  In the Extreme North, they need to eat better.  I seem to focus a lot of my work on nutrition education, particularly for mothers and children, but really everyone needs it.  One of the things I want to get going in Bogo is soy.  It's relatively cheap and definitely so when considering the nutritional value.

Plus, turns out, it can be delicious.  On paper I'm trying to help out people.  In reality, I'm just hungry and will lose my mind if I eat any more damn massed up millet.

Now making soy into an edible product is apparently difficult and an all day affair.  Which is exactly why I need to teach other people how to do it for me.

STEP 1:  Soak the beans for a bazillion hours (or twelve).  OK, easy enough, wash 'em and throw out sticks or twigs or whatever, then toss 'em in water over night.  Now they absorb water, so make sure there is plenty.  Else you end up with the top HALF moldy by morning.  Whoops.

STEP 2:  Grind those suckers up.  The trick here is getting other people to do that for you.



Didn't even pay them.

Above is the manual method.  DO NOT RECOMMEND.  The second time I managed to find a guy with an electric powered grinder.  Sure there was no on/off switch and he just used rocks to hold the exposed wire together, but this is Africa.

STEP 3:  Mix the ground soy with more water and then squeeze the liquid out.  Basically spoon it into a porous tissue and really wring it out.  Discard the rest.  Pretty sure you can dry the rest and do something with it, but I don't actually know.



That strainer was worthless and so was the rag.  My neighbor gave me her head scarf and it worked perfectly.  Really should buy her a new one...

 STEP 4:  Boil the liquid.  Voila, that's soy milk.  Let it boil for ten minutes and you can drink it.  Well, let it cool and add sugar, chocolate, whatever.

STEP 5:  Cut the fire/stove down to low and toss in vinegar.  It should congeal; let it keep doing that for like 15 minutes or until you get all of it.  Now you got yourself some tofu!  The strainer is useful here to collect the chunky bits that you want.  Mash all that together with some spices.  MAGGI all the way in Cameroon.  Now you've got taste.

STEP 6:  Pile it all together and find a big rock.  Some people have boxes or whatever to shape it.  I had a chair and a rock.  You'll leave it so all the water drains out and it becomes hard.  This can take awhile.  It'll be spongy and sold.  Cut it.


Advanced soy smashing device.

STEP 7:  Get ready to cook it all.  You toss the chopped up pieces into oil and fry them.  Mmmm good.  You can eat them just like that OR, and I highly recommend this, you make yourself some delicious sauce.  I went the tomatoes, carrots, onions, garlic, spices route and it was divine.



This is where the magic happens.  Kitchen magic.



STEP 8: EAT!!!

I have made SOY!

The Road to Tchabawol

So I managed to load a video online.  It is incredibly short and of pretty poor quality... but look what I can do!

We'll call it a test.

My Greatest Moment

A little while ago I was exploring Maroua.  Someone told me of a tiny shop that sold some things imported from France.  I'm sure you can imagine what I was hoping for... and I found it!  CHEESE.  And not that silly laughing cow crap that tastes sorta but not quite like creme cheese.  Now they only had two kinds, but one of them was GOUDA (the other was a brie sort of something).  I may have spent what I make in a day and what some people here make in a week (or year, depending), but I bought myself some damn cheese.

What did I do with that cheese?  Anyone who has had the luxury of spending a late night after a few rounds with me knows that my favorite thing to make in the world is grilled cheese.  Or a quesadilla, same thing.

Yes, that is mayo.  If you aren't using mayo, you are doing it wrong.

Just a couple of other ingredients that are relatively easy to come by and we were off to a good start.

You can almost smell it.

Baguettes are not ideal for this sort of work, but beggars can't be choosers as the saying goes.

Look at how happy I am!

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was my finest moment yet in this lovely country of Cameroon.  I just felt that I needed to share.

Celibacy

Let me tell you about the time I brought a prostitute home.

I went to a spiffy dance.  Actually that may not be an accurate description.  It was far too much like a high school dance.  Or with the way kids are growing up today, maybe it was more like a middle school dance.  Except no one showed up on time.  We got there about two and a half hours late and were basically the first to show.

No one danced for probably almost two hours, which was odd because it was clearly a dance floor and they were blaring dance music.  The chairs were all lined up around the walls leaving a gapping floor clearly meant to be danced on.  Eventually, they did some speeches honoring whoever was supposed to be honored and then they lined up some honorary men and paired them off with the few women who were there.  There was an incredibly awkward slow dance that lasted maybe thirty seconds before being broken up.

Then, finally, real dancing began.  I'm in super conservative ville, so there were an slim number of women about.  I'm not sure that would have mattered much as in the south I ran into very similar numbers a few times.  It doesn't matter here because men love to dance and they really don't care if there are women to dance with.  They have zero problem dancing with each other and are essentially just trying to show off.  I don't know what it is in me that says I am not supposed to dance unless dancing with a women, but they certainly don't have it.  And it is a fun show to watch.

The show got more highschooly as the night went on.  Some of the girls actually joined in the dancing.  Where there had been clear separation, the lines were beginning to blur.  At the same time, booze showed up.  People had smuggled it in.  This was the first time I had seen any drinking in Bogo with my own two eyes.  Now we have women dancing and drinking.  I naturally took this opportunity to join in.

I was clearly being set up with this lovely lady in purple.  This was fine with me, as I said, I don't like dancing alone.  And I really love purple.  We danced the night away, though there was a lot of trying to figure out exactly how you dance here.  It's not half way between arms-length high school and booty bouncing clubbing.  It's some weird mélange of the two.  There was literally a guy who would separate couples if they were risqué for too long.  Though he never touched me; meaning I either was following the unwritten rules or they didn't apply to me as is often the case.

To be honest, I wasn't really sure what to do with myself.  From my vague understanding of the culture here, you basically buy a wife and marry her as soon as possible.  My friend would explain it the following day as "you meet her in the morning and you marry her by the evening."  Not exactly something I'm into.  I wasn't really sure how these girls were allowed to be out and at a social event anyway.  After enjoying myself plenty, I wanted to quietly escape and attempted to tell my friend this.  He explained that I shouldn't walk home alone and that he should go with me.  Cameroonians here are super protective of me and also kinda thing I'm a weird idiot who probably wouldn't make it out of my home in the morning if someone didn't come and check on me.

I said goodbye to a couple other people and went to leave only find that he had grabbed Purple and they were waiting by the door.  Not really sure what was going on, but not super mad about it; the three of us walked to my home.  When got there, and they both let themselves in, sat in my living room, and drank water.  And I had no idea what was going on.  People often talk in front of me without me comprehending a word.  They were happily speaking Fulfulde and I was just wondering what the hell was going on.  All the millions of questions were flying through my head wondering what I had gotten myself into.  Particularly there was the question of why exactly was my friend still sitting there.

Then they said goodnight and left.  And I wasn't sure if I was relieved or just confused.

It was only the next day that my neighbors basically sat me down and gave me the birds and the bees chat.  We had some difficulty confirming that prostitute meant what I thought it meant.  There is a small cultural barrier in that I've also been told that any women selling wares in the market is a prostitute.  Well, if she is Muslim; Christian women are allowed to sell things.  Oh and married, it is ok if she is unmarried to sell.  A married Muslim.  I think that's the rule.  There are lots of rules.  Anyway, we established that Purple sells her body for money.

Honestly, I'm still not super sure.  From what I've gathered from all of the people who find this very interesting to talk about (everyone), if you are an unmarried woman and you date men, you are a prostitute.  If you go out at night and visit a man's house, you are a prostitute.  Apparently there are a number of women here who find themselves with a man, don't marry him, but still go home with him on the occasion, and sometimes he will buy her gifts.  These are prostitutes.  It sounds a lot like dating back home, but that's perception for you.  Ladies, how many dinners can a man buy you before you are pretty much obligated to?

The short of it is that I'm going to basically have to be celibate for the next two years, because I've no idea how to navigate that mess.  I'm certainly not sleeping with anyone who could, possibly, maybe be a prostitute in a country riddled with AIDS.  But we can thank the gods that I have such practice and self-control in that arena.  Wait...  Shit.

Gardening for Beginners

I may have mentioned that I really have no credentials to be a health volunteer.  Being outdoors and working with my hands always appeals to me though and so I've often thought that maybe I should have ended up an agro-forestry/environment volunteer.  They hang outside with farmers and live in the woods and work the fields which all sounds kinda cool to me.

Turns out that I probably am not cut out for that either.  Erin, the agro near me, told me to start a compost in my yard.  And I did:

Hooray, giant hole to not tell the landlord about!

Dig hole.  Easy enough.  I know, vaguely, what to put in there.  Organic stuff.  Not meat.  She was kind enough to mention that occasionally throwing sand on it stops the smell.  Since I'm dumb and did it directly under my bedroom window, I do this pretty regularly.  Oh and pee in it.  For the... nitrogen maybe?  Beats me.

Anyway, the hole filled up fairly quickly.  So I needed a new one.  Only I liked that one.  So I moved the dirt to where I imagine I might try to grow a garden (probably just entirely of basil, cause I love pesto and it is hard to find).  Well I dug a hole to put the dirt in.  But then I had the dirt from the hole I just dug.  So I dug another hole.  You might see where this is going, but I basically plowed the entirety of my backyard.

Neighbors came.  They stared.  I was utterly incapable of explaining myself.  This time it wasn't linguistic; I couldn't have in English either.

This doesn't even do it justice.

My whole yard looks like the above now.  It used to be sand.  I found the dirt.  It's deep under the sand.  I don't know why I went looking for it, but I just couldn't stop.

Maybe this will be beginning of my own personal basil farm.  Someone throw some seeds in a box.

The River

My town is built along a river as many towns are.  I've yet to see the river, but I hear it is lovely.  You see, there just is absolutely no water at the moment.  It hasn't rained since I arrived and it apparently won't rain for another four months or so.  It's very odd to just leave things outside and know with absolute certainty that they won't get wet.



A view of the "river" from the main bride.

Apparently all of this fills up with the rains and more so.  A large area around the river floods yearly.  

Here you can see the bridge from the river basin.

Kids play down where the water run now and I actually gave a short little English lesson sitting in the sand.  Lots of the areas in my region feel like they could be the beach and the ocean is just hiding over the next hill.  I miss the ocean.



This is a "bridge" on the other side of town.

The above bridge washes away when the rains come and you have to go around to the bigger bridge to get a car or moto to the other side.  Personally, I look forward to taking one of the little boats to cross.



Suckers like these just wait for months before they get some use.

I will try to get some good pictures out on the water whenever the season comes so you can all see how different it gets.

The Hole

My life is strange now.  It isn't as if I hadn't mentally prepared myself.  I was expecting difficulties and hardship.  To be perfectly honest, I haven't run into any and it really has been quite easy.  The language thing is hard (seriously hard, we'll get into that later) and there are lots of cultural differences to get used to.  Also food, I really miss food.  BUT life is generally a piece of cake.  I mean there are twenty million people in this country doing it every day.  Still, it is often the simple things that surprise me.

I have a latrine.  It's a separate building in the back of my yard.  Basically a concrete box with a hole in it about the size of a cereal bowl.  I'm the only one who uses it and I shower there too so it gets a soapy cleaning every day and doesn't even smell.  Sometimes there are creatures in there, but they are harmless.  I have urinated on a lizard.  It's his fault, he was literally hanging on inside the hole.

The other day when I was finished, I mentally congratulated myself and said "congrats Dale, you shit perfectly into the hole."  A few steps later, I started laughing at how surreal that statement seemed to be.  It just never occurred to me that I might have that thought.  Ever.

Shitting in a hole is not easy.  This is particularly true for people who've had the luxury of toilets their whole lives.  First, there is the squat.  If you hang around Cameroon for awhile, you will notice that people are constantly squatting.  They squat to wash dishes or clothes, to prepare food, or just to talk.  And it is a specific squat.  It, sadly and surprisingly, takes a bit of practice to get the hang of.  Then there is aiming.  You have to aim both and the hole is simply not that big.  You'll miss, with one or the other, till you've had some practice.  And when you miss, you have to clean up.  Water and lots of toilet paper, I make sure to have plenty in stock.

Most of you probably didn't want to hear this.  It needed to be said.  You'll get the hang of it and it really isn't as bad as… the first time you make a mistake and stare trying to problem solve this shit.  It passes and you'll have another lovely life skill.  Just bring some water to clean your feet in the even of splatter.  Urine, I've yet to literally shit on myself.

 Please enjoy this uplifting song on the topic.

ADDRESS!

BAM!  Finally that moment you've all been waiting for…

MY ADDRESS:

Dale Wahl

BP 22 Bogo

Cameroon

Now you can all send me things!  A constant stream of American goodies.  *tears stream down my eyes*  Everything is going to be alright.

Isn't it adorably simple for how hideously long it took?  I do appreciate all the enthusiasm into getting my address and I hope that turns into boxes full of America.  You have to understand that addresses don't really exist here.  My house does not have a number.  My street does not have a name.  You could find me easy enough by coming to Bogo and asking for the white guy, but that's about it.  This is a place where everyone knows everyone else.  Actually, the post office lady is pretty awesome and you could probably write "White guy, Bogo, Cameroon" and it would get to me.  Let's not try that though; I like my presents.

Speaking of, insure the package.  For a dollar if you like, but insure it for something.  Insuring it means that Cameroon is responsible to the US if the package disappears.  Thus they are much less likely to disappear.  I've also heard putting bible quotes on it helps (probably quoting the Koran too).  They either don't want to piss off God or just don't care for more bibles.  If you do go this route, pick the most interesting quote you can find.  Let's make a game of it.  Winner gets an African prize.

Send food.  Delicious, delicious food.  Easy to make food that doesn't require me to add much more than the basics.  Sauce mixes, drink mixes, cheese mixes, bloody mary mixes.  Dried fruit and nuts!  (But not peanuts; I could fill boats with the amount of peanuts here.)  Make it interesting; I just want to taste America.  Candy is good.  I will construct an oven just to make cake if someone can get it to me (probably with instructions on how I can make icing).  Maybe your favorite spices and send easy recipes too.  Honestly, I don't even know what I want.  If I was in an American grocery store right now, I would probably just sit on the floor and cry.  And then eat all the cookies and chips and cheese.  Cheese Its.  What would happen if someone filled a box full of cheese and sent it?  We are going to have to stop talking about this before I actually do start crying.

Random things I can't really get here:  Deodorant, I'm an Old Spice man.  Good pens, remembering I write every day.  On that line, send journals as I've already killed one and am half way through the second.  Yes I write that much (Barnes and Nobles has some good cheap ones).  LED lights and decent knives make good gifts.  (I'm keeping a set of steak knives for myself, because I refuse to eat meat with a fork and spoon.  Heathens.)  Things like crayons or markers for kids.  Though the little shits are always asking for things so I am not sure they deserve it.  I gave one a paper clip today and they thought the world of it.  And I gave another one an empty Sprite bottle that had been used to store kerosene.  Because he asked.  This is a strange place.  Point is that you can improve the quality of my gift giving with ease.

Just surprise me.  I will be like a kid at Christmas every single time; I can promise you that.

En Brousse

My counterpart took me out into Africa.  Proper Africa.  The part of Africa where there are long stretches of land interspersed with occasional trees.  Mostly just brush and bushes for are far as you can see.  You know what I’m talking about, it is the Lion King or National Geographic (back when it was worth a damn) and you are half expecting some beast to pounce on you from behind a bush.  There were three of us ridding a moto on narrow little footpaths, bouncing along and scrapping against the brush.  That’s what en brousse means by the way.  In the bush.

Pretty accurate depiction of the countryside.

I might add that our “moto” was of course basically a dirt bike.  That’s what they all are here. They are plentiful.  You can buy one for six hundred American dollars, which would be more tempting if they didn’t literally just kick a volunteer because he was caught riding without a helmet.  Dirt bikes are appropriate here.  This is the Sahel, which is not as deserty as I originally thought.  There are plenty of trees providing God’s gift of shade in this heat and they grow millet and strange gourd like things as well as random other crops like cotton.  But the ground is sand wherever there isn’t something alive.  The little footpath or game paths (I just can’t call them moto paths as it seems clear they are not meant to be) seem to me to be the growing desert.  It isn’t the sands just creeping in mass as the desert grows; no, the sands are webbing out as plants get uprooted or destroyed and creating islands of green to be later engulfed.

Cows, the road is not for you!

We went to seven different villages that day.  None of which were very large; the biggest had maybe twenty compounds.  That’s important too; families live on compounds with their extended families.  In the city that means concrete walls that surround a number of small, usually one room, buildings each with their nuclear family.  Part of that communal living really appeals to me, though I have my own compound and can hardly keep people out so the lack of privacy might prevent me from enjoying it too much.  These compounds might be small with only one family and some animals, but the larger ones could have over twenty people and dozens of animals.  Of course out in the bush, these families were poor.  Most places had maybe one shared well to drink from.  Everything seemed covered in dust.  Clothes were often tattered, though many women obviously took pride in their beautiful robes.  I do think people were happy though.  Or maybe just happy to see us.

We were there to examine kids for malnutrition.  This was actually the second round of visits for this program.  The first was before I arrived.  My counterpart is a volunteer with this Red Cross initiative.  She has been out to virtually every village in the Bogo area and checked as many children as possible.  Then the undernourished ones can travel into the city and receive free nutritional supplements: plumpy nut.  I’m actually incredibly pleased with the program and judging by the number of children we found, it seems to be working.  The test is relatively easy and just involves measuring children’s upper arm.  Feed, rinse, repeat.  The problem is of course how you pay to send someone out to all the villages and pay for all the food.   People out in the bush don’t know their kids are undernourished and they are not likely to just show up in town to check.  And what if they can’t afford to come into Bogo?  While out there we talked about a lot of other issues: pregnancy, malaria, vaccinations and the question is how you get that healthcare out to where it is really needed.  I met a small child who was semi-paralyzed on its left side.  They don’t know why; the family couldn’t afford to get back into town and make the visits to the hospital. 

It’s ok though cause that baby was super happy.  Just sitting there laughing its ass off.  Adorable, fat baby.  Some babies cried when they saw the strange white man.  Some stared, eyes wide.  That baby just laughed and pounded the ground with its hand.  In fact, I can happily say I only terrified one little girl.  She stopped dead, stared at me for a full minute, then screamed and ran away crying.  Everyone laughed.