Friday, April 9, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
I wrote this March 13th but didn't get a chance to post it until now...
Today-this morning at 7:30-the sky was a dense but distant gray. Within half an hour it was like a giant water balloon had burst on us. I gathered some of the rain in speedily filling buckets. Now it is clearer but thunder and lightning come out of nowhere. I thank heaven for mornings like this as I get to pause and appreciate the world instead of getting shoved into the social melee.
Later on, I sit squatting over my little outhouse hole and realize I've been singing to myself "...all your worms are leaving..." to the tune of the Nina Simone song "Who Knows Where the Time Goes" that Paul and I love (sorry, P). My earthy twist on the lyrics are a reminder of the sadness (I miss you, Baby) I'm trying to smooth over with the practical demands of life here. Like deworming. Another wave of thunder hammers like a son-of-a-bitch over my little tin roof. My little tin outhouse roof--my house has a very large tin roof. But to explain the lyrics from a medical standpoint: I'd had nausea and stomach trouble for a couple days and decided that after six months here a little Mebendazole could only be a good thing. Ah, but the last treatment was yesterday morning and I still feel things writhing in my gut. I try to imagine them as beneficent earthworms--like creatures turning the remains of my last meal into richly-aerated night soil. How long the drugs take to work and what happens to the worms, I'm not sure.
I've haven't written much because a lot of what I've been mulling over has been social criticism and politics and I'm not really allowed to write about these topics. Also, I realize I don't necessarily like the idea of writing somewhere that is open to everyone... But loneliness has had its way with me, so here goes.
It's the 13th of March, I've only been back in Mvangan for two weeks and some but I'm already feeling like something's got to give. Life here is fine but I just have no one I really trust or call a good friend yet and I've had a hard time scheduling time for myself. Also, in an effort to keep my image untarnished with the "grands" (big men in town...and their wives), I've been hesitant to unwind here in public. I've been accorded much respect--seated next to the delegates of various ministries at public events, while the rest of the population has to stand or sit on crowded benches. I'm invited to receptions at the sous-prefet's house where a privileged horde of normally ultra-ceremonious officials descend on a spread and a couple of cases of beer like it's their last chance to eat fish and drink Castel in their lives, at least for free. I bargain that my status among them will greatly help the evolution of my work here, especially in the event of my needing some sort of government assistance or recognition. So, while I would much rather be getting stupid with the high schoolers and others at "People", the town's nightclub, instead I'm forced to sit demurely next to lecherous old farts and their stolid wives.
When I first arrived I wanted to "go native" as much as possible but then in stage I was fed the same god-dammned thing every day that I decided as far as food was concerned it wouldn't hurt to introduce some variety. It's an interesting challenge for me to retain (and thus introduce) some of my cultural trappings while simultaneously learning about and living like people here do. Let's stick to our simple food example. Hardly anyone here has ever tasted a cucumber before, even though you can buy them in the market 100 km away. If there were a diverse offering of produce I would be hesitant to plant such vegetable as I would rather try new ones, but there isn't. I wonder how much of it is due to living in town. If I were in the forest, in the tiniest village (a village here is a kind of extended-family homestead), would eat lots of wild fruits and greens or just have a wider variety of bushmeat to choose from? I hope to somehow wriggle beneath this ho-hum surface to learn some of what I can only imagine are the myriad secrets this forest and the people that live in her hold. If I continue as I have been, in my fancy town house, just doing day trips to villages, I know it is not going to happen. I had been all ready at the outset to go camp in remote villages and sleep in the dirt and get lice if necessary. But when I told this plan to my elders, they swiftly reminded me that I was a stranger, and not a man but a young woman, and heading off like that was a sure recipe for getting raped and becoming some dense, brutish young villager's "wife". That revelation put a slight damper of any explorations. And, well, since then, I've been quite busy planning my projects-improved fallow and continuing to vulgarize the cultivation and consumption of soy in the region. If I am lucky and get any (overseas)visitors in the summer, we will go search for forest elephants and canoe in the river that separates Cameroon from Gabon, for starters.
Today-this morning at 7:30-the sky was a dense but distant gray. Within half an hour it was like a giant water balloon had burst on us. I gathered some of the rain in speedily filling buckets. Now it is clearer but thunder and lightning come out of nowhere. I thank heaven for mornings like this as I get to pause and appreciate the world instead of getting shoved into the social melee.
Later on, I sit squatting over my little outhouse hole and realize I've been singing to myself "...all your worms are leaving..." to the tune of the Nina Simone song "Who Knows Where the Time Goes" that Paul and I love (sorry, P). My earthy twist on the lyrics are a reminder of the sadness (I miss you, Baby) I'm trying to smooth over with the practical demands of life here. Like deworming. Another wave of thunder hammers like a son-of-a-bitch over my little tin roof. My little tin outhouse roof--my house has a very large tin roof. But to explain the lyrics from a medical standpoint: I'd had nausea and stomach trouble for a couple days and decided that after six months here a little Mebendazole could only be a good thing. Ah, but the last treatment was yesterday morning and I still feel things writhing in my gut. I try to imagine them as beneficent earthworms--like creatures turning the remains of my last meal into richly-aerated night soil. How long the drugs take to work and what happens to the worms, I'm not sure.
I've haven't written much because a lot of what I've been mulling over has been social criticism and politics and I'm not really allowed to write about these topics. Also, I realize I don't necessarily like the idea of writing somewhere that is open to everyone... But loneliness has had its way with me, so here goes.
It's the 13th of March, I've only been back in Mvangan for two weeks and some but I'm already feeling like something's got to give. Life here is fine but I just have no one I really trust or call a good friend yet and I've had a hard time scheduling time for myself. Also, in an effort to keep my image untarnished with the "grands" (big men in town...and their wives), I've been hesitant to unwind here in public. I've been accorded much respect--seated next to the delegates of various ministries at public events, while the rest of the population has to stand or sit on crowded benches. I'm invited to receptions at the sous-prefet's house where a privileged horde of normally ultra-ceremonious officials descend on a spread and a couple of cases of beer like it's their last chance to eat fish and drink Castel in their lives, at least for free. I bargain that my status among them will greatly help the evolution of my work here, especially in the event of my needing some sort of government assistance or recognition. So, while I would much rather be getting stupid with the high schoolers and others at "People", the town's nightclub, instead I'm forced to sit demurely next to lecherous old farts and their stolid wives.
When I first arrived I wanted to "go native" as much as possible but then in stage I was fed the same god-dammned thing every day that I decided as far as food was concerned it wouldn't hurt to introduce some variety. It's an interesting challenge for me to retain (and thus introduce) some of my cultural trappings while simultaneously learning about and living like people here do. Let's stick to our simple food example. Hardly anyone here has ever tasted a cucumber before, even though you can buy them in the market 100 km away. If there were a diverse offering of produce I would be hesitant to plant such vegetable as I would rather try new ones, but there isn't. I wonder how much of it is due to living in town. If I were in the forest, in the tiniest village (a village here is a kind of extended-family homestead), would eat lots of wild fruits and greens or just have a wider variety of bushmeat to choose from? I hope to somehow wriggle beneath this ho-hum surface to learn some of what I can only imagine are the myriad secrets this forest and the people that live in her hold. If I continue as I have been, in my fancy town house, just doing day trips to villages, I know it is not going to happen. I had been all ready at the outset to go camp in remote villages and sleep in the dirt and get lice if necessary. But when I told this plan to my elders, they swiftly reminded me that I was a stranger, and not a man but a young woman, and heading off like that was a sure recipe for getting raped and becoming some dense, brutish young villager's "wife". That revelation put a slight damper of any explorations. And, well, since then, I've been quite busy planning my projects-improved fallow and continuing to vulgarize the cultivation and consumption of soy in the region. If I am lucky and get any (overseas)visitors in the summer, we will go search for forest elephants and canoe in the river that separates Cameroon from Gabon, for starters.
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