I have made it to post and the most effective words I can
gather to describe the feeling is that it is a rather bittersweet transition.
It is great to have the freedom to do as I please and have the privacy I was so
used to having in the States: It was difficult to grow accustomed to the lack
of privacy that I received with my host family in Bafia. Now, I feel I actually miss it. I grew
up in a small family with only one sibling, my best friend and older brother,
Joe. As we grew up, we spent a lot of time together but with it being only two
of us in the family it was easy to find my time alone, especially if there was
a female involved. My mother would comment on how I enjoyed spending a Friday
or Saturday night alone in my height of teen socializing; drawing, reading, or
just relaxing on the couch, content. In Bafia I couldn’t get a breath of air
that was not shared with someone else. Between four to five brothers, three
sisters, mama, papa, and numerous cousins all under one roof, coupled with a
culture that thinks it is strange to spend time by oneself: I didn’t stand a
chance.
One night in Bafia, it was probably the third week I had
been in country, I had just one too many whiskey sachets. (Dirt-cheap shots of
alcohol sold in little plastic packets, about two shots worth in each that
locals say make you go crazy and blind. One can regularly see moto taxi
chauffeurs driving around with one clenched in their teeth, corner torn open,
and sucking on it as they taxi people around. Sometimes you weigh your options
at the end of the night between the least drunk of the moto drivers or trekking
home.) The day following this night I had one of the worst hangovers of my
life. I did not want to leave my room, doubled over in pain, clutching my hands
around my stomach for hours mumbling through clenched teeth to myself how I
would never consume a sachet again, in all eternity. It felt like a sachet had
birthed something inside of me and it was clawing at my insides trying to get
out. It seemed everyone in the world wanted to see what I was doing that day;
every brother, sister, cousin, mama and papa, all knocking on my door yelling
in French for me to come eat or just wanting to talk. Being that this was within the first three weeks of being
introduced to French, it was difficult to say the least. First attempting to wrap my head around
what they were saying in French, and then forming a response, all while being
deathly hung over: It felt like the end of the world. I finally emerged with
Papa Felippe exclaiming, “Jacob, my son, what happened to you, I was very
worried.” I explained about the night before and how I only had ONE sachet, I was
not sure what happened, but rest assured, Papa, I will NEVER drink another one
as long as I am in Cameroon.
Moments like these were when I wished for privacy and the
ability to just lock myself in a room with out anyone bothering me. Now that it
is gone, I find myself longing for it. I had never been a part of such a large
family before and though there were some rather awkward moments at first where
people would just sit by me, in silence and gratified to just sit and keep me
company, I miss it. At any moment
there was someone at the house that I could talk with, sit with, or just gaze
off the porch with.
Transitioning from this has been somewhat difficult, but I
have tried to keep myself as busy as possible. I go to funerals, weddings, walk
around the market, introduce myself to people, and play with the kids that are
around in the family compound. Just now I paused from typing because I heard someone
crying outside and walked out on my balcony to see what the matter was. The
child crying was a girl who lives downstairs, Dian, who is about five years
old. She is a beautiful little girl with a gorgeous smile and she immediately
halts her tears looking up at me as I opened the door, remarking, “Uncle Jacob,
how are you?” I reply, “Fine, fine, Dian, but why are you crying?” As she
hastily wipes her eyes and mumbles, “Nutting,” I slip back inside and grab some
monkey cola, (a local fruit that tastes similar to a grape but looks different
with a tough brown outer coating that is peeled away before eating). I emerge
with the monkey cola and knife, Dian trying to see as high as she can, head
stretching back, eyes anxiously waiting for what is going to happen next. I then
proceed to have a mini Mardi Gras, throwing out chunks of monkey cola off the
balcony to Dian at first and then to a crowd of half a dozen little children
once they heard the ecstatic screeching of Dian having monkey cola rain out of
the air.
Some of my time is spent just walking down the street and
correcting the little children about my name, who do not know any better and
are just stating the obvious when I walk by, excitedly exclaiming, “WHITE MAN!
WHITE MAN!” with a big smile and waving frantically. I will walk over and ask them, “What is your name? It is not
black child, just as mine is not white man, you will call me by my name when
you see me and I will call you by yours.” Now when I walk down the street by my
house kids from around the area call out to me, “UNCLE JACOB! UNCLE JACOB!”
They call older people in the Anglophone regions by uncle and aunt. Little
children call me Uncle Jacob and my post mate, Kate, by Auntie Kate.
Weddings and funerals here are rather different than in the
States. Here it does not matter if you know the person or not to be allowed to
attend. PCVs would be the most well accomplished wedding crashers if that were
the case. Weddings and funerals are great places to network and the locals
really appreciate the cultural effort to participate in these events. No matter what, the people are so
welcoming and just wish for you to be entertained, (given food and drink in
Anglophone regions.) I went to a wedding last weekend in the small village of
Bangang with five other PCVS and we were always seated in the front, served
first with the wedding party, and acknowledged by the M.C. numerous times for
attending, even though only one of us had a clue of who was being married. The rest of us had just been introduced
to the groom the night before, as he was the brother of the PCV’s counterpart
in Bangang, and lived in the same family compound as her.
One thing that I can always count on when I am missing out
on my family from home, missing my family from Bafia, or just longing for
Florida and the ocean, is music.
It’s that moment when I hear the first strum of the guitar, first step
of the high hat, first key of the piano, or thump of the base to a familiar
song that triggers a memory to jump to the forefront of consciousness that
transcends me back to a different time and a smile spreads across my face.
It was Sunday morning after the wedding in Bangang and after
haggling with the moto drivers about how much it would cost for them to take us
to Mbouda and scarfing down some delicious spaghetti omelettes, (a PCV favorite
dish: eggs, spaghetti noodles, beans, tomatoes, onions & peppers all
scrambled together for about 400 FCFA ~ <$1) we were finally on our way. I
was feeling rather nostalgic this Sunday, I am not quite sure why, the sun was
out, wind rushing along my face, squeezed on tight with Kate and the moto man
on the back of his moto. I was on
the back with my legs wrapped around Kate’s hips, hers around the moto
driver’s, and our weekend packs strapped down behind me, creating a quite comfortable
back rest with no need to hold on to the moto with my hands. I remembered I had just bought a micro
SD card for my phone with my brother in Bafia before I left and had loaded some
music on it. I slid my headphones out of my bag, plugged in, and laid
back. The four songs I managed to
load to the memory card in the correct format for it to play were: #1 Sugaree –
Jerry Garcia Band off Let it Rock, #2 Loose Lucy – Grateful Dead off From The
Mars Hotel, #3 Aint no use – Jerry Garcia band off Let it Rock, and #4 Rosa Lee
Mcfall – Jerry, Grisman, & Tony Rice off the Pizza Tapes.
As soon as I
heard the first strum of Sugaree I was shot back to Gainesville, FL, outside in
the early-winter sunshine, lying lazily under giant pines and magnolias with
just enough scattered rays filtering through the foliage to warm the crisp air,
laughing with some of my favorite people, weather breeding similarities to what
I was presently exalting upon in Mbouda (minus the crisp brisk air of early
winter Florida, it was rather warm and damp at the moment) and no one could
have wiped that smile off my face if they tried; Jerry as my testament. The
nostalgia was swept away like the tides sweep the Florida beaches, and pure
bliss rushed in that could not be halted like the struggle to halt the march of
the setting summer sun. As I rode the next forty-five minutes with those four
songs on repeat, head laid back against the packs, staring off into the sun
with out a care in the world for where I was, I could not have been happier.
Aint no use: here I am, here and now.
