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04 December 2013
FAMSTECAM, Steve shared something with you on Stitcher Radio.
06 June 2012
21 January 2011
... It's in the Mail
Sunday is John Hancock's birthday. In what I consider a masterstroke of marketing, the writing utensil industry designated January 23 National Handwriting Day, one of those made-up holidays that at least is a little fun. I've written several letters by hand and sent them on their way (only one of my Facebook friends took me up on the offer). Some I mailed from work, which has a drop box with service to the States. 
That's only once a week, and the letters I'd saved for Thursday and Friday had to go through CamPost, the local mail. No one uses this system - the post offices are mailing just for paying bills and employing government workers. I will write you a letter if you ask, but in the meantime here's what a post office in Cameroon looks like.
16 January 2011
Happy Martin Luther King, Jr., Day. Really?
Tomorrow is the King Holiday. The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., would be 82 years old. I was four when he died, so I have no first-hand recollection of his fight for his dream, my nation's loss when he was killed, or the progress, both perfected and unfulfilled, in the 43 years since that spring night in Memphis.
Having Girl 1 end the day with some understanding of how different her life would be had Dr. King not waged his fight will be the best present either one of us could give the other. My job as dad, and my debt to Dr. King, is to figure that out.
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| Color me black. |
But when my five-year-old asked me if we get presents for the King Holiday ("Well, it's a holiday ..."), I realize that I have to decide how I want her to live his legacy. Though the day is not a holiday in Africa (or, apparently in fair-weather parts of the US - what's up with that, people?), in our house our school and office have the day off, so we'll be together.
I know we're going to talk about Dr. King, and have a little coloring fun. But I'm grasping as to how to put this in context. We walk outside, and every single person we see is Black African, except the expat community bubble we live in, which is decidedly more integrated. How do I start to instill the Black American experience in a little girl in Black Africa?
Having Girl 1 end the day with some understanding of how different her life would be had Dr. King not waged his fight will be the best present either one of us could give the other. My job as dad, and my debt to Dr. King, is to figure that out.
09 January 2011
A Saturday's Errands in Yaounde
Yesterday's errands. (Nothing earth-shattering here - offered solely as an example of what we do because Tysons is too far.)
Love. Girl One has agreed to take tennis lessons at French-speaking center. We hope she'll enjoying playing with children and communicating in French, an opportunity we haven't taken advantage of much in our first year. We also hope she'll develop a better backhand than Steve's. The center's closed until Monday, when she'll have her first lesson. We'll try again and hope there's a spot on the court for her.
But Steve knew a shortcut and turned a 10-minute drive into a half-hour struggle through the city's main market on a Saturday. We jostled alongside, around and over taxis, streetside vendors, wheelbarrows, a pig, and pedestrians. We hit an epic African logjam, an intersection where cars ignored not only the traffic signals but the other cars already gridlocked in the intersection to create an impasse.
Shave and a Haircut: 3 mille. Fatimah may have cut her hair short, but it still grows, and managing her natural cut has proven a problem. Ah, the irony: who would think the Black woman hair care issue would surface in a country full of Black women? But after several ageometric haircut where a hapless coiffure tried to use scissors to shape up her Afro, Steve took her to his barber.
Do not smirk. Twice since accepting his hair challenges, Steve has grown his hair enough to require a visit to the barber, usually after a vacation during which he hasn't shaved his head enough to keep his scalp clean.
Sakoto'o, a barber in the Bastos neighborhood, is about 2 km from our house. The Girls and I escorted her to the shop, and we explained in broken French what she wanted: "Plus court." He took out the trusted, if aged, electric clippers and sheared layer upon layer from Fatimah's head. The barber tamed her hair into a sphere, salted with experience and the time since her last touch-up! The haircut took about 15 minutes -- no waiting -- and cost 3,000 francs - six bucks. (Tell them about that at the salon!)
Does this make my butt look fat? Tailors and seamstresses throughout Cameroon design and construct regal and vibrant run a vibrant business here, designing and constructing regal costumes. The country's third-largest industry is textile production, and many of the pagnes that are cut and sewn into outfits are domestically spun. One of the things to do here is to acquire a few outfits of your own - though they will stand out on Washington's Metro, they are quite normal and well-received here.
A friend at work recommended Couterie Ibrahim, her tailor, and after the haircut we ordered a few outfits--but first we had to find his shop. A few streets in Cameroon have official names (or numbers) but no one uses them. Instead, every trip is described in relation to its surroundings. When she started to tell us where the place was, Steve joked that it was "down that road, past the Texaco, and next to a quincaillerie." He was just making this up--this could describe nearly any location in the capital, but she nodded, clarifying that it was really a few storefronts down from the hardware store.
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| She drew us a map. |
But Steve knew a shortcut and turned a 10-minute drive into a half-hour struggle through the city's main market on a Saturday. We jostled alongside, around and over taxis, streetside vendors, wheelbarrows, a pig, and pedestrians. We hit an epic African logjam, an intersection where cars ignored not only the traffic signals but the other cars already gridlocked in the intersection to create an impasse.
In Ibrahim's shop we looked through stacks of photos of his past creations, and several Afro-European fashion mags. We had bought our own fabric, so our challenge was find a style for him. Fatimah was sized for an ensemble, a two-piece top and skirt that is standard Cameroonian wear, and a full dress. Ibrahim was especially taken with the fabric she'd brought for the dress. Steve asked for a tunic-and-trousers combination much like what Ibrahim himself was wearing. While he sized Steve, Ibrahim said he reminded him of the president of Senegal, which seems like a non sequitur until we realized that our tailor was from Dakar, which with Abidjan is the hub of the African fashion. The outfits will be ready on January 19, and we'll show the results.
01 August 2010
Another quick running update
As I tweeted, I continue to surprise myself with my morning runs. This time I got lost behind the national stadium. To be fair, it was only my second time on these streets, but to be honest I had a 50,000-seat stadium as a marker, so I should have kept my bearings.
Highlights: after dodging several scores, at Mile 6.5 I finally bumped into a pedestrian. How can people be so oblivious to everyone when traffic is so crazy? They guy was shocked, then insulted, then amused.
I noticed the too-true slogan on the 50th anniversary signs plastered everywhere: Peace and Unity Today, Prosperity Tomorrow.
I left about 2 hours later this morning, and the recreation scene at the stadium (Mile 5) was winding down. Only a few stragglers were left finishing up their games, and the hordes of group exercises left only empty parking lots surround Ahidjo Stadium.
I just plain got lost at Mile 6. I overshot my quick right, and went back and forth on the main road until I saw the Barack Cafe. That had to be right, right? A zig and a few zags later I was back on my route.
Mile 8 tells me what happens if a tree falls in Yaounde: power goes out, roads are blocked and people nearly get crushed. You can make out a tree near the end of my run, but on the next update it'll be gone: someone has cleared the lot to build. The tree had a broad green bough about 40 feet off the ground, stubbornly clinging to the rich red clay beneath it. Until Mr. Caterpillar came to town. The crew cut through the roots, but misaligned the fall. As the tree crashed earthward, it veers not toward the vacant lot, but instead at an apartment building. It fell short (lucky for the three spectators atop the building) but took out power lines along the street before crashing its ancient branches across the road to our house. The lumber is cleared, and the power? Well, that's the other side of the street, so ...
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| Once into the fray |
Highlights: after dodging several scores, at Mile 6.5 I finally bumped into a pedestrian. How can people be so oblivious to everyone when traffic is so crazy? They guy was shocked, then insulted, then amused.
I noticed the too-true slogan on the 50th anniversary signs plastered everywhere: Peace and Unity Today, Prosperity Tomorrow.
I left about 2 hours later this morning, and the recreation scene at the stadium (Mile 5) was winding down. Only a few stragglers were left finishing up their games, and the hordes of group exercises left only empty parking lots surround Ahidjo Stadium.
I just plain got lost at Mile 6. I overshot my quick right, and went back and forth on the main road until I saw the Barack Cafe. That had to be right, right? A zig and a few zags later I was back on my route.
Mile 8 tells me what happens if a tree falls in Yaounde: power goes out, roads are blocked and people nearly get crushed. You can make out a tree near the end of my run, but on the next update it'll be gone: someone has cleared the lot to build. The tree had a broad green bough about 40 feet off the ground, stubbornly clinging to the rich red clay beneath it. Until Mr. Caterpillar came to town. The crew cut through the roots, but misaligned the fall. As the tree crashed earthward, it veers not toward the vacant lot, but instead at an apartment building. It fell short (lucky for the three spectators atop the building) but took out power lines along the street before crashing its ancient branches across the road to our house. The lumber is cleared, and the power? Well, that's the other side of the street, so ...
13 July 2010
Layovers in Our Travels
One of the unfortunate things about living off the regular airline grid is that to get anywhere we usually face long airport layovers. Unfortunately, this gives us much more time than we need to get to know the airports en route. Fortunately, more and more airports provide comfort services, including playrooms for wee travelers.
BRU
On our way to Yaounde, we routed through Brussels, and found a small, clean play area in an international terminal. This was the Girls' first time in Europe, and they celebrated by doing what little girls do best: playing.
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| Girl 2 |
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| Girl 1 |
NBO
In January, on an interesting, if luggage-challenged trip, to Kigali, Rwanda, we were lucky enough to schedule an 8-hour layover in Nairobi's Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. (Where is my left-leaning font when I need it?) Kenya's trying - there is a great coffee and beer pub in the far end of the airport, and you can easily while away a few hours there talking trash about cricket and CNN's Zain Verjee.
NBO has a children's changing area which, inexplicably, is up a flight of stairs, rendering it useless to anyone who's traveling with wheels. They also have a brightly lit playroom, with well-loved (read battered) toys and an instructive view of the tarmac.
The decorators' idea was to use familiar cartoon figures, but draw them so badly that no one could seriously claim copyright infringement. I think they pulled it off.
ZRHThe Girls hit paydirt on our summer trip back from to America, transiting this time through Zurich. Wouldn't you know it: the Swiss had a playroom that made the six-hour wait seem like only four. The Girls had fun - remember, this is midway through a 22-hour one-way trip, and they're still going strong.
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| Bonus: Meeting cute EuroKids |
11 July 2010
Sunday Run
Today I met the Melissa, Satan's Intern, and ran a new route. Mel is very nice, and a talented worker, but she's evil -- in the best of all possible ways -- because she tries to run me into the ground whenever we hit the road. I could claim a variety of excuses: she ran for a Division I school for a couple of years; she's half my age; I'm out of shape. But, instead, even as I curse her while trying to keep pace without exploding my internal organs, I admit that I'm inspired by running with someone I just can't keep up with.
Yet. Of course, as on today's run, if she's run 10 miles the day before, and stayed up all night partying, I have an outside shot. Here's today's run (You can follow along here; I'm still trying to copy these Google Map images to the page, without success. Hints welcome.) :
KM 1 - After meeting Melissa, we coast downhill past several supermarket, and find Yaounde surprisingly bustle-y for 7 on Sunday morning.
KM 2 - We pass one of the major traffic rond points, Nlongkak, and run through a cloverleaf that includes the only automotive underpass for miles around.
KM 3 - Ste. Anastasie park on the right; Old Mahima, our main supermarket, on the left. We are early enough that the people who sell fake license plates aren't out yet.
KM 4 - The Lake. It's an unnatural green, tinted by the runoff from the hills around it. The Prime Minister's residence is somewhere on the other side.
KM 5 - Huffing and puffing up a long, twisty hill for the last kilometer, we're at the top, where the American School of Yaounde sits empty for another month.
KM 6 - What goes up ... a winding slope around the lake, past one of the Defense Ministry headquarters.
KM 7 - Boulevard of the 20th of May, the official promenade for big events. The Hilton, the nicest hotel in town, is on this stretch. We run by empty bleachers, and the screens where tonight fans will watch World Cup final.
KM 8 - There are a lot of supermarkets in this city, and that sharp curve was around Casino, the priciest - and nicest. We pass a cathedral, before we hit a commercial zone (and an unpleasant uphill). I am running, mon ami. Why would I buy a soccer ball right now?
KM 9 - I'm winging it now, but it comes together. We pass the park yet again, then run by China's gift to Cameroonian sports, the Palais du Sport. It looks like a mini Bird's Next from the Beijing Olympics.
KM 10 - It's all uphill from here on out. I warn that there's a rise for a third of a mile, but I'm optimistic. We have to dodge people at an impromptu taxi stand at the Total gas station here.
KM 11 - We stop at Tsinga plaza, where an exercise school of about 40 people is gathering for calisthenics on a hard, brick courtyard. Melissa and I are going in different directions, so this ends the official part of our run.
It's a good way to start the day, and I was very happy to be back home by 9, in time to shower and take a nap before the rest of the world was fully awake. I like making up new routes, and will have to do that again. I'll also have to be sure Satan's finest is good and tired before we head out.
Yet. Of course, as on today's run, if she's run 10 miles the day before, and stayed up all night partying, I have an outside shot. Here's today's run (You can follow along here; I'm still trying to copy these Google Map images to the page, without success. Hints welcome.) :
KM 1 - After meeting Melissa, we coast downhill past several supermarket, and find Yaounde surprisingly bustle-y for 7 on Sunday morning.
KM 2 - We pass one of the major traffic rond points, Nlongkak, and run through a cloverleaf that includes the only automotive underpass for miles around.
KM 3 - Ste. Anastasie park on the right; Old Mahima, our main supermarket, on the left. We are early enough that the people who sell fake license plates aren't out yet.
KM 4 - The Lake. It's an unnatural green, tinted by the runoff from the hills around it. The Prime Minister's residence is somewhere on the other side.
KM 5 - Huffing and puffing up a long, twisty hill for the last kilometer, we're at the top, where the American School of Yaounde sits empty for another month.
KM 6 - What goes up ... a winding slope around the lake, past one of the Defense Ministry headquarters.
KM 7 - Boulevard of the 20th of May, the official promenade for big events. The Hilton, the nicest hotel in town, is on this stretch. We run by empty bleachers, and the screens where tonight fans will watch World Cup final.
KM 8 - There are a lot of supermarkets in this city, and that sharp curve was around Casino, the priciest - and nicest. We pass a cathedral, before we hit a commercial zone (and an unpleasant uphill). I am running, mon ami. Why would I buy a soccer ball right now?
KM 9 - I'm winging it now, but it comes together. We pass the park yet again, then run by China's gift to Cameroonian sports, the Palais du Sport. It looks like a mini Bird's Next from the Beijing Olympics.
KM 10 - It's all uphill from here on out. I warn that there's a rise for a third of a mile, but I'm optimistic. We have to dodge people at an impromptu taxi stand at the Total gas station here.
KM 11 - We stop at Tsinga plaza, where an exercise school of about 40 people is gathering for calisthenics on a hard, brick courtyard. Melissa and I are going in different directions, so this ends the official part of our run.
It's a good way to start the day, and I was very happy to be back home by 9, in time to shower and take a nap before the rest of the world was fully awake. I like making up new routes, and will have to do that again. I'll also have to be sure Satan's finest is good and tired before we head out.
09 May 2010
More Than a Mommy
It's Mother's Day, and our girls joined in a musical celebration of their mom's ... maternity.
Here are the girls after they joined Dad in a tribute to Mom, to the tune of Tavares's disco smash, "More Than a Woman."
Here are the girls after they joined Dad in a tribute to Mom, to the tune of Tavares's disco smash, "More Than a Woman."
Mom I’ve known you very well
You see me growing every day
I never cleaned my room before
But now I put my toys away
You’ve always been here in my life
Telling me what to do
You’re always working day and night
You show me what I need to do.
Here in my room I found my paradise
I get to laugh and play with you
And if I don’t listen, I get a time out
I’ll stop acting like a baby
I will act all right
I’ll grow up to be like you and I’ll be just fine
You are more than a mommy
More than a mommy to me
More than a mommy
More than a mommy to me
You read me stories yes you do
Of moons and dinosaurs
You do so many things you like
You even like to mountain bike
You cook, you shop, you play your games
You teach me how to paint and write
I know when I do something wrong
You’d teach me how to do it right
You are the best Mom I could ever have
You’re the only Mom I’ll ever know
And if I stub my toe, I know your kiss will heal
Say I’ll always be your baby
Say that you’ll be my mine
We will be together every minute of the time
You are more than a mommy
More than a mommy to me
More than a mommy
More than a mommy to me
01 April 2010
Fallen
It’s so bad that at this point I can’t even apologize for having fallen off the blog wagon. It’s May in Cameroon, and we’re already contemplating a triumphant return home for a few weeks, even as we plot out more sight and smells to see and ... well, smell.
Watch this space, as I’ll be back-blogging for a bit to share the past few months, before taking off without signaling into the rond point of the future.
28 February 2010
February update
Hello, and happy March (almost). As most of the US is digging out from the snow, or has just stopped trying, we're happier here in Cameroon, because the dry season is finally coming to an end. Oh, mind you, even when the rains start, it will still be hot, but at least we'll get a break from the drilling sun and blazing, arid air. Yes, there's a downside: yesterday, Fatimah's tennis tournament was canceled. But if ever there was a city that needs a cleansing purge, its name is Yaounde. Also, there's a crippling water shortage, and while we're ok, up to 75% of the city doesn't have running water.
Aaliyah's continuing with school, and learning more and more. Each week the teacher leads the class through a series of drills based on a series of something. We started the year with colors, and now we're up to W in the alphabet, and discussing a lot about recycling. Which, as Aly would explain, is when you use something more than once. Her swimming lessons are continuing, and she's making her way across the pool without anything to support her. It's a little scary to watch, actually, but so impressive.
Fatimah, as I mentioned, is taking tennis lessons -- the first time she's ever played! She and I have played a few times and we're about even at this point. But I played 30 years ago on the courts in back of the Burke estate, while she's learning and getting better every time. She's also taking aerobics twice a week, working more than part-time advising students on how to study in America, and in the thick of the play group rotations in the expatriate community. Oh, and she has a family. Whew! Fatimah took us on a work trip to Rwanda last month.
Zana is her own person now. She wants to do everything Aaliyah does, of course, but she also has her own defined likes and needs. One of her favorite things to do is to hop up from bed and roam the house at 9 pm, looking for someone to play with. She laughs, tells funny stories, and knows how to put crayon to construction paper. She's more of a Dora the Exploradora girl in a Backyardigans household.
As for Steve, the struggles continue with the French: As Steve Martin said decades ago, it's like they have a different word for everything. The job is going well, and I have a niche in the Embassy that I'm trying to broaden to the American community here. I took us all on a work trip to Equatorial Guinea last month, a tiny republic off the coast of Cameroon. That's a passport stamp you don't see that often. Last week I ran 20 miles in a race. It took me 8 hours, but that's because the Race of Hope runs up and down Mt. Cameroon, the tallest volcano in the region!
We've joined the Skypeverse (FAMSBRAbroad), and we're continuing with our blog at http://famstecam.blogspot.com, though we're not updating as often as we'd like. Hope you can follow us there, or drop us a line. Look for Roysters and Mateen coming to country near you in May.
Steve, Fatimah, Aalilyah & Zana
Aaliyah's continuing with school, and learning more and more. Each week the teacher leads the class through a series of drills based on a series of something. We started the year with colors, and now we're up to W in the alphabet, and discussing a lot about recycling. Which, as Aly would explain, is when you use something more than once. Her swimming lessons are continuing, and she's making her way across the pool without anything to support her. It's a little scary to watch, actually, but so impressive.
Fatimah, as I mentioned, is taking tennis lessons -- the first time she's ever played! She and I have played a few times and we're about even at this point. But I played 30 years ago on the courts in back of the Burke estate, while she's learning and getting better every time. She's also taking aerobics twice a week, working more than part-time advising students on how to study in America, and in the thick of the play group rotations in the expatriate community. Oh, and she has a family. Whew! Fatimah took us on a work trip to Rwanda last month.
Zana is her own person now. She wants to do everything Aaliyah does, of course, but she also has her own defined likes and needs. One of her favorite things to do is to hop up from bed and roam the house at 9 pm, looking for someone to play with. She laughs, tells funny stories, and knows how to put crayon to construction paper. She's more of a Dora the Exploradora girl in a Backyardigans household.
We've joined the Skypeverse (FAMSBRAbroad), and we're continuing with our blog at http://famstecam.blogspot.com, though we're not updating as often as we'd like. Hope you can follow us there, or drop us a line. Look for Roysters and Mateen coming to country near you in May.
Steve, Fatimah, Aalilyah & Zana
22 February 2010
Race of Hope, Part Deux
So I'm halfway up this mountain, right? And it's starting to hurt ...
Hut 2.5 started to separate the finishers from the rest. By the time I got there, a half dozen runners were sleeping, flat on their backs, as the volunteers and soldiers assigned to assist made sure they didn’t roll back down the side of the mountain. I had been walking for some time by this point, alternating 100 walking steps with 100, then 50, then 20 running strides. But I passed on through - I figured that I’d only been out 3 and a half hours at that point, and if I hit a fourth wind, I could make up for my earlier sluggishness. An hour later, though, with Hut 3 within screaming distance, I encountered a man walking down the mountain with a backpack. Turns out he’d been manning Hut 3, and after a cold, lonely night on the mountain waiting for the runners, it was close enough to noon that he was calling it quits.
He gently suggested that he wasn’t going to make it. Since he had been part of the race course, and he was going home, he probably had a point. I sat and talked with him a bit, lightening his load by wolfing down bread and water, sharing some with the few stragglers still behind me. In the end, though 4 more passed me, I called it quits, picked up a volcanic pebble, and began my descent.
Even in defeat, the scenery was breathtaking. The mountain is its own habitat, sequestered from the world below by its sheer elevation. I chatted with an American who’d come from Nigeria to run the race. We compared notes, then started to jog down ... and I couldn’t. I was stuck halfway up a huge-ass mountain, and could no longer run. With nowhere to go but down, those runners who had passed me and completed the ascent, passed me on the way back, leaving me once again at the back of the pack, this time above them all.
Hut 1 had been a festival, volunteers gaily sharing water and cheers to those who’d dared climb so high. Now, hours later and on the way down, it was a ghost village, with straggler voluneers packing in the last few empty water bottles. And on I trudged. A gentle rain tapped the broad, flat leaves overhead as I re-entered the forested approach to the foot of the mountain. At the lowest point, I stopped to relieve myself (at least I’d managed to stay hydrated) only to have a resident appear and scold me for going too close to a water well (I didn’t know it was still in use. Really!). I got lost trying to return to the roadway, then teamed with fellow tortoises for the last four twisting miles to the stadium, and an unnoticed return. I joined with a young girl who had made it to the top, and she and I entered the finish area together... and I roused the few standersby to clap for her as she crossed the arrivée line. She deserved it... maybe in time, I will, too.
Steve, Brad and Pedro
I found Brad and Pedro, who’d gone a little past Hut 1 before deciding this was a silly idea and returned to the start. They’d made some friends, had some beer, and were baking in the sub-Sarahan sun. I’d decided not to take my camera with me, fearing its weight would slow me down. Hindsight, since I'd missed some spectacular scenery and could have shown a whole lot of people running past me.
I ran about 20 miles, and returned to the start about 8 hours after I left. I gave everything I had, but I didn’t make it. I took a piece of the race and the mountain with me. Who knows: one day maybe I’ll put that pebble on the very top of Mt. Fako, and look down, and there will be someone behind me.
21 February 2010
What Goes Up - Race of Hope Part 1
Mt. Cameroon, or Mt. Fako (the traditional name) is the tallest peak in Central Africa. Even cooler, it’s part of a mountain range that includes Bioko, the island part of the nation of Equatorial Guinea. And even more cool, I came dangerously close to the mountaintop.
The Mt. Cameroon Race of Hope is a nearly annual event, and has to rank as the most unique sporting event that loves its football and loves anyone who fait du sport regularly. The race, set in Buea, a German-esque town nestled under the foot of Mt. Cameroon, is simple. Start at the bottom, go the top, turn around, go back. In between is over 3,500 meters of jungle, giving way to a cap of loose volcanic rock. And it’s all uphill.
I went with two guys from the Embassy, Brad and Pedro. I knew I was in the master’s category (polite for old), but Brad did realize that the cutoff age, 35, put him there, too. Pedro, a pup just over 20, was along for the ride. The race organization was supposedly horrendous, but I actually think it was not bad for Cameroon. Sure, I didn’t get a race number, but why else would someone be running in a group of 600 up the side of a frickin’ mountain if they weren’t in the race? I wasn’t thrilled with the T-shirt - a cheap cotton print sure to work wonders on bare skin after it’s soaked with sweat and salt, but that’s about what I have to show for the effort.
As for memories, we gathered at the local stadium and started pretty much close to time. There was a little confusion at the front: officials started handing out black zip ties - first to all runners, then only to masters, then only to juniors. As a result, I had one, then gave it away. Brad got one, zipped it tight around his wrist, then ran to the first aid tent as his hand turned white. The medic, with the finest tools at hand, used nail clippers to save the limb.
And we were off. The first 8 km or so were all uphill, but on pavement. I adopted a slow, steady pace, giving me time to soak in the scene. Bueanupians were up earlier, and gathering in family and gangs to cheer on the runners -- the best time to do so since we wouldn’t look so fresh again for 24 hours. Up, up, up, trying to keep a constant pace as Mt. Fako loomed larger and closer. We turned into a village, onto a dirt road, and the race was on.
Briefly, the race runs up the mountain. There are four checkpoints on the course: Hut 1, Hut 2, Hut 2.5, Hut 3, and the Summit - at 4,000 m. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in shape to truly run. I tried to hold on, pacing myself against the weakest runners in the juniors category, but they soon left me behind. And, since the junior’s race went only to Hut 1, they ran back past me as I continued my climb. Just above Hut 1, the forest gave way to a stark desert, with sharp volcanic rock underfoot. I was amazed that so many runners were so ill-prepared: mis-fitting shoes, plastic sandals over wool socks. Still they all passed me. Still I trudged on.
That's enough for now. Will I make it to the top of Mt. Cameroon? Will I make it back alive? Next time, next time, we'll see.
18 February 2010
Racing Hopefully
Tomorrow we depart for the http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Cameroon_Race_of_Hope. I'm going with Brad and Pedro, and while we're all in it for the adventure, fairly put, none of us is ready for this kind of challenge. And yet we try.
It's really hard to find out about the Race of Hope. It definitely starts and ends in Buea, in the shadow of Mt. Cameroon, the highest peak in Central Africa. And there's definitely a change in elevation, since the course runs an unimproved trail from the town to the summit at 4095 meters. (The current exchange rate is about 3.1 feet to the meter.) But reports differ on how long the race is: anywhere between 38 and 42 km (the standard length for a marathon). I also hear that while the race for the seniors (age 18-40) definitely goes to the top, the veterans (that's me, folks) and the juniors sometimes do, and sometimes don't.
For example, in the 2006 edition, documented in Volcanic Sprint, it was only at the start that the juniors were told their race would only go halfway up the mountain and back. That has to affect your training... but it's better than learning the opposite: that your race is twice as long as you'd planned!
My goal is to get to the top. Unfortunately, my longest training run has only been 18 miles, with nowhere near the grade change. Time is irrelevant here: the course record is about 4:15, testament to the hellish rise to the peak, even if the race is a full marathon length. And with such a change in altitude, the temperature can vary up to 25C from start to the midpoint. And yet we try. After all, this could be the last time the race reaches all the way to the sky...
First, though, we have to get there. We will leave Yaounde at midday, and drive like a collective bat out of hell across Cameroon, hoping to arrive by nightfall. This not only gets us there before roadways go truly insane, but also gives us time to find the race officials who have promised to hold our shirts and race bibs for us. Not to jinx anything, but organization has not always been one of the event's high points. We're taking an American flag, since our very presence only to the international flavor of the event. Unfortunately, we couldn't be in town earlier for the week long Festival of Hope, but with any luck we'll have enough left that we can celebrate a little after we cross the finish line.
It will be a glorious run, though the first time I've lined up for a race that I wasn't positive I would finish. It will hurt, stories will be told, legends made. What's the worst that could happen?
It's really hard to find out about the Race of Hope. It definitely starts and ends in Buea, in the shadow of Mt. Cameroon, the highest peak in Central Africa. And there's definitely a change in elevation, since the course runs an unimproved trail from the town to the summit at 4095 meters. (The current exchange rate is about 3.1 feet to the meter.) But reports differ on how long the race is: anywhere between 38 and 42 km (the standard length for a marathon). I also hear that while the race for the seniors (age 18-40) definitely goes to the top, the veterans (that's me, folks) and the juniors sometimes do, and sometimes don't.
For example, in the 2006 edition, documented in Volcanic Sprint, it was only at the start that the juniors were told their race would only go halfway up the mountain and back. That has to affect your training... but it's better than learning the opposite: that your race is twice as long as you'd planned!
My goal is to get to the top. Unfortunately, my longest training run has only been 18 miles, with nowhere near the grade change. Time is irrelevant here: the course record is about 4:15, testament to the hellish rise to the peak, even if the race is a full marathon length. And with such a change in altitude, the temperature can vary up to 25C from start to the midpoint. And yet we try. After all, this could be the last time the race reaches all the way to the sky...
First, though, we have to get there. We will leave Yaounde at midday, and drive like a collective bat out of hell across Cameroon, hoping to arrive by nightfall. This not only gets us there before roadways go truly insane, but also gives us time to find the race officials who have promised to hold our shirts and race bibs for us. Not to jinx anything, but organization has not always been one of the event's high points. We're taking an American flag, since our very presence only to the international flavor of the event. Unfortunately, we couldn't be in town earlier for the week long Festival of Hope, but with any luck we'll have enough left that we can celebrate a little after we cross the finish line.
It will be a glorious run, though the first time I've lined up for a race that I wasn't positive I would finish. It will hurt, stories will be told, legends made. What's the worst that could happen?
06 February 2010
Running Tour of Yaoundé
In preparation for the Mt. Cameroon Race of Hope on February 20, I thought it good to try some long runs over elevation. Last weekend, I got to see a bit of the city I call home, and got a good bit of mileage in, thought the hills pale in comparison to the summit of West Africa's highest peak. Here's the route: Let me tell you what I saw.
I'd met up with several friends from the Embassy where I work, including two Marine Guards, but the last few weeks I'd been a few minutes late. Why? Anyone who's run with me knows I'm usually late anyway, but I was giving them a headstart: I ran to the Marine House to meet the group, and one guy drove himself there. Still, late is late, and I tried to take a new, shorter route to the Embassy. Shortly before Mile 1, I caught up with two young men who were determined not to let the old guy pass them. I was more determined, and smiled to myself as I beat them to the corner where I turned left. True, they might have been running for ten miles or so, but it all evens out.
Mile 1.75 - I got to the Embassy at about 0635; the last time I was late, I did 10 push-ups (tough Marines!). This time, though, no one was waiting. I hung out until 0645, then continued on, alone.
Mile 2.25 - Rond Point Bastos, the traffic circle, is the center of recreation in this part of town, with many cars parked here for easy access to the scenic run, jog or walk up Mt. Febe. On Friday nights, it's the center of a mob exercise scene that still amazes me. I turn left and head up Mt. Febe.
Mile 3 - Le Presidence is on the right, and while runners stream back and forth along the Febe road, no one broaches the dour looking guards on the road to the head of state's house. There's always an early morning soccer game on the baked clay field to the right, and always women selling fruit and palm oil roadside.
Mile 3.5 - Mt. Febe Hotel is government owned and operated. It overlooks the valley below, and on a clear day must provide quite a view of the capital. If you switch to the terrain map, you'll see that we're getting higher here, and the going is tough for about two miles, past a military installation, a Maltese monastery, and some really ritzy apartments.
Mile 4 - the top of Mt. Febe. It's a good little haul up here, and the most surprising thing is that there are exercise schools puffing their way through calisthenics and group chants in the roadway at the top of this hill. They share the road with passers-through on foot, but there's still auto traffic here, as well, and everyone seems to get along. That is, the pedestrians get out of the cars' way.
Mile 5 - What goes up must come down, and the going is fast and easy for the next few miles. The road continues paved, and it's easy to zone out and lose yourself in the yawning view of the Febe valley beneath you. You quickly pick out the Embassy, the Congressional Palace, and the cars streaming below. Turning right at the fork, we enter an undeveloped quartier, Febe City, which has a single unpaved road, little commerce, ramshackle homes and churchs, and stoop sitters waving unimpressedly at a sole jogger streaking down, then back up, their main street.
Mile 7- 8 - It's downhill again, and we're now heading into Mbankolo, which is a random hopscotch of homes and convenience shops along a pitted roadway. Traffic is heavier here, and I'm always alert to dodge mototaxis, the motorcycles that ferry passengers up and down these hills. Sometimes we're vying for the same patch of level asphalt and, even if I'm right morally, I just don't want to get hit.
Mile 8.5 - back at the Embassy, but nowhere near done running. I reverse course and head back to Mbankolo.
Mile 9.5 - This is the best we can do for hills around here: the Mbankolo radio towers. Taking a quick left at the heart of Mbankolo, I climb the road that wraps around a hill hosting two military radio installations. I choose to go only to the higher peak, rather than both. The switchbacks you see on the map are now paved in cement, making the return downhill bonejarring. I sprint by a fellow runner; he quickly overtakes me and I see him dart ahead of me around each hairpin turn as we climb. At the top, there are two more exercise schools doing fairly dangerous stretches and group jumps. I run to the end of the driveway, under gleaming antennas... and spot a path going down through the forest on the other side! I later learn that the local Hash recently ran up that trail! Indeed, as I descend I notice the remnants of shreddie from a past Hash run. Skies are darkening quickly, and though the antennas loom over the city, I can't see a thing through low cloud cover. I take the downhill as quickly as I can, leaving my pacer behind.
Mile 12 - I'm now retracing my earlier route through Mbankolo, but I've always wondered if there's a shortcut around the hotel. I turn right and drop down a steep hill into a construction site. Wandering around, I'm caught by the first rainstorm in two months - it's the dry season until March. The rain feels good, but it doesn't change the fact that the road I'm on does not go through! I forge past a sign that implores, in red spray paint on jersey wall, CHANTIER INTERDITE! I do not know what this means, so I continue on, into a construction site. Everyone's friendly enough, so I guess I'm not chantier-ing too much.
Mile 13 - I have screwed up, but I forge on. I am on Hole 8 of Mt. Febe's golf course. This is the only golf course in town, and during the dry season the lush greens turn to a dead brown. The upside, I understand, is that the course plays MUCH faster. The downside is that you can't smoke.
Mile 14 - I add a mile by running on the Parcours Vita, an exercise path with stations for various liftings and strainings. The loop begins with yet another steep downhill, followed by an incline that passes the pull up bar and a residence incongruously thrown into the middle of a park. At the top, I pause to attempt a balance beam, but my legs are getting a little shredded by this point and it takes me two tries to run the course.
Mile 15.5 - I return to the Febe road, and join up with two others who are running down hill, opening their stride to reap gravity's reward: unearned speed. Once we are knitted, I realize that, at least at first, I'm pacing them, keeping them from dropping back, and matching anyone who tries to kick. And we start to reel in a runner about 50 meters ahead of us. But after we return through the Presidence circle, our rabbit decides today is a bad day to be caught, so he speeds up, bustling down hill. I try to catch him, then the others join in, but at the bottom of the hill, the leader pulls up and turns to run back up the hill. I had fallen off by then, but we three chasers do a little mutual acknowledgement. I chat with one who says he's a police trainee (or that he's under arrest - the French escapes me) before I jog the final stretch homeward.
Mile 17 - At the Rond Point Bastos, I use the lampposts as an interval guide, and catch up to my police cadet friend, then pass him. At Mile 18, I stop at Socropole, a bakery across from Cameroon's Grand Mosque, and brave an angry cashier for 1.5 liters of water, and I gulp two-thirds of it immediately. By this time it's after 9 am, and the temperature's easily back up to the 80s, even after the earlier showers. It's almost downhill from here, and easy as long as I dodge the missing sections of the sidewalk that runs over the open sewer along the Lower Bastos road. Turning left to climb the hill home, I pass a herd of goats on their way to market. This is not that unusual, though for the life of me I don't know where they're coming from.
Mile 18 - I'm home, and I feel like I'm marginally prepared for the Race. Yeah, sure, the race is up to 8 miles longer, and sure I've only climbed one-fifth as much as I will in Buea, but this time all I want to do is finish. And maybe take a camera, document the run. The way this is going, the journey is so much more important than the destination ... or the time.
I'd met up with several friends from the Embassy where I work, including two Marine Guards, but the last few weeks I'd been a few minutes late. Why? Anyone who's run with me knows I'm usually late anyway, but I was giving them a headstart: I ran to the Marine House to meet the group, and one guy drove himself there. Still, late is late, and I tried to take a new, shorter route to the Embassy. Shortly before Mile 1, I caught up with two young men who were determined not to let the old guy pass them. I was more determined, and smiled to myself as I beat them to the corner where I turned left. True, they might have been running for ten miles or so, but it all evens out.
Mile 1.75 - I got to the Embassy at about 0635; the last time I was late, I did 10 push-ups (tough Marines!). This time, though, no one was waiting. I hung out until 0645, then continued on, alone.
Mile 2.25 - Rond Point Bastos, the traffic circle, is the center of recreation in this part of town, with many cars parked here for easy access to the scenic run, jog or walk up Mt. Febe. On Friday nights, it's the center of a mob exercise scene that still amazes me. I turn left and head up Mt. Febe.
Mile 3 - Le Presidence is on the right, and while runners stream back and forth along the Febe road, no one broaches the dour looking guards on the road to the head of state's house. There's always an early morning soccer game on the baked clay field to the right, and always women selling fruit and palm oil roadside.
Mile 3.5 - Mt. Febe Hotel is government owned and operated. It overlooks the valley below, and on a clear day must provide quite a view of the capital. If you switch to the terrain map, you'll see that we're getting higher here, and the going is tough for about two miles, past a military installation, a Maltese monastery, and some really ritzy apartments.
Mile 4 - the top of Mt. Febe. It's a good little haul up here, and the most surprising thing is that there are exercise schools puffing their way through calisthenics and group chants in the roadway at the top of this hill. They share the road with passers-through on foot, but there's still auto traffic here, as well, and everyone seems to get along. That is, the pedestrians get out of the cars' way.
Mile 5 - What goes up must come down, and the going is fast and easy for the next few miles. The road continues paved, and it's easy to zone out and lose yourself in the yawning view of the Febe valley beneath you. You quickly pick out the Embassy, the Congressional Palace, and the cars streaming below. Turning right at the fork, we enter an undeveloped quartier, Febe City, which has a single unpaved road, little commerce, ramshackle homes and churchs, and stoop sitters waving unimpressedly at a sole jogger streaking down, then back up, their main street.
Mile 7- 8 - It's downhill again, and we're now heading into Mbankolo, which is a random hopscotch of homes and convenience shops along a pitted roadway. Traffic is heavier here, and I'm always alert to dodge mototaxis, the motorcycles that ferry passengers up and down these hills. Sometimes we're vying for the same patch of level asphalt and, even if I'm right morally, I just don't want to get hit.
Mile 8.5 - back at the Embassy, but nowhere near done running. I reverse course and head back to Mbankolo.
Mile 9.5 - This is the best we can do for hills around here: the Mbankolo radio towers. Taking a quick left at the heart of Mbankolo, I climb the road that wraps around a hill hosting two military radio installations. I choose to go only to the higher peak, rather than both. The switchbacks you see on the map are now paved in cement, making the return downhill bonejarring. I sprint by a fellow runner; he quickly overtakes me and I see him dart ahead of me around each hairpin turn as we climb. At the top, there are two more exercise schools doing fairly dangerous stretches and group jumps. I run to the end of the driveway, under gleaming antennas... and spot a path going down through the forest on the other side! I later learn that the local Hash recently ran up that trail! Indeed, as I descend I notice the remnants of shreddie from a past Hash run. Skies are darkening quickly, and though the antennas loom over the city, I can't see a thing through low cloud cover. I take the downhill as quickly as I can, leaving my pacer behind.
Mile 12 - I'm now retracing my earlier route through Mbankolo, but I've always wondered if there's a shortcut around the hotel. I turn right and drop down a steep hill into a construction site. Wandering around, I'm caught by the first rainstorm in two months - it's the dry season until March. The rain feels good, but it doesn't change the fact that the road I'm on does not go through! I forge past a sign that implores, in red spray paint on jersey wall, CHANTIER INTERDITE! I do not know what this means, so I continue on, into a construction site. Everyone's friendly enough, so I guess I'm not chantier-ing too much.
Mile 13 - I have screwed up, but I forge on. I am on Hole 8 of Mt. Febe's golf course. This is the only golf course in town, and during the dry season the lush greens turn to a dead brown. The upside, I understand, is that the course plays MUCH faster. The downside is that you can't smoke.
Mile 14 - I add a mile by running on the Parcours Vita, an exercise path with stations for various liftings and strainings. The loop begins with yet another steep downhill, followed by an incline that passes the pull up bar and a residence incongruously thrown into the middle of a park. At the top, I pause to attempt a balance beam, but my legs are getting a little shredded by this point and it takes me two tries to run the course.
Mile 15.5 - I return to the Febe road, and join up with two others who are running down hill, opening their stride to reap gravity's reward: unearned speed. Once we are knitted, I realize that, at least at first, I'm pacing them, keeping them from dropping back, and matching anyone who tries to kick. And we start to reel in a runner about 50 meters ahead of us. But after we return through the Presidence circle, our rabbit decides today is a bad day to be caught, so he speeds up, bustling down hill. I try to catch him, then the others join in, but at the bottom of the hill, the leader pulls up and turns to run back up the hill. I had fallen off by then, but we three chasers do a little mutual acknowledgement. I chat with one who says he's a police trainee (or that he's under arrest - the French escapes me) before I jog the final stretch homeward.
Mile 17 - At the Rond Point Bastos, I use the lampposts as an interval guide, and catch up to my police cadet friend, then pass him. At Mile 18, I stop at Socropole, a bakery across from Cameroon's Grand Mosque, and brave an angry cashier for 1.5 liters of water, and I gulp two-thirds of it immediately. By this time it's after 9 am, and the temperature's easily back up to the 80s, even after the earlier showers. It's almost downhill from here, and easy as long as I dodge the missing sections of the sidewalk that runs over the open sewer along the Lower Bastos road. Turning left to climb the hill home, I pass a herd of goats on their way to market. This is not that unusual, though for the life of me I don't know where they're coming from.
Mile 18 - I'm home, and I feel like I'm marginally prepared for the Race. Yeah, sure, the race is up to 8 miles longer, and sure I've only climbed one-fifth as much as I will in Buea, but this time all I want to do is finish. And maybe take a camera, document the run. The way this is going, the journey is so much more important than the destination ... or the time.
02 February 2010
A Desparated Consumer
Shopping can be a pasttime or even an art form in the United States. Specialized, exclusive boutiques, majestic shopping malls - now that’s entertainment.
But that’s only shopping for clothes and furniture and things you don’t really need. You can sit on the floor trust me. Grocery shopping - hunting and gathering - is fun, but if you don’t do it, you will fall down and stop moving. Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s make a run at making it an experience - but any place that’s willing to get rid of you if you buy fifteen items or fewer is not fun.
More so when you shop in Cameroon. We’ve established a small circle of supermarkets where we can get seriously food. We have the large, open-air markets, especially Mokolo, the largest in Yaounde, but it’s not practical to do several days’ worth of shopping where you have to lug your catch back home on foot. It’s more lively, more exotic, but sometimes you just need to get some milk and move on.
Enter Mahima, a mini-chain of supermarkets. We call the two here New Mahima and Old Mahima. I have never been in New Mahima because I never decide that I need something until 12:50 on Sunday afternoon, and most supermarket closely fast and firm at 1 pm on the Lord’s Day. Old Mahima is adequately stocked, though buying fruit is laborious. They seem to weigh it piece by piece. Pavilion Vert is less complete, and less frilly. That sharp smell of bloody meat controls the back half of the supermarket, encouraging you to settle on whatever’s in your basket and get out.
I finally made it to Casino, an affiliate of a European market conglomerate. It was somehow reassuring to enter the store, once I braved the parking lot, which has only one access point, marked “EXIT.” There was variety. There were frivolous things, like cookies and frozen pizzas. I found items that resembled familiar ones back home, like a reasonable substitute for disposable diapers. Electronic scanners at the registers.
Mahima would be the Safeway or Giant of Cameroon. Pavilion Vert is like a Magruder’s. And Casino is like a dreamy Trader Joe’s or Whole Food. Forget comfort food. I’ll take the shopping experience when I need something to calm me down.
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