Saturday, September 25, 2004

A story of pain and heroism

This week has been one of the most horrible in my life.

On Sunday afternoon, I had just finished my tasty ham and cheese sandwich (spoils from my Friday trip to Douala). I was reading a magazine when I received a call from the Country Director for Peace Corps Cameroon, Robert Strauss. He said, "Peter, there's been an accident involving a number of volunteers and they're on their way to a hospital in Douala. I might ask you to go there to be with them and help out."

"Sure, Robert, I will be happy to help out in anyway I can", I replied. He said he would call back in an hour, so I hung up without any details or without knowing who was involved. In an effort not to panic with fear, I decided it would be best just to get ready to walk out the door in an hour, so I took a shower and packed a bag with everything I might need for a couple of days. I then tried calling some of my good friends who live around the area of the accident to see if they were involved or if they had any details. First, I called Andy since he's usually on top of things like this, especially since he lives in the area. No answer. Then I called my good friend Kristina (who went with my parents and I up north for a week). No answer. At this point, I'm starting to get nervous. I then called Isabelle, another good friend who lives right in that area as well. She answered. She was at her house and in-between hysterical sobs and moments of togetherness, I gathered that quite a few people were involved and that she was most worried about Kristina. I told her to get to a hospital (in passing she mentioned that she probably had a broken shoulder) and that Peace Corps was on top of it. I also told her I would meet her at the hospital in Douala.

About fifteen minutes later, Robert called back and asked me to go ahead to the hospital. I picked up the bag that I had packed and walked out the door. I got to the area where the buses come for Douala and there were no buses. Luckily, there was a private car charging the same price going up almost immediately. I waited for a few minutes while the car filled (a total of seven people, including driver in a Toyota Corolla). He dropped me a little further outside town than normal, but there was a nice group of motos waiting and one took me out to the hospital.

Douala General Hospital is actually quite an impressive structure for Cameroon. Its set back in its own campus behind gated security walls. Its not anywhere close to anything, but it has probably five hundred beds. As it was Sunday evening, there weren't a whole lot of people around, but I eventually made it to the emergency room. When I arrived, I found no one. I looked around and there were a couple of nurses and doctors, but no patients. I asked one doctor where the americans were, and he said they hadn't arrived, but that they had received a call letting them know they were on the way.

An hour later, I was joined by Dr. Gwan who had arrived from Yaounde. I had been trying to keep as calm as possible, knowing there was nothing I could do to change or help the situation. Dr. Gwan went about preparing the hospital staff with new details on condition and numbers. At that point, we understood that there were 13 on their way. And all I knew was that some of my best friends here had been injured.

I went up with the Dr.'s driver to wait by the front gate since she had gotten a call that three people were making their way inside and couldn't find the Emergency room (it is REALLY hard to find, and far from the front gate- not the best architectual planning). I passed Matt on the way in and since he didn't looked to banged up, I just pointed him in the right direction and kept looking for the others. I never did find the others, since they went around a different direction. Eventually, the cars started coming in though. One more Peace Corps car with the other doctor, an ambulance and a Mercedes of a doctor in Nkongsamba.

As the ambulance entered, I ran back to the emergency room area and watched in horror as the doors were opened and a number of my friends were there in various positions, two appearing to be seriously injured: Kristina and Nancy. Cathy was with Kristina, talking to her, rubbing her, and she was obviously having wild seizure-type activity. The doctors had to almost peel Cathy out so they could remove Kristina from the back of the ambulance. Cathy was clearly in a state of shock, having spent the past couple of hours doing the same thing. Once Kristina was taken out, it was clear there was a severe injury to her head. There was blood everywhere. In fact, they brought her into the corridor of the hospital to take her off the stretcher and put her on a hospital gurney. A hand-sized pool of blood fell on the floor, and every time for the rest of the night I went outside, I had to step over it. I went to go hold Cathy, another of my best friends, who had injured her shoulder. The others slowly made their way into the emergency room.

I worked to take care of the rest of the volunteers as they were being processed, wounds dressed, x-rays taken and initial shock wore off. I also worked to get them food, since they hadn't eaten since the morning. All told, three people were put into intensive care, another three had serious breaks and eight people had minor breaks and various scratches and abrasions. I ran around to all the different rooms, and after midnight was allowed to see the three in intensive care: Nancy, Ryan and Kristina. I wasn't actually allowed inside, but I looked at them through the windows from the visitor area (kinda like the windows into the rooms for newborns in the US).

I finished up delivering food, medicine and generally looking after people after midnight, at which point things slowed down. The drivers had already gone back to the trucks to sleep, and I just didn't think I could, given all that was going on. I eventually tried to go to sleep, both in the truck and in the waiting room, but both were uncomfortable and I couldn't get my eyes to close. Around 4am, I got up and went to visit Kristina and the others, just looking through the windows. Sending positive thoughts. Praying.

The next day, I started going around to folks about 6:30am, and of course everyone else was awake as well. I brought around food, water and toiletries (the hospital doesn't even provide soap for the baths or sinks, much less toilet paper!) At that time, I started piecing together the whole story of how this all happen.

All fourteen of them were at a fifteenth volunteer's house for a weekend "meeting". Basically all of the volunteers in the general area were there, but the village they met in was two hours up a mud road from the nearest main road and larger village. They were all leaving at the same time, so the paid the driver of an empty pickup beer delivery truck to take them all to the main road where they could get real buses to take them the rest of the way home.

At least once on the way down, the road was in such bad condition that they got stuck and had to get out and push the vehicle a bit. About an hour and a half down the road, with 12 standing in the back of the pickup and two inside the cab with the driver, the driver lost control of the truck, fishtailed and flipped the truck over into the ditch on the side of the road. In the process, everyone in the back went flying out, and the two inside were jostled around quite a bit. Apparently it flipped over entirely and ended up on its side on top of Greg's foot. Two of the lesser injured hearing his cries, with super-human strength lifted the truck up. Others immediately realized that Kristina was the worst injured and was in fact unconscious, went to stem the bleeding. She had been thrown out and landed head first onto a rock, crushing the top right side of her skull, and sending part of the skull into the brain matter tearing it.

The driver, although bleeding, fled the scene in a private vehicle that passed by in the direction they had just came. In his defense, if he was caught by others from the larger village, its very likely that "jungle justice" would have taken over and he would have been killed for causing a horrible thing like this (he may still be in danger).

The next car coming down towards Melong, the larger city in the direction they were going, stopped and the driver came over to help. He was so hysterical and trying to order people around that they actually sent him away. My friend Cathy is EMT-trained and was able to take control of the situation in a calm manner, which likely saved Kristina in the end. The next few cars were a bit calmer, and shuttled everyone down to Melong and to Nkongsamba where a basic hospital is located.

On the scene of the accident, Lisa used the satellite phone she was lucky to be carrying to call Peace Corps. They began to scramble to get whatever was needed out to the volunteers. In Melong, they waited over an hour for Peace Corps to tell them definitively if they were going to be able to find a helicopter for Kristina and a few of the others who were bleeding (four received cuts to the head and were bleeding from them). They were eventually told that none could be found (apparently they had even called the President of Cameroon's office looking to use his, to no avail). And so, they proceeded along with the ambulance (which is essentially an empty minivan here, with NO equipment inside except a couple of boards for picking people up and a first aid kit) they had found coming from Nkongsamba.

On the road from Melong to Douala, the closest city with a decent hospital, there are likely 100 speed bumps. Not only was this incredibly painful for them, but also slowed their trip significantly. Along the way, the ambulance even got a flat tire and stopped in a different town to buy a replacement. It seemingly just got worse and worse. Meanwhile there are five people in the back of this ambulance, one unconscious, one with multiple broken ribs and three others with assorted broken bones or caring for those severely injured. Some eight hours after the accident, they finally arrived at the hospital.

XXXXXX

The following day, I did lots of visiting, bringing food and the backpacks they were able to collect from the scene to them so the ones who were able could change into clean clothes after taking a shower. In the afternoon, the Peace Corps Country Director arrived with a counselor, went to see everyone, packed up the eight least injured and returned to Yaounde where they could all be a little more comfortable around Peace Corps headquarters. Many of them were lodged by US Embassy staff who had heard about the accident and wanted to help out.

I stayed back with Dr. Gwan, and we worked to medivac two of the seriously injured guys, Greg (with the crushed foot) and Ryan (assorted broken bones and severe internal bleeding in the hip area). Greg was put into a leg wrap around a half cast and was in severe pain. Ryan seemed much more in control, but certainly wasn't walking anywhere. They each got their own ambulances, and the Peace Corps SUV followed. The roads in Douala are horrific as is the traffic. I rode in the ambulance with Greg to help try to keep his mind off the pain- he felt every bump in the road, of which there were many. We got about halfway to the airport and ran into traffic that was not going anywhere due to some accident ahead. It was only a two lane road, so we did a U-turn and went the really long way to the airport on even worse roads. It was truly torture for them.

When we arrived at the airport, we drove right onto the tarmac to the waiting Air Ambulance jet. It was basically a converted six or eight seat corporate jet. The crew of two pilots, two nurses and a doctor were there and took over as soon as we arrived. They did a checkup of the two guys, gave them some morphine and we loaded them onto the plane. Just seeing this crew and their equipment and the way they talked to and handled the guys, I felt so much relief.

After the plane took off, we finally ate a real meal and checked into a hotel on Monday night. It was quite a relief to sit down and eat a good meal. When I got to the hotel, I couldn't sleep for a couple of hours since I was still pretty wound up, and I noticed all that time on my feet had caused them to swell. I guess I am getting old...

Tuesday was the the day to prepare for the departure of the two most seriously injured, Kristina and Nancy. Because of their injuries, the doctors were afraid of swelling and the effect of altitude on them, so they were held back a day. During the night, Dr. Paul, the head Peace Corps doctor for West Africa, arrived and woke Dr. Gwan and the driver to go out to the hospital to visit the four remaining women. In the morning, I got up early (I slept maybe four hours) and went shopping for food and flowers. Since fresh flowers are hard to find and sometimes not welcome in the ICU, I went to the 'Chinese store' and got some plastic-y silk flowers for the four women who remained in the hospital in Douala. They really appreciated them and the food. I spent a lot of time with each of them, including several hours holding Kristina's hand and talking to her. She remained in a coma, but was kicking around and having other seizure-type movements.

The plane took longer to arrive than expected, but eventually took off around 2:30am. This was after two hours of prep time with the medical team from the plane who had come to the hospital to look over the charts and ensure that the two women were transported correctly. Kristina was obviously a particular worry since she needed to be respirated by hand during the transport, and Nancy had accumulated some unwanted fluid in her chest which had to be drained. It was not easy, but I rode in the ambulance with Kristina, and we did it all again. They arrived safely early Wednesday morning.

Wednesday was a bit easier, and we didn't even get to the hospital until almost noon. Isabelle and Erin were the last two, both with arm, elbow and shoulder injuries. They went out on the midnight flight to Johannesburg thru Nairobi. Isabelle had been dating and American ex-pat in Douala for a while who came by to bring food and even bought me a drink while they were getting their things together. Everyone was happy to get out of the hospital, so we ended up hanging out at the hotel until it was time to leave for the flight. Dr. Laura, one of our doctors, escorted them and they enjoyed the business class flight down. One of the advantages of getting in a car wreck, I suppose.

Thursday around noon, after doing some shopping and visiting a friend in Douala, I had my own driver who took me to Edea to get a change of clothes and then onwards to Yaounde. The eight who had left on Monday were all still there, and we were all happy to be together. Since then, I've been hanging out, decompressing and going through some counseling sessions. We even had a pool party at the new ambassador's house (which was pretty sweet). Slowly things are returning to normal.

We're all still really worried about Kristina. Her parents are now down with her, but her condition has not really changed since before she left Douala. She's still in a coma and we're all hoping and praying for the best. If you have a moment, please pray for her as well. If you want to see a picture of her, the link of photos from my parents' visit has one or two of her. She looks like she could be my sister. In some weird way, I guess she is.

Friday, September 17, 2004

Photos from Mom & Dad's visit

I finally had an opportunity to upload photos from Mom & Dad's visit in July. Enjoy them, we had a great time!

Jeanah and Will and back to normal...

Jeanah had returned to the US about two months ago after her uncle and Godfather, whom she was very close to, had died rather suddenly. I had not seen her since her return. Since we'd become friends through the SED Steering Committee and other activities, I decided that my close proximity called for a visit.

The visit, however meant that I was not going to make it back to Edéa for another week, since staying up in that part of the country until Saturday necessitated that I attend a large party called 'Cowfest' (more on that later). I called my former postmate, Will, who was staying at my house, to ask him to stop by the bank (since we still don't have a phone) and let them know I wasn't going to be there for a week. With that done, my week was free to visit friends and villages I might not otherwise have a chance to see.

I should back up and tell the brief story of Will's move. I just realized I hadn't written about it, and it was quite interesting...

Will decided several months ago (coinciding with a theft at his house in Edéa) that he would prefer to live out in a small village where he could truly become part of the community he was helping. In Edéa, as an agro-forestry volunteer, he had to either meet with farmers as they came into town, or take cars out to villages in the early morning and return that evening. I have to agree that he wasn't as happy or effective as he could have been. Between his sponsoring organization, and NGO called Cameroun Ecology, and Peace Corps, they decided to move him out to a village called Ngonga. George Yebit, the Peace Corps program director for the agro program, arrived one day several weeks ago with a truck to move Will and all his things out to Ngonga. Will had moved the previous week from his house into mine, and was temporarily living with me. Will said they could use some help, so I offered to go along, curious about what a "real" village post in the jungle looked like.

We loaded up the covered pickup with all of Will's stuff, and Will and I climbed in back with it all, since the front seat was all taken up with the driver, George, and Will's counterpart (who had to show us the way). We started out on the main road, turned off onto a paved side road and about twenty minutes later hit dirt, actually, mud. Since its now rainy season, there are no more dirt roads. There was quite a bit of bumping around in the back of that truck, but we were holding it together. Once, we came upon a bridge, the driver looked at it, and even though it was V-shaped (as in, about to collapse), backed up and went over it quickly. Another time, a bit later, we stopped. I thought we had arrived, but when Will and I got out of the truck, we discovered we had stopped due to a fallen tree entirely covering the road. We weren't sure we'd be able to remove it, but we got out the machetes we had and started hacking and pulling away. Between the five of us, only twenty minutes later we had cut a path on the right side of the road large enough for the truck to pass. It was one of those times I truly felt like a stereotypical Peace Corps volunteer in West Africa. Three hours after we had begun (and two and a half after hitting the mud), we made it to the village, which was more like a grouping of about ten houses on both sides of the mud road.

We stopped at the store (emphasis on "THE") and found someone who knew where the empty houses were. The first was across the street. We went in, looked around, and decided it looked like it was abandoned twenty years ago, did not have a drop roof and of course didn't have electricity or plumbing. There was also the remnants of a family graveyard in the frontyard. Not a good start. While the driver was eating some boiled porcupine with tomato sauce (not as bad as it sounds), and I was recovering from the ride and preparing for the unloading and return trip, Will and George went to look at the other available house up the street. It was apparently better, but not in move-in condition either. So, we unlocked the mayor's house (the mayor of Edéa is from this village and has built a large brick house amidst the much smaller houses) and carried all of his things into it, even as the rain was beginning to pour. Before the rain got worse, George signaled the departure. I turned to Will, who I've become good friends with, and said, "Good luck". With that, we took off back from whence we came.


Alright, back to Jeanah...
Katie and I decided to spend most of the day in Baffoussam since there's not a whole lot to do in Babadjou. She did internet, while I found Anna and had a drink. Afterwards, we all met up with some of the brand new volunteers for more drinks, but this time in front of the TV in a quiet bar above the main road to watch the Olympics. This was the first I'd seen of the olympics, and I was really getting into the women's weightlifting and one-man sailing events, not to mention team handball. As dark was approaching, Katie let me know that we should head on out since Jeanah had promised to cook dinner for us.

When we arrived in Babadjou, it was pitch black, and in villages, there are no street lights. Although Katie knew where she was going, the afternoon rain had left the steep stone/mud steps leading downwards to Jeanah's house almost deadly. I felt like a two year old just learning how to walk, taking each step so carefully. Jeanah had prepared a nice pasta meal for us, which was nicely complimented by boxed wine (bottled wine is SO bourgeois). No one wanted to try the stairs again after our wonderful evening together, so I "volunteered" (was volunteered?) to take the sleeping bag on the floor.

The next day, since I had no specific plans, I decided to hang out with Jeanah, visit her bank, do some errands in Baffoussam, and stay there again that night (Katie had offered to cook this time). After some meet and greet at the bank, we went into Baffoussam and met the Alain and Pat, the new volunteers, for a tasty lunch (one of the best meals I'd had in that town). After finishing the errands, including some quality internet time for both of us, we returned to the Olympic Bar, as it had since become, for more exciting events, already in progress.

We stopped on the way back for some grilled goat on a stick (brochettes de chevre) to compliment our dinner, as requested. We arrived and dinner was far from complete (Katie claimed her day was jammed full of people parading through her home to see how her previous week had been). So, we worked to finish dinner, ate and Jeanah and I returned to her house to sleep. Sometime in there, I had arranged to stay the next night in Kumbo, with another new volunteer I had become quick friends with, Scott.
I started out early, since the trip to Kumbo was projected to take about four hours. It took about five, but who's counting. It was relatively painless, and Kumbo, despite not having any paved roads and a hilly terrain (not a good combination in rainy season), was a wonderful town. Scott's almost postmate Anne was also visiting, so we all went to the market together and decided to have beef stew for dinner. We did some other shopping along the way as well (Scott was still buying items for his new home, including a guest mattress). We had a great time, and dinner turned out fantastically. Afterwards, Scott set up his laptop and we watched "Bowling for Columbine", that he had brought with hime, and I had never seen before. Moore can really be annoying, but he gets his point across...

The next night, I was supposed to stay with Jen, who lived on the road between Kumbo and Bamenda. At the last minute, she decided it wasn't a good idea since she had some other things going on, so I continued down the road and stayed with Mike, the business volunteer in Bamenda. He also works at the headquarters for my branch bank in Edéa, so we had plenty to talk about (this is the same Mike who went to the same high school as my father). As always in Bamenda, I eat really well and sleep horribly. I don't know why. Dinner of grilled fish and chicken with fried plantains and greens was fantastic, and the bed was lumpy with roosters waiting outside the window for five a.m. to roll around.

The next day I met up with my friend Cathy and others for a nice cheeseburger lunch meeting to discuss the problems of our bank network with one of the guys from HQ. Following that (and preceeding it) was lots of shopping! We went to the clothing market in Bamenda where I found a gorgeous traditional outfit that I bought for a great price, and two McDonalds uniform shirts (one to wear and one for the host) for "Cowfest", which was the next day.

"Cowfest" is a concept developed by my friend Greg, a devout carnivore, based on a dream he had. In this dream, a Cameroonian cow was not hacked up at random by a butcher's unknowing hand, but was carefully cut wit care, revealing ribeyes, New York strips, and filet mignons. A dream where meat was grilled over a smokey fire, not boiled into oblivion. He decided to make the dream a reality, and invited us to share in its manifestations.

About forty volunteers showed up that Saturday afternoon, from all over the country. It was like Woodstock, but with beef instead of music. It was indeed beautiful, if not the smallest bit primal. I arrived early to help prepare items like potato salad and mashed potatoes, and ate and drank for a good eight hours straight, ingesting about two pounds of meat alone. I didn't really care what my innards were going to do in revolt, it was yummy. Oh, and it was also great to see friends I hadn't seen in a while and catch up on Peace Corps gossip.

The return home was long, but I made it there before dark the next day, which is all I really cared about. I slept a lot.


A few days later, my former postmate Will, and his girlfriend Brookes came up from a brief trip to Kribi. They were supposed to meet me up near Bamenda for Cowfest, but were unable to due to a problem with his good friend who is now based in Kribi. Apparently, he became friends with the wrong crowd, who discovered that he had a portable computer in his house. Of course, they showed up at his house late one night with machetes and knives in hand demanding his computer. He was somehow able to escape out the back door and scream to his neighbors who came running. The guys with the knives dropped everything and ran. Nonetheless, he was quite shaken and felt it was only a matter of time before they came back for him and the computer. He no longer lives in Kribi...

Alain, my "buddy" from the post office, has been around recently as well. One day a couple of weeks ago, he came by asking to have a chat. I'm not real keen on our chats, since they normally end in him asking for something. This time, he came to inform me that he had applied for his Cameroonian visa. I had told him a long time ago that if he really wanted to live in the US (every Cameroonian's dream), he had to have a passport before he could even apply for a visa. He's convinced that I'm going to get him a visa and that he's going to come live with me. I didn't think he was going to follow up on the first step, but it looks as though he has. We'll see...

Last week, I also received a call from Alain letting me know that his brother had died of tuberculosis (read: AIDS). This was the third sibling (two brothers and one sister) who had died of the same thing within the last ten months, all of them between 25 and 35 years old. He was upset, but seeing as this was the same brother who threatened his life and beat him only three months before, I think it was a little easier than the last one. Its still quite sad though, and I gave him a little money to help the family out.

The big excitement in town last week was the collapse of market bridge. The market is laid out in one big circle around a primary school and the mouth of a creek. During the evening (luckily), there was a mudslide which caused the retaining wall connected to the bridge, and thus the bridge, to collapse. Unfortunately, there were two women on the bridge at the time, although is seems they were not killed. The whole city was using this as evidence that the government did nothing. Of course, within days, the government put up a sign saying they were in progress of repairing it. Since the elections are supposed to be next month, there's a chance for a quick fix...

Monday, September 06, 2004

Book Report: 'Prozac Nation' by Elizabeth Wurtzel; 'Noble House' by James Clavell

I never really understood how it feels to be completely, clinically and almost mortally depressed. 'Prozac Nation' written from personal agony by Elizabeth Wurtzel is an almost painful self-examination of what goes through your head when you're thinking about ending it all. While its well written, it does become a bit tedious, if for no other reason than she's so consistently depressed and goes from doctor ?o doctor, has?fights with her mother and ends up in bed with the wrong guys. Its almost sadly predictable self-destruction. If you've ever been there (or thought you have), read it to reassure yourself there are people worse off than you. If you've never been curious about what it must be like to slit your wrists just to see if you have the guts, then you're probably better off skipping it.


'Noble House' by James Clavell took me entirely too long to read, but its not the book's fault. Well, I suppose its 1370 pages could've slowed me down a bit. I borrowed it from my friend Shannon when I went visiting, figuring I should read it since I enjoyed the previous and connected story of 'Tai-Pan'. This story happens some three generations later, with the same family and its struggle to stay atop Hong Kong in the 1960s. There are so many well developed characters, plots and subplots that I think at one point I was confusing people in the book for people in my own life. It was that engrossing.

On the down side, and there's really only one, the close of the book made it seem like Mr. Clavell received an urgent call from his publisher demanding to see the draft immediately. As a result, he created an all too abrupt ending conveniently tying up ends that probably should have been left dangling. I won't ruin it by saying how, but if you do read it, consider stopping 100 pages before the end to save yourself the urge to throw the book at the wall for cheating itself out of being completely and thoroughly excellent.

Doile in Bandjoun: Remembering my Aunt

The next weekend was the long-awaited funerailles, or doile, for my homestay family aunt in Bandjoun. She had died about six months ago and buried her but there was not enough money to receive extended family. As a result, the custom here is to plan for a day of rememberance when the family can afford a big party. Well, this was indeed a big party. It was half solemn remembrance and half celebration of life, which seemed like a pretty good balance to me.

The night before, I stayed with Anna in next-door Baffoussam after stopping by Yaoundé to see a couple of folks in the office and do a little email. I also saw Fran and Ted one last time before they got on the plane, and helped two new volunteers up to their posts, which are beyond Baffoussam. Katie, my homestay sister (volunteer in Babadjou) was also there, so we had a chance to catch up before the doile.

The next morning, we headed over together (Katie and I) to the family's compound where the preparations were underway. There were four women cooking on three fires and kids doing prep work (and playing). The preparations continued throughout the day and night until the next morning, they (I helped a little, where there was 'manly' work to do) had prepared enough food to feed a hundred people two times during the day on Sunday (that's a LOT of food). The only electrical device that was used during the entire process was a borrowed blender used to chop hot peppers.

Our compound is next to grandpa's house, which is a bit more run down, but Grandpa still seems happy. He usually spends a good part of his day up the street at the bar sharing gossip and talking about the good 'ole days. He speaks a very small amount of french, relying on others to translate for me from grammala (the language of Bandjoun). He has a big open space outside his house that is just perfect for the doile dances. I'll do my best to explain how it works.

The older men, who have been through this many times before, congregate around two tall drums (one skinnier than the other to make a different sound) in the center of the space. One or two people are choosen to beat the drums and most of the others take one or two shakers (hand rattles usually in wicker with dried beans inside). One or more of them decide which traditional song they are going to sing, the drummer begins ?he beat and the?dancing and singing begins. Each song lasts about fifteen minutes. After the older men have started, other men join on the inner circle and/or form a circle around them and march/dance in a line counterclockwise around the main group of musicians. Around that circle is another circle of men and boys. The third and outer circle is made up of women and girls (there can be other circles added of all male or all female if there are too many people in the circle, all moving counter-clockwise). Many of the women who were relatives or otherwise close to the deceased carry items representing or reminding them of him or her. In the case of my aunt, there were people carrying articles of her clothing, photographs, pots from her kitchen and ears of corn to show that she took care of her family. Many of the women and some of the men (including Papa) were openly crying, many with tears streaming down their faces, during these dances. Each "session" was comprised of between two and four songs. There were three sessions that day, with about an hour break in between each to eat and drink.

The first break was held in Grandpa's house for the men (women were outside Grandma's kitchen). Katie and I (even though she's female) were escorted inside Grampa's house and given a plate of food and a beer. After eating, the second dancing session started. This time, I decided that I should dance some and joined the outer-most men's circle. Since I had been assured I was a member of the family, no one said or did anything that led me to think that I wasn't supposed to be in the circle. After one turn, I really did feel like I was supposed to be there.

The next eating break was held at our house. Benches and chairs were set up outside, in addition to those that are normally inside. People flooded in, and the food was doled out on large trays. About half the food that took a day and a half to prepare was gone in one hour, with the help of about 100 people. The other half disappeared after the third food break, which was also held at our house, and lasted for the rest of the afternoon.

Since Katie and I are members of the family hosting, the custom is that we are helping to serve the meal, not to eat it. As a result, we were not allowed to sit down with the other guests. Momma felt that we should be eating though, so she gathered a large platter of food and a few beers and set us up inside the bedroom. It was kinda funny, but she didn't want anyone to see us eating.

That night, after everyone had left, the younger members of the extended family and neighborhood had moved the shakers and drums to an aunt's house (next to Grandpa's) for the celebration part?of the doile. ?his was a similar counterclockwise dance around the main musicians, but it was much more upbeat, and the dancing was happy and faster. There was also no separation between the men and women, and many children participated. I got a bit dizzy going so fast in circles, so I had to sit down after a time, but everyone enjoyed it, and it was a nice release after the sadness of the day.

Finally, late morning on Monday we were 'allowed' to leave the family. That was not before Papa had time to go to the market and send back "provisions" for Katie and I. We both left with a large sack of potatoes, watermelon and papayas (I think he looked for the heaviest items he could find). Feeling the love, we left, making our way to Baffoussam and then on to Babadjou. I had told Jeanah, Katie's postmate, that I would come visit her while I was around that part of the country, so I had to make good on my promise.

Swearing-In of new volunteers

In the weeks after my parents left, there was lots of travel. I'm not sure that I really got a chance just to lay down and sleep until this past weekend. I continue to have a great time though. It did take a toll on my reading though (see book report), which isn't so awful.

I went to Mbalmayo for the swearing-in ceremony of the new volunteers the first week of August. I had been there twice for training, and I wanted to be there to show support (and to hang out and get to know them better). I ended up going to Yaoundé a little early to get some other business taken care of (including working on some embassy funding for projects here in Edéa such as a chicken farm and a palm oil plantation). A group of us took a bus down early the morning of the ceremony just in time to have an early morning drink with the "hard-core" crew of new volunteers. One guy, a Quaker no less, was on his third large beer (.6 liters each) by the time we arrived (9:30am). It reminded me of college graduation, and frankly wasn't so far removed from that for many of them.

The ceremony went smoothly with speeches in english, french, and the local laguage of Mbalmayo (all by new volunteers). Afterwards, there was a reception with lots of food, which was a nice bonus for coming down. I took the opportunity to get all the business volunteers together for a presentation to our eldest volunteers, Fran and Ted, who were ending their service early because of family reasons. Fran and Ted had stepped in at the last minute to serve as technical trainers for the entire 9 week training program in Mbalmayo, abandoning their post and house in Baffoussam. Several other volunteers and I got tog?ther to write a?proclamation expressing our gratitude for going above and beyond the call of duty and our sadness at their early departure. They were very emotional as I read it in front of everyone, and then we took our last picture together as a big group. After that, most of the "older" volunteers returned to Yaoundé after some more post cermony drinking. I stuck around the "case de passage", our home in Yaoundé long enough to help a number of the new volunteers do some last minute shopping before getting a ride on one of the chartered buses which took them to their new homes.

Mom & Dad- Part IV: The End of the Road

In Bamenda we stayed at the Hotel Ayaba, the only hotel outside of Douala and Yaounde with an elevator. With all of the african food we had been eating, my parents thought it time to have a cheeseburger and fries at Dreamland. It was dreamy. Dad was kinda funny since he was still trying to speak french to people even though we had crossed over into the english speaking part of the country. He still got what he wanted, which I guess is the most important thing. The really weird part of the night happened just after we arrived. I noticed a white person out on the balcony, so I went over to the door to figure out if I knew him or not. It turned out to be the business volunteer based in Bamenda eating with a Cameroonian friend of his. He invited us to sit with him and we started talking. As it turned out, Mike (who is about 55) not only went to the same high school as my Dad in Cleveland, but also grew up on the same street (albeit a long one)! It was a really strange coincidence which launched into a protracted "where are they now" and "do you remember" discussion. It was a great night for my Dad, and truly an "Its a small world" moment.

I really wanted to visit my friend Susan, who's a business volunteer in a village called Bali, just outside of Bamenda. As luck would have it, she was down in Bamenda for her mid-service medical evaluation, so we didn't see her. I still decided that we should go to her village, since she had told me many times about the artisan village there supported by the Presbyterian church (actually, its become so profitable, that its the artists who support the church). Its one of the few places in this country where you can go see craftsmen at work chruning out amazing pieces with mostly simple, almost primative tools. For example, most of the wood carving happens with a wood mallet and chisel.

After that, we headed up to another village not too far away where another friend, Greg, is posted. Sadly, he was in the US on vacation and couldn't show us around either. We did check out the chefferie there, which had been written about in some famous English book called the "Bafut Beagles". Anyway, it was pretty neat, but they wouldn't let us into any of the "secret" rooms.

We made it back into Bamenda in time for a late lunch, which just so happened to be attached to Bamenda Handicrafts! Mom was happy, and between lunch and shopping, we all spent about three hours and several hundred dollars. I was particularly pleased with a large carved wood drum that I got for myself which was so large, I had to ship it separately to my house in Edea (it cost $10 for the wrapping and transport). I absolutely love it, but I haven't yet figured out how to get it back to the States.

After a bit more shopping, my friend, Mindy, called to ask where I was. She was en route back to her post north of Bamenda, so I asked her to join us for dinner. Sister Rose is one of those restaurants that don't look like much, but the food is damn good. Between five of us, we ate an entire grilled chicken, an 18 inch long grilled fish, cooked greens (called njamma-njamma) and fried plantains. We were bursting, but very happy. Sleeping that night was not a problem for anyone.

Early the next morning, we shoved off for the long drive back to Edéa. We arrived very tired and went straight to sleep. The next day, we drove down to Kribi for the day to relax a little (Kasimir was particularly happy to lay out on the beach with a cold drink). We had a wonderful lunch and then dinner on the beach (shrimp, of course) and drove back to my house in time for bed. The next day, we began the unpacking and repacking ritual, trying to figure out how to get everything that everyone had purchased (including some things that I had accumulated over the last year) back to the US without paying supplementary baggage fees. It wasn't easy, I can tell you.

That night, we were invited to the home of one of the bank's former board members, Emile. His house was chosen to host the bank's reception for my parents since its the nicest and most conveniently located (he's a gendarmme, sort of a paramilitary police unit). There were about twenty people who showed up including almost all of the women's committee and the board of directors. The women had cooked all day and we all ate and drank for several hours. Speaches and presentations were also done, with me providing translation services. The board gave my parents some really nice carved wood items, and my parents brought a camera for the bank and some American fl?g lapel pins,?which they really loved. They also brought some things that I had bought for the bank's computer.

After finishing packing the next day, we headed out to Douala airport. I talked my way through customs (without paying, thank you very much) and all the way up to passport control. I left them there and returned home to sleep. The whole trip had been a success and I was really happy that my parents had an opportunity to come here and experience life here in West Africa.

Mom & Dad - Part III

We got off the train and went directly to the Yaounde Hilton. No passing go, no collecting $200. The Hilton is one of about three truly modern, relaxing and western hotels in the entire country (the other two being in Douala). O?ce we checked i?, there was a sigh of relief at seeing the rooms, and then a race to the bathrooms. Everyone took multiple showers, and between the cleanings and following naps, we finally rejoined a few hours later for a nice lunch, poolside. Even though we had only completed the first part of the trip, my parents made it clear that this was the type of treatment they preferred.

Sleep and eating occupied the rest of the day and the guy who was to be our driver for the rest of the trip, Kasimir (who also went with me to get my parents from the airport on their arrival), arrived around noon for the drive up to Baffoussam. We loaded all our junk (I mean suitcases) into the car, along with my friend Kelly (who wanted a ride to her post which was en route) and took off. We dropped Kelly off at her house in Bafia, and my parents got a first look at how many volunteers live- down a muddy road, often without electricity or running water and with little furniture. Dad took pictures and we continued on to the Talhotel in Baffoussam.

One of the things I have learned here, is to not plan much in advance, since everything can change very quickly. As a result, I had only made one hotel reservation (which I had to change), for the Hilton. It was a little unnerving for my parents, I think, to plan on staying in hotels that had no idea we were coming. It all worked out fine though. Once in Baffoussam, we had dinner and decided to visit nearby Foumban the next day followed by dinner at the homestay family in Bandjoun.

Foumban is a little over an hour from Baffoussam and is the home of one of the oldest kingdoms in Africa. The kingdom dates back to the 13th century and has in recent history, established a museum in the palace to chronicle its uniqueness and to show off the pieces of art and culture accumulated over time. The first order of business, of course, was shopping. There's a rather unique artists' village where they sell items from all over West Africa, but also produce a great deal of bronzework, embroidery, pottery and carved wood items. There are over thirty merchants and artisans, so we were there a LONG time. Every so often, we'd send someone back to the car with handfuls of bags of purchases. I picked up some nice bronze figurine candlesticks, a mask or two and a cool ceramic vase (which apparently broke a bit on its return). Once the money had essentially run out, we continued on to the market, had a bit to eat (well, at least Kasimir and I ate), and went on the palace museum tour. The museum is pretty impressive and has traditional items, secret society costumes, weapons, enemy skulls (often made into lovely drinking vessels) and instruments. One king even developed his own calendar and alphabet which was on display. ?0A
Dinner ?hat night with the Fotso Jean family was fantastic. We were a little late, but that allowed the rest of the family to assemble before we arrived. My homestay mother, Agatha, was jumping up and down. My mom had a big smile on her face and the kids attacked me when we entered the compound. There were over thirty people there to greet us and welcome my parents to Cameroon and to the home where I lived for three months, a year before. There was lots of food and music and after dinner, dancing and photo-taking. One of the gifts we brought the family was a basic camera and film, which I taught Papa how to use, and was very happy to have. We also brought lots of things for the many kids, including Shrek fruity snacks and school supplies. Everyone had a super time and we called Kasimir to pick us up and left before it got too late.

Although we had said our goodbyes the night before, Mom and Dad wanted to go see Papa working in the market (and it just happened to be Grand Market day), and I wanted to say 'hi' to the window/glass/mirror guy that I had helped during training. Jean-Guy wasn't in his store, so I called his phone. He responded saying he was working to install windows in the chefferie (which was on our schedule for the day), so I told him I'd call when we got there. We walked over to Papa and took 'action' photos of him cutting up the pig of the day.

We got back in the car, after trapesing through the muddy market of Bandjoun, and headed over to the Chefferie (the traditional chief's compound). There was a French family who had beaten us there that morning, so the tour guide was busy and asked us to wait around for a few minutes. Meanwhile, I called my friend, Jean-Guy. He told me he was just behind the big house and he'd be out in a minute to find me. He found us and took us on a tour of the backside deck of the new chef's house (this is the same chef I went to the installation for in March with 10,000 other people) where he was installing windows on the newly constructed house. The chef's chief of protocol happened to be there with us, and Jean-Guy asked if we'd like to meet the chef. We said that it would be a great honor and that in fact, my father (a city manager in NC) was a chef in his "village" in the US. My dad gave him his business card and a few minutes later we were brought to the front of the house where the chef came out and gave us an "audience". Since my father's french is a bit shakey, I introduced us and told him we were happy to be there. He became very curious about my father's position and I translated both ways. Then, he decided we had passed some sort of test and began speaking pretty good english. He's one of the new breed of traditional chefs who was very successful and was reluctantly?pulled out of h?s life to lead his people. He has a PhD from a French university in chemical engineering and was high up in a local, french-owned rubber production firm. He asked to be able to contact my father and that they work together to help solve some of the problems facing his people. As we were finishing, Dad asked to take a photo with him, which is a rare event. He agreed, just as long as my dad stood on the step below him! I was amazed and my parents thought it was pretty cool. After that, the tour of the museum and grounds just didn't seem all that fantastic anymore, but we did it anyway.

On the way up to Bamenda where we would be based for the next couple of days, we stopped to see my "homestay sister", Katie. She was in the training group after me, and lived with the same family in the same room. As a result, the family is convinced that the best thing that could happen is that the two of us get married. We're just friends...

Katie lives in Babadjou and as an agro-forestry volunteer, she has a nice big yard with fruit trees and a garden plot with all sorts of vegetables. She truly has a green thumb. We enjoyed the brief visit, took a couple of pictures, and were on our way.

Mom & Dad Part II

At Peace Corps HQ, we picked up my friend Kristina, who would be our "fourth" on our trip to the north. I had told her some time before that my parents and I were making a trip up. She really wanted to go, and being a teacher, the summer was the best time for her to do that. Seeing as a fourth person was necessary to not have a stranger in our sleeping cabin on the train, and we were getting two hotel rooms any way (not to mention the buffer she could provide with her social worker background in case things got testy), so it seemed as though it would be a great idea to have her along.

Once we arrived at the train station, we saw our travelling mates, Debbie and her family who were also visiting. The train was scheduled to leave at 6.30, and we arrived around five. They were just begi?ning to let peo?le onto the train, and there was a mad rush of people going out to reserve their seats. We weren't sure how it worked, so we rushed out as well to find our small room of four couchettes waiting for us -no reason to hurry. We arranged all of our bags into the small room, and settled in.

Debbie had helped us greatly in getting the tickets, and her and her family ended up next door. We sat around in the room for a minute and then decided to go outside and walk around. The time for leaving came and went, marked only by an announcement that the train would be delayed. No kidding. Eventually, it got late and we were tired, so we went back to our little cabin, turned out the light, and went to sleep. We all assumed that at some point during the night we would begin moving and we would wake up en route. Well, when morning came, I woke up, looked out the window and saw the exact same sight that had been there the night before. At 7:30, we began moving and 37 hours after getting on the train, we arrived, exhausted, in Maroua (we transferred to an 8 hour long bus ride at midnight in Ngoundere).

We split up from Debbie and her family, whom we had gotten to know and like pretty well, and found our way by motorcycles to the hotel. Believe me, the sight of my father and mother on the back of a small Japanese moto with their luggage in front of the driver is quite a sight.

After sleeping a bit, we began our grand tour of the Extreme North. Of course, shopping was the first order of business, and a trip to the artisanat temporarily cured those yearnings. After a nice, relaxing dinner at the hotel (which was very cool, run by a German guy and each room was its own round hut complete with straw roof), we found a driver for the rest of our stay.

We left first thing in the morning, stopped by the bakery for breakfast and the bank for cash, and were on our way up to Waza National Park. It was a several hour drive, and we had decided to stay overnight in the lodge there so that we could do both an afternoon drive and an early morning drive, but not on the same day. It worked out nicely, and at the entrance to the Waza game reserve, we got a guide and proceeded on our way. Jean-Paul, our driver, in his Toyota Land Cruiser, was not as aggressive as I was hoping for, but between him and the guide, we managed to see quite a few animals on both the afternoon and next morning drives. These included lots of giraffes, monkeys, cool birds, jackals, warthogs, and four or five kinds of antelopes. We also saw elephant skull bones and dung and a lion paw print. We looked hard for those two, but the roads were already quite muddy and mostly impassable. We missed prime season by about three weeks. The lodge was pretty neat, again stayin? in our own hut?, and was built on a large hill overlooking the plains of the park.

When we had finished Waza part two, we headed back towards Maroua. I had read in my Lonely Planet about a little village that was sorta on the way that sounded neat: Oujilla. Just the drive up was beautiful, up and over rocky hilltops which were all tiered for farming, mostly millet. Once we arrived at the Chefferie, one of the chef's 60 or so sons came out to meet us and to be our guide. It was quite unlike any chefferie I'd been to before, and I was swearing at myself for allowing the battery on my digital camera to go dead (I have hundreds of giraffe pictures, but only two of this chefferie). There were over twenty wives living inside the chefferie, each having four cylindrical, straw-capped huts, all in close proximity. Two were for storage of grain throughout the dry season, one was her own "kitchen", and the fourth was the bedroom for her and her small children. There were common rooms for the chefdom's tribunal, holding pens for animals, and sacrificial altars. It was truly quite a sight. We then continued on to Maroua to finish up the day. That night, we had a nice dinner outside the hotel. Fifteen minutes after returning to the hotel, I got a call from some volunteer friends asking us to meet them at the very same restaurant for dinner and drinks! Very strange, but Kristina and I took some motos over and had a drink with two good friends, Anna and Felice, and Anna's friend who was visiting from the US. We were all planning a trip to Rhumsiki the next day, and since my parents were already paying for the car which had extra seating in the way back, I offered to bring them along.

The last of our daytripping began early the next morning, the three women showing up a few minutes early, eager to begin our adventure. We piled into the car and had a nice ride up, with the scenery gradually becoming more and more dramatic. The weather was overcast, however, and became more and more ominous. When we arrived, we found that our recommended restaurant was not in operation because the proprietor was in the next town 'at the market'. We went to another place that was run by some cousin of Jean-Paul (still our driver). Since lunch was going to take over an hour, we took the guided tour of the village first. We choose the one who could speak english the best. He started us out to the side of the mountain that we had driven up to show us the dramatic valley below. Of course, once we were about halfway out, the rain started to pour down. I stayed with Dad who was having a little trouble with the rocky footing, while the others hurried along. Needless to say, I wasn't so happy for the next hour or so, while we sat under the thatched roofs of some tourist merchants ?ho were all too?happy to see us. We finally made it to lunch, and completed the tour with a visit to the fortune teller who tells the future using two river crabs in a ceramic pot who rearrange shards of pottery in the dark. The old man even spit on the crabs before letting them loose inside the covered pot. My Dad will be successful in whatever he chooses to do, and my mother was comforted by the fact that she will have a grandchild in the next two years (note to my brother: NOT IT!).

The next day we continued our trip by returning early in the morning to the bus station for the return trip, which happily was much less eventful.