I can't say how many times I have heard this phrase in the past month. And I had never heard it before! But now everyone is saying it. "Seulement les montagnes ne se croisent pas." Meaning that in life, people may see each other again, because we are not fixed in the ground like the mountains. Saying goodbye hasn't been as hard as I had imagined. I think this is due to the fact that I have done it in stages, moving out of my house, and then out of the village, and then finally leaving Garoua. Having mourned leaving at each stage, I find at the end, I've already separated a bit, I've already shed my tears, it was just more drawn out, so it seems there is less at the very end.
But then in other ways, it is hard. The other thing I've been hearing is "Min woowi bee ma." "We've gotten used to you, and now you're leaving already! Nous sommes habitue avec toi." This is something in our environment that we are accustomed to, and like, and now it is changing. Sometimes I've had to laugh as even some people in the neighborhood in Garoua, where I moved for 2 months, have said that, though they've hardly seen me. I guess they've gotten used to seeing me sitting on the corner waiting for a moto taxi. And they'll miss that sight. But for people in village, it is hard and it does make sense. Especially the neighbors, who have also gotten used to me being there. There is an aspect of Peace Corps that I am not too fond of, and started realizing it in the first year. I often thought about how hard it would be for me to say goodbye to a community I had grown to love, to friends I had made and shared my life with. But I think I didn't realize the extent to which it is reciprocated. I might have thought that I would leave, and be very sad, but that the rest of the people here, would continue on, not being too affected. But in the first year, one of my good friends a tailor who knew lots of volunteers, and who passed away in November, said something about that. The words are simple and not so profound, but maybe it was the way he said it that struck a cord and has always stuck with me. He said "Eventually you will go; you're here for a while, and we become friends, but then you'll go back home again. We're used to it by now; we're used to our friends leaving and new ones coming and we are still here." And that made me very sad, that they are used to volunteers or students coming and going, but noone stays. Americans often are used to traveling and used to moving. And while its true that many Cameroonians also are very transient, moving somewhere for a year and then coming back, or going to visit relatives for 4 months, other Cameroonians are not, and stay in the same place for all their lives, with very little travel, even to the next villlages. Very little change in their routine. I'm reminded of how when I had been in Mafa Kilda for 6 months, and suddenly noticed a change in people's behavior towards me (becoming more open and more friendly) many people started saying, "Oh, you're staying here forever now." They had been used to students who came for 1 or 3 months, and when I passed that point, thought I was here to stay. And so I understand the idea that "We have gotten used to you being here. We don't want you to leave." It is hard to have the routine change, and maybe harder than for Americans who are more used to these changes. Ramani, recently has said that he has worked with lots of foreigners, and now he doesn't want to any more. Because it hurts too much to grow close and then have them leave. It's too difficult. That he said this, and two times no less, is striking, because it is slightly uncommon sharing that level of honesty on interior feelings for Foulbe Ladde.
And what do I feel when I hear this? On some levels I feel guilty. But stronger than that, I feel like I want to be different. I don't want to be just another volunteer who comes and goes and is never heard from again, or else who calls occasionally or visits once, but that's it. I want to keep in contact, call on the phone, write letters to those who have a PO Box, come back for a visit. Thats the least I can do, and its more than most people end up doing. But still, when people are saying these things, I want to stay. Or come back in a more permanant or long term facon. I want to be different. I want to be there for them. I want to hold in esteem the relationships that we forged and give honor to them, by continuation. I'm not ok with just packing up and being another volunteer who has come and gone, especially with the people have opened their hearts to them.
I do have certain dreams that I have fostered over the past year. Dreams of building a house in the mountains between Mafa Kilda and Israel; dreams of starting an agroforestry/permaculture demonstration farm, and art center. Ideas of all the things I could do and work on if I came back in a more permanant fashion, at least part time. (the house and farm are already designed down to the last detail...that's how long I've been thinking about it!) Dreams of seeing all my neighbor kids grow up, being at their weddings, growing old with some of my friends there. But such an endeavor is so difficult, is necessarily long term, and necessarily divides me from my life in the States as well. I've thought about the possibilities of splitting time between the countries, six months here, six months there, but in farm work, that's not optimum, nor even perhaps allowable. And I'm not ready to choose one over the other. So that's where I am: wanting to still spend time in Cameroon, not wanting to abandon the relationships I have, yet not being able to move there permanantly, for the desire of being in my own country with my US friends and family as well. As volunteers, or missionaries, or anyone who does longterm service in another country, we become somewhat schizophrenic. Are we Cameroonian or American? While still American, and still holding most American perspectives, there are parts of me that have become Cameroonian I think. It's ways of doing things, ways of living, and even changes in ways of thinking. The funny thing is I'm still American looking on the outside, but the inside is a bit mixed, both in a way. I can contain both within me. But when it comes to where we can live, it's not so easy. We can't live in two places at once. Who knows. Maybe God will open up a way or a path to come back. And if that is the case, I will feel a peace about it and feel ready to go. But it still hurts leaving my friends here behind, those who have opened up their hearts to me, who have gotten used to me, and now see me packing up like others as well.
Part of the other reason it has been not as hard for me to say goodbye, is the feeling that I will be back. I will certainly be back to visit, I hope in the next 2-3 years, but perhaps for longer. Of course, this is a feeling, and it may be that it doesn't materialize. And if not, then maybe my mourning will come, farther down the road. In many ways I feel like the departure has not hit me and that perhaps when I get to the States, it will hit me and I will be more sad there. We shall see.
Hapsatou, Daly's wife
Peace Corps staff: Bubakary, Aboubakary, Amadou Toukour, and Issa Maman
I love this photo! Nguizaye Rebecca with Ndel Na Rachel
The whole family from Mafa Kilda, with Kelly and Me 
Yesterday we held the ceremony for the distribution of certificates for the refugees at Langui who participated in the Trees for the Future class. Our ceremony was combined with another certificate ceremony for a group of 15 young refugees who completed an 18 month training in technical work in Pitoa. The ceremony was planned by the Red Cross, UNHCR, and myself. Everyone showed up in their nicest clothes and so proud and happy and excited, and it was beautiful to see. There were only a few people not present, and many were accompanied by their families. Each refugee who took the exam received an attestation of participation. Those who scored high enough on the exam received a certificate from Trees for the Future. We took so many photos! My mouth was sore afterwards from smiling. At the end of the ceremony, the surprised me with a presentation of two beautiful gifts: a carved and burned calabash with the emblam of their group for tree planting, and a carved wooden statue (I believe of me), a woman holding a baby tree. I was very moved.
The group (Pascal, Warda Jean, Metsina Michel, Dakoza Anonias, Rokona Paul) with some kids and Kelly 
