I'm on a horse.

Today was the day after the day that Simone came back. (The only person who really understands this is Sarah—gods I miss you woman.) Simone was the nickname that I gave to my “stomach parasite” (which has not yet been proven to actually exist) and gives me someone to blame by name, which is highly satisfactory.

I basically stayed in yesterday, pitied myself, and ranger’ed my chambre. It wasn’t horrible, but it did give me a hot second to sit down and think about where I am and what I want to do with this experience. (I hear that most people become reflective when approaching their doom. [Doom is the name of my toilet, in case you were wondering]). First things first, I am more convinced than ever that I do want to move.

I haven’t fully described my living situation, I don’t think, at this point. I live in a beautiful secret-garden-like keep with walls and a guardian and a dog. I have no neighbors and no one is expected to be here until the 25^th, I have no one to ask stupid questions to like “what do I do with my trash?” or “what is the best kind of detergent to get when I want to wash my clothes” or "how much do I pay for [insert item here]?" Quite frankly people, I need women friends and I need another ‘mother’ who can help me out. (Mary is very far away right now.)

Having been convinced of this I am now ready to take the steps to get out of my political situation, which is at its base driven by where I live. I really need to go speak with the Mgr. and get his blessing for my removal from the highly prestigious and frankly lovely, but lonely place, which is intended to be the housing for transient journalists and my students. I kind of came to that realization yesterday, so with that decision under my belt I am ready to move forward! Really! (ok, I’m a little nervous about it, but I’m sure it will be fine.)

On the upside, my classes do not start until the 25^th so I have some time to mosey around town and really get my bearings. The Peace Corps people have been amazing—having me over, answering my questions, telling me things that they learned in their training. It’s not just Grace and Patricia, there are also others who have been through Bertoua: Jackie, Janelle, Jessica, Nick and Marie. They’re all brilliant and kind and generous with the information that they have learned from their four months to over a year of time in Cameroon. Grace even let me read her COSMO today, man is that magazine getting raunchier and raunchier.

It’s stuff like that that makes me miss America, just the ridiculousness of it all. On the bright side it sparked the remembrance of the “Old Spice Man”, gods that commercial is hilarious, “Look at your man, now look at me, look back at him and now at me….”  Grace and I loaded the youtube video (it took ten gazillion hours) and watched its entire 30 seconds laughing hysterically.

Then I got to meet up with Marie, Jackie (I’d met her here the other day for fish in the Latin Quarter—the name of a bar that used to be there? I think?) and Nick. It was fun, we went back to the Latin Quarter and I got the lady to break my 5 thou! For those of you in the United States you don’t realize how difficult it is to make change, it’s a game you’re constantly playing; the winner is the one who has the most small coins. (Granted you want to have, ideally, lots of 50 and 100 cfa pieces, 500 is okay in a pinch, but 5 cfa pieces and anything larger than 5 thousand are next to useless. You’re welcome.)

When I got back to my fantasy garden land tonight, there were/are still workers out. The deadline for finishing all their projects is October 25 (that’s one week) and they’re cutting it close. Now let's set the stage: it's dark, there is very little lighting and it's me and like 8 men. I have just gotten into the compound and have started walking, determinedly, towards my room trying not to make eye contact with anyone.

One guy comes up to me, all authoritative-like (I HATE that, for the record) and goes (in French):

Him: so you’re the stranger, I haven’t met you yet. That doesn’t seem right.

(In my head, ‘Dude, I’ve been around’)

Him: my name is Bienvenue.

Me: *giggle—wondering if that’s true* Nice to meet you.

*awkward pause—where I wonder if I can leave now*

Him: what is your name?

Me: (In my head ‘oh, the pause was for me to tell him who I am, of course it was….silly Cameroon, I can’t read your mind.’) Meera

Him: Mireille?

Me: no, Meera, it sounds different than Mireille. Meera/ Mireille. (I’ve been doing this all week. I also get Miriam a lot—it’s my Jewish roots Jem.)

Him: You don’t speak French like an American. That’s good.

Me: Good luck on your construction.

Then I just wandered off to my room thinking; ‘I really love having a courtyard full of strangers when I sleep.’

That’s all folks, re-enactments of this play can be seen at the Bourbon Theatre in Lincoln immediately following Pecha Kucha.

P.S. Also, I wrote a long blog entry yesterday that magically was lost in my computer along with a letter to Gerise about Calixthe Beyala. It’s really frustrating (but perhaps explanatory) that the only websites I can access at home are blogspot, gmail the html version, and with a lot of luck and inchallah-ing: facebook (the reason this blog posts on facebook was because I was smart enough to set that up before I left the country). I’m going to have to recreate both, though I will skip out on most of the illuminating aspects of yesterday. You’re welcome in advance.