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.

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.  

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.  

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.

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 ...

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.  

Girl 2

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.  

ZRH

The 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. 

Bonus: Meeting cute EuroKids

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.

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