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."

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 

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.  

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

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.  

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.