C, F, L, R

The closest deadline at present is the Saturday deadline for our Trimestrial Report, 2011 June-September. So that’s what I’m working on today, my "day off", after I went shopping at the market. Un rapport is a report, but it’s also used in le rapport sexuel, sexual contact. My dictionary gives "contact" as a general meaning for rapport.

I figure I’ll be sitting at my computer for a while typing up notes and observations about the fairly meager activities I fostered during this period, which (you’ll note) centers largely around summer vacation. But I figured that while I’m writing, I’m not using my Internet, so I may as well upload some pictures.

This is from the pool party at Dschang. It’s an actual swimming pool! This is at the Centre Climatique, which is a beautiful place.

Dschang also features an artificial lake.

A ceremony at one of the local hospitals. One of the local notables had arranged for some French partners to donate some medical stuff, including a bunch of mattresses and a delivery table.

The "SISTERS", the association of village women in Douala (ex-pats?). They helped somehow with the gift or something.

Some other association, this time all of local village men (J-C is the really tall one). The way the pictures are framed, it looks like they’re squaring off to fight.

This kind of ceremony is improved by dancers.

Sa majesté saying some words in honor of the occasion.

I was surprised to see a for-reals political cartoon in Bafoussam a week or two ago. The subject is the recent ban on night travel, which was protested loudly by the population. Kirikou is a famous cartoon character here, who is very very small but very strong and clever. (There’s a pop song that goes Kirikou est petit, mais il est fort. I have a copy of "Kirikou et les bêtes sauvages" if you’re interested.)

J-C’s wife Véronique (host mother #2?) called me the other day to say she was cooking something and did I want to come over for dinner, or should she just send her son up the hill with my portion? But by the time she had finished cooking, it was already dark, and they decided it would be best if I went home with the food, so I could eat at my leisure. They sent enough for two days. It’s cabbage cooked somehow, there’s fish in it too, and the complement is what they call couscous, or in Anglophone foo-foo. This is couscous de maïs, and it’s made from ground corn. It’s dense and bland but has a crisp texture. (Couscous de manioc is pretty much despised by volunteers, but couscous de maïs is acceptable. I think there’s also "wata foo-foo" and couscous de riz, but those don’t turn up much in the West.)

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One of the oddities of learning another language is having to cope with homonyms. Try to translate "token ring", for example, and you’ll discover that "to ring", like a phone, in French is sonner, whereas a ring that you wear on your finger is a bague, and a ring in the sense of hoop is anneau (this is what they call a basketball hoop). It’s an important concept, that one word doesn’t always encompass every meaning — although sometimes you’ll be surprised: droit is the French word for "right" as in the direction, "to your right", but also "right" as in the legal sense, "right to bear arms".

Carte is a confusing word because (and it’s always feminine) it can mean "card", as in the cartes de séjour that we all have as legal residents in Cameroon, or as in playing cards, or carte mémoire, any memory card, such as the SD cards you put in your camera. But it can also mean "map", which makes sense if you associate it with the English word "chart". Let’s not even get into à la carte, which seems to derive from carte meaning menu (???).

The fact is that Cameroon, being a terribly confusing country, is no less confusing when treated physically. I’ve tried to address this with my feeble on-again-off-again work on OpenStreetMap, but there are more things in this world, dear Horatio, than are dreamed of in your crowdsourced mapping websites. One time when I was walking around Yaoundé I saw a store with a sign "Maison des Cartes" and thought, Yes! Finally I can get a map of this crazy mixed-up city. I walked in and was surprised when I found out that actually it was a maison of greeting cards, cartes des vœux ("cards of wishes", "wish cards").

I am telling you all this so that you understand why I had absolutely no problem blowing 10,000 CFA (about $20) on a map of my village, which was apparently made by one of the surveillants at my lycée. He says he had it printed at Yaoundé and that he went to university for cartography, both dubious claims but I’m completely willing to shell out some of my hard-earned cash on a one-of-a-kind product. There’s the added benefit that I can feel like I know my village that much better, without ever having to set foot outside my door or being subjected to the hassle of having to actually interact with people. I meant to go over this map in the GIMP and highlight the places I’ve actually been, but I’m lazy.

Click, as always, for the full version. You can see the lycée there, and also the marché. Walking between the two is about ten minutes downhill to the marché, or fifteen minutes uphill to the lycée. I spend almost all of my time in village somewhere between those two locations. Cars to Bafoussam pick me up at the marché and proceed north-east on the red line (the route goudronée, the paved road). The first stop on their root is the other black dot, what we call "the carrefour", where carrefour is French for "intersection" or "junction". Cristina, my postmate, lives on the north-bound road from that carrefour. One time I walked it and it took me half an hour to get to the carrefour, plus another half hour to get to her house. Conclusion, I’ve probably seen less than ten percent of what is properly "my village", which is actually pretty huge when you look at it!

Of course, M. Nzeugang himself is depicted in the lower-right corner. This map is exactly the same as the one behind glass in the Hotel Grand Moulin in Yaoundé. Look for it when you’re passing through!

Uncategorized pictures

I’m gonna let my computer upload some more photos while I lay in bed and play DS. These are from the most recent jour du marché, last Saturday. Village marchés in the West tend to be every 8 days (traditionally, the Bamiléké follow an 8-day week). Saturdays during vacation are big days for deuils, let’s translate that as "funeral", so these pictures illustrate a marché that’s a little sparser than usual.

The marché in my village is just off the paved road that runs from Bafoussam to Douala. Properly, it’s just behind these buildings, but it sort of spills out a little bit. This intersection is called Tchomso, I don’t know if that means something in patois, but you can also say le marché.

Same buildings, but closer up. The one on the left is a boutique/bar. You can see some village mamas setting up here anyhow, and there are people on the veranda eating. I’m not sure about the other two buildings; I hardly ever see them open.

Same bar, plus a look at the busiest corridor in the marché.

This is from the veranda, facing kind of the opposite direction. You can see on the left a girl interacting with the beans-and-beignet lady (off-camera). On the right, you can see vendors of what look like dried fish, prunes, and okra (gumbo).

Pretty much any chance I get, I get breakfast from the beans-and-beignet lady. Here you got your beans, your beignets, and a cup of bouillie, which literally I think means something like "porridge", but in Cameroon always means this kind of slightly sweet, soupy broth made from cornmeal. I always find the first mouthful really good, but subsequent mouthfuls unavoidably taste exactly like cornmeal broth. (I dunk the beignets in the bouillie but I don’t think anyone else does.) Note the spoon — forks are fairly rare in Cameroon.

On the same veranda is a little girl operating a poisson braisé stand. The plastic dish is used to fan the charcoals.

Although you can get clothes tailor-made fairly cheap here, cheaper still is to buy discarded clothes exported from the Occident. A used-clothes vendor like this is called a fripperie. The West Region is more Westernized than some other regions, so some stuff like this even shows up in village marchés.

This is my favorite vegetable lady. She never calls me le blanc, though sometimes she calls me professeur. I always try to buy at least 1000 CFA worth of stuff from her, every market day, mostly in green beans but occasionally in carrots, condiment, or whatever else she has. I don’t know which of these things she grows and which she buys to resell.

Her "neighbor" (blue and green dress) at the next table over is a little more annoying, but if she has good fruit, I’ll often buy from her.

Typical staples in our region: carrots, green beans, tomatoes, green pepper, condiment (pretty much any aromatic herb: scallions, celery, parsley), and a bunch of peanuts (Anglophone: "ground nut").

I don’t usually buy my tomatoes from her but I hadn’t been at the previous marché so I felt guilty and let her talk me into buying from her.

Some tables a little ways over. Onions, ginger, and piles of cloves of garlic (100 CFA per pile). Also, babouches, which can mean sandals, slippers, or flip-flops.

Grain products are bought en gros like this. I can’t see what these are, but I’d guess rice and dried beans.

Another miniature fripperie. This guy is calling out something like "Clothes, one hundred a piece!"

Usually they don’t smile.

I never realized how many babouches were on sale in our market.

This table is in what I consider the "back" of the market, which is much less energetic. Sometimes mamas don’t even man their tables.

This guy is definitely a businessdude. I’ve seen him at marchés in other neighboring villages and all of his stuff was obviously purchased somewhere. I usually buy spaghetti from him.

My village is known for its chou, cabbage. You can also see some little red piment.

I’m not sure if honey is a big thing all over Cameroon, but there are definitely a bunch of vendors here in my village. Note the two sizes of Top bottle — "small", about 0.3 of a liter, and "normal", about 0.65 L.

L’huil rouge, "red oil" or palm oil, comes from the nuts of palm trees. You boil the nuts and maybe add water or something. It’s a very common ingredient in Cameroonian cuisine but I think it’s not terribly healthy so I try to avoid it. All other "Western" kinds of oil are called l’huil d’arachide, "peanut oil", even if it’s sunflower, soybean, or olive.

I ended up buying prunes from this lady. Here she is handing someone else my cadeau, "gift", a little extra to thank me for being her customer. (Also known as lagniappe.)

Shovel blades and shovel handles are sold separately. Sorry for the quality of the pictures; I was trying to be covert.

Peanut vendor. He’s whisking them around in a sort of sieve to try to get the skins off, rocks out, and identify the bad ones.

I have no idea what these are but I see them a lot. They almost look like tiny shriveled piment. On the plastic bag are dried patate douce, which are like eating flavored leather.

I haggled over some of these pineapples for a while but didn’t get the price I wanted.

Salade, lettuce, is a rainy-season food. (Otherwise it needs to be watered "by hand".)

Pineapples grown in my village are often shipped to Bafoussam, where they fetch a higher price. There are also fruit carts that sell pieces of peeled pineapple for 100 CFA. Cameroonians tell me that pineapple is cheaper in village, but most other things are cheaper in the city.

I know it’s nothing compared to Hurricane Irene, but here’s what the sky looked outside my front door the other day. Brondon pointed it out to me — the clouds look pissed but there’s also sun from the other direction.

Some mugs I bought in the other kind of market — the supermarket in Bafoussam. You have to be careful when you go there or you’ll drop tens of thousands of CFA. The darker one is from a series of Zodiac mugs (Zodiaque) and it depicts "Balance" (Libra). I’m not a Libra but I thought it was really pretty.

Uncategorized pictures

I just remembered why I don’t normally upload so many photos — they take forever to upload, and then when I load my blog on a Cameroonian Internet connection, they take forever to download again. I’m gonna try to put fewer per post, maybe, or space them out with more boring words. I guess I could also hide them behind a "Read more" link, but that seems lame somehow.

"Jambox soup", made by Barbara‘s mother Thèrese. This would be host family #3. The idea is you don’t have anything in particular to make, so you put everything "that doesn’t kill a man" into the pot and make a soup out of it. The starchy thing is kwakoko, made from coco yam, which is serving as complement. She said it came out too soft, but I thought it was delicious.

Therèse: "the food and the mama that cooked it".

The new stage, just arriving. This is in the Bafoussam Office (or, as Henry calls it, the "Boffice") Everybody’s eating tofu!

Some views from the back of the Boffice.

From the front of the Boffice. This is the main road that goes through Bafoussam. It’s wet from a rainstorm that had just swept through.

Look, some white people!

Uncategorized pictures

I was at a "family reunion" the other day. Here are some more pictures of food.

This is what I ate for "breakfast", i.e. 10:30 when I first rolled up. It’s "legumes" and ignam, which they call "yam" but isn’t really like our yams. There’s also a bit of chicken here. This is your typically balanced Cameroonian meal: a starch, a sauce, and maybe a bit of "meat" (most commonly fish).

This is what I ate a little later, after their traditional ceremony. There wasn’t enough room for me to actually watch it so I can’t say much about that. It’s rice and chou, cabbage. There was also sauce tomate to go with the rice, which someone else had.

The many colors of Top. Top is a soda (jus) which is found prety much all over. If you’re going to find two flavors of jus in a bar, it’ll be Coca-Cola and Top Pamplemousse (grapefruit). Pamplemousse tastes kind of pamplemoussey, but not bitter like really bitter grapefruit. The bottle caps are different colors; they re-use the bottles, so the caps differentiate them. Top never "wins" — some beers do promotions where you can "win" a free beer (just check under the lid).

Tofu! My postmate is indirectly responsible for this. Now people all over village are making it.

Here are some Cameroonian jokes I heard at the family reunion. They were all considered very funny, and discussed in great detail after they were told.

Some international watchdog society is compiling a list of the nations with the most corruption. Cameroon is in first place, as it has been for a long while. Paul Biya finds the organization in Yaoundé, working on their analysis, and says "So, where’s Cameroon on this list?" "It’s first." "OK," he says, "how much should I give you to put us, say, third?"

("Because he doesn’t realize that he’s still making corruption!" they said to each other, knowingly.)

Paul Biya is visiting in France. Someone is opening some champagne. The cap shoots off, pop! Paul Biya says, "Where’s that cap? Give it to me… You guys don’t know this, but in Cameroon, EVERYTHING wins."

Paul Biya is visiting again, this time with a few other heads of state. Among others, he’s sitting next to the president of Gabon. It’s a very fancy dinner; the flatware is made of gold. He’s watching the president of Gabon, who is looking around, calculating, then suddenly taking one of the forks and putting it in his pocket. Paul Biya thinks this is a pretty good idea, and wants to grab one too, but someone always seems to be watching him. Suddenly he has an idea. "Africans do a lot of magic," he says. "Watch carefully! I take this fork and put it in my pocket, and suddenly I withdraw it from the pocket of my friend!"

("Because who’s going to check his pocket afterwards?" they said. "No one would dare.")

Uncategorized food, pictures

I decided to shave my head. Allison and Jenny decided to take the initiative and make it happen.

Allison taking off my ponytail.

This is just minus the ponytail, but it might also be my favorite look. I get progressively more undressed in these pictures because I didn’t want too much hair in my shirt. The scarf was one we found in the up-for-grabs basket.

Jenny’s starting to get in on the action.

Jenny is having the most fun.

The hairbasket.

Jenny and Allison don’t feel bad about how fucked-up it looks, since they’re just gonna shave the rest off anyhow.

Um, I think the bottle of juice is unrelated?

There are so many possibilities for ridiculous hairstyles now that I don’t have long hair.

For some reason we didn’t go for the Mohawk, which is kind of a disappointment.

This would have been a cool look, right?

Getting shaving supplies from the locker.

This is Trevor’s hazing before he can really be considered a member of ICT committee.

Jenny really likes shaving my head, but she’s also the person I trust least to shave my head.

Allison did the bulk of the shaving, particularly the cleanup work at the end.

Thoughts on the new look? At first I was of the mind that I looked like the black sheep of the Jean-Luc Picard family, but now I guess I just look weird, but in a different way than I did before. Which is what I wanted, right? In the meantime, showers are much faster and things get caught on my head-stubble. It feels strange every time I touch my head. I feel like I smell different, scalpier somehow, but I might be imagining it.

This is after a day of growth and exposure to the sun. It seems like I don’t look that different, and indeed most Cameroonians recognize me. My local Camtel guy asked if I was "believed", because normally people who shave their heads are religious in some way. No, I just needed a change.

You can see I was on the Internet heavily while Allison and Jenny did their vile deeds. Internet eventually broke, and without Internet I didn’t have much left to do, so I went to bed. I woke up suddenly around 4, scenting Internet like a dog scents prey, and in my haste to get out of bed I forgot that I was in the top bunk, tripped over the bed rails and landed solidly on my back. It hurt, in fact it still hurts, and I wonder if I have some kind of hairline fracture in my clavicle or whatever. Not much I can do about it except carry everything on my right side. I’m probably lucky I didn’t hit my head on anything.

The bruise feels a lot more impressive than it looks.

On my leg, where I stumbled against the bed rails or something.

Uncategorized ennui, pictures

Jen said I needed to write more about food, and a few people said I needed to put more pictures online. Both good points. Today’s post is titled nourriture, or "food", which comes from the word nourrir, "to feed" (like the English "nourish"). Somehow that always seems backwards to me, like food is the more elementary thing and then feeding that food to someone should be the complicated word: food and enfoodenate, something like that.

I was in Yaoundé for the ICT committee meeting so here’s some typical "what I eat in Yaoundé" food.

I got in at night, and between laziness and convenience is this dinner. It’s all purchased at the "Corner Store", the supermarché nearest the office (Timothy purchased something from this store once). Hamburger 500 CFA (with a sauce that includes mayonnaise), boulette 500 CFA, bread 100 CFA. Putting the boulettes in the bread and then toasting it is a pretty good-quality dinner for relatively cheap, and is of course Jenny Wang’s idea.

My favorite spaghetti-omelette-sandwich shack, it’s also right next door to the office. Two eggs spaghetti in a half-bread is 375 CFA. If I’m really broke I get two and eat the second for lunch.

Truly, the king of sandwiches.

The guards at the office. Almost all are Anglophone, except for one that is from my village, but as most Volunteers are Francophone, they get used to us talking whatever.

We got bush meat for lunch next door to the office. This is pangolin, which is sort of like a small anteater or maybe a weird armadillo. I’m not crazy about bush meat (my feelings echo Allison’s face), but I think Jenny wants to be able to have a long list of accomplishments that includes having eaten as many things as possible.

The other plate is porcupig, which may be porcupine or something else entirely.

Ben is willing to make sacrifices for culinary science.

Jenny got a sparkly unicorn tattoo, God only knows where.

ICT committee, including our newest inductee Trevor.

This is pistache, also called aigussi [sp?] in Anglophone. I think of it like Cameroonian tofu, and it’s probably my favorite Cameroonian food. I don’t really understand how it’s made or where it comes from, but it involves grinding a seed which is also called pistache. It’s seasoned with fish, savory and a little spicy, and you can often get lumps like this one on the side of the road when you travel. (Each of these was 200 CFA, which I thought was a little expensive.) I think culinarily it’s a sauce, so you’re supposed to eat it with a complement, a starch such as plantains, rice, something made from manioc, or even bread or bananas. Different foods can go with different complements.

Uncategorized food, pictures

[This should probably be tagged "fiction", but it doesn't fit with the other fiction, and I've wanted to write this for a long time. Names were made up to protect the ludicrous. I don't usually go to this kind of service in the States, so I don't have a basis for comparison, so this might be a "religion is weird" piece or it might be an "Africa is weird" piece. Your call. N.B. the M.C. and the holy water thing are made up; see the following post for further details.]

I got up early on a Sunday to go to church, mostly to see a baptême, baptism, but also to pick up chicks. We got there a little late; service was supposed to start at 8, but we rolled in around 8:40. The ushers were readily identifiable because of their sashes, baby blue or pink depending. The one who showed us to our seats wore a Bluetooth earpiece and a Ché wristband.

"Ladies and gentleman!" the M.C. announced. "Your patience please! We’re suffering from some technical difficulties. Our organist is patching his keyboard." Sure enough, the poor sod was unscrewing the case of his electric keyboard, gripping a wire in his teeth like a seamstress with pins. I wouldn’t have wanted to be him. "We will begin shortly. In the meantime, how about some refreshing music from the Choral Group of Lower Hauts-Plateaux! And a one, and a two, and a one-two-three-four.."

A song started up, something in traditional African evangelical style, very call-and-response and with a tangibly familiar melody. People milled, chatting and taking pictures. A vendor worked the crowd, selling Bibles and chains. I looked around; the stage was silent, but there was a felt banner in blue and green that read "THE JESUS AND MARY SUNDAY MORNING VARIETY HOUR".

The choral group got through two or three numbers before the situation was fixed. The M.C. bounded back up onto the stage and, ever charming, continued again:

"Ladies and gentleman! We’re terribly sorry for the delay, but if you could just have a seat. I think we’re ready to begin." Assorted shuffling as people found their places. "Aaallll riiiight!! How’s everyone feeling today?"

Scattered applause and ululating.

"I can’t hear you!! How are you FEELING????"

Applause, whistling, cheering.

"All right!!! Are we ready to talk about GOD????"

More applause. Foot stamping, rhythmic hand-clapping. Faintly, a chant: "Je-sus! Je-sus!"

"Whoo! All right! I can hardly wait — we’ve got a great service lined up for you today! We’ve got a guest appearance from Father Fomo, a skit by the All-Star Hauts-Plateaux Players, and best of all — a baptism!!" Cheering, applause. "And now, to get us all started, our very own Father who art in Cameroon — a man who is just covered in the blood of Christ! It’s my honor to introduce — Faaaaatheeeer Kenmoe!!!!"

Polite applause as the priest takes to the stage. The organist plays him to the podium, and Lighting follows him with a spot. He hugs the M.C. — they touch temples, then again, and again. They shake hands, and finally the priest is ready to perform.

"All right!! Funny story, I took a trip last week to Bafoussam, but I’m so glad to be back. Travel’s really hard here in Cameroon, wouldn’t you say? Finding a car was tough! I had a real… Devil of a time!" Rim shot. Laughter, applause. "Seriously, folks! I had to hitch a ride with some… Holy Rollers!" Rim shot. "We’re just getting started, folks! Why don’t you give a big Hauts-Plateaux welcome to our All-Saints Marchers!"

There’s a drum beat and the organist is playing something peppy and the children of the congregation are walking down the aisle. It’s a strange kind of cadence, not a real march, but a procession with steps every few beats. It’s executed with military precision as the boys and girls, all in some kind of hooded robe, come up to the stage, then stop, then turn left, then take a step, then bow.

"Wasn’t that great? Thanks so much for marching, guys. Such discipline. You know what that puts me in the mood for? — how about a round of Father, Son, Holy Ghost!?"

The audience really loves this idea. Their wild applause is accentuated by a light show, the spots going crazy as red and blue flash. An audience member is selected somehow and she makes it up to the stage as the clapping turns into more chanting. She gets all the way up to the stage before everyone calms down.

I try to follow the rules of the game but my French isn’t up to the task. It seems like some kind of Biblical trivia mixed with a kind of shell game. The priest reads a Bible quote off of a note card, then puts it into a Bible, which is then mixed up with three identical Bibles. Then everyone quiets and the priest asks — "So, Madame Noubissi — which is it? Father, Son, or Holy Ghost?"

The audience is calling out suggestions and Madame Noubissi, the quintessential Cameroonian "mama", is struggling to follow some of them, even as she looks happy to be on stage and participating. She calls out in patois with someone, presumably a member of her family, but doesn’t seem happy with the answer. Finally she turns to the priest and says, "Son."

"Son?"

"Son."

"You’re sure now? You say it’s Son?"

"Yes! Son!"

The priest turns to the Bibles, and, as the tension builds, flings his arm. The Bible on stage right flies open. The organist plays a sad little tune.

"Oh, that’s too bad! It was Holy Ghost! That’s too bad — but as a consolation prize, take this beautiful handmade wooden cross, courtesy of Chez Mbougang! Let’s give her a hand!" The woman walks down the aisle to her seat to polite applause and the show’s theme song as the table with the Bibles rolls off onto the wings. Another choir gets up and starts singing as the organist plays another song.

"Wow, how exciting! I was nearly convinced for a second there. And did you see her face? She was happy and joyous. But it turns out that that happiness and joy was empty." Lighting is really working it — reds and yellows and a spot as everything dims. "And although you dance, and the organist plays some def jams, in my heart, I am beating a funeral drum. Because I know that your joy is empty, that there is no heart for your happiness. You! Marchers! You call that marching! Everyone wants to march but I’ve never even seen half of you at practice! And you! Organist! You didn’t think to even try out your keyboard before bringing it on stage? And you! Choir! Some of you just showed up in street clothes!" I’m not really following his train of logic here but I’m feeling a little offended all the same. I look around but the rest of the congregation is looking thoughtful and a few are chuckling. Is this a sermon? "And tonight you’ll all go home to celebrate your new baptism and you’ll put on loud music like Little Country and Tom Reynolds and you’ll dance! You’ll dance! Not one of you will go home and turn off the music and say ‘let’s just sing God’s music, that will be fine’! I just want you to know that if you go home and put on loud music, your new blessings are instantly cancelled! So forget about it!"

The M.C. bounds onto the stage and the priest tosses him the mic. "You heard the man! Let’s get baptised! Boys and girls, come on up!" Lots of milling around follows as many people, including some adults, come up to the stage and form if not a line, at least an ordered mass. Most of them are wearing all-white ensembles. Someone points out to me the priest’s son, a serious-looking boy wearing a white blazer. They all turn to face the audience and the priest leads them through a bunch of vows. The baptized swear that they believe in God, the Eternal; that they follow the doctrines of the Catholic Church; to do God’s work in their daily lives; and incidentally to give up vampirism and sorcery. They all look very solemn.

"That was great, guys!" shouts the M.C. "All right, Father Kenmoe! Let ‘er rip!" And suddenly the priest appears on the floor carrying a giant firehose. He’s spraying the assembled with what I presume is holy water and he’s got an ear-to-ear grin on his face as he works the hose back and forth. He’s staring right at me. Some of the baptized flinch in spite of themselves, but none of them run or laugh, and even after the water stops they’re standing there still looking solemn and as holy as you can be while sopping wet. The audience is cheering wildly and stamping their feet.

"How exciting! Let’s all congratulate the new Christians! Now remember what the Father said about that music, guys! Now, let’s all be good Christians and salute each other in the spirit of God!"

This is my favorite part of the service. You just reach out and squeeze the hands of people all around you. It’s the only decidedly human thing about these events. They seem like they’re saying something but even if I knew what to say in English, I certainly have no idea how to say it in French, so I just smile broadly, mime their hand positions, and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.

"Wasn’t that nice?" the M.C. continues. "Why, times like these I just feel so in touch with the Word of God. It reminds me of the time that –" He’s interrupted by a clanging bell. "Oh boy! You know what that means –"

"COMMUNION TIME!" shouts the audience.

"That’s right! And for that, we need –"

"THE CHRIST-VAULT!" shouts the audience. And they wheel it out, a giant picture of Jesus with a dial where his heart would be, bathed in the finest lightshow my little village has to offer. They turn the dial this way and that, and at last they swing open the door and they pull out plates of wafers and bottles of wine. The audience is already getting into position. "For your convenience, there’s another communion line in the back for those extant Christians out there! New Christians, up here with Father Kenmoe please!"

As for me, I got my picture taken with the Virgin Mary, bought a package of waferettes, and followed Boris to the nearest party, celebrating the baptism of one Hervé-Michel. There was lots of food and more than a little alcohol, but that sort of thing seemed perfectly normal by now — also, a lot of dancing to the music we’d been encouraged not to play. There was a startlingly attractive lady there who looked a little like Carmen Sandiego, but it turned out to be Hervé’s girlfriend of three years, so, probably better to leave that sort of thing alone.

Communion stuff is stored in here.

It’s important to wear your finest wizard robes on the day of a baptism.

I have no idea who these people are but they sure look rich, don’t they?

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Last night I heard the tell-tale noises of mice again and this time I caught two — one who was just kind of standing there deer-in-headlights as I dropped a tin over him, and the other one running around in the bathroom trying to climb the wall, I think in an effort to escape. This morning I shuffled them out, sliding their prisons along the floor until I could get them outside, whereupon I deposited them into this bucket:

Life is sacred, but I didn’t want it in my damned house, so I carried the bucket down the road for a few minutes before dumping them out in the dirt on the side. I expected them to scamper away for their lives, but instead one just hid under a leaf and the other just lay there. I have a feeling that despite my efforts, I killed them anyhow, but maybe they’re just tired after the stress of being cooped up like that overnight.

Attraper, to catch, works in a lot of idiomatic senses that it really shouldn’t — you can attraper le rhume for example, catch a cold, or catch a car en route.

Haven’t been writing as much as I should be lately. There’s a post coming up soon but I don’t know when, exactly, I’ll get to it. This is the last week before Spring Break (Congés de Pâques, Easter Break), and I have one exam to give today, two tomorrow, and two more Friday, and then I leave on an epic clandoing journey of discovery, companionship, redemption, and finding out what it means to be ourselves. It’s two weeks worth of break, but really I’ve only got about six days worth of plan. Sounds about right so far.

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I also got my mosquito net finally up, which is good because recently there’s been an influx of some kind of blood-sucking flying ants.

Due to the fact that I haven’t actually yet bought a bed, it sort of resembles a pillow fort. That’s also my tiger blanket. Rawr.

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