from Cameroon, Africa

update: sorry it has been so long. have been so very busy. got married. yeah. and moved to Cameroon. yeah. So below is a little account of Cameroon so far. I really really really really appreciate those of you who have dropped me notes every now and then. It amazes me that you actually think of me. I will try to respond personally to those soon. Hope you are all doing well! Anna



You've heard it before from those who were older than you. If I had only known then, what I know now. Youth carries with it a sense of naivety that can only be squelched by years of accumulated retrospect. And that gunk of out-of-date wisdom just sits there serving no purpose other than to collect mold and mildew, producing a smell that reminds you of those whose aspirations died long before yours. I cannot pray a prayer large enough to encompass all of what the world needs because my own hunger kills my well bred sense of responsibility for others. How can I believe that God will provide for me when I cannot see that God is providing for my neighbor? For it is said that God is no respecter of persons. My eyes have been opened to the dead-end of having plenty. But intentionally purging yourself of what you have, so that you can relate to the suffering of others is not a step toward enlightenment because choosing to be poor will make you a slave to those who inherited the profession of poverty. We should all wear the nakedness with which we were born, because transparency is the universal language of survival.

But we don't play nice because our tastes don't match the tastes of our loved ones. Personality is the export good here. But it takes an even better brain to steer personality in the right direction. And it is beyond comprehension why everyone is in everyone's way, when there is plenty of space to exist with leftover elbow room. This country is like the middle child who craves attention from anyone at anytime. They imitate what has been done, just to be a premature part of what aging would have naturally produced. They are their own gods, creating life from the dust of the ground. I am ashamed to look at anyone in the eye here, because I feel that I don't yet belong in a world where desperation is the most common thread. Even though I am desperate in more ways than one, being white forgives all disparity, in the eyes of those who see themselves as slaves even to their own race.

Right now my biggest, shallow regret is that I did not pack more bug spray. For some reason, bugs like me more this time, now that I am here for good. Maybe it is their idea of entertainment--fleas and mosquitoes uniting to eat my flesh and blood, when they could have just as easily had their lunch at the pork slaughterhouse on the corner. I am trying to make my repellant last, spreading it evenly over my body and the kitchen. With one spray, I saw my own helplessness in the ant's life, which quickly died at my mercy--just because I didn't want to share what little food was left. But ants still keep climbing forever; no wonder they have been proverbially overdone for centuries. Their determination, however, didn't stop Maurice from eating a piece of bread that they had already tried to claim. They had already hollowed out one end and begun to tunnel their way through the French walls of delicacy, but one strong shake from the human warrior and they fell right back to where they had started. A pinch here and a pinch there and a few more shakes, made the bread, in Maurice's estimation, edible. And this is the line over which I am not yet calloused enough to cross. The thoughts of eating even one live ant that will scurry and swim in the pool of my mouth as long as possible before I can flush it, really grosses me out. I asked Maurice if it was an annoyance that I did not want to eat the bread that in my estimation had already gone to waste. He chalked up my reaction as white man's fear and I was left to silently wonder if there was some woman out there that would have readily and willingly eaten the bread and the ants with utmost thankfulness for Maurice's provision.

And I realize that the old adage "cleanliness is next to godliness" paints an ugly, conditional picture of God's love. There is none clean here, no not one. And squeezing faith out of a God turnip isn't going to bring enough water to wash away all our dirt.

And just when I express my lack of faith--outside my window, God begins to pour down enough wind and rain to clean this country of its sins for a day. But everyone is running for shelter because the lightning scares them away from coming clean. Why did God create such a temperamental continent? Was it a part of his original plan to make "Wade in the Water" Cameroon's national anthem? Fortunately, I was always mesmerized by mud puddles, and not having grown up with a swimming pool in my backyard, it was always my dream to find a mud puddle big enough in which to take a swim. I guess dreams do come true.

There is one that I have tried to reach since, through this person, my eyes were opened to God's quirky ways. But transparency was lost at birth when the poor soul's father left temporarily for a more lucrative calling. And ever since, no one can reach inside the crib from which the wrinkled baby was never able to emerge. For this reason, at night I am haunted by dreams in which my passion is redirected as physical strength in front of large groups of people. This climax of energy was only ever misunderstood and only deals with the imaginable, excluding any realistic and sustainable existence. I am just one of many who tried and will go to my grave still pent up with unspent affections.