Spiders and Catholics and laundry, oh my!

It’s a good thing I’ve been single for as long as I have.

That’s what was going through my mind when, roughly 17 hours after landing in Cameroon, a rather large spider decided to pay me a visit in my bathroom. See, without the benefit of an SO to put on pest control, I’ve been in charge of all my own spider killing for many years now. Which I’m convinced is the only reason I could sanely and calmly (on the outside) ask for the straw-like bundle that passes as a broom, and steel myself to take a smack at the colossal demon spawn. The bugger was quick, though, and it took a few swipes to take him out. He fell, unceremoniously, beside the toilet, where I proceeded to leave his corpse for the next two days, because I couldn’t bring myself to touch it.

He's harmless, but still not a welcome visitor.

Then I woke up one morning and it was gone. Poof! Vamoose!

Do you know what’s creepier than having creepy crawlies as unexpected visitors? When their corpses freaking disappear between when you go to bed and when you wake up! Like, what was in the name of all that is holy was in my room while I was sleeping? Maybe it was the mouse, out for a midnight treat. Maybe, MAYBE it was the cockroach that woke me up in the middle of the night, crawling on my legs. (Do cockroaches eat spiders?) I can assure you, there’s not much like a middle-of-the-night cockroach wake up call to freak you right out. Nevermind the adrenaline rush of the subsequent hunt to kill it. Cause you best believe, I’m not going back to sleep with that thing on the loose. 

I lovingly refer to my mosquito net as my "princess canopy". It seems to do a good job at keeping out mosquitoes, but you know what it does not keep out? Cockroaches. Cockroaches that like to come and crawl on me in the middle of the night.

This… well, this is where I admit that I’ve taken to sleeping with the light on, because I'm a baby and the bugs and vermin seem to prefer the dark. Also, with ear plugs, which serves the dual purpose of drowning out some of the cacophony the neighbors make in the morning (seriously, children crying, mothers yelling, fire crackling, water sloshing, music thumping, brooms swishing…  it all sounds as if it is happening inside my room) and ensuring that no stray crawling things attack my brain (I know, I’m crazy, I can’t help it, that’s all I really have).

But lest you think all I can do is complain, let me assure you, Cameroon is lovely. It is a beautiful country, rich in resources and full of friendly, smiling faces. I have a fantastic host family, in a great a community that has been both curious and hospitable. It really just is an entirely different way of life, of thinking, of being and it takes some getting used to.

Welcome to the Jungle

My home away from home. 

I am living in a seaside village called Mokundange, which is a neighbourhood of the town of Limbe. My host, Eric, has a number of jobs and positions, but his main source of income is a poultry farm, part of which is adjacent to the house. He and his wife Gloria have three children, two of whom are away at university, and the youngest, who goes by the nickname Poppa is an active and mischevious boy of 10. Two other young men also live at the house with us, students who also work at the farm. Before introducing me, Gloria told me that one is black and one is red. For a moment, I actually thought she might mean Native American... but it turns out Pavel is albino.

My incredibly hospitable hosts, Eric and Gloria.

John and Pavel also live in the house.

My first few days here were obviously the most shocking to the system. In addition to the usual constraints of being in a new place-- not knowing anyone, or where to find anything you might be looking for-- there is an added level of complexity in not knowing how the local transportation systems work, confronting language barriers, and the self-conscious feeling of being blatantly stared at wherever you go. Not to mention confronting foods that are entirely foreign to you and your taste pallet. Notably, without an Internet connection, for the first few days I felt a sense of isolation, even a little trapped, lacking courage to venture far beyond my temporary home, or even the confines of my own room.

My hosts have a gas stove-- a luxury that not everyone around here has-- but only one burner works anymore. The oven is never used in cooking.

A small fire pit near the back steps outside the kitchen serves as an additional burner. This back area is also where the chickens are killed and plucked.

Plantains are yum. The veg... less so. Bitter is a taste sensation that is much more appreciated here. Alas, it is a very healthy, balanced meal

The day after I arrived, Gloria was going to a church event in a nearby town called Buea and invited me to come along, as I would have to go there by myself during the week to try to sort out some ethics stuff for my research at the local University. It was a Catholic mass celebrating the closing of the Year of Mercy for the diocese. The singing was lively and full of praise, accompanied by large African drums, but I could scarcely understand the sermon, as it was given in pidgin English. We joined the crowd clamoring for taxis and I marveled as people streamed in to the yellow vehicles, many in various stages of use and disrepair-- four in the back, two on the front seat, crammed together like clowns in their little car. Some even opened their hatchbacks and allowed another half dozen people to squat in its depths. It was much the same on the "bus" back to Limbe. Really, a 15-passenger van, made to fit 19 people, the smell of BO hung thick in the air and personal space was nonexistent as we piled in, a mass of slick limbs and handbags. 

That Sunday I also went to church with Gloria, since the LDS churches are too far to attend. I enjoyed the joyful music, the swaying congregation, the genuine worship I witnessed all around me. At the end of the service, everyone gathered outside, where the harvest offerings were auctioned off, and various presentations of dancers and dramas (including Satan tempting the Lord) were performed in celebration of the Feast of All Saints. 

On Tuesday, I was able to meet with the person who would serve as my research assistant to go over all the plans with her, to talk about recruitment (even though I technically would not be allowed to start until I received my full ethical clearance) and generally introduce her to my work. It was a huge relief to feel like SOMETHING was under way after days of not accomplishing a whole heck of a lot, other than maybe acclimatizing a little.

By then, I’d already had to wash my first load of clothes… which in and of itself is not new. I’ve washed by hand before. But the reality that here, this is my only option settled squarely on my shoulders as I hunched over the purple bucket—the same bucket that triples as my personal washing basin and holds the water I have to keep beside the toilet to “flush”. There is something pleasantly mindless about scrubbing your clothes, especially as I did under the morning sun on the veranda, but suddenly I appreciate that much more the time-saving convenience of my washing machine at home.

This is what laundry day looks like here.

I thought about the hours people here spend cleaning their clothes by hand—literally, not so much as the scrubbing boards and wringing implements that our elders used before they had machines in North America—and wondered what might be accomplished if all that time could be allocated somewhere else. Then I thought about what we… or at least, what I do with that time. Most of the time, I think I squander it. Facebook or YouTube, maybe reading about celebrity babies online. Too rarely, I think, do I actually make good use of the time it saves me. Which is probably why despite having all those “time-saving” devices at home, it feels like there are more hours in a day here. Without my phone and the Internet distracting me by small measures throughout the day (and admittedly without the regular aspects of social activities and volunteer stuff to attend to) I seem to have more hours in a day than I really know what to do with.

Gloria would tell me it’s because I move too fast (I don’t think this is something I’ve ever been accused of at home). The other day when we were walking she kept telling me to slow down. She started telling me that their impression of Europeans (which is how everyone here refers to me, even though they’re well aware I’m from Canada) is that they are always running, always busy, always stressed and harried. Life is not like that here, she explained. “We take our time”. True enough, sometimes it is an exercise in patience to walk with someone here, meandering at a dawdling pace, perhaps a touch faster than a snail, or you know, a glacier. Practically, it is to help avoid sweating too much, Gloria tells me. “If you go too fast and you sweat much, then no one wants to sit beside you in a taxi”. Having been in a fair few taxis and buses now, I can honestly say I have the impression that you’d have to smell bad enough to knock over a rhinoceros to really offend the olfactory senses of anyone here. Plus, I have the blessing of deodorant that helps keep the smell at bay, even if I’m sweating like a pig on the spit on the middle of August.

Mind you, I’m not sure how fast I’d be going if I was carrying the loads that many people here regularly carry—usually on their heads. We’ve all seen photos of African women carrying giant jugs of water and other things on their heads, but it is something else entirely to see it up close. To lift a full jug from the floor to fill my purple bucket with not a small amount of effort, and realize that many women balance that preposterous weight on their heads, with another one strapped to their front, and an infant strapped to their back. And it’s not just the weight that’s impressive—the things that they balance: an entire stem’s worth of plantains, bags of rice, buckets full of soft drinks, trays of peanuts or sunglasses. Or, or… the one that makes me chuckle a little—backpacks. Because, like why use the handles and carry it on your back if you could put it on your head?