I’ve had a couple of requests recently, and the people must be heard! First, this blog lacks the personal smut that some are searching for. Apparently, I have kept my distance from the grime and published that information which, while factual, contains little of the “Me” that is in Africa. Luckily I was given a subsequent request that would quickly, and rather painlessly, resolve the initial constructive criticism. Thank goodness for the immediacy of the Internet! Big shout outs go to Gert and Mari for their input. We here at the blog that blogs the bloggingest value your support, and will do our utmost to adhere to those requests that seem sensible at the time. And now, as promised, a day in the life of “Me”:

It is entirely impossible to present a synopsis of my daily routine, as “routine” is a word that, for better and worse, ceases to exist in my world these days. Therefore, this will most likely be a regular series. Since the censors either have bigger grilled fish to, um, grill, we will most likely remain on the blog network to make this series possible.

Yesterday, I remember it like it was less than 24 hours ago, as most of it was. A good day I have to admit. Around 4 am the rooster crowed (or do rooster’s roost since crows crow?) beckoning me to begin my day. If he thought I was going to raise my lazy behind from my comfortable bed at such an hour he had a better chance of laying an egg than achieving that daunting task. So, I slept on, armed with industrial strength earplugs, thanks Mom. After being awoken by my cell phone alarm around 7:30 am, I rolled out of bed to meet the day and my daily prescription of anti-malaria medication and multivitamin. From here I ventured into my bathroom fully equipped with a running shower. That’s right folks! No more tub baths and outhouse for this PCV. Granted I have no warm water, but, due to my present state (Love you Christina), cold showers are a regiment I welcome. After getting cleaned up, I went back to my room to get dressed.

A brief aside about dressing in Cameroon: They dress well, and, while they may give a reprieve to a visitor, I’m a resident and receive no such accommodation. Therefore, for the most part, I dress nicely when venturing out in public (i.e. dress pants, polo shirt, wingtips, etc). When at home, though, I thug. Heck, I gotta be me.

After dressing to impress, my doorbell rang and in came my buddy and resident housecleaner/laundry-doer, Maxcellanus, or Mooket, as he is lovingly referred to. He was there bright and early to wash my “dressings”. After having a breakfast of beignets, oatmeal, and coffee together, we were both off to work.

My walk to work takes about 30 minutes on average. A taxi ride is less than 20 cents each way, but I enjoy seeing how the town is moving and seeing people along the way. Slowly people are changing from greeting me with “White Man” to “Eric”, or by the nickname that has taken hold, Erico. This particular walk to work I noticed that our friendly neighborhood goat had had a baby. Cute as cute could be was the kid, all white with little black spots displayed intermittently. Many of us wanted goats as pets during training until we found out that they’d eat us out of house, home, and canned goods.

When I arrived at work I quickly became aware that there was little to do today. My office mates were preoccupied with the upcoming “International Credit Union Day” on October 22nd. Evidently, when I was in Yaoundé last week for the SED committee my counterpart and a couple of auditors were called away to Douala for training on a new software program for the credit unions. Therefore, with little direction, the unions had not followed through on the preparation for the event. I could lend little assistance in this area, as I know very little about how to throw a successful African celebration. Instead, I stayed out of the way and studied the instruction manual for the new software program.

Before lunch I was visited by one of my buddies, Poli, who was seeking career counseling. We took a walk, talked, and then he went on his way and I went to “Sticky Fingers”, the best damn eatery in Kumba. Whenever I go there I feel like Norm from Cheers. Sona, my friend and neighbor, basically runs the joint, so I’m always welcomed with a big ole “Erico!”, and a handshake with a snap at the end (a custom I will undoubtedly be introducing to the US). I played it fairly safe with the food on this day: Rice, spicy tomato sauce with cuts of beef, and ripe plantains. After chopping plenty and flopping, I headed back to work to continue my instructional manual studies. Typically, I head back home about 4:30 pm, but stuck around until just after 5 pm to get a bit more studying done. Work lately has been all about knowledge acquisition.

Upon returning home I was ready for a little rest and relaxation. I pulled out my most recent piece of reading, “Rivethead” by Ben Hamper (An assembly line romp that I highly recommend), and sat myself on my porch in preparation for an African sunset to be followed by some stargazing. Darkness slowly settled into the landscape and home came Sona, Mooket, and, another chum, Etengeneng (the General). We’d decided at our lunch meeting that they’d come over and we’d cook some Pepe soup (See above photos of preparation of the aforementioned chow). The basic ingredients are beef, carrots, green beans, pepe, and a side of steamed coco yams. Coincidently, one of my neighbors, Greg, was cooking the same thing and offered us a bowl to add to our feast. Halfway through the meal I commented on how the beef Sona had picked up that day was much better than the stuff Greg had doled out to us. Sona responded that it wasn’t beef Greg had put in his soup. After further investigation I believe what had eaten was a relative of the crocodile, although there was a brief reference to the Mole Rat. Regardless, they seemed happy with simply the label of “bush meat”, and so was I.

(This blog in no way condones nor promotes the mastication or imbibing of “bush meat” or its byproducts. Whenever the writer, the “Me”, learns that “bush meat” has been served he promptly leaves the table in a huff mumbling something about endangered species and hugs the nearest tree. It should be noted, however, that not all forms of “bush meat” are from the flesh of extinct animals, although this publication has no source documentation with which to back this presumption.)

A fine meal having been had by all, I was off to watch the tail end of the Chelsea Football Club’s match. As I walked along the dirt road to Liverpool Bar, the neighborhood football-watching center, I gazed up at the full moon and random planet hanging together in the sky. “Me” is in Africa, and it is a wonderful place.

Sorry for the insanely long episode this time around, but I felt, due to the sincerity of the requests, a lengthy depiction was warranted. That, and I kind of like to write. I just hope you all like to read.