I have been dreading writing this blog
post, which is why it has taken me so long to do so.
Shortly after I wrote last, a French
family was kidnapped in the Extreme-North region of Cameroon by Boko
Haram, and taken into Nigeria. They were released a few months later,
unharmed, and I would like to stress that none of us were ever in any
danger, but the incident shaped my, and many of my fellow
volunteers', Peace Corps service.
Mogode, being on the border with
Nigeria, was the first site to be closed by Peace Corps for security
reasons. Over the next few months, the entire region was closed, and
about thirty volunteers became homeless. I won't go into too much
detail about what it felt like being ripped out of our communities,
but if you would like to understand a little more about what each of
us went through, here is a link to my friend Shane's blog post about the experience: http://pcmobilis.tumblr.com/post/49118557311/evacuation-my-most-important-blog-post-ever
Most of us evacuees decided to stay in
Cameroon, to finish our service in a new community. For me, that
community is Badjouma Centre, a small village in the North region. The third
time has been a charm in some ways, and a curse in others.
On my good days, I think of how lucky I
am to have found such a wonderful and welcoming community, with
people who understand the work I hope to do here, who want to work
with me to achieve these goals, and who have been so generous in
opening their homes and hearts to me. I can count the number of meals
that I have eaten alone on the fingers of one hand, and in a region
where food is often scarce, that has meant a lot. By starting a third
post, I have been given a unique opportunity to start my Peace Corps
service from scratch, but with all the lessons that I have learned
during my nearly two years in Cameroon.
On my bad days, though, I wonder if I
can do this all over again. Learning new faces, learning a new
language, learning my way around a new regional capital, making new
friends, eating new foods. I have often found myself nostalgic for
Fonfuka, my first village. I forget the hardships and the reasons I
left, and remember instead the familiarity of it all that can only
come with living somewhere for more than a year.
I think everyone has a special
attachment to their first Peace Corps village, whether they spend a
month, a year, or three years, there. It is the same sort of
attachment that one has for their first love. You plunge into the
experience head first, you make mistakes but laugh at them because
you don't know any better, you try harder than you have ever tried
anything to make it work, and if, when, it doesn't work out, you
over-analyze the reasons why. Could you have done more? Was it just
not a good fit? You eventually forget all the difficult moments, you
forget the reasons you left, and you embellish the reasons why you didn't
leave sooner. During the two and a half months that I've spent in
Badjouma, I've struggled with this nostalgia. Every time someone
calls me “Nassara” (white man), or anytime I am forced to answer
someone speaking to me in Fulfulde with “Mi famay” (I don't
understand), the frustration that comes with being the new kid in
town resurfaces.
But that is what being a Peace Corps
volunteer is about. It is precisely about being the new kid in town,
and as soon as you think you can't take it anymore, people in your
market call you by your name, your counterpart excitedly tells you
about the projects he wants to accomplish, a community group asks you
to come every week and teach them about a new health topic. Just when
you think you're about to pull your hair out, you look into the sky
after eating a Ramadan meal with your new friends and you see a
shooting star. Just when you think you're going to smack the kids
that knock on your door all day wanting to come pick up the palm nuts
that have fallen from the tree in your compound, you open the door to
some kids who hand you food that they have brought from their house.
No, my Peace Corps service has not gone
quite how I had imagined, and it sure as hell has not been easy. But
it has allowed me to meet incredible people in not one, not two, but
three different communities. It has allowed me live in three
different regions of this amazing country, to experience vastly different
cultures, and to be awed, in some way, by each of these communities
along the way. From the mountains and jujus of the North West, to the
magical landscapes of the Kapsiki region of the Extreme-North, to the
desert paradise I had dreamed of the North – although this journey
has not been what I expected, it has definitely not been
disappointing.
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| Women gathering firewood outside of Mogode |
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| The drive into Mogode |
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Badjouma Vaccinations around Badjouma  My counterpart Musa and I holding a needs assessment meeting |
