Celebrations

It’s official – I am now in my late twenties.

Although twenty-six was certainly not my best year on record, I was still sad to bid farewell to another fragment of my youth.  But if one must face the relentless march of time, I suppose you might as well make it memorable. And although perhaps not the most action packed, my 27^th birthday will always stand out.

Although absolutely not related to my birthday at all, I consider Wednesday evening the official start of the celebrations.  That night Marsha (a new volunteer, more on her later) and I were invited to a dinner hosted by the sister of Marsha’s best friend – a native Cameroonian who now lives in the US.  In the African tradition, her best friend has a large family and we have met with a dizzying array of the Yaounde contingent over the past few days.

But on Wednesday it was the whole shebang – every family member, spouse and child gathered together for a feast of Thanksgiving proportions.  Lor, our dedicated hostess, grilled these GIANT beautiful fish over a woodstove.  Not only were absolutely stunning, it was some of the best fish I have had in my life.  To accompany these showpieces, she prepared two delicious sauces – one a hot pepper blend which I have fallen in love with here and the other a chopped collection of herbs almost reminiscent of a pesto.   There was also a carrot salad with onions and boiled eggs; fried plantains; some sort of banana cake/bread; cassava ground into a pulp and then cooked in leaves into a hard gelatin (lesson—cassava sucks in all forms); a heaping loaf of crusty French bread and fruit skewers of pineapple, guava and papaya. 

Marsha had brought numerous photos of her friend and his young children, who the family had not yet seen.  While the adults gathered around and shared priceless family stories in French, I staked out my territory at the children’s table. I have honed my African child skills recently and identified three key strategies:  let them touch my hair, offer to take their picture and sing the Baby Shark song.  It’s a trifecta that no child can resist and has resulted in a plethora of cliché photos I will proudly display as a testament to my commitment to diversity for years to come.  There was one older girl who was particularly fascinated with my camera and took it upon herself to become the self-appointed event photographer.  She walked around posing people, straightening clothes adjusting angles…it was both adorable and helpful.

At the end of the night, Eric – the brother who we have spent the most time with – presented us with gifts.  I received a beautiful wood bead bracelet which I genuinely like and plan to wear frequently.  For people neither of us had met before and I personally had no connection to, it was an incredibly heartwarming and generous gesture.  And there was one last surprise in store:  Eric offered to bring us home on his motorbike.  Yaoundé is a large city based on a series of mountains, and the crisp clear night offered sweeping views of a twinkling “city”.  It was a view I hadn’t seen before, not frequently being out past dark, and one I am glad I got to experience with the wind blowing through my hair.

That weekend Marsha and Eric were going to visit the grave of her friend’s wife, who died of cancer in the US but was returned to her native village for burial.  Due to scheduling conflicts, they were taking an 11pm bus on Friday so before they left we met up for a drink.  Eric asked us what we would like to which I replied “Just a beer – whatever you recommend.”  What arrived:  a Smirnoff Ice.  I think Eric meant well, but all I could think was “I just got Iced in Africa.”  (To explain, “Iced” is a game us aging youngsters play where you hide bottles of Smirnoff Ice in creative locations.  Whoever stumbles upon them must kneel down and chug it immediately.  This is considered punishment, because Smirnoff Ice is a carbonated, saccharine bottle of disgusting).

When I got home, Celestine was dancing alone in the living room.  Dear friends, the stereotypes are true.  Not only does the average five year old have better rhythm then me, all the women have these incredible, round, gravity-defying rumps that move and shake as though they have a separate motor system us white people were genetically denied.  I have developed a serious amount of envy during my time here and Celestine’s grove fest was doing nothing to help my ego.  In a moment of Smirnoff Ice-bravado, I beseeched Celestine to teach me the intricate mysteries of the African booty bounce.  So there we were:  lined up in front a mirror, Celestine’s hands on my hips, me spastically bouncing and asking “Am I doing it?!”….when Romeo walked in.  He immediately burst out laughing and called to the girls who had been hiding in their rooms.  Once the hysterics stopped, Carole grabbed her computer and put on some Beyonce.  Now this was more my speed and I was happy to lead the soul train, making it quite clear in fact Who Run the World.  However, despite his mockery Romeo was conspicuously stationary. 

Saturday, my actual birthday, was pretty uneventful.  I took it upon myself to luxuriate in all the finest things Africa has to offer: I slept all the way until nine, bought myself a breakfast treat at the bakery, went to the internet café and then sat out on a patio reading a book, drinking a beer (a real beer this time) and eating some street meat.  The highlight:  I was able to schedule a telephone call with my parents!  I do not have a phone here in Cameroon, so I had to rely on Celestine to let me borrow hers.  Given the time difference, Celestine’s church schedule and the general unpredictability of Africa this was the first time we had connected live since we met on safari over two months ago.  It was the perfect way to end my birthday—with a touch of home.

But I had one more celebration in store. Celestine orchestrated a gathering for me that Sunday, inviting several of our friends and the CEFASE members over for dinner.  Armstrong and Dr. Elo came with two bottles of wine in hand, the girls gave me a necklace and Marsha brought me a “birthday sack” with spare headphones (!), a coveted bar of chocolate and some of the African soap I have fallen in love with (it can get absolutely ANYTHING out of your clothes).  Celestine made a delicious dinner of rice, stew, fish sandwiches, fruit and even a birthday cake.  Speeches were made, toasts were given and many laughs were had. 

While I can’t say I didn’t feel a little homesick, complete with severe waves of jealousy at the rowdy bash I know Boudah was putting on to commemorate our shared birth, all in all I know I will look back on my 27^th birthday as one for the record books.  Added bonus:  I didn’t even see a single cockroach.