It’s familiar but not too familiar, but not too not familiar.

 Here in Cameroon everywhere is a bus stop, I mean this both literally and philosophically.

I’m at a meeting, a women's meeting. We call them village saving and loan associations where the mommas come every week to save a few hundred francs BOOM a woman pops out her boob to feed her baby. I’m on a bus riding to the capital of my BOOM a woman pops out her boob to feed her malnourished baby. I walk down the street BOOM another boob, and another and another and another. I probably see an average of about twelve boobs a day, and I don’t mean six pairs.

It’s the little cultural differences that crack me up here. For instance one of my favorite socially acceptable things to do here is to pick your nose. There is so much damn dust that people just spend their time digging their noses for gold. I feel freer here, ask my older sister. She used to poke fun at me for the mining I would do. Here, I am FREE!

I remember episodes of ‘Friends’ where Chandler and Joey kept two pets, a duck and a chicken. The randomness of these fowls made the show funnier. However, here you will see random chickens everywhere. In fact, sometimes it just doesn’t feel right without them. Whether it’s in a fancy restaurant or a chicken running in between your legs in a crowded bus, the chickens run free here. Goats, sheep, even cows lead free lives here. Its interesting how so many vegetarians who come to serve here end up eating meat because they see that the animals run free.

I was walking with my friend Andrew to his house the other day and we saw a little monkey just chillin outside one of the houses. Apparently it was the family’s pet. That was another pet on ‘Friends’, Ross had a pet monkey. Here, it is simply normal.

Cramming a family of five on a motorcycle, or people that travel to Nigeria so they can come back with two motorcycles on the back (packed up of course) is the standard. A bus that is supposed to hold 30, they somehow find a way to pack 50. Again, normal. You have to crawl like Spiderman to get to your seat sometimes (actually always). I can’t tell you how many times I’ve jumped out of the window to get out, it is simply easier.

Actually, traveling here deserves its own post. It’s such a pain in the ass, yet sometimes it’s hilarious and fun. I’ll give it an entry some other time.

Everyone here knows how to dance. It’s awesome. The babies, the kids, even the grandmas cut the sand with their beat producing heals. I’ll play music while the kids play with the blocks I bought them and their shoulders and necks start to flow with the music. I’m sure if you ask the volunteers who serve here, at least 75% of them have pictures or videos of their concession kids dancing.

Children here are butlers. They are expected to do everything. You want to add avocados with your omelet? You’re out of powdered milk? Your backpack that you’ve never washed in your life is dirty? You need to get water from the well? Oh, you’re feeling too lazy to get a motorcycle so you can get to your meeting? Your cat’s liter box is full? INSERT CHILD’S NAME HERE can do this for you! For a total of 0 CFA!

There are of course the things that are not so happy.

It is seriously impossible to refuse food here. They treat you as if you ran over their dog if you don’t eat what they give you. Actually the people here treat dogs like s***, maybe a better example is that they treat you like dogs. Even the most elaborate excuse to avoid it is like catching a fly with your hands, only Obama can get away with it. You WILL inevitably lose and you WILL eat what they give you.

I can’t find a single f***** flyswatter here! Where are they? Will someone please send me one? No matter how much I practice my fly catching skills I do not improve. The flies here should be called soars. Because they don’t fly, they soar, that and they make my life a living… sore. (Come on, don’t act like you weren’t expecting at least one bad joke)

There is no such thing as being in a hurry here. Oh my God “African Time” is such a migraine inducing norm. Volunteers know better after a few weeks, we simply do not leave our houses without a book to read while we wait the additional hour or two it takes for everyone to arrive to our meetings.

The other day I was cleaning my room. I lifted my mattress and wouldn’t you know it, the mouse I’ve been trying to catch for the last few months was chillin in between my two mattresses. I got a f*****n cat to catch it and this mouse still scurries around like he’s paying the rent.

I walk around my house at night sometimes to see spiders the size of iPods casually crawling on my walls looking for their diner. I’ve stopped killing them because they get rid of the more annoying insects like nocturnal screamo band crickets.

Its funny, I have a love/hate relationship with prayer time. Five times a day (I have all the hours memorized now) the villagers will go to the mosques to pray. This causes all shops to close during their praying hour. The hour I memorized first was the 5am one. If the daily 5am prayer call doesn’t wake me up then the neighboring babies do. I can’t remember the last time I tried to sleep in. Did I mention my mosque is around 50 feet from my front door? WELL IT IS. The love of my relationship with this particular pillar of Islam is explained… lets just say when the megaphones come a preaching, playtime is over and the children have to leave my living room. Sometimes I like it when the power goes out, it means the mosque’s megaphone doesn’t work. Actually, this is the extent of my pleasure with life without electricity. Sure the candlelight dinners are groovy but too many nights without it can make me moody.

I was going to list corruption on here but I think that too deserves its own journal entry.

Instead I’ll leave it here. Some of my latest entries have been a little serious so tonight I decided to write a light-hearted one. I’ll send you a postcard if you can figure out which band wrote the lyrics of this entry’s title (hopefully it will actually arrive to your mailbox). Peace Corps Out readers.

Carlos J. Fernandez-Torres