Vive le Dash

Let's chat.  I have never been particularly good at language.  Even after living in Italy for six months, my proudest moments were the first five minutes of a conversation before any given person realized I wasn't Italian.  After about five minutes--when we exhausted the simple pleasantries--there was always that moment where it would dawn on them "hey, this guy isn't from around here".  I was proud of those first five minutes.  I'm not even anywhere near that; I've only been here for three months.  Of course, such a moment isn't even possible in Cameroon with me sticking out like a sore thumb, but you get the picture.  Oh right, I'm also learning two languages at once. And here is a kicker: I am learning Fulfulbe THROUGH French.  It isn't as if I have an English speaking teacher.  No, when something is too complex to explain in Fulfulbe (at this point: everything), it is explained in French.  One of the strangest moments of my life was

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

This one time in DC I went to a Johnny Walker tasting.  Black was my favorite.  Red was too spicy.  Gold was ok, but had an odd thickness.  Blue tasted like money.  You shouldn't taste money; that shit has been touched by far too many dirty hands.  I like it straight.  If you add water or ice it changes the taste for the worse. Anyway, I found some nice Cameroonians to drink Johnny Walker Black with and bring in Christmas.  Somehow it seems very odd to come all this way to try to give to a community and then have them buying me drinks.  Shouldn't it be the other way around?  Suppose not everyone needs help.  It is Christmas though.  And it is delicious. I often feel like an old man.  Only thing I can really compare myself to with any accuracy is a younger version of myself so I always seem old.  I may be old, but this happens to be my first Christmas away from family.  I had forgotten that till today.  Christmas really snuck up on me.  I blame the fact that I'm in a des

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.

I have a post mate.  Her name is Erin and she's kinda awesome.  The best thing about her is that she and I approach the Peace Corps in much the same way.  Everyone here thinks the world of us and that we will revolutionize their lives.  Then they laugh at us when we propose the idea that maybe they should let women outside their compounds and effectively double their workforce.  "Haha, things are just different here".  Yes, yes they are.  We spend a lot of time talking about what exactly we can do or change and how exactly we can do it.  Then we realize that everything is incredibly daunting, nothing we do will really stop poverty or make an oasis in the desert, and we begin to question what the hell we are doing here in the first place.  After that we laugh, make lemonade, and go climb a tree.  When it comes down to it, we are just along for the ride and we are damn well going to enjoy it. I kind of won the Peace Corps lottery.  Erin lives out in the sticks.  The p

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 somet

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 original