Yaounde, Cameroon

After about sixteen years away from Cameroon, I am finally back to the country that was my first home. The only problem that I have had since my arrival last Monday is that each day I have so many stories worth recording and not enough time to write them down. These stories all center around interactions with people. Everyone I have met has been gracious, welcoming, and lively. Everywhere I have gone I have felt at home somehow; surrounded by sights, sounds, smells and tastes that feel new and familiar at the same time.

My first encounter with Cameroonian hospitality happened before I even set foot on African soil. Waiting at the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, I met a woman who was dropping off her uncle to fly home to Yaounde. The pair took me under their wing, checking me in and buying me breakfast. The uncle, who turned out to be a prominent judge in Yaounde, became my travel companion for the day. At the airport in Cameroon, he introduced me to his family, and we parted with the promise that we would see each other again soon. The next day, as I was walking down the dusty city streets, I heard someone call my name. I turned my head to the road and there was Saker, my first friend in Yaounde, waving energetically from a passing car.

Over the next few days, I learned that this kind of friendliness is far from unusual in Cameroon. Everywhere I go, I am greeted with friendly "bonjour"s and offers to help me navigate the multi-colored labyrinth that is the capital city. Yesterday, I attended an artisan's fair, filled with merchants from across the nation, as well as throughout the continent. A young woman, dressed beautifully in a patterned green dress, approached my friend and me, requesting that we follow her to her stand. I explained to her that I did not have money with me to buy anything and she responded and she simply wanted us to "discover" her art. At her stand, she showed beautiful wood pieces and taught me to play an African game that seemed to be a confusing version of Mancala. We chatted, took pictures together, and exchanged contact information so that she could invite me to a traditional festival in her village. When I left, she gave me a beautiful Cameroonian mask as a present; a "souvenir" of the fair.

This morning was another fantastic experience. My "grandmother", the 74 year old woman that I live with, took me to the market to buy fresh fish and fruit. In addition to being the site of my first marriage proposal, the market was a wild adventure. Everywhere I looked, I saw young boys pushing wheelbarrows filled with every type of fruit imaginable, women arguing over prices, and men holding live chickens upside down by their legs, two in each hand. Our first stop was at a "poissonerie", where we examined numerous varieties of dead fish, and watched as workers cleaned and chopped the ones that we selected, sending scales flying in every direction. After this, we strolled hand in hand past countless stalls, stopping occasionally to buy produce for the rest of the week. When we finally left, loaded with heavy bags, music erupted around us. There, with the sun shining down on my face, I felt so happy and so at home that I felt as if I could cry. It was that moment that I truly believed what so many people have told me; that I am back to my roots.

Manternach, Luxembourg

Photo by Christian Steinbach

In some ways, my stay in Luxembourg feels like living in a fairytale. My perspective is of course biased; with no school or work, I have no real responsibilities to mar my impression of beauty and simplicity. One cannot deny, however, that the setting is reminiscent of a storybook illustration. Picturesque countryside stretches out in all directions over rolling hills, spattered with the occasional rural village, always filled with multi-colored houses and the steeple of a Catholic church rising above all the roftops. Now, as I gaze out the window at Manternach, I cannot help but feel as though the even layer of snow dusted on the streets and buildings gives the village an even more charming appearance. The one unexpected factor is the pervading aroma of cows outside; a logical phenomenon for such a pastoral landscape but somehow always left out of the fairytales in the same setting.

Even in this environment, however, I cannot shake the desire to be productive in some way, an urge that I have satisfied by establishing the goal of "training" for walking the Camino de Santiago de Compostela in the Spring. This May, I will join hundreds of pilgrims to trek the famous Route of Saint James through France and Spain. In preparation, I have been spending my days in Luxembourg wandering along country roads. The first day that I ventured off on my own, I walked from Manternach to the next village, Berbourg, along gravel roads where one is more likely to meet a horse than a human; more likely to be run over by a tractor than a car. Somewhere along that path, surrounded by fields in all directions, I came across a sign with a blue background and a yellow pictogram of a shell, the symbol of Saint James, aka Santiago. There I was, in the Luxembourg countryside, breaking in my hiking boots for the Camino, and I discovered that I was already on it.

New Years in Paris

New Years Eve, le Réveillon, is perhaps the one magical night of the year that Parisians seem to be consistently cheery, eager to wish strangers a "Bonne Année" with a fist bump or a kiss on the cheek. For Christian and me, the festivities began after a busy day of sightseeing. After wandering along the cobblestone streets of Montmartre, we found our restaurant, less than a hundred yards from the Sacrée Coeur Cathedral but tucked away from the main tourist thoroughfare. It was a cozy, familiar atmosphere, with delicious food and friendly owners who served us our meals themselves. Our waitress had the air of a slightly overbearing mother, checking on us every five minutes, enlisting our help to translate menu items for other anglophone customers, and offering unsolicited advice on what to order. "No, no, no...ze andouillette...eet eez not for you," she proclamed firmly to our Dutch neighbors.

Just before midnight, we positioned ourselves at the top of the hill to ring in the New Year, while overlooking the city. Foggy weather made it difficult to see the main fireworks show, but we were nevertheless surrounded by an explosion of firecrackers set off by locals and tourists alike. On our way back to the hotel, we ran into a pair of young men who addressed us in broken French, asking "Ah kell urr kee-tay lah metro?" Christian was bewildered, but luckily I am fluent in American French, and was able to respond that I had no idea when the metro would stop running.

Overall, the four days that we spent in Paris were very enjoyable. We loved staring at Monet's enormous water lily paintings at the Orangerie, eating roasted chestnuts at the Christmas market, and of course, comparing outrageous fur clothing. My favorite ensemble belonged to a pampered Parisian dog, poking its head out of its owner's purse and wearing a fur coat. Now, I have arrived in Luxembourg and am ready to embark on three weeks of intensive relaxation before flying to Cameroon. I look forward to many new adventures in 2010 and wish all of my family and friends a Bonne Année!