August 16, 2003

Two days ago I was walking to school after another breakfast of avocados and an omelet; after 40 days of the same breakfast, I believe my body reached avocado-and-omelet critical mass. So I nonchalantly stopped alongside a cornfield, vomited three times, and walked to school to proctor an exam. "Is this out of the ordinary?" I wondered. Then I remembered I'm in a country that, for some highly anachronistic and amusing reason, chose to use the "MacGyver" theme song in all of its anti-AIDS commercials on TV; my conclusion is no. It's quite ordinary.

A week from today I'll be packing up my things, moving out of my host family's house, and establishing myself in the bustling metropolis of Ndélélé. Presumably I should have a new address, maybe even in Ndélélé. For the time being you can send letters to the post office box in Batouri.

The past month has been spent teaching at the Peace Corps's Model School, a laboratory of sorts where we get to try out the Cameroonian educational system. It was the most beneficial part of the entire training period. Gene and I were saddled with the 4è class (Note: Francophone Cameroon follows the French education system, where middle school starts at 6 and counts down to the final grade, aptly named "Terminale."), which was the largest (48 of them) and most unruly of all the classes. But we persevered, doling out moderate punishments (kneeling on the floor, zeroes on tests, letters of apology), all of which are better than the standard whipping done by our host country national counterparts. And we made for a ragtag bunch of teachers; the red Bandjoun mud plagued our pants and shoes. Combined with chalk dust, by the end of the week our look could be described only as disheveled. In fact, among the students, the newest insult has been to say, "You've got Peace Corps shoes."

I myself seem to have gained a reputation for ruling the classroom with an iron fist. Brian told me that his host brother was washing the floor of the house one day and said (in a voice reminiscent of Inspector Gadget's arch-nemesis Dr. Claw, if not Darth Vader), "My name is Mister Binder." Then this week during exams, Katherine was proctoring and emphatically told the class that they could not talk during the test. "You cannot talk like this," she said in a normal voice. "And you cannot talk like this," she whispered. Then a student called out, in the same Dr. Claw voice, "Can we talk like this?"

Traveling to some nearby towns has occupied the weekends. Foumban is the closest, a Muslim town ruled by a sultan who lives in a red brick (yes, red brick! ... this is a big deal here) palace. There's a museum inside, with a glass case for each sultan back to 1394. The contents include such things as the ruler's hat, his fly swatter, and the skull of his enemy (which one sultan turned into a drinking cup as a constant reminder to his underlings). Foumban is renowned for its artisanat where much woodworking and American-accosting takes place. Far more intense than your normal market day ("White! White! Buy my mangoes!" "White! White! Buy this Dennis Rodman T-shirt!"), the artisans all chased after us promising "good prices" and "deals just for you." I bought a mask for my family and quickly skedaddled.

We also spent a weekend in Bamenda, the closest Anglophone town, where we ate pancakes and enjoyed some surprisingly good blues music at a club. Surprisingly good until it devolved into your standard-issue Cameroonian dance music... Complete with Cameroonian dancing girls (and some Americans, myself excluded, who braved the stage).

As for my home stay family, I finally asked my host mother if we could eat chicken (after weeks of fish heads and beef liver). It was one of the best chickens I'd ever eaten. And then came the gizzard. Cameroonian tradition holds that the man of the house eats the gizzard, although with the recent increase in women's rights they now say it goes to the "guest of honor." The gizzard was mine.

During our cross-cultural sessions this topic was mentioned, but no one ever told us what the gizzard actually was. So, holding the gizzard between thumb and forefinger, I asked my family. The daughters laughed, and the oldest explained that it was the chicken's second stomach. In my head, images flashed of the runty chickens and deformed roosters that hang around our house picking anything edible out of the trash piles. "So, I'm eating what the chicken ate?" I asked hesitatingly. More laughter. "No, of course we cleaned it out." OK, I thought, nibbling on it. Gizzard is not half bad. Then my host mother turned to me and said, "Next time we'll buy a rooster. You can chop off its head." That day is tomorrow, my friends, and with a captive audience (most of us Peace Corps trainees, believe it or not, know nothing about chicken-killing and preparation) my wielding of the machete of death will be captured on film.