Guitarfest 2005

Several years ago, an annual Peace Corps Cameroon tradition was begun, in the spirit of what everyone thinks Peace Corps is- a bunch of tree-loving hippees sitting around playing guitars and singing Bob Dylan songs. We call it 'Guitarfest'.

This year, it was held chez Susan, in a village outside of Kumba. Since I was scheduled to perform, I arrived a day early so that I could recover from the long voyage (six hours crammed on a bus). I was also hoping for a little rehearsal time with my accompanist (the incomparable guitarist and all-around entertainer, Peter). Almost as soon as I arrived and took a much-needed shower (sweat and dusty, dirt roads don't mix that well), we headed off for drinks and food- once again to Classy Burger, the "american" restaurant in Kumba.

As it turned out, about thirty volunteers showed up for dinner (overwhelming the forewarned kitchen, thus taking three hours to receive our food). They ran out of beer, and that's when the well-prepared came out with their bottles of cheap whisky and gin. I won't go into details, but suffice it to say that the neighborhood was quite aware we were in town.

Playing the diva, I turned in early and went light on the drinking to ensure my voice would be ready for the next night's performance. I returned to Cathy's with a number of other volunteers where we watched 'Mean Girls' on a new volunteer's portable DVD player (a device that will forever change Peace Corps life in Africa). It was a surprisingly good movie, on par with 'Clueless' and almost up there with 'Cruel Intentions'.
After a massive team breakfast of eggs and bread, we pretty much "hung out" until late afternoon when we loaded up and went over to Susan's place. Susan lives in a tiny village just outside Kumba on the main (read: only) intersection in town inside a walled yard that we call a "concession". There's only one other family who lives inside the concession with her, and since they were engaged to prepare food for the masses, they were not only prepared, but were accepting of the invasion that descended upon them.
Imagine for a moment that you live in this village. You've probably seen a few white people in your life (outside of movies and TV) in and around Kumba. Then, two years ago, a white woman comes to live with you in one of the nicest houses in town (not the biggest, but it has internal plumbing). She becomes part of the community, teaching at the school and playing with the kids, and the novelty sorta wears off. Then, several months before her departure, about 40 other white folks (more than you've ever seen in one place, even on TV -except for the battle scenes in 'Braveheart') arrive in a series of taxis to take over your bars, drink all your beer (they paid for them, but the delivery truck only comes once every two weeks, so you're dry for another week), and cause quite a ruckus until 5am (when you're just about to get up again).

Needless to say, we caused quite a stir. To the village's credit, they handled it quite well, and the village chief came over early on to lend his support (he bought us a case of beer). Thus began the evening.

I did get a bit of rehearsing in with Peter where we nixed a couple of songs (one wasn't well arranged for accoustic guitar and one was a bit difficult to learn on such short notice), but went ahead with the rest.

After a bite to eat and a drink or two, darkness fell. A few guys got a bonfire going and everyone arranged themselves around it. The performances started (I neglected to mention a dazzling daytime performance of Matt juggling three machetes, something that had to be done in the light and sober) and the five or so performers began to rotate, doing one or two songs before stepping aside for someone else. In all, I did about five songs (including 'Love Me Tender', which wasn't planned). The crowd, already greased up, was supportive and approving of all the performers, and everyone had a great time. The singing lasted until the performers didn't have anything formal left and the event broke down into a sing-a-long until after midnight. In all, it lasted over four hours before some decided to go to sleep, others to hang out and talk while the rest went to the bar across the street to continue drinking and do a little dancing.

Regardless of the choice, no one got much or any sleep before the call to leave was sounded at 6:30am. We all had a to get into town and take a bus to Yaoundé so that we could make it to dinner at the country director's house on time that evening. We once again created a spectacle at the bus agency, but eventually we were on our way.

Book Report: 'Wicked' and 'One Hundred years of Solitude'

I've heard that 'Wicked' by Gregory Maguire has been made into a Broadway musical in the past couple of years. A close friend, and fellow Broadway nut, sent me the novel to read so I wouldn't completely miss out. I'm happy she did, since its original - the flip side of 'The Wizard of Oz', highly entertaining, and surprisingly "adult". I suppose I assumed an alternate take on what was the children's story of a generation (several, in fact), would also be childlike. Who'd have thought that the Wicked Witch of the East would have a long-term live-in boyfriend who was a rebel leader against the totalitarian regime of the Wizard?

Will, my postmate, has been begging me to read, 'One Hundred Years of Solitude' by Gabriel Garcia Marquez for a long time now. It had been built up as the greatest novel by a Nobel prize-winning author. I wasn't so sure, since I really disliked 'Love in the Time of Cholera', an earlier novel of his. But, I read it, or should I say, trudged through it. I don't know if its me or what the problem is, but while I can see the "intellectual appeal" of the book (it provides commentary on topics ranging from family relationships to Catholicism and third-world development), as a form of entertainment, insight or even philosophy, it falls short on all counts in my mind. It took me several weeks to read, and I had trouble reading more than 20 pages in one sitting- my definition of a book better read by someone else.

In process: 'What should I do with my life?' by Po Bronson