kar0ling

No, not homebrew, though I should write about that someday as well. Literally moon shine. At least, I think that's what it was. At any rate, it was so bright the other night, the house cast a shadow. Light gleamed off the leaves of the banana trees, and well after the usual hour of darkness it was still bright enough to see clearly. The white-tiled tomb outside my window shone a pale bluish light and I hated to turn away from the beautiful night. Having experienced the utter darkness of a moonless African light sans electricity, I have now also seen a brightness to rival a Canadian winter's night by a snow-covered field.

At the baptism down by the stream, I suddenly felt something wet and cool on my foot. Assuming it was a clod of dirt or wet dead leaf that had fallen on my foot, I gasped when a glance down revealed it was a frog! I jerked my foot violently and watched, rather perturbed, as the frog phlegmatically hopped away. Ugh! At least it wasn't in my bathroom again.

A walk through the village is not complete without little children screaming "WHITE MAN! WHITE MAN!" until I wave and call hello. The novelty wears off pretty quickly, and I get downright irritated when the "greeting" comes from adults. In my less tolerant moments, I stubbornly resist the callers, pleading semantics as my excuse: I'm not a *man* thank you very much! But when I can put a smile on the kids faces by waving and saying hi, it's nice to oblige. Most kids are either thrilled or unconcerned by my white skin, but there's the occasional one who bursts into tears of terror. It's reassuring, I suppose, to provide such amusement for children simply by existing. On the other hand, it's terribly depressing to frighten them by the same token.

Yes, there was a reason I hadn't gone on my own to take a walk in the village before now. I've run back and forth between Friesens' and Scotts' countless times by myself, but never wandered much further on my own. But Saturdays, being less structured, stretch into long days in which I begin to obsess over the things I did I home, the things I hope to do at home, the people I left at home, and, generally, a wish that I might soon be at home. To dispel these foolish thoughts, I decided to take walk. Getting out of the house always reminds me that I'm in Cameroon--and that's exciting! I chose to come here; I can't go home until I've experienced this place and its people, and hopefully left some kind of imprint (however small) myself. Well, I experienced its people. I took Christie with me to water the cuttings planted at the church work day earlier in the week, then sent her home as I wandered off by myself to the primary school yard a ways further. Doors w...

I don't know why I'm surprised that this is turning into a series. I suppose I ought to be grateful it took two months in the village to encounter my first cockroach in the bathroom. And I ought to be grateful that he was small, and rather stupid, preferring to scurry along the wall and to dart across the room where he was handily dispatched, rather than running behind the rattan shelf where I was unwilling to chase after him. Yes, I am grateful. It's just..he's only the first, isn't he?

We have a love-hate relationship, moot-moots and me. They love me; I hate them. The irritating thing about them is that you can neither see them nor feel them bite, so by the time you realize they've eaten you alive it's far too late to do anything about it. I don't know whether it's due to incomplete repellent application, ineffective repellent, the result of rain washing away the repellent, or the fact that moot-moots are completely taken in by my fresh blood, but they feast on me. I counted at least 35 pink spots upon returning from a morning cocoa breaking. The mosquitoes so far are a non-issue. Coming from Manitoba, I scoff at the one or two sluggish mosquitoes I've seen lazily buzzing around. The mosquitoes I know do not allow you to snatch them out of the air one-handed to kill them. But, given that mosquitoes here carry deadly diseases whereas the ones at home merely make you itch, I guess I should be only to grateful they are so wimpy.

Now that Friesens are back, I eat my meals with them one week, Scotts the next. Translation week this month was a Friesen week for me, so I lunched with the translators: local food made by local cooks for local consumption. (When Friesens' and Scotts' cooks make local stuff they modify it for Western palettes. Primarily, this means less oil and less pepe.) Gearing me up for the experience, I ate rice and fish in sauce at Joe's house (one of the indigenous translators) for lunch on Sunday and partook of a sumptuous spread at Chief Esoh's house for supper that evening, including a small piece of "bushmeat" which apparently was porcupine. I'm neither much of a connoisseur nor much of a fan of meat in general, so as far as I'm concerned, one fatty chunk of meat is the same as the next. Monday -- Pepe soup The national dish of Cameroon, or at least, of this region. Pepe is the local hot pepper used to spice everything. It was a thickish soup, a murky greyis...

"Wanna go for a ride?" Dan invited me Sunday morning while I was eating breakfast with the Scotts. A few days before, he'd mentioned his intention to go somewhere and the possibility I might come along but I didn't have any details. However, not one to turn down a chance to see something new (not to mention an opportunity to skip out of a torturous "English Choir" performance once again), I grabbed my boots, umbrella, and packed my overnight bag-it's best to be prepared. Bekondo road wasn't bad at all; and by "not bad" I mean we only almost got stuck once or twice but never had to dig. Then, in the town where the road starts to get better--the place where Mike usually installs or removes the snowchains--instead of continuing straight to Kumba, we turned right and headed for new country (for me, anyway). Here we enjoyed some good old pothole-y roads, just like I'm used to. Well, maybe not like I'm used to. At its best, it's still...

Tiny little spider running back and forth across my glasses. Just a little black dot, darting to and fro, an inch from my face as I stand in front of the church, singing with the "English choir," helpless to do anything about it. (Yes, with the exception of this sentence, this entry consists entirely of sentence fragments.)

Rain like you wouldn't believe. Granted, the noise of the aluminium roof increases the perceived severity of the storm, but there is no denying the force of the deluge. It was dark and loud inside at the middle of the day when it started pouring, so there wasn't much point in doing anything but going out to watch it come down on a Saturday afternoon. "20th October, 2007: rain." That's what Levi, one of indigenous translators said with a smile as I stood on Friesens' porch watching it pour. Within minutes the path (read: Main Street) was a fast-flowing river. An empty plastic water jug carried on the current sailed past my eyes. The empty stockpot Lisa placed outside to catch rainwater for the water filter filled up in 4 minutes flat. Naked kids streaked toward the improvised soccer pitch at the clearing. Mudsoccer is a favourite. Between the soaking from the sky and the splashing from the ground, there's really not much point in clothing. Thunder sounded n...

When is thunder not thunder? the girls queried in puzzlement when, after hearing a rumble, I reminded myself that it would, of course, be thunder. When it's a big truck rumbling over a bridge or roadway. When it's someone in the apartment upstairs moving furniture. When it's a radio blasting with thumping bass, or a movie soundtrack turned up high so the dialogue is audible. When it's a faraway train. When it's a plane overhead. When it's a loaded dolly rolling over a tiled floor. I'm sure you could add to my list. None of these options really exist here. Unlike at home, where there are many candidates for noisemaking, here, if I hear a boom or distant rumble, odds are, it's thunder.

"Bow." As in, the weapon. Bow and arrow. Problem, you ask? Indeedy: there's a fair bit of bow use in the Old Testament but it turns out the Oroko have no word for it. Here in the rainforest, it seems, spears sufficed for the ancestors' hunting needs. I guess the trees are so plenteous the range offered by a bow is not needed. "Spear-gun" was one suggestion but it doesn't quite capture it, does it? Fancy that, needing to make a glossary entry for "bow" in a tribal culture.

Motorcycles, motorcycles, motorcycles. Having only two narrow wheels one behind the other with an engine to power them, these are the faster of the more reliable forms of transportation during rainy season (the other being your own two feet). By no means do I mean there is steady traffic of them, only that you can depend on them passing you while you're stuck in a mudhole (or behind someone else who is), and on passing them when the road is dry, allowing for some speed. One person on a bike is a rare sight-unless he's loaded down with some freight-otherwise expect to see from 2 to 5 people piled on a motorbike, bumping down the road, zigzagging along the best path. "My truck is stuck." The big trucks (read: slightly larger than a pickup) are preventing from going on some roads by rain gates-poles dug into the ground in the middle of the road, barring access to vehicles wider than a pickup. So, Export "33" ("official" beer of Cameroon), you'll h...

I've never understood the obvious question--when someone asks a question whose answer is right in front of their face. More than that, obvious questions drive me crazy! I guess my problem is that when I talk to someone I want to relate an experience, learn something new, or build relationship. I don't ask pointless questions just for the sake of making conversation. Boy, have I come to the wrong place. "You are there?" asked Johannes one day as I sat in the schoolroom. "There" is "dey," and I understood that, but what I didn't understand was what he could possibly be getting at with this question, so I doubted my comprehension and looked to the girls for help. "Yes," I finally said uncertainly after he clarified with an exaggerated "*th*ere." Johannes laughed at what he thought was my not understanding his pronunciation. "You are doing this?" one of the translators poked his head out the door with that question as ...

Though barring the moot-moots, there's not been much to complain of with insect life so far, I have noticed an increase in the variety and frequency of the insect population as dry season draws closer, so I expect the situation to deteriorate. (Paradoxically to my way of thinking, the bugs are much worse during dry season than rainy season. I guess it's just too wet and not hot enough for them to thrive during the latter.) Nevertheless, I've been torn as to my feelings for spiders in my room. Normally, I'd just squish a spider if I found one inside, but here, I think of the great work they can do and conclude I'd rather share my space with them than with insects. At least the little guys don't bite. Geckos, however, I feel less accepting of. There is one running up and down my wall right now and I'd really prefer he be outside. I don't hold a grudge against him or anything, I think he's a fabulous little guy.but I don't want to share my room with...

Who knew those words could go together? Spaghetti omelette. And not only go together, but taste good. To say it is Cameroonian food would probably be to mislead; perhaps more accurately it is a Cameroonian take on Western food. Whatever it is, eaten here, and it's surprisingly likable. It is just what it sounds like-an omelette with spaghetti in it. Why, you ask? So did I. To get more mileage out of your egg, of course. And to get protein with your spaghetti. (In North America, another reason would be to use up left-over spaghetti, but I don't think that's applicable here.) It's more spaghetti than egg; the egg mostly holds the concoction together. So, adventurous cooks out there, give it a try!

The tooth fairy visited Kenneth the other night and left something on his window sill. "You don't leave your tooth under your pillow?" I asked. Becky leaned over and whispered confidentially, "It's too hard to get in and out of their mosquito nets while they're asleep."

Dusk doesn't last long but it has this palpable quality: the air seems somehow near, and golden. I can't put it into words but it thrills my heart. Dark also has a nearness I've never felt elsewhere, and a warmth which is more than physical. Tiny fireflies like sparks from a campfire flicker in the sky and in the long grasses lining the path. A chorus of cicadas and crickets, with the occasional frog thrown in, chirp so loudly at times you can hardly hear yourself think. Cold white light filtered through the Scotts' and Friesens' curtains is the only significant intrusion on the blackness. A small, warm, orange glow comes from unshuttered windows of village houses or bobs along the path, from the flame of a lantern set up in a corner or carried close to the feet of the walker. The murmur of voices also animates the night: the low rumble of conversation, the more strident tones of an argument, or the comradely laughter of a group.

Proving that it is genetically wired in children to fling at each other the product of precipitation, after a downpour, the kids-both North American and Africa-had a mudball fight. Using small buckets or their hands, they squared off in two teams and hurled mud projectiles at each other.

Gas and milk. A natural combination, yes? In North America, gas pumps routinely share their habitat with vending machines selling cold drinks-usually pop-sometimes juices. Occasionally there will be an ice cream freezer on the premises as well. Cameroonian gas stations have vending machines, too. They sell yoghurt. This is all the more surprising and bizarre to me because I don't think the average Cameroonian eats much of milk products. Then again, the average Cameroonian doesn't drive a motor vehicle, so perhaps the wealthier, the car owners, have made their own take on the habits of Western decadence.

How can words describe the experience of the roads here? If you've seen the video, you have an inkling of what is involved, but even moving pictures can't fully convey it. I don't think you can really understand what it's like until you've jolted and jounced down them inside a vehicle. I do mean jolting. It's more than just bumping: both up & down and side to side. You literally need to hang on to that handle above the window, and your arm muscles get a workout from the job. On the way out, we got stuck just beyond the village. Fortunately, there were many travellers on the road who generally enjoy digging and strategizing when a truck gets stuck. They often get a free ride for their efforts, so it's a symbiotic relationship. Faced with the options to climb out the window, crawl over the seat, or stay put, I just hung in there, waiting for them to free us, since my door was jammed thanks to a previous trip's mudhole encounter. The truck was stuck on ...

A few days back, Kenneth caught a big toad. Not a monstrous toad-only about 2 inches long-but big enough. "Tommy Toad" lived in the family shower room for the first day, then I didn't hear anything about him. I was in my bathroom, unsuspecting, when I suddenly look up to see Tommy Toad hopping around the perimeter of the room. I did not scream, though I did rather nervously ask Mr. Toad what he was doing there. He continued hopping over to a corner and waited for me to leave, which I did as quickly as possible, to track down Kenneth. "Kenneth, your frog is in my bathroom. Please remove him now!" Kenneth found his toad and I had my invader taken care of, so we were both happy. I think I'm going to look around a bit before I enter the bathroom from now on, however.