At Post

Disclaimer: This post was not proof read.

Hello internet, it’s been a long time. I have mixed feelings about our reunion. On the one hand it’s been almost relieving to not be tethered to you as I have been since grade school. On the other I’ve felt so deprived of communication, Wikipedia, news, Reddit, and all the other glorious bounties you bring. I still don’t have you at my new home in Guzang, but you’re only 1000 francs away in Bamenda and I suppose that may be for the best. I still haven’t given up on you though and hopefully soon I will bask in your warm glow on the comfort of my own couch.

There’s been so much that’s happened since I last checked in! I apologize for the delay in updating this blog for those that were actually waiting for a post; I know there are at least five of you, maybe even more.

I am at post. Guzang. Batibo sub-division. Momo division. Northwest region. Cameroon. My home sweet home for the next two years and thank the gods I like it because it would be a rough two years if I didn’t. There is a wonderful paved road leading from Guzang to Bamenda, the Trans-African Highway. I can get a car or a bike from the market any day, any time, no problem. I’m just connected enough to the outside world to have access to shawarma, internet, nightclubs, supermarkets, and other whiteman things. I’m just isolated enough to where I feel I’m getting a true Peace Corps experience; surrounded by jungles, mountains, chickens, goats, and Cameroonians. There are two German volunteers in my village who I’m becoming fast friends with and today I saw a white guy I hadn’t seen before (I was on a bike going to the next village, didn’t get to say hi, just waved. Who were you white guy? What were you doing here? I will never know) but other than that it’s Africans for days, naturally.

I’m integrating into the culture pretty well I think. I have my contri bag and contri cup (drinking horn) courtesy of my fellow Batibo volunteers, and I have my contri cap courtesy of my counterpart. I move around with the cap to let people know I’m trying to integrate into the culture, sometimes it makes me feel like I’m one of those Taino Indians brought back to the court of Isabelle and Ferdinand, dolled up in 16^th century European regalia to let people know that I too can be civilized. But I also think the hat stylish as hell so it evens out. I move around with my contri bag to hand people cola nuts and to carry my contri cup and contri toilet paper. The cup is for palm wine. The toilet paper is also for palm wine.

Ahh palm wine, sweet sweet mimbo. I drank it with some elders the first night I was here and I haven’t stopped since. Not out of my own volition, but not necessarily against it either. Palm wine is tapped from the raffia palm and is probably the largest cash crop in the whole of the Batibo region. It is tapped in the morning and in the evening and is alcoholic straight away.  Early on it is sweet like nectar and not very alcoholic, it ferments very quickly with time and by the end of the day it’s very alcoholic. By the second day it’s liquor. By the third day it’s flammable. Unfortunately this natural fermentation process means that it also takes place in the stomach after consumption. This leads to a tumultuous collection of gas and who knows what else forming in your innards throughout the day and the end result ain’t so pretty. I don’t know how most locals aren’t running to the bathroom every couple hours, it’s probably (hopefully) something you get used to. When locals talk about the miraculous drink that is palm wine they always end up saying “It’s natural!” I now repeat this mantra whenever I just barely make it to a toilet. But my verdict: palm wine is awesome. It’s a great social drink, it brings people together, it tastes great, and the buzz is mellow. It’s natural.

I guess I should catch all you good people up on what I’ve been up to this past month. The rest of training went by very slowly, everyone was ready for it to be over and I was one of them. It was basically reiteration, more language, and free time. We had some good times though to end our being together on a high note, especially the Halloween party. Three weeks ago we piled into a bus, decked out in our graduation pagne, a sea of orange, red, and gold, and made our way to the American embassy in Yaoundé for the swearing in ceremony. It went down without a hitch and we all became official Peace Corps Volunteers. The next day we said goodbye to our host families and goodbye to our friends going to different regions and boarded smaller buses destined for our new homes. The PCVs in the Northwest were waiting for us at the headquarters in Bamenda and we all went out for legitimate hamburgers. During the festivities my new clustermates singled me out to give me my contri cup and contri bag which was touching to say the least (thanks guys). We all went out for drinks afterwards and then to a nightclub where we proceeded to shake skin until the wee hours of the morning. The next day I woke up to a call from my clustermate Colin the Indispensable, he would earn that name this day.

We went all around Bamenda with a giant trunk and giant bag, getting my bank account open, eating some shawarma, and then catching cars that would take us to Bali Park and then Guzang. We said our goodbyes in Guzang market square and then I was on my own. My community host (a real nice guy) met me in the square, we went to meet my landlord (another real nice guy), and I entered my new home. It’s pretty fantastic. Second floor, furnished, two bedrooms, living room, big kitchen, front and back balcony. I’ve lived in worse places in the States as some can attest to. I have running water sporadically at best, I mainly use the outside tap to fill my buckets, but that’s only because it is dry season. But the electricity has only gone out on me once which is pretty damn unheard of around these parts. A father and his son live directly next door, a nice (but very evangelical) teacher lives below me, and diagonally below there is a clinic run by a nice lady.

The day after I arrived was Guzang market day. My village has the second largest market in the Northwest. Talk about being baptized in fire. My cup was full of mimbo from 10AM to 5PM. It was a great day though, I finally met my counterpart who is a really wonderful guy; enthusiastic, motivated, and welcoming. He works for the government agriculture ministry in a village called Widikum but operates his own NGO in Guzang, his hometown, called the Community Initiative for Sustainable Environment and Gender Development (CISEGD). He’s been doing really great work and I’m excited to be helping him with it. In the coming months we have a beekeeping project, mushroom cultivation trainings, and are going to try and add some stuff to the demo farm across the street from the office.

My next few months in the Peace Corps will primarily involve identifying farmers who are trying to improve their systems and are receptive to new ideas. I’ll take one or two of these farmers and develop a farm management plan for them in order to integrate various components of their system and help them run their farm more like a business. I’ll also be conducting a community needs assessment which takes the form of a giant Microsoft Excel report that at this point seems pretty daunting. So far though, my counterpart and I have been identifying groups of yam farmers for a project through the Presbyterian Hunger Program in which groups are given 100 chickens to utilize their manure as fertilizer while receiving training on planting nitrogen fixing trees in their fields. After six months the group agrees to buy another 100 birds and gives them to a different group free of charge, making the program cyclical and sustainable. I think it’s pretty awesome and it seems like the perfect way to hit the ground running and has introduced me to a lot of farmers in the Batibo area while giving me hands on training in addressing farmers in Pidgin.

That’s another thing. Remember when I was so happy that I got posted to an Anglophone region? Yeah, turns out it’s going to be a little bit harder than I thought. I’m getting by with using special English and changing my inflection and accent but some people only speak Pidgin and some only the local dialect. So far I can understand a lot better than I can speak but I know I’m going to have to double down on learning how to speak if I’m going to integrate and talk to farmers effectively. I’m also still trying to keep up with my French, if I didn’t like Guzang so much I would almost say I’m sad I didn’t get posted to a Francophone region, it would probably be just as difficult. But boy do I like the Northwest.

Other than the yam meetings my first few weeks have been filled with protocol; meeting all the officials in the area and presenting my documents to them. District officers, agriculture and livestock officials, the mayor (who is great and has been a huge asset to me), and gendarme commanders. And of course the Fon. His Royal Highness the Fon of Guzang is a really magnanimous individual and welcomed me with open arms, going so far as to call me his son. He and the traditional council are going to be a great resource for me, everyone seems very proud that there is now a Peace Corps volunteer in the village and they have all done their best to make me feel at home. It isn’t every day that you get to drink with a king and kingsmen. He also told me to quit smoking, so did the prince, maybe when royalty is demanding that you quit your bad habit you should quit your bad habit.

Yesterday was a very important cultural day in the village. There is a tree planted in the middle of the market. Six hundred years ago, when Guzang was founded, seven slaves were buried alive under this tree to give the land power. The government has tried to move this huge market many times but has never succeeded, the market has deep roots in Guzang and some say it’s because of the sacrifice. Of course it’s probably just tradition and there is an actual history as to why the market is located in Guzang but pretty cool story, huh? Anyway the Fon, who is never seen in the market by tradition, and the traditional council make a sacrifice to this tree every year to rejuvenate its power. I served as a guest to the Fon and followed the council and some jujus into the market. I had already drank a lot of palm wine when CRTV decided it was a good idea to interview the whiteman. I will be appearing red-faced and sweating into thousands of Cameroonian living rooms soon so that’s great. I hope Peace Corps doesn’t send me home for that, I don’t think it was too bad.

Other stuff I might have missed: Thanksgiving was awesome here with a big celebration in Mbengwi, but it was sad not to be at home. The day after we went to the funeral of a dear friend that was taken too soon. It was sad but an amazing cultural experience, funerals a pretty joyous occasions in Cameroon. My third day here I gave a speech in Pidgin to a Presbyterian congregation of hundreds of people which was nerve wracking but now I hear “Sean!” everywhere I go. The kids that live downstairs from me are really great and love giving me high-fives, they were the first to start calling me Sean and not whiteman. I still hear the “whiteman whiteman whiteman” jingle everywhere I go, sometimes I scold the kids and they start saying “Sean Sean Sean” but there are so many of them it’s hard to bother, so petit-au-petit I’ll probably stop hearing it so much but I don’t really care, I am a white man after all and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. It isn’t meant to be insulting anyway. Everyone here is super religious and I get a lot of blowback if I don’t show my face in church on Sundays so guess who has to go to church every Sunday for two years? This guy. It’s funny how things come full circle. I’ll probably just end up going into the same trance I did as a kid all those moons ago. A lot of people have tried to “save” me, including my neighbor. It’s a lot to deal with, and it sucks having to feign faith, but it’s not so bad. I listen to black metal a lot and I’ll probably sacrifice a goat to Frey somewhere during mid-service, does that count as a cultural exchange? Moghamo is the local language and the name of the people around Batibo, I’m trying to learn it as best I can but African languages don’t bounce off this tongue so easy. There was a giant wasp’s nest in my bathroom when I arrived here. I burn my trash. I have a lot of downtime.

I think that about covers it.

I hope everyone is safe and well, I know I am. Hope to have the internet here soon. In the meantime feel free to message me on Facebook or my old cellphone if you want my Cameroonian phone number and have a good international plan or a lot of money to waste. Speaking of money to waste, if you want to send a package of delightful American things (I only say this cause people were wondering, I’m seriously fine so no need), you can send them to Sean Potts, Peace Corps, BP 837 Bamenda, NW, Cameroon. Letters would be pretty cool too! I don’t know how many stamps to put on them though…

All my love! We are together!