Ramadan

Ramadan began 5 days ago on Saturday. I had thought about fasting since last year when we arrived around the end of Ramadan. It lasts a month, and this year started a little early as compared at least to last year, as it is based on moon cycles. The month name is "Soumaye" and those fasting would say "mi don souma." (I am fasting). Or maybe it's an irregular verb and would be "mi soumi." I'm not sure. (not to be confused with mi sommi which means I'm sleepy).
So I'm taking it day by day and seeing how it goes. I missed the first days, being in Yaounde and forgetting, but then upon returning have been fasting sunup to sundown. It is a really neat experience. Although I am not strict fasting. I am just refraining from eating, and allowing drinking. My Muslim brothers and sisters here do not drink anything, even water, and saliva also should not be swallowed (the result I remember comically from my homestay brother, as when we were walking everywhere he kept spitting every few feet.) I figure I am still a temperate American and it is still hot here--going all day working in fields or walking around without drinking water might not go for me personally right now. Fasting from sunup to sundown means that you rise early while it's still dark to prepare breakfast. I remember in my homestay waking up and hearing the call to prayer and hearing the women up and about, people coming by, cooking, eating, like a party, while it was still dark. And then you eat a big dinner again when it is dark. Sunsets here around 6:30pm. I remember also in college going to the Arabic house a couple of times to celebrate the "iftar", breaking of the fast, and it was such a nice community feeling, all coming together so much good food, sharing. So with breakfast and dinner, it is really just fasting from lunch, and any snacks during the day. Fasting generally is a good practice and one I personally have not practiced much. It is good to know what it is like to be hungry. It is a blessing to know that at the end of the day there is food if I want it--to buy or prepare. It is a good experience to know a little more about what other people practice and believe and experience. And I also believe that it opens you up to possible spiritual lessons God might want to teach you. It also teaches you so many other fun things, like how crabby you can be (and how to be nice and sweet and gentle even when you feel crabby and angry and hungry) when you don't eat every few hours! It is a challenge, true, but a good challenge. And think of this: so often volunteers dream with salivating mouths about all the food available in America, which is not available here. We often dream about food. So now picture how fasting from Cameroonian food, during the daytime, going hungry, how much that makes you appreciate what is available here! I am so happy to eat nyeri and haako and beans and beignets and eggs and bread at the end of the day, even if there is little variety!

Sitting and watching

How many times have I written about hos sitting is a major occupation for me here? Just sitting. It is a completely different pace of life. I am often sitting on my front porch watching things. I find I can pass hours at a time just watching the kittens nursing, playing, talking with their mama, sleeping. And I'm just sitting here looking at them. That's what life here does to you. And I can't say I'm bored, because there are million things I coudl do if I wanted to--I have all my art supplies, write letters, go for a run, visit and talk with friends. All these thigns tht could and would occupy my time at home in the states. But here, time is often passed by doing nothing but sitting and wathcing. I'm not sure why that is--is it really that the pace of life here rubs off on you? That because that's what everyone else does, I fall into that rhythm as well? That there just seems to be so much time sometimes, no 9-5 job, no rushing from one thing to the next, more living, so days run into days and hours to hours, and what day of the week it is rarely matters except to inform which market it is. So here I am, more than I ever thought I would be, just sittinga nd watching--looking at things, my garden, trails of ants, leila, kittens, clouds. And as odd as that seems to me, and as much as I remind myself how I had intended to spend all the "Peace Corps down time," writing essays, books, reading, drawing, exercicing, stretching, and general "self-improvement" I am oddly ok with the sitting, although it still amazes me. And still I manage to garner expressions of "You work so much, you do so much, you're always going here, there, you're never at home!" from all my neighbors and friends. Goes to show you the contrast of American way fo life and that here. And currently I am right int he middle. Imagine what my friends in village would think, if they witnessed first hand our frenetic pace of life in the States, where here they think I'm over-occupied if I have one activity a day. It's true that while the developed world might be rich in money, goods, availability and facility of life, the undeveloped world is rich in time. So we in the developed world, do we throw away those riches by trading them in for time, selling ourselves short, never having enough time, enough life to live? Time flies in America. Here too, sometimes it flies. But mostly it crawls. Or rather, it doesn't really exist, until after, after years and years have passed.

Rahmani's daughter Adama

I walked to Israel Saturday night. I was late getting back from Garoua because of rain and walking (practically running) against the approaching dusk. I knew I couldn't make it all the way to Israel before dark (two hours walking) but I knew I could make it to the first Foulbe Ladde village, and there either ask to spend the night at the chief Bouba Rarou's house, hang out with his wife (who he told me speaks knows french!) and talk about trees, or else ask one of them to accompany me the rest of the way. When I got there I stumbled upon his fathers compound, and he told me Bouba had gone to Garoua with his wife who was sick. I talked to his father a while instead and he was very very nice, very sweet, sitting in a field by a fire, cooking something to drink. It is hard to find one's way around the villages now with the corn way over head high. He sent me on my way with one of the boys in his family and we arrived at Israel around twilight. A guy on the path told us Rahmani (one of my friends from that village, the most hospitable, outgoing and talkative Foulbe Ladde I've ever met, where I would be spending the night) had gone to the hospital because his daughter was sick but he would be back. By the time I got there and left my guide praying at the mosque, they were all back. I walked into the compound and Rahmani's wife was holding Adama their baby, two years old, who was crying loudly. They had taken her to the health center in Karewa where the doctors said it was malaria, as they do routinely, and had given her a shot. They came home. I thought perhaps the intense crying was because of the shot. There were quite a few people at the house and they had resorted to traditional remedies of I don't know what, but something cooked over fire, something from Nigeria. She had fallen sick abruptly around 4 pm. And wasn't getting better. After a while she stopped the crying and they laid her on the bed in their bedroom. Whereas the end of crying should have been a relief, in this case I think it was a turn for the worse. Throughout the night people came, mostly women, sitting with the mother. Young boys in groups also came around. Rahmani stayed outside mostly and maybe men came and stayed with him. Finally, after a while, I went to bed. The morning I came out, got up around 6:30 and the baby was still in bed. Her eyes were open, but were tracking back and forth, and she wasn't seeing or responding to people. There was always at least one older woman there, with the mother. I sat with them a bit longer and had nothing to say when they asked "What should we do, what sickness is it, does it happen like this in your country, what should we give her?" More people came by visiting and leaving. I went back to the "guest hut". One of the grandmothers was holding the baby, mother was getting water. And then I heard her start crying and came out of my hut and Adama had died. Just like that. It was over. So fast a life departs. It was about 8:30 am. The mother started keening and immediately women started coming. As soon as the women came within three feet of the room they started crying as well, and sometimes you could hear them coming through the village, approaching, crying. And so everyone hears the crying and comes and the news spreads through the village. And it was awful. Yet the solidarity. The fact that while she was sick, everyone came by, the whole village is there with you. And when she died the whole village was there--all the women sitting outside (and inside too) the hut for hours. The old women took her and bathed her behind the room. They undid her braids. They cut up a white sheet and had perfume too and they wrapped her in it. Finally after hours they took her to bury her, the mother and other women still in the hut. By the time I was leaving, around noon, the word was spreading and Mborroros from surrounding villages-Karewa, Lainde, Djeffatou, Ngong even, were arriving, meeting at the mosque to support the family. The morning would last a few days.
It was awful. And so many questions. What was the sickness? What do you do? So much feeling of powerlessness. They took her to the health center and still she died. What do you do? Dabare walla. Dabare walla.

My pepiniere season 2009

For those of you who might be fellow agroforesters in tropical or sahelian areas and might be curious, these are the trees I produced in my personal pepiniere this season. I planted a good amount more but had low success rate with some of the species. Still others did very well. And the pepiniere has been such a wonderful thing for me, each morning and evening going through, watering, looking at which trees sprouted, which are growing well, recording germination times and growth rates. Truly I'm sad to see the season coming to an end. Daily my trees are emptying out as I plant them in my fields, around the house, take them to peoples houses, and people come over to take them. It has been one of the biggest joys to tell people in passing if they want a tree, to come over to my house. They come and they see which ones are available and the know exactly which one they want. They choose it, and walk home with it like it is a treasure. (And hopefully they plant it! haha.) I am very excited about expanding it next season, with more plants and more numbers! I particularly interested in going in the mountains to collect seed of wild trees and work on planting those. Most pepinieres only produce a certain amount of well-known species: maybe fruit trees, cassia siameas, neems, and trees with spines (acacia nilotica, senegal, and polyacantha as well as the zizyphus's). But i'm interested in working on introducing other species to our production and especially those which the villagers know and use (for food, or medicine) en brousse.


Carica papaye (Papaya) 12
Moringa oliefera 13
Moringa stenopetela 2
Leucaena leucocephela 55
Cassia siamea 60
Acacia Polyacantha 26
Acacia Senegal 20
Acacia Nilotica 8
Acacia Seyal 1
Dalbergia Sissoo 2
Fhederbia albida 3
Albezia Lebbeck 25
Office tree (unknown name) 2
(Flamboyant) 14
Khaya senegalensis (Cailcedrat) 5
Danielia oliveri 3
Zizyphus Mauritania 15
Combretum (unknown species) 9
Bauhinia large 3
Bauhinia small 10
Thevetia 10
Azadiracta indica (Neem) 1
Total Trees Produced (roughly) 299

Sing while losing a friend--Leila RIP March 1-July 28

Tuesday night after a particularly frustrating day, I got back to my house around 5:00. I was almost in tears on the walk home, frustrated and angry with a former "friend" who is now trying to steal money I lent him when he was sick, avoiding me whenever I try to find him, evidently intending to avoid me in order to never pay it back. I got home, sat down on my bed outside, and two of the 5 year old neighborhood girls came over, informing me in Fulfulde "Elizabeth, your dog died. A car." I walked up to the road with the girls, thinking in my head, "no, no no no no." There were a few kids playing around the road, and I asked them "Where?" I couldn't see any thing and the whole time was thinking, maybe she was just hit, maybe she'll be ok. But they pointed, and there she was on the other side of the road down a ditch on a bed of grass. I imagine she died instantly which is good. It is also good that I didn't see it. I sat there and cried for a little while before picking her up and taking her back to the house. I was so sad, and so frustrated, thinking, "why this now?" Life is hard enough here as it is, why does my best friend here have to be taken away too? You don't know. I would say that she was probably my biggest joy in my life here, along with Fulfulde, and work with some of the communities. So this has been a hard week. At first I thought, well what's the point? I don't really want to work any more. I don't really have much desire to be here anymore. Maybe some of you might think it's a little sappy or silly to have a blog posting about a dog dying (and if so, haha, you'd be thinking very Cameroonian!)It is one thing that I am an animal person, and love animals very much. It is another thing on top of that to be in a different culture, where the life and work is frustrating a lot of the time, where you're always speaking a foreign language, where sometimes you feel like you will always be an outsider, where you don't have the friendships you had back at home. So for me, Leila really was my best friend here, always greeting me whenever I came home, always there at the house, going with me to the field, to the mountains, sleeping with me during thunderstorms, and outside any night. Two of my friends came over the first two nights and stayed with me, which really helped, one of them the next morning digging a grave for her, and burying her with me, and then staying and helping me with work in my field and getting water and chores around the house. Thursday night was the first night for me sleeping by myself in the house since I'd moved there, and it was very empty, very lonely. However, life continues, and I am learning how it is simply that "Leila's not here any more." I am happy that she had the best life possible for a dog, running free, having lots of love and shelter and food, having fun. I'm happy that she and I could be together a little bit. And also that in the beginning, when I really hadn't developed a lot of relationships, that were close, she was there for me. Some of the people in Mafa Kilda have been really surprisingly sweet. I say surprisingly just become the idea of dogs/pets here is completely different. There is not the connection or importance for animals as "chez nous" but on top of that dogs in particular are looked down on as mangy, dirty, not really valued creatures. So most people were just like "Don't cry (crying is also not appreciated or allowed--I sure am sharing goal Peace Corps number 3 with them!). Just find another one. Just get another dog. That's all. It's no big deal." But then my neighbor came over and just sat with me the first night for a while, not saying anything. And her husband, my landlord joined us a bit later, and kept saying "Oh it's awful. It's terrible. It hurts." And I'd say, "It's ok, it'll be alright, it happens." And he'd respond "No but it's awful." And they'd check on me the next few days. It was as if they understood. As they would because the whole neighborhood, and especially their family loved her as well. And the students of the pastors school astounded me, as they heard through the grapevine and actually came to see me and offer condolences! That does not happen when a Cameroonian's dog dies. I think some of them knew she was like my child, comparatively. That night I wrote down my favorite memories and things I was thankful for for her, and maybe I'll add them, or maybe I'll just send them to my family, who perhaps are the only ones that would appreciate that and not think I'm going absolutely overboard with being sad about a pet. Life goes on, and now Leila is no more. Or maybe a butterfly.

My friend Jessie wrote a song for me and Leila that night that she died. It has a beautiful melody and I wish I could upload the singing, but alas all I can do is the words. We sang it together when we planted flowers on her grave.

Jessie's Song:

Leila, Leila, Why'd you have to go?

Leila, Leila, Some things we'll never know,

Oh Leila, Leila, Leila my friend,

Oh Leila, Leila, I'll remember you until the end, it's true,

Oh Leila, Leila, Leila goodbye.

Leila, Leila from now on, to me, a butterfly you'll be,

Oh Leila, Leila, Leila, Leila, Leila Bright Eyes,
Leila, Leila, Leila Goodbye.