Tuu Here

By Mary Barbee

Moving to Africa in 1979, from rural, small town Mississippi was a leap of faith and a catalyst for great adventure. With graduation from college looming and looking for direction, a Peace Corps flier crosses Mary Duncans path. Mary volunteers to teach Cameroonians how to grow fish for food by building fish ponds in Cameroon. After four months of training, she is assigned to a very isolated post in Yoko. She must adapt to a French speaking, half Muslim world without electricity and plumbing. For the first year, the only other volunteers in the area are a 12 hour bush taxi ride away. Mary gains a unique view of what life is really like in Yoko, where the local tribe, the Bavut, speaks their own patois (language) and are happy to share their opinions on a wide range of topics including homosexuality, polygamy, nuclear bomb programs and whether or not pygmies are indeed human. The first year Mary is occupied with work and survival: learning how to live without modern conveniences, communicate with the locals, and with very little to eat. During the second year, as the locals begin to know and trust her, she gets to look under the surface and discovers not everything is as innocent as it seems. On this journey to the third world, Mary learns as much about herself as she does of the people around her. Marys cross-cultural experience attests the commonalities of human beings on higher levels than the boundaries we build between us, and that many challenges that we face are universal: the need for shelter, friendship, and fish. For those thinking to joining the Peace Corps or those looking to travel abroad on a road less traveled, this book can give you honest insight into what you can expect on your own journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 3, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450215930

Mary Barbee

Mary Barbee lives in South Florida with her husband and three children. She was born in Mississippi in 1957, and grew up in the region, eventually graduating from Tulane University in New Orleans. Upon returning to the United States after her experiences as a Peace Corps volunteer in Yoko, Cameroon, she continued her education at Tulane and received a Masters of Business Administration. Since then, she has at turns been a businesswoman, banker, designer, teacher, and scientist; she has always been a devoted, caring mother and wife. Today, she finds fulfillment from her work with the United States Government, from her loving family, and from the opportunity to share her story with others.

Book preview

Chapter 1—Road to Yoko

The Land Rover jerks and sputters while it climbs up another muddy rut. The engine is screeching as if in pain. I stare at the countryside. The tropical forest is free of clutter. No electric lines, fences, or billboards break up the green landscape. The dense vegetation is cut by a narrow two lane dirt road full of ruts and deep craters. Every once in a while, mud or cinderblock houses appear. Some have Fanta or Beaufort signs out front indicating stores or bars. Villages are becoming smaller, with longer distances in between them.

Forever, it seems, we travel with a hurried tempo trying to reach Yoko before nightfall. No one speaks, not wanting to thwart our progress. The driver has a look of deep concentration. He is well–suited for the task, being a native Cameroonian and having learned to drive under such rugged conditions. His name is Mike and he has worked for the Peace Corps for over fifteen years. Mike has been to every volunteer’s post at least once; today, he is worried because Yoko is a bush town and it may be difficult to find lodging after we arrive. We are on our way to set up my life for the next two years.

With each bump and jolt, my back is aching. The straight–backed seat with thin padding provides no support for my backbone. No position is comfortable. The adjoining seat is stacked so high with supplies that I cannot simply lie down to relieve the aching in my back. I keep thinking that soon we will be in Yoko, that it could not be much further.

Did I make a mistake signing up for the Peace Corps? I cringe at the thought. I must calm down and think positively. It would be great if I could actually help the people of Yoko and put some of my education to work. I am nervous with the realization that my post is so isolated. Choosing it had been a lot like musical chairs: before I even noticed that the music had stopped, most of the posts had already been chosen and Yoko was practically the only one left. I did not complain or fight for another post. All of the posts were just names on a map, since I had no idea at the time of what conditions were like in each of them.

I feel alive for the first time in my life. For once, I am free from routine. I am on my own to define my life. Armed with knowledge of life from my parents and country, I face the world or, more specifically, Yoko, Cameroon on the west coast of Africa. I will be the only Peace Corps volunteer in the area. Yaoundé is the country’s capital and is also the closest town with volunteers. It is over 150 kilometers away. The only means of transport between Yoko and the outside world is a bush taxi which makes the trip to Yaoundé only twice a week.

Instead of being in a remote location on the fringes of Cameroon, Yoko is in the interior of the country, in fact, it is smack dab in the middle: an isolated, undeveloped island within the wild bush without modern conveniences. A volunteer was stationed there a couple of years earlier, but had trouble finding enough food and asked to be transferred to a different post.

I need to remain calm even though I am anxious about being so isolated. I must keep in mind my purpose in coming here. I am going to help people build fish ponds and grow fish for food. Protein is exactly what this town needs. The fact that my frame is loaded with extra poundage is like having a little bit of insurance. I have at least a six to nine month supply of extra fat stored away. I would not mind losing it, but I hope deep down that I will not have to use it. Instead, I would like to hold on to it like a security blanket!

The Land Rover is packed with all of my belongings. Since I came to Cameroon a little over two months ago with only my personal belongings, I went to the market in Yaoundé to buy everything else that I thought I would need for the next two years—buckets, a mop, shovels, pots, pans, sheets, mosquito net, batteries, kerosene lamp, matches, a flashlight, jerry cans, hammer, nails, screws, screwdrivers, machete, a water filter, silverware, plates, two huge barrels, blankets, an iron, towels, a hundred pound bag of rice and fifty tins of sardines.

I used my site report as a guide for shopping. It was written by the now retired Fisheries Peace Corps Volunteer Leader, abbreviated Fisheries PCVL. Written a month earlier, dated September 13, 1979, it says among other things that there is a Greek merchant in Yoko with two chimps and a combination off–license/General Store. The Greek’s store has an assortment of canned goods and can refill your gas bottles. It also mentions there are three or four other off–license and small stores. According to the report, a market is held every Wednesday and Saturday where "beef, potatoes, corn flour, groundnuts and yams are almost always available. Items such as tomatoes and onions are generally, but not always, sold. Both diamor oil and palm oil are to be found au quartier, as well as eggs." (Diamor oil is a type of French vegetable oil and au quartier means in the poorer areas where higher concentrations of people live.) It sounds like there is food, just not a wide variety. Fortunately, I like peanuts and yams.

The rice and sardines are for a kitten that another volunteer, Stacey, has given me. Having first refused the cat, Stacey convinced me that not only would the cat be good company, but that it would kill mice. I am not really a cat person, but the thought of mice running under foot makes me welcome her. The cat is a white tiger cat with bright blue eyes like mine! I named her Second–hand Blues because she had not been sought after, just passed along.

A kerosene refrigerator and gas stove have been provided for me by the Peace Corps. I am supposed to have a motorcycle to facilitate my work as well. People interested in fish culture could be spread throughout my region, which is roughly 150 kilometers wide. The motorcycle is not yet in country so I have to go it on foot until it arrives.

As we bump along the road, I think about the fish culture training that I had gone through in Norman, Oklahoma. It was an unusual and empowering program. When we arrived at the airport from all over the country, a bus driver with an old baseball cap and bushy gray eyebrows announced that we were on our own. We had to figure out what we needed to know to raise fish in Africa. This announcement stunned everyone, not only by its content, but because the bus driver delivered the message. The bus driver turned out to be the director of the training program, which we did not discover until the activity was over. The director had us sit on the bus for an hour or two waiting for everyone to arrive. Unbeknownst to us, he formulated opinions of our personalities while listening to our banter.

After the informal observation activity, the director dropped us off in downtown Norman, Oklahoma. He told us to go find a place where you can learn to grow fish. This activity was meant to be frustrating so we would be able to think through problems and figure out for ourselves what to do. It seems to have worked, because I am very confident of being able to start a fish program all by myself in the middle of the African bush.

Traveling along with me, besides Mike, is Steve Rawlings, the new Fisheries PCVL. Steve is replacing the Volunteer Leader who wrote my site report. He has already served two years as a Fisheries Field Volunteer in Bafia. He signed up for a third year to stay on in Yaoundé and to support the other Fisheries Field Volunteers at their posts.

Steve has a jovial personality and most of the female trainees consider him to be attractive with his blue eyes and dark brown hair. He is very helpful and puts all of himself into the projects in which he is involved. I don’t really know him that well. I have tried to distance myself from him personally since he is my boss and was one of my teachers during in-country fish culture training.

Part of Cameroon is Anglophone, but Yoko is in the French–speaking part of the country. To my great surprise, I am one of the better French speakers in my cycle of Fisheries Field Volunteers; this isn’t saying much, because most of us are better at reading and worse at speaking! I plan to use a lot of sign language to get my ideas across.

The Peace Corps would have preferred to send a male volunteer to my post. They think being a woman could be a problem because Yoko has a large Muslim population. Since none of the males in my cycle of volunteers can speak French very well, the Peace Corps decided to send me anyway. Muslims are scattered throughout Cameroon, so in almost any post, I could run across this problem. Since the town is supposed to be only fifty or sixty percent Muslim, the worst case will be that I will just have to work with the part of the town that will work with me.

In Cameroon so far, I only notice when someone is Muslim from the robes that they wear. When it comes to business, Muslims haggle with me as they do with anyone else. I really cannot see what the Peace Corps is worried about, but since it is an isolated post, maybe the people are not used to dealing with foreigners. I am probably being naïve, but I am planning to ignore the possibility and hope that the people that I find in Yoko will work with me.

I have heard rumors that Steve has a crush on me. I am uncomfortable with the thought, because he is my boss and any sort of romantic relationship could make working with him awkward. Being stationed in Yaoundé, he is also the closest volunteer to my post. He has never asked me out or given me any direct sign of anything beyond the call of duty interest in me. He always respects my ideas and seems genuinely impressed with my problem solving ability. He is frequently at my elbow at gatherings and I have caught him staring at me a few times, almost tracking me. The trainers in Oklahoma kind of did that as well, so perhaps, he is just observing me as part of his job.

I appreciate him accompanying me to my post. I really do not know if it is standard procedure to be accompanied to your post if no other volunteer is stationed in your town or if they have no idea how to get me to Yoko otherwise. In any case, I am pretty lucky not to have to load all of this stuff into a bush taxi by myself.

In Yaoundé, I wondered why the Peace Corps felt the need for a driver. Now, I realize the necessity after a few stretches that are barely passable by the Land Rover. Most people fresh from the United States, used to flat asphalt roads, would have no idea how to approach these incredibly scarred stretches of road. Every once in a while, the road has huge furrows that are so daunting that Mike stops the Land Rover to get out and inspect the road on foot to decide how to navigate that particular section. Many times we have to straddle a huge groove. The engine strains and the tires slip, but fortunately, Mike manages to progress.

Steve and I take advantage of the pauses to stretch our legs. We are not very talkative. No doubt both lost in thought. Personally, I have been dreaming and working so long to be finally at my post, our anticipated arrival in Yoko is all I can think about. Plus, given the rumors, I am reluctant to talk to Steve about anything except work.

Around 2:30 in the afternoon, the Land Rover climbs up from the plain that we have been traveling on for hours. We are heading practically straight up. The road cuts back over and over again with hairpin turns. When we reach the top, we look back to see the wide expanse of plain stretching out as far as the eye can see. Two huge, light gray rock formations—perhaps batholiths are jutting up in the distance.

During the long trip, the landscape has transitioned from low forest and cacao plantations into grasslands, then to a sandy plain, and now to a red clay ridge which is part of the Adamaoua Plateau, according to the site report. The ridge has tropical vegetation with palm, banana, and poinsettia trees. We pass a small cinderblock school. After we drive for another kilometer or so, we come to a time worn sign which says Yoko. Behind the sign, we can see mud and painted houses with tin roofs. There are chickens and goats running around the houses and across the road.

Mike points to a house on the left side of the road and exclaims, That’s the old volunteer’s house! I try to get a good look at it, but Mike does not even slow down in his rush to finish the trip.

We drive along the ridge road until we come to an intersection. A sign points to the left up the hill for government buildings and the Post Office. The main road has been split into two lanes. Down the middle of the lanes and along the sides there are spectacularly tall royal palm trees which add a touch of majesty. We turn to the left following signs for the government buildings.

At the top of this ridge is a fort–like enclosure into which we drive. The walls of the fort have been whitewashed, but are stained with black soot or mold. The walls are about four meters high and have small openings that are regularly spaced, flat on the bottom, and triangular at the top. I wonder if these are mere decorations or if they were ever used to defend the fort with rifles.

Mike pulls up the Land Rover to the main building. No one is in the courtyard. I worry that it is already closed. Steve and I pile out of the Land Rover and walk onto the porch. Mike stays in the Land Rover, no doubt exhausted from the grueling drive. It feels good to stand up straight and to stretch my muscles. My heart is pounding. This will be my home for the next two years.

As we step onto the porch, it is as though we are traveling through time. The floor is cobblestone and the walls are stucco. The doors are massive and roughly hewed. The hinges are large and the door handle is, thankfully, unlocked. We enter a hallway. On the left there is a break in the wall. We turn. The wall seems to be over a foot thick. It is dark. There are no lights, except sunlight which filters in casting shadows. After my eyes adjust, I realize that we are in an office. It smells damp and stale. A man dressed in a leisure suit is seated at a wooden desk. His desk is empty, as is the rest of the room, except for a manual typewriter with no paper in it. The man stands up. His face is as empty of expression as the room.

We both pause thinking the man who must be a secretary will speak first; he doesn’t. Finally, Steve breaks the silence by announcing, We are from the Peace Corps of the United States of America and we are here to introduce ourselves to the Provincial Governor.

The man responds in very formal French, The governor is not in town but the assistant governor is here. Wait here a moment. Then, he exits the room. Steve and I exchange raised eyebrow glances at each other. I imagine that he is as surprised by the formality of place as I am.

He returns and leads us into a large office with a substantial desk which is full of paperwork. A man who has a very stern face is seated at the desk. When he stands up, we can see that he has on a long white flowing Muslim robe. He shakes Steve’s hand first. As he shakes my hand, he rubs the inside of my palm with his finger.

As we are shaking hands, Steve, in formal French, says, Mademoiselle Duncan will be in Yoko to teach people fish culture.

The assistant governor, while still shaking my hand and rubbing my palm, asks, You are very serious?

When he speaks, I pull my hand from his hand shake. What a strange question! Since we are speaking in French, I wonder if I did not really understand the meaning of his words, but I feel like I am being attacked or questioned about my ability to establish a fish culture program in Yoko. I look at Steve, hoping he will vouch for my seriousness. When Steve does not respond, I say in a very firm voice, Yes, I am very serious about fish culture.

Ignoring completely the assistant governor’s question, Steve changes the subject and asks, Is it all arranged for Mademoiselle Duncan to stay in the same house that the previous Peace Corps volunteer occupied?

The assistant governor replies, I believe that they are expecting you.

Abruptly, Steve in a very formal tone says to the assistant governor, Please excuse us. We have to get settled in before night. We shake his hand again—this time no rubbing my palm with his finger and then turn to leave.

After we are back in the Land Rover, I ask Steve, Was that guy a little strange? Do you think that he thinks that I’m not serious about fish culture because I’m a woman?

Steve tilts his head to the side, and says, I don’t know. This is just an official introduction so they know that you are here. You may never see him again your entire time in Yoko, so I wouldn’t worry about it. Just prove him wrong, if that is what he thinks.

We drive back along the road. Finally, just before the Yoko sign, Mike pulls up to a white and blue painted cinderblock house. It has a little porch on the front and a bare yard except for a couple of trees set back from the house. After we park, a lady and some children gather around us. They are all excited and smiling at us. I am nervous thinking this will be my home for the next two years. I did not expect to be living so close to another family, but they seem so happy to see us that I think maybe it is good. I will be able to observe their family life easily and being part of a compound will be less lonely than living all by myself.

The lady and Mike speak together after shaking hands in a language that I do not understand, neither French nor English. After they speak for a few minutes, the lady yells to the children and then both she and all of the children run into the house and start carrying out their belongings.

I become quite concerned watching the little ones carry out clothing and bedding. Alarmed that I am taking their home, I ask Mike, But if I take their house, where will they stay?

Mike turns to us laughing and explains, The family owns several houses all around us. They have actually just finished building a large house behind the outdoor kitchen of this house, but they haven’t moved in yet. Don’t worry! The family will be paid by the government rent for the house and they will be very happy for the extra money!

I am relieved that the family has another home to move into and I calmly watch as the family quickly carries everything out. They leave only the bare furniture.

The lady comes out again and speaks to Mike in the strange language. Then, he asks me, Do you want to use the outdoor kitchen to cook your food?

We walk to the back of the house. Across from the back steps is the outdoor kitchen or country kitchen. It is a huge one room building about three meters from the back step and is not attached to the main house. Inside, it has a huge fire pit. I say, I prefer to cook inside of the house with the stove.

Do you mind if the family continues to use it? They say they have not built a new one yet.

No problem, I respond, thinking that when it rains, it will be unpleasant to have to run in between the two. Anyway, I plan on cooking with my gas stove, not with logs.

When he speaks again to the lady, I whisper to Steve, What language are they speaking?

Steve whispers back, They are speaking one of the patois. I believe Bamileké. I know that Mike is a Bamileké. Supposedly, the Bavuté tribe lives in and around Yoko, but tribes intermarry sometimes and government workers are assigned to posts out of their area, so you can find different tribes living together all over Cameroon.

Mike introduces us to the lady. This is Marie, your landlady, and these are the children of her family. Her husband is in Yaoundé and she is Bamileké like me!

Marie is smiling warmly and holding out her hand for me to shake. She is shorter than I am by a couple of inches and has a matronly figure. She is very muscular and has beautiful glowing skin.

I shake hands with her and say in French, Pleased to meet you.

She responds in French, Welcome to Yoko!

Mike signals us to follow him past a tree to a concrete outhouse. He explains, The previous volunteer built this latrine.

The latrine looks barely used. It has a concrete floor and a tin roof. The hole in the middle of the floor where urine and fecal matter is to be deposited is very small. It is only about four inches across; its smallness should cut down on the odor. I wonder if I should widen the hole somehow perhaps with a hammer and chisel. What if I hit too hard and cause too big of a hole? I have a vision of the floor cracking into pieces and falling into the pit. I decide to wait and see if an alteration is necessary. Hopefully, with practice, the hole will be adequate. In any case, I am quite happy that I do not have to build an outhouse. I quickly run to the truck to get some hygienic paper which I put in the latrine in a plastic bucket to keep it clean.

As I exit the latrine, I see that Mike and Steve are behind the latrine standing next to some banana trees. As I approach them, I can see a bigger house behind the country kitchen building and a very steep slope down to the valley. The guys are looking at an old rusty barrel, empty tin cans, and old mattress springs.

As I walk up, Steve remarks, This is the family’s garbage pile and where you will put your garbage as well. It is small because there is not as much packaging or food wasted. It’s really amazing that such a large family would have such a small garbage pile. Families have more than this each week in the states!

I am amazed as well and wonder how much my presence will add to the garbage pile. With the garbage pile right out in the open, you really didn’t want to throw anything away.

Mike has another conversation with the landlady about a restaurant. He discovers that there is a restaurant–bar, but it closed because it ran out of beer. In the rainy season, trucks have trouble getting up the road from Yaoundé to make deliveries. None of the stores mentioned in the site report are open either. This means that the only food for us to eat is the rice and sardines that I brought up for the cat! Also, Mike finds out the next market is on Saturday, not tomorrow as the site report stated.

Unfortunately, I did not think to bring up salt, so the rice is quite bland. We only have water to drink. Since the site report stated that there was a restaurant and stores, I had not worried about packing food or drink for humans. I only brought up food items that normally could not be found in the bush. I should have brought up some basic kitchen items like salt, pepper, and other condiments, but I had been so preoccupied about everything else, I had not thought of it.

We set up the stove so we can cook dinner. I bought two butane tanks of gas because I could send one down to be refilled and still have one left to cook with. Since I have to boil and filter all the water that I drink, I have to have an easy way to boil water.

Mike is quite happy with the sardines and rice. Steve eats them, but not as happily as Mike. I eat only the rice since I am not desperate enough to eat the sardines. During dinner, Mike tells us a joke.

At this bar there is a Chinaman, a Frenchman, an American and a Bamileké. Each one finds a fly in their beer. The Frenchman totally rejects the beer. The American fishes out the fly and drinks the beer. The Chinaman drinks the beer and eats the fly. The Bamileké sells the fly to the Chinaman and then drinks the beer.

We all laugh when he finishes. I had heard the joke before, but his obvious pleasure in telling it makes me laugh anyway. Steve still laughs and he must have heard Mike tell the joke before quite a few times.

Steve said, I’ve heard that joke a thousand times. Every Bamileké that I know tells that joke, but Mike tells it the best!

After dinner, Mike talks to the neighbors again and finds out that the market on Saturday morning will have salt, meat and fruit. Since it is already Tuesday, that doesn’t sound so bad.

We finish unloading the Land Rover. Mike helps me set up and shows me how to operate the kerosene refrigerator. It is surprisingly easy. Of course, there is not much to put in it. The kitchen also has a hutch with ample cabinets below for storage and a table to use for food preparation.

The house comes with a metal four poster canopy bed, probably thanks to the earlier volunteer. My mosquito net fits perfectly. Instead of a pole, the closet has built–in shelves. I do not have hangers so this works better for me. The closet locks with a key.

Only one of the other bedrooms has a bed. It is smaller than the canopied bed probably a full size. I have an extra set of double sized sheets and a blanket so I make up the bed for the guys, just in case they want to use it. I assume they brought sleeping bags, but sheets may be more comfortable since it is hot.

I am finished around eight at night and walk out to the living room. I ask the guys where they are planning to sleep and if they remembered to bring mosquito nets for their sleeping bags.

Steve said, Since the house has four bedrooms, I thought that it would have four beds.

Mike exclaims, I call the guest room bed! This left the cement floor or loveseat for Steve. It is surprising that Mike called the guest room bed, no doubt due to his having spent a lot of time with P.C. volunteers and picking up their habits. The two of them would be very crowded in a full bed. Steve is too tall to be comfortable on the loveseat.

Steve does not look very happy and looks puzzled about where to sleep. He does not have a sleeping bag or a mosquito net. I cannot even imagine how uncomfortable it will be to sleep on a cement floor or on the loveseat without a mosquito net. I wonder why they did not think to bring sleeping bags and nets; they are probably victims of the site report, which said, It is a very nice four–bedroom home, completely furnished (i.e. a parlor set, buffet, dining table and chairs, four beds, etc.). In its defense, the family probably had not moved yet and did not mention that the other two beds were not included. Steve and Mike must not accompany too many volunteers to their posts. He has been so nice to help me settle in to my post. I feel guilty having the double bed to myself.

I suggest, It is silly for Steve to sleep on the floor when I have a double bed. Steve suddenly gets a big smile on his face and does a Cameroonian handshake complete with the finger snap with Mike. I feel set up. So I add, We can sleep with our clothes on and no silly business.

Laughing, Steve said, Thank goodness! That floor is very hard!

I sleep with my arms crossed over my chest with all of my clothes on, except my boots. As soon as my head hits the pillow, I pass out. At the crack of dawn, I wake up. The side of my right arm which is against the mosquito net is itching—madly. I hold it up to the light and see that it is covered with mosquito bites. Thank goodness the Peace Corps started me on daily quinine pills to keep me from getting malaria. Steve is still asleep. I quietly get out of bed. I want to survey my new domain on my own.

As I walk into the hall, I see the guest room’s bed is empty. When I look in the dining room, I see that the back door is open. My Cameroonian family is making a lot of noise probably preparing breakfast. After I go down the steps and head to the latrine, I encounter Mike talking to the landlady. They stop talking and both look at me as I walk up and shake their hands.

Mike says, Good morning!

I reply, Good morning, did you sleep well?

Okay, but I am ready to get back to Yaoundé.

Would you like some coffee?

That would be great!

Fortunately, I had brought instant coffee, Nescafé, since I was not sure if they sold it in the bush. I had also brought up a few bottles of water to use until I could get the water filter set up. I turn around, head back into the house and put the tea pot on to boil. Then, I head back out to the latrine.

As I return, I realize that Mike is talking to the neighbors about water. He discovers that the source is down in the valley behind the house. The landlord’s children will be happy to fill my water barrel each week for a thousand Cameroonian francs (about five dollars). Once hired, the five children immediately start down the hill, each one carrying a metal bowl on their head proportionate to their size. The littlest one looks like he is about four years old and the oldest, a girl, about thirteen.

In order for the water to be drinkable for foreigners, it has to be filtered and then boiled for ten minutes. After it cools, I have to put it into clean plastic jugs. I am determined not to run out of water, so I will be in constant production. As backup, I have some chlorine pills which I can put into dirty water in an emergency. I carry them in my quoi (a woven grass pouch that I wear across my shoulders and on my side, everywhere I go; I bought it in Yaoundé as a shopping bag and found it quite useful). With the boiled water, I prepare two cups of coffee for me and Mike. The tea kettle must have awakened Steve, because he wanders into the kitchen as Mike and I have our first sip.

I ask Steve, How did you sleep?

Steve replies, Like a rock! But I slept with my head against the net and I have mosquito bites all over my left ear and arm. He turns his head so we can see.

I show him my right arm and we all laugh. Steve and I turn to look at Mike at the same time, both realizing that Mike had slept with no net at all. I am imagining that he must be covered in bites.

Mike laughs and says, "The mosquitoes never bite me!

Steve and I let out a sigh of relief, laugh and in unison say, Lucky!

After the laughter dies down, I ask Steve, Would you like a quinine pill and a cup of black coffee?

Just what the doctor ordered.

The Peace Corps doctor had literally told us that we need to take a quinine pill everyday to avoid getting malaria. During training, one of our trainers back in Oklahoma had a malaria attack and was even more out of his mind than normal—sweating and delirious for three days! All who witnessed the attack and were told that he did not remember to take his quinine pill everyday vowed to religiously take their pill each day to avoid contracting malaria; it is a disease which, once contracted, can never be cured and attacks come out of the blue the rest of your life.

Quinine pills have a very bitter taste that is even stronger than coffee. They are not sugar coated so even taken whole, they taste awful. I find by making the coffee stronger and stronger helps to hide the taste of the pills.

As we drink our coffee, the children continue filling the water barrel. I am impressed with the way the children are able to balance a full bowl of water on their heads–especially the oldest who is carrying the biggest bowl which looks to be about a full meter in diameter. Each first wraps a small towel on their head in a circle where the base of the bowl will rest, then places the bowl on top.

After the children make about four trips up and down the hill, the barrel is full. I start to give them the one thousand Cameroonian franc bill, but Mike suggests that I give them change so they can divide it up between all of the children. They divide up the money proportionally among the five children. Each one beams with delight at the money that they have earned.

Around nine, Steve and Mike, after sardines and rice once again for breakfast, decide that since I am all set up, they should head back to Yaoundé so they will arrive before dark. I thank them both for all their help and tell them that they are always welcome back to Yoko anytime.

They laugh and Steve says, Not until the bar has some beer can you expect us!

I said, Well, it is a good thing that I am not a big drinker or you would have to find me a new post!

They each give me a hug goodbye.

Upon leaving, Mike yells out of the window as he backs out, Whatever you do don’t miss the market on Saturday!

Chapter 2—Alone at Last

After Steve and Mike pull out, I feel a profound sense of loneliness. It has been fun running around with them—they were sweet and thoughtful and always joking. But now I face probably six months or so alone at my post. The thought makes me choke back tears; to be so alone with only French speakers and no family of my own in a big empty house without much to eat and rain and mosquitoes everywhere.

I have to shake off these bad feelings. I turn around and survey my house once again. My house is along the main dirt road which goes from Yaoundé through the town of Yoko and continues north to Chad. It has a small front covered porch and is made of cinderblock. The bottom half is painted a medium blue and the top white. It has an aluminum sheet roof with a drop plywood ceiling.

When you enter the front door, you are in the living room which has a window to the right facing the porch and a window to the left of the door which faces Yaoundé. All of the walls are painted white inside and the cinder blocks on the outside have a layer of cement over them making them smooth. The floor is gray concrete.

The dining room is connected to the back of the living room. A small room off the dining room to the right will serve as a kitchen. It was labeled the fourth bedroom in the site report. At the back of the dining room is an outer door which opens to the back step where the water barrel is located and the family’s country kitchen.

There is a hallway off of the living room in the far back right leading to a bath room and three bedrooms. The bathroom has a half wall of cinderblock and tiling on the far side which is tilted to a drain which leads outside of the house. Since there is no plumbing, there are no faucets or sink but there is a metal mirror on the wall. The half wall in the bathroom serves as a shelf for soap and grooming supplies.

The largest of the four bedrooms has a large four poster bed and a locking closet. None of the other rooms have a built in closet. The second largest bedroom has a non–canopied full sized bed. The third bedroom has no furniture and is small. The fourth is being used as a kitchen.

The windows do not have glass but close with dark, red painted shutters with slats. The shutters lock when closed but do not have bars or screens to block access to the interior when open. The outer doors are solid wood and lock with a key. The steps are made of cement.

The yard is bare dirt–probably due to lack of rain half of the year and no top soil. The ground looks like bare red clay everywhere. Grass would look nice and cut down on the mud and dust though without a lawnmower, grass would be hard to maintain. There are a couple of mango trees and an avocado tree. Goats and chickens are running around everywhere.

After checking everything over and deciding that all is in order, I once again have a deep feeling of loneliness. I am in the middle of the African bush, an English speaker with only French speakers around me. When I speak to them they always nod politely but do they really understand what I am saying? I feel more alone than I ever have my entire life. I pick up the kitten and start petting it which surprises me. This is an extreme act having never really liked cats. I consider myself a dog person. My nose starts to run because I am allergic to the cat but I keep petting it anyway.

For the first time, I really start to question my decision to join the Peace Corps–such an isolated post. The site report is totally inaccurate. They had come up in the middle of the rainy season when the road was still passable by trucks. They had not even spent the night. They just asked people instead of actually seeing the market or stores. I am lucky that I brought food for the cat or I would have had to have gone back to Yaoundé for supplies but was that good luck?–or a missed opportunity to go back to Yaoundé and load up on supplies? After having bought all of my supplies for the house, I am down to my last 20, 000 Cameroonian Francs (about $100 dollars).

Enduring over 6 months of training with constant threats of being sent home, I could not wait to get to my post. We had been evaluated relentlessly. Comments on personal comportment, grooming, and ability–every aspect of our personalities, strengths and weaknesses, had been questioned. Between the trainers and my fellow trainees, I felt like there was absolutely no privacy. Now, that I am actually at my post, I think of the old phrase be careful of what you wish for.

The site report is actually a piece of fiction. It was written in a rush without thought of the fact that another volunteer’s life depended upon its accuracy. In all fairness, the author was retiring from his post and probably contemplating his move back to the states after living overseas for five years. The worst inaccuracy stated by the site report is that there is a store in which to buy canned food in Yoko. I could make do with canned food. My mind is filled with apprehension–what else had the site report gotten wrong? If they were wrong about the people wanting fish culture, I am totally in the wrong place.

My feet won’t move. Every inch of my body is frozen. What have I gotten myself into? How could trying to help other people achieve a better standard of living be so difficult when I have an American agency leading the way? Surely, they have some sort of protocol for choosing a post and placing a volunteer–to at least guarantee survival. I have no idea how to leave Yoko since I came up in the Land Rover, how do I get back to Yaoundé if I need to if trucks are not able to pass on the road?

My heart is pounding. I must stay calm and think rationally. I do have at least a month’s supply of rice and sardines. I must take one step at a time and try to figure out how to survive here. Marie did say that there would be a market on Saturday–in only three days. I should be able to buy meat, salt, fruits and vegetables. I must be patient and calm. I must think of something to do. Being frozen in place is not going to help. I should explore the town. It has started raining again so I have to wait.

I sit down on the couch. During the cross cultural training, they had tried to prepare us for differences in the two cultures. I am amazed by how different their fables are. My mind ruminates on several things told to us about the Cameroonian culture. I find them to be quite puzzling or unsettling. I constantly try to make sense of them.

One fable that they told us in training is the fable of Why the Baby Does Not Speak. Let me think–what was the tale? One day a mother was talking to her baby as she stirred a boiling pot over a fire which had a whole chicken cut up in it. The mother had to go outside for a moment and while she was gone, a neighbor came over and took the head piece with the brains of the chicken which is considered the best piece–reserved for the most honored guest at a meal. When the mother returned, she asked the baby if he knew who took the chicken head. The baby said that the neighbor did it. This started a war and everyone was killed.

The moral of this African fable is totally the opposite moral to the story of George Washington cutting down the cherry tree. The baby just spoke the truth–is the truth ever a bad thing to tell? Isn’t it always better to tell the truth? This fable seems totally contrary to the American way of thinking.

To me, it seems obvious that one should always tell the truth and that by telling the truth, you could not be doing wrong. I cannot imagine how it could be better to not promote telling the truth–no matter what the consequences. It just does not make sense!

Another strange practice which I find a little unsettling but also sweet in its own way, it seems that Cameroonians bury beloved family members in their front yards to keep an eye on them. According to the cultural trainers, they did this so they could guard the graves because it is believed that grave robbers will dig them up–not for valuables buried with them but for body parts which are used in voodoo ceremonies. How awful to think of a loved one’s body part being used by someone in this way! They tile the graves with bright colors which makes the grave more difficult to rob. They often include a photo of the loved one on the head stone. They install a pipe from the surface to the body which is used on special occasions so that they can share a drink with the deceased. The thought of voodoo grave robbers running around is scary; but it seems sweet that they want to protect their family members even in death and share drinks with them on special occasions.

Fortunately, so far everyone has been very friendly–so it is probably silly to keep dwelling on these cultural differences; they do not really matter. Who knows if there are really grave robbers? Maybe they are just urban legends like they tell in the states. The locals are all stuck in the same boat as me. If I get the fish culture program going, it will improve the lives of the people living here as well as my own! I would like some fresh fish to eat myself! No one said that it would be easy and I just have to forget about how let down I feel about the site report and just accept the situation and deal with it as best I can.

After a while, I start writing letters home to let everyone know how I am doing and to spur someone into writing me. I describe my house and Yoko so that they will know that training is over and I am on my own. I do not mention the rice with no salt and sardines–because my mother would have been horrified. I put the letters in my quoi to mail the next time that I am at the Post Office.

In order to do my job in Yoko, my first step is to find people interested in fish farming and the best way to do that is to walk around the town and familiarize myself with the streets and the people. The rain has finally stopped. So, I prepare to walk. I pack my quoi with a bottle of water, my poncho and a map of the region.

As I walk, I notice that the road is covered with thick orange mud which sticks to the hem of my jeans and lodges in the ridges on the soles of my tennis shoes making both heavy. It is like walking with weights on both feet!

The countryside is lush and green and full of clay–perfect for holding water in a fish pond. It also has rolling hills which will provide drainage for the ponds. The air is clean, especially compared to the heavy car exhausted filled air of Yaoundé.

It rains on and off and I take shelter where I can find it. In between showers, it is hot and muggy. I do not want to pull out the poncho unless there is a downpour because it is too hot to wear.

There are other people walking along the road as well. Some are balancing heavy loads on their heads. Several women have huge logs on their heads. The logs are probably going to be chopped up for fire wood. One older woman has an entire tree which has been bared of limbs over 3 meters long balanced on her head. She is moving very slowly especially on bends in the road.

As I pass by, people look–up from their work and smile back at me and wave. Some stop working and walk over and introduce themselves. I always tell them my name and that I am an American and that I am here to help people who want to learn how to grow fish for food. Everyone I meet welcomes me to Yoko. If they seem interested in fish culture, I explain that not all land is good for fish culture but if they have land that they would like me to check out that we can set up a day and time for me to come meet them and look at their land.

A man with long flowing Muslim robes approaches me during the first day of walking. He says his name is Sago, an older and quite thin man with a few grey hairs sprouting out of his chin and a sweet earnest smile. We make a deal to meet at the Post Office on Friday to look at his land at 9AM. I suggest Friday because I assume that he might already have plans for the next day. He seems very kind and holds his right hand up with his left hand as he shakes my hand; this means that he respects me very much–so much so that his left hand has to support his right hand in order to have the strength to shake mine. I call this a hand shake with respect. I always do this when I shake the hand of an elder Cameroonian to show that I respect their knowledge of life.

After we finish shaking hands goodbye, I continue down the street delighted that I have already found one person interested in fish farming during my first week in Yoko. I continue talking and explaining to people as they walk up to shake my hand.

Eventually, I come to a closed up house with a porch and a sign which said Bar. A woman comes out from behind the house and introduces herself as Marie. I introduce myself and explain that my name is also Marie, Mary, in English.

Marie said, I am the wife of the owner of the bar who is Greek and is in Yaoundé trying to buy supplies because we have run out of everything. Could you teach me how to make a cake?

I said, Of course, but without all of the ingredients, it will be impossible to make one. The next time that I go to Yaoundé I will try to find all that is needed and then I will show you.

We shake hands goodbye and I continue walking. Yoko is very simply laid out.

It is basically a couple of ridges bisected by the main ridge road which runs north to south along which my house sits. At either end of one of the east/west ridges sits a mission. On the west ridge is the Norwegian mission and to the east is the Catholic mission.

No traffic dares to go or to come from the north even during the dry season because the road is in even worse shape than road south of Yoko. According to the map, the northern part of the road goes all the way to Chad and then continues on to the Mediterranean Sea.

As I walk, I notice that there are white plastic pipes sticking up every once in a while along the road. The pipe seems to only be buried about 8 inches down–less in some places. There are so many broken ones. The system probably is no longer functioning. The pipes would be good to use in the fish ponds as drainage and inlet pipes if nobody wants them.

No one seems home at the Norwegian mission. It is all shuttered up with no sign of life. The house is big and built in the Norwegian style with exposed wooden beams and wooden shaker roof. It has a beautiful porch wrapping around the entire house. There are fruit trees everywhere. Since no one is about, I turn around and start walking to the other end of the ridge. I do not want to be accused of trespassing.

Thus, I first introduce myself at the Catholic mission. As I walk into the mission behind the thick stone walls, I notice that it is broken into different buildings. After talking to the heavy set nun who rushes out to see who I am, I deduce that the Catholic mission is a French run establishment. The largest building seems to be a church. A smaller one but still rather large seems to be the garage. There is a house for the nuns and a separate small pharmacy hut. Only three nuns live there year round and a priest who has a separate residence.

The nuns smile and welcome me but do not extend any invitations to meals which I was kind of hoping would come my way–but no such luck! I am condemned to rice and sardines. It is comforting to know that there is a pharmacy in Yoko and a nurse. However, from this first meeting, I realize that the Catholic mission does not plan to socialize with me perhaps because I am an Episcopalian or perhaps because I am an American. I am not sure what their reasoning is.

Even though it is late after the Catholic mission, I continue up the hill to the post office to mail my letters. There are no obvious slots in which to put outgoing mail so I walk up to the counter. A rather tall man in a khaki uniform stands up from his desk from behind the counter and says, Good afternoon, May I help you?

I introduce myself and explain that I would like to mail some letters. I hand him my stack and he looks through them. He said, No, problem.

A man sticks his head out from the door behind the man’s desk and said, Good afternoon, is that Mademoiselle Duncan?

Surprised to hear my name, I said, Yes, I am Mademoiselle Duncan.

A man who is rather short walks to the counter and holds out his hand to shake mine. He said, I am the Director of the Post Office. I have been expecting you. We have received a postal mandate for you.

What a relief! I was starting to feel a little poor and anxious about whether or not the mandate would arrive as the site report said since it had been so mistaken about so many things. He is waiting for a response so I said, That is great! I did not realize that it could have already arrived.

Would you like to cash it? I just need to see your identity card, he said.

I have it in my quoi so I pull it out. He shows me the postal mandate and has me sign it and then hands me my first month’s living allowance–58,000 Cameroonian Francs approximately $300.00. It feels good to have a pile of money but without having anything to buy, it seems pointless at the same time.

I thank them for their help and shake their hands good–bye. It is getting dark and I realize that I should go to my house. I should head home earlier in the future. I could not resist mailing my letters. I should have done the mailing first.

It is late when I arrive back at my house. I am hungry and exhausted. I mentally calculate that I had probably used up a bit of my 6–9 month supply of nourishment stored as body fat. My clothes are already getting loose. By candle light, being too hungry to wrestle with the kerosene lamp, I eat some left over rice and sardines which are pretty disgusting being all clumped together and still without salt. Fortunately, it is not long until Saturday’s market!

As I return my plate to the kitchen, I notice that really large ants about half of an inch long have invaded the kitchen table. A few grains of cooked rice and sardines had been missed being wiped up after dinner the night before—it is still pretty dark in the shadows. To my horror, massive swarms of ants are busy climbing up the legs and onto the table.

A volunteer had told us during training that if this happened, we should put empty metal cans under each leg filled with kerosene. The ants will fall into the kerosene and die. With a can under each leg, they will not have a way of reaching the tabletop. When she told us this, I did not imagine ever having to actually do it. I guess I thought that she was exaggerating but she wasn’t. With a flashlight, I go out to the garbage pile behind the latrine to recycle the sardine tins and set up the ant prevention system.

After setting up the table, I try lighting the kerosene lamp which turns out not to be so simple. It seems that after the first time you light it with a new mesh net, the bulb turns into ash. If you knock the lamp or hit the ash with the match, it falls apart and you need a new mesh. I practically need a new mesh every time I light the lamp. Thankfully, the kerosene fridge just has a wick which stays lit. Otherwise, I could have never kept the fridge going. Of course, it is quite bare at the moment with only sardines and rice.

I give up on the lantern and decide to clean up and go to bed. After only one night in Yoko, I have come to adore the four poster canopy bed. It is beautiful, an island of mosquito free earth! As I lay in my nest, I can hear a million mosquitoes outside of the net. I am careful to sleep in the very middle of the bed and determined not to let any part of me lie next to the net because whatever area is left exposed will certainly be completely covered in mosquito bites the next day.

Besides the buzzing of mosquitoes and frequent patter—sometimes pounding of rain, I can hear the goats and chickens running around my house in a never ending frenzy, probably avoiding a predator. I feel incredibly lonely and had it not been for finding at least one person interested in fish culture, I would have been extremely depressed. As it is, I am still hopeful that everything will work out okay. Thanks to the postal mandate, I have lots of money. If I do ever find anything to buy, at least, I will be able to afford it! All sorts of depressing thoughts are running through my head but somehow, I manage to fall asleep.

In the morning, as I drink my Nescafe, I observe my family. They have a lot of children running about of all ages. I guess some of the children may belong to neighbors. Maybe, they just came over