I have made it safely back at my home near Washington DC. I am tired and a little dazed, so I will run through the basic points of my odyssey from Cameroon.
Friday: Went to Mile 17 to prearrange a clando (private car) to Douala with the help of Christy, Jill's research assistant. We were able to secure a decent rate at a time early enough so that I wouldn't have to worry about Douala's horrendous traffic or unexpected obstacles along the way. In exchange, I've agreed to take a dress to one of Christy's friends in nearby Maryland.
Saturday: The clando and its driver, Victor, arrived at 6am and I left my keys in the door of the guest house, put my luggage in the trunk of the clando, and drove through waking Buea onto Douala. We arrived to the airport without any issue and Victor was very courteous in helping me bring my luggage into the airport. Once I got into the airport, things began to go downhill. An overweight carry-on bag resulted in the loss of 7500 CFA. Even worse, I had to bribe an airport official 40,000 CFA before I was allowed to leave the country because of visa issues. The flight from Douala to Addis Ababa was a hour and a half late, arriving in Addis Ababa 10 minutes after my connecting flight to Washington DC had left. The hotel put me up in a hotel and set me up for another DC flight the next night.
Sunday: Turns out missing the flight wasn't so much of a bad thing. It allowed me to avoid spending more than 24 hours straight on a plane ride. It also gave me some time to explore a little bit of Addis. Went to see the National Museum, where I took tons of pictures of Lucy and other paleohominid fossils. I chatted up a local and bought an Obama shirt. I wandered a bit around the city before hoping into a minibus at the suggestion of my local friend. The taxi ride to the National Museum cost 50 birr; the minibus back cost 1. Got back to the hotel, enjoyed some Ethiopian food courtesy of the airport, booted up the hot water heater, drew a bath, and soaked. A bus arrived, took me to the airport, and I hopped on a 17 hour flight back home.
Addendum: Back home safe and sound. Everything is good, except that my laptop is not booting up, which is a problem because 3 months of field work and interviews are on it. I have backups of most of my research on cassette tape, but it more work is required before the data from the backups can be analyzed. It also means that there will be no pictures until the laptop is fixed; IF it is fixed.
Oh well. It was great to see my family again and lie down on my old bed.
Cameroon was great. I thank the nation, its people, and everyone that participated in a truly wonderful experience. Even with all the set backs and frustrations, these past 3 months have been inspiring and profoundly impactful. Thank you.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
Day 81: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Being Called Shinwa
(Though Hee Hong still annoys me)
Integration into another culture is a topic that has been on my mind for a while, and I’m sure that it’s a subject that many expats come across sooner or later.
As an academic researcher, a certain degree of integration is important to me in order to avoid alienating potential research participants, to understand my subject population, and in order to have access to segments of the population that may otherwise be unavailable (such as those who are only comfortable speaking pidgin). But there is shallower part of me that would take pride in being a fluent traveler who can blend in wherever I go. I find this part of me rather annoying for several reasons, least of which is because its bombastic expectations are so often disappointed.
While third world immigrants who struggle to assimilate into the culture of a first world nation are often the subjects of various books, films, and documentaries, the expatriate who works to integrate into the developing world seems to have a less significant presence in the cultural institutions of the West. Having immigrated into the US at the age of six, I have some experience in integration into the developed world. It’s the latter issue that I am attempting to deal with here in Cameroon.
How and to what extent integration occurs can speak volumes about both the individuals attempting to integrate and the host culture in question
The American culture seems almost designed for integration: political correctness (enforced, to an extent, by law) discourages prejudices of any kind, but especially of ethnicity; the cuisine is a multicultural menu, on which few items are authentically of American origin; the socio-political atmosphere encourages the adoption of the American identity; etc. I don’t mean to say that integrating into American culture is free of tribulations, or easy. My experience was neither. How, then, when even native Cameroonians can be considered “whiteman,” can anyone hope to integrate into a culture with such a strong idea of who is and is not a member of its constituency?
I don’t know the answer to that question and I’m not sure if an answer even exists.
My heritage originates from an ethnically Korean enclave in China. I am an ethnic Korean, born in Beijing, with an American upbringing, which can make things interesting when a curious Cameroonian inquisitor asks me where I am from. The conversation usually continues:
Me: “From America”
Curious in Cameroon: “But you are Chinese?”
Me: “No, I’m Korean.”
Curious in Cameroon: “You were born in Korea, or America?”
Me: “I was born in China.”
Curious in Cameroon: “Oh… Do you speak Chinese? Ni hong!”
Me: “No. I speak Fulfulde. Jam na!”
Curious in Cameroon: “???”
(I actually do speak Chinese, but I deny it to avoid conversations in indecipherably butchered Mandarin. I also enjoy seeing the shocked-confused look on the faces of locals while they try to come to terms with a Shinwa who speaks Fulfulde, but not Chinese)
When I walk down the street, a fraction of the time I get a Cameroonian who shouts out whiteman! While this confused me at first, I preferred it much more to the calls of Shinwa! Chinese! Beijing! Jackie Chan! Ching Ching Chong! Hee Hong! and others that make up the rest of my everyday soundtrack in Cameroon. In the first few weeks, when walking through the market drew sneers of from merchants or idle men sitting at local chop shops, my hopes of being welcomed into the Cameroonian culture were dashed, as I believed myself relegated into a category of stingy Easterner. “I’m an American, damnit!” I wanted to shout at them. Maybe being a whiteman isn’t the greatest thing for integration into an African culture, but I didn’t come to Cameroon to be harassed. I’ve been told that the epithets are innocent, that most hecklers don’t mean any malice, but having grown up in California in the wake of the Rodney King riots, some of the calls strike a nerve.
My turning point was during an October afternoon in Limbe with Dr. Kamga, a close friend. During the drive down, we were bombarded with the usual salvo of whiteman and shinwa, and I asked Dr. Kamga what the Cameroonian views on the Chinese were.
“Twenty or thirty years ago, many of Cameroonians would not have been able to tell the difference between Chinese and Europeans,” he explained. “The Chinese are still considered white, because of their skin color, but now many Cameroonians recognize that the Chinese are different from Europeans or Americans. There is a certain level that is expected of the [Caucasians]. You would never expect them to do certain things or work certain jobs, even if they had stayed here for a long time. But the Chinese in Cameroon have taken their place in every level of society. They may take jobs like selling puf pufs or groundnuts. Some of them have even taken jobs that Cameroonians would not take! I told you the Chinese built Buea Hospital? When the workers came, they brought their families with them and their wives worked in the town. I think because of this, Cameroonians can respect the Chinese because they recognize that they are here to try to make a living, like them.”
Dr. Kamga continued, “In Bafoussam, they say that the Chinese are all Bamileke.” Dr. Kamga, whose father is Bamileke, laughs. The Bamileke are Cameroon’s entrepreneurial minority. Like the Gurage in Ethiopia, or the Luo in Kenya, Bamileke own a disproportionate percentage of businesses in Cameroon, and are seen as stingy and manipulative. To ask someone if they are Bamileke is an insult suggesting miserliness.
I tell Dr. Kamga about mamas at the market who sneer at me under their breath—Chinese worka!—when I haggle to hard or decline to buy their goods.
“You see? You are being treated like a Chinese, but the Chinese are treated like Bamileke!” Sitting lotus style underneath the Bodhi tree, a tiny part of me woke up.
By this time, we had reached Down Beach. The epithets continued, but their barbs had softened and they had lost their venom. I took Limbe in through new eyes and felt something shift inside. I still didn’t know the secret of integration, but it all seemed to matter less and less. I had gotten a wonderful insight into the interaction of two cultures, and what’s more, I was living that experience. That seemed to be far more important. Besides, those Chinese workers didn’t have a how-to guide, or a four-part business plan for Cameroonian integration; they came from one developing country to another, looking for a way to put food on the table. Being mistaken for Chinese national isn't a ticket to inclusion, but maybe it'll provide me just enough of a sense of integration to shrug off some self-imposed pressure and enjoy where I am. I approached the fish mamas and began to haggle with a renewed vigor—I had a reputation to live up to, after all.
Integration into another culture is a topic that has been on my mind for a while, and I’m sure that it’s a subject that many expats come across sooner or later.
As an academic researcher, a certain degree of integration is important to me in order to avoid alienating potential research participants, to understand my subject population, and in order to have access to segments of the population that may otherwise be unavailable (such as those who are only comfortable speaking pidgin). But there is shallower part of me that would take pride in being a fluent traveler who can blend in wherever I go. I find this part of me rather annoying for several reasons, least of which is because its bombastic expectations are so often disappointed.
While third world immigrants who struggle to assimilate into the culture of a first world nation are often the subjects of various books, films, and documentaries, the expatriate who works to integrate into the developing world seems to have a less significant presence in the cultural institutions of the West. Having immigrated into the US at the age of six, I have some experience in integration into the developed world. It’s the latter issue that I am attempting to deal with here in Cameroon.
How and to what extent integration occurs can speak volumes about both the individuals attempting to integrate and the host culture in question
The American culture seems almost designed for integration: political correctness (enforced, to an extent, by law) discourages prejudices of any kind, but especially of ethnicity; the cuisine is a multicultural menu, on which few items are authentically of American origin; the socio-political atmosphere encourages the adoption of the American identity; etc. I don’t mean to say that integrating into American culture is free of tribulations, or easy. My experience was neither. How, then, when even native Cameroonians can be considered “whiteman,” can anyone hope to integrate into a culture with such a strong idea of who is and is not a member of its constituency?
I don’t know the answer to that question and I’m not sure if an answer even exists.
My heritage originates from an ethnically Korean enclave in China. I am an ethnic Korean, born in Beijing, with an American upbringing, which can make things interesting when a curious Cameroonian inquisitor asks me where I am from. The conversation usually continues:
Me: “From America”
Curious in Cameroon: “But you are Chinese?”
Me: “No, I’m Korean.”
Curious in Cameroon: “You were born in Korea, or America?”
Me: “I was born in China.”
Curious in Cameroon: “Oh… Do you speak Chinese? Ni hong!”
Me: “No. I speak Fulfulde. Jam na!”
Curious in Cameroon: “???”
(I actually do speak Chinese, but I deny it to avoid conversations in indecipherably butchered Mandarin. I also enjoy seeing the shocked-confused look on the faces of locals while they try to come to terms with a Shinwa who speaks Fulfulde, but not Chinese)
When I walk down the street, a fraction of the time I get a Cameroonian who shouts out whiteman! While this confused me at first, I preferred it much more to the calls of Shinwa! Chinese! Beijing! Jackie Chan! Ching Ching Chong! Hee Hong! and others that make up the rest of my everyday soundtrack in Cameroon. In the first few weeks, when walking through the market drew sneers of from merchants or idle men sitting at local chop shops, my hopes of being welcomed into the Cameroonian culture were dashed, as I believed myself relegated into a category of stingy Easterner. “I’m an American, damnit!” I wanted to shout at them. Maybe being a whiteman isn’t the greatest thing for integration into an African culture, but I didn’t come to Cameroon to be harassed. I’ve been told that the epithets are innocent, that most hecklers don’t mean any malice, but having grown up in California in the wake of the Rodney King riots, some of the calls strike a nerve.
My turning point was during an October afternoon in Limbe with Dr. Kamga, a close friend. During the drive down, we were bombarded with the usual salvo of whiteman and shinwa, and I asked Dr. Kamga what the Cameroonian views on the Chinese were.
“Twenty or thirty years ago, many of Cameroonians would not have been able to tell the difference between Chinese and Europeans,” he explained. “The Chinese are still considered white, because of their skin color, but now many Cameroonians recognize that the Chinese are different from Europeans or Americans. There is a certain level that is expected of the [Caucasians]. You would never expect them to do certain things or work certain jobs, even if they had stayed here for a long time. But the Chinese in Cameroon have taken their place in every level of society. They may take jobs like selling puf pufs or groundnuts. Some of them have even taken jobs that Cameroonians would not take! I told you the Chinese built Buea Hospital? When the workers came, they brought their families with them and their wives worked in the town. I think because of this, Cameroonians can respect the Chinese because they recognize that they are here to try to make a living, like them.”
Dr. Kamga continued, “In Bafoussam, they say that the Chinese are all Bamileke.” Dr. Kamga, whose father is Bamileke, laughs. The Bamileke are Cameroon’s entrepreneurial minority. Like the Gurage in Ethiopia, or the Luo in Kenya, Bamileke own a disproportionate percentage of businesses in Cameroon, and are seen as stingy and manipulative. To ask someone if they are Bamileke is an insult suggesting miserliness.
I tell Dr. Kamga about mamas at the market who sneer at me under their breath—Chinese worka!—when I haggle to hard or decline to buy their goods.
“You see? You are being treated like a Chinese, but the Chinese are treated like Bamileke!” Sitting lotus style underneath the Bodhi tree, a tiny part of me woke up.
By this time, we had reached Down Beach. The epithets continued, but their barbs had softened and they had lost their venom. I took Limbe in through new eyes and felt something shift inside. I still didn’t know the secret of integration, but it all seemed to matter less and less. I had gotten a wonderful insight into the interaction of two cultures, and what’s more, I was living that experience. That seemed to be far more important. Besides, those Chinese workers didn’t have a how-to guide, or a four-part business plan for Cameroonian integration; they came from one developing country to another, looking for a way to put food on the table. Being mistaken for Chinese national isn't a ticket to inclusion, but maybe it'll provide me just enough of a sense of integration to shrug off some self-imposed pressure and enjoy where I am. I approached the fish mamas and began to haggle with a renewed vigor—I had a reputation to live up to, after all.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Day 77
Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!
Here's a picture of a cute little girl in Bakingali (it's the only picture I managed to upload to flickr without any issues) Enjoy!
Here's a picture of a cute little girl in Bakingali (it's the only picture I managed to upload to flickr without any issues) Enjoy!
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Day 68
Mt. Cameroon stands at 13,255 ft (4040m). It is an active volcano and is the highest point in West and Central Africa—and I climbed it! As one of the most physically and mentally challenging endeavors to date, the climb to and from the summit was absolutely exhilarating and worth every drop of sweat, tears, and blood (there really wasn’t very many tears or blood—honest!). There were times where the vista was absolutely stunning, and other times, like the climb through the savanna on the Guinness Trail, that were soul crushing.
While the slow ascent through thin air and howling winds to the mist shrouded peak was less than spectacular, the descent eventually led to one of the most awe inspiring sights on the mountain: a Serengeti-esque wind-swept savanna on a plateau 3000m high, surrounded on all sides by oceans of billowing white clouds.
The last day brought the toughest challenges: a march through highland forest, old lava flows, and rain forest at breakneck speeds for 8 hours with 3 breaks, and a 15 minute run over slick, wet rocks while the porter in front of me screamed “ants! ants!” and the guide behind me shouted “Run, Samwell! Run faster!” Army ants. Fun times.
Another notch under my belt: I finished the trek from Buea, to the summit, down to Bakingali, at sea level (normally a 4 day trek) in 3 days—the fastest time for a visitor. The visitor notation is important, because the porters, who carry huge rucksacks filled with supplies on their heads with nothing but plastic sandals, are in a different class of their own. In an altogether different league from sane people are the participants of the Race for Hope: a marathon up and down the Guinness race track, where runners have been known to climb the mountain in less than 4 hours! Still, I’ll take my meager feat with pride and distinction, thank you very much.
While the slow ascent through thin air and howling winds to the mist shrouded peak was less than spectacular, the descent eventually led to one of the most awe inspiring sights on the mountain: a Serengeti-esque wind-swept savanna on a plateau 3000m high, surrounded on all sides by oceans of billowing white clouds.
The last day brought the toughest challenges: a march through highland forest, old lava flows, and rain forest at breakneck speeds for 8 hours with 3 breaks, and a 15 minute run over slick, wet rocks while the porter in front of me screamed “ants! ants!” and the guide behind me shouted “Run, Samwell! Run faster!” Army ants. Fun times.
Another notch under my belt: I finished the trek from Buea, to the summit, down to Bakingali, at sea level (normally a 4 day trek) in 3 days—the fastest time for a visitor. The visitor notation is important, because the porters, who carry huge rucksacks filled with supplies on their heads with nothing but plastic sandals, are in a different class of their own. In an altogether different league from sane people are the participants of the Race for Hope: a marathon up and down the Guinness race track, where runners have been known to climb the mountain in less than 4 hours! Still, I’ll take my meager feat with pride and distinction, thank you very much.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Day 62
Not thirty minutes away from Buea is Limbe, a lively getaway town in the shadow of Mt. Cameroon. Limbe is the destination of the hundreds of souls teaming through Douala’s congested throughways on Friday afternoons; it’s not hard to see why. Stretching lazily along the Atlantic shore, the spacious streets and easygoing atmosphere makes Limbe feel like a secret vacation getaway only known by a handful of friends and myself. The large number of easily visible westerners deflates this illusion, but despite that, most of the town feels far less of a tourist trap than it actually is.
Down Beach lies near the center of town along Ambas bay and is one of my favorite places. This is mostly because of the Down Beach fish market, where I like to practice my haggling as well as enjoy a delicious meal of grilled fish and plantains at plastic tables set on the black sand. While I can get a fairly good deal regularly, I’ve a long way to come to match Dr. Kamga, who once got the price of fish dropped from 2500 CFA to 900 CFA without as much as clearing his throat.
It was literally:
Me: “How much for this fish?”
Fish mama: “two five”
Dr. Kamga: “Give me for nine hundred”
Fish mama: “okay.”
Annoyingly, Dr. Kamga won’t give any of his secrets, leaving me to take notes furiously.
Another favorite destination, courtesy of PCVs Bill, Caitlin, and Brian, is Madison Park, which actually is very much hidden away and little known, but is a jewel as beaches go. The soft black sand, the warm rolling surf, and elegant palm trees are looked over by Mt. Etinde (or Small Mt. Cameroon) and gives the entire beach the appearance of a movie set. As guests at Madison Park, we were often the only ones enjoying the ocean. Once in a while, we would be joined by French expats from a nearby private beach or local boys who had the curious habit of singing to us as they boogie boarded on palm fronds. The ocean was wonderfully welcoming, and I learned to float in these waters. At night, we rented tents and fell asleep to the sound of the sea. We woke in the morning to the sound of John Coltrane and Mahalia Jackson, courtesy of Roland.
As a love struck victim of New Orleans’ brass and tom-tom siren song and marching band dirge, I couldn’t help but compare Roland, the blues aficionado caretaker of Madison Park, to the Big Easy. A city not only shaped by its circumstances, but also of them, New Orleans is the descendant of French Acadians, African slaves, European colonizers, and the native Choctaw that each contributed to its indissoluble spirit. It makes me reflect on the numerous influences on the cultures of Cameroon, and while Roland’s affinity to the blues may seem unlikely, it also seems to carries a weighty inevitability. We chatted into the night about the nature of blues: how it was the music of everyday life. We talked about the parallel rhythms of the pounding of the chain gang and the cassava pestle, the life and times of Fela Kuti, and the struggles that created and sustained the gospel spirituals in America.
Roland lives and breathes the blues; a fact that keeps me tethered in reality in such a beautiful land. I once offered empty banter, as an American is wont to do.
“Please, do not call this a paradise,” he replies, staring at offshore thunderclouds. “It is no such thing.”
Down Beach lies near the center of town along Ambas bay and is one of my favorite places. This is mostly because of the Down Beach fish market, where I like to practice my haggling as well as enjoy a delicious meal of grilled fish and plantains at plastic tables set on the black sand. While I can get a fairly good deal regularly, I’ve a long way to come to match Dr. Kamga, who once got the price of fish dropped from 2500 CFA to 900 CFA without as much as clearing his throat.
It was literally:
Me: “How much for this fish?”
Fish mama: “two five”
Dr. Kamga: “Give me for nine hundred”
Fish mama: “okay.”
Annoyingly, Dr. Kamga won’t give any of his secrets, leaving me to take notes furiously.
Another favorite destination, courtesy of PCVs Bill, Caitlin, and Brian, is Madison Park, which actually is very much hidden away and little known, but is a jewel as beaches go. The soft black sand, the warm rolling surf, and elegant palm trees are looked over by Mt. Etinde (or Small Mt. Cameroon) and gives the entire beach the appearance of a movie set. As guests at Madison Park, we were often the only ones enjoying the ocean. Once in a while, we would be joined by French expats from a nearby private beach or local boys who had the curious habit of singing to us as they boogie boarded on palm fronds. The ocean was wonderfully welcoming, and I learned to float in these waters. At night, we rented tents and fell asleep to the sound of the sea. We woke in the morning to the sound of John Coltrane and Mahalia Jackson, courtesy of Roland.
As a love struck victim of New Orleans’ brass and tom-tom siren song and marching band dirge, I couldn’t help but compare Roland, the blues aficionado caretaker of Madison Park, to the Big Easy. A city not only shaped by its circumstances, but also of them, New Orleans is the descendant of French Acadians, African slaves, European colonizers, and the native Choctaw that each contributed to its indissoluble spirit. It makes me reflect on the numerous influences on the cultures of Cameroon, and while Roland’s affinity to the blues may seem unlikely, it also seems to carries a weighty inevitability. We chatted into the night about the nature of blues: how it was the music of everyday life. We talked about the parallel rhythms of the pounding of the chain gang and the cassava pestle, the life and times of Fela Kuti, and the struggles that created and sustained the gospel spirituals in America.
Roland lives and breathes the blues; a fact that keeps me tethered in reality in such a beautiful land. I once offered empty banter, as an American is wont to do.
“Please, do not call this a paradise,” he replies, staring at offshore thunderclouds. “It is no such thing.”
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Yes We Can
This night was nothing less than spiritual.
Equipped with two large bottles of caffeinated cola, I tuned into CNN and prepared for a long night. It began with the anticipation of the coming elections, but soon gave way to jittery excitement. By the time Kentucky was projected and results for Virginia and Indiana announced, I began to harbor a slow dread that ignored the low reporting rate. The ride was just beginning.
This was a night that I hope to remember for as long as I am. At 5AM, when Virginia was projected in favor of the blue, and Obama was soon declared the next president of the United States of America, I was in a daze. I whooped and hollered. I didn’t know what to do with myself. The Cameroonians who had risen to see the results faded away into the muffled periphery as I absorbed what I was seeing: the screaming crowds; Jesse Jackson’s tears; “hold on… help is on the way.” When John McCain delivered his concession speech, I was moved by his graciousness, and the sincerity that he revealed when speaking about his love for his country. I felt for him, but even more, I felt relief: it was over.
But as Barack Obama began to speak, every part of me listened and heard and shuttered with the wonder of it all. As the speech came to a close, it left me overwhelmed in its wake. My hands around my mouth, eyes fixed upon the screen, I wept uncontrollably. It hit me like a truck. Hot tears swelled in my eyes, then spilled down my face and past my fingers, unstoppable. I felt excited and freed and victorious and so goddamned hopeful it hurt. It felt like I had been exorcised, that great burdens had been pulled out by the salt of my tears.
From behind the guesthouse television, the sun rose over the Wouri river and daylight streamed in through the wrought-iron bars of the window. It’s a new day. Yes we can.
Equipped with two large bottles of caffeinated cola, I tuned into CNN and prepared for a long night. It began with the anticipation of the coming elections, but soon gave way to jittery excitement. By the time Kentucky was projected and results for Virginia and Indiana announced, I began to harbor a slow dread that ignored the low reporting rate. The ride was just beginning.
This was a night that I hope to remember for as long as I am. At 5AM, when Virginia was projected in favor of the blue, and Obama was soon declared the next president of the United States of America, I was in a daze. I whooped and hollered. I didn’t know what to do with myself. The Cameroonians who had risen to see the results faded away into the muffled periphery as I absorbed what I was seeing: the screaming crowds; Jesse Jackson’s tears; “hold on… help is on the way.” When John McCain delivered his concession speech, I was moved by his graciousness, and the sincerity that he revealed when speaking about his love for his country. I felt for him, but even more, I felt relief: it was over.
But as Barack Obama began to speak, every part of me listened and heard and shuttered with the wonder of it all. As the speech came to a close, it left me overwhelmed in its wake. My hands around my mouth, eyes fixed upon the screen, I wept uncontrollably. It hit me like a truck. Hot tears swelled in my eyes, then spilled down my face and past my fingers, unstoppable. I felt excited and freed and victorious and so goddamned hopeful it hurt. It felt like I had been exorcised, that great burdens had been pulled out by the salt of my tears.
From behind the guesthouse television, the sun rose over the Wouri river and daylight streamed in through the wrought-iron bars of the window. It’s a new day. Yes we can.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Day 54
Happy Election Day! The US elections have really caused a lot of excitement here in Cameroon. People everywhere are abuzz about the 4th, and I’ve gotten into conversations with all sorts of people here about it, from taxi drivers to merchants; pretty much anyone who suspects that I’m from the US, and even a few that don’t. Radio stations and newspapers everywhere are posting the latest news and rumors about the elections, and on at least two separate occasions, a small convoy of trucks has driven up and down the road, blaring news about Obama on megaphones.
I’ve been catching snippets of the elections here and there, and I’m confident of a Obama victory, despite the conspiracy theories raised by my Cameroonian colleagues and I am so damn excited for this to go down. I’ve invited some friends and acquaintances over to the guesthouse to watch the election coverage. I’m going to make pizza again, for a taste of home while I watch history unfold. Go Vote!
I’ve been catching snippets of the elections here and there, and I’m confident of a Obama victory, despite the conspiracy theories raised by my Cameroonian colleagues and I am so damn excited for this to go down. I’ve invited some friends and acquaintances over to the guesthouse to watch the election coverage. I’m going to make pizza again, for a taste of home while I watch history unfold. Go Vote!
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